21

Chapter Text

SAT FEB 19

Vista flopped herself down onto the couch after stretching space so she could do so from the door. She let out a frustrated groan and pawed her visor away from her face. Kid Win had already run off to tinker, which was fine with her. She didn't want to deal with other people right now. She'd been in a bad mood since she'd seen that message on PHO, with nothing to do but wait out the patrol and stew on it.

How dare that fucking cunt call her a prepubescent whore!? Called her small. Called her weak. So many insults in one little sentence.

And PR would crucify her if she responded in kind! She was allowed to be playful, make jokes, but never outright insult anyone. That'd just get her punished, and they knew the best punishments for her were just... sending her home.

She shuddered. The less time she had to spend around either of her parents, the better.

Sophia'd won this round, and the bitch knew it.

Missy threw her visor against the wall. It let out a satisfying crac-crunch as it rebounded off, then clattered to the floor. She didn't need to look to guess the tinker-polymer visor itself was probably fine. She might've cracked the plastic circlet rig it slotted into, but those were designed to be replaceable while she was still growing, anyway.

She sighed and rubbed her face, groaning into her hands. She had no intention of going home this weekend, especially with her mood this bad. She'd wind up snapping, which would lead to another argument, which the other parent would inevitably find out about and goad them about... she didn't even care to remember if it was her mother or father she was supposed to be staying with, right now.

She glanced over at their entertainment center, her half-lidded stare completely unimpressed. She didn't care about TV, didn't like video games the same way the boys did, wasn't interested in any of the movies they kept stocked here, and the training videos could go fuck themselves.

With a sigh, she dug out her phone. Might as well check PHO again, before figuring out what to do. She could always go out on an unsanctioned patrol, the gang borders were a mess right now, little fights everywhere, while the kiddies like her got stuck patrolling the safer areas. She should be out there in the fights, making the streets safe. Not cowering like a whiny little girl.

She took a deep breath and let it go. She was still pissed at Sophia. That's all this was. She didn't have to prove to herself that she wasn't a little girl, everyone who mattered already knew she wasn't. Missy steadfastly ignored how short that list actually was, as she navigated to the site and groaned.

The first notification when she refreshed PHO was from her keyword searches, telling her she'd been mentioned in Terraform's thread again. Knowing that, she deliberately skipped over it when she got to it. She skimmed the couple new pages on the Vista thread, checked the Gallant and Glory Girl threads for mentions of Dean and what he might be up to- it wasn't stalking if she didn't keyword search him, she repeated to herself- and ran down the list of ENE cape threads to distract herself from today, and the thread she was ignoring.

Eventually though, she ran out of things to dally on. With a put-upon sigh, she navigated her way back to Terraform's thread.

► SpecificProtagonist (Cape Groupie) (Threadbanned)

Replied on February 19, 2011:

Crashb0t Hey, everyone has their ways to handle stress. Some people smoke, or drink, or play video games, whatever.

I write TerraXVista lewds I'm never going to be allowed to post anywhere. That's how I'm dealing with the difficult time I've had for the past couple weeks.

What I'm trying to say is, gimme the deets!

What even the fuck? She was thirteen. There was no room for ambiguity in that, she knew her official page was even erred slightly younger than her real age on purpose. Way too young for that. She imagined the pervert in her head; a fat neckbearded nerd living in his mom's basement, spending all his time looking up porn and typing up sick kink shit like putting little girls in his 'adult fiction'.

Missy threw her phone to the far end of the couch, where it bounced off the arm and came to rest between the back and her foot. She shrank space to pick up the remote without having to move, clicking the TV on. Then she warped space so she could kick open the fridge, before letting that snap back into place, reaching her arm out to grab a can of soda, then pinching the fingers of her other hand, shrinking the empty space of the open door to nothing and letting the magnetic strips snap it closed. She cracked the can one-handed, a trick her dad taught her because he thought it'd make him look cooler to her. Instead it just reminded Missy what a stupid frat idiot he'd been when he knocked up her mother. Her other hand was busy flipping the TV to the Nature channel, pretty much the only station they got that was worth anything, and only because they had kitties sometimes.

She slurped at her can and stewed for a bit, zoning out to the documentary she'd already seen, about the biotinkered snakes some idiot released in Australia to try and fix their toad problem. The only thing the first watch had done was lead to her deciding to never, ever visit that crazy place. Long story short- it did not work. Way fewer dingos around to eat babies now, at least.

It only took half an hour before she was bored enough to try anything else to alleviate it. Whenever her mind wandered though, it always strayed back to that post. Slapping her hand down on the phone by her foot without bending herself in any way, she picked it up and growled as she flipped through PHO again. If her mind wouldn't let her escape the topic, she'd dig deeper and find a reason to stop caring about it.

She brought up SpecificProtagonist's profile, and scoffed. 15? Female? There was no way that wasn't a lie. In Missy's experience, girls didn't care about sexing littler girls, it was all the old perverts who were after kids. She even had a link to another site where her 'content' was supposed to be. She'd seen that scam plenty of times, no thanks.

She went back to zoning out in front of the TV for a while. Dennis came in at that point, suiting up for the patrol he had with Dean today, and decided to check on her.

"Hey, Missy. How are you holding up?" He asked, setting down his helmet and plopping into a seat.

She shrugged. "I'm fine. Dean not coming in?"

Dennis hesitated, but shook his head. "Picking up the suit from Armsy. He's meeting me out front." She groaned quietly and went back to the TV. She'd forgotten it was due for maintenance. "Hey, you sure you're okay? I saw what was going on in-"

Oh god no. "I'm fine." The last thing Missy wanted was to be babied.

