Wake-up Call – Chapter 87 – Prisoners

[Panacea]

My ears hurt.

My ears hurt, my stomach feels like it's trying to crawl up my throat, my eyes sting, and I can't move my arms or my legs because—

I don't know why. But I can't.

I force myself to blink my eyes open, but it's a struggle, and even when I finally manage, I don't see anything until I think to look [down], my eyes feeling as if they're scrapping against the inside of my skull as I try to focus my sight on something out of it, and…

And the world blurs, [somewhat], in focus.

Then I have to close my eyes, and I have to do the whole damn thing from the start.

It… It takes me four tries. Four attempts until I finally see something other than an incoherent blur.

Until I see that I'm looking at my semi-transparent reflection over the inside of a plastic visor.

…

I am inside a hazmat suit.

I am tied [inside a hazmat suit.]

The urge to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all almost overwhelms me, and then… then I focus.

[Again].

Past the haze of the drugs still clearing out of my system, finally experiencing what I've seen so many patients go by, even if I was usually too impatient not to speed up the process.

Every thought feels like a struggle, and unexpected, nonsensical connections spring up as I keep trying to understand why I am so afraid, why being tied inside a hazmat suit is so unusual, why my power can't feel anything on my skin other than antiseptic, why the harsh noise of the ventilator giving me clean, sterile air is so menacing after…

No. Focus.

I… I am tied up. Good. No, [not good], but it's a start. It's something to…

To what?

Why am I here? [What] is here?

Oh. My eyes are closed again.

Damn it.

"It will clear up on its own; no need to rush," a reassuring voice says in front of me.

Above me.

I think?

So I tilt my head back and open my eyes again, but there's nobody there. There's just a white ceiling, or a ceiling that is white where circles of light clear away the shadows. Which means it's night. And the lamps are on.

It's night, and I'm staring up at a ceiling, which is what I would usually do if I was lying awake on my bed, but then the lights would be off.

And I'm not on my bed, on either of my two beds. I'm on a chair that feels like cushioned wood.

The inside of the suit is hot.

How much water did I drink? Anesthesia can leave you with your mouth dry, and dehydration would only compound on the feeling of disorientation—

"You won't dehydrate, Amy," the voice says.

It's a woman. A girl. [Someone].

"Calm down. Take a deep breath. Do you want me to guide you through some breathing exercises?" she says, gently and caring.

I nod. Don't know why.

"Okay. This is easy, just something to pass the time while your head gets clearer, all right? Imagine that you're in a sunlit field of tall grass. You are surrounded by the smell of a summer's afternoon, by a cool breeze gently caressing your warmed skin, by the waves of green grass swaying at the passage of that very same breeze. There's not a single cloud above you, only the wide blue sky, the Sun, and the grass sea extending in front of you as far as the eye can see. When the breeze reaches you, you take it in, inhaling the cool sensation, letting it spread inside of you, from your abdomen to your chest, and then down your arms and legs, until the tips of your fingers and your toes tingle with its refreshing, renewing sensation. And then you let it out, and the breeze goes out of you, taking away everything that isn't as fresh and new, making you feel like—"

I know the voice.

And the illusion of peace, the delicate waves of wind over grass, shatter inside my head.

"Tattletale," I mutter despite my tongue feeling like cork about to crack apart.

"Oh, that went quicker than I thought it would. Well, not really, but I sometimes try to be polite and pretend I don't know absolutely everything there's to know about the people I'm about to dissect. I'm courteous like that."

She… her voice is still coming from the ceiling, but—

"Ems, you're going to hurt yourself," Tattletale says with a chiding tone.

My eyes shot wide open, and I look down at—that's the window of my room—of the room in Emily's house.

And everything rushes back to me.

Being worried sick, Vicky tagging along, the… the [flashbang] grenade blowing up in front of us.

Flashbang.

Like [my father].

"Oh, I wasn't sure if I was being too subtle with that particular nugget. Nice to see it land," Tattletale says with spiteful joy.

Which isn't important.

I take another deep breath, forcefully pushing away any remaining notions of green grass in the summertime before I feel the urge to throw up, and I look to my left.

On that side of the window, Emily is gagged.

Tied to her own chair.

Staring at me.

I… I want to stare at the blonde woman in horror. To just let the fear sink in as I follow the white ropes crisscrossing her body over her loose shirt.

