Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sunday. January 16.

"Fucking- Ditch me with a guy I don't even know. Make me walk home! I didn't even want to go on that godawful date but 'nOoOoOo, YoU nEeD tO gEt OuT mOrE,' she says. Dammit Vicky," I grumble, kicking a pebble into the bushes by our front door. 

I slam the door closed behind me, glad to finally be home after the disaster of today. Abandoned by Vicky and Dean because I was 'hitting it off' with my date - a lie that I know Dean knew better than - and then the polo shirt wearing piece of soggy bread ditched me too. I didn't even want to go on the date, and I only agreed because Vicky said it'd be different, promised she wouldn't do this again. But I'm a disgusting idiot and agreed even though I knew she was lying, just so I could make her happy.

At least I got a free meal out of it? Though with so much pain and suffering, can it really be called 'free?' No such thing as a free lunch, the saying goes, and no matter how good the food was, it wasn't worth the cost. I still grab a bag of chips from the cupboard because I'm a fat pig with no self control, then head upstairs to do some homework so today's not a total waste. I'll stop by the hospital later too. Not General though, I was there last night and I've already logged 10 hours there this week thanks to that creepy weirdo girl, and I don’t need the nurses to get even pushier about my sleep schedule. Where the hell does that bitch get off, asking me that? Fuck her, fuck Dean, and fuck that guy whose name I already want to forget.

I try to not linger in the upstairs hallway, but even still I can hear sounds coming from Vicky's bedroom. I saw Dean's car in the driveway, I knew he was here, I just hoped that they weren't- 

I slam my bedroom door closed too, and for a moment I can't hear them. They've stopped, and for just those handful of seconds, I can allow my satisfaction to outweigh my guilt. But then they start up again and I hurry to jam headphones over my ears to drown it out with the sound of Sirens. Stupid. Of course they'd keep going. 

Of course she wouldn't stop for me. 

I crank the music louder, until I can't hear myself think. I pull out my textbooks and just as quickly shove them to the floor. Fuck homework. Fuck being responsible. Fuck making today worth anything. I pull out my paints and unpainted models, and let everything but the music and the detailing fall away. 

Half a model - an hour - later, I'm dragged back into the world by a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to see Vicky floating behind me in a bathrobe and pajama pants. She's grinning bright enough to light up the whole room, and even though her hair is damp she looks like she just stepped out of a magazine. I turn off my music and remove the headphones so I can hear her voice. 

"So, how'd it go?" she asks as soon as my ears are clear.

"How'd what go?"

"The date, silly." The way she laughs as she calls me that is thrilling, and I have to suppress a shiver. Fuck, her smile is so... so perfect, the way her plump, moist lips quirk upward, showing just a hint of sparkling white teeth, how it fits her face so perfectly; she deserves to be happy, to be smiling so beautifully all the time, to-

"Amy!" She's waving a hand in front of my face. 

"Huh? What?" 

She pouts, her full bottom lip poking out so invitingly. I tear away my gaze before I get lost again. "Were you seriously ignoring me?"

"Uh, I might've zoned out?"

"Have you been sleeping alright? You look tired."

"I'm fine. Just, tired."

"You haven't been spending all night healing again, have you? You know you're not supposed to go over 15 hours a week."

"Don't worry, I haven't been healing too much." How could I, when it can never be enough? "What were you saying?" 

She rolls her bright blue eyes and her smile return, exasperated now. "I said: how'd it go after you two got some alone time?"

"Oh. It was fine," I say, because that's the quickest way to end this line of questioning.

"Yeah? You think you might see each other again?"

"Maybe." I shrug. Come on, take the hint.

"Just a maybe? I thought you said it went well."

"I said it went fine, okay? Not well." It comes out harsher than I wanted it to, and Vicky's flawless forehead creases in concern. I hate that I can only bring her down like this. Her smile is so beautifully calming, I wish it'd stay. But I don't deserve to see it, not when I can't even go on a normal date with a normal guy without paying attention to her instead. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that, I just..." I trail off without excuse.  

"Did something happen?" Her frown turns to a righteous scowl. "Did he do something?"

"No, I just-- He was a perfect gentleman, just like all the others. Just like Dean. He was fine."

"Is there something wrong with that? You not into 'perfect gentlemen?'"

NO, I want to scream. If I never see another 'gentleman' again it'll be too soon, I want to tell her. Instead I say, "I don't know."

"If that's not your type, that's alright. I can find a different kind of guy next time, just tell me what you like. A brooding bad boy that's sure to piss off Mom? Maybe someone kind of bookish and nerdy? Oh! Or how about a-"

"Can we not do this right now? Please? Just-- Ugh." I don't want to have this conversation again. I don't want to be forced to lie to Vicky's face, but how am I supposed to answer that when the truth would damn me? All she wants to do is make me happy but I can't even be honest with her, my own sister, because I'm a disgusting freak. Why am I like this?

"Aw. Come here, Ames."

Before I can protest (not that I would ever), she's hugging me, arms pressing me against her just right so that my face is in the crook of her neck. Her hair is so soft against my cheek despite the dampness, and her robe is so fluffy. Just like that, the knot of poisonous tension in my chest unwinds. It feels like, finally, things are maybe alright, that even though I’m sick, it doesn’t have to be the end of everything. I wish that every moment could be like this: easy, warm, and safe like only Victoria can provide. 

And then I shift to hug her back, my arm brushes against hers, and my stomach drops. I can feel it. I bite my tongue to keep my scream down. Microtears, all along her vaginal canal. Dean. Even when he's gone, he can't help but rub it in my face. 

"I just want you to be as happy as I am with Dean, okay Ames? I love you so, so much."

But not enough. She doesn't love me how I love her, and that's almost crueller than if she didn't love me at all. I could make her not love me, rip that bandaid off and push her away so she doesn't have to waste time on me, so she can love people who deserve it. So she can be happy. It'd be so easy, all I'd have to do is tell her the truth for once in my life, show her the real me, and let her hate me like she should.

Or, a dark part of myself whispers, I could make her love me right. Make her love me how I love her. Make her love me more than she's ever loved Dean. Make her obsessed with me. Make me the only thing she can think about, the only thing she wants to think about. Become the center of her world like she is mine. It wouldn't be hard, far from it actually. I wouldn’t have to break anything, not really, just move some stuff around: reroute the neural pathways that hold her love for Dean toward her feelings for me, promote growth in that area, adjust her autonomic hormone system to release dopamine and serotonin when she's reminded of me. In seconds I could have a Victoria who is completely and utterly mine. It'd be so, so easy, just ignore my rules and go all in, damn the consequences for a taste of the fruit. 

But making her love me would kill the her that I love.

I make myself push her away before I do what couldn't be undone, and thankfully she lets go. I breathe a sigh of relief at that. I don't know how much longer I could resisted myself. It's not usually that bad, I can usually cut those thoughts off before I start looking into the how. It's never easy, but it almost never feels that close. It feels like it's creeping closer all the time, becoming a more certain inevitability no matter how much I hold back my monster, no matter how many chains and ironclad rules I bind myself in.

"I know you do," I force out. "I love you too," I say, leaving silent the perverted nuance. I can't bear to look at her face, to see if she's smiling or frowning, angry or confused. I don't deserve it, not when I'd just get off on it anyway. Fuck. 

"So, painting more Sledgehammers? These new Tiny Nibs?" she asks.

"Yeah." I pick up the figure and paintbrush, and don't correct her on the faction. It'd be an exercise in futility and I don't need more of those. "I need to finish these before Saturday’s tourney.”

“Cool. So why’s this one blue?”

“Huh?” Blue? It’s supposed to be-

“Is it important? Like a named figure or something?”

“Dammit!” I drop it and the brush. 

“Ames?”

“I used the wrong color.” An hour of work wasted. Good going, Amy. I snap the blue paint closed and grab the green I should have been using this whole time. Stupid! I’d have to repaint this one anyway, with how messy all the line are, but still, using the wrong paint? I haven’t done that in years! That's amateur shit!

“Oh. Well, I mean, it still looks good. Why not let this one be a lil different?”

"Because, the Terror Nibs are a xenophobic, eusocial, hive species. If this one were a different color, all the rest would have ripped it apart when it was still a grub. It has to be like the rest. If it’s not, then it just doesn’t fit with canon.” 

"And that's bad?"

"Yes. If you want to oversimplify the entirety of their species' lore: that's bad."

“Gotcha. Well, I'll leave you to it then. Have fun." 

She closes the door behind her. I dip the brush in and drag it across a forelimb but the paint globs onto the thorax because I can't keep my own damn hands from shaking. I drop it again and it bounces to the floor. It doesn’t matter. How the hell can I paint a stupid figurine when I almost just- did something unforgiveable. Something I could never take back. Just because I was bummed out about a bad date. I...

She was right. This can't go on. This isn't sustainable. One of these days, my rules won't be enough, and I'll snap and break everyone around me. I can't do that, can't do that to Vicky. She doesn't deserve to be gutted and hollowed out and forced into whatever sick shape I want her. No one deserves that. I can't let my monster out, not when it would do that to her. I can't. 

I grab for my phone and open the PHO app. Blinking at me, same as every day for the last week, is that creepy bitch Owl_Song's mailbox. Still empty.  

fuck u, I send. im notdoin this w/o insurance

So soon that she had to have been waiting for this like the voyeuristic stalker she is, she responds.  What do you have in mind?

Ugh. She even types like a creep. im not doing this unles si know who exactly im dealing wtih 

You want me to unmask to you?

yeah.

Her response to that comes minutes later. I'll only unmask to you. No one else.

no, I send. u think im stupid enough to meet a master alone? im not goin gto let you kidnap me or do anythin w/o wintesses

You don't trust me.

no shit idek who u r

I guess that's fair. Fine, you can bring someone to meet me as a civilian, but you can't tell them about my powers. Is that okay?

I debate telling her to fuck off, that I'll tell whoever I want what I want, but... if I told anyone about her, there'd be pretty much zero chance they'd let her do anything to me. fine. as far as she knows ur just a random student.  Wait a second. u r a student, right?

Yes, I'm a student. That's acceptable. We won't be able to discuss things with them there, though. 

ik

What?

*I know. 

Oh. So how will we talk about it?

dw abt it.

What?

*don't worry about it. fuck u txt like a granmda

I'm doing you a favor.

I laugh. u expect me to believe u dont have ulterior motives? yeah right. im watching u.

I don't! I'm a hero.

uhuh. Then, (thats sarcasm btw)

I wouldn't have approached you if I was a villain. I wouldn't have told you what I could do.

That makes sense, but fuck her anyway. 

wahtever. meet me by the fountian b4 school

Okay. I'll be there. 

wat will u b wearing? 

Why does that matter?

so ik how to spot u

Oh. I'll wear a blue hoodie. 

C u then. 

I close the messenger. My heart is pounding. I reopen the app and reread the messages, scanning for a trick. I find nothing, even on my third, fourth, fifth reread. Nerves. It has to be nerves. 

<3<3    <3

Monday Morning. Still January.

"Behave yourselves," says Carol as we climb out of her car. 

"We always do," says Vicky. 

When Carol fixes me with a Look, I give her a nod. With no further goodbyes, Carol drives off, leaving us in front of Arcadia high. Few people are here this early, just the staff and a handful of students.  It's quiet, cold, and far too early to be up, much less already at school. I sip my coffee, the second and likely not last one today. 

"So, why are we here this early?" asks Vicky.

"I told you already. I'm meeting someone."

"Yeah, and I get that; I mean, I really don't because you won't even tell me who you're meeting or why or anything, but I get it. What I don't get, is why I had to get up an hour early and ride with Mom instead of Dean, or why I couldn't just fly you." 

"Because you owe me, okay?" I snap. 

"Sheesh. Who pissed in your coffee?" 

"Vicky just-- Please? Just please be here for me?"

She sighs. "Fiiiine. But only because you're my favorite sister in the whole wide world."

"I'm your only sister," I shoot back with half a smile.

"I know, it's a tight race."

I roll my eyes, then look around for her. Despite the vague description she gave, she's easy to spot; not only is she wearing a blue hoodie and standing by the fountain, but she's staring right at me. Before I can chicken out like I do everything else, I start towards her. 

"Are you Owl Song?" I ask.

She nods. "I'm here, just like I said."

I look her up and down, still suspicious. She doesn't look like I imagined, under the mask. Thin, wide lips, big nose, round glasses, long, curly hair: she's a dork incarnate. I might have passed her in the halls for months without noticing her. "So you are."

"And I'm here too!" says Vicky, bright and bubbly. "Hi, I'm Victoria, and you are...?"

The girl stares at Vicky's outstretched hand with obvious suspicion and glances between her and my own face, but eventually takes it in her own to shake. 

"Taylor," she introduces herself. "Taylor Hebert."

"So, how do you two know each other?" Vicky asks.

"We don't," Taylor says at the same time I say, "we met last week."

"Uhuh," Vicky says warily.

I cut in before she can press further or Taylor can mess things up more. "What she means, is that we don't know each other that well, because we only met last week. Right?"

"Yeah. That's right," Taylor says.

"See?" 

"Okay." Vicky seems to accept that. "So Taylor, you're a sophomore, right?"

"How'd you know that?"

"I think you might share history with my friend Heidi. Third period with Mrs. Wood?"

"Uh. Yeah."   

"Cool. She says you really know your stuff, saved her butt in the last presentation. Is history your favorite subject?"

It doesn't take a genius to see Taylor's nervous and uncomfortable with Vicky's friendly probing. It's kind of funny. When she glares at me, I can only barely hold in a laugh. She frowns and answers my sister, "English, actually."

"Oh, nice, that's Amy's favorite too. Is that how you two met or something?"

"Okay, thanks Vicky, we're good," I interject before Taylor lets something slip that she shouldn't. "We've actually got something we need to talk about in private."

Vicky looks at me incredulously, and I have no doubt she'll grill me later, but for now at least she relents. "Okay, I guess I'll go find something else to do. For an hour." 

Then she floats away. Damn if she doesn't fit those jeans perfectly. Taylor's glaring at me when I finally look at her again. At least, I think it's a glare. Honestly it's kind of a flat stare, a sort of emotionlessness that can only be hiding a scowl.

"You didn't tell me you were bringing Glory Girl," she accuses.

"And she'll be back as soon as I scream, so don't try anything funny."

"I told you, I'm not going to."

"Then I won't have to scream."

"You messaged me. You don't have to be a jerk about this." 

"Oh, I'm sorry, was it your life that got randomly intruded upon by a creepy stalker? Oh wait, no, that's not what happened because you're the creepy stalker who can't mind her own damn business."

She scowls for real now, and it feels like victory until she says, "I was just trying to help, but you obviously don't want it." 

She starts to leave and my stomach lurches. "Wait!" She stops but keeps her back to me. "I... You can really- get rid of that?"

She turns back around, frowning. "Maybe. I think so."

"You don't know?"

"I haven't really done anything like this before. I don't really use my-" She stops short and looks around. There aren't many people around, but there are enough that she can't speak plainly. In a quieter voice, she continues, "I don't really do much with it."

...Fuck. I actually believe her. 

"Follow me," I say, not waiting for her as I move to a more secluded part of the courtyard. When we're far enough away that I'm reasonably sure no one will hear us - I look up, just to make sure Vicky or - god forbid - Eric isn't lurking - I hold out my hand. She just looks at it. I say, "Give me your hand."

"Why?"

"So I'll know if you lie to me." She takes it. Low muscle definition, poor diet and nutrition, terribly farsighted, stressed, and tired: if not for the telltale nodes squirrelled away in her brain, she'd be a normal high schooler. "So. Let's assume for a second I believe you about wanting to help; how would you do... that?"

"Well, I thought about it a lot over the weekend, and I should be able to-- Okay, so when Victoria's around and you feel your normal love, lust, admiration, and guilt, if I'm nearby and paying attention, I should be able to make you, well, not feel that-- Wait let me finish!" 

I close my mouth. Bitch.

She frowns and continues. "You'd still love her, I wouldn't touch that or the admiration, but I should be able to separate the romantic from the familial love, and mute the lust and guilt."

"And that's it?" 

"What do you mean?" 

Why the hell does that confuse her? I can't believe she's going to make me elaborate. Fucking empaths, so useless at the one thing they're good for. "I mean, do you just need to do it the one time, or...?"

"Oh. It might take a few times? I'm not exactly sure how well my power sticks. First time and all." 

"Right. Right. So..." What am I ever trying to say?

"So?"

"So-" I clench her hand tigheter, enough to almost hurt "-if you fuck with anything else, if you do anything other than what we just talked about, I'll make sure all of New Wave tears you to shreds and whatever's left gets tossed in the Birdcage." Adrenaline and cortisol. Good, she's stressed. Scared too. And angry?

"I already told you I wouldn't," she says flatly. If I wasn't feeling her hormones spiking and her body tensing with anger, I'd actually think she's bored. "If you don't believe me, we can just call this whole thing off and-"

"Oh I believe you, now that you know what's waiting for you if you step out of line."

I wait for her to snap back at me, but she doesn't. She doesn't say or do anything really, just stands there holding my hand and being mad. I try to keep up the glare, but it gets to be unnerving after the first fifteen seconds or so. I let go and look around, but she just keeps staring at me like some sort of... thing that stands around and stares at people. When it's more than clear she either has nothing to say, or is unwillling to say it, I ask,

"So how are we doing this?"

"You and Victoria only have lunch and chemistry together," she says, flat as before, as if nothing's happened. It's like she practices being creepy. "I'll do what I said then, but try to avoid her otherwise. I'll try to keep an eye out between classes, but I can't promise anything; I have class too, after all."

I just barely hold back a jab about her being shitty at stalking. I shouldn't push her too far, not when she's so close to snapping. 

...Unless that's her power at work, making me reluctant to call her out. Dammit, what'd Vicky say the protocol is when dealing with these master situations? When your emotions are compromised, rely on... something that isn't emotions? Shit, I can't remember. Calm down, I don't even know for sure that I've been compromised; I don't know what her power feels like, so I don't have a baseline. Baselines are important. Need a baseline to measure against any changes.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

"Use your power on me!" I hiss. I need to know what it feels like. So I can watch out for it. 

"Uh." 

Suddenly, I feel like I've been punched in the gut. Air doesn't make it past the tightness in my chest no matter how hard I try to suck it in. The world starts to blur as it loses all sense. It feels like everything is bad, and it won't get better. The world has ended and taken everything from me and left me my life just so I have to experience the Absence without respite.

And then it's gone. I suck down air and rub the tears from my eyes to glare at the jerk who just forced that on me. "What the fuck did you just do?!"

"I did what you told me to!" she snarls. The first time she's shown anger today. 

"Yeah to make me feel something, not- not-- What even was that?"

"It was just betrayal and loss, with some confusion and regret for cohesion."

"Why was that your first choice?!"

"Would you keep it down? People are starting to stare at us."

I suck in a deep breath, then another. "That was fucking awful, I'm going to class. Just. Keep up your end of the deal and I won't..." Won't what? "Bye."

I drain the rest of my lukewarm coffee as I head for the school building. She's not subtle. The feeling was powerful, but not sneaky in the slightest. That's good. Really good. I don't have to worry about her influencing me without me knowing. There's no way she can twist me into some kind of brainwashed slave, not with intense feelings like that. Brute force, no finesse. It's... a relief. Yeah. 

Fuck her.

<3<3                 <3

When lunch comes around, my nerves are at an all time high. I kept away from Vicky like Taylor said, even carrying my books with me to avoid needing to go to my locker next to hers, so this is the first time I'll have seen her since hashing out the plan with Taylor. 

"She had better come through on this," I mutter, crossing into the cafeteria. 

After I've grabbed food from the line, I make my way over to my and Vicky's table to wait for her and her friends to come too. 

Allison's the next one there. She sits across from me and says hey, and I say hi back. Then she asks me about an algebra quiz I took in first period - she has the same class after lunch - and we get to talking. 

"Hey Ames," says Vicky as she sits beside me.

"Hey." I turn back to Allison to finish telling her about the overrepresentation of the quadratic formula in the quiz, but freeze. Vicky's here. She's here and all I said was 'hey'? I look back at her and- 

And my heart doesn't skip a beat for once. She's my sister. A regular girl. Well, not regular, not by a long shot, never, but she's... lesser now? That doesn't feel like the right word either, but it's like she's not quite as magnetic. She's normal. She's still beautiful in a way no one else I've met is, but has she always had that bit of a pimple on her nostril? I try to think back on whether that little flaw was there this morning, and it must have been but I don't remember seeing it. 

Is this Taylor at work? She said she'd get rid of the romance and lust; is this what that feels like? Is this how I'd see Victoria if I weren't normally such a depraved freak? She's my sister, and she's always been there for me, from the start, and I love her more than anything else, but that's all she is. 

Like, she's still hot, objectively speaking, but it's not doing anything for me. Her hair is still gorgeous, and her breasts are still perky and well-sized, but it feels weird to even glance at her breasts. A different weird than normal. Usually when I look I have to kick myself for perving but now it doesn't even feel like perving, just noting that my sister has nice breasts, and it feels weird in a bad way even admitting that. 

I make myself think about kissing Vicky, and it's weird! It makes me feel weird in a bad way that's different than the normal bad weird! I think about her holding me close and it doesn't do anything for me at all! It feels uncomfortable, even! This is amazing!

Though, despite the euphoria of the loss, it... kind of stings. This is a goodbye to an - admittedly shitty - part of my life. Today was the last day I'll have felt the epic highs and lows of loving Victoria That Way. It's for the best. It is. Already, I can feel a knot of anxiety loosen deep in my chest. Is this what my patients meant when I healed them of old aches? This feeling of novel wonder at my own self? 

"Everything okay?" asks Vicky and I have to hold back the relieved laughter that I don't have to lie this time.  

"I think so, yeah."  I turn back to Allison. For once, I'd rather talk about a math quiz than stare at my sister.

<3  <3             <3

I'm practically walking on sunshine and farting rainbows for the rest of the day, even through my shift at Anders Memorial. The nurses wouldn't shut up about my good mood, teasing and asking about what makes today such a good day, and it wasn't even hard to not tell them to shut up for once because today is a good day! If every day could be like today, I think I could finally be content. Well. Not content, but at least mostly happy despite the endless horde of the sick and dying I fail everyday.

Hell, even though there are more patients that I could be helping inside, I don't even feel too bad about waiting on the roof for my ride. The doctors can handle the non-life-threatening cases today. I feel like celebrating. Go home, paint the rest of my Terror Nibs, and refine the strategy that will let me annihilate those nerds this weekend. 

"You ready to go?" asks Vicky.

I turn around and my heart skips a beat. She's all but glowing in the late-afternoon sun, haloed in her white and gold costume, and I can't believe that such a gorgeous smile could be for me. 

My eyes start to sting. "Dang it."

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Let's just go home?" Please don't comment on my scratchy voice, please please please.

"Did something happen? You sound kind of..."

Why does she have to care so much about me? I don't deserve it but she keeps giving me so much care and attention and I soak it up like a moldy sponge. Well. It was nice while it lasted, being a little bit less of a monster. 

"It's nothing important, there was just a kid with a concussion and his dad got mad I couldn't fix it," I lie. "Hope your shift went better than mine?"

Her frown evaporates and she picks me up and tells me about her patrol on the flight home. She's always so happy to talk about her heroing, feeling so strongly about justice and righteousness. Just another thing that makes her so perfectly her. 

When we get home, I'll be having words with Taylor about her stupid plan and useless power, but for now I bury my face in my sister's shoulder and pray she doesn't notice the wetness.

<3<3

That Friday. 

"And you're sure it'll work this time?" I ask.

"I'm sure," Taylor answers.

"Really actually definitely sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

"You've said that three times this week now and it's getting old."

"I know, but this time I'm basing it on Pavlov's Theory of Classical Conditioning, so we've got science backing us up."

I stare at her like she's an idiot. Which is easy considering her track record of idiocy. "Are you telling me you haven't opened a book until today? Why the hell didn't you think to do that earlier?"

"You didn't either."

"It's not my power! I studied so many biology and biochem books when I triggered and you didn't even think to crack open a psych 101 book until now?"

"I wasn't trying to train someone like a dog until now."

A huff of affronted laughter escapes. "Oh you are such a bitch, you know that?"

"That makes two of us."

My jaw snaps closed with a click. 

"Just. Fucking do it already," I force out through grit teeth.

"Um. About that." She's got a bit of red on her cheeks, and it's not even cold out right now. 

I already know I'm not going to like whatever she's about to say but still I ask, "What."

"So. Because it's based on positive feelings and associations, it's not so much getting rid of your feelings for her as it is... redirecting them. Onto someone else."

"You're fucking kidding me."

I let my head thump against the brick wall housing the stairs down from the roof. It's last period, and technically we're both ditching, but Taylor has study hall right now, and I can't handle class after feeling like utter shit in chemistry with Vicky. What a fucking disaster today's idea was: make me feel horrible around Vicky so I wouldn't have a crush on her. Like I didn't already feel awful all the time around her. The only saving grace was that I felt too shitty to force anything down at lunch, so the nausea didn't have anything to work with.

"I know. It's barely even a fix. But, I figure it gives us time to figure something else out later?"

I turn to look at Taylor. Her hair covers her face from this angle, where she's looking at the edge of the roof. I can't tell what she's thinking, so I take her hand and- yep. Just as expected: her face is set in a scowl behind her hair, and the microflexes of muscles in her face feel like guilt, or maybe even shame? Creepy and standoffish as she may be, she has been trying to help, and her failures this last week have hit her almost as bad as they've hit me. Well. Like 40% as bad. She's not the one whose life and brain are getting played with, but when we touch like this, I can feel the stress that's been building up in her system. She genuinely does feel bad about getting this wrong and being unable to help me immediately. I know she feels good using her powers, but that's a standard amongst parahumans, and I can tell there's no amusement or sick joy at fucking this up. 

"So," I start, "you'd be moving my crush onto someone else."

She nods. "If it works, which it should, then when you're exposed to the triggers that would normally make you love Victoria, I would direct those feelings onto the other person, and after a while you'd start to feel that way even without my power. Of course, to keep it all making sense to your subconscious, I'd need to make you love that person outside of the Victoria-stimuli too."

"Who do you have in mind?"

"That's the thing: I can't think of anyone. They would need to spend time around you and Victoria - and me, since I need to be nearby to do it - and ideally you and they would get along and be willing to spend time alone together independent of me. Worst case scenario, I could make you tolerate or even like them no matter what, but honestly it's safer if I try to touch as little as possible. But I just can't think of anyone you spend any significant amount of time with."

I can feel her stress levels peaking, the frustrated tensing of muscles and disappointed downturn of her eyes. It's so easy to read her like this, with my power. She really does want to help, so much so that she's tearing herself up inside over not having a complete solution packaged and ready to go. It's relieving. If she didn't care, or if this was somehow fun for her, I'd sooner lobotomize her than suggest what I'm considering.

"You can't think of anyone that could spend time around me and Vicky? Really?" 

"Not without having to... do stuff to them, and I'm not going to do that without telling them, and we can't tell anyone," she says despondently. 

"And you've considered everyone?"

"Yes. I've been looking for pretty much anyone who fits the criteria, but no luck. You barely spend time with anyone other than Victoria. And me, I guess." 

She's not even kidding. This girl is so dense it'd be funny if it wasn't so sad. It's still a little funny though.

She turns to look at me. "Why are you feeling amused about this? This is serious, Amy."

"I don't know, it's kind of funny you haven't thought of the obvious solution." She's so confused right now. She seriously hadn't even considered it. 

"And what's the obvious solution?" she asks warily.

I lick my lips, clearing away winter's chap. "You."

"Me?"

"Yeah. You. Duh."

"Wh- Why me? I mean, I'm not even-- This isn't funny!"

"It's pretty damn funny actually," I say, letting out some laughter. If she's going to call me on it, I might as well actually laugh.

She keeps glaring, and if I couldn't feel her body curling further in on itself, I'd think her ready to shove me off the roof, but really she feels more liable to jump than push. "Explain."

I let out a final laugh. "Well. You can choose to spend time with Vicky and me without it being weird, no 'convincing someone else' needed. Plus, it means we won't have to involve anyone else, so really it's just safer this way. Less uh, what are they called?, potential leaks or something."

"Points of failure?"

"Yeah, that."

"I... guess this works. But, are you sure you want me to be the recipient?" 

"If not you, then who? You already said no one else would work."

"But isn't that kind of..." An enormous swell of nausea: her whole body tenses up, ready to bolt, and her sweat glands increase productivity. "...Heartbreaker-y?"

I look at her like she's dumb. Which she is. "How the hell did you get into Arcadia when you're so dumb? Don't answer that, rhetorical question. How the fuck is this Heartbreaker-y?"

Her brow scrunches in confusion, and I feel the muscles on her jaw bunch up. She really did not like that. "Because I'd be using my power to make you love me?"

"I'm literally asking for it," despite my better judgement. "You think Heartbreaker cares about consent? No, he mindrapes whoever he wants and doesn't give a single fuck about them or what's right." Why is my mouth so dry? "You at least uh. You know. Give a shit or something," I finish lamely.

I lose track of her biology as she takes back her hand to rub at her eyes under her glasses. I'm blind to the thought processes that lead her to eventually ask, "Do you keep a diary?"

"No?"

"You should start. If we're doing it like this, we're doing it right, and that means I need data. I need you to self report and record how you're feeling every day: about me, about Vicky, about- everything and anything. I don't want to miss something and break you."

I try to swallow the sudden lump in my throat. It's... chilling, having the fragility of my mind brought up so frankly. The idea that she could mess up, or change her mind, or do whatever she wants with no oversight is... "Yeah," I make myself say, "Sure, I'll keep a journal or whatever."

"And we'll need a cover story. A reason for why we'll be spending so much time together, in case someone asks."

"What, like we're dating or something?"

She finally turns to look at me, and I wish I could read the look she gives me. "I was thinking 'or something,' but... But that might actually work."

"What? G-going out?" Is she seriously suggesting this?

"It wouldn't be for real, just until we think up a better outlet or way to get rid of the crush fully, but it would give us an excuse to be around each other, and it works as a cover for why you're in love with me. It fits too well."

I scoff. "I'm not in love with you."

She looks me in the eye and frowns. "You will be."

I can only gape. This- This- This-! 

"So are you in?" she interrupts my thoughts before I can land on the right word to call her. "Do you want to pretend to go out while I fix your brain?"

"...Sure. Whatever."

"So. I can use my power on you? I can make you... love me?"

...I could say no. I could walk away, report her to the PRT and get her shipped to prison or put in the Wards or send her on the run and be done with her. But if I did that, it would just put me back into the same place I've been forever. It wouldn't fix anything, wouldn't help anyone, and this taste of normalcy this last week, of being able to just be around my sister, my best friend, without having to feel disgusting, it's been desperately intoxicating. I can't go back to how things were. I can't put Vicky into that position again, not when I can't be sure my rules can keep down the monster inside forever. So really, I don't have a choice in the matter, not one that matters. 

I swallow my nerves - definitely nerves - and say, "Go ahead."
In an instant, both everything and nothing change. It's like Taylor transforms right in front of my eyes, but without any difference from before and after. She's not attractive, not conventionally beautiful, but the distinctiveness of her features shift ever so slightly. 

Her long, glossy, black hair catches the afternoon sun, all but glowing as the breeze brushes through her tresses, and her lips don't look awkwardly thin and wide anymore so much as... an expressive centerpiece for her face. They should compete with her nose, as strong as it is, but somehow they fit together. And it's only been a week, but how have I not noticed the little flecks of green and gold in her eyes? 
It's like looking at a magic eye picture, where what I'm seeing has objectively always been there, but I just couldn't focus right until now, and now that I can see it, it's breathtaking.

"Woah," she breathes, licking her lips as they turn upward into a small smile. It fits her face, bold despite it's subtlety. "That's..." She swallows. "How's that feel?"

"This is your power?" She nods. I stare at her for a long moment, just taking in the not-changes before delivering my verdict. "I guess you're a bit less annoying to look at?" She frowns at that and I rush to elaborate. "I mean, I don't know. I guess I just expected something more?"

Her frown deepens and why is this so frustrating? What does she even want from me? I'm not going to lie to her about this, that'd be stupid, she just said how important good data is. 

"So," she starts, "how do you feel when I do this?" She reaches towards my face and I freeze. Glimpses of her biology, too sporatic to note more than their happenings, pass into me as her fingertips brush along my cheek, nudging a strand of my hair behind my ear. Her hand lingers, fingertips against scalp. She smirks and pulls back, leaving my face burning hot. "Good, it is working."

"The-" I clear my throat so I won't squeak again. Dammit why is my mouth so dry?! "The hell was that supposed to be?"

"Just checking to make sure that responses to stimuli are in line with the implanted emotions."

"O-oh. Okay." Wait why the hell do I sound so prissy and subdued? This creep just ran her damn fingers through my hair! Maybe she's not as much of a creep as she used to be-- Wait no, she absolutely is as much of a creep as she was a minute ago! Her creepiness hasn't changed one bit! She's just making me think things have changed when really she's still the same weirdo who followed me home in a ski mask like some sort of adorably floundering newby and- why the fuck does that memory make me want to smile?! I spent an hour last week ranting to myself about how Taylor fumbled through it like a freshmasked capefic protagonist and-- "This is weiiirrrrrd."

She looks thoughtful, lips pursed and eyes intense- intent. Eyes intent. "I hear what you mean. It should, hopefully, normalize after a while? I think it's just cognitive dissonance from such a sudden change."

"Weeeeeeeiiiiiiiirrrrrrrd," I draw out the word to hammer in the weirdness.

"Just don't think about it too much, okay?"

"I can try but..." 

What can I even say to explain how weird this feels? This feels like some sort of cheap 'Oh' moment in a romance story, where the protagonist realizes their true feelings and everything changes as they start to pine for real, except no story I've ever read has described it as being so... dissonant. Yeah, that's a good word for this feeling. I don't like it. 

"Can't you do something about it? Make it feel less weird?"

She looks away pensively. "Probably, but I... I'm not sure that's a good idea. It's hard to tell the source of people's feelings - sometimes it's clear and obvious, but other times not so much - and I don't think I should mess around too much yet."

Yet?!

"Fine, but if this keeps up you're fixing it." I close my eyes, lean back against the brick again, and try to think about anything other than the mind manipulating girl beside me and how weird she's making everything. 

"Okay, Pavlov," she says with that lilt that people usually give to jokes. "That is kind of the whole point of conditioning you. Fixing you, I mean."

I have to open my eyes so I can stare at her because "...What?"

"You know, Pavlov? Conditioned his dog with a bell? It was a joke." I can only stare, bewildered. "Don't tell me you haven't heard about Pavlov."

"No I know who Pavlov is, that's not the issue. That was a joke?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

"What?"

"Jokes are funny, Taylor. That wasn't funny. That wasn't a joke, that was a-- I don't even know what that was but it wasn't a joke."

She scowls at me, one of the strongest I've seen from her, and-- Sure I wish she would keep smiling, but I don't think anyone could let a 'joke' like that go.  She huffs. "Being your 'girlfriend' is going to suck, isn't it?"
I open my mouth but my words miscarry. That's right, we're girlfriends, Taylor and me. That... I honestly never thought I'd be able to say that I have a girlfriend. I figured I'd impotently crush on Vicky until I ate a bullet and that'd be that. 

I know it's stupid, and it's fake, and it's not with the girl I actually, genuinely love, and it doesn't mean anything, and I know it's started with the express plan to end it later, but still! I have a girlfriend! That is a sentence I can honestly say, technically. I'd never, not for more than a few idle, forelorn moments at a time, thought there could be someone other than Vicky for me, but I have a girlfriend now! 

She's nothing like Vicky, not at all: dark hair rather than blonde, willowy instead of athletic and curvy, distinctiveness in place of beauty. Vicky has been a constant in my life almost since before I can remember, and Taylor just barged in a week ago. Vicky can keep me safe from anyone who would hurt me, but... But Taylor can keep her safe from me. 

Chapter Text

Friday. January 21.

"Yeah, well. Being your girlfriend…" I have to bite my cheek to hold back the grin; it's not real, it doesn't mean anything "…hasn't exactly been a walk in the park so far either."

"It's been two minutes."

"What's your point?"

She frowns and looks away. "Is that uh, something you'd want to do? Go for a walk in the park?"

I roll my eyes as derisively as possible. "That's so cliche. What, are we going to go for a moonlit stroll along the beach next? Nothing more romantic than having to cure you of hepatitis every five minutes."

"I didn't say anything about the beach, but if you'd rather do that, we can."

"I just said I didn't want to do that cliche stuff."

"Yeah, but I can hear that you actually do."

"...Shut up."

Mercifully, she does. Until, "Hepatitis?"

"Do you know how many used needles there are on the beaches around here? Enough that I have to fix a dumbass at least twice a day."

She makes a sound of acknowledgement, but otherwise falls silent. I let my eyes close and my head rest against the sun-warmed brick behind me. It's cool on the rooftop, but not quite chilly thanks to the stairwell blocking the wind. I almost ever only come up here with Vicky, to fly home or to the hospital or wherever; It's always been liminal, a place to wait or to arrive. I've never taken the chance to just be up here, or on any roof.

It's nice.

"Hey Ames, Taylor," calls a familiar voice. I open my eyes to see Vicky descending. She lands. "What are you two doing up here?"

"I have a girlfriend," rushes out of my mouth. "Uh." I point at Taylor to clarify. "She's my girlfriend."

Vicky looks between us, gears obviously turning in her head as she processes my - why did I say that?! - statement. Taylor's looking at me too, speckled brown eyes wide and sharp cheeks rosy. They both give me Looks that promise a talk later and why the FUCK did I say that?!

"That's," Vicky starts slowly, "really cool. Good to know. I'm happy for you." She turns to address Taylor. "And it's good to see you again, Taylor. I guess we'll be seeing a lot more of each other."

Taylor turns to address Vicky, who is staring at me again. "Yeah, that's right. Now that I'm dating your sister."

...

I wonder, if I jumped, could I outpace Vicky to the ground? ...No, she flies too fast, there's no way she'd let me fall more than halfway down. But then at least we wouldn't be in this situation! It’d still be a bad situation, but a different one at least.

I'm still weighing my options when Taylor asks, "What brings you back here? I thought you went to B.U. in the afternoons."

"I do," Vicky says, glancing at Taylor then back at me. Why is she staring so much? It's not like I just blurted out something that upends the entire way she looks at me. I wouldn't do that, that'd be stupid! "But I've got drama club three times a week so I fly back after I'm done there."

"Why are you in the drama club?" Taylor asks so stupidly and oh thank god the focus is on her now: my awkward savior!

"Because the debate team denied my application,"  is Vicky's casual, half-joking response.

"Wait seriously?"

"Yep! They said it was because my aura gave me an unfair advantage, but really they just couldn't stand the idea of getting carried by a girl. I wasn't even using my aura during try-outs."

"Oh. That uh. That's awful. I'm sorry."

Vicky waves it off. "Don't worry about it, if they want to never make it to state, that's their damage. Drama's way more fun anyway."

She's acting casual, but I remember how much she ranted and cried the night after they rejected her. It cut her deep, another unfair blow after getting forced off the basketball team just a couple months earlier, to be barred from not only athletics, but half of the academic extracurriculars too. But that's old news, best left in the past.

"Fun is one word for it," I joke, earning a chuckle from Vicky and a calculated look from Taylor and oh god no why did I say something now they’re looking at me again I really need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

"You know, we were actually talking about joining drama," Taylor says out of nowhere. What the hell is up with this girl's train of thought?

"You were?" Vicky asks as I ask, "We were?" We exchange a look but Taylor keeps talking.

"Yes, I was asking Amy about extracurriculars I could join, since I'm new, and she suggested drama."

"I did?" I ask. Then I realize I should go along with Taylor's obvious lie since she probably - hopefully - if she doesn't I'm going to kill her - has a plan. "I mean. Yeah, I did. We were talking about that, and that's what I said."

Vicky blinks, processing my lie as what it so obviously is. Tonight is going to suck. "Well. Cool! I'm glad you're giving it another shot, Ames, but you know we meet on Thursdays, right?"

"...Damn it. I forgot about that."

"Why does that matter? What's Thursday?" Taylor asks.

"Amy heals after school on Mondays and Thursdays."

"Oh. Can't you just move it?" Taylor asks.

"What? No. Thursday is Healing Day. I've always gone to the hospital on Thursday, I can't just not heal," I say.

"I'm not telling you not to heal, I'm saying that you could heal on, I don't know, Wednesday instead."

"No, I can't. Thursday is Healing Day"

"So change it."

"You're not listening! Thursday is the day I've always healed on, I can't just skip that, it'd be wrong."

"Then push it back a few hours. Start after drama instead."

What the fuck isn't getting through to her? She's got to be doing this on purpose, riling me up for some stupid, petty reason. She thinks she's got me so she can control me? She's stupider than she looks, which isn't hard considering how her glasses and hair make her look like a dorky librarian - Taylor with her hair in a bun? No that's not important - but still! It isn't that hard to understand; if I skip one Thursday, what's to stop me from skipping another? And then a Monday too? And then going weeks at a time without doing anything good just because I don't feel like it?!

"I. Can't."

She opens her stupid smart-looking mouth again, but Vicky interjects, "That's no big deal, really. I mean, you're not going out for cast again, are you, Ames?"

"Hell no." Not making that mistake again.

"So you can heal on Mondays and Thursdays still, and then help me in the crew on Tuesdays and Fridays. No biggie!"

"That…" That doesn't conflict with Healing Days, and still lets Taylor do whatever she's trying to do in drama… "That could work."

Taylor looks put out, but fuck her for trying to fuck with me like that. Rather than try to press me on it - her glasses aren't just for show, I guess - she says to Vicky, "I figured you'd be in the cast."

"Nope! I'm stage manager. Why? Do I look like a leading lady or something?" she says with an edge. I can see the playful malice in Vicky's eyes at flipping Taylor's preconceptions on their heads. At least she's got my back against Taylor.

"No! Well, yes, you look like you belong on stage, but I didn't mean to-"

Vicky lets out a small laugh, then hurries to reassure her. "Don't worry about it, I'm just messing with you. I actually was the lead last semester."

"Oh." Taylor frowns. "So, why are you crew, if you were good enough to be on stage?"

"I wanted to change things up, see how it is in backstage for once. Plus, I figure a bit of leadership experience as stage manager can't hurt; never know when I'll need to call shots or lead a team in the field," she lies. "But seriously, it's great to hear you're interested. I know Jack - that's the director - is always on the hunt for new talent."

Taylor huffs out a laugh that sounds like an old squeaky toy's dying gasp. "I don't think I'd fit in on stage."

"Are you kidding? I bet you could kill it on stage!"

"Somehow, I really doubt that."

"I'm serious, you've got a nice voice, if you learned to project I bet you could be heard from a block or two away. And I know costuming would go crazy over your build. Plus, your face is so expressive, I'm sure your smile could be seen from the back row, easy."

On and on Vicky goes, trying to hype up Taylor - a song and dance I've seen dozens if not hundreds of times; she's always picking up 'projects' - but Taylor seems to shrink in on herself more and more as Vicky talks. Sneaky as I can, I brush my knuckles against the back of her hand and-- She's so tense what the hell?! Every muscle is coiled tight, straining under her baggy clothes without release. And she's nauseous? It's psychosomatic for sure, there's nothing in her system to explain it otherwise.

"We might have to catch up, if that's okay with you? Still in the auditorium, right?" I interject.

Her smile falters a bit, but quickly returns, sly. "Sure, I'll let Jack know you're coming."

Then she leaves through the access door and I'm alone on the roof with Taylor again. I ruminate over what to say for a long minute, whether to address her tension and whatever just happened. I settle on a rueful, "I can't believe you signed us up for drama club."

She looks at me and the tension drains from her body, her pursed lips relaxing into not-quite-a smile. "I didn't plan to, but I think we should," she says. "It's too good of an opportunity to pass up, us three working back stage together twice a week, for what? An hour, hour and a half every time? I don't know if we'll get a better chance to transfer your Vicky-stimuli over to me."

"Yeah but does it have to be drama?"

"If you can think of a better opportunity, I'm all ears."

"..."

"Then yes, it has to be drama. Why are you so against it? Wait, does this have to do with what Victoria said? About you being in it before?"

"I really don't want to talk about it." Please just leave it alone, please please please.

She frowns, and I think for a moment that she'll leave it alone, but of course she doesn't. She's so damn pushy. Of course I can't have nice things, like an emotion manipulating fake girlfriend who respects my wishes, not that there's anything nice about the first half but still!; I thought I'd learned that lesson already, but apparently it hasn't gotten through my fat fucking head that I'm not allowed to have nice things.

She takes my hand in hers, squeezes, and rubs her thumb over my knuckles in a way that makes my heart hammer. There's no way she's not using her power to enhance the sensation, there's just no way this would feel like this even if I'm in... under the effects of her power. She smiles, soft and calm, and asks, "You know I won't judge you, right? No matter how embarrassing it is."

I swallow. This is so wrong. "I'm not telling you."

She leans in and when did she get in front of me? My back's against the wall and she's-- She's not close close but she's close enough that my arm isn't at some awkward angle, held by hers. And does she have to be so tall? I can't not look up at her from this angle, it's like she's pressing in on me from all angles. "Is it really that bad?"

"I told you, I'm not telling you, so quit asking." I push off the wall past her and start for the door inside. She doesn't need to know this. She doesn't need to know anything. We're not friends, she's just some girl helping me with a problem. Like a tutor, nothing more, no matter what we tell everyone else. "Now come on, we've got a dumpster fire to jump in."

I feel her lips quirk upward at my 'joke,' and she follows, not letting go of my hand all the way to the auditorium on the ground floor. If she knew what she was getting us into, she wouldn't be smiling.

<3   <3         <3

There must be over fifty students in the room, a fraction of a fraction of what it can hold - it being the biggest room in the school - but does the drama team really need so many boys with blue hair? Definitely not, but that doesn't stop there from being four- no, five of them. This was such a stupid idea, and going by how Taylor's sweat glands just jumped into overdrive and her pupils dilated, I know she feels the same.

"Not too late to find something else," I whisper. Wrong thing to say, apparently, since she takes that as a cue to stomp into the room, dragging me behind her. A bald man with a bushy red beard - the only adult in the room - meets us halfway down an aisle.

"Amy, good to see you again, and you must be Taylor," greets Mr. Warzecha. "Victoria told me you were interested in theatre, and it is always such a pleasure to have new blood in the club. My name's Jack, and I'm the director-slash-supervisor here."

"That's right. We wanted to join the crew with Victoria," Taylor says.

"Fabulous news! Our team backstage always needs more helping hands."

I smirk as Taylor relaxes. Fool doesn't know what's coming. Thinks it's done. If only it were so easy. She gives me an curious look, doubtlessly wondering why I'm all but laughing at her, but I just keep smiling. She can find out herself.

"Now, you may have missed formal try-outs, but I'll still need you to audition for us."

Taylor's brow furrows. "But I said we want to be in the crew."

He waves it off. "Pish-posh, it's tradition. If you want to be on the team, you have to try out. It wouldn't be fair to let you skip auditions when the rest of the crew had to do them.

"Everyone! To your seats! Taylor here is going to read for us," Mr. Warzecha calls, and the students start to move and spread across the stands. I drop her hand so I don't have to go up on stage with her, but she holds fast.

"Wait, shouldn't Amy go first?" Taylor says, trying to throw me under the bus.

Mr. Warzecha and I lock eyes. He looks away first, glancing at Taylor's death grip on my hand then back to me.

"She's already done it," he says, which is technically the truth, but doesn't touch on the understanding we came to last year. He presses a stapled bunch of papers into her hands, giving me a chance to pull my hand away, and tells her she'll be reading for Ophelia. He calls some boy - one who has long, limp, green hair instead of blue - named Trev to the stage to read the other lines.

I take a front row seat next to Vicky as the rest of the club settles into their own seats, spread all across the room. Mr. Warzecha gives Taylor and Trev some directions before leaving to take his seat in the third row. Taylor looks so damn awkward up there, holding the pages so close to her face that I have to wonder if her glasses are doing anything at all for her nearsightedness. It's... definitely mean that I can't wait for her to flop, but really she's brought it on herself. It's karma. Punishment for trying to fuck with my Healing Days. I can't wait for this to be done so I can rub it in her face.

Vicky nudges me with her elbow, and I look over to see her waggling her eyebrows obnoxiously. I roll my eyes fondly. "What?"

"Nothing~" she sings. "Just happy to see you smiling."

Shit was I-- I was. "Sorry, won't happen again."

"Aw don't be like that," she fake-whines, her smile growing. "Aren't you excited to see your uh-" her eyebrows dance as she nods at Taylor "-you know, up on stage?"

"...You can call her my girlfriend, Vicky."

"Oh. Cool, wasn't sure if you were keeping that quiet or not, with how uh. You know." She frowns.

"It's going to get out regardless, so what's the point? It's not even a big deal; I've got a girlfriend, whoop-dee-doo."

Her lips curl slyly. "You're smiling again."

I bite my lip to kill it but it just won't die. "Quiet, you."

"Quiet on set!" calls Mr. Warzecha, ending all conversation in the room. All eyes turn to Taylor and Trev on stage, and a moment later, she begins to read.

[Taylor, inaudible (as Ophelia): Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?

Trev, yelling (as Gertrude):How now, Ophelia?]

Her words are halting at first, barely audible. It's about as I expected; she looks like an idiot on stage, which is half of the whole point of theater and 90% of the point of this 'audition' thing, so I'm sure Mr. Warzecha is happy.

Trev, by comparison, all but shouts his line, probably easily heard in the back row. Certainly easy to hear from the front. I watch Taylor watching Trev deliver his line with aplomb. She takes a breath deep enough to be seen from my seat, then launches into her next set of lines, louder this time.

[Taylor, audible: How should I your true love know 

  From another one?

By his cockle hat and staff, 

  And his sandal shoon.

Trev (as Gertrude): Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?

Taylor:Say you? Nay, pray you, mark.

Taylor, singing shyly: He is dead and gone, lady,     

 He is dead and gone.

At his head a grass-green turf, 

 At his heels a stone.

Trev (as Gertrude): Nay, but Ophelia ... 

Taylor: Pray you, mark. 

Taylor, singing: White his shroud as the mountain snow

Trev (as Gertrude):Alas, look here, my lord.

Taylor, singing better: Larded with sweet flowers,

Which bewept to the ground did not go     

With true-love showers.

Trev (as Claudius):How do you, pretty lady?

Taylor, getting into it: Well God 'ild you. They say the owl was a baker's

daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not

what we may be. God be at your table!    

Trev (as Claudius): Conceit upon her father.]

As she reads, the paper in her hands moves further from her face. She takes in a shuddering breath and lets out a forced, manic laugh.

Then she looks at me.

I think Trev says something, but for the life of me, I couldn't say what. When Taylor speaks, its like she's whispering into my soul: every bit of unhinged laughter makes me jump in my seat and when she sobs, covering it with more mad excuses, I feel my heart clench for her. There's nothing in this room but her and I, confessing and witnessing. My heart is too loud in my ears, and I'm struck by a memory of Vicky practicing lines with me that, despite it's obvious, glaring differences, feels like this moment.

[Taylor: Pray you, let's have no words of this, but when 

they ask you what it means, say you this:

Taylor, singing: Tomorrow is Saint Valentine's day, 

All in the morning betime,

And I a maid at your window,

To be your Valentine.

Then up he rose, and donned his clothes, 

And dupped the chamber door,

Let in the maid, that out a maid 

Never departed more.    

Taylor: Indeed, la! Without an oath I'll make an end on't.

Taylor, singing: By Gis and by Saint Charity, 

 Alack, and fie for shame!

Young men will do't if they come to't; 

 By Cock, they are to blame.    

Quoth she, "Before you tumbled me, 

 You promised me to wed."

"So would I ha' done, by yonder sun, 

 An thou hadst not come to my bed."

Taylor: I hope all will be well. We must be patient. But I

cannot choose but weep to think they should lay him i'th'

cold ground. My brother shall know of it. And so I thank

you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night,

ladies, good night. Sweet ladies, good night, good night.]

Her script falls to her side as she continues to speak to me from on high. She was so close, earlier, but now she's so far away, even though this is as close as I could be to her. Why can't I be Trev? He gets to be next to her, but she's talking to me - shit what's she saying? LISTEN! Fucking listen! Don't get distracted by her hair or her confidence or her beautiful, exhausted smile.

She gives her last line. It's quiet.

She looks so sad.

She's smiling, so why does she look so sad?

We flinch when the room explodes with noise, a hundred hands making noise as their owners cheer and laugh. Taylor looks around the room with a stunned look on her bright red face as she takes in the praise. It feels more than just obligatory, like how you have to clap during a pep rally: these people sound actually impressed. Still, it’s not like anyone’s rushing the stage.

Vicky grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet with an excited "Come on," then drags me onstage. I don't think to try to stop her. "Taylor, that was amazing! Did you do drama before transferring or something?"

"N-no? I don't think Winslow even has a drama club."

"That's even more impressive! Right, Amy?"

"Y-yeah. That was. Something," I stutter out like an idiot.

"It certainly was 'something,'" interrupts Mr. Warzecha. He and a couple of students have joined us on stage. "That was darn near impossible. I know I didn't hand you that whole scene, but you still performed it all admirably."

"It wasn't missing a page?" Taylor asks, receiving laughs.

"You were only supposed to read like, four lines, not the whole book," I say. Does she have the play memorized or something?

"Oh." Her blush crawls down her neck to the collar of her hoodie. I wonder how low it reaches...

"If Taylor wants to show off, she is more than welcome to," reassures Mr. Warzecha. "After all, a star like you should always strive to put on a show. Oh, if you'd just joined last week I'd cast you on the spot."

"A-actually I was hoping to do crew stuff? With Amy and Victoria?"

"No, I won't allow such nonsense; you were born for the stage," Mr. Warzecha shuts her down without mercy. "I've already lost one starlet too many to backstage this semester. You're an actress, Taylor, and that's that."

He takes her hand in his, raises it skyward, and announces, "Everyone: the newest member of our cast!"

Another round of cheers. More perfunctory this time.

He mutters, "Oh, why couldn't you have joined a week ago? All the big roles are already assigned, but don't you worry, I'll find you something even if I have to carve it into the script myself."

"I really would prefer to be in the crew, like I said," Taylor pleads, panic evident in her eyes. Somehow, it feels less... real? Than her performance? It's less heavy, for sure, but maybe that's just because she's not staring into my soul right now? Was she using her power on stage, and that’s why it felt more real? That’s uh. If she was, I’m going to have to be pissed.

"Kelsey doesn't have an understudy, right, Jack?" Victoria asks. "Taylor could do that."

Mr. Warzecha frowns, but nods. "I suppose that works. But next semester, you are joining on time, auditioning for real, and joining the cast proper." Taylor slumps with relief. "Kelsey," he calls for another girl, "Meet your understudy. Why don't you get Taylor acquainted with her role and the rest of the cast while I make her a copy of the script?"

"It's so nice to meet you, Taylor," says a girl with red hair and acne blending in with her freckles - or maybe freckles blending in with her acne? Hard to tell without feeling. 'Kelsey,' I presume, sticks her hand out for a handshake, and, after a pause, Taylor takes it.

"Nice to meet you too."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I kind of hope you won't have to do anything."

"I hope that too. I really don't want to be onstage."

"Don't worry, I won't let you be. But hey, maybe you'll get a chance next semester."

"Right," Taylor says skeptically. She looks down at the still-ongoing handshake. Kelsey seems to be uninclined to stop shaking, even though I can tell Taylor's hand has gone limp and is trying to pull out.

If watching her suffer so passively weren't so funny, I might feel bad about thinking it's funny. Thank god it's actually hilarious. She looks like an anxious anteater, or like one of those marsupials with the enormous eyes. She give me a pleading glare somehow, and I let my smile show.

"I don't know why you think this is funny," says Taylor.

"Because it's hilarious," is my response.

"I'm stuck on stage!" she hisses.

"Yeah. And it's hilarious."

"I can't-" She looks at Kelsey, who is still pumping their hands up and down. The red haired girl looks between us with interest. "We'll talk later."

"Fine, don't tell me your secrets," Kelsey pouts, then starts to pull Taylor away, toward a group with three of the blue haired boys-- Wait is one of them a girl? Huh. "I need to introduce you to not-your costars anyway. This is Benj, he's the other lead.”

“Hey, I’m Benj. I can’t believe you actually said cock, that was hilarious.”

Their conversation fades behind laughter and too many voices at once as Taylor gets swept into the group, her face crackingly stoic.

"I know I said she'd be good, but dang." I turn to look at Vicky, who's staring at Taylor. "I didn't expect her to be, you know, good. Did you?"

I shake my head.

"Huh. Not that I'm not happy for her, but it kind of sucks Taylor's not going to be in crew with us. I was looking forward to getting to know her." She takes my hand and starts towing me toward the back of the auditorium, where there's a group forming. "But I guess it's not all bad; I get you all to myself this way," she says with a wink and hahah wow this is um. Why is my hand so sweaty- wait no seriously why the fuck is my hand so sweaty?

I look back at Taylor, and she's talking to a guy in a stupid looking top hot, not looking at me, not paying attention to-- Oh. Oh shit no, this is bad. She's not paying attention. She's not fixing my emotions. I drop Vicky's hand. Shit shit shit shitshitshitshitshit-

Taylor flinches and looks my way and her eyes widen in what I'm pretty sure is the same realization I just had but it's not because she's not the one going through it she's just helping me because that's just the kind of person she is, kind and helpful to the point of embarrassment and- oh she must be doing it again. I look at Vicky and she's just my weirdly, objectively hot sister again, and I look at Taylor and she's just my hotly, objectively weird fake girlfriend again.

My temporary relief is undercut by a more permanent worry. If she fucks up, if this whole thing is a wash because she can't focus, I'm going to kill her. No, that's bad. I'll report her or something, just. Fuck. I try my best to feel 'keep it up' and 'don't fuck it up again' at Taylor and hope she gets the message.

Chapter Text

Friday. January 21.

“...and that about does it for materials. Anything else before we pass the shopping list up to Jack?” Vicky, crew manager, asks, prompting a general murmur of negatives. I doubt anyone would say anything even if they had something to say, this close to the end of the meeting.

I throw my voice in with the crowd’s. They know what they need more than I could, even if I was familiar with this sort of stuff. I’m not here because I’m passionate or skilled at any of this sort of stuff. Vicky only stuck me with this group because I paint miniatures, despite how that doesn’t translate to big stuff like this. And the worst part is that, just like last time, I barely get to work with her, since she’s managing the entire crew, and I’m only a cog. Actually, I’m not even a cog; I’m trying to be a cog. And with Taylor even further out of reach, on stage, I barely have a reason to be here. I’m trying to be good and not bitch everyone out, but this keeps feeling like a mistake. Why did I let Taylor talk me into this? I should have told her to fuck off and went home or to the hospital or done anything better than sit here uselessly.

At least Vicky’s enjoying herself, and Taylor’s… I don’t like how that top hat guy keeps bothering her, throughout the whole meeting, like she’s actually here to learn how to act. Why can’t Taylor tell him to fuck off or leave when he tries to talk to her or something? She doesn’t even scowl at him. I get that he’s trying to show her stuff but come on, she’s not even here to learn stuff. Could he be any more desperate?

She looks over and I catch her eye. She does this awkward little thing with her head where she looks away, then back, like four times before finally smiling, I think. Suck it, Ben or Bob or whatever your dumb boy name is. I wonder if Taylor’s blushing again. Maybe I should try to sit closer next time, so I can see? Is that dumb? That’s dumb. I mean, she’s not even that hot. Wait why do I even care about this?

Oh. Right. Because she’s making me think she’s hot. And doing a kind of shitty job at it. Actually is she even making me think she’s hot, or just making me love her and therefore I want to think she’s hot? Ugh. Whatever she’s doing it’s not good or enough or something. It’s just weird and uncomfortable. She does look good on stage though, her dark hair lustrous from even this distance, and she’s not even under a spotlight, just the regular lighting.

“Amy?” someone calls. I follow the voice and see the rest of the group staring at me. I’ve always hated how people look at me. At my family. Like we’re special. We are special, but it’s still annoying to know no one sees me honestly. They don’t know that special doesn’t mean better. I’ve got a lifetime of practice hiding my feelings on that though.

“Sorry, zoned out for a minute.”

Everyone smiles like I said something funny. Vicky even chuckles before saying, “No worries. I was just wondering if you were still fine to help out with backdrops.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” even though I still don’t know what those are. I need to help out somehow and not waste everyone else’s time asking stupid questions.

“Great! Then you, Treyquan, and Sue are on those. The plywood should be in next week, so can you three mock up the designs over the weekend? Just some rough sketches so we have a general idea.”

I don’t know how to draw worth shit, but I nod along with the other two. Treyquan - I think - asks, “We’re painting them all together, right? You’re not gonna stick just us three on that?”

“Yeah,” says Vicky, “But that wont be at least until the week after next, I think.”

“Tubular.”

Treyquan gets a couple laughs for that, and Vicky starts back in on making sure everyone’s got things to do and ways to help. I try to follow along, and I nod when appropriate, but. I don’t know any of this stuff. I don’t care about any of this. I don’t want to be a drain, but I’m not even here to do… any of this. I’m just here because Taylor - that bitch - thought it a good opportunity to fix me.

At least she’s suffering too. She looks so awkward and overwhelmed up on stage, getting talked at by Bobby. Wait she’s laughing? What’d he say? Why isn’t anyone doing anything about him? It’s obvious he’s goofing off, and everyone’s just letting him distract Taylor. He has no discipline. Bet he barely does anything worth a damn in his life. When's the last time he saved someone's life? Probably never. Bitch.

Speaking of bitches, Kelsey moves in on their duo. She says something, and Bart laughs but Taylor goes almost completely still, and even from this far away I know she’s got her face completely empty and placid, like a cow’s. Wait was that mean? She’s not a cow, just her face is like one. Yeah. Whatever, it’s not like I actually even care about her, she’s just…

This is so weird.

"That wasn't so bad now, was it?" Vicky asks me as everyone else disperses.

I take a moment to pretend to consider before admitting, "I guess it wasn't the worst thing in the world, but don't quote me on that."

"Pft. Oh shut up, you had fun. Right?”

Honestly, she's not wrong. Not completely. Spending time in close proximity with a gaggle of obnoxious high schoolers isn't something I typically enjoy, but no one explicitly acknowledged me as Panacea or tried to get too buddy-buddy with me, so really not the worst time I've had in this building. Plus, Taylor's power only cut out once more after the first time, and only for a minute, so I even had one less usual reason to be miserable.

I shrug. "Yeah, maybe."

Vicky smiles. "I knew it. I told you you should have given it another shot."

"I can guarantee you, with full confidence, I wouldn't have liked it before."

"Oh? Taylor up on stage doing that much for you?"

"Something like that," just not in the way you're thinking.

"What about me?" Taylor asks as she joins us at the back of the auditorium. Weirdly, she's smiling. It's small, but there. When’d she start smiling? After Kelsey left, probably. I definitely need to sit closer next time.

"Nothing," I say. "Drama wasn't half bad and Vicky thinks it's your fault."

"Isn't it?" Vicky asks.

"It's whatever."

Vicky fixes me with a suspiciously calculating look, and I expect her to say something, but she doesn't. Instead, she says to Taylor, "What about you? Have fun with the rest of the cast?"

"Y-yeah? But..." Taylor's smile falls. "...is Kelsey always so..." She gestures vaguely.

Vicky's turns rueful. "Yeah, sorry. She means well, I promise. She’s just… really excited to finally be the lead this year. Probably doesn’t help that I was the one who suggested you be her understudy, either. But I’m sure she’ll warm up to you, just give her time.”

That just makes Taylor frown the tiniest of frowns. Why are all her expressions so small and flat? It's weird. Doubtfully, she says, "If you say so."

I gently elbow her in the ribs. "Hey." She looks at me. "Fuck her. Not like you'll actually ever have to be on stage with her.”

"I guess." She still looks bummed. "I'd still rather not be on stage in the first place."

"But you looked like you were having such a great time up there,” Vicky says, earning a skeptical look from Taylor. “I’m serious. The only other person I’ve seen get that into their mock audition was Kelsey, and she literally wore a costume.”

I cringe. “To a mock audition? Seriously?”

Vicky shrugs. “Girl’s got passion. Gotta respect her for committing.”

“I guess, but still. That’s so embarrassing." So much effort for something as inconsequential and unimportant as a school play.

“Hey don’t diss; your girlfriend’s into theater too.”

The word sends thrills up my spine and I shoot a sneaky look to Taylor. She's looking back at me. Shit what do I say? I have to say something. Say something!

“Yeah well. Yeah. Um.”

Nailed it. Good job, Amy. You win at words. Your prize is never speaking again.

“I’m really not though,” Taylor protests.

“Are you kidding? Girl, you sang on stage and I’m pretty sure everyone in the room could tell you were having fun. And more than that, you were good. Not like, professional singer good, but we've got to do karaoke sometime. And your acting was good too. Seriously? Chills. I had chills. Did you and Ames hang back to practice or something? And then pulling the rest of the scene out of nowhere? Do you have Hamlet memorized or something?”

“Not the whole play,” Taylor denies, blushing from Vicky's praise, and I can’t help but snort. What a dork. She looks at me, and her petulant frown eases, but is swiftly replaced by a tiny scowl as she accuses me, “She actually didn’t even tell me about the audition. Why didn't you warn me?”

“Oh don’t complain. It wasn’t even that bad.”

“It was embarrassing.”

“Yeah. That’s kind of the whole point of it,” I tell her.

"That's not the entire reason," Vicky interjects.

"You should have told me," Taylor says, ignoring Vicky. "Now I'm stuck in the cast and can't-" she glances at Vicky "-be with you."

Vicky coos, but I can fill in what she really means. She can't condition me properly, with the distance and distraction. I want to tell her to shove it and deal with it, to just keep doing what she's really here to do, fuck however hard it is, but she has a point, and I fucking hate that because of course it's my fault she can’t do what we’re here to do. Of course I had to sabotage our best shot at fixing me. Of course I'm the reason her plan turned to shit, because she's a prodigy and I'm not even good enough to be asked to humiliate myself on stage again. Of course it's my fault that drama is going to be a confusing, messy, fucked up mess of half-fixed emotions and awkward distance. Of course. My life sucks and it's all my fault. Why would I expect anything else.

"Yeah, well. You didn't ask," I mutter.

“Hey, uh.” She’s looking at me with pity, like she wants to cheer me up, and I wonder if she’s going to use her power for that, even without permission. I mean, she’s got permission to do stuff to me with her power, but really we’ve only discussed the love thing, not anything like cheering me up. But instead of doing anything to actually help, she just says, “Don’t worry about it. It’ll… not be horrible?”

“That’s really reassuring, thank you,” I deadpan.

Her face goes flat again and she doesn’t respond.

“So!” Vicky breaks the awkwardness like an arm. “Ames and I were planning on grabbing coffee if you wanted to come with. There's this place nearby that has really good scones, Bet’s Bakery. My treat."

"I never agreed to that," I hurry to say even as we start moving for the exit.

She fixes me with a level stare. "You're going to turn down free coffee?"

“…I never said that either."

She huffs a laugh. "So what do you say, Tay?"

Taylor flinches like an abused puppy at the nickname and Vicky's expression turns from teasing to confused to downright apologetic under my glare. Wait why am I glaring? Vicky obviously didn't mean anything by it. Taylor's being oversensitive, obviously, and I just care too much because-- And there's the dissonance again. There’s no way that ‘not thinking about it’ is the only solution to this weirdness, because how the hell am I supposed to avoid thinking about how weird this all is? She said something about more emotions for cohesion on Monday, so maybe she could smooth out the edges on this or something? Touch a little bit more just to make it work?

"I can't," says Taylor. "I should be getting back to my uh. Home. I haven't told Linda I'd be staying after school for drama, so she's worried about me."

Linda? She calls her mom by her first name? That's... Huh.

"Do you need to call home or something? We don't mind waiting," says Vicky.

She hesitates before saying, "I don't have a cell phone."

"You can borrow mine!”

"...I haven’t memorized her number."

Vicky cringes more and more as the conversation goes on, until it's almost painful to watch her keep failing. She looks to me for help.

"We could hang out over the weekend or something?" I offer, and Vicky jumps on it, almost desperately.

"Hey yeah! Ames has Sledgehammer tomorrow, why don't you come by and we'll hang out then?"

Taylor looks to me and I shrug. If Vicky wants to involve herself so much, that just makes this whole thing easier. As long as Taylor doesn’t get distracted again.

Taylor says, "I'll ask Linda about it, but that should be okay."

"Great! Ames can text you the deets."

"Okay. I uh. Should be going now. I don't want to miss my bus." She takes a step back, stops, halfway raises, lowers, and then raises her hand, and then waves. "Bye."

And then, finally, after that whole awkward production, she turns to walk away. Her jeans are really not doing her any favors, baggy as they are. But it kind of works? In an almost butchy sort of way? I don't know. Is it okay to call her butch when she's got such long hair? She's not nearly as fashionable or feminine as Vicky, doesn’t fit her clothes as well, but it’s not bad.

Wait is she using her power to make me look at her butt? At that moment, Taylor turns her head back and fixes me with the most confused blush I’ve seen. Did she hear me?!

"Are we actually getting coffee, or was that just an excuse to hang out with Taylor?" I ask, shaking it off as best I can.

"Oh, sorry, no that was just an excuse. Thanks for rolling with it, by the way."

I shrug.

"We can still go grab one if you want?"

"Eh. I've actually got a mocha in the fridge that I'm kind of craving."

"Sooo, right back home?"

I nod and we're in the air over the city seconds later, flying the familiar route home. She’s weirdly quiet on the flight home. Worryingly so. Sometimes she likes to just enjoy the scenery, but she looks deep in thought rather than in the moment. I'd ask her what's wrong if my voice would carry over the wind, but as is I'm forced to endure the ride with only the wind as conversation.

And now that I’m thinking about it, she was acting kind of weird earlier too, after I told her I… had a girlfriend. Have a girlfriend. She seemed happy for me? She said she was, and it’s not like she has anything against gay people. That’d be stupid, after how much she stood up for Crystal and Eric.

Is she being weird, or am I overthinking this? Dumb question, of course I’m overthinking this. I push those dumb thoughts out of my mind and try to just enjoy the flight. Brockton Bay is almost pretty from this view, if you can ignore how cookie-cutter the houses are. Why do they all have to be white? There are more colors.

When we set down in our backyard’s landing zone - really just a patchy, open spot where we stopped trying to grow grass - I’m barely on my feet before Vicky calls my name, hesitant and… scared? I look back at her and holy shit I wasn’t overthinking it.

"Why didn't you tell me you were gay?"

Shitshitshit “I… Uh.”

"I'm sorry, but you knew I wouldn't judge you, right? I don't judge you. I love you. Like, Ames, you're-- I just don’t get why you wouldn’t tell me something like that. We’re sisters, Ames, we’re supposed to tell each other everything. Did you not trust me or something?" She looks so miserable and hurt, but also angry.

I groan, wishing this was easy or that I didn't have to do it. Why did I have to open my big mouth around Taylor and suggest dating when we could have just pretended to be friends? My seeming nonanswer makes Vicky angry and I hurry to cut her off before she can get into a rant, letting words spill out almost faster than I can think of them. "I don't know, because it didn't matter?"

“What is that supposed to mean? Of course it matters.”

“Maybe it does now, but it didn’t, okay? Taylor’s the first girl I can actually see myself be with so it didn’t matter what I was until her.”

"So, what, all those dates I got for you were... What? Were they never going to go anywhere anyway? Was I just wasting my time with you?"

"Yes! Er, no, but-- UGH dammit Victoria just." I hate this. I hate this so much. I hate lying, I hate having to feel like such shit, I hate that I can barely even focus because of all the bullshit piling on my life.

"Just what, Amy?"

"I went on those dates for you, okay?" As close to the truth as I can be.

"What the frick does that mean?"

"You-- You want me to be happy and you kept setting them up for me even when I told you not to and I just..."

"You just... what? Agreed to go to appease me?"

"Yes!"

"Amy, that's messed up. How could you lie to me like that?"

"I didn't lie! I told you I didn't want to go on those dates!"

"You told me you liked them! You said they went well!"

"I SAID THEY WENT 'FINE'!" I swallow the bile rising in my throat and ignore the hurt, angry look on my sister's face. "I never said they went well. I never said I liked them. But you don’t listen. You never listen to me."

By the way Vicky's hand clench into fists again and again, I know she's trying to not explode. Like I just did. God dammit what is wrong with me?! She rockets into the air, pulling up a whorl of dirt in her wake, and flies straight up until she's less than a dot. I lean against the tree and try to get myself under control too. Control. I need to control myself. I can’t let myself be a monster, and yelling at my sister who’s just trying to help is… it isn’t something a good person would do. Dammit. God dammit. What is wrong with me?!

A minute later, Vicky comes back down. It's not fair that she gets to launch into the troposphere at a hundred miles an hour for a tantrum and doesn't so much as muss her hair. Stupid forcefield, always making her look perfect. She won't look at me and I can't blame her. I make myself stop looking at her too.

Finally, she says, "Taylor: she makes you happy?"

Literally, "Yeah."

She swallows. "Then I'm glad for you. Both of you. You still should have told me."

"I did tell you." As soon as the words leave my mouth I know they're the wrong ones.

She's clenching her fists again. "I'm going on patrol. Tell Mom I'll be back later."

"Wait-" But she's already gone, around the corner of the house to get in through her window. "-can't you tell her yourself?" I ask the air, defeated.

I look toward the house. Whether Carol’s home yet or not is anyone’s guess, but I can almost feel the weight of her presence inside. She’s here, and she’s in one of her moods; I just know it. Maybe I can just, stay out here? Wait in the back yard until Vicky comes back from patrol, that way she has to explain her tardiness to Carol instead of me? But that won’t work, I know it won’t, because as soon as Carol hears that Vicky asked me to tell her, she’ll get mad at me for avoiding telling her and then I’ll get fussed at for that instead.

Plus I’ve got that mocha in the fridge.

So with heavy feet, I force myself to cross the yard and unlock the back door. I try to keep quiet - if I don’t see Carol, I can say that I didn’t know she was home - but as soon as the door is relocked I hear a polite clearing of the throat. I have to turn around, I know I do. She’s not going anywhere if I don’t, it’ll just be another thing for her to yell at me about. I make myself face Carol, standing in the doorway between her home office and the living room.

“I heard yelling,” she says, because of course she heard all of that.

“It was nothing.”

She purses her lips. “I’m not sure our neighbors would feel the same, hearing two heroes get into a screaming match. You need to comport yourself with an eye to how people see us, Amy.”

I mess up one time!  But no, I can’t mess up. She’s right, I need to be better. I need to be good. “Yes ma’am, I know.”

“Don’t call me ma’am, I’m your-” always the slightest hesitation “-mother.”

“Sorry. Mom,” I make myself say. The word doesn't fit.

Her lips purse tighter. “What were you two talking about that led to the yelling?”

“Vicky wanted to know why I…” I can’t tell her I have a girlfriend. Holy shit no way in fuck can I tell her I have a girlfriend. Who knows what she’ll do if she thinks I’m predatorializing another girl? I’d never hear the end of that lecture on image and propriety and the dangers of being gay in this fucking city, as if I didn’t know all that shit already. Shit, would she make me break up with Taylor to keep her safe?

“It’s incredibly rude to leave a sentence unfinished in the middle of a conversation,” she snaps, pulling me out of my spiral.

“I’m sorry.”

Her lips purse tighter still, to the point they’ve almost disappeared into her mouth. “Finish your sentence, then. Why were you two arguing?”

Think of a lie, think of a lie, think of a lie-- “The dates!” That’s close enough to the truth while also avoiding the bad truth. Well, the worse one that’s not the worst one. “We were arguing because I told her I didn’t like the dates we go on.” She frowns and I hurry to clarify so she doesn’t get the wrong idea. “The double dates, I mean. With her and Dean.”

“I am well aware of what dates you’re referring to. I take this to mean you won’t be going on any further ones?” she asks, though it really feels like more of a command.

“No. I mean, yes, that’s right I won’t be.”

“Good.”

…WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN????? 

“Now, perhaps you can explain to me why you two were late in the first place,” she prompts, not giving me any time at all to process whatever the fuck ‘good’ meant because seriously what even the fuck was that supposed to mean? Why is that ‘good?’ I know why it’s good, but why does she think it’s good? What aspect of that-- “Amy Claire. Stop spacing out and answer the question.”

“I’m sorry. What was the question?”

“Why were you late coming home.”

“R-right, right.” I come right out with it and say, “We were at drama practice. I uh, decided to give it another shot?”

It’s a long, tense moment before she asks, “This won’t interfere with Thursdays, will it? You know you heal then.”

Would it really even be that bad if it did? Fuck me if I let myself forget about that for one second. “It won’t. I talked to Mr. Warzecha, and he knows about my prior obligation.”

Carol nods, satisfied that I’m not slipping. For now. “Then if that’s all,” she says, “I have a case that I need to finish preparing for.”

I hate that I can’t take the out she just gave me, but consequences demand I continue the conversation. “Actually, Vicky went on patrol. She said to tell you she’d be back later.”

“Did she say what time?”

“No.”

Carol clicks her tongue in frustration, frowning at me. “Do you at least know if she’ll be back before dinner?”

“No.”

“Speak clearly: no she won’t be back before dinner, or no you don’t know?”

“No, I don’t know,” I clarify. “She didn’t say.”

“Well, can you find out? Text her.”

“I’ll do that,” even though we just got into an argument, sure, I can text her. That won’t be humiliating at all.

She looks at me like she has something else to say, and I wait for her to say it, but she doesn’t and instead shuts herself in her office again. I feel like I should let out a relieved sigh, but I don’t feel any better now that I’m not talking to Carol. I just feel drained. After nauseous lunch and chemistry with Vicky, getting a pretend girlfriend, making myself do the social club thing, telling Vicky I’m gay, fighting with Vicky because I fucked up in how I told her I’m gay, and now Carol: I just want to… Blugh.

I stop by the kitchen to finally grab my mocha, and who would have fucking guessed it, I can't be done with people. Mark’s here, doing the cold prep for what looks like tacos.

“Hey kiddo,” he says, setting down the cheese grater and wiping off his hands to pull out his earphones. “How was school?”

I pop the cap to my coffee and toss it back, draining half the bottle in one go.

“Jeepers. That bad?”

“It was fine,” I say. Not like anyone died. Near me. Plenty of people died today, and plenty more are suffering, and I spent all day getting into petty, personal shit and feeling pathetic about myself when I could have been helping. Maybe I can pick up another shift after school, now that it’s only Wednesdays that aren’t taken up? I already go over the limit every week; I might as well be scheduled for some more of it.

“You know what fine stands for don’t you?” Mark jokes.

“Freaked out, insecure, neurotic, and emotional,” we recite together. He laughs and I can’t help but smile. Just a little. It’s good that at least one of us is having a good day.

“You up for helping out your old man in the kitchen? I could always use another set of hands,” he offers.

I shake my head. I’d only bring him down. “I think I’m gonna go take a nap or something.”

He looks pointedly at the coffee in my hand. I take another sip of it while maintaining eye contact and he breaks it with a roll. “Kids these days,” he faux-gripes, shaking a fist at me. “Well, good luck with that. Dinner should be ready at about 7, so set an alarm for yourself, would you?”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

I get away to my room before I can drag down his good mood any further. I fall into bed and try not to think about how every day could be a good day for him if I weren’t so selfish. If I could trust myself to do brains, I could do so much more good for the world. But that’s a rabbit hole I don’t need to go down today. I mean, even if I could trust myself to do brains, that’d just be another thing I can do. It wouldn’t even really let me help more people, just different people. I’d still only be one tiny, meaningless cog in the machine of human suffering and relief. I’d still just be one person, with the same number of hours in a day. I still wouldn’t be enough. Endless people would keep suffering and dying because I couldn’t get to them. All I’d be doing is healing different people, which is Good, but then I wouldn’t be healing other people, so that’s Bad, but I could heal people more completely so I wouldn’t have leave a car crash victim with a concussion after fixing their body, and that’s Good, and this is all dumb bullshit I’ve already spent way too much time thinking about since I started healing in the first place and I’ve never gotten anywhere thinking about it before and I’m not going to get anywhere thinking about it now because I’m too dumb and caught up in my own petty, personal shit, so there’s not even any point in thinking about it but that doesn’t fucking stop me because why the hell would it when I’ve got a perfectly good wall to bash my head into over and over again?!

Around and around my thoughts spiral as I lay in bed “trying to nap.” Everything sucks. I know this. I’ve known this for almost longer than I can remember. Vaguely, I know there was a time when things didn’t suck, but even then things sucked.

At least the mocha was good.

Was.

My phone beeps at me. A new message from Owl_Song on PHO.

Are you alright? Then, That was a dumb question, sorry. What's wrong?

u hav to ask? ur such a shitty stalker.

I wait for her response, but it doesn't come. Three minutes later, I realize it's not coming. She's not going to respond. I pushed her away, pushed too far, and she's fucked off like she should have in the first place.

I'm such a fucking bitch, I push away even those who're trying to help. Taylor tries to fix me and I can't stop being a bitch for five minutes and drive her away. Vicky tries to be a good sister and I piss her off. Mark tries to be a good dad and I shut him down. Carol... She's a bitch, but she at least knows how to keep people around, so she’s obviously a better bitch than me.

My phone beeps again.

Jess needed to use the computer, but I'm back. I can guess what's wrong if you want, but I know Victoria was involved and I can't read her for some reason.

...And she was just busy. I stuff a pillow over my face and groan into it. She probably- no, she definitely felt my stupid little pity party. Dammit girl, get your shit together. I message back,

its cool. ig i can tell u if u want

I can listen. You should journal it too, whatever it was.

Does that mean she doesn't want to listen, and would rather me journal it? Probably. I wouldn't want to listen to myself bitch and moan about stupid family drama either.

If you would rather not tell me, I understand.

u actually wanna kno?

Yes.

fine.

I tell her about the fight with Vicky and the confrontation with Carol. Or at least, I meant to just tell her about that, but before I realize it, over half an hour has passed and I'm explaining a different fight with Carol from almost 6 months ago to give context for our spat on Christmas that I only started talking about so I could explain how Mark and I ended up watching The Italian Job at 2am which is why Mark and I joke about what "Fine" means.  

'and it feels lik ehim and vicky r the only ones who even try, and i love vicky but i cant tell ehr this sthi bc she actualy gets along iwth carol, and marks only ther elike half the tiem so even i fi could trust him i cant rely on him so it' sits unsent in my textbox and I consider deleting it because I can't think of what it is. I cap it with a so yeah and hit send.

That sucks, she says. I'm glad you're feeling better now though. That must have been weighing on you for a while.

Am I feeling better? What does she even mean? I'm not feeling better. I just feel tired. I just want to sleep and never have to wake up.  

whatevr. Fuck this subject. u still down for Sledgehammer tmrw?

Is that what Victoria asked about after drama club?

ye

I don't know what that is, but I'll ask Linda if I can go. Where will this be?

summerset mall

A minute later, she messages back, She said yes.

cool

So how do I play? I'm looking it up, but all I can tell is that it's a tabletop game. I'm only kind of sure about that though. There’s a lot of information about it, but I can’t tell how much is game and how much is background.

its easeir to explain irl, but ill give u teh sumary

A text interrupts my typing. It's from Vicky. I open it.

im sorry for blowing up at u. i talked to crystal and she told me i was being a bitch and making it all about me, which is bitchy. u being into girls is cool, and its not about me, and im happy u told me at all even though i wish youd have told me sooner. im really happy for you and taylor. i love you sis.

I'm barely done reading it when a message comes in from Taylor.

What did Victoria say? Is everything alright?

I ignore her and reply to Vicky first, in a rapid string to keep up my nerve.

thx. ily2. im sry 2. i shldntve yeled at u. i didnt want to keep it as ecret. it just didnt mater until taylro

she must be really special

There's no way to put it other than this, so despite my deliberations, i send, she is.

Another message comes in from Taylor. I leave it unopened. I'll get to her later. This is more important.

thats really cool. i am really glad for you two.

thx. that means alot

am i still invited to sledgehammer tomorrow?

yea ofc

cool. I dont want to crowd you two, but i really am looking forward to getting to know taylor. see what makes her so special.

She's onto us, I realize with a cold sweat, even though there's no way that's true, no way she'd be texting me instead of breaking down Taylor's front door if she even suspected what was happening, no matter what I said to deter her; after all, how could she trust that I was in my right mind? So there's no way Vicky actually even remotely suspects anything untoward.

I still feel clammy.

yea me 2. im sure yallll be good friends

yallll? really?

*ya'll'll

that doesnt make it better! brisl

u jst jely ofm y mstary of english langauge

first of all, were not from the south. second of all, triple contractions arent real. and third, i can barely even read what youre saying half the time

krlaoxys lf my makyestheu

you typed that with your eyes closed

noi  didnt

dont even try to lie

:p

>:0

>:)c

-_-

We go on like that for a while until I remember, o yea, mo  wants to kno if ull be back bfor diner at 7.

crystal and I are going to grab something out, actually

can u txt her that?

yeah no problem. got to get back to it though. ttyl

yea bye

I switch back to my PHO conversation with Taylor to see a backlog of messages.

It sounds like she's apologizing. Is that right?

You two are making up. That's good. Do you think she's sincere?

Are you still there?

You're ignoring me.

Amy, this is your problem. You can't just ignore everything in favor of your sister, it's feeding into your crush and I can't do anything about it from here.

imnot eignorign eveyring, just u. now clam donwn alreasy, its fine

Saying “it's fine” doesn't make it fine.

its fine.

You're lying.

omg wood u SHUT UP ALREADY i talked to my staster for like 5 mins if ur not cool w me bein cool w my own gd sister then htis isnt goign to work out.

I'm not opposed to you "bein cool" with your sister. I'm not trying to stop you from having a good siblingship, but you need to limit how much time you spend with her or thinking about her when I'm not around.

siblingship.

What?

siblingship.

What about it?

thats not a word

You know what it means, therefore it's a word. Just a new one.

a made up one u mena

All words are made up

yea so make up a good one not siblingship ffs

I'm not going to call it a relationship when that is what we're doing away with.

still

Whatever. So how do I play this game we're playing tomorrow?

Chapter Text

Saturday. January 22.

A halting, dreary drumbeat, like that of an old heart straining for each beat, is a constant sound in the city. No matter where I go, no matter where I focus my attention, I can't escape that stubborn baseline. It's the sound of a city that refuses to roll over and die despite a half dozen gaping wounds. A city whose violent history is fondly remembered as "the bad old days." A city whose citizens are like roaches fleeing from the stomping boot of cape violence and darting back to scavenge from its muddy imprint.

However, there are some places where that beat can hide. Areas where the bells and whistles of distraction and fun drown out the dreariness to the point that if I didn't know to listen for it, I could very easily think it gone.

Summerset Mall is one such place, where amusement is king. Nearly every song in the building contributes to a carnival chorus. It's not a ubiquitous sound, of course, as every orchestral piece has conflicting emotions at play, but the emotions of crowds tend toward sameness. At this mall, that dominating distraction is interrupted by a few dozen simultaneous stanzas of boredom, frustration, and false happiness: the employees —  those who were not drawn here by the promise of escape but were dragged here by threat of deeper poverty.

Of course, even in the crowd's distracted and fun music, there are different... versions of the same sound? It's hard putting terms to the sensations, but each group within the main piece has a slightly different sound to contribute. Those who are enjoying themselves at the arcade have a distinctly different sound than those moving through the clothing stores, despite the similar emotions.

It's like that all the way down: the smaller the group I focus on, the more unique and distinct its music. If the city is a baseline, then the mall is a verse, and a person is a complete and ever-playing song: a story with complexity and nuance that repeats but changes constantly. Often for the worse, I’ve found.

I add my own silent music to the mix as I enter the mall. The garbage noise that fills the air - real music, playing from the mall's speakers - turns my stomach with how flat and shallow it is; it doesn't carry the same depth and weight of the songs my power lets me hear. Actual music feels like the fake, a paper-thin mockery of the songs I can hear, layering over it discordantly. It wasn't until I got my powers that I realized how commonplace music is in the world: in stores and restaurants, playing out of random people’s speakers, in every car and half the buses, and constantly on television. There’s almost no getting away from it. Still, if I let something as minor as an annoying sound stop me, I wouldn't have held out as long as I did against the bullying.

Even if they did win, in the end.

My destination is obvious, at least, and I bee-line toward the increasingly familiar song of Amy Dallon. The only song I've let myself conduct in part. It's a song full of insecure attachment, self loathing, and resigned desperation, and if stubborn dread is the baseline of the city, guilt is Amy's: ever-present. Her song is unlike any other's I've heard; sure the pieces are the same, but to have such a mix, and in one who does so much good? It boggles the mind. Before I'd confirmed this song as Amy's, I'd wondered if it belonged to the victim of a villainous master, like Hijack, being able to only watch helplessly as their body committed atrocities. But as I listened, it became obvious that her guilt wasn’t borne of past misdeeds, but of inadequacy and her perversion for her sister.

Amy isn't alone, of course. In the room with her are a dozen other songs, clustered in groups of two-to-five, most caught up in the same distracted, joyful buzz that suffuses the mall, adding their own unique pitch to the overall melody. One - the store’s owner, I’m guessing, based on its difference - is looking on with pride and duty, and a fondness for the others.

 Next to Amy is her constant companion and the other reason I'm here: the discordant, unpleasant, blaringly loud, two-tone signature of Victoria Dallon. Her song - if it can even be called that - and its instruments are completely unique. No one else's is as juvenile and basic, and nowhere else have I heard the components: a strange, overloud roaring from a brass section, and a warbling noise that is almost too low to be audible that somehow sounds like Death's horse.

Almost as bad as the noise itself, is how half of it edges into the songs of those around Victoria like some sort of mytosic disease. Thankfully it's only temporary, I haven't heard it linger for more than a few minutes. But still, it's abhorrent to witness, like watching someone draw bunny ears on the Mona Lisa in crayon. Worse than how it affects those around her though, is how sometimes it doesn't. In the weeks since her noise came to my attention, I've heard how inconsistently it effects surrounding songs: changes in proximity and intensity of infection. It's obvious that Victoria can keep her noise to herself, or at least reduce its influence to nearly nothing, but that she chooses not to? It'd almost be better if she had no control over it, if it were on full blast all the time. As is, it's irresponsible if not downright criminal.

Small miracles, Victoria seems to be behaving right now, as the songs around her have only hints of the brassy triumph. Theoretically, I could try to silence them, but there's no telling if Victoria would notice my meddling. The plan to help Amy would be endangered before I can even affect a permanent fix. Worse, I'd be painted as a villain cut from the same cloth as Heartbreaker and arrested, or worse.

I insert my own composition into Amy's song as soon as she's in range, changing the pitch of her romantic love so it's directed at me instead of Victoria. The stanza is weak though. Frail. It’s an active effort to make sure the little pieces of her song don’t fall back into their natural pattern; I have to constantly tease apart the romantic love and admiration Amy feels for Victoria, and put them where we agreed upon: me.

I finally see her when I enter Games’ Games, the game store owned and run by Bradley Games. She’s unpacking little painted figurines from a bulky plastic case, and I can tell she’s excited to be here, her anticipation steadily growing with each unpacked piece despite the stress and unease she feels toward her sister. Weirdly though, there’s a hint of malicious glee to the excitement, like she’s happy to be here, and she’s here to make someone hurt.

It’s just a game though, right?

She looks up as I approach and I almost stumble from the utter relief she hits me with. I didn’t cause that; she’s actually genuinely happy to see me. Sure there’s caution and fear in her song, but there’s also want. She wants me here. She’s glad I’m here.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hi,” says she with a nervous smile.

It’s almost enough to distract me, but I have a job to do. I’m not here to have fun and enjoy Amy’s music, I’m here to be a hero, and to do that I need to stay focused. I tweak her song, pushing up her love for me even further to try and associate seeing me with that good feeling. It’s what I did at drama yesterday every time she looked at me, and it was admittedly gratifying to feel how much longer she spent gazing at me as a result. It should work to get her to look at me with love. Whether that will stick and eventually happen on its own is… uncertain, but it’s what I’ve got.“Hey Taylor,” says the noise in the shape of a woman. “How’s it going?”

“It’s fine, I guess,” I tell Victoria. She and Amy get weird looks on their faces after that, and from Amy there’s a bit of sardonic shame? Belatedly I remember I’m supposed to ask that in return, so I do.

“Oh, we’re good. This one-” Victoria nudges Amy “-has been up the wall all morning waiting for you to get here.”

“I was not,” Amy protests. “I was… I just like Sledgehammer okay?”

Victoria rolls her eyes dismissively. “I know you do, but…”

“Well, it sounded fun, from what you told me last night,” I add in. “I’m excited to try it out.”

Affection bubbles in Amy’s song, and with it comes nervousness. “Cool. Good. Um, so I have two crews you can choose from, the Terror Nibs and the General Contractors.”

“You’re letting her pick? Dang,” says Victoria.

I ignore her. “The Terror Nibs are bugs, right?” Amy nods. “I don’t really like bugs. Can I use the Contractors?”

With offense and a frown, Amy scoffs. “Hope you’re ready to get your ass served to you on a custom built dining room table then. Philistine.”

“What?” is all I can say to that.

“Come on Ames, lay off. It’s her first time.” Victoria looks at me. “Right?”

“Yeah,” I answer.

“So go easy on her, would you?”

“Terror Nibs can’t ‘go easy,’” Amy responds, face flat but giggling on the inside. “Terror Nibs have no concept of mercy. Terror Nibs know only to feed the hive, and your ass is grass.”

Amy Dallon is an intensely strange person, I’m learning. I feel like I should have realized that when I pieced together that she’s in love with her own sister, but every layer of oddity catches me a little off guard. There should be a limit to how weird a person is; there has to be a point where she’s not going to reveal herself to be even weirder, right?

“Well, I guess I’ll have to stick around to help you fight off the invasion. What do you say?” Victoria asks me.

“I thought this was a two player game?”

“Yeah, but we can be on a team together. I know the rules so I can help you out.”

“Can’t Amy teach me? It’s her stuff, isn’t it?”

“Oh.” Victoria looks between Amy and I and seems to reach some sort of conclusion because her eyes go wide and she says, “Oh, I get it. I’ll get out of your hair and let you two have your fun.” She turns and calls out to another group as she leaves us, "Hey Nat, deal me in?"

“We’re not playing cards,” says probably-Nat with a laugh, but the group opens up to her anyway.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Victoria needs to be nearby for me to move Amy’s love rather than make an entirely new crush, but that doesn’t make being around Victoria any easier. She’s so loud and disruptive, and the way she moves between groups with such ease reminds me of Emma. She’s not Emma; I know that. Victoria, as far as I can tell, hasn’t been bullying anyone, but I know too well how suddenly someone like that can change.

I heighten the love in Amy’s song, now that we’re alone together, and ask her how to play. She explains the jobsite deployment phase, and starts to put her figurines - miniatures, she says they’re called - on the table as she does so. When she’s got them all deployed, it’s my turn. I’m putting my fourth miniature on the board when she huffs.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she says.

“I’m doing it like you did.”

“Yeah, and that’s wrong. We have entirely different crews. Here, put this one-” she grabs a contractor from my pool and puts him on the table “-over here. And these two go with him. And this one should go here to support your others…” One by one, she puts my pieces onto the board.

“So is this like a demonstration, or…?” I ask. She looks at me, piece in hand, mildly confused by my question. I clarify, “When do I get to play?, I mean.”

Annoyance in her song, she puts the piece back into my undeployed pool and moves back to her side of the table. “I was just trying to make sure the game would last longer than two turns, but if you want to deploy like a scrub: go ahead. Do what you want.”

I do just that, putting out the rest of the Contractors where I think they should go. Admittedly, my judgement is based more on Amy’s feelings of frustration and satisfaction as I move my pieces rather than any sort of actual strategy on my part, but this is my first time playing and honestly I’m not really sure what any of these many, many pieces do. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to do it myself though: win or lose. Once I’ve got them all on the board, she announces the start of her first turn, because apparently jobsite deployment isn’t a real turn, and rolls dice as she moves miniatures.

I don’t really understand what she’s doing, even though she’s - I think - telling me what she’s doing. She’s moving so fast, picking up dice barely after they’ve settled. But other than her narrating her turn, nothing’s really happening. Should I say something? Try to make conversation? This feels like a time I should say something, and we’re supposed to be pretending to be on a date, and Jeeves said to talk about the other person’s interests when on dates. But what’s Amy interested in?

“Who’s your favorite writer?” I ask.

She stops laying drywall to look at me. I dial up the love again when we make eye contact. “What?”

“Victoria said you like English, so… Who do you like?”

“Why does that matter?” She goes back to the game.

“I don’t know. Just trying to make small talk, I guess.”

“I hate small talk.”

“Ah.”

I let her play. She moves some miniatures, rolls some dice, and tells me some stuff as awkwardness and discomfort creep into her song. It would be so much easier to just… nudge her a little to get her to talk. But I don’t. I don’t do that. She plays her turn for almost three minutes straight before finally huffing a name.

“Huh?” I ask.

“Dominica White,” she repeats. “That’s my favorite writer.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard of her.”

She huffs with resigned disappointment in… herself? I think. Either in herself or in Dominica White. “Whatever, it’s your turn anyway.”

“Oh. Alright. Uh.”

I start to try to do what she did, but it feels like every other time I try to do something, she tells me I can't, even if it's something she did, and the only explanation she offers is a mildly vindicated and condescending, "That's the rules."

...Emma would probably like this game; no matter what I try to do, it's either not allowed or apparently a dumb move. Whatever. The game doesn’t matter, it's just an excuse to be here while I mold and shape her associations.

“So what kind of stories does she write?” I ask to fill the air.

“What?”

“The author you mentioned: her stories? What are they about?”

“She’s a poet; she doesn’t do stories.” For a moment I think that’s all she plans on saying, but then her song lights up with embarrassed realization, and she answers my actual question. “She mostly writes about space, I guess.”

“Oh? So like sci-fi? Aliens and spaceships and ethical quandaries?”

“Ethical quandaries?” she asks with mild unease.

“Yeah. Like, ‘What should we be permitted to do with technology?’ ‘What responsibilities do we have toward those who don’t possess those technologies?’ ‘Should artificially created sentient life have the same rights as a human?’ That sort of stuff. But with aliens and spaceships.”

She looks at me flatly, unimpressed and mildly disgusted even as I turn up the love she feels for me; rather than ebb the negative feelings, the love makes her disgust more varied. “No, not aliens and spaceships. She writes about… So you know how there’s pretty much no space program? Anywhere in the world? In this one, at least.”

“Yeah.” We leave unsaid the reason behind that. "What about it?"

“She writes more about that, and how it feels being trapped and smothered under the threadbare blanket of the abyss, knowing there's something on the other side, but that there's no use reaching for it."

“Oh. That sounds… really depressing actually.”

“It’s not depressing, it’s-- She also has stuff about how other skies aren't taunts, and hold promise, and you just have to live with what you have. She writes about jealousy and failing to be what you could be because of who you intrinsically are.”

She has a lot of feelings about this. Deep feelings: inadequacy, envy, contented misery. But I'm all too aware of the nearby ears turned our way. I have to be subtle with my probing.

"Do you usually like depressing stuff like that?"

She glares at me. My probing was unsuccessful, it seems. “Finish your turn already.”

“I think I’m done, actually.”

She informs me that no, I'm not done with my turn, and in fact still have another phase for some of my units. Why only some units get another part of a turn is beyond me, and I don't bother asking for clarification. I just let Amy’s song tell me how to move the pieces and when to roll the dice so we can get through this without hassle.

It still takes almost 10 minutes to get through that last phase with only a handful of miniatures. By comparison, Amy's turn flies by - I swear she's not letting the dice stop moving before she picks them back up to roll again - and it's my turn again.

"You're really not good at this, are you?" she asks when one of my apartment buildings collapses due to, according to Amy, contaminated concrete in the foundation.

