I slept like a rock. Dreamed of swimming in the ocean. Deep, dark, quiet. Nothing but the water and me. I’d never set an alarm or anything on my phone before nodding off.

  I slowly came out of the dregs of sleep to the world of the living.

  Three things registered in my waking mind.

  Newter was not on my back.

  Gregor was leaning with his back against a wall a few feet away and watching me closely.

  Someone was sitting on my bicep and petting my… hair.

  She looked young. Maybe late teens, maybe early twenties. Hard to pin down.

  She dressed young. Pajama top and bottoms. Fuzzy pink bunny slippers. Platinum blonde hair so pale it was almost white.

  Her eyes were a soft, striking green. But she wasn’t looking at me. Or at anything in particular. Just… off into the middle distance.

  Her fingers moved gently through the mass of hair and tendrils at the side of my head, deliberate but absentminded.

  Blind, maybe?

  “Good morning, Apex,” Gregor said.

  “Mm. Morning. What time is it?”

  I could’ve fished my phone out of my hair and checked, but I didn’t want to startle the strange woman who was still… petting me.

  Which, for the record, felt quite nice.

  “Just before eight. This is Labyrinth. She went missing for her morning responsibilities, and so I went looking and found her here, with you.”

  I glanced at her, and she seemingly wasn’t responding to the conversation.

  “I um. Sorry if this is awkward, I promise I won’t tell anyone what she looks like.”

  Gregor smiled, but it seemed more sad than anything.

  “Thank you,” he said gently. “But it’s not a great concern. She doesn’t really have a civilian life. Not anymore.”

  He looked at her—not with pity, but something older. Wearier.

  “We take care of her most days. Make sure she’s dressed, fed, and has entertainment if she wants it.”

  I looked again. Not blind. Just… checked out.

  “You said most days?” I asked.

  He nodded slowly. “Indeed. She’s more lucid some days than others. It varies in relation to her connection with her power.”

  A pause.

  “The stronger it is… the less here she is.” He glanced toward her again.

  “Today, she’s more in tune with her power.”

  He pushed off the wall and stepped forward, holding out a chubby and partially translucent hand to her.

  “Come, L. It’s time for breakfast, and Spitfire will help you get dressed.”

  She took his hand and stood up, but as she was leaving, she left one hand on my tentacles, still reaching out after it slipped away.

  “I um. I’ll be around after, L. I have a lot to do with Faultline today. It was nice meeting you!” I waved a cluster of tentacles at her.

  I rose on all fours and started to stretch. I felt well-rested, energized, and more than a little hungry. I never did get a chance to go back home and indulge myself in a bucket of meat-packing waste product slop.

  I was still getting used to this body. Heavy, bulky, absurdly strong—but also weirdly coordinated. Graceful, even, without effort. Freakishly flexible. Balanced.

  I rapped the back of one big fist against the floor, knuckles first. The three thick ridges above my fingers gave a satisfying, deep clunk.

  ...Probably fine.

  Given I had more space here than I did in my apartment, I let myself go a little wild. Some exploratory stretching. Maybe a bit of testing.

  I kicked up into a handstand, balancing on my massive upper arms with laughable ease. My weight was nothing to them. One-handed? Easy.

  From there, I flowed into a backbend: feet planted, hands reversed, arching over until I could practically fold myself in half. My tail pressing against my spine was the only thing stopping me from going further.

  I pressed my tail down into the floor, used it as leverage, and slowly lifted my upper body upright. Controlled. Deliberate. Muscles working.

  One leg up, I hugged it to my chest. Then the other.

  Then I reversed it, reaching back to pull each ankle toward my spine.

  I ended with a full split. Flattened my torso to the floor.

  No tension. No resistance. Just fluid motion.

  Wasn’t sure how to stretch a tail, exactly, so I improvised. I coiled it up tight, then twisted the stack with both hands in opposite directions. Felt good. Probably counted.

  With that, I rolled my shoulders, shook my muscles loose, and stood tall.

  I was ready to face the day. Time to find everyone.

