Word of the new Trigger spread like wildfire. Footage of the battle was all over the internet before Lung was even in his cell or poor unconscious Greg made it to the infirmary. From the highest office in the PRT to the lowest ranking containment-foam jockey, From the newscasters to the dregs of PHO, from the most powerful cape gangs to the dregs in the back alleys, from the Triumvirate to the Wards, and most especially in the office of one Director Piggot the response rang out with deafening clarity:
“Holy crap, ANOTHER one??”
Greg Veder’s trigger event did not pass without notice. Within twenty four hours, the entirety of the Brockton Bay Protectorate, as well as the Wards, Director Piggot and deputy director Renick, and pretty much every Powers Testing wonk in the PRT ENE were gathered together around the big table in the Protectorate base.
This would normally be a bit excessive for a single trigger event. It said a lot that nobody present questioned it.
A roundish looking man in a lab coat was addressing those gathered there. He looked rather like he wished he was anywhere else-- especially with Piggot glaring at him. He pointedly kept his eyes fixed on the tablet in his hand, his stubby mustache twitching nervously. He tapped the screen; up on the wall behind him a projection of a familiar pimpled face appeared, alongside a list of data and statistics in too-small print.“Greg Veder, age fifteen, male, student at Winslow High. Fair to middling grades, no gang affiliations or criminal activities. No sports or extracurricular activities, no clubs, teams, or groups save for an aborted attempt in his first year to start an anime club.” He scrolled down with a flip of a fingertip. “Other aliases: a PHO membership under the alias ‘Void Cowboy’” --several of those present more internet-savvy twitched at that name-- “under which he had a rather long list of infractions, bans, suspensions, etc.
“Mid to upper middle class family. Mother volunteers at the local hospital, father largely absentee due to career requiring extensive travel. Hobbies include collecting anime and manga, computer tech, tabletop and online gaming--”
“Skip to the meat, Proctor,” Piggot said curtly.
“Ahem. Right,” Proctor said, running his hand over his bald spot. “Approximately a week ago, Greg Veder secured possession of contraband tinkertech from an itinerant junkie who was unsuccessfully attempting to pawn it…” the image on the wall changed to show the scorched and melted remains of the gunbelt Greg had been wearing. “...an energy force shield-slash-thrower system devised by the tinker Leet and designed to look like a futuristic wild west gunbelt, if that isn’t a contradiction in terms.
“Mr. Veder proceeded to repair the device, render it usable again--”
“Wait, he fixed broken Tinkertech? Broken LEET Tinkertech?” Kid Win’s outburst was beyond surprised.
The technician shrugged. “Mr. Veder is known by his family and acquaintances to have a natural gift for repairing electronics,” he said. “In another time and place he’d probably be considered a prodigy. In the Tinkertech age, though...” he huffed and looked disgusted; not an unexpected reaction from someone who had to earn his technological aptitudes the hard way, in an age where even the most accomplished scientist or engineer could be instantly surpassed by someone with the right Trigger event. “He said it was just a matter of fixing a few burnt connections and replacing the substandard capacitor system with something a bit more robust.” He glanced up at the charred ruin on the wallscreen. “Of course, you have to take into account how well his repairs held up...”
“Could this have been a SECOND trigger?” the deputy director suggested. “He was already a Tinker, and then--”
The technician shook his head. “Medical records indicate Greg Veder was hospitalized for a concussion about a year ago,” he said. “They gave him an MRI scan; no Gemma or Corona Pollenta. None of the behavior patterns associated with a Cape, particularly a Tinker, since then.”
“Continue,” Piggot said briefly.
He cleared his throat. “After making sure the guns were functional, Mr. Veder evidently decided to try his hand at being a Cape. He donned a homemade costume, strapped on the space cowboy pistol belt, and went out one night to fight crime.” Several people groaned. Others looked annoyed or even disgusted. Things pretty much always went bad when baselines decided to become caped crusaders. Even with borrowed tinkertech (such would-be capes were disparagingly called “Rent-a-Tinkers” by the Cape community), it was a formula for a career that made mine field inspectors look long lived as sequoias. Only in Earth Aleph movies did orphaned millionaires with a vendetta against crime do anything but become DEAD orphaned millionaires when they slapped on a cape and went out to avenge the night.
“All things considered he had a surprisingly successful night, stopping or thwarting two or three minor crimes, aiding several citizens in need. Then, of course, he ran into Lung.”
He flipped the images over. Video of the brief battle, taken from a nearby rooftop, began to play. “To his credit, ‘Void Cowboy’ did behave fairly heroically; he attempted to lure Lung away from civilians in danger by shouting imprecations and opening fire on Lung, drawing his wrath. This was successful, unfortunately for Mr. Veder.
“As you can see, footage shows Mr. Veder’s force field overloading and his gunbelt exploding after a single blow by Lung.” Grimaces and sounds of sympathetic pain filled the room as the belt exploded in a shower of sparks. The image froze, catching Greg in the act of bending nearly double backwards, a scream of pain frozen on his face. “This blast probably instantly severed Mr. Veder’s lower spine, as well as shredding the musculature of his lower back, cooking his kidneys and damaging several other internal organs…
“Then Lung backhanded him through a building.” The video resumed, then froze as Greg impacted the brick. “As you can see here, here and here, he passed through the boards covering the store window but caught the edges-- shattering his neck, both legs and his right arm.” Several people had to avert their eyes; one technician got up and left the room in haste, covering their mouths and looking ill. “At this point… well, his lifespan was probably measurable in seconds.”
“And then he Triggered,” someone concluded for him.
“And then he Triggered, yes.” The video fast forwarded through Lung investigating the store, standing in the street gloating-- and then froze again as something small, brown and furious exploded out of the rubble and slammed into the small of the dragon-man’s back. The freeze-frame was perfect, catching Lung’s face in the center of the frame with what had to be the biggest look of surprise in his life.
“At which point Lung proceeded to have the worst day of his career,” Proctor concluded, his mustache curled in wry amusement and his voice redolent with schadenfreude. The video moved on. The leadership of the local PRT and the gathered heroes of the Protectorate ENE sat and gawked in open-mouthed disbelief at the footage of a small, screaming pony literally stomping the Dragon of Kyushu into the pavement. By the third pummeling, people had started to snicker.
