I'd like to thank all those who pledged to me on my Patreon account. You really do help out a lot more than you know.

Special thanks to my Betas; kenmadragon, Segev, dasstan, FancyMolasses, and the newest of them all, MagusZanin.

Cutscene: Publicity

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Evening in Brockton Bay had rarely been this peaceful for a long while. It was a Sunday evening to remember simply for the fact that it was so un-memorable. The night was quiet and calm, no distant explosions nor wailing sirens to drown out the general ambient noise that came with living in the suburbs.

A perfect day; one best spent enjoying the warmth of family and the little things that came with it. Things like the smell of a freshly cooked dinner wafting through the house as the general sounds of clattering plates and movement accompanied it.

Most enjoyable of all, though, was settling into the best spot on the couch, a warm blanket wrapping you from top to bottom like a burrito and watching your favorite Sunday night show.

Little things like that.

Slender fingers wrapped themselves around the remote resting on the polished coffee table, fumbling with it for a few minutes as the channels flipped by. Several dozen stations went by, each one somehow less interesting than the last, until finally…

"What number was that stupid channel again?" A quiet voice muttered aloud, more than a hint of frustration evident. "Oh, yeah… 3-6-6."

Finally there after what seemed like hours of pointless searching, the television wasted no time in broadcasting the uncomfortably loud and overdone intros that every news-related program seemed to feel were necessary to be taken seriously.

As the intro finally came to a close and its various banners, infographics and images – all tinted a rather bright blue – vanished from the screen, the focus shifted to zooming in on a well-lit studio stage set up much like most news programs were, only with far more blue-tinted glass than most. A pale man sat at the center of the stage at the head of an oblong glass table in the shape of a blue-tinted map of Earth, several cameras trained directly on him as he faced his applauding audience.

Sitting there in a perfectly-pressed navy suit with perfectly coiffed black hair, the man of the hour gave the audience a wide smile, arms outstretched like a showboating football player. The audience responded with even more powerful applause as the show's theme music swelled, cheering voices growing in volume. Rising from the unneeded bow with one hand still spread out in a flourish, he began to speak, voice quieting down the audience by itself.

"Welcome! Welcome! Welcome! We've got a great audience tonight, great guests and a great show to match it, don't we?," the host spoke up with a smile, theatrical voice projecting powerfully as he hammed it up for the audience. "For all those watching at home, thanks for tuning into The Domino Network on this wonderful Sunday Evening. I'm your host, Zac Young, bringing you every angle on the most relevant and trending hot button issues about…"

The camera zoomed in on him in a close-up as the host snapped the fingers on both hands, pointing right back at the audience as they all answered in unison. "You guessed it, capes! Welcome to CapeWatch, people! Today we have with us we have NYU Parahuman Studies Professor and author of the new book, 'Evil, Be Thou My Good: An Analysis of Parahuman Psychology', Dr. Jerry Goldstein."

As Young gestured off to his right, the camera shifted along with his movement to display a somewhat portly figure in a smoky, argyle sweater vest, the man's bald head and pallid skin giving him an appearance not unlike a bald egg. He blinked owlishly as the camera zoomed in to his face, the man pulling an awkward smile. Below his double chin, a blue banner unfurled along the bottom of the screen to display his name in brightly contrasting snow-white lettering. "G-great to be here."

"...famous UK rapper, co-owner of Cape Beat UK and host of the long-running podcast, 'Cape or Cowl', Dazz D!"

The screen moved right to show off a dark-skinned black man in his mid-twenties wearing a bright red leather jacket, a jewel-encrusted, platinum crucifix around his neck and a pair of transparent-framed tortoiseshell glasses low on his nose. The man let out a laugh as he leaned forward – elbows on the table – and grinned at the audience, showcasing a platinum grill smile that shined distractingly bright under the studio lights. "Please, please, call me Dazzy."

