Wildbow owns Worm.
I own ideas and write stories.
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[INTERFACE]
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Muster 1.1
Dilation
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"When bad men combine, the good must associate;
else they will fall, one by one,
an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptable struggle."
-Edmund Burke, 1770
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"You know what the villains of this city have
that the Protectorate doesn't?
The freedom to do as they please."
-Shadow Stalker, on patrol with Kid Win,
February 2011
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There isn't much room for naiveté when you've grown up in Brockton Bay.
While I'm not old enough to remember The Teeth, Allfather, or the Marquis with any degree of scope (I was five at the time), that's not to say there I'm a sheltered child. My father is head of HR for the Dockworker's Association, a union that helps people who once worked at the Docks (before Leviathan ruined the shipping industry) find work elsewhere; many were the frustrated conversations he'd engage in with my mother in the night, thinking I was asleep, whispered to each other at the kitchen table, voices pinched with equal parts encouragement and despair.
There were names whispered at that table, names spoken with fear and hate. They stuck with me throughout the years; they hold more meaning in my mind, now that I have powers.
The Empire Eighty-Eight. Allfather's legacy to Brockton Bay, a sprawling gang of white supremacists with Parahuman leadership, they were the direct cause of much of my father's grief and frustration.
The Boat Graveyard and the Ferry were just two of those things spoken of in the night; the rest was just skinheads coming by the Dockworker's building and harassing people. Seeing Dad come home, occasionally with a split lip or scraped knuckles… again, not sheltered, or stupid.
Not that I'm worried for Dad. Since Mom died, if he comes home with the odd bruise or scrape, if I point it out he'll just give this smirk and say, "You should see the other guy."
Since the locker, I don't really point those things out. More on my mind I guess…
Then Lung showed up, not five years ago, and everything got worse. As if neo-Nazis with a penchant for drug trafficking and dogfighting wasn't bad enough, now our poor city was dealing with more drug trafficking along with prostitution and illegal gambling, all backed by an extremely dangerous character.
Even my young self knew, from watching the news and listening to the gossip, that anyone capable of going toe-to-toe, blow-for-blow, with an Endbringer couldn't be a pleasant person. His recruitment of Oni Lee and subsequent deeds in the Docks only affirmed this estimate of the Dragon of Kyushu.
Although, Azn Bad Boys? The name confused me at first. Once I knew what it meant, I marveled at Lung's lack of creativity.
Have I mentioned the Merchants? Their leader's name is Skidmark. I don't think his name's alluding to burning rubber, either. In their case… well, take everything disgusting about humanity and make it a gang. There's nothing they won't do for money, no line they won't cross, so long as they can get away with it with cash in hand.
At least the ABB keeps a sort of leash on their activities; plus, I doubt Kaiser and his merry band of skinheads would appreciate the drug-fueled chaos many posters on PHO theorize might happen, if the Merchants decided to cut loose.
I'm not naïve. I know what I'm up against.
Being an aspiring hero in a city where the villains outnumber the heroes doesn't leave much room for naiveté. I know the odds of me facing some of these bastards and bitches and coming out on top aren't the best, but by George Carlin, I'm going to give it my best effort!
Hence, one of the reasons I'm out running my skinny ass off at the crack of dawn, beneath steel-grey late February skies.
A couple weeks ago, Sophia fucking Hess, the bane of my existence, set some boys to chasing me; something to do with tying me to a flagpole or something, not that I was paying attention at the time. Bit busy running like hell and all that.
Not a bad way to greet me, after spending a week in the hospital plus two weeks' mandatory bedrest. Reason?
Toxic shock from getting stuffed into my locker by the very same Sophia fucking Hess, which happened to be filled with unspeakably biohazardous material, for two hours. Oh, and I might have gone through a slight psychotic break at the time, but who cares?
Not Sophia. Not Emma, may her monthlies be hellish and heavy forever. Not Principal Blackwall, not the school board, not the police, not the PRT, not the neighbor's dog, not that crow cawing at me as I make my way closer to the Boardwalk.
Barring my Dad, who I don't interact much with as is, and is too busy and/or grief-stricken to fully appreciate the issues of his teenage daughter…
No.
One.
Cared.
At all.