  Faultline was in the same room where I’d met her the last two times. She was already seated, already dressed, already caffeinated. No breakfast in sight, just a steaming mug of coffee and her phone in hand.

  She was dressed similarly to yesterday, minus the blazer. Business-casual, grounded, efficient.

  I entered, and without looking up from her phone, she said, “Things will be much easier today if you are able to change to your human form.”

  I paused a moment.

  That would mean… A face reveal. But then again, I guess most of the people here don’t do the mask thing, and I know what her face looks like.

  She looked up, making eye contact. “Is that going to be a problem?”

  I stammered a moment. “I–I don’t have any clothing. It would be uh… a little awkward if I were naked.”

  “Right. Well, we have clothing upstairs in a few sizes that should fit you well enough to get things done today.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Unless you have an objection?”

  I opened my jaw, then closed it and cleared my throat.

  “Uhm. No. Can I have a bathrobe or something, and a couple of minutes of privacy?”

  She nodded briskly and stood.

  “Back shortly with something.” With that, she left.

  I tried to settle my nerves and still my loudly protesting stomach. I suppose on the plus side, I could get a more normal breakfast. That would be a nice change of pace. I made it a little prize for myself.

  Faultline returned a few minutes later, handing me a pale green terrycloth robe. It was soft, heavier than I expected. Nice.

  “I’ll be waiting outside, so no worries about anyone entering while you’re changing. I imagine you’re hungry as well. Do you want breakfast?”

  My stomach answered for me before I could.

  “Yes, please,” I added sheepishly.

  The door shut, and I sat down and changed. The carpet was warmer under my butt than my kitchen floor, at least. I threw on the robe and cinched it around my waist, and headed out.

  Faultline gave me an appraising look when I exited, and I felt a bit of warmth creep into my cheeks.

  “Well. I’m sure we can get a few things put together that should fit. I’m afraid you’ll have to make a sacrifice here or there, but I have some ideas on how we can make it work. Follow me.”

  We headed to the upper floors I had yet to see. The contrast between the cool stone of the floors on my bare feet and the warmth and softness of the robe was pleasant.

  Like the Undersiders, Faultline’s Crew had a living space above their public front. And to my surprise… I thought the Undersiders’ loft was nicer.

  Not that there was anything wrong with The Palanquin’s upper floors. But the vibe was more college dorm than lived-in home. Functional. Practical. Efficient, maybe, but not especially cozy.

  Faultline’s office was tasteful. A huge oak desk, books of all sorts, a short stack of folders on one side, a fancy and rugged-looking laptop on the other. The high-backed executive office chair was a nice touch. Looked comfy, too.

  We walked through a side door, and she had modest living quarters attached. She spoke up while heading over to a closet and armoire, asking: “Preference on style? I have a fairly limited range, but maybe we can find something that will work.”

  I ran a finger through my hair and told her, “I typically wear athletic wear at home or out casually. A little more dressy at work or school.” I frowned a bit at the thought. “When I had a job, that is.”

  She glanced back at me, eyes roaming my figure again. “It’s going to have to be the former. I’m a fair bit… leaner than you are.”

  I coughed. She turned to pull out a few things.

  Leaner? I’m no- oh. That was a compliment.

  She laid out a pair of bottoms, a short-sleeved Lycra compression shirt, leggings, and a BBU top. She turned around with a pair of sandals and held them up. I shook my head.

  “Oh, no, thanks. I don’t think they would go with that very well, and I’m sort of used to being mostly barefoot nowadays.”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  That got a smirk out of her. “Sorry for the lack of a top. I don’t have anything that will fit you.”

  I waved a hand, dismissing it.

  “I’ll be in my office when you’re done getting dressed. Breakfast will be delivered, we’ll get right into things.”

  “Oh, wow. I won’t be but a moment!”

  I dressed quickly. The clothes fit surprisingly well. We were close in height, and the compression top kept things mostly decent. The overshirt was a little tight in the chest, but not indecent.

  I… had not taken Faultline for a thong girl. I sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything, though.

  Guess we all had our different faces.