But I can't.

Because I have to look to my right. I have to make sure—

Vicky is there.

[Vicky].

Vicky, not tied up, not gagged, but wearing a thick black plastic collar with a red light blinking in front of it, like a parody of a choker.

Sitting down.

Paler than I've ever seen her.

And that includes the time I watched her almost bleed to death.

"Oh, right, how rude of me. See, I wasn't quite sure what to do with your dear sister, so… well, so-called Brute restraints are kind of a misnomer. There's only so much you can do to keep restrained someone who can fly and has a personal forcefield."

Vicky sees whatever it is that goes through my eyes and frantically shakes her head.

"What the Hell are you—" I try to say.

"A bomb collar," she calmly replies.

My breath stops.

Vicky nods.

"That… that won't work. She… she's invulnerable, you stupid fuck—"

"Language, Ames. We may be mortal enemies, but that's no excuse for poor manners."

"I'm going to turn your organs inside out! I'll make you digest yourself! I'll turn every single nerve in your body into screaming agony before I plunge them straight into your stomach's acid!"

"Oh, that's much more imaginative than giving me cancer, isn't it? Dear Ems has really helped you come out on your own."

I turn toward Emily so fast the helmet of my suit bobbles, but I can only see her strain, her fists clenched shut, her arms trembling against the dark red, thick, bulky armrests of her own chair and the silken cords tightly wrapped around her.

"Well, in her case, Brute restraints were enough. Guess you still have a few things to improve on with your original model, don't you?" she says.

"What the Hell do you want?!" I finally scream.

She tuts in parental disapproval, and I can only imagine how she will look when I seal her respiratory tract shut.

"For starters? [Language]. Seriously, Ames, this is something you should have already mastered; it's like you were raised by an emotionally neglectful parent and a clinically depressed, unavailable one."

My temples throb.

My jaw clenches so hard that I feel like my teeth will crack before I get the chance to learn how to reinforce them.

And I try to look around the room for any kind of clue about what—

[Is the fucking wall gone?!]

"Ah, yes. You see, Ems got somewhat antsy before we captured her. I can't blame her: after all, we pretended we had taken you hostage."

I… I blink at the spot in the ceiling where I think the voice comes from.

Then look down at Emily, who, despite the gag, despite her bindings, looks away from me.

"Ironic, isn't it? You were both so worried for one another that you ended up playing straight into my hand. You see, Amy, in a way, everything that's about to happen is the fault of you two and… Hmm… That may feel a bit convoluted. Particularly with how frantic you must be feeling. Let me dumb it down for you: worried people make mistakes. And both you and Ems were plenty worried."

"What the [Hell—"]

"[Language]," she says.

And her tone is no longer a mockery of parental concern.

It's… cold.

Threatening.

"What do you want?" I finally say, my heart beating hard enough that it's a struggle to keep my tone even.

"Hmmm… That's the question, isn't it, Amy? What do [I] want? Why would I go to so much trouble to hunt down three capes who are apparently completely unrelated to me? I mean, as far as dear Vicky knows, I got whatever revenge I wanted during the bank robbery, didn't I?"

She starts airily, relaxed.

And then her voice dips into pure vitriol.

"What do you think, Amy?" she resumes, "Whatever would have made me decide that, after all, you and I weren't quite done with one another?"

I look to my right, having to turn my head because of the limited peripheral vision the stupid hazmat suit gives me.

Vicky is staring at me.

Still pale.

But now… wondering.

I lick my dry lips, realizing that my tongue is finally no longer dry, that whatever anesthesia they have used on me may have finally cleared out of my body, even if, perhaps, only because of the sheer rush of adrenaline.

That's dangerous. That's precisely what you shouldn't do with a patient who just woke up. You need to… to ease them into being conscious, to monitor them closely, making sure nothing has gone wrong, that you didn't—

"Didn't cause any harm. Any unintended harm. That's the Hippocratic oath, isn't it Amy? 'First do no harm.' What did you think bringing up my trigger event was, then? [Exposure therapy?"]

Vicky's eyes widen.

My breath catches in my throat.

"Right, of course you didn't tell your dear old sister. After all, you're used to keeping secrets from her, aren't you?"

"Shut up—" Vicky says.

"You are wearing a bomb collar and are sitting right next to your sister. You will speak when I give you permission to, Victoria."

