Periodical Cicadas – Chapter 6

You know what nobody tells you about heroing?

The staggering amount of laws you're going to break.

In my case, that's one. So far. But given how new I am at this job, it doesn't bode well for my future. I may even end up jaywalking.

But before sinking to those lows, I should focus on the crime I'm in the middle of. You know, the one my power is uniquely suited to: stalking.

Maybe I should ask Noah and Audrey for some tips.

Because, so far, what I'm doing is sitting on a bench beneath a possibly not hostile tree that at the very least makes for a good ally of convenience against the dreaded sun of this place.

I'm inconspicuous. Perfectly innocent. No passerby has even given me a second glance and lived to tell the tale.

… It's the book, isn't it? People in this place don't think reading outdoors is something non-suspicious teenagers do. In my experience, they may even be right: I don't remember a single classmate from Winslow doing this.

Reading, that is.

On the other hand, none of my classmates at the school that's slightly less murderous than my current one were what I would define as 'non-suspicious teenagers,' so maybe it isn't the book. Maybe it's the pale girl from out of state who keeps glancing at Gustavo's house because it's really hard not to do so when my power is focused on looking for anything suspicious inside it.

Anything suspicious other than Brooke and him cuddling in bed the day after her former lover was violently murdered, I mean.

Sure, there could be an innocent explanation for that, such as childhood friends deriving comfort from each other's presence, but, really, childhood friends are overrated.

And likely psychopaths.

No, I'm not projecting.

…

Damn it.

Right, I'm already here, so I may as well do what I can to investigate.

Flies and ants sweep the house, their senses hopefully suited to finding any substance that shouldn't be there. I don't have an extensive catalog of those, but I at least recognize everything common that [should] be in a house, so anything outside of that will stand out enough that I can do some digging afterward.

I mean, my father works near a forensic lab. It shouldn't be that hard to find out whatever it is that doesn't fit.

Shouldn't it?

…

Isn't there an elective I can take for this? Entomological Forensics 101? It could save lives, people! Mostly, Ms. Lang's if it meant I could drop out of that psychology thing she teaches that keeps testing my patience.

After a single day.

I wonder how many weeks it will take me to stop resisting the urge to find out whether she has a bee allergy through the experimental method…

… I should start carrying epi-pens. And possibly Tylenol.

Tylenol could also save lives.

Mostly Noah's.

Right, focus on the bugs currently swarming my classmate's home in search of clues of him being a serial killer despite being the son of the only PRT officer in town. Which means if my guess pans out, I will have to check whether Gustavo's dad is an accomplice working to cover his son's tracks while closely working with my own father. That won't get awkward and have me obsessively stalking him all over the city, not at all.

Damn it, couldn't the superpowered slasher be more considerate of my personal problems? I don't want to stalk my dad, so at least have the decency of not involving him in your weirdly engaging educational art project.

I should also have a long introspective session about why I find myself having bouts of Stendhal's Syndrome when faced with murder victims. Because if it turns out this whole thing is due to me having a split personality and a much more useful powerset to go along with it, I'm going to be [pissed].

Really, the heroic personality shouldn't get stuck with the bug powers. That's not a hero's theme.

Someone may argue that supernaturally sharp, invisible threads don't seem that heroic either, but, really, the world may be better off with a hero wielding those, given how Brockton Bay looked before we left.

That is: like Brockton Bay.

Home is where the heart is. Especially if home is full of psychos prone to dismembering you and burying the remains in unmarked graves. Including your heart.

At home.

Thus, the joke.

And Audrey says I'm morbid. It's just a natural adaptation.

Like having a poor sense of smell in New York.

No, but really, couldn't these damn ants find anything more interesting than detergent traces? Why are these people so hygienic? Haven't they watched any movies with a teenage boy and a single parent? Don't they know the house should be a breeding ground for my armies to grow?

People can be so inconsiderate to their future Orwellian overlords…

Also, Gustavo's ink and paint make my flies dizzy.

Which could be a good smokescreen for—

Blood.

In the dresser.

Right. Don't panic. It's not like he's alone at home with the blonde that narrowly escaped death last night. Not like he very clearly demanded she be there. Not like I've seen him draw her with weirdly geometrical cuts that enhance her natural beauty in red over black ink.

Fuck, fuck, [fuck!]

They are still in bed, still clothed, just hugging and talking, and now I've got a very clear priority to learn to understand speech through my bugs, because there may be something vital I'm missing, and I can't afford—

There's a wasp frantically buzzing around my bench. Damn it.

Focus!

My flies won't be able to get inside the dresser, and my ants are too slow, but I could have them bite onto a fly's legs and air-carry them—

Done.

