A/N: HEY, it's the first chapter! hopefully this story does well, because i've been working hard on it for QUITE some time now. no pressure. but! if you like it, or you're even vaguely interested, please review, comment, share, follow, etc. it would mean a lot to me :)
(also, each chapter does begin with a flashback of some sort, so y'all can piece together the mystery.)
oOo
The first thing that comes to her mind is—
But no. That can't be it. Can it?
She pulls a corner of the fabric out of the closet, slowly, almost too scared to see the whole thing. The cloth is soft, but worn, the material of pajamas, or a thin sweatsuit. The colors and style are scarily similar to—
No, that can't be—
It's indeed a red and gray sweatpants ensemble, complete with a faded spider emblem adorning the front of the jacket, along with a few rips and some alarming scorch marks. The rips are old, dirty and fraying at the edges, and small enough to be caused by handheld weapons—knives, sharp metal . . .
She looks at the bottom of the closet and sees two red boot-like shoes that are so obviously hand-crafted that there's no mistaking what they are.
She's seen them before. She's seen all of it before. In photos. On American news websites. Headlines flash through her head—
NEW YORK'S NEWEST NUISANCE!
WALL-CRAWLER STOPS ROBBERY!
MASKED MENACE OR HOMETOWN HERO?
Her heart spikes and nearly flies out of her throat—
And everything comes crashing together in a rush of memories, feelings, words—
Flashes of a familiar smile, fragments of laughter, broken phrases and syllables that sound alike, comparisons blend together—
All at once, she knows.
It's him.
And she should've known before. She DID know before. She should've listened to her instincts, why does she never listen to her instincts?! And now—
"Oh god," she breathes, hands shaking as she drops the clothes to the floor. Her body feels numb, cold, lifeless. Breathing is a lost cause, the only thing she can do is force in air and feel it disappear inside her. The world is spinning and tilting and crumbling and disappearing—
The room around her turns blurry until all she can see is his smile in her mind's eye—
What has she done? What has she done?
Finally the spinning wins and Taylor wobbles, falling to the floor with her hands out, blindly grasping for balance.
Her eyes meet the battered costume lying in a heap next to her. Two cylindrical devices have rolled out of the jacket pockets. Web shooters, no doubt. Also hand-crafted, the unmistakable precision of each component reminding her of how smart he really is. God, why does it have to be him—
No. She can fix this. She can make it right.
And she has about a half hour to do it, or Peter will pay for her devastating mistakes.
And she'll never forgive herself.
Fifteen years earlier
June 1, 2001
4:28 PM
"We can't," the man says. He stands solemnly next to the hospital bed, holding the hand of his five year old son, who's watching the scene with curious young eyes. Eyes that, someday, will barely remember any of this.
The man's wife, a woman with beautiful long brown hair that coils up at the bottom, clutches the newborn baby girl to her chest.
"She's my daughter."
"She's my daughter, too. But you need to understand—it's too dangerous."
"What are we supposed to do? We can't—we can't just—"
"I know, I know." He sits on the edge of the bed, reaching one hand out to touch the baby. Their baby. She's a tiny thing, with the softest dark hair. There isn't much there yet, but he can tell it'll be curly, just like her mother's. Their little girl is perfect.
Except for one fatal flaw.
In the center of each palm, the baby has shiny glints of something hard and colorful that take up the width of her tiny hand. Small shards of what look like jewels—but they're the kind of jewels that don't belong on a necklace. Don't belong anywhere except the infinite expanse of outer space, lost to time and deserving to be sucked into a black hole.
Definitely not fused into the hands of their newborn girl.
It had all happened so quickly—
They have made a very grave, devastating mistake. They've been roped into something terrible and—
And now their daughter will pay for it, for the rest of her life.
"We can manage," the man's wife persists, desperately, almost hysterically.
That could mean a lot of things. For one thing, they'd been so sure they were having a boy that the designated name was "Taylor", and now Taylor is a girl. And for another, Taylor's existence had been entirely and utterly unscripted. Unplanned.
Accidental.
But now Taylor—a girl—sits curled up in a pink blanket, crying fitfully and waving around little clenched fists. Inside those fists are objects of questionable capabilities. All their fault. All their fault.
