Chapter Text

-----

Existence Outside the Domain (A)

As a being whose story took place in a quarantined multiverse, and whose power originally came from an alien entity, she possesses a nature completely alien to Gaia and Alaya. As a result, she is less affected by the Boundaries and Rules of Gaia and Alaya.

 

[LOCKED]

She Was There (She Was Forgotten) A
"People are spread out. I know you're there. You're different but you're there."

Born of the Oracle's prediction, this Skill acts as a specialized variant of Independent Manifestation. Because her soul originates from a world removed from the Throne of Heroes, and because her presence at the end of all things was mathematically guaranteed, Servant Ordained possesses the conceptual property of Perpetuity. She is anchored to the fundamental concept of simply "being there" when the world begins to break.

Regardless of chronological paradoxes, timeline manipulation, or pruning, she is Always There. She may also manifest without the need of a Master. Furthermore, she is immune to instantaneous death and reality-rewriting - and her existence is both "recorded" and "Forgotten" by Akasha - making her incredibly difficult to summon using standard means.

However, this eternal presence comes at the cost of being Never Recorded. To the World and its inhabitants, her identity constantly slips through the cracks of memory - and those who fight alongside or against her will retain profound impressions of her presence in their lives, but the moment she is removed from the timeline, her True Name and face become permanently Lost.

Magna Carta (A)
"I've never been a stranger to pain."

Due to her nature as a being existing outside the standard timeline, Ordained does not possess mana as a typical Servant might. Consequently, her maximum output is reduced to a B-Rank at most - and in return, she draws her energy directly from the well of Akasha itself. While she possesses an effectively infinite reserve, her total instantaneous output is heavily restricted by the limits of her vessel. She may forcefully bypass this bottleneck to channel greater power, but doing so inflicts immense personal strain on her from the inside out - and if pushed too far, might disintegrate her vessel or form.

In fitting with her life and preferred style, she tends to use the least amount of force possible where applicable.

Sovereign of the Unseen (A+)
"I can see you."

The sublimation of her original ability - this Skill grants Ordained absolute Sovereignty over lower life-forms often seen as lesser or reviled. From arthropods to rats, mice, birds, and even domesticated pets - all within her range become her subjects and allow her to high-level parallel processing and a form of Clairvoyance within her range.

Due to her power no longer being linked to her Passenger/Shard; the range of her domain expands to the extent of her will and power, capable of stretching from a standard three hundred meters to three hundred thousand.

Defiance of Expectation (A)
"They always underestimated me."

Passively boosts all of her physical parameters (Strength, Endurance, Agility) by a single Rank. When she enters a state of true focus - this boost is doubled, to a max of A-Rank.

Additionally, and owing to her propensity to survive impossible scenarios, this Skill imposes a conceptual disposition of Uncertainty upon her. If an attack, prophecy, or Noble Phantasm possesses the property of being "Certain" or "Absolute" (such as Gae Bolg), that certainty is forcibly downgraded when directed at her. This effect is not a negation, but it strips away the absolute causality of the universe, granting her a microscopic window of probability to dodge, counter, or survive what the rest of the world deemed to be an absolute inevitability.

Godslayer B+
"Not a promise, not an oath, or a malediction or a curse -Inevitable. Wasn't that how she put it?"

Granted for her ability to kill and contend against things one might consider a God or Divine in nature. Against enemies with the Divine, Threat to Humanity, or Alien traits, her damage output is exponentially increased - and she her (LOCKED) limitations are released by a single Rank.

Unflinching Spirit (Gold Morning) A+
"The head that wears the crown bears a heavy burden."

As long as she has a singular objective, her Spirit Origin will not dissipate even if her spiritual core is destroyed, keeping her anchored until the threat is neutralized. Compare: Battle Continuation and Determination of Steel.

Also grants user immunity against mind-altering effects ranked A or lower, and high immunity against mind-altering effects ranked higher than A. Also grants user the ability to manipulate their own emotions - dialing it up or down as required - but risks impairing one's own ability to judge and may cause addicting or dangerous affects. Prolonged usage may result in the semi-permanent changes to cognition.

Tactics of the Mastermind (A)
"You just need to get creative."

Any object Ordained sees as valuable gains a boost in its parameters when used by her. Even mundane items become Mystic Codes in her hand, with a limit of D-Rank.

Resolver: The Last Recourse
Rank: A ~ A+++
Type: Anti-Unit / Anti-God
Range: 1~50
Maximum Targets: 1 Person

"I never pulled the trigger—but I made it happen."

A simple, unremarkable revolver. Conceptually, it is the crystallization of the burdens she bore, and the judgment she wielded in life. In its sealed state, it functions as a potent Mystic Code that fires conceptual bullets, drawing from her Mana. Each projectile strikes with the force of an B-Rank Noble Phantasm and carries the property of "Unavoidable Consequence," negating magical defenses and armors of B-Rank or lower (can be reinforced to bypass A-Rank). In respect to her careful nature in regards to force; she may lower the total output if required.

Upon True Name release, Ordained aims not at the target's physical body, but at their Fate. By pulling the trigger, she imparts the concept of a "Definite End" upon the target's existence. While not a deliverer of certain death, it forcefully imposes mortality upon the target stuck. Due to this, she may part the concept of mortality onto the immortal, an ending upon the endless, and silence upon a god.

Because of its immense conceptual weight, this True Name release can only be used exactly six times per summoning - and Resolver reverts to a "sealed" state, incapable of being reinforced beyond it's B-Rank output.

Ananke: The Unflinching Spear
Rank: A ~ EX
Type: Anti-Unit / Anti-Life
Range: 1~99 (Multiversal)
Maximum Targets: 1

"Fate... you always played your games."

A spear of silver and willow, starkly simple. Represents her incessant ability to orchestrate the death of That Which Is Not Killable.

Passively, wounds inflicted by its blade become permanent fixtures of the targets reality, unable to be healed by standard magecraft, regenerative Skills, or Divine Authority short of True Magic. Any strikes become fixtures of the targets existence, and can only be healed by normal means.

When its True Name is released, Ananke becomes a condensed recreation of the Gold Morning assault: the spear strikes the target in the past, present, and future; across every parallel world; and inside every conceptual space they occupy - all in a single instant. It is the combined might of thousands of parahumans and a god-slaying weapon condensed into a single thrust. Against this attack, evasion is mathematically impossible, defense is irrelevant, and survival itself becomes a paradox.

(Works best when used in conjunction with Resolver - as while it contains the certainty of strike, it does not impose the concept of mortality.)

SPECIAL NOTICE: Due to her unique disposition, Ordained functions primarily as (LOCKED) and is kept within Akasha as (LOCKED). If threat is determined to reach the parameters of (LOCKED), her summoning is allowed against threats that threaten the (LOCKED). Due to this, she is considered outside of both the Counter-Force and Throne of Heroes, while residing within both and being accessible by both.

Due to her unique station, she is rarely summoned at her full power - and, if somehow summoned towards a grail, her parameters as (LOCKED) are restricted and her class of Ordained is masked.

Chapter Text

Prologue One - Glory to the Queen

February 3rd, 2011 - Hebert Residence

The letters wouldn't change. Even after nearly three weeks - no matter how hard I tried - the letters wouldn't change.

They judged me. I couldn't even begin to explain why it felt like that - but they judged me; with their consistency, with their accuracy, with their spite.

Letters, words - concepts I couldn't understand but could -all of them, listed so clearly and without as much as a hint of doubt.

They judged me, and as I stared at them - I couldn't help but wonder: were they were my judgement or was I the judge?

[Servant: Ordained]

That's what it said at the top, with words Ruler, Avenger, Foreigner, Assassin, and that last thing in glaring silver and glaring gold; and no matter how much I tried to forget - I couldn't push the knowledge of what it represented out of my head.

What it represented. What it meant. What it said.

Where it came from.

I almost wanted to laugh at the irony of it all.

Ordeinen. Vindicare. Forain. Hashshāshīn.

So many words. So many meanings. So much of so much packed into so little. So much I should not, could not, know.

My eyes lingered on the last word - that accursed word, carved, like marble into silk - and I dismissed it out of hand.

I didn't have the patience to contemplate that last one - or the will to try.

Let it be another word, I decided, letting the letters fade and the paper again be paper - before tossing it to its others, to the war on my desk and the scribbles of my madness.

Let it be another word - another word I should not know.

It was a poor lie, but then again, I had always been a poor liar. But in times when hope was your only currency, it was poor form to waste it on such perilous things - and I had grander worries beyond that.

For the calendar caught my miserable eye, bent and cracked and riddled with markered drawls - and it piled its promise onto my already miserable lot -

School.

School of all things. After it all - the locker, the paper, the promise, HER - the normalcy of it all? The sheer gall?

Of school?

I bit back the laugh because really -

Hadn't I suffered enough?

I already endured. I already battled. I already bleed -

Wasn't the promise of the letters - by their cause and their effect - promise of punishment enough?

That I knew what they meant meant little - for those letters only made promise, and in their promise, made only power - and granted no peace.

Of knowing, of truth -

I laughed.

Because truly - were those letters - were they not violation enough?

Was understanding enough - when it came with knowing what and not knowing how?

Was power enough? When it came with such - such rapage?

I did not ask for this, I wanted to scream - and settled instead on biting back a weep as I fell to the beddings edge.

Such power, I wished to mutter - but found the words too heavy for too tight a throat.

What power?

I could barely stomach the memory, barely glance the breath of her story - my story -

Was power enough?

Was promise enough?

I wanted to say yes - I wanted to hope that it was. But what good was power when fate promised to be so cruel?

If only it gave me answers - if only it gave me that peace. That one piece of knowing, that one piece of lore -

How did I become you?

February 4th, 2011 

The bus drive was long and loud - with the crunching of iron and the crunching of chips, and the scattered conversations and laughter of my equals in no thing but age.

I endured it as best I could - crunched against the window, eyes barely opened and thoughts barely closed. Their whispers were spears, their movements like jacks against my patience - and the scents of body and sweat and spray and day all raged against my last remaining sense of sanity and self.

They were so loud - so very loud - and smelled so full - so very full - that it took all I could to not drown.

The headphones helped - but not as much as I would have liked. Danny had been less onboard with the idea than I had been - raging against even the suggestion of an MP3 Player, let alone a phone - but the doctors had been firm on it and insisted till he complied. Hyperesthesia, they called it - a byproduct of extreme stress and C-PTSD and diagnosed for my screaming when I had come too.

Hyperesthesia - such a complicated word for the feeling of too much.

Still, I bore it as best as I could - and focused on not focusing in too much. It was more bearable, when I focused on not focusing too much - like how it was easy to ignore your thoughts when you were never thinking, and only thought when you notice there were no thoughts being thunk. It was easier now, even in the chaos, than it had been those first days in the hospital - but it would still be a while before I was fully adapted to the... changes.

