Chapter Text
“Trigger events are the worst day of your life. An event you find highly stressful, one you can’t think you’ll survive.” I pause the video. The locker was highly stressful and I didn’t think I would survive it. I unpause the video. “After you reach the maximum amount of stress, you pass out and trigger.” I again pause the video. I did black out, but that may have been due to all the blood lost and panic attack. The video resumes. “When you wake up, you may be in a catatonic state.” I was in a catatonic state when I woke up. But that may because I was just shoved in a locker full of rot and filth and rot and filth and rot and filth and rot and filth and rot and
I take my wet wipes out of my pocket, wipe my hands, wipe the keyboard, and wipe my hands once more just in case. Okay. What was I doing? Right, trying to see if I have powers. I went through a Trigger-worthy event, but I don’t feel any different. Most capes say when they first Triggered, felt this compulsion or feeling to do a certain thing. Like shoot lasers or fly or turn into a giant murder lizard, for example. I felt none of that. All I felt was constant disgust and suicidal.
I don’t think I have powers.
I don’t have powers.
I don’t have a chance in hell of living a good life.
I don’t have anything.
What do I do? I was kinda banking on having powers. I would join the Wards, I would become a hero, I would do good, I would be happy. But I don’t have powers and I have no idea what to do. My grades are awful, my social life is nonexistent, I have no life skills, I have nothing. All thanks to her. I trusted her so much, how could she do this to me? She’s ruined my life. They destroyed my assignments, made it impossible for me to study, so my grades are trash. They made everyone in the school not want to be anywhere near me, in fear of catching this social plague of mine, so I have no friends. Then they took my flute, my mother’s flute, my dead mom’s god damn flute. And then the locker. And I have finally realized I’m totally fucked. I can’t see any path ahead of me. I’m just going to have to live this awful life. I am going to have to go through this hell for two more years and then I’ll still be screwed. Who would hire a girl with awful grades? The economy in this town is awful. I can tell how awful it gets just by seeing how many beers my dad drinks when he gets home.
One beer means it’s a good day and people are getting jobs. He rarely only drinks one beer nowadays. The stress of a head of hiring for the Union has made him an alcoholic. Add along some factors such as ‘dead wife’, ‘having to raise a daughter all by yourself’, ‘poor’, ‘your daughter can’t talk because she’s been made into a damn retard by her former best friend and you don’t know this because she doesn’t want to tell you because she thinks it will cause you more pain than you need’, and ‘balding’, and it’s a wonder that he hasn’t just killed himself yet. He’s strong. Stronger than me. Because I am going to throw myself off a bridge.
I get up, shut off the monitor, wipe my hands with some wet wipes, and leave the local library. The librarian tells me to have a good day like she usually does. I would respond, but I can’t. Because I’ve been made mute. Apparently, it’s trauma. Trauma from being shoved into the filth and cruelty of highschool girls. Yay! Thanks, Emma! Yet another thing you’ve taken away from me! My voice! I bet you’re just going to love this when I get back to school! Oh, wait. I won’t be going back, I’ll be going to the bottom of the damn ocean! Have fun living your life without your little stress toy!
I get one small victory at the end of my life. This path is the most satisfactory. Sure, my dad will be heartbroken and will probably follow in my footsteps. But at the end of the day, this is for the best. This world is awful and we’re better off dead. We’ll go to wherever mom went. The void or the afterlife. Doesn’t matter, anywhere that’s not here is spectacular. I don’t have the power to make the world a better place, I don’t have any power at all, and those that do have powers that can make the world better, don’t use them. Crawler, for example, never attends Endbringer fights. He could honestly be our best chance at killing one of them. But nope, he goes around with his band of murderhobos and does whatever. What a dick. Wait, why should I care? I’m gonna kill myself in five minutes. Just gotta cross a couple of streets and then I’ll be on the Boardwalk. And then I can throw myself into the ocean of the pier. Just gotta go through the docks. The incredibly disgusting docks. Full of gross homeless people. They aren’t gross because they’re homeless. Well, they are kinda gross because they’re homeless. I mean, just because they’re poor, doesn’t mean they’re gross.
Oh, and there’s another thing Emma has done to me. Ever since the locker, I have been obsessed with cleanliness. The mere thought of germs gives me hives. I’ve cleaned every corner of the house about three times this week, and I did a grand job. Wow, I went through the worst day of my life and I became the world’s best fucking janitor.
I stop dead in my tracks. Janitor. I’m good at cleaning. I like cleaning. I’m kinda annoyed that my house is super clean, because I need something to clean. I don’t need good grades to be a janitor. OH MY GOD I SHOULD BE A JANITOR. I don’t need to kill myself! I would start whooping and cheering, but I have severe social anxiety and I can only say one syllable words, so I just settle for pumping my fist. It was obvious, I was just too stupid to see this simple truth.
