Wake-up Call – Chapter 70
Rooftops are becoming kind of my thing.
I don't like it. It makes me predictable.
[Lisa Wilbourn's affectation—]
Okay, fine, I don't really care. Yes, I [may] be slightly paranoid about getting ambushed yet again by an urban sniper, but it's not something that's making me hyperalert or anything like that, much less to the point I'd be uncomfortable with sitting on the red-tiled rooftop of the Undersiders' lair of all places.
Some of my most cherished memories have happened on rooftops, after all. One of them was even near a mass-murdering terrorist who would have had no qualms with turning me into the kind of art exhibit that makes horror nerds salivate.
[Concept of 'too much information—']
… You are shitting me.
[Anatomical unlikelihood of—]
You're an asshole.
[Anatomical—]
Fine, you're an [unoriginal] asshole[.
… Lisa Wilbourn's puerile—]
Wait, wait, wait, did I just catch you off guard? You [really] weren't expecting that comeback? You're [sulking] because you didn't anticipate me sassing [you?!]
[… Anthropomorphizing of—]
"Ha!"
"What?" the brunette sitting on my left asks with an arched eyebrow.
I… blink at her.
Taylor, hugging her knees, only her lower back reclining on the low, beige wall surrounding the roof, blinks back.
"I just tripped up Power with a sassy comeback, and he's sulking," I tell her with my best 'I'm not crazy' eyes.
They aren't super effective.
"[What?"]
"I… thought something that made him answer with a line he's used before, then I prodded him with something that would likely make him use the same line. And when he did, I called him unoriginal."
Taylor… gapes.
Then, unfairly abusing the powers I bestowed upon her when I bought her contacts, facepalms.
"No. No. I refuse to live in a world where not even the literal incarnation of a Thinker power is safe from your quips. I deny reality. I spit upon the true face of the world and make an unbreakable oath not to acknowledge it."
"I mean… Denying reality doesn't seem like much of a drastic step, coming from you…"
"And what's [that] supposed to mean?" she asks with all the gentle, subtle nuances of an enraged badger.
I raise an eyebrow that may, or not, be failing to emulate her greater powers of eyebrowdom.
… And no, that isn't a portmanteau that means being a domme who uses her eyebrows to—huh. Hold that thought.
[Lisa Wilbourn's—]
What have I told you about talking about my sex life?!
"… I'm not that bad," Taylor sulks, turning her head away, pouting, and basically doing everything in her power to make me want to grab her shoulders, spin her around—
[Term 'switch' often used to refer to—]
You're a spiteful little bitch, aren't you?
[Familial resemblance due to—]
Okay. Fine. I love you.
[… Anthropomorphizing of—]
"I am [not]," Taylor insists, likely mistaking my silence for the astonished incredulity she would've likely evoked in anybody who actually knew her with her earlier statement.
Suits me just fine, really.
"Sweetie… have we already talked about the whole 'I'm going to infiltrate a group of supervillains with their own Thinker on call, and that's not because I'm starved for affection, or even mere acknowledgement, but due to a brilliant, workable plan?'"
She glares at me.
Which, given she's still sulking, hugging her knees, and leaning the side of her face on them… It's doing [things] to me.
[Lisa Wilbourn's frequent usage of the unspecific term 'things—']
It's a perfectly cromulent word.
"You are never going to let that go, are you?" Taylor grumbles.
And I… lean forward and kiss her lips.
She stiffens under me, her arms hugging her knees tighter, and I'm briefly surprised before I…
I think about something blindingly obvious I even thought about earlier.
"Stop doing this, Tay," I say.
"Wha—"
"This. Surveying our environment for threats that aren't there—"
"I [know] they aren't there. And that's far more relaxing than purposefully blindfolding myself and wondering, thank you very much."
I… Okay, for starters? I look at her.
But that's not enough because, despite knowing her this well, she's still far too prone to using those thrice-damned anti-Thinker measures of hers, so sometimes things can slip, and not even Power—
[Lisa Wilbourn's projection of own shortcomings—]
Fuck you. You didn't realize she was spiraling down this path, or you'd have bragged about it to me already.
[… Family resemblance—]
There's a limited number of times that line's going to work, you know?
[Taylor Hebert's hypervigilance suited to powerset. Powerset not taxing of mental resources. Taylor Hebert unlikely to acknowledge issue with—]
Right. Of course you're right, but…
[Taylor Hebert's current tactics optimized for long-term survival. Optimized for survival of others. Taylor Hebert afraid of—]
Ah. Thanks.
"Okay, Tay. I'm not gonna ask you to stop," I tell her.
She looks at me with all the skepticism two very adroit eyebrows can display.
"You just did. Seconds ago," she says, just to top it off.
And I grumble.
"I mean, I'm not going to ask you [anymore]. There, does that satisfy your pathological need to be factually correct?"
"I don't have a—"
"Have you ever looked into a mirror, woman?!"
"[You] are the one who keeps bragging about how near-omniscient you are!" she says, sitting straight, one finger pointing just beneath my nose.
