[Worm] Going Native

[Dartz_IRL]

Caused a bit of a stir when posted elsewhere. Working title was 'Insecurity'. Tells you everything you need to know

Working title was 'Insecurity?'. For obvious reasons. That'll tell you everything you need to know what the inspiration was.

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“Good Morning, Shadow Stalker.”


That rabbit-in-headlights look never failed to make my day. Sometimes she got violent, sometimes she just wondered how, but most times, she just looked utterly and totally blindsided. Her mouth would goldfish open, while the others stood and stared.


I stepped back before she composed herself, and in a flash it'd never happened. Lost to deadtime.


Might aswell do something amusing with this bloody thing in my head, huh? Trolling had been invented for arseholes like her. I could be a trolling rogue, or don the cape and join the circus. You'll forgive me when I say being a superhero just seemed like a good way to get killed.


I'd decided I wanted to live, I reminded myself. Easier said than done.


Hess hurried passed, the terrible trio already late for the daily lunchtime struggle session. Whether today was the day or not, I didn't know. I knew we were in the run-up to it.


My locker was a metaphor or myself; abit of a bloody mess. So what, one of the advantages of being just sixteen is having the right not to give a fuck about things like that. Still, some order had begun to seep back into place.


It meant I had a chance of finding the notebook I was looking for before the bell rang.


It meant being still focused on a cubic metre of school-rubbish, crash helmet and riding gear when something slammed into the side of my head, knocking me onto my arse. A football bounced off the tiled floor beside me, followed by laughter.


“Hah!, Nice catch, Mick.”


“Yeah man, right in the head and like, BAM! on his hass!”


Fuck. My turn today. I didn't know their names. I couldn't be arsed learning. One year held-back, a few centimetres taller, and the four of them walked around like they owned the place.


Sighing, I stepped back, and caught the football on the second try.


“Hey, Nice catch, man...”


“Try make it harder next time.” I passed it back with a gentle kick. It wasn't too different from a rugby ball. They'd find someone else to bother today, and that's good enough for me.


Butterflies are amazing creatures. Amazing the difference they make. The formed the single bit that flipped between a few moments of respect and few moments ridicule.


Ironic. I'd joined in the ranks of 'normal kid' now. Nobody special,. Bit tall. Bit on the larger side. Maybe a bit quiet, but understandable really. Just one of hundreds looking to keep their head down and just do their time in Winslow in peace. Having a little experience helped.


Who am I?


I am not the protagonist you were expecting. I am the sixteen year old who's hometown was destroyed by Levi' a year ago. Who's brother drowned in a shelter and who's parents were moved halfway around the world when the wreckage was condemned. Da owns a bar here now. Mam works at Arcadia as a janitor.


That's what they tell me. That's what I live, day to day. I am not even a background character.


Thankfully.


The bell rang and the bustle began. I took the back stairs to class to avoid the crush - a path I knew would take me passed the girl's bathroom and the possibility that today would be the day when the rollercoaster set in motion in January reached the end of its first nervewracking climb.


I thought about turning back and taking the longer way around, just so I could avoid knowing. Every hair prickled on my neck as I reached the top of the stairs.


To see Taylor backed into a corner, surrounded by the three of them. What a perverse relief.


She saw me.


She looked right at me.


Why do you walk past?


Maybe my conscience had just spun that up on its own and she hadn't looked at me at all. All the usual justifications swam into place and I suppose you could call all of them a form of moral cowardice. I'm not going to debate that. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to get in the firing line. The racial angle sat there on top of all that. But there was more to it than that. I couldn't get involved. Not with this.


Not with anything.


A little trolling in deadtime didn't solve a thing, it just made me feel better about doing nothing.


So, I walked right on past her and said nothing. Just like everyone else.


The sound of footsteps running up behind me sent a quick jolt of adrenaline into my veins.


“Hey! Hold up, Ian?”


I glanced back, releasing the fist I'd made with my left hand. Once beaten, twice shy.


“Damien. What's up?”


One of the few who's name I'd learned, Damien was shorter than me, fair haired, but a couple of ratchets up on the fitness level to the point where he might've been able to take me in a fight if I didn't have my advantage.


“Airplanes. Airplanes are up.”


Most of all however, he was a decent human being. Even if the pun obliged me to roll my eyes.


“You got my sociology assignment?”


“Sure thing. Solid B grade.” He slipped few white sheets from his backpack, offering them to me. Freshly printed on crisp paper, On Parahuman Society and its Consequences. “And a summary clipped to the back incase you get asked any questions.”


I took it with a cheeky smile, leafing through it quickly to make sure I hadn't been handed something like the Unabomber manifesto as a prank. Especially with that title.


“Grand...” I said.


“Got my Math?”


You don't get anything for free in this world.


“One A-rated maths assignment.”


Easier for me to do. Twenty minutes at a computer, not that I told him that. Then print.


“Boys,”


I recognised the voice immediately. Step back....


Footsteps jogged up from behind me.


"Hey, hold up, Ian?”


“Damien, What's up?”


“Glory Girl, man?”


Butterflies? Time to change things a little. Probably not the best idea to trade papers in the middle of the corridor. Well, do we look like experienced drug dealers?


“Poster get delivered?”


“Finally!” he grinned


“That's a glorious poster.”


“Damn fine,” his grin broadened.


Oh yes. That's what I liked about being sixteen. The simple pleasures.


“Boys?”


Gladly. And weren't we glad for it?


“What?” Damien was fast off the draw.


“We weren't doing nothing.” I tried not to sound like a whining kid. Naturally, that made it plain as day that we weren't doing something. Or something like that. I'm shite at English, OK?


“Bags. Let's see what you've got in there.” He smiled like our best friend as he screwed us over.


I felt my power latch back into place. A moment later, I was fifteen seconds earlier.


“Glory Girl man,” said Damien, grinning.


“Hey, ah, can we go a different way?”


He blinked owlishly, caught off-guard by the sudden swerve. “We'll be late.”


I didn't care. “Better a tardy than getting caught with this. Trust me. There's a trap ahead.” I pointed at an office door.


“Alright,” he breathed. “You've been right about stuff like this before.”


Both of us turned to take the long way around, back past Taylor and Friends, down the stairs, then back up the middle with the rest of the crush.


“Boys! Stop right there.”


“Ah Fuck!” Everyone flinched, my voice carrying down the corridor.


Kobayashi Maru. Fifteen seconds didn't help when your downfall had been set up minutes earlier.


“There's only one person in this school who uses partial differential equations in High School math, or so I'm told. And that same person doesn't use American English spellings in his essays. I don't think his group would take the time to change it, either.”


