Wake-up Call – Chapter 29 – Aimless Direction

"I used to admire you."

Those are Armsmaster's words. The last ones he says to me before he exits my office.

Former office.

I would usually be expected to gather my personal effects. To put them all in a little box and walk out of the building, a last disgrace for everyone to see the former PRT Director at her lowest.

Joke's on them: I don't have any personal effects.

The dialysis machine I keep at the office was already taken away yesterday; any sensitive documentation either shredded, tucked away days ago or prepared for my successor to quickly peruse. And the computer files were always backed up at my home.

My home. What a joke.

The only thing that keeps me company while I'm in there is the constant whirring of the machine cleaning my blood. Constantly waking up at night to the reminder of my weakness, my failing body, my constant—

This is useless.

I get up with a groan that I can never entirely suppress, my aching knees wobbling under a weight I can no longer work to lose.

My body is failing me because I can't take care of it, and I can't take care of my body because it's failing me.

It's been years since this cycle started, and it never fails to get an angry smile out of me when I remind myself of it.

I take a moment to steady myself, because I refuse to use a cane, to allow such an outward display of weakness even beyond what I'm already forced to parade around, beyond the disgusting sloshing of flesh that is no longer tight and fit, that no longer answers swiftly to my demands of it.

Years commanding others as I can no longer command myself.

The moment to steady myself passes, and I run out of excuses not to step out of my office.

"Directo Piggot—" Jasmine starts saying something, concern in her eyes.

She's… She's been good to me. Gratingly so, ever since she learned what my condition actually is.

"You don't have to call me that. Not anymore."

She looks at me, a brief look of discomfort flitting across her face.

"Ah… Emily, then?" she asks with a hopeful smile.

I find myself not getting angry at it.

"Of course, Jasmine." I don't smile at her. My face is no longer suited for it, not with the folds of flesh, the way my eyes sink into bloated—this is useless.

"I…" She looks uncomfortable. Bashful. "I'll miss working with you, Emily," she finally says and looks hopefully up at me, still sitting at her desk in front of my former office.

I've learned to read people far better since I got relegated to administrative work. It was useful in the field, certainly, but it never was my focus. Not when I had to master so many other skills, so many things that could save my life.

Decision-making is very different in those circumstances. You need to react in the moment, to take the chance when it presents itself. You follow protocol, follow orders, but, ultimately, you follow your gut.

Your thoroughly trained and educated gut.

In the office? Behind a desk? You have time to think. And you need to take it. To ponder pros and cons, to strategize, deploy assets, hold back, prioritize.

It's… If I'm honest, I was never very good at it.

But I still have had to learn. To read people, to understand them, to negotiate, to push, to hold back.

And I read Jasmine's well-meaning gesture. Read the fundamentally kind woman who feels bad about me leaving in disgrace, who always feels bad about others suffering, even in this city and with this job.

I know what she expects me to say. The usual platitudes about meeting for coffee sometime in the nebulous future. About growing our relationship into a friendship that never was before, because cordiality was where things stopped.

And I make a decision.

Or, rather, I let my gut make it.

"Likewise, Jasmine. You've been a wonderful secretary over the years. I envy my successor."

My tone is kind. It's also final.

And Jasmine has a slightly disappointed frown on her face before her polite smile returns.

We make a bit of conversation before I leave, never to see her again.

It's better that she has a moment of slight disappointment than that she saddles herself with a fake obligation. Or so my gut tells me.

I mean, it's grown enough lately that it would be foolish to keep ignoring it.

The ride down the elevator is quiet enough, the pointless display of tinkertech working as well as it usually does. The cost-benefit analysis keeps flashing through my head every time I take the damn thing, and it always makes me grit my teeth.

Not today.

Today, I just enjoy a smooth ride that doesn't jostle anything painfully.

Until it stops and Miss Militia walks in.

She glares at me, her scarf lowered so I can see her full face. She never liked having to rely on her eyes to convey the full breadth of emotion and was particularly resentful of that fact when it came to showing her displeasure.

I can't help a little smirk at it that I quickly hide.

"Not even saying goodbye?" she lets out with an almost growl.

"I'm leaving partly because of what you did. I thought you wouldn't want me to delay unnecessarily."

She clenches her jaw, the clearly defined lines of her muscles showing through taut, smooth skin.

