Of Sisters and Shadows – Chapter 14 [3.3 Words]

There’s a joke about lesbians that some of my friends have often laughed at: What does a lesbian bring to a second date?

A moving van.

Which, yeah, it gets the point across. I’ve seen it plenty of times with my college friends, the way they will attach to one another quick and hard enough that Amy may get some inspiration about what to do with all those limpet teeth she keeps collecting.

But, really, at this very moment, the joke just makes me ponder one thing and one thing only:

Does Dragon count as a lesbian?

“That’s… big,” Amy says from on top of my arms, where she still hasn’t given me reason to drop her.

“That’s what she said,” I reflexively answer.

“I am, in fact, a ‘she,’ and I can make things precisely as big as I please,” she says, bouncing her eyebrows saucily.

So I drop her.

“Fuck you, cuuuuuuunt!” the girl erratically spiraling while clumsily flapping her bat wings says.

I take a moment to sigh, and then I dive down to catch her before she makes a new skylight on top of the big thing we were talking about. That is, the reason that I’m pondering Dragon’s lesbian leanings and what that says about Colin and his beard:

The white dome built overnight on Brockton’s outskirts that dwarfs the currently dilapidated Medhall Tower.

I mean, it’s one thing to bring a moving van, quite another to build a small town.

***

“This is… overwhelming,” I say to somebody bewilderingly dressed in his (more or less) civvies.

“Hn,” the lab-coat-wearing, bearded man unfairly cross with me answers as he keeps walking at a speed close to a forced march.

“Like… you have tiled flooring. Tiled. Flooring. I’m pretty sure this was murky marshland yesterday,” I add, but not because I’m deadly afraid of awkward silences and need to keep any social interaction going so I don’t feel isolated and pushed aside.

… Mood.

“Hn,” Armsmaster adds, contributing both to the conversation and to my anxiety issues, though not in equal measure.

“And this… Okay, I know there’s Tinker bullshit going on, seeing as we’re traveling through a tunnel that has, somehow, natural sunlight—and that’s a nice garden-slash-park that I can see we’re just going to ignore, cool, no worries—but still how do you make a small town without me catching wind of it until I’m called to report to the place I’m just learning is the new headquarters of my current workplace?”

“… Hn,” he says, masterfully efficient in his communication skills as ever, his lab coat flaring as he speeds up.

“You should answer her,” Amy says, shooting me a side glare. “Before she gets pissed off and throws you out of a window.”

“That’s a family thing. I wouldn’t do that with a casual acquaintance, Ames; give me some credit.”

“A family thing.”

“Yes.”

“Not a mething.”

“I mean, it’s not my fault that you’re the only non-flier of our generation.”

“… Hate you. Hate you so damn much.”

“Don’t worry, sis; I’m sure you’re just a late bloomer. Those wings of yours are bound to work one of these days,” I compassionately tell her.

“Goddamn teenagers,” a very rude man who’s also sadly deprived of the gift of flight mutters.

“Goddamn boomers,” I say in a passable imitation of a tone of voice likely achieved by gargling granite.

Amy, rather than verbally contribute, snorts about as cutely as her faerie queen body can manage. Which is a disturbing amount of cute, and it keeps me wondering about how she could’ve tweaked the frequent makeovers she gave me if we ever dared be more… inventive.

A train of thought that swiftly derails when it crashes against the reminder of how, precisely, it felt to have Amy remodel part of me. How it felt to be embraced by living greenery, tendrils of prodding wood wrapped and embraced against my skin, molded to my curves, sinking deep enough to pierce bloodless wounds that seemed to fill with pure euphoria as the nutrients poured inside of me, remaking me down to my very bones—

“Vicky. Aura,” a girl blushing despite her inhuman control of her physiology says.

“Ah,” I answer as I pull every tendril of my shield back to me rather than keep reaching for her back like I find myself doing again and again since I developed even fiercer protective instincts for her than I already had.

“What the—” Armsmaster starts.

“It’s a teenage thing,” I say, cutting him off as sharply as I would with my shield if it was at all warranted.

Like, you know, if he kept asking things I don’t want to answer.

