Agrippa
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Wake-up Call – Chapter 5
🕑 Added 2021-08-18 06:30:55 +0000 UTC‘All the cuddles’ may have been an overstatement, given in how much of a time crunch we currently were, but we still lounged in bed for far longer than it should be reasonable given the hour, said time crunch, and how soft Taylor’s body feels against mine.
Yes, that’s a factor. An important one.
Lisa Wilbourn in early stages of infatuation—
Not precisely an Earth-shattering revelation, Power.
Lisa Wilbourn unsure about course of action and stalling due to deep-seated fear of—
Right. This one’s on me. Why would I tempt fate so?
Lisa Wilbourn picking up on Taylor Hebert’s ‘adrenaline junkie’ tendencies due to social mirroring.
… Fuck.
Aaaanyway, Taylor and I are currently engaged in what clearly is the first priority for a pair of fugitives: having a makeover.
“I don’t really think this is necessary.”
You know nothing, Jon Snow.
“Lisa? Really, isn’t there something else we should be doing right now?”
“Shut up and try on the bloody blouse.”
“But…”
“Taylor, sweetie, either you come out of that changing room wearing the very nice clothes your girlfriend carefully picked out for you, or I am going in there.”
“… Is that a threat or a promise?”
Oh, you think you are all that suave, do you? You get into a girl’s pants a grand total of two times, and suddenly you think you can throw sexually charged jokes left and right, do you? Well, I am not—
Lisa Wilbourn’s face, ears, and upper chest experiencing rapid heating due to sudden dilation of capillaries—
Power! Whose side are you on?!
Lisa Wilbourn trying to ascribe loyalties to parahuman abilities’ interfaces reflects a lack of understanding of—
Right. Your own. Of course.
“Well, seeing as you aren’t coming in… In a scale of ‘total disaster’ to ‘we should call an exorcist,’ how do I look?” Taylor says as she opens the curtain. And I stare.
Her eyes still are what first catch mine, no longer hidden by glasses after I have (wisely) invested my money in contact lenses. It takes a physical effort to tear myself from that dark green, almost malachite, and her freshly applied eyeliner just brings more attention to them. Her pale foundation and light pink lipstick just make the contrast even more vivid, and the lines of her face look sterner, more severe, now that her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail rather than loosely diffusing her silhouette.
She is looking at me as if expecting something—clothes. Right.
Her cotton blouse is a soft pastel blue with a sharp cut that goes well with her black, open blazer, the satin finish on the narrow lapels directing attention upwards to—right, not again. That way lie recursive loops.
And her pants… Skinny jeans, faded dark blue, almost painted on, thick denim hugging and holding her shape in just the right way, with a braided leather belt breaking the line between the two shades of color. The matching brown leather Oxford wingtips (with sneaker soles, because Brockton) just give the final touch to a very sharp, professional look.
Basically, Taylor is a tall, thin girl, whom I have, by the dark magic of power-assisted makeovers, turned into her college self. And now I am quite sure I am drooling.
“Earth to Lisa? Everything fine?”
“Oh, more than fine, I would say…”
And now she’s blushing. That makes it even better.
I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, just in case.
“I still think my hoodie is more comfortable,” she says, demurely looking down.
“Which is precisely why we are changing your style so drastically. You now look distinct enough for people to give a good description of you, but one that won’t resemble, at all, the description they would have given of the past you,” I explain, didactically and calmly. For the third time. Also, I am burning those fucking hoodies till only ashes remain as soon as I get some privacy. It will be cathartic.
Social mirroring—
Hah. No. Taylor wouldn’t use fire… Oh God, I shouldn’t give her ideas.
“Right, I get the theory, but… Is that really necessary?” she asks, distaste dripping from every syllable as she points to the most recent addition to my newly-concocted look.
“Don’t tell me you dislike the jacket so much? I really thought the white vinyl with pink trims sold the look,” I deflect with an eyelash bat. Masterfully.
“The jacket’s fine…” she grumbles.
“The pants, then? Are white jeans really so excessive? Or maybe they don’t suit me?” I insist, turning back and shooting her a look over my shoulder as I fake trying to see how my butt looks in these. Obviously, it’s a trap: it looks fantastic. The strategic rips add quite a bit more information than needed to get that point across.
“The pants…” she can’t help staring. And blushing. Again. I think I have a new favorite pastime. “The pants are also… fine.”
“Well, you can’t have a problem with my sneakers. They are sensible. And a pastel pink crop top is far from the more scandalous thing you have seen me wearing,” I ponder while tracing the strip of exposed, slim belly with my fingertips. Damn, now I am giving myselfgoosebumps. I am good.
Lisa Wilbourn’s behavior commonly referred to as cocktea—
Nope. No cocks here. You are losing your touch, Power.
