by wildbow
“I’m—I feel better, after talking to Glenn and Chevalier.”
“How did you feel before?”
“Restless. I still am, really. Very restless. If one feeling is taking hold of me, it’s that.”
“How so?”
“Before I was in jail, I ran every other morning. I can’t run now, but my body still wants me to, at the usual time and the usual pace.”
She nodded, making a note. “When did you start?”
“About a month after I got my powers. February.”
She nodded.
I went on, “And there’s the other stuff. You might not believe me, but I was helping people. Hurting people from time to time, but mostly helping. I was getting food out to people who were hungry, checking everyone had what they needed, laying long-term plans for the future, so that people who’ve never had a chance in their lives would finally get one. I’m helping people less now that I’m going out with the Wards.”
“Do you think that maybe you’re hurting people less?”
“But the sum total is worse. It’s like, if you go back to the very fundamentals of right and wrong, you have to ask, ‘if most people acted the same way I’m acting right now, would society be better off?’”
“Okay,” she said. “And you think society would be better off if everyone acted like you?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Yes, I hurt people, but I hurt people who deserved it. When I had the resources to do it, I helped a lot of people.”
“In this hypothetical reality where most people think like you, correct me if I’m wrong, transgressions would be punished?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Guess so.”
“Would it be fair to say they’re punished harshly?”
She was thinking of Alexandria and Tagg, no doubt. Maybe Valefor. “Yeah.”
“Kind of medieval, isn’t it?”
It reminded me of my dad, that idea. “Guess it is. But capes are naturally violent.”
“And what about the Wards? I wasn’t there at the time, but one of my colleagues started seeing the Brockton Bay Wards a short time after Leviathan attacked the city. Did they commit a transgression that warranted the pain they suffered at your hands? The ones that aren’t Shadow Stalker?”
I didn’t have a ready answer to that. She waited in silence for long seconds before I shrugged. “There was stuff, the fact that they tolerated people like Shadow Stalker, but I’m not sure I could explain it now. Feels like a long time ago.”
“A lot’s happened all at once. It might contribute to the restlessness you feel now that things are quieter. You said you felt better after you talked to Glenn and Chevalier. Why?”
“I got a chance to talk stuff through. More of a sense of why they were putting obstacles in my way. And on my way over here, I gave Dragon some notes on an updated costume and gear. She’ll probably email it out, they’ll discuss the options and tear the proposal to shreds. If they accept any of it, though, I’ll bring me a step closer to being me, to being more comfortable with what I’m doing.”
“That’s a good lead-in to the next big question I had in mind. Who are ‘you’? I make a point of asking all of my clients this, but what should I call you? Weaver? Taylor? Skitter?”
“All of the above? Maybe call me Weaver. I’m still trying to get used to the name.”
“Okay, Weaver, and my next easy question is whether I can get you anything? Water? I remember you had a coffee cup in front of you in the interrogation room in Brockton Bay.”
“It was tea,” I said. “And not right now, thanks.”
“Okay,” she said, making another note.
“Writing down some profound insights?” I asked, gesturing towards the pad of paper she had in her lap.
“Details about you, your tastes and priorities. Maybe I’ll have tea ready the next time we meet. Black, green, herbal?”
“Black.”
“Okay,” she said. Another brief note. “This is the first date, Weaver, if you’ll excuse the metaphor. This is when I get a sense of who you are as a person, the fundamentals of who you are. I then use that to help you and inform you. You aren’t obligated to take my feedback without question, or to take my advice as orders, but if we wind up being a good team, then hopefully you’ll want to, because you find it genuinely helpful.”
I nodded.
“I know only a little about you from context, but I don’t want to be one of the people who jumps to conclusions about you, so I’m second guessing every detail that you don’t personally share with me. I drew up a timeline, which was why I asked when you started running, trying to get a sense of what was happening for you and when.”
“Any insights?”
“Some, but we can talk about that another time. Later today, maybe. My point is, I’m trying to figure you out. So please forgive me if any of my questions seem too simple, or if I’m asking about things I should already know. The next set of questions are a little more serious. Do you want therapy?”
“It’s kind of obligatory,” I said.
“I’d change my approach depending on whether you hated this but were playing along, if you really did want help figuring things out, or if you wanted therapy but didn’t want it with me.”
She let that last bit hang in the air.
When I didn’t respond, Mrs. Yamada said, “I would understand if you felt like you had to be on guard against me. When you were dealing with the Protectorate and PRT in Brockton Bay, it might have looked like I was one of the enemies.”
“You were pretty decent to me, all things considered.”
“Good,” she said. She smiled a little. “Thank you. Let me pose the question another way. You’ve said you’re able to tolerate my presence?”
I nodded.
“Okay. Given that you’ve accepted me, I’m wondering what you think my goal is.”
“You’re going to report back to the guys in charge of the PRT and the Protectorate and tell them whether or not I’m of sound mind, whether I can join the Wards team without snapping and murdering someone.”
