A.N. General disclaimer for all things copyright. I do not own the characters, setting, or lore utilized in the creation of this piece. My work is inspired by the creative thought of the original authors
Dinner was a short but sweet affair.
A meal of simple quality, small conversation over daily events, mostly on the side of her dad, and an hour of watching the news together afterward.
Still, despite the bland nature of the experience, Taylor sat content on the couch, enjoying spending time with her dad. Time that, for a short while, she was convinced would never happen again, that she would be forever missing from the world and its events.
Gone and forgotten.
Her small smile inverted as she pushed those thoughts away. Now wasn't the time to think about that stuff. She was with her family, what remained, enjoying the time she had been given.
The news was as samey as usual; reporting mainly on recent Parahuman events and the projects being considered to revitalize the city. Ever since the bay had been shut down, an act precipitated by the sinking of several vessels to block the water way, income for the city had been steadily in flux. The presence of the local Protectorate and the public relations generated from the Wards helped, but really the city was on a downhill slope.
The fact that a gang built around white supremacy was thriving and alive in the city was just an example at how divided and desperate the people were.
Who were people to turn to for help? The Protectorate, for all the good that they fought for, have done very little to push out the corruption and the filth. Sure, Lung was a mighty contender in his own right, but shouldn't that warrant some sort of extreme reaction, something that the Triumvirate could deal with? They were the leading heroes in the country, the founders of the Protectorate, some of the greatest in Parahuman kind. Even one coming to support an initiative against any of the gangs would be overkill, an act that constituted outright war.
But, really, wasn't that better than just letting the monsters give the city a slow death? Shouldn't someone be held accountable, to be stopped when such serious wrongs were being committed?
New Wave, a hero team built from a family with the mindset of not hiding their identities, held their ground solidly enough, keeping trouble down. But what about everyone else in the city? Who were they supposed to turn to for help, for salvation, when they were beset by monsters on all side?
Because, if she was being really honest, the heroes weren't much better than the villains. Sure, they fought to keep the peace and protect people, but they only perpetrated more of the same super powered violence that sparked such anger and resentment in the first place. The fact was that many of them caused considerable property damage in their fights, costing the city even more money, a luxury it didn't have in its struggle to stay afloat.
She had been born during the time of Parahumans, when villains and heroes were real and people could fly, shoot lasers, and perform all sorts of acts. There wasn't an active gang that wasn't supported by some kind of Parahuman, no response team that was headed by something with a Thinker or Tinker power. Slowly, over the period of her investigation, she had come to the stark realization that a great majority criminal violence was, in some way, supported by or counted with someone with powers.
In that case, where did everyone else fall into place?
What about the cop who had to go out on the streets, supporting the feeling of peace and security, yet dreading the day he'd run into something he couldn't handle?
What about the paramedic, called to a scene where civilians were burned or poisoned by some form of unknown toxin made by an evil Tinker, an affliction with no known counter agent?
What about the bank, a place where people trust the safety of the valuables and their wealth, virtually helpless against a Thinker good with numbers or a Mover with teleportation.
Her frown grew into a grimace, the TV long forgotten.
There were thousands of people left caught in the middle of a titanic struggle between forces that they couldn't compete with. They had no voice, no power, and no strength.
They cried out against the monsters plaguing their city, pleading for someone, anyone, to help them, save them, release them from the nightmare they were in.
It was something that cut uncomfortably close to home.
Taylor stood, making up an excuse about unfinished homework, and departed to her room, her good mood somewhat tarnished. Upon entering she went straight to her desk, a small thing filled with various knick knacks and two drawers. From a drawer she withdrew a small box, a wooden container filled with a number of mementos left by her mother. Leaving the box on the desk she went finish her evening routine: a short wash and some studying.
She had to keep up appearances, at least for a little while. Homework, while fairly pointless and equally boring, did give her an alibi of sorts if she 'slept in' tomorrow. She probably wouldn't need it, since it was the weekend, but she couldn't be too careful.