And, for the first time in my life, I see someone other than Mom manage to shut Vicky up.

I almost laugh in sheer hysteria.

"Truth be told, I [may] have inadvertently rubbed your own trigger event in your face, Amy. After all, I shot your sister, and my partner in crime assaulted her with enough bugs that you may have had flashbacks to what happened when the most important person in your—"

"Shut up!"

"Oh, dear, how quickly you forget your manners."

My throat hurts.

It hurts just because of my yell. Hurts more than the lingering discomfort in my ears. More than the thing digging against the small of my back that I just realized has been there since before I woke up.

And I aggravate it with every single ragged breath.

I look around the room, wishing for a way to glare at her. At Tattletale. To show her how much I hate her. How much I [despise her]. How much I wish to get my hands on her and reshape her joints into something that will only bring her excruciating pain with every movement she makes, to turn her every waking moment into a nightmare, to make her [live through it.]

She isn't here.

And she still chuckles.

"My, my. So emotive. So expressive. I wonder how nobody has gotten a clue yet of what it is that really goes on through that twisted mind of yours."

"What do you [want?!"] My throat hurts.

Again.

More.

"Well, Ames, I think I've given you plenty of clues already. Why don't you try your hand at being the Thinker putting the pieces of the puzzle together? After all, that's what you seemed to do when you brought [my mother] into this."

Vicky pales yet again.

So I look away from her.

Emily is… Her arms still tremble. She's still trying to break her bindings, but that's… that's spider silk. And she's tied in a way that leaves her no leverage.

That's what the human body is at its most basic level, you know? A set of levers.

So, Emily could destroy the thick arms of that chair without issue if she was free to move as she wanted, but now?

Now she may as well be as useless and weak as I am.

"I don't know what your twisted—" I start.

"I didn't ask you what you know. I asked you to [deduce]."

I bite my lip and try to do it lightly enough not to draw blood.

"I don't—you trapped Emily first," I say, deciding to change tack. To try something other than just having her needle me until I want to smash the back of my head against the backrest of Emily's thick, sturdy chair.

"Yes, I did."

"So you… you already knew that she…" I turn to look at Vicky, who's staring at me with… I don't know with what. "You know."

"I [do], Ames, but you're terrible at this whole thing."

"What—"

She cuts me off.

With a [sigh].

"The summation scene. You know how it goes: the brilliant detective gathers the suspects in a single location and explains precisely how the crime went down, what clues and reasoning allowed them to make the intuitive leaps that led them to the truth, to solve the case… Oh, dear, don't tell me you haven't even watched Columbo? What kind of Philistine are you, Amy? And you, Emily? What are you doing that she still has this terrible gap in her education? A woman of your age surely must be far more cultured."

The transparent visor of the suit fogs up.

And I, against my will, yet again face Vicky.

Because [she] likes detective fiction. She likes to guess before the movie is over, often wildly wrong, and sometimes annoyingly right, but only when she claims the movie isn't cheating.

And she looks at me with… realization.

I let my head hang forward, the plastic surrounding me holding my hair back so it doesn't fall in front of my eyes to hide my shame as I'm so used to it doing.

"Yes, that's more like it," Tattletale says with an almost [pedagogical] edge. "See how it's done, Ames? You let out enough information that your audience can follow along. Hiding things from them is just poor form."

She allows a bit of laughter to follow the end of the line, trailing off from it.

My shoulders shake.

It's not because of the laughter.

"If you don't start talking, [I will]," she says, tone once again cold.

Colder than it has ever been.

So I…

I lick my lips.

Look up at Emily.

And she nods.

So I turn once again to my right, to look at Vicky rigidly sitting on her chair, as paralyzed as Emily herself.

There are chunks of plaster and broken pieces of wood scattered under her. On the floor of the room I had called mine since… since not that long ago.

Long enough.

Long enough for this [to matter]. To make it feel like a violation of something that was supposed to be safe and [mine].

I look at Vicky.

She was never mine, after all.

"I… Remember when Piggot called, and Mom didn't want to give me the phone? She… She had destroyed her dialysis machine. Was about to die.

"That was the bait.

"What she actually offered? What she wanted from me?"

Vicky's lips thin into a pale line.

I nod.

"That's Emily Piggot. The new cape.

