Wake-up Call – Chapter 26 – Skitter

There's a degree of separation between personas.

Take, for instance, the moment where an uncaring student brushes past me in the hallway, hitting my bag hard enough that I stumble.

Skitter automatically tags him. A fly on the back of his head to know where he's looking, and then one on each shoulder, elbow, knee, wrist, and ankle. Lisa showed me a motion tracking rig for special effects, and it's simple enough to extrapolate for the complete visualization of a person. Perfectly straightforward.

Skitter also knows how to slide just a bit forward, to kick the inside of his left ankle from behind, shift her weight to the leading foot before sliding forward and having her knee connect with the inside of his right knee, taking away his balance in a way that may cripple his joint for life right before she takes out her telescopic baton and clubs him over the head.

There's no such thing as a safe takedown.

LEOs train for years in de-escalation techniques for a reason—or, at least, they are supposed to—but when violence is needed, then you can only hope and pray. A taser may cause a heart attack, a submission hold be improperly applied, and knocking someone out… The brain isn't that resilient. If a strike knocks someone out, that has consequences.

Skitter knows all of this, but she's… pragmatically ruthless. If she doesn't know how many potential attackers there are, or she's in a rush, if she needs to put down someone fast? She will do it. It's not like she won't care: she will. She will berate herself afterward, wondering if that really was the best course of action, the only real choice, the thing that managed the most good even through something that, by all metrics, should be considered evil.

She will lie awake at night, thinking of people writhing beneath venomous spiders, wondering how many of them still have nightmares, how many of them really understand what the alternative was and how badly it could have gone if it had been Rachel the one in charge of keeping the hostages pacified. She won't see another way, a better way, and then she will shift in bed and embrace the soft blonde who knows too much about what goes on in Skitter's head and still, somehow, loves her.

Taylor Hebert?

I flinch, reflexively getting out of the way and letting the tagged boy pass until he reaches a corner and gets out of sight, dreading him turning around, dreading the moment when he shifts his weight, because the casual shove could be the start of something else, and everybody around me could be a part of it, and—

Breathe.

One, two, three, four, five, six in.

Hold. One, two, three, four.

Out. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Hold.

Right. Right. I can do this.

Skitter could without any problem. She could wade in here, confident through every step, knowing everything that goes on around her, tracking every threat, planning for every single one. Wearing a mask.

I don't have a mask. I have glasses that have finally been replaced after the old ones were broken one too many times.

It's… not quite the same.

This is why I wanted to separate my cape life from my civilian identity. I don't want Skitter loose in my school; I don't want that… that level of violence anywhere near a learning place. Skitter is the one who's supposed to make a city where the Taylor Heberts of the world can go to school and feel safe—and they wouldn't be if Skitter was with them.

And… Lisa.

Lisa took me away from here, both Taylor and Skitter, and showed them, for a few days, what it was like to once again be safe, be not under attack constantly, be…

All right, this is far too sappy, but…

Be loved.

I shudder as I remember last night, as I remember the way she looked at me, held me in her eyes, and I knew the Thinker seven was behind those eyes, monitoring my every reaction, shifting as my feelings did, adjusting her tone, her gestures, her [touch]—

I shudder once again. Her touch.

I can't do this in public.

Without looking around me, trusting my bugs to help me navigate unnoticed, I go to the toilet where I saw Sophia's knee get shot. Where Lisa may have saved my life.

Then I lock myself inside a stall.

The place is quiet, most of the students rushing to class or too busy socializing, and the smell of bleach is the only thing that pierces through my thoughts as I sit on a toilet cover—no, as I lie quite a few sheets of toilet paper over the cover before sitting down.

I know what goes on in here. Knowledge can be too much of a curse.

I see Jamie smoking a joint, the smell piercing to the few small green scarabs that frequent the patches of grass breaking the cement near the back exit of Winslow.

I see Claire on the toilet above mine, the floor plan mirrored. And I see the plastic tube she holds to her arm before pushing and slumping.

I see Robbie, who went to middle school with Greg and me. Who was a nice kid who always gushed about how his mom baked the best cookies. Who once had a group project with me and was shocked to learn I no longer had a mom, so he gave me cookies for a month straight. Every day a new cookie, some new recipe his mom had come up with.

He's beating a black kid up. There are people laughing around them.

I… Taylor wants to reach out. To walk up to him and ask him what happened to that adorable little kid, or maybe have a wasp angrily buzz in his ear, spook him so he stops. Skitter knows that is a risk we shouldn't take, that our secret identity is already paper-thin, and having bugs start patrolling Winslow just as I come back is the surest way to out myself to what remains of the gangs. She knows interrupting the beating will only postpone it, that the black kid has a target on his back, and that won't stop. If anything, I may make things worse for him, the anger of his tormentors growing as it is delayed.

