Québec City in Spring feels like the world is finally waking up. The gray, cold grip of winter has loosened, and the city bursts with life. Cobblestone streets are bustling with people, the scent of fresh coffee fills the air, and the trees that line the avenues are dotted with tender green buds. The Saint Lawrence River flows quietly by, reflecting the pale blue sky above.

Université Laval sits like a small, vibrant community within the city, its sprawling campus a blend of modern buildings and old brick halls. The energy here is constant—students move in and out of lecture rooms, heads buried in books or bent over laptops in quiet corners. The towering trees that surround the campus are just starting to sprout new leaves, casting dappled shadows on the pathways below. In the evening, the campus quiets down as most students retreat to their dorms or nearby cafés.

But not everyone has gone home.

"See the lights on over there in the lab? That’s me, working my butt off on a project," I think with a sigh. "Yeah, I know I should be home right now, snuggling down to watch my favorite survival reality show or maybe dragging a certain bad boy I’m crushing on out for a date. But science demands sacrifice. So do my academics at university."

I glance up at the clock, mentally calculating how much longer I can push myself before I crash. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch my reflection in the window. Dark hair falling over my face, tired eyes staring back at me. A chuckle escapes me—funny how life and duty can wear you down, even when you’re okay with it.

"Oh, right, I guess I should tell you a little about myself."

"My name’s Élise Quinn. I’m a student at Université Laval, obsessed with anything to do with botanical biology—plants, their chemistry, their secrets. Some people are into math or physics, but me? I’ve always been fascinated by how things grow, adapt, and survive. It’s kind of my thing."

I lean back in my chair, stretching as I let my gaze drift out across the quiet campus. I can feel the pulse of life around me—the trees, the grass, even the small patches of moss clinging to stone walls. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to nature. It’s alive and persistent, just like me, always fighting to grow, no matter the conditions.

"I guess you could say I’m a little… determined," I grin to myself. "My mom calls it being stubborn, but I like to think I’m focused. Focused on learning, on getting better, on doing something with my life. And, well, on saving the world."

I glance back at the books scattered across the table—theories on plant biology, cross-species growth, hybridization. It’s all part of my obsession with the natural world, but there’s more to me than just being the science nerd who loves plants.

"See, I’ve got a little secret. My dad? He was a supervillain—yeah, not the kind of thing you bring up casually at family dinners. He was part of a radical group called the FSA, fighting for Québec separatism by any means necessary. Growing up, I thought he was a hero... until I found out the truth."

That familiar tightness in my chest returns when I think about my dad. Part of me still wonders if he was really the villain everyone says he was. "But that’s not the most interesting part of my story, I suppose. I didn’t just inherit his love for plants—I inherited his powers too, or at least a variation of them."

"Yep, you heard me right. Plant-based superpowers, kind of like dear old Dad." I pause, brushing my hair back out of my face. "I can control plant life—make it grow, move it, use it to shield or fight. And my skin? It can secrete any plant-based chemical you can imagine. Medicine, poison, you name it. Science and superpowers, all wrapped up in one convenient package."

I glance back out the window. The city is quiet, for now.

"That’s why I study plants, chemistry, and medicine. I can only create compounds from substances derived from plants if I actually know and understand them. It’s not like I can just wish for a sedative or something that works like glue—I have to know what I’m doing. So, yeah, my studies serve me in more ways than one."

"Oh, and yeah. I’m a superhero. Have been for the last few months now. I was asked to join North Force as a junior team correspondent—or something like that. I’m basically here to assist, legally registered and everything. I get government assistance, but I’m on a sort of probationary testing period. Makes sense, right?"

So here I am—a hot young girl, the toast of Québec City—the media calls me "la Belle des Fleurs" or sometimes "la Princesse des Pétales" (yeah, really). And what am I doing on a Friday night? Not partying or going on some fabulous date. Nope, I’ve got my nose stuck to a microscope, staring at plant cells.

"Yep, this is my exciting life of fame."

It’s a good thing I like plants, or I might be annoyed that I’m spending my Friday night in a botany lab, taking notes on the reactions of plant cells to my flora kinesis—or phyto-control, verdokinesis, or whatever you want to call it.

"I can take a break on the weekend, though. Maybe drag that bad boy with the cute smile I mentioned off to a movie or something."

I leaned back in my chair to rub my eyes. I can only watch plant cells twitch so much before I need a break. That’s when it hits me—well, not literally, but close enough. My government-issued com device starts blaring with that annoying ringtone I’ve been meaning to change. Beep-a-beep-a-beep.

"This is Agent Quinn?" I answer, trying to mask the exhaustion creeping into my voice.

"Quinn, we have reports of supervillain activity, and you’re North Force’s closest asset," Mr. Wilkes says, his voice crisp, like he never gets tired. "We need you to suit up and scout out the reports. Observation only, do not engage unless necessary."

"Sure thing, Mr. Wilkes," I reply automatically. But I don’t really mean it. My handler—Mr. Wilkes—is the type who lives and breathes procedure, straight out of the CSIS playbook. He’s like a Canadian G-Man with a clipboard and a mandate to keep me in check.

His voice sharpens, the kind of tone that cuts through the fatigue. "We’ve got reports of strange and unaccountable anomalies. Until we confirm the nature of the threat, you are to maintain observation only. Understood, la fleur noire? Do not engage unless you have no other choice."