He held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay!" He got up and grabbed his helmet with an unsure smile and a chuckle. "I'm going."

She didn't bother watching as he left. She appreciated that the boys were taking things more seriously now, but hated that it took Triumph getting kicked up to the Protectorate over the holidays to do it. She liked Rory, but he'd been 18 for something like half a year before they finally booted him off the team. She was sure there was some nepotism there, him being the Mayor's son, putting pressure to keep him in the Wards, and thus a command role, for as long as possible.

His long term as leader had left the other boys complacent, though. Aegis was floundering a bit, trying to figure out how to be their boss instead of their friend. Dennis and Dean were finally starting to realize their turns were coming up soon, since Carlos didn't want to stay in charge. Hell, he didn't even want to stay in the Bay! Traitor already had a transfer lined up for when he graduated.

Missy's problem with all of this was that these changes just saw them trying to baby her more, to show how adult and responsible they were. No one cared that she was the most experienced and best trained of the Wards. They just saw a child that needed watching.

She groaned, not wanting to drive herself into another rage arguing with herself over why she should be Wards Leader, already.

Now she wasn't just bored, she was pissed. When her thoughts turned back to that stupid lying pervert, she growled and clicked through their profile. They had some fake blurb, and a few comments and conversations there. And that link. She glared at it for a few moments, before deciding it was probably real. It looked like a real URL, sounded vaguely familiar, so some of her classmates were probably users there, and holding her finger down on the link until options popped up let her confirm the link actually went to the place it said it did. Dennis loved messing with people by posting up a URL and changing the actual hyperlink destination to something completely different, usually memes or old songs. Sometimes both.

The desire to leave scathing reviews on the pervert's smut quickly grew overpowering. She switched her phone to data-only, to dodge the stupid kiddie filters on the WiFi, and clicked the link. Getting a phone without filters like that was as simple as complaining to her father about the phone her mother had gotten her being in any way inadequate. It wasn't like they were going to scream at each other any more over it, but she hadn't heard it brought up yet. Missy's phone loaded the site just fine, and she made an account, obviously lying about her age when that option popped up. The first thing she did when it let her through to the 'SpecificProtagonist' profile on this other site was spin off another page in her browser to run a search for 'Vista'. To the site's credit, she didn't find much, and it seemed she was only mentioned in those, not starring. A quick skim through the board's terms and rules confirmed a not unreasonable 'No persons under 16' rule for the porn. Something about age of consent where the forum was based from.

She closed that tab and went back to examining the profile and stories list. The first thing she noticed was an overwhelming propensity for gay boy pairings. All of the ENE boys were on here- even though Chris really shouldn't, since he was 15- some of them multiple times. SP seemed to really like pairing Dean with Rory or Dennis. There were more, including the adult heroes, and even some girl pairings. She scoffed at one with a summary about Battery seducing Shadow Stalker into the Wards. Missy knew Battery was only a couple years out of the Wards herself, but knowing them? The whole idea was ridiculous.

She scrolled back up, looking for one that was especially heinous, and couldn't possibly be any good. Her eyes alighted on a Glory Girl / Panacea story, which fit the bill. She was self-aware enough to admit a good chunk of why she picked it was the little thrill that the pairing meant Dean would be single, there. She settled in, fully expecting to see some nasty lesbian incest scene before she could even scroll down.

---

Three hours later, Missy closed the story, feeling conflicted. She had only found one sex scene near the end, which was tagged so it could easily be skipped over. The entire thing was... actually really sweet. It took her a second to get over the fact that the characters acted nothing like Vicky and Amy, but once Missy'd convinced herself these were just girls who happened to have the same names and family situation? Surprisingly compelling. Amy slowly seducing Vicky, then the pair having a whirlwind Romeo-and-Juliet affair, before running off together.

Why was this even on this site? Sure, it had that one scene, but that could be cut out. It couldn't be the incest angle, everyone who bothered to look it up knew Amy was adopted. It was even right there in the story!

She'd barely even acknowledged Dennis and Dean getting back from their patrol, heading to her room to avoid the inevitable video game noises more than anything else. So now she was laying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to categorize all the feelings she was having. One thing she was sure of, SpecificProtagonist probably wasn't a guy. She didn't think a boy could capture a girl's internal thoughts that well. If that was true, maybe she was 15? It still didn't make it okay that they were writing little girls into their adult fiction, but... on the other hand, didn't that just mean they thought she was adult enough for it?

Missy blushed a little. It was nice thinking she'd found someone else that thought she could be in adult situations... with adult responsibilities, able to decide things for herself instead of being told she was too small, all her talent and experience left squandered.

She grabbed her phone and switched accounts. She didn't use this one much, but the option was always nice.

MissedByAMile (10:48PM): Hey, are you *really* writing that Vista stuff?

She stared at the screen for a bit, still not sure she should be messaging a stranger on the internet, but... the validation if she was right? She huffed, blacking her screen and slapping it down on the bed, covering her eyes with her other hand. She didn't need anyone's approval. She was just fine how she was.

...it'd be nice, though.

Her phone beeped at her, and she checked it.

SpecificProtagonist (10:50PM): Are you *really* asking about that?

SpecificProtagonist (10:50PM): Wait, I know.

SpecificProtagonist (10:50PM): You're a *cop* aren't you?

SpecificProtagonist (10:51PM): I know my rights! Text *I* put on *MY* hard drive is *MY* business! You can't harass me over that!

Missy scowled, torn between wondering what the hell this crazy was talking about, and wondering if that was actually anything like a valid concern, for a porn writer. It only took her a little bit to think of a halfway decent reason to be asking about this stuff, before she replied.

