Wake-up Call – Chapter 74
[Vista]
"You are [not] going," Dennis says, standing in the middle of the underground steel corridor with his arms crossed in what I think he believes to be an imposing way.
I arch my eyebrow.
He doesn't move.
So I shrug, push outward the wall to my left to give me ample passage, and step around him.
"Hey!" he says with a panicked cry as he tries to grasp my shoulder.
…
"Really?" I tell him, right in his ear, while he tries to reach me across an unpassable chasm.
"Gah! Stop it with the Escher thing!"
"Only if you stop trying to freeze me. Really, don't you get tired of doing this?"
Dennis glares at me.
Then tries to shoot me with the stupid silly string launchers Colin put in his new gauntlets.
I am [still] not sure if that was meant to mock the time prankster, but all signs point to 'Yes.'
"[Really]," I repeat, but with my own arms crossed for emphasis as the string flies out in a geometrical pattern I know to be eye-watering to anyone not used to my power's peculiarities. Such as, at a gross estimate, the entire population of the world minus one.
… Could I make the [Simurgh's] eyes water?
Further testing is required.
"You're a kid!" Dennis finally yells out in frustration as if that should put an end to the ongoing argument about my frequent volunteering to Endbringer battles.
This time, I don't bother with any posturing; I just reach out to slap him over his—
[Sneaky].
"Almost got me," I acknowledge with a very imposing frown, if I do say so myself.
I mean, I once made Sophia Hess flinch with it.
I think.
Look, it was hard to tell with that stupid mask of hers, all right?
"Not sneaky enough, apparently," Dennis says, rubbing the back of his head where I slapped him after some frantic space manipulation to avoid him tagging me.
Because he was waiting for it after goading me with that obvious taunt. Of course he was.
"I don't understand why you are so against—" I try to [reason] with him like the mature adult he most certainly isn't.
"Because there's absolutely [nothing] you can bring to an Endbringer fight that would make up for the risk of losing you—"
"Well, that's just not true, is it?" a cheerful, young, feminine voice coming from above us says.
Dennis and I blink at one another and then look up at the only visible speaker set in the junction between a currently curved wall and a very straight ceiling.
Seeing it, Dennis blinks again and starts rubbing his temples.
"Look, I'm pretty sure you're hot enough that I would love to kiss your ass and agree with you if you were here, but you aren't," Dennis says. "So kindly fuck off and let me talk some sense into my teammate—"
"Are you going, Dennis?" she asks.
He freezes.
"Lady, you just managed to jump up in my list of priorities over Behemoth, so you'd better explain yourself before I call a truce violation."
"Cute. Now that I've got your attention, the fact is that I'm a very powerful Thinker helping coordinate the current battle, that your secret identity has been known for quite a while, and that you're a massive hypocrite."
"It's not hypocrisy when [I] do it," he says with utter conviction.
And I smack the back of his head.
He looks away from the currently giggling speaker to shoot me a vicious side-eye, but, really, what was he expecting?
"Right, so, let me help you both speed this up: you're going to argue Vista can't bring anything substantial to the fight; she's going to tell you about that little trick you both like to practice in which she helps you reach a target, then you're going to go back and forth until you remember that thing about Behemoth having a lethal radioactive aura that would cook you both alive if you so much as tried, thus invalidating both of your reasons for attending."
I… blink at the speaker.
"Well, she [did] say she was a powerful Thinker," I tell a very grumpy Dennis.
"She isn't done," he bites back, arms sulkily (and not imposingly) crossed over his chest once more.
"Of course I am not. Because we could leave things here. In fact, my conscience is screaming at me to leave things here, given I am not about to risk my life in the field, and I don't want anyone else to do so on my behalf, much less you two."
This time, I arch an eyebrow.
"And to what do I owe that distinction?" I ask her.
"Oh, in your case? That you would make for the cutest playdate companion to another world-class cape who's getting very grumpy at me right now—"
"Will you [get on with it?"] a… a kid's voice filters through the speaker.
"Not now, Dinah. You're ruining my mystique as a disembodied voice about to give them a quest after a life-changing decision."
"I am pretty sure it's impossible for me to ruin [something that never existed."]
"Gee, you forget to pick up the phone one time, and—"
"Thirty-five times! I called you thirty-five times! Now tell them the darn plan!"
"Language!"
I look at Dennis.
Dennis looks at me.
We both start walking toward the exit of the base.
"Wait!" the first voice says. "I still haven't given you your quest!"
"Lady, you could be giving me the wettest sword in the kingdom, and I would tell you to shove it straight up your—" Dennis says, likely referencing a dumb movie.
"Oh, kinky. But, speaking of wet things… You're going to divert a river."
I pause. So does Dennis.
"What?"
"Ever heard of the Labors of Hercules? Well, how'd you feel about the Labors of Cockblocker and Vista?"
I exchange a look with my most annoyingly loyal teammate.
"Make that the Labors of [Vista] and Cockblocker," I say.
"Hey!" Dennis protests.
But I'm already walking away.
