16th of May, 2011
Brockton Bay, Bonesaw's hidden lab
My eyes snap open in a panic and it is only due to the too-strong, too-solid arms keeping me immobilized that I don't start freaking out.
More accurately, not freaking out more.
I slowly let the tension in my shoulders bleed out as Sibby does a little rumble-purr in my ears, talon-like nails soothingly scraping against my scalp in a bid to help me center myself.
It has been four days since I met Armsmaster for the first time and I have been plagued by nightmares melding two lifetimes together each night.
Coincidentally, I also discovered that I have a very lackluster ability to turn those nightmares into something more lucid, guided. I have been forced to endure those as is and it hasn't done my mood any favors. I wake up exhausted everyday and with the burning need to kill someone who deserves it.
At least the Fran side of my life has been relatively smooth sailing following my talk with Gran because I don't know what I would have done if things had turned sour after the talk I more-or-less trapped myself into.
To my defense, I really thought that Gran and I would stay in Trish's home for a couple more days, maybe a week. Alas, Maggie Schwartzberg has her pride and didn't want to impose any longer on my school friend parents' hospitality.
Speaking of my friends, things are… a bit of a mixed bag on that particular front. Trish, Vanessa and even Mindy are a bit cross with Missy and Dinah. Mostly because the trio got unreasonably anxious about the two Wards going missing during Leviathan and the duo not having a good excuse ready-made for mysteriously seating the fight out in another shelter than ours.
Consequently, the group chat we had going on has been… tense to say the least. Passive-aggressiveness permeates every text message, doubly so after Missy had to make another excuse for refusing to celebrate her birthday yet another year in a row, which appears to be a rather big point of contention between her friends and her.
I tried to play the mediator and calm things down a little, but it kinda-sorta backfired. Missy is – understandably so – still mad at me, something that Dinah told me in no uncertain terms accompanied by a plea to be 'the bigger person in this'. I chose to hear her out on this, but the Shaker's sudden heel-turn in her attitude toward me went noticed and the trio of non-cape girls rose to my defense as one after a particularly caustic text.
On one hand, it gives me warm fuzzy feelings to have succesfully made some school friends.
On the other hand, I am more than a little bummed out about Missy either ignoring me or throwing carefully hidden insults my way. I mean, I get why, but still.
She even left me on read when I wished her a happy birthday yesterday, which, rude.
Overall, bummed out sums my current mood quite adequately.
Murderous too, but that's more of a given for, well, me.
A finger under my chin props my head up and I lock eyes with electric-blue orbs. Sibby peers back at me with just a hint of concern before signing something with her free hand.
I close my eyes, before nodding.
"I'm fine… ish," I answer before dropping my head back down between her breasts, "Just give me five more minutes, please?"
She doesn't remark on the little begging edge in my voice as she moves her free hand in my field of view.
She signs something and I frown a little as I decipher what she just said.
I groan out loud when her words jog my memory.
"Today?" I feel her nodding through the movement of her thoracic cage, "Do I really have to?"
'You asked', she signs back.
I can almost feel the judgemental glare through the crown of my head.
I groan a second time, which I feel like is entirely warranted.
"Maybe I shouldn't? This sounds like a really, really bad idea all of a sudden," I peer up at my Big Sister, giving her my best attempt at puppy dog eyes, "I could call, tell them Brockton General is still busy-busy and ask for a raincheck?"
Her fluffiness squints back at me with more than a little judgement.
I groan a third time.
"Fine!" I grumble while starting to wiggle myself out of the bedsheets and Sibby's arms, "I won't skip my first meeting with Yamada."
Another reason I'm bummed out?
I'm seeing a shrink for the first time – in this life in any case – today.
And I'm about ninety percent certain that it's going to be a whole thing and that I'm going to hate it.Chapter 59: "You don't like me."
16th of May, 2011
Brockton Bay, Charter Hill
"We're here, ma'am," the trooper's voice pulls Jessica from her own thoughts as the PRT transport comes to a stop, wrenching an involuntary jolt out of the psychiatrist.
Yet the words still manage to fully sink in after a beat. She takes a deep breath, then lets out an exhale just as deep before nodding to herself once, her hand blindly fishing for her briefcase as she locks eyes with her escort for the day.
"Thank you, trooper Martinez," Jessica hears herself answer at one remove, every sound oddly muted, like her ears are filled with cottons.
Just like when she stood in front of her peers to defend her thesis what feels like a lifetime ago.
It has been a while since she got such a bad case of the jitters, but she figures the situation somewhat warrants it.
