Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I really didn’t need this today. Any day really, I just shouldn’t have to deal with this.

The girl across from her was in shock, that much was clear. Amy had spent enough time around trauma to recognize the signs. She had also spent enough time in front of a mirror to recognize her own face, albeit younger. Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” nestled into her memory of the mall like an old friend, another happy thing ruined by that day. What struck her as off was the detail, more specifically what one would call the draw distance. She could see the signs in the shops, shards of shattered glass rendered individually even from afar. She'd experienced illusions and false memories. The mall seemed real.

“I don’t want a lot for Christmas, this is all I’m asking for.”

She pushed herself into a more relaxed posture and tried to recall what Marquis did whenever she had a panic attack. She grabbed her other self by the sleeves.

“How are you with prime numbers? Can you list those for me?”

“I-I can’t. Vic-she-I-where?”

“Prime numbers, come on. I’ll start. 2…”

Little Amy coughed out her primes through thick tears and snot. She had known she was an ugly-crier but yeesh. She put on her best smile, her facial muscles fighting her the whole way. As Little Amy started to calm she scanned the mall, finding no mistakes. The sound of Chorus capes encountering the Protectorate barely audible over Mariah’s singing.

“I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know.”

“Better? Good. Would you like to heal her together?” Little Amy nods they both turned their attention to the bleeding blond beneath them. The front of Victoria's torso was covered in pinprick holes and bleeding tears. The scatter of a piranha round had bitten into her flesh, and she writhed and struggled beneath them with a look of confusion. Confusion mixed with gratitude? Amy grabbed onto her younger self’s hands and sucked in a tight gasp. Nothing but warmth and smooth skin. She wanted to vomit. She wanted to cry. She needed to help her sister.

“Normally we’d ask permission here but I think Victoria’s waited long enough. Find a place to touch that won’t irritate her wounds.” She barely even choked on Victoria’s name, but seeing her sister without the frown lines, without that hate and disgust, was getting to be too much. She kept her eyes on the ceiling or the exits as she walked through how to ease pain, to urge blood to clot, how to move and convert cells to knit flesh. Tiny sharpened caltrops surfaced and fell to the floor. Victoria’s breathing and movement steadied.

The sound of fighting had stopped and she could see the PRT arriving in droves to clean up. No arrests. Not a problem, those Chorus idiots will die out on their own soon enough. Victoria (or should it be Vicky?) rocketed up from the floor and gave her best PR smile, even as she kept sneaking looks at her tattoos. Amy got up from sore knees and almost toppled from nausea as her younger self gave a very PR-unfriendly glare. Vicky seemed to come to some kind of realization, she does well hiding her suspicion, but not well enough. Vicky placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder. Amy tensed in response.

“Thanks for the help back there. Also nice tats! Are you a nurse or something?”

As PRT filed in around them one officer doled out shock blankets to both Amys. The weight of the plastic sheeting brought with it a weight in her gut. Her gaze found Assault’s. Little Amy, in a surprise moment of confidence, told Assault that she was a parahuman. Almost seamlessly she countered.

“I’m her.”

As she was escorted outside to see a panicked but professional Carol charging the cordon, that weight in her gut finally put itself into words. The sight of a clear winter sky and an intact Brockton skyline had erased her doubts.

This is real. She’s real and I am not going to fuck this up.

Chapter Text

Amy yawned around her dwindling cup of water as she kicked the blanket that laid tangled at her feet. Her hands had thankfully been uncuffed from the table. How many hours has it been again? Her chat with Miss Militia (chat, as if she’d said more than a word) had been terse, but not unpleasant. The room however was quite unpleasant. She could tell they were trying not to treat her as a prisoner, and she could tell they’d started to believe her when her escort turned sharply away from maxsec containment. At least they let her keep her clothes, if they’d tried a strip search there might not have been a PRT ENE left to negotiate with.

She shook herself when the door opened, adjusting her dirty outfit. She hadn't changed since days before whatever happened to land her eight years in the past. Her shift had run long. A reedy older man slipped into the room, placing a notepad on the table. He startled as he abruptly remembered the tape recorder tucked in his armpit.

“DNA came back positive, Thinker results vary but lean positive. At least those that aren’t bedridden with migraines, which itself a mark in favor of your anomalousness. What do you have to say for yourself Ms. Dallon?” Her nose crinkled like she’d smelled Teacher. Not helped by the man’s overly clear manner of speaking, as though he were worried his recorder wouldn’t pick him up.

“I say that I’m from the year 2017, have no idea why I’m in 2009 and only have a vague idea about what I’m going to do.”

“And you said that idea was… ‘make little-me’s life less dogshit?’” He ran a hand through thinning grey hair while she considered her response. Since Titan Fortuna’s ‘defeat’ (which she personally never bought), Amy had spent a year under constant supervision in the European Gimel settlement, settling back into her hospital routine. Little me doesn’t deserve that.

“It’s a work in progress.”

“I see. And somehow this plan of yours doesn’t include any warnings about future disasters or scientific advancements. Or even a description of your own powers.” He cricked his neck, loudly, he should get that looked at. Her teeth clicked, and his gaze scanned her as she spoke.

“Look, I know this fucking game so let’s cut the shit. I’m a risk, an unknown one too, I’m not worth it if I don’t offer you some kind of value. I am aware that information is my best bargaining chip, so I’m going to use it to its fullest.”

“Simply saying that doesn’t help us, especially not to trust you. In fact if anything your reticence inflates your perceived risk. Bargaining chips need to actually be bargained.” He sighed with his entire body, while Amy’s hackles raised further. “In the spirit of ‘cutting shit,’ we can expedite the creation of a new identity as well as your living situation on the condition you agree to join the Protectorate.”

“Don’t pretend like the US isn’t fast tracking identities all the time, I’ve seen A and S-class diaspora statistics.” She didn’t remember them but she had seen them, years ago. “I’m willing to wait a few extra days if it means not signing myself away to you.” She took a hesitant breath.

“You’re going to call my mother, now that you know who I am I’m not going any further without a lawyer.” His frown looked more like a pout. “Then send it up the chain that if she gives me time to settle in I’ll talk to the Chief Director about S-class threats and such. Lastly tell Defi—tell Armsmaster to call his Canadian girlfriend, because I’m going to join the Guild.”

“Going to? Someone’s confident in their abilities.” She’d swear his scribbled notes were worse than any doctor’s she’d met.

“I’m well aware of my value, thanks.” He hummed at that, prick.

“I’ll get right on all that. Now would you like some more water or are you alright to keep waiting here until your mother comes to pick you up?”

“Fuck you, Reynolds.”

“It’s Renick.”

Amy smiled lightly while ignoring the sound of her mom ranting into the phone. Laying by her windowsill and forcing plants to flex and wave their appendages was both an amusing way to fill the time, and a welcome distraction from the existential horror of her new powers. Her sense of touch felt raw and her thoughts muddled. She’d known that Thinker powers often came with sensory overload, but having spent hours alone in her room since getting home the raw feeling had yet to abate. Every organelle and nucleotide in every cell that touched her skin brought new information she had no reference for understanding, she’d have to borrow Vicky’s bio textbook.

She knew she wouldn’t be sleeping that night, but still felt happier than she had in months. Christmas was six days away, and her mom told her they would celebrate Amy joining New Wave then. She was going to be a healer! She knew now that her powers came with enough instinct to have healed Vicky flawlessly, but not painlessly and not as efficiently as she managed with her impromptu lesson.

Which brought her to her other source of existential dread.

What the heck happened to her?

The woman had appeared out of nowhere, seemingly in the middle of her trigger vision. Tattoos of vines and bones covered her arms, painful looking tattoos of blood spilling across the palms of her hands. A few fingers remained deliberately and, dare she say, eerily unmarred. The woman’s amber eyes were sharper than hers, to Amy they held the glow of a predator. Not predatory, rather filled with the feigned confidence of a jungle cat out of its den.

She looked at the shapeshifter (because what else could she be) and saw her fears realized. The kind of person her mom would speed up to get away from, or maybe even stop to ‘ask a few questions.’ Amy couldn’t help but think about Ellisberg, about Jamestowner and the Slaughterhouse Nine. In a sea of negativity, one doubt stood out to her.

If she’s a monster, then why was she so kind to me?

Carol Dallon was not having a good day. She had thought that a broken Keurig would be the worst she’d have to deal with, maybe one of the Christmas presents she ordered for herself would get lost in the mail. Then a group of self-important thugs attacked her daughter. Amy triggering was less than ideal, as were her attempts at deception on the topic of her new powers. Healing, as though there’s any cape that can only heal. But none of that was enough to push her into calling her sister.

The topic of their call was the alleged time traveller. After making sure Victoria was settled down from her experience she had tried to go back to work. When she stopped focusing on her work she started pacing around the house. Mark wasn’t around to vent to and dragging the girl out of her room would be too far given the day’s events. A hoax of this sort would be one thing, she wouldn’t put that past the Chorus. It was the slight lack of surety, the thought that the PRT might contact her with confirmation instead of a denial, that pushed her to call Sarah.

“Why would she even get tattoos? I’m not sure if that’s the most or least believable part of this whole debacle.”

“Carol, even if this Amy is real, it’s– you’ve done your best Carol. Any decisions she’s made as an adult are her responsibility, not yours. Besides, if she is real you should be happy! That’s a third daughter for you to spend time with. And you don’t even have to support this one!” Carol laughed, it was a rusty thing, fragile. The phone beeping was like an Endbringer siren cut short.

“I think that’s the PRT. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

“I love you, Carol.”

“…Me too.”

I might have a new sister…

Victoria had never properly considered time travel before, another pipe dream like telepathy or aliens. Ever since she attended one of Crystal’s uni lectures she decided that she’d try to live without consideration for the impossible. She thought that lingering on anything other than that which she knew for a fact would only lead to more disappointment. Now, however, she was confronted with the notion that she had met her sister’s future self, or at least a possible future of hers.

At first she assumed they had finally found Amy’s birth mother, or more likely a cousin. Their shared powers only supported that theory but she held off on saying anything. She knew not to trust her senses around parahumans, but Future Amy’s queasy awkwardness towards her was as affirming as it was upsetting. She dropped her phone to the bed as her fists clenched, she wanted to grab her own future self by the throat. She’d seen reflexive guilt in her sister’s face before. Victoria couldn't think of anything Amy could do to deserve that. That any version of her could provoke that feeling in Amy… she felt like her mother.

She looked out her bedroom door at the sound of the landline crashing into its switch hook. Her fingers traced along her forearm as she imagined herself with tattoos like those, wondering for a moment if she could hold her shield back long enough to get inked. Her mother was crying. Maybe she’d get a tattoo of a knight, or a swan. Maybe arrange it so she and her Ames could match. She’d have to ask Future Amy. Tattoos. It seemed today was a day for impossibilities.

Chapter Text

Carol woke up tired and jittery. The sun was hours away from rising as she dressed in one of her backup suits (her favourite was in the laundry). She tried to wash the fatigue out of her eyes before applying a light foundation to hide the eyebags.

In one hand she held her phone, drafting an email to her coworker explaining why she would be unavailable for the day. She quickly backed out to check the previous day’s email to her boss, making doubly sure the two were consistent with one-another. She clicked keys meticulously while trying to wrangle a simple breakfast with her other hand.

“You’re going soon?” Mark was not an early riser. Typically that is, she could tell he wasn’t having one of his ‘good days’ so much as her own stress had infected him. Judging by the sounds coming from upstairs it had infected the rest of the house too. She would not be surprised if Sarah had woken up early as well, given that she and Crystal were to come over for lunch with the apparent new relative.

Vicky was just climbing into the shower (clumsily, like always) when Carol charged out the front door. She barely registered Mark and a drowsy Amy wishing her well. If her driving was more aggressive than usual, well, there was no one out at that hour to complain.

Pulling up to the PRT building she sized herself up in the mirror, applying a coat of lipstick like it was warpaint. She talked to the receptionist on autopilot, unable to think of her job in the face of what questions do I ask? A tiny voice on her shoulder wondered if she even had the right.

Her second impression of the girl was a poor one. Her hair was healthier than present Amy’s, freshly washed too. At a glance her tattoos made her look like a punk or a starving artist but she couldn’t get past how violent they were. Let alone how much the inked bones reminded her of the girl’s father. Upon entering the room, Other Amy shrunk back. Hands lying limp in her lap as she stared, unsure. Carol cursed the weakness in her voice.

