AN: Greetings ladies and gentlemen across the internet and beyond. Wyvern and the Warhawk, Team Scrimshaw is here once again, bringing to you our latest Commissioned Work. This time a strange and wondrous mix of the parahuman and the paranormal, with everyone's favorite teenager getting into an even bigger mess than before!
AtW: Don't think of this as us being back or anything… lord knows I'm still moving slowly. But we are trying to at least honor our commitments. Either OWIM or another commission is probably next. Hope you guys like it. Oh, Wyvern his own story he's tearing through, in case you were interested.
CW: It's only been posted in Spacebattles thus far, unfortunately. I might posted into AO3 too. But Fanfiction simply lacks the stuff I need to properly post that one. In case any wants to check it out, it is called 'What was Created by God'. A Percy Jackson and Fate/Grand Order crossover. Only 2 chapters so far, with a third this week.
Still, onto the reading.
Die Hard - A Worm and White Wolf Crossover
Chapter 1 - You Only Die Twice
"Thanks Dad." Taylor half mumbled around a mouthful of Christmas cake, watching It's a Wonderful Life with about as much enthusiasm as she was attacking the fruit cake with. "The food's great."
Her father smiled at her, nursing his third eggnog of the night, and gave her a little nod of the head. It was a tiny thing, but it perfectly matched the level of energy she was putting out.
Looking over at their tree, the young woman wondered why they'd even bothered to put anything up this year. It was just a tiny two foot tall plastic thing, with a pair of stockings and a bit of tinsel strung up. Only three ornaments too.
'One for me. One Dad. One for… Mom.'
Glancing over at Daniel Hebert, she felt the same urge as she always did. To tell him everything. To sit there, pour her heart out, to bawl until she couldn't breathe, and then to beg him to help. But then she would see his eyes. Taylor would see the exhaustion and weight in her father's gaze, the tired smile he'd give her, the little squeeze of the shoulder or hand that would be the extent of his physical presence, and how he'd look at her mother's ornament with so much sadness she wanted to cry for another reason.
So, instead, she'd ball it all up.
She'd drag that misery and exhaustion and frustration and every little bit of anger she had and just… stuff it into a dark corner somewhere deep down.
It was the young woman's tried and true method for dealing.
Not that it was healthy, but when did a teenager ever do anything the healthy way?
There was a loud crack, glass shattering as an arrow suddenly slammed into their TV.
Taylor screamed, falling into the floor, even as her father jumped up and leapt over the back of the couch - only for another bolt to drive itself through her hand, impaling her to the floral print couch. She was still screaming when her father had the lights off, dropping to the side of the piece of furniture and slapping his hand over her mouth. "Stop screaming."
Heart slamming against her ribs, ears pounding, and body practically vibrating with tension, the young woman barely managed to calm down as her father kept speaking to her.
"I know it hurts baby, I know it does, and you're being so strong. But I'm going to have to get your hand free. We can't stay here or we're going to die. Now, I'm going to put my belt in your mouth. I want you to bite down as hard as you can. Nod your head if you understand."
Whimpering, she did just that, barely able to do more than whimper while she felt her sole surviving parent place a piece of sweat stained leather in her mouth.
There was a snap when he broke the shaft of the projectile and then she saw stars of bright, white pain when her hand was yanked free.
"Damn crossbow bolt." Taylor could hear Danny, but it was as if it was from so, so far away. "Stuck in the frame. At least, fuck. Here honey, hold this to it." Her father kept stroking her hair, whispering into her ear, and it was only then she realized she was screaming. Swallowing, she stopped making any noise beyond small, whimpering sobs - the darkness hiding the hole that had been ripped in her hand from sight. That was when a cloth of some kind was wrapped around her hand, maybe one of the dish towels they'd been using as napkins that evening, and she whimpered again when her father pulled the makeshift bandage tight. "Ok, I need you to listen to me."
His words were calm and a little of that calm leaked into the teenager, who managed to nod in understanding.
"O-ok."
Speaking was still a challenge.
"You're doing great Taylor, but I'm going to need to move." She made a pained noise at that, but, before he could speak, she interrupted.
