by wildbow
All around me, PRT employees were howling in pain, their cries silenced by the lack of an audio feed. Either the camera hadn’t picked it up, or Glenn had muted it. They thrashed. One reached for me, for the me on the screen, and I could see how I moved out of the way without even glancing at him. The swarm concealed me at the same time, briefly obscuring the Skitter in the video from both the man on the ground and the security camera. When it parted, she had shifted two or three feet to the left. A simple step to one side in the half-second she couldn’t be seen, but it misled the eyes.
And I couldn’t remember doing it. I’d never consciously added the trick to my repertoire.
“If you told me that girl was a member of the Slaughterhouse Nine,” Glenn said, “I wouldn’t have batted an eyelash.”
It was like hearing my voice played back to me, but it was compounded over several levels. The movements, the movements of the swarm, it wasn’t familiar to me.
The head turned towards the security camera for a moment, and I could see the yellow eyes of my lenses in the midst of the thick black swarm.
“That isn’t marketable,” Glenn said, oblivious to just what I found so bothersome.
“There’s a middle ground,” I said.
“When I asked you to use butterflies, it was to break a habit, see if it changed how you functioned in the midst of a fight, just like I might ask someone to try on a particular outfit and see how it fits them. I didn’t think it would throw you off kilter as much as it has. But that isn’t a bad thing.”
“It is if it means Rime nearly dies and Pretender gets taken.”
“We collected the three members of Bambina’s group. Not a complete loss.”
“They’ll get free and continue their rampage,” I said.
“Most likely. We’ll strive to hold on to Bambina at the very least. With luck we’ll be able to recruit the little prince, maybe Starlet as well.”
I looked at the video. Glenn had paused it. The momentary turn of the head, the yellow lenses…
“I can work on being a little less nightmarish,” I said. “But there’s got to be a way for me to be more effective. How long are these restrictions in effect?”
“Until you come of age and join the Protectorate,” a voice spoke from behind me.
It was Chevalier, accompanied by Defiant, my ride. Chevalier wore his gold and silver armor, heavily decorated and etched until every square inch looked like a miniature work of art. It didn’t strike me as something that would hold up to any abuse, but I’d heard how tough it really was.
“Until I turn eighteen,” I said, feeling a little hollow.
Chevalier approached. “You murdered two people. Three, going by your admission while in custody. Two PRT directors, one major hero. When Dragon and Defiant suggested we bring you on board, we were divided. It was Glenn who offered the compromise that we ultimately agreed to. This compromise.”
I glanced at Glenn, who shrugged.
Glenn?
“You have blood on your hands. We need to know that you can hold back, that you won’t simply snap as you did when you were in custody in Brockton Bay. We’re still wanting to ensure that this isn’t a long-term scheme on the Undersider’s part, as unlikely as it might be.”
“That’s why you’re waiting two years? You think that it’ll take that long to vet me, before you can give me actual responsibility?”
“It’s one consideration of many.”
“It’s ridiculous. The world is going to end before I have my eighteenth birthday. I’m giving you full permission to use me. Send me to round up tinkers who could find the Nine’s pocket dimension. I’ve been a villian. I’ve got some reputation I can fall back on. I can talk to people you guys can’t.”
“I won’t say this is set in stone,” Chevalier said. “Maybe in a few weeks or a few months, we can discuss options. For now, we’ll find you a team, get you settled. Once we know where we’re situating you, we’ll find a different institution to keep you in. Possibly low security, or in the Wards headquarters, depending. The rest… there’s time to figure that out.”
I sighed, closing my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Chevalier said. “Really. I was there for the fight against Echidna. I saw the Undersiders in action. I saw you in action, and I’m willing to credit you with the maneuver that turned the situation around in the final stages. As long as your rap sheet may be, I’ve heard of the good you did. It strikes me that you’ve likely saved one person from death and injury for each person you’ve assaulted, if I were to count what you did before Shatterbird hit your city.”
“But that doesn’t matter in the end.”
“It does. More than you suspect, but you have to be patient.”
“You’ve faced a great deal in the span of half a year,” Defiant said. “Take this for the reprieve it is.”
I grit my teeth. No use. The legitimate avenues were failing me.
I couldn’t put up with this.
“Then there’s one last thing,” I said. “If I can’t help directly, let me help indirectly. I can outfit your heroes. Most of them.”
Glenn and Chevalier exchanged glances.
“We were going to raise the idea somewhere down the road,” Chevalier said. “We can work out a deal, like we have with our tinkers. An allowance, with payment for each costume produced.”
“I don’t want money,” I said. “But so long as you’re offering, maybe we could talk about a workshop?”
I glanced at Defiant, “And equipment?”
* * *
Spiders moved through the back corridors of the prison. It was a space where the plumbing and heating for the two interconnected prisons ran through pipes, and where the flooring was little more than metal grates, easily removed and replaced in a pinch. Almost lightless, but that didn’t bother me. My spiders could manage, and it only meant I had some time to hide them if someone entered and hit a switch to turn the lights on.
I’d thought of ‘Weaver’ as a hero on the straight and narrow. That was out.
