The next few days passed by in a blur. I just wanted to build, build, build. I experimented with ideas as soon as they popped into my head. Often I forgot to eat, until Dad reminded me. He was getting worried too, and he was the one who looked up the condition online. Apparently it was a thing among Tinkers to go into a frenzy, especially when they were starting out. It happened often enough to be named. Tinker fugue, they called it. Too many ideas in the head that had to be let out. It would slow down eventually.
For me, slowing down was more of a necessity than because of a lack of ideas. My fingers were aching from working so much. It was getting obvious that I couldn't really build every single robot myself. Even with the toolkit my dad had bought for me, I was pretty much hitting my limit at fifty per day before my hands started feeling numb and my eyes were strained. It took nearly a hundred bots to do anything useful, like move a large box across the garage.
I would need these robots to build themselves. Which meant I needed to design a robot that was capable of building other robots. That sparked off another bout of inspired Tinkering, one that almost led me to almost disassemble dad's truck for parts until he dragged me away from it.
My tinkering ability still fizzled out when each robot got too complex. I couldn't just keep slapping on more arms and more tools, more complex hands and grips. I went through over a dozen iterations before I realized the best solution was a small set of robots that could grip each other's bodies, coordinating a simple tool mounted on their heads. Working together in various arrangements, could squeeze, tear, drill, or cut. They could change their function rapidly simply by shifting how they arranged themselves relative to each other.
By necessity, they had to be small; a combination of six of them had to do the same job as my needlenose pliers, and all six needed to fit into the space of the head of the pliers. Each of them was the size of a large ant wearing a pointy hat; it was about as tiny as I could possibly manage with my own hands and a pair of tweezers to assemble them.
I made as many as I could by hand, then put them to work building more of themselves as I went along. By the second day, they were already building themselves faster than I could, so I gave up and let them do it on their own. I was still getting ideas from my Tinker power, but at least my fingers could take a break.
When dad got home, I was watching a documentary about fire ants in the hopes that it would inspire something. Of course, the ants tended to work in teams of thousands at a time, and it would be a while before I had built up that many bots.
"Taylor, what are you doing?" he said, giving me a strange look as he walked into the living room.
"Taking a break?" I said as I popped another grape into my mouth.
"No, I mean, that." He pointed at the bowl of grapes.
My robots picked up another grape. They clambered over each other, stiffened their legs while three of them pulled on the others. They let go, springing the grape into the air like a miniature catapult. I caught it in my mouth. After my hands had become sore from building bots by hand, I felt lazy and recruited a few bots to feed myself. At first, I had them carry them and walk across the ground, but it felt kind of dirty. Getting them to catapult them over was much more fun. It had taken me an hour to get it right.
"Eating grapes," I said as nonchalantly as I could manage.
Dad watched as the team of robots picked up another one and launched another grape perfectly into my mouth.
"Toss one over here, will you?"
I lobbed one into his forehead.
I knew I had to go back to school eventually. As much as dad was impressed with my Tinkering, I still needed at least a high school diploma to get anywhere in life. And as much fun as I was having with my robots, I had come to realize I probably wouldn't be able to sell them. They only did anything when I was in direct control; I couldn't create any kind of control mechanism for Dad to take command of the swarm. He could only make a request to me, and then I would fulfill the request by commanding the bots. That really limited the utility and sales prospects of my creations.
I'd heard of Toybox, a Tinker market where people could sell their creations, often at absurdly high prices due to their unique and powerful technology. I wouldn't be making money there, sadly. Not unless I had a huge breakthrough in my specialty that allowed someone other than myself to control them. And only if I was willing to go villain, since most of their customers were on the wrong side of the law. My best bet was still to go through school normally. Maybe take business classes and go independent, figure out the best way to use my abilities and make a living from it. There were plenty of laws that were applicable only to capes that I would have to navigate if I went that route.
The first day back in school since the dumpster incident was not something I was looking forward to. But I didn't want my bullies to win. They wanted to see me give up, fail, drop out. Denying them that pleasure made up a large portion of my motivation to return to the halls of Winslow. Needless to say, the Terrible Triumvirate and the rest of their posse didn't waste time resuming their usual abuse. No mercy from the wicked, after all. Still, I had my little bots today. I took the tiniest ones I had – the latest batch that was produced overnight. These ones were smaller than ants, easy to sneak around the school. Each iteration was getting smaller and smaller. Although I had originally wanted them to be small to increase precision, there was the side benefit of being harder to see. Within a few more days, the newest bots would be too small to be seen at all, barely bigger than dust mites.
