Author's Note: Longer chapter today. Do enjoy. As always, feedback is appreciated.
V: Ember II
Brockton Bay is a graveyard.
The city that once bustled with life, its streets filled with the hum of engines and the murmur of voices, now lies silent beneath a pall of ash. The sky hangs low, a murky shroud of smoke and embers, casting everything in a dull, sickly twilight. The sun, where it breaks through, is a blood-red orb, its light filtered through the remains of a world scorched.
Entire blocks are reduced to slag. Buildings have melted into twisted heaps of metal and stone, their skeletal remains jutting from the earth like the bones of some ancient, colossal beast. Streets have been transformed into rivers of blackened glass, where the heat was so intense that the asphalt fused, capturing the echoes of a city's final moments in its obsidian surface.
The air is thick with the scent of charcoal and sulfur, the acrid bite of smoke that clings to the lungs and coats every breath with grit. There is no wind to carry it away, only a stillness that feels unnatural—as if the world itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
A figure moves through the desolation, their silhouette stark against the ruin. They wear a makeshift mask, a damp cloth tied over their nose and mouth, but it does little to block the ash. Their skin is gray, coated in the fine dust of incinerated lives, their hair matted and greasy, their clothes a patchwork of burned fabric and scavenged leather.
They stop at the edge of what was once a park. The ground is charred, the grass reduced to a latticework of brittle threads. Blackened trunks rise like pillars, their branches skeletal, clutching at the sky with fingers of ash.
At the center of the park, a fountain lies half-buried in debris. The stone is scorched, the once-clear water now a stagnant pool of ash and rainwater. Around it, a handful of figures sit huddled together, their backs to the ruin, their eyes fixed on the dirty water as if it holds the answers they need.
"We found some cans," the first figure calls out, their voice rough and thin. They hold up a plastic bag, the contents clinking together—food, precious and rare, scavenged from the bones of the city.
The group stirs. Faces turn upward, eyes rimmed with red, skin stretched tight over cheekbones. There are six of them. Six out of half a million.
Brockton Bay's population, once thriving and diverse, now numbers less than a hundred. The survivors are scattered, hidden among the ruins, eking out an existence amid the ashes. They are ghosts, slipping through the cracks, their lives reduced to a day-by-day struggle for survival.
The old systems are gone. There are no PRT patrols, no Protectorate capes maintaining order. The heroes are dead, their ashes mixed with those of civilians, their symbols of hope twisted into reminders of how fragile safety truly was.
A group of children pick through the rubble of a grocery store, their fingers black with soot, their eyes wide and dull. They find nothing but twisted metal and the warped remnants of cans that have burst from the heat. One of them tries to pry open a rusted container, but it crumbles in their hands, the food inside long since turned to ash.
An elderly woman sits on the steps of a burned-out building, her hands clutching a cracked photograph. The faces in the picture are smudged, the colors distorted by heat, but she strokes it with a tenderness that cuts through the desolation. She hums a lullaby under her breath, the sound a fragile thread in the silence.
The survivors share little with each other. Words are a luxury, energy better spent on finding food, water, shelter. When they speak, it is in murmurs, whispers that fade into the ash. There is no community here, only islands of grief and guilt, each person carrying the weight of their own survival.
In a room without windows, buried deep beneath the earth, Cauldron convenes.
The chamber is a bunker of reinforced concrete, designed not just to withstand conventional explosions but to endure the kind of devastation only parahumans could unleash. The walls are lined with Tinkertech dampeners, dull gray panels that hum with a soft, constant vibration.
It is a frequency meant to scramble all forms of surveillance, both technological and psychic. Even the light is engineered, the fluorescence perfectly calibrated to prevent shadows from forming, ensuring that nothing could slip through unnoticed.
Yet, despite all these precautions, the room feels fragile. Vulnerable.
Doctor Mother stands at the head of the table, her white lab coat pristine, as if the chaos of the world outside could not touch her. She is a picture of clinical detachment, her hands folded neatly on the cold metal surface, her expression a mask of calm. But beneath that exterior lies a tension, a coil wound too tight, a stillness on the edge of breaking.
To her right sits Contessa, her posture deceptively relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the arm of her chair. Her eyes are half-lidded, but every so often they dart to the corners of the room, as if she is tracking invisible threads only she can see. The Path to Victory, once a constant hum in her mind, is now a dark void. Her power, the ultimate guide, has become a blindfold.
On the opposite side of the table, the Triumvirate occupies the remaining seats. Alexandria, her arm in a cast, a bandage crossing her temple, sits with her back ramrod straight. She wears her injuries with a grim pride, as if the pain is a reminder of the line between gods and mortals—and how close she had come to crossing it.
