6.0

Interlude: Geoplanidae

Chain link fences blocked off several roads to the East. Towering buildings were left abandoned, shells of themselves. The entire thing had taken place so quickly that there were still lightbulbs on inside some of the buildings. For a take-over that had been gradual, and performed by a single being, it was startling how abrupt the abandonment had been.

A single woman, Anna, a cleaner for one of the office buildings, had seen it first. Out of the window of the room she was working in, on the sixth floor, roaming between the buildings. Early morning there wasn't much in the way of sunlight, but the glow of the street lamps and the pearly cast of the moon had shone from its back like the reflections from gelatin, smooth and glossy and sticky looking.

She had called it in, of course. Atlanta had its fair share of parahumans, and besides, Anna was just past her fiftieth birthday and had seen the rise of them across the world. She'd been to Europe, before it had all gone to shit, and she'd been to Mexico to visit family back when you could still do that. Parahumans were just another thing to add to the list of changes she'd seen in her life, alongside home computing and mobile phones.

It had been silent, and the night was silent beyond it, and when she called it in she felt the ringing of the phone pierce the quiet like a rapier.

'Hello, you've reached the Parahuman Response Team, Atlanta, how may I help you?'

She ran through her location, before explaining the issue.

'I was taking a break from my shift, just looking out of the window, and I'm pretty sure there's a parahuman lurking around here. One of them monster capes, you know. Looked about the size of a man, dark though, all slimy like. Sticky.'

'Has the figure approached you?'

'No, I don't even think it saw me. I'm pretty high up, and it didn't look.'

'Has it made any noise, or indicated any intent to disturb the peace?'

'No, other than it doesn't have a reason to be around here this time of night.'

She felt the dismissal over the phone, and she couldn't really blame them either. There were a lot of parahumans in the city, many of them actively dangerous, and there were only so many people employed to deal with them. If they started sending out squads to deal with every report they got of a parahuman – or even, just a suspected parahuman – who was existing peacefully, there'd be no men left over to deal with any real problems that came up.

Nevertheless, as she hung up the phone to a promise of a squad being sent 'that way', she couldn't shake the feeling that something fairly extreme was happening.

When she woke up that afternoon, still tired from the night shift, it was to several panicked voicemails, a missed alarm, and a flimsy piece of paper stuffed through her letterbox.

She worked in reverse order. The paper, a single sheet printed only on one side, looked as though it had either been printed out by someone within the building or had potentially been a rush-job from the local precinct. Plain white printer paper, headed with a warning that portions of the city had been cordoned off and that they were not to enter the premises. Below, a grainy black-and-white image of a map, her workplace dead in the centre, was printed above a repetition of the warning.

At the bottom, the contact details of the PRT, alongside an instruction to contact them if any additional information came up, were printed in bold, black letters.

Anna left it on her table while she made coffee, rubbing her temples with her fingers. Her head hurt, a combination of dehydration and the lack of sleep, and she could feel her bones aching. Nothing weighed on a body like age, and while Anna was far from the most ancient person in her apartment block, she had been working in some form of custodial position for decades. Scrubbing things took it out of you; some days the felt like she had less one foot in the grave, and more one foot still poking out.

Clearly, the squad that had been sent out had found something. Another villain for the city, it seemed, at least by the indication of the notice.

She took a sip of the hot coffee, bitter and without sugar or milk, as she played the first voicemail. It was the most recent, working backwards.

'Hey Mom, just wanted to check in on you. Some stuff going on near AmTech, did you see anything there last night? Hope you're okay. Get back to me when you hear this.'

Hector's voice warbled a little in worry at the end, and she made sure to send off a quick response. She was fine, he could call when he got the chance. She'd done her best to raise him right, and she thought that she had done as well as could be expected, but he had always been a bit fragile. World had gone tough, she knew that much for sure, and she had hoped he would have grown a little less nervous as he aged but there was no luck.

The next voicemail had been a call-back, this time from the PRT. They had told her to call back as soon as she could. She was willing to do that, but it would wait until after she'd heard the rest.

Pressing play on the third, she took a sip of coffee.

Whispered voices. Shaking. Voices through tears, as though trying not to be heard.

'Oh god,' the voice tailed off into a higher pitch, as though restraining a sob. Anna couldn't even recognise who was speaking, at first. 'Oh god, please Anna, please call me back when you get this, please tell me you're okay. Are you okay? Please just let me know. God, I'm so fucked.'

