The Slippery Slope Pt 14 (Patreon)

[A/N 1: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

[A/N 2: The interludes occur just before the end of the last chapter.]

[A/N 3: The book 'The Wind in the Willows' was written by Kenneth Grahame, and I make no claim to any part of it.]

Friday, February 3, 2011
Interlude One: Medhall Building

“Oh, hey,” said Peter as I went to meet him. “I thought you were going to be in there all day.” His tone was teasing and his eyes were amused at his joke. He also looked pleased to see me. Well, that was all right. I was pleased to see him, too.

“Sorry it took so long,” I said. “I learned a bit about my powers. And Victor says he's going to teach me how to make stuff with the manufacturing lab, so I can build my own machines.” As we came together, I laced my fingers with his, then leaned against him. He put his free arm around my shoulders.

“I would be extremely interested in hearing all about it,” he informed me solemnly. “But I think there's someone here that you might want to say hi to first.” The teasing tone was more evident now, and I realised that it had to be more than just about me spending time away from him.

“Oh?” I asked, blinking at him curiously. “Who is it?” I couldn't think of anyone, except -

“Hey, Taylor. You're looking good.” Excitement bloomed through me and I spun around at the familiar voice. Despite the bandages and the crutch that he was leaning on, I had no trouble recognising the guy who had saved my ass.

“George!” I squealed. Pulling free from Peter, I dashed across the distance between us and flung my arms around his neck. “Omigod, it's so good to see you!”

One strong arm wrapped around my waist. I had last felt that strength when it was pulling me free from a bunch of ABB and sending me on my way. Saving my life. I hugged him back, fervently.

He chuckled. “Oof, wow. Are you sure you didn't trigger with super-strength as well?” His tone was amused, but not teasing; from the sound of it, he was in the loop when it came to knowing about my powers. To be honest, that wasn't very surprising. Peter had already trusted him with my well-being; the fight and its aftermath had basically set that in stone.

“I'm just glad to see you.” Stepping back, I let him catch his balance while I looked him over. His dressings were nowhere near as numerous as they had been in the beginning. It looked like he was only suffering from a few distinct injuries, and … “Oh. Your eye. Othala couldn't fix that?”

He shrugged. “It is what it is. Eyes are very complicated. She says that she'll keep working with me to bring it all the way back, but it will take a while.” A grin split his broad face. “And in the meantime, I get to wear a bitchin' eyepatch.”

I had to laugh as I reached backward. Peter's hand slipped into mine as if we had rehearsed it. He stepped forward to stand beside me as I smiled at George. “Well, all I can say is, I'm totally grateful for what you did for me. And I'm glad you know about my powers. And … well, I'm just glad you're alive.”

George's eyes fell. “Yeah, I heard about Jenna and Bronson. That really bites. Those slanty-eyed fucks. I just wish I'd been there to help.” His free hand clenched, the skin whitening around his knuckles.

Peter shook his head. “You'd be dead for real, then. Fucking Oni Lee took us out in seconds. Taylor's dad and I only survived by the skin of our teeth, and the fact that Taylor's a total badass. Even with Othala giving us round-robin with her regeneration to keep us alive, Jenna still died.” He reached forward and patted George on the shoulder. “You did your bit, man. And I'm going to make sure people know about it.”

“When's the service for Bronson and Jenna?” I asked. “I'm going to want to get something appropriate to wear for it. All my stuff was in the car when it crashed.” I remembered the terror of the seconds before the crash, and wondered if I could've done something different that would have prevented it.

“Friday evening,” Peter said quietly. He put his arm around me. “You won't need to worry about a nice dress. For this sort of thing, capes show up in costume, as a sign of respect.” It made a certain amount of sense. The Empire put a lot of stock in symbolism and gestures, after all.

I turned to him and held him close. “I think that's a good idea. But for right now, could I ask a huge favour of you?” There was something I wanted to do, and I didn't have what I needed to do it with.

He put his arms around me. “Anything at all. Just ask me.” His voice was soft in my ear.

So I told him what I needed.

He pulled back and looked at me, his brow wrinkled. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” I said. “Seriously.” I pulled him close again. “It would mean so much to me.”

“Then I'll get it.” There was no compromise, no uncertainty. He meant every word.

I smiled, then gave him the lightest of kisses. “Thank you.”

<><>

Interlude Two: Brockton Bay General Hospital

“Holy crap!” Vicky's voice echoed from the hospital room into the tiny bathroom where Amy was packing the last of her toiletries.

Amy looked up enquiringly at the outrage in her sister's voice. Grabbing the toiletry bag, she exited the bathroom. “What's the matter?” she asked. “And where's everyone else?”