Eidolon's aura shifts constantly, colors bleeding into one another, his power in flux. His fingers tap against the table in a steady rhythm, a heartbeat in the silence. His powers cycle restlessly, reaching for strength, for insight, for something—anything—that could offer a solution. But each grasp comes back empty. He is a man whose every choice has weight, but here, now, he feels weightless.
Legend sits apart from the others, his chair angled slightly away, his hands clasped tightly together. The light from the holographic display casts harsh shadows over his face, emphasizing the lines of exhaustion, the tightness around his mouth. He is a man built on hope, on the idea that good will prevail, but this room feels like a tomb, and he is struggling to breathe.
The holographic display hums to life at the center of the table. Taylor's face appears, a still image captured from the Brockton Bay disaster. Her features are blurred by the heat, her silhouette a wraith of golden flames. Data scrolls beside her image—maps, casualty numbers, threat assessments—all painted in cold, clinical strokes.
Doctor Mother breaks the silence. Her voice is soft but carries a weight that settles over the room like ash.
"We need to classify her."
Alexandria's lip curls, a mix of disbelief and anger. "She doesn't fit our system. She breaks it."
"We need to try," Legend insists. "If only so we understand what we're facing."
Doctor Mother gestures to the display. "Let's go through them. One at a time."
Eidolon is the first to speak. His voice is quiet, thoughtful, as if he is still sifting through the memories of their battle, piecing together fragments of horror.
"She's invulnerable. Nothing we threw at her even scratched her. Alexandria hit her with enough force to crack mountains. She didn't even flinch."
Alexandria's knuckles are white against the table's edge. "Her durability is absolute. I hit her with full force. My bones shattered, not hers. Her skin didn't even bruise. And then she threw me across three continents. It's not just strength—her power seems to negate damage entirely."
"It's more than regeneration," Eidolon adds. "I tried entropy, molecular disintegration. She reformed instantly. It's as if reality itself refuses to let her break."
Contessa's fingers stop their tapping. "A passive defense?"
"No," Alexandria says. "It felt… active. It's as if her power met ours head-on and countered it. She wasn't just enduring—it was as if she was beyond harm."
Doctor Mother types a note on the holographic display.
"Her speed is beyond what we can measure," Legend interjects. "She moved faster than my light blasts. I've never seen anyone outpace light before. She exited our solar system faster than satellites could track. There's no telling what her upper limit is."
Eidolon nods. "And it wasn't traditional movement. She didn't displace air. There was no wind, no shockwave. It was as if she willed herself to another location, and reality complied."
"A form of dimensional slipping?" Contessa's brow furrows. "Teleportation, or something deeper?"
"If it's dimensional, it's not like anything we've seen," Legend says. "She might not be bound by spatial limitations at all. She could be anywhere. Everywhere."
Doctor Mother types again.
Legend's expression darkens suddenly. "Her flames—those weren't normal fire. They burned through my energy constructs. They bent light, disrupted my lasers, and absorbed heat without dissipating. I don't think it was fire in the conventional sense. It was…"
"Reality fire," Eidolon finishes. "A manifestation of her power, not bound by the laws of physics. It burns what she wills it to burn."
"And the range?"
"Potentially limitless. She set half the city on fire with a thought."
"Blaster twelve, with potential for more," Eidolon rumbles. "And Shaker twelve."
Alexandria inclines her head in agreement. "The battlefield itself changed when she arrived. Buildings twisted, the ground melted. She lifted skyscrapers and threw them like a baseball with sheer will. She reshaped reality around her."
Contessa frowns. "Localized reality warping?"
"Yes. She could create kill zones, alter terrain, possibly even change the laws of physics in a defined area."
"Shaker twelve it is," Legend agrees.
Eidolon's hand, idly tapping away at the table, suddenly stills. "Her influence extended to minds. I felt it. When she screamed—when she released that psychic howl—it wasn't just noise. It crawled into my head. My thoughts weren't my own."
Alexandria shivers. "Some of the survivors are still catatonic. Others… they only speak in whispers, repeating things they shouldn't know. Things about Taylor's life. Her pain. It's like a contagion."
"Mental projection, psychic influence. She can overwhelm minds, imprint her will," Contessa states.
"Master ten, then," Doctor Mother confirms.
Silence descends. The only known Master rated in the double digits was the Simurgh. The parallel is discomfiting.
Eidolon's quiet shatters the oppressive I've silence. "She turned my own power against me. I tried to summon a black hole, and she collapsed it. She… she overpowered my connection to my own powers. I don't think she just has her own abilities—I think she can manipulate the powers of others."