The last thing she wanted was her dad finding out about her powers. The loss of her mother destroyed something in each of them. Her powers were strange and weird. The workshop alone disturbed her in ways she couldn't really describe. Could he handle knowing that his only daughter went to such a place every night? That she could punch clean through a brick wall and could dodge projectiles on the fly?
Could he handle that she had died?
She didn't think so. She barely could.
It was better to leave things quiet, for now. Better to let him sleep with the comforting thoughts of connecting with his daughter again. Better that he didn't know.
A real hero didn't ask for recognition for their acts, for saving lives and stopping threats.
She leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms, looking down at her homework balefully.
Math sucked, pure and simple. Still, she had completed most of it before the weekend had started, a firm accomplishment for any high school student.
She nodded, confident in that assessment, before checking her watch. Her eyes widened slightly as she read the time.
When had it gotten that late?
She shook her head as she stood. She really needed to work on not getting lost in her thoughts. It was beginning to become a problem ever since she got her powers. Ever since she stopped sleeping.
Ever since she found the workshop.
She tried not to think about it.
Instead she grabbed a small bag next a shelf and upended it on her bed, dumping its contents on the covers. Bandages, painkillers, glue, some tape, and other medical essentials lay scattered on the comforter.
Taylor nodded to herself, assured that this was a good choice. She didn't want to kill anyone. She was a hero, not a killer. Really, her goal was to pacify anyone she came across, her strength giving her an undeniable advantage. She needed something to provide what care she could, just in case. Also, having the supplies would be invaluable if she found a civilian in need of aid.
After doing a last count to make sure everything was there, she turned back to her desk and reached out to the box of mementos.
It was something that her mother had given her as a child, a little place to put all of her secrets and treasures. Not many people knew of it, her dad and former best friend being the only two she told. Sure, the latter had a habit of spilling her secrets to the world now, but it was the safest place she could think of in the house.
She opened it, revealing the small treasures held within. A few pieces of jewelry, some necklaces and earrings that she didn't want lost, along with a few pictures that she had of her mother lay together. She began carefully emptying out the box, exposing the velvet lined bottom, a faded purple hue contrasting the wooden box.
This, however, was something that only her mother had known.
Taylor felt along the inside of the box, searching for something shared between mother and daughter. She smiled as she depressed a hidden button, the bottom popping upward slightly, released from whatever mechanism was holding it in place. She lifted the false bottom up, revealing her greatest treasure.
A piece of faded vellum with a curious black symbol.
She retrieved it, setting it aside as she put everything back, pondering the strange thing. The messengers had answered her plea for help with something she had not understood. After an extensive search on the Internet she had concluded that the symbol was largely unknown, something foreign to her world. Much like the workshop world, the symbol wasn't something that could be found through conventional means, and she doubted that anyone who actually had training in such studies would find anything at all. It was special, like the workshop, and something that only she would know.
She had been surprised to find that she could take it out of the workshop, having left it in a pocket absentmindedly. She had tried a few other items such as books and jars to see if anything else could come through, but nothing had stuck. This small thing, a mark with no meaning on something so clearly old, was the only evidence she had that the workshop was real.
It was both comforting and disturbing all the same.
Still, the messengers had helped her in more ways than one. Sure, they didn't talk, were really creepy, and seemed to hang on her every word, but they had responded to her plea for help.
She had asked them for something to help save her city, to defeat the monsters. They had understood that much.
After closing up the box and putting it away she walked back to her bed, standing just in front of the pile of supplies, the curious object of the messengers in hand.
It had taken her a while to figure out what the thing was for. Taylor liked to think it came to her in a dream, but she knew that wasn't true. She didn't dream anymore, just moved from one space to another, leaving behind one world for the other. Maybe some kind of flash of intuition, spurned on by her powers one day while she was sitting bored at school. Really, anything other than the truth would have been preferable.