“...Amy?”

A beat.

“Hey there Carol.” She stopped breathing. When did that change? Amy still called her ‘mom,’ right? She knew she wasn’t always much of a mother to her, but she - just that morning, had Amy called her ‘Carol?’

“Not sure if I should keep going by Amy given, you know.” Oh thank God, an excuse to stop thinking about that .

“What would you like to go by then?” She drummed her fingers on the table.

“I was thinking, maybe Amy Claire? Would that be too confusing? I’d pick Amelia but that name has… baggage.”

“So you know then?” The thought didn’t upset her as much as she figured it would. Maybe the tattoos had primed her for it.

“About Marquis? Of course. I’ve met the guy, even lived with him.”

“He’s in the Birdcage, Amy Claire.” Her head tilted at that, considering.

“So was I.” Fssh! She stayed half-crouched, with her blade at the ready. What the PRT thought about this conversation she didn’t know. Amy Claire had cringed back at her lit blade, bracing herself like she expected a hit.

“Should I be worried?” 

“Probably.”

“Should I be worried right now? ”

“No. My Birdcage stay was probably a mistake anyway. I never even went to trial.” Carol dismissed her blade, but remained tense.

“That’s… upsetting. Probably also something we should discuss later. Now what are your intentions with my… my daughters.” Amy Claire physically hunkered down, clenching her entire body rather than just her fist. The girl gnashed her teeth before breathing deeply, straightening and looking Carol in the eye.

“Nothing good has come of me getting powers yet.” Nothing?! Aren’t you a healer? Carol knew it would set the girl off if she expressed her disbelief aloud.

“I want to give your Amy a better shot than I had. Help her build better habits. Steer her away from some of my more… egregious mistakes. I ruined any chance I had for real peace or happiness. I overworked myself, doing a Sisyphus impression in the hospital and obsessing over my own problems while the world just kept going to shit around me. What a fucking hero I’ve been. So no, Carol, you don’t need to worry right now. I’m not Arnold Schwarzenegger coming back in time to conquer the world for Marquis. I’m here to give myself another big sister so she can end up even a tenth of the hero I wish I was.”

Amy Claire was tense in her seat, glaring at Carol as though daring her to try reassuring her. Carol wasn’t sure what to think of the woman in front of her anymore. She sat down across from her daughter.

“Have they tried to make you sign anything? Walk me through what’s happened so far.”

Amy Claire shuffled out of the front seat of Carol’s sedan, a seat she had actually never ridden in before, and looked up at the Dallon house. The paint was a few months fresh and the driveway as clean as it could be in Brockton winter. Aunt Sarah’s old minivan was parked in the driveway, though Amy Claire supposed it would be a new minivan since she’d just bought it this last summer. 

Her borrowed clothes clung to her uncomfortably as she tucked her hands into her armpits and shivered. She could see young Vicky’s face peeking out between the curtains like a golden retriever, until she turned around and barked at the rest of the house that they had arrived.

Aunt Sarah welcomed them in, giving Amy Claire a conflicted look. Crystal was crouching by the coffee table, chewing her lip as she looked over a pile of felt pen drawings depicting various achromatic designs ranging from a poorly drawn flower to what looked like a piece of mangled meat. The mangled meat drawing had an arrow pointing to it, labelled ‘swan.’

She had never experienced the phenomenon of one’s house shrinking until now. She’d been small until right before adulthood, and she’d never had much of a reason to visit her old schools. Amy Claire felt like she’d stepped into a tourist trap replica of the New Wave home, hallways that were so normal in her memories feeling cramped as Aunt Sarah steered her to a chair at the edge of the living room, a hard wood one from the dining room. She remembered sitting on the couch like her younger self was now, listening to often unwelcome guests drone on from this very position. 

The alienation only got worse when Vicky started listing drinks. She could only stay glued in her seat by pretending Little Vicky was some kind of clone or completely different person. Someone else named Vicky instead of the Victoria she knew. Dissociation is fine, right? She picked the only option her mind had registered just to get Vicky out of her field of view.

It seemed she wasn’t the only one with no idea what to say. Little Amy looked like she was bursting with questions but was too nervous to speak up. Mark at least looked happy to see her, sitting on the armchair opposite his wife. I really should have seen the affair thing coming, huh. Carol and Sarah were holding hands on the couch, with Sarah between her sister and Little Amy. There was an open spot next to Crystal, but Amy Claire could still hear Vicky filling glasses in the other room.

“So are you here to tell us how we’re gonna die?” Thank you, Crystal. Amy Claire preempted Aunt Sarah’s scolding.

“Yes, you choked to death on a Hot Pocket and no one could reach you because of all the shit in your room. That’s two cautionary tales for the price of one.” Aunt Sarah always laughed low, like she was trying not to bother anyone. The general public viewed her as New Wave’s valiant leader. She was an excellent actor.

“Seriously though, are you doing okay? Have you figured out where you’re going to live? Oh, thanks Vicky.” While the others besides Carol looked curious, Crystal looked genuinely worried about her. Vicky had apparently decided to save Amy Claire’s drink for last, handing it over two-handed as though it were the holy grail.

“Conveniently, as soon as it became clear that I wouldn’t be cowed into joining the Protectorate, an apartment opened up in PRT territory. Probably sharing a floor with at least one hero. It won’t be fully furnished, but I’m moving in tonight. Was gonna get some groceries and toiletries later.”

“Can we come with? Maybe Crystal can drive us?” Vicky looked from her cousin to her mother. That has to be the first time she’s gotten excited for grocery shopping.

Carol looked ready to interject, but a squeeze from her sister quieted her down.

“I don’t see why not, unless Crystal doesn’t want to?”

“No, I’ll come.” The conversation from there was rocky. Amy Claire made it clear that she was going to stay quiet on the consequential details of her future, especially considering she planned on changing things drastically enough that they wouldn’t matter. Sarah made it clear that she was welcome for New Wave family Christmas. When Mark finished preparing lunch the conversation hit another stumble as the family sat down to eat.

“Can I talk to Amy in private later?” Surprisingly it was Sarah who looked most suspicious of this. Carol probably thought they would be talking about Marquis. In another surprising turn it was Carol who proposed a compromise.

“You can talk to her and Victoria. I’m not saying we don’t trust you, it’s–”

“I get it, no problem.” The conversation moved on to future movie releases. Amy Claire had to pretend as though the movies she could remember from 2011 were recent to her.

Later they could hear Mark’s football highlights from Amy’s bedroom. Amy Claire ran her fingers along the houseplant on the windowsill, its leaves yellowed from Amy’s early experimentation. The room looked so different from how she last remembered it that it somehow felt less surreal than the rest of the house.

“So there were two things I wanted to talk about with you today.” Amy fidgeted on her bed. Her nervous expression hidden by her curtain of dry, frizzy hair. I’ll have to get her some better shampoo, so she at least stops using Vicky’s stuff. Vicky stood vigil at the door, making sure nobody listened in.

“Okay?” Little Amy squinted, her head cocked to one side.

“The first one I’m okay with Vicky hearing, the second is something she should only hear on your terms.” The sisters frowned, but neither objected.

“Tell us the first one then.” Amy Claire decided to just rip the Band-Aid off.

“Our dad is Marquis.”

“The villain?” Amy had a look of consideration, clearly recognizing the name.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, huh.” Amy Claire had been expecting at least some disbelief, but she guessed her younger self had yet to fall that deep into her neuroses. “So that’s why Carol hates me?”

“Mom doesn’t hate you!” Vicky whisper-shouted. “She can be a bit strict sometimes but you’re still her daughter.” Little Amy looked dubious at that.

“She’s half right.” And now the dubious look was sent her way. Damn, I was a cute kid.

“Carol doesn’t hate us. I thought she did for a long time, but being with her today… She can be unfair, she projects too much, she gets tunnel vision worse than any of the three of us and has fewer healthy coping mechanisms than I do. None of that makes her behaviour okay. I don’t forgive my Carol for her shit, and you shouldn't forgive yours for hers. I just…” In through the nose, out through the mouth. “Maybe this is just the season for second chances.”

Both of the other girls looked upset at that, though probably for different reasons.

“If you need to stay somewhere, get away from Carol for a while, I’ll get a futon or something.” Little Amy looked relieved and thankful for that.

She psyched herself up for her next question. Being in the room with Vicky was bad enough, she wasn’t dissociating enough apparently. The idea of doing this herself made her feel like losing the lunch Mark had worked so hard to make.

“Would you like another lesson on your powers? We’re going to need Vicky’s cooperation for this one as well.” Vicky actually looked as excited as her sister.

“Okay then, I’m going to teach you how to safely make someone deaf. Are you okay with that Vicky?” Vicky nodded, and flew her way over to where Little Amy was sitting on the bed. Amy Claire walked her younger self through a few methods of eliminating a sense. The two of them got so caught up in it that they also rendered Vicky blind, and then induced anosmia and anaphia. All with Vicky’s permission, though Amy Claire spent most of the lesson with her eyes closed, imagining the transformations happening to anyone else.

When they had safely rendered Vicky incapable of listening in, Amy Claire sat across from her younger self and figured that ripping Band-Aids had worked well enough for her so far.

“You. Gay.” Little Amy panicked and looked at Vicky, as though she hadn’t spent the last ten minutes meticulously depriving the girl of her senses.

“And!?”

“You should tell people about it. At least your family.” Amy licked her lips, glancing from side to side.

“Why?”

“Look, I know I haven’t gone into much detail about the future–”

“Almost none, and a lot of it sounded like lies.”

“–but my life was pretty shitty. To start un-shitting your life, we need to remove stressors. While it was far from the biggest one, staying in the closet was probably the most unnecessary. We’re the strongest healer in the world and I’m basically a god, no skinhead is gonna fuck with you unless they have a deathwish. And we’re in a coastal city in a kinda-liberal state in a post-Legend world, other than the Nazis nobody that matters gives a shit.”

“But what about the-uh, you know.” She stiffly glanced at Vicky. So did Amy Claire.

“That’s a recent thing, right?” Little Amy nodded.

“Just push it down for now, hopefully it’ll go away when I get you a bigger social group. Or maybe it’ll transfer, I dunno.” Amy Claire shrugged, trying to project nonchalance.

“You’re planning on setting me up with someone?” I wasn’t until a few seconds ago. She couldn’t think of anybody to set her past self up with. Foil would probably take too long and she was kind of a freak anyways. There’s such a thing as taking BDSM too far.

“Maybe. So when do you want to tell people?” Little Amy wasn’t quite crying, but it was close.

“Can we tell Vicky first?”

“Of course.” They gave Vicky’s senses back, sharing amused smirks as she marvelled at her hands like the entire universe had changed. 

“Vicky?” Little Amy started to shake, before Amy Claire could do anything Vicky was already grounding her. Hands on her shoulders and giving her a patient but anticipatory smile.

“I’m gay.”

“Really? Cool.” Vicky didn’t even hesitate. As Amy untensed and tears started flowing she even thanked her for sharing. Amy Claire strode to the door, conflicted and mournful.

As the trio left Amy Claire had one last question for herself.

“I’m also going to be fairly open about being Marquis’s kid, if that’s alright with you?” Little Amy's nervousness was pierced by new suspicion.

“That’s fine, I guess. Why do you need to be open about it?” Amy Claire crossed her arms and smiled as the trio reached the stairs. She could hear whatever had been going on in the kitchen stop as their return registered to the rest of the house.

“Oh nothing much, it just affects my plans for later.”

“What do you need dried yeast, cow bones and frozen mice for anyhow? Especially that much of it?” Despite asking, Vicky sounded like she at least had a vague idea of what Amy Claire was planning. Though she hadn’t included the numerous pounds of spinach and canned beans in her list.

“You’ll see.” Her face twisted up into a teasing grin.

Little Amy’s coming out had gone well. Sarah didn’t react much at first but congratulated her anyway. The worst that had happened was when Carol expressed confusion that Amy was nervous at all. That she followed it with ‘I thought it was obvious’ only made Little Amy’s bafflement more exaggerated. 