Thankfully, he just rolls his eyes in a very rude way that kind of clashes with my latest memories of him as a badass climbing up the body of an iron titan to carve it up with a high-tech medieval weapon.

Then he keeps walking.

And Amy does roll her eyes at his back in maybe equitable rudeness before…

Before her hand reaches for mine, her fingers push between my spreading ones, and she squeezes me as a light blush replaces the dark tinge she had when I inadvertently hit her with the feelings of my memories of her.

For reasons I would rather not elaborate on, the rest of the walk passes in silence.

Except for the beating of my heart.

***

“Hi!” Dragon cheerfully greets us when the doors set in a white, domed vault in the middle of a round, grassy yard (Indoors yard? This is going to bug me.) slide open, wide enough for an actual truck to pass through, even if Armsmaster walks right down the middle like he aims to occupy the entirety of the passage.

“Hi,” I say with a genial smile and a cheery wave, and not being awkward at all after a long silence spent just feeling my sister’s touch and wondering precisely how much of her power is involved in the pleasant tingles shooting from her hand and up the inside of my forearm.

“Hey there,” Amy says with a hint of a smirk as she contemplates… Well, Dragon.

… Shut up. I’m not jealous.

It’s just…

Okay, last time I saw her? She was a mildly awkward young woman getting used to the additions that Amy made to her body plan, the smatter of crimson scales dusting her cheekbones bringing attention to just how lost the eyes above were rather than…

Rather than leaning on the theme.

Leaning hard.

“Please, do come in! The battery of tests is ready, but we could have a cup of tea beforehand if you aren’t in a hurry?” she says with hospitality and warmth that seems to incite Armsmaster’s disapproval.

A disapproval that doesn’t seem to survive the girl now just slightly shorter than he is turning her chair slightly to aim her smile at him until his frown melts and he gets… flustered.

And looks away.

Which I’m guessing has something to do with the golden chainmail bikini.

“Isn’t that… wildly uncomfortable?” I say, starting to point at the metal cups holding her breasts together before my brain catches up with my inquisitive finger and forces it down by my side.

“Tinker,” Dragon says with an added shrug that is entirely too apparent.

“But… I mean… what about the exposure?” I weakly continue despite the part of my brain stuck on a lop that consists entirely of comminations to shut up, shut up, shut up—

“Oh! Don’t worry, I wear more protection while on the job,” she says, her smile brightening as she stands up from an office chair that seems to have undergone some ergonomic adaptations to accommodate her wings that Amy is suddenly noticeably focused on—which I’ll take as silent approval of my plans regarding a certain apple-green sofa.

Dragon, naively unaware of my future furniturecide, walks toward a comparatively archaic wooden coat hanger (that may still survive the day), her long strides translating into alluring undulations down the sheer, crimson piece of silk hanging between her legs that no fashion magazine in the world will ever manage to make think of as something other than a ‘crotch curtain,’ and…

And she grabs a lab coat.

Then, still smiling brightly, she puts on the white outerwear, leaves it hanging open from her shoulders, shrugs yet again very apparently, and manages to get her wings past twin slits on its back and her tail past the parted middle before tilting her smiling face to the side, making her high ponytail bounce as she seems to relish in the idea of showing off her working outfit to…

…

Okay, I need to do a few things: the first one is to not focus on the body of a woman who, despite Armsmaster’s loud swearing after banging his shin on a stool that he just missed due to being too occupied in draconic contemplation to notice it, and the second is to… well…

To summarize: Vicky, don’t focus on the exposed woman dressed like a fantasy-setting exhibitionist who likely doesn’t realize how lewd she’s being while your sister-girlfriend-horse-whisperer keeps glaring at you.

Also, don’t even try to parse the likelihood that a sentence remotely similar to what you just thought has ever been uttered in human history.

“See? Perfectly safe!” she cheerfully says as she dons lab goggles.

Lab goggles that go right under her gold tiara.

“I… I see. I definitely see,” I politely answer.

“Goddamn teenagers,” Armsmaster resentfully mutters after throwing me a glare. Which I’m going to go out on a limb and guess is somewhat related to my definitely-not-ogling of his Canadian girlfriend.