  The mental image of her in a matching set did things, but I shook it off. Fast.

  I stepped out a moment later and took a seat in one of the chairs opposite her desk.

  She had her laptop open and powered on, and sipped her coffee. There was a humongous plate piled high with all sorts of things–a lot of proteins–and cutlery, along with a coffee and a tea.

  “Have a seat. I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I had an English breakfast made up.” Her eyes flicked up from her screen to my face as I took a seat across from her. “And you sounded more than a little hungry downstairs.”

  I rolled my eyes and only blushed a little. Dryly, I said: “I missed my evening slop bucket with all the excitement, and then I was so tired after our meeting that I chatted with Newter some and immediately passed out.”

  I scooted my chair up some and started to eat. I wasn’t going to let this feast go to waste.

  A smile teased her lips, and she quirked a brow. “You actually eat buckets of entrails?”

  I licked a bit of ketchup off my lips and nodded. “Yeah. Food’s absurdly expensive when you’re knocking back like twenty to thirty pounds of meat at a time.”

  She shifted in her seat and replied: “Well. You’re fifty thousand dollars richer this morning than you were yesterday, so you’ll at least have some options, hm?”

  I shook my head and tucked a few loose strands of hair behind my shoulders that had fallen loose.

  Annoying. Wait.

  I concentrated a moment and dipped a hand into my power, and a moment later, my hair wove itself into a braid. I resumed eating without missing a beat..

  Faultline tongued her cheek and muttered, “I have to admit, I’m a bit jealous at the moment.”

  My eyes shot up to meet hers, and I blinked rapidly. “Can’t you like, collapse buildings and cut perfect holes in stuff with just a touch?”

  She arched a brow. “Are you proposing I bring down a building to do my hair and makeup?”

  Makeup?

  “Are you serious right now? I have makeup on?”

  She nodded, entirely deadpan.

  I sighed.

  “Did you not even realize?” She asked.

  “My power’s weird. Complicated. I don’t really understand it all that well, but I’m getting better, I guess. I just wanted to get my hair out of my food. I didn’t think—”

  I gestured vaguely. “I guess I normally do my hair and makeup together? I wasn’t trying to glam up for eggs and sausage.”

  I stuffed a sausage into my mouth and chewed as she calmly sipped her coffee.

  Speaking carefully, she asked me: “You don’t have to answer, but I’m curious. What exactly is your power?”

  I took another bite or two, washed it down with some really good tea, and dabbed my mouth with the napkin. No lipstick came off.

  It’s just… skin pigments. That makes sense.

  “Amy–Panacea, she’s been pretty helpful in trying to figure that out. Both of them, really. She was there when I first… became Apex.”

  “Both of them being Panacea and Glory Girl?” She clarified, and I nodded.

  Still choosing her words carefully, she watched my face closely and asked another follow-up. “When you first gained your powers?”

  My eyes widened a bit, and I shook my head quickly. “Oh, no! No, I had my power for a long time before that, I just… didn’t use it? Not really.”

  That got a reaction out of her, her own eyes widening a bit, and she tilted her head.

  “Why?” she asked. “I mean, it’s not unheard of for people to dislike their powers. Some even avoid using them. But it’s rare. For most, despite the trauma, there’s at least some… excitement. The appeal of being a parahuman.”

  I wrinkled my nose slightly, not at her, just at the memory.

  “I had a few bad experiences. Nothing serious, nobody got hurt or anything. Just… scared some people. And scared me, too.”

  I let the admission hang for a moment.

  “That fear stuck.”

  I realized I hadn’t answered the original question yet.

  “Panacea told me my power is… like hers. I’m a Changer, not a Striker like her—or like you—but the way it works is similar. It changes my biology. Fundamentally.”

  I looked down at my plate and pushed a few baked beans around with my fork.

  “Somewhere along the line, something or another happened that seemed to trigger it, and my power decided I needed an entirely new body.”

  I clenched my jaw. My chest ached saying it aloud, but like Ms. Yamada always said, it got a little easier each time.