In a more subdued tone of voice, Young continued. "And to my left, former Media Director for the children's group, Mothers against Mayhem, Youth Guard proponent, and current CapeWatch Junior Contributor, Michelle Maitland."

The camera panned again, this time in the opposite direction, the screen shifting to show the slightly-forced smile on the face of an older, caramel-toned woman in a dark-gray pantsuit waving at the audience, russet-colored hair hanging free around her face. She raised her hand up halfway in a hesitating manner, her smile straining slightly as she seemed torn over whether to wave towards the studio audience or the camera. "Always a pleasure."

"And last, but certainly not least…" Young brought his hands together one more time before leaning back in his seat, smile spreading even wider across his face as he continued speaking, "Let me be the one to introduce noted philanthropist, multi-millionaire businessman, President and CEO of Medhall Corporation himself, Maxwell Anders. Thanks for coming on the program again, Max."

The camera quickly cut to the man in question, the handsome businessman reacting to the host's words with a brilliant smile, teeth as pristine as the obviously hand-tailored suit he currently wore. The audience only seemed to clap and cheer more at this, a multitude of female voices making themselves heard. "Once again, Zac, thank youfor having me. Your show is always a delight."

Anders raised a hand to the viewers, brilliant blue eyes surveying all of them with that same stunning smile plastered across his face. Some would call it a testament to his wealth, others his genes, but whatever it was that kept Maxwell Anders perpetually looking like he had just stepped off a runway despite being in his mid-thirties, it was undoubtedly working for him.

As the audience began to calm down, Young leaned back in his seat, arms outspread over the round table. He turned his head to catch the eye of each one of his guests and opened his mouth again. "Now… normally on this show, we'd spend a few minutes on the lighter side of life. A little bit of humor to take the edge off before another stressful week, you know?"

The half-Asian man dropped his smile slightly, expression nearly falling into a frown as he continued. "Unfortunately, this has been a week of big things. Big, big, big things in the world of capes and one special little city has been at the center of it all. I'm talking big name villains getting taken down in spectacular fashion. I'm talking cape terrorism on a massive scale!

"For those of you unaware about the incredible series of events coming out from the Northern East Coast in the last two weeks, well…" Young leaned forward, the camera zooming in to his face as he gave the viewing audience a wink, "You better listen close as Professor Young gets you up to speed. Now… April 11th 2011 – otherwise known as the day the internet lost its collective minds – is the same day that this went down."

At the word 'this', the wall-length screen behind Young began to play what could only be described as a frantic, violent melee between two capes; one vaguely dressed like a knight in a costume clearly made by amateur hands and the other that could only be described as a massive, silver-scaled dragon, while a myriad of smaller screens surrounding it showcased various news desks and field reporters speaking as alarmingly red headlines scrolled beneath them.

"That right there was the very same moment that one of the biggest villains on the East Coast was brought down in crystal clear HD after a fight that took no longer than ten minutes." Young rubbed his hands, a smirk on his lips as he spoke again. "Lung is a special kind of parahuman villain – an A-Class threat according to the PRT, his power allows him to become a massive dragon, one strong enough to face off against an entire team of experienced Protectorate heroes single handedly – so it's frankly karmic that the rumored "Dragon of Kyushu" was brought down by another cape dressed as a knight on what many authorities believe to be his first night out."

The crowd gasped, uncertain applause picking up as the screen showed off footage of a bloody, burned and battered teenager thrusting his hands in the air as he stood over an unconscious Lung. The volume may have been lowered but the sheer excitement and laughter on his ash and blood-covered face was palpable, the words "I. REGRET. NOTHING!" easily audible as he screamed them out.

"Now, Lung," Young continued again, "being the leader of a large gang controlling roughly half of the city of Brockton Bay", the large screen shifted once more to display a graphic map of the United States, one that quickly zoomed in to the East Coast and further again to one city not too far from Boston, "apparently had plans if he was ever captured and with the help of a bomb-making cape that had recently joined his gang — the infamous Cornell Bomber, now going by 'Bakuda', who was thwarted by Legend and the New York Protectorate — put those plans into practice and the Brockton Bay Bombings..." the host let out a sigh, shaking his head as he toned down his smile, "...well, if you've been watching the news, you know all about that tragedy which rocked the port city of Brockton Bay."

