Agrippa
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Wake-up Call – Chapter 31
🕑 Added 2022-02-11 06:09:49 +0000 UTCThis is mortifying.
“That’s twice this has happened,” Taylor says, smug dripping off her tone like her lubrication off my double-headed dildo.
Yep, focus on that thought, Lisa. It may allow you to pretend things aren’t completely one-sided for just a little bit.
“I mean, it’s cute and everything, and my ego certainly can use the massage, but… maybe there’s an underlying medical condition? Low-blood pressure? Maybe you need more sugar?” she keeps teasing me, her finger teasingly poking at her lip in a parody of a thinking pose as the rooftop’s wind keeps flying her hair behind her back.
… I should remind myself that I’m currently in the mood to be miffed at her teasing rather than in the mood to admire her effortless beauty.
“Tay, with all the sugar I ingest via coffee, I could fuel a small space program.”
“Ah, you didn’t even mention how sweet I am. I feel hurt.” And now she’s clutching her chest. I’m a terrible influence.
“Oh, you definitely are worth mentioning, honey.” There, that’s the nuclear option. Now let’s see if—
“Gee, what’s with that bee in your bonnet?”
She smirks. She has the gall to smirk.
“The only thing stopping me from trying to choke you right now is the near certainty that at least one of us would discover she’s into it,” I inform her.
Ah, now she’s flushing.
Taylor Hebert’s propensity to fantasize about Lisa Wilbourn—
Let’s keep that mystery for a while, shall we? I would rather not live in terror about how likely it is that I would be the strangler or the stranglee.
Also, the pause is a good occasion to make sure everything is in place: pants buttoned up, bra snuggly fit, shirt closed, coat belted…
Double-headed dildo bagged…
Yes, I’ve learned my lesson: my body is not a good carry bag.
Especially while driving my baby.
Association between motorcycles and erotic fantasies—
You are not gonna squick me out by turning this into an incest thing. Sorry. Nice try, though.
Do or do not, there’s no—
I’m going to stop you right there because I’m terrified of about ninety percent of the likely ways in which you could finish that sentence.
“Are you really curious about—” Taylor starts asking.
“Tay, Power just tried to quote Yoda at me. The last thing I need right now is yet another revelation about how deeply depraved we collectively are.”
She looks at me weirdly until my dead eyes, vacant stare, thousand-yard mile… Well, until a series of disquieting metaphors about how I’ve definitely seen too much convinces her that no, I’m not joking.
“And to think this whole thing started after you tried to convince me that people’s fetishes turned you off sex entirely…”
“And to think you believed me…”
And now, to my secret—nah: to my utter and very visible enjoyment, she palms her face in exasperation.
“Please, don’t remind me…”
For a moment, I’m very tempted to do just that and mock her relentlessly. Then I remember who Taylor was crushing on when I decided to give her that little spiel, and, quite frankly, I would rather she forgets about the whole thing entirely.
“Fiiine, I won’t remind you about your embarrassing naivete, and you won’t complain about the way I drive after I drop you off at your dad’s. Deal?”
I extend a hand.
Taylor looks at it suspiciously before taking it.
Then she makes a face.
“… I just got far more of me on my hand than I would if I just masturbated like a sane, single person, haven’t I?”
“We may need to start carrying wet wipes.”
***
Taylor gets off my bike on unsteady legs, stumbles for a moment on the cracked pavement of the street behind her house, turns toward me, and—
“You promised.”
“Three red lights, Liz. Three.”
“We were perfectly safe.”
“There was a truck!”
“Oh, please, he was so sleepy he didn’t even notice he had a green light until people started honking.”
“That’s even worse!”
What would be the best way to dismiss her concerns once again? Telling her that superpowers are meant to be abused—
Annette Hebert’s death in car accident—
Fuck. Fuck. Oh God, shit, fucking Hell, what the—
“I’m sorry!” I tell her, not panicked at all.
“Uh?” she answers, lucid as ever.
“I won’t do it again; please don’t leave me!” I plead as I take off my helmet just so she can better see my wide eyes—
“… Is this a Power thing?”
Damn. She knows.
Silencing—
No. Nope. Not even as a jo—
Ballgags—
Hold that thought.
“He… gently reminded me I may be being insensitive about this whole ‘flaunting the laws of God and traffic police’ thing…”
“Wha—Liz… Did Power tell you I was acting like this because of my mom?”
I take a moment to think about what I’m going to say rather than blurt out the first thing that crosses my mind (I’m sorry, Father, for I have sinned—I’ll be sure to repent for this transgression), and she takes the moment to take off the black helmet I got her and do that thing people with awesome hair do when they just shake their head and it comes off in a floaty wave that falls artfully around them rather than having them look like a rat who drowned itself because it couldn’t deal with the rejection from not being hired for the latest Pantene commercial.
