Taylor’s dreams were not restful. The abuse was not as violent as in some, but having priest of some kind, bedecked in gold and skulls rap her fingers wasn’t pleasant. He’d send her to a side corridor to seek absolution and pray on her knees until they ached and her voice was hoarse. It was a different kind of trial. But she was learning. Learning a tongue the priest held as holy. She was exhausted each night, collapsing into her bed and the other training didn’t help.

Ambushes, traps, and poisons troubled her each hour of every day, making the whole experience miserable. She’d been late to one lesson and had taken her seat without looking. In the middle of practicing the flowing, flowery lines her butt has started to burn as her other instructor had smeared some kind of painful paste on it. Which caused her to mess up her transcription and drove the priest to towering wrath. They took no excuses.

It was the first time that night she felt the touch of a whip on her back. To following evening of prayer, her back and ass on fire did not help the ache in her knees. But when every mistake was harshly punished, she learned quick.

As the days melded together, an unease grew in her. Always , she knew what her instructors were doing, saying. But as her proficiency in the holy tongue grew she began to overhear others speaking. Ratings, acolytes. The prayers she’d learned by heart, she grew to understand, word by word.

While the woman, the Scribe she saw in the mirror suffered, in Taylor an inkling of an idea took root. Because the woman she was, the women she dreamed of, was the same as in other dreams. A bit older, more weathered with a few more lines, but the same. And what kind of dream had extras arguing about different blends of coffee during lunch?

They called it different kind of recaf, but Taylor knew the smell of coffee.

***

Taylor was suddenly awake and in the very moment of waking her eyes fitted around the room. Only after ensuring there wasn’t some hidden threat did she relax. Even then, the relaxation wasn’t complete. She got up and dressed, but the world felt different. More than after any other dream, it felt different. She was different. The positions of each piece of furniture took up space in her head, a bit of her attention lingered on her door at all times.

Unwashed clothes that were easy to ignore now stood out to her. Her room was the same as yesterday. But had changed, completely. This alertness, awareness of her surroundings felt alien to her. Not because she’d never felt like it. Indeed, she knew the feeling. It was like she was at school and fearing, readying herself, on the lookout for where the next attack would come from. It was like that, but not. Because it was too cold for that, too dispassionate. There was none of the fear to accompany the alertness, no strain in keeping it up.

It simply was. Taylor wasn’t expecting threats, or fearing some attack. She was just alert. Awake in a way that was difficult for her to truly comprehend or put into words. It was alien. It was off-putting. Taylor felt some pain and shame in it. The why of it. Because it was so light. So clean. So unlike her own form of vigilance. It was impossible not to notice, when she’d spent months under the other kind. It was so close, yet all the more alien for how much alike her own lookout it worked.

And it shamed her. Because there was no flinch. No fear. No give in it. She looked at her room, awake, aware. And ready to disarm, dismember or fight anything that might suddenly jump her. That? How easy confrontation and violence simmered just beneath the alertness was? It was alien. Part of her knew it was wrong. But oh, how the confidence flowing from that readiness burned. She was sitting in her bed in her PJ’s and she knew that before she left her bedroom, she’d be armed and ready.

As much as the confidence felt good, the thought disturbed her. Taylor would need to watch out for it. She didn’t want to become one of them.

***

Taylor came down the stairs, part of her afraid of what she would find. Three bottles of beer were on the living room table, but the worst hadn’t happened. The dishes were unwashed, and her Dad was only now getting up, going by the shower, but he was up. Taylor set out some toast for breakfast and set the table. Her dad came down the stairs morose and withdrawn, but he mustered the strength to give her a weak smile.

They ate in silence, and after breakfast he pulled out the vacuum cleaner, unhappy, but functional. It wasn’t what Taylor wanted, but it was far better than what she’d feared, what could have happened.

It did leave her feeling a flush creeping up her face. She’d been sick, true, but she was somewhat better. She’d been putting off her chores all week, but with her powers taking up so much of her time it was hard to justify choosing to dust instead of probing actual, real powers. But she might just have to. Even sick, Taylor didn’t feel well pilling more on her Dad when she could help out.

She tottered on the edge of going of the do more power exploration, but gave it up in the end. Sure, chores and dusting weren’t as important as powers, but they mattered.

