XelofBloom
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26.2
🕑 Added 2025-10-01 03:20:05 +0000 UTCACT YoE 4,191 / LT November 14, 2009, 0800
PRT Headquarters
Brockton Bay
Conference Room
The conference room on the PRT’s upper floors was designed to make people believe in lines. Lines on maps, lines of authority, clean edges on hard choices. Frosted glass denied the city its detail and kept the skyline at a polite distance. The flag behind the desk was centered so precisely that it made Melissa’s teeth itch.
Miss Militia took up a position by the window, the way some people took their coffee: by habit, without the need to think about it. Boots planted, hands clasped lightly behind her back, scarf softening the silhouette of a soldier. The lights overhead hummed at a frequency that never made headlines and always made headaches.
Melissa sat near the end of the table, her costume jacket folded across her knees, the ceramic plates locked in her locker per instruction. Without the bulk, she felt like a reenactor who’d left the prop rifle at home. Too much of the last few weeks had been defined by what she could stop, what could no longer pierce, what curved and then broke across the invisible ribs of space she had learned to pull tighter.
Eve’s voice kept replaying in her head, not as memory but as a pressure system—the kind of weather you feel in your bones. They burn the testing bed, so nothing follows them back through the Doors. When the Cycle ends, they salt the earth and shatter the sky. To them, it is not cruelty. Instead, it is chaos prevention. Understand, the more you draw on the Shard, the brighter you burn. Were you not mine, you would shine like a beacon in the dark layers of reality.
The door opened without fanfare. Director Piggot moved like someone who had spent a lifetime convincing rooms to do what she needed. A bleached-blonde bob-style haircut at the temples, jacket immaculate, nail polish a responsible gray that didn’t show small chips. She sat at the head of the table without inviting anyone else to, as if the matter of who belonged in a chair had been settled long before any of them were born.
“Let’s begin,” she said, voice even. “We are here to discuss Vista’s escalation and the question of advanced protection.”
Miss Militia didn’t bother softening the opening salvo. “She’s reached effective damage proofing under all known damage types,” she said. “Incoming small-arms fire loses energy as it crosses the field she maintains. Fragments veer. Kinetic profiles go strange. Pure energy splashes into non-existence. Nothing gets through. She’s also learned to anchor her own position to the geometry she sets, which eliminates knockback. In practice, she’s an almost impossible target to injure. I’m recommending armor, though, because as you know, there is always a catch.”
Piggot’s gaze slid to Melissa and back again. “You’re saying armor because this will escalate,” she said. “It always does.”
“Correct,” Miss Militia said. “Additional support increases survival. Survival increases options. She’s eleven. The potential is titanic. We are looking at the next Eidolon, given time.”
“Eleven is an age and not a policy,” Piggot said mildly. “Vista.” She folded her hands, the lines of her knuckles pale against the desk. “Do you agree with Miss Militia’s assessment?”
Melissa didn’t trust her throat, so she nodded first and found the word after. “Yes.”
“Do you want the armor?”
That was the question Piggot always found, the one that wore courtesy like a mask and bit like a mandate. Melissa thought about plates, gel, and shells. Then she thought about the last time a bullet had flattened against nothing and dropped like a dead moth at her feet. Thought about the absence of a ripple she’d felt travel through a space, but she knew the iron rule that no power was invincible.
“I want to live,” she said, and hoped it sounded less raw outside her skull. “Armor that doesn’t weigh me down would help.” Vista didn’t mention how it would also allow her to shape her shielding better while attributing the changes to the tinker-crafted armor.
“Good,” Piggot said, as if she’d merely checked off a box. “Miss Militia, tell me the rest of what you came to say.”
Miss Militia didn’t shift. “She’s drawing attention. The kind that shoots at her from rooftops and vans. The kind that looks at her parents as prey. And—” she gave Melissa a fraction of a glance “—the kind that doesn’t fit our training slides. She’s reporting changes in sensation consistent with power re-triggering.”
Piggot’s expression didn’t change. “Re-triggering,” she repeated, filing the word like an object with sharp edges. “Are we talking…. break?”
“No, nothing that drastic yet in my opinion,” Miss Militia said.
Piggot turned her attention fully to Melissa. “Do you feel different?”
I feel like a lighthouse on an unlit coast, hidden by the evil Witch of the West. My great old outsider teacher from another reality, Eve, told me the things I’m not supposed to know exist, burn their test Cycle worlds like a brushfire so the smoke hides them from the hunters that come when the Cycle ends. Instead of those thoughts, Meliss said, “It’s louder.”