"Ugh, did Hebert really have to come back here and stink up the place again?"
"Why does she even bother? It's not like she'll even graduate with how poorly she does in class."
"Hey Taylor."
I knew that last voice very well. Emma Barnes, the worst of my trio of tormentors. Sure, Sophia was the one who was the most physical, but Emma was the one who got under my skin the most. She knew everything about me. She had been my best friend, after all.
I shut my locker immediately to stop them from peeking inside, or slamming the door on my hand. I don't know what they were planning, but I had to be cautious. "What is it this time Emma?"
"I just wanted to see if you were still crying, Taylor. You know, you cried for, like, two weeks straight when your mom died." She laughed.
I grit my teeth. She dared to use that against me? When my mom died, she'd been the shoulder I cried on. Now she wanted to make fun of me for that?
I wished I could get my little robots to scratch her up for that. Fuck her and her future modeling career. A nice big scar right across her perfect face would do her justice right about now. But that was pretty much a surefire way to bring the Parahuman Response Team coming down on me and putting a quick end to my nonexistent career.
But I did have a use for them right away. I had dozen of them crawl into her purse. I'd learned, from my time at the scrapyard, that I happened to have an inherent sense of where my robots were, and vaguely have a sense of touch through them. No matter how far they would crawl, I always knew where they were. It was like a sixth sense, like knowing where my arms were positioned with my eyes closed. I had limited range, but that was part of the reason why I had some bots in my backpack with some raw materials, continuing to build themselves quietly.
Yes, I realized I was mainly going to use them to avoid the trio. Yes, I knew I was just running from my problems. For now.
"Just go away, Emma." I locked my locker and walked away as quickly. I did leave a few bots sitting on the inside of the door, though. They always seemed to be able to steal things from my locker, even when I changed locks. Emma was no locksmith. Maybe Sophia? Then again, it could be Madison. There was a reason she hung out with Emma and Sophia so much, and looking cute only went so far. I wouldn't be able to stop their thieving, but at least I would know when it happened.
"Don't tell me what to do. You don't even belong here. Go back to the dumpster, maybe you can suck a hobo's dick and you can live together there," Emma said in her false saccharine voice. "That is, if a hobo would even want to be your boyfriend."
I ignored her as best I could.
All things considered, my robo-bugs did their job pretty well. I sent several more bugs latching onto Sophia and Madison's clothes when I shared classes with them, as well as their lockers when I passed by them in the halls.
I managed to avoid more than half the ambushes that the trio had set up for me. I could tell ahead of time when they were hiding around the corner to trip me over the stairs, so I took the long way around. My bots let me realize when Emma went straight from her locker to the bathroom I was hiding in, probably to throw something at me over the stalls. I quickly cleaned up and went to the bathroom downstairs. The only place they could actually catch me was just before or after classes they shared with me, or when I had to go to my locker. I'd already started using my locker as little as possible, aside from a place to stash a few extra bots.
Satisfaction was something I rarely ever felt at school, but seeing them waste their time trying to ambush me was, surprisingly, more satisfying than I had expected..
I was probably among the lowest-rated Tinkers, but my life was already slightly improved. But this wasn't justice, nor was it vengeance. It was just avoidance. They were still getting away with what they did. They could keep trying until they succeeded. They weren't paying for what they had done to me for the past year and a half. And they wouldn't be learning any lessons. I needed to become stronger... more powerful. I needed to improve my Tinkering.
My bots couldn't truly solve my bullying problem, though. I needed evidence. Actual, undeniable evidence, like video. Unfortunately, my bots couldn't see. I needed to figure out if I could work that in somehow. Even if they could, and if I could see through their eyes, I had no idea how to get them to record video onto a portable hard drive or something. I needed to actually learn computer science to do that. My Tinker power didn't help with that; I'd have to learn computer engineering the normal way. No way I was delaying justice by a few years. That wasn't a real option. I was patient, but not that patient.
And even then, I would have to present the video without making it obvious that I was a cape. If the video was taken from some odd angle, like where I could hide my bots, I'd practically be outing myself to the public. People would ask how I recorded it. Or who was helping me. And then the jig would be up, people would discover I was a cape. And even though I was doing something relatively harmless like spying on my enemies, that would still probably count as misuse of parahuman powers. Emma's father was a lawyer; he'd probably bankrupt my dad with legal fees out of spite.
