A Wyrm for Weaver 2 (crossover fanfiction)

The big guy was named Steve, and he worked for the Dockworker’s Union as an overnight security guard. I staggered after him to the office on bare feet. I’d either lost my shoes in the water or they’d been stolen while I was unconscious. Soon I was wrapped in a blanket and drinking strong coffee.

The Brockton Bay Police eventually arrived and questioned me. I decided to play it safe and claim amnesia – being too candid about weird shit would likely end me up in a psych ward. The medical examination determined I was healthy and placed my age around sixteen or so. That surprised me, but I was also a couple of inches shorter than I remember being, so I let it pass. I wasn’t going to correct them since I had no idea what to do next. I’d never even heard of a Brockton Bay before when I was in Glenridge. Harry’s story about how he found me suggested that there were other worlds. Had I fallen into one? Even if I hadn’t, the year was freaking 2010.

Best to assume nothing and keep my mouth shut.

Since the authorities decided that I was a minor, they turned me over to child protective services. After a perfunctory interview I entered the system and was assigned to a foster home. The Landry’s weren’t like foster homes I’d seen on TV. They ran their house like a business. They received money from the state to house four teenagers, so they supplied room and board and made sure we went to school. We also had assigned chores we had to perform. It wasn’t anything too onerous, so I could deal. But a kid coming here looking for emotional support, let alone a family, was screwed. The other three were all teenagers who I was pretty sure grew up in the system. School was out for the summer, so all of them were working part-time jobs, probably to save up for when they aged out. As soon as I got settled in my rather spartan room, I followed their example.

Karen would probably have laughed to see me working in a library, of all places. The thought was funny, but also bitter. We’d become friends, despite my stubbornness, and maybe would have become more. But she’s gone now, and all I have is maybes and should-have-beens. Regrets are painful. They eat away at you, and they never really go away. So, I worked as many hours as I could, and when I wasn’t working or doing yardwork, I was reading. Everything.

This world was freaking crazy. Back in the 80’s the first superhero, Scion, showed up. Since then, more and more people have developed superpowers, becoming what they call parahumans, or “capes”. Some decided to become heroes, but a lot more decided to become villains. A lot of the heroes got organized into the Protectorate, with teams in each major city. The Parahuman Response Team was formed by the US government as an official agency for policing parahumans. Other countries formed similar agencies. Ten years later, creatures called Endbringers started attacking every few months, targeting entire cities or vital infrastructure. When this happened, heroes and villains would call a truce and join together to fight them off. Sometimes it worked, but even then, they were only being driven off after the capes suffered massive casualties.

These periodic attacks had massive effects on the world. Behemoth destroyed enough oilfields to cripple global production, let alone the nuclear power plants he cracked open. The Simurgh stopped the space race and seems to delight in targeting any implementation of scientific breakthroughs. Leviathan sinking Kyushu and Newfoundland sent tidal waves everywhere. The mere existence of the aquatic menace sharply curtailed the shipping industry. This crushed the economies of many port cities, including Brockton Bay.

At work, I could access the computers on my breaks and discover how big the internet had become. The message board PHO, or ParaHumans Online, was a resource for keeping up on current events related to these weirdoes. Apparently, Brockton Bay was pretty bad off. There were a lot more villains here than the PRT-ENE could match. Three major gangs threatened the peace, the largest of these was the Empire Eighty-Eight, a group of actual Nazis. The second largest was the Asian Bad Boyz or ABB. They were led by a guy named Lung who reportedly changes into a dragon and once fought off Brockton Bay’s entire Protectorate team. A distant third was the Merchants, who manufactured or distributed most of the drugs in this town and actively marketed to kids and people impacted by the crashing economy.

In other words, this place was screwed. I also realized that I needed to get my grades up if I wanted any chance of getting out of this place. So, I started reviewing what I needed to know for school. I was penciled in as sixteen and entering my sophomore year at the end of the summer. Not that frigging New Hampshire knows what the season means. I was going to be ahead in some areas, like math, and struggling in others, like history. I checked out copies of some sophomore level textbooks and read them at home after dinner. This led to an interesting conversation with the oldest foster, Jared, a stocky black guy with short dreads.