"The cape I made."

Vicky's eyes narrow.

And I continue before the blonde who isn't in the room can do so.

"She offered me a way to get revenge on Tattletale for the… for what happened in the bank. And I was still so angry that I took it. I just… I just wanted to hurt her. To have her know how it feels to have somebody threaten your family. To be that vulnerable, that [helpless…"]

I find myself begging.

Begging Vicky to understand. To accept this ugly part of me. To show me with her eyes that she forgives me even if I am twisted and hateful and broken. To…

I find myself begging.

And, because I don't deserve the things I beg for, I stop.

"That's a good start, Amy. But just a start," Tattletale says.

I wet my lips. Again.

And try to swallow the lump in my throat.

"It's… I… Emily knew Tattletale's civilian identity. Had a good guess on her trigger event. She… She told me what she thought was a good plan: breaking the rules, but not going past the line of being threatening, and… And…"

I look at Vicky. At my sister. Begging her to understand.

She's disgusted.

Like I always thought she would be, even if not for this particular secret.

"What your dear sister is trying to tell you, Victoria, is that she and former Director Emily Piggot conspired to send my mother a letter, telling her where her runaway daughter had fled to after her trigger event.

"A trigger event that involved her brother's suicide.

"A trigger event that turned her into one of the most powerful Thinkers you'll ever meet.

"A trigger event that made her father try to exploit her, not even having the decency to wait for Rex's body to cool off before the [fucking bastard—"]

She stops.

A ragged breathing comes across the speaker hidden in the ceiling, not even a crackle of static disguising the sheer struggle of a girl losing her… temper.

Composure.

[Mind].

"My apologies. It seems that I, for some unfathomable reason, am still not over the events that broke my mind to the point I gained superpowers. I'm only parahuman, after all," she says with a dismissive tone that couldn't be more bitter.

Emily strains against her bindings, the solid wood not even creaking.

Vicky looks down, avoiding my eyes.

And I…

I am afraid. Terrified.

And furious.

"So [what?] You have some trauma in your past, and that gives you the right to hurt whoever you want? Is this what—"

"Don't be [daft], Amy. I'm not hurting just about anyone: I'm hurting [you]."

My jaw clenches shut, and I have to force my words to go past it.

"And Emily. And my sister."

And then she cackles.

"Well, yes, of course I'm hurting them. Haven't you heard about women stuffed in refrigerators? That's how the villain goes about hurting the hero, Amy. Though, well… [officially], I am the hero in this situation."

"[What the—"]

"My plan killed Behemoth. I now have friends in high places."

I stare in incomprehension at the ceiling.

Then I look at Emily.

And she nods.

Something… my chest feels tight, oppressed, and my breathing quickens faster than I want it to, my head feeling lighter and lighter with every gasp, with every shallow—

"You're about to hyperventilate. Stop."

There's a rush of cold across the inside of my skull, and my body falls forward until only my arms tied around the backrest stop me from crashing—

"Green grass, Amy. Green grass."

I lurch back violently, the words a physical blow, but they still dig past my mental defenses, and I'm standing in a field lit by a summer Sun, a cool breeze washing over my bare skin, and…

And I…

I stop.

I hold my breath, my eyes closed, and I wrestle it back under my control.

"Victoria. Sit back down."

I barely register the noise of Vicky sinking back into her cushion.

And I keep my eyes closed so I won't look at her.

"Right. So, now you understand just how badly the two of you fucked up. Just [precisely] who it is that you've pissed off. You understand that I am someone who has managed the impossible, and how [trivial] it is for me to do whatever the fuck I want with you and get away with it.

"Oh.

"My apologies. You must pardon my French."

I almost laugh.

Instead, I talk.

"Do whatever you want with me, but leave them alone," I say, my voice tired, my eyes still closed, drawing courage from not being able to see them.

"And why would I do that when I can do whatever I want with [the three] of you?"

My eyelids clench tighter.

"Because… It's all my fault. I was the one who… It was [my price]. If I was another person, Emily would've offered another thing. If I was another person, Vicky wouldn't be involved."

"And why is that? What kind of person would you be that wouldn't make me try to push your buttons with your captive sister?"

I refuse to open my eyes even as burning tears try to slip past my lids.

"You know," I say with my voice hoarser than it was right after waking up.