Really, Thinkers talk too much. It's a wonder Dennis isn't one.
***
[Kid Win]
Recalibrating teleportation fields—rapid deployment of multiphasic cannon prioritized in—
"You aren't coming, Chris," Armsmaster's voice tells me from the monitor showing him in the midst of fiddling with something that looks like a module for his bike, and isn't [that] interesting—I always knew he had specialized load outs for different known threats, but the fact he can switch them on the fly—wait.
"What?" I ask him, still adjusting the beacon for my teleporting equipment set in my chest plate.
"You are not going. You don't have any technology you can deploy that would be enough of a contribution to the fight to justify—"
"And [you] do? The man who pokes at things with a sharp stick—no offense meant. Sir."
The man looks up from a piece of sparking cobalt blue metal and arches an eyebrow at me.
I… swallow an uncomfortable lump in my throat.
Because [reasons].
"I [do] have planned countermeasures," he says in a tone as dry as the supercomputing area beside his lab.
That is, quite dry. And don't you ever dare sneeze in its close vicinity.
Because [reasons].
"With all due respect… If you have that technology, I can use it," I tell him as I finally set aside my chest piece so that I don't damage the delicate components with hands trembling because of rage at being set aside, terror at facing the [Hero Killer], and the familiar frustration at being told that I'm not good enough to—
"Yes. And that's why you're staying," he says, rolling his eyes as if I just said something obvious.
…
"Pardon?" I tell him with what seems to be the only dialogue option not currently grayed out.
"You'll be managing the coms in my lab."
"What? Why do you need a coms—"
"Hi there!" an… [effusive] blonde wearing a domino mask interrupts, almost shoving Colin out of the frame as she enthusiastically waves at me. "My name's Lisa Wilbourn, I'm the second most powerful Thinker you're likely to ever meet, but the most powerful one is still in grade school, so she doesn't count. You've been recruited to assist me in murdering an Endbringer."
Armsmaster, because reasons, is pinching the bridge of his nose and [slowly] massaging it in circles.
"What," I reply with what seems to be the only currently glowing dialogue option.
"Yup! Me and my girlfriend are in dire need of a nerdy yet athletic man to carry the heavy load of tech we, delicate, nubile women, can't handle by ourselves. If only you were already here to—[hey!"]
"I am Taylor Hebert. Your assistance in saving the world is required. More will be explained when [Honey] here isn't about to have a nervous breakdown that requires her to annoy everyone to death before Behemoth can do something worse to them," a tall brunette says after pulling the blonde back by the collar of her, I'm only now realizing, [skintight] costume.
And then the monitor cuts off.
I… Take a moment to process it.
Then look at my currently disassembled armor.
Realize how [utterly] disassembled it is.
And swear up a storm.
At least, this time, I won't be getting a PR lecture because of it.
***
[Aegis]
"Look, I'm just saying, unless you plan on depressing Behemoth to death—"
On the other side of my grey desk, Dean glares at me.
I raise both hands in what I think is a pretty pacifying gesture.
The glare intensifies.
"You are our leader, Carlos," he says.
"Right. And as the current leader—"
"If you are… undisposed, I'll need to be there."
Sometimes, I can taste my feelings. It's a part of my synesthesia that doesn't always trigger, far more inconsistent than how my sense of touch and hearing often cross wires.
This time?
I don't taste the acrid tang of fear. I don't feel lingering notes of something metallic like I would with uncertainty.
No, this time, I feel [pride].
It tastes… kind of like a steak with Rochefort sauce. I blame The Three Musketeers.
"Wha—?!" Dean, the inept empath that he is, flails as I fly over my desk to wrap my arms around him.
"Shut up. Let me have this," I tell him.
And he…
Hugs me back.
Then, the speaker set on my desk crackles to life.
"I will be coordinating from here, Gallant," a girl I've never met says. "Aegis is right: you can't do anything in there that justifies the risk."
And the speaker turns off.
With my body still floating over my desk, my arms still wrapped around my friend, I turn to look at him.
And I don't need to be an empath to know what those narrowed eyes mean.
"I mean… I am [usually] right," I tell him, slowly letting go of him and shrugging my arms before righting myself on his side of the desk.
"Miss Militia—" he, spiteful bastard that he is, starts to say.
And I, very maturely, and as befits the dignity of the Wards' leader, stuff my fingers in my ears and start singing 'Another One Bites the Dust' at the top of my lungs.
Then, after a bit more squabbling, Dean and I sit down on the common room's sofa until it's time for me to go.
When it is?
"See you later," he says with a smile as steady as he can make it.
And I smile back.
***
[Danny Hebert]
"She isn't going," I tell the trembling woman sitting on my sofa.
I would offer her a cup of chamomile tea, but…
Not the time for jokes.
"Are you… Did Taylor…" Pam can't bring herself to ask.
And I take a deep breath that I slowly release as I sit by her side, but at a distance where I can see a flying pillow coming at me.
… It's not like I'm holding a grudge or anything.