Well, I’m still stupid, because I didn’t think of how Emma would react to me becoming a janitor. Wait. Why don’t I just dropout of school, so I never have to deal with her again? And I would probably get a better chance of getting hired as a janitor. (My mother once said that people who dropout of school become janitors. Dad got mad because many of his friends are dropouts and janitors and janitors who dropped out.) Any potential employers would see me, a beanpole girl who dropped out of sophomore year and can barely speak, and their ‘pity’ alarms go off and they hire me. Or they use me as a diversity hire. ‘See, we are not a money laundering scheme for Empire Eighty-Eight, we have a retarded janitor!’
Congratulations, Emma. You win. I’m running away, I give up, I’m a coward. But at least I’m a coward with a damn job.
I turn around and start walking home. If I could smile, I would. I think it may be nerve damage or just mental bullshit. I can manipulate my face with my fingers. I tried to smile at my dad that way. He told me, in the nicest way possible, to never do it again.
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I place down my notepad in front of my dad. I know I should be using ASL, but it’s been two weeks and I still suck at it. My notepad says ‘DAD I WANT TO DROP OUT AND BECOME A JANITOR’ It took a couple of tries to be eligible, my fingers are still a bit damaged. He looks down at the paper, then up at me. He moves his jaw a bit, side to side. He wants to say something, but doesn’t know how to word it.
“Taylor . . .” He starts off. “I know that highschool has been . . . bad.” he winces a bit at his own wording. “Understatement of the year, I know. But . . . Actually. Your school has done absolutely nothing, regarding the attempt on your life, besides give us hush money. And people can still succeed in life without a high school diploma. I would prefer you finish highschool, but your mental health is more important than some piece of paper they’ll give you.” Communist dad for the win. “Okay, I’ll let you dropout of school on some conditions.” He puts on his Union voice, oh god this is working?! “You have to be committed to your duty as a janitor. No slacking off. And you have to be working on getting a GED. And no joining a gang. Or smoking weed. Or boys.” Oh, right, he doesn’t know I’m gay. Well. That means girls are still on the table.
Ha ha, just kidding. Who would date me?
I nod vigorously, then decide to do some ASL to get more dad points. I point to my right with my pointer finger while putting the rest of my fingers straight down, then I hold up my hand and scrunch up my fingers into a ball, then I put that hand down so my knuckles are facing him, then I hold up a pinkie, and then a fist pointed straight up. If I remember correctly, I just said thanks. My dad beams with pride and I do an air hug. Human touch was a major squick for me now, thanks to the whole germaphobia thing. Which sucks, because my dad and I really need a hug right now. It’s been . . .a while since I’ve been hugged. Wow, my life is sad. But at least I’ll get to clean stuff! Speaking of cleaning, it’s been about five hours since I’ve brushed my teeth. Better get to it now, before cavities and toothaches come calling. We cannot afford a dentist appointment, so if I got a cavity, we probably would have to rip it out with pliers. No thanks.
My dad returns my air hug. “I’ll try to find you a janitor position and I’ll talk to the school. Hell, maybe I’ll send them an email like they did to me. ‘Sorry, we are not investigating the bullshit that happened to your daughter. Sent from my iphone.’ “ Somehow, I am not surprised. Blackwell telling my dad she doesn’t care, through email. A fax machine message would be more respectful. But hey. I don’t care. She’s got no power over me anymore. Not Emma, Not Sophia, Not Blackwell, hell, I feel like if Alexandria walked in and told me to stay in school, I would spit on her. Or want her to spit on me, cause she’s hot. What was I doing again? Oh, right, brushing my teeth because I can feel the yellow getting worse. Can’t believe I let it get that bad. No, wait, yes I can. Depression.
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My first ‘job’ was at the Union offices my dad worked at. I would mop up the mud and sweep up the dirt. It was monotonous. Not even the paperwork to drop out was this boring. There’s not even anything interesting to clean. It’s just a building with people inside of it. People really don’t notice me until I make myself noticeable, which is fine by me. I’m not really here for conversation. I’m here to clean. And I do it. Clean up the boring muck. Go eat lunch with Dad and his friends. Clean up the boring muck. Go home. Clean the house. Clean myself. Go to bed. Repeat.
It’s not all that bad. It allows me to just turn off my brain for a while. No thoughts, just cleaning. I don’t have to think about how shit my life is or the city is or anything, just make the mop go back and forth. The world flows by around me without mutual notice. I am simply a cleaning machine. No better than a Roomba. I am not Taylor, the girl who had a panic attack last Friday because she didn’t think her hands were clean enough. I am not Taylor, the girl who nearly scrubbed at her arms with steel wool. I am not Taylor. I am just a janitor. Don’t look at me, I won’t look at you.