I had a lot more problems to solve before I could figure out how to get justice done. That would have to wait.
It didn't take long before little builder-bots had been miniaturized to the size of mites. Using my bots to avoid the trio made school the most bearable since... well, ever. It was still pretty miserable compared to what a "normal" student life should be, having to constantly be on the lookout for them, but I would take the small victories I could get.
Even better, I had something to look forward to. When I got home, I could continue developing my bots. Sure, maybe I suffered in class a bit when I kept doodling up new designs in the margins of my notebook instead of taking actual notes. I didn't care, I had something productive to work on. Interestingly, at such a small size, my bots could be literally shaken by sound vibrations, if people were talking loudly enough. With some practice, I was able to eavesdrop through my bots now. The smaller I made them, the more possibilities seemed to open up. At school, it helped me anticipate my bullies' plans. At home, the realization set off another Tinkering frenzy.
Incidentally, my bullies had even helped me, though I would never thank them for it. I had managed to solve three problems in one fell swoop. I needed a sharp, strong tool, I wanted to make my bots more chemically resistant, and I needed my bots to see. During chemistry class the trio caused me to drop a beaker. My bots were trying to discreetly get rid of the shards of glass that had stuck to my shoes so I wouldn't cut myself later. But my bots were having more trouble than I had expected. I hadn't considered glass before, because I thought of glass as something weak and brittle. But that was only at the human scale. For something as tiny as my bots, glass shards at that size were incredibly strong compared to other materials. And given the size of my bots, a single beer bottle gave me enough material for days of manufacturing. The glass happened to have a side effect of focusing light when it was polished the right way.
Once I had discovered that, my Tinkering ability gave me another wave of inspiration. It took all my self-control not to just rush home and Tinker right then and there. I saved it for after school and the weekend. My bots could now see, hear, and had better tools. Well, "seeing" might have been a bit of an exaggeration. A single bot could tell the difference between light and dark. A million of them working together gave me the vision of a nearsighted, colourblind bat.
But it was better than nothing. I could recognize shapes through my bots. I could see what the trio were planning to do to me. I practiced by sending my bots outside the house, skittering along the sidewalk to try to recognize people, cars, and other shapes. Meanwhile, merely keeping track of the vibrations going through their bodies let me get a sense of sound from them - the smaller my bots were, the clearer the sound vibrations came through.
They also had so many tools for me to put to use. Well, technically only one tool, but working in groups they could do a lot. For example, if they lined up and repeatedly scratched something back and forth, they made a tiny little saw. Or if they lined up in a circle and walked around with their sharp noses pointed down, they could make a drill. Otherwise they were just really good at gripping things by linking with each other, pulling as a team. It didn't take many of them to be effective, and they were small enough to go completely unnoticed.
So the terrible trio wanted to pour cranberry juice on my head? Too bad. The bottle mysteriously sprung a leak inside Emma's locker and dripped all over her jacket, textbooks, and homework.
Maybe their clothes would have mysterious holes in them at the end of the day. Perhaps they should have invested in mothballs for their locker.
Oh, no, Sophia the track team star's shoelaces suddenly snapped in half just before the track meet? How awful, what a terrible stroke of bad luck.
Naturally this always had to happen while I had a perfect alibi. I only did these things while I shared a class with them. It's not like they had anything to report to the teachers. They merely suffered some... misfortunes.
If Winslow High refused to punish anyone without damning evidence, I could play at that game as well as they could. It was time to test if the school administration was truly biased against me, or if they were really just that stupid and lazy.
I knew Sophia was like a volcano ready to explode. She was about to blow at any minute, and most of it would probably be directed it at me. She probably suspected me, but clearly had no idea how I was doing what I did. Which made me ridiculously happy. I was winning for the first time. Even though it could come crashing back down on me, I was having my moment of victory.
I could hit them where they couldn't hit me back. Sure, they still messed up my homework and sabotaged my in-class group work, accused me of cheating to the teachers, and other silly things. The usual tricks. I'd gotten used to those ploys. I had made it hard enough for them that they had to resort to more and more blatant attempts, which meant they failed more often too. I wasn't afraid. They were. They were afraid to leave anything out of sight.