Only the two Wards and the other junior members of New Wave were present; Scapegoat and Spire had been chatting with Eric and Crystal. Now, they were looking over with interest to where Vicky stood next to the bed, the clipboard in her hand.

Vicky turned to her. “Mom and Dad and Aunt Sarah and Uncle Neil are dealing with your checkout papers.” She held the clipboard out accusingly. “Have you seen this?”

Amy frowned, not sure where she was going with this. “My chart? No, I wasn't really interested. I can't heal myself. You know this.”

“Not unless you have a devastatingly handsome Ward who can pull your injuries on to himself so that you can heal them,” Scapegoat broke in. Amy couldn't see his face due to the goat mask, but she could imagine a Clockblocker-esque grin lurking there. Scapegoat seemed to have that sense of humour.

“We still haven't settled that, one way or the other,” Amy reminded him. “So what's with the chart, anyway? I'm pretty sure that Othala fixed my leg up.” It was a pretty good job, too, she had to admit. There wasn't even a scar, and she could walk without a twinge.

Vicky rolled her eyes. “I'm not talking about your chart. I'm talking about this.” She gestured with the clipboard, and Amy noticed that she had all but the last sheet folded back. “On the tape, Othala was fiddling with this, right? I thought she might've written something down. But there was nothing there from that time. So I started looking.” Her expression became sour. “And look what I found.”

Amy looked closer. The last sheet wasn't a hospital chart at all. It was a letter, written in flawless copperplate.

My dear Panacea,

I wish once more to express my deepest regrets and disquiet at having to employ violence against you. You provide a wonderful beacon of humanity and hope against the all too regular cape violence in the city. If there had been any other way to effect our escape, I would have utilized it; unfortunately, being all too human, I could see no alternative.

Therefore, by way of reparations, my dear Othala is entering the hospital with the purest of motives; specifically, to heal your wound and ensure that you are once more fit and healthy. We ask no payment for this, nor hold any leverage over your head for it. I just want you to remain safe and healthy. All of us here at the Empire Eighty-Eight do.

Until we meet again, hopefully under happier circumstances,

Victor

PS: In case you are worried that Othala has exposed her face to the security cameras, and that unscrupulous persons may overlook the unspoken rules in order to unmask her, fear not. My skills in the arts of disguise are considerable, and I will have personally ensured that any cameras in the hospital that got a good look at her are now missing that footage.

PPS: Kindly give your sister my regards, and inform her that rushing in blindly is not necessarily the best strategy for all situations. Also, please assure her that there are no hard feelings for the murder attempt. I did rather ask for it.

PPPS: In case the authorities do ask, Daniel Hebert is alive, although unconscious, and under our care. His daughter Taylor has asked for sanctuary with us. Given that the ABB has attempted to abduct or kill her on two separate occasions, and that the authorities have rather sadly let her down in many regards, we've decided to let her stay.

Amy finished reading and looked up. By this time, Crystal had crowded in on one side, while Eric was on the other. “Wow,” Eric said. “That's the first time I've ever seen an apology letter from a villain for hurting someone.”

“Yeah,” Amy said. “Kinda wish he needed to apologise to someone else, though. Anyone else, by preference.” Even though the injury had been healed, she still recalled how much it had hurt. It had not been a pleasant evening or night.

“I think Mom and Dad need to see this, right now.” Vicky headed for the door, still holding the clipboard. Crystal followed, with Eric and Spire trailing after. Amy didn't feel like getting into the middle of that, so she grabbed the plastic chair and sat down in it. A moment later, she sighed. The day's only just started, and already I want it to be over.

“Wow, that sounded deep,” Scapegoat commented from where he was holding up the wall. “Life hassles, huh? Want to talk about it?”

She looked over at him, not sure if he was being sincere or sarcastic; with the lack of facial cues, it wasn't easy to tell from his tone. Still, he'd at least said the words, which was more than most people did these days. “Nothing much,” she mumbled. “Just one more thing I have to deal with, that's all.”

“Hey,” he said quietly, heading over to where she was sitting, and perching on the edge of the bed. “We're capes. Shit happens to us. I mean, I hate my powers, but at least yours don't inflict the damage on you, right? You just tell the injury to fuck off and it does?”

“No, mine doesn't do that,” she agreed. “But …” She hesitated for a long moment, then took the plunge. “Do you ever get tired of healing people?” About one second later, she realised what she'd said, and wished she could take the whole thing back.

