I covered my mouth, yawned, and rapidly blinked my eyes when they started wanting to water. Couldn’t afford to have a run right now! Twitching the tip of my nose, I brought my cup of coffee up and took a pull from it. It was a touch too hot, but the bitter brew was precisely what I needed right this moment, between activating my taste buds and giving me that extra kick of stimulation, as well as the caffeine.

  I was standing in the primary lobby of PRT HQ as cop cars rerouted traffic out front for school buses to pull up and offload safely. Teachers were taking roll and counting heads on clipboards, and students were filing into the lobby into loose clique groups divided by classes. I had been assigned the Sophomore year for today’s tour.

  While tours and meet and greets were a big part of life both as a Ward and as a full member of the Protectorate, this wasn’t a standard, run-of-the-mill tour, the likes of which we had seven days a week in the tower. Those were sort of theme-parkish; they had a lot of upcharge ticketing packages and featured a big dose of PR at every turn. Today was going to be a more in-depth and very interactive question-and-answer tour.

  There was a bunch of PR with this, too, of course, but the high school tours were more a function of the PRT’s youth outreach program to present a friendly face and show an approachable and grounded organization. For those who might have triggered under our radar, or who might trigger at a later date. It was part of the same program that had us visiting trauma patients and doing check-ins at hospitals and clinics with patients who had been through hell. The likelihood that they had experienced, or would experience a trigger event and gain powers was very high.

  Villains outnumbered heroes at a bit more than a two-to-one ratio, and first or early impressions were really key in determining the course that many new parahumans would take. If a brand-new parahuman, who’s just experienced major trauma and gained powers, can talk to and relate to someone who can walk them through things, chances are they’ll be steered down a path that’s aligned with the people they’re interacting with.

  I looked over the groups and individuals that I would be guiding through the building and interacting with. The differences between Winslow students and Arcadia students were always pretty dramatic, and I felt bad for many of the Winslow students I was looking at. My school was located in the more affluent part of the city, or rather, the part of the city that had been better able to recover from the city’s economic downturn. It was a big string of related events. The dockyards closing, the Dockworkers’ Association strike and resulting ship graveyard event, and the closing of the ferry hit that part of the city hard. Property values dove off a cliff, tax revenue collapsed, and the results were not just tons of unemployment and under-employment, but also high crime, gang activity, and serious budget crunches for tax-funded things like school districts.

  The second-hand and ill-fitting clothing, ratty sneakers–a guilty pleasure of mine–and poor selection of colder-weather clothing showed. Maybe more telling was the posture and demeanor of the students. Defensive and aloof was pretty consistent throughout; some looked downright contemptuous of the heraldry and images in the lobby, and others seemed like they were not just used to being ignored, but actively seeking it out.

  I thought about my clothing and winced a little internally. I’d wanted to dress up and look nice for public relations work, which this was, so I had a nice white button-down blouse that was closely fitted to my figure. My pleated charcoal midi skirt had a subtle tartan pattern in shades of lighter and darker grays with a few silver threads for highlighting. I had on a pair of my nicer sneakers, but in professional colors, and I had painstakingly done my makeup and nails before work. My lanyard today was a Winslow High Varsity lanyard with my PRT employee holo-badge on proud display hanging below my boobs. I looked good, but I probably presented an image of a well-to-do young office worker that wasn’t going to be relatable to these students. Shit. I’d have to try and fully commit to engaging them in other ways.

  I jumped straight into it and started chatting up students while the buses were still offloading. I avoided the couple of groups wearing low-key gang paraphernalia; someone who already had gang affiliations was very unlikely to be receptive. Not that I didn’t want to potentially help them, but with limited time and resources, I was better deploying my attention to the groups that would be more willing or able to engage. Groupthink was also a big issue with gangs and other tight social circles. I chatted up a couple of groups and introduced myself to them, fielding a question here and there as they came up.

  As it looked like we were getting ready to start, I came into one group, one I could immediately tell was a group that existed due to outside forces. Probably those who were cast out from, or otherwise ostracized from the rest. The loser’s club, although I tried not to think in terms like that. There were four of them together, some talking, some ignoring the existence of the others. A short guy with a truly awful haircut was talking to a guy with really strong prescription lenses and a bad case of acne. There was a heavily overweight girl in an unflattering vinyl coat, and then another girl who was about the polar opposite. Rail thin, and so dark and gloomy she might as well have had thunderclouds over her head. I almost cracked up at the mental image of the thin, curly-haired girl’s thundercloud being the reason the larger girl was wearing what amounted to a raincoat.