The quartet of two Amys, a Vicky and a Crystal had stopped at the Dallons’ regular strip mall for groceries which now sat in the car. Now the group was driving to Lord’s Market for some more specialty goods. In another surreal show of good faith Carol had offered to let Amy Claire borrow her credit card, but Crystal decided the grocery run would be on her.

Vicky had spent the ride to Lord’s Market on her phone while Crystal and Amy Claire talked in the front seat. Amy Claire rested her head on her fist and her elbow against the door. Crystal, the 17 year old, was the only one of them with a valid license. 

“So any relationship drama to share?” Crystal waggled her eyebrows like a suburban mom trying to be hip. Vicky glanced up from her conversation and started to speak before she received another text.

“Well there was Bianca.” She wasn’t sure how to tell this story without making herself sound like a horrible person. Crystal's slightly lascivious grin made the words catch in her throat.

“Hell yeah! She sounds hot.” Everyone was paying attention to her now.

“She was… an interesting person. She was a cape, you wouldn’t recognize her cape name even if I told you. She was tall, muscular, beautiful, physically she was everything I could want. She was interested in me for my power, not just as a tool she could use but for the thrill of it. She was a powerful cape: Brute, Mover, Shaker, Master. Her powers were a lot like Vicky’s, really. She was used to being on top of every interaction, so the fact that when we touched I could have killed her on a whim, she found it exhilarating. Everything was about control for her, but I like to think she grew to care for me in her own way, even though that makes me feel worse about how things ended.

I liked her because she was there.”

…

Nobody talked for the remainder of the ride.

They got out of the car to see some scrawny loser in a button up shirt. Scrawny was a bit far, he had some muscle, but it was teen muscle, the kind that made boys look more lanky than strong.

“Future Amy, you probably know Dean.”

Oh fuck, I haven’t thought about this dweeb in half a decade.

She could see how a teenager might find him charming. Attractive even. His features had the makings of a broad shouldered pretty boy that would probably be dosing drinks in college. Okay me that’s a bit dark, he’s not that bad. Season for second chances, remember?

Amy Claire wasn’t sure how she felt about Dean. She still felt resentment towards him, certainly. Even now he was looking at her with concern as though he were planning on doing or saying anything. But he was a teenager, if she couldn’t expect Carol to be emotionally mature why would she expect that from him?

That she had been blindsided by his existence was concerning to say the least. The day’s events had reminded her that she wasn’t the only person she had been put in a position to help. Dean could get bent, but there were a few others she felt she should check up on.

Come to think of it, I should probably do Skitter a solid. Saving the multiverse and all that. She would have triggered around now, right? Her real name was Taylor… something. It’ll come to me.

They bought some artisanal cheeses, some throw pillows and a scented candle. Dean treated them to some Christmas latkes while not-so-subtly inquiring about what he was up to in the future. She gave some ominous half answers and let him stew in them.

Dean, big brave man that he was, offered to carry her stuff up to her apartment. Lo and behold there was an obvious war vet to one side of her, a Kurdish woman on the other and a young couple across the hall. Subtlety, thy name is not PRT.

The apartment was better furnished than she had expected. The bathroom was clean and complete, there was a queen size bed in the bedroom already made. The kitchenette had a fridge, a microwave and an empty space where a stove could be installed. She asked Dean to put one of the grocery bags in the bathroom while she stared at what sat in her new living room. A brand new futon and coffee table had been placed across from an empty TV stand. Inconspicuous in the middle of it all was a high-tech looking laptop and phone.

Dean returned looking freaked out by something, probably the dead rats. Vicky reminded her that she was invited to Christmas dinner while the other three tried to bodily force her out the door.

She sat on her couch, stared at the open laptop, and greeted her next guest.

“Hey, Tess.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, Tess.” Amy Claire greeted her next guest calmly. Although the relationship between her and future Dragon had been rocky, she felt that Dragon could relate to her in a way few other capes could. So long as she could demonstrate her value and connect to Dragon on a personal level, she was confident the Guild would accept her with open arms.

“I don’t know who that is.” Things were already going wrong.

“Wait, you don’t? But I thought– is that just not a thing yet?” Dragon’s artificial face struggled to maintain a professional demeanour.

“Amy Claire, I– can you slow down and explain who you’re talking about?”

“You!? I thought that was your name, I could have sworn that was your name.” Amy flapped her hands like she was swatting bugs.

“I can assure you it’s not.” Amy Claire adjusted the laptop to meet Dragon’s eyes.

“This conversation is being recorded, right? Who's going to see it?” Dragon raised a digital eyebrow.

“The full, unredacted recording will be available to myself and Narwhal exclusively. A redacted transcript will be submitted to the PRT for further review.” She could hear the clacking of a fake keyboard coming from Dragon’s end. She’s really dedicated to the illusion, huh.

“Do I get a say in what gets redacted?”

“Maybe a bit, that depends on what you want redacted and why.”

“Okay then, redact this. You were created by the Tinker Andrew Richter to be his personal lab assistant, you triggered because of the Dragonslayers and eventually you start going by the name Tess. I was under the impression you already did so, but I guess not. Fucking hell.” Amy tried to avoid Dragon’s eyes.

“You didn’t need to go into quite so much detail, you know.” Yeouch, she’s got the ‘scolding mom’ look down pat. Wonder if that’s why Defiant’s into her?

“Oh yeah, that’s– sorry, Tess.” She glared at the floor. Past Dragon’s voice overlapping with one of her stronger memories from the previous timeline. A memory she still resented.

“Prisoner 612, codename Panacea. PRT powers designation Striker 12 asterisk, other ratings speculative, biokinetic. Individuals reading or viewing this log are directed to view pages six through nine … voluntarily subjected herself to containment … Baumann Parahuman Containment Centre rests at a fairly steady 0.001363% … Within acceptable limits. Will be processed to cell block W.”

“Just call me Dragon, please .” Amy Claire blinked, returning to reality.

“Okay! Okay, wow. You can call me Amy when it’s just us.” She tried to find her composure, Dragon either didn’t notice her distraction or didn’t care.

“So you know about my… status. How did you come to know, if you don’t mind my asking?” Amy knew this would be a lengthy conversation, and figured giving herself something else to do might help ease tension.

“Do you mind if I cook some dinner while we talk?”

“Go ahead.” Amy sighed, relieved, and turned the laptop to face her kitchenette. She only had the contents of her refrigerator and a microwave to work with, so she began by taking stock of her ingredients.

“Well the thing is, after a certain point it just became an open secret. You probably already know this, PRT connections and all that, but I spent some time in the Birdcage.”

“I was planning on asking you about that, yes. The idea that you would be sentenced there without trial was upsetting for me to say the least.” She hadn’t argued against it at the time, though given what she knew about Dragon’s restrictions she couldn’t blame her.

“I deserved it more than Canary did. A few others too. Ingenue is a bitch but Birdcaging her felt weird. But that’s besides the point.” Coleslaw, check. Goat cheese? Where did Crystal put the cheeses…

“Bad Canary? Why would she be– tabling that discussion for now. We’ll be coming back to your time in the Birdcage later, however.”

“Alright, moving on, I assume that as the person running the place, you are aware that the Birdcage was built with the intent of eventually being opened?” Dragon gave her a thankful smile. She started chopping some extra vegetables.

“I suspected as such, yes. So then I am to assume that a doomsday scenario came to pass and you were released alongside the other inmates.”

“Not all of them, not at first. Thing is, you weren’t the one to open the doors.” Dragon’s avatar looked resigned, Amy had expected more fight from her than that. “The official story at the time was that the apocalypse had temporarily put you out of business. See, Saint is actually one of the Taught, believes he’s on a crusade against an AI menace when he’s really another of Teacher’s convoluted schemes. So for most of Gold Morning, that’s the apocalypse by the way, the first one, you were kept out of the fight by Teacher, who exchanged your restrictions for some of his own. Eventually Teacher’s stupidity escalated to the point you were forced to reveal your status to the heroes.”

“Gold, so does that mean– wait, the first one!?” She paused, dropping full hands of vegetables into a mixing bowl.

“Upbupbup! That’s one of the bits I want you to redact.” Dragon looked distressed and somewhat disappointed. That Dragon was able to understand the implication meant one of three things, any of which would be useful in the future. Either Scion’s information blackout had gaps that could be bypassed by inference, which was possible; Dragon was a rare natural Eden trigger that had not been properly configured, unlikely; or there was something unusual about her connection to Shaper, something to do with her time travel.

“Telling you the name Gold Morning was a test, for me not you, but if you understand the implication of it you should also understand that talking about it might be unwise. I’m telling you this and not Costa-Brown because I know you and Narwhal are responsible enough to handle more sensitive information, but the thing about foreknowledge is that it is easy to reach a state of ‘too many cooks.’ Some Thinkers cheat to avoid that problem, but I’m no precog.” 

Dragon got the message and waited for Amy to finish her salad. After her first bite she decided the bowl needed more protein, a quick trip into the bathroom got her a can of kidney beans. Kinda gross, but protein is protein . Dragon waited until she’d sat back down, though she was clearly curious about Amy’s bathroom beans.

“I think you would agree that concerns about your Birdcage stay should be assuaged before I can consider you for Guild nomination.” Amy Claire had decided in PRT headquarters that she would be honest about this… mostly.

“I lost control of my powers after an encounter with the Slaughterhouse Nine and begged to be locked up for the public’s safety. Considering the nature of my powers, the Birdcage was the only prison that could reasonably contain me.” She wrapped her mouth around a large forkful of salad. Chewing loud and slow.

“And your powers are?” Carol always liked the phrase ‘honesty is the best policy.’

“Bioki– hugh . Biokinetic, I can manipulate biology with a touch. I am very experienced, almost too experienced with using it for healing. I can’t affect my own genetic material and my power gets less effective on smaller targets, so I can do some stuff with bacteria but tinkertech superplagues are out of my reach. I’m like a broader but shallower Nilbog.” But when have I ever listened to Carol?

“I can wait until your power-testing is finished to verify the effectiveness of your healing, but do you have some way of demonstrating your power’s usefulness in combat or in search and rescue? Preferably one that won’t tank Guild PR when used in public.” Amy stood and moved the coffee table so that the bathtub would be fully in Dragon’s view. A particular idea had stuck out in her mind since her arrival in the past, a fighting style that was eminently and essentially her , and one which raised fascinating questions about her arrival in the past..

“A demonstration? Why didn’t you say so?” She swayed and danced her way to the faucet, mostly to allay her own excitement. As the bathtub filled with water she unpacked her other set of groceries, clearly showing off each ingredient to Dragon.

As the bathtub filled she poured in entire containers of yeast, a swirl of her finger brought the tub to life, multiplying and mutating the yeast until she was ready to add the next ingredient. Closing the faucet she poured in beans, spinach and rawhide bones, setting the bacterial soup to consuming and restructuring its materials. The clear bubbling water turned the mottled red of an aggravated scab.

The essential ingredient though was the frozen mice. While her power wouldn’t work on dead biomass, her bacteria could be set to digesting and repurposing essential tissues. Dozens of little mouse brains floated and dissolved in the sludge as she stripped out of her clothes, slightly panicked questions from Dragon going ignored as she kept her eyes on the bath. She could feel the neural tissue recycling through her fingertip.

She shivered with excitement as she lowered her body into the nutrient slop, which had coalesced into a liquid meat not dissimilar in composition to the inside of a hot dog. The rapid chemical reactions had heated the mixture to something like warm tea. 

She layered and condensed the newborn flesh, feeling it creep up over every contour of her form. She made sure to show off as she moulded a skintight layer concentrated on her back and arms, caught air exhaling as the nearly steaming quasi-muscular tissue separated from her body with the erection of supple cartilage structures. The organism restructured itself into DNA adjacent to her own, different enough that her power continued to pulse and weave through it as fresh nerves snapped and popped into being.

As she prepared to hook the creature into the nerve cluster in her nape, she felt a sense of expectation that wasn’t her own, and knew that Shaper wanted this too, even enabled it. She passed out. For a moment all she knew was a garden of flesh, a perfect golden ratio of the feminine form repeated ad infinitum, something she had seen but forgotten years before. When she came to, she looked at Dragon, who was more intrigued than anything. She didn’t shut down, not even a glitch… huh.

