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Disclaimer: Still not owning fandoms.

FanGirl01: Yes, I know. I'll be repairing the tenses in the second chapter and the non-bolded parts of the first in a few hours. That, and I'm basically writing this thing stream of consciousness, so expect some issues to pop up here and there.

It's eldritch sugar daddy time. (Bear in mind that Nyarlathotep is actively manipulating Taylor's life for his own ends, and doesn't really care about her, despite appearances)

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Worm: Babel

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4

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"Obviously," drawls Baat'ko'ept as he comes to a halt at my side, gazing upon me with tilted head and raised eyebrow, "After all, you called my most ancient name in desperation. Given the circumstances," here, he looks with narrowed 'eyes' upon the ABB goons, who appear rather dumbfounded, "…I cannot truly fault you, gifted young linguist that you are."

Gracious, what an unsettling statement! To wit, "Your reputation precedes you once more… Nyarlathotep."

My lip quirks in small humor at the light wince apparent upon the face of the Black Pharaoh, who I know to be one of the Crawling Chaos' many faces.

I am unsurprised this being, of all those I have viewed within my dreaming labyrinth, is aware of my existence. To what extent, ah, that is the question.

As though reading my thoughts, Baat'ko'ept speaks, slowly and carefully, "A necessary intervention, though the underlying details are rather… sensitive. Relating them in full will take some hours, I am afraid, which neither of us has in abundance at this point in time. At your leisure," he looks down upon me once more, "I shall be only too happy to entertain your person and discuss the reasons for my presence in full, though at a later date; I am a busy deity, after all," a smile once more, which I cautiously return, "yet I assure you the information is of significant import to you and your world."

"Naturally," I allow graciously and with no small anxiety; an issue that has drawn the attention of the Crawling Chaos upon my world, and myself specifically? I must admit to being both intrigued and most unnerved.

I have concluded, through knowledge gained by my readings in the labyrinth and the statements related to mine ears by myriad dreamers, to say nothing of current events, that Baat'ko'ept has likely manipulated events so I may arrive at this moment.

He has, of course, promised to elucidate on the reasons at a later date. Insists, even, that the ramifications of his interventions portend some no-doubt dreadful fate that may befall my species; I could even presume that such actions have been necessary, that these events have been done with only the best of intentions toward humanity.

And yet I cannot shake the possibility, the strong suspicion that has dug into my mind like a tick.

All I have read of Nyarlathotep tells me that there is some greater, no-doubt nefarious game at play here. The Outer Gods care nothing for the foibles of the mortal races, seeing us as amusing toys or faithful servants at the best of times.

Of their number, the Crawling Chaos is most well-known and infamous for his callous cruelty.

The labyrinth, the First Language, the events that have played out through my life… has any of it been my choice?

Am I nothing but another pawn in the insidious game of a dark and uncaring god?

A deep sigh interrupts my thoughts, "Were that we truly uncaring," tiredly whispers Nyarlathotep; I look to him out the edge of my vision. The being's countenance gives the appearance of a heavy burden, "Were I so uncaring, Taylor Hebert, were I to care nothing for the mortal races… you would have given up on your quest for languages before your eighth birthday. Aimless, you would have spiraled into despair and pragmatism, finally becoming a monster reviled in the annals of your species, exceeding even the Slaughterhouse and Sleeper in your terrible wrath."

The Black Pharaoh looks upon my pale, frightened face after that declaration, delivered in a tone of inescapable fact, and speaks plainly, "Are your current fortunes not to your liking?"

…Well.

…Shit.

The reason he has granted me favor must have quite alarming implications indeed; after all, barring my skill with languages, I am but a 14-year-old Honor Student!

No, I should not look too closely at the doings and thoughts of a god. The reasons will be elucidated in time. I must simply be patient, and use the First Language carefully. It wouldn't do to anger an Outer God, or put myself in harm's way, without taking… precautions… for the latter of course.

I doubt I'd be able to anything about the former.

But, first things first…

My gaze falls on my tormentors once more.

As Nyarlathotep has stated, we are both busy beings, and there is a matter most diabolical to attend, at present.

It is now that the man who attempted to violate me speaks up, pointing rudely at me and yelling, "I dunno what you've done, you little bitch," oh! "but you better let us go, right fucking now! Don't you know who our boss is?" and he grins, as though someone as mortal and pedestrian as Lung is more terrifying than the Outer God examining his fingertips to my left.

