"My most loyal minions."

The pearled claws of a tyrant clacked over conquered floorboards, squeaking beneath the passage of his might.

"I have gathered you here today, on the greatest of days…"

A cool breeze swept the cloak about his shoulders, snapping in the wind like the bite of a whip, as the trusty old box fan Eda had placed in the living room whirred away.

"As we stand upon the edge of magnificent victory!"

An imperious paw pointed at their foes' gates, mighty cardboard parapets and sturdy Styrofoam walls countless inches thick, lurking on the horizon… of the coffee table's edge.

"They have shown weakness, and now, we shall show them no quarter!"

His commanding roar sprang out, leaving the ears of his enemies ringing with its passage.

"Go – attack!" The first of his brave battalion, the general's finest, flew from his great, windmilling fists on a majestic arc, slamming into the shaky fortifications of corrugated paper. "Serve your one true god with your lives!"

King belted out the most bone-chilling laugh he could utter, witnessing the glory of his devoted servants as they fell – literally – upon the fools that stood before him, raining down on their meager fortress with the wrath of a screaming god.

They advanced in waves, dashing themselves to pieces in His service as loyal soldiers marched forth, into the maw of war and glory in the name of their leader…

The fragile illusion shattered at the grating sound of Hooty's voice, echoing through the open panels of the front window as his loathsome head snaked about, soulless eyes locked onto King's gloating form stood amidst the fallen foot soldiers of the enemy bastion.

"Hey, d'you mind keeping it down in here?" The wretched demon grumbled, his lined features drawn into a facsimile of irritation. "I'm trying to write my memoirs, y'know, and it's pretty hard with all of the screaming going on!"

King squealed in rage at the interruption, turning his baleful gaze towards the intruding house demon, narrowed eyes promising harsh retribution.

"You don't even have hands, you miserable worm-tube!" Came his ferocious shriek, followed shortly thereafter by the arc of his final minion, tumbling through the air as its plush form slapped his shocked housemate in his stupid, flat face.

"I have dreams, King!" The writhing specter wailed, slinking back the way he came and leaving the tiny tyrant by his lonesome once more, little furred paws planted amongst the carnage of the day. Eda was gone, would remain so for a few hours at least; while she'd come to trust her littlest roommate with some of the less pressing tasks about the Owl House, there were certain things the old witch preferred to handle herself, including deliveries to particular neighborhoods in the surrounding towns.

King was no fool, for all that he was still a child – it was a poor idea to leave one's younglings uninformed of the dangers that surrounded them on the Boiling Isles, lest they be swallowed whole by forces greater than them, and that included several very poignant lessons on stranger danger that had stuck with the diminutive demon.

Frankly, the black-furred boy had little problem with this – it just meant he had more time for play, and less effort dedicated to the boring aspects of keeping their makeshift little household afloat. Though this did unfortunately result in him spending more time alone than he'd perhaps have wanted, a fact that he lamented on quieter days where Hooty was unwilling to cooperate and the crystal ball held nothing of note, leaving him to mock up his own amusement - as he'd already been doing for several hours.

Well…

King hesitated, eyes glancing towards the occupied couch, uncertainty marking the shy motion.

These days, even without Eda around during every daylight hour, he wasn't as isolated as he used to be.

The Guest was laid out along the length of their aging sofa, her bandaged skull cushioned atop a generous mountain of pillows to shelter her from further injury, a gentle rise and fall of her chest the only indicator she yet lived. Perhaps, had it been any other scenario, King would've complained to the Owl Lady about her choices on arrangement of furniture and visitor alike. He slept on the couch most nights, dang it, and he was rather particular about the where and how of that little fact!

But… staring at the slump of the scarred human's battered form, eyes inexorably drawn to the stump that marked the cessation of her right arm, nearly mummified by the gauze enshrouding her broken limbs and countless wounds…

A few evenings spent in the recliner were no big deal, King reasoned, tearing his gaze from the sight. It was still pretty comfy, anyway. And if it turned out to be a bigger pain in the butt than he'd bargained on – well, he could always go upstairs and cuddle up in Eda's nest for the end of the day.