And while they stressed out, I didn't. I had my little zen place – the junkyard, where I would merrily go after school, pay the scavenger's fee, and let my bots go to town. Every day, I was sprinkling more and more of the little guys around the school, using them to keep an eye on the trio, keeping them on their toes. Bit by bit, I was taking back control of my life.
There was just one thing that bothered me. They were still able to get into my locker. They hadn't done it for a while, but I finally caught on to how they managed it.
My bots, which had been my miniature sentinels of my locker door, sensed a hand reaching inside after I had left school for the weekend.
Not the door opening.
Just a hand, reaching inside. They groped around and grabbed nothing of value. Through the door. One of the trio was a cape. I had a few of my bots latch on to their skin, and miraculously, some of them even got pulled through the door and stayed with them.
I didn't want to face them right now. It was too much of a revelation for me to deal with, and I didn't want to run back towards school just to face a villain without preparation. What if it was Emma? Maybe that's why she turned on me. Maybe she got powers that summer while I had been away at camp. It wouldn't make sense for her to have joined the Empire 88, since she hung out with Sophia so much, but still...
The junkyard was supposed to be a place for me to calm down and meditate. It had been for the past few weeks. The place was usually fairly empty and quiet. There was no trio to bother me nor uncaring teachers to pity me. Those worries I left behind while I spread my bots far and wide, salvaging what materials I could find while I continued to build and improve my swarm.
I was trying to work out my frustration of finding out that one of the trio had powers. Some kind of villain. Probably threatened Blackwell or something, which was why the administration never did anything to help me. Unfortunately, I was beginning to run into frustrations out here as well.
I'd hit a limit. No, it wasn't my Tinkering ability or my creativity. I had plenty of plans for future improvements to my bots. But I'd run into the biggest problem that every Tinker had. Money and materials. The junkyard didn't have many materials as it was – like I knew before, the bulk of the materials had already been scavenged by previous Tinkers (or just normal hobbyists). My tiny builder-bots had nearly mined through what was left. I completely lost track of how many I had, but I think I was in the tens of millions.
I'd made small, incremental improvements to my bots every day. On some iterations, I made them stronger. On others, I'd improved their eyesight. Or I'd make their tool-tips sharper. Sometimes I improved the way they linked and worked together. Often I just made them even smaller. Some of these improvements took more specialized materials. Tiny shards of unblemished glass for the lens. Silicon for the sensors. Stainless steel for the bodies. These specific materials were in short supply in the junkyard.
If I wanted cheap plastic, or rusted iron, there was still plenty to go around. I could stagnate, and just make millions upon millions of the same bots at their current level. But that felt unsatisfying. I felt incomplete. I had dozens of plans, I needed to see them come to light. I couldn't just stop, only a tiny fraction into my path at Tinkering with mediocre micro-bots. But to make good robots, I needed to start buying the materials myself. Things that weren't available at the junkyard. Which meant I needed money.
That was usually the limiting factor for any Tinker on the planet, unless you were Dragon, who owned multiple factories across the continent and had built the most secure prison on the planet. Even our local Tinker, Armsmaster, was still held back somewhat by the Protectorate's budget.
But the Protectorate did have money. After all, they were able to turn an old oil rig into a Tinker's fortress, with prison cells that could hold teleporters and Brutes, force fields and turrets that would repel attacks, and armour plating that would put reinforced concrete to shame. Most of this was credited to Armsmaster's designs. So, yes. Funding was there for talented Tinkers. Even for their less talented, where I would probably be going, was their Wards program. As an up-and-coming, young cape, I'd get funding, though there would be rules behind it. I might even have a chance at working with my childhood hero! I knew of at least one other teenage Tinker in that program – Kid Win. I just hoped he wasn't like the Trio. Or Greg, the creepy geek in class.
Ugh. It was such a tough choice... teenage drama, or supplies and support? In the end, practicality won out.
"Are you sure about this, Taylor?" Dad asked me as we walked towards the PRT Headquarters.
I nodded. "I think it'd be nice to meet other Tinkers and work with them," I said. Quietly, I added, "Even if it means I have to deal with more teen drama."
Apparently I didn't say it quietly enough. My dad turned to me and said, "Taylor. You don't have to do this if you don't want to. I haven't told a soul, and I never will. If you want to stay anonymous, I'll take your secret to the grave. If you need more supplies or tools, just let me know. I'll ask around at the docks, I'm sure at least some of the boys will..."