The phone crackled, before a thudding sound came through, as though it had been dropped. Then, a scrambling sound as though it were being picked up again.

'I can't call long. I don't know if it can hear me. It,' another shuddering breath. 'It already got Aaron. Oh my god, it got Aaron. It came out of nowhere and fucking puked at him. Please tell me you weren't here. Please tell me you were already gone when it got here.'

Voice cut by breath and panic, it took Anna a moment or two to unpick some of what was being said, but it came through enough for her to understand, even if she didn't truly know. Somewhere in the distance of the call, Anna heard a high, keening wail, like the scream of the coyote, and then another heaving sob, before the call disconnected.

Suddenly, she didn't feel as though the coffee was quite strong enough, and she dropped the cup to the table with a shaky hand.

Towards the end of the call the voice had become clearer, though fogged with fear and mucus. Michael, the day-time janitor who came on shift shortly after she left for home. A tall, broad man with a life-time of hard work behind him and the strength to show for it, bristle moustache trimmed neat, quavering on the phone like a hit dog.

And whatever it was had 'got' Aaron, the electrician. What exactly that meant, Anna didn't wish to speculate.

She had called the PRT back as soon as she had been able to get her wits under her, even before contacting Hector, and had been hauled in to give a statement and describe what she had seen to an investigator who took prompt notes and conjured a rough sketch to the best of his abilities. She had been shown the aftermath of the attack, confirming it was her workplace and that yes, as far as she knew, the two missing men were Aaron and Michael, the voicemail on her phone confirming as much.

Her job was gone, she had been informed. The building was not being re-opened for use. In fact, until they were able to understand the details of what was going on, the entire city block was going to be closed.

And that blockade had simply never lifted. In the year and a half since that had happened, Anna had found new work. Hector had worried over her, and driven her back and forth to it for the first six weeks despite the clashing of their timetables. The blockade grew, until three, then five, and then six city blocks had been totally walled off, until Cinereal – the city's Protectorate Leader – had grown sick of it. Informing the public of the danger in her usual terse manner, she had declared the entire zone a hazard site, and had proceeded to incinerate the entire lot with flames so hot that glass across the street had melted.

And she had returned to do the same like clockwork since, every two weeks. Glassing a portion of the city as habit.

Anna had never been told exactly what it was she had seen, or why the burnings were necessary, but the spreading had stopped. Occasionally someone, usually a stupid kid from the nearby schools trying to prove they were tough, entered the hazard zone on a bet or a dare and they never emerged. Anna could name at least three that had been lost that way.

The myth of The Planarian had started there, and that had been bastardised a few times over into other names that nobody much bothered with outside of niche internet forums and idiot kids. People heard about what she had seen, and apparently a few others had seen whatever it was through the chain link fences that had been put up, or from a distance looking down. She wasn't sure how much she believed those rumours, but people seemed adamant about it, and it's not as though she had much evidence to her own sighting either. Other than that call to the PRT, which had apparently done very little. Without a record of a squad actually going out, she had no idea if they'd even recorded it for posterity.

Sometimes when she slept she still saw that glossy, gelatinous surface, and heard that distant wail.

That silent creep. Michael's fearful cries.

Sometimes, Anna didn't sleep at all.

6.0 - Furnace

Monday, 18th​ April

First impressions were important. You'd been told that when you were a child, introducing yourself at school for the first time, and then again when you had first moved up to middle school and then high school. Every time you had fussed in front of a mirror, looking at your frog-like mouth or your wildly out of control hair. As a very small child, you had known that you weren't really pretty per se, but you hadn't thought anything of it. Dad wasn't handsome either, and he was the best.

As you had grown up, doubts had started to creep in. By the time you were hitting high school, you knew well and fine that you weren't a pretty person. That, too, was okay, because beauty – as much as you wished you had it -was far from the sole or even most significant trait a person could have. If nothing else, you had friends.

Then you had gone to high school and found that that was no longer true. And the same insecurities that you had stewed over for years were thrown back in your face at every opportunity. And Dad was no longer the best, at least for that brief time at Winslow. First impressions were very important, and as far as you could tell, you'd failed every one of them for a very long time.