"Get the gun. I'll be ok."
What she wanted to do was to beg him not to go, not to leave her. She wanted to go back to bawling and tears were still trickling down her face, but, instead, the young woman bit her tongue until it bled, focusing on the moment.
"I'm serious Daddy. Just be careful, ok?"
For a moment, their eyes met, so much sorrow and weight in her father's gaze changing to something… dark. Something angry. And then he looked at her with love.
"I'll protect you. No matter what."
Somehow, that was that. The entire situation narrowed down into those simple words and Taylor believed them too. So she let her father crawl along the floor, making it into the kitchen without so much as a whisper more than clothing scraping along the floor. After that, there was the sound of him rooting around a drawer, a clack, and then he came back into view - this time holding the .45 she knew had been kept loaded.
The whole thing couldn't have taken more than twenty seconds… and still, it felt like it had been forever.
She had been left sitting there, eyes finally having adjusted to the darkness, but with her glasses broken, Taylor had been forced to simply look at the cracked, vaguely blurry room around her. Now, though, she realized it was time to move. Shuffling up against the wall, still hidden behind the couch, the teenager tried to whisper without giving herself away.
"Can you reach the phone?"
Danny shook his head.
"It's visible through the kitchen window."
Licking her lips, Taylor curled up, bringing her knees to her chin. "Can they see through it?"
"Probably." Danny frowned. "The shot that got your hand wasn't just bad luck, it was aimed to disable you." Shivering at the thought, the teenager tamped down on the panic roiling in her gut. "This person is probably Sha- well, they're definitely someone who's well trained. I don't doubt they're well positioned to take us out if we expose ourselves. We're going to need to-"
There was a crash, the sound of breaking glass, and then, finally, a sudden increase in the warmth of the Hebert's little Christmas feast.
"Fuck." Danny swore, knowing immediately what the petrol bomb was for, and knowing he had no choice but to act. "Taylor, we have to run! Go out the back and then turn to the left. Whoever is trying to kill us came at us from the direction of the street. You need to go through the backyard, past the neighbors, and try to find the closest cop." As he spoke, the grown man managed to tip the couch over and plucked up one of the pillows. "Don't stop at the neighbors, this psycho will simply pin you down there, keep your head down, I love you baby, and whatever happens, do not stop running!"
First throwing the cushion up past the window, and getting said cushion skewered, he stood up, jerked Taylor to her feet and pushed her towards the backdoor. With the pistol drawn, Danny placed his body between the potential shooter and his child, trying to block the obvious angles that would let them fire at a running person even as he hesitated to open fire himself.
However, cradling her injured hand, the young woman did as she was told. Running straight for the backdoor, she unlocked the deadbolt, turned the locks, and was out into the cold, snowy night with a speed she'd never known in her life before.
Bare feet already going numb, she tucked her chin in and ran.
There was no time to look back or think or worry or hope.
All that remained was to keep moving.
Once she passed into their neighbors yard, Taylor turned to the right, ducking down a small drainage ditch, and did her best to throw off any direct angles towards herself. That was what seemed sensible, at least, to her fear-addled mind. Something only made worse as fire rose in the distance, their house burning away as they fled. Tears had never stopped falling from her eyes, but with her breath misting in the air, hand throbbing, lungs burning, they began falling just a little faster.
"Get down!"
She went down in a sprawl of limbs, her father tackling her from behind.
Rolling out from under him, the young woman screamed when she saw a bolt sticking out of his back.
"Go, run, damnit."
"No, Daddy-"
Shaking the pistol, her father met Taylor's eyes and the teenager was forced to stop complaining.
"Go. Find a cop."
Shadows suddenly coalesced ahead of them, taking the shape of a person - she couldn't make out details, shrouded in the night as they were. Her father, however, didn't have the same issue.
Daniel Hebert opened fire, pumping five rounds into the shape without so much as a heartbeat's hesitation, stopping only to jerk Taylor out of the way of another crossbow bolt. When the shadows came together again, much, much closer this time, he let loose the sixth and final shot in their revolver.
And the shadow screeched.