She reminds me of myself. What I used to be. What I used to have.

I should resent her for it.

I never have.

"What [I] did? You kept Sophia as an active Ward."

"And you showed the world what a bad idea that was."

She glares at me while I take a deep breath.

I should've had Stalker shot.

Ideally, I would've done it myself, but it's somewhat frowned upon for a PRT Director to murder one of her Wards. Just another grating aspect of the job.

"Then [why?] Why keep a villain in the making on the payroll after learning what she had done? After knowing what she could do?"

There's anger there, but mostly… disappointment.

I remind myself she's a parahuman. A woman carrying a wound perpetually open, the glimmering handgun strapped to her thigh a constant reminder to herself and the world at large of not only what she can do, but what she feels compelled to do.

I think about little Hannah, walking through death, her fellow children pointlessly sacrificed around her until it was her turn to join them, until no hope was left, until she understood how little the world cared.

Until she shattered.

And the answer she found in that moment, the answer that would define her from then on, was a weapon to hurt others as she would've been hurt.

I've tried to dislike her many times, to remind myself that she's just another one of them, another flawed, monstrously powerful human being that will forever feel the need to use that power, to force it upon others.

I've never managed. She…

Damn it, is this a biological clock thing? How ridiculous would that be?

"To keep her on a leash," I finally answer.

I don't know why I even bother. It's not a good reason, not after seeing how easily the young thug slipped out of my control, but…

A part of me thinks Hannah deserves the answer she demands.

"That's it? No punishment for her actions, just keep her on the Wards and hope she doesn't do to her teammates what she did to her classmate?"

There's anger there. A lot of it.

And I've learned enough about reading people that I know she wouldn't carry so much of it if she didn't feel…

Betrayed, I guess.

"I'm not a good person, Hannah," I finally admit.

"What?" She looks shocked at the admission, the near non-sequitur.

I sigh, and I lean back on the elevator's wall, thankful nobody's interrupting this moment.

"I'm not. Not really. I'm efficient. I look at things, at problems, and do what I think is best to solve them. And… And if I was a good person, I wouldn't think like that. I wouldn't think Sophia was a problem, or an asset, but a person. I would've become indignant, surprised, shocked."

"You… You weren't surprised at what she did to Taylor Hebert."

"I knew the little psycho got her jollies off by nailing people to walls. What she did to Ms. Hebert wasn't much of an upgrade."

"The locker—"

"Disgusting. Repulsive. Monstrous. And no, I wasn't shocked."

She crosses her arms, shifts her weight to the back foot, her body at a slight angle to mine.

She doesn't realize it herself, but she's taking a combat stance, only her crossed arms disguising the fact.

Once again, I hurry to wipe the slight smirk she inspires in me.

"If you knew she was capable of that, that she was such a… such a [vile] thing, why did you keep her on the team? Why didn't you push to have her probation rescinded, send her to juvie?"

"Because I'm not a good person."

"That's not an answer, Emily!"

Ah. Emily, is it? So quick to discard my tittle, Hannah, so quick to look to the person behind it.

So quick to…

Never mind.

"It is, though, even if one you don't like. I kept her because she was an asset. Because, as long as she was under my control, she was one cape less fighting me over the city, no matter how little she brought to the table."

"You always said she was very effective in her solo patrols."

"And awful at everything else. Her negative influence on her teammates, the constant push against regulations, testing of boundaries? All in all, most of her value came from not actively working against us." I just slipped. This was never about 'us.'

"That turned out not to be the case." She doesn't capitalize on it. Either she hasn't noticed, or she's feeling far more charitable than she should.

"Precisely. And that's why I'm leaving."

She keeps silent for a moment, searching my eyes for something that quite likely hasn't been there since years ago.

"I thought your connections to Calvert—" she begins.

And I laugh.

"Oh, [please]. I warned everyone who would listen about the psychopath. I would've executed him myself if I had known where to find him and what he was up to." And could move well enough to manage the task.

"Then—"

"I haven't been fired, Hannah." I keep calling her that. She's the only one. The only one among them I can't bring myself to think of as just a colorful moniker. The one with a real name.

I must be getting soft in my old age.

"[What?"]

"I could've been. The option was obviously there, of course, but I've been at this a [long] time. I've contacts to resort to, favors to call on. I could've publicly eviscerated the goddamn moron who thought it was a good idea to hide Sophia's actions in her official reports."

