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So apparently if you get powers from having something bad happen to you, the thing that happened sort of decides what power you get. And when I say "apparently" I don't mean "the internet said so", I mean that someone on the internet who'd actually taken college classes on it said so. Which, technically, is still the internet but, still, the important part, is that it's actually true. The important part is I have the ability to punch Nazis, without being close to the Nazis. Sort of obvious how I got that power.
Which is good, because it means I can skip talking about it.
Then I had to figure out what my power actually did and stuff, but that was at school, which means it's boring. Kinda stressful, but still: boring. Skip!
The actually interesting thing, the place where this all properly started, was about a week later, when I finally convinced Brian to teach me how to fight.
So the thing about my brother is that he's always on my case. Not as bad as our dad, who: wow, but he's all, like, responsible and stuff. Also a supervillain. So not entirely responsible, but he expects me to do responsible things like "go to school, every day" and "pay for everything I want to get", which, newsflash, would not be responsible because I don't have much money and I like a lot of stuff but not for very long so if I paid for all of it I'd run out of money. Running out of money is totally irresponsible.
Dad talks about fighting as something something "discipline" because he was in the army, and Brian sort of nods at him when he says that, so I figured I'd have an easy sell on getting him to help me. Brian, not our dad—he gets weird about girls doing hard stuff and I wouldn't ask him for anything anyway. Thinking about it, I'm pretty sure Brian also just enjoys fighting, as a thing to do, because otherwise he could've got a job at a not-a-euphemism massage parlor or spa or something, I'm pretty sure we have those, and been very very relaxing and silent. Although I guess that might not have made as much money. Or as quickly. So maybe there was a reason.
Anyway, turned out to be slightly more of an uphill battle than I'd expected. Somehow he just didn't trust me to have suddenly developed a sense of self-improvement or focus or whatever. I mean, really. Me, not focused? Having ulterior motives? Wanting to punch Nazis with more force than a thirteen-year-old kitten? Unbelievable. Basically it went like this.
ME: Hey Brian you should teach me how to throw a punch properly you always say no one does at least once you did.
BRIAN: Egads, Aisha, hath thou develop'ed an urge to fight small children in your school? Doth thy irresponsibility haveth no depth?
ME: Whaaat? No, I totally don't want to get into fights I just want to learn things and improve myself and shtuff!
BRIAN: Doest thee have no memory, sister of mine? You literally never "just want to learn things", you're always about to get into trouble.
[REPEAT, over SEVERAL DAYS]
---
[EVENTUALLY]
ME: It's, I mean, it's not about school. It's more about when I'm walking there, or home, or anywhere.
BRIAN: ...oh.
Yeah.
I was expecting we'd go to some gym and there'd be mood lighting and rows of punching bags with gloves hanging off them, the thick smell of sweat and some crusty ancient coach, maybe a cute boy or two who'd already be there yet somehow have learned so little that I easily triumphed over him in a month or two but not in a stupid way, just in a me-being-awesome way. Alas. No, we just went into the basement of our house. There wasn't even a punching bag, more like a pillar. But shiny and punchable looking, which is really what matters.
He started off telling me how to stand, and I actually paid attention even though it was really boring stuff about 'balance' and 'distrubution of weight' and whatever. But then he explained how to make a fist. Problem: he started with the thing about thumbs, which is practically insulting, like I have ever seen a boxing movie Brian, seriously, and then I got distracted by the shiny punch pillar and also wondering how many of the weights in the other corner I could theoretically lift, just in theory, and this kinda itch in my left foot and, like, the way I'd thought of it as "our house" and not "our dad's house" which I still stumble over sometimes even though I've lived here full-time for a year or two now and...
"Bro, I got this," I said. "Watch me punch this thing."
"Aisha, I was still talking," he said, which was valid because he had been but also at this point it wasn't useful talking, because it was at me talking and this is how it works with me. "If you get into bad habits because I didn't teach you properly—"
"So watch me and tell what I'm doing wrong! It'll be fine." At school one time we spent half an hour talking about 'styles of learning' and there was this one starting with 'kin' that basically meant learning by actually doing things, and I really wished I could remember the word because it would've been awesome, by which I mean convincing. Hopefully. Instead I just had to grin at him in a super reassuring way and go stand next to the punchy thing with my fists up. Kept my feet a sensible distance apart and everything.
"I don't think that—oh, fine." Success! Brian reduced to sighing and helping me. All according to the plan I just made up after it happened. "Right. Drop your shoulders, and curl your fingers in tighter."
I couldn't figure out how to 'drop' my shoulders, given how they were attached to my chest and all, but I did move them downwards and reroll my fists. Re-wrap? The smile had slipped off my face while I was 'focusing' (ugh) so I thought about for something funny to bring it back. "This is the part where I imagine my enemies' face is the punchy blob, right?" Literally! Genius.
Brian sighed again. He was really good at sighing, lot of nuance in it. This one said "Aisha is sort of funny but I'm busy being Very Serious" with a touch of "actually worried", which, d'aw. "You don't have to do that. Just go slowly, keep your wrist straight, follow through all the way. Try to aim about here." He tapped the tall punch target a bit lower than I would have thought.
My power needs a minimum force before it'll transmit the blow, so 'slowly' was out. Aaand Brian wasn't moving his hand, so aiming at his finger was out. Sorry Brian. Instead I took a moment to summon my real target. I could feel it, a featureless shape hanging in the air in front of me. Feel, not see, like the weight of it was enough to reach my skin. I also got a backwash of what kind of Nazi this was: "I'm too superior to care about race but I'll grind you into the dirt if it benefits me", with an aftertaste of "just kidding I also can't stand you but I tell myself it's totally objective". Ugh. The worst.
Strangely, I hadn't stopped smiling while I got a whiff of that. It'd just slid into more a smirk. Must be the imminent violence. I pulled my right fist back and punched it straight into that Nazi's face, roughly cheek-area, and felt the jolt that meant the force had gone through. Perfect. Ignoring Brian as he said something about "telegraphing your attacks", I threw out a couple more hits before the object fractured in my mind's eye and slipped beyond my reach. Somewhere in the city a Nazi had suddenly felt the universe objecting to his existence, and I was responsible.
I'm cheating by putting this here, because I didn't know it at the time, but it makes more sense this way. At about a quarter to four, on a Friday afternoon in late August, one Maximillain Beauregard Anders was talking to a hundred or so of his only-deniably-whiter-than-Brockton Bay Medhall employees when he inexplicably staggered several times before abruptly leaving the conference room.
Still disappointed he didn't start making blades the first time.