Massacre 2.2
The slacks could probably be salvaged, and her coat.
And the hat, of course.
Her shirt was a lost cause, though.
Taylor stared into the bathroom mirror.
Her hair was disheveled and sweaty, wild after being let loose from the tie. Her shirt was a bloody pile of shredded fabric in the sink.
The right side of her chest was a mess of angry red lines spider-webbing from a ragged circle, the impact point of Victor's sniper shot. Her left shoulder was peppered with irregular scars, evidence of her rushed arrogance in the heat of the hunt.
Her eyes were bright, burning under her loose curls as she gripped the sink hard enough to risk the porcelain. Her mark stood out stark on her forehead, just peeking between the matted strands.
She had never felt so alive.
Part of her knew it was wrong. Victor's broken body was in a bag in the basement. A total of twelve men, ripped to bloody pieces by her saw and pistol and bare hands.
She should feel something, about that. Sorry, maybe, or sad. But all she felt was satisfaction, and a mild irritation at so much wasted blood.
It was too late to second guess herself now.
The sound of the shower turning on seemed too loud, in the quiet.
The hot water ran red and her hair hung heavy against her back as the evidence of her hunt was washed away.
…
"Morning, Taylor, I'm heading- Jesus Christ!"
In hindsight, she should have broached the topic to her father more gently. This was not the ideal way for him to find out about her activities.
Taylor looked up from where she was carefully arranging the necessary tubes and receptacles to harvest Victor's blood. In addition to the blood flowing from his veins, she put a plastic tub under him to catch the drips.
Hanging the corpse from the ceiling had been necessary, but she knew that it lent a macabre vibe to the entire affair.
His separated legs and arm were easier to manage, each draining into their own pans.
"Don't worry, he was a Nazi," Taylor said.
"That… you…" her father gripped the banister with white knuckles. "You killed him."
"Yes. This was Victor, one of the Empire's capes," Taylor said.
"You killed him."
"He probably wouldn't have agreed to give me all of his blood if I asked nicely," Taylor frowned.
"No, no, Taylor, we need… we need…" Danny trailed off, seeming unsure of what to say next.
Taylor understood. It was one thing for him to know that his daughter was a blood Tinker. It was quite another to see the work in progress.
Plus, she hadn't actually talked to him about her plans. Maybe she should have.
"I told you that I was going to-"
"You didn't tell me you were going to kill people!" Her father yelled, cutting her off.
"They killed me! Who cares if some of the scum of the earth dies with me," Taylor slammed her hand down on the workbench and the glassware clinked ominously.
"I care! And not because they died, but because you're the one who killed them," Danny ranted. "You can't just… it's not…"
"If not me, then who? He's a fucking Nazi! Who knows how many countless lives he and his gang have ruined? At least this way, his death is useful," Taylor said, gesturing at pieces of Victor scattered around the lab.
"That doesn't make it better! You can't justify murder just because you want blood for your experiments!" He exclaimed.
"We'll have to agree to disagree, because I'm justifying it just fine," Taylor said.
"Taylor-"
"No, Dad, I know. I know it's gruesome, and horrible. But I need to figure out the designs in my head. I need to understand my dreams. And this is the only way. I'm limiting myself to hunting monsters, beasts, like the Empire and the ABB. Isn't that enough?" She was shouting by the end.
"I just… it's…" Danny closed his eyes and clenched his fists, taking several deep breaths as the silence stretched between them.
"I don't want this for you, Taylor… you shouldn't have to do any of this," he said eventually.
"I shouldn't have died either," she said coldly. "But it still happened."
It was a low blow, but she wasn't going to stop on his account.
His lips thinned, but he nodded. His eyes kept getting drawn back to the hanging corpse.
"Is he the only one?" He asked sadly.
"No."
"How many?"
"Twelve."
His breath hitched again.
"I'm worried about you, Taylor," he sighed.
Now, it was her turn to nod.
"I'm… I'm a bit worried about me, too," she said.
"Can we talk more when I get home?" he asked warily.
"Yeah. Yeah, I think that's okay," Taylor said.
Her father turned and started back up the stairs.
He glanced down at her over his shoulder.
"No running away?" Danny said softly.
Taylor cracked a grin.