Clockblocker leaned over and whispered to Kid Win and Ladybird.“Please tell me you copied the footage,” he begged.
“Dang straight,” Kid Win sniggered. “I’ll get you a copy--”
“Hold it there.” Piggot said, holding up a hand. The video froze again. “Clockblocker,” she said directly. The Wards prankster froze. “I am fully aware of your civilian hobbies and proclivities and wish to make it clear that the PRT nor the Protectorate sponsor nor approve of any ‘video projects’ you make in regards to this footage.” Her eyebrow twitched ever so slightly. “It would be highly inappropriate for us to be associated with anything resembling psychological warfare against the Azian Bad Boyz by releasing unflattering or embarrassing footage online of their leadership being humiliated by tiny ponies. Wouldn’t it. Am I perfectly clear?” Clockblocker nodded reluctantly.
“However, footage of the event in question has already been released by several private citizens who were in the area with cell phones… and we do seem to be suffering from all sorts of information leaks these days. And the PRT can hardly be held accountable for what an anonymous private citizen does with any video that might fall into their hands. ” Her eyebrow cocked and a corner of her mouth twitched up in what could almost be amusement. “Now could we?”
Clockblocker paused. “Transparent,” he said. Full face mask or no, everyone present could literally HEAR the evil grin on his face.
“Getting back to the main subject,” the techie said. “When the subject Triggered, he transformed into… this.” A new image popped up. This one was of a brown-eyed pony colt with a caramel colored coat and a sandy blonde mane and tail of tumbling silken locks. The overall resemblance to Ladybird was obvious. On his hip a mark like hers was visible: a cowboy stetson with orbiting electrons. He did not look happy in the least. Disgruntled, distressed, even traumatized, yes. But definitely not happy.
“How did this happen?” Ladybird wondered to herself.
She apparently spoke louder than she thought. “Assuming you mean ‘how could another Cape like Ladybird happen,’ the answer is fairly straightforward,” Proctor said. “It’s not commonly known but when a new Cape triggers, their powerset often templates itself off the powers of any Capes in the immediate vicinity. It’s been observed in Capes who trigger during Endbringer attacks, and suspected in several other cases… it’s the assumed source of ‘grab bag’ Capes.”
Piggot’s face turned the color of whey. “And he was within a few hundred feet of at least THREE Capes--”
“Ladybird, Kid Win, and Dragon,” the techie agreed.
There was a choking noise. Clockblocker was holding a hand up. “Are you saying we’ve possibly got a magic-slinging, giant-bug-summoning, flaming rage monster tinker in the Sickbay right now?”
“As a matter of fact, no we do not,” Proctor concluded. “Our powers testing is far from completed, but he’s shown no sign of the more, ah, hair-raising abilities that were in his immediate vicinity.” Everyone looked somewhat relieved. “Which is just one of the data points that make Mr. Veder an outlier.”
“An outlier?” Armsmaster said, frowning.
“For one thing,” one of the other techs – a skinny fellow with a mop of tangled blonde curls-- said, stepping forward. “Erm. Steven Gamble. Pardon. As I was saying-- For one thing, when he triggered, none of the Capes nearby fell unconscious.”
“One of the certainties of a Trigger event,” Proctor said. “ Any Capes in the immediate vicinity briefly lose consciousness. It ALWAYS happens. Save in two cases: Greg Veder’s… and the Trigger event of Taylor Hebert, aka Ladybird.”
Everyone gathered turned to look at the lavender unicorn. “What?” she said. She felt VERY self-conscious all of a sudden. “It’s not like I know anything about this!”
“Other oddities include how similar it is to Ladybird’s transformation,” Gamble went on. “Er, except where it isn’t, which is stranger.” Everyone now turned to look at the Powers wonk with confused expressions. “What I mean is...” he labored to explain. He tapped out a tattoo on his own tablet. Greg Veder’s pony form slid to one side; Ladybird’s slid into the gap. “Biologically and anatomically speaking one could almost call them a new, unique species. Same alterations to the genome, same general anatomy, same blood chemistry, even the same aura of exotic energy and the accompanying conductive keratin in the bones, fur, hooves…
“But it’s that little “almost” that’s so fascinating. It’s as if he’s a different subspecies, to stretch the allegory. Note-- no horn.” He circled Greg’s forehead with a cursor. “MRI’s and X-rays see none of the root growths or the nerve fibers we associate with Ladybird’s horn. Scans indicate that ‘aura’ is dispersed in his body differently. In Ladybird it’s concentrated mostly in the horn, especially when she’s manipulating it. In Mr. Veder’s case it seems to be spread more evenly through his entire body, with a slight increase in the bones, joints, ligaments and hooves.” An overlay of multicolored lights appeared on the images; the glowing auras definitely seemed to cluster in different locations on each of them. “Clearly he implements and uses this energy in a vastly different fashion.”
“How differently?” This from Miss Militia.
“Well, among other things he seems to use it to enhance his strength, toughness and endurance,” Proctor said, pointedly pulling up the footage of Greg kicking Lung square in the head. “We haven’t done any really comprehensive testing but I’d give him a brute rating of at least 4 to 5.” The video reached the point where Greg began literally hammering the dragon man into the street. Proctor winced. “Probably higher, depending on how angry he gets.”
“You mean the madder he gets, the stronger he gets? You sure he didn’t get anything from Lung?” Assault said cynically.
“Well he hasn’t grown any larger and he hasn’t burst into flame, so tentatively-- no,” the blonde said. “But what’s more interesting is this.” He froze the video with Greg in midair, in mid four-hooved pile driver. “He apparently is able to control his inertia. See how he’s literally hammering down with MORE force? If he wants to move, he’s about as easy to stop as a truck. And if he DOESN’T want to move… well...” A new clip started rolling. Greg the Pony was standing in what looked like the hallway of the sickbay, all four hooves planted firmly on the slick tile. Four large orderlies were trying-- and failing-- to budge him. One had his shoulder braced against Greg’s rump. Another had him in a headlock. They could see muscles standing out on the frustrated orderlies’ arms.