Not that that patchy thing was liable to be any more comfortable than genuine furniture, but the point remained.

Turning his back to the slumbering woman that had stolen his spot from beneath him, surveying his domain once more, the young demon nodded at the glorious sight of strewn plushy bodies mixed among toppled foam blocks. Their ownership was his life's work, really, a marvelous assortment of the most tenacious and hardy fighters of fluff and stuffing that he could get his greedy claws on, all sworn to his name and house in eternal service.

Truly, war was his calling, and King was not one to back away from worthy battle.

His loyal army assembled themselves in the conquered castle, one by one, sat atop parapets of plastic cups and old parchment as they garrisoned their newfound prize. The walls were hauled back into place by winches and the generous efforts of their commander, magnanimous as King could be, reassembling the fort into something approaching its shattered glory. Stacked between tubes and sheets, ensconced beneath pillows angled to withstand a barrage for a thousand days and nights, the demon crawled from beneath the trappings of his works, scooting out of its hallowed halls as he made for the most dreaded of infernal pits, that which held the worst of the worst…

The Reject Bin, once dedicated to castoff clothing and coverings, now used to contain the most heinous of criminals – the stuffed animals that were too damaged to be worth playing with.

To play advocate to such devils was a horrid blasphemy in and of itself, but alas, King found his hand forced by the wretched whims of fate that day. Without anyone else about to stand before him and captain the ravaging hordes seeking to destroy all that he built, the gracious ruler would have to become his own worst enemy.

And thus, the assault resumed, its tale inverted as the marauding hordes sought to take from the brave defenders all that they had battled and bled for.

It was a slow but certain thing, having their forces whittled away piece by piece, taken out by stray artillery and flung bodies as the minutes passed. Each fallen form left King's heart aching, crying out for those that had been sundered in their loving service to his generous rule.

When he made to pull them from the rubble, though, to cast aside their limp bodies as the inevitable casualties of war, the little demon paused. He turned from the scene of conflict laid at his feet, all pretense forgotten for the moment, as the sprawled body of their Guest haunted his vision once more.

After a few seconds of hesitation, King stepped before the swindled couch, taking in the way the black-haired girl's fingers on her remaining hand curled subconsciously, twitching every so often as faded signals managed to pierce the malaise that struck her down. Eda hadn't gone into too much detail, speaking about the impromptu surgery she'd been launched into headfirst, spurred on by his discovery…

But King was no fool. And the cratered marks dotting her skull, twin eyes of hidden scar tissue already knotting as they healed over, very clearly pronounced the cause of her paralysis.

The boy made a decision, gazing upon the lanky human laid so low, some of his bravado returning with his pronouncement.

"My followers -" He tucked the first of his fallen into the crook of the sundered arm, where it fell against the Guest's narrow ribs, evident even in spite of saggy cloth and an athletic build. "You have fought bravely, and for that, you must be rewarded. Take heart in the arms of your Queen as you've earned a good day's rest!"

That singular toy was soon joined by its fellows, ones and twos at a time as the battle continued, until finally, in spite of their bravery… the castle fell once more, and history was repeated. King could only mourn the loss of his fort to the depraved minions of his imaginary foe, falling about the scattered makeshift playset with a dramatic groan, felled by the same forces that had taken his brave soldiers into the void.

A yawn forced itself from his jaw, pulling at his eyelids on the way skywards, and it was with a sly, groggy glance that he considered the open lap of his remaining companion where he had left it free of the countless plush dolls now snuggled in against her.

He caved without much of a second thought, leaping up into the girl's lap with a relieved sigh, curling about himself tightly as the King settled in atop his chosen throne.

