Reality Intrudes [Worm/Matrix AU]

[Starfox5]

And our operative has the shock of her life. She just went from red pill to red shirt.

 

[Ack]

And our operative has the shock of her life. She just went from red pill to red shirt.

Click to shrink...

Hah, nice one.

 

[macdjord]

He wonders just how often Blackwell's had to call that number over the last year. Though it's nice to see a teacher so willing to step up for her students.

Click to shrink...

I have to admit, this line made me physically wince from the dramatic irony.

 

[Ack]

Part Five: Sophia Interlude

[A/N: this chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Earlier

Sophia isn't sure she knows the girl who sent her the text. Probably one of Emma's ass-kissers. Not important. What she does know is the body of the text: Hey Sophia, Taylor just dragged Emma out of Gladly's World Affairs class. Looked & sounded a bit psycho.

It's all Sophia really needs to know. She's not entirely sure how Hebert got out of the locker, or how she managed to grow enough of a spine to drag Emma out of the classroom, but details like that aren't important. If Hebert thinks she's good enough to stand up and fight back, then it's up to Sophia to explain to her where she's wrong. A good ass-kicking, she figures, will show Hebert where she really belongs. And Sophia can even report it to the PRT as a righteous beatdown, given Hebert's attack on Emma. I fucking love a win-win situation.

By the time she gets to the top of the stairs, Hebert's crap-stained footprints are getting faint, but they show the way into the third-floor girls' bathroom. Sophia sneers; this is one of Hebert's favourite hiding places. Tracked you down already. Couldn't even make it difficult, could you?

She goes into the bathroom fast, shoving the doors open as hard as she can. Hebert has no way of being a danger to her, but Sophia wants to get the drop on her anyway. Even when the outcome of the fight's a foregone conclusion, it's a good habit to keep up. And if she curbstomps Hebert hard enough, maybe the sorry little queef'll think twice before getting in Sophia's way again.

As the inner door booms against the stop, Sophia strides on into the bathroom. The first person she sees is Hebert, who's stripped down to her underwear for some weird reason. Did she drag Emma here for some kinky sex thing? The other odd thing is that Hebert looks like she's in the middle of a phone call. In all the time Sophia's known Emma, Hebert's never even been seen with a phone, much less using one. She vaguely recalls Emma saying something about Hebert's mom, but Sophia's never bothered remembering boring details like that.

Focusing past Hebert, Sophia looks at Emma, who's just turned toward Sophia from where she's standing at one of the sinks. There's a pile of some sort of stinky shit at the redhead's feet, and she's got the water running over something that's in the sink itself. There's a red mark on her forehead, her nose is swollen, and blood-stained paper plugs her nostrils. Hebert, you're gonna fuckin' pay for that.

Sophia takes a step forward. "Emma, you all right?"

When Emma speaks, her voice is a nasal mumble. "I thi'k by dose id broke'd. Tha'k God you're here." The look in her eye goes deeper than that: Where were you? Why didn't you protect me?

Anger swells in Sophia's chest at the implication that she's failed Emma, but the marks on her friend's face are silent proof of the point. By the time I'm finished with Hebert, she's never going to pull this shit again.

Hebert seems to be paralysed with fear, or just has no idea what to do next. Either way, she's just staring into space with the phone still held up next to her ear. Gliding forward, Sophia swings her fist and plants a solid punch into the skinny girl's solar plexus, just under her breastbone. With a gratifying whoosh of breath, Hebert folds over and goes down, sprawling inelegantly on the bathroom tiles. Her phone hits the floor and skitters across the ceramic, coming to rest against Emma's boot.

Sophia looks down at Hebert with her fists clenched, her victory feeling almost anticlimactic. It's not as though Hebert ever put up much of a fight before, but this time felt as though it might be more of a challenge. No such luck, of course. As Hebert's eyes focus on her, Sophia aims a kick at her ribs; time to drive the lesson home. "You've just never learned—"

Her eyes widen and she breaks off her little speech as Hebert goes from helpless victim to active participant. Lifting her legs, Hebert flips out of the way of the kick, coming to her feet far more athletically than Sophia would've given her credit for. Not that this deters Sophia in any way; Hebert might get lucky once, but that's no substitute for hard-earned skill. She comes in hard and fast, throwing a punch from the shoulder. Hebert seems to freeze up again for a split second; Sophia begins to grin tightly in anticipation of the sensation of Hebert's lips splitting under her knuckles.

The barest fraction of a second before Sophia's fist would've knocked Hebert's teeth across the room, Hebert's face just isn't there any more. Caught off guard as her fist whiffs past the other girl's head, Sophia feels her arm seized in a steely grip. As fast as she is, her reactions haven't even begun to catch up by the time the arm is twisted uncomfortably, locking her into a compliance hold. Shocked, Sophia realises that Hebert's not only stronger and faster than she seems, but that she's also totally turned the fight around in less than a second.

While Sophia's trying—and failing—to break free of the hold, Hebert turns to Emma. "How are you going with that?" The utterly casual tone of her voice does more to irritate Sophia than anything else. It's like she considers Sophia to not even be a factor any more.

Emma's reply is defensive. "Uh, id's slow. Id does'd wa'd to cub oud." If she says any more, Sophia isn't listening, because she's taking advantage of the fact that Hebert's distracted to slip into her Breaker state. It doesn't matter how lucky or good Hebert is, she can no more maintain a grip on Sophia in that state than she can put a headlock on a puff of smoke.

It's time to play hardball; if Hebert wants to poke the bear, she's gonna get mauled. Reforming, Sophia leads with a jab to the face; her follow-up will be a punch to the solar plexus. This is, of course, the least of what she's gonna be doing to Hebert, but it's a good start. Hebert takes the bait, deflecting the jab and leaving herself wide open. Sophia bares her teeth viciously as the follow-up punch … smacks loudly into the middle of Hebert's right palm, which has somehow blurred into position. Hebert's hand has no give at all, and the shock of the blow travels up Sophia's arm as her fist comes to a complete halt.

Sophia's got just enough time to register that Hebert's turned the fight around again, and that she's holding Sophia's fist in a grip like iron. Too late, she looks up to see Hebert's forehead approaching at speed. The last thing she feels before the lights go out is a bone-deep crunch from her nose.

<><>​

Cold water splashes into Sophia's face, and she splutters her way back to wakefulness. She's lying on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, with Emma standing over her in her underwear. Her nose throbs abominably, feeling about three times its normal size. "The fuck?" she asks, sitting up. Her head spins for a moment, but she pushes through it. She's taken hits to the nose before, though this is the first time she's actually had it this badly broken. "Where'd Hebert go? What happened to your clothes?"

Emma looks uncomprehendingly at her. "What?" she asks nasally.

Sophia rolls her eyes as she climbs to her feet. The throbbing in her nose eases very slightly, but it's still unpleasant as fuck. "Where. Is. Hebert? And where. Are. Your. Clothes?" That's when she looks down at herself and receives another shock. "And where's mine?" she yells, because she's just noticed she's also in her underwear.

Emma gets the meaning of that with no problem at all. "She took themb," she says nasally. "Took mbide too."

"And you let her?" Sophia glares at her. "I thought you were supposed to be strong!"

"Why did'd you mbeat her ub?" retorts Emma. "You've always mbeed strogger thad her!" Her eyes, red-rimmed as they are, stare accusingly at Sophia.

Sophia's got an idea about that. "What if she triggered with powers?" she asks as she tears off strips of paper from the partial towel on the counter. "Attacking civilians and Wards with powers is a criminal offence." She ignores the notion that this can apply to her. If they can't catch her, they don't deserve to apply the rules to her. Rules are stupid and restrictive anyway, except for the ones that let her do what she wants.

Emma stares at her. "You thigg that's what habbed'd?" She doesn't sound disbelieving, but nor does she seem to be jumping on the idea.

Sophia winces as she shoves the wadded-up pieces of paper into her tender nostrils. "You ever seen her go that psycho before?" she asks rhetorically. Honestly, if Hebert had been that much of a badass when they first met, Sophia probably would've cut her a shitload of slack. But their respective roles are now set; Sophia's the ass-kicker and Hebert's the ass-kickee. Which just means that Sophia's gonna have to work harder at putting Hebert back where she belongs. Either that, or six feet underground, if Hebert won't see sense.

"So what do we do dow if she got bowers?" Emma asks after a few moments. It might be Sophia's imagination, but Emma's gaze doesn't seem to hold quite the same level of unquestioning faith in Sophia's abilities that she's used to seeing.

"We don't do anything," Sophia says flatly. "Once we get out of here, I'll be contacting the PRT and giving them chapter and verse on Hebert, how she's a dangerous parahuman who attacked you and tried to kill the both of us before I drove her off. You don't have to say a damn word."

Emma frowns. "But what about our clothes?"

As much as Sophia doesn't want to admit it, she's got a point. "Okay, so she attacked us both and took our clothes. Think we should say she tried to make us do skeevy stuff? I've heard that's a fast-track to the Birdcage, right there."

A sceptical expression crosses Emma's face. "What if they exabid us? Cad't brove what did't habbed." She gives Sophia a hard look. "Add as buch as I wadd to see Taylor id trouble, I'b dot about to fake that shit."

"Yeah, you're right." Sophia considers her options. "We'll just say she was acting crazy, making threats and shit. We don't know why she picked on you. For all we know, it was all about how you used to be her best friend."

"Add our clothes," Emma points out. "She wadd wearig your padts."

Sophia shakes her head. "I still can't believe you let her take my pants."

"I still cad'd believe she bead you ub," Emma retorts. "It was like she didd't have to eved try."

"Don't go there," Sophia says warningly. "I figure she's got a Brute rating, as well as Mover and probably Thinker. I couldn't use my powers directly, so yeah, she beat me. But next time I see her, I'm gonna take her down as hard as I need to."

Emma nods. "Souds good. So how are we gettig out of here? I dod't thidk adyode dows we're here."

"Well, I'm sure as shit not walking out that door like this," Sophia says bluntly. "If anyone gets even one photo of us, it'll be all over the fuckin' school in minutes." And even with Emma's standing among the 'in' crowd, such a photo would make them a laughingstock at best and raise salacious rumours at worst. The higher you are, the harder you fall.

"Doe, doe, I cad see that," Emma says hurriedly. "Cad't you phase through the floor or sobethig?" She looks expectantly at Sophia, who shakes her head.

"Fuck, no," Sophia says flatly. "For one thing, if I run into an electricity cable, it hurts like all fuck, and if I can't get out of the wall in time, that might just kill me. For another, that's a fuckin' boys' bathroom just under us. I am not fuckin' outing myself and giving whoever's in there shooting up or smoking up a free show, all at the same time." While it isn't a certainty that there'll be someone in there, the chances are about fifty-fifty of this being the case, and Sophia doesn't like those odds in the slightest.

Emma seems to shrink in on herself a little. "So what do we do?" she asks, wrapping her arms around herself. Sophia restrains herself from following suit, even though it is a bit chilly in the bathroom. She tells herself that it's all the tiling that's making it feel cold.

