Valentine's Day

Alec Merceau/Regent

February 27th, 2012

I was wrong, things haven’t gotten any better.

Granted, it’s only been two weeks since we moved in together and I gave it a month to smooth out but given how things are going right now, I doubt two more weeks is going to fix this.

This being the… hostility is way too harsh a word but calling it awkward feels a bit too subtle. I’m sure there’s a word for it but basically, on a scale between being unable to keep conversations alive and wanting to throttle each other, I’d say we’re at about a three.

And yeah, objectively that isn’t all that bad but the problem is we shouldn’t even be on the scale to begin with. We’re not going to be singing kumbaya or anything like that but fuck, I thought we knew each other better than this.

But nope, two weeks haven’t done anything to grease the wheels… if anything, things have gotten worse. Not bad but definitely worse.

It’s getting to a point that even I am having trouble pretending things are alright.

Normally that wouldn’t be a big deal y’know? Conversations stall, jokes come off the wrong way, whatever, usually, it’s easy to brush off and keep talking but… yeah, that ain’t happening. 

These are the thoughts that greet me as my alarm blares, the phone on my nightstand stuttering out an overly cheerful ringtone as the windows start to let the outside fade in. I groan, not for the first time wanting to abandon my sleep schedule as I grab at my pillow, weakly putting up a line of defense when I place it on top of my head.

That pitiful attempt to get a few more z’s crumbles like a sand castle in high tide, eroding as the alarm gives me one infinitesimally small moment of silence before blaring the ringtone again, the windows fully transparent and bathing my room in the bright midmorning sun.

I give in to the terrorist’s demands and snatch it up, trying to glare at the phone through my eyelids as I rub sleep from them.

“Shut up…” I tell the phone, my mouth too dry and throat too parched to come out louder than a whisper. The phone, of course, doesn’t hear me, instead it waits patiently as I try to collect my thoughts, only interrupting to be loud and annoying. After a second or two, I’m finally able to squint my eyes open and slide my thumb to the dismiss option.

The alarm is finally quieted and I take a moment to lie there, staring up at the ceiling. I fucking hate that thing, the little app on my phone that demands my full attention every fucking morning. But it’s a hate that I’ve grown accustomed to.

While Lisa’s given me shit for sleeping in before, I don’t think any of my teammates have the right to talk about it like it’s still going on. 

There was too much shit going on in the Bay last year for me to sleep the days away. First was Leviathan and while that cut in to my dozing plenty, I was able to sneak in naps between meeting and keep up my beauty sleep.

But then the Nine came and then Echidna came and the Tagg came and it just became a fucking hassle. So, without being told to, I got to setting up a sleep schedule. I’ll stay up however long the previous night demands but regardless of that shit, I need to get up at nine am sharp.

Okay, so maybe that’s more of a sleep deadline than a sleep schedule but no one said being a gang leader would afford something healthier. I breathe in deep and rub at my eyes one more time, trying to find a pattern in the smooth material above me.

Maybe today’s the day shit gets better.

I sit up and scooch backwards until my back rests against the headboard, giving me a perfect view of the rest of my room. Not much has changed in two weeks.

I’ve still got the big ass bed and tv, the nightstands, all the shit my teammates have in there room. 

The only thing they don’t have, the only addition I’ve added, is the good sized easel in the corner with some thin linens underneath to protect the hardwood. Well, if it even needs protecting I guess.

My feet land on the floor as I get up and crack my back, the groan I give isn’t from exhaustion or strain but rather at the feel of the hardwood. The floor is fucking heated.

I shake my head and snort as I head to the bathroom.

I know we’re fucking rich, but that feels like a bit too much, even to me.

After using the restroom and brushing my teeth, I step back out and slowly pad my way over to the window.

The Bay looks… so small from up here.

I sit down cross legged, letting my chin lean on my palm as I try to pick everything out. 

There’s plenty of city behind me, most of the markets and downtown, but it doesn’t take a genius to know why Lisa picked this wall as part of our bedrooms. We can see everything else the Bay has to offer, including the ocean stretching out in front of us.