"I do. Oh, Amy, my dearest, incredibly messed up, global threat Amy, [I do]."

I shake my head, denying something, even if I don't know what.

"Just… Just let them leave. Just do whatever you—"

"You still don't know how to play this. Explain, Amy, or I will."

I stop breathing.

"You wouldn't hurt her because I wouldn't be in love with her," I say.

And then I cry as hard as I've ever cried.

My body shakes, my wrists hurt against the ropes, and I can only let out wracking screams, things raspy and deep that hurt my throat when they come out, but not as much as I hurt myself just by… just by thinking about Vicky and what I can't see in her eyes. What I refuse to see, because the look of disgust will only make it more real.

And then, strong, firm arms surround me, and a hand behind my head buries the hard plastic visor of the hazmat suit against a soft chest.

I… I still shake, still sob, still hurt.

But I open my eyes.

And, in front of me, above me, framed by red-orange plastic, my sister looks down at me with uncertainty. With fear.

But also… But she still holds me.

"This is the secret I threatened her with at the bank, Vicky. This is what she thought would destroy your family. But I lied. Because I am a Thinker, my words are my most effective weapons, and I had to do whatever it took to save my own partner.

"So I threatened her worst fears.

"Her [stupid] fears[.]

"Tell me, Vicky, does this destroy your family?"

Vicky looks blurry through my own tears, and I can't quite make out what it is that goes across her eyes.

But she doesn't let go.

"You could never destroy anything between my sister and me, you fucking psycho," she finally says.

And Tattletale laughs.

***

We are… closer.

I'm still bound, but Vicky's hand is on my knee, and Emily is between us, arranged in the way Tattletale wanted us to be.

A triangle in the middle of the room.

"You issued a challenge, Vicky," the voice above the three of us says.

"That wasn't a challenge, and you fucking know it," my sister answers.

"Maybe. Maybe not. The thing is… you're kind of wrong, you know? I [could] tear the two of you apart. Not because of some objective fact but because of how utterly precarious Amy's mental house of cards is. It took only that little for me to unbalance her at the bank, and she's been teetering on the edge after that, constantly digging into something she had thought managed and under control."

"Amy's stronger than that. She—"

"She's been on the verge of burnout for months. She shackles her power and refuses to exploit it to its real limits, just healing people out of a sense of guilt and obligation, and the vague, sad hope that your very damaged mother will acknowledge her or, at least, not berate her for failing to live up to some impossible standard—"

"You know [nothing] about Mom—"

"I have studied you. [All] of you. I have devoted to you more time and effort than I did to defeating an Endbringer. I'm [not] bluffing when I say I know you better than you know yourselves."

My heart races yet again at… at the change in tone. At Tattletale once again going from reassuring and supportive to threatening and…

And [terrifying].

Vicky is also taken aback, the fingers on my knee briefly clenching without ever becoming painful.

Emily keeps struggling against her bindings.

… I really did a good job on her stamina.

"What do you want?" I finally ask. Again.

And Tattletale chuckles.

"Why, Amy, you forced me to confront my deepest trauma. The things I had been fleeing from since I triggered. I just wanted to return the favor."

"That's not how you work. You… You set goals, and pursue them methodically until—" Vicky says, her hand still warm on my knee, her profile stern as she looks up at the featureless ceiling only decorated by the circles of light that dim lamps draw on it.

"Oh, looks like [someone] has studied me in turn. Take notes, Amy; [this] is how the game is played."

"You took down Coil. Sophia. The Empire—"

"I did. And you know why I could take down the Empire after mere [days] of preparation when you couldn't do anything worth a damn after years of mauling people and having your sister cover up for your brutality and near-homicides?"

"I didn't—"

"You [did]. You two have one of the most toxic dynamics I've ever seen, and that's quite something coming from a Thinker who had to dig through the damn mess that the E88 was. And it [was], past tense, because they hurt my girlfriend, the woman I love, and let me tell you, Vicky, as resentful as you have been since your aunt was murdered, you have also been utterly ineffectual in your blind, suppressed rage that your empath boyfriend doesn't quite know how to deal with—"

"Leave [Dean] out of this—"

"He isn't here, is he?"

Vicky squeezes.

This time, it hurts.