  I’d apparently walked halfway into a mostly one-sided conversation between the bowl-cut guy and the acne guy regarding the Wards. They were debating the merits of the various members of the team–my team.

  “Kid Win would win, hands down. Not only is it in the name, but everyone knows that if you give a tinker a proper workshop and resources, they can solve any problem.” Bowl cut rocked his head in a side-to-side motion and considered the statement from the bespectacled fellow.

  “Point, but I bet you, as a Ward, he has to go through a bunch of red tape between making something and being able to use it. I think Gallant would beat him in a fight, though. How are you going to think and be strategic if you’re bawling like a baby in a fight?”

  “Dude, I can’t believe you’re going to argue for Emo Knight after you gave him that name in the first place!”

  Hah! Emo Knight! I’m going to tell Dean that, or maybe just hit him with it at practice. That’s a good one.

  I let out a chuckle and introduced myself. “Hello! I’m Morgan Rivera, I work here, and I’m going to be walking your class through the tower tour today! Are any of you particularly excited about the class trip, or maybe you don’t care about PRT and parahumans stuff and are just enjoying not being stuck in school for most of the day?”

  “Hey, uh, I’m Greg. And I freaking love cape stuff! Getting to spend a class day coming here and getting one of the exclusive tours is like a dream come true, I’ve been waiting all year for it!”

  Geeze, I can tell. ‘One of’ is interesting; maybe he’s pretty well-versed and knows the different types we offer here.

  The guy with the glasses turned to me, and I smiled at him. He stammered a bit, then got out: “Hi, I’m Leo. I like superhero stuff too, and…” He looked around a moment before asking in a quieter voice: “...Is it okay to say that I think some villains are kinda cool too?”

  I let out a little laugh and waved a hand. “Hah, don’t sweat it! We don’t make them a focus of stuff like this, but sure, some of them have a cool style or can be a bit over-the-top in a not-awful way. And there’s always an effort to convert villains over to the good guys' team. A not-insignificant number of the Protectorate are former villains who gave up a life of crime and notoriety to help people.”

  Let’s leave out the part where those are typically plea deals for them to stay out of prison, or worse, the Birdcage.

  “I’m Samantha,” the lady in the raincoat said. “Hero stuff is okay, I don’t really care all that much about powers or fighting, but I want to get into fashion design, and the costumes are pretty interesting to me.” She had a soft, kind voice, and there was a sparkle in her eye that made me think that she’d follow through on her goals. She seemed to have a motivated energy about her.

  I turned to the last of the group, and the only one who hadn’t spoken. She’d been furtively glancing over at another group of girls and seemed caught off guard when she realized we were all looking at her. “Taylor,” was all she said before stuffing her hands into an oversized hoodie and finding something interesting to look at on the floor tiles.

  I mean, it is a pretty nice floor, it’s all-natural cut and polished stone, and it’s got the PRT logo designed into the tile work. Maybe she’s just shy?

  I glanced over to the group of girls she’d been looking at and was surprised to see Sophia among them, along with a red-haired girl who looked oddly familiar and a brunette with hairpins in, who were chatting with another two guys. I turned my attention back to the group but shifted over a few steps to be able to keep an eye on Sophia. It wound up putting me closer to the two girls than the two guys.

  “So I overheard you all talking about the Wards on my way over.” I took another pull of my coffee and swallowed. “Have any particular favorites among the team? Anyone super lame?” I enjoyed playing this game with tour groups; it was nice hearing the different things people had to say about the Wards, some good, some bad. My name rarely came up, which was a little depressing, but also understandable.

  “I like Kid Win. Tinkers are cool,” said Leo.

  “I like Vista’s costume, it fits her style very well,” offered Sam.

  Greg practically gushed when he said, “Clockblocker, he’s got a cool power and one of the best names ever. And he’s funny, too.”

  Taylor seemed like she hadn’t spent much time thinking about it before, and her brow furrowed. After a moment of what looked like intense introspection, she offered: “Aegis.”

  “What about you, Ms. Rivera?” Greg asked excitedly.

  “Please, just Morgan. I like all of them in all honesty, and I’m not just saying that because I work here. They all have their own things they bring to the team.”

  “Even Phoenix Strike?” Greg queried me with a tilt of his head.

  Oof.

  I cleared my throat and spoke up just a bit louder so I’d be heard by some of the groups in the immediate area. “No way, not her. Phoenix Strike really sucks!” I laughed a little to indicate I was joking to the faces that had turned. I saw Sophia looking over at me, and she shot me a dirty look. I raised a hand and waved to her with a big smile. “Hi Sophia, glad to see you’re here!” I called over to her. She scowled marginally harder, then huffed and turned back to her friends. I noticed she had a scarf on. It wasn’t terribly cold outside, and it was an interesting fashion choice.