It was for that reason that, clambering out of the car which had taken you from the airport into the city proper, you took your time evaluating your new home. Atlanta was a different world from Brockton Bay – less warm than you had imagined, given the things you had read online, though it was only April, and the journey from Brockton Bay had taken long enough that you were arriving in the early afternoon despite a morning departure. Farewells had been spoken to Armsmaster and Director Piggot, and you had been placed on a plane with Dad and told that you'd be met on the other end with a car. That had been true enough, and now the residential suburban streets surrounded you on all sides.

Much of it looked like Brockton Bay. It was strange how similar two parts of the country could be despite the distances. Foliage looked a little different, and there was even a different cast to the greens of the grass that you wouldn't have been able to communicate to anyone, but the houses were of a similar size and spaced in a familiar way. There were porch-steps, like at home, and the streets had the same mixture of pavement and grass. Everything looked a little healthier than in Brockton Bay, which you supposed made some sense given Atlanta's economic success – having never been a port city, it had managed to make it through the rise of the Endbringers without as much damage as Brockton Bay – but it still looked nicer than you would have expected given the horror stories.

Either the things you had heard about Atlanta had been vastly exaggerated, the local government was exceedingly efficient, or, and you considered this most likely, you had been placed somewhere that had been far away from the epicentre of the more recent outbreaks of violence. Precautionary moves on the behalf of the PRT.

Whatever the explanation, you felt the weakening afternoon sun, still shining as best it could as the clock turned towards dusk, beating down on your skin. While the temperature wasn't nearly so hot as you had expected, the skies were clearer, and it meant that every drop of sunlight made it to you. Part of you felt like a basking reptile, and you realised with a sort of detached amusement that if you ever wanted to, you could make that happen pretty easily.

Dad exited the car behind you, and took a similarly evaluative look at the street. Much like you, he didn't seem to see anything worth noting. It was all nice enough, but from what you could gather much of suburban America looked indistinguishable, whether it was in Georgia, New York, Massachusetts, or Montana. The only thing that was missing was the picket fences, and there were enough red fire hydrants to make up for that.

Once you got inside, things started to feel a little different.

Nothing enough to make you feel unsettled. Nothing enough to make you feel like you had made a mistake. Everything was just different in a way that felt hard to explain; you'd lived your entire life in the same house in Brockton Bay, and although you knew on an intellectual level that the walls surrounding you were now home, it still felt as though you were a visitor. As though any moment, you would open a door to somewhere that you shouldn't and have a grumpy homeowner tell you to back away.

And yet, between the bland magnolia walls and the wooden floorboards which looked newer and more high quality than what you had been used, there were signs that it was yours now. Dad's chair, moved along as part of the larger goods that were seen as essentials – no surprises who had made that call. Mom's bookcase, empty but with boxes lining the floor in front of it, promising a return to familiarity. Most of what you could see what boxed up, and even then it wasn't everything – Dad wasn't heading in to work for the week, so that he could be home to co-ordinate everything being dropped off and placed into its rightful spot – but it was enough that you knew you hadn't just walked into someone else's home uninvited.

Objectively, too, it was nicer. The space was no larger, but it was in better repair than your home had been in Brockton Bay. Nothing felt like it was about to go through, or rot out. You'd have been surprised if the building itself was older than ten years; while not brand new (scuffs made themselves apparent in place to place, and there were signs of repair on the bannister that lead up the stairs) it had clearly been renovated relatively recently, and you wondered how much such a place would have cost if you were trying to move in all on your own.

More than you would have been able to afford, you were sure of that. Maybe it was time to start looking for some ways to earn some money. The PRT was helping with a lot, largely as a result of your unique power-set forcing their hand to keep you on side, but there was going to be a limit to their generosity and with the newfound influx of tinker demands flooding your mind, you were sure that that limit was going to be reached sooner rather than later. Kid Win's warnings had made that clear enough.

You and Dad split up, the two of you trailing off into different parts of the house, occasionally calling a comment through to the other as you explored. There had been pictures sent over, apparently, though you didn't remember having seen them, so Dad kind of knew where most things were but you were operating blind. There was something exciting to that, even though you knew that was kind of silly.

On the second floor, there were two rooms set up as bedrooms, a bathroom, and another room that you figured Dad would probably use for storage or something else. Guest room was probably the intention, but given that you knew nobody in Atlanta yet that was probably pretty presumptuous, but nevertheless, it seemed like it could come in handy.

