Chapter 2: She’s not a simply bitch, she’s one with feelings

Carol Dallon sat by the bed of her son, her gaze fixed on the pale, almost ethereal face of her son, Michael. She hadn’t moved in hours, since he had lost consciousness again and All of new wave had unanimously decided he would be best to all retreat to Caroll’s house, rooted to the spot as though her legs were filled with lead. The room of her son didn't feel like the one of a child. It was too spartan, too devoid of things that would make it lively. It didn't feel like a place of comfort and it made her wonder if maybe, her son never felt such in her home. The constant hum of the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed in her ears like an incessant drone, amplifying her tension. She didn’t blink. She couldn’t blink. Her eyes, dry and red, felt like they’d been scoured with sandpaper. But she couldn’t look away, not even for a second.

The image of Michael’s body, still and lifeless on the floor, was branded into her mind. It was as if a photograph had been seared into her retinas, each detail etched in stark relief—the slack jaw, the still chest, the unnatural angle of his limbs. For a terrifying moment, she’d thought she had lost him. Her heart had stopped, her breath caught in her throat as though a vice had clamped down on her lungs. It was as if time itself had ground to a halt, freezing her in that terrible, agonizing instant.

In that moment, Michael hadn’t just been her son. He had been her sister.

Her beautiful, vibrant sister who had been taken from her so cruelly, so suddenly. The loss of a sibling was a wound that never truly healed, a scar that ached with every beat of her heart. Seeing Michael lying there, lifeless and pale, had been like losing her all over again. It was as if the universe had decided to twist the knife, to make her feel that searing pain once more, to force her to relive the worst day of her life.

She hated herself for it. Hated the weakness that had flooded through her, the terror that had gripped her heart with icy claws. She was a hero, damn it. She was supposed to be strong, to be brave. But in that moment, she’d been neither. She had been a scared, grieving sister all over again, lost in a storm of emotion that threatened to drown her.

Carol clenched her hands into fists, her nails digging into her palms so hard that she felt the sharp sting of pain. She welcomed it. She needed it. It was something real, something tangible. Something to anchor her to the here and now, to remind her that Michael was alive. He was alive. He had triggered, had survived, and that was all that mattered.

But the guilt remained. The guilt that she hadn’t been fast enough, hadn’t been strong enough. The guilt that she hadn’t been able to save her sister, and that she’d nearly lost her son as well. It was a heavy, suffocating weight that pressed down on her chest, threatening to crush her under its oppressive mass.

She’d been lucky this time. Michael had triggered. He’d survived. But if he hadn’t? If she’d lost him too? She didn’t know if she would have been able to survive it, to keep going. She wasn’t sure if she had the strength to bury another loved one, to watch as the earth swallowed up another piece of her heart.

Her children were everything to her. They were her reason for being, the light that guided her through the darkest of nights. Victoria, with her boundless energy and indomitable spirit, was the sun, blazing bright and fierce in the sky. Michael, though… Michael was different. He was her moon, soft and gentle, a soothing presence that calmed her turbulent soul.

He was her favorite, though she would never admit it, not to anyone, not out loud. She wasn’t supposed to have favorites. She was their mother. She was supposed to love them both equally, without reservation, without bias. But there was something about Michael, something that reminded her so much of her sister. He was a blessing and a curse, a constant reminder of what she had lost, and what she could still lose.

She had been distant with him, she knew that. It wasn’t intentional, at least not consciously. But every time she looked at him, every time she held him close, she was filled with a fear so intense, so all-consuming, that it took her breath away. The fear of ruining him, of losing him. The fear that she would fuck up, that she would fail him, just as she had failed her sister.

Carol closed her eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. She couldn’t think like that. Not now. Not when Michael needed her. He had triggered, and he would live. That was all that mattered. Everything else could wait.

But the world wouldn’t wait. Already, she could feel them circling, like sharks drawn to the scent of blood in the water. The whole world had seen Michael trigger, had witnessed the blinding, golden light that had erupted from him, healing everyone in its path. They would want him. They would try to use him, to manipulate him, to bend him to their will.

But she wouldn’t let them. She wouldn’t let them take her son, to twist him into something he wasn’t. She would protect him, no matter what. She would do whatever it took to keep him safe, to keep him out of their clutches.

She would not fail him again. Not this time.

Carol opened her eyes, looking down at Michael’s face. His breathing was steady, his chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic pattern. He looked so peaceful, so serene, as though he hadn’t a care in the world. As though he hadn’t just been through what was probably the most traumatic experience of his life.

Gently, she reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm, soft beneath her fingertips. She felt a lump rise in her throat, her eyes stinging with tears. She blinked them away, swallowing hard.

She couldn’t lose him. Not now. Not ever.

“I won’t fail you, Michael,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “I promise.”

She leaned down, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him close. He was alive. He was safe. And she would do everything in her power to keep it that way.

As she held him, she felt a flicker of something deep within her, something she hadn’t felt in a long time. It was a spark, a tiny flame that had been all but extinguished by the weight of her grief, her guilt. But now, it was there, burning bright and fierce, filling her with a strength she hadn’t known she still possessed.

She would protect him. She would keep him safe.

She would not fail him again.

Never.

