The River King 2

The River King 2 Taylor Hebert Morning was my favorite time of the day. The best part of sleep was that I didn’t need to remember. For a few

The River King 2

Taylor Hebert

Morning was my favorite time of the day. The best part of sleep was that I didn’t need to remember. For a few, glorious minutes, I could remain blissfully ignorant. I’d invariably wake up and the grogginess would clear. I’d be forced to confront the absolute shitshow that was my life. But until that moment, mornings were great.

Today, I woke up ready and alert, with a spring in my step I’d not had since before high school. I felt refreshed, stronger.

That wasn’t a metaphor; I accidentally snapped my toothbrush in half because I gripped it too hard. It took me a moment to remember why that could be.

Tahm Kench. My friend. My Case-53, trump friend. I had powers. New powers. My best friend had given me a gift in exchange for something I would have done gladly.

Today was Saturday. I usually spent the weekend at home or in the library, trying desperately to catch up on the schoolwork the three bitches ruined during the week. It was a futile endeavor, but I had to try.

I’d hoped, desperately, that if I could bring my grades up in spite of them, I could take back some shred of control over my life. I could prove them wrong, prove to the teachers and myself that I wasn’t a fuckup or druggie whore or whatever else they said I was that week.

I couldn’t do that, not today. I was too antsy, too wired. I felt as though I’d stuck a fork into a power outlet and licked it. There was electricity in my veins, something deeper that urged me to go out. I needed to move, to stop reacting and do something.

I stared at the same algebra problem for fifteen minutes before calling it quits. My pencil had torn its way through the paper four times now despite my best efforts. I’d become too strong, too fast.

I shoved my chair back and stood. The force almost slammed it against my bed frame, only prevented by a hasty scramble on my part.

I took a deep breath. Tahm gave me a gift. That was what this was. I felt like a new woman. This electricity in my veins told me that anything was possible, that I could start over. 

And what a waste it would be to spend this, the first day of my hero life, trying to catch up on schoolwork.

I had to get out of here.

I dug deep into my closet and pulled out a half-smushed shoebox. In it was the fruit of my labor, at least so far. It was a mask, off-white and nearly lustrous in the morning light. I’d made it from black widow silk after having learned from an encyclopedia that it was up to five times stronger than steel by weight.

The mask looked like a mess of lumpy fabric. I’d designed it with several layers in mind. The innermost few were of silk and wool. Then came a layer of shock-absorbent foam I’d stripped off an old bike helmet. Over it was an outer layer of silk.

All told, it looked like an off-white, undecorated lucha libre mask. That was where I’d drawn my inspiration from. It was meant to fit snugly over my face and be tied closed at the back, where the knots could wrap around my ponytail. It wasn’t the most heroic-looking setup, but it was a lot of head protection for practically no weight.

I tucked it in my backpack alongside a white and yellow jacket I hadn’t worn in years and a pair of leather gloves from dad’s “bad boy” days. He wouldn’t miss them. I shoved it all down and covered my amateurish costume with textbooks.

The whole thing felt like nothing to me. My backpack had to weigh a good twenty-five pounds but I barely noticed it on my back.

“Dad, I’m going to the library,” I said as I walked down the street.

“Are you sure? Have you had breakfast?” he asked, his voice half-mumbled from the couch.

“Yeah, I woke up early. Had a banana and some oatmeal,” I lied.

“Huh. Alright, sweetie. Have fun.”

I felt a flash of irritation at that. I knew he wouldn’t check. He’d spend the weekend on the couch or staring at pictures of mom, like he always did.

It was convenient for me, but it felt so fake. All of it, it felt so performative, as if dad was checking off a list of “good dad” things he had to get through before he could get back to moping.

I grunted in annoyance and pushed my way through the door, skipping the broken step with instinctive ease. The cool air of a New Hampshire winter hit my face, tossing my hair behind me.

I felt the urge to run. Feet pounded the pavement and I had to hold myself back so I wouldn’t out myself as a cape. I’d taken up jogging lately, if only so I wouldn’t be too pathetic as a hero, but Tahm’s gift made me faster than I’d expected.

Still, the wind felt good, refreshing. My feet felt light. For the first time in forever, I felt comfortable in my own skin. So, I ran.