“Oh, so you didfind out precisely at what point Dragon’s hormonal system is set?” Amy says with a disinterest only betrayed by her furtive looks at the furniture adapted to wing usage.

“What?” Armsmaster says, looking kinda pale.

… Heh.

“You didn’t,” I say to Amy with my best scandalized tone before crossing my left arm under my breasts, cupping my right elbow, and tilting my head down to bite down on my index finger as if I was about to exchange juicy gossip and wanted everyone in range to know it.

“I mean, I just thought that Dragon deserved to experience the full range of the human experience,” my sister answers with a tone dry enough that only I can detect the underlying sadism.

“No. Wait. What,” Armsmaster continues.

“Of course, that would have some effects on her libido,” I say, speculating idly and baselessly and not at all remembering the first time I plopped down on a shaky bus seat and my tight jeans rubbed between my legs just so.

“Certainly. Maybe there could be a mismatch between a hormonal teenager and a middle-aged man addicted to tinkertech stimulants when it comes to both libido and performance, now that I think of it,” she says, tapping the front of her chin with a distractingly slender finger.

“Middle-aged?”somebody whose voice sounds slightly higher-pitched than his granite gargling would warrant says.

“Ah, the inevitable decline brought about by age and poor lifestyle choices,” I sagely comment.

“I am not—I most definitely am not—”

“What was that you said, Ames? That only people with a surgically implanted stick use the line ‘most definitely?’”

“That sounds definitely right. Though, well, prostate stimulation—”

“This is an entirely inappropriate conversation for the workplace. And my tinkertech stimulants have no adverse effects at all regarding performance, much less prostate function—” somebody with an affronted male ego starts to rant.

And that’s when he finally notices Dragon bent over in silent laughter.

“… Goddamn teenagers,” he uncreatively states before turning away from us and dramatically flaring his own lab coat in ways that tell me he has practiced wearing a cape.

It takes one to know one.

***

“Sorry,” Dragon contritely says for the fifth time, even as the corners of her lips keep twitching up erratically.

“It doesn’t matter,” someone who refuses to look away from the array of monitors and machines that go ‘beep’ in front of him stubbornly replies.

“I should’ve cut in before it got out of hand,” she says as she sets a mug of something wafting white vapor in front of him.

“It’s a trivial issue. A non-concern. Entirely irrelevant,” he insists.

“Most definitelyirrelevant,” Amy snipes from his left, finally earning a reaction out of him, even if it’s just a scathing side glare.

“I would appreciate it if we could act as professionals for the duration of the tests,” he says, adjusting a knob on something that, from my vantage point on the spacious, empty, circular space on the other side of his cluttered table, is an instrument easily identified as a machine that goes ‘beep.’

Of course, right as I think this, the machine goes ‘bzzt,’ but, well, close enough.

… Look, I take college classes, but none of them are about engineering.

“I still don’t know if we should test things,” I say, and not only to cover up my grievous mistake in knob identifying—gross.

“Is this a security concern?” Dragon says, apparently happy to change the subject.

“I mean… we didtalk about how this would turn Brockton into an S-class threat honey trap,” I tell her, remembering just a very specific part of what happened the last time the four of us were in the same room and Colin kissed Dragon, and Dragon wasn’t used to tactile sensations, so she got very vocal, and then Amy kissed me, and her sense of humor was broken, so I thought about maybe swapping partners, and aaaaaaaahhhhhh—

“Heart rate spiking. Is this a result of the new power—” Armsmaster says.

“Pretty sure it isn’t,” Amy says before narrowing her eyes at me for completely unfair reasons.

“These tests are private,” Dragon explains, hopefully unaware of the nuances of erratic heart rates. “Technically, these facilities are on loan to the local PRT, but I’m the owner of both the land and the complex. This lab is mine, under my security measures, and nobody can get past them.”

I blink at her for a moment.

Go back over my not-quite-encyclopedic knowledge of every relevant cape I know of.

Blink at her.

“Did you… Do you mean that nobody can currently get past your security?” I ask.

Dragon’s smile goes from polite to predatory in a way that really highlights the crimson, metallic scales going over her cheekbones and jawline. Not to mention the fangs.

