Lunchtime. Yuuta felt two hands clasp his shoulders, then release as Haru walked around him into view. The other sophomore had his lunch brought from home in a brown paper bag, and he frowned at Yuuta's school tray of ambiguous meatloaf and canned veggies. Haru jerked his head towards the entrance of the Winslow cafeteria.
"Dump it, we'll share mine. Souta wants us on the roof."
Yuuta frowned, but popped the substandard cookie dessert in his mouth and left the rest of the tray atop a trash can as he followed Haru to the staircase. The old metal door at the top of the school was supposed to be kept locked, but it had been broken open and the padlocks stolen so many times that the maintenance staff had ceased to care. As promised, Souta was on the roof already, sitting on the low concrete divider that the tall chain fence surrounding the building's peak was anchored into. The upperclassman was smoking a joint, but when he spotted the other two teens approaching, he pinched the end and stowed the remainder into his jacket. It was a bit rude not to share, but Souta had been in the ABB's ranks for about a year already; he was allowed to be rude.
"Yuuta. Tell me again what you said about the shrine."
Yuuta took a sandwich from Haru, then complied. The guys had already made fun of him for getting spooked, so there was no sense in denying things now. It was a worrisome topic, though. Had Souta reported his cowardice to the Oni, and now he was going to be banned from the gang forever? The upperclassman just listened in silence, his expression dark. He was silent for a bit after Yuuta finished.
"Hey. This stays here, get me? No telling anyone until I do, yeah?" Yuuta and Haru both nodded. Souta exhaled through his teeth. "I saw the miko chick over the weekend. Friday night. I think she's a cape."
Haru choked on his soda, narrowly avoiding spraying Souta's boots with his surprise. "W-what?"
"Yeah. Caught her painting my house, just-- throwing paint everywhere. All over the neighborhood. Trees an' flowers all over everything. Get this-- everything she touched? Is like brand new." Yuuta's eyes widened. Souta saw, and nodded. "Yeah. Even the roof don't leak any more. But now the PRT's sniffin' around."
"But... she wasn't at the shrine when the statues got fixed. I looked. And there's no paint on them, either."
"She still did it. What else would?"
"Uh... guys?" Haru waved his hands a bit for attention. "That girl? From the shrine? Beanpole, black hair, little bit of a butterface?" There was a chorus of nods. "I know that chick. She goes to this school."
"Huh. Cool, I guess."
"No. No, you don't get it," Haru stressed, "I saw her last year, too. There's like, a bunch of people always on her ass. Stealing her books and shit."
"...so? She's a cape, let her handle it."
"Uhuh, right. And what's the Oni gonna do if he finds out we all just watched while his pet got hassled?"
A long pause stretched. Souta retrieved his joint and re-lit it. Yuuta felt a tiny bubble of hysteria escape his throat as a laugh. "Closed-casket funerals come to mind."
"Okay. Okay, here's what's gonna happen." Souta fanned away the smoke, and leaned in. Yuuta and Haru mirrored him, closing the circle. "You two gonna spread word, anyone with the colors-- the miko chick belongs to the Oni, so we're protecting his property, got it? Not a word on her bein' a cape. I'll tell the Oni that when I go downtown in a few days." Souta took a final drag of the joint, then tossed the roach away and put his hand out, palm down. Haru and Yuuta put their palms on top of his. "Right. This'll be easy."
"For Haru, you mean. You have to tell the Oni." Yuuta said. "And if I get murdered, my Baachan's gonna be pissed."
"Dude, you really gotta stop living under her thumb."
"It is a very strong thumb, okay?!"
* * *
Taylor decided to spend her free period outside, away from Them so she could read in peace. Her plan derailed as soon as she got out the school's doors, when she spotted the conspicuous gap in the bicycle racks where her own had been parked, just that morning. Her bike chain and half-size lock were discarded on the ground, sheared by bolt cutters. She walked closer and stood over the empty space, feeling like a mirror to it. Her eyes welled up and stung, and she dashed the tears away on her wrist. When her vision cleared she turned away from the latest expression of Their hate and spotted another teen just down the racks, a slightly heavyset Asian boy, packing an empty lunch bag onto his own bike. He was looking at her with wide dark eyes. Taylor scowled.