"And you didn't." She holds my eyes with her own. Such pretty eyes, Hannah. It's been quite long since someone praised mine.

"I didn't." And I could let things end here. I want to. But, something in the way she looks at me…

I sigh, almost slumping against the wall, none of my military poise on display.

And I keep talking.

"I didn't, because I didn't solve a problem, but created untold ones. I've failed at my job in a way that just underlines how much of a losing battle I've been fighting in here. This is pointless. My job is pointless. My life's work is pointless. And Armsmaster and you just finally showed me how much."

I can see her throat moving as she swallows, and she looks to the side. Maybe there's a hint of shame in there.

It's misplaced.

"You did me a favor, Hannah. Now I can rest."

And that's it. That's just the actual reason for me leaving my position, the job I've sacrificed everything I had left to keep.

That I'm so, [so] tired.

I just won't tell her what it is I'm tired of.

"Emily…" she drifts off, not knowing what to say. Whether to keep berating me, condemning me for my actions, or apologize for making me realize how meaningless it all has been.

I let her search for the right words.

When it becomes obvious that she won't find them, I press the elevator button that sends me on my way once again.

Yes, I had blocked it when she started talking. I'm sentimental like that.

The doors open to the lobby. There are more private ones I could've taken, but it's important people see me leave, that they realize my ghost won't be haunting this place anymore.

That there will be a new director, one hopefully less liable to keep making the same mistakes throughout his whole career.

I step out of the elevator, and a hand drops on my shoulder.

Not showing my surprise, I turn back to look at Hannah, at her face once more covered by her scarf, at eyes trained to be expressive.

They aren't.

They swirl with emotions, with contradiction, and she doesn't know which way to lean. She just knows she doesn't want to let me go so easily, not without a last something, a moment of closure.

I'm far too sentimental.

"You… You didn't just do me a favor, Hannah. You made me proud."

She looks shocked, taken aback, and her hand drops.

A brief smirk leaves my lips, and I walk out of the place where I thought I would one day die.

***

My body is bloated with fluid, my breath short, an awful temperature boiling beneath my skin.

And I'm so thirsty that I make it worse by drinking another sip of water.

The awful noise of the dialysis machine is the only background to my elaborate breaths, the clear tubes that should be moving my blood through it empty.

I keep looking at it, thinking about chaining myself to the infernal thing for a few hours more, and, as my breathing grows more labored, as it turns to short, desperate panting, the idea keeps growing more distasteful.

My house is big enough. An appropriate display of wealth for someone of my position to impress the right kind of company with.

It has a pointless chimney that someone in my position would rather never use, not with how the smoke and the heat would provide anything but a pleasant distraction.

It is in working condition, though.

So I drag myself out of my armchair and go to it.

And grab the fire iron.

It's hefty and sharp enough, the hook at its end made to dig into wood. I could've easily killed a man with this once upon a time.

Resisting the temptation to use it as a cane, I walk to the machine that has kept me alive over the past years.

And then I strike at it.

The hook digs into the plastic carcass, not having damaged anything even remotely related to it being functional.

And my breathing is already unbearable.

This is what happens when you can't take air, the fatigue that comes from constantly drowning, always reaching for that bit more, always knowing what comes into your lungs isn't enough. You grow tired, so, [so] tired after every little gesture, feeling so close to death that you can almost touch it, that you can feel it beckoning. Knowing it would be so easy to just force things enough that it finally takes you.

My chest burns from within as I rest, as I reclaim my ability to keep being alive.

Then I lift the poker and strike once more.

I've aimed, this time. I'm not lashing out of blind rage, but methodically destroying the machine.

The hook has dug into the control panel, right beneath the bulky dial that turns it on. Its motor is still whirring, though, still trying to take my blood away from me.

I rest, slumping my left shoulder against a wall with a wallpaper I would've never used for my old apartment, but that the interior designer assured me was precisely the kind of thing I'd asked her for.

The reassuring cold of it is quickly replaced with my asphyxiating heat, but by then I can breathe enough once more to manage a third strike.

It's a slow process. A methodical take down not unlike what I would've planned when I trained in CQC, even if with a far more dilated timing. Assess your opponent, look for their weakness, and only strike when you're ready for it. Then wait and recover until the next chance comes by.