“That’s not it,” she said. “In fact, I may well do the opposite, depending on how this meeting goes, and avoid commenting altogether. My only goal is to help you.”
“Help me?” I asked.
“There’s two very different paths we could take. The first is simple. I’d act as your therapist. I would be an objective ear, and I could equip you with tools to handle things like stress, anger, or anything else that concerned you. Anything you said would be entirely confidential, and I would decline to comment when the time came for your placement in the Wards, so as to preserve that confidentiality.”
“Isn’t that damning?” I asked. “If you don’t have anything good to say, they’ll naturally assume you know bad things.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I’ve had upstanding heroes choose to exercise their right to confidentiality. If we started off by establishing this as therapy right off the bat, there would be enough forewarning that it wouldn’t reflect badly on you.”
“Okay,” I said.
“The second route would involve me not being your therapist, but your advocate. We’d set you up with someone else as a therapist, and I’d focus on serving as a middleman, in working with the PRT, Protectorate, the Wards and the warden at Gardener. I could, for example, talk to the warden about you getting a chance to run in the mornings, testifying that it’d be a good, healthy release. When the time came for you to be placed with the Wards, I’d testify with all of the good and the bad, from what we’ve talked about here.”
“That makes a lot of sense,” I said.
“There’s a middle ground between the two options,” she said. “I could certainly be an advocate for you if you were coming to me for therapy, or offer you a listening ear if you were coming to me for advocacy.”
“With the knowledge that anything I said could be used against me, in that case.”
She nodded. “So long as you know.”
I thought of how she’d composed herself, pulling herself together. It struck a chord.
“But I think I’d rather have you for a therapist.”
“Thank you,” she said. “And I respect that you’re willing to ask for help. That takes a kind of strength.”
I shrugged.
“Is there any particular place you’d like to start?” she asked. “We already touched on bureaucracy, you seemed a touch bewildered that I would respect you.”
She paused, as if waiting for me to chime in.
“There’s other things, but it’s hard to articulate them.”
“Give it a try. It’s sometimes easiest if you start with the underlying emotion. I feel, followed by the emotion, then talk about why.”
I nodded. “I feel… anxious, because I’m worried I’m not a very good hero.”
“Assuming it isn’t inexperience, is that so terrible? Being less than stellar?”
“Doesn’t it say something ugly about me, if I make a pretty excellent villain and a crappy hero?”
“Maybe it says something about your power, or it’s simply past experience. I stress, you are new at this.”
“When I was new at being a villain I took on established heroes and robbed a bank, walking away with a small fortune.”
“You had a team with you.”
“I felt a hell of a lot more effective, when I count everything that’s happened without teammates at my back. I dunno.”
“So you’re restless and anxious—”
“And genuinely afraid,” I said. I sighed. “I feel… afraid, because I’m starting to think that maybe my power isn’t entirely under my control. There’s a monster taking up real estate in my brain, deciding to use my power when I don’t want to, and I’m pretty sure it’s been getting more effective over time.”
“Is this monster metaphorical?”
“That’s a very good question,” I said. I leaned on my knees and stared at my hands. “Is it just me? Or is it my ‘passenger’, some inscrutable life form from a parallel universe that decided to give me powers, currently helping me manage those powers so my brain doesn’t overheat? Or is there even a distinction? Did my trigger event fuse us to the point that the line is blurred beyond recognition?”
“I can see where the idea would be frightening,” she said. “I’ve heard of some of these things, though the particulars and names differed. We don’t know enough about them, about powers, even, and the unknown is daunting, especially when it affects you as deeply as your power seems to affect you. This lack of control, it—”
“If I tell you I’m dangerous, that I’m going to hurt someone, intentionally or by accident, are you obligated to report it?”
“Yes, if the risk is grave. Forgive me for asking, but are you going to hurt someone? Accidentally or otherwise?”
I shook my head. “No. But it makes me wonder if something like that is a possibility.”
“I’ve worked with a lot of young parahumans who had uncontrollable powers. There are options.”
“Like?”
“It depends on the form this lack of control takes. Is it perpetual? Does it hinge on you losing focus? On your being tired? Illness? Anger?”
“I’m not entirely sure. Sometimes when I’ve been knocked out, I’ve found that my power keeps going without my instruction. It’s not brilliant, it makes mistakes, and the logic isn’t always there, but I’ve had my power keep working when I was unconscious, after a concussion, and when a cape used their power to wipe away my volition. When I was tranquilized, after setting my bugs on Director Tagg, they apparently kept going after him.”
“Let’s start with the fundamentals, then. I almost always recommend relaxation exercises and meditation to my patients with control issues. There’s almost always a degree of improvement. The next trick is to find a way to track this.”
“I’m getting a new costume. Maybe a camera? The most recent time I noticed it was when I was with Glenn Chambers, he showed me a video, and I saw myself using tricks I’d never taught myself.”