I say fingertips, because I am unsure whether or not this iteration of Nyarlathotep is possessed of fingernails. An unfortunate effect when attempting to observe beings of his caliber, I suppose. Tis best not to do so too closely, verily, or so say the cats of Ulthar.

Additionally, our host must have done something to prevent any word of his revelation from reaching their ears, for them to not be frightened or humbled.

Nevertheless, this ruffian has dared to try ordering me about, after attempting to violate my person!

As such, I fold arms about my petite chest to quell my shaking anger and reply bitingly, "With all due respect, sir, and I use that form of address hesitantly, have you have any idea who I am?"

Before I can elucidate, the man who walloped me with a crowbar sneers amidst the wounded woman's coughing and spitting of blood and saliva, "You're some prissy little girl with powers that got lucky," what is it with people calling me prissy?! Perhaps I should change my style of dress, or mayhap my diction, to avoid further insults, "Once the Oni finds out we didn't check in at the right time, he'll be coming for ya! So let us go or else!"

And these bandits, save the now mostly toothless whimpering wench, gaze at me with grinning expectantly.

I have, of course, heard of Oni Lee; anyone in Brockton Bay who values their life has heard tell of the mad assassin's many and egregious deeds. The thought of such a monster calling at my home, or worse, harming Daddy because of my actions, is rather potently effective in raising my dread.

"Liar." I look to Baat'ko'ept at his humored statement, "You noticed young Taylor here whilst she shopped, two weeks past, at the local goodwill."

I manage to keep both my composure and dignity apparent on the surface even whilst suppressing a blush of embarrassment at having to resort to budgeting that I may ensure my wardrobe selection does not suffer; certainly, I appear to wear clothes several decades out of date, but I make these outdated styles look good; hence my current appearance resembling a spectacled Wednesday Addams with ribbon-tied pigtails.

"You, who have between your individual selves captured and sold no less than two dozen girls of Taylor's age into Lung's flesh trade… sought to do the same to one who I find interesting."

The last word is said with both warm fondness, for myself I presume, and divine admonishment; tis no great mystery who the latter is meant for, and the former does indeed raise my confidence that I shall escape this encounter with my sanity and person intact. I hope.

Oh, and Baat'ko'ept's revelation has made me even more incensed at these villains, a possibility I thought impossible, given their attempt at raping me.

Hence my indignant placing of hands on my slender hips and speaking chidingly, "You are slavers?! You sought to enslave me, one of the most devilishly clever linguists in living memory?!" in the corner of my eye, Baat'ko'ept nods in agreement at my personal estimation.

Happy at my guess being vilified, yet still quite livid, I all-but snarl in disgust, "I certainly hope, for your sakes, that you have an excellent explanation for your despicable actions!" And I glare blisteringly betwixt these awful people.

My implied threat does not go over well. Baat'ko'ept allows these bandits to insult and bluster for five seconds before clapping his hands together. Once.

A resonating boom that echoes and resounds over the scenery, shaking the floor, is the result. To my credit, I do not relent in my furious glare or stance whilst the four gangsters stumble and mutter mutinously, yet they do not answer my query.

Instead, the Crawling Chaos speaks once more, his voice, dripping as it is with no small disgust, sending a chill through my blood, "For monetary profit. How… common. Humanity has no shortage of monstrous wastes of tissue such as you. And as for anyone missing your persons," a black chuckle ripples over the gathering, finally bringing the visage of cautious fear to the faces of the ABB braggarts.

I cannot blame them, as that chuckle was underscored with the chilling, abominable cries of countless souls dying slow, tortured deaths.

A swell of pity, unbidden, surfaces upon my heart; rather than crush it down, I instead wave dismissively, lip curled in disgust, "Oh, send them to some far country with no memory of their lives! Let them live in the gutter for the rest of their days, begging for scraps. I wish nothing more than to have my person and community be shot of these…" I decide on one of my less… intricate affectations, teeth baring at the now quite pale and obviously fearful persons before me, "…sick churls."

Around a deep hum that bespeaks the image of deep ocean currents, our host drawls once more, "As you are the wounded party in this unfortunate affair, my dear, I will of course be a gracious host… however," Nyarlathotep's inflection is poisoned steel unsheathed, sudden enough that even I flinch at the vitriol, "I find myself compelled to inform you of a rather… ha… personal affront these churls, as you name them, have dealt yours in the past."