And wasn't he so sickeningly pleased with himself?


Damien just deflated.


“Fuck.” I admit it. I am not an eloquent man.


With hindsight, it was painfully obvious. But being sixteen years old meant thinking things through just didn't happen sometimes. Just another thing to get used to. It mightn't of been the worst injustice in Winslow high.


But fuck me if it didn't annoy.


-


Given the choice between taking two full week's detention and re-doing two assignments, or taking a day and touting on all those involved, I took the weeks. Buy the ticket, take the ride. No sympathy for the devil as a good man once said. Take a seat in a full detention hall and take the time to get my homework done. Get the guts of one of the assignments done before I got bored, and a half hour to try ignore the itch beneath my braces.


A long day meant my ankles had started to ache again by the time the two hours were up. The school had emptied except for the last few extra-curricular stragglers and the janitor, leaving an eerie pine-scented quiet behind.


Empty schools always feel strange.


I grabbed my crash helmet, armour and boots from my locker, along with the second key. I struggled to get my boots on over the braces, but I preferred struggle over risking yet another sprain.


Armoured up, I could almost be a hero.


Or a villain.


The idea always lingered for far too long. Wearing armour gave security, even if all it did is stop me from getting myself pizza'd at high speed.



The bike had been parked where the bicycles were kept; a four-hundred-dollar rusty shed of a Honda that pre-dated parahumanity and came with a registration plate ominous enough that nobody even thought about stealing it.


Sixteen made me old enough for a provisional license. Well, they call it a learners permit. It amounted to the same thing; freedom from Public transport. Enough to feel like the beginnings of an adult again and know that if I really felt like it, I could just turn around and cross the entire continent.


I wasn't trapped in Brockton Bay any longer.


And my own power let me slice through rush-hour traffic. Fifteen seconds is plenty of time to avoid the cop, or the crossing traffic. Fifteen seconds gave me time to revel in atavistic freedom, a quick regeneration after the day's stresses.


My apartment – even after a year I wouldn't call it a home – straddled the line between what the map called Docklands, and Downtown South, just to the west of Arcadia High. It didn't stand out amongst its peers on Acacia Avenue.


No. It was not number 22.


After locking the bike in a secure place, two flights of stairs brought me to apartment 24. Archie knew I'd arrived before I had the chance to unlock the door. A clatter of cutlery let me know that his barking had claimed at least one surprised victim.


I opened to the door to a black Jack Russell terrier spasming and yapping in delight, and the warming scent of beef gravy, basil and spud. It almost brought me home. The front door opened directly into the kitchen, where mam was busy preparing the night's dinner over the cooker.


“What kind of hour do you call this?”


She didn't even look at me. Parents excelled at making you feel like a child. She'd be apoplectic if she knew the real reason, so I kept stumm.


“I got held back,” I answered, bluntly.


That long suck in of breath through the teeth gave me the warning. Already, the hands were going towards the face.


“Ah No. Tell me you didn't get suspended again!”


“No!” I snapped.


“This sort of thing was never like you or your brother. He never gave this sort of trouble”


Not this again.


“Look ma, it's alright.”


I tried to wave it off.


“Not when you're failing three classes. You know what your father will say,”


By now, she'd graduated to waggling the finger.


“History is different.” It was the first excuse that came to mind. Technically it wasn't a lie...


“That's not an excuse for someone like you.” Now, pointing at me.


“It doesn't matter anyway,” I muttered sourly, pushing through the kitchen into the living area.


“This is your education. It's your future.” She was pleading.


Snap. I felt something in the back of my mind just break. I stopped dead, glaring back at her.


“What future?”


Yeah, I snapped at her. Complete blown fuse. The only sound left in the apartment was the scratching of the dog's claws on the wooden floor as it scuttled out the door and a bubbling stewpot as the echo of my voice ring off the wall. I could feel my face burning red. She'd gone bone-white....


Step back. I was being a dick. That little backseat driver was making me be a dick.


Archie pawes at the door. I took a moment to shed the anger, reminding myself that the whole exchange never happened. A few deep breaths cleared the red mist. Another one helped me open the door.


The same homely smell embraced me, following by the dog nuzzling at my boots.


“I'm home!”


The dog answered first with a yap. The mammy took a moment to make sure the cooker was safe.


“What kept you?”


This time, I caught the note of concern in her voice.


“Had schoolwork to finish. I got my homework done.”


I tried to put a smile into it. Fake it till you make it.


“Your father'll be glad to hear that.” she answered, breathing. “I know the last year's been tough... for all of us.”


For a moment, I wondered if on some level she'd remembered the deadtime too, but that wasn't possible.


I sighed. “You don't know the fucking half of it.”


“And don't swear like that. It doesn't suit you. It never suited you...”


For some reason, that brought a genuine smile to my face. “Blame the oulfella for making me work in the bleeding bar...”


“Well, if you don't want a dinner or a place to sleep at night. He's expecting you after dinner.”


“Yeah ma, I know...”


The downside of being the immigrant family now, rather than the two-decades settled in a cushy job family – child labour laws got pissed out the window for the sake of keeping the lights on.


It meant living in a two bedroom apartment, rather than a full-sized house in the suburbs. I let the door to my own room latch shut, exhaling a long breath before shedding my jacket and trousers, then boots, then disassembling the spring-loaded braces that kept my ankles from rolling over.


A full-sized floor-to-ceiling window could've given me a commanding view of the city if we'd been higher than the second floor. Opposite, sat my bed with a stack of bookshelves above it. I had a desk-study with something that could've been called a mid-range computer four years ago, a wardrobe full of budget clothes, and a tangle-of-wires-and-metal school project that got me my photograph taken with Armsmaster six months ago sat discarded against the wall.


Beside the PC, there were photographs of me, at home. My brother, who looked the same as I remembered. Nobody I recognised in the class photo, but the school uniform was familiar.


Finally, a world map constantly reminding me that I wasn't in Kansas anymore.


In case I could forget.


Tired, I flopped back on my bed. Pine framing gave way under the shock, the whole thing collapsing underneath me, leaving me sprawled and aching in a snarl of bedsheets. Oops.


“What happened?” mam called in.


I stepped back fifteen seconds and sat on it carefully before lying down, dangling my feet off the side.


I suppose, that had been the worst part of it. I knew they weren't my real parents. Sure they looked like them. Of course they sounded like them. They'd even grown up exactly like them, in the same houses in the same part of town.


But they weren't the mother and father I grew up with. Scion changed everything in the years between their marriage and my birth. They'd become dark shadows of my real parents, the centre of a black mockery of the life I'd known, mutilated to fit the narrative.