Not to the city, but to her and her Dad. If she wanted to keep herself, she needed to be herself.

So as he turned on the vacuum she picked up the dust cloth and got to work. It wasn’t a fun way to start a Sunday, dusting, filling up and starting the laundry machine. Sure, she should have started it late at night to save on power, but she was feeling up to it now. She’d need to remember to hang it out to dry.

Taylor ironed dried shirts and pants while her Dad handled the weekly grocery shopping trip. She remembered to check the list before he left, as having to go back with how busy the lines would be wouldn’t be smart. The work did leave her a bit light-headed, so she lay down and rested until her Dad got home. There were dishes to wash, and the furnace to manage, but she wasn’t going to do anything too stressful. Not after that.

Instead, she sorted the groceries and packed them away, one by one. They’d cleaned the floors and scrubbed down the stove before New Year’s, so those were fine. Silence was the rule of the day, but her Dad did seem a bit better after some regular, shared chores. Not happy, but less distraught. He was finishing his turn as a dishwasher when she decided to try something a bit different. He wouldn’t have much time after the weekend, so she was really hoping they could go through the basement piles together, but since it was a Sunday, another idea took charge.

It had occurred to Taylor that if she wanted to be cape, it would a good idea to practice fighting. Thing was, her Dad was not likely to approve of any such thing for his daughter. After all, she still hadn’t gotten her shiv back. The small hole in the table was there, but her shiv was missing. Now maybe she could argue him around to some self-defence classes, but armed?

With clubs, knives and swords?

“Not going to happen.”

But yesterday, another option had occurred to her. She had no more chance to convince him to take her to a gun range, then weapon practice, but after trying her sling out she had a thought: What about another kind of club? Taylor could hardly practice at good range in her own backyard. Or a random park.

But there was an option for training. One where she wasn’t at risk of injury, and that was kind of sporty. She could probably sell that. So instead of diving into the piles with an eye on what could be turned into materials as salvage, she went after the piles of junk mail.

There was a lot.

While there were plenty of plumbers, carpenters and mechanics, it wasn’t surprising that no archery club had sent fliers to her address. They weren’t exactly upper class, and she had a feeling this was very much a rich people sport.

“Looking for something?” Danny asked.

There was an odd stutter in her head. He hadn’t tried it, but she’d been engrossed in her task, and he subdued and quiet in the walk over. But that part of her that looked and listened and was always on now had heard him coming. Was tracking him all over the house.

So Taylor was surprised.

She was surprised she wasn’t surprised.

After a few seconds to iron out her knotted up thoughts, she answered: “I was wondering about clubs in the area. Something healthy, athletic.” With a bit of forced ease, she reached for her stomach paunch and found only smooth, hard muscle. An embarrassed blush at forgetting about it colored her cheeks but she went on with it:

“I want to get in shape, do some practice. Maybe join a club.”

Danny gave her an uncertain look, eyes switching between the piles of fliers and adds and her face.

“Do you know what kind of club?”

“I’ll know it when I see it.” She stated firmly. Because she would go, approval or not. Taylor wasn’t trying to be hostile, but last night was not a fluke. He needed to get that.

She left him to try the computer next. If that didn’t work, she’d need to try the library, or a community center.

***

After half an hour of phone calls and arguing with people on a Sunday, Taylor hit a wall. Yes, archery clubs exist. Furthermore, not all of them are that expensive. She’s looking at the site of one that’s having a weekly meeting, today being Sunday, with a yearly membership cost of a hundred bucks, or a monthly fee of ten, with an extra five for the range. They meet every Sunday.

She wants to go. But a minor can’t sign up on their own. Club policy.

Taylor sighs, slumping in the chair. She trudges downstairs and finds her dad sorting through the piles she’d left him. She’s ready for an argument.

***

“And that’ll be thirty-four ninety-nine sir. Thank you for picking us! The Brockton Bay Bees will take good care of your daughter! Here’s your membership card girl, paid up for three months. Enjoy yourself and don’t lose it!” The club treasurer cheerfully barked. He was a fairly large man, fit as a dockworker and loud.

