For some reason nobody ever took him seriously when he said that the only reason he'd walked into the freezing water of the bay was because he just wanted to know what it would feel like.
He wasn't sure why they didn't send him to the Asylum. Since he'd triggered he was now a member of the wards but he felt no more a part of their team than he did the baseball team at school. Then again, this wasn't baseball. The numbers didn't really seem to make sense. Maybe that was why he never told them that his biokinesis enhanced his senses as well. It just seemed like more curse to him, but at least a more personal one this time.
Yesterday the numbers made even less sense than usual. All other considerations aside, they should have over-powered the Undersiders easily. They were something he couldn't make sense of in his numbers, even after they'd discussed what happened. Perhaps they had failed for the same reason he wasn't really part of the team? It seemed related in his mind.
As he walked past a store something caught his eye. It was a black long coat with a hood and a high collar, in a few areas it allowed the intricately patterned grey and black lining show on purpose. It reminded him of a witch for whatever reason. Just like jumping into the water he wasn't completely aware of the decision being made before he was into the store. The coat came first, but it was hardly the last. Underwear, stockings, boots, the much shorter under-dress, it all needed to be perfect. If he got any strange looks during this process they were entirely lost on him.
When he was finally satisfied with his selection he marched straight to the changing booths and entered the first opening he saw. Striping was merely a mechanical process, a necessity to achieve his current desire. His focus was on the floor-length mirror on the wall as he very carefully began to manipulate his physical form. Big was easy, smaller was hard and to fit what he'd picked he'd need to be much smaller. The feeling of compression was strange and tingly, but also came with an unexpected feeling of strength. Bigger was stronger, wasn't that right? However he couldn't deny that his shrinking form hummed with contained energy and nearly shook with constrained strength.
Getting dressed was an entirely different process. He had to focus so carefully not to damage anything. The feelings were also different, with the material. Sometimes he felt constrained, and other times he felt something bubbling just beneath the surface of his skin. It was... Novel.
When he was finally completely dressed he threw his old clothes over his arm and walked up to the purchasing counter. He dropped the tags for what he'd grabbed and then extracted a couple hundred dollars from his wallet. "These are the tags for what I'm wearing. I'd like to wear it out."
The cashier, a middle aged woman, looked at his mostly covered face, then at the cash. She paused for a moment as though she were going to say something, then shook her head and clearly changed to another tact, "Will you need a bag for your other clothes?"
"Yes please." He replied.
He'd just made it out of the store when he heard the first bomb going off. His eyes narrowed as he looked in the direction of the explosion. The way everyone else around him was mostly oblivious told him this was a case of his advanced senses acting up. A tilt of the head was his only signal of thinking things over, and it ended quickly as he set off at a run that would make Olympic medalists green with envy. Already he could feel his telekinesis becoming more responsive. Flight may be impossible, but an extra kinetic push in every stride of his run was nearly as good a mover power all on its own.
* * *
"Not that you were hard to find," Bakuda was saying. Lisa grimaced in pain as she looked at the mad bomber. That last bomb had burnt her, badly. There were several thugs behind her, but they were wrong. Not ABB, Not thugs. Armed. Why? Blackmail. Held hostage, probably with bombs. "And if you think this only gets ten times harde-"
A blast of darkness interrupted her and they moved to run away. Instead there was a loud sound behind them, like the crack of a whip. 'Shouldn't be audible through Grue's darkness.' Suddenly they were all being pulled backwards. Grue's darkness was eaten by something even darker. Skitter failed to grab her first couple doorways but pulled out her knife and managed to dig it into a wall as a temporary anchor. With another short trip to a door handle she managed to hold on until the miniature black hole ended.
Just as they were catching our breath a canister was shot into the air above them. Before they could even react one of the lockers flew through the air intercepting the bomb and taking back towards its point of origin. "Fuck!" Bakuda shouted, clearly as surprised by the event as they were. There was another explosion, but it created distorted sounds that made a shiver run down Lisa's spine. Whatever that bomb was it would have been bad to get caught in it.