Six days later, the man and his wife have come to a crossroads. A terrible decision lies in front of them, along with terrible fears. Already, someone has broken into their home and tried to steal their baby from them; somehow, the word must've gotten out that Taylor is different. Special. And she has something that other people—for some reason—want. The attempt was very nearly a success. But not quite. It is not an event they're willing to risk repeating.
Bitterly, the woman cradles her new daughter and says, "We can't just abandon her."
"We have to do something! You know we can't go on like this. How long do you think any of us will last against people like this? Do you want her to grow up in the constant fear of being kidnapped? Or worse? We can't do that to her."
The man's wife is crying now. "I won't leave her all alone." Their fault their fault their fault—
The man runs a hand through his tangled hair, pacing restlessly around the rug. His sharp gaze meets the door of his son's room.
"Maybe we don't have to," he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else.
"What are you—"
"Jake could go with her. To—what's her name again? Your sister-in-law."
"Carolina?!" She's near hysterical now. "Eric, that woman has enough on her hands. She doesn't need two kids running around her house every day. She's hardly even home!"
"Your brother is always there. Anna, please think about it. Our kids . . . they can't live like this."
"No, they can't! But what, do you want them to grow up without a mother? Without a father? That's worse than growing up in hiding, from what WE did—"
"We don't have a choice!"
Her husband never speaks to her like that. Anna freezes, wide brown eyes brimming with furious tears. To make things worse, he's right. They don't have a choice. Maternal instinct wants nothing more than to protect her kids. To take them somewhere far away and raise them the way they should be raised. To shelter them from this heartless, cruel world that's waiting to pounce on them and devour them.
But that wouldn't be fair. They deserve normal lives, with normal parents and normal friends and a normal school. If her children stay with her—she can't give them any of that anymore. It's too dangerous. Taylor's gift is something not even Anna understands, and that frightens her. Their lives will never be the same. Never happy again. Never complete again.
Her husband reaches out a tentative hand and rests it on her shoulder. Anna's only consolation is that he looks genuinely sorry. He's always been the rational one. Always thinking clearly and with purpose. Finding the best way to handle a situation.
This probably isn't the best way. But it's the path that makes her kids' lives better, which is all that matters.
If only her husband understood how much the guilt rockets through her body as Anna breathes, "Okay." Her heart breaks. Shatters into a million pieces. And the tears come faster, running down her cheeks and dropping onto the wool blanket around her daughter. Her husband lowers his head, afraid to let her see him cry. But she notices just the same.
It's storming that night. The night that they pack two small suitcases full of their children's things and buckle them into the car. Taylor is sleeping soundly in her baby car seat, one hand tight around a corner of her blanket. Jake sits next to her, short legs swinging lazily.
"Where are we going?" he asks.
Eric turns around in the driver's seat and simply says, "To Aunt Carol's house."
"Why?"
"You're going to stay there for a little while. With your sister."
Jake turns to look at the baby sleeping beside him. "Why?"
From the passenger's seat, Anna replies, "Don't worry, sweetheart. Take a nap. It's late."
The storm, coupled with normal traffic, makes the drive a hassle. Eric's hands are gripping the wheel with unnecessary force, but Anna doesn't notice. She's lost in mourning. Mourning the loss of her children. Maybe she'll never see them again. That thought hits her harder than ever, and she wishes more than anything that Eric would turn the car around. But he doesn't.
When they reach Manhattan, the parents hustle the kids inside and are greeted by Aaron, Anna's brother.
"We don't have time to explain," Eric hastily blurts out. He ushers Jake into the kitchen and starts unwinding his scarf. "Something's come up."
"Is everything okay? Do you need anything? Wha—"
Anna grabs her brother's arm. "We need you to keep them safe. We—we only want what's best for them. This is all because of us."
Completely puzzled, Aaron glances around at the scene playing out in his living room. "I don't understand. What's wrong?" He frowns at the tears in his sister's eyes. He'd already known about the birth of Taylor, and that there's now something weird about her hands, but that's the extent of it.