“I said no! I’m sick of all your stupid TESTS!” Greg yelled.
“Come ON Kid, we gotta do these blood tests one way or another--” the orderly pulling on his neck grunted.
“I-- said-- NO!”
Snorts of laughter sprang up around the room-- most of them among the wards-- as four men big enough to be professional weightlifters struggled to budge a tiny pony the size of a dog… and failed. “They were reprimanded for their behavior, of course,” Proctor said, clearly embarrassed. “And were reminded that submission to Powers testing is supposed to be VOLUNTARY. But it did inadvertently confirm this, er, unique ability.”
Armsmaster hmmed. “Being able to control his inertia in such a fashion ups his Brute rating considerably,” he said. His helmet tilted and his finger moved in midair as he took down a note of some sort on his helmet-computer.
“Yes. Well.” Proctor harrumped. “You do see our point. Outside of obvious things like gender his biology is almost exactly like Miss Hebert’s. Panacea confirmed it; he’s basically the same “species” as Miss Hebert.” He nodded at the lavender pony. “Despite their function being thus far radically different, his powers spring from almost exactly the same type of energy aura. His trigger event is anomalous almost exactly like Miss Hebert’s. Even his background...”
“His background?” Taylor said. She could feel a protest bubbling to the surface. Now hold on a minute, she was NOTHING like Greg Veder---
Proctor cocked a bushy black eyebrow at her. “An awkward and generally disliked social outcast with atrophied social skills who was constantly belittled and bullied by his peers… tell me when this starts sounding familiar, Miss Hebert,” he said. “Hells, he even went to the same SCHOOL as you. The parallels draw themselves.”
“How is he doing?” Taylor said meekly.
Proctor looked aside and ran one hand over his bald spot again. “...Not well,” he said.
“You mean he’s having trouble adjusting to...” Taylor waggled a hoof and tossed her mane by way of explanation.
“Where are my hands? AAAAAHHH!!”
“AAAAH Forget my hands, where are my…
“Wait, there they are-- wait, what the hell?”
“Could someone come in here and show me how the HELL to use this toilet? ...the hell do I know about oriental toilets--”
“...uh…. How do I wipe?”
…
“The hell’s a bidet?”
…
“Okay, I stand here, push the button and AieeeEEAAAAHHGH YOU BASTARDS!!”
“You want a WHAT sample??”
“SOMEBODY OPEN THIS DOOR, I CAN’T TURN THE KNOB WITH HOOVES!”
“SCREW your ‘modesty aura,’ gimme some FREAKING PANTS!!”
“Quit poking me there you freak!”
“You try and hand me a fork and I will KICK you.”
“I hate you all and wish you were all dead.”
“You might say that,” Proctor said dryly.
“He’s… not coping well with the metamorphosis,” Proctor said. “He’s hostile. Uncooperative. He’s refused to participate in any more testing after the first day-- and he gets outright loud and violent if he even thinks people are pushing him. Refuses to even see his family. He spends all his time in his room, curled up in a ball and refusing to see or look at anyone….”
“Dysmorphia for days,” one of the other techs muttered.
“We’re afraid he was already in a downward spiral… and his current condition is just accelerating it,” Proctor said. He looked at Taylor meaningfully. “He needs a touchstone. Someone else who he can relate to, who has gone through what he has. To help him-- find an even keel again.” He locked eyes with her and refused to look away.
Taylor could see where this was going. “You want me to… help him adjust,” she said fatalistically.
“It would be greatly appreciated,” Proctor said.
“That’s corporate speak for, ‘yes, consider it an order,’” Miss Militia informed her dryly.
“Quite,” Piggot said, her face as unmoving as an Easter Island statue. “Basically your new assignment for the foreseeable future is to be Mr. Greg Veder’s,” she cleared her throat, “new best friend.”
Taylor was flabbergasted. She opened her mouth to protest. She looked around, pleading. “Does it really have to be me?”
“Not unless you know another cute little talking pony to walk him through his ongoing crisis, Ladybird,” Miss Militia said. There was a hint of humor in her voice, even sympathy, but her expression was just as unyielding as Piggot’s.
“What I mean is,” Taylor said, trying to backpedal, “Someone more professional and impartial, like a psychiatrist or therapist--”
Piggot heaved a world-weary sigh. “The PRT budget for psychiatric counseling is bare-bones as it is,” she said. “We already have to cycle a handful of licensed therapists from one PRT office to another all over the Eastern seaboard. We can’t guarantee him the regular counseling he needs, short of having him committed… and as to that option, the Parahuman Asylum is unwilling to take him in. They’re already swamped and his condition simply isn’t extreme enough to justify it.”
Committed to an asylum?? Taylor thought in shock.
“Is there some other reason you’re balking at this, Ladybird?” Piggot said pointedly.
But it’s Greg Veder! He’s weird and creepy and…. The words thankfully died before they reached Taylor’s lips. For the first time she realized just how much that thought sounded like the sort of things the Bitches Three had said about her. That their mob of hangers-on and sycophants had said about her. That that utter slag Principal Blackwell had said about her.
Loner. Outcast. Troublemaker. Weirdo. Creep. Freak.
With a shock she realized what she had been about to say. “it’s just he’s...” she stammered to a halt.
“Unpleasant?” Proctor ventured. “Offensive? Has all the social skills of a dead skunk?”
“I was going to say we weren’t exactly friends at school,” Taylor said, a trifle sharp. She sighed and gave up. “I think you should know… Greg had… something of a crush on me at school,” she said, staring fixedly at the table. She drew a circle on the glossy surface with her hoof. “Probably because I was the only girl at school who would even speak to him-- politely anyway. It got… kind of creepy sometimes. Not quite stalker-ish, but… close.” She grimaced. “It could make things awkward.”