My eyes linger on the wreckage in the water, the boats are one thing but the remains of The Protectorate’s rig really are an eyesore.

I don’t know if they’ll ever get rid of it to be honest.

Since Eidolon crippled Behemoth last August, the SImurgh’s actual a month late for her attack. It’s… eerie.

The Endbringers have been around longer than me, longer than even my oldest sibling and the whole time they’ve been tearing shit apart, no one dared to hope they could be stopped, could even be slowed down.

But fuck.

It looks like that jolly green asshole might have actually done it.

I mean, Eidolon didn’t kill Behemoth at the end of the day but he tore out that cyclops’ eye and ripped his lower half clean off. And when that monster looked up at the Protectorate’s biggest power house, saw the hate he had for it, Behemoth scrambled to get back under the earth, his descent kicking up earthquakes worldwide as he fled.

It was the first time anyone could recall an Endbringer being afraid and according to Dragon tech, that monster wasn’t regenerating at all. He just… sits there, wounded, maybe dying as the mantle churns around his mass.

I’m not dumb enough to say he’s gone for good, certainly not dumb enough to say his siblings give a shit but… it’s pretty fucking weird that she hasn’t landed yet. Maybe those crackpots on PHO are right, maybe they got so used to the idea that they were invulnerable that the second their eldest got his shit kicked in, they decided to hold off on going in dick first.

Whatever the reason, no one’s willing to clean up the Bay until they’re sure Leviathan won’t come back for round two.

And so we’re left with the mother of all driftwood, bits of the Protectorate’s former HQ washing up day in and day out.

Eventually staring at the skyline gets boring and I stand up, stretching again when the door pushes open.

“Hey Ale—” Brian’s voice catches on the second syllable of my name and I turn as much as I can without shifting my feet. 

The team Shaker stares at me, his mouth frozen half open, his eyes blown wide. It only takes me a moment to realize why and I snap my fingers when the realization hits me.

I’m only wearing my boxers.

“Yeah Bri?” I ask, putting more breath in my voice than is necessary as I turn fully, exposing my front to him. He doesn’t answer at first and a smirk finds its way on my lips as I stretch a third time, less for the sake of my muscles and more to sweeten the view my teammate’s partaken.

I used to hate the scars running up my arm and torso, the way they met and forked across my flesh, creating an alabaster spider web on already ghostly skin. But after nearly half a year with them… I gotta admit, there’s a certain appeal to the look.

They’re heaviest on my right arm, becoming more scar than not around my hand and only tapering when they reach my wrist. From there, they glide up along my forearm and bicep, crossing over my shoulder, and only wafering off once they start heading down my torso.

The lines stop at my neck and hip and I remind myself to thank AMy again the next time I see her.

I can’t imagine what I’d look like if she actually went through with her ridiculous penance, if she was in the Birdcage during New Delhi, I’d probably look like a half bald, one armed circus freak.

I shake off the image and let my arms fall to my sides, tempted to start doing yoga before Brian finally finds his voice, albeit, much softer this time.

“I, uh…” he swallows, clearing his throat before he speaks. “I’ve made breakfast, if you want some…”

He trails off but stands in the doorway, completely still as he waits for me to answer him. I string him along a little bit, slowly walking over to my bed and pulling out one of the drawers beneath it. 

I take a moment to shift through the shirts lying there, eventually settling on a plain black t-shirt and shorts before I look up, answering him.

“Sounds good,” I tell him, putting the shirt on. “I’ll be right down.”

Brian nods and the slight tremble to it makes something… strange happen. Things get sharper and duller at the same time, his reaction makes things both nicer and not, like, on the one hand, the way he stared at me, enraptured: that’s the good part but then, his nervousness, the tremble: that part kinda hurts.

I shake my head at the weird feeling and get the rest of my clothes on quickly, hoping to catch Brian in the hall as I head for the door. Of course, that doesn’t end up happening, him and his damn long legs have already left me in the dust.

I feel a laugh come on and I let it through, briefly huffing as I close the door behind me. He must’ve been more flustered than I thought.

