by wildbow
Two televisions dedicated to news, one to business, each on mute, with captions spelling out the words as the reporters spoke.
The password I’d entered had apparently logged me into the computers as a guest. I kicked off my shoes and set my feet on the desk, as I’d seen Tattletale do, slipping into her shoes for a moment.
Everything was arranged so it was in clear view: monitors, televisions, bulletin boards. Looking at the notes, the different colors, the disorder and the number of questions, it made me think of a kind of paranoid schizophrenia, seeing connections everywhere. Except she was right.
Even logged in as a guest, I could see vestiges of the programs she’d installed on her main accounts: a stock ticker, a news ticker, weather, time, trending topics, social media feeds, several alert boxes for when pages relating to certain topics were updated or created. Even the background was a series of four video feeds from cameras that overlooked Brockton Bay.
That was just what was worked into the desktop, with no windows opened.
The monitors flickered with new information at a speed that was two or three times that of the televisions, and the material on the televisions wasn’t exactly slow-paced. The bulletin boards, conversely were static. It was like a physical representation of what was going on in Tattletale’s mind. Information streaming in, details from other sources intruding as I tried to focus on only one. And always, there were the questions in the background, the same ones marked on the bulletin board. Things to keep in mind while she took in other details, constantly seeking out the connections that tied things together. Did she simply sit here, taking it all in, while using her phone and the computer to manage the Undersider’s business?
No small wonder she had overloaded on her power.
I opened up a browser window on the computer, logged into Parahumans Online.
Two new tabs. A search for Skitter, a search for Taylor Hebert.
‘About 95,000 posts relating to Skitter.’
‘About 5,200 posts relating to Taylor Hebert.’
I sighed, closed the tabs, and then investigated the board for Brockton Bay. It wasn’t anything I wanted to read.
I had checked most of the pages up to the halfway point on page two of the Brockton Bay sub-board when the heavy metal door clicked and opened. Tattletale—Lisa stepped out, wearing an oversized t-shirt and pyjama pants. My momentary confusion on how to define her was due to the fact that her hair was down, which I associated with Tattletale, while she was in civilian clothes, which was naturally fit for the name ‘Lisa’.
“Su—oh hell,” she broke off, recoiling in pain in the face of the dim lights and the glow of the various screens and monitors, shielding her eyes.
I hurried to reach for the dimmer switch, but she was already calling out a command, “System, lights off.”
The lights went out.
“System, screens off.”
The televisions and computer monitors went dark.
“Sorry,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Thought you’d have recovered more.”
“Nah,” she said. She still wasn’t opening her eyes, and was speaking with a care that suggested even the sound of her own voice hurt her. I could see dark circles under her eyes. She probably hadn’t slept recently. “But no big.”
“You could go back to bed,” I said.
“No way am I missing this,” she said. “My chair.”
I climbed out of the chair and turned it around so the seat was available to her. She made her way there as if she were an old woman, eased herself into the seat and reclined, putting her feet on the desk. One arm draped over her face so her eyes were hidden in the crook of her elbow.
“This setup… all of this is too much for you,” I said. “You’re trying to handle too much at once.”
“Ironic,” she mumbled, “coming from you.”
I took a seat on the edge of the desk. “You’re bombarding yourself. You should try to tackle one thing at a time.”
“Can’t. I focus on one thing, I let others fall by the wayside. Too many bases to cover.”
“Maybe you should let things fall by the wayside,” I commented. “Is it so important to understand where powers come from? Isn’t it enough to run the city, watch out for enemies, and maybe devote weekends to figuring out this business with Jack?”
She groaned.
“Sorry,” I said. I was only giving her more cues and prompting involuntary uses of her power, making the problem worse. Asking questions was cruel, with her like this.
“No. No, it’s okay. It’s all related. I described my power as being like a massive, three-dimensional game of Sudoku, right? Spaces get filled in.”
“Yeah.”
“This… if I get stuck somewhere, maybe there’s something on the periphery that helps me figure it out from another angle. If I’m going to tackle the problem, I gotta tackle the whole problem. Helps keep the facts straight. Notice sooner when the wrong piece of information’s in a spot.”
“You forgot to note that Accord buys powers,” I said. “Came up a little while ago, didn’t see them on the back of the green board.”
She put her feet down on the ground, as if she was going to spring up and make the necessary adjustment, then seemed to think twice about it. She rested her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“Index cards are on the shelf by the door.”
I got up and walked over to the shelf, fished around until I found the green index cards and a black felt-tip pen. I wrote down, ‘Reminder: Accord buys powers from Cauldron to empower qualified underlings. They don’t know much about process, but he will.’
I pinned it up in the ‘Likely’ section.
When I was done, I glanced back at Lisa, still resting her head in her hands.
I let a minute or two pass in silence, while she got her bearings.
“So,” she finally said.
“So.”
“Sorry I took so long to show,” she said.
“Not a problem,” I said. “I enjoyed the peace. A moment of quiet before the storm.”
“I’m not messing up your schedule? What time is it? Eight?”