MissedByAMile (10:52PM): What? No. I'm a Vista fan.

MissedByAMile (10:52PM): She's my age, and I like imagining I'm her.

SpecificProtagonist (10:50PM): Wait, really?

MissedByAMile (10:52PM): *Yes*, really.

She heaved out a sigh, wondering if any of this stupid validation was even worth it... It took a bit for SP to get back to her, and Missy imagined she was doing a bit of digging, like she'd done earlier on the older girl's profiles and such.

SpecificProtagonist (10:53PM): Okay, let's say I believe you. What do you want?

MissedByAMile (10:53PM): I dunno, I thought it might be cool to read some of those.

MissedByAMile (10:53PM): Or swap ideas, if you didn't want to share.

SpecificProtagonist (10:54PM): ...

SpecificProtagonist (10:54PM): You *do* know I only write gay shit, right?

Missy groaned at their obstinance, and figured a bit of embellishment couldn't hurt.

MissedByAMile (10:54PM): Yeah, I know. I've read a few of your stories already.

SpecificProtagonist (10:55PM): Hmm... Alright.

SpecificProtagonist (10:55PM): What kind of story were you thinking of writing?

MissedByAMile (10:55PM): Maybe something Vista/Gallant?

SpecificProtagonist (10:55PM): ...go on.

Missy grinned, and started trying to throw together bits of fantasies she'd had in the months since her crush started to bloom, seeing what fit together into a halfway cohesive plot.

This was going to be fun.

---

WED FEB 23

Sarah was clicking away at her computer, managing the team's patrol and PR schedules for the next few weeks, when the phone rang. She made sure to save her work, before checking it. The number wasn't one she recognized, but it was a call to her New Wave business line. That wasn't so odd, she just hoped it wasn't another rabid fan or anti-cape bigot who'd managed to find their actual number instead of the glorified voicemail box they put on all their cards. "Hello? Sarah Pelham, Lady Photon."

"Hello." The voice on the other line was sharp and female, as well as old if her guess was right. "My name is Rosalind Lafayette. I am interested in making a sizable donation towards your team's foundation," The non-profit they used for costumes, insurance, and any costs from PR events. "and when I expressed an interest in speaking with you before finalizing the transfer, I was provided this number."

Ahh, one of those calls. Sometimes people wanted things from the team, be it personal meetings or autographs, or the less acceptable mercenary requests. Some of the hinted requests of the girls on the team still made her shudder to think about. Some of the idiots with too much money out there are just unacceptable with how they wanted to use it. Although to be fair, some of these calls are genuinely someone that just wanted to chat first, and she hoped that's what this was. She scribbled the woman's name down on the pad by the phone, before she could forget. People tended to make all their smaller donations at the PR events, not bothering to go through the trouble with the non-profit and the banks unless they were at least fifty dollars, usually a hundred or more. Sometimes they'd get the odd thousand dollar donation, some of their largest being five to ten. They'd gotten a twenty-thousand donation once, after taking down Marquis, which had been a major windfall given their private struggles at the time. "Thank you for your consideration, that's very kind of you. What were you wanting to discuss?" She didn't use words like 'what can I do for you?' in these instances, anymore. It never ended well.

"My granddaughter was hospitalized recently, and while she's now recovered, she is far too stubborn to take the reasonable option and leave the city for greener pastures... no offense."

"None taken." Sarah replied almost immediately. She knew firsthand how bad the Bay could get. She was relieved the call wasn't complaining about Amy not healing someone... that also happened far too often, in her opinion. The girl was a trooper, but not a machine. She needed downtime like anyone else.

"The next most reasonable course of action then becomes attempting to render the city safer for her. To that end, I've set aside some funds for the local police, emergency services, and independent heroes. I would consider endorsing the PRT and Protectorate, but there are some... unfortunate circumstances staying my hand."

Sarah knew a leading statement, and that was about as blunt as they came. "What sort of circumstances?" She asked, not seeing the harm in pandering, especially if not asking the question might cost them.

"When Taylor was hospitalized, the PRT almost immediately took control of the criminal investigations surrounding the incident and, to the best of my own investigations, have done nothing with them." There was a tightness to the other woman's voice, carefully controlled rage threatening to snap. "Even nearly two months later, I still find more signs of those initial few days of police action than any PRT efforts."

Shit, this conversation was a minefield. She couldn't side too heavily against the PRT, or risk some backlash as the leader of a PRT-Affiliated team. She could understand the woman's frustration though, and as much as she hated it, a not-insignificant part of her couldn't stand the thought of letting the donations slip away from them. "I'm sorry, that sounds terrible. Have you tried contacting them?" She asked, neutrally.

"Oh, they're on the list." The old woman chuckled. "Don't you worry about that. Now, what has your group been up to these past few weeks? I've heard you try to strike a balance between heroics and normal life."

A much safer question, but still felt a little like prying. Still... "We've been taking some time off and patrolling more. There's an Endbringer attack due soon, and we want to make sure we're ready to help out." Not to the fight itself. She wouldn't mind going, but if she went, Neil would follow, not to mention her children. Crystal was old enough Sarah couldn't stop her if she wanted to, now. She shook her head, not wanting to dwell on even considering losing any of them.

"Ah, yes." The words were hissed with a venom that surprised Sarah. "I don't begrudge anyone wanting those monsters dead. My husband and son were in New York." Sarah inwardly cursed, and couldn't help imagining an ominous click underfoot. "Entirely different buildings, but... I like to imagine they were together, in the end."

Sarah resolved to hug Eric whether he liked it or not, the next time she had the chance. "I'm sorry for your loss."