"Scion himself couldn't undo the damage she did to Brockton Bay," Alexandria murmurs in agreement.
"A Trump," Doctor Mother says. "And potentially a Striker if contact is required. Trump twelve."
She taps away rapidly at her screen, and the holographic display changes. The room falls silent as Doctor Mother finalizes the assessment. The screen fills with Taylor's face, surrounded by her revised threat ratings—a list of numbers that barely scrape the surface of what she is.
Brute 12. Mover 12. Blaster 12. Shaker 12. Master 10. Trump 12.
Legend exhales deeply. "Shouldn't Trump 12 cover everything?"
"I'm a Trump 12," Eidolon interjects. "But her powers aren't isolated. They don't exist in a vacuum. They're all active simultaneously and this is her at what we aren't even sure is her maximum output. She's a being unlike any other."
"What are you saying?" Legend questions, eyebrow quirking upwards.
"Her power source isn't the entities," Eidolon rumbles.
Dead silence. A pallid chill sweeps through the room at the proclamation.
"If she returns," Alexandria says suddenly, "we need options."
Eidolon's fingers twitch. "Tinkertech containment fields. We need something that can disrupt whatever it is that fuels her. A nullification device, if possible."
"We've been developing prototypes," Doctor Mother says. "But nothing strong enough to handle an S-class entity of her caliber. She burned through Dragon's strongest barriers. Tinkertech from three different generations—all ash."
"Then we need something beyond technology," Legend suggests. "Dimensional anchors. Something that can trap her between realities. If we can't destroy her, maybe we can isolate her."
Contessa's voice is a whisper, but it carries. "And if containment fails?"
Silence.
Doctor Mother closes her eyes. "Then we need to consider the unthinkable."
Legend's face hardens. "Killing her?"
"If it comes to that," Alexandria says, "we can't hesitate. Half a million died because we were not ready. We won't make that mistake again."
"But we can't kill her," Eidolon states. "Our best hope is pointing her at Scion and hoping she kills him and doesn't destroy our world in the process."
The room falls into silence, the kind that presses against the skin, heavy and cold. Each of them knows the truth—that even their best plans are fragile, desperate, the last gasps of control in a world teetering on the edge of chaos.
Taylor Hebert—no longer a girl, but a force of nature. A wound in reality they are left to hold the line, knowing it may not be enough.
The meeting ends, but the fear remains. And somewhere, far beyond their reach, the fire continues to burn.
I sit beneath the canopy of a tree whose branches I willed into existence only hours ago. The bark is smooth, the wood beneath warm and alive. The leaves whisper in a breeze that smells of fresh rain and earth, a melody of soft rustling and gentle sighs. Sunlight filters through the canopy, painting the grass with patches of gold and green. Everything here is vibrant, colors crisper and more vivid than anything on Earth Bet.
I run my fingers through the cool grass, each blade bending against my touch, delicate and damp with dew. Tiny droplets cling to my skin, glistening, as if the world itself is offering me absolution. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, letting the damp, loamy scent fill my lungs. It feels real—grounding, comforting.
But beneath the symphony of life, the silence persists.
No matter how deeply I inhale, no matter how hard I press my hands into the earth, I cannot escape the truth that gnaws at my core. The guilt is a shadow that clings to me, dark and inescapable.
I created this world—shaped it from nothing, breathed life into its soil, summoned the winds and waters. It is a paradise, a cradle of life in the cold vacuum of space. But the whispers of Brockton Bay linger in every leaf, in every breeze. I cannot hear the birds without remembering the screams. I cannot touch the earth without feeling the ashes beneath my nails.
I am not a creator. I am a destroyer.
My power flows beneath my skin, a river of molten light. I can feel it pulsing, an extension of my heartbeat, a rhythm that hums through the world I've made. It is not just within me—it is me, a force that bends reality, reshapes existence, transforms the laws of nature into malleable threads for me to weave.
I am more than human.
More than a cape.
I am a living paradox, a being whose very existence challenges the balance of the universe. The energy within me is limitless, boundless, and with it, I can create miracles—or bring ruin.
I reach out, letting my fingertips brush the trunk of the tree beside me. The bark ripples under my touch, and in an instant, the tree grows, its branches stretching upward, leaves unfurling like hands reaching for the sky. Flowers bloom along the bark, delicate petals of blue and white, their fragrance filling the air with a sweetness that makes my chest ache.
With a thought, I could make this tree the heart of a forest, fill the land with life, with ecosystems and creatures that have never existed before. I could carve rivers through stone, pull mountains from the earth, raise continents from the sea. I could create worlds.