From home. From school. From the people who said I’d never be more than a drugged up whore. From the former best friend I'd once loved like a sister.

Towards hope.

X

I jogged to the abandoned trainyard. It was a bit of a cliche for new capes to test their powers here, or at the Boat Graveyard, but I wasn't sure there was anywhere else for me to go where I could be a brute without hurting anyone or breaking anything important.

My mask was warm, almost uncomfortably so. I hadn't even had a chance to decorate it. I probably looked more like a bank robber with a sock on her head than a hero.

“Baby steps, Taylor,” I told myself.

I began by dashing from one end of a loading dock to the other. I didn't know how far that was, but I was noticeably faster than I'd been before.

I noticed it on the way over, but that was something most people didn't understand about powers. The PRT ratings lied: They suggested that brutes and movers were distinct, and maybe it was more convenient for some paper-pusher somewhere to think of powers that way, but that simply wasn't true.

Powers were interconnected, at least for me. I was stronger, so I could push off the ground with more force. I weighed the same, or at least, I hadn't noticed any changes, so that extra force translated to better acceleration. And better stamina meant I could travel further. I was a brute now, and that naturally meant I was a mover also.

I finally gassed myself after half an hour or so of dashing back and forth. It was a lot, leagues better than even a pro athlete could do.

After that, I started looking for heavy things to pick up. The best I managed was an abandoned Toyota Corolla that had probably been sitting there for years. I managed to pick it up from the back and onto two wheels.

How heavy was that? A car weighed about a ton right? I'd set it on two wheels so I was carrying half its weight or so?

Those uber-nerds on the internet that liked to “powerscale” capes, I understood them now. I would've killed for a speedometer and a set of proper weights. Seeing how I'd never join the PRT without Tahm and visiting the gym was a surefire way to out myself, my best guess would have to do.

Then, because a part of me had never grown up from the child that watched Protectorate Pals, I started doing made up martial arts moves. I probably looked stupid, but maybe I had some of that casual grace that some capes got with their powers.

Gingerly at first, I struck a nearby concrete wall. I felt nothing. I pulled off my glove to confirm that yes, there was nothing wrong with my hand. My knuckles hadn’t even turned red.

Harder. A little harder. I punched at the concrete again and again. Until finally, when I was swinging with all my inexpert skill, I finally began to feel the sting of impact on my knuckles.

The wall was… It was fine. There was a small crack in it that another punch widened, but I clearly wasn’t the kind of brute who could tear apart a building brick by brick. I wasn’t Glory Girl.

I was definitely more durable than I was strong, and strong more than I was fast. Stamina and resilience seemed to be the focal points of Tahm’s gift. I felt a twinge of disappointment at that, but it was probably for the best. 

If I was any stronger or faster, it would have taken me a long time to accustom myself to my new power. I wouldn’t know what to do if I outed myself because I accidentally popped Sophia’s arm out of its socket the next time she shoulder-checked me in the halls. 

I spent most of the morning testing myself. Contrary to every PSA the PRT had ever put out, no one jumped me. Gangbangers did not materialize from the cracks in the concrete, ready to pressgang me. Villainous thinkers didn’t show up with their shady bodyguards, ready to offer me a “deal I can’t refuse.”

Truth was, it was a little boring. I quickly got used to my newfound brute package. And then, I had nothing to do so I gathered up insects for Tahm’s lunch and began looking for him. I’d promised, after all.

It was a little disconcerting that he needed live prey, but this was obviously better than the alternative. Case-53s had abnormal biologies; I’d even heard of a Ward who was and was not metal at the same time. Tahm literally couldn’t help himself and had it been anyone else, they’d probably have gone after people’s pets or something.

I collected a sizable swarm as I walked. My range was only a few blocks, but that meant I had several tons of biomass at my disposal. People seriously underestimated how many insects there were all around them.

It was why I noticed immediately when a group of four men came within my range. I still couldn’t interpret discernable words from my bugs, but the sound of cruel mocking was as recognizable as my own voice. As I drew nearer, the vibrations and feedback became clearer. This was no civil quarrel between friends.

A wave of trepidation washed over me. I stood, caught in indecision as I considered my actions. I was still wearing my mask; I could hardly present Tahm his dinner without one. But that didn’t mean I wanted any trouble right now. This wasn’t the plan.

