A week and change had passed since the night I ran out the clock on holding a shape.

  Trying to get a better handle on things, I plugged my journal entries into a spreadsheet and charted the data. The result? A neat little exponential curve of symptoms versus severity. Twelve hours was where the line just went vertical on the Y-axis–level of suck.

  I didn’t know what would happen at twelve hours, and I didn’t want to.

  From now on, anything past ten was officially redline territory. That matched up with what I’d been feeling: worsening headaches, mounting fatigue, and a shift back that was painful, but not… whatever that was last Wednesday.

  Visualising the data helped me clarify something else I’d been wondering about.

  If I just released the form and let things unfold naturally, the shift wasn’t a big deal–five minutes, maybe. Not even unpleasant.

  Day by day, I was getting more used to being Apex. Shifting back into my real form felt like sinking into a hot bath. Unwinding. Stretching. Expanding.

  Real form.

  That was another thing I was starting to come to terms with.

  My time as two-arms, two-legs, five-fingers-and-toes Morgan was limited. The euphoria I’d once felt returning to the body I was born in… it wasn’t hitting like it used to.

  I missed flying. I missed the clarity. Seeing everything. Smelling everything. Being more.

  Don’t get me wrong. I was still desperately lonely–more than I’d ever been–and every day was a fight on that front.

  That was the real highlight of blonde-haired, blue-eyed, jock-girl Morgan.

  The gym first thing in the morning. Sparring Brian. School lunch with friends. Visiting my sister and fixing the potholes in our relationship.

  But.

  Big butt. Big everything.

  Being Apex resonated with me on a deep, cellular level.

  Despite looking like the biological equivalent of a fully played-out Scrabble board, Apex was everything I’d wanted to be back when I was Phoenix Strike. Fast. Tough. Strong. Mobile.

  Capable of insane feats–and still only scratching the surface.

  I’d still been going out most nights. Flying around, gathering intel, tracking movement. Same as I used to.

  In some ways, it was far easier now. I could move through the sky and see details from high above, crystal clear. Tracking thermal signatures through my mask made a huge difference. Especially in low light or bad weather.

  But there were challenges, too. I couldn’t glide around silently like Glory Girl or other capes. Best-case scenario, I sounded like a weird biological helicopter.

  The droning of my wings didn’t carry as far as rotor blades, but it was still loud enough to get noticed.

  I’d seen Protectorate capes and some of the Wards, spot me mid-flight and start relaying my movements.

  The way they looked up, the way they keyed their radios.

  Dead giveaway, if you’ve ever been on the other side of it.

  I wondered if they had the slightest inkling of who I really was.

  If they found out, would they see past the thing I was and remember their old teammate and friend?

  I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t reached out yet. Maybe I was still a little sore, like a burn that hadn’t fully scabbed over.

  The PRT always had… let’s call it a “cool” relationship with independent capes. On a personal level, people were warm, even kind. But once the organization got involved? Everything turned “professional” real fast.

  I had a few DMs waiting. Not answering Miss Militia weighed on me. She’d been nothing but good to me.

  I’d also had a number of DMs in my inbox from villain groups in the area.

  A warning from Purity, speaking for the Empire Eighty-Eight: stay off their turf and out of their business, or face the consequences.

  Short and to the point.

  E88 was local, large, and powerful. They had both the numbers advantage and arguably the power advantage, pound-for-pound.

  Also literal Neo-Nazis, intensely racist white supremacists.

  Their one saving grace–if it can even be called that–was that they seemed to be primarily interested in organized and white-collar crime.

  Still, they were loathsome thugs united around a foul ideology rooted in the worst kinds of ignorance.

  I fucking hate Nazis. I’ll kick their asses given the chance, but it’s tricky. For being ignorant pricks, they are tactically smart. Using their numbers advantage, not letting themselves get caught out easily.

  Then there was the message in my inbox from Faultline. Also short and to the point.

  She wished to meet peacefully to discuss matters relating to my appearance, my presence in the city, and my form.

  She mentioned having a vested interest in Case 53s and other parahumans of a similar nature. Not Wards. Not villains. Just people who didn’t fit the mold.

  People like me.

  I had a standing invitation to visit her at her club, The Palanquin. It was open to the public, there wouldn’t be any funny business involved.