Even though most of the people gathered in the room were wearing masks, she saw several expressions of understanding. Please, somebody tell me I can opt out of this! She mentally begged.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Alas, it was not to be. “Regardless, Ladybird,” Armsmaster said remorselessly. “You are the most logical choice. I am quite certain there are a great number of issues he is dealing with to which only another…er, pony… can relate. Dealing with people who are deficient in social skills is just one of the things that comes with the job; you might as well learn how to do it now.”
“And the gods of irony fell off their thrones laughing,” Assault murmured to Battery.
Aegis held up a hand. “This is all good to know,” he said. “Seeing as this guy’s looking to become a Ward… er, he is, isn’t he?” At several nods he continued. “But isn’t all this--” he waved a hand, indicating the roomful of people-- “A little excessive? I mean, We’ve had capes with baggage join the Wards before...”
“Farewell, Shadow Stalker, we hardly knew ye,” Vista muttered.
“It’s not just HIS ‘baggage,’ as you put it, that we have to deal with,” Armsmaster said. “You’ll recall how Ladybird’s debut on the Cape scene set things topsy turvy.”
“The New Agers,” Miss Militia said by way of example. “The cultists, the cryptozoologists, the religious figureheads, the Tolkien fanatics--”
“The Tambourine Heads,” Taylor said ruefully, thinking of Trelawney and her mob of loonies.
“The great unwashed masses are all ready half insane over one little lavender unicorn,” Piggot said with an eyeroll. “Once word spreads far enough that there’s a SECOND little talking pony in Brockton Bay, they’re all going to lose their collective, alleged minds.”
“PHO is already going nuts,” Kid Win said. “Video-- not ours-- got out, and the Mother of all flame wars is breaking out over whether it really is the One True Void Cowboy or not...” he grimaced. “And a lot of ABB members and sympathizers putting their two cents in.”
“I can’t imagine whoever’s in charge of the Asian Bad Boyz right now is happy about the loss of face either,” Triumph murmured. “Couldn’t we… obfuscate somehow? Misdirect them?”
“You mean imply that it was some OTHER cute little pony that kicked Lung’s ass up and down a city street?” Assault said drolly.
“It’s a little late to close the barn door on that one,” Armsmaster said. “There’s video all over the internet of him screaming his own name while he jumps up and down on Lung’s back. It’s the name he uses online, his handle on PHO, and what he put on the paperwork--”
“Great,” Triumph said sarcastically.
“And this is why we’re having this little meeting,” Piggot said. “’Void Cowboy’ is, eventually, going to be joining the Wards. The paperwork is in fact already done. That’s going to come with quite a few unique headaches.
“Firstly, thanks to Void Cowboy’s rather… unique… debut, the Protectorate and the PRT both are going to have to keep an eye out for attempts by the ABB at… retaliation. Normally villains abide by the Unwritten Rules and avoid targeting Wards-- but some ABB bright boy may decide that sticking a shiv in a talking pony doesn’t count. And as mentally simple as we suspect Oni Lee to be, he may not be above taking a free shot and dropping a grenade in Void Cowboy’s lap. We’ll have to keep our ear to the ground for rumblings to that effect.”
“This on top of keeping a lid on the Merchants and the Empire 88,” Armsmaster said, “in case they try to take advantage of Lung’s absence.”
“And preparing in case Oni Lee tries to organize a jailbreak for Lung,” Miss Militia said archly.
“So, increased patrols in ABB territory,” Armsmaster continued. “A show of strength.”
“The Wards as well?” Aegis asked.
Armsmaster pursed his lips, seeming to debate with himself. “Yes, but preferentially in territory AWAY from the ABB,” he said. “Also, Wards patrols will be in accompaniment of members of the Protectorate--- which, considering that Wards are supposed to be ‘sidekicks in training,’ is something we should have been doing ages ago,” he muttered.
“However, the main thing the Wards should be focusing on is helping their newest member integrate--” Piggot said, her expression impassive.
To a man, the Wards cringed. “What was that?” Taylor asked, looking around at them.
“Deja vu,” Vista said. “That’s almost word-for-word what she said when Shadow Stalker came aboard.” Her tone was caustic enough to etch glass. Several adults smothered snickers while Piggot’s face puckered up in annoyance at the zinger.
“-- and, as stated, you are to do your best to make him feel welcome. Regardless of whatever personal shortcomings he may or may not have.” Her bulldog-jawed glare dared any of the Wards to object.
“Eh, we survived Princess Edgelord, we’ll survive an uberdork,” Clockblocker grunted.
“I feel obligated to remind you all that he DID literally stomp Lung into the pavement,” Triumph noted drolly. He rested one elbow on the table and looked at them all with a raised eyebrow. “You might want to make an actual effort to make nice with him.”
“And thus we come to the OTHER reason for all the fuss over a new Ward,” Assault murmured. “The kid’s too darn powerful to pass up.” It was notable that Battery didn’t cuff him for his snark but only nodded.
Taylor sighed in defeat and nodded. “I’ll do my best,” she said. “It just-- it just seems so stereotypical. ‘Oh their powers are similar, they must GO together...” she grumped a little, forehooves crossed over her chest.
“Uhhh,” Clockblocker said, holding up a cautionary finger. “In that case you might want to stay away from the PHO fanfic forums,” he said.
“What?”
“… People are already, um, speculating--”
“What??”
“One guy is particularly emphatic about how now there’s a ‘breeding pair--’”
“WHAT??”
“Which brings us to the PR portion of this discussion,” Piggot said ruefully, as sparks started flying from Ladybird’s horn.
It took several hours before Taylor’s temper mellowed to a reasonable level. She wasn’t fit to speak to ANYONE. Getting “shipped:… with GREG VEDER… it was enough to send her flying completely off her tether.
But she couldn’t hold onto that forever. There was too much confusion and, yes, guilt bubbling around for her to hold onto her injured pride. Not the least of which was the unspoken, suppressed anxious fear, that niggling suspicion that maybe somehow she WAS responsible for Greg’s current condition-- that despite everything the doctors and experts said she was somehow contagious, or something; or that her being near had somehow attracted the attention of the fates…
It was completely irrational... But, there you had it.
After a good day of fussing and fuming, she finally got her gumption up and went to visit him. He was staying in one of the rooms in the sickbay-- more of a cell, really; it wasn’t unfeasible that they would have to deal with a patient that had to be incarcerated or quarantined and so built accordingly.