For a second or so, Zac Young seemed solemn and calm, but the smile on his face returned in full force immediately after. "Fast forward ten days, past the bombings that terrorized an entire city, past Lung's break-out of Protectorate holding, past the villain's threats to unleash a 'Super-Bomb' capable of disrupting the entire North-Eastern seaboard, past that new hero's second confrontation with Lung and the capture of his cape-lieutenants... and we. Get. This!" Young snapped his fingers and, in flamboyant fashion, gestured behind himself with both hands. At the very same moment, the wall-sized screen behind him shifted, changing from a looping video of Lung's roaring visage to something entirely different.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the cover of Friday's issue of TIME Magazine!" A new round of gasps and applause – this time far more enthusiastic and excited – broke out from the viewing audience as they caught sight of the image on-screen, the usual title 'T I M E' shown in bold, bright red letters and the candid photograph imposed over it. The picture was haunting yet powerful, saddening yet inspiring all the same; a teenager in beaten, battered and heavily tarnished armor – tufts of blond hair visible from underneath his dented helm, and what little of his face was visible was caked in blood and grime – knelt on the ground, clearly wounded as the visible gash under his utterly ruined helm showed but still somehow utterly unaffected as he returned the embrace of the weeping little girl wrapping her arms around his chest.

Young brought his hands together in one heavy clap, the audience getting the signal and ceasing the bulk of their noise. "Prodigy, everybody!" He glanced around the table, smile widening just so as he opened his mouth again. "By himself, he upended the ABB, took down their bomb maker, and broke the dragon himself – not once but twice – in the most dynamic series of cape fights ever captured on camera. If you haven't seen their second duel yet, it's honestly amazing; better than the first, people. Just, wow."

He suddenly grew more serious, smile fading somewhat as he glanced around at his guests. "But getting to the point of all this… this is big news, of course, but it's rare that big cape news turns out being all good. So," he leaned onto the table, interlocking his hands together, "... everybody here today has some connection with the issue on the table, whether with their experience with capes or..." Young paused to glance from Dr. Goldstein and Dazz D on his right to Maitland and Anders on his left, "...with the city in question. That in mind, I have to ask, what do you think we're going to see from this new cape?"

"W-w-well..." Surprisingly, Dr. Goldstein was the first guest to speak up, one hand producing a handkerchief to pat his forehead as he spoke. "you see, the thing is… well, th–there's just a l-lot to unpack here, first of all. This is a new cape and new capes… Well, while they may seem to share little in the realm of commonality, at least relating to powers, personality-wise and considering the actions they take, they are often rather similar and follow an observable pattern of behavior. Naturally, there are variances so you have to understand the specifics of the situation, and in this case-"

"Hold up, Doc," A distinctly British voice cut in, the camera expanding out past the sweating professor to include the guest next to him. "You're goin' bout this all the wrong way."

"I wouldn't say tha..." Goldstein frowned at yet another interruption, the rest of his sentence fading away to mumbles as a repeated sound of disagreement came from Dazz. The camera panned over to the African Brit fully, the man pushing up his glasses with a finger.

"I get what you're doing, Doc, and I'm not gonna knock it. You're here to plug your book but you're ignoring the trees for the forest. But capes have been unpredictable since the OG Quad started throwin' their weight around."

"What does that have to do-"

"My point is, Jerry," Dazz continued, turning back to the professor and completely ignoring Goldstein's attempt to respond, "you're an academic. I get that. I work with a lot of 'em. Not the best if you're looking for a laugh or a good time but not bad to have a pint with, if you know what I mean.

"I don't."

