It always struck me what a stark difference there was between this facility and PRT HQ in the city. The PRT tower downtown was more of an office building; it was secure but still businesslike and approachable. People wore suits, not uniforms, and the air buzzed with meetings and conversations. The rig, by contrast, was unmistakably a military-style installation. Security was even tighter; officers in full combat gear patrolled the halls, and the atmosphere was strictly professional, with little to no idle chatter. No informal gatherings in the halls or offices. Even the elevators were different. Stark and utilitarian, more like a cargo lift than something to transport people. The elevator chimed upon reaching my floor, and I stepped out.

  The administrative floor was more like what I most often worked with in the tower, but there was still a difference in the atmosphere. It was quieter, more deliberate. I walked up to the reception and introduced myself. They were expecting me and led me into a conference room. I noted that the door had indicator lights by the handle, and there was a slight delay between when the receptionist turned the handle and opened the door. A locking mechanism clicked in the door, and then it opened. I stepped in, and it closed behind me, latched, and beeped.

  I had assumed this was just a standard debrief, a rundown of Sunday’s events and the information we’d gathered. But the moment I saw who was in the room, that assumption wavered. Armsmaster and Miss Militia were present, as was Officer Collins. No surprises there. What I didn’t expect was Director Piggot herself and two people in sharp suits that wouldn’t look out of place in a boardroom.

  Director Piggot was the boss. The big boss, the head of the entire PRT division here in Brocton Bay. And while it wasn’t unusual to see her in meetings, she didn’t waste her time on minor things. Most of the Wards found her intimidating and cracked jokes about her appearance in private. They called her “Piggy” because she was quite obese, although none of them would ever dare say that in her presence. I thought the name was childish. I’d never personally had a bad interaction with her, and in my dealings, she was always all business and no-nonsense, like Officer Collins. I respected that.

  She only shows up for big stuff or if something really went sideways. Why is she here now? I suppose the results of our investigation and proof of arms trafficking in Brockton Bay would be a big deal.

  She spoke up and indicated a seat next to Officer Collins at the table: “Please have a seat, and we’ll get started.” I glanced around the faces in the room as I was moving and getting seated. It was a bit strange, I felt like there was a tension in the air I couldn’t quite account for. I thought back to my conversation with Hannah early this morning. Was I about to get chewed out?

  Armsmaster spoke next: “We’ve gone over the evidence you gathered and the footage of your interactions with the ABB.” He turned in his seat to look at me, his visor obscuring his upper face and making it hard to get a read on his expression. “Good work overall, but I have a few questions for you.” I nodded and cleared a few strands of loose hair from in front of my face.

  “Why did you feel it was appropriate to fight with Oni Lee?” His tone was level, but I felt the weight of the question. “He is a known terrorist and serial killer. We have him classified as a Do Not Engage for good reason. You’re competent, Morgan, and I am going to assume you knew this in advance.”

  Oh hell. I cleared my throat. “I tried to disengage and get away, but with his teleportation ability and mover rating, I didn’t think I could outrun him. I attempted to stun him to buy time, but that failed. I didn’t have a good means of breaking the line of sight in a wide area fast enough to matter. I- I made the decision to try and injure him or knock him out so I could get away from the rest of the ABB. I just want to say, also-”

  He raised a hand, palm out, cutting me off. “One question and answer at a time. I am guessing what you were going to say. Did you have any indication that Lung was present?”

  “No. Not Lung, and not Lee, before he surprised me.”

  “That answers my questions.” He leaned back slightly in his chair, posture still stiff. “We’re not always in control of the situation. Things happen that we have to take in stride and react accordingly.” There was a momentary pause. “You did well, considering your limited capabilities.”

  I flinched like I’d been struck.

  Limited capabilities.

  It was factually correct, but it didn’t lessen the sting of hearing it.

  Miss Militia glanced over at me when I twitched, her expression unreadable.

  Director Piggot leaned forward in her chair, placing her hands on the table and loosely interlacing her fingers. “Now that is wrapped up, there was another reason I called you here.” Her tone was dispassionate, and her gaze as stony as it ever was. I pressed my hands together in my lap and waited for her to continue.

  “As you know, you turned eighteen in February and will be graduating from the Wards program as a result. Normally, employment contracts run until either the annual renewal date or until the end of the current school year, whichever comes first. Your contract renewal date is March twenty-fourth, this Thursday.”

  Is it? I suppose so. I’ve lost track of time; it didn’t feel like it had been that long.