But still, I didn't hate them either. Don't get me wrong, I didn't think they were bad people. I couldn't hate them.


I don't know really.


Had I started to become the mask?


--


I had the phone pinned between my shoulder and my ear, keeping both hands free to use the computer. The dog curled up on my feet, soothing my toes with furry heat.


“I'm out for the next month or so until they stop watching me,” I said, before blocking out my own name in red on the schedule.


“Damn man. You were the best at the STEM stuff too.” I heard Andy sigh.“You talk to Damien yet?”


“No. He wasn't at detention. Gladly said he'd spilled the beans.”


“Shit...” he breathed.


“Damien didn't really tout. I'd bet money on it,” I reassured him. “Gladly was just trying to do some sort of prisoner's dilemma thing...”


“You sure?”


“Well, it's simple. It doesn't matter what he's threatened with, if he blows the Mill out of the water, everyone will hate him for it. Too many people use it.”


“Hmmm....” I could hear his fingers drumming on the table through the phone. “Speaking of people everyone hates. Do you know Sophia Hess?”


I nearly dropped the phone.


“Ah Christ...”


“I see you know her very well then.” And I could hear the smile in his voice.


“Tell me she doesn't want to get involved.”


Please. Would it be too much to ask?


“She spoke to Akiko this morning. Her grades are slipping. She'll be removed from the track team if it gets much worse. ”


“What did she offer?”


I probably should've just flat out said 'no'. But it never hurt to ask.


“Akiko didn't want to talk to her, so said to talk to you,”


Alright. Sometimes it did.


“Y'know I'm out of work for the time being. Those're the rules. “


Easy answer. Nope. I amn't touching this one.


“She didn't know you'd been caught. She's already been told.”


“Bollocks.” I breathed. No way out again. Almost like I'd been set up. “Alright, what's her phone number?”


“No phone. She'll be waiting for you tomorrow morning.”


“Thanks for warning me.”


“Better you than me bro.”


I took a deep breath, adding Hess to my schedule onscreen. “Do we want to lock her out?”


I sure as hell did.


“Depends on if you want her as an enemy or not.”


Emphasis on 'you'. Or 'me'. Someone wanted it to be my problem rather than theirs.


“What's Akiko say?”


“After last year? Akiko want's to let her fail.”


Good. Another one on my side.


“But doesn't want to say it to her face,” I said. “She's more likely to fuck us over than any of the gangers. And we have to be thinking of our own rep for working with her.”


I didn't even need to know the truth about her to know that. Her reputation could be a double edged sword.


“She may be an ugly person, but her money's beautiful.” Andrew laughed. “She might be a handy one to have on our side aswell, because once she starts using, she's locked in and her circle won't touch us.”


“There is that,” I admitted. Like I said, double-edged sword. Working with her would improve our standings with some people, drop it with others, depending on how they really felt about her. “Could go either way. She's the sort that just doesn't give a fuck. If she thinks it's in her interest, she'll blow the lid off it without a second thought.”


“It's mutually assured destruction if she does.”


“Only so long as she believes it is,” I pointed out. “I'll call a vote after I talk to her tomorrow. Let the group decide by email.”


“You know I'm voting in favour.”


“Still want it in the email thread so no-one can argue,” I said. I'd learned that from experience. “I can have next week's schedule done on the eighth.”


Thursday to find out what she wants. Friday. To get the votes in. No big deal. All glory to the spreadsheet.


A bang on the bedroom door pulled my mind out of the conversation.


“Ian! If you don't leave now, you'll be late.”


Mam's voice.


“Sorry man. Work calls. We'll chat tomorrow.”


“Man, that sucks.”


“It's what it is.”


I put the phone down, taking a few moments to get my head straight. Sophia Hess.


What effect would it have on our reputation, to be working with her? Would it harm us? Would it benefit us in a way that'd outweigh any harm done?


High school reputation politics were a bitch. And the most important thing for any group in high school were their reputations. Note the plural.


To put it all in a nutshell; On the surface, Sophia ranked as 'popular'. But, note the quotation marks. Things were never that simple. What some people really felt about her – well, it's in the phone conversation in black and white. Neither of them were mutually exclusive, either. People say one thing in public, and one thing in private. Now, split that out amongst every clique and gang in the school, and you get some idea of the difficulty of working it out.


Cranking the Mill challengedin the way a maths assignment didn't. It offered liberation from boredom.


--


The sun began to slip behind Captain's Hill, pulling a long shadow across the city. Only the tops of the tallest buildings were still picked out by the burning sunset. A metaphor for the world at large? Something about it seemed familiar, like I'd heard it before.


I parked around the back of what had optimistically been named the Brockton Bay Brewing Company– a ripping backfire through a rusted exhaust disturbing the beer garden. I had the key for the cellar door on my keyring. It'd begun life as a Cold War bomb shelter, so lifting it open was a challenge, even with both hands. Getting several centimetres of steel to shut without losing fingers -even with the help of some gas-sprung assistance - was an art.


Creaking wooden stairs lead me down into a harshly lit bunker filled with steaming stainless steel machinery. I couldn't help but feel a little spark of pride seeing it all gleaming in there uder flourescent light.


“I'm here!” I called out, dropping my jacket on an old wooden stool.


“I heard,” the oulfella answered from the bar. “You're ten minutes late,”


“Had to go around a gang war.”


“Again?”


“Up at Sycamore. The Empire's fighting the Asians again.”


“So long as it stays over there.”


I climbed up the concrete stairs into the bar proper, the low humm of conversation and the scent of cool beer enveloping me, mingled with polished pine and stale farts. At six on a Wednesday evening, only a few were sipping away on a quiet pint after work. Otherwise, the bar was mostly empty.


The decor mixed Irish and American in almost equal parts, a few of the usual ornaments of an Irish pub mingling with that warm, almost wooden-cabin feel that the best American bars offered. Memories of home hung on the walls along with the usual neon tat every local bar had to rely on to set the mood. Less Cape-stuff than everywhere else in the Bay, which some people appreciated.


The decorations from the annual Reinforcin' O' T'stereotypes had finally been taken down, save for one Leprechaun that'd been amusingly tweaked by a low level tinker who worked up in the docks to hurl insults at people when given a 25 cent coin. He sat at the end of the bar, handling tips. An Ithaca shotgun and a box of cartridges lived beneath it in easy reach in case something happened.


Like I said, equal parts Irish and America.