Up early, morning run, go to school, get bullied, maybe get a good grade or two if it's a good day, come home, eat dinner, maybe say a few words to Dad, watch a bit of the news for the newest horror story out of the Bay, lurk on PHO, check on my bugs' progress with my costume, brush my teeth, go to sleep, up again, early. Repeat ad nauseam.
Now throw in the fact that I'm probably not the sanest person ever, not after the locker.
When I say my life sucks, I'm not being an angsty teenager. I'm saying I'm one more terrible day away from trying my luck against Lung or Oni Lee in my pajamas. At least I'd go down swinging. Look cute doing it, too.
But hey! Good news! It's not as bad as it seems! Every storm cloud has a silver lining, after all!
Through suffering we, humans, have endured countless millennia: came down from the trees, discovered tool-making, writing, maths, science, philosophy, chemistry, and explored the barren, unforgiving wastes of space… culminating in the shameless advertisement and sale of overpriced lattes on the Boardwalk, but hardly the point!
We thrive off challenges, off hardship, and those two hours of hell paid off!
I got superpowers for my suffering!
…Yay?
Did I get the ability to create wonders out of metal and wire? No.
Punch through any obstacle like it's nothing? No.
Um… think my way out of bad situations? Vibrate through solid matter? Turn into fire or electricity?
Nope, nein, and nyet!
I got the ability to…
Drumroll please…
Perceive and direct every insect within a two block radius of my person.
…Applause?
So, yeah, those first weeks after the hospital meant my daily routine included not only knowing where everyone in my general vicinity was (dust mites are everywhere. Yes, even there!), but knowing what they were doing. In excruciating detail.
I'll never look at sex the same way again… Also, some of our neighbors have really weird kinks! The less said, the better.
But back to running.
Going on a morning run served several purposes: I get fully woken up, have a chance to check on my progress with expanding my range (slow as a snail, but steadily getting bigger), and… well, I'm a friggin stick of a girl.
A bean-pole. Thin as a rake. Barely an ass worth mentioning and flat as a sheet of paper.
Therefore, logically, any exercise I engage in will have positive benefits. Already, just barely a month into my self-imposed training, I'd gone from puffing with exertion after running around the block to jogging to the Boardwalk and back with… well, not ease, but I could make it through the day after.
Running gave me a chance to think, get my thoughts straight before another exciting, rousing day of school at Brockton Bay's premier academy for up-and-coming gangsters.
Winslow High School. A most wretched hive of scum and villainy, only outclassed by the Docks themselves.
It said a lot about the place, that I needed to mentally prepare myself before going there. It said a lot about me, too, that going on a morning run was actually helping me deal.
Sure, Sophia, that nappy-headed bitch, was probably going to do something wretched to me today; it was a Thursday, after all, and it wasn't like the thuggette to go a whole week without doing something to make my life hell. But I could deal.
I was getting stronger every day.
I was going to be a superhero.
…somehow. Still needed to figure out how to use my bugs to fight crime. Two block radius, shit.
That's, what? Maybe one thousand feet? Seven hundred? I'm no good with maths, so whatever. Point is, my range is awful in a world where people can shoot friggin laser beams from their hands (Purity), turn into flaming death dragons (Lung) or giant metallic wolves (Hookwolf), or dozens of other bullshit powers that make me look even punier than I am.
Oh no! Lung is rampaging! I better blind him with butterflies!
Yeah. Like that'd actually work.
On the other hand, some of the insects in this city were scary as all hell! Just a couple minutes ago, I sensed a foot-long centipede skittering around in the sewers beneath the streets. It'd make one hell of a shock-and-awe tactic, hundreds of the things suddenly pouring out of the walls.
Too bad I had to let something like that go; after all, how would I explain to Dad if he noticed?
Oh hey Dad! I see you've met Leggy Boy! I found him while out running, and he's going to keep our house clear of pests! Please, can I keep him?
That was a sure fire way to get myself into a straightjacket and padded room. Or worse, blow my cover.
Good thing there were hundreds of black widows hanging around. A little online research had me squealing with joy; dragline spider silk! Strongest silk in the world! What better material to make my costume out of than one I don't have to pay for?!
Initial attempts were… disappointing, to say the least, but I was getting better at it! By the end of March, at the latest, I should be ready for my big debut!
All I needed was a name, a costume that wouldn't disintegrate in one hit or look lame, and a gimmick that didn't make me look like a villain. I mean, yeah, there were a lot of dangerous bugs out there, but if I went and used them willy-nilly, it definitely wouldn't turn out well for me.