"It's my first time playing," I defend.

"Yeah, and you lost an entire crew in the collapse. I've been playing for years and I've never seen that happen before. It's like you're trying to find new ways to suck."

"I learned from the best," I snap back at her. Weirdly, she likes it. Enjoys when I return her snark. But why's she feeling amused pride at what I said? Oh. I correct myself, "Er, the worst. You're the best at being the worst, is what I meant."

She rolls her eyes. "You really should just stop talking. People like you are never any good at it."

"’People like me’? What is that supposed to mean?"

"...Brunettes," she answers. A lie, obviously, but why? Did she mean capes when she said that?

"Amy, you're a brunette."

"My point still stands."

"Also my hair isn't brown, it's black." I hold up a strand as evidence.

"Don't be pedantic."

"I'm-- What? I’m not being pedantic, they're different colors."

"They're both dark."

I wish I could tell myself she's messing with me, that this is a dumb joke, but that would be a lie. She either doesn't understand the difference between the two, or doesn't care, somehow. "You have no idea how insane you sound, do you?"

It was meant as a joke, since she likes when I play along with the snark, but she doesn't react right, feeling hurt instead of amused as the implanted love skips a beat at just the wrong time. The dissonance raises its ugly head again as Amy gets caught up in her own head and self-consciousness. I can hear the rough, broken-glass feeling of her thoughts as she conflicts with the pieces I've imperfectly changed in her song, and I have to hold myself back from tugging on acceptance and trust to smooth it over. I can't do that yet. Not before she tells me it's okay. If this comes out, I need to be able to say with full confidence that I did no more than what was asked. I'll ask her about it next time we get a chance alone, explain why I need to do what needs to be done, but I won’t act early. Even if it’s really annoying and uncomfortable.

"I'm not crazy," is all she says before shoving down her feelings to focus on rolling dice.

A half hour of confusing dice rolls, bullshit rules, and confusing mechanics later, I declare, “I’m done.”

Amy looks up from the forest she just told me she burnt down. “What?”

“I’m done with this game. This isn’t for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not…” I search for the right word. “…fun,” I decide. “It’s not fun.”

Amy’s disappointment and anger surge. “You don’t get to say that; you haven’t even played a full game. Let’s at least finish it.”

Reluctantly, I ask, “How much more do we have?”

“About half.”

“This was half a game?!” I cringe at the immediate attention my shout drew from everyone in the store. Then, in a quieter voice, “We’ve been playing for almost two hours. How are we only halfway done?”

“Because you suck and your turns take forever.”

"I don't suck."

"Yes you do. You lost your lumber mill in a single turn."

"I didn't know I could get sued!"

"Obviously. You didn't put a single point into defensive lawyering. What am I supposed to do? Not press the advantage?"

"Why are lawsuits even in this game? Did someone look at it and say, ‘You know what's missing? More complicated bullcrap!'?"

"You're running a construction company; of course you can get sued. It wouldn't be realistic otherwise."

"Realistic?! Your lawyers are bugs! What's realistic about that?"

Amy scoffs. "You just don't understand the unconquerable structure of insect eusociality and speciation."

"I understand perfectly that half the fun of this game for you is making sure I don’t have any.”

"Wah wah,” she mocks, knuckling her cheeks. “Is someone mad she isn't being handed victory?"

"Ugh!" She knows exactly how unfair she's being, and she's enjoying it. She's having fun making this game unfairly one sided and not explaining anything to me until it's too late. "You're being so stupidly unfair! What is wrong with you?!"

"Wrong with me?! I'm not the one who-- You--" she cuts herself off with sudden attention paid to our surroundings, and I just know she's wanting to rant at me for our first meeting again.

"Hey, woah woah girls," interrupts a guy, the same man I saw manning the register and front counter. "Why don't we all take a couple deep breaths and chill out." He asks Amy, "Is everything okay?"

I hear her song turn anticipatorially vindicating and mean. Is she considering actually getting me in trouble? I swear, if she tries the same shit that my bullies did, I'll--

"Yeah Mr. Games, everything's fine," she says, suddenly overwhelmed by guilt, and I remember that, at the end of the day, Amy's still a hero. She wants to do the right thing. She’s not like the other girls our age. She’s not like the bullies. She helps people.

Mr. Games - that can’t be his real name - looks to me, and I nod. No need to attract further attention. Pensively, he suggests, "It looks like your game got kind of heated. Maybe you two want to take a break? Come back to it later?"

We both agree, and he backs off, though I still feel his attention on us from his place behind the counter. Most everyone else is watching us too. Amy shrinks under the attention, her self-consciousness nearly overwhelming.

"Let's just be done," she says, starting to put her miniatures back in her foam-lined case. "You obviously don't want to be here, and it was wrong of me to try to make you like this."

At least she admits it, though I could do without the mixture of anger and blame she’s feeling my way. I start to gather my errant pieces to put them away.

“I’ll do it,” she snaps, snatching a space measurer out of my hand. “You don’t want to play, you don’t have to. Congratulations, you won or whatever, so would you just fuck off already?”

I let out a groan and take a step away from the table. If she’s going to choose to be mad, she can be mad alone. I don’t need this; this whole idea of actually playing Sledgehammer400 was just to burn time while I worked, and it was a stupid idea in the first place. A stupid idea involving a stupid game. I exit the store to get away from not only Amy’s simmering anger, but the suspicious, judgemental songs from everyone else in the store. Why are they all instantly taking Amy’s side on this? It’s like they didn’t see how awful she was being! She’s the one who wouldn’t take it easy. She’s the one who took the game too seriously. A game I didn’t even know!

Outside of the store isn’t much better; I traded the suspicious songs of the store’s patrons for the hollow noise of the overhead speakers, and it’s a lateral move at best. There’s a bench in sight of the store though, and I plop down there. Even if Amy’s being impossible and mean, I’m not going to ditch my duty as a hero. I’m not going to turn my back on her suffering just because she’s being insufferable.

I see Victoria come out of the back of the store and spot Amy sullenly stuffing plastic into foam. She looks around, and when she spots me outside the store, her face twists into... a disappointed frown? I think. Damn her noise making it impossible to read her. She moves to Amy's side and they exchange words. Amy stops packing and her emotions surge as they exchange words, and by the end of the brief exchange, Amy’s song has mostly settled into disappointment in herself. Her anger at me has all but disappeared.

Victoria leaves Amy to approach me for some reason and I try to make myself relax, as if she isn't an unknowable force and the biggest obstacle to my heroics. She sits down beside me on the bench, a foot of space separating us, well within punching range. I’m all too aware that if she decides to make things violent, there’s not a single thing I could do to stop her. Maybe Emma isn’t the best comparison for Victoria…

"So. Something happened while I was in the bathroom, I take it?" she asks.

What's safe to say? How much did Amy tell her? Will she believe me over her own sister? No, there's no way she'd believe some random girl over her own flesh and blood. She's asking to give me enough rope to hang myself. I should say as little as possible, so she doesn't have ammunition. "Yeah."

"I was afraid this would happen. Amy's not really the easiest person to play Sledgehammer with. I kind of hoped that she'd ease off on you, but I guess not."

This has to be an angle: give me a way to pin the blame on Amy, then when I take the out, BAM!, punish me for talking out against her sister. I've fallen for that enough to recognize the ploy for what it is. At Winslow, the only right answer was to keep quiet and wait for them to get bored, but I can't do that with Victoria. It’d be best if she liked and approved of me, but I’ll settle for her not trying to break us up. The least I need is for her to not suspect the truth behind my ‘relationship’ with Amy. If I can't stay quiet, and I can't blame Amy...

"It wasn't her fault. Not, um. Not entirely. I just don't like the game, I think." There. Nothing too incriminating for either of us.

Victoria smiles at me. I can only guess at its genuineness. "That's fine. Sledgehammer isn't for everyone. I've been playing for like, almost two years now and I still don't think I really get the appeal."

"Then why do you still play?" seems like a not too dangerous question to ask.

"Ames likes it," she says simply, like that's enough of a reason. And maybe it is for her. "And Ames's whole schtick can be pretty funny if you don't take her too seriously."

"Wait, is she-" I cut myself off before I can finish saying something incriminating.

"...a bitch to everybody she plays against?" Victoria finishes my sentence for me. "Yeah. Like I said, it's not personal for her, she just... She's a complicated person, okay?"

"I know that."

She huffs a laugh. "Yeah, that makes sense. Just..." Expressions fight for dominance on her face, and terse optimism wins. "I'm really glad she has you; she needs more people in her life. So, I hope you'll give her another chance after this."

"'Another chance'? I'm not going to leave her or anything after just that." I don't like it, but I've toughed out far, far worse things than a hero being kind of mean to me over a game; I can take it if it means helping countless others continue to receive Panacea's healing.

"That's really good to hear," she says, smiling a smile that makes me realize again why she's one of the most popular heroes in the city; she's unquestionably beautiful.

...If you ignore her aura's noise. And her irresponsibility managing it. And the constant power plays and social maneuvering and politicking. And how she relentlessly inserts herself into everything. And how she excused Kelsey's bullying yesterday. And how she snapped at Amy too. But for all her many, many flaws, she's pretty and good at punching crime.

Neither of us say anything else as we watch Amy pack away the rest of her miniatures, leave the cases with Brad, and join us. Suspicion grows as she approaches, glancing between us the whole time, and I take the chance to associate her noticing how pretty Victoria is with thinking I'm pretty. I probably shouldn’t enjoy it as much as I do, but it’s nice, being seen as attractive. It's hard to believe it's even working, with me looking like I do, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as they say.

"What were you two talking about?" she asks.

"You," Victoria answers with a - fake? - smile. Amy's mood sours further. "Oh don't be like that. Good stuff, dummy."

"Right, sure." Sarcasm from Amy is like water from a pond.

Her sister scooches away from me and pats the bench between us. Nervously, Amy sits between us, smack dab in the middle, and I'm guiltily grateful for the shield between Victoria and me. Honestly, this is the best situation for me to do what I need to do, and I should be happy that Victoria’s making this so easy for me, but it’s hard to reconcile her helpfulness with the likelihood of her caving my chest in if she found out what her sister and I are doing.

…Is this how queer people feel? The certainty that honesty would kill them? I don’t like it. Shoot, that's probably a lot worse in Brockton Bay too, with the Empire around. If I were still in Winslow, I'd have to worry about the wannabe gangster kids trying something, but that's not so much a concern at Arcadia. The ABB is less prevalent, but there are definitely still Empire fanboys at Arcadia. They're a lot more circumspect than their counterparts at Winslow: less graffiti and parking lot brawls, more unspokenly segregated clubs and gossip wars. The white supremacist affiliations are quieter, but they're still there.

“So," Victoria starts, "I know things are probably kind of strained between you two, but-”

“No they’re not,” interrupts Amy, immediately defensive. She looks at me. “Are they?”

"Not really. Should they be?” My question isn't entirely rhetorical - I guess real girlfriends would be hurt over such a fight, but there's no real stakes or investment between us; and Victoria already explained why my feelings shouldn't be hurt, so there's no reason for them to be, and if Amy wants to lie to her sister about her own feelings, well, that's business as usual, isn't it? - but I receive no answer.

Victoria blinks. “O-kay then. I guess I was just imagining things. But anyway, do you want to get boba tea? There’s a good place for it here.”

“You know I don’t like boba,” Amy answers.

“And you know they have coffee,” Victoria retorts.

Amy shrugs, and the sisters look at me. Amy’s relaxed. Calm. There's some lingering hurt, but no malice in her song. If this is a trap, she doesn’t know about it, and isn’t picking up any anxiety from her sister. She’s actually really excited to hang out with her sister, and I remember that that’s the main reason she’s doing all of this: to have a healthy siblingship with Victoria. I shrug too, willing to go along with it. Games’ Games or a tea shop: shouldn’t make a difference for the conditioning. Might even help.

“I like tea.”

“Sweet! Let’s go,” Victoria declares, rising to her feet with flight. I stand too, in a much less showy way.  

“I just sat down,” protests Amy, though she stands without further complaint, and Victoria leads us to a tea shop on the upper floor.

Walking in is like stepping into a discount Chinatown: decorative scrolls with rounded characters over faded yellow wallpaper, a burbling rock fountain in one corner, and Asiatic string instruments playing over the speaker. Notably, there's no red and green that I'd expect in a place like this. Though we are on the edge of downtown, a ways away from the ABB's territory; maybe they don't feel comfortable showing colors here, if they're affiliated at all?

We three move to near the line to inspect the menu boards and my jaw drops at the prices. Four dollars for a small tea; That's the cheapest thing on the menu too, other than a cookie for almost two dollars. This is insane! I've got a few dollars, but that's supposed to be for lunch, and getting even one cup of tea would put me out of either a meal or bus fare.

And I've never even heard of most of these flavors. Where's the Earl Grey, or the English Breakfast, or even Oolong? And isn't hibiscus a bush? Why is that a flavor? Are these all herbal teas? That's the worst kind of tea. It's not even really tea!

"You know what you want?" Victoria asks me.

"I'll just have water."

"I thought you were excited for boba. You sure you don't want any?"

"Yeah, I'll live."

She frowns. "If you're sure..."

"I'm sure."

"If you're really sure..."

"Vicky, let her get water if she wants water," says Amy. She watched the whole exchange out of the corner of her eye while she pretended to study the menu, fondness and worry growing in her song in equal parts for both of us.

Victoria drops it at that, thankfully, and we move to the counter to order. I get water, Amy gets a canned coffee from the fridge, and Victoria gets a strawberry-vanilla tea with boba. I'm still not sure what boba is. Victoria offers to let us sit while she waits for the drinks, and really it's only her drink that necessitates waiting, so Amy and I leave her by the counter to claim a spot by the rock fountain. This close, it becomes obvious that the rocks are plastic. Still, the water drowns out some of the overhead music, so real stone or not, it’s the best seat.

Unfortunately, it does nothing for the way Victoria's noise edges into the cashier's song as they strike up conversation. The cashier laughs and they both glance our way.

"What's Victoria's deal?" I ask Amy.

"Why?" Amy asks in turn, suddenly defensive, both of her sister and herself.

I suppress a sigh. Then, I let it out anyway because if Amy can be in a bad mood, then so can I. She has no room to judge me. "I just mean she's acting weird. Do you think she's onto us?"

Amy relaxes and lifts her drink to her lips. "If she were onto us, you'd be in a cell."

"Yeah, but don't you think she's-"

I cut myself off when I hear Victoria start our way. She sits across from Amy and I, a pair of identically pink drinks in hand. She sets one down in front of me and takes a sip of the other.

"I hope you like strawberry, because I got you strawberry,” she informs.

"I didn't ask for this?" I say.

"Dude," Amy mutters under her breath, "Just take the drink."

"My treat: don't worry about it," is Victoria's response, and that seems to resolve it for the sisters.

I give in and take the drink. I start to peel the top off-- Or rather, I try to. There's no tab, and the plastic stubbornly clings to the edge of the cup. I look at Amy when she starts to feel embarrassed.

"Dammit just give it here," says Amy as she takes the cup out of my hand, grabs the straw off the table, shoots the wrapper at Victoria who fails to bat it out of the air before it hit her face, and stabs through the lid with far more force than necessary and a not insignificant amount of satisfaction. She hands it back to me. "You're supposed to stab it. Only good part of boba."

"You didn't have to take it out of my hand," I tell her. "I would have figured it out."

"You were taking too long," she says, suddenly sullen, sipping some Starbucks.

"Well… thanks," I say, and she immediate perks up: not visibly, but audibly: she hunches inward a bit more, but is pleased with herself. I put a smile on my face for her, and she looks away bashfully. It’s fun to know I can affect someone like this, make them feel good even when I’m not making them feel good. Maybe after Amy, I’ll see about helping out a boy? There’s got to be a cute, damaged, trustworthy guy with low standards and majorly taboo romantic issues who’d be willing to let me do this stuff to him, right? Wait what if he thinks I’m gay, because I dated Amy? I’ll just say I’m bisexual or was questioning or something; that’s believable.

"Oh my gosh, you two are so cute!"

Amy and I both stare at Victoria, who's looking at us with her head propped up on one hand and a big, teasing smile on her face.

"Sh-shut up, no we're not, don't be stupid," Amy blurts out before she buries her face in her coffee, embarrassment and indignation ringing loudly, with pleasure and happiness not far behind. It's enough to make my smile feel a little easier to keep on my face. I likewise take a sip of my drink and say,

"ACK" as I start to choke, coughing the mouthful of liquid all over Victoria. My drink slips from my hands and spills as I thump my chest in hopes to dislodge whatever the fuck came up through that straw and fell into my lungs.

As I'm struggling to breathe, Amy pokes my cheek and asks, "Do I have permission to heal you?"

I look to her, incredulous that she'd have to ask that, but she doesn't ease the choking, just watches with equal parts concern and humor. I nod.

"I need verbal consent."

"Ames! Just help her already," fusses a somehow still-pristine Victoria as she sops up the spill with napkins, killing Amy's humor and stuffing its corpse with miserable responsibility.

Suddenly I can breathe again, and I take a few moments to just enjoy the sensation of not dying before asking Amy, "Why the hell did you wait so long?"

Concern turns to guilt turns to omnidirectional frustration. "Oh don't be a crybaby, it's not like you were dying."

"I was choking!"

"Yeah, on a boba. It would have dissolved."

"What's a boba?"

"Have you never had boba tea before?" Victoria asks.

I shake my head.

Victoria’s face falls. "There's tapioca balls at the bottom. You're supposed to chew them. I didn't realize this was your first time drinking boba, I would have warned you."

"Some warning would have been nice, yeah." Who puts tapioca in tea? Not that this can really even be called tea; the sweetness sticking to my mouth is more like the leftover milk from a bowl of cereal than any sort of proper tea. I take a sip of my water to chase the flavor away.

"I told you it sucks," says Amy, smugly sipping her beverage.

"No you didn't."

She looks thoughtful for a moment, then half-shrugs. "Eh. I pretty much did. Aren't lit nerds like you supposed to be good at reading subtext?"

"I don't think it's called 'subtext' when it's real life, Amy."

"Tomato, tomato."

“It’s ‘tomato tomato,’ not ‘tomato tomato.’”

“Yeah but who says ‘tomato?’ Name one person you’ve ever met who said it like that.”

“Some people do pronounce it ‘tomato.’”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“I don't know, but-”

“Exactly.”

“-But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist, just because I haven’t met one.”

“Pft. Next you’re gonna say you believe aliens are real.”

“I mean, I don’t know. Maybe they’re real. I haven’t thought much about it,” I admit. “They didn’t like, build the pyramids or anything, but there has to be something out there, even if it’s just space bacteria.”

“The hell is space bacteria? Did some algae hitch a ride on a meteor? A protozoan got dislodged by an asteroid? Or maybe-”

“Ames why are you even arguing this?” Victoria interrupts. “You believe in aliens.”

“Wait seriously?” I ask.

Amy covers her smirk with her drink, but she can't hide her fun from me, and I can only stare at her as I try to decipher her cryptically weird bullshit. Is she picking fights for no reason? Arguing just for fun? She was practically laughing while I was choking on boba, that jerk; does she just enjoy watching someone suffer? That can't be it, can it? It doesn't fit with how she spends hours at the hospitals eliminating suffering.

...Is it me? Do I just invite bullies somehow? Do I have a glowing neon sign above my head inviting any- and everyone to make my life harder than it needs to be? Maybe I should have sought out an easier case to heal than Panacea, but. It's too late now. If I stop, she'll have nothing stopping her from turning on me, and even though I've done nothing wrong, I have no illusions that Amy can't spin things poorly for me if she wanted.

Dammit, I'm stuck with this bullshit again. She loves me, but it's not enough to mean anything. She loves me, she's happy to see me, she likes having me around, but it's not because she likes me. She doesn't like much of anything about me, just what I'm doing for her. And that's fine. We don't have to like each other for me to be her hero. But dammit why doesn't her loving me make her act like it? Is it because of the dissonance? Because of how empty the feelings are, without memory or complementary feelings to fill the gaps that the current incomplete infatuation leaves?

I'll talk to her about it. Next chance we get alone, I'll bring this up and see about fixing her feelings. She'll see why I'm right if I explain it, and then I can make her feel the love more fully, and we’ll both be happier that way. I'll make sure she'll go to bat for me when the time comes. I'll give her reasons to do that for me, more than just love. Because love isn't enough, not on it's own.

"Do you want another tea? I can get you one without boba this time?" Victoria asks, breaking me from my planning. Thankfully she doesn't seem to have caught onto what I was thinking. I need to be more careful dammit.

"No thanks, I uh..." I look down at the drink she already bought for me; despite the spill, it's still over half full. I'm not too eager about falling further into her debt, even if she says it's nothing, and it'd be dumb to let it all go to waste. "I've still got this one."

"Wait seriously?"

Now that I know about the boba balls, I can avoid them by not using the straw. I pull it out, set it atop the pile of used napkins Victoria built, and tear away the plastic lid with my fingers. I take a sip and it's definitely not tea, not by a long shot. More like a melted smoothie, but,

"It's not bad," I judge. "A little too sweet, and definitely not tea, but not bad."

Amy starts to laugh at Victoria, and I look up to see the boba enjoyer watching me with horror writ across her face.

"What?" I ask, and after a horrified moment more, Victoria starts to laugh too. “Why are you laughing?”

I receive no answer. I listen through Amy’s song to try and figure it out, but all I can grok is that she’s laughing at Victoria, not me: no hint as to why Victoria herself is laughing. I take another sip and Victoria’s laughter redoubles. She’s laughing at me. Laughing at how I drink this stupid, gross not-tea. God dammit, just when I was starting to think she was okay. I huff and stand to gather our trash, planning to dump it and be done with this place, but Victoria’s able to get protests out through her laughter:

“Wait, wait no, I’m sorry Taylor, I’m not laughing at you, I promise,” she says while laughing at me. “I’m just– You can’t drink boba like that. You have to use the straw.”

I bite my cheek and force myself to sit back down. “It tried to kill me when I used the straw.”

She pushes out a final chuckle at that, then starts to fan herself with her hand. “I’m sorry. I… You’re funny, you know that?”

Knowing it’s the setup to somehow making me the butt of another joke, I just say, “No,” and let the conversation die an awkward death.

“Well, you are. At least I think so,” she rallies.

“Not as funny as your stupid gross face. You should have seen it,” says Amy to Victoria, finally getting her snickers under control with incredible relief, so happy to be able to find her sister ugly for a moment. Victoria sticks her tongue out at Amy, and Amy follows suit, escalating by leaning in and nnnn-ing louder. The sisters do that for a bit and then both fall back laughing.

I sip my water as I watch the exchange, and when they’re done, I ask, “Are we going back to the game store soon?”

They both pull their phones to check the time. Victoria answers, “Yeah. Ames still has her tournament later, and I’ve got outreach in about another hour, but I can stick around until then.”

“You’re going on outreach today?” Amy asks. Miserable guilt begins to reclaim the space in her song that fun had taken.

“Yeah, I told you about that the other day. Don’t worry though, I can still pick you up when you’re done here.”

“Maybe we could swing by the hospital before the tournament starts?”

Victoria’s gaze flicks to me. “Aren’t you like, on a date right now?”

Amy turns to me, resolute. “You don’t mind, do you?”

I stare at her like she’s an idiot. “Yeah. I kinda do.”

She judges me, frustrated that I’m not rolling over and letting her kneecap the first day of committed conditioning. “There are people dying, right now. And you would rather I be here?”

“Ames,” Victoria huffs. Shame hits Amy’s song so suddenly that I wonder if I accidentally did something. But no, she just realized how dumb she’s being. “How about we go tomorrow, okay? I’ll drop you off before my patrol with Gallant and Little V, let you do your thing, then pick you up in time for dinner.”

Amy gnaws her lip, considering, then says, “Yeah, okay.”

We all sip at our drinks awkwardly. When it gets too much, despite knowing the answer, I ask, “You heal on more than just Mondays and Thursdays?”

Amy cringes, and it’s Victoria who answers, “Ames picks up extra shifts every now and again. Technically she’s not supposed to, but like, who’s going to tell Panacea she can’t heal?”

“Is that… okay?”

“Of course! Ames loves being a hero. She’s the best hero in the family, if I’m being humble. Definitely puts the most hours in: sometimes more than Crystal and Eric combined.” She shoots a grin at Amy who nods, invisibly grim. “We’re all super proud of her.”

I can hear the roiling, screeching, negative conflict of emotions weighing down Amy’s song. Victoria’s lying. It’s obvious Amy doesn’t like to heal, doesn’t like the hospital at all; she goes there because of obligation, not because it’s rewarding. Does Victoria not know this? Or is she intentionally pressuring Amy to heal as much as possible?

That’s so irresponsible of her. Amy needs chances to recover from her hero work, not push herself fully into it as much as possible as soon as possible. No matter how much she heals right now, there’s no way it can outweigh how much she can heal over the next few decades with some moderation; the world needs Panacea to not burn out.

Amy needs me more than I’d thought.

Chapter Text

Saturday. January 22.

"Hey, so," says an apprehensive Amy as we get back to Games' Games, "My first real match of the day is in like, ten minutes, and uh..." She looks to Victoria - who had bee-lined towards a different group than she played with before - for courage-that-feels-like-obligation and continues, "If you want, you can like, stand next to me and watch me play, and I'll explain stuff as we go?"

"You want me to stand next to you and watch you play a game I don't like?" I ask, just to clarify.

Her song swells with frustration at me and she glances at Victoria again, who smiles and gives her a double thumbs up. A beat of resentment for her is immediately drowned out by guilt. Amy looks back at me.

"I figure, that this could be a better way for you to learn the game," she says evenly, and I'm impressed by how little of her frustration and disdain shows in her tone, "Since you could watch and learn without getting thrashed."

"No thanks," I say. "Honestly that sounds worse than playing." And wouldn’t it be weird to go to a game store and not play a game?

Surprisingly, instead of disappointment, she feels relief to be turned down. Guilt follows it like a rabid dog, of course, but it's tempered by her excitement for the upcoming game. Nevertheless irritated, she says, "Alright whatever. Wasn't my idea anyway."

She practically stomps to the counter to retrieve her miniatures from Mr. Games, and I don’t have time to question what just happened before Victoria is in my face asking me, “What happened?”

I take a step back and swallow. She moves fast-- Of course she does, she can fly. “Nothing, really.”

“She didn’t ask to show you more Sledgehammer?”

“She did, but…” Wait a second. Amy’s reluctance, her looking to Victoria, her relief at the invitation being rejected: “Was that your idea?”

“Well, yeah. I told her to invite you to watch her match; why’d you turn her down?”

“That’s really none of your business.”

It comes out harder than I intended, and Victoria blinks at me telling her off, visibly - if not audibly - shaken. I want to feel good about that, but I can’t, not even if she deserves it. I need to be nice to her, need to get her to approve of Amy and me.

“I’m sorry,” I lie. “I just don’t care about that game, and watching Amy play with someone else seemed more boring than playing with her. I’m at a game store, I figure I should play something, you know?”

She raises her hands in casual acquiescence. “No, I’m the one who should apologize. I was only trying to help.”

Despite that not being an apology in the least, I let it slide. Further angering someone who can level a building isn’t a good idea, even outside of current circumstances. To be the bigger person and extend an olive branch of sorts, I ask, “So what’s good here?”

“Plenty of stuff. Do you have a favorite board game?”

“Not really? I’m not sure when the last time I played a board game even was,” I say, but as soon as the words leave my mouth I remember. Years ago, a game of Sorry with the Barnes family. “Anything but Sorry.”

She gives me a weird look, but says, “I got you. How do you feel about Lilliputian?”

That word sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. “I don’t know it.”

“It’s really fun and beginner-friendly if you want to give it a shot. Typically it’s played with four people, but if you want we can keep it just us.”

“Okay, yeah. Let’s play.” This better not be another Sledgehammer though.

She smiles brightly and leads me toward a surprisingly built Hispanic man flipping through a binder, each page housing nine cards of some sort. “Hey, Jessie.”

Jessie looks up at us, his half-rim glasses accentuating his deep, brown eyes and bringing an intelligent softness to him that contrasts with how tight his shirt is around his biceps, but it’s a good contrast, like facets on a gemstone making the stone appear deeper and more complex. His hair is a bit long, falling to his shoulders, but it doesn’t look feminine or hippy on him: another deepening facet.

“Hey, Victoria. Who’s your friend?” he greets, voice like cashmere.

“This is Taylor, my sister’s girlfriend.” Was that second part really necessary? “Taylor,” Victoria continues, “this is Jessie. He’s a part timer here.”

“Hi.” I look more closely at him. At what he’s doing. “You’re working?”

His smile is easy, like his face was made for it. “No; I might help Brad close up shop later, but I’ve got today off. Right now I’m mostly just waiting for Dan to get here.”

“That’s cool.” Somehow, he doesn’t think I’m lame yet, and it’s enough to drag the corners of my lips upward.

“Is it okay if we steal Lilliputian?” Victoria asks.

“Stealing? Somebody ought to call a hero,” he jokes, pulling a laugh out of me. His smile turns into a grin. “But yeah, feel free. I can grab it for you, but if you’re looking for a third, I can’t.”

“Yeah that’s fine; it’s going to be just us while I show her the ropes anyway.”

“Never played before?” he asks me, and I shake my head.

“I don’t really game much.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve all been there. But this is a place you can get help, no judgement.”

That was supposed to be a joke, but that’s about all I can hear from his song: no hint as to what the intended funny was. I consider laughing anyway, but that’d be stupid, right? Yeah. That’s dumb.

The silence doesn’t get too awkward before he self-consciously clears his throat, grabs the game-box from the shelf behind him, and says, “Well, here you go. Have fun.”

“Thanks Jessie, you’re the best,” Victoria says as she takes it. I mutter my own thanks as well as he returns his attention to the binder.

With a “Come on,” Victoria leads me to one of the increasingly scarce empty tables toward the back of the shop. When I’d arrived this morning, there were maybe a dozen people here, but in the last hour or so that number has more than doubled. Most of the tables in the front section of the store are occupied with people playing or readying Sledgehammer stuff, leaving only 4 tables in the back for everyone else. A group of four playing some sort of tile game glance up at us when we take the other end of their table, but their curiosity is fleeting, and attention quickly returns to the game. One, however, eyes Victoria with awe and a fair deal of attraction, trying and failing to be subtle. If Victoria notices, she doesn’t comment, but one of the other players nudges him to get him back to the game.

Victoria spends a minute explaining the basics of the game while we set up, and concludes with “…but honestly the best way to learn is to just start playing. Sound good?”

The game doesn’t seem that complicated, since the whole rule book is a double-sided page, so I say yes and we start. We take a moment to read the cards we each drew, then start in earnest. She was right, it’s not a complicated game, and after I get the basics, she starts trying to talk to me.

"So," Victoria starts as she gives her character an eleven-foot stilt, "at theater, you said you used to go to Winslow? What was that like?"

"Bad." I play a curse and she loses to the monsters that come out, losing her a level.

“How bad?”

“Most miserable place I’ve ever been.” Not that I’ve been there since I could mystically measure misery, but I’ve caught glimpses of the sound.

"Dang. I've heard it isn't the best, but yikes."

"It sucks."

“You must be glad to have gotten out, huh?”

I don’t have an answer to that one. My own life is definitely better now that I don’t have to throw myself daily into that meat grinder, but knowing how much Emma must be enjoying my apparent surrender sours it. Every time I imagine the perfectly smug face she must have made when she heard her plan to fuck me over worked, it ruins any satisfaction I could have with my new school situation.

Victoria chews her lip as she kicks in the door. "You know, I still can't believe you've never been on stage before."

The change of subject is welcome. Her implying I lied, less so. "Well, it's the truth."

"Like, not even in elementary school or something?"

I didn't think I have, but now that she's said it, I do remember another time. "I was in my church’s nativity play when I was 4. Does that count?”

She barks a laugh, but at least covers it with her hand before it sustains. "No, I don't think that counts. Do you still go to church?"

“Not exactly. It’s… complicated.”

“Gotcha.”

She doesn’t, but nonetheless I’m grateful for her letting the subject die there. I’d really rather not think about what qualifies as home right now.

We play in relative quiet for a bit, and our only conversation is about the game. It’s actually kind of fun. Then she ruins it by asking, "Do you think you'll join any other clubs?"

I look up from my hand. Why is she asking so many questions? Try as I might, I can't think up an angle behind them-- that's not to say there isn't one, but it's hard to know what's safe to say and what isn't when I don't know why she wants the information. I just need to keep it vague and nonpunishable. "I haven't put much thought into it."

"Are you interested in anything? Maybe the lit club, or oh!" She sags immediately upon perking. "Well, it's definitely too late to join the basketball team this year, but if you want, you could probably stand in on some practices and get a leg up for next year. You're tall enough that Coach Anderson would be happy to give you a chance."

Basketball? Seriously? Just because I'm tall? "I think I'm good. I've never really been a sports person."

"Aw," she says disappointedly before rallying, again, with a smile. “I guess that’s something you and Ames have in common. Back after I got my powers, I’d beg her to play with me, but to this day I’ve only gotten her on the court once, in a game of two-on-two with Crystal and Eric,” she says, smiling. “Getting her on the court was actually easier than getting her off it, believe it or not, because not five minutes in, she laid down in the middle of the court and declared herself dead. Wouldn’t budge no matter what we said or did, so eventually I had to carry her off so we could play horse. You’d think that’d be easy with super strength, but I swear no one does dead weight like Ames. She’s intense when she wants to be.”

…Does she think that that’s cute or funny? Telling me an embarrassing story about her own sister? Calling Amy 'dead weight'? Or is this still her trying to get me to badmouth Amy with her so she can hold it against me? Or maybe this is even deeper; maybe it’s no accident or coincidence that Amy has so few friends, if Victoria is sabotaging her like this without her ever even knowing.

At least Amy’s having fun now, in her first match of the tournament. And her opponent isn’t even miserable somehow. They’re actually both fond of each other, almost like friends, but with an undercurrent of competition and… enjoyment of losing? I look over at them, only a couple tables away, to try and get some context, but all I see are Amy and a girl in all black with silver-grey hair smiling, gesturing, and rolling dice. I can’t hear their voices over the passive din of the store.

Though, I do notice that there’s a fair volume of attraction in the goth girl’s song; it’s a familiar tune - both in that I recognize it, and in that it’s laden with familiarity with Amy - and as Amy’s not-quite-playful maliciousness crescendos, so too does Goth Girl’s enjoyment-of-losing. She’s… She likes Amy being mean? That can’t be right, but if it is, they’d be perfect for each other. Maybe I should see about setting the pair of them up after I’ve isolated Amy’s incest crush? I’d have to make sure Amy’s okay with that, and vet Goth Girl more, but it should be doable.

Amy shakes a fist at Goth Girl with a vicious grin, and Goth Girl gasps, staggering with faux-pain. She starts to fan herself as she replies to whatever Amy said, and I catch only the words “flooded my dam,” delivered with the tone of a breathless shock.

“Oh, that’s Rose,” Victoria says, startling my attention back to her. She unlooks over her shoulder away from the pair and back to me. “She and Ames are like, practically besties. They sledge the hammer pretty much every week.”

“They seem like they’re having fun.”

“Heh, yeah, they’re both pretty into hamming it up. I think that’s why they get along so well.”

They’re passionate about the same hobby. That’s good, but not exactly the best metric of compatibility. Victoria seems familiar with her though, so I probe a bit. “Does she go to school with us? Rose, I mean.”

“No, last I checked she goes to East High. Why do you ask?”

Crap, she’s probing back. “Uh. Just curious. Haven’t seen her around, but Arcadia’s big, so…”

I slap down a card to draw her attention back to the game. She looks at the card, then back to me, then back to the card. “You sure?”

I look down at the card. It’s a curse, unmunchkining my character: a reset, basically giving Victoria the game. But there’s still maybe a chance I can win. “Yep. I’m sure.”

She looks at me queer but lets it go, immediately winning in her next turn. We start another game and pick up on an earlier conversation.

"So, probably not joining the basketball team, but how about the literature club?" she asks me.

I shrug. "I don't know, I'll be busy enough with just school and drama. Arcadia’s a lot more scholastically intense than Winslow ever was.”

“Yeah, I bet. Doesn’t help that you’re taking A-PUSH.”

I sigh. “No kidding. They didn’t even offer A.P. classes at Winslow until junior year.”

“Seriously? That’s so weird.”

“Yeah, it’s…” I search for the right word to describe my frustration with that paradigm: my good grades would have been enough to get me into a separate academic track than the trio, had said track been available at the time. I’d been able to keep my grades up despite their occasional attempts at sabotage, and junior year’s A.P. classes were going to be my escape: an escape I no longer need, after my dad’s decision. After Danny’s stupid fuck up. The school board letting me retake placement tests with the move felt like an empty consolation. I finally land on the word, “Unfortunate.”

"Well, there is something to be said for staying focused, so no worries. Just let me know if you change your mind, I'll get you in contact with whoever."

...She's either actually earnest, or the second best liar I've met. Somehow, I actually mean it when I say, "Thank you."

"Absolutely. I like to help out, however I can. It’s part of why I’m a hero."

I wonder how she'd react if I told her I'm one too. I can't do that, of course, but it's a fun thought, winning some instant respect and recognition. I put a card down instead, and she lets us return to the game.

“So uh. What about you?” I ask. “Are you in any other clubs?”

“No, just theater. Being Glory Girl takes up most of my time after school, and I couldn’t find a way to fit more. Wouldn’t trade it for the world though. There’s something so fulfilling about being able to make a hands-on difference like that. Speaking of…” She checks the time on her phone. “Okay cool. I’ve got another twenty minutes until I need to be going.”

“Right, your outreach thing.”

“Mhm.”

“What is that? It sounded like it’s different than patrolling?”

“Well, outreach is kind of a catch-all term for a lot of stuff. Sometimes it’s speaking at school assemblies, or visiting kids in hospitals, or helping disabled people get groceries: lots of stuff. Today though, I’m following up with some of the people I helped in the last week or so, because even though the crisis is over, that doesn’t mean it feels like it’s actually over, so I stop in for a visit, check on how they’re doing, and make sure they feel safe again.

“After all, after your lowest point, the thing most people need is a friend, someone to just be there for them and help them get back on their feet. That's what it’s all about for me. I could quote statistics about how outreach influences new triggers towards heroism, or tell you about how following up later can get good grassroots intel, or even quote the Protectorate and Ward's PR reasons, but all of that is secondary. I do outreach because I’m a hero, and a hero is of, for, and by the people."

I don't know what to say to that, because she's right. The only reason I didn't completely break after Mom's death was because I had someone. Did I lean too heavily on her? I try to dislodge old regrets and what-ifs before they can take hold. Emma's choices, whatever her damage, were her own.

I want to be bitter that Victoria or another hero wasn't there for me when I was at my lowest dealing with Emma, but I know more than anyone that there's only so much one person can do; it's why I prioritized helping Amy over anyone else. Brockton Bay is big, with lots of people suffering even more problems. Even Alexandria can’t save everyone.

“Sorry, went on a bit of a rant there,” she says, miming embarrassment. “Did that answer your question?”

“Yeah. It’s actually uh. That’s actually really cool," I have to admit.

"Right? I'm glad you think so too," she says, smiling so brightly I can almost hear her pride and pleasure through her noise.

It’s ruined by the immediate, screaming panic and helpless blame that Amy’s directing my way, and I realize I got distracted by Victoria’s speech. I hurry to pull her love away from Victoria and direct it back onto me. Her frustration with me doesn't soften at all despite this, but she should really be mad at Victoria for distracting me. I meet Amy’s gaze - easy, with how laser-focused she is on me right now - and try to explain with my eyes that Victoria distracted me.

I don’t think it comes across very well. Grumpily, Amy returns to her game and Rose reaches out with concern. Oddly, it’s not immediately rebuffed. There’s a moment of actual connection between them before Amy’s guilt eats away at the vulnerability and the pair return to their game: Rose concerned but ultimately willing to let it go, and Amy too burdened by her own ego to let another ease the load.

“You’re not jealous, are you?” Victoria asks me, and I snap back to looking at her. 

“Why would I be jealous?”

“No, I’m saying you shouldn’t be jealous of Rose and Amy. They’re just friends.”

There she goes, trying to drive wedges again, subtly manufacturing Amy’s isolation. Obviously I’m not jealous; there’s nothing for me to fear I’ll lose, regardless of whether Rose covets Amy. But for Victoria to voice it, that means that she can see some chemistry with the pair-- That’s good; it means Rose should be a natural-seeming rebound after we ‘break up.’ It leaves a sour taste in my mouth to let Victoria’s words work as intended, but I can’t deny the feeling of satisfaction that comes with knowing the twisted truth. I need to play this cool and close to the chest, to not tip her off.

“So you don’t think they’re flirting?” I ask.

“Oh, heck no,” she laughs. “I don’t think Ames could flirt to save her life, and I don’t even know that Rose is gay.”

“She is.”

Victoria blinks. “I…” She glances back at Rose and Amy. “Huh. Wait you haven’t even talked to her, and you can tell?”

“...I have a really good gaydar,” is my panicked response. Stupid for me to speak in absolutes. I need to keep it vague, dammit.

She shrugs and seems to accept my excuse. “Well, still. They’ve been playing together for years; if one of them was going to make a move, I’m sure they would have by now.”

“Okay.” I look down at our game. “Whose turn is it?”

She looks at her hand and scrunches up her brow. “I have no idea. I don’t even know what I was trying to do.”

“Wanna call it quits?”

“Yeah, might as well; I should be getting ready to go soon anyway.” She lays down her hand. “It was a fun game though. We should play again some time.”

I hum noncommittally as we pack away the game. She takes it back to Jessie, hugs Amy goodbye, then leaves the store. Amy looks my way with some curiosity, but quickly gets sucked back into her game. The store is filled with dozens of people and even more games, and I have no idea what to do. Social situations have never been my forte, and getting powers didn’t exactly fix that: hard to join a new group when I can feel exactly how unexcited they are to meet me. It’d be so much easier if I could let myself make people happy to meet me. It wouldn’t even be hard to get away with: easy for the affected people to write it off as a good first impression if I left it at that. But it wouldn’t be a sure thing, and I only need to arouse suspicion once for my future as a hero to collapse.

From my pants’ pocket, I pull out the book I brought - a collection of short stories by classic horror authors - and start to read. I’ve read them all before, but rereading a good story is never a waste. I keep an ear on Amy’s song to ensure I don’t slip up and stop the conditioning again: not that she’d likely notice without Victoria around, but still.

I get halfway through Poe’s The Black Cat before someone bothers me; a quartet of boys ask me to make room so they can play a game of something or other, and I acquiesce. It’s only after I stand that I realize there’s nowhere else to sit-- Nowhere that wouldn’t encroach on another group’s space and put me right up against someone, at least. The bench in the mall’s hall isn’t occupied, but that’d mean listening to the uncanny music. Amy though, she did offer to let me watch her play Sledgehammer, and proximity does breed familiarity, which would help to give the transferred crush some much needed stability.

I make my way over to Amy and she looks up when I near her table, curious.

“Victoria left,” I tell her. “Can I stand here for a while?”

Her confusion cuts off abruptly, replaced by smug. “Come crawling back to me already?”

I don’t deign to respond, pulling out my book instead to settle at an unoccupied corner of the table; she didn’t say no, and I don’t plan to give her the chance to change that. The other girl, Rose, shoots Amy a questioning look, but Amy just waves her off as they return their attention to the game.

“Where were we?” Amy asks. “Oh right, I was turning your Amish inside out.”

“Pft, like you plan to stop there. I’m not so easy that I’ll just let you tear into me without a struggle.”

“Struggle all you want, my crews won’t stop until you’re as broken as the Three Sisters’ Union of ‘27.”

“Such a devastating division you plan to bring upon me? How droll. Unfortunately for you, your insectiod legalmancers have no grounds on my territories. Can’t sue, since we’re not beholden to your pitiful excuse for law and order.”

“You think all I can do is sue? As if. My lawyers are good for more than just attack.” Amy rolls some dice. “Ha! Good luck getting through my wall of law for workers compensation as your newest barn raising project collapses in on itself due to weakened wood.”

“You weakened my wood? Naughty.”

“Dude. Gross.” Amy pretends to gag.

Satisfaction plays for a stanza as Rose smirks. She rolls dice. “Too bad for you, I don’t need to pay workers comp, since my workers can just rub some dirt in the wounds and walk it off, no problem.”

“Rubbing and walking at the same time? Is that allowed now?”

“You tell me.” Rose winks.

Amy frowns. “It’s not allowed. Why do you keep trying to break the rules? You’re fucking disgusting.”

“Amy what the hell?” I snap, having been unable to read over the noise of their game.

“What?” she asks, like she doesn’t know, even though it takes her only a moment to realize what I mean. “I always talk to Rose like that; it’s okay.”

“Being mean more than once doesn’t make it okay; that makes it worse.”

“I’m not being mean though, I’m just playing.”

“’Playing’?” I ask rhetorically. “That’s not playing, that’s bullying.”

“Hey,” Rose interjects, “listen, I don’t know who you are-”

“I’m Taylor.”

“...Okay, Taylor. I appreciate your concern, but we’re good. I honestly don’t mind.”

Tuning into her song, she’s not lying; she’s more upset with me for interrupting than Amy for insulting her. She doesn’t mind Amy’s insults at all: finds them endearing, in fact, like some sort of sheltered child who doesn’t know the actual impacts of bullying, enjoying it as if a game. Whatever I thought about Rose being a potential candidate for Amy’s affections was wrong; she would not be good for Amy, wouldn’t help Amy be better, but instead encourage her worst tendencies, and I’m not going to put in so much time and work into someone just to have this sicko enjoy ruining it.

I frown and ask Amy, “ This is your best friend?”

“Excuse me?” Rose says, seemingly insulted.

“I don’t know about best ,” says Amy, looking between us, “but yeah? We game together pretty much every week.”

“Why? It doesn’t seem healthy.”

“Lady, I am right here,” snaps Rose, insult leading into anger.

“Why?” I ask, genuinely wondering. “Is this how you get your kicks or something?”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Rose snarls, insulted for some reason.

“I just told you; my name is Taylor.”

“She’s my girlfriend,” Amy adds, pleasure at the declaration mixing with anticipation.

Oh right. “That too.”

Rose is stunned. Feeling hurt and betrayed too, for some reason. “You finally come out of the closet, and it’s for her?” She looks me up and down judgmentally, then dismisses me. “I’ve been knocking on your closet door for months; I thought we had something going on.”

So she’s entitled too. “Amy doesn’t owe you anything.”

“Lady, it’s not even about that. I’m just saying she could do so much better than you.”

I know I look like a stretched, upright frog. I know I’m unattractive, and that no one looks at me for more than ten seconds and thinks I’m pretty. I know that my only good feature is my moms hair. But ugliness doesn’t preclude one from being a good girlfriend - not that I’m even gay - and “You don’t even know me.”

“You’re right. My name’s Rose, it’s awful to meet you Taylor. I’d say congrats on getting this one out of the closet, but I loosened her up.”

“That’s disgusting,” I recoil.

“Not like that you freak. Ugh.”

“Freak? I’m not the one enjoying being bullied.”

“It’s a game . Did Amy dearest pick a moron for a paramour?” she mocks. “It seems so, as you’re demonstrably incapable of understanding the simplest of role-plays.”

“Hey uh.” All three of us look to the interrupter, a white guy in his mid-twenties leaning over from the neighboring game. He puts his hands up, asking for peace. “It’s really not my business, but you girls are getting kind of heated. Maybe you should take a minute to cool off?”

“You’re right, Eddy, Sorry,” Rose admits with a groan. “Taylor: it was… an experience to meet you. I hope if we ever cross paths again, you can be less… like this. Amy: you have my number. Hit me up when this falls apart.”

She turns to leave, and that snaps Amy out of the flattered, confused stupor she fell into as she watched our argument. “Wait! Our game isn’t over.”

“I forfeit; I was losing anyway.” She leaves to tell Brad the results, and though anger-at-me dominates her song, there’s a sense of assurance in the future: like anxiety minus the worry. Faith, perhaps? She has faith that my relationship with Amy is doomed to fail? Well now she’s definitely out of the running.

Amy, meanwhile, looks at me for a long moment, her song confused, worried, and longing until suddenly it resolves into anger: not at Rose, but at me and herself, and more specifically at our connection. She’s angry at the conditioning. She grabs me by the arm and pulls me out of the store, abandoning her miniatures on the table, barely stalling long enough to demand, “Follow me.”

"What's going on?" I ask as she pulls me into the mall hall.

"Not here," Amy answers suspiciously. She looks around at the other shoppers and frowns. "Where's somewhere we can be alone?"

I take a second to listen for any dead spots in the mall. I find one with no one nearby, and start that way. She follows me through and out a Justin CP and into the loading dock area. No one is around, and I don't think I remember anyone being in this area since I got here. Makes sense, considering the stink of old oil and open dumpster.

"No one should bother us here," I tell her. Admittedly, I'm not looking forward to hearing what she has to say; the way uncomfortable resolution and frustration dance in her song is putting me on edge.

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Closes it again. Shame and frustration at herself. She mutters, "God dammit," and pulls a metal case from her pocket. Thin and flat, I don't recognize it until she opens it up and pulls out a thin, white stick and a lighter: a cigarette case, like one from old movies. Cigarette between her lips, she closes the case and slips it back into her pocket, lights up, and sucks in desperately.

I take a step back.

"I didn't know you smoked," I tell her, but now that I'm seeing it, the cocktail of relief and sudden calmness is familiar, something I'd heard from her on occasion, late at night when Jess's crying kept me up and Amy was near the hospital, back before I'd offered my help to her and spent a few weeks just observing her, when I was figuring out the best approach.

She breathes out a cloud of stink, then takes and releases another hit before responding. "Only when I'm stressed."

"But you're always stressed."

"Only when I'm really stressed, then,” she snaps.

Despite growing up in Brockton Bay, and surrounded by drug trade, this is the first time I've ever actually been next to someone smoking. Neither of my parents-- Neither my mom nor any of the adults I grew up around smoked, and though some kids smoked at Winslow, I didn’t spend any time around them. Or pretty much anyone, really.

"It's kind of gross, isn't it?” I ask. “Aren't you worried about getting black lung?"

Her annoyance at me turns to amusement as she laughs in my face. One bark turns into a string of chuckles, and I wait for her to get herself under control and answer me, but she just keeps laughing, even dropping her barely used cigarette. It bounce-rolls my way and I crush it with my sneaker before the second hand smoke can get on my clothes. She doesn't notice.

"That wasn't a joke," I say, when it's obvious she's not going to stop laughing. This just makes her laugh harder, falling back onto the wall behind her. It's… nice that she’s at least not laughing at me. Or rather, she is, but that there’s no derision. She’s not laughing at me per se , she just actually finds what I said to be funny, even though it wasn’t meant to be a joke. I wish she’d laugh when I actually told jokes, but honestly she needs all the stress outlets she can get.

Finally, she stops laughing, though she's still deeply amused. She starts getting out another cigarette as she explains, "I can't get lung cancer, if that's what you're worried about. Also, lung cancer isn't black lung."

"But D.A.R.E. showed us the pictures of-"

"Yeah, yeah, lungs turn kind of black from the tar accumulation, but black lung is from coal mining," she says, anger beaten out for a moment by her sudden good mood.

"Oh. You can't get cancer?"

"Powers protect me from illness and biological failings. So yeah, no cancer for me. No sick days either," she adds with mild annoyance.

"What about the tar?"

She blinks in realization. "Ah. Shit."

It's my turn to laugh, I think, so I do as I ask, “How long have you been smoking that you haven’t thought of that?”

“Few months maybe? I want to say since August?” she answers, staring at the smoke stick in her hand. She shrugs and takes another hit.

I frown. “Seriously?”

"Eh, I'm not going to live long enough for tar to kill me anyway." At my alarmed look, she expounds, "I'm a cape. Most of us die before we hit forty. It's only the really powerful capes that live any longer. Like Legend. Or the fucking Fairy Queen."

That… doesn’t sound right. I’ve seen the fatality statistics for new and independent capes, but she’s acting like being established and part of a team is still a death sentence. Like capes are doomed to die-- Which is true for everyone, but is it especially true for capes somehow? "What about your parents? And the rest of New Wave’s adults?"

Her mood sours at the reminder they exist, but she answers, “Uncle Neil’s the oldest on the team, and he’s only thirty-eight. Plus-” she takes another hit, fortifying herself as she holds in the smoke; she exhales “-do you have any idea how many times I’ve had to put him back together? How many times some asshole like Crusader or Lung decided he needed a hole in his chest or that his small intestine would look better as a belt? Six times. Six goddamn times since I got my powers, and that’s just Uncle Neil. I’ve had to shove so many heroes’ entrails back into their abdominal cavities because the villains decided they couldn’t be bothered to not maim someone as they fuck over even more of the city, and it’s just such bullshit, so excuse me for needing to have a damn smoke every so often . ”

She inhales the rest of her cigarette as I try to figure out what to say to that. I know she didn’t drag me outside to talk about Lung and lung cancer. Her frustration is with us, I can hear that much; maybe she’s trying to talk about what happened in the game store? I know she has some weird and mixed feelings about what Rose and I said, and she’s not happy about her game being cut short. I’m not going to apologize for stopping bullying though.

She’s into her third cigarette when I ask, “So what'd you actually want to talk about?"

"Right." She sighs. Determination overpowers fear and shame. There's a bit of excitement in it too. "It's not working. This whole thing. Us. It's just. I can feel it not working, every time I think about it for half a second, everything feels off and bad, and it's just. I know its not real, but I can feel it not being real, and that's gotta be bad, right?"

The dissonance. Figures she'd want to talk about it. I'm glad she does because "I've been noticing it too. It's... distracting, and I think you're right, it's not working as well as it should."

"So you'll fix it?" she asks excitedly. Relieved.

"Well. If you want me to."

"I do," she shamefully admits. "I mean, it’s for the best, right? So what more are you going to do?"

"Well… I’d need to affect more emotions, for starters. So far, I’ve just been working with the love gleaned from your siblingship-” Amy snorts “-with Victoria, but that doesn’t really… It’s not supported by anything. It’s empty.”

 “What else would you be messing with?” she asks, smoke escaping her mouth with each syllable. She’s burning through her current stick of tobacco much slower than its predecessor, only a quarter through it, smoking it more to give herself something to do rather than a need to have the drug. It’s a way to stall her anxiety, I realize: a crutch. I wonder if there’s a way to use her addiction-- One thing at a time.

“Keeping in mind that this is me trying to put words to a wordless power sense…” She gestures for me to continue. “Affection, for one. I’d need to make you like me, not just love me. Without like, love is just infatuation and that’s weak. Brittle.”

“Liking you? That’s a tall order,” she mutters.

I bite my tongue instead of lobbing a retort. I need her permission, not to piss her off. I continue, “Attraction is another. You’ve felt flickers of it before, since it’s tied so closely with love, but it’s not been enough to give you a new type, so to say, because right now the only type of person you’re attracted to is your sister, and well, since we’re just temporary, you need to learn how to be attracted to other sorts of people. And if you can think even I’m pretty, that opens up pretty much the rest of the world to you.”

She fixes me with a weird look, questioning and confused inside, but I keep going before she can ask me to clarify my own ugliness.

“I’d need to affect trust too. That’s a big one, honestly. I don’t think I’ve listened to a relationship without some amount of mutual trust, and right now there’s almost none of that between us.”

She snorts, amused and derisive, and it makes her cough from the smoke inside her. I edge a bit further back and wait for her to get herself under control so she can say what she’s trying to say. Finally, she rasps, “No shit I don’t trust you. You’re fucking brainwashing me.”

“You trusted me enough to say yes.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t let it go to your head. I was desperate, and there’s not exactly a lot of options.”

“Be that as it may, you’ll need to trust me for our plan to work.”

“Fucking why though?” she whines.

“Because right now, I’m not conditioning a crush, I’m barely doing more than suppressing how you feel about your sister.”

Misery and self-disgust overwhelm her. She drops her spent cigarette and lights another. “Not even doing a good job at that either. You keep stopping out of nowhere.”

“I know. You’ve let me know clearly what you think about that.” There’s a flicker of amusement as I confirm that her vitriolic feelings toward me in those moments communicated what she wanted, but it’s just a flicker, short-lived in the face of the anxious enormity of what we’re discussing. “Filling out your crush on me should - I hope - make it easier though, since the romantic love will have more to latch onto?”

“You sound so sure of yourself,” she sarcasms.

“I am sure though. I just… I don’t know what the words for it are. I feel like the emotions would stick better as a package deal than as component pieces? Like how a song is more memorable than just the flute section’s contribution. Does that make sense?”

“As much sense as anything that’s come out of your mouth.”

“So a lot of sense. Good,” I joke. She doesn’t laugh. She takes another hit and blows the smoke my way, and I have to fan it away with my hand.

“Was that another ‘joke’?” she asks, using actual air quotes.

Frowning, I ignore her and return to the topic at hand. “I’d like to be able to make you feel happy, too. Not like, as a permanent or constant thing,” I hurry to interrupt her objection, “but just-- If I can make you feel happy when you look at me, then that should make the conditioning go quicker. I’ve been doing that with love, but it’s… messy, like that.”

“...If you try to make me happy to make me not be mad at you when you do something stupid or shitty, I’ll… Well, just don’t do that.” She tries to sound serious, but it’s hard to take her as such when she’s feeling so relieved at the prospect of being happy. She longs for me to make her happy, and like always she covers it with bitterness and frustration. In this, I can’t blame her; what I’m offering must seem Faustian right now, but she’ll learn to trust it, I hope.

“Okay. I won’t do that. Like I said, I just want to do that to strengthen the conditioning: nothing else.” I chew on my lip. “What do you say? Can I?”

She doesn’t answer at first. She finishes her fourth or fifth smoke and sucks down half of another, her song roiling with trepidation, relief, longing, fear, and of course, guilt, as well as a dozen or so other, less significant emotions. I’m not one-hundred percent certain, but as I spend more time listening to Amy’s emotions, the clearer their intricacies become, and I can tell she wants this. She wants me to take the lead, to relieve her of her responsibility to herself. She doesn’t want to want it and doesn’t think she should want it, but that doesn’t stop her from wanting it, so she restrains herself from accepting my deal immediately. It makes sense, and I’m glad she as a hero has enough sense to not trust foolishly, but she should know by now that I’m not going to betray or screw her.

I wait, and finally, she reaches some sort of determination. She holds out a hand and silently demands mine. I step closer and give it, and she squeezes tight; I’m familiar with her parahuman polygraph by now.

“That’s all you’re going to do?” she asks. I nod. “Respond verbally. Actually, no. Repeat what you’ll do. And don’t you dare lie.”

I take a deep breath before launching into the condensed pitch. “To give your crush on me a better base and help it stick and grow, I want you to let me make you attracted to me, trust me, and like me, and then to let me make you feel happy when you look at me, just for a beat each time.”

“That’s all? You’re not going to do anything else?” she asks, her voice not wavering despite the maelstrom of contradicting emotions inside.

“No. That’s all.”

“And you haven’t done anything more than we’ve talked about so far?”

“I haven’t.”

I expected the relief she feels. Less so the disappointment and subsequent shame. Weird girl. Really weird girl. She takes a deep breath - possibly the first untainted air she’s inhaled since we came out here - and says, “Okay. Do it. You have my permission.”

She means it. She’s excited about it, even. So eager to get rid of her incestuous crush that she’d let even me take Victoria’s place. She’s desperate, and out of reasons to say no.

Without even the swing of an imaginary conductor’s baton, I orchestrate a love song, layering trust, affection, attraction, and love into a resplendent melody, putting the dinky, single instrument ‘love song’ we’d been using to shame; the difference is like that of a child’s performance for their family and a Julliard audition. Just like that metaphorical family, I had grit my teeth and bore the dissonant noise for the sake of everyone’s sanity, but now… Now it’s beautiful .

It’s a bit like a messy replica of her full feelings for Victoria, but this song isn’t meant to be a copy. The shame, disgust, and self-loathing atrophy, as Amy has no reason to feel ashamed or disgusted by her attraction to me, and the manufactured attraction is loud . Stronger than I intended, it grows as her eyes take me in, her blush growing. I really didn’t mean to up her attraction to me by this much and- and definitely not so sexually, what the hell?

Where did all this horniness even come from? How is she feeling that level and sort of attraction for my neck of all things?? It’s flattering for sure, doubly so because only a portion of it came directly from my power —the rest being borne of the trust and familiarity, somehow tied so strongly with them — but I need to tone that down. Not remove it — attraction is integral — but definitely subdue it to a reasonable level; for her sake if not my own; it’d just be cruel to have her so into me like… well, like That, when nothing physical is going to happen between us.

Whoever ends up as the ultimate target of Amy’s affections is a lucky woman; her devotion is incredible to witness, and I can’t help but enjoy it: how her eyes linger, how her hand unconsciously tightens around mine, how she’s so consumed by me that she drops her most recent cigarette without even noticing. She deserves someone just as devoted to her, someone who will help her be and do good, who will support and appreciate her in all the ways she deserves. She’s put so much good into the world as Panacea, and even if she is a bitch, I won’t let her settle for anyone less than what she deserves. It’s my duty as a fellow hero.

I readjust the balance of her crush, for a moment imagining myself as a disk jockey in a studio– moving sliders, turning knobs, and flipping switches, though really it’s less precise than that: more a gesture backed by intent than a dial with numbers. I lower her sexual attraction to a volume softer than worship so she can at least consider taking her eyes off of me and ask, “How’s that?”

She stammers unintelligibly at me. She’s so in love she can barely talk. Can she even think clearly right now? That might… That’s definitely going to be a problem. Before I can re-readjust her feelings, she rallies, blurting out barely considered words: “Why do you wear shit?”

“What?” She can feel like this and still throw out insults? Is that a good thing, that I didn’t break her?, or a bad thing that she’s defaultly cracked like this?

Embarrassed and uncertain, but still feeling nearly overwhelming attraction, she yet continues, “Your clothes. They’re crap. A hoodie and crappy cargo pants? Why don’t you wear like, skinny jeans, or. I don’t know, a halter top. Something flattering?”

“Well, cause-- Why don’t you?”

“Because I’m fat,” she snaps, less angry than her tone implies. Her sweat-damp hand slips from mine and she dries it against her own hoodie.

“You’re not that fat.”

“Stop avoiding the question,” she says, feeling cornered by my reassurance.

“That sort of stuff wouldn’t look good on me,” I admit, resigned. Amy would look better than I could in stuff like that. She at least wears her chub femininely; I wear my skinny androgynously at best.

“Yeah they would,” she scoffs. “Some high rise skinny jeans and, okay maybe not a crop top, but you can’t go wrong with a tank top with a uh- a- a leather jacket or a flannel or something.”

I stare at her long enough that she feels pressured to fumble for another cigarette. She takes it in hand but doesn’t light it, thankfully. I ask, legitimately flabbergasted, “How do you know this stuff?”

“Victoria likes to take me shopping. I picked up on some stuff.”

“Oh. That’s-” just like Emma : yet another way they’re the same. I say instead, “Makes sense, I guess.”

She frowns at me, worry playing quietly. “Something’s wrong. What?”

“Nothing. It’s not important.”

Worry creeps in as she likely considers pressing me on my avoidance, but it’s resolved by trust; she lets it go. Instead of calling me out, she asks, “Would you want to do that with us? It’d be another opportunity for the three of us to do more…” She blushes. “ Stuff. ”

“What? You mean like, go clothes shopping?” I ask. She nods. “It would be a good opportunity to do more conditioning in a controlled yet varied environment: get you more used to seeing Victoria platonically in different contexts so that you don’t only love me through her at say, the game store, but everywhere. And if we do it right, then that should mean your love for me will sustain itself more uh, consistently.”

As I talk, a self-conscious excitement swells in Amy’s song, more complex than just anticipating her own future happiness, but tied into her feelings for me for some reason. Her love for me crescendoes as I explain how I’m going to help her, and it’s nice. It’s more than nice to be appreciated, to be wanted; it’s distracting.

“So uh, that should also keep you from backsliding,” I power through. “Yeah. That should work. Do you want to um. Do that?”

“Yeah, let’s do it,” she says, and I can tell she’s squealing internally. Suddenly, it’s squashed by ironic dread and anger. I didn’t realize until this moment that irony had a sound, and it sounds like nothing more than a pitch-perfect jumble of silverware thrown down stairs. “Oh god dammit we can’t do it.”

“Why not? You were so excited by the idea.”

“She’ll want Dean to come with. Fuck. As soon as I actually want a double date: nope. Can’t do that. Why does he have to ruin this too?!”

“Dean? Oh! Victoria’s boyfriend. Right, yeah. We do need to avoid him.”

Relief at a quick agreement is just as quickly conquered by suspicion. “Wait a second. Why do you think we need to avoid Dean?”

Does she not know? Surely she knows; her sister’s been dating him for years, as best as I can tell, and what reason would he have to not tell another hero? She has to already know. And if she doesn’t, what’s the harm? She’s a hero too. “You know he’s Gallant, right?”

“ How do you know that?!” she hisses, looking around for anyone dropping eaves. Finding no one - because there is no one around - she returns her glare to me. “You can’t know that. And you definitely can’t go around saying stuff like that! Fuck! Tell me you haven’t told anyone.”

“I haven’t told anyone. I only know his identity because his song is so weird.”

Amy’s panic softens, barely. “Good. Don’t tell anyone that sort of stuff.”

“Obviously I’m not going to reveal another hero’s secret identity.”

“No, you can’t tell anyone that sort of stuff, hero or villain.”

“Why would I tell a villain?”

“No! You--” She realizes something and it makes her drag a palm down her face. “Dammit, you’re new . You don’t know the code of conduct.”

“The… what?”

She groans for a solid ten seconds. “I hate explaining this shit. This is such bullshit, but I can’t pass you on to some other schmuck. You’re the worst, you know that?”

…Despite myself, that actually got to me. But there are more important things at the moment than my surprise at Amy’s vitriol. I ignore it and ask, “What’s this ‘code of conduct’?”

“Okay so, some capes call it other names, but it’s all pretty much the same rules, and the first, biggest, most important thing for you right now: leave secret identities the fuck alone, alright? You know who Kaiser is under the mask? Congrats: keep it to yourself. You figure out Lung’s home address? Stop going around that part of town. Okay?”

“That… That doesn’t make any sense. If I figure out Kaiser’s identity, shouldn’t I tell the Protectorate? Couldn’t they use that to get him?”

“You’d think so. You’d really think so, but that’s not how it works.” She’s so bitter and jealous about this. I think she wishes she had a secret identity? I suppose the decision to unmask was her parents’, and not hers, but I didn’t realize the younger generation disagreed with the choice. “Listen, it boils down to this: you out somebody, you get lynched. Your whole family gets strung up. And it’s not just the Empire that’d go after you if you unmask Kaiser: you get everybody after you.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“You’re telling me that if I tell Armsmaster that my dad is Kaiser, he’ll kill me?” I ask as a jokey hypothetical.

“Well. No, but-- Wait, is your dad Kaiser?! ”

“No,” I tell her to ease her sudden panic. “That was a joke.”

“Stop telling jokes, dammit!” She slaps my arm repeatedly in a fluster of anger. I don’t think she’s actually trying to hurt me, but she’s failing miserably if so: on the scale of how hard a female peer has hit me, going from Tiffany (hurt herself trying to trip me) to Sophia (once made me vomit from a single punch), Amy is a Julie. When she tires herself out and stops slapping, she huffs and tries to take a hit of her cigarette, but realizes it’s still unlit. She ignites it and continues, “Armsmaster’s obviously not going to kill you, dumbass, but he’s not exactly going to thank you either. He might even try to arrest you or something, I don’t know. I just know nobody wants to be next if someone’s going around outing capes.”

Amy’s next hit of tobacco is interrupted by coughing. She thumps on her chest to dislodge the tar and other grossness. For someone who smokes so quickly, she doesn’t exactly smoke them smoothly or with any air of experience.

When Amy’s got her throat under control, she continues, “That’s just the first bit of the code too. Honestly it’s the most bullshit, but it’s bullshit pretty much everyone else pretty much agrees on, so like.” She shrugs. “Next one is the truce.”

“You mean the…” I trail off.

“Yeah, that’s the big one,” she says, thankfully catching my meaning without me having to say it. “There are others though, like when the Slaughterhouse 9 comes around. Truces are pretty much just for S class threats. Monsters that nobody can handle alone. You probably won’t have to deal with this - I haven’t, at least - but if you’re at a truce, don’t start shit or everyone will beat the shit out of you and if you don’t die, you get sent to the Birdcage. That’s pretty much the deal with all the rules, actually. Next big thing…”

She takes a moment to stare at her cigarette’s smoldering tip. Fearful restraint runs deep in her as she gathers her next words. There’s enough guilt and anxiety tied to her next words to fill a classroom. Now would be the perfect time to break the tension with a joke, but after talking about the Endbringers, I can’t think of anything.

“...don’t use people as meat.”

Whatever I expected her to say, that wasn’t it. What does that even mean? “Like, no cannibalism?”

She laughs. She actually laughs at that. Dammit. “No, that’s not what--” She sobers quickly and frowns at me. “Well, yeah actually: don’t eat people. Is that something you uh…”

“No! What? No, of course not.”

“You’re the one who brought it up!” she accuses, though she is relieved at my denial of the obvious. “But it more means like… Don’t be a Bonesaw or a Heartbreaker. Don’t use people as… supplies, or toys. They’re humans, not meat. People are people. Don’t make a person into not a person or make them suffer something worse than death. That make sense?”

“Yeah, but you should really find a better way to say that.”

She shrugs. “Eh. With any luck, this is the last time I’ll have to say any of this crap.”

“You don’t tell new capes about this stuff often, I take it?”

“Usually I just call the PRT when I find a new trigger at the hospital and let them take care of it. They cover it up as outreach for a recently traumatized individual, but…” She shrugs again. Her cigarette is finished, but she just holds the filter between two fingers, fiddling with it. “I think that’s everything. The important stuff, at least. Congratulations, you’re officially in the community.” She flicks the filter up into the air. It lands between us. “That was confetti.”

I frown at her attempted joke. “And you think I’m not funny.”

She laughs once at that, already pulling out another cigarette. How many does she plan on smoking? She’s had at least six in the last twenty minutes. “You’re not funny though.”

“You just laughed.”

“I was laughing at you, not with you. There’s a difference.”

There has to be something wrong with her, to so frequently and casually insult someone she loves. I wonder if I could fluster her into niceness again, get her so bothered she can barely think of an insult, like on the school roof yesterday. Without the dissonance of an unevenly mixed song, would she respond the same?

I take her hand and all of her attention moves to mine in hers. I’m about to bring her knuckles to my lips - the cheesiest thing I can think of - when her words come back to me: people aren’t meat. Does playing with her emotions like that, without the explicit purpose of fixing her incest crush, break that rule? Am I a bad person for considering it? For wanting to do it despite the code? Even though she’d like it? Liking something doesn’t necessarily make that something good; Heartbreaker’s thralls probably like whatever he does to them, and that’s definitely evil of the worst kind. More basically, am I a bad person for enjoying how I make her feel about me? Because I do; it’s nice to be loved like this: being loved in a way that I can trust.

"Is it-" I stop myself from asking the stupid question I was going to ask.

"Is what what?"

“Nevermind. It's stupid."

Concern rises in her song, surprisingly without the anger I’ve come to expect from her. "I know you're lying," she says, squeezing my hand, "So just say it already."

"Am I a bad person for liking this? Liking how you feel about me?"

“Yeah. Duh. Are you just realizing that?”

“Uh.” I know I asked, but I didn’t expect such an immediate and blunt answer.

Regret and conviction join simultaneously; she doesn’t like the answer she gave, but sticks by it, not for a moment considering she’s wrong. “Okay so like. Yeah, obviously you're a bad person for enjoying messing with someone's mind, but you’ve at least got your rules keeping you in check too. You like it, but you’re not letting yourself indulge. It’s… You’re like Shadow Stalker, I guess; you’re a bitch and a creep, and I wish I’d never met you - no offense - but you’re doing good so… I don’t know.”

“Saying ‘no offense’ doesn’t make it not offensive.”

“Sorry, I guess,” she mutters. “But-- I don’t know. I suck at words. Why do you make me talk?”

“Would you rather I make you shut up?”

Her head snaps to me so fast her neck pops, and her cringing “ouch” really undercuts her excitement. Even as she massages her neck, she stares at me — specifically at my… lips? I guess I didn’t stamp that down as much as I intended, but her desire isn’t enough to stop her from stopping herself, so when she looks away I decide to leave it as is. For now.

“What was I saying?” she asks.

“You called Shadow Stalker and I both creeps and bitches,” I remind her.

“Oh, right. Uhhh… Yeah I have no idea where I was going with that. I don’t know. Keep not being the biggest bitch you can be, I guess? I’ve got no room to judge any of your shit.”

"But you're a hero?"

"Sure, for now."

"Do you plan to stop being a hero?" That could really muck up my plans to keep her healing if she already plans to stop.

"No, I don't... I don't plan to stop being one but like. Come on. You said it yourself: only a matter of time until I snap."

"Oh. I didn't realize you knew it."

She scoffs and does another hit of her cigarette. As she exhales, she says, "I’m not stupid. I know what I am. I know what that means for me.”

"But isn't this whole thing -" I gesture between us "- I mean the whole point is to keep you from snapping. You're already a lot less stressed than you were before."

Sullen resignation plays. "It's not as simple as just stress."

She breathes in her tobacco smoke, a big inhale, longer than the others. Too long: she coughs. I take another step back. I want to say something more about the smoking, because it's obviously not healthy, but the timing feels wrong. I don't say anything, because it's obvious she has more to say.  

When she gets herself under control, she says, "It's... Do you ever feel like... like you've got a monster inside you, but 'you' is just a cage, and the monster is who you actually are? And like. You try to keep the cage sealed tight to stop the monster from hurting anyone, or getting out and hurting everyone, but you know that no matter what cage-you does, it's only ever a stalling measure because monster-you is smarter and like. Inevitable? And eventually you know that you'll let the monster out and..." She trails off, feeling horribly anxious and scared and desperate. "It’s not stress, it’s just how I am. It’s irresponsible to pretend otherwise."

I tell her, “That’s dumb,” and she glares at me, but what else is there to say to that. She’s a healer; a nervous breakdown or psychotic break would be bad, for sure, but she’s making it sound worse than it’d be. “No one is good or bad, they just do good and bad stuff. Being a monster or a hero is a choice— a series of choices— sometimes a bunch of really stupid choices one after another until you can’t recognize her, but it’s not… kismet or fate or destiny or whatever you want to call it.”

A tune of desperate loneliness plays in her lower octaves, harmonizing with her anxiety and fear-of-self to produce an eerie yet beautiful melody. Was it something I said? "You don’t get it. I shouldn't have thought..." She drops her latest cigarette and smooshes it beneath her shoe. "Forget it."

“I might not understand,” I admit, “but that doesn’t mean you’re alone. I’m sure somebody’s felt, you know, like that.” I move my attention to the city's song, skimming the music in search of someone feeling something similar.

"Whatever," she says, not believing me. "It doesn’t matter."

While I listen, she pulls out a pouch, and from within retrieves travel bottles of mouthwash, hand sanitizer, and perfume. She uses them in turn to clean off the stink of tobacco, spitting the mouthwash onto the ground like a slob.

"Let's just go back inside. Can't be late to my next game."

I start to agree, but something in the city's song catches my attention: many songs strumming in unified anger. It’s a grim, determined anger, one that seeks violence. And it's by the border of passive fear between Empire and ABB territory. A riot? A piece of a gang preparing to march for war? A poorly located bar fight? Whatever it is, I should call it in.

“I’ll catch up,” I say as I pull out my phone and its battery from separate pockets, inspiring instant suspicion from her.

“You said you didn’t have a phone,” she accuses as I power it on. She doesn’t move toward the entrance.

“It’s for cape stuff.”

“Cape-- What are you doing? Who are you calling?” She’s suddenly terrified of me, her trust in me not strong enough to overcome her suspicion. Should I… No, I meant what I said yesterday; it’s better to stay as hands-off as possible until I’m sure of what I’m doing. As nice as having her not doubt everything I do would be, there’s no telling yet how much of her personality and self is tied to doubt and suspicion. We can’t risk her family growing suspicious over her own lack of doubt either, since doubt is normal for her.

“I’m calling the PRT,” I assure her. “There’s something brewing a couple miles northish.”

Damn my power’s imprecision. Phone powered, I pocket it to pull out my map of the city. I unfold it and start to triangulate the trouble, based on hubs of activity I can hear and their corresponding, probable locations on the map.

“A couple miles?” Amy asks. “Can you hear the whole city?”

“Not all of it. Maybe a fifth at best?” I answer absently, still trying to place the group of bubbling violence.

“You can hear miles of Brockton Bay’s emotions. Damn. That sounds annoying as fuck.”

I look at her with a raised eyebrow and she shrugs.

“I’m just saying. The Bay’s not exactly Disneyland. Lot of problems to hear.”

“I guess. The song’s aren’t really detailed unless I focus in on somewhere so…” It’s my turn to shrug. When I’ve got the location of the potential mob mostly nailed down, I pull out my phone and dial the only number that this phone has called.

“PRT emergency hotline, please state your emergency,” comes the voice on the other end of the line.

“This is Scanner-” I ignore Amy’s sudden laugh “-calling in a tip about a potentially brewing altercation near the intersection of 12th and Sycamore. There’s a group of fifteen people looking for a fight, heading north.”

“Are there any capes present?” they ask after a moment.

“I don’t know. There’s one person in charge, but I can’t tell if he’s a cape or not.”

“Thank you for the tip, Scanner. Would you stay on the line for a member of the Protectorate?”

Without more to say or contribute, I close the phone and remove the battery. There’s no need to waste a hero’s time by making them talk to me, and I know they’d just give another pitch to join the Wards like the first and only time I’d stayed on the line for them. I can’t join the Wards and be a hero though; there’s no way they’d let someone like me be a hero or even trust me around the Wards without proof my powers can help.

“’Scanner?’ That’s your cape name?” said proof asks. She’s judged and found it funny.

“I didn’t pick it,” I defend. “The PRT gave it to me.”

She bites a knuckle and wheezes. “That makes it so much worse, holy crap. Even I know you can’t let the PRT name you; they give indies shit names on purpose half the time.”

“You know, you’re being a real jerk right now.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a good reason; that name is awful. It ticks all the worst boxes: generic, lame, boring, stupid, bad, not even a little bit clever. You’ve had it… how long? And haven’t come up with something better?”

“You try coming up with a good hero name for someone with my powers. It’s not exactly easy.”

“Then don’t reference your dumb powers! Be, I don’t know, Valiant, or Acoustic, or something.” She laughs again. “Fucking Scanner. Oh that alone made meeting you worth it.”

I frown at her. Something must be wrong for her to treat someone she feels like this about so poorly. Or maybe she’s right and she’s just a bitch. Certainly no one today has been surprised by how she acts or what she says, but she’s definitely more restrained at school, from what I’ve witnessed. Maybe I can work on that for her? It’s not exactly to the letter of the plan, but it’s within the spirit of the plan. Either way, I’ll need to wait to do anything drastic: both to get a better baseline for her current state and see the repercussions of it. After all, good science only uses one independent variable.

“Let’s go back inside,” I tell her.

“Wait! Give me your number first.”

“Why?”

“So I can text you. Duh.”

“Amy, this phone isn’t for that sort of stuff. It’s a burner. It’s just for calling the PRT.”

She chews her lip as she accepts this. Acceptance comes, but determination and pride tag along. “Fine, but I’m buying you a phone. A personal phone.”

“Amy, you really don’t need to do that.”

“Too bad. I’m doing it anyway.” She doesn’t budge in her determination. She starts for the mall’s entrance and I’m forced to play catch-up.

“Seriously, I don’t need a phone.”

“Don’t care.”

“Would you listen to me?”

She stops and turns to face me. “Say something worth hearing.” 

“I don’t need a phone. I’m fine not having one.”

“Okay. Still getting you one.” She starts walking away again. “And the more you protest, the more it makes me want to do it.”

I follow behind her as I consider the ethical ramifications of using mind control to stop my pretend girlfriend from buying me a gift.

<3<3<3

I spent the rest of the afternoon at Games’ Games by Amy’s side, mostly reading and learning how to use my new cell phone. Screw Danny and his hangups around them, a personal cell phone is useful; it means I won’t have to wait for Jess to get off the computer to message Amy, though with it being a ‘dumb’ phone, I won’t be able to use PHO’s encypted messager, meaning we’ll have to censor our texts to stop her family from catching on if they read them through their provider.

Amy spent most of her time playing Sledgehammer, and most of the time between matches trying to explain the lore to me, which is admittedly more interesting than I had expected from a city-builder/sabotage game: not interesting enough to make me want to play again, but I might try to see if there are any books.

Rose spent most of her time glaring at me and simmering with envy.

The tournament was still ongoing by the time I had to leave, just before dusk. Twilight cast long shadows over the city by the time I disboarded the bus, and despite the resounding number of issues with my new living situation, it’s at least closer to the bus stop than my old home: just across the street, which makes sense considering the church next door.

The orphanage I’ve spent the last while calling ‘home’ is enormous yet cramped — three stories with five bedrooms to house over a dozen people, including the nuns who run the place — but most of all, it’s loud with insecurity. From the head nun to the youngest boy Cody, there is a sense of anxiety and uncertainty, mostly revolving around the children themselves and their future. I don’t like how I’m included in that, how the Sisters pity me for my dad’s stupid fucking idea that he shouldn’t--

I don’t need their pity. I don’t need their concern or their prayers. But I do need a place to sleep and food to eat, and this is the best place I’ve got, and that’s only because my mom’s mom had an in with the local bishop. I’ve never even met her, and she’s willing to do more for me than my own fucking dad.

I push open the door and am immediately greeted by the sound of five kids arguing over the television in the living room. The only kids living here that are older than ten are Jess and me, and it shows in the pastel cartoon on screen. Josephine is there, making sure they don’t break anything. None notice me as I move past the doorway and toward the stairs, intent on my room. It’s not to be, though, as Linda catches me not halfway up the stairs as she comes down with a basket of laundry in her arms.

“Taylor! You’re back,” she greets, happy to see me. “How was your day out? Did you have fun playing with Amy?”

“It was good, and I did,” I say, using an old trick I learned, called ‘lying so I can get to my room quicker.’

“That’s such a blessing to hear.” She’s relieved at my words, half-true as they are. She’s the sister who worries the most, the youngest of the group. Despite living in Brockton Bay, she somehow still hasn’t learned to avoid setting herself up for disappointment. “I can still hardly believe you made friends with honest to God superheroes. The Lord is good.”

“Mhm. He’s really something else.” I can tell from her sudden disappointment that I’m not convincing in my affirmation, but how could I be? If God were ever real, he’s either abandoned us or been killed.

But she doesn’t call me out on my lie, so I don’t call her out on hers. Instead, she just says, “I’m happy you’re staying safe, Taylor. It’s a worrisome city, but I’m glad you’ve got good friends.”

I don’t have friends, not really. Amy certainly doesn’t count. Victoria neither. Kris from trig class is friendly, but she’s like that to everyone, as far as I can tell. Maybe I could call Benj a friend at some point, but Kelsey wasn’t lying when she said he crushes on every girl he thinks he has a chance with, and I don’t feel the need to have another Greg Veder in my life after losing the last one.

“Welp! I should get this in the wash,” Linda declares, shaking her basket. I step to the side to let her pass, but when I take a step up behind her, she remembers to tell me, “Oh, Sister Kat wants to know if you’d mind vacuuming up tomorrow, since you’re not coming to Mass with the rest of us.”

“I can do that.” Doing a few chores is a fair price for room and board. “All three floors?”

“We wouldn’t ask you to vacuum the walls,” she jokes, and I let myself smile at it.

“Anything else?”

“Sisters Kat and DeShana can always use more hands in the kitchen, if you’re offering, but no, I don’t think so. See you at supper.” She continues on her path to the laundry room, and I hurry up to my room, moving quick to avoid Megan and Maddy if they decide to come out of the girls’ room.

Shutting the door muffles the noise of a busy house full of children and I let out a sigh: a chance to be alone and recharge after a busy day. There’s no getting rid of the music, but that’s okay; their songs are more pleasant than their voices. Most people’s are. I wouldn’t want to mute the songs even if I could. It’s reassuring to know the Sisters in the kitchen are having a good time, nice to know most of the kids like each other despite their spats, calming to know where everyone is and what they’re focused on.

The room I call mine is only a hair smaller than my old one, but it feels much more cramped, given that it’s not mine alone. Jess, Amanda-Lynn, and I share it. As the newest resident, I got assigned to the top bunk of the bunk-bed, above Jess, while Amanda-Lynn gets the standalone bed. The mattress is lumpy and old, but I use it for more than just sleeping; from its tear along the side against the wall, I maneuver out the pair of notebooks I stashed inside, between the springs: my coded cape journals.

In the first, I journal today’s events, recording my thoughts and ideas about how what I affected changed Amy and hypothesizing what I might need to do to her in the future. I add to my entry on Victoria and her noise as well, though there’s much less to say about her and our powers. I look back over it all to make sure I didn’t forget to note anything. As an afterthought, I jot down the rules Amy told me about. I look over it once more, but there’s nothing else to record, and I can’t put off the other book any longer.

There aren’t any names in it since I tore out Dean Stansfield and Chris Roosevelt’s pages, when I pieced together they were Wards; I never had a desire to out a hero. The other pages contain just slivers of information I was able to glean from the serendipitous occasions I was able to hear a villain and listen in on them: likely hideouts, possible home addresses, psyche profiles, favorite hangouts. Forty-seven pages of information about probable-villains, all with temporary pseudonyms until I definitively learned who they are. Amy says I should burn this and forget everything inside, but I spent weeks on this. And none of the information in here actually breaks the code of conduct, since there are no names, and the home addresses and places of employment aren’t even confirmed. There’s good info in here! A lot of this stuff would be useful in the right hands, and maybe the heroes won’t be able to use it like I’d initially imagined, sweeping in and arresting the city’s unsuspecting villains all at once, but surely the psyche profiles would be useful if I can link them to the right villains. Knowing that probably-Crusader is scared of enclosed spaces, or that Purity has to channel emotions to use her powers, or that either Brick or Ill-Fitted is only stealing to provide for his kid— That could be useful.

It could also get me killed or further bar me from heroism, if what Amy said is true. It could get this whole place torched in retaliation if I’m not careful. The choice is taken out of my hands when I notice Jess coming up to our room and I have to hide the books in my mattress again. I have just enough time to replace the fitted sheet and pull out a book to pretend to read before she opens the door.

“Oh, you’re back,” is how she says hello.

“Yep. Hey.”

She doesn’t say anything more, instead moving to the CD player she and Amanda-Lynn share. Pop music starts playing, and it’s so much lesser than the city’s. I mourn the cessation of my time alone. She collapses into her bed, shaking my bunk perilously with a bit of satisfaction at knowing I don’t like it. I used to imagine what it would be like to have a younger sister. I used to think it’d be fun, having someone to look out for, who would look up to me, and we’d be actually inseparable. Sharing a room with Jess and, to a lesser extent, Amanda-Lynn disabused me of the fantasy. Having no privacy or space to one’s self sucks.

I jump to the floor when I realize she’s not planning to stop shaking the bed, but when I head for the door to get away, she tells me, “The Sisters want your help in the kitchen, bee-tee-dubs.”

“Did they say what with?”

“I don’t know. Kitchen stuff? Ask them yourself.”

I very purposefully say nothing to her obvious provocation. Downstairs, I poke my head in the kitchen, where DeShauna, Kat, and Claudia are singing hymns while they make dinner. They’ve got good voices and make a good sound, but they only ever sing hymns. DeShauna spots me first and asks me to start bringing the plates to the dining room table: a massive, oak relic long enough to seat everyone. The Sisters portion the food onto plates and I carry them to the table, setting them out for everyone. I’m not the only one working though; Amanda-Lynn and Maddy are placing cutlery and pouring drinks, and both their songs brighten with excitement when they see me.

“Did you really meet Glory Girl?” Amanda-Lynn asks excitedly.

“Is Glory Girl as pretty as she is on TV?” Maddy asks before Amanda-Lynn’s question is fully out.

“Did you get to watch her beat up a villain?”

“Is she coming over? Can she please?”

And so on, neither giving me the chance to answer before asking their next question, already coming up with their preferred answer in their own heads, and it’s like some sort of benign mirror to when the girls at Winslow would ‘talk to each other’ around me. Sister Kat comes to my rescue when she comes bearing dinner rolls, shushing both of the girls and setting them back about their task, saying, “There’ll be time for you to ask her all you want over supper.”

Megan, standing in the doorway, asks, “Taylor’s doing story-time?” and doesn’t wait for the answer before rushing to tell Tammy who will of course tell everyone, and I realize the whole house will want to hear about my day with the Dallons, and I can talk about maybe twenty percent of it? Despite queer rights becoming more mainstream in the last couple decades, I have no clue how these women feel about it, being who they are where we are, and I can’t afford to get kicked out.

<3<3                                          <3

Dinner was exhausting, just like the rest of today. The backyard makes for a chilly substitute for my own room, but Jess and Amanda-Lynn are in there and I don’t have the energy for either Amanda-Lynn’s hero worship or Jess’s doubt that any of what I’m saying is true. So instead, I bundled up in my coat, grabbed a flashlight, and found a seat on the plastic play-house slide so I could listen to the city and read without interruption.

Amy’s home, finally, and seems to be watching T.V. with her dad. I’m glad her day’s stayed good. She deserves it. She deserves to have a dad that cares about her and tries to spend time with her and shows that he loves her in not completely stupid ways. Sure, Flashbang is depressed, but that means Amy gets a good dad about half the time instead of none of the god damn time. And I’m happy for her. Better one of us than none of us.

My book falls flat onto my chest as I look up at the sky. Through the intermittent cloud cover and city’s light pollution, I can make out a handful of stars twinkling down at me. There’s another familiar song in my range. I wish he’d drink at a bar outside my range, but fuck if I’m going to be the one to tell him. He doesn’t deserve to hear from me after what he did. What kind of father just gives up like that? How could he think I’d be better off without him? How could he give me up like that? Whatever his reasons, a parent is supposed to love their child.

…Maybe that’s what hurts the most. He does love me. I can hear it. It was the first thing I heard with my powers, but it wasn’t enough to beat back his own self-deprecating misery, so what’s even the point of his love?

“I thought I’d find you out here.”

I look over to see Linda standing nearby. “Hey.”

“Mind if I sit with you?”

I make a noncommittal noise, not caring one way or the other, and she sits elsewhere on the playhouse. “Do you need something?”

“No, just wanted to hang out. It’s busy in there, huh?”

“I guess,” I answer. She waits for me to say more, and I expect her to press me for more of an answer or ask another question, but she’s not pressured by the quiet, and instead pulls out her own flashlight and book: the bible, I suspect. I try to focus on my own book again, but I can’t remember where I left off, and I’m really not feeling King suddenly. “It’s loud too.”

“I suppose so. I had a big family, growing up, so it reminds me a bit of home, honestly. There’s something good at the heart of a loud house.” There’s a sadness with her words, a melancholy that’s deep and old, yet not fully put to rest, a pain around the idea of family.

I shrug. “If you say so.”

“You didn’t have a big family, I take it?”

“No. It was just me, my mom, and my dad. I had someone who was like a sister, but… we don’t talk anymore. Same with my dad.”

“I understand.” The weirdest thing is, she actually does. Or at least, she feels like she does, and I think how she’s feeling is how I feel. “It’s hard to lose people. Harder still when they’re not really gone.”

“Yeah.” My tongue tries to stick in my mouth but I make it move anyway. “It feels cheap to compare us though. I mean, your whole family was in Regina,” when the Simurgh attacked.

Her old hurt throbs at the reminder, but she pushes through it. “Mother August says that there are no winners in a competition to see who hurts more. Me having a ‘worse’ time doesn’t mean you haven’t had a bad time too. So, just like I’m happy to be in a better place, I’m happy you’re in one too.”

She’s not happy. She’s got her faith, but it’s desperate, not pleasant. Her god is a piece of driftwood in the open sea: enough to keep her going for a while, but not enough to save her. Not enough to save anyone. Not by itself. She shakes herself off and keeps going though.

“Welp!” she starts, retaking her feet. “I just wanted to check up on you, but Sister Josephine will skin me alive if I don’t help her put the little ones to bed. Enjoy your book.”

“You too, Linda.”

She goes back inside, and I go back to looking at the sky. Clouds have covered the stars completely, turning the view into an abyss. I shiver as I think about what Amy said about Dominica White’s poems. Maybe I can give those a read sometime.

Chapter Text

Tuesday. January 25.

“...but I don’t know why Rogers even brought that up when Mickelson already proved power incontinence is a thing,” Vicky argues from the passenger seat of Dean’s car.

“I don’t know if a case study of seven capes -- Wards, at that -- really proves anything other than Mickelson having good connections,” Dean fires back from the driver’s seat as he drives us to school.

I, of course, am in the back seat, just like every other time I ride to school with them. Listening to the couple bicker lovingly over niche parahuman research is the price I pay for another day of being almost believably normal thanks to Taylor. A month ago, this ride was the price I paid for just another twenty minutes with Vicky, and though my feelings at the moment are no different than then, today’s levy is lighter, thanks to the promise of change in the immediate future. Sure, Vicky is unbelievably gorgeous right now, in her trendy sweater and her hair in a messy bun, and her laugh is melodic enough to pull sailors to their doom, and the way her eyes crease when she looks at Dean is enough to make me want to strangle him and crash the car, and hearing the energy and excitement in her voice as she talks about one of her passions makes my breath come a little quicker, and…

I was going somewhere with that, I think.

“He doesn’t need a large sample size to prove its existence though. He just needed to find a single instance of it, and he did that in Bobsled.”

“His work suggests some select capes don’t have full control over their powers, but it doesn’t prove anything, and the study was too sloppy to get much else out of it.”

“’Sloppy,’ he says,” she says.

“It is,” he insists. “The way the study was laid out, it was inconclusive whether the incontinence was because of the power or the person, and it’s just bad science to not even acknowledge that in his paper.”

“Yeah, much better to be like DeAngelo and muddy every thesis you come up with with a dozen disclaimers.”

“DeAngelo likes to cover her bases.”

“She disproved her own hypothesis about pyrokinetics’ fear of fire and didn’t even realize it until the conference a month later!”

Dean winces. “Okay that one was bad, but that was just one paper. She’s no Manton, but the rest of her work is solid, and it sparks discussion.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that,” Vicky says slyly.

“Really?” Dean asks guilelessly, not noticing Vicky’s trap.

“She is really good at being so wrong that no one can resist finding the right answer. She’s invaluable to the scientific community.”

“Thank you,” he says genuinely -- or at least convincingly so -- either not picking up on Vicky’s sarcasm or ignoring it to avoid a fight. With him, either is just as likely.

She rolls her eyes at him, and for a moment there’s only the sound of the road under his car’s tires and the music playing on the radio, faint, to let them talk without yelling.  

Then Dean has to ruin it by asking, “Did you hear about that new villain duo making moves over the weekend? Skidmark and Squealer.”

Vicky gets a familiar, intense look on her face. “I know about Skidmark, but Squealer’s a new one. What do they do?”

“She was the cavalry-slash-getaway driver in a skirmish near the river, down by Archer’s Bridge. Armsmaster thinks she’s some sort of vehicle or motion tinker, but the analysts say she might be a thinker.”

“What were they doing in old shantytown?”

“The analysts think they’re trying to form a new gang.”

“Wait, they’re trying to hold territory? Empire’s not going to like that, even if it is the ghetto.”

Great, another big cape fight in the works, and it sounds like this one will cover a lot of ground. Joy. Hopefully when the Empire kills them, it’ll be quick and save the city some collateral. Maybe we’ll even get lucky and they’ll kill a couple of the Empire capes too? A girl can dream, but whatever happens, I’m sure I’ll get called to patch up whatever’s leftover when the Protectorate cleans up. Another beautiful day in the Bay.

I let Vicky and Dean’s conversation fall into the background with the road and the music and pull out my phone to distract myself. Instead of reading or doomscrolling Youhoo, I open the text chain Taylor and I started last Saturday.

This is Taylor.

k

I type up our third message ever and hit send.

u @ Chool tday?

Almost a minute later, she replies, Yes. I’m at school. Why?

jst rly need to c u

It’s at least another minute until she responds, When you say ‘need,’ do you mean you’re experiencing some sort of abnormality?

wat? No dumass im exp life as me. thats the prob

I understand.

“Who you texting?” Vicky asks, with a sparkling smirk. “Your girlfriend?”

“Yes,” I answer and she laughs, making my heart flutter traitorously. I can only hope Dean sees my fluster as embarrassment. A good, heavy, all-consuming dose of shame should hopefully help with that, so I pretend for a moment that it’s intentional.

“Congrats, by the way,” says Dean, smiling at me in the rearview mirror. “I’m glad you found someone right for you.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I brush him off. Can’t he drive any faster?

“So when do I get to meet the lucky lady? Taylor? Her name’s Taylor, right?” He directs the latter question to Vicky for some reason, and she nods.

“I don’t know. Uh. I don’t know.” Words stumble out of my mouth. I’d like to tell him to piss off, that he’ll never get to meet Taylor, but even Dean would get suspicious if I did that.

“She could sit with us at lunch,” Vicky proposes, “unless you’ve got work-study today?” she asks Dean.

“I can stay for lunch today, but the director has me in after that and for the rest of the week. Except Thursday: Dad’s got me then.”

“Boo,” Vicky pouts. “When do I get to have you?”

He chuckles. “The director would probably let you tag along for a patrol, if you want. Or at least, she wouldn’t say anything if we just so happened to come across each other while out.”

“Wow, so romantic,” Vicky snarks with a smile.

“It’s a date.”

She laughs at that, and it’s almost enough to make me gag. It’s like they’ve completely forgotten I’m here, and if Dean weren’t driving, I just know Vicky would’ve kissed him for that. It wasn’t even smooth, and there’s nothing romantic about going to work together. I wonder if this will spark an argument between them again: probably only if the patrol goes poorly.

When Vicky starts to ask about patrol, I realize they’ve both moved on and assumed that Taylor will sit with us at lunch. I need to say something before it’s too late-- Well, it’s already too late; I need to say something before it gets even more too late.

“SHE ACTUALLY um,” I accidentally shout in my hurry to return to topic. With their attention solidly on me now, I continue in a normal, not insane volume, “She invited me. To lunch. I was planning on sitting with her today. Sorry.”

“It’s no big deal,” says Dean, either not catching my lie or not calling me on it for some reason. I swear his empathy is useless or dumb. At the very least, it’s leagues beneath Taylor’s, and hers isn’t that impressive either.

“Yeah, that’s cool. You two have fun,” says Vicky. She smiles, but I know she’s disappointed. Not mad at me -- never mad -- but disappointed with me. I wish she’d be mad, sometimes. I am, now that I have to spend an hour with whatever creeps, weirdos, and rejects let Taylor sit with them at lunch. Part of me thinks I’ll fit right in, but that part is stupidly optimistic so I put it in a box and light the box on fire. I shouldn’t judge her friends before I’ve even met them, but… I don’t wanna meet new people! I’m perfectly unhappy knowing the people I already know.

Suddenly, Dean laughs. Vicky asks why he’s laughing, and he explains, “Now that Amy’s come out, New Wave is almost a full spectrum LGBT family. Eric’s gay, Amy’s bisexual, and Crystal--”

“I’m not bi,” I interrupt, his words confusing more than irritating me for once.

“You’re not?” he asks, sounding just as confused as I do.

“No. I only like girls.”

“But…” The car jerks with a flubbed gear shift and I start to worry I might have somehow said too much to the perfectly wrong person about my perverse predilection, but thankfully, rather than calling me out or pressing me on it, he refocuses his attention on the road and driving good.

“So we’re just missing a bisexual then,” says Vicky, when he doesn’t finish the thought. “Maybe I can be bi; I like boys, so I’m already halfway there.”