Robbie yells and slaps his neck, and a wasp swiftly evades his frantic attempts to fend it off. His friends laugh at him, and the black kid runs.

Skitter knows many things. But she really doesn't. She [believes] them, because that's what the last few years have taught her, but…

But Taylor, I…

Green eyes looking down at me, a frightening intellect behind them, the sharpest blade that could be brandished against me. Someone who could unmake me with a few choice words.

She says it's blunt, a hammer, something that she can easily use to destroy, but has a harder time using it to build.

It's a lie. It's a scalpel.

She can cut arteries and leave you to bleed. She can target each and every single weakness you have, carefully dissected by eyes that see too much.

She can open you up and let the infection seep out. She can cut out the gangrenous flesh, the tumors. She can make you weak enough that you can start to heal.

I remember her touch last night, and my breath quickens.

Her hands on me, so gentle, so careful so… I burn with her. I burn [for] her, as she catches me in her eyes, and she keeps looking at me with that deep green that is far more precious than any emerald would ever be, and she holds me, seeing more than I ever wanted to show her, seeing more than I ever knew there was to see.

She sees Skitter. She [admires] her, for reasons I won't ever understand.

But… She also sees Taylor.

She doesn't think there's such a great divide, doesn't think I'm as broken as I know myself to be, and I want to trust her, because she knows and sees, but… But I…

Greg is wandering down the hall. Sparky hasn't arrived yet, and he looks lost, trying to catch somebody's gaze, to see if somebody is willing to hear him talk about his latest passion that nobody cares about, and his shoulders slump, realizing once again how little he matters, how little anybody cares about his being there at all.

I… I regret a lot of things, and it's only now that I start to realize it.

Inhale. One, two, three, four, five, six.

Hold. One, two, three, four.

I am Skitter.

I am the one who makes the hard calls, who knows how to act decisively when lives are at stake, who helped Lisa execute Oni Lee. I am the one who would have had a swarm scour Bakuda's flesh off her bones if I hadn't known about her failsafe.

I am Taylor Hebert.

I am the one who wanted to be better than her tormentors, who wanted to be above the petty torture, the insults, and betrayal. I am… I am a girl who always wanted to be a hero.

I am…

I am Lisa Wilbourn's fiancée.

I am the one who listened as Armsmaster came undone, talking about every friend lost to senseless violence. I am the one who learned that heroes can and do kill, but only when there's no better choice, when the stakes are too high, or the circumstances don't let them hold back. And that it is always a failure, a defeat, having had to resort to that. I am the one who's trying to mend bridges with a father who seems present for the first time in years. The one who has done measurable good for this city, taking out one entrenched threat after another. I defeated a dragon, captured a mad woman, executed an assassin, and locked away a mastermind.

I am a hero.

I… I finally am a hero.

I take off my glasses and bury my face in my hands, crying silently, fat tears running down my face and pooling on my palms.

I… I really am. I have done good, saved lives. I've… during the bombings, I saw so many that would have died if we weren't there, if we hadn't kept working ourselves to the bone, jumping from one disaster to the next, and I…

I should be proud. A part of me knows that.

The other is just so… so tired.

We spoke with Armsmaster and Miss Militia about it. About triumph that tastes like ashes, about doing good that never feels quite enough, about fighting evil that always seems too much. They agreed. They know how draining it is when a win just highlights the overall loss, the dreadful reality that you have won, but that the battle should never have been fought, and it is a failure that it came to that.

They know. They agree.

They have been doing it for years.

I… I respect them so much now, so much more than when I idolized them, and I don't know if I…

No.

I'll keep crying, alone in this little stall, silent enough that no one will find me.

I'll allow myself that. This weakness, just as I allowed myself to be weak yesterday, knowing she was with me and would catch me if I…

I already did it for her. I was there when she cried in my arms, clinging to me as her whole world broke apart, as she realized she had been pushing the pieces together and breaking them even more with every attempt.

And I… I held her. Told her I loved her. Kissed her. Spent the night holding her.

It was heartbreaking.

It was the best night of my life.

So, a part of me feels like I'm robbing her of something precious, of the chance to be for me what I was for her that one time and all the others she has shown me that vulnerable side of hers that I absolutely adore, because I fear the Thinker seven, but I love the girl with green eyes that always have a bit of mirth in them, no matter how many other things there may be clamoring to be let out.