"Oh, do you want to talk about the 'omniscient' word, [Honey]? Do you [really] want to talk about that when you're going full Orwellian Nightmare in the surveillance of our surroundings?" I tell her, snatching her wrist and narrowing my eyes.
"As if [you] would be concerned about the privacy of [anyone]," she says, drawing closer, her eyes blazing right in front of me.
"I care very much about the privacy of our rooftop-themed public sex!"
"What?!"
And I kiss her.
Again.
I pull her toward me by the suddenly limp hand, and I let myself slowly fall back, the low wall to my left, my white biker jacket cushioning my back.
Taylor on top of me.
Her eyes are wide in surprise, her lips lightly opened, just warmth and softness against mine as our hands are trapped between our chests.
And I lean back, my side ponytail surely spread below me in a way that makes her take a look as I lightly smile up at her.
"I care very much about a lot of things, and plenty of them are, in one way or another, about you," I tell her, my tone inviting and gentle.
And Taylor…
Looks at me.
And then leans up to kiss the tip of my nose before shifting down to rest the side of her face over my chest in an obvious invitation for me to run the fingers of my free hand through her tresses, once more marveling at the color, the sheen, the volume…
All right, that is a lie: I marvel at Taylor being on top of me, open and vulnerable. Trusting.
Because her swarm surrounds us, keeping a discreet eye on all that could threaten us.
But it doesn't keep an eye on me.
"You're the one who should be a mess today, you know?" she says.
"I am. I'm barely holding myself together, and I'm going to cling to you like an emotionally stunted limpet for the next few days," I murmur with a gentle smile as I twirl a long lock of black hair around my finger before letting it uncurl on its own.
"Yet you still feel the need to play therapist with me," she grumbles, her fingers sliding between mine, clutching my hand tightly for a brief moment.
"Mostly? I was just trying not to smash my head against the nearest wall after realizing the blindingly obvious truth that you would take a sniper attack that left you on the verge of death as something more than a mild inconvenience."
She snorts.
"It's not me I'm afraid for," she says.
"I know. I know you have that heroic fixation with—"
"No. You're wrong," she snaps, her fingers yet again tight around my hand, her neck filled with rigid tension.
"You sure know how to sweet-talk me," I tell her in my best deadpan. Mostly to defuse the situation, but also because I'm [slightly] miffed.
"Liz, I could stare silently at you for five minutes straight, and that would count as sweet-talking," she says with weighty exasperation barely held at bay.
"… You're not wrong," I say while trying very hard not to dwell on the vivid image and what it's doing to the inside of my thighs.
"Unlike you," Taylor says.
And I snort.
Then so does she, and that turns into a shared giggle that doesn't last before becoming full-blown laughter as Taylor turns over on top of me, her chin between my breasts, her eyes on mine, and I can't even feel the strain on my neck as I keep staring at her.
"Okay, you've earned it," I tell her, the smile refusing to leave my lips, "tell me how I am wrong."
And then her lips soften from the almost mania of moments ago, and she quietens as she looks at me with…
With heart-clenching love.
"It's not about heroism. It's not about me wanting to save others because I don't value my own life or whatever else may have been true months ago. It's because… Because when I was dying? When I was bleeding to death? I [wasn't]."
"You're gonna make some logician very sad—"
"Shut up and listen; that's how your power is supposed to work, isn't it?"
"It actually works better if I engage with the subject and prompt different answers to a variety of stimuli so that—"
"You're doing this on purpose," she says, rolling her eyes.
"Well, it's part of the variety of stimuli—"
"Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?"
I shut up.
And look at her, none of us smiling anymore.
"No. No, I don't want to. I [need] to, but I really don't want to talk about this, about when I almost lost you—"
"You didn't, you damn Thinker six—"
"There's no need for that kind of language, young lady—"
And she kisses me.
Her injured arm rests by the side of my head, and I feel the brief temptation to scold her for yet again ignoring the sling she should still be wearing, but her lips are pressing down on me, making my head lie on the brick-red tiles of this rooftop we had, for some reason, not yet visited.
And, when she's done with me, I can only look up at her.
Then her fingers squeeze mine, and my heart remembers it should be beating.
"Through… Through the whole time I was bleeding, listening to you talk with Victor? I [knew] you would save me. I wasn't afraid for me for even a second, Liz, because I trust you that much. Because I love you that much. And… And the only moment I was [really] afraid was when you decided to stand up and stretch your arm—"
"Tay—"
"No. No, that was… That was what terrified me. That you would be more of a hero than you ever said you even wanted to be. That you would [offer up your life]. That's what scares me. That's what drove me to almost kill Victor, and only you being alive stopped that."
This time, it's me that squeezes her fingers.
And then I raise my other hand to brush back the cascade of dark hair framing bright, intense eyes that hold all the light I thought the world had been deprived of.
"If… If he had killed you?" I tell her. "If that bullet had been slightly off course, or if I had taken too long to react… I would've… I've told you about Rex. And you know I'm far from over it. You know I'll never be over it, because that's my trigger event, and those don't fade, not really, and… and…"
"Liz," she breathes, something in her eyes heartbreakingly soft.