"What are you staring at!" She yelled at him, and the boy jumped, then turned and fled. Taylor just wiped at her face again, and trudged back inside.
The rest of the day was spend in a thunderous cloud of resentment. They were quick to capitalize on her mood, not even bothering to hide the satisfied smiles. Taylor hunkered down and endured. When Mr. Quinlan had to step into the hall to break up a fight between some E88 kids and their ABB counterparts, several spitballs found their way into her hair and backpack. Taylor hid inside her hoodie, and listened to the lecture, the whispered comments, the upperclassmen being berated in the hall as they were marched out of school. Taylor endured.
Taylor's bike was back in the rack at the last bell, complete with a new chain and padlock, with the key still set into the lock. Despite such an open invitation, nobody else had claimed the vehicle. Taylor rode it home, cheeks wet, but stretched into a smile.
* * *
The living room window was already open. Her father's computer was on, and Sunny was sitting in her father's office chair. As Taylor watched, her backpack slipping from suddenly-loose fingers, the wolf clicked the computer mouse a few times, tongue lolling. Sunny tilted her head towards Taylor, still grinning. Taylor did not endure.
"YOU ARE A DOG!"
* * *
"Taylor, honey..." Danny pushed Taylor's door open a crack after giving a courtesy knock. Taylor looked up from her bed, where she was stretched out, reading another book Sunny had unearthed from the yard. Danny saw the mud and frowned even further.
"Taylor... you know you can tell me anything, right?"
"Sure, dad."
"I wouldn't be angry, you know."
"Uh... okay?"
"Just... just so you know." He closed the door behind him. Taylor's brow furrowed. What had brought that on?
The half-dozen large packages that appeared on the doorstep at the end of the week might have had something to do with it. Taylor dug out an iconic Little Red Wagon from the cobweb-strewn depths of the garage in order to smuggle the Express Shipping boxes into the shrine before her dad could see. Taylor glared at Sunny the whole way.
Taylor's intentions to avoid the shrine on weekdays did not last long under the piteous gaze of Sunny. She started bringing her homework with her, and sometimes didn't return home until after the sun was dipping to meet the horizon. It wasn't always for work, either; for being in such a dangerous place, the shrine was quickly becoming a small oasis of peace. Nobody bothered her there, and though the occasional visitor to the shrine might stare at her for a few minutes as she gardened, or painted, or practiced with her calligraphy, no one told her to stop, either. Sunny was there most days, rolling in the grass, napping under the tree, or chasing butterflies until she inevitably got dizzy and knocked herself over. It was... nice.
That said, Sunshine had certainly found a project for her.
She was finishing up re-potting the saplings into burlap bags that could be planted directly when she heard grumbling and footsteps enter under the torii. A familiar teen marched up towards the haiden, pulled back his arm to toss a white bundle, then caught sight of Taylor watching and immediately changed his mind. He kneeled and set the offering on the steps instead. When he was done, the boy had a moment of obvious hesitation before he approached Taylor, who had begun picking up the heavy earthen bundles and started loading them onto her Little Red Wagon.
"Uh... hey."
"Hi." Taylor replied, not stopping her work.
"What's... all this?"
"Trees. I was going to go plant them."
"That's a lot of trees for one shrine."
"I'm not planting them here. I mean out there," Taylor said, and waved her hand vaguely at the Asian district beyond. She hoped she didn't need a license for public landscaping. The boy next to her glanced at the exit of the shrine, then back at the huge pile of saplings. It was going to take a lot of trips.
"Miko, why are you--"
"Taylor," she corrected.
"R-right! Taylor. Uh, I'm Yuuta, by the way."
"Nice to meet you, Yuuta. Thank you again for helping fix the place."