Eric steps in and gestures to the baby, still in her portable car seat. "Two days ago, someone tried to kidnap our daughter. She has—a gift we don't understand, and we can't keep her with us."
Anna nods through her tears. "Please just—make sure they're taken care of. We'll be back as soon as we can."
Both parents know that's a lie.
oOo
We could fight a war for peace
Give in to that easy living
Goodbye to my hopes and dreams
Stop flipping for my enemies
We could wait until the walls come down.
- "Feel It Still" by Portugal. the Man
oOo
London, England
October 11, 2014
11:59 PM
London, though an exceptionally large city, is faring well tonight. Relatively peaceful and quiet, mostly because the chilly afternoon thunderstorm has kept civilians inside, huddled near fireplaces and spending quality family time together. Some fallen leaves drift through the air, carried by the autumn breeze. A few stray vehicles zoom by on the road every now and then, nothing big, nothing too loud. In an alley, a cat purrs lazily on top of a garbage bin. Big Ben, perhaps the most infamous London landmark, gracefully silhouetted by the moon, chimes hollowly as the clock strikes midnight, and the street's lone occupant—a teenage girl—cranes her neck to gaze up at it.
She's clothed in black, from the borrowed beanie on her head to the battered shoes on her feet. An olive green messenger bag is slung over one shoulder. A skateboard (the fastest form of transportation available to her, since she can't drive) rests vertically against the brick building she's leaning on, and one of her feet taps impatiently, as if she's waiting for something to happen. Part of it is nerves, as it's late and she's an easy target out here illuminated on the street.
Well, maybe not an easy target, but a target all the same.
Something vibrates, and the girl hastily pulls her phone out of her back pocket. There's a new text message.
Zoe: alright, you should be fine now.
The girl bites her lip and quickly taps out a reply, still casting anxious glances around, just in case. A single civilian vehicle rolls by, tires whooshing across the still-wet pavement.
Taylor: where'd you put it?
Zoe: behind the last bin, like always. be careful, though. might be a few people out tonight.
Taylor: lol. i can handle it. no problem.
Zoe: u do scare me sometimes, taylor.
Taylor: thanks.
Zoe: good luck.
Taylor: yeah. thanks again. i owe you one.
Taylor tucks her phone back into the pocket of her dark jeans. Hastily surveying up and down the silent street, she expertly kicks the skateboard down and hops on.
Th downtown street is still quiet as Taylor rolls down towards the designated alleyway. Her kind-of-friend, Zoe, left something there that Taylor has been looking for. Nothing major, nothing strictly illegal, and nothing very interesting, but to Taylor, it's extremely important. Just a few items that could be crucial to a project she's working on.
The only downside is that there tends to be rough people out and about, especially at this time of night. If someone sees Taylor sneaking around in a back alley, they might get the wrong idea. And that goes for criminals and cops alike. And if something like that happens, she might do something she'll regret.
The anger, the slight tremor in her fingers, the tightness in her chest. She still feels it. She always does. But she's getting a little better at holding it in, blocking it out. Mostly. Unless someone crosses a line, which happens more often than it should. Then the anger comes bursting out uncontrollably, and Taylor doesn't always have the resolve to compose herself right away.
On the bright side, Taylor is used to this sort of thing. You know, sneaking around, blending in, and exercising self-defense, should the need arise. And besides, this particular outing isn't necessarily urgent, so she can have a little more fun with it if she wants. She can relax.
Her escapades into the city weren't always built on passive intentions, though. Sometimes she still has the sudden, overwhelming urge to revert back to the impulses of that anger. But not today. For once, she isnt in the mood to attack anyone—but she will if she has to.
Self-defense only. Nothing else.
Call it an occupational hazard.
A shame that she still has to remind herself to keep the anger inside, but when threatened, she can only hold it in for so long. It's . . . a process. She's working on it, okay? Yeesh.
As Taylor approaches the alleyway, she hears the creak of a door behind her—someone exiting one of the closed shops down the street. Quickly, she skids to a stop, leans against the wall, and whips out her phone. Hopefully she looks casual and unassuming, because she really doesn't need to attract any unwanted attention.
Casual. I'm chill. This is chill.