Being a villain with good PR just wouldn’t work either.
No. A middle ground, then.
The spiders found a rat. It backed away from the mass, hissed.
A spider dropped on it from above and delivered the first of what soon became a series of bites. Fatal.
Working together, the spiders set to devouring it. They weren’t natural scavengers, but meat was meat. Meat meant the spiders could get the sustenance they needed for breeding. Breeding, in turn, meant I could start mass-producing silk.
It was calming, a relief to do something concrete after an afternoon in Glenn Chamber’s company. When the time came, I could carry any materials and the spiders onto the bottom of the Pendragon, moving them to my workshop.
“Hebert,” the guard said.
I raised my head.
“Mail day. You’re a popular one.”
It was a bundle of mail, bound together with tape marked ‘USPS’.
“They’re already open?”
“Rules. We don’t read it, or we’re not supposed to. But they check there’s nothing illegal inside, and the dogs give it a sniff.”
I nodded. She studied me for a second, then moved on to the next cell.
Mail from all around the United states. From strangers, from fans.
Words of support. Criticism. Death threats.
I opened the ones from Brockton Bay last.
Taylor. Weaver. Skitter. Is it bad that you’ll always be Skitter to me?
I could hit you, hug you, yell at you and hold onto you for hours all at the same time. It’s fitting that I want to kiss you and throttle you at the same time because that’s what you were to me for a long time. You drive me crazy and I can never understand what’s going through your head.
This isn’t easy. I’m not good at this. Not with where we left off. It felt like an incomplete break, but I don’t think it would be much better if we were still together or if we’d broken it off completely
. I’m not the type to write heartfelt letters.
I hope they don’t read your mail and give you a hard time because of this. I’d erase that part but I’ve already started over three times.
What ever am I even supposed to write? That I want to yell at you because I told you I couldn’t be leader and you left anyways? That you shouldn’t worry and Tattletale and I have it covered?
You’re an idiot. I want you to know that. You’re an idiot, Skitter. You’re brilliant and reckless and I’m betting it makes sense to you to do this but you’re an idiot.
I’ll write again, when I can figure out what to write.
Grue.
I read it three times. I could almost hear his voice.
I opened the next one.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! what the fuck???
There was only a little circle with devil horns at the bottom, in place of a signature. I rolled my eyes and moved on.
Tt here.
You probably want to know the situation. We’re all alive, Accord hasn’t turned on us yet, things are getting more exciting but we’ll manage. Heroes are leaving us alone, like you arranged. Trick will be to get Regent and Imp to stop prodding them for reactions when they cross ways.
Heartbreaker making initial forays, decided to pay a visit. Can’t tell if he’s invading or after Regent. Red Hands are a little more aggressive but not too bad. Meeting for negotiations tonight. Lost Garden approacheth, sending members after us and trying to clear way for Barrow to advance. Annoying but no problem until they enter city limits.
Grue wasn’t okay at first. Worst days since right after Bsaw. He won’t say in his letter but you would want to know. Got better when Red Hand and Heartbreaker came. Busier, something to do other than wallow.
Regent&Imp constantly together. Mucho annoying since you gone. They’re testing the waters, seeing what they can get away with. Will see how it turns out.
We got Flechette. She a pair with Parian. Lovey-dovey. Best case scenario, really. Not sure if you arranged that, good call if you did. Flechette’s going by Foil now. Likes those F names.
My head’s better as of yesterday. Tryng to take it easier.
Managed to get hold of Rachel. She said she’d send letter. She can’t read/write but she insisted she would anyways. Interesting to see how that turns out.
Everyone on edge of their seat waiting for Endbringer to hit. Won’t be Bbay but we participating.
See you there, hun?
P.S. To the asshats reading Taylor’s mail, there’s no codes in this message. Promise. Don’t bother. You want to know what we’re up to, call me. I’ll fucking tell you.
P.S.S. Gathering all letters together, 12 hours ltr. None from Reg, he said to say hi. Meeting with Red Hands went ok. No alliance but nonaggression pact mebbe
I took it in and sighed. There were no less than three villainous groups converging on the Undersiders, and Grue had been in bad shape.
And yet it was still reassuring. Things were, for better or worse, normal. Much as I’d expected.
Atlas died. I wanted to let you know. Tattletale had him, but he wouldn’t eat or move. We asked for him, and we found a place for him. The guys say they think they know a good way to make a mold. They’re covering him in brass.
A way of saying you’re still with us. Take care of yourself.
-Char
It affected me more than I would have thought. Not him dying—he’d never been more than an automaton, a freak of nature made to do little more than obey my commands.
But it was one more tie to the Undersiders that had broken.
The last letter was handwritten in a spidery script.
(She said to write what she said. All of it.)
(She hasn’t said anything for a long while. She growled at me when I started to walk away tho. Oh here.)
I did what you said. Is quiet. Have tents and dogs and am hunting with dogs. Hunting fucked up bull things.
(Bison)
Very quiet with no people. Learning to cut them up. (The bison not people).
