Homeless 1.1

Hours later, I watch a bar television as I swelter under the stolen trench coat, baggy pants, wide brimmed hat, and crumpled but clean medical mask I scrounged from a dumpster behind the nearest hospital. Go figure that the Merchants' headquarters would be located less than a mile from a hospital.

My guess had been right. Late afternoon turned into evening, then to night, long about the time that I decided this place was as good as any to catch my breath and take some time out to think. The bar is busy, if not precisely crowded, and the lighting is only just bright enough to let you walk by without accidentally stepping on anybody's feet as you walk through. The air is thick with the scent of bar food, alcohol, and after shift day laborers.

I chose this place because from the outer window, I saw four people who were wearing costumes. At the very least, this place is likely to be neutral ground of some sort. Given the inescapable fact of my furred form, I hadn't wanted to be anyplace conspicuous. Or at least, I hadn't wanted to be anyplace that would give a second look at capes.

When I walked in the door, nobody batted an eye at the orange furry hands or the hint of claws instead of fingernails, mostly due to the medical mask I suspect. There is an advantage to being in Brockton Bay: someone taking great pains to hide their identity is generally allowed to do so.

I've already had my existential crisis, such as it was. It's fairly obvious to me that, of my shared sets of memories, I am Andrea, not Sherrel, given that my analysis of life decisions she made routinely horrifies and appalls me. Memories of my other life as Andrea, on the other hand... well, it's not like I don't have anything I regret, quite the contrary, but at the time they'd seemed sensible enough.

Thankfully, my earlier injuries don't do anything to mar my outfit. My ability to invoke Preservation is not only good at removing stains, but is also usable as a cut rate healing power, after a fashion, although it takes a little time to work, requires me to maintain barehanded contact with the injury, and does nothing to remove anything contaminating the wound. All the blood is out of my fur, and my glass related injuries are all closed over and healed, although there's a little shard of glass in my forearm I haven't dug out that's sending the occasional painful jab if I move wrong. I'm pretty sure that means I can get an infection too, although I might be able to deal with that as well if I'm diligent about how I use the power.

I watch surreptitiously as a burly guy escorts a drunken patron from the bar to the door. I'm probably going to have to bite the bullet and either go into hiding or sign on with the Protectorate. Sifting through my hazy memories as Sherrel tells me why Gesellschaft wants me dead: joyriding one of my latest designs last week I apparently ran down and killed a visiting member of Gesellschaft's inner circle, a cape named Abwerspieler. Apparently, whatever he was able to "Defend" with didn't extend to being run over by a fourteen ton tank/semi rig. Combined with my relationship with Skidmark- something as repulsive to me as his name- I'm pretty much everything that they hate, combining miscegenation with drug use, general degeneracy, public indecency, and large, clunky vehicles. I can easily see them deciding I should stop breathing their air with all possible immediacy.

There's no mistaking my circumstances; whether ROB'd or just a victim of my own propensity for writing, I'm in the CYOA I filled out on the website. I think I'd have rather had a computer virus.

Then, I have an awful moment of epiphany.

I have thirteen points of powers and advantages. But, because of Sealed Powers, I can only access two of those points right now. Not counting the Sealed Powers disadvantage, I've still got six points of disadvantages right now.

Not good. REALLY not good. And the powers are supposed to awaken one at a time, in times of great need.

The news feed changes to commercial on the TV; as though to outline the dangers of this world the commercial shows people dashing down the street, to take shelter in a bunker of some sort. They're barely through the doorway when the massive metal safe door slams shut. Moments later water pounds onto it like a flood, washing away mud at the base to reveal a slogan: Fortress Construction- Putting a Stop to the End.

God, how morbid. And yet, I can see it being an effective ad, in this wretched world. Okay, Andrea, think dammit, THINK! How do I survive long enough to unlock those abilities? I don't have much option but to run away from fights with a power like preserve. It might make me tougher, but in order to move past it to another power, I have to be in a situation where it WON'T save me. At least, I think that's how Sealed Power works… Dammit! I really wish I could read that over again…

Times of great need. Well, the power I need the most right now is that arcane magic. I need that bad. Magic item crafting is almost certain to be in the library of arcana that comes with it.

My stomach growls a little, and I frown, looking around. Nobody is paying attention to me, save for the waitress who meets my eyes a moment while taking someone else's order. I'm tempted to order something myself, but dine and ditch is a stupid stunt to pull when you're furry and orange; there's no anonymity for me. I don't think I can starve to death with Preserve, but I'm not positive about that. Would it consider damage from starvation fixable? How about hypoxia? Or aging? God, this would be so much easier if I had Divine Magic, or Arcane magic. Or both.

I need to stop worrying about what I don't have, and figure out what I can do with what I do. Preserve. It restores things to their healed or most intact state. Does that mean I can remove fatigue toxins from my muscles, repair micro tears from exercise, that sort of thing? It could be a great training aid. If I wanted to be That Girl, I could go down to the hospital and try to take some of the work load off Panacea. Except solo healers who can't fade into a crowd? No, no, no, no. My independence would end the first night I walked out the door to go home, wherever that was, and that's assuming I wasn't kidnapped from the hospital before my first shift ended. So what do I do?