"Totally," I say with a quick smile that he can’t see. "I’ll suit up and be on my way."

But, honestly, we both know how this is likely to go.

One of the cooler perks of working as a government super in Canada is the suit. They set you up with something custom-built, designed by professionals to hold up to your powers and the rigors of combat. But the best part? You get to choose the design. The color, the style—Canada likes its heroes to feel like individuals as much as part of a team. It's that whole "cultural mosaic" thing we do up north, as I like to explain to my American friends.

I open my locker and pull out the suit, the familiar fabric soft yet strong between my fingers. It’s dark green and black, with swirling vine-like patterns that trace along the torso, making it look like nature itself had a hand in its creation. The deep forest green of the suit blends seamlessly with the black panels, giving it an elegant, yet commanding presence.

I slip it on, the material clinging snugly to my body but flexible enough to allow for movement—whether it’s dodging punches or calling up a wall of vines. The suit’s high collar adds a sleek, modern touch, and the long sleeves are adorned with subtle, intricate designs of leaves, almost like they’re etched into the fabric itself.

The boots are integrated into the suit, reaching just below my knees, reinforced for impact while still feeling lightweight. Gauntlets at my wrists are reinforced as well, built to withstand combat, with a slight glow emanating from them as they sync with my powers. I check the mirror and smile. The design reflects who I am—nature’s defender, sleek but with an undeniable strength.

Before I forget, I tuck a flower behind my ear—an orange blossom that complements the rest of the suit. It’s not just for show, though; these flowers are like little tokens of my power, ready to bloom and grow at a moment’s notice.

The final touch: my hands glow softly, wrapped in an ethereal green energy as I activate my powers, ready to take on whatever the night throws at me.

Before I head out, I grab a few packets from my locker. Each one is filled with seeds, but they’re not your typical garden variety. These are a mix I’ve personally curated—some infused with a special blend of plant food and nutrients, kind of like that green goop they spray on roadsides to grow grass in impossible places. I swear 

I’ve seen that stuff sprout grass on cement. And for me? An emergency plant I can grow and manipulate anywhere is basically a hand grenade in the field.

I slip the packets into the compartments on my belt, the seeds rattling softly inside. They’re my secret weapons, ready to sprout and obey my commands when needed. With just a little energy, they can turn into vines strong enough to trap a small army or grow into a thick wall of vegetation in seconds.

Then, I make sure I have a few bottles stashed in my belt. Each one contains something I brewed up in the lab for field use—different chemicals for combat or first aid. A paralytic mixture for incapacitating foes, a fast-acting coagulant for wounds, and even a regenerating salve made from rare medicinal plants. It’s all part of the kit I designed for when things go sideways.

Now it’s time for the Black Flower of Québec City to hit the streets. I grab my keys and head toward my… super vehicle!

Okay, so it’s not that super. In fact, I really need to upgrade, but for now, I’m working with what I’ve got—my dad’s old farm truck. It’s all I have at the moment, and there’s a bit of sentimentality tied to it. So, please excuse me while this old steel beast from the late '60s rattles and coughs like it’s on its last legs. But once it gets going, it's got the kind of power and weight from an age when trucks were made of steel. If I hit a modern car with this thing, I’d smash through it like a hammer hitting an eggshell.

I slide into the driver’s seat, the worn leather creaking beneath me. I crank the ignition, and the engine groans before finally roaring to life with a deep, throaty sound. It’s more of a growl than a purr, like a beast waking from hibernation. The whole thing shudders, almost like it’s protesting the journey ahead.

The truck’s seen better days, no doubt about that—scratched paint, rust creeping along the fenders—but it’s got character. And for better or worse, it gets me where I need to go. Maybe one day I’ll be cruising around in something sleek and cutting-edge, but for now, this old farm truck will do. With a sigh and a bit of fondness, I throw it into gear and hit the road, its weight rumbling under me as we head out into the city.

It’s only a few blocks away from the university, so even if this old bear of a truck isn’t the fastest, I make good time. Also, I’m very aware of the irony—a girl with plant powers driving around in an old half-ton farm truck. So no need to tell me about that, okay?

I turn a corner, barely paying attention to the familiar streets, when suddenly I slam on the brakes.

A wall of fire bursts out of nowhere, filling the street ahead with flames that flicker and snap like a living thing. I grip the steering wheel tight, my heart jumping as I take in the sudden heat.

"Yeah, no thanks," I mutter. "I don’t fancy becoming the main course at a BBQ—especially not with a side of veggies."

I swear—like any good French girl, I can curse beautifully and bilingually. Trilingually, if you count the bit of Irish I’ve picked up. Honestly, I like to think hearing me swear is a real treat.

The truck comes to a rolling stop, and the front end touches the fire. I scream, my heart leaping into my throat. For a split second, I’m certain the truck’s going to go up in flames, and me with it.

But then... nothing.

No heat. Not even the slightest warmth.

"Wait… what?" I mutter, blinking and gripping the steering wheel tighter. I lean forward cautiously, squinting at the wall of flames licking up toward the sky. That’s when I realize something’s off—the fire’s not moving right. It’s too smooth, too perfect.

I step out of the truck, my boots hitting the asphalt as I approach the wall of flames. A part of me is screaming not to get too close, but instinct and curiosity overrule the fear.

Carefully, I reach out my hand toward the fire.

Nothing.

My hand passes right through the flames like they’re not even there.