"Anyway, you're looking at capes like they're something you can figure out with a university text. Nah-nah-nah," Dazz shook his head quickly, leaning back in his seat as he stared back at the professor calmly, "Capes are.. Well, they're somethin' else. People, yeah, but still forces of fuckin' nature. More than that, it's a kid we're talking about here. We don't see a lot of those on their own, especially not this strong, nor catching this much attention so soon after a public debut. Ain't much we could know 'bout 'im."

"And that's where you're wrong, Mr. Dazz," Goldstein replied, voice slightly firmer than before as he stared the younger man down. "We can determine a good deal about him simply from what we've seen over the last two weeks. His age, his personality, his ego."

"His 'ego'?" The host took this moment to interject, clearly interested in what Goldstein had to say now. "What do you mean by 'ego', Professor?"

Emboldened by the attention, Goldstein nodded his head excitedly and tapped the cover of his book. "E-ego, yes. It is to be noted that from his recorded interactions with Lung, the police and Protectorate members that not only can we see a notable streak of immaturity coloring his responses and body language, but also an inflated sense of self-importance as well as a general sense of entitlement."

The camera zoomed outwards as another guest made themselves heard, Maxwell Anders' well-mannered voice drawing the attention of the others around the table. "Entitled, is he? Isn't that going a bit too far, Professor?" Manicured fingers met each other in a steeple over the table, Anders leaning forward slightly as he spoke. "We are speaking of the same young man that risked his life to save over a hundred young women and girls from the pedophilic, rapist and human-trafficking monsters that called themselves the 'Azn Bad Boyz', after all."

The camera cut back to Goldstein, just in time to catch the man wiping his brow. "His actions, being what they are, don't change the mindset behind them, one that's common for… a certain subset of capes." The professor shook his head quickly, jowls visibly moving as he did so. There was more than a hint of frustration evident in his tone as he spoke, the man glancing back at the image of the young cape on the screen behind him as if working out a puzzle. "He behaves as if he is deserving of undue praise and adulation for work that would be expected of any Protectorate hero. The little humility displayed when he spoke to the media that Thursday morning was clearly play-acting; It's notable that he focused on how tired he was and how much work he had done, implying that Brockton Bay's various emergency services, law enforcement, the PRT and the Protectorate had been sitting on their hands all night. Countless reputable media-sources show that as a laughable insinuation. And yet, while he takes credit for having done more than the legal authorities in dealing with the situation, Prodigy had been remarkably absent throughout the countless tragedies that rocked Brockton Bay throughout the bombings in the days preceding his climactic battle with Lung and later with Bakuda. His mannerisms offer even more terrifying implications; that of an individual that is remarkably self-glorifying and visibly unhinged in h–"

"Now, let's not jump to conclusions," Anders spoke up again, hands raised in the universal 'calm down' gesture. The camera zoomed into the millionaire's face, catching the faintly disturbed expression Maxwell seemed to be wearing as he glanced at his fellow guests. "There's no need for such rampant speculation, especially with such damning undertones. He's still a teenager, after all. A teen that did his best to help the city he likely grew up in. I have a son myself, around the same age as this young man, and I would be enthused that if he developed abilities, rather than employ them for selfish ends, he would instead put them to work in cleaning up our city as Prodigy has. And, professor, forgive me for saying this, but I can't help but feel that you're only ascribing negative attributes towards the young man in an attempt to sensationalize the issue."

The slight frown on Goldstein's face grew, the professor more than a little offended at the other man's words. "There's nothing sensational about this line of reasoning, Mr. Anders. It's a common thread among the parahuman population; egos, attitudes, and behaviors one could consider maladjusted… all this despite their intentions. I just want you to know that I've spent years of my life studying parahumans and their psychology, so trust me when I say that I can understand that someone lacking my breadth of knowledge in the field," The professor paused to cough lightly into a raised fist before tilting his head over in Anders' direction, "...might find it somewhat difficult to process."

"Guys, could w-" Young began, clearly sensing some rising tension.