I follow after him at my own pace, waiting until I hear something sizzle before I step down on to the first floor. I take a left by the big ass couch and join him in the kitchen/ dining room area.

For however modest our kitchenette was at the Loft, this one is just as not. 

It takes one whole corner of the first floor, with way too many appliances I don’t know the names of. The whole thing’s shaped like a sideways ‘U’, with a stylish counter for eating on one side and stools that are probably bolted into the floor on the other side.

Brian stands at one of two ovens, making something a bit too casual given how the kitchen alone probably costs more than most families see in a year. But I guess even he, who’s a surprisingly a decent chef, won’t stop making the easy stuff.

He uses the pan to flip the two pancakes on it and I look past his muscular frame to examine the room closer. It really is too much.

The two ovens I get, there’s probably hundreds of meals that require something similar, but who the fuck needs two fridges?

“Pancakes?” I ask, already looking at the pan.

“Yep,” Brian answers, “That and eggs if you want any.”

“No bacon?” I ask, scrunching up my nose a little. Brian never doesn’t make bacon.

“Unfortunately not,” the chef answers, trailing off for just a second as he grabs at a dreadlock. He flips it over his shoulder before continuing. “Rachel took the plate with her, didn’t say anything about it but it is that time y’know?”

For a brief second, I’m confused, wondering just what Brian is getting at before I realize it, snapping my fingers as I do.

“That’s right,” I say, letting my arm drop down against the cool tile. “The new mutts are done.”

Rachel’s learned a lot in the past year, while her main trio of dogs did very well, she found out damn quick what happens when some of them are put out of commission. Judas and Brutus probably would’ve been dead that night if Glory Girl and her healer hadn’t jumped ship to our side.

With that close call, two of her favorite mutts pretty much on death’s door, Rachel stepped up her game, spending day and night getting more and more dogs ready for the streets. Second week of every month now she’s got a new graduating class of five.

That might sound like too many dogs to handle, especially given that with Panacea, their life expectancy is pretty fucking high, but The Undersiders have learned a lot as an organization. Keeping her dogs centralized, all of them in her shelter (or now in the tower, I guess) might make this place a fortress but that’s not what’s needed.

No, instead, with a lot more sulk than I thought her capable, Rachel hands out her new pack to our most trustworthy members. That means both cape and non cape, get a hound. The cities got nearly fifty well trained dogs in it, each devoted to Rachel and her commands, each of them conveniently living within whistling range anywhere in the city.

And, as a parting gift from their trainer, each pup gets something good at the end of their training, this month’s treat being the bacon she stole from Brian. Speaking of, the tallest member of our group stands silently by the stove, the conversation on his side of the court, but stagnant.

I’m fine with that. The silence sucks, the silence is boring and grating and it feels like it only gets heavier with each passing second but I’m fine with that. The silence is safe, the silence doesn’t force me to reply to it, the silence doesn’t give me a chance to fuck up for the umpteenth time this month.

Unfortunately, not everyone shares my opinion and after Brian finishes the pancakes he was working on, letting them slide off the skillet and onto an awaiting plate, he breaks it.

“So…” he starts to trail off but his shoulders square right before the point of no return. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you but y’know how shit was, assembling the furniture, getting an actually sleep schedule—”

“Beating the shit out of whiny newcomers, collecting our dues, popping into a few nightmares, etcetera, etcetera.” I interrupt and list off my own things, which he politely sits through but doesn’t acknowledge as he continues.

“Yeah, those things.” He might be facing away from me but I’m pretty sure he’s rolling his eyes as he grabs at a pitcher full of batter. The milky white substance sizzles as it hits the pan, the dollops already starting to bubble as he sets the pitcher down. The moment of levity starts to deflate but Brian soldiers on before the opportunity passes him completely. “I know things are weird right now, with all of us back in close quarters. It be weirder if it wasn’t but I wanna try something.”

“Oh?” I reply in as few words as possible, remembering that, while he didn’t seem genuinely annoyed at my earlier interruption, I need to keep my mouth shut. At least until I can fall back into a proper groove. 