"A hologram?" I say aloud, realization dawning on me. I glance around the street, suddenly more alert. Someone’s playing tricks. "Not bad, but definitely not enough to keep me out."

I step through the wall of fire like I’m walking through a curtain, the illusion fizzling around me. The street on the other side is deserted, eerily quiet. Whoever set this up is nearby—no way they’d just leave a hologram like this without keeping tabs on it.

"A hologram?" I say aloud, realization dawning on me. I glance around the street, suddenly more alert. Someone’s playing tricks. "Not bad, but definitely not enough to keep me out."

I step through the wall of fire like I’m walking through a curtain, the illusion fizzling away as soon as I pass. The street on the other side is eerily quiet—too quiet. Not a soul in sight. Whoever set this up is nearby, no doubt about that. No one leaves a hologram like this unattended. Someone’s keeping tabs.

No, this isn't just a scare tactic. Someone wants to keep people out—police, civilians, anyone who might get curious. They don’t want to be seen.

"Well, tough luck," I murmur, scanning my surroundings. "Agent Wilkes said to scout… looks like I’m going to have to do just that."

I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing the seeds I always carry. My senses sharpen, feeling the pulse of the nearby plants—vines crawling up the side of a building, small patches of grass peeking through cracks in the pavement. Whoever set this up might be hidden, but I’ve got the upper hand.

Time to find out what’s really going on here.

Ugh, pavement. My feet hit the hard surface, and instantly, I feel that familiar discomfort. I don’t like how it feels—floors of any kind, really. If life was perfect, I’d be barefoot, toes sinking into the natural soil or a soft carpet of grass and plants. In moments like that, it’s like I get a sixth sense, a deep connection to everything around me, the pulse of life flowing through the ground. I can feel the roots, the leaves, the life in everything nearby.

But on concrete? It makes me feel half-blind. Like I’m cut off from that connection. This cold, dead surface beneath me is a reminder of how much I rely on the earth beneath my feet to guide me. Here, I don’t get the full picture, just faint echoes from the nearest patch of grass or plant life.

"Great," I mutter under my breath. "Time to play this one the hard way."

The whole place looks like something out of a disaster movie—thick clouds of smoke billow up from several points around the street, glowing orange and red with what looks like raging fires. Buildings appear charred, blackened with soot, and shattered glass litters the ground as though explosions have ripped through the area.

A few cars lie overturned, their frames crumpled and windows smashed in, while others burn with flickering flames that don’t seem to spread. Some fire hydrants are spewing water into the air, but the puddles of water on the ground seem strangely static, like they’re not flowing naturally. It’s almost too dramatic, too perfectly chaotic—like someone had created this scene with meticulous attention to detail.

I can hear distant sirens, probably fire trucks racing to the scene, where they’ll waste precious time trying to hose down fires that don’t burn and smoke that doesn’t choke. The crumbling walls of nearby buildings seem ready to collapse, but there’s no real debris—no heat, no sense of urgency from the crumbling structures themselves. The entire area feels like a bad dream, a landscape designed to provoke fear and panic but lacking the tangible weight of real destruction.

Despite the flickering flames and the dark smoke, I don’t feel the oppressive heat or smell burning wood or rubber—just the faint scent of something synthetic. The damage is all smoke and mirrors, a cleverly staged illusion to send people running, to trigger the emergency response teams, but none of it is real.

"Theatrics," I mutter under my breath. Someone’s using advanced tech and some serious smoke-and-mirrors special effects to put on a real show. But why?

`Then it hits me. I’m near the Banque Nationale du Canada. If there’s a target worth hitting here, that’s it. The illusions were meant to draw attention away from the real crime.

I start heading in that direction, moving quickly through the staged chaos, when I spot something that’s not an illusion—a very real danger among the Hollywood magic. Four armed guys in full tactical gear, wearing body armor and balaclavas, march through the scene like they own the place.

And just my luck, it’s not just any random group of criminals. No, these guys belong to the same terrorist group my dad once worked for—the Front de la Souveraineté Absolue (FSA).

The FSA. Radical French Canadian separatists, extremists hell-bent on breaking Québec away from the rest of Canada by any means necessary. They don’t care about diplomacy or peaceful protests—they want independence through violence. And they’re not above terrorism to make their point. Armed heists, bombings, high-profile kidnappings—they’ve done it all. My father, Le Colosse Végétal, was one of their star players before he got locked away.

These guys are the new blood. Dressed in tactical black, they look like soldiers of a war no one else knows is happening. Their balaclavas hide their faces, but their body language screams confidence, each one moving with precision. They’re not amateurs. Each one carries an assault rifle strapped across their chest and moves with the kind of military discipline that tells me they’ve been trained for this. They’re not here for the spectacle—they’re here for a job.

And I’ve got a pretty good idea what it is.

I don’t like the look of those AK-47s—or maybe they’re something else? I’m not exactly a gun bunny, so I don’t know guns by sight. In any case, I can regenerate, but it’s not super fast, so I'd rather avoid getting shot, thank you very much.

I duck out of sight behind a totaled car, keeping my eyes on the group. They haven’t seen me yet, but I can’t let my guard down. Odds are, these guys are packing more than just guns—probably grenades or something worse. They’re hardcases through and through, the kind of extremists who see themselves as some noble army of French liberation, freeing Québec from the so-called evils of English-speaking authority.