The oulfella stood beside the taps, more focused on achieving 'The Perfect Pour' than the fact that I'd come up from the cellar. While sober or not watching the rugby, he was the quiet man, shorter than me but somehow managing to seem bigger, starting to get a little bit on the overweight side and with the hair greying. Not quite over the hill, but getting closer to the top with every Day. He still wore a scar under his eye from a hurling accident when he'd been my age.


“There's a problem with one of the controllers and the system went into alarm. If it's not fixed in an hour, we lose the whole brew.“


I'll bet you thought I served drinks. Yeah. No. That would be illegal, for a start.


“What sort of problem?”


“I don't know. It just shut down after giving a warning on one of the flowrates through the lower kieve. The system really needs better failure messages.”


He'd latched over into manager mode. That made me tech-support.


“I'm sorry it's not Aspentech,” I deadpanned.


“I didn't mean it like that,” he said, his tone softening as he looked at me for the first time. “Try fix it. Or at least get the beer moving. We lose a lot of money if you don't.”


I'll be honest, I loved doing this sort of thing. Problem solving. Not the silly sort of philosophical problems like saving a potential Hitler from the Titanic, but practical problems. I loved making shit work.


At the apparent age of fifteen, I designed and built the entire fucking control system for the microbrewery. Guess what? In another life, control systems and datalogging and renewable energies had been my profession. It provided stainless steel proof that everything I knew had been real and that this had all really happened to me. It'd probably all be gone in a month's time....


That hit me like a brick. Take a deep breath.


I took ten minutes outside getting some evening air to clear my mind, sitting on the open cellar door. Everywhere else had closed down for the night, save except for other bars. A nightclub nearby vibrated the ground. An airliner cruised overhead. Beyond, the city lights washed out the majority of the stars, except for one brilliant point sailing high above. Not a shooting star or a space station, but a reminder of how I got there in the first place.


A cold chill ran its fingers along my spine.


I went back inside and fixed the problem. Stuck valve asking for a system reset. No big deal. The beer must flow. Back upstairs to report my extreme success, I noticed Mr. Quinlan from Winslow had taken up his usual station propping up the bar.


The oulfella discussed the vagaries of the brewing process with a dockworker who dabbled in homebrew while Van Morrison played quietly on the stereo to provide background ambience.


All normal.


Until Two men entered. I felt the hair on the back of my neck bristle, recognising both of them immediately; Ryan and Armin.


“Hey! Hey! It's that time of the month,” Ryan announced. Everyone's eyes went to him as Armin took up lookout by the door.


My eyes immediately went to the shotgun.


One of these days, BAM! Right in the face. I'd have a few seconds to enjoy it just before stepping back, and all they'd ever know of it would be the stupid grin I was wearing.


Because I fucking hated Nazi's.


I hated the studded leather jackets they wore. I hated the Sig runes. I hated the Totenkopf tattoos that flashed up from under their sleeves. I hated their Fourteen Words and I hated how the oulfella just sighed and reached for the envelope he'd prepared earlier.


“A thousand dollars, all there,”


Ryan whipped it out of his hand, grinning like a farmer surveying some particularly fat livestock. I stood there like a boiler with a stuck safety valve, pressure building into the red.


“The Empire sends its thanks.”


The oulfella said nothing, just nodding submissively. Ryan looked at me.


“So, you're the boy who built that shiny stuff downstairs huh? You some sort of tinker?”


Fuck. I felt myself step back. A footstep. Honestly, I didn't know. The idea of getting swallowed up by the Empire machinery sent an electric jolt of fear up my back. Yeah, I wouldn't go willingly, but that wouldn't stop them, would it? They'd just put the screws on people I might've cared about until I finally signed on the dotted line. And once they did that, they had me. Because nobody else would want anything to do with another fucking Nazi, would they?


That's how it worked. I might not be the sharpest, but I knew enough to know that giving them any idea of me having a power would end in a swastika-daubed hell for everyone.


So I said nothing. I just stared right through him, breathing through my nostrils.


“Kaiser said to look out for any tinkers, didn't he, Armin?”


“He did, Ryan. So, what's your power boy?”


His hand slipped inside his jacket, the threat implicit. Again, I thought about the shotgun. It seemed the fast way out. The oulfella looked at me, fear in his eyes. Just like a year ago. The safety valve in my mind finally popped, and I knew exactly what I had to say.


“Yeah, I have a tinker power,” I said, forcing myself to breath. “It's a rare one too. It's called reading the fuckin' manuals and not being a gobshite.”


They both looked at each other, weighing that up. The whole bar went quiet. The oulfella shrank back, wringing both of his hands together. Yeah, that was exactly what he didn't want me to do. I didn't give a shit. If it went south, I could just undo it again. It'd hurt like hell, but I could do it. Let the steam out, but avoid the consequences. Come up with something smarter.


“I like you boy,” said Ryan, his grin broadening into something that almost savage. “That's why we won't going to kick the shit out of you this time. C'mon Armin.”


“Right man, more cows to milk.”


The oulfella deflated audibly. I think the whole bar just let out the breath they'd been holding when the door closed behind them.


If they'd discovered my power, I'd've been fucked. Yet another reason not to get involved with anything, if I needed one. Chances were I wouldn't get the luxury of a group as 'pleasant' as the Undersiders if I did.


I glanced at the oulfella for a moment, before retreating downstairs to safety. Footsteps followed me


“Fighting in school is one thing. But for Christ's sakes Ian don't fuck with people who have guns.”


His voice rang of the walls, and I knew I'd hurt him bad. I'd frightened him, left him standing there powerless with the certain knowledge that I was about to get my head kicked in with nothing he could do about it.


“I just..... It's....”


I stepped back out of there rather than try explain it. Back up to the bar, right as the door closed and everyone was breathing their sigh of relief. I stood at the end of the bar, watching the oulfella stew, wanting to say something to me, but not wanting to do it in front of people. It was cowardly, but I didn't care.


He couldn't know I had a power. That'd only cause him to worry even more. Or call the Protectorate and get me mixed up in things I just couldn't handle at this point in time.


So, how the hell did I explain it to him?


He watched me, waiting for his chance, right up until someone asked him for another beer and it had to be pushed aside.


“I'm going home.” I said. “I have homework to finish,”


A white lie. He waved me off, more concerned with doing his job right than chasing after me to give me a howler. It'd be morning at least before I saw him again if I got out of there fast enough.


The Honda took four hard kicks before it finally fired up, spitting fire and rattling bones.


Still, riding back to the apartment through the 'bay was peace. In a lot of ways, it wasn't that different from home. Different gangs generated bomb threats that came with a little more destructive potential maybe, and the buildings downtown reached higher while the urban blight had a different cause, but both cities shared most of the same basic elements.


