Chapter 7

Chapter 7

 There are five minutes until the end of the lesson, and I desperately yawn to myself, hiding behind my open textbook. As for me, they are going too far here with this "cape studies", it is clear that the appearance of parahumans has seriously distorted the landscape of social and political life, but that is what social studies, sociology, economics, jurisprudence and who knows what else exist for. For example, there is an act that actually prohibits the participation of capes in politics. In my opinion, this is pure discrimination. This is explained by the fact that a cape master or a cape ruler can take advantage of their "unfair" advantage over other politicians. At the same time, no one says that one politician has a pleasant appearance and, say, a soft baritone, which is so well perceived by voters, while another is terrible as a mortal sin, and even has a lisp. So what? Remove the unfair advantage, make them both scary and have a lisp? Or simply ban beautiful people with a pleasant voice from participating in elections? Nonsense? Nonsense.

Let's say Taylor wanted to go to the local municipality, so she wouldn't be able to go like Ladybug or Roy, but only like Taylor Hebert. And as soon as it is revealed that she is in fact a cape, the election results will be cancelled. The Johnson-Mattier precedent passed through the Supreme Court and was approved on appeal. And the point here is not that this is all wrong and illogical (although it is wrong and illogical), the point is that why the hell teach cape studies at school? Here is the Johnson-Mattier precedent in jurisprudence, the influence of capes on global markets - in the international economy, violation of physical laws by abilities - accordingly in physics, and so on. 

Capeology is a kind of Hitler Youth and Boy Scouting, pure propaganda. Capes are cool, they have such abilities, there are villains and they are bad, but there is a Triumvirate, it will save us all. If you become a cape, welcome to the PRT, only there they know what to do in such cases, and if you don't turn to specialists for help, then anything can happen to you. Well, the most important message is that you can't kill people, yes. This is very, very bad.

I yawn and think that in my case this is already a lost battle. Lung and thirty-seven of his men. Oh, yes, I intentionally say "thirty-seven men", and not "bandits", "henchmen", "thugs of the APP". The first thing they do to make it easier to kill is to dehumanize the enemy. Dehumanization. This is not a person at all, but a fascist, bosch, fritz, commie, gook, whatever. No, doing it like this is like hiding your head in the sand. Even Lung was also a man. Was. But here I am approaching the topic from a very practical point of view - after all, the commandment sounds a little different. "Thou shalt not kill"? No. "Thou shalt not kill, except..." and there is a whole list of socially approved murders. Is killing bad? What about the Murder Warrant? What about killings in war? Cases of self-defense? Urgent necessity?

So, with a clear conscience, I put the precedent of the liquidation of Lung and his people in the "extreme necessity" column and put a note "maybe next time it won't be so... radical." And we put the case in the archive. What happened, happened, there is no point in scolding yourself. Here we are more concerned about our own decision-making mechanism, and not in order to sprinkle ashes on our heads, but in order to prevent negative consequences in the future in the form of the same Murder Warrant. 

There were two things that happened that surprised me. They put me on guard. They attracted attention. The first was when I attacked Lung and his men. The second was when I came out from behind the dumpster with the decision already made to liquidate and devour the Undersiders.

Both were strange. Not typical of my way of thinking. When I saw Lung and the armed people next to him, I still didn't know how exactly my neurotoxin would act, I hadn't tested these weapons in the field, on living people, especially on capes. Yes, I tested it on mice and rats, which were found in abundance in the Brockton Bay sewers, but these are completely different things. In hindsight, I already know that the neurotoxin had an incredible effect on Lung, as well as on ordinary people, but I didn't know it then! And therefore the idea "let me attack one of the most powerful capes of the city, surrounded by his armed supporters, while I have a penknife as my weapon" was frankly idiotic.

And I don't consider myself an idiot... although, apparently, I'll have to reconsider this opinion. Once again, the most reasonable decision would be to collect more information, and not rush headlong into battle. Even more reasonable - to quickly run home, it's not my business, why interfere. If Lung had killed the Undersiders, if Lung had been killed by the them, it would be a plague on both houses, I don't care at all. I don't have any special sympathy for either Lung or the Undersiders, but come on, I broke into a fight like a drunken big guy at the entrance to a bar on a Friday night. It felt like right on a physiological level I wanted to fight. Not just to fight, but to test the heroic strength, straighten your shoulders, stretch, test yourself, walk over the edge... like an adrenaline junkie. As if somewhere inside someone is pushing you under the elbow. No, not like that... as if you were thirsty... this thirst is familiar to me. When the power overwhelms you and you go to your enemy, wanting to trample him into the ground and knowing that you will do so, that you have more than enough strength.