  “I don’t just look like a big blue monster when I’m Apex. I am one. There’s no… me left in me.”

  I looked down at my other hand, turning it over and examining it. “Even now. I’m not a person. Not really. I’m just, my body is just extremely good at faking it.”

  Having successfully drained the positivity out of my morning, I tried to refill my tank with some tasty bacon, sausage, and coffee.

  “That’s quite interesting. Explains a fair few things, so thank you for sharing.” She shifted in her seat again, resting against the back.

  “In the spirit of sharing, I often find myself jealous of others’ powers. Mine is certainly useful, but only in very specific instances.”

  She sipped her coffee, then added, “I feel heavily constrained by the Manton limit. That frustration has shaped the way I approach problems. And people.”

  Right. Manton limit. She can affect inorganic matter, but not organic. And I’m the opposite.

  Which meant… yeah. She couldn’t directly harm someone with her power—only the things around them.

  That had to make things complicated.

  It’s not easy to drop architecture on someone without seriously hurting—or killing—them.

  I nodded slowly as I pieced it together.

  I polished off the last of my plate and wrapped both hands around the warm coffee cup. I let the heat soak into my fingers and made myself comfortable in the chair.

  “One of the big things we’re going to be talking about today is power. In the abstract sense, not parahuman abilities. Are you familiar with the concept of soft power vs. hard power?”

  I held a hand out and rocked it side-to-side. “Sorta?”

  “Pay close attention, because this is the single most important thing you need to learn, above everything else.”

  I gave a single, resolute nod to her.

  “Hard power is strength you can see. Teeth, claws, lightning bolts, force fields. It’s your tail wrapped around someone’s throat. Everyone respects it—but only when you give them a reason to.”

  “Soft power is different. It’s control. Not over people, but over situations. Over outcomes. It’s how you build leverage without throwing a punch. It’s making allies, building trust, and earning favors. Getting people to see you as necessary, or reliable, or even just too much trouble to make an enemy out of.”

  She raised a brow.

  “You can stop a car with one arm, Morgan. But right now? You’ve got no soft power. You’re running on hard power alone—and that’s why people are still trying to test you. You look terrifying, but they’re not scared of you. Not the right way.”

  “You need both. Brute force when it’s time to act. And presence, reputation, and influence to keep you from needing to.”

  I mulled it over. Tried to see what applications she might be getting at.

  Tentatively, I asked: “This is why the PRT came after me, but they don’t bother you?”

  She double-tapped a fingernail on the surface of her desk, then pointed at me. “Precisely. Why did the PRT come after you, of all people, when they could have been spending time and resources on others? Think from their perspective.”

  I frowned and nibbled on my lower lip. “Because… I represented a potential new threat on their radar, like some of the others at the meeting, but unlike the others, I was easier to get to, alone or in an advantageous position. Limited or no allies.”

  I drummed my fingers on the side of my coffee cup, then added: “And I spiked my threat level up with their paranoid delusions that I was trying to blow up the Rig or something.”

  She smiled, but it wasn’t a warm smile. More… sharkish.

  “You’re a quick study. I couldn’t have put it better myself.” She paused. “You’re quite good at this.”

  Then, casually, like it was just another fact: “As was noted.”

  As was noted?

  I tilted my head, eyes narrowing slightly, but before I could ask, she raised a single finger.

  “Let’s continue the lesson, shall we?” Her tone was smooth. Neutral.

  “Would you like a demonstration of soft power?”

  I tried not to let the sudden spike of concern show on my face. Failed, probably. My brows pulled together. My grip on my cup tightened.

  She leafed through a few folders on the side of her desk, pulled one out, and slid it across the desk to me.

  Please don’t let this be something involving my family.

  It wasn’t, but I wasn’t sure if it was any better or worse, for that matter.

  When I flipped the blank folder open, the first thing I saw clipped to the folder and neatly arranged?

  My PRT records. As Morgan Rivera. Phoenix Strike.

  The color drained from my face.

  “Do you see? I didn’t threaten you. I didn’t pry. You simply opened the file, and your reaction told me that the lesson was received. That’s soft power.”