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking and…” he trails off, this time for a bit too long. But this silence doesn’t feel true, this isn’t going to be an abandoned line of thought, this one’s going to be picked up again when he has the right words.

Realizing that makes a rock sit in my gut, a rock that swiftly grows into a boulder when Brian sets the skillet off to the side, turning the dial on the stove until it clicks off. The Pancakes he just put in can’t be done yet but whatever he’s going to say is clearly more important.

My suspicions are confirmed when he turns to me fully and takes two steps forward. He sets his forearms down on the counter in front of me, the warmth of his skin is tangible even with the barest of an inch separating my paler complexion from his darker tone. 

My eyes dart up to his face and the rock in my stomach gets so big it pushes up into my chest, like a stalagmite spearing up into my vitals. He’s not looking at me, instead his head is turned to look at the wall partially behind me, his eyes fixated on nothing in particular as his lips thin.

Fuck

He’s gonna ask me to leave.

The feeling in my gut shivers at the thought, feeling like it’s about to spark before I douse it. So what if he asks me to leave?

I’ve been living practically on my own for months now, sure, the others popped in from time to time but I wouldn’t say their frequency changed anything. And before that, the Loft was pretty much my domain, sure the others could crash there but I was the only one who had it as my main residence.

Bottom line, he asks me to leave? I’m cool with it.

I try to swallow the lump in my throat but it bounces against the feeling in my chest, just adding to the rock when Brian looks at me, determination making his usually cool eyes into a smoky brown.

“I want things to get better and I don’t think ignoring the problem is doing us any favors.”

The rock in my gut shrinks, steadily getting smaller as I exhale. With a brief huff I lean back slightly, ankles hooking into the stool’s decorative ring to compensate for the lack of back.

“You’re one to talk about ignoring the problem.” The rock immediately spikes up as the room shifts, the edges of my vision getting darker as I wince internally. The verbal jab just slipped off my tongue in reflex, without any forethought for me to examine.

The words aren’t exactly a lie though.

While Brian’s gotten a lot better with it over the past year, he’s got an unfortunate problem of letting things hang for way too long, content that eventually sorts itself out. And to be fair to him, sometimes it does, but most of the time it ends up biting him in the ass.

Whether it’s something minor like a team dispute that decides to let itself be known late at night or something major like a fight with his sister, Brian’s not great at knowing when he should put all his focus into something. 

Still, that doesn’t give me the right to be an asshole, especially when he’s offering an olive branch. An apology’s on the tip of my tongue when he brushes me off, raising a hand as if to deflect my words as he replies.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, smiling for just a second before steeling his features. “I’m serious though, things aren’t great right now and I want to do something about that.”

“Like what?” I try to keep my tone as civil as I can, making it flat but not enough like my normal to be disinterested.

“I think we need to go back to basics.” He tells me, “Y’know, like in the good old days, before Taylor joined and right after. Pizza, maybe a movie or two.”

“The good old days?” I can’t help the incredulity in my tone as I continue, “Can you really call it that when we were basically enslaved for most of it?”

I wanna follow up that question with another, if it’s normal to use such a reminiscing tone for something that only happened ten months ago now? For a second, I think my tone is a bit too jokey and the rock stubbornly refuses to leave. I should lay off the wisecracks, none of them seem to land.

But to my surprise, Brian snorts at my words, his brief mirth turning into a strangled laugh as his broad shoulders shake a bit. I don’t know why he finds it all that funny and to be honest, I don’t really care. All that matters is that he’s actually laughing, if only for ten seconds, that’s ten more than I’ve seen the past two weeks.

“Fair enough,” he tells me, “But let’s try it anyway, promise I won’t forget your order this time.” And with that, he leans back up, rolling his shoulders as he turns back and heads for the stove.

“You better not,” I reply, finding myself back in our usual banter. “You should’ve seen the look on Taylor’s face that second day we were here, opened up the fridge and pouted at the lack of leftovers.”