  I sat up straighter and nodded. Graduation. It’d been on the back of my mind for weeks, but with the eventful weekend, I hadn’t given it much thought. I didn’t know the bit about the scheduling flexibility, but it made perfect sense. The Wards program was really good about working with us and our education.

  Suit one was the woman to the left of Director Piggot, with trendy dark-framed glasses and a rather distinctive nose and sharp eyebrows. She flipped open a thick folder and pulled out a stack of papers. They were that weird shape that formal contracts had, like a normal sheet of paper, but overly long. I assumed it was mine.

  Suit one spoke: “You’ll have some signatures required here, afterward.” She indicated the contract with one manicured fingernail.

  “Your time with the Wards will be ending shortly,” Director Piggot said, then extended an open hand in Armsmaster’s Direction. “That brings us to the Protectorate.”

  My stomach twisted into knots, and I rotated my office chair slightly to face Armsmaster more directly.

  This is it. The culmination of everything I’ve been working for.

  He took the handoff from Piggot and continued the discussion. “We have been keeping a close watch over your growth and development as a Ward. You’ve come quite far since your first day. It is very commendable, and I wish that more members of the Wards program had the drive that you have, Ms. Rivera. You have been the subject of significant internal debate, and we have reached a decision, which we’ve passed on to the Director.” He nodded towards Director Piggot.

  My heart swelled in my chest with the words: I was getting recognition for all the effort I’d put in, and the ceaseless training and learning I’d ground away at over the past year. I felt my cheeks flush, and I squeezed my thumb between the forefinger and thumb of my other hand in my lap as I fought to maintain my composure.

  “In light of your capabilities and numerous teammates who are also graduating this year, we have made the recommendation to the PRT that you not be extended an employment contract as a member of the Protectorate.” His tone was flat, like he was reading a nutritional information label.

  That, no. There has to be a misunderstanding. I’ve done everything right, I’ve worked so hard, I’ve improved, and learned. I’m a core member of the team. I’ve earned this.

  “I don’t understand. My scores and evaluations are solid. My worst area is average, and my best areas were very good.” I stressed my words, trying to emphasize my case. “What disqual- Is this because of this weekend?”

  My eyes darted between Armsmaster and Director Piggot. They weren’t reacting to what I was saying at all.

  This- This. This isn’t a discussion. This was already decided before I entered the room.

  “Is there an appeal process? Trial program?” My voice was steadier than I might have expected. “Probationary period? Anything?” My eyes kept going back and forth between the two local heads of their organizations. Miss Militia shifted in her seat and crossed her arms over her chest. I couldn’t see her lower face with her costume, but her body language seemed uncomfortable. Maybe she had taken my side and argued for me in their significant internal debate.

  But she isn’t the leader of the Brocton Bay Protectorate. Armsmaster is. If she argued for me, he would have overruled her.

  I fixed my gaze on Armsmaster, and Armsmaster alone, my eyes drilling holes into his reflective visor. I did everything I could to keep my voice level. Even as a bit of a hothead, it wasn’t terribly difficult. I could feel a chill, a coldness creeping across my skin and up my spine.

  I swallowed, my voice even. “Why, Armsmaster? I deserve a reason. I want to know the truth behind this decision.”

  His response was curt, frank: “Your PRT classification ratings are low for Protectorate entry. Given the threats in Brockton Bay, I can’t justify allocating a position to you over stronger candidates.”

  The truth hurts, but it’s also liberating. There it is. I’m weaker than Aegis and Gallant, who are also graduating this year. There was a tiny, irrational part of me waiting for a contradiction, for Miss Militia to step in, for someone to say he was wrong. The silence was deafening.

  The cold I was feeling entered my voice, and I gave him a dry response: “Thank you for your honesty.”

  “If I may?” Director Piggot speaking this time. I turned to her. “Your performance as a Ward has been commendable, and I want to emphasize that this decision is not a reflection of misconduct or failure on your part. If you wish to join the Protectorate, we can facilitate placement in a different region, where your skills would be a better fit. There is no deadline. If you choose to pursue this option, you will be a new applicant and can apply at any time.”

  Deep breath in. Slow exhale.

  Relocation.

  There was no sympathy in Director Piggot’s voice, but there wasn’t an ounce of malice to be found in it, either. She was probably used to making decisions like this in her role. Who was I? Just a young adult parahuman, a piece on a chessboard. Given Armsmaster’s brutal honesty, a pawn, no doubt.

