Taylor's costume definitely didn't look pretty, more like a mismatched patchwork quilt than anything, but it was otherwise excellent. She was well insulated from the cold, and still her body could breathe pretty easily, so she didn't overheat either.
She wouldn't particularly believe she had made this within a few hours, mostly because the measurements were perfect and didn't restrict any sort of movement. But also because the idea that she had made this outfit didn't really make too much sense.
Her understanding of Tinkers was mostly focused on their technology, but she did know that other fields of science qualified. The distinction between a Tinker and a Thinker, was effects that were external or internal, as in if the superpower lent itself towards making something, it was probably a Tinker.
Thinkers were mostly just 'smart' in different ways. They focused on using information and knowledge without actually creating anything. Of course, she hadn't taken a class for parahuman distinctions or scrawled the internet for clarification, so most of her knowledge was second hand information she haphazardly complied.
Whatever the case, the idea of a Tinker tinkering with clothes didn't make too much sense to her, she probably would have understood it better if there had been some sort of electronic gadgets involved. But there wasn't, the material of her outfit didn't do anything special, and it had no built in features.
Her boots didn't make too much sound as she stalked over crowded rooftops, and gazed at her surroundings in search of something that gave away the location of a junkie's Workshop.
She didn't really have a clue otherwise, the capes of the Merchants didn't really belong anywhere, they just sorta blended in with the homeless and destitute. All she really knew was that as long as no one else laid claim, they had probably settled down there.
Beggars and hookers sparsely lined the streets and alleyways, sleeping in cardboard boxes and hollering at passing cars.
When her fear of being out in an unfamiliar area at night faded, she found herself feeling out of place. Just wandering around and hoping to stumble upon a bright neon sign indicating Squealer's Workshop, hadn't produced any results, and just watching the less fortunate was souring her mood.
"If you want more, then pay more, it's that simple."
"But I'm paying the same as last time, why am I getting less than last time?"
Two voices barely rose above the low city sounds a short ways off. As they argued loudly, during their heated exchange, Taylor quietly snuck over in their direction.
"I got other customers, if you don't have the cash to buy more, then don't waste my time." A man, dirty and disheveled, pushed away an even dirtier man into a pile of trash bags.
The building she was on top of was only a single story high, so the men weren't that far away. If they jumped they could probably reach the edge.
Reaching in her right pocket, she withdrew her flashlight and shone a blinding cone over the two men. Their reactions were a bit different than she anticipated, they panicked instead of freezing.
One man leapt away deeper into the alley, smashing into trash cans, and the dealer threw his hands up desperately and shouted. "I'm white! Don't fire!"
A moment of confusion passed, but Taylor decided not to dwell on it, this dealer had seemingly completely surrendered, she could focus on that. "Where is Squealer's Workshop?" She hoped her voice didn't crack or waver, her heart was beating a bit too loudly for her to fully hear herself speak.
"Two blocks left and three blocks up from here! The green warehouse!" The dealer shouted as he kept his gaze down to the ground.
The other man was trying to crawl away without being noticed.
Taylor withdrew her stun gun from her left pocket and took aim. She did appreciate the prompt answer, but she hated drug dealers a whole lot more. Drugs in general were just below bullying on her personal scale of things she hated.
Lives and families could be, were, ruined by them, and yet that didn't stop the dealers from selling them. People's minds and bodies fell apart, withered by drug abuse and addiction, all for a short high and a quick buck.
Unfortunately, it wasn't like doing anything to the Merchants would stop the sale of drugs, the ABB and E88 also sold them.
With a crack and buzz, an arc of electricity swam for the dealer. His body spasmed slightly as he fell over unconscious. While the arc was still present, she whipped it over to the crawling man. Stray strands of electricity did branch out when it came near the metal of trash cans and dumpsters, but the majority of it shocked the man until he too went limp.
She carefully climbed down the rooftop, checked to see if the men were still breathing, then she took out their drugs and spilled them over the ground. As she left, she was also richer by 820, having decided to recuperate her expenses. She wasn't broke, but she couldn't make any big purchases anytime soon.
She had already decided that her next project, barring any urgent or necessary tools, she wanted to see what she could do with a laptop and a desktop. Though, if she did find Squealer's place, and snagged some tools or materials, she would probably have to shift her priorities and see what she could manage.
With a clear destination, her mind was freed up from just observing her surroundings, and she began wondering just what else she could be making. Her power didn't provide any sort of instructions or anything similar, and so far she had just been winging it, hopping from project to project.
She knew why, but she really hadn't stopped herself. If she wasn't troubled by anything, then she probably wouldn't have built anything beyond her stun gun. She just needed to confirm she had powers, and then if nothing had pushed her for more, she would've spent an untold amount of time writing down her ideas, an outline for her future.
And yet she didn't, she rushed through everything, now she was almost out of materials and she needed more if she wanted to keep rushing. Each time she built something, gave herself over to the current running through her brain, she felt better afterwards. A little less troubled, refreshed as if her issues weren't really hers.
Reality was less pleasant by comparison, her school bullies were seemingly testing the waters, having apparently given up her grace period and were ramping back up to regular levels. The incident during lunch was still the big thing, but it was the flathead thumbtack that stood out the most in her mind.