  She ‘just’ wanted to talk offline.

  I’d actually messaged her back and told her I’d consider it.

  Faultline’s Crew, her rather unoriginally named band of parahumans, were villains by association.

  It was one of the PRT’s policies that deeply rubbed me the wrong way.

  According to PRT policy and established legal precedent, a villain wasn’t just someone who used parahuman abilities to commit a crime, spread havoc, or hurt people.

  You could get villain status by being a known associate of a villain or villain organization, working with them, and a whole laundry list of other activities ranging from obvious to absurd.

  Faultline’s Crew was largely ignored by the PRT and Protectorate.

  They operated a club, open to the public, and could be found there most nights of the week they were in town. They traveled quite a bit, but it was the world’s worst-kept secret that was their spot.

  The PRT didn’t go there and didn’t interfere in their business.

  They were mercenaries, with guns, with powers, and they had a code of ethics about the kinds of jobs they’d do.

  It was the subject of heavy speculation that Fautline’s Crew, along with other ‘black hat but gray area’ merc outfits around the country were able to skirt by thanks in part to back-channel PRT contracts. Cleaners, dirty laundry handlers, whatever you wanted to call it.

  I, like many people, thought it likely that the speculation was credible.

  I spent enough time in the PRT to know that when something smells like plausible deniability, it probably is.

  Upon further reflection, I figured I’d visit them after all.

  I wasn’t expecting a trap, and there was a lot I stood to learn.

  Like what it was like for other capes like me.

  Maybe I’d make some contacts, share intel on the chaos hitting the city, or, who knows, learn a thing or two about not getting eaten alive as an independent.

  But I had to be careful.

  Very careful.

  The guilt-by-association garbage could still wind up with a proverbial noose around my neck.

  I sent a DM back to Faultline while I was on that train of thought, then logged out of PHO and clapped my laptop shut.

  I craned my neck over the back of the couch to look at my alarm clock. My guests would be over very soon.

  Setting my laptop on the coffee table, I got up, stretched, and arranged the cushions on my sofa so it didn’t look quite as dilapidated.

  Next up was picking up the wad of blankets and pillows from my kitchen floor, tossing them in the storage closet, and dragging my kitchen table and chairs to a not-weird location against the counter.

  I glanced around. Still spartan. Still not a home.

  I had a list of stuff I wanted to try and get. The other me was steadily filling my blankets with rips, cuts, and tears, and my pillows were pancaked, sorry things now.

  I needed some kind of bed or something to relax in, or on, that wouldn’t look wildly out of place and raise eyebrows.

  The more time I was spending in my real form, the more I was eating not-human-sized amounts of food.

  The grocery runs were eye-watering even keeping costs down by buying really cheap stuff I’d never think about eating otherwise.

  Organ meat. Bargain-bin bulk cuts.

  Stuff flirting with its expiration date, or looked so dodgy the store was clearly just trying to recoup any loss at all.

  Huge bags of frozen, crappy fish.

  I had… been experimenting in ways that were probably horrifying.

  I didn’t have a good way of defrosting a ten-pound bag of cod or cooking a giant slab of questionable freshness beef.

  Also? I was famously bad at cooking. Family-legend levels of bad.

  The point was: I was eating it raw, frozen, or both.

  Fun snacks for your whole cryptid family.

  It avoided the problem of people asking why I had 25 pounds of random meat in my fridge and a freezer full of seafood.

  I’d get a day or two at a time, eat it, go back and get more.

  I got a membership to one of those bulk food outlets and nobody even blinked twice at me buying giant wads of food.

  I was just one of their average customers, probably a restaurant or food truck owner. A very weird food truck.

  It also tasted better than what I was able to cook, but let’s not go there right now.

  I checked my fridge. Two gallons of tea, Victoria had mentioned it was her favorite. The snacks were good.

  I checked my phone and waited. Both the two Dallon sisters as well as my sister were on their way over. Melody driving the lot.

  With everything going on, we all needed some time to breathe. To talk. To just be people for a little while.

  My phone buzzed. I poked two fingers between the blinds to look in the back lot.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  SUV, two blondes and a brunette hopping out. This was them.

  I unlocked the back door and held it open.

  Vicky led, followed by Amy, Melody came in last lugging a fat backpack. I closed and re-secured the door behind them.