She shifted with the motion, some unconscious reaction, and he held his breath at the rocking – before they both settled once again, and he allowed the lids to slip shut, settling in for the embrace of a lovely afternoon nap.

It was with some surprise, then, that he felt the ghost of fingertips graze his fur some minutes later. Frozen in place, eyes shot wide, King stared up at the shaking hand dangling over his expansive skull as it dragged itself past the thick curve of his horns, settling about his back with a glacial carefulness.

Slowly, so slowly he almost thought he was imagining the action, slim fingers covered in callouses and cuts stroked over his bent spine, twirling strands of silken black fur between the digits.

The motion lulled him back into the sweet haze of the heat that bore through the open window, and with the tension carefully brushed from his seated form, King slipped into a dreamless sleep with the sensation of caressing fingers moving back and forth over his flanks, mechanical and cautious in their passage.


Time passed, the world beyond her indefatigable prison continued spinning, and Taylor kept on fighting.

She strove for the brilliance of the breakthrough she'd accomplished once before, aided by the helpful appendages of the looming Queen Administrator, and the sensation of the stone giving galvanized her every motion, her struggles unending in the infinite twilight of that bizarre place.

Whenever the urge to relent crossed her mind, the nagging twist of a little voice telling her to slow down, to break from her exertions, a pulse of alien feeling would wash over her mind in a cool haze. Her Passenger, closer now than it had ever been, could sense the arc of electricity between her neurons, could read the fatigue that plagued them as it waxed and waned with their efforts. Every so often, the brush of that unfamiliar consciousness would touch upon the surface of the parahuman's senses, a featherlight parallel to the domination it had once held over her very being, where it whispered and murmured soundless beads of confidence to the unrelenting form of Taylor.

Once, when the monotony of her unchanging struggle stung too deeply, cutting into her patience and energy, the immense Shard of a god had even spoken to her directly in that insensate language of compressed data that Scion's damnable self had favored:

(ENCOURAGEMENT)

The message was not all too clear in definition, though Taylor could make out its intent well enough; she felt the detached echoes of an inhuman mind as it attempted to mimic the complex biochemical signatures of her own emotions, pressing upon her with waves of foreign determination and urgency.

She was so pathetically grateful, in that moment, for the support of the monster that had once threatened to consume her very soul. The girl could tell, through their healing connection, that the Shard meant her no direct harm – though that certainly hadn't mattered, in the hours leading to that final battle on the dusty plains of a dying world.

In the warped halls of that horrid void, Taylor opted to take what she could, and run with the consequences as they came.

Her faith was well rewarded when, sometime later, the flush of blood and contractions of flesh rippled down her left arm, the one she knew her physical form still sported in the waking world, the sucking maw of her prison gradually and grudgingly giving up its hold on the quaking limb. Drill-like feelers of the Queen Administrator stabbed into the rock, buying her the precious millimeters she needed to pull against the tide, twisting her hips and wrenching her shoulder as if she was throwing the punch to end all punches –

And finally, with a disgusting belch of wet stone and unearthly muck, her left hand saw the light of pseudo-day again.

A grim sense of validation flooded Taylor at the sight, teeth bared in a vicious grin of victory at the progress she made, turning the waking limb about as she inspected the scarred expanse of her own flesh. Eyes tracking the twirl of old wounds down her fingers and up to the elbow, running over ropy gnarls of healed flesh, intermixed with bands of twitching skin and specks of stone, moving upwards to her –

Wait. Something about that thought was off.

Taylor twisted her wrist back around, the intensity of her attention picking amongst the contours of her arm once more, searching for…

For the flecks of rock that pushed out of the meat of her body, sprouting like clusters of little moles on her arm, dotting their way up beyond the limits of her sight and past her shoulder from wherever they pierced her skin. Muscles trembled and twitched in tune with the faint pounding at the back of her freed skull, perpetual exhaustion taking its toll on Taylor as she muttered quietly, exasperatedly –

"What… what the fuck."