The shop owner calmly strolls right past her, hauling a bag of trash to throw into a dumpster. The details click together as she observes quietly (white apron, familiar logo, the brief whiff of coffee beans). He's the owner of the café, then.
He doesn't even seem to realize she's there the first time, but on his way back, he pauses. Taylor looks up at him, making sure her expression looks as bored as possible, and nods a silent "hey". Apparently assured that the girl means no harm, the man nods back and disappears into his shop. Thank goodness. She'll have to try their coffee sometime, as a silent sort of appreciation. Plus, Carol hates when Taylor drinks coffee.
Immediately after the door closes, Taylor takes off around the corner, skateboard held firmly under one arm. The alley is darker than the street, lacking light inside to illuminate it, but she resists the instinct to use her phone's flashlight. Brick walls line either side, decorated in different variations of graffiti, most of it explicit. There are four large garbage bins lining the left wall, and a wire fence blocks off the far end of the narrow space.
So far, so good. Glancing behind her (man, the paranoia is wild these days), Taylor slows to a walk and slides noiselessly into the alley. She finds a small cardboard box nestled in a corner behind the fourth bin. Upon opening it, she bites back a grin and takes inventory in a hurried whisper.
"Memory drive, CPU, copper wire, standard motherboard, SIM card . . . and—orange spray paint? Score."
Zoe's father repairs phones and computer software as a side hobby, so she's able to sneak away some parts, as well as throw in bits and pieces of her own. Like the spray paint, for example, which Taylor collects for outings of a different kind. The secrecy may seem unnecessary, but Taylor's refined aunt doesn't approve of her project, so the parts have to be obtained without her (or Zoe's dad) knowing about it.
. . . And maybe Taylor specifically requested the location and late hour because she likes having something to do. An objective. And these streets are familiar anyway, inked in her memory from years of—well.
Taylor does a lot that her aunt doesn't know about. Usually things that involve spray paint. And sneaking out at night. And—other things that ought not be mentioned now.
Satisfied with the haul, Taylor unloads everything from the box and transfers it to her bag, zipping it halfway. She checks the time on her phone—12:09 AM. There's still plenty of time to get home before her aunt notices she's missing. Ha, Carol is probably still at work, typing away at her computer or answering phone calls. If Taylor starts out now, she might even have time to—
"Hey," says a sudden, gruff voice. "Stand up."
She tenses. Instinct takes over; Taylor's hands clench, and a red sheen washes over her body for the barest of seconds. Now her hair is a bleached blonde and hangs loosely down her back—usually her go-to disguise. The bin's shadow hides the transformation well enough. Briefly, Taylor considers all the options she has to get out of this. There . . . aren't many.
The back fence is still nearly 35 feet away from where she's crouched in the gravel, but by the sound of the voice, the person is closer to her than that. She could run, but might not get far without giving herself away. Solid brick on either side, all the bins are closed, no convenient objects lying around to use as weapons. Entrance is being blocked, but she feels more than one presence. It's a small group of people.
Well. There goes her peaceful evening.
Cursing under her breath, Taylor slowly rises from her crouched position and emerges from behind the bin. She holds her hands in the air as a show of innocence—mostly theatrics, but you can't be too careful with people like this. She has to keep them distracted. Let them think they're already winning and that she isn't a threat whatsoever.
In the few seconds she has, Taylor evaluates the situation, details crashing into each other like a multi-car pileup on the highway. There are three guys standing 6 feet from the alley's entrance—one short, two tall. The shorter one is light-skinned, the other two have darker complexions. Lean builds, hands at their sides. The dim lighting makes it hard to tell what exactly they're wearing, but none of it seems unusual. Low-rise jeans, faded jackets, one of them has the hood up. Average lowlifes, then.
The three of them look older than her, but not that old. Perhaps in their early twenties. And the tallest has a small gun in his jacket pocket—Taylor can already see its outline underneath the fabric. Her stomach drops. How did he get that?
Alright, maybe one step above average lowlifes.
She'll have to be even more careful than she'd thought. Her experience with guns isn't . . . particularly broad. Three guys and a gun against her. Not the best odds she's seen, but yeah, sure, fine. She can handle it.