Her eyes tracked to the other side to get a look at their mysterious savior. The girl she saw was tall with hints of an hourglass figure but no real bust and barely any hips. Not female. They were wearing knee-high black boots with far too many buckles over red and black stripped socks that disappeared under their long black hooded coat. 'Crossdresser?' She wondered, but her power didn't confirm or deny. Just returned not female.
"Hey, bitch! The hell do you think you are?" Bakuda shouted from the top of a locker a few units down the way. The mystery girl just kicked the locker in front of her causing the entire row slide together. There was a muffled explosion as the act set off some sort of trap Bakuda had hidden for them between the lockers.
"Predictable. Your numbers are static. You fancy yourself smart and powerful but you ultimately lack confidence. Traps are safer than fighting yourself, and bombs are complicated enough to be pretty things in your aesthetic sense." The newcomer said blandly in a deep but not unfeminine voice. Thinker? No, doesn't think like normal people. Sees Bakuda as a construct, but her psychosis forces her to fit their model. "I still want to know. I won't let you get in the way of that."
* * *
Spoiler: summary
Browbeat gets stuck on a tangent after the bank robbery and winds up turning himself into a trap and joining the Undersiders... Strangely his powers work much more easily when he's condensing himself into something smaller.
Carol
(Автор: hobonisuru)
You're an awful mother.
A small part of me whispers, before I ruthlessly squash it like a bug. It's no more than she deserves no more than how she should be treated — by everyone. But I still feel pity, despite how much I know — I know — it's true, I still can't help but feel ill at ease as her expression wilts, just slightly, and for one insane moment I consider apologizing. I consider crushing her with a hug as I swear to make up for everything.
The moment passes. I see a flash, a memory, and even as I scrutinize her expression further, I can't help but notice the similarities. They're ever slight, but still present. I remember seeing him without his mask — without his physical mask — and the little things stand out.
How much does she hide under that lying little faГade of hers?
A much larger part of me hisses, and I clench my jaw and turn away before I do something I regret. I may not trust her, but there are lines I won't cross. I can't cross them lest I become just like him, a fraud of a gentleman. Many older fools who still remember him reminisce that he wasn't so bad compared today's criminals. Sure, they'd say, he had people killed — deceived, tortured, and murdered — but at least he had class. He never harmed woman and children, they said — utter lies, of course — and even if he still dealt with all the usual foibles of drugs and whoring, at least he's not... well, you know. As if blatant racism, be it white supremacy or Asian supremacy, was some sort of devilry. As if the easily identified brutes were somehow better than the slimy deception of 'style'.
I shook myself, and let it go.
I let it go. I had no other choice, after all. Let the lies continue, or become some sort of a joke of a woman, a joke of a hero.
You're still an awful mother, an awful woman, an awful girl.
It whispered again, and I squashed it just as before.
But I couldn't help the painful ache in my stomach.
Even as I walked to my car and drove to work, I still felt it.
I always felt it.
* * *
"Alan, you know we really can't excuse this kind of behavior." To be entirely honest, I was shocked. Alan Barnes never struck me as the kind of person to get into a brawl, let alone in the middle of the firm. He certainly wasn't the best type of person, but he didn't look it with his ripped collar and black eye. It looked worse than it was, but Alan only added to the image by nursing the icepack I'd given him. The other man had gotten in a number of good hits.
"Carol, I... he just..." Alan stammered for a moment, apparently at a loss, before coming back together. "It was just very personal. Believe me, it won't happen again."
In another happenstance, Alan probably would have been chomping at the bit to start a lawsuit, but with over a dozen witnesses that he was the main instigator, many of whom were coworkers that didn't particularly like him, on top of security footage, he wasn't exactly on steady ground.
"What was even the problem?" I was only mildly curious. It wasn't even really my place to scold him, but I could definitely smooth things over with the partners who would doubtlessly be looking to criticize his actions. Alan's next words caught me off guard, however.