Two college-aged men currently staring at Lisa Wilbourn and Taylor Hebert. Likelihood of them wondering about a possible sexual relationship highly—
… I hate you. So much.
I throw a glare over my shoulder, and, predictably, the two guys who have presumably come in to accompany their girlfriends or friends who are girls suddenly find the row of colorful blouses by their side extremely interesting.
Taylor clears her throat; it seems she has also noticed them, and her own glare makes them discover what an incredible deal on skinny jeans the store is having. On the opposite corner of the changing room.
I still have so much to learn... Teach me your ways, Master! I mean, Mistress! I mean… Oh God, why do I do this to myself?
Lisa Wilbourn—
Not a peep. I don’t need the headache.
“Your top is fine. Your shoes are fine. Your everything is fine—except that.” Seems scaring off two grown men didn’t merit any further comment. Also, it seems the glaring match somehow disrupted my psyops.
Cocktea—
I know what I am saying, Power.
“’That?’ I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Taylor gets close enough for our chests to brush and then, not too gently, grabs my recently made side-ponytail in a way I can’t misinterpret as something sexual (not at all, pinky-swear) and then shows me what is offending her sensibilities so much:
A streak of electric blue hair.
“Oh, come on, it’s a clip-in. I will take it off when I am in costume, I don’t see what’s your problem,” I don’t quitewhine.
“It’s not your hair. And it stands out.”
“That’s the point. If you have a very distinctive detail, that’s what an eyewitness description will focus on, and if it’s something you can throw away, then you suddenly don’t match your own description. Heck, with a little luck, sometimes the very eyewitness will no longer recognize you, if the detail is distracting enough.”
“All right, fine, let’s say I believe you.” Finally! “Then what is my ‘distinctive detail’ supposed to be?” Right, that’s the point to which I have masterfully led this conversation. Because I am apparently far too easily embarrassed to do this straightforwardly.
“These,” I say as I hand her a small box.
One eyebrow raises inquisitively, and I gesture for her to open the damn thing before I lose my nerve. Then the other eyebrow raises in solidarity as she looks at the pair of silver emerald earrings inside.
“Lisa? Wh—When did you get these?”
“I… Shouldn’t you ask another thing?” This is mortifying. It seems to be a pattern with us.
“No. We have been together since we left the hotel in your harebrained search for the makeover to end all makeovers—”
“Harebrained?! Come on, look at us: we look like a serious college girl hanging out with her party-goer classmate who may or not be up to Sapphic shenanigans! It’s the perfect disguise compared to what went out of your house yesterday.” Deflection powers, don’t fail me now!
“Right, and we will have another talk about that as soon as we are done with this.” My powers are, once again, useless. “Now, when did you get this?”
“… During math period…” I grumble, scuffing the floor with the tip of my shoe like a petulant child, because, apparently, that’s a thing I am doing now.
“So, before I needed a ‘distinctive detail’ to throw off ‘potential eyewitnesses,’” she says, in a way that’s not quite a question.
“… They looked pretty.”
“And that’s relevant because…?”
“Because I wanted to give you something pretty to cheer you up after class. There. I said it. I wanted to do something nice for my girlfriend, and I couldn’t just be straightforward about it, because I am a mess and I never have been in something like this before and I just—” And then she grabs my side-ponytail and pulls me toward her and mercifully silences my rambling with a kiss that is just long enough I lose track of my rant.
I would sigh in relief, but… That’s not currently an option.
We stand there, the kiss light enough that we can just keep going, more a sharing of presence, of reassurance, than anything sexual, till I hear an obnoxious whistle.
Followed by a yelp and the sounds of somebody frantically trying to smack a buzzing insect.
“Missing Alec already?” I tease her, whispering in her ear with a smile.
“God, no,” she answers, with a full-body shudder that makes my smile broader and sharper.
“Yeah, me either.”
“Good, because it’s not him we are meeting.”
“And you had to go and remind me…” She looks at me reproachfully. Something tells me I will need to get used to that look in the future.
Likelihood of interpersonal conflict in first romantic relationship high due to—
If you keep saying things like that, I am going to start calling you ‘Humbug.’
Despite association with Dickensian imagery, the word ‘humbug’ actually means ‘fake, deceitful—
I know what it means; I am the one who read the whole dictionary for you, remember?
…
That’s what I thought. Ingrate.
“Lisa? You still with me?”
“Always,” I answer automatically, before I register the actual meaning of the question. And now we are both blushing. Again.
Sigh.
“Come on, let’s go already. He must be getting nervous,” I tell her.
Not as much as I am, but, well… The sacrifices one must make when dating an undercover, runaway hero.
