LiFS Chapter 39 - Femoral Artery (Patreon)

Brockton Bay’s eponymous bay was a bit of a mess. It was far from the worst place I’d ever gone swimming in––that honor would (hopefully) eternally go to the Styx––but it was still pretty damn bad. There was tons of garbage in the water, the pollution levels were not great, and there were way too many bodies wearing cement shoes or wrapped in heavy chains. 

The worst of it was the northern end of the bay, the place the locals called the boat graveyard. It was an apt name. Forty-seven ships ranging from moderately-sized fishing vessels to colossal container ships that outmassed the skyscrapers downtown sat sunken or abandoned, broken hulks of rusted metal rising from the water and extending out onto the beach. 

One particular behemoth of a ship sat at an angle across the mouth of the port, a few bits of exposed metal visible from the surface, blocking the rest of the dead ships in with its bulk. I could feel the weight of tragedy bleeding off the dead ship, flavoring the sea around it with misery, sorrow, and regret. The shadows cast by its broad shoulders were dark and foreboding, and not nearly enough fish lurked in its cavernous holds.  

After seeing it for the first time, I’d looked into what had happened and then Crystal had filled me in on the details. It was a depressing story start to finish, a reminder of the consequences of rash action and poor planning. Sailors and dock workers, angry about their lost jobs as the shipping industry in the city began to collapse, had put the final nails into their own coffins by scuttling the ship as a form of protest, not realizing in the moment that they were only further dooming themselves. 

As I swam amongst the rotting corpses of once beloved vessels, the sea whispered to me of what this place had been in a different age. Geographically, Brockton’s bay was just about perfect. The water in the northern end of the bay and in a wide channel leading towards it was deep enough to allow even the largest ships to enter with plenty of room to turn and maneuver, while the southern side was shallower and lined with sandy beaches. A well positioned natural breakwater protected the bay from storms and bad weather, and the sea around it teemed with life. 

Once upon a time, this city had thrived, and the bay had been its beating heart. Through its port and along its rail lines flowed goods from all over the world. 

It had never been the largest of cities, nor the wealthiest, but it had been a place of hope and opportunity. A city where a man knew he could find steady work and raise a family.

The men who’d sunk the colossal cargo ship could not have chosen a worse spot if they’d tried. It had settled across the narrowest spot of the deep water path that led from the open center of the bay to the port itself, completely blocking that most vital artery. Small boats could still make the trip in and out, but the large ships still docked had been left stranded and no new ships could enter to unload or take on new cargo. Overnight, the straining heart of the city beat its last.

I swam slowly—by my standards—propelled only by the strength of my arms and legs, my eyes roaming across a field of broken parts and shattered dreams half-covered in sand. Schools of fish swam around me like soldiers in escort formation, occasionally darting away to be replaced by another. As though sensing my melancholy they stayed mostly silent, even the usually motor-mouthed herring limiting themselves to respectful greetings and the occasional quiet comments.

I’d woken up tired this morning. Not physically—physically I was rested and ready for the next battle—but mentally and emotionally. I missed camp. I missed my friends. I missed Tyson, my half-brother who’d broken out of his shell and was just learning who he was and who he wanted to be. I missed Triton and Amphitrite, who’d slowly begun to warm up to me as I spent more time in my father’s home beneath the sea. I missed my dad, who’d been there for me when Annabeth had died like a dad should be, and to hell with the Ancient Laws. I missed my mom, her home cooking and quiet support, and the way the pain was never quite so sharp and the situation quite so hopeless when she hugged me. 

Gods above and below, I even missed the gods themselves! I’d gotten used to the constant threats and belittlement, especially since so much of it had become seemingly just a matter of habit rather than a real promise of violence in recent months. The last time I’d talked to Ares, he’d completely forgotten to insult me until the very end of our conversation, and Dionysius usually called me by my actual name the first time around before correcting himself.