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “Like, about every ten minutes. I take a bullet-wound away from someone, I've gotta carry that thing around until I can pass it on. I take away someone's allergy to cats, I'm sneezing non-stop around the little furballs until I can give it away to some deserving villain or other. And don't talk to me about phobias.” From the sound of his voice, he was rolling his eyes.

“Phobias?” Amy frowned. “You can … affect the brain?” This was new information, and she wanted to be certain she had it right.

“Well, yeah,” he said, as if surprised at her words. “Any condition that's a deviation from baseline. Scratches, bruises, injuries, mental problems, physical problems. Scared of cats? I can fix that, so long as I can find someone else to pass it on to.” His voice was matter of fact, as if he was reciting from a brochure.

“And this isn't a problem for you?” She was still having trouble getting her head around it.

“What, you mean do I like it?” He shook his head violently. “Hell, no. I literally take other peoples' problems on myself until I can hand them over to someone else. Which means I experience them first-hand till I can pass them on. No fun. Trust me, you've got it easy.” His voice was confident and certain of his facts.

“Well, that's where you're wrong,” Amy assured him. “It's not that easy being Panacea. I mean, I ...” Her voice trailed off. Up until now, she'd been running on automatic, but as she reached into the familiar pit of resentment and unhappiness, she found … nothing. No reason to be unhappy. In fact, she felt pretty good. I must be tired. Normally I can be well into self-loathing by now. “ … anyway, never mind,” she finished lamely.

He flopped backward on to the bed, staring at the ceiling. “Fine by me. I'm totally over this shit, anyway. I can't even imagine why I let Spire talk me into this. Talk about a wasted trip. This fucking sucks.”

“Actually,” Amy said, an idea occurring to her, “would you be okay with doing me a favour?”

“What, in return for totally failing to heal your leg?” Scapegoat sounded more sour than ever. “I suck as a healer. My powers suck.” He rolled over on to one elbow; Amy presumed that he was looking at her. “Ask me and I'll think about it.”

<><>

Interlude One, Part Two: Medhall Building

I slipped into the room with Peter at my side. Othala sat at Dad's bedside, his hand in hers. She had a radio tuned to classical music, turned down low.

The room itself was quite nice. Apart from the medical monitor discreetly tucked in at the side of the bed, it bore little to no resemblance to a hospital room. The carpet was nice, the room was airy and the brightly-coloured curtains were pulled partly aside to admit sunlight and a gentle breeze. There was an ensuite bathroom, a more than adequate kitchenette, and a second bed on the other side of the room. All in all, it looked like a very classy motel room.

“How is he?” I asked, a shade of hope in my voice. I knew that he would not be awake yet, or any time soon, but I could always ask.

“Better than he was,” Othala said encouragingly. She pointed at the monitor. “See those two top lines? Those are his brainwave readings. Currently, as you can see, they're fairly depressed. But the regeneration is gradually putting the pieces back where they're supposed to be, and they're showing more improvement.”

I looked at the monitor, but the lines she was pointing at looked no different from what I might see on monitors in a thousand different TV shows. “Okay,” I said uncertainly. “So, is he still, uh, in there?”

She smiled sadly. “I'd have to be a medical Tinker, or maybe Panacea, to know that one for sure,” she said, her voice compassionate. “But I think he is. If he's not fully aware, then he may be drifting in and out. Sitting with him and talking to him or playing music, is a good idea.”

“That's what I thought,” I said, showing her the book I held. “This was one of my Mom's favourites. He used to read it himself, from time to time.” Not that the copy in my hand had actually come from home; that had been packed in my luggage, which was probably now being held as evidence by the BBPD or the PRT. This was what I'd asked Peter for, and he'd delivered. How he had located a copy of The Wind in the Willows at such short notice in the Medhall building, I would never know. But then, my boyfriend was very resourceful; I wasn't about to argue.

Pulling up a comfortable chair alongside the bed, I took Dad's hand in one of mine and opened the book on my lap with the other. Before I commenced reading, I squeezed his hand, and fancied that I felt a return squeeze.

Peter perched on the armrest and reached over, helping to hold the book steady. I smiled at him, then turned to the book and began to read.

“Chapter One,” I began. “The River.” Taking a deep breath, I leaned against Peter. He put his arm around me, giving me a warm feeling deep inside. I began to read. “The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters …”

<><>

Interlude Two, Part Two: Brockton Bay General Hospital

Mark stared at Amy. “Are you sure about this?” he asked. “I mean, really sure?” His whole attitude seemed to waver between hope and uncertainty. “I mean, you can't do it, right?”