"You remembered me?" She nodded. "That's-- cool. So, Taylor, why are you planting trees?"
At that, Taylor bit on her lip and hid behind her hair. Between the book Sunshine had gotten her and the packages she'd ordered, she had a good idea, but it sounded... a little silly, even to her. And maybe a little offensive. But not answering would be worse. "...there's no cherry trees here. For the flower festival." Yuuta gaped at her, and Taylor flushed. "And I know it's around March or something, but I didn't know if the seasons were reversed because we're not in Japan, and now I've already got the saplings grown, and--"
"I don't-- I don't think the dates change around the world? I'd have to ask my Baachan. But I don't think they'd even grow out here. How long have you been planning for this?"
"Since... last week, maybe?" Taylor hedged. "I just got these around Wednesday."
Yuuta hissed through his teeth. "Seriously?! Don't saplings cost, like, fifty bucks each? Or more?" He cast wide eyes at the hoard. Taylor winced.
"I hope not. I just got a bunch of the seeds. And some imported soil," she added, expression a little darker.
"...when did you plant the seeds?"
"Thursday, mostly." Yuuta stared at her, his chest barely moving to breathe. After a moment he turned his head to look at the pile of saplings. Taylor fidgeted. They were already about two feet high each-- a year's worth of growth in a few days. But if he wasn't going to say anything, she wasn't going to say anything. She heard him swallow, hard. Taylor decided the best course of action was to simply finish piling what she could on her wagon, then walk out. She had a lot of holes to dig.
* * *
It was hard work. Taylor wished that Sunshine was here to help, today. The canine loved digging holes, it should have been an obvious choice. Instead, it was just Taylor, with her spade and stubborn refusal to quit. After an hour her hands were getting quite sore, so it was almost a relief when the ABB finally decided to interrupt. Taylor looked up when a pair of boots came to a stop near her, and up further when she saw the interloper wasn't a teen, but several. Six or seven adolescents, male and female, formed a loose circle around her. Taylor sat back on her heels, and tried not to toy with her spade too much.
The leader looked down at her, nearly a man grown, with a bandanna wrapped over his head in the gang's colors. "...you want some help?"
Taylor stared. There was a gun on the man's hip, she was technically digging up public property, and the first thing anyone says to her is that? "You'll want a shovel," she said.
The man nodded, then gestured to a few of the people behind him, who split off to go find gardening equipment. Taylor felt something quite like mortal terror churning in her stomach and trying to rise into her throat. It was almost hilarious-- she smiled, not sure for which reason. "There's more saplings at the shrine, I couldn't get them all in one trip." Her mouth ran itself some more.
"'Kay. Where you want them?"
"Anywhere there's dirt, and space." Right now she was sitting on an earth-filled divider for a busy street, the soil dry and cracked and with more cigarette butts than earthworms. She had two in this strip already, and was working on the third, and the plants didn't seem too unhappy, even with their new home. This one even had a few pale pink pearls budding on it. Taylor brushed one with her finger, then finished scooping in the sullen dirt over the burlap sack containing the tree's roots.
It was hard work, but it went a lot faster with many hands. The full load of over two hundred saplings all found new homes in the scarce earth of Brockton Bay, and as the heat of the day wore on mothers, and wives, and younger siblings started appearing with snacks, or drinks for those working under the sun. Some particularly enterprising cooks and shopkeepers started setting up mobile carts, hawking colorful wares and freshly-fried tofu, and all sorts of things. Traffic was stalled and diverted around some of the larger squares, and people began to gather, lured outside by the sights and sounds and smells. By evening, the work was all finished and the block party had only grown.
Taylor missed her chance to retreat to the shrine. A few of the younger crowd, though no one she recognized, spotted her and all but dragged her back to the impromptu festivities. She found that she didn't mind that much.
By morning, every one of the saplings was spotted with the pale pink buds, far out of season.
* * *
Oni Lee was not at the festivities. He wasn't even at his work, either.