Sounding more like a stuck pig, the thing fled, reducing itself into scraps of darkness and dispersing into wisps of nothing. Taylor knew this wasn't the end and, as her father groaned in pain, she tried to help him.
"Come on, get up, we've got to go." She was sniffling and her voice was thick. "Let's go. Firemen will be on the way and they can help you."
"N-no. My pocket, get the bullets." Her father was in pain and Danny had to force the words out through clenched teeth. "It's not dead. We need to… to keep moving."
Confused, but unwilling to disobey, the teenager helped her father fumble around his pockets, eventually pulling out a handful of bullets that he carefully loaded - all while she tried to support the injured man's weight and help him hobble forward. After all, now that she had a moment to think, it was clear that a cape was attacking them. But that in and of itself seemed absurd, neither of them were nearly important enough to be worth attacking!
As the tinkle of spent brass faded into the night, each casing making the same tiny noises as they hit the cement drainage pipe beneath them, it was an odd kind of numbness that filled the two.
The city, the world even, was cold. Gunshots, a burning house, screams, and yet… no one cared. No lights turned on in the surrounding homes, no angry fathers toting shotguns came out to see what was happening, not a single neighbor so much as twitched their curtains open. Not that Taylor could judge them - how often had she heard gunshots in the distance and tucked back into bed herself?
"Taylor, it's back." Danny stopped and, almost panicking, she tried to drag her father forward. "You need to run again."
"No, Daddy, I'm not going to leave you."
He closed his eyes.
"Look to our left. The streetlights are all going out one by one. It's going to attack again."
"I-"
"You'll just make the fight harder." Speaking with his father's voice, the middle aged widower used a tone with his daughter that he hated having to resort to. "Go. Find a cop. Stay focused on your goal. I'll be fine."
"There's nothing I can do?"
"No."
Snot and tears and snow covering her face, Taylor felt shame and fear and regret boil up inside of her.
"Thank you. For everything."
Smiling, her father squeezed her good hand.
"I only wish I had been a better father."
Turning and running once again, though it was more of a fast hobble, that shame grew with each gunshot.
Bang. 'One.' She flinched.
Bang. 'Two.' She bit her lip.
Bang. 'Three.' She whimpered.
Bang. 'Four.' She kept moving.
There were no more blasts rocking the night after that, so she put a little extra speed into her hobble, doing everything she could to just keep moving. Hoping against hope her father was still alive.
In the end, there was nothing to be said but to keep pushing forwards, she knew that. Even with Danny… hurt, Taylor had tried to keep running, keep moving forwards. Even when her feet hurt, even when the streetlights around her were shot out, even when every time she tried to cry out for help she was cut off, knocked down, shot, kicked, punched, or thrown around.
Whatever the shadow monster was, it was fast and angry.
The young woman had attempted to stick to the drainage ditch for as far as it went, neither seeing nor hearing any kind of movement, and mostly shivering and hugging herself as the cold closed in. It was still the middle of winter and she wasn't wearing anything but pajamas, though Taylor was glad that they were at least long.
Unfortunately, the cold and the darkness were only the beginning of her issues.
Somewhere along the way she'd cut her right foot, now leaving a bloody trail of steps behind her as she hobbled along. On top of that, having stumbled and fallen, she'd scraped her hands and lost her glasses too. Not that sight was any serious aid - after finally working up the nerve to approach a streetlight, if only to try and check her injuries, the light bulb above her had been shot out with another crossbow bolt.
And that was also when the attacks had started.
Having seen a pair of men standing in an alley, Taylor had thrown caution to the wind and tried to call out to them. Before she could do more than open her mouth, a fist had materialized beside her and slammed into her jaw.
She'd lost two teeth.
Staying on the move, praying to God that there was a cop patrolling this part of the city at this time of the night, the teenager had actually broken into a wild sprint. There had been a few moments when, in another bout of blind panic, the injured girl thought she'd escaped. But that had only been for a few moments. Out of shape as she was, the last of the Heberts had only been able to make it about a hundred yards before the pain in her lungs, the pain in her hand, the pain in her foot, and the pain in her chest stopped.
Then whatever it was hunting her kicked her in the back, knocking her to the ground.