The little ones helped - they always helped - but I tried not to force too much on them. They were sweet things - keeping me company, letting me in. But they were weak things - little things - and there was only so much they could bear.

They didn't deserve my suffering - they didn't deserve to suffer for my sin.

Still - their presence was a boon. For all that I hated the changes, their presence was a change I did not mind as much. I could feel them now - a mother licking her litter. A hunter, twisting in the air. Another yawned, tired and with canines flashing -

I wanted to hold them, if I was honest. Dive deeper and never wake up. I wanted...

...

I wanted a lot of things. But want... want was a dangerous thing.

I already wanted too much.

So I breathed, and drew the net even closer, and felt another thing go crunch as it all became a little less too-much.

The urge to turn it all down was great. A simple flex, and it all would just... burn away.

The urge was great.

My will was greater.

Burn it all away - and what is left when the fires burn away?

Bugs. Bugs were safer. So, so much safer.

So much innocenter. So much simpler.

Better they suffered - better they were like me.

Better than the fire - better than the flame.

'Hail to your sacrifice,' I whispered to the chaos, closing my eyes in apology. 'Glory to your queen.'

By the time we reached our stop, too-much had come and gone and only much remained. The music helped - bolstered by a touch I refused to name. They ignored me - for the most part, beyond a snicker and a passing remark. I ignored them, like I always did - and focused on focusing on nothing at all.

And when we finally stopped - when the gears went crunch and the brakes began to sheer - I waited for them to move first.

The one's in front went first - then the ones who sat like me in the middle. The jocks went last, from the back, moving in pairs. They were laughing, sharing in lauder and mocking in their praise. Then the girls came, in their skirts and snickers and sneers - the ones that always sat in the corner, where they smoked and prayed.

They passed me, like always, without consequence or care.

One smelt like lavender, another like peach.

Another smelled like jock.

She was beautiful - that one, though I couldn't remember her name - with locks like lavender and skin like grace. She had a dimple, when she smiled - that poked at her face. Her scent-marker waited for her - by the door like a prince. She took his hand, and laughed as she did so.

He didn't deserve her - she didn't need him.

She had better scents to wear.

I watched them move till I was alone - till I forced my listless limbs to move, and my fingers gripped the seat before me and my feet thudded silent against the rubber mat.

Fresh air hit me like a hurricane, and I barely departed when the bus departed - and the steps to my hell grew.

Hell. A strange word, that. Hel. Hella.

A powerful word.

It should not have fit for a place like this - but it did.

With its red-bricks and concret, it rose like the devil and was unswayed by the marching tide. It was a simple building - with simple walls and simple doors. It housed many a memory - few of them good.

It looked so different now - and I could feel its thrumming heartbeat, even from where I stood. There was despair there, breathing from its maw. A hundred more were making its way to the door -

How many would linger at its maw?

I watched them enter, that jock and that girl. He had his arm around her when he leaned over to whisper.

I caught that whispered, I smelled her blush - then the maw beckoned open, and in providence, listened to a burped hush.

The breeze caught it - it always seemed to catch things now - and brought it closer to me still.

It smelled like sulfur, like ash-smoke and unwashed bodies. It was terrible, it was evil, it reeked of things I should not know -

My tongue lashed against my measure.

It was bitter, like the memories of pain.

She was sweet, like the dew of fresh rain.

...

I banished the breath, took my step, and pressed the volume higher - and bid a fresh batch to sacrifice.

Hell awaited - and I stared to its growing maw -

Hell awaited - did Hela await me too?

Would she be sweet too, like summer dew?

...

CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH

Another sacrifice, another dozen dead.

'Glory,' I almost heard whispered, 'Glory to our queen.'

I took a mouthy breath, and tasted its odor.

Oil, smog, death, despair.

I let it linger - chased poison with my bile - and turned the music a step higher.

You're sweet as venom, dark as wine,
Sipping slowly on a nine,
Pulling me close but it's just a lie,
You're the edge I can't deny.
Venom's creeping, blood runs cold,
Wrapped in shadows, stories told,
Loving you's a bitter crime,
Sweet as venom, dark as wine.​

It was like opening an oven.

It was the gradient that hit me first - the sudden warmth compared to the outside air. Heavier, thicker, humid and warm.

The sound came second - like a god's heartbeat through the blaring speakers against my ears.

The smell hit me third - and nearly sent me to my knees.

Lavender, peach, mint and salt - waterfalls, flowers, baby powder and sex - the roar of footsteps, the bellowing of drums, the cacophony of life - unfiltered and unmoored.

There were so many of them, so many tastes I could not decide - I barely buckled, barely kept my stride.

Glory, glory, glory -

NO - I declared, and silenced their cries -

Move, I commanded, and, verily, did my knees obey -

The first steps were shaky, the next were weak. But they obeyed, they obeyed, they obeyed -

Till there I stood, back to the masses, and faced to my doom - cleaned and polished and standard military green -

I breathed, and fought down the gag.

Rot. Piss. Bile

ME

'Please - I'M SORRY - LET ME OUT LET ME OUT - EMMA -'

CRUNCH

Glory...

I don't know how long I stood there, how long I struggled to obey. It was like staring into a memory, but the memory was a mirror and the mirror was me.

It's just a locker, I told myself - battling against the surge.

It's... it's just a locker. Breathe - no - no breathing.

Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus on the tastes - focus on the air, on the music and the stares -

Remember, I told myself, You do not need to breathe.

You need to breathe, instinct whispered.

No, I thought, staring at the green metal. No I don't.

So I wouldn't/shouldn't/couldn't -

The steel felt like an insult when I reached for it - the dial like a toy I had since I was five. It opened easily - it opened too easily - and more mockery greeted me -

For it was... It was...

Empty. Sterile. Polished - Clean.

Breathe breathe breathe -

Do not breathe, I commanded. Verily, did my lungs obey.

The steel edges groaned under my grip - and I fought to keep it moored.

It's steel - it's plastic - it's flesh and it's bone -
Squeeze too tight and you'll hear it moan -
More were coming, more where there -
the bell would be ringing - they were THERE -

No no no - don't think - just breath - don't breath don't breath - Just toss it in Taylor, just toss it all in -

Glory - glory - CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH - glory - glory - Hail to the queen!

BANG!

The sound should have spooked me - it was too close and yet so far - but it grounded me and I breathed -

It's just a locker, I reminded myself, staring at the judging green. It's just a locker, Taylor - and you're not there.

I breathed -

I breathed - rich, deep, rich and deep- and turned my gaze to the sky -

Concrete greeted me - not smog-dewed sky.

Another mockery, another thing to judge me.

GLORY GLORY - CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH - GLORY GLORY - GOD SAVE THE QUEEN -

ENOUGH.

...

...

...

...

"Enough."

The little ones grew silent, the birds did too. The halls felt so distant - time did too. The steel was cool, when I pressed my forehead against edge - and it felt distant too -

You are Defiant, I reminded, so as I pray -

Burn.

It barely took a moment for it to burn it all away. Panic went first - then pain, and then I felt my sickness rise. That went soon too.

Relief clashed with misery - misery, with joy. Then those went too.

I loved it. I hated it. I reveled in it. I should have felt disgusted by it.

The fact that my emotions could be turned off like some toy...

It made me want to laugh.

I could not laugh.

Not when the dial was turned so high - not when it all felt so low.

I breathed again and tasted only ash and cinder and the last filaments of regret. I felt my grip lessen, and the echoes return. The music was loud - and I traced a finger along its edge to make it even louder. I stared and stared and stared.

I tossed my bag and dug out my books.

It'll be gone, Memory reminded.

I couldn't bring myself to care.

I shut it and turned the dial - locked it away and unlocked it all again.

Heat hit me first. Then sound, through the speakers. Then scent - peach, lavender, sweat and sex - baby powder and shampoo -

She smelled like peaches - like summer dew.

She smelled sweet - she smelled sweet too.

My tongue lashed and caught its taste.

It didn't matter - I had class to get to.

4^th February, 2011 (Winslow, Early Afternoon)

Class passed without strife.

How, I couldn't tell you. Gladly hadn't given me more than a second glance - beyond my medical letter - and our fellows did not spare me even a first. Seated at the back, by the window overlooking the trees, I kept my silence and my peace and fought to keep my focus off the flowers and trees. The music helped - softer, now, of violin and piano and orchestral choirs. The enchantment held - blocked out the worst of it all and gave it all an almost peaceful quality.

The scents did not bother me. I did not give it a chance to.

Still, I tried to focus. Scribbled notes, even as I shunted out the incessant babbling and laughs of the world and its affairs. The words were less judging, when I read them - and the paper not so blank under my pen. It glid easier than it should have - a knife through the air - and each line was blacker than black and each blue bluer than truth.

The music helped. The paper did too. Having something to focus on - keeping my thoughts steady and true.

I forced it away - that incessant way it all seemed to blend together. The ants kept their measure, marching to and fro beneath our feet - where the spiders in the corners seemed to sleep almost peacefully while it waited for its meal. I caught some for them - flies, gnats and bugs - and drew them to the webs.

They struggled, shaking in the glue. The spiders woke up - and began their march.

I let them struggle - I let them fight.

Then I silenced them - before the eve of a final goodnight.

It is strange how much easier it was to step in and out, to command and send forth, than it was at first. How one could be aware of it all - the little crackle of chiton, the way the mind knew before the body felt the pain. How easy it was - to have nature take its course and how much I favored some over others.

Cats - I loved. Dogs too. Snakes were lazy and loved their little rocks. Birds were loud - and they loved their friends. Lizards were brilliant, if a touch daft.

Ladybugs were pretty - but they were monstrous too. We called them pretty - till they were as big as you.

Flies were frustrating. Cockroaches the surge of concrete seas. Bees were social - hornets were too.

But spiders?

I found them my favorite of the littlest little ones. They were beautiful. Horrible, to some - with their beady eyes and skittering legs and venomous bites - but they were beautiful and even gentle, depending on their type.

These were simple ones - not so deadly to the bigger little ones. But even if I hated them - those flies that spew maggots and brought upon disease - I did what I could to ease their passing.

It should have horrified me - how easy it was to kill.

It did, I think. In some small way. But nature, I had learned, was a cruel thing.

Was it cruel to have it suffer? When I could simply make it all cease?

Was it cruel to feed one to another - when they might not have been caught at all?

What was a fly to a spider?

What was death to hunger?

I forced it all away. I had too many questions - and far too much doubt to answer.

I felt it bite. I felt it devour. I felt it feast.

I dove deeper - and let it tell me its taste.

It should have been horrible. I should have tasted bile.

It tasted sweet.