Which of the bedrooms was yours was obvious. Clearly, the fact that it was being outfitted for a Ward was a known fact to those who had set the house up, and alongside a bed – that was in considerably better shape than the one you had left behind in Brockton Bay – and a desk – likewise – there was a large box marked with the PRT logo. Once you opened it, rummaging around inside, you found a few basics; a welcome leaflet, alongside some basic equipment. Much of it was redundant. You already owned zip ties, for example, and had a burner cape phone. You assumed that it was a pretty standard welcome pack for people who joined the Wards in a more conventional manner than your own circuitous recruitment.

Of considerably more interest, however, were the things packed in the bottom of the box.

'Dad,' you said, carrying the box through as you made your way out of the bedroom. 'I think you might want to see this.'

Despite your voice never raising above a conversational volume, the empty space in the house reverberated and you could tell that he had heard you as soon as footsteps started coming from the other end of the hallway.

'What is it?'

Spotting the box in your hands, he gestured downstairs and you took the lead, placing the box down on the table in the kitchen as soon as you could. Dad wasn't far behind you, and he took up station on the opposite side. Suddenly, you felt the same trepidation you had months earlier, with the two of you in a similar orientation, before you had revealed your trigger.

'They left this uh,' you fumbled for the words, before settling on the entirely inadequate, 'welcome package, I guess. Take a look.'

He pulled it towards himself and rifled through the top contents, reacting with the same sort of nonplussed acknowledgement that you had. Despite the seriousness of the situation, you almost found it amusing. If anyone had ever doubted you were Danny Hebert's daughter, seeing the same twitch of his eyebrow that you had done as he placed the items to the side would had removed any and all questioning.

And, just as you had done, he froze as he reached the bottom of the box.

'They really just gave you this?'

His voice was flat, though there was a tremor of anger in it.

'I guess so. There's an information booklet with it, but I figured that you would want to see it first. Maybe there's an explanation in there?'

He scraped his fingernails against the bottom of the thick cardboard, before pulling the glossy booklet out. Across the front, you could read the title even from the distance – In Case of Capture.

You'd known that Atlanta was a dangerous place. You hadn't assumed it to be quite the kind of place that would provide you with suicide pills in advance. If it weren't so absurd, you might have laughed.

Tuesday, 19th​ April

After Dad had managed to calm down and you had talked him out of heading to the PRT himself to try and strangle people, the rest of the evening had gone fairly well. According to the manual that Dad had slowly made his way through, almost tearing the paper with the force of his grip, the pills themselves weren't actually suicide pills, rather, they enforced a comatose state. While perhaps only slightly better, the fact that they existed to mitigate torture rather than to allow you to kill yourself made Dad decide that he would kill the local Director after a conversation, rather than before – though, he still felt the need to place the pills in his own room until such a time as that conversation took place.

Much of the rest of the evening had been spent getting things arranged and talking. While you had spoken to Dad much more over the last few months than you had in the year prior, you still didn't get much chance to simply converse. Most of the time you were involved in some kind of heroic activity, and over the last few weeks his own obligations at the Dockworkers Association had consumed larger and larger quantities of his time. Getting the opportunity to speak and relax without any deadlines or tasks looming overhead was a rarity, but you could tell that he appreciated it at least as much as you did.

Atlanta, having no real docking industry, had transferred Dad into a position working in the administration of a local rail union; he had been thrilled with the ability to keep working on something that fit his beliefs, and although you understood very little of it you knew enough from growing up the daughter of a union man that all workers had a common cause, so you didn't question it.

Though you did wonder exactly how much experience was transferable from a failing dock to an apparently fully functional rail system. Presumably the role in administration meant that you would spend as little time as possible actually working with or on trains – you knew that he was a quick study, and if there were a few weeks for him to get caught up you would feel confident about things, but the idea of having Dad trying to actually work on a locomotive felt like asking for disaster.

With the entire industry in a healthier state than Brockton Bay's port, however, there was relatively little chance of you performing a similar miracle to the clearing of the Boat Graveyard; a benefit in a lot of ways, but still something you begrudged. You'd been searching for some kind of way to positively benefit Atlanta since you'd found out that you'd be moving, and other than the nebulous goal of getting the roof back on the capitol – a task that was going to have to wait until someone actually found out where it was – you were still bereft.

As you travelled, out of uniform but with it packed safely in your back, to the PRT headquarters, you wondered whether you'd get the chance to replicate your public relations miracle in the new city anytime soon.

Chances I'll have a major PR success in Atlanta within the next few months?