Another mystery, evidently. Just another question to mount the steadily growing pile, thrown atop without care since she'd first awoken in this forsaken place.

Questions compounded by the flickering visions she received, of that warm and lively home, where a bizarre old woman cared for her weakened body and a small, furry creature bounded about her ankles, asking questions in a high-pitched tone. There were the odd allusions to her species, an unfamiliarity with the way that it was said by the woman that spoke to a longstanding belief of differences between Taylor and herself. And all of that was to say nothing of the disturbing, looping form of the owl… thing that popped into her fuzzy view every so often, even leaning close to inspect her features when it caught sight of her feeble motions.

Frankly, Taylor felt that she could… perhaps use a bit more context for whatever state her proper body was currently in, as her mind floundered in limbo.

Were they parahumans, the same as herself, cast upon the seas of space and time as she had been? More rejects, abandoned in Cauldron's dash towards the apocalypse like so many others? Perhaps they belonged to another, stranger variant of her home world, where Earth was populated by the inhuman and unknowable. Was the bird-tube a construct, some biotinker's Frankenstein monstrosity meant to guard their precious lair, or was it merely a mindless beast?

Had their home escaped Scion's wrath, in the confusion and horror of the Gold Morning? Did they even know what had happened?

Did they know what she had done, there at the end of everything?

Taylor could not account for any of her own questions; there were too many unknowns, too much to consider for someone who could barely control their own battered body for more than a mere handful of moments at a time.

She gazed upon her ruined limb, the sole survivor of its pair, even as her physical eyes struggled to see the sun once more, catching sight of that strange, furry gremlin that lived with the old woman.

The only comparison the scarred parahuman could draw upon was that of Nilbog's hated monstrosities, renowned for their slavering inhumanity as much as their childish cult worship, dedicated in body and soul to the foul father that had birthed them unto the world. The small being skittering in and out of her view, though, seemed unlike anything she had personally set eyes upon before.

For all the horrors that she had borne witness to, Taylor couldn't claim that any of them had ever played with blocks and stuffed toys before, making up stories to themselves and acting out dramatic voices. Not even Bonesaw had done that, for all that the little bitch had striven for the perfected deconstruction of a young girl's countenance.

She watched, through half-lidded and faded eyes, as the toddling beast entertained itself with cardboard and plastic. An unexpected pang shot through her at the achingly familiar sight, recognizing the same symptoms of a household that loved beyond what it could afford, turning to constructing their own toys and games from the refuse of their wider world. Perhaps it was all a cruel trick of the illusion – perhaps the tinker that had crafted the being before her didn't believe their creation to be worthy of anything beyond token gestures of care, but… something about that worry failed to stick. In fact, the longer her wavering gaze stayed on that strange little thing, the more certain she became that whatever it – he – was, that the tiny beast was as far as could be from the insipid things once crafted by the Goblin King.

It honestly looked like he was… just a little kid, despite the fur on his body and the exposed, animalistic skull.

That thought was compounded by the boy's own actions as he slowly, but surely, covered her resting form in the strewn toys of his own making. A queen, he called her, in a regal and pompous tone while he shyly deposited his well-loved belongings in her care. They sat against her numbed flesh, swaths of cool cloth resting across her flat gut and limp limbs, as a mountain of fluff began to build around Taylor.

Eventually, the short creature admitted defeat to an invisible foe for an empty audience, swooning dramatically as he was left empty-handed, every toy once fallen about the floor now sharing the couch with Taylor. He seemed to ponder for a bit, a mischievous gleam in his glowing eyes, before deciding to mount the sofa – and her lap, curling into the warmth of her body with a happy little sigh that managed to tug at even her own calcified heartstrings.

She felt her constant wriggling slow, distracted by the movements of another world entirely, even as her throat grew tight with some ill-defined emotion. Taylor's fuzzed vision watched the peaceful rise and fall of the beast's chest as he fell into a light nap, comfortable and trusting as could be in her loose embrace, and for a moment she could not draw breath.

