Chapter 1
Notes: The only reason Sophia got got is due to being power-fucked by Grue, super tired from that fight, and underestimating the newbie baby cape who hadn’t showed any real power use.
Fanon includes: Vikare act, which I find too interesting not to include in worldbuilding; Squealer forcibly recruited, which I first/only saw in Trailblazer, by 3ndless, but is supported obliquely by this wildbow reddit comment about tinkers getting forcible recruited/addicted: https://www.reddit.com/r/Parahumans/comments/qux4bb/comment/hkt23ls/ ; and probably other stuff I haven’t included yet. The Rig.
Things I think I invented/haven’t seen around if other people have done it: 788 as the PRT phone number, similar to 911 and 988; Annette teaching Taylor to shoot.
–
The really irritating part was, Taylor didn’t even intentionally go out as a cape.
As the streetlights flickered and the fight below escalated, Taylor found her lack of cape preparedness frustratingly obvious. She was perched on a building, just far away enough from ‘down town’ that the city was dimmer, there was markedly less traffic, and they alleys darker.
She didn’t think to wear gloves. She didn’t think to bring snacks, or water. She had considered bringing a baseball bat, but that took things from the plausible deniability of a kid doing parkour to being an actual cape.
Did she look like a cape?
Before she put the mask on, it was certainly not obvious. Black leggings and sneakers, over which she wore black gym shorts. A black hoodie, oversized for her, with the hood pulled up.
Hoodlum chic; a truant officer might have some opinions, if it wasn’t past midnight, but her outfit didn’t exactly give ‘superpowered vigilante’. Plausible deniability.
Until she’d slipped on the cheap domino mask.
Sneaking out to test her powers wasn’t meant to lead into a fight, much less a cape fight, yet Taylor found herself on a rooftop hastily shoving her hair into a scrunchy under her hood once the sticky, single-use domino was in place. They sold them $3 for a five pack in most convenience stores around the country.
Below, something cape-related was happening, and it didn’t look good for one of the capes.
At first, heart pounding, Taylor had just plastered herself down to the grimy roof– hence the wish for gloves, as pebbles and grit scraped against her bare palms. She’d tried to figure out what was going on, having little to no wish to intercede.
She wasn’t nearly to that level, yet.
If she wanted to be a superhero– and today was her first day actually out and testing her powers on the street level, she thought hysterically– she’d planned to start with purse snatchers and their ilk.
Nice, unarmed, non-gang-affiliated purse snatchers!
Not cape-on-cape combat!
And as she watched, for the fighting seemed to be contained to one street and its extremely unlucky abandoned alley, she remained sure that she wasn’t going to interfere, especially as she could barely tell what was going on.
Then the cloud of darkness dissipated.
A man was revealed on the ground, bloody and unconscious.
The other cape panted for a moment, shoulders moving with it, before drawing their body upright.
They pointed their weapon at the downed figure, who struggled weakly.
And Taylor was moving before she even consciously realized.
In fact, her first clue was the wind in her face and the grit of the roof overhang against her palms.
There was a moment of oh fuck, but then the certainly crystalized and as she fell, she realized it was too quiet and the other cape was going to pull the trigger.
So Taylor screamed as she vaulted over the roof.
Her yell caught the figure off guard, arm jerking. The bolt– for it was a crossbow, Taylor could see now, but a small one about the size of a pistol– went wide, loudly thwacking off the pavement and clattering aside.
The figure whirled around even as Taylor grunted at the impact. She’d seen people fall with much more grace; there must be some trick to it, but it was one that Taylor didn’t know.
Her ankles rolled painfully and her health bar took a solid tenth off the top.
“What the–”
Taylor didn’t give her time to finish, rushing forward.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, but she didn’t have a better plan, and she didn’t have time to plan, her rushing heart telling her that the only thing she was armed with was the element of surprise.
Embarrassingly, she didn’t even wind up for a punch, just rushed the other cape.
Her opponent proved more cautious than Taylor, perhaps thinking she had a power or a plan in mind instead of a reckless flailing. The figure dodged back, and when Taylor kept charging, dissipated into smoke.
Wait, fuck, that meant the darkness was her power? But the darkness looked so different than the smoke.
The cloud formed back into a person almost too fast to parse. They were wearing dark colors, but not real armor. Akin to Taylor herself, it was a hoodie with the hood thrown up, with a neck warmer pulled up over her mouth and nose.
No cape, no mask.
They pulled the crossbow up and leveled it at Taylor.
Realistically, Taylor should have put her hands up then. You know, not wanting to be shot and all.
But she hadn’t seen the other cape reload.
They were, point of fact, panting, as if the shift into smoke had taken something from them, tired them out, something.
And adrenaline was still making her thoughts fuzzy, panicked, and reactionary.
She charged again.
“Fuck! Would you just–”
The voice was muffled, distorted. Like she had some sort of voice modulator in the neck warmer. Taylor should consider that.
If she did this again.
The cape dissipated into smoke once more, only to reappear five or ten feet down the alley. They stumbled, reforming clumsily, slowly, and making a wheezing noise as if unable to breathe.
Still, they yanked an arrow out of their quiver and reloaded the crossbow with their shaking hands, and Taylor herself was unarmed.
Taylor looked around the alley frantically. She didn’t have anything to help her in this situation, not even a handy stick or pepper spray.
But the man on the ground, now worryingly still, had a gun holster.
Taylor waited until what she hoped was the last moment and dived, once it was too late for the archer to change her firing path. It was too close; the bolt went wooshing by so near her that she worried if she had been shot for a minute, but there was no impact, no pain.
Taylor hit the downed man hard, rolling them a good few feet. He screamed, so, apparently alive! Great news. She spent precious seconds wrestling his gun out of the holster and then came up panting with it.
“Cute.” The enemy cape said, not backing down, voice weak. “You know how to use that thing?”
And Taylor– did.
Though it was heavy and clumsy in her hands, she remembered her mom walking her through these lessons, remembered eating sandwiches with her feet dangling from the back of mom’s SUV as they spent long sunsets shooting pinned up targets at the boat graveyard.
Her thumb flicked the safety off, and the other cape tensed. They had the crossbow reloaded.
“Put the gun down and let me finish what I started.” The cape said menacingly, raising their crossbow higher.
Taylor felt a frisson of unease roll through her spine. That voice modulator and all the shadows made for an intimidating routine.
She stood her ground, pulse tripping, sweat running down her body.
“No.”
“Suit yours–” The words cut off in a scream as Taylor shot them in the leg, just as they had shot the other downed man. “What the fuck, you really shot me! You psycho bitch!”
“Why didn’t you turn into smoke!?” Taylor demanded, almost dropping the gun in her haste.
“I didn’t think some fuckass civilian kid was going to shoot!” They had dropped their crossbow after taking the bullet wound to the thigh, and Taylor rushed over.
At first, intending to provide first aid, to staunch the bleeding– wasn’t there an artery there!?– but when the other cape reached out to stop her, stance shifting to violence, Taylor… reacted.
She clubbed the other cape over the head with the gun, and they dropped like a sack of potatoes, unconscious.
Taylor stared. She did not drop the gun out of trembling fingers, but only because it might go off, and gun safety was something her mom had drilled into her, all those years ago.
She set it down on the ground gingerly and hastily applied pressure to the cape’s wound.
Blood oozed between her fingers, but at least it wasn’t gushing. That had to be enough. Finally, Taylor shifted to kneel her weight onto the wound, needing her hands free to frisk the cape– a girl, if the leggings and the form under her were anything to go by– and, yes, thank god.