Another part of me thinks she planned this. Put me in a vulnerable position so I could start slowly unraveling at a rate that lets me be functional as each and every little dreg of trauma comes up to the surface and gets washed away by tears. It would be just like her, to manipulate me like this for my own good.

Skitter agrees. Taylor is a bit miffed.

I chuckle, and it comes out a bit watery through the tears, but once I start, I can't hold back.

Because… Well, that's just who Lisa is. The brilliant mind who always misses that small detail, so caught up in plans and schemes that she still manages to get caught off-guard whenever Colin calls her a Thinker six. The mastermind who's a caring, loving girlfriend, an attentive lover, the best friend I could've ever asked for, and she's still silly and ridiculous, claiming her motorcycle isn't stolen while unprompted, forgetting to tell me she's a millionaire while I quietly freak out about our financial situation as runaways, deciding it would be a great idea to pretend she's asexual just so I feel safe with her…

And… And she's warm. Soft. So much, and in a way I hadn't realized I needed so desperately, and…

Fuck it. I'm a crying wreck. An ugly mess. The traumatized locker girl.

And I, for the first time since that awful day, allow myself to be…

Well. Me.

…

I still think this is all her fault, and I will plan adequate retribution as soon as I'm done with my overdue crying fit.

***

I manage to get out of the toilet by the time third period comes around. It's World Issues with Mr. Gladly, and the only good thing I can say about it is that I don't have Emma or Sophia in it.

Mostly because one of them is in juvie and the other in a quiet place where pens are chained to tables, so the only good thing I can say about the class is about the only good thing I can say about Winslow as a whole.

I go through the door and walk past my seat without even checking to see whether there's something vile on it. I feel a pang of curiosity, but, quite frankly, I'm at a point where I don't know if I would feel worse if there wasn't anything on it. It's… a complicated feeling, and I decide to unpack it later on because I've already met my crying quota for the week.

If Lisa wants more, she'll have to work for it.

So I sit down beside Greg, who looks at me with a surprise so genuine it's actually pitiful. We were never quite friends, but the way I've treated him… I feel a bit of remorse about it.

It doesn't mean he isn't still annoying as a dumb puppy, but even dumb people have feelings. I guess.

"Hey, Taylor, are you doing—are you all right?"

I pause for a moment because I always need to remind myself about the excuse Lisa and I threw up together.

"Yeah, don't worry about it. My dad's stopped freaking out about the shooting."

"Uh. It must've been rough for him—"

"I'd rather not talk about it, Greg—" he flinches, starts hugging his arms. "But thank you. Really, I'm glad someone cares."

I smile at him, and he smiles back, so bright it's a bit sad.

Madison is looking at us and making kissy noises.

I'm very tempted to give her [all] the crabs.

… Why haven't I?

No, seriously, it would be a matter of minutes. Four of our classmates are infected, and the parasites can survive almost two days without feeding off a host. I could start a caravan right now, and by the end of the class, four people would be very relieved, and a fifth one would be exactly as miserable as she deserves.

So. Why haven't I done this already?

It's not about keeping my secret identity. That was never an actual concern, even if it should have been. It's not about being powerless to do it, because I could manage this much long before I developed my current skillset, back when I barely understood my bug's senses.

It's… It was always about being a martyr, about being better than them, not sinking to their level, but would that really apply? Is it sinking to their level when I act out of self-defense? When my only targets are so deserving?

… A part of me wants to talk to Lisa about this, but I really think I should solve it in my head before I bring it to her attention. Mostly because my girlfriend is protective enough that, even if she thought I morally should refrain from any hostile action, that wouldn't stop her from ruining Madison's life with a few choice words on PHO or something equally ridiculous.

I bet her parents are having an affair, or she's partially Jewish, or some other ludicrously insignificant, tiny thing that could destroy the social life she currently has.

How would I feel if she did that?

Aggravated. I wouldn't like that she did something I had the right to decide over. Why do I have that right? Because I'm a victim, her victim.

Why am I a victim?

… Because I let myself be.

The bugs tracking Madison's movements inform me she's about finished preparing her spitball.

I stand up.

The class quietens. Mr. Gladly looks at me.

I walk up to Madison.

"Miss Hebert, is there anything—"

"I'm sorry to interrupt the class, but this will only take a moment." Taylor sounds conciliatory.

"I think you should go back to your seat—"

"I think you should shut your fucking mouth and let me have this one moment before I destroy your career." Skitter doesn't.