“Under your control?” Piggot asked.
“Absolutely,” Melissa said. It wasn’t a lie, so there was that.
Miss Militia cut in. “She’s reporting daily. Medicine has baselines. R&D has the rig watching for anomalies. What we don’t have is time. We cannot afford to wait for a literature review while she’s becoming a major threat to the city's current powers. They will try to kill her, you know this.”
Piggot tapped the desk once, quietly. The tap felt like a stamp. “Tinker Tech-based armor approved,” she said. “We frame this as modernization of Ward safety standards. We do not center Vista in that messaging. Miss Militia, you’ll coordinate the fitting and a controlled test. Vista, you will cooperate with R&D and Medicine, and you will report any changes.”
Melissa let herself breathe.
Piggot continued, “I am also ordering a forty-eight-hour operational stand-down on active power use for Vista starting at 0600 tomorrow, patrol ride-along permitted under supervision, emergency exceptions through command.”
The immediate no made it to the back of Melissa’s teeth and found Miss Militia’s steady look waiting. She swallowed it and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good,” Piggot said. “We’ll renegotiate as needed.”
There were other words, about scheduling, Quartermaster, and press lines that needed to be written with a lawyer’s pen. A folder was pushed and caught, and a signature line was pointed out and signed. The meeting ended the way good meetings end: with no one slamming the door and everyone carrying a piece of it away.
In the hallway, the fluorescent hum had found a new note. Melissa walked next to Miss Militia in a silence that was better than awkward.
“You did well,” Miss Militia said at last, as if commenting on the weather.
“The Director is scary,” Melissa said. “Very larger than life.”
“She is that,” Miss Militia said with a faint smile in her voice. “Fitting is in four hours. I’ll meet you at Quartermaster in three. We’ll warm up in the test bay first.”
Melissa nodded. Saying yes was easier when someone older had already done the math.
The Quartermaster’s domain smelled like canvas, polymer, and stubborn coffee. The racks and crates were labeled with stencils that could cut paper. The man himself was compact and watchful; frown lines set in a face that had lost many arguments and remembered everyone.
“Armor for a Ward,” he said by way of greeting. “Either the world’s worse, or we’ve finally admitted it’s never been good.”
“Both,” Miss Militia said.
He measured Melissa in quick, impersonal bands of fabric and a metal gauge that clicked when it found the end of its travel. “You grew,” he said, mostly to the numbers. “Stop doing that. It’s expensive.”
“I’ll be a giant, soon,” Melissa said, because sometimes humor was an air pocket.
“In your own mind, perhaps,” he said.
The tinker tech armor arrived in a cradle, matte and anonymous. The underlayer clung where it ought to and flexed where it had to; the shell seated with a click that felt like a sentence turning into a period. The weight wasn’t heavy so much as present. It moved Melissa’s breath down into her abdomen and made her shoulders honest about what they’d be asked to carry.
“Test bay,” Miss Militia said. “Walk, jog, climb, drop. Then stand still and let the room listen to you.”
R&D’s newest testing room on the rig resembled an art installation anyone sensible would refuse to touch: rods splayed like a metal thicket, discs where the rods met, cables like nervous system threads running to a console bank. A female analyst with purple hair and a mug labeled "PROBLEM DRINKER" (the problem was with the data) who didn’t look up as they entered.
“Baseline?” Miss Militia asked.
“Baseline hates being baseline,” the analyst murmured. “She confuses the math of sanity. Hello again, Vista.”
“Hello,” Melissa said. She preferred being addressed like a piece of equipment to being handled like a breakable child.
They ran her through the motions. She moved like her body had a new center of gravity in the armor, and it made a kind of sense she’d have to learn. On the third jog, she felt the familiar itch to slide a spatial plane in front of her when the corner turned sharply. She didn’t. On the fifth, her feet hit the ground a half-inch earlier than expected, and for a heartbeat, she wasn’t sure if it was the plates or the world saying gotcha.
The analyst made quiet, satisfied noises. “No ambient distortion up relative to last week.” She glanced at Miss Militia. “Armor isn’t throwing anything off.”
“Good,” Miss Militia said. “I want interference readings.”
“Understood,” the analyst said.
Melissa stood still when asked. The R&D testing room of the rig listened. The spatial sense lay against the edge of her skin like cool cloth. If she reached, the cloth would pull. She didn’t reach. The pressure beyond sight was faint but persistent, like the deep buzz of a city’s power grid—a collective intention you could only hear when you stood very, very still.