Amy shook her head. “No. I don't do brains. But Scapegoat doesn't have that problem. From what he says, he can take your depression clean away. Like it never existed.” She stopped, hoping she wasn't coming on too strong for his comfort. This was something that she'd known about for years, especially given that he sometimes forgot to take his medication. Unfortunately, it also landed square in the middle of her self-imposed restriction. I don't do brains. So she'd done nothing about it, even while she could have. But it was a line she'd sworn she would never cross.

“Has this even been properly tested for side-effects and drawbacks?” That was Carol, of course. She would be focused on the legal side of things. “I don't know much about medicine, but I know you don't just take away depression. There are underlying causes …”

“Yeah, Mrs Dallon, there are,” Scapegoat said, perhaps a little sharply. “But my power doesn't care about that sort of thing. It swaps mental problems out, and puts things back the way they would've been if you'd never had them.” He shrugged, obviously not particularly concerned over her worries. “Done it to dozens of people. Nobody's had a problem. Except the villains I've given shit to, of course, but they don't count.”

“But how does it work?” That was Aunt Sarah. “I can see you swapping a leg wound from one person to the other – sort of. A leg is a leg. There's not a huge difference between one and another. But swapping bits of the mind? Are you going to end up with some of Mark's personality, and him with yours? Because let me tell you, that's kind of terrifying.” She folded her arms, her body language showing just how little she liked the idea.

“Jesus, talk about swapping one little mental problem over, and people get all antsy.” Scapegoat was becoming more impatient by the second. “Look, bits of me don't get swapped around. No DNA changes place, no body mass. It's more like it's the idea of the wound, or the mental problem, that gets moved from person to person. Like it's a template that was applied to one person, and now it's applied to another. Take away that template, and what's underneath is pure vanilla Joe Normal.”

“Huh,” grunted Manpower. “Do you need to know what you're getting?” He scratched his chin. “Or can you see it when you touch them?” Amy could see why he asked that; those were good questions. “And what can you change about someone?”

“Actually, no and no,” Scapegoat told the towering cape. “I can't modify someone's body, but I put them back to baseline just by touching them. Diseases, yeah. Body size and shape, no. Gender, hell no. Physical and mental problems, yes.” He still sounded mildly irritated, Amy would not have been surprised to find that he recited this sort of thing several times a day.

“Hmm,” Aunt Sarah murmured. “Okay, then. I'll be your test case. When I was fourteen, I was kidnapped and held captive for months. I believe that I might still be suffering PTSD from that. Can you help me with that?” She looked him unflinchingly in the … well, in the mask eyeholes.

“Mom?” Crystal stared at her. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to improve my quality of life, sweetheart,” Aunt Sarah told her, and held out her hand. “Well?”

Scapegoat nodded. “Sure. One case of PTSD, to go.” He reached out and clasped Sarah's hand in his. Sarah blinked, her eyes going unfocused for a few moments.

“Okay, whew, that was weird,” she said, letting go his hand. “Whoa.” She reached up and touched her temple.

“What? What is it?” Manpower had his arm around her, supporting her, in an instant. “What's the matter, honey?”

She smiled up at him, and pulled his face down for a kiss. “Nothing, darling,” she told him fondly. “Goodness me, I didn't think I had that much baggage going on. I feel like my feet aren't even touching the ground.”

Amy looked down. “That's because you're flying, Aunt Sarah,” she said dryly. “Your feet really aren't touching the ground.” It was true; Sarah's toes were a good inch off the hospital linoleum.

“Whoo, ha ha,” Lady Photon sounded more than a little euphoric as she slowly lowered herself to ground level again. “I feel like … I've been wearing dark sunglasses and I've just taken them off for the first time in forever. This is wonderful.”

“Yeah, yeah, enjoy,” grunted Scapegoat. “You've been lugging this around with you all the time? I can't wait to pass it on to someone who really deserves it.” He rubbed at his arm. “Any more? I'm still not totally mentally fucked up yet.”

“Carol, you have got to do this,” Sarah said, her face alight with emotion. “You have no idea how good it feels to be me, right now.”

“No!” Carol's voice was sharp. Apparently realising that she was the focus of all eyes, she moderated her tone. “Uh, no, not at the moment. We need to make sure that there are no deleterious side-effects.”

Sarah shook her head. “You have no idea what you're missing.”

“Mark?” prompted Amy. He was the reason she'd brought it up with Scapegoat, after all.

Mark grimaced with indecision, then looked at Sarah. “It's that easy?”

“For you, yeah,” Scapegoat told him bluntly. “For me, I've got your mental problems stashed away in my head until I can find a deserving recipient.” He shrugged, somehow managing to put across the concept that he really didn't care one way or the other what Mark chose.

“Screw it,” Mark said abruptly. “Let's do this.” He stepped forward, toward Scapegoat.

