Acknowledgments: The Parahumans series and all non-original characters contained within this story are the property of John C. McCrae. The author takes no credit for the universe, story, or cast of Worm. Worm can be found at its home on WordPress here: https://parahumans.wordpress.com/

  The author also thanks all of you who have contributed to the story: Your ideas, suggestions, and criticism have been greatly appreciated throughout the work.

  Warning & Disclaimer: This fiction, like the source material, contains sensitive subjects and explores potentially uncomfortable subject material through the lens of its setting and characters. These are not expressions of my beliefs as an author. This work is intended for adult audiences only. Please read the content tags for the work. There are minor, moderate, and major spoilers for Worm throughout the work. If you haven’t yet already read the source material or are concerned about potential spoilers, I would urge proceeding with caution if you care about such things. The Chimera should be able to be read as a stand-alone work, but having some familiarity with the setting will probably be helpful. Please consider this story an alternate universe setting to Worm. It’s still set on Earth Bet during the period and places of Worm’s main plot but there will be plot divergence and differences in characters and events.

  Being a cape is a pretty weird experience when you stop and think about it. What’s the word I’m looking for… Surreal, or disjointed, maybe? Here we are, actual superheroes with powers, surrounded by people who have no idea who we are, living our everyday civilian lives with none the wiser. Well, for the most part.

  I was in an oddly introspective mood as I sort of tuned out the rest of the people at the cafeteria table with me, chattering away. I took a bite of the grinder I was holding in front of my face, elbows on the tabletop like an uncouth barbarian. Bliss.

  School lunches are really hit or miss most of the time, but the one thing they sorta do right here at Arcadia is the sandwiches. This is absolutely worth the upcharge price of admission. Fuck.

  My sister, Melody, sitting directly opposite me at the table, nudged my foot under the table to discreetly get my attention. My attention shifted to her from the unfocused part of the wall across the dining hall I’d been staring off into while munching away. She shot me a purposeful look, then glanced over my shoulder to indicate whatever it was that I’d missed while spacing out. Putting my sandwich down on my scuffed dining tray and flicking some of my hair back over my shoulder, I twisted partially and looked.

  Oh!

  Amy Dallon was standing behind the empty seat next to me, deliberately not looking at it, or really the rest of the table, her lips moving like she was trying to say something, but anything she was saying was drowned out by the general racket in the cafeteria. Her eyes were darting around, and she sorta looked like a deer about to bolt, then we made eye contact. I laughed out loud and pushed the empty seat next to me back for her to take a seat in.

  Poor girl has the worst social anxiety I’ve ever seen, I swear. It’s funny, but in an endearing way.

  “Amy! What are you doing, you goober, just pull up a chair!” I said with a theatric eye-roll at her, picked my sandwich back up, and took a fairly unladylike chomp out of it as she settled in.

  Glad to have her sitting here and maybe socializing rather than sitting off in the corner and brooding like Shadow Stalker or something. Barely audible over the background noise, I heard: “Thanks for that” come from my opposite side. Today I was sitting next to Victoria Dallon, the real-deal Glory Girl herself, and Amy’s sister. It was pretty common for us to eat lunch together. I glanced sideways over her while munching and shot her a wink. She glanced skyward and snorted before going back to her previous conversation involving most of the rest of the contents of the table.

  Turning my attention back to Amy, I glanced at what was on her tray and decided to tease her over it. Despite being a socially anxious mess most of the time, she has a wicked wit and great sarcastic humor.

  “Chicken tendies and crinkle cut fries? And you don’t even have the common decency to get barbecue sauce for the tenders? You wound me, Amy. I don’t know if I can tolerate such questionable taste.”

  Amy, for her part, only missed a beat before squinting back at me and responding: “I won’t apologize. Honey mustard is vastly superior to barbecue.” She stressed the last word, mocking my favorite. I was about to intercept that ball in my court when Melody interjected from the other side of the table, agreeing with Amy.

  “She’s got you there, Morg. Honey mustard is obviously the better choice.”

  I sighed loudly and nudged Victoria with my elbow.

  Come on, GG. Let’s tie this, and then we can take it to overtime.

  “Uhh… Sorry, but I think ranch is the best.”

  Collectively, the three of us swiveled our necks and leveled our gazes at Victoria. We all spoke nearly in unison. “Ugh.”

  “No. Just. No.” “Gross.”