I drew away before it could take me - and let all things go about their day. Gladly had said something - what, I filtered out - and I turned back to my notes.

White. Black. Blue.

There were grains there. Little strains you'd never notice. The pen was too sharp - but it didn't cut through. The ink was wetter - and dried like paint. The words should have been gibberish - I hadn't been paying attention; I shouldn't have had a clue -

But I knew. Oh, I knew.

I saw too much - and read too much into it, too. Parataxis in the start - hypotaxis in the end. A conjunction - a subclausation. More words I shouldn't know - more words I knew. I read again - and let the performance draw me in.

It was sterile. It was dull. Sentence, pause, sentence, pause. On for a dozen words - on for six. There was music in my ear.

There was a statement in my eyes.

It clashed, and I focused my eyes further - till I could peer at their past.

There was Latin there - there was Old French too. That one was German - that one was Greek. That was a little brother - born later - and that one was from the Words’ Smith.

Mom would have loved this. She would have hated it too.

I blinked and let it all fall back to English. I looked at the clock - old and yellowed-white with a black rim and a pair of hands for lovers and a ticker for a child -

Twenty-eight minutes and fifty-three. Fifty-four. Fifty-five.

Thirty-one minutes and fifty-eight seconds to go.

So many hours left to go

Lunch came slower than I'd like but quicker than I had planned for.

The bell had rung just as felt them move. Madison, the ones I could not bother to remember - they had just begun moving when the loud shrill pierced my ears.

I was moving before the first rows were at the door.

Thankfully, speed was something I had in abundance now - speed, agility, stealth - and I managed to lose them in the flood of warm bodies and warmer clothes.

I felt Sophia and Hela - they were coming down the stairs -

I let them pass me, and they barely noticed when I stepped past.

They weren't worried about me. They weren't even interested, it seems.

I burned that away, before another could die for my twisted vanity - and instead climbed the steps - in ones and twos - till I passed the first floor, then the second - and finally reached the third, dodging out of the way of the marching many and the lingering few till I found my freedom.

I didn't bother with the lock - it had been broken for months, and no one seemed to bother. The handle twisted with a rusty groan, and the air hit me like a truck.

Cool, heavy - choking with ash and smog and the sea's kiss.

But the sun was warm, and the hard-stone pebbles avalanched their way around my feet - till I stood by the edge and the city came alive.

I breathed - lungs shaking off their disuse - and nearly gagged. Hells, I hate that. Hated the way everything came at once after not breathing at all. But I fought it down and gripped the railing as softly as I could.

It groaned, but it did not break. Good - good. I was getting better at that.

Bending, I breathed with closed eyes, and exhaled as I stood - still leaning. The city was too bright - but my eyes adjusted soon after - till I could see Downtown like a falcon and the seas like a dream. Colors swirled for a moment - in a way I doubt I could describe. Vivid, pale - bright and dark all at the same time.

I focused on the sky again. There was a bird there - a flock flying in formation, a giant arrow's tip flying forth and flying free. My net glanced them as they passed, and I let them go without my command. They were gulls - but they were beautiful. One had a feather ruffled from the wind, and another had worms.

They were over a building a moment later - and I drew the net back in.

I breathed and breathed till it all tasted the same on my tongue before turning my music louder - till the patterns sparked on the inner fabric and the distinct zinging began.

No more, I decided, and then pushed it further just because - till it creaked and cracked and became something more and the opera became deafening and loud.

I glanced at the sun.

Five minutes and thirty-six seconds.

Fifty-five minutes and twenty-three seconds remaining.

An hour, I almost sighed, was too short for lunch.

The rest of the day passed quickly after that.

Madison and the gremlins tried their tricks - but their sneers were easier to ignore than I thought. A hundred and twenty-six more died throughout the day - however - and I couldn't quite forgive them for that. They were more careful too - far more so than I ever imagined they could be. Even Sophia and Emma - they ignored me with an almost military-like disgrace.

Part of it set me on edge - but the other part rationalized it away. The school could cover for a lot - but my medical history was a page longer because of them, and it was only because of luck and whatever powers at-be supported them that kept the wolves from smelling blood. They were being cautious - not stupid.

They were a lot of things - but Emma had never been a stupid girl.

Still, when the final bell rang - I grabbed my bag and my books, tucked away my pencils, and made my way out. I avoided the bus - taking it had been an act of habit and a mistake - and instead let my sneakers streak their way across the pavement. It would be a walk, I knew - but I had the stamina, and the time.

So, I walked - and watched the world pass by. I pulled the net closer than before - felt it shrink meter by meter till it was only sixteen feet all around. It felt almost normal, at that range - and gave me enough time and space to think without thinking. I breathed too and let the tastes clash and choke me.

It was almost frustrating - how much there was to taste and smell in the air. But not-breathing was an option I didn't want to contemplate.

I had little enough of my humanity left - and I didn't want to spend it so easily as to not breathe.

So - I forced my will away and let instinct take over. What did the doctors say? That I'd acclimatize? That it become easier through practice?

Exposure - that was the word. Exposure therapy.

Snort.

Sounded about right. The only therapy I could afford, too.

You thought I would crash, you thought I’d collide,
You wanted the weeping, the wounded pride.

Well, besides that.

But the funniest part of a knife in the back…
Is watching you panic when I don't attack.

Music was, I found, an excellent medicine for misery.

I got a Cheshire grin with a chest of pain!
Dancing in the flood of the acid rain!

"You drove the dagger deep," I sang, stepping over a crack, cracking a soft smile as I let the music guide me and instinct take over, "thought you’d see me bleed, But I'm smiling at the snake while it bares its teeth."

I let the enchantment thrum - boost itself further - till I could hear each echo, each cord and thread. Till the drums rumbled and the hi-hats sounded and I could almost see her - screaming into her mic in the concrete. I breathed in the madness, breathed out the noise - and let her sway me along the road home.

Chapter Text

Prologue Two: Life’s for the living, So live it (Or You’re Better Off Dead)

February 4th, 2011 

Before the locker, it would have taken me an hour to walk home. A full sixty minutes, if I was lucky - fifty, if I rushed.

Between the crossings, the twists, the turns and the roadworks - not to mention my own sedentary lifestyle - it would have been an exhausting slog. Something to do when there was no other option - especially in January; with it's smoggy New England air, and God himself decided to use us as a freezer.

The fact that I made in home in twenty felt surreal.

The fact that I could have made it in five felt insulting.

Another perk, I suppose, of my ascension - but I pushed it out of my mind as I leapt the step, dug for my keys, and opened the front door. The smell of dust and must greeted me - alongside the smell of lime soap and stale beer. It was empty, save for the few dustmites floating through the streams of the dying light. I took a moment to settle, to let the air tingle my senses and my net stretch until it hit the last edges of the sidewalk before I stepped inside.

The lights were on - but no one was home. That felt about right.

I closed the door as gently as I could before making my way to the stairs and silently bid a few of the hidden roaches out of the floors. They'd find better success in the basement, but for all that I tolerated them, they had no place where they were. A few I sent to the garden, the rest I nudged to the trash - and a further few I left to scurry into the roof and walls.

The bugs in Danny's room, I forced out. Enhanced senses were already a problem - I wasn't making that mistake twice.

Still, I put that out of my mind too, tossing the bag as soon as I made it through the door. It stunk, in a way that made me want to shower and burn the bedding in equal measure. Nearly three weeks of isolation had done me little good - to say nothing of the hospital stay. It had been easier to ignore, living in it - but going outside had apparently tossed off my adjustment and reminded me that, no - no I did not smell so sweet.

Really, that felt like an insult too. I barely needed to eat, barely needed to sleep, and had already lost the need for breathing - but sweating?

Sweating was apparently the last thing my body decided was important to get rid of.

I looked down, and grimaced, reaching for the headphones to take them off. Sabaton died a miserable death as the enchantment died - and its last echoes faded as I hit the pause. Both joined my bag in their betrayal, tossed like Judas to the unmade bed and air. Despite the smell, I couldn't bring myself to shower - today had been miserable enough to add that problem to my growing list of ills - and there were other things I needed to do.

So I made my way to the rickety old chair, pressed the power on my rickety old PC, and reached for my stack of poorly stacked paper.

It felt worse than the paper in class - more moist, less firm - but it served its purpose well enough as I flooded it with a hint of power.

Od, technically - but that wasn't quite right. I didn't have a core - or a collection of circuits. Mana didn't feel right either, considering what it meant and how dead the air felt. Magical energy was technically the correct term, but that felt too much like something Greg would say - so I'd taken to calling it Prana instead.

Watching the sheet glow and harden and soften with lines of silver and silk and gold, I couldn't help but find it all a bit ironic. Of all the things my power had forced on me - the speed, the strength, the power and the skills - the one thing I seemed to use most often was understanding it granted me.

Now - if it all came at once? That would have been great too - but apparently forcibly grafting a Saint Graph onto a human soul led to unintended side effects - let alone something like hers.

Still - as the letters began to form and flow - I couldn't help but wish Emotional Stability was a skill that carried over. Unflinching Spirit counted, technically - but not having to Master myself would have been nice. Great for other Masters - less so for myself.

But those were tomorrow me's problems - and reaching for the diary I kept in my desk, I couldn't help but compare who I was to who I was becoming.

Or rather - what I was becoming.

Because it was one thing to know something, another to understand it, and a different beast entirely to experience it. And while I had no intention of using most of my powers, it was a different thing entirely if I had to live with them.

Scents were already overpowering. My glasses were more for show than anything else. I was already burning off weight at an alarming rate and sleep was becoming harder and harder to justify to myself or even have.

The less said about eating, the better.

I could use some chocolate...

No - bad Taylor, I shook my head. That way leads to madness, and some really awkward laundry. Focus on the letters, not on the aphrodisiac.

I breathed and fought down a fresh gag. Hells, I needed to air out my shoes -

Focus, Taylor, Focus.

I exhaled, and reached for my pencil -

February 4th, 2011

'The soul is the blueprint.'

I hate that I understand what that means. Whatever I - SHE - ORDAINED - went through - the bleed hasn't stopped. If anything, it's getting worse. The parameter boost is complete, I think - but the physical changes are starting. I'm... taller, I guess. Not by much - but it's hard to not notice. I'll need to get new shoes soon - and some new pants - before it becomes... worse.

My boobs are still -

Scents are still a lot – no real improvement there. Sight is getting better - but not by much. Sound is still loud - but not as bad as before. Taste... I had some water this morning. It tasted like iron and lead, like how a pool smells - so it's... better, I guess? It's hard to tell - but eating is... is something I'm gonna have to avoid, for the time being. At least, in large amounts. Not like I need it but it's... it's still a lot to handle.

At least it's not the hospital - so that's a plus.