  Might have bruised her neck yesterday. If a bruise is the worst she got, she earned it.

  I was a little surprised to hear the quiet girl speak up next to me: “You know her?”

  I turned to look at her, and she was giving me a rather sharply focused look, considering the subject matter.

  Ah. So there is someone under the shell. Reminds me a little of Amy. Get her on a topic she cares about, and you see the person beneath come out.

  I bobbed my head and explained: “Yeah. I had a track meet or two against her before.” I noticed Taylor glance back at Sophia with a certain look on her face that I recognized. I wasn’t sure if it was disgust or maybe loathing, but whatever it was, I could pick up that there was no love lost there. Seems we share something in common. In the hopes of getting the chance to get through to some of these Winslow kids today, I did something my PR mind was screaming was a bad idea.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Fuck it.

  I leaned a little closer to her and whispered only loudly enough that the two of us would hear it: “You probably know this already since she’s in your grade, but she’s a real fucking cunt.”

  Taylor’s eyes widened, and I suspected I’d hit my intended target. The faint smile confirmed it. It looked good on her.

  Greg barged in, interrupting the moment: “You know, even though her ratings are, you know, low, I’ve seen some footage of her doing some sick moves. I think she’s underrated, personally. You ever see that clip that got uploaded to PHO of their fight against the E88 where Shadow Stalker ran at her, and Phoenix Strike-like, caught her foot mid-hop, and catapulted her up on top of that building? That’s freaking teamwork, man. I uh- mean uhm- Miss Morgan?” His stream-of-consciousness ranting made me chuckle.

  “Yeah, I did see it. And maybe you’re right that she’s a little underrated,” I said, as a badged teacher made a beeline straight to me.

  “Everyone’s accounted for, we’re all set on our end.” I looked at his Winslow ID. Mr. Gladly.

  “I’ll gladly take them off your hands and get us put into motion,” I said with an innocent smile.

  Gladly gave me a double thumbs-up and announced, “Have fun, class, and enjoy the tour!”

  I walked to the front of the class, some 40 or so students, set my coffee on the side of the big reception desk, and clapped my hands together once, quite loudly.

  “If I can have your attention, please, Winslow-Gladly! We’re starting and going to these elevators,” I pointed to the nearest bank, already on the floor and locked open for us. “Please file in, there’s enough elevators and they’re large enough to take all of us in one go, but you might need to separate from your friends for the trip if one is a bit crowded!”

  Unclipping my radio from my skirt belt, I spoke into it. “Rivera here, group three now loading. Let’s do Ops first today.” The radio bounced back an affirmation, and I joined the students in one of the elevators. The tours were very closely monitored by our operations center on camera, and they had full control of the building systems from their very secure part of the facility. I decided that we’d be going to Ops first today, as I tended to want to save the crowd favorites for the finale. Operations were cool, but it wasn’t the coolest part of the tour we’d be doing today. A good middle ground to start.

  We got started, and I walked the group through the low-security areas of our field operations offices. This is primarily where PRT officers were based, and it was structurally similar to what you’d expect a police station to be like. There was a lot of neat stuff on display for visitors there, including some fully equipped mannequins of PRT Tactical Response teams. Those guys didn’t get deployed for little stuff and were sorta like our version of SWAT. Multi-spectral optical devices, light, medium, or heavy armor, hell, even powered exo frames. Weapons included a variety of rifles and sub-machine guns, grenade launchers, you name it. In addition to the flashy stuff, I introduced the group to the members of the Parahuman Response Team that they were far and away most likely to meet in their day-to-day lives: the officers.

  Showing people that there were people behind the potentially scary-looking armor and guns was important. PRT armor had a heavy focus on the concealment of identity for officers. Villains weren’t known to be the most honorable or scrupulous people by their very nature, and there was less of an incentive for them to hold back with people trying to stop them who didn’t have parahuman abilities. Although I’d like to think that the outfits weren’t made to be intimidating, they often came across that way.

  Moving on, we headed to Public Relations next. This tended to be one of the more popular stops on these tours. The PR people were very outgoing and friendly, and they also gave out boatloads of swag and kitsch. This visit was no exception, and I used the time they were grouping people up and handing out merch to ditch my now-empty coffee cup and hit the restroom. Sophia tailed me in and was intent on chatting me up while I touched up my lipstick.

  I glanced in the mirror and didn’t see any feet under the stall doors. Looking over, I asked her, doing my best not to sound like I was gloating: “Is your neck okay? I’m sorry if I bruised it.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and snorted derisively. “You shouldn’t be. And you shouldn’t apologize, either. You always go too easy on people. Yesterday was the first time you proved there’s some fight in you.”

