It wasn't all that hard to find time for an afternoon outing. With her dad out of the house for most of the day, she was home alone from morning till the afternoon.
So, when she decided to take a walk out in town with a list in hand at nine in the morning, she was back in the house two hours later with five plastic bags in hand and down two hundred dollars without even a whisper of questioning in return.
The plastic bags, tags, and plastic packaging were disposed of in the neighbor's dumpster and her receipts were tossed when she was back in Downtown. Some might call her paranoid, but they probably didn't live in a city where the heroes had at least a dozen Thinkers on speed dial and the villains had their enlisted thugs lurking in every corner of the bay.
Seeing how she left four ABB unconscious on the sidewalk and wasn't ready to confess to her dad about her powers, she'd like to avoid encountering either of these groups and being tossed into the deep end of Cape life—at least until she got her chance to dip her toes in first.
So here she was, standing in front of the mirror in her bedroom, pulling up a pair of men's cargo pants to her waist. The hardest part was figuring out her new measurements after receiving an additional growth spurt via her powers. But she'd gotten to a comfortable range of sizes soon enough, meaning she wouldn't have to constantly walk around with her oversized hoodie, sweatpants, or slippers anymore with clothing now folded away in her dresser. But more importantly, she could put together a costume.
Well...costume was pushing it. Unless you counted a pair of reflective swimming goggles and a patternless black bandana as a suitable hero mask.
Her yellow lenses were easy enough to see through, even if they were moderately less annoying than wearing glasses with an out-of-date prescription. But she couldn't imagine how difficult it would have been to fashion a mask if she still needed her glasses, even the stray thoughts of the potential logistics of having to weave them into a full or half-face mask had her sighing in relief. Though, it wasn't like she wasn't thankful for the rest of her 'low-budget' costume being so easy to assemble.
With a durability capable of stopping small arms fire with some broken skin, she could afford to save on protective gear and shift her budget into general utilities. Things like bandages, smelling salts, and even a pocketknife now lining her numerous pockets. But she'd have to say her gloves were the star of the show, with easily the biggest price tag-despite how much that pissed her off.
They were black with red highlights, the brand name plastered over the back in the same crimson colors. They were supposed to be heavy-duty gloves; insulated, blade-resistant, and made out of a certain flexible mesh, but that apparently made them the heaviest and roughest pair of clothing she'd ever laid her hands on.
The grey boots she wore were supposed to be in the same vein, steel-toed and waterproof while only being moderately more comfortable. Comparatively, the black long-sleeved shirt she wore didn't seem all that impressive.
It