"While I myself am not a Parahuman Studies major," Michelle Maitland's voice made itself heard for the first time in the discussion, cutting off their host without a hint of hesitation. "I do feel I have had my fair share of experience around capes, both minors and adults, and frankly, I think he's the biggest threat to the safety of that city! Just look at him; what do you see other than a child soldier? That is the last sort of figure we need inspiring copycat behavior from other impressionable children who may see him as some sort of role model." She scoffed as the last syllable left her, as if the idea of Prodigy being anything of the sort utterly unbelievable to her.

"What do I see when I look at him?" The rapper spoke up defiantly, gesturing to the image of TIME Magazine's latest cover that projected on the background of the stage, depicting Prodigy embracing the young victim of human-trafficking he had just rescued. Next to it was a still-image taken from Prodigy's latest confrontation with Lung, standing defiantly atop a wrecked minivan, cape billowing with a shining sword in hand as sparkles danced around him. "I see a compassionate figure, I see a human hero. I see someone out there risking his life who looks like he cares. I see someone I'd love to party with... but that's not even the point," he finished, smirking widely at the unamused woman across from him. "Also, a role model? That's your problem with him?"

Dazz let out an audible snort, barely holding himself back from a full-blown laugh if his strained expression had anything to say about it. He raised his hands in front of him as Maitland shot him a dirty look, his reaction clearly not appreciated by the older woman. "It's too late for that already! How many kids do you think have watched that mayhem on video? Both of 'em? He's on the cover of bloody TIME Magazine hugging a scared little girl he'd just rescued from a damn gang! No matter what you think, most people aren't going to look past that image."

"Are you just going to ignore that Prodigy is also an underaged vigilante? One cannot register with the Protectorate as an Independent until they are of age, after all. He needs the safety of the Wards, if not to protect him, then to protect others from him," she bit out, jabbing a finger at Dazz as if to emphasize that last point. "He needs structure, therapy, and experienced, responsible heroes guiding him to avoid situations like this. Otherwise, we're just looking at another… another Gavel in the making. No matter how many compassionate photoshoots he has, we're ignoring the very, very large threat he presents to our youth with his vigilante example."

"Listen, Maitland…" Dazz slumped back in his seat with half-closed eyes, the man fighting another laugh before he spoke up again. "What you gotta remember is that at one point in time, four badasses basically demanded that the American government sit up and listen. And the government actually sat up and listened, doing somethin' nobody ever thought was possible… The Quad at the time were in unknown territory." Dazz leaned forward again and clapped his hands together with a mad grin on his face, the shiny metal lining his teeth only adding to his manic expression. "It was the Wild West out there; No Man's Land. No rules, no script, just flying by the seat of their pants! Hero, Alexandria, Eidolon and Legend were bloody vigilantes and they acted for the greater good of everyone; capes and normies alike. So many others like them – less famous, sure; weaker, no doubt; but still heroes, love – did and still are puttin' their lives on the line without the support of the law. Don't just act like 'vigilante' is some sort of dirty word here, 'right?"

"I suppose we're just supposed to forget the pervasive chaos and violent mayhem of the pre-PRT days then." Dr. Goldstein muttered, almost too low for the microphone clipped to his blazer to pick up. "Vigilantes were done away with for a reason, after all."

"Pervasive chaos, was it?" Anders let out a soft laugh as he spoke up again. "Exaggerations help no one, doctor."

"I think Dazz is also forgetting that this is a child." Not even acknowledging Anders' words, Maitland barrelled forward, the woman leaning toward Dazz as she growled out her first sentence. "Likely not even sixteen and willfully, not to mention gleefully, throwing himself into dangerous, violent altercations while laughing and making jokes… even after suffering appallingly gruesome injuries. There's a reason the Wards are limited in scope and authority; they're simply not ready for this sort of thing. Mentally scarred children with superhuman abilities are a dangerous combination."