“Yes. Nobody currently can,” she says.

Amy frowns in slight confusion at the exchange, and Colin very pointedly does not react at all.

Which I guess is all the information I’ll ever get about what happened to the Dragonslayers.

“Okay! Tests! Tests and powers! Power testing! My two favorite things rolled into one!” I enthusiastically and not nervously at all say. “Let’s get on it with!”

“Wait—” Colin starts.

But… it’s kinda too late.

Because, see? I completelyforgot about this part of defeating a One, much to Amy’s relentless mocking of my ‘blonde moment,’ but…

There’s a reason for it.

Other than the rush of emotions of the moment, other than my mind going a mile a minute while trying to find Rachel through the mists and then trying to solve her Shadow, other than then having to deal with the moral dilemma of what to do with a known villain who only wanted to save her missing friend, her only friend…

There’s the fact that the new power is… entirely too natural.

Colin’s version of Kaiser’s power lets him do something completely unrelated to what used to be his only skill. Yes, it fits nicely with his theme and skillset, but it’s metallokinesis. A Shaker power for a Tinker.

Mine?

I turn my shield into feathered wings. Maybe not as detailed as one of Kaiser’s creations. Maybe something more like a sketch or a 3D diagram, just elongated teardrops clinging to the lines sprouting from between my shoulder blades. Maybe something that is only as complicated as any shape I’ve crafted my shield into since I’ve become able to do so.

And then…

I push.

I push, and I feel pure force turn into metal.

I look over my shoulder at the glinting lights reflected off every impossibly smooth plane, something that only electroplating could come close to creating, and I find myself smiling at the look of wonder on the hundred reflected faces of a Vicky Dallon engaging in her favorite pastime:

Being a cape nerd.

***

By the time both Colin and Dragon seem as tired of the tests as Amy has been from the very start, the circular space inside this dome recursively set into the bigger dome that is Dragon’s complex is filled with a lot of metal.

Iron, apparently. I would’ve guessed steel, but it’s not any kind of alloy, just impossibly pure iron.

Just… the texture is what I imagine it to be, and it defaults to atom-perfect evenness if I don’t put any effort otherwise, smooth enough that the whole surface is effectively corrosion resistant, even if not entirely, so it does look more reflective than any object made of iron I’ve ever seen.

And I can safely say that, after today, I’ve seen quite a few iron objects. Ones that range from simplistic, hurried shapes to attempts at detailed recreations of the items that Dragon and Colin challenged me with, my clumsy efforts growing slightly more precise after enough practice that I think it counts as a class in sculpture, pottery, and blacksmithing rolled into one.

It’s… to my surprise? Tiring.

Not just mentally tiring. I get that with my shield as well, when I go above and beyond in shaping it past its usual state as a skintight overlay. Yeah, the mental strain is not unfamiliar. But…

There’s something else.

“I think I’m out,” I say, trying not to wince at the uncomfortable emptiness inside of me.

Which seems to be the moment the two alleged adults in the room were waiting for, given the exchange of glances between them.

“I assume you’ve never found any difficulty in sustaining your shield before?” Colin asks.

“Never.”

“And that it’s still active?” Dragon checks.

I nod.

A hint of a frown from the bearded man, a narrowing of the gaze from the woman, and a confused look from Amy answer me.

“Okay,” he says before pushing his chair away and standing up, walking around his table and the many machines no longer going ‘beep’ to stand in front of me.

Then he extends his hand and points at what could charitably pass as a set of cresting waves by an enthusiastic parent picking up his youngest kid from kindergarten.

It’s about two handspans away from his pointing finger.

And it is, at this very moment, gaining intricate detail along the now convincingly foamy top.

It is my turn to frown. I bend over and levitate toward where the change is taking place, examining the speed and scale. The minute tracery of lines of varying depths and shifting angles and how far they spread from where he’s pointing.

The iron turning into a living painting.

And then, still floating above a floor littered with as much metal as I could turn my shield into before my power gave up, I turn around to look up at him.

“You’re stronger than you were,” I say, stating the impossible, obvious conclusion out loud.

He nods.

And a chill runs down my spine.