When she came to his room and looked through the glass door, the privacy curtains were pulled back. He was a mess. His coat was ungroomed, sticking up in tufts here and there; his long curly mane and tail were bedraggled. He had made an effort at clothing himself; Somehow he had stuffed himself into an ill-fitting pair of jogging shorts from the gift shoppe, his tail stuck out thru a ripped hole in the seat. He was lying on the hospital bed with his back to the door, curled up like a dog and practically radiating misery.
He must have heard her coming. That was hardly surprising; little clippity-cloppety hooves weren’t exactly made for stealth. He raised his head and looked over his shoulder at her with huge, sad, bleary puppy-dog eyes. They stared at each other for several long awkward seconds. “Oh. It’s you,” he finally said. “Hi Taylor.” His voice was as flat as an ironing board. He looked away and lowered his head back to the mattress. “Perfect. Now my slide to the bottom is complete.”
Taylor paused in the doorway, uncertain what to make of that. “Excuse me?”
“...Forget it,” Greg muttered. He heaved an enormous sigh. “So what do you want?”
Taylor felt a twinge of annoyance. She couldn’t help it; even now there was just something about Greg Veder-- his expression, his tone of voice-- that irritated her. She counted to ten, then spoke. “What I want,” she said, “Is for you to get a move on. The bosses sent me down here to get you out of that hospital bed and up to speed.”
“Up to speed?”
“Yeah, unless you missed it, you’re a Ward now,” Taylor said. “You and your parents signed all the paperwork, so it’s official.” That fact sort of made Taylor’s hackles go up a little. It was necessary for Greg’s safety to some degree-- or so Piggot said-- but from what she’d seen Greg had been completely out of it, and his parents had been stuck hard in ‘do not want to deal with it’ mode, and his parents had ended up practically signing Greg over to the Protectorate and the PRT lock, stock and barrel. She was definitely going to pushing him in the direction of Panacea’s mom at the earliest opportunity.
His head popped back up (it was really odd having someone literally able to look backwards over their own back at you, Taylor reflected) and he looked at her with an expression of incredulous derision. “Me? In the Wards? Why, was Scrappy Doo unavailable? Jar Jar Binks not return their calls?”
Taylor’s brow furrowed. “What?”
Greg snorted and rolled over, getting his hooves under himself. “Look, sister--” he said, hopping down from the bed and landing foursquare on the tile. “You and I both know I’d be a joke as a Ward. My only role on any superhero team would be as the annoying tagalong character that everybody hates. You were right… I’m a LOSER.”
“I never called you a loser,” Taylor protested.
“You didn’t have to, I could practically hear you thinking it from here,” Greg groused. He pointed at his ears with a hoof. “See these? They work just fine. I’ve spent the last two, three days listening to the gossip around here, what everyone here has to say about me when they think I’m not listening. Everyone here in the Sickbay talks about what an idiot you said I was when they brought me in-- how you thought I was a ‘creep’ and a jerk back in school....” Taylor nearly swallowed her tongue. “And how you, and all the other Wards, think I’m a moron for what I did.”
His rump hit the floor. “But hey, don’t feel too bad.. I agree with you now. Maybe it took me forever to admit it, but I’m a JOKE. I’m the biggest pile of Fail and Useless in the Tri State area. I’m a LOSER. There. Feel better now that I said it?” His head hung till his nose nearly touched the floor.
Taylor felt her annoyance at the displaced nerd curdle into guilt. She’d had no idea her frustrated outbursts had made their way down the grapevine to here. She cursed herself for being such a motormouth. This was going to make things a lot more difficult to smooth over. She chose her words carefully. “I’m sorry you heard that,” she said. “It was… said in frustration. What you did was terribly foolish, and dangerous--”
“Ya think?” Greg snorted. “I kinda figured that out when Lung smacked me through a wall, Taylor.”
“...But it was also very brave, Greg,” she went on, in the kindest tone she could manage. “Thanks to you that family at the Chinese restaurant are alive.”
He looked up. His eyes were wide and worried. “They’re okay?”
“Just a few minor burns, and their storefront is a little singed,” Taylor said. “But they’re okay.”
Greg breathed a sigh of relief. “Well that’s something I guess,” he muttered.
“It’s a lot more than something,” Taylor replied. “You’ve got guts, Greg. And a good heart.” She poked him with a hoof and gave him a half-smile. “Now if we can put some training and some brains in there with it, you’ll make a pretty decent member of the Wards.”
Greg gave her a sarcastic smile. “As what, the team pet?” Taylor scowled at him. “Oh come on, look at me!” He sat up on his haunches and pointed at himself with his forehooves.
“I COULD take that personally, you know,” Taylor snarked.
Greg put his forehooves down and rolled his eyes. “Come on, it’s different for guys and girls! A girl can get away with being ‘the cute one--’”
“Madison sure showed everyone that,” Taylor muttered in grim agreement.
“--But a guy?” he huffed in bitter amusement. “I mean, jeez. The first time I looked at myself in the mirror the last of my testosterone evaporated in a puff of smoke.” Taylor had to snicker at that-- but she did silently admit that maybe certain aspects of the transformation would be a little harder for a teenage boy to cope with than a girl.
“Well I won’t say I’m past that ‘treat her like the team mascot’ problem completely myself,” Taylor said. “But isn’t earning people’s respect always a hard job?” At Greg’s groan she went on. “Now come on, if you just work at it--”
“It’s not just that, Taylor,” he said. “The… girly cute plush toy mini pony thing, I mean. It’s… I’m… well I’m useless!” he waved his forehooves around again. “You’re a telekinetic, and a Blaster, and a Master, and a Mover, and… well, probably half the rest of the list too. Me? I’m… a cut-rate, made-in-Taiwan version of YOU.” He brushed his blonde forelock aside, showing his bare forehead. “--With all the useful bits removed.” He looked at his hoof mournfully. “I can’t even turn a doorknob anymore.”