I mean, really: Brown Recluse Assault Team, attack!
Oh, wait, that looks like the Birdcage… shit.
Last reason for going on morning runs? So I can think about things like this in relative safety.
Yeah, Brockton Bay isn't safe, but neither is pepper spray, or discretely hidden wasps. Hint. Hint.
At least the weather was okay. Maybe the day would get better. Maybe those bitches at school would give me a break for once. Maybe me and Dad would go out later, see an Earth Aleph movie, do normal father/daughter things again.
Maybe Murphy's mom should've gotten an abortion.
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[1.1]
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Slowing and catching my breath as I came to the last block of my run, I wondered if I could use my bugs to listen in on conversations; when I got enough dust mites together, I could almost hear what was going on in a given room. Problem was, that many dust mites in one place isn't very subtle.
Something to research once I got home. Maybe… yeah, the stereo or the TV should suit my needs nicely…
On the subject of powers, I flicked mine on while trotting down the street, checking on the bugs around me. No sense getting knifed or kidnapped right before sch-
Flies and roaches eating at fleshy, rotted bits, drawn by the scent of blood and death, mites and other scavengers feasting on-
I jerked to a stop with a gasp, owlish eyes fixed on the alleyway ahead on my left, heart thudding in my chest.
There's a dead body in there. I shut my power off. Actually feeling bugs as they ate at a corpse was just… yeah, don't want to throw up just yet.
I jogged closer. Why? Well, there was a payphone at the other end of the street, so I might as well examine the crime scene in brief before notifying the authorities. Any details might help the responding personnel, after all…
I just hoped giving my statement wouldn't take too long.
Coming to a stop at the alley's entrance (after making sure there was no-one else around and trying, unsuccessfully, to calm my pounding heart), I got an eyeful of the victim-
-brown hair like mine,
crushed glasses near her broken hands,
clothes torn and hanging loosely from her thin frame,
yellow puss leaking from scraped elbows,
maggots already infesting her torn throat and eyes,
brown puddle around her head and upraised hindquarters,
bare feet pointed away from each other; more bruises there,
eyes glassy and hopeless,
face frozen in a picture of horror and despair,
"USED" written on her forehead-
- and immediately threw my hands to either side of my face, pulling my hair back as I turned and hurled into the gutter.
'Oh god, oh god, oh god she almost looks like me.' Fuckity-fuck-fuck, what kind of – who in the hell – disgusting pieces of –
I can't deal with this. Not by myself.
I need to call the cops. Now.
Ignoring the lingering aches from my run, I bolt down the street.
Took me a century to get here. Fuck you Vista, making me late! Fumbling for change with shaking hands. Why are coins so slippery?
She looked – not the same, bigger tits, different face – but close, too fuckingclooosssee…
Change in the coinslot – ohgodohgodohgod – 9-1-1 – ohfuckohfuckohfuck that could've been me – ring-a-ding-ding – PICK THE FUCK UP SO I CAN GO HAVE A NICE MENTAL BREAKDOWN!
Tinny voice, impersonal, "Hello, 911, what's your emergency?"
'Pick-up or delivery?' my reeling, slightly broken mind supplied before I blurted out, "I'm at the corner of," swift check, "Elm and Boardwalk Avenue! There's a dead body in an alleyway!"
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[1.1]
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Five minutes before the cops got there.
That could have been me.
Ten before the ambulance shows.
That could have been me…
Twenty minutes of repeatedly explaining my daily routine to a male officer with a notebook before he gives me a ride home.
Even if I used my powers, they'd have killed me anyway – fuck, that could have been me!
No, officer, I don't know the girl, never seen her before in my life. I always come this way on my morning runs, for the past week, anyway.
High School student, going on a run every morning, stamina exercise.
No, I'm not on the track team (I'd sooner drink a broken glass/razorblade smoothie), just health-conscious. Yes, my name's Taylor Hebert.
Yes, Danny Hebert's my dad. Yes, that Danny Hebert. No, you don't need to call him, he's probably on his way to work.
No, no other parents; mother died in a traffic collision two years ago.
"I'm sorry for your loss." Rote response. No inflection.
No you're not. You just don't care and can't think of anything else to say.
