Worse, I couldn’t help but feel like he was seeing through the image I was trying to portray.  Seeing the girl behind the mask, who was just trying to pretend she knew what she was doing.

He’d probably like to think he does, at least.

I turned to the next person, a solidly built woman with scratches and the sandburns I was quickly coming to recognize all over her face.  She had even taped half of a sanitary pad over one eye.  It wasn’t my brightest move, but I asked her, “Are you going to whine like a little girl, too, if I ask you to help someone?”

Uh oh.

Dial back the salt a little. You abandoned the bully tactic, thanks to Charlotte. Don’t let the patriarch mess with that.

She smiled a little and shook her head.

…hah! I think she shares Taylor’s opinions on the patriarch. “Heh, ‘like a little girl’! Serves that old grump right.”

“Good.  Go.  Left side of the building.  He’s blind, and there’s nobody else there to help.  I think he might have inhaled sand, he’s coughing pretty violently.  Don’t push him to move too fast or too much.  Take your time walking him back, if the bleeding isn’t too severe.”

A bit of useful information. That helps.

She obeyed, moving off with a powerful stride.  When I looked, R.J.’s dad was gone.

He was stomping off toward the ambulances, keeping the crowd between us, dragging his wife at his side with R.J. hurrying to keep up.

…well. Be that way, see if Skitter ever helps you with your pests again.

Knowing how angry he was, I had to hope he wasn’t the type to take out his anger on his family.

Oh cod. No thanks.

I could absolutely see that being the case, though. I hope R.J.’s going to be okay.

I didn’t want to be indirectly responsible for their pain.

And I just don’t want them to be in pain, regardless of who’s responsible.

Sometimes it seems like who’s responsible is what Taylor focuses on, rather than the pain itself, and given how she treats her various points of guilt, I’m don’t think that’s reading into things too much.

I turned to the next person and stopped.  He was one of the few people with actual bandages on his wounds, and he stood near his family.  Even with the gauze pads strapped to his face, I recognized him from earlier.  Or, to be specific, I recognized the little boy R.J., and I knew this man as his father, patriarch of the rat infested house from early in the day.

Ooh! Hello!

Now, the patriarch was rather critical of Skitter even as she helped out. Maybe he’ll be the first to go down into the scapegoat territory I’ve been talking about? On another hand, he might’ve had some time to think and properly appreciate what Skitter did for his family. But then again, talking in Skitter’s favor might be R.J.’s role, going against his father’s cynicism with youthful optimism.

“There’s a blinded man in the brick building over there,” I told him, facing him squarely.  “Go help him.”

“Why?” he challenged me, his voice gruff, his gaze hard.  “I’m hurt.  If I go, I’m going to miss my turn with the ambulances.”

I get it, but you’re also one of the few people who’ve actually gotten some sort of treatment. If you looked particularly wounded, Skitter wouldn’t send you, even if she wanted to test your willingness to obey. Bottom line, the blinded man needs more help than you do right now.

Asshole.  There wasn’t even a shred of gratitude for what I’d done to help him and his family, and he didn’t even seem to need his turn at the ambulance that badly either.  I had to resist the urge to hit him or set my bugs on him.

You did promise him a fistfight if he wanted one. It’s technically still “after the countdown”.

Or maybe it’s now before the countdown, since the countdown was a count-up and thus went backwards?

That’s how time works, right?

He looked at his mother, and the look she gave him was answer enough.  He helped her hobble over to the group of people I’d indicated, leaving her in their care, and joined Charlotte in running for the warehouse where the woman and kids were.

And the hole has opened. Now it should get a lot easier to convince people to help out.

Now I just had to keep my momentum.

“You and your friend,” I spoke to a middle-aged guy and his buddy.  “There’s a guy slowly bleeding out in the factory there.  Go help him.”

Especially since she’s able to do this now.

The second that passed before they moved to obey left my heart pounding.

That little moment of “will they listen to me now”…

But then they do, much more quickly than the last guy, and things are good. Well, as good as they can be under these circumstances.

Also, I guess the fact that Taylor only mentioned the woman and children indicates that no, the man is not breathing.

I already figured the blood on the mother’s face was at least partially from her husband, and the breathing a reaction to what had just happened to him and the children, but there was a chance he was still alive but very badly hurt.

I spotted a twenty-something guy with an impressive bushy beard and no shirt.  Aside from one cut on his stomach and some smaller patches of shredded skin where the sand had caught him in the back, he seemed to be in okay shape.  “You.  Help her.”

