Worm

by wildbow

  Taylor turned around, eyes wide, as if she could barely comprehend that Sophia had done what she’d done, that Emma had stood by and watched it.

  Then she was gone, running.

  “Feel better?” Sophia asked.

  Better? No. Emma couldn’t bring herself to feel guilty or ashamed, but… it didn’t feel good.

  That knot of negative emotion was tempered by a sense of profound relief. One less reminder of the old, weak, pathetic vain Emma, one more step towards the new.

  * * *

  Emma’s cell phone vibrated. She rose from her bed, suppressing a sigh.

  As quiet as she could, she collected the tackle box from beneath her bed, dressed and headed downstairs.

  Her father was at the kitchen table. His eyes went wide, and he stood.

  She pressed her finger to her lips, and he stopped, his mouth open.

  She hesitated, then spoke in a whisper, “I need your help. Please. Can—can you not ask any questions just yet?”

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  She handed him the keys, and climbed into the passenger seat.

  He started up the car, then drove in the directions she dictated, her eyes on the phone.

  They found themselves downtown, in the midst of a collection of bodies.

  And in the center, leaning against a wall, Shadow Stalker was hunched over, using her hands to staunch a leg wound.

  Emma bent down, opened the tackle box, and began gathering the first aid supplies.

  Wordless, her father joined her.

  We owe her this, at least.

  * * *

  “Give it back,” Taylor’s voice was quiet, but level.

  “Give what back?”

  “You guys broke into my locker. You took my flute. It’s something my mom left me, something she used, that my dad gave to me so I could remember her. Just… if you’ve decided you hate me, if I said the wrong thing, or led you to believe something that wasn’t true, okay. But don’t do that to my mom. She was good to you. Don’t disrespect her memory.”

  “If it was so valuable to you, then you shouldn’t have brought it.”

  Taylor didn’t speak for long seconds. “Can you blame me? Since school started, you’ve been… after me. As if you’re trying to make a point or something. Except I don’t know what it is.”

  “The point is that you’re a loser.”

  Taylor wasn’t able to keep the emotion off her face. “…Even if it’s just a flute and a memory, maybe I wanted to feel like I had some backup here. I thought you were better than that, screwing with me on that level.”

  “I guess you’re wrong,” Emma replied. She let the words sit for a few seconds, then added, “Doesn’t look like she’s offering you any backup at all.”

  Emma had mused, back in the week she’d been reeling from her near-miss with death or disfigurement, that there were moments that changed destinies, that altered people’s trajectories in life. Some were small, the changes minor, others large to the point they were irreversible. It was so easy, just to utter the words, and the reaction was so profound. A mixture of emotions that briefly stripped Taylor bare, revealed everything in a series of changing facial expressions.

  She didn’t enjoy it. Didn’t revel in it. But it was… reassuring? The world made sense. Predators and prey. Attackers and victims. It was like a drug, only she’d never experienced the high, the pure joy of it. There was only the withdrawal, the need for a hit just to get centered again.

  Fight back, get angry, hit me.

  Challenge me.

  It took Taylor long seconds to get her mental footing. She met Emma’s eyes, and then stared down at the ground. She mumbled her response. “I think that says a lot more about you than it does about me.”

  That wasn’t what I meant, Emma thought.

  She felt irrationally angry, annoyed, and couldn’t put her finger on why.

  It took her a minute to find Sophia, not helped by the fact that the two of them had classes on opposite sides of the building.

  Sophia was putting coins into the vending machine. She looked up at Emma. “What?”

  “Did you break into her locker?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Stole a flute?”

  “Yeah.”

  Emma paused for long seconds. To give the flute back, surreptitiously, it would go a ways towards breaking the rhythm, the cycle.

  Taylor’s words nettled her. To back down now, it would be a step towards the old Emma, the victim.

  “Fuck with it. Do something disgusting to it, and make sure to wreck it so she can’t use it ever again.”

  Sophia smiled.

  * * *

  “Do you hereby attest that all statements disclosed in this document are the truth, to the best of your knowledge?”

  “I do,” Emma’s father spoke.

  Emma reached out and took his hand, squeezing it. He glanced at her, and she mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

  There was a shuffling of papers at the other end of the long table. “We, the committee, have reviewed the documents, and agree that case one-six-three-one, Shadow Stalker, has met the necessary requirements. With stipulations to be named at a future date, specific to her powers and the charges previously laid against her, she is now a probationary member of the Wards, until such a time as she turns eighteen or violates the terms of this probationary status. Congratulations, Shadow Stalker.”

  “Thank you,” Shadow Stalker’s tone was subdued, her eyes directing a glare at the center of the table rather than anyone present.

  Emma watched as the capes and official bigwigs around her got out of their chairs, fell into groups.

  Dauntless approached her dad. She only caught two murmured words of Dauntless’s question. “—divorce attorney?”

  Shadow Stalker, for her part, stood and strode out of the room. Emma hurried to follow. By the time she reached the staircase, Shadow Stalker was halfway to the roof.

  “You’re angry.”