50%

As much as you didn't like the answer, it made sense. You had no real grasp yet on what would make a big impact or not, other than just taking down villains, and somehow you had a feeling that it might not be so easy in Atlanta as it had been in Brockton Bay. If it were as simple as just hitting things, someone would have done it by now; the Southern city had been a war zone less than a decade ago, and that meant that they had far less investment in maintaining a delicate peace than Director Piggot had in Brockton Bay.

Still, you thought it best to check the inverse, too.

Chances that I'll have a major PR disaster in Atlanta within the next few months?

20%

Not likely, but not impossible.

With the state of the city, you assumed that was probably going to be as a result of collateral damage rather than from a routine action.

Some of the names you had heard of during your research before the move spoke of danger – a few of them, you were sure you could subdue in a fight without too much trouble, even on your own. From what you could gather, most of The Runners weren't that tough. Octave, on the other hand, seemed like they could be a problem and there were a few of them that seemed to cause issues that you had no idea how to solve even if Skýla and Regent were by your side.

The car pulled up without you ever realising you were there, and when you looked out of the window at the building, you knew why.

Nothing like the Brockton Bay PRT Headquarters, which was all glass and steel, gleaming as though it was a fancy office building first and paramilitary central second, the Atlanta equivalent was a low and squat building built from a sort of reddish stone with steel framed windows. Rather than building upwards, it built out, and seemed to be only three floors high. A portion of the building located to the left hand side of the large entryway seemed scorched almost black, and you wondered whether that was recent or if they had simply been unable to get the marks removed without having to replace the material underneath.

The closer you looked, the more it looked like like a fortress, the windows relatively small compared to the side of the facade and set higher off the ground, as though to deter people from looking or climbing in. There was no visibility into the main hall except through the front doors, providing no insight into who might have been inside – in comparison to the open plan frontage of the Brockton Bay headquarters, which welcomed tours with regularity and which was essentially open to any passers by, it seemed secretive in the extreme.

Not to say that you didn't understand. But it was worth noting.

You made your way inside and talked briefly to the secretary inside, who seemed almost a clone of the Brockton Bay regulars in manner, but whose brightly coloured hair seemed at odds with what you had been used to at home. It continued to remind you that although things were mostly the same as they were before, everything was just a little bit different to what you had been used to.

She had directed you up to the first floor, and into the right wing of the building, which led to Director Shrugg's office. Having expected as much, you followed her instructions and made your way up the carpeted stairs and along the long corridor until you were at the heavy wooden doors of your new boss.

You wondered whether he was going to be like Piggot or not. Perhaps, you feared, he would be worse; Piggot had been a hard-ass, there was no doubt about that, but she had respected you for your ability to get things done and had been willing to grant you exceptions where she probably didn't have to in order to reach goals that were mutually beneficial to you both. She hadn't even pressed when it had turned out that your independent hero application had been largely falsified, seemingly willing to forgive the deception given the circumstances.

She was not pleasant, and you weren't going to be sending her any Christmas cards in the future, but she had been workable.

For all you knew, Director Shrugg was essentially a tyrant. You'd heard that Cinereal, the local Protectorate Head, was a tough figure. That much had been clear from the documentation you had been given when you had chosen your city of transfer. But anyone who had to be her boss seemed as though he would be intimidating in the extreme and you weren't sure how to handle things.

Before panic could take you over, a reedy voice came from within the Director's office, ushering you in. You followed.

'Ah, Penumbra, nice to see you!'

The room looked, as far as you could tell, like an old man's study.

Books lined the walls, windows shuttered to provide a veil of tempered light that dripped like molten gold across the dark wood and the thick carpet that held the warm air of early summer in a tight grasp and moulded it into a stifling heat. A large, soft armchair sat behind a dark wooden desk, looking much more like an old school businessman's study than a cutting edge military operation, and sat in the chair, dwarfed by its arched back, was a thin man with thinning hair who reminded you of a significantly pointier version of Dad.

Director Shrugg, it seemed, didn't hold with any of the imperious austerity of Director Piggot's glass and steel domain, and you weren't sure whether the soporific warmth and overall brownness of his office was meant to tell you anything about his personality or not.

'Hello, Director.'

Without much of a read on his personality, you decided that keeping things brief was in your best interests. From the look of his wide smile, and the way he leaned over his desk to shake your hand, he took nothing negative from it.

'How was your trip down? Did you get settled in well?'

You couldn't place his accent exactly, but it didn't feel like he was from Georgia. If anything, you thought that he sounded a lot more like a New Yorker, though his accent was softened by time and distance, and you felt strangely assured by it.