And now, hand on heart, I cannot say that I was driven by a sense of justice or a desire to protect the "kids," no. I was driven by this feeling, the desire to rush into battle, not even through insects, but personally, right into hand-to-hand combat with Lung, as if I were three meters tall and had arms of steel. And only my logical part prevented such idiotic impulses... although not completely.

The second case was when Gossip Girl came out to me, and I came out to her. It was an idiotic decision, I admit. But here I share the palm in the "Idiot of the Year" nomination with a pretty blonde in a purple suit. She knew who I was, knew what I was capable of and still decided to come out to me. It's hard to think of a more idiotic solution. If I had slept with her, I would have decided that idiocy was sexually transmitted... or that another idiot had bitten her. It's hard for me to even say what line Gossip Girl walked. After all, I came out from behind the dumpster with the firm confidence that I would kill them all, what do I have to lose, in for a penny in for a pound. 

Four more corpses, plus or minus, won't make a difference. So we can safely change the "Thinker" category to the "Idiot of the Year" category.

In these cases, I behaved... not as I should have. Yes, and the situation was unusual, yes, it happens when people do such stupid things, as if someone had pushed them under the arm... but still. The most important difference from the usual idiotic choice in the evening in a bar, when you look at a bigger guy and prescribe a hook to his jaw, without even bothering to find a reason, is that I remember my condition. I did not feel anger, rage, resentment or other strong emotions. I simply considered the attack option as theoretical... but I didn't have time to really think it through, when for some reason it seemed to me the most reasonable and appropriate at that moment in time. It was as if my mind was clouded.

- Well, I'm glad that everyone managed to do their homework, - the teacher's words sound somewhere on the periphery of my attention, but I don't pay attention to them. Soon the bell will ring, and I admit to myself that this is probably why I went to school today - to think carefully about what is happening. For some reason, I think best while listening to this constant droning of teachers in the background while sitting at my desk. There is also a library... but at home it doesn't work out that way anymore; at home I immediately start cooking, cleaning and raising queen terminator ants. Already the sixth generation!

- Everybody's free! - the usual noise is heard, someone speaks, someone gets up, moving a chair, textbooks are closed, rustling, laughter, stomping. Someone is already in a hurry to jump out the door, the girls gather in groups and whisper about something, bursts of laughter are heard, Mr. Gladly closes his magazines and gets up from the table, buttoning the buttons on his jacket. I'm sitting still, I still have plenty of time. I won't rush, I'll be the last one out, I have something to think about. Like – what the hell is happening to me? Is this really a psychological echo of the original Taylor's personality? She was offended and mocked, and this desire to organize a crusade for justice was absorbed into the subcortex, into the subconscious? And now it comes out at the most inopportune moment. What if the original Taylor still lives on not only in the form of memories of events, but also in decision-making mechanisms? This is very, very bad, because it will mean that I actually don't control myself, that I want to solve the matter peacefully, for example, and Taylor will immediately give me a kick. And what? How to live with that? 

However, so far there is little data, maybe my hysteria happened against the backdrop of a hormonal storm, for the first time it was combat conditions, there are big men shitting themselves, it's forgivable for a girl. We will not draw conclusions based on individual cases, we will continue to observe, and if an inexorable trend emerges, we will take action. Lobotomy there... or LSD. Huh. 

And yes, from now on, before making decisions of this caliber, double verification is required through the "why the hell do I need this" procedure and nothing else. And... something pushes me on the shoulder, and some kind of liquid floods my face and hair. What the... anger and rage flare up inside me, I can barely restrain myself from jumping to my feet and grabbing who... who?

Emma is standing at my desk and holding an empty plastic bottle. The label on the bottle says that this is the number one grape juice in the whole world.

- Oh! I think I stumbled... - she says in such a sugary voice that it becomes sickening: - I'm sorry, Taylor. Although you don't seem to care, you're so ugly that no one will notice.

Madison Clements stands behind her, along with two other girls who obediently giggle at her simple joke. Sofia is nowhere to be found; capology is not on her list of subjects. 

Sticky juice runs down my hair and clothes, drips onto textbooks and notebooks. I look at Emma and grit my teeth. I just decided not to act impulsively, so I exhale, count to three and calmly make a decision. Once. Emma tells her friends that she might have simply confused me with a trash can, because "that Hebert" looks like that and smells even worse. Two. I see Mr. Gladley shyly look away and hurried away, picking up the magazines and tucking them under his arm. Madison interjects that maybe "that Hebert" liked it, how eyes widen. Maybe she should add, she also has soda, though it's just cola, but beggars can't be choosers, after all. Three. 