"Very good point, Ms. Maitland," Goldstein interjected, nodding thoughtfully as he responded. "Further, are we also choosing to ignore the massive amounts of property damage left behind? Both locations where Prodigy fought Lung suffered immense, irreparable collateral damage. A danger… yes, I could see how one could reach such a conclusion. After all, that is not how any aspiring hero should act."

"I mean, a danger... can you really say that, Michelle? Dr. Goldstein?" Young questioned, one perfectly-trimmed brow raised. "The Protectorate has had several notable members with similarly cocky and whimsical attitudes over the years; a few Independents, much the same."

"And we can't act like the guys in the Big Leagues haven't torn down a few buildings or messed up a city block here and there with a few of the stronger villains. Especially when you throw Brutes like Prodigy and Lung in the mix. It's a hazard of the job," Dazz chimed in again. The smirk on his face transitioned into a full-blown laugh, the man slapping his table as he nearly bent over. "I can't believe it, honestly. Mentally scarred children, she says. They're bleedin' capes, lady! They're not normal from the get-go!"

Maitland frowned at the black gentleman across from her. "I have met multiple capes through my work. I believe I know how parahumans work very well."

"And I know how aeroplanes fly, but I wouldn't dare tell my pilot what he's doing wrong." He scoffed again, the sound transitioning into another laugh. "I mean, did you not see that magazine cover? No-no-no, you did see it but you just want to hate on this little man. I stick with what I said before. I really don't think you understand a thing about capes, if we're being honest."

"If you say so." With a distinct frown on her face, Michelle turned away from Dazz, glancing back over at Young with a severe look on her face. "Look… We don't know a thing about him. He hasn't even registered as an Independent with the PRT, yet. For all we know, Prodigy could be working with the Empire 88 — another prominent villain-group in Brockton Bay with white-supremacist ideologies that has historically been at odds with the pan-Asian ABB that Lung led — as was first speculated two weeks ago with his first appearance. I mean, he's young, impressionable and well… I don't want to offend anyone, but he does fit the description of that gang's typical recruit."

Zac Young's eyes widened at the last sentence from his female guest, quickly interjecting before Maitland could continue speaking. "...L-let's pivot. Max, your thoughts?"

"I'm not willing to dignify a hateful statement like that with a response."

"Hateful?" Her eyebrows rose, the action mimicked by the other guests and the host himself. "Okay, let's just be open here, Do I have to quote the statistics on Caucasian teenage males with neo-Nazi affiliation on the North-East Coast of the United States within the last two decades?" Maitland continued again, her previous statement leaving the air tense. "As frightening to think of as it is, we could even be looking at one of Kaiser's literal spawn; I mean, that healer woman in the Empire can give powers like fire control, speed, strength, flight, etc… and Kaiser… Kaiser has a reputation for wearing medieval knight-armor, which is also a theme that Prodigy has taken up, which led people to call him the "White Knight" prior to his declaration of a cape-name. And, well, we've all seen how Prodigy uses that sword of his. It appeared out of nowhere, and that was the Empire 88's former leader, Allfather's, signature ability. Not to mention Prodigy's obviously aerokinetic powers — powers shared by another Empire cape, Stormtiger. The similarities between the boy's myriad abilities and his attire and that of the villains in the Empire 88 gang are frightening. Frankly, people are assuming that this… misguided, teenager is going to make a world of difference in a city that was going down the tubes anyway."

She glanced over at Anders, the man shooting her an amused look. "No offense, of course."

"...None taken," Anders replied, seemingly amused at the woman's words more than anything else. "I have personally spent most of my life and leveraged my company's resources to directing Brockton Bay back onto the path of progress, but I won't deny the city has its troubles, especially after the events of the last couple weeks. However, I still think you're overstating the supposed danger of this singular young man. Judging from the quality of his second costume and the fact that he was able to obtain so quickly after destroying the original, he likely has a capable support system. More than that, his parents are likely a part of it… and if they consider him mature and capable enough to go out on his own…" He raised his hands up to his sides in a questioning gesture. "As a mother yourself, shouldn't that be taken into account?"