"No calling the PRT," she said.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay," she replied.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Taylor turned back to her project. The blood continued to drain and fill her various beakers and buckets.
"I think he'll come around, don't you, Victor?" she asked idly while she worked.
The corpse didn't answer. Obviously.
She would be even more worried if it had.
…
It took a while, to fully drain, process, and catalogue the body.
Taylor didn't know for sure if every part would be useful to her, but her power was a bit vague on the details in regards to future projects.
So she saved… most of him.
The basement took on an even more disturbing atmosphere, with the jars of preserved organs lining the walls.
Her focus, though, was on the blood.
It dripped, concentrated and twisted by her devices, into the waiting vial.
This concoction was a sizable investment. Almost half of the parahuman blood she had collected, into this single vial.
She hoped that it would be worth it. Her power didn't tell her everything.
It should enhance her. Enlighten her. Bring her that much closer to realizing her goals. Unlock and clarify more complex designs, like a trade, as her humanity slipped.
In theory.
A sharp click sounded over the quiet and the drips as Taylor slid the vial home in her injector.
She tugged her shirt back, exposing the lattice of scars on her chest.
It felt fitting, for some reason.
Before she could lose her nerve, Taylor slammed the injector into her heart, driving the concentrated ichor through her bloodstream.
Silver stars exploded behind her eyes and she gasped as the tempered blood coursed through her. It burned with every stuttering heartbeat, becoming part of her.
Her mind expanded, her pulse pounding in her ears.
Our eyes are yet to open.
She could feel something, on the very edge of her awareness. Something unknowable, and alien.
Taylor slumped forward into the workbench, barely catching herself on the edge. Her injector clattered to the floor, the empty vial shattering against the concrete. Her breath came in sharp pants between clenched teeth.
Eventually, slowly but surely, the shudders began to subside.
Breathing became easier. The knot in her stomach loosened.
It was difficult to parse the sensations sparking within her mind, but she was finally able to begin to pick apart the strange experience.
She could feel pieces of her that hadn't been present before. Just the barest hints of a remembrance, a ghost that left bits and pieces of lessons behind without the actual memories that learned them.
Martial arts. Firearms. PRT procedures. Espionage.
Cordon Bleu cooking?
It may have been a shadow of what Victor had, but it was far better than nothing.
Additionally, the unholy designs and ministrations that danced behind her eyes were clearer, some of the fog starting to drift away.
Her power wanted to be used.
Taylor opened her eyes and looked around the dim room.
I'm going to need a bigger workshop.
Maybe her dad would be less concerned about her tinkering if it wasn't happening in his basement?
Her eyes fell on the remaining supply of Victor's blood.
The process to induce crystallization was lengthy, and she didn't have all of the necessary equipment yet.
I wonder if Panacea would steal a centrifuge for me?
Probably not.
She could ask, though. At the very least, the healer might know where to buy one.
Or steal one from someone who wouldn't miss it. She had mentioned Medhall, last time.
That's an idea.
Taylor returned to her work as her plan started to take shape.
She would still make a trip to visit Panacea, though. She was fun to talk to.
…
Taylor hummed while she worked. Things didn't seem as worrying, with the evening sun filtering through the blinds.
The front door opened and she heard the floorboards creak as her father made his way down the hall.
"Hey, Taylor," he said, surprise coloring his tone. "That smells really good. Did your powers come with a cooking component?"
Taylor laughed while he turned to hang his coat up. He was more right than he knew.
"Actually, yes, in a way," she smiled and stirred the sauce currently simmering on the stove. "Although I resent the implication."
He smiled back for a moment before his expression dropped.
"Is our… um… guest… still downstairs," he asked hesitantly.
"Some of him. Just the useful bits. I got rid of the rest," Taylor said casually.
"Do I even want to know?" Danny pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Probably not," Taylor admitted.
"Okay."
He sat down at the table and ran a hand over his face.
"Okay. Just… warn me next time, please? I'd rather talk about it before I find bodies hanging from the ceiling. Even if it's necessary… sometimes," he said.
That was pretty reasonable, all things considered.
"I've been thinking about trying to find a bigger lab," Taylor said, then hurried to continue when her father's eyes snapped over to her. "Not leaving, I promise, I just might need more space. I want to build a forge, and the basement isn't exactly a great place for it. Ventilation, and whatnot."