One the worst of days, it mocked. On the best, it could almost be home.


Right now, it sat somewhere in between.


After nearly a full year in the city I'd picked up most of the local knowledge - stuff like how to tell what gang's territory you were in, what parts of the city came with what hazards and what streets to avoid. Those weren't Mayo supporters, those were ABB. Further up the street were Empire footsoldiers. Both of them in close proximity meant it'd probably be a good idea to get off this road fairly fucking fast if I liked the use of my legs.


I knew what to expect the next morning after eating at Fugly Bobs. My bike was bought at the Market for cash. I'd even taken the Protectorate tour.


The point is. I had life in control. I could manage. Brockton was manageable. Compared to where I'd been eight months ago, getting to this point felt like an achievement. In a month's time, it'd all get blown away, but even that – I dealt with that before.


I could handle this life right now. I could make it through what was coming. I could avoid the worst of it, and maybe come out in one piece.


That's the sort of headspace I'd achieved.


Normally, this would be the point in the narrative where the Fire Nation attacked and everything goes into a spiral. Sorry to disappoint, we're not at that point yet. We're just setting the scene.


Mam had gone to bed early by the time I got back, leaving only Archie awake to meet me at the door, panting and shaking the entire back half of his body with excitement.


I fecked around online for an hour, checking a few messages while listening to some music before finally turning in before midnight.

------

 

[Dartz_IRL]

Arise from the Grave

---

I amn't too proud to steal a good idea, no matter what the source. Even though it came from a story, it'd give me an edge that'd come in handy if I needed to 'encourage' her to keep her word. I'd learned that lesson. I propped my phone up against the side of the locker, waiting. It gave me time to get my head straight, to plan the points I wanted to hit and try guess what she'd try do. I'd had this conversation before with other people, after all.

Don't get me wrong, she didn't frighten me. I just wanted nothing to do with her the same way I wanted nothing to do with piles. I could do without the pain in the hole, thank you very much.

The pain in the hole interrupted that thought, knocking my locker door shut.

“So, you're the one who runs this Mill thing?”

For a moment, she back-footed me, a little tense fizzle running through my body. Getting surprised in Winslow never meant anything good. One moment, bustling corridor, the next a dark-skinned girl half my size had filled my personal space completely.

In one heartbeat, my eyes tracked her from foot to eye. Her eyes really did have that predator intensity to them. I know 'Black Panther' has different connotations in the States than what I really mean – guess how I found that out - but honestly, that's the first thought that came to mind. Hess had a cat-like leanness to her, the same intensity in her eyes, the same tension right before pouncing.

Right. Time to take control. I stepped back, consigning the last Fifteen seconds to deadtime. It made for just enough time to get myself into the right space for dealing with her. It gave me time enough to press a single button without it being suspicious.

I picked my moment. I tried to force myself to be cheerful. I'd worked sales before. This was no different.

“Morning!”

She blinked, caught off guard with her hand in the air, ready to knock the door shut. It took her less the a heartbeat to gather herself. Good. It kept us both on equal footing.

“I need an assignment completed. I was told you were the one to talk to,”

Familiar territory for me. Something to reach for.

“What teacher, what sort of assignment, when do you need it by, and how good does it have to be?”

I could rattle that off on automatic.

“Knott's class. Some dumb programming thing due by next Thursday, and I need to hit at least a B or I get kicked off the team.”

High School computers. Already, I knew the three most likely to take it on. I could do it in my sleep.

“Alright.” I breathed. “What subjects are you good at?”

She scowled. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“That's how the mill works,” I explained, keeping myself calm. “Someone does something for you, you do something for them. It's a trade”

“I think you could do it for the school team.” She smirked. “How do you think it'd look if the rest of the school found out that the reason the team leader got kicked off, was because you wouldn't help her study?”

After last night, the first words that came to my lips began with the letter F, and ended in 'Uck off'. Something sparked inside me.

She glared. “You're supposed to be the Genius.” Contempt dripped from that word. “Don't make me spell it out for you.”

“Nope. I get it.” I said in as calm a tone as I could manage. “The answer's No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You people don't get to say No to people like me.”

“Yeah. We do.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Because once you pay the danegeld, you never get rid of the dane.” Her eyes widened ever so slightly. I felt myself smirk too. “Don't make me spell it out for you.”

I never thought I'd say this, but thank Christ for Empire 88. If we hadn't been harassed, maybe I mightn't have been so sure of that. I might've had second thoughts. But now?

Like hell.

I stood and watched as her expression shifted from something that approximated mild surprise, swimming into confusion. I guess that reference might've been a little obscure for the US education system, huh? But she had enough of a mind to get the jist of what I meant. She flashed to anger fast enough that I clenched my fist.

What happened next caught me completely off guard. She smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. She leant against the locker, supporting herself with her elbow.

“Most of your type probably need help with P.E. so I can do training. If I can get Madison to pass?” She paused to take a breath. I waited to see where it went. “If I get the assignment, I'll make sure that whoever does it gets on the track team and gets the extra credit.”

Did anyone expect her to be in any way reasonable? I didn't. Still, who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?

“Alright,” I breathed, allowing the tension in my body to ebb away. “I'll put it to the others. If anyone's interested with the deal, they'll be in touch.”

“Tell them to talk to me in person. I don't want this on my phone. That might be evidence”

“Alright,” I said again. I took a moment to let it sit and gather my thoughts. One last thing. Try to sound hard. “And if I hear you're fucking with them in any way, the deal will be off, and I'll make sure Knott finds out how you passed the assignment.”

“She'll probably just give me a makeup. But you'll be expelled.” She smiled at me again. “I heard you got caught yesterday.”

Ahah! You've just triggered my trap card. Micheal Allen gives me a leg-up.

“Yeah, No.” I showed her the phone with a brilliant, toothy grin on my face. “I recorded everything on my phone. You approached me. And if I get expelled, all they'll do is shuffle me over to Arcadia or something.”

I think. Either way, it didn't make a difference at this stage. Her jaw hinged open

“Son of a bitch...” she hissed.

“Mutually assured destruction.”

She breathed, then looked at me, staring into my eyes. I stared back, holding my ground. “I knew you were a survivor...”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Whatever it meant, it made me just a little uncomfortable. Invisible fingers crawled up my back.

“Something only a few people understand.” She shrugged, sounding vaguely disappointed. “There're two kinds of people on this world. The ones who fight for their life, and ones who aren't worth life.”

The intensity in her eyes chilled.

“That's pretty fucked up,”

“But you can't deny it.”

