(AAA…) UNCERTAINTY II

Sophia had been trying not to think about it all day. Emma’s reassurances had just been that: reassurances. Pretty, but ultimately meaningless and empty, words meant to soothe herself more than Sophia. They didn’t change the facts.

The locker incident had been messy, and not in the way they wanted.

It wasn’t that she cared about Hebert. She didn't. The girl was a pushover, the kind of weakling Sophia had always hated. And it wasn’t as if she’d actually gotten hurt in the way the PRT cared about. But the optics? The optics were a nightmare, and they were everything to the PRT right now. Their grip on Brockton Bay was slipping by the day, and any scandal that touched a Ward was going to be blown wide open, at least internally. 

She would be made a scapegoat post haste. 

It might not have been her idea to cram trash into the locker in the first place, but she’d gone along with it—helped, even—making sure every foul thing was jammed in there without anyone catching on. She’d also been there when the plan was made to shove Hebert inside and leave her for the janitor to find.

So it didn’t matter that it hadn’t gone that way. It didn’t matter that Hebert had walked in on her own, that she hadn’t even been forced. It didn’t matter that she’d done it calmly, almost like she’d been expecting it, which made something itch in the back of Sophia’s mind. None of it mattered.

The truth was that Sophia was a Ward. A hero. There were some things she shouldn't be caught doing, which was why she had made damn sure the bullying stayed non-physical and under wraps. 

But that was the least of her problems now.

From an outside perspective, it looked bad, really bad. The locker incident was already being talked about in hushed tones, and it wouldn’t take long before those whispers reached the wrong ears. The PRT had turned a blind eye to Winslow’s cesspit of a student body for years—more so due to bigger crises always taking priority than simple negligence—but a suspected case of Master influence? That was different. That was the kind of problem that garnered attention.

She knew exactly how the PRT worked. That kind of attention meant interviews, interrogations, and an investigation. And if that investigation dug too deep? They’d find the other things she, Emma, and Madison had done.

Her stomach turned at the thought. A probationary Ward with a record didn’t get a third chance. Hell, she was lucky to even have a second. She’d be out of the Wards, tossed in with the rest of the juvenile delinquents, and that would be it.

She couldn’t let that happen.

So the problem wasn’t Hebert herself. The problem was what Hebert could say. Which meant Sophia needed to make sure she didn't say a damn thing.

Midnight was the safest bet. The halls of the hospital would be minimally patrolled because most of the staff wouldn’t be around, and nobody would be watching Hebert except the faintly glowing heart monitor by her bed.

She pulled on her mask, took a breath, and let herself dissolve into shadow. The transition was as easy as breathing, the shift from flesh and blood to weightless, untouchable darkness second nature now. The world didn’t shift so much as fall away, the usual noise of it fading into the background. The ground no longer slowed her, each step carrying her forward effortlessly across rooftops and between alleys. In this state, the people and buildings around her weren’t obstacles anymore, but paths she could take as she slipped unseen through walls and locked doors. 

By the time she reached the city hospital, she didn’t bother with the entrances. She phased through brick and plaster, passing through brightly lit hallways until she found the ward she wanted.

Room 456.

She reformed in the corner, the shadows retreating from her body until she stood solid again. Then, she stepped closer, the machine swallowing the soft patter her footfall made, until she stood over the prone form of Taylor Hebert. 

She lay in the bed, her eyelids fluttering now and then, with the faintest crease forming between her brows, like sleep couldn’t quite hide whatever chased her in her dreams. Her hair stuck to her temple, lank against the pillow. Her fingers twitched in the sheets, clutching at them as if she were bracing for something worse. In the pale spill of moonlight through the blinds, she looked even more fragile than usual.

For a moment—just a moment—Sophia almost forgot why she was here at all.

Then she remembered what was at stake. If she faltered now, she’d be the one helpless before someone else. And unlike Hebert, she wouldn’t inspire pity; she’d just be written off as another violent screw-up in the system and left to rot.

Her fingers clenched into fists beside her, and her eyes narrowed. There would be no more second thoughts. She’d wake Hebert, make her understand, and get her promise to keep her mouth shut.

And if words didn't work, Sophia could always make her point another way.