The day was sunny and clear. They were out in the open, in a park at the foot of Captain’s Hill, where Downtown met the western side of town. There were empty cans in the snow and broken glass on the park walkways, endemic to Brockton Bay, but someone had cleared one of the larger fields of trash. Danny took a seat on one of the park benches, filled with another couple who were watching the kids.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

And there were kids, real kids. The younger group barely had any that came up to her chest, and ran around with rubber bows. The middle group was filled with everything from teens that could be her classmates to grownups, working with wooden bows and targets. It was a mess, with only a few instructors for a lot of archers. They mostly kept control with whistles, marking times to go out and recover arrows while no one was allowed to shoot. Everyone had their own bow and had to collect their own arrows.

Taylor stood on the outside of that group, her eyes mixed with irritation, some anxiety and just a bit of longing. The last was reserved for the third set of targets. Unlike the first two, these archers were split into small clumps. The largest of them was a gaggle of Asian girls dressed in flowing skirted uniforms, with tall, asymmetrical bows . The bows were taller than her and decorated. They looked foreign to Taylor.

The alert part of her could hear one of the instructors from the middle mass walking her way when the knowledge popped into her head. Given a chance to test and apply her power in motion Taylor blurted out:

“Are those actual traditional Yumi? Where did you even get them?”

The footsteps behind her stopped and several of the girls turned her way. A loud scoff came from the small group of only white kids, one of which had a shaved head. None of them were obvious about it, but the oldest boy looking at her said something to the group and they all laughed at her.

Before she could do more than feel the humiliation from it, her view was blocked. While most of the Asian girls had stuck to it, ignoring the others, two had come forward.

“Hajimemashite, newcomer-san. Care to join us for practice?” The voice was accented, halting. It did nothing to change the fact both girls bowed to her.

Seized by a moment of daring and wanting to show the nazi wanna-be’s up, Taylor bowed back.

“I’m not sure. I’ve never held one.” She replied, perhaps too honestly. She rushed to correct herself:

“I mean I have trained with bows, just never with a Yumi.” Taylor could feel the awkwardness in the air.

The two girls straightened and she followed suit. “Would you like to try?” The long haired brunette on the left offered, holding out her bow.

Their faces, which had shown a tiny smile at first were empty now, not hostile, but merely polite. It’s the eyes that give it away. A bit of interest, a hint of fear. They’re pretending not to notice the calls and mocking from the nazis, but they’re aware of them. Just not showing it. Beneath it all is a tiny spark of wonder, hope. They look at Taylor, and wonder if they're about to be rebuffed again, or if there is hope.

She gently took the bow. This was an opportunity, a chance, and she would not waste it. No matter the risks involved, she’d take her best shot.

The wood is still warm from her fingers. It’s the first time Taylor has held a real bow in her hands. It’s an unusual bow, much taller than her. Her hand adjusts, almost on its own. Where to grab, how to hold. The two serve as an icebreaker as she follows them. None of the other girls overtly react, but Taylor can feel the weight of their eyes on her. They lead her to a firing line. Taylor stretches and feels her jacket pulling on her back. She hands back the bow for a moment and the jacket comes off. Taylor isn’t sure what to do with it, but the other girl’s hands reach out. She’s reluctant, hesitant, but she lets it go.

Taylor stands in the marked line, four arrows punched into the snow by her feet, on either side. The thrum of others filling the air, low murmurs behind her. Taylor’s lungs fill with cold air. The whole thing is surreal. The target is twenty-five, twenty-eight meters. Near the edge of normal range for the bow. She tests it, the draw weight, the hold, aiming. Half a dozen times, she pulls it back without release. All the while her eyes wander. Watching, learning.

Slowly, from a general position, her body adjusts. Feet planted, grasp a third of the way up. But something is missing. The arrow hand reaches out, absentmindedly:

“Glove.”

Someone slips the glove on her hand, but all she sees is the arrows and the target. Taylor is aware of the rest of it, she really can’t shut out, dismiss it. Not anymore. But the murmurs don’t rise, the jeers keep their distance. The noise isn’t gone, just irrelevant.

The arrows are all wrong. Made for sport, not killing. But she adjusts, like Judicca would have. The rising fragment of a dream speaks to her:

“You can’t count on having the best ammo all the time Acolyte. What if you’re stuck in a swamp far from re-supply and have to make your own? You will not fail due to gaps in your training. Again!”