As Jessica steps out of the transport, blinking a little as the green and purple lights momentarily blind her, she feels her throat bob a little as she takes in the building in front of her.
There's nothing particular about it, the commandeered office building being almost painfully neutral in appearance. From what she recalls from the rather extensive briefing she went through two days ago, the place belongs to the city of Brockton Bay itself. Simple brickwork and square-ish, it doesn't stand out one lick amid its surroundings.
Jessica can't help but think it should, and not because she can see richer and well-cared for houses at the end of the street. Admittedly, the security cordon does a good enough job at screaming to the world that something of import is happening here.
The psychiatrist takes a shuddering breath before nodding to her escort and gets quickly ushered through the cordon. She feels a brief pang of regret at not having what could possibly be the most important meeting of her life in her own office, but the local PRT Director had been adamant. 'As long as I am in office, neither of the Nine's Remnants will step foot in that building,' Miss Piggot had said.
As a mental health professional, Jessica can't help but think that the harsh rebuttal hadn't solely been done out of security concerns, but since those nonetheless are a thing she understands why they had to pick a neutral location for this. Only the future will tell if that particular logistic puzzle will remain relevant going forward.
"They're already inside," she distractedly registers another trooper telling in a low tone to her escort, the man's grip just a little too tight on his confoam launcher, before turning himself toward her, "If you'll follow me, ma'am?"
"Of course, lead the way," Jessica answers with a polite little quirk of her lips even as her stomach clenches painfully.
She takes another deep and quiet breath as her escort and follows the trooper through the building's threshold.
It doesn't take long before Jessica finally lays her eyes on her new patient and her guardian for the first time. Just as her escort and her turn at an angle in the building, she sees them.
She can't help it and her steps halt as she takes the scene in.
Covered by the white-and-blue flickers of the Siberian's aura, USA's most reviled bio-tinker quietly sits on a bench, idly kicking her feet while half-leaning into her companion's side, her attention on a tablet of a strange make.
Probably tinkertech then, the psychiatrist quietly notes to herself.
As to her – changed – guardian, the animalistic woman keeps herself busy by running her fingers in her charge's hair while reading–
Jessica blinks, then blinks some more.
–a fashion magazine of all things?!
She takes the woman's bare appearance, then quietly decides to let go of that incongruity before it drives her up the walls.
Closeness, familiarity, ease, she assesses the duo, they really do behave like a family unit.
Unbidden, her eyebrow twitches a little.
Didn't stop them from tearing other families apart, her own – and very unprofessional – disgust momentarily rises to the forefront of her mind before she decisively smothers it.
She had told the Director that she probably wasn't the best person for the job, but the woman had dismissed her reservations with the most politely worded 'tough, deal with it' Jessica ever had the displeasure of hearing.
Her attention snaps back to the situation at hand as she hears the lead trooper call for the Remnants' attention.
Jessica barely has the time to center herself as she steps forward that the two serial killers' eyes lock on her.
She almost freezes, only her own experience with the more unstable elements of the asylum preventing her from shying away from their gaze.
Cat-like electric-blue irises look at her with naked judgement and an edge of warning.
The message is painfully obvious. The Siberian will make Jessica regret it if she happens to emotionally hurt her pseudo-daughter.
The other, mismatched pair of eyes peers back at her with curiosity and just a bit too much intensity for the psychiatrist to feel comfortable.
While she's used to caring for unstable parahuman killers, most of her patients at the asylum have a list of extenuating circumstances longer than her arm in most cases.
Power-induced insanity, trigger events gone very wrong and their subsequent traumas, Shaker powers without an off button, unconventional biologies or power expressions turning their wielders into lethal killing machines… Jessica has seen a lot of parahumans who got dealt a rough hand and now have to live with the consequences in her career.
According to Bonesaw's allegations regarding Jack Slash's Mastering, this is also the bio-tinker's case.
According to the psychiatrist's guts though?
She's getting stared at by two unrepentant, unabashed killers.
Jessica plasters a polite, neutral smile on her face as she steps through her escorts, her own professionalism valiantly stepping to the forefront even as she has to stop her free hand from shaking.
"Greetings," she says as soon as the trooper stops speaking, "I'm Jessica Yamada, and I'll be your therapist for today."
The homicidal preteen visibly perks up before smiling her way.
Except it is blatantly obvious to Jessica that the smile is forced, almost plastic on the girl's face, like she's putting on an act.
"Greetings, Miss Yamada," the answer is given with just a smidgen of discomfort and the psychiatrist feels herself getting intrigued despite herself.
