27.3

Summary of Parahumans: Worm, Chapter 27.3:

(Compression Goal: 5/5, Target Word Count: 1500)

“Emma’s dead,” I said, facing Sophia in the makeshift prison Tattletale had prepared on Earth Gimel. Sophia, devoid of emotion, merely acknowledged the news. The masks people wore, I mused, were more potent than any costume. I wore one too, an aura of calm, despite my unease with the person I’d become.

Sophia and I were a study in contrasts, confined together. News of Japan’s devastation reached me via a PRT phone. “Big bad Weaver,” Sophia remarked, noting my new moniker. I shrugged off the title, claiming power was merely a means to an end. Sophia, ever fixated on personal power, took credit for my growth, claiming I’d taken her “lessons” to heart.

My appearance had changed, she noted, the scar gone. I couldn’t pinpoint when it had vanished. The conversation shifted to family. Neither of us knew their fate. Sophia recalled the incident where my father had accompanied me to school, revealing her resentment towards his presence.

Another message: the Mordovia bubble had burst, awakening the Sleeper. The world was ending, the death toll already staggering. Sophia remained unmoved. “Too bad,” she said.

I spoke of the planned counterattack. Sophia, citing Scion’s victory over Behemoth, advocated for scattering, a cockroach strategy of survival. It wasn’t a bad plan, defeatist but logical. It offered a glimpse into Sophia’s worldview, a stark contrast to my expectations of her desire for superiority.

Sophia admitted to acting superior because she was superior. “What you’ve been up to,” she said, “I bet you’ve done that. Leveraged power?” I confirmed it. She believed it had gotten me far. I countered that it hadn’t helped in the most critical moment. Sophia dismissed my introspection as whining.

I revealed the plan to open the Birdcage, releasing dangerous criminals to fight Scion. “Doesn’t make sense to go that far if we don’t extend the same concept to a smaller scale,” I said, hinting at her potential release. My decision would hinge on the opinions of her victims, including the Brockton Bay Wards and the Undersiders.

Sophia called the method “moronic.” I sensed her underlying concern about being freed. I wouldn’t make her beg, knowing she wouldn’t. “You hurt people,” I said, recalling her attempt to kill me. We acknowledged our shared capacity for violence, our body counts possibly comparable.

Sophia pointed out my own transgressions, yet I was free while she was imprisoned. “It all comes down to strength in the end,” she said, arguing that usefulness dictated one’s fate. I suggested other factors were at play: likability, respect, trust. Sophia scoffed, claiming we were alike, only I’d been luckier.

I disagreed, pointing out my running, which she saw as emulating her. “Not even remotely close to the mark,” I said, feeling a surge of irritation. I’d tested the limits more than she had, and I found her way of existing “shitty.”

I stood to leave, receiving a message about the impending counterattack. Sophia reiterated her cockroach strategy. I offered her a chance to convince me otherwise. She refused, echoing Jack Slash’s nihilism. “Sit there in your cell and worry every minute that Scion’s going to come tearing through here,” I said.

Sophia was afraid, her mask slipping. “We’re both very good at putting on a front,” I said. She remained defiant, refusing to deviate from her path. “I’m going to be Taylor again,” I declared, thanking her for the clarity.

Sophia attacked, kicking her chair through the glass. The guard restrained her. I offered her a deal: a promise not to hurt anyone in exchange for freedom. “Just doing search and rescue would be fine,” I added. Sophia, after a moment of shock, agreed.

Two portals opened, one for each of us. I’d keep an eye on her. I felt okay with the decision, no longer scared of her.

■

The air was thick with dust, the sky a disturbing red. We stood on a mountainside, a gathering of capes, some familiar, many not. Portals opened, depositing more people.

Weld released Sophia from her cuffs, warning her to behave. Time crawled. I joined the Undersiders, the cold seeping into my bones. Imp spoke of things she’d miss, working her way up to the “big stuff.” Rachel, who’d never had much, admitted she didn’t want to lose what she had now.

My emotions surged. I thought of my dad, my mom, my lost mission. Tears flowed. Imp called it normal, a “bad day.” I’d blamed my passenger for my emotional turmoil, but now I wasn’t so sure. Was this just me?

Rachel offered a clumsy hug, a moment of connection amidst the chaos. We watched the red sunrise. “How’s Grue doing?” I asked. Cozen had survived, Rook hadn’t. Grue was now leader, of a group with nothing left to steal.

“Ready,” someone called.

The first of the Birdcage prisoners stepped through: Gavel, a brutal vigilante; Lustrum, a radical feminist whose followers had committed atrocities; Crane the Harmonious, a cape who’d raised powered children as soldiers. Each arrival brought a new wave of tension.

Acidbath, String Theory, Lab Rat, Galvanate, Black Kaze, Ingenue, Marquis - a roster of infamous names. Teacher, the mastermind behind multiple assassinations, his presence requested by Saint. And finally, Glaistig Uaine, the Faerie Queen, who collected the spirits of fallen capes.

Lung arrived, along with Panacea. She was different, tattoos marking her arms, a symbol of the blood on her hands. She saw Bonesaw, a look of disgust crossing her face.

The plan was to take the first shot at Scion in forty-five minutes. The Birdcage prisoners were a gamble, potential assets or cannon fodder. The world was ending, and this was our desperate attempt to fight back, a gathering of monsters against a god. This was the reality now, a desperate scramble for survival in a world gone mad. With barely contained tears, and the feeling of loss, I remember my mission, and the reason I have powers.