So, just like before, she ran. And ran. And ran.
Tears were in her eyes, the world was blurry, nothing made sense, even as the Shadow kept chasing her and hitting her and knocking her down. Taylor Hebert simply took the blows and slaps and scratches and kept moving, one foot in front of the other, even as her thoughts turned over and over again.
Why?
Why was this happening?
Why did it have to be her? Why did it have to be her dad?
Thoughts, jumbled and panicked ran through her mind as she tried to think of a way to escape, a way to survive, anything to let her make it through the night. Even if she knew she'd be alone and miserable and hurt, a part of Taylor didn't want to give into it, the sharp pain digging its claws into her body serving only as a reminder that she was still alive.
And that meant the wounded kid needed to think.
Because, as the blurry, skeletal shapes of abandoned warehouses rose around her, the teen realized something very, very important. She was being herded.
Yet, even with the knowledge that she had run exactly where her attacker wanted her too, Taylor still knew there was a chance. Because her father worked at the local union… and had both mentioned that he kept a gun there and where the spare key was left.
A chance, then, to fight back, even if it was only the barest of hopes. Critically, there wasn't exactly a good target to hit, a fact that she turned over and over in her head as the young woman stumbled forwards. In fact, she hadn't seen more than a flash of a hand, a bit of a boot, and a white, skeletal face that looked more than a touch terrifying when compared to the rest of the shadowy form.
Vaguely aware of where she was, and with a plan, however shoddy it might be, forming in her mind, Taylor shifted her direction and got hobbling.
Having stopped for even a few seconds had been risky. So, despite not being able to see her attacker, Taylor didn't stop turning about, frantically scanning for the slimmest hint of where the next round of blows would come from. She hadn't been able to stop any so far, but not getting punched in the face again would be nice.
There was a chuckle.
It was a rasp in the cold air, a mocking sound that grew into a staccato burst of laughter when a balled fist buried itself in the side of her ribcage. And then her jaw, the shoulder, and finally deep into her stomach, knocking the wind out of the nearly beaten girl… all less than ten feet from the Union's offices.
"Poor, poor Hebert. Should have known it was dangerous to come out at night."
Taylor recognized the voice.
How could she not?
It was the same voice who had tormented her for over a year now. A voice who'd called her every unflattering and revolting name under the sun and dared her to do something about it. To give her an excuse to hurt Taylor even more than she already had. Attached to a sickly gaunt face she prayed that she'd never have to see again.
"Sophia?"
The trackstar turned murderer giggled, standing there in a mass of darkness, hockey mask tilted back to rest on top of her head and crossbow dangling loosely from her hand. And then she giggled again. For some primal monkey brain reason that made Taylor's skin crawl, like she was hearing something that just wasn't right in a fundamentally inhuman way.
"See? You can remember things. Maybe if you weren't such a stupid little bitch ya wouldn't be be like this, yeah?" Her foot met Taylor's bruised stomach, sending her to her back, before grinding the boot of the heel against her elbow. Somehow, even though Hess was right above her, it was difficult to see the other girl in the flickering light.
But what Taylor did know was that her tormentor looked… off….
"Will ya pay attention when I'm talking to you!"
Another kick met her side, one that left Taylor gasping for breath even as she tried to crawl closer and closer to the door of the union office building. Only for a crossbow bolt to embed itself in the dirt right next to her head, stopping the teen in her tracks.
"Why-" Spitting blood through bruised and swollen lips, the young woman managed to force her words out. "Why are you here?"
"Not gonna ask why I'm doing this?" Sophia sounded almost disappointed. "Well, I guess you're feeling like a badass after skulking around a bit. I was really surprised when I saw you, you know? Poor little Taylor running away in the dark, I figured you'd have shit yourself in fear or had a heart attack. You shoulda been more careful."
Taylor knew Sophia, how could she not after all this time? And more importantly the young woman knew the most violent of her bullies well enough to tell there was something wrong.
She hurt people and gloated and then got away with it. But she did it to show off to everyone else why she was the baddest bitch on the block. Going after someone in the dead of the night, looking at them like they were a butterfly under a piece of glass, this wasn't like her.