Melissa took a breath and then started weaving. Spatial Reflex Loop was an orb around her. It was a permanent feature, but it was inflexible. Inflexible things were brittle, weak, and weakness was death in her dreams. So, she reached out with her senses. Grasping the firm, inflexible barrier of the Spatial Reflex Loop in her mind. Like a child molding playdough and weaving a reed basket at the same time, she adapted to fit her needs. A layer of silken spatial armor that fit perfectly to the tinker tech she wore and wasn't visibly evident.
Then she repeated the motion — precise, practiced, and mirrored exactly as her teacher, Eve, had shown her.
Each layer formed thinner than a breath, a single micron slice of reality.
The Spatial Reflex Loop wasn’t a mere trick of willpower; it was a rule, etched into the fabric of space itself. Rules didn’t yield. If something couldn’t override them, it couldn’t pierce them. Layer after layer, she built the structure — five hundred thousand times over — until the air shimmered faintly to her senses with the weight of her own precision. Once everything was in place, she expanded the space between the layers. This was to prevent a weapon that could pierce dimensional boundaries from effectively one-shotting her. She had never heard of such things, but Eve was insistent that they existed.
Overkill doesn’t exist when survival is on the line, Melissa thought.
The stand-down began the next morning as ordered. The forty-eight hours passed like a calculus problem with too many variables and not enough chalk. She rode along while others did things she could have done better, faster, and with fewer bruises. She watched the graphs in her head redraw themselves into safer shapes, only to see those shapes fall apart because she wasn’t allowed to touch them. The pressure on the far side of the not-door faded from weight to fact and then hovered there like an unfinished thought. It was as if her power was eager to complete Convergence Lattice and Dimensional Bridging into something sustainable. Melissa didn’t push because new powers without a reason were major signs of a broken trigger. She’d read the manual and knew exactly what happened to those types of people.
Eventually, after the boring, dead time masquerading as a break ended, Director Piggot called her back into the conference room. The Director had the air of someone who respected clocks and enjoyed keeping them on schedule. Miss Militia stood; Melissa sat; the analyst delivered three sentences and a thumb drive. Numbers were nouns. The verdict was excellent.
“You were right,” Piggot said, and made it sound like an acceleration rather than a concession. “You will resume patrol at 1800 with the new armor. The press line will be: We are updating Ward safety standards. We will not answer questions about Vista specifically. Vista—” she fixed Melissa with that steady gaze “—any change in the sensation of your powers—tell us. Immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Melissa said.
“Miss Militia,” Piggot said, “you and one other will join me tomorrow for a consult. An old acquaintance. They’ll know things we don’t say in rooms like this.”
“Understood,” Miss Militia said.
“Good.” Piggot stood. “Go do your jobs.”
They did. The armor went on at 1740 that night for standard patrol. The plates seated with the same honest click. The helmet shadowed the world without stealing it; the peripheral stayed usable. Her breath rose lower, steadier. Her teammate Clockblocker tried jokes on the new lines: You’ll sink if we throw you in the river; we’ll paint chevrons so cars know to yield. She kept her temper in check and didn’t put him in an infinite loop of falling. It was a singular challenge not to do so.
Eventually, they hit a demonstration turned barricade at 1930. Two compact cars welded hood-to-hood, sparks hissing as if the act could be repeated if willpower were fuel. A dozen people on either side of the metal, a chant that kept failing to agree with itself. Someone’s anger was hunting for a shape to pour into.
Paths lay themselves out in Melissa’s head, whether she wanted them or not: vectors, radii, curves that became circles if nudged. It would take three motions and a fold to make this safe. It would take just one spatial fold to turn this into a lesson. She did neither. She stood where her armor would be most useful and where her presence would gently move others into safer places.
A bottle didn’t fly. Or if it did, it decided to be heavy and changed its mind halfway through the air because the world had grown tired of melodrama. The barricade became two cars again, and then a tow schedule. It was a lesson that powers were powers, not magic fix-it widgets.
It was only after the voices thinned and someone laughed because fear doesn’t leave politely that Melissa felt it: not a push, not a pull, a turning. As if something adjusted its attention a single degree. Noticing, yes, but also curious. If curiosity could be a blade edge that never dulled. She stood very still and tried not to think about golden-skinned nightmares clothed in human appearance.