I could call her a fucking Nazi, but this wasn't the right place for that. “Whatever,” I waved it off. “I'll email your offer to the others and if anyone takes the deal they'll talk to you next week.”

She left without a parting word, just turning on her heel and leaving me standing by my locker. She cut her path through the throngs in the hallway. I waited until she was gone before I allowed myself to relax.

I guess you all probably hate me right now. Making a deal with the fandom devil like that?

It'd be nice to make a moral stand. It'd make you happy sure, but you won't have to live with the consequences. You get your catharsis. I get the hassle.

Honestly? I thought she was right. That recording would do far more harm to me, than to her. If I had just told her to fuck off, we would've taken the heat because everyone would blame us for the school track star getting kicked off the team. And she knew it well enough and still took the deal.

Whatever. I won't argue. Like I said, best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially when it meant less pain for everyone. I hate to say it, but I learned that lesson too. Blame Leviathan.

I closed my locker, locked the shackle, then leant forward, resting my head on the cool steel before drawing in a long, deep breath.

Whatever else I thought about Hess her 'philosophy', I couldn't argue that the last year had changed me. Not for the better, or worse – just different. Damaged in some ways, but tougher in others – like a cold-worked piece of metal.

Hess called me a survivor. She didn't how I got my Power.

--

Now then, If you're in any way smart, you've probably gotten a brilliant idea while reading that exchange earlier. You're probably thinking that I might be able to use that assignment as leverage to encourage Hess to leave Taylor alone, give Taylor a break. With it all typed up, it's clear as day. I've got Hess agreeing not to fuck with whoever handles her assignment. Taylor's in Knott's class and would be more than capable of pulling it off. All I had to do was make the offer and invite Taylor to come aboard the Mill. All wrapped up with a bow on it.

I'm ashamed to say I didn't do it on purpose. Or I didn't not do it on purpose – or something like that. I didn't even notice it at the time. Sometimes it's hard to see the patterns in the corn when you're standing in the field.

Besides, other things occupied my mind.

Like just not having to deal with Hess again.

I skated through the rest of the morning. Someone branded a kid in shop class with a file that'd been heated to somewhere between bloody-hot and absolute glowing hellfire with a gas torch meaning the rest of us spent the last half of the session sitting in stone silence while the teacher glared at us. Nothing out of the ordinary.

The scream chilled me to the bone.

Maths came after, providing a good time for me to get other work done while Quinlan bored holes in rocks, as he'd been doing since Pontius was a pilot. I used my phone to email Sophia's terms to the Mill. Taylor seemed to be working on a project. Greg Veder seemed to be working on annoying her.

Nobody paid attention to Matrix multiplication.

“All right everyone, that's it for the day.” Quinlan didn't even look up at us. I glanced at my watch, the cracked screen telling me we'd finished five minutes early. “Sullivan, could you see me after class?”

He looked right at me, just in time for me to look up for an explanation.

I clenched my teeth. “Shit.”

“Better you than me man.”

Damien slapped me on the back. He might aswell have stabbed me instead. I grabbed my things, waited until the classroom emptied before taking the long walk. I tried to take it like a man, take it on the chin.

Quinlan had his head down collating paperwork.

“Yes?” I said, standing beside his desk.

He took a few moments to finish with his papers, not even looking at me. I could smell the smoke on his breath as he sighed. The chair creaked a protest.

“I want to know why I might have to fail a pupil who consistently scored a full 100 on every math test I've given this year.”

“I dunno,” I mumbled, with a lazy shrug of my shoulders.

He looked at me for the first time, “This is college-level stuff you're doing, Right here...” He put his fingers on an equation drawn up in my own handwriting. “Someone like you could have a brilliant future, and you're throwing it away for what, to be popular in high-school?”

Just mentioning the future reminded me of things I didn't like thinking about. My body went cold. My throat tightened.

“No,” I managed to say.

“Then why?”

There was no accusation, no threat, just earnest curiosity. It gave me a little something to stand on, to keep hold of myself.

“Honestly?”

“Shoot.”

“I'm bored to fuck all day.”

“Mind your language,” he said, mildly. “And why is that?”

Because I finished school ten whole years ago.

“Because I can build an automated control system for a microbrewery, then build a set of manoeuvre gear that won the techworks trophy for Winslow for the first time in twenty years.” I didn't look down at him. I took a single, long draw of breath through my nose, the burnt-newspaper scent of tobacco drying my throat. “I should've been in college.”

I should've been past college. Long past. Out through four years of unemployment and finally working, earning a wage and doing things I enjoyed.

“I see,” he said, before his brow furrowed. It made him look silly, like a parody of a professor. He looked at his papers for a moment, before looking up at me “You're saying you're not feeling challenged?”

Didn't I make it obvious?

“And water is wet?”

“No need to be sarcastic,” He held up a hand. He sighed, before placing it on his papers.“I'm afraid I'm a little limited by the curriculum in what I can teach. But I think I might be able to offer a deal.”

“A deal?”

I hadn't expected that.

He actually smiled at me. “You might not know this, but I used to teach at another school, and the vice principal still owes me a favour.” I think he just paused for dramatic effect, adding a little wink as if it'd be a secret just between us. “If we can get through the semester without seeing your work with another student's name on it, I'll speak with Vice Principal Howell and see if she'll approve a special transfer to Arcadia for next year.”

Next year? This was all going bang in a month. I could hear my breath shake,

“I just hate it when kids like you end up in a place like this.”

His eyes shone with earnest concern. And that stabbed me right in the heart. I found the one teacher in the place who probably gave a shit, with the greatest offer he could make, and I just couldn't take advantage of it.

“Yeah,” I managed to say, before a burst laughter escaped from my lips.

It all just seemed so ridiculous. You understand? He sat there, talking to me about the future and he didn't even know. In a month's time, the whole building would be rubble. Before I ever got the chance to finish High School and pretend to be an adult again the world would be gone. Golden Morning.

And there he sat, telling me to plan for the future?

What bloody Future was that?

The man caught on. He seemed to read my mind. His brown eyes fixed me with a solid stare that left me feeling like a four year old.

“I spent forty years living with the threat of nuclear Armageddon arriving over the pole with twenty minutes warning.” He breathed. His eyes still stared, fixing me in place. “If we gave in to despair and didn't plan for our future, you wouldn't be here.” He paused. I swallowed. “Even if you think the ship's sinking, You can't live your life like you're sitting on the Titanic.”

My mind stuck itself in spinlock. I'm trapped. On a sinking ship. The thought echoed in the back of my mind, resonating and ringing with the conclusion I'd come to months ago. The only way off was to jump.