A bauble of flesh wrapped itself around her left ear without covering it. From the ear-bauble she heard, intimately, the burbling formation of a new organ. Liquid pulsing into a spherical shell. With the completion of an optic nerve an eye the same amber as her own opened, wider and rounder than any natural human’s. Her vision through it was hazy, the laptop screen flashed like a strobe light as she adjusted the new eye's aperture.

She always resented being called a Tinker, however accurate it may be. If you took away a Tinker’s powers most wouldn’t be able to perform even basic car repair. While her power gave her instinctual knowledge and some help, she worked hard on her knowledge of biology. It took years of work to achieve but by now she truly understood what her powers did at a level few Tinkers could match. The primary obstacle between her and doing things like this by hand was that the tools had not been invented yet. She did, however, readily accept being called a Trump.

“I may have left out a quirk or two of my abilities.” She climbed out of the bathtub, held up one immensely bulky arm, and from the knuckles jagged crags of yellowed bone burst forth in a volume which defied the conservation of matter. Merry Christmas, Dad.

She retracted the bone, and a flex of her will set the condensed flesh gathering into a lump on her back, the eyestalk retracting into the aberrant invertebrate’s centre mass. She showed it, and her behind, to Dragon before repositioning it above the tub. She allowed it to remain in backpack form for a moment. It then fell into the tub with a pop, leaving a patch of maroon-coloured meat digging into the back of her neck. Skin on her back and arms steamed red, like she’d been wrapped in hot towels. She posed, still naked.

“Any questions, Dragon?”

Dragon applauded, breaking what Amy thought was a sensual atmosphere. I guess it was mostly just gross.

She paced in the hallway with her cellphone, having just spoken to her younger self. The technicians sent to install her stove still worked away inside. The poor girl wanted to know if it was okay to call herself Panacea. Amy Claire told her that she could call herself whatever she wanted. 

Over the past few days Amy Claire had mostly stuck to her apartment, only leaving for brief drives around town and fast food meals. She spent time with her past self and Crystal, Vicky sometimes tagging along. Vicky kept asking her about where she got her tattoos, the three girls took it as a joke when she replied ‘prison.’

The two of them would be formally power tested around New Years, and Amy Claire made it clear to Little Amy that the two of them would be discussing work habits with Carol together that same day. Amy Claire had borrowed a book on economics from the library hoping it would help her give better advice. She learned a lot, but not much of it was helpful.

Her introspection was interrupted by probably-Velocity in a Christmas sweater doing a full-on, actual ‘oh I didn’t see you there’ as if they were in a Kickstarter commercial. The man was carrying an unopened container of store-bought brownies so he clearly did in fact ‘see her there.’ After a similar incident with Miss Militia, or ‘Hannah’ as she insisted on being called, it was clear the Protectorate were determined to ingratiate themselves with her. They should have sent Challenger then. No baggage. Also she’s hot.

She sighed, still not caring enough to parse what probably-Velocity was talking about. Fuck this, my neighbors are heroes, nobody’s gonna steal my shit, I’m going Christmas shopping .

She had traded some information to Dragon in exchange for a bit of extra cash. Nothing she wasn’t planning on sharing eventually anyways, and only enough money to tide her over until she started work with the Guild. Apparently the Chief Director ordered Dragon to investigate Amy Claire’s effect on Thinkers, something about a ‘highly classified asset’ being put out of commission. Amy couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard. Contessa earned a Thinker headache or two, at least.

Amy rushed between shops, collecting a variety of gifts. Hard cider for Neil, bought with her new ID. Oversized fuzzy knit socks for Carol and Sarah. A book on medicine for her younger self. A stuffed raccoon for Crystal ( because she collects trash ) and a creepy elf doll for Eric because she genuinely could not remember his interests and felt like messing with him. The doll reminded her of Dot. She already knew what she was giving Mark.

She had nearly forgotten Vicky entirely, rushing back inside to buy some chocolates. Chocolate is fine, right? Not too personal, but still nice.

She felt like she’d had a productive day, and was ready to resume mindlessly browsing forums on her swanky Dragontech laptop. When she arrived back to find the technicians had left, she saw probably-Assault waiting in the hallway with an unopened box of sugar cookies. This better stop after power testing or I’m moving out.

Holidays in the New Wave family were always celebrated at the Pelham home, mostly because of their kitchen. The Pelhams had lucked into a big house thanks in large part to the Teeth. Turns out explosive teleportation drives property values down, go figure. While the house was larger than the Dallons’, Amy Claire could see ways in which it was worse-kept. Snow and slush piled on the empty driveway, Carol having parked her sedan down the street. Signs of past rainfalls marred the paint job, and the lawnmower sat abandoned in the side yard, covered but still left in the snow.

She was welcomed into the house by Eric. He had gotten powers not long after his sister, and though he and Amy had never been particularly close she always thought he was the most genuine person in the family.

Uncle Neil was in the kitchen making dinner. Little Amy, Carol and Mark were awkwardly hiding from the dining room where Aunt Sarah was arguing with her daughter. Vicky’s humming could be heard from the bathroom, leading Amy Claire to believe that Sarah had waited for Vicky to leave before laying into Crystal.

“I’ve been patient with you this past year, but it’s ridiculous that I have to clean up after my seventeen-year-old daughter!” Crystal looked like she wanted to be anywhere else. She had tried to casually position her arms as a makeshift shield against her mother, much like her powers the shield wasn’t very effective.

“You don’t have to then, I can clean up after myself. I don’t need you to baby me. Can we just not talk about this today? It’s Christmas.” She spoke quietly, far from the boisterous and fun cousin Amy Claire was used to. Crystal’s leg thumped impatiently as she glanced to the stairs.

“I clearly do have to, or else your room wouldn’t be such an eyesore. Look, honey, you can just make it your New Year's resolution. Please.” Sarah still hadn’t noticed Amy Claire’s arrival. Carol’s expression begged her not to intervene.

“I–I can’t deal with this right now.” Crystal darted up the stairs, shooting embarrassed glances in Amy Claire’s direction. She could see the tears forming in Crystal's eyes. Sarah finally looked chagrined at noticing Amy Claire’s presence. I don’t remember this argument…

At that moment Vicky returned in good cheer, holding two Santa hats. She placed a traditional red one on her own head before aerially launching herself at Amy Claire, handing her a coal black Santa hat that read ‘Bah Humbug.’

“So are we ready for presents? Wait, where did Crystal go?” Little Amy facepalmed behind her. No one was quite sure who to send, other than ‘not Sarah.’ Amy Claire looked her Aunt in the eye.

“I’ll go get her.” Amy Claire didn’t wait for a response. Crystal’s room was tucked into the corner of the Pelham’s spacious second floor. Although the door was ajar, she still knocked. “Crystal? Can I come in?” She waited through a brief silence. Crystal audibly kicked something over inside.

“Fine.” She opened the door to see stacks of books and piles of clothes, both dirty and clean, cluttering the floor. Her shelves were filled with collectables and there was a bin full of food garbage in the corner. Crystal had the lights off and the curtains closed, having curled up on her bed in the corner, such that the entire room was constantly in view. She wiped snot onto the sleeve of her sweatshirt and Amy Claire understood.

She reflected on how little she knew about Crystal’s trigger. Between Eric’s trigger happening so soon afterwards and the media coup that was New Wave’s two new capes, to Amy the circumstances of Crystal’s trigger consisted of not seeing her cousin for a few weeks before Laserdream debuted, and a warning from Carol not to go anywhere without driving. Crystal was recognized on the street and attacked, any detail (and trauma) beyond that went largely ignored. Traditionally it’s the middle child that gets forgotten, not the eldest.

Crystal had never been clean by any means, but starting in late 2008 she became something of a hoarder. Amy remembered when Victoria moved in with Crystal in the City. She had heard that the two struggled to make Crystal’s apartment livable, needing to make use of Victoria’s Brute rating to clear things out. She felt a new kind of self-loathing as she carefully stalked towards Crystal’s bed, trying not to step on anything. Crystal sniffled, long and loud.

“How did it end? With Bianca?” That’s not the question I was expecting. Hmmm.

“Well I told you that she was a powerful cape: Brute, Mover, Shaker, Master, right?” Crystal nodded. “Well her Master power was what made her dangerous. It was this subtle insidious kind of suggestion that made people believe in and look up to her. Like a more permanent version of Vicky’s aura.” She looked at Amy Claire like she was insane. Fair, but wait for me to finish.  

“It had two major flaws. One was that it only worked on other capes, the other was that it could be broken fairly easily if you knew it was there. Breaking the effect was easy enough for me that we used it for role– you know what I’m not gonna finish that.” Crystal laughed, throwing her head back into the bedroom wall. Crystal winced while the two chuckled. Amy Claire rubbed the centre of Crystal’s back, softly pulling her away from the wall.

“So she was a Master, first and foremost. Masters trigger because they lose something: a person, social connections, agency in their own lives. Masters also crave control, in general or of something specific. The thing is, Bianca had a lot of power for a long time, she didn’t just crave control, she was used to it. Somewhere along the way it graduated from a craving to a need.” Crystal was enraptured, watching as Amy Claire got further absorbed in her memories.

“She had a need to be respected, and believed things would be better if only she was in charge. At the time I was fine with that, Bianca was smart, at her best she was fucking brilliant. She loved art and philosophy, and when I could get her talking about her interests instead of cape stuff she could be inspiring without needing any mind control. She helped me forget how little I had in my own life. Sometimes I think the only reasons I didn’t love her were a lack of time and that I was too busy hating myself.” Amy Claire stopped, as far as she was from that time and that mindset, she was still enraged by what came next.

“Then she used her power on Victoria.” Crystal scooted forward on the bed and softly placed a hand on Amy’s shoulder. Of course Crystal is the one to comfort me like this. Amy finished her story through tears of her own.

“She pushed me away, I stabbed her in the back, and she died. Then I took everything she wanted.” Crystal stood up and brought Amy a tissue. “But now she’s alive, and she doesn’t even have powers yet, and I don’t know what to think about that.”

The two calmed themselves and found new clothes for Crystal. Upon exiting into the light of the hallway, Crystal noticed what was written on Amy Claire’s hat and guffawed. Amy rustled her hair in response. Amy Claire smiled thinking about one of her last conversations with her Crystal. Guess I got that clean break after all. Before the bathroom door could shut, she called out quietly enough that only Crystal could hear.

“I love you, Crystal. If you ever need me, I’m there.”

The pair returned to see Vicky organising presents in a system only she understood. Amy Claire’s presents to the family were kept separately from the rest, presumably to be done as their own set.

Neil mostly received cooking supplies, Mark got books, Sarah knitting supplies. Eric received a new pair of cleats. Everything was standard as far as New Wave Christmases until Carol and Crystal’s turn. Sarah had gotten her daughter cleaning gloves and garbage bags, to which Amy Claire knotted her fists into the fabric of her shirt.

Carol had received her standard suite of chocolates and fancy office supplies. She had also gifted herself a number of books and decorations she hadn’t trusted anyone else to buy, as was tradition with her. Amy Claire couldn’t tell if she was joking when she asked why nobody bought her a new Keurig. Mark felt the need to respond.

“It was only a few days ago, Carol. You can’t expect perfection if you don’t communicate.” Carol’s reaction made it clear that she had been joking. Uncle Neil placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and Amy Claire had to let go of her shirt to keep from tearing it. She knew her adoptive parents loved each other, as toxic and codependent as that love may be. Those thoughts did not make her feelings abate, only strengthened them.

Little Amy had taken her advice and used Christmas as an opportunity to practice with her powers. Each member of the Dallon-Pelham family received a custom flower, designed not to breed or even pollinate properly. Amy Claire’s was the same shade of red as her tattoos, with black patterns resembling animal teeth spread along the petals. Vicky's was a gorgeous cornucopia of glassy gold petals, dwarfing the others in size. Might need to talk to her about that.

Amy Claire almost cried again when her younger self charged over to hug her, apparently the medical book was a good pick. Neil laughed and made a show of smuggling his gift away to the garage. Carol and Sarah’s thanks was polite, Carol putting her new socks on right then. Amy Claire mimed a guilty ‘sorry’ as Crystal unpacked her new doll, but Crystal didn’t look offended. Eric however was quite affronted by Dot 2.0, while Vicky looked disappointed in her chocolates for some reason.