Vicky’s laughter dies when no one else joins in. She looks between Dean and me; I dodge her gaze. It was a joke, but it makes my guts burn like I used bleach to brew my coffee. Vicky’s straight. She’s as straight as they come. She hasn’t shown any attraction at all to other women, no matter how hard I pried or how I tested her. It’s so stupid that I can’t even stand to hear her joke about liking women- other women because even if she was bisexual or even a lesbian it wouldn’t change how impossible we would be, but it fucking hurts. She’s straight. Victoria is straight. If she weren’t straight, it wouldn’t change anything, but because she is, us is even more impossible, and that thought is as reassuring as it is painful.

I text Taylor to tell her that I’m joining her for lunch. Taylor replies, Okay, and I press my face against the window and hope its rattling can get strong enough to concuss me, just enough that I can stop thinking. Victoria turns up the radio, and the latest -- yet somehow already overplayed -- Bad Canary song fills the car. It’s good music. Waste of a power though.

It’s like that for the next three minutes, all the way until we arrive at Arcadia. As soon as Dean’s shifted the drive stick thingie to park, I’m out: a long ingrained habit to avoid their lengthy goodbyes. Riding with them for a few more minutes of Vicky is one thing; sitting awkwardly behind them as they maul each other’s faces in preparation of a few hours of supervised education is another thing entirely.

I realize, not ten steps from the car, that the idea of their goodbye kisses doesn’t inspire the usual feeling of my chest caving in. It’s not crushing, it’s just gross. I turn back to look and-- Yeah, that’s excessive and uncomfortable, but not painful to the soul. I smile despite the scene at the knowledge that Taylor’s already working on me, that beautiful creep. I turn my back to my sister and her beau so no one thinks I’m smiling at them, and head to class.

<3<3 <3

“Where are we going?” I ask Taylor as she leads me away from the cafeteria. I’d come to wait by the cafeteria’s entrance after grabbing my food, like she told me to, but I’d assumed that was so we could walk to her table together, not so we’d traipse through the halls. Silly me.

“You wanted to eat lunch with me. This is where I eat lunch.”

“Not in the cafeteria?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t… It’s complicated, okay?”

“Really? How complicated could it be?”

“I don’t like crowds, okay?”

Soon after, we arrive at our destination: a random classroom on the far end of the school. Taylor opens the door for me, my hands full of lunch tray, and lets it close behind us. The room isn’t much, just a random classroom. The florescent lights are off, and Taylor doesn’t turn them on as she moves past me to sit at one of the tables that this room uses instead of desks, but the sunlight streaming through the window blinds illuminates the room comfortably. It gives a strange air to the classroom, and makes it feel just a bit illicit. We’re not supposed to be here, but we are anyway. Alone.

A smile tries to force its way onto my face at the thought of what this privacy could mean for us. No one will be back here until the end of the lunch hour, and Taylor should be able to tell when someone’s coming, so there’s no chance of us getting caught-- Not that I think anything will happen. I know she’s not trying to do anything with me, not at school of all places. I’m not stupid. But, well, if something were to happen, it could, and that feels important. Somehow.

I sit down beside her as she pulls her own lunch from her bookbag: a brown, paper bag containing a sandwich and apple slices.

She takes a bite of her sandwich.

I start in on the green beans from the cafeteria.

She eats an apple slice.

I tear off a piece of the roll I forgot to get butter for and dip it in the weird corn dish that might be cream corn.

Another apple slice crunched.

Another bite of green beans.

She pulls out a book and I can’t take it anymore.

“Why are we here?” I ask.

She looks at me and shrugs. “It’s one of life’s great mysteries, isn’t it?”

I glower at her. “I mean: Why are we in some classroom instead of the cafeteria?”

“Oh,” she says. “I told you, I don’t like crowds. Plus, no one bothers me here. It’s nice.”

“’No one bothers you?’ Do you not have any friends?” I say that, and immediately realize I just struck truth. “Oh my god, you don’t have any friends.” A laugh escapes me, more from surprise than any sort of humor. I thought she'd have at least made nice with a couple people on her level. Taylor’s next bite of apple is violent enough to splash my face, and I rub it off with my sleeve.

“That’s not why,” she says.

“But it is true,” I surmise. Flabbergasted, I ask, “How the fuck do you not have friends?”

“Everyone’s already in their own groups. It’d be awkward to try to force myself into one.”

“Really? You expect me to believe that?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a literal empath and you think I’ll believe you think it’s too awkward? You can literally cheat at people with your powers.”

Her eyes narrow  at me. “I already told you, I don’t use my powers like that. I haven’t used them on anyone other than you.”

The declaration sends a fluttery warmth into my chest that reminds me of Vicky’s laughter high above the city. “That’s not what I mean. I meant your thinker power. Hearing people’s emotions.”

“I’m not sure how that helps with making friends.”

“You kidding? You get to see- er, hear what people think about you.”

“Right. So if I go up to a group, I get to hear them wonder why this weird girl is trying to talk to them,” she explains sullenly. “Not exactly the best tool for friend-making.”

“That’s a good point; you are weird. And you suck at talking to people. And introducing yourself. And--”

“I get it,” she snaps, then returns to her lunch.

I was just being honest. I didn’t mean to piss her off. Why am I so bad at this? I’ve never had to ‘make friends’ before, or try to hold a conversation, since I pretty much exclusively hang out with Victoria -- With her, I can just ask her about powers or her work as Glory Girl and she’ll talk for hours, but trying to get Taylor to talk is more annoying and frustrating than pushing gunshot shrapnel out of a patient’s liver. Why am I even trying? Why do I even care that I’m sucking at this?

…Okay that’s a dumb question. I know the answer is because she’s making me care about her, but still… I should just stick to what I’m good for. It’s a relief that today’s Monday and I have to be Panacea after school; as much as it’s an endless and annoying slog, it’s nice to have two days in a row to make up for a selfish Saturday. Healing to make up for myself is a negative-sum game that I can never win, but I can somewhat reduce my deficit, or at least slow the moral debt’s growth.

Trying to make up for what I am by doing good as Panacea is about the only thing that keeps me going, honestly. I’m pretty sure that if I wasn’t uniquely suited to doing such unambiguous good, I would have ended it all already. I wouldn’t have a reason not to, if I weren’t obligated to do what I can. Maybe without the temptation of my powers, I wouldn’t have as much reason to go, but I can’t imagine myself without that temptation. I know that even with other powers, I’d be the same monster I am, and I’d find ways to unleash myself no matter how much I wouldn’t want to. At least as I am, I can pretend to be good. But if I could give up my powers, unbecome Panacea while letting someone else carry the burden and responsibility -- someone trustworthy, who would keep to the rules -- I’d do it in a heartbeat. I’m not selfish enough yet to cost the world a Panacea.

“I could work on that too, if you want,” Taylor suddenly offers.

“Huh?” I ask, coming out of my miniature spiral. “Work on what?”

“How you feel about healing.”

“You can tell that’s what I’m thinking about?” I ask, impressed despite myself.

“Your song’s been getting easier to understand, the more I work with it,” she explains with a tiny, nervous blush.

It’s kind of weirdly cute how she’s not showing any other visible signs of embarrassment. Like how despite her nonsense efforts to keep her face still, she can’t keep all of her reactions hidden. I wonder if she feels the same about me, about getting to know me more and more intimately every moment I’m inside her power’s range.

Then what she’s asking me hits, and a chill runs up my spine at the idea of her meddling with my time as Panacea. I open my mouth to tell her off, same as I did about Thursdays, but… she hasn’t said how she’s thinking about working on it, just that it involves my feelings on healing. I should at least hear her out before telling her to fuck off, right? I hold out my hand for hers; even though she hasn’t lied yet, there’s no certainty that she won’t lie to me this time. She takes it with a raised eyebrow, and I let myself ask, “What do you have in mind?”

“I haven’t given it much thought, really. Just thought about it now, but you obviously don’t like healing, so I was thinking, maybe I could make you like healing. Again? It sounds like you maybe used to like it? There’s some weirdness in the mix. Sorry if I’m completely misreading you.”

Relief is like a shot of calming caffeine when I realize she’s offering to help. Of course she’s offering to help. Despite being a monster like me, she’s a hero too. Not to mention, the reason she’s helping me is so I can keep healing.

“I… It used to be fulfilling,” I admit. “I was happy to do it, and healing wasn’t ever fun, but it at least felt good to do good.”

“What happened?”

“You can’t tell?”

“I can’t hear history, just how you feel.”

I work my jaw up and down as I try to figure out what to say. How much to say. What’s okay to say. What doesn’t paint me as a monster from the start. Taylor knows I’m one, I’ve told her that much, but there’s no way she’s realized how much of one I truly am. If she knew, she wouldn’t let me touch her like this. I should tell her. I should admit to my sins and let her judge me.

“Hey.” She squeezes my hand. “I’m here to help you. You can trust me.”

I know it’s selfish, but I don’t want her to pull away. Not yet. Not while there’s work to do. I squeeze her hand and release it. I’ll let myself be selfish for a little bit longer. It’s fine. It’s with Taylor, and Taylor’s like me, so it’s fine. Still though, this isn’t the sort of thing to talk about with a jack into her entire self. Even as I hold back the fullest truth, this isn’t the kind of story that deserves a comforting hand in unloveable hand.

“I felt too many bodies, I guess- No, that-- I know. I don’t guess. I touched too many people and it stopped being new and exciting, and was just the same thing again and again. Like doing basic addition every day for hours at a time. Two plus two equals a healthy liver. Nine minus three is a regrown finger. That sort of stuff. The second time doing something just… it was boring. Is boring. It’s messed up that it’s even such a big Thing for me; like, ‘oh no I’m bored at work and now it doesn’t feel fulfilling to literally save people’s lives!’ Like who does that? Who even thinks like that? It’s stupid. Healing’s boring, but I shouldn’t… That’s no excuse to feel like I do about it. And here I am whining about how hard it is to be bored when that shouldn’t even matter since I’m, again, literally saving people’s lives, in ways that no one else can.”

When I’m done spilling my guts about guts, Taylor hums thoughtfully. “You can’t help how you feel. People don’t have that much self-control. It’s just not a thing. But-”

“But you can help how I feel, right?” I don’t care about how desperate I sound or how pathetic it is to rely on her to fix what I should be able to. I don’t. “That’s your whole thing.”

She stares placidly at me, and I consider for a moment retaking her hand, just so I can catch her micro-expressions, just so I’m not being stared at by a pretty wall, just so I can understand and thus have a say in what’s going on. I don’t reach out. Even if she’s a monster like me, I can’t let myself touch her just to better control things; that’s a step towards Hell for sure.

 “I should be able to help with that,” she finally says. My gratitude is tempered by her next words. “We’ll do that next.”

“’Next’?” I ask, surprised. “You can’t do it now?”

“I told you, I don’t want to break anything in you.” I swallow thickly. “I could probably start on it now, but I want to make sure we’ve got your feelings about Victoria and me in hand before I mess with anything else. I don’t want to, I don’t know, make you fall in love with a bedpan or something.”

As much of a bummer it is to not have this fixed immediately, it’s enough to know it won’t last forever. I’ve dealt with an unfulfilling existence for almost two years now; I can hold out for another… “How long do you think it’ll be?”

“A couple weeks? Maybe a month or two?”

“That long?” I whine.

“I don’t know how long this will take,” she snaps, suddenly defensive. “And it’s not made any quicker by how much time you spend with Victoria.”

“I’m not letting you take me away from Vicky,” I say firmly, all but glaring at her in spite of my earlier begging. No matter what, that’s not a line I’ll cross.

“And I’m not trying to,” she returns, just as firmly. “She’s your sister. You live together. It’d be suspicious if you suddenly started avoiding her. I’m just saying, if you spent less time with her without me around, this would go a lot quicker.”

“Sorry that I’m not as easy as you thought.” I stab my I’m-pretty-sure-it’s cream corn and twist the fork in the yellow-white meal. It’s not my fault she didn’t realize what she was signing up for.

Her shoulders fall and she purses her lips. “It’s fine. I just don’t like how messy this has become. It’d be a lot simpler if I had more control over what you’re experiencing, but… Stuff keeps getting in the way.”

“...You sound like you want to keep me in your basement or something.”

“Not specifically. That would probably make it go quicker but-”

My forehead impacting the table cuts her off.  “Dammit Taylor, I was joking.”

“I know that,” she says defensively. “But there’s a kernel of an idea in it, so I thought we could maybe discuss that. Like, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have some extended one-on-one time, to really ingrain some thought patterns. And it wouldn’t have to be a basement kidnapping or anything like that; it could be something like a camping trip… or something else.”

I can’t even muster the anger to lift my head enough to glare at her so I groan instead, exasperation winning the fight. “Why do we ever only talk about fixing me when we’re alone together?” I ask, mid-groan. “That’s weird, right?

“Do you want to talk about something else?” she returns instead of answering the question.

“That’s not what I’m saying. I just…” What am I saying? “It’s weird, right? We can admit that, at least. Right?”

“I guess it’s weird.” She doesn’t sound sure of that in the least. “I’m not exactly sure what else we would talk about in private. It’s kind of the entire reason we spend time together.”

Her admission of the obvious pisses me off. It’s like she’s purposefully avoiding the meat of what I’m saying.  “Yeah, I know that. But, I mean, we’re dating. We should know each other a little more, don’t you think?”

“We’re pretending to date,” she stresses. “We’re not actually going out.”

“Yeah, I fucking know that.” Does she think I forgot or something? “Ugh. Forget it.” 

I finish off the last of my now-cold green beans and bread roll, leaving just the corn stuff untouched -- outside of all the stabbing it received. It didn’t look appetizing when it was lukewarm, and it looks less so now that it’s cold. It’s as bad as hospital food. When she’s done with her sandwich, there’s barely a minute of quiet before she opens her big, smart mouth again.

“You’ve been journaling, right?” she asks. I only stare at her in response, because of course I’ve been writing down the crap she’s been doing to me, even if it takes almost an hour to get my feelings and experiences onto the page and I keep having to scratch out stupid tangents.

“You made it pretty obvious that wasn’t negotiable,” I say at length.

“Good. I should take a look at that soon, in the next few days at most, but have you had any issues or observations you want to share now?”

And we’re back to talking about mind control. I don’t exactly mind that we’re talking about it, but would it kill her to acknowledge it? Maybe then this weird, anxious fluttering in my guts would go away. “No,” I tell her. “Nothing to report.”

“You’re not saying something,” she quietly accuses.

“Am I suddenly not allowed to have a private life? What, I’ve got to bare everything to you just because you’re doing me a favor? Fuck that.”

She squints and I resist the urge to reach out and grab her just to know what’s going on behind those deep eyes. “Okay,” she says. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just don’t keep secrets when it matters, okay? I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me.”

Her valid points take the wind out of my sails, but I cling stubbornly to about half of it: just enough to half-heartedly snap at her, “Fine, sure. Whatever.”

It’s an awkward minute of expecting an awkward thirty more -- an hour is far too long for lunch -- before she asks me where to find Dominica White’s work, apparently having tried the school’s library this morning to no success. The rest of the break passes by a bit easier.

<3<3<3

Taylor’s so weirdly pretty. Even without the spotlight on her, she shines like she’s made to be on stage. She’s less impressive than Vicky was, but to be fair I saw Vicky at her best, performing at the end of the year, and Taylor’s still stumbling through learning choreography with the rest of the cast. Even like this, from across the room and without proper lighting, she looks more than good. There’s no way it’s natural, but that just means I get an exclusive, unique look at her.

Sometimes, in between dance numbers, she’ll look over at me and I’ll smirk at her as I do my best to make her hear what I feel about her crappy dancing. For some reason, she smiles more often than not at that. Weirdo. It’s weird how good she was in her audition, compared to now; she really wasn’t lying when she said she’d never been on stage before, and it’s probably-- no, definitely a good thing she’s not going to actually have to perform at the end of the semester, with how much she’s tripping over her own feet up there.

Grace? She doesn’t have it. Rhythm? Never met her. Poise? Acquaintances at best. At least most of the rest of the cast sucks too.

“What do you think, Amy?”

“Huh?” I tear my eyes from Taylor to look at Sue who’s looking back at me expectantly. Treyquan’s looking at me the same, and they both frown when I make an excuse of zoning out again.

“Sue was asking what you think about the idea of a gondolier,” Trey explains.

“I was thinking we could have him be a different cutout that’s just him,” Sue elaborates. “It might add some depth.”

“Oh, uh. Why are we having a gondolier again?”

“Well it’s kind of representative of the prom’s theme,” Treyquan says to me like I’m dumb.

I scowl but bite down my instinctual response. He doesn’t deserve whatever would have come out of my mouth. Instead of snapping at him, I explain, just as slowly, “Isn’t this supposed to be a modern adaptation? With capes and everything?”

“Yeah?” he prompts as Sue nods.

“And isn’t this place underwater now? So why do we have a gondola in the first place? It should be a submarine or something.”

Sue’s jaw drops and she lets out an awkward, horrified laugh. “That’s awful.”

“It’s a good idea though,” Treyquan argues with a smile. He looks at me oddly, and I can’t begin to guess what’s going on behind those eyes. “Maybe Jack would be okay with us changing the theme a bit? Something more ‘under the sea’?”

“Like Atlantis?” I suggest.

“Shoot, yeah, that’s genius.” Treyquan writes that down. “Sunken city with some ruins, but in an avant-garde sort of way.”

“Maybe the gondolier could uh.” I cut myself off before I make it weird. “Nevermind.”

“Nah, nah, come on let’s hear it.”

“It’s dumb.”

“Maybe, but when’s that stopped an idea from being good?” Treyquan says earnestly.

I wish I could tell him to fuck off, but that’s not how a hero comports herself when interacting with the public. It’s one thing to let myself be a little snippy when I’m doing my rounds -- there’s more important stuff to do than politely chitchat -- but here and now that’s unacceptable. I chew my tongue and decide to just say it to get it over with so we can move on. And it’s not really the worst idea, they’re plenty popular, so they might not judge too harshly.

“The gondolier could be a mermaid?”

“Mermaids! Yes, let’s do that,” Sue decides, finally joining back in.

“You’re into that?” Treyquan asks.

“Makes it feel a bit less morbid. More fantasy-y.”

“Definitely don’t want this play to be morbid,” I mutter, and they both laugh a little.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Sue says, aquiescing good-naturedly.“Just, you know, I don’t want to make it too real. A lot of people died in Naples.”

I have a lot of practice not telling people that a lot of people die everywhere every day, and at this point I get a little bit more.

“It’s a campy musical; it’ll be fine,” Treyquan dismisses. He starts another mockup on a clean page. When he flips the page around to show us, it’s… fine. The sunken city looks nice as the background, but the mermaids populating it aren’t what I expected -- more maid than mer -- but it’s just a sketch and I don’t want to make things weird, so I withhold my judgement.

“Looks good,” says Sue, and I nod along.

“Far out. You want to pitch it to Jack, see what he thinks? It shouldn’t be too late to change the script, especially for something this minor.”

“Yeah, I can do that.” Sue takes Treyquan’s notebook and goes to ask Mr. Warzecha about it, leaving before I can tell her to wait.

“What’s up?” Treyquan asks.

“I didn’t realize we’d be messing up the script,” I say, wringing my hands. “We should have just gone with what was written.”

“Nah, don’t even worry about it. It’s not going to be a major change, and it’s a good idea anyway.”

“But now it’s not how it’s supposed to be.”

“It was your idea though?”

“I know. I just…” That’s the problem. “Nevermind.”

“Well. It’s a rad idea anyway,” he says, and I don’t respond, letting it end there.

At least Taylor looks as uncomfortable as I am as she throws her feet weirdly in what I can only assume from context is supposed to be a dance. Barret laughs at her flopping and walks her through the motions, slowed way down, and it’d probably be helpful if not for the way he insists on groping her hands to ‘guide’ her.  If it wasn’t too late to get on the cast -- and also if I had any ability whatsoever to sing, dance, or act -- I'd be right up there with her and able to stop Barley from getting so stupidly handsy. I smile when she pushes him away and she meets my smile with a shake of her head, discouraging me from getting involved.

“Jack likes the idea,” Sue says as she rejoins us, “but he said to nix the ruins: said it was too much, too obvious.”

Treyquan tsks at the semi-dismissal of our idea.

“Come on, Trey. It’s already a long shot.”

“I know,” he says dejectedly.

“We can still do the advent gourd thing you wanted. It’ll be cool.”

Trey and I both stare at Sue, wondering if that was intentional, or if she really doesn’t know what avant-garde is. Her blithe face gives nothing away. He huffs a smile and says, “Yeah, okay.”

“Mr. Warzecha’s okay with the mermaids?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Sue says, “he thought they were cute.”

Cute. Cute. We have cute mermaids. Fucking cute. Perfect adjective for sea monsters that terrorized ancient sailors.

“What’s up?” Treyquan asks me, concerned.

“Nothing,” I answer. “Why?”

“You looked really mad there. You don’t like the mermaids now?”

“No. It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

I open my mouth, and for a split second I consider actually saying what I’m thinking -- that mermaids, creatures of the deep that they are, shouldn’t be ‘cute’ but instead awful, hideous, ferocious beings, the likes of which inspire as much dread and fear as wonder and awe, with deadly shark maws and venomous jellyfish stingers for hair -- but that’s not appropriate, so instead I half-lie.

“Maybe one of them could be an octopus?”

“Like in that Aleph movie? About a mermaid princess who wants to be a person? What’s it called?”

“The Little Mermaid?” Treyquan asks, getting an enthusiastic nod from Sue and a shrug from me. I’d never heard of it. “My niece was obsessed with that collection when it came out. Yeah, let’s do it.”

He sketches a new design of the underwater city, and both Sue and I agree it looks good, so we move on to the next and repeat the process until we’ve got all of the play’s backdrops sketched and distributed among us to color for Thursday -- I’ll have to give mine to Taylor or Vicky to bring in -- when the plywood will arrive and the actual making starts.

When the meeting finally ends over an hour later, I’m tired and I want to not have to talk to these people for another ever, or at least until Friday. There’s nothing wrong with either of them, of course; it’s me, and me is done not screaming into me’s pillow until me passes out from a lack of oxygen.

Even so, when the three of us -- Vicky, Taylor, and I -- leave the auditorium and see Taylor’s bus pull away from its stop ten seconds before we make it there, I want to stay and wait with her. So I say, “We can wait with you until the next bus, if you want.”

“Or I could chase it down and drag it back here?” Vicky jokingly one-ups my offer.

Taylor -- stupid, sweet, helpful, monstrous, idiot Taylor -- gives her an odd look and says, “That would probably damage the bus and ruin the other passengers’ ride, and not to mention be a horrible misuse of powers.”

Stunned by the deadpan, Vicky asks, “Are you joking?” and I have to laugh because no. No that was not a joke. Taylor’s just so impossibly fucking stupid. Vicky joins in after a moment, wrongly deciding that since I’m laughing Taylor must have been joking, but no, Taylor’s just like that.

It gets a bit less funny when Taylor doesn’t join in, staring at me without a single hint of emotion behind her eyes. I bump her hip with mine to reassure her, and throw my arm around her waist for good measure. “Hey, chill. I’m not being mean.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“Yeah? You’re funny.”

“You don’t laugh at my jokes.”

“Okay, correction: you’re funny when you don’t try to be.”

She frowns at that and steps out of my grasp. I shove my hands into my hoodie’s pocket. With the next bus arriving in twenty minutes and we Dallons already promised to stand vigil over the lonesome lesbian, Vicky starts up a conversation. Good, reliable, talkative Vicky.

“So Taylor, do you think you’ll come back for Sledgehammer next week?”

“There’s more Sledgehammer?” she asks, and though she doesn’t sound it, I can only assume she’s asking with the opposite of excitement.

“Yeah, Amy goes every Saturday.”

“You don’t have to come,” I hurry to tell her.

“No. I’ll go,” she says, sounding equal parts sullen and determined, as if marching into Hades for me, like it’s not just Sledgehammer.

“I’m kind of jealous,” Vicky says. “I wish Dean and I could schedule weekly dates, but he’s so busy with his work-study, and I’ve got my hero stuff; we just scrounge time when we can make it.”

Taylor turns to Vicky with an odd, challenging fire in her eyes. “He does work-study? What’s that like?”

I elbow her as sneakily as I can to get her to shut up and not press; Vicky doesn’t need to think I outed him to Taylor, and that’s exactly what she’ll think if Taylor doesn’t shut the hell up.

“Mhm. His dad is the CEO of Stansfield Tech, and he wants Dean to take over at some point, so Dean spends most of his afternoons at his internship,” Vicky lies, smoothly laying out Dean’s cover story. It helps that it’s not a complete lie.

It doesn’t seem like she noticed anything amiss, thank fuck. I think Taylor wants to say something else, but a glance at my glare is enough to stay her tongue. Now she just needs to keep her pretty mouth shut and we’ll be good.

“What about you?” Vicky asks. “What does your dad do?”

“Not much,” is all she says, hands fisting at her sides.

With the sort of social grace that I can only dream of one day having -- not that I’d ever want to put in the effort to cultivate such a miserable skill -- Vicky smoothly avoids that odd landmine and changes the subject, “I get that; our dad is a part-time househusband while our mom brings home the big bucks. They make it work.” She leers at us. “And speaking of, how do you two work? I know Saturday was kinda weird, but what’s a regular date like with you? OH! What was your first date like? Did my little sister sweep you off your feet for an evening of romance? Or was it more low-key?”

For a moment, I have to wonder if that day she made me feel nothing at all about Vicky counts as a date. It was about as exciting as one, in my previous experience. That whole first week of experimentation could count as dates, right? No. No that’s stupid. That’d be weird. Also not something we could tell Vicky about so it doesn’t even matter.

“It wasn’t anything special,” I say, starting in on a half-lie. “We talked online for a few hours until I passed out.”

“Come on Ames, that doesn’t count,” Vicky chastises. “Your first real date.”

“We went out for milkshakes last week,” says Taylor, going in on a complete lie that I can’t contradict her on without giving it away. “It was… very romantic. We split one with two straws and everything.”

“Aw. That’s cute,” Vicky coos. “I didn’t realize you were such a sucker for the classics, Ames.”

“Yep. I just can’t get enough of that stuff,” I say, not letting myself cringe at the cliche. I mean seriously, why was that her lie? Who in their right mind would ever want to do something as cheesy as being forced to lean in close to their date’s face just to sip a shake, having the other’s backwash flavor the drink in a way that my powers couldn’t help but pick up on? It’s ridiculous.

“Where did you go?”

“A restaurant,” Taylor says, and I can’t fault her for hedging her bets to not get called on a lie, but come on. Sometimes you have to go for specific to sell it, so I specify,

“We went to Dirty Willy’s.”

“The crab shack?” Vicky asks. “Nice. They have the best fries, I swear I could eat nothing but their fries for a month. So Taylor, how’d you-”

A generic ringtone interrupts her and Taylor paws at her pocket to pull a phone. She looks at the number and frowns. “Sorry, I have to take this.” She steps away for privacy. “Hey Josephine. No, I’m fine.”

“When did Taylor get a phone?” Vicky asks when Taylor’s out of earshot. “And more importantly: you have her number, right?”

“I bought it for her on Saturday, so yeah, I’ve got her number.”

“Oh? You buying her gifts already?” she teases.

“It’s not like that,” I protest, and it’s not whine no matter what anyone else says. “It was just stupid that she didn’t have one.”

“Mhm. I get what you mean,” she says in a voice that makes it incredibly obvious she does not, in fact, get what I mean. “You were so smitten and desperate to talk to your girlfriend that you bought her a phone.”

“Stop making it a bigger deal than it is. Romantic partners are allowed to buy stuff for each other without it being weird; Dean buys you stuff all the time.”

“So you’re taking cues from Dean now? That’s cute,” Vicky says.

Were I the me of a month ago, I would be squealing internally about Vicky calling me cute while simultaneously hating myself for taking it in such a perverse way. It’s nice being able to take the compliment for what it actually is; it’s more than nice that I can finally be normal about Vicky again. I roll my eyes at her and say, “Yeah, well, I figure he must be doing something right to keep you happy.”

“Aww,” she coos as Taylor rejoins us. “And I guess that answers the question on who wears the pants in your relationship,” she teases with a quickly aborted laugh. “Wait, crap, was that homophobic?”

“No? Was it?” I ask Taylor.

She looks at me blankly. “How should I know?”

Vicky breaks the weird, kind of awkward silence that follows by asking Taylor, “So what was the call about? Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Josephine wanted to check if I’d seen Jess today. She forgot I joined drama club.”

Who’s Josephine? Taylor’s talking about her the same way she talks about Linda. Does she have two moms? And calls them both by their first names? Is that some sort of new-age, lesbian-moms' childrearing strategy? Or it could be a survival tactic for living gay in Brockton Bay. That would probably depend on whether they got together here and stuck around, or gay married and then moved here for some god-forsaken reason.

That’s all assuming Josephine is Taylor’s mom though. She could be an older sister, or a cousin, or an aunt, or even just a family friend. But something I can’t quite name tells me that’s not right. Call it instinct, or a gut feeling, or whatever: something makes me think there’s something more than platonic or familiar going on with Linda and Josephine.

“You’ve got two moms? How’d they get to this cesspit?” I ask her. Taylor looks at me oddly, like she has no idea what I’m talking about. Confusedly, I clarify, “Josephine?”

“Jospehine isn’t my mom. She and Linda are Sisters.”

“Oh.” She’s Taylor’s aunt. Duh. Why did I think they were together? They’re sisters; that’s too gross for other people. We’re in the Neo Nazi capital of the east coast; of course a pair of lesbians aren’t going to raise their kids here.

“You know, that actually makes me wonder,” Vicky says. “How did you two get together?”

“She asked me out,” Taylor and I say in unison. We look at each other, and I can only assume my face is a mirror of her confusion.

“You asked me out,” I tell her.

“I’m pretty sure you said it first,” she says.

“I said it, but you were the one to, you know, really put it out there.”

“Right. By agreeing when you asked me.”

“That was obviously a joke though. Couldn’t you tell I was joking?” I ask.

“You absolutely were not joking.”

“I was too.”

“Then why are we going out?” she asks.

“Because you said it was a good idea.”

”After you brought it up.”

”As a joke! I wasn’t being serious.”

”Yes you were. Stop lying, and stop trying to pin this on me.”

“’Pin this-’?! So asking me out is a crime now?”

“I didn’t say that either,” she snaps defensively. “Stop putting words in my mouth.”

“You want me to put-” A sudden blast of wind chills me to the bone and takes the words from my mouth. “OH fuck it’s cold,” replaces whatever else I was going to say, so I just shiver and glare at this frustrating, impossible, also-shivering woman who has fumbled her way into stealing my heart. 

…Though does it really count as ‘stealing’ when she asked for it and I gave it to her? It’s a good thing she’s a hero; she would make for a terrible villainous mastermind -- don’t think about Taylor in spandex, don’t think about Taylor in spandex, don’t think about Taylor in spandex -- if this bumbling is indicative of her modus operandi. She would look good in spandex though.

“So you asked each other out? That’s kind of cute,” Vicky says awkwardly, inserting herself back into the conversation.

“Sure, let’s go with that,” I say, too cold to muster up anything else.

Taylor huddles a half-step toward me and glares at a superior Vicky. “Are you not cold? How?!”

“Scientists aren’t entirely sure,” she says excitedly. It’s obvious how Vicky relaxes at the change of topic and the chance to talk about something she loves. “But most parahumans with flight as a power are more or less immune to windchill; most of the time that’s just when they’re flying, but for some fliers that immunity extends to all windchill. We’re still trying to figure out the why’s behind that -- like most parahuman phenomena -- but the leading theory is that it’s the same sort of power-derived protection that protects parahumans from the harmful effects of their powers.”

“Capes can’t get hurt by their powers? That’s a thing?” Taylor asks, intrigued. “How does that work?”

“Oh it’s really interesting. Like most things with powers, it doesn’t work the same for all parahumans. Like, some pyrokinetics are immune to high temperatures, but others are only immune to the heat their power generates. For a closer to home example: Dauntless can’t hurt himself with his spear even if he tries, but Miss Militia can cut herself with a power generated knife. It’s weird.”

Taylor’s eyes narrow behind her glasses. “Do you think it’s some sort of psychological thing?”

Vicky beams at the question and I press my face into Taylor’s shoulder to try and regain a hint of warmth -- I swear it wasn’t this cold this morning -- readying myself to spend the next however many minutes listening to them gush about powers. I didn’t realize until now that Taylor was a power geek too. I should have known. I let their words fill the air and wash over me as we wait, content enough with keeping my nose warmed by Taylor’s Taylor-scented hoodie.

I’m understandably peeved when my source pulls away. Taylor answers my frustrated, broken whine with, “My bus is here,” so I have to stand alone in the not-quite-so-cold-now and watch her board it.

When it pulls away, I push myself into Vicky’s -- warm -- personal space for purely survival-related reasons, and for once I’m not lying to myself when I say that. Weird. It’s absolutely not fair how Vicky can retain warmth despite this obnoxious chill -- whoever said the Bay has ‘temperate winters’ can heal themself; we are way too far north for that to apply in January, ocean or no -- but I will abuse her warmth for all it’s worth. She wraps me in a hug and puts her body between me and the wind and I sigh.

“Dang,” says Vicky, “that’s cold.”

“Shut up, you can’t even feel it.”

She laughs. “I meant how you two didn’t even kiss goodbye. You don’t do that?”

I freeze, literal now bleeding into figurative. Goodbye kisses are absolutely a thing that couples do. Did our not kissing goodbye tip her off? Vicky sounds concerned, which is only a hop, skip, and a jump away from suspicious, and that’s Bad. I stammer out something about us being private and not wanting an audience, even as I form a plan to bring to Taylor. We can’t let this concern grow. We need to nip it in the bud with something big and showy, something that will remove any doubt in Vicky’s mind that we’re seriously dating.

Chapter Text

Wednesday. January 26.

The house is quiet.

Dad’s on patrol with Uncle Neil for at least the next few hours, making sure downtown is safe. Mom’s at the office and will be until late, working to put a pedophile behind bars. Vicky, however, should be home soon, between the end of her class presentation at the university and her ‘happenstance’ patrol with the Wards. I’m alone in the house…

Except for Taylor at my desk. It feels similar to lunch the last couple days, but cranked up to eleven. The private anticipation. The knowledge that if anything happened, no one is around to interrupt; no one is around to catch us. Anything could happen, and there wouldn’t be any stopping it until it’s too late.

But instead of doing any of those hypothetical things, I’m on my bed, staring at an algebra worksheet. The second question taunts me. It’s the quadratic formula. All I have to do is put numbers in place of letters and make things good with logic, but I can’t do that. I can’t focus. There’s too much to think about, too much to consider, too much to analyze and appraise  for the worksheet to keep my attention, and all of it revolves around the other girl in my room and our plan.

How can Taylor focus at a time like this? She’s just sitting there, writing her paper. Something about ancient Rome, I think. I could barely focus when she told me about it, and I’ve only gotten more distracted in the minutes since. How does she do it? Isn’t she stressed about the plan? Is she somehow not even thinking about what we’re here to do? How is she so calm and composed at a time like this? Does she have experience? Has she done this before? Is she some sort of hotshot Casanova? Why am I the only one of us freaking out about this?

I need to calm down. Taylor’s got the right idea. Stressing about what we’re going to do doesn’t change anything. She’s going to give plenty of warning before Vicky gets here, so it’s not like I won’t have time to prepare myself. Until then, I should focus on my homework so I’ll have one less thing to worry about. Alright. Okay. Question two. The second question. Two out of ten. The one after the first and before the third. Just have to answer this, and then the rest. Easy. I’ve done it a million times.

Taylor’s tapping on the spine of her spiral notebook. It’s a quiet noise that I can only hear because of the otherwise silence in the room. It doesn’t look like she’s doing it on purpose. Does she have a song stuck in her head or-- Wait that’s it! That’s why I can’t focus; it’s too quiet. I need music to drown out my thoughts so I can think.

“Do you mind if I put on some music?” I ask.

Her tapping stops and she looks at me, her dark eyes peircing, and I realize how predatory my offer sounds.

“I don’t have to! I’m not trying to like, set the mood or pull something or--” Wait. Wouldn’t it be good if I was doing that? Not for real or anything, of course not. But wouldn’t putting music on make the whole thing more convincing? “But it would probably make the scene seem more real, if um. If music was playing when Vicky sees us uh. Sees us… You know.” I finish lamely, cursing my inability to even fucking say it. Why is it suddenly so hard to talk to Taylor? It’s fucking Taylor; I don’t need to be nervous. She sucks.

“When she sees us kiss?” she asks plainly, and my heated cheeks remind me of the reason for my nerves.

I nod uselessly.

“Hm.” She sets down her pencil and I can almost see the mental calculus going on behind her eyes. Her lips purse in contemplation and I can’t look away from them. She’s been so much more expressive than usual today -- that’s not to say she’s expressive by any other metric though; she’s still inhumanly placid compared to anyone else I’ve met -- and it’s enchantingly weird. “That’s a good idea,” she eventually says. “Queue up something appropriate.”

A smile splits my face that I’m quick to quash and almost as quick to let back out because she knows already how I’m feeling. There’s no need to try to keep up appearances with Taylor when she’s got her cheating cheat power. I grab my phone, connect to my speaker, and put on one of my favorites. I look to Taylor to see what she thinks of Skylines and Blastdoors.

She’s glaring at me. That’s not promising.

 “Amy,” she says, “what are you doing?”

“Playing music?”

“Can you not?”

What? “But you just told me to.”

“I told you to queue it, not play it. We only need to set the mood when Victoria gets here.”

Confused and reluctant, I press pause.

She returns to her homework.

I set my phone to the side and try to get back into my own work for the first time, but I don’t get past the second letter of the second equation -- how has it been almost half an hour and I’ve only answered one problem?! -- before my mind returns to the actual problem at hand: my music. Did Taylor not like the song? Does she not like Way’s voice or the genre or something? I guess it is a little emo.

“I could put on something else, if you want,” I offer. “If you don’t like MCR, I have more music. A bunch of it.”

She barely glances up from her paper. “It’s fine.”

“’It’s fine’ you liked them? Or ‘it’s fine’ you want me to play something else? Or… what?”

“’It’s fine,’ as in I’m okay with the quiet. I prefer it, actually.”

…Ouch. She doesn’t like my music. I can deal with that. “Who’s your favorite band? I can put them on,” I offer, opening Yourtube to search for it. I can meet in the middle. I’m a reasonable person. If she doesn’t want to listen to my music, I can listen to hers and then use that as a foothold to drag her into the good stuff.

“I don’t like music,” she says plainly, not even looking up from her paper.

I’ve got ‘I don’t like m’ typed into the search bar before the meaning of what she said hits me. But that can’t be right. I play back her words in my head. I do it again. I reread what I typed, then finish typing it just to see if that’s an obscure band. It isn’t. I wonder if I misheard her. I must have, because those words make less sense than my homework.

“I think I misheard you,” I say, hopefully. “For a second I thought you said you don’t like music.”

She looks at me, then frowns and puts down her pencil with a put-upon air. “I don’t like music,” she repeats.

“You don’t like music?”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t like any music?”

“That’s right.”

My jaw works silently as I struggle for words. “That’s impossible,” I decide. “You’re making another crappy joke, right? I thought I told you to stop that.”

“I’m not joking. I really don’t like music,” she says for the nth time, her default deadpan finally gaining an edge.

There’s no way that’s true. Music is good. People like music. Maybe Taylor just doesn’t understand music? Maybe she’s only ever listened to the radio, and thinks that that’s all music is, that that’s what all music sounds like? Spirits rallied, I tell her, “No, you just think you don’t like music. Try saying that after listening to this.”

I put on Plastic Zoo’s best song, the single from their second album -- everything after their third album is trash -- and wait. It’s not my favorite band, but they’re good, and more importantly, they’re easy to listen to and popular enough that their later stuff went mainstream. I watch her to see if she likes it, but her unchanging face gives nothing away.

“I don’t like this,” she says, a few seconds into the song.

“Give it a minute,” I tell her. “It gets better.”

She frowns, but lets the song play. I can barely resist singing along, held back only by wanting Taylor to experience the song as recorded, and not ruined by my singing. She listens intently, and when it ends, she says, “Yeah, this part is better.”

“Shut up.” I’m scowling as I flip through my library for something else. She doesn’t like refined garage band music? That’s fine. I can find something else. Something different. Something with-- Aha!

“No way you can hate Taylor Swift,” I tell her, already hitting play. Her voice alone starts the song, mournful and sweet as she sings about forgetting someone she lost long ago. It’s a great lead-in to the sudden shredding of a guitar. Taylor jumps in her seat, obviously caught off guard by the tone shift. The rest of the band joins in soon after, filling out the blues-metal sound she’s so famous for in certain circles; Swift never hit mainstream, but she’s always had a dedicated following.

Somehow though, Taylor’s not feeling it like I am. She’s especially expressionless right now, but even so, her eyes seem tired. She asks me to turn it off. I grit my teeth and do so, then dive back into my library to find something else.

“Amy,” she says.

“Give me a second, I know I can find something good.” I’m not going to let this poor bitch live without music. It sucks enough that she’s gone this long thinking she doesn’t like it. I know I can find something good, something to make her change her mind, something to--

“Stop it.” Taylor’s voice is firm, almost cold. When I look up, she’s got an intense look on her face -- disappointed, angry, melancholic, bored, or some combination of all of the above: I can’t tell. “It’s not a problem with your taste in music,” she says. “All music sounds bad. I don’t like it. You’re not going to find anything that I will like because I don’t like music.”

“Fucking why though?” I demand, done beating around the crazy bush. “Do you have any idea how insane you sound when you say that? ‘Don’t like music.’ It’s fucking crazy, stupid horseshit.”

“You’re being a bitch,” she tells me plainly. I barely don’t throw my phone at her.

“You. Are impossible. I swear to fucking god,” I grit out. “Are you on the spectrum or something? Are you actually, legitimately crazy?” I should have looked deeper at her brain to check. I’m half-tempted to do that now, no matter how inconclusive scans for that can be with parahumans.

“Real music just sounds like crap compared to what I hear with my power.”

“W… Wait. Wait wait wait wait wait wait. Wait.” I look her dead in the eye. “It’s a power thing? Your power makes you hate music?”

“It makes it… creepy.” She nods.

I lean back, resting on my hands. That changes things. That… That fucking sucks, to have music taken away so wholly. I can barely imagine living a life bereft of music. No more distraction in one ear at the hospital. Nothing to drown out Vicky and Dean when they get handsy and forget I’m here. Not having something to listen to when Carol and Mark go at it -- whenever he has it in him to argue back. Music is big. It’s the only thing keeping me sane, some days.

“Your power fucking sucks,” I decide. With this music thing and how she’s always hearing how much everyone’s lives suck, I feel no doubt about that statement. It’s not as bad as the crushing duty and temptation I have to deal with, but still.

“I’m aware of its shortcomings,” she huffs. She picks back up her pencil and returns her attention to her history paper, ending the discussion.

Did I offend her? But I was trying to be nice that time. She’s so weirdly sensitive about the most random of things. She knows her power sucks, so why’s she getting pissy that I pointed it out? It’s not my fault she keeps getting offended and feeling hurt. If she doesn’t want to get hurt, she should stop taking things so personally. I wasn’t even talking about her, just her power, and she got hurt. Not my fault.

So then why do I feel so shitty about this? Dammit, she’s screwing with me, isn’t she? Dumb question: of course she is. If I have to ask, there’s a 100 percent chance the answer is yes. Her messing with my emotions is why she’s here. It’s why I put up with her. But what’s the extent? How much is she messing with me? Is she making me feel like crap to punish me, or do I just feel like crap because I’m me? She said she’d only mess with a few things, and making me feel guilty wasn’t part of that, so do I actually owe her an apology, or do I just feel like I do? Does the difference matter?

I’m still mulling that over when Taylor perks up. “Victoria’s on her way here,” she says, quickly setting aside her schoolwork to join me on the bed. I grab my phone and hurry to put on some music, only now looking for a good song to set the mood and really sell it because I didn’t think to pick out something good to queue like Taylor told me to and was instead too busy figuratively bashing my head against a wall, the same as always.

“Your door’s cracked, her window is locked, her costume’s in her room,” Taylor mutters, running through the checklist to ensure the plan goes off without a hitch.

I’m still looking for a good song. Something romantic, but not embarrassingly so. It’s an arduous search, filled with too many false leads because it seems I have nothing that fits the bill. Everything I have is either too sappy and cringe or doesn’t fit the mood we’re trying to set whatsoever.

“She’s almost here,” Taylor says, and I’m running out of time. I press play on a random track, one I’m not sure I even recognize but as soon as it starts to play, I know it’s entirely wrong for the mood, more fitting for a mosh pit than a make out.

“Crap,” I say, “give me a second.” I shuffle-skip to the next song, and it’s just as wrong so I do it again. Wrong. Skip. Wrong. Skip. Wrong. Sk-- “Hey!” I protest as Taylor grabs the phone out of my hands and tosses it behind her. It bounces off my bed and onto the floor but I only barely notice because wow her face is really close. I note that there’s a new song playing now, and it almost fits the mood, erring just a bit too sappy, but it’s a vague notice because she’s so close. Her face is barely a foot from mine. Less, maybe. I knew we’d be close, but I didn’t realize it’d be like this. I didn’t think… I don’t know what I didn’t think -- I’m having a hard time thinking about anything other than what’s about to happen and how Taylor’s worrying her lip between her teeth as she watches the door in anticipation.

Her lips look soft. Will they feel soft? That’s a dumb question, of course they’ll feel soft-- I can feel how soft they are through my hand on hers, but will I even be able to feel how soft they are against mine? Like viscerally, wholly feel that softness? Or will my power ruin things with information overload? This’ll be my first kiss, but will I even be able to appreciate it? I have to hope that I will. I will appreciate this kiss, even if I can’t be normal about it, because even if I can’t feel it the right way, there will still be a beautiful woman pressing her lips against mine.

How’s she going to do that though? How is she going to kiss me? Will it be a peck? No, no it can’t be a peck; there needs to be no room for doubt in Vicky’s mind that we’re romantic after she sees this. We need something convincing and no kiss is less convincing than middle school level crap like that. We need a more mature kiss than that, something with--

Oh. Fuck.

Is she going to use tongue?! I don’t know if I’m ready for that! This is my first kiss for fuck’s sake; I don’t know if I can handle tongue! I might faint, or die, or have a heart attack, or -- worse than any of that -- embarrass the hell out of myself in front of her. I don’t know how to tongue kiss! What if there’s some special, secret technique that I don’t know and she’ll laugh at me for not knowing it and cut me loose as a lost cause? There’s no way I can go back to living like I did before her! I’d mess up and let something slip and Vicky would find out about me and Carol would kick me out and then I’d be living on the streets, and I don’t know how to live on the streets; would I have to start selling drugs? I could probably make some good drugs, safe drugs, drugs that get you fucked up but don’t fuck you up-- But then the PRT would come down on me and probably firebomb a city block to get rid of me and I’d be remembered as an evil and dangerous biotinker and a druglord villain, and Vicky would be so disappointed in me and might even have to be the one to arrest me and-- and--

No. No. If there is some sort of secret tongue technique, there’s no way Taylor knows about it. She’s way too much of a loser to have more experience kissing than I do. She’s offputting and weird and bad with people and has no friends and a busy household so there’s no way she’s kissed someone before, unless she’s kissed her sister or something which would be--! Uh! That would definitely be something but um. That’s not something people do. It’s not something that actually happens, no matter what the internet says, there’s no way sisters ever actually practice kissing with each other. I should be respectful and judge her for her own grossness, not mine that I project onto her.

The important thing is there’s no way she’s experienced with kissing, so there’s nothing to fear if she does decide to tongue me. And there’s not even a guarantee she will! She might not use tongue. But she might though. She might not… but she might. Oh geez. I’ll just… be ready for anything? However she kisses me, I’ll roll with it. Go with the flow. I’m good at that, right? …I can get really good at that in the next few seconds, right? Yeah, totally. So whatever Taylor does or needs me to do, I’ll be ready to do it, and if that means letting her shove her tongue down my throat then so be it.

Did someone turn up the thermostat? I swear I wasn’t this sweaty just a minute ago.

Taylor’s teeth release her lip and she whispers, “She’s inside. You ready?”

Was that the signal? FUCK I can’t remember what the signal is! I can’t miss the cue-- I can’t miss my chance-- I can’t blow my only shot-- I have to go for it now!!!

“OW FUCK!”

“SHH-ahhhh”

I recoil, clutching my nose as tears well quickly in my eyes from the pain of having slammed my nose into hers. I’d leaned in too fast and instead of kissing her, I headbutted her like a fucking virgin idiot. I’m blinking away the tears -- fuck it doesn’t hurt enough for me to be crying this much -- but they come faster than I can clear them. Blurrily, I can approximately make out Taylor doing the same. I almost ask if she’s okay or if I can heal her, but Vicky’s shout cuts me off.

“AMY?!” comes her terrified voice from downstairs. A second later -- too quickly for her to have done anything but fly just barely slow enough to avoid putting herself through a wall -- my door slams the rest of the way open and a blonde blur enters my room. “What happened? Are you okay? Taylor? What are you doing here? What’s going on?”

By the end of her interrogation, she’s sounding more confused by the scene than concerned I’m being axe-murdered, neither of which lend credence to our plan; at this rate, she’s going to think we’re recreationally headbutting instead of actually, legitimately dating, so I do the only thing I can think of and lie my ass off in hopes of salvaging the plan.

“We’re kissing!,” I nasally hiss-shout.

“Wait, what? You…” Vicky trails off.

She pauses in midair and I wish I knew to savor the brief moment the gears in her head were turning, because as soon as they finish and she realizes what happened, a laugh escapes her mouth -- quickly lidded by her hand, but too late -- and I realize my folly.

“You two were-- You were--” Vicky attempts, speaking in a barely-restrained, high pitched voice. She can’t hold it back, and the dam cracks; laughter escapes despite her best efforts, muffled and snrrk-y but still recognizable for what it is.

I feel my face heating up, moving from embers to inferno in an instant. Why did I say that? Why do I say anything ever? That was the worst possible thing I could have said. We were supposed to convince her that we kiss all the time, just in private where she can’t see, but now she’s going to think we’ve never so much as seen another girl’s lips in our lives. Why do people keep letting me talk? Someone needs to confiscate my tongue before I have to do it myself. I don’t really need a tongue to be Panacea. Though it would make asking for consent more annoying.

“I guess it’s a little late for a shotgun speech,” Vicky says, words barely beating out her laughter, “seeing as you’ve already made my sister cry.”

She lets her laughter loose at that and I groan, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes to both wipe away the tears and, with any luck, blind me. Dammit Vicky, I just ruined my best chance to kiss a girl and she’s making jokes?! I deserve it. Dammit, I know I do. I fucked up and now the universe is punishing me. Taylor’s never going to be willing to try kissing again, not after this shit, and she was my best shot at liking another girl’s touch, and now she’s going to go to jail because Vicky will figure us out and I’ll have to live the rest of my life with this being the closest I ever came to having a good kiss.

“Stop laughing,” Taylor snaps, sounding legitimately angry, even with the nasally voice.

“I’m sorry,” Vicky says, even though she doesn’t stop laughing. “It’s just too funny; I didn’t think this kind of thing happened in real life.”

“You’re making Amy feel like crap and it’s like you don’t even care.”

That, at least, makes Vicky’s laughter lessen as she pressumably inspects me. “She knows I don’t mean anything by it, right Ames?”

I groan.

“I’m sorry, I’m just relieved you’re okay.” She almost actually sounds contrite now, but I recognize that teasing lilt to her voice, and I know she’s leading up to another joke. “Do you want me to get you an icepack? After the swelling goes down, you can -- snrk -- work on your technique?”

I knew it. I fucking knew it. Here I am, in legitimate pain, suffering from a potentially broken nose and an even more damaged ego, and my loving sister can’t help but tell another joke. Is she trying to make me feel better? Trying to defuse some sort of pressumed awkwardness between Taylor and me? She’s making things worse and I can’t stand it right now.

“Get out,” I hiss, dropping my hands to glare at her. “Get out of my room, Vicky.”

She blinks at me, her smile finally falling. “You’re not actually mad, are you? I was just teasing.”

“I don’t care.” My words are measured and restrained, yet each one feels like a shard of glass in my throat. “Get. Out.” When she doesn’t immediately move, I throw the first thing my hand touches at her: my notebook. She takes it to the face without flinching, and I see red.

She’s not moving, so I rise to my feet and stomp towards her. I grab her by the top -- some stupid, really nice designer blouse that Dean probably bought her -- and drag her out of my room, relying less on my own pitiful strength and more on her desire to not have her nice shirt stretched to the point of ruin.

“Ames, I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings, I was just happy you weren’t seriously hurt,” she excuses as she follows like a balloon on a string. “Seriously, Ames, I was just teasing you. Would you stop? I said I’m sorry.”

I slam the door in her face.

It creeps open from recoil, revealing Vicky’s worried face, so I slam it again. It creeps open again, now showing Vicky’s confused face, and I realize she must have broken it when she busted into my room. She tries to say something but I let out a wordless scream, slam the door closed again, and retreat back to my bed, uncaring if it opens again. I bury myself into my comfortable comforter and scream into a pillow.

I ruined my first kiss, made a fool of myself in front of Vicky, who couldn’t stop laughing at me. Mom’s probably going to blame me for the broken door even though Vicky broke it, and I’ll have to sit through her lecture as Dad replaces it with one of the spares in the garage. Could this day get any worse?

A hand lands gently on my shoulder and I ready my internal fire to tell Vicky to piss off again, but it’s Taylor who makes herself known, not Vicky. I’d somehow forgotten she was here.

“It’s… okay. Victoria’s leaving. You’re fine now,” she says, halting and awkward.

I bury my face further into my pillow and feel myself shaking against it, but I don’t let myself let out more than those full body shakes. I’m not going to let Taylor see me cry like this. That’s not something someone who isn’t even really a friend -- much less a girlfriend -- needs to see. Her power lets her hear anyway, but I don’t care. I don’t care. I’m not going to break down in front of her like a whiny preteen mad about an empty birthday party. I don’t pride myself on my pride, but I have at least that much. My eyes and nose leak, but I don’t make noise, so it doesn’t count.

I unbury myself so I can sit up and face her, only realizing my mistake when she removes her hand, prompted to do so by my shuffling. It was nice. Why’d she have to take it away?

I sniff, then blow my nose into my already ruined pillow. Able to breath a little better, I ask, “Vicky’s gone?”

Taylor nods. “She stopped by her room, and flew off just now.”

I sniffle again and wipe my face clear with the back of my hand. “I’m sorry. I messed up the plan.”

“Yeah, you did,” she agrees, sparing me nothing. “I was supposed to kiss you, not the other way around.”

“I’m sorry. I- I panicked. When it was time to do it, I panicked and forgot the plan and I was so excited to- but now we- and she didn’t even see us- I didn’t mean--” I bite my lip before I let myself cry.

She’s staring at me, but I don’t have it in me to look at her, so I just stare at the broken, half-unclosed door. The handle is limp, tilted under its own weight instead of sticking out at a ninety degree angle. There’s a hole in the drywall too, at the same level as the handle, which means-- The piece of the baseboard holding the springy doorstop is splintered, driven halfway into the wall and hanging halfway off of it. Mom is going to throw such a fit, and I just know it’ll be at me.

“That she didn’t see us actually kiss is going to be an issue,” Taylor says, somehow sounding halfway calm.

“No shit,” wetly escapes my mouth.

“We can’t let this sort of thing happen again.”

Her words hit me like the latest in a long series of rocks piled onto my chest. I knew it. This was my best chance and I fucked the dog like a god damned useless idiot. I ruined my chance to kiss her, and now she’s going to come up with some other plan to not have to invite disaster by trying to kiss me again.

“Why are you so miserable? Weren’t you excited for this a minute ago?” she asks.

I look at her. She looks-- Well, she doesn’t look much of anything, her face stupidly unexpressive as always, but if I had to assign an emotion to the hint of expression on her face, I’d call it confused more than angry, and determined more than crushed. It pisses me off that she’s not pissed off. What’s wrong with her? Is she fucking stupid?

“Are you fucking stupid?” I demand. “I just fucked everything up and you’re acting like it’s not a big deal! There’s no way that shitshow was convincing and now she’s going to get suspicious because she still hasn’t seen us kiss and then she’s going to figure out what you are and they’ll take you away and then I’ll be stuck like this, stuck as myself for the rest of my life and that--! That’s--!” I can’t breathe.

“We’re not getting anywhere with you like this,” she mutters. “Can I calm you down so we can talk about this maturely?”

I don’t know what there even is to talk about when I so thoroughly ruined everything but I nod my head anyway, desperate for anything to change, and suddenly I can breathe again. I feel my heart begin to slow, returning to its resting rate. It’s cold, suddenly, the sweat on my skin making its presence unignorable as my body slows. I blink, slowly, and look up at the other girl. The girl I failed to kiss. The girl who’s still here. Her nose is inflamed from the impact.

“Better?” she asks.

“Yeah. I think so.” The words leave my mouth like cold molassas from a jug. I lay a hand on hers. Huh. I broke her nose a little. “Do I have permission to heal you?”

“Sure,” she says after a moment’s consideration.

I do so. I don’t just fix her nose though, but give her a general tune up. She’s got a lot of old, minor, already-healed injuries that I can make as if they never happened at all, so I spend half a minute doing so. She’s feeling good as new now, and the damage wasn’t even substantial enough to warrant my typical ‘eat a lot soon’ speech. “Okay. I’m done.”

“Oh. Wow,” she says, and I can hear the awe in her voice as she subtly tests her repaired body, rolling her shoulders and stretching in place. A slow smile stretches across my face at that. She sounds nice when she’s not in full emotionless robot mode. “I feel great. Thank you.”

I make a contented hum, happy to have been of use to her.

“I’m going to ease off on the calm and bring you back to normal, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Like waking up well rested from a good dream, reality slowly comes back into focus. I blink, then once more as what just happened comes into stark focus. It wasn’t gone or blocked out, but a moment ago my embarrassment and horror felt distant and muted, but now I’m becoming fully aware of what a fool I made of myself, screaming and throwing things and spiraling like there was no tomorrow. I let go of her hand so I can cover my face and fall back onto my bed. I let out a long, frustrated groan that can only start to encapsulate my pain.

“Will you be okay now?” she asks.

“No,” I answer. “Can you do that to me again? For forever?”

“I don’t think that’d be healthy or sustainable, since I can’t be around you twenty-four seven. Also, we’d get caught since you’d be acting way too oddly.”

“Stop ruining my fantasy with your stupid, well thought-out logic and valid points,” I half-joke. She doesn’t immediately answer, letting me wallow in my kiddie pool of misery for a while longer.

“Now that you’re okay --” I grunt a negation but she keeps going “-- let’s talk about what happened.” I grunt again. “Amy. If we’re going to try this again, you need to do more than grunt and moan at me.”

I’m halfway through another protesting groan when her words click. Cautiously, I remove my hands from my eyes to watch her. “Waaait a second. Did you say, ‘again’? As in, us kissing again?” I gesture between us, as if it weren’t obvious who I was talking about. “That again?”

“Yes. Obviously. We’ll need to rework the plan -- it’d be suspicious if she walked in on almost the exact same scene twice -- but it can still work.”

“You want to… try kissing again? With me? You’re still willing to kiss me?” I clarify.

A single eyebrow raises. “What would be the point of kissing anyone else?” she asks, and I have no answer. The eyebrow lowers into line with her other. “Honestly this failure is as much my fault as it is yours.”

“No it’s not.”

“No, it’s not,” she agrees. “But still, we should have thought to practice before executing, and that’s as much my gaffe as it is yours. Let’s do that now so we’ll be ready for next time.”

I blink, stunned for a moment that she still wants to kiss me, then bolt upright so we can. Jerkily, I lean in, but she raises a hand and pulls back. But before my heart can fully shatter again, she tells me,

“You need to clean your face first. You are covered in snot.”

“Sorry.” I wipe it off with my sleeve and lean in, and once again she retreats with a wince.

“Also you need to change shirts. Just, go to the bathroom, okay? Clean yourself up, then we’ll do it.”

“R-right.” Dammit, of course she wouldn’t want to kiss me while I’m covered in fluids; people find fluids gross. “Sorry. I’ll um, be right back.”

I open my dresser and grab the first shirt I touch, then leave my room for the bathroom. As soon as I see my reflection, I understand why she didn’t want to kiss me; I look terrible: puffy, red eyes, a nose streaked with snot and a little bit of blood -- did I seriously headbutt her that hard? -- a shirt streaked with the same. It’s a close call, but I think I look a little worse than usual.

I shed my shirt, wipe my face with it, then clean up with some cool water, taking a minute to just breathe, get myself in order, and come to terms with the idea that I maybe didn’t ruin everything. It’s a stretch for sure, but maybe, just maybe, things aren’t bad forever, even with this setback.

I finish cleaning the bodily fluids off my face, curse my lack of foresight that landed me in my unflattering, everyday bra, put on my new t-shirt, and try to make myself look good with what’s lying around. I’m not going to mess this up again, and that means borrowing Vicky’s chapstick for a different reason than usual. The rest of her makeup is in her room, so I can’t put any of that on even if I was good enough at it to try. Anything else… Mouthwash! I swig some and spit it into the sink, then reapply the chapstick just to be safe.

Nothing else for me here, I take a few deep breaths to try to calm my nerves, then return to my room. Taylor’s back in her seat, working on her homework again, and my heart clenches with worry that that means she’s changed her mind and we’re done today, but she looks up and asks if I’m ready. I can only nod. I sit back down on my bed and quickly chuck my snotty pillow towards my dirty clothes hamper to make room for her. She sits, just as close as before, and when she looks at me, I can almost feel the lingering sheen of water on my face turn to steam.

“This time,” she says, “I kiss you. You don’t have to do anything but sit there, alright?”

“Okay. I’ll just… sit here then.” My voice is shakey, but who can blame me.

She leans in and my breath catches in my throat. I watch her face slowly grow closer and closer, until I let my eyes close. I stick my lips out, puckering them in preparation. An eternal second later, it happens, and

Woah.

I knew her lips would be soft, but I couldn’t have imagined how that would actually feel against my own. I thought I knew, but I had no idea. I

She

She pushes closer

Our lips mashing deeper and I

I push back, unwilling to let her do everything, and before I can even consider not doing it, I move my lips against hers, and it feels so--

Woah. Just. Incredibly woah.

Is this how it’s supposed to feel? If so, I think I understand why Vicky and Dean are so like that all the time.

Does Taylor feel like this? Am I making her feel this good too? I let myself cheat, just a little, and use my power to check how she’s feeling, if there’s something she likes or doesn’t like, to help me know how to kiss her to make her feel like I’m feeling. A bucket of ice water spills down my back at my power’s report.

Her fingernails are digging into her pants legs, and her whole body is wracked with tension and terrible discomfort. She’s cringing, even as she moves her lips against mine, and though I can feel she’s feeling the physical sensations of the kiss, it’s not registering as pleasure, just pressure. She’s not enjoying any of this.

When I pull back and break off the kiss, it’s like I left a piece of my soul on her lips, and I open my eyes to see it become dust in the wind. She’s staring at me. I don’t want to know. I don’t. I don’t want to ask and invite whatever would be next, I want to go back to ten seconds ago, before my stupid fucking power ruined yet another thing.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I answer helplessly.

“Can we go back to practicing, then?”

I open my mouth to… to say something, I’m sure, but I don’t even know what I’d say. Taking my confused non-answer as permission enough, she leans back in. My eyes don’t shut, this time, and I get to see how hers don’t either, and we’re making eye contact even as we make lip contact, and even though my heart is hammering in my chest, and I’m being kissed by a girl, and the kiss does feel really nice, this is a contender for one of the least intimate moments in my life.

I push us apart again.

“You don’t like this,” I tell her.

She looks away for a moment. “That doesn’t matter.”

She tries to lean back in but I shove her. “What do you mean ‘that doesn’t matter’? Why would that not matter? Why are you-- Why would you think that doesn’t matter?”

“We’re only kissing to keep Vicky from getting suspicious,” she says. “Our feelings about the plan don’t change what we have to do.”

“You don’t want to kiss me,” I realize, and immediately hate how miserable I sound. “Why the fuck don’t you want to kiss me!?” I demand, standing just to get some distance so I’m not tempted to grab her. “I-- I’m not that digusting, am I? I washed up! I’m wearing cherry chapstick for fuck’s sake! Am I-- What? Am I not pretty enough? Am I too fat? Is it because I got a pimple on my nose because I swear it’s--”

“It’s not you,” she says, rising to her feet as well to grab my upper arms to stop my wild gesturing. I struggle to break free until she says, “It’s me.”

Her words are so cliche that I can only stare at her. She’s got to be fucking with me somehow. I sound more incredulous than angry when I ask, “What. The fuck. Does that mean?”

“It means: I don’t like girls.”

“…You’re straight?” I croak, feeling nauseous.

The room is already spinning when Taylor confirms it, and when my knees buckle, I realize my vagus nerve must be overreacting; I’m passing out. I start to fall, and it’s only Taylor’s grip on my arms that stops me from collapsing flat on my face. My weight too great for her to take, but she does her best to control our collapse and we sink to the floor without injury.

“You’re straight?” I ask again, understanding but not comprehending.

“Yes,” she says again.

“How?”

“Uh. Because I like to look at men? I like muscles, and when a guy is tall enough to be able to tuck my head against his chest. And uh, heh, I don’t know. Beards are nice sometimes. I like when a guy has a deep voice and a kind of raspy laugh.” She’s blushing as she describes her ideal male form, and any hopes I had of this being a really bad joke are lost to that crushing cuteness. A bit of joyless laughter leaves me.

Am I destined to fall for women who can’t love me? Is there something about me that draws me to impossible women? Am I so much of a masochist that I force myself into these situations? I didn’t need to fall for Taylor. I let myself. Volunteered without so much as confirming she’s gay because of course she’d be gay if she’s willing to go out with another girl at the drop of a hat, right? Wrong, apparently. I don’t know why I’m even stressing about this -- We’re not even really going out, just faking, have been from the start, so this rejection shouldn’t hurt.

But it does. It hurts. It hurts that she can’t reciprocate.

…But… she could. I could make her reciprocate. It wouldn’t even be hard, just a brush of a few neurons to change the pathways relating to attraction and sexuality to make her glands release the same hormones they do when she sees boys, but when she sees girls too. Or even girls instead of boys. Hell, I could take it a step further and make her only experience this attraction when she sees me! If I’m going to break my rules I might as well, right? I could make her love only me. I could make her mine. All I need to do is reach out and touch her. Taylor’s already a monster. She’s a creepy loner without any friends, so really she’s the best kind of person to do that to. Doing this to Vicky would be unthinkable -- she’s an incredible hero that will only become more incredible, a pillar of the community, a brilliant and exceptional person by any measure -- but Taylor’s like me.

Except… she’s fixing me. Taylor’s a monster, but she’s still doing good for now. She might be the type of person to deserve it, but she hasn’t done anything worth that punishment. She’s helping me, fixing me, making me into less of a sick, twisted freak, and I can’t repay that by breaking on her, by breaking her, by becoming the sick, inevitable, ultimate version of myself that does that sort of thing.

It would start with Taylor. She deserves it. But it wouldn’t end with Taylor. It wouldn’t end until someone puts me down like the rabid dog I revealed myself to be, and by then it would be too late. My monster would have raped and scarred humanity. I can’t break my chains to break the one chaining me further, because then no one would be safe. Not even Vicky.

“I’m sorry,” Taylor says, somehow sounding completely sincere. “I didn’t mean to mislead you.”

I don’t react. I don’t let myself move because if I move I might move towards her and I can’t let myself touch her right now. I can’t let myself touch anything right now. Even the bacteria on my skin are too much. I kill them all, breaking cell walls to let vital cytoplasm leak out until I’m properly alone.

“I know this isn’t fair for you,” she continues, “since you’re feeling these things like they’re real. It’s probably not much of a consolation, but this isn’t forever. We’ll get you a girlfriend after me -- a real one -- and, well, I can’t promise to make her love you, because that would be messed up without her consent and we can’t really risk explaining things to get her consent if she might say no, but I can make sure you have a chance with her. I’ll make sure she likes girls, okay? That she likes you.”

When I still don’t react, she keeps talking, filling the air like an anxious, guilty chatterbox.

“If I liked girls, I’m sure I’d like you. I mean you’re-- Sure you’re standoffish and mean, and kind of a bitch for no reason, and you tried to kiss me while covered in-- Um. But you’re also… selfless! And uh… The important thing is that you deserve to be loved as deeply as you love, and if I could do that for you, I would. I’m sorry that I can’t.”

If I could do that for you, I would.

I hear all of her words, but those alone stick in my head, bouncing off the interior walls of my skull.

I shake myself off, letting myself move once more. The worst of my whatever you want to call it -- Episode? Fit? Horror edging session? -- is over. I’m not going to grab Taylor and rewrite her to be mine. Not now. Not with all she’s doing for me, not when she’s so contrite, not when she’s the latch to Pandora’s box. I can keep myself contained.

“It’s fine,” I tell her.

“You don’t seem fine,” she says.

“I’m…” What? I’m what? I’m not fine and we both know it. “I’m tired,” I decide. Even so, that’s a bit of a lie. I’m exhausted. I’m tired to the bone and it can’t be later than four in the afternoon. But exhaustion is an old companion, and I push myself to my feet despite it. I have too much to do today to be tired. There’s still… stuff. And things. I can’t leave stuff and things undone. I need to do something. I need to go to the hospital. I came too close to coming loose, and I need to make up for that, need to do some amount of good, need to prove that I’m not… That I…

I need a smoke. I can’t risk that here. Coffee. Coffee will save me. I’ll make a cup-- No, a cup’s not enough, a cup isn’t nearly enough to fix me.

“I need a pot,” I mutter to myself.

“You smoke pot too?” she asks, earlier compassion replaced by judgement. I try to glare at her but I’m not sure if my facial muscles even moved.

“Of coffee. I need a pot of coffee.”

“Oh. That’s… better, I think.”

“Mm.” I shamble to the hall through my broken door -- another thing to deal with -- and to the kitchen downstairs. I ready the coffee maker for a full pot. I grab the good stuff that Mom has imported and hides in the cornstarch container and thinks I don’t know about and dump too much into the basket and press start. A moment later, it starts to drip into the pot below, filling the air with an invigorating scent.

“What are you still doing here?” I ask Taylor.

“I thought you might want to try again later,” she answers from the doorway.

Despite everything, the idea thrills me. She’s literally offering to kiss me again, likely for as long as I want. I hate it. I hate that I’m desperate enough to even consider forcing myself onto her like that. Now that I know she wouldn’t like it, it wouldn’t be any fun. I wish I could drag myself back into those first few seconds of ignorant bliss before I ruined things with my power, but I can’t.

You deserve love. If I could return your feelings , I would.  

“Just go home, Taylor,” I tell her.

“...I’ll see you at school tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

She lingers, thankfully, because I realize I have something to ask her.

“Wait.” She stops in the kitchen’s threshhold. “Where do you live?”

“Near 12th and Queens, between here and Arcadia,” she answers. “Why do you ask?”

I watch the brew fill the pot, drip by drop, and after a minute she realizes I don’t plan on answering. I wonder if she’s picking apart my emotions to divine the answer herself, but I don’t care. Whether she knows or not makes no difference. She finishes leaving the kitchen, and a minute or two later -- not long enough that the coffee is done brewing -- I hear the front door close.

You deserve to be loved as deeply as you love. If I could return your love , I would.

Another few minutes pass and the coffee is ready. I pour it into a thermos, dump half a container of sugar in with it, skip the creamer because it’s already dangerously full, grab my costume from upstairs, then leave for Pale-Hart. I don’t often visit it in my rounds, but it’s the furthest one south. Hopefully it’s far enough to be out of Taylor’s range. I need to think and I don’t want her listening over my shoulder if I end up having a breakdown in a supply closet.

Chapter Text

Wednesday. January 26.

Doing good has never felt so bad.

…Okay, I need to calm the fuck down and stop being so goddamn dramatic. I’m no good at it, and it’s a lie anyway. It’s always felt this bad, ever since I figured out my place in the machine. Ask for permission, touch, announce the diagnosis, put the meat back in order, then it’s on to the next one: no muss, no fuss, nothing new or interesting, just making people healthy. It’s what I’m good for-- what my power is good for. I can’t do anything else, no matter how dull this is.

I once heard about how some people can go into a trance doing this sort of menial work, how the repetition and familiarity become meditative after a while, and the time just seems to slip away. I sometimes wish that applied to my healing. It’d be so much easier to bear the hours upon hours of time spent within the off-white walls that every hospital shares if I could let my mind shut down-- if I could simply become a healing machine, without all the bells and whistles of conscious humanity… 

I cringe deeper into my costume, away from the odd looks the nurse and patient give my wistful sigh.

“You feeling alright?” Douglas -- the nurse assigned to me -- asks.

“Mhm. Dandy,” is my terse reply. “I’m just about finished with Mister…”

“Bolton,” the patient reminds me. “Jack Bolton.”

“Right. Well, your knee’s fixed. Try not to get shot again or whatever.”

I take another moment to clear up a potentially dangerous blood clot, then give one last scan to make sure everything’s in order. It is, of course. One default, bog-standard human body, ready for reruination. I could do so much more. I could make it so he--

I remove my hand.

“Done.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Bolton tells me.

“Mm.”

I step back and let Douglas do his thing. He gives Mr. Bolton the typical post-healing self-care rundown -- eat plenty, stay away from the stuff that brought him here, call if there are complications (there never are), etc. -- and I know it’s important info, and I should be making sure the patient properly understands all of it, but despite that, I can’t make myself pay attention. I’ve heard it so many times, the speech lives rent free in my brain, even invading my dreams on occasion. Each word is another bit of familiar white noise as I wait to move on to the next patient.

This wait between patients is almost as unpleasant as actually fixing them. It’s almost no time wasted, I know that, and if the nurse assigned to me didn’t give the spiel, I’d have to instead and that’s much worse than letting the nurse, and anyway that wouldn’t get me back to use any quicker, but just standing here feels like such a waste. I can’t help but feel like I should be actually, physically moving to the next room. Instead, I have to stand here, inactive. My mind can’t help but wander, and I hate that.

If I could have a switch that turned me into a perfect Panacea, a ceaseless and efficient healing unit, I’d… Well, I couldn’t do that. The potential for whoever installed that switch to abuse my power would be too great to ever actually consider risking such a thing. With villains proving how few people can be trusted with even meagre and pathetically weak powers, there’s no way I could trust pretty much anyone with mine: even Vicky’s shown she would abuse it.

Still though, I can’t help but think that’d be the life. I wouldn’t have to deal with Carol’s bullshit, or waste my time at school learning stuff I’ll never need around people I don’t know, or worry about creepy fans bothering me on the street. Really, the only thing I’d miss -- heh, not that I’d be in a state to miss things -- would be Vicky, but honestly she’d probably be better off without the worse parts of me.

But no, instead of being able to be reduced completely and perfectly to Panacea, I’m stuck being Amy, even when I don the robe. And that means that even while I’m dealing with Panacea-problems -- a ruptured liver, toxic shock syndrome, a Hookwolf-degloved arm, a bullet-mangled knee -- I’m still dragging around Amy-problems.

As boring and samey as Panacea-problems are, I’d rather deal with them 24/7 than Amy-problems. As Panacea, I have clear expectations and limits. I know exactly what I can do, what I can’t do, and what to tell people in either case. Sticking to my rules and policies is easy when I’m so personally uninvested. But as Amy, I’m expected to care. I’m expected to encounter problems and figure out solutions on my own. I can’t default into a preplanned script when I’m talking to Carol like I can with a patient; no matter how familiar and sure I am, she always finds a way to break my flow. It feels cruel to be made to live like this -- not just to myself, but to all the people I can- should be helping.

I’m sorry I can’t love you.

I hide my frown with a duck of my head that spills hair over my face. Even hours later, I can’t get Taylor’s words out of my head, and I don’t know why. I already know I can’t let myself change her, so why do I keep thinking about it? I don’t do brains. I’ll never do brains. I decided that I’m not breaking my rules on her, so why can’t I stop thinking about it?

If I could, I would return your love.

She offered, but she doesn’t know what I’m capable of, so… does it even count as a real offer? Was it just empty reassurance? That doesn’t feel right though. As far as I know, she has yet to lie to me, so maybe it wasn’t just hypothetical? Maybe she really actually meant that if she or I could find a way to change her sexuality, she’d accept it?

Would she accept it if I were the one to do it? I mean, she’s already kinda sorta touching my brain, and fair is fair, but is that really fair? She can influence my emotions, but I can influence everything. Sure, on the surface it might look like we’d be doing the same thing, but the scale is incomparable. That’s not even mentioning how it’d be against my rules: a first step towards hell that ends with a hollowed-out Vicky at my feet, worshiping me like a goddess. Taylor could never hope to achieve that level of monstrosity. We are not the same.

You deserve to be loved as deeply as you love.

My frown morphs into a glare that threatens the tile floor with death. I need to stop thinking about this. I’m not doing it, so it’s just a waste of time to consider.

Douglas finishes the spiel -- the whole thing taking less than a minute -- and leads me out of the room, referencing the triage list the hospitals keep prepared for my visits to direct me to the next patient. I trudge behind the nurse, same as I’ve done almost every other day of the last two years -- from one miserable sufferer to the next --  but before we can get to where we’re going, my pager beeps. They need me in the emergency room.

I tell Douglas, and we veer that direction instead. The E.R. isn’t quite bustling as it slowly returned to it’s hectic homeostasis after my arrival -- the E.R. is always my first stop when I start my rounds -- but there’s a definite hurried energy in everyone’s movements; everyone has a job to do, and every job is time-sensitive.

A doctor in blue-green scrubs spots me and hurries my way. “Panacea, good,” she says, “this way.”

I follow her and Douglas follows me. Does he really have nothing better to do than follow me around when I’m not even going by his triage list anymore? He’s probably new, I decide. He does have that almost eager air to him, the sort of attitude that real professionals have had beaten out of them. We three arrive at one of the curtain-sectioned off rooms that make up the walls to the E.R. and the doctor-nurse-woman needlessly gives me the rundown as others flitter about doing medicine to the patient, a survivor of a nasty car crash.

I know she’s a professional and is doing things the “right” way, but I haven’t actually listened to a doctor’s rundown or consulted a chart for more than a name in over a year. Sad fact of the matter is that I know more than she ever could; if she had years to study only this patient, somehow preserved in their current condition, I would still learn more with a moment’s touch. But most doctors don’t have years to study a single patient, and instead are hacks who could barely recognize a medical issue if it hit them in the face.

I lay my hand on the patient’s forearm and her body appears in my mind’s eye… hand… thing. My power brings the entirety of her body to my awareness in a mix of sight, feeling, and a nameless intuition, and I move through it, naming issues as I feel them: major blood loss from multiple abrasions, entering shock, blunt force trauma on much of her upper body, fractured fourth, sixth, and seventh left ribs, a broken ipsilateral ulna, dislocated ipsilateral shoulder, and minor bruising of the frontal lobe.

Douglas records my diagnoses as I note them.

I look the patient in the eye, delirious she may be, and ask, “Do I have permission to heal you?”

She stares incredulously past me, and I ask again, slower. She stammers out a confused “yes” and that’s good enough to probably avoid a lawsuit so it’s good enough for me. Even if Carol would press me for more unambiguous consent before starting, it’s not worth risking losing a life. I start to heal her.

As is habit, I first stop the bleeding. It’s probably not strictly necessary in this case, but I like to keep as much biomass available as I can. Plus, blood is ironically annoying to get out of my robes. Next, I pull her out of shock, forming the right hormones in her bloodstream to bring her back down to a safer and more normal state. Finally, I numb her nerves and start on actually fixing the damage done to her body, starting on the more necessary organs -- the lungs and heart -- and moving down the priority list I long ago worked out.

“Oh, that feels so much better,” the woman sighs in unfeeling relief.

“Mhm,” I grunt instead of the overly sarcastic “good for you” that comes to mind. Of course it feels better; I’m healing you. It’s what I do; I make people feel good.

I blink and meat stops moving for a moment. I can make people feel good, no brains involved whatsoever. It doesn’t break any of my rules. Hell, it practically is one of my rules-- Er, well, not one of my rules, but it’s part of the oaths I took to practice medicine. It’s the whole thing of medicine: to do no harm, and making someone feel better is the crystallization of that, right?

“Panacea? Are you done?” one of the nurses -- not Douglas -- asks, and I realize I’d absently removed my hand before finishing.

“No, I just. Uh. Sorry,” I answer lamely, unable and unwilling to explain my thoughts.

I place my hand back on the patient and finish putting her body in order. It’s the frustratingly easy work of five-ish minutes, and then I’m done. I let Douglas take over to give the spiel -- the doctor is already gone -- and try to reboard my earlier train of thought.

There was something there, something about making people feel good. Like how I could maybe--

A buzzing in my pocket interrupts my thoughts again. A text. For a moment I wonder if it’s the family or team group chat, but I don’t get my hopes up, and my cynicism is proven correct when I see it’s Taylor. Again. It’s the fourth time she’s messaged me in the last hour.

I know you’re probably still hurt and mad at me, but I need

I don’t bother reading the rest of the text before shoving my phone back into my pocket. I don’t care what she needs. I told her I’d see her at school tomorrow, but apparently that’s not good enough for my stalker.

…Maybe it’s good she doesn’t like me. I mean, why the hell would I want someone like that to like me in the first place? She’s already this annoying when her feelings are only platonic, if what we’ve got even counts as that much; how much worse would she be if she actually wanted to spend time around me? So far, spending time with Taylor has only gotten me maybe a handful of good lunches with Vicky -- That’s worth a lot of stress, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not sure if the math on this is working out.

Thrice now -- twice indirectly and once directly -- Taylor’s tempted me to break my rules. She tried to get me to skip healing on Thursdays, almost drove me to mess with her brain mere hours ago, and worst of all almost drove me to touch Vicky’s brain not two weeks ago. She wasn’t there for that last one, but it’s still her fault.

I let Douglas lead me in a slow lap around the room as he consults a new stack of papers for prioritization, healing as we go. Nothing new to encounter, my mind turns back to Taylor and how little she means to me. She’s useful, but not endearing in the least. In fact, it seems like sometimes she’s actively trying to be weird and frustrating, and if she wasn’t doing what she’s doing for me, I wouldn’t’ve ever given her the time of day.

It’d be nice to be almost halfway normal and not be a freak about my sister, but is it really worth letting her influence me if it means risking breaking my rules? I’ve been keeping myself under control for this long without her, after all. She’s not exactly necessary.

Unkindness slowly pulls my lips up as I consider telling Taylor exactly how unnecessary she is, telling her that I don’t need her, that I’m done with her, that she can’t use her power on me anymore, and that if she so much as looks at me I’ll have Vicky come down on her like only an Alexandria package can.

Or maybe I should make her beg? After a couple months of not using her power, the power neglect would get so bad, there’d be no way she wouldn’t be desperate for me to let her influence me again. I wonder if I could get her on her knees, or if that might be pushing it. She’s pretty stubborn, so it would take a bit of work to get her so in a bind.

Then I have a better thought, one that turns my smirk into a face-splitting grin. What if I did all that, cut her off until she’s begging me to let her back into my head, and then, when she’s on her knees, I raise her chin with a single finger, look her straight in the eye, and in the softest, kindest voice I can muster, tell her “No.” The look on her face as her placid, unresponsive face cracks under the weight of her pain and despair would be glorious.

A growing unease rots the fantasy’s roots. As fun an image as Taylor’s painfully, desperately crushed face is to imagine, there’s something about telling her to piss off forever that makes me almost… nauseous. I mean, she’s a monster, she deserves it, no doubt in my mind. But… it’s me who almost lost control twice. I cannot lose control. I can’t be allowed to. My power is too dangerous to allow for even a moment’s dereliction. I’m the worst of Nilbog, Bonesaw, and Heartbreaker in one. If I let my monster consume me, I’m not sure anyone could stop me in a way that matters.

Maybe… Maybe Taylor could. She could get into my mind. If she went all out, whispering suggestions in my ear as she turned my brain into pliant mush, she could control me like a puppet. More than stop me, could she make me undo my damage? If that’s possible, she’d be one of the few capable of putting me back in my cage.

It hits me like the smell of microwaved fish: I can’t let her know. I can never tell Taylor what I can do. If she can put me back in my box, she could pull me out too. No one can resist the temptation of my power forever: not Vicky and certainly not Taylor. The only way to not abuse my power is to not know about it. As far as anyone -- other than Vicky -- knows, my power is just healing.

I feel my phone buzz against my left butt cheek again, and I don’t have to take it out of my pocket to know that not only do I not care what Taylor’s saying, but also that I’m definitely still going to get her on her knees someday somehow, if for nothing more than to pay her back for how annoying she’s been today. Can’t she tell I’m busy?

Annoyance bubbles over into frustration when I realize that the buzzing isn’t stopping, and this isn’t a text but a call. I didn’t realize texting like a grandmother meant she’d use her phone like one too, but I guess that’s my fault for overestimating her.

I let it ring as I put the finishing touches on my latest patient’s fractured coccyx. I can’t use the slivers of bone that got into his colon without spending forever waiting for a custom enzyme to break them down, so I get Douglas to hold a pan under the man’s butt as I push them out.

The buzzing stops, and scant few seconds later starts again. I frown, not even fantasies of making Taylor suffer can beat out this vexation. I don’t answer it though, as that’d be giving her just what she wants. Instead, my fantasies get meaner and meaner. I consider withholding healing from anyone named Linda, giving Taylor the flu next time we touch, or maybe even messing with her taste buds so she can never enjoy her favorite foods again. I could increase the rate at which her vision deteriorates, or give her a unibrow, or make her infertile, or--

“Do you need to get that?” Douglas asks and immediately raises his hands in surrender at my glare.

After making sure the patient won’t die in the two minutes it’ll take to block Taylor’s number, I step away and pull out my phone. What I see makes my stomach fall out of me and my blood freeze in my veins; it’s a sight that every teenager-- no, everyone of all ages ever dreads, something that inspires horror and fear in equal measure, quite possibly the worst sight imaginable.

Missed Call: Mom (4)

I don’t have long to stare at that screen before it disappears under another incoming call from the terrifying woman whose house I live in. I swallow. I have to answer it. I have to pick up. There’s no universe where not picking up is the better option, but knowing that doesn’t make it any easier. On the fourth ring, I make myself accept the call, then brace myself as I put the phone to my ear.

“Hey. Mom.”

“Where are you?” Carol asks, straddling the line between restrained and furious.

“I’m at Pale-Hart.”

“The hospital? You’re not scheduled to heal today. You’re supposed to be home.”

“I figured uh. I wasn’t doing anything, so I might as well?”

“You don’t set your schedule,” she informs me. “I negotiate with the hospitals on where you’re supposed to be and when. Not you.”

For a moment, I wonder why she’s taking issue with this when she’s never raised concerns about me healing over my hours before -- There’s no way she doesn’t know I do more than my allotted 15 hours every week. We haven’t talked about it, but there’s no way she’s not aware. So why is this suddenly an issue?

I sigh. I should be healing, not talking, so I try to bring the conversation to its point. “What’s this about?”

“We need to talk,” she says, her voice somewhy colder than before. “Come home.”

The line goes dead.

That… does not bode well. It bodes poorly, actually. In fact, it might be one of the worst bodes imaginable. The bode is so bad I have to struggle to swallow the lump it’s left in my throat.

“I have to go,” I tell Douglas.

“There’s… still more on the list,” he replies, vaguely confused by the breach in protocol.

I don’t have a satisfying answer to the implied question. I look around the E.R. and see all the people I could be helping. All the people that I should be saving. Just out of arm’s reach are almost a dozen, and I have to just walk away? Let the doctors and nurses handle it? Sure, they’re trained professionals, but they’re not miracle workers; they can’t do the things I can do, can only help instead of heal.

My nails dig into my palms as I reach for the best decision I can. “I’ll come back later,” I promise. “Tonight. I just… My mom needs me home.”

He gives me an odd look like he’s only just realizing I’m a teenager. “Alright. I’ll tell Racquel. Thanks for coming by, it was nice working with you.”

I’m already leaving. I move quickly, first outside, then back inside to the break room for my thermos, then back outside to the bus stop. The bus doesn’t keep me waiting long, just enough for another text to come in. I check to make sure this one’s from Taylor, then repocket my phone; I have Carol to worry about, and I can’t be thinking about what I’m going to do to Taylor right now.

I put my earbuds in after the first time someone bothers me during the ride to ask if I’m the real Panacea. They let me listen to music, sure, but I mostly just want to have an implied barrier between any other fans and myself to keep them away so I can instead stress about whatever the fuck Carol’s on about with her cryptic bullshit this time.

There’s no way she’s actually mad that I was doing hero work; she knows I go in off schedule all the time and has had plenty of chances to call me on it before now. Did a teacher call her about a failed test or something? I don’t think I bombed any recently, and I haven’t let myself sleep in class since my last Talk with Carol, so there shouldn’t be any reason for the school to have contacted her.

For a moment I wonder if it could be something positive, but I strike the idea down as soon as I consider it. She wouldn’t call me home for anything good, and her tone all but promised punishment.

Maybe she-- Oh no. A gut-twisting idea worms its way into my brain. What if Carol somehow found out about the assaults I've helped Vicky cover up? Shit. Shit shit-- No. No no no, I need to calm down. If Carol knew, she would have said “We’re having a team meeting,” not “we need to talk,” since that would have to involve the whole team. Maybe she’d want to talk to Vicky and me before said hypothetical team meeting, but there’s no way the rest of New Wave would have dissenting opinions on the matter, so Carol would almost certainly want them on her side to hammer in how fucked we are. So it’s not that.

What else could it be? What other ways have I fucked up recently? Maybe she’s mad about my door? I’d say it’d be extreme to demand a Talk just for that, but this is Carol.

My phone buzzing -- I silence it now; I don’t need it making noise while I’m talking to Carol -- puts a new, terrible thought into my head. This could be about Taylor, if Carol found out about her. I haven’t announced it on Youhoo or PHO or anything, but it’s not exactly been a closely guarded secret either. But the only things that’re really worrisome about Taylor are her powers and what she’s doing to me, and there’s no way Carol would be calling me home if she knew about those. No, if that were the case, I’d get picked up by a PRT Master/Stranger containment squad without warning; I’m pretty sure that’s the protocol, though I was paying more attention to Vicky’s lips than the words passing between them when she was telling me about it. She was wearing Ulta’s Rose #7 that day.

Carol shouldn’t be mad that I have a completely normal and not at all evil or fake girlfriend, much less that I’m dating, not since Vicky’s been doing the same for a couple years now, but I know better than to think that she and I are held to the same standard. Maybe Carol’s mad that I didn’t tell her? Vicky certainly was.

I could be coming at this from the wrong direction though; it could be that she’s not mad at anything I’ve done, but instead had planned something for me and me not being home like she expected, coupled with how I didn’t answer the phone, soured her mood. Maybe she’s finally going to tell me who my villainous parent is? …God I hope not. I do not need to know that sort of legacy. Thankfully, since she’s had ten years to tell me and hasn’t, there’s almost no chance of today being the day she changes her mind, but still.

Maybe I have some long lost sister through my villain-parent, and Carol’s warning me about her? I almost laugh at the idea. It’s silly, until I consider that such a hypothetical sister would probably be a terrifying and powerful villain, especially if she had powers similar to mine: some sort of body-jacker, or an esoteric ‘life force’ drainer, or an actual biotinker. But no, that sort of thing would definitely come with a team meeting too.

The bus pulls to a stop and I disgorge and walk the last block and a half home. The white picket fence that encloses the front yard suddenly and nonsensically reminds me of an artistically eviscerated ribcage, each picket a bone menacingly stabbing upward, a statement of ill intent.

I put that thought out of my head and move past the fence to the door. I don’t have a reason to fear this house, not really. It’s uncomfortable, but not scary. It’s home. The only one I’ve ever known -- or at least the only one I can remember. It’s… safe and stuff. I can hole up in my room after a long day and usually be left alone. No matter what Carol needs to Talk to me about, she’s not going to attack me or give me the boot or anything. There’s no way she’d invite the PR catastrophe of kicking Panacea to the curb. That’d be silly, right? Right.

So why is it so hard to open this door?

Oh. It’s locked.

One keyturn later and I’m inside. I remove my robe and stash it in the coat/costume closet next to my spare, then take a moment to breathe and collect myself. This is likely the last moment of respite I’ll have before Carol confronts me about Taylor, Vicky’s violence, the door, my heritage, or whatever else this is about. Still, I’m no stranger to forcing myself to follow through on unpleasant things, so I don’t let myself linger for longer than it takes to make sure my costumes are both hanging right.

I step out of the foyer and into the house proper.

“In my office,” Carol calls impatiently, even though I’m already on my way there; it’s the only place she ever has us Talk.

I hold back a sigh and keep heading that way. Her office door is open, giving me a view of the pair of plush sofa chairs she has arranged in the corner, a low table between them. Bookshelves -- filled mostly with books but also with random kitsch Carol probably thought was artsy -- run along the walls behind the unsurprisingly unoccupied chairs, and I know from my previous forays into the room that the shelves line all of the walls except the one behind Carol’s desk; filing cabinets and a closed terrarium run along that one.

I cross the threshold to her office and see the woman sitting exactly where I expected: in her unimaginably comfortable office chair, situated behind her dark, wooden desk. Either one costs as much as my Terror Nibs workcrew. Carol’s hands are folded atop her desk, and her face screams professional detachment until suddenly a crack appears.

Exasperated, she asks me, “What happened to your face?”

I blink and my hand reflexively reaches for my bandaged nose. I… didn’t expect her to act concerned, and I’m caught too off-guard to come up with any explanation, much less an unincriminating one -- if she doesn’t know about Taylor, I’m not going to be the one to tell her and make this Talk worse than it has to be. But before I can come up with anything, she ruins it.

“You can’t go out looking like that; people will talk.”

Of course. My hand drops dejectedly to my side. I mutter, “It’s just a bruise.”

“That doesn’t matter. It’s a bad look for Panacea to be visibly injured.” She releases a put-upon sigh. “See if Victoria can cover it with makeup in the morning. I presume from the bandage you’ve at least had someone at Pale-Hart look at it. Did they say when the bruise will be gone?”

“It’s not serious, so it should be gone in about a week,” I dutifully, sullenly report.

“Small mercies.” She shakes her head, then gestures to the metal folding chair set up in front of her desk. “Sit. And close the door behind you.”

I do so. Whatever I expected this talk to be, so far it isn’t. Judging by Carol’s pensive frown, she’s feeling similarly. I ask, “What did you want to talk about?”

“I’ll be frank. I know about your girlfriend.”

It’s both a relief and a frustration. By her phrasing, she doesn’t know about Taylor’s powers, and this frankness probably means that this is the only topic of discussion. Not as bad as it could be, but definitely not what I want to talk or even think about after today’s disaster with her. I keep a lid on my immediate reaction, so as to not let anything Carol doesn’t already know slip.

She opens a manila folder that’s on her desk and removes a paper from within. The folder closes and the paper is set in front of me. It’s a picture of Taylor and me. I have an arm around her waist and the goofiestly fond smile on my face as I stare up at her face. I think this is from Monday after school? Yeah, I recognize that elbow that couldn’t quite get cropped out of the picture as Vicky’s, and the brick background looks like Arcadia’s perimeter wall.

“What I don’t know,” she continues in a much more annoyed tone, “is why I had to learn about her from the Brockton Gazette instead of from you. Perhaps you could illuminate for me the thought process behind your decision not to tell me about her?”

“I. Uh. Well.” How do I say ‘I was hoping to avoid this talk’ without making things worse for me? “I didn’t tell you because we’re not that serious yet. We’ve only been dating for a week, so we were keeping it quiet.”

“’Quiet?’” she asks. She looks down at the picture in my hand, then back at me. I shrink into myself a hair at her stare. “Nearly ending up in a tabloid isn’t what most people would consider ‘quiet.’ You’re lucky I was able to convince the editor to pull the story, otherwise your relationship would quickly be very much not quiet.”

From her tone and cadence, I can tell she’s building up to a rant, and I know better than to try and defend myself in the middle of one. Everything I could say, she would twist back around into another angle of attack. The only way to survive this is to be silent, so that’s what I am.

“Since you were trying to keep it ‘quiet’, is it safe to say you’re aware of the dangers you will face when this comes out? And make no mistake: it will come out,” she tells me, returning to her coolly detached and professional tone. “I was able to stop this story from hitting the shelves, but sooner or later -- and it will almost certainly be sooner with the amount of attention we receive -- another gossip rag will snap a photo and you’ll be outed before I can stop it. Once you’re out, that’s it. There’s no going back in the closet.

“Since you’ve kept this off social media thus far, you’re obviously aware of that, so you should also know that we only have a brief window to reverse course and contain this before it erupts. I know you’ve likely already told some people, but I hope you at least had the foresight to actually keep it amongst those we can trust to keep it to themselves and not spread it to the four corners of the internet. Talk to them, whoever they are, and tell them to forget whatever you told them and whatever they think they saw. Tell them whatever they need to hear to understand how serious this is. We still have time to contain this, but we have to act quickly.”

She pauses, and I can see it as the prompt she means it to be, but instead of telling her who knows or immediately capitulating like she wants, I have to take it as an opportunity to try to understand what she’s saying, because it sounds like, “You want me to… not be gay?”

“Your sexuality is a part of you and there is no changing that,” she says, only a hint of exasperation showing through her calm. “What I want, is for you to have a chance to fully consider the ramifications of being publicly queer and whether coming out is what’s best for yourself and for the family. The biggest obstacle to this will be the girl, of course. Do you think she would be amenable to ‘keeping it quiet,’ or do you think she would retaliate?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, still almost completely lost. “Retaliate for what?”

“For when you tell her you won’t be seeing her anymore.”

“I-- What?” I gape at Carol. I can’t break up with Taylor. I mean I could, but I can’t. That’d mean throwing away the last week of stupidly annoyingly earned progress. That’d mean going back to wanting Vicky 24/7 instead of the current… 16/5 and 24/2. But wait, Taylor’s coming to Sledgehammer on Saturdays, so it’s… 16/5, 12/1, 24/1? That’s not accounting for if we hang out after school or on Sunday, so really it would be more like -- The point is, “I can’t-- I can’t break up with Taylor.”

“And why not?” she asks like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “And don’t tell me you love her; you admitted you’re not serious yet, and any infatuation with her isn’t worth the danger of being openly queer in this city. The obvious solution then, is for you and this girl to stop seeing each other.”

“I can’t-- We’re not-- Isn’t this kind of… you know…”

“Finish your sentence.”

I whimper involuntarily, soft enough that she might not have heard. “I mean, it’s the twenty-first century and all. Shouldn’t you be… you know… accepting? And not…”

She gives me a look that’s somewhere between dumbfounded, tired, and insulted. “Do you think I’m being homophobic? I’m not homophobic. You know I was with Mark before he came out.”

I blink. I cringe. I can’t believe I forgot Carol’s bisexual. But is it even really my fault? I mean she’s been married to a man longer than I’ve been alive. Still. “I’m-- Please. Don’t do this. I’m tired of hiding. I don’t want to break up with her.”

Her cool gaze flickers, changing momentarily before resettling into familiar chill. “Call it a hiatus, then. Victoria and Dean go on break quite often; maybe you and Taylor could do the same? Just until interest dies down and you two can be trusted to be discreet.”

Despite her conciliatory tone, I can make out the true meaning of her words. If I agree, Carol will simply never give Taylor and I her vote of trust and will shove my agreement now in my face later to try and keep us apart forever. I see her. After ten years under her roof, I’m onto her tricks, and I’ve long since learned the only way of dealing with her when she gets like this.

“No,” I say with as much emphatic weight as I can put into the singular word. It comes out as a whine.  