She had the feeling Rosalind was shrugging. "It's been fifteen years, and at least I still have my granddaughter."

Right. The granddaughter. The entire reason for the conversation. "And... her name is?"

"Taylor Hebert." That name sounded familiar, but the only thing that came to mind was the man who ran that dock union... They'd never interacted, but she thought it might be a 'D' name? "Don't worry if you can't put a face to her name, she's endeavored to not be newsworthy, and I can't help but think it's at least partly my fault." She must have waited too long to comment, and gave a polite chuckle.

"It's good that she's out of the hospital. How is she?" Be polite, keep her engaged.

"She's doing much better after her transfer to Arcadia. She's happier, and making friends. I'd prefer if if she were doing so in a safer city, but at this point she doesn't want to be moved again." Sarah wondered if she'd met any of their children at school, and decided she'd ask Eric if he'd heard anything about her. Probably after the hug.

"I understand the worry, ma'am. If it weren't for my circumstances, I might have considered moving." It did no one any good not to admit the Bay had its problems. Better to own it and spread some breadcrumbs to follow.

"Your team, yes." Sarah inwardly cheered at having steered the conversation away from the minefield. "Most of what I've found looking into your group, has been about the Dallon girls. Could you tell me a bit more about the rest of you?"

Right... "My own children have been focusing on their studies when not patrolling, Eric goes to Arcadia and tends to patrol around the school and home, since he's a rather slow flier." Public knowledge. "Crystal likewise watches out for the campus area, when she's not in classes there." Don't need to mention that she's living in an easily targeted dorm room instead of home... "Carol does a lot of very important work that does sadly pull her away from patrols fairly often, but makes time to patrol and liaise with the PRT. Neil and I have a nice balance to our cape and civilian lives, I think." When they can find civilian work, anyway... "And Mark is-" ...barely functional... "-on call, whenever we need him."

"Hmm..." Sarah could feel the weight of decades of intense scrutiny in that hum, and couldn't help the slight sweat that broke out. "...I believe I will be happy to support your team and its mission, Mrs. Pelham."

"That's wonderful!" She said excitedly, scribbling down a couple more notes before she forgot.

The old woman hummed pleasantly. "If you don't mind, I have several other calls to make, before I visit my granddaughter today. Have a pleasant afternoon."

"You as well, and thank you again!" Sarah said, waiting for the line to click dead before she hung up.

Well, that went well enough, and the team had another windfall to look forward to. That always brightened moods around. She clicked back to her work, fiddling with schedules and making a quick call about a venue to host something in a couple weeks, hopefully after the Endbringer tension was done for a few months. Then she clicked over to their online banking pages, curious about their newest donation, only to choke on her own spit.

That couldn't be right.

She called Margie, the non-profit specialist they usually worked with for New Wave's non-profit foundation, only to be told that yes, the numbers were real. Yes, she'd checked with Madam Lafayette's accountant, it was intentional. Sarah idly thanked her, and the headset slipped from her loose fingers. She very nearly fainted, staring at her screen.

Sarah blinked, forcing herself to take a breath, rapidly and somewhat violently writing the number down on the sheet she'd been scribbling notes on, underlining it twice, and tore it off the pad. "Neil!?" She called, diving to the floor to retrieve her fallen phone.

The big man thundered up the stairs, meeting her at the door as she floated into the hallway. His concerned gaze instantly assessed his wife, and seeing no immediate problems, grew confused. "You alright?"

She swallowed to try and wet her dry throat. "Yeah, I'm... calling Carol over." His head tilted slightly, and she pushed the paper into his chest. "We got a donation."

He grabbed the sheet, and she heard him mutter "...that's a lot of zeroes." as she floated down the stairs.

She dialed her sister's number, and floated to the kitchen table, seating herself rather heavily in her chair.

"Sarah? Is everything okay?" Carol asked, duly confused since Sarah rarely called during regular 'work' hours, even if they were all taking time off.

"I don't know. Probably. I just... need to talk. Can you come over?" She tried to keep her voice even, and wasn't sure she succeeded.

Manpower came down the stairs a minute later, rather woodenly seating himself at the table, and setting the sheet of notes down in front of him. It only took Carol about five minutes to pull into their driveway, they didn't live that far away after all. Surprisingly, when she let herself in, Mark followed in behind her. He must be having a good day.

"Sarah? What's wrong?" Carol asked, eyes darting about for anything out of place. Sarah motioned to the table, and her sister stopped short, warily. "What's going on?"

"Please sit down." When her sister didn't budge, she sighed. "We got a donation."

"That's... nice. But not strange. What's wrong?"

"I think you should be sitting." Sarah said, somberly.

Carol was about to protest again, when Mark came up behind her with a gentle push forward. She huffed, and stalked to the seat nearest her sister, and Mark took the next one. "What is all this about?"

"We got a donation." Sarah said again, and when Carol was about to chime in that she'd already said that, she continued. "One hundred. Thousand. Dollars."

Mark goggled at her, turning to Neil, who nodded.

Carol grit her teeth, staring at her sister, giving her a moment to spring it as some uncharacteristic joke. "That is... a suspiciously large amount of money." That was the sort of money one might drop on a multinational aid foundation, not a pair of nuclear families who fought crime in their spare time.

Sarah nodded. "That's why I called you over." She motioned to Neil, who handed the note off to Mark. "I have no idea what to do about it."

Carol took a glance at Sarah's chickenscratch, and couldn't help the ominous feeling she recognized those names. She took a deep breath and turned back to her sister. "Please, summarize."