The plan was to finish my costume. I’d yet to even dye my mask and fill the eye holes with goggle lenses like I’d planned. I hadn’t even started on the rest of my outfit; my yellow and white jacket had been chosen on a whim, because it fit the white, sock-like mask, not because I wanted it to be what I wore as a hero.

But… But heroes didn’t sit back because it was convenient. Heroes didn’t hesitate to do what was right because their fit wasn’t up to snuff.

That was what I was doing. Had I only my bug control, then maybe it would have made sense to hang back. Maybe then, I could have walked away, telling myself that I didn’t have adequate protection. Maybe then, I could have waited until I had a full bodysuit like I’d planned.

But that was without Tahm Kench’s gift backing me; that was the weak, helpless Taylor. I wasn’t her anymore. I refused to be that same girl anymore.

Not when I had someone else who believed in my dream.

X

I was right. The picture unfolded as I drew nearer. Snippets of the conversation came through my fledgling senses. They were roughing up the fourth man as they shouted expletives at him. I wasn’t dumb enough to not get the context behind the words “Jew” and “breeding” in Brockton Bay. This was a hate crime, like so many were around here.

There was no time to think of a heroic one-liner like Assault or Velocity always seemed to have, not even a by-the-books “Freeze!” or “You’re under arrest!” My brain was too wired to do anything but act.

I pressed myself into a full sprint. Turning the corner, I shoulder-checked the first Empire thug I saw.

I’d never played football and I weighed a hundred twenty pounds soaking wet, but I was easily running fast enough to rival a world-class athlete. At my speed, even my pitiful technique counted for something. He was launched clear off his feet and into the alley wall. I thought I felt his arm break under my tackle as well but I couldn’t be sure.

“Run!” I shouted to the victim. He was a middle-aged man, around dad’s age. I barely had time to notice the blue shiner on his cheek.

“Shit, cape!” the second thug shouted.

“Then fucking shoot her, dumbass!” replied the third.

I turned and froze. This wasn’t just an opportunistic hate crime. I wasn’t nearly as obsessed with cape culture as I’d been when I was younger, but I could recognize most of them by sight. This one was easy on account of him being completely flour-white.

Alabaster. I’d interrupted Alabaster beating up a Jewish man. Did the man own a business in Empire territory? Or was this one of those initiations for new recruits I’d been warned about?

He snarled and I realized I had better things to do than figure out the backstory. He was already reaching for the combat knife strapped to his belt.

I did the only thing I could think of: I carried through. I rushed him with a wordless shout that probably didn’t sound very heroic. Alabaster was a brute so there wasn’t any need to pull my punches, not that I’d done that for the first guy anyway.

My haymaker went wide. As it turned out, sloppily copying Armsmaster’s moves from Protectorate Pals in my living room as a ten year old didn’t do me any favors in a real fight. Or maybe I needed a halberd of my own, or at least a quarterstaff. I’d look into it later, when Alabaster wasn’t kicking me in the solar plexus and lunging for a stab.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the second thug, the one I hadn’t flattened, reach into his pants. He pulled out a pistol and took aim. Except, he didn’t aim at me. He took aim at the man I’d sent running.

For a single, precious second, it was like the world slowed to a crawl. I could beat them up. I could even kill them. But none of that would mean anything if I got the person I was trying to save killed.

My body acted on its own. By some hitherto unknown instinct, my foot kicked off the brick wall, launching me away from Alabaster’s knife and into the mook’s arm. I wasn’t even aware I’d grabbed it but the sound of the gunshot, and the bullet pinging off a nearby dumpster, sent a wave of relief through my body.

That relief turned to rage. Both hands wrapped around the thug’s jacket sleeve, I yanked with all the power I had. His jacket, a college letterman, tore at the sleeve even as he was bodily wrenched off balance.

I threw him around and over my hip, chucking him into the wall. The torn sleeve probably meant I lost a lot of force in that, but it was more than enough to daze him. Before he could recover, pounded on his chest with a hammerblow that made his ribs crack under my fist.

I felt a searing pain in my back as the sound of tearing fabric filled my ears. I felt a strong hand grab me by my ponytail, wrenching me off the second thug. A cold fire spread in my lower back and I belatedly realized I’d been stabbed a second time.

“Dumb bitch,” Alabaster snarled, “Turning your back on the cape.”