Once the PRT learns what I can do, so does Cauldron. Sherrel's memories indicate that she probably drank a Cauldron vial right before I showed up, which means I'd be the first documented survivor of a natural trigger re-triggering via Cauldron vial. That's the sort of thing that would make Doctor Mother decide she wants me on a slab so I can be dissected to find out what went right. Thankfully I've got Woman of Mys-

… Shit. Double shit. I have no protection against HER. Contessa. Or the Simurgh. Or Number Man, Tattletale, Alexandria, Dinah… Shit! What's the date today?

Dressed like a homeless person, for the most part, I can't just walk into a library and ask to use a computer.

Okay, so no Protectorate. Haven is a no-go, given I don't share their religious beliefs, New Wave would require me to out myself, I don't have a power that will be useful as an Enforcer on the Boardwalk, and… Yeah, that's about it for Brockton Bay on the hero side, isn't it? I can't be a rogue, I'm too easily identifiable. That kinda leaves me with… Villains.

Empire is right out. No way to prove I'm white- or at least, that Sherrel Bailey is white- and Empire philosophy makes me wish its constituents were subject to a little eugenics style culling. Not to mention, once Gesellschaft learns I'm there, I'm practically giftwrapped. Merchants? HELL no. Coil? Oh, that will end badly in ways I can't even begin to describe. ABB?

… Now that I think of it, ABB might not be TOO terrible, given my current circumstances. A catgirl in the ABB isn't too farfetched, given, you know, Japan. Problem here is that while the ABB are inclusive of anyone defined as Asian, everyone else is another story entirely. I'm also not precisely a fan of forced prostitution of any kind.

My list of potential allies is getting thin. I don't like my chances of trying to leave Brockton Bay on foot, which is about the only way I can guarantee I don't tip off anyone normal that I'm around or trying to leave. Capes… Well, escaping cape notice is going to be more about luck than anything else. And it's easier to black bag someone on the side of a long stretch of interstate than it is in a city. Somewhat. I think.

My somewhat panicked reverie is interrupted. "You gonna order anything?" It's the waitress who I met eyes with a minute ago. Dammit. My annoyance at the intrusion sets my tail to twitching under my coat, but I've got it wrapped around my waist and tied to the front of my cargo pants with twine. The motion thankfully goes unnoticed by Pamela, according to her nametag.

"Nothing yet, still… still trying to decide," I answer. My voice is a little rough but clearly female- the waitress seems taken aback by the fact.

After a moment, she rallies herself, and speaks in low tones. "Look, sister, you seem kinda nervous, and that's not bad- except, first, if you're expectin' trouble we'd appreciate it if you'd take it outside. And second, you're takin' up space a customer could be using. So I DO need you to order, or I DO need you to leave. M'kay, pumpkin?"

I blink at her, trying to not show how much it throws me off that she's calling me the same name as my cat. Who, ironically, or maybe just symmetrically, I now share the furred coloration of. "Uh, see… I don't exactly have… any money."

The waitress looks at me for a moment, apparently warring between the rules and her sympathy, before nodding and saying a little louder, "Alright, then, one small order of buffalo wings and a large pineapple juice, comin' up."

I feel a surge of uncertainty, one she alleviates with a wink, before she turns and heads back behind the bar. I turn my attention back to the television, where a news short has come on and a talking head babbles something I can't hear over the din of the bar, even with my exceptional hearing. On the bottom of the screen a ticker runs, detailing the DOW at nine thousand one hundred sixty two, down seventeen points, the S&P hovering with no change at seven hundred eighteen, and the NASDAQ at nineteen ninety four, down sixty.

I'm no expert, but that strikes me as rather bad. I'm pretty sure those numbers are supposed to be a lot higher.

Oh- that's interesting. Seven fifty five; the time is posted in the upper left of the news short. Then, the newscaster finishes whatever he was saying, the screen goes to black, and it's back to commercials.

I turn my attention back to the rest of the bar. The crowd has thinned out a bit. The place is barely half full now. Two tables away, a guy in a domino mask and a red and grey jumpsuit is speaking in a furtive manner with a small framed, skinny guy in a robe that looks more like a dress and a blue feathered masquerade mask, with a nose painted as a beak. The two of them are eating wings, carrot sticks, and what looks like kale from here, dipping the vegetables first in the wing sauce, then in what has to be either ranch or blue cheese dip. The air currents in the room shift, and the background smells give way to the faint but sharp scent of blue cheese.

Under the brim of my hat, I almost instinctively angle my ears in their direction. It helps me shut out some of the rest of the bar, and unlike with the television, the angle doesn't have the hat's brim blocking the line of effect.

"-ockton Bay. Frankly, I'm surprised we haven't been hit by one of the Endbringers yet," says the one in the robe. "Everybody knows they go where the fighting is, and with Lung in custody, the Empire's probably gonna make a push into the Docks within the week."