Going home felt like a luxury. Melissa took her armor off in her room. The underlayer clung to skin she recognized as hers. The mirror revealed a face that appeared older in institutional lighting, yet looked like a kid in daylight. She thought of Eve, of the way she had told the truth without flinching as if flinching were rude.
They destroy their worlds to hide the trail. Preventative arson.
The more you burn, the greater the chance of escaping intact. Would you consider the lives of every ant on the planet a worthy trade to prevent annihilation? It is worse, though, with mana. The things that feed on mana are far more dangerous than what they have dealt with before. That is why I need you, my champion, to hold the line until I cross over.
Vista managed to sleep a blessing of innumerable worth.
“Good work,” Miss Militia said at breakfast.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Melissa said.
Miss Militia looked at her over the rim of the cup. “You’re doing well. I’m not praising bravery. Bravery is cheap. You’re doing the other thing.”
“What’s the other thing?”
“Courage,” Miss Militia said. “That’s rarer.”
Melissa let the words sit. They were a kind of armor that weighed nothing and did not stop bullets, but mattered anyway.
The consultation the next morning was a different chapter written with the same pen: a closed room, a long table, a set of faces who wore history like a second uniform. Piggot kept her promise. She declined the request for demonstrations of Vista’s abilities, looking only at the requester. Questions were asked that made it clear the questioners already knew half the answers. Jargon threaded the room like a tripwire. No one said Door. No one said Cycle. No one said Things. Everyone spoke as if there were a list of words they were not permitted to say and had learned to be elegant without them. It was very strange, but then, Thinkers could do strange things with minimal data.
After, Piggot stood by the window and watched the helicopters the way other people watched storms. “We’re not friends,” she told Melissa when they were briefly alone. “But I am on your side.”
“I know,” Melissa said.
“I need another favor you will dislike.”
“Perfect,” Melissa said. “I was worried about enjoying something today.”
Piggot almost smiled. “If the sensations of your power shift from noun to verb—from attendance to pattern—you tell me before you tell anyone else. Even if what you tell me sounds like nonsense. Especially then.”
“Yes,” Melissa said.
“Keep eating healthy and stop stealing all the breakroom donuts with your powers,” Piggot added, looking not at all at the way Melissa’s shoulders had begun to habitually hunch in guilt. “You move like a person who has mistaken sugar for fuel.”
“Understood, ma’am,” Melissa replied.
At the door, hand on the knob, Melissa paused. “Director,” she said, not sure what the rest would be until it arrived. “What if I get more stuff?”
Piggot didn’t look at the flag, the glass, or the email that chimed to announce a crisis with poor timing. She looked at Melissa—actually looked—and said, “Then we do what we have always done and adjust to fit the problem.”
“Oh,” Melissa replied.
“There are people with minds brighter than the sun,” Piggot said. “They are the ones to solve the big issues; they are the ones to handle the unspoken issues. All we need is time for you to grow. Space manipulation is a fundamental force. Given time, I believe you will be able to handle any issue with grace.”
It wasn’t comfort, and it wasn’t a threat. It was policy dressed as a sentence. Sometimes that was what you had.
The days that followed were neither worse nor better; they were truer. The armor became a meme online. The Wards learned where to stand in case bullets did impossible things. The numbers of her ability evolved into graphs, which in turn became memos, and eventually arguments. Melissa learned that being bulletproof was not the same as being safe when her parents vanished. It was disturbing that she didn’t even mind them disappearing. She learned that the world noticed her more, and that some of the noticing wore human faces and some did not.
On patrol, a kid with a spray can tagged the back of a traffic sign in a spot where no one would see it. He did it quickly, neatly, and with a little flair. Melissa watched the path of the paint globules and thought about trajectories and inevitabilities.
“You’re quiet,” Kid Win said later, as if it were a weather report and not a concern.
“I’m thinking about Doors,” Melissa said.
“Mm.”
“And lighthouses.”
“That is a bit strange,” Kid Win said, clearly focused on his floating skateboard device.
“And how to be something bright without being bait.”
Kid Win considered that with all the seriousness it deserved, as she kept moving a wrench out of reach with spatial stretching. “Sounds like something big and weird. Hey, can you see my seven-sixteenth's wrench?"
Melissa stared at the genius tinker like he had just recited poetry. “Sometimes, you worry me. Other times, you really worry me,” she said as his hand kept reaching for the wrench and missing by inches. Would it kill him to look at something besides the circuit board? Tinkers.