She took a deep breath. "I got a call earlier, from a Rosalind Lafayette. She said she was donating to places around the city, to make it safer for her granddaughter Taylor. From the sound of it, she was planning on handing out money to everyone but the PRT and Protectorate. Something about dropping the ball on the case that had her hospitalized."

Mark winced, Neil groaned and palmed his face, and Carol took a deep breath and slipped further into 'lawyer mode'. "I wasn't aware the PRT were involved."

Sarah gave her sister a wary look. "But you were aware of the case?"

Carol nodded. "I looked into it, after Amy brought... Taylor... home with her."

Sarah blinked. "Wait, brought her home? So she's friends with this Taylor, or...?"

Her sister sneered slightly. "As far as I know, yes. Friends."

Sarah carefully ignored Carol's reaction. "So, it's possible Rosalind knew Taylor was friends with at least one of our children, and was... saying thank you for taking care of her?"

Carol scoffed. "I highly doubt it."

Sarah threw her hands up in frustration. "Well the only other option I can see is her trying to turn us against the PRT somehow!"

"Sarah." Neil boomed calmly. "Carol, both of you calm down." He watched his wife start taking deeper breaths, then met Carol's flinty gaze. It took a moment, but she glanced away first. "I don't think a little bad blood is going to do much. Piggot already hates us on principle, and the rest of her staff are professional enough to at least act like little things like this didn't happen."

"I liked her." Mark said, breaking into the mood and causing the others to glance at him curiously. "Taylor, I mean. Nice girl. Bit awkward. I think she grounds Amy a bit..." He visibly chewed on his words for a moment, before he nodded. "I think they're good for each other."

This left the others thinking somberly for a few moments, before Sarah sighed. "Carol, you obviously know more about the situation than the rest of us. What'd you find about Taylor's case?"

Her sister didn't bother denying that she did know quite a lot about it, despite not having direct legal access to all of the pertinent data. "I couldn't get access to her medical records, and didn't know the status of the investigation." She shook her head. "Nor who had the investigation. What I was able to gather was that Taylor Hebert was locked in her locker for several hours before breaking herself out, and whatever she'd been locked in with, it was bad enough that no one would touch her. The faculty present called EMTs to take her to the hospital, not because she was that badly injured, but because they wouldn't have to pick her up to take her to the nurse."

Mark sighed, closing his eyes. Neil tensed angrily, and Sarah covered her mouth with a hand, muttering "Oh my god..."

"She spent almost two weeks in the hospital, and remarked once that she'd been comatose for at least half that time."

"And no one got fired over that?" Sarah huffed angrily. "I know I would've heard about this if they were!"

Carol shook her head. "Several of the faculty were given citations, and mandated sensitivity training and emergency medical training. The school has such a high turnover for faculty that apparently they can't afford to fire anyone outright over this one incident."

"That's bullshit!" Sarah spat, and Carol glanced away and gave a very small nod of agreement.

"I think we can all understand why the woman is so angry, now." Neil said evenly. "I don't like that she dragged us into it, but... she did give us more than I make in a year."

Sarah could easily admit, that did make it pretty hard to stay mad at the woman. It still didn't feel quite real, yet. Their team was just... fine, financially. This one donation would cover their regular spending for the rest of the year, and it wasn't like the regular smaller donations were going to stop entirely. They were a public practice, anyone could look at their ledgers if they asked the right people the right questions, but how many actually did that? It might make the people that would second-guess donating to them, but the rest?

They shifted gears after that, touching on Endbringer plans, and upcoming PR events once that was past. No use wasting the fact that all the adults but Crystal were here, especially when she was such an infrequent participant in those plans, with her college work piling up.

It was about an hour later that Carol and Mark left, with a promise to keep an eye out for anything on the Hebert front.

---

WED FEB 23

I groaned as I saw the number. "It's from Carol…" I got up with a huff, nodding towards their living room, and wandered off to take the call. "Yes?"

"Where are you?" Carol snapped.

"I'm at a friend's house." I stated calmly.

She paused, and I caught the slight trepidation in her voice when she continued. "...is it Taylor?"

"Why does that matter?" I had to remember not to snap, Carol always had to escalate if she thought someone was confronting her.

She huffed out a small sigh, but didn't seem to be gearing up to yell, this time. "I'll let you know when you get here. You're coming home, now."

I had to resist the urge to pull the phone away to glare at it. "Why?"

She hissed in a sharper breath, and I knew I'd fucked up. Her next words were flat, pointed, and clearly enunciated. Lawyer mode. "Something has come up, Sarah called me over to discuss it, and now I need to speak with you about it. Come. Home."

No winning here. "...fine." The call ended, and I took a slow, deep breath. Whatever she wanted, I was not looking forward to this…

I went back in, and told them I had to leave. Then Taylor's grandmother offered up her driver, catching me off guard to the point I didn't speak up before she'd made the call. I glanced uneasily at Taylor, who shrugged. I sighed and shook my head, wondering how the hell she decided what to be completely unflappable about. I started for the door, and she hopped up to see me out. I couldn't tell if she was being courteous, or if this was another of her 'dumb puppy' moments that made it so hard to dislike her.

Case in point, the awkward wave she gave when I got into the car. She was never trying to be cute, but she managed it anyway. I gave a little wave back, hiding my wince at how painfully adorkable she was being.

After we'd pulled out, the driver caught my eye in the rearview. "So… you're Panacea, right?"

I bit down the groan. "Yeah?" I gave her my most deadpan nonplussed stare.

"Oh, just... uhh." She blushed a little, chuckling to ease her nerves. "Just wanted to make sure I was taking you to the right place."