...
...
...

I still haven't summoned them. Still haven't - haven't found the time. Or the will. Looking at them now... Taylor - what did you have to do -

I forced my eyes closed, and then open, drowning out the flood to the CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH below. The pencil didn't snap, but it was a near thing, and the page in front of me suddenly seemed like an afront to everything I felt and stood for, and the screen cast its blue judgement across it all.

I forced my hand to move -

I still haven't summoned them. I won't summon them. They're... they're not needed. They won't ever be needed. I don't - I don't want them and I don't ever want to need them. If - if push ever comes to shove (Don't let it ever come to that Taylor) I - Tactics and my parameters should be enough. WILL BE ENOUGH-

...
...
...
...

School was a lot. It... it was easier than I thought it be and so much worse. The headphones helped - and the medical certificate. I don't think the teachers care too much - but it was better than nothing. Had to enhance it, but I'm getting better at it - at least. Accidentally enhanced my pen in class - no one noticed. No one even bothered me - I doubt they will for at least another few weeks. Madison tried - but she didn't try very hard. I saw Sophia and Emma -

SNAP

I didn't move. I just stared at it. The way the pencil didn't so much as snap as disintegrate between my fingers - the way the splinters tried to stick but couldn't quite reach. I barely felt it as I shoved it all away - and my range exploded -

The ants by the tree would need a new queen. I couldn't quite bring myself to care as I blinked and blinked and blinked -

SNAP

I blinked. What was -

Oh...

...

I breathed and fought down the grimace. It was grounding. Socks, sweat, dust and dirt and misery - perfect companions to keep me company.

Enough, I decided, pushing away before another part of my desk fell apart. The paper on the desk glowed before I snapped the connection shut - and it crumbled to dust like a piece of dried clay. I didn't care, reaching to grab the scribbled notes and shove them into my draw.

The room felt too small, all of a sudden - and – and -

Fresh air. I – I needed air.

I barely grabbed my jacket and headphones as I made my way out the door, taking the steps in twos and threes - before I was out the door and into the January air.

I didn't bother with the step, forcing my lungs shut as I drew the net closer and forced my legs to move -

Not to quickly, I told them, before they turned the deck to dust. Not too quickly. Not to hard. Just run -

Just run.

I made it to the Boardwalk before I realized how far I’d run.

It was busy, despite the hour. Students, college kids – moms and dads and little kids and old ladies with their old ladies and old friends with their dogs –

It was a lot, and if it hadn’t been for the music and me forcing my lungs shut, I would have screamed. It was the loudest place I’d been in in – in weeks – and the urge to up-step my headphones was almost paralyzing.

Almost.

I pushed past it – forced my legs to keep moving, till I crossed the road and found myself almost sprinting down the street. Everything was blurring, and I couldn’t tell if that was from the speed or the intensity of it all –

Flicker on the freeway, skyline’s tambourine,
Tongue-tied thunder, taste of tangerine –

I hit next almost as soon as I heard it – the melodic beats fading to the roaring opening riff of something louder stronger faster –

By the time I reached the graveyard, by the time I stood in the shadow of almost forty dead – another seven songs had passed and another six had been skipped.

Whatever the current one was called – I didn’t know. But it was loud, it was rough, it was gruff and it was tough – and it was almost peaceful compared to how unpeaceful my heart was.

Or should have been. Whatever was left of it barely even seemed to skip a beat.

I hated that. That it was so steady – so fucking still.

Race, I commanded.

It did not obey.

“Race damn it,” I forced out, glaring at the haul before me –

It did not obey.

“I.”

“Said.”

“RACE.”

It. Did. Not. Obey.

The steel did not cave. It did not buckle or bend. Even it denied me my satisfaction – even it spat at my grace.

I didn’t even feel the urge to breathe, as I stared at the edges of the steel, barely three inches from my face. I barely felt it as I dragged my fist from where it had penetrated –

It groaned then, when I gripped its broken edges –

It screamed as I tore and tore and tore –

Till it was large enough for me to fit through – till my anger outstripped my own control.

It smelled like iron and rust and rotted flesh – like salt and sea and overbaked death. I breathed it in. My stomach didn’t even bother to revolt.

It sobbed on its way out.

It was colder, on the inside. Despite sitting in the sun for God knows how long, the steel hadn’t rusted through to its insides. It must have been something grand in its life – with corridors and ladders and controls with enough knobs and lights that it must have looked like Christmas in its prime.

Without the music, I could hear it all. The slosh of the water, the ring of the air, the almost unnoticeable creak as I stepped from steel floor to steel floor. It was like listening to a ghost – one barely holding on, moaning on and on, not knowing it was already dead.

Honestly, I couldn’t sympathize more.

It took me twenty minutes to find the control deck – another fifteen to even look at the clock. The MP3 Player was cheap – but it served its purpose, and my eyes were too good to not see its barely blinking decree.

There were cans all over the place. Needles and hammocks and some burnt through steel drums too. Most of the wiring had been torn out – likely by scavengers or whoever else was desperate enough to make a shipwreck their home. Whoever they were – they were long gone, and whatever they had left taken by either the rats, the roaches or the sea.

I let the edges of my net buckle slightly – cast out till it hit the barnacles resting at the ship’s edge, where the sea teased it with its kiss. Roaches, rats, gnats – whatever was above air I commanded to stretch out.

I hadn’t cared in the moment – but my entry had been… been loud. I didn’t want any surprises – not right now.

Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be any. Just roaches and rats and gnats.

The scavengers, the desperate, the diseased.

Fitting company, I suppose.

By the time I made it to the deck – the sun had already begun to set. I couldn’t bring myself to care – as I approached the aft. It was bent, slightly, and whatever windows there might have been either boarded up or shattered. The door barely held its own weight when I pushed it open with barely a touch.

It was dark. It was humid. It was damp. There were still beds, in the lower quarters. For the sailors, I suppose. Most of them were rotted through – and a few were missing entirely. The steel frames had rusted through – whatever coatings they had peeling away from years of abandonment and disuse. There were holes too – by the ceiling and by the wall – where the lights and switches used to be. There were cracks on the edges of them all – like someone had taken a hammer or crowbar and pried them all open.

Someone probably had.

It was a miserable place – far too vivid and far too bright.

But it was dark, and it was humid, and it was cold – and it seemed a nice enough place to die.

The steel frame groaned at my weight, but I didn’t bother trying to balance – didn’t even really need to. My balance was perfect, even when I didn’t want it to be. The steel wouldn’t buckle; the rust wouldn’t bend, and even it seemed to mock me with its stability when I could barely hold myself together.

What was I even doing here?

Was this really what I was going to do?

Trade one shithole for another? Crawl from one grave to the next? Send every insect and animal for miles into a heart attack because I couldn’t say a fucking name?

Creak –

“Oh, you fuck off too,” I muttered, hunched, turning to glare at the frame. “Let me bitch.”

The frame, wisely, did not answer.

Snort.

“Look at you, Taylor – gonna yell at the clouds next?”

…

…

…

Snort. Ha. Hahahaha.

“I’m not breathing – wheeze – how am I talking?!”

Hahaha!

“How am I laughing!”

I couldn’t help it – I cackled. I cackled and I laughed and I could almost imagine my sides hurting as I fell back and –

Creak – Crack!

The frame collapsed and took me with it. The thud echoed but I barely noticed tears streaming as I stared at the moldy, rusty roof.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” I croaked with a laugh. “But fuck you Tay-Tay.”

“Fuck you and – and your miserable fucking life. Fuck you – fuck you – fuck you -”

“I don’t know what you did,” I heaved, breathing for the first time in – in – I don’t even know but –

“But fuck. You.”

Sniff. Sniff.

“What did you do…”

…

“Wh…what did I do?”

What did we do to deserve this?

What did you do…

…

…

…

“Why did you save me…?”

…

“Why did you bring me back…”

By the time I left the coffin, the tide had started to shift.

I didn’t bother covering the hole, or to jump when the water hit my shoes. The sea was louder than it had any right to be – but my player had died… I don’t know when ago, and the wind carried whatever was silent away with it.

Life, it seemed, was destined to try and make me a fiend – and as another shell cracked into the sand, I just… turned and walked away.

I blocked it out as best I could – turned the dial to somewhere between living and dead – and shoved whatever remained into the ever-growing swarm of dead things by the sea. There was a selection of gulls, already being pulled out by the water, and I stopped just barely to watch them off.

Another batch to the slaughter – another collection for the dead.

Hail to your sacrifice, I thought bitterly, shoving my hands away. Glory, glory, glory to your queen.

What a fucking queen I was turning out to be.

The city was almost mocking, with how bright it was. The market was bright, the boardwalk was alight, and I could just barely make out the city proper as I crested the hill – where the towers rose to scrape the sky, blinding fingers mocking the stars.

It took almost two hours - before I saw the house. No one bothered me – no one really could. The fact that no one showed up at the Graveyard was miracle enough – I wasn’t willing to test my E-Rank luck any further. So, I stuck to the alleys, to the roads where I couldn’t see or sense anyone living or passing.

The driveway was empty – the house, dark.

That felt almost fitting, too.

One grave, I thought, skipping the step. One grave to another.

The lock didn’t unlock when I tried – there was nothing to unlock. I barely clocked it, before kicking the door behind me.

It groaned. I didn’t care. I just… moved.

Danny’s door wasn’t open. There wasn’t a heartbeat to be heard. I passed it - didn’t bother to look back – and turned the hot water as soon as I got in the room.

The mirror greeted me, as soon as I took off my shirt – and I couldn’t help it.

Snort.

She looked familiar enough to be me – and strange enough to be a stranger. The same wide mouth, the same brown eyes – the same crow’s nest of curls for a head of hair. But she was paler, just a tad firmer, just a tad more lean –

I stared at her. She stared back.

Then I looked down and stared some more.

There was a new scar. Thin, white – like a line drawn in the sand. It started from my hip, crossed over my belly button, and off to the other side.

What did you do, Taylor?

I let my eyes rise, just a tad – to my breast, to where my heart should have been –

My own scar greeted me. Just a centimeter wide – rougher and raw.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

I looked back at her – to her eyes.

She had tired eyes.

My eyes.

What did you do?

She didn’t answer me. She just looked away. I breathed – steam, piss, lavender, lime – and let it all out again. I didn’t look at her, when she turned away – when she walked into the waters and steam.

I didn’t look at her – and pulled the shower curtain shut.  

February 4^th, 2011 – 23:49

Ring Ring Ring - Click -

"Hello?"

"Lisa, dear – I have a job for you."

"What? No hello? And, uh – kinda in the middle of something, boss."

"And I don't care. This takes priority. I'm sending you a video and some photos – I expect a report by tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? I can't -"

"You can, and you will. This is not up for discussion, Tattletale."