The answer had come to her when she had woken up one morning after leaving the workshop. The messengers only existed in the workshop world. She could travel between her home and the workshop, a place meant to help build up what she needed on her path. The messengers had given her something that she could take back to her world, a place filled with monsters and suffering, but nothing else could come through.
The answer was simple and something she really tried not to think about.
Taylor swallowed hard, summoning a courage that bellied her age, and maneuvered the object so that the mark was face up on her palm. After a small countdown she lifted the piece of vellum up, covering her eyes with it and her palm, head tilted upward facing the ceiling.
Instantly she felt disoriented, like she was both falling and standing, her sense of direction completely off. She felt sick to the stomach, like something was wiggling around, and felt fire flood her veins. In that moment her body was alight with an energy, the weight of exhaustion and tiredness brought on by a day's work lifted. The world spun once more, shifted, and, before she could tip over, was right again.
Releasing a breath she didn't know she held she took her hand away, dropping the mark on the bed with her other things, and turned to her mirror.
She almost didn't recognize herself, the imposing figure so different from her own form. Gone were the simple clothes she usually wore, replaced with a dark outfit of leather and heavy cloth. Leather boots rose to mid calf, two metal grieves somehow crafted into the material itself upon each shin. Her dark pants, bound tightly by a belt, were rumpled with folds, a loose material made of some kind of resistant cloth. Around her chest she wore a brown leather chest piece, with four brown belts tightly bound over it, a dark outer shirt, and a comfortable white undershirt. Her upper arms were covered in the same dark cloth, lower arms hidden by a pair of leather gauntlets with the same metal protection. A long coat with a flared high collar hung open around her frame, falling to just mid calf, with a belt running around her body like a bandolier, resting at her right shoulder. Finally, a cap completed her outfit, the front tipped sharply with sides that swept back to frayed ends, like wings of a bird. Her long curly hair, normally free to hang and sway, was tied into a tail, out of the way from distracting her.
The mark let her bring a little bit of the workshop back with her.
She took a moment to admire herself, looking over the person in front of her, so different and yet so familiar. The clothes and armor fit her well, as if they had been tailor made for her. Her frame, a tall and thin figure, looked somewhat attractive in that roguish sort of way. Most importantly, she looked like she meant business. No colorful outfit or iconic symbols, no flashy pieces or unique displays. No, this was the uniform of something so much more than just the game played between heroes and villains, more than simple desires of money, power, and control.
She could feel her blood rushing through her veins, the hot viscera calling out to her as she looked at the mirror.
Taylor Hebert had died in a locker filled with filth and contagion. This was who she was now; a dark shadow, a specter who would strike back at the monsters in the dark.
She was a hunter of those would would defile her city.
Taking a last look at the outfit she agreed with the color, something between a faded black and a dark gray. It would serve her well as she moved through the night, keeping her profile hidden. The messengers, when specifically prompted, could be very helpful. She had asked them for a disguise, something to keep her identity hidden, and they hadn't budged. Asking for something to protect her from harm, however, had made them forthcoming.
Quickly she moved back to her bed, boots lightly clicking on the bedroom floor, and retrieved her supplies, placing them in the various pockets inside her coat. The mark she stuck in the right outer pocket, just a moment out of reach. She might need to change back on the fly or something.
After a quick test of her buckles she made for the door, stopping for a moment as she crossed the mirror.
Right, forgot about that.
Taylor reached up to her neck and grabbed at a bit of cloth, a dark fabric that connected to her outer shirt. She pulled it up, wrapping the end just under the bridge of her nose, leaving her ears partially covered. She smiled behind the mask, a convenient feature of the outfit, appreciating how well it worked with the cap. The point, which rode slightly low, hung at her brow, focusing the attention to her exposed eyes, blazing green orbs that promised retribution.
She nodded with confidence before turning to the door.
She had a hunt to get to.