"Thank you." Rote response. No inflection.
Your wife is probably cheating on you right now, you weak-jawed churl-
Yes, I would very much like a ride home, officer, thank you. I hope you find out who did this, too.
Not that you will. Because you don't care.
You have a good day too, officer. Thanks for the ride.
Die in a fire.
House is fine. Dad's already gone. Note on table. Back by lunch. You okay kiddo?
I assuage his concerns. Don't mention the girl. Just took longer on my run.
Breakfast in the microwave. Tastes like ashes and bacon. Delicious.
Shower, keys, book bag, door locked, bus to school.
People, everywhere. Another day at Winslow.
Another body for the morgue.
"Taylor Hebert?" More rote.
"Here."
For how much longer?
Finish typing work, check PHO.
Nothing. Crime blotter.
Yep. Glad they kept my name out of it.
Looking for an identity. Basic description.
Almost sounds like they're talking about me.
Next class. Madison. Sophia. Emma.
No greetings, just smug smiles.
Could be worse. It could've been me.
Class a blur. B on my homework. Oh well.
Bell rings. Off to the next.
Oh… they're following me… fuck.
Please, just one day. Just give me one day to process-
"Hey Ems! Check it."
"… Huh. Hey Taylor!"
No.
"Aren't you supposed to be at the morgue?"
Nonononono.
"Ya'know, because you got raped and murdered last night."
Laughter. Like a sitcom laugh track to my ears.
…
Emma sighs, hands Madison her phone back. Sophia sneers.
Please, no more-
"Too bad it wasn't you. So sick of seeing your face. Probably would've been an improvement, from what it says here."
Whywhywhywhy
"Tch, no response. Whatever, you probably would've enjoyed it, getting some last minute attention! Later, loser!"
Whyemmawhy
And they walk away.
Laughing.
And I stand there.
Wondering why no one cares.
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[1.1]
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Too bad it wasn't you.
Public transport. Bus smells like people. Sweat and capitalistic slavery.
"Taylor, look! I got a new Alexandria figure!"
Same sidewalk, different day. Yard needs mowing.
"It's okay, Taylor. Your mom might be gone, but I'll always be your friend."
Watch the second step. Key in the lock. Nobody home.
"You're the best, Taylor! Thanks!"
Note on the fridge, twenty bucks pinned to it. I'll be working a bit late today, kiddo. Money's for pizza and wings. Leave some for me. Love, Dad.
I'm not hungry. Stomach disagrees. Order pizza. Thirty minutes.
Check on black widows. In the basement. Journal's still there. Widows messed up another sleeve…
Too bad it was-
"FUCKING BITCH!" my superhero journal bounces off the washer with a bang; but I'm too busy screaming incoherently to care much about damaging things.
I fling my ruined suit back into the hidey hole, collect my journal, order my weaving widows to kill their weakest members for food, and head back upstairs.
Tea. Tea calms the savage beast.
… We're out of tea.
'Oh, hasn't today been just pleasant! I know! I'll just sit in the living room, watch some TV until the food gets here! Nothing can go wrong there, no sir-ee!'
News is on, they're talking about the girl I found this morning. Still haven't found any family. And now, the weather!
Flip through channels. Nothing really interesting on. Animal Planet it is.
It's not Shark Week, so it's some reality show about cats being used as coping tools for people who've been victimized by Parahumans. Interspersed with commercials for things I can't afford and a shitty recruitment reel for the PRT. Irony, thy name is marketing.
'Someone up there hates me, and I'm pretty sure his name's Murphy.'
Ding-dong-the-derrio! Pizza's here, keep the change, all 23 cents of it.
Soda and delicious pizza. Wings are a bit on the soggy side. Sits in my stomach like a brick.
Drama on the cat show. One of the PTSD people flipped out over a cat scratch. TV off. Head upstairs.
'I fucking hate this.'
Hello, computer! You never judge me.
'Traitor, liar, back-stabbing two-faced whore.'
PHO's got nothing. Nobody talking about the dead girl in the alley. Blasto made some weird variants of Venus Flytrap and left them in a park near Harvard. One cat maimed. How tragic.
'Were you ever really my friend…?'
People on the shipping boards going back and forth over Shadow Stalker/Aegis. I could see it, sort of. Aegis was pretty hunky, and when you add Shadow Stalkers rockin' legs, it paints a rather provocative picture.