Taylor gave him a knowing smirk. “There’s a trick to that,” she said, “and it doesn’t involve having a unicorn horn. But what do you mean useless? Don’t you know what your power ratings are?”
Greg looked at her askance. “Well, the testers said something about a Brute rating. But it’s so low it’s absolutely pathetic.”
Taylor did a double take. “Low??”
Greg nodded. “They said something like being in the eighty-eighth percentile,” he said scornfully. “I mean, that low down the scale… what?” he interrupted himself, because Taylor had just facehoofed.
“Greg, being in the Eighty Eighth percentile means you’re stronger than eighty eight percent of people with Brute ratings,” she said. “You didn’t listen in math class, did you?” Greg sputtered and shrugged, looking everywhere but at her. “What else did they tell you?”
Greg looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Umm, something about ‘tactile telekinesis?’” he said cautiously. “It sounded sort of stupid to me. I mean, telekinesis is the ability to move things without touching them, right? And they were basically saying I could move things without touching them so long as I was touching them, which seems really dumb--”
Taylor held up her hoof; he stopped in mid sentence. She reached into one of her saddlebags, dug around a moment, and pulled her hoof back out. Stuck to the bottom was a ballpoint pen. With a little effort she made it spin around like she was twirling it in invisible fingers. “And that brings me to how we can still turn doorknobs,” she said. “No magic unicorn horn needed.”
Greg’s mouth opened and closed a few times. His next words were meek and bewildered, his expression almost cringing. “...And… something about.. inertial something or…?”
“Personal inertial manipulation,” Taylor said. “It means you can ‘anchor’ yourself in place, make yourself either unmovable or unstoppable-- within the limits of your power anyway.” She shook her head. “I thought you were a Cape geek, how do you not know this stuff?”
“Well they used all these scientific terms and stuff,” Greg protested loudly. “Half the time I woulda needed a dictionary just to figure out what they were saying!”
Taylor tossed her pen back in her saddlebag and rubbed her face with her hoof. “It looks like we’re going to have to have a long talk about our powers and abilities and stuff,” she said. “Seeing as some people on the staff aren’t bothering to explain things PROPERLY--!” Her voice reached a shout on the last word. Several techs and orderlies in earshot hastily found a reason to wander off in some other direction at due speed, heads down over their tablets and clipboards. She looked over at Greg and rolled her eyes. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up and presentable; I’ll explain what I can.”
She went to the desk and signed Greg out, then trotted for the door, a diminished and confused Greg in her wake.
“First we’re stopping at the staff barber’s...”
“They have a barber?”
“Well, yeah. Beautician, actually. It’s a P.R. thing, appearance and grooming and all that. You think Vista gets her hair in those cute curly pigtails all on her own?” Taylor chuckled. “Of course after I signed on they had to hire on someone who could do horse grooming...”
“Um, okay, question,” Greg said as they walked down the corridor. “Can I maybe get some clothes other than these gym shorts?” He paused to tug at the beltline with his teeth, thought the better of it and tried to use that “sticky hoof” trick Taylor had shown him. To his surprise and satisfaction it worked. “And… um… why aren’t you wearing any?” He felt his face heat up as he realized he was walking next to what was, technically, a naked girl. Save for the hoofboots and saddlebags and visor, anyway.
“You get used to it,” Taylor said, shrugging. “Not like anything shows, anyway.” She did feel a little pink in her cheeks at the reminder of her own clothing optional state. Why the HELL was dealing with this awkwardness HER job?
“Yeah, well, tucked away or not, magic no-naked aura or not, I was feeling a serious draft,” Greg grumbled. “You got any idea what they did with my stuff?”
“No clue,” Taylor said. “But first things first--” She pushed open a door with her telekinesis; behind it lay a small but pristine beautician’s parlor. The stylist was just sweeping off one of her chairs. “Come on, you’ll feel better after you get that manky coat groomed..”
Greg hated to admit it, but getting groomed did make him feel worlds better. The staff beautician (groomer?) went over him with a brush and curry comb, smoothing out his coat and tackling his mane and tail with a shampoo and rinse to get the snarls out. When she finished she pushed a mirror in front of him and beamed at him. “There! Now how do you feel?” she asked.
Taylor had decided to get a quick grooming herself; She watched from the other worker’s table as Greg stared at his reflection. His caramel coat was brushed to a sheen, and his sandy yellow mane and tail were a cloud of golden locks. She could almost see his already-low mood dropping further. “Like a little girl’s plush toy,” he said sourly.
The lady grooming him looked offended (before coming to the Rig, she’d professionally groomed prizewinning horses for the American Gold Cup.) The fellow giving Taylor a mane rinse (her boss, a celebrity stylist formerly from LA) looked apologetic. “He could stand to look a little more butch,” he said.
The girl huffed and slapped her grooming tools down. “Fine,” she said, “Whatever!” and marched from the room.
The stylist looked down at Taylor as he soaked her mane and tsked. “These high-strung artistic types...”
“She’s kinda got a point,” Greg mumbled, staring at himself in the mirror. “Not much you can do to ‘macho’ this up...”
The stylist gestured with his comb. “Well I think they guy who took out Lung at least deserves someone to TRY,” he said. “Sorta earned your man-card there...”
Greg blinked and looked over at him, his eyes round. “Wait. The guy who WHAT?”
“Took out Lung,” Taylor said. She was lying on her back as the stylist rinsed her hair. “Yeah, even I have to agree that kicking Lung’s butt would score you a lot of ‘macho points.’” She made quote marks in the air with her hooves.
“I what?” Greg said faintly.
Taylor raised her head up and looked at him. “You... don’t remember??” she said in disbelief. She looked at Greg’s blank poleaxed expression. “You don’t remember. What...”
“I was kind of out of it, Taylor,” Greg said, aggrieved. “And yeah, the techies kept talking about my ‘little run-in with Lung...’ but the last thing I remember was getting backhanded through a building. What the hell happened out there?”
“I got this.” The stylist dried his hands and pulled out his phone. “I saved the Youtube video, it gets better every time I watch it,” he chuckled as he swiped and scrolled. “Here.” He held out the phone so Greg could watch; Greg squinted at the screen. Taylor could hear the tinny sounds of combat playing as the screen’s light flickered in the colt’s eyes.