Taylor emerged from her ruffling with a cell phone, thumbing impatiently through the options. She didn’t know how to work most of it. Her last phone had been a flip phone with nine buttons; this one had a screen, with no real keyboard.
A green phone icon yielded a number keyboard, and she plugged 778 in hopefully.
“PRT emergency response line, what is your emergency?”
“H-hel,” Taylor gave up and cleared her throat. Now that she was sitting still she was jittery and shaky. “Hello, there’s um, a situation.”
“What is your emergency?” The voice repeated, calmly with a touch of impatience.
Taylor winced.
Okay, okay, how would her dad do this? Or her mom?
She forced her shoulders back and some bluster into her voice, going for the same no-nonsense tone she remembered from their business conversations.
“There’s been an altercation in a back alley downtown. Two capes were fighting, one– uh, tried to kill the other one. With a crossbow bolt. He’s unconscious. Um, so is she.”
Shit, her voice faltered.
“Is the cape battle ongoing?” The dispatcher asked somewhat sharply, and Taylor shook her head.
“No, sorry, they– I kind of. She was going to kill him, so I stopped her, and now she’s unconscious with a gunshot wound to the leg. He’s got a crossbow bolt in his leg from her.”
“You shot a cape in the leg?”
Stop! Taylor’s dad’s voice roared up, all at once. Never admit anything on a 911 call, even in self defense. It’s recorded and can be used as evidence against you, even a confession.
“The cape appears to be shot in the leg.” Taylor had practiced this kind of thing with her mom, she realized. “I’m a bystander currently applying pressure to the wound. There is a gun nearby, on the ground, which I picked up and moved out of the way to begin administering emergency first aid.”
“Is it your gun? Do you have a weapon?”
“It is not my gun.” Taylor said calmly, readjusting the phone at her ear to use her hands on the wound again. “I am unarmed. I repeat, unarmed, administering first aid.”
“What street? We’re dispatching two ambulances and a Parahuman Response Team.”
“Um, I don’t– sorry, I don’t know the street sign. We’re across from the old theatre.”
“The one on Broadway?”
“Yes, that sounds right.”
As the adrenaline faded, Taylor was tired. The little voice in her head that had been screaming what are you doing was getting louder.
“I’m going to walk you through applying first aid to the wound. You’re doing a great job so far. Pressure was the most important factor. Now, can you reach behind her leg and see if there’s an exit wound? She might be bleeding freely from the other side.”
Taylor blanched.
By the time the ambulances arrived, heralded by sirens, the dispatcher had kindly and professionally walked her through the proper steps to keeping the cape alive.
She expected the EMTs to come out with stretchers right away, to relieve her aching hands and shoulders, but uniformed PRT agents came forward first.
Initially, she was afraid they’d come forward with guns– that they’d tell her to put her hands in the air, which she couldn’t do, and her whole body tensed.
“Don’t let them shoot me, please.” Taylor asked the dispatcher, voice wavering.
“Don’t worry, they understand the situation. They’re just verifying that the scene is safe for the paramedics.” The cool voice at her ear reassured soothingly.
Two agents moved past her. She wasn’t able to watch them assess the fallen man, who she hoped was alive. Yes, he’d been shot, but being shot with an arrow was a little more like being stabbed, right?
It was better not to pull the knife out or they’d just bleed out?
Maybe it was just desperation; Taylor wanted him to be alive, because otherwise her choice to apply pressure to the girl’s wound instead of his had damned him.
The thought left her as cold as the dried blood on her hands.
She was losing time.
It only became apparent as she jerked, startled, when a man knelt down next to her, his face appearing in her field of vision from far too close.
He was an agent, but one wearing a red cross.
“– Macentire, field medic.”
“What?” Taylor’s vision swam.
“You’ve done so good, but you need to let me take her now. We’re going to carefully manage the hand over, okay?”
“I don’t– no, if I let go, she’ll bleed out. Pressure is important.”
“That’s right, and you did great. I’m going to apply pressure and take over for you, okay? You’re done now. You did great.” He turned his head, but once he stopped speaking to her, the words became distant and fuzzy. “Airway and breathing clear? Any signs of neck injury?”
Someone else spoke back, their voice muffled as well.
He put his hands on the cape’s wound, gloved– she would be wearing gloves next time, goddamnit— and much more capable. Taylor was yanked back firmly but gently as they led a group effort to get the cape off the ground.
And hey, there were those stretchers she’d imagined.
An agent in camo was in front of her.
No, that was wrong.
As Taylor looked up and up, she caught sight of the American flag, covering the woman’s lower face.
Not an agent; a cape.
Miss Militia.
“I have your poster in my room.” Taylor blurted, then flushed immediately.
The eyes crinkled with something close to amusement, but her overall aura was too serious to let it stay for long.
“Dispatch failed to note you were a cape, too.” Miss Militia said pointedly. “Unless the mask is just for show?”
Something dangerous was an undertone for the question. Taylor winced. Pretending to be a cape was probably more dangerous than admitting to being one. Barely.
“I am. A cape, I mean. Or, well, a parahuman. I’m not, like, a cape-cape. Not a hero or villain or independent, or anything.”
Miss Militia looked her over carefully, eyes seeming to dissect all of Taylor. Her stance relaxed subtly.
“I believe you.” The hero said gently. “Why don’t we step aside and you can tell me what happened here.”
“Um, okay, I just. I don’t think I can walk.”
Except, as she tried, she found that she could walk. The surprise must have been apparent on her face.
“Adrenaline is a funny thing.” Miss Militia said smoothly. “Steady there.”
“I’m– fine. I’m fine? How am I fine?” Taylor marveled. Just a moment ago she’d felt sick, sweaty, swaying with a light breeze.
A quick glance downward showed her HP and Stamina were full.
Oh.
That’s how.
“Nevermind.” Taylor mumbled.
She took a deep breath as Miss Militia led her out of the alley and to a slighty-more-brightly lit street. Well, it was Brockton Bay, anyway, so half the street lamps didn’t work. But the PRT vehicles headlights lent plenty of light.
They ended up towards the back of an SUV and Taylor humored the cape by letting her put a metallic blanket over her shoulders.
“I don’t think I’m in shock.” She said.
“You never know. Plus, it’ll raise less questions this way. Nothing to see here, just interviewing a bystander while they get treatment”
“I guess.” Taylor took a deep breath. “I was trying out my powers.”
“You were involved in the fight?” Militia asked.
“What? No!” Taylor clenched her shock blanket tighter, frowning. “I was jumping around on the rooftops. When I saw the cape fight, I got down– didn’t want them to see me, or get the wrong idea. I was going to stay hiding until I saw…”
“Sensible.” Miss Militia said neutrally, then prompted: “Until?”
“The dark smoke cleared away and one of them was on the ground. I thought the fight was over, but the other cape, she– she was going to kill him!”
“You’re certain?” Militia’s eyes were no nonsense.
Taylor nodded.
“She was standing over him with the crossbow pointed at his head. Like an executioner. She looked exhausted, I think– I know the only reason I got her was because she was so beat up from fighting him. Every time she tried to turn into smoke again, she just fell back out as a human. Like her power wasn’t working anymore, or tired, or–”
She trailed off.
“I see.” Miss Militia said. “Can you describe the circumstances for me? Start from the smoke clearing.”
“The smoke cleared.” Taylor repeated. “And she was standing there like an executioner, about to pull the trigger. He already had a bolt in the leg, bleeding. He was conscious then, I think. He made noises, even, I think– I think he was asking her to stop. Begging.”
“You heard that?”
“No, just noise.” Taylor admitted. “I was up on the rooftop. But I know she was going to kill him, because later she said for me to ‘move’ so she could ‘finish the job.’”