“Why are you bothering?” the older boy asked as I was gathering up my books and notes.

“I just want to make sure I’m caught up before the new year starts,” I said.

He snorted. “It doesn't matter. I heard you’re going to Winslow with the rest of us, pretty boy.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, not liking the sound of this.

“The place is an absolute shithole,” Jared said bitterly. “More kids graduate to the gangs than any fancy colleges. Not like there will be any decent job waiting for them unless they get lucky or know someone.”

With that incredibly heartfelt endorsement, I was super-motivated to get ahead in my weaker subjects. I wondered if I could maybe pass as a lesser cape given my abilities… but that seemed like a horrible idea. Young capes had a short half-life on the streets as independents, and I had zero desire to join a gang, including the Protectorate. Being a little stronger and faster than normal wasn’t exactly an earth-shattering power, and the other thing I’m not even sure I can recreate at will.

My meager savings waxed as the summer waned. I was pleasantly surprised that the Landrys didn’t try to take any of it, but Jared said they were pretty straight shooters in that respect. They provided a service for which they were compensated and that was that. I didn’t need more than they offered, so I could respect that. But eventually I had to switch gears to attend Winslow. I was tempted to try and continue working, but I couldn’t make the schedules work, especially with travel times.

When I stepped off the bus in front of Winslow, I realized something. Jared was right.

The walls showed signs of layers of graffiti, barely scraped off. As I went inside, I passed through clearly wrecked metal detectors nobody had bothered to repair. The floors, walls, and ceilings had a faint dirty tinge that spoke to years of not-so-benign neglect.

And the gangs…

Dealing with asshole jocks in Glenridge was unpleasant and annoying, but I’d never seen students wearing gang colors inside a school before. Most of the Asian kids were wearing ABB red and green. A lot of the white guys were sporting skinheads and swastikas. Actual fucking Nazis. What the ever-loving fuck? I hadn’t seen a lot of them around the library for obvious reasons, but they were here in force. Checking me out. What the hell?

Then it hit me. Caucasian, black hair (albeit with red tints in the right light). Blue eyes. They were sizing me up. Oh hell no! I scowled back at them, and they began sneering. Good. Fucking Nazis. Just imagining what these jerk-offs would call my friend Harold left me steaming. They weren’t fit to kiss the shoes of the bravest fucker in Glenridge.

I couldn’t rightly tell if the dopers I could see were with the Merchants, or just regular customers, but I didn’t really care.

The schedule I’d been mailed told me that I had homeroom with Mrs. Knott, and then computer science. You’d expect a computer teacher to be a skinny nerd. That’s the stereotype, anyway. Knott was a tall broad-shouldered woman with long blond hair, so go figure. I was listening as she called roll, when she hit the Cs and hesitated, I piped up.

“Rhiyen Conner, here.” The blond-haired girl that had been eying me jumped a little.

“That’s an… unusual spelling I have here,” Mrs. Knott said dubiously. “R-H-I ?”

“I think it’s Welsh,” I replied blandly. It certainly wasn’t, but when CPS asked me my name I insisted on that spelling. My adoptive father Harry may have been a crazy hippy, but he’d come through when it counted, so I kept the name he gave me.

“Ah, I see,” Mrs. Knott said and continued the roll call. The class consisted of a skills assessment. I picked up a little over the summer about computers and the internet, but nothing at all regarding coding. Still, I was able to easily answer two thirds of the questions. From the muttered cursing and sighs, a lot of people were having more trouble. Only two people seemed to breeze through – a girl with long curly dark hair and a blond-haired boy with an unfortunate bowl cut.

Knott explained after the assessment that she would be handing out in-class assignments based on the state requirements and would be covered by the required readings. Students that could handle those easily would be given extra credit assignments on more advanced topics. The two that aced the test seemed to perk up a bit at this. I thought it sounded interesting as well. I wasn’t stupid enough to not see how the internet was growing, even with the Endbringers trashing everything. Somehow, somewhere, I am sure Howard is laughing at me.

After the bell, we had to hustle because there were only five minutes to get to World Affairs with Mr. Gladly. He was visually the opposite of Mrs. Knott, a short man with curly brown hair and an overly friendly manner. He called out to several students he seemed to know by name. From what I could see, they were also the most popular students from the “right” cliques. Noticeably the two top scorers from Mrs. Knott’s test were not included in this select group. So, it looked like he was going for ‘popular students’, rather than ‘good students’.