"There's only one thing for it," Sophia says. She points at the pile of reeking clothing on the floor, which by now she's identified as Hebert's cast-offs. Even worse than them are the jeans, currently crammed into one of the sinks; they were what Emma'd been trying to clean when Sophia came in. The cleaning effort hasn't been too successful, and on top of everything else the jeans are now also soaking wet. On the floor, the sneakers are just as filthy as the jeans were, while other items of clothing (while not nearly as bad) are still soiled to one degree or another. "You're going to have to put those on and go for help."

Up until now, Emma's been following Sophia's lead for the most part. But at this suggestion, she shakes her head violently. "Doe! Fugg, doe! I'b dot puttig that shit odd." The look on her face suggests that her disgust might stem in equal parts from the smell and the utter lack of fashion inherent in Hebert's ex-wardrobe. "You put it odd."

"Not fucking likely," Sophia retorts. "That shit stinks bad enough when we're back here. There's no fuckin' way I'm getting any closer. You put it on."

"You're subbosed to be the suberhero," protests Emma. Sophia is mildly surprised; the redhead is pushing back harder on the issue than she would've expected. "Addyway, I cad't fit iddo mbost of her clothes. You're skiddier thad be."

Sophia steps forward and raises her voice. "There's no fucking way I'm putting on any of that shit. You're the one who got yourself dragged up here by Hebert."

"I didd't see you doig addy better agaidst her," Emma shoots back, her own voice also rising. "Addyway, you're the wud who shoved her iddo the logger."

"Oh, don't even fuckin' go there," Sophia snaps. "All you had to do was distract her just once when I was fighting her and we would've had her. But you couldn't even do that."

"Whed, eggzacty?" demands Emma sarcastically. "Whed she had you id ad arb lock, or whed she head-butted you? She fuggig owd'd you."

Temper rising, Sophia is opening her mouth to shout something when another shout interrupts her. "BBPD!" It's a masculine voice, coming from outside the bathrooms. "Police officers! We are coming in! Make no hostile moves!" This is followed by the distinctive sound of the outer door being pushed open, then the inner one also flies open. A heavy-set male cop, made even bulkier by the jacket he's wearing, bursts into the bathrooms and moves to the right. Directly behind him, a skinnier cop, this one black, comes in and moves to Sophia's left.

Despite the fact that she's technically covered by her underwear, Emma automatically shields herself with her arms, and lets out a piercing scream. Sophia has to admit, this is something she's really, really good at.

<><>​

Later, in Principal Blackwell's Office

Just as they enter the outer office door, Principal Blackwell's phone rings. Pulling it out, she swipes the answer icon and holds it to her ear. "Winslow High School, Principal Blackwell speaking," she says.

Sophia tunes her out in favour of listening in on the two police officers. The older one, in his forties, has greying hair at his temples and a stolid, unshakeable air about him. His jacket hangs off of Emma like a circus tent, while the younger cop's jacket might actually fit Sophia in a couple of years.

"Take that to the car," the older one says, indicating the oversized evidence bag that the younger one is holding, containing Hebert's wet soiled clothing. "Bring back tape and cones. We need to partition that locker off until crime scene techs can get to it."

Sophia isn't so sure she likes that idea. If the cops decide to really investigate the locker, she's not sure exactly what they'll find, but it might not be good for her. Best, she decides, if the PRT takes over as soon as possible. Being aware of her secret identity, they'll steer any investigation away from her. Because of course as a Ward she won't be a suspect in the matter.

"Miss Hess?" She looks around at Blackwell's voice. "Your social worker needs to speak with you." The woman holds her phone out to her.

"Okay." She takes the phone. "Can I—?" She gestures toward the inner office. After all, it wouldn't do to have the cops hear what she's got to say to the Bright twit.

Blackwell nods and ushers her through; the door closes behind her. On the other side of it, she can hear the principal explaining that she needs to take a 'private phone call'. Sophia grins and settles down into Backwell's desk chair as she holds the phone to her ear. "I'm here."

"This is Kirsten Bright. Can you speak freely?"

Sophia glances around, just to make sure she's alone. "Sure. What's up?"

"Identify yourself by codename and security password, please." It seems that Bright is actually taking security procedures seriously, for once.

"Shadow Stalker. One two one three Sierra Hotel. Happy?" She tries not to sound too sarcastic, but she can't help rolling her eyes.

"Perfectly. Deputy Director Renick has directed me to get a verbal report from you regarding the incident involving your phone being stolen. Just so you know, I'll be recording this. Do you understand?" The so-called 'social worker' definitely seems to be crossing the "t's" and dotting the "i's" today. It doesn't take Sophia long to figure out why. They're gonna be going through everything that happens today with a fine-tooth comb. She doesn't want to fuck up and lose her job. The fucking twit. It occurs to Sophia that she doesn't want Bright to lose her job either; the next babysitter they stick her with might actually be inclined to do their damn job.

"Sure, I understand. Let me know when to start." Leaning back in the chair, she puts her bare feet up on Blackwell's desk, crossing one over the other. There's no sense in not being comfortable, after all.

Kirsten Bright clears her throat. "Commencing verbal report by Shadow Stalker regarding phone-loss incident at Winslow High on January third, two thousand eleven. Shadow Stalker, you may begin."

Sophia takes a deep breath. "There's this creepy weird loner in Winslow called Taylor Hebert. When she dragged my friend Emma Barnes out of class—"

"Uh, one second," interjects the Bright twit. "How did you know she'd done this? Are you in the same class with her? Did you see this?"

Trying not to sound aggravated, Sophia sighs. "No. Someone sent me a text message. One of her other friends, I don't remember who. Anyway, when I heard, I got worried so I went looking. I—"

"Were you in costume at the time?" interrupts the twit. "Has your secret identity been compromised?"

"No and no," Sophia says, trying not to snap at the woman. No sense in getting her pissed, after all. "I just made an excuse and left class. No big." She takes a breath, then continues on. "I know Winslow pretty good, so it didn't take me long to find them. Emma and Taylor, I mean. I—"

"Uh, I've been to Winslow too. It's not a small place. How exactly did you find them quickly?"

Knowing Bright can't see her, Sophia rolls her eyes. She didn't want to bring up this detail, but it seems the twit's actually using her brain for once. "Hebert must've walked in something. Left a pretty clear trail. Led me straight to the third-floor girls' bathrooms. I get there, she's already busted Emma's nose and she's making Emma change clothes with her or something."

"Why?" asks Bright. "The clothes, I mean."

"I dunno," Sophia retorts. "Maybe because her own clothes are so fuckin' grungy? She's a weirdo loner, who knows why they do shit? Anyway, I tell her to back the fuck off from Emma. But she attacks me. Now normally, I should've been able to take her down, no problem. I'm pretty fuckin' good, and Hebert doesn't do sports, never fights—I mean, doesn't get into fights. Never even seen her throw a punch. Just a big wimp, really. But this time around she cleaned my fuckin' clock. She's got moves I've never seen." She lets the aggravation at being beaten so thoroughly creep into her tone. "She's gotta be a fuckin' cape."

From the change in tone, Bright is suddenly a lot more attentive. "You're certain about this? What proof do you have?"

"Okay." Sophia tries to inject patience into her tone. "She's basically a bundle of twigs in a hoodie, yeah? I went to punch her and she caught my fist out of nowhere, and held it. When I was fighting her, or trying to, she moved faster than Armsmaster. Maybe as fast as Velocity. Not the whole body, but her arms and head. Like she knew what I was gonna be doing and got there first, every time."

"That's … very concerning," concedes Bright. "So what happened then?"

"Well, after she head-butted me and knocked me out," Sophia grinds out, "the bitch stole my clothes and my phones, and took Emma's too. I dunno where she got to. The cops came in shortly after that, then brought in the principal. You know the rest."

"All right," says the Bright twit. "What have you told the police?"

Again, Sophia rolls her eyes. What do you take me for? "Everything that happened, except for the bits about me being a Ward. And about her being a cape. Figured you'd want to keep that on the down-low for the moment."

"That's exactly what we want, yes." Bright pauses for a moment. "So what else can you tell me about the Hebert girl?"

Sophia bares her teeth. This is the moment she's been waiting for. "Okay, she's always been creepy, but now she's got powers she's even creepier. Take it from me, she's hella dangerous to fight. Pretty sure she's got Brute and Mover and combat Thinker ratings, and she's sure as fuck no hero. Emma said she was acting all crazy, saying we'd all be sorry or some shit." She pauses for a moment. "Need anything more?"

"No, that sounds perfect," the Bright woman tells her. "I'll pass your report on to Deputy Director Renick as soon as possible."

"Excellent," says Sophia, and hangs up the call. Stretching in the chair, she allows herself a tight little smile of self-congratulation. Fuck you, Hebert. Fuck you with a barge pole.

I. Fucking. Win.

Part Six

 

[Starfox5]

Ah, Sophia - sneaky, but likely not sneaky enough.

 

[Anti-No]

"Why?" asks Bright. "The clothes, I mean."

"I dunno," Sophia retorts. "Maybe because her own clothes are so fuckin' grungy? She's a weirdo loner, who knows why they do shit?

Click to shrink...

Well. Unless Contessa interrupt or equivalent, Sophia will get caught for this, simply because there is a criminal case that has police officers with physical proof stating something completely different. It may or may not make major trouble for Taylor first of course, but it will be a case of 'Lying in an official report with clear intent of getting a new cape in trouble with the law on false premises' while on probation.

 

[Ack]

Well. Unless Contessa interrupt or equivalent, Sophia will get caught for this, simply because there is a criminal case that has police officers with physical proof stating something completely different. It may or may not make major trouble for Taylor first of course, but it will be a case of 'Lying in an official report with clear intent of getting a new cape in trouble with the law on false premises' while on probation.

Click to shrink...

Well, technically, Sophia doesn't officially know about the locker, so she doesn't 'know' how Taylor's clothes were covered in crap. So yes, they were 'grungy'.

 

[1oldman]

Sophia's debrief with Armsmaster will be quite illuminating with his lie detector.

 

[Ack]

Sophia's debrief with Armsmaster will be quite illuminating with his lie detector.

Click to shrink...

It's early January. He doesn't have it up and running yet.

 

[Ack]

Reality Intrudes

Part Six: Wake-Up Call

[A/N: this chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Morrigan

Leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, I breathe deeply. Yeah, I know it's not really air that I'm breathing. I don't give a fuck. Breathing deeply still helps when it comes to dealing with this sort of shit. Not even the Mainframe killed that many people so casually; looking into the face of a thing that's got a seven-digit body count is frankly terrifying. Even if it is just a picture of something inside a simulation. I'm inside the goddamn simulation with it.

Slowly, I raise my head and look at the pictures of Behemoth again. They aren't any less frightening, but I'm gradually getting used to the idea that there's something in here that I don't stand a snowball's chance in fuck of taking out on my own. No amount of Operatives could. So we don't even try to kill this thing; we just leave it in here when we evacuate everyone the fuck out of this pocket of the Matrix. Then we shut the fucking thing down and erase it.

As I click out of the entry on Behemoth and hover the cursor over Leviathan's name, I'm wondering if I really want to do this. Also, exactly what is the purpose to leave three rampaging … viruses, for want of a better term, active in the system alongside living people? Seriously, does this Zion program want people to die en masse? To me, that seems to go directly against the primary ethos of the Matrix as a whole. It's insane. It fucking has to be. There's no other viable explanation. With that in mind, I open the entry for Leviathan.