“Did you forget to buy something for Dad?” Little Amy looked upset with that, she felt proud.

“Actually, my gift for Mark is a little bit different.” Carol looked unsure, she probably had a guess. “I don’t want you to just jump into this. Think about it, talk it over, and we can do this whenever you’re ready. I’m good enough with my powers at this point that while I can’t just ‘cure depression’ wholesale, I can rebalance neurotransmitters and heal some damaged connections. It would be on you to build different emotional habits but you wouldn’t need to worry about good and bad days anymore.” Mark’s expression begged Carol to say yes. Carol’s resolve wavered and she mouthed a ‘let’s talk about this later.’

“Whether you accept or not, we can find other solutions. I’m in this family for the long haul. Merry Christmas, Dad.”

While Mark processed, Carol and Vicky argued in the corner, and Eric challenged his cousin to a game of chopsticks while his mother flipped through one of Carol’s gifts. Amy Claire and Neil slipped away to the kitchen. Uncle Neil's smile was so much like Victoria's.

“You want to help out, I take it?”

“I know about the affair.” In her efforts to be quiet she wheezed out that last word. Neil looked resigned. Not even gonna try and fight it, huh .

“I should have figured it would come out eventually. Sarah and Mark already know, and it was a long time ago.” She leaned against the wall while he got down on his knees to peek into the oven.

“Does Vicky know?” She already knew the answer, but this was the crux of the issue for her. Her arms were crossed and she looked down her nose at Neil, even crouched like he was; they were only about eye-level.

“No, none of the kids know. Why ask about her specifically?” She grit her teeth.

“She should know who her real father is.” Neil took a step back, like all of his steps it was a lengthy stride that carried him halfway across the kitchen.

“I am not her father. Carol and I slept together a few times, but we always used protection. We were careful. Vicky wasn’t conceived until she was back with Mark.”

“ You may have used protection, but did she ?” Neil turned away from the food, cupping a massive hand over his mouth. He didn’t respond, wiping sweat from his brow and preoccupying himself with utensils, which he handed to her. As she went to set the table she left a parting comment. “Think about it, will you. If I’m right then she deserves to know.”

The whole family reunited at the dinner table. A spread of festive dishes filling the house with smells that brought to mind better cheer than half the table felt. Sarah insisted they say grace, and as the family linked hands Amy Claire examined each person present. Carol and Mark had issues she could help with. Little her and Crystal needed support. Sarah and Neil needed to be better. Vicky looked upset about something, but put up a good enough front as she mimicked Sarah. Eric seemed fine, honestly. She had a lot of work to do.

No breaks for me, as always. I’ll fix everything, for all of you.

Chapter Text

Here are the muscle shirts, now where are the men’s smalls?

Vicky stood off to the side, she looked like Amy Claire had cursed an orphanage with super-dysentery. Amy Claire hadn’t cared about fashion since before she went to prison. Her sperm donor was almost as fashion obsessed as Vicky, and even he had learned to prioritise comfort over appearance during his time in the Birdcage.

She wasn’t aiming for mere comfort, no, she was going to get fit . Ever since constructing her portable Marquis she’d been working out as often as possible, only to quickly find her few outfits soaking in sweat. She needed more clothes, and so she invited the girls of Junior New Wave out to the mall.

It was the day after Boxing Day, and the mall employees were still visibly recovering. Earlier they passed by a Walmart, and the greeters’ faces reminded Amy Claire of Bakuda’s conscripts, a mix of terror and exhaustion tinged with inevitability.

Vicky huffed and dragged her sister off to look at… blouses? Whatever. Crystal was seemingly content to follow Amy Claire around as she gathered up loose and comfortable workout clothes. Muscle shirts, tracksuits, hoodies and cargo shorts. At the end of Christmas dinner the family surprised her with more starter cash, as they lacked the time and knowledge to acquire appropriately personal gifts, and figured cash would be more useful to her.

“Now that it’s just the two of us, would you like to talk about Christmas?” Amy Claire figured two days was enough for Crystal to gather her thoughts, though she also knew expecting others to readily talk about their problems would be hypocritical.

“What about these?” Crystal was bad at deflecting. She could relate. Crystal had picked up a pair of loose men’s running shorts that– that is a really nice shade of green.

“Wait, no. We are talking about Christmas before those two come back.” She put her fists on her hips like she’d seen Aunt Sarah once do.

“What if I don’t want to?” Crystal wasn’t even looking at her anymore. I see you have adopted the seven-year-old method of avoiding topics.

“Crystal, look, I get it. Things have been shitty lately. Do you want me to talk to Sarah– actually that’s not a good idea. Do you want me to make Carol talk to your mother?” Crystal’s face flickered between fear and mortification.

“I’m handling it, seriously. I already told mom and I’m telling you that I don’t need to be babied. I can deal with this on my own.” Yeah I’m not buying that. Crystal continued digging through clothes, while across the store Vicky tried to subtly float into a stall to try things on.

“It’s that exact attitude that fucked up our family in the first place. You’re nothing like your mother and hopefully you never will be. Do you want to be another Mike?” Crystal’s eyes reddened and she wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“I’ll talk to Carol. We will be having a conversation about this eventually.” Amy Claire piled workout clothes in her arms while Crystal wordlessly crept away.

After paying the three Dallons found Crystal waiting nearby, clearly unwilling to venture too far. The quartet headed for the food court, ignoring Crystal’s smudged makeup.

Most of the food court was closed, though a lack of available food didn’t stop the post Boxing Day crowds from coating floors and tables in wasted food. The two Amys diligently searched the area for a clean table while their blonde companions waited in line for food. One corner of the food court was both recently cleaned and devoid of possible eavesdroppers.

Vicky and Crystal had burritos, while the Amys each had Chinese. Amy Claire expected Vicky to speak up first, though she didn’t expect the coming topic.

“Can I get your opinion on something?” She kept her face flat as she acknowledged Vicky’s question. Little Amy’s eyes darted between the two of them as she nibbled on some orange chicken.

“Should I get tattoos? I know you said you got yours in prison,” Vicky laughed, a little nervously, “but I think your tattoos look great. So I know you wouldn’t know about tattoo parlours but do you have any thoughts on placement? Or design?” She looked at the fake bloodstains on her palms.

“That’s a very personal thing. I’m not sure if I would choose the same designs if given a second chance. If you get tattoos I would recommend starting on your outer shoulder, arm or calf, fewer nerve endings means less pain.” She could still remember the initial recovery period, and the frustration of having to heal others with sore arms.

“Could you use your powers to put one on my shoulder right now?” 

“Jesus Christ Vicky, do you want Carol to kill me?”

“Come on, it’ll be fine! I’m the one taking the brunt of things anyways. Ames keeps refusing to do it for me.”

“That’s because I don’t know how.” Little Amy harrumphed before staring at her with the slightest pleading curve to her brow. “You could teach me?” My own cute face will be the death of me.

“ Fine . What’s the design?” She spoke with a sigh. Vicky scrambled to pull a crumpled sheet of paper from her back pocket, unfolding it to reveal a drawing of her Glory Girl logo, her tiara, enveloped in a Panacea hood. It was cleanly drawn, composed such that the two symbols intertwined with one another to form one unified picture. God? Is that you? Can you please stop fucking with me?  

Vicky wanted it on the left shoulder, she had turned to show it to the table. Little Amy was waiting, holding Vicky’s hand. Crystal looked concerned, she was talking but Amy Claire couldn’t listen. She reached out. It was so much more than a touch.

The curve of her muscles, each contour and lump on the lining of her stomach. The arrangement of fat deposits was just as she remembered it. Her power-touch traced along Vicky’s legs, over her stomach, gripped her neck. Amy Claire’s extra-senses feverishly catalogued every nuance of her form. Legs, stomach, arms, neck; the sequence repeated. She dove closer, ravenously pouring over her genetic code like a favourite painting. 

Something she had never told anyone else was that Victoria was almost born a redhead. It was a severely recessive trait, especially unlikely in the Dallon lineage. It would have happened though if not for a similarly unlikely random exchange of alleles during conception. DNA told stories of happenstance known only to her. And to her younger self, she supposed. She laughed quietly, and felt freer than she had in a long time.

Thrice now she had been pushed to spread her power-senses into Vicky. She had been afraid to let herself feel this innocent version of her sister, afraid of returning to her old obsessions. Arriving in the past felt, in a rather cliché way, like seeing light at the end of a tunnel, a world where her mistakes were only memories. Now that light was blinding, overwhelmed because she was not attracted to the child across from her.

For a moment she was adrift and unanchored, she felt the profound absence of her skin patch for the first time in months. Her emotions were red and raw, like they had been chafed by metal shackles and only now freed. She stretched the atrophied muscles of simple, uncomplicated joy. Her younger self’s power-sense brushed against hers like the concerned touch of a loved one. She wasn’t ready to cry yet, so she smiled instead.

Little Amy wondered at how Amy Claire chained and converted spare proteins into biodegradable ink and forced skin cells to stain. She shot a look somewhere between amusement and offence when Amy Claire intentionally set off some nerve endings to simulate the feeling of getting tattooed for the first time. Vicky’s flinch was worth it though.

“It will fade eventually, I don’t have the proper ingredients to make a permanent tattoo.” Vicky’s grin made Amy Claire’s face hurt just looking at it. She hooked her freshly inked arm around Little Amy’s neck, not noticing the younger girl’s blush. Amy Claire met Crystal’s eyes momentarily, she broke first.

Today was a good day.

Amy Claire slipped into her apartment, thankful the hallways had been empty of neighbourhood capes. The room was darker than she’d left it, downright ‘someone is waiting in your place to intimidate you’ dark.

“Surprise.” A woman in pitch-black armour perched (because her body language was too dramatic for it to be sitting) in the corner. Alexandria had taken her helmet off and not bothered with eye makeup, her admittedly awesome scar on full display alongside her identity. Her resting bitch face somehow bridged the gap between looking 17 and 25. Amy Claire laughed.

“You said you wanted a few days to settle in. It’s been a week.” Rebecca Costa-Brown looked unphased, but she was Alexandria, her facial expressions were as authentic as her backstory.

“Sorry for laughing, it’s just- god you Cauldron folks really don’t have any self awareness, do you?” She tried to calm herself. It wasn’t even especially funny.

“Are you done? Because we actually have a lot to talk about.”

“Like what? Is Contessa still out of commission? Are you going to try to threaten me?” Alexandria stood up into the air and drifted, looming.

“Try to threaten you? You think I’m not a threat?” Amy Claire slowly and deliberately turned away from her, taking her sweet time placing her bags on the floor. She flaunted her back as she checked, redundantly, that she hadn’t forgotten anything in the car. Alexandria’s face was still stony when she turned back.

“I’m going to give you some spoilers from the future. You died like a bitch. A particularly stupid bitch, if my tone didn’t make that clear. You got ganked by bug girl, it was fucking hilarious.” She made her smirk as shit-eating as she could and stepped up into Alexandria’s face. She could feel the Triumvirate cape’s breath on her face. It would be so easy to kill her right now.

“For the first few months after you died everyone mourned you, then they shoved Pretender into your bug-ridden corpse and everyone preferred it because Rebecca Costa-Brown wasn’t around to be such a cunty buzzkill anymore. That you aren’t currently rotting in your own shit down in Cauldron’s basement has nothing to do with you and everything to do with luck. Come to think of it, you should probably thank Contessa next time you see her.” Alexandria’s façade started to break, fists clenched and teeth gritting. She’ll remember this for the rest of her life. Good.

“You want me to see you as a threat? Fuck you.” She spat in Alexandria’s face, it was the most exhilarating thing she had ever done. She stepped past the strongest ‘heroic’ Brute in the world, took her sweet time walking to her couch, and flopped down onto her back. She laid in a pose reminiscent of a Roman Emperor, making sure to project as much superiority as she could.

“You wanted to talk? Talk.”  Alexandria diverted her punch at the last second, thankfully saving Amy Claire’s front door. She wiped the spit from her face as she turned around, still floating. She spoke in a calm clipped tone that Amy Claire supposed she usually reserved for unruly directors.

“You already answered one of my questions. Why join the Guild?”