Brian shakes his head as he reaches up into a cabinet, pulling out a smallish black plate and loading it up with two pancakes. I’m about to ask him if he’s going on some kind of diet before he walks over, placing the food in front of me with a bottle of syrup.

“Ah yes,” I say, grabbing for the bottle as Brian turns away yet again, placing the skillet back on the burner. “Pancakes, the devolution of the waffle.”

Brian shakes his head yet again, too reserved to do anything more as he speaks up.

“Is that even a word?” he asks me as I flip open the syrup’s cap.

“You have to know what a waffle is.” I chastise, deliberately misreading his question.

“No, the other word, dev—”

“Devolution,” someone else beats me to the answer and I let the syrup drizzle out the bottle as I look over my shoulder. Lisa is rubbing sleep from her tired eyes as she pads over to us, her bare feet falling almost silent against the hardwood. “The delegation of power or ability to a lower level.”

She takes her seat and I turn back to the kitchen,mouth opening to speak before I look down, startled by the amount of syrup almost dripping off the plate’s rim. I quickly place the bottle back down as I grab my fork.

“What she said,” I say, dividing a portion of my breakfast into a manageable bite. “The pancake is just the prototype to a waffle, literally everything these do, a waffle does twice as well.”

“Everything?” Lisa asks, voice already dripping with skepticism despite the sleepiness still tinging her eyes and slurring her speech.

“Yes, everything. Waffles hold syrup better, the outer, crunchy layer keeps them from getting too soggy too quickly, they come into easily divisible corners, I could go on but—”

“No you couldn’t,” Lisa cuts me off, “You just said everything you could think of and padded your reasoning with the promise of more.” 

I take in my first bite and shoot her a deadpan look as I chew. Really? She’s going to use her power this early in the morning?

She looks like she’s about to continue the verbal paddling when her sleep dulled eyes dart forward, lighting up a helluva lot and arms shooting up with them to make grabby motions in front of herself. She looks ridiculous but I’m sure that wouldn’t matter to her even if she was wide awake given the reason.

And that reason is the steaming purple mug Brian puts in her hands, the pitch black coffee looking especially unappetizing as she takes a swig.

I swallow my first bite as the room shifts into a different kind of silence. A kind of silence I didn’t think I’d get to experience so soon. Something comfortable, something warm, something nice enough that you feel like you’re sinking into it.

For a while it goes like that, without words between us, the silence covers us all like a thick comforter. And without anyone to interrupt my thoughts, they start to wander. Tonight actually sounds like a lot of fun, a do over for when we all first moved in here.

I don’t know what we’re gonna watch tonight, but I don’t really care what it is as long as I get to be there. I feel the corners of my mouth shift up the tiniest bit as I chew, something bright flickering to light behind my ribcage.

The pancake tastes like nothing I’ve ever had before, it’s sweet and airy but with enough substance to it that I can savor eating it. I can’t remember the last time I savored food, the last time I savored anything really, but for once, I think I’m gonna slow down a bit.

No sooner does that thought come into my mind than the buzz in my pocket. The taste in my mouth is dulled slightly as I put down my fork, pausing for just long enough to see if any syrup’s on my hands, before I fish my phone out of my pocket.

There’s only so many numbers in my phone and fewer still that I’d let yanked me away from this moment, but the food turns to ash in my mouth as I scan the caller ID.

Alexi is unfortunately one such number that demands my attention.

“I gotta take this,” I answer my friend's question before they can ask it, hopping off the stool and heading for the central room as I put the phone up to my ear. “This better be good.”

My tone comes off as blank as it always does but Alexi pauses slightly before replying, almost as if he can sense my annoyance. As if he has any right to see into me.

“I’m sorry Mr. Regent,” he says, the russian in his pronunciation smothering the slight tremble. “But there’s a situation downtown, a Brute, strong enough to break down my fields before I can cook him. I need assistance.”

At least he’s to the point. Alexi’s really our only Blaster but he’s all we need for most engagements. His ability to create people sized force fields at a distance have shut down many fights before they started and those dumb enough to test those bubbles are quickly immolated. If he’s having trouble with someone, they must be serious.