  The rest of the Wards, sitting at the table and their friends, looked down to the end where the four of us were seated with a lack of uncomprehension and bewilderment as to what this sideshow argument was about. The table, collectively, was quiet for a moment, and Victoria raised her palms in surrender to the three of us. The four of us cracked up laughing, and the rest of the table mostly shrugged and went back to gossiping.

  I leaned over to Amy and whispered to her: “You might have won this battle, so I’ll retreat for now and you can take your victory, but while you’re celebrating, I’ll be doing a training montage. I’ll have my revenge. This isn’t over.”

  Wrinkling up the freckled bridge of her nose, she mock-scoffed and whispered back conspiratorially: “You wish, bird brain. Any time, any place, I have you dead to rights.”

  Damn. She pulled out the Cyberkiller Two reference.

  I was outgunned here in more ways than one. The girl had a knack for pop culture references and snappy comebacks when she was out of her shell. I changed tack. Popping a chip into my mouth and crunching on it a moment, I replied back in a more appropriate speaking volume to not be rude to our other tablemates.

  “You know, I never got that saying. Like… Birds have pretty small brains, but they’re pretty smart generally; some of them are crazy smart. I saw a show on Corvids once, they are genuinely impressive!”

  We wound up getting into a winding conversation for most of the rest of the lunch period, me and my sister chatting with Victoria and Amy about all sorts of topics only linked by the most threadbare of connections from topic to topic. Probably my influence shining through there on that. We got on the topic of trying to plan out hitting the movies again, either on the upcoming weekend or the one following, depending on our schedules. It was always tricky trying to get myself, Vicky, Amy, and Melody at the same place and same time together, but I tried hard to make it happen, and so did Victoria.

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  Schedules were a complicated thing when you were a teenage superhero. I was a Ward. Victoria and Amy were not, but were members of an independent superhero team, New Wave. They had their own struggles, but they were similar enough to what I experienced as a Ward that it was comparable. Melody was the odd one out, as she, thankfully, hadn’t had to go through a trigger event. I lived a double life as a Ward. Glory Girl and Panacea didn’t have secret identities as part of New Wave’s entire mask-off movement and belief. The three of us had major time commitments in the form of our superhero lives and work in addition to our school work. It was a delta between us and Melody, and it was something I was conscious of trying to work around.

  I was very close with my sister. We’re fraternal twins, but looked and acted similarly enough for most of our lives that many people mistook us for being identical twins. A little over a year ago, I had triggered and gained my powers, and things had changed for us because of it. It’s unavoidable, really. Similar to how many close siblings start to drift apart because of age gaps or the transition into adulthood and shifting life priorities. It’s often said that there’s no bigger life-altering event than having a trigger event, short of just dying. It’s not an exaggeration, either. Not in the least.

  I looked over at Melody and smiled at her, and she grinned back. I felt a twinge in my chest at the sight. I wanted to spend time with her and do the things we always used to do together, but there weren’t enough hours in the day. It hurt to think about.

  I spoke up: “Yeah, I don’t know about the exact date and time, but we need to make this happen. This weekend or next weekend. I don’t even care what we watch or do, but let’s do it.” Victoria nodded firmly, and Melody looked down at her phone at showtimes and events coming up in the next two weeks. Amy was quiet.

  Of course.

  “You’re coming, right, Amy?” I pressed her on it. Victoria and I were of a very similar mindset on stuff like this.

  Amy looked down at her tray and the two or three remaining and now cold-fries, and flicked the corner of one to send it spinning in place. She mumbled a moment, then cleared her throat. “You know I have hospital and clinic duties, and I really don’t want to leave people…” I’d heard this a dozen times, more than a dozen times already. I got it. Victoria got it. Hell, even Melody got it. You want to do good, as much good as you can, for as many people. But you needed personal time and to be able to live your own life. I wasn’t going to cut her off.

  Waiting for her to finish, I reached over and poked her in the shoulder with one fingertip. She jolted a little and made eye contact with me.

  “Amy, please. I’m not going to speak for anyone else, but I would really like it if you came out with us.” Melody and Victoria both voiced their agreement, and the mousey thing blushed, grumbled like a cranky codger, then sighed and nodded in assent.

  Exposure and support. Thanks, Jessica.

  We went back to planning with our remaining minutes. The period tone sounded over the loudspeakers, and there was a racket as people stood up and started shuffling off to their next class. One of the other Wards, Carlos, beelined over to me as we got up. He’d been sitting at the other end of the table from us and was chatting with the rest of the table while we four at the other end had been doing our own thing.

  “Yo, Morgan!” He called out to me and grinned. He was handsome, and had a great smile, but wasn’t really my type, not to mention the conflict of interest of being our team leader. “Going to be at the gym after school? I was hoping you’d be my spotter and we could spar some!”