The appearance of the big lizard-like creature is made subtly worse by the fact that it has no fucking face. Or muzzle, or whatever it is that lizards have. Then I take in its accomplishments.

Well, fuck. I'd thought I was inured to the havoc that the Endbringers could cause. It turns out I'm wrong; so sue me. It sank Kyushu. And Newfoundland. That's … I've really got no words for that. Apart from what the holy crapping Christ have I stuck my neck in this time?

Feeling just a little light-headed, I look at the list of other places that Leviathan has inundated and decimated. The very long list. After a moment, I work out that the vast majority are coastal cities. Opening another window, I look up information for Brockton Bay; specifically, its location.

Yeah, thought so. I'm in a coastal city. Fuck my life. By now, I'm not even remotely surprised.

At some point, I must've put the phone on the table beside me. Now it rings softly, buzzing against the hard surface. Picking it up, I flip it open. "Yeah?"

"Your vitals just jumped all over the place for a bit. You're not wimping out on us are you, Mopey?"

Fucking Loki. The last of the sick sensation in my stomach makes way for an entirely reasonable and rational desire to punch his teeth down his throat. I wonder momentarily if the Captain would mind if I jacked out for a moment so I could do just that. "Fuck you, ass-biscuit. I'm doing better here than you ever would. Figure you'd be puking your guts out if you were reading half the shit I was."

His tone is irritatingly condescending. "I highly doubt that, Moggy. After all, whatever you're looking at in there is made-up information for a made-up simulation. None of it's real. No need to piss yourself."

"I did not fuckin' piss myself!" In my own head, I admit that this is because I'm capable of some pretty effective self-control. But the fact remains that I didn't. I hang up, making a mental note to screw Loki over in an appropriate manner once I jack out of here.

Behemoth was a shock. Leviathan isn't much better. But when I click on the Simurgh, I get a whole new level of 'what the fuck'? Even if there aren't any Agents here, they don't need them. This giant creepy winged fucker is a fucking telepath. And a telekinetic. And she can apparently turn people into long-term serial killers and worse.

Again, I'm left wondering exactly what the purpose is to have these things killing hundreds of thousands of people every few months. And then I wonder if Zion was originally so dedicated to his little pocket project that he wiped the information that he's in the Matrix from his own awareness. It'd explain a shitload, given that his standard operating procedure seems to be "kill the people I need with fucking great monsters". I mean, what the living fuck?

If there's anything good to be said about this, it's that the Endbringers seem to be the worst singular threat facing the population. Everything else seems to be merely human beings with stupidly ridiculous cheat codes integrated into their avatars. The Slaughterhouse Nine, just for instance, comes across as a bunch of murderhobos led by a smarmy-looking asshole whose looks would be greatly improved by a bullet-hole roughly around the left eyebrow. Why nobody's implemented this improvement in the twenty-something years they've been active is something else I can't figure out. The rest of the crew could do with something similar too. I stall on the page dedicated to the first twelve year old serial killer I've ever heard of. The images on her wiki page have a caution sign you've got to click past, and it still makes me glad that Taylor's thrown up basically everything in her stomach. I never knew it was possible to do that to a human body. Even in a simulation.

I'd thought I knew viciousness. This pocket of the Matrix is fucking war-crimes central. Everyone in here, if I'm reading the situation even half right, is walking wounded. Accordingly, I stop reading what I'm clicking on. Let 'em strip it out, and upload a summary into my head.

I click through a few more information pages, but my heart's not in it any more. Plus, I'm hungry. Slipping the phone into my pocket, I stand up. Nobody's looking at me oddly, which is good. I head downstairs, still wary of any sort of ambush, but nobody seems to have me in their crosshairs as yet. I don't assume I'm in the clear, but I let myself relax very slightly. Now, if only I can find someplace to get a snack or two.

There's office buildings all around me, so I'm guessing there's also coffee shops around here somewhere. With this in mind, I walk a couple of blocks, keeping my eyes open, and pretty soon I locate what I'm looking for. Taylor Hebert's coin purse, when I investigate more closely, has a pocket for what looks like house keys, and another for notes. A five goes toward a take-away coffee and a croissant, with damn-all change left over. I grimace, make a mental apology toward her for hijacking her body and spending her money, and leave the shop with my drink and pastry.

The croissant is nice and hot, but the coffee leaves a bit to be desired. Still, it's hot and liquid, so I drink it. I've had worse. And it's kind of pleasant to just walk along, the weak January sunlight cutting down the effect of a chill breeze winding down the street.

Of course, I'm still on the clock, and I figure I've gotten enough data from official sources for the moment; it's time to see what the underbelly looks like. My options to do this are relatively limited. I could either impersonate a cop, a fellow criminal or a victim. Being a cop is out, as it would take too much time to acquire a legitimate-looking badge and uniform (besides, I've kicked the shit out of a fuckload of cops. It would be too fucking weird). Likewise, I simply don't have the underworld contacts for this pocket of the Matrix. However, being a victim requires minimal prep. Any idiot can manage it. Even Loki.

So I set out to get mugged. Basically, this means that I spend the next twenty minutes keeping an eye out for suspicious types that happen to be lurking in alleyways, and make myself a nice fat (figuratively speaking, because Taylor's a rake) target for them. So when I get dragged into the alley, I hold back and put up a token struggle, as if I've got no chance against two strong men.

Once we're in the alley proper, they push me face-first against a dumpster and pull my hands behind my back. One guy gets in close and holds his hand over my mouth while pressing a blade of some sort against my cheek. The guy who's holding my hands behind my back starts patting my pockets down at the same time, copping a feel as he does so. I'm really not sure what pisses me off more. They're late teens or early twenties, and they haven't bathed in a while. Both of them have shaven heads, which is kind of weird. The guy who can't decide whether to grab my ass or my phone is mouthing the standard threats I assume muggers use in this situation. I'm not even listening, as my focus is on making sure we're alone and unobserved.

Once I'm certain this is the case, I stop playing the helpless victim. Yanking my hands free of the asshole's grip, I grab the hand that's got the knife on me and wrench it backward until bone snaps. His pained scream is cut off when I bring my other elbow around into his side. I'm pretty sure I don't break any of his ribs, but I certainly bend a few.

He tries to reel backward, but I've still got his wrist. Turning, I kick him under the kneecap with more force than necessary; not entirely certain that I haven't ruined the whole knee joint. With a rather more high-pitched scream, he lurches forward. The scream is cut off as my rising knee meets his descending face, and he crumples limply to the ground.

His buddy is quicker on the uptake, though I can't say much for his self-preservation instincts. Pulling out a Saturday Night Special, he backs way the fuck off while waving it in my general direction. "F-fuck off!" he yells. "Kill you, you fucking cape bitch!"

Well, I'd been thinking about opening a dialogue right about then, but the gun fucks any diplomatic intentions in the ass, without lube. The word 'cape' rings a bell, but I haven't got time to think about it as I backflip on to the dumpster. Reacting way too late, the guy fires off a wild shot, puncturing the dumpster about two feet to the side of where I'd been. Without pausing, I kick off from the dumpster and run three steps diagonally up the wall before diving outward into a forward somersault. The pistol goes off for a second time; this time, the bullet takes a chunk out of the brick wall.

My boot heels slam into his collarbones with my full weight (or rather, Taylor's full weight) behind the impact. It's still hard enough to snap them both like bread-sticks; he screams, rather more manfully than his buddy, and goes down like a sack of shit. By the time he hits the ground, I have the gun. I may have accidentally-on-purpose bounced his head off the ground extra hard, but at least he's still breathing.

I dust myself off, restraining the impulse to stomp on his crotch a few times—cop a feel off a teenage girl, will you—and go through their pockets. The knife and gun I'm claiming as spoils of war, because I need them and these two fucktards are barely competent to walk and chew gum, let alone be trusted with weapons. I make a mental note to upgrade the knife as soon as possible, given that it's a substandard piece of shit. If anything, the pistol is worse. For one thing, it hasn't been cleaned in forever; for another, the action is loose. Third, the asshole only left two bullets in it. I'm honestly surprised it went off at all. They've also got some money, which I shove into Taylor's coin purse. Each of them has a phone, which I add to my growing collection.

Of course, beating crap out of them is only half the plan for getting an insight into the criminal underside of Brockton Bay. The other half requires them to give me information. Unfortunately, I did handle them kind of roughly; even if I woke them up, they're unlikely to willingly answer any questions I've got for them. And Mr Grabby probably has a concussion anyway, which reduces my options.

With a sigh, I pick up Mr Knifey and sling him over my shoulder. Mr Grabby should wake up sometime soon and stagger to a hospital; after all, I made sure to leave his legs in working order. I make the leap on to the dumpster without much trouble, but it takes a bit more effort to jump up and catch the fire escape with my free hand. As the rusty metal creaks and groans under the sudden strain, I swing my legs over the rail and catch my balance. Only then do I realise that what I'm doing isn't as hard as it should be. Sure, this is the Matrix, but there's usually a bit more push-back from the subroutines designed to maintain the illusion of little things like physics and gravity.

Jogging up the stairs makes Mr Knifey flop around in a way that has to be uncomfortable, or would be if he was conscious. The fire escape doesn't like it either, reiterating the creaking and groaning while adding a few clanks to its repertoire. I'm not really worried about either one as I pull my phone out of my pocket, flip it open, and press the button.

"Operator." He sounds as smarmy as ever.

I get to the top of the fire escape and start across the rooftop, gravel crunching under the soles of Emma's boots. My boots, now. "Need you to check something out for me. Think you can do that, or is the big bad Matrix too scary for you?"

"Fuck you, Moggy." But the insult is only casual. "What the fuck do you want?"

"The code." I break off talking for a moment as I accelerate to a run, free arm pumping smoothly along with my legs, and leap the twenty-foot gap to the next building. As I land, Mr Knifey groans at the impact. "Check the local code. Bet you a genuine imitation beefburger that the error-checking's out the fuckin' window."

"Yeah, yeah, hold your fuckin' horses." He stops talking and I hear the sound of computer keys rattling. "Holy fuck. Are you seeing this, Captain?"

I hang the phone up as I hurdle another gap. Mr Knifey's definitely starting to regain consciousness now, but that's okay. I've found a good spot for what I want to do. A sheer drop to the alley below, no visible witnesses, and a solid parapet to brace from. Thematically, I should really be waiting till nightfall to do this sort of thing, but I'm kind of rushed at the moment.

When Mr Knifey opens his eyes, he's dangling face-first over the gap between one building and the next. I've got one foot braced against the parapet, the back of his collar in my right hand, and his unbroken wrist jammed firmly up between his shoulderblades with my left hand.

I'm watching him carefully in case he tries to play possum, but he signals his wakefulness by screaming and convulsing in my grip. Despite the fact that Taylor's Matrix avatar hasn't got anywhere near the muscle mass of my real-world body, and that Mr Knifey would make four of her, I hold him easily.

His right arm flails uselessly, the wrist still at an odd angle since I broke it. He tries to scrabble with his legs, but there's not much leverage to be had, and I wrench his arm a little farther up between his shoulderblades. "When you're ready to talk, I'm ready to listen," I say, injecting all the menace I'm able to muster into my voice. Taylor Hebert's not exactly physically imposing, so I need every advantage available to me.