  “Why are your blinds always down like maximum isolationist creeper mode in here?” Melody asked the room.

  I gave her a flat look.

  “Really Melody?”

  She stuck her hand on her hip and replied: “Yeah, really. You didn’t keep your blinds down constantly and your room wasn’t a dungeon at home.”

  I pointed at Victoria: “Superhero.” Then Amy. “Superhero.” Myself next: “Unemployed superhero.”

  I flicked my hand around and held up an index finger. “One: we like our privacy.”

  “Regrettably…” Amy added.

  “...Two, not the nice neighborhood of our house. Not terrible, of course.”

  I held up a third finger, my voice stressing the final point: “Army deployed, heroes patrolling the streets, and the city randomly exploding!” I threw my arms up.

  I stepped forward and clapped my hands on Melody’s shoulders and dramatically shook her, going: “Arghhhhhh!”

  She burst out laughing, and I grinned.

  I turned to the other guests. “Make yourselves at home, get comfy. Let’s catch up and relax. I want to hear all about…”

  I tried to think of a tactful way of putting it, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to really soften things too much, with how fresh it was. “...the bank incident, but only if you can talk about it. Truly, though: no pressure at all if it’s too much.”

  Amy rubbed her forearms and shrank in place.

  Victoria held her hands up and went: “ARGH!! BUGS!”

  Melody startled at the shout, then laughed.

  We made our way over to the couch. I let the three of them have it, I put my laptop on the coffee table and took a bean bag on the other side of the table from them.

  Melody unzipped her backpack. Video game console, controllers, and board games. She started hooking up the system to my TV.

  “Where should we start?” Melody asked.

  “Let’s just start with the bank.” Victoria this time.

  “So how were you two there and involved in the first place?” I asked, continuing: “I didn’t think New Wave typically got involved in Wards operations? Or wait, was it the other way around?”

  Amy's response surprised me a little.

  “It was messy. Ugly,” she said. “I was already at the bank when they came in. Vicky was nearby. The Wards got dispatched, I think because something else was going on, and the Undersiders didn’t warrant a full response.”

  “The Undersiders,” Vicky said, a bit quieter than usual.

  It was strange to see the roles between the two Dallon sisters reversed.

  I glanced up at the ceiling and recounted the members from the news I’d been following like a hawk: “Grue, Hellhound, Tattletale… Uh, Regent and…” My voice drifted off as I was having a hard time recalling the bug girl.

  “Skitter,” Amy answered.

  Victoria shivered.

  “Gross,” Melody said. “Gross, but fitting. Nasty villain.”

  “What uh-” I glanced over at Victoria, who was looking down at her lap.

  I was deeply curious what had caused the shift in my friend.

  “What happened?”

  Amy met my eyes. Her voice was flat.

  “Tattletale shot my sister with a handgun.”

  “What!?” Melody and I said at the same time.

  “It didn’t hurt her,” Amy said, glancing at Victoria, who gave a small nod. “But it broke her invincibility. Took her shield down.”

  “Then Skitter hit her with bugs. Bites, stings, everywhere. And worse… they got in everywhere.”

  She pointed at her mouth, then traced a slow circle around her face.

  Melody reached over and hugged Victoria, who let her head rest on her sister’s shoulder.

  That experience had hit Vicky hard.

  Glory Girl was like teen Alexandria. Nothing touched her. A Brute who could throw cars and laugh while doing it.

  But more than that, she radiated confidence. Even without her aura.

  Seeing her like this was a big change.

  Victoria took a deep breath and let it out.

  “I’m okay. Really. I wasn’t badly hurt; it was mostly psychological.”

  Amy crossed her arms.

  “You were bitten and stung. You could’ve had a serious histamine reaction.”

  “I didn’t. I’m not allergic. Don’t make it out to be more than it was,” Victoria said.

  I got the distinct impression this wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation.

  “Still.”

  “Amy, please. I love how protective you are—but let’s stick to the facts, okay?”

  I sank back in my beanbag, folding my hands behind my head and staring up at the ceiling.

  My thighs were spread in a distinctly unladylike fashion, one foot tapping rapidly against the floor as I thought. Processing.

  It’s fine, I’m wearing leggings, we’re all girls here anyway.