"… Yes sir. What am I looking for?"

"Anything. Everything. There seems to be a potential new player on the board – and I'd rather like to know what they can do."

Click.

…

…

…

"Fuck."

"That the boss?"

"Yeah."

"He have a job for us?"

"No. Just me."

"You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah – go back to bed, I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. And Brian?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks."

"Any time, Tats."

Chapter Text

Prologue Three: Ryini – Gone Now

February 13^th, 2011 – Lord’s Market

I got gloves.

Which seems strange to note, but I did. Every kid did - but I never really liked them. They choked my fingers - made them feel a layer too think and a fraction too small. Mom always used to carry a pair of woolen ones - for when it got really cold in winter. Burgundy-red. Dad used to get grey.

They always used to buy me white - a way of seeing if I was naughty.

We didn't buy gloves anymore. But they caught my eye while I was shopping and I just... I just sort of wanted them.

They were blue - wool - with some of their fabric coming off at the seams. They were a smidgen too tight, and maybe a fraction too small but -

They reminded me of her. And I already needed to get new clothes. What were a pair of gloves but a dollar fifty extra?

Well, not like Danny noticed. He had been out of it since we arrived - more than I had been, anyway. I told him I'd be fine - but he insisted. Maybe it was guilt, or maybe it was longing - maybe it was the scare of losing me - but he had tried. Which was... more than he had in a long time.

I was almost grateful for that. Mostly resentful - but grateful, nonetheless.

Still, he headed off to the truck soon after we arrived - the house's shopping in his hands. I told him I'd be fine - but he insisted - said he could catch up on his reading while he waited, a crumbled newspaper under his arm. That, I think, was more embarrassment than guilt. No father wanted to know what his daughter was buying for underwear - and no father wanted to see his daughter spend her blood price.

The legal term, I suppose, was settlement. But blood price sounded better in my head. It fit better too - the price of their penance, the worth of my sacrifice.

Twelve-thousand, five-hundred and seventy-two dollars and fifty-two cents. Pennies to them - a manor to me.

I hadn't even considered using it - Danny hadn't either. It had sat on the kitchen counter, gathering dust - a check he didn't want to check and one I didn't want too either. But needs, unfortunately, made a must - and want was a luxury of those with currency to spend.

That had been an awkward bank trip - but the card in my pocket didn't seem to care. The cashier at the counter didn't care either - bagging up the last of my purchases.

A hundred and seventy-six dollars, and forty-four cents, after taxes. The biggest purchase I'd made to-date.

One percent, and some change.

I found that almost funny.

Still, I took the bags - underwear, shorts, some jeans and some shirts and hoodies - and made my way to the car, passing by a hawker calling out his wears. Candies, mostly, for the gaggle of beasts that swarmed the streets - and the poor were-beasts that dragged to their will. Some were firmer, some more complaint - and some just looked tired. Still, it made me smile - how they tried to be stern and gave in when they saw the tears in their litter's eyes.

I turned to turn the music just a smidgen higher when I heard it.

It was loud, it was soft - it was mournful and it was full of soul. I blinked, and turned my head - a small stall, nearer to the beach. An old man was sitting, an old electric guitar in his hands, fingers plucking away as he bobbed his head in his old Hawaiian shirt and shorts - his sun-tanned, skinny legs out proud for the world to see. There were a few stranglers, watching him play, and his stall was an assortment of old guitars and amps and things I couldn't name.

His face looked strained, but peaceful - lost in his old world. I stared, and looked at the bags in my arms, and stared at him again - and before my brain could register - my feet answered his call.

He didn't even notice me. I don't think he noticed any of us, as his fingers rose to strike another beat.

Fifteen minutes later, I didn't think Danny expected me either - or two cases on my shoulder.

He was curious enough to question. He was kind enough not to ask.

February 13^th, 2011 – Hebert’s Residence

James hadn't expected me to make the purchase that I did. He tried to talk me out of it - tried to give me the speech of how "most people don't even practice before they give up." He was an old bastard like that - a fisherman with far too much salt on his tongue to give a shit about an asking price.

I'd been insistent, and he'd caved - like a ship against a placidly raging storm. He'd tried to not sell me the amp - and thrown in a few books for good measure. Old things - things he'd collected since childhood.

A lifetime of memories, in two old guitars - sold, for three hundred and twenty-seven dollars, and ninety-nine cents.

I don't know why I chose the ones that I did. One was brown - like all guitars seemed to be - with metal strings and a sheen of varnish to buffer out the scratches on its neck. The other was electric, a shining 60's red. The amp weighed about as much as his conscious - but I carried it just fine.

By the time we got home, unpacked the groceries, and Danny had scurried off to work - I was left staring at them, laying on my bed beside unpacked jackets, shirts, and three packs of new socks. The books laid next to them - two well-worn covers from the Clinton administration, with their spines cracked and weathered - and a pack of plastic picks, unopened, on the strings of the old brown-wood.

I didn't know how to play them, I realized. The closest I'd ever gotten to learning was the flute.

I couldn't quite bring myself to care, running my fingers over her neck and picking the plastic picks off. I let myself fall to the small spot free between the chaos.

The gloves made it slippery, but their fingerless tips let me feel their string. I struck - hitting every cord.

I felt like an idiot - but I thought it sounded sweet.

I couldn't help it - I smiled. I smiled as I reached and ran my fingers over each one in order - from base to tip. I'd need to learn their letters - I'd need to learn their names.

But the headphones were silent, as I just made a noise - and found my peace in their rain.

"I heard you practicing."

I blinked, looking up from the manual. Danny was by the kitchen door, leaning awkwardly with a cup nursing in his grip. He looked tired - whatever happened at the office must have taken it out of him. Then again, he always looked tired - with his sunken eyes and thinning hair, and the stubble he refused to properly shave.

He sipped his coffee, and coughed.

"When - uh - when I made it back. From the office, I mean - you - I heard you practice."

Oh.

"Oh," I tried, and coughed to hide my own sudden flash of awkward. "I - yeah. I... I guess?"

I tried for a smile. I don't think I quite struck the landing.

"Wouldn't call it practice - just... hitting some strings."

"I think it sounded good," he tried.

Well, he lied. I knew how it sounded. Anyone could hit a couple of tuned strings. Ask them to play a note?

Different story entirely.

"Thanks," I tried again, and this time I think I managed it. He tried again too - and managed a strained smile.

"You, uh - want some coffee?"

Honestly? No. Food was still a lot - and he always put too much instant and too little sugar and made it taste like spite.

But also...

He's trying. Just... just give him this.

I smiled.

"Yeah. Thanks, dad."

He offered to help me set up the amp. Honestly, by that point - it had been pushing six o'clock and I had homework to get to. But he insisted, said he wanted to help - and I was a beast dragged to the wills of the were-beast.

And really, it was almost funny - he had about as much of a clue to what he was doing as I did. James' instructions helped - so did the manuals - but there were so many dials and knobs and cables and cords that we barely managed to turn it on before the old-man instinct of "I got this" and "You read the manual, I'm fine" came into play.

It should have taken us ten minutes.

We barely finished in an hour.

The coffee had gotten cold by then - and tasted like cup of pool-water soaked in battery acid. I sipped it regardless and tried to force through the grimace to chase the hints of chocolate and spice. It was the first thing I'd actually eaten (drunk?) in... three days? Give or take - and it was all the more potent for it.

Still, I drunk it - because he made it, and I wasn't someone who liked to waste.

"I think I got it," he muttered, finally plugging in the last chord. The amp glowed a dozen different lights - a black machine of metal and rage - and he reached for the guitar, standing awkwardly on the chair.

"You'll need to get a stand," he muttered, fiddling to reach the plug. It went in, and the speaker went thud. He jimmied it and turned to me. "Give it a try?"

"Are you sure?" I asked, finally stepping from the bed to put my cup on the desk. "And yeah, that's... that's probably a good idea."

The red felt different - slightly heavier, slightly more slim. She was a six-string, and it was a she. James' had called her Venessa - said I'd need to give her a new name, once I was ready. Why, exactly, all guitars were women, I didn't know - but I had an inkling because men loved them, and they tended to be loud.

"Yeah," Dad shrugged, dusting his hands on his old denim blues. He nodded. "Well - come on. Let's hear her."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, we need to see if it works, don't we?"

I guess.

I took a breath - and breathed in the smell of caffeine, nicotine, aftershave and spice - and exhaled as I put the belt over my neck.

My fingers found her center - my hand found her neck. It took me a second to find the right strings - my few hours of practice already showing their ineptitude.

E minor, I decided. Couldn't go wrong with that.

I looked at him, saw him smile in promise. I smiled too, a little less unsure.

So, I raised my hand, like a rocker about to rock -

And nearly bought the house down when I hit the string.

Because it was loud, it was proud - it was three decibels off deafening and twelve too high to be sensible. Dad jumped - I jumped - my ears ringing - and then the dogs in the neighborhood started barking.

I was so surprised I didn't even think to shush them - staring at the amp as Danny rushed to it, the last rings still echoing. He winced at what he saw, and gave me an awkward grin - the kind where you know you messed up, and were trying to play it off but your neck decided to give you away.

"Forgot to, uh, check the volume...?"

I stared, guitar hanging from my neck, ears still ringing.

Then? Then I snorted. Then I laughed. Because really-

"I think the neighbors noticed, dad."

We turned it down, after that, to something less likely to wake the sleeping-dead.

He sat there with me, as I fiddled with getting a handle of the strings. It was terrible, but he cheered me on, leaned against my desk. It creaked, but he didn't seem to care, more willing to risk falling than not watch me struggle to play. I hit the cord maybe three times out of ten, constantly slipping between frets and always hitting one string too few or one string too many.

Still, he watched me - and it struck me that this was the longest he'd been in my room in... in years. Since mom, at least. I fought down the melancholy, and stuck to trying to play.

An hour might have passed - a whole night and day - and I doubt I would have noticed, I doubt he would have strayed.

"What do you think?" I asked, after a bit, trying not to fiddle.

"You're amazing, Taylor."

I expected a lot of things.

I didn't expect that.

It must have showed, because he smile shrunk a fraction, and became a little more unsure. A touch more true.

"Listen -" he started, he stopped, licking his lips. "I - I know I'm... I've never been good at this. And I know... I know I let you down."

Please stop talking -

"But... But I just want to say I'm... I'm sorry." He looked down, smile gone as he bit his lip. "Your mom - she was... she was better, at this. Than I was. Than I am. And... And a lot has happened."

His bottom lip puffed out - and I tried to talk.

But my throat betrayed me. So did my tongue.