"Lovely evening, isn't it?" she says. Her tone is light, but the accompanying smile is sarcastic. The adrenaline is already rushing through her. She feels the heat, pulsing under her skin and up her arms. There's not much time until she—
"What've you got in there?" the short one demands, pointing a finger at Taylor's messenger bag.
She glances at it, eyebrows raised casually, and replies shortly, "Nothing you'd be interested in." It probably isn't a lie; what would they want with a ton of phone and computer innards? But then again, they won't believe her if she tells them that.
What do they think is in here? Drugs?
She's low, but not that low, gosh.
"Terrible liar, this one," another laughs, stepping slightly closer. They seem hesitant to approach her fully, though. Maybe it's because she's a relatively petite teenage girl, who they aren't quite willing to pick a fight with (never hit a lady and all that nonsense). They might also be thrown off by her American accent—it sounds very out of place in a British city such as London. The American accent always throws people off. Good. She needs all the help she can get.
"Look boys, I don't want any trouble—" she starts. It is at that moment that one of the men lunges for her bag, and she's forced to dodge swiftly to one side. The man stumbles forward, off-put by her reflexes that he probably wasn't expecting. People like this always expect her to stand there shaking like a threatened kitten, so the element of surprise works in her favor every time.
Control control control—
Taylor takes advantage of the guy's temporary distraction. Grabbing him by the shoulders, she whirls him around and lands a hard kick on his lower back. He grunts with more surprise than pain as he crashes into one of the metal bins.
Turning to the other two roughs, Taylor offers a nonchalant shrug. "Hey, he started it." She moves to exit the alleyway but the men bounce back into action and block her path, body language signaling that they're about to engage again.
Guess we gotta do this the hard way.
Taylor's hands glow brilliantly as a red mist spirals in the air around her, all caution replaced by a dark energy. There's a brief second that Taylor acknowledges her control slipping away, but there's nothing she can do to stop herself. Not at this point. She hasn't had enough practice yet. So she lets go.
Rage bubbles inside her. Hatred burns her lungs. Grief flares and encompasses every cell in her body, begging to be released. To be unleashed on whoever dare block her way. And suddenly, her expression darkens and she isn't Taylor anymore. Just the embodiment of rage. And it feels great.
The guys exchange anxious glances. They know who she is now. Maybe they'd suspected it from the beginning. People come looking for her all the time, bringing weapons and their best moves. But so far, no one's stuck around long enough to catch her.
These guys look enthralled that they've found her, though. Not that they figured it out entirely on their own—the power gives it away. But that's fine with them; Taylor notes that they look like they crave a challenge.
So does she.
Now unafraid to engage, the other two men dive for her at the same time. Taylor gives a terse sigh, unimpressed. As the short man swings a (sloppy) punch at her face (callous on his middle finger—he's right handed), Taylor thrusts one hand out, catching his fist midair. Immediately, his knuckles give a sizzling hiss and he yanks that hand away. A still-smoking blister adorns four fingers, splitting across them like a lightning bolt. He howls from the pain and staggers back.
The other taller man is coming in on her right, so Taylor pivots, grasping his arm with both hands and swinging him into his injured friend. She stays where she is, anticipating. The two guys hesitate a moment to clamber around and regain their balance, then come charging at her again, full force. Before, they were eager. Now they're just angry.
Taylor stands firm, more than prepared for what lies ahead. From what she's seen so far, these guys are amateurs with very little physical combat experience. Their footwork is sloppy, at best, and none of them know how to do anything more complicated than a punch or kick. If there had to be a fight, Taylor had been hoping to be up against more of a challenge, at least. She should've been more careful about the burning, though. That always freaks her out when it happens.
When the men are within 10 feet of her, Taylor leaps towards them. Too easy. She targets Short first, sending a burst of scarlet energy his direction. He's knocked backwards, and, snagging her window of opportunity, Taylor runs, hops onto his back and lets her elbows come down on his neck. It doesn't disable him and now he's recovered from the blast, so there's a brief scuffle while she's on his shoulders.