“Let’s not get so far ahead. You were on the rooftop?”
“Yes, well– I jumped down. From that one there.” Taylor pointed. “After I realized she was going to kill him, even though he was down and injured and already bleeding out. I just– I couldn’t, you know? My body moved before I even made a choice, there.”
“I know.” Miss Militia said, something strange in her voice. “Are you a brute?”
“Um?” Taylor asked. Sometimes the other girls called her tall and ugly but never brutish. She was skinny, except for her belly that jutted out slightly.
“Is it your first night out?” Miss Militia asked.
Taylor winced.
“That obvious, huh?”
The hero shifted her weight with a nod.
“Normally, we’d give you some pamphlets, maybe a soft sell into the local Wards program. Unfortunately, this is a… delicate situation. Please, continue.”
“Will I get in trouble?” Taylor blurted, only to flush. “Sorry, that’s a stupid question, I just– I don’t want to admit to anything without a lawyer. I’m, um, invoking my right to counsel.”
“You’re not under arrest.” Miss Militia said gently. “Do you have anyone you want to call? Your parents, maybe?”
Her eyes glittered with amusement as Taylor clammed right up.
“No, thank you!”
“Then your best bet is to keep debriefing me and we’ll make a formal report about the incident.”
“I don’t know if I believe you.” Taylor said. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t admit anything about my role in this, if– if there even was one.”
“You’re not under arrest.” Miss Militia repeated.
“The PRT is a federal agency.” Taylor said. “Federal agents can’t detail you for extended periods solely for questioning unless they have probable cause for an arrest. If you’re detained by federal law enforcement, you have the right to remain silent, the right to refuse a voluntary interview, and the right to request a lawyer.”
The ‘dad’s voice’ in her head finally sat down, exhausted from yelling itself hoarse the longer she’d been talking, and now finally vindicated by her listening to it.
“I will have to detain you for questioning if you refuse to answer my questions,” Miss Militia said, amused. “A voluntary interview is a non-custodial encounter, meaning you are not under arrest and are free to leave at any time. However, if you’d prefer, I can detain you for questioning and we can handle this at the PRT office, where you will be given private counsel if requested.”
“What’s the alternative?” Taylor asked, warily.
“Right now this is a cape-related incident report. We’d like your help to paint a clearer picture as to what happened. Due to the unique situation of the injured cape, we will need to take a very thorough look at events to determine the responsible party and what actions are appropriate, if any.”
And just like that, Taylor’s mouth clammed shut.
She couldn’t run, because that would be resisting.
“If I’m free to go, I’d like to leave now.” Taylor said, already afraid of what was going to happen. But she couldn’t just admit to shooting someone; she didn’t even know if self-defense covered defending someone else, or if being a parahuman fucked with the laws somehow.
Just by speaking with the feds, she could shove her foot in her mouth and admit to something she shouldn’t.
What had she said so far, that she jumped off a building and ‘stopped’ a cape? She’d denied having a gun, just admitted to moving it aside.
But was this the right choice? For all she knew, they could rip her mask off, fingerprint and process her. Then they’d call her dad.
Part of her wanted them to.
Dad would know the rules. He’d lectured her about the rights of protesters, workers and unions her entire life. Her mom had been equally spirited, taking Taylor to rallies and showing her how to use a gun on endless warm summer afternoons.
As listless and distant as he’d been, surely she’d be better off with him on her side? Surely they wouldn’t disappear her into some cape jail cell, never to see the light of day again?
“We’re not the police.” Miss Militia said tiredly. “This was a cape fight, and you’re not going to get arrested for defending someone from being murdered, even if you shot her.”
“If a bystander shot her.” Taylor said, highly suspicious. “What would be the result?”
“If someone shot her in self-defense, it would initiate an immediate and mandatory investigation. If authorities– here being myself– determine that your actions were reasonably necessary to prevent imminent death or great bodily injury, you are legally justified and immune from criminal charges.”
“It’s easy for you to say. I’m thinking I should say ‘I will cooperate 100%, but first I need my attorney.’”
“Do you think you’ve violated the law, here?”
“That’s a leading question.” Taylor groused. “I don’t know enough about cape laws because I haven’t been a parahuman long enough, so I want counsel.”
The more they talked, the more paranoid Taylor was getting. Sure, Militia could say anything; could lie, cheat or steal to get a confession out of Taylor, and who was going to hold her accountable to those lies? Not her bosses, that was for sure.
“Please detain me for questioning if necessary. I’d like to remain silent until legal counsel is afforded to me.” Taylor said professionally, voice only shaking a little as she held her arms out. “Or, tell me I’m free to go.”
“I’m not handcuffing you.” Miss Militia said, now sounding amused, if a touch exasperated. “You are being temporarily detained while we investigate what happened. While you are not free to go until we get your statement, you will also not be mirandized or subject to custodial interrogation until we arrive to a secure interview room.”
“Where my legal counsel will be waiting.”
“Yes, where you can request legal counsel.”
“Will you be calling my parents?” Taylor asked curiously, lowering her arms.
“Are they aware you’re a parahuman?” Militia raised an eyebrow. Taylor winced. “Right. We’re not going to unmask you, but it is necessary to get your statement and find out what happened. You are not under arrest but you are being legally and temporarily detained into PRT custody for questioning.”
“Shouldn’t you read me the Miranda rights?”
“That’s not actually a requirement until you’re being custodially interrogated. Incidentally, I can ask you if you’re injured?”
Taylor blinked at her.
“I don’t think so, no.”
Miss Militia did ride with her in the back of the van back to the PRT building, where she still wasn’t handcuffed and was led into a small interrogation room.
Happily, the next person through the door was a tall, dark-haired woman with light eyes and a no-nonsense set to her mouth. She looked well-rested despite the time of night and had a cup of hot coffee in hand, a briefcase in the other.
“I’m here to represent the juvenile parahuman currently designated Case 26-0715.” She told the PRT trooper at the door, who let her inside.
“Good evening, I’m the legal counsel assigned to your case. My name is Cynthia Reyes.”
Taylor immediately had questions.
“Are you assigned to me by the PRT? Are you private counsel? Does attorney/client privilege apply, and are you obligated to tell the PRT anything?”
“Good questions.” She nodded sharply. “I am assigned to you by the PRT, and I’m private counsel. Attorney/client privilege applies, and I’m not obligated to tell the PRT anything, unless I have reason to believe you are a Master and/or Stranger putting the personnel in this building in active and ongoing danger, or another classification of parahuman doing the same.”
“That seems oddly arbitrary. Do you have an example?”
“For instance, if you were a Tinker who had built a long-distance device set to blow up the building to facilitate your escape from custody.”
“I see.” Taylor said. Had that actually happened!?
Taylor quickly laid out the events of the night, leaving nothing out. Cynthia made thoughtful noises and kept notes, asking clarifying questions here and there.
Eventually, Miss Militia came in.
There was a tape recorder set on the desk.
“Good evening.” She read off some legal jargon, including those Miranda rights Taylor knew about, along with a couple more about being a masked parahuman.
“Now, are you prepared to offer a statement?” She asked Taylor directly.
Cynthia cut in smoothly.
“My client interrupted an attempted murder. She jumped in between the offender and the victim, and attempted to physically stop the assailant. When that didn’t work, she moved to bodily protect the victim and in doing so, drew the victim’s handgun from its holster.”
“I see.” Militia said, frowning.
“When she leveraged the weapon in threat against the assailant, the cape did not back down. In fact, she reaffirmed her intent to do immediate and deadly harm, telling my client to move out of the way– under threat of deadly force with her powers and her crossbow– to allow her to commit the murder. My client refused and fired a non-lethal shot to the extremity to protect herself and the victim.”