I try to hold back the hiss, but something comes out, and she immediately looks down from the ceiling and at me, panicked at having hurt me like she always has been whenever she has had any kind of accident, whenever I tripped in front of her, or…

"Repressed rage, Vicky," Tattletale says, the tone as smug as I can imagine it to ever be.

"You fucking asshole, you did [this] on purpose," my sister answers, her fingers stretched open, only her palm resting on me.

"Maybe. Maybe I [am] that good of a Thinker. Maybe I have a script detailing each and every beat of this conversation, all of them inexorably leading to the grand finale of my master plan. Or maybe, just [maybe], you are an emotional teenager who has been constantly exposed to violence and trauma since an early age, and you don't know how to deal with your emotions.

"Just a possibility, Vicky."

"Stop it with the cheap therapy talk!"

And now, again, Tattletale laughs.

It's… loud. Long. Bitter.

"Cheap? [Cheap?] Oh, sweetie, you couldn't afford even a [minute] of my time. Be thankful I'm doing this pro bono."

And now Vicky smiles.

"So it [is] therapy," she says.

There's a muffled sound that reminds me suspiciously of a palm slapping a forehead, and then Tattletale laughs again.

Softer, this time.

"See, Amy? This is how you play," she says, the laughter not quite stopping.

"And what do I get for winning?" Vicky immediately says.

"Winning? Oh, this isn't even half-time. Still plenty of chances for someone to foul you, sweetie."

And Vicky goes from smiling to a hateful glare only half as intense as when she thought—what the Hell is she doing?!

"Vicky, stop!" I yell, trying to topple my chair toward her to distract her from—

The black collar snaps in half.

And Vicky lets it drop to the dark wooden floor between the three chairs.

"A taser?" she says.

"Yup," Tattletale answers.

"You… You are awful."

"Only to the people who threaten to kill the love of my life."

"That's a lie, and you know it," another woman interjects, farther away from the microphone, her voice somewhat muffled.

And then Vicky stands up and takes the helmet of my hazmat suit off.

I… I take a moment to just [breathe]. To feel air that isn't purified, that is filled with life and bacteria immediately killed as soon as they reach me. That—

"Leave Emily alone for now," Tattletale interrupts.

"Why should I?" Vicky says.

"Because this isn't over. The first hurdle was for Amy to confess to you. To realize that your love for her, even if different from what she feels, is not something as fragile as she always thought."

"And the second?"

"Now that would be telling, wouldn't it?"

Vicky stares hatefully at the ceiling.

Then down at me.

And, reluctantly, she sits down.

"Wha—are you [playing along with her?"] I finally say, Vicky capitulating to a villain shocking me enough to get me out of my silence.

She shrugs.

[Shrugs].

"I can guess where this is going. If she does something I object to, I'll just have to rip her spine out."

I… blink at her.

Tattletale giggles.

"Okay, it's always good to have an assistant in the audience. So… where was I?"

"You were mocking my impotent rage at the gang of neo-Nazis who murdered my aunt."

"Ah, right. I must confess that was a bit of a diversion—but you [do] need some anger management classes before you go too far with a civilian—"

"Gang members aren't—"

"They [are]. And many of them aren't there precisely by choice, Vicky. You want to be a hero? A hero is a savior, not an avenging angel, and that nicely leads us to dear old Emily."

To my left, Emily's fists clench.

They don't stop vibrating in restrained fury.

"See, in a way? In an incredibly toxic, dangerous way? Emily here has been good for your sister—"

"Are they—" Vicky interjects, a hint of her most gossipy tone diluted into the calm rage of her tone.

My cheeks burn.

Despite the danger. Despite the sheer terror of the past minutes. Despite the voice in the back of my head constantly yelling that Vicky [knows] and it's only a matter of time before she throws up in disgust…

Vicky wants to gossip about my supposed torrid romance with the new cape.

…

I want to die.

I want to die, be buried in an unmarked grave, and flee from the mockery that will haunt me long after my violent passing.

"No. Or, well, not [quite]. See, Amy has rebuilt Emily's body in a way that's basically induced a new puberty, so the poor woman is constantly bombarded by urges she thought long forgotten. She's rediscovered a new libido and, seeing as she basically has no social life other than the people she beats up and the girl who keeps remaking her body… Well, let's just say it's a good thing her new uniform isn't a black leather harness and a whip."

I blink in incomprehension.

Vicky blushes.

… Oh.