  “Well. It wasn’t my intent to lose my cool and scream in your face, and I felt bad about it. It wasn’t professional.”

  “Like I said yesterday, our job isn’t to be professional. It’s to win.”

  I squinted at her and said, “Keep your voice down; there are civilians right outside, and one of them could be snooping.”

  She huffed but complied with the request, dropping her volume. “You know you’d be the team lead if you weren’t such a pussy pushover all the time, right?”

  I blinked. “Sophia I-”

  “No, you shut your mouth and listen to me for once,” she practically snapped. I closed my mouth and didn’t interrupt her, but I didn’t like where this was going.

  “You’re good at this stuff…” she gestured at the doorway leading back out onto the main floor. “...and you’re good at the other stuff the bosses want, writing reports, going to meetings. But you’re a fuck up loser when it comes to actual fights. That’s why Carlos is in charge and not you. You’re better than he is, but you won’t take advantage of it, and that pisses me off. I hate people like that.”

  I took a breath and let it out slowly. “Sophia, I respect Carlos. He’s earned what he has. My issue is… control. I don’t want to hurt people or wind up killing someone accidentally. And there’s more to leadership than just fighting and strength. You compete in track, you know that being the fastest doesn’t mean you’re cut out to be captain because of it.”

  She scoffed and flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Who cares if you killed someone by accident? They’re drug dealers, criminals, murderers. Racists. Why should you care if they die? Anyways, you’re stupid if you really mean what you said. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and if you want to keep being the little dog when you’re not, you’re going to get eaten. That’s all there is to it. It’s not called survival of the most diplomatic.” With a dismissive flick of her hand and a huff, she turned and left.

  I washed my hands quickly and blasted them with the electric dryer before walking back out and taking over the tour.

  We hit R&D next, which was a significantly less interesting department here than out on the rig in the bay. The rig is where they kept most of the truly dangerous stuff, along with most of the main Protectorate team’s primary kit. They had backup gear here, too, of course. Our labs here mostly had high-tech stuff and not tinkertech.

  Second-to-last stop on the tour was what some of us called ‘the tank,’ which was the parahuman holding and containment cells. Parahumans, and our various and often wild abilities, required some pretty creative and extremely over-engineered solutions to keep in a cell. This was the ‘be good kids, or you might end up here’ portion of the tour, and one I personally wasn’t terribly fond of. Some of the holding cell designs were neat, I suppose. The cells for the more dangerous parahumans had walls that were, in places, multiple yards thick, with heavy steel reinforcement, and then plating or padding on top of that. There tended to be active deterrents built into the cells, too, so if someone did start using a power and it was going to be a problem, there were options. The cells could be flooded with containment foam to immobilize people; they could issue nasty electrical discharges, strobe flashes, and all sorts of auditory or chemical-based irritants. The class had a good time taking selfies behind bars of one of the cells that was often used as a demo unit.

  Last stop today was going to be our floor. Wards HQ. I radioed it in and announced it to the class, and the energy level jumped noticeably. Even the students who were sorta so-so on parahumans, in general, tended to be a bit more into parahumans in their age bracket. Our identities under the mask were an especially hot topic for debate and argument, both locally and on Parahumans Online, the biggest website on the internet for cape culture and information. Part of our job as Wards was to engage with tours like this directly, usually with at least one of us having to participate, but ideally, all of us who were at HQ when they came through.

  There was even an alert system to warn us when they were coming in advance of arrival, so we had plenty of time to make sure our costumes were on and any potential identity issues averted.

  We landed on the floor, and I guided everyone down the shiny metal corridor leading to the proper Wards HQ. It was a bit overly flashy for my tastes, but I will say it did make an impression. The doors were opened remotely for us to enter, and Chris, or Kid Win, waved from on top of his hoverboard, all decked out in his full costume. Some people power-walked in, others drifted, and when I was sure everyone was in, I gave a thumbs-up to the camera operators, and the doors closed.

  This was largely the cape’s show from here, and I was happy to have a bit of a break, the tour clocking in at about two hours in total. While Kid Win proved he was both a real person and a teenager like the rest of the contents of the room, I checked in on several people whom I’d been planning on following up on or had been meaning to talk to otherwise, but hadn’t managed to get the chance yet on the tour.