Oni Lee was outside the building he slept at, where a plant had grown up through a crack in the sidewalk. A tall, simple green stalk, crowned by a bright red flower with wide-set petals. It hadn't been there yesterday. He recognized it, too, which prompted a faint flicker of surprise to pass him by, like a single eddy in an otherwise still pond. It was a spider lily, a beautiful flower that bloomed in early autumn. They were often planted around rice paddies and rivers, to repel pests-- the bulbs of the plant were poisonous, but the flower itself was still loved. It was a funeral flower.
And it was growing out of the sidewalk in front of the abandoned building he lived in. Oni Lee stared at it, as though it would reveal its secrets if only he watched it long enough. Was it a message-- a threat? It didn't seem to ring true. He stepped closer. A click-click-click of paws on pavement drew his attention before he could pluck the plant from its roots.
Ahead was the dog he'd seen--
Oni Lee blinked. Was it a dog? The head seemed too angular, the proportions of the limbs too smooth. Not a dog, then, but a wolf. The animal was so white it nearly glowed, and when it stopped walking it turned its head back to stare at him. After a moment, it resumed its travel-- and Oni Lee saw a red flower grow in its wake, the shoot curling up through a tiny crack in the pavement. The spirit walked, and Oni Lee followed.
The wolf-spirit led him away from the busier streets, away even from the shrine, into the only sort of place that even in Brockton Bay went untouched and silent. They passed under the iron gate of the cemetery, spider lilies creeping along behind them. The flowers picked up speed, curling ahead and marking out a path until the new shoots and blossoms ringed a broken headstone. There was nothing to distinguish the grave from the others around it, but the spirit walked over on silent paws and sat down next to the marker. Oni Lee knelt in front of it, and pushed away a fold of moss. Much of the gravestone was worn or cracked-- weather and neglect had aged it before its time-- but a few characters were still just able to be made out. Kiyoko.
There had been a girl once, with this name. She'd had a family. She'd sold charms at the local shrine, once they'd abandoned their homes and moved to this desolate place, on the other side of the world. She'd had a brother.
It wasn't much, this memory, this girl. He still had no face or name of his own. But it was there. It was proof, proof of a truth that he'd long since swept aside: there had been a man, before there had been Oni Lee.
Kiyoko.
The wolf spirit was patient. It gazed at him with eyes too deep and knowing for an animal. Oni Lee put out his hand, and touched the white fur of its brow.
"Thank you."
"Hey, Mr. Henrick!"
"Hm?" The old man shuffled his feet until he turned in Taylor's direction. She waved at him from over the white picket fence, and he gave a slight wave and a smile back in return. "Good morning, young lady. On your way to school?"
Taylor winced, just a little, but nodded, and let at least some of a smile slip back onto her face. "In a minute. Wanted to ask you something first."
"Go on."
"Okay, this is kinda outta the blue, but do you do any woodworking, Mr. Henrick?"
"Well, I've put together a few things in the past. Did you break a chair, or something?"
"No, nothing like that." Taylor frowned, then dug into her backpack. She withdrew a piece of paper torn from one of her sketchbooks, then held it up. Old Mr. Henrick squinted and pushed his glasses a bit further up his nose. The paper had a drawing of a curio cubby-- or maybe a curio box, there was a small scribble that looked like hinges. The whole thing was a large rectangle with 13 differently-sized sections. Odd choice, but cleverly planned to make everything fit. Old Mr. Henrick shuffled forward a bit and took the paper for a closer look.
"Could do with some sizing, but it doesn't look too tough. You wanting a jewelry box?"
"I don't... think so?" Taylor shrugged. "Not actually sure what's going in it yet. A friend wanted it."
"You should," he grunted. "Boys'll be giving you calf eyes an' gifts soon enough. You'll see." He grinned at Taylor's embarrassed flush and rapid protestations. "I think I can handle this, if you want."
"That'd be great, Mr. Henrick! Thank you!" Taylor's smile came back. "Want me to mow your lawn or something later?"