"So, a one-sided crush from somebody whose age is… questionable? How does that… she's both a teenager and a woman in her forties? That's… Ugh, Amy, only [you…"]

"It's not one-sided," Tattletale says.

And all three of us stop.

For the first time since I woke up, Emily isn't furiously trying to break apart her chair.

Vicky isn't looking at the ceiling.

And I, free from the restricted field of vision of the hazmat helmet, stare with burning intensity at my knees.

"Oh, [come on]. You've already confessed your deepest shame; is it really that hard for you to acknowledge that you get a thrill out of Emily allowing you to reshape her? That whenever you touch her and feel her heart rate spike, yours does precisely the very same? That you indulge in plenty of fantasies about what it would be like to have a woman with a body perfectly tuned [to yours] barging into your bedroom? That the room you're in right now has been used for things slightly less innocent than [sleeping]?"

"What the—[Amy!] You've had lesbian sex and haven't told me—"

"I [haven't!] She's talking about touching myself—[fuck!"]

"Welcome to my life," the distant voice on the other side of the microphone mutters.

"Stop interrupting, [honey]," Tattletale says with, perhaps, the first bit of annoyance I've heard from her since this whole thing started.

"She's already had her breakthrough; you're just rubbing it in," the voice scolds in turn.

"No, no, Tay, I'm not the one who's doing the rubbing. Not in [that] room."

"Will you stop talking about my masturbating habits?!" I, for reasons that likely have to do with accrued stress, blurt out.

And the psychotic blonde who has made me believe Vicky was wearing an explosive collar [laughs].

"Maybe. Just… Look, Amy, I admit this isn't as gratuitous as you may think. That there's a method to my madness. That I only pushed this hard because it was the only way I could see for you to, [in a reasonable timeframe], confess your big secret and realize just how little it mattered."

"That's plenty of confession. You almost seem Catholic," Vicky says, her open palm still resting on top of the plastic covering my knee.

"Sorry, I already have too many voices crowding my head to add regular prayer to the whole mess," Tattletale answers.

"I… I am [not] reassured by this comment," Vicky comments. Apparently not reassured.

"You and me both," the muffled voice adds.

And I look at Emily.

At Emily, looking at me, her eyes as intense as they've ever been.

Her fists aren't shaking.

Her hands are open.

And she looks…

She's wearing her college girl get-up, the one with a loose t-shirt over a sports bra and leggings. The one that makes it perfectly apparent just how… [perfect] my work on her has been.

The front of the white shirt sticks to her, the layer of beaded sweat making it darken with the tanned skin below.

She's breathing calmly. Deeply.

And keeps looking at me.

So I…

I lick my lips.

And I say:

"I'm sorry."

She shakes her head.

"No, no, please, let me say it. I… I blamed you for what I was doing, for how you pushed me into breaking my own rules. For how I felt when I did. For… For being better to me than most of my family has ever been."

She closes her eyes, almost languidly.

And I keep talking.

"Emily, I… I… I [care] for you. You make me feel [safe]. Valued. You… You have taught me so much, told me so much, convinced me that I am worth more than just a few spare doctors… And I kept feeling guilty about what we were doing. About what I felt. About what I felt [from you] when I touched you, molded your body…

"I…

"I was terrified that I was doing something I didn't mean to do. That those hormones were unnecessary. That I had tweaked something that fit my wants rather than your needs. I… I couldn't stomach the thought that, maybe, the first person to care for me like you did only did it because I forced her to.

"And I don't know how to be sure that I haven't. I don't know if I have slipped and convinced myself I didn't. I don't know if…"

I trail off.

She's looking at me.

Gently shaking her head, her short hair swaying with the side-to-side motion, the golden strands glittering in the dim light.

"You don't know," Tattletale says, intruding on the moment. "[I] do."

I swallow.

Wet my lips.

Almost pray.

"So, have I—"

"Don't be stupid."

I blink.

Emily rolls her eyes.

"I [just] told you: you're the only positive social contact she has, the girl who rescued her from the slow, agonic death of her failing body, the one who gave her back her dream of being a warrior in the field rather than a bureaucrat behind a desk. You are a snarky, incredibly powerful, blissfully unaware, cute girl. You are literally unique, one of a kind. Do you [really] think mind control is at all necessary for poor Emily here to get the most inappropriate crush of her life?"