“Furthermore, my client immediately began administering life saving first aid to the perpetrator, called the proper authorities, and has fully cooperated with the PRT.”
“Thank you, I’m very aware.” Miss Militia looked to Taylor. “How did you prevent the cape from shifting into her Breaker form to avoid the gunshot? This particular cape is almost immune to physical attacks.”
Taylor looked dutifully to her lawyer, who nodded.
“Is the Breaker state the ‘turn into smoke’ power?” Taylor asked.
Miss Militia nodded.
“I’m not sure how long she and the other cape were fighting. However, when the smoke dissipated, she was– not great. Wheezing, coughing, tired. I charged at her twice, intending to scare her off or at least interfere, and both times she switched to her– Breaker state. But it only lasted a split second, and when she came out of it, she was worse for wear each time.”
“I suspect if her Breaker state was faulty, it was a power interaction from the victim, and not related to my client.”
“The female cape also had blunt force trauma to the skull.” Miss Militia said dryly.
“When my client went to perform first aid, the cape lunged at her.” Cynthia reported smoothly. “Still holding the improvised weapon, she acted in immediate self defense of her person, and lashed out with it in the most non-lethal fashion available; as a blunt object. You will notice this was a noticeable de-escalation, which my client felt was necessary to subdue the perpetrator, both out of self-defense and so that my client could apply pressure to the gunshot wound.”
“And your client’s own power?” Miss Militia finally asked, the elephant in the room.
“My client would likely be categorized as a minor Thinker/Brute. She has some physical resistance to injury, allowing her to make large jumps such as off the building, and can pick up skills more quickly than a baseline human.”
“Is that so.” Miss Militia looked at Taylor.
“Yes, Ma’am.” She agreed, and cleared her throat when it came out slightly squeaky.
“Were you attempting a patrol as an independent cape?”
“No.” Taylor said, somewhat horrified, before Cynthia could defend her. “I didn’t even– I’m not even wearing a costume, I had the mask on me in my pocket just in case. I only put it on when I realized other capes were in the area and might see me.”
“What were you doing on that rooftop, for the record?”
“My powers developed only very recently. I started to think there was a mobility component that would let me do ‘parkour.’ However, my power needs to be used in order to improve, so I wanted the relative privacy of night and the relative safety of downtown as opposed to, say, the Docks.”
“My client does not meet the legal burden of trespassing.” Cynthia said. “Nor has she committed to becoming a cape as opposed to a parahuman. This incident was one as a good samaritan who happens to be a cape, and does not represent an independent hero, villain, or vigilante acting of their own authority.”
“Do you have plans to go out as a cape?”
Taylor opened her mouth.
“Objection.” Cynthia said, then to Taylor: “Don’t answer that.”
To Miss Militia she said: “Of what relevance is that to the incident?”
“None, except that we are concerned about young parahumans without a support network. You know the statistics just as I do.”
“There is that.” Cynthia conceded grudgingly.
“Are you aware of the risks?” The hero asked Taylor leadingly.
“What, that I might get shot?” She swallowed. “There’s a reason I haven’t gone out.”
“Yet.” Militia said sagely. “And now, while gunshout wounds are dangerous, there are yet more concerns for a parahuman. In general, and then particularly in the Bay.”
“What statistics?” Taylor said warily.
Cynthia cleared her throat.
“Something like 1 in 6 independents perish within their first six weeks as an active cape. That number increases to 1 in 4 for six months, and 1 in 2 for a year.”
Taylor stared. Then she rebooted.
“What is the population? Who was included or excluded? How was the data collected?”
Both adult women stared at her.
Taylor flushed.
“Statistics are only as good as who collected them, where, how and why.” She defended. “If you only polled independent heroes under the age of 16, for example, it might look very different than heroes at 20 or older, and the actual number if both are included would be the average. How could you possibly know the number of independent capes operating? Is it a guess based on population?”
Cynthia laughed.
“She’s got you there, hero.” She said to Miss Militia somewhat smugly. “However, unfortunately in this case these are not exaggerated– or not much exaggerated– numbers.”
Miss Militia’s faint amusement faded.
“Have you heard of Squealer?”
Taylor shook her head.
“There’s a gang in the Bay called, officially, the Archer’s Bridge Merchants. You might not have heard of them yet; they only very recently started appearing ‘on the map’ so to speak with the forcible recruitment of a Tinker.”
Taylor didn’t like where this was going.
“Forcible, as in…?”
“The Merchants consider themselves the finest drug peddlers and they sample their product heavily. We believe Squealer is a recently identified vehicle Tinker who was taken, forcibly addicted to their ‘product’, and broken until she complied.”
“The PRT let that happen?” Cynthia’s eyebrows shot up.
“We of course attempted more than one rescue operation, but our only successful intervention failed because she appears to have some form of Stockholme Syndrome or, perhaps more worryingly, the Merchants have access to a cape who could manipulate her mind to such an extent that she didn’t want to leave. We’ve got plans to potentially physically detain her if she enters into custody, and explore what methods, if any, might be used to rehabilitate her.”
“The point,” Militia clarified, “is that it’s very dangerous to openly operate as an unaffiliated parahuman. If one of the gangs decides to ‘recruit’ you, there might be nothing we can do.”
“Nothing?” Taylor said.
Militia was grim.
“If they find out your civilian identity, you might not want us to. They could have your family under threat, or any number of blackmail or threats to make you compliant. It is exceedingly difficult to extract someone who has been ‘persuaded’ to join a gang by these underhanded means.”
“A popular method is forced initiation.” Cynthia added quietly. “I’ve seen several cases– nonparahuman, of course, but it’s unfortunate. Being held at gunpoint cannot be a legal justification for torturing or murdering someone, and the gangs will make their recruits do just that for initiation. They acquire video evidence of them performing a kill, and now they have to join or be prosecuted. Duress is not a complete defense to intentional murder.”
“Of those 5 in 6 independents who survive their first six weeks, I’d wager a staggering number are ‘recruited’ into villainous organizations.” Militia said darkly.
“Or recruited into the PRT’s gang.” Cynthia said coldly, only to hold Militia’s eyes when the other woman glared.
“We have some pamphlets for you.” Miss Militia said. “At this time, provided our investigation doesn’t find any inconsistencies in your story, we have no intention of putting you under arrest. Preliminary findings support your report of self-defense.”
“How will you find me if you change your mind?” Taylor blurted.
“Under the Vikare Act, we cannot unmask you with a court order. Your ‘cape’ description would have a warrant issued for her arrest, and PRT or Protectorate forces would detain you the next time you went out publicly in that identity.” Militia said easily. “However, I’m satisfied that this is exactly what you say it is: a case of self-defense and defense-of-others against deadly and immediate force. I’d like to thank you, on behalf of the Protectorate, for the life-saving care you gave this… cape… despite her actions.”
“It was the right thing to do.” Taylor said, in some surprise as the other women stood up from the table without further ado. She struggled to catch up.
“Still, it showed a remarkable strength of character, which is always something we like to see in young parahumans– if not at the cost of putting yourself in harm’s way.”
“Oh. Thank you.” As they walked out of the interview room, Miss Militia fell into step beside her.
“Here comes the soft sell.” Her lawyer murmured, almost too quiet to hear, and Taylor couldn’t be sure she misheard.
Miss Militia laughed.
“While you’re here, would you be interested in a tour? Joining the Wards is one of your options as a young cape, and you might have questions I can answer. No pressure.” Her eyes crinkled above her bandana.