Taylor knows the bow. Knows it from two sides. One is from her Encyclopedia. The thing that tells her random facts. The other is in her hand. There is a weapon in her hand, and she knows it. Knows it like the killer she is. If only she had the right arrows. Or a proper sight.

She takes her time. Four draws, four shots. Aim, fire, reload, aim, fire. A staccato of motion without interruption.

The first thrum sends an arrow downrange. Her very first. It almost hits, buzzing just past the target. For the second, she nearly slips, the glove not quite right for her hand. The arrows goes down her lane, but nowhere near the target. Some part of her is trying to stop it. To interrupt. To raise doubts and fears. To pay attention to the jeers and murmurs.

“Again!”

It is crushed by the phantom memory of pain. Failure is not an option. The third shot finds the target. Not quite in the inner ring, but a solid hit.

It burrows deep into the target, not quite fully but most of the way. The fourth? Even before it hits, Taylor knows: that one is just right.

The arrows slips right into the center ring on the target, not quite the direct center, but close. It doesn’t strike. It goes right through and keeps flying out the other side. Taylor can see it land behind the target. A single step to the side places the other four arrows in position.

“Again!”

Four draws, four shots. This time, in a spreading circle of silence.

She has the target now. From the first shot, they start hitting.

One at the outer edge of the inner circle, struck near to the fletching.

Two in the inner ring, and fully buried.

Three all the way through.

Taylor stumbles on the fourth. The elation rising in her a moments distraction at just the wrong instant; the arrows slips and nearly tangles with the line. It stills flies, and her surprised look reveals a tiny notch, an irregularity in the string exactly where the arrows falls that helps it catch. She fumbled the release, but the weapon carried it through. It’s still a terrible shot. Terrible for a professional. It’s only her eighth.

***

A lady does not gape. Neither does the Kyūdō club captain. Minami Arai feels like she should. She doesn’t of course, her composure is not so easily broken. Some of her classmates are not so restrained.

“Minami, that was two Zaiteki and three Kanteki in two series.”

The club captain doesn’t need to be reminded of it. She just saw it with her own eyes. Three missed, but of the hits, three pierced the target, and two left the other side. These were not the sort of targets used for truly professional competitions, and the range wasn’t extended, but that was still quite a showing. That was better shooting than she did in an average series. Not by much, but still better. Minami may still only be a high-schooler, and captain due more to effort put in not talent, but still.

To see another make her bow sing so, it is a unique experience. But perhaps more than the skill, it was how she fired that is shocking. Kyūdō is a discipline, it is an art. Stance, composure, contemplation, it is part of their heritage.

Almost nothing of that was present. The newcomer is expressive, she frowns, she smiles. She is fierce.

She fires as if about to receive a charge of samurai with live blades. Deadly, and unrelenting.

The moment passes. Minami shakes it off and goes to properly introduce herself. In her wake, the spell breaks.

***

Still riding high on her success Taylor turns to the approaching girl and blurts out:

“This is an incredible bow. Where did you get it?” Her host smiles and-

“Where can I buy one?” Taylor asks, giddy at the idea of starting her cape career with such a weapon.

It is the wrong thing to say. Her face shows just an inch of pain, a smidgen of disgust but it’s more than enough for Taylor to know that she just fucked up. She feels a tremor, a ripple in the pool of warmth in her chest and Taylor twists.

Still riding high on her success Taylor turns to the approaching girl and suddenly feels the outer pool of power evaporate into nothingness, leaving only a distant warning of alarm and shame and a fading dream. The first words at the tip of her tongue get stuck there. In the time it takes her to swallow them her host speaks up.

“My apologies, dear guest.” There is still just a hint of an accent in the voice, but all the hesitation and pauses have gone out of it. “This city makes barbarians of us all. I am Minami Arai, captain of the Kyūdō club here and it is nice to meet you.” The captain offers her hand.

Taylor takes it. “Taylor. Hebert. Taylor Hebert.” Still somewhat off-balance from the sudden interruption of her powers, she blinks a couple of times, unsure how to continue. “Likewise. I didn’t know Brockton even had an archery club. That’s Kyodo, right?” She asks, returning the handshake.

Her eyes sweep the grounds. “This is nice. I didn’t think there was something this nice.” She doesn’t say “in this city.” She doesn’t need to.