I also noticed that the popular students he interacted with tended to call him “Mr. G.” which made him smile and puff up like a bantam rooster. I manfully resisted the urge to roll my eyes. If the first class was supposed to set the tone, then this was screwed up. Clearly this guy was just here to make friends. Was he one of those guys that peaked in high school and never moved past that? Reliving his youth? I guess there were worse vices, but it was kind of pathetic.

But then his narcissism stopped being a victimless crime. One of the smallest sophomore girls I’d seen went up to sharpen her pencil. As she went back to her seat, she detoured and did something. I couldn’t see exactly what because of the people in the way. But the long-haired girl from Computer Science whipped her head up and began shaking something out of her hair.

“Hey Taylor,” another girl called out. “The head lice itching today?”

The short girl added as she sat down. “Maybe they need to shave it all off, make you look even more like a boy.”

Some other girls laughed. Bowl cut and the doper he was sitting with didn’t say anything. Nobody said anything about it. Mr. Gladly continued talking to one of the jocks like nothing had happened. Okay, this mean girl shit was ridiculous. What made this girl such a pariah?

I tried to ask her when class let out, but she bolted out of there as soon as the bell rang. When I reached the hallway, she was nowhere to be seen, but I did see some of the girls clustered together laughing. I went down to the cafeteria for lunch, but she wasn’t there either. What the hell?

I went through the line and collected some mediocre-looking food. After what I saw, I wasn’t feeling too sociable, so I found a table with an unoccupied end. I thought about what I’d seen so far as I ate. Glenridge High was a very small pond compared to Winslow. Even the jocks looked meaner. I was dubious about escalating things like I’d resorted to at Glenridge. The stakes seemed a lot higher if push came to shove. While my death came from fighting Sen Arashi, not anyone in high school, it still destroyed any faith in my own immortality. On the other hand, people also seemed to mind their own business a lot more. If you weren’t one of their in-group’s designated targets.

Keeping your head down seemed to be a valuable survival skill here. It rankled mightily.

I kept an eye out as I ate, but pariah-girl never showed up. She ducked into the Art room right as the third-period bell rang. I noticed an athletic black girl sitting near the door glaring at her as she passed. As the teacher, Mrs. Horn, did her introduction, I realized that this was more of an eclectic elective, featuring segments on different mediums. It sounded kind of interesting. I hadn’t done any art classes since primary school, but this survey course was a requirement for my diploma. After the lecture was a short slide show presenting student projects from previous years. Some of them were impressive.

As the class let out to head to the final period, the black girl slowly packed up her stuff. As I stood up, I noticed she wore a t-shirt that said “Winslow Wasps Track and Field”. The weird girl eyed her warily as she shuffled hesitantly past. The jock stood up from her desk abruptly and shoulder-checked the taller girl and snarled “Watch where you’re going Hebert!” as she shoved her aside. Was that her last name? I couldn’t remember from the roll call this morning. Hebert’s thigh smacked into a desk with a painful-sounding thump. She stumbled a bit, so I steadied her arm.

She flinched back and eyed me warily. The eyes behind the glasses were full of suspicion. I shrugged and smiled as innocently as I could, which probably wasn’t much to be honest. She may have given me an imperceptible nod and then left the classroom. Once upon a time I might have considered her rude. But with a pang, I recalled how suspicious Karen had been when I first proposed the deal. She’d been pretty skittish when I offered to trade protection for tutoring. Hebert’s reaction was far worse. How bad has it been for her? The girl left and I slowed my steps as I followed her out into the hallway and headed toward my locker.

The fourth and last class of the day was Math with Mr. Quinlan. The Hebert girl was sitting in the far back corner, huddled in a worn hoody that might have been a bit warm for the weather. She had the textbook open on her desk.

Near the center of the room sat a very attractive curvy redhead. The length of the legs folded under her desk suggested she’d be fairly tall when standing. She seemed to have freshly applied makeup, and her hair looked flawless. She also seemed as out of place as a rose in a pigsty. A couple of not-quite-as-nicely dressed girls sat on either side. They carried on a whispered conversation I couldn’t make out, punctuated by frequent glances at the back corner where the girl in the hoodie sat. I don’t think I needed to hear what they were saying.