But I could destroy them just as easily.
The thought coils around me, a serpent of doubt. I feel the heat of my power building beneath my skin, a fire that hungers, that whispers of ash and cinder. I press my hands into the soil, forcing the flames down, but they slip through my fingers, embers in the wind.
I cannot trust myself.
The ground beneath me trembles, the grass wilting where I touch it. The flowers on the tree close their petals, retreating from my presence, the life I breathed into them pulling away.
I am a wound in this world. A spark that could ignite everything.
I rise to my feet, brushing soil from my palms. My footsteps leave scorched patches in the grass, the ground hissing with each step. I walk to the edge of the cliff, the lake below reflecting the sky—blue, cloudless, perfect. But when I look closer, I see the truth beneath the surface.
My reflection stares back at me—my hair a tangled halo, my skin pale and translucent, my eyes hollow and ringed with shadows. I look like a ghost, a remnant of the girl I used to be.
I see the flames, too.
They burn just beneath the surface, golden and molten, threads of light coiling through my veins. I lift a hand, and the glow shines through my skin, a lantern in the twilight. It is beautiful and terrifying.
What am I?
I try to remember what it felt like to be human—to be just Taylor Hebert. I remember the weight of a backpack on my shoulders, the cold bite of winter air against my cheeks, the soft ache of loneliness that had been my constant companion. I remember the sound of my mom's voice, the way my dad's hugs felt safe and warm, the whisper of dreams I had before the world twisted them into nightmares.
But those memories are fading. I am not Taylor anymore. I am something else. Something that does not belong.
I step to the very edge of the cliff. The wind pulls at me, a gentle, coaxing hand, inviting me to let go. To fall. To end this.
But I know better. I have tried to die. The universe itself will not allow it.
I close my eyes, the heat building behind my eyelids, a supernova threatening to ignite. I could unleash it, burn this world to ash, cleanse it of my presence before I taint it further.
But I don't. Instead, I breathe.
The air crackles with energy, the sky darkening, clouds swirling in response to my turmoil. The ground shifts beneath my feet, the lake's surface rippling as if caught in a storm. My power bleeds into the world, and the trees shiver, their leaves curling, their roots pulling away from the earth.
I take a step back, my chest tight, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. I can't stay here
If I remain, this world will become another Brockton Bay. A paradise turned to ash. I am a spark waiting to ignite, an ember waiting to roar to life. I cannot allow it to happen again.
There is only one answer. I need to leave. Not just this planet, not just this corner of the universe, but everything.
I need to escape reality itself.
I focus, letting the power coil within me, a serpent of light and heat. The air around me vibrates, the colors of the world bleeding at the edges, the sky cracking with veins of golden lightning. I feel the threads of existence, delicate and taut, woven into the tapestry of this reality.
I reach out, and they yield.
The world shudders as I push, as I tear through the fabric of space and time, my power unraveling the seams of creation. The trees burn, the lake boils, the ground splits open as the world rejects me, as I force my way through the veil that separates dimensions.
The universe screams, a soundless wail that shakes me to my core. And then—nothing. I am gone.
I emerge into light.
For a moment, the brightness is overwhelming. I blink, and the world sharpens around me—crisp lines and vivid colors, reality snapping into focus like a camera lens adjusting. The air is different here, thick with the hum of life, the thrum of electricity, the pulse of a world that is very much alive.
Skyscrapers rise around me, their facades a patchwork of glass and steel, their windows reflecting the sky—a blue so deep it feels like falling. Each pane is a fragment of a different world, a kaleidoscope of reflections—my own image fractured and multiplied, a dozen versions of myself staring back through the mirrored surfaces.
The street beneath my feet is warm, the asphalt radiating heat from the midday sun. Tiny cracks run through it, filled with dust and grit. The yellow lines are worn, faded, evidence of countless tires rolling over them. I crouch, brushing my fingers against the pavement, feeling the grainy texture, the realness of it.
People move around me, their voices a murmur that rises and falls, a tide of sound. Cars rumble past, their engines a bass note beneath the symphony of the city. Horns blare. Shoes slap against concrete. Somewhere, a busker strums a guitar, a melody woven into the fabric of the city.
I stand in the middle of it all, an island in a rushing stream. And then, the world stops.
Eyes turn toward me. Pedestrians falter, their conversations stuttering into silence. The traffic slows, engines idling, the city itself holding its breath. I feel the weight of their attention, hundreds of minds brushing against my own, a thousand thoughts colliding in a chaotic storm.
"Who is she?"
"Where did she come from?"