*scene*

I woke up to a world of soft hues and fading shadows, a place where light and darkness mingled in perfect harmony. The room felt familiar, like a whisper of a memory that lingered just out of reach. I knew this place, this bedroom. It was Michael Dallon’s room—my room. The walls were a muted blue, the kind that reminded me of the sky at twilight, just before night took its hold. The bed I lay on was firm but comfortable, and the blankets that draped over me felt like the softest of clouds. For a brief moment, I feared that none of this was real—that it was just a dream, a fleeting illusion that would shatter if I moved too quickly. But as I blinked and the world around me stayed the same, a wave of relief washed over me. This was real. I was here. I was alive.

My heart began to settle into a steady rhythm. This life, I wouldn’t waste it I promised myself. I would live this life to the fullest—not just for myself, but for the Michael who had come before me. He was a boy who hadn’t known enough love, with too much regrets like it fitted the cold reality of this world. He had fought, and he had fallen, but I would carry his memory with me. I would make sure that his sacrifice was not in vain.

The memories of my past life, and the choice that had brought me here, flickered in the back of my mind like the glow of a distant fire. The Waifu Catalogue. I had just filled it because of boredom. I never knew that it would have been real. If I had, maybe I would have made some different choices. I had chosen to reincarnate as Miquella, the young demigod from the world of elden ring, but in this world, in Brockton Bay, I had been inserted into the life of Michael Dallon, the youngest member of New Wave. I could feel the power thrumming beneath my skin, a gentle hum that resonated with the very essence of my being. It was the inherent capabilities of Miquella, the one deemed the most fearsome of demigod but I knew instinctively that I had only tapped into a fraction of what was possible, that I had just grazed the tip of the surface of the iceberg. Still if I had known, I would have chosen the god version, not the demigod one of Miquella.

But even so, I could feel the potential, the raw energy that coursed through my veins. I knew without a doubt that I was strong, stronger than most in this world, but strong didn't mean invincible. Scion, the entity, the warrior, the one who will be known as the golden calamity, was still out of reach, a looming threat that would require more than just brute strength to overcome. If I had been reborn as a god, perhaps things would have been different. But as I was now, I would have to make do with what I had, or find a way to grow even stronger in the future.

I dismissed those thoughts with a wry smile. The apocalypse wasn’t coming tomorrow, and there was no need to worry about Scion just yet. Earth Bet was a shithole, sure, but it was my shithole now. I had time to figure things out, to explore the depths of my new abilities. For now, I just wanted to see what I could do.

I sat up slowly, letting the blankets slide off me like water cascading down a stone. The room around me felt almost ethereal, as if the walls were made of something softer than wood and plaster. I could feel the air vibrating with something, in a way it didn't in the original Michael’s memories. It felt as if my presence just by itself was changing things around me. I raised a hand, palm up, and concentrated.

Light bloomed in my hand, a soft, golden glow that reminded me of the first rays of dawn. It was warm, comforting, but there was power in it, too. I focused, and the light began to shift, to take shape. A sword of pure light formed in my hand, the blade gleaming with a soft radiance that seemed to banish the shadows from the room. The weight of it felt right, as if it was an extension of my own will.

I twirled the blade experimentally, the air singing as it cut through it. The sword felt perfect in my hand, but I knew I could do more. I let the light fade, the sword dissolving into motes of golden dust that drifted away on an unseen breeze. There were other powers, other abilities that I had yet to explore. Healing, the manipulation of the environment, the potential was endless.

A grin spread across my face as I thought about it. The reason why Scion and the future apocalypse he represented didn’t worry me that much was because I had access to the incantations of the Golden Order. The Laws of Causality and Regression—powers that could reshape reality itself, that could bend the very fabric of the world to my will. With these alone, I would been in a higher tier than most capes.

I reached over to the nightstand and picked up a pen. It was an ordinary pen, the kind you’d find in any office supply store, but I could feel its history, its past, its future. I concentrated, drawing on the power within me, and the pen began to change. Slowly, it regressed, the ink fading, the plastic unforming, until all that was left was nothingness. It was as if the pen had never existed at all.

In the game, the Law of Regression is an incantation of the golden order that dispels most sorcery and incantation effects, standard status effects, unique effects (such as Death flare), and effects from consumables and other items, from all nearby targets, both friendly and hostile. The spell also dispelled illusory walls, and has other uses outside of combat.

Lore wise thought, it was an incantation said to be the the pull of meaning; that all things yearn eternally to converge. In other words, it was entropy itself . That was busted but I guess it is something that makes sense in a universe where a goddess can literally banish death from reality.

I marveled at the power in my hands. It was intoxicating, thrilling. There were so many things I had in mind.

The door to my room creaked open, and I looked up to see Crystal Pelham standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock.

“Michael?” she whispered, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

I smiled at her. I felt something warm spread through my chest. “Hey, Crystal.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and before I knew it, she was running across the room and throwing her arms around me. The force of her hug nearly knocked me off the bed. It probably would have if not for my powers. I hugged her back, slowly, the moving feeling foreign to this body. The only hugs Michael Dallon was used to receive came from his aunt and his sisters. No one else which was kinda sad when you thought about it. He had more memories of hugging his aunt than his mom and his dad.

“You’re awake,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “You’re really awake.”

I nodded, feeling kinda out of my depths. “Yeah, I’m awake.” I hope it didn’t sound awkward.

She pulled back, her hands gripping my shoulders as if she was afraid I’d disappear if she let go. “I have to tell the others,” she said, her voice trembling with excitement. “They’ll want to see you.”

Before I could say anything, she was out the door, her voice echoing down the hallway as she called for the rest of the family. I took a deep breath. I guess it was time for the rodeo.

As the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, drawing closer, I opened my eyes and tried to give my best smile.