"Fuck, fuck, don't kill me, don't kill me!" he blurts. "What do you wanna know? I'll tell you everything!" He starts babbling a litany of minor robberies and muggings that very quickly becomes repetitive.

Well, fuck. Either this guy's a total wimp or I'm scarier than I thought I was. Though the fact that I'm casually dangling him over the alley is probably adding to my intimidation factor. "Shut the fuck up and listen," I order him harshly, twisting his collar by the grip I've got on it. As the pressure increases, he chokes, fighting for breath. "Who runs the crime around here?"

"Kaiser," he blurts, which doesn't make me any more informed. "He runs the Empire Eighty-Eight."

I frown slightly. When gang bosses take on weird nicknames, you know things are getting hinky. "So who's Kaiser when he's at home? Surely nobody just calls him that." I ratchet his wrist upward half an inch or so, just to get his attention.

"E-everyone does!" he nearly screams. "He's Kaiser. Nobody sees him without the armour. If anyone got a look at his real face, he'd probably impale 'em right there!"

Wait one fuckin' second. Back that shit up. "How, exactly, is he gonna 'impale' them?" I ask carefully, a dark suspicion brewing in my gut.

Over the next half hour or so, I learn that things in Brockton Bay are even more ridiculously problematic than I'd thought before. Sure, there's adult superheroes along with the junior varsity (including one Sophia Hess, who doesn't qualify for 'superhero' under any definition I've ever heard of) but there's also supervillains running gangs. Note 'gangs'. Plural. My involuntary informant lets slip that there's at least four lots of super-powered assholes running criminal syndicates in and around Brockton Bay. Kaiser's Empire Eighty-Eight (a bunch of racist cocksuckers, as the shaved head and the code numbers should've warned me) isn't the only one, just the biggest. If Mr Knifey isn't talking his boss up, Kaiser's got something like a dozen powered criminals working for him. Fuck my life.

The next biggest employer is someone going by the unlikely name of Faultline, who runs a crew of weirdo freaks (his description, not mine) who only do out-of-town jobs. As if this is a valid excuse for the authorities not to come down on her. But apparently it works. This fuckin' place.

Knifey is in the process of a highly derogatory description of someone called Lung when I interrupt him. "Hey," I say, twisting his wrist slightly. "Quick question. Where's your nearest stash house?"

"What?" He tries to twist his head around to look at me; I move my head to avoid his gaze. While they might not recall the face of Victim Number Fifteen or whatever, I'm pretty sure that right now anything he sees of me will be burned into his memory. "You're fuckin' nuts."

"What's it to you if I am?" I try to sound bored. "Best case for you is if I get shot to shit. What do you care about my well-being?"

It takes a little more coaxing after that, along with a certain amount of applied pain, but he finally gives up the address. Along with a verbal description of the layout, and an estimate of how many people are likely to be there. Mentally, I double the number. Then I double it again, just in case.

"What're you gonna do to me?" Knifey sounds justifiably nervous. "Fuck, don't kill me."

I'm tempted to just let go, but I did kinda bait them in the first place, and it's not like he was ever a real danger to me. Pulling him back from the brink, I let go his arm, then smack him in the back of the head hard enough to put him out.

As I head for the fire escape, I'm already planning my next move. There's a couple things that I need, and then?

Then I'm going shopping.

 

[Starfox5]

And Taylor proves to be even better than Sophia at bullying - she doesn't drop her victim.

 

[Ack]

And Taylor proves to be even better than Sophia at bullying - she doesn't drop her victim.

Click to shrink...

Yes, I was calling back to that scene. Good catch

 

[rooster]

Partway through the Sophia interlude and I want to scream.

The freaking garbled dialogue because their noses are broken is agony to crawl through. I can't decipher it at all. Couldn't there be some invisitext or italics to show what they're actually saying?

 

[Mr. Tebbs]

Yes, I was calling back to that scene. Good catch

Click to shrink...

Well, better we catch than the ground. AmIRite?

 

[Ack]

Partway through the Sophia interlude and I want to scream.

The freaking garbled dialogue because their noses are broken is agony to crawl through. I can't decipher it at all. Couldn't there be some invisitext or italics to show what they're actually saying?

Click to shrink...

Let's see if I can't help you out.

When Emma speaks, her voice is a nasal mumble. "I thi'k by dose id broke'd. Tha'k God you're here." The look in her eye goes deeper than that: Where were you? Why didn't you protect me?

I think my nose is broken. Thank God you're here.

Anger swells in Sophia's chest at the implication that she's failed Emma, but the marks on her friend's face are silent proof of the point. By the time I'm finished with Hebert, she's never going to pull this shit again.

Hebert seems to be paralysed with fear, or just has no idea what to do next. Either way, she's just staring into space with the phone still held up next to her ear. Gliding forward, Sophia swings her fist and plants a solid punch into the skinny girl's solar plexus, just under her breastbone. With a gratifying whoosh of breath, Hebert folds over and goes down, sprawling inelegantly on the bathroom tiles. Her phone hits the floor and skitters across the ceramic, coming to rest against Emma's boot.

Sophia looks down at Hebert with her fists clenched, her victory feeling almost anticlimactic. It's not as though Hebert ever put up much of a fight before, but this time felt as though it might be more of a challenge. No such luck, of course. As Hebert's eyes focus on her, Sophia aims a kick at her ribs; time to drive the lesson home. "You've just never learned—"

Her eyes widen and she breaks off her little speech as Hebert goes from helpless victim to active participant. Lifting her legs, Hebert flips out of the way of the kick, coming to her feet far more athletically than Sophia would've given her credit for. Not that this deters Sophia in any way; Hebert might get lucky once, but that's no substitute for hard-earned skill. She comes in hard and fast, throwing a punch from the shoulder. Hebert seems to freeze up again for a split second; Sophia begins to grin tightly in anticipation of the sensation of Hebert's lips splitting under her knuckles.

The barest fraction of a second before Sophia's fist would've knocked Hebert's teeth across the room, Hebert's face just isn't there any more. Caught off guard as her fist whiffs past the other girl's head, Sophia feels her arm seized in a steely grip. As fast as she is, her reactions haven't even begun to catch up by the time the arm is twisted uncomfortably, locking her into a compliance hold. Shocked, Sophia realises that Hebert's not only stronger and faster than she seems, but that she's also totally turned the fight around in less than a second.

While Sophia's trying—and failing—to break free of the hold, Hebert turns to Emma. "How are you going with that?" The utterly casual tone of her voice does more to irritate Sophia than anything else. It's like she considers Sophia to not even be a factor any more.

Emma's reply is defensive. "Uh, id's slow. Id does'd wa'd to cub oud." If she says any more, Sophia isn't listening, because she's taking advantage of the fact that Hebert's distracted to slip into her Breaker state. It doesn't matter how lucky or good Hebert is, she can no more maintain a grip on Sophia in that state than she can put a headlock on a puff of smoke.

Uh, it's slow. It doesn't want to come out.

It's time to play hardball; if Hebert wants to poke the bear, she's gonna get mauled. Reforming, Sophia leads with a jab to the face; her follow-up will be a punch to the solar plexus. This is, of course, the least of what she's gonna be doing to Hebert, but it's a good start. Hebert takes the bait, deflecting the jab and leaving herself wide open. Sophia bares her teeth viciously as the follow-up punch … smacks loudly into the middle of Hebert's right palm, which has somehow blurred into position. Hebert's hand has no give at all, and the shock of the blow travels up Sophia's arm as her fist comes to a complete halt.

Sophia's got just enough time to register that Hebert's turned the fight around again, and that she's holding Sophia's fist in a grip like iron. Too late, she looks up to see Hebert's forehead approaching at speed. The last thing she feels before the lights go out is a bone-deep crunch from her nose.

<><>​

Cold water splashes into Sophia's face, and she splutters her way back to wakefulness. She's lying on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, with Emma standing over her in her underwear. Her nose throbs abominably, feeling about three times its normal size. "The fuck?" she asks, sitting up. Her head spins for a moment, but she pushes through it. She's taken hits to the nose before, though this is the first time she's actually had it this badly broken. "Where'd Hebert go? What happened to your clothes?"

Emma looks uncomprehendingly at her. "What?" she asks nasally.

Sophia rolls her eyes as she climbs to her feet. The throbbing in her nose eases very slightly, but it's still unpleasant as fuck. "Where. Is. Hebert? And where. Are. Your. Clothes?" That's when she looks down at herself and receives another shock. "And where's mine?" she yells, because she's just noticed she's also in her underwear.

Emma gets the meaning of that with no problem at all. "She took themb," she says nasally. "Took mbide too."

She took them. Took mine too.

"And you let her?" Sophia glares at her. "I thought you were supposed to be strong!"

"Why did'd you mbeat her ub?" retorts Emma. "You've always mbeed strogger thad her!" Her eyes, red-rimmed as they are, stare accusingly at Sophia.

Why didn't you beat her up? You've always been stronger than her!

Sophia's got an idea about that. "What if she triggered with powers?" she asks as she tears off strips of paper from the partial towel on the counter. "Attacking civilians and Wards with powers is a criminal offence." She ignores the notion that this can apply to her. If they can't catch her, they don't deserve to apply the rules to her. Rules are stupid and restrictive anyway, except for the ones that let her do what she wants.

Emma stares at her. "You thigg that's what habbed'd?" She doesn't sound disbelieving, but nor does she seem to be jumping on the idea.

You think that's what happened?

Sophia winces as she shoves the wadded-up pieces of paper into her tender nostrils. "You ever seen her go that psycho before?" she asks rhetorically. Honestly, if Hebert had been that much of a badass when they first met, Sophia probably would've cut her a shitload of slack. But their respective roles are now set; Sophia's the ass-kicker and Hebert's the ass-kickee. Which just means that Sophia's gonna have to work harder at putting Hebert back where she belongs. Either that, or six feet underground, if Hebert won't see sense.

"So what do we do dow if she got bowers?" Emma asks after a few moments. It might be Sophia's imagination, but Emma's gaze doesn't seem to hold quite the same level of unquestioning faith in Sophia's abilities that she's used to seeing.

So what do we do now if she got powers?

"We don't do anything," Sophia says flatly. "Once we get out of here, I'll be contacting the PRT and giving them chapter and verse on Hebert, how she's a dangerous parahuman who attacked you and tried to kill the both of us before I drove her off. You don't have to say a damn word."

Emma frowns. "But what about our clothes?"

As much as Sophia doesn't want to admit it, she's got a point. "Okay, so she attacked us both and took our clothes. Think we should say she tried to make us do skeevy stuff? I've heard that's a fast-track to the Birdcage, right there."

A sceptical expression crosses Emma's face. "What if they exabid us? Cad't brove what did't habbed." She gives Sophia a hard look. "Add as buch as I wadd to see Taylor id trouble, I'b dot about to fake that shit."

What if they examine us? Can't prove what didn't happen. And as much as I want to see Taylor in trouble, I'm not about to fake that shit.

"Yeah, you're right." Sophia considers her options. "We'll just say she was acting crazy, making threats and shit. We don't know why she picked on you. For all we know, it was all about how you used to be her best friend."

"Add our clothes," Emma points out. "She wadd wearig your padts."