Before I know it, three weeks pass by. Just days of cleaning and cleaning and cleaning and cleaning. I was busy not being a person when Dad called me up to his office. He had the biggest smile on his face and I wish I could return it. “I have finally found a job opening for you, Taylor, and I think you’re just going to love it.” He slapped a paper onto the desk, very dramatic. I lean over and read it.
‘FUGLY BOB’S. JANITOR NEEDED’
Oh, god, Dad. You magnificent bastard, you.
“You interested?”
I nod hard enough to pop my neck bone. “Yes.”
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I’ve been working at Fugly Bob’s for about a week now. I hate life and I couldn’t be happier. It’s so gross, so greasy, the people have no idea how to clean up after themselves. There’s so much to clean. I spent my lunch wiping down one table real hard, just to see what happens. Turns out they aren’t originally brown, they’re actually orange. I think. There’s probably some more layers of filth. The cashier gives me a weird look every now and then, but I think he’s just weirded out about how good I am. After about a week of working there, I managed to make the windows transparent. It’s kinda sad that this is the happiest I’ve been in a while. But hey. I have a purpose, I have a job, I am making minimum wage! I really don’t have time to learn ASL, in between cleaning the restaurant and washing my hands. But you don’t really need to know sign language to clean. People don’t even look at me as they walk in.
I’m like wallpaper I realize. They know in the back of their mind that I am here, but they don’t really notice me. God, I knew people were dicks to workers, but I didn’t know it was this bad. It’s almost automatic on how people avoid me. I nearly had a heart attack when a child started running at me, but then swerved just a bit to get an inch away from me. I told Dad about this and he told me about communism. People don’t notice me, because they feel like I am below them, just because I earn less money than them. I earn less money than them because they don’t notice me, they don’t notice me because I earn less money than them. It’s a loop.
Does Fugly Bob’s have a union? Maybe I should ask my dad when I ge- OH IT’S MISS MILITIA??? THERE IS A SUPERHERO IN THE SAME ROOM AS ME. OH MY GOD. SHE’S AMAZING, SHE’S SO TALL. SHE IS INSIDE THE RESTAURANT I AM WORKING IN. THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY L- she’s getting mud on the floor. All my homosexual thoughts leave my head as she dirties up the floor I just cleaned. I just mopped up that spot. She ignored the sign I put up, just to shake the cashier’s hand and pose for photos for the press. I am seething with rage.
She comes here on a little PR trip, instead of doing her damn job? She could do anything with her life, and yet she chose to ruin mine by walking on the floor I just cleaned. My severe social anxiety is shoved aside and I cough into my fist to get her attention. She slowly looks over at me, her eyes blinking as if she’s just woken up. “Hello, miss. Is there a problem?”
“Yes.” I gesture at the mud, trying my best to convey my anger. Come on, why don't I sound mad? “Yes.” I repeat, but I still sound emotionless. Eh, she’s a hero. She can probably understand why I would be mad.
“I beg your pardon?” Miss Militia had the gall to look confused, as if she hadn't just ruined my hard work.
“Oh, don’t mind her. She can’t talk, she’s special.” The cashier was giving me a look that said ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing.’ I’m doing my damn job.
“No.” I shake my head and gesture at the hero, accidentally prodding her with my broom. I then gesture back at the mud on the floor and at the sign that clearly shows that the floor was just cleaned.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see the sign.” She sounded awkward. Guess PR doesn’t cover what to do when a retarded janitor gets mad at you. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“No.” Because she did, even if she didn’t know it. She doesn’t see me, see my work. I am beneath notice, I’m unworthy of her acknowledgment. She thinks she’s better than me, my job. Just because she’s a hero with magic powers doesn’t mean she’s got to be an asshole. She could do anything with her life and yet she chooses to ruin mine. Now, who does that remind me of?
“You . . .” She scratched the back of her head awkwardly. “I apologize for disturbing your work. I can see you are really motivated. Heh, you would make a great hero.” Her small little joke fell flat and she just stared at me. Oh, she’s mocking me now, she has to be. I point at her and then at the door. “Go.” I try to put all my anger into this word, try to speak it into existence. But I’m too much of a pussy and my words remain flat.
“Taylor, that’s not your decision to ma-” The cashier starts but gets cut off by Miss Militia. Guess she has no respect for any working class person. Those above nary notice those that serve them. No matter how nice they may make themselves seem, just remember your heroes are still serving the capitalistic death machine that creates the villains.