“I’m Void--”
Crash!
“Freaking--”
Crash!
“Cowboy!!”
Crash!
“Holy crap,” Greg croaked.
The stylist shut the phone off and pocketed it with a flourish. “I don’t think you’ll have much trouble getting respect from the other Wards,” he said. Greg didn’t respond. He was too busy breathing funny and staring at nothing.
“Greg?” Taylor said. “Are you okay?” His breath was turning alarminglyraspy.
“Greg… GREG!” Taylor said in mild alarm. “Breathe in slow. Breathe in slow! One, two, three… now hold it… Now let it out-- one, two, three...” she carefully led him through breathing exercises for several minutes while he went through his panic attack. Eventually he calmed down, at least enough to breathe without guidance.
“Holy crap,” he wheezed. “Holy crap.” He looked at her. “I sorta jumped in at the deep end, didn’t I?” he said feebly.
“Or got a running start,” Taylor countered. “Look at it this way, you’re not going to have to fight every step of the way for some basic respect like I did, or Vista did. I mean, yeah, you’ve got that whole ‘Void Cowboy’ thing in your past--”
“Gee, thanks,” he said snidely.
“--And you pulled what could have been a colossal screwup, trying to be a Cape without powers--”
“No, really, keep going.”
“--But you still made a huge impact nobody’s going to forget,” Taylor pressed on.
“Yeah, in the pavement, with Lung’s face,” the stylist chortled as he massaged Taylor’s scalp. Taylor glared up at him. “… Sorry.” He didn’t look sorry in the least.
“My point is-- I guess the point I’m making is that if you keep moving forward, keep that momentum going… if you’re SMART about it, that is… then maybe what comes next in your life will be better than what went before.”
“Turn my whole life around, huh?” he said skeptically.
Taylor sat up. She shrugged as the stylist wrapped her mane and tail in towels. “Worked for me,” she said. “Where I was a year ago versus where I am today? No contest.”
Greg’s lower lip pooched out. He turned and faced the mirror running the length of the far wall, frowning. After several long seconds he seemed to come to some conclusion. “Guess the only way to move is forward...” he muttered. His jaw firmed and his expression became determined.
The other stylist finally returned. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said, answering noone’s question. “All right,” she demanded, hand on hip. “So you don’t LIKE my award-winning grooming efforts. So what do you want?”
Greg told her. Her jaw dropped in horror. She protested vehemently. He dug his hooves in. Almost weeping, she got out the clippers.
“And save what you cut off in a bag,” Greg told her. “I got me some ideas...”
Twenty minutes later, two freshly groomed ponies walked out of the parlor. Taylor was all but prancing on her freshly polished hooves, her black curly mane and tail bouncing and her coat silken and gleaming. Getting pampered once in a while always put her in a good mood, she’d learned.
Greg’s coat was gleaming and his hooves were trimmed. But alas, his tumbling blonde locks were no more. He’d chivvied the groomer into cutting his mane down to an inch-high burr, and his tail was cut to a short dock. His saddlebag was stuffed full of the cut locks. The beautician had retreated to the back room again in despair, but even Taylor had to admit Greg looked at least a little more masculine now. “And what are you going to do with those?” she said, nosing the bag.
“Something you said about our hair and stuff,” Greg said. “It gave me an idea or three. Don’t wanna say till I try it though.” He looked up and down the hall, a determined look in his eyes. He was a colt on a mission. “So where’d they put my stuff?”
“Ah, you mean your costume?” Taylor said. She had to wince a little at that. It really had been corny looking. “It’s in the P.R. office… what’s left of it anyway. The costume designers and stuff wanted a look at it--” to see what NOT to do, probably, she didn’t say out loud.
“Then I guess they’re the people to talk to, right?” Greg said. “Which way?”
The P.R. design office was pretty much how Taylor remembered it: organized chaos, with artists, designers, costumers, copy editors, and various other odd jobbers running about from workspace to workspace, waving printouts, pointing at screens and marker boards, holding up swatches of cloth and color wheels and arguing with one another. The various workspaces radiated out from the center of the room like the spokes of a wheel, each handling some indecipherable segment of the job of molding and shaping the public image of the Protectorate’s Capes. The head of the department was holding court at the center space, arguing with a couple of his underlings; as it so happened, they appeared to be arguing over no less than the tattered remains of Void Cowboy’s hero costume, which hung in a place of honor (or possibly dishonor) on a manikin sitting atop the worktable. Greg hung back, apparently intimidated by the busybody ruckus, hung back. He sat there staring up at the remains of his super-suit and tried to look disinterested.
“Hey Carlos!” Taylor chirped to the team leader. “How are things going?”
“Oh, hey, Ladybird,” the department head said, stopping in mid argument to address the newest darling of the ENE Protectorate. He ran his fingers through his curly cinnamon-brown hair. “Just having a bit of creative difference here about how to re-shape this ‘Void Cowboy’s’ public persona. We’ve already got his base equipment laid out, mostly the same as yours… the visor-computer, the saddlebags, etc… but now the THEME… that’s giving us fits.”
“And I still say why reshape it?” one of the others standing there-- a messy-haired fellow in a sweater vest, arms full of rolled up papers-- argued.
“Yeah, it’s perfect,” the woman (a blonde woman in a much more professional looking pantsuit) said. She held up her tablet; it showed an image of a pony on it. “Pony, cowboy, cowboy, pony- like peanut butter and chocolate...”
Carlos ran his hand down his face. “Except THIS Cowboy already has a rep on the PHO forums as a troublemaker, a troll, and a particularly stupid conspiracy nut--”
“Hey..” Greg whined.
Carlos looked down at him. “Oh, there you are. Well deny it if you can, kid.”
Greg laid his ears back and looked away. “No need to rub it in,” he mumbled angrily. “And don’t I get a say in this?”