“Mark – no!” shouted Carol. “You can't just let him mess with your brain! We don't know that it's safe!” Amy heard echoes of her own thoughts in those words, and a sudden suspicion arose. Did I pick that resolution, or was it picked for me?

Slowly, Mark turned toward his wife. “Carol,” he said slowly. “I love you. You and the girls mean more to me than anything in the world. But I'm tired of the world being grey all the time.” Taking a deep breath, he held out his hand toward Scapegoat. “In your own time, son.”

“Yeah, why do I get the sudden idea that this is gonna suck?” Scapegoat visibly hesitated once, twice, then darted his hand out and took a firm grip of Mark's. Amy watched her foster father's face carefully. It was twitching, flickering through expressions faster than she could follow.

Abruptly, the contact was broken; Mark stepped back, panting, leaning over with his hands on his knees. Scapegoat was swaying slightly.

The goat-masked Ward recovered first. “Holy shit, how have you even been functioning with this?” he asked. “I just want to go lie down somewhere and write bad poetry about death and gloom and Endbringers.” He rubbed hard at his temples with the fingertips of both hands. “Yeah, I think I'm done for the day. The week. The whole damn month.”

For his part, Mark's eyes were open wide. “Whoa ...” he murmured. He blinked, looking around the room as if he were seeing it for the first time. His gaze fell on Carol, and he took a step toward her.

“Mark!” she said sharply. “Talk to me! Are you all right?” She eyed him almost suspiciously.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Oh, hell yes. I feel great.” Amy watched him smile, broad and genuine. “Damn. I do not know why I didn't do this before.”

“Maybe because I've only been doing this for a few years?” suggested Scapegoat. “Damn, you guys were seriously -” He broke off when Spire nudged him hard in the ribs. “Hey! Dude, what the hell?”

“I think it's time you stopped talking, S.G.,” his team leader said firmly. “Now, folks, there's one detail that Scapegoat didn't make totally clear to you, which he should have. There's a cooldown period between him taking on your problems, and you being able to walk away from him.” He paused, apparently aware that all eyes were on him. “Specifically, between one and six hours. During that time, you've got to stay within fifty yards of him, and not give your bodies any kind of shock; exertion, damage, stuff like that. Now, given that his fixes were all mental, I'd guess about one or two hours, tops.”

“What about you having to return to San Diego?” asked Amy. “Surely you've got a deadline there.” Then she realised where she was going wrong. “Oh, wait. You'd have the cooldown period if you'd healed me anyway.”

Spire nodded. “That's correct,” he agreed. “We've got till this evening, then we've got to get back to the PRT building.” He spread his hands and looked at the assembled capes. “What do you guys do for fun around here that doesn't involve punching mooks?”

Mark smiled again. He looked like a new man, Amy decided. Already, he was standing straighter and showing more energy. “What do you say, kids?” he asked. “Should we take 'em to Fugly Bob's?”

Eric and Crystal shared a high-five. “Oh, heck yes!” they chorused. Amy grinned; she liked Fugly Bob's.

“I'm gonna try for the Challenger!” Vicky stated, as if daring anyone to stop her.

Aunt Sarah grinned suddenly. “Why the heck not? I'll join you.”

Manpower stared at her. Amy could understand why; Aunt Sarah had never done something this crazy before. “Uh, honey? Are you sure about this?”

“Hey, why not? You only live once,” Sarah pointed out. She linked arms with her niece. “To Fugly Bob's!”

“To Fugly Bob's!” Crystal and Eric echoed, then burst out laughing. Amy joined in, feeling more light-hearted than she had in … oh, years.

“Uh … what's Fugly Bob's?” asked Spire cautiously, as if worried that a prank of some sort was being played on them.

Amy took pity on him. “It's a burger place on the Boardwalk,” she explained. “More cholesterol than you can poke a stick at. Really popular.”

“Sure, why not?” Scapegoat said. “May as well.” His voice lacked a certain amount of animation; Amy got the impression that if she'd said they were going home to stare at the wall, he would have agreed just as readily. Wow, Mark's depression has really hit him hard. I hope he can get rid of it soon.

And if that wasn't one of the weirdest notions to pass through her head in the last few days, she didn't know what was.

<><>

Later

I have to do it, Amy told herself firmly. I have to ask Scapegoat if he can do it.

With the possible exception of Carol, they had all indulged a little too much on fast food, and had enjoyed themselves immensely. Mark had been the life of the party, telling jokes so bad that even Uncle Neil had disavowed him. Scapegoat had eaten only fries, but Spire had gotten into an eating contest with Eric, which the out-of-towner had won. While Vicky hadn't quite finished her Challenger, Aunt Sarah had devoured hers in style, to general applause. Amy, despite the question she was itching to ask Scapegoat, had actually had a lot of fun.