And that, more than almost anything else, made Taylor feel naked terror and white hot adrenaline pump through her veins.
Sophia's mile was too forced, her eyes blown wide. She was rambling angrily as she kicked the crap out of her, scolding her for….
Running away?
Trying to survive?
In the end, it didn't matter, Taylor was being hurt quite badly. Even though she hadn't screamed again, there had been a loud crack and now her good arm was at a bad angle. So, on her knees, curled up into the fetal position, she started groping around blindly on the ground, looking for something, anything she could use to fight back. And when her bloody, half limp fingers cut themselves on something sharp she grabbed it.
With one last prayer, she lashed out, putting every ounce of strength left in her body into the thrust and aimed up at Sophia's vaguely blurry head… and struck home!
There was a scream, finally not one of her's, and Sophia jerked back - blood flowing from a large gash across her face.
However, even as she flinched back, the young woman brought her crossbow up and fired.
This time the bolt didn't slam into her hand or her arm or her back.
No, it buried itself in her throat.
Gasping, choking, feebly gurgling Taylor Hebert fell to the ground like a puppet with her strings cut. Triumph gone, pain gone, only a spreading coldness remaining.
And then, the last thing she saw was Sophia Hess's disappointed face.
"L'était une p'tit' poule brune." Wakefulness, when it came, was slow and disjointed. Taylor's throat was sore and her chest seemed to be burning. It was a low simmering kind of fire, with a few sparks and black coals and a solid heat. From her breast to her belly, that heat seemed to move almost like a living thing. "Qu'allait pondre sur la lune." Hearing had never really left her, but the words of French were soft and quiet. It was a song that her mother had sang to her long, long ago and one that had weight too. "Pondait un p'tit' coco." Crying, she lay where she was, eyes screwed shut, trying to not sob. "Que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud."
There was the sound of rustling cloth and a damp cloth touched her cheek.
"I know you are awake, child." Taylor still refused to open her eyes, though she was glad she didn't recognize the voice. It made it easier to not question, to neither hope nor dread, and to simply lay there remembering those few gunshots. "Very well then, rest. I shall bring you something cool to drink."
The voice was neither cruel nor overly kind, almost matter of fact. Like it had no pity for her, but equally no scorn, and was rather accepting and even tolerant of her suffering without trying to be a part of her.
Whoever it was, was giving her space to grieve.
Later, perhaps minutes, perhaps moments, the Voice returned and glass clicked against wood.
Perhaps, the young woman wondered, it was a challenge. A test to see if she could master herself enough to take what she wanted. And Taylor did want the water - her body no longer hurt, but there was a kind of thirst that seemed to have been hiding just behind the sensations of grief and wellness.
In fact, now that she was focusing on it, the young woman realized just how parched her throat was. It scratched and burned a little, that particular feeling sending her mind down a very dark path before it stuttered and shuddered to a stop.
Frozen half way to making up her mind Taylor had to thank the Voice for distracting her once again.
"Drink. You'll feel better. I promise."
It was still just as soft, barely above a whisper, but spoken with clarity and confidence. The accent was impossible to place, being something a teenager's ear simply wouldn't be able to pick apart. But it was clear that the person who held her was a woman, and not one as young as she ought to be.
Finally opening her eyes, Taylor took in the appearance of the person she supposed saved her.
After all, she remembered that monster putting a crossbow bolt in her throat.
She remembered what Sophia had done.
Taking a long drink, the teenager appreciated the feeling of utter bliss that came with the pure, clean, simple water. The smell, the liquid washing a bit of grit out of her mouth, and, now that it was going, something that knocked the last bit of copper taste away too.
'I suppose I did bleed a lot.' Looking around, the room she was in was rather basic. Two doors, one to the right and one straight in front of her, no windows, a blue-yellow wallpaper that seemed to better fit a catalog from fifty years ago. It wasn't fire and brimstone, though, so she supposed she wasn't in Hell.
Personally… Taylor didn't really believe in God anymore.
