Ratcatcher reacted to that, head pulling back a bit.

“Otherwise, they fabricated it all.”

“You think that thomeone else thent thethe methageth?”

“Yes,” Tattletale said. “There’s a very good chance that someone else sent these. Tell me what happened after.”

“I went, they thaid to clean out my locker. They were nithe about it. Very polite but very careful.”

“Careful?” I asked.

“By the bookth. Procedureth in plathe.”

“Has this sort of thing happened to you before?” I asked.

Ratcatcher shrugged, shook her head. The shake was forceful enough that the bent portion of her mask flipped over to be bent the other way. “But I’ve been in trouble before. I get how it goeth.”

“But they’ve had trouble before,” Tattletale said. “Countenance has. There’s a history there and this attack was built to attack that weak point.”

“You sound pretty definitive at this point. No percentages?”

Tattletale shook her head. “I’m pretty darn sure.”

I looked over at Ratcatcher. I tapped her phone at the hinge. “This wasn’t you.”

“Hm,” She made a sound. Her nose dropped. “I’m not thure that maketh me feel better.”

“I get it,” I said. “It’s invasive. Violating.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t care about that. That’th the game we play.”

“It shouldn’t be,” I said. “I prefer the good old days, when cape against cape fights wouldn’t dig any deeper than the surface level. Costume against costume, no wounds that went beyond cuts, scrapes and bruises, unless they upped the ante first.”

“That’s stupid,” Tattletale said. “Nothing’s surface level. Our powers are intertwined with us, and we’re bringing all of our shit to the table when we go toe to toe with someone. Pit your powers against their powers, and you’re digging into your own shit while they’re doing the same, going back to what used to be the worst day of your life, you’re flinging that shit. To win your fights you need to know your enemy, but to do that you can’t stop at the surface.”

“We used to be able to.”

“We used to keep up a charade.”

“And while we were doing that no kids were getting chopped up into wriggling pieces!”

That seemed to give Tattletale pause.

“Point,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“But I think your take is a romantic, fragile one. We can’t go back there.”

“Believe me, I’m coming to terms with that. All I’m saying is I miss those days, and I’m going to respect anyone who holds themselves to those standards. Holding back while doing what needs to be done.”

“I was never good at that,” Tattletale said. “Surface level. It’s a good way of putting it, but the tool I was handed is a backhoe.”

Her entire tone had changed, and… if I tracked backward in the conversation, it felt like it had turned around when I’d dropped the ‘wriggling pieces’ line. Like she respected me more because I’d turned to using a backhoe.