Looking between both Baat'ko'ept and the shivering and denying gangsters, I give voice to my confusion and interest, "I have never met these bandits before, Baat'ko'ept. Where and when have they wronged me or mine?"

An obsidian finger points directly at the woman with the ruined mouth, "This she was the leader of the group who sought to harm your dear friend, your sister in all but blood, Emmaline."

I hiss in pained remembrance, the grief and indignation I felt at Emma's tearful admission before our families.

"…a woman with s-scars… h-h-hold… holding me down, asking if I want my ears or my nose…"

So… I look most disfavourably upon the disfigured woman, at her quaking in fear whilst covering her bleeding jowls, her eyes watering as they stare upon me, a silent plead for mercy there apparent.

Mercy.

Where was Emma's mercy? What did this woman do, when my sister begged for succor?

That I am their final judge is, to my senses, poetic justice.

Thousands of appropriate punishments spin through my thoughts, places I can send them, beings I can expose them to. With but a whispered word from my lips in the First Language, their suffering might be endless.

And yet…

I level a serious, flat stare upon the people who hurt my Emma; the woman is crying, "Pleash," she rasps out, "Pleash, no."

The man who tried to rape me glares balefully and growls, "Who are you to judge us? You're just a fucking kid!" the other two men look too afraid to speak, and merely look between their apparent leader, myself, and Nyarlathotep in shocked terror.

My cold reply is immediate, for I've already thought on this matter most bitter, "Firstly, my dear friend, Emmaline, described someone who looks exactly like her," my voice is a sneer, my head nodding dismissively at the woman, "to our families; your guilt is doubly verified with your assault on my person. Secondly…"

I swallow my dread, and my shame, and declare with soft heat, "…I am not the one who is judging you. Baat'ko'ept, who Is the Boundary; who Protects the Boundary; who Knows the Boundary… to him I give authority over your fate." I turn away, not wishing to witness their demise, and look upon the calming duality of the pillars.

The pillars, representations of the Nameless Mists and the Darkness, siblings to Baat'ko'ept; they are so beautiful…

One of the other men, the one who drew the gun, laughs incredulously, "What? Your power?! That's still you, you stupid little-"

"Bite your tongue, insect," drawls the Crawling Chaos dryly, "Her 'power' is in the utterance of the First Language Spoken," the shadows lengthen, "the primordial words of command that were bayed on far distant worlds, billions of years before your backwater Sun ever thought to ignite and create your feeble world," the stars seems brighter than a summer's day, "She holds the Key of Babel, and is both kind and just," the Black Pharaoh's tone becomes amused, to my distant horror, "And she has lain your lives in my hands. Allow me to introduce your judge, and your executioner.

"I am Baat'ko'ept, Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, the Eternal Boundary. I am the line that divides Yin and Yang; I was the serpent in the Garden, and it was I who destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah; I am the Wolves that devour Sun and Moon; I am the Jokulhaup and the Ragnarok; I am the World-Snake that devoured Atlantis; I am the Herald of the Old Ones, Messenger of the Outer Gods, the Holy Spirit that guides my High Priest, Dead Cthulhu, in his destruction of those who would upset the balance of the Universe, and have been these things and more for eons.

"I am the Black Pharaoh of the Stars, Baat'ko'ept. Are you satisfied with the arbiter before you," he finishes conversationally, "or would one of my other Thousand Faces set your minds at ease, before I lay down my terrible judgment?"

"Bullshit," fearfully breathes the goon who'd drawn the gun; I glance over my shoulder to find him pointing at Baat'ko'ept with a shaking finger, eyes and face taut, pale and sweating with denying terror, "Fucking bullshit!"

Ah, well. I turn back to my ruminations of the patterns apparent upon the pillars before me.

If they cannot accept the insignificance of their place in the world, who am I to correct or guide them?

It seems I am not alone in this sentiment, as Nyarlathotep sighs, "You bore me. Young Taylor's punishment seems appropriate, but, as she has lain your fates at my feet, I shall add a qualifier: escape from the Desert of Leng, and you may live out the remainder of your pathetic existences in the shattered ruins of Japan, the memorial to your precious Lung's failure. Toodles!"

And, with that final, mocking word, there is silence.

I let it spiral for a moment before speaking once more, "I wish to go home, please."