I felt time itself fold and tear around me, pulling my body in a dozen different directions at once. Torn apart for a heartbeat, but still whole; a sensation of being turned inside out and folded backwards in place. A splash of stars and static in my ears, followed by darkness and silence as deadtime swallowed the last fifteen seconds.

Quinlan spoke at me again.

“.....Limited by the curriculum.”

I stood, bewildered for a moment, aware that my Power had kicked in, but not sure why. It left me standing slackjawed, staring at Quinlan feeling vaguely sick while trying to catch up. The room had emptied, going quiet in the way only a waiting classroom can be. Outside, in the corridor, I could hear voices yelling in a mix of Japanese and Chinese.

“Is there a problem?”

“No.... Just thinking.” I forced a taught smile at him.

“About what?”

About how I got my Power. About too many things at once to gather them together. About one thing in particular. There sat a decent human being.

“How do good people like you end up in a place like this?”

He snorted a laugh through his nose, a rueful smile crawling across his lips. “Someone's parents didn't like the idea of an educator who was less than teetotal after work. Even if it never harmed my job.”

“Thanks,” I forced myself to say.

He took a long breath, slumping forward in his chair. I could guess what came next. “I used to work over in Arcadia, and Vice Principal Howell still owes me a favour. If I don't see your work with another student's name on it for the rest of the year, I'll try pull some strings for a transfer in September.”

I didn't laugh this time. I just felt tired, like my batteries had been run down to nothing. “Thanks,” I said again.

“Now, get to your next class before you pick up another tardy....”

I just nodded, still in a daze. I could feel my power fizzling, crackling like a lightswitch, teetering between on and off. Chthonic energies fizzled in my spine and up into the back of my mind.

Even if I only remembered that word from the back of a Steve Baxter novel, it sounded like it fit the feeling. An abyss deeper than the mind and large enough to hold the world, full of raw Power connected to me through the thinnest of straws.

I stepped out of the classroom into the noise of the corridor with my backpack hung loosely over one shoulder. I traipsed my way through the usual hustle between classes, getting out of the way of people moving faster than me.

Something had changed in my mind, but I couldn't tell what. A subconscious trigger of something, an understanding. There had been no rational mental discourse, no deep debate within myself, only an idea kept hidden beneath the covers like a protoype that just wasn't ready for the light of day yet.

By the time I'd made it to the locker room for P.E, I knew I'd have to work at raising my mood. My Power gave me a solution.

--

I missed the first shot.

Ten seconds later, the ball had gone back up the court and the other team had scored. I stepped back to take the shot again.

Miss.

It bounced off the rim. I started counting as the other team worked the ball towards our net. Someone yelled at me to run after it, but I needed to hold my concentration. Three...two...one... and Power.

Third time lucky.

Swish, nothing but net.

My Power and Sport go together like Beer and Pizza. It's that simple. From the outside, I made the shot first time, ever ytime – even the over-the-back one-handed toss that actually took thirteen tries to get right. In a five-minute gym-class game, it devastated the opposition.

I did it over and over again. Every miss I deleted. Every single score I saved. I had this cheat code to the universe in my head and I abused it to the fullest potential, save-scumming reality itself for my own benefit.

By the third game, I began to push the mental reset button each time the opposition scored. Nothing feels greater than having an entire class of people start cheering for you and I milked it. I turned a game into a demolition. Sweating, panting, braces chafing at my legs, I loved every second of it.

By the fourth, I spammed three-pointers with reckless abandon, just because I could, just to feel better than everyone. I needed the lift, cheating my way back to something resembling a good mood, patching the cracks in my mind. I had the Power and I used it just because I could. I laughed at the world and what it had done to me, turning its final insult against it.

It felt good. It felt like justice. It lasted until someone finally got fed-up with being on the receiving end of a seal-clubbing and kicked the legs out from under me, cracking the side of my head against the wooden floor. I came around a moment later, flat on my back with the inside of my skull still ringing, surrounded by a ring of people silhouetted around me, whispering. The side of my head thrummed as I reached for my power to try step back to before the hit.

Nothing happened.

I tried again.

Nothing.

The first shiver of panic fizzed through my body, the idea that my Power had been somehow knocked out taking root. That'd be the perfect irony, the perfect punishment for being so flippant, for trying to turn it against the world. I pushed myself upright, feeling my breath shiver inside my throat.

A soft hand pressed onto my shoulder.

“Hey, you shouldn't move.”

Those were the first words spoken to me by Taylor Hebert since I joined Winslow High. I stared at her, lost for words. Her eyes really where that big, like an owl. I breathed, my thoughts spinning away in neutral, mind unable to find a gear and move forward. Again, my Power refused to answer. I reached for it, but it slipped away. I looked at her, gym clothes hanging loose from her body – a size or two too large. She looked up at someone standing behind me, a presence looming over me.

“He needs to see the nurse.”

Taylor helped me.

“Why?”

“You hit your head. You might have a concussion.”

She didn't understand the question. I'd left her in the hall, but she still helped me now. My Power latched back into place, a jolt of raw energy thrumming through my body, pulsing in the back of my head. Power enough to tear reality apart and shatter time itself, and I'd used it to cheat in a High School basketball game.

I swallowed the lump of guilt, gentling shrugging her hand off.

“I'll be alright.” I said, forcing myself to smile. “So long as I didn't land on my arse,”

She didn't look convinced. Taylor reached a hand for me again as I stood up. I brushed it off.

“Thanks,” I said, softly. That lump had settled inside deep inside, twisting a knot inside my guts. I took my bearing, my head swimming. I had to take a step to try and steady myself. Maybe it'd been a harder hit that I thought.

Our gym teacher, Mr. Coleman looked at me, his expression a mix of concern and something I might have pegged as being impressed.

“Take a seat on the bench, son," he pointed at it with his thumb. "You're out for the rest of the class.”

“Yeah Give someone else a chance to score!” came the call from the peanut gallery.

“An' after a display like that, if you don't try out for the school team next year, I'm personally going to fail your ass.”

That was about as close as the man ever came to giving a compliment.

It might've been hollow. It might've been fragile. But it patched the cracks and pulled me through the day. I'm not going to apologise for doing things that looked after my sanity.

--

Lunchtime.

Now I know that particular time of day has certain connotations for a lot of people, so I'll assuage your fears right now – today wasn't that day. Aside from some Empire kid getting his teeth kicked in by the Asians, nothing bad would happen. I focused myself on getting to the food before everyone else, before it got eaten. Not on the morning I'd had, on Hess, or Quinlan or P.E. and Taylor, I took laser-aim at the food.