"Well, that'd be mighty helpful of you, Taylor. it's a deal."
* * *
Their group was splintered, today, without focus or drive to hound Taylor. Easy enough to see why, as half of the core was missing: Sophia Hess had called out sick today. It was a welcome reprieve. Taylor ate lunch in the cafeteria at the mostly-barren table of exiles. There was time left in the period still after she finished her sandwich wrap and apple (the cookie was not worth the name), so she pulled out some thicker sheets of paper, a brush, and an inkpot, and set to practice.
Calligraphy was hard, with so much precision needing to be balanced with the somewhat chaotic nature of raw ink. This book was a little easier, in Taylor's opinion. Instead of having the characters flow together, here they were arranged neatly atop each other on simple white slips of paper. Some of the advanced ones had twining swirls and artistic flair, but these required concentration enough. Taylor didn't even notice her inkpot had moved until she reached over to dip her brush.
"Hey Tayyyy-lor. What'cha doing? Are you dwawing again?" Emma crooned, pursing her lips as she reduced Taylor's effort to babytalk. She held up the inkpot in one hand, smirking.
"Give it back, Emma." Taylor scowled, but her heart wasn't in it. This was a doomed cause and she knew it. And what was more, Emma knew that she knew. The other girl rolled the inkpot between her fingers, smiling wider. She opened her mouth for another volley, then suddenly froze, eyes widening as she looked at the papers in front of Taylor. Abruptly, her face twisted with hate, so much so Taylor leaned back away from her.
"And what the hell is this?!" Emma swiped a hand at the table, knocking away the brush and sending paper slips scattering. Around the cafeteria, heads were turning. "What, are you ABB now? Don't make me laugh! They wouldn't take you. Nobody would take you, Taylor. Not even if you whored yourself to them!" Emma had a flush riding high on pale cheeks, her eyes wide and almost rolling. She was yelling, too-- Emma never yelled. She whispered, murmured, crooned. She didn't raise her voice so others could hear.
"You're not even worth--"
"Then why are you here?" Taylor interrupted. "You're always saying that. I'm not worth the time, I'm not worth attention, I'm not worth the air I breathe. So why are you over here to tell me?" Taylor took an uneven breath, watched a muscle near Emma's eye twitch. "Just give me back my ink, and leave me alone."
"Oh, you want it back? Of course, how rude of me." Emma didn't smile-- she showed her teeth.
Then she snapped her wrist and splashed the ink over Taylor's face.
Taylor jolted back so hard she slipped from the table bench and fell, giving her head a sharp crack on the linoleum as she landed. It seemed a very loud sound in the silent room. Taylor groped for her bag, found the strap, and lurched to her feet. The floor and walls were swimming-- was there ink in her eyes? No, just tears. Taylor fled into the hall and kept away from the walls, all shifting and dark as they were.
Still at the table, Emma watched Taylor flee with her metaphorical tail between her legs-- just like always. She gave the empty inkpot a quick glance to judge its solidity, then hurled the object to the floor. It splintered to pieces. "Stupid bitch. Who does she think she is?"
"That's what I'd like to know." Emma's gaze whipped up. Just behind her was one of the upperclassmen, a well-built Asian boy with a red and green wristband and a jacket that smelled like smoke. Behind him were a few other students-- and behind them, Emma spotted dark-haired heads all turned her way.
Souta didn't smile-- he showed his teeth.
* * *
Taylor jumped off her bike when she reached her yard, not bothering to park it neatly. The vehicle clattered to the grass as Taylor stumbled up the steps and unlocked her front door. Mr. Henrick was out on his porch, saw her disheveled state, and called out-- "Taylor? Young lady, you okay? Taylor!"
Taylor shut the door and locked it behind her. She didn't answer when the doorbell rang, a few minutes later. What she did do was put her head under a running faucet, until she felt Sunshine bump against her legs and whine. Taylor didn't say anything. She just slid down the cabinets to the floor and buried her wet face in the wolf's fur. Sunny turned her head to cover Taylor's neck and hold her closer. She gave a single low, mournful howl, then settled into a comforting silence.