Is she having second thoughts about something she deliberately engineered? Jessica ponders while navigating the following preliminary small talk as the lead trooper hashes out a few more things with the Nine's Remnants, that would mean she's capable of remorse, then.
Jessica's attention snaps toward the Siberian as she straightens out of nowhere to give the assembled personnel a rather intense look before signing something.
"Oh! Hum, Sibby said that nobody will like the consequences if someone decides to get some clever ideas," the girl quickly interprets, the previously plastic smile turning almost mischievous as she delivers the threat, "That's why she would like to remind you that you should take this job very, very seriously!"
Jessica watches, transfixed, as the blonde innocently tilts her head to the side with a finger on her chin before adding.
"My dear Rabbit is keeping an eye on things outside," she explains matter-of-factly, causing the gathered personnel to tense a little, "But it'd probably be better for everyone if neither Sibby or her had to intervene. We're trusting you here, good folks, so you better not renege on our deal!"
The slightly narrowed look with its added finger-wagging would probably look comical on any other preteen.
But those words have weight.
The possible consequences are so incredibly real.
Jessica can feel the troopers' discomfort despite their full-mask helmets and she'd wager she doesn't look any better herself.
Then both of the Remnants seemingly relax and the moment is gone just as quickly as it came.
It leaves her feeling incredibly off-kilters.
"I'm glad we could reach an understanding!" the blonde chirps while clapping her hands before hopping onto her feet.
The aura vanishes from the preteen's body.
Nobody moves.
Jessica feels herself not-quite sagging in relief.
The Siberian's hand clamps back on her charge's forearm, redirecting the girl's attention toward her guardian as she signs something.
The blonde audibly groans before answering.
"Yes, I'm going to do my best to make it work, no need to be such a mother hen!" she grumbles while looking to the side with her arms crossed under her chest.
The Siberian makes an odd sound, something seemingly right at the crossroad between a chuckle and a purr before pulling the scowling blonde for a quick hug before letting her go.
This is a mundane scene.
One so mundane Jessica saw it dozens of times in her career.
Seeing it enacted by two hardened serial killers happens to be an entirely novel experience though.
And as she precedes Bonesaw into the loaned office, the psychiatrist doesn't really know what to think anymore.
***
The silence in the room is so pregnant that I'd be willing to contact the nearest abortion clinic if I didn't have a better option at my disposal.
Namely, me breaking it.
"You don't like me," the words bluntly escape my mouth as I look at the rather diminutive woman of Asian descent, dark hair in a bob cut framing a rather forgettable, common face.
Quite unfortunately after last night's nightmare, she smells of smoke and cold ashes.
Jessica Yamada not-quite jolts at my words and almost fumbles with her clipboard as she gives me the same look a deer caught in the headlight does.
"Sibby's quite good at information gathering when she feels like it," the lies easily flow through my lips, now quite practiced as I shuffle a little in my seat and smooth a crease on my sundress, "So I know you used to take care of three, now two, of my victims."
Another intense pause.
The woman leans slightly forward in her chair as she peers at me over her glasses.
"... And how does that make you feel?" she asks.
The sentence is so cliché I have to stifle a giggle on the spot.
But I did promise Sibby to give it my best shot and I'd also really like to unscramble my head from all the mess inside of it.
That's why I give the question some thoughts and take my time to answer it.
"... I don't think I care," I settle on saying after a beat spent mulling over it, "We're not close enough yet for me to be hurt by it.
"For now, you and I," I alternatively point between the two of us, "Are strangers. And as long as I feel like that's the case, I'll have troubles, well, caring about your personal opinion regarding me."
The woman leans back a little while distractedly fiddling with her pencil with her free hand.
She blessedly doesn't click it because it would've driven me spare really quickly.
"And whose opinions do you value then?" She asks back, the neutrality of her tone getting slightly undercut by her intrigue.
"Sibby's first," I answer instantly, "Because she only wants the best for me–" this one in any case, "–and would do anything to protect me. Just like I would."
I pause, before adding.
"Then there are those I consider my friends," I elaborate, "Because I know that I sometimes don't have the best ideas when it comes to interacting with other people and Sibby is… well, she's Sibby. If someone bothers her a little too much, she's going to eat them to make a point and quickly forget about them afterward.
"Then there are who I probably should call… professional acquaintances," I try the qualifier aloud before slowly nodding to myself, "Yeah, that fits. Professional acquaintances. Hero or Villains, it doesn't really matter. If they've proven that they have some modicum of intellect and don't espouse a dumb ideology or abduct preteens, then I'll be inclined to listen to them when they tell me I should probably not be doing something, I think?"