"Lisa made a deal with Armsmaster so he would let them operate as independent heroes. As part of that deal, they wouldn't go to Endbringer battles."
Pam takes her own deep breath, the emerald sweater she wears almost straining for a good fraction of a minute before she lets it out.
"Then… Then why did she…"
"She wanted to break the deal. And got talked down," I offer her with what I think is a reassuring smile.
It may not be. I'm admittedly out of practice.
"And this Armsmaster, why does she care so much about…" she stops herself mid-question and looks right at me.
Her green eyes are so very much like her daughter's, but… in some ways?
Not at all.
Because Lisa, even at her worst, always has a spark of mischief, of [life]. Something that makes me believe the young parahuman girl my daughter is so fond of will, someday, be all right.
Pam's eyes… she doesn't have that spark.
She had it, for a little while, after her last talk with Lisa. After she was allowed to call her Sarah.
But now it's no longer there.
I close my own eyes. My own green, lacking in spark, eyes.
And reach for her hand.
She grabs mine fiercely, painfully, her thin fingers digging into my flesh, her nails on my skin.
And I let her.
I let her as our joined hands almost tremble with whatever it is that she's trying to hold back. All the impotence, the fear, the rage of being a parent who can't protect their child.
I just…
I just let her.
Just as I wish somebody had been there for me to do the same.
***
[Amy Dallon]
"You're not going," Piggot's voice tells me from the other end of the line.
I sigh and try not to grit my teeth, because enamel may be the hardest substance in the human body, but the stupid thing doesn't grow back, and I had enough problems with bruxism already not to need another scolding from Mom the next time I go to the dentist.
"If my family goes—" I start to say, tucking my head between the wall of my bedroom and the cushioned headboard of my bed.
"If your family [asks you] to go, give me a call, and I'll get you to social services before they can say 'Endbringer Truce.'"
"They don't have to [ask], Emily; they are my family—"
"And they should want to keep you safe over any other concern."
"And what if [I] want to keep [them] safe?" I ask with maybe more vitriol than somebody trying to keep me away from a gigantic murder monster merits.
Maybe.
Likely not.
"Then you remember that that's not your job," she says.
I try to count to ten. And fail.
"And what is my job supposed to be?"
"Strategy, not tactics," she immediately replies, in that tone she has when she's about to give me a lecture.
I… sigh.
"And what does [that] mean?"
"It means that if your mother or father go there and get crushed, we lose a weapon. If you are killed? We lose a [resource]."
"That does not clarify [anything] and is actually pissing me off."
She chuckles.
I lament not having her in reach to activate all her carefully-tuned nociceptors at once.
[Bitch].
"All right, let's… The difference between tactics and strategy is that tactics are what you do on the field. You take in the conditions of the ongoing battle and react with your available resources. Strategy? Strategy is what defines the objectives around which the plans must be made. What you want to accomplish. You are an incredibly potent tactical asset, yes, but… In strategy? You could [redefine] the map, Amy. You could… there's just so much you could accomplish if you survive to do so…"
Her voice trails off.
There's an uncomfortable tightness in my throat.
"This is about what I'm doing to you, isn't it?" I force myself to say, if only to banish the feelings her almost wistful, careful tone is unwillingly calling up.
"No. That's just the tip of the iceberg," she immediately says.
And that makes me pause.
Because Emily… She barely counts as human at the moment. She could very well be an entirely new species.
A better one.
And I can't… I can't even begin to think what she has in mind that would mean that isn't the very best of what I can offer—
"Golden rice. I can't believe I haven't told you about golden rice," she mutters.
"What?"
"It was a project that started in the eighties. Somebody noticed that certain populations had a deficiency in vitamin A-rich foods, so they decided to engineer a strain of rice that would act as a source of it. Something that could be locally produced without changing dietary habits. Something that could help… I don't even know. Millions? It… It boggles the mind, Amy, what a single, genetically modified crop could do on a global scale…"
I bite my lip before sucking at it, wetting what feels like suddenly dry skin as I try to get my breathing under control.
"Emily… what are you saying?" I finally manage to tell her without my voice trembling.
"I'm saying… that you're going to change the world. And I don't want anything to risk that," she says, with absolute certainty and faith in…
In me.
I stay silent, and so does she as I hug my knees with my free hand, keeping my phone by my ear as I just listen to her… breathing.
Breathing strong and steady, without a single hitch.
And… I did that.
I…
"Emily?" I ask.
"Yes?" she says.
"Are you going?"
She laughs.
"Not if you don't."
And she hangs up.
Leaving me alone, on top of my bed, staring at the closed door to my bedroom as Vicky yells and screams at Mom to let her go be Alexandria Junior.
… I need to get away from heroically-minded blondes. They will be the death of me.
***
[Shadow Stalker]
The sirens sound.
The ones I always wondered what I would do about.
"Move it, Hess," a guard says, poking at me with a nightstick to guide me back to my cell.
And for one clear, awful moment, a moment that burns past the anger, the resentment, and the hurt pride…
I realize I'm glad I don't have to make a choice.
==================
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 93 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!