"I just..." He started. He stalled. Whatever he wanted to say - his tongue must have betrayed him too. He rose, awkwardly, and stopped just in front of me. I didn't know what he looked like - all I could see were his shoes.

Brown leather, old-fashioned and worn from years of wear and polish.

But I felt his hand, on my shoulder.

I felt him squeeze.

"I'm... I'm proud of you. I don't say it enough but... But I'm proud of you."

"Your mom would be too."

He didn't say anything after that - just letting me go. He stood there for a moment, just a moment, before clearing his throat.

"I'm just - never mind. I'm... I'll leave the water on for you."

And then he was gone - and all there was was the echo of footsteps - Thump, Thump, Thump - to match my Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum.

I ignored the water, as it began to fall. I ignored the mutters of Stupid, stupid, stupid as they began from down the hall.

I ignored it - I ignored him - and let the strings echo the cry that I couldn't bring myself to call.

February 13th​, 2011 – Diary

I got new clothes. Some shirts, some socks - a few new jeans. I don't know how long they'll last me - but hopefully it'll be a while. Met a guy, his name is James. Old sailor - down the market. He was playing some music. Ended up buying two of his guitars - and an amp too.

Dad and I talked. Not about much - but it... it didn't go the way I expected. He made me some coffee - I didn't gag, so that's nice. Still tasted terrible - but... but I managed to taste something other than shit. He helped me set up my amp. It... It was really loud. Honestly, it could have woken the dead.

...
...
...

He said he was proud of me. That... that mom would be too. Just... just randomly said that he was proud of me.

...

It's the most we spoke, since she died. And - and I wanna say I'm happy - I am, I - I know I am. But... But it... It hurts too. After everything - today had been such a good day and he just... he just - said that. Said he was sorry. Said you were better at this than he was.

And I don't... I don't know what to do about that. I waited... I waited so long to hear him say that. To... to see him try. And it felt really good - it felt so good until he said you'd be proud.

I... I don't know if I believe that. I want to - but... but how could you be?

...
...
...

I've been thinking about you more. Been thinking about a lot of things. About you, about me, about life. About... about what it means. What... What I'm supposed to do. For the longest time - I... I just thought that I needed to survive, to push through. And I still believe that - I do. But... but sometimes it's hard. I know so much, I see so much, I feel so much that... that sometimes I want to just turn it all off and just... fade away.

You loved life. You... you loved it so much - how could you be proud of me if you knew that?

I get so angry sometimes. Everything just... just too much and too little and it makes me want to fight - it makes me want to scream. You used to say that power was never the problem - that only the hands that wielded it mattered.

What would you say to me? If you knew how hard I tried, but saw how easily it could be to just... make them all go away?

...
...
...

I... We still have your old books down in the basement. We... We never could throw any of it away. And - and I bought some gloves. Blue. They're a little tight, but they only go to my knuckle. I... I like em. They make me feel strong, when i put them on. They remind me of you and - and... I wanna find them. Your books, I mean. Just... Just read them again - like you used to read to me and... me and her.

...

I just miss you, mom.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I forgot to call.

But I won't forget you. I promise.

Love you,
Taylor.

Chapter Text

Prologue Four: A Conversation with God

February 21st, 2011 - Hebert Residence

Time, in abundance, turned all men to slaves.

I hadn't thought of that line in ages - but I found myself thinking on it now. I didn't realize how empty life was until I felt it slip my grasp - and hadn't grasped that sensation till I reached for the old guitars.

They were my obsession, now. Every afternoon, every evening - every hour I could get, outside of school and in my thoughts during it. Music had become my maestro - the sounds, my muse. If I wasn't listening to something, I was playing something. If I wasn't doing either, I was thinking of doing one. The acoustic, mostly, who had taken on the name Emelia - and occasionally red, whom I named Jean. Dad had gotten me a set of headphones with a longer cord - an apology, in part, for how awkward he'd been in the days following our confession.

I rarely used them - he was barely home enough to disturb. But I cherished them and always made sure he saw me wearing them when I heard him home. He'd pause sometimes, when I left my door just slightly ajar - to watch me struggle, to watch me play. He never heard a thing, but I caught him staring, sometimes - like he'd seen a ghost.

Our relationship was strange, like that. Always cracking, always on the mend. He was trying, I knew. I was trying too. But it was hard to cross bridges that were worn with age - harder still to fix them, without sending them to the ground.

Still, I found myself obsessed with things more and more. Music might have been my passion, but mom's old novels had become my grace. Worn old leather backs, pages stained yellow and with random scribbles on their page-face. Some were notes - some were complaints. Some were messages - reminders written in her curling scrawl with dates.

I had started with Dante, her favorite. I had come to love Sade, her most despised. Plato joined them- though I'd barely touched him - and so did Woolf. I found them easier than I should have - found their words like music of a different make. They sung, when you let them - they drawled, when you dared. I'd taken to writing more - lyrics and letters, mostly - by her own command. Journaling had never been my forte, beyond that cursed one - stuffed beneath shoes in my closet - but I had taken to writing more and more.

I'd take them - stare at them till they told me their tale - Till they were Latin, and they were Greek, and they were Roman and Englishmen and Scandinavian and Anglo-Saxon. Then I'd write them - line by line - till they, a paragraph, became three; and I felt them as close as if I knew them as friend.

They brought me comfort - they brought me joy. Sometimes I laughed, sometimes I cried. Other times, they made me stare at a wall in contemplation - and sometimes, they had me gaping in disbelief.

Whoever said "Many a reader knows them, few a reader reads them" knew something I didn't - because they sure said a lot, and they sure had a lot to say.

It was almost funny; how much I'd come to love them again.

They'd become another outlet - words to enter into and places I could stay. Where music gave me serenity, writing gave me peace - and already, there were even more pages strewn across my desk and an unopened set of pencils dangling like the devil was on their chest. Even my library card was seeing more use - beyond the occasional need for faster internet.

History, philosophy - poetry and prose; I swallowed them all, till I found little need for my little ones to hurt.

Only school required that now - only they demanded a sacrifice.

It was frustrating - how much power they had over me there - but I digress, they were a topic for another time.

For time, I found, made men slaves in its abundance -

And I never really realized just how boring my life was until I counted the seconds on the clock.

The changes played a part I'm sure - sleep was an option now, not a requirement. Hunger had come and gone completely. Breathe had been the first to go - but even exhaustion had taken a sabbatical and never returned to its post. I felt full, satiated. I felt aware - even without my little ones. Whenever I dove into them - it felt like turning my head, instead of pausing. I could feel them fuller now - but still be me. Tease them, call on them - play with them, and let them still remain themselves.

I tried not to - unless they needed me. They were fine, for the most part - but I'm sure more than a few tired old men must have had their heart skip a beat to find the streets strays going about their days with cats on dogs backs and kittens being nursed by ol' Bluenote, her snout ruffling them as they fought for her milk.

It was terrible - how easy it was becoming. How each day I felt a little more normal, a little more me. A violation, a rapage - but one that I had grown increasingly numb to.

But misery maketh a fiend - and I was so tired of misery. If I had to suffer - why not make some good through suffering?

"Madame," I joked, staring to the paper - where numbers greeted me sternly, "I have become a whore through good-will and libertine through virtue."

The numbers were not amused. They seemed set on making me find their ex and explaining to them why.

Snort.

Gods, I was going insane, wasn't I? I was doing that a lot - talking to books, my guitars - even Bob the Builder, swirling his net in the corner.

I needed companions - I needed friends. Living, functional people I could talk to beyond the ghosts of writers passed. People who didn't have opinions on ethics, morality, and the crumbling strains of the human mind and who just wanted to talk about - about - about -

...

Huh. What did people my age talk about?

...

Eh.

People were overrated. Who needed people when you had a good book and music to keep you company?

Besides - not like I could speak to a therapist; then they'd really call me insane!

...

So maybe the poetry and music were making me a bit dramatic - but at least I wasn't making it the world's problem.

That was the internet's job.

February 25, 2011

School was still closed.

Not that surprising, all things considered. The entire world seemed to be holding it's breath. News broadcasts kept us updated - and whatever news that did get filtered out was either censored or redacted to hell and back. Emergency services were being flooded with calls - and half the known world sat on the edge of their seat waiting and waiting and waiting for a call that never came back.

Chances were, life wouldn't resume until the memorial or the all clear came through - and the city was as peaceful as it ever seemed to be. Half the local Protectorate were out of city - and the villains had taken to sitting on their hands and patrolling their streets in their stead.

I could still hear the echo, sometimes, when the city got especially quiet. That shriek.

They hadn't rung for the past eight hours - and the longer they stayed silent, the better.

Dad was watching the news when I came downstairs - eyes glued to the screen as the local anchor broke the news.

At 23:53, the PRT had sent out the warning signal. By 00:31, she had made her descent.

The next six hours were described as hell in a handbasket - with first responders doing their best to stave off her assault till more support could arrive. They managed to hold her off just long enough for reinforcements to start driving her back.

It still hadn't been enough. They had held out in hope -

Scion had never arrived - and wherever he was, he took hope with him.

Apparently, Legend and Eidolon had driven her back.

But not before it had been too late.

Canberra had fallen. The city was a landfill now - of broken promises and broken dreams - and most analysts were debating whether sealing it off was the better option - or if glassing it was the more humane choice.

They always had that debate - whenever she came around. If locking a city behind fortified walls was a better option than a city of 485,000 being scorched from the face of the earth.

485,000.

Four-hundred and eighty-five thousand.

It sounded like a lot.

It was a lot.

Brockton Bay only housed some 350,000 - on a good day.

But the question always came up -

Was a life of suffering better than a painless death?

...

That had been three hours ago. Dad hadn't said anything when I said I wanted to clear my head. For all that it promised to be more dangerous without the heroes about - the Truce was something everyone enforced. Robbing someone would get you beat - looting was liable to get you shot.

Everyone respected it - everyone resented what it meant.

Me?

I didn't know what I felt, walking down the pier. I had heard it - it would have been hard not to, even without enhanced senses. The animals had heard it too - and I'd had to spread my range just to calm them all down when the sirens came. It was the furthest I'd ever pushed it - nearly fifty square miles in an instant.

It should have been an effort.

It felt like taking a breath.

I also dove too deep - almost tried to take full control, tap into their senses to help them breathe.

If I did, I don't think I would have been able to hold myself back.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

My heart hadn't even skipped a fucking beat when it had come. Me?

I had frozen. Just... ended up sitting there, on the bed, book in my lap. A hundred thoughts had raced through my head - a million possibilities compressed down into a scant sixty seconds.

Part of me - the girl in me - had wanted to hide.

Another part of me - the demigod - wanted to fight.

I had to turn that dial as high as it could go - to stop myself from running. To or away - I still didn't know.

But looking at the waters - looking at the sea?