In that moment, her rebellious conscience bubbled to the surface, burping up flashes of Dinah Alcott's tiny, frightened face, left pale by withdrawal as it ravaged her mind.

She saw the relief in the girl's eyes, played out in her mindscape, the day she was lifted up from a hell of Taylor's own making.

She felt the leaden, deadened sensation of a heavy trigger pressed against her fingertip as she took aim at the shrinking form of a different young girl slung over a mass murderer's shoulder, dragging her to a fate surely worse than death – and the buck of the pistol as she fired a single, fateful shot.

Now, sat across her legs, Taylor held the life of another child in her grasp. And she had all the time in the world to think her wretched, wretched thoughts, alone in all the ways that mattered. Trapped in a body that could barely move, her only comfort an ancient monster from beyond the stars, and left to wonder which of the two of them was most deserving of that title.

It was not by design that no tears escaped her slack expression, frozen in the material world; even autonomous functions were left partially impotent by the slowly healing pieces of her brainstem.

But the shivering hand – free of its shell - that rose and fell, comforting the slumbering boy in her lap… that was a triumph.


Inevitably, in spite of their wariness over allowing such a thing to occur, it became Hooty's turn to care for their Guest one day, when all hands were needed on deck, even Owlbert's tiny wooden form.

Except, of course, for their ever-loyal doorman.

"Buh-bye, be sure to have some fun for me!" The house demon called to their retreating backs as the duo soared into the sky, sat astride the palisman's staff. Neither witch nor diminutive demon looked back, a fact that only slightly shattered Hooty's frail emotional state, as he slithered back to his post with a put-upon sigh.

While his job of defending the homestead from wildlife, inclement weather, and nosy coven scouts might have been a rather imperative task, it still often left him stranded with nothing to do, between brief bouts of excitement. A lack of limbs or fingers only worsened the issue; just about any kind of self-amusement he could accrue came purely from his own untamable genius, when put to the task. He'd invented so many games that a singular player could enjoy – things like 'Eat the Bugs,' 'Eat the Sticks,' and very rarely 'Eat the Hapless Coven Toadies.'

The last of his pastimes never resulted in a true victory for the moping avian entity; Eda did not like the idea of recent meals ending up in the interior of the house, no matter how rude they might have been to Hooty, or how harshly they attacked him. She tried to lecture him on the ethics of it at one point, something even he was cognizant enough to recognize as hilariously hypocritical, but eventually the two agreed that the mild trauma of being consumed by a giggling owl worm was enough of a punishment for the fools that wanted to try their luck with the infamous Owl Lady of Bonesborough and the matter was settled.

Though, that memory did remind him of the one positive change to his daily duties - and with a wriggle of excitement, Hooty retreated back into the mount upon the front door so he could sit level with the resting human girl, whom he had tentatively dubbed New and Bestest Friend.

Really, thus far, she'd been a model guest, past that bumpy start where she'd been bleeding all over his tiles and countertop. As far as the house demon figured, though, that was water under the bridge. Since then, their Guest had made a wonderful addition to their gaggle of housemates! She never defaced his walls or used all of the heated water running through the veins of plumbing that shot through the home; she never snapped and snarled at Hooty whenever he wanted to get involved with the regular happenings of the inner Owl House; and best of all, she'd even gotten the rest of his roomies to finally mellow out a bit.

All they needed was a constant lingering reminder of their own mortality to get them to lighten up a bit, funnily enough.

It was pretty cute, watching Eda dote on the comatose human, Hooty thought to himself. Getting that woman to show even an ounce of affection beneath her thickened veneer of sarcasm and caustic wit was a miracle in and of itself. Sadly, there was less that could be done about King's narcissism, but the house demon was willing to take what he could get in the grand scheme of things. The kid thought he was slick, waiting until their minder was out and about, leaving him free to spend time with the slumbering woman on their couch as he threw blankets over her body to keep her warm and curled up in her unresisting lap for naps.

