Chapter Text
In retrospect, maybe Brockton Bay wasn't the best city to be visibly queer in.
I mean, you'd think the bright teal mohawk, chestful of queer and anti-fascist pins, and classic flannel-and-boots combo would tell all right-thinking people 'this is a friend', but it turns out there were entire misguided (stupid) populations of people who somehow saw this as threatening to their traditional family values.
For example, the bald, jackbooted Empire thugs chasing me down the alleyway.
"Shit shit shit shit shit," I repeated to myself as I raced down the narrow concrete deathtrap, hurtling past overflowing dumpsters and one rather surprised-looking homeless person. I stopped muttering when I started to run out of breath, deciding survival was a higher priority than expressing my completely justified dismay at my circumstances.
I thought I'd have at least a little time to explore, discover, meet people, but no, this was Brockton Bay, where hope went to die. I couldn't make it ten feet before drawing the attention of illiterate inbred mouth-breathers because I decided to throw myself into a city with actual superpowered bigots instead of just the usual, already abhorrent kind. I was not looking forward to finding out just how badly and in how many ways I'd fucked myself with my choices coming here.
Speaking of being fucked, all I could see were more alleyways. I swore, this city was ninety percent dark alleyways and abandoned warehouses. Could I even smell the ocean? The sun was completely hidden by gray clouds; no help there. And my frantic internal search wasn't any more fruitful. No metaphorical lights, orbs, switches, diagrams, or ANY sort of clue how I turned my damn powers on, or even if I'd recognize it if they were.
I turned corners at a skid, marking my passage with overturned trash cans and startled alley cats. I had no idea where I was going and those teenage fucks were gaining on me, hollering and taunting what they'd do to me when they caught me. I wasn't completely unarmed, but I wasn't exactly an experienced fighter; I could maybe fight my way past one, two if I was being generous, but they had numbers and youthful enthusiasm on their side. And probably their own weapons. And a hell of a lot more muscle than my scrawny ass.
Point was I wasn't slowing down.
And then I slammed into a dirty brick wall, because fuck me. The alleyway was a dead end, and if I doubled back they'd catch me for sure. There had to be—there! A door, almost a cellar entrance, half-hidden by an overturned dumpster. I prayed it was unlocked as I charged into it with my shoulder, and with a crack I felt as much as heard the door give way, revealing a dingy, dimly-lit hallway. What looked like a storage closet on my right, a bathroom on my left, I staggered to keep my footing and barreled onward, half-blind from the abrupt darkness.
The hallway gave way to a bar, smelling of beer and piss and decorated with scratched-up pool tables and clearly recycled couches. A few of the locals turned to stare at me—a few older men at the bar, a couple in the corner, a handful of kids around the pool table, definitely too young to drink. I hesitated a moment, trying to adjust my eyes to find an exit—there! A narrow staircase in the corner. I pivoted to start running again and—
Someone tackled me from behind, sending me sprawling and upending one of the small tables littering the room. Stunned, my attacker recovered from the tangle of limbs faster than I did and started swinging at my head, shoulder, anything he could get his fists on as I tried to protect myself. He was laughing, breathless gasps punctuated by the painful smacks of fist against flesh.
"Got you, you fucking dyke."
"Fuck off!" I shouted back, voice breaking into a screech from panic. And, strangely enough, he obliged. In fact, he seemed to slide right off me, moving easily as I kicked him away.
I looked up between hands desperately trying to protect my head and face only to make eye contact with a very surprised-looking thug. His gaze dropped, staring at my—
The fuck was that on my leg? A stain from running through trash? It was a dim purple, almost glowing. For a moment I was afraid I'd run through radioactive waste. Brockton Bay was kind of a shithole—I wouldn't have been at all surprised.
I scrambled to my feet, body aching, leaning on a much-suffering sofa for support. Before I could say anything, two more heavy-set bigots ran into the bar from the entrance we came in, but as soon as they did, one of the people in the corner stood up and bellowed "THE FUCK YOU CUMSTAINS THINK YOU'RE DOING HERE!?"
While everyone in the room turned to look at him, I grabbed the nearest cocktail table, hurled it as hard as I could at the fucker who'd tackled me, and bolted for the stairs. I heard it break with impact and the thug gave a shout of shock and pain behind me as I threw myself the steps three at a time, breath ragged and adrenaline giving one last desperate burst. A quick glance around and there! An exit!
I barreled through it, sending it smashing into the wall as I made my way back into the street. And it WAS a street, not an alleyway; evening commuters sat in gridlock, the sound of idling engines a comforting roar. After leaning against the wall for a second, trying to catch my breath and glancing behind me to see if I was still pursued—no sign yet, although I heard more shouting—I took a second to calm myself down and tried to blend in with the crowd of pedestrians herding past.
People were giving me looks—quick, act casual! A hand wiped over my face, smoothing my hair, a smile I hoped was more winning than unhinged, and they quickly looked away. Hopefully mollified and not terrified.
I spared a glance down at my legs and saw the purple stain. Shit, that was kind of noticeable. Could I brush it off?
Surprisingly, as soon as I wiped my hand over it, it vanished.
I could think about what the hell that was later. First, find somewhere quiet to think for ten uninterrupted seconds without someone trying to mug me, beat me, kill me, or worse. I tried not to show my paranoia too much, only glancing around for further pursuit every few seconds instead of keeping my head on a swivel until something caught my eye.
Oh thank fuck, a Starbucks.
I didn't even like coffee, but at the moment I was just relieved to see something so familiar, so mundane, as a goddamn street-corner altar to capitalism just like back home. The door dinged as I opened it and—quick situational awareness check came back clean—I immediately collapsed into the nearest overstuffed pleather chair.
I was sweaty, I was stained with foul-smelling unnameable filth, my boots were caked with slush and mud and I desperately needed a shower... but at the moment, I could at least stop, and breathe, and at least try to think.
And that's when the tattoos on my right arm caught my eye.
Where Khepri was poised to push the sun across the sky, just on the inside of my wrist—look, I was a fan of mythology before I read Worm, not everything has to be related—the sun had been replaced with a pattern in a circle. Stacked arrows, like a boost mark in racing games, inside a purple ring with one notch on it, bare flesh peering through a narrow gap in the ink. That... had not been not there when I had woken up this morning.
I didn't know how long I stared at it, mind spinning in circles, before I noticed someone trying to get my attention. I looked up at the pimple-faced, rather androgynous-looking teenage barista trying to both shy away from me and seem assertive at the same time. "Ma'am? I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
I gaped at them, mind still trying to change gears and feeling the teeth slipping. I glanced around to see the tables and chairs around me had cleared out, and some of the other customers were eying me suspiciously. A protest died in my throat—I looked like shit, probably smelled like shit, and I hadn't even bought anything. And since I didn't want to buy anything a Starbucks would sell...
Standing up, slowly so as to not scare the poor minimum wage-slave, I tried to give them a reassuring smile. "No problem." They didn't exactly sigh in relief, but they did stare at me until I walked out through the door, where I officially became Someone Else's Problem.
I took stock of my resources, patting down my vest pockets. I had fifty dollars, a driver's license—to New Hampshire, knew it!—an expired bus pass, and, apparently, someone else's copied powers. I needed a shower, new clothes, and a safe place to sleep and plan. I shivered as a chill breeze hit the sweat from my exertion, the light gray sky indifferent and uncaring.
I was left with two questions.
Did Brockton Bay have a YMCA?
And why the fuck did my first cape run-in have to be Skidmark?