  I caught Amy’s eyes flick toward me, quickly, then away.

  Not the first time today.

  Victoria’s eyes weren’t on me… but they weren’t not on me, either.

  We made eye contact. I smiled. Held it. She looked away.

  I stuck my tongue out at Melody. She rolled her eyes.

  I went back to stewing.

  Ideas were brewing.

  “Okay, so. Let’s talk shop. Pardon us please, Melody. The Undersiders. Grue, Tattletale, Hellhound, Regent… and now Skitter.”

  I paused a beat.

  “They’re popping up more, right? The bank thing feels… different. More escalation than the usual hit-and-run. Same playbook, but tighter. Thoughts?”

  Melody chimed in:

  “You know I’ve said this before, but I like this stuff. I feel like you’re actually letting me into that part of your life you always keep separate.”

  A pause.

  “I’d do hero stuff… if I could.”

  There was a note of melancholy in her voice.

  I looked over at her and smiled warmly, and I meant it. She caught it and blushed a little.

  Amy spoke next, her voice dry and analytical: “They’ve been around. Like you said, smash and grab, a little property damage, public nuisance. But this new girl, Skitter? She changes things.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “She’s too calm, precise. The bug thing she pulled on Vicky wasn’t luck, it was planned and executed. Tattletale broke her shield, and Skitter had bugs waiting to attack. That’s not the usual Undersider stuff. It’s calculated.”

  Amy puckered her lips in thought.

  “The escalation worries me. If Grue and Tattletale are the brains, Skitter’s the scalpel.”

  “Mmm. Yeah. Super interesting,” I murmured.

  I wasn’t speaking for them. I was confirming for myself.

  What they said tracked with what I’d seen.

  Their perspectives, their biases, all bleeding through, but that’s what I wanted. That’s what made it valuable.

  They were right. There was an escalation. But more than that? There was a strategy.

  Victoria pressed her back into the sofa, straightening and sitting upright with her hands on her thighs.

  She tapped one index finger as she added her piece: “Grue’s the core. He gives the orders, he runs interference. His smoke is very disruptive, nasty stuff. Blocks your vision, but also messes with your hearing, makes your balance fuzzy, like you’re underwater.”

  I did a little cobra sway with my head, and Victoria continued: “Tattletale can read people like a book. She’s not a threat from a combatant perspective, but she gets in your head. Not literally, I don’t think she’s a master, but through words. Hellhound, she’s violent, her beasts are powerhouses, but she follows orders. Regent, he’s sort of a wildcard. I’m not sure he did much. Maybe he’s there for show, or he’s a Trump or something and was amping the others up.”

  She took a breath, held it a moment. “But Skitter? Skitter’s the one who actually hurt me. And it’s not about being strong, but because she fights dirty. She fights smart. She’s dangerous all on her own, don’t underestimate her.”

  Melody piped up: “From a civilian perspective? Watching the footage? The Wards got trounced. And I want to say it’s because their best member wasn’t there…” she pointed at me, earning a groan, “...but honestly? They got beat. Bad. The Undersiders took off, but my outside perspective is…”

  She hesitated.

  “Go on,” Amy said gently.

  “I feel like… they weren’t even going all-out. Like they could’ve done worse. Hurt people. But they didn’t.”

  “They don’t seem like… traditional villains? Different vibe. Property crimes, like you said. Maybe it’s a game. Or they’re pulling a cops-and-robbers or Robin Hood thing?”

  She looked at the three of us, sheepishly.

  “Am I making any sense at all?”

  “No,” said Amy.

  “Yes,” I said at the same time.

  Victoria smiled faintly, her voice dry: “You’re both right. And wrong.”

  Her eyes flicked upwards as she ran through her memories.

  “They didn’t want to hurt people. Not really. They scared people into compliance. Skitter terrorized every single person by telling them they had deadly black widows on them, ready to bite if they tried anything. They were ready for violence. Hellhound’s beasts tore into Aegis like a chew toy.”

  Her gaze dropped to me.

  “You know, brutes don’t get treated with kid gloves. That’s… expected.”

  She looked around at all of us.

  “The whole thing was a performance. Misdirection. Like a stage magician. You’re watching the rabbit come out of the hat, meanwhile, your wallet’s already gone.”