However, because Taylor is preoccupied with Short, she fails to see Tall sneak up behind her. (Dang it, she knew she'd forgotten something.) He grabs her right shoulder and roughly yanks her off of his friend, who topples sideways to the ground.
Two down, one to go.
Taylor comes at the last man with a complex series of attacks, throwing her right leg up in a roundhouse kick. Her foot cracks against his head rather solidly, but he keeps fighting. Keeping her intensity, Taylor persists. And she's succeeding until the guy lands a well-placed kick behind her knee and she rolls to his left.
Before Taylor can properly stand up again to exercise payback, she hears the echoing crack of a shotgun. A small bullet whizzes right past her, barely missing her arm—she feels the tight whip of air—and she turns to give Tall a withering look. In turn, his expression morphes into surprise. Then panic.
This means war.
They can take her on hand-to-hand, sure. She's able to deal with that well enough, and the odds are more even that way—Taylor probably has more experience and strength than all three of these people combined. But then this guy pulls a gun on her? And fires it? Not fair play.
Guaranteed, someone heard that shot (the coffee guy, oh frick—). Now the police will be alerted to the situation, there'll be questions, they'll have her aunt come pick her up . . . and Taylor hasn't even stolen anything this time! This guy just tried to freaking murder her! Over computer parts?! She's thirteen for Pete's sake, this is getting wild.
But it doesn't matter to them that she's a kid. She (or rather, the person people think she is) is infamous in London for a number of things, and one of them is her inability to be caught. For these guys, this is a game, and she's the prize. Not even that! She's an accomplishment.
Too bad for them, she has no plans to let them win. She might be against the clock but there's still plenty of time.
"You're gonna regret that," Taylor growls, pushing herself swiftly to her feet. Within seconds, she's advancing upon Tall and goes for the hand holding the gun—the dangerous weapon is definitely going to be her first priority at the moment. And she's gotta be quick about it, too.
She manages to grab his wrist, her other hand holding his threatening fist back from hitting her. His skin burns under her touch. She could let her rage take charge and finish this quicker, but she's afraid of the damage she might do being this close to someone. The man tries to fire again, but Taylor rapidly jerks his wrist farther above his head, and the shot goes up, sending a jolt of fear through her.
Great. More noise.
Realizing that she has to pick up the pace, Taylor searches for some kind of enlightenment as to what she should do now. She has to keep Tall's hand in the air, and she also has to make sure he doesn't land a punch on her face, but they're locked at a weird angle and both tasks are proving to be difficult.
Taylor grits her teeth together, staring the man down, eyes flashing dangerously. His expression is edging slightly from determined to panicked. The third-degree burns on his skin are starting to get to him, apparently, but he's not backing down. It's obvious he isn't getting anywhere with this. Neither of them are, really. They're stuck in a stalemate. Eventually, one of them will have to give in, and Taylor decides then and there that it isn't gonna be her.
"What the hell are you?" Tall asks, his voice strained from holding Taylor back. It's unclear now, actually, who is blocking who. His voice is laced with barely contained hysteria.
Taylor doesn't answer. Instead, in a sudden burst of inspiration, she shoves the man's arm back, grips his other wrist tighter, and pulls the can of spray paint out of her bag (thank God she didn't zip it all the way). Before Tall even knows what's happening, he's leaping backwards as a spray of liquid orange is unleashed right in his face. (And at the last second, Taylor realizes it's probably the most inhumane thing she could've done at this point, so—whoops.)
He flails wildly, yelling and swiping at his eyes as he staggers back into the row of bins. In his haste, Tall drops the gun. Taylor, outwardly unfazed, inwardly unsettled, crouches down to retrieve the weapon and stalks over to Tall, who is still shouting oaths and clawing at his stinging eyes.
Taylor watches him for a moment, her expression cold and blank. Already, her guilt has subsided. These men deserve everything they'd gotten tonight. Silently, she points the gun at Tall, not really intending to pull the trigger. Again—theatrics.
"Go," she snaps. The man blinks hard, obviously not seeing clearly. On the rough pavement, he drags himself even farther backwards, mouth open with confusion. From behind Taylor there is a short scuffling noise, so she whips around and finds the other two men. They stand there, frozen at the sight of the gun, and exchange uncertain glances. In her other hand, Taylor ignites a sphere of energy.