I started to shake my head, then realized she wasn’t looking at me. Hard to tell in the gloom. “You aren’t. And it’s about seven forty-five.”
“Not sure I follow this plan of yours. That’s a bad sign, if I can’t get my head around it.”
“You’re not exactly in the best shape.”
“Still.”
“Still,” I echoed her, sighing. I leaned against the wall, hooking my thumbs in my pockets. “Maybe you’re right.”
She slowly raised her head, grimaced, and then shifted back to a reclining position, moving at a glacial speed. I felt a pang of sympathy.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked.
“Drugs don’t help.”
“Something besides drugs, maybe. Water.”
“No. Nothing makes a difference except time, being very still, very dark and very quiet. Let’s just…”
She trailed off.
“Let’s just what?” I prompted.
“I was going to say we should get this over with, but… we don’t want that, do we?”
“No,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
Silence lingered.
I stared at the room, all the unanswered questions now illegible in the darkness, reduced to shades of dark gray on black, and black on dark gray.
Those questions were Lisa’s province. My focus was on the team, the dynamics of the group, and the how we handled those beyond our inner circle. Our enemies, allies who could become enemies. Even the public at large had to be handled, managed, addressed as a possible threat.
Those were the concerns I had right now.
“Wish I could use my power more,” Lisa said. “Give you advice so you’re going in with your eyes wide open.”
“I wish you could too. Don’t be upset with
yourself, though. I didn’t give you much advance warning, and you’d already overloaded your power. The sentiment’s enough.”
“It’s not, really. Fuck me. I’m not very good at this. Being uncertain. Frustrated. Disappointed in my inability to offer anything…”
She trailed off.
I thought of the Lisa I knew, her personality, her general demeanor. Slightly reckless, confident, cocky. Fearless.
“And scared?” I offered.
“Scared,” she agreed.
I’d never really seen her vulnerable. I’d seen her hurt, had seen her reactions after her arm had been dislocated, after Jack had slashed her face open. I’d seen her worried, even spooked, when the Endbringer was en-route, and when she’d been concerned for me.
But this was Lisa, temporarily bereft of her powers. A mere mortal.
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
“You know, Rachel said thank you last night,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Got me thinking,” I said. “Don’t know if I ever said it to you. I owe you the most, in a way.”
Lisa smiled, but it wasn’t a joyful expression. She murmured, “Don’t know if you should be that thankful. What I did, bringing you on board, trying to help you, if I can even call it help, considering where we wound up.”
“The means justify the end, maybe,” I suggested.
“Maybe.”
“I appreciate it, whatever the case,” I told her.
“Then you’re welcome,” she said.
She changed position, and I made out a nearly imperceptible noise of pain.
“And I think that’s my cue to go,” I told her.
She frowned, “Damn. That’s it?”
I shrugged. “What more is there to say?”
“I’m supposed to give you advice. Some insight. But I’m crapped out.”
“Give it a shot anyways,” I suggested.
She frowned. After a few seconds, she said, “Give ’em hell.”
“Will do,” I said. I approached her, then leaned down and wrapped my arms around her, while she was still sitting in the chair. One gesture, as if it could convey everything I couldn’t say with words.
Grue had worried I was fatalistic. That wasn’t quite the term that applied, here. But the underlying idea was sound.
We’d established something of a rule, way back when, on the night we’d first found out about Dinah and her powers, the same night Leviathan had arrived. I’d very nearly turned my back on the group, and Tattletale had established a rule.
No goodbyes.
I collected my backpack, turned, and then left, wordless.
The sun and the heat were working on destroying the fog that had settled around the city in the wake of the grim weather. The result was that the sky was very blue overhead, the city still harboring traces of the early morning’s fog. It couldn’t be later than nine.
I wasn’t wearing a costume, but I wasn’t hiding in clothing I wouldn’t normally wear, either. A simple white tank top, black running pants and running shoes. For all the bystanders could see, I was Taylor Hebert, indistinguishable in appearance or fashion from the girl who’d appeared on the news.
Nobody gave me a second glance. I moved with purpose, and that was enough. The eyes in the crowd looked right past me.
It had taken me some time to get used to the sheer obliviousness of people. Even Rachel, with her distinct appearance, had been able to manage with brief public appearances. It was less about getting caught, more about escape routes. Being spotted while I was on my way to visit Grue and Citrine would have been problematic. Being spotted on my way back to my territory wasn’t a problem. By the time the heroes could respond, they wouldn’t be cause for any concern.
The same principle applied here. The only distinction was why the heroes weren’t a cause for concern.
Tension sang through my body with every step. My stomach felt hollow—I hadn’t had much of an appetite this morning.
At the same time, I felt an almost zen calm. My thoughts were clear. I’d already decided on a plan of action. It was a similar calm to the one I’d experienced against Dragon and Defiant.
I approached the PRT headquarters. Many of the bugs I’d infested the building with on my last visit were still there, and the occupants of the building had adjusted to them. Nobody gave a second thought to the bugs that made contact with them, unless it was to absently slap at a mosquito or brush an ant from their leg.