Danny raised an eyebrow.
"A forge?" he said.
"Yeah. To make bigger and better weapons. Plus, it will make it easier to make some of my own equipment," Taylor said as she checked the progress of the tenderloin in the oven.
"You're making weapons? I thought that blood was your thing."
"I can have multiple things," Taylor grinned. "But yeah, I made my weapons, too. How do you think I took care of our… guest?"
"I've been trying my best not to think about it, thanks for asking," her father said wryly.
"Well, so far I've just made my saw cleaver, and my pistol," Taylor continued.
"You made a gun? Also… a saw… you know what, I actually don't want to know," Danny shook his head.
Taylor chuckled while she got their plates ready.
"Anything exciting at work?" She asked, mainly just to keep him talking. She didn't want him to retreat back into his shell, or start freaking out about her murder spree.
"Now that you mention it, everyone was gossiping about a terrible cape brawl near downtown," Her father shot her a look. "Apparently, it looked like a wild animal ripped a bunch of Empire guys to pieces."
"Weird," Taylor said, mimicking his mild tone. "Couldn't have happened to better people."
"I know I'm going to regret this, but you didn't leave any evidence behind, did you?" Danny asked.
Taylor shrugged.
"I wore gloves, and my bullets are made of my own blood-"
"I'm sorry, what-"
"-so the only thing I left behind was one of my blood bags," Taylor continued despite the interruption. "And a bunch of my blood, I guess."
Her father just stared at her across the table.
"Why… a bunch of your blood?" He asked warily.
"I got shot a few times," Taylor said as she chewed her roast beef.
"You got-"
"It's fine, I fixed it. It barely even scarred."
That part was a lie, but he didn't need to know that. Besides, she liked the scars.
He didn't seem to know what to say. That was better than yelling, at least.
"Speaking of which, I need a couple new shirts. Because, you know, bullet holes."
Danny sighed again. He'd been doing that a lot, recently.
…
Amy rummaged through the fridge for something quick and easy to throw together before her evening shift at the hospital.
It was always hit or miss. Some days, Carol was big into the whole 'we eat dinner as a family' idea, and others it would be takeout for weeks at a time. Not that she would ever acknowledge the inconsistency. That would require a smidge of self-reflection, which was not in Carol's vocabulary.
Whole wheat bread, which didn't even belong in the fridge, and an entire head of broccoli. Joy.
Maybe Vicky would be willing to stop for fast food on the way.
"...Sarah's worried. A new arrival or trigger murdered eleven Empire members downtown, and…"
Carol's words drifted in from the living room, catching Amy's attention as she closed the fridge.
She wandered closer to the open archway leading into the next room, hoping to hear more without Carol noticing her.
"...according to the report, the victims were violently maimed, premortem. The PRT is assuming parahuman involvement, given the nature of the injuries," Carol continued. "They're still processing all the evidence, but apparently the perpetrator left a generic blood donation bag hooked up to one of the victims? Unusual…"
Amy backed away as ice ran through her.
It couldn't be a coincidence.
Was Hunter… hunting Nazis?
It shouldn't be a surprise, in hindsight. Despite her playful demeanor, the hat girl was entirely too confident.
She was dangerous.
And a villain, to boot. She promised Amy that the equipment wasn't for villainous activity, and then she goes on a killing spree?
Amy ground her teeth as she made her way quickly upstairs. She didn't want to talk to Carol right now.
Not that that was an unusual occurrence. It wasn't like she ever really wanted to talk to Carol.
There was one person she wanted to talk to right now, even though she shouldn't.
Well, two people. As usual.
Why did shit like this always happen to her?
She could barely make it through a normal conversation with her favorite person without her pervasive obsession raising its ugly head.
And now the only other decently interesting distraction she had was probably a mass-fucking-murderer.
Fuck.
Amy flopped down on her unmade bed and stared at the ceiling.
She was definitely taking her breaks on the roof tonight. She needed a cigarette, or ten. And maybe, Hunter would stop by, and Amy could give her a piece of her mind. Or cancer.
Yeah. Great plan, Amy.
Shut up.
…
Taylor wandered through the Trainyards under the waning moon. It was still fairly early in the evening, so she wasn't alone in the broken streets. But no one really paid attention to a lone figure in a long coat and scarf, hat pulled low over her eyes.