She takes one step forward, and the men bolt. On their way out the alley, they grab Tall by the arms and haul him along as they scurry away.
In the distance, police sirens wail faintly, headed in Taylor's direction. A tingle of anxiety crawls up her spine—those sirens trigger a wave of repressed memories. For a second, just a moment, Taylor is standing on cracked pavement in the middle of Manhattan—
But she's been through this before and knows how to shove the memory back down. It's gone in a flash. Time to focus on getting out of here without winding up in the back of a police car.
No problem. She knows this street like the back of her hand, and a quick getaways should be no trouble at all. The sirens are about three blocks down, approaching at an alarming rate, but she has time on her side tonight.
Deftly, Taylor tosses both the gun and the spray paint into her bag, and, pulling her hoodie tighter around her body, turns to head toward the back of the alley, skateboard under one arm. The wire fence separates the narrow space from the other side of the block, but Taylor isn't going to let that stop her. She lets the skateboard drop and gives it a kick; it rolls smoothly through the space where the fence doesn't quite meet the pavement.
The siren noises are approaching faster and getting louder. Casting a slightly lofty glance in the direction of the street, Taylor sticks her feet into the holes in the wire and climbs. Once she reaches the top of the fence, she swings both legs over and hops down, back on her skateboard before it can roll away.
As Taylor speeds down the opposite street, she can still pick up the sound of sirens, but now they're farther away. She's escaped in time to avoid police interference, and maybe her aunt hasn't noticed Taylor's absence. In fact, it's highly unlikely that Aunt Carol has the slightest idea what her niece is currently doing. Carol might not even be home yet. In fact, Carol is most definitely not home and won't be home until much later, because the woman is such a dang workaholic that—
Taylor bites the inside of her cheek, willing herself to think about other things. More important things. No dwelling on irrelevant, negative factors of her existence. Not today, anyway. Gotta keep the emotions at bay. Keep them under control. She had her chance to let it out tonight, so—
Promptly, a single police car whips around the corner, blocking off the street Taylor is headed for. There's a brief heart-in-throat moment where her brain short circuits and she nearly veers onto the sidewalk and wipes out—but her body's instincts are surprisingly reliable tonight.
Tensely, Taylor pushes her feet harder into the skateboard, preparing for what she can feel coming. The police car is getting close, she's gonna crash, she's gotta focus—
At the last possible second, when she can see the cop's eyes through his window, Taylor is blinded by a flash of bright blue, and she feels the ground disappear from under her. From there, all she has to do is think about home, and the policeman is left with nothing but an empty street, bathed in moonlight.
oOo
Only a few moments later, Taylor reappears all the way across town and skids to a halt in front of her aunt's exquisite home. The blue light extinguishes with a snap of her fingers. With a sigh and a glance over one shoulder, Taylor gives herself four seconds to recover. Then she climbs the front steps.
As usual, a key is lying under a white, ceramic flower pot on the porch. Taylor uses the key to unlock the door, returns it to its hiding place, and turns the knob. Opening the door with one foot, she traipses into the entryway, kicking off her shoes.
Just as Taylor had suspected, her aunt isn't even home.
Who's surprised? No one.
The entryway is dark, but Taylor doesn't bother to turn on a light. Instead, adjusting her grip on her skateboard, she heads up the winding marble staircase that leads upstairs. The hallway is dark, too; Taylor sighs quietly and enters the second door on the right—her bedroom. A persistent migraine is already edging its way into Taylor's head, small bursts of pain flaring up at the base of her skull. She hadn't been planning on using her abilities tonight.
Taylor kicks the door shut behind her and tosses her bag onto the bed, covered with a deep purple comforter and several multicolored pillows. Most of them had been made by Taylor herself. She has a lot of free time these days. The skateboard gets discarded on the floor and shoved under her bed. It clangs into something, which she ignores.
A neon green lava lamp sits on her bedside table, along with a few random bracelets and her earbuds. Each of Taylor's walls are painted a different color—one blue, one yellow, one purple, and one black: her aunt's idea. The black one is covered in chalkboard paint, and Taylor has drawn over the entire thing with different colors. Sometimes Carol comes in and grimaces at the drawings. Most of them are . . . not uplifting.