But in reality, all they’re doing is getting innocent civilians caught in the crossfire of their twisted ideology. People die because of their fanaticism, and I’m not about to let that happen tonight.

I take a slow, steady breath. I’ve got to figure out my next move before they notice me—or worse, start shooting.

I consider my options. Should I toss down some seeds and entangle them? Hope I can bind them fast enough to mess up their ability to go for their guns and grenades? Eh, too chancy. Might not work, and if they don’t get bound up quick enough or tight enough, I’m looking at a whole lot of full-auto fire or a frag grenade coming my way. No thank you, sir!

Looks like I’m gonna need to blitz them from an ambush, hit them hard and fast. Get up close, get mixed up in melee where, hopefully, they won’t be dumb enough to shoot or pull explosives. That’s the best bet.

I take a deep breath and focus. There’s a ripple of power inside me, like a pulse from the earth itself, as my body begins to shift. I don’t always use my altered plant structure. It’s powerful, sure, but it’s not comfortable for everyday use. Plus, it comes with a few weaknesses. But now? Now I need that extra strength.

I feel my skin toughen, almost like it’s becoming bark, and my eyes shift, glowing with this strange green hue. I can feel the energy humming through me as I become more… plant-like. Not quite human, not quite something else either. The world looks a little different through these eyes—clearer in some ways, like I’m more connected to the life around me.

I flex my fingers, which feel a little less human and a little more wooden, and get ready to make my move. It’s not my favorite form, but right now, it’s exactly what I need.

This is a start, but I need to be stronger. Tougher. I’m nothing like my dad when it comes to this. He could turn himself into a towering monster of a tree man. No idea if he had an upper limit to his growth powers. When I was a kid, I remember him just casually growing big to pluck a lost frisbee off the roof or getting huge and making barn repairs look like he was fixing a doghouse.

Me? I can get a little bigger, a little denser, and stronger. Not like Dad, but it’s enough to get the job done. And right now, I’m going to need that extra strength.

I also need armor, and that’s where another gift from Dad comes in. I focus my power inward, feeling it ripple through my body. My skin begins to harden, and thick wooden plates start to form, spreading across my arms, torso, and legs. They’re made of something like Ironwood, one of the densest trees on Earth, the kind that can blunt steel axes and stall chainsaws. It’s like growing organic power armor, each plate heavy and durable, meant to take hits most people wouldn’t survive.

As the armor forms, it locks into place around me, turning me into something almost unrecognizable from my usual self. The weight is there—it’s like wearing a solid layer of reinforced wood—but it’s a price I’m willing to pay. I won’t be as agile, but right now, I need to be tough enough to withstand bullets and blunt force.

I glance down at my hands, now covered in dense bark-like plates, and flex my fingers. Ready.

So I rush them! I know I’m going to eat some bullet fire, but when I’m armored up and rocking my enhanced density and strength from my growth power, bullets don’t bother me much. When I’m like this—more plant-like—I can take way more punishment. My regeneration amps up, and I’m immune to most things that affect animals but not plants, like drugs or poisons. It’s one of the perks of my weird biology.

As soon as they see a seven foot four-foot-tall tree monster barreling toward them, they pull the triggers. The sound of automatic fire fills the air, and I place my trust in my wooden armor—three inches of the strongest wood and bark on Earth, enhanced by my density growth. The assault rifle rounds slam into me, but instead of ripping through, they lodge into the armor, splintering on impact. The bark shatters in small chips but doesn’t give way. It’s like firing into solid ironwood, and every shot bounces or buries itself without going deep enough to do any damage.

I’m really glad I don’t bleed in this form. My internal organs? More of a suggestion than a hard fact when it comes to weak points. They’re not going to find an easy way to take me down.

I don’t need to run to close the distance. Five meters is all I need. I snap my hand out, and a vine whips forward, extending like a lashing whip, covered in small barbs. These barbs are dripping with a nasty plant-based toxin, something I whipped up specifically for situations like this. It’s derived from aconitine, a chemical from the wolfsbane plant, a paralytic that shuts down the muscles but leaves the target fully conscious.

"Those phytochemistry and natural product toxicology courses I took are already paying off!" I think with a smirk as the vine wraps around the first guy’s neck.

Before he can react, I feel the toxin sinking in. His body stiffens, the assault rifle dropping from his hands as he crumples to the ground, paralyzed.

My other hand snaps out, a second vine lashing out with precision. This one is longer, thinner, the thorns growing as they move, seeking the weak points in his armor—the seams where plates meet fabric. Once they find their mark, I release the toxin again, and his movements slow. He tries to raise his weapon, but it’s too late. The poison takes hold, and he collapses, the fight leaving his body.

I guess I should have gotten closer. Using my reach was great for the first two, but it left the other two too much room to fire. Rookie move. Forgot half my own plan of attack.

The last two guys hesitate, though. I think it’s finally dawning on them that whatever caliber rounds they’re packing in those rifles don’t bother me too much. One of them starts stumbling back, cursing in French—not as elegantly as I can, mind you. And yep, there it is, a frag grenade. Looks old school, too. Maybe some Vietnam-era surplus they grabbed off the black market.

I sigh internally. Dumb, Élise. Real dumb. Trèssss stupid. I scold myself as I plant my feet and root them literally into the cement. With a flicker of concentration, I throw up my arms to block my face, trying to grow layers of armor over my body—denser, thicker. I’m basically turning myself into a living shield at this point, but it’s killed any movement I’ve got.