Taylor looked to Cynthia in a panic.
The woman sighed, a touch exasperated but mostly amused.
“Just don’t admit to any crimes and you’ll be fine.”
“I’ve got to get home, soon…ish.” Taylor said, buying time to think of why she might not want to see or learn what the government cape organizations had to offer.
“We can arrange for a discrete transport back to your general area of residence.” Militia held up a hand. “Do not give us your street address or neighborhood; several blocks away at a store, library, or school would be appropriate.”
“Oh.” Taylor said, having not looked forward to leaping home across the rooftops with– she checked– only a few more hours before her dad would be awake. “Yeah, that sounds good actually.”
She was slightly sheepish.
“Goodbye, Ms Reyes.” Militia said cheerfully, before turning to Taylor. “Do you have a name picked out? Something temporary we can address you by?”
Taylor was shaking her head before the sentence finished.
“I was not ready to go out as a cape.” She repeated.
“I’d be careful picking your name, if you do go that route.” The hero said conversationally. “They tend to stick, especially if the media picks up on it– or God forbid, assigns it to you– and you could have a hard time changing it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Taylor said faintly.
“Of course, if you join the Wards, your name will be chosen with your input and run by our Public Relations department, to avoid any obvious pitfalls.”
“Like what?” Taylor asked. It would be a lie to say she hadn’t started poking at names, but most of the ones she’d even considered seemed to be taken.
“Whether or not a name is already taken, by a hero or a villain; whether a name has accidental villainous connotations, such as Rain or rain-related themes here in the Bay invoking the former Empire 88 cape, Iron Rain. Sometimes Wards or even Protectorate heroes might come up with a name that has a different meaning in another language, or a negative etymology.”
“Like how Raat in Hindi might be a good name for a darkness themed cape in India, but they should keep in mind it sounds like ‘Rat’ in English?”
“Exactly like that. I saw that PHO thread as well.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d have time for PHO. Uh, no offense, you just seem really busy.” Taylor’s cheeks colored in embarrassment.
Miss Militia laughed.
“I don’t mind. You’re not keeping me up tonight, either. I’m what’s called a Noctis cape. My power left me without the need for sleep, so I have more time in the day than most other heroes. It makes it easier for me to be on-call for incidents like tonight.”
“You can’t sleep at all? Sorry, that was rude.”
“No, it’s understandable. I can certainly rest and even sleep if I try, but I have no need for it, so it feels a little strange.”
“I see.” Taylor said. “Is it common that people try to use names without knowing the etymology?”
“Sometimes it’s not the etymology but the slang uses, as well. There was a case in New York when I was a Ward where a cape wanted to use Spook as his name. He had a ‘ghost’ like power and wanted that theme. However, Spook is also a racial slur in American English, so PR and Branding rejected it, likely saving him a lot of heartbreak and headaches in his career.”
“I see.” Taylor repeated, thinking hard. She was still no closer to figuring out her own name.
Talent was too vague, Skill didn’t sound like a name either, and several others she’d dismissed as taken or not fitting her power or plans. If she wanted to be a hero.
Oh, who was she kidding, she’d wanted to be a hero since she was a little girl.
Like other children her age she’d whiled away countless weekends chattering away to her parents about the ideal superhero powers and costumes and names, and her parents had played along and asked thoughtful and thought-provoking questions about ethics, dilemmas and “what she’d do in X situation.”
In hindsight, it had been a lot of teaching their kid to make good life choices and respect life lessons, couched in superhero metaphor– she remembered several ‘call your mom’ or ‘don’t talk to strangers’ in there– but the concept had been on her mind in one way or another for over a decade.
Catalyst was the closest she’d gotten, mainly because it sounded cool and had literary roots, but it didn’t quite reference her power properly.
Of course, there was an entire branch of gamer and video game related terminology she was firmly ignoring, just as she ignored the clear blue screens waiting patiently just out of her vision.
Her power was thrilled with her getting into an actual fight, and she hoped she’d have a multitude of ‘rewards’ waiting for her as a result.
“Are there ever any… weird powers?” Taylor fielded delicately, between her introduction to the outside of Armsmaster’s secondary lab, the medical facilities– where a kindly orderly asked her if she had any ‘minor’ or ‘unreported’ injuries from the night’s events– and a staggering number of offices.
“Countless.” Militia said without missing a beat.
“No, I mean– really weird. Powers that don’t work like other powers at all.”
“Myrddin, the leader of the Boston Protectorate, firmly believes– and has given us no reason to doubt– that his power presents itself to him in the form of real, genuine magic.”
Taylor boggled as they stepped into an elevator.
Miss Militia pressed an access card to a screen, and a new panel of buttons opened up. She did a few more things and suddenly they were going down.
“It is a power, of course, the same as everyone else’s– but it presents itself to him like magic, and he can use it like magic, complete with spell-like incantations. I’ve read accounts of capes who see things in the air like numbers or words, who need draw symbols onto the ground, and any other number of strange ‘activation’ requirements.” She put her card and its lanyard back into her fatigues. “Glastic Uaine purportedly sees a catalog of dead capes she calls fairies.”
The Fairy Queen.
Taylor shivered.
“Why? Is your power unusual in how it presents itself to you?” Miss Militia sounded largely unbothered.
She bit her lip and worried it a little.
“It shows me… screens.” Taylor finally disclosed. “It, broadly, gives me a visual representation of what skills I’ve learned.”
“That’s not too abnormal.” Miss Militia reassured her. “Many powers have some sort of visual indicator to their parahuman. It’s one of the more common variances, though there’s often a component visual to others as well.”
She stepped out of the elevator.
They went down a series of hallways until they came upon a door with an alarm/intercom thing next to it. Miss Militia pressed a button and the light in the hallway changed to red-shaded.
Inside, a loud buzz sounded, and when a minute or so had passed, she opened the door. The light inside was likewise red-toned; not enough to hurt the eyes, but unmistakeable.
“Welcome to the Ward ‘residential’ quarters.” Miss Militia said, enjoying Taylor’s gobsmacked expression. “Though, there are none of our Wards in residence tonight.”
“There’s a kitchen?” Taylor asked, surprised, and then embarrassed that it was her first question.
“Yes, but it’s only stocked with relatively non-perishable ingredients. To cook anything fresh, the Wards place an order with the mess and it’s delivered once a day. They also have the opportunity to eat– in costume– at either of the two cafeterias.”
“There are two cafeterias?”
“Yes. It’s quite a big building and there are times whenever we’re confined to the base for rare, but unfortunately necessary situations, such as a security threat.”
Miss Militia showed Taylor around the living quarters, including a living room, computer area, and what she was told was the ‘console’ where Ward patrols were coordinated.
She answered Taylor’s questions about the Ward program the entire time, including brief legal issues, unmasking procedures, parental involvement, payment and latitude with regard to power’s use.
Apparently, there were a surprising number of classes, but even more resources available for certain interests.
She was, despite herself, slowly being swayed to the benefits of government stoogemanship.
By the time the nice PRT officer dropped her off a conservatively paranoid ten blocks away from her house, the sky was beginning to lighten ever so slightly in the East, and Taylor had a comically large collection of pamphlets, and a ream of paperwork to look through.
Chapter 2
The next morning, Taylor woke up as she always did, at 6am. She still expected to be crusty-eyed and miserable with so little sleep, and finding herself well rested and feeling good was a shock.
Even though she’d only gone to sleep when the very, very first twinges of purple had replaced black in the sky, and the sun still wasn’t quite up as she sat up in bed, she felt great, as if she’d had a full night of sleep.
Her powers were bullshit.