No. I’m not bitter. Shut up.
Lisa Wilbourn’s hair—
That ‘shut up’ was entirely preemptive, Power.
Now, seeing as she’s still glaring at me, maybe I should answer in a verbal way rather than fidgeting on top of my baby like I’ve been a very bad girl.
… This doesn’t have anything to do with that whole choking thing. Which is now a thing.
Damn it.
“Look, I… I know I told you I try not to use him with you, but sometimes he just blurts out things, and I hadn’t even thought about the connection, mostly because you never showed any signs it was actually a thing, and now I realize it isn’t, and I’m just digging deeper and deeper with every word, so, for fuck’s sake, stop me before I hit rock bottom, because my mouth is on full auto—”
She grabs the lapels of my coat, pulls me up until I half stand over my seat, and kisses me roughly.
Thank God.
“There,” she grunts after her lips leave mine a little more bruised than they already were, “is that better?”
“If I say ‘no,’ will you do it again?”
And she drops me.
It was just a question! A fair one!
“Look… My problem with your driving doesn’t have anything to do with what happened to mom—though if I see you pull out a phone we will have some words—but I… I know you’re objectively safer driving like a maniac than almost everybody else driving normally, but you are still driving like a maniac, and… It’s an unnecessary risk. And I don’t want to…” She lets the words trail off and lifts her head, looking at me with…
I grab the front of her blue shirt and pull her down to me before I kiss her.
I’ll be abusing the heck out of that Cherry Chapstick when this is over.
“Sorry,” I tell her after I let her pull back just a tiny bit. “I… You know it’s what I do. I find the limits, and prod at them, test them, but sometimes… Well, they are limits for a reason, and if I miscalculate…”
“I know…” she murmurs.
And she hugs my head to her chest, rocking back and forth on her heels.
We stay like this for a while, just enjoying the presence of the other, and—
“Wait, are you just stalling in here because you don’t want to tell your dad you are dropping out of school?”
Taylor’s arms stiffen around me, and her silence is answer enough.
“… You don’t mention my fuck up, and I don’t mention yours?” I finally offer.
And she goes back to rocking me back and forth.
…
I swear this isn’t half as comfortable as it looks.
***
Being alone in my apartment after the rollercoaster of a day I just went through, with meeting the Undersiders, having a heartwarming reunion with Coil’s rapist-for-hire, Taylor dropping out, declaring war on the E88, talking with Colin about said war, planning the initial strikes, and finally putting to rest the whole strap-on fantasy (which is no longer a fantasy, and thus should appear a little less often on my inner monologue) after an impromptu visit to a sex shop while Taylor went home and did whatever she did in there that it turns out had nothing to do with telling her father she’s dropping out is…
Weird.
Oh, I also forgot about waking up in Taylor’s arms, having her father basically test how much he can push me before I’ll plan lethal retaliation, finding out about his current war against any and all gangs operating on the docks, convincing the Undersiders to work for me in securing said docks…
…
Right. Fuck it. I’m drawing myself a hot bubble bath.
I deserve it.
Lisa Wilbourn’s sense of entitlement—
Power… not today? Please?
Rest and recreation found to be key in increasing productivity and ameliorating stress—
Thank you.
Also, we may need to have a talk about your rapidly increasing sense of self, and, oh God, does that line make my hackles rise.
Is there enough water in the tub to get in already?
Volume of submerged body—
That’s a yes. Thank you.
I guess I could complete the whole scene by lighting a couple of candles and having a Chardonnay glass, but, quite frankly, I think I’ll just sink myself in there as—
Oh.
Ooooohhhhh.
Oh, this is sinful.
Damn, it’s profoundly disturbing that I would be this tense after having orgasmed into unconsciousness, but the way the almost scalding water is unknotting my muscles is…
Should I invest in a Jacuzzi? What the Hell am I thinking, of course I should. What kind of depraved millionaire who’s out of touch with the struggles of the middle class doesn’t have a Jacuzzi? A poor one, that’s who.
… I’ll probably not plate it in gold. That sounds uncomfortable.
Well, that’s it. The end of a productive day. I don’t need to do anything else, not till tomorrow. I can just close my eyes and rest as I allow the water to take the tension away and…
…
This would’ve been a perfect moment for me to fall asleep in here until the water went cold. Really, I set up the scene perfectly just for that.
Yep. That’s what this scene is doing. Certainly.
It won’t, at all, turn into me obsessively thinking about every little thing still going on.
Like how I need to contact Cranial and send her as much data on Noelle as Colin and Dragon have managed to gather.
Or how Danny is very likely to orphan Taylor for the second time if he keeps letting his rage lead him by his nose.