Then... KA-BOOM!

The grenade goes off, and the world becomes a roar of sound and pressure. The explosion slams into me like a freight train, a fiery burst of force and fragmentation. My armor holds—barely. The wooden plates absorb the brunt of the blast, splintering under the impact. I feel the fragments peppering me, biting deep into the bark and wood covering my body, but not quite breaking through to flesh.

Shrapnel ricochets off my arms and chest, splintering and bouncing off the ironwood plates I’ve grown. But the blast leaves me rattled, my ears ringing with an intense, painful hum. I stumble, my balance thrown off, and for a second, I can’t hear anything but the distant echo of the explosion in my head.

"TABARNAK!" I scream, swearing loud and full of frustration as the force of the grenade rocks me to my core. Deafened and rattled, I grit my teeth and plant my feet harder into the ground. The armor held, but that was way too close.

I can’t hear them. Hell, I can’t hear much of anything. I hope my regeneration kicks in soon and clears that up. I drop what’s left of my wooden shield—it’s pretty much useless now, just splintered debris and charcoal. My armor’s not much better, borderline wood chips after it ate the bulk of that grenade.

On the upside, I can move again. And I’m going to need to move fast.

Being unable to hear? Yeah, that really messes with your reaction time. Add in a bunch of smoke, and next thing I know, I get broadsided by a volley of assault rifle fire. I cursed again, "Câlice de crisse!" The rounds tear into my torso, a line of bullets that sting like hell but go through and through.

I feel my body already starting to seal the wounds, my regeneration kicking in. But that smarted, and they tore my costume. "Fuck! Câlisse de tabarnak!" I snarl, the French and English blending together in a bilingual string of curses. Son of a bitch, that hurt!

I snap both hands out, forming multiple vine whips in an instant, each one thorny and dripping with the kind of poison Mother Nature uses when she wants someone to learn a lesson. Nothing lethal, but believe me, I’m mad now, so you better believe it’s going to hurt like hell.

The vines lash out like a flurry of strikes, each tendril seeking them out with precision. Thorns dig into exposed skin or slip through the gaps in their armor, and the poison sinks in—paralyzing and burning all at once. They’ll feel it. Oh, they’ll feel every second of it.

The plant toxin I’m using here is a nasty cocktail, and not one I’d resort to if I wasn’t so pissed off. It’s derived from stinging nettle, enhanced with elements from poison ivy and giant hogweed, combined into a potent neurotoxin designed to cause excruciating pain without permanent damage or lethal effects. The concoction I’ve crafted attacks the nervous system, amplifying pain receptors without the risk of fatality.

As the thorny vines strike and the toxin seeps into their system, it immediately triggers an intense burning sensation where the thorns puncture the skin, followed by waves of sharp, stinging pain. The affected areas feel as if they’re on fire, with the nerves lighting up like a million needles pressing into their flesh. The toxin spreads quickly, causing their muscles to seize and spasm, locking up their limbs and forcing them to the ground in agony.

It’s not enough to paralyze them completely, but it incapacitates through pain alone, overwhelming their senses. It also causes severe itching and swelling, similar to the effects of giant hogweed, but without the risk of permanent tissue damage. The burning pain lasts for several minutes, leaving them unable to focus on anything but the unrelenting fire in their nerves.

The beauty of this toxin? It leaves no lasting harm once it wears off. But while it’s active, it’s the kind of pain that makes you wish you were dead—a painful reminder not to cross the Black Flower of Québec City.

I take a moment to disarm them, separating them from their weapons and ammo just in case. Ugh, I don’t like guns, bombs, or any of that nasty noise—especially with the chance of an incendiary mishap. And given that I’m more plant than person right now, you can understand why.

I glance down at the tangled mess of men groaning in pain at my feet. These guys aren’t the brains behind the holograms or the fake disaster going down. My bet? Their boss is already inside the bank, cracking the safe while his pawns keep me busy.

Time to move.

As I start to make my way toward the bank, my body’s working on regenerating the damage, but it’s sluggish. This would be faster if I had some water, soil, and sun. But hey, I’ve got a workaround for that.

I rip open one of my seed packets, the ones packed with weapon-grade fertilizer, and down it like a smoothie. Ugh. Why do I still have to have taste buds in this form? It’s like a wheatgrass smoothie mixed with a green nightmare.

But it does the trick. I can already feel my regeneration kicking into overdrive, patching me up faster than normal.

Glad I thought of that, I think with a grimace, even if it tasted like I’d just swallowed a field of rotten kale.

I round the corner and spot the bank's doors wide open, the perfect invitation for a quick getaway. Sure enough, a getaway car is idling right outside, its engine humming softly. The driver's door is open, and another one of those paramilitary wannabes is sitting behind the wheel, nervously glancing around.

I’m still rocking my growth power and enhanced density, which means right now I look like a seven-foot-four-tall dryad. Yeah, I know. I made one sexy plant Amazon.

With no time to lose, I break into a run, and as I near the car, I jump, throwing my full weight down onto the hood. Let me tell you, at a solid amount, just shy of five hundred pounds of living plant matter, I’m anything but dainty, I'd weigh even more if I had my armor up, such a delicate flower huh?