I shook my head. "I can't do that to you, dad. I know you're doing your best and stretching the budget to help me, but... you don't have to. I'm sure I can handle this. It'll be good for both of us."
Dad sighed. "There's also another reason I don't want you to join. This town more than its share of crime, and I know the Wards are sent out on patrols. I don't want them to force you into dangerous situations."
"Maybe we can negotiate that with them? I'm not joining for sure. Only if they have a good offer," I said. After all, the money and materials were the main reason I was joining them. If they couldn't offer enough of an incentive, then there was no point in signing any contract.
We took the long way there, walking along the Boardwalk after lunch to the building. Out in the Bay, the Protectorate headquarters stood like a gleaming jewel. The converted oil rig towered over the waters, gleaming with thick, masterfully crafted armour plating. It was a bastion of strength, visible from the entire shoreline of Brockton Bay. At the same time, it felt like a distant castle. Expensive, high-tech, and most importantly, separated from Brockton Bay. For all the power the heroic capes had in this town, they still hadn't managed to make a real dent in the crime scene.
On the other hand, the PRT building looked far more normal. Just a regular building not too far from the Boardwalk. Well, a regular building that had hidden turrets and a forcefields and other hidden defenses, in the middle of downtown. It was an ugly, rectangular, concrete thing that probably had layers of armour underneath the boring, gray exterior.
We wandered into the lobby. To one side was a bright and colourful gift shop, in stark contrast to the rest of the building. On the other side were some rather heavy-looking doors. In the middle there was a single receptionist behind bulletproof glass, and several other officers standing around. Despite their body armor and armaments, at least they were nice enough to put a smile on.
"Hello, welcome to the PRT East-Northeast Headquarters. How can I help you today?"
There was something bugging me at the back of my mind as Dad urged me forward. I tried to ignore it. I thought it was just nervousness. Looking around, I saw only a seating area and a small gift shop. Nothing I could really use to put it off or make excuses now. I just had to ignore that odd feeling and do what I came here to do. "Hi… Um… I was thinking about joining the Wards program..."
The lady behind the desk brightened up. "Oh! Are you a new cape? Have you picked a cape name yet? Wait, don't tell me. Standard procedure is to maintain anonymity in these cases. Please, take a seat or browse the gift shop while I inform the appropriate personnel. There may be a short interview today, along with some background checks and other information."
I nodded and sat in the waiting area. The nagging feeling didn't go away. Who would I be meeting today? Armsmaster himself? Probably not. Most people on the online forums who had met him in-person had said that he was gruff and unfriendly. Social skills of a rock. Combat skills of, well, a master-at-arms. But not the person to be the public face, even if I could see a life-size poster on display at the gift shop from here. Maybe I'd get to meet Miss Militia? She was pretty cool too. I had a smaller version of her poster in my room.
Dad was reading a pamphlet he picked up at the desk. "Hm… according to this, patrols actually aren't necessary. Why would any parent allow their children to try to fight thugs? I don't understand." He looked at me with a worried glance.
"The most they do is walk around downtown and call for backup. They're not supposed to do much fighting, as far as I know. Even if they do, it's only after the professionals arrive, and they only provide backup." I'd done my own research. I tried to calm him down with my words, but I my own anxiety was climbing when I started to realize what was nagging me this whole time.
"Still sounds a little dangerous. You'd still have to go out at night..."
I didn't answer him. I knew exactly what I had been feeling.
It was a group of less than a hundred of my robots. Here, in headquarters. I'd never brought them here before. My mind was reconnecting with them after I had gotten close enough. Despite having millions of different robots, I had an intuitive sense of which robots were which. I couldn't identify them on an individual basis, but when I set a group of them to do a job, I knew how to identify the group that was doing each particular job. When I was in the junkyard spreading my bots in every direction, I knew exactly which ones had found something or needed my help. And in this instance, I knew that this group of robots I was sensing were the ones I specifically had attached to the hand that reached through my locker door.
Mixed in with them was the group of bots I had attached to Sophia Hess's clothes.
Their job was to simply tell me where she was at all times; how far away and in what direction she was. She was about three hundred feet to my right and forty feet down. That put them deep in the basement levels. Heavily defended and high security area. There was no reason for her to be there unless she was arrested, being placed in the PRT holding cells for parahumans. Given her attitude and all the crap she'd done to me, I was hoping that, by amazing coincidence, she had been caught reaching into my locker using parahuman powers and arrested.