  As with many, or even most of the conversations we had in our civilian identities (and even some of the ones in costume,) our language was deeply steeped in double speak. Obfuscation and plausible deniability, speaking in perfectly understandable and relatable terms to the outside observer, but with layered and nested meanings accessible to only those with the greater context.

  Going to be at base after school? I’d like to do some training, but more one-on-one.

  I countered back with a teasing rib: “I mean, maybe. I’m going to be in that part of town after school for a physical therapy appointment. Are you going to quit being a baby and actually spar this time?”

  Yeah, I’m going to PHQ after classes, but do you really want to get taken back to school?

  Dennis from our table, who was standing behind me as we shuffled out, burst out laughing and instigated: “Ooooh!”

  Carlos didn’t miss a beat. “Listen, you might be on a bit of a winning streak at the moment, but you know that everyone falls off the top sooner or later! It’s the nature of things!”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and gave him a stern look, and only the wrinkle in my brow and the upturn of my mouth in the corner of my lips betrayed my seriousness. Maybe.

  “Twelve matches, it’s ten-two, and last time I checked… Yeah, that was ten in a row.”

  He rubbed the back of his head and sheepishly said: “So uhhh…” He glanced up at the drop ceiling tiles. “Best.. eleven out of twenty-one?”

  “Man, that is just SAD!” Dennis crowed. Carlos groaned. I reached over and clapped him on the shoulder. My poor facade crumbled, and I relented with my gloating.

  “Anytime, you know it. That’s what training is for, right? Gotta get better through practice! I just ah… gotta make sure my PT is good with it. Don’t want to aggravate my knee and all.” He nodded along with my cover story, and I made my way to my next class, economics.

  The class was easy, or at least, I had a decent mind for the math and concepts, so I was able to let my mind wander some during lectures and note-taking. Bringing up my stupid cover story had put my mind on a bit of a downer path, causing uncomfortable and painful memories to bubble up to the surface.

  There was absolutely nothing wrong with my knee, or the rest of me, for that matter. I was in the best shape of my life, and if I wanted to be, I’d be well on my way to a state or even national-level college athletics career. A bright, shining career with a ton of promise and lucrative future prospects. I didn’t give as much of a shit about the fame and spotlight, but I was deeply competitive. I thrived on the competition, the wins were euphoric, and the losses motivated me to train and study even harder.

  But there was just one minor problem. I was a parahuman. I had a secret identity, but even beyond that, parahumans couldn’t participate in sports. Nothing beyond totally casual entertainment, and even then, good luck finding anyone who’d play with you and run the risk of getting lit on fire or thrown 20 feet through the air when spirits got high in a match. Absolutely no parahumans allowed in any serious sporting events, not professionally, not semi-pro, nada. There wasn’t a magic meter or standardized test they could give us to certify we were or weren’t a parahuman, or to what extent our abilities may or may not interfere with matches in a fair and balanced manner. So, no varsity, state, national, or international organization wanted to wrestle with that basket of worms, and it was just a blanket ban. And there was a vested interest in many of the big sporting organizations to see that parahuman sports didn’t wind up becoming competition.

  Cape culture existed for that. Cape shows, cape video games, cape films. Not to mention the most obvious, just turning on the news and seeing villains and heroes fighting over whatever it might be.

  People go hard on that shit. They gobble it up; there is a huge demand for it. I mean, hell, we have an entire brand and merchandising division of the PRT entirely dedicated to it.

  I didn’t have a problem with the cape culture aficionados. They could be a bit pushy, nerdy, or obsessive at times, but most of them were just people who were fans, no different than someone sitting in bleachers spectating and cheering for one team or another. My issue was that my plans for my life got entirely derailed when I triggered. Straight off a cliff into a ravine, cue crash and Hollywood explosion. Dreams of professional athletics dashed. Heroics and team fights filled the void quite well. I had a team and resources. I loved training and working with the far more experienced members of the Protectorate. Honestly, there were a lot of upsides that helped offset the baggage and some of the more burdensome aspects of it.

  I glanced at the clock. The period was almost over. This was my last class of the day, although not the last class of the school day. Like some of the other Wards and independent minor capes, I was able to take some of my work off-campus and do it online for added scheduling flexibility. After all, I had a very important physical therapy session to attend soon. The class was called a couple of minutes before the bell, and I packed away my binder and textbook and shouldered my bag. Time to head over to PRT Headquarters out in the bay.