He shuts up, but the class starts talking in hushed whispers, and, for once, I get the satisfaction of knowing that they are all looking at me and that it isn't just my paranoia acting up.

"What do you have in your hand, Madison?"

She looks up at me, her eyes wide, not knowing how or why the script has flipped.

"Nothing," she finally answers with that 'butter wouldn't melt in my mouth' voice.

"Ah. Right. Of course."

I punch her in the nose.

"Miss Hebert!" Gladly yells, walking over to me.

"I asked for a moment. I am not done with it."

"You most definitely are! Go to the principal's office right—"

I turn to look at him, and, right now, I'm not the locker girl. I am Skitter. I am the pragmatically ruthless hero. I'm the one who made a dragon cut his own face off.

He flinches.

Then I turn back to Madison.

She's silently crying, holding her nose, blood seeping out of it.

"Sophia always was the physical one, hitting me, shoving me down the stairs or against the walls. Emma always was the emotional one, digging up some horrible trauma from the past, insulting me for having cried over my mother's death. You? You were the laughing one. The cheering squad on the sidelines, making sure everyone knew how utterly hilarious you thought what your friends did was. Look around you, Madison."

She doesn't. She keeps looking at me, her eyes trembling, tears in the corner.

I grab her chin and force her to do it, to look up around and behind her. To look at the class full of people eating up the whole drama without doing anything other than record it.

"See? You don't have friends. Not anymore. You are laughing at no one's jokes, trying to act as if you still matter. You don't. Never did. [They] are the ones laughing. At how stupid you look with your runny nose, with the school pariah having finally decided she's tired of your bullshit. You are the one they will be laughing at from now on. Enjoy being the next friendless locker girl, [Mads]. You should know how it will go for you."

I take a deep breath. One, two, three, four, five, six.

And look around me.

I don't need to. I know what each and everyone of them is currently doing, from the ones frantically whispering, to those recording the whole thing, to Greg and Sparky not knowing whether to cheer or hide.

I can sympathize.

But there's a reason I'm looking around and making a show of it, meeting the eyes of those who don't pretend I don't exist.

"This place is awful. A hellhole. Because Hell is other people."

I pause, giving the appearance of a deliberate orator drawing in their audience's attention. I'm just trying not to freak out and come up with anything that's a worthy follow-up to that line.

In the end, I decide nothing is, and maybe simple is best.

"I'm tired of living in Hell."

I go back to Greg and smile at him. By the time I pick up my things, he has found the courage to answer with his own smile.

… I regret not seeing more of it, now that I know I won't have to listen to any more of his rants.

So I walk out of class, Mr. Gladly still frozen on the spot, not quite knowing how to handle the steadily rising noise of students who weren't that engaged to begin with.

He makes as if to reach out to me, and I shift out of the way before he even finishes the movement.

Then I, for what I hope is the last time in my life, walk out of Winslow.

I keep walking, and I don't stop till I can't see the damned building.

Then I lean my back on a lamppost and breathe.

One, two, three, four—

I'm calling Lisa.

"Tay? Finally seen the light of reason and decided to ditch?"

I smile at the line. At how obnoxiously annoying she can be when she wants to.

At how right she can be even when she doesn't mean to.

She must never know.

"Hey, Liz… Can you pick me up?"

There's a bit of a pause and then something hurriedly shifting and somebody that I think may be Alec muffling a string of curses.

"Send me the address," she says as a door loudly closes behind her.

I smile once more. Wider. Freer.

And I breathe easily and without numbers.

"Also, I [really] hope 'picking you up' is a figure of speech, because I'm not sure my delicate arms are up for a bridal carry—"

My eyebrow twitches.

The smile stays.

==================

This work is a repost of my most popular fic on QQ (https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/wake-up-call-worm.15638/), where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available on Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa?fan_landing=true)—as an added perk, both those sites have italicized and bolded text. I'll be posting the chapters here twice weekly, on Wednesday and Friday, until we're caught up. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated at a daily rate until it catches up to the currently written 85 chapters (or my brain is consumed by the overwhelming amounts of snark, whichever happens first).

Speaking of Italics, this story's original format relied on conveying Power's intrusions into Lisa's inner monologue through the use of italics. I'm using square brackets ([]) to portray that same effect, but the work is more than 300k words at the moment, so I have to resort to the use of macros to make that light edit and the process may not be perfect. My apologies in advance

Also, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Xalgeon, and aj0413. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and helping me keep writing snarky, useless lesbians, consider joining them or buying one of my books on https://www.amazon.com/stores/Terry-Lavere/author/B0BL7LSX2S. Thank you for reading!