“Who is he?” I ask, running my other hand through my hair as I head for the staircase. 

“I do not know,” he replies, the sounds of shrieking metal and popping gunfire sounding behind his words. “He’s big but not Changer big, strong, shaved head, I think he’s from Boston. Maybe Fenrir’s Chosen?”

“He must be really fucking dumb to come here.” I climb the stairs two at a time and walk swiftly as I head for my room. “Are you telling me all the skinhead gangs turned him down?”

Alexi’s not the sharpest knife in the corpse and that’s never clearer than when he has to start fitting pieces together. Simply put, Fenrir’s Chosen doesn’t exist anymore. It would be hard for any gang to stay together when their leader leaves for the Slaughterhouse Nine and the morons flying Hookwolf’s banner were no different.

The Chosen dissolved not long after Hookwolf ran off but since then, there’s been a new Aryan gang popping up every other week. We’ve seen no less than two dozen since September, all with worse and worse names, the Steel Order, the Kapes, hell, there was even one that couldn’t decide between Empire Eighty-Nine and the Fourth Reich.

My thoughts are going off track but the point is, after the first six or so gangs got smashed into the pavement, most (but not all) headed down into Boston, hoping the cape scene was going to be a bit more forgiving. It’s probably a racist’s paradise down there, so many different dumb tattoos to swear your allegiance to.

If someone couldn’t make the cut down there and decided here was a better start, then that guy’s either really strong or really dumb. Either way, I’m gonna kick his ass.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, text me an exact location and keep him there.” I end the call just as things start to feel fuzzy. There’s an energy to my movements that I hate, a buzzing swarm of static that builds up in the soles of my feet. That feeling gets worse as I make the last turn, the energy filling my gut like water beginning to boil.

I pull the door open and take my shirt off in the same step, chucking the fabric onto my bed as I head  to the side of it. The slatted black wooden doors slide open silently and I step into the walk in closet. It’s not as ostentatious as some of the closets I've seen but I bet it would serve adequately as a bedroom. 

A few steps in and I brush some of my clothes to the side, reaching for the costume barely hidden behind them.

It’s changed a lot in the past year, all of ours have, but I think mine’s the most drastic.

It’s still got the same feel over all, still does the name Regent proud, but it’s a lot more than it used to be.

For one, as much as I loved the puffy shirt, Taylor made me swap it out when she wove a spider silk duplicate. Dyed black, it still leaves a lot to the imagination but it definitely hugs me a lot more.than my old top did. At least it’s not totally monochrome, the color shifts a bit under changing lights, going from tar black to blood red depending on how you squint.

The pants were also swapped out, my old leathers a bit too immature for the kind of work I started doing. That, and I was getting really fucking annoyed with how often they’d rip on shit. Who would’ve thought that after going through five catastrophes back to back, there’d be more broken shit to snag on. The thicker denim does the job just as well and at a distance I don’t think anyone can tell they changed.

The final piece of my costume sits on the shelf behind my clothes, it too has changed.

Where before it was a white porcelain smirk, the new darker ceramic stares back at me. The old one let people see my eyes, stare into them, maybe see something in them that would remind them that I was still human at the end of the day. 

But that problem’s been solved, the black of the ceramic pales in comparison to the lenses inlaid into the mask. Now, when people stare back at me, they might as well be looking into empty pits. The smirk is still there but it’s been toned down a bit, the sharpness of it dulled to the point it’s almost a smile.

The biggest change to it though is what’s above my eyes. A crown of ten points seamlessly spears up from my hairline, all of them unadorned except for one. The furthest point on the left is coated in stained glass, glass that’s nearly identical to a certain bird’s formal wear.

I put it all on save for the mask. That I tuck into a long coat and throw over myself as I leave the closet, not bothering to close the door behind me as I pull my room door open. I’m halfway down the hall when someone speaks up behind me.

“Alec?” 

I stop cold as my name hits my ears, pausing my steps as I look over my shoulder. 