Being the ‘Hero of Olympus’ had its perks. Well, that and maybe some of the cryptic nonsense that Zeus, Athena, and my dad had spouted off in the throne room when they’d finally returned from fighting Typhon. I didn’t remember most of it—too injured and distraught—just kneeling on the floor clutching Annabeth’s knife and cap surrounded by rubble and oversized gods and goddesses sitting on oversized thrones as they discussed my fate. 

Apparently, I’d made a number of demands. Something about claiming more children, better protections for camp, and more cabins. I didn’t remember doing that, but it had actually happened so I must have. I didn’t remember much of that day. Much of that week, really. Everything after Annabeth died was a haze of water, blood, and ichor.

I stopped and swam down until my shirt—light blue and tight around my shoulders and chest, one of the ones Crystal had picked out for me—just barely brushed the bottom, then sank my fingers through two inches of sand and silt until my thumb and forefinger wrapped around something hard and cool to the touch.

I tugged it free and let a gentle current wash away the grime clinging to the metal, revealing the polished surface beneath. I didn’t have much of an eye for jewelry, but the pendant was a beautiful piece. It was small and triangular, with slightly rounded sides and a hole through the center. Three small stones, one at each corner, sparkled softly in the dim sunlight that trickled down this deep into the water.

I brushed my finger along its surface, feeling the years it had spent buried beneath the ocean. The pendant had been down here a long time, many decades, but the years had not touched neither the metal nor the stones. From the colors, that probably meant platinum and diamonds. Lesser gemstones would have been scratched or discolored by the sand and saltwater, and silver tarnished much like the blackened chain the pendant had once hung from had, looking like it might snap at any moment.

An expensive bauble to lose beneath the waves. I wondered what had happened to its owner. Had they drowned, their necklace slipping away as their body was battered by waves? Had they been clumsy, dropping their prized jewelry and watching it splash into the depths as they enjoyed a day out on the water? Or perhaps had this pendant never found an honest neck to carry it, a thief casting it into the sea to hide the evidence of his crimes? 

I didn’t know. Would probably never know. The answer was lost to time and memory. 

I stared at it a moment longer, my eyes strangely wet despite the gifts my father’s ichor endowed upon me. Then I gently wrapped the chain around the pendant and slipped it into my pocket to join the three rings, bracelet, and tarnished silver dollar already stored there, and swam on.

It was late in the afternoon when Carol, Vicky, and I piled into Carol’s probably-very-expensive silver lawyer car. Vicky tried to claim the front seat with a cry of “Shotgun!” but her mother caught the car door before she could open it and ushered me into it with a sharp word about the proper way to compose yourself in public. I tried to insist that I didn’t mind sitting in the back, but Carol wouldn’t hear of it. There was a ‘right way to do things’ (her words, not mine) and we had business to discuss.

It was not a long drive from the Dallons to the apartment building that Carol and the PRT (with a little input from me) had picked out, and Carol filled both the trip and the walk from the parking lot to the lobby with a stream of rules, policies, and details relating to my new home. Most of it was pretty self-explanatory (I had lived in an apartment building for most of my life) but I still did my best to listen and commit everything to memory. I didn’t want to mess things up after all the trouble Carol had gone to helping me. 

Honeydew Apartments was a six-story complex built during Brockton Bay’s golden years that had fallen on hard times and been bought up by a shell company (discreetly) owned by the PRT. Located within reasonable walking distance of both the PRT headquarters downtown and one of the guarded access points to the refitted oil rig out in the bay that served as the local Protectorate’s main base, the complex housed a number of mid-level PRT employees (definitely not heroes cough cough) who were able to rent the rooms at very reasonable rates subsidized by the PRT. It also frequently played host to perfectly-innocuous short-term visitors who didn’t want to stay in hotels for…reasons (cough cough).

The building itself was a big, blocky affair of red brick and beige stone, with a flat roof and small windows. It was built just two streets back from the beach and the top two floors offered a clear view of the bay. Though you couldn’t see it from the outside, the center of the building was open to the sky and featured a modest garden, a jogging path, and some picnic tables. The interior rooms all had balconies that opened onto the central square, and there was a small underground gym and rec center available to all residents. 