  “They did hurt people,” Amy objected.

  “They hurt Aegis. The other Wards got banged up. They hurt you, Vicky. That’s not entertainment.”

  Victoria elbowed Amy gently and said, “Reminder of what I just said. The nature of being a brute means people hit you hard because you can be hit hard. The fear was a tool to smooth the robbery over so that force wouldn’t be needed.”

  Amy once again argued with her sister. “They didn’t know I was there at first. They didn’t know I could heal people if things had gone badly. I had real black widows on me, that’s how I was able to give Skitter a feedback loop and mess her up.”

  Victoria locked eyes with me, and explained, my confusion probably showing in my facial expression: “Amy used her power to hack a bug, and then hit Skitter in the head with a fire extinguisher while she was distracted.” Victoria’s vocal stressing of the physical attack, combined with the actual substance of what she was saying, made my eyes grow wide, and my jaw drop.

  “Amy!” I blurted out, “You used your power in combat, and then smacked a villain in the head with a fire extinguisher!?”

  Holy shit! Amy hates fighting! Not to mention, she could have just straight-up caved in someone’s head doing that!

  The outspoken, argumentative Amy that had been with us the past few minutes ducked, and it was like Amy shrank in her seat, and it was lunchroom Amy in her place. She looked down at her lap and nodded.

  I hopped up from my sprawled position, knelt in front of the sofa in front of her, and took her hands in my own. They were clammy. I looked up at her.

  “Hey,” I said to get her attention and draw her gaze. Her eyes were glistening.

  “That’s huge. I know it was probably super scary for you. I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself in a live combat situation like that. I know Vicky is too without having to ask her.” Victoria nodded a bit.

  “But can I be firm with you?” I asked her, and I squeezed her hands. She didn’t squeeze back or tense them, but she did nod.

  “Amy, that was super brave, but you could have accidentally killed Skitter, or anyone, for that matter, hitting them in the head with a big, hard object like that.” I squeezed her hand again, trying to show her I was there to support her if she needed it.

  Her jaw flexed, and she said a touch defensively: “I could have healed her,” she mumbled, her voice small. “I just… couldn’t let her get away with it.”

  I didn’t let up, though. “I know. But that’s beside the point. It’s the what-if scenarios at play here. What if one of her teammates saw and knocked you out? What if they grabbed her, and you couldn’t get to her? She could have died, things would have spiraled out of your control beyond that moment.”

  I paused a moment, then asked her: “Are you with me?”

  I could see in her face that my words had penetrated through to her, and she replied quietly: “She’s a horrible person. A villain.”

  I was boring holes into her eyes with my gaze. Blue on brown. Empathetic and firm versus doubting and uncertain. “I know, Amy. But you aren’t.”

  She closed her eyes and gave the slightest fraction of a nod. And she squeezed my hands for the first time.

  She didn’t have to say thank you. I felt it in the squeeze.

  I wanted to end this moment on a positive note. “Any time at all, you want to learn how to put that fear and anxiety aside, learn ways to keep your cool and stay level in the middle of crazy stuff, you call me or stop over to see me. Or Vicky, for that matter. I know she supports you unconditionally.”

  “We can get you whipped into a stone-cold trained fighting machine capable of folding Skitter into a pretzel while yawning.” I was grinning like an idiot, saying it, and I let her hands go.

  She laughed at the mental image and wiped at her eyes.

  Vicky made eye contact with me as she stood up, and she mouthed a silent: Thank you to me. I winked at her, and she blushed and rolled her eyes.

  I got you, Vicky. Amy’s a bit of a mess at times, and hearing this from someone who isn’t her sister is what she needs.

  Victoria patted her thighs and picked up where she’d left off.

  “Anyway—yeah. Fear tactics. Kind of terrorism-adjacent. Melody’s right in her analysis, I think, looking back at it. They could have gone harder. But they didn’t.

  Nobody actually got bitten by those black widows.”

  She tilted her head, humming under her breath.

  “That tells me she’s got fine control. Maybe by species. Maybe by group. Maybe…”

  A pause.

  “Individually. But that’d be completely insane.”

  She made air quotes.

  “Point being—she’s a Master. And a hell of a powerful one, even if it’s ‘only bugs.’”