Maitland let out a slight scoff, closing her eyes for one moment before opening them again to stare between Young and Anders. "You know what… you're right. It should. The question that should be asked here is what type of parent would allow their son to do this sort of thing? What type of mother could live with herself knowing her s-"

"MOM!"

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The remote clattered onto the floor, back cover flying free and AAA batteries scattering in different directions. Voices from the television continued their back-and-forth, grown adults sniping at each other like people half their age as the host continued to lose more and more control of his guests with each passing remark. It made for excellent television, truly, but the person watching couldn't find it in herself to notice or care.

Sitting on the couch, Susan Veder remained frozen in place, unseeing eyes wide and frightened they remained fixed to the television.

She couldn't…

She couldn't breathe, heart pounding in her chest with the tempo of a frightened rabbit as her fingers gripped the couch cushions like a lifeline. It took a few seconds – far longer than she liked – for the act of breathing to become instinctive again, air coming in quick, short and quiet gasps.

"Mo-!"

It had been an entire seven days since Susan Veder had heard that gut-wrenching scream on her path back to the lobby. The word was something she responded to instinctively, having gotten used to simply being referred to with some variation of "Mom" for the last fourteen years. It warmed her insides to hear it; the word told her that she was important, needed, necessary in the life of another. It was a special kind of unconscious acknowledgement and...

Well, if she had a choice, she honestly doubted that she'd ever want to be referred to as anything else.

And yet…

It still hurt to hear.

The last few days had brought about a new feeling with that word. Abject terror was a new sensation for her and it was not something she ever wanted to feel again. But…

"Mo-!"

Susan kicked off her blanket, face dropping into her hands as she did her best not to shake. He can't… She couldn't afford to have that happen, couldn't stand to have her little boy see her broken down. He can't see me like this. Not again.

"Mo-!"

A violent shudder wracked her body and Susan Veder clamped her mouth shut to push down any sound she might unthinkingly let out. That sound…

She remembered the noises coming from the waiting room, the sudden sounds of shrill, fearful screams and general mayhem as the ICU doors burst open and several people made a mad dash toward her as she simply stood there in shock, wondering what was going on. The doors had barely swung closed when she heard it; a sudden scream… My baby.

Then, even that sound was cut off by a sound that she couldn't find it in her to describe.

The noise that came after, though, the orchestra of shattering glass and the blinding pain…

All of the shaking and weakness of the last four days had nothing to do with the glass explosion nor the injuries she suffered and the numbness of shock – I c- can't… I can't feel my arms – followed later by the agony nor everything else that occurred afterwards. That had all seemed to disappear from her mind with Panacea, the young heroine's touch leaving her whole again. And in some sense, more than whole, having been healed of minor injuries and ailments that she had long gotten accustomed too. Amusingly, her lower back no longer ached as it once did, she noticed. She felt many years younger, and more physically whole than she had been in a long time.

But that scream…

It had stuck with her more than anything else. Susan let her hands drop from her face, clasping them tightly in front of her until the knuckles began to whiten. She had been unable to push that scream out of her thoughts. It invaded her dreams, her calm moments; everything. The last few days had been relaxing, yes, but they had also been a new sort of terrifying every time her son said that word.

"Mom?"

Susan blinked quickly, falling out of her haze nearly as quickly as it had sprung itself on her, hurried rustling noises from behind her drawing her attention nearly as quickly as the voice had. That one hadn't been in her head, echoes of the memory that plagued her thoughts. A smile on her face that was almost instinctive at this point, Susan rose from her huddled position on the couch and turned around just in time to see her baby boy poke his head out of the kitchen.

"Mom?" She felt her smile waver with that word again, the expression nearly falling off her face entirely as her little boy – who all of a sudden looked a lot less little, and more like the young man she knew he would become – stared back at her with a look on his face that rang of both confusion and caution. One arm rested on the doorframe, fingers curled around a sauce-stained ladle while his other hand rubbed itself clean on a stained apron. "Mom, you okay?"