“Perhaps a camera, then. Is it reassuring, to know that there are answers?”
“I’ll be reassured when I see improvement,” I said. “No offense.”
“None taken. But you raised two problems. Your lack of confidence about being a hero. That’s more immediate, if less ominous?”
“It’s pretty ominous, honestly,” I said. “I staked a lot on this.”
“You have options in mind, am I right? You said that you were suggesting a new costume and new equipment.”
“But that doesn’t fix things if I’m a round peg in a square hole. I’ve thought about compromises, stuff beyond the gear and costumes, but I feel like I’m almost betraying myself. The me that spent three months after getting powers, with the idea that I’d be a hero. I had all of this idealism, all of these ideas of how I’d help, big and small, and I wind up doing more good as a notorious villain than as a hero.”
Jessica Yamada made a note on her pad of paper, then set it on the small table to her right. She glanced at the window, then at me, “Are you still restless?”
“All the time,” I said.
“Want to go for a walk?”
“Hell yeah. Am I allowed?”
“I’ll need to make a few phone calls.”
* * *
Middle schoolers swarmed around a very unhappy looking team of Wards, pushing, jostling, calling out, reaching to touch armor and costumes. The overcast sky was only just clearing up, causing the colors in the park to be all the more vivid.
“Why?” I asked.
“Why are we here, or why is this happening?” Mrs. Yamada asked me.
“Yes.”
“This is happening because of you, in a roundabout way,” Mrs. Yamada said. “When your secret identity was revealed, it didn’t take the media very long to discover that you’d been bullied in high school.”
“Oh hell no,” I muttered.
“People asked why more hadn’t been done to reach out to you and individuals like you. This was the response.”
“I’m not sure this is a good thing,” I said. “These assemblies and events were always atrocious, with really bad speeches.”
“I saw enough of them when I was in high school, I know. But superheroes have the ‘wow’ factor, at least.”
I looked at the very uncomfortable Boston Wards. They had enthralled the kids, but they couldn’t do anything with them, with the crush of bodies. The teachers seemed to be enjoying the break, sitting on the far end of the field, in the shade.
“Want to wow them, too?”
I glanced at her.
“Not a fight, but a chance to be heroic. The PR that’s been forced on your head won’t be a handicap here,” Mrs. Yamada said. “And maybe it will help you feel a little more human, at a time when you’re worried about the monster inside you.”
“A little heavy-handed,” I commented.
“A lot heavy-handed,” she said, smiling. “But it’s a chance to be outside, instead of cooped up in yet another room, without worrying your life’s at risk.”
“I’ll take it,” I said. “Thanks.”
I ventured into the fray.
A hundred kids, all probably from one school. I almost would have rather been up against Bambina.
I called on every butterfly in the area, across the whole park. It took nearly a minute before they were gathered. I sent them into the crowd, flying over and around the mass of kids. Some of them screamed, others ducked, covering their heads.
Not quite the delight I’d hoped for.
Was this another point where I was underestimating what the effect of the swarm was, or were the kids just overreacting? It was only five or six hundred butterflies.
“Whoever catches the most wins!” I called out. “Go!”
The kids stared at me. Some were still reacting from the rush of butterflies.
“Go!”
I said. “There’s a prize! A good one!”
They scattered.
Butterflies wove in around one another, around trees, out of reach and over heads, between legs and under tables. I watched the crowd, got the kids to bump into one another, gathered them into clusters where I had ten or twenty students running after one group of butterflies, conserving effort and increasing the confusion when two groups ran into one another.
When the mass of kids had burned off their initial energy, I joined the Wards, still controlling the butterflies.
“Thanks,” said one heroine in pale blue.
“A bit much?” I asked.
A guy with a fox mask said, “You can’t really interact with them when there’s this many. There’s no point.”
“Good memories,” I said. “Better than nothing.”
“But not great,” fox-mask said. “Good memories aren’t exactly why we’re here. Somewhere in that group, there’s kids who could be the next wave of capes.”
I watched the kids run. They’d succeeded in surrounding one group of butterflies, and some had taken off rain jackets to form improvised butterfly nets.
That kind of organization deserved a reward. On the flip side of things, they were liable to murder one another over a handful of butterflies. Competition trumped reason.
Making the butterflies simply rise into the air was too easy, and there were some kids who were sitting on each other’s shoulders, to get more height in anticipation of the tactic.
I swept up butterflies with dragonflies, carrying them out of reach, through the crowd.
Some of the kids rushed up to me, red in the face with exertion.
“You’re cheating!”
“Not fair!”
“I used to be a supervillain,” I said. “I’m allowed to be a jerk. Go! You two are in second place, but you’re falling behind while you complain.”
They gave me death glares, then ran off.
I focused on my power. The power I wasn’t entirely sure I could trust anymore, and I identified the stragglers. The ones without a group. The ones who weren’t participating, or who weren’t able to maneuver around the crowd, solitary in the midst of groups of friends.