Now they were all walking back to the cars; Aunt Sarah had decided that the incident at the hospital needed to be reported to the PRT. Vicky, Eric and Crystal were flying overhead with Aunt Sarah, while Spire walked ahead with Mark, Uncle Neil and Carol. Amy found herself trailing at the back with Scapegoat; this was due to indolence on his part and intent on hers.

“I've got a question for you,” she said in a low voice, hoping no-one else heard her.

“That's a coincidence, because I've got one for you,” he said, equally quietly. He glanced around. “Uh, you go first.”

“Um …” She paused, blushing. “Can … can you, uh … make-me-not-a-lesbian?”

He stared at her, apparently not sure what she'd said. Not surprising, really. “Uh … can you run that past me again? Not at warp twelve, this time?”

Gritting her teeth, she glanced around. Nobody was listening, that she could tell. “Can you make me not a, uh, lesbian?”

“What?” It seemed that she'd managed to break through his depression-acquired lethargy. “Panacea, I can't do that. Sexual orientation isn't a mental disease. It's how you are.”

“Oh.” Great, I'm stuck this way, then. Pining after my sister and hoping nobody finds out. “Please don't tell anyone I asked, okay?”

He shrugged. “Wouldn't be the weirdest request I ever got.” After a moment, he tilted his head. “Anyway, you can do me a solid and we're square.”

She couldn't have cared less at the moment. “Sure, what is it?”

He turned his head, and she realised that he was sneaking a look at the flyers overhead. “Uh, get me your sister's phone number?”

At that moment, several large pennies dropped, all at once.

He's seriously attracted to Vicky. She'd thought he was stealing glances at her sister when they were at Fugly Bob's, but she hadn't been sure. Now, she was.

The next realisation burst on her like a bombshell. I'm not feeling jealous that he's stuck on Vicky. In fact, I'm not feeling stressed about, well, anything right now.

I actually like myself and my powers.

She had actually forgotten the fact that he'd touched her earlier, in an attempt to heal her leg. That hadn't happened – due to Othala's actions – but she had felt a weird disorientation. He didn't get the injury, but he did get all my mental issues.

Holy crap. And I didn't even notice at the time. Talk about oblivious.

Shading her hand, she looked up at Vicky. Her sister, spiralling through the air in a complicated game of tag, was beautiful. Anyone could see that. Amy liked Vicky; the blonde was fun, vivacious, chirpy and endlessly enthusiastic. But am I in love with her?

There was always the acid test. She briefly envisioned Vicky hugging and kissing Dean and waited for the accompanying stab of jealousy.

Nothing.

Wow, really?

Holy crap.

With a broad smile, she turned to Scapegoat. “Sure. Got a pen and paper?”

Wait till he finds out she's going into the Wards.

<><>

Director Piggot's Office
Later that Day

“Shadow Stalker. You needn't sit down. This won't take long.”

Sophia glared across the desk at the fat bloated whale that dared sit in judgement of her – her! Piggy didn't even have powers! She had no idea of how harsh it was out there, how far out of control the gangs would go if there wasn't someone in their face, all the time.

This whole thing was stupid. She was worth more as a hero to the Protectorate than the PR hit of a few schoolyard pranks. And anyway, Hebert needed to be shown who was boss, and why she shouldn't hang around with those racist Empire fucks.

She had no idea why Emma had suddenly just turned on her, after everything they'd been through together. After everything Sophia had taught her about how to be strong. You didn't fold like a wet paper towel at the first sign of trouble. You toughed it out and laughed in their faces. Dared them to do their worst. They always folded first, because when you're a goddamn bonafide fucking hero who goes out there and gets the job done, that's what happens.

Anyway, while Emma didn't have powers, she had the next best thing. A rich dad who was also a lawyer. Sophia had seen how it worked; the teachers were happy to let the popular girl with the lawyer dad skate by, because nobody wanted to be on the wrong side of a lawsuit. And she was pretty sure that they were told not to mess with her too, because being a Ward meant that pretty well anything slid off your back.

Oh, the school had still punished her for messing up, but it was never bad. It was never more than Sophia had really, actually deserved. Never enough to keep her from her sacred duties as a superhero. She got to run track (which was about the one thing she really enjoyed about school, apart from the never-ending sport called Fucking with Hebert) and pretty well rule her year alongside Emma. Life had been good.

Until now.