I panicked. I screamed. My bugs answered.

A swarm of insects rose into the air. From every window, every manhole, and every storm drain, a pitch-black tide emerged. They found the two thugs first and they bit and stung with no regard for thought or coordination.

I’d later realize that I’d been extremely fortunate. I’d been looking for harmless bugs to give to Tahm, faster ones that could travel with me. Had I been carrying my black widows, I’d most certainly have been facing two murder charges.

“What the fu–” was as far as Alabaster got before the bugs swarmed him, too.

I rose on shaky legs. I could feel my knees knocking against each other. But just as important, I could feel my wounds knitting together. I had regeneration. For obvious reasons, I’d been too nervous to test myself to this extent.

“God, I love you, Tahm,” I whispered with a desperate laugh.

I looked around wildly, eyes darting for anything I could use. Clearly, duking it out with Alabaster without a weapon wasn’t an option. I spotted the gun the thug had been using. I’d never shot before, but it wasn’t like I could miss in this narrow alley.

At the same time, I pulled out all the stops with the bugs I had on hand. Alabaster was a brute. He was a restorative brute. Every few seconds, his power restored him to a state of perfect health, no matter how much damage he sustained. I didn’t know if he felt pain, but he damn sure acted like he didn’t care.

So my insects did everything they could to buy me time. They dug into his eyes, up his nose, and down his throat. Maybe he didn’t need to breathe, but I was betting that a small army of cockroaches feeding themselves into his throat was plenty distracting.

I took aim and pulled the trigger, one round into his kneecap. I briefly considered the possibility that cops would arrive to investigate and almost threw off my aim by giggling. This was Brockton, enough said.

One Mississippi…

Two Mississippi…

Three Mississippi…

Four Mississippi…

And there!

Alabaster’s body “glitched” somehow. That was the only way I could describe it. His knee had a gunshot wound, and then it didn’t. The insects were still in his throat though so they just bit down on renewed flesh and he went right back to screaming.

But this was no way to hold a prisoner. I was a hero, whether Nazis had rights or not.

I looked around and found a solution. I couldn’t bend metal, at least not easily, but I could rip the chain link fence off its post. I took the steel mesh and rolled Alabaster inside.

“You know, you kind of remind me of a burrito. With black beans and sour cream,” I taunted. I made a note to work on my banter. “Get it? Because the bugs are like beans? And you’re sour?”

I didn’t know what he said, probably a whole lot of swearing. But damn it, I liked my hair and he pulled on it. It was the one, feminine thing about my body.

Once I was sure he was as secured as I could make him, I set him against the side of the building. I then shoved the nearby dumpster against him, making sure the added weight would keep him from rolling out of there without help. His two flunkies went into the dumpster shortly after.

I jogged away and dialed the police. Hopefully, they’d get there before Alabaster’s Empire buddies arrived.

I snorted at that. Who was I kidding? Even if they managed to arrest him, he’d be out within the week. Such was the state of the city. Either I killed him now, somehow, or I could expect to see him again.

I shook my head to clear the frustration. It was annoying, but I refused to let myself feel bad. I’d done good today. I’d tested my powers, I’d saved a Jewish man from getting assaulted, and I’d taken down a cape. Maybe Alabaster wasn’t Hookwolf or Kaiser, but he was a cape, damnit.

And that, that made me a hero.

Author’s Note

Taylor thinks her realization about brutes and movers is insightful because she's a teenager.

Tahm’s blessing is substantial. Taylor’s powers now include a decent brute package focused on durability and regeneration alongside a mover-1 rating for flavor. She’s strong, but not so much that she’ll constantly have to worry about maiming people on accident like Vicky.

Animal Fact: Catfish has been a southern staple for centuries. American Indians ate it as part of their diet.

Black slaves took to it as well, partially because it was familiar (there are catfish species native to West Africa). Because of the fish’s abundance in the south, fish fry-ups became a center of community for slaves. For a long time, it was known as the “poor man’s fish.” 

Commercial farming became popular in the 1960s when cotton farmers chose to flood their fields to farm the fish rather than continue to stick to a collapsing industry. Today, catfish is the single most commercially farmed fish in the United States.

You’d think it’d be salmon, but almost all salmon actually comes from Chile, Norway, or Scotland. More on that next time.