"I would've done it. I would've made him kill his family, his friends. I'd have made him destroy everything he ever worked for, ever held dear, until there was nothing left of the man he had once been. I don't know how, but I would have done it. I would've made it his only option, his only way out, and then, at the end, I would've shown him the lie. How it wasn't. How he could've made things different. How he could've saved everything. I would bring back every haunting ghost of those he loved to accuse him, and I would end it with a message from his murdered wife.
"And then I would hand him… Something. Maybe a gun. Maybe poison. No, not the gun. I would have made it slow. I would've made his suicide into something enduring and agonizing. I would've made him weep."
She looks at me. At the ugly, broken woman. At the deranged villain. At the girl who went through something dark that marked her forever.
And she smiles.
"No, you wouldn't have," she says.
And, right as she leans down to kiss me yet again, I believe her.
***
The Moon's up in the sky, despite the Sun still not having disappeared entirely, and the half night is turning cold enough that even Taylor draped on top of me is not enough to keep me from wanting to get back into our former lair and maybe grab a hot shower before I'm forced to deal with three people who shouldn't ever live together unless through sitcom shenanigans.
But Tay's still on top of me. Still hugging me. Still offering me the occasional kiss.
So, despite the creeping chill, despite the tiles beneath my back not being quite forgiving, despite Brockton's sea breeze sending the occasional gust of something even colder than the approaching night…
I don't move.
I just caress her long hair and feel her warmth on top of my body, on my chest.
It's enough.
No, it's more than enough. It's what I want, what I need, and what I had given up hope of ever having.
So I look up at the pale, almost translucent Moon surrounded by dark blue that bleeds into it. At the drifting clouds tinted with red far away, where a dwindling Sun retreats. At things that are behind Taylor, and so less important than what's right in front of me.
"You don't have to worry so much," I tell her.
"Liz… We still don't know why they sent your mother here—"
I blink at her, and she stops before her eyebrow twitches.
"What is it?" she almost grunts out.
"I mean… I thought I told you?"
"I swear, of all the times for you [not to brag about knowing something—"]
"Sorry! I really thought you knew!"
"What was I supposed to know, [Honey?"]
I smile nervously up at her.
Mostly? Because I'm bluffing.
[Lisa Wilbourn's tendency to—]
Yeah, yeah, I know, but help me out here, all right?
[Current data—]
Okay, let's see if we can work through this real quick. Panacea sent my mother here, and the note stated that it was a direct response to me messing with her family. It implies she had an ally with information on me. It doesn't fit Panacea. It implies resources, delayed gratification, planning… Traits that she's never displayed before. So the plan isn't hers.
Somebody offered this as an exchange.
Either Panacea looked for someone to do the dirty work for her, something I'm pretty sure her mother would make all but impossible, or someone approached her. Someone who knew what happened at the bank? Maybe they asked for a prize, and Panacea thought of that.
So. A plan made as payment. A plan that's [personal], to reflect the personal nature of my own attack on her.
And nobody's been following my mother since she arrived. Nobody has stopped Taylor and me from moving to the Undersiders' base. Nobody has impeded any of my movements or tipped any of my hired PIs about us being under surveillance. Neither Taylor's swarm nor Power have caught even a hint of something amiss when visiting her father.
Which leads me to believe that… the plan's over.
…
How anticlimactic.
[Proportional response—]
Ah, right. That.
That means that Panacea's accomplice isn't a parahuman.
Which should narrow the suspects' pool substantially.
… Something I should work on as soon as I save the world. Priorities, and all that jazz.
"Well… I can tell you with Power's seal of approval that it's almost certain Panacea's plan is over. She just wanted to poke at my trigger event like I poked at her bundle of insecurities and dark secrets during the bank job," I finally tell my increasingly impatient girlfriend.
"… Power's seal of approval is what led you to come up with that ridiculous thing about you being asexual because boys have cooties."
[Taylor Hebert's propensity toward grudges and—]
"You just made him sulk."
"What?"
"Marry me."
[Lisa Wilbourn's propensity toward marriage proposals—]
Taylor blinks down at me.
I kiss her nose.
And, under a pale Moon, a befuddled fiancée, and with a grumpy voice inside my head, I laugh.
==================
This work is a repost of my most popular fic on QQ (https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/wake-up-call-worm.15638/), where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available on Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa?fan_landing=true)—as an added perk, both those sites have italicized and bolded text. I'll be posting the chapters here twice weekly, on Wednesday and Friday, until we're caught up. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated at a daily rate until it catches up to the currently written 89 chapters (or my brain is consumed by the overwhelming amounts of snark, whichever happens first).
Speaking of Italics, this story's original format relied on conveying Power's intrusions into Lisa's inner monologue through the use of italics. I'm using square brackets ([]) to portray that same effect, but the work is more than 300k words at the moment, so I have to resort to the use of macros to make that light edit and the process may not be perfect. My apologies in advance
Also, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Xalgeon, and aj0413. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and helping me keep writing snarky, useless lesbians, consider joining them or buying one of my books on https://www.amazon.com/stores/Terry-Lavere/author/B0BL7LSX2S. Thank you for reading!