Taylor could handle a girl being rude, hitting her, and acting weird, but leaving something on her seat anonymously was truly troubling. It was just the start, the spark of something bigger. Although she hated her bullies, mainly the Trio, just a step behind them she hated the shifting faceless crowd of onlookers who laughed at, or ignored, her suffering.
She could deal with the bullies who spoke and acted in her face, at least she could write down those incidents and blame someone, but when the crowd of students blurred together and mocked her behind her back, she didn't know what to do.
Who would she blame when she didn't know who was responsible? When not even she could serve as a witness? She already faced the issue of having no evidence or people to support her claims, but at least she could pinpoint the people behind her harassment.
It was so easy to picture anyone of the Trio as a queen bee, but she knew they didn't actually have any real influence out of their circles, their cliques. It wasn't like a TV show or a movie, there was no such thing as the most popular girls in school, the best real life could mimic was a vague outline of social hierarchy.
And even then, Winslow High had substantial issues with gangs that came with religious and racial issues, additionally they also had to deal with rampant drug abuse. Everything further blurred the lines and boundaries that teenagers were supposed to unconsciously agree upon.
The most common piece of advice from older students was simple: just keep your head down. Don't involve yourself with any trouble and focus on yourself.
Emma seemingly circumvented any issue with standing out because she had a lawyer for a father, and she was friends with Sophia.
As a black girl at a school with fledgling white supremacists, she did have to deal with some issues, but those didn't make themselves known after the second month in their first year. Sophia had been cornered in a hallway and attacked, but she dodged all their hits and had kicked them in their balls in retaliation.
Since no one was severely hurt, and because she had been ganged up on, she was only given a week of suspension. No one picked on her anymore, besides a few whispered remarks when she wasn't around.
Madison mostly went unbothered because she played up a cute harmless image of innocence, and anyone looking to take advantage of her would have to deal with Emma's dad and Sophia.
It still didn't fit, or answer any of her concerns, in fact it hardly mattered to Taylor. All she knew was that her bullies could make a scene harassing her, and the bystanders would only see the outcome, her as an acceptable punching bag.
You wanna be friends with the Trio? Call Taylor a slut too ugly to be fucked. Call her a bug eyed frog stretched upright. Stick your foot out in front of her path. Dump your trash on her desk. Shove her if she's in your way, and even if she's not. Ridicule and mock her within earshot. Make her life miserable at every junction.
A tension was straining her muscles, a current was buzzing in her brain, she needed immediate relief, but she couldn't build anything right now, so that left one other option.
Her simmering anger, her boiling rage, the pent up emotions she kept suppressed as she was bullied. She was certain one day she would break, though unfortunately she was also certain that she would most likely harm herself before she took out her rage on others.
A green warehouse with black tinted windows was just a street across from her.
Her heightened emotional state was almost on the verge of being a panic attack. Her mind was trapped within her memories of being harrassed and made to experience a living hell, the threat of her bullies wasn't present yet she could never feel safe.
A paranoia, the sort that made her eyes dart across faces as she walked down the hallways of her school never left her. The sort that made her worry about every corner she turned and every action she took, that sort of paranoia had ruled over her mind.
Her lungs felt heavy, like she was breathing in heavy gas, and her blood felt like boiling molten lead. Her mind ached, her vision wavered, she was in danger. Pushed to her limits, even when she was left alone, her own mind could never accept the possibility she was safe.
The current was zapping her thoughts now, building up in pressure and squeezing against her brain.
Panic attacks were caused by perceived threats that weren't really present, the mind confusing the body with conflicting information. So she simply needed to change gears, her bullies: the Trio and faceless crowds weren't here, but the Merchants were.
Parahumans, villains, superpowered criminals. A man, a man, a mask, it was covering his nose and eyes, he was turned away and pissing on a wall.
Flight or fight, it wasn't a choice. If Taylor didn't want to be consumed by the current rampaging in her mind, she needed to release it, she had to silence her worries, expel the emotions she kept locked away. With wavering steps, she stumbled forth, her mind a haze.
A man in a blue suit jolted, a cry cut short and piss splashing everywhere as he spasmed and collapsed. Skidmark was down, just two more to go.
Adrenaline had sped up her already rushed mind, but it simultaneously slowed down her thoughts. She needed to walk, to move, to fight, she needed to consider her every step, because now she wasn't dealing with schoolyard bullies, she was dealing with real scum.
Careful steps, each made with precision, led her over to the open door of the warehouse. Loud screeching could be heard, the sound of metal screaming and more metal scrapped against it, shooting off a shower of bright orange sparks.
Taylor could barely see a sliver through the door at the work going on inside. A woman, with dirty blond hair bunched up in a loose ponytail, wearing a welder's mask, a white tank top that squeezed her large bust, and cargo pants cut short with a satchel filled with tools hanging on her waist, was inside.
Black marks of oil and grease littered her exposed skin and clothes, and in gloved hands she was holding a blowtorch with her left and a large power drill with her right as she worked on a vehicle. A nearby set of speakers was blasting a rap song that was barely audible beneath the sounds of her work.