"...Sunny?" Taylor asked, some time later as sunset turned the kitchen window to stained glass.
'Mrrmrr?'
"Let's go paint the town again."
* * *
The motorcycle purred to a stop. Armsmaster dismounted quickly and took two long strides to the sidewalk, where a rough mural had been added to the dividing wall between the street and the houses up the hill. This was on the other side of the docks from the last stretch of parahuman vandalism he'd encountered, closer to the Trainyards and the Merchants this time. Armsmaster leaned closer for a second, then strode quickly back to his bike and opened the small storage compartments. He came back with two pieces of paper, stuck one against the wall a few meters to his left, and the other a few meters to his right. The one on his right came away with more paint. The tinker opened his radio connection as he straddled the bike again and kicked it off.
"Armsmaster reporting, I've picked up the trail of our painter. Still fresh, I'm going to follow it."
"Roger that Armsmaster. Keep in contact." Sounded like Chessman was on console tonight. That was fine with Armsmaster-- the other hero had a natural knack for organizing and coordinating that his power had only built upon. Armsmaster could respect that. He turned up the speed and followed the trail of paint and restored buildings. It wasn't long before a figure appeared in his headlight-- tall, long hair pulled back, wearing loose white clothes and a red apron. They were currently splattering paint across the trunk of a dying oak tree in a wide, spotted arc, like a shooting star. They jumped when the headlight illuminated the area, cast a quick look over their shoulder--wearing a mask, natch--then dropped the paintbrush and bolted into the night.
Armsmaster, already half off his bike to make an attempt at a friendly approach, cursed and started running as well. He disengaged the magnetic lock on his halberd and gripped the weapon, just in case. "Halt! This is the Protectorate!"
The fleeing painter did not halt. Why did they never halt when he told them to? A slight brush of his chin inside his helmet activated the comms again. "Got them in my sights, they're fleeing. On pursuit."
Miss Militia's voice joined the channel. "You're not running after someone with a weapon drawn, are you?"
The halberd clicked back into the magnetic lock. "Of course not." The painter was closer-- Armsmaster was picking up speed, hitting his stride, while the parahuman (teenager, most likely) was starting to flag. They turned a quick corner onto another street, out of his sight. "Almost got them, I just need to--"
Chessman frowned at the console. Beside him, Miss Militia moved a bit closer, eying the suddenly silent radio with suspicion. Her hand drifted to her power, a knife at her hip. Chessman pushed the CALL button and said, "Say again, Armsmaster, you cut out. ...Armsmaster? Armsmaster!"
Another worryingly quiet moment, the two heroes already grabbing gear and sending an alert for backup, when the tinker's radio hissed back to life.
"I am petting this dog," Armsmaster said.
"Wh... what was that, Armsmaster?"
"It is a good dog."
"Alert the Master/Stranger containment team," Miss Militia said. "He's been compromised."
* * *
Sunny met up with Taylor again when she was halfway back home, pedaling harder than she'd thought possible. The wolf ran alongside easily, tongue lolling happily. "Oh man, Sunny, why did we do that it was such a bad idea why."
'Woooo~!'
"Don't woo at me we ran from Armsmaster!"
'WOOOOOOO~!'
"This had better not come back to bite me in the ass, Sunny!"
* * *
Taylor parked her bike neatly this time. She headed up the steps, then stopped to pick up the bundle sitting in front of the door. A casserole dish, with a savory-smelling quiche, just faintly warm. A note was taped to the lid, from Mr. and Mrs. Henrick. Taylor read it, then folded it neatly and tucked it in her pocket to keep. Damp eyes made it hard to see the door's lock, but she managed.
Taylor--
It looked like you had a bad day. You can always come over and talk to us if you need, sweetie.
Here's some dinner, in case your papa works late again.
--George and Martha
Taylor warmed it in the microwave, then split the egg dish with Sunny.
It was a good quiche.