She wondered if she was a Noctis cape like Miss Militia. She could still feel tired and still wanted to go to sleep, but hadn’t tried staying up all night, yet. Though now that was added to her list.
Semi transparent blue screens hovered in front of her, patiently waiting for her to click through them.
The most important notification was her second ever level up.
She clicked eagerly into the screen with her stats, noticing how they’d risen. As soon as she acknowledged the screen, she felt stronger, faster, and somehow more clear-headed.
Jump and Running were still there, still sturbbornly at Level 1.
Name: Taylor Hebert
Level: 3
Class: None
Title: None
HP: 315
MP: 34
Fatigue: 0
Stats
Strength: 12
Constitution: 12
Agility: 12
Intelligence: 12
Sense: 12
(Available stat points: 6)
Skills
Passive Skills
-(Unknown) (Lv. Max)
Active Skills
-Running (Lv. 1)
-Jump (Lv. 1)
She prodded around the screens at first with excitement, but the feeling slowly dimmed into a muted dismay. It was the most progress she’d made ever and it was in one night as a cape! Except… it had been terrifying.
Her nascent plans to slowly level up her abilities and establish herself as a cape felt dashed. She’d been completely out of her element and blindsided by every element of her encounter last night. It had become serious and real.
Even then, she’d gotten lucky. Jumping between two capes? She could have died. Shooting someone? The PRT could have easily arrested her and ruined her entire life before her cape career event got started.
Now, if she wanted to level up further, she had only one real option for not dying a horribly tragic death in the process. It would, first of all, mean giving up a large amount of autonomy.
The other downside of joining the Wards– aside from general government stoogery– was telling her dad that she was a parahuman.
Taylor… really didn’t want to do that.
It felt like her business and her thing, and if she told him, he’d have so many opinions about it. She didn’t have a good comparison, but it felt incredibly personal and private, and even the idea of giving up control and autonomy of her parahuman-ness made her quietly furious.
Then again, the pamphlets were quite clear that parahumans had to use their powers. Not much was known about why, but bad things happened to parahumans who tried to suppress or deny their new powers.
‘They go batshit crazy’ types of bad things, though the pamphlet phrased it a little nicer.
Taylor had no inclination to ignore her powers, even if the first foray into using them in public had… been very interesting, to put it nicely.
Pondering how that conversation would go– Hi, dad, I have superpowers– brought up another concern.
What proof did she have?
Should she wait until she had a more impressive skill to showcase?
Did she trust him with this?
Aside from the reflexive anger at giving up some autonomy of her own power– which she was already quasi-resigned to doing with the PRT– she had the strangest hesitance in how he would react.
After around half an hour of considering it in the shower, she realized she didn’t trust him to handle this like she needed him to.
That she was worried he’d be part of the problem, and not part of the solution.
Easy to figure out why.
His distance from her after mom was a festering wound. He hadn’t stepped up when Taylor needed him to; he hadn’t protected her from the situation at school, hadn’t been a parent.
Now, she needed a parent, and while Taylor had been confident last night that he’d come in guns blazing and lawyer in tow if she got arrested, she didn’t trust him to step up for the smaller things.
As the water sluiced down, it occurred to her that she was thinking about this with a clarity of mind she’d not approached it before.
Maybe having powers made her different, more removed from the situation. The emotional turmoil of the bullying and her life seemed far behind her, now, as she looked at things with fresh eyes.
Problem: dad either would give her what she needed, or he wouldn’t.
If the former: good, great, Wards.
If the latter, well… Taylor could only control her actions. The pamphlets were pretty clear that parahumans needed to use their powers.
Parents refusing to let their kids into the Wards was probably a common issue. A common issue the state had opinions about.
She could become– ha, well, a ward of the PRT, as well as a Ward. Then file for emancipation when she turned 16, which was right around the corner.
So. That was the plan.
It felt a little less like walking to her execution to descend the stairs.
“Dad?” Taylor asked, stopping behind her usual chair at the kitchen table.
Danny looked up from his coffee mug and his newspaper. He always woke up an hour before he needed to leave, just to have a decent breakfast and read the paper.
Of course, the paper route didn’t go until around 8, so it was yesterday’s paper, but being one behind was the price he was willing to pay for the pre-sunrise peace.
“Hey.” Danny said lamely, in some surprise. “You’re up early.”
He looked at Taylor like he didn’t know how to talk to her. Cautious, uncomfortable.
Now, or never. Taylor seriously considered mumbling some nonsense and getting her own bowl of cereal, or shuffling off back upstairs as if she’d just woken up to use the bathroom or grab a snack.
She took a breath.
“Yeah, I wanted to talk to you before you left.”
Technically, he had the weekend off, but he always took a half day on Saturday. Less time at the house. Less down time.
Danny checked his watch. He visibly considered bowing out of the conversation, citing the need to get to work, but he still had 45 minutes.
His lips thinned out slightly. He pasted on a smile.
“Sure, kiddo. What’s up?”
“I have superpowers.” Taylor settled a few pamphlets onto the table. “And I want to join the Wards.”
Danny slowly put his paper down.
“I think I’ll ring the office and let them know not to expect me this morning.” He said, voice faint.
–
Dad had a lot of questions. Taylor practiced patience in answering them.
He seemed strangely stuck on an almost plaintive repetition of whether Taylor was sure she had powers, almost as if asking a 5th time might reveal a misunderstanding that he could sweep, gratefully, under the rug, never to visit again.
A near miss, wiping sweat off his brow.
Taylor didn’t provide that relief.
Danny Hebert, deep in his grief and apathy, was resistant to change. They’d settled into a day-to-day that got them by, and wasn’t that enough?
No. For Taylor, for years, that had not been ‘enough.’
Now, enough things had been debated upon– with Taylor pointedly tapping the “If You Don’t Use Your Powers You Go Violently Insane” pamphlet when Danny questioned once or twice whether she needed to join the Wards– and decided, that they had managed to actually fill out some of the paperwork.
“Will you wear– uh– a mask?” Danny asked clumsily. “That’s so weird to consider, but surely we can’t just walk in with your face uncovered. Or you in a mask and me with my face uncovered, for that matter.”
“There’s a form for that.” Taylor said, unearthing it. “We have some options.”
Option 1: Arrive via PRT escort to underground garage, skip the front entrance altogether. It required a blindfold– yes, really– and an NDA to not discuss the entrance location or mention.
Option 2: Taylor come in as a student asking about one of the– numerous– PRT volunteer programs, youth outreach, or internship programs. Danny would come in at least thirty minutes before or after Taylor, asking about an insurance claim or compensation for a parahuman incident, as a contractor with the city offering expertise on a matter, or as a civilian seeking assistance or to make a report.
Option 3: Come in during an advertised event open to the public, such as an open seating presentation or class, volunteer event, community Q&A session, or an outreach event. The Pamphlet mentioned at least one “Meet Your Local Protectorate” event a month as part of a PRT open house. There were also open tours of the public-facing facilities only, once a week.
A fourth option involved doing more than one of the above, for example Danny coming in via the front entrance, and Taylor arranging for secure pick up and entrance via the garage.
The tricky part, of course, was mentioning that you weren’t really here for that event, but how to get a ‘passphrase?’ Taylor had considered calling, but then the PRT might have her phone number on file or on record.
They could use a public payphone to arrange a passphrase, or they could, apparently, use any of the public phone booths the PRT had scattered throughout town for people to contact the PRT about cape fights or concerns anonymously– though gangs could watch those easily. Just thinking of it made Taylor feel paranoid, but then she remembered Squealer’s story.