The impact is explosive. The hood crumples under me with a loud metallic crunch, the car’s front end sinking under the sudden weight. The frame buckles, the suspension giving out with a shriek of protesting metal. The engine lets out a sharp clatter before sputtering, and the car’s tires burst under the strain, the rubber splitting with a hiss as the weight smashes the front end almost flat to the ground.

The driver’s face goes from surprise to sheer terror in the blink of an eye. His hands fly up, trying to shield his face as if that’s going to save him. He lets out a string of curses, something panicked and unintelligible, scrambling to unbuckle himself and get the hell out of the car.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est?!" he yells, eyes wide with shock as he fumbles at the door handle, practically tripping over himself to get out.

I can’t help but smirk as I press the advantage. Yeah, that’s right, buddy. You’re not going anywhere.

I snap out one of my vine whips, and it coils around his ankle just as he tries to run. Like something out of a horror movie, he stumbles and falls, kicking and screaming as I start dragging him toward me. His eyes go wide with panic as he fumbles for his pistol, yanking it from its holster with trembling hands.

But it’s not going to help him.

The thorns on the vine have already dug into his flesh, and I can see the effect kicking in. His movements are getting sluggish, the poison working its way into his system, making his body heavy. He pulls the trigger once—wildly—but the shot goes wide. By the time he manages to aim again, his arm is trembling too much to get a clear shot.

His breathing turns ragged, and his hands go limp, the gun slipping from his grip. The poison is doing its job, and soon enough, he’s going to be in la-la land, drifting off into a nice little nap of pain and paralysis.

"Good night," I mutter, smirking as I reel him in closer. "You won’t be needing that gun where you’re going."

I move toward the bank, and my stomach turns—or, well, it would if I had a proper stomach in this form. My metaphorical stomach turns.

The sight of the guards hits me hard. Poor bastards were just doing their jobs, and these psychos decided to put two rounds in their heads rather than just tie them up. Like I said, these guys—the Front de la Souveraineté Absolue—they’re not right in the head. And that makes me feel real bad about my dad for a moment.

Did he ever do something like this? Did he kill people, people he didn’t need to? I mean, he was jailed for grand larceny, treason, manslaughter, among other things. But no murder charges. Maybe, just maybe, Dad wasn’t like them. He loved me and Mom, even if his choices were stupid ones.

I shake off the thought as I glance back at the guards. Now I wish I’d hit those goons outside with something more painful.

"Murderous bâtards!" I mutter under my breath, the French slipping out naturally.

What really bothers me is they didn’t need to do this. If they had the tech to rig up those illusions and pull off this heist, murder wasn’t even necessary. It’s like they took these poor guys’ lives for fun, like they enjoyed it. And that?

That really, really bothers me.

I move toward the safe, passing a few potted plants along the way—those tough, hardy green ones that can survive anything and thrive indoors, no matter how much noise or foot traffic. They might come in handy, I note.

And I’ll probably need them soon.

Just then, three guys come out, each hauling bags stuffed with whatever they’ve looted from the safe and safety deposit boxes. Two of them look like your standard goons—body armor, black balaclavas, nothing special. But the third guy?

Yeah, he’s a problem.

He’s dressed like a villain, all right—Le Fantôme Prestidigitateur. I should’ve expected it. His outfit is a weird mix of modern armor and stage magician flair. The kind of armor that looks like it could take a hit but still manages to look flashy, with sleek black-and-silver plating across his chest and arms. Bandoliers crisscross his torso, stuffed with all kinds of pouches and gadgets, ready to pull off his next trick. His black cape has this theatrical flow to it, and even his mask—a black half-mask covering the top of his face—screams "showman." His top hat is a nod to the old-school magician vibe, but it’s practical too—lined with hidden compartments and devices, no doubt. The whole look is functional for combat but with enough flair to remind you he’s still in showbiz, even while committing felonies.

I’ve seen this guy in the North Force bingo books and on the news. They say he’s an illusionist, a master of special effects who can make you see things that aren’t there. That explains what’s been going on outside. The whole fake disaster is just a distraction, a way to keep people’s attention elsewhere.

What’s interesting about him, though, is that he doesn’t strike me as the hardline terrorist type. No, Le Fantôme isn’t in this for ideology. From everything I’ve heard, his loyalty isn’t about the fight for a free Québec--whatever that is supposed to mean-- It’s about money. He’s a hired gun, someone who sells his illusions to the highest bidder.

"Bonjour, madame," he offers with a tip of his hat, and I can’t help but think he’d be rather charismatic under different circumstances. But charm or not, he’s still a crook.

He drops the loot, and his two goons follow suit, immediately pulling out automatic pistols. Not exactly a surprise—I was ready for this. Remember those potted plants? They grow and snap out, vines and leaves whipping the pistols right out of their hands, even giving them a few solid slaps for good measure. Classic.

I shrink down from my towering form so I can maneuver better. Still keeping the density increase—I’m going to need that punch—but there’s no point in staying eight-and-a-half feet tall and awkward when things are about to get tight.

I dash forward, aiming to knock out the two guys who are now in a losing slap fight with the indoor plants. But our supervillain of the day, Le Fantôme Prestidigitateur, isn’t going to make it easy. He tips his hat toward me, and suddenly, I’m hit with this strange sound and spinning lights. It’s subtle at first, but then it slams into me like a wave.

Vertigo.