  “What about my trust?” I asked the room generally. As a Ward, we were paid a pretty awesome salary of 50,000 dollars a year, and all but a small portion of that was placed in a trust for after graduation. I wasn’t sure if that meant high school graduation or Wards graduation.

  Suit two, a man with slicked-back jet-black hair, brown eyes, and a questionable mustache, answered my question without looking up from his paperwork: “Your accumulated earnings will be electronically transferred to your primary banking account by close of business Thursday. All applicable deductions have been processed. You’ll receive an itemized breakdown of all taxes and fees with your exit paperwork.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Let’s go ahead and get that completed then,” I said, feeling a bit detached from things. The cold was numbing, almost comforting in a way. I had a lot to think about right now, and I didn’t want to be here any longer than I needed to be.

  It didn’t take long. Suit one and suit two had the paperwork already fully prepared and waiting for my signatures. When it was all said and done, we collectively stood up, and there were handshakes. Miss Militia pulled me into a firm hug. Officer Collins looked displeased, maybe a touch sad. Piggot and Armsmaster were firm and businesslike. I was a good sportsman. I wasn’t going to be petty and refuse to shake their hands. We’d worked together for a year, and now this was goodbye.

  The pair of suits talked with me after the others had left to get me up to speed on the remaining bits and pieces that hadn’t been covered. Phoenix Strike was PRT property, but since it was tied to my identity, I retained the right to continue calling myself that, and I would continue to earn royalties from branding and merchandise. I didn’t expect it would amount to much. The costume pieces, my utility belt, my helmet, and all my PRT equipment, including my badges and phone had to be turned in before exiting. I wasn’t wearing any of it and informed them it was in the appropriate storage areas, but I did turn in my badges and phone. They wiped it in front of me so I could verify and sign that there weren’t any data or privacy concerns.

  With that all said and done, the pair escorted me out to the main entrance, and security took me back across the bridge and let me out through the gatehouse.

  I was technically a Ward for three more days, but all my accesses had been revoked. I was no longer a PRT employee. I was just Morgan Rivera, a high school student, parahuman, and recently unemployed. I thought about calling my team. I didn’t know if they already knew or would be finding out after the fact. I imagined it would be a shit show, so I was content to let PRT break that news to them.

  Right now, I needed some space, some wide open space, some time to think, and if needed, a place to cry, scream, or yell. I also needed to call my family and tell them I wasn’t going to be home right away. I checked the time. A little after two PM. Mom and Dad were both still working, and Melody would be in her final class.

  I called dad.

  “Hey, Dad. I’m not going to be home until later. Can you let Mom and Mel know for me?”

  I could hear him typing in the background and the sounds of his office through the phone. “Your mom isn’t going to be happy about that. She told you no hero stuff.”

  No hero stuff indeed.

  “Don’t have to worry about that. I just have a lot on my mind right now, and I want to be alone to try and work through it.”

  “Everything okay? You sound a little stressed. You know, I mean, outside getting out of the hospital this morning, of course.”

  I paused for a long moment. The cool spring air coming off the sea was chilly, but it suited me right now. Finally, I answered: “No. Everything is not okay, Dad. But I’m not in any danger or risk or anything like that.”

  “Do you want to ta-”

  “No,” I cut him off, then added: “No, later. I need some time right now. I promise I’ll tell you and Mom when I get home.”

  “Okay…” I could hear the concern in his voice, the doubts. “Don’t stay out too late, and keep out of the bad parts of town. Lots of crime lately, more than normal.”

  “I know. And I will. I’m probably going to be at the boardwalk or downtown, I haven’t decided yet. Going to go now, love you.”

  “Love you too. See you when you get home. Be safe.” I hung up when he finished talking. I did want to be alone right now. I walked towards the boardwalk; the outskirts of it weren’t far, just a handful of blocks. When I got there, I went down to the beach. Which, in late March, was practically empty. I sat down on some of the furniture the city maintained for tourists. A simple, functional, and mostly tamper-proof reclining lounger made from thickly-painted steel and recycled plastic materials.

  I sat partially reclining back, watched the ocean, and thought. Minutes turned to hours, and before I knew it, the sun was setting and the temperatures were dropping. I was cold, tired, thirsty, and hungry. I’d been crying off and on throughout the afternoon, alternatively sad, angry, frustrated, and depressed. I think more than anything, I was bitter. Angry at myself for being scared of my power. For having issues and hangups, and anxiety attacks. For not leaning into what I was, taking advantage of it, casting my fear of the strange and at times, horrifying nature of my power aside, and proving I was strong. Resentful of myself for always holding myself back.