  “Smart, like we discussed. Precise. Tactical.” I mused out loud, plopping back into my beanbag with a whump. “Dangerous because of it.”

  Something was nibbling at me, a slippery, half-formed thought, and I didn’t want to chase it. To dedicate the energy to track it and pin it down under my claws.

  Nods all around. Amy’s posture indicated she was peeking back out of her shell once more. Victoria is less withdrawn, more of Glory Girl shining through. Melody looked tickled pink that she was here and participating.

  I took stock of myself.

  Nonchalant. Confident. Comfortable.

  I think I looked good, too.

  I felt good.

  More like myself than I had in weeks. Maybe months.

  As much as I’d changed into Apex… I think Apex was starting to change me.

  I didn’t usually have this kind of casual command over a space. Not unless I was fighting.

  A playful dominance.

  Almost without realizing it, I felt… amorous.

  The realization probably would have brought a flush to my cheeks at other times, but right now? I was in my place, we were collectively sharing a moment of connection, something that felt right. And I was in the middle of my stride.

  “Anyone hungry? We could order some pizzas if deliveries are running. I got drinks and snacks, too. Lots of iced tea.” That perked everyone up.

  “Yeah,” Amy said, glancing at her sister, who nodded.

  I clapped my hands together and pulled out my phone. One quick call later, and we had two big pies on the way, from the good place, no less.

  “Hey Morg?” Melody asked me after grabbing a drink for herself. The Dallons were helping themselves in the kitchen.

  “Yeah?” I asked her. I idly scratched at my lower belly, feeling the subtle curves of my abs as I lounged, limbs spread, core relaxed.

  “Thanks. You know, for…” she gestured out towards the kitchen, then to me. I got her meaning right off, and I shot her a big smile. Tilting her head and looking down at me on my beanbag, she asked: “What’s with the beanbag?”

  “So, don’t laugh, but. I’ve been shopping online and am thinking of totally replacing my couch with these giant beanbag couches they have that seat anywhere from like two to eight people. Huge slouchy bags, oversized duffels, even sectionals with beanbag stuffing.”

  Almost entirely true. I had been, but I’d also been shopping for ones that had unusual fill materials, the kinds that wouldn’t get damaged by having a couple thousand pounds of stuff put on top of them. I’d found a place that made specialty ones, stuff that could be used for movie sets, acrobatics, stunts, but also just plain old furniture, too. They were expensive, I balked a little at the price, but I was pretty sure I was going to purchase them anyway.

  “Okay, but why though?” She pressed.

  God damn it, Melody. Always so perceptive.

  I was feeling good, letting her in on the hero stuff had gone well, and hadn’t backfired. Still, I debated internally. I could be truthful with her, maybe a touch less vague, but still keep the giant blue elephant in the room secret.

  I tongued my cheek, then told her: “I’ve been using my power more, experimenting. You know, the uh, bed on the kitchen floor and alarm clock thing?”

  I had her full and undivided attention, and she nodded slowly.

  “Well. I’ve been having little incidents. Like the time or two you’ve seen. Long story short? I’ve been sleeping on the floor because I don’t want to trash my bed, and my blankets, sheets, pillows... they’ve been taking a beating."

  She had a look of recognition and understanding on her face, and she said: “You don’t have to say anymore, I totally understand now.”

  “No, but I will,” I told her, and her eyes opened just a touch wider. “I found a store that does specialty stuff like that, but they have shell materials that are really durable, stuff that’s rip, tear, and puncture resistant, spill proof, you name it. It’s expensive, but, not as expensive as replacing furniture, carpeting, or getting evicted.”

  She beamed a smile at me, her tone warm: “That’s smart, that’s my sister using her head and not letting any issues drag her down.”

  “Don’t go getting all sappy on us now…” Victoria said as she and Amy came back in and sat back down.

  Melody groaned, and I said: “Pizza’ll be here soon. We ready to dive into the heavy stuff?”

  Amy took a sip of her tea and commented: “Depends on the stuff, and how heavy.”

  I put on my ‘let's do work face’ and cracked my knuckles for effect. “The ABB, Lung’s escape, the Bakuda bombings, and all the responses so far. What we can do to help.”

  Determination filled the air between the four of us. It was time for game plans, war gaming, and soon: delicious carbohydrates. Later? Relaxation.