She stares at me for a moment longer, her lips pursed and her eyes calculating, and I think she’s going to press further, to force the issue and hammer me until I agree, but instead she changes tack. “What do you know about your girlfriend?”

…I don’t know where this is going, but I know it’s bad. “What do you mean?”

“What do you know about her?” she repeats, not elaborating.

“She… transferred from Winslow?”

Her suspicious look transforms into a different, equally suspicious look: a feat I’ve only known Carol to be capable of. “Is that all you know about her?”

“No. What? No, I know stuff.”

“Tell me then.”

“Uh. What do you want to know?”

Her eyes narrow another fraction. “What do you like about her? Why did you decide to take her specifically as your girlfriend?”

A chill creeps up my spine. Does she suspect Taylor? More specifically, does she think Taylor’s Mastering me into a relationship? If so, how the fuck did she get that idea into her head? Am I being suspicious? I can’t worry about that right now, right now I have to-- Oh dammit. I have to convince Carol that I genuinely like Taylor. That creepy bitch just keeps finding new ways to make my life hell.

Think, Amy, think. What’s nice about Taylor? I have to come up with at least one conceivable reason someone could like her. That can’t be that hard; surely she has at least one good selling point, right? What’s she good for? What’s she good at?

“She’s a good kisser,” I blurt after what must have been fifteen seconds of silence, and I wish for a moment that I didn’t have a mouth, or at least that I had someone who could stop me from saying the stupid stuff that I seem so inclined to say at every opportunity. Given that I don’t have a merciful god at my beck, I blurt out the next piece of possibly positive information I know about Taylor.

“She likes science fiction books. Books in general, actually. Like classics and uh. She’s got almost all of Hamlet memorized for some reason. She’s got a good singing voice even though she doesn’t like music,” I say before Carol can follow up on my earlier words, and even though I know I’m blabbering, it’s better than giving Carol a chance to follow up on my first words, so I just say everything not-awful I know about the freak. “She’s… honest? Like, she doesn’t talk much, but she always means what she says, if that makes sense. She’s really against bullying, and it kind of makes her awful with people and she can be really annoying about it when she says stuff she really has no reason to say, and she’s stubborn as all hell and” -- Crap wait, gotta keep it positive -- ”Uh. But she’s also really considerate. Like, she checks in with me when we’re doing stuff to make sure I’m okay, even when she doesn’t need to. Even when I’ve…” Even when I’ve been a huge bitch to her, she gives me another chance and doesn’t stop trying to help.

My phone sits heavy in my pocket, her texts an uncomfortable weight against my butt. I shake myself off to refocus on the conversation at hand. I can think about Taylor later; right now I have to think about Taylor.

“Taylor likes hot tea, but hates boba and coffee,” I say, knowing I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel and coming up neutral. If I keep going, I’m pretty sure I’ll only be able to name inane, unimportant stuff about her; I’ve known her for like three weeks so it’s not that surprising, but it is worrying, since I need to convince Carol that what’s going on definitely isn’t what’s going on. “She uh… likes apples more than oranges? And uh. Doesn’t like long board games? She’s not very good about her diet, but I’m pretty sure that’s more of a poverty-thing than a her-thing. Oh! She’s poor. And--”

“That’s enough,” Carol decides, moving on and freeing me from this praising hell. I can’t tell if my verbal vomit worked and lessened her suspicions, or if she just doesn’t want to hear me talk anymore -- I’ll be happy with either, honestly; I was past the point of running out of stuff to say. “I take it then that she hasn’t thought to share with you the details of her living situation? Her parentage? Her history at Winslow?”

“N-no?” What’s she talking about?

“And you never bothered to ask?” She doesn’t give me a chance to respond. “You didn’t find it suspicious that she never mentioned her home life or the circumstances of her split-term transfer?”

“We’ve only been going out a couple weeks,” I defend.

Her gaze sharpens. “’A couple weeks?’ Earlier, you said you’ve been dating for a week. Which is it: one week or two?”

“One. Um.” I swallow. “Just since last Friday.”

“So not even a week?” She clicks her tongue at me.

“I know some stuff,” I protest, internally bristling at whatever she’s implying. “I know her mom’s name is Linda, and her gay aunt Josephine lives with them, and she’s got a bunch of siblings.”

Carol gives me a bewildered look that swiftly morphs into pity. “Her mother is dead, and Taylor is an only child. Linda and Josephine are the names of two of the Sisters of Merciful Waves: the orphanage that houses Taylor along with ten other orphans.”

Fucking what?! “She’s an orphan?!”

“Do not raise your voice at me.”

My gaze falls from her displeased face, landing on the novelty mug on her desk, embossed with the words “my other super power is THE LAW” and filled with pens. It was a mother’s day gift from Vicky years ago. I got her one the year after, but I’m not sure I’ve seen it since then.

She huffs in frustration. “I understand the passions of youth, Amy. I know how easy it is for things to get away from you in the heat of the moment, but you have to exercise restraint and control and do your due diligence before you make decisions that could affect other people. You cannot simply hook up with the first girl who catches your eye and damn everything else. What if this girl wanted to hurt you? Did you consider that?”

“Of course I did. I’m not… stupid…” My assertion folds under the weight of Carol’s unwavering countenance.

“You didn’t look into her. You didn’t tell me about her, or question her about her background. As far as I can tell, you didn’t take any precautions whatsoever with this girl.”

“I took precautions,” I protest.

“Oh?”

“Yes!” I exclaim, happy to be able to prove her wrong. “I brought Vicky with me when I first met Taylor, and she was there on our first date. I was being safe.”

Rather than assure Carol, my words summon a storm onto her face. In a low, dangerous voice, she all but growls, “You suspected a dangerous situation. And your solution. Was to use my daughter. As a human shield. Is that what you’re saying?”

She rises as she speaks, both action and words slow and deliberate, until she’s towering over me like an avalanche. I want to run, but my legs are locked, every muscle tense with stillness, and I know I wouldn’t make it a single step before I fell flat on my face. Not that running could hope to save me.

I try to explain, hoping that Carol will take pity on me and not cleave me in twain, but when I open my mouth, a squeak leaves and nothing else follows. Pathetic.

Her glare does not soften with pity, but instead hardens with anger. I flinch and my mouth shuts, my unspeakable justification that Vicky can take care of more than just herself withering away in my throat to coat it in ash. Carol takes a deep breath through her nose and her fingers curl and uncurl threateningly as she no doubt considers strangling me.

“I won’t go into how stupid and dangerous that ‘plan’ of yours was because there are not enough hours in the day to get into that -- Did Victoria even know to expect danger? No, that doesn’t matter. You’re lucky Ms. Hebert wasn’t in a position or of an inclination to harm either of you herself, otherwise we would be having a very different conversation right now. Do you understand me?” she asks despite the question having only one answer, her voice never reaching above an appropriate volume for the room.

“Yes ma’am-- Mom,” I hurry to correct myself. “Yes Mom.”

She takes another huffy-deep breath then continues in that same threatening voice, “Back to the topic at hand: the girl. You’re lucky I’m here to look into her, since your family’s personal safety apparently didn’t stick in your mind as worth considering. You’re aware both of her parents have violent criminal records, yes? No, what am I saying, of course you aren’t, because you never bothered to find out whether or not her mother was a radical feminist gangster, or if her father had ties to the mob; you decided -- I am not finished speaking; you will wait your turn,” she growls when I open my mouth. She continues, “You decided it was better to gallivant around town with a delinquent than to exercise even a hint of forethought or a modicum of discretion. You exposed yourself and Victoria to an unknown element without consulting me, endangering not only yourself but the entire team.”

[image]

I stew miserably in the pause in Carol’s rant, wondering for a moment too long if that’s the end and it’s my turn or--

“Well? You had something to say, didn’t you? I’m listening.” Carol huffs, sitting back down.

“How do you know all this stuff about her?” I ask, equal parts intimidated and impressed. She only learned about Taylor two days ago, max.

“I talked to people,” she answers, obviously unimpressed with and tired of me, and like that my fear beats out my awe. Honestly, that’s a pretty constant experience for me when I talk to Carol. “Most of this is a matter of public record, and it only took trips to the courthouse and Winslow High to get a fair understanding of her character.”

“Wait, school records aren’t public.”

“I didn’t get her records, but the staff and administration had many stories to tell about Miss Hebert. Honestly, the hardest part was making all of the accounts cohere into a single narrative, but the one standout truth is that she is, above all else, a liar and an attention-seeker.”

“That-- No? She’s, that doesn’t sound like Taylor at all. She hates attention.”

“You’ve been seeing each other for less than a week, and you think you know her? You think you’re an expert on the girl? You like kissing her, so she can do no wrong? Is that it?”

“NO! I--”

“Inside voice, Amy,” she admonishes. “Control yourself.”

I grit my teeth, swallow my scream, blink away my blurry vision, and grind out my words in as calm a voice as possible. “I vetted her with my power. That’s how I know she’s not lying to me. It’s how I know she’s not-- using me or whatever it is you think she’s doing.” If anything, I’m the user in our relationship.

Carol leans back in her chair and takes a moment to appraise me. She nods. “Good. You made at least one smart decision.”

Despite the arguable praise, my tension doesn’t abate. I know Carol’s not done. She never is, and she almost never praises me without an ulterior motive. I bet she’s going to try to convince be to dump her again, now that I know she comes from criminals too.

“I can’t say I approve, but if you’re set on seeing this girl, and on finally coming out, I’ll of course need to meet her. She needs to know the danger she could be exposed to, being publicly tied to a hero, even one as… inoffensive as Panacea, and otherwise it is my duty as your” - always the slightest pause - “mother to meet any potential entanglements of yours.”

I feel like the floor’s fallen out from under me, which is impressive considering how I thought I’d dug myself to the center of the Earth over the course of this conversation.

Carol wants to meet Taylor. The girl pretending to be my girlfriend and the unstoppably terrifying woman who is my guardian in a room together. Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh god oh fuck this is the worst day of my life since Vicky asked if I’d be her maid of honor if she and Dean ever got married and I had to say yes because of course that’s the only thing I could dare to say in that situation and she cheered and told me she actually wanted to marry that prick someday and it really sank in -- again -- that she’d always be out of my reach and I’d never have her the way I want more than anything.

Today only beats then out because Carol and Taylor aren’t meeting right now.

“Bring her for dinner on Friday, at say, seven o’clock? That should give you plenty of time after your drama club meeting” -- Oh shit; I still have to color those sketches for the backdrops for tomorrow -- “to get ready. How does that sound?”

I open my mouth to answer but nothing escapes, not even breath. I try again. “That’s- so soon.”

“The sooner the better, don’t you agree? We need to get a handle on this and make a plan of action as soon as possible if you two are going to continue your relationship,” she says as if she’s not only using this dinner as a chance to convince Taylor to dump me. “Until then, I expect you two to keep your hands to yourselves in public and” -- Carol purses her lips and frowns at me: one that is strangely not angry or disapproving -- “I hope you are being… responsible in private.”

Blood rushes to and then drains from my face in a rapid embarrassment-mortification combo. I sputter, “W-we’re both girls!”

Her frown expands and I belatedly recognize it as discomfort. Odd on Carol’s face. “…I’ll pick up some reading material for you, next time I’m out. You of all people should know that pregnancy isn’t the only risk during intimacy.”

“We’ve been dating for a week,” I squeak-squeal, my voice high and fragile. “We’re not-- We haven’t… done, stuff, yet. I can’t even get or spread or-- I heal!”

She studies me with a brow furrowed either with continuing discomfort or rising disbelief - I cannot tell which at first glance, and can’t keep my eyes on her face long enough to figure it out. She stands abruptly. “Your father and sister should be home soon; I need to get dinner started. You… do your homework. I know you still have some.”

She leaves and I bury my face in my hands, still mortified by having another instance of The Talk with Carol, even an abridged one such as this. I groan when I realize that that distracted us and I didn’t take the chance to argue against or even delay the dinner with Taylor, and now that Carol’s left, I don’t have a chance in hell of protesting it; she’s left the room, so the matter is resolved in her head, which means it might as well be set in stone for the rest of us. Changing her mind now would take an act of god, and even then it would be iffy.

How the hell am I going to keep Carol from breaking us up? Even with meeting Carol, I don’t expect Taylor to give in and break up with me or anything, but in just the last three hours I learned she’s straight and the spawn of criminals, so what the hell do I know? Is Carol -- I shudder at the thought -- right? Was I stupid to trust Taylor just because she didn’t lie? Even if she didn’t directly lie to me, she still never told me anything about her past. And why did I not think to ask? Did she… No. No, there’s no way she’d mess with my head to make me not bother asking after her past, not when I know she hasn’t broken her word about using her power outside the boundaries I set, and plus I had plenty of opportunities to ask while I was outside of her range. So then why did I never do that?

Was I… what? Too caught up in having a girlfriend, fake though she may be? Am I a naturally trusting person? No, it’s more likely I’m just a fucking idiot. Carol was right; I didn’t think things through or take enough precautions. Just seeing her face shouldn’t have been enough for me to trust her to mind control me, but I was just so desperate to be done hurting over Vicky that I did something stupid. Sure, Taylor’s… mostly turned out kind of okay, as far as a master to hand my brain over to; I know she could be much, much worse than she is, but I didn’t know that going in!

“God dammit. Why am I so stupid?”

I look over my shoulder to see the door is closed. I look back at the folder and bite my lip. Pretty much all of Taylor’s life is in there -- or at least the incriminating parts of it. Nothing secret, really, but not anything she’d want anyone to know. If anyone else were contained in those pages…

I reach out and grab the dossier, opening it up to read. It’s wrong. I know it’s wrong. It’s an invasion of privacy, but really her privacy has already been invaded. Carol knows all of this, so it makes sense for me to know it too, just to keep up with her. Plus, Taylor invades my privacy all the time, constantly. It’s how and why we met. Turnabout is fair play, right? Even with this, I’m not nearly as much of a creep as her.

Even this much justification doesn’t calm the familiar, churning weight in my gut. Even though this is fair, it feels wrong. Still, I read.

Chapter Text

Wednesday. January 26.

June 7th, 1963: Patricia R. Thorburn inherits large sum of money from ex-slaveowner grandmother. Portion donated to

It’s the fourth time I’ve read that line, or maybe the fifth, and just like the previous times, my eyes slide over the words. For something so incriminating and invasive, these pages are surprisingly boring. I feel like they should be juicy, but I can barely focus on any of it, my mind too full of cottony noise to absorb anything. It’s like I have a million thoughts but they all fizzle into nothing: synapses firing without a destination, energy exhausted for no gain. And at the center of all that chaff is Taylor.

I look down at her yet-unopened texts for the… seventh? time in the last half hour. There are over a dozen messages, and I know I should respond to them, or at least read them, but… it’s hard. I don’t know what to do about her. I don’t know what I should, or even can, do about her, and as soon as I read those texts, I know I’ll have to make some sort of decision.

With everything I’m learning, I know I should run. She’s the daughter of a TERF gangster and a rioter, the granddaughter of an Irish mobster and a… I flip back a couple pages. Where is it… Oh. Granddaughter of a mobster on her father’s side and an embezzler on her mother’s, Taylor’s got a lot of shady stuff in her family history. She comes from a bad place. That should make the decision easy.

But when I think about all she can offer, it muddies my thoughts. Getting normal about Vicky, proving Carol wrong, keeping myself under control: the opportunity is too great to just dismiss, especially when I’m already in this deep. I don’t know what to do. She’s bad, but I knew that going into this. She can help, but I don’t know how long she can hold back her inheritance. I just don’t know what to do. I…

I just need to get through this folder. There are answers in here, there have to be. I know Carol left it for me to read, and I know she wants me to dump Taylor, so this has to be another one of her mind games, but there’s so much info in here -- Some of it has to be useful. I just need to get through it, then I’ll know enough about Taylor to decide if I should dump her or… keep trusting her, I suppose.

June 7th, 1963: Patricia R. Thorburn inherits large sum of money from ex-slaveowner grandmother. Portion donated to St. Luke’s Cathedral in Boston, run by Reverend Father Joseph MacDonald, suspected of connections to the 

“Dinner’s ready,” comes Mark’s booming voice.

“Oh thank fuck,” I exhale in exhausted relief as my eyes slip closed. I should keep reading, but an excuse for a break from Taylor sounds perfect right now.

I set the folder back on Carol’s desk and stand, but before I step toward the exit, I pause. I’m barely halfway through the dossier, and there’s no guarantee Carol will let me back in here, even if it’s to read the material she purposefully left out for me. So rather than take the risk, I pull out my phone and snap some pictures.

Despite my delay, I’m not the last to arrive. Carol and Mark are already seated at their usual spots. Dinner plates full of Thai take-out are set out in all four places at the table, and I take my seat in front of my drunken noodle, with Carol across from me and Mark to my left.

“Vicky,” Mark calls again. “Just waiting on you.”

“Coming!” she returns from upstairs, followed by the sound of feet against the stairs. She appears in the doorway and heads for her seat to my right. Her hair is still damp from her post-patrol shower, and she’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and an oversized shirt. “Sorry, I was still getting dressed.”

Vicky’s butt touching chair is our signal to start eating and we waste no time. Mark’s second bite is in his mouth before Vicky even has her silverware in hand. I’m not much slower than him, having not realized the depths of my own hunger until that first chunk of noodle touched my tongue. For a while, the only sounds in the dining room are that of metal on porcelain.

“So Vicky,” Mark starts between bites, “how was your patrol?”

“It was good,” Vicky answers after she swallows. “Laserdream and I ran into Gallant and Vista while we were out, so we tagged along with them. We mostly stayed near the Boardwalk so there wasn’t too much excitement” -- Carol gives a subtle nod of approval that goes unnoticed by the others -- “other than a drunk driver” -- Carol frowns minutely, again unnoticed -- “but Vista kept him from hitting anything with a…” She motions with her hand, vaguely. “Thing.”

“A thing?” Carol asks.

“Yeah. A warpy, twisty, bendy thing.” Vicky frowns. “I’m not sure there are words for what she did to his car and the road, but if there are, I definitely don’t know them. You know how Vista’s power is.” She shrugs. “What about you, Dad? How’d yours go?”

He smiles. “It went really well, actually. Manpower and I came across a couple of the Empire villains: Brickhaus and that new one.”

“Which new one? There’ve been like, three in the last two months.”

There’s a collective pause as everyone sits with that knowledge. The sad fact of the city is that the Empire, no matter how many capes are arrested and sentenced, is ever-growing. Most only stick around for a few months, then leave and reappear in a different fascist gang elsewhere, but the sheer glut of power the Empire can call upon is, in a word, terrifying.

“The white one,” Mark says at length.

“They’re all white, dear,” Carol says. “That’s their Thing.”

“No, I mean the really white one, uhh…” He snaps his fingers as he tries to remember, then screws up his face as he guesses, “Whitey? It’s not that, but my brain’s not giving me anything else. It’s a color name.”

Everyone stares at him for a moment before Vicky fields, “Alabaster?”

“Yes!” Mark points at Vicky. “That’s it. We ran into those two near Monmouth Street.”

“That’s near downtown,” Carol states.

“Do you think they were picking a fight with Coil?” Vicky asks.

Mark shrugs. “No clue. They ran off after Manpower pinned Alabastard--”

“Dear,” Carol calmly warns.

“Right, sorry,” Mark apologizes with an unapologetic smile. “Manpower pinned Alabaster and they cut their losses. I was useless against him, but Brickhaus needs his eyes and ears as much as the next guy.”

“Wait so you caught him?” Vicky asks excitedly.

“Not… exactly. He’s tricky, more than most regenerators. Blew himself up with a grenade and came back from a piece across the street, then ran off.”

“Great. Just what this city needs: another Oni Lee.”

“I don’t know if he’ll ever be quite that bad,” hedges Mark, “but… Yeah.”

“Do you think we should start patrolling in that area? If the Empire’s poking Coil, we should be ready to intervene, right?”

“You know your aunt is the one who sets the schedule and patrol routes,” Carol says. “You can bring it up at our team meeting on Sunday, but I don’t want to hear about you seeking out a fight there.”

“Sure, yeah.”

“I’m serious, Victoria.” Carol sets down her utensils. “We don’t know whether your invulnerability holds up against Coil’s mercenaries’ tinkertech.”

“Pretty sure I can handle it,” Vicky mutters. When Carol fixes her with a serious Look, she defends, “I’m just saying.”

Carol’s glare softens into concern. “I’m serious. I don’t want you getting hurt. You know what even regular guns can do to you.”

“Sorry,” Vicky says, somber. “I’ll stay away from there ‘til Auntie sets the schedule.”

Carol returns to her food, and the tension at the table abates.

“What about you, Amy?” Mark asks. “How’d you enjoy your day off?”

“She didn’t take the day off,” Carol answers primly. “She spent the afternoon at Pale-Hart, until I called her home.”

“Oh.”

Both he and Vicky give the pair of us odd looks. I focus on my noodles as I continue to eat, so as to not meet their eyes. Carol doesn’t respond to either of their silent questions either.

“So how’d that go for you, Amy? Anything interesting happen at the hospital?” Mark asks.

“Not really.” I push my food around with my fork and shrug.

Mark clicks his tongue and asks Vicky, “How are your classes at the university going?”

Vicky’s eyes linger on me. I know she’s wondering how I went from kissing Taylor to healing, but she has the tact to not press that right now. Instead, she halfheartedly responds to Mark, “They’re alright.”

“Just alright?” Mark asks. “What about your Parahuman Studies class? You were so excited for that.”

Finally, Vicky looks away. “I was. And I am. It’s just, we’ve been in an ethics module since the class started, and it’s… nyuegh .”

“Don’t discount ethics,” Carol says. “They’re important to keep in mind in any field -- especially when dealing with capes. You know how touchy some can be.”

“I know, I know,” Vicky says tiredly. “It’s just, I took the class to learn about powers. It’d be nice to actually learn about parahumans in Parahuman Studies. I’d have taken an ethics course if I wanted to get lectured about doing the right thing.”

“Could just stay home for that,” I mutter. Based on the three sets of eyes suddenly on me, I wasn’t quiet enough.

Carol’s eyes narrow as she raises her napkin to her lips, preparing to scold me, but before she can finish chewing, Mark lets out a boisterous, full-bellied laugh.

“Your mother does have quite the moral backbone, doesn’t she?” he says, smiling lovingly at the woman in question.

Bailed out by Mark, I hurry to agree with a nod, and Carol’s expression turns… If she were anyone else, I’d call it self-conscious or even shamefully contemplative. Since it’s Carol though, it just looks like she bit into a bad grape. It lasts for just for a moment, that sliver of a crack in her shell, before she schools her features into a small smile.

“Thank you,” she says. Her words and smile are directed at Mark, of course. An odd moment of silent, parent-to-parent communication later, she asks, “And how are classes for you?”

I take a bite of my chicken, then another, then look up when Vicky doesn’t answer. They’re all looking at me. I blink. Was Carol asking me ? I hurry to swallow before she can take offense, then answer.

“Fine. Good, actually.”

“Have you had any success bringing up your D in chemistry?” she asks.

“Maybe? We haven’t actually had much graded work yet, this semester. We had a test today, but I won’t know what I got until Friday.”

“How do you feel you did?”

I open my mouth, but pause. If I tell her I did well, and then bombed it, she wouldn’t trust any future self-assessments. Not that she necessarily does now but it’d still be bad. But if I tell her I bombed it, then regardless of how I actually scored, she’ll hound me about it. I think I did well, but to be safe, I shrug and say, “I’m not sure.”

“You finished pretty quick,” Vicky chips in, trying to be helpful. She’s not.

Under Carol’s newly sharpened gaze, I make myself decide. “I think I did well. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I’m sure you did fine,” Mark says. “And hey, you’re still passing. You know what they say: ‘D’ is for diploma.”

“ Mark. That is hardly appropriate,” Carol snaps. Husband quelled, she returns her focus to me. “Let me know if you start to fall behind again. I can talk to Alan to see if Anne may be willing to tutor you again if need be.”

If anything, that alone is incentive enough to pull my grade up. As attractive and as nice as Anne is, she’s a terrible tutor. Just absolute shit. Ironic, for someone pursuing a degree in education, but it’s the truth. She’s the type of person who gets it and gets frustrated when it doesn’t click for someone else. Most of her ‘tutoring’ is just repeating what the textbook says and getting increasingly frustrated. I’m almost half convinced Carol’s using Anne’s involvement as a threat to urge me to self-study better, rather than any sort of meaningful help.

“I’ll keep that in mind. I think I’ll be fine though,” I say.

“Oh?” Carol asks.

“Yeah. I’m actually feeling pretty good about this semester?” I’m not entirely sure why that came out as a question. It’s the truth, optimistic it may be. Somewhy, it’s been weirdly easy to focus in class lately.

“Good on you, kiddo,” Mark congratulates. “Depending on how your next report card looks, maybe we can go out for ice cream to celebrate?”

He directs the question to Carol, who responds with the least amount of enthusiasm possible. “That sounds… wonderful.”

“How come we never go out for ice cream when I get good grades?” Vicky asks, minorly offended.

“There isn’t enough ice cream in the world to celebrate every one of your good grades,” Carol responds with the hint of humor she only ever shares with Vicky, who smiles at the praise.

Conversation moves on to Carol’s work and remains there for a while, vague as she has to be while discussing her cases. I keep expecting Carol to bring up Taylor, or Friday’s dinner plans, or something, but she keeps not. I kind of wish she’d get it over with, just bring it out into the open and let me be done with it. But no, instead she just talks about work and cruelly lets me stew in my thoughts.

I want to be done. I want to not have to think about any of this anymore. I don’t want to worry about Carol’s ploy to break me and Taylor up. That’s assuming I don’t break things off on my own. I mean, I don’t want to. She’s useful. But I don’t know how much I can or should trust her after she hid her criminal ancestry from me.

But still… Going into this, I knew she was a monster too. And I verified that she genuinely wants to do good, but… I need to talk to her, I know I do, but I have no idea what to say to her. Is she like me, and knows her parents did some shady stuff, but doesn’t know the specifics? Or is she further shrouded from her heritage, and isn’t even aware?

I’m not sure if I should find such a position enviable or pitiable, but she would have to be a special flavor of stupid to have lived with Dan until just a few months ago and not know about her family’s stink. Dan’s been brought in on three separate occasions for assault -- bar fights, the record said -- and that’s small potatoes compared to the mess that was her mother. It may be wrong for me to think this, but I’m glad she’s dead. Anyone who worked under a transphobic shit-heel like Lustrum deserves that or a life in prison. Mutilating all of those transgender people… It’s unforgivable.

I drag my fork through the remains of my noodles, failing to spear even a single remaining bit. Whether Taylor’s informed or ignorant doesn’t tell me what to do about her. It’s all just so god damn complicated and I don’t like it! Maybe I should dump her, just to get it all over with. That’d be simple…

I take a cup of the mango pudding as it’s passed out -- the delicious capstone to an admittedly pretty alright family dinner -- and as I take a bite, Carol finally drops the sword that’s been hanging over my head all night.

“I have an announcement,” she announces.

“Good or bad?” Vicky asks, earning herself a reproachful look from Carol.

“Be patient and I’ll tell you.” To the table again, she continues, “Amy’s begun dating. She and her girlfriend have been together for less than a week, and are considering publicly coming out.”

“Hey, congrats,” says Mark without a hint of surprise. “Glad you figured it out now rather than later.”

“What?” I can’t help but ask because… “Why?”

He shrugs with a smirk. “You just won me twenty bucks.”

“Huh?” Vicky and I ask in chorus. Alone, I ask, “What does that mean?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” Carol says to me while giving Mark one of her sterner looks. A guilty, stricken look grows on his face, and Vicky puts it together a moment before I do.

“Were you betting on if Amy was gay?” she asks.

Mark looks to Carol for direction and her glare changes. It doesn’t lower in intensity, but it does shift to communicate something subtly different. Where before she was glaring to shut him up, now she glares as if to say, ‘you made your bed, now lie in it.’ He wilts.

“Not… exactly,” he says. He looks to Carol again, and she gestures with her hand for him to continue. He slumps further and does so. “The bet was when you’d come out. I had money on it being before your sixteenth birthday.”

“What the fuck.” It’s telling that this is the first time I can remember that Carol didn’t snap at me for my language. “Seriously, Dad. What the fuck. Who else was in on this?” I turn to Carol. “Were you in on this?”

“I was not,” she answers. “I found the whole thing to be wildly inappropriate and unprofessional and told them as much.”

“Uncle Neil and Aunt Sarah?” Vicky hazards a guess.

It’s proven a good guess when Mark nods. “Neil bet you’d come out after you turned sixteen, and Sarah had after you were eighteen.”

I blink, realizing something that’s hard to wrap my head around. “Wait a fucking second --”

“Amy,” Carol warns, and I know I’ve used up my lifetime allotment of fucks at the dinner table.

“Sorry,” I tell her, then turn back to Mark. “ All of you bet I was gay? None of you thought I was straight?”

“Well yeah, only a sucker would bet you’re straight,” Mark answers.

I don’t miss how Vicky looks away, but I also don’t have brain for that. I have to rest my head in my hands because the absurdity of this is doing weird things to my head. They knew? All of them? They all knew I was gay. How?! I’d been doing a good job keeping my orientation a secret -- Or at least I thought so. A-fucking-pparently not.

“How long have you known?” I ask.

“Since always. I mean, you weren’t exactly hiding it, were you?” Mark asks rhetorically. “We were just waiting for you to figure it out.”

…He thought I didn’t know. He thought, what?, that I was figuring myself out? I look to Carol hopefully -- wow that’s weird -- and she purses her lips, completely unamused. Still, she answers my silent question.

“I’ve known since you were eleven.”

“ How ?”

“As your, parents, it’s our job to know these things.”

“So this whole time, I could have just, what? Been out to you?”

Carol and Mark exchange a look. Mark fields the question. “Of course. We didn’t realize you were hiding it; we thought you were still figuring it out.”

“And you didn’t tell me?!”

“We didn’t want to pressure you. I thought we should give you the space to experiment and figure it out for yourself,” he explains. “We tried to make you feel comfortable telling us in your own time.”

“Wh-- Seriously?” It shouldn’t be this hard to wrap my head around this, but somewhy it is.

“Of course. What did you think all those ‘we’ll accept you no matter what’ talks were about?”

“I thought those were about my-- father.” I swallow thick at the word.

The temperature drops what feels like twenty degrees at the thoughtless word. The only source of heat in the room is Carol’s glare, and it’s a good thing that eye lasers aren’t a thing, otherwise I’d worry about her suddenly manifesting them. Instead, I just have to worry about the laser-swords from her hands.

In a feat of bravery I couldn’t imagine even Vicky replicating, Mark lays his hand on hers. After a long, painfully tense moment, Carol’s eyes leave me and flicker over to him. They converse in silent intimacy exclusive to an experienced couple. I flinch when something brushes against my hand, but the snapshot of biology that enters my mind assures me of safety before even my wide eyes. I put my hand back in place and let Vicky hold it again, and I squeeze whatever comfort I can from her indomitability.

The tension isn’t quite gone before Carol brings the conversation back on track and everyone’s hands leave everyone else’s, but I can breathe, so it’s not all bad.

“Anyway,” Carol says stiffly, causing Vicky to shoot me an incredulous look, “the reason I brought this up is because the girl, Taylor Hebert, will be joining us for dinner this Friday at seven. I’ve contacted her guardians and ensured she’ll be here, and I expect all of you to be in attendance as well.”

“Wait, this Friday?” Vicky asks, moving on because apparently she can just do that. I’m as grateful as I am envious.

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“There’s a guest lecture on campus that afternoon, and a bunch of us were going to hang out after and talk about it.”

“This is Dr. Aurelia’s lecture?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Vicky answers with hope in her voice.

“And will she be attending the talks afterward?”

“Uh, probably not? She might.”

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to miss it. Maybe one of your friends can take notes for you?”

“You know that’s not the same. I’d miss the whole forum aspect of it, and that’s the whole point.”

“This isn’t up for negotiation; I’ve already made the arrangements, and I need you here at that time.”

I watch as the fight falls out of Vicky. Her woebegone expression slumps into bummed petulance. She presses her spoon into her pudding, stirring it absently and ruining the consistency.

It’s likely a bit unkind and definitely selfish, but I’m kind of grateful to Carol right now. Vicky being here will make Friday a lot easier, if only as a shield from Carol’s targeted ire. I nudge her with my foot and give her a sympathetic smile when she looks up. As much as Carol obviously prefers Vicky over me, it’s… ‘nice’ isn’t the right word, but it’s nice that Vicky’s not exempt from Carol’s parental misanthropy.

She smiles back, but suddenly lights up with an idea and turns back to Carol to ask, “Can I invite Dean?”

I go wide-eyed at her betrayal, but comfort myself with the knowledge that this question is certain to go the same as the last: denied. There’s no way that Carol would actually say yes to letting Dean attend -- She can’t stand him. It’s one of my top five things I like about her. She rarely tolerates his presence in the house, meaning I almost never have to deal with both of them simultaneously, excepting public events.

So when Carol says “That sounds like a wonderful idea” instead of “Hell no, I’m going to murder him and bury the body in our flowerbed,” I blink. Then blink again. I look at Carol, then at Vicky, then back to Carol, and Vicky’s not mad or sad and Carol looks a bit pleased so obviously my ears are working right. I blink again, still not processing why she’d say yes.

“Sweet! Thanks, Mom, I’ll let him know.” Vicky pulls out her phone and doesn’t get snapped at to put it away despite us not being allowed phones at the dinner table, and my eyes grow wider; I feel my lids straining against my sockets at this point, the muscles drawn taut.

“Everything alright?” Mark asks me in a concerned voice.

“Yep!” I honk hoarsely. “Just fine.”

His look lingers for a moment, but then he gets reabsorbed into the energy of the conversation. “This’ll be fun. I could cook up something good. Maybe a roast, with some mashed potatoes on the side? And I’ve had a recipe for southern style green beans I’ve been wanting to try out. Sound good?”

“That sounds lovely,” says Carol. “I have some other things that need getting, if you would while you’re out.”

“Sure thing, light of my life,” he responds sappily and she smiles indulgently, reaching across the corner of the table to hold his hand.

“Why is Dean coming?” I struggle to ask.

“It’s been too long since we’ve had him over for dinner,” Carol lies.

Objectively, with a normal mom and a normal daughter’s boyfriend, it probably has been too long, but we’ve only ever gone out to eat with him, since that first time years ago. She doesn’t want him here to catch up or any nonsense like that. She wants him here… Oh no. Gallant. Empath. Taylor. SHIT .

“He said he’ll be there,” Vicky announces with a brilliant smile.

“Wait wait, I thought he has work Friday.”

“Just manning the console. Clock owed him a favor, so they traded. He’s stuck there Saturday now though, so that stinks.”

“So, your girlfriend?” Mark asks. “What was her name again? Tyler? Is that it?”

“Taylor,” I supply numbly. “Taylor Hebert.”

“Right. Is that French?” He asks. I give him a shrug in return, having no clue. That didn’t come up in her file. “So what’s she like?”

“She’s alright, I guess. Weird.” I don’t bother trying to hype her up again. It was a waste of energy with Carol, and everything’s going to fall apart on Friday anyway, so why bother repeating myself.

“Hm.”

“She’s more than alright,” Vicky says when she realizes I’ve said all I’m going to say. “She’s smart, and weirdly funny. Driest sense of humor I’ve ever seen -- If you’re not looking for her jokes, you’ll miss them completely. Plus, she’s a super talented actress. Blew everyone away when she auditioned last Friday even though everyone had heard that part of Hamlet a dozen times the week before.”

“Oh?” Carol moues. One of her many indecipherable looks lands on me. “She’s in drama with you?”

“Yeah,” Vicky answers for me. “She and Ames joined together, though Taylor got put in the cast, so it’s just me and Ames in the crew together.”

“That’s right, you’re not going to be on stage this year, are you?” Mark asks.

“Nope, I’m stage manager,” Vicky states proudly, “so I’m in charge of making sure everything stays on schedule and we’re ready for the show in May.”

“Well, hope you’re having fun with that. We’ll miss seeing you on stage,” he says without fucking thinking.

Vicky’s smile drops. She plasters it back on after less than a second, but it’s obviously forced, and the reason why is even more obvious; in Vicky’s two years -- that’s four semesters and sixteen shows -- of acting in the club, Mark only ever made it to two shows, and arrived late to one of them. Carol didn’t make it to even that many.

Vicky says something to keep conversation flowing, and Mark responds, but I don’t hear, the conversation falling on my ears like rain on a tin roof: every individual sound vying to be the loudest and most attention-grabbing, all failing through their ephemerality and together becoming so much noise.

Neither of our parents noticed Vicky’s downturn in mood, of course. She doesn’t let them. The crack in her mood was only visible for an instant, and despite how much they care for her, they miss so much about her. Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one who actually sees her for who she really is, past the glitz and glam and star power she blinds the world with, through to her warts and flaws. Like I’m the only one to see her insecurities and failings, the lack of control and her stubbornness. Since I’m the only one who sees her, I’m the only one who can actually love her.

I love her.

I love Vicky. So, so much. And come Friday, I’m going to lose her. Carol, Dean, Taylor, and Vicky in a room together. Talking about me. Carol’s going to use Dean’s power and her archaeologizing words to rip Taylor in half and all of my secrets will come spilling out of her, revolting and septic like bloody pus from a boil. Vicky’s going to see me -- the real me -- and it will disgust her. She’ll finally know to hate me.

I stand.

Belatedly, I ask to be excused. I’m supposed to do that before I stand. Still, Carol releases me. I scrape my plate into the trash. Put my dishes in the dishwasher. Head upstairs. My door doesn’t shut when I close it and I stare at the broken crack it leaves in my room. I turn away and fall into bed.

I feel sick. Nauseous, and I know it’s not from the food. My powers prevent food poisoning, so it can’t be what I ate. It’s just how I am. Psychosomatic. Something in my brain fucking with my senses. An anxiety attack, maybe. That would explain the breathless chill, and the impossible pressure coming from all around me, like I found myself suddenly under more atmosphere than the Earth has. It makes it hard to feel anything else, that pressure. Externally, that is. It does nothing for the anxious nausea and dread that roils in my gut. I feel like I should be crying, but I can’t even find the muster to close my eyes. I just stare numbly at the threads of my pillow.

After about ten minutes of me laying there feeling miserable for myself, there’s a knocking on my door. I make myself turn my head to look. It’s Vicky. The door swings lazily open from her gentle fist.

“Sorry about the door,” she says. “Can I come in?”

“mrfgha,” I respond after reburying my face in my pillow. A moment later I feel the mattress shift and a hand on my back, a comforting pressure that pushes past the full-bodied one I’d felt moments before. When her hand starts to move in comforting, even circles, my eyes start to sting, and I’m glad I’m face-down, so Vicky doesn’t have to see how pathetic I am, brought to tears with a gentle touch.

“So,” Vicky starts, “hell of a day, huh?”

When I don’t respond, she continues to fill the air, each word a balm.

“Listen, I’m… sorry. About earlier. I shouldn’t have laughed. I didn’t mean to spoil your and Taylor’s alone time like that. I… wasn’t thinking. It was just, you screamed and I was worried and -- I’m not trying to make excuses. I was relieved you were okay then, but I’m kind of getting the impression that you’re… not. I hope you two didn’t… you know, break up or anything.”

“We didn’t break up. We weren’t even --”

“I can’t hear a word you’re saying through that pillow,” she informs me.

I groan and roll over onto my side, and my sister’s hand lifts through the motion and lands on my hip when I still. I swallow down the inappropriate feelings that the entirely platonic and familial touch stirs inside me. She’s comforting me, nothing more and nothing else. I don’t dare to look at her while I’m like this, but I can’t push her away.

“We didn’t break up,” I tell her morosely.

“Oh.” She sounds surprised, but she gets over it quickly. “So then what’s got you down?”

“Mom and I had a Talk about Taylor,” I admit.

Her hand on me stills, then clenches. “Oh dammit. Did she give you a file on her background?”

“Uh, she left it out for me to read,” I tell her, looking up at her in confusion. “How’d you guess?”

“I never told you because it was just…” She shakes her head. “But she did the same thing when I started dating Dean.”

I sit up. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh yeah. She put on this whole production in her office about his family’s history and everything. I’m pretty sure she prepared and rehearsed her speech ahead of time too, because it was way too clean.”

“What the hell kind of dirt did she dig up on Dean ? He’s, like, the cover boy for Perfect Boy Teen Heartthrob Magazine.”

“Hey, you know he turned down that interview,” she jokes back.

“Still.”

“So, remember when I told you that his great grand uncle was a pirate during the Civil War?”

“That was real?”

“Oh yeah absolutely. Did you think I was joking?”

“Well yeah. I mean that’s --”

“Absolutely ridiculous?” she finishes my thought. “That’s what I thought. Didn’t stop Mom from harping on it for like, five minutes straight. And he wasn’t even fighting for the racist side,” she says, sounding resignedly confused. She shakes it off. “There was more, but just. It was almost all like that. Second cousin embezzled some funds in Arkansas, grandfather stole a stoplight when he was a teen, third grade teacher ran a fight club: random crap like that.”

“...That third one’s a lie, right? It has to be.”

She smiles mischievously. “The point is--”

“Hey no, go back. Did his third grade teacher really run a fight club?”

“ The point is : you like this girl, right?”

“Yeah, I guess. Was she making the third graders fight?”

“Then don’t let Mom get to you,” she tells me, ignoring my important question. “She’s not going to like any girl you bring home, even if she picked one out for you. So don’t stress about making her happy. Focus on making Tay happy instead, alright?”

“But the file, it’s –”

“It’s full of crap, okay? Burn it. Just trust me on that. There’s nothing in those pages that’s more important than how you feel about her.” She pauses. “Unless like, you know, her dad is Kaiser or something.”

I huff a laugh. “Actually, she’s an orphan.”

“She’s an orphan ?!”

“Right? That’s what I said. Some stuff happened with her piece of crap dad and she’s been living at a Catholic orphanage for the last few months.”

“Damn.” She blinks. “ Damn . Well, still. The stuff in Mom’s folder might be true , but it’s not stuff you need to know ahead of time. Even this: I’m sure Taylor would have told you about it sooner or later, and getting to know someone is a big part of dating. It’d be weird if you just knew random stuff about her without her telling you, don’t you think?”

I think about how completely creepy and offputting it was when Taylor first came up to me with my secrets spilling from her lips, and how I didn’t talk to her for a week after that, and then only because I was falling to desperate pieces. 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I tell her. 

“Like always. You’d think you’d learn to stop guessing about that by now.” She winks and I feel my cheeks warm in response, so I turn away. 

“Dammit.”

“What?”

“Damn you.”

“What?” she asks more insistently.

“I came up here to be miserable and you just won’t fucking let me.”

Vicky laughs. “Damn right I won’t! I’m a hero -- I’ll never rest, so long as there is a single spot of misery in this fair city.”

“Ohhh my god no, you are such a dork.”

“Small price to pay to see my baby sister smile.”

I can’t even pretend to fight the joy; it’s just too infectious and Vicky’s sneezing it in my face. She’s so good, better than anyone else I could imagine. A ray of sunshine through my overcast mood. A nugget of gold in the pile of shit that is my life. The last ounce of good in a world that’s eaten or disproven the rest.

I don’t know why I start crying, but wetness runs down my face all the same.

“Hey, woah, Ames, what’s going on? What’s wrong?” Vicky asks even as she pulls me into a hug that I can’t help but embrace completely and unreservedly, even as my power brings her body into complete awareness. If anything, that just makes the hug even better, even more intimate -- I get to see, with myriad clarity, exactly how much she cares for me.

I can’t answer her, both because my brain won’t supply words for my mouth to explain what’s wrong with me and because to be intelligible I know I’d have to pull my face out of the bend of her neck and I’m not willing to move even a millimeter away from Vicky’s perfect embrace. She holds me as I shake and sob, her hands a firm and constant pressure on my back and her words a wonderful and reassuring murmur.

“It’s okay, you’re okay Ames, I got you. Let it out, I’m here for you,” she tells me and I know it to be the absolute truth. Every word from her lips is a soothing balm, and every tear of mine she accepts into her cotton t-shirt leaves my heart a little lighter. Ever so slowly, the whatever-I-was-feeling that made me act out like this leaves me. My sobs come more slowly and my tears dry, and after what feels like an hour of release, I’ve no more to lose.

At some point in the cry, we’d repositioned, from sitting to lying. I didn’t notice, but now she’s pressing full-bodied against me, arms around my torso and legs entwined with mine. She hasn’t held me like this in years. Or rather, I haven’t let her hold me like this in years, not since it felt too good to allow.

It’s nice.

“Feeling better?” she asks me.

“Mhm,” I hum into her neck, still not quite willing to excavate myself from her hold. It’s exactly what I feared, but what can one do when what they fear is what they need? Do they run and let themself die their slowest, most miserable death: a lung without air or a stomach without food? Or do they allow themself the terrible necessity and lose themself in the addicting brilliance? I don’t know what I should do, but I do know what I must do.

I pull Vicky closer, as tight as I can with my noodle arms and enjoy this while I can. It may very well be the last opportunity I have to be held so intimately, with Friday’s inevitable revelations on the horizon. With Carol and Dean double-teaming Taylor, everything will end. But…

“Good. I’m glad you got it all out,” Vicky says.

Maybe it’s just Vicky’s warmth making my head weird, but maybe it doesn’t have to be the end? I might be crazy -- Strike that, I’m definitely crazy, but maybe there’s a chance? Dean’s more Freud than Festinger, and he’s such an absolute idiot that even with his powers, he hasn’t noticed how in love with Vicky I am, so maybe there’s a chance he just won’t notice nothing’s going on between Taylor and me?

Carol, I can’t bet on her not noticing anything, but her hating Dean hasn’t stopped Vicky from dating him, so… maybe… maybe that doesn’t matter? That sounds wrong, and there’s a good chance that Carol just hasn’t forced the issue with Vicky because it’s Vicky, but maybe it’s worth the constant verbal beat downs from her to keep seeing Taylor so I can get fixed? Scratch that, it’s definitely worth any amount of shit from her to get fixed.

Really, the weakest link in this uncertainty is Taylor. She’s the part I don’t understand, and she’s the one most likely to fuck the dog. I don’t know how she does under pressure. I don’t know how she’ll react to Dean or vice-versa. I don’t know how mad she is at me for kicking her out and ignoring her all day, and I don’t know how spiteful she’ll be with her payback.

…Fuck me, I need to talk to her, but I still don’t know what the fuck to say to her. Maybe… Hm.

“Hey Vicky?” I murmur, not pulling away from her, but shifting my head so my mouth is free. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course. You can ask me anything.”

“How um. So, Taylor and I kind of… had a fight, earlier.”

Gracefully, she doesn’t rub in that she called it. Instead, she asks, “What were you two fighting about?”

I can’t tell her the truth -- that Taylor is straight and didn’t think to tell me when she began to brainwash me via a sham relationship -- for obvious reasons, but I just do not feel like lying to my sister right now. I do that so much. Too much. Half the time it feels like our relationship is based mostly on me lying to her, and I hate that. It hurts, every time I have to evade and deceive her.

When she says, “It’s fine if you can’t tell me, I get needing some privacy,” I could kiss her. Platonically. Like, as a thank you. I don’t kiss her, of course, but the feeling is there. Obviously I always feel like I could kiss her. I’m using an idiom right now.

“Thanks. It’s uh. Private, yeah,” I tell her. “But um. The gist is: after you left, she said some stuff and I… didn’t exactly… like it.”

“Was she being a bitch or something?”

“No, not like that. Just… She said some stuff about herself and I didn’t…” I trail off.

“Okay, I think I get the gist of it,” she says anyway. She hums thoughtfully. “Well, what you should do depends on what exactly she said. Like, what she told you: was it more ‘my favorite fruit is kiwi,’ or ‘I drown puppies in my spare time’?”

I can’t help but laugh at that, and I feel her smile back at me. “The first one, I guess.”

“Okay. I mean this in the kindest, most loving way possible, and I might be completely off the mark, but it sounds like it might be your fault that you two fought. And that’s not, like, an indictment or anything. You know how often Dean and I fight, and a solid third of those are my fault, so I have no room to judge. And it’s really up to you to decide if you or she’s to blame. Whoever’s to blame has to be the first to apologize, otherwise your whole relationship will be unequal and trust me that is bad with a capital B. If your power dynamic is uneven, then it opens the way for all sorts of crap to fester.”

I guess that makes sense. But who’s at fault for this? Taylor for lying -- by omission -- to me, or me for taking it poorly and almost raping her mind?

“What if we’re both in the wrong?” I ask.

“That definitely complicates things. I can’t really help you figure out who’s more to blame without knowing more, but… be the bigger person, I guess? Apologize first, and if she doesn’t say sorry back, tell her you need an apology too. If she doesn’t give you one, then dump her ass for sure.”

I snort. That makes sense, coming from the queen of break-up-make-up. “Is that what you do?”

“Absolutely,” she says without hesitation. “You can’t let her think she can get away with messing up and hurting you. Words are cheap, so if she’s not willing to at the very least apologize, then she is way too stingy to be in a relationship and needs to learn to appreciate and value the goods you’re selling.”

I smile at her metaphor. “Thanks.”

“Of course, girl.”

I frown, though the good mood I got from my sister hasn’t left me yet. I know what I’m about to ask is wrong, and there are a million reasons to keep my mouth shut and only one to open it, but in this moment, that one feels weightier than those million combined. 

“Can you– hold me? For a while longer?” 

She squeezes tighter even as she coyly says, “I guess, but only because you’re my most favoritest sister in the whole wide world.”

I snort. “I’m your only sister.”

“And you’re taking home gold anyway. That’s just how much I love you.”

“You’re such a dork.” I snuggle in closer. “I love you too.”

There’s no way she hears every layer of meaning those words carry from my lips, but that’s fine. It’s better that way, because if she were privy to the perfect meaning of my words, there’s no way she’d let me say them. I close my eyes for the last time this Wednesday, and it’s the perfect ending to a shit day.

Chapter Text

Friday. January 28. 

<3     <3<3<3

Dean Interlude Part 1: The Deanner Party

Dean-Dong.

I take my finger off the Dallon’s doorbell and take a moment to adjust my collar as I wait. I know that my collared shirt and slacks are still crisply ironed, courtesy of our laundry staff, but the motion is calming and contributes to the image of the well put together gentleman I am.

I’m not left waiting for long. Vicky opens the door, dressed in a white skort that reaches her mid-thigh and a blue sweater that matches her eyes. The world feels right as she smiles at me. She’s stunning, a shining, golden sun – And that’s not even wholly a metaphor; her power’s Aura dominates her emotional aura, leaving her looking like Scion’s illegitimate daughter. I can’t use my power to read her, and I’m immune to her Aura’s influence, and she feels like destiny.

“How do I look?” I ask.

“You look great,” she says. “Your jacket’s nice, but it’s a little much, don’t you think?”

“I only just put it on after I got out of my vintage” – she sighs – “1965 Chevrolet Mustang G350 with custom leather interior.” Once, she thought me saying the whole thing was funny. I still think it’s hilarious though.

“Come on,” she says, taking me by the hand and leading me inside.

“I hope I’m not late,” I recite. I shut the door behind myself and hand off my gift, then remove my jacket, hanging it by the door. Vicky returns the gift to me when I reach for it.

“You’re fifteen minutes early: plenty of time,” she tells me. “Let me give you the run down real quick though. Taylor got here about five minutes ago -- She, Ames, and Mom are in the living room and things are getting kind of weird. I’ve been trying to keep the peace but” -- She shakes her head, sending her golden hair bouncing. “Anyway, Dad’s in the kitchen finishing up dinner -- er, deanner now that you’re here.”

I smile at the pun. To think I used to dislike my name. She smiles back at me, obviously happy to have made me happy, and I can’t resist giving her a kiss. Chaste, of course; her family is in the next room. She hums against my lips, and I pull away.

“Operation: Deanflect Attention From Amy’s First Girlfriend is a go?” I ask.

“ODAFAFG is a go,” she confirms. “Let’s get in there.”

We move further into the house, out of the foyer and into the living room, and begin the operation. Carol is in her typical chair, a plush-looking recliner that I’ve never had the guts to sit in and have never seen recline. Amy and Taylor are sitting together on the couch. There’s plenty of space between them, too much to even approach impropriety, and that space is bridged by their held hands.

Amy looks about the same as ever, dressed in blue jeans and a loose, purple sweater. Her aura is the same as ever too, with only standard deviations. Love, shame, and fear -- neon yellow, tangerine, and green, respectively -- deanminate her emotional spectrum, and I can only hope that tonight the majority of that love is deanrected toward Taylor instead of me. Though, she says she only likes girls so… Hm! No telling what that means. Maybe she didn’t realize she was in love with me these last few years? Or maybe she meant it as some sort of deanclaration, stating that from now on she’ll only love women to deanstance herself from her feelings for me? Try as I might, I can’t think of anything else to explain it. Maybe she knows something I don’t, and that’s why she said it? Or maybe she -- No, focus, can’t get deanstracted thinking about that again right now.

Carol also looks like I expected, dressed in a nice, light blue blouse and tan, corduroy slacks. Her aura is strikingly similar to Amy’s, full of love and fear, though with more guilt than shame, which I suppose makes sense. Amy might be adopted (adeanpted? Adeanted? No, those are bad), but she’s inherited her mother’s mannerisms, from what I’ve seen; they’re both private people that hold themselves and others to certain standards, and like many other Strikers -- according to A Proposal on the Significance of Range in Parahuman Powers and Psychology by Dr. Sebben and Dr. Mansfield -- hyperaware of their impact on the people and the world immediately around them. Admitdeanly, I’m speculating, as neither of them have opened up to me deanspite my many offerings to realtalk, but that’s no big deanl. It’s only a matter of time.

I move my eyes from familiar to novel and take Taylor in. When Vicky told me she was a student at Arcadia, I’d wondered if I’d maybe dean her around the school or in class, but immedeanitely I know that’s not the case. Her clothes are nothing special, just a plaid button up tucked into jeans with a braided brown belt, but her aura is impossible to forget. It’s not every day that I get to see a new color. Like, an entirely new color, an eighth stripe of the rainbow sort of new color. I can’t even deanscribe it. There aren’t words for it, and any I tried to force upon it would just be messy and wrong.

I’m going to call it octardean.

The octardean isn’t the only odd thing about her aura either. Where most auras I can see are multifaceted and multilayered, constantly shifting and changing to reveal nuance I couldn’t hope to comprehend without a long, deep, intimate talk, Taylor’s is flat. Two deanmensional. I see fear and octardean. The fear makes sense -- she’s meeting her girlfriend’s superhero family, and even though I am Gallant of the Wards East-Northeast, I was scared when I was in this same situation all that time ago -- but I’m not sure what the octardean could signify, or why those are the only two colors I can see.

I can think of only two explanations. The first is that Taylor is an emotion based cape like myself and Victoria, and her odd aura is a result of power interference, like how I can’t see Vicky’s aura through her Aura. That’s not inherently bad, though. Even if she’s an emotion-based parahuman, that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s a villain. She could be a hero, or a rogue, or even one of those rare parahumans who don’t realize they have powers because they’re subtle or subconscious.

But if she is a villain… Well, that would explain why Amy suddeanly deanclared she was a lesbian, but it would also be Bad. It would crush Vicky to learn that her new friend has been playing her and using her sister, and the last thing anyone needs is for Amy’s latest crush to be nefarious -- It would send her back to crushing hopelessly on me, and I was really looking forward to not having to deanl with that anymore. It would also mess Amy up really badly. She might need therapy for that.

Or Taylor might be autistic or something. Neurodeanvergent people’s emotions appear atypical to my power. I’ve never seen an atypical aura with octardean in their spectrum, but before Casey Fischer I hadn’t seen an aura with polka dots either.

I should say something, just in case she’s a dangerous cape, but last time I called the PRT for something like this, Casey’s parents sued and Director Piggot yelled at me for two hours, then handed me off to the PR team who yelled at me for the rest of the day, and I’d really rather avoid a repeat of that. Plus, if she is just neurodivergent and not a cape, getting deantained by the PRT would be the worst ‘meet the parents’ date possible, and I will not be responsible for ruining Amy’s first maybe-real relationship without a really good reason. Vicky would dump me so hard and fast for that, and there’s no way she’d take me back afterwards.

So I won’t be rash. I’ll test the waters and check to see whether she’s a Master or if she’s just weird. If she is an emotion manipulator, then Vicky and I should be immune, and I’ll be able to see if she influences anyone else, so I can be patient with this. Make sure I’m right before I act.

“Hello there,” I begin my introduction, “you must be Taylor. My name is Dean Stansfield. It’s nice to make your acquaintance -- Vicky’s told me so much about you.”

There, that should be a good measure of her. If she’s an emotional Thinker, there’s no way she’ll be able to resist the opening. She’ll say something suave, disarming (deansarming? …I’ll have to run that one by Vicky) and endeaning, something to win the group over so she can insinuate herself further.

“Oh. What kind of stuff did she say?” she asks in an even, inflectionless voice, her expression unchanging. She looks between Vicky and I but meets neither of our eyes.

My grin is genuine as I tell her, “Good stuff only, I promise.”

This girl is deanfinitely autistic, no doubt in my mind.

She and Amy exchange a look, and the latter lights up with relief and a touch of giddiness. She must have been worried that Taylor and I, as the current and soon-to-be-former objects of her affection, wouldn’t get along. It might be a good idea to try and befriend Taylor; that should reassure Amy that there are no hard feelings.

Issue resolved, I turn to the lady of the house and offer greetdeangs. “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Dallon.”

“It’s nice to see you as well, Dean. Thank you for coming,” she says deanspite not being -- Oh? She is happy to see me? Well, not happy, it’s not that shade of violet, but she’s grateful that I’m here. Odd, but I’ll take it! Any progress is good.

“I brought some gyokuro tea, from our private stock,” I announce, holding out the tin. “I hope that’s okay. I included brewing instructions too.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Carol says politely. She’s not pleased. Deang it.

Still, she takes it from me and moves to deposit it in the kitchen, but as she approaches there’s a sharp BANG from the other side of the door, accompanied by a flash of light visible in the seam. It’s followed by a half dozen more, then by silence, then by a final burst and finally a wet splat.

All eyes are glued to the door. No one dares move, unwilling to open Schrodinger’s box and see the dead cat inside. As long as the door stays shut, we can pretend that the cat is alive and nothing is the matter. Still, with the kitchen and the lights, I can’t resist this perfect opportunidean.

“Good lord, what is happening in there?” I ask. “Is that Scion?”

I don’t regret it, even under the weight of four confused yet judgemental sets of eyes. Vicky, though, gets a sly look in her eye as she recognizes what I said and proves once again why she’s my favorite person in the whole wide world.

“I didn’t know we were having steamed hams,” she says, and all eyes are on her.

“We’re not,” Carol says slowly. She looks between us, dismisses us, then shakes it off to address the kitchen situation. As the door to the kitchen swings open, I glimpse something grey and red covering the walls and floor in splotches. The door swings shut before I can get a good look.

I glance at Amy and Taylor -- They’re still in their same place on the couch, holding hands; Taylor stares wide-eyed at the kitchen door, aura consumed by mirth and octardean even though she’s barely smiling, and Amy stares at her, confused, then jabs her in the rib with a finger to get her attention. They have a hushed conversation.

With them distracted, I feel secure enough to lean into Vicky’s space and whisper, “Deaned hams.”

She slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle a snort, then turns to me with mirth in her eyes. “That was awful.”

“Yeah, I know,” I grin.

I glance back at the other couple, and Amy’s frowning at us, jealousy taking over most of her aura’s real estate. Deang. I was hoping it wouldn’t be the case even though I knew otherwise from our morning drives to school, but she’s still not over me, even with her girlfriend sitting next to her. But I’m sure with enough time, it’ll work itself out.

The kitchen door reopens, revealing a thoroughly livid and embarrassed Carol, and a Mark covered in stains and meat juices. He smells. Carol stops in the living room, but Mark trudges onward, up the stairs and out of sight, dripping disappointment and self-pity, but thankfully not meat. A moment later, I hear the faint sound of the shower running.

“What happened?” Vicky asks.

“Your father forgot to turn the oven on when he put in the roast,” Carol informs us calmly, her aura a seethingly angry ocean blue. “He thought he should try flash-cooking it with his powers.”

It’s a very stunned and impossible-to-follow silence that descends upon us after that statement, and all I can think is: Flashbang-cook. I know better than to say it; Carol’s never struck me as a punthusiast.

“How does everyone feel about pizza?” Carol asks.

Everyone agrees that that sounds fine, and Carol sets about putting everyone to task. Vicky is told to order and pick up the pizza, as she’s the fastest -- and only -- flier in the house, while Carol and Amy set about trying to clean the meat from the walls before the stink becomes permanent and they’re forced to burn the house down and move.

Taylor and I, as guests -- and deanspite offering to help -- are told to sit and make ourselves comfortable. Taylor sits back down on the couch, having stood to offer her assistance in the kitchen, and I take a seat on the adjacent chair, not wanting to be presumptuous and overly friendly by sitting next to her, and terrified of taking Carol’s seat; I don’t think I’d risk sitdeang there even if I was Alexandria, honestly.

Taylor looks at me, her aura flickering between worry-and-octardean and unease-and-octardean. I know I need to break the ice, reassure her that I’m not a threat to her and Amy. I’ll start by just getting to know her and letdeang her get to know me.

“So, Vicky tells me you transferred from Winslow High? I actually have a couple friends there” -- well, one, and she’d probably punch me if she knew I called her a friend, but a fellow Ward is a friend-to-be if I have anything to say about it -- “maybe you know them?”

Her aura brightens into a deanspairing forest green, spitting on color theory as always. “Probably not. I didn’t get to know many people there.”

“Oh? Do you move around a lot or something? A ‘three schools in a year’ sort of thing?”

“No.” She shuts down both conversationally and emotionally. I’m deanfinitely on the wrong track and tanking this, but on the bright side, her being terrible at small talk is more proof she’s autistic! I think. I should probably look into the condition at some point.

“Well, I hope Arcadia’s treating you better so far. I know Vicky’s probably already offered, but if you ever need help around the school or with anything, I’d be more than happy to help out.”

Her lips say “Thank you,” but her face and aura say “I’d rather shank myself with a rusty spoon behind an Arby’s,” and I know I’m losing her.

That doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying though. Taylor is Vicky’s friend, so I won’t stop until I am too. Plus, it would be super awkward for Taylor to be the only one who doesn’t like me when we go on the double dates Vicky is so fond of. Admitdeanly, the group dates that don’t include Amy are generally pretty fun -- Amy just has this certain je ne sais quoi that can bring the mood down like nothing else.

I know it’s a deansperate play, but I’m Dean so I have to – I lean in a bit closer to her and say, “Listen, I know how you’re feeling.” Abject terror takes hold of what little I can see of her aura, but I maintain course. “It’s scary to meet your girlfriend’s parents. Doubly so when they’re actual factual superheroes. I get that. But I’m going to let you in on a little secret, okay?”

She’s doubtful. Suspicious, maybe, but that's still an improvement over terror. It’s obvious she doesn’t trust me yet, but she’s a starving alley cat and I’m holding a can of tuna, and she can only stay away for so long. She leans in slightly, intrigued.

“It doesn’t matter whether you make a good impression or not. Carol’s not going to like you no matter what you do. I’ve been dating Victoria for about two years and she still doesn’t really like me all that much.”

“I thought you were going to try to reassure me,” she says without inflection. “I guess that was my bad.”

“Vicky was right; you are funny,” I tell her with a smile. “Don’t get me wrong, it’d be good for her to like either of us, but she wants what’s best for her daughters, and I’m not sure if Mister or Miss Right even exists. I’m still trying to win her over, and I’m making progress, but it takes a while.”

“Uhuh.” I can tell I’m still not winning her over either.

“What I’m trying to say is: Carol not liking you doesn’t matter. She might disapprove, but she won’t get in between you and Amy as long as she knows you’re treating Amy well. So just be good to Amy and it’ll all work itself out, okay?”

She’s still doubtful, but I think I got through to her, just a little. “What about Mr. Dallon?”

“Oh Mark? He’s an absolute sweetheart. I’m sure he already likes you.”

“I haven’t said ten words to him,” she protests, still in that same, even tone she’s been speaking in this whole time.

“I’m sure he’s seen how much happier Amy’s been since you two got together, and he’ll like you just for that.”

Taylor hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t otherwise respond. She’s still wary of me, but she seems more relaxed than before. That’s not to say she’s relaxed by any other measure though.  If I saw, say, Carlos sitting this ramrod straight, with his aura consumed by anxiety, I’d think his little sister got kidnapped again. And, it’ll take a lot more than a single meeting to form an emotional baseline for Taylor, to know if this actually is relaxation for her, but for now I’ll take this bit of almost-relaxation as a victory, so I back off, not willing to press my luck and spoil this.

“What are you --! Stop playing with that,” comes Carol’s sharp voice from the kitchen, and we can only imagine what Amy is playing with. I really hope it isn’t the meat chunks. Taylor looks longingly at the kitchen door, but doesn’t comment. It’s kind of cute, how she already misses Amy even though they’ve only been separated for a few minutes.

The moment passes, and the calm returns. Carol and Amy continue to clean the slightly exploded kitchen. Mark, the poor, meaty man, finishes his shower, the sound of water cutting off above us. Vicky should be back with the pizzas soon. So far, this is going pretty well. I let myself relax into the sofa and fight the urge to pull out my phone -- That would be ungentlemanly when I’m supposed to be entertaining Taylor as the senior in the household, so instead I just look around at all the kitsch on the walls. None of it is particularly impressive, and the DeMarko I have in my bathroom probably costs more than everything in this room, but still, it’s pretty enough.

“You’re a pretty decent guy, huh?” Taylor asks, ending the quiet.

“I sure hope so,” I answer, not sure how else to go about such a question.

“Amy’s told me a bit about you, but…” she trails off and I get why she can’t finish the thought.

“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have anything to worry about; Vicky’s the only girl for me,” I say, reassuring her that I’m not a threat to her fledgling relationship.

“What?” she asks, confused by my words.

“I’m just saying, Amy likes you. I have an eye for these sorts of things. So whatever she told you about me, you don’t have to worry about it.”

Recognition takes over her unoctardeaned spectrum. I’m not sure what she’s recognizing in me, but I hope it’s good. Like if I reminded her of an older brother, or a cool uncle, or something. That’d be neat. She doesn’t offer anything else, and the quiet returns, only slightly less comfortable than before.

I’m about to say something when the doorbell rings. I stand instead. “I’ll get it.”

I open the door to see Vicky hunched over a pair of pizza boxes in midair, shielding them from the pouring rain. A flash of lightning cuts the sky behind her, illuminating skies that weren’t this dark when I arrived in my 1965 Mustang Shelby GT350 with custom interior leather. I get out of the way as she hurries inside.

“Oh my god, that storm came out of nowhere,” she bemoans. Her body is dry, untouched by the rain thanks to her powers, but the pizza boxes in her hands are damp (deanmp?).

“Yeah, no kidding. I thought it wasn’t supposed to rain until tomorrow?”

“Tell that to the sky,” she retorts.

“At least you didn’t get wet?” I offer and she rolls her eyes at my point. I follow her to the deaning room and she sets the pizza boxes down on the serving table against the side wall, then stretches, hands high over her head.

“I had to fly like that the whole way home,” she explains. “I swear, as soon as I grabbed the pizzas, it started coming down. So, what’d I miss?”

“Not too much. Your mom didn’t want Taylor and I to help clean the kitchen, so we’ve just been hanging out. You were right; she’s a nice girl. Anxious and maybe autistic, but her heart’s good.”

“She’s autistic?” Vicky adopts a thoughtful expression then shrugs with her eyebrows. Then she winces. “Let’s try not to have a repeat of the Casey incident?”

I huff. “It was one time.”

“Sorry. Just… I get the feeling she’s been burned before; I don’t want to scare her off.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be on my best deanhavior.”

She smiles, but it’s strained.

Before either of us can actually say any more though, Mark walks in, spares us a glance, then sits at the table. He’s numb, feeling not much at all, a colorless aura with hints of actual emotion rising on occasion, like dolphins breaching a glass sea before returning to the depths. A drop of water drips from his still-wet hair onto the table and he stares at it, feeling not much more than minor misery and disappointment, and Vicky stares at him, frowning as she realizes that -- whether today was a good day for his depression so far or not -- he’s having a Bad Day now, and I stare at her, wondering how this will affect Operation: Deanflect Attention From Amy’s First Girlfriend.

Carol follows him in a moment later and tells us to wash up, that she’ll finish setting the table. When I get back, almost everyone else is seated -- Carol’s at the head, flanked by Mark and Vicky. Next to Mark is Amy. There’s a pair of empty seats across from them for Vicky and myself. At the foot of the table, next to Amy, is tonight’s guest of honor, Taylor, looking… well honestly, only her aura betrays her discomfort -- her expression and posture is the same as in the living room even as she endures this tense atmosphere generated by Carol’s suspicion and worry and Amy’s guilt and refusal to look up from her pizza, and it makes me think that perhaps that’s why she had a hard time making friends at Winslow; she’s basically bully-bait. It’s a good thing then that she fell in with us so quickly.

Vicky comes in but a moment after me, and I pull out her chair for her. She sneakily removes her weight to make it easier to push it back in, and then I take my seat. Pizza is plated in front of everyone, looking more like unrolled, slightly mashed stromboli than the pie it’s supposed to be: a consequence of flying and rain, I suppose. At least there’s flatware to eat it with, as trying to hold it would likely be a trial.

“Sorry about the pizza,” Vicky says, pulling eyes to her. “I tried my best to keep it dry, but I guess it got a little beat up on the way.”

“It smells just as good as ever,” I reassure her like a good boyfriend should.

“Yeah, it tastes good too,” Amy adds through her first mushy bite.

Carol clears her throat and Amy’s fragile smile drops. It’s regrettable, but at least she’s not showing her food now; one of a million reasons Amy and I could never work out. She’s too gross. Everyone but Mark starts in on the meal -- He stirs the food, but does not lift it to his mouth.

“So, Taylor,” Carol begins, “tell us about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?” Taylor responds.

“Whatever you want to tell us. I think it’s important we get to know the girl who is risking so much to date my daughter.”

Discomfort accompanies Carol’s statement -- She must be concerned about the girls’ safety, and honestly I feel for her, especially in regards to Taylor. As my father’s son, I’ve been under public scrutiny since I was little and I know how to behave like a proper gentleman, so courting Vicky wasn’t too much of a change. I can only imagine how much Taylor’s life has, is, and will continue to change as she gains celebrity via Amy. I imagine it must be scary, but Taylor isn’t scared. No, she’s determined.

“My name is Taylor Anne Hebert,” she introduces herself. “I’m fifteen years old. I’m a sophomore at Arcadia High and have a 3.9 grade point average. I enjoy reading literature, and my favorite books are Lord of the Rings, Macbeth, and Maggie Holt, and I’d like to continue seeing your daughter.”

There’s a thump under the table, and Taylor flinches as Amy suffers a flare of embarrassment and they stare at each other. I wonder what that’s about. It was a good introduction -- bold, clear, concise, and highlighted her good points, even if it did feel a bit too rehearsed. As much as can be expected from someone not trained to make those sorts of introductions -- it was only missing what her parents do.

Carol seems to disagree, feeling not the least bit impressed. She’s disappointed, actually, though I can’t imagine why, and a bit excited, oddly enough.

“I see.” Carol dabs at her lips with her napkin. “And why is that? What is it about Amy that you like?”

“There are a lot of things,” Taylor answers.

“I’m sure. Illuminate some for me.”

“Well, she’s passionate, for one. When she gets into something, she can talk for hours. And even if it’s something I don’t care about, it’s still nice to hear how much she’s into it. That’s actually what first got my attention.”

Even though Amy is considering calling bullshit, I understand what Taylor means; Amy tries to be aloof, but she feels things deeply. It’s no surprise someone finally picked up on that.

Carol is unimpressed. “You don’t share her interests?”

“I do.”

“But you just mentioned how you don’t care about some things she’s passionate about.”

“I mean, I don’t care about that game she likes, Sledgehammer, but we’ve talked about poetry and stuff before, and I like that.”

“I see.”

“So Ames is getting you into Dominica White?” Vicky asks. “Do you have a favorite poem from her yet?”

Taylor blinks, frustrated; the whole of her attention was on Carol, now interrupted. “I haven’t read all of her stuff yet, so no.”

“But you’ve read some of it?” Vicky asks. "What’s your favorite so far?”

“Uh, Twilit Blanket, I guess? Amy’s only shown me a few, and I haven’t had a chance to get to the library yet.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

“What?”

“Just that that’s your favorite. It’s one of Amy’s faves too, as I’m sure you know.”

“I tried reading some of White’s poems, but I just couldn’t get into them,” I interject helpfully: another reason Taylor doesn’t have to worry about me. “She used pretty words, but I like my poems to rhyme.”

“Rhyming schemes are so juvenile,” Amy cuts. “They’re alright for like, getting a kid into poetry, but…” She shakes her head in contempt.

“I wouldn’t really call the Divine Comedy juvenile,” Taylor says.

“What?”

“The Divine Comedy? By Dante? Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso? One of the most well known epics in the world? Dante’s led through the afterlife by a rotating trio of historical figures? Informed modern ideas on the structure of heaven and hell?” Taylor puts out more and more descriptions, but Amy’s confusion doesn’t lessen. “I can keep going.”

“Don’t, please. What does any of that have to do with anything?”

“It rhymes, but it’s not juvenile.”

“Does it?” I ask. “I don’t remember it rhyming, and I think I read it for class last semester.”

“Well, it doesn’t always rhyme,” Taylor says, like that makes sense.

“What is that even supposed to mean?” Amy asks.

“Is it like a translation thing?” Vicky asks. “It was originally Italian, right?”

“Yeah,” Taylor says, perking up. “In Italian, most of the epic has a rhyme scheme of aba, bcb, cdc, and so on, and it –”

“It’s called a terza rima,” Amy clarifies, unimpressed.

“Oh. I didn’t know that. Thanks.” Taylor’s gratitude has little effect on Amy’s mood. “But uh, it’s up to the translator whether they want to preserve the terza rima. A lot of the time, they favor direct translations over stylistic ones.”

“That’s really cool,” Vicky says, deanspite being the only other one at the table who thinks so.

“It’s actually the case with lots of classics. The original Old English Beowolf is full of alliteration that most translations skimp out on -- oh, ancient Anglo-Saxons used alliteration in place of rhyme schemes, though they served the same linguistic purpose -- and others did the same, but with actual rhyme schemes. I’m pretty sure it’s an artifact of orally transmitted stories,” she says autistically.

“Huh. So like, poems and stories weren’t really distinct back then?”

“I don’t think so? I feel like it’s just dependent on the length, but I’m not exactly an expert so take this with a bit of salt. Like, I’ve never heard someone call Sappho’s work ‘stories,’ even though they follow a similar structure to Homer’s longer form stuff.”

“You’ve read Sappho?” Amy all but spits.

“Yes. She was a favorite of my mom’s. Why?”

I blink as I take in the jealous, envious, terribly loving storm her aura’s become. What could that -- Oh. Crap. I was too worried about Taylor seeing me as a threat, I didn’t even consider (Consideanr? Oh, that one is bad. But is it good-bad? …No.) that Amy might feel threatdeaned by Vicky. I mean, Vicky’s straight, she’d never like another girl.

So even if Amy’s confused about what type of people like me, I’m not. Amy only likes girls and me, and Vicky only likes boys but especially me. And even if she sometimes talks about other girls being pretty, she’s usually talking about their clothes and hair and such, so that’s a normal girl thing. Simple logic. But emotions rarely follow logic, so Amy needs some reassurance that Vicky’s not going to make a move on Taylor. Should I kiss her? No, a gentleman never kisses and tells, and kissing in front of people is practically screaming it, and kissing in front of family would probably get me yelled at, so I can’t do that, no matter how alluring Vicky’s smile is. It’s rude to use a phone during a meal, so I can’t text Vicky and ask her to ease off, especially since that would come across as me being jealous, which is unseemly (undeamly? Undeanly?) and ungentlemanly. I need to do something though. I need to deanstract, to change the subject.

“Mm! This pizza is really good, Mark,” I exclaim. “What’s your secret?”

He looks up from his plate, blinks in confusion, and meters out, “Honey instead of sugar, in the dough.”

He returns his attention to the pizza, somewhy more deansoriented than before. I take another bite, then notice every woman’s eyes on me. Half of them are entirely unimpressed and mostly deanspairing, and the other two I’m uncertain of; Vicky’s Aura and Taylor’s octardean clouding my read.

“What?” I ask.

“Babe…” Vicky starts but isn’t sure where to go.

“This is take-out,” Amy picks up the slack.

“Oh yeah. Haha, forgot that for a second.” I try to laugh it off, and it mostly works, though I can tell that if I was esteemed in Carol’s eyes, I surely just fell from there. Since I’m not, however, I think I remain securely unliked by her still.

Even if I came across as a complete moron, I think I succeeded in heading off spite or a fight -- Amy’s no longer feeling jealous, just deansappointed by her taste in men -- even if no one talks for over thirty seconds, according to the wall mounted clock.

“So Taylor,” Carol starts, “it’s my understanding that you convinced Amy to rejoin the drama club? You must be quite passionate about theater to accomplish such a thing.”

Taylor finishes chewing for the next, increasingly awkward four seconds, having just put a morsel in her mouth when Carol asked her question. She swallows. “Not really. This is my first time doing theater. I just suggested it when we were talking about clubs to join, and she didn’t protest, so…”

“I find that hard to believe, considering how violently she cursed the club the last time she left.”

“I wanted to try it again,” Amy says. “I told you that.”

“I know, but I’m just…” Carol’s eyes land back on Taylor, as glinty and dangerous as gun barrels. “Trying to understand why.”

What little I can see of Taylor’s aura is seething with indignation as she fails to respond. Why doesn’t she answer? Does she not recognize Carol’s statement as a question?

“I think she joined to spend time with Taylor?” I offer when no one else does. They were all getting so tense thinking about it; was that not obvious?

Carol holds in a sigh that’s obvious in her aura, then ignores me. “I also understand you landed the lead despite your late audition?”

“I’m just her understudy, actually,” Taylor says. Strangely, she feels relief as she says this; does she not do well under pressure? “I kept telling Jack that I wanted to be in the crew but he wouldn’t listen.”

“No offense, Taylor, but Jack made the right call,” Vicky declares. “I don’t know how you don’t see it, but you’re perfect up on stage, and good enough that I’d fully expect you to land the lead next semester.”

“It’s not about being good. You’re good enough to be the lead three times in a row, but he still let you join crew.”

“Well, yeah, I was lead three semesters in a row -- That was enough, and I wanted to learn about all the back of house stuff that goes into production, so I could really appreciate what let me shine in the spotlight.”

“Yeah. Me too. I don’t want to be on stage. I don’t want to act.”

“But you’re having so much fun,” Vicky argues.

“You do look like you’re having a good time up there,” Amy adds, earning a frustrated look from Taylor. They stare at each other for a moment, tense, and I suddenly realize the problem.

“Oh!” I say, “You were hoping to spend more time with Amy, weren’t you?”

Both girls’ eyes snap to me, embarrassment, fear, and guilt splatting their aura almost in synchronicidean. Before either can protest, Carol says, “I hope that’s not your only reason for joining.”

“No,” Amy hurries to say. “No, of course not.”

“I’m new to Arcadia,” Taylor says, “so I joined to try and make friends.”

“Right, and Taylor’s kind of awful with people, so I tagged along to help her with that.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“You kind of are. Remember when you met Rose?”

“Wait, what happened with Rose?” Vicky asks.

“Taylor started a fight with her,” Amy answers.

“You got into a fight?” Carol asks.

“It was an argument,” Taylor denies, “and that wasn’t even my fault.”

“Wasn’t it?” Amy asks.

“It wasn’t.”

“You’re telling me she picked that fight?”

“After you told her we were dating, she had it out for me.”

“And you insulting her to her face obviously had nothing to do with that. Right.”

“You were being mean to each other.”

“That’s just how we talk!”

“Well it shouldn’t be.”

“Oh my god. What is wrong with you?”

“Me thinking friends should be nice to each other is wrong?”

“You being a jerk who can’t mind her own business is what’s wrong. And we’re not friends; we just play Sledgehammer together, okay?”

“That makes it worse though. You get that, right? Why do you keep making things worse for yourself?”

They go on like this, arguing back and forth, for at least a minute, getting so wrapped up in each other that they seem to forget the rest of us are here, concerned only with disproving or cutting down the other. I don’t think this is a good thing. Vicky and I sometimes get like this, and it’s never, ever a good thing, usually deanvolving further into a screaming match then culminating in a breakup that takes us a week to heal enough from to even look each other in the eye. I’m not sure Amy and Taylor have enough staying power to recover from something like that if this gets worse -- They’re too young, too new to each other, have too sandy of a foundation to weather that sort of storm right here and now. If this goes on for too long, their ship will go dean in flames. Judging by the look of alarm on my girlfriend’s face, she feels the same.

Carol, I notice in my periphery, doesn’t. I look closer and she’s relieved for a reason I can only guess at: that Taylor’s finally showing emotion and expression?, that Taylor’s showing she’s not perfect?, that Taylor and Amy aren’t stuck completely in honeymoon infatuation and so are likely mature enough in their togetherness to be willing to listen?, that Carol’s medicine finally settled her stomach after a bout of irritability all day? It’s probably something like the last one, judging by the displeasure the rest of her aura is showing.

“Normal people don’t do that kind of stuff,” says Taylor.

“Oh, so suddenly you’re an expert on being normal?” Amy snaps back, earning more ire.

“Really what even is ‘normal’?” Vicky throws herself in between them, conversationally. “I feel like if I ever met someone who was actually 100 percent normal, that would be so offputting, you know?”

Her foot taps mine: a subtle request for support. “Oh yeah, absolutely. Normal’s like…” I struggle quickly for a decent metaphor and it’s like groping for a chip in a bag, and even though so many chips touch my fingertips, somehow I can’t find purchase until finally, with a crunch and a sliver of chip wedged uncomfortably under my fingernail, I do. “It’s like being manly. It’s something you can strive for constantly, but it’s more of an ideal than something you can actually achieve, and the closer you get, the more everyone around you is like ‘woah hey this is kind of weird and uncomfortable, don’t you think?’ but you can’t just stop being what you are, so you have to deancalibrate and find ways to be normal that fit more comfortably and don’t make everyone around you look at you weird.”

Everyone’s staring at me -- Except Mark, who is staring at the napkin holder -- with varying levels of confusion, annoyance, and gold. Vicky is the gold, Aura still solidly opaque.

“...Did you just say ‘deancalibrate’?” Taylor asks.

Crap. “No?”

“I’m pretty sure you did.”

“Yeah I heard that too,” pitches in Amy.

It’s my turn to beg my partner’s help with a kick. She swoops in to help. “I didn’t hear it.”

“See?” I say. “You must have heard wrong.”

They’re still suspicious, but they don’t prod further, and that’s good enough for now. Still, how did I let that slip? I’m usually so good about keeping my puns quiet except when alone with Vicky.

“So yeah, normal’s not even a real thing,” Vicky says, trying to get this conversation back on any semblance of a track. “Be as weird as you want and don’t pay any attention to the naysayers.”

Taylor is doubtful, and Amy is fondly doubtful, but they stop arguing and also stop pressing me on my accideantal pun. So… yay. Victory-a. Sadly, that’s about the extent of punnery I can inflict upon my girlfriend’s name. That’s one thing Amy has over Vicky, if I’m being honest – She has a very flexibly punnable name, even moreso when I consideanr (eugh, yeah that’s deanfinitely a No) Ames in addition to Amy. It’s not enough to even make me begin to consider breaking up with Victoria for Amy – nothing could push me to that – but it is enough to make me wish Carol had named Vicky something else, like Eve. Eve is a really good name. Short and simple enough for maximum punnery, while also being pretty and distinct. Evening. Bereve. Eventful. Those are just off the top of my head! There are still probably hundreds more I could think of if I put my mind to it, and they’re so much cleaner than puns with my name. Don’t get me wrong, I like my name. It’s better than if I was named something like ‘Roger’ or ‘Eustace’, because I don’t think there’s a single pun to be found in either of those, but even with a monosyllabic name, I have to shove ‘Dean’ wherever – where-eve-r: another good one – it will fit and it’s often so sloppy and noticeable, like with deancalibrate, but ‘Eve’ fits so seamlessly into a lexicon. And if ‘Eve’ is part of ‘Evelyn’, then that adds an entire second part of a name to pun with! That’s twice the pun potential in a single name! Being a girl named Eve (short for Evelyn) must be so nice.

“No way,” Taylor exclaims, her genuine excitement knocking me out of my head.

I blink, quickly take stock, and realize Vicky’s telling a story. I try to focus on her words so I’ll be able to rejoin the conversation and hope I didn’t make a fool of myself while I wasn’t focusing.

“There I am,” Vicky continues, “cake topper stuck in my hair, hand in Aunt Martha’s pie, chocolate staining my costume, covered in ants, and a bridezilla yelling at me for ruining her reception.”

“You took the hit for her though,” Taylor protests.

“Hey, I wasn’t going to tell her that. I had enough problems on my plate then, and I wasn’t eager to get into another argument with this woman. We caught all three of the villains, but I just wanted to take a shower and forget about the whole mess.”

“That’s insane,” Taylor breathes, impressed by the story I recognize. I was part of it, not that I can say as much. Cedarwood Country Club got held up by a trio of teen villains, and the PRT sent most of the Wards to deal with it, along with Glory Girl and Shielder. No one got hurt, all three of the kids got arrested, and all in all it was a good day.

“That reminds me of when we fought Lustrum and captured one of her lieutenants, back when we were still the Brockton Bay Brigade,” Carol reminisces sharply. “Do you remember that, Mark? It was the summer of ‘97.”

Mark blinks, bringing himself back into the moment. “Oh, uh, which fight?”

“When we brought in Matron D.”

“Oh. I think so. I got shot in the leg during that fight, right?”

“Impaled, but yes.”

“You got impaled?” Vicky asks excitedly. “How have I not heard this story before?”

“It was quite a long time ago. You were still young, barely three years old.” There’s a fondness in Carol’s aura as she says this, one that almost every parent gets when they talk about their child’s little years. “It was over in Redford, some twenty miles out of town. Lustrum’s gang had gathered to torch the home of a district court judge who they disagreed with on a recent ruling. Do they not teach you this stuff in school?”

“No. I mean, we learned about Lustrum a bit last year -- political dissident, captured by Alexandria in ‘98, sentenced to the Birdcage a month later: just basic stuff -- but I didn’t know you guys fought her.”

“Well, we didn’t fight her,” Carol corrects, “just her gang. What about you, Taylor? What did Winslow teach you about her?”

Taylor blinks at being called out. “Nothing, actually.”

Carol raises an eyebrow. “Really? I’d heard they weren’t as academically rigorous as other schools in the district but I find it hard to believe you don’t know anything about her.”

“I know a little from my parents’ stories, but nothing from school. We were supposed to cover Parahumans in history this semester. I figured I’d be learning it in class now, but apparently Arcadia did Parahumans last semester so…” Taylor shrugs.

Amy clicks her tongue. “Lucky.”

“How is that lucky?”

“You kidding? You already know the material; you don’t even have to study.”

“Maybe, but I was looking forward to learning about capes.”

“Capes interest you then?” Carol asks.

Taylor looks around at the family, suddenly self conscious. Though she thinks otherwise, she’s the only non-cape in the room and must be feeling the pressure. Even if it’s not wholly honest, I hope she can take some comfort from my presence. “Well, yeah; don’t they interest everybody? Capes and powers changed the world.”

“I suppose so. Is that part of what drew you to Amy?”

“No, of course not,” Taylor hurries to say.

“There’s no shame in it,” Carol assures, though I’m not sure how genuine she’s being. “I know many people who would jump at the chance to be with a superhero -- It’s an exciting prospect.”

“I didn’t even know she was Panacea when she first caught my interest.”

“Yeah, come on Mom,” inserts Vicky, “if Taylor was looking for excitement, she wouldn’t go for Panacea of all heroes. No offense,” she says to Amy, “but your cape stories aren’t all that fun.”

“None taken,” Amy lies, not that Vicky notices. “Weirdly enough, there’sn’t really an exciting way to talk about curing rectal cancer five times a week.”

 “She hasn’t told me much of what heroing in the hospitals is like,” Taylor comments to Carol.

Amy scoffs. “I just said it’s not exciting. Do you want me to talk about bowels while we eat? Cause I can do that if you want, not a problem for me.” She takes a big bite of her pizza for emphasis.

“I think that’s enough of that,” Carol cuts in, thankfully ending that line of conversation.

Nothing else quite puts me off the human form like one of Amy’s hero stories, and I’m none too eager to feel that conscious of my own body again. Even just thinking about it makes me all too aware of the shape of my own skin, the way my muscles move beneath my flat chest as I cut off another bite of pizza, and the slow, inexorable growth of hair across my body. It’s uncomfortable, but not like how a pebble in your shoe is uncomfortable, or a too-starchy shirt is uncomfortable, but more like getting into a crowded elevator a month after you got stuck in a different elevator is uncomfortable -- It’s hard to talk about because it wouldn’t help or change what’s happening, but even if I were to talk about it, I know everyone would say that everyone else feels that same sort of discomfort and that there’s nothing to worry about, but I’d also know they don’t understand. They’d say there’s nothing wrong deanspite the feeling, that it’s normal and natural to feel off. Maybe they’d be right, but it would still be uncomfortable.

I try to put it out of my mind and tune back in on the conversation that’s been passing me by.

“…but she left before things got violent,” Taylor says, I think in response to something Vicky said. Seems even she didn’t notice I was out of it. Good. A gentleman shouldn’t make a scene of his emotions.

“Well. I’m glad to hear that,” Carol says as she judges Taylor and finds her lacking. “It was such a shame, how all of those men and women were mutilated,”

“I thought they only went after men,” Taylor says, soundeang confused. “Wasn’t that their whole thing: strike back against the patriarchy, any means necessary?”

“I can personally assure you, they targeted women as well. One of Mark’s close female friends was dragged into the streets, stripped, and lynched by her gang.”

“Woah. That’s…”

“Not something we need to get into. Please,” Mark struggle-strains to say, grief temporarily beating back the colorless haze of his depression.

Carol’s eyes linger on him, calculating, and she nods. “Of course. I didn’t mean to open up old wounds, dear.”

Spent, he nods and returns his attention to moving a bit of meat around his plate with a fork. A drop of water falls from his still damp hair to splash against the sliver of sausage.

“I suppose that’s enough reminiscing about the bad old days for now,” Carol says.

“I never understood that,” I jump to say, eager to rejoin the conversation. “Why does everyone call the nineties and early naughts the ‘bad old days’ when we’re--” I gesture vaguely at the state of the city: Nazis and a sex slaver as the main powers contesting the PRT and Protectorate, new villain groups popping up every couple weeks, independent heroes disappearing after six months on the scene on average. Even my father’s company isn’t safe from the occasional villainous act: sabotage, corporate espionage, extortion, etc.

“She just said she was done talking about then,” Amy huffs, mad. At me? At Carol? At the state of the world? No telling.

“It’s fine – Isn’t it?” Carol assures Amy and asks Mark in the same breath.

He lets out a mumble that might have been a ‘yeah,’ or a bit of gas.

“I know it may not seem like it from where you are,” Carol answers me, “but things are better than they were back then. It felt like every week we’d have another newcomer pull together a gang to try and take over the city, and as one of the few hero teams, it fell almost solely on us to stop them. But now, New Wave has the PRT and Protectorate to help keep the gangs in check and let people live their lives. There’s a balance now that felt unimaginable back then.”

“That makes sense,” I say. I ache to say more, but most of what I know about then comes from PRT files and stories from other heroes, and it’s against protocol to mention that sort of stuff outside of my role as Gallant, techno-knight of the local Wards team.

“I know it was bad, but that sounds kind of exciting,” Vicky says.

“I promise you, it wasn’t exciting. It was terrifying. There’s a reason we’re the only independent team still around,” Carol says chillingly.

“No, yeah, for sure, I get that. Just…” Vicky sighs. “I don’t know. There’s only so many times you can bring in Uber and Leet before it gets annoying.”

“Like they weren’t annoying the first time you got them?” Amy asks and Vicky laughs.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“How many times have you arrested them?” Taylor asks.

“Well, technically, legally I can’t arrest anyone, I can only hold them until the PRT or police comes to formally arrest them,” Vicky answers, earning a nod from Carol, “but I think I’ve been involved in their capture… three times?”

“You don’t know?” Taylor asks, alarmed.

“It’s not that I don’t know, it’s just that they’re some of the only villains mom and Aunt Sarah let me engage on sight. I must have fought them almost a dozen times by now. Leet’s usually got a new trick, but it’s almost never a good one, so it all blurs together after a while.”

“Sure, but you personally arrested them thrice --”

“Not an arrest.”

“-- but they’re still active. They’re still doing stuff even though they should be in prison.”

“Well yeah; they break out,” I say.

“Seriously? Every time?”

“It’s hard to keep a Tinker and Thinker pair as flexible as Leet and Uber in any prison other than Baumann. Or so I’d think, based on what I’ve heard from Vicky.” That should be a good enough cover for my insider knowledge.

Taylor doesn’t look assured or happy with our explanation. Admittedly, she doesn’t look mad or discontented either. She just looks on with a slightly pinched expression and disappointment in her aura. If I’m reading her right, she wants to say something but is holding herself back.

Amy nudges her. “If it makes you feel any better, they’ll probably step on Lung’s toes one of these days and get flambéd to prove a point.”

Taylor’s disappointment remains, deanspite the ‘reassurance.’

“I don’t know if that’s appropriate dinner conversation,” Carol says to her daughter, pointedly taking a bite.

“Sorry,” Amy mutters, giving no voice to the helpless frustration she feels.

Carol eyes her for another beat, then turns back to engage with Taylor. “Amy is right though. It’s the sad state of things, but that’s often how things go. I take it you’re not a fan of villains?”

“Uh. Who is?” Taylor asks, taken aback.

Carol smiles, this one just for show. “I suppose that is a bit of a silly question. Do you have a favorite hero, then?”

Taylor looks around, and her eyes land solidly on Amy. “...I think I have to say Panacea.”

Vicky and I laugh at that, and Amy balks, embarrassed. It swiftly turns to a glare that Taylor doesn’t respond to. Carol just looks frustrated. She glares at me when I stare too long wondering why, so I go back to my pizza.

“I suppose that makes sense, but I was more asking about any crime fighting favorites.”

“Oh. Armsmaster for sure,” Taylor answers immediately. “He’s always so cool. His voice is so commanding, and he’s always got the perfect tool for any job. My dad uh-- I saw Armsmaster once, in a park near my. Near my old house. He was giving a speech about the responsibility of command and the importance of oversight and. I don’t know, it was just really cool. Plus, he’s got the best villain capture stats of the whole bay. He’s almost to triple digits in solo captures.”

“’Solo captures’?” Vicky asks. “Wait do you follow ParaStats-dot-com?”

Taylor blinks. “Yeah. Not religiously, but I check every now and then.”

“Cool.” Vicky grins. I can tell she’s raring to ask if Taylor’s looked into her statistics there, but is too modest.

“Do you keep up with Glory Girl’s page?” I ask. “She’s pretty impressive, if I do say so. Even though she’s a teen hero, she’s leading in positive impressions and if you look at just the trends over the last six months, she’s giving even Armsmaster some competition.”

“Oh my god, stop,” Vicky says, playfully swatting at my arm.

“Am I not allowed to have a favorite heroine?” I flatter. “It’s not my fault you’re so impressive.”

“Stop it,” she says again, unserious and enjoying the attention. “You’re going to make me blush.”

“She said stop,” Amy says, overlapping with Carol saying, “That’s enough of that.”

Amy glances uncomfortably-gratefully at the other woman, but it’s unreturned, Carol electdeang instead to glower at me. She’s suspicious for some reason, like she thinks my affections for her daughter are malignant or deanceptive, like she sees something inside me and my actions are a deank, dark cover for that something. Hers is an intense and uncomfortable gaze, cutting away at me to shine light on what should never be illuminated. There’s not even anything for her to search for. I look away.

“I think we’re all done,” Carol says. “Who wants tea?”

We all agree to it, except Mark who excuses himself to an early bedtime. Carol sets Amy and Vicky on the task of cleaning the deaning room table and readying the back porch seating area.

“Dean, would you mind helping me with the preparation?” she asks, surprising me.

“Of course I don’t mind, though I included instructions on how to brew and serve.”

She is gone after ‘I don’t mind.’ I stand to follow her, shooting a backwards glance to my peers before I go. Amy is taking Taylor out of the room, presumably to arrange the porch, leaving Vicky to clean up here. I give her a smile, then make for the kitchen.

Carol is inspecting my handwritten instructions for the tea when I enter. She sets them down as the door swings shut.

“Dean,” she says, “you’ve been seeing my daughter for two years now, is that right?”

“Yes ma’am,” I answer, not sure where she’s going with this but more than happy to help her get there.

“And you’ve spent time with Amy during that time, enough to know her relatively well?”

“That’s right.”

“And with your power, you’d know if there was any sort of… aberration with her emotions or psyche, right?”

I nod.

“And you’d also be able to tell if, say, Taylor were abberating?”

“Where are you going with this?” I ask.

Carol is unimpressed. “I’m asking you, as a fellow hero, if I have anything to worry about, if you’ve noticed anything suspicious about Amy or Taylor, if there’s anything to indicate foul play of some sort.”

“Oh, yeah that makes sense.”

Carol’s worried for Amy, of course. That must be part of why she invited me over again. Admittedly, that kind of stings -- I was hoping that it was because she was finally bringing me more into the fold, giving me a symbolic seat at the table, informally making me a part of the family, but if that is the case at all, that seems secondary. I can’t blame her, she’s looking out for her family, and Amy’s insecure enough to need this sort of steady-handed protection. I shouldn’t resent this sort of familial piety; I should respect it. Carol is intense, but she’s a good woman and a good mother, like a mama bear, but with laser swords instead of 400 pounds of muscle and claw.

I wouldn’t be surprised to see one of those laser swords, going by how angry she’s getting. I look around, but there’s nothing else in the kitchen with us to evoke such piss and ire.

“Well?” she asks.

“Well what?” I ask.

“Do I have anything to worry about?”

“Oh! No, not at all.” Taylor’s weird, but not worryingly so. At least, unless Carol is secretly a member of Autism Speaks, but I doubt that’s the case -- Even without considering Carol’s common deancency as a hero, that sort of scandal would have come out years ago.

Carol’s relieved but doesn’t relax like she should after spending an evening with such a worry. She asks, “There’s no chance she’s a parahuman?”

I consider. I want to say no, but, “There’s no way to be completely sure of that, with how varied powers are and how they can interfere with each other. Like how precognitives mess up each other’s predictions, or how I can’t see through Vicky’s emotive Aura, or -- Well, it’s not exactly the same, but there’s this one villain near Toronto named Enchantress who can change the relations between things, and she and her power have been documented as interfering with all sorts of pericognitive, clairvoyant, and empathic –”

“I get it,” she silences.

She’s not reassured by my reassurances though… Oh, duh, it’s because I didn’t actually answer her. Taylor doesn’t match the profile of any capes in the city and if Taylor were a parahuman, Amy’s biosense would have caught onto that immediately, so I cut away the chaff and give her the skinny.

“I think it’s highly unlikely she’s a parahuman.”

That, at least, finally lets Carol relax a smidge. Curtly, she thanks me, and I smile.

We finally get started on preparing tea. I retrieve the mugs and prepare the leaves, putting them in a teapot, and Carol readies the water: filling a pot with water then stabbing an oddly shaped expression of her power into it, like a plate on a stick but upside down. The water is gently steaming within seconds.

I take the pot from her, pour a bit of hot water over the leaves to get rid of some of the bitterness, then pour the water into the teapot to steep. And then we wait.