  Was–is she threatening me? Or is this really just a lesson?

  I gulped. Went to close the folder. She shook her head and pointed to the left side. “Page six. In yellow highlighter.”

  I flipped the pages up to the indicated section.

  Final Assessment – Rivera, Morgan A. ("Phoenix Strike")  Prepared by: Director Emily Piggot, Date: [REDACTED]

  Rivera is noted as being remarkably competent in the rigor of her training and study. She is ambitious, dedicated, and skilled in a variety of operational areas. Academic aptitude is well above average, with an analytical temperament and a strong grasp of tactics, field theory, and parahuman ethics. She demonstrates initiative, composure under pressure, and a high tolerance for physical discomfort. Psychological evaluations show high-functioning empathy with stable leadership potential and strong personal discipline.

  That said, her parahuman utility is marginal.

  Her power lacks significant combat application, suffers from limited scalability, and presents no unique threat profile that would warrant high-priority deployment. In simulated scenarios and supervised testing, she has consistently performed below baseline expectations for front-line Ward engagements. She is not a deterrent, and she is not a priority asset. If not for her work ethic and drive, it is unlikely she would have been cleared for field work at all.

  To be clear: Rivera is an exceptional person. She is simply a weak parahuman. Her primary value to the program lies in her reliability and professionalism, and not her abilities. Recommend continued observation for support roles, public relations opportunities, or leadership track outside active engagement. Not suitable for Protectorate candidacy under current performance and classification metrics.

  I set my coffee down and covered my mouth with one hand. My vision blurred. I blinked rapidly, trying to force the tears back. The words hit harder than any sucker punch I’d ever taken.

  “It’s not all bad,” Faultline said quietly. “Next page.”

  I shook my head. Didn’t want to see more.

  She sighed. “Just trust me.”

  “After you told me not to?” My voice cracked, thick with emotion.

  She chuckled, just once. “As I said yesterday: complicated. Just flip it.”

  I clenched my jaw and turned the page.

  Addendum – Officer’s Note Submitted by: Hannah [REDACTED] (Miss Militia) Date: [REDACTED]

  Respectfully, I disagree with Director Piggot’s conclusion.

  Rivera may not currently present a high-value combat asset, but I believe her potential has been mischaracterized. What she lacks in offensive power, she compensates for with adaptability, tactical thinking, and the kind of work ethic I rarely see in Wards—especially those who know they’re not the strongest in the room.

  Her progress over the past year has been remarkable. She has fought harder than most to overcome a deep-seated fear of her own power, and she continues to do so with grace and determination. That effort alone speaks volumes. If she had access to the right support, I believe she could become something formidable—not just in terms of her abilities, but as a leader.

  She is not weak. She is underdeveloped. There's a difference.

  Recommend reconsideration for long-term support and mentorship. I’d volunteer to oversee it myself.

  —H.W.

  Two questions leapt to the forefront of my attention.

  “Why are you showing me this?”

  Her voice was level. Steady. “It’s the lesson. And it serves several purposes. I paid quite a lot for those records.”

  She tilted her head. “Now tell me, was my investment worth it, from the standpoint of soft power? ”

  I tried to meet her gaze. I took stock of myself: rattled, exposed. Hurt. The words on that first page left bruises. Hannah’s note had helped, but the impact lingered. The emotional gut punch still echoed in my chest.

  And I knew… this probably wasn’t even the worst thing she could have done.

  I nodded, slowly.

  I asked the other question: “How long have you known?”

  I looked up at her as I spoke. That finally earned a smile. Warm this time, not sharp. Her answer came without hesitation, softer than before:

  “Since before I ever contacted you.”

  I slumped back in my chair. Rubbed my face with my palms. Today was already shaping up to be another one of those days.

  “Who else knows, do you think?” I asked, my voice muffled by my hands.

  “Well. I have very good contacts with the PRT. Not everyone does. And I also had suspicions. Fortuitous timing on the retirement of Phoenix Strike and the appearance of Apex. Although I will admit, even I had doubts. Part of the reason why I invested in those.”