She still wasn't sure what the fuck had actually happened. How things had fucked up so badly. All Emma had to do was stand firm; sure, the locker looked bad, but Hebert was a fucking racist Empire slag cunt, and once everyone understood that, then nobody would really have given a shit.

But … they did. And Emma had folded. She'd sold Sophia out. Sophia hadn't believed her ears at first, when she heard Emma talking about the things that they'd done. She'd even told them about the guy who had died when she went out on patrol with Sophia that one time. How could I have not seen the weakness in her? I thought she was stronger than that!

The last month hadn't been great, but she'd had worse. When she recovered from the stun-gun hit – and once she got out of this, she was gonna track down the bitch who'd zapped her and arrange a little 'accident' – she'd found herself in the local precinct station. Like a fucking criminal. The worst bit was being shoved in a holding cell like she was someone who belonged there, instead of being one of the people who beat shit out of them and left them tied up for the cops.

Beating up Emma had been cathartic, but only to a certain degree. It didn't answer the question why. And it didn't fix the bigger matter. Marched in front of Piggy, she had found the boom being lowered on her. She wasn't going on patrol, and she had to wear a fucking tracking bracelet until her fucking court date. Where they'd probably sling her straight back into fucking juvey. Since the thing with Emma and Alan Barnes back in October, she'd thought she was past all that.

And now … now she was standing in Piggy's office, wearing the electrical fucking cuffs that Assmaster or someone had built for her, being told that she needn't sit down by the fat fuck herself. The Halbeard was standing to one side, and Try-hard on the other, with two PRT guards at the door. Right beside her was the lawyer they'd dredged up for her. Sophia despised him even more than she hated everyone else in the office; he wasn't a hero, he didn't have powers or a costume. He didn't know what it was like, out there on the streets. He had no fucking idea what it was like for her. Defend me, will you? Bet you've never had to 'defend' anything real in your life.

“What's this about?” she asked, sullenly. “I haven't gone over the fence. I've worn your fu … your tracking bracelet. Haven't done anything wrong.” That wasn't to say that she hadn't planned anything, but she hadn't actually been caught in her preparations. Which was basically the same as not doing anything wrong; if they couldn't prove it, it wasn't true.

Piggy looked pissed. That was to say, she looked the same as she ever did. Except today, Sophia could have sworn she looked even more pissed than ever. She looked like she wanted to flip the desk over on top of Sophia and then dance on top of it. Waddle, really. But, same thing. Who shat in her feed trough?

“I just thought that I'd fill you in on a few new aspects of your case,” Piggy grunted. “Just so that you weren't caught unawares.” There was a gleam in the fat woman's eyes that Sophia didn't like in the fucking slightest. “It needs to be a fair trial, after all.”

The ambulance-chaser cleared his throat. “Uh, Director Piggot, is Shadow Stalker being charged with anything new? Because I'll need time to go over the paperwork.” He sounded nervous; Sophia was caught between disgust for his wimpiness and being vaguely happy that someone seemed to be on her side. Even if he was being paid to be there.

“Not precisely,” the Director said. “There's been a development in the Taylor Hebert situation. You recall that name, don't you, Shadow Stalker?” Her piggy little gaze was directed straight at Sophia.

Sophia didn't answer at first. If she said no, then everyone would know she was lying her ass off. But she didn't want to answer yes straight away, because that would be doing what Piggot wanted. And she was fucked if she'd do anything that bloated fucking bitch ever told her to do again.

After what she considered to be a reasonable pause, she nodded. “Yeah. What about her?” The contempt in her tone, she figured, would convey what she actually thought of the racist cow.

Piggy narrowed her eyes, which made her look even more piggy. “Well, it turns out that your campaign of lies against her finally bore fruit. Congratulations.”

The wimp in the suit broke in again. “Uh, Director, until that accusation's been proven in a court of law, you can't state it outright, or my client will have a case for slander.” Sophia was mildly surprised. He was almost acting as if he had a spine. If I saw him being mugged in a dark alley, I might even rescue him.

“Very well,” Piggy grunted. “Your alleged campaign of lies. Which saw the ABB take up the fight against her after you were removed from the school. And also poisoned Glory Girl against the girl, due to what she allegedly overheard you saying in the Wards base not so long ago.” She fixed Sophia with a glare. “Which, I suspect, she'll be happy to testify about, if and when it comes down to it.”

“Wait, what?” Sophia shook her head. “What's Glory Girl got to do with all of this?” She barely knew the girl. There were rumours that New Wave's golden child had kicked the shit out of more thugs than people knew about, for which Sophia gave her props, but that whole 'bright and shining hero' thing just wasn't Sophia's cup of whatever. As for what she'd said in the Wards base, she had said any amount of shit there, especially since her arrest. If she wasn't allowed to go out on patrol, she had to blow off steam somehow.