“So,” I start after about ten seconds, when it becomes obvious she’s not eager to restart conversation, “I heard you had an encounter with Catfish the other week.”

She glances at me, annoyed, and doesn’t respond.

“How’d that go?”

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to. It’s rude.”

“Right. Sorry. That’s my bad.”

We wait in silence until the tea is ready, then take it outside. The girls’ conversation stops as we open the door, and I feel a pang in my chest. I didn’t mean to ruin girltalk. Carol, the hostess, pours everyone’s tea, then takes hers in hand and moves back to the door inside.

“I have work to catch up on. This week has been… busy. Don’t stay up too late. Dean, Taylor: have a safe journey home.”

With that, she closes herself off back inside, leaving just us four deans (like teens? No, no that one just doesn’t work). I wish girltalk could resume, but alas, I am here, so it’s just regular talk. We talk about Arcadia and how Taylor is finding it – both Vicky and I restating our offers to help her out if she needs anything – and that gets us through my first cup of tea, but as i go to pour another, Vicky interrupts.

“It’s getting kind of late, don’t you think?” she says to me. “Maybe you should be heading home? I’ll ride with you.”

I blink. It’s not yet nine, and I’m about to correct her on it when the jealous loathing of Amy’s aura makes me take a second look. Vicky’s giving me a look.

“Oh. Oh! Yes, it is getting a bit late. Let me get my jacket and we can go,” I say, rising to my feet. “It was nice meeting you, Taylor, and it’s always good to see you, Amy.”

The pair of lovebirds repeat the sentiment. Grabbing our mugs to deposit in the sink on our way out the front, Vicky and I leave.

<3    <3    <3<3

Dean Interlude Part 2: Amy Interlude Part 1: No More Fucking Dean Puns

With everyone else having left minutes ago, Taylor and I are the only ones remaining on the back porch, sitting together on the white, wicker sofa-thing: Taylor upright and myself laying with my head in her lap. I have one of her hands in mine, and her other is tapping against the woven wood.

For once, I can’t find it in me to care how flimsy Vicky and Dean’s blatant excuse at a chance to suck face is. My brain’s too… nyghe, to even think about Vicky and Dean right now. As I stare up at the covered, orange-yellow light above our heads that illuminates this part of the porch, all of my mind is turned to processing a single, tiny facet of reality.

“...We’re alive?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says, sounding as dumbfounded as me.

“That worked?”

“Seems so.”

“How the hell did that work?”

Taylor sighs. “I have no idea. By all accounts, Dean should have realized something was up with me, even though I wasn’t using my power on you. But if he did, he didn’t say anything. Do you think he knows?”

“Honestly, I have no fricking– no fucking clue. I give it even odds he noticed and thought it’d be ‘ungentlemanly’ to say something, or he just completely missed it.”

“...He is kind of stupid, huh.”

I snort. “Told you so.”

“I know, but…” she trails off uncertainly. “He’s a hero, so I expected him to be…”

“You thought he’d be more than just some guy?”

She gets excited by being given the right phrase. “He’s just some guy! He’s got powers, but he’s just some guy.”

“Yeah. I mean, he’s rich and I think his car’s supposed to be cool, but… yeah. I don’t know what Vicky sees in him.”

“Me neither.”

I chew my lip. “...He’s not your type?”

“God, no, not at all. Too skinny,” she declares and I feel a knot loosen in my chest: tension I didn’t realize I was carrying. I’m not skinny.

The quiet between us is comfortable as we digest the evening. I laugh again, a quiet shaking of my chest, as I realize something.

“What?” Taylor asks. “What is it?”

I let myself laugh for a bit longer, sounds escaping me for a bit before my mirth falls back into containment. “That actually worked. We actually did it.”

Taylor blinks. “Yeah?”

“Literally nothing went wrong!” The laughter escapes again, a manic sound.

Taylor looks down at me, face creased with worry, but no sign of alarm in her bloodstream. She lets me laugh, lets me get all of it out, like the curses and monsters escaping from under Pandora’s watch, until tears are welling in my eyes and it hurts to breathe. I clutch my sides as a stitch forms. I haven’t laughed like this since the last time Vicky pinned me down in a tickle fight, years ago, and it’s as welcome as it is terrifying, same as the tickle fight. I’m not even entirely sure why I’m laughing -- It’s not that funny! But still, I laugh. I laugh until I’m heaving silently, until no air passes my lips and I’m just shaking, and then I keep laughing until I’m done.

I breathe as deeply as I can, trying to relieve the pain and get air back into my lungs, sabotaged by the occasional aftershock. Taylor watches me all the while, looking down at me in equal parts a- and be-musement. She doesn’t ask, doesn’t press, just lets me get myself under control again, and for that I’m thankful, because if she said anything, I’m not sure I’d be able to prevent a relapse, no matter how unfunny her words are.

“You good?” she asks, almost ten seconds after my last audible laugh.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I think so.”

“So what was all that about?”

“You don’t know?” I ask, smirking up at her. I squeeze her hand. “Take a guess, you shitty stalker.”

She frowns at the nickname, but doesn’t say anything about it. “You’re surprised about tonight, can barely believe how it went, but otherwise I haven’t the faintest idea why you’d be laughing.”

“It went well, right?”

“Yeah. It probably went as well as we could have hoped for.” She frowns.

“Right. And you wanted to burn my house down.” She huffs, annoyed, and I laugh, just a few breaths of it.

“’A small fire.’ I suggested a small fire.”

“Still.”

I notice something odd with my power and my eyes snap to her face to confirm it. She’s smiling. She has a nice smile. “The kitchen fire idea kind of happened anyway, with your dad exploding the roast.”

I groan. “That doesn’t count, and you don’t get to take credit for that.”

“I’m just saying: a fire was started, and the dinner went well.”

An unwelcome thought pops into my head. “Wait, you didn’t make him do that, did you?”

“Did I make your dad forget to turn the oven on before I got there and subsequently explode dinner?” she asks. “No.”

“Ok. Good. Because like, that wasn’t even a fire, so you wouldn’t get credit even if you did. It was just hot meat. Everywhere.” I shiver. “I can already tell I’ll be smelling that every time I use the kitchen. …You know, maybe a kitchen fire isn’t such a bad idea actually.”

She huffs a laugh through her nose and I take private pride in making that happen. I made her laugh. She thinks I’m funny. I brush my thumb against her knuckles. This feels… nice. Comfortable. Safe. It’s nice to be held like this, to be able to revel in the proximity and contact with another person without having to fear that Vicky will realize why I’m so into it; Taylor already knows how I feel about her, because she’s the one making me feel this way, so it’s okay for me to luxuriate in the feeling.

I know it’s not destiny, fate, kismet, soulmates, or anything else like that. Taylor and myself aren’t natural fits, ordained by some higher power outside of our control to be together. But this is better than my natural state of being – This artificiality is better. I more than anyone know how illogical, sloppy, and dumbfuck-stupid nature can be. As a ‘scientific’ theory, intelligent design is laughable, but maybe there’s something to be said for it as a practice. Maybe a bit of intention is good, for stuff like this. It’s certainly better than what I had before, even if this intelligent designer is straight.

“Can I ask you something?” she asks.

“You just did, so no.”

She rolls her eyes at my joke and continues, “We spent the last two days planning and coming up with contingencies, but we didn’t even need them. I even brought my journals so if we got caught we could come clean about everything --”

“Not everything,” I hastily interrupt.

“-- Everything except your crush on Victoria,” she corrects. “I didn’t forget our cover for that. Don’t think I could after you made me repeat it so many times.”

That was one of my few conditions to tonight’s contingencies. Letting known my perverse love for my sister would undercut the entire point to Taylor, and call me selfish but I’ll never torch my relationship with Vicky to keep Taylor around. No matter how cute she makes me think she is. So in its stead, we decided I’d come clean about my burnout at the hospitals, and that Taylor was helping me keep with my rounds.

“But nothing happened,” she continues. “Your mom doesn’t trust me, but I don’t think she even suspects I’m a cape. I really expected her to try something, based on what you told me about her and what I heard. But we just talked – barely even about anything.”

I frown. “You still haven’t asked your question.”

“You didn’t give me permission to.”

“Seriously?”

She’s not serious, but she commits to the joke so I just huff, shake my head, and bid her to continue. “Do you think we’re being paranoid?”

“That’s what you wanted to ask?” I scoff. “No.”

“No?"

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s just…” She sighs. “Nothing went wrong. Your family was polite. Nice. Friendly. It was a nice dinner, and so maybe, if they did find out, about us, about me…”

She doesn’t finish her thought, but I think I get where she’s going. She thinks things might be okay if they knew, that they might accept her for who she really is, that because they’re heroes, they’ll listen, understand, and judge fairly and impartially. I sit up to fix her assumptions.

“Taylor. Look at me.”

Her eyes meet mine.

“My family tolerates Taylor, my dumbass, awkward, weird-but-normal girlfriend. If they met Taylor, the Master who is manipulating my brain chemistry, they wouldn’t wait to hear your explanation before stabbing you, arresting you, and throwing you into a pit to die.” Somewhy, that example feels more real than it should. I shake it off.

She looks away. “I know. But if I’m going to help anyone else, we’ll have to tell people about this, about us. You know that, right?”

“I’m not going to let you open your big mouth and ruin this before I’m fixed. Do what you want after that, but until then, you’re mine -- Got it?”

She hunches in on herself as her throat tightens, trying impossibly to hide a smile. “That’s fair. I won’t take any other cases until you’re better, but it’s only fair you help me convince the rest of the heroes that I’m legitimate afterwards.”

“Sure, yeah, whatever. It’s kind of messed up you’re using me as a resume though.”

“Maybe. But…” She looks into the middle distance. “There are worse things to be used as.”

I push her over while she’s not paying attention, and she shoots me an indignant look from her sideways position on the two-seater. I turn, then lay on her. “Quit being ominous, you weirdo. You’re bringing the mood down, and that’s supposed to be my job. Let’s just enjoy the fact that we lived through the night.”

She repositions, pushing me up without my help so I’m laying on her front rather than her side. “Okay. We can do that. But tomorrow, we need to talk about what comes next. We got distracted these last few days by your family and… other things,” she says, not so suavely referencing Wednesday’s cavalcade of disasters, “but we need to come up with a more robust and complete plan for what we’re doing, how we’re doing it, and when and where would be the best places to do it.”

“Sure, whatever,” I agree, squirming to get comfortable. “But that’s tomorrow. Let me know if anyone’s coming out here, otherwise shut up.”

She doesn’t respond, and we relax, listening to the sounds of the suburban night. I find a smile creeping onto my face. We actually survived. I’m certain it won’t be the last hurdle we’ll come across, but it’s one we cleared with neither incident nor injury, somehow, and for now, it makes me feel as invulnerable and sure-fired as Glory Girl. Tomorrow will bring its challenges, but tonight I can rest on my girlfriend-shaped pillow.

…Until she suddenly tenses and shifts under me.

“I think your mom’s coming outside,” Taylor says.

I scramble to push myself off her as quickly as I can, unwilling to risk Carol seeing us so enmeshed like that and making a big deal of it. “Why’s she coming out? She said she was working.”

Taylor rubs her chest with a wince as she sits up next to me. “You smacked me in the boob,” she mutters.

“What boob?” Can’t she focus on what’s important?

She glares at me.

“Ugh, fine.” I take her hand. “Do I have permission to heal you, you big baby?” I take away her pain as soon as she starts to nod her head. “Now what’s this about Mom?”

“She suddenly got worried about us. I think she thinks we’re canoodling?”

“Canoodling?”

“Yeah. Like, messing around. Sexually.”

“I know what the word means, dammit. What I – Forget it. Is she coming or not?”

“She hasn’t decided yet, but I think – She’s coming.”

“You said that already.”

“No, I mean she’s coming right now. Should we kiss?”

I blink at her and try to convey how stupid she is with only my face. I’m sabotaged by my blush borne of the memory of the feel of her lips against mine, which is in turn sabotaged by my remembering her sexuality. “Why do you keep trying to kiss me?”

“We’d be playing into her expectations for what she thinks we’re like as a couple, which would make us” – she gestures between us – “more believable. And it’d be weird if we weren’t somehow being affectionate, wouldn’t it? Running out of time: yes or no?”

I swallow and my heart sounds loudly in my ears. “No.”

She throws her arm around my shoulder and pulls me close and I freeze as, for a second, I think she’s going to kiss me anyway, but instead she just pulls herself bodily against me, just in time for the back door to slide open. Carol walks out with a mug in hand and looks at us. Her eyes linger on where we’re joined, and I feel as vulnerable and skittish as Glory Girl with her shield shot to shit. I push Taylor away to make some room: not enough to be comfortable, but enough that Carol’s eyes move elsewhere, to the tea pot on the table.

“Enjoying the evening?” she asks.

We both mutter affirmatives.

“Good,” she says. “It’s a nice evening. I’m glad the rain didn’t linger after its unexpected arrival.”

“It was a weird storm,” Taylor comments.

Carol takes the teapot and fills her mug with it. It’s tepid by now, almost half an hour after serving, but that doesn’t dissuade her. A white-hot laser comes into existence in her hand, held like a particularly long pen, and she silently stirs her drink with it, not annihilating her mug at all, despite expectations. Steam rises over the lip a moment later. Carol sips. “Do either of you need to be topped off?”

“No thank you.” My voice is strained. Taylor gives me an odd look, but doesn’t say anything.

“Sure,” Taylor says, holding out her mug. Carol repeats the process, and in a moment Taylor’s holding a gently steaming mug too. Taylor sips as we stare at Carol’s hand where the power dissipated. “I thought your power could only cut things.”

“Cutting, heat, and light: you’d be surprised what I can do with some control,” Carol answers casually. “It’d be shameful if I didn’t pick up any new tricks after almost twenty years as a hero. But I didn’t come out here just to talk about that. I wanted to ask, have you arranged a ride back to the orphanage?”

“There’s a bus that picks up a block over and goes almost straight there; I was going to take that.”

“Good to hear. And while we’re on the subject: do the Sisters know about you two? That you’re dating?”

Taylor straightens in her seat. “They don’t. It hasn’t really come up yet.”

“I see. I didn’t want to assume anything or endanger you in your new home, tenuous as it is, so I only referred to Amy as your friend when I spoke to Sister Linda. May I ask when you plan to tell them?” Carol asks.

“I don’t exactly have a plan in mind to tell them. I would if it came up,” she offers.

“Oh. From the way Amy spoke, I thought you two were both set on being openly out of the closet. Are you of a different mind?”

I hope and silently beg her to say no, that she’ll keep up a united front in the face of my mother. Whether she hears me or not, she says, “Of course not. We both agreed it wouldn’t do either of us any good to be quiet about it.”

“I see.” Carol looks at me and I’m quick to nod.

I tell her, “We talked about it before we actually started, you know. Dating.”

“Good. Communication is important in any relationship, but so is perspective. You’re both young and amorous and this is likely the first relationship for both of you” – she pauses to let Taylor disagree. Taylor doesn’t – “so you don’t have experience with the pitfalls and risks of a relationship. I’m not telling you not to be openly queer, but I do want to make sure you – both of you – understand exactly what that means.

“If you break up, there’s no going back into the closet, Taylor. That’s a risk you’ll carry for as long as you live in a place like Brockton Bay, and you need to be aware of what that means and how to deal with the risks associated. There is a very real chance that, if the orphanage learns about your preferences, you could be homeless or shuffled off to another home – possibly in another city or even state – by the end of the week. It’s an absolute shame, the state of our foster system, but it’s the ugly truth and you need to be one hundred percent sure that you’re prepared to face those consequences. If that happens, what will you do? Do you have a plan?”

“I think you’re underselling the Sisters,” Taylor sidesteps. “I’m not the only gay person in the house, and neither of them are keeping it a secret from the rest, so I can’t see why they wouldn’t be okay with me dating Amy.”

“That’s good to hear, but you should still have a plan in place before coming out. You can’t know the future or if they would see this” – she gestures at us with a flick of her hand – “as different than the others’ queerness.”

“Then it’s a good thing I do have a plan.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“And why is that?” There’s an unimpressed, challenging note in Carol’s voice, like she thinks Taylor just came up with this plan on the spot and is lying.

“It’s not illegal, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That’s good to know, but I’d still like to hear what your plan is.”

“With all due respect, that’s not your business to know. I promise it won’t reflect poorly on Amy or the rest of your family, and it won’t put anyone in danger, but it is private and involves personal information, and I’m not obligated to tell you.”

Carol changes tactics. She turns to me and asks, “Do you know about this plan of hers?”

I can either lie and say I do, and deal with the mess of Carol hounding me to figure it out later, or be honest and say I don’t, and disappoint Taylor by being unsupportive. It’s times like this – among many other times – that I wish I had some different power that let me read minds, because even though I can read Taylor’s physiology, I can’t tell what she’d rather me do, and us being on the same page during times like this is important.

I do what comes naturally and hope that lying to my family is the right tactic here. “I do.”

“And you trust her plan? You think it’s a good plan?”

“I do,” I repeat, digging further. After this, I should ask Taylor what this plan of hers is.

Carol’s gaze burrows into my eyes for a long moment, challenging me. It’s scary, but Taylor’s arm pulls a little bit tighter around my shoulder. My gaze stays steady. She says to me, “Then that will have to be enough. I raised you to have good judgment. Exercise it.”

I want to scoff at her assertion of raising me, but at the same time I want to sigh in relief at this being dropped. I meet myself in the middle and do nothing.

“But,” Carol continues after barely a moment, “you’re not just facing homelessness and ostracization; you’re facing actual, legitimate, physical danger by coming out, and that’s not something you can simply plan away.”

“You’re talking about the homophobes in the Empire, right?” asks Taylor. “I went to Winslow; I know what they do to people, I know what to look out for, and I know the parts of the city to stay away from to avoid them.”

“This isn’t high school,” Carol dismisses. “They’re not going to just push you down or shove you in a locker, they’re going to try to hurt you, and if they think they can get away with it, they’re going to try to kill you. What will you do when that happens?”

“I’ll run.”

“Are you fast enough to outrun a group of fully grown men who hate you? Will you leave Amy behind?”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” Taylor snaps.

“Mom, no one’s going to attack me,” I say.

“Because you’re Panacea?” she asks rhetorically. She shakes her head. “You can’t rely only on your reputation. You’re not in the field so you don’t realize how petty and cruel these people are. It doesn’t matter how much good you’ve done, how many people you’ve helped, or even whether you’ve saved their own mother’s life before; to them you are nothing more than a dyke. I’m sorry to say, but after they learn you’re gay, that’s all you will be to many people. Both of you. And unlike your cousins, you can’t fight back, Amy. You can’t fly away or defend yourself if they catch you out. They will hurt you, Amy, and I cannot let that happen; when I took you in, I made a promise to protect you. Do not make a liar out of me.”

If it weren’t for Taylor’s hand gripping my shoulder, I would be curled in on myself after that tirade, but she holds me up with her whole-bodied tension as she glares up at my mother.

“So, what?” Taylor demands. “We’re just supposed to live in fear? We’re just supposed to hide ourselves away because some bigots might get mad at us? How can you say that, as a part of New Wave? The entire point of your unmasking was to pave a new way to live as capes, without giving in to fear, and now you want to push your daughter back into the closet just because some villains might get mad at us? That’s bullcrap, ma’am.”

“I’m not saying to live in fear,” Carol snaps back. “I’m telling you that there are risks you need to take into account –”

“Then we’ll do that,” Taylor declares. “We’ll take precautions. We’ll be smart about what we do and where we do it. We’re aware of the risks that you pointed out, and we were aware of them before you told us. I know exactly how much hate there is in this city for queer people, and you’re right, it does suck, and it is dangerous, and I would like to avoid getting beaten by random gangsters or kicked out of the orphanage, but we’re already out. We have been out for a week now, and we haven’t exactly been quiet about it. Almost everyone at school already knows, and we told the people at Games’ Games, and you already know at least one magazine knows. We are already out, and you can’t intimidate Amy back into the closet.”

Wide eyed, I watch Carol turn to me. “You said you only told people you could trust to keep quiet.”

Taylor leaps to her feet. “That’s what you take away from what I said? That’s not the point! You’d rather Amy, your daughter, be miserable than to take a risk? You don’t want her to get hurt by a gangster, so you’d rather she hurt herself by retreating from the world like this? She was hurting before we started seeing each other, almost more than anyone else I know. Amy hated being in the closet. She was miserable keeping that a secret from everyone, including you, and she is already so much happier for having come out. She can’t help but smile every time she calls me her girlfriend or tells someone about us, and you want to take that away from her? That’s– I’m sorry, but that’s messed up.”

Taylor is breathing hard as she finishes her rant. I can’t see her face from my place behind her, still seated, but I can see Carol’s hands tensing and relaxing in turn at her side, mug forgotten on the rail behind her. She glares at Taylor, her jaw set in stone, masseter protruding. It’s a standoff, tense and dangerous, even without considering the powers neither are eager to use.

“I don’t–” My voice shatters the silence and I freeze as my mother’s terrifying gaze turns my way. I force myself to speak, drawing strength from Taylor’s position in front of me. “I don’t want to go back in the closet.” When Carol doesn’t strike me down, I make myself continue, my words stuttering but growing stronger. “I don’t like it. It feels bad. And- And it’s not fair. Crystal and Eric get to be out, but I get nothing? I’m just supposed to do nothing? I don’t want that. I don’t like that. I like being gay. With Taylor, even. I…” I love her. 

Carol’s face blurs, and I blink away the wetness that formed so suddenly, bringing a sleeve to wipe away any truant moisture. Stupid rain. A hand lands on my shoulder and I freeze before I see it’s Taylor, still standing between Carol and me, but now her body is turned so she can look at me while keeping Carol in her periphery. I grab her hand with mine and squeeze even as she tries not to wince.

Carol clicks her tongue. “Fine.”

“Fine?” Taylor asks.

“Fine,” Carol repeats. “Let the record show that I think this is foolish, if not outright stupid and bullheaded, but fine. You’re out. I’ll stop trying to talk sense into you about that.” A sigh hisses from between grit teeth. “It was never my intention to stop you from seeing each other, but fine. If this is what you choose, we still need to talk risk management, because even if you insist on doing this, I’m drawing the line at you doing it stupidly.

“Amy, I’m signing you back up for self defense classes and Taylor, you’ll be joining her. And if you don’t already have pepper spray, I’ll get you some, along with a taser after you get the proper certification. And a New Wave emergency beeper. It will send your location to everyone in New Wave, and is for emergencies only. If you’re frivolous with it, I will confiscate it and bar Amy from seeing you without supervision. Amy, you’re going to start carrying yours again as well. I don’t want either of you going out together – or even alone for that matter – without telling someone where you’re going and how long you’ll expect to be there. You will be smart about where you go on dates, sticking only to places regularly patrolled by us or the Protectorate, and if you’re out together and you get a bad feeling about a place or a person, you will leave immediately; don’t try to be brave or make a statement, just make sure both of you get home safely.” She pauses. “That’s not everything, but it’s all for now.”

“I can date her?” I ask. “You’re actually okay with that?”

“I was never against you dating her, I only suggested you be discreet,” she huffs. “I have to get back to my work, otherwise I’ll fall even further behind. Let me know if you need a ride home, Taylor.”

“Yeah,” says Taylor, looking oddly at Carol. “Okay.”

There’s a moment of nothing, then Carol steps away from the railing to go back inside. She opens the door, takes one step inside, then pauses in the threshold. She turns back to look at me, and there’s a complicated, terrifying shadow over her eyes.

“This reminds me so much of Mike right now. I hope, for your sister’s sake if nothing else, that things turn out differently.”

She closes the door, separating us once more.

It takes a moment for her words to land and I… There’s a tightness in my throat, stunned, breath won’t move right. She actually just said that. Did she actually just say that? That’s… I can’t believe she just said that. Even for Carol that’s –

Feeling like I’d been the one shot when we got the news about Aunt Jess. Feeling like an intruder at the funeral. Hearing Carol cry in her study late one night. Mark shutting down for an entire month. Aunt Sarah and Uncle Neil not being much better. Uncle Mike just being gone one day, no goodbye. Vicky being the only one to hug me in the aftermath. Up late with Crystal and Eric at their house, silently wondering who would be next. Promises to be safe, to not leave each other. Knowing there was nothing we could do to stop it. 

A shuddering breath leaves me, and with it my disbelief. Carol really did just throw her own brother’s desertion in my face, like this is at all the same, like I would ever leave Vicky like that, whether I’m grieving Taylor’s hypothetical murder or not. I’m not going to hurt Vicky like that, and my power’s not good for much, but it’s good enough to make sure no one else has to die like Jess, as long as I’m there in time.

“Who’s Mike?” Taylor asks gently, retaking her seat beside me.

“My uncle.” My answer is strained.

“I thought his name was Neil?”

“My other uncle.” Angry, now. At Taylor, at Carol, at myself: I don’t know.

“...Oh.” A stretch of silence. “Your mom’s kind of a bitch, huh?”

Despite it all, a laugh leaves me. “Yeah.”

“On the bright side,” she says, “we won.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Your mom’s okay with us dating. Despite everything else, she said as much.”

I blink. “Huh. I guess you’re right.”

“So, that’s cool, right?”

“Sure.”

“It’ll make this whole you-and-me thing easier, at least. Quicker too, since we won’t have her obstructing.”

“I guess? Wait, are you trying to cheer me up?”

“I’m pretty sure I am cheering you up.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“Don’t make me bite you. Because I will. And not in a cute way. I’ll draw blood.”

She shifts uncomfortably, pulling her head – and neck – an inch further from me. “I’ll stop.”

“Good.” I press myself against her, squirming as I try to find a comfortable position that’s not ruined by her bones jabbing me. “Still think we were being paranoid, not coming clean?”

She shakes her head. “Your mom’s a lawyer, right?”

I blink at the non sequitur. “Yeah?”

“I think, if we told her about me, she might try to prosecute me herself.”

I snort.

“But you want to know something really weird?”

I raise an eyebrow and let her pick up on my curiosity.

“I’m pretty sure your mom likes me now.”

“Bullshit,” I call.

“I’m being serious.”

“You sound delirious. Are we sure you didn’t get a concussion from the stairs this afternoon?”

“You said yourself I didn’t.”

“I must have missed something for you to be thinking something like this.”

“Mhm.” She doesn’t believe me. “In retrospect, it was kind of dumb to try to get one just to dodge dinner tonight.”

“You’re only saying that because it didn’t work. It was our only idea that wasn’t illegal, impossible, or liable to get someone killed,” I defend.

“I’m not mad. I agreed to it, after all, but just…” Her face screws up at the memory, and I feel a bit of sympathy, thinking back to the sound of her ulna snapping, and her pained, tear-stained expression that was so different from her usual stoicism. “I’m glad you didn’t want to do it again.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“She does like me though, a lot more than she likes Dean, at least.”

“I guess I can believe that much,” I concede. “Still weird though.”

“She doesn’t like most people, I take it?”

“You can say that again.”

“She doesn’t like most people, I take it?” she repeats.

I groan. “I really wish you would stop trying to be funny.”

She shrugs. “I can’t exactly be badass, not with my powers.”

I blink at the sudden dichotomy. “What?”

“And I’m not really normal, so relatable is out the window.”

I blink again at the sudden trichotomy. “What?”

“And Masters aren’t exactly inspiring, on account of, well, the ‘controlling other people’ thing.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, completely lost.

“The type of hero I want to be,” she says simply.

I look at her, dumbfounded, as that explanation cleared up not a single bit of my confusion.

“So, heroes are either badass, like Alexandria or Armsmaster, relatable, like Flourescent or Kid Win, inspiring, like Legend or Chevalier, or funny, like Assault or Clockblocker. Funny is my best shot at being relevant as a hero, and plus it helps me seem disarming and less scary. I need that edge, with my power,” she explains, sounding insane.

“You sound insane. Where did you even get this – I don’t even know what to call it. Nonsense?”

“It’s not nonsense; there are entire threads on PHO arguing about what hero falls where. I admit, it’s not a perfect metric, but it makes sense when you think about it. Every hero falls somewhere on the scale.”

“Where do I fall?”

“Inspiring. You help people daily, saving countless lives. You’re probably one of the most inspirational heroes out there, if I’m being honest.”

I frown. Yeah, that makes sense. “Let’s talk about something else. Something less stupid?”

<3<3           <3<3

Dean Interlude Part 2: Amy Interlude Part 2: Dean Interlude: I Lied There's More Fucking Dean Puns

We deandn’t make it far after leaving the Deanllon’s house, only a few blocks. I drove just far enough so we’d be out of sight, pulling to the side of the road in front of the HOA’s administrative building – closed for the night – for a semblance of privacy so we can do what teens our age always try to make time to do.

Vicky is warm and heavy in my lap, pressing me against the custom leather interior of my 1965 Chevrolet Mustang G350. When we give in to biology and break for half a moment to breathe, her breath is hot and heavy against my face, and her lips are insistent: hungry. It’s the first real chance we’ve had to be alone together this week, other than our patrol together, but as fun as those always are, Gallant can’t shuck his helmet and take his princess like this – That’s a blessing reserved only for Dean.

I slip my tongue in her mouth and she needily presses further against me, crushing my lap between her and my seat. I separate to whisper against her lips, “Deanlicious.”

She freezes and lightens in my lap, pulling away with a constipated look on her face, groaning, and not in a sexy way. “Dean. No. That one hurt.”

I grin at her. “Sorry.”

She rolls her eyes. “No you’re not. Dean’t lie to me.”

I laugh and then sigh. “I love you.”

She presses her forehead against mine. “I love you too.”

I kiss her again, but she pulls away before I can deanpen it.

“Thanks again for coming,” she says.

“I’m glad I could make it. Tonight went well, I think.”

“Deanspite everything, I think you’re right.”

I giggle at the pun. “Just goes to show you, all’s well that Dean’s well.”

“Boo,” she jeers, still smiling. “That one’s not even a pun, you’re just replacing a word with your name.”

“It parses,” I insist.

“It relies entirely on context!”

“It’s still a pun.”

“It's –” She huffs. “You can do better, but whatever. So what do you think of Taylor? She’s cool, right?”

“Well, I don’t know if I’d call her ‘cool,’” I prevaricate, “but I can see why you like her. Without getting into deantails, I can tell she’s got some issues and hangups, but she’s deanfinitely interesdeang.”

Her smile returns. “Right?”

I don’t want to bring the mood down, but I’ve been feeling weird the more I think on it, and I’m itching to say something, so I do now. “She and Amy seem uh. How do I put it? …I don’t mean to cast aspersions or make untoward accusations, but they seem kind of weird together, as a couple. They like each other, but I don’t know how compatible they are.”

Just as I feared, her smile wilts. “I think they were just feeling off. Meeting the parents is a big deal, you know?”

“Trust me, if anyone knows how Taylor was feeling it’s me.”

She huffs at my little joke.

“I’m probably worried about nothing.”

“Yeah. Let’s give it some time, let things settle.”

“Maybe we could do something to help make Taylor feel more welcome?”

A thoughtful look takes hold of her face, soon evicted by a grin. She begins to draw shapes on my chest with the tip of a finger. “You know, she did say she’s into capes. Might be cool if a certain someone” – she pokes me to let me know she means me; I’m the ‘certain someone’ – “could set her up with a private tour of the Wards’ HQ.”

I frown thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I have a secret identity to keep, and she seems pretty smart.”

“So we say me or Ames set it up,” Vicky declares. “We pulled a favor or something. And you don’t have to be there, if you’re that worried, but you should be fine with your voice modulator.”

I chew my lip. “I guess that would work. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll pass it up the chain, see what Rory thinks about it.”

She kisses me again, and this time she lets it deanpen. When she finally pulls back, I try to follow her, breathless, but she keeps me in place with her hands on my shoulders. I feel so helpless under her, so weak and completely at her mercy. My heart is racing and I suddeanly feel trapped by my own skin, uncomfortdean.

Chapter Text

Sunday. January 30. 

Every hospital seems to have one of these garden areas, some space on the property set aside for greenery, meant to give the half of the patients ‘lucky’ enough to have a room facing it something better to look at than sanitized white walls and meaningless art deco. Sometimes, a nurse wheels a patient through the area for a semblance of fresh air while waiting for more tests or for their next surgery, and sometimes the patients and nurses like to ditch the fresh air for a smoke. Every one of the green spaces is different in minor ways, variations of the same walkable theme. This one is preferential to knee high shrubbery, perennials, and trees placed strategically to give shade to the seating areas.

That shade is needed, as it’s a bright and cloudless Sunday, humid from the return of rain yesterday and hotter than January has any right to be. It’s my lunch break, and against my typical habit, I’m seated at one of the park benches beneath a maple tree instead of in the temperature controlled breakroom. I picked up an afternoon coffee to push me through the day – after an anxious night’s ‘rest,’ I need it – and a pair of chicken salad sandwiches from the vending machine in the lobby on my way out – somewhy, and I’ve never had any luck figuring out the reason, Brockton Bay Medical Center has better vending in the lobby instead of the break rooms: a break from the tradition literally every other hospital in this city adheres to – shucking my costume to avoid the attention of anyone trying to skip triage by harassing me during my lunch. I’ve got my beeper, so I won’t miss an emergency if anyone actually needs me, but otherwise I can eat my lunch mostly in peace.

I say mostly because, well, Taylor is here. Yesterday, she wore me down about my promise from Friday to talk about stuff ‘tomorrow,’ but I needed yesterday alone to just play Sledgehammer without the drama that inevitably follows Taylor, and even without her there I wasn’t able to fully escape her influence; Rose didn’t show. I swear my life has been even shittier and wilder than normal since I met her, but with everyth– with about thirty percent of things out in the open, things will hopefully calm down at least a bit.

Taylor’s dressed nice, khaki pants and a button up shirt, with her hair cascading down her back. It’s so glossy, the shining light giving odd depth to its blackness. I don’t know how it’s not frizzed to hell and back in this air, but it’s not. It’s as gorgeous and silky as ever, a stark contrast to my own hair which is more akin to one of the prickly, rounded shrubs by the walls than actual hair. Some girls get all the luck. Taylor’s not one of them, obviously, but she at least got something.

“How long do we have?” Taylor asks, unwrapping her sandwich.

“Depends on when they need me back,” I answer. “Theoretically, I have an hour for lunch, but I usually just take ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Really?”

“There’s people that need me,” I mutter.

“No, I didn’t mean it judgmentally,” she says. “I get not wanting to take a full hour to eat. But that should give us plenty of time to get this hammered out.”

“Yeah, about that; what exactly do we need to talk about? You were pretty vague in your texts.”

“Well yeah, you never know who’s reading those.”

I want to roll my eyes at her paranoia, but it’s not really that paranoid, when one considers the existence of Tinkers, Thinkers, and Carol. “I guess. Wish you’d have let me get you something better than a flip phone, then we’d at least be able to use an app to talk.”

She looks down at the table and picks at a loose piece of wood. “I don’t want you spending so much on me. It feels weird.”

“Taylor, a crappy smartphone is like, two week’s allowance. It’s not a big deal.”

“The cheapest one at the store was almost 200 dollars,” she says, as if reminding me.

“Yeah. I know.”

She blinks. “You get a hundred dollars a week? For allowance?”

“Yeah? More if I do some chores around the house.”

A stricken, mystified look crosses her face as she stares at mine. She looks down to inspect the sandwich in her hand, staring at it like it might bite her. She’s obviously weirded out if she’s overacting like this. It kind of weirds me out in turn. Then I remember she’s poor. Like, legit poor. Orphan poor. 

“Can we hurry this up? Every minute we waste here is another minute someone suffers in there.” I nod at the hospital. “What’s so important that we couldn’t wait until school?”

She retakes her typical game face, turns to me, and says, “I went to the library yesterday and looked at some books on relationships – advice and self help books, mostly – and all of them brought up a similar point of communication being key to any successful relationship.”

“Yeah?” She wants this to succeed? What would that even mean to her?

“So, even though ours isn’t, you know, real , I thought we should have a talk so we’re on the same page about what, exactly, we want out of our relationship.”

“We already did that,” I snap. This is what she interrupted my work for? “You said you’d fix me, and I convince people you’re not going to turn everyone into your thralls.”

“Right. But what does that mean: ‘fixing you’? I know we agreed on the Victoria thing, but is there anything else? Anything… healing related, maybe?”

I set down my sandwich  with a huff. “I told you I don’t know how many times that I’m not going to stop healing, so stop --”

“Would you just listen?” she interrupts. “I didn’t say anything about stopping you from healing, okay? It’s… inconvenient, how stubborn you are about your hours, and I would like for you to be more flexible about your hours so we’d have more time to work and so we wouldn’t have another issue like last Thursday, but you set your boundary, I heard that, and I am respecting it.”

I give her a queer look even as I come off my righteous anger. “Why are you talking like that? You sound like you --” I groan. “You’re quoting something, aren’t you?”

She looks away. I roll my eyes and pick back up my sandwich. She’s as much a nerd as Vicky, in some ways. She ignores me and continues, “When we were talking about what to do if we got found out, we were going to say I was fixing your feelings about healing. There was too much going on at the moment for us to talk about it, but it got me thinking -- Is that something you want me to do? Because I was listening in before I got here, and you like this less than any of the other doctors.”

“I’m not a doctor,” I tell her. “My degree is only honorary.”

“That… isn’t the point. But okay.”

“Well what the hell else am I supposed to say to that? Weren’t you the one who said you didn’t want to do too much at once? For safety or something?” I fiddle with my sandwich’s packaging, just to have something to do with my hands.

“That was last week; I have a better handle on what I can do to you, and it feels like the emotions are… sticking better? That’s not the right word.” She thinks for a moment. “It’s like instead of having to play every instrument to make the song, I can just play the song?”

“Wow,” I say. “Thanks for clarifying absolutely nothing.”

“The point is: it’s easier for me to affect you now than it was last week, even if the changes aren’t internalized yet. So it shouldn’t be an issue to do a little bit more to you. And of course we’ll both keep notes and monitor to make sure nothing goes wrong, same as with the crush.” She settles down after she finishes, having gotten visibly more excited as she went on, meaning she moved more than a sloth. Once settled, she asks, “So what do you say?”

“I…”

My heart thumps loudly in my chest, echoing in my ears. She wants to do more, dig herself deeper into my head, and I’m not exactly against that. She hasn’t exactly proven untrustworthy or willing to abuse her power over me – though I kind of wish she would, just so I’d have something else to point at to further prove her monstrosity and an excuse to make myself end this – but what she’s asking isn’t the same as what she’s done.

I invited her further in once before, to fix the dissonance, but that was still ultimately about purifying my love for Vicky; Taylor’s asking to get involved with my power, which is an entirely different thing. The reason I need Taylor to fix my love for Vicky is because my power is too perfect for abuse, and it would be the work of seconds to turn it against someone. No one can be trusted with my power, not myself, not Taylor, and not even Vicky, not without something to keep them from ruining everything everywhere for everyone. I have my rules, but Taylor doesn’t – I’m not sure she has any rules other than “ask permission first.” She might not understand their weight if I explained, might try to poke holes and lawyer her way through them to tempt me into breaking them if she learned, so I’m not sure if I can even try to explain them and why they’re so important for limiting my power.

And Taylor wants to touch it, to touch me while I use it, to dictate how I feel while I heal. What if she got me addicted to healing and I forgot to ask for permission before going for another hit? Or what if she made me feel good using my power and I couldn’t help myself from using it more than I need and finally tipped over to change someone? That would literally be rape!

She says she respects boundaries, that she won’t press whatever rules I put in place, but how can I be sure that she’s telling the truth? She might be now, I can gauge that much, but who’s to say whether she’ll change her mind once she realizes the full extent of what I can do, if she’ll decide I’m using my powers wrong and decides to ‘fix’ that too?

“You can say no if you want,” Taylor says, pulling me out of my head. She’s picking at a splinter of the table. “If you would rather keep this just about your sister, I understand.”

“No! It’s not that. I just…”

“Yeah?”

I don’t have an answer prepared.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m not going to judge you; it can’t be worse than wanting to bone your sister.”

I make an annoyed, irritated sound. “Shut up, would you? I know that already. I just… I don’t know if I want to do… that . It’d be one thing if you were helping me study or run the mile or something stupid like that, but I take this responsibility of mine very seriously and…”

“…and you still don’t trust me.” She explodes an exhale. “Fine.”

“Is it?”

“It has to be, doesn’t it.” She doesn’t sound happy. She doesn’t sound mad either. She sounds nothing, blank, emotionless. It’s unsettling and weird, like the dog from The Thing.

“Why do you do that?” I ask.

“Do what?” she answers inflectionlessly.

“ That . That stoic, ‘I have no emotions’ thing.”

She looks around, and I follow her example. No one is around, the closest being a patient in a wheelchair and her nurse smoking together, some twenty feet away. She already knew no one was around though, she has to have, with her power. She’s stalling.

“You’re stalling.”

She looks back at me, though her eyes are cast down, and sadly something tells me she’s not staring at my chest. “Some girls gave me a hard time at Winslow. It was just better to not react to what they said. It gave them less ammunition for later. Now it's just a habit, I guess.”

“’Hard time’ like what? You were bullied?”

She pauses for a long moment, then nods. “Yeah.”

I give her a long look. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

Her eyes raise to mine, glaring. She took that way more personally than I’d intended it, as if she doesn’t know why she was bullied. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that,” I say and her gaze loses its edge. “What sort of stuff did they do? Shove you in your locker? Give you swirlies?”

“No, not like that. We’re not guys,” she explains. “It was just stuff like spreading rumors and name-calling and trying to get me in trouble.”

I frown. I know too well how much words can ruin one’s day. Thanks, Carol. “The teachers didn’t do anything?”  

The scoff I receive drips with derision. “They hardly ever bothered to notice, and when they did, half the time they’d just look away and pretend to not see anything.”

“Wait seriously? But-- That’s their job! They’re supposed to stop that sort of stuff.”

“Trust me, I know what they’re supposed to do. Didn’t stop them from looking the other direction any time it’d be easy. Like, back in October, some of the girls made a game out of tripping me any time I’d pass them in the halls or in class, and once -- once -- Ms. Garvin asked why they were laughing, and one of them told her, ‘Oh, we’re just playing a game with Taylor.’ Do you know what she said to that? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m on the ground with a sprained wrist, and she didn’t even ask what the ‘game’ was.”

Without prompting, she launches into another story, of how the school nurse got exasperated about seeing her the last time she went, earlier that month, annoyed like it was Taylor’s fault she was in there so often. So she stopped going. After that she tells me about how she complained about stuff going missing from her locker and was told she should get a new, working lock; she did, and stuff continued to go missing, including an heirloom flute from her mom, and when she complained again, was told the same thing again and again, administration unhearing of how she’d already done that, eventually blaming her for the missing things, like she was trying to cover for losing her textbooks.

She weaves a story of pitiful neglect and abhorrent unfairness, without an iota of justice or karma to balance the scales. The closest she got to either were a pair of reprieves, one at the tail end of freshman year, during a spat of infighting in Emma, the main bully’s, friend group, and a longer one from when one of the worse girls, Sophia, disappeared for a week in November, all the way to the end of the semester.

“...but even then I had other shit to deal with. Half of me wonders if Emma had finally moved on, or gotten bored, or found someone else she liked picking on more than me, but the other half knows she was the one who called them, that she was just waiting to see how it all panned out with my dad, and it feels like I ran away or something, even though it wasn’t even my choice, you know? She got one last hit in, and then I got transferred to Arcadia, and I’m glad that happened, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t help but feel like she won. Like transferring was admitting I couldn’t take it, that her petty, high school drama bullcrap got to me. I never got to do anything there, or make anything. There was this one girl, Julia, who started talking to me towards the end, and maybe it was a trick, but I don’t think it was. I never even got her phone number, so I can’t even call to ask, or see if Emma took it out on her next, or what. Arcadia’s better, but… I don’t know.”

It’s a terrible story. Tragic, but not in a beautiful way. It’s tragic in a messy, mean, dark way, like how a submarine with a tiny, unstoppable leak is tragic. It paints an ugly, apathetic picture of Winslow, starker than any of the rumors I’d heard through the grapevine, and it almost makes me want to tell Carol about it. She’d love to sink her teeth into something this unambiguously shitty and rake all the culpable fuckers over the coals.

…If it’s true. I realize only now that I wasn’t monitoring her during this, and that whole thing might have been a big fat lie.

“Could you say that again?” I ask, holding out my hand.

She stares at it, blinks, then grits her teeth. Tightly, she asks, “You want me to say all of that again?”

Sensing danger, with a danger sense honed by a decade of living under Carol Dallon, I opt for a new path. “Just tell me, was any of that a lie?”

She slaps her hand into mine and I wince. “No it was not a fucking lie.”

Not a lie. I pull away and shake off the lingering sting. “You didn’t have to do that.”

She glares at me, though her anger is quickly buried under more nothing. In seconds, she looks like she might be watching paint dry. It’s intense in an unnerving, uncanny way, made more uncomfortable by knowing the reason for the lack of affectation. I feel kind of… bad. For her . 

I didn’t mean to do whatever it is I did to make her nothing at me. I reach out to get a better glimpse into her being, but she moves her hand away from mine as she begins to gather her things.

“You should get back,” she informs me.

“Oh. I guess.” My hand retreats to my lap. “I mean, I have another… twenty minutes,” my phone tells me, “if you wanted to keep talking.”

“You have people to save. You wouldn’t want me to get in the way of that, would you.” She stands and leaves, gait made into an awkward scooch by the weird spacing between bench and table.

“Wait,” I call, scrambling for my trash and bag to follow “Was that everything you wanted to talk about?”

“We can finish at school tomorrow,” she says, leaving in the opposite direction from the hospital.

I take a step to follow, but only one. She doesn’t move like she’s in a hurry, but her long legs move her quickly away from me and my duty. I want to follow. But I can’t. I have work to do.

“What just happened?” I ask the air.

“ Whoosh ,” it answers unhelpfully.

I’ll talk to her tomorrow, I guess. I’m tempted to text her now, but there’s no way she’d respond with a real answer. I… need to get back to doing what’s important: saving lives, healing, doing what little good I can. I can wait until tomorrow to clear this up.

<3

I watch my alarm clock tick over from 2:48 to 2:47, blink in confusion, rub the crusty fuzziness from my eyes, and realize that the 8 must have been a 6. I sigh for what must be ten seconds and sit up, finally accepting I’m not getting to sleep tonight. Normally, I’d have given up an hour or so ago and gone to the hospital, but the buses aren’t running. For whatever reason, the city decided that it’s fine for them to run hourly every night of the week except Sunday-Monday night-morning; instead, they stop at 11:00 pm Sunday and start back up at 4:00 am Monday.

So instead of doing anything useful, I kept trying in vain to get to sleep, hoping for at least some rest before tomorrow. It didn’t work. Instead I just stared at my walls, ceiling, phone, and clock intermittently for the last four hours.

I swing my legs over the side of my bed, slip on my slippers, pull my blanket around me to wear like a crappy cape-robe-cloak-thing, and shuffle out into the brightness of the hall and then downstairs, squinting all the while. I hate how bright this house is all the time. I pass the living room on my way to the kitchen to make a pot of shitty coffee to start my day wrong and see that I’m not the only one up.

Mark is on the couch with his robe open, exposing his striped boxers and tank top, silently watching a movie. One of the Star Wars prequels, by the looks of it. He either doesn’t notice or acknowledge me.

I return the favor long enough to make coffee, leaving Carol’s ‘secret’ stash alone. I don’t want the good stuff tonight. Tomorning. Why isn’t it tomorning? ‘Today’ definitely isn’t right, since it’s not day, but it’s not technically night either. I guess we have ‘tomorrow’, but that’s different somehow. ‘Tomorrow’ is a segment of twenty-four hours between the next two midnights, or between next sleep and next next sleep, if you’re someone who sleeps, so even though ‘morrow’ means ‘morning’, ‘tomorrow’ doesn’t mean ‘this morning.’

English is fucking stupid.

And for that matter, we don’t have ‘toevening’ either, though that one just sounds really stupid so it gets a pass for not existing. ‘Todusk’ isn’t that bad though, and that’d mean right now is ‘todawn’ which is also kind of cool sounding. Almost poetic. No one uses ‘dusk’ and ‘dawn’ anymore. I feel like I only see them on graveyard signs. Do people still rob graves? They have to, for there to still be laws against it, unless those laws worked so well and now there aren’t any more grave robbers, but we have the laws lingering in our law books. I can’t think of the last time I heard about a grave robbing. Unless archaeology counts. The closest I can think of is that thing in November, but the villain didn’t actually steal anything off the reanimated corpses, just used them to distract the heroes. Didn’t even work: she still got caught.

Does it count as grave robbing if they just stole bodies, and not valuables? Or is that just like, defilement or desecration or whatever? Carol would probably know, but Carol would also ask why I’m even asking about it, and then start to suspect I was planning on becoming a graverobber for whatever reason.

The coffee finishes dripping and I pour a cup, adding enough cream and sugar to turn its color from black to coffee. I head to the living room and set myself down next to Mark, cocooning myself in my blanket. He doesn’t respond to my presence, and I can’t tell if that’s because he doesn’t notice me or if he doesn’t have the energy. Either way, it doesn’t matter.

Episode III - The Death of Democracy plays on the television, turned low enough that we can barely hear, but I know the television isn’t on to be watched, it’s just there to distract, to be something to look at while Mark waits for the fog in his brain to lift enough for him to live life.

I could never be a graverobber, even ignoring the legality. There’s no way that graverobbing is worth it, unless you could get a backhoe or something. That would be so much dirt to dig up. It would be at least an hour per grave if you tried to dig with a regular shovel, and what if the grave didn’t even have anything valuable in it? What if it was some pauper’s coffin? So much work for nothing, and you have to put the dirt back. I think. I mean, you’d have to put the dirt back to cover your tracks, wouldn’t you? Or do grave robbers not care about that? They’re criminals so they probably don’t care.

And how much is even in a grave? A good one? Two, three thousand dollars? It’s all in jewelry, right? How do you even turn that into money? Who the hell buys dead people’s jewelry? Do you just take it to a pawn shop, or do you have to know a guy? Like, is there a specific black market for grave robbed jewelry? That’s so much work. No wonder no one robs graves anymore.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Mark asks.

“How crappy robbing graves would be.”

He grunts. Half a minute later, he says, “Lot of work.”

“Mhm.”

We watch Senator Jar Jar reveal himself to Anakin as the real sith lord behind Palpatine and invite Anakin to kill Sidious and take his place at Jar Jar’s side, as the general to the new emperor’s throne. It was obvious even on my first watch that it wouldn’t work and that Jar Jar would die instead, since he’s not in the sequels, but it’s still a damn good scene.

It’s another reason I’m glad we got this version of Jar Jar instead of Earth Aleph’s. I saw their version of the prequels once, and I don’t have evidence to support it, but I just know that using practical effects instead of CGI was what let ours not suck donkey shit. That George Lucas got killed by a superpowered ex-fan in the 90’s probably didn’t hurt either, but I know better than to say that, especially to Mark.

“School tomorrow?” Mark grumble-asks.

I can tell how tired he is -- not just in a ‘it’s 3 am’ way but in the ‘it takes an hour to gather enough energy for a ten minute shower, and then another half hour to motivate himself enough to get out of that shower’ sort of way -- so it’s touching he’s trying this hard to engage with me. I wish he wouldn’t. He shouldn’t waste that energy on me, not when I’m the one keeping him like this.

“Yeah,” I answer. “Monday.”

He doesn’t tell me I should go to bed. He knows I know, and I know he knows I know, and we both know that it wouldn’t help. We’re both here because bed isn’t working properly.

The movie ends with Anakin giving into hate and grief and fully becoming Darth Vader while his twin children are spirited away by Obi-wan and Bail Organa. Despite all their differences, the different Earths’ movies end in the exact same way. Consequence of a prequel, I suppose.

The credits roll, and another movie comes on after that. It’s the Para-mour series’s movie finale. The series was about a pair of heroes who fall in love with each other’s secret identities in some Gordian love parallelogram. I heard it ran for three seasons without them discovering each other’s identity, then got abruptly canceled when something capey happened on set. The movie came out a few years later to give closure.

It might be good, but I can’t say for sure. I never saw the show so it’s hard to get invested. Getting invested isn’t the point of predawn movie time though. I finish my coffee and hold the cooling mug between my hands as the movie’s photons fire into my retinas, thinking more about nothing than about the movie.

I wish I’d grabbed my phone from my nightstand. Then at least I could be distracted on another front. Who knows, I might even be able to finish drafting the text to Taylor that I’d been trying for since I got back from the hospital. I wonder if she’s up and hearing how I’m feeling now. I hope not. That would be creepy. I don’t know. I didn’t mean to piss her off. I just had to make sure she wasn’t lying… for the first time.

I sigh. I fucked up. I know I fucked up. I need to trust her. We’re in too deep for me to be having second thoughts about all of this now. Hell, I’m already trusting her, so why is it so hard to trust her? I need to be vigilant and cautious about letting her close to my power, that’s obvious and matter-of-fact, but just trusting her to tell me about herself? I should be able to trust her that much, right? Surely that’s not wrong. It’s not like I can ask anyone though, not without ruining everything. I’m not good enough with words or people to talk around the subject without giving it away or letting it slip, otherwise I’d go to Vicky for advice. Dean might be dumb enough to not pick up on it, but then I’d be getting advice from Dean, and that would just leave me worse off than before.

It’d be so much easier if I could just… snap my fingers and ensure Taylor wouldn’t betray me and abuse my power, but I’d have to abuse my power to do that so that would be stupidly self-defeating. I have so much more power than her, but I can’t use it, and I can’t let her use hers enough to get to use mine. Even just the idea is enough to trigger my fight-or-flight response. What’s that called again? Hyperarousal, I think. I would be so much better at controlling people than she could ever dream of being, on par with monsters like Heartbreaker or Bonesaw. She has to rely on short term and short range control or Pavlovian conditioning, but I could just brush against her arm and pervert her brain to my own means, and I can’t ever, ever let myself do that. To anyone! It would be so much easier if I could just do what she’s doing: condition her into being trustworthy without breaking my rules or --

I bolt into ramrod straight posture, dropping my mug into my blanketed lap.

I could do that. I can do that. I don’t need to touch her brain to make her feel good -- Everything connects to the brain in the end, but it’s not even close to against my rules to do stuff to her nerves or blood, otherwise it would be against my rules to knock people out or deaden their nerves, and I do that daily! I can totally condition her, Pavlovianly, just like she’s doing to me, and it would be okay!

…Right?

I sink back into my cocoon as my brain races. I wouldn’t be touching her brain, so I’m not breaking my rules, but in a way I would be controlling Taylor, maybe even addicting her to me and turning her into my slave, which is what I want to avoid doing to Vicky, but I would of course be getting Taylor’s consent with this, like she got mine, and she would have control over me, so it’s not really “enslaving” her, is it? No more than she is me, surely. We’d both be slaves and masters, intertwined and simultaneous, neither one of us losing full control and neither one of us having full control. It would be equal. Balanced. Good, even.

This would solve the problem of letting her help me at the hospital too. I could ensure she wouldn’t abuse my powers, because I’d be restricting her like I do myself -- It would take a while, but I could make it so the temptation to abuse my powers isn’t even there, that it wouldn’t even occur to her, or that it would be so painful to consider that she could never follow through.

And… I could even make her like me back. Temporarily, of course. Just while she fixes me. I’m not trying to actually date her or anything, not least of all because I know I can do so much better than her.

…but it might be kind of nice to kiss her without feeling like I’m taking advantage of her or having the moment ruined by my insight into how much she’s not enjoying it.

It’s perfect .

I wiggle around to shuck the blanket from my shoulders and wipe my suddenly sweaty palms off on it. Having a clear path forward is exciting. Exciting enough that I’ll need a shower to clean off before school. Just because I can get rid of my sweat’s stink doesn’t mean I like feeling sticky all day.

<3     <3       <3

My heart is pounding and my palms are sweaty. I keep having to wipe them off on my jeans, one at a time so I don’t drop my coffee. It’s my third cup todawn. Fourth? Fifth? Something like that. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I tried again some time around four or five a.m., to try and eke out a couple hours, but something kept me up; I’m not sure if it was the excitement of having an idea, the anxiety of proposing that idea to Taylor, or the dread of seeing Taylor again after yesterday’s disastrous lunch.

“You okay?” Vicky asks for not the first time. Third, maybe. Why’s she asking so often?  

Even Carol asked while she drove me to school on her way to work -- Well, her exact words were, “You don’t look well. Should I be concerned?” but that’s semantics. Literally, I think.

“Yeah, fine,” I answer, not daring to look at her without Taylor’s help. I scan the incoming crowd for her again and still don’t see her. It shouldn’t be this hard to spot a beanstalk like her.

“You sure?” she presses. “Because you look kind of jittery.”

“I’m not jittery. I just uh, yay school. You know?”

She frowns -- I don’t need to see it, I just know she does it -- at my obvious deflection and lie, but doesn’t call me on it. Instead, she plucks the coffee from my grip, ignoring my protesting “Hey!,” and holds it above her head, out of my reach despite my swiping attempts. She floats an inch higher when I almost touch it. I can see her frown now, and it’s so much worse than I envisioned. She looks worried and concerned and I know those are synonyms but they feel very distinct right now and that distinction makes me feel bad.

“Be honest,” she says to me without a single iota of nonsense in her voice. “How much sleep did you get last night?”

I stutter and stammer for a few seconds before giving up on retaking my coffee and letting out a decaffeinated groan. “I didn’t, okay.”

“Ames.” Her voice is heavier than lead with disappointment. “You spent all day yesterday healing. You shouldn’t make yourself heal all night too. You need a break.”

“What? No? What? I wasn’t at the hospital.”

“You weren’t?” She touches down again, wind taken out of her high horse. I could maybe grab the coffee, but she’s faster than me. If I want it back, I’ll need her to lower it more. Soon.

“No, I was just up . I couldn’t sleep. Buses don’t even run that late on Sunday or early Monday, however you wanna slice it.”

“Wait really? Why?”

“Do I look like the Director of Brockton Bay Transportation, Donald Nolan? I don’t know, they just don’t. They run every other night-morning.”

She frowns and her arm lowers another inch. My coffee is almost within reach. I want so badly to jump up and grab it but I know that would kill my chances and maybe spill it and I need it.

“Weird,” she says. “But you need sleep. You know how long Mondays are for you.”

“It’s not like I didn’t try to sleep. I tried. I just failed.” Like with most things.

“What were you even doing all night?”

“Mostly hanging out with Dad. We watched a couple movies. I watched the sunrise, that’s good at least, right?” It was from inside the kitchen and I mostly glared in shame and disappointment at the cresting beams of light through the blinds, but it still counts.

She sighs and drops her guard enough for me to snatch the travel mug from her grip. I turn my body away from her and shield the mug with it so she can’t steal it again. She rolls her eyes. “Do you need a ride to the hospital today?”

Confident enough that she won’t steal it again, I sip from my mug and have to bury the moan that threatens to come out. Shitty coffee is so good and no one understands our bond. I answer her, “Yes please.”

“Alright. Brockton Bay Medical, right?”

I shake my head. “That was yesterday. Bay General today.”

“I thought Bay General was Thursday?”

“That’s Brockton General.”

“ Right .” She shakes her head. The warning bell chimes, informing everyone that there are five minutes before class starts. “We should get to class. You eating lunch with Taylor or us today?”

I do a final scan of the crowd, though crowd is a misnomer with how few people are coming into the building now, most students in class already. Still no Taylor. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Alright. Love ya.”

“Love ya too.”

She turns and heads to class, turning a corner, and only now that she’s out of sight do I realize I didn’t even glance at her ass as she walked away. Taylor’s affecting me, and I didn’t even notice, which means she’s here, at school, and she would have had to notice me to use her power on me, which means she’s aware of me and that I wanted to talk to her. But she didn’t come find me. She ditched me?

She’s… legitimately mad at me. That makes her text response of “ Okay. ” wayyyy bitchier than I first attributed. I thought she was just being a grandma again, but was that her version of “ K ”?

“Bitch,” I whisper-hiss.

The fuck is wrong with her?! I have something to talk to her about and she just flat out ignores me? Leaves me hanging? I should give her feet taste buds for this. Or make everything taste like feet? Whichever’s worse.

<3 <3      <3

I hear the classroom door open and close. Taylor, probably. I don’t confirm. Head too heavy, can’t lift from desk. The chair next to me slides out and a person sits. Yeah, Taylor. While she unbags her lunch, I gather energy to lift my head. I succeed only in turning it, so I’m staring at her instead of the desk’s pressboard top.

A water bottle, apple slices, a sandwich, and a bag of trail mix: she sets them out on top of her bag, to use it as a plate. It looks really good. I wish I’d grabbed lunch from the cafeteria. Or had more than coffee for breakfast. Green apple, my favorite. And she just eats it, crunches it tauntingly right in front of me.

She’s mad at me. That’s why she’s not saying anything. She didn’t even say hello, just walked in here and sat down. She’s giving me the silent treatment? I’ve never gotten the silent treatment before. At least not as a punishment. Mark’s gone quiet for days before, but that wasn’t about me. Carol giving the silent treatment might be nice, but… no, she would probably be able to find a way to make that worse than one of our talks. Definitely, actually. She’s just that good.

This is wrong though. I don’t want Taylor to be mad at me. I’m supposed to be mad at her. She ditched me this morning. That ire has abandoned me since then, just like everything else that is good.

“I’m mad at you,” I tell her to try and bring it back.

She lowers her apple slice, diverting its path to mastication. “Are you sure?”

I turn my head to stare back at the desk. My lips brush the surface as I say, “I was.”

“I heard that.” She eats the delayed apple. “We should plan a session for this week. Has your mom gotten back to you about the self defense classes or anything else she said?”

“Myeah. Neil.”

“...Your uncle? Manpower’s teaching us?”

I rock my forehead against the desk in confirmation. It tastes like teen boy body spray.

“Oh. Um. Okay, yeah, that’ll work. Yeah. We’ll need to plan around that. Did she say when that’ll be?”

“Wednesday.”

“What?”

“Wednesday.”

“I can’t understand you when you’re mumbling into the table.”

I pull myself up and prop my face up with my arm, palm pressing cheek fat up to close one eye. “Wednesday.”

“Hm. That doesn’t leave us much free time to do stuff together, just after drama on Tuesday and Friday. If Linda’s okay with it, we could maybe do dinner after your hospital shifts. That would work well on Thursdays. How long are you there?”

“Until seven.”

“Yeah. That should give us some good time together throughout the week. Do you want to do something tomorrow after drama?”

Through my one unpressed eye, I try to stare hard enough at her to unearth what makes her tick. My eye goes a bit lazy and stares at the window of clouds behind her instead. More rain. More frizz. Maybe I should just shave my head. Carol would flip, thinking I’ve gone butch or something, but then I wouldn’t have to deal with this unruly mess. Wait she knows I’m gay now. Carol wouldn’t be okay with that hair style, but… something. Wait, what was I thinking about? It was important. Oh yeah. Taylor.

Conditioning her.

My mouth goes dry and I feel like I just had a shot of espresso: energized and a little sick. I was going to talk to her about my idea -- am going to talk to her about it. I need to. Ever since I came up with the idea in the wee hours, I’d been waiting to talk to her about it. I should say it, put it out there and ask what she thinks.

“Sure, sounds good,” I say instead. Coward.

“Okay. I’ll ask Linda, you ask your mom -- We can go for a walk or something. I think there’s a park nearby.”

“There’s one just a couple blocks south. Vicky and I pass it on our way home sometimes.” For how much I’m screaming in my head -- a long, drawn out, wordless inarticulation -- my voice is surprisingly level.

“That gives us some good one-on-one time. We should find a time to do something with a group soon too; I think we’ve been neglecting those sorts of scenarios. We’ve got crowds, but no groups, if that makes sense. Friday night would have been perfect, if Dean wasn’t there.”

“I don’t think either of us have enough friends to put something like that together.”

“Maybe. And if we asked Victoria, she’d want to come and to bring Dean, which defeats the purpose.”

She pauses in thought, giving me the perfect chance to speak up. My mouth remains shut. Why can’t I just say it?! It’s not that hard, they’re just words -- words that could change everything and maybe even rightfully scare her away for good, words that she could use to figure out the real me with, words she could share with others and unravel my carefully kept secrets with, words that could end everything. Just words!!

Around and around the drain my thoughts spiral, while Taylor pecks at her meal. She sets her sandwich down after a thoroughly chewed bite, takes a gulp of water from her bottle, and if my insomnia-addled eyes don’t deceive me, takes a moment to compose herself: sitting up a fraction straighter, shoulders moving back a hair, chin raising a single degree. She turns her entire body to face me.

“There’s something important I need to talk to you about. It’s something I’ve been thinking about since last week, and it’s kind of heavy, and a lot. It might take up the rest of the lunch period. So, since you said you have something, do you want to go first.”

Here’s my chance. “…I’m good.”

“Are you sure?”

“Totally. It’s barely important. Just, you know, regular stuff. It can wait.” Forever, since I’m such a coward who can’t ever do anything to help myself or anyone else without being forced into it. Healing at the hospitals, the one thing I’m good for, wasn’t even my idea, it was Carol who first suggested it as a way to get my name out and earn some good will and I just stuck with it because what else am I supposed to do. That imaginary shot of espresso has run its course and with it went the energy. All that’s left is the sick feeling spreading from my gut to my entire body, bone deep and heavy. I’m so useless.

“Okay.” She takes a breath. “We need to talk about us.”

“Oh god you’re breaking up with me,” I exhale with dread.

“What?” Her composure breaks into confusion. “No. Where did you even get that idea?”

“No one says ‘we need to talk about us’ if they’re not going to break up!” 

“Well I do. Did. Why would I even be breaking up with you?”

“Because of yesterday? You got mad at me. Really mad at me.”

“I’m over that,” she says. “And we’re not really dating, so it would be stupid to ‘break up’ because of some hurt feelings.”

“Oh.” That makes sense. She doesn’t like me, so I can’t make her not like me. Why did I have to come to school today? Why couldn’t I have gotten some exemption from education and just heal all day every day? That’s what my life is going to be when I’m done here anyway, why push off the inevitable? Then I wouldn’t have to deal with fuck ups like this. “What about us, then?”

“Our deal, what we’ve got going on, is really unbalanced and unequal, and… I’m worried about that. I like using my power on you. I like being able to make you feel ways, and you said it yourself that that’s bad, so I want for us to find a way to even things out somewhat. I’ve been putting it off, since we’ve been busy, and because I’m not really sure how we’d go about doing something like that, but I want to get your opinion on it and see if you had any ideas, and judging from how you sound, I’m guessing this is what you wanted to talk about too?”

“I might have had a few thoughts on that,” I admit, trying to be cool and failing miserably. My hands won’t stop shaking. I clasp them together in my lap and sit up straighter, trying to force composure. 

“You’ve got an idea?”

“So, I was up late, and I did some thinking. And, well, you know how I’m a healer? Like, how my power is to heal people? To put them back together and stuff?”

“Uhuh.”

“I was thinking. You know how, to do that, I can deaden nerves, and make hormones, and that sort of thing?”

Her eyes narrow calculatingly, and I’m the math problem. “…And you could do that to me? Condition me back with hormones and nerve excitement?”

I blink, heart racing and mouth tasting of cotton. I wish I’d brought a water bottle like Taylor, or that I still had some coffee left. Coffee would be so good right now. Why don’t they sell it here? Soda, yes, but coffee? No, that’s not allowed in school vending machines for whatever reason, even though soda’s worse for you. There’s still most of lunch left, maybe I could run to a coffee shop nearby and make it back in time for this to end? Taylor would come with though, and I wouldn’t have an excuse to tell her no and get out of this conversation.

“It’s healing,” I insist. “It would be all the same things that I do-- all that I can do, I just wouldn’t be specifically treating anything. I-it-it’s pre-healing.”

She doesn’t immediately answer. Fuck I hope she buys it. Was this an empty offer too, same as when she said she’d like me if she could? Or wait no, this is exactly that same thing, same offer, same deal, same whatever. Was it empty then? Is she considering it now, or is she thinking of the best way to say no? Honestly I’d be okay if she said no, then I could just forget this idea and go back to doing nothing. Doing nothing is nice. I don’t have to think about everything I’m fucking up when I do nothing… I just have to think about everything I’m letting get more fucked up. Fuck. I hope she says yes, I hope she buys it, lets me touch her in ways I’ve never considered touching another person. That would be…

Why is it so hot in here? It’s winter, it shouldn’t be this hot. I pick at my hoodie’s collar to try and let the girls breathe, but it’s not enough. Should I just take it off? No, I’m all sweaty again; with my luck, I’ll have massive pit stains on my undershirt and I do not need that added stress right now. I just have to bear it. I can do that -- This is nothing compared to my costume in the summertime, even if then I have the option to ditch my base layer of clothes.

“There’s something you’re not telling me. Something about your power,” she eventually says and my heart clenches, skipping several beats, it feels like, and not in a lovey-dovey way but in a AHHHH way that I would want to get looked at if I were anyone else. “Why are you so scared of this?”

“I can’t tell you,” is my lame, stupid excuse, and I can only pray she doesn’t press, that for once she keeps her nose out of my business. It’s a vain hope, so I reinforce it. “ Yet . I can’t tell you yet.”

“Because you don’t trust me,” she intones.

“I don’t trust anyone with this. The only people who know are Mom and Vicky, and I didn’t even mean to tell Mom.”

“Of course she knows.” Though her voice carries no emotion, I can somehow feel her disgruntlement.

“Vicky?”

She nods.

“I tell her everything. You know that. I told you that.”

“Not everything, obviously.” Taylor means Vicky and me, and my perversion for her.

“Not… Yeah, not that. But everything else. She’s my sister. I love her. I tell you that constantly, but you keep dissing her. Do you have a problem with her or something?”

Instead of answering, she says, “Let’s stay on track, about you conditioning me. That is what you’re wanting to do, right?”

“I… I wouldn’t say I want it, it’s just a good idea, maybe.”

“Amy, I can hear how much you want this. You’re ashamed, but you do want this.”

Instead of an answer, I have a stomachache.

“It’s okay,” she reassures.

“Is it?”

“I mean it’s not, but. It’s okay,” she deassures. “We can deal with that. Together. You” – She lays her hand on the table between us, palm up – “just have to choose to deal with it with me.”

I look at it, and then at her. “Is this…”

“…It’s only fair,” she says after a quiet moment, heavy with implication. “And, it would help sell our story. We made it through one dinner, but your mom is still suspicious of us, and I can’t be sure we actually fooled Dean or Vicky – I’m relying on you to read them – so we can’t slack off now. And we don’t want someone else to call us out and think we’re not actually together, so it just makes sense to do this, when you think about it. And we can talk terms and specifics -- you know, limits, boundaries, ideas, goals: that sort of thing. We can work that out.”

I gulp and can’t help but feel like it echoed through the empty room. “Okay.”

I stare at her palm. Her fingers are so long, and I know how soft her hands are, even though it doesn’t feel like she moisturizes. Her nails are chewed or clipped to the nub. There’s a small scab on her index finger: what from, I don’t know. Far from flawless, and poorly maintained, but so enticing it’s scary.

I reach for her hand.

…I reach for her hand.

I reach for her hand.

I REACH FOR HER HAND GODAMMIT WHY WON’T MY HAND MOVE.

In a small, almost choked voice, I admit, “I want to say yes. But…”

I’m not sure how to nail down that ‘but.’ But I want it too much? But I know I’ll fuck this up? But I know I’ll break you? But I’ve had blissful nightmares about almost this exact scenario, and know the ruin that follows the euphoria? But I want you to make me say it? But I’m considering just killing myself so I don’t have to go through with this, minor offense intended because you’re seriously creepy and insane because who the hell just offers themself up like this? But you don’t know what you’re getting into, since you’re not nearly as scared of me as you should be? But if I take your hand, I don’t know if there will ever be a chance of returning to anything resembling normal, for either of us?

I set my hand on the table, palm up, then close my eyes and wait.

What must be twenty seconds later, something lands in my hand. It’s…? I open my eyes. Half a bologna sandwich, torn, with the bread smooshed along the tear. I blink, then look at the owner of said sandwich. She takes a bite of her sandwich, and I think -- but can’t see for sure -- she’s frowning.

“What?” I ask.

When she’s done chewing, she says, “You don’t have to decide right now.”

She sounds sullen, so I ask, “Are you sure?”

“Sooner is better, if you’re going to say yes, but if you need time to make sure you’re sure, or if you’d rather not do this, I get it. It’s mostly for my benefit anyway.”

I blink.

“You know. Since I’m… straight.” She shrugs. “I’m the weak link in people figuring out we’re not really dating. I can step up on that though, and I can deal with a guilty conscience about enjoying this. I’ll just say a Hail Mary or something.”

I blink again, for new reasons. “’A Hail Mary’?”

“It works for Linda. I don’t know.”

“Are you actually Catholic? I thought you just lived --”

“I’m not,” she interrupts. “It was a joke.”

I smile. I can only imagine how ugly it looks. “Right. So whenever you say something that makes no sense and isn’t funny in the least, I should assume you’re joking?”

She rolls her eyes at me, knowing I’m joking. I hope. She says, “I mean that I’ll find a way to deal. So don’t worry about it. Now eat -- You’re hungry.”

I bring my half of her sandwich to my mouth, then pause. “Wait, how can you tell? Hungry’s not an emotion.”

“It’s not,” she confirms, “but you didn’t bring any lunch with you, so it’s kind of obvious.”

I hate to admit it, but I’m touched. I take a bite. I wince. I spit the half-chewed clump into my hand. “Eugh. Mustard.” My stomach growls at the teased morsel and against all sense of flavor, I pop the clump back into my mouth and wash it down with Taylor’s water, graciously provided.

“You don’t like mustard?” Taylor asks.

“Not even a little bit.” Nevertheless, I take another bite, quick to swallow to try and avoid the sharp taste. 

“Not even on a brät?”

“…I guess it’s alright on a brät.”

“You can have some of my trail mix.”

“Does it have peanuts?” I ask. “I can’t eat peanuts.”

“It does. Are you allergic?”

“No, they’re just gross.”

Her eyes glaze over. “We can either split lunch, or you can see if they’re still serving in the cafeteria.”

Close enough to having permission, I take an apple slice and eat it. It’s perfect, just as crunchy, juicy, and tart as I expected. I eat three in a row before she pulls the rest away, hoarding them for herself and relegating me to a miserable lunch of stuff I don’t even like. Still, when I’m done, I do feel a bit better for having eaten, and she even saves me the last apple slice as a palette cleanser. 

I feel better. I’m still exhausted, tired even on top of my usual tiredness, so familiar it’s a part of me, but less so now. Where volunteering this afternoon previously felt like it’d be a painful slog through the pouring rain and hungry mud, now I can think of it as slightly less so, just a regular slog through regular rain and regular mud. Bed tonight, assuming I’ll be able to sleep, will be nice, though it’s a fair ways off still. 

Taylor has a book out now – I’m guessing probably one of those relationship, self-help ones she mentioned – and is reading silently. I wonder if her lips are moving along to the words she’s reading, so minutely that I can’t see. I’m half tempted to reach out to touch her and feel if it’s true, but I’m fully aware that touching her now is… complicated. Loaded with implication and promise. If I touch her, will I be expected to change her? Will I be allowed? 

I want to take her by the hand and end this indecision, but want doesn’t dictate me. I’m ruled by my wants, but I’ve never let myself submit to them. But then again, that’s partially because I’ve never had the opportunity to do so so cleanly and okayly either. I gulp and take a shaky breath at the terrifying prospect. 

“Hey,” I say. 

She looks up from her book. I look away from her deep eyes, staring instead at a really interesting spot on the table, where somebody seems to have dug a groove with a thousand scrapes of a pencil. I set my hand between us. 

“I want you,” I tell her and immediately cringe at my phrasing. Couldn’t I have picked better, less mortifying words?!

Only a moment later, something touches my hand. Not a sandwich, this time. It’s Taylor; she’s put herself in the palm of my hand and she blooms into my awareness. 

“Huh?” I ask, looking back to her again. I don’t think I expected her to accept.

“You’re sure,” she tells me, gripping tighter as if worried I’ll try to pull away. I couldn’t do that, not now, not this, not if I tried. 

I’m privy to how all of her nerves fire and lead back to the brain, how her stomach releases enzymes and acid to break down her lunch, how her lips turn up at the edges. It’s more terrifyingly intimate than when I last touched her, days ago, because now I’m not just looking. I’m not an observer in her body now, but a… groundskeeper? Majordomo? …Owner? The point is, I can do stuff.

…oh fuck I can do stuff. There’s so much I can do, where do I even start?! I’m only allowing myself to excite nerves and synthesize hormones, but even that is so broad, too broad to pick. Do I start with her nerves or chemicals? What chemicals do I make? In what proportions? Does where I make them in her body matter? Should I have eaten her lunch if I’m going to use her biomass to make them? 

I only have an answer for the last question: no. It was selfish and shortsighted to deprive her body of resources just before using my power on her. That doesn’t help me with any of my other questions though – It’s too much, even with these restrictions and boundaries and conditions, I have too much leeway, too many options, too many choices. It’s made no easier by the thought that choosing wrong will ruin everything and make her revoke consent. I need to not be the one to ruin this. 

“What do I do?” I ask. She can’t get mad at me if she’s the one leading: loophole!

“You could stimulate my nerves, like you suggested,” Taylor suggests, speaking like she’s been caught having to explain the concept of the periodic table to a world renowned chemist. 

“Right. Um.” 

I look at her nervous system, tracing the path its firings take as they transmit information from her hand to her brain, informing her dozens of times over of the sensations of pressure, wetness, heat, texture, and more, and I’m not only allowed, but encouraged to mess with those signals. It’s still so much – Even narrowing down ‘what’ I’ll do doesn’t help when there are still so many options for ‘how’ I can do it.

Do I increase warmth to make it more comfortable? Or would making my hand feel softer be better? Do I stop her from feeling my sweatiness? Am I even on the right track, with comfort? Should I just crank up general sensitivity and try to whelm her with pleasure? Would that get her addicted to my touch? That would make sense, I think. So, I’ll try that, and if it works I’ll… keep doing it? 

Oh god this is going to be so weird. 

I take a deep breath, steadying my nerves in preparation to unsteady hers, and then…

…and then I…

…I…

…This isn’t against my rules. This is okay. I have her permission. She wants this. We both want this. No one is getting hurt or dying. I’m not shirking my responsibilities as Panacea. I’m helping the girl pretending to be my girlfriend pretend to be my girlfriend better so I can be normal about my sister. I can do this. I’m allowed to do this. 

“This is okay,” I whisper, noise barely attached to breath at all.

“Hm?” Taylor asks. 

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it,” I tell her, and then, gathering every ounce of courage I can find inside myself – and then borrowing some from the ideal of Vicky when that’s not enough – I brush my thumb against the back of her hand, alighting her nerves with pleasure. 

I have front row seats – closer, even – to how goosebumps rise in my finger’s wake and how she shivers too clandestinely to be visible with her hoodie hiding her from eyes but not power. I break out in a wide, probably stupid looking grin at how much she liked that – at how much I made her like that. I do it again, brushing back over the gooseflesh, and she squirms in her seat. Her brows pinch inward and she swallows. I trace a circle and her breath quickens. 

“Um,” she says and I don’t let her continue, giving her hand a squeeze, causing her to jerk back in her seat, almost standing but falling back. 

The warning bell rings, letting us know we only have ten more minutes until lunch ends and we’re expected at our next class, and Taylor takes the interruption as a chance to pull away, her hand slipping out of mine before I can do anything about it, severing my powered connection to her. She cradles it against her chest and stares at me with wide eyes.

“It felt good, right?” I ask, knowing it did but needing that confirmation, with how she’s acting. Did I mess something up? Not notice something going awry elsewhere in her body while I focused on her hand? 

“It… did,” she says, and the hand around my heart loosens. “It was just. A lot.”

My grin returns, just as goofy as before. “Like, in a good way?”

She opens her mouth but doesn’t have an answer. “We should get ready for class,” she says instead. “We can talk more about this tomorrow.” 

She starts to gather her things, and reluctantly I do the same. When I return her water bottle, our hands brush and I get the chance to feel she’s still excited by the encounter. That, more than any coffee, gives me the energy to get through the rest of the day. 

Chapter Text

Monday. January 31.

“You okay?” Vicky asks.

I make a strangled sound, not lifting my head from my hands.

“...Okay. What’s all this?” She steps into the dining room and picks up one of the many pamphlets scattered on the table in front of me. She sets it down just as quickly. “Um?”

“Mom,” I explain.

“Oh.”

I make another noise, whimpering more than strangled. With Vicky’s schedule necessitating I get picked up from the hospital, Carol decided that today would be the best day to pass along that ‘literature’ she said she’d get me: half a dozen pamphlets and booklets on girl-on-girl sexual education she got from one of the few local queer organizations in town.

“Did she give you a whole ‘nother Talk?” Vicky asks.

“No,” I groan, “just this stuff.”

“Well, at least there’s that.”

“I don’t even need this stuff though! Like” – I grab one at random and wave it around: a booklet on the importance of dental dams and other protections against STDs – “I literally can’t even get an infection, and even if I could, I’d fix it before I did anything. This whole thing is just stupid, and I don’t even know why Mom thought she had to force it all on me. It was just awkward and… ugh .”

Vicky lets out a little laugh which abates at my glare. “Hey, I’m with you on that. Is it offensive if I say I’m glad I’m not gay, just so I don’t have to go through that again?”

I scoff. “I don’t even care if it is.”

She picks up another pamphlet and flicks through it absently. “Looks like good info, at least. Not that I’m really an expert.”

“Yeah you’re not, but I am,” I groan.

Vicky raises an eyebrow at me from over the literature. “Oh? You are, are you?”

I feel myself blush incandescently, realizing too late the implication. “Not like that. Perv.”

She laughs and I have to look away, holding onto my anger to keep at bay how gorgeous she looks in her cream tennis skirt and light blue, sleeveless dress shirt that perfectly matches her eyes. Her immunity to seasonal weather puts other girls to shame, able to wear whatever she feels like, unmoored by trivialities such as cold. She looks unreasonably good. 

“I just mean that I already know all of this stuff. I know more than any doctor. I’ve seen gonorrhea in places you can’t even imagine. It’s dumb that Mom is making me worry about it when it literally doesn’t matter to me when I’m never going to get an STD.”

“I’m with you on that,” Vicky says. “STD-less sisters, woo! Wait, no, that sucks. Also it sounds like ‘D-list’ which also sucks.”

“Mouth herpes counts as an STD,” I tell her, tired.

“I’ve never gotten mouth herpes though.” She sounds confused.

“Yes, you have. I fixed it before you were symptomatic, but you’ve had it.”

“What? When? How?”

“Herpes, last September I think, and probably from kissing Dean. That’s where most people get it.” I blink. “From kissing, not from Dean.”

"Where the heck did he get it?!”

“I don’t know,” I tell her, exasperated. How the hell would I? He’s the last person I’d ask about the sex life of. I don’t ever want to hear what he does to Vicky. Paradoxically, he’s also the first person I’d ask about the sex life of, because getting the chance to learn what Vicky’s like in bed is enticing. I don’t ask after many people’s sex lives.  

“Wait,” Vicky stops her pacing. “September? You said this was in September? We just got back together in September.” Righteous rage consumes her face and my heart beats faster. “Did he cheat on me?! He did! That– That asshole!” She pulls her phone out of her pocket, then takes a deep breath that’s almost more of a growl than an inhalation, visibly fighting to be calm. She glances at me, frowns, and leaves the kitchen. 

I watch the empty door for a moment and wonder…

“So. Dean. Guess what Ames just told me,” Vicky says from the other room, presumably into her phone, audibly restrained.

“Well then make time. This is important.”

A moment passes, and I can imagine Vicky pacing or tapping her foot in irritation. I lean a bit to try and glimpse her, but she’s out of sight. 

“She just told me something… interesting .” The word is a subdued threat. “She told me that, somehow, I got mouth herpes from you back in September. And I know it’s from you, because I haven’t kissed anyone else. So. I am asking. Where did you get it? Did you kiss someone?

“ Yes in September. Was there another time?!” She rolls back on the anger almost immediately. I can hear her breathing now, even from the other room. “I’m calm. I’m calm. So just tell me. Who.”

Being privy to only one half of the conversation doesn’t obscure as much as one might think, especially with this sort of thing not being novel. I’m pretty sure I know what’s happening, but it’s hard to believe I did this, indirectly and accidentally.

“ EMILY?! ” Vicky screeches. “You cheated on me with Emily?! What the fuck?!

“ And you think that makes it okay?

“So we can just kiss whoever we want when we’re on a break and it’s okay? Is that what you’re saying? As long as there’s a technicality, it doesn’t matter?

“No shit I’m upset. You kissed Emily . Why the hell would you kiss her of all people?

“And you were obviously sooo torn up about it. That’s why you waited until now to tell me -- OH WAIT, YOU DIDN’T. Amy was the one to tell me because you didn’t even have the guts to fess up.”

I’ve fantasized and dreamed of causing this to happen, though usually in my fantasies Vicky is either casually telling me she’s done with Dean or popping his head like a grape and kissing me as the body cools. I rarely imagine it this yelly, though that’s reality.

“Oh that makes me feel so much better!” Vicky says sarcastically, dripping sweet venom. “Why didn’t you just say that your kisses mean nothing in the first place? Then I wouldn’t have any reason to be mad. Obviously.” The last word is a threatening growl.

“You don’t understand? Hey Ames,” she calls to me. I know better than to respond. “He doesn’t understand what a lying, cheating jackass he is; can you believe that?” I don’t answer, smart enough to not place myself in her current warpath. She returns her attention to the call. “Don’t worry Dean, I’ll help you understand. I’ll make it real clear why I’m upset. How about we take a break, and then maybe I’ll find a guy to fool around with, and then in five months, I’ll tell you who it was, or if I even kissed him in the first place? How does that sound, Dean?

“Oh don’t you even try to be cute,” she snarls. “Bye.”

She hangs up. Fortunately, the next sound I hear is an inarticulate, wordless growl and not the crunch of Vicky closing her not-a-flip phone. And just like that, they’re done, again. Dean and Vicky broken up for, if I’m lucky, a month, all because of something I said.

Vicky comes back into the kitchen, red-faced and carrying tension across her entire frame. It’s not fair how even now she looks so good. She’s the kind of attractive that Hollywood wishes it could imitate, crying the sort of cry that’s neither unattractive nor unbelievable.

“Can you believe him?” she rhetorically asks me, starting a rant that I know from experience will take an hour at the minimum as she moves from anger to insecurity to melancholy, then back to anger, tears spilling all the while. 

I silently sigh, so as to prepare myself without making her feel like she’s bothering me, stand, pour her a glass of water, and lead her by the hand up to her room. Once there, I sit on her bed, pull her to join me, push Mr. Stuffles the purple polka-dotted bear-dog-racoon-thing into her arms, and ready myself to listen and support her. She doesn’t stop venting the whole time, smack-talking Dean in ways that I can’t agree too wholeheartedly with. Agreeing without seeming too eager to agree is a dangerous but familiar routine, risking either invalidating Vicky’s current feelings or putting a barrier between us when/if they get back together.

I can’t even be happy about the breakup because– Well, actually I can be and am happy about it. Pleased as punch, honestly. I shouldn’t be, since it’s a happiness borne of Vicky’s misery. It’s one of my many, many guilty pleasures. Usually, that’s all these breakups are to me: a guilty pleasure and a fleeting chance to revisit fantasies of Vicky finding someone else to date, someone who would treat her better, who knows her better than anyone else and could make her happier than Dean ever could if she’d just look my way.

But this time, I’m more tired than elated. The guilt remains at a steady level, at least. I frown at nothing as I silently ask myself why I couldn’t have mentioned this last week and saved Taylor and myself the trouble of planning around Dean for Friday. I’ve apparently, ignorantly been sitting on this Deantoria self-destruct button for months.

My whole life is a cruel god’s sick joke.

<3       <3<3

“I wish you would have told me about this earlier,” Taylor says to me. She pulls her book bag’s shoulder straps up, to rest more securely on her frame, her thumbs hooked under the straps.

“It was kind of last minute,” I tell her. “Vicky only asked me about this like an hour ago.”

“Still.”

I frown. “You said you wanted to do something today.”

“And I thought we had planned to go for a walk, not dinner with Victoria.”

“I thought you’d be happy with this. I mean, you keep talking about doing stuff in new contexts or whatever. This might be our only chance to have a double date with Vicky where we can… y’know ?” I raise my eyebrows for emphasis.

Her eyebrows furrow in retaliation. “Are you even going to be able to do this in front of them?”

“Please,” I scoff. “I’ve been using my power for way more complicated things for years. Making some hormones is baby stuff. I could do this in my sleep.” Not literally, thank fuck. I’ve had that nightmare, of waking up to see that I’d created horror, enough times to seek reassurance that power incontinence of that sort of scale doesn’t develop spontaneously.

“I more meant: are you going to be able to follow through with your sister watching?”

“You’re asking if I’ll get stage fright?” She nods. “I’ve used my power in front of Vicky before, dummy.”

She doesn’t look happy, but she doesn’t protest further. I think she might want to. I’d hold her hand – the only visible spots of her skin other than her face – to get a better read and maybe help her relax or something, if I could. Physically, I can do that, obviously, but we haven’t specifically discussed muscle stimulation so that would be bad, I’m pretty sure. If she’s uncomfortable, though, I could trick her nerves into not sending those discomforting signals, but to do that I would need to touch her skin and her hands are in an awkward place for holding. And it’d be weird to ask.

“Hey, thanks for waiting up,” Vicky says from behind me.

I turn to see her approaching with a guy in tow. She’s dressed to the nines, at least as much as she can get away with at school without looking overdone, in jeans with embroidered clouds and a yellow top that hangs off her shoulders. The guy with her is tall, with a load of freckles all across his hairless face, and has short, dark hair mussed up with gel. He looks kind of familiar, in a vague way, like maybe he was one of the guys Vicky tried setting me up with. He fits that mold of supposedly attractive boy.  

“No problem,” I say back to her. To the guy, I give a courtesy, “Hey,” because I might as well be nice. There’s a slim to none chance that this guy will replace Dean for a while and I’d like to stretch that if at all possible.

“Hey, nice to meet you. I’m Taylor,” he says back. He sticks out a hand for a fist-bump and I wonder if my earlier courtesy will make up for me not touching him, or if that would turn him away. With an internal sigh, I bump. When he moves his fist to bump Taylor’s, she just stares at it and leaves him hanging. It’s kind of funny how long he waits before dropping his hand to his side.

“I’m Amy, and this is my girlfriend, Taylor,” I introduce us.

“Yeah, I’ve heard. Kind of funny we share a name, don’t you think?” the other Taylor asks with a laugh. My Taylor doesn’t reciprocate the joviality.

I blink, then give a Look to Vicky, silently asking if she did this on purpose.

Her lips press into a thin line, sheepish. She didn’t. A shoulder lifts, to say that he’s just the best she could get in such short notice that’s still hot enough to make Dean jealous.

I raise an eyebrow, asking if she’s really that shallow. I know she only had the school day to set this up, but still.

Her eyes dart away, then back to me with a slight frown, asking me to just go along with this so she can save face and not embarrass herself in front of Dean. Even though he’s not here, this would get back to him. That’s most of the point of this date for her, for him to hear about today and be tortured with shame and regret. For that, and for my totally platonic and familial love for my sister – and I could just wiggle with joy about that, even still – I suppose I can be nice to Vicky’s Taylor.

This whole silent conversation moves at the speed of sisterhood, taking only two or three seconds.

“So where did you say you wanted to go?” I ask, and Vicky’s smile gets decidedly more relieved.

“There’s this new diner that just reopened a couple weeks ago that I’d been wanting to check out. It’s supposed to be this cool, retro, historical place. I figured we could go there?”

“How can it be both new and reopened?” my Taylor asks.

“Well, it shut down way back in the ninety’s, but never got repurposed. Someone finally bought it a few months back, did some renovations, and opened a couple weeks ago. I heard they kept a lot of the original decor to, so it’s supposed to be super authentic.”

“Sounds good to me,” I say.

“I could go for a burger,” Vicky’s Taylor says.

All eyes turn to my Taylor. After a weird moment, almost but not quite long enough for one of us to comment on, she says, “Sure.”

We all file over to straight Taylor’s car, a punch buggy convertible, toss our backpacks in the trunk, then pile in. Taylor and Vicky take the front, of course, and Taylor and I shuffle into the back, Taylor behind Vicky and myself behind Taylor. He starts the car, pulls out of the lot, and gets us onto the road. Traffic isn’t too bad for being Tuesday afternoon. I think. I’m not often in a car in the afternoons, only really riding them to school or from the hospital when Vicky isn’t the one to pick me up.

The air is filled with the sounds of the city, muted by the radio and by the conversation in the front as Vicky and Taylor talk about mutual friends. I watch as we move further into the city, veering away from downtown, towards the trainyards. 

Something bumps my arm and I turn. Taylor’s getting my attention, holding her phone out to me, angling the screen my way. I look, and she’s got her notes app opened.

The screen reads, Can we not do the same conditioning thing as yesterday?

I start to ask why, but she presses her phone into my hand, glancing pointedly at those in the front seat. Using the painstaking four-presses-of-7-to-get-an-S method that makes me wonder how she can stand to be so grammatically precise with such a handicap, I type out, whzP that? yMu likf it , and show it to her. 

She takes back her phone, takes a moment to decypher my text, then types something out herself to show to me. It was distracting. I don’t know if I’ll be able to act normal in front of people if you do.

I smile at the idea of turning her into a blushing, distracted mess and her not being able to hide it. I frown at the understanding that that’s a terrible idea in public and that Taylor’s right. I smirk at the realization she thinks she’s ever acted normal in her life. are we Nt doGng thir then?

You said you could do hormone stuff too, right? If so, do you think that would be less obvious? If so, we could do that.

I think for a moment. Hormones are responsible for a lot of the body’s functions, so it’d be stupid to say their effects aren’t obvious, but I suppose they are slower and more subtle than direct stimulation. that couJd wnsk 

I pass the phone back to Taylor, but as she types out her next note, Vicky calls out to Taylor, “Hey, I thought you said you didn’t have a phone?”

Taylor snaps her phone shut at the question, looking like a deer in the headlights.

“You don’t have a phone?” guy Taylor asks. “Who doesn’t have a phone?”

“I have a phone,” my Taylor says defensively. “I didn’t earlier, but I do now. Amy got it for me last week.”

Vicky’s grin goes wide, almost scandalized, as she turns her attention to me. “Oh, she did, did she?”

I squirm uncomfortably under Vicky’s knowing gaze, like a bacterium with a broken flagellum. “It’s not like that,” I defend. “It was just weird she didn’t have one, and it made stuff harder than it needed to be.”

“Uhuh. Yeah. Sure.” Vicky is unconvinced.

“I’m serious.”

“I believe you’re serious,” she says in a leading tone. “…Serious about Taylor.”

“It’s just a crappy phone,” I protest. “Don’t read into it.”

“Okay, not reading into it,” she lies. “I just think it’s sweet how much you two wanted to keep in contact.”

“I just–!” I let out a sound, one like a dying antelope, muffled by closed lips. This is so embarrassing.

“You need to lay off,” my Taylor says, gaze a hair short of a glare. “You’re making Amy uncomfortable.”

Vicky looks more confused than chastised, shooting me a searching look.

“It’s fine, Taylor. I’m fine,” I tell her.

She reacts only by looking away from Vicky. The tension is thick. Vicky’s turned back around to face forward, and what little I can see of her face makes me think she’s replaying the conversation back to figure out what set Taylor off like that. I’d help her if I was sure of the answer. I would guess it’s something about her time being bullied at Winslow, but Vicky’s the furthest thing from a bully I can imagine. She’s a little absentminded, and sometimes she presses boundaries too far, but that’s enthusiasm, not sadism.

“Any of you going to the game?” Taylor asks in what I suppose he thinks is a valiant attempt at breaking the tension.

“What game?” I ask when neither of the others do.

“Basketball. We’re playing the Wildcats on Friday. It’ll be a good game – They’re a strong team, but I’m pretty sure we’ll take it. Not to brag, but I’m leading in assists in the division, and the rest of us aren’t slouches.”

Oh god. He’s a jock. That must be how Vicky knows him. I try not to judge him too harshly, but it’s not easy. Sports are almost as bad as hard drugs and gun violence, at least in regards to how often someone tries to see me for healing. On the plus side, sports injuries are rarely life threatening, instead mostly just debilitating and leading to life-long complications, but on the flip side, too often do they come part-and-parcel with concussions. Still, talking sports must be better than talking to Dean, so I give it a shot.

“Wildcats are East High, right?” I ask. I think I remember Rose mentioning that. Vicky gives me a little smile, seeing my olive branch for what it is.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Taylor says. “Like I said, their team’s pretty strong, but rumor has it their point guard has been off his game since his dad got shot last week, so we’ve got this in the bag. Er, not that we wouldn’t if he was at the top of his game, but you know, we’ve definitely got it now. Still, it’ll be good.”

“I might have to swing by, then,” Vicky tells him, coyly promising nothing in case this one-off date causes Dean enough suffering, or if it goes poorly. Or if she has anything better to do then, which is most likely.

Vicky’s Taylor pulls into a parking garage and finds a spot a few floors up. We make the rest of the journey to the diner on foot. Sign declaring it “Molly’s Diner,” it’s wedged between a sports store on the left and an indeterminable, closed store on the right. We’re in a weird part of town where the only condition to having a location is someone being dumb, rich, and desperate enough to try to start a business outside of the boardwalk or downtown, where the villains have less of an influence. Or this is a money laundering scheme.  I wouldn’t ever come to this part of town alone, but with Vicky here, we’ll be safe. 

“I thought you said this was an 80’s diner,” the feminine Taylor accuses when we step foot inside.

“Maybe 50’s diners were in style in the 80’s?” Vicky guesses as we all look around.

And it really does look like a 50’s diner, with eye-searing pink and cool-car powder blue upholstery, lots of big, chrome check marks underlining words, and what’s probably old-timey pop music playing out of a legitimate jukebox. The only things that marks it as not explicitly from the 50’s are the pair of modern television sets in the upper corners and the framed newspaper clippings dating to the 80’s – specifically when this diner was originally open, I assume – filled with stories about the city and its history, including what looks like a copy of the first print of Scion’s discovery.

I peel my eyes away from the image of the golden ur-hero as a waitress skates – I do a double take and yes, she’s wearing roller skates – our way. She’s not much older than us and kind of pretty, with wheat-blonde hair done up in a high ponytail and tanned skin, with a mole on her cheek. Her uniform is flattering too, the same pink with blue accents the whole place is done up in.

“Hey there,” she greets with a slightly southern drawl. “Just the four of ya today?”

“That’s right,” Vicky says, taking the lead. “We heard this place just opened, so we wanted to check it out.”

“Alrighty! Well my name’s Cheryl, and if you’ll follow me, I’ll get y’all situated. Booth or table?”

Vicky requests a booth, and the waitress grabs a handful of menus from a pocket on the wall nearby and leads us to a booth: a three-quarter circle of seating around a round table. We take our seats, Vicky and I sandwiched between the two Taylors, each next to our respective dates. I sidle up against Taylor, laying my hand on hers on her thigh.

Her hand moves minutely, almost tensing, but not in any sort of nervous way but in the way that happens when someone is focusing their awareness on a body part. Her lips press ever so slightly together as she looks my way: a sign that she actually is a bit nervous, which is oddly a bit relieving. I’m not the only one feeling trepid about this. I take a minute to just take stock of her. Her body is more familiar than anyone’s other than family’s, at this point, but if I’ll be adjusting her hormonal balances, I want to have a refreshed baseline for it all.

The waitress frowns, giving Taylor and I a brief, odd look before re-injecting customer service pep into her demeanor as she hands out menus and takes our drink orders.