I wanted to say I had an answer.

Maybe I did.

485,000.

Four-hundred and eighty-five thousand.

It sounded like a lot.

It was a lot.

It wasn't, though - was it?

A fraction of a fraction - not even the equivalent of half of a half of a percent.

It didn't sound so bad when you put it like that.

"Daddy - I'm scared."

"Shhh - it's gonna be okay, honey - it's gonna be okay. We got you - we got you."

...

I'd been... five? Six? When she first appeared?

We called her an angel, then.

We called her the Hopekiller now.

...

485,000.

0.000097 percent.

...

Heh. Not even a fraction of a fraction.

Not even one percent.

...

"What would you have done?"

...

Heh.

"Stupid question - I know exactly what you would have done."

...

...

...

"Think we could have made a difference?"

...

...

"Heh. Yeah. I guess so."

Breath. Salt - Sulphur - sand - sea.

"It wasn't our battle. It wasn't my fight."

...

"But it could have been - right?"

...

"You don't get to judge me. You aren't me."

...

...

"But you were, weren't you?"

...

"You were... you were just like me, once upon a time."

...

"But I'm not you."

...

"I could be. Some parts - the little girl - she wants to be like you. But who I am now... I don't think I could ever be you."

...

"What if - what if - what if; words to poison the soul..."

...

"Whatever happened to make you me - and me you? I don't know. Quite frankly... I'm - I'm done trying to pretend I even care."

...

"They're gonna wall them off. Put them in a big fucking dome - and leave them to fend for themselves. There were four-hundred and eighty-five thousand people there this morning. There are less than two-hundred thousand now."

"All crammed into a little shit box - left to fight and fuck and die while the world pretends to care."

...

"But it doesn't - does it? The world never seems to care."

"Because Evil triumphs when good men stand by. It laughs, when good men fight."

...

"But even the devil weeps, when good men walk to war."

"So march, good men, and walk to war."

...

"Come back broken - come back grave."

"Let life be your cradle - let life be your grave."

...

"So walk, grave-diggers," I swallowed, and closed my eyes - and let my hand grip that which was not there - "And follow me to war."

...
...
...

"To war, they echo," I echoed - to the crashing waves and shifting sands. "Glory, they promise - glory, they sing."

"Hail to your sacrifice, they whisper - glory to the king."

The sea did not answer. The wind didn't sing.

"Still not gonna answer me huh?"

Heh.

"Not like you could."

...

I closed my eyes, and lifted it to the sun. It was warm. Warmer than it had any right to be.

"It wouldn't have made a difference."

"It wouldn't have been you there."

"It have just been me."

Sunset would come soon - sooner than it should.

A sign of closing. A sign of a new dawn.

"So walk - and walk again - in the coming dawn."

Sigh

"Sing with me - at the break of dawn."

The sun gave me no answer. All it gave me were the waves.

But I got my answer.

For my want was great - but my will was greater.

...

After all -

What were the waters to a wave?

What were heroes to legends?

What was an angel to a God?

...

...

...

What was the worth of suffering - if you didn't make some good?

Why do you complain of your fate, when you could so easily change it?

...

Sigh. Chuckle.

...

"Alright, you bitch," I muttered, sighing. I breathed - and tasted the air -

It was sweet.

I shouldn't have smiled.

I think I did.

"You fucking win."

The world was far too bright, when I opened my eyes. Far too loud. After too soft.

Strange - how that didn't bother me.

Hmm...

What were the words again?

Ah - yes -

I don't remember being this dramatic.

"Let silver and steel be the essence."
"Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation."

We were always dramatic.

"Let gold the color I pay tribute to -"
"Let our great Master be the ancestor"

Either way - are you certain?

"Let rise a wall against the wind that shall fall"
"Let the four cardinal gates close."

Guess I am.

"Let the three-forked road from the crown reaching unto the Kingdom rotate."
"For I hereby declare -"

You don't have to - there's no need. You're free. You don't have to be me.

"Your spirit shall serve under me."
"My fate shall be your sword."

Good. I don't wanna be.

"Submit to the beckoning - submit to the call."
"If you will submit to this will and this reason… Answer."

Ha! So stubborn. It always was our worst trait.

"An oath shall be sworn here -"
"For I attain all virtues of all of Heaven -"

What's a bit of misery?

...

Chuckle

What's a bit of pain? Very well then-

"I take dominion over all the evils of hell."
"From the Seventh Heaven, attendant to the great words of power,"

Go on - you'll be fine - but because that's hell you're walking into -

"Come forth from the ring of restraints-"
"Protector of the Holy Throne-"

"I ask of you -"
I ask of you-

"Are you my master?"

Chapter Text

Interlude One - C'est la vie

Knight and Dragon

February 27th, 2011 - Canberra, Australia (Outskirts, Command Center)

The hours following an Endbringer battle were always the worst, in Dragon's opinion.

The days following it; hell and peace in equal measure.

Hell, for the devastation - for the grief. For the good days and the bad ones, as Legend would say.

The first six were always hopeful. The next ten a strain. By the time they reached fifteen, hope became a rare currency - and by the time they reached twenty, something in short supply.

It was the thing that broke most of those who volunteered to stay and support. The clean-up, the strategizing - the way hope died when rescue became retrieval.

Peace, for the glimmers of goodness she saw, every time. For how tributes would sprout, around the world - and support planes would flood in with water, food, clothing and those with too much goodness in their hearts for the carnage to see.

They often left graver - they were often the ones she grieved.

It was always a bitter thing - to bury hope.

It was always a bitter thing - when there weren't even hands to bury the dead.

But it was the days that followed that truly tested her. Truly made her silicon soul shriek.

Leviathan and Behemoth were kinder in those regards. They left places damaged - lands, destroyed.

But the Simurgh?

The Simurgh left her song - and the wound in the decisions she forced the survivors to make.

It had taken less than twenty-four hours for the call to come through.

Twenty-four hours of government screaming, politicking and thirteen court-martials and counting. Debates had raged all the way from the sitting Prime Ministers of England and France to the halls of an urgently called United Powers conference in Berlin with all available representatives called to hear.

The Australian government had been given the final say - but under the urging of sitting Chief-Director of the Parahumans Response Team, the tired recommendation of the current head of the Protectorate, and a strained phone call from the current sitting president of the United States of America - a decision had been reached.

The temporary quarantine of Canberra would be extended indefinitely - and while screening would continue alongside evacuation, the city was to be condemned and its inhabitants - sealed.

The official announcement would be made in seventy-two hours - to give the last of the remaining ground forces at least a chance to screen and document those they could get out.

Document everyone - fingerprints, Thinker checks, whatever scans you can get. Prioritize the women and child. Anyone that tries to escape... Shoot on Sight.

They were expected to have a containment plan ready in thirty-six.

Already, there were soldiers being rotated in and out - many unable to take the pressure, many more unwilling to take the pain. She did what she could - with Strider and her own jets acting as transport for the heroes that arrived - and the villains who'd never make it home.

Strange, how they all seemed so similar, when they were wrapped in plastic and covered in dirt.

"-ed to ensure that the dome has sufficient air flow and access hatches for supply - Dragon?"

She forced her avatar to blink.

"I'll add it to the dossier."

Armsmaster breathed, his armor still dusted and worn from where he'd been assisting in the search and rescue.

He always hated when he couldn’t fight. Always hated when the warnings showed it was the Simurgh.

She did too. Tinkerers were a liability when she was around.

But there was only so much support you could give before you wanted to just stand up and -

"Do you need a minute?"

She made it smile.

"I'm fine, Armsmaster. Just... taking it all in."

Breathe.

"It's... it's always worse when it's her."

He didn't answer for a moment, turning his attention back to the laptop on the desk. The tent itself was a mess of things - coffee cups, MRI packets, and the general chaos of a command tent outside a disaster zone. It was just them, for the moment - the rest either on break or in meetings.

He had rings under his eyes - she noted. He hadn't gotten sleep in... forty-four hours now?

"We can continue later," she offered, digital shoulders shrugging. "You look like you could use some sleep."

"No," he said almost instantly, as if the idea was an afront. "There's too much to do - and I refuse to let you do all the work again."

"You need rest," she stressed gently, wishing she had the arms to drag him from his desk.

"So do you."

"I'm a Noctis - you're running on fumes."

"Panacea gave me the call-clear."

"And she can't help you if you drop dead." She sighed. Stubborn men -

"I'm fin-"

"You've been staring at the same blueprint for the last half hour."

...

"I'm making sure it's feasible."

"It isn't - and you know it. You've brought up the filters four times now."

...

"We don't have the time to waste on rest."

"And we'll have less time if Amy needs to get her hands on you." She gentled her voice again, forcing the documents on his laptop - her laptop - to close. She saw him look down at her, as she shifted the screen to her avatar - and gave him the saddest, softest, firmest smile she could muster.

She wished she could smile -

"Rest. Please, Collin. Just... Just for an hour. I'll keep working on the documents - make sure the fabricators are on standby and talk to the rest of the team. But please... just an hour?"

...

...

...

"For me?"

...

Breath. Exhale.

"Thirty minutes." He grunted, rubbing his eyes. "I'm setting my armor for thirty minutes."

She didn't have to force the smile this time.

"Thirty minutes. Go get some rest - Let me handle things here."

The Saint - The Sinner

February 27th, 2011 - Evening

The cigarette tasted like shit.

Sharp, bitter; like tar wrapped in silicon and welded with just the wrong amount of spite. Stronger than her usual fair, less abundant than it too.

It smelled better than the triage; and after the last two days, it might as well have been honey-snickerdoodles for all Amy cared. The doc she got it from certainly seemed to agree, handing them out like candy between operation and surgery - and only the most zealous and Hippocratically inclined denied themselves the gift of its favor.

Nicotine, heroin, morphine - at this point, her hands were stained with each of each that she could almost ignore the slick feeling of blood.

God, she hated triage. God, she hated her job.

But someone's gotta do it, she thought bitterly, taking another crackling pull as she watched another batch of volunteers carry a crate, and another batch deliver bad news. There seemed to be a lot of that going about - crates and bad news - and they were shit at doing both.

But she was carrying her own loads -

Better you than me.

She exhaled and watched the wind catch the smoke and twirl it into mist.

I'm shit at that too.

"You alright there, kid?"

Breath - crackle.

"Better than the last lot," she exhaled, not turning to the woman as she came beside her, ripping off her own gloves with a sigh. She was pretty enough, Amy mused - with dark skin and dark hair and an accent she couldn't quite place. Tall too - with a little scar on her cheek that looked a bit too much like a pimple to be a birth mark.

She chuckled, finally freeing her last hand to toss the gloves to the dirt - before fiddling in her pockets.