  I thought about the enigmatic frontwoman of the Triumvirate, the three strongest heroes in the Protectorate, and one of my personal heroes: Alexandria. She was strong, fast, and powerful. But more than that, she was resolute, indomitable. She dictated her own course in life; she didn’t get tossed around or derailed by the whims of others. I wanted to be her, more than ever before, just thinking about it. I needed to be more like her if I wanted to succeed. After all, it had worked for her. She was one of the most recognizable and cherished heroes on the planet.

  A memory surfaced unbidden in my mind.

  “It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and if you want to keep being the little dog when you’re not, you’re going to get eaten.”

  Maybe Sophia wasn’t as much of a stupid bitch as I thought. She was still a giant bitch, and I wasn’t ever going to be friends with her, but she had been exactly right in her assessment, as crude as it was.

  When I’d been in the car accident with my dad, paralyzed and locked in, I’d triggered. That was outside of my control. That was something that had happened to me. I’d lost my dreams of sports, soccer championships, and fighting tournament victories as a result.

  This event today? Being effectively terminated and losing my dream of being a protectorate hero here in Brockton Bay? That was the result of my actions. My unwillingness to embrace a power I still didn’t understand because it scared me, and because of my pride and vanity. I had done this to myself. That thought should have crushed me and left me curled up on this cold beach, crying my eyes out until there was nothing left. But instead, it burned. Like a brand inside my ribs, marking me with something I simply couldn’t ignore. This was my fault, which meant it was mine to fix.

  At the tail end of sitting here and contemplating, I started to formulate ideas and make plans for dramatically changing my life. I was turning a new page in the Book of Morgan, and I was bound and determined that I would write the contents. What I was going to do was going to break hearts, cause fights, and hammer a splitting wedge into my family dynamic and household. But I had to do it. I was going to correct my mistakes and not repeat them. I was going to become the person I dreamed of being, even if it meant not doing it the way I’d envisioned.

  I wasn’t going to run. Not from the Bay, and not from myself. I could take a job somewhere else, let the Protectorate tuck me away in some safer city where I’d never have to fight real monsters. But that felt like losing. It felt like settling. And New Wave? They were independent, yeah, but they played by their own rules. No masks. No second chances. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that, or if I’d ever be. What I did know was that I wasn’t taking the easy way out. If I was going to be strong, I needed to prove it, to myself as much as anyone else.

  I was going to move out. I’d finish high school. I had money, a nice little nest egg dropping into my account within days. More important than anything else was that I was going to go my own way and do my own thing. If I failed, it would be my fault, and I’d know it. If I succeeded, though? It would be because I stood on my own merits.

  I had to get home before my parents went into a panic. I pulled out my phone and called a cab for pickup, then rested back against the seat. While lost in thought, I had been running my fingertips over my spots for hours without even noticing. They itched, subtly, steadily, as they spread beneath my clothing. A honk from the street snapped me out of my thoughts. I blinked, pulling my hand from where it had rested under my shirt, warm against my abdomen. My ride home was waiting.

  I arrived home right around eight PM. Mom and Dad were waiting for me in the living room.

  “Where have you been?!” My mom practically snapped when I walked in.

  I closed the door behind me and slipped my sneakers off.

  “Can we talk in the kitchen? All of us?” I asked.

  “Sure. I can warm up leftovers for you, too.” Dad offered, getting off the couch and walking to the kitchen. I walked into the dining room, Mom let Melody know I was home, and I sank into a kitchen chair at the table and put the fat manila envelope with the PRT logo on it in front of me. All my discharge paperwork was inside. Mom eyed the envelope and sighed. Melody gave me a hug over the back of my chair and pulled up a seat next to me, and a minute later, Dad entered with some microwaved roasted beef, veggies, and a sports drink. It smelled amazing, but I wanted to talk before eating. I worried I’d be sick otherwise.

  “So what’s this all about?” Mom asked, her tone not quite as snippy as it had been when I’d entered. I waited for Dad to sit down before I spoke.

  “They handled my graduation today while I was visiting for a checkup with my PRT doctor.”

  “For the Wards, right?” Melody asked, and I nodded.

  “You don’t sound excited or overly happy about it,” Dad observed.

  I placed my palms flat on the table on either side of the envelope and took a deep breath.

  “They’re not bringing me on to the Protectorate team. And I was released from my job at PRT. I’m technically a Ward until Thursday, the last day of my contract, but I’m out today. They confiscated all my PRT property, equipment, and ID.” There was a moment of silence, then everyone but me spoke all at once.