But more interesting than the wallpower, or the spareness of the furnishings - just a large area rug that matched the wall paper, the couch she'd been laid out on, a coffee table, two chairs, and an uninstalled TV filled out a living space large enough to hold three or four times as much furniture - was her savior.
"You're a cape, aren't you?"
That got her a tilt of the head.
'It seems the voice doesn't want to talk anymore.'
Suddenly giggling, her wonderful little joke overcame every ounce of restraint and fear left in her. Dropping the glass, Taylor wrapped her arms around herself as her giggles turned into titters. And those titters turned into laughs. And those laughs became great, body shaking guffaws.
Her host or captor or savior or whatever the Hell she was simply sat there, watching.
Again, her entire appearance wasn't hostile… but it took about a minute for the laughter to turn into heaving sobs.
Thankfully, that's when the Voice decided to try and help. Picking up the unbroken glass, empty before it had been dropped, the strange woman sat it down and then sat down next to Taylor herself. Even choking on air, the teenager was still able to pick up on how stiff and mechanical the other person's movements seemed to be. Like she was trying to actively avoid moving too much and overshooting her target.
Like it took a bit to actually get moving and to stop. It was still nice when she put her hand on Taylor's shoulder; the kid knew she was panicking and it felt good to have a bit of contact, even if it was a hesitant, tentative sort of connection.
Not that many would really notice something as stupid as how someone swung their arms, it was mostly due to her own heightened awareness that Taylor even realized something was off. But the truth was that her captor looked too good. One of the reasons she'd asked if she was a cape was because of the military uniform, blue and gray and gold, but also because of how her skin seemed to be completely, utterly, totally perfect. Smooth and white, she almost looked more like a sculpture than a being of flesh and blood. This wasn't helped by the fact her hair fell in perfectly formed ringlets around her face, where big, hungry eyes sat above features that wouldn't be out of place in a movie or the ancient Greek sculpture she got her coloring from.
It was like someone had taken the ideal of svelte feminine beauty and distilled it down, shoved it in what had to be a military uniform, and sent it on its way.
Taylor was afraid.
People like that had never been good for her.
"So." She still forged ahead, doing her best to find her voice. If only to coak more out of the Voice. "My name is Taylor." Leaning on long neglected social skills, the young woman tried to abuse the atrophied thing to at least break the ice a little. "What, uh, who are you? I mean, are you a hero or a vigilante or… an independent contractor?"
More than just a question, and not wanting to accuse her savior of being a villain lest it get her another arrow to the neck, the girl was asking a question in a question: bluntly, how was the next thirty minutes gonna go - and if it would be better to start screaming now.
"My name is Neryessa of Alicante, of the Clan of Giovanni, and I am Kindred. And you, Taylor, look just like my Annette."
Freezing, Taylor had no idea how to react. Because she didn't remember the woman's face, not really, but she did remember the Voice.
It was a distant memory, one from a point in time where she didn't think that she even really had memories. But the teenager remembered the phrase "my Annette". Her father had always called his wife "love, hun, babe, honey" or even "boss". And as her thoughts turned over and over, Tylor let her mind drift back and back and then….
"I remember." Her eyes went wide as she looked back at Neryessa. "You're the one who helped us move in." It had been years ago, more than a decade. "You said you were going away. You… you were the sad lady."
Neryessa Giovanni smiled, not a sad smile, but a melancholic one. And she nodded.
"Yes, child, I am she. And from your look, I assume you wish to know why I still appear the same?" She chuckled, something high and refined and a bit slow - almost like it was difficult to laugh. "But I have already told you. Or did your mother and father truly teach you nothing?"
Slowly shaking her head, Taylor affirmed that she was, somewhat distressingly, rather up shit creek and indeed without a paddle. Her parent's friend simply chuckled again at that and waved her hand.
"Were they hear, we would have words, then, for ignorance is the worst defense of all. But that is neither here nor there. For now, know you are in a safe place and tomorrow evening we shall go to find Daniel, one way or another. This I promise."
And then Taylor remembered what had happened to her father.
Her tears didn't stop for a long, long while.
At least Neryessa didn't seem to mind snot getting on her uniform, having picked the young woman up and pulled her close, holding her until the young Hebert fell back asleep.