Even if the coat had bullet holes in it.
She wore a dark sweater and black jeans under the tattered overcoat since she was out of white shirts and her slacks were still in the wash. Her scarf was mostly clean, although the blood splatter left irregular stains all along it.
For now, Taylor was just scoping out potential workshop locations. There were an abundance of abandoned buildings left to rot when the shipping industry dried up, but she didn't want to just pick a random shell and start working.
She needed somewhere big enough that her modifications wouldn't be immediately noticed, and sturdy enough that it wouldn't collapse on her head in a storm.
Taylor didn't want to take too long on her walk, though. She still wanted to drop by and see Panacea before the moon rose too high.
The winter wind whipped down the cracked, industrial roads. She put her hands in her pockets while she walked.
After two more turns, she smiled behind her scarf.
Set back from the road, behind a desiccated lawn covered in decaying cars, sat the remains of an abandoned hospital.
It was perfect.
I'll be back for you later.
…
Luck was on her side. A robed figure in red and white already leaned against the railing of Brockton General when she landed lightly on the rooftop.
"So… come here often?"
Okay, that was definitely lame, but Panacea had opened their last conversation by insulting her hat. This was tame by comparison.
The healer's shoulders tensed and she turned halfway towards her, frizzy curls spilling out from under her hood.
"Was it you?" Panacea asked flatly.
Straight to the point, then.
"Yes."
The silence stretched.
"You lied to me," she said.
That wasn't what Taylor was expecting her to say.
"I didn't. Not that I remember, anyway," Taylor pursed her lips behind her scarf.
Panacea scoffed and finally turned around, leaning back against the railing. The orange tip of her lit cigarette dangled between her fingers.
"You said you weren't a villain," the healer said. "You promised."
"I'm not."
"I'm pretty sure there's a pile of bodies in the morgue that would disagree," Panacea snorted.
"They were Nazis," Taylor said with a shrug, even though she knew where this was going.
"That doesn't make it okay!" Panacea hissed, taking a step forward. "We're supposed to be better than them. That's the whole fucking point!"
"We are!" Taylor said, matching her. "Kill one murderer, and the number of murderers in the world stays the same. Kill twelve murderers, and the number goes down by eleven."
"That's not how it works, and you know it!"
"Do I?" Taylor raised an eyebrow under her hat. "I find it distinctly difficult to feel bad about hunting monsters. If I had killed them while defending an innocent they were trying to murder, would it still be so wrong?"
"Don't…" Panacea's voice was low and poisonous. "Don't try to justify your own murders to me."
"Fine. Then what if their deaths could mean something, bring about something good?" Taylor said.
She hadn't intended to bring this up, but for some reason she really wanted Panacea to believe her.
Taylor held up a blood vial.
"I need blood for my work. And it's better to take it from Nazis than innocents, or donations intended for victims," Taylor said.
"What is that?" Panacea said, stepping forward again, almost involuntarily.
"A present. I figured that the world's best healer should double check my work."
Taylor held it out to her. They were close, now.
Panacea reached for it, looking up at her with her hand outstretched. Taylor caught her eyes, under the hood.
She had always thought that brown was a boring color, but she had always been wrong. The eyes under the hood were anything but boring.
Sad, and tired, but also alight with inner fire and acid. Conflicted, unresolved chocolate depths.
She was lost, for a moment.
Long enough to miss that Panacea didn't take the vial, and instead reached up her coat sleeve to grip her wrist, above the glove.
Touching her skin.
Her body froze, muscles and tendons going taught against her will.
"I should hand you over to the PRT," Panacea hissed, stepping into her until their faces were only a foot apart. "I should shut down your organs or cut off the nerves to your arms and legs so you can't hurt anyone else."
Taylor kept her stare level, burning onyx boring into unsteady chocolate.
She could still speak, despite Panacea's control over her.
"Do it, then," Taylor said lowly, steady and resolute. "Take what you want, and make no apologies."
"I can't," Panacea said, her voice strangely broken despite technically being in control of the situation. "I'm not like you."
"You could be."
They stood in silence for a long time.
"FUCK!" Panacea suddenly yelled, releasing her and turning sharply to pace across the rooftop. "Why are you like this? How can you just stand there knowing that I could melt your fucking organs? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Taylor couldn't help but smile.