  She took a deep drink of her coffee and set the empty mug back on the desk. “I would say myself, potentially Coil. He’s no fool, values political connections, and has deep pockets. I very much doubt anyone else in the city suspects a thing.”

  She paused, gave me a look. “Well. Besides the elephant in the room.”

  I groaned.

  “Good chance the PRT has a clue.”

  I groaned louder. This was going great.

  “Cheer up, Apex,” she said, with emphasis on the name. Purposeful.

  “If they do know it’s you, I can promise you something, it's chapping their ass to see you out here. Using your power. Growing. And completely embarrassing the leader of the Protectorate ENE by tearing his toys out of his hands in front of his subordinates.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Bitter, but honest. It was funny. Horrifying, but funny.

  “As you well know,” she added, “Armsmaster has quite the ego. He won’t take that little display lightly. And Piggot?” She smirked. “She’s probably kicking herself, too.”

  “So what now?” I asked, resigned to my fate or my education.

  “More lessons,” she said. “But of a different sort. So don’t worry."

  She gave me a look, not unkind. “I apologize for blindsiding you like that. But you’ve got a bit of a stubborn streak, and I needed that lesson to get through. You’ll crash and burn if it doesn’t.”

  I took a huge breath, my chest stretching out the BBU logo on my shirt. Then I let out a big sigh. In with the new, out with the old.

  Did her eyes–?

  I leaned forward and grabbed my coffee again. “Alright. What’s next?”

  What followed was a multi-hour-long primer on how to do big crime and not big time.

  Turns out? I’d been screwing up. Repeatedly. And without even realizing it.

  Faultline was a good tutor: supportive, patient, but never afraid to kick the stool out from under you if you weren’t paying attention.

  First step? A real bank account.

  Unlinked from my identity, untraceable, and offshore. Safe, secure, and most importantly, accessible. It was managed by a third-party intermediary who apparently worked with a lot of capes. Faultline vouched for them.

  I’d have to take her word for it.

  Next: burner phones. What they were, how to use them, and how not to get sloppy.

  She also walked me through setting up a secure device for longer-term use—encrypted, anonymized, with access to reliable cape-side networks. I was advised not to give the number out lightly. Only trusted contacts. Need-to-reach people.

  Then came property.

  How to find one, how to vet it, how to purchase it quietly. Why I need to stop operating out of my apartment. Faultline said I could afford a starter lair: bare-bones, low-end, but she strongly advised keeping a buffer. Emergencies happen. Have a cushion.

  We covered stashes. Bug-out bags. Escape routes. Protocols. The what-ifs of cape life when things go sideways.

  We stopped for lunch. She complimented me on how well I was sponging up the material. I grinned and told her that she shouldn’t compromise on choosing her understudies, which got an eyeroll out of her.

  While eating lunch in the living area of their lair with Faultline’s Crew, Newter apparently decided it was time to emerge from hibernation.

  He wandered in bed-headed, still wearing his wifebeater and baggy jeans from last night, scratching his stomach like a neon-orange cartoon figure.

  He looked around the big table we were sharing. His eyes landed on me, and he stopped. He stared. Then leaned back through the doorway, checked the hall like he was verifying timelines, and poked his head back in.

  “Apex…?” he asked, slowly.

  Gregor nodded once.

  Newter’s jaw dropped. “Dude! Holy shit! You really are fucking hot! What the hell!?”

  Faultline cleared her throat and gave him a look. A warning one.

  Spitfire—Emily, who reminded me more than a little of Amy—scrunched her nose. “Ugh. Pig!” she snapped, and whipped a blueberry muffin at his face.

  He caught it midair, grinning like a gremlin, and shoved nearly the entire thing directly into his mouth. Took huge, disrespectful bites. Flipped her off as he sat down.

  I glanced across the table and saw L smiling. Soft and quiet, but unmistakably there.

  The first real expression I’d seen from her all day.

  For a little while, in this strangely sunlit corner of villainy, I felt… okay. Maybe even good. I was smiling too.