The habit refused to die.

I bobbed and weaved through the queue, earning a few curses in the process as I grabbed my fair share. Then a little extra, with a few cartons of Froot-Joose hoarded in the pockets for later.

Another habit which refused to die.

I'd half finished before Damien sat down on the bench opposite, dropping his tray down on the table. My eyes fell on the pea that rolled free from the edge. I didn't even look up at him, jealously pulling my own tray towards myself. I didn't breath. I didn't speak. .

“I don't know how you eat that shit.”

I swallowed, taking a breath while I loaded my plastic fork with as much as it'd carry.

“Still better than Endbringer rations,” I said, filling my mouth with another slab of mystery meat and synthetic mashed potato.

“Aw man, I'm sorry.” All the colour had drained from his voice. I look up before I swallowed, the expression on his face reminding me of a baby seal – wide eyed, and just a little bit horrified by the polar bear.

“First lesson for survival.” I smiled.“Food and water.”

He seemed to relax, before poking at the mystery meat with his fork, stirring it around it's bath of brown slime.

“But I don't think this qualifies as food.”

“After a week without, everything is Food.”

I didn't even flinch as I scooped up another mouthful. It reminded me of dogfood. It tasted little better. You learned not to chew. It just prolonged the pain.

“They said online, the next Endbringer will be the East Coast.”

I heard the quiver in his voice, the little strain of tension. Just thinking about it made him fidget on the seat.

“When Leviathan comes, Get out of the city. That's all you have to do.”

“When? Jesus dude, don't be so pessimistic.”

I weighed the merits of stepping back and fixing that little slip, against being forced to eat my mystery meat all over again. Mystery meat won.

“Besides,” Damien laughed. “The east cost runs all the way from Florida to Labrador, and Brockton Bay's a fairly small city too, not like the places Leviathan normally hits.”

I think he might've been trying to convince himself, more than me.

“Just get out, that's all you have to do” I said, closing my eyes for a moment. “Just don't stay in the city afterwards.”

“Why not?”

“It takes time to mobilise disaster relief. And people get pretty desperate when they get hungry.”

I didn't have to think about the story. I didn't let myself think about it. The story was so much worse than my own experience.

“Shit dude...” Damien breathed.

“It's alright.”

I suppose I had something an easy Endbringer experience. As far as Endbringer experiences went anyway. No Slaughterhouse. No Blasphemies. No crazed gangs. No DDID when we left – just a refugee green card and a CNN welcome at the airport.

It'd been the tutorial level to Bet. Here you are. Here are heroes with superpowers. Here are villains. That's Leviathan. There's the end of the world threat, but we don't know that yet, look how powerful he is. Here's the basic skills you need to survive, and look, you can use them too. Your ankles were hurt in the fall, but you can walk miles on them just for a meal and give yourself a permanent injury. You've gone five days without food and you're already willing to bash someone's head in with a hurley because they tried to take your rice-ball. Oh, and don't worry about being tied down or being able to take comfort from the familiar, we'll destroy your hometown like every other JRPG because otherwise nobody sensible would ever walk the hero's path.

Of all the things, I found myself thinking about what Hess had said to me, even as I watched Taylor cross the floor.

“Dude, do you have a thing for her or what?”

Damien interrupted my thoughts. Thankfully.

“Who?”

“Hebert, man,” he clarified, still poking at his lunch.“You watch her a lot,”

I sat back into the hard plastic chair. “I hadn't noticed.”

He glanced down at the contents of his fork turning it between his fingers, then at me. “Just be careful. She comes with issues... I know you were suspended so you missed it, but you can't not have heard.”

“I know,” I said, flatly.

The cover drew back just a little, showing a glimpse. An idea sparked in my mind. It refused to go away. You can probably guess what it was.

--

This is where I'm forced to be honest again. If it wasn't for Worm, I'd probably be a cape by now. I almost went through with it anyway. I've got the Protectorate literature on my computer, how to join, what to expect, how the Wards program works. I've got 'So you're interested in becoming a Ward' thread bookmarked on PHO.

I had a concept in mind. I had gear built I had everything ready to go, short of printing off the forms the forms and walking in the door at Protectorate HQ and saying 'Hey!, I want to join”

I got cold feet.

A well-timed news story reminded me of one fact. Nothing good happened to the Wards. Nothing good happened anyone who wanted to be a hero. I had a Power, but I could still go squish. I could still burn. Stepping up to the plate and donning the Cape didn't make me a hero, it made me fair game for all the big things out there. It meant becoming a target for the real nightmares. It meant joining the circus of death and insanity, being chewed up by villains and, eventually, bees. It meant risking discovery...

It reminded me of one other fact.

Worm is a story. This is a World.

I could, if I found someone with the right Power, find the original Wildbow who wrote the original story, and put him right here beside me as a guide along with all the notes and past drafts and the nitty little details never revealed to nobody that were excised from print. Eventually, once the surprise and panic wore off, I could start asking questions, say, is there a way to save Panacea and Glory Girl?

The answer of course, would probably just be a wry 'Yes'.

But, let's assume for a moment that the answer might be, for example, 'Keep Mark Dallon from being injured by Leviathan.' I might be able to achieve that with my Power. A ten second warning to get out of the way at the right time, and he makes it through Leviathan in one piece.

Two weeks later, on the Captain's Hill memorial;

'Skitter': Taylor Hebert.

And I'm left with no idea how that happened, or what to do next when the person who basically saved the world the first time around is now remembered as just another Endbringer victim. A girl who pulled a bank robbery, embarrassed a few politicians, then got found dying in the wreckage by one of her teachers after taking on Leviathan single-handedly with a borrowed halberd.

So, next question to imaginary Wildbow; Am I fucked?

Answer; Yes.

And then Poof, he goes away because in one small sweep I've toppled the original plot and I've about as much an idea of what to do next as everyone else does and I've given up the one thing that might keep me alive.

What I'm trying to say is. I know the initial conditions the system starts with. I know the final result if I don't change those conditions. I know the likely result if I get it wrong. But I don't know the system in between. And any change I make, means I have no idea what the end result would be. Even to presume I did or could make that prediction, would be something like hubris. It's the bait to a trap.

That's the justification I kept repeating to myself all afternoon. There is more to it than that, of course, but that's the big one. That's the one I repeated to myself over and over again, each time, grinding it against the idea beneath the covers. The idea stood firm, eroding it away.

By the end of the school day, the idea sat there, still standing.

--

 

[Deathwings]

Now, THAT is a SI done right.