She hadn't asked where my house was. That... was the most awkward type of fan. Just nice enough that public figure decorum demanded being nice back, but creepy enough you were never sure what they wanted, what they already knew, or what they were going to do with anything new they learned interacting with you. I'd hesitate to say 'the kind you have to be nice to, but can't quite feel safe around' because it was pretty hard to beat my power for feeling safe from the usual creepy fan threats, but I knew that's how it'd be for a normal celebrity.

I ignored her, digging out my phone and sending Vicky a text, asking if she was still busy. When I didn't get an immediate reply, I sighed. She was probably still riding Dean in whatever 'sufficiently romantic' dark corner of they Bay they'd wound up in. I leaned into the door, looking out the window and trying to ignore the dark, jealous, betrayed disgust trying to bubble its way out of my stomach. Vicky didn't belong to me, I'd just have to be fine with that.

My phone finally dinged about halfway home. Just a quick 'sup?' from Vicky. I felt the giddy joy at interacting with her rise up, and peter out. Now wasn't the time for that.

'Nd hlp, if ur free' I sent. She sent a couple of question marks back. 'Carol clld, hav t hd hom. prbs pissd. Run int?'

The wait was longer this time, and I imagined she was discussing it with Dean. 'Gmme 20?' she sent back, as we started pulling down my street.

'Ur the best.' I sent with a smile. I could handle Carol for twenty minutes.

We pulled up to the curb, and the driver called out to me. "So, uhh..." She pulled out a paper pad, and a pen. "Would you mind? My little cousin's been on a New Wave kick, recently..."

I sighed. Usually I wouldn't bother, only playing this nice with the fans when someone else was around, but then I thought of Carol waiting in the house, and eyed her car warily. With a choked down groan, I took the pad, killing a couple minutes asking who I should make it out to, what I should say for them, and making... small talk about what her cousin was like. I hated every second of it, but it was better than giving her another few minutes to ramp up before Vicky got back.

Eventually the conversation got awkward though, and I had to let her go. I watched her pull out, and heaved a small sigh. "Into the fire, I guess." I turned and made my way up the driveway, taking the steps as slowly as possible without looking like I was intentionally stalling.

Carol had set up in the living room, with a clear view of the door, like I knew she would. Her sharp gaze tore over me for a moment, her fingers never pausing as she typed something up on her laptop. "Sit." She commanded, and I ambled over.

Whatever it was, she finished typing and closed the screen just before I sat down. After a few seconds of silence, I figured this was one of those days she wanted me to be engaging. "So, what did you call me home to talk about?"

Carol clucked her tongue, still assessing me. "New Wave received a rather substantial donation today, from one Rosalind Lafayette."

I glanced down, trying to remember if she'd mentioned that. "Isn't that a good thing?" I asked, meeting her eyes again.

Her lips pursed unpleasantly. "It was to the sum of one hundred thousand dollars."

My eyes widened at the unexpectedly high number. I knew she'd talked about money in amounts that sounded pretty rediculous, but I didn't think she'd have that much to just throw around. "That's some pile o' dosh." I muttered. Her eyes narrowed, entirely unamused. "I still don't get it though, that's good, right?"

Carol's pursed lips softened, but her eyes narrowed slightly. "Nominally, yes. However, I've checked with contacts in other organizations, and it seems the police and fire departments each received around thirty thousand, while hospitals and clinics have gotten twenty or less, depending on their size." She leaned forward, her gaze somewhat predatory. "Note that among them, I did not mention the PRT, nor Protectorate. It appears that we have received their shares, and I do not like the message that is sending to anyone who checks." She leaned back. "And believe me, they will."

I knew she was waiting for me to speak, expecting me to fess up, like she always did. I had no idea why she even tried anymore. It hadn't worked since before I was ten, and she'd always punish me for it when I did. "I have no idea why." I said honestly.

Her eyes flashed, and she bit her tongue. I could tell she wanted to tell me that was bullshit, and that I should just tell her whatever it was she wanted me to say that would justify her paranoia. "You have no idea?" Dripped out venomously, instead.

"None." I stated firmly. Meeting her eyes meant challenging her. Looking away meant admitting guilt. Like everything about Carol, a no-win situation. I chose to try and stare her down.

She bristled exactly as I knew she would. "I don't believe you."

You never do. "I do not know why she'd have a problem with the PRT. I could guess, but that'd probably be wrong." And she hated guessing, anyway. "You're going to have to ask something else, if you want more than that."

She tensed, her teeth gritting, but she swallowed that down before responding. "You are aware that she's Taylor's grandmother, yes?"

I hated the accusation towards Taylor she was leveling with her tone, but I couldn't address that without this devolving into a shouting match. "Yes. She dropped by a little while ago, to talk to Taylor. We were introduced, then you called, and I left. She had her driver give me a ride home." A factual statement of events, leaving out the important parts.

"And you don't know why she might have an issue with the PRT?"

I quirked an eyebrow. "Should I?" I had no idea what she was trying to prove, and was getting tired of giving the same damned answer. "She doesn't tell me everything. I'm sure you don't tell Aunt Sarah everything." I caught the minute flinch, and knew I'd scored a point. Hypocritical bitch. "If you know something about Taylor that I don't, I trust her to have a good reason she hasn't told me, yet." Put up, or shut up, Carol.

"Apparently," She started, choosing her words carefully. "The investigation into what hospitalized Taylor was taken under the PRT's jurisdiction, and I assume-" Oh just call it a guess, you hypocrite! "-that their findings were inconclusive enough to displease her."

I leaned back, thinking on it. "That makes sense." I met her eyes again. "I still didn't know about that until you told me, though."