The building had a front entrance, but Carol turned into a steep driveway and scanned a badge, opening a roller door that led under the building and into a two-level parking garage half-filled with cars. She parked in a spot which a piece of crisp white printer paper marked as 5103, then handed me the badge she’d used and tore down the page from where it had been taped to the concrete wall, crumpling it into a ball and tucking it away into her purse. “You don’t have a car, but this is your spot in case you get one or want to leave a bike down here,” she told me crisply. “They’ll give you a notice at least two weeks in advance if that changes.”

I just nodded, and followed her as she marched towards the stairs. Vicky looked around, clearly making a note of the parking spot. I had a feeling she’d be making a lot more use of it than I did. 

“The badge is yours to keep. There’s a phone app you can sync with it so you can use either the mobile or the badge, but they won’t let you into the building if you don’t have one or the other. If you do lose the badge, I left the number you need to call on a sticky note in your new kitchen and have it in my contacts. I encourage you to do the same. If you just need to get in without it, there is a second number you can contact. It's in the paperwork waiting for us.”

I turned the bit of plastic over in my hands. It was square but with rounded corners and was about half the size of a credit card. There was a small round hole punched through one corner and it had a bunch of meaningless-looking black squiggles on the back. There was no room number, no name, and nothing to indicate what exactly it was supposed to be for. I’d definitely be getting that app, because there was no way I’d remember to carry this thing with me every time I left the house. 

We marched up two flights of stairs, then Carol had me scan my new badge to let us into a long, somewhat dingy hallway lined with unmarked doors. She counted them under her breath, then gestured to the fifth one on the right. My badge opened it as well, revealing a small, clean lobby that could have come from any mid-price hotel in the country. The floor was tile, there were a few uncomfortable-looking blocky couches and chairs, and a small bell sat on an empty desk against one wall behind which was another closed door. 

“Those are the front doors,” she told me, gesturing to the opposite end of the lobby. “They have an attendant on duty from eight to six on weekdays and ten to two on weekends and holidays, and the lobby is monitored by off-site security. If you warn them ahead of time, they can accept and bring deliveries up to your room.” Her eyes flicked towards her daughter, then back to me in an instant. “You can also arrange guest passes. They won’t let anyone into the building without one if someone with a badge isn’t escorting them.”

I nodded again, I’d been doing a lot of nodding, and Carol closed the door. She then pointed me to another door, which opened onto another stairwell. This one we followed up five more flights and then down a short, carpeted hallway. Once again, none of the doors were labeled, and Vicky pointed that fact out to her mother, who shrugged. “Security feature,” she answered shortly. “The rooms aren’t arranged sequentially and a badge will only get you to your room, floor, and the common areas.” She smiled suddenly. “For instance, we are on the sixth floor.”

I frowned, then mentally retraced our steps. “The lobby is on the second floor?” I asked. 

Carol nodded in agreement. 

Vicky groaned. “That’s stupid.”

I looked at her. “I’m the one that’s going to be living here,” I told her pointedly. 

She pouted at me until her mother loudly cleared her throat. Carol gestured to the room we’d stopped in front of. “This one should be yours. Room fifty one oh three.”  

I pressed the squiggle side of the badge against the block of black plastic attached where a room number should have gone and there was a heavy thunk as the door unlocked. I pulled it open and took my first step into my new… temporary… home. 

The first thing I noticed was the smell. The air was slightly stale, and I could taste the lingering bite of bleach and other cleaning products. The second thing I noticed was the windows. I kicked my shoes off and crossed the room to stand in front of the two small windows in the far wall. 

They were covered by a thin, translucent curtain that let air in but stopped anyone outside from seeing too much detail, and heavy maroon blinds hung on either side of them, ready to black out the room on a moment’s notice. 