***
Going from the relatively upscale boutique where Operation: Makeover ended (and Operation: Give Her The Damn Earrings Without Making A Fool Out Of Yourself catastrophically failed) to the nearly dilapidated little dinner lost in the cramped streets near the docks is not a pleasant contrast. The place is at just the right location where, rather than a refreshing sea breeze, we get to experience the humidity and ever-present smell of seawater going stagnant with a dash of ship fuel thrown in the mix. It is a more ‘authentic’ marine experience than what the tourists at the Boardwalk are likely to get, but damn if I don’t envy their make-believe restaurants with actual air fresheners at the moment.
Genuine things are overrated.
Still, this is not what is making me uncomfortable, it’s just yet another reason I am coming up with to hate this place before even crossing the door (chipped blue paint characteristic of business in the area as—). Right, even Power is getting in on it.
“If you don’t want to come…” Taylor trails off before she can even finish, and I squeeze her hand.
“Hey, this won’t be easy for any of the three of us. The least I can do is be there for you.”
“It’s not. You don’t really need to do this,” she answers forcefully. I can’t help but note that she hasn’t let go of my hand.
“Well, I mean, I would have to eventually.” And she smiles at that, and tucks her chin just a bit, and then pulls me along as she opens the damn door with chipped blue paint and dirty glass, and we go into the poorly lit and hardly hygienic dinner. That smells like oil that should have been changed four fishes ago. I already hate it.
And then Daniel Hebert looks up from his coffee, sees his daughter looking like a college-aged girl, and grasps the table to avoid falling as his world crumbles for a moment.
Apparent age of Daniel Hebert, age of Taylor Hebert and typical age difference between heterosexual couples indicates Daniel Hebert likely met Annette Hebert during college. Taylor Hebert currently resembling—
Fuck. Could I just break people when I mean to? That would be swell, thank you.
Before I know it, I am standing by his side, grasping his shoulder.
“I am so sorry, Danny, I really didn’t think she would look so much like her—” And he looks at me, the sheer weirdness of what I am saying, of me being the one who says it, bringing him back from his ghosts.
“Lisa? I… I didn’t recognize you. What have you done with your hair?” See? If this was any other moment, this would be the time for me to get my smug on. Obviously, my girlfriend’s father is using the powers vested in him by his position to stop me from enjoying myself.
“Don’t even ask. Trust me,” Taylor says, exasperation mixed with concern. Which doesn’t stop her from capitalizing on the weakness of my current circumstances, as expected of the combat pragmatist.
Danny looks at his daughter, still shaken, but regaining his grasp on his surroundings doesn’t do him any favors as he now clearly remembers why we are meeting like this, in this place.
“Taylor… What happened?”
“That’s… a long story, dad.”
“I am not going anywhere.” Damn, Danny, that’s a smooth line, mind if we swap tips?
“Yeah, I was afraid of that…” Taylor, apparently, doesn’t appreciate how suave her father is. And must have been, if he bagged Taylor’s mom looking like he does.
“Well, if you want me to get the ball rolling…” I look at Taylor, and she nods while Danny looks at me with wide, uncomprehending eyes. I mean, maybe he could be cute in a ‘lost puppy’ way… “Your daughter and I are… parahumans,” I say as we sit on either side of him.
“What,” he states eloquently. I sigh.
“Taylor, if you please.” She glares at me, but soon a few flies land on the table and write ‘Hi, dad’ in a very disturbing, possibly Satanic, way. Danny looks like he’s about to scream bloody murder before I clutch his arm and make him look at me.
“We are also in a torrid lesbian relationship.”
“What?!” Oh, that brought him out of his shell-shocked funk. Who would have guessed?
Me. It’s me who would have guessed. Obviously.
“Lisa!” Looks like I also brought Taylor out of her (hypothetical) shell-shocked funk. Who said I am not good at conversations?
“Yes, dear?” I answer, as sweetly as I can. Which should be enough to weaponize cavities.
Oh, Taylor is flushing, but more with anger than embarrassment, though there’s also a hint of that…. There’s an idea. For later. In privacy.
Lisa Wilbourn likely to enjoy flaunting in public her—
I draw the line at you suggesting new fetishes for me to try, Power.
“Oh God, Annette was right…” Danny mutters.
“Mom what?” Taylor definitely doesn’t sputter.
“She always said the way you and Emma—” And now I am witness to the novel experience of a fully grown man being interrupted by two teenage girls fake-gagging. Well, not quite fake, if I am being honest—I can now taste once again my breakfast blueberry muffin, and it was much better the first time around. Danny, you have verbally incapacitated a Thinker seven. Congratulations, mortal, your feats shall be recorded in the stars.
“No. Definitely not,” Taylor says.