She hummed, still apparently unconvinced. "I still don't like that she's trying to play us against the PRT, Amy."

I raised my arms in an overenthusiastic shrug. "I don't see how it's our problem. If you really don't like it, just... I dunno, give them their shares, or something! Or you could just keep it, and not care, since it's not like the public is going to find out and make a huge stink about it. The PRT's got federal money backing it, they shouldn't need big donations like we do."

"She has no right to involve us in her squabbles!" Carol snapped.

"I don't think she cares." I spat back. "What would you do if the PRT just up and dropped what happened to Eric, huh? Or what happened to Crystal?"

Her eyes alighted with a mad rage at my mention of their trigger events, and she nearly leapt to her feet. "You do not get to take that tone with me, young woman!" She shouted.

And like she'd been waiting for it, and for all I knew, she had, Vicky chose that moment to charge in through the front door, trailing a cacophony of cheerful ruckus in her wake. She looked slightly more ruffled than the windswept look alone could properly account for, but I doubt Carol noticed. "Hey mom! Ames, what's going on?" She chirped happily, trying to diffuse the situation.

I couldn't help one last jab. "Oh, Taylor's grandma gave New Wave a bunch of money."

"Really?" She asked, her eyes lighting up.

Carol glared down at me in betrayal, warming the cold cackles of my heart. Go ahead, spit all over your little angel's good mood. I fucking dare you.

She gave up, turning away with a huff and turning her attention to her real daughter. I smiled at her back. Just five more months, you bitch, and I'm free of you forever. The thought filled me with more joy than I thought entirely reasonable, but it wasn't like I'd turn down a good mood.

---

WED FEB 23

Reuben heaved a weary sigh, leaning his weight on his good leg, and the wall of the alley he'd trudged down into. It wasn't much, but it was private enough for a couple minute's rest. The Merchants were finally starting to settle down, today's patrol was downright uneventful compared to even yesterday. He'd heard Skidmark had been put down, nearly killed. Squealer didn't care about anything, and Mush was too passive to start fights without his violent boss goading him into it. It looked like the city was going to calm down just in time for the next big 'truce'.

He snorted to himself. Truce. What a crock of shit. The gangs never stopped, even if they played at keeping quiet for a few days, drugs kept flowing, girls kept disappearing, families and businesses still had to pay their 'dues'. Truce only kept the violence bottled up until someone popped the bubble again, then they'd make up for lost time. He shook his head, groaning as his weight settled back on his bad leg.

A metal paw reached down to rub at the pocked and scarred steel plating covering the limb. He knew it couldn't really press through the armor over the healing bullet wound, but the motions still helped a little. He knelt slightly, so he could put more weight on his hands to scrape along the plates. It'd been almost two months since he'd been shot. Not even the worst wound he'd ever had, but it still laid him out. They tossed him in a clinic, told him to focus on getting better. Not two days later he gets word he's fired.

'Honorable Discharge' his ass. The damn skinheads were looking for any excuse to have him pressed off the force, and they finally managed to make something stick. Getting too old, too slow to catch up to changing procedures, mentally unfit for grief or overwork... they even tried to use his daughter against him. Single parent shouldn't be running around getting shot at, they said.

And then this happened. Through shot, grazing the bone, tearing the muscle. They told him he was lucky, that it missed the artery and he'd mostly recover, eventually. All he heard was 'low priority'. In a good city, with a good force, with actual money, he could afford to sit around and wait to heal, or wait until he could get healed. In Brockton? They cut him off, dropped like bad meat. Gave him enough money to survive for a couple months for his years of service, and left him out to rot. His savings would give them another month or so, but he was already digging into it to get by. Looking for work, looking for parts, looking for anything.

Too much longer and he'd have to resort to the money he'd been stealing from the Merchants. He wasn't the smartest man out there, but even he knew you didn't fuck with the IRS. They'd see him magic up money, and come knocking. Then they'd have to run.

That, or get shipped off to join the heroes.

The crackle of broken glass crunching under thick boots had him look up from his power-gauntleted hands, to the entrance of the alley, where he saw a figure. He reached down to his side for his weapon for tonight- a rebar pole that still had a bit of concrete on one end. That was one lesson he hadn't had to learn in this hero gig. Never bother with guns, too noisy and lethal. Never bring your own weapons when you could just find one and toss it. Less blood to clean, or track home. Fewer tools he had to buy or replace.

He reared up, bulky suit standing just shy of two meters tall. He was big and he was slow, but God help you if you found yourself under the hammer he raised menacingly.

"Whoa, whoa!" The man said, holding up his hands. The lamps to either side of his faceplate lined up on him, and Reuben saw he was a lanky white blonde, which set him not liking the fool on principle. "Not here to fight."

"How did you find me?" He rumbled deeply. The speakers on his rig weren't the best, but you could understand the words coming out the other end, and that was enough.

The man grinned and shrugged. "It wasn't too hard. You've been busting up Merchants for the past few weeks, figured you'd be around." He nodded down to the scratched up leg plating. "You're not exactly the quietest guy."

He lowered the hammer, giving the illusion he was standing down. An upswing that'd barely kick at all with meat arms could still knock the fight out of any normal in his suit. "What do you want?"

"Just a chat." The man said, and Reuben's metal fist creaking the rebar in its grasp let the man know just how bullshit that sounded. "Alright, not... Okay. Just thought a guy like you might be getting tired of running solo."

"Pretty sure I'm a little too black for your club." The speakers did a halfway decent job masking his voice, but it couldn't hide that the words started deep. The Merchants had already picked up on his skin color, he didn't think he was giving up much shoving it in this asshole's face.