And, before I can formulate any answer, the gag falls away from Emily's mouth.

She immediately goes rigid, jaw clamping shut.

"Tell her, Emily," Tattletale demands.

"You are going to pay for this," Emily answers.

"I am not. Not unless you want me to expose just how many of your old contacts in the PRT you've been exploiting for intel to use on your little private war."

"You kidnapped and threatened—"

"The girl you're trying to be a parental role for while shielding her from your own inappropriate crush. Now [tell her."]

She clenches her jaw in the way she always does, the one that doesn't quite fit her newly symmetrical teeth, with the masseter muscle on her right cheek standing out more than the left one.

I could correct it; tweak her sense of proprioception.

But I always thought it was… kinda cute.

"And if I don't?" the stubborn woman asks.

The [other] stubborn bitch has the gall to, [again], sigh.

"Then you won't contribute anything to what I want to get out of this spirited evening."

Emily's eyes narrow until I can barely see any white as she glares up at the ceiling.

And then she looks down at me, and they soften.

"Amy… I like you. As a person. As a growing woman. I think you're an amazing person, and you will change the world. I think… I believe everything I told you before the Behemoth fight. I believe that you're one of our great hopes, and I will be proud to help you every step along the way."

My throat clenches.

And it would be so easy not to say anything right now…

"But… But I—I'm a mess. I—you [know]. I just… I just confessed… My [own sister], Emily—"

"You were adopted."

To my right, wood splinters.

I look, and Vicky has, thankfully, crushed the armrest of her chair rather than my knee.

"That doesn't [fucking matter]," she says, more hateful than at any time since I woke up from the flashbang and anesthetic gas.

"You're still sisters," Emily says with a tone completely lacking in apology, "but she's been isolated from an early age, and she imprinted on you as the only person who ever showed her unconditional love and support—"

"Did you [study me?"] I ask her, incredulous.

She looks at me like I'm slightly dumb.

Which, to be fair, is an improvement from how other people look at me.

Stupid doctors and their stupid, [useless] degrees…

"Amy, I [asked] you to remodel my entire body, and I offered you precisely the one thing that would get you to agree to it. [Of course] I had five profiles on you. Every potential S-class threat in the making has that much [at a minimum]."

"My sister is not a—"

"Your sister, Victoria Dallon, believe it or not, is one of the very few people I can realistically see ending the world by herself. Your family has wasted so much of her potential on petty 'charity work' that it should be outright criminal," she says, trying to add the dismissive gesture I know so well and getting frustrated at the ropes getting in the way.

"She saves [lives]," Vicky spits.

"And how many more could she save developing cures? Healing the ecosystem? Creating [crops]? Saving a few people in the hospital for some very limited hours every few days to avoid running afoul of the laws for underage, unpaid labor, when she could be eradicating entire plagues? What kind of moral calculus is that?"

"It's not about calculus! You… Doing the good you can for those in front of you [is] valuable! You can't just… just turn it into soulless numbers, or you end up heading into 'a million is a statistic' territory!"

I blink at the two blondes.

And then I look up at the ceiling, searching for guidance in the most unlikely place I could ever find it.

"This has gone [entirely] off the rails," the distant voice says.

"Well, yes, it has. But I think both of them have some good points, and I myself have always wondered how to better balance those two viewpoints—"

"Liz, [this has gone entirely off the rails."]

"I hear you, and I acknowledge your perfectly valid concerns, but—"

"Tell them whatever it is that you want to say before I cut off the coms."

And Tattletale, supervillainess, world-class Thinker, slayer of Behemoth…

[Sighs].

"[Fine]. Amy, now that you've gotten your feet wet with your horrific crimes against the natural order, I think the next step would be to turn your father's brains inside out."

The two bickering blondes on each side of me stop and look up at the ceiling.

So do I.

"Phrasing," the distant voice comments with a tired huff.

"That's not how that joke works, but points for trying," Tattletale answers.

And I, with my wrists still hurting from when I hung from my restraints, with my throat sore due to my desperate screaming, with a lingering headache that is most likely due to the mild dehydration caused by the anesthesia…

Blink up at the ceiling.

And I wonder precisely what flavor of insanity I stepped into when I decided to cave someone's head in with a fire extinguisher.

==================

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 95 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: LearningDiscord, 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!