Strings of lights are strung across the walls, corner to corner—they'd been a birthday present from Carol last year. Very rarely are they turned on. The ceiling is peppered with neon stars that glow when the lights are off (don't judge, okay, she hardly ever sees real stars anymore). Old Polaroid photos cover nearly an entire wall, but she can't bare to part with any of them. They mean too much. The camera sits on Taylor's desk. Her desk chair is blue and furry, thanks to her aunt's less-than-helpful decorating opinions. When she's older, Taylor plans on replacing most of the furniture.
The desk itself is piled with sketch pads, cups of colored pencils, bottles of nail polish, schoolwork, a pair of headphones, and various computer parts that have accumulated over the past two years. A half-built, slightly appalling device sits off to one side, partially hidden by a stack of books. She likes to think her room accurately represents the disorganization of her own mind. That's about the only excuse she has, so. It'll have to work, thanks.
Taylor yanks the beanie off her head and tosses it aside. Her hair probably looks atrocious. Groaning tiredly, she flops backwards onto her bed, pulling her phone from her back pocket; somehow, it hadn't fallen out during the fight. There's a text from Zoe.
Zoe: did u get it ok?
Taylor: minor interruption, nbd. everything's here. thx.
Zoe: no problem. is carol home?
Taylor: not yet. must be working late again.
Zoe: oh. i'm sorry. no word about her interview, then? :(
Taylor: nope. it's fine, tho. i'm sure i'll hear the verdict tmrw, at some point.
Zoe: what if she was accepted?
Taylor hesitates, thumbs paused midair over the phone's keypad as she bites down on her lower lip.
Taylor: i'm sure it'll be fine. the job is all the way in america, i doubt she got accepted.
Zoe: ok . . . if you say so. i gtg. talk to me tmrw, ok?
Taylor: i will. gn.
Taylor's aunt has started applying for jobs in America, even though they'd only moved to England barely two years ago. None of the interviews have been successful so far, and sometimes Taylor wonders why her aunt is doing it in the first place. Not like they'll ever move back to New York. Maybe somewhere else. Like California. She and her brother had always wanted to go to California.
Turning her phone off and reaching over to set it on her beside table, Taylor rolls off the bed and heads to her dresser to find some pajamas.
A few minutes later, she emerges from the bathroom—connected to her bedroom—dressed in a black and white checked button-up shirt that's much too large and comes down to her knees. With the events of the night finally catching up to her, Taylor's steps are slow and tired. She absentmindedly rubs her right palm, and when the light hits it, an iridescent reflection glints off her hand and onto the wall. The headache is worse. Thankfully, she's released her disguise a while ago.
Ignoring these things, like she always does, Taylor shuffles over to her dresser, where a mirror rests against the wall. She grabs a hair tie and pulls her curls into a bun that strikingly resembles a mangled tumbleweed. Taylor grimaces, judging her reflection. She's never really appreciated her hair's natural texture, but in a way, she's proud of it. It sets her apart from other people, and she likes that. If only her hair wasn't so hard to take care of (a bottle and a half of detangler every month is getting a little excessive). And it also makes her easily recognizable, which is why she always puts up a disguise when she goes on—ahem—outings.
Taylor turns to glance at the clock on her wall, its surface round and shiny, because she'd cut up pieces of old CDs and glued them on, back when she was a kid and still enjoyed being "artsy". It is now nearly 1 in the morning.
Aunt Carol still isn't home.
Taylor heads to her bed, shoves all the pillows off, and pulls back the covers. She buries herself underneath them, curling into a ball. When she wakes up, she'll find out her fate. Whether or not her aunt ever does well in an American job interview will greatly affect Taylor's current life. And as much as Taylor loves Carol, she really hopes she doesn't get the job. Or any job. Ever.
And with these thoughts swirling around in her mind, Taylor lowers her eyelids and eventually drifts off to sleep.
A/N: thanks so much for reading! hope to see you here again soon :) stay safe out there, everyone.