“No, no, she’s right. I shouldn’t be bothering you, interrupting your work. I’m . . . sorry? It was very rude of me. I’ll go now. I apologize, Miss . . .-” She squinted her eyes to read my nametag. “-Taylor Hebert. I’ll be on my way.” What. She left, taking great care to avoid my cleaning area and left. She left quickly. What.
The cashier gave me a look of hate and confusion. “What the fuck? That was free advertisement, you are so fired.”
What.
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He wasn’t wrong, the cashier. I did get fired. Dad didn’t look all that happy. Not at me, I don’t think he could ever be mad at me. He gave me a light scolding though, just out of worry. “You have to be careful on how you talk to capes. Doesn’t matter if they’re heroes or not, they’re still human and humans are very emotional creatures.” But other than that, he just silently fumed at Fugly Bob’s management. Not a lot he could do, I did technically kick a customer out of the restaurant without reason. Doesn’t matter that she dirtied up the floor I cleaned everyday. It doesn't matter that I put blood sweat and tears into cleaning. (I had to wipe myself down with wet wipes several times after that sentence) Fine. Back to the DWUHQ to clean up the boring stuff. Don’t get me wrong, a boring life is an improvement over the stuff I was going through for the last two years. It’s just. Back then, I was surviving but not living. But now, I’m just simply existing. I am the body of Taylor Hebert. She died in the locker, her soul moved on, but her body is still yet to reach rigor mortis. Every movement is just the brain sending desperate signals. This is ground control to Major Mom. Where the hell are you?
God, I’m bored. Kinda wish something interesting would happen. My wishes rarely come true however, so I don’t get my hopes up.
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Cecil Zhou Mi struggled to make a name for himself. It’s not easy, being an Asian reporter in Brocton Bay. You’re either being accosted by the local racists or the local racist Asians. People were afraid to hire you, because you might bring trouble. The most trouble Cecil has ever caused is when he accidentally ate his brother’s weed brownies. That night was a night he would never forget. The stain on the ceiling reminded him of it everyday.
Cecil didn’t have a lot of options for a news agency. The Brockton Bay Bulletin Board was firmly a fencesitting newspaper, they never wanted trouble so they never hired minorities. The Daily Strum was an alt-right paper, so no. So, that left him with . . . The Local Spotter. Paparazzi for capes. He was pretty sure it had ties to the PRT, but still. It was incredibly humiliating. He went to college, damn it! He shouldn’t be working on such useless dribble for the braindead! He should be out there, pulling out the rug from underneath the feet of the criminals! He should be airing out the PRT’s dirty laundry for all to see! He should’ve been the one to catch Bastion’s little freak-out, not some nameless bystander!
But alas, fate’s hand has pushed him here. At least something actually interesting happened today. It was a regular PR trip for Miss Militia, going around and shaking hands and telling random people that they’re the real heroes, not her. Up until she managed to catch the ire of a janitor. She spoke in a flat voice, one word sentences, only one syllable for each. It may have been ablest for him to say this, but Cecil was a bit creeped out by her. Tall, gangly, and pale. Her face showed no emotion, but her eyes were full of hellfire. Miss Militia had brought in some mud on the recently cleaned floors, which made the janitor kick her out. Some random janitor kicked out Miss Militia, Legend’s once-protégé. The true reporter buried deep inside Cecil pushed his hand out of his shallow grave. ‘Miss Militia Hates The Working Class, Gets Called Out’ and likewise titles came to his mind, before he poured more dirt on the coffin of his journalistic integrity. It would probably be a footnote.
He sighed as he pulled out the USB of his camera and plugged it into his computer. He had to go through and find the best photos for the article. All of them were completely boring, but he was being paid for each article. Better get them done quick.
Damn, some are corrupted!
. . . Wait.
Out of his 27 photos, 13 remained. And none of them included the janitor. Those that did, they were corrupted to hell. Trying to open one image made the fans in his computer start whirring at high speeds, nearly forcing a blue screen. But before he closed the image, he managed to catch a glimpse at the photo. Where the janitor was, there was just static. In the shape of a human.
Oh. Fuck. He had just seen a cape’s secret identity. Which cape messed with recordings of them? Think, think! Empire 88 didn’t have any strangers that fit the description of a tall and lanky girl, ABB only had two capes, The Merchants . . . nah. Who was this girl?
The article long forgotten, Cecil began researching the local cape and cape groups. Then he found it. Grue. Tall, the leather jacket could’ve been stuffed to make ‘him’ look bigger, no pictures of Grue due to the darkness generated. But also due to the recording manipulation! Cecil had discovered a criminal’s secret identity! There was never any news about reporters unmasking villains, he would be the first! Cecil would go down in history! He’ll be offered a better damn job!
He cracked his knuckles and began writing his email. “Dear Director Piggot . . .”