“Because that’s where my powers are best used. Proactively fixing problems instead of waiting in the hospital, reacting to gang violence.The Protectorate would restrict my movements, as would New Wave. I have actionable knowledge and immense power, but unlike Cauldron I have some inkling of how to use it effectively.” Alexandria’s expression somehow communicated that she understood that, and that her question was actually about something else.

“You realise that Guild membership requires recommendations from ten different established capes, right?” She did not. Still shouldn’t be a problem.

“I have you, a member of the Triumvirate and the Chief Director of the PRT, standing in my living room trying to recruit me to her war crimes club. If Cauldron can’t get me ten recommendations, then why would I bother working with you at all?” Alexandria’s feet touched the floor.

“And what would Cauldron get out of this favour?”

“Oh no, I’m not doing your unspecified favour bullshit. We’ve established I’m not actually afraid of you, and you and I both know I’m the more valuable party between the two of us. I’ll answer one question right now, for free. I’ll be nice and let you choose another one if I don’t know the answer. Choose carefully, Rebecca.”

The strongest woman in the world (for a certain definition of strong) ruminated on that while Amy Claire workshopped her smug face. Unfortunately the best example she could think to emulate was that contemptuous shitrag Tattletale.

“How do we restore Eidolon to his full power?”

“Not sure, I do know that it’s Valkyrie who eventually teaches him how. And it is a taught thing, there’s no external fix.” Alexandria looked satisfied with that, somehow.

“Valkyrie?” 

“Oh right she’s still Glaistig Uaine at this point. After you-know-what she rebranded as a hero.”

“So we won then?” Alexandria spoke like she’d been running a marathon.

“We did.” She stayed silent while Rebecca luxuriated in relief, finally looking her physical age for once. After those short moments of grace she remembered that the woman in front of her was an evil bitch she did not respect.

“Get me those signatures and get the fuck out of my living room.”

Doormaker’s portal shut behind her, shattering the tension and Amy Claire’s facade. She broke down, overwhelmed by the day, and slept on her couch.

Crystal was still the only member of Junior New Wave with a driver’s licence, let alone car. Joint power testing with her younger self was scheduled for that afternoon, and rather than take Brockton Bay’s questionable public transportation, she decided to ask Crystal out to lunch. 

Crystal had continued to dodge questions about Christmas, and Amy Claire had backed off after the first few ‘not nows.’ But it had been six days, so Crystal had time to rebuild her emotional defences. Additionally, after a stern talk from Carol on her behalf Sarah had backed off.

“Burger time?” Crystal had taken shared ownership of Uncle Neil’s old car around when Sarah bought the minivan. ‘The old girl,’ as Neil liked to call it, was a gas-guzzling monstrosity of a stick-shift. A relic from a time in automotive design when seatbelts were still an afterthought. Original timeline Crystal brought it with her to University. Amy Claire still remembered how Neil had bought an embroidered handkerchief to cry into just for that occasion. 

“I think it might be burger time.” She climbed into the passenger seat, her sore arms protesting as she furiously cranked the window closed. She had continued escalating her exercise regimen, and while her visible definition hadn’t increased much her appetite had. 

As a teen she was skin and bones, burnout and depression keeping her perpetually underweight. Prison helped tone her a fair bit, and she was absolutely proud of her body, but she needed to get more fit if she was to carry kilos upon kilos of meat and bone in the field.

Between Leviathan, prison and the apocalypse she had forgotten to miss fast food. She couldn’t remember her last proper meal before the Birdcage, other than that she had missed the McRib’s re-return to Canada.

Snow had been falling steadily since Christmas, and though each snowfall was light the lack of rain meant it had piled up. The streets of Brockton Bay were empty as the city prepared for school’s return in two days’ time. Crystal pulled into the Wendy’s drive-thru and asked for her order.

“A large baconator combo and a spicy chicken caesar, freckled lemonade to drink.” Crystal thought her drink choice was weirder than the amount of food. Amy Claire replied that she hated soda, but still loved sugar. Crystal called her a heathen. You ordered a large Dr. Pepper and no fries, your judgement means nothing to me.

“So why did you ask me about Bianca?” She approached the issue from a different angle. Taking a big bite of bacon, beef, bun and fat to pressure Crystal into responding.

“I guess I wanted to see if you would be honest with me, if I asked. You hold a lot back. We’ve all noticed how you act around Victoria. It’s been almost two weeks and it’s still hard to wrap my head around the fact that my dorky baby cousin grew up to be a–um, a sexy badass?”

“Is that a question?” Crystal froze, and Amy Claire could almost hear the poor girl’s heart pounding in her chest. She flushed bright red, rather than Amy’s pink..

“No. No! You’re sexy and– and cool. Or not sexy if that’s weird for me to say.” Crystal’s fingers were covered in the contents of her burger, which somehow didn’t fall to the car floor as she flailed.

“It’s fine Crystal, I know I look good.” She didn’t feel it. Her first girlfriend only dated her because she was afraid of her dad. In jail. Who knew what the fuck was happening in Bianca’s head. She decided she’d had enough of dancing around the issue.

“I understand if that’s why you asked at all, but why did you decide to ask right then. ” Crystal took another bite and chewed quietly, like her mother. She was still rather flush.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but things haven’t been great for me at home.” Amy Claire packed as much disbelief into her expression as she could manage.

“Oh really? And here I thought you wanted garbage bags for Christmas.” Crystal groaned.

“Don’t remind me. I haven’t been that embarrassed since forever.”

“I guess I was so used to your messiness being a running family joke that I didn’t think to question where it came from.” She turned to look out the window. Crystal took a long sip of her drink before replying.

“Well, you were dealing with your own stuff, not to mention Carol’s bullshit. Wait, so it doesn’t stop?”

“Nope, eventually Aunt Sarah gave up and your hoarding became normal. It wasn’t until Christmas dinner that I even remembered a time you weren’t messy.” She turned back to see Crystal finishing her last bite.

“Well fuck.”

“Language! But also yeah, fuck.” Crystal snorted and rested her head on Amy Claire’s shoulder. Amy Claire started clumsily mixing salad in her lap while Crystal looked on, amused. Crystal went as far as stealing a piece of chicken, but before Amy could get angry Crystal changed the topic.

“How did you figure out you were gay?” Jesus Christ, Crystal, lay off with the loaded questions, will ya?

“I figured it out pretty early. My first crush was… embarrassing. Didn’t have a first girlfriend until I was seventeen. The big revelation wasn’t that I was gay, it was that I shouldn’t have stressed so much about coming out. I tried to pass that on to Little Me and you know how that worked out.” She gave her cousin a meaningful look. Crystal psyched herself up.

“You’re telling me about that first crush someday.” Bold move, Crystal. You’re lucky that you're my favourite cousin.

“It’s a promise, Crystal.” She ruffled Crystal’s hair again, just like her Crystal used to do for her when she was in a funk. Amy Claire would wait until her younger self was over Vicky. Maybe once she finds herself a girlfriend.

“So are you looking forward to school coming back? You’re almost out of high school.” Crystal pushed her hair out of her vision and tried to swipe more chicken, keyword being tried. As Crystal gushed about her favourite classes Amy Claire made sure to commit everything to memory. She had a lot to catch up on.

I would recognise that goatee anywhere.

Colin Wallis was shorter than the Defiant she knew, having not yet replaced his legs with tinkertech prosthetics. Colin pulled her aside when she arrived with her younger self and mother. Why he decided to approach in civvies she didn’t know, but his voice and lower jaw were too distinctive to mistake.

“So what does Armsmaster want with little ol’ me?” Rather than be offended like many capes would during this era, Colin looked pleased, maybe even impressed.

“I’m not here to butter you up like my colleagues have been. Thank you for rejecting all of the baked goods, by the way, the break room has been well stocked.” She didn’t like how he looked before the scars. His smile felt too celebrity.

“So I take it you were asked to write a recommendation for me?”

“As were Miss Militia and Chevalier. I don’t know what you did to get the entire Triumvirate backing you, but I’m not the type to follow orders blindly. I wanted you to know that I’ll be observing how you work today. Be on your best behaviour for us, will you?” A bit out of character for the workaholic, but okay.

“Sure, Colin.” She started to slip back to where Carol and Little Amy were waiting, Colin walking a polite distance behind her.

“Some day you have to tell me what you know about me, you know that right?” She kept looking at her younger self as she replied.

“I’m constantly aware of it, yes.”

One of her favourite parts about returning to the past was teaching her younger self about their powers. Healing cancer and broken bones was almost unconscious for her at this point, Little Amy was still sloppily relying on instinct. Power testing cut months off of Little Amy’s learning curve. 

Their healing was tested both separately and together, instruments mundane and tinkertech used to verify their respective and joint effectiveness. Healing alongside someone else felt fresh, she could tell Little Amy found it odd how giddy she was every time they shared a case.

Colin and Carol stood to the side as they worked, occasionally Carol would raise her phone to take video of the two giggling over a comatose body. Rather than lie about Manton Limits, Amy Claire was upfront that using their powers on brains had a history of being unwieldy, and that nobody should pressure Little Amy into healing brains until she was comfortable with doing so. She hoped that Colin would approve.

With testing done the group enjoyed mediocre cafeteria food. Vastly inferior to Wendy’s. Amy Claire put her fork down and her thoughts together before being cut off by Carol.

“We wanted to take some time to discuss how you plan on using your powers. Amy Claire has brought up hospital work already, so I think we should start there.” Carol passed it off to her.

“When I first started out as Panacea, I had this idealised image of healing. I thought I’d be brightening people’s lives and be able to go about my day knowing that I was a good person. I made people’s lives better, sure, but I didn’t brighten many of them. Not by any fault of my own, but because hospitals are the most miserable, godforsaken shitholes on this or any Earth. 

The hospital is where you go to learn you’re going to die, it’s where you go to listen to people scream and bleed. It’s a source of bottomless debt and anger and entitlement where everyone is overworked and people have to be shitty because it’s where all the shittiness goes. A hospital’s purpose is to concentrate as much depression and suffering in one place so the rest of society doesn’t have to deal with it, saving lives is secondary. It’s like prisons really, only for corralling sadness instead of injustice.”

Little Amy had one hand out, her normally inexpressive face caught between various flavours of upset. Carol had stopped eating, her plastic fork warping in her hand as she decided whether to pity Amy Claire or reprimand her. She chose neither.

“Amy, if you’re to work at the hospital you will be limited to cancer and intensive care, with only occasional visits to emergency that will occur at your discretion. You won’t be able to accept direct pay for your hospital work, but Sarah and I will be setting aside an additional trust from New Wave’s donations. You will be working no more than 20 hours per week at the hospital, any more and you will be grounded. Any questions?” Amy Claire had bluescreened a bit. This was the first time she felt truly jealous of Little Amy. She didn’t like it. Little Amy spoke up.

“I… I guess I have a question, though not about the hospital. Amy, are you sure you don’t want to go by Panacea? It was your name first, so–”

“I’m going to stop you right there. My time as Panacea was wasted, it’s a good name, you shouldn’t have to associate it with my regrets. If you stay as Panacea for the rest of your career, then I succeeded. That’s why I’m taking Red Queen. I want to cut off that path before you have a chance to follow it.”

“Shouldn’t you pick a name that makes you happy?”

“This isn’t about me.” Little Amy looked dissatisfied with that. Carol placed a sheet of paper listing Brockton Bay’s hospitals and their respective patient capacities. Amy Claire went back to her meal. Still not as good as Wendy’s.

The Guild was originally conceived as the Canadian counterpart to the Protectorate, but failed in that endeavour for a variety of reasons. Namely that at the time Canada was sorely lacking in powerful capes. Once the Protectorate expanded into Canada, the remnants of the Guild evolved into an auxiliary organisation, leveraging Canada’s good will to establish international jurisdiction in exchange for stringent recruitment standards and substantial deference to foreign powers. 

The Guild were the first on the ground to face major threats, and resolved more quarantines, mysteries and long-term incidents than half of all Protectorate branches combined. After her interment in the Birdcage the Guild would continually grow and eventually be credited for multiple victories against the Endbringers.

Nowhere in the job description did they mention I had to take fucking SATs.

