Worm

by John Mccrae Wildbow

  Is that a good thing?

  “I know I sound a little crazy when I say that, but really, you get a glimpse of these bugs as they go about their lives, almost mechanical in how they follow their instincts, you see them breeding, eating, building nests, and dying, and you see how they just saturate every aspect of our existence, in the air, the dark corners, the insides of the walls, they eat our dead. I can’t sense them, but there’re skin mites all over our bodies and in our eyelashes… I guess it takes me out of myself when I think about it, reminds me that we’re only one part of this vast system, we’re cogs in the universe, in our own way. Seeing the little details makes me feel like the big problems aren’t so personal, they aren’t as overwhelming.”

  Rambling aside, she looked more at ease than he’d ever seen someone in his darkness. She was blind, deaf, and she leaned against the counter, staring off into space as she talked. Even the talking, it caught him off guard. Being blind, unable to see the reactions of the person you were talking to, not getting any feedback, most people would struggle more, much for the same reasons they found it awkward to speak to an answering machine.

  “I don’t know if that makes sense, but I usually try reaching out to these guys when things get bad. In retrospect, it kind of centers me.”

  “I wish I could find the same comfort in my power,” Brian murmured.

  “Did you say something? I think I just felt some vibrations in the air, but it’s hard to tell with your power out there.”

  He didn’t reply.

  Instead, he looked at Taylor. She wasn’t conventionally attractive, he had to admit. Her mouth was wide for her face, her ears large enough that they stuck out of the mess of black curls that draped over her shoulders. And her shoulders: narrow, bony, deceptively delicate in appearance. She somehow managed to be self-conscious and yet unaware of the way she held herself. The seeming fragility of her body was accented by the angles she seemed to settle into when she rested: her wrist bent at a right angle as she picked at one of her cuticles with her thumbnail, her leg raised so her right foot could rest flat against the cabinet, her shoulders tilted forward a fraction. It was as if her skin didn’t fit and she couldn’t stretch both arms or both legs out to their full lengths at the same time.

  It wasn’t so dramatic that he’d notice if he wasn’t already paying attention, but it was a quirk he could note as he studied her. It made him think of a bird, or one of her insects, but… he didn’t feel he was being unflattering by thinking it.

  In fact, as he looked, he could note how long her arms and legs were, the length of her neck and torso. She was still growing, she had grown even in the months they’d known each other. Somehow, he could see how the groundwork was being laid for the finished product, a body that wouldn’t be skinny, but slender, long-legged. If she was still growing, and if her dad was any indication, she’d be tall.

  Would she be a trophy wife, or turn heads? Probably not. But he could see how someone might come to look past the quirks, even come to like them, and they’d find nothing to complain about in her. How someone might want to hold her in their arms-

  She spoke, interrupting his train of thought, “Okay. You probably have some reason for keeping the darkness up this long. I won’t complain, since you’re probably working things out in your own way, like I was talking about with my bugs, but maybe keep an eye on the chicken?” She offered a small laugh, “I could use my bugs to check on it, maybe, but I don’t think either of us want that.”

  He glanced at the stove, prodding the chicken. No problems. He turned down the heat to be safe.

  “Look, Brian, I don’t want to stir up any unhappy thoughts, but I don’t want to ignore the subject either. I did some reading, and there’s a pretty scary number of people who have their second trigger events and then have a bad ending shortly after. I think it has to do with the toll it takes on you, the event… I’m… I’m not good at this. At the people stuff. But I have been through some dark spots. My mom died not too long ago, I can’t remember if we really talked about that. And there was the bullying, I sometimes wonder how much that influences what I do and why. I don’t really know where I’m going with this, but I guess I’m saying I’m here for whatever you need.”

  He expected there to be a swell of that dark anxiety that had plagued him as she raised the subject of what had happened, but when his heart pounded, it wasn’t the same as it had been earlier. Through the sliver of power he had borrowed from her, he could feel the bugs at work, performing a hundred subtly different tasks, sweeping over areas in formation, drawing lines of silk across doorways and roadways, marking the people elsewhere in the neighborhood, keeping an eye on their movements, gathering en masse when people weren’t in a room to check tabletops and cabinets.

  And Taylor was just standing there, leaning agains the counter, calm. She was blind, deaf, and the person at the other end of the conversation hadn’t responded for at least a minute. It wasn’t like she didn’t have her own ugly thoughts plaguing her, a thousand responsibilities, a hundred reasons to feel angry or guilty, but she’d somehow found a way to let herself be at ease here.

  Or was that the same deceptive confidence she’d displayed as she’d approached his headquarters?

  He idly wondered if that veneer would crack if he surprised her here. But he didn’t want to be mean as he did it, that felt wrong.

  Something else. Almost on instinct, Brian stepped forward, reaching for her, then stopped, letting his hands drop to his sides. If he reached out to hold her, that would be a breach of trust, wouldn’t it? He-

  “Hey,” Taylor said, her voice so quiet he could barely hear it. Slightly louder, she said, “Go ahead.”

  She knew? But- He felt out with her power, saw the ‘spark’ of the bugs she’d placed on the cuffs of his pants, on the edge of his sleeve.