"Is this a stunt? Some kind of art performance?"
"She's glowing… Oh god, is this another attack?"
The ground trembles beneath me.
I take a step forward, and the concrete cracks, tiny fissures spiderwebbing out from where my foot touches down. The air around me shimmers, heat rippling through it, bending the light, casting distorted shadows against the buildings. I pull my power back, wrapping it tight around myself, trying to contain it, but it slips through my fingers, an ember in a dry forest.
The crowd pulls back, fear rippling through their ranks. Someone screams. Bags are dropped. Bodies turn, feet pounding against the pavement as they flee.
I don't know what to do. The universe feels different here.
The threads of reality are tighter, woven with a complexity that sends shivers through my power. I reach out, brushing against the fabric of existence, and it pushes back, a soft but undeniable resistance.
I test it—send a flicker of energy into the air, a ripple of golden light—and the sky shudders. Clouds twist, bending in unnatural patterns. The buildings around me groan, metal and glass vibrating as if the city itself is struggling to hold itself together.
I pull my hand back, and the world settles, but I feel it—something watching. Not a person. Not a mind.
The world itself, an entity beyond comprehension, a presence that hums at the edges of my awareness. This universe is alive, its lifeblood a river of energy that flows through every atom, every molecule, and I am a stranger within it.
I shiver, and the air cracks, a seam of lightning arcing through the sky.
A voice cuts through the chaos—calm, resonant, filled with a quiet power that coils through the air like smoke.
"You do not belong here."
I turn slowly.
He stands at the edge of the chaos, a figure draped in crimson and gold. His cloak moves of its own accord, the fabric shifting as if stirred by an invisible wind. His hands are raised, delicate fingers tracing symbols in the air, golden sparks trailing in their wake.
His eyes are sharp, blue and unblinking, the kind of gaze that sees through flesh, through walls, through dimensions.
Doctor Strange.
The name rises unbidden in my mind, a whisper from the sea of voices I've touched. The Sorcerer Supreme, the guardian of this reality, a man whose very name is woven into the magic of this world.
Behind him, the air shimmers, and others step through.
A suit of red and gold, metal plates sliding seamlessly over a body that hums with technology. The eyes of the mask glow white, a stark contrast to the dark metal. His movements are sharp, precise, each step a calculation.
Iron Man.
To his left, a figure wreathed in lightning, his silhouette a storm of muscle and myth. His hair is pale gold, his beard trimmed and neat, but his eyes—blue and cold as glaciers—are filled with a thunderous fury. He lifts his hand, and the hammer in his grasp crackles with power, arcs of electricity dancing over the metal.
Thor.
And the third—her presence is a sunrise, light radiating from her skin, her hair a halo of fire. She moves with a predator's grace, her stance low, every muscle taut, ready to spring. Her eyes are molten gold, molten power, and I feel the weight of her gaze as if it were a physical force.
Captain Marvel.
I am surrounded. The world has teeth, and it has sent them to greet me.
For a moment, no one speaks. The city breathes around us—engines idling, metal creaking, the soft whimpering of those too afraid to flee. Doctor Strange steps forward, his hands still glowing with that soft, amber light. His voice is gentle, but beneath it lies a thread of steel.
"Who are you?"
I open my mouth, but no words come.
Who am I? A million futures in a million worlds play out in my mind as the question dances in my mind.
Taylor Hebert. Skitter.Khepri.Monster. God. The Undying Flame of Destruction and Creation. The Phoenix Force incarnate. A spark of chaos that burned half a million souls to ash. A girl who wanted to be a hero and became a nightmare instead.
I take a step back, and the ground trembles. Thor's grip on his hammer tightens, arcs of electricity curling around his knuckles. Captain Marvel's eyes narrow, her body shifting into a stance that speaks of violence barely held at bay.
Iron Man's mask slides open, and beneath it, his face is tight, his jaw set. "Look, kid, I don't know who you are or how you got here, but we need you to step away from the civilians."
Kid. The word cuts through me, a blade twisted in an old wound. I am a kid. I was a kid. I don't know what I am now.
"I didn't mean to," I whisper, but the words fall flat.
Doctor Strange's expression softens, just a fraction. "Whatever you've done, this is not the place for it."
I shake my head, the movement sending ripples through the air. "You don't understand. I can't—"
"Then let us help you," he says, and his voice is a lifeline in the storm. "Tell us what you need."
I want to believe him. But I know what I am. And if I let them get too close, this world will burn too.
The fire in my veins surges, the ground cracks, the sky shudders, and the universe holds its breath. I am lost. And I don't know if I want to be found.