With email there was a risk of IP address tracking, even with a throwaway email. She could send an anonymous email from a library computer, but those required a library card to access, and could be tracked to her account. Though apparently, if requested, you could get a 5 minute temporary access password to use a library computer, without them questioning your name or address.
Finally, the PRT had an anonymous request portal, supposedly tinker-maintained to protect the data of the submitter.
With all the paranoia in the packet, Taylor was now questioning how secure that was.
Although, it was supposedly used for even more sensitive matters– snitches in the gangs, victims reporting parahuman crimes, and probably a hundred more sensitive things Taylor couldn’t think of.
At some point, you just had to think ‘it’s secure enough’ or you’d drive yourself crazy.
If she really didn’t trust PRT infosec, she couldn’t give them her identity at all, even for Ward intake paperwork once she was inside the building.
They pulled open the anonymous portal on their aging home desktop. It immediately became full-screen, disabling every other program run by the computer.
There were two simple white boxes, one for input and one for output. The heading announced the name of the site and beneath it was: Reference Number 187234, in case they needed to follow up on this issue.
Small text requested the submitter to include geographic information as appropriate, since it was a national service.
The suggested, intentionally brief message from the form was only: Request Parahuman Intake Passphrase, PRT ENE Date/Time Window.
Taylor really hoped an evil Tinker hadn’t hacked it to look for any mention of the buzzwords.
The output box gained a cursor.
It populated a number of passphrases to chose from and spat out a generous timeframe.
Taylor and Danny looked at each other.
“I guess that’s that, then.” He said.
By the time they finished the paperwork and the secure request, it was a reasonable time for lunch, and they ate in a somewhat subdued silence that gradually became a stilted conversation.
“Have you erm given any thought to what your name will be?”
Taylor pushed some rice around her plate.
“Kind of? I’m not really picky about it, as long as it’s not something stupid. There’s not really a lot of options that go with learning skills fast.”
Danny laughed a little.
“When you were little, you spent about three months convinced you’d get superpowers and go around as–”
“Dad.” Taylor whined, suddenly knowing where this was going.
“– Kid Alexandria, who obviously had all the same powers as Alexandria. She could also,” He continued over her protests, “Read a hundred books an hour and remember them perfectly, and didn’t need to wear clothes because her skin was always clean and nice.”
“I just didn’t like having to change clothes.” Taylor said, red-faced.
“I remember.” Danny said. “It was a fight and a half to get you to change your underwear at that age. You about wore the vinyl off of that Tinker pair. Annette–”
Here, he faltered, some of the amusement dimming.
He took a breath and pressed through, surprising her.
“Annette took you so seriously. She sat you aside and discussed names and branding like you were already a real cape.”
Taylor smiled.
“I wish she were here.”
Despite all this time, they hadn’t really talked about her. They’d been too mired in grief, and then busy with drifting apart to cope. Finding new routines that got them through life.
“Me too.” Danny said hoarsely. “She’d know what to do with all this so much better.”
He waved his hand around the room and the conquered stack of paperwork that was nearly an inch thick.
Chapter 3
Power Testing.
It had capital letters in her brain.
“My first skill was Running.” Taylor said. The power tester looked politely unimpressed, almost patronizing.
Right.
“I can spend a certain amount of–” Don’t say mana, don’t say mana, “– charge to use the ability.”
She hadn’t known she could pick up skills at the time. Picking up a running habit had just seemed… the thing to do. Get powers, get in shape, right?
Capes did an awful lot of running.
Taylor had been as surprised as anyone when a notification window popped up.
“Let’s see what we can figure out about your Running skill then, shall we?” The tester clicked a pen and wandered off with her clipboard.
Taylor frowned. Why not just ask her? She knew more about her power than they did.
She shrugged.
For some reason, she wasn’t super keen on the PRT knowing everything about her power. The hesitance to reveal the mana aspect, let alone the system aspect and screens, was just the tip of the iceberg.
It left her uneasy. There were perfectly valid reasons why the PRT needed to know the extent of Protectorate and especially Ward powers, but she just…
In the end, she decided whatever they could glean on their own, she would allow. Power testing was annual, so if she changed her mind on the next session, there’d be room to disclose the extent of her powers.
How could she explain it to them when she barely understood it herself? In a year, she’d have a firmer grasp on the mechanics of it.
Miss Militia had even said as much.
This was an initial power testing. It would show the most obvious aspects of her power, not every nuance. Just enough to make sure she wouldn’t accidentally hurt someone with a dangerous element, and to iron out details for branding, a costume and a name.
They didn’t ask about her ‘charge’, so Taylor didn’t elaborate. She simply ran until her mana ran out, and let them write down whatever details they wanted.
Amusingly, she realized they were probably going to try to calculate the exact rate– which would be easier if they had her numbers or asked her.
“And your other skills?”
“I don’t have any more charge.”
The tester clicked her tongue in impatience, looking disgruntled.
“Each skill uses the same pool of charge?” She asked, scribbling on her clipboard.
“Yep.”
“Unfortunate. Well, it’ll let us study the rate your charge ‘builds up’ at, anyway. Does it refill within a day?”
“Yes.” Taylor said, without elaborating.
They were good enough to let her wander around completing more in-processing and on-boarding tasks and paperwork, allowing her to send a notification on her Wards phone when she was ready instead of wasting everyone’s time.
“I have enough charge to jump five times.” Taylor said.
The tester stood up from her desk and began coordinating measurement devices.
The power testing ‘room’ was an odd mix of lab, gym and observation facility. There were tinker-ish devices along both walls at lab stations, and fully half the room was a gym with a high ceiling. At a guess, the testing area was a full ‘section’ of the Rig, going up the full height of the structure. The other half of the room was taken up by a single story room with a fully glass partition wall, within which was a few objects, sensors, and even more sensors pointed at the observation window.
Taylor went to the center of the gym part when instructed. She was wearing a few monitoring devices to measure her muscle use or something.
“Jump one of five.” The tester said.
Taylor jumped.
The Jump skill was calibrated to her Strength attribute; at a one to one level. She could expend 5 MP to jump her total Strength score.
Right now, that was 12 feet.
Since Taylor was a 6ish foot tall human, that put her reach at 20 feet.
Objectively, a 12 foot vertical jump was impressive. The world record for measured professional basketball players’ vertical jump was only four feet, and they traditionally measured in inches to begin with.
With a running start, they could usually get around 12 foot reach.
“Let me try a running start for one,” Taylor said, and fought down disappointment when the tester shook her head.
“No, we need a baseline for your full charge of jumps. We also need to see if your recharge time is the same, so wait until the next round.”
Taylor sighed, suddenly glad she’d brought her homework.
One of the good things about already joining the Wards is that she had access to her room at the PRT building; the downside was, it was across the Bay.
However, the Wards also had quarters at the Rig, though they were much less accessible on any given day. You had to have a reason to be out at the Rig instead of just a hankering to visit.
Taylor had dropped off her things at said room earlier this morning, and went to go get them now.
–
“Let’s test your baseline abilities, outside of these skills.” The tester said. “Do you have any reason to believe you have a Brute rating?”
Taylor was put through a rigorous amount of physical tests. They had her lift weights, run laps for both speed and endurance measurements, and tested her on increasingly esoteric machines that measured things like her reaction speed.
She was really tempted to fuck with them by adding a stat point to Strength or Agility, which she suspected would adjust the numbers at least a little bit.
She was, perhaps, just a little salty they hadn’t let her explain her power.
Just a tad.
A strange itch for malicious compliance came upon her, particularly as she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell the PRT all she could do.
That teenage recalcitrance probably explained their testing set up, actually. An adolescent need for rebellion and spite probably let to Wards and prospective Wards not being truly forthcoming about their abilities.