"Alright." The man said, his grin starting to strain a bit. He slowly reached up to his neck, digging a bit for a cord necklace under his shirt. "Think you might want to reconsider calling me a Nazi to my face." Dangling on the end of the cord, hanging in the beam of light, was a well worn but obviously old and cared for Star of David.

It was possible this guy was playing it up, taking some old Jew's necklace to get people like him to let their guards down. Reuben shifted, his stance less hostile, the hammer dropping a bit to rest on the ground. Something in his gut told him the man wasn't lying. The set of his jaw and the steel in his eyes, Reuben saw real hate there.

"Sorry." He rumbled.

Blondie put his necklace away. "All good. Not like I don't milk looking Aryan for everything it's worth around here." He stepped further into the alley, slowly at first, but picking up momentum when Reuben stepped to the side to make room. "So, I gotta ask. You've been running around hitting the gangs, mostly Merchants, but they could just be in your way." The man took a deeper breath. "Rogue, hero... or villain?"

Reuben had to admit, he'd put some thought into this question. He didn't care as long as they got by, but his thoughts always turned to his little Abigail, and what he'd leave behind for her. "...not that last one."

The man stared up into the faceplate for a few seconds before he nodded. "Name's Gerard." The man raised a hand as if to shake, but took a good look at the mitt of his gauntlets and held it up for a fistbump instead. Reuben humored him, letting him bop his fist on a raised gauntlet. "Engleman, though it's 'Gerry Stuart' if anyone looking too white asks."

He nodded, as much as his rig allowed for it. "So?" He prompted.

Gerard nodded back. "There's a new hero running around. Wants to gather up some independents and form up a team." Huh. Surprised they thought that'd work, but he couldn't fault their initiative. "Meeting's Sunday after next, Captain's Hill, 8PM. There's a little gazebo on the far side, that's the meeting point." He rummaged in his jacket as he kept talking. "It's fine if you don't wanna' show, no hard feelings." He finally pulled out a folded up slip of paper and held it up. "I, uhh... I've got the number for the burner phone we're coordinating this stuff through here, but... I don't know if you've got pockets on that thing?"

Reuben sighed and knelt down, taking a closer look at the sheet as it was unfolded. It didn't look like it'd been tampered with or coated in anything, and indeed just had a phone number string written on it. He cracked the back plating open, letting it clang against the internal mechanism he'd need to crank to open it further. Gerard refolded the note and tossed it through the gap before backing away, letting him winch the seal shut again. It made it harder to get in and out of, but that was kind of the point. Much harder to crack open if someone wanted to get at him, and very little way to accidentally hurt himself in the hatch and its mechanisms. It's not like getting out fast would save him from much right now, crippled as he was.

"So yeah, should always be someone at that number if you call it. Plan right now is to meet up at the gazebo and head into the woods nearby for a little privacy. If you've got any questions, or want to make the meeting and can't, just call and we'll figure something out."

"Who's this hero doing the recruiting?" He rumbled as he stood again.

Gerard grinned. "Her name's Terraform. Might want to keep an eye out for her." The man shook his head wistfully. "She's... sure something. Idealist type, with a hell of a chip on her shoulder."

A woman? Or a girl. Either way, he didn't think he could afford to turn a blind eye to the offer at hand. "I'll think about it. The team thing."

"All I can ask." Gerard said, backing away with a shrug before turning with a wave. He stopped at the entrance to the alleyway and turned back. "And hey, regardless? Good luck out there, Tin Man." He gave a jaunty salute, and headed off down the street.

Reuben sighed. That goddamn nickname was never going away, was it? Oh well, not like he'd come up with anything better to call himself.

He decided he was done for tonight, and made his way back to his van. He'd gotten it on the cheap, probably the stereotyping involved, and stripped it out to kit it as a transport for his rig. The only things he really had were his fitness to keep up with the beat cop life he'd fallen into for the past decade, as well as mechanic training he'd gotten growing up, and a little bit of engineering from school. More than enough for what he needed. Tinkertech was ridiculous, but good old fashioned know-how and ingenuity got you pretty far when you needed them to.

The back hatch of the long white panel van opened up when he tripped the signal for it to from inside his suit. He clambered in, grabbing handholds he'd welded in and pull-crawling his way inside. It was a tight fit, and he only made it fit by pulling up the rig's legs at the knee before he hit the button to shut the door. It was a bit of an awkward dance, getting in and shutting up the van to make an ambush harder while he cracked and cranked the hatch open, then opening the door to straighten his legs so he could crawl out of the suit before folding it all up again with a remote from the driver's seat.

It was silly, but it got the job done.

He thought on the offer, while he was driving back to the house he was still paying off. Plans made for a couple who both worked rarely panned out well when one of them passed early. A team could help with supplies, keeping up the stock for all this tinker gear without having to rummage around or steal from the gangs. A team could maybe help with money, set him up with a cover job to explain the gang money, since he still couldn't find anywhere hiring for the shit he was trained in. A team could help with safety...

His mind turned to Abigail. The last light of his life. That poor, sweet child who thought her daddy was a hero.

Yeah. Maybe a team could help with that.

Notes:

Reuben is a product of considering Brockton as a dynamic system, and thinking about what would actually happen after the Slaughterhouse rolled through town. The cops would be hit hard, most of them getting killed off in the crossfire and winding up with them handing out badges to anyone fit enough without a criminal record. He's one of the last to get culled out of the job, despite technically not qualifying for it.

EDIT: Aaand fixing a wrong word ate the formatting on the little PHO bit again. I am choosing not to care. I'll fix it at some point.