  “What!? Can they do that?” Dad blurted.

  “Honey… I’m sorry,” from Mom.

  “That’s bullshit!” Melody practically shouted, slamming her fists on the table and rattling the silverware on my plate of food.

  I waited for them to quiet down, then resumed offloading what I had to say: “They can. They’re not obligated to hire me. They said they can get me in elsewhere in the country, in other districts-”

  “So we’ll sell the house and move-” Mom started to say, and Dad looked at her and nodded.

  “No.” My voice was soft, and they kept talking.

  “...Can transfer to company branches throughout the US, that’s not a problem…”

  “...I mean, the school year is almost over, can we stay until we grad-”

  “...Values are down across the city, but we wouldn’t get hit too bad by the drop here…”

  I raised one of my palms from the surface of the table and clapped it back down with a bang!

  “No!” I said, much louder and forcefully this time around. They turned to look at me. “I’m going to become an independent hero. I’m going to live my life and follow my dreams, with or without the PRT’s support or backing.”

  Melody was giving me an intense look, and not in a good way.

  “We’ll support you any way we can, of course,” Dad reassured me.

  Mom nodded along and said, “We can afford it, get you your own costume made professionally, and some equipment.”

  My heart wrenched in my chest, and my eyes welled up. I looked away from Melody. I couldn’t face her with what I was about to say.

  “I’m moving out. As soon as possible. I’m still going to go to school. I’ll still be here and visit constantly. But I can’t risk having someone follow me home to you all, to have something happen like what happened with New Wave. I’d rather die than let that happen. I have to leave and maintain a little distance.”

  The back of Melody’s wooden chair crashed loudly into the floor tiles as she jerked to her feet. I turned to look over and up at her. Tears were streaming down her face, her mascara running horribly down her cheeks. She was clenching and unclenching her jaw. I knew I’d hurt her, hurt her worse than I had ever before. I expected her to scream.

  “You promised me, you swore you weren’t going to do this.” Her voice was quiet, hurt, and no small part angry.

  “Mel, I never saw this co-”

  I didn’t get a chance to finish, she slapped me so hard across the face that my ear was ringing and my cheek burned like it’d been set on fire. She turned on her heel and walked out of the dining room towards the staircase and her room upstairs, across the hall from my own. Glancing back at the edge of the doorway, she looked at me and said, “I hate you.”

  With that, she was gone.

  I cried, rubbing my cheek, but more out of raw shame and remorse than the pain she’d inflicted on me. I deserved it. Mom and Dad sat with me, and we talked until well after midnight. I ate my food cold. Melody never came back down.

  Days passed. Melody drove herself to school, and I rode the bus. Mom and I looked for cheap apartments in the general area. Melody didn’t talk to me, didn’t sit with me at lunch, and didn’t even look at me at school. Come Friday, my money was in the bank, and we’d put a deposit down on a place a bit north and west of the boardwalk. It was a refinished storefront turned into a two-story apartment. The construction wasn’t old, but it also wasn’t great. Fine first apartment material, Mom, Dad, and I had decided, and the price was right. By Saturday afternoon, I had moved in and had a very basic and spartan load of furniture, some secondhand, some donated from the house, and the rest purchased at a bulk import furniture store.

  I was hurt, emotionally, and desperately missed my twin sister. Mom and Dad knew I was struggling with everything, and they supported me a bit more than they might have otherwise, in the wake of my separation from the PRT and fight with Melody. I decided I was going to take the week off from doing anything hero related, just go to school, and try to acclimate to living alone for the first time.

  Waking up Sunday morning, I went and worked out at a new local gym first thing. After getting back home and showering, I noticed something that grabbed my attention. My skin had felt slightly itchy around my spots for days now, not enough that I wanted to scratch, just very mildly annoying with tingles. I’d been doing well keeping them covered, but as I stood in front of the mirror, my gaze was drawn to the two spots on my lower abdomen. They had branches facing each other before, nearly touching under my navel. I drew closer to the mirror and squinted. They weren’t almost touching. They were quite connected, and touching and stretching the skin around it confirmed what my eyes were seeing.

  I locked my power down as hard as I could. I crammed that ocean into a mental bottle and corked it. I had been very distracted over the weekend with so much else going on; maybe I’d been using my power at a low level without realizing it. I wasn’t going to let this persist. I had enough problems in my life going on right now than to have to deal with looking like some kind of blueberry juice spill victim.

  Worm during Arc 2.

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