Taylor stares at me from her doorway, her long black hair still a nest of bedhead tangles. She has one hand up to her eyes, trying to rub the sleep out of them as she tries to speak again. A yawn takes the words before they can fully form and my mouth gets a little drier when I see what she’s wearing.

A long shirt and… not much else.

But it’s not the sight of her bare legs that keep my attention, it’s the way she’s leaning against the frame, the way she’s still so obviously exhausted. She just woke up and everything about her says she wants to go back to bed. 

She doesn’t get like this often, so tired she doesn’t bother fully dressing before talking to one of us, but it’s become a bit more common since we settled into the tower. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.

“Hey Dork,” I reply, voice a bit softer. “Go back to sleep, you were up all night.”

On what exactly, I don’t know, but she didn’t ride up from Amy’s lab until well past midnight.

“‘M fine,” Taylor slurs, her hand falling to her side as her soft brown eyes stare at me, half lidded and still obviously drowsy. Her gaze becomes inquisitive even through her exhaustion, one brow raising as she looks me up and down. “Where’re you going?”

“Got some shit downtown that needs handling, it should—”

“I can help!” she interrupts me, swaying slightly as she pushes off the frame. “Let me just get my suit on and—”

“No,” I interrupt her right back, turning fully and slowly approaching her, hands raised until I can place them on her shoulders. “You need sleep more than any of us—” I lift up a finger as her mouth opens, hurrying my words to stop her defiance.  “And there’s already enough stories about Skitter out there and I need to work on my rep.”

Both reasons are practical but the fire in Taylor’s eyes only dim at my second one. Her head dips a little, eyes downcast and fixed on my coat before she looks up, a concerned expression over taking her face as she bites her lip.

I’m pretty damn sure she’s about to try her luck again but when I open my mouth to shoot her down, the wind’s taken out of me when she wraps her arms tight around my middle, lunging forward and placing her chin on my shoulder.

“Be safe, okay?” 

Her words take me off balance and I awkwardly return the hug as best I can, squeezing her against me tightly and giving myself a brief moment to just… soak in this feeling. Taylor’s not the most affectionate of us but she’s fallen victim to the same touchy feelyness that’s bitten us all since June. 

I don’t know why I’ve come to like it, the hugs and shit. I don’t know why but I don’t need to know, just having it’s enough.

I swallow a lump in my throat as I take a step back, cutting the hug off short despite how much neither of us want to split up so soon. My hands run up her sides at the same time hers fall from my shoulders.

“Don’t worry dork,” I tell her, turning back and walking to the staircase. “I’ll be back in an hour, two tops.”

Alec Merceau/ Regent

February 27th, 2012

It didn’t take me one hour, it didn’t take me two hours, it took me most of the damn day to get everything settled. 

The Brute didn’t even take much of that time, he might’ve seemed like a heavy hitter to Alexi but that was just some admittingly good misdirection. I’ll admit, that guy looked really strong when I got there, making Crucible’s fields break with a single punch, but it only took me half an hour to figure out his schtick.

He was really strong, maybe twice as tough, but his powers only worked when he planted his feet. He had to keep himself stationary if he wanted any of that invincibility or strength and that was one hell of an exploitable drawback.

All it took was a few shards of broken beer bottle to slide up his pant leg and the guy started to dance. Without his powers, it was a simple enough trick to lift him up in the air, a semi solid platform of glass shifting beneath him.

Dumbass even confirmed he wasn’t from any big gang and that’s what I mean about Regent not having enough of a rep in this town. You’d think people would be a bit more wary of me given the mass murderer I have wrapped around my finger but somehow no.

The people might be afraid of me but the capes?  No, the capes are too busy pissing themselves at the idea of Grue, too petrified that he’ll swoop in and take their powers from them. They’re too scared of Skitter, of the plague personified eating through them with a power that people once called weak. 

But Regent? He isn’t anyone to be worried about, sure, he’s got Shatterbird but he didn’t capture her, he didn’t earn her, he’s the weak one. I’m getting fucking sick of it.