Time travel foreknowledge and immense power were both attractive prospects for the powers-that-be, and she could tell Cauldron wanted her recruited somewhere, even if it wasn’t directly under them. She already had recommendations from Dragon, Narwhal, Aunt Sarah, Armsmaster, Miss Militia, Chevalier and the Triumvirate; one left. The Guild also required a certain amount of critical thinking and problem solving skills in their operatives, which is where the testing came in.

Save five people but condemn one? It’s only a trolley, I’d just heal the one person.

She hated moral philosophy, it usually made her feel like shit. The questions were easy enough. Variations on the same answer for most of them. When she submitted her test the screen changed to a video call. Dragon’s ‘camera’ was off. Masamune was preoccupied with some contraption on his desk, thankfully muted. Stonewall gave her a small smile.

Even with his role in the Wardens she had always respected the guy. Being an openly gay man in a government job was hard enough for people who couldn’t flatten cities on a whim. The sheer cajones it took to work for the US government under the name Stonewall could not be understated. Stonewall and Masamune, she had to impress one of the two by the end of the call.

Even through the laptop monitor she could feel Narwhal towering over her. She did an admirable job maintaining her private life despite her unnaturally vibrant hair and eyes. Amy Claire was sure she could find Narwhal’s real name somewhere on the internet, but the woman’s military demeanour made that prospect feel like surrender. This was a woman who didn’t demand your respect, but made you want to earn hers.

“Is my lighting adequate?” It was mostly fine, there was a bit of glare. One of the forcefield scales on her forehead was refracting into the camera. Amy Claire wasn’t sure if she should say anything.

“I mean there’s a bit of glare.” So it wasn’t just me. Narwhal adjusted her camera, but not the forcefield. The glare remained.

“Is that better Stone?” It wasn’t. Stonewall pointed at his forehead.

“Maybe you should dispel the forcefield? That’s– yeah like that.” Amy Claire’s nervousness was draining out of her with each awkward pause.

“Do I look good?” Yes, definitely, absolutely.

“Yeah, you’re good.”

“Okay! Masamune, if you could unmute… Masamune? Unmute? Okay, good, we’re good to go. Alright! We’re meeting today to possibly welcome a new member to the Guild. Could you introduce yourself, Red Queen?” Amy cleared her throat before unmuting herself.

“Hi! I mean, greetings. My cape name is Red Queen, and I am from the future.” No reaction, so they already knew about that. “I am 23 years old. My power is touch biokinesis, with a few idiosyncrasies. I’m an experienced parahuman healer. I’ve only started learning all the ways my power can be used to fight, and to support other combatants. I want to join the Guild because this is where my powers, skills and knowledge can be used to the fullest.”

Narwhal and Masamune gave nothing away, but Stonewall was giving her silent encouragement. Dragon popped in as she finished her introduction, turning the pressure up even further. She cleared her throat when it became certain she was supposed to keep talking.

“I am uniquely suited to resolving biotinker incidents and quarantines, I can treat injuries in the field which would enable better combat outcomes.” They still weren’t responding. “I can help contain prisoners for long distance transport?”

“We’re all aware of your powers, Red Queen, we wanted to know more about you .” Dragon’s interjection finally let her breathe normally again. Not that she was confident in the new topic.

“Well what do you want to know?”

“I’ve looked over your test answers. Your work in the ‘ethics’ section showcased a practical mindset. I was curious why you checked ‘agree’ to the statement ‘the Baumann Parahuman Containment Centre should remain in operation.’ I would think that your personal experience might bias you against it.”

She had no idea how to respond. She wanted the Birdcage to stay open because it had to, didn’t it? Where else would the worst of the worst, the real monsters be sent to keep the rest of the world safe from them. She didn’t believe in Kill Orders except for those truly beyond the pale. Though she supposed even Slaughterhouse Nine members could be redeemed. Riley didn’t deserve to die, at least. Hypocrite.

Redemption. Was that her problem? She understood taking things too far. She understood following someone else’s lead, and she understood the intoxicating pleasure of commanding flesh. This was why she hated moral philosophy. Her instincts always fought her emotions. As much as it pained her to admit it, her stance had changed.

If she truly believed in the Birdcage, she would still be rotting in it.

“Dragon, I’d like to change my answer.” Stonewall’s smile changed. The interview continued, but judging by Dragon’s expression she had already succeeded.

“I should be available for a few minutes. Would you like me to walk you through the Bounty Board?” The Red Queen had officially joined the Guild. That it took less than a week for her to be processed was either a testament to Dragon’s efficiency or an indictment of everyone else’s lack of it, she wasn’t sure.

“Can you?” She hadn’t known much about the Guild’s inner workings, mostly knowing them from their work on the outskirts of the City, but she did remember that the group had bounties. That was part of the draw for her. If she had to choose between shift work and commission she’d choose commission every time.

“In addition to cataloguing ongoing Kill Orders and Containment Zones, the Guild Bounty Board advertises jobs offered to the Guild directly from various governments, and allows active Guild members to set bounties for assistance in ongoing jobs. The Board is organised differently for every Guild member, sorted to take into account your powers, skills and proximity. If you want to know anything about a posted bounty, ask me. If you don’t decide tonight, shoot me a message when you do and I can send you a briefing.”

The list was depressingly long. Dozens of disasters that in the past would each have been international news, but she didn’t recognize half of them. At the top of the list was a job she should have seen coming, especially given who had been on her mind the past few weeks.

‘White Rock Quarantine, British Columbia, Canada - $1,200,000 USD (Canadian Gov.)’

Bianca…

As much as she glorified their past relationship, Amy Claire had a conflicted view of meeting Bianca. The idea that she could prevent Goddess from triggering in the first place was panic-inducing, not because she was afraid of changing the future, that was her entire goal. It made her feel like she was killing the Bianca she knew. There was a part of her that wanted to try again, and closing that door was terrifying.

She had to help White Rock, she knew she was the only one who could. But she still had time, deaths were rare, she could put off meeting Bianca a little while longer.

The third bounty on the list stood out to her, she asked Dragon to elaborate on it. Something about the location seemed familiar, and she had a feeling it would be a suitable debut.

‘Incidents Near Nizhny Novgorod, Russia  - $75,000 USD (Wieldmaiden)’

“Wieldmaiden spent the last months of Winter 2009 coordinating with the Elitnaya Armiya around Mordovia. With the Armiya spread thin and the Red Gauntlet preoccupied with the CUI, Wieldmaiden was called away to deal with a recent string of deaths in the city of Nizhny Novgorod.

On January 4th, a previously unknown parahuman or parahuman creation appeared outside of a Svetofor Supermarket in Nizhny, and promptly began massacring civilians. They target people indiscriminately, showing no pattern for age, gender or ethnicity. What little footage has been captured indicates Brute, Mover and possible Changer ratings. 

That Wieldmaiden is offering such a large portion of the original bounty for assistance indicates that the culprit may be escalating. If this pattern continues further Guild and/or Protectorate intervention may be required.

Due in large part to the culprit’s proclivity for extreme lacerations, the locals have taken to calling them Garotte.”

Chapter Text

He’s just a kid…

Her apparent ‘escort’ was maybe nineteen at most. He introduced himself with a salute, ‘Pavel.’ His eyes kept darting to her boots, which admittedly stood out in her otherwise coordinated costume. She had initially designed her outfit for temperate rain and sun, not frigid Russian winters. She was forced to improvise.

Her still nameless Marquis replica rode on her back, and a modified ballistic vest covered her front. A sleeveless cloak made from black rayon and lined with red wool supplied coverage from the elements, along with coordinating black snow pants for her legs. She topped her outfit off with a knit red scarf Crystal insisted she take. She was glad for her forethought in packing sunglasses, as the fields of untouched snow glared like she took their lunch money.

Pink boots, the only ones in her size, and a camel-brown belt satchel (“ not a fanny pack, Crystal!” ) were the only incongruities, both late additions.

Pavel was the type to cut his own hair, his ill-fitting helmet spilled out uneven wheat-brown strands. Pavel’s jeep bore the emblem of the Elitnaya Armiya, the Russian equivalent of the PRT. His boots were similarly ill-fitting, and he held his gun awkwardly. I feel safer already.

She climbed into the front seat and nuzzled her nose into her scarf as she looked back at the airport. A word she had learned meant ‘international’ was written in big block Cyrillic. The building was full of brochures and tourist memorabilia, despite the dearth of incoming flights.

Their muddy jeep did little to keep out the cold. She expected temperatures like this from bumfuck nowhere Siberia, but she supposed being a stone’s throw away from Sleeper would ruin the weather.

Pavel was a skilled driver for his age, certainly better than her. The jeep swayed on ice-packed roads as they drove past silent evergreen forests that felt fake, or perhaps dead, despite brimming with colour. She opened a map on her phone. Still unused to touch screens she traced her fingers along the digital roads and realised they had gone right past the hospital. Not an unwelcome development.

“So are we going to Wieldmaiden? Checking into my hotel? I figured you were taking me straight to the hospital.” Pavel waved her off, keeping his eyes on the road. He was absolutely a better driver than her.

“Nonsense, nonsense; hospital can wait. Nizhny can be a beautiful city, you know.” 

She thought his attitude was rather lax. Though given her high school lessons on modern Russia, maybe she should have expected some laxity.

Sleeper’s emergence was met with callous amusement in America. Live on television, then-President Putin gave a speech mere miles from Sleeper. Surrounded by an entire battalion, his pledge to ‘defend Russia’s people to the last’ was cut off mid-sentence when the event was swallowed by the storm. Nobody underestimated Sleeper’s speed since, not that they needed to as he settled in Mordovia weeks later. 

Nizhny, bar the river, was coated in snow and sheet ice. Her view of the city could in one moment be painterly, and in the next showcase decay in a very Brockton-like manner. Damaged buildings were weighed down by piling snow, abandoned instead of demolished or refurbished. Feral cats and dogs were the only animals in sight, birds conspicuously absent from the city’s heavily wooded parks. The city was silent if not for the biting wind. Frost climbed on every window in sight. 

They drove along the bank of the Oka river. On the far bank, near a dozen armoured trucks were attended by police and Armiya alike. Civilian families walked nonchalantly among the cordon, along with processions of children supervised by soldiers. Small groups huddled around flickering fire pits on the banksides.

Pavel parked near the edge of the crowded cordon. Soldiers waved to them politely, while the local police kept guns in hand. The civilians here were predominantly the very old and the very young, but while children gawked curiously at both her and Wieldmaiden, their elders showed less enthusiasm.

She wore cobalt blue, a few shades darker than Armsmaster’s iconic look. Wieldmaiden’s costume only superficially resembled her Nordic namesake. It mixed medieval and futuristic sensibilities, from her twin bucklers to the strangely shaped tinkertech polearm on her back. Like Amy Claire, Wieldmaiden wore a thick winter version of her costume, a silver faux-furred collar hiding her neck and chin. Her mouth was the sole patch of visible skin under her Masamune-made visored helmet.

“I assume you are the Red Queen?” Wieldmaiden asked. Amy Claire nodded. She couldn’t get a beat on the woman’s accent, something European. “Always a pleasure to welcome someone new to the Guild. Please, walk with me.” Wieldmaiden waved off Pavel, who saluted before going to play with the kids.

“It’s an honour, ma’am. Why are there so many people here, exactly?” She was uncomfortable seeing so many small children and so many guns this close together. 

Wieldmaiden sighed as she led Amy Claire through the crowd. Their destination was an armoured truck larger than some tanks, a sizeable minigun mounted to the roof.

“Normally incidents like this would necessitate evacuations, but there are problems with that. Garotte is highly mobile, so if we evacuated one area it might simply move to another. Even if we could pin it down, we are lacking in the organisation and manpower necessary to enforce evacuation orders. Citizens are afraid, stubborn, curious; not conducive to keeping them out of harm’s way.

We have no cape support, only ill-equipped soldiers. I hope fewer people will have to die with you here. It seems to be attracted to large gatherings of people, but it is warded off by gunfire. Letting people flock to us when the hunt pauses is a compromise. Catching it–”

“Her.” She wasn’t sure about playing this card so early, but Sveta wasn’t a thing , even if she could be sanctimonious and annoying. “She’s not an ‘it,’ she’s a her.” Wieldmaiden was tense, and though her eyes were covered Amy Claire could tell she was under examination.

“So you know her, then. I was wondering why a greenhorn would take this bounty.” 