People are cutting down trees to clear space around portal, but easy to stay away from them. Simple way to live. Nice but miss toilets.
(We all miss toilets)
Tattletale visits, brings dog food and tools, tents.
Is what I wanted for long time. Except others, my people, but they are okay and I can take a break and ride for while if they get on my case.
Being around you wasn’t simple or quiet but things made more sense. Your minion with dark hair said we need to be around people but I’m around people and still feel somethings missing.
Fucked up. Makes me angry. Tattletale tried explaining but whatever.
Going to take puppies to your place again soon. Show the kids to them. Might help.
You have plan, okay. But if your plan means you’re thinking about fighting us you should know I am getting very good at hunting and skinning things.
Sucks somehow but can’t really understand why. Maybe see you at next Endbringer fight. We both stay alive. Try hard.
That’s all.
(Signing off—Rachel and Rachel’s excellent minion/henchperson/letter writer)
Stay alive until we can see each other again?
Doable.
‘Try hard’?
Maybe that was the push I needed, such as it was.
I collected the mail, wedging it into a space between two of the library books on the little table in my cell.
Withdrawing a notepad, I started sketching out the designs I was thinking of. Alterations to the costume, weapon ideas, tools and concepts.
Payloads for bugs? Something I can drop? Caltrops? Something toxic?
Back to my roots, to where I’d been after my powers had manifested. Only then, I’d been writing in a black speckled notebook.
Darker fabric? Must talk to Glenn about costume style. Butterflies are in, but can I complement them? Need official word.
It was moronic to have a white costume. Equally moronic to have butterflies.
What about containment foam? If Dovetail can use it what does it take for me to get permission?
I’d pay homage to Atlas and push Defiant and Dragon to create something that would let me fly. Pay homage to Skitter and settle on a middle ground in costume design, in combat effectiveness, weapons and utility.
I thought of Atlas, and added a note—jetpack? With beetle wings? Flight system?
I was nearly through the pad, and it was pushing four in the morning by the time I had the sketches and outlines at an acceptable point.
The costume Defiant and Dragon had given me was theirs, not mine. The fighting style that had been dictated was Glenn’s and Chevalier’s.
This, this would be me.
Drone 23.4
“I’m so sorry I’m late. I never do this,” Mrs. Yamada said. She entered the office, a raincoat, boots and a messenger bag in her arms, her hair a touch damp, clearly flustered. “What a way to start us off. I’m so embarrassed.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”
I knew right away that it wasn’t her office. It just didn’t fit her, in any sense. She was average in height for a woman, which put her a little taller than most Japanese women, her hair cut short in what I took to be a utilitarian choice, but was styled enough to show a degree of effort. Her clothes and shoes were much the same.
The room, by contrast, clashed with her demeanor. There was a level of care that went into it. Like, I couldn’t help but feel that the desk in the corner and the chairs were antiques, or at least very expensive. There were model airplanes on the shelves and pictures of airplanes on the walls, and Mrs. Yamada didn’t give me the impression of an airplane afficionado. The sheer heft of the chair and desk seemed out of proportion with Mrs. Yamada as a person.
Was she borrowing a colleague’s office? For the last while, I’d been ferried here and there. Dragon and Defiant were my custodians, and between them, they were trave
ling all over America, making it relatively easy to schedule a pick-up and drop-off. It was almost easier for me to go to Yamada’s office than for her to come to me, but we’d come here instead.
“It’s a matter of professional courtesy,” she said, more like she was talking to herself than to me. She was still getting herself sorted out, her raincoat hung up, rain boots replaced with slippers she’d been holding beneath the coat. “Being prompt, it indicates that I respect and value your time. You can’t confide in me if I don’t respect you.”
Respect me?
I looked down at the floor for a moment. She was looking at me when I raised my eyes to her. “With all sincerity, it was due to forces entirely out of my control, with complications at every turn.”
“Bureaucracy,” I said.
“You’re not wrong,” she said. “But it was something else. A patient of mine, institutionalized, she’s reacted badly to certain events in the last month. Someone she idolized left the Wards, and—”
I could see her stop, composing herself, the stress and preoccupied attitude melting away.
“—And this isn’t about that. This session is about you.”
“About me. This could be a long session,” I said.
“My instinct,” Mrs. Yamada said, as she settled uncomfortably into the large, somewhat ostentatious chair, “Would be to ask about the little details you’ve seeded into the conversation already.”
“Details?”
“How you seized the idea that it’s bureaucracy that would be holding me back,” she said. “Or your facial expression when I said I want to approach this meeting with respect. But there’s other points I think we should cover first. We’ll get back to that, if you’re interested.”
I shrugged.
“FIrst off, let’s start off with the basics. How are you?”
Pretty basic. “Fine.”
“You’re in prison, and will be for at least two years, maybe longer. By all reports, you’re chafing under the new restrictions you face as a member of the Wards. That’s without touching on the fact that, two weeks ago, you murdered Alexandria and Director James Tagg out of fear for your safety and the safety of your friends and teammates. In this room, or wherever we go to talk, it’s okay to answer ‘how are you’ with an admission that you’re not okay.”