  “Of course I’m angry. Stipulations, rules and regulations. I’ve had my powers for two and a half years and I’ve stopped more bad guys than half the capes in that room!”

  Emma couldn’t stop the memory from hitting her.

  The man struggled, and as much as Shadow Stalker was able to make herself immaterial, to loosen any grip or free herself from any bonds, she didn’t have the ability to tighten that same grip. He tipped backwards, off the edge of the roof, and a gesture meant to intimidate became manslaughter.

  Shadow Stalker stared off the edge of the roof at the body, then turned to look at Emma.

  “Is—is he?” Emma asked.

  “Probably best if you don’t come on patrol with me again.”

  “You have,” Emma replied, snapping back to reality. How many have you ‘stopped’?

  “It’s like putting a wolf among sheep and expecting it to bleat!”

  “It’s only three years. Better than prison.”

  “Three years and four months.”

  “Better than prison,” Emma repeated herself.

  “It is prison, fuck it!”

  “It’s like you said. Just… just fake it until you make it the truth, put away the lethal ammunition for a few years.”

  Shadow Stalker wheeled on her, stabbed a finger in her direction, “Fuck that.”

  Emma stared at her best friend, saw the look in Sophia’s eyes, the anger, the hardness.

  For a moment, she regretted the choice she’d made.

  Then she had her head in order again, the little things she was faking contorted with reality until she couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

  People could convince themselves of anything, and there were worse things than convincing oneself that they were strong, capable, one of the ones on top, rather than one of the ones on the bottom.

  * * *

  The door of the bathroom stall swung open. Sophia had flung one arm around Emma’s shoulders, and Emma joined her in laughing. To their right, the th
ird member of their trio was giggling so hard she had hiccups.

  Taylor kneeled in the middle of a massive puddle of juices and sodas, some of it still fizzing around her. She was drenched, head to toe, trickles still running off of the lengths of her hair. Her style of dress had changed over the past little while, in ways Taylor probably wasn’t fully aware of. She wore darker clothes now, cloaked herself in sweatshirts and loose fitting jeans. Her long hair was a shield, a barrier around her face. All measures to hide, signals and gestures of defeat.

  More than that, she’d changed in behavior, had stopped fighting back. She’d stopped reacting, for the most part. Her expression was impassive. It took some of the fun out of it. It was almost disappointing.

  I’ll have to think of a better one than this. Crack that facade, Emma thought. She smirked as Madison led the way out of the bathroom, and they left Taylor behind.

  Taylor had become the archetypical victim, Emma mused, in one sober moment, as she parted ways with the other two girls, and I’ve found myself becoming the type of person who could genuinely laugh at something like this.

  She dismissed the thought, shifting mental gears, re-establishing the construction of self confidence she’d built. It was a little easier every time she did it.

  * * *

  The fan on the other side of the room had a piece loose. It squeaked on every third rotation.

  She examined her nails, picked at a fleck of something white that had stick to the end of one nail, then checked her cuticles.

  The fan squeaked, and she turned her head, as if she could spot the offending flaw and fix it.

  “You come all this way, and you don’t have anything to say?” Sophia asked.

  Emma shrugged. It was on our way.

  “Say what’s on your mind.”

  “It’s all backwards, isn’t it?”

  “Backwards how?”

  “Upside down, Turned around. Two wrongs make a right.”

  “What wrongs?” Sophia’s voice was hard.

  “Not you. Not your thing. That’s not what I’m talking about. We’re moving back to Brockton Bay. As in, it’s in progress. Half our stuff’s still back in Portland, half’s in the Bay. We finally moved.”

  “Someplace nice?”

  “Further north.”

  Sophia smirked.

  “But that’s why I’m saying it’s all backwards. Things got flipped around. The north end is nicer, now. They’re rebuilding, and it’s all coming together. Downtown is the place that got hit hard. You’ve got three big areas you can’t go, with the crater, the quarantine and the place I heard people calling the scar, where they did some bombing run with Bakuda’s stuff. Construction’s slower towards the south, because there’s so much traffic and not a lot of roads.”

  “Huh.”

  “The bad guys are keeping the law, but things are better, and you talk to anyone, there’s hope. I don’t know how that happens, how you visit every tragedy imaginable on a place, drop a dozen different nightmare scenarios on it, and things get better. How does that work?”

  “I don’t really care,” Shadow Stalker said.

  “It’s your city.”

  “The world ends in less than two years. I won’t be out of here before then. I… what’s the word? I reiterate, I don’t really care.”

  “I’m trying to make conversation.”

  “You’re doing a shitty job of it,” Sophia replied.

  Emma shut her mouth, stared at her friend.

  “World ends in two years,” Sophia added. “It’s a joke, pretending like things are getting better, like there’s hope. The world turns a few hundred more times and then it all ends.”

  Sour grapes?

  “It’s kind of neat in terms of the big picture,” Emma said, ignoring Sophia. “It’s like, the future hasn’t looked this bright in a while. There’s promise, if this rumor about an open interdimensional portal is for real. Multiple portals, if you believe the really out-there rumors. Escape routes, resources, work. And Brockton Bay is at the center of it all.”

  Sophia snorted.