And when that moron sneered at me, the ignorance in him flaring with the kind of greenness only fresh triggers have, I decided to start putting an end to those misconceptions.

He screamed like a bitch as Shatterbird sandblasted him, his skin flayed and the muscles beneath unspooling for the barest instance before that too was pulped. Whole process only took a minute or so, grinding him down to the bone, but his skeleton serves as a reminder to wannabe Empire in the Bay.

We killed those fuck and we won’t hesitate to do it again.

Well, that was the message I tried getting out there, unfortunately for me, Dauntless decided to fly by just as I was finishing up. I decided to play it smart when I saw his lightning arc across the sky, Shatterbird could probably take him but I didn’t want to chance that fight getting more attention then I could handle.

So I got my thrall to let loose, used up all the glass and sand and debris the Brute kicked up to make one hell of a smokescreen. I would’ve gotten out of it scot free but the second I took my mask off, I found a heavy hand gripped around my arm.

I was worried I’d have to dispose of another body when I looked up at him. He wasn’t much to write home about, just another aging cop in this city. He had his other hand up around his face, tried using his elbow as a mask from all the sand and dust.

“Don’t worry son,” he told me, “I’ll get you through this, you just have to listen to me.”

And that’s how I spent most of my day, lying my ass off to a cop that ‘just wanted to help me’. And for a guy who just wanted to help, he didn’t take no for an answer. All fucking day he kept asking about my parents and if they were there at the fight and yada yada oh my god I wish I’d blown my brains out just remembering it all.

And to top it off, I didn’t have my phone with me. In my haste to run from Dauntless, I accidentally went too hard with Shatterbird’s power and broke the fucking thing. Unable to text the others that I was okay, I brace myself for the chewing out I’m probably gonna be bombarded with.

At least it’s over now.

After a long day, I find myself walking into the lobby of Medhall tower. A redheaded girl takes up a seat at the receptionist desk, her hair done up in dreadlocks that really don’t suit her. She doesn’t look up from her nails and I pass her without a word.

I nearly hit up on the elevator when I remember the thrall I’m still controlling but it doesn’t matter, after a brief detour to her holding cell, Shatterbird is back in her cage and I’m heading up the floors.

I pinch my nose as the elevator slowly ticks up, the exhaustion of today finally hitting me full force at the promise of escape. I’m really not looking forward to what the others are gonna say. I run a hand through my hair as I stand up straight, the last few floors between me and them quickly going by.

But when the doors slide open, when I’m met with my home and friends, they’re not there to greet me. Instead, the four of them are on the couch, laughing their asses off and smiling like idiots as they sit there, the movie playing in front of them long forgotten. 

The scene strikes me for some reason, they’re happy, they’re overjoyed, they're having a great time and it’s… just like before, before we all got consumed with our work, before we moved in together. They’re having a great time and… I’m not there to be a part of it.

A hole digs itself into my chest, at first it’s a small divot right where my heart should be but it isn’t long before it becomes something bigger, a sinkhole that makes the shadows seem larger, the world fuzzier, the feeling of everything else drops into that hole as I stare at the four of them.

They’re happy and I can’t help but feel like I know the reason why.

I spend too long just standing there in the elevator and after a few moments, the doors slide closed again, blocking my view of my frien— of my teammates. 

I don’t feel exhausted anymore, I don’t feel tired, I don’t feel… anything. That used to be the normal for me, feeling nothing at all but… it felt like things were changing there for a while. At least, I thought they were

I hit one of the sublevel buttons, deciding I’m not tired enough to go to bed yet.

I don’t remember the elevator ride at all, I don’t remember walking past Lisa’s most trusted guards, I don’t remember sitting down in front of the comatose Ubermensch nor do I remember the hundreds of jolts with my power to memorize his left index finger. 

I don’t remember going upstairs or collapsing into my bed just as the sun starts to rise, all I remember is the same realization running through my head on loop.

It’s not that the five of us were having trouble adjusting to each other, it’s that the four of them were having trouble adjusting with me. The thought makes me shiver no matter how thick the blanket is.