"Of course. But, first, a few things I feel you should know before your departure, as our next meeting won't be for some fortnights yet," that deep, resonant voice is tinged with easy kindness, and draws my direct attention to my host. He is looking at me with an inscrutable expression, "Firstly, you have been a Parahuman since birth; no, I didn't modify your person to make this possible," he adds when I open my mouth, seeming to roll his 'eyes', "Honestly, how a newborn hadn't immediately manifested powers before your birth, when one of the qualifiers is extreme trauma, can only be explained by you humans never doing as expected.

"And while I did modify your power, to reflect your passion for languages, this was, nevertheless, partly to ensure the hospital didn't get overrun by two city block's worth of insects under the control of an infant," well, when he puts it that way, "Secondly, upon your return and at your earliest convenience, I suggest summoning some Deep Ones and a Shoggoth so they might make a base of operations beneath your father's office building; this will also provide you with a foundry where the Deep Ones may fashion for you armor befitting your rank."

Err, "Forgive me, Baat'ko'ept, but I… don't believe my Daddy will be very understanding at having a race that preforms serial genocide living under the Dockworker's headquarters," I reply with only slight heat.

Baat'ko'ept shrugs, "If you'd rather he and those who follow him be defenseless, should the various gangs come calling, by all means, ignore my warnings," damnation, he's got me there, "Thirdly… oh, where did I put – ah!"

And the Crawling Chaos withdraws from his robes a folded slip of paper, which he then hands to me; I open and read the contents whilst he cheerfully explains, "That is one of the better recipes for gravy that I have found in my long existence, and should impress when you go to your Aunt Lacey and Uncle Kurt's for dinner on the morrow. Now, I have kept you long enough, and you have a turkey to baste."

"Oh, ah, yes! Thank you, Baat'ko'ept," quite thrown indeed at this gift, let alone the gifter, and at the reminder that, yes, the turkey should be thawed and ready for seasoning and preparations...

I curtsey respectfully once more, "Farewell to you."

"Good evening," my host bows his head graciously, "Babel."

{/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\}

And I am in the alleyway once more.

Blinking and looking about, I find myself once more in possession of my bag and purse. My clothes are clean and unblemished… and the gravy recipe, for it is indeed a gravy recipe, is held in my hand.

'I don't think I'll be getting too angry with Victoria Dallon, in the future,' I think numbly, placing the recipe in my purse before exiting the alley; a glace behind me reveals no obvious sign remains of the crime that was nearly committed here, while a quick pan of my vision about the street beyond shows no lookouts or other witnesses to this event most unfortunate.

After dealing with Baat'ko'ept and those ABB ruffians, being upset about someone as willful as Ms. Flying Brick seems like a waste of my precious time; I shall no doubt have far greater worries in the days and months to come, and being annoyed by the blonde will serve no purpose beyond stressing over something beyond my control.

Having a lot of that lately, but, well, given the alternative...

I'd much rather be regularly annoyed by Ms. Dallon's antics, and be happy with my admittedly good lot in life, than experience whatever other fate this world most violent had in store for me.

Nodding to myself at this estimation, I skip out of the alley and briskly make my way home.

Upon crossing the threshold and placing my school blazer and bags on their appropriate hooks in the foyer, however, I gasp in horrified realization.

I have superpowers! Which means I will no doubt be dragged into the intricate and occasionally deadly dance of hero versus villain, become a possible target for recruitment into either camp due to my abilities; oh gracious, I might have to fight Endbringers!

Oh dear! Oh me, oh my, whatever am I going to do?! How many Deep Ones should I summon to protect Daddy and build a base of operations?! Will one Shoggoth be enough, and should I use Nightgaunts as transport and ambush specialists? Ulthar cats as messengers and diplomats? Gugs as hirable security?

Oh, there is ever so much to do and so very little time in which to do it! There may be an Endbringer attack at any moment, and dear Amy volunteers for those!

Maybe she'd like a Nightgaunt, to bring her the wounded? No, I am getting too far ahead of myself!

I must practice with the First Language, find what I am capable of summoning! I must make lists for all these things, and it is quickly becoming apparent that it will be outright impossible not to get Daddy involved! How else will I learn when to micromanage, and when to delegate?!

Far worse, Baat'ko'ept's suggestion that I have the brutish and imperious Deep Ones design my armor is not what I have in mind when I think of presenting myself to the populace. Knowing them, I will end up looking like a chitinous bipedal lobster, or some tentacled and scaled horror!

Oh, by the skirts of Alice and Dorothy, whatever am I going to wear?!