But I wouldn't be so lucky. No, of course not. The bots, and therefore Sophia, were moving. Maybe not that far, twenty to thirty feet. But unless the PRT was in the habit of providing luxury jail cells, Sophia wasn't an inmate. She was walking free, inside the middle of the high security area of the PRT building.
Just to be sure, I did my best to use my bots to listen. I normally would use a whole lot more, but I worked with what I had. The sound quality was extremely rough, but I was able to pick up some speech.
"...are you... trol... with?"
"...your business... slow me..."
"Jeez, no... that...brought snacks... before... go."
"Whatev... shitty food..."
One of the voices sounded vaguely like Sophia. That just confirmed it. Sophia Hess was a Ward.
Sophia Hess was a Ward.
Not just a Ward. But Shadow Stalker had the exact power set required to reach into my locker. What were the chances that there was a second cape at Winslow with the same, or similar, power set? Slim. Not zero. But slim. But if the Protectorate was vouching for Sophia... that would explain a lot.
I was starting to see their PR photoshoots as just that. Public Relations, otherwise known as carefully crafted lies. In all the photos, there had only been two girls in the Wards. Vista was blonde and short; her costume left some skin showing and she was clearly Caucasian. The other was Shadow Stalker. Her costume covered her from head to toe in a body armour, mask, hood, and gloves. But now that I think about it, she was the right build, the right height.
Sophia was Shadow Stalker, no doubt about it. Powers, age, build, height... even the attitude. Everything fit. Everything made so much more sense now; how they had gotten inside my locker, how she kept stealing my stuff. Now that I knew, I also knew what to watch out for.
My personal tormentor was operating with the approval and support of the Protectorate.
Fuck that. Fuck that to hell and back.
I was NOT going to suffer Sophia for six hours at school and then suffer her for another six hours after school. Hell, she'd probably just turn the other Wards against me, too. Maybe she would sabotage my Tinkering. Oh, and then she'd instantly figure out how I'd been getting back at her at school, and get me kicked straight out again. She could also tell everyone that I'd been abusing my powers, and they would naturally trust their pretty, strong, veteran team member than the new girl.
Nope. Nope nope nope.
"Dad, I changed my mind." I stood up quickly.
"What?"
"I changed my mind. Let's go. I don't want to join the Wards. I, uh, wouldn't have much time to finish my homework anyway. And it's just more time I'm spending away from you," I said, hastily making excuses as quickly as I could formulate them. I didn't want to hang around to see who would be doing my interview. I didn't want to tell them more about myself. Sophia would probably learn all my personal secrets from them and flip them back on me at school. Her tag-team with Emma would be even worse. Emma knew everything about my childhood, Sophia would know everything about my cape life. Fuck that.
Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe not. I wasn't going to leave that to chance.
My dad knew there was something wrong. Maybe he was respecting my wishes. Maybe he was just happy that I was choosing what he originally wanted, regardless of how I came to that conclusion. But he didn't ask, and I didn't want to tell anyway.
I rushed out into the streets, barely keeping track of where I was going as I was thinking about Sophia. Even as my connection to the bots fizzled out as we passed through the shield, I knew Sophia was in there... protected. From justice. Screw her, screw the PRT. Which cape was she? Most of the Wards were fairly well known; the PRT often used them in their campaign to promote themselves as the heroic option for all capes.
Hah. Heroic.
I wanted to be a hero. Not their definition of hero. A real one. To do that, I needed more bots. Better bots. I still needed money, and the Wards program wasn't going to provide it. I had to find a better way. Better than them. I was better than them.
Author's note: I think one of the reasons I got burned out from writing was that I had a few too many ideas. I published as I wrote, but when I suddenly had a better idea, I would have to go back and change things from 15 chapters before to make it work, and so on. Or I'd write myself into a corner. Then it would bug me for a long time and I'd end up feeling unsatisfied with the whole thing. Trying a different approach with this story, which is also the reason for the long hiatus from writing in general. Actually having the whole story fleshed out and publishing after final proofreading.
Note 2: that's what I get for writing and rewriting things three or four times. Thanks to the reviewers who pointed out the errors in this chapter, I did a few quick fixes to improve continuity/flow.