And this allows her a second chance at the assertive, specific directions she failed to give earlier.

He looked at the older woman beside him.  His mother?  She was clearly hurt, and had the remains of two or three white t-shirts bundled around her arm.

Ah, yeah, some of them aren’t going to want to leave behind their closest to go help.

It was clear the limb had been caught by the sand; it looked like a mummy’s arm, only bloody.

Oh jeez.

Anticipating an excuse on his part, I pointing to the nearest group of injured and told him, “They’ll look after her.  There are people who need you more.  Second floor.  Go.”

This is how you do it. Good job, Taylor.

I owe her one hell of a favor.

Yes. Yes you do.

Unless you or someone else pulls something really good, Charlotte is going to be the MVP of this chapter for that move alone.

I’d had my bugs sweeping through nearby buildings since I’d arrived.  I hadn’t really stopped, even after I got home.  I had found several of the wounded.  A man lying prone, two kids huddled near their mother.  The mother’s face was sticky with blood, her breathing quick.

Ouch. Is the man breathing?

The children were bleeding too.  I could sense a man stumbling blindly through what had been his home, hands to his face.

You really should switch to a more eye-friendly shampoo, pal.

I almost sent her after the blind man, but reconsidered.

I pointed at a warehouse, and spoke loud enough for others to hear, “There’s a woman and two little kids in there, you won’t be able to help them alone.”

Ooh, good idea, inciting more people to help by making it absolutely clear that they are needed. That everyone needs to work together.

Which was a large part of why I had chosen them.

Yeah, I see what you’re doing, and I like it a lot.

“The cube got crushed when I was helping someone.  I was glad you didn’t use your power,” she said.

Oh, okay. That just leaves the mask, which is easy enough to explain.

Then, loud enough that some people nearby could hear her, she asked me, “What can I do?” 

Oh hell yes!

Remember what I said about the flock needing one person to be the first to break formation before they all did? That’s what Charlotte is doing. She knows how that works and is actively stepping into the situation to be that person for the rest of the crowd.

Go Charlotte!

“Alright,” I said, sounding calmer than I felt.  My fist clenched at my side.

I hesitated.  Someone was approaching.  I felt them passing through the bugs I’d dispersed through the crowd.  Charlotte.

Oh, hi! Are you going to save Taylor from having to do this? Perhaps with a rousing speech about how Skitter went against bystander syndrome to help you, and how they could at least do the same?

“You’re not wearing your mask,” I said, the second she was close enough to hear me, my voice quiet.  “Or the paper cube.”

Hm. Maybe she was not wearing her mask in order to seem less threatening when she went out to warn people? But why not the cube?

Is it an act of rebellion because of what just happened to the territory and the fact that she wasn’t told about the Nine being around before it was this late? I don’t think that fits with how she was acting on the phone, though, and there’s no reason for Charlotte to assume Skitter knew before she found out about the Shattering.

No, I think she’s coming to help, but wants to appear like a regular person for whatever reason.

Which left me three unpleasant options.  The first option was that I could abandon that plan, look weak, and lose standing in the eyes of everyone present.

Not really worth even thinking of unless the other options are significantly worse.

Alternately, I could speak up again, appeal to their humanity, beg, plead, demand, praying all the while for someone to come forward.  That was the second choice, and it would make me look even worse to everyone watching, with only a miniscule chance of success.

Is the third option basically the same but forcefully? Because that’s probably the best option. If they won’t listen and help out of the goodness of their hearts, it’s time for intimidation.

The silence stretched on.  I knew it had only been five or six seconds, but it felt like a minute.

It’s amazing how long six seconds can be. *glances over at Dungeons and Dragons*

The third of my ugly options?  I could make them listen.  Goad them into action with threats and violence.

Intimidation, yes. Actual violence, preferably not.

It meant I risked provoking the same sort of chaos and violence I was hoping to combat, but I suspected that chance was relatively minor.  I could get people to do what I needed them to do.  I’d maybe earn their respect, but I’d probably earn their enmity at the same time.

Yeah. You’re already on thin ice as an easy scapegoat. You don’t want to stomp on that ice.

Could I do this?  Could I become the bully, even if it was for the greater good?

…oof. Right. Bullies.

I was going to hate myself for doing it, but I’d left my dad behind to be here.  I wasn’t about to fail.

Add one more card to the guilt pile!