I pushed one of the curtains to the side and smiled. The sea was beautiful today, the wind turning otherwise tranquil waters choppy and sending sea spray high into the air. Part of my view was blocked by the roof of the building across the street, but above it the sea stretched out until it vanished over the horizon. I could feel it calling to me, the dark waters as inviting as a feather bed. The edge of the rig was just barely visible, far enough out of the way that it wouldn’t block my view of the rising sun. 

“Do these windows open?”

“They should. Make sure to unlatch them first, and keep them latched when you aren’t in.”

Vicky, who’d come up behind me while I looked out into the distance, floated up a few inches and fiddled with the latch until it clicked, then threw the window all the way open. A gust of cold, heavy air rushed into the room, rustling the half-open curtains and clearing away some of the lingering chemicals. I took a deep breath, then turned back towards Carol. “Sorry, I got a little bit distracted.”

She smiled at me with more warmth than I was used to from the severe woman. “Not to worry. It's not every day you see your new apartment for the first time. You should have seen me when Mark and I closed on our first house. I was giggling like a schoolgirl.”

I blinked, unable to imagine Carol doing something as undignified as giggling. Vicky’s mouth fell open and she gaped at her mother, her eyes wide. “You?” she asked, almost demanded, really.

Carol raised a single eyebrow. “It was an emotional day for your father and I. Such things are acceptable in a private, family setting. Now close your mouth before you catch flies.”

Vicky’s teeth clicked shut.

She turned back to me. “In any case, feel free to take a quick look around while I get some things in order,” she gestured to a pair of folders and a half-dozen loose pages stacked neatly on the dining table. “Then I’ll let Victoria help you get settled in and arrange things to your liking. I have a few things I need to finish at home before dinner.” She didn’t wait for an answer, plopping her briefcase down on the floor beside her as she opened the first folder with her free hand. 

The apartment the PRT had provided me wasn’t gigantic, a little smaller than the Poseidon cabin at camp, but it was more than enough room for one person. It was certainly bigger than the New York apartment I’d grown up in with my mom and Smelly Gabe, though the rent was probably about the same. 

The front door opened into a small entryway with a big closet for coats and shoes that led directly into a combined living and dining room. The kitchen was only partially divided from that room by a long countertop and a single column that formed an open doorway. It was a pretty spacious kitchen, with all the usual stove, fridge, oven, microwave, sink, and even a dishwasher, along with a good bit of counter space. 

On the opposite side of the big room from the kitchen was another small hallway with three doors. One led into a recently-remodeled full bathroom, the next revealed what was probably supposed to be an office though it was currently empty of everything except a single bookshelf and a spinny office chair, and the third was my new bedroom. I only had a chance to peek through that doorway before Carol was calling for me to come back, but I wasn’t sure if the flip-floppy feeling in my belly I felt when I saw Vicky eyeing my new queen-sized bed was fear, apprehension, or anticipation. I wasn’t sure which one I wanted it to be either. 

Going through the papers actually didn’t end up being too bad. Most of it was stuff for Carol to worry about and the rest was practical enough that I actually wanted to pay attention. Stuff like where to go to do my laundry, how to navigate the intentionally-confusing building, and what times the gym was open to everyone versus when I needed to make a reservation. 

And then of course she decided to circle back to the topic I’d mostly dodged the last time she’d brought it up. “We need to talk about your public image,” she told me, looking me dead in the eyes with her hands folded on the table in front of her. “You’re a public figure now, or at least Riptide is, and you’re going to need to compose yourself as such. I heard about your little event yesterday. Mostly good things, excellent work on that, but you’re going to need to be prepared for a lot more of that kind of thing going forward.”

I couldn’t quite hide my soft groan, and Carol’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “It is an important matter, whatever you think of it. Fighting villains and stopping crime is only one part of being a hero. An important part to be sure, but there is more to keeping people safe and feeling safe than just serving as a protector.” 

She paused, a small grimace crossing her face. “As much as people joke that the most important part of the PRT’s name is the PR part, they are not wholly wrong. A good reputation can do a hero a lot of good. It is better to stop a crime before it ever happens than to wait until people have already gotten hurt or scared, and a good reputation, visibility, and marketing can stop villains before they ever commit their first crime.