"He, uh..." Alan licked his lips. "He's the father of that one girl. The uh, the super villain, Skitter."
I froze momentarily. Everybody in Brockton Bay had heard of Skitter — or rather, Taylor Hebert. It was a particularly interesting fuck up by the PRT that nobody really expected, especially with how bad it made the local heroes look, but they still had the girl in custody. I'd never had too much faith in Armsmaster, but even then I hadn't expected him to explode quite so spectacularly — at least in a public setting.
"And," I drew out the word slightly as I tried to connect things. "What exactly did he want with you?"
"He, we, uh, are — were, that is, former friends." Alan stammered again. "He wanted me to help his daughter, but I... um, I didn't..."
"I think I understand." I gave a short nod to stave off more. Normally I might have needled Alan a bit for his loss of composure, but my mind was already racing despite myself. I barely even noticed Alan beating a quick retreat out of my office.
I'd seen the girl myself, briefly, once in costume, and another out of it. Barely even a glance the second time. I didn't really know her at all, besides that my daughter hated her, but I could also read between the lines. I'd heard enough about her from others to grasp a picture — almost certainly a flawed picture, but a picture nonetheless — and I couldn't help but feel it.
Almost unconsciously, I started drafting the paperwork.
* * *
I'd actually tried going to a therapist once upon a time. It was on Sarah's suggestion, of course, and I could still remember the blowup we'd had from it, but she won that argument in the end. So I went.
I only lasted three sessions. The man had been highly educated from the degrees proudly displayed on his wall, and perhaps that should have been a sign, but I had never been particularly enthused by the thought of telling anyone, let alone a stranger, about myself anyway. I still tried to explain myself, explain the insane thoughts that sometimes spilled out of me, however.
After he smugly declared he knew what was wrong with me — a persecution complex on top of other 'minor neuroses' — I left and never looked back besides to threaten him with a lawsuit just for good measure. I'd only been an intern at the time, and I would never have actually wanted my therapy sessions to be public in any manner, but seeing his expression had been worth it.
In the end, I knew I had a problem. I had known for quite some time, and I also knew what it wasn't, so I wasn't going to watch some drummed up fool choke from sucking on his own dick while pretending to help me. I could have gone to another, but I'd refused. I refused to bare myself like that again. Most of all, I refused to give in.
I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.
I shouted to myself, quoting Invictus like it had some sort of meaning to me. Even so, that conviction led to arguably what might have been the best time of my life. I built up a firm, I married Mark, and the Brigade eventually took down one of the leading criminal powers in the city near singlehandedly.
Sometimes I still look back with nostalgia to the height of the Brockton Bay Brigade's popularity. Back before Fleur died and Lightstar left. It wasn't without its downs, but the ups were wonderful. That was probably why it failed so miserably. I got caught up with our own hype, so much so that when the idea of New Wave came into being I could only love every bit of it. The lies of a superhero always bothered me — yet another layer of deceit — and what better way was there to rip away those lies than to lead by example? The practical reasons for New Wave were all well and fine, and would have been useful with my job, but peeling away that layer was always my main desire.
But I still felt it, no matter what I did. I hissed and spat curses to myself, squashing it down, but like prophecy, it all came crashing down. Everything I'd built up fell apart. Even for what I still held up, I could only wait for it too to tumble down.
"Ma'am, the prisoner's inside here." The PRT agent briskly broke me out of my musings, and I gave a short nod to him — dismissing him. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, no doubt wanting to be present for my conversation because PRT agents were never well versed in law, only interested in keeping danger elements contained, or PR. I glanced at his pips briefly even as I preempted him.
"Yes, thank you, sergeant." I shifted my posture to be less open. "I'll call you when I'm finished with my conversation with my client."
Potential client, really, and not one the firm would normally take on. This was more of my own prerogative than anything, but I doubt any of my coworkers would want to make waves by going against me.
Why are you even doing this? She's a villain! She deserves to be thrown in jail!
A part of me spat, angry, but not at the girl. I could feel that anger — that indignity — but it was so very small.