I could sense Tagg in his office, talking on the phone.
People were filing in through the front doors, some were employees, others were tourists, eager to check out the newly opened gift shop and inquire about a tour. It was puzzling. Did Tagg not anticipate another attack? Or had he decided that my attack with my bugs was the very extreme to which I was ready to go? The full extent of the threat I posed when angered?
The PRT officers stationed just inside the door, grown men and women who had the job of looking out for troublemakers, barely glanced at me as I joined the crowd and walked right under their noses.
Then again, I’d said something to Regent about that. Attacking from an unexpected direction, doing the last thing one’s enemy expected. This was definitely that. There was no way they expected me to walk into the building, first thing in the morning on a sunny day, when they hadn’t even done anything in recent memory to provoke me.
I made my way into the center of the lobby and stopped to looked around.
Maybe it was that I was standing still, while the rest of the people in the lobby were moving. If not moving against the flow, resisting it. But someone noticed me. A PRT officer by the front desk. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, reaching for his weapon.
I exhaled slowly. I felt eerily calm, while my power roared at the periphery of my consciousness. It was as if my bugs were screaming at me to attack, to retaliate. To strip flesh from bone, sting and bite.
I pushed my bugs back, told them to go still. It had been months since my power and I were this at odds. Months since I’d been in the bathroom of Winslow High, telling myself I didn’t want to fight, that I didn’t want to retaliate against the bullies.
But now I was left to wonder if that was my subconscious or my passenger?
“Villain!” the PRT officer bellowed as he trained his gun on me.
The reaction was oddly delayed, as each one of the fifty or sixty people in the lobby turned to the PRT officer for a cue, for some indication of the danger or the direction of the threat. They saw the direction that he was facing and the direction his gun was pointing, and turned their attention to me.
Only then did the civilians and unarmed staff scream, run, and seek cover. Only then did the PRT officers around me draw weapons and point them at me. A half-dozen PRT officers in full body armor, with their lethal and nonlethal weapons trained on me.
“Get down!” one officer screamed.
I slowly dropped to my knees, then folded my hands behind my head.
There were sounds of footsteps. I could see Miss Militia and the Wards exiting a room behind the front desk. I tried to think of what my bugs had told me about the layout on past visits. It was a meeting room, if I was remembering right.
Miss Militia, Clockblocker, Flechette, Vista, and Crucible stared, eyes wide. Miss Militia’s expression was one of concern, her eyebrows furrowed. She was still, compared to the PRT officers around me, who were shouting at me, asking questions I couldn’t answer. I bowed my head and closed my eyes, as if I could find the same kind of refuge Tattletale had been seeking, find a stillness by shutting out the chaos of the outside world.
I’d said my goodbyes to my team, as much as I’d been able.
I’d put my ducks in a row, again, as much as I could. I’d have to trust to Grue to see to Regent and Aisha, keep them on the right path. I’d have to trust Tattletale to look after Grue.
I’d decided, in the course of talking to my mom, that I’d have to cross a line if I was going to foll
ow Dinah’s instructions, if I was going to achieve everything I needed and wanted to achieve. To do it, I’d told her, I’d have to be heartless, and this was the most heartless, inhuman thing I could do. Leaving my people. Leaving Rachel. Leaving Brian.
I thought of the paper, of the words from Dinah. ‘Cut ties’. I hope you know what you’re doing, Dinah. Because this is as cut as I can get them.
My eyes met Miss Militia’s.
“I surrender.”
Interlude 21 (Donation Bonus #1)
The Number Man swept one finger over the touchscreen display. Two point six billion dollars here, a hundred thousand dollars there.
Money was the blood of civilized society, its currents running through everything and everyone. Where money was insufficient, things withered. People starved, sickened and died, constructions eroded, even ideas perished. Where funds were plentiful, the same things blossomed with new life.
And money was, in the end, little more than the product of collective imagination. A slip of paper or a coin had no value beyond that of the material it was fashioned of. It only took on a life of its own when people as a whole collectively agreed that certain papers and coins were worth something.
Only then did people bleed and die for it. For a fantasy, a faith given form in hard, concrete numbers.
Then again, much of society was built on a series of shared delusions. Clothing was little more than scraps of particular materials with particular geometries, but people clung to the idea of fashion. Style. Good and bad fashion was another belief system, one which all members of a culture were indoctrinated into. Breaking certain conventions didn’t only challenge the aesthetic sensibilities of others, but it challenged their sense of self. It reminded them, subconsciously, of the very pretendings they clung to.
Only those with power could stand against society’s tides, flaunt the collective’s ‘safe’ aesthetic. When one had enough power, others couldn’t rise against them and safely say something calculated to reduce their own dissonance and remind the offending party of the unspoken rules.
When one had enough power to take a life with a twitch of a finger, a thought, they earned the right to wear skin-tight clothing and call themselves Hero, or Legend. To wear a mask and name themselves something inane like ‘the Cockatoo’ and still take themselves seriously.