And our clothes. She was wearing your pants.

Sophia shakes her head. "I still can't believe you let her take my pants."

"I still cad'd believe she bead you ub," Emma retorts. "It was like she didd't have to eved try."

I still can't believe she beat you up. It was like she didn't have to even try.

"Don't go there," Sophia says warningly. "I figure she's got a Brute rating, as well as Mover and probably Thinker. I couldn't use my powers directly, so yeah, she beat me. But next time I see her, I'm gonna take her down as hard as I need to."

Emma nods. "Souds good. So how are we gettig out of here? I dod't thidk adyode dows we're here."

Sounds good. So how are we getting out of here? I don't think anyone knows we're here.

"Well, I'm sure as shit not walking out that door like this," Sophia says bluntly. "If anyone gets even one photo of us, it'll be all over the fuckin' school in minutes." And even with Emma's standing among the 'in' crowd, such a photo would make them a laughingstock at best and raise salacious rumours at worst. The higher you are, the harder you fall.

"Doe, doe, I cad see that," Emma says hurriedly. "Cad't you phase through the floor or sobethig?" She looks expectantly at Sophia, who shakes her head.

No, no, I can see that. Can't you phase through the floor or something?

"Fuck, no," Sophia says flatly. "For one thing, if I run into an electricity cable, it hurts like all fuck, and if I can't get out of the wall in time, that might just kill me. For another, that's a fuckin' boys' bathroom just under us. I am not fuckin' outing myself and giving whoever's in there shooting up or smoking up a free show, all at the same time." While it isn't a certainty that there'll be someone in there, the chances are about fifty-fifty of this being the case, and Sophia doesn't like those odds in the slightest.

Emma seems to shrink in on herself a little. "So what do we do?" she asks, wrapping her arms around herself. Sophia restrains herself from following suit, even though it is a bit chilly in the bathroom. She tells herself that it's all the tiling that's making it feel cold.

"There's only one thing for it," Sophia says. She points at the pile of reeking clothing on the floor, which by now she's identified as Hebert's cast-offs. Even worse than them are the jeans, currently crammed into one of the sinks; they were what Emma'd been trying to clean when Sophia came in. The cleaning effort hasn't been too successful, and on top of everything else the jeans are now also soaking wet. On the floor, the sneakers are just as filthy as the jeans were, while other items of clothing (while not nearly as bad) are still soiled to one degree or another. "You're going to have to put those on and go for help."

Up until now, Emma's been following Sophia's lead for the most part. But at this suggestion, she shakes her head violently. "Doe! Fugg, doe! I'b dot puttig that shit odd." The look on her face suggests that her disgust might stem in equal parts from the smell and the utter lack of fashion inherent in Hebert's ex-wardrobe. "You put it odd."

No! Fuck, no! I'm not putting that shit on. You put it on.

"Not fucking likely," Sophia retorts. "That shit stinks bad enough when we're back here. There's no fuckin' way I'm getting any closer. You put it on."

"You're subbosed to be the suberhero," protests Emma. Sophia is mildly surprised; the redhead is pushing back harder on the issue than she would've expected. "Addyway, I cad't fit iddo mbost of her clothes. You're skiddier thad be."

You're supposed to be the superhero. Anyway, I can't fit into most of her clothes. You're skinnier than me.

Sophia steps forward and raises her voice. "There's no fucking way I'm putting on any of that shit. You're the one who got yourself dragged up here by Hebert."

"I didd't see you doig addy better agaidst her," Emma shoots back, her own voice also rising. "Addyway, you're the wud who shoved her iddo the logger."

I didn't see you doing any better against her. Anyway, you're the one who shoved her into the locker.

"Oh, don't even fuckin' go there," Sophia snaps. "All you had to do was distract her just once when I was fighting her and we would've had her. But you couldn't even do that."

"Whed, eggzacty?" demands Emma sarcastically. "Whed she had you id ad arb lock, or whed she head-butted you? She fuggig owd'd you."

When, exactly? When she had you in an arm lock, or when she head-butted you? She fucking owned you.

Click to shrink...

 

[Ack]

Reality Intrudes

Part Seven: On the Offensive

[A/N: this chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



My first order of business is, of course, to ensure Taylor's safety after the fact. I've got to jack out sometime, if only so I can eat and attend to bodily issues. I won't be doing her any favours if I leave her wide open to a revenge hit from a bunch of super-powered gangland assholes while I'm not in residence. On the one hand, there's the fact that she's currently our best choice to jack into this version of the Matrix; on the other, she's a teenage girl who's had a crappy deal so far, and I don't want to make things any worse for her, if I can help it. Well, any worse than I've done so far.

I'm just thinking over my options when my phone rings. Pausing halfway down the fire escape, I pull it out and answer it. "What's up?"

"Would it kill you to consider opsec just once?" Loki sounds even more irritated than the time I put industrial adhesive on the waistband of his pants. "People have been trying to call that other phone belonging to that girl you got tagged by in the bathroom. So far I've been successful in blocking them, but it's only a matter of time before they check the GPS. Unless they already have. Moron."

I want to snap back at him, but he's actually right. I'm an experienced Operative; this is something I should've thought of. My only excuse, and it's a thin one, is that we don't usually jack in for all that long. I can't remember the last time I lifted someone's phone; why would I? Usually we're there to kick Agent ass and free the bluepills. I'd honestly forgotten I still had Sophia's second phone in my pocket.

"Yeah, fuck you too," I tell him, and hang up the call. Then I pull out all three phones—Sophia's, Mr Knifey's and Mr Grabby's—and power them down. One at a time, I prise them open and pop out the batteries and SIM cards. The phones and SIMs go into one pocket, while each battery gets a pocket of its own. Slightly shaken by the wake-up call—sure, this isn't the same as your usual Matrix setup, but that's no excuse to get sloppy—I continue down the fire escape.

Right now, I figure that Taylor's kind of safe from any Empire backlash. While Mr Knifey and Mr Grabby got glimpses of my face, the brain does really weird shit under stress, including convince people of things that are totally wrong. So I'm reasonably certain that they're gonna be remembering me as being at least six inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier, because who really wants to admit to having the living shit beaten out of them by a five-foot-seven sixty-pound weakling? But still, there's a lot to be said for muddying the waters.

And one of the best ways to do that is to acquire a disguise. As I stroll along the street toward a promising-looking boutique, I pull out my phone again and press the button.

"Operator." Loki sounds more pissed than normal. "How the fuck did you know about the broken error-checking in the code?" It takes me a few seconds to recall what he's talking about, then I remember how it's a lot easier to break the rules here. The tone of his voice gives me a hint as to how my hunch has turned out. Of course, then he has to straight-up confirm it before I have a chance to bait him with it. Way to spoil my fun.

"Wild guess," I say lightly. "I didn't really notice it till I was manhandling that asshole up the fire escape, but it's easier to ignore the rules here. I doubt I'll be flying any time soon—" That's a trick nobody since the One has managed to pull off, though not from lack of effort. "—but I was carrying a guy four times the size of me, and I barely broke a sweat. So what exactly did you find?"

"A total fuckin' mess." It's a testament to how rattled he is by the fact that he's swearing, and—this is important—not at me. "There's holes and patches and conflicting code all over the place. If you ask me, I'd say that it was never designed to deal with having bluepills with grafted-on shit screwing physics over on a daily basis. Every time it's called on to give an exemption for someone to fly or blow up a building with laser beams from their ass, errors creep in. And this's been going on for fuckin' decades, by the looks of it."

"Which means that when someone like me comes along, who's used to bending the rules when they're a lot tougher to get around, I can just make it my bitch," I conclude. "Fuckin' excellent. About time something went my way."

"Not all your way, Momo," Loki says altogether too cheerfully. "Not by a long shot. Don't forget, you're not the only one around here who likes to put on dark clothes and go lurking on rooftops. It's just that the other ones were born here, and they know the terrain a lot better than you do. And they're probably better at it."

He's got a point, though I hate to admit it. "Okay, fine. Fuck you very much. I'll be careful. Asshole." I hang up, my brief good mood shattered. He could've at least let me enjoy it for a few minutes.

Which means that I've gotta get my spirits up by indulging in some good old-fashioned retail therapy instead. Fortunately for Taylor Hebert's meagre finances, the Empire Eighty-Eight, by way of Mr Grabby and Mr Knifey, are paying for my purchases. The fact that I'm gonna be using said purchases to enable a raid on Empire Eighty-Eight property is just a supremely ironic dollop of cream on top of the cake. Or is that icing? I've never been able to remember the saying.

Strolling into the boutique as I stash my work phone back in my pocket, I look around and mentally crack my knuckles. A salesgirl approaches me, but I wave her off. Sure, now they're gonna be keeping an eye on me to make sure I don't lift any of the merchandise, but Taylor's a teenager so they'd be doing that anyway. I just don't need anyone getting in my face right now. Besides, I know what I want.

First off, I stop at the sunglasses stand. I take my time making my selection; or rather, I make my pick on the first go-around, but I don't take them straight away. Pretending indecision, I rotate the stand a further three-sixty degrees, using the mirror to make sure I don't have anyone paying me an unusual amount of attention behind my back. Nobody's staring at me, and those facing me don't turn their heads away when I glance in their direction, so I decide I'm currently in the clear. Probably, anyway.

I've picked out an oversized pair, to fit over Taylor's glasses. Which just so happens to remind me of another gripe I've got. Even people with eye problems in the real world can see perfectly well in the Matrix—that is, the people who've actually got the choice whether to go back in or not. I get it that Taylor Hebert doesn't have much of an option in the matter, but with all the people they could've chosen to drop me into, why the fuck did they have to pick someone who is actually fucking short-sighted? While I've had no problems so far keeping the glasses on—in fact, Taylor's muscle memory allows me to get along most of the time without even noticing them—it's still a real potential problem. I've got no doubt that Loki's just waiting for me to lose my glasses just one fucking time so he can laugh his ass off at me.

Next, I go and pick out two hats. One's a baseball cap featuring the name of a sports team I've never heard of, and the other's a rather stylish-looking fedora that I'm pretty sure I can stuff my hair up inside of. I've never worn a fedora before, and I figure it looks pretty good. Not that I'm there for fashion, but a girl can enjoy wearing nice stuff, even if it's just in the Matrix, right?

I'm burning through my stolen dollars at a startling pace, but that's what money's for. It's not like I can take it out of the Matrix, after all. My next purchase is a slightly oversized shoulder-bag with a zippered top, which I gauge is big enough to keep my spare gear in for the moment. I pause for a moment to check on how my cash is holding up, then check on the purchase I really want to make. It's a long-coat, slightly off-brand but I'm not picky.

The salesgirl raises an eyebrow slightly as I lay down cash to pay for everything, but there's no law against it and money is money after all. I walk out with my purchases in a cute paper bag with the name of the shop printed in art deco lettering. This has to be the first time I've actually bought stuff at a shop with money in the Matrix. I can recall three times off the top of my head that I've busted into shops like that and stolen clothes to change my appearance, and once that I blitzed through one in a TransAm in high-speed reverse, firing an M-4 out through where the windshield used to be, but legal transactions? None.