'…I'm so alone.'
Burying my face in my hands, I finally broke down and cried.
My friend, turning her back on me. The school, doing nothing to stop the bullying; hell, at this point, the Principal might as well be elbowing me in the halls and pushing me down stairs herself.
My Mom's flute…
The locker.
And this stupid buzzing between my ears that won't go away. Not my bugs. Just this constant, high, keening eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
My Dad, too busy or caught up in his own life to notice a damn thing.
'Would he even care if I…?'
Maybe. He was enough like a zombie as it was, spending more time at work than with me.
I shook my head furiously, "No. No. I'm not… No." I needed sleep. Today had been rougher than usual, but tomorrow…
Would probably be worse, with my luck.
"Fuck," switch off computer. Go wash dishes. Brush teeth. Back to room. Into bed.
Lie awake for hours, trying to curl into myself, wish myself away.
Dad comes home. Checks on me. Pretend to sleep. He leaves.
Too bad it wasn't you.
Fuck you, Emma. Fuck you with a fire hydrant.
I wish I didn't miss you. Miss our talks, our plans for the future, our dreams and fears.
I…
…
…I wish you still cared, if you ever did.
'But if wishes were pigeons we'd be covered in shit.'
Night falls.
Still can't sleep.
'Forget it Taylor. She's a bitch, you're a better person than she is. Deal.'
I'm so fucking tired of dealing.
Of getting shafted every day.
Of watching my city slowly rotting from the inside.
Of waking up, every day, and knowing.
Expecting.
Things to get worse.
…
…
… I'm tired of being the better person. Of holding back. Of being kind.
Woe betide the fool villain who met me in a dark alley. And if I died…
At least…
At least…
…
… at least no one would care much.
With that realization, I felt myself drifting off to sleep at last.
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[1.1]
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But there was one more batch of weirdness left in my day, before I could enter Morpheus' realm.
You know those moments, right before you go to sleep, where you can be aware of… things? You hear things, see things, in the dark?
Sometimes it's flowers losing their petals and instantly growing them back, or a face that should look familiar but isn't, or animals running across your ceiling, or things that you can't describe easily, things that shouldn't be but your brain tells you are oh so real.
This was one of the latter.
It was a bit like looking at a twenty-sided-die that contained a non-Euclidian gyroscope around a sapphire-encased neutron star.
What's more, it wasn't all that worrying or painful to look at. Quite pleasing, in fact.
'Maybe I'm having a stroke. Wouldn't that be lovely…'
[parameters?]
Mmm, most of that sounded nice. Five-mile range, add some birds, executive officer tied to a Breaker form to manage birds, make sure no cape could touch me without coming under my direct command… hmm, that last one didn't sound so good. Birdcage-worthy. Better limit that to a couple millimeters, for safety purposes, and set it so that it's only active in the Breaker form.
[adjustment]
[agreement. destination?]
My room? Yeah, sure. Why not?
[agreement]
[manifestation?]
Ooh, what's this?! I get to pick what form my personal assistant takes? Cool.
No… no bugs. I've had my fill of bugs.
Oh, wait! Birds! Birds are pretty! I'll need something regal, capable of taking care of itself.
Something that'll be overlooked by the average Schmo.
Hmm… well, owls are cool, but snowy owls are kinda visible. Great horned or eagle?
…Great horned; those eyebrows are epic.
Also, this is one cool dream. I'd been fearing a nightmare, but this was a lot better, on the whole!
[selection]
[optimizing]
The multi-dimensional D-20 starts shifting oddly; weird, that I'd think that. It was a rather odd to look at as it was…
Bugs flowed into the D-20, mostly roaches, forming a vague shape.
Maybe it has a name?
[query?]
[data] Shard Designation: Queen Administrator
Bit of a mouthful. I'll just call it… Queenie. Hehe. I wonder what it does…
[query?]
[data]
Okay, one: ow, instant headache syndrome!
And two: that sounded a lot like what my power does… wait-
[initializing]
The neutron star flared-
-and the whole world went strange.
Right before it all went dark, I thought, 'Why does my power taste like carpet?'
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a/n: the idea of naiveté being a definitive measure of a person's outlook on life is a naïve statement in and of itself, as there will always be something outside your experience that will shock and awe you, no matter your preparations or arguments to the contrary.