Or how contracting the Undersiders is, at best, a stopgap measure. And how Brian is a fucking moron with too much to prove, and everything I try to set up for him to live peacefully will crash spectacularly as long as the core issues remain unaddressed, Rachel needs that intervention Taylor emotionally blackmailed me into promising what feels like ages ago, and Alec…
Alec…
Is the sex-cult survivor fleeing from an internationally feared slaver the only one of my former teammates who isn’t likely to fuck up while my back’s turned?
Call of Duty players’ threats of violence and retaliation usually unlikely to—
Oh God. That’s a yes.
Alec is the responsible one.
He must never know.
Right, what else do we have on the menu aside from terrible revelations apt to crush what little remains of my sanity?
Oh! Right! Dragon!
One of the competitors for the title of Evil Stepmother and my occasional favorite.
Who threw the gauntlet at me to discover what the Hell is actually going on with her.
And what do I have so far? Well, we’ve confirmed she’s weirdly knowledgeable about a lot of things unrelated to her specialty, that she never misses a popular culture reference, that her synchronization with her avatar program is instantaneous and so is her use of other programs, that she has a compulsion to follow the law that goes beyond any psychological need…
And that there is a mystery to solve that she doesn’t want anyone else to find out about.
That she doesn’t want to communicate overtly about it.
That the Dragonslayers have hounded her for far too long and won against her in ways that make absolutely no sense unless someone was both spying on and sabotaging her.
And that being agoraphobic is a very convenient excuse.
So… Possibilities.
She spends far too much time online, and just her presence on PHO makes it so it’s clear she never sleeps—a quick analysis of Tin Mother’s logged presence and messages shows as much. The speed and alacrity to which she responds when demonstrably operating in other places at the same time means…
Well, it means Dragon is able to multitask at a speed that implies either superspeed or being directly wired to the web.
A Tinker with superspeed who only takes to the field through remote suits who don’t take advantage of such a power? Unlikely.
Unless it was just mental superspeed… Which it is.
Because… Let’s stop beating around the bush: Dragon is an AI.
Either a recreation of a formerly alive parahuman who uploaded her consciousness, or one born inside a computer. It doesn’t make a difference.
Unless… No, it does.
Dragon was coded into being, and shackled by a parent who feared her going against legitimate authority. She’s forced to obey laws, and the Dragonslayers have found a way to snoop into her code and hack her into defeat when facing them.
They are the only group who has managed to defeat her consistently. Not evade, not flee, just… defeat her.
Which is insane when one thinks about what Dragon has demonstrated she can do and what I suspect she’s actually capable of.
Yeah, they’ve got a cheat code.
… Alec would be furious at the assholes.
Right. That’s a mystery solved. I don’t have proof, but really, Occam’s Razo all but screams that the other possibilities are even more unlikely. I could come up with a very specific powerset for a mastered Case 53, noctis cape who fit the—
Alternate hypothesis tailor-made to fit the data—
Right. That’s as much of a confirmation as I’m likely to get before I unveil how the fuck Saint is meddling with the brain of one of the very few people I would call a friend given how my life’s turned out after—
Moving on! What else do we have on the menu?!
Colin Wallis demand—
Oh. Fuck.
Panacea.
I need to defuse Panacea.
…
Can’t we go back to solving the problem of one of the most powerful beings in the planet being even more potentially powerful and compromised by a bunch of amoral mercenaries?
Colin Wallis—
Stop guilt-tripping me. Geeze, it doesn’t feel nice to have you be the voice of reason, you know, Jiminy Cricket?
Right, so I poked at the house of cards that is what some may generously call her sanity. And Colin decided that if I break it, I fix it.
Which…
Biokinetic. Potentially unlimited.
I don’t buy for a second that she can’t affect brains, mostly because there’s nothing stopping her from doing so indirectly. She could fill anyone with hormones with a touch, and given her adopted father’s struggle with clinical depression, she should have ample experience with psychoactive substances and how they affect an organism, which means…
Wait, her father is still a barely functioning mess—and that’s me feeling generous.
And she could regulate him with a touch.
… Oh dear, this is another one of those people obsessed with their little rules who fall completely apart the first time they cross them, isn’t it?
Joy. Even worse than I thought.
Because that’s an issue that would cause obvious resentment with the family, who know she doesn’t ‘do brains’ out of principle, not capacity, so…
Her mother is emotionally neglectful at best and actively abusive at worst, her father a shell of a man who may be too far gone to be either a positive or a negative actor in the whole mess, which would neatly tie into Panacea’ obsession with her sister as the only person to show her unrestrained affection and support.
But that obsession turned sexual, and now the only positive relationship Amy can count on is also a source of constant guilt, frustration, and jealousy.
Which means one of the very few parahumans who could conceivably wipe out humanity by themselves is even more messed up than I thought when I decided it would be a good idea to poke at her trauma.
… Oh, dear.
Moving on!