  After chatting with about half a dozen people or so and pointing them at various resources or providing them with some of the materials we had on hand to answer questions and the like, I noticed that the tall, thin dark-haired girl from earlier was standing on her own, away from the main group where Kid Win was having a Q & A session. We had a big display piece inset into one of the walls. It was a set of mannequins with close approximations of our figures wearing mock-ups of our uniforms and gear. In the case of the tinkertech gear and armor, it was a non-functional replica, but where it was more of a costume, it tended to be pretty close, if not a spare.

  I tried to suppress a grin at the fact that someone was looking at my costume specifically out of all the ones in the display. I wasn’t exactly popular. I was one of the lowest-ranked heroes on PHO.

  Who am I kidding? I’m not one of the lowest; I am the lowest.

  Stepping up beside her, she didn’t react to my presence, instead hovering her face only inches from the glass and moving her head around to get a better look at… the belt?

  “Taylor, right? Did you enjoy the tour?”

  “I thought it was pretty informative, all things considered.” She didn’t turn to face me when responding.

  “Fan of Phoenix Strike? I noticed you seem into the costume.”

  She stood up straight, and I noticed she was a touch taller than I was when she wasn’t slouching in the corner.

  She’s so thin. I hope she doesn’t have an eating disorder or something. It’s unusual to see someone with a build like hers.

  Taylor gestured at my mannequin, at the belt specifically, and asked: “What do you think she keeps in there? There’s a pretty good amount of pouches, but they’re not labeled or anything, you know?”

  I bobbed my head quickly and answered: “Phone, backup radio, handcuffs, flashlight- there, there, and there. Those are grenade pouches: flashbangs, signal smoke, and CS gas. The big kind of rectangular one there is a military-style medkit. That’s a multitool pouch. See those two cylindrical ones and the one boxy one? Those are chem lights and a multi-mode beacon. The holster has a taser and reloads. It’s hard to see, but under the straps that connect the pouches to the belt webbing, there are heavy-duty zip cuffs sorta woven in.”

  My utility belt had been something that had taken me months to finally nail down to where I was happy with it. Every single thing served a dedicated purpose. It was so easy to get caught up in the ‘just one more thing’ mentality and find yourself lugging an extra ten or fifteen pounds of extra stuff you might need at some point, but every addition added both weight and bulk. Mobility mattered a whole lot, and added volume wasn’t just something that could get in the way or catch on things, but also potentially be used against you in a grappling situation.

  I looked away from the mannequin back over to Taylor and saw she was giving me an appraising look. She opened her mouth twice to say something, seemed to think better of it, then finally said: “I sorta figured you just worked here as a tour guide or office worker, but you seem to know a heck of a lot about some of the more detailed things.”

  Shit, I nerded out there for a moment and got caught.

  I chuckled a bit and nodded, admitting, “You could say I wear a lot of different hats around here. Office paperwork, meetings, PR, outreach, and even doing some personal assistant work for some of the heroes.” It was truthful, if not entirely accurate. I had gotten coffee for members of the Protectorate in the past. A change of subject might also serve as a good deflection right about now. I pulled out the business card I’d grabbed earlier and held it out to her. The tour would be officially ending in a matter of minutes, and the students would be shepherded back to the lobby for a headcount and return to Winslow.

  She took the card and looked at it. It was a bog standard PRT East-Northeast card with a number of our main contact and emergency hotline numbers on the front. Flipping it over, she saw that I’d written my name and number on the backside. She frowned slightly, looking at it, then looked back up at me. Her fingers tightened around it slightly. Her expression shifted some, maybe from a more defensive posture to a puzzled one. It was hard for me to tell without knowing her better.

  “Is this… For what, exactly?” She asked. Her gaze was sharp, and there was an edge to her voice when she asked: “You do this for everyone on the tour, or what?”

  I tilted my head slightly, a bit perplexed by the response, and told her: “Yes, everyone gets contact information plastered all over the pamphlets in the swag bags. I gave you my number because I noticed you were paying attention more than most of the other students in your class. If you wind up having any questions later, reach out.” I was tempted to hedge my bet on the risk of losing a potential contact, but opted to go with what my gut was telling me. “Or if you just want to chat sometime. Shoot me a text.”

  She looked conflicted and hesitated a moment, but she didn’t hand the card back and instead stuffed it into her jeans pocket. “I don’t-” she sighed. “I don’t text. I don’t have a cellphone. Just a regular landline at home.” She hesitated a long moment. “What’s CS gas?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, and she gave me that sharp look again. I waved a palm for a moment, then caught my breath and composed myself. “Sorry, just a funny thought. I was suddenly reminded of myself a few years ago when I asked that same question in almost the same situation. And here I am, perpetuating the cycle.” She looked relieved for some reason, and I explained: “It’s more commonly called tear gas by the public, but in military and law enforcement…”