'Well enough, thank you. It will take some time to adjust, but I think things will be okay.'

'Absolutely, I understand one hundred per cent. Now, before I let you go free to visit your new Ward companions, there are just a few things I need to go over.'

Befuddlement came over your face, and you wondered how quickly he noticed it or whether he had simply built the response into his early talk.

'I know that you've come from Brockton Bay, a lovely city in many ways, and you will have spent time working with Emily Piggot, a colleague of mine. She's an excellent Director, of course, and I would never question the job she's done with Brockton Bay, but she is rather,' he paused for dramatic effect, 'overt with her way of doing things. It works for her, of course, no question about that, but for me, I think that the role of the PRT is to support the Protectorate. So yes, I won't hold you too long; Cinereal will be in charge of your true induction, as it were.'

You nodded, allowing him to ramble on. He was certainly very different from Director Piggot on first impressions; you got the feeling that if the two of them were locked in a room together, Director Shrugg would have been beaten senseless within the hour.

'Firstly, I wanted to express how grateful we are for your presence, and for the accompaniment you bring in the form of your team. Any help we can get, I dare say, we need – though perhaps Cinereal might benefit from being left out of that little confession.'

He smiled, as though waiting for you to play into the joke, and you cracked a weak smile that propelled him in to his next point.

'Secondly, and really, finally, I would like to inform you that all of your contractual obligations from Brockton Bay have been transferred over without exception. That is, you will be allowed to continue patrolling without Protectorate supervision, however, I must press upon you this: Atlanta is a much improved city from where it was only a few short years ago,' he placed his hand upon the desk. 'But it is far from docile. Legally speaking, you are allowed to patrol alone. I do not recommend it.'

'Please ensure,' he continued, 'for my sanity if nothing else, that you are accompanied any time that you head into known criminal territory. If, for any reason, you must make such a journey alone, please report it before you embark and tell whoever is operating the console where you are going and for what purpose. There are figures in Atlanta who are dangerous in ways that the monsters of Brockton Bay are not, and your familiarity with Kaiser and Lung will not protect you. Take care of yourself, regardless of what your contract permits.'

His hand went slack against the desk and he leaned back in his chair, a smile on his face widening again despite the gloom his monologue had promised.

'Any questions, before I release you to the custody of your fellow Wards?'

'No, sir. I'll be in touch if any come up, I'm sure.'

'Fantastic!'

Exiting his office in something of a daze, you felt a need more than ever to get into costume. While you were sure that one day, you would reveal your true identity to Atlanta's Wards – and frankly, even arriving out of costume might have given some hints to anyone who was privy to sign in data, though such things might have been a reach – that day was not the first day of meeting. Penumbra, if nothing else, was a far more impressive individual than Taylor Hebert, and first impressions mattered.

And so, you searched.

Shrugg had directed you up the stairs and to the left, which was the lead towards Cinereal's office. While the woman apparently had little to say, and wouldn't want to give much in the way of instruction at such an early venture, she did want to meet you. Again, meeting her as Penumbra only felt fair; while you had no idea what Cinereal's civilian identity was like, or if she even had one – Armsmaster had introduced you to the possibility that such figures were essentially heroes around the clock – you were fairly certain that it wouldn't be what you found behind a desk in her room. Greeting one of the Protectorate's most powerful and well respected heroes as a gangly fifteen year old felt like one step on the totem pole too low. Penumbra, a Ward, was the minimum that was accepted.

So, bundling yourself into a bathroom marked with a small stick figure wearing an inverted triangle, you found a stall and changed.

Rhizome's work, well washed before you made the trip, slipped over your skin like rugged silk even within the confines of the stall, and you felt ridiculous as you pulled the helmet out of your bag only to head it clang off the toilet paper dispenser. The entire situation was ridiculous. If anyone else had seen it, you thought that you might have died of embarrassment.

And yet, nobody else had seen it. And so Penumbra emerged, in Atlanta for the first time, from a toilet stall and made her way up the stairs as though nothing had happened. If anyone asked, you had been wearing the costume the entire time.

Leaving the stairwell, you were shocked at the sight.

The top of floor was almost completely empty – devoid of the carpeting of the level below, and with none of the potted plants dotting the perimeter. There were a few rooms, though less numerous than along Shrugg's corridor, and you got the idea that in a more normal order of operations, his office would have been the one on the top floor. Were Piggot to be moved to take over his job, you weren't sure how long things would last before she attempted to usurp the highest spot both literally and figuratively.