Set up a convoy. Flies going back and forth from the dresser to the bathroom and kitchen where most ants were already gathered. I'll need quite a lot of them if I want to map whatever it is that has traces of blood—

Traces. It's dry, maybe old? I don't know how concerning that is, but at least it's not a blood-drenched cape costume, so—

Small box at the bottom of the dresser. Hidden in the corner. Wood, with a latch.

The cover doesn't fit that well, so I can get a line of ants inside, and…

What is this?

A curved object… I could line up my ants around the outline. It has plastic and metal—

A razor. A shaving razor. The old kind.

You know, a completely harmless thing with no negative connotations at all. Like what Jack Slash uses.

… Right.

Should I keep panicking? It isn't precisely an innocent find, but having a razor with traces of blood… all over the blade… and splattered over the handle…

Right. Maybe not panicking, but [definitely] concerned.

So, take a deep breath, and let myself relax enough that I can think about this whole thing. I can keep an eye on Gustavo while I do so, and keep trying to ignore Emma's happy family life in the house in front of—

[Fresh] blood.

In Emma's home.

I run.

***

[Emma]

"You don't have to be here, sweetie," dad says with that gentle look he always uses when they do this, and both mom and Piper nod along.

There's a suitcase full of mom's equipment on the coffee table and a plastic tarp covering the sofa.

And dad is tied down to a sturdy chair with leather cuffs over his wrists and ankles.

"I know. I still want to be," I finally answer. Like I always do.

And he smiles a sad smile that I always think has a bit of pride and a bit of shame. Though the pride is all for me, because that's how dad works.

"All right," he says softly, almost a whisper.

And then mom puts a ballgag on him, Piper squeezes his hand, and the body starts thrashing against its restraints.

And dad is lying on top of the plastic tarp.

"Don't worry, the painkillers from last time are still working," he reassures me.

I'm used to it. To seeing him with that face I only discovered after I walked in on mom and him when I was ten years old, to hear a different voice come from him, but a voice that has same tone, the same cadence, the same caring and love.

I'm used to it, but I never get quite used to the blood.

Mom immediately sets up a transfusion, and Piper starts applying pressure to the wounds. The sutures carry over when he enters and leaves the body, but nothing else does, and certainly not bandages. Maybe it's because they are partially inside him, but we have never had the chance to experiment. Not when he's still healing, when it will take him so long to completely recover, and when he has so little time outside the body to wait for the one he was born with to recover.

I don't know how it works. I think he absorbs nutrients while he's in there, wearing the face I learned to call dad since I was born, but it seems like everything else stops, and scabs also don't carry over, so there's always fresh blood when he emerges.

He should've healed that much already. It's been years, so these monthly sessions should've accumulated enough that he should no longer be bleeding, but maybe it's a power thing. Maybe he keeps reverting to the state he was in when he triggered, maybe—

There's a roaring sound, and I turn around.

A cloud of wasps, and flies, and bees starts circling the room, and—

Piper is paralyzed, still applying pressure as mom turns to me with wide eyes.

And I really didn't want any of them to find out this way.

"Taylor! Taylor, stop; it's not what you think!"

Something hits the door hard enough it rattles against the frame.

And I can't help a bit of a smile at her frantic worry.

***

[Taylor]

"What the fuck are [you] doing here?!" I yell as I keep pounding on Emma's door.

"Following you after you looked shady as Hell! Now, why are you acting like you just witnessed a murder in there?!" Audrey answers with the same poise I am currently displaying.

"Because she has! Well, maybe not a murder, but definitely something. Blood-related? Is that how you knew Brooke was—"

"Shut up, Noah!" I scream, finally performing the ancient ritual that makes me an official resident of this town full of lunatics.

And murder.

And blood.

Open up, Emma!

I try to focus, and I split the cloud of insects around the bodies inside the house, leaving a passage to the door for the one that most closely fits her—

She runs toward me.

I almost slump in relief when the door opens, and it's her, and she isn't even splattered in blood or carrying art supplies.

"Thank God you—I mean, what the Hell?!" I very considerately inquire on her wellbeing.

Emma hugs me.

[After] I swear. I'm not yelling because of a physical display of affection.

For once.

"Can you stop your bugs and I will explain?" she asks, far more calmly than I would've expected.

"Oh! Bug control! That explains [everything]. You must've sensed the blood dripping down the lines with mosquitoes so—"

And Noah shuts up.

Not because Audrey smacks him or because I glare at him.

But because Emma [looks] at him.

… I am a bit in awe, truth be told.

Also, my bugs have retreated to the corners of the room, and Emma's mom is now behind her, arms crossed, a bit of blood splattered over a white apron.

"Sweetie, you [really] should warn us when you invite friends over," she says.

… I like this family.

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