The city takes this opportunity to interrupt. Well, the problem with it does. “Yeah, boys. See that? That’s what a proper woman can do with a bow. Even one of those.” It’s very clear what he means by proper.

The group ignores them, so Taylor does as well.

“The air may choke, and cobbles strangle, but grass finds a path.” Minami responds. It has the feel of a saying.

Taylor hands the Yumi back, lingering on the handover. “It’s a fine bow.” She wants to say a lot more, but restrains herself. She’s starting to notice that everyone around her is reserved. Not stoic, or emotionless, but less open than she’s used to. Even if the openness is fake. When several girls all stand together and do the same thing, there’s a weight to it, an atmosphere.

“It was my grandfathers. He took it with him.” Minami keeps a polite smile on, but there’s distant pain and longing to it. It clicks for Taylor then, her eyes falling on the bow between them. Moving between the Japanese girl, and her family bow. Almost on its own, her hand finds Minami’s forearm and gently squeezes.

“I’m sorry.” Taylor says, at a loss for words.

“Not your fault.” Minami replies. The words rote, so quick to come they must have been said a thousand times.

“Maybe not.” Taylor’s eyes flick to the Nazis. “Maybe not that. But I’m sorry anyway.”

The captain follows her look and for the first time, her smile is fully genuine. Not wide, still demure, but real.

“You have to live with them too. Let me introduce you.”

And the gates open.

Taylor can’t remember all the names. There’s about twenty members. Not everyone is happy to see her. Nor do all talk to her. It’s strange and uncomfortable, but Taylor endures. Slowly, by bits and pieces, as they practice series after series, the discomfort fades. Some of them don’t care for her. But so what? They have their own friends to hang out with.

Minami doesn’t linger long after the introductions. She has lines to watch and members to oversee and train. But soon enough, Taylor isn’t on her own.

Nami Takamoto is outgoing, brash by the standards of this group, and uninterested in all the talk about art, breathing and discipline. She just wants to shoot the target. As fast, hard and as often as she can. She spends most of the class near Taylor trying to wheedle advice out of her. Because she admires her. Her form, her accuracy, her speed.

Taylor is part embarrassed, part really unsure how to deal with someone admiring her. Looking up to her.

“Taylor, that was badass. Come on, show me, what am I doing wrong?”

Nami is 5' 3" and struggles to pull the bow repeatedly. She can fire off a couple of shots, but tires quickly. Dark haired and quick to anger or smile, she isn’t interested in books but loves action flicks and dancing.

“Especially Waltz. Nothing better than watching those snobs noses wrinkle when one of my kind dares outdo their darlings.”

If Nami is the talker, her other shadow is quiet. She speaks little. Mostly to offer proper thanks for help and instruction given. Because somehow Taylor has been thrust into the role of student teacher.

Her name is Kaya Tano. She’s shy, quiet and unassuming. She’s the best part of this whole thing, after the actual shooting practice. She listens. Politely, attentively. Kaya is a voracious reader. And while her tastes slant more towards horror and realism, she can hold her own in a discussion.

If, with not quite as many words as Taylor would like. Kaya is short with her words, like they are treasures to give out. Taylor has to keep prodding her to talk, but if anything, Kaya seems grateful for it. At least on these topics.

Taylor has had the opportunity to see her talk with one of the other members about some school assignment, and Kaya is far less comfortable with that.

When the Captain announces they were done for the day and calls everyone to disband, Kaya leaves after asking Taylor if she’ll see her again next week. Nami is a lot more daring. In a move Taylor would not dare pull, she tells Taylor she usually takes the bus, and slides in a question:

“So which way are you going? Because if I could bum a ride, I wouldn’t mind hanging out a bit more.”

Turns out, Nami lives two blocks away and likes dangerous living. They somehow spend the entire ride back talking about pasta. It’s weird, pushy, but doesn’t seem malicious.

They drop her off and she takes off, running. When they stop in front of their house, her Dad only has one thing to say: “Have fun?” He’s trying to smile, but obviously still worried. Taylor thinks about it.

“Yeah. I did.” After a bit of hesitation, she adds: “Grab lunch and I can share?”

“Sure Taylor. I’d like that.”