Okay, I think, I counted to three, went through the options in my head, didn't find any control modules, everything that's happening to me now is my own choice.

- Emma, - I say, attracting her attention: - if only you knew how long I've wanted this...

- What? – her mouth curves into a grin, she wants to say something caustic, but for me the time for words has passed. I shift my body weight onto my right leg, step up with my left, turn my body and with all my weight, with all my strength, I slam my elbow right into the bridge of her nose! A short and strong blow, I feel something crunch under my elbow, reverberating into the bones. If it were on the street, I would immediately add a couple more, but this is school and this is Emma... that's enough for her. The blow knocks her off her feet and she flies off like a rag doll, clutching her face. Clements and her friends freeze, not believing their eyes. 

I look at Emma. She seems to be alive, moaning and tossing and turning on the floor. I calmly collect my textbooks and notebooks in my backpack. I will never set foot in this school again. I throw my backpack over my shoulder and, not paying attention to the grape juice dripping from my hair, I leave the class. Madison shouts something after me. I stop at the door and glance at her. She immediately shuts up. 

I grin. Emma and Madison chose the right time, calculated everything almost to the second, there are no teachers in the class, it's a big break, you can mock me as much as you want. However, now this is working against them - none of the teachers are around, no one can stop me. Until now, such thoughts had never occurred to them, but now... I might as well go back.

I walk along the corridors, not paying attention to those around me. The students give me surprised looks, I'm still dripping with sticky juice, and I'm raging inside. Idiots, I think, and why can't they live in peace? Is it really that peace can't be afforded? They chose who to quarrel with, morons. The Darwin Award weeps bitter tears for them. I add a step. Well, I relaxed, I completely forgot to keep an eye on the marker fruit flies, although we were in the same class, our movements were natural - towards the exit. So I didn't track it. And now - Sophia Hess's marker has become closer to Emma and Madison's markers. He got closer, and then accelerated - towards the exit from the school, across from me. I can completely avoid meeting her, but... the gestalt needs to be closed, at least I owe this to Taylor.

I quicken my pace. My insects are searching the area near the school gate exit. Not this, not that... not that. Yeah, here it is. Coming out of the gate, I head towards the road, go down into the ditch and pick up a piece of iron pipe. I would never believe that it's just a pipe, it's very neatly cut, and the length is just right – about the size of a forearm. Surely one of the schoolchildren dragged it for some brawl and then threw it into a ditch, as something went wrong. However, it's just right for me now. I track Sophia's marker, move the fruit flies over her body so I can get an idea of ​​her every move... she runs towards the exit of the school. What. I stand with my back to the gate and continue moving forward, my swarm has already found a suitable place.

- Hebert! Wait! - a shout from behind. Yep, our champion finally ran out of the gate and noticed me. Great. I quicken my pace, as if trying to escape from her, and turn the corner.

- You will not leave! - scream again. Sofia's markers are speeding up, she runs like a professional athlete, she is in good physical shape. What a pity. Another corner, around the bend there is a small concrete patch, a dead end with garbage containers. My insects take full advantage of this, it's not surprising that there are such a cloud of insects next to the trash can, right? After all, if Sofia really is a cape, then I might need some heavy artillery. Although it is still advisable to do without it.

- Hebert! – there is bubbling rage in her voice, she is very close. An amazing thing is my ability. Multitasking. Right now I can feel her every move, her breath echoing in my fruit flies that are sitting on her body, I can feel her running to the corner and at the same time lifting a piece of water pipe to my shoulder, like baseball players. A short trajectory calculation, I twist and...

- Tum! - a dull thud and a subsequent howl! Sofia is a tough nut to crack, she doesn't lose consciousness, but a blow to the knee with an iron pipe is not something you can paint on a fence. So our champion falls head over heels onto the concrete, not even having time to put her arms out and rolling head over heels!

At some point she flashes and disappears, then appears again. Hm. The theory is confirmed. 

- You bitch! Bitch! – Sofia growls, clutching her knee, her face is broken, blood is flowing from her nose: - Hebert! I'll kill you, you won't live!

- Do you know what I will do to you, Sofia? – I ask, walking up to her and weighing the pipe in my hand. I pat it on the palm of my other hand. 

- You won't dare! – the tone changes. Sofia realized that right now, with a broken knee, she is not my opponent. Especially if I have such a convenient piece of pipe. Now I would like a baseball bat, but oh well, in the absence of a stamp, we write on a simple one.

- Don't worry. You've had enough for today. I just wanted to remind you, Sofia... - I throw the piece of pipe aside and dust off my palms: - that Kneecaps are a Privilege...