Lisa Wilbourn’s avoiding—
Damn right I am! Procrastination for the win!
Adverse effects of procrastination—
Nuh-uh! Can’t hear you while thinking about all the othervital things I should be doing that don’t mean me going to face a potential apocalypse who objectively, and justifiably, hates me!
Like… like…
The guy whose mere existence is a fundamental key to the success of the guys who admire literal Nazis!
Yep, that sounds like a perfectly legitimate excuse to put off that other thing I don’t want to even think about. I’m sure none of this will bite me in the ass.
So, this is me, taking an arm full of suds out of the blissful embrace of the warm water around me to make the awful, terrible sacrifice of grabbing the tablet sleeping on the toilet next to me.
And now I’m very glad I invested in one that’s waterproof.
I mean, I still need to wipe my hand with the towel on the floor that I was going to use as a bath mat, because water and soap don’t make for a pleasant browsing experience, but at least I won’t be paranoid about dropping it in.
And… Yep, here’s the video feed.
And, more importantly, the recordings.
Not much information to look at, but…
No. No, this is a lot of information. Because Victor and Othala are acting in a way that denotes nothing out of the ordinary is going on, which means this is their routine, so I can infer plenty through a limited sample—
Othala’s relaxed body language—
Yes. Yes, she was originally a replacement for her cousin. She still feels she isn’t living up to her, that Victor is too good for her, but she isn’t displaying any anxiety when…
Serving him a meal.
She cooks.
Roastbeef. Not a complicated dish, but one that takes some time. There’s a large piece, which means she’s counting on having leftovers to eat another day…
This isn’t an extraordinary meal. It’s one made with care, but also practicality in mind. And one that Othala made.
When Victor is all but assured to be both a worldwide chef and wealthy enough to afford someone to cook for them.
Right… Fuck, this is gold.
Because there’s plenty of ways to manipulate people, especially when they live with you and you hold over them as much power as Victor does over Othala. But he’s also an expert on this, and so we can infer that every choice is deliberate, that there are no mistakes introducing noise into what data I can gather from this short glimpse into their lives.
They’re sitting at a comfortable distance. Neither too far apart nor close enough to resemble lovestruck teenagers. There’s conversation during the meal, but what’s being said isn’t what matters (not now), but the way it’s being said. Victor isn’t a distant figure nor too warm, and that’s…
There was a study made with puppies. They separated them into three groups: one was lavished with affection, the other was studiously neglected, and the third one was unpredictably inflicted with both intense shows of affection and careless neglect that didn’t correlate to the puppies’ behavior.
The conclusions were that it’s a very good thing that Rachel isn’t up to date with her Science subscription.
And that humans are bastards.
Oh, and also that the puppies who showed a more intense attachment to their handlers at the end of the experiment were the ones who unpredictably alternated affection and neglect… Which is precisely the pattern that abusers use to hook their victims.
And Victor isn’t doing this.
Because Othala is worried about being just a replacement, but not so worried that she makes a show out of cooking for her man or that she won’t consider having leftovers for another meal.
And Victor isn’t putting her down for cooking something clearly inferior to what he could do with little effort.
And neither is he studiously praising the meal.
No, Victor is, very carefully and deliberately… not manipulating his wife.
Because he loves her.
Gotcha.
… Right, and now I feel a bit queasy about the plan I just came up with.
So! It’s a great thing that there’s someone knocking at the door to interrupt my bath, which is a sentence that I never thought I would utter without sarcasm and is making my everything hurt.
Oh, great, the kind stranger is knocking insistently! Marvelous! What great joy!
Lisa Wilbourn’s avoidance mechanisms—
Sorry, I’m too busy putting on a bathrobe to pay attention to your precise, clinical, and almost vivisectorial insights into my psyche.
Right, also putting on my fluffy slippers, because I’m notdripping water all over my hardwood floor.
And grabbing my gun, because duh.
So, let’s hope this isn’t a Jehovah’s Witness about to get a very bad day—
“Tay?” I ask, like a moron, when I open my door to find my girlfriend fidgeting in front of it, her hand playing with the strap of her schoolbag.
“Hey, Liz, I… kinda ran away from home?”
Confrontation with Daniel Hebert—
Imminent.
Comments
Agrippa
Just guess who's about to idignantly march in on him to argue precisely about that next week? Hint: it isn't Piggot.
Evilreadermaximum
*facepalm* Goddamnit Lisa, that problem that's gonna bite ya in the ass is looking more and more like a crocodile, also wtf happened with Danny?
Agrippa
At some point I needed to introduce at least a bit of conflict (me? terrified of turning my protagonists into Mary Sues who steamroll any complication? perish the thought).
I knew everything was going too well. Lisa, you're playing therapist whether you like it or not, at least this ticking apocalypse loves you.