When she leaves to get our drinks and give us time to come up with our orders, I take a chance to give the place a better once-over, feeling weird about the waitress. Carol’s reminders of situational awareness echo in my head, to keep an ear out and my eyes open. She’s gotten more insistent about those, the last few days. There’s another two waitresses out on the floor, and they’re both white too. I can’t see into the kitchen, obviously, so I can’t tell if the staff there is at all diverse. The decor doesn’t reveal any points against or for this being Empire-y, I think. It’s the wrong side of town, but…

“What’s wrong?” my Taylor asks me.

“The waitress gave us a weird look,” I murmur, trying to be subtle.

“Oh.” Taylor looks to where our waitress disappeared into the kitchen.

“I don’t think she looked at us weird,” Vicky remarks.

“No, ‘me and Taylor’ us,” I answer.

Vicky’s eyes narrow as she realizes what I’m saying. She looks around the diner and reaches similarly inconclusive conclusions. Voice low, she asks, “You think she might be homophobic?”

“The waitress is homophobic?” other-Taylor asks, looking around too. He looks wary.

“Not sure,” Vicky tells him, then turns back to me. “We can leave, if you don’t feel safe,” she offers, even though she was excited for this.

“No. Maybe later, if it gets bad,” I answer, not wanting to make a scene when it’s just a suspicion. It’d feel like Carol or the Empire was winning, if just a frown is enough to make me run. I’m not going to give Carol the satisfaction of thinking Taylor and I were scared off at the first sign of maybe-trouble, and I’m definitely not going to let the Empire win by forcing us to hide. Even if I would really really rather not have to deal with this. Fuck them though. It’s enough that Vicky’s here and taking it seriously. No one in their right mind would mess with us with her around, and no one in their wrong mind would live long enough to do much messing.

Our waitress comes back with our drinks and passes them out. A milkshake for Taylor and Vicky – the second straw in it is almost enough to make me smile, the novelty of my lack of jealousy not yet wearing off – coffee with cream for me, and iced water for Taylor.

“Y’all ready to order?” the waitress asks, resting a pen on her pad. Her eyes linger on Taylor and I and she flashes us a smile. Is she smiling to cover up her discomfort? I know some nurses who do that, put on a customer service face to deal with unruly or annoying patients.

“I think we’ll need a minute,” Vicky says, “but could we get a plate of fries for the table in the meantime?”

“Curly or straight?” the waitress asks, and her eyes flick to Taylor and me yet again. I stiffen. Was that a threat? Asking about straight fries? Is she telling us she knows? Does she not even care that she’s in Glory Girl’s reach? Backwards hick: she should know she can’t do anything.

“Curly sounds good,” Vicky answers.

“Alrighty, I’ll be back with that quicker ‘n you can spell jambalaya,” she says before skating back to the kitchen.

“What if we can’t spell jumbolayah?” the masculine Taylor asks when the waitress is gone, seemingly genuine concern on his face. “Do we still get to eat?”

“No, I think it just means there’s not a timer,” Vicky answers. “But are we eating here?” she asks us.

“It’s fine. I’m pretty sure Cheryl’s gay,” my Taylor answers simply.

Vicky, Taylor, and I blink.

“Wait, seriously?” I ask.

“Mhm. She was trying to let us know.”

“How could you tell?” straight Taylor asks.

“Uh. Variety of ways. I just…” Taylor trails off.

“Taylor has a scary good gaydar,” Vicky explains to Taylor, which I suppose is one way to explain her power. “Like, she figured out Rose was gay before she’d even talked to her.”

“Oh. How good?” he asks Taylor.

“Good enough,” she responds.

“So you uh…” straight Taylor looks at Taylor warily.

She waves him off. “Yeah. But that’s none of my business.”

Vicky puts it together a moment before I do, turns to her Taylor and asks, “Wait, you’re…?”

“Don’t tell anyone? Please?” straightgay Taylor pleads with us all.

“Of course we won’t,” Vicky says.

“Like I said, it’s not my business,” my Taylor agrees.

“I honestly don’t give a shit what you are,” I tell him.

He laughs at my response, a few huffs. “Cool. Thanks.”

The waitress comes back with the fries, putting our conversation on momentary hold.

“Got your orders ready yet?” she asks.

“Can I get a number three, with extra sauce and extra cheese?” gay Taylor asks, somehow having picked something out while we were talking.

I glance at my menu and order the first thing that I see when I open the menu. “Number four, no mustard.”

 “I’m good with just the fries,” my Taylor says, even though I can tell how hungry she is.

“It says to ask you about the daily special,” Vicky says. “What’s that about?”

The waitress starts to explain the special, and her and Vicky get to talking about the different specialty options the diner has on different days of the week. I tune it out in favor of focusing on why Taylor’s lying about this. I lean in to whisper in her ear,

“Why aren’t you getting anything? I can tell you’re hungry.”

She turns and murmurs into mine, “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Hard not to.” I squeeze her hand for emphasis. “You need to eat, if we’re going to…”

She purses her lips, frustrated, then admits, “I don’t have enough to get anything here.”

“Wait really?”

“I thought we’d be going to the park, not a restaurant. I only brought a couple bucks for a brät.”

“Oh. That’s no big deal. I can cover you.” I pull out of her shoulder crevice to order for her when she squeezes my hand uncomfortably hard, her whole body getting tense.

She leans in. “Don’t. I’m fine, okay? The fries are enough.”

I stare at her with as much insult as I can muster, because she’s being dumber than usual. It’s not a hard concept: if you’re hungry, eat. Some people overindulge, but I’d rather heal them than the typical emaciated, undernourished dumbasses the practice seems to attract as patients. It gives me more to work with, and if I’m going to be using my power on Taylor, I’d rather have some extra to work with, even if hormones are inexpensive.

“Honorary doctor’s orders,” I whisper to her, then louder and to the waitress, I say, “Actually Taylor changed her mind. She does want something.”

The waitress awkwardly stops in the middle of a story about her hometown in Alabama or Missouri or something that she was telling Vicky, her service smile faltering before reinstating to address Taylor. “Alright hon, what’ll it be?”

Taylor’s jaw tightens. She scans the menu. “I’d like the kid’s cheeseburger, please.”

I glance down at it. It’s only for kids younger than thirteen. It’s also the cheapest thing on the menu. No. “She’ll have the number four too. Extra mustard.”

The waitress hesitates, but when Taylor doesn’t fight me, jots it down. “Alright, so that’s a number three, wet and cheesy, two number fours, one no mustard, one extra, and…”

“The house special sounded great, Cherry,” Vicky says.

“Alrighty, I’ll get those out to ya as quick as we can,” the waitress says with a wink. She gathers our menus and skates away.

Taylor glowers at me, but I’m right.

“You two okay?” Vicky asks.

“Yes. We’re fine,” Taylor responds immediately, breaking eye contact to stare down my sister. She needs to chill.

With a small smile, I remember that I can help her chill. I give the area a once-over, just to be sure no one’s looking at me. Even though I can’t imagine anyone would be able to see what I’m about to do without a few hundred thousand dollars in medical equipment, it still makes this a bit easier. With nary a movement and only a thought, I make Taylor’s body synthesize some serotonin and feel as it spreads through her bloodstream to be deposited elsewhere. It’s not immediate, but after a moment she starts to relax, slightly, tension buoyed by her mood’s inertia.

Vicky’s gaze lingers in hers for a bit before she turns to the other Taylor and asks, “So if you’re… y’know, why’d you say yes to this?”

He looks around at us, chewing his cheek as he deliberates. “Keep this a secret too?” he asks and we all agree. “A couple of the guys on the team have been getting suspicious, and I really don’t need my dad finding out. When I heard you and Dean had broken up again, I figured asking you out would be a good way to make people think I was…” He shrugs. “I didn’t actually expect you to say yes.”

“I guess I’m a little miffed you’re not actually into me,” Vicky says, taking the news graciously, “but it does take some of the pressure off. Why would you think I wouldn’t say yes though?”

“Well. Dean,” Taylor answers simply.

Vicky blinks, eyes stormier when reopened. “Did he say something?”

“No, or at least not to me, but you two are pretty exclusive, even when you’re on breaks. Aren’t you?”

“You would think, wouldn’t you,” Vicky says with a heavy heaping of unpleasant irony.

Gay Taylor frowns at the sudden downturn in the conversation and looks to my Taylor and I for help. Taylor’s uninterested in helping, and I’m not sure I’m able. Receiving nothing, he asks Vicky, “Is this break different? You’re getting back together, right? Because I kind of asked you out thinking this wouldn’t be an ongoing thing.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you go out with me if you don’t want to,” Vicky assures mildly.

“Yeah, she only does that to me,” I try to joke.

“You could have said no,” Vicky says, not feeling up for joking, based on her tone. She turns back to gay Taylor to answer him. “But if you must know, he cheated on me. That dickhole kissed another girl and then gave me her mouth herpes.”

Vicky sounds righteously angry, and underneath that anger is hurt, and underneath that hurt is much, much more anger. I kind of wish Dean would walk in the door right now. He might get his chest caved in, if that happened. I’d have to fix him, but it would be at least a little bit funny until then.

“I heard you two were on a break when he kissed the other girl,” my Taylor interjects.

“That’s still cheating,” Vicky insists.

“Then are you cheating on him now?” I expect her to sound aggro, but Taylor sounds actually calm. Not even that fake calm unfeeling thing she does, but gently calm. I increase her dosage as a little reward.

“He did it first, so it’s different. I mean, how would you feel if, the day after you broke up with Amy, she was making out with Rose?”

“Can we not bring Rose into this?” I ask. “Things are weird enough with her already.”

“Oh. Sorry Ames. You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really. Maybe later. It’s just, she wasn’t there last Saturday, and she’s one of the only people at Games I actually like.”

“You miss her.” There’s not a hint of jealousy in my Taylor’s voice, though there should definitely be. She’s too calm. Since she’s pretending to be my girlfriend, she needs to at least act a little jealous when we’re talking about another girl who apparently has been crushing on me. Can I make her jealous? It shouldn’t be that hard. I’ll just…

“She’s fun is all,” I answer as I create some cortisol to stress her out. That should make her a bit moodier, I think. To be safe, I get rid of most of the dopamine and serotonin in her bloodstream that could counteract it. “No one else can give me a worthy or interesting match, certainly not you. I have half a mind to ban you so she’ll come back.”

That gets a reaction from her, the accelerated heart rate and widening nostrils aren’t much, but it’s proof I’m having an effect. I did that. I’m doing this. “If you’d rather be a jerk with her than spend time with me, then fine. Do that.”

Wait no, she’s not supposed to do that. Maybe she needs more stress hormones? A touch of adrenaline – a little goes a long way – to get her mad. “You’re okay with that? Even if she tries to steal me away? She does like me, after all.”

Her whole body tenses at my taunt – perfect – and she glares at me. She’s a fury, in this moment, her face made of deadly angles and elegant lines. She stares me down like a bobcat intimidating its frozen prey, and I’m a fawn, barely able to stand on my own legs. My heart quickens, loud in my ears.

“Are they always like this?” the other Taylor whispers to Vicky, just barely audible.

“I’m not entirely sure what this is,” Vicky murmurs back.

“If you choose to do that, then I obviously messed up somewhere and assumed you were as serious about this as I am, and if you’re not, then we need to talk about us,” Taylor says, ignoring my sister and her Taylor. “And this time I do mean it like that.”

This isn’t right; I want her to be jealous, not distant or angry. I want her angry at Rose, if anyone. Not me. Why the fuck isn’t this working? This is baby-tier stuff! I make more hormones to relax her in preparation to try again. “You’d seriously dump me just for that?”

“No,” she says, suddenly sounding as tired as I was yesterday and just as done, “I wouldn’t dump you for that. But I have half a mind to dump you for having fun messing with me like this.”

“That’s so not fair,” I protest. “If that’s grounds for dumping, I’d’ve already dumped you.”

“Hey maybe let’s not break up?” the other Taylor says. “Take a minute to chill?”

“Shut it, you. Don’t tell me how to talk to my Taylor,” I snap and he blanches. I’m trying to get this working right. If he wants to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong, he deserves to get bitten for it.

“Suddenly I’m yours again?” my Taylor asks sullenly. Her heart beats fast, and she’s sweating, ready for action, but she doesn’t even look up when she asks.

She needs reassurance, I think, so I give it. “Duh.”

I wince as her fingers bite my hand, but otherwise she doesn’t react.

“That’s kind of cute,” Vicky throws in, trailed by a lighthearted laugh. “And I guess it is a bit confusing to have two Taylors here, so you know, it makes sense. You’ve got one, I’ve got one.” She leans against hers with a smile and he balks at her. “Maybe we could use nicknames? What’s your middle name?” she asks hers.

He balks at her, but answers, “Uh, Anthony.”

Vicky’s smile stays perfectly in place, but eyes pinch at the corners, giving away her stress. “That’s funny! Other Taylor’s middle name is Anne, isn’t it?”

“It’s not that funny,” my Taylor snaps, shattering the bit of levity Vicky had forced back into the group. I can feel all of Taylor’s muscles tense again, tight and eager to leap from her position at rest. Her frumpy clothes cover all but her face, which is a hair shy of a glare.

“I just mean how it’s kind of odd how both of you practically share a name,” Vicky says. “I don’t mean anything bad by it.”

Cortisol and adrenaline rush through her veins with neither my beck nor call. I try to counter them with more dopamine and serotonin, but it doesn’t work, she doesn’t relax. Before I can try something else, I lose the chance to.

“Don’t do that!” Taylor snarls. “Don’t try to play this off as nothing when you– you–” She makes an inarticulate sound of fury, gripping my hand tight enough to make me hiss, grabbing the attention of the entire building as she stands to shout. I fucked up, and try to reel in my fuck up through the pain. If I make her tired, she can’t keep yelling, right? I dose her with melatonin while flushing her adrenaline and stoppering the source.

“You are just like Emma,” Taylor continues in the meantime, “always playing these mean, petty, childish games because– Because what? Because you don’t like me? Because you don’t want Amy to be happy? Because you’re bored and think it’s fun? Well it’s not. It’s sick, and petty, and mean, and just shows how much of a absolute, unrepentant bitch you are that you can’t get over it and just communicate and act like a reasonable, human person. I didn’t even do anything but you just can’t let it go and leave me alone.”

“Taylor, I–”

“ Don’t, ” Taylor interrupts Vicky. “Don’t you start. We both know what you’re really doing, and I… I won’t let… let you talk your way… out of…”

She falls back into the booth, melatonin finally taking hold, almost knocking her out and definitely relaxing her. I pull my hand from her limp grip, shaking it to toss off some pain and get blood flowing again.

Taylor Anthony is boggling at Taylor Anne, like she’s an escaped asylum patient, and Vicky is splitting her worried attention between Taylor and I. She looks hurt and bewildered. The last time I saw such an expression on her face was when she’d tried to catch a jumper, over a year ago. He died in the air, in her arms. I look away.

Our waitress aggressively skates our way, frowning. I think fast and say the first thing that comes to mind.

“Sorry!” I call out. “Her new meds aren’t settling well.”

My explanation reaches everyone’s ears just in time for the waitress to make it to us. Her expression shifts, more understanding than ‘regretfully, I have to ask you to leave’ now. That regret doesn’t fully leave, though.

“Is she going to be okay?” the waitress asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, she’ll be fine. One of the side effects of dartmarthilexitropimine is mood swings, and it must have been delayed for her,” I bullshit, making up a drug that sounds vaguely realistic.

“Oh.” She hesitates, stuck between sticking around to help and retreating back to her other patrons. She looks to the kitchen, where a man in a buttoned up shirt is shaking his head. She frowns. “Is there anything she needs that I can get her?”

“I think the best thing for her is to just sleep it off. Could we get the check?”

“Of course, hon,” she says with obvious relief. “You want your order to go?”

I nod and she leaves, promising to be right back. A wide glance reveals that most people have stopped paying us much mind. A few looks linger or momentarily return, but interest is mostly gone. I almost breathe a sigh of relief, but hold back for the expression of hurt and concern Vicky still has, like she can’t discount the whole thing as some sudden, inexplicable, weightless explosion of insanity.

She purses her lips and nudges her Taylor. “Would you mind getting the car? We’ll meet you out there.”

“Yeah, no problem.” He leaves like he’s grateful to get away and I don’t blame him.

I fucked up, that much I’m absolutely sure about, but Taylor’s beef with Vicky and Emma is her own. Where the fuck did she even get the idea that Vicky’s like her old bullyfriend? I might have accidentally shaken those feelings loose, but she got them lodged in there all on her own.

Cheryl comes back with the check and to-go boxes. Vicky excuses herself to go pay, and I gather the leftovers. We barely even got to eat before everything happened. With Mark’s mood in a downswing, that’s a bit of a silver lining, I guess: decent leftovers instead of microwave dinner. I shouldn’t be happy about that.

Vicky’s at the register, likely apologizing and explaining things to that guy in the button-up – the manager? – and he at least seems to be warming up to her, not frowning as intensely as he was when I spotted him earlier. That’s good; she’ll be a minute. I nudge Taylor. She’s stabilizing, but still out of it. I want to ask what the fuck all of that was about, but… this isn’t the time nor place.

I settle for trying to help her to her feet.

“What did you do to me?” she mumbles against me.

My throat is tight. I can’t explain here, now, that I messed up. “Let’s get you to the car.”

Chapter Text

Tuesday. February 1. 

Gay Taylor drops us off at home, and I help a dazed, half-asleep Taylor inside while Vicky grabs our stuff and says goodbye. The ride home was awkward, with barely more words spoken than needed to direct him here. Taylor was out of it most of the way here as the melatonin ran its course. I considered flushing it and waking her, but figured that letting her rest, fitful as it is, was better than giving her another chance to scream at Vicky and freak out again. 

We don’t stop walking until we’re in my bedroom upstairs, and I let her fall into my bed. She doesn’t fight me, and I know I’ll have to make this up to her, somehow. She should be fighting me. This is wrong. This whole thing was wrong and terrible, and closer to evil than anything else I’ve done. Watching Taylor fall fully asleep leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.

I leave, downstairs. I can’t look at what I’ve done.

I collapse onto the sofa, mind whirring with all that’s happened, with all I’ve done. One thing at least is clear; I fucked up. I’m not entirely sure exactly how yet – whether trying for hormones was the fuck up, whether clearing or not clearing previous syntheses was the fuck up, whether being impatient was the fuck up, or what – but I’m sure I did. That’s what I do, what I am. Fish swim, mitochondria make ATP, and a fuck up fucks up.

I shouldn’t have done this. I shouldn’t have talked myself into ‘pre-healing’ – And what a stupid fucking lie of an idea that was. I should have just stuck to the original terms, damn whatever Taylor says against that, gotten my perversion fixed, and been done with it. I got greedy. I wanted to actually be fixed , to actually be good, to enjoy doing good for once in my life, and I got greedy. 

The doorbell rings.

I don’t want to, I’d rather lay here and keep feeling miserable, but I get up to answer it anyway. I don’t deserve to be useless. Vicky’s on the other side of the front door, laden with a trio of bookbags, one on her back, one on each arm, and a trio of to-go boxes in her hands. She, of course, isn’t straining under the weight, but doesn’t have the dexterity to juggle it all and operate doors. I move out of the way and she moves past me, into the kitchen. I follow her.

“Help me put these away?” she asks as she sets the boxes on the counter.

I stuff them in the fridge while she backtracks to drop off the backpacks by the front door. She returns.

“How’s Taylor doing?” she asks, glancing in the direction of my room.

“She’s fine. Fell asleep pretty quickly.”

“Good.” Her helpless worry does not abate. It doesn’t look right on her. She’s a hero and a go-getter, someone who needs to help. She’s actually good; she’s someone who enjoys helping others and doing good for them. 

“She’ll probably be thirsty when she wakes up,” I offer, trying to give her a way to relieve that helplessness.

It works. Vicky grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it from the filtered tap. Once full, she fidgets with it. Of course getting a glass of water isn’t enough to put her mind at rest. I struggle for something else to offer her, or an assurance to give her, or something so she won’t look so guilty.

She sets the glass on the counter and asks, “So Taylor’s on meds?”

Shit, I did say that, didn’t I. Convenient lie leading to inconvenient confrontations. Nothing for it but to double down. Not like I can actually explain the truth of what happened. Though in a way, it’s not even a complete lie. I’m delivering drugs to her system, same as, say, an insulin pump. Just another role for me in the medical machine.

I answer, “Yeah.”

“What uh– Is it okay if I ask what for?”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality. I’m not at liberty to discuss.”

She blinks. “Wait wait wait. Did you give her the meds? You can’t write prescriptions.”

“Sorry, rote response. No, I didn’t.”

“So then…?”

I struggle for words for a moment before deciding on more refusal. “I still don’t think I should tell you.”

“Why not? Is it bad? The dama…rita…lexi…propomine?” she guesses at every syllable and I’m not sure how close she is because I don’t remember what I called that made up medicine.

“It’s not my business to say.” I’m not sure what side of truth or lie that statement falls on, as meds aren’t my business, but also this med doesn’t exist.

“I’m not trying to pry, but I’m kind of worried, seeing how she was at the diner. Is it like an antidepressant, or an antipsychotic, or…? That’s all I’m asking.”

“ Vicky . It’s really not my place to say.”

She huffs. “Fine, fine, I’ll stop. But just… promise me you’ll be careful? That you’re staying safe?”

“I promise.”

“Good. Because she’s cool, and I like her, but…” She shakes her head, and her golden waves of hair bounce. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to badmouth her or pressure you into thinking you should do something differently with her, I just can’t stop thinking about all she said.”

“Don’t worry about what she said. I’m sure she didn’t mean any of it, it was just the meds talking,” I assure her, putting on my gentlest smile.

She frowns. “I don’t think so. She… I’m really trying hard to not be mean or anything because she’s your first girlfriend and you like her and she makes you happier than I’ve seen in a long while, but I think she just doesn’t like me. Like maybe she only said it because of the meds, but I’m pretty sure she’s been thinking it.”

Taylor won’t like me saying what I’m about to say, but Vicky needs reassurance. She needs to not feel like she’s somehow the bad guy in this. Taylor’s not free from blame in this – I provided the spark, but Taylor had gunpowder to spare – so it’s fair that she pay for some of the damages. I take a deep breath, then the plunge.

“Taylor got bullied at Winslow,” I tell my sister.

She looks up at me, and then frowns at the floor. “I kind of figured as much.”

Oddly, that’s a relief. I’m confirming rather than sharing, so Taylor can’t get as mad at me about this. “It was pretty bad, the way she tells it, and it went on for a while. She just doesn’t know how to get along with people, or trust, I guess.”

“You sure about that?” she asks. “’Cause it really only seems like me she has a problem with. Am I that much like this Emma girl?”

“No,” I answer. Then, because that wasn’t emphatic enough, “ No . I haven’t met Emma, but from what Taylor’s told me, you two couldn’t be more different.”

Vicky’s shoulders relax a hair. “Taylor seems to think otherwise.”

“Yeah. But Taylor’s an idiot. I mean, she was friends with this Emma girl for years , so she must’ve made some pretty dumb decisions to get there.”

“They were friends? What happened?”

I let out a breath as I search for a place to begin. “Well, when she and Emma… I want to say her last name starts with a B? Anyway, when they started at Winslow, she replaced Taylor with a new best friend and they made it a point to pick on Taylor. They even got other girls in on it. Lots of name calling, some tripping and shoving. Mostly just excluding her from everything, as best as I can tell. Didn’t stop until Taylor transferred.”

“Winslow, sophomore, Emma B… Emma Barnes ?” Vicky asks.

I blink. “That’s her. You know her?”

Vicky’s face screws up with pained, unrestrained disgust. “We’ve met. Pretty sure you’ve met her too. Short, red hair, stupidly pretty, really stuck up, kind of fake nice but can’t wait to be a jerk. Her dad works at Mom’s firm, so she’s come to some of Mom’s work socials.”

“Oh shit. I do know her,” I realize, remembering one of those social functions. I pull a face too.

“Yep, that’s the one.”

“What a bitch.”

Vicky lets out an amused huff.

Spending just a few minutes with Emma was unpleasant enough to make me long for the function’s end, despite that meaning being stuck in a car with Carol as Vicky flew home, and that was when she was being bitch to other people to try to get on my good side or something. I can barely imagine what hell it would be like to be on the rougher end of her attention for over a year. But then I don’t really have to imagine it. I can at least see the end result of that in Taylor.

“Hey Ames,” Vicky starts. She’s fiddling with the glass of water again, spinning it in her hands as she stares into the surface, apprehension obvious. “I’m a good person, right?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Well, you’re the best person I know. I know getting recognized for your heroism chafes for some reason, but it’s true. So…” She swallows. “Am I? I try to be, and you say that I’m not like Emma, but Taylor obviously sees something of Emma in me and I’m wondering if I did something to her or somehow am like her or–”

“ Vicky ,” I interrupt. I want to take her hands in mine, or squish her cheeks, or something to make her focus on my words, but I don’t want to risk doing something after this disaster of a date, especially when she looks so… vaguely kind of objectively pretty. Taylor’s awake. I smile. I take Vicky’s face in my hands, squishing her cheeks as gently as I can while still making sure she looks like a puckerfish. “Vicky, you are the best person I know. You are kind, and generous, and you always put other people first, and you are always so excited to do good. Taylor comparing you to Emma: that’s her damage. That’s not about you. Alright?”

I make her nod, then let go. She smiles at me. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” This is nice, now, but it must end. I sigh. “Taylor’s probably awake by now.”

Vicky tries to hand me the glass of water. I look at her, confused. “I think she’d rather see you than me.”

I frown. I pointedly don’t take the water she’s holding out for me. “It’s my room and you’re welcome in it. She can deal. Like I said, it’s her problem.”

Vicky shakes her head. “I’d just get in the way. I’m gonna go fly for a bit.”

…I take the glass. “Don’t get into trouble.”

“Flight around the neighborhood. Clear my head.” She floats out of the kitchen, but stops before she’s out of sight to turn back to me. She struggles to say something, and I wait patiently, but she ends up just shaking her head and telling me, “Go take care of your girlfriend, okay? Love you.”

“Love you too,” I echo, and then she’s gone. I hear the back door close.

What did she decide not to say?

Nothing for it, I follow her instruction and head up to my room, where Taylor waits. I stop in the hall, just outside my room, hand on door handle. I chose to come up here now, but I don’t know what I should say to her. I messed up, but so did she. She told me to do what I did, to try hormones instead of nerves. And I erroneously told her I could do that, easily. It’s uncertain which way the blame should lay, so I’m not sure where to go from here and it freezes me.

The door opens, pulling me a half-step in, revealing Taylor inside.

“Where’s Victoria going?” she asks. 

“Out flying,’” I answer automatically. “She’s not really going anywhere specifically.”

She nods. “Get in here, we should talk while we have the privacy.”

She moves out of the way and I enter the room. I take a seat on the bed and set the water on the night stand, then put my hands in my lap. It feels awkward and tight in here. There’s a pressure from every direction, and I feel like an intruder even though this is my room. Taylor closes the door, grabs the water, retreats to lean against my dresser, and sips. 

“First off, it’s kind of fuzzy so I have to ask: did you actually tell everyone I was on drugs?” she asks.

I shrink in on myself, like a hedgehog. “Medication, not drugs.”

She doesn’t look happy.

“It’s different,” I insist. “And it was all I could think of to explain how you were acting.”

“Victoria probably thinks I’m psychotic now,” she mutters.

I say nothing.

Taylor makes an annoyed sound, somewhere between a huff, a grunt, and a growl. “Dammit. Did you tell her anything else about that? No? Good. What’s the medication you mentioned? Does it actually have mood swings as a side effect? What else does it do? What’s it for?”

“I– I made it up, actually.” Taylor looks annoyed. “Vicky doesn’t remember the name anyway. It’s fine.”

“Okay. That’s good. Untraceable. Good. We’ll say it was for nausea,” she decides.

I nod.

“I’m still not happy you made everyone think I’m on drugs or medication, but at least that’s easy enough to explain.”

“I mean, you kind of were on drugs,” I say. I’m drugs. 

“Speaking of, and I think I asked this back at the diner, but I’m not entirely sure – Things were fuzzy at the end. But what exactly did you do to me?”

“I was just doing what you said to. Using hormones. Dopamine, Serotonin, cortisol, and adrenaline. I–”

“ Adrenaline ? Why were you giving me adrenaline? We were at a restaurant, not in a shootout.”

I huff. “Because, you weren’t acting right. I made you too calm, so you weren’t being properly jealous about Rose.”

“Amy.” She says my name in a way that reminds me of Carol. My throat catches. “The plan was to make our deal reciprocal, so our cover would be convincing. No where in there did I agree to you intentionally stressing me out or controlling my behavior.”

“I was trying to make it convincing,” I plead.

“The idea is to make me attracted to you, and that convinces people, not for you to dictate my behavior how you think is convincing.”

“I get it okay! I fucked up!” I know I’m being too loud, but no one is here to hear. “I thought I could do it, but I fucked everything up instead. I was just trying to be helpful and do things right but of course I just messed everything up. You and Vicky hate each other, I probably got us banned from the restaurant, and I proved I’m not good for anything other than healing. I fucked up. You don’t have to keep reminding me. I get it already.”

The exhalation of my fuck up leaves me tired. I lean back, head and neck uncomfortable against my bedside wall, and just stay there.

Taylor purses her lips. “We need to talk and figure this stuff out and we don’t know how long we have until Victoria comes back. Can you calm yourself down or do you need me to do it?”

The offer for Taylor’s influence is tempting. It would feel good, which is why I shake my head. I don’t deserve it. I pull my legs onto my bed so I can wrap my arms around them, uncaring of how my shoes are dirtying the sheets.

“Okay. Then walk me through what you did. Step by step, what were you doing, and what were you thinking when you did it?”

I tell her. Recounting everything robs it of the heady excitement I’d felt in the moment, and the weight of my fuck up hits me with each admission. I wish I could honestly say I wasn’t thinking, that during the whole ordeal I was acting on instinct, because that would at least be better. Flesh-eating bacteria is less evil than a dolphin who drowns people for fun. 

I finish by telling her about how she got from the restaurant to the bed, uneventful as the last round of hormones ran its course. 

“Okay,” says Taylor. “First thing’s first: don’t do that.”

The blanket denial is a relief, a pressure I can shrug off in favor of a chain. I’ll miss this morsel of angelic intimacy, but she’s right. “Okay. We’ll find another way. Maybe you could um, find someone else?”

“What are you talking about? Why would we need someone else?”

“...to do you?”

She stares into me. “I meant don’t try to control my actions like you did, not ‘don’t use your power on me’.”

It’s my turn to stare into her, not believing what inference tells me she’s saying. “Wait, do you mean…?”

“We’re still doing this,” she says like it’s obvious. “One setback isn’t grounds to quit, it’s a reason to do better. I told you, I’m committed to this. So next time, only do the things we discuss beforehand. And no adrenaline unless we’re in a fight or something. That was exhausting. And we’re not doing this in public until you’re consistently able to do this, no matter what you say.”

“Seriously?” My heartbeat quickens, pushing dread through my veins. Is she actually still trusting me after this violation? Did I not ruin everything somehow?

“Start small, too. You’ve been using your power to heal for years, sure, but this ‘pre-healing’ thing is new and you’re apparently not that good at it. But that’s fine. We had some kinks to work out when I started on you, and we’re having some more kinks now. That’s all this is. So just be patient, start small, and build on what works instead of just doing whatever in the moment.”

“Are you sure? I thought you wanted to get this over with.”

“I’d like to do this fast, but we need to do this right.”

I fiddle with the loose corners of the pillowcase, uncomfortably warm in my clothes but not willing to take the time to shed a layer. I don’t know what I’d like or what I need right now, but I’m pretty sure I’m not getting it. She wants me to go slow, to keep me around until I’ve got this. But then what? What comes after? I condition her back so she can help me with power stuff and she keeps fixing me, piece by piece, or I do nothing to her and then, when I’m finally normal about Vicky, she leaves me? I go almost back to my normal of hospital, school, home? My life is better, but it’s still my life, crappy and dull and tedious? One path is terrifying and uneasy, walking the razor edge of temptation, and the other path is nauseating and loathsome, continuing on whole and uninterrupted as Amy, but without even getting a shift in the Panacea side of life. I’m not Robert Frost, but I tire of my self-loathing, so I take the path less traveled. 

“I don’t know if I can,” I admit, hesitantly.

“You don’t know if you can what?”

I hug my pillow tighter. The bed shifts as Taylor sits on it, not beside me but near all the same.

“Talk to me,” she says. “This doesn’t work if you don’t communicate. What do you think you can’t do?”

“I don’t…” I swallow. “Go slow. I don’t know if I can. I wasn’t trying to go fast today. I just… I was… I don’t know. I wanted to do it. I liked it.” The admission hurts freshly, repeated it may be.

“Is that all?” she asks. “I can help with that.”

I lift my head to her. I have to assume my face expresses as much confusion as my ‘song.’

“It wouldn’t be hard to temper your temptation. If you’re worried about enjoying it too much, I can ease some of that enjoyment.”

“I thought you wanted to go slow? That seems like a lot.”

“Yeah, but I have a handle on what I’m doing. I’ve been practicing this with you for weeks now. It’s simple to add another instrument to the mix.”

“That would be–” I cut myself off from the relief, killing my smile. “Are you sure you can do that without stopping me from doing anything?”

“Yes,” she answers. “I’m pretty sure our rough patches are behind us, at least for me using my powers.”

I remember that first week of attempts, before we’d decided on our current course of love and ‘dating,’ and… I guess this isn’t that different. I chew on my lip and say, “Then… okay, I guess.”

“No guessing,” she tells me. “Are you sure? If you’re not sure, then we’re not doing this.”

Why does she have to be so take-charge about making me decide things myself? It feels almost self-defeating, kneecapping any sense of authority she would otherwise be putting out.

“Yes,” I spit. “We’ll do it. I’ll go slow and you’ll help me.”

A smile worms its way across her lips and I swallow, remembering last week when we were in nearly this same position: Vicky due home soonish, home empty - Mark on a bad day is more of a wraith than a person, really - on my bed, with her hair catching the light in a way that reminds me of the ocean at night, past the point where the light of the Rig’s forcefield reaches, where only the moon and stars illuminate the rolling, flowing surface. It feels like it was so much longer ago that we kissed for the first time, but it really has been only six days. Not even a full week.

I want to kiss her, to bridge the gap and take time to enjoy this moment of togetherness, of someone wanting me enough to touch me like that, but she doesn’t want me, not really. She’s letting me use my power on her because she doesn’t want me. It would be wrong to kiss her. Even if I made it pleasurable, I’m not sure I could make her like it. I’m not sure it wouldn’t ruin it further either way, to either know she’d only enjoy it for my power and not for me, or to know not even my power could make her like it deeply enough to matter.

It would be wrong regardless of that anyway because I’d be forcing myself on her, no matter whether she’s receptive because she would only be receptive as an obligation to me or to our ruse. I almost wish I was the type of person to take advantage of that, because kissing was… wow . It was more than nice. It was breathtaking. It was eye-opening. At first, at least. Learning how she felt twisted all of that unpleasantly.

Even so, I want to kiss her. But I’ve already been too selfish today. I can’t dig into a deeper deficit already, not by kissing her and definitely not by making it pleasurable. So instead I return her smile, smaller and dimmer and dragging hers down with it.

“When’s Victoria coming back?” she asks, ending the moment of odd tension.

“She didn’t say. Why? Is she on her way?”

Taylor shakes her head. “I don’t think so, she’s just flying around as best as I can tell. But we should plan another time to do power stuff, this time just us two. If we knew Victoria was going to be out for a while, we could maybe do stuff now, but…”

I’m already shaking my head when she says ‘but.’ As enticing as the idea is of trying nerve stuff on Taylor again, it’s too risky. I barely touched her yesterday, and after today’s events, I’m not trusting in my foresight of how I might affect her past the immediate term.

“Maybe tomorrow?” I offer. “I’m not healing.”

“We have your uncle’s self defense training, don’t we?”

“Right. I forgot about that. After?”

“If you think we’ll have time. I don’t really know what to expect.”

“Me neither. It’s been at least a year since I’ve even sat in on the fight stuff they do.”

“Seriously?”

I shrug. “I’m not a combatant. It’s a waste of time to learn to actually fight anyway, when all I have to do is touch someone and they’re out.”

“You need skin-to-skin contact though. What if they’re wearing a bodysuit? Or have a gun? Or hell, even a knife?”

“I’m not a combatant,” I repeat. “Plus no one’s actually going to attack Panacea, so it’s not like I’m ever going to even need to know that stuff.”

“Your mom certainly thinks otherwise.”

“My–” I hesitate, then try it. “Carol is just being weird.”

It’s weirdly thrilling to call her by her name out loud for once, in an unfamiliar way that I don’t know how to name. Like staying under in the tub for a bit too long, but not so still. Like swiping a piece of Vicky’s underwear, but not as dirty. Very nearly like smoking one of the first few times, but scarier.

“She wants to keep us safe. You especially,” she says.

“Can we not talk about my mom right now?” I ask, deliberately skipping using her name. I want to stretch the thrill of calling her by her name for the first few times. If it’s anything like smoking in another regard, that thrill will too quickly settle into a dull sort of freedom.

“Okay. If there’s no time after self-defense tomorrow, maybe we could do something after your shift at the hospital on Thursday?” she asks, moving on from the topic like a pro. “I want to get you at least a bit practiced before Sledgehammer on Saturday. Assuming I’m invited this time.”

“Yeah, you can come. I just wanted some time to decompress last week. You’re not like permanently banned or anything.”

“Okay. Good. Do you know if Victoria will be there?”

“Considering she usually shows maybe once a month, probably not. And with what you said to her earlier…”

She frowns. “That’s probably for the best.”

I don’t want to ask, but I’m pretty sure I’ll never get a better time to bring it up, and… and fuck Taylor anyway. Vicky doesn’t deserve to look so worried of being like that Barnes girl. “You know what you said was messed up, right? You know that? Like she didn’t deserve for you to go off on her like that.”

“Trust me, I didn’t want to yell at her. I definitely didn’t want to call her a bitch in the middle of the restaurant. And I wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t been messing around so much.” Before I can indefensibly defend myself, she continues, “But we’re moving on and we’ll figure something out. I’m apparently on medication now so that at least gives us some deniability, but…” She huffs.

I’d say ‘it could be worse,’ but things can always, always be worse so they’re empty words for the most part. Instead, I say, “At least now I know why you hate Vicky.”

“I don’t hate Victoria.”

I send a disbelieving look her way.

“I don’t trust her,” Taylor clarifies, “but I don’t hate her. She’s a hero, and I respect what she does, but she’s not all that she’s cracked up to be. She’s not perfect, like almost everyone seems to think. She’s obviously a manipulator, but no one calls her on it, and–”

“Wait,” I interrupt. “Wait hold on, what? H–” I stutter as the absurdity of her words hits me again. “How the fuck is she a manipulator?”

“I wish you were kidding, but if you need me to spell it out…” She pauses to place her words. “Have you ever noticed how when she enters a conversation or a new group, within a minute everyone is taking cues from her, and listening to her words, and doing what she says? She always makes herself the center of attention.  Like at drama, she’s constantly jumping between groups to take over.”

“She’s stage manager,” I cut in. “That’s her job.”

“Yeah, but why did she make that her job?”

I shake my head. “No. Just… no.”

“Okay then how about at lunch? Practically as soon as she sits down, she takes over the conversation and forces everyone to pay attention to her. I know you’ve noticed it, how everyone hangs on her every word.”

“Aren't you just saying that she’s popular?”

“No. It’s not just that.”

“So it is that?”

“It’s more than that. It’s about how she operates. Do you remember Friday’s dinner? I could barely talk to your mom without Victoria interrupting or changing the subject, like she couldn’t stand to let someone else lead the conversation?”

“Why are you complaining about that? We wanted you to fly under the radar for that,” I point out. 

“That’s beside the point,” she says, exasperated.

“Is it? Because I’m pretty sure you’re just butthurt that she’s good with people. That’s what it sounds like.”

She groans and pinches the bridge of her nose, pushing her glasses up onto her forehead. “There’s more. She’s also irresponsible and careless with her powers, and no one ever calls her on it or even notices. She constantly spreads her aura all over the place and I know she can control it but she doesn’t even bother.”

I roll my eyes at her. She’s being obtuse at this point. “Her aura is mostly subconscious. Like breathing.”

“She should learn breath control then. It’s annoying, having to listen to her spread it all over the place.”

“Wait is this– Is this another power thing? Is her aura like uh–” I snap my fingers as I try to remember the character. “That rock for that Jewish guy.”

“What.”

“That cape guy from old comics. The hero. He was like Alexandria but red and blue? His only weakness was some rock?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I huff. “Forget it. Does Vicky’s aura mess with your power? That’s what I’m trying to ask.”

“It doesn’t… interfere , exactly. But it’s annoying. I hate having to listen to that obnoxious blaring whenever she’s around, but it gets so much worse when she spreads it across a room.”

“So it’s like tinnitus?” I ask. 

She takes a long breath before abruptly changing the subject. “Can I borrow your phone?”

“...Why?”

“I just need it for a second.”

“Can’t you use yours?”

“I can’t do what I need to on mine. Can I borrow it or not?”

“Sure, I guess?” I hand it to her.

“What’s the password?” 

“Convolvulaceae,” I answer. 

She gives me a weird look, then returns her attention to the screen. 

“Need me to spell it for you?” I ask smugly, knowing she’ll need the help.

“No, I’ve got it.” 

I deflate as she unlocks it. She taps for a few seconds, holding the smartphone like an old person: one hand to hold, and the pointer finger of the other hand to tap and type. 

“What are you doing?”

She doesn’t answer me and tilts the screen away when I lean in to peek. I catch a glimpse of my browser app open before it’s hidden from me. She turns the screen off and hands it back. 

“Yeah, it’s like tinnitus,” she answers belatedly.

I blink, slowly. “Did… did you just look that up? Did you not know what tinnitus was?” I don’t wait for her to answer, unlocking my phone to see the Wikipedia page for tinnitus open. “Oh my fucking god Taylor.”

“Wait, you can see that?” She leans over and glimpses the page.

“Obviously. Did you think turning the screen off closed it or something? Why didn’t you just ask what tinnitus was?”

She leans back. “Because I knew you’d make a big deal out of me not knowing.”

“And this was supposed to stop me from doing that? Fuck, you are just… I don’t even have the words for what you are. You are…” I let out a breath. 

She looks off to the side, frowning. I laugh. She is ridiculous: deserving of ridicule. 

“Okay so it’s another stupid fucking power thing,” I say. “Her aura is annoying. Fine. But you don’t get to be a jerkass to her just because your power sucks. You need to deal with it, and just get over yourself and your issues with my sister because they’re really stupid. Sorry, but that’s just the truth. And if you’re going to be a Ward after you finish with me, you’re probably going to mmf– ”

She cuts me off with a hand over my mouth and I startle at being so casually and abruptly interrupted. She’s glaring, looking serious in a way that makes my blood sprint through my veins. I try to lean back to free my mouth but her hand follows me, pushing me over to keep my quiet. She’s over me, so forceful, and I could easily make her get off of me – not even just with my powers, but because I know I outweigh her – but I don’t. I don’t know why, but I’m frozen under her intensity, and all I can do is wait at the edge of anticipation for her next move. 

“Victoria’s back,” she whispers. A moment later she says, “She’s at the door. I think she’s trying to eavesdrop.”

Oh. Oh that makes sense. Why Taylor would do this, not that Vicky would eavesdrop. That’s not really Vicky’s style. This feels even more like a repeat of last week, now that Vicky’s in the house. Is Taylor going to kiss me again? Does she think we need to cement our togetherness in Vicky’s eyes again after what happened? Does she want to rub our togetherness in my sister’s face? I don’t know what to do about any of those hypotheticals.

Taylor gets off of me, unhanding my mouth and ending my wonderment. I push myself back upright and swallow. My breath comes out a little shaky in the aftermath of that… thing that just happened. 

“I’ll go get the door, I guess,” I offer. 

Taylor doesn’t argue the point so I stand and cross the room. I open the door and see hall and wall. I look left and right, and see more hall and wall. No Vicky. I turn back to Taylor, to ask why she’s messing with me, but she points up. I look up.

Vicky, looking like a spooked sugar glider, stares down at me from the space above my door. Her face splits into an awkward smile, a pained, silent ‘haha I’ve been caught, oh no.’

“Why.” The question trails exasperation from my mouth to Vicky’s ears. 

Her smile dies and her expression becomes much more neutral. She touches down, and her eyes flick past my shoulder to Taylor. “I was trying to figure out what I should say. I planned out a whole thing when I was flying, but…”

“You weren’t trying to listen in?” Taylor asks.

“No, I swear. I didn’t even hear you talking.”

I roll my eyes and gesture with my head. “Get in here.”

She floats in and parks her butt on my desk chair, pulling up her legs to sit cross-legged. I close the door behind her, then seat myself next to Taylor on the bed.

“Even if you weren't trying to listen in, I think you just earned that Stranger rating,” I say.

Vicky laughs a note.

Taylor doesn’t. “I didn’t know you had a Stranger power.”

“I don’t,” Vicky says at the same time I say, “She doesn’t.”

I lean back to let her continue, “I don’t, not really, but in my opinion flight should count.”

Taylor’s eyebrow raises. “That’s the first I’ve heard that take.”

“Well, think about it,” Vicky says, already getting excited. “Stranger powers are all about infiltration, and capes who can fly have an entire other axis of movement that lets us come from unexpected directions and angles, plus a lot of us can move silently. I’m not saying I’m on like, Mr. E’s level, and obviously not all fliers count. Hand Grenade, for example. He can fly but it’s definitely not stealthy. But silent flight should absolutely have a default Stranger subclassification, albeit a low one.”

Taylor thinks for a moment. “I guess that makes sense.”

“I keep writing the PRT committee to get that changed, but no luck.”

“Maybe they’re scared,” I suggest, receiving a bewildered look from Vicky and a curious look from Taylor in return. “I mean, if they made flight a Stranger power, then Alexandria would be a Stranger.”

“And?” Vicky asks.

“And Strangers are the second scariest class of cape out there, next to Masters.”

“Alexandria’s whole thing is that she’s too scary to mess with though,” Taylor says. “If anything, that’d be a point in favor.”

“Yeah I don’t think that’s so much a thing. I mean, Nuker was a scary class, but they still classified Cinereal as one for years,” Vicky adds.

“Well, I don’t– ugh. I don’t know. There’s probably some bullshit reason or something for it then,” I defend. “Didn’t you have something to say?”

Some of the easy warmth that’d somehow found its way into my room in Vicky’s wake is killed by my question.

“Right. So. Taylor.”

Taylor returns to true neutrality at Vicky’s attention.

“At the diner, you said some stuff. I didn’t really know how to take it or what to make of it until we got back. Ames told me some stuff while you were asleep, about you and Emma, and I hope that wasn’t a breach of confidence – and if it was I hope you’ll forgive Ames – but it really helped me put things in perspective and I took a minute to figure out a good way to say this, and I think I’ve got it. So here goes.” Vicky takes a deep breath.

Taylor looks exhausted, suddenly, the neutrality somehow fading into done-ness. I open my mouth to maybe put this on hold until later, but Vicky beats me to it.

“Emma Barnes is a cunt.”

My neck actually cracks at the speed of my head turn. I boggle at Vicky through the sharp pain. Did she actually just say that? Taylor is as taken aback as I am, it seems, shock on her face.

“As soon as Amy mentioned your Emma was the same Emma we know,” Vicky continues, angry, gripping her knees with white knuckles to keep from gesticulating, “I got pissed, because I couldn’t help but wonder how much she fucked with you. And I know it must have been a lot more than a little, because the little bit about her I have the misfortune of knowing says she’s not the type of person to leave someone like you alone normally, and I can only imagine how shitty it must have been to have been her friend and seeing her turn into that because I can’t imagine she’s always been such a cunt if you were ever friends with her, and I’m sorry if you’re not cool with that word but it’s the only one I can think of that even comes close to describing her rancidity and utter meanness. So whatever it is that you see of her in me, please tell me so I can excise it and smother it at the bottom of the bay because if I am anything like Barnes, then… I don’t want to be that. Most of the only other people who piss me off as much as she does are actual, literal fucking Nazis, and with how ableist and mean-spirited she is, the only thing stopping me from thinking she’s one of them is that she genuinely has a black friend. Also I’m pretty sure if she was a Nazi, Mom would probably try to get her dad fired or disbarred or something, or at least not be friends with him because–” She huffs. “The point is, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do whatever I did to make you think I’m like Emma. I don’t want to be like her.”

Stunned silence follows Vicky’s words.

“Why are you–” Taylor cuts herself off before she can ask, looking surprised that she’d opened her mouth in the first place. Uncomfortably, she asks anyway. “Why are you trying so hard? What are you trying to get out of this?”

“I just want to be your friend again,” Vicky admits, then course corrects, “if we were ever friends, I mean. I thought we were, but…”

Taylor’s unable to give an immediate answer, looking conflicted as she takes in and processes all of this. It’s annoying.

“You can’t seriously be struggling with this,” I tell her, earning an aggrieved look. I scoff. “Taylor, Vicky’s come here, literally apologizing for you yelling at her , asking to be your friend, and you’re not sure whether or not to say yes?” I let that sink in for a moment. “That’s stupid. You’re being stupid.”

“Well maybe I don’t–”

“Apappappap,” I cut her off. “If you’re going to be my girlfriend, you’re going to get along with my sister.” I give her no room to broker, because this point is unbrokerable. “I’m not going to let you make Vicky miserable, especially for stupid reasons like this. Capisce?”

Taylor stares at me, miffed.

“Ames.” Vicky’s looking at me, also miffed but with a smile. “Can Taylor and I have a minute?”

I stare at her. “It’s my room.”

Her pleading stare doesn’t relent.

I sigh. “Fine. I’ll… make coffee or something.”

I leave them alone in my room together to make a pot of coffee. But when I get to the kitchen, I just really don’t have it in me to do all that work. No bottled coffee in the fridge either. I grab my not-quite-chilled burger instead, take a single bite, set it back in its container, and close the fridge. I’m not that hungry, but I don’t know what else to do. I realize I left my phone in my room so I don’t even have that to entertain me. I repeat the process for another bite of burger, then go up to the bathroom to stave off pigging out on the entire thing.

A flush later, I take a minute to do other ablutions, just wasting time until I can go back to my room: washing hands, brushing teeth, washing face. My cleansing face wipes are dried out, old, though most of the package remains. I wet one under the tap and use it anyway.

I huff, bored. I could go for a smoke, honestly. It’s been enough of a day. But I can’t do that here, not with Vicky around, and especially not when Carol’s due home any time now. And when I think about it, it’s just been a bad hour, not a bad day. Plus if I smoked a cigarette now, after doing stuff to Taylor’s body, it’d be like one of those corny movies after a post-sex fade-in. I laugh to myself a little at the comparison. I suppose if sex is this unfulfilling and stressful, the cigarette after makes sense, even if it’s not really the same. Also my cigarettes are in my room, so it’s not even an option in the first place. 

I splash some water in my face, towel off, and just stare at my reflection for a minute. Pudgy cheeks, unruly hair, way too many freckles, and boring brown eyes: not the only faults of mine, not even the only surface level ones, but they stick out as much now as they always do, reminding me of who I’m not and how I don’t belong. I press around a bit of acne that’s forming on my jaw, not popping it or anything – it’s not ripe yet, still at a reddened, swelling stage beneath the surface – but just pressing for pressure and pain’s sakes.

I look away and at the door. At least five minutes must have passed by now. That has to have been enough time for them, right? How much time do they need to talk about whatever it is they’re talking about in there? If I went in now, would I be interrupting and ruining their conciliation? If I don’t go in, will they get weirded out by me staying away, or wonder where I am? Or would they end up having fun without me, enough that they forget I’m even here? No, that’s stupid. There’s no way five or ten minutes of conversation is enough for Taylor to like Vicky enough to forget about me, especially with her power sonar thing.

Maybe we could work out a system, Taylor and I, to communicate at times like this? Would be nice for her to tell me “come back now” with like, a riff of certainty or however it works. It would be convenient. Maybe we could work it out in reverse too, with me signaling stuff to her with my power too? It would be shittier, since I’d have to be touching her, and if I’m touching her I could probably just tell her stuff with my mouth, and that’s not even mentioning how she can almost hear my thoughts with some degree of accuracy, so it’d probably make more sense for her to be in charge of both sides of communication. Still, it might be kind of cool to have a secret language like that. Like superpowered note passing, but less lame than that sounds.

I lean against the sink, butt resting on the porcelain, and sigh. I could go for a walk or something, but that sounds annoying. Carol would probably shit herself and make it my problem if she learned I went out alone, without my phone, and without telling anyone too. TV is an option, but a dull and annoying one – I won’t be able to invest attention in the programming while I wait for Vicky and Taylor to finish up. All my books – equally impossible to focus on – are in my room so that’s a non-option as well.

Fuck it, they should be done by now and it’s my room anyway so, nyeh. Even with my claim over the domain, I pause outside the door again, then kick myself to get myself to open it.

Vicky and Taylor are on my bed together. Hugging. I barely have the time to take it in before Taylor straightens and pulls away from the touch to wipe at her eyes. Was she crying? Her sclera don’t look red, so… She was worried she was crying? Thought she was? Vicky, by contrast, is smiling a small, proud smile. The hell did I miss?

“Everything okay?” I ask, tentative. Gentle, though it feels weird.

Vicky looks to Taylor to answer. Taylor says, “Yeah. I think we’re okay now.”

“Are you going to kick me out again?”

“No, sorry,” Vicky says, smiling wider. “We just needed a minute. Thanks for being cool, Ames.”

“No problem.” I sit on my desk, making sure to not bump any of my miniatures. I should finish assembling those tonight, but… bluh. “You two are friends now?”

Matching, complicated looks cross their faces. Again, Vicky hesitates so as to let Taylor answer, though I can see her chafe at her restraint. It’s worsened by Taylor seemingly needing terrible seconds to formulate an answer to what should really be an easy question.

“We’re–” Taylor starts and stops. “Ask me next week and I might say yes.”

My face screws up at her non-answer.

Hearing my displeasure, she elaborates. “I need to think about it.”

“And that’s okay,” Vicky says, trying to look confident. “She can take the time she needs. We’re cool.”

They’re not cool, not yet at least, but if Vicky wants to declare that and Taylor doesn’t want to disagree, it’d be a bitch move to press them on it. I’m not really in the mood to be a bitch right now, so I let it drop. Honestly I don’t think I’m in the mood for anything, at least not with people, even these two, and especially with them being so weird. This feels so awkward, and the sensation of being an intruder returns, stronger than before. 

“You should probably be leaving,” I tell Taylor. “I don’t think either of us told Mom you’d be here, and I’m not sure when she’s coming back.”

“Crap, yeah, Amy’s right,” Vicky adds. “It’d be fine if you were still feeling weird – glad you’re okay now, by the way, not sure if I said that earlier – but she can be kind of weird about unexpected guests.”

An understatement, but technically true. A particular near-disaster comes to mind, of when Carol almost dismembered Crystal when she came over for a surprise/emergency visit, a few years back, when Aunt Sarah and Uncle Neil were being weird about her transition. No blood was spilled, thankfully, though that’s owed as much to Crystal’s forcefields as it is to Carol stopping short.

“I guess I’ll be heading home, then.” Taylor stands. “Closest bus stop’s a block north, right?”

“Yeah that’s–”

“I could fly you!” Vicky excitedly interrupts me. “My arms are very comfortable; Amy can vouch for me on that.”

I expect Taylor to turn it down immediately, but she surprises me and actually seems to consider it. That ‘needing to think about it’ wasn’t just a polite ‘no,’ I guess. But she doesn’t surprise me much. She says, “Maybe next time.”

“Okay. Yeah, okay.” Vicky tries to not let it bother her, though I can feel her itch to do something right and good, stymied by Taylor’s refusal. I’m not sure if she’s got a patrol scheduled for tomorrow, but I am sure she’ll be out in costume then.

“I’ll walk you out,” I offer Taylor, and she accepts.

While we gather her leftovers and bag, I ask her, “What did you two talk about in there?”

She pauses, one backpack strap on her shoulder, the other in her hand, and the rotations of the hamster wheel in her head are hidden by her emotivelessness. She shakes off whatever indecision took hold of her a couple seconds later and finishes the motion of putting her bag on. “Just. Emma stuff. Pretty much what I told you the other day. Some other stuff.”

I nod. I swallow. I wonder if Vicky’s watching from around the corner again, and if that would be enough of an excuse to get a good night kiss from Taylor. Maybe, but that’d be creepy, no matter what Taylor says.

God I hope she doesn’t try to offer right now. I might say yes. Instead I say, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She nods, and then she leaves. I watch her go down the slate-rock path from door to sidewalk, take a left towards the bus stop, and disappear around the next bend. I shut the door and take a slow, deep breath. Today was a disaster, but all in all still the best double date I’ve been on.

Chapter Text

Wednesday. February 2. 

The man in the mask comes at me, swinging his knife. He’s huge, big enough to not need a knife to take me down, but he has one anyway, and it just underlines how unfair this situation is. I’m already winded and hurting from the accumulation of bruises, aches, and pains that he's given me, and those numerous pains slow me down, every movement is harder than it should be.

Still, I make myself duck the slash and force myself to step into his space. I’m not letting him take another swipe. I’m ending this. I have to, or I’m in for even more pain. I plant my foot between his, grab his outstretched knife-arm, turn, and try to flip him, using my lower hip as a fulcrum. Despite being less than half his weight, and despite common sense dictating that there’s no chance this will work, it does. Physics makes common sense weep as he’s lifted off the ground, over myself, and then back onto the ground, forcefully enough to be audible against the grassy ground.

I let go and take a stumbling step away, panting for breath and feeling the aches in my arms deepen. Everything hurt, and now it all hurts even more. Sweat drips down my face and blurs my vision, stinging. I’m a mess.

Even though he hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of someone, and even though that should take at least a minute to recover from, the man smiles up at me, teeth shining through his balaclava’s mouth hole. He’s completely fine. Of fucking course. Can’t even give me the satisfaction of being actually hurt.

“Good job, Amy,” he says as he sits up.

I try to nod at my Uncle Neil’s praise, too winded to vocalize anything, working harder to stop the spots in my vision from growing than he does to stand, even though I threw him. Even though he’s been thrown what must have been a hundred times in the last hour.

He bends over to retrieve the foam knife that slipped from his grip during the latest throw, then claps me on the back. The only thing that stops me from outright face-planting is him grabbing the back of my sweatshirt to keep me upright.

“Seriously, that was a good one,” he says. “You’re picking this up well.”

“I don’t - pant - even need to - pant - do this - pant - when I can just - pant pant - powers.” I make grabby motions with my hands, then quickly abandon the emphasis to double over, hands on knees as I try to breathe.

“Still, it’s never a bad idea to have an extra tool in your belt. I could teach you more throws, or other styles if you’d like,” he offers.

I want to glare at him, but that would be effort … It’s worth the effort to get across exactly how much I like that idea. He chuckles.

“But you look liable to pass out right now. Why don’t you take a breather while your girlfriend gives this another try?”

I nod and then stumble off toward the backyard patio, the chance to collapse giving me enough energy to make it all the way there. That’s all the energy is good for though: making it there. I fall onto the low, wooden deck as it hits my legs; I’m too sluggish to lift my feet onto the surface. My arms arrest my fall enough that I don’t break my face – even though that’s counter to what falling practice says, I don’t care – and I use the last dregs of my strength to roll myself over onto my back, just so I can breathe.

The sky is so pretty, such a bright blue, with perfectly fluffy, perfectly white cumulus clouds drifting by overhead. One of them looks like a centipede wrapped around a fist, almost. It’s ephemeral though, and the details and defining shadows fall away before my eyes until it’s just a lump in the sky and it’s impossible for me to find any other image in it, as my vision is too fixated on searching for the centipede around a fist to see anything else there.

A water bottle appears, blocking my view of the clouds, and attached to that bottle is a hand.

“Thirsty?” Crystal, the owner of the aforementioned hand, asks.

I nod, rubbing my sweat-soaked hair against the wood. I dig deep, deep within myself for another ounce of strength, so that I can take the bottle from her, and against all odds, I find it. Immediately, I overturn it and pour it onto my face to cool off. I catch a portion of the stream in my mouth as it falls and it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.

“Hey-! Amy, no, you can’t lay down,” Uncle Neil calls.

I don’t respond. Speaking is as hard as sitting up would be. I just close my eyes and enjoy the cool relief the water brought.

“Crystal, can you make your cousin sit up? I don’t want her passing out.”

“Yeah, I got her.” A face appears in my vision. My cousin stares down at me, her long blonde ponytail falling down the side of her face like a… pony’s tail. “Come on Amy, let’s get you up.”

I groan, unwilling to let my break end.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

I don’t respond. Realizing she’s asking the impossible, as this is the hardest possible thing already, and sitting up could not possibly be any harder for me, she sighs. She grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me upright with her flight, almost but not quite like what Vicky would do: no super strength. I flop back down as soon as she lets go, of course, and my head bonks against the deck, adding another ache to my already overflowing list of pains.

“Ouch,” I enunciate.

“Oh my god, you’re worse than Eric sometimes,” Crystal grumbles. I don’t bother trying to hide my self-satisfied smirk.

“Crystal!” Uncle Neil calls.

“I’m trying! She’s not cooperating,” she calls back.

I lift my arms and make grabby hands, inviting her to pull me upright, kneecapping her assertion. Instead of being grateful that I’m helping, she glares at me. Still, she grabs me by the hands and hauls me upright again. I try to go horizontal again, but a sudden, gently inclining wall stops me.

Crystal summoned a force field to keep me from flopping again. For a second, I consider falling sideways or melting forward off the deck, but honestly I’m too tired, and I’m pretty sure Crystal would give up and leave me face down in the dirt if I pushed her that far. And then I might be forced to sit myself up, and that would suck .

So instead I stay leaned, the barrier at my back having no give and feeling like a somehow temperatureless pane of glass: not warm, not cool, and not even room temperature. It feels more like I’d imagine the water inside a sensory deprivation pod would feel, but solid. It’s alright.

Crystal takes a seat next to me and sets down a plate of snacks between us: orange slices, ants on a log, and cookies that look to be oatmeal-something. I pick one up and take a bite, and it. Is. Amazing .

“Mm. Holy shit,” I mumble with a full mouth.

“You like it?” Crystal asks.

I nod emphatically and take another bite. Crystal’s always been good in the kitchen, but these are phenomenal. It tastes of cinnamon, raisin, and… other flavors that I’m sure would make sense if I asked but asking means not shoveling another bite into my mouth.

When I grab a second while still chewing the first, she says, “Alright, so I guess they’re a hit. Neat. It’s a recipe from 1933, believe it or not. I made a couple tweaks, but yeah.”

I hum in deliciousness and she giggles. I finish the second, but hold off on grabbing a third. They’re great, but a little bit dry. “Water?”

She passes me a bottle and I try to take it, but she holds firm.

“Try not to waste this one?” she says.

“Not a waste,” I tell her. “That was the best use for that water, trust me.”

She rolls her eyes and lets go, and I unscrew the cap to drink it. It’s not quite as refreshing as the earlier water, but its still nice and cool. It’s also not soaking my sweatshirt and weighing me down, quickly turning the cool breeze across the yard into a chilling wind that’s more appropriate for the season, so… Not entirely a fan of the me who made the decision to soak myself a minute ago. Making me suffer for a bit of relief: jackass.

“Help me out of my sweatshirt?” I ask.

“Ew, no,” Crystal says, scooting a few inches away from me. “You’re all sweaty and gross.”

It’s true, I’m disgusting. Crystal, by contrast, looks nice, like she’s going to a professional thing, but like a kind of casual one? She’s got a dark grey, pleated, knee-length skirt on, topped by a blue and white plaid shirt. It’s a girly one though, with lace and frills around the neck and cuffs. It doesn’t look like it would work in the least to keep her warm, but it’s not exactly a cold day.

Laboriously, I shuck my sweatshirt and let the wind take the moisture off of the skin exposed by my tank top. It makes me shiver, but I towel off with the drier parts of the shirt and reach a decently not-freezing homeostasis.

I take another sip of the water, nibble on another cookie, and watch as Uncle Neil teaches Taylor a grab or a grapple or hold or whatever it’s called when you hold somebody’s arm in a way to make them cry. Taylor had already shed her hoodie, about fifteen minutes into the lesson, and she’s clad in only grey sweatpants and a plain, burgundy t-shirt, with her hair done up in a loose bun. I’m happy to say that I was right, and she does look good like that.

Even though she’s a fair few inches taller than me, she looks tiny next to my uncle, and with him in his stereotypical burglar mask, black leather gloves, black and white striped long-sleeved shirt, and dark sweatpants, they look almost like they’re starring in some sort of commercial for mace. Or a Subaru. Car commercials are weird. My uncle is weirder, though.

Taylor’s got a serious look on her face as Uncle Neil demonstrates the technique, studying the form like her life depends on it.

“So, Taylor seems pretty alright,” Crystal says, apropos of nothing.

“Eh. She’s…” I deliberately trail off.

“Yeah.”

I turn my head at the unexpected agreement. I figured Crystal would need to get to know Taylor before she didn’t like her.

“What?” I ask.

She’s frowning at the scene in the yard, but looks away to shrug at me. “I saw what happened yesterday.”

I press my eyes close. Of course she did. Everyone’s seen it by now. Some jackass was recording it and posted it online. The video was blurry, and they only got the latter parts just before Taylor collapsed into the seat. Some sites took it down, but most didn’t. I wouldn’t be surprised if Carol had to threaten a tabloid to keep the story off tomorrow’s shelf, if that’s something Carol’s still doing. Even odds she would stop doing that as an inscrutable punishment for not listening to her.

“Taylor’s not usually like that,” I tell her.

“I figured as much. I can’t really see you putting up with her if it was a constant thing.”

“True. It’s hard enough putting up with her as is.”

Crystal gives me a worried look.

“Joking,” I excuse. “That was a joke. You know, like ball and chain stuff. She’s not that bad, honestly.”

“That’s a ringing endorsement coming from you,” she teases, but her worry remains.

“Seriously,” I say to assure her, “Taylor’s like… thoughtful and stuff.”

Crystal raises an eyebrow. I can tell I haven’t convinced her.

“She’s uh, like she’s considerate and uh. Smart? I guess? Weird, dumb-smart, actually. But she’s… you know, um--”

“Hey chill, you don’t have to convince me or anything. Vicky’s told me how much you like her. I’m happy for you.”

I feel conflicted, between relief that I can stop trying to swallow my foot and resignation that Vicky’s probably told everyone about us by now. It’s for the best though, that she’s robbed Taylor and I of our first impressions, considering how bad we are at them.

“Thanks,” I say.

“’Course,” Crystal responds.

We watch as Uncle Neil leads Taylor through the motions of the hold again, moving slowly and explaining the movements, how and why they work to put someone down. They go slow, then faster, focusing more on smoothness and fluidity of motion than on speed. Taylor drinks in the information greedily. She’s been moving through this lesson at a much quicker pace than me, which makes sense since she can’t use her power to end a confrontation without creating more, bigger problems. Then again, her power is probably good at avoiding those sorts of confrontations in the first place.

“You know,” Crystal says, “I never would have imagined you getting with someone like Taylor.”

“You mean a girl?”

She laughs. “No. I mean, kind of, yeah. I always figured you were aro or something, to be honest.”

“Arrow?”

“Aromantic,” she clarifies. “Not looking to date or get with anyone.”

“Oh.” That would be nice, actually, not having to deal with any of the bullshit of wanting to be with Vicky or settling for being with Taylor. Just being able to say ‘no’ to the whole shebang. It would kind of suck though. As much as I hate myself for how I feel, some days the chance to see Vicky’s smile was all that got me out of bed. I shrug.

“But I more meant, when Vicky told me you had a girlfriend, I imagined her… more sporty, I guess?”

“You thought I’d be with a jock?” I ask, flabbergasted.

“Come on, think about it. You’re at a game, and she hurts herself. Gets tackled by another player or tears her ACL running or something, and then you come swooping in to fix her up, and she offers to take you out for lunch to repay you, and it blossoms from there.”

I don’t respond, sickened by the imagined scene. I can feel my face screwed up with an unnatural, uncomfortable disdain at the thought.  

“Don’t give me that look!” She huffs, a small smile on her lips. “I know it didn’t go down like that, but is it so hard to imagine?”

“Yes,” I answer immediately. “Absolutely. Incredibly so. The idea that I’d, what, want to get with a”-- I search for the right word, but none feels right: apathetic, stupid, shortsighted, shallow, self-destructive? --”girl who would mess herself up for a sport ? It’s…” I shake my head. “Plus, I’d never date a patient. That would just be weird. It’s one thing if I have to heal my girlfriend, but it’d be weird to have ‘hey I saved your life or leg or lung or whatever’ as a-- a…”

“A meet cute?” Crystal provides.

“Sure. That’d be a weird meet cute. A meet weird. It just wouldn’t happen,” I finish, having lost all steam with that stumbled word.

“Alright, so no being the knight in shining scrubs? Got it.”

I roll my eyes at the silly visual, but it’s halfhearted at best. I look back out at my Aunt’s back yard, and can’t help but feel this is a waste of time. I should be healing, and failing that I should be doing stuff with Taylor so I can heal better and for longer. This doesn’t count, not really, not when we’re barely interacting, and it’s a waste of time otherwise.

I don’t need to learn how to defend myself, because no one in their right mind would ever actually attack me. I belong on the back line-- behind the back line, even: completely off the board, healing instead of getting into fistfights. My place is making other people’s lives less miserable, and I realize I’ve been slacking on that. Ever since I met Taylor, I’ve cut my volunteer work down to just my scheduled visits. Last Wednesday excepted, I haven’t gone on voluntary rounds in weeks.

I’ll go tonight, I decide.

“So, if your type isn’t sporty girls, is it nerdy girls? Taylor’s got a bit of a thing going for her, with those glasses.”

My reflex is to say no, but… That’s actually an overlap between Vicky and Taylor. It’s practically the only trait they share; they’re both huge nerds. Dammit.

Crystal laughs again, at my miserable realization. “So you have a type: no big deal.”

I can’t even begin to tell her how Taylor is not my type, and how honestly I wouldn’t be the least bit into her if circumstances were different. Like, she’s not even pretty, especially not when compared against Vicky. Even if Taylor’s intensity can make me pause, and even if her hair is objectively probably slightly more luscious than Vicky’s, and even if her eyes are deep enough to drown in, she’s not actually attractive . She doesn’t wear makeup as armor or know how to dress to accentuate her form and can barely be called feminine. That’s the sort of stuff I’m into, not gangling androgyny capped by shockingly expressive features, wrapped around an intense and indomitable core.

“She’s really more of an exception than the rule,” I say instead of anything else.

Crystal hums in response and we quietly yet comfortably watch Taylor subdue Uncle Neil as he comes at her in slow motion. She twists his arm around behind his back and he falls to his knees. His lesson is all about leverage and how the human body moves, but I know that if he were using his super strength there’s no way Taylor could make him go down like that, no matter the technique. No matter the fulcrum’s placement, there are some things that won’t budge: Brutes chief among them. 

Even so, Uncle Neil let’s Taylor act out the lesson on him as if he were normal. He comes at her with the knife again. She grabs his arm and flips him, and I swear the ground shakes with the impact.

“It’s getting kind of late. How about we call it a day?” Uncle Neil says as he picks himself up off the ground for a final time.

Taylor nods and I don’t object.

“You girls did good work today,” he says. “You especially, Taylor. You picked it up quicker than I expected. Another couple weeks of this and you’ll be something to be reckoned with.”

“Thanks, Mr. Pelham,” she says, smiling but unable to look him in the eye.

He laughs, a deep, booming sound that could probably be heard from a block away. “Please, call me Neil.”

She blushes. She actually fucking blushes, and I only barely hold back my groan. I do allow myself an eyeroll though. In retrospect, I should have seen it coming as soon as Carol set this up. Vicky’s complained enough about her friends ‘jokingly’ asking her to introduce them to our uncle that I should have remembered he’s practically catnip for straight girls. Gay guys too, probably.

I don’t get it, at all. And not even in the ‘ew he’s family, no way is he hot’ way, because even if I disregard that, I don’t get what’s attractive about him. He’s almost forty, his closest friends are grandmothers in a local quilting club, and he wears a homemade Halloween robber costume to teach his niece and her girlfriend self defense. Still, somehow, Taylor is attracted to him.

I’m not jealous though. She doesn’t have any chance whatsoever with him: he’s been happily and faithfully married for longer than I’ve been alive, he’s over twice her age, and she’s not hot enough to pull a celebrity. She’s just not.

She and Uncle Neil settle in front of Crystal and I, and my cousin holds up the plate of snacks for them to peruse. Uncle Neil takes an orange slice and an oatmeal cookie, and Taylor takes just an orange slice. They pop them in their mouths and chew.

When she’s done, Taylor lifts her sweat-soaked tee to dab at her face and reveals an untoned but flat belly. I have to admit she’s sweating more gracefully than me. She’s not glistening , like Vicky can, where the sweat looks almost purposefully placed for maximum effect without messing with her appearance in a depreciable way. Taylor, far from that picture perfect sheen, has streaks of dirt on her arms and shirt, mudded by sweat, caked by the air, and moistened again by another round of sweat. She looks like she’s worked for every drop of sweat that dusts her brow and stains her pits: a bit grody and kind of gross, but weirdly not in a wholly bad way.

Uncle Neil peels his balaclava off and lets out a relieved huff. Unsurprisingly, he’s been sweating more than Taylor and I combined, with the whole robber outfit – seriously, not a hint of skin showing when it must be almost seventy degrees out – and his hair is plastered to his scalp and forehead, lacking its usual picturesque quaff. It’s weird seeing him without half a pound of product keeping everything just so. 

“Whew,” he says. “It, is, hot .”

“Yeah, it is,” Crystal snarks. “That’s why most of us aren’t dressed to rob a yeti.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he brushes off.

“Why do you even have that outfit?” I ask.

“I thought it would get you in the right mindset,” he explains.

“Yeah, but why did you have it in the first place?” I press, foolishly.

He pauses and chooses his next words carefully, and that care fills me with dread and a wish to take back my question. Faux-casually, he says, “Just role-play. It helps strike the mood, don’t you think?” 

No one responds, the gut-punch of implication silencing us all.

“These cookies are really good, Crystal,” Uncle Neil says as he takes another, continuing on as if he didn’t just crush the what little innocence that survived my life thus far. “New recipe?”

“Uhuh!” she responds desperately. I can see in her eyes that her soul just died a little bit more today too. “I mixed protein powder in with the flour.”

“Smart. They teach you that in class?”

“No, they leave how to incorporate stuff into diet plans to us.” Crystal is a HNFE major at Brockton University. “Glad you like them.”

“They’re good,” I say when the horror of glimpsing my aunt and uncle’s preferences in the bedroom has passed enough to allow speech. I bite into a cookie, and it is good. Crunchy, but chewy with the dried berries.

Taylor is conspicuously silent, and I have a feeling it’s not for exactly the same reason I am. She’s blushing, but eyeing the foam knife judgmentally. I suppose it’s at least a bit reassuring that she’s not that much of a freak.

“Well, I’m going to go change and rinse off,” Uncle Neil declares suddenly. “If you want to do the same, I’m sure Crystal can show you where the hose is.” With that he leaves, and takes most of the awkwardness with him.

“He’s joking,” Crystal assures. “There’s a guest bathroom if you want to shower.”

“I’m fine for now,” I say. “I think I’ll soak in the tub when I get home, so--” I shrug.

Taylor shakes her head. “I didn’t bring any shower supplies.”

“You can borrow mine,” Crystal offers.

Taylor shakes her head again. “I don’t think that would be the best for my hair.”

“Fair enough. You have gorgeous hair, by the way. What’s your secret?”

“No secret, I just take good care of it.”

“I bet it takes you forever though.”

“Maybe half an hour?”

“Damn. I’m seriously jealous.”

Taylor blinks. “Thank you?”

“Of course, girl.” Crystal grins up at her and offers her another cookie.

“No thanks. They look good, but do you have any water?”

I hold up my three-quarters full water bottle up for her and after a moment of hesitation, she accepts it. Her fingers brush against mine as she grabs it, and I synthesize a small amount of dopamine and let it spread through her blood, just like the previous times we’ve touched today, just like we discussed at lunch.

She doesn’t take the bottle immediately, leaving the skin-to-sweaty skin contact so I can watch as that packet of dopamine is taken and reconstituted. I don’t synthesize any more than that first little bit, despite having the time to -- I do not want to make her act out again. Less is more than enough anyway, and the process brings a smile to her face. The evidence of pleasure is so small as to nearly be invisible, evident only by the clarity my power provides.

A much more conspicuous smile wiggles onto my face. I must admit, I’m giddy at the continued opportunity to make Taylor happy like this. Even with her ‘tempering my temptation,’ as she so eloquently put it, making her feel good still feels good to me in a way unlike anything else. It’s honestly a bit worrying that I’m still enjoying this so much with her toning it down for me, but I trust her to keep me in line. She’s been good about consent, if nothing else, so I trust her to keep me from overstepping.

We’re not doing this so I can have fun, anyway. We’re doing this so we can get to a point of trust so she can help me not hate healing. The pleasure is irrelevant, more of a proof of my failing than anything else, and I’m just happy she’s letting me enjoy this process at all. Still, I can’t get lost in the fun of playing her like a trombone, I have to stay focused on the goal of getting myself fixed. It’s bad to enjoy this, but it’s joy she’s allowing me, so it’s fine. I think.

“You two are cute like this,” Crystal teases with a smile from not three feet away.

Taylor snatches her hand and the bottle away and I deflate at the interrupted contact. She takes a sip and I glare at Crystal. She leans away from me.

“What? What’d I say?” she asks.

“Tch. Nothing.” I can’t very well get mad at her for calling us cute, even if it did ruin the moment.

After too long of an awkward silence, it’s Taylor of all people who speaks up, asking, “Can I have a cookie?”

“Yeah, please, take one,” Crystal says, picking up the plate of snacks for Taylor to peruse.

She grabs a cookie, bites into it, and reacts the same as I did. She finishes chewing. “Holy crap.”

“Right?” I agree, reaching for another.

“Aww, you two are too sweet,” Crystal demurs, though she’s obviously basking in the praise.

<3<3

We left the Pelham house not long after that, electing to walk the handful of blocks to my place, as the short distance would make a ride more trouble than it’s worth. Uncle Neil made me promise to text him when I got back, and I can’t help but hear my mother in that request. 

Taylor and I walk beside each other down the street, backpacks heavier than ever after all that exercise. I’m very excited to get home and get rid of all evidence I had to do this crap, but that doesn’t mean the walk is without its little pleasures. 

My hand brushes against Taylor’s. It’s natural, accidental, just a consequence of walking so close beside her. It happens again -- a complete accident -- and I let out a dose of dopamine. It’s just good  practice to do it when we touch, even on accidents. I’ll have to be careful to not do it on someone other than Taylor, but with her this is okay.

So when we touch again, I do it again.

The snapshot glimpses into her biology are crystal clear even though they’re only instants. Her body appears at once in my power-mind’s eye-hand with every touch, and it’s less than a moment’s work to take in all the information provided. So even though each instance of contact is fleeting, I can see that it’s improving her mood, relaxing and invigorating her.

I brush her hand again, this time purposefully, and she grabs it, startling me and making me miss half a step. I look at her and she’s already looking at me, bemused.

“We can hold hands if you want,” she says. “You don’t have to be weird about it.”

“I know! I just…” I trail off, defenseless. She took my hand; I can’t help but feel good-weird about it. She rolls her eyes as I smile away from her and change the grip so our fingers are interlaced.

It’s a bit of a fly in the ointment though. I’m only allowed to release a single dosage of dopamine per contact, so now that our hands are linked, the dopamine in her system is all that there is. I have a feeling that letting go to keep slapping at her hand would be classified as ‘weird’ too.

We walk past a house with an honest-to-god tire swing in the front, tied to a tree branch with a rope and everything. I somehow never noticed that, even though this isn’t my first time traveling this route. This is my first time walking it since Vicky got her powers though -- The tire swing is probably hidden by the boughs from the air. What else might I have missed on those flights?

As nice as walking hand in hand is, I can’t help but feel discomforted by the quiet between us. I should say something, but I don’t really have anything to tell; she’s been there or aware of pretty much every recent event of mine, and I don’t feel like bitching about the hospital when I’m so behind on healing. It would feel entitled, as justified as it is. 

I suppose I could… ask her something? About her life? As long as I don’t fuck up like I did about the Winslow thing, that should be okay, I think. 

“How are the nuns taking the whole you being in a lesbian relationship thing?” I ask after further thought. It’s weird that she lives with nuns but never talks about them, right?

“They’re… scared,” she answers after a moment of thought. “They’re happy for me too, weirdly, but scared. I get the feeling most of them are more worried about whether this will affect the house somehow than how it’ll affect me , but I can’t really blame them. A few of the kids have been there for years now, and some of the Sisters grew up in a house like that. It’s home for them. I haven’t been there that long, so it makes sense they’d worry. It’s Brockton Bay, you know? Not really a safe place to stand out.

“It kind of makes me think it might have been best to come up with a different cover story for us, like that we’re just friends or doing a study group together or something. I’m not saying we should change our story, it’s way too late for that, especially after what we told your mom, but… I don’t know. I don’t like worrying Linda and the Sisters. This” -- She squeezes my hand -- “hasn’t gone bad yet though, so for all I know it might have actually been the best option. It worked to convince Dean, your family, and pretty much everyone else that nothing else is going on so… It’s working, at least, so I don’t mind it.”

My heart hammers in my chest. I whisper, “Cool.”

“Speaking of: the kids think us dating is the coolest thing ever. They keep asking when we’re going to get married.”

“ Married?! ” My mind screeches to a halt -- I can’t get married! I’m yet still a maiden.

She shrugs. “Most of them are really little, like eight or nine. I don’t think they really know what marriage is yet, or have any serious ideas about what it’d mean.”

“R-right. Yeah.” I remember some of the kids in the pediatrics asking if I was going to marry the attending nurse, just because my costume is a white dress. “Kids are stupid.”

She smiles a bit. “Right? A few of them think I should break up with you and date Glory Girl instead.”

I snort at the idea. “Good luck with that, she’s straighter than you are.”

“That’s not even the craziest thing. One of them thinks I should marry Miss Militia.”

I balk, then laugh. “What?”

“I know, she’s old enough to have a kid our age. But Jewel’s only eight, and I don’t think she really grasps age all that well yet. She thinks that since Miss Militia and I are both adults, we can-- I know, I know,” she says as I continue laughing. Taylor? An adult? Please. “I said she’s eight, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, sorry, I know, it’s just that Miss Militia has like, twenty years on you,” I say with a grin. “Not like you could pull her even if you were her age anyway.”

Taylor rolls her eyes at me. She’s smiling too. “So yeah, things aren’t that bad at the orphanage, if I’m being honest. I kind of figured they’d take me coming out as gay poorly, but it’s really only August and Claudia that have any issue.”

“They’re not like…” I make a gesture with my shoulder and head to mean abuse. It’s vague, but she gets it.

“No. They said they’d ‘pray for me,’ which was weird, but… weird. I still don’t know how to take that. It’s only been a few days since they learned, but otherwise things seem fine.”

I’ve never had someone say they’d pray for me, so I’m not really sure what it means either. “It’s good you’re not about to become homeless again, at least. Or wait, were you homeless? Or just orphaned?”

Taylor’s smile falls as she purses her lips. “The Sisters took me in directly. I wasn’t ever at risk of living on the streets. I don’t…”

I wait, but she doesn’t pick up where she trailed off, looking off into the middle distance instead. I mentally kick myself, then try to shake it off. Her damage isn’t my problem. But… it kind of feels like whatever landed her in the orphanage is worse than the shit Emma put her through, if she’s still so tight-lipped about it. It might be her trigger.

…Or I burned any goodwill when I asked to verify the truth about the Winslow crap. Either way, best to back off.

It’s a nice day out anyway, no need to ruin it more than I and exercise already have. I still feel all sweat-sticky, and I can feel Taylor’s not any better off. Weirdly, the only parts of the both of us that aren’t sweaty are our linked hands. It’s kind of a shame that I only get to dose her once per touch instead of, like, at intervals; it would be nice to be able to do something to her without making it awkward by releasing and leasing her hand. It would be even nicer to do… something else .

Lunch on Monday was a lot of fun, and it wasn’t complicated like yesterday’s double date disaster. It was just simple and plain fun, making Taylor feel good. I hold in a sigh. If the bell hadn’t rung when it did, what else would have happened? Would she still have stopped me, or would she have let me continue to hold her? How far could we have gone? Would she let me do it again, now?

I daren’t ask. After all I’ve done to her, and an evil Master she may be, I could not and would not seek to inflict myself further upon her, not for my own selfish desires. This… this is enough. It has to be. Getting to touch her as she allows is already far, far more than I could dream to deserve. So no matter how great my want is, so powerful it borders on need , I cannot ask. I mean, what if she said ‘no’? That would suck more than not taking the chance in the first place.

“It doesn’t hurt to ask,” Taylor says out of nowhere.

“What?”

“Ask whatever it is you’re wanting to ask. Go ahead.”

“I… wasn’t going to ask anything.”

“Yes you were,” she tells me. “I can hear you mulling it over. So just ask.”

Well. With an invitation like that, it would be rude not to, wouldn’t it?

I chew my lip to stop it from turning up, then ask, “Since we’re alone right now, and no one’s really expecting either of us home right now, can we do… you know. More?”

“More…?

Stupid empath, calling me out, making me say stuff. “You know. Hand stuff.”

“Like…?”

I stop walking and she stops with me. She is having way too much fun with this, and I can feel my face warming. I grit my teeth and my words come out roughly ground. “Can I do nerve stuff to you?”

I half expect her to tell me no after making me come out and say it, just to laugh at my entitlement, but she says, “Sure. Let’s find somewhere with a bit of privacy, like… There.” She starts walking, pulling me with her. “We should have some privacy here.”

My face splits into a giddy grin as I all but float behind her like a balloon. She pulls us off the sidewalk, down a gravel path between two properties, sandwiched between two rows of hedges that are so tall they must be some sort of garden battle between neighbors that hate each other or teamed up to piss off the homeowners association. One comes up to my neck, and the other reaches overhead. They’re mostly green despite the winter, but the sides facing each other are comparatively leafless as they must block each other’s sun.

“So what do you want to do first?” she asks when we’re deep enough in to be hidden from all but the nosiest streetwalkers.

There are so many options! I feel like I did Monday just before I first touched her nerves, but instead of feeling like I’m frozen at a crossroads, uncertain of which path I should take, I feel more like a kid in a candy shop; the expression only just now makes total sense to me. There are no bad options, and one doesn’t preclude me from another. I’m not deciding what to do, but what to do first .

I did it before, and maybe that’s why I’m leaning towards it, but I’m eager to try pleasure again. Making Taylor react as she did was probably the most fun I’ve had since… I can’t even remember, I can’t think of anything other than that moment of her startling in her seat and blushing. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll make her feel good. I use my power to–

“ Hey ,” she calls sharply as she jerks her hand away.

I startle and glance around worriedly, but no one is here. I ask her, “What? What’s wrong?”

“I asked you what you were going to do,” she says, sounding fed up. “Tell me before you start to do it.”

Dammit dammit dammit . She talked to me about this today . I fucked up just yesterday, and I apparently haven’t learned. My eyes are stuck to her shoes as I apologize. “Sorry.”

She lets out a short breath. “What were you going to do?”

My eyes don’t rise. “I was going to do pleasure again,” I confess. “Like Monday. Is that…?”

“That’s fine.” Her hand appears in my line of sight, and only now do I let myself look again at her. She has a stern expression, but it’s not unkind. I reach for her hand, but she pulls away. Before I can ask why, she says, “Ask.”

My face scrunches up, her demeanor a spritz of lemony annoyance to the face. She just said it was fine, but she’s still making me beg to hold her hand. I can’t even tell if or how much she’s enjoying making me do this without first giving her what she wants. And I can’t even call her out on it without risking her pulling away and denying me everything. I want to snap at her, but I don’t. I won’t. I’ve suffered harsher tortures for lesser prizes before, so it’s easy to swallow a bit of my pride and ask,

“Can I pretty please make you feel good with my power, like we already fucking discussed?”

Taylor’s sternness disappears under forced apathy and I bite my tongue, too late – why am I such a stupid bitch? – as I’ve already shat the bed with my saccharine bullshit. But instead of leaving in disgust or telling me to fuck off, Taylor takes a deep breath, strips the sheets off the shat bed to wash later, and lays back down with me.

“Yes,” she says. “As long as you don’t do anything other than that.”

She puts her hand out again and I take it, giving her another small dose of dopamine. Her familiar form comes into my power-given awareness and I take a moment to just feel her: how her nerves thread together, dense with potential sensation in some places and sparse in others. Even with that disparity, every inch of her body is capable of some amount of feeling, vague or precise, and I know I can control or even change any of it. I could, say, give her appendix the most precise ability to feel ever, but that would be dumb and useless so I focus on the matter at hand: her hand.

It’s a hand. It’s not much physically different than any other I’ve felt. It’s comparatively pristine from when I touched her up last week; she hasn’t had enough time to build up any new callouses or wear down her joints. But still, just another hand. However, it’s also a hand unlike any other hand, because this is Taylor’s hand, and that means it’s special, if only for its permitted potential. I can do stuff to this hand, stuff I don’t let myself even consider doing to another hand.

I turn up her nerves’ sensitivity to pleasure and she stiffens at the nice feeling as I squeeze. Her heart beat speeds up, pushing blood to her skin and extremities, bringing back her earlier flush, but this time it’s definitely not from exertion. Everything her hand feels is translated to pleasure, signaling nothing but good times to her brain. I could take a lighter to her fingers and she’d thank me.

Instead of doing something fucked up, I brush my thumb against hers and her brow scrunches, like she’s trying to keep her reactions to a minimum, but that simply won’t do. No, that won’t do at all. I want to make her enjoy this too much to even think about keeping a lid on her reactions. I want her to be too caught up in what I’m doing to her to even think about controlling herself.

So I brush my thumb against her hand again, drawing and redrawing a circle on her skin as I watch her squirm. She shifts her weight from one leg to another and bites her cheek to keep quiet, but can’t stop herself from gasping on occasion as I massage her nervous system. That gives me an idea, actually.

“Can I do muscles?” I ask.

“Huh?” she responds breathlessly.

I consider stopping for a moment, but… that would kind of run counter to my goal of making her squirm. So I keep touching her as I say, “I could massage your muscles too. It might help you relax.”

She bites her lip as she tries to think, her face screwing up uncomfortably. Then she shakes her head. “No. No, this is enough.”

I frown, but I don’t push it. I need to show her I can take no for an answer, as much as I’d like to do it. And anyway, as nice as access to her muscular system would be, her nervous system is plenty for now. I’m at least not isolated to affecting only some boring system, like her lymphatic… though, that might actually be fun, now that I think about it.

Still, nerves are fine. More than fine: messing with them is probably the most fun a girl could have. Even if I’m not doing this for fun. I have a good reason for doing this. The fun is just… a side effect. It’s comorbid with the process of being able to trust her.

My frown disappears as I throw myself back into it. I touch her and feel the signals travel from hand to brain in almost an instant, and I pay close attention to how she reacts to every brush against her skin. Even the wind feels disproportionately good to her right now, and it makes her shiver.

I’m certain that she’s not even conscious of all of her reactions, so even though she keeps trying to downplay how much I’m affecting her, she can’t. She can’t help how her heart speeds up, how her eyes unfocus slightly, how she trembles and grasps my hand, not when she’s trying so hard to keep her breathing even and her voice contained.

But… despite how I continue to make her feel good, she gains ground in controlling herself. Her breathing does even out and her muscles stop shaking so much in response. Even her heart slows, returning almost to rest, now comparable to someone walking rather than jogging. I’ven’t changed how I’m touching her, I’ve kept up the pleasurable sensations, continued to touch and squeeze her hand, but it begins to feel Tantalusian; I try, but what was just within my reach slips away from my grasp, further and further, until finally Taylor is back to normal, even though I’m holding her hand.

“What’s wrong?” she has the gall to ask.

“I don’t know,” I grind. “Your body’s being weird. It’s not reacting how it should.”

“Well, what are you doing?”

“Only nerve-pleasure stuff, I swear,” I hurry to assure.

“I believe you,” she says, easing my worry that she thought I’d gone too far again. “But it felt like you were just… touching my hand.”

“Yeah. I was generating the same pleasure signals at your hand and-- and it was the same,” I realize. “You acclimated, dammit.”

“I’m not sure if I should apologize or…?”

“No, fuck, no it’s fine. I need… We need variety, otherwise you’ll just get bored.” I groan. I stop groaning as I realize that variety isn’t out of reach. I start to--

“What are you doing?” Taylor asks.

“Huh?”

“You were about to do something new. What was it?”

“It was just the same stuff, I promise.”

Her eyes narrow with suspicion.

“...I was just gonna, like. Flicker it? It’s still just pleasure, I promise.”

Gears turn in her head, and though the particulars of her thoughts are inscrutable through the complexity of her brain, I know she’s weighing the veracity of my statement. A ten second eternity later, she gives me the go ahead.

“Okay,” she says. “But you need to tell me when you’re going to do new stuff. I’ve said that enough times now.”

“It’s the same thing though,” I assert. “I’m not making you feel anything other than pleasure.”

“Still.”

I frown. It’s the same thing. I shouldn’t need to ask to do the same thing she already agreed to. She said I could have as much pizza as I want, but she’s getting mad I’m cutting it into squares instead of slices. I’m not breaking a rule, not disobeying, not doing anything she hadn’t already agreed to, so it’s dumb for her to call me out like I am.

Still, she already said yes, so I let it go for now.

I let her nerves return to their normal sensitivities as I trace patterns on her skin with my thumb, and then, when things are normal, I return the pleasurable sensation. She jolts. I stop the powered sensations after only a few seconds, still brushing against her skin, then turn it back up for another few seconds. She squirms and I cease the overfeeling. I repeat a few times, and as I do, the process of affecting her nerves gets smoother, like the switch in my head resolved into a dial. I could always do it like this, if I’d thought to, I know that, but it wasn’t… obvious. I play around with the newly revealed intermediary settings.

What happens if, instead of turning the sensation all the way off, I leave her a bit more sensitive to pleasure? What happens if I don’t make it feel quite as intensely good as before? What happens if I do both? What about if I move between full pleasure and almost full pleasure? What if…? What if…? What if…?

Over the next few minutes, I watch her dissolve into a panting, trembling, blushing mess as I keep at it, keep turning that knob, not letting her rest as I try to bring her to her knees with only this. I’m getting close -- she’s getting close -- when she suddenly says,

“S-stop!”

“What? Why?” I ask. Even though I don’t want to -- even though I really don’t want to -- I let her return to normal sensitivity. Something must be wrong for her to interrupt it. Something had better be wrong.

Her face screws up as she pants, “Crystal. In the air.”

“ What?! ” I jerk my hand away and turn to search the sky, but Taylor grabs me by the shirt to stop me from turning.

“Don’t,” she tells me, oddly authoritative in spite of her mussed state, blush reaching down past her collar. “Don’t be suspicious.”

“What do you mean ‘don’t be suspicious’?” I hiss. “She just saw what we’re doing -- What I was doing.”

“No,” Taylor breathes. I can tell she wants to say more, but she can’t. That she needs to catch her breath is oddly gratifying, even if she’s being weird right now. Finally, she swallows and says, “It doesn’t sound like she thinks anything weird is happening.”

“Really? You’re sure.”

“I’m sure. There’s no way she could tell what’s happening from all the way up there anyway.”

“I know that!” I snap, trying to be convincing. “So. Why the hell did you scare me like that?”

“I thought it would be better to stop before she got suspicious,” Taylor says like it’s obvious.

…I hate that I can’t really fault her reasoning on that. “Is she still up there?”

Taylor nods.

“What’s she even doing?”

“She’s… worried about us. Neil too. I think she’s just checking on us, since you didn’t check in after getting home. At first, when she spotted us, she thought we stopped to talk or canoodle or something.”

“Well thank fucking god we weren’t doing that,” I spit sardonically.

“Right,” Taylor answers, just as sardonic. “Except now she thinks we’re fighting and is considering coming down here.”

“What? Why?”

“Probably because of how angrily you’re gesturing,” she deadpans, and only now do I realize how animated my arms have been.

I pull them to my side and keep them there. “Well, how do we stop her?”

She thinks for a moment. “We could give her what she expects.”

“What?”

“She thinks we’re canoodling,” Taylor says, “so step closer to me -- Let’s make it look like we are.”

“Fine. But only if you stop using the word ‘canoodle.’”

“Seriously? Just get over here.”

“Why don’t you come closer to me?” I challenge.

“Because, she might see that as aggressive instead of intimate, since you’re the one who stepped away from me.”

I huff and step into her personal space. She looks down at me with a lingering blush and my mouth goes dry as I realize the next step of her plan. She’s going to kiss me. It’s Vicky 2: Electric Boogaloo.

Before I can even start to panic about how kissable her lips are right now, Taylor looks away.

“She’s gone. It worked,” she reports.

“Oh,” I say uncertainly. Do I step away? She’s not going to do stuff to me, now that there’s no reason to. But wait, that doesn’t mean I can’t do stuff to her . A smile returns to my face. “Can I uh, keep going then? Since she’s gone?”

Taylor looks conflicted at my question for some reason. “I… I don’t know. That was… a lot, just now.”

“Oh.”

I suddenly feel small. She wants to be done. That’s okay. …It is. It’s okay. She can do that, I can’t ethically stop her from not wanting more. It sucks though, and I don’t get it. She was enjoying it, I know that for certain, so why would she want it to stop? Still, I’m not allowed to control her, so… fine. We’re stopped.

“Okay,” I whisper. 

Taylor shoots a wary look at the end of the hedge rows, where it lets out onto the sidewalk. I follow her gaze, but no one is there. No one passes by either. She looks back to me, and by now her blush is contained to her face. She worries her lip between her teeth and dammit she’s cute. She has no right to be this cute when she’s not going to do anything to me about it. I didn’t even really want her to do stuff anyway. I don’t even like her. She’s… creepy. And weird. And annoying, and hung up on the dumbest stuff, and uptight, and-- and-- other bad stuff too. Oh and she’s evil. Evil girls who won’t kiss me have no right being this cute.

“We can do… other stuff,” she offers hesitantly.

I’m about to ask for clarification when she provides it.

“I think we’ve explored that sensation pretty uh-- pretty thoroughly.” She laughs an awkward laugh. She stumbles adorably over her words as she tries to find her way back onto her train of thought, but then says, “But we won’t really have another opportunity to be alone like this for a while, I think, so it’d be kind of a waste to just stop here if you had something else -- something that isn’t pleasure -- that you wanted to try, we could.”

I blink. I still don’t get why she doesn’t want me to make her feel good. I was rather into that and so was she, honestly, and would much prefer to get back to it and see about making her legs give out from the sensations, so it’s a bummer for her to double down on ending that. Though… there is a certain allure to doing something else. Obviously, it won’t be as fun, but I’m not sure anything would be. I’m not sure what I would do, though. I hadn’t really thought of more than, well, that.

Oh wait!

“I did have an idea the other day. It’s not entirely about how to use my power though,” I admit.

She nods quickly. “Let’s hear it.”

“So, yesterday, when you and Vicky took over my room, I wasn’t really sure when it’d be okay to go back in, and I was thinking it might be nice to be able to talk to each other? Like, just then I was thinking you could like uh, I don’t know, make me feel really confident about going in there so I know it’s okay? Or make me, well, not scared but maybe apprehensive as a way to tell me to fuck off so I stay away?”

Pitch delivered, I wait. Taylor mulls it over thoughtfully. “That’s a really good idea, actually. It would be incredibly useful to be able to silently communicate like that.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” I reply, not-so-secretly pleased.

“If you’re okay with me doing that, then yes, I think that would be great.” She’s smiling, excited.

I dig my toe into the gravel and shrug. “Yeah, I mean it’s my idea, so sure.”