“We'll get to that,” Piggy said. She steepled her flabby fingers in front of her. “Let's start with the fact that there was a gang fight out at the front of Winslow High, just the other day. At the time, I thought nothing of it. But evidence has since come to light that it may have been an abduction attempt by the ABB, on Taylor Hebert. She was rescued, it seems, by the Empire Eighty-Eight.”

“I had nothing to do with that!” protested Sophia; the funny thing was, it was true. “And anyway, this just proves my point. Hebert's a fu … a racist. She's Empire.”

“You might wish to be careful making unsubstantiated claims like that,” Piggy said. “There are slander laws, after all.” The gleam in her eyes told Sophia that yes, she was enjoying throwing this back in Sophia's face.

“She hangs around with skinheads all the time!” Sophia snapped. “How does that not prove that she's Empire?” Or at least fucking them, she amended. Ew. That's even worse.

“I associate with capes all day,” Piggy reminded her freezingly. “That doesn't make me one, thank God. However.” She tapped a file on her desk. “According to this, her father also disliked the idea of her associating with the Empire. So he planned a move out of town. They tried to leave last night. The ABB had other ideas, and it turned into a chase. They crashed their car, and Daniel Hebert was badly injured.”

That would be a Hebert, all right. Run away from your problems instead of standing up for yourself and beating them. “So what's that got to do with me?” asked Sophia blankly. “I'm guessing Hebert and her father are dead, or the ABB's got them?” Which means that she can't testify against me. Even if she had the guts to do it. An image came to her of Taylor Hebert, covered in crap, standing in front of Principal Blackwell's desk, demanding that Sophia and Emma be arrested. And Blackwell backing down. Well, maybe she might.

“You'd think so, wouldn't you?” Piggy's voice was dry. Something not dissimilar to a smile crossed her face. “But no. It seems that there was a trigger event, that night. Lung and Oni Lee were on site; apparently this new cape was strong enough drive them off before the Empire showed up in force.”

Sophia blinked. This was a twist that she hadn't been expecting. “A new cape? You mean …” Oh, no way. No way fucking Hebert triggered. No way she drove off Lung and Oni Lee. She shook her head. “No way,” she said out loud, without really meaning to.

“On the contrary, it's a very strong possibility,” Piggot said, apparently reading her mind. “Later, Taylor Hebert was seen in the company of Victor and Othala by none other than Glory Girl and Panacea. Panacea healed Daniel Hebert of serious injuries. When they left, she accompanied them of her own free will.” She put her hands flat on the desk. “Which means that there is now a very real possibility that Taylor Hebert is now a cape, strong enough to go toe to toe with Lung and Oni Lee, and she's working with the Empire.” She let the silence linger for a few moments; when she spoke again, her voice was heavily laden with sarcasm. “Congratulations, Shadow Stalker. Your little vendetta against Taylor Hebert drove her straight into the Empire's arms. But you couldn't be satisfied with that, could you? You had to push it. And now it looks like you've made them stronger by one very powerful cape.”

Sophia felt the icy knife twist, deep in her guts. Her rock-solid view of the world wobbled on its axis. She had always been able to depend on things being a certain way, and this wasn't it. Dimly, she heard her lawyer protesting that Sophia could not be blamed for something a gang did, but she knew, deep down, that it was her doing. It had all been her doing. Without her pushing matters, the ABB would've just let things slide.

But no. This can't be right. Hebert's a wimp. She can't be strong. I'd have known if she could be strong.

“Shadow Stalker.” It was Piggy's voice; sharp, demanding.

Shaking her head, Sophia came back to herself. It was one of her strengths; no matter how hard the hit, she was always able to recover, to get back up and come in swinging. She focused on the fat woman across the desk from her. “What?”

“You will discuss this with nobody,” Piggot stated. Her eyes bored into Sophia's, in a way that made the unspoken or else seem like more than a casual threat.

Sophia did her best to muster a sneer. “As if I'd tell anyone.”

“Good. Get out of my office. Armsmaster, Triumph, stay.” Piggot's attention dropped away from Sophia as if she had ceased to exist.

As the PRT guards flanked Sophia and escorted her from the Director's office, Sophia felt her head start to whirl again. How the fuck did Hebert get strong?

There was only one possible answer, only one way that this could fit with her personal worldview. Piggy's wrong. Hebert's faking it. And I'm the only one who can prove otherwise.

They're all scared to act.

It looks like it's up to me.
 

Part 15