Hooty knew the truth of it, though. He knew almost everything that happened within his walls – always watching, always listening…

Which was how he was so certain that the girl sat before him on the porch, ensconced in her usual old rocking chair, was the greatest companion a guy like him could ask for.

"I don't really have much in the way of things to do out here by myself," He informed her sleeping form. "But hopefully we can still have lots of fun together. Like telling stories to each other!"

The serpentine demon perked up at his own suggestion, enthusiasm gaining traction as the thought rang true.

"Oh, I have so many things to tell people! There's just never anybody to listen to them, y'know? It's so hard to hold onto trespassers for long – they get all wiggly and screamy whenever I try to tell them about my hopes and aspirations. It's weird!"

The black-haired woman didn't say anything to the contrary, her head lolling against the wooden backstop, so Hooty figured she must've been in agreement.

"But that's okay, because I have you here, hoot hoot." He snaked about her seated form, gently draping coils of feather and lumber over her thin body, resting his unblinking head against the warm curve of her shoulder. "And you'll never, ever leave me, right Best Friend? Which means it's story time."

And so, Hooty began weaving an epic tale of all that he had seen and done the day before, trapped in the door of the old house in the middle of nowhere. He recounted his brave battles against the flitting insects that dared to invade the sacred grounds of his territory, darting about as they tortured him with their aerial dance, leaving the aggrieved house demon to destroy them all – one by one – until none remained but himself.

When he ran out of the minutiae from days gone by, Hooty then turned to weeks, and eventually the months of the distant past, nattering on about the shifting seasons and temperamental plagues that fell from the sky on occasion. He made certain to recall every single detail he could for every day, every hour, every minute of his time as the steward of the Owl House.

After all, with his newfound partner lain fallow and blind, how else would she ever know of the world they inhabited together?

Eventually, though, the tide of chatter could not be sustained, and Hooty's words faltered, taking his attention with them. In their place, he opted to merrily describe himself and his desires, rolling about the dusty yard with glee while the manic demon poured his heart out to the unresponsive human, sat upon her pauper's throne.

There was just… something so familiar and imposing about her, even in the grips of a dreamless sleep, some quality that left Hooty feeling as if he'd finally found kinship with someone in a long, long while. Perhaps it was the insectile twitching that her limbs performed from time to time, or the way he could imagine her features perfectly paired with thick glasses, gifting her a goggling, fly-eyed appearance that appealed to the wiggling bug demon that watched over her now.

Whatever it was, he was more than happy to accommodate the strange, silent girl, even if she could not reciprocate in kind.

And so, when he grew tired even of dirtying his lengthy form, an action that would inevitably force his roommates into scrubbing the entirety of Hooty's self and leaving him feeling so wonderfully clean, the demon puttered and pondered about the lawn on how best he could show his appreciation to the newest member of their home.

It came to him in a flash, as he roamed the edge of the property, and he was quick to lunge into action. Snaps of his beak severed thin green stems, his collection carefully curated to weed out anything that might be dangerous for a witch or human to handle, as the snaking worm brushed across the length of the lawn. He returned after a few minutes of gathering supplies, spitting them upon the porch with a hacking cough, before setting to work.

It was a delicate thing, weaving snapped pistils and leafy fronds together into a true work of art, but the effort had sharpened his waning interest and so, Hooty set himself to his personal challenge. Each bud was delicately woven amongst its fellows, before being similarly installed in the tresses of his companion's hair, each band crisscrossing as they joined arms to craft a greater whole.

The sun was soaring high in the sky by the time he was done, Eda and King due to return at any moment, and so Hooty retreated with a pleased grin to inspect his work.

"All done! There you go, bestie. You look fantastic, if I do say so myself!"