Well, kinda. I’m still mostly plant right now, but whatever he’s doing, it’s messing with my sense of balance, making the world tilt and spin like I’ve downed half my weight in Crown Royal. The walls stretch and warp, the ground feels like it’s sliding out from under me, and I can’t focus. I try to center myself, but everything’s swirling like a bad carnival ride.

He’s good. I’ll give him that. But he’s going to learn pretty quick that illusions don’t stop me. Not for long.

I need to think fast. I have to stop the guys with the guns before they start shooting, but I can't do that while the world’s spinning like a bad funhouse ride. Plants. What kind of plants have sensory fibers I could use? Something that lets me feel the world around me without relying on sight or sound.

I can grow thorns, leaves, and flowers when I focus hard enough, so maybe—just maybe—I can make this work.

I close my eyes and plug my ears to block out the disorienting lights and sounds coming from Le Fantôme’s hat, shutting off my normal senses. Now I have to tap into something else.

I focus, drawing on the knowledge of my botany courses. Mimosa pudica—the sensitive plant—has specialized cells that respond to touch, letting it react to the environment. Venus flytraps and other carnivorous plants use trigger hairs to sense prey. Even sunflowers have heliotropic fibers that guide them to follow the sun, sensing changes in light and temperature. These are plants that feel, that respond to the world through touch and vibration.

I focus inward, willing my body to mimic these traits. The vines and tendrils I can grow normally are good for combat, but I need something finer, more delicate. I concentrate, feeling my skin shift as I sprout a layer of sensitive fibers. Along my arms, thin tendrils and fine hairs emerge, like the sensory triggers of a Venus flytrap, ready to sense the slightest movement in the air around me.

I extend my fingers, letting the fibers grow and reach out like living antennae, brushing against the ground, the air, and the surfaces around me. It’s a strange feeling—almost like developing a new sense—but it works. I can feel the vibrations from their footsteps, the tension in the air as they shift their weight and prepare to fire. I can feel where they are without needing to see them.

The disorienting vertigo may still be swirling in my head, but now I can navigate without relying on sight or sound.

Thorns sprout along the tendrils, ready to lash out, and I feel my senses sharpen, honing in on the positions of the goons, the vibrations of their guns, and every move they make.

I need to think fast. I have to stop the guys with the guns before they start shooting, but I can't do that while the world’s spinning like a bad funhouse ride. Plants. What kind of plants have sensory fibers I could use? Something that lets me feel the world around me without relying on sight or sound.

I can grow thorns, leaves, and flowers when I focus hard enough, so maybe—just maybe—I can make this work.

I close my eyes and plug my ears to block out the disorienting lights and sounds coming from Le Fantôme’s hat, shutting off my normal senses. Now I have to tap into something else.

I focus, drawing on the knowledge of my botany courses. Mimosa pudica—the sensitive plant—has specialized cells that respond to touch, letting it react to the environment. Venus flytraps and other carnivorous plants use trigger hairs to sense prey. Even sunflowers have heliotropic fibers that guide them to follow the sun, sensing changes in light and temperature. These are plants that feel, that respond to the world through touch and vibration.

I focus inward, willing my body to mimic these traits. The vines and tendrils I can grow normally are good for combat, but I need something finer, more delicate. I concentrate, feeling my skin shift as I sprout a layer of sensitive fibers. Along my arms, thin tendrils and fine hairs emerge, like the sensory triggers of a Venus flytrap, ready to sense the slightest movement in the air around me.

I extend my fingers, letting the fibers grow and reach out like living antennae, brushing against the ground, the air, and the surfaces around me. It’s a strange feeling—almost like developing a new sense—but it works. I can feel the vibrations from their footsteps, the tension in the air as they shift their weight and prepare to fire. I can feel where they are without needing to see them.

The disorienting vertigo may still be swirling in my head, but now I can navigate without relying on sight or sound.

Thorns sprout along the tendrils, ready to lash out, and I feel my senses sharpen, honing in on the positions of the goons, the vibrations of their guns, and every move they make.

You know, I never really thought about how scary fighting me must look for these bad guys—especially when I do things like I’m about to. I mean, I can be seven foot four feet of living plant armor, vines growing from me like something out of a horror movie. Must be a real nightmare for them. However  even when I'm just five nine I'm one scary dryad looking girl

With my new sensory fibers, I can pinpoint the two thugs still wrestling with the potted plants. I don’t have time to whip up anything fancy like poison while using these fibers, but that’s okay. I’ll have to smack them around the hard way.

I send out tendrils from my arms, the vines snapping around their ankles. With a quick yank, I pull them off balance, and they hit the floor hard. But I’m not done. I use the vines to whip them up—first to the ceiling, then to the walls, back and forth, up and down, like ragdolls caught in a windstorm. They crash into the concrete with loud thuds, bouncing between walls and floors like they don’t weigh a thing.

Their weapons drop to the ground as I toss them around, and after a few more slams, I can feel the fight leaving them. No more struggling. No more reaching for their guns.

By the time I’m done, there’s nothing left of their bravado—just two crumpled, dazed thugs lying in a heap.

While I’m beating the two thugs into submission, the star of the show isn’t sitting idle. He’s clever—I’ll give him that. Le Fantôme Prestidigitateur places his top hat back on, a grin spreading across his face. I guess he figured out I wasn’t falling for the vertigo trick anymore.

He laughs, clearly enjoying this chaos like it’s just another performance. His voice is smooth, tinged with that roguish French charm.

"Ah, magnifique! You are much more entertaining than I expected!" he says with a bow, as if he’s addressing an audience.