It takes me eleven strikes until the motor whines and dies down.

I smile, freely, as there's nobody here to be repulsed by the way it twists my face, and I drag myself to my armchair.

Then I take my phone out of the pocket of my housecoat.

"Director Piggot?" Brandish's voice answers, resorting to polite inquisitiveness.

"Hello, Carol. I feel I should inform you I'm no longer the PRT's local director."

"Ah… I may have heard about it. Is this a courtesy call then, Emily?" So quick to use my name. Maybe it's her training as a lawyer, or maybe it's years of resentment finally letting her drop any hint of respect the use of the title implies.

It doesn't matter. Because Carol Dallon is precisely the kind of parahuman I best understand. There won't be any conflicted feelings over this call.

"Not quite. I'm afraid my dialysis machine just stopped working. I was wondering if Amy would do me the favor of dropping by for a house call?"

The phone remains silent, and I allow myself a thoroughly unpleasant smirk.

She's thinking of all the ways she can answer that. Trying to get over the surprise of me finally asking this, finally asking for the favor to end all favors right after I stopped being powerful enough to make it worth it for them.

I can feel the lawyer pondering, weighing, the mother raging, and the parahuman wanting to lash out.

Yes. Carol Dallon is one of the easy ones.

"What brought this on?" she finally settles on.

"The fact I don't feel like dying?"

"Don't be glib with me, Emily; you could've asked for this [years] ago. You [should] have."

"Maybe. But years have passed, and we are here. Now. And I'm asking if your daughter can save my life."

Another silence. Another inner struggle. The rage keeps building up.

I allow a bit of my rasping breath to come through the phone.

"Fine. I'll let her speak to you. She doesn't do requests."

My smirk widens.

"Thank you, Carol. I won't forget this."

"How reassuring," she mutters, and the phone goes silent as she walks through the house.

There's a muffled sound of a conversation hinted at through a hand covering the microphone, and the phone changes hands.

"Piggot?" Panacea's surly tone greets me. She's also one of the easy ones. At least her sister pretends to be happy.

"Hello, Amy. I'm sorry to ask you for this."

"You don't say. I mean, I thought it was pretty obvious you were quite averse to the [idea]."

She tries to take a dig at me. It's precisely what I expected.

I lean back against the armchair, the leather comfortingly creaking, and I relax.

"I was, yes. But I no longer have the same concerns."

"And why should I—"

Because you aren't going to let me die, no matter how much you may like to pretend otherwise, child.

But also…

"I wouldn't ask if I couldn't offer something in return," I say.

And she pauses.

"I don't take payment for healing."

"That's a very noble, if stupid policy. Your services are valuable enough to warrant it."

"I'm not—"

"You're an individual with unique capabilities. That makes those capabilities worth a lot. Still, I wasn't talking about money."

"What do you mean?"

"The bank. The Thinker who tore you down and got your sister shot. I know how to make her life very interesting," I tell her, and I wish I was holding a glass of bourbon, even if just to savor the smell.

Soon, I'll be able to. It's not the thing I'm looking forward to the most, but it's quite high on the list.

The list I've been thinking about for years.

It… has grown quite long.

"I… I'll go to your house," Panacea says with a quiet voice that hides a lot of resentment. Resentment she doesn't realize is not quite aimed at the young blonde who tore down her world.

My smirk settles into a satisfied smile as I close my eyes.

"I'll send you the address," I tell her. And I hang up.

I allow myself a moment to rest from the conversation, to properly let the sensation of triumph sink in.

Then I once again drag myself up.

Walking is still a painful, cumbersome affair, but I can take it far more easily now that I know there's an end in sight, that this prison of flesh will melt away.

Because I'm not calling Amy Dallon in here just to tweak my kidneys. Oh, no, that would be too much of a waste.

I go to a room that I rarely enter. I set it up as a painful reminder, a manner of self-flagellation that makes me think about my own trigger event, my own wound that I try to impose on the world, even without any powers to do it with.

I enter the combination on the electronic lock, and I open it with a far lighter mood than I ever have since I set it up.

Inside, there's my old armor. My equipment.

My weapons.

And, soon, I'll be able to make use of them again.

And I will be far better at this than I ever was as an inefficient director trying to keep a drowning city from sinking.

Thank you, Hannah. I couldn't have done this without you.

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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 85 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!