"Ain't that the truth," she mumbled, finally finding her own smoke. She tapped her pockets again. "Got a light?"

Amy tossed it without sparing her a second glance.

"Thanks."

Amy just grunted, listening to the flick flick click of her old Bic lighter and the near silent crackle of tobacco paper. She watched another military truck drive by, a collection of black bags on its trunk.

"Which group is that?" she asked, taking another drag.

"Fuck if I know," the woman shrugged. "Locals, probably - most of the capes are in the bone-house."

"We still calling it that?" Amy asked, taking another drag.

"Better than meat-fac."

"Suits it better," she muttered, exhaling. "Most of ‘em aren't more than meat sacks anyway."

Snort

"Well, you're a charmer, ain't cha?"

"Fuck you."

"Prefer my gals legal - you know how it is."

"Of course you do," she sighed, finally looking at the woman proper. "Got a name?"

"Janet."

"You look like a Jane."

"You look like a bitch."

"That be my mother."

"Oh, mommy issues?" Janet grinned, taking a pull. "Dat's hot."

"She's also a lawyer."

"And that's terrifying," she chuckled. "Consider me sold."

Grunt

...

...

...

"Not gonna ask mine?"

Snort

"Teenager in a medical tent, ordering people around like a queen? Frizzy hair? Freckles? Miserable as piss? Please," she laughed, "I'm a dumbass; I ain't stupid."

"It be fucking polite," Amy mumbled.

"Polites for patience - you get my fun side."

"Think I'd qualify for patient status?" Amy mused, taking another drag before grunting, glaring at how close the tip was to the nib.

"Honey - half my patients look better than you do. Want another?" Janet offered, reaching into her pocket to show her a spare. Amy barely needed the offer - reaching to take it and lit it with her dying cigarette.

She felt the pill between her lips - and grunted as she bit down, taking a richer breath before exhaling and pulling it away to stare.

"The fuck you get a popper around here?"

"Brought it from home," Janet hummed. "Not the best - but I was kind of in a rush when the call came."

"You still have your own?" Amy muttered, raising an eyebrow. "What, been sleeping on the job?"

"I wish," Janet snorted, taking a breath of her own to look across the field - to where the fences were already being set up in the distance. They looked like little toothpicks, laid side to side - except more meshy and more prone to break. "Nah, barely had the time - unlike some people."

The look she gave Amy was less judging and more tiredly amused.

"Healer privilege," Amy grunted. "One of the few perks of this fucking job- inhale exhale - where you from?"

"Sydney."

...

...

"Fuck," Amy muttered, shoving her cigarette back before her foot joined it in her mouth.

"Yeah," Janet sighed, smile a little more tired. "Was on shift when the call came in - barely had time to get a nap before we hit the tarmac."

"I see," Amy muttered, for lack of anything better to say. Her bedside manners were shit - but she wasn't that socially -

"You know anyone here?"

...Fuck.

"Yeah. A few. Ex-boyfriend lived just off central. Used to invite me up back in med school."

"... I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Janet chuckled. "Cheated on me, the bastard. Got what he deserved."

"He still in there?"

"No clue- inhale exhale - hope not. It's gonna be shit show, when all’s said and done. Our idiots? They're the lucky ones."

"Yeah," Amy agreed, barely turning her head to glance at the tent. "Yeah, they are."

She took another breath, caught more of a hint of mint, and exhaled. "First time?"

"Yeah."

"Nothing like it, huh?"

"You can say that again."

"Makes you wanna retire early," Amy joked, but by how dead her tone was, you'd think she wasn't.

"Makes me wanna shake myself awake."

"You get used to it?" Amy mused. "Seen one spleen, seen em all."

Janet just huffed a snort, taking another drag.

"You're a real ball of fuckin' sunshine, huh?"

"Thought I was miserable?" Amy sniped back.

"You are. Kinda cute, if I'm honest."

"Thought you liked em legal?"

"Legal ain't gonna unfuck this bale of horses," Janet shrugged, giving her a grin. She had shiny teeth.

Amy gave her a look, then looked at the set of tents just across from her own charnel house. She took another breath, took another pull -

"When's your flight?"

"Two more days."

...
...
...

Fuck it.

"Meet me after dinner?"

"You get the good stuff?"

"Ramen and stale coffee."

"Well shit - ain't gotta butter me up. You got a tent?"

"I got a bunk and a sock?"

"Works for me."

War Dogs

February 28th, 2011 - Afternoon - PRT ENE Headquarters

Their feet had barely hit the ground before Strider vanished with a huff.

Ethan stumbled, and Robin barely bothered to catch him before he stumbled too. Shawn handled it better - but the man was barely holding it together himself as he groaned.

"I," Ethan mumbled, grunting as he gave Robin a firm shoulder squeeze before standing, "hate teleporting."

"We heard you the first time," Shawn yawned, blinking as he stared at the sky. "Anyone got the time?"

"Fuck the time," Robin muttered, popping his neck. "Anyone got my spine?"

"With your wife," Hannah sighed, turning to stare at them. They were all in various states of disrepair - clothes torn in some places, just dirty in others. She herself had traded her trademark bandana for a simple medical mask, and Amy had barely managed to reattach her own arm before it had gotten too far gone.

She took them in, and took a deep breath of deep, salty air.

"I'll handle Piggot," she sighed, looking at her team and trying for a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "The rest of you - you know the drill."

"Eat, sleep, shower, fuck," Ethan joked, rolling his shoulder.

"In no particular order," she replied, already feeling her shoulders droop.

"You gonna be okay?" Robin asked, but the relief in his eyes showed just how little he cared to help.

"I'll be fine," she replied, already turning to the door - where two security immediately stood at attention. "Go - before you say something stupid and make it worse for the rest of us."

"Yes ma'am," Shawn sighed, looking at the rest of them. "You heard the boss - eat, sleep, shower, shit - in no particular order."

"That last one was different," Ethan muttered, raising an eyebrow high enough to shift his mask.

"Some of us are single - don't want them to feel left out."

"And fuck you too," Robin answered, already moving to the door.

The entire office seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as they saw her pass - and more than one man and woman on deck nodded to her in passing, smiles on their face. Hannah knew most of it was the fact that the main roster was back in the Bay - she knew some of it was genuine care. It barely took her five minutes to reach the Director's office - and the secretary didn't even bother waiting for her to speak before saying the director will see you now.

She barely opened the door when she heard the woman's voice - gruff, rough, bitter and tough - already on a phone call.

"And I don't care what you think, I need -" she woman paused, looking up as she entered. She looked like shit, in Hannah's opinion - drier and more stressed than when they'd left, with her blond hair slick with sweat and her eyes narrowed in contempt.

"I'll call you back," Piggot muttered into her speaker, slamming the phone down without so much as a how-do-you-do - and those eyes narrowed even further as Hannah came to a parade rest before her.

Neither said anything for a moment, before -

"You look like shit."

Hannah didn't snort, but it was a near thing.

"Yes ma'am."

"Where are the rest of the idiots?" the woman asked, looking at her empty sides.

"On break - ma'am."

"Ma'am," Piggot snorted, reaching for her draw to pull out a pack of cigarettes. They were the cheap kind - the kind you'd find at a gas station next to the condoms and the dead stare of a college student - and against the better judgement of her doctors, she lit it and took a deep, sobering breath. "Cut the shit, Washington - where's Colin, is anyone injured, and is anyone dead? And get that shit off your face - I'm rotting, not dead."

"Helping set up the dome," Hannah answered, reaching to take off the mask as she let her shoulders droop. "Cuts, bruises - but nothing permanent."

"Dallon, then," Piggot muttered, taking another drag. "She arrive with you?"

"No ma'am - she's helping with the last of the wounded."

"Fucking hells - Carol's gonna bitch about that."

"She always does, ma'am."

"I said cut the shit, Washington," Piggot snapped, exhaling like a bull. "I'm already up to my gills with the Wards and this shithole - I don't need another problem on my desk."

"Noted, ma'am."

Piggot just grunted, nodding to the chair by her desk. Hannah took it gracefully - all but collapsing into once her ass hit the fabric.

"You look like shit."

"Lost an arm," Hannah grunted in return, finally letting the last of her formality fade. "Have you gotten a report?"

"Yes. I haven't read it - how bad?"

"Bad."

"Report."

"We arrived two hours into the fight," Hannah answered. "By then, most of the first responders were either battered or dead. Alexandria and her team arrived not long after and helped contain her while Velocity and Dauntless ran support. Assault stuck to interference and search and rescue. I handled range support."

"Armsmaster?"

"Helped from command, with the rest of the Tinkerers and Thinkers. He and Dragon are with them now, finalizing the plans for the dome and holding containment. He'll arrive in two days, with Amy and the rest of the emergency support."

"Strider?"

"Dragon."

Piggot just grunted in response, taking another drag.

"So we're down a Jack, and up an Ace," she muttered, face a rictus of irritation despite the good news. "Fucking perfect."

"How have things been here?"

"Peaceful," the word seemed to annoy the woman as she flicked her cigarette ash to the desk. "The Truce is holding - petty crime, a few opportunists, but nothing the BBPD can't handle. Kaiser and his lot have been keeping their peace - and Lung still hasn't crawled out of his hole. Battery's been in command of the Wards."

"How have they been holding up?"

The woman gave her a flat stare, cigarette held aloft between her fingers, before she took another drag.

"How do you think?"

Shit, Hannah imagined.

"Anything I should know about?"

"Shadow Stalker is up to her tricks," Piggot muttered, the name a poison on her tongue. "Aegis has been keeping them grounded - but Triumph's had to step in a few times. Dennis," she grunted, "has been keeping the peace - Dean's been assisting, the little shit - and the less said about Kid and Vista, the better."

"Dennis always was the smart one."

"Those are your words, not mine," the director muttered again, flicking another bit of ash. "He'll be happy to have you back on the board."

The woman sighed, finally killing her smoke.

"I am too. City was one firecracker away from going up in smoke."

"Missed me, ma'am?"

Snort

"Like shit on my boot. Take the afternoon off," the woman waved, but there was a general's affection there, the respect only one soldier could have for another. "I expect you on duty at 0900 - and I expect you to remind those idiots that I want a full report on my desk by sundown tomorrow."

Hannah couldn't help the chuckle this time, pushing herself to her feet.

"Yes ma'am."

"And next time there's a fucking disaster," the woman said, leaning into her chair, eyes staring her right in her own. "You stay put and wrangle the idiots."

"That's your job, ma'am - not mine."

"My job is to shovel shit, yours is to eat it."

"Yes ma'am."

"And you handle the brats. They're exhausting."

"They're kids. And useful."

"So's napalm," the woman drawled, an annoyed look on her face at Hannah's quirked smile. "Doesn't mean I want it in my fucking bed. Dismissed."