My next stop is a dark alley. This one I make sure is empty of would-be muggers and homeless derelicts alike, before I pull out the coat and the glasses and remove the tags before putting them on. Carefully, I bundle my hair up under the fedora, then fold up the shop bag and put it in the shoulder-bag. When I stride out of the alley, long-coat flaring around me, I'm as ready as I'm ever gonna be.

The purchases I've made aren't merely to make me look badass, though I figure I've just permanently raised Taylor Hebert's cool factor by about five hundred percent. Everything I'm wearing or carrying has a purpose; whether it's to fudge my appearance, change my profile or make me look more intimidating. It's all a means to an end. Specifically, surviving until I can find out enough about this corner of the Matrix to let me get everyone out and safe.

I wait until evening to approach the stash house; in the meantime, I scout out the surrounding area. Smartphones are apparently a thing in this version of the Matrix and I kind of wish I had the chance to browse the local internet. All data is good data, and don't ever let anyone tell you differently. But my work phone isn't actually a phone; it's more of an abstract representation of one with a unique calling plan. The pieces of shit I took off Sophia and the other two jerks are older-style bricks with an internet presence of fuck-all, which is why I don't power them up and go surfing. Well, that and opsec.

The two mooks on the front steps of the stash house are doing a passable impression of 'me and my homie just hanging out', but their eyes say differently and the guns they're holding almost out of sight are a whole novel worth of 'differently'. To deal with them, I'd need to get past the peeling picket fence, evade the chained-up overly scarred dog currently worrying at a bone on the patchy front lawn, then get close enough to take them out before they brought their firepower into play. The shitty little Saturday Night Special could maybe be used to deal with two of the three threats, but I've got as much faith in that as I would in the power of prayer for dealing with an Agent.

So it's time to get creative.

This being a racist redneck stash house, there's one thing I'm gonna find not far away. Specifically, a racist redneck's truck. And what do you know; down the street and around the corner, I find just that. Big muscle engine, big muscle tyres, big muscle chassis. All good solid American know-how and technology.

Which makes me scratch my head for two reasons. One, America helped beat the fuck out of the Nazis, back in the day. There was even a war over it. Two, given how clean this puppy is, it's never been off-road in its life. So why the fuck is this jerk driving around in something that he's never going to use the full potential of, like ever? And how can he even call himself American?

As far as I'm concerned, he's forfeited his right to own it or drive it. Which means I've got free rein to do what I want with it. Okay, yes, that was a bullshit line of reasoning, but a girl's gotta have fun somehow.

Coming up on the passenger side of the truck, I smash the window with my elbow, then reach inside and unlock the doors. I don't know who's heard that, so I vault over the hood of the truck, open the driver's side door and get in. Ten seconds later, I've got the seat adjusted the way I like it; twenty, and I've got the engine started. Hotwiring vehicles is a skill I've long since mastered.

Before pulling out, I lean over and check the contents of the glove compartment, and scope out the floor and between the seats for good measure. Some guys keep a backup piece there, though it's usually only Americans that do that. I could do with a little paranoid gun ownership right now.

Unfortunately, although I can smell gun oil, the firearms themselves are notably absent. Seems that this gun owner's so paranoid that he took them with him. Not that I can blame him, seeing that I'm stealing his truck, but there really should be a limit to that sort of thing.

But hey, it's okay. The theft is only temporary. More like 'involuntary borrowing'. He can have it back once I'm done with it.

Pulling out of the parking space, I roll sedately down the street and around the corner. The stash house is just up ahead. Gradually, I accelerate while keeping an eye on the front door guards. Even from out on the road I can see when their attention fixates on my ride; seems that either one of them owns it, or knows the guy who does. When one of them points, that's my cue.

Flooring it, I start changing up as hard and fast as I can. The deep meaty growl of that big muscle engine takes over everything as I jolt over the curb. The picket fence doesn't even register with me as it goes down.

When they start bringing up their guns, I hit every light switch on the dashboard; standard lights, high beams, and the spotlights over the top of the cab. The front of that stash house gets very bright, and they can't see shit.

I'm strapped in, of course, with my foot flat to the floorboards and the engine screaming like a banshee. The guys try to dive aside in different directions. I track the one who's holding a shotgun—come to Mama—and angle toward him. My front wheels hit the stairs and go up them like Agents descending on newbie Operatives. I've got it in all-wheel drive, and the big chunky tyres are howling and juddering and clawing at the steps as I perform a dynamic vehicular entry to the stash house.

Shotgun guy almost gets out of the way, but the bumper catches him and he flies aside to hit the wall of the house. His weapon is jolted out of his hands, and just as the front of the truck ploughs into (and through) the wall of the stash house, I reach out the window of the truck and catch it on the way past.

Score.

The truck makes it most of the way into the stash house before it runs into too many obstacles and the engine stalls out. That's okay with me; I open the door and bail out, checking chamber on the shotgun when I get a chance. I can feel that it's loaded but there's nothing in the breech so I rack the action and look around for anyone to shoot.

I gotta say, I've made a pretty good mess this time around. There's broken wood everywhere, along with a huge cloud of dust; the lights on the truck should be making everything easy to see, but all they're doing is illuminating the dust. Everyone who's in this stash house will be homing in on where the front door used to be, so it's time for me not to be here.

Jumping up, I kick off from the hood of the truck to get over the majority of the rubble and into a corridor. A shape looms ahead of me and I shoot it, centre mass. It grunts and goes down, but someone behind that one shoots back. I'm pretty well keyed up by this point, so I can see the disturbance pattern of the buckshot through the dusty air. Not being there when the return fire arrives is harder than it sounds, but I've done this before.

The muzzle-flare is bright enough to see through the dust so I put another round from the shotgun—solids, from the feel of the recoil—six inches to the right and about a foot upward. Scratch opposition number two.

In another moment I'm beside the bodies. One's still alive, but he won't be for long. The other is well past his use-by date. I grab their guns—a pistol and another shotgun; it's Christmas in, well, January—and move on.

Now I've got a pistol and two shotguns. I can dual-wield this shit, but it would be easier with another pistol. I've got more ammo for the handgun, so I decide to use that to mop up the mooks when I can't get close enough for CQC.

On the downside, they've definitely beefed up security here. I kill about half a dozen guys before I have to reload; on the upside, each one I pop has a gun on him, so I'm not running out of ammo anytime soon. All I have to do is stay frosty, stay on the move and not let anyone get into my six.

I'm about halfway through clearing the house before I come to the conclusion that I didn't fluke onto the crappiest guys in America's version of the Nazi Party. These guys honestly suck. Sure, they're big enough to take a single hit from a scrawny teenage girl, but their situational awareness is non-existent and their tactical sense sucks balls. And that's not even taking into account how slow they're moving. Or am I just that fast, here?

It's something to think about. I took Sophia apart easily enough, but these guys are supposed to be in some kind of fighting trim. I'm not even bothering to shoot them anymore. Two or three good hits and they're down. If they're lucky, I haven't crushed their windpipes or stopped their hearts.

After I've cleared the biggest room, a setup with sofas, armchairs and a big-screen TV, I'm starting to think this is going to be easier than I expected. Of course, that's when someone comes into the room behind me. They make a full production of it; dynamic entry, dive and roll, come up shooting. Accurate too, for bluepills. I have to put serious effort into evading the shots.

One guy's all in white; skin, hair, clothing, eyes, the lot. I take half an instant to appreciate the way he's sticking to the theme before I nail him in the breadbasket with a couple of nine millimetre happy pills. From the way the blood spreads across the white cloth, he's not wearing body armour. His bad luck. I'm not playing.

His buddy's still moving, taking advantage of the furniture in the room for cover. He's pretty damn good at it, too. I have trouble getting a proper bead on him. Which means he's going to have the same with me.

I put a couple of shots through his cover, hoping to tag him blind, but he's always moved on again. When he pops up and fires back, I've actually got to limbo under his shots, he comes that close. He's not quite on par with someone who's able to pull Matrix shit, but he's about as good as an unenhanced human can get.

And then I get that tingle in the back of my neck, the one that says, move, dumbass! So I move, going evasive as fast as I know how. A good thing too, because about a tenth of a second later, half a dozen .44 rounds rip through where Taylor Hebert's head and vital organs would've been if I'd stayed put.

Why yes, I can tell the calibre from the sound of the shots.

Who the fuck fired?

Flicking my head around, trying to keep tabs on Mr Tactical, I scan for the new hostile.

It's the guy in white. On his feet again, bloodstain clearly visible, and just as clearly not affected by the wound. Two guns out, coming for me like an Agent with a grudge.

What. The fuck.

An Operative might be able to pull that off, but not a normal. Unless …

I suddenly realise that I've been ignoring what they're wearing.

Fuck.

That wasn't clothing.

Those were costumes.

I'm up against more capes.

Fuck my life.



End of Part Seven

 

[Ack]

Reality Intrudes

Part Eight: Disengage and Recover

[A/N: this chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



So, this isn't good. In fact, I could go as far as to say it's bad. Mr Tactical there really knows how to use his cover to its best effect, while Whitey McWhiteface seems to be able to ignore the deleterious effects of a couple of high-velocity nine-mil slugs performing impromptu surgery on his vital organs. Meanwhile, they're both armed and not at all reluctant about making use of said armament in my direction.

And while the neo-Nazi parody poster child (why yes, I do think it's ridiculously on the nose for a guy who's literally white all over to be a member of a white-supremacy group) is only middling effective with his artillery, his buddy has come unsettlingly close a few times. Not sure where this guy got that sort of training, but he's good. Real good.

It's true that all the skill in the world won't save your life when an Operative decides to insert a lead jellybean where it'll do (me) the most good. But I'm having a lot of trouble delivering said jellybeans of doom in an accurate and timely manner. This is partly because the Whitemeister is pretty damn good at running interference for his buddy, and partly because this asshole seems to be getting more accurate as the firefight goes on. And for some reason, I'm getting less accurate, which is bullshit of the most profane order.

I pop the cardboard cutout in the face with the last round in my pistol, then reload on the fly while I somersault out through the door. A string of holes punch their way through the wall, missing me by rather less than a comfortable margin; the long-coat is now a little more ventilated than it was when I bought it. I return fire, trying to match trajectories, but I hear no sound of a falling body. When I land and roll, I nearly muff it, which seals the deal in my mind.

Something hinky is going on in Brockton Bay.

Tall-pale-and-Nazi is around the corner first, not even a bloodstain to show where I nailed him above the right eye-socket. He's got two forty-fours up and firing like ammo just went on sale. If I'd paused for even a few seconds, I would've been in a killbox, but I've been doing this shit longer than that. I've already anticipated this move, and I'm diving through another doorway as his fire nips and chops at my heels.

My trailing gun fires off two shots; one to the throat and one to the shoulder. Which is problematic, because I intended for two headshots right then. What in the name of Trinity is going on here?

Normally, pulling out your phone and dialling the Operator during a firefight is a sign that you're royally screwed and have zero other options. I'm anticipating this scenario, and I'm working to forestall it. In other words, it's better to call your Operator before you need their help, not after their help would've been useful.

Loki, of course, is his usual suave and helpful self. "Hey, Moo-moo. Is it just me, or are you having trouble with just two bluepills in there? Losing a step, are we?"