Amy Claire snarled. Wieldmaiden had the grace to look apologetic. “Ignoring the greenhorn comment. Her name is Sveta. Case-53. She’ll be a hero, eventually.” They were nearly at their destination. Amy Claire spoke in half-whispers, as Wieldmaiden awkwardly adjusted her bucklers.

“The Madcap route, then?”

“The what? Nevermind. No, she and I never got along, but this isn’t her fault.”

“How so? I can only judge her from a few short and brutal fights and the corpses she’s left behind.” Wieldmaiden had what Carol would term a ‘prosecutor’s mien,’ the stubborn air of someone whose own conclusions were obvious for being theirs. Amy Claire sometimes called it ‘the Victoria’.

“It might be worth thinking of Sveta and Garotte as two different beings. Sveta has about as much motor control as Dragon has free time. Her tendrils work on instinct, reacting to any danger or need they perceive. The best she can do without outside assistance is hold herself back, and even that takes training.” 

“Outside assistance?”

“Me.” Behind the tank-truck, the pair were out of view and earshot from civilians and soldiers alike. Wieldmaiden pushed up her visor. Amy Claire would describe her face as intense first, stunning second. Her skin was a rich Black, old scarring trailed along the side of her nose, and her warm brown eyes simmered with determination.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” I do too. Sveta refused her help last time around. She chose to remain in tentacle hell out of some self-righteous sense of loyalty to Victoria. Amy Claire hadn’t spoken up at the time, but that Sveta trusted Slaughterhouse Nine tier sex slaver Mr. Bough over her stung.

“To repeat, it is nice to meet you, Amy. My name is Marta. I look forward to a lengthy and productive working relationship.” Gulp.

“Me as well.” She nodded and reset her visor before pulling out an earpiece. Her meatsuit’s bulky hands were too inarticulate to handle it properly, so with a flex of her power the hand unfolded like a flower and retracted down her arms. Wieldmaiden didn’t flinch.

“When are we heading out?” She shook the numbness out of her real hands, colored pink from heat and now chilling purple. She split her attention between affixing the earpiece and adjusting her creature. Fleshly sleeves loosened and tightened where appropriate, and she noted poor cell integrity in the outer layers.

“Hopefully not for a few hours. If patterns hold,  Garotte will emerge from her hiding place shortly before sundown. It– Her, sorry. The hospital her living victims are staying in is nearby, if you are antsy to help.” Eugh, the hospital.

She had avoided hospital visits since coming back. She knew Little Amy had done a few, having sat through the rants. Carol was trying, but lost trust was difficult to earn back, so Little Amy came to her for her first post-hospital cry. First of many, little one.

Well, her vacation was nice while it lasted.

“Pavel! Go start the jeep!” The young man stumbled at her shout, nearly bowling over a toddler. People nearby stifled laughs or scoffs, some both. She rubbed her still-exposed hand along the bumpy flesh of her biosuit and devised a plan. “We’re stopping at a corner store on the way!” She turned to Wieldmaiden, folding the meat suit back over her arm.

“Before sundown. So she comes out to eat?” Wieldmaiden nodded.

“We assume so, yes. Hunting her can be chaotic.” Amy Claire folded her arms, and gave Wieldmaiden and upward chin nod.

“Later then, Maiden?”

“Later, Red Queen.” Nickname accepted, nice.

Amy Claire stomped snow from her boots, harder than was needed, before sliding back into the jeep. Her belt-satchel was packed full of energy drinks, the non-carbonated kind. Pavel outlined different brands and translated nutrition labels for her. She needed high sugar and low acid. Pavel likely thought she had an exacting taste in beverages, only questioning her sudden craving as they pulled out of the parking lot.

“These aren’t for me.” She gestured to her meat suit, he raised an eyebrow. She adopted her well practised ‘lecture voice’. She found that she was growing to like teaching.

“Most animals internally produce heat in two ways. Some animals use muscle contractions to produce friction, but that’s usually secondary. More important and reliable than that is metabolism. Bit of an oversimplification – what science isn’t? – but digestive enzymes break down glucose into water, CO 2 and ATP. That is an exothermic reaction, which means it produces heat. Are you following so far?” Pavel nodded, though whether it was an honest nod was debatable. She gestured to show off her meat suit, wiggling surface bits to demonstrate her control.

“I’ve mostly been keeping this guy alive with power bullshit and occasional groceries. He doesn’t need a digestive system because he’s essentially in hibernation when he’s not used, and my powers keep him alive in the field. But I’m not using a digestive system the way they’re supposed to be used. By lacing a pseudo digestive system throughout his body, essentially, I can allocate varying amounts of heat to compensate for my environment. Just add sugar. Isn’t that cool?”

“Mmm, da .” Oh he’s not listening at all, is he? Wonder where I lost him.

The hospital was an older building, constructed at a time when the art of architecture still mattered outside of vanity projects. Reception was empty of sick and injured, instead full of visiting families and the creaking of rolling gurneys. The interior paint job was anemic, the tiling jaundiced. Gawkers’ snow wear provided a pittance of vibrancy, enough that she’d rather look at them than the decor.

Her credentials had been cleared with the staff beforehand, and soon enough, she and Pavel were marched to the far side of the building. General Surgery was next to the Chaplaincy, which felt strangely insulting.

One of Garotte’s first victims had survived. The older woman had lost the bulk of an arm, a hip, and a sizable chunk of pelvis, surviving through amputation. Two limbs down. What a victory.

She concerned herself with cases that couldn’t simply be sawed off. A middle-aged man had been slit from throat to pancreas the previous night, he was still in GS. The other extreme survivors were in or near the ICU, which was conveniently located directly above the Chaplaincy, go figure. Between this and her ease of entry, the hospital felt more desperate than faithful.

She was grateful for Pavel’s presence. She could tune out her patients and leave the burden of politeness to him. She didn’t bother reversing amputations, limiting herself to repairing skin and organs. She did, however, remove bone fragments from lost limbs, and restructured things slightly to reduce complications. In and out.

Enough sun peeked through the clouds that evening was somehow brighter than the afternoon. Before leaving to rejoin the hunt, Amy Claire treated herself to buckwheat pudding and a black coffee to ward off jet lag. There was time left to visit oncology, her face soured at the thought. Pavel chose that moment to misinterpret.

“Hospital foods are not to your liking. Would you accompany me for a better meal across town later this week? Assuming the hunt resolves soon.” She paused, spoon halfway to her mouth. He licked his lips nervously, and continued with some panic. “Or! Or we could go to my babushka’s house? She makes her own bread, you know.” She set her elbows at the table and met his eyes, her expression flat.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh, you are taken then?” She didn’t correct him. Best not to advertise my preferences.

“Maybe. I’d rather not talk about it.” Thankfully, he wasn’t too outwardly disappointed by the rejection. The sun sank deeper in the sky. She kept a hand on her phone. See you soon, Sveta.

Biting winds couldn’t sour the thrill of hanging from an armoured truck in motion. The convoy had fanned out and barrelled through the streets of Nizhny, encircling every grocer and restaurant in a well-practiced rotation. Wieldmaiden bounded ahead, clearing buildings with each step. Flashes of blue at her feet and dramatic cracks of shattered ice signalled each monumental stride.

Street lamps had turned on early, illuminating the nighttime streets as sounds of the search consumed the entire sector. Radio chatter alternated between Russian and English, the same set of words repeated as they blew through empty neighborhoods.

Wieldmaiden called it in. As the convoy converged on another Svetofor, Amy Claire fell off the side of the truck, catching herself on a spread of bone-spur limbs. She stumbled at first, but quickly gathered speed as she adapted to the new mode of locomotion. 

Sailing down the icy streets required a careful dance, taking advantage of created momentum to throw herself between landing points. She left the balancing work to Shaper.

Plows had been through. Snow piled high in the alleyways and in the corners of each lot. The grocery store was next door to a service station. A single parked car was buried in snow, misshapen smiley faces drawn into the pile. The storefront window was shattered. There was a pool of butchered entrails and grey fur, steaming warm and mingled with yellow-red vomit. A stray cat, maybe .

She launched herself into the store, scarcely lit with shelves collapsed. Bootsteps followed her inside, encircling the ongoing fight.

Another light shattered, tendrils whipped about the cluttered space only to be deflected. Disks of blue energy fanned out from Maiden’s forearms.

Crack! Sveta’s mouth dribbled with bile, her eyes focused on nothing and her organs were shriveled. Between Garotte’s tendrils and Wieldmaiden’s power the store was a storm of barely-nonlethal projectiles.

Garotte made a break, but was harried back. Gunfire. A bullet skewed too close to Sveta. The tendrils reacted, as did she.

Another bone-spur extended to intercept Garotte’s tendril. The gun’s barrel clattered to the ground along with shards of bone, a thin line had been skinned from the soldier’s arm, even through his body armour.

Half a dozen spurs, bracing. A bone petal the size of a minivan only barely stopped Garotte’s cutting power. She formed another petal, scooping the injured soldier away as more bone was torn apart.

She couldn’t reach Sveta like this without losing a limb.

Crack! Another blue disk, this one expanding from the head of Maiden’s polearm, batted Sveta across the store with deafening force. She almost missed the whimpers.

Sounds like nails on a chalkboard and the revving of a chainsaw preceded more chaos. A spherical swarm of tendrils tore through linoleum and steel like they were paper. Shredded food and toiletries splashed and crowded as the ruined shelving piled higher.

The death ball was rolling straight at her.

Not wanting to die a bowling pin she planted more spurs into the floor, suspending herself in the air. Like a physics-breaking zipline she circled around the death ball, letting it crash back through the storefront and towards the service station.

Bullets were ineffective, an armoured truck crumpled under weight and furious sharpness. The death ball held its momentum as though the truck and those in it hadn’t been there at all. The Red Queen pursued.

Like the truck before it, Garotte tore segments from the station’s overhead door, creating a rough and sharp entrance out of the evening cold. Centered in the garage was a single dismantled car, suspended by a lift. 

Amy Claire kept her eyes on as much of the room as she could as one of her spurs flicked the lights on.

The building was walled with thick concrete. Garotte had cornered itself.

Wait for it, wait for it. Another spur sent off, this one with enough force to dislodge it from her. It pierced the lift, sending the car chassis crashing to the floor. Half of Garotte’s tendrils were trapped, some sacrificed themselves to keep Sveta from being crushed.

The remaining tendrils went wild. Jerry cans along the side of the garage were sliced and flung, coating Amy Claire in gasoline. She coughed and heaved through the fetor, and rearranged her meat suit to cover her nose and scarf.

Garotte’s spare tendrils chopped off scraps of metal from the chassis, both arming itself and easing the weight. 

Amy Claire’s next set of spurs arced and fanned out, pressing the ruined car more heavily over Garotte’s body as she covered her front in boney armour. She was nearing her current mass limit.

Snap! Snap! Snap!

Garotte struck out the lights one after another, darkening the service station if not for falling sparks. It struck its scrap against all of the metal in its reach, desperate for an ignition. So that’s your game. A bit obvious, not to mention ineffective.

She had limited resources to work with. She sacrificed power-produced bone to create calcium silicate, and as much biodegradable polymer slurry as she could. Her biosuit tightened and slimmed, so the flame-retardant slurry would cover more and the gasoline less.

Garotte tore itself from beneath the car, sacrificing the majority of its tendrils in a desperate bid to escape. The arcs which she used to hold the car slowed her down, and Garotte slipped around her and back out of the service station.

She had no time to retract, so she detached the bones from her instead. She spun and dove through the gap, feeling the sharp drop in temperature as the sun finally fell below the horizon. The street was in chaos as Garotte dove between hailing bullets, the two attending capes impotently watched from either side of the road.

She tried to swing back into the fight, but each movement locked up her arms further. Cell integrity dropped. Frost started forming on the surface of her suit. 

She took another whiff of gasoline and the various flame-retardants she’d coated herself in. Her eyes widened, and she snarled. It fucking baited me.

She fell through the front of her meat suit, stripping away her freezing gear even as the cold bit into her now mostly bare torso. She fed energy drinks into her organism, forcing it to heat up as she mentally reviewed the fight. Her snarl twisted into a toothy, no less animalistic grin.

But she’s starving, isn’t she? You may have won this round, Shard, but I’m not the one on a time limit.