"...Yeah!" Her smile reaffirmed itself, Susan pushing any feelings of weakness aside as she made her way through the living room. "Yeah, just surprised for a second. I didn't realize you were calling me, sweetheart."

Greg blinked at her and Susan nearly let out a sigh of relief as she watched the concerned look fade from her son's face to make way for curiosity. "Surprised? About what?"

"..." The words halted on her tongue as she stared at her son, the teenager barely more than a few feet away from her now. Looking into a set of blue eyes that seemed oddly brighter now than they did over a week ago, she found herself wondering why she found the words so hard to say. "Well… it's just…"

She coughed, mouth suddenly dry with the weight of a lie. "It's your Uncle Max!" Gesturing over at the television as the camera focused on the millionaire, she announced the words as if it was honestly a surprise to see the man she often considered equal and opposite to her ex-husband in so many ways. "On TV! Isn't that just really… cool?"

"Hmm…" She watched the curiosity and interest drain from Greg's face before her son caught himself and forced a smile onto his own that nearly matched hers for false enthusiasm. "I mean, yeah! Haven't seen Uncle Max in a while so… yeah!"

"A-and we've got those invitations from him coming up soon too!" Susan continued, trying to keep up her flagging enthusiasm. "Getting to see your godfather again! Doesn't that sound like… fun?"

"So much fun, Mom!"

With both of them trying their best to seem enthused by the upcoming visit to an estranged family friend's, the once-comfortable silence between them only grew more awkward. Susan stepped past her son very quickly, leaning her head into the kitchen in an attempt to change the subject. "So… what's my little Master Chef up to in here?" She ruffled his hair as she asked the question, Greg reddening a little bit at both the action and the nickname. He had reacted much the same way that first Thursday afternoon he had decided to cook something for her rather than have her get up… as well as every day afterward.

For some reason, he refused to let her cook, insisting on needing the practice and that she had to take it easy for her recovery. Initially, that had been concerning; the extent of Greg's culinary knowledge had been knowing how to boil eggs or pour himself cereal. But over the last few days, he'd rapidly picked up the basics of cooking, and almost devoured her old recipe books. She'd have been happy about his sudden interest if it hadn't made her feel awkward being shooed away from the kitchen whenever she tried to help. "It smells… mmm… it smells great! Can I finally ask what's on the menu?"

A mouth full of bright – too bright – white teeth told her that her little diversion had worked, as Greg gestured dramatically with the saucy ladle back towards the pans on the kitchen range. "Of course you can," he replied, glancing over at the stove he had slaved over – why isn't he sweating? – for the last few hours. "It took me a bit of practice but I spent all day making the perfect… seafood alfredo!"

"My favorite?" Susan blinked in legitimate surprise, mouth dropping open finally recognizing that familiar aroma. But… but Greg hates Italian. She glanced back at the expectant grin her son was sending her way, clearly waiting for her reaction. "You made… you made my favorite. Sweetheart..."

"Well… w-well, not just yours, you know," her son began to splutter, a little red on his face that most definitely was not from the heat of the stove. "I like seafood, too! You know… with fish," he gestured upwards as if plucking something from a tree, "some crab, little shrimps… just put em in my mouth…" Greg kissed his fingers a few times, each time a little longer than the last before he finally finished off with a dramatic chef's kiss, fingers exploding from his face. "D-e-elicious."

"..." Susan cocked her head to the side, simply staring at the boy in front of her.

"...too much?"

"... Just a little, Greg."

Before Greg could slump his shoulders and form that cute, little pout she had grown very familiar with over the years, Susan pulled her son close and enfolded him in a warm hug before he could fight her off. "Still very, very cute though."

"... Thanks, mom."

"You're w-welcome, sweetheart."

Cooking Lvl Up!

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