"Something's fucking with me," I say, nailing the paperboy (hah! I kill me) through both lungs as he shows in the doorway of the room I've ended up in. He crumples to the ground yet again, but an instinct has me diving to the side as a blitzkrieg of shots (pun intended) comes through the wall just short of the door.

They nearly get me, too. The asshole comes that close. I've got to seriously work to avoid the multiple trails of sonic disturbance. I fire back as I launch myself at the doorway; if I can get just one good shot in on him, I can then concentrate on ending Mr Mayonnaise permanently. Maybe I can arrange something with wet concrete.

"Well, shit. Looks like you aren't malingering this one time." Loki sounds honestly surprised. I personally don't care; I just want him to fix whatever's going on. "Your combat stats are going down by the second."

By the time he's said this, I've come out through the doorway, but Captain Nazi has anticipated me and ducked behind a doorframe, leaving his buddy on the floor at my feet. I fire another shot into the guy as he begins to stir, and bolt farther down the corridor.

I find myself back in the common room, gunsmoke rasping in my throat, as I try to figure out whether to get Taylor Hebert's skinny ass out of there or try to finish these assholes first. Because they've surely got a good look at her face by now, and even if I took her away from here before jacking out, they'd hunt her down and kill her. But try as I might, I just can't get a bead on that guy. He's too damn good. And while I should be better than him, I'm not.

"Well, fix it," I rasp.

"On it." There's a click over the line, and then I feel the flood of incoming muscle memory. It's rough, raw and more than a little painful; Loki's speed-loading my skills back into me at a way faster rate than normal. Right now, it's just what I need.

So was the breather. I drop the pistol and unsling one of my two shotguns from where it's been flopping around on my back all this time. The guys have clearly had time to confer, because they come into the room from two different directions. Whitebread is pulling his usual stunt of coming in fast and dangerous, leading with his forty-fours. I'm supposed to try to pop him—again—while Special Ops Man hits me from the side.

Only, I just changed the script. Outside the Matrix, I'm pretty damn dangerous. Inside it, up against bluepills, I'm insanely capable. In Earth Bet's frayed and denatured version of reality, I'm basically a god of war. And it's about time I reminded these assholes of that.

I lean into my Matrix capabilities. The shotgun in my hands is a virtual-reality construct; to anyone living in here, it's a thing, unchangeable. To me … it's a weapon of mass destruction.

I run halfway up the wall to escape Mr White's gunfire, then do a backflip. While I'm in the air, I sight on his head and fire. Blood and brains spray out sideways from the divot my slug just put in his skull. He's dead, right there, but before he has a chance to begin falling, I rack the action and fire again.

Normally, if a pump action shotgun is worked past a certain speed, forcing the mechanism beyond its normal limits, it will be damaged. It might even break. I choose not to let it break, as I fire a second time, then rack it again. And fire. And again, and again.

I'm still in midair, twisting around to land while firing the shotgun over and over, when the second asshole enters the room. To me, he's moving at a snail's pace, bringing his gun up to bear on me. I keep firing, racking the slide, firing again. The shotgun's internal mechanisms are starting to glow with a dull heat. I don't care.

Something about the whiteface guy is letting him get up each time I kill him. I don't have the deep sense of the Matrix that the One had, but I get my feelings from time to time. And right now my instincts are yelling at me to remove this guy's head. Lacking a machete, or even a pocket knife, I'm going with the next best option.

My skills are back, baby. Every shot hits, and every hit counts. By the time the magazine is empty, I've hammered twelve rounds downrange, a mix of slugs and heavy buckshot. Between them, they've taken this mook's head apart like a watermelon. There's not much above the neck; the wall behind him, on the other hand, could win a modern art contest. By my estimation, it's taken me about two and a half seconds to empty the shotgun at him.

His body hits the floor, just about the time I drop the shotgun and unsling the other one. The ratty carpet begins to smoulder, but I'm more interested in expressing my extreme displeasure with his buddy. Especially since I think I've figured out his cute little trick.

Skill stealing. I mean, how low can you go?

He goes for cover, of course, even though he probably hasn't figured out yet that his buddy's down for the count. But the difference now is that I'm not trying to hang back and snipe him. I close, fast, and kick the chair he's hiding behind. The chair flies back and hits the wall, and so does he. He tries to roll to one side and tag me, but whatever bullshit he's already pulled is officially over.

The instant his head comes into view, I put a slug through it.

I'm not here to take prisoners, and this guy was way more trouble than he's worth.

Keeping one ear out for incoming sirens, or any kind of car engines at all, I go back to clearing the house. The basement door is locked; that's cute. I don't even bother with the shotgun. One kick later—and a step back to make sure I don't get popped by some asshole who decided to play possum—the door's open.

I pause for a moment, listening. Feeling the air.

There's nobody downstairs. I head down, shotgun at the ready anyway.

<><>​

Three minutes later, I hurdle the back fence and start away at a steady jog, keeping to the shadows. Over my left shoulder is a duffel full of guns and ammunition, with money stuffed in here and there to fill the gaps. While "guns … lots of guns" may not be our official motto, it should be. Martial arts are all well and good, but there's nothing that can reach out and say hi to some asshole who desperately needs it like a high-powered firearm.

I detour to grab my other bag from where I stashed it, then I jog away into the gathering evening as smoke begins to curl into the air from the building I've just left. Normally by this time, I'd be on the lookout for a very special phone box, where I could jack out and disappear from the Matrix until it came time to jump back in again. Of course, I'd also probably be on the run from Agents at this point as well.

But this body I'm using isn't going to dissolve into the electronic ether the moment I disconnect. Taylor Hebert has a life of her own, and she deserves a chance to stay alive once I step out and let her take control again. So it's on me to make sure I leave her someplace safe. It'll also be a great idea for me to not leave her to face the consequences of what I've been doing since I left the school.

Unfortunately for the both of us, I've got no idea how to cover for everything I've done with her since I stepped out of that locker. The most I can do is run damage control.

On the other hand, her memory tells me that her dad has been kind of passive since his wife died. While this isn't much, it's definitely something I can work with.

But first, I have to stash my ill-gotten gains somewhere. Having someone confiscate them, or just plain steal them, would irritate the absolute living fuck out of me. Also, I've got to get rid of the smell of gunsmoke. That stuff clings to everything.

<><>​

Danny Hebert

For what must have been the fifteenth time, Danny got up and went to the front door. He opened it and looked out, hoping against hope to see Taylor trudging up the front path. He didn't know what he was going to do first; yell at her or hug her. Maybe both.

When he'd been contacted by the police, he hadn't known what was going on. It turned out they were somewhat in the dark as well. Taylor had clearly been shut in her locker, which was equally clearly full of some pretty vile stuff, by a person or persons unknown. Blackwell was covering her ass faster than a fat kid spreading gravy over fried chicken, but it was obvious to everyone with half a brain that Winslow had fallen down on the job hard.

As for 'person or persons unknown', that was a not so polite fiction that Danny was calling bullshit on as well. The fact that after forcing the door off the locker she'd been shut in—which only underlined the crappy state of the lockers in Winslow—Taylor had made a beeline to Emma's class and dragged her out by the ear said something to Danny. What it actually meant, he wasn't sure, but the way Emma was complaining loudly (and nasally) about losing her clothing to Taylor, while Alan wasn't saying a goddamn word, indicated that shit was going on behind the scenes.

And then there was the other guy, the one with the immaculate suit and the neat beard. Danny wasn't entirely certain when this one had shown up at Winslow, but the man had pulled him into an empty classroom and asked a whole series of pointed questions which amounted to, "is your daughter a parahuman?"

When he'd told the guy that he was damn sure Taylor wasn't a cape, the man had nodded as if unsurprised and handed him a business card. "I'm with the PRT," he'd said. "Call this number if she starts exhibiting odd capabilities. We can help her."

Danny knew the PRT hotline number; it featured among the just-in-case numbers on his office phone. The number on the card wasn't it. Whoever the guy was, he was not some office drone, sent to Winslow as part of standard procedure. Something was definitely going on here, and Danny disliked having the wool pulled over his eyes as much as anyone else did. He'd put the card away and made a bland almost-promise to do just that.

Whether the guy actually worked for the PRT or someone else pretending to be them, he wasn't certain. He intended to keep his options open until after he spoke with Taylor and got her side of things. Of course, this required Taylor to come home at some point.

There was nobody on the front path. The street was as quiet and empty as it had been the previous fourteen times he'd checked. Defeated, he closed the door again and turned to go back into the living room—

"Hi, Dad." Taylor stood there behind him in the entrance hall. "Sorry about—oof!"

"Taylor!" Danny hugged her tightly, smelling cheap soap on her hair as he did so. "Where the hell have you been? I've been worried sick! Nobody's seen you since—" He trailed off. Since the school was remarkably undescriptive. Since the locker would have rubbed her face in what happened. "—since this morning."

She waited until he let her go, then nodded. "I know. I didn't want anyone seeing me. Did you see the locker?"

"Yeah, I saw it." His fists clenched all over again. "Someone's head is going to fucking roll for that."

"Don't bother." She shook her head. "They closed ranks, yeah? Nobody saw nothing, let's just sweep this under the carpet?"

"Kind of, yeah." He led the way into the living room, then appraised her appearance and attitude. She was honestly looking better than he would've expected. Not nearly as distressed as he would've been in the same situation. "Emma's pissed at you, but Alan's playing it close to the chest. What happened there? What does she have to do with it?"

From the look on her face, he knew the truth. He just didn't want to think about it. Emma had been best friends with her forever.

"You know exactly what's going on, Dad." She sat down on the sofa. "It was Emma and some of her friends. They've been pulling this shit on me since I started at Winslow. But you'll never get her to admit it. And her father's a lawyer, so there's that."

She was being remarkably pragmatic about the whole thing. Far more than he was, he had to admit. Also, extremely impersonal about the Barneses, but that was probably a defence mechanism.

"So what happened?" he asked. "I've heard everyone else's side but yours."

Sitting on the sofa, she related her experiences simply and concisely. Danny hadn't heard about the girl Sophia being involved before; that added another layer to the mystery. She was a little vague about where she'd gone once she left the school, and where she'd dumped the clothing she'd stolen from Emma and Sophia, but Danny didn't care about that.

Where she'd gotten what she was wearing right then was easy to figure out; the Lord Street Market stayed open late on weekdays. The T-shirt, jeans and sneakers she had on weren't exactly haute coture, but they did the job.

"So, am I in trouble?" she asked once she was done.

Danny shook his head. "There's no arrest warrants out for you. The police would like to speak to you on the matter, but the fact of the locker muddies the waters considerably. Also …" He paused, not sure how to go on.

"Someone else wants to talk to me?" She raised her eyebrows. "Oh. The PRT. Well, I wasn't exactly subtle, I guess."

"What's that supposed to mean?" If he hadn't been looking right at Taylor, he would've thought she was a different person. More direct, more assured. And most of all, she didn't have an apologetic bone in her body, whereas the Taylor he knew walked around hunched in as though asking the world for permission to exist.

She got up then and checked the street with a twitch of the curtain. Then she picked up the remote and turned on the news. "What I mean," she said once the speakers were filling the room with sound, "is that there are things they're not telling you. For instance, that girl Sophia I kicked the shit out of? She's the Ward called Shadow Stalker. And I'd bet dollars to doughnuts that her higher-ups don't know about her little extracurricular activities. Which is why they've passed the word to keep this as much on the down-low as possible."