"I'll tell you if you get me a centrifuge," she said.
"No! No, I'm not stealing any more shit for you, you… villainous… murdering… fuck," Panacea shouted again turning around the grip the railing with unnecessary force.
Taylor wandered over and leaned against the railing next to her. The quiet stretched.
"Did you feel the scars?" Taylor asked quietly.
Panacea glanced sideways at her with narrowed eyes.
"Sure. You enjoy carving shit into your forehead?"
"Not that scar," Taylor chuckled.
"Whatever. Yeah, you got shot, right? In the lung? I'm surprised you're walking," Panacea said.
"I got shot yesterday evening, fighting the Empire."
"So you heal quickly. Brute rating. Nothing too crazy about that," Panacea said. She pulled out another cigarette.
"I'm not a Brute. I'm a Tinker."
It took a moment, for the pieces to click. Taylor saw the moment that her eyes widened.
"Your tech… the needles… that vial…" Panacea floundered.
"Yeah," Taylor said. "My work can heal people. It can fix pretty much anything, from what I can tell. It's not perfect, and it leaves scars, but…"
"Why…" Panacea lowered her head, her face hidden by her hood and her hair. "Why couldn't you just be a hero, then? Just help people? Why all the…"
She trailed off again.
"It's not that simple."
"The fuck it is!" Panacea growled, raising her head to stare into Taylor's eyes again. "You don't get to take something like that, a power like that, and just… fucking waste it!"
The healer stormed away, pacing back and forth across the dim rooftop.
"You don't-" Taylor started.
"Shut up!" Panacea yelled. "It's not fucking fair!"
Taylor stayed silent and let her pace until she ran out of steam.
They stood facing each other, in the night. Red and white and black.
"My life is my own," Taylor said quietly. "And I'm not asking you to agree with everything I do with it."
"That's good, because I don't," Panacea said. She sounded a bit petulant, even to Taylor.
"Do you want the vial, then? I certainly won't force you to take it," Taylor said.
Panacea just glared at her for a long moment.
"Fine," she bit out, even though it seemed painful for her.
Taylor held it out to her again, and this time the healer took it without issue.
She held it up to the moonlight, and Taylor saw something spark behind her eyes.
Taylor couldn't help but smile under her scarf again. The healer's face was captivating, framed in wild curls, whether she was glaring daggers at her or staring at her work with wonder.
"Do you need to hook it up to an IV, or is a muscular injection sufficient?" Panacea said eventually.
"Either will work, but IV is probably faster. I use a custom rapid diffuser that-"
"I don't care."
Taylor laughed. So prickly.
Panacea glared at her.
"I'm still not happy about the murders. I really should tell the PRT," the healer said. "They're probably going to ask where this blood came from."
"Maybe don't tell them about it, then?" Taylor shrugged. "Again, I can't really stop you, but I'd prefer if you didn't. I want to do more research before I have the Protectorate kicking down my door."
"And by research, you mean killing people."
"Nazis and sex slavers. They barely count. But yeah, killing them, stealing all of their blood, and figuring out what interesting stuff I can do with it," Taylor said. "It'd go faster if you got me a centrifuge."
"No."
"You're no fun," Taylor grinned. She was lying, anyway. Talking to Panacea was the most fun she'd had since she came back from the dead. And for a long while before that, if she was being honest.
"You're a mass-murderer. Don't fucking push me."
"Touchy, touchy."
Panacea just groaned. That was an improvement from yelling and death threats, though.
They both stood there for a while. The wind ruffled Taylor's scarf and Panacea's robe.
"I… need to get back to work," Panacea said eventually. Grudgingly.
"I'm going to go rob Medhall," Taylor said.
"You shouldn't… you… you know what? I'm not even going to bother. Don't fucking kill any janitors, or whatever," Panacea grumbled.
Taylor's smile widened behind her scarf. She hopped up on the railing and enjoyed the chilly breeze flowing through her tattered coat.
"Tomorrow night, then?" Taylor asked.
"Fine," Panacea bit out, but she didn't actually seem all that annoyed about it.
With one last view of conflicted chocolate, Taylor let herself fall backwards and left the healer alone in the dark.
…