A pause.
"You think?" She probes me, her stance having marginally relaxed since the beginning of my monologue.
"Well," I scrunch my nose a little, "If they happen to wear a skintight purple catsuit and talk a little too much, I reserve my right not to listen to them when they yammer on.
"Then there are the people at the hospital," I carry on, "Doctor Foreman is a really smart cookie and can almost follow along with my explanations. I don't even have to dumb them down that much! And the nurses and orderlies are very professional, so I feel like I should be nice to them in turn.
"And that's it, really," I admit with a little one shoulder shrug, "I mean, I get that people hate me a bunch, but I can't really do anything about it, so I'd rather not pay attention to them while trying to be useful, if that makes sense?"
"It does," the psychiatrist answers after a short beat, "It's a very human thing to shy away from things that make us uncomfortable."
"It's not like it really makes me uncomfortable," I answer back, a frown on my face as I look downward, "I… can't really feel uncomfortable. Sometimes I feel awkward when I talk with someone I don't want to disappoint–" like Gran, "–or give them a good impression–" like with the girls, "–but I don't feel uncomfortable. It's something I had to… carve away. When I was with the Nine."
Another pause, but this one is filled with the quiet scratches of a pen on paper.
"Do you regret it?" the question is asked with all the elegance of a sledgehammer slamming into someone else's knees.
I sigh, getting a little annoyed by the line of questioning.
I lock eyes with the psychiatrist and smother my first answer when I see something in her eyes.
A need to understand, to get it.
Not the desire to help, not yet, but there's something. And I can use it.
Alright, maybe she isn't as biased as I first thought, I quietly admit to myself, either that or her professionalism overrode her personal distaste. Works for me.
"The last six years?" she slowly nods back, "Regret isn't quite the word, I think. For one, it's not exactly like I got a choice in this. Upset, betrayed, outraged, murderous, yes to all of those. But I was just a little girl, surrounded by what I now know were monsters pretending to be a happy family, my happy family.
"I know how it sounds, but I'll say it anyway," I shrug, "I did what I had to to survive. No more, no less. And when I finally got the opportunity, I took my shot."
I pause, my eyes looking down at my hands.
I see, I feel the blood on them, but I don't find it in myself to care.
"There's one thing I regret," I quietly admit as I slowly clench my fists, "It's how… weird and numb my time with the Nine made me. I know that I'm flipped up in the head, that's obvious even to me. And I know I'll never be normal, how could I when I did all of those things, when I have to consciously remind myself that other people aren't ready-made spare parts that I can use if I feel like it, when I triggered so young that my connection with my Passenger is so strong that the boundary between it and I is all blurry?
"I don't regret what I did," I lock eyes with Miss Yamada once more, "I just wanted to survive. Being a Good Girl, being Unc- Jack Slash's tool was my key to survival. But I feel sorry for myself about all those things a girl my age has and that I don't and how freaky and abnormal I am in comparison.
"In the end, it's the price I was made to pay," I lean deeper in my own seat as I close my eyes and sigh, "So I'll deal with it. In time. Maybe. I don't know if I'll ever succeed, but I'm going to try. If only to spite him."
I wipe the sneer off my face as quickly as I can but I can tell the woman saw it clearly.
Another silence falls on the room as she writes a couple more lines on her clipboard before locking eyes with me, seemingly deep in thought.
"How would you prefer to be called?" she asks, a little out of the blue and I blink, "I apologize, we started a little on the wrong foot here. I may have let my own personal feelings color my judgement, which isn't really fair to you when you went through all of those efforts. This is something I should have asked as a starter, instead of letting you do my own job.
"So, how would you prefer to be called?" she slightly tilts her head to the side, "Bonesaw or Riley?"
"A-Alice," I blurt out, feeling a little awkward, "I'd rather you call me Alice."
"Very well, Alice," she slowly nods, her eyes darting toward my costume before locking with my own once more, "Now, I've seen the video you've given to the PRT a few weeks ago, so I'm just as aware as everyone else about the context of the Siberian and your escape from the Nine, but I'd like for you to tell me: what changed that day?"
I look, truly look back at her, while pursing my lips.
"... I'd really like to answer that, because I really need to get it off my chest," I slowly start, my rightmost index pointed skyward, "But first, I'm going to ask you how stringent the NDA you probably signed exactly is and how seriously you take the Hippocratic Oath."
Turns out? The blanket answer is very.
And so I start to talk.
When I step out of the room roughly one hour later, I feel a lot lighter than before.