Carlos snorted. “Well, there’s no easy way to put it,” he said. “We’re going to have to reinvent your image from the ground up, and that’s not going to be easy. It’s hard enough when the Cape is a baseline human in appearance, but…” he waved a hand, indicating Greg as a whole. “And thanks to Youtube, everyone now connects the name ‘Void Cowboy’ with ‘that idiot who went out playing Batman in a cowboy suit--’ it’s going to take a world of work to shake off THAT stigma--”
There was a loud WHACK. The heavy drafting table they were standing around jumped several feet to the left. It took everyone a moment to realize that Greg Veder had kicked the thing to one side. He was marching toward a rapidly retreating Carlos, his teeth bared. “Listen up, Jackass,” he snarled. “This ‘idiot in a cowboy suit’ was HELPING PEOPLE. This ‘idiot in a cowboy suit’ SAVED LIVES. This ‘idiot in a cowboy suit’ planted a hoofprint in Lung’s shiny, scaly ass. Do you wanna keep jerking my chain?”
“Whoa, EASY fella--” Carlos said, backing up hastily.
A lavender bubble encased him and lifted him, struggling angrily, back to Taylor’s side. “Easy, cowboy!” she said. She was a little bit alarmed at how aggressive Greg had gotten. At least he didn’t bite anyone… “Honestly, Carlos… does the PR staff have a contract clause that they have to piss off the new guy at least once?”
“This is nothing,” the guy with the rolls of paper said. “You shoulda seen this place when Volcana got a look at her new costume.”
Taylor held Greg in midair till he stopped fuming. Once he calmed down she let him regain his footing. The moment Greg’s hooves hit the tiles, he resumed glaring angrily at the P.R. workers. “The name is VOID COWBOY. Got it? VOID COWBOY.”
“And if we decide it’s something else entirely? Make a press release?” Carlos said. His dander was up a bit… but he didn’t step back any closer.
Greg paused, seemingly flummoxed for a second. “Then… I’ll let ClockBlocker pick my name,” he threatened. Carlos’ face puckered up, and one of the assistants actually shuddered. “Next time the Wards make a public appearance I’ll pay him cash to it out--”
Taylor couldn’t resist chipping in. “I wonder what he’d come up with?” she said to Greg impishly. “Something like, oh, ‘Buck Naked, Cow Pony...’”
Greg actually picked up on that. He grinned back. “Or ‘the Bareback Rider,’” he said.
“Ooh, both-- ‘Buck Naked, the Bareback Rider.’ Has a ring to it...”
“Yeah… or maybe a cutesy pony name like…. “Meadow Muffin...” Greg batted his lashes.
“Oh yeah, Meadow Muffin-- that’ll trend well--” Taylor nodded.
Carlos gave them both a martyred look. “Must you make me suffer?” he asked. He sighed and leaned on the drafting table. “Come on, kid,” he pleaded with Greg. “Don’t you wanna take this chance to shake off the past? Lose the old, embrace the new?”
Greg stopped smirking and sighed. He sat down on the floor and looked up at the harried spin doctor. “I thought about it,” he confessed. “But even I know that the more I try to hide who I was, the more people will be out there digging it back up. I can’t bury it… so I might as well own it.” He looked up with a gleam in his eye. “The name’s Void Cowboy. Void. Cowboy.”
“Now gimme my darn hat.”
The lady in the pantsuit primly picked the hat-- one of the few things in the suit to survive mostly unbattered-- off the manikin and, with a smug look at Carlos, plunked it on the pony’s head. He looked up at her from under the brim and grinned. “Huh. Still fits,” he said. “All right, lady. What else you got for me?”
By the time they left several hours later, Greg… Void Cowboy… was just about fully kitted out. His white stetson hat (with the blue computer circuit headband) was now accompanied by a HUD visor like Ladybird’s own. He had a pair of saddlebags, complete with mini-waldo arms and stamped with his own hip-mark, and a set of hoofshoes (he’d been relieved to find out they wouldn’t be nailing anything to his feet after all.) They had circuit-pattern decorations down the sides and the color and style more than faintly suggested cowboy boots, at least on the back pair. He was still wearing black shorts underneath it all-- though they were better tailored and fit more sheer than the baggy, makeshift things he’d been stuck with.
The only thing missing was his gunbelt. “You’ll have to get that from Armsmaster,” Carlos had told them. “Once he finishes safety-checking it, that is.” Greg had grumbled, but accepted the verdict. He’d had the thing blow up on him once, he wasn’t eager for a second performance.
The bag of hair clippings, he’d left with the staff after a quick muttered conversation. He’d refused to say what it was about, though. “I wanna see if it works, first,” he’d told Taylor, and refused to say more about it.
They were now standing in front of the door to the Wards’ quarters. Taylor was about to ring the buzzer when she noticed that Greg was standing back a ways, looking nervous. No, looking downright ill to his stomach. “You ready?” she asked him.
He plunked his rump on the floor and looked down at his front hooves. “No,” he said. “They’re gonna hate me.”
“You don’t know that,” Taylor chided. “They’ll love you, I’m sure.”
Greg shook his head. His expression was beyond sad or sick, it was fatalistic. “They’ll tolerate me for a while,” he said with conviction. “Then they’ll get sick of me. Then they’ll push me to the side, or get me transferred somewhere else… Till they get sick of me THERE, too--”
“They’re not like that, Greg-- er, Void,” she said. “It won’t go like that.”
“Why wouldn’t it?” he asked her. “That’s how it’s gone everywhere since first grade. Why would here be any different?”
It was then that Taylor had her first epiphany about the exasperating enigma that was Greg Veder. For the past two years, Taylor had been an outcast. It had been two years of Hell, and it had nearly killed her.
For her, it had been a lousy two years of high school. But for Greg, this was life.
She firmed up her stance. “Why?” She said. She rested a hoof on his shoulder and tried to give him a smile. “Because we’ll MAKE it be different.” He gave her a watery smile.
She rang the buzzer. As they stood there waiting, Void Cowboy looked over at her. “Okay, I’ll try,” he said. “Just… give me a kick or something if I start sticking myfoot in my mouth?” Ladybird chuckled and nodded. The door slid open and Gallant stood in the doorway.
“Hey everyone-- looks like our newest Ward decided to show his face…"