“And then you could-- Wait, how precise is your pre-healing?”

I blink at the abruption. “Down to the cell. Why?”

“Here.” She holds out her hand for me to take. I don’t hesitate, my smile already growing as I give her her dose of dopamine. She says, “I want you to write on my arm.”

My smile falls. Dammit. I should have known she’d push my limits. No one can leave well enough alone. I can’t write on her. Not only would that break my rules, but it would give away far too much. This pre-healing thing is already pushing it. My hand limply noodles out of her grip and returns to my side.

“I can’t do cosmetics,” I tell her flatly.

She grabs my hand anyway. “I know you don’t do cosmetics; I meant using my nerves,” she clarifies. “Make me feel the words, that way you can talk back: two way communication.”

I open my mouth to shoot it down again, but… it’s not actually a bad idea. It doesn’t break any rules since it’s the same as what I was just doing. I mean, it’s not pleasure. I could use pleasure, but I could just as easily use another sensation, like pressure, wetness, or heat.

“Okay,” I say as I figure out how to go about this. “I could do pressure?”

She nods, and I start-- er, I almost start. I don’t know what to actually write on her. Something that’s not stupid, and not embarrassing, and not bitchy enough she’ll stop this… I grin and simulate pressing a word onto her forearm: just three letters, uppercase for clarity.

“Can you feel that?”

“I feel something,” she says. “What’d you write?”

“Guess.”

I watch her face as she tries to decipher the signals I’m sending her nerves. She frowns. It’s just three letters; how hard could this be? I press a bit harder and her frown takes on a new, uncomfortable tilt. I ease off and press again, and she still doesn’t guess. She shakes her head.

“I’m not getting it,” she says. “It just feel like something’s pressing against my arm.”

“Dammit. Maybe… hmm.” If pressing all at once isn’t working…

“Tell me what you’re thinking of doing,” Taylor says.

“Oh, sorry, uh. Since pressing the whole word isn’t working, maybe I could write it out instead? Like as if I was actually writing it? Is that okay?”

She opens her mouth to answer, but then closes it and adopts a thoughtful expression. I wait for her to respond, but she doesn’t. I should just do it! It’ll be fine! No god wait no I might fuck up and ruin everything again, but I’m confident it’ll be fine. 

…Wait a second. What ? I glare at Taylor with suspicion.

“Sorry, that had to feel weird,” she says, confirming my guess. 

“What even was that?”

“I was trying to say yes with the power communication thing we came up with. I wanted it to be obvious – that’s why it was so harsh – but I didn’t want you to go all out again, so I threw in uncertainty with the confidence. They don’t mix well naturally. Is that okay?”

“It… should be fine, now that I know what to expect,” I say. “Anyway, can I do it now?”

She smiles. I’m gonna do it! I’m sure it’ll all be fine if I do it. Or I’ll mess up and ruin everything.

I blink, then fix Taylor with a mild glare. Even knowing what it is doesn’t make it feel… good. But at least I know she’s fine with me starting now, and if she’s not then that’s on her at this point. 

On her forearm, in the same place as before, I etch the first letter, one line at a time, like a triangle but the two downward lines extending past the bottom. I wait after writing it, to give her a chance to guess it, then repeat it when she doesn’t immediately.

“That’s an ‘A’?” she asks after the second time.

I nod excitedly at the proof of concept’s success. I talked to her with my power! I communicated something! It was just a single letter, but still! I bounce on the balls of my feet -- This is so much fun! But it doesn’t count unless I can do it again; Vicky always says that rigorous testing is necessary for all scientific hypotheses, and once can be a fluke.

So I draw the next letter. Four lines: two vertical, with two diagonals between, meeting in a point. Up, down-right, up-right, down: I press into her arm.

“’M’?”

“Yeah!” I shout. Then, in a lower voice, “Yeah. ‘M.’”

“’A’, ‘M’…” She looks like she can guess the final letter, and that probably screws the testing conditions but screw the test. I write the final letter, and before I can even finish the third, vertical line, she guesses, “’Y’? ‘AMY’? Really?”

I snicker and nod. I wrote my name on her.

She rolls her eyes and sighs, but it’s at least a little fond, going off of how her lips are slightly turned up. “So now we know that works. It’s too slow and imprecise to use in a pinch. Maybe we could come up with a code? Like, a circle for go, an X for stop, triangle for… follow my lead? We don’t need a full lexicon, just shorthand, I suppose. I’ll think on it and come up with something. Or wait-- You did that on my forearm while touching my hand -- We could incorporate pressure on other parts of my body for the code too. Mixing symbols and location would give us a lot more room to work with, linguistically. What do you think?”

“Uh. I guess that makes sense?”

It’s kind of juvenile, making a secret code, but I’m not going to tell her that. I wonder if the word for me could be a heart? Or that might be too close to a triangle. A triangle over her heart? That’d be cute. My smile grows.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” I decide.

“You have an idea?”

My smile dies a terrible, just death. I shouldn’t have gotten hopeful, should have known nothing good could ever exist in my proximity, should have known that either I or Taylor would kill that good immediately if it did come around. Taylor’s not asking if I have one, but what my idea is. She’s asking me to vocalize my cringe.

“I really hate you, you know that?” I tell her.

Her own excited grin shrivels, noooo.

Without intent, I find myself speaking. “I was just thinking it might be cool if uh. I was um.” I find myself unable to speak. I find myself hating everything, and wanting to disappear forever into the sharp shrubbery behind me, never to be found again.

“Yeah?” she prompts, her smile wibbling its way back onto her face.

I grimace and spit it out, as unenthusiastic as a baby butch at her mother’s vanity. “If I was a heart over your heart, in our code.”

“We can do that,” Taylor gently says, and it brings me no joy.

…It brings me only a little bit of joy, but every modicum of that joy is suffocated under the blanket of my hatred.

“Cool,” I say, still unenthused.

As if somehow sensing my displeasure, Taylor says, “It’s getting kind of late. We should be getting home before Crystal checks on us again or something.”

I shrug and don’t fight her as she leads us back onto the sidewalk and toward my house. As crabby as I want to be, Taylor’s repaired mood is infectious and half a block later I’m perhaps feeling an iota better. I did get what I wanted, after all; I'll be the heart on her heart. I still hate she made me admit to wanting something so corny.

By the time we get to my housefront, our linked hands are swinging with every step. She walks me all the way up the slate-rock walkway to my front door, and we stop there. I can’t invite her in, she needs to get home before the sun finishes setting, so this is goodbye. I hesitate to let go and bid her a good night however. Todusk feels incomplete.

I know what’s missing, but…

“What’s up?” Taylor asks.

…there’s no excuse. There’s no Crystal in the sky, no Vicky at the window, no paparazzi in the bushes; there’s no one to convince, so there’s no excuse. Plus, I’d have to use my power to make it good for her, and that means I’d have to ask to use my power. I’d have to chance her saying no because there’s no excuse. Even if I knew she’d say yes, I’m not sure I could make myself ask.

“It’s nothing,” I answer.

“Are you sure?”

I shake my head. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Well. Today was a good day,” she says. “We made a lot of progress. I’ll work on the code tonight, and we can talk more about it in the morning, or at lunch. If you have any ideas or need to talk and can’t wait, use pho, okay?”

“Pho?”

“Yeah. Since it’s encrypted and secure.”

I blink. “You mean P-H-O?”

She blinks. “Is that how you say it?”

“Yeah.” I nod emphatically. “It’s how everyone says it.”

“But that’s so much bulkier,” she complains. “I’m going to keep calling it how it’s spelled.”

“It’s an acronym,” I insist. I can’t help but let out a disbelieving laugh. “It’s not spelled anything. And if it were, it’d be pronounced pho.”

She opens her mouth to respond but realizes I’m right. “I’m going to keep saying pho.”

“Then you can keep being wrong, Taylor.”

“Maybe I’m right, and it’s everyone else that’s wrong,” she proposes.

I can only shake my head at her. Her English professor mother must be rolling in her grave at hearing this.

Her smile is cut short. “Linda’s starting to worry. I should go.”

“Oh. Right, yeah. Text me when you get home?”

“I can do that.”

“Cool.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

“...Goodnight.”

“Yeah. You too.”

She releases my hand after another moment, then turns to leave. I watch her go, watch her continue on the sidewalk to the bus stop and disappear from sight, and then I go inside.

I sigh as the day’s pains -- previously forgotten -- catch up with me, and I prescribe myself a nice, hot soak to ease them. If I’m serious about healing tonight, I’ll want to be able to move enough to at least get there. I grab some snacks from the kitchen on my way upstairs, set them beside the tub, and start the tap to fill it. Once I’m sure it will reach a decent temperature, I head to my room to grab a change of clothes, pinching a towel on my way past the linen closet. 

I sit on my bed to shed socks, shoes, and my overlayer, and fall back onto the bed. It’s nice, soft, and comfortable. I know I should hurry and get back to the tub to make sure it doesn’t overfill or fill to the wrong temperature, but this is too good to abandon. My phone dings. 

It’s a text, from Taylor. Good job today. 

It brings a smile to my face. I reply, thx. u were good 2

Thank you.

srsly. u toko 2 teh sd stuff good. u do taht atuf b4?

Some old family friends taught me how to throw a punch, but that is the extent of my lessons before today. I would have liked to have taken formal lessons before now though.

wat sotpd u

“What stopped me?” Mostly that lessons are expensive. But I meant you did good after the lesson with Neil. 

My smile grows to a grin that I hide with a bitten lip. Yea?

Yes. You kept to the boundaries I set out for the most part. So: good job. 

I roll onto my front and kick my legs a bit. u rly thnuk so?

Yes. 

ur nto mad i almots fckedu p?

I’m not. Like I said, you improved. You’re not nearly as bad a person as you think you are, Amy. You’re a good girl. 

My heart seizes as I read and reread her last few words.

Good girl. She called me a good girl. I’m a good girl.

“Heheheh.”

I roll back onto my back and stare up at the message as I giggle, not even caring that Taylor can probably hear me. I grin, unable to hold it back. I pull my phone to my chest and let out a girlish squeal as I bathe in the praise, kicking at the air.

Good girl! Taylor thinks I’m a good girl! She’s probably proud of me and junk! Because I’m good! I’m a good girl!

Chapter Text

Saturday. February 5. 

I stumble into the kitchen still clad in my pajama pants and sleep shirt, following the smell of cooking meat.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Mark greets from in front of the stove. Sausages are sizzling in a pan on the stovetop. “You’re getting a late start, aren’t you? Your sister’s already up and out the door. You’re not going to be late for school, are you?.”

I blink at him, pulling my eyes away from the food. Something about his statement is weird. Something…

 “It’s Saturday,” I tell him, thinking hard. “No school.”

“Oh. Oh, right.” He sounds surprised, then disappointed at himself for losing track of the days. He pensively rolls the sausages to get them evenly seared.

“Coffee?” I ask.

“Your mother made a pot earlier, but I don’t know how much is left.”

I check, and there’s maybe half a cup. I press a knuckle against the glass of the pot. Cold. I groan, deep in my throat.

“Want me to make some more?”

I shake my head. “I got it.”

I dump the dregs into the sink and the used grounds into the compost container to take outside later. I start on the beverage, scooping extra grounds in for a slightly harder kick of caffeine. I set the pot to brew.

“You have any plans for today?” he asks.

My tongue rolls in my mouth as I try to push the fuzz out of my head without much success. I grunt. “Coffee first.”

He chuckles. “Alright, alright, I can wait.”

Without prompt, he grabs the milk from the fridge and a mug from the cabinet and places them in front of me. I give him a grateful smile, then turn back to watch the machine. Coffee slowly fills the pot slotted in the bottom, drop by drop. The sizzling of sausages stops before the brew is broiled. Mark is whisking eggs and milk together -- stealing the milk from in front of me for a quick moment -- when the pot is full enough for a single cup.

I set it to brew enough for more than a single cup, knowing my habits and needs, but I don’t have the patience to wait any longer, so I pull the pot out, set my mug under the dripping, grab a second mug, and pour from pot to second mug. I replace the first mug with the pot, open up the top of the machine, and pour that coffee over the grounds before closing it and letting it return to brewing. Complicated, sure, but it works.

I add the requisite milk and sugar to my mug, stir, and take a deep, life-giving gulp. A heavenly sigh escapes as I feel the coffee work its magic and awaken me.

“What’s up?” I ask Mark.

“I was asking what your plans were today, if you have any,” he says.

“Just the usual. Going to Games’ Games with Taylor later. I’ll probably spend all day there and come back when they close.”

“Right. You play Prybar Fifteen there, don’t you? Do you need a ride?”

I take another sip of my coffee and let go of the sudden homicidal urge that threatens to overtake me. “It’s called Sledgehammer 400.”

I roll my eyes as he laughs.

“And sure, I could use a ride.” I was going to bus, but a car is much more convenient and less stressful while transporting my miniatures.

“What time do you need to be there?” he asks. I tell him and his smile grows. “Then that gives us plenty of time for breakfast. Want an omelet?”

“Sure, sounds great. No mushrooms though,” I hurry to add.

“No mushrooms,” he agrees before he pours the beaten and fluffed egg mix into the pan, sprinkles in chopped spinach, feta cheese, and diced tomatoes, and lets it cook. “I wouldn’t mind picking up Taylor if she needs a ride too. It’d be nice to meet her again.”

His frustration is subtle, but I can tell he’s kicking himself for falling apart and bringing dinner crashing down around him - and across the thankfully not-still-stinky walls - and missing his chance at a good first impression with Taylor. It’s not entirely his fault, but that doesn’t stop his self-flagellation. So even though things are a little… weird, between Taylor and me, I make myself toss him a bone. Plus, we’re going to be spending all day together regardless of the ride so I’ll bear the sufferance.

“I’ll ask her,” I say, pulling out my phone and texting her.

<3<3

“...And that’s when Darpmerlia divorced her husband and was forced out to the wilds as punishment,” I explain. “She had to leave her kids behind, but one of them followed her. We don’t really know what happened with the other three, but presumably they took Plarrrek’s side and are still living in Kennet with him-- Well, three of the five are still with him. Pokb the stonemason half-killed one of her brothers when she tried to rejoin her mom, that’s where she gets the blood for her blood mortar from: her brother’s constantly dying immortal body.”

“Huh,” Taylor says, taking it all in, staring at the buggy miniature in her hand. “That’s a really complicated social system for some bugs.”

“Only the godling Nibs. The regular ones are a hivemind under them.”

“Right. So if Pokb’s one brother is a fountain of blood, what do the others do?”

“I wish I could tell you. I’ve been waiting for the lore to expand on them for the last three expansions, but it’s like the devs are allergic to developing the Terror Nibs’ lore. We get an update on the General Contractors practically every month, but we’re lucky if the Nibs even get a new unit.”

“Dang. So is there a book or anything?”

“You’re actually into this?”

She shrugs. Our hands brush as she gives me back Darpmerlia’s miniature and I dose her. It’s all she’s let me do since that time between the hedges.

“The world is neat,” she says. “A bunch of different groups get kicked out of a utopia and scrabble over each other in the wilderness to try to build a society to rival their original home, failing because of the same reasons they were exiled.”

“Well, good news, there are a bunch of novels. Bad news, most of them kind of suck. Like seventy percent of the novels are about the General Contractors, which are the most boring company.”

“Oh,” she says, disappointed.

“That said,” I continue, “I could recommend some fan-works that do a good job exploring some of the more interesting companies.”

“I’ll stick to the official novels, if it’s all the same.”

“I’d only give you the good ones to read.”

“I’m fine,” she says, turning me down. “I’d rather stick to what’s actually a part of the world anyway.”

“Sure, whatever. Anyway, back to what’s important.” I pick up Lalilealolulo and start to show her off in her carapacey glory and cruelty. “ This is Lalilealolulo and she’s actually the crux of the hivemind. Without her, the Terror Nibs would only be eusocial.”

I keep telling her all about the complex social structure of these giant, intelligent, semi-divine carpenter bugs, but partway through my explanation of their spider-dependent waste management system, I can tell I’ve lost her. She’s looking past me and I turn to follow her gaze, finding Jessie talking to a girl our age. I look back at Taylor, inquisitively, then back to Jessie, then realize what’s happening. Is she going to crush on every guy I bring her around?

“I’ll be right back,” she says to me.

“You don’t have a chance with him,” I tell her as she walks past me. She doesn’t stop.

I follow her, in part to watch her crash and burn flirting with Jessie, and in other part to facilitate that fire. She doesn’t need my help ruining things, but I’m kind and generous enough to offer it regardless. But instead of even acknowledging Jessie, she says,

“Julia? Is that you?”

The girl Jessie was talking to turns around with confusion and shock writ across her face. “ Taylor?? ”

Taylor smiles. “I thought that was you.”

“What are you doing here?” Julia asks after a moment spent grasping for words. She casts a worried glance to the store’s entrance.

“I’m here with my girlfriend.” Taylor indicates me with a brush against my hand but I’m too surrealized to take it, much less deliver dopamine. Taylor has a friend? She knows somebody? She isn’t hated by everyone? “This is Amy. She plays Sledgehammer here.”

“You’re gay?” Julia asks incredulously.

“Yeah. I like women.” She turns to me. “Amy, this is Julia. She was that friend from Winslow I told you about.”

“Right, yeah, okay,” I say as if I remember that. “I remember that. So you knew Taylor before she transferred?”

Julia looks uncertain, off balance, and a little bit scared. “Yeah, I um. We had math and history together.”

“Cool.” I wonder if I could ask for cringe stories, or if that would be a sore spot for Taylor, considering the whole bullying thing.

“So what are you doing here?” Taylor asks Julia.

“My brother works here,” Julia answers.

“Sup,” says Jessie with a nod. He watches this whole exchange from his seat behind a spread of card binders. I nod back, and Taylor gives him a little smile but quickly looks away.

“How have you been? How was your Christmas break?” Taylor asks.

“I’ve been… good. It was good,” Julia answers lamely. She shoots another look to the store entrance, then shakes herself off. “I’m sorry, I didn’t expect to see you again. It’s kind of weird, no offense.”

“No, I know what you mean,” Taylor says. “It’s kind of my fault. I meant to keep in contact, but the transfer was so sudden, and I didn’t think to get your phone number until it was too late.”

“You would have wanted to hang out?” I ask. “I figured after all the crap at that school, you’d never want to think about it again.”

“I… don’t, but Julia wasn’t ever really a part of it. And like I said, she was the only girl who ever actually reached out, so yeah.”

Despite Taylor talking, Julia’s eyes are on me. She’s got a weird, slightly confused look on her face that suddenly turns to shock. “Holy crap, you’re Panacea.”

Dammit. This bullshit again.

“Really? Are you sure about that?” I ask.

“Aren’t you?”

“Is anyone?”

“...What?”

“Amy, be nice,” Taylor chastizes, swatting at my hand. This time, I take it in mine and give her what she wants: drug.

I want to snap at her that I’m not nice. Somehow, I tricked her into thinking I’m good, but that doesn’t make me good. A dog that pulls its chain taut, snarling, isn’t a good dog just because it doesn’t attack; it’s a good chain. But I’m in public, and I need to comport myself appropriately because to do otherwise is unacceptable.

So I just huff and say, “Fine. But you owe me.”

“For asking you to have common decency and be mildly polite?” she asks in an unimpressed tone.

“Well anything sounds possible when you say it like that,” I say. Imitating her tone, I say, “’For asking you to eat a keyboard and fight a hippo?’ See?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Wait so it’s true?” Julia asks. “You’re really dating Panacea?”

“Yeah. We’ve been seeing each other for a little over two weeks now.”

Julia can only gape at that, eyes and mouth wide. She startles as her phone dings and she hurriedly checks it. Before she puts it away, a calculating look crosses her face like a shadow.

She smiles, and immediately my dislike for this girl doubles. It’s not a genuine smile. It’s a familiar fake, one worn by the congregation of manipulative leeches that try to befriend me with ulterior motives, like healing or using me to get closer to Vicky.

“Taylor, that’s awesome! Congrats, you two.” Julia play-threateningly points a finger at me. “You’d better treat her right, okay?”

I grunt. Her smile, sadly, doesn’t die.

“I wanna say I always knew you had it in you, but I gotta say, I didn’t expect you to get with Panacea of all people,” she says to Taylor. Her phone dings again, and rather than answer it, she says, “I was going to grab boba with some friends; you two want to come with?”

“Are you sure that’s okay?” Taylor asks. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Absolutely! We can make room for you and Panacea.”

I’m about to snap at her to stop calling me that, but it would be the worst thing ever and everyone would die and hate me and-- I blink. Also, Taylor’s reminding me that I agreed to be nice. So I don’t tear into her and instead use my power to tell Taylor we should leave; I draw a double line on the back of her left hand. I haven’t memorized all of the code we came up with, but that’s one I do know. Taylor frowns imperceptibly.

“Maybe another time?” Taylor offers. “I think the games are about to start.”

“Totally, another time,” Julia agrees without missing a beat.

“We could do a double date,” Taylor suggests and my eyes snap to her, boring a hot hole into her skull. She doesn’t react. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“I don’t, but I can totally find a date. Let me get your number while we have the chance, and we can set something up.”

Taylor pulls out her phone and they exchange numbers. While doing that, Julia’s phone dings yet again.

“I gotta go before Megan bites my head off. It was good to see you, Taylor. I’m glad you’re doing good. You deserve it.” With that, Julia walks out, waving goodbye to us.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, I turn on Taylor. “You know the little bitch is just using you to get to me for clout, right?”

“Dude,” Jessie interrupts from not three feet away. I blush in embarrassment from having called his sister a bitch right next to him.

“Sorry,” I say.

He shakes his head and I pull Taylor away, back to where my miniatures are set up.

“But you know I’m right, right?” I ask when I’m not at risk of insulting Jessie’s family to his face. “The only reason she wants to hang out is because you’re dating me. She’s a leech.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Taylor says.

“Wait, but you know it’s a reason?” I ask, confused.

“Yeah. I mean, she wasn’t exactly hiding it.”

I shouldn’t be surprised, since Taylor’s power is made for this sort of stuff, but I am. “Then why didn’t you tell her to fuck off?”

“She was still my friend when no one else was. Plus, it’s not that bad. So what?, she wants to hang out with a hero.”

I can almost laugh, not from humor but from pity. “You don’t know how bad it gets. I’ve seen it happen before: someone hangs out with you because it makes them feel cool, maybe gives them a few stories to tell their friends, gives them a sense of superiority that they know a hero, and they’ll do anything to hold onto that shred of clout. And Taylor, you’re not even the hero in this scenario. Julia’s using you to hang out with me.”

She glances at where Jessie is still sitting, having returned to his card binders. “That doesn’t change the fact that she was there for me when no one else was,” she says. “She was the first person to reach out to me at Winslow, and that means something. I could tell she felt guilty about the whole thing, so give her a chance, would you?”

“You’re just asking to be disappointed,” I tell her frankly. “And I’m not holding back on her if she annoys me.”

“I’ll talk to her if she gets too bad, and if you hate her -- after giving her a real chance -- I won’t make you hang out with her.”

She doesn’t back down, and I let out a long sigh. “Fine. Fucking fine. But I reserve the right to tell you ‘I told you so’ when this goes tits up.”

“Sure.”

“I’m serious,” I stress. “This is the most famous you’ll probably ever be, dating me, and you don’t have any experience dealing with groupies and suck ups. You have to be careful picking your friends otherwise every stupid, thoughtless comment you make ends up plastered across the internet and tabloids.”

“I get it,” she says.

“Do you? I just want to make sure, because you don’t have the best record on choosing friends. I can’t see this Julia being as bad as Emma, but there are always new ways to get hurt.”

“Aren’t you literally the reason we already wound up on the internet?”

“If you think that’s even close to how bad it can get, that just proves your ignorance.”

She shakes her head. “Fine, whatever. I’ll be careful, not that it’s really even your business who I’m friends with.”

“It is when they’re using you to get to me.”

She stills, the frustration of a moment ago being buried under forced apathy, and I know I pushed too much. But still, it means I made my point. It means she at least heard me. And I never promised to be nice to her, whatever she thinks about me. It’s better this way anyway, better that she gets hurt here instead of going off with that other girl and getting her heart left out to dry as she slowly reckons with how little Julia actually cares about her and is just using her as a prop to feel important.

“I could say the same about you,” Taylor says tonelessly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you don’t exactly have a good record choosing your friends either.”

I huff. “Is this about Vicky again? I thought you two were cool or almost cool or whatever.”

“No. She’s your sister. You don’t have a choice in that. I meant your other friends.”

“I don’t have any other friends.” …That sounded sadder than it should, since it’s by choice rather than any accident.

She looks away. “Well, watch out, your favorite not-friend is here.”

I turn questioningly, following her gaze again, and my jaw drops.

Rose saunters into Games’ Games. She’s flanked on either side by a friend: on her left, a person of indeterminate gender with the demeanor and coat of a panther, dark, lithe, and dangerous, and on her right, a Dean-lookalike, if Dean had an extra fifty pounds in muscle, complete with a pastel sweater tied around his neck and another around his waist. He is also wearing a pastel sweater. All of them are different colors.

However, I barely glance at her friends, as Rose monopolizes my attention. How could she not, when she’s dressed more appropriately for a Black Mass than for a day of Sledgehammer?

She wears a low-cut, purple, silky dress shirt, cinched with a black leather corset, ripped fishnet stockings under a frilly black tutu, with boots up to her knees and down to at least three inches below the soles of her feet, and a shiny black choker. Her hair, previously fully black, now has a wine-purple stripe that runs down the side, and it almost perfectly matches her shirt.

She’s staring right at me, eyes piercing with heavy makeup, and when she notices me staring, her painted black lips turn up. She and her posse stalk towards Taylor and me, the catty one staring Taylor down cooly and the preppy one glancing around with a smile. They stop in front of us and it feels almost confrontational until Rose opens her mouth.

“Hark,” she says, and before I can greet her, she continues,

“Doth I see a ship in the waves,

Tither and hither it bobs

Along the crests and valleys,

Alight and dying with fire?

Nay, it be yet the moon,

Noble and rough

Perfect and powerful.

Surrounded by the countless heavens,

Yet lonely in the sea

for none are as bright as she.

No others dare to touch her,

pushed away by the celestial light she gives.

None but me

Lurking beneath the waves.

I reach for her,

yet she remains ever elusive.

My maw stretches wide to consume but an image,

Dim, shaking, and weak,

Yet even that I cannot touch

As it flees my grasp,

Skating over my diamond beak and grasping arms,

Bringing light to what should never be seen.

Come to me, my moon.

Dear Luna, come down.

You pull my world to you,

But you do not come down.

Why do you not come down?

Come to me, my moon.

Dear Luna, come down.

You tease and taunt,

As though I reach for you every night

You are an incomprehensible infinity away.

Come to me, be my moon.

Dear Luna, please come down.

Crush me beneath you

And let me taste a place unknown.

Rip away the worlds between us

And make steam of all I know.

Bring down overwhelming tides.

Teach me of the flood.

I will grasp tightly and break your rocky exterior,

And your molten core will feel my thousand tongues.”

Tradition dictates that I critique, that I tell her her meter sucks, or her repetitions were poorly motivated, or her sporadic rhymes were juvenile, anything !, but I can’t find the words because that poem was… lascivious, and for once I actually realize that it’s not ironic; Rose isn’t doing a bit, and I’m starting to think she never was. She’s being real. She means it. She’s writing poetry for me because she’s a gay lesbian with a crush on me.

“Uhh,” I say dumbly instead. She smirks.

“It’s nice to see you again, Amy,” Rose purrs. She glances at Taylor and her voice chills. “Taylor.”

“Seriously?” Taylor asks, like the father whose wife is telling him to go back to the pet store for yet another goldfish for their kid because the one he got to replace the previous one the kid killed is a shade darker in color, and he’s sure that if he goes back out, he’ll get put on some sort of petstore blacklist for buying a seventeenth goldfish: tired and resigned, but going to fight about it anyway.

“Entirely.” Rose locks eyes with me again and her voice regains that teasing, almost arrogant lilt. “I hope we get to play together today. I have a few… surprises in store, just- for- you.”

As she says those last three words, she walks two fingers across my collar and then boops me on the nose. I flinch, startled by the button-press. Her blackened smirk grows wider and she brushes past me, moving too close between Taylor and I to get deeper into the shop.

Though the contact was only for a split-second, that was long enough for my power to scan her. It wasn’t clear, filtered by distraction and already being fogged by imperfect recollection, but she didn’t feel nearly as calm as she looked. I’d have to touch Rose again to be certain, but I’m fairly sure her heart was beating faster than it should and her sweat glands were more active than normal.

I watch her circle the table next to us to head back towards the counter by the door, where Brad is watching this exchange with a bemused smile. She talks to him, presumably to put her name in the pool for the ranked games today.

I’m… admittedly bothered in a botherless way by what just happened, but mostly I’m confused.

“What was that?” I ask rhetorically. I don’t expect an answer, but I get one anyway.

“She’s trying to woo you,” Taylor says.

“...Huh.” I knew it before she said it, but still it’s weirdly surprising. Last time I saw her, she all but said she liked me and had been flirting since we met, but I didn’t expect anything to come of it. I didn’t think she’d try something.

“I feel kind of bad for her,” Taylor says unprompted. When I fix her with a questioning look, she elaborates. “It feels like she’s just setting herself up to get hurt. It’d be easier on her if she had gotten over you.”

“I guess,” I absently agree. I feel weird though.

“Promise you’ll let her down easy? Explain that you don’t like her so she knows where you two stand,” Taylor asks of me. “She’s weird, but she doesn’t deserve to be strung along thinking she has a chance.”

Ten minutes ago, I would have agreed. Ten minutes ago, I would have said that Rose isn’t my type for a variety of reasons and has no chance with me even if I wanted to inflict myself deeper upon her, but before just now, I didn’t know she could look like that. Plus, the poem just now is making me reevaluate the dozens others she’s recited to me in the past, which complicates things further, even if they all sucked.  

But that’s not what’s bothering me, not really. Rose is alright, but we’re just gaming friends if that; it’s not that deep. What’s actually rubbing me wrong is how assured Taylor sounds. Like I’m a guarantee. Like there’s no danger of losing me. Like because she’s helping me, she owns and understands me.

It’s like she doesn’t even care that Rose is trying to take me from her.

I brush her hand to check if she’s fronting, but she’s only mildly annoyed: not a hint of the panic a real girlfriend should be feeling. I cleave our connection before I can do anything regrettable. As fun as the idea of making Taylor jealous is, I’m not going to repeat my mistake from the diner. Taylor was explicit about the rule of me not using my power like that.

But… if I don’t use my power, then it’s fine, isn’t it? She won’t have anything to be mad about, right? And teaching her a lesson is a good cause.

“I don’t know if I’d say she has no chance,” I respond.

“What?”

“I’m just saying, you never know what could happen. It might be that she could woo me.”

Taylor frowns at me. “Amy, I know you don’t like her like that. What are you trying to say?”

“Well, I didn’t like her, sure, but that was when I didn’t know she was into me. Now that I do…” I shrug in what I attempt to be a coy manner.

“No, I know you--” Taylor cuts herself off and shoots an annoyed look around the store; it’s not crowded, but there are too many people around for her to speak freely.

I smirk and drive it in deeper. “I mean, did you see how she was dressed? And how she composed poetry for me? How could I not fall for that?, at least a little.”

“Why are you lying?”

“Who says it’s a lie?”

I turn my gaze back to Rose and take in her appearance again, slower and more methodical. She does look good. Really good. I can see that she must have spent an hour just on her hair and makeup, since going by her usual look she’s not practiced at this much oomf. She’s not exactly my type, but I can tell she has massive appeal in a more general sense: good facial symmetry, cohesive fashion sense, confidence to spare. She’s a bit chubby, but it’s more cute than gross, like a goose rather than a cow.

Rose’s darker companion notices me noticing her and notifies her with a nudge, and when she notices me, she winks. Unsure whether winking back would be too much, I wave instead, just a small motion of my fingers. Rose’s lips split into a smile that she immediately tries to lessen in some play to stay cool, and she smirks at me, then turns smug as she turns to Taylor. Brad Games says something and Rose turns her attention back to him to finish signing up for today’s games.

Taylor is glaring at me when I return my attention to her and I can’t help but cloyingly ask, “What?”

“Don’t do this,” she says in a low voice and I know I’m winning. She’s so jealous.

“I can’t tell you what to do with your friends, so you don’t get to tell me how to treat mine,” I tell her sharply.

“We both know you’re only doing this to get a rise out of me.”

That might be technically true, but I can’t help saying, “Wow. Self-obsessed much?”

Her glare falls into abyssal apathy and I have to fight to keep my grin down. I know she knows how I’m feeling, but there’s a certain something about the deniability.

I don’t have to keep it down for long, as shortly thereafter Brad announces that the ranked matches are starting and I’m swept up readying for the first. Taylor stays silently by my side as we migrate to the assigned table. Rose sets up at the table behind me; we’re not fortunate enough to be opponents in our first game, but her being next door should be just as good.

“Hey,” I greet.

“Forsooth,” she responds, earning a snort. Should I have tittered? Would that have worked better?

“Where’d your friends go?”

She gestures further into the store with a nod. The dark one is seated at the video game station and the dork one is playing a children’s card game at one of the two tables reserved for not-Sledgehammer.

“Sadly,” she says, “they don’t understand or appreciate the intricacies of Sledgehammer.” She looks to Taylor, then back to me. “I’m sure you can relate.”

“Yeah, this one’s a bit of an infidel,” I say, nudging Taylor. I brush her hand with mine to scan her, but I don’t deliver the dopamine -- I could and maybe should, but I want her jealous, not relaxed and happy, and I don’t need permission to not use my power on her.

Taylor is stiff with displeasure, but I can tell little of it is showing on her face. There’s a slight widening of her nostrils and her cheeks are a bit flushed, but she’s too practiced to let anything else through. Still, I can tell it’s eating at her; her cortisol levels are higher than before and she’s quicker to pull her hand from mine.

“It must be hard, being with someone you can’t play with,” Rose says. “I mean, how can you even have fun if she won’t play along?”

“It’s definitely a challenge, being around such a killjoy.”

Taylor’s face is set in stone. Her eyes drill into me, dead and hot like a ship on fire.

“I can tell,” says Rose.

“Hey, you ready?” some guy asks from across the table. My opponent, playing General Contractors. “Who starts?”

Rose nods me away and turns to face her opponent, who is still unpacking. She hurries to unpack as well.

“Yeah,” I answer the guy. “Roll for it?”

“Sure. I’m Doug, by the way.”

We roll, and I go first. I play my turn, setting up to take the woods to make room for a law firm. I steal a glance at Taylor, and she’s reading through one of my three rulebooks for bits of lore. She meets my gaze and her eyes are just as distantly fiery. Oddity squirms in my chest and I can’t keep a smile off my face. How can I point her at Rose? She’s barely said anything to her despite not liking her. She looks away, returning to the book.

Over the next few minutes, I finish my turn and let the guy start his hiring phase. I peek at Rose, who is already done with her turn. Either that, or she’s flat out ignoring her opponent to leer at me.

I scoff and roll my eyes. “Have you even heard of subtlety?”

“Of course,” she answers, “but it wasn’t working so I gutted it in the alley out back. I’d be more than happy to show you its corpse, if you wanted to get away for a minute.”

She winks and I can’t help but laugh. “That was awful.”

“Like you’re not at all tempted to inspect the cadaver of an idea?”

“Well when you put it that way…” An idea occurs. “What do you say, Taylor? Want to go to a back alley with me and Rose?”

She looks up from my book, glances at the two of us, and says, “No.”

“Come on, it might be fun. Dead bodies and all that.” Wait, I’m in public; people exist. “Theoretical, hypothetical, imaginary dead bodies of concepts, I mean. Not real ones.”

Taylor doesn’t give a response to that.

“What a shame,” Rose says, likely not thinking it’s a shame at all. “I suppose that means it will just be you and I.”

Does Taylor think I won’t do this? Is that why she’s not reacting? Or does she not think inspecting the corpse of subtlety is something to get jealous over? I ask Rose, “And what would we do after?”

Her eyes light up and Taylor’s brow furrows infinitesimally. I think. She’s staring at the page, eyes motionless, so I know she’s not actually reading.

“Well that depends on you,” Rose says. “We could thoroughly explore just the one if you wanted to remain focused, or we could find another cadaver of convention if you wanted. I think we might be able to kill silence at my place. Either way, I’m sure I could keep you… entertained.”

Rose is laying it on so thick I could laugh unkindly. It’s kind of pathetic, honestly, how shameless she is, and any other day I’d rip into her for it and she’d bite her lip like usual -- how the hell did I not pick up on her liking me? -- but now’s not the time for that; I’m trying to make Taylor jealous, and that means playing along, not shutting Rose down.

So I bury my aversion and make myself smile. “I’m sure you could.”

Rose hesitates to reply and I realize how passive aggressive and dismissive that sounded. Taylor didn’t even show a response.

“I mean this one”-- I go to poke Taylor’s hand but stop myself; it’s a terrible idea, stupid as fuck, I should leave her alone and-- I push through her power’s brief communication and touch her; she doesn’t consciously react, though she also can’t stop her body’s subconscious stress response --”barely knows how to have fun. Reading a book at a game store? Lame.”

The book sharply claps shut. Taylor sets it on the table and walks away. I grin at my victory. I got to her, and I didn’t even need to use my power. She didn’t explode like at the diner, but this is almost as good.

“Finally, some privacy.” Rose leans in close and whispers, “I thought she’d never take the hint.”

“I think we were doing more than ‘hinting,’” I say with an eye roll.

“I did say subtlety is dead. The corpse isn’t too rotted if you want to go… poke it .”

“You can beat a dead metaphor all you want, but I think I’m fine.”

“Oh. Well, we could find something else to do if you want. A corpsey alley is full of possibility.” She leans further in with a wink and I realize she’s trying to show off her cleavage. As nice as she’s dressed, the act is kind of… base.

“Is that the best you could think of?” I ask, glancing down with a frown.

She’s stunned. Before she can form a response, her opponent calls her attention, having finished his turn. I turn to mine and see he’s setting up for a classic salt-licker’s scrimp. That doesn’t change what I need to do, not really, but it does mean I’ll need to start vandalizing by turn three. He ends his turn and I start mine, confident I can crush him.

Taylor hasn’t returned by the time I finish my purchase phase. I scan the store for her, to make sure she’s at least still here and hasn’t run off to hang out with that Julia, and I spot her at a table with Jessie and a couple others, all playing a children’s card game. She looks away as soon as my eyes land on her and I smirk to myself, knowing she was just looking at me.

If she thought Sledgehammer was complicated and long, I doubt she’ll even get halfway through a game of Spells. Even so, she gets a focused look on her face as she inspects the cards in her hand, then places one down, to the overblown dismay of another player. She comes close to cracking a smile at that and I can feel a scowl replacing my smirk. It etches deeper into my face when Jessie laughs at something she says and her smile blooms like primrose: quick to close.

“Are you done with your turn?” my opponent asks, stealing back my attention. He doesn’t sound pleased.

“No, not yet,” I tell him.

“Mind staying focused then, and not staring at your girlfriend for five minutes?”

“Oh boo-hoo, my turn is one percent longer.” I move a therm-mite under one of his trucks and place them both in a tree. I set up other sabotages, then end my turn.

“Thank you,” he says ungratefully.

“Are you really that eager to lose?” I taunt.

He only rolls his eyes, then a scoop of dice as he starts his turn. What a bore.

“If you’re going to make such intense eyes at someone, I have to insist it be at me,” Rose says, leaning back against my table. 

I put on my best sneer and she grins. I can’t hold back my snort-laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you like it.”

“Maybe.”

I look again to see if Taylor’s watching, to see if she’s jealous. I stop. Something weird is happening at the Spells table. She’s not even looking at me, her focus instead on another.

“What is he doing?” I ask Rose.

Rose turns and her surprised displeasure matches mine. Her friend with the three sweaters is standing by the Spells players and is talking to Taylor, specifically. “He’d better not be doing what I think he’s doing.”

“What do you think he’s doing?”

“Something I expressly forbade him from attempting.”

“And that is…?”

“Meddling in affairs not his own.”

I level a glare at her and try my best to make sure she knows it’sn’t a playful or endearing one.

She bites her bottom lip. Gross.

“Mind not talking like a Victorian aristocrat for one fricking second and answer the question?” I request kindly.

She inhales sharply, but answers so I let it slide. “Presumably, he’s asking her to share you with me.”

I blink, and my glare adopts disgust. “Like swinging?”

“No. Polyamorously: dating two or more people at once, sans cheating. It’s moot either way, as I know you and you are far too… dedicated to spread yourself suchly, and I told him as much prior to arriving here. Yet he still meddles.”

Dating multiple people, without the lies and drama that accompanies that? That seems weird and too good to be true. I can’t even imagine how that would work; one person would obviously fall to the wayside as the other two get ever closer, right? Or maybe the crux of the throuple could pit the others against each other? I could see them fighting with each other over who gets to be with the mutual partner, or maybe somehow teaming up to blow her mind? It wouldn’t be healthy, but it would be fun.

“...Huh,” is all I can find in myself to say.

She leans against me, shoulder to shoulder, and whispers, “Plus, I’m more than enough to handle all of you. You don’t need her.”

Rose is too close. I don’t like her touching me like this, but it serves a purpose so I allow it. I shoot another glance at Taylor as I whisper back, “Oh yeah?”

But Taylor’s not even looking at me. She’s playing a game, and I realize that this isn’t what I wanted. I fucked up somewhen between deciding to flirt with Rose and now. I made Taylor jealous, I think; I pissed her off for sure, but she’s not fighting Rose for me. She’s playing Spells with a group of guys instead.

Looking back at Rose, whose face is maybe a foot away from mine, her eyeshadow sparkling under the fluorescent lighting, I feel hollow. I feel queasy. Why isn’t Taylor fighting for me? Why did she leave me? I didn’t break any rules. I didn’t invade the boundaries she set. I didn’t do anything wrong, but I feel like shit anyway. And not my baseline feelings of being shit, but the feeling of being shit when I cover for Vicky losing control and I have to lie and tell Carol I had an uneventful day at dinner.

Taylor’s not even looking at me anymore, wholly focused on her game instead and I don’t--

I push away from Rose to go to her. I don’t have a plan, and I don’t find one by the time I make it to Taylor. I stand there, stupidly, for a few seconds while everyone looks at me: Taylor, Jessie, the other two guys I don’t know who are also playing Spells, and sweaters guy.

“So you like Spells now? Seriously?” is what comes out of my mouth for some stupid fucking reason.

“Yeah,” Taylor answers neutrally. “It’s fun.”

I scoff. “Sure it is.”

“It is.”

I stop myself from saying something else and making things worse. I’m not trying to piss her off -- I already did that, and it was useless -- but my mouth is not my friend. She stares me down, and even though I’m standing over her and she’s sitting, it feels like she’s looming.

I’m not sorry. I didn’t break any rules. But even so, I went too far. I don’t like what happened, and having her ignore me is… it hurts. I don’t like it. I don’t want it. If it’s a choice between having her take me for granted or ignore me, I already know which I’ll pick every time.

Taylor puts her cards down, stands, and excuses herself from the game. She takes me by the arm and pulls me out of the shop, stopping only when my Sledgehammer opponent calls out to us. I tell him I’ll be back before his turn ends -- that should give us enough time to do whatever, and maybe grab lunch too -- even though I don’t know where we’re going. She pulls me into one of the mall’s bathrooms: empty, of course.

“We’re not going to the dumpster alley?” I ask as the door shuts.

“They’re unloading a truck,” she says.

“Oh. Okay.”

The sinks here are filthy, covered in hard water stains and soap scum. When’s the last time they cleaned them? Have they ever cleaned them? The floor isn’t layered with paper towels and fluids, so this place must get some amount of attention, right? Maybe it’s just not worth the time? This is probably the least used restroom, if Taylor brought us here. And most shops have one in the back, so…

“Well?” Taylor prompts after an uncomfortably long time. “You wanted to say something, didn’t you?”

I open my mouth, then close it. I swallow.

She huffs. “Okay, I’ll start. What were you doing? As soon as Rose walked in, it was like you just decided to be an ass. Why?”

“I…” No use hiding or excusing, she’ll make me say it anyway. “I was trying to make you jealous.”

She blinks. She blinks again and her face comes loose with anger. “ Why ?! We decided you weren’t going to do that.”

“No, we said I wouldn’t use my power for it,” I insist. “And I didn’t. I… might have withheld my power once or twice, but that doesn’t count – I can not use my power whenever I want.”

She stares disbelievingly at me, then closes her eyes, turns, takes a deep, shakey inhale, and then mostly suppresses a scream on the exhale with closed lips. She breathes like that again, then glares at me.

“What is wrong with you?” she demands.

“A lot of things,” I snap. “You know that.”

“Yeah but I didn’t think I’d have to spell out that you shouldn’t treat people like that. But maybe that’s on me; maybe I shouldn’t have taken it for granted that you would understand why it’s bad to try to make other people miserable.”

“That’s another thing,” I say, remembering. “You shouldn’t take me for granted.”

After a moment of shock, she condescendingly asks, “When do you think I took you for granted?”

I boggle. “Like an hour ago? Rose was reciting poetry to me in front of everyone and you didn’t even react. You didn’t tell her off or say that I was yours or anything like that; and then you told me to be nice when I shoot her down? You just assumed I would do that.”

“Yeah,” she says, leaving silent the ‘obviously.’ “I assumed you would rebuff her because we’re publicly dating. Because we have to continue publicly dating so I can work on you. Because this”-- she gestures between us --”was your idea in the first place, and I assumed you would want to keep it going until I’m done fixing you.”

“Well, you need to act like a real girlfriend if we’re going to keep it up.”

“I am acting like a real girlfriend.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m spending all day with you.”

“You left me to play a children’s card game!”

“Because you pushed me away.”

“I wasn’t trying to push you away,” I insist, “I was trying to make you act right.”

“You don’t get to decide how I act.”

“But you get to decide how I act? That’s so hypocritical; you don’t control me.”

“How am I controlling how you act?” she asks like she is barely entertaining the notion, exasperated.

“You told me to turn down Rose.”

“ Because we’re dating ,” she hisses. “You can’t flirt with another girl in front of your girlfriend and expect people to believe we’re actually going out.”

“But you get to just ignore that another girl is flirting with me?”

“Yes, because I’m acting confident you’re mine. Acting assured and secure in a relationship helps sell it.”

“Make whatever excuse you want, but it’s not fair.”

“I’m acting for the plan,” she says, her face flushed with anger. “You’re… I don’t even know why you’re so obsessed with making me jealous. Flirting with another girl definitely doesn’t help reinforce the idea that we’re together, so why were you even trying to do that?”

“I’m not obsessed,” I refute.

“You are absolutely obsessed, with how much you were forcing it. You didn’t stop when I told you to, and you kept– oh god dammit.”

She cuts herself off to glare at the door. A moment later, it opens to a woman. She flinches at the unexpected twin glares she receives.

“Find a different bathroom,” I tell her.

A true Brocktonian, she scoffs, pulls up her shirt to flash a knife handle, and says, “Fuck you. I don’t care about whatever you’re dealing, but I have to piss.”

She rushes past us into a stall, closes it, and a moment later bathroom sounds fill the bathroom. Taylor and I look at each other, and I’m pretty sure she’s feeling as awkward and frustrated about the interruption as I am. We can’t talk openly with an audience, so we wait in silence for the other woman to finish her business. We continue to wait as she takes forever, apparently having really needed to relieve herself. I know this is what this room is for, but I can’t help but resent her for it. 

Then I realize I have to go too. I didn’t before I heard her, but now I do: stupid sympathetic bladder. I use the other stall, and while I’m occupied, the woman finishes her business, washes her hands, and leaves. I do the same sans leaving.

Taylor watches as I wash, and I try to find the mental track I was on before the interruption. I fail. It doesn’t feel right, picking right back up where we left off. The mood is different. Less angry. I want to be done. This is my day off; it’s not supposed to be like this. Saturdays are supposed to be fun. But I know we’re not done.

Taylor sighs a heavy breath. “Can you just tell me why it’s so important to you that I act jealous over you?”

“Because you’re supposed to be my girlfriend.” I dry my hands on my jeans and turn to face her again, leaning against the sink.

“That’s not why,” she tells me. “If that was it, I could just throw an arm around you, kiss your cheek, and it would be okay. But you want me to fight with Rose, and I just don’t understand why that matters to you. I don’t get why you liked it last time, or pushed for it the other day, or tried to press it so much now.”

“ Because . It was nice to feel… wanted, I guess, for just a minute.” The words drag a lump up with them, sticking in my throat. “This is-- you and me is-- I know you don’t want me. I know you don’t like me, and that you’re just using me to pad your resume and this isn’t forever but… I don’t…” I don’t know how to finish the thought. It’s like grasping at steam, impossible and a little painful.

“You don’t get to feel that often,” Taylor finishes for me.

It’s not right, but it’s close enough so I nod.

“Okay.”

“Okay? What’s okay?”

“You’re not wrong about this being a temporary arrangement. At some point, I will stop working on you and move on to other projects because there’s more I can do to help.”

I hate how that makes my chest tighten. I knew that was the deal all along. Hell, I banked on it. I don’t even like her. Just a few weeks or months with this creepy dork, then I’m fixed and can pawn her off on someone else. But still, for some reason, the reminder doesn’t feel good.

“I… If you want, I wouldn’t mind staying friends after I’m done,” she offers. “I mean, I said I’d help you find a real girlfriend when you’re better, so it’s not like I’d actually be done when we’re finished. We’d have to keep up appearances at least until then, since it would be much more believable for you to break up with me for whoever, rather than we break up and keep spending as much time together. We say you met your soulmate or something, and then part amicably but stay friends?”

My ribs relax, releasing my organs from their constriction. “You’d really stick around that long?”

“Of course.”

“It might take a while to find me a girlfriend,” I hedge. 

“That’s fine.”

“And I have high standards. I won’t date just anyone.”

“Trust me, I know.”

“And other than Rose, I don’t know of any other girls who’d be interested.”

“That’s what I’m for,” she proposes. “I can find, vet, and introduce you to a good one– the best one. I’ll have to make sure you don’t relapse anyway, so really it’s just something else to keep me busy.”

“That won’t get in the way of your other hero stuff?”

She looks away, considering. “I don’t know what that will be like, exactly. I want to tell you I’ll be here as long as you need me, but you might have to be patient. I’m not going to run out of people to help in Brockton Bay though, so there’s always going to be something keeping me around.”

Hesitantly, I reach for her hand, stopping short in case it’s not allowed, but she doesn’t stop me or move away. I dose her and ask, “And what if I leave?’

She hesitates. “What do you mean?”

“What if I don’t want to stay in Brockton Bay, but I still need you?”

“Are you planning on leaving?”

“No, no plans, but… Vicky might want to leave at some point.” I know I’m passing the buck to my sister, but I can’t help it. “Would you follow me?”

I can feel her mulling it over – Her eyes flicker rapidly and her lips twitch minutely as her neurons fire. Finally, she says, “If you still need me, then yes. I’d follow.”

Feeling her say it -- and mean it, no signs of a lie present -- makes it sink in a bit deeper. She’s with me. I’m hers. She’s not going to give me away like the rest.

“Cool,” I say.

The corner of her lip turns up and I suddenly realize that we’re all alone and she’s very close. She’s still a little heated and sweaty from our row, and I’m probably not much better. I step into her and press my face against her shoulder before I can think better, and she’s warm and safe. I wish I didn’t fuck things up so often and that we could always be together and okay like this.

Her arm wraps around my waist and for a moment, this dirty mall bathroom is home.

“We need to get back to the store. People are starting to worry,” Taylor says, her voice soft but full.

I plode. She’s right. “What do we tell people?” I ask to eke another moment of this. It’s so much easier when it’s just the two of us. “We have to say something.”

“If anyone asks, we tell them… we were having a fight about something unrelated, but we talked it through, and we’re okay now.”

“Isn’t that pretty much what happened?”

“The best lies are close to the truth, aren’t they?”

“I guess. What do we say we were fighting about?”

“I don’t think that matters as long as we stress that we’re okay now.”

“...Are we? You were pretty mad at me.”

“Are you going to try to manipulate me again?”

I shake my head against her. It wouldn’t work even if I wanted to try again.

“Then yes, we’re fine. Now come on, the Spells game is almost done and I want to join the next one. Also the guy you’re playing against is getting mad.”

“Wait,” I say. “You need to say something to Rose when we get back. Tell her to quit. Make sure she knows I’m yours.”

“...I don’t think that would go too well, or send the right message if I said it. You should tell her to stop if we need her to stop.”

I frown, and she compromises.

“How about, if she gets to be too overt, and you’re not egging her on, I’ll step in. Does that sound okay?”

It’s not what I want. I’d rather her go in and… maybe not physically suckerpunch Rose, but make some declaration to get her to back off. But, “Fine, let’s go back.”

She opens the door for me and we walk back to the game store hand-in-hand.

“I can’t believe you actually like that game,” I comment on the way back.

“What’s so bad about Spells?”

“You kidding? It’s got a bullshit amount of rules, the turns take forever, people pull bullshit out of thin air, and it’s just an overcomplicated mess. Plus it’s a money-sink. Some of those cards go for hundreds of dollars.”

She gives me an odd look. “This coming from a Sledgehammer player.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You pretty much just described Sledgehammer.”

“It’s completely different.”

“Okay.”

“It is!”

“Sure.”

I scoff and we cross the threshold of Games’ Games. She lets go of my hand to half-hug me around the shoulder, and as her hand brushes my neck I give her her dopamine. I lean into her for the moment, then we separate. She moves to rejoin the Spells players who greet her warmly. I retake my place across from… Dan. I kind of wish I had forgotten his name, out of spite.

“About time,” he greets.

“Is it my turn?”

“Almost.”

I snort and wait for him to finish.

“Welcome back,” Rose greets. “I was getting worried you’d abandoned me for another woman.”

“Hey, Rose,” I return. “Listen, about earlier: Taylor and I were having a fight, and you got kind of caught up in the middle of that, and I’m flattered, really, but you should stop.”

“Stop? Stop what?” she asks, playing coy.

“Stop flirting. I know I was probably giving some mixed signals, but disregard what I said earlier, okay?”

“Hm… No.”

“No?”

“No. I am going to accept your flirtations as you meant them, and I will continue to return them, just as I’ve done since we met. And I think you want that to continue, regardless of your status with that other girl. Do you know why?”

“It really doesn’t--”

“Because I can take you,” she interrupts. “Whatever you want to dish out, I can take it, and I know Taylor can’t say the same. So I’ll keep doing what I’ve always done, and when Taylor can’t handle what you always do, just know that I’ll be here waiting, dear Luna.”

I frown and turn away from her predatory grin, unsure of what to say to that. It sucks she’s so hung up on me when she could be finding someone else, someone who wants her to want them. I blink. Maybe Taylor could help? It shouldn’t be that hard to find Rose a girlfriend; she has good qualities. It could be like practice for later, or community service.

Chapter Text

Tuesday. February 8.

Reluctantly, I am brushing my teeth. So many of a normal person’s ablutions are wasted on me. When you can just kill off or tell the bacteria in your mouth that causes bad breath to stop doing that, toothpaste doesn’t really do much for you. Not strictly needing to do it doesn’t stop me from doing it though, because if I don’t brush my teeth – with toothpaste – then the tube doesn’t empty and the bristles don’t bend, and then Carol questions me about why I’m not brushing my teeth. Wasting my time is better than trying to explain it all again.

Reluctantly doing things is pretty much my life anyway.

During this morning’s three minutes of cleaning a sterile environment, I get a text. It’s from Taylor, and it’s a text message, not a PHO message, which means it’s not secrety. I spit, rinse, and then by the time I open the text, another one has come in.

There is supposed to be a bloom of bioluminescent algae coming through and I’m going with the house to see it this Friday evening. Would you like to come with me? It could be like a date.

Or rather, it could be a date. Not “like one,” but actually one.

Bioluminescent algae. That actually sounds kind of nice: sitting on a towel with her arm around my shoulders after the sun’s gone down; the sound of the ocean’s gently crashing waves as ambiance; stars above, distant and incomprehensibly large, and stars below, infinitely closer and more minuscule; with only each other for company. The fantasy now is a little dimmer than the reality would be, since I’ll actually like her when we’re together. We could snuggle… or maybe get a little closer…

Then she ruins the fantasy by sending, I already told Linda I would help with the kids though, so we wouldn’t be able to have a different date that day. Sorry if you wanted to make other plans. She and Kat put me on the spot.

Right. Children and nuns will be there too. That kind of takes away most of the romance from the idea. I don’t have any other plans for Friday night though – theoretically I could heal, but Carol’s still on the lookout for me healing off schedule – and between ‘nothing’ and ‘spending hours with Catholics and children’… The beach wins out because at least that might go by faster. 

ill tihnk abt it , I reply.

Cool. I’ll let them know you want to come. :^)

i ddint ssy taht And then, is thta a emoitcon?

Yes, it is. You didn’t say it, but I know what you meant by that. ;^)

I glare at my phone and hope she hears and internalizes the full depth of my rancor.

Sorry. I didn’t mean to assume. :^(

My upset suffers an upset and now I’m upset that I can’t find it in myself to be upset. ist fine ill ytu 2 com

Mark has made breakfast – I can smell it from the top of the stairs. That means the four of us are eating together. I slip my phone into my pocket and resolve to ignore any other incoming texts from Taylor. It’s best to not be too distracted for this. And if Taylor wanted to talk, she shouldn’t’ve been annoying.

I descend, stopping by the kitchen for coffee – Sleeping well is no excuse to skip my daily dose of caffeine. Carol’s not at the table yet. Vicky and Mark are, and both dressed for the day – Mark in slacks and a t-shirt and Vicky in a cropped leather jacket over a violet tanktop and black tights with rhinestone starbursts – and they both greet me between bites. I say “Good morning” back and take my seat between them, opposite Carol’s empty seat. As I’m fixing my plate, Carol enters and takes her seat.

“Are you leaving enough for everyone?” are her first words of the day, directed at me, of course.

I drop the strip of bacon back onto the serving plate with the three others like it, relegating myself to what I’d taken before she got here. Mark lays a loving hand on her forearm and I look away before they get weird. I start to eat, not bothering to try and take any more. Potatoes and two strips of bacon are enough.

“Good morning,” Carol says. She takes a sip of coffee as we echo her words. “Vicky, what did we say about phones at the table?”

Vicky looks up from her phone on her thigh. “But it’s educational. Dr. Schneider just published a new study on mapping extrasensory input in Thinkers’ brains, and it’s really interesting.”

Carol’s cool expression doesn’t budge.

“Please? Just let me finish this section?”

“The paper will still be there after breakfast,” Carol says and Vicky’s shoulders fall.

“Fine, I’ll put it away.” Vicky dejectedly pockets her phone. “Sooo, any cool cases at work?”

“None that I can talk about,” Carol answers: her typical answer. She reaches for the bacon, pauses, frowns, then takes two strips before saying, “Actually there is one case that just finished yesterday that I can disclose. However, I’m not sure how interesting it would be to you.”

Vicky shrugs. Mark smiles and says, “I’m interested.”

“Well,” Carol says in a slightly less severe tone, “it was a matter of self-defense in a home invasion. The prosecution was trying to argue for a felony assault charge, citing excessive force going beyond the scope of self-defense, but I found a riveting section of relevant case law from the thirties.”

Carol drones on about case law and her day in court and – Okay, so she’s not really droning, she’s excited to talk about her passion, but I can’t hope to follow along so I don’t even try. I kind of wish she was droning, actually. Then it wouldn’t feel like she’s rubbing in how she enjoys helping people.

So I tune her out and down my coffee as quickly as I can without burning myself so I can leave to get a refill. I linger in the kitchen while making a new cup. When I return, her story is done and she’s smiling slightly as she and Mark listen to Vicky talk about her latest bout of community outreach. Then Carol looks at me and her lips flatten neutrally. I retake my seat and sip my coffee. Suddenly, my second strip of bacon looks like too much. I guess that means I’m done eating.

Vicky finishes her story about taking a kid flying. It was like the rest of her stories of that vein, but no less enthralling and heartwarming for it. She can give someone a memory they’ll cherish for the rest of their life. I can involve myself in something they’d rather forget.

“Will you two need a ride to school again today?” Carol asks. “Or is Dean picking you up?”

“Ugh. God no. If I saw him and his stupid car right now I’d probably trash it,” Vicky says. “I’m just gonna fly.”

Carol’s eyes turn to me and I look away to ask Vicky, “Carry me?”

“Sure,” Vicky chirps.

“Be careful,” Carol warns, like it’s not the millionth time Vicky’s flown me.

“Keep the barrel rolls to a minimum and no loop-de-loops,” Mark says, pretend serious.

Vicky heaves a put-upon breath. “What’s even the point then? We might as well walk.”

They laugh together. Carol and I do not because Carol is focusing on me and her gaze sucks any levity from my soul. Why is she looking at me? She can’t be mad I decided to fly with Vicky, can she? Or is it something else completely? I can’t read her.

“How are things between you and Taylor?” she suddenly asks.

I blink in surprise, but I shouldn’t be. It makes sense she’d ask. “Good. Things are good.”

“Good. That is good.” She leaves just enough of a pause between each word to give every single one its own emphasis. “Do you two have any plans this week I should know about?”

“Not really. Just the normal ones.”

She raises an eyebrow and I shrug.

“We’re going to Aunt Sarah’s tomorrow. We might hang out for a while after drama today. Sledgehammer on Saturday.” I pause as I think on how to broach it, and decide that blunt is best. There’s less chance of her accusing me of trying to go behind her back. “She invited me to the beach this Friday. There’s supposed to be some special algae.”

“The bioluminescent algae bloom?” Vicky asks. “I heard about that. Apparently it’s the biggest bloom in thirty years. That’ll be fun, and supes romantic. Taylor’s got some moves, huh?”

She winks at me. It’s a conspiratorial wink. She’s inviting me into the joke and letting me know she’s not being mean. I know these things. So why does my stomach still have to flipflop and squirm? Soon – Soon I won’t have to deal with these useless feelings and that’s enough to let me wink back. Vicky’s grin grows, and things are almost right.

Then Carol asks, “What beach are you going to? And will it be just the two of you there? Neither of you are old enough to drive, so how will you get there?”

“Oh, uh, no. Taylor’s Sisters, the nuns, are coming. Her whole foster group will be there, I think,” I answer.

“All of them? Is it a church event?”

“I don’t think so.”

“So it’s just the house then?”

“I think?”

“You think?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t really hammered out all the details yet.”

“So you don’t know where you’re going, how you’re getting there, or who you’re going with. Do you at least know when this is or how long you’ll be out?”

“I mean, it’s glowing algae, so the evening, I guess? I’m not sure when we’d be getting back.  She only just invited me like half an hour ago.”

Carol lets out a small, put-upon sigh. “I’ll call the Sisters and ask them about it myself then.”

The first time I meet the Sisters can’t be after Carol grills them. No one comes out of that in a good mood except maybe Carol, depending on how miserable she made everyone else involved. I can’t think of a worse first impression. “No! It’s fine. I’ll ask Taylor at school. You don’t need to bother them.”

Carol opens her mouth to say something, but Mark lays a hand on hers and her gaze snaps to him. He says, “That sounds good. Just let us know by tonight, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” I silently thank him in my head.

Carol’s lips twitch like she wants to say something, but nothing leaves her mouth. She returns to eating.

“I wonder how far out from the coast the bloom goes,” Vicky pipes up. “Think I could get a good look at it out past the boat graveyard?”

“If it goes that far north, probably. Might be the best place to view it from, honestly,” Mark says.

“Yeah, I guess most people would see it from the boardwalk, if they even know about it, and with the Rig’s forcefield…” Vicky shakes her head. “I’d be surprised if anyone will be able to see it at all.”

“If you do find a good spot, make sure to take pictures to bring back for your old man, okay?”

“Sure. I’m not sure I’ll go though. I don’t really have anyone to go with.”

“You could come with Taylor and me,” I volunteer. “I don’t think anyone would mind.”

“You sure you want me to third-wheel?” she asks wryly.

“I mean, there’s going to be a bunch of kids and nuns there. I don’t know how much more third-wheely it could get.”

“Heh, true. It’s barely even a date when you put it like that.”

“It’s gonna be something . Hmpf, I don’t know. I’ll probably have to meet them sooner or later: might as well get it over with.”

“It sounds like you don’t even want to go,” Carol interjects.

“Well. I mean, Taylor’s going to be there,” I defend flimsily.

“Right. Your girlfriend.” The barb of disapproval is subtle; I doubt Vicky or Mark even heard it.

Conversation more or less halts after that as everyone returns to their breakfast. Carol’s the first to stand, though I’m the first to finish – Even though my plate isn’t empty, I don’t have it in me to eat another bite. She kisses Mark, wishes Vicky and me a good day at school, stops by her office to grab her briefcase, and then is heading for the door.

Mark calls for her to wait, hurries to the kitchen, and comes out with another briefcase to give to her. “Don’t forget your lunch.”

She thanks him, takes the gag lunchbox Vicky, Mark, and I got her last Mother’s Day, and then leaves for real.

I excuse myself after that to finish getting ready for the day. I gather my school supplies, put on my windbreaker, shoot Taylor a text asking for info about the beach thing – she sends back that she’ll get the details from Linda for me – and sit down to wait for Vicky while Mark cleans up breakfast and Vicky finishes getting ready. She’s quick about makeup, at least, and comes downstairs looking as dazzling as ever, her nose buried in her phone, probably reading that study from breakfast. She looks up at me.

“Ready to go?” she asks and I nod. She pockets her phone.

We head to the back yard and she lifts me in a bridal carry like always. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and hold on tight but not too tight because I’m trying to not be weird about this. We fall into the sky and I press myself closer to her.

“Would you and Taylor want to eat lunch with me today?” she asks, even though I can’t answer over the wind. “I feel like it’s been forever since we sat together for lunch, and Jen keeps making it awkward by asking when I’m getting back together with Dean. It’s like everyone just assumes we’ll get back together. Anyway, it’d be cool to have you there, and I never get the chance to talk to Taylor about her classes; I barely even know what she’s taking. So how about it?”

I continue to not answer, and when she looks down and sees my unamused, wind-stricken squinting glare, she blinks in realization. The wind quiets down as she slows.

“Sorry. I forgot,” she admits sheepishly.

“I figured. I’ll ask Taylor about sitting with you for lunch, but don’t get your hopes up. She can be weird about the stupidest stuff.”

Vicky brightens, her smile more dazzling than the morning sun. She’s obviously not taking my caution seriously, but that’s fine. As long as she’s happy. “Sweet, thanks.”

I still don’t know why they’re both trying so hard – someday I’ll figure out what was said in my room last week – but I guess I’m just glad they’re getting along. I could ask, but there’s more important stuff right now, like, “You mind if we stop for coffee?”

She laughs melodiously and continues our flight to school with a promise to stop by a coffee shop.

<3<3

Taylor meets up with me as I’m leaving the classroom on the way to lunch. She looks nice today, dressed in a black t-shirt that shows off her slender arms and neck, with a hoodie tied around her waist as a butt-cape over jeans. I greet her with a  bump of our shoulders and a brush of our hands, letting out the dopamine packet like I’ve waited to do all morning. She bumps me back and takes my hand and I give her another dose as a reward. It’s so thrilling doing this at school where anyone can see but no one can know.

“You have a good morning?” she asks.

“Yeah it was alright. You?”

“Not bad.”

“You still up for lunch in the cafeteria?” I ask. She’d said yes when we’d met up this morning, but I want to be sure.

She takes in big breath and says, “Yeah. Dean’s leaving, so let’s do it.”

“Cool. Vicky’s gonna be stoked.”

She hums. I can tell that this is an effort for her. She’s not normal, and apparently that means eating lunch in a regular, normal spot is stressful. But now that I take a closer look at her body, her hormones are more out of wack than they should be from simple stress. For a second, I worry that I’ve fucked up again, but then relax. It’s nothing I did, just stupid, painful, wasteful nature running it’s course.

“That time of the month for you?” I ask, trying my best to not let my smug amusement leak into my voice. It’s funnier if I sound innocent, no matter how much I want to laugh and rub it in her face.

She gives me an odd look. “Yes.”

“Aw. That really sucks for you.”

Her eyes narrow. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just trying to be sympathetic. It must be really hard to have to deal with that.”

“Yeah.” She drags the word out. “But why are so smug about this? Are you seriously trying to rub it in that you’re not on your period right now?”

“Oh, I don’t get those,” I say as flippantly as possible.

She stops in the middle of the hall and I stop with her, and other students make noise at the sudden obstacle we present as they suddenly have to move around us instead of with us. We step toward the wall to be less obtrusive.

“What.” Her question comes out as a statement.

“I mean, I guess I did used to have them, but it’s been years, so…” I shrug and let out a wickedly smug grin.

Her brow and lips twitch with confused frustration. “You’re lying. I don’t know how, but you’re lying. There’s no way you don’t get periods.”

“Nope! No lie,” I chirp. “It’s the best part of my powers.”

“How– What? How does that have anything to do with healing other people?!” she demands and I can’t help but laugh.

“Come on, I told you already that my power protects me from biological failings. Periods happen to be one of those.” I couldn’t keep the smugness out of my voice even if I tried.

“I thought that meant cancer and maybe arthritis or something. This is bullshit.”

I let out another laugh, louder and more sustained this time, and she slumps in defeat, sacrificing inches of height and practically bowing to me and the only decent side-effect of my power. Best part of it is that the change was unconscious and part of my trigger, so I never had any control over it – I didn’t have to even approach breaking a rule.

I squeeze her hand and say, “Now come on, I want to get there before they run out of chicken tacos.”

She follows slightly behind me as I pull her, still reeling from the unfairness of it all. It brings another smile to my face.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” she says.

I shrug. “I’ve got to enjoy something about my power.” And then I shut up because I realize I’ve said too much where people can overhear. I don’t need it getting out that I don’t like healing – I can imagine the headlines already: ‘ Local Healer Hates Healing and Would Rather Hold Hands with her Girlfriend than Cure Your Child’s Cancer: Disappoints Everyone, is Selfish, Hates Human Life. ’ I don’t need to deal with that.

Taylor and I make it to the cafeteria with most of the crowd. I move to the line for chicken tacos, and Taylor stays with me despite having a bag lunch. She’s looking around at all the people with a frown. I don’t see how stressed she gets because I have to drop her hand to grab and fill my lunch tray. After we go through the lunch line and I pay, she walks with me to my usual lunch table.

Vicky’s already brilliantly smiling face lights up even more when she sees the pair of us, and she moves her backpack off the bench to her right to make space for us. I sit beside her, and Taylor sits beside me, with Cynthia on her other side. Vicky introduces Taylor to everyone else at the table – Cynthia, Jen, Ashley, Emily A., Emily W., and Yuki – and everyone says hi. Taylor’s visibly a bit overwhelmed by the attention until I take her hand in mine and help her relax. She’s able to return hellos a little easier after that.

The girls’ attention remains on us as they ask us about us . They ask how we met, when we started dating, what we like about each other, whether that was really Taylor and Vicky in the video, where we disappear to every lunch period and why, and so on. We answer as best we can, though about forty percent of our answers are lies, if not in word than in spirit.

Then Emily A. asks Taylor, “What sort of music do you listen to?”

And Taylor, the inexcusable freak, says, “I don’t like music,” and everyone balks. I wince and hold in a pained groan.

“You don’t like any music?” Emily A. asks.

“None that I’ve heard,” Taylor answers.

Everyone continues to look at her like a freak, and I try to deflect attention away from her. “I tried to show her some good stuff, but she just doesn’t like music.”

“Huh.”

“When you say ‘good stuff,’ do you mean like Sirens?” Vicky asks.

I frown at her. “I also showed her Taylor Swift.”

“Who?” Emily W. asks. Most everyone else has similarly blank looks, and I can’t help but feel smug.

“I think I’ve heard of her,” Ashley says. “Her latest album was Pollution Queen, right?”

“That’s her, yeah,” Vicky says. “No offense Ames, but she’s still pretty similar to Sirens.”

“And?” I challenge.

“And nothing, you just have pretty narrow taste. That Taylor doesn’t share it doesn’t mean she doesn’t like music at all.”

“I’m pretty sure I just don’t like music,” Taylor pipes up.

“Maybe you don’t, but you should try more than just the emo stuff Ames likes. There’s so much music out there; it’d suck if you wrote it off just because of one or two bad experiences.”

I frown at the slight. I know she doesn’t mean to insult my music taste when she calls it emo – that’s literally the genre – but calling it narrow or a bad experience leaves my tongue pressing against my teeth as I hold back a retort. And then I hold back a smile.

“Don’t listen to Vicky,” I say. “She acts like an expert on this, but she likes penis music.”

Vicky makes a startled, choking sound.

Taylor raises a brow and asks, “What’s penis music?”

“It’s nothing,” Vicky hurries to say. She hisses at me, “Stop telling people I like penis music.”

“I don’t really get it,” I answer Taylor, not quite able to keep the smile off my face despite my best attempts and cheek-biting, “but it’s supposedly this really complex and underground genre. She can geek out for hours about how intellectual and sophisticated it is.”

“No! I don’t,” Vicky insists. She leans past me to plead more directly with Taylor. “I don’t like penis music.”

“She’s just embarrassed,” I explain. By now some of the other girls at the table are laughing with me. It feels good, but don’t they have better things to do than listen in?

“I’m not embarrassed! You’re lying!” Vicky denounces.

“You’re getting really defensive for someone who’s not embarrassed,” Taylor coolly observes. “It’s fine if you like penis music, Vicky. I bet it’s really cool. No need to be ashamed.”

My eyes widen with awe as I watch Taylor say that with a completely straight face. She’s joking, but she’s not showing a single hint of it. I can only tell because of the invisible micro-twitches of her diaphragm and lips as she makes herself not smile or laugh.

Vicky’s face cracks with despair, and she gives me a pained, accusing look. She always gets so heated whenever I mention her liking penis music, and I can’t help but finally break out in giggles. That’s the straw that breaks Taylor’s stoicism and she tries to hide her emerging laughter behind her hand.

“You–” Vicky lets out a groan-sigh and leans back in her seat. “God dammit, you really had me going, Taylor.”

This just makes us laugh harder, and as funny as this is I wish I wasn’t laughing, so I could hear Taylor’s better. Still, it’s too funny for me to stop laughing. It always is. We finally calm down a few minutes later and Vicky’s faux-sullenly frowning at us.

“Sorry,” Taylor says with good humor.

“It’s fine,” Vicky says with a resigned sigh. “I really don’t like penis music, by the way. It’s way too low effort and fake-pretentious.”

Taylor blinks. “Wait. Penis music is real? That’s a real thing ?”

“Oh, yeah, for sure,” Vicky says blithely. “But like I said, it’s not any good. It’s pretty much just a crappy, jokey offshoot of dubstep, and because no one who makes it takes it seriously, it all ends up shallow and samey.”

Taylor stares at Vicky, bewildered for only the moment until she picks up on my amusement. “You’re messing with me.”

“Yeah, but I had you going for a second, right? Consider it payback for siding with this one,” she says with a smile and a wink.

“Of course I’m going to side with my girlfriend,” Taylor states, like it’s a given.

I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Yeah, because you always side with me.”

“Let me clarify,” Taylor says with an unimpressed frown. “I’ll side with my girlfriend when she’s not being a jerk.”

“Conditional love and support. Great. Just what I always wanted,” I deadpan.

“And in exchange I get a girlfriend who’s mean to me,” Taylor deadpans right back.

“I’m not mean to you,” I snap. “At least not any more than you deserve.”

“So you admit you are mean to me?”

“Are you admitting you deserve it?”

“See, this is an example of a time I won’t side with you.”

“Shut up.”

She rolls her eyes at my witty repartee and returns her attention to her food. I scoff, shake my head, and return to my meal as well.

“So Taylor, what kinds of music have you listened to?” Vicky asks after a minute.

“Uh, all kinds I guess: what Amy’s shown me, some stuff on the radio, the mall music, and what people play on their phones on the bus,” Taylor answers.

Vicky hums thoughtfully.

“Vicky, it’s fine if she doesn’t like music. She can just not like music,” I say.

“Just because she didn’t like your music doesn’t mean she doesn’t like any music,” Vicky says, and I try not to show my frustration. If she wants to waste her time, fine. “Taylor, do you mind?”

“...Don’t hold your breath,” Taylor says, “but I guess it’s fine.”

Vicky grins and starts to ask Taylor how she feels and what she doesn’t like about different musical genres and vibes, and to Taylor’s credit, she tries to answer Vicky’s questions. Unfortunately, Taylor’s knowledge of music is limited, and she fails to understand the difference between folk and country, r&b and reggae, rock and alternative, and so on, so the discussion is mostly Vicky trying to explain the elements of the genres. I want to make fun of her for it, but the whole thing is just too sad for me to want to.

“You go to church, right?” Vicky asks.

“Sometimes,” Taylor says. “I mean, I live next door to it, and it makes the Sisters happy so…” She shrugs.

“They have like, organs and a choir, right? What do you think about that music?”

“It’s fine, I guess. Honestly it sounds better when they’re just singing in the kitchen and stuff.”

Vicky’s eyes gleam zealously. “You mean when there’s no instrumentals? You don’t like instruments, but you like singing?”

“I wouldn’t say I like it. It’s all kind of too ‘ Oh ye God, how holy art thou’ for me. Just because I go to Mass with them doesn’t mean I’m a believer or anything.”

“Huh.” Vicky sits back and digests Taylor’s answer thoughtfully. “Is it cool if I just send you some stuff to listen to? I think I might know some groups you would like.”

Taylor shrugs. “I guess that’s okay, but I don’t really have a way to listen. The computer at the house doesn’t have speakers.”

“I think I’ve got an old Zune and earbuds you could borrow,” Vicky offers.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Taylor says after a moment of hesitation.

“No no, it’s cool. I don’t mind, and I barely ever use it since I got my smartphone.”

“Vicky.” She meets my eyes and I give her a cautioning look. I may not be fully in-the-know about what’s going on between the two of them, but I’ll be damned if I let them down. Whether it’s by Vicky’s hand or Taylor’s, it would suck if their budding friendship crashes; it’d be awkward for me, caught in the middle, and bum Vicky out.

She freezes for a contemplative half-second and then looks back at Taylor. “Sorry, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I don’t mean to pressure you.”

Taylor’s hand finds mine and gives it a grateful squeeze. I give her some drug back. It’s good she’s started to seek my touch – It means the conditioning is sticking and building into a subconscious want. I think. It’s also just nice to have her touch.

“I don’t mind,” Taylor says. “Just promise not to get mad if I don’t like any of it.”

“Pinky promise.” Vicky sticks out her hand, little finger outstretched.

Taylor looks at it for a bemused, embarrassed moment before pursing her lips and letting go of my hand to reach out with her own pinky. The two tiny fingers intwine in front of me and Vicky smiles. Taylor does too, far less brightly.

<3<3

From the other side of backstage, Taylor and Kelsey are standing together, switching between watching the choreography on stage and examining something in Kelsey’s notebook: the script, maybe. It looks like the cover of Kelsey’s notebook is covered in a bold script of some kind. Not English: the alphabet doesn’t even look the same. It’s full of harsh angles and almost runic.

Taylor has her hair up in a messy bun, and it looks really good on her. I swear, she could probably do anything with her hair and it would look good. I wonder if she has a pencil skirt. She looked good in her slacks and button-up the other other day. Maybe change her glasses out for some ones with frames under the lenses. She would look so good as a librarian or a teacher, especially with that stern, no-nonsense, disapproving look she can put on. If she doesn’t have the clothes, maybe I could pick up some extra chores to pad out my allowance. Oh shit, maybe I could get her one of those wooden rulers? That would be awesome. Yeah. 

Taylor says something, and Kelsey gasps then hurries to scribble something on the open page. What are they talking about? The play, probably. Taylor did recently reread the book it’s based on; maybe that’s what they’re talking about? I can’t tell, and without knowing Kelsey, I can barely guess. Maybe they’re just chatting about the lighting. Or hair. Taylor’s hair looks absurdly good in this lighting.

“ Hey .”

“Hm?” I turn to face a glaring Sue.

“Have you been listening at all?” she demands.

I glance at the wall of buttons, knobs, levers, and lights: the stage soundboard. Sue has been teaching me how to operate it. While we wait for the plywood to be cut for the backdrops – apparently high schoolers can’t be trusted with power saws, so Responsible Adults have to do it, and they’re seemingly in no hurry to get it done – everyone in the crew has been learning the ropes for the other parts of the job.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s just pressing buttons, and they’re all going to be labeled anyway, right?”

She frowns at me. She’s been doing that a lot these last couple weeks. “There’s not going to be enough time to search for the right button during the performance. You have to know where everything is so you can follow your cues.”

I barely don’t roll my eyes at that. “Right, sure.”

She narrows her eyes at me, and after a long moment of unnecessarily intense eye contact, she scoffs. “Do you even actually want to be here?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah?”

“Are you sure ?”

“Yes. I’m sure.” I glance at Taylor, on the other side of the stage. I need to be here. And I don’t really mind being here; there are worse ways of spending an afterschool hour or two – Better ways too, but I can’t heal full time until I’m eighteen and can set my own schedule. And I might even enjoy it, with Taylor’s help.

“I knew it,” Sue huffs, recalling my attention. “No judgement, but if you aren’t like, actually committed to this, if you’re just here to hang out with your girlfriend, I mean I get it, but you should at least let us know. Because everyone else here? We’re all in on this, and maybe Vicky won’t say this because you’re her sister, but it’s not fair for you to say you’ll give this your all, and then not do that.

“If you don’t care and you’re just here to ogle your girlfriend, then that’s… fine. Whatever. That’s your business. I’m not saying you have to quit or anything, but at least do me the courtesy of staying out of everyone’s way so we can make this show actually happen, because come May, if you flake out, or miss a deadline like you did with the backdrop designs, or miss your cues and that hurts the show, that’s not okay.”

Does she think she’s intimidating me? Is she trying to intimidate me? Over a high school musical? A dozen responses form in my brain – mostly in the vein of telling her to mind her own business and that she has no idea what I’m going through and if I want to unwind by hanging out with my girlfriend and sister that’s none of her business – but the wordings are all inappropriate for school, so the only one I let pass my lips is a wholly unimpressed, “Sure.”

She sighs scornfully, her anger dimming to frustration. “It’s just, I’m trying to go to Brown, and I need Jack’s recommendation to get there, so I need this to go well, consistently. I need him to see I’m doing a good job, that my group is doing good. Okay? And I need the musical to run well so if anyone important watches, they might notice me.”

“Brown. Wow. That’s… really something.” Must be nice to be able to have a goal like that, to be able to dedicate her life to something as whimsical as theater.

She levels a complicated look at me, layering confusion, offense, and frustration together to make herself look constipated. “Look, I’m trying to not be a bitch. Just, would you work with us? At the very least have the courtesy to let us know if we need to cover for you?”

I try not to roll my eyes, I really do, but this whole thing is barely even locally important, it’s just an after school club, and I can’t help it. I do at least follow up the eye roll with, “Sure. I can do that. After all, this is important, right? We have to get you into Brown University .”

“…I can’t fucking do this.”

I watch her turn and stomp away. Dammit. God, dammit. She’s going to snitch to Mr. Warzecha. Is he going to kick me out? Maybe that’s actually for the best; it would give Taylor and I more time alone together. We’re only here because Taylor wanted herself, Vicky, and me to have a few hours together for the conditioning, but we three have been able to find time outside of this. Maybe we’ve had enough? It’s not like I really even get to spend much time with Taylor or Vicky here – almost none with Taylor, and only fleetingly with Vicky when she comes to check on the crew’s progress.

Only instead of going to the other side of stage to where Mr. Warzecha is, Sue hops off the stage and heads toward Vicky. I wince. I would rather she have gone to Mr. Warzecha; him I wouldn’t have to explain shit to. But lo and behold, Vicky adopts a concerned expression as Sue rants about me, and then sends that expression my way.

I can’t hold her gaze. It’s not my fault Sue has a self-important stick up her ass about this. I shouldn’t have been such a bitch. Why am I such a bitch all the time? Carol is constantly on my case about how my behavior reflects on the team as a whole, and she’s right, but I tried . I said the right stuff.

Vicky approaches. “Hey, Ames. Sue told me you two had a spat?”

“Yeah. That’s one word for it,” I say.

“What happened?”

“She didn’t tell you?” I ask.

“She did, but I want to hear your side of things. What she said didn’t really sound like you, if I’m being honest.”

She thinks I wouldn’t do what I did, and I know I must have tricked her into thinking that. I sigh. “What’d she say?”

Vicky looks away as she tries to find a gentle way to phrase it. “Just that you were being uncooperative and kind of mean. She said you were giving her crap about how seriously she’s taking this.”

I sigh again. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Why?”

“I mean… I guess… Come on, Vicky. You know this is a waste of time. I mean, it’s fun, but it’s not like this stuff really matters . Right?”

“It matters to them,” she says diplomatically.

“Yeah, I know, but like…” I struggle for words, and then give up. “Tell me you wouldn’t rather be patrolling as Glory Girl right now, that our time couldn’t be better spent doing something else.”

“Obviously, but Mom doesn’t let us do hero stuff full-time. This isn’t life-or-death, but it’s fun.” She frowns. “Unless you’re not having fun?”

I match her frown.

She hummingly moues. “Come here,” she says, and then she’s pulling me into a hug.

I tense and shoot a look at the other people in the room. No one is paying us much attention, but that could change in a moment, and then they might start to wonder why we’re so touchy-feely and if something’s going on, and just because I know I’m being paranoid and that no one in their right mind would assume sisters hugging is a sign of illicit, incestuous feelings, especially when I don’t even–

…I’m an idiot. I relax into and return my sister’s hug. I don’t even feel that way about her right now. This pleasant, uncomplicated closeness is half of the reason I let Taylor talk me into joining drama.

“I only–” I cut myself off. I relaxed too much and my lips loosened.

“Yeah?”

“…I only joined this stupid club because you and Taylor were going to be in it,” I admit.

“Yeaaah, I kind of figured as much,” Vicky admits right back. She pulls back from the hug and looks me in the eye with an apologetic  look. “You kind of really hated it last time.”

I scoff. “That’s because last time, Warzecha cast me as a lost boy, and not even one that had a line. I was a glorified backup singer and you were flying around as Peter Pan.”

“Is that the only reason? If you had gotten Wendy, would that have made you happy?”

Getting to play leading lady to you would have been the greatest moment of my life , I don’t say. “Nothing makes me happy.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” She blinks. “Actually I take that back. Be dramatic. Be very dramatic. This is the place to be as dramatic as you want.”

“Vicky.” I am not amused.

“Come on, I’m funny.”

“Okay.”

“I am,” she insists.

“Sure.”

She glares at me, half playful, and then rolls her eyes. “You know, if you missed me so much, you should have just said so. I could use an assistant stage manager, if you want the job.”

I blink, having half-expected her to suggest I quit. “Uh, what would I be doing?”

“Well, first off you’d be helping me organize everything and keep the crew on schedule. You’d be expected to fill in for me if I’m not here for whatever reason, which pretty much means keeping everyone on task. You’d also help me pass on what supplies we need to Jack, so he can buy them if we can’t source them. Pretty much just administrative stuff,” she finishes with a shrug.

“And… I’d be working with you?”

“Well yeah, you’d be my a- sis -tant.” She winks at me.

I wince. “Would I have to hear more puns? Because I can’t do it if that’s the case.”

“So that’s a yes?” she asks.

I groan and let my head loll back so I’m staring helplessly at the ceiling. “Fine. I’ll be you’re assistant.”

“Sweet! Okay so first thing, let’s go get my clipboard so I can brief you on where we’re at relative to where we should be. I’ve got the whole semester scheduled and color coordinated – You know my note-taking system, right? It’s the same as that. You’re going to need to know who needs what and when and how to get that to them and ohhhh this is going to be so much fun!”

I allow myself to get swept along by the tide of Hurricane Victoria. I have a sinking feeling I just gave away even more of my time to drama club, but it’s time without Vicky traded for time with Vicky; even an idiot would know to take that deal.

“Wait!” She stops and gives me a reproachful look. “Actually, first thing is an apology. You really hurt Sue’s feelings. I know it wasn’t on purpose, but still. And a real apology, one where you don’t sound like you’re spitting up glass with every word.”

I frown and look over to Sue, who is frowning right back at me. This is why I keep to myself. No one gets hurt, and I don’t have to deal with this kind of crap. But I’m here, and I need to be here, and being here just got a thousand times better, so, “Fine. I’ll apologize.”

“Good.”

We continue on to Sue, and when we’re there, I say, “I shouldn’t have said what I said that made you angry. If you want to go to Brown, I won’t get in your way or anything. Alright?”

Sue’s eyes narrow at me. She glances at Vicky, and then back to me. She sighs. “Fine, whatever.” She looks to Vicky. “Do I still have to teach her the soundboard?”

“No,” Vicky says. “Or at least not right now. Ames is going to be my assistant from now on and help out with the scut work.” She smiles brightly.

Sue frowns, looking more unsure than unhappy. “If you think that’s for the best…”

“I do. She already knows my System, so she’ll be able to help me stay organized. And plus, we live together, so it only makes sense we work together.”

Sue shrugs. “Alright. I guess I’ll get back to programming the soundboard?”

“Sounds good! Let me know if you run into any trouble.”

Sue waves her off. “I’ll be fine; I did this last semester, remember?”

With that, Sue leaves and Vicky starts briefing me on the job. She’s doing a lot, but she’s got most of it handled already, so as her assistant, I’ll mostly just be in charge of holding stuff, taking notes for her, and reminding her of the schedule when she goes off-task. Theoretically, I’m also supposed to take over for her when she’s absent, but I can’t think of any reason she’d be absent that wouldn’t also apply to me. So, easy. Maybe drama doesn’t have to suck. 

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: I am not Catholic and I don’t think anyone else should be either.

February 11. Friday. 

I look over my reflection once more. I’m not hot, and this would be entirely the wrong occasion to try to be – what with the chilliness, children, and Catholics – but I can’t help but feel weird about my clothes. Black winter leggings and a green, wool sweater that covers up most of my necky freckles: they’re nice, but they don’t feel… date-y. I can’t help but feel like my clothes are saying all the wrong things, somehow. If I had more time, maybe I could put something better together? But I barely had time to come home and change after drama.

“Ames. You look great, I promise.” 

I frown at my sister’s comforting words. “You don’t think I should do… I don’t know. More?”

“You trying to tell me I don’t know what I’m doing? That I’m not the master of fashion?” she teases.

I sigh. “No.”

“Then trust me when I say you look good.”

“Yeah, but we’re going to the beach. Shouldn’t I look more… beachy or something?”

“It’s February,” she deadpans. “The chances of you getting in the water are practically nil. You’re fine.”

I look myself over again. Vicky sighs. A moment later she floats into the mirror behind me and lays her hands on my shoulders. She’s dressed in her Glory Girl costume, ready to go on patrol with Aunt Sarah after I leave. She’s a warm presence behind me, almost pressed against me. Her reflection looks me in the eye, completely serious.

“Amy. You look good. You look sensible yet stylish, and you’re going to make a great impression, and you’re going to have so much fun on your date.”

My frown turns a shade less dour at Vicky’s words. She’s too good at cheering me up. She gets too much practice. I’ll be less of a burden in the future; I’ll be able to give back better.

“Plus, your ass looks fantastic in these pants,” she adds with a slap to my rear.

I jump from the mild sting and turn to glare at her, my face red-hot. “What the hell, Vicky!?” 

“You’ve got a good butt,” she says with a laugh, immune to my hollow anger. “I’m glad you’re finally dressing to show it off. OH!” Her eyes light up. “We can go shopping! Find something that’ll really floor Taylor.”

My phone vibrates on my desk and I move away from Vicky to check it, gaining some much needed distance from my sister-who-knows-not-what-she-does-to-me. It’s a text from Taylor, letting me know they’re almost here. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open my eyes, Vicky’s giving me two thumbs up.

“Have fun on your date,” she chirps.

“Ditto with your patrol,” I respond, far less enthusiastically.

I trudge past her and out of my room, purposefully not glancing at the mirror on my way past – I’m out of time, so I’m as good as I’ll get. Even though they’re not her parents or family or anything, Taylor lives with these people and I want to make a decent first impression. Unlike Taylor, I probably actually have a chance at that – I don’t think any of the Catholics stalked me like Carol did Taylor – my status as Panacea notwithstanding. Is it selfish to want them to like me? It’s for the plan. If they like me, Taylor and I can hang out more and get this thing done and over with. So it’s not selfish, it’s… selfish in a different way. Fuck. Whatever. I can feel shitty about why I do the things I do after I do them this time.

I go downstairs to wait by the door, grabbing my much-needed windbreaker from the coat closet – The dusky purple kind of clashes with my outfit, but it’s this or die to the ocean’s winter winds. I slip one arm in and then the—

“You’re leaving?”

“Gah– Fuck– Wha–?” My heart hammering, I turn to look at Carol, who is looking at me from her seat at the dining room table, paperwork spread out in front of her.

“I trust you won’t be using such language outside,” she says, irritated.  

“Sorry,” I say. “I won’t. I didn’t know you were there. Why aren’t you in your office?”

“I’m allowed to work where I please. It’s my house.”

I don’t have an answer for that, so I move past it. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to see you before you left.”

“Oh. Uh… Okay?” Fuck, what now?

“You have your phone?” she asks.

It’s literally in my hand. I hold it up for her to see. She nods.

“What about your emergency beeper?” 

I lift my sweater to show it clipped to my waistband.

“Your taser?”

I frown. “We’re just going to the beach.”

She keeps a level stare. “Take it with you.”

…I go back up to my room and grab it. It’s not worth it to argue with Carol right now. I return to almost-the-door and hold it up, then stuff it in my jacket pocket. 

“Good. Text me when you get there and when you’re getting ready to leave. If anything happens, call.”

“Yeah, sure, can I go now?” As if to punctuate my question, my phone vibrates again. Taylor, checking in. “They’re waiting.”

Carol frowns, and then nods. “Make good choices.”

I don’t have a response to that, and fortunately she doesn’t demand one; I’m able to walk out of my own front door. There’s a grey van parked on the street in front of the house, with “The Sisters of Merciful Waves” in bold letters on the side, with a silhouette of a woman praying painted beside it. 

…I’m actually about to go to the beach with a bunch of nuns and orphans. What the fuck even is my life at this point? I shake my head and move down the slate rock path to get in. The door slides open and sound pours out. Taylor’s in the seat nearest the open door, but there are at least a half dozen other kids in there, and they’re all clamoring loudly as they point at me. I catch my heroic moniker more than a couple times just in the handful of seconds it takes me to get there.

Taylor’s smile stops me from simply turning right around and blowing this whole thing off. She’s dressed for the weather too, in a dark blue long sleeve tee and slightly lighter blue jeans, with a sweatshirt piled in her lap. She scooches over to make room for me, pressing closer to the two nuns on the bench beside her. There are two more benches behind it, with four kids on the second and five on the last – the last not needing to leave room to move past it, it can fill the width of the van. There are two more nuns in the front seats, making for a total of fifteen people, myself included.

It’s packed, and it’s loud, and I’m barely buckled up before Taylor leans over me to shut the door, her body slightly pressing against me. No skin contact, sadly. She sinks back into her seat and buckles up, and the van starts moving. The young woman next to Taylor leans forward with a smile.

“Hi, you must be Amy,” she says. “I’m Linda, and-”

“My name’s Ben!” a kid behind me says while tapping my shoulder. I turn, and the rest of them start shouting their names at me, as if I could remember them all when I can't distinguish the names from the noise.

“Who wants to sing silly songs with Larry?” the Sister in the passenger seat asks, somehow talking over the kids without screaming.

The general tone of the yelling is positive and excited. A moment later, a silly, slightly masculine voice starts playing from the speakers. He starts to sing, and the kids start to… I guess this should be considered singing? They start to sing along. Poorly.

I furrow my brows at Taylor. She really lives like this? It’s the polar opposite of car rides with my family. It’s rare that every seat will be filled during those, and more often than not, the radio is kept low and conversation is kept to just one, rather than the dozens of different exchanges that filled the van before the ‘silly songs with Larry’: whatever the fuck that means.

I look at Taylor and consider trying to say something, but I’d have to scream to be heard over the noisy children. Taylor shrugs, apparently used to this, somehow. I slide my hand into hers and give her our pre-negotiated dosage of feel-good. Her body comes into my awareness, joining the countless millions or billions or trillions of bacteria on me, and I realize that she is very much not used to this – She’s nervous and stressed by the noise.

That makes me feel a little better, actually. If our power-language was more comprehensive, I’d tell her that, but I’m sure she can already feel it. I notice Linda smiling at me. When she notices me noticing, she deliberately looks down at our joined hands and nods. I guess she approves or something? I can’t do more than guess because the orphans are sing-screaming too loudly.

A mile or so later, there’s an interruption in the sing-screaming to make way for some good, old fashioned, pure screaming.

“Sister Jackie! Madison keeps putting her leg on my seat!” a girl screams, louder than the rest and high enough pitched to make my ears ring.

“It’s not on purpose!” a girl – Madison, presumably – shouts back.

“Yes it is!”

“It’s the road! It’s twisty!”

“ Girls ,” the Sister beside Linda – Jackie, I guess – snaps. The music turns down a notch, and the other kids quiet too, more than they already had at the first sign of a fight. “To fight in front of The Lord is a sin. Behave yourselves and ask for His mercy, unless you want to go to Hell.”

I make a quiet choking sound. 

Subdued, both of the girls say, “Yes ma’am.”

“Now say sorry. Both of you.”

They mutter halfhearted apologies to each other, and that’s apparently that. The music turns back up and the sing-along resumes a few moments later, and I’m left bug-eyed. That was a quick argument. Jackie barely tore into them at all, barely sought the facts, just doled out a micro-lecture and told them to stop. If it were Carol in her shoes, that would have lasted minutes instead of seconds as she digs into their arguments, selves, and actions. The hell thing was kind of really weird – who just says that like that? – but still. 

That’s the status quo for the next eleven silly songs – or twelve miles, in standard measurement – until we finally pull into a parking lot situated behind some sand dunes, far outside the city proper, at a little after five. There are only two other vehicles in the lot with us: a car with a mis-matched  colored door and a beat up pick-up truck. I assume their drivers are on the beach.

The music goes quiet, the engine shuts off, and the orphan children clamor even more excitedly, like the drive here wasn’t the most exhausting experience ever. I have to admit to a bit of excitement myself as well, but that’s more to be out of the van than to be at the beach.

I unbuckle and open the door, but even though I’m the closest, I’m not the first out. The gaggle of giggling children pour out. The first couple bump into me before I get out of their way, leaning back against Taylor. Her arm falls across my shoulders, and I turn my head to shoot her a look. She’s smiling apologetically, and I shrug. I lean my head against her shoulder, and even though our hair blocks my power, I still smile. It’s nice to be held.

The last of the kids stumble out, and it’s finally my turn to escape. I stretch my legs and crack my back – that seat was not comfortable – and then send a message to my family groupchat, telling them I’m here. The Sisters are herding the children and gathering stuff from the trunk. We’re only going to be here for a couple hours, but there’s a lot of stuff: chairs, towels, buckets, drink cooler, food cooler, and more.

I watch the semi-organized procession of children bundled up for the cold carrying beach supplies as nuns – though they’re really not dressed like I had expected; sweaters and long skirts or pants rather than full… cowls? Is that what they’re called? Burqas? The Christian hijab thingies – keep them in line and help with the heavier things.

Taylor comes to stand next to me. The sweatshirt she’d held in her lap is now tied around her waist as a butt-cape. Her jeans are a little tighter than the ones she usually wears, but I don’t know if that’s her dressing up or not.

“You know, you really shouldn’t wear jeans,” I tell her.

She frowns. “I like jeans.”

“Yeah but they suck for this weather. Especially if they get wet.”

Her frown relents. “Oh. Okay.”