Well.
Test all they wanted, Taylor was certain they wouldn’t be able to divine the true extent of her abilities.
She wasn’t even sure of that, and she could see the written instructions!
One of the only downsides of her pop-ups was that they didn’t tell her how much experience points she was gaining. It was all guesswork, there.
–
After initial power testing, came placement testing. As in, academically.
A number of students were pulled for testing every single month for non-seasonal induction into Arcadia. Around 100 students were tested, and a small portion of those who meet the cut were accepted.
Taylor was told that her acceptance was a foregone conclusion, but that her results would indicate whether she was in remedial classes or even needed to be held back a grade.
Wards weren’t guaranteed a place at the school and had attended other schools in the past, and she was being given a special exception for having ‘triggered’ at her old school and due to the bullying campaign she’d reluctantly disclosed.
Taylor found the tests difficult. It had been hard to pay attention in class this past year, and she had long suspected Winslow’s curriculum itself was lacking.
Still, she’d spent her free time the past week between testing and classes doing flashcards with the state standards online, and some of those came up on the test. She was cautiously optimistic.
English was her best subject, math passable, and she did better than she thought in History– probably because the teacher at Winslow had been irritating, and she’d long since figured out how he developed quizzes and read from the textbook during class rather than listen to his lectures.
They barely got through 3 labs a semester in chemistry, due to the shithead student body and general rough-housing, so she felt fairly unprepared for that test as well.
Glumly, she turned in her final exam.
She was at least granted leave to take the tests at the PRT building, since some of the Arcadia administrative staff would know her identity anyway.
The somewhat familiar environs and lack of other students helped.
Taylor would rather be homeschooled or do some distance learning program, obviously, but the Youth Guard apparently frowned on that for reasons of social development.
Taylor had enough socializing with the demons that were other teenagers, aka her peers, for a lifetime.
She busied herself absently poking through her screens.
She was particularly intrigued with the Store feature, though it appeared locked.
The agent who took her tests told her that she could leave for the day or, if she wanted to wait, her results would be ready in an hour or so. The placement tests, unlike the end of the year exams, were strictly multiple choice with no essay or short-answer components.
Seeing the rain coming down outside, Taylor elected to wait.
She opened her PRT-issue phone and found it, too, had a store, and though she had 500 points of credit, got the warning that any purchases were locked until she was issued her costume and basic gear/load out, and that many purchases had to be approved by either the Ward leader, her PRT liaison, or a member of the Protectorate, depending on the item in question.
The top of her phone’s screen had a series of numbers that, out of curiosity, she popped into the PRT’s internal search browser.
What do the numbers on the upper left corner of my screen mean?
SC-2/W-2 meant Security Level 2, Wards Access-2.
CLR:02 meant a clearance level of 2, which didn’t seem very high. It apparently gave her access to know about all-personnel forwarded memos and local events. NET:PRT-ENE indicated she was on the secure wifi.
AUTH:3B was her authentication privileges. R17 apparently indicated the region she was assigned to, not the region she was in.
Her User ID was W071, which had her eyebrows shoot up. That sure seemed to indicate there’d been 71 Wards in the program in the Bay, which seemed far too high. Maybe they counted Wards who came in here and moved on to other departments or regions once onboarded.
Miss Militia was, according to her research, one of the Inaugural Wards under Hero, so it had been an active program for over 20 years.
Still, that’d be over 3 Wards inducted per year!
Then again, Taylor was the third Ward this year to join, though Shadow Stalker had apparently been sent to a new region sometime before her joining.
It apparently wasn’t too unusual for Wards to leave their current region due to any number of factors– parents relocating for works, family situations requiring moving states, and sometimes internal manning requirements from the PRT itself or even– in extreme cases– personality conflicts.
Taylor was told after a brief period of getting instated, if she had a pressing desire to leave the region, she could put in a package requesting a transfer, pending parental approval.
She couldn’t imagine moving.
Her father had poured his life into his job and the community, to cope with the death of his wife.
Her mother was laid to rest here.
Apparently a common reason was to work under certain heroes, as well, who had powers with a unique synergy or just a case of hero worship.
The Wards department in New York was as robust as it was due not only to the population density and proportional cape numbers, and being the national PRT headquarters, but also for the same reason Houston and Los Angeles had higher numbers: people wanted to work under the Triumvirate.
Taylor could understand that, at least. The idea of working under her childhood hero, Alexandria, was galling, thrilling and terrifying all at once.
The phone had a number of secure communication features, including a panic button that Taylor was under strict orders not to misuse, emergency broadcast alerts, radio into the Wards console, emergency phone numbers, and more.
She was currently locked out of Operations and Case Files, but could access the Cape Database and Training sections, the latter of which included required readings, available classes and qualification tests, schedules she could sign up for, and training videos.
Then there were some fun functions like mess hall menus, various gyms she had access to through the phone, equipment or amusement items checkout– for anything from workout equipment to basketballs or badminton sets– as well as a digital library, a cape-related trivia app with leaderboards, and most interestingly a PRT internal bulletin board.
The last one piqued her interest and Taylor found that here there were– vetted– requests from the local community for cape assistance, with reward in PRT store credit for Wards who provided the good PR of fulfilling volunteer requests.
The board also provided an internal newsletter and an outreach calendar.
The hour passed quickly dicking around on her phone.
She took her results and was mostly pleased with them– she wouldn’t be in any remedial classes, at least, though she’d missed out on the opportunity for honors/AP classes in one or two areas.
The rain had eased up only a little by the time she finished, and Taylor frowned. It wasn’t snowing or sleeting, but this late in the year it was miserably close to the latter.
“Since you’re here on official business, I could arrange for drop off.” The PRT agent she was working with offered.
“What unofficial business could I have here?” Taylor asked curiously.
“Great question.” She praised. “You’re underage and can’t drive yourself, and almost every single thing you have to do here is work related, from patrols to meetings. Short answer, if we wanna employ kids, we gotta drive them around.”
“That’s convenient.” Taylor decided. It made sense; what a logistical nightmare, having her dad drop her off or pick her up every time she came to the PRT building.
Taylor was, of course, wearing the standard “I don’t have a costume” costume; a black domino mask, grey sweat pants and sweatshirt, loosely designed to look like Alexandria’s costume, and her hair pulled up into a beanie.
It’d be a security failing to let just anyone wander around if they were wearing it, so internal memos both announced an uncostumed cape and Taylor had to use her PRT phone to get into most areas.
She expected to look like a bum, but the overall effect was more of a track suit situation, for all that it was loose enough to pull on over her clothes.
Not exactly fashionable, but not hideous or embarrassing either, and sufficient for the goal of obscuring her identity.
What business did Taylor Hebert have wandering the PRT building?
Her Ward phone let her exit down a particularly nondescript hallway and down to an elevator, which led out to an underground parking garage she’d seen before.
A boring black sedan with a plain-clothes trooper awaited her, letting her climb in after a brief
So. That it was it.
Power testing concluded. Entrance tests passed, if not aced. She started Arcadia on Monday.
Taylor sighed and closed her eyes, head resting on the seat-back behind her.
Ding.
Her eyes snapped open.
Secret Quest Complete:
First Steps
Quest Rewards: + EXP | + 1 Simple Dagger | + 1 Status Recovery
Passive Skill Revealed
Ashborne’s Blessing (LVL MAX): All diseases, poisons, and status effects are healed. Sleeping will dramatically increase regeneration ability.
In a flash of blue sparkles, a knife dropped into her hand. She jerked, hiding it under her leg with haste, heart pounding.
Taylor stared.