  “And, more than that, it’s like, if we’re talking about hope, about the future, who’s more iconic for all that than kids? You know, that line about how kids are the future? Heroes too, they’re icons of hope too. And put those things together, you get Arcadia High. Winslow High’s gone, and there’s not quite enough students, so they’re herding us all together.”

  “So?”

  “So, it’s like, all this hope, you’ve got Brockton Bay at the center of it all. And at the center of Brockton Bay’s hope, it’s Arcadia High. And at the center of that? You’ve got the heroes and the winners. I fully intend to be the latter. In a way, it’s like being queen of the world.”

  “The popular kid in high school?”

  “In the high school,” Emma said. She shrugged. “It’s one way of looking at it.”

  “It’s sad.”

  Emma smirked. “Someone’s grumpy.”

  “It’s sad because you’re making a fool of yourself, you’re missing a key detail.”

  “Which?”

  Sophia shrugged. “Better if you find out for yourself. I won’t spoon-feed you.”

  Emma rolled her eyes. Sophia was just toying with her head. Easy enough to ignore.

  “I’m going to go. I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but…”

  Sophia caught the ‘but’. “Bitch.”

  “Yeah. Def,” Emma replied, before hanging up the phone. She stood from the stool that was bolted to the floor, stretched, then offered a small wave.

  Sophia raised both hands together to offer a miniscule wave with her right. They were cuffed together, LEDs standing out on the cuffs, marking the live current.

  Emma couldn’t tell herself she’d be back. To stick around and be loyal now would betray every reason she’d given herself for dropping Taylor as a friend. Taylor had been a wet blanket, a loser. Sophia was no better, now.

  It was ironic, but Sophia had proven herself to be more prey than predator, in the very philosophy she’d espoused.

  * * *

  “Hey dad?”

  Her dad turned his head to acknowledge her, while keeping his eyes on the road. “What is it?”

  “Mind making a detour? I wouldn’t mind seeing Taylor’s house.”

  “I thought you weren’t friends anymore.”

  Emma shook her head. “I’m… trying to put it all into perspective. It’s really changed, and it’s easiest to get my head around the changes if I can look at the familiar places, and her house is pretty familiar.”

  “Sure. If nobody else minds?”

  There were no objections from her mom or sister.

  The city had always had its highs and lows, its peaks and valleys, but it seemed it was an even starker contrast now. She’d commented, once, that for any one house, she could find three things wrong with it. It had been flipped around, in its own way. For every ten houses, there was one ruin, a dilapidated structure or pile of wreckage. For every ten stretches of road that were intact, there was one that a car couldn’t pass over.

  They turned off Lord Street, onto the street that Taylor’s house was on.

  As they approached, Emma could see Taylor helping her dad unload a box from what looked to be a new or newly washed car. He said something and she laughed.

  The casual display of emotion was startling. It was equally startling when, in the moment Emma’s dad slowed the car down, Taylor’s head turned, her eyes falling on them, her head and upper body turning to follow them as they passed.

  She didn’t even resemble the person Emma had known way back then, not the girl who’d approached her house after coming back from camp, and not the girl who’d been drenched in juice. The lines of her cheekbones and chin were more defined, her skin baked to a light tan by the sun, her long black curls grown a touch wild by long exposure to wind. Light muscles stood out on her arms as she held a box, her dad standing back to direct.

  Even her
clothes. She wasn’t hiding under a hood and long sleeves. A trace of her stomach was exposed between the bottom of her yellow tank top and the top of her jeans. The frayed cuffs were rolled up at the bottom, around new running shoes, and neither Taylor nor her dad seemed to be paying any attention to the knife that was sheathed at her back.

  It surprised Emma, all the little clues coming together to point to one fact; that Taylor had stayed. She’d stayed, and she’d come out of it okay. Judging by the new car, the shoes and her clothes, the Heberts were doing better for money than they had been the last time Emma had run into either of them. Were they early beneficiaries of Brockton Bay’s upswing in fortune?

  It unsettled her, and she had a hard time putting her finger on why.

  It didn’t hit her until they’d reached their new house, a recollection of something Sophia had said.

  On this violent, brutish little planet of ours, it’s the survivors who wind up the strongest ones of all.

  Chrysalis 20.1

  I stepped out of the shower, but I didn’t dry off. It was hot out, and the cold beads of moisture on my skin offered something of a reprieve. I felt acutely aware of the breeze blowing into the room, as it traced frigid lines against my body. My hair was wet, plastered to my neck, shoulders and back, and water ran down from the individual locks of hair in thin streams.

  More than anything, the cool sensation of the wet hair on my head was a contrast to the workings inside my skull. It wasn’t even seven in the morning, and in purely mental terms, I was hitting the ground running. Had to.

  I leaned over the sink, letting the droplets fall from my eyelashes and run down my face.

  I reached out, and my toothbrush found its way to my hand, as much as my hand found it. The toothpaste was much the same, maneuvered to my hand by a dozen threads and twice that many insects. I took two minutes brushing, another minute to use some mouthwash, and then stood straight, stretching. My skin felt tight, contracted by the temperature.