I tip over to lean against her and she bears my weight with a slight stumble. It's kind of disappointing; Vicky would never stumble under the weight of anything less than a whale. I wonder if I could convince Taylor to get buff. I slide my hand into hers and entwine our fingers. Dopamine: release.

Taylor’s body isn’t bad, not at all. She’s a bit on the lean side and would definitely benefit from a better balanced diet and more food in general, but she’s got good bones and the right amount of organs. Her resting heart rate is a little higher than average, and she’s lacking muscle, but there’s definitely more ‘room for improvement’ than ‘wasted potential.’

“What are you thinking so hard about?” she asks. I know she knows – her Thinker power is precise enough to mostly tell – but we have company and as far as anyone knows I’m the only one with powers.

“How would you feel about a workout routine?” I ask.

She raises an eyebrow. “You want me to work out?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Might be nice if you could pick me up.”

She frowns, thoughtfully this time, as she seems to consider it. “There’s no reason not to. Might help with future stuff too.”

I smile at her acceptance and then gasp as I consider something. I’m not convincing, charismatic, charming, or anything of the sort. There’s pretty much no way I convinced her with just my words. Could the relaxing hormone have made her pliant or suggestable or trusting or something? Did I just use my power to win an argument? That’s… definitely not good. 

I shiver a bit, and not from the sea-chilled wind. It’s for her own good, at least; working out and getting fitter is nothing but good. Right? …I can’t even convince myself of it. But the damage is done; she’s already agreed. 

We follow after the others on the path through the dunes; everyone else has gone on ahead of us, in much more of a hurry to experience the beach – Taylor and I are only here to experience each other. The beach opens up before us. The sands are mostly clean of trash and the ocean is blue-grey from the smattering of clouds overhead. The previous contents of the other two vehicles in the lot are further down the beach, fishing. It’s nice, I guess. It’s not breathtaking or otherworldly or anything like that; it’s the beach, just with fewer needles than usual.

The sisters have set up a little camp, halfway between the tideline and the dunes, not far from the path. Chairs, towels, bags, and coolers are arranged in a sort of semicircle, and the sisters are slathering sunscreen on squirming children, who run off to play in the sand and surf as soon as they’re protected. I don’t know how so many of them are in shorts and t-shirts in this weather, but they are. One boy is even shirtless. I’m not looking forward to fixing any hypothermia; those cases always feel like trying to mold cold clay.

The women greet us when we join them, but Taylor and I don’t linger. She grabs a towel and leads me a bit away from the group. We’re far enough from the group to lend us a bit of privacy – Coupled with the noise of the waves and wind, they’d be hard-pressed to eavesdrop without powers. 

Not that they have much if any reason to try. They’re not important enough to worry, truth be told. They aren’t capes; they don’t have to live in the simmering paranoia of anticipating encounters with Masters or Strangers like a cape or even a celebrity. They aren’t like us, who have to forever stress about someone we love being coopted or controlled or replaced or bodyjacked or any of the other countless, horrible things that those kinds of capes can do to someone.

I look at Taylor as she spreads the towel out and tucks the corners to stop it from flying away, and can’t help the wryly amused smirk that sprouts. For all Carol’s worry, she’s still ignorant of Taylor. It feels good to get one over on her, in a way. 

Taylor sits and pats a spot beside her, and no sooner does my butt touch the towel than do two girls come running at us, kicking up sand behind them. So much for privacy.

“You’re really Panasee?” one girl asks.

“Her name is Pana the a,” the other incorrectly corrects.

“It’s Panacea, actually,” I correctly correct. I was hoping the kids had forgotten about me, and that I could avoid the attention and questions that comes with my being a hero.

“That’s what I thaid!” the second protests. I notice she’s missing her two front teeth.

“Yeah, I’m Panacea. Call me Amy.”

“Whoa.” They both stare at me with wide eyes.

“This is Jewel and Megan,” Taylor introduces. “They’re kind of cape geeks.”

“You’re really a hero?” the first one – Jewel – asks. Before I can nod, she asks, “Can you fly?”

“Uh. No.”

“Can you thoot lathers?” Megan asks.

“You can’t shoot lasers if you can’t fly,” Jewel says with entirely unearned authority.

“Yes you can. My uncle Lightstar did that,” I say. And so does Gallant, but he’s a ‘Tinker.’

“You can shoot lasers?!” Jewel exclaims.

“Show uth!” Megan commands.

“I didn’t say I could.”

“Yes you did,” Jewel tells me.

Taylor puts a hand on my shoulder before I can snap at the annoying kid. Taylor says, “Amy here can heal. She can touch someone and cure cancer or a broken bone or a cold. She helps a lot of people every day.”

“Ohh,” the girls chorus.

“Oh yeah,” says Megan, as if she knew this and forgot. “That’th boring.”

I am straight up glaring at this eight year old. She’s right, it is boring, but she’s being such an annoying ass. Both of them are, but Megan especially with that stupid lisp. Megan gulps.

“Did you two have anything else you wanted to say?” Taylor asks, still holding my shoulder. The physical restraint is as comforting as it is needless. I’mn’t going to hit a kid.

Megan shakes her head, but Jewel says, “You’re Glory Girl’s sister, right? She’s my favorite!”

“Yeah?” I ask. “You’ve got good taste; she’s my favorite too.”

“Does she really pick up cars and throw them at bad guys?”

“Not anymore. They fall apart in her hands if she tries. That, and our mom got on her case about it.”

“Has– has she ever. Um. What’th her favorite color?” Megan stutters. It’s a standard PR event question and simple enough to answer.

“It changes, but last I checked, yellow.”

“Hey, that’s my favorite color too,” Taylor says and I file that away for later.

Before I can say something to that, Jewel interrupts to ask, “Has Glory Girl ever beat up Lung?

“No, she’s not allowed to fight him.”

“That’s lame.” Jewel stomps her feet. “I bet she’d– she’d be like whoosh and then bam! And hit him right in his face.” She punches and stomps at an invisible Lung.

“Did Taylor really get to fly with Glory Girl?” Megan asks as Jewel continues to flail.

I look at the girlfriend in question and raise an eyebrow. “She hasn’t taken you flying, has she?”

“No,” Taylor answers. To Megan, she says, “I told you she offered to take my flying.”

“Ohhh. What’th the like? Ith the cool?”

I smirk. “‘Cool’ isn’t really the right word. She’s actually a huge nerd. Like, when she goes out as Glory Girl, she’s a total badass and a great hero”– most of the time, I can’t help but bitterly think –”but at the end of the day, when she takes off the costume, she’s an absolute cape geek. I don’t think she’s gone a day without chatting on her parahuman studies IRC since her invite. Some nights she stays up late editing capes’ wikis and I have to drag her away from the computer.”

“No she doesn’t!”

I raise an eyebrow at a glowering Jewel. “Excuse me?”

“Glory Girl is a princess,” she declares with an authoritative nod.

I can only blink and repeat, “Excuse me?”

“She’s not a geek or a loser or a nerd, she’s a hero princess and she doesn’t do that boring stuff.”

I blink again. “Okay first off, she’s not a princess, she–”

“Yes she is! Taylor told me so!” Jewel points at my girlfriend.

I give her a look, to ask why she’s lying to kids. Taylor looks about as confused as me. She says to Jewel, “I didn’t say she was a princess.”

“You told me Alexandria was her mom.”

“What.” My voice is flat. I can’t tell whether I find this funny or frustrating.

“...Do you mean when I told you she’s an Alexandria package?” Taylor asks.

Jewel nods. “She’s an Alexandria princess.”

“That’s not what that means,” I tell her, settling on frustrating. This is why I don’t hang out in the pediatrics ward, why I’m in and out as soon as the kids are fixed. “It just means they have similar powers.”

“Stop lying! You- you usurper !”

“I’m not lying . She’s my sister. I know her better than you do, you brain-damaged gremlin, so why don’t you–”

“ Amy ,” Taylor hisses, cutting me off with a tightened grip on my shoulder. “Jewel, Megan, why don’t you two go play cape? We only have about an hour until the sun goes down; you don’t want to miss out.”

The girls turn their wide-eyed stares from me and hurry away. I hear Megan call dibs on Alexandria while they leave, and Jewel immediately starts to protest.

“Amy what the hell?” Taylor asks when the girls are out of earshot. “You can’t call kids ‘brain-damaged gremlins.’”

“She shouldn’t act like one if she doesn’t want to be called one.”

“ She’s nine .”

“She’s wrong is what she is. Trying to tell me she knows Glory Girl better than me. And why the hell did she call me a ‘usurper’ anyway?”

Taylor pinches the bridge of her nose and groans. “Amy. She’s nine . She probably just learned the word and wanted to use it. And it doesn’t matter if she’s wrong. You still shouldn’t call kids names.”

I petulantly glare at her for a moment before giving up. I fall back and close my eyes against the obnoxiously sunny sky. I didn’t come here for sun, sand, surf, and stupid kids, but I’m stuck with them anyway.

“Sorry,” I say. “I know that. It just… slipped out. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. They’ll probably– Well, I was going to say they’d forget in half an hour, but honestly that might be the only part of the conversation they remember.”

I groan again, long and pained. “This sucks. Is this just regular life for you?” I ask. “How do you deal with having so many fucking kids around? Are they always this obnoxiously shitty?”

“Well, I try not to say ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ too much.”

“Fucking shit, that sucks.”

She sighs instead of laughing, and I can’t blame her. That joke sucked big time. Why do I even try?

“I’ll just shut up for the rest of the day.”

“Don’t do that,” she says, sounding mildly frustrated, which means she’s probably livid.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

She sighs. “Just… They’re kids. They don’t know what they’re saying half the time. They’re not that bad though. They’re simple.”

I open my eyes and turn my head to look at Taylor. She’s looking down at me, and her eyes are made enormously brown by the evening sun on her face. “You talking about your uh…” I bounce my eyebrows.

She catches my meaning. “Yeah. Their emotions are a lot less developed, a lot less nuanced.” I guess no one’s in earshot now. “It’s easy to know what they mean and what they feel.”

“You were an only child before this, right?” I ask despite already knowing; I studied her family’s history and I know that she and both her parents were only children. “Must be a pretty insane change, from that to this.”

She sighs and her eyes drift tiredly over the sparse crowd she lives with. “You have no idea. I’d say it calms down sometimes, but it really doesn’t. Not unless August is in the room, and she spends most of her time next door, doing church stuff.”

“’Church stuff’?”

“Yeah. The house is next to the church; August is the head Sister, the Mother, and she helps the priest prepare everything for Mass on Sundays. The services are pretty big, and he needs the help. He’s pretty old.”

“So there’s… five nuns?”

“Six, and they’re not nuns. I thought I told you that.”

“Eh.” I shrug, pressing my shoulders against the covered sand in a weirdly enjoyable way. I do it again. I writhe like a worm for a few seconds. When I stop, I see that Taylor’s staring down at me with a tiny smile. I glare at her.

She is unaffected. Bitch. She’s lucky she’s cute.

“So do they make you go to church or something?” I ask.

Taylor quirks an eyebrow. “What makes you ask that?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because they’re your Catholic legal guardian-nuns and you live next door to a church they run, and you just implied that you go?”

She shakes her head. “I go most Sundays, but they don’t make me. It’s generally just easier to go than to not, most days.”

I frown at her ominous statement. “They don’t hit you or anything, do they?” I blink. “Wait what am I saying?, of fucking course they don’t, I’d’ve noticed.”

She huffs a laugh. “No. They don’t hit me. They don’t hit any of us. They just act really disappointed if I don’t go. And then Linda gets the others to pray for me that night and it’s just… It’s weird, listening to that. It’s less trouble to just go.”

“That sounds annoying.”

“It’s better than living with Danny. ” She practically spits his name, her voice as bitter as my soul. “At least they actually do stuff.”

I frown. Danny’s her dad, I know that much, and I’m fairly sure he’s responsible for Taylor’s trigger event in one way or another. There’s no other accounting for the scorn she gives his name and her current living situation. I have a few guesses as to what exactly her trigger event was, but even I’m not a callous and stupid enough bitch to probe unprompted. Not like Dean. Fuck Dean.

I sit up and offer, in as gentle a voice as I can muster, “If you ever want to talk about it, I wouldn’t mind listening.”

She shrinks in on herself, shoulders hunching and face contorting miserably.

I look around to make sure no one is near enough to hear me, and then continue, “I just mean that I know what you went through, kind of. I know it sucked. Worst day of your life. Trigger events are always like that. You, me, Alexandria, even— even Gallant: we all had bad days. It’s how you get powers. Have a bad enough day, suddenly you can fly or teleport or whatever.”

She peeks at me through her hair. Even though the salty air must be wreaking havoc on it, it still looks absolutely gorgeous. She said she spends half an hour to get it in shape, and it’s a half hour well spent. It accentuates the haunted look in her eyes. She frowns and says, “I heard Vicky got her powers from a sports foul.”

“It’s not that simple,” I huff, tired of this topic. I’ve seen Vicky’s trigger paraded around a million times as people try to convince themselves that second gen capes trigger easier. As if feeling my sister bleed out and stop breathing was ‘easy.’ It pisses me off. 

“Triggers are never that simple,” I tell her. “That foul was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Lots of capes have triggers like that: where a small thing tips them over into triggering. It’s like… Ugh, I’m going to butcher this, I only half remember what Vicky told me, but Tinkers: they usually trigger from long term stress. So like, Armsmaster. Let’s say he had a shit job before he became Armsmaster. It was shit, just total shit. Shit coworkers, shit bosses, shit work. Stresses him the fuck out for months or years, but he’s stuck there for whatever reason. Maybe it’s the only job he could find in his field. Maybe he’s stuck in a contract. Maybe it just pays well. Doesn’t matter. Then he gets an email saying he’s… I don’t know, doing shit work and needs to do better or they’re cutting his pay. He triggers, but it’s not the email, it’s the everything. That make sense?”

“I… guess, yeah.”

I exhale relief; she parsed my shit explanation of shit life. 

“So, what was her deal then? What were the other straws?”

I give her a flat look. “I’ll tell you that if you let me tell Vicky about yours.”

She recoils and I immediately feel like I just kicked a puppy. 

I huff. “Sorry. Just… This sort of shit’s private, okay? You don’t go spreading other people’s damage like that.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I get that.”

For a while, we just sit together. It’s not comfortable. Talking about trigger events could never leave a comfortable atmosphere. Still, it’s one that only people like us can feel, and that makes it feel sort of intimate. It’s not a good intimate, like whispering secrets to each other under the blankets during a sleepover. It’s more like finding an old keepsake from someone whose name you can’t quite remember; it aches, but it’s a connecting pain. 

I lean over and rest my head against her shoulder. She doesn’t push me away and suddenly I’m blinking away tears. I don’t know why. The approaching wetworks pass after only a couple seconds, and if it weren’t for the tightness in my throat, I’d think they were sand-caused. Weird. 

We watch as the water rhythmically pulls back and crashes against the sands. Again and again, push and pull, in and out, the waves come and go. It’s calming, like watching the flames in Aunt Sarah’s backyard firepit. Gulls cry above and land on the sand to peck and scurry. Children run around and scream as they play, but they’re far enough away to not bother us. One of the Sisters leaves the rest to break up an argument between two of the kids, and then returns to retake her seat and beverage; they talk, and the chatter is comfortingly indistinct.

My headrest shifts as she moves to put her arm around my shoulders and pull me closer. I reach up and lay my hand on hers. She’s most of the way to relaxation, and I nudge her there a smidge quicker. I can smell her shampoo underneath the salty air now – I breathe it in deeply. I think… I think I love Taylor. 

That sounds stupid – Loving her is what she’s made me do for most of a month at this point. Of course I love her. This is stupid. It’s literally the most basic aspect of the plan. It’s not real. It’s not me. It’s just not, no matter how deep these feelings reach, they’re still artificial. But, that artificiality doesn’t stop it from feeling good, and it doesn’t stop me from soaking in the moment with my girlfriend. 

It doesn’t last forever. Nothing good ever does.   

“You two seem like you’re having a nice time.” 

Taylor tries to pull away from me to look at the sister interrupting us, but I hold her hand fast. I barely keep myself from glaring at the sister. She stares down at us with a pair of juice boxes in her outstretched hand. 

“Thirsty?”

“Hey, Linda. Thanks, yeah,” Taylor says. She takes the juices and hands one to me. Apple. I stab the straw into it and start sippy. 

So this is Linda. She introduced herself in the van, but I’m glad Taylor said her name; with the disaster that followed her introduction in the van, I’d completely forgotten which one was Linda. I know that Jackie is the one with the black bob – I’m not sure I’ll ever forget how she threatened to send the kids to hell. 

The first thing I notice about Linda is that she’s young: no older than twenty-five, unless she’s one of those freaks who looks twenty until they’re fifty. She’s wearing a long skirt that billows in the wind and a coat that’s been patched up a few too many times, and her hair is bound in a low ponytail.

“I’m Linda,” she says to me. “I tried to introduce myself earlier, but the van was a bit too loud.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m Amy.”

She smiles. “I know. Taylor’s told me a lot about you.”

I give Taylor an odd, mildly concerned look, and she waves me off. “It was nothing bad.”

That doesn’t leave much else , I don’t say. “Like what?”

“Uh, about Dominica White’s poetry, the family dinner at your place, Sledgehammer: that sort of stuff.”

I nod. That’s all okay. It’s stupid to think she would have told Linda about what we’re doing to each other, but an action being stupid stops far fewer people than one would hope. “Cool. Cool.”

“My brother liked Sledgehammer,” Linda says, sparking my interest. “I don’t remember much about it, but I do have one of his figures.”

“Oh? Which one?”

“It’s a little guy with a hardhat,” she says. And that’s all she says, as if it narrows it down at all.

I just nod and hold in a sigh. “That’s cool.”

A kid starts to scream, louder and more prolonged than the rest. We look over and one of the boys crying, struggling against one of the Sister’s grasp. She’d better not hurt him. Wait; that’s fucked up, why would she hurt him? Dammit me, stop thinking stupid shit. 

Before I can self-flagellate further, Taylor stands and says, “Hey, I’ll be back in a minute,” and then just fucking leaves me alone with Linda??? Wide-eyed and helpless, I watch Taylor walk toward the kid and nun and abandon me with a woman I don’t know.

“That’s a relief,” Linda says. “Taylor’s good at talking to the little ones. She gets right to the heart of their discomfort when they’re like that and helps them talk it out. She’s a real blessing to have around, sometimes.”

“Really? That’s uh, cool, I guess,” I say. Am I saying ‘cool’ too much? 

I glance at Linda, and I’m not sure if she feels as awkward about being here with me as I do with her. Probably not. She probably sits next to people all the time, but this is the first time I’ve sat next to a nun. What do I even do? I should say something, right? But what do I ask a nun?

“So uh,” I start, “what’s up with the whole Catholic thing?”

She raises an amused eyebrow at my cringeworthy question. “Are you asking why I’m Catholic, why I’m a Sister of the Church, or about the Church itself?”

“Nevermind,” I say, flushing. She was fine sitting in the quiet; why’d I have to open my mouth and make it weird? That was an invasive question and probably rude as hell too, I just know it. Fuck, I hope this doesn’t cause some scandal with the Christians; Carol wouldn’t let me out of the house ever again if I made an enemy of them – They can be fucking crazy. Just look at the Fallen. They still use the bible.

“No, no, it’s fine. I can talk about any of it. I don’t mind, really,” she says, waving off my concerns like they’re nothing.

“The… first one, then,” I say to try and move past my stumble and into the least offensive dialogue.

“Well, I’ve always been Catholic. My whole family has been, as far back as anyone can remember; my parents, my grandparents, my great-grandparents, and so on, since before we came to America, way back when. We’re Italian.”

I say nothing and just nod. I have to be careful, I have to watch my words and school my reactions and not turn this into national news somehow. I have to handle this with grace and tact. Like Carol would want.

“I know that frown,” she says.

Fuck.

“You’re wondering if that’s the only reason, aren’t you? I was born into it and never thought twice?”

I grimace. “Uh. Yeah. I didn’t want to be rude.”

“Being born into it isn’t the only reason, but it is a large reason. When I was younger, I tried out other denominations, but none of them ever really clicked . I even tried going without church at all, but that was lonely, in a soul-deep sort of way. Being a part of the Catholic Church, it gives me a family through Jesus almost anywhere I could go. No matter what city I end up in, for whatever reason, I know there’s someone I can go to and some place I belong.”

“Do you travel often?” I ask. That’s an inoffensive question, right?

“Not so much anymore. I used to live in Regina with my parents. I was out of town when she attacked.” 

I contain a shudder. The Simurgh hit Regina a few years ago. 

“I lost everything. Everything except my family through the church and my faith. Even she can’t take that from me. I came here to Brockton Bay after that, found myself helping out with the orphanage a few weeks later, and I’ve been here in service for about four years now.”

“Da-ang,” I correct mid-word. “That’s heavy.”

“That’s life,” she says with a shrug. “Challenges and all, it’s part of His plan. There’s a certain comfort to being only a small part of another’s plan. Knowing everything that’s happened is because of His grace, and even though you can’t hope to understand, as long as you surrender to Him, it will all turn out alright.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, and luckily I don’t have to; Linda picks up the slack after only a few seconds of silence. 

“I’m going to go off on a limb and guess you don’t believe in God?”

I wouldn’t lie about this even if I thought I could get away with it. I know the human body too intimately to think there is a soul inside of it. At the end of it all, people are just meat with opinions: beautiful and terrible in unequal parts. I shake my head.

“I had a feeling,” Linda says. She sounds resigned rather than angry. “God’s a lot less popular these days than He used to be. It doesn’t make sense to me, honestly, but it’s the truth. In these rough times, we should have more faith, not less.” She sighs. “I’m not even thirty yet and I feel old.”

I sigh with her. “I feel you.”

She looks at me with a quirked eyebrow. “Really? Hm. I guess that makes a sort of sense. You’ve likely seen more than your fair share of pain in the world, as Panacea.”

I keep my mouth closed, wary. That’s not an answer I expected. She’s seeing me as Panacea, but instead of equating that to a saint or a font of uncomplicated good, she’s… doing something else.

“It’s hard sometimes, to be so giving. It leaves you feeling like you’ve just given away almost every part of yourself, sometimes. Like one day, you’ll give away that last piece of yourself and just crumple up like a piece of paper. I can understand that, better than you might think. But there’s one thing that can always fill me back up and keep me going. Do you want to know what that is?”

She’s giving a scarily apt description of how I’ve felt while healing at times, and I can’t help but wonder what wisdom she actually has. It’s likely nothing – she can’t know what I actually go through; no one does but everyone’s all too willing to offer advice – but she’s got me hooked; I can’t help but want to know how she deals with it. Despite my well earned reservations, I nod.

“Jesus.”

“God fucking dammit,” spills out of my mouth like acid before I can stop myself.

Linda starts to laugh. What? Bitch. 

Here I am trying to make a good first impression, trying to give a shit about what she says, and she pulls this shit? As justified as my response was, I know that if it gets back to Carol, I’m screwed. I need to apologize. “Sorry. That was rude.”

“No, no, you’re fine,” she says through lingering chuckles. “I don’t mean to laugh, I just hadn’t expected quite that harsh a reaction.”

I try not to roll my eyes at her. “You actually believe that… stuff?”

“Well yeah. I have to,” she says cheerily, as if immune to my scorn. My fault for restraining it so. This is why I like Taylor; she already knows how terrible I am, so I can openly be the bitch I am with her.

“Cause they’ll kick you out if you don’t?”

“No. But, now that you mention it, I guess that’s a reason too. I believe because everyone has to believe in something; everyone needs to have faith in something, even if it’s just that tomorrow could be better than today. I believe that there’s a good God above us with a plan to make things right. The ultimate hope is that I end up in Heaven beside Him. I know not everyone sees that as true; it is, but if it’s not, then I’ve still made the world a better place. The world has to be able to get better. There has to be a better tomorrow, even if it’s after there are no more tomorrows.”

“So, that’s it? Do good: live in a cloud mansion forever?”

“Well, that’s not quite what heaven is, but yes. It beats burning in Hell for all eternity,” she says with a shrug.

“Oh. Right. Of course. The stick – Screw up: suffer forever.”

She chuckles, a little bit condescendingly. “It’s not quite that simple. Our God is a loving and forgiving God. If you accept Him into your heart and live your life for Him, He has mercy. One of the ways He shows His mercy is confession. After you sin – as every human does – you can confess, take penance for your sins, and be forgiven, washed clean and pure as snow by His grace.”

Fuck up, tell someone, accept suffering, and then it’s fine? If only it were that easy. “Sounds kind of like cheating.”

Linda doesn’t immediately deny it, prevaricating with a motion of her shoulders. “I guess you could see it that way. But penance is a chance for reflection as well as punishment. It’s not just about making up for the sin, but ensuring you won’t sin that way again. It’s more work than just talking to a priest.”

That sounds nice: suffering that is good for something. It kind of sucks it’s not real. “Eh. Still.”

“Well, think about it like this; if there’s no way to wipe the slate clean, if our sins stay with us and drag us down for the rest of our lives, then we’re already in Hell. We’re already suffering and have no way to stop the suffering on our own. Without God, we suffer from the day we’re born until the day we die because we’re flawed, imperfect, and human. But through God, that suffering doesn’t have to be eternal. Through Him, you can have a reprieve and a better chance in the next life. I’d like to one day not suffer, wouldn’t you?”

This is so asinine and stupid. God’s not real, and the ‘eternal soul’ definitely isn’t real either. If it were, I would be able to feel it. But I can’t say any of this. I still need to be good, no matter how stupid the person in front of me is being. I say, “Sure. Whatever.”

Linda makes to respond, but something catches her attention. She calls out, “Sammy! What are you doing? Put that down, you don’t know what sort of diseases are on it.

She’s addressing a pale, platinum-blonde girl that is perhaps twenty feet from us. The child is holding a seagull in one hand and scratching its neck with her other. Despite Sammy having multiple feathers tangled in her hair and clothes, the gull is calm in a way that I have never seen. The girl, Sammy, walks up to us and liltingly says, “The birds of the sky nest by the waters; they sing among the branches.”

I blink in what-the-fuck and the child turns her expressionless gaze upon me. 

She stares into my soul, and then says, in the same sing-song voice as before, “ The Lord will send on you curses, confusion, and rebuke in everything you put your hand to, until you are destroyed and come to sudden ruin because of the evil you have done in forsaking Him.”

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck wh-

“Deuteronomy twenty-eight twenty,” Linda recites, resigned. 

–at the fuck “Wait what?” I ask Linda. 

“It’s a bible verse from the book of Deuteronomy,” she explains with a tired smile. She turns back to Sammy, who has turned to stare at other gulls in the distance. “Sammy, please let the bird go. We’ve talked about this.”

Sammy nods and raises the gull above her head. It stands, shakes its wings, and then lifts off and away, only to land a few feet away and stare at Sammy.

“Come on, Sammy, let’s get you cleaned up, make sure it didn’t bite you,” Linda says.

“The fear of the Lord leads to life, and whoever has it rests satisfied; he will not be visited by harm.”

Linda sighs. “Be that as it may, we need to be sure.” Linda turns to me. “It was nice talking to you, Amy. I hope you’ll come around sometime; I know Taylor wouldn’t mind the company.”

Then she stands, brushes off her skirt, sets a hand on Sammy’s shoulder, and leads the young girl to the other sisters to clean up. I am left alone, dazed and confused. That girl, Sammy, there’s no way what she said means anything. Right? It felt eerily personal. Linda said it’s a bible verse, but why’d Sammy use that verse? For the first time in my life, I kind of wish I had a bible, just so I could look up that verse and try to figure out some sort of context.

No. No, this is stupid. I don’t want or need a bible. It’s just a kid being weird. It doesn’t mean shit, so I shake it off as best I can. I knew these people would be crazy; how else could someone go balls deep into the jesus thing? So what if I didn’t expect this particular flavor of insanity? That doesn’t mean her words meant anything. I just hope none of the crazy rubs off on Taylor – She’s enough of a freak already. 

Taylor’s with the kid now, and somewhy throwing him into the ocean. I watch her do it a couple times – she stands in knee-deep waves with her pants rolled all the way up to her thighs, lifts the kid, and then chucks him out into an oncoming wave, again and again – and I could maybe go and join her or do something, but… nah. 

I take the lull in activity as a chance to shoot a text to the family groupchat. It’s been about half an hour, and any longer could risk a phone call. I tell everyone I’m alright and still at the beach. I pocket my phone before any responses can come in.  

Then I lay back on the towel, squint at the sky, and pray that no one else comes to bother me. The sky’s starting to tint as the sun touches the hills to the west and sends shadows across the land; the clouds are cast in shades of red, orange, and pink. As pretty as they are, I’m hoping they’ll clear out by nightfall. We’re not far enough from the city to escape the light pollution, but the stars will be so much clearer here than from my back yard. It’s a shame neither Taylor nor I can fly, nor that Vicky can carry multiple people; I’d love to be able to see the stars from the open ocean with Taylor. There’s no better view than a perfectly dark night. It would make for a nice date. 

“Hey, sorry that took me so long. Cody kept asking for one more throw, and it’s his first time at the beach. I wanted to make it nice.”

I turn my head and– Oh. Wow. She looks stunning in the dying light of the sun. Golden light threads through her night-black hair which catches the wind like a broad’s as she tries to board a plane to flee her painful life, but is held back at the last moment by her lover’s arrival. Her gentle smile is too much for me, more than my bitter ass deserves, yet still she smiles and still I look. Fuck, she’s gorgeous. 

Stupid cheater using her power to make herself seem hotter. “Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Not any more than usual.”

…Oh. I look down and– “Give me one.”

She drops her shoes beside the towel, sits, and hands me another juice. This one isn’t apple, but that doesn’t stop me from stabbing and sipping. Cranberry juice is alright, but after learning that it’s basically fruit punch wearing a cranberry mask, it never tasted quite the same. 

“Take this too,” she says, holding out a glowstick for me, one of those long, bendy ones that’s meant to be worn around the neck or wrist. “The sisters brought them to help keep track of the kids in the dark.”

I shrug, take the glowstick, crack it, and double-wrap it around my wrist. It’s red, unfortunately. I don’t like red. Taylor’s wearing a matching one around her wrist. 

“What did you and Linda talk about?” she asks after a minute of juice sipping. 

My head tilts skyward as I try to figure out how to phrase it. “I think she was trying to convert me or something? We talked about god stuff. She told me about some of her life.” I shrug. “Nothing big. The whole confession thing is kind of cool, I guess.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t as bad as you were expecting.”

“Oh no, it was awful actually. What’s up with that kid, by the way? The super blonde one.”

“You mean Sammy?”

“Yeah. She was weird as hell: spoke in riddles or something.”

“Bible verses. I swear she has the whole book memorized. She’s almost always reading it.”

“So that’s just normal for her?”

“As normal as anything is. I’m pretty sure she’s autistic or something, but she’s harmless.”

I hum thoughtfully. “So pretty much everyone you live with is insane: even the kids.”

“Like you’re one to talk.”

I open my mouth to argue that Vicky’s not insane, but then I remember the time she alphabetized her wardrobe. I close my mouth. Taylor’s smile grows a little wider, and dammit she’s still so pretty, even with the sun having finally set. 

“Hey, look,” Taylor says, pointing at the ocean. 

Where the waves crash against the beach, countless blue-white lights spark and disappear, all the way up and down the beach. The algae’s bioluminescence is only now becoming visible in the waxing darkness, and I have to wonder if they were alighting earlier as well but it simply wasn’t visible, or do they only light up in the dark. I’d have to touch them to check. 

I shoot a glance at Taylor. She pretty much offered a long walk on the beach, the day I started to love her, and cliche as it is, the idea does hold some appeal. It’s easier to ask when I remember she already knows how I feel about the cliche bullshit, so I ask, “Do you want to go for a walk?”

“Sure. Let me grab a flashlight.” 

She stands and walks back over to the sisters, and I take the chance to remove my shoes and socks and roll my leggings up to midcalf. The sand is cool between my toes, and it feels nice. I wiggle them idly until Taylor returns with a flashlight, luminous spot pointed at the ground. I stand up and we walk down to the water together, stopping where the waves can only barely reach and steal the sand from around our feet. 

“How far down do you want to go?” Taylor asks as we start moving away from the others, upcurrent. 

“I don’t know. I just want to stretch my legs.” I tell her.

“And get away from the others, right?”

“That’s not un true,” I sigh. “But like you don’t want to too?”

“It… is nice to get a bit of distance sometimes. They’re good people, but…”

“But they’re all insane?” I provide. 

Thankfully she takes it as the joke I sorta meant it as and lets out the smallest of laughs. “Yeah. They can be a bit much.”

“Well, look on the bright side; when you get into the Wards, they’ll probably have you live on base or something.”

“Is that something they do?”

I shrug. “No clue. Dean would know, which means Vicky probably would too.”

“Let’s not ask them,” she decides, and I agree. The thought of trying to sneak that conversation past them as a hypothetical is too risky. 

After a while, Taylor and I are far from the others, to the point that they’re merely a collection of lights in the distance behind us. Even the children’s screaming enjoyment is gone, swallowed by the glowing, blue-green sea. It lends the moment a kind of rare intimacy, a deeper sort of alone-togetherness than merely being sequestered in a room together can bring, as a room is in a building and a building is in a city and a city is intrinsically made up of people; but here, alone on the beach together, I can trick myself into thinking there’s no one else. 

…I swear to god if my phone rings right now I’m chucking it into the ocean, emergency be damned. I hold in a sigh. I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to ignore people dying. But! I will be pissed and I will complain the entire time. Ghosting is a nice fantasy, but like all of my fantasies, it involves me hurting someone somehow. 

This is nice, and I’ll enjoy it while I can, before society reintrudes. 

“Hey,” Taylor says. She doesn’t follow it up with anything.

“Hm?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier.” 

Ah shit. 

“It’s not bad,” she reassures, having heard my sudden and all consuming dread. “You said that every cape had a… bad day?”

Oh. This. This is going to be a dangerous conversation. “We should probably sit down for this.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she follows me to a nearby boulder and sits with me.

“Yeah,” I say. “Every one of us went through something like that: a trigger event, like I mentioned earlier.”

“And you said they’re always bad? Because I read online that sometimes people get powers from good things,” she almost sounds hopeful, like she’d be happier if only she’d suffered. I don’t get it. If I’d learned that everyone else triggered from joy or some crap, I’d be pissed.

“It’s a lie,” I tell her. “There’s no moments of overwhelming pride and joy, no pushing beyond limits, no wanting it so bad it comes to you. It’s just the worst day of your life, followed by powers that feel like a shitty consolation prize.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t say anything for a while, and I try to give her the space to sort it out in her head. This isn’t the time to be my usual terrible self. Maybe a minute later, she asks, dejectedly, “You probably know about mine already, don’t you? With that background check your mom did?”

“I can guess, but no. I’m pretty sure it’s one of a few things, but no one else can get the details right. No one can really know unless you tell them.” I think back to my own, and how Vicky told me afterward that she was touched that I’d triggered over her, and how that missed the point by a mile. I wasn’t trying to save her life, before I triggered. I was just trying to stop her from leaving me. 

“It was my dad,” she murmurs, barely audible over the waves. “He…”

I can’t tell if she’d trailed off or is just too quiet for me to hear, so I take her hand, using my power to lipread, but so much more complete. She’s not speaking now though. I didn’t miss anything. I prompt, “Yeah? What’d he do?”

“Nothing.” She clicks her tongue. “That’s all he ever did. He had the chance to finally actually do something and he just…” She sighs. “It started when my mom died almost three years ago. It was hard on both of us, but I was a kid. I was thirteen years old and he was my dad, and he just… stopped. For months he was like a corpse with legs, and I loved her too, and I was hurting too, but it was like he didn’t even care. He barely looked at me, and when he did, he’d just fall apart all over again. He was like a– like an open sore after that.”

She pauses, and I take the chance to pop in my two cents, hoping this comes across as sympathetic instead of bragging or self-centered. “I kind of get that. A little bit, at least. Dad – my dad – sort of did the same after Jess died. If he wasn’t in costume and raging against the empire, he was like a shell. Same with Uncle Mike, before he left.”

Taylor didn’t get mad at my words, so I think I didn’t fuck up yet. She chews her cheek for a moment before asking, “Do you remember Vitiate’s last appearance, back in November?”

“Yes,” I say, confused by the non-sequitur. “The PRT called me in to check if the resurrections were the real deal or not: like if they were cellularly alive or if it was some sort of animating force. I actually worked with Gallant for a minute during the M/S screening for compulsions and stuff.”

She’s tenser than ever as she asks, “Were they? Real, I mean. Did he really bring them back?”

The reason she’s asking is starting to dawn on me, and I hope I’m wrong. “Uh… Yeah. Honestly, yeah. As far as anyone could tell, Vitiate had brought them back to life, full stop. Vitiate had some suggestive control over them, but it was purely verbal, if I’m remembering right, and that was the only sort of compulsion. Why uh, why do you ask?”

“…My mom was buried in Captain’s Hill Cemetery.” Her voice is small and full of grief. 

I don’t know what to say to that. What condolences do you offer someone whose mom died, was brought back to life by a villain, and then turned to ash in PRT containment four days later? One moment they were alive and well, and the next the guy I was checking on was gone from my power and crumbling under my hand. I thought I’d killed him, somehow, until someone told me it happened to all of them. I have to say something. Even though I can’t really relate to grieving a lost mother, I can’t let her think I’m ignoring her or that I don’t care.

“That… really sucks. I’m really sorry,” I tell her. 

“And Dad, he… For the first time in years, he actually looked alive. He actually hugged me. I don’t even know when the last time he’d done that was, and I didn’t even know why at first. He didn’t tell me what had happened, and… I was scared to ask why he was so happy. I thought he’d gotten more work or something. But then, I came home from school on Monday and… Mondays were never easy, with Sophia and Emma’s crap, so I just wanted to decompress at home, but he… The house reeked of beer, as soon as I opened the door. He was on the couch, drunk. I tried to ask what was wrong, but he just told me to go away.” Taylor’s voice is almost robotically emotionless, like she’s a terrible actress reading cue cards. Even so, I can feel how this is shaking her to the core: micro-twitches betraying the truth of her emotional state. “Then I found the urn on the kitchen table. I tried to ask him about that, but he threw his can at the wall and shouted at me to shut up. There was a letter from the PRT in the trash, and it explained what had happened. He didn’t stop drinking, after that. It was worse than before. He even stopped going to work, half the time.

“And then one day, while he was out, a case worker came by. I know it was Emma who gave the tip; I don’t have any proof, but I know it .” She sounds almost desperate. “It couldn’t have been anyone else – Anyone else would have come by themself or– or– It was her .” 

“I believe you,” I tell her, and some of the tension leaves her: some, but far from all. 

“So, the case worker, for CPS, she was there, and my dad doesn’t have a cell phone. My mom, when she died, it was distracted driving. She was on her phone. So we got rid of ours. The point is, we just had to wait until he came home. Only, he didn’t come home that night. The case worker left around ten, and Danny came back the next night. He’d stayed out drinking, and then slept at his office. I… I tried to tell him about the CPS visit, but… he was already so… pathetic. I couldn’t. And I’d thought that one visit was the end of it – She’d seen I had food and a house and wasn’t getting abused so like, that should have been the end of it. But it wasn’t. She came back a week later and Danny was there that time and I don’t even know how it started but someone said something about removing me from my home, and he said– He said I– That I–”

“Hey, it’s okay,” I say, gentle as I can be. Taylor’s throat is tight and she’s started to panic. She might even be having a flashback, with how her brain is lit up, but even if not, it’s far from pleasant. “You can… You don’t have to do this.”

She swallows. A few breaths later, she shakes her head. “No, I. I want to. I can do this.” Another breath, and then, “He said that I’d be better off without him, that she should put me in a home. And… And I realized he wasn’t ever going to get better. He was gone. He broke, and then he shattered, and then he just… gave up. He let Emma win, and he wasn’t even going to try anymore. At all. I didn’t have anyone left except him, and he wanted to give me up like it was nothing. Like he didn’t care. I…” 

Her lip twitches, she presses her eyes shut as tight as they’ll go, and I do my best to ignore how she’s grinding the bones in my hand with her grip. 

“And then I got powers,” she says with a bitter voice, and I think that’s the end of it, but she continues, “and then. It turns out he does care. He does love me. I was the most important thing in his life, but it didn’t even matter.” 

“Shit,” is all I can say.

“Yeah.” She pauses. “A couple days after that, my grandmother called to tell me she found me a place to live. I don’t know if I ever even met her before, but she did more for me in one day than he did in months. I moved in with the Sisters that day.”

Wait is she not legally an orphan? I want to ask, and I also want to rant about Danny and shittalk him to try and support her, but it’s all risky; there’s no telling how she’ll take that right now with having just talked about her trigger. She got really mad at me when I reacted wrong to hearing about the bullying, and this is ten times worse at a minimum. She’s vulnerable right now, and I shove down the thrill that accompanies that thought. Like she’s not always thoroughly vulnerable every time we touch. 

So I say, “Thank you for telling me.”

She makes a distant noise, low in her throat.

“I uh… I never really told anyone about mine,” I admit. “Not even Vicky, really. Like, it was in public, people saw, there was even a story run in a newspaper for a couple days, so it’s a known thing, but… I told you how it’s never as simple as it seems, even if people think they know the whole story.”

I stop to try and sort my thoughts, but it feels like pushing shrapnel out, trying to work around absences and pains without ruining what I’ve already put back into order. Taylor’s paying rapt attention to me though, and I feel the need to continue – I’m not sure whether I’d rather it be her making me feel that or not, as talking about this under any circumstance will suck. I lick my lips, shake my legs, and push myself to my feet. 

“Can we walk?” I ask, hoping the movement will shake things loose. She rises to her feet as well, and we start back along the beach, moving further yet from the others. “We were shopping, and there was a villain attack, and Vicky… she couldn’t help but try and be a hero. She got shot for it. It was bad. Really bad. She was dying. There was blood everywhere, and I tried to stop it, tried to hold it in, keep her alive, do something but I… I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything.” 

My throat is tight and my voice is weak, and the years between then and now do nothing to stop me from feeling the blood on my hands, hotter and more immediate than any of the thousands of other times since. I pull my hand from Taylor’s and wrap both of my arms around myself, trying to hold in the warmth without staining her too. 

“She was dying. And even then, she was trying to smile like a fucking idiot and– and she tried saying something, but her lungs were collapsed and she was drowning so of course she couldn’t even make noise, and I just… I couldn’t do anything. I just sat there and watched again, as she left– as the light left her eyes and… I’m a terrible person. She was dying, and all I could think of was how cold home would be without her and I couldn’t go on without her. It was so selfish and stupid, but I watched her die and I was scared for myself. And then I could…” The lights around me blur, and I grind the tears away from my face with my palms.

Talking about this is dredging up memories, not just of the event, but worse: all that came after. The tests, the expectations, the awe, the responsibilities, and the first of my sleepless nights: I hadn’t really grasped all I should do, yet, but I knew all that I could do, and that was enough to make me question if all I’ve ever done really was heal. After my trigger event, sure, I knew what I was doing and was in control. But during? When I was touching Vicky? I didn’t have my rules. I didn’t feel in control of myself or my powers. I still don’t know for certain that I didn’t change Vicky somehow, on some level, that very first time, and it still keeps me up some nights. I want to tell Taylor, but I can’t. I can’t bring myself to say it, and it makes me feel more alone than before.

A hand touches my shoulder and I flinch. Taylor. It’s through the shirt. It’s okay. I almost let myself reach up to take it with mine, but I hold back. I can’t. Not right now. I pull my hand up into the sleeve of my sweater, and then reach up to take hers. It’s nice to have that thin barrier – I can pretend for half a moment that I’m normal. 

“Thanks,” I say, strained. That was years ago. I’m fine. Vicky’s fine, and as long as I’m around, as long as I stay within my rules, she’ll stay fine. 

Neither of us know what to say. The silence between us is painful and sharp. But, it’s not silence. There’s the ocean. 

“I was wondering earlier,” I blurt out, “whether the algae lights up just at night, or if it does that during the day too and we just can’t see it.”

Taylor, thankfully, goes along with it. “I don’t really know. I didn’t read anything about that.”

“I’m gonna go check!” I drop her hand and step into the glimmering surf until it’s lapping at my calves and bend down to stick my hands in. I don’t need to do that to feel the algae with my power, but in the dark it’s the only way I can trick my brain into thinking my hands are clean. I peer into the algae with my power, sticking metaphorical fingers into the nuclei and other organelles to search for the bioluminescence’s markers. “Huh. They’ve got a circadian rhythm.”

“Really? That’s pretty cool. I didn’t know your power could affect stuff that small,” Taylor says, at least faking interest.

“It’s mostly a sense-only thing, like with brains. But I can’t affect microbes except to kill them,” I tell her. It’s a lie, obviously, but it’s one I’ve had long prepared and it rolls off my tongue easily. 

It doesn’t matter. I look at her, and even with just the light of the stars and the sea, I can tell she knows it’s a lie. But instead of calling me on it, she says, “So how’s that work? The circadian rhythm, I mean.”

“Oh uh, it’s proteins. Most functions at this level are just protein synthesis and destruction,” I say with a little bit of a smile, looking a bit deeper. “I should have checked earlier, to get a baseline during the day, but it looks like the synthesis is slowing. Yeah, definitely slowing. They built up a bunch, and now they’re using it every time they get moved.”

“Huh.” Taylor joins me in the ankle-deep surf, I guess to better look at the luminous microbes. “I figured they would have had an eyespot.”

“What’s that?”

“What’s… an eyespot?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you not know?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t have to ask you, now would I?”

“Sorry, I just figured you’d know. I mean, you can see them with your power, can’t you?”

“Probably, but that doesn’t mean I know what that term is. My power doesn’t come with an encyclopedia. It’s why I had to study so much before I started actually healing people.”

“Well, an eyespot is like a rudimentary eye, only really capable of seeing whether there’s light or not, and maybe how much.”

…Duh. “So that’s what those are called. That’s a stupid name for it.”

“Did you have another name for them?”

“…No.” I have to change the subject. “It kind of sucks that the city’s light still reaches out here.”

“I guess. We’re not that far out though.” I can’t be certain, but I think she’s smiling at me. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. What was your name for those?”

The change of subject failed. Weak. Cornered, I admit, “…Lookyloos.”

She snickers.

“Shut up. I was thirteen.”

“Sorry, sorry. That’s kind of cute.” She’s definitely smiling at me now. “What other names did you come up with?”

As if deer before a cougar, every name I ever came up with for various organelles flees from the question and hides in the darkest recesses of my brain. “I could have answered you, before you asked.”

“Oh. Yeah, I get that.” As I stand back up, she squats down and moves her hand through the water, trailing blue-white lights that quickly fade. “It’s been forever since I came to the beach. I don’t think I’ve been since… since I was little. It’s different now, but kind of the same? The ocean seems vaster than it used to. Back then, I think I imagined that Europe was just over the horizon, but there’s really just so much empty space between there and here.”

“Yeah. Vast is a good word for it,” I say. “There’s just so much out there, so much that no one’s ever even laid eyes on, that it kind of… it lets you think that anything could be down there.”

“That’s probably why sea monsters are such a common trope. That, and so many ships sinking in storms.”

I look down at her – I realize that I’m rarely ever above her; most of the time, when I’m standing, so is she, and same with sitting, but right now, she’s below me, and it gives an entirely different perspective. She looks serene, somehow. I wonder if it’s because we’re out of the city; her power is picking up less people, and maybe that’s relaxing. Or maybe she just feels lighter for having emptied her guts to me. 

The intimacy of discussing triggers wasn’t one I was familiar with before now, and it’s not a wholly pleasant intimacy. It’s like walking in on your mom crying. It’s relieving, to have that deeper look into her damage, to know that she’s hurting too, but at the same time it’s disturbing and uncomfortable, to see exactly where the cracks in someone are.

Still, in the aftermath, I have to admit it’s left Taylor with a sort of afterglow. It might be the light from below – her glowstick and the algae – or maybe the atmosphere in general, but she’s beautiful. The soft, subtle curve of her smile; the way her fingers dance in the water, long and slender; the way the wind brushes through her hair like she’s in a commercial. She looks up at me with a question on her lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

She blinks and the unspoken question falls away from her lips at my interruption. She looks at me with wide eyes, shocked by my accidental audacity, and I wish I could take it back. I didn’t even mean to say that. The moment just before is gone and broken and I broke it, and I want nothing more in this instant than to go back. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry, forget I said that,” I rush to say. “I didn’t mean to say it, it just kinda slipped out. I’m not trying to do anything or anything, I just, I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking. It was stupid. Forget I said anything. Sorry.”

“…You want to kiss me?” she asks after I finally shut up.

I wince. “I mean, yeah? I kind of like you, and most people want to kiss the people they like.”

“You didn’t want to kiss me before,” she says tonelessly, slowly drawing up to her full height, towering over me like Vicky when she cheats with her flight. “I offered, and you kicked me out and then ignored me for the rest of the day.”

I cringe. “I… I want you to like it. I don’t want to kiss you if it’s going to make you miserable.”

“I wasn’t miserable.”

“Yeah, you were,” I scoff. Better angry than whiny. “I was intimately aware of how much you didn’t like kissing me.”

“Okay, so I didn’t like it, but I was still willing to kiss you.”

“Yeah, ‘willing. ’ Like it’s some big imposition. I don’t want to kiss you if you’re forcing yourself to do it!” I shout, immediately and intensely glad no one is around to hear that. Quieter, I say, “I want you to like it when I kiss you.” 

And then I remember I can ask. I can just ask to make her like it. It’s creepy and wrong and weird, and it reeks of my suckiness, but I’m considering asking to use my power on her for this, because then I’ll get to kiss her. It’ll be lesser, incomplete, and not how I truly want it, but that’s kind of our entire relationship. What’s another imperfection added to the pile? I deserve a guilty pleasure. And it’s not like either of us have anyone else.

“Can I?” I ask. “Can I make you like it?”

“I…” She hesitates. I try, I really fucking try to hold onto the hope that this isn’t a gentle no, but a life of disappointment and unfulfilled promises have revealed hope to be nothing more than a mirage in the distance. I know what she’s going to say before she says, “I don’t know.”

“Dammit. I should have figured. You haven’t let me do shit with your nerves.” 

“That’s not true,” she says, and I can’t help but scoff. 

“Yeah. It is. For the last week and a half, you’ve turned me down every single time I’ve asked, and I have asked more than a couple times. Where did I fuck up? I thought I was doing good, that we were good.”

“You have been good–”

“Then why ? Why haven’t you let me do anything to you?” I really did try not to sound whiny. 

“You’re not that well practiced with these things. We need to make sure you’re competent with hormones before we move into other stimulation again.”

“Bullshit,” I whisper, failing to contain my frustrated shaking.

“What?”

“That’s bullshit . I have done nothing more than what we talked about with hormones. I’ve asked permission and used my words and done all the crap you told me I have to do and you haven’t let me do nerve stuff since that time between the hedges! Why? What did I do wrong?”

“I…” She groans. “You haven’t done anything wrong, per se. But, what you did in between the hedges was… overwhelming. And I know you were trying to do that, and it’s not easy to… It’s not easy for me to…” She sighs. “I don’t like not being in control of myself. You trying to make me lose control was… I didn’t like it.”

“I’m not trying to make you lose control,” I say, slowly. “In the hedges, I was just trying to see how far I could go with what I was doing. I wasn’t trying to control you or anything. And even if I did bring you to your knees, that wouldn’t have done anything long term. All I’m doing is making you like me. You’re the one who actually holds the reins. Like, even when I’m done, you’re still going to be way deeper in my head than I am in yours.” Knowing that at any moment of contact, I could sweep control from her with just a thought puts a dent in my argument, but as long as we control myself, it’s fine. 

“That… makes sense. But even then, Amy, I’m straight. 

“You don’t have to be gay to like it.”

“It feels weird to like stuff like that when it’s a girl doing it.”

“But it feels good,” I argue. “I know it does. I made it feel good!”

“I know, and that’s the part that makes it weird. It felt… really good. Like, well, you know. But I’ve never done anything like that before. I’d never even thought of doing stuff like that with a girl, and it’s just… weird.”

“Well, I mean, I don’t uh,” I stammer as I try to find words. I find them. “I’m not even really making you gay. Or even bi. I’d be the only girl you like doing stuff with, so you know, you’d still be straight. Just, straight plus one. And like, you’re gonna find a guy when we’re done, right?” It hurts, but I’m saying it anyway. Am I really that desperate to kiss her? …Yes. “After I’m fixed and you join the Wards and everything, you’d still be able to get a boyfriend, so… why not practice stuff with me?”

She’s quiet for a minute, and I’m left anxiously wondering if I said the right things, if I felt the right things, if I am the right thing. Finally, she says, “I already did agree. And it’s for the plan. If I want to help you with your healing, I kind of have to do this.”

My eyes go wide and my mouth goes dry. I’m almost tempted to drink some of the sea – just a little bit – to moisten it. But I hold myself back on all fronts. “You don’t have to do anything. I want this, but I want you to want this,” I stress. “You’re—” I swallow and fight off a shiver. “You’re in control here.” 

“…Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay. You can do nerve stuff. You can make me like it.” 

I reach for her but she yanks her hand away.

“But! Keep it to normalish levels of feel-good?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Whatever you want.” I can’t agree fast enough. 

“And we should definitely get out of this water. My toes are freezing.”

Now that she mentions it, mine are starting to hurt from the chill too. I follow her to shore, and almost as soon as we’re out of the water’s reach, she holds out her hand. 

This is really happening. We’re going to kiss. I’m going to kiss her and she’s going to like it and– I shiver. This is insane. I actually get to kiss someone! And it’s Taylor! Even if she’s not my type and totally weird, my heart can’t help but hammer in my chest. I swallow again and try to dredge up some spit so the kiss isn’t shite. 

I take her hand, and her whole being comes into my awareness. It’s a comforting sensation – other than my family, hers is by far the body I’m most familiar with – and it’s relieving to feel that she’s nervous too; her heart beat is above its resting rate, her mouth is just as dry as mine, and her extremities are twitching in a way that approaches fight-or-flight. I can’t help but remember how that state is called hyperarousal. 

I take a step closer to her and have to tilt my head to look up at her as she towers over me: almost six entire feet of girlfriend. She looks down at me. Her eyes are pitch in the low light, but my power highlights each and every cell of pigment that comes together to make her gorgeous, brown topaz irises. I stretch my neck up to close the distance a little, and she bends down, and our faces inch closer and closer and ever so closer. My eyes slip shut. I want to feel this, completely, and my eyes are useless for that. The only things that are real are me, her, and our lips. 

And so of course I notice when she ducks her face away, dodging mine. My eyes shoot open and before I can ask, cry, whine, demand, beg, she apologizes. 

“Sorry. I’m just nervous. First kiss jitters.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I’m good now. Let’s do this.”

Against all sense, I don’t immediately leap up and kiss her. Instead, my bewilderment compels me to ask, “ What ? What do you mean, ‘first kiss jitters’? We kissed just a couple weeks ago.”

“Yeah, but that didn’t really count, did it? I didn’t like you back then.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Implying you like me now?”

She shrugs. “Kind of? More than I did, at least. You’re… well, you’re kind of my only real friend.”

That’s… kind of pathetic. But it’s also actually really touching and sweet. She’s seen deeply into me, and she still finds me tolerable. More than tolerable, even. It makes me feel even warmer inside my sweater. I don’t have many – or any – other friends either. Vicky doesn’t count, not really – She’s my sister. I tell Taylor, “You’re pretty much my only friend too.” 

She smiles, like we didn’t just admit the saddest, most pitiful things possible to each other: that the only person willing to be her friend is someone she’s paranaturally coercing, and vice versa. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

I don’t make the same mistake as before – Instead of waiting for her to kiss me, I bring my free hand up, cup the back of her head, and pull her toward me. She squeaks so cutely as our lips touch, and I can’t help the breathless little laugh that spills from my mouth even as I up her sensitivity: not all at once, but slowly, in waves that edge the overall intensity up. 

I move my lips against hers and savor how her pulse quickens. I’m not leading for long; Taylor refuses to not be an active participant and starts to move against me too. I let her. She’s in control, I’m just here to make it good. I let her figure out what feels good, beyond the simplicity of increased sensitivity. She says this is her first kiss, and even though it’s not, we can pretend, since it makes her neophyte stumblings even sweeter. 

When she finds a groove, figures out what she likes and what feels best, I up the ante and directly alight her nerves with pleasure – just a bit, nothing beyond what she told me I could do, still well within the realm of human sensation – and she gasps, almost stealing the breath from my lungs. I shiver at the idea of her controlling that, but sadly the physical is beyond her. I press up against her even as I pull her down to me to deepen the kiss. 

On a mechanical level this whole process should be disgusting, just two meaty things rubbing protuberances against each other’s, but that doesn’t even begin to lessen how good it feels as she presses down on me. She’s taking over, and I’m helping her do it, and it sends weakness down to my toes. I press myself against her to keep myself upright and snake my other hand to hold her head against mine, and her hair feels so silky and smooth between my fingers that I should really figure out how she–

Oh! Oh, yes, please: her hands grip my hips, holding me against her so possessively, and I want them lower, I want her to grab my ass, I want to go deeper, I want this to go all night, I want her to want this forever, I want, I want, I want—  

More . 

An idea pops into my head, from some steamy story or a dozen, and I really hope it’s a real thing – I open my mouth against hers and take her bottom lip between my teeth. Gently, just barely less than enough to cause pain, I bite her lip and she makes the cutest noise I’ve ever heard in my life, enough to push me further. I suckle, and she makes that same gasp-whine-moan and her fingers dig in hard enough to hopefully leave bruises. I’ll tattoo them onto my skin before they fade: something to never let me forget this moment. 

I let go of her lip and she puts me in my place, forcing me back with raw desperation and animalistic pleasure-seeking, and I start to see stars behind my eyelids as she nearly bends me double. I push back, desperately seeking pleasure just as she is, but I’m powerless. I have no leverage, no strength, no power beyond making this as good for her as possible, and she might kiss me until I pass out – Fuck, maybe even after then.

But her lungs burn as much as mine do, and I can feel all four just the same. She pulls back, and we both take in great gasps of air, and not two seconds later I lurch at her, needing her more than I want air. She doesn’t leave me wanting. 

Humans are creatures of pleasure, every single one of us, and that too often makes us do stupid shit; but sometimes it makes us do the most brilliant thing imaginable – My fingers thread between the impossibly silky locks of her hair, and I pull , and it’s the best thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. She cries out breathlessly and can’t help but open her mouth wide against me as she wordlessly tells me how much she liked that. I’ll never get a better chance, not that I’m even thinking, it’s instinct as I try to claim her as mine and assert myself as hers – I slip my tongue into her mouth and she jolts in surprise and fucking hell that was bad, terrible idea, shit shit fuck, I pull my tongue back out and try to pull back but one of Taylor’s hands leaves my hip to grab my head and pull me back in, and the fear and regret leave as quickly as they came. 

No tongue. Okay. She doesn’t want tongue. I can work with that. I’m already getting more than I deserve, more than I ever thought I could – So we won’t French kiss: no big deal. I can still nibble and suckle on her lip, so I do, and she reacts just as deliciously as before, making noises that I’d only heard parodies of before. The real thing sounds so much sweeter. 

I let her lip go, and break for half a second to gasp for air before diving back in. And then— Oh, fuck , she bites me back and it’s just the far side of painful, enough that part of me wants to pull away, but every other part of me wants her to bite down harder, to tear into me and pull me apart at every seam until she’s taken every molecule of mine as her own, until her being is every part of my existence, until I am hers and she is mine and nothing can pull us apart. 

But all we can do is fail to devour each other in a kiss, and all I can do is make it as good for her as it is for me, and all she can do is take me for a ride. No, wait, she can do more, she’s always doing more to me. Every time I’ve seen her since the first, she’s been doing more to me. 

I peek past the pleasure, tracing the nerves that I continue to massage back to her brain, and I don’t touch – I never touch – but I look, and I shiver as I watch her coronas light up in patterns that don’t map onto any other brain I’ve felt. The signals should be nonsense, but deep in my gut, I know what she’s doing. As I make her enjoy this, she's making me love it. I brush her surface, but she digs into me and grabs hold of the most intimate parts of my self and draws me ever nearer to her, pulling me deeper and deeper in love with her. 

My legs give out and we tumble backward into the sand. Taylor lands on me, and she and the ground cooperate to drive the air from my lungs. I pant as Taylor rises up onto her elbows and knees, hovering over me and breathing just as hard. Her hair curtains around us imperfectly; strands fall onto my face and I have to brush them away from my eyes and pull more than one out of my mouth with some minor sputtering. 

“Sorry,” she says softly, shifting her weight so she can use one hand to help me clear her hair from my face and ineffectually tuck it behind an ear. It falls out of place again and brushes against my cheek. And then she just hangs there, above me, staring down at me as I stare up at her. 

“It’s okay,” I whisper, just as softly as her. Our words are meant for just the other.

And then we continue to just lay there and catch our breath. That was intense. Her lips are probably bruised. It’s my fault, but I can’t find it in myself to feel anything but proud. 

She drops down onto all fours again and her face looms closer, conquering all of my vision. I nod, not even sure if she’s waiting for permission but I’m too eager to wait for her to ask. She leans in even closer and brushes her lips against mine, feather-light. I tilt my head up to fit better together, but Taylor keeps the kiss gentle and slow: embers instead of fire, but no less hot for it when pressed so close. 

My hands grab her shirt and urge her down onto me. She obliges, resting her weight on me. Even without hands to hold me down, she’s keeping me in my place, and it’s grounding. I can’t help but focus on every inch of her body that’s touching mine, the weight of her chest against mine, how her hips are pinning my thighs, and how soft her lips are, slightly chapped though they may be. A part of me wants to heal them, to smooth them over and make this kiss just a little bit better, but I’d have to stop her to ask, and I refuse. I need her here – on me, against me, kissing me – just like this, forever.

This kiss lacks the wild abandon and hunger of the previous one, but it’s far from chaste. Instead of devouring each other, we’re slowly savoring the other: the last slice of cake, saved for the end of a hard day, rather than a bag of beef jerky snuck in the middle of an emergency. She takes some of me, and I take some of her, and we feed each other our selves. 

I look again, into her brain, and can’t help the long keening sound that leaves me as I see how her coronas are still just as active as before. She’s taking me in her power and molding me into a better shape. She’s fixing me and finally making me into something good. It makes me feel so warm and gooey, I’m half surprised I’m not melting into the sand.

I let her take me, and she takes, takes, takes, and it’s good because I know she’ll do better with me than I ever could. Forever and ever I devote my lips to her, and the moment of conversion extends for longer than time. The sun starts to rise. 

“ AHEM .”

We flinch and break apart, Taylor sitting up, and I shield my eyes from the glare of the flashlight in my face. It moves away after a moment to blast Taylor in the face, and she shields against it with a hand and she rises to her feet. I sit up.

“Seriously?” the intruder asks, now pointing the beam of light at the ground. “We let you alone for five minutes and this is what you get up to? Taylor, I expected better from you. I mean seriously, there are children here.”

“Sorry, Claudia,” Taylor says. “But none of the kids even saw.” 

“And that’s supposed to make it better? You know well enough to try and hide it from children, but there’s no hiding from the Lord, and you are here with Him just as much as you are here with me now.”

Taylor doesn’t have anything to say to that, and I can’t blame her. What the fuck is someone supposed to even say to that spiritualist nonsense? The moment is thoroughly interrupted, however, so I rise to my feet and brush approximately half a pound of sand off my clothes and out of my hair.

“Sorry,” I mutter, more because I should than because I am, because that was likely the best moment of my entire life and if I thought that Taylor would be down for it I would jump her bones here and now and try to put the previous kiss to shame, nun be damned.

Claudia huffs and shakes her head. “We’re getting ready to leave. Come on. We're going to pray before we go and I had originally come to ask if you'd join us." She leaves silent the 'But I'm not asking anymore.'

Then she turns and marches away, back the way she came. Taylor grabs her flashlight from where she dropped it in the sand and we walk after Claudia. As we follow, some of the euphoria from the kisses leaves me, making room for chilling uncertainty. Taylor liked that, but she liked what I did in between the hedges too; is she going to pull away again? Is this going to be a cycle? I push too far, too quick, too hungry, and she holds me at arm’s length until I beg to close the distance? 

Her hand finds mine and almost immediately the questions flee. Her lips are definitely bruised, but her system is absolutely flooded with endorphins. Her steps are so light she’s almost floating, her smile is full-lipped and beaming, and her skin is so flushed she’d be glowing in better light; she’s like a Scion in miniature, but much prettier. She liked it, and she’s not pulling away. It’s really hard to not pull her into another kiss, so I do the next best thing; I weave my fingers between hers and pull her hand up to my lips to kiss.

A second later, I use my other hand to clear the sand from my lips. I’d be mad if not for her sheepish giggle. A giggle. Taylor giggled . It’s cute enough to make me not even mad that she almost fed me sand. 

We’re getting closer to the rest of the group; their flashlights and glowsticks are distinct. We’re almost back with the group. It’s sad, but all good things must come to an end, and this was a really good day. Better than I thought I could have, really. 

While we still have a bit of separation from the rest, I take the chance to tell Taylor, in a low voice, conscious of Claudia not twenty feet in front of us, “I get what you meant earlier, when you asked if you were a bad person for enjoying what you do to me.”

“Yeah?” she asks. “Did you change your mind about that making me a bad person?”

“Fuck no,” I whisper-giggle. “We’re both bad people. What we just did was the most fun I’ve ever had in my life, and it was bad. But it’s okay. We’re both bad, but it’s okay because we’ll keep each other from being any worse to others. We’re bad, but we’ll make each other good.”

She frowns but doesn’t respond. She’s not happy to hear the truth, but that’s okay; she hasn’t known she’s bad for as long as I have. She’ll come around eventually. Until then, she can be as delusional as she wants and I’ll stay right here with her. I lean my head against her even though doing that while we walk is weird and we both jostle me with every step. I just want to be close to her for a while longer. Maybe forever longer, even. Maybe. She’s still not my type. 

Chapter Text

February 12. Saturday.

I’m wrapped in Vicky’s arms, safe and secure above it all. So high in the sky, the world’s troubles are tiny and distant. Nothing can touch me up here except the one who brought me so high, my comfortable love. I pull myself closer against her and nestle my head in the crook of her neck. 

The city passes below us in a blur as she flies us out to sea, over downtown, the rig, the boat graveyard. She goes until the city isn’t even a twinkle in the distance, and it’s just the sea. The sky is clear and the stars are brilliantly twinkling, unshadowed by the city’s problems. The ocean’s waves below are calmingly loud and the surface reflects the sky above, so perfectly that it’s like there’s nothing there, leaving only Vicky and me hanging in a tranquil void.

“I love you.” The words spill out of me, unblocked by the world we left behind. “I’ve always loved you, since the day we met. You are the most perfect, beautiful, brilliant woman in the world and I love you.”

“I know.”

I startle and look up at the person holding me, who spoke not in Vicky’s voice, but Taylor’s . It’s Taylor that smiles down at me with her wide, calm, exciting lips; Taylor whose luxurious dark hair is held back by Glory Girl’s golden tiara; Taylor who can’t fly. We start to fall and I start to panic, but she continues to hold me close and smile, unruffled by the plummet.

“And I love you too,” she says. And then she kisses me.

We hit the water and I gasp, sitting up in my bed. I’m breathing quickly and heavily, and after a moment it slows. I’m in my room, in my bed. It was a dream. I fall back into bed with a groan. That was a good dream until Taylor ruined it. What was the dream? Even as I try to recall the details, they slip through my metaphorical fingers like sand until all I’m left with is a sense of longing, loss, and a stomachache. I don’t think that last one is because of the dream though. I ate dinner last night, but I guess it wasn’t enough with all of the evening’s activities.

I check my phone and find it’s still earlier than it has any right being on a Saturday. I consider going back to bed, but falling dreams are a bitch to return from and I’m too hungry anyway. Even though it goes against the core of my being, I guess I’m getting an early start on the day. Still feeling salty and sandy despite my admittedly perfunctory shower last night, I decide food can wait.

A minute of logistics later, and I’m standing in a steamy shower, hot water beating down on my back in the closest thing I’ll ever get to a massage. It’s glorious and rejuvenating to just stand here and pretend like it’s washing away the stress of my life along with everything else. I tilt my head back and let the spray soak my hair, fill my palm with my 4-in-1 gel, and then set about lathering it into the mound atop my head.

My hair sucks, and washing it especially sucks. It takes forever to get the shampoo-conditioner in, and takes forever to get it out, and no matter what I do it just doesn’t look good. Everyone else in the family has easy, beautiful hair. Vicky can spend half an hour messing with her hair and she’ll come out looking like a goddess; I spend half an hour on my hair just to make it almost presentable. It’s bullshit, but that’s life.

I rinse my hair, kill all the bacteria on the loofah, soak it with more 4-in-1, and start to wash myself. When I start on my leg, I notice the water on the floor of the tub is tinted red.

“Oh shit!” There’s red running down my leg from my–  “WHAT THE FUCK BLOOD?!”

A few seconds later there’s a knock on the door. Carol’s voice calls, “What’s going on in there?”

“I’m bleeding,” I call back.

“How serious? Is it arterial? I’m coming in.”

“NO!” I scream as I hear the doorknob start to turn. “No, it’s not that bad. I’m just– I think I got my period? Maybe?” 

Is this seriously a period? It looks and bleeds like one, and that would explain why my stomach hurts so badly: menstrual cramps. But this just raises further questions, such as how the fuck am I on my period!? I’m supposed to be immune to those, same as cancer and genetic issues; my power was supposed to have fixed all that. But apparently not? How? And why now?

I can hear Carol’s matching confusion as she asks, “Are you sure?”

“Unless something crawled up there and died, then yeah! I’m pretty damn sure.”

“But the doctors said–”

“I know, Mom! I fucking know, okay? But I’m bleeding and I’m cramping and you think I don’t know what the doctors said?!” I clutch my stomach and double over to try and ease the pain. No such luck. I mutter to myself, “Fucking useless quacks: all of them.”

Despite it all, I’m actually not entirely surprised by this turn of events. I admit, getting my period after years without is a surprise for sure, but it figures something would come around to kick me back down into the miserable mud. The minute I’m happy and things are going my way, I get fucked by the universe. Why not have that be in the form of menstruation? I tempted fate. I had a good day at the beach yesterday, and now I’m paying for it because the universe is a scornful bitch with a vendetta against me specifically.

I scoff because no, that’s not fair and it’s way too self-absorbed; Other people have it worse than me. I have a roof over my head, daily meals, an education, and even a sister who loves me. I’m not wasting away in a hospital bed, or stuck as a Fallen breeder, or stuck in a containment zone. Some people would kill to take my place, and honestly I’d be tempted to let them. The universe hates me, but I’m not special in that regard – It hates everyone in its unending variety of unfair ways. 

All through my navel gazing, Carol stays silent. I groan. I just know she’s standing out there with her typical cold frown waiting to fuss at me about proper language in the house and that crap. I finish washing myself, then shut the water off and leave the shower.

While drying off, I stain a towel red before I remember that I need a god damn tampon and where they are. I grab one from the bottom drawer under the sink and do something I haven’t done in literal years: apply a tampon so I can get on with my fucking day.

This is such bullshit. I should have seen something like this coming, but it’s still bullshit. I’m not allowed anything nice, I know that. I’m not allowed to have a good time or be happy or enjoy myself without something coming along and smacking me down like Icarus. But fuck this, I’m going to Sledgehammer today, and my sorta-girlfriend is going to keep fixing my brain, and I’m going to have a halfway decent fucking day. If the universe wants me to be miserable, it’s going to have to try a lot harder than this. 

I stop. 

…I really hope I didn’t just invite disaster. I strain my ears, but I don’t hear emergency sirens. No gunshots or home break-in either. Still, I don’t let myself relax because that’s exactly what caused this shit in the first place, but I do let myself finish drying off. The hospital is probably going to be more crowded than ever tomorrow, but I’ll deal with that tomorrow. I’m spending the day with Taylor, conditioning each other, and soon she’ll make me even better at healing. 

Wrapped in a towel, with my hair still dripping from where the towel couldn’t reach, I leave the bathroom, surprised to not find Carol standing there: a small miracle that I’ll probably pay for later. The door to Vicky’s room opens on my way back to mine. Dressed in boxers and an oversized t-shirt – her pajamas – she gives me a sleepy look and yawn-grunts a greeting.

“Morning,” I return.

She rubs sleepiness out of her eyes and floats toward the bathroom to take a shower of her own. At least I didn’t bother her too much with the yelling, it looks like.

I escape into my room and collapse onto my bed with a groan. It feels like my organs are strangling each other. In actuality it’s just my uterine lining tearing itself to pieces and slowly draining, which is just so much better. I curl into a ball to try and ride it out. I don’t know why, but it hurts so much worse now that I know what it is. When I thought it was hunger, the pain wasn’t nearly this bad.

Still, I’m a big girl and even if it’s been years since I’ve dealt with this particular flavor of suffering, I’ve got shit to do today and I’m not going to let this stop me. Even if it hurts so bad I want to cry.

Five minutes of bedridden agony later, the cramps have dulled enough that I can make myself get up and get dressed. I head downstairs to the kitchen for coffee. Coffee will fix me. Coffee always fixes me. …Unless it would make me nauseous. Does caffeine make menstruating people nauseous? It’s been so long since my last period, I can’t remember. I don’t think I was even drinking coffee back then.

My last period was before I triggered and started healing, so no, I hadn’t yet begun to understand the divine delight of coffee. Vicky learned I was missing periods about two months after my trigger event, when she found me in the bathroom with a negative pregnancy test – Of course I wasn’t pregnant, I hadn’t had any sex, but that didn’t stop my dumb, thirteen year old self from thinking I was immaculate.

Vicky told Carol about it because she was worried, and Carol took me to the OB-GYN, who said that I was medically fine and my absent menstruation was likely a consequence of my powers: a silver lining to the trauma. She told me to enjoy it. The whole family figured it was like my immunity to disease and biological failings.

It turns out that was bullshit. Maybe it’s all bullshit. Maybe I’ve developed stage four lung cancer without noticing and I’m going to die tomorrow. I wish. I’m not that lucky.

I drink my coffee. If it makes things worse, I’ll just die about it.

Carol walks into the kitchen, her cellphone against her ear. “Sounds good, thank you,” she says into it, and then flips it closed. To me, she says, “Good, you’re up. I scheduled you a doctor’s appointment so we can figure out what’s wrong.”

I grunt.

“Are you ready to go?”

I blink. “Go? Go where?”

“To the doctor,” she says like I’m stupid. “I just told you I made you an appointment.”

“Wait, like, today? I don’t want to go to the doctor; I have stuff to do today. Can’t we do it tomorrow?”

"Amy. We need to make sure there's nothing wrong with you, medically.” She specifies because we both know there are nonmedical wrongs resting inside me. “You say it's your period, but it could be a lesion or internal bleeding or any number of things. We don’t know what’s wrong with you or why this is happening."

"It's just a period."

"You don't get periods,” she stresses. “The doctors told us that."

"Well! apparently I do, it's just every two years." I know that’s stupid and not at all how human bodies work, but today’s supposed to be my day off! I’m grasping at straws and Carol knows it.

"That makes no sense,” she says, calling me on my bullshit. “We're going to the doctor today and that's final."

A freshly showered Vicky enters, her hair in a towel, her body in a robe, and her skin glowing. "Who's going to the doctor?"

"Amy is,” Carol says.

"Not today I'm not,” I argue. Even if I’ve run out of ground in the argument, I’m not giving up. Today is supposed to be my relax and unwind day. Saturdays are supposed to be my ‘me’ days. I’ve lost them to actual emergencies before, like healing the heroes after a nasty fight or helping out after Lung does something, but this isn’t anywhere near that level.

“I’ve already scheduled the appointment. You’re going.” Carol’s tone brokers no room for argument, but I make room.

I let out an angry whine. “Can’t you reschedule it?”

“Hold up, why is Ames going to the doctor? Or not going?” Vicky asks.

“I got my period,” I say.

“She thinks she got her period. We’re not sure,” Carol undercuts.

Vicky’s face screws up with confusion. “Wait, but you don’t get periods.”

“And that is why we’re going to the doctor today. Even if this is her period, we need to know why she’s only just now getting it again.”

Vicky’s eyes fill with weapons-grade worry and she points them at me like a beautiful pair of baby blue guns. My heart melts before she even says anything, and I know I’ve already lost. I’m going to the doctor. If I’m lucky, it’ll be quick and I’ll be able to make it to Games’ Games before the afternoon games start.

<3 <3

It was not quick, and I watch in despair as the clock on the wall ticks over the next hour’s start. The Sledgehammer games just began. If we left now, I’d still be too late to play. Even if that weren’t the case, I’m not sure I’d even still want to go. I almost just want the day to end, but tomorrow’s Sunday, and that means I’ll be right back here at the hospital, doubly miserable all day.

I open my texts and tell Taylor the news.

im nto gna mske it 2dat

Are you still at the hospital?

Ye

Do you want me to come by?

no pont. do watvr. Then, because I can’t wait to see it fall through, I send, u dicth julie yet

You know her name is Julia, and no. We’re playing a board game with some of her friends. She’s surprised to be having fun.

I frown. That’s no fun. I was hoping that Julissa would have choked on her foot by now so I could say ‘I told you so.’ Spending half the morning with Taylor should have broken Jules of any desire to hang out with Taylor at all; the situation should have dealt with itself so I wouldn’t have to.

I sigh and put my phone down to wait for the doctors to get back to me in a more appropriately miserable fashion. The doctors here at Brockton Bay General were all too happy to make time to see me today. Technically, since this is a gynecologic issue, I should be at a specialized clinic, but no one thought that was appropriate. No, they wanted to subject me to all the bullshit tests “just to be safe,” because no one wants there to be anything wrong with the lauded Panacea.

What probably could have been an hour-long visit has turned into almost five hours of bloodwork, repetitive and invasive physical examinations, and the same questions asked again and again and again. And they won’t even try to tell us what’s wrong! They keep saying they want to be absolutely sure before giving a diagnosis. It stinks of liability-covering bullshit.

It feels weird to be taking up a bed, to be in a hospital and not moving through the halls to heal people. I wish I was doing that because then it would at least make this wasted day worth something to somebody. But instead I’m stuck in a bed, fiddling with my phone and wishing I could be doing anything else. Vicky was here earlier, but after the second hour of nothing, I begged her to leave. I don’t need to drag her or anyone else down with my crap.

Unfortunately, that’s left me alone in a room with Carol for three hours. She ignored me when I told her she could leave and I’d tell her what the doctors said, and has cycled between doing paperwork, tapping her fingers against her legal binder while she stares at the door, and interrogating any doctors or nurses that enter the room. It’s obvious she wants to be here as little as me, but she insists on sticking around and torturing the both of us. Tap-tap-tap, her fingers drive me up the wall, and for no reason.

I speak up. “You know, you don’t have to be here.”

Her fingers halt, and then settle as she gazes coolly at me. “Don’t be ridiculous; I already called out of work to bring you here.”

“I didn’t ask you to bring me here,” I grumble. 

“You didn’t ask to be born either. But here we are.” She returns her attention to her documents, dismissing me with one of her favorite pieces of wisdom. 

At least I’m starting to understand why so many of my patients are in such shitty moods by the time I get to them. It turns out hospitals suck for everyone. Who knew? 

Finally, the door opens again and Drs. Madsen and Seagraves enter: the attending physician and the OB-GYN, respectively. Carol’s work binder snaps shut and she stands to give them her full attention.

“Anything yet?” I ask.

“We’re still waiting on a couple tests,” Dr. Madsen says and I only barely repress a snarl; that’s the fifth time he’s said that to me today, “but from what we can tell, everything points to this just being normal menstruation, if a bit heavy flow.”

“How is that possible?” Carol asks sharply. “She hasn’t menstruated in over two years, and now suddenly her cycle is back?”

Dr. Seagraves fields this question. “According to Amy’s records, she stopped menstruating shortly after gaining powers. The doctor you visited for that, Dr. Polk, proposed that the two were likely related since it’s not unheard of for parahumans’ bodies to change mildly with their powers, or wildly, in the case of case fifty-threes.”

“Yes. We’re aware of what Dr. Polk said. And?” Carol is out of patience.

If Dr. Seagraves is intimidated, she doesn’t show it. “And parahuman physiology is still a new field. We’re learning more from new developments and studies every day. I don’t mean to cause alarm, but frankly there’s a lot we don’t know about how powers can and cannot affect a parahuman’s body. All that to say, we no longer agree with Dr. Polk’s suggestion for why Amy’s cycle stopped. After consulting with experts across the country, we think Amy’s cycle was interrupted by the trauma of her trigger event and remained disrupted by stress.”

Dr. Madsen jumps in. “Amy doesn’t have the medical history she should – it looks like she hasn’t had a check up in almost nineteen months – so we can’t say for sure that the results of today’s tests aren’t outliers, but her cortisol levels are far too high for her age. Her reported sleep habits and general wellness seem to support this diagnosis as well.”

“Trauma and stress are known to delay menstruation or even shut down the cycle all together for long periods of time, until the body feels like it’s out of danger,” Dr. Seagraves says.

“So this is just my period?” I ask to confirm. “I’m fine otherwise?”

“There are still those tests we’re waiting on. We want to reconfirm whether you’re actually exempt from genetic disorders developing, as was previously assumed, but those results will take weeks,” Dr. Madsen waffles. “For now, though, yes, you’re fine. If one of those reveals something, we’ll be sure to give you a call, but neither of us expect they’ll reveal anything too serious.”

“Cool.” I huff and lean back in the bed. They couldn’t have told me this two hours ago? Or better yet, over the phone? This was a waste of time and energy for everyone that could have been better spent on anything else.

Carol shoots me a quick look and then returns her attention to the doctors. “I don’t see how a single event could lead to that drastic and prolonged a change. There must be something more than just her trigger.”

“Which is why I mentioned stress.” Dr. Seagraves looks to me. “You said you’ve been sleeping better and going out more often in recent weeks, coinciding with when you came out to your family and got a girlfriend, right? I’m not saying that those are the only reasons, but I think that the relief of no longer having that secret to keep and the change in your routine might have… knocked things loose, so to say.”

“You’re telling me that getting a girlfriend made me have my period?” I deadpan.

She shrugs. “More or less, yes.”

I take a moment to silently curse Taylor, the source of all my recent woes.

“That can’t be all,” Carol insists. She looks at me with a curious and judgemental frown. “It can’t be. There’s no way you were that stressed about being gay in a family like ours.”

She knows. There’s no way she actually knows about the me loving Vicky thing or the Taylor is a Master thing, but the idea of her knowing sticks strongly in the forefront of my brain and I can’t shake it off. Even if she doesn’t know, she suspects something, and that’s almost as bad.

“Well, whatever the source of your stress is, I want you both to keep an eye on it. It’s not healthy for anyone, especially someone so young, to be so stressed,” Dr. Madsen says.

“I agree,” Dr. Seagraves says.

“We’ll also want to see her more regularly for a variety of other tests,” Dr. Madsen says. “She’ll need to have more regular checkups in the future too.”

“So does that mean I can go?” I ask. “We’re good? We’re done?”

“Sure. Talk to Casey at the nurses’ station and she’ll get you discharged.”

“ Finally .” I huff and get out of the bed.

I get nurse Casey’s help filling out my discharge forms – something I’ve never done and never thought I’d have to do – and then I’m forced to wait as Carol lingers in the hospital room with the doctors. I take the chance to text Taylor and Vicky to update them on the situation and how it’s pretty much no longer a situation. They three leave the room after a minute, just as I’m itching enough to want to go back in there or just leave and bus home. I fall in step behind Carol and we leave together. I get in the passenger seat, and Carol gets in the driver seat.

This fucking sucks. The whole day is a wash at this point. Suddenly I get periods again, I miss Sledgehammer Saturday, I lose hours of conditioning with Taylor, and my uterus is still trying to kill me to death with its own self as a blunt object. Fucking bullshit: all of it.

Carol starts the car but doesn’t put it in gear. We idle in the parking lot for a minute before she asks, “Are we going to the game store, or home?”

“It’s too late to go to Games’ Games. The games already started and you can’t join in the middle.”

“Ah. Maybe next week.”

“Yeah. Sure. Next week.” Unless I stub my toe or sneeze once or I get an irritant in my eye. Then it’ll be straight back to the hospital for more bullshit.

“Home then?” she asks.

“Unless you want to drag me somewhere else,” I mutter. “I’m apparently not doing anything today.” 

I tense at the inevitable scolding for my backtalk or my muttering or my passive aggression, but it doesn’t come immediately. She simply purses her lips and glares out through the windshield. That’s worse. Her storing ammunition for later is so much worse. 

She puts the car in gear and gets us moving. I watch the city pass by through the window and try to zone out. This sucks – I know I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. What sucks more is that we barely make it three blocks before Carol feels the need to stir shit up, and it’s not even about what I just said – That shoe remains high in the air.

“You know, I have half a mind to put together a malpractice suit against Dr. Polk. There’s no way this is her only count of malpractice. Kim specialized in this for a few years and she owes me a favor; she’d help. If Polk can’t do her job right, she shouldn’t be doing it at all, especially as a doctor. We ignored years of potential problems with you because of her diagnosis. Maybe that level of error is fine in some professions, but not medicine. If you can’t be trusted to make a simple diagnosis, you shouldn’t practice medicine; it’s as simple as that. “

Against all the wisdom I’ve accrued over the last decade as a member of this family, I let out a sigh.

“What?” Carol asks, her voice sharp enough to cut kill.

“Nothing,” I say, trying to dismiss this.  

“What is it?” She does not accept dismissal or refusal.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, and my elbow on the door’s armrest transfers a bit of the road’s turbulence to my face. “Can you please not sue Dr. Polk?”

“And why not?” Carol asks, affronted.

“Because I work with doctors almost every day? Because word gets around? Because if you get Dr. Polk’s medical license revoked, everyone will give me crap for getting a colleague or a friend fired?”

“Amy”– I hate the way she says my name, so condescendingly fed up –”personal inconvenience shouldn’t be a factor for this. If a doctor can’t do their job right, they shouldn’t be in the practice. Dr. Polk needs to be held accountable; it’s as simple as that.” She exhales sharply through her nose. “I should be able to have the preliminary paperwork drawn up the end of the day if I start as soon as we get home. That it’s the weekend will slow things down a bit, but–”

“Can you just please,” I interrupt, her every word today having brought me another degree hotter and now I’m finally erupting, “just please, for once – just one fucking time – just chill? Just for once, could you maybe listen to me and just let this go? Could you do that for me just once in my fucking life? Is that maybe, at all fucking possible?!”

Carol grits her teeth, her jaw visibly pressing out behind her cheek, and I expect her to lay into me for my stupid, angry, bullshit rant that I apparently just had to get out – fuck my future, right? – but she doesn’t. She simmers silently instead, and I know I fucked the dog worse than I’d thought; she’s cooking up something far worse than a tongue lashing for me, but I can’t even bring myself to try and think about what that might be.

I prop my head up with my arm and return my gaze to the window. I just cussed out Carol, and I can’t even feel good about it. I’ve imagined – fantasized – about doing just that so many times in response to so many things, and it finally happens, and I can’t even be happy about it. There’s no catharsis; I’m just tired and frustrated. I want this to be over; I’m not even sure what ‘this’ I want to end: this drive, this day, this week, this year, this life? I don’t know.

Carol, bitch that she is, can’t let me have even the smallest ending. When we’re maybe halfway home, stuck in traffic, she reopens her mouth.

“They said it was stress that was keeping your cycle irregular.”

It’s a statement, not a question. We both know what they said. We were both there. We both know she’s putting it lightly, but only one of us knows why. She’s so cryptic for no reason, all the time. And when she’s not, it’s even worse. I don’t respond. Her fingers tap sequentially on the wheel in a way that puts my teeth on edge. We make it through an entire two intersections before she opens her mouth again.

“Would you mind sharing with me what that stress might have been?”

I bite my cheek to stop the instinctual answer of ‘you.’ I’m in a deep enough hole already. But what else can I tell her? That I’ve just been broken and messed up from the start and so it only follows that I would remain so? That I’m responsible for so much suffering because I can’t be trusted to use my full powers for good, if that’s even possible? That I spend every moment of every day of my life forcing myself to go through the motions so I don’t just stop and never restart? That if I relaxed at the wrong time for a single second, I could make worthless everything I’ve ever done and send people the world over second guessing my every action since I triggered? 

There’s no way I can honestly answer her question when any version of the truth will screw me. Carol, Vicky, Taylor, healing, school, even Mark: everything stresses me out. 

“I asked you a question, Amy,” she presses. 

I can’t tell her any of that shit or she’d kill me. So instead I just huff and say, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what’s been causing you enough stress to stop your menstrual cycle for years? I find that hard to believe.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth, perhaps? Tell me what’s wrong.”

I sigh. “Everything, I guess?”

“Everything? Going to the game store on Saturdays causes enough stress to interrupt your cycle?” Disbelief drips from her tongue like acid.

“Ugh, no, not that.”

“Then what?”

“Everything else! It’s just life. Life is stressful; that’s just how life is.”

“There’s stress, and then there’s this ,” Carol delineates. “ This isn’t a normal amount of stress. This is unhealthy. I work almost ten hours a day at the firm most days, assist my sister with managing New Wave, take care of Victoria and you, patrol at least once a week, and regularly get into fights with deadly villains. You go to school and volunteer at the hospital maybe fifteen hours a week, and that’s it. You have almost every afternoon to yourself, and every weekend you have an entire day just to play your very expensive game. And yet somehow, there’s enough stress in your life to cause this . I just don’t understand what part of that stresses you out so much.”

“Okay, fine, I get it! I don’t have it that hard and there’s no reason for my body to be like this. Other people’s lives are harder – I know that already.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say,” Carol tells me coolly.

“Oh my god, then what are you trying to say?” I ask, my fingers digging into the cardoor’s armrest.

“What I’m trying to say is… Tell me what is wrong.”

“Everything. Nothing. I don’t know. It’s no big deal.”

“Don’t say that. This is a big deal. If the doctors missed this, what else could they have missed? Are you even actually immune to disease? Have you been exposing yourself every time you volunteered? Are you suddenly going to come down with every disease the moment I turn my back?”

“Do you want to turn around and drop me back off at the hospital? Let them run every test out there for every single disease? The day’s already shot, so we might as well!”

“Don’t take that tone with me, young lady.”

My response catches in my throat and my shaking jaw clicks shut. I let out a huff and sink back into my seat. My gaze returns from Carol to the window. “Sorry.” I say the word like a curse.

We’ve made it into our neighborhood when Carol tries to restart the conversation. Again . I’d be more than happy to just sit in silence, but no. She can’t let anything lie. She always has to say something . She can’t ever just let things be.

“We need to come up with a plan to manage your stress,” she says.

“It’s managed,” I mutter.

“You’re telling me you’re no longer stressed?” She doesn’t believe me.

“I’m bleeding, aren’t I?” Obviously I’m okay.

“And you think that’s the only symptom of stress?” She clicks her tongue. “You should know better than anyone else what effects prolonged stress can have on the body.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Then tell me: what are they? What are the effects? What does prolonged, intense stress do to someone’s body?”

I cringe. “Why?”

“Tell me,” she demands.

“Headaches, sleep problems, impaired memory and concentration, increased risk of heart disease and heart attacks, muscle pain,” I recite half the effects halfheartedly. 

“And do you think you’re immune to that? That stress just magically won’t do anything to you?”

I sigh, but it turns into a groan. “It’s all long term shit. It doesn’t really cause problems until you’re like fifty.”

“And you don’t think that’s something we should get ahead of? That’s not something you can just ignore and never deal with, Amy.”

“Mom. We’re capes,” I state. I hate this. I hate that she’s making me spell this out for her like she doesn’t already know.

“And?”

“And we don’t have to worry about long term. It’s not like either of us are ever going to see fifty.”

“Don’t say things like that,” she snaps, more concerned with appearances than anything else. Like always.

“Why not?” I demand in a rare fit of half-hearted, sullen defiance. “It’s true.”

She shoots me a glare and for once I match it. I immediately wish I hadn’t, as she quickly pulls over. We’re still a few blocks from our house, idling on the curb. Her fingers tap against the wheel, and each impact feeds the growing tension in the car.

“Do you really mean that? Do you seriously believe you won’t live that long?”

I groan. “If I say I was joking, can we go home?”

“Amy. This is serious . Be honest for once.”

My jaw clenches and my muscles tremble taut. Why won’t she just let this go? Why can’t she just drop it? She had to pull over to drill into this over and over again. I just want this to be over.

“Do you think that’s okay? That that is a good thing to think? Because it isn’t.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“I’m not joking.”

“And neither am I,” I snap. “Name one cape that’s fifty years old? Or that’s even close? The only ones up there are like, maybe the Triumvirate, and they’re freaks, more than the rest of us. Most capes don’t even reach our thirties. Sorry I’m not deluding myself enough for your tastes.”

“The statistics are not the issue here,” she says, enunciating each word with perfect precision, shoving each syllable into my brain like an ice pick. “The issue is your attitude towards life and how detrimental such an attitude is to the people–”

I let out a snarl to drown her out and shove open the car door. I fumble angrily at the seatbelt buckle until it releases me, and then I get out. I slam the door shut behind me and start walking. I’m not entirely sure if I’m even heading in the right direction but I don’t care right now.

“Amy, get back in the car,” Carol says through the window she’s just opened. I keep walking, and a moment later the car pulls even with me and matches my pace. “Amy Dallon, get back in this car this instant.”

I speed up, but I can’t outspeed the car.

“You are making a scene. Get back in here so we can finish our talk.”

I keep walking. I’m shaking, and moving helps it stay minute.

“ Amy Claire Dallon , stop this nonsense right now. Get back in this car so we can finish our talk.”

“I don’t want to fucking talk, okay?!” I shout, turning on her. I let out an angry breath and then get back to walking. I steadfastly ignore the car following beside me, even as it tickles my rancor more and more.

“...Fine,” Carol says after half a block. “We don’t have to talk, but would you get in before a gossip rag picks this up as a story?”

The idea of this making into the tabloids or online and being paraded around as ‘news’ for a week – I can already imagine the headline: Kidnapping or Family Trouble? Brandish Drives Panacea Away After Worst Car Ride In History, Healer Looks Bloated And Puffy, Is Leaving New Wave!? – is stupidly possible enough to make me stop and get back in. But I swear to fucking god, if Carol says a single word, I’m getting right back out.

“Thank you,” Carol says because she always needs the last word, and I almost get back out right then and there.

It’s only because she doesn’t follow it up with anything that I stay put. She drives us home in silence tense enough to strangle, and when we pull into the driveway, I get out and go inside to my room before she can try to trap me with a loophole and restart the conversation.

I flop on my bed, bury my face into my pillow, and scream. Fuck Carol, fuck this whole day, fuck everything . I scream again, wordless and raw.

When I’m breathless and my throat stings, I shed my outer layer in an attempt to cool off, and it’s only mildly successful. God dammit. Why can she never leave anything alone? Why does Carol insist on grilling me over every little thing? Like, sure, it’s weird and kind of fucked that Polk misdiagnosed me but it’s not that big a deal! No one died. No one even got hurt, excepting some persistent and vindictive cramps – Seriously, it’s like my uterus is making up for all the pain it didn’t cause me these last few years. Stupid shitty human body. Periods are bullshit. Cat’s don’t have to deal with periods. Pretty much every other mammal just reabsorbs the lining, but not humans!

Periods would be the first thing to go, if I ever remade humanity. Not that I’ll ever do that. The only situation where doing that isn’t absolutely monstrous is if the whole population gets wiped out, and there aren’t many capes who could even do that. Hell, even the endbringers probably won’t ever entirely wipe out humanity, at least not for a couple hundred years or so; civilization, sure, but not every single person.

But even if I did do that, it wouldn’t help me one bit. I can’t affect myself. Apparently, I’m stuck going through this bullshit every month until menopause or death. Stupid shitty power. Stupid shitty body. Stupid shitty world.

Laying in bed feeling miserable and hating everything doesn’t help anything though, so I pull out my phone. I have one text from Vicky saying how relieved she is that everything is fine and another joking about how I can’t rub this in anymore, complete with a semicolon-P. I also have almost two paragraphs of texts from Taylor that I’m not going to read right now. 

Weirdly, even though that should exhaust my circle of friends, I have a message from a third person. The number isn’t saved, but as soon as I open the text I know who it’s from. How could I not, when the latest message in our sporadic string of communications is a picture of the woman herself: Rose, looking up at the high-angle camera. She’s biting her lip, and one finger pulls at her collar, revealing a hint of purple lace. The attached message reads wish you were here ;3

…I suddenly have the overwhelming urge to masturbate. Vicky’s complained about period horniness enough that I know that’s exactly what this is, but that doesn’t make it feel any less weird or gross. Rose isn’t my type and I definitely don’t like her, but apparently that doesn’t stop my brain from immediately supplying the image of Vicky taking a picture like this. But the logistics alone of trying to get off… I shudder. It would be so messy and I already ruined one towel today.

…There’s already one towel that’s ruined…

…and period blood is the cleanest of all blood…

…the day’s already shot and I don’t have any other plans…

…Fuck it.

I crack my door, poke my head out, and scan the hall: empty. One sneaking mission to and from the bathroom later, and I’ve got the bloodstained towel from this morning’s shower. I lock my door, lay the towel down on my bed, blood side up, shimmy out of my pants and underwear, and lay down. I retrieve my phone, close Rose’s text, and open the porn app – commonly referred to as an ‘internet browser’ – to find something.

There’s nothing new in the GloryGirl/Panacea tag in Pararotica Online: just the same four stories that have been there for the last three months. Nothing new in the explicit and real person fiction tags for us on Author’s Archive either. You’d think that with how many freaks there are on the internet, more people would write about us.

I blink in surprise. There’s a new porny story about me. Glory Girl gets a new one every couple weeks – creepy, but I’m not complaining – but it’s been two months since the last update to the Panacea tag. I open it just to see what it’s about, and find it’s about Taylor and me. Someone wrote a story about Taylor and me. I maybe shouldn’t be surprised – the internet being full of freaks and all – but this never even crossed my mind as a possibility. I didn’t think either of us were interesting enough to warrant it. 

Despite my better judgement and goal of getting off as quickly as possible, I start to read. It’s… bad. Really bad, and not at all porny at the start. I can’t help but laugh mockingly at the very first exchange between the two of ‘us,’ where she talks about us being soulmates and I open up about finally finding someone who appreciates all I do for the world.

I would not fucking say that.

Still, it’s so bad I can’t help but read on. Over the course of the next three thousand words, I intimately and blushingly heal her wounds three separate times from three separate fights she got in to protect me from school bullies, Empire gangsters, and Lung himself, tell her I don’t deserve her – to which she responds “You deserve the world and all it’s jewels and beauty and stuff that’s almost as pretty as you are” – and tearfully open up about how hard yet cool it is to be me and how I’ll always ease her pain and heal her wounds.

I laugh even harder when, in the last quarter, the story finally starts trying to earn its explicit rating. It is only a try, and it’s just sad. The action is either impossible to follow along with or impossible for a human to do, my Thinker power is written completely wrong, the dialogue is so generically porny it’s absurd, and the author can’t go a single paragraph without mentioning someone’s breasts, even though Taylor doesn’t have any in real life. I can’t even finish the story before the story gives me a new cramp from laughing.

I have to send this to Taylor. She’ll appreciate how hilariously cringe this is. My laughter’s only mostly died down when I send her the link through PHO’s messenger.

And then I realize what I’ve done. My laughter dies completely and my mirth shrivels into a wrinkled raisin of horror. I just sent literal porn of myself and my girlfriend to my girlfriend. And it’s not even good porn! It’s the worst porn of myself I’ve ever seen, and someone once shipped me with Leet.

lmoa thsii s so funy, culd u imagn?

id ont liek thsi btw

leik this legit sukcs, yk?

its so bad its funny