I open my eyes as the vertigo fades and spot him stepping back, moving with the confidence of someone who’s ten steps ahead. Then, with a snap of his fingers, a half-dozen massive guys, armed to the teeth, come pouring out of the vault.

"Merde!" I curse, ready to take them on. But something feels off. I stop, concentrating on my tremor senses—and nothing. They don’t have weight. They aren’t triggering my connection to the ground.

I smirk. Holograms. Just another trick.

"Ah, you noticed!" Le Fantôme chuckles. "These holograph emitters... they don’t work on you, I see. Just as well. They detract from my real talent anyway!" He tips his hat again, clearly loving every second of this.

No more games. I charged him, my fist aimed squarely at his chest. But this guy is fast. He sidesteps with a flourish, like a dancer in the middle of a show.

"Ah, ah, ah!" he tuts, grinning. "You’ll have to be faster than that, mademoiselle."

I swing again, but he’s already pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket. With a dramatic flick of his wrist, the handkerchief unfolds, and suddenly, ropes shoot out, trying to bind my arms. He moves with the practiced grace of a master escape artist, a man who knows exactly how to control every motion.

"You see," he says, dodging my attacks as if this is just another trick on stage, "guns," he gestures to the Desert Eagles on his hips, "they’re so... lacking in artistry. Where’s the showmanship? The elegance?" He laughs, dodging a kick with a backflip, the ropes still writhing around my arms as I struggle to burst them.

"But ropes, handcuffs, knives? Now that’s a performance!" He pulls a throwing knife from his bandolier and hurls it with expert precision, the blade spinning toward me. I twist, growing a small section of wooden armor deflecting it, but I can’t deny the skill behind the throw. He moves like a man born for the stage.

"Vous voyez, ma chère," he continues, blocking a vine whip with a quick flick of his cape, "I don’t kill unless it’s absolutely necessary. After all, what kind of show ends with the audience dead?" He grins, clearly enjoying the banter as much as the fight. "But incapacitating them? Now, that’s where the real fun begins."

I burst the ropes around my arms and go for another punch, but this time he’s already drawn a length of chain from beneath his cape, twirling it like a lasso. He wraps it around my arm and yanks—trying to unbalance me. But my density growth holds firm. He wasn’t expecting that. I feel the shift in his stance, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, though he recovers quickly.

"Ah, impressive!" he exclaims, taking a step back and tipping his hat. "But this is far from over, chérie. You may be strong, but strength is nothing without finesse."

I tighten my grip on the vine whips, ready to end this flashy display, but Le Fantôme moves with the confidence of someone who’s always got another trick up his sleeve—and I’m betting he does. This guy isn’t just about illusions. He’s a tactician, always keeping one step ahead, always thinking of the next dramatic twist.

The next move is mine. Time to show him that finesse isn’t the only thing that makes a great performance.

Just as I’m about to take him down, Le Fantôme Prestidigitateur lets out a theatrical sigh, his voice full of flair.

"Ah, I hate to leave all this money behind," he exclaims with a dramatic flourish, his hands sweeping toward the bags of loot scattered around him. "But alas, even a show as great as this must come to an end!"

Before I can react, he pulls something from one of his many pouches and tosses it toward the ground—a small device, glittering with silver plating. It’s not just a simple flashbang or smoke grenade. The moment it goes off, my world explodes into a sensory overload. Bright lights, thick smoke, an ear-piercing sound—all of it hits me at once. Even my sensory fibers can’t handle it, everything going haywire. My connection to the world around me shorts out, leaving me blind, deaf, and unbalanced.

By the time I manage to steady myself, my vision clears, and my senses reboot—he’s gone. No trace of him, not even a lingering illusion.

But I look around. The bags of money? Still there. He didn’t get away with anything, at least not anything that would fund the terrorist group. That’s a win, right?

I grab my comm device, swallowing hard as I call North Force. The line connects, and I hear Agent Wilkes on the other end, his voice cool and collected.

"Quinn? Report."

I wince a little. "Uh, yeah. So, I, uh, managed to stop the theft and captured like, seven guys. Le Fantôme Prestidigitateur was here too, but... he kinda got away." I cringe, trying not to sound like it’s all my fault for rushing in. "But hey, at least they didn’t get any of the money, right?"

There’s a long pause on the other end, and I can practically feel the disappointment through the line.

"You were supposed to scout, not engage," Wilkes says, his voice dry and laced with sarcasm. "But yes, seven arrests. Impressive. We’ll discuss this later."

I hang up and let out a long sigh, running a hand through my hair. Great. Wilkes is mad. I glance around at the aftermath of the fight. Seven guys in cuffs, bags of cash still here, but the guards—I close my eyes for a moment, remembering the ones who didn’t make it. The weight of it sits heavy in my chest.

My name’s Élise Quinn, I think to myself, leaning back against the ruined getaway car. I did some good tonight. Stopped some bad guys. Sadly, they ended the lives of several guards. My boss is really mad at me. I’m dead tired, and right now, coffee with a triple shot of espresso would be real nice. I think I’m heading home after I give a statement to the RCMP... right after I hit a café for that liquid energy.

I smirk a little, thinking of something that’ll help lift my mood. Also, I’m really looking forward to that date with... what was his name again? Oh, yeah. Reyes.

And with that, I push myself off the car and head toward the RCMP to give my statement.