Then one of the followers glanced in my direction. She whispered to the others, and then they did the worst ever job of glancing at me without seeming to. The whispering sped up. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that they were checking me out. Look, false modesty aside, I knew I was objectively attractive. I’m pushing six feet, on the wiry side instead of gangling, with blue eyes and black hair tinged with red. And I lucked out with the acne fairy again, so my skin was clear. But it was just a fact, like the sky being blue, my looks didn’t inform my every waking moment like it seemed to do for others. Maybe that’s easier for me to think because I don’t have any major flaws to obsess over. I might suggest that it was because I was more mature, but I knew that was a crock of shit.

It didn’t hurt that none of my friends in Glenridge had looked like runway models. But they had it where it mattered. I scowled, thinking about how things had turned out when Mr. Quinlan walked in. He didn’t stumble in, but he maintained the slow, cautious pace of the dedicated day-drinker. I literally got a whiff of whatever he’d been drinking as he passed my desk heading for the front of the classroom. Cheap stuff.

Quinlan started off all right, going over the syllabus and course objectives. I focused on note taking and trying to ignore the redhead and her cronies as they tried to catch my eye. After a while, the teacher’s voice slowed down and faltered. Halfway through the class period, he handed out a skills assessment for us to fill out. I’d already done this earlier in the Summer, but I didn’t think that really mattered. It seemed like he was just looking to run out the clock. The other students seemed unsurprised as they packed up their books and papers ten minutes early.

When the bell rang the three girls got up and sauntered over. “I’m Emma Barnes,” the redhead introduced herself with a confident smile. “This is Chloe and Patricia. And you are?” I wondered if her full name was significant in some way as I answered, “Rhiyen Conner.”

“Are you new to Winslow?” Chloe asked.

I nodded. “Just transferred this fall,” I replied.

“We were pretty sure we’d have remembered you if you were attending last year,” Emma reasoned. Her eyes narrowed at the hoodie girl, Hebert, as she detoured around us toward the door. “Some people stand out a lot more than others.”

“I guess you are right,” I agreed. I supposed it was a compliment of sorts. “But I need to make sure I catch the bus, so if you’ll excuse me.” The girls glanced at each other, and at Emma, but moved aside a little so I could leave the room. I ignored the whispers rising behind me.

I made a quick stop at my locker before heading out. I noticed Hebert was doing the same nearby. She had little wasted motion as she finished up and closed it. I wondered why she was in such a hurry. Were the bus drivers super strict about leaving on time?

I sped up and made it outside before most of the students and saw Hebert walking away toward a city bus stop. I had to head toward a different one to get on the route to the Landry’s house. The ride was boring, but at least it was quiet. Winslow was a lot different than Glenridge High School. The gangs were a big difference. At Glenridge, as a senior I beat up some football players to draw a line in the sand and make them leave me alone. Making myself a target like that here would be irresistible to the gangers attending Winslow. And they ultimately had the backing of capes. I might be a little stronger and faster than normal, but that would just make me a minor inconvenience. Best to keep my head down if I want it to stay attached.

The bus reached my stop, and I arrived home before Jared and the others. I suspected he was meeting with friends after school. I got to work on the chores I’d been assigned on the chart in the kitchen. The Landry’s were still at work and wouldn’t be home until dinner time or later. After the laundry was run and sorted, I hit the kitchen and made a package of mac and cheese. My appetite was strong, and they’d given me a hard time about it at first. After threatening to have me checked for a tapeworm, I agreed to use some of my summer wages to buy cheap bulk foods for me to supplement the regular meals. It wasn’t strictly kosher, but I knew if they stopped showing a net profit from my presence I would be out of there. Mac and cheese made with water wasn’t the greatest, so I spiked it with a little of the communal milk jug.

After polishing off my afternoon snack, I started reading ahead in the textbooks I’d brought home. I felt a pang as I remembered that I wouldn’t have Karen around to remind me to keep up. So, I decided to get ahead instead. Maybe somewhere she was having a laugh at me.