Danny stared at her. "A Ward," he said. "You were shut in your locker by a Ward."

"Yeah," she said lightly. "Turns out that getting a shitload of power and being put in authority over people doesn't automatically make someone trustworthy. Shocker, hey?"

"But how can you be so calm about it?" he demanded. "This is Emma we're talking about! Your friend!"

"I've had a lot of time to think about it. And she's no friend of mine. So, not to change the subject, but I'm gonna change the subject." She tapped her ear. "Did anyone wearing a suit and sunglasses, little coiled-wire earpiece, maybe a little vague about exactly who they're working for, ask you about me? Push for a few details?"

Danny thought back to the guy with the beard. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Someone did that. He said he was from the PRT." He pulled the card out of his pocket. "He gave me this."

"Thanks." She accepted the card from him and examined it. "What did he say, exactly?"

"Uhh …" Danny concentrated. "He asked me a bunch of questions about anything weird you might've done recently. I think he thought you were a cape. And he said to call that number if you showed up with powers."

Taylor snorted. "What, like flying around wearing brightly-coloured tights? No, thanks. Not for me. I'm exactly the same person I was this morning before all this shit started."

Danny had his doubts. Between the implications of the information he'd gathered at Winslow and Taylor's current attitude, it seemed to him that she'd had a massive confidence boost since he'd last seen her. Beating up the people who'd shoved her in the locker then spending the day wandering around the city had apparently done her the world of good.

Or maybe … a horrible potential crept into his mind. What if she's been Mastered? That would also cause a distinct personality shift. "I don't know," he said out loud. "Your mother's nickname for you would be fairly apt, in that case."

She hesitated for half a second, and his heart sank. Then she looked at him oddly. "What, 'little owl'? I'm pretty sure that's about my glasses, not being able to fly."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. It was a pretty poor joke." He gestured toward the kitchen. "Hungry? I made lasagne."

If she heard the unspoken while I was waiting for you to come home, she didn't respond to it. "Cool, thanks, Dad. I am kinda famished."

As she headed for the kitchen, he followed along. She had passed his impromptu test, but he still felt slightly uneasy and he didn't know why.

<><>​

Taylor

"Let me out! Let me out!"

Taylor thrashed, trying to free herself from the four metal walls and the all-pervading stench. It was useless, and despair welled deep in her soul. She was trapped and—

Everything changed. The stink was gone, replaced with the warm, familiar smell of freshly-laundered sheets. Hard metal and squelching horror vanished in favour of a cocoon of sheets and blankets, wrapped comfortably around her body.

She stopped struggling. Her cry for help died in her throat. Taking a deep breath, she inhaled the scents of her bedroom. Slowly, carefully, not wanting the reprieve to be an illusion, she extricated herself from the soft enclosure and sat up in bed.

It was night-time. Her alarm clock told her so, and the view out the window agreed with it. She was wearing pyjamas, not ordinary clothing. And she was in her room, not her locker.

What's going on here? Did I just have a horribly detailed nightmare?

That was about the time she noticed the sheet of paper clenched in her fist. Carefully, she spread it out it then turned on her reading-lamp and fumbled for her glasses. Settling back into bed, she began to read the spidery writing.

Hi, Taylor.

I've got good news and bad news for you.

Bad news: yes, it all happened. Fortunately, I got you out of the locker.

I also kicked the shit out of Emma and Sophia, so you're welcome for that too.

Now for the other bad news.

I'm currently Mastering you, or I will be once I get some shuteye. This is not just a for-kicks thing for me. I have a job to do, and you're the only one who can help me with it.

What's the job, you may ask?

Saving everyone on Earth Bet. It's a big job, but I doubt anyone else is up to doing it.

Okay, time for the good news. I'm really, really good at my job. Trust me, you're in the best possible hands when I'm running your body. Also, when I'm in charge of you, you're basically superhuman. I know this because I beat two of your homegrown capes just tonight. Keep an eye on the news for Victor and Alabaster. If you don't see them, it's because we (you and me) put them down like the rabid dogs they were.

Also good news: it's possible to save the world. Or rather, the people in it. The world itself? A bit of a shithole, if you ask me. But we can do this. I've got faith in us. And I've done this before.

Now for the downside. I'm gonna be borrowing your body occasionally to go do world-saving stuff. You'll be switched off for the duration. There will be no perceived passage of time for you. I will do my best to ensure you come back in safe locations, where nobody will query you for what's been going on. Also, I'll figure out some way of keeping you in the loop as to what we've been doing while you were out.

Oh and by the way, the PRT suspects us of being a cape. Technically that may be true, but we don't want their attention. We've got stuff to do that they might not appreciate.

So, breakdown. Your dad knows you busted out of the locker and kicked shit out of Emma and Sophia in the bathroom, and stole Emma's blouse and boots and Sophia's jeans. He also knows that Sophia is Shadow Stalker, of the Wards.

Yeah, so that's a thing. It's also one of the reasons we can't let the PRT get its hooks into us. I wouldn't have trusted them as far as I could spit them even before I found out that little secret.

Your dad does not know that I'm working to save the world, or that I've dealt with two Empire Eighty-Eight capes (and a number of mooks) already. That's between you and me.

I'll do my best to keep both you and him safe. If everything goes to shit, I'll move heaven and earth to get you both to a safe place. That's my promise to you.

In the meantime, each time you have a blackout, just be aware that it's for a good cause.

Sorry for any inconvenience,

Morrigan

PS: Feel free to ask any questions. I'll do my best to answer them the next time around.

PPS: Destroy this letter. You absolutely do not want anyone else reading it.

Taylor read it through. Then she read it through again. Eventually, she got up and left her room. Finding her way down the corridor to the bathroom in the dark was second nature to her; she'd been doing it all her life. Carefully, she tore the letter to shreds and dropped them into the toilet, then flushed it clear. Then she returned to her bed, turned out the light and lay there staring at the ceiling in the dark.

Sleep was a long time coming.



End of Part Eight

 

[Zackarix]

Or maybe … a horrible potential crept into his mind. What if she's been Mastered? That would also cause a distinct personality shift.

Click to shrink...

Danny can be surprisingly perceptive when he tries.

 

[Ack]

Danny can be surprisingly perceptive when he tries.

Click to shrink...

Well, she is his daughter, and she's acting like a totally different person.

 

[ioriangel]

This was awesome to read and so satisfying.

 

[macdjord]

So, I went and re-read this since it's been so long, and I found the early chapters... honestly a bit uncomfortable. Four years ago, the 'redpill/bluepill' thing was just a neat refence to an awesome movie, but these days, they have... rather less positive connotations.

 

[GladiusLucix]

So, I went and re-read this since it's been so long, and I found the early chapters... honestly a bit uncomfortable. Four years ago, the 'redpill/bluepill' thing was just a neat refence to an awesome movie, but these days, they have... rather less positive connotations.

Click to shrink...

Does it help that the Wachowski Sisters have explicitly said that it's a Trans allegory? The red pill represented Premarin, the HRT pill for trans women at the time, and the blue pill was Prozac, to treat the depression of not transitioning when one probably should.

 

[macdjord]

Does it help that the Wachowski Sisters have explicitly said that it's a Trans allegory? The red pill represented Premarin, the HRT pill for trans women at the time, and the blue pill was Prozac, to treat the depression of not transitioning when one probably should.

Click to shrink...

I find that delightfully ironic, but it doesn't make me any less inclined to twitch every time a character I'm supposed to sympathize with calls themself a 'redpill'.

 

[Simonbob]

I find that delightfully ironic, but it doesn't make me any less inclined to twitch every time a character I'm supposed to sympathize with calls themself a 'redpill'.

Click to shrink...

That's your problem.

I'm not talking politics. I'm just saying, if you can't handle something that you know is not a political reference, that's on you.

 

[SwiftRosenthal]

Does it help that the Wachowski Sisters have explicitly said that it's a Trans allegory? The red pill represented Premarin, the HRT pill for trans women at the time, and the blue pill was Prozac, to treat the depression of not transitioning when one probably should.

Click to shrink...

As opposed to Plato's Cave, the traditional explanation for the series? Their personal lives aside, that immediately strikes me as a Wildbow kind of WOG (that's best ignored).

 

[GladiusLucix]

As opposed to Plato's Cave, the traditional explanation for the series? Their personal lives aside, that immediately strikes me as a Wildbow kind of WOG (that's best ignored).

Click to shrink...

There was more to the comparison than just the pills. The distinction between the "Neo" identity and the "Mr. Anderson" identity, and the "one of these identities has a future" line. There was supposed to be a member of Morpheus' crew that was male in the real world and female in the Matrix, or vice versa, but got cut. There were other examples in the article I saw, but I don't remember them at the moment.

There's enough there that it's a valid reading, but even if the writers intended it, it's not the only reading.

 

[seeing_octarine]

So, I went and re-read this since it's been so long, and I found the early chapters... honestly a bit uncomfortable. Four years ago, the 'redpill/bluepill' thing was just a neat refence to an awesome movie, but these days, they have... rather less positive connotations.

Click to shrink...

Ah, I see you chose to take the blue pill.

Does it help that the Wachowski Sisters have explicitly said that it's a Trans allegory? The red pill represented Premarin, the HRT pill for trans women at the time, and the blue pill was Prozac, to treat the depression of not transitioning when one probably should.

Click to shrink...

This isn't the first time some artists have made something awesome then later went crazy and tried to poorly retcon or otherwise desecrate their prior artwork. And it won't be the last.

Yes, Ms Rowling, I was referring to you with that crack about poor retcons.

 

[Vyrexuviel]

There was supposed to be a member of Morpheus' crew that was male in the real world and female in the Matrix, or vice versa, but got cut.

Click to shrink...

You're thinking of Switch, the only member of Morpheus's crew that wore White in the matrix, instead of the usual standard Black. I remember reading somewhere that the character was supposed to be either completely androgynous, or flipflop between genders when transitioning (pun not intended!) between the Matrix and Reality.

 

[Ack]

So, I went and re-read this since it's been so long, and I found the early chapters... honestly a bit uncomfortable. Four years ago, the 'redpill/bluepill' thing was just a neat refence to an awesome movie, but these days, they have... rather less positive connotations.

Click to shrink...

Wow.
I just looked up the term.
Talk about hijacking something cool.

Well, I can say about it is that when I put it in the fic, I specifically mean it in the context of the Matrix and nothing else.

 

[WaNoMatsuri]

So, I went and re-read this since it's been so long, and I found the early chapters... honestly a bit uncomfortable. Four years ago, the 'redpill/bluepill' thing was just a neat refence to an awesome movie, but these days, they have... rather less positive connotations.

Click to shrink...

Spoiler: off topic?

From what I understand (I live in Europe) it's accidentally true what with Democrats getting 99% of their news from left sources and Republicans only... 75%? from right sources so blue knows what is going on in their bubble but not the other while red knows what's going on in general. I just hope the racist communists don't win the incoming civil war.

Aaaaanyway, I love the idea but man, poor Taylor. On one hand she's helping save the world but on the other is it true? and she's getting Mastered after a traumatic situation so she's going to be conflicted and doubting her own mind.