"Pfft." Jumpsuit scoffs, taking a bite of kale. "PRT probably just caught Lung sleeping off a bender. He wakes up sober, there'll be a hole torn in the prison wall, the prison'll be on fire, and the ABB will be back to business as usual. And the Endbringers hitting the Bay would probably be an improvement."

"Don't joke about that shit. Everybody loses when an Endbringer shows up."

Jumpsuit pauses, then grunts. "Huh. Yeah that's right, you were in New York, weren't you?"

Robe nods, a wing halfway to his mouth. His lips are held still, but the hand holding the wing is trembling ever so slightly. After a few seconds, he continues the wing on its journey, biting into it with a noticeable crunch. Apparently, the fact that he bit through a bone and is now chewing it either went unnoticed or else is just normal for him.

Might be normal. Jumpsuit doesn't bat an eye. "Sorry man. Didn't mean to bring up triggers."

"Doesn't matter. No… no big deal." I can hear the lie in his voice even from here. Robe tries to cover it by popping the rest of the wing into his mouth, crunching away on it slowly.

At a table across the way, a very shapely blond and her tall, dark, and beefy boyfriend get up, the latter tossing a few bills on the table and shooting a cautious look in my direction. I'm not a hundred percent sure he's not looking at Jumpsuit and Robe, but ninety five percent is good enough for me. The two of them pass by my table, and I deliberately avoid looking at them as the blonde braces her hand on my table in passing to avoid someone whose chair is pushed back from the table to accommodate his rather hefty stomach. They could have gone straight for the door, instead of passing between our tables, but…

… why did they detour over here?

I'm still mulling this over, uncomfortably hot, when out of the corner of my eye I notice Pamela on her way back, carrying a tall glass and a small basket that even from here I can smell approaching. A crisp, vinegary scent overlaid with aged cayenne pepper sauce and the deliciously oily-dairy scent of melted whole butter. My mouth is watering, and my fingers twitch slightly in anticipation of getting my hands on them.

"Here ya go, sugar. One order of wings and a pineapple juice." Pamela sets the order down on my table, pulling out a straw from her apron and deftly tearing a strip from the wrapper an inch from one end. She tugs the long part of the straw wrapper off, popping the bare straw into the juice and crooking the bend over, all without touching the plastic of the straw or looking the slightest bit clumsy.

"Thank you," I say, and I mean it.

She smiles at me. "Don't mention it." Pamela turns, and heads off to another table where a heavy trucker type sits, pulling out her notepad. I watch her for a few seconds- did she just give me that for free, or did she buy it for me out of her own money? Either seems equally likely, and both are amazingly fortunate for me. I turn back to my plate and snag a wing between two claws, biting into the drumette. My teeth sheer through the gristle of the knuckle with little meaningful resistance, but for some reason it doesn't seem as revolting as I thought it would be- quite the opposite. I don't know if my altered body is responsible, or just hunger, but I don't care. I savor every nibble.

My tongue is spined, like a normal cat's. I hadn't expected that. It makes getting the last scraps of meat off each bone much easier. I'm not sure how I didn't notice it before, except that my mouth didn't feel uncomfortable or unfamiliar. It's not like people make a regular practice of checking their tongues for spines. Or at least I don't.

The carrots and kale are fresh and crisp, and a crushing disappointment- I love kale. Or at least, I used to. The first bite has me almost spitting it out in revulsion at the bitter, green flavor. Likewise the carrots, which give me a sour stomach after I manage to choke one down with enough blue cheese dip on it. Carnivore's taste buds and digestion- this complicates matters for me a lot. Not only do I have to eat more, but what I can comfortably- and maybe even safely- eat is much more restricted than a normal human.

All too soon, the wings are cleaned bones with not a scrap of meat or knuckle on them, and my stomach rumbles its insistence that I have more. I have no damn idea how I'm going to get-

"Hey, sugar?" It's Pamela, and she's carrying a tall glass of milk and another basket, a larger one, of wings, this one with no vegetables in it. "Another customer bought this for you, said she knew you were havin' a bad time and could use the pick me up. Guess you're just all around lucky today, hmm?"

I blink at the basket for a moment, my instincts screaming at me about something. Belatedly, I say, "Oh, thank you! And if you see her again, thank her for me as well, alright?"

Pamela grins at me and nods, and sets down the items, picking up my barely sipped juice without asking. My instincts jangle again, and I make the connection.

I think I've just been spotted by Tattletale, and probably Grue.

Pamela walks off, and I look down at the double paper lining of the basket, which is resting funny. My finger nudges it aside, allowing me to see a carefully wrapped pair of fifty dollar bills in folded wax paper, along with a phone number. Yep, no doubt about it. And she wanted me to know, otherwise why would she and Brian have gone out of their way to pass by my table?

I don't look a gift horse in the mouth. I eat the wings every bit as eagerly and thoroughly as I did the first basket, and the milk tastes like heaven.

I'm going to need these calories if I'm going to get out of Brockton Bay tonight.