A thorny crown of flowers sat atop her head, dressed in winking blues and reds and yellows, each of the dangling sprouts resting upon her brow in a picture of serene ladyship. Basking in the brilliance of their world's star far above, dappled by the porch's shadows and left peaceful by circumstance, Hooty's companion looked the piece of an empress to his wide, blackened eyes.

And as he stared at her slack features, gazing at his handiwork, the house demon's keen vision caught the moment the corner of her mouth ticked upwards and an exhalation of air shot out – not a grin, not even anything approaching a smirk as her lips refused to fully move, but he knew in that moment that she was aware of his actions.

Hooty crowed with victory at the sight, giggling maniacally with the vindication of his work.

"You love it, you love it, you love it! Oh, bestest buddy, I'm so happy Eda brought you home."

When the remainder of his housemates found themselves back within the safety of their shared space once more, none of them believed his tale of wondrous friendship, in spite of the evidence still tangled in the remnants of the girl's beautiful hair.

But that was okay – because Hooty knew the truth, and that was all that mattered.


The last thing Taylor ever thought she'd find, upon waking in the liminal boundaries of her spiritual gaol, was a reason for amusement.

And yet –

"Heh."

It was a single chuckle, wheezing and weak, drawn from a soul that had had little reason for joy for so very long. And yet, beset by the fragmented visions of her splintered self where she sat, trapped beyond the confines of that space In Between, Taylor couldn't help herself.

The imprisoned parahuman couldn't tell if her own laugh was bitter to her ears, as she watched the strange form of the owl-like creature wiggle back and forth, his incessant yammering made bearable by the clear enthusiasm he carried.

Was it the acrid taste of old anger she felt, burning the back of her throat, as she watched a lonely chatterbox prattle on with too many words and too much vigor for the people that were supposed to care for him? Was it sympathetic pity on Taylor's tongue, as she witnessed the signs of isolation and creeping worries play out in the too-loud-too-fast speech from the strange thing before her?

She didn't know. The concerns she'd first felt, witnessing that weird entity's existence, had all but disintegrated with first spew of boundless enthusiasm directed at her unresponsive form. All the girl could think as she battered at her incorporeal chains, hidden from the world, was –

Emma would've had a field day with this.

Somehow, that thought was funnier than the last - causing a second pathetic giggle to leave her. And when she experienced the weight of gathered flowers fall atop her scalp, saw the pride in the beady eyes of her odd bedfellow as he beheld his handiwork, she could feel her body respond to the tiny ember of warmth and amusement filling her breast. He witnessed its passing, as well, based on how overjoyed the owl worm became when her chapped lips twitched and her diaphragm wheezed.

For the first time in a long time, Taylor brought a genuine smile to another being's lips, and she found that she didn't quite mind the butterflies that fluttered in her stomach at the sight.

The gleeful look in that strange bird's gaze was enough to keep her fighting for that much longer, clawing and scratching at the walls towards the distant daylight of freedom, far beyond.


AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Chapter and notes originally posted on 5-4-2023.

This is a little maneuver I like to call, "Emotional Parkour."

Jokes aside, something that I really want to explore with this story is the characterization of post-canon Taylor and her mindset following everything she's become responsible for, especially regarding guilt and self-reflection - both things that she struggled with handling throughout Worm. I feel like it's an aspect of the character we don't get to see often enough in Post-GM fics, with a notable portion of them mostly blowing off its repercussions on Taylor's mental state because she's immediately given a new fight to worry about, with new abilities and enemies. Definitely nothing inherently wrong with that, but here, I pose a question to you:

With her wounds still fresh, stuck in a place where she's forced to fight for her life every waking moment, and with nothing else to do but think on the reminders of her mistakes surrounding her, how would our favorite war criminal react?

My answer would be: "Probably not very well." And while Taylor is destined for bigger and better things, including not being an angst-ridden mess all the time, that idea of being forced to finally face her issues because of the people around her will be something we'll be visiting regularly.

On that note, we'll be seeing Luz next chapter.

Thanks again to everyone who's read, commented and liked!