[SLTS]—❈—08:: A Perfectly Uneventful Trip to The Boardwalk

Thomas Calvert frowned as he watched the security footage of the prospective ward, Musa, (literally) sniffing out Shadow Stalker’s secrets simply by being within proximity of her.

“Well,” the surreptitious villain muttered, fingers interlocking before his face, “this is not good.

“This is not good at all.”

—❈—

Aiden Whitaker

Apparently, when The Protectorate wants to burn a person, they don’t hold back.

Shadow Stalker (whose name turns out to be Sophia Hess) along with her best buddy, Emma Barnes, are both tried as adults, and by the end of the week, one is on her way to a parahuman prison in Texas, and the other headed to a regular prison, also in Texas.

There must be a lot of prisons in Texas.

Most of their ‘pack’ are either in juvie or expelled, and several staff in the school (which, of course, turns out to be Winslow, because where else would it be) get fired for negligence, including the Principal.

By the end of it, Mom and I can’t help but be awed by the efficiency with which The PRT has handled the matter.

I ask to meet the girl, Taylor Hebert, Sophia and her ‘pack’s’ favourite victim for the better part of two years.

I don’t know why exactly I want to meet her really, I guess I just want to be able to look her in the eyes and tell her that those assholes are gone. That she’s safe now.

Armsmaster talks me out of it.

It wouldn’t be a good idea for me to be linked to this, he says, since it will likely expose me as a cape.

If I’d been a ward, it would be a different matter, but as a largely unaffiliated parahuman, it isn’t the best idea, he says.

He means it; the words aren’t meant to manipulate me into considering giving the wards another go, but they do make me consider it all the same.

To be honest, I’d been practically ready to sign up before, the only thing that had stopped me was meeting Shadow Stalker.

She’s gone now though, and while that experience has soured my opinion of The Wards somewhat, I still can’t deny that I don’t much mind the thought of joining.

I need to join someone, after all, that’s the simple truth of my situation, and while there is some temptation to seek greener pastures elsewhere, something José had said rings clearly in my mind; “The grass always looks greener on the other side. But that might only be because it’s plastic.”

The Protectorate isn’t perfect, far from it. But they are the devil I know. Or, at least, the devil I’m starting to know.

Not to mention that The Protectorate wants me so bad that I can smell it (figure speaking, of course; my power doesn’t work on conceptual entities like organizations).

With how much The PRT wants me, especially after the whole thing with Shadow Stalker, there is no doubt in my mind that we can get as good a deal here as we’re likely to get anywhere else.

And, in that case, why go anywhere else?

Mom thinks the same, but she lets me know that she’ll support whatever decision I make.

I’m glad for that. Really, I am. But honestly? I kind of wish she would just decide for me.

I’m fourteen years old for God’s sake, competent decision-making is not a skill that anyone can realistically expect me to be well-versed in.

No matter. I’ve got some time to make up my mind; not too much, I’m sure, since The Protectorate definitely won’t wait forever. But I’ve got some time.

—❈—

It's Saturday, the 12th of March, 2011, five days after the Shadow Stalker fiasco, and Mom has decided that we make something of the nice spring day. No powers, no Protectorate, and definitely no interrogating psychotic wards, just a mother and her particularly dashing son out in the city.

A crimeridden city with literal Nazi, true, but let’s not think about that.

Anyway, spring came to Brockton Bay early this year, so even though it’s barely mid-March, most of the winter cold is gone and it really is a nice day. So, when Mom suggests it, I don’t put up any arguments.

To be honest, I like spending time with Mom; she’s my best friend. She was even before Dad was taken from us, and has only been more so since then.

I know this would make most boys my age embarrassed, but I don’t care. Mom’s awesome; she’s cool, she’s smart, she’s funny, and she’s the one person I can always count on to be in my corner, no matter what.

Plus, I’ve never really been great at forming bonds with people my age anyway, so there’s that.

Brockton Bay has more than a few sights to see on the average day, but for someone who just wants to walk around in the open air while looking at cool stuff, there is no better place in the city than The Boardwalk.

Located by the beach with a great view of The Rig, The Boardwalk is the kind of place where you could window-shop for hours straight, and still not run out of stores with overpriced goods displayed through the windows to gawk at.

It is the tourist spot of Brockton Bay, which is honestly pretty amazing, considering that this same city hosts both PRT, Wards, and Protectorate headquarters, that hold daily tours in the case of the first two, and weekly tours in the case of the third.

Unfortunately, The Boardwalk is also the kind of place where stores charge twenty bucks for a cup of coffee, so, while it’s unquestionably fun to look at, that’s all Mom and I will doing. Looking.