“Sweetie, to be fair, my power thought the same.” And now I am being speared by my lover’s stern look. This day is definitely full of first times. Aaaaand now I am blushing. Why do I do this to myself?
Lisa Wilbourn likely to be aroused by—
Nope! Nope! Can’t hear yoooouuu!
Taylor’s ocular lynching of my innocent person is interrupted by Danny’s groan.
“Oh God, it’s true…” he says, clutching his head in the throes of despair.
“Elaborate,” Taylor demands.
“You two. Together. That’s the way Annette always looked when—” And he interrupts himself. And now he blushes. I am feeling a strange kinship with this man.
“If you finish that sentence, I swear you won’t ever sit in a chair that hasn’t been sabotaged by termites.” That’s right, love, you tell him. Also, that could be the most eco-friendly act of terrorism you have ever come up with.
“Right… So. Parahumans. This has to do with what went on at Winslow?”
And now we come to the less fun part of the conversation. Because it involves Taylor telling his father about how she has been hiding from him how bad things actually were, how defenseless she has been, how throwing herself against an almost certain death in a battle with Lung was a relief compared to what went on in her daily life. And how he, her father, hasn’t even suspected a fraction of what was going on under his very roof.
To be fair, most parents would expect their children to tell them if they were suffering horrible abuse rather than hide it and internalize it as their new normal.
To be even fairer, most parents are morons.
I try to mediate, even if Power is far more suited as a Warhammer (for the Emperor!) than as a scalpel, but ultimately I am an outsider in what very clearly is a family matter. I am only allowed to expound my views on specific matters.
“Taylor was never a villain, no matter what the press said. Yes, she most likely traumatized some of the people at the bank, but the ones who put them in actual, physical danger were the Wards shooting artillery and Glory Girl deciding that architecture is optional on casual Fridays.”
I mean, I try, but the facts aren’t that flattering by themselves.
“Her objective always was to get a hold of the actual villain behind the Undersiders. And, when it comes to actual villainy, the only person she has seriously hurt is the parahuman terrorist bombing the hell out of the city. Taylor saved all of our lives that night. Again.”
Well, some facts are.
“Danny, seriously, don’t even think about suggesting she signs up with the Wards. Not until Sophia Hess is behind bars. This shouldn’t be a hard concept to grasp.”
And some facts are just plain stupid. Seriously, that supervisor went from ‘wanting to keep the cushy job without making waves’ to ‘let’s pretend the attempted murder via bioterrorism didn’t happen.’ It’s a wonder she hasn’t already died by forgetting how to breathe and walk at the same time.
“No, really, Danny—”
“Lisa, if you don’t shut up, I will show you exactly how much Annette taught me to believe in gender equality.”
Ah, right, Taylor isn’t the only one with a temper. Well, I guess that’s an improvement.
Low emotional response usually associated with depression—
So, yeah, an improvement. Thanks, Power.
He takes a few calming breaths after his almost outburst, and then he looks straight at Taylor (likely trying to ignore me, for reasons unknown to mortal kind).
“To summarize: you have been hiding from me that you have powers, that you have been systematically abused since you were released from the hospital, that you joined a villain team while trying to be an undercover hero, and this morning you were almost shanked by one of your tormentors, who turned out to be an active Ward.”
“I… Yes. That is correct.” Taylor doesn’t flinch when she returns her father’s gaze, but I notice the flies buzzing off into the corners of this place. I don’t comment on it.
And then Danny hugs her to his chest, completely enveloping her like the child she can no longer be.
“Stupid, stupid kid,” he mutters in a watery garble.
“Dad, I…” Taylor is trying to hold back tears, receiving an embrace from her father for the first time in far too long.
“Shush. You are all right, and the bitch got shot. That’s all that matters to me,” he says, face buried in her hair, fingers clenched white over her shoulders.
“I also sent Emma into a catatonic shock by ruthlessly exploiting her trauma,” I can’t help but interject.
Danny raises his head just enough to look at me out of the corner of his eye.
“Good,” he says, in a voice so low it rumbles in my chest.
Damn, now I am jealous of my girlfriend. This can’t be healthy.
And then there’s a loud crash and the street is on fire, and Danny is throwing the table on its side and pulling us behind it, clutching us both to his side and offering the meager protection of his slight frame.
Ah, right. Ongoing terrorist attack. How could I have forgotten?
Lisa Wilbourn prioritizing threats of a personal nature due to—
Of course. Well then, that makes the solution simple, doesn’t it?
Bakuda, you almost killed my team and me. You almost killed my lover after subjecting her to the worst pain a human being can physiologically experience. You almost got lucky and got us both at the same time just now.
And now? I don’t care how much of a cliché this is; now I am making this personal.
And I don’t think Taylor will take your almost murdering her dad very calmly either.