As it was, your boots made soft padding sounds as you made your way down the hallway, soles colliding over and over with the hard exposed flooring, dusty and almost ashen in their greyness. Only one room, located at the far end of the hallway, had a nameplate on it and you instantly knew where you were meant to go.

The only saving grace were the two figures stood either side.

On the left of the door, slouching hard against the wall and with his crown tilted at a severe angle that threatened to drop, Regent rested against his staff. The gold of his crown looked entirely out of place in such a grim, almost grimy corridor, and as he looked up in reaction to the sound of your footsteps you saw that he had added black lines, almost like mock-tears, down from the eyes of his white theatre mask. A new addition.

On the other side, crouched as though restless – or perhaps, as though tracking prey – Rachel had her mask on too. The plain white dog's face, the straps around her biceps; there was nobody else it could be. Without seeing her face, it was difficult to place her emotions, but you thought that irritated and inconvenienced was a fair guess.

The moment the two of them saw you, they stood up, straight. Regent kicked off the wall and sighed audibly, as though the act of standing were beneath him. Rachel, or rather, Skýla, was silent.

After only a moment, you were upon them. The silence was tense.

'Hey.'

'Hey.'

'Hn.'

'Good talk.'

'Shut up, Regent.'

And all of a sudden, the sense of unease in the air was whipped away beneath the weight of familiarity; whatever else was true, apparently there was nothing like Regent being a pest to remind everyone of where they stood. If you weren't convinced that it would only encourage him, you would have said thank you – though you were sure it wasn't visible, you could almost feel your knees trembling with nerves. Nothing would have made you undergo the indignity of a collapse, your pride too resilient for such a thing, but the situation was intimidating for sure. You almost wished that you could have met Cinereal the same way you had met Armsmaster; in the middle of a corridor where other people were at work, and after you'd already met a bunch of the local Wards.

You could not always be so lucky.

'How have you two been? Settled in alright?' You asked, in an eerie echo of Shrugg's own line of questioning only ten minutes earlier.

'They set us up in some apartments just around the corner. Modern stuff, kinda minimal. Taking it out of the college fund, I guess.'

'Do you get a college fund, on probation?'

The idea seemed strange to you, though you hadn't though to ask.

'Apparently. Fucked if I know where they're getting the money if not, cause I'm not paying for it.'

'Same for you?'

You asked Rachel, who simply tilted her head. 'Yeah, next to his. Unfortunately.'

A smirk crossed your face, though you didn't say that would give away your amusement. Things couldn't be that bad if Rachel was making jokes, or at least, whatever qualified for a joke from her.

Silence settled again after only a moment, the implications of your meeting place weighing heavier and heavier the longer you tried to avoid it. The aura of camaraderie could not overcome the powerful presence the three of you could feel from behind the door, and the momentum of the occasion was pushing against you like the North Wind.

'You guys ready?'

When you told Dad later about what happened, you didn't mention the shaking in your voice. You weren't even sure why you were so nervous – you had charged into the path of Purity's energy blasts with less hesitation than this.

Regent, luckily, felt no such issue. He rolled his eyes and raised his staff from the ground, before tapping it hard against the door thrice.

'Come in.'

The voice that emanated from inside was far less jovial than Shrugg's had been. There was steel within it. Steel and fire.

Actions Remaining:

- Try out the following hobbies: reading, cooking, woodworking, swimming, puzzles

- Look up a guide to sign language online

- Learn mre about Atlanta as a city, beyond the parahuman element

- Ask other Wards - Scrivener? - about important things the briefings might have left out

So, we have arrived in Atlanta at last! Relatively sedate introduction, covering the move, the interesting welcome pack we received as Atlanta Wards, and our first meeting with Shrugg. We've also met up with Regent and Rachel, and will be beginning next chapter by meeting Cinereal, followed by meeting the Atlanta Wards.

Any actions you want to take while meeting Cinereal? Any things you want to do to make a good first impression on her or the Wards when we meet them? Any questions you want Taylor to ask given the events of the first chapter in ATL? Here's where to request 'em.

Potential action suggestions:

[X][ACTION]Enquire about the suicide/coma pills with the Wards

[X][ACTION]Find out when you can go out on patrol from Cinereal, and where

[X][ACTION]Message Vicky and keep her updated about your move