For a moment, I imagine what it would be like if we get a good contract from The Protectorate. Like, a really good contract. The kind of contract that would make us able to spend twenty bucks on a cup of coffee without even thinking about it.

I shake the thought away.

Money isn’t everything.

It’s a lot, but it isn’t everything.

Dad had told me that.

As I’ve already said, The Boardwalk is the tourist spot of Brockton Bay. So, naturally, it is also the spot where you’re most likely to find Protectorate heroes ‘patrolling’.

They’re not really here to stop crime, or even to be a deterrent to it. No, they’re here to parade themselves.

Strutting around in colourful costumes like peacocks while the city burns (damn near literally, considering our resident rage dragon).

It's… infuriating, and when we see the wards Clockblocker and Browbeat across the street, signing autographs and taking pictures, I can’t stop the scowl that comes on my face.

This is the major downside to joining The Wards. This… pageantry.

I despise it.

I don’t even understand why people are so into it, to be honest. I’ve never been. Not really.

Most heroes have most, if not all, of their face covered, and I just don’t get how people can feel comfortable being around some superpowered stranger in a mask.

I mean, am I the weirdo here?

You have no idea who this person is, no idea what they’re like, or even if the smile in their voice is remotely real, and yet you hug them and take pictures with them?

Why? Because they’re a hero?

Firefighters are heroes, without powers to boot. How many people ask them for their autographs?

I stare at Clockblocker and Browbeat as we walk past.

Clockblocker does most of the talking, Browbeat just hanging in the back looking like he’s trying—and failing—to not be menacing.

I’ve met the both of them before. I’ve Smelled them. They’re generally okay people from what I got, even if Browbeat seemed rather uninterested in whether I joined the team or not, while Clockblocker had been, conversely, very eager for me to join for some reason I didn’t try to dig into back then.

I wonder if they (or rather Clockblocker) is enjoying this; standing here cracking jokes with strangers when there’s real work he could be doing.

I don’t try to smell him to know; not only is he too far away for it to be practical, but I’d quickly learned after getting my powers, that using my smell in a public place with too many people is a great way to give myself a headache.

“Stop scowling at them,” Mom says. “They’re just doing their job.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, looking at Mom as we walk out of sight of the wards, “their job. I would have thought it was stopping crime, but what do I know?”

“PR is an important part of any job, Aiden,” Mom says.

I roll my eyes.

I know what she’s doing. Mom has this compulsion to play Devil’s advocate in matters like these; to try to see things from other’s perspectives.

It’s a habit she’s been trying to instill in me to mixed success.

“Sure,” I agree easily. “But when PR is all a law enforcement agency does, then we have a problem.”

“They stopped Shadow Stalker,” Mom points out, voice mindful of our public surroundings.

I stare at her in disbelief. “That’s only because I brought it to their attention,” I argue.

“Yes, you did,” Mom says simply.

I eye her suspiciously. “This isn’t another of your ‘be the change you want to see in the world’ speeches, is it?” I ask.

Mom rolls her eyes.

“What do you think Kaiser is doing?” she asks.

I blink at the non sequitur. “Like, right now?”

“No, Aiden,” Mom says. “I mean, what do you think he’s doing? Running the Empire. Empowering them. Why do you think he’s doing all that?”

“Because he’s a racist asshole?” I ask slowly, unsure where she’s going with this.

“Yes, he is,” Mom agrees easily. “But it’s more than that. He’s being the change he wants to see in the world. And if people like you, people like us, don’t step up and be the change that we want to see, then it will be people like Kaiser, like Lung; people with zero regard for anyone but themselves who will shape the world.

“And no one will stop them. Certainly not The Protectorate. Not as they are.”

I stop and stare at her.

Mom stares back.

“What are you saying?” I ask her. I don’t understand.

Mom sighs. “Barely three days working with The Protectorate and you helped send several terrible girls where they belong and healed over a hundred people, Aiden,” she says.

“You want me to join The Wards,” I realize.

“You wanted me to choose for you anyway,” Mom says.

Huh, she’d noticed.

“That’s what I choose.”

She places a hand on my cheek.

“You can help people, Aiden,” she says. “You want to, and you can do that with them. And, who knows, maybe you can help them be better. Be the heroes that they should be.”

I place my hand over hers. “For Dad,” I say.

Mom’s eyes water. “Yeah,” she smiles.

She pulls my head down and kisses me on the forehead, and as I lean back up, a bullet flies through my throat, splattering Mom’s face with my blood.