  How did she keep track of all that?

  And how was he supposed to respond, now? He barely had any friends, outside of ‘work’, his contact with girls had been limited to flirting, more ‘work’ and fighting with his sister.

  Swallowing, he reached out and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, gently pulling her close. He couldn’t shake the idea that she’d break if he squeezed too hard, so his touch was light.

  She hugged his lower body, pressing her head against his collarbone, both actions surprising him with their strength and ferocity.

  He willed the darkness away, banished the sparks that, as Taylor had suggested, painted them as very small people in a big world. As the light returned, it was just them.

  “This is what you wanted?” she murmured.

  “You’re so still,” he replied, not even sure what he meant.

  “That’s good,” she answered him, her non-sequitur almost matching his own.

  They stayed like that for some time, his chin resting on top of her head. He could feel her breathing, her heartbeat, and the warmth of her breath against his chest. He felt tears in his eyes, blinked them away, unsure why they’d even come in the first place.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be.”

  He couldn’t be quite sure what he was sorry for. This awkwardness, the length of time this had gone on? For putting her in a position like this, when she knew he was vulnerable and would have a hard time of saying no? He didn’t get the sense that she minded. If she had, he suspected, there would be some sign, some movement, some attempt to pull away.

  Maybe he’d said it because it had taken him this long?

  He dismissed the doubts and hesitation.

  “Can we?” he pulled away slightly, and looked in the direction of the couch.

  “Um,” her eyes widened a fraction.

  “Not… not that. Just-” he paused, trying to find a way to say what he wanted to say without putting her in a position where she couldn’t say no.

  “Okay.” She seemed to get his meaning. She led him by one hand into the living room. He laid down first, arranging the cushions into a
makeshift pillow. She took that time to remove the knife, the gun and the various contents of her pockets, placing them on the nearby coffee table.

  Once he was arranged, he was the one to pull on her hand. Moving gingerly, as if she expected him to react badly with every motion she made, she found a way to lie across him without lying on top of him, her head on his shoulder, both legs draping across his pelvis, her upper body pressed against his side. If he hadn’t noted that quirk of hers, how she bent herself at odd angles, he might have thought she’d be uncomfortable. As it was, he somehow didn’t feel the need to worry. He pulled her closer with one arm.

  For days, he’d been seeking some way to get centered, to stop that downward spiral where anxiety and fear gave him cause to be more anxious, more afraid. He’d hurt himself doing it, and he’d very nearly hurt his relationship with Aisha.

  He’d been trying to do it alone. He’d needed a rock, an anchor. If he’d been asked months ago, weeks ago, even days ago, he wasn’t sure he would have believed that was true, or that it would be Taylor, of all people.

  “The stove,” he said, starting to sit up.

  “Handled,” Taylor replied, pushing him back down.

  He looked over and saw the dials had been set to ‘off’.

  “Thank you,” he said. It took him a second to raise the courage, but he kissed the top of her head.

  She nodded, her head rubbing against him.

  “Really,” he said, reaching over to tilt her head so she was looking up at him. He kissed her on the lips this time. “Thank you.”

  She didn’t reply, only smiling and nestling in close again.

  Taylor fell asleep before he did. He laid there for some time, trying to match his breathing to hers, as if he could copy her and fall asleep the same way. It was almost as if he’d forgotten how.

  He wasn’t all better. Wasn’t sure he would ever be. He just had to think about it, and he could almost see Bonesaw in the kitchen, waiting, watching. Whatever barriers he’d erected between reality and the uglier possibilities, they’d taken a beating.

  But he could breathe, now.

  His eyes closed.

  15.04

  Sundancer had once described her life in costume as intense, violent and lonely. I’d had a hard time understanding the last point. That had been about the same time that I had been riding the high of having friends for the first time, after a couple of years spent in almost total solitude.

  Maybe, if the subject had come up again in recent weeks, I might have understood, nodding my head in sympathy.

  Powers raised us above the common people. It was maybe arrogant to think that way, to say I was better than the likes of Sierra, Charlotte or my father, but I sort of was. I had all the potential they did and then more.

  Even if I looked at how powers elevated us, though, I had to admit we weren’t raised to the same level. We weren’t all raised up together. If anything, the powers drove us apart: our trigger events, our reasons for wanting to use our powers, the agendas and missions we took upon ourselves, and even how those powers made us think and operate in different ways… they put barriers between ourselves and others. I just had to think of Panacea or Bitch, and I had some damn good examples of that.

  I couldn’t think of two capes who were in a committed relationship where there wasn’t some degree of fucked-up-ness. Night and Fog were, if I’d understood Tattletale right, essentially functional sociopaths. They’d acted out the role of a married couple with none of the affection or fondness. Victor and Othala were screwed up in a different way, burdened by a shared event in their past. Brandish and Flashbang? If their kids were any indication… yeah. Fucked up.

  It was no small wonder we were all so fucked up. It was the human condition, to need a supporting hand now and again, and yet we could barely help ourselves, let alone each other.

  Worse, if by some small miracle two capes managed to find comfort and support in each other, there was no guarantee that those other two points that Sundancer had raised wouldn’t ruin things. The intensity of our lifestyle and the sheer violence. Lady Photon had lost her husband in the Leviathan fight. Glory Girl had, if the magazines and papers were any indication, maintained an on-and-off relationship with Gallant. He’d died too.

  So this? Lying here beside Brian? It was sort of bittersweet, with maybe a 60-40 split on the sweet vs. the bitter.

  I couldn’t see Brian’s face without raising my head, and I didn’t want to do that and risk waking him. I’d left my glasses on the table with the knife and gun, so I couldn’t see that well anyways. I settled for studying the fabric of his sleeveless shirt, the nubs of lint, the weave of the textile, and how it shifted with the slow, deep and rhythmic breaths he was taking. I could smell his sweat, with the faint traces of his deodorant beneath. It was funny, because when we’d settled in, I hadn’t been able to smell anything.

  I felt warm in the core of my chest. That wasn’t just the morning light streaming in through the windows.

  Not happy, exactly. I didn’t feel like I deserved to be happy, not with the responsibilities I wasn’t attending to right now, not with the mistakes I’d made and the people I’d failed.

  But I could convince myself that this was something I should be doing. It was one of the tasks that I had to tend to, no matter how the coming days and weeks unfolded, and we’d settled on making those tasks a priority. We had to support Grue if we wanted him around to help us when everything started going down.

  I wouldn’t rest any hopes on this, not with the way every other parahuman relationship seemed to go. I’d take these individual moments for what they were.

  All of which amounted to a pile of excuses and rationalizations I was layering on top of one another, trying to convince myself this wouldn’t end disastrously, that I wasn’t being irresponsible or that I wasn’t going to regret this on a hundred different levels. It was enough that I could feel at peace, here.

  Mostly at peace. I had to pee, and yet I didn’t want to move and disturb him.

  Nothing was easy, it seemed.

  My body won out over my willpower, and I decided to extricate myself. I didn’t even try to get to my feet, instead easing myself down to the ground as I unwrapped myself from Brian as slowly as I could.

  Once I’d disentangled myself from Brian and the couch, I grabbed my glasses, knife, cellphone and gun and rushed to the washroom.

  The cell phone rang while I was on the toilet. Tattletale. For Brian’s sake and my own sense of decency, I refused the call and texted her instead:

  What’s up?

  She replied soon after:

  R is done. Bird in the pen 4 now. C wants a meeting neways. Get G I and come 4 11am?

  So it was time to see if Brian could glean anything from Victor’s power. I responded:

  G sleeping. Don’t want to wake him.

  I could guess her reply before it appeared:

  hate to break u 2 lovebirds up but we r tight on time and C is impatient

  I texted her an a-ok before hanging up and putting the phone away.

  The kitchen had been cleaned up, but my bugs hadn’t alerted me to anyone coming in. Had Aisha returned and used her power to stay quiet?

  I decided to assume she had and began preparing breakfast for three people.

  If I had to rouse Brian, I’d do it with the smells of bacon, coffee and toast. It was as inoffensive a method as I could think of.

  Aisha woke up before Brian did, venturing downstairs in a long t-shirt.

  “Thanks for cleaning up,” I said, quiet. I could remember her reaction the last time I’d been talking to Brian, and added, “And for not getting upset.”

  “I can’t help him, don’t know how. So I’m putting it in your hands.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me. If you screw this up, I can and will make your life a living hell.”

  I frowned. ”Honestly? That’s not very fair. I think I probably will screw up along the way. This isn’t going
to be smooth sailing, whatever happens. So maybe it’d be better if you just trust that I’m going into this with the best intentions for him.”

  She plucked a piece of bacon from a plate and popped it into her mouth. ”Maybe. But no. Don’t fuck this up.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I’ve had a lot of practice. It’s the little things, convincing someone they’re going crazy, nothing they put down is where they left it. Things go missing. Furniture gets moved. Then it gets more serious, they find the stash of drugs they were supposed to barter for stuff is missing-”

  “I don’t have any drugs,” I told her.

  “Talking hy-po-theticals. I get them in trouble with people they know. Then they have little injures they can’t remember getting. Splinters under their fingernails, papercuts between their fingers or at the corners of their mouths, little cuts on the back of their hands. That’s usually when they freak out. They run, go somewhere else, and it stops, just a little while. Until it comes again, twice as bad as before. They snap. Then I leave them a message telling them that it all stops when they leave the city. Put it on their walls in blood or put it on their bathroom mirror in soap so it shows up when the room gets all steamy. They’re glad. They’re happy to have a way out. Except I wouldn’t leave you that note.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Brian asked, from behind her. ”And where are you getting that blood?”

  Aisha wheeled around, not appearing even half as guilty as she should have.

  “I asked Coil’s lieutenant for some. He asked me how many gallons I wanted. How weird is that? I mean, seriously, who needs gallons of blood? Or maybe I could use it. Paint someone’s house, see if I can’t freak them out hardcore,” Aisha smiled wickedly.

  “Ignore that question. What were you saying to Taylor, about not giving her a note?”

  “It’s fine,” I told him. ”She’s being protective of her big brother.”