“There is a reason Houston can focus so much on training new heroes. What idiot would want to rob a bank or get into a cape fight when they know Eidolon is only a phone call away?” She shook her head. “But I digress. It does not seem as though you wish to join the Protectorate, so it falls to you––or someone you designate––to manage your public image. For instance, myself and my sister split the responsibility when it comes to arranging PR events for New Wave, though such things have become less important now that we are already long established in the Bay. For you however, it's important to establish a consistent brand with a strong central message right from the get go. With what you’ve accomplished already, you have an excellent jumping off point. I would suggest you not squander it.”

I swallowed heavily. “So, um, what kind of things do I need to do?” I asked haltingly.

Carol didn’t smile, but the look she gave me brought to mind a Hunter of Artemis stalking her prey. “A number of things. Interviews are important, I understand the PRT has received a number of requests from news stations which they’ve passed along to me. Patrols are good, particularly through well-populated areas at peak points in the day. I would recommend merchandise as well. Figures are quite popular and your armor would make for a rather striking design, as well as shirts, mugs, keychains, postcards, prints, and perhaps a limited run of full-sized sword replicas? Though perhaps that could wait for a few months until you’ve built up more popularity.”

With every word out of her mouth, the dread building inside me grew. Being famous and well known for all my heroics sounded pretty cool in theory, but getting there sounded exhausting and awful and like so, so much work. Paper-work. 

“Can’t…you do that?” I asked hesitantly. 

Carol frowned. “I have my hands rather full as it is dealing with New Wave’s business, my work, and my own heroics.”

“And…what if I actually did join New Wave?” 

Carol tapped her pen slowly against the table. “That is not a decision to make lightly,” she told me. “More so than any other hero organization, even. Once you take off the mask, you can not put it back on again.”

I shrugged. “I know. But you guys have been really great to me, and it's not like I really have a secret identity anyway, right? I don’t have any friends or family people could go after, and I’m just as indestructible without my armor as I am when I’m wearing it.”

Carol’s pen stopped and she pursed her lips. After several seconds, she set it down in front of her. “This is something I would need to discuss with my sister and the others, but if you truly are serious I imagine we would be glad to welcome you to the team. You are, by all accounts, a fine young man and your actions speak for themselves.” She took a deep breath. “I will arrange an interview with…perhaps channel eleven. And I will look into merchandising and signing you up for classes on how to conduct yourself properly. We can revisit the idea next weekend, once we’ve all had a little bit more time to think about things and you’ve gotten settled.”

I was so relieved I could have kissed her. “That sounds great, thank you Carol. You won’t regret this.”

“See that I don’t.” She stood up and turned to Vicky, who was hovering––literally–around the room looking at every little thing and detail. I was pretty sure her phone had died about fifteen minutes ago and she had nothing better to do. “Victoria,” she said sharply, and Vicky turned to look down at her mother. “It is not a school night, but I do expect you home by midnight. I will pick Amy up from the hospital when she is done with her work.”

“Okay. Thanks mom.” Vicky touched down in front of Carol and Carol gave her a quick hug and a kiss on the forehead. 

“Stay safe. Have a good patrol.”

“We will.”

The door had hardly closed behind her mother when Vicky was suddenly standing right beside me. “So. New bed, huh? Someone said something about…moving furniture around until you’re comfortable?”

My heart skipped a beat as memories of her kiss from the night before rose up in my head. I swallowed heavily. Before I could say something stupid, my traitorous stomach growled and Vicky laughed. “You said something about chocolate chip cookies?” I asked hesitantly. 

“I do remember that…” She slipped under my arm and floated up to kiss me on the cheek. “Let's go get some groceries before we’re too tired to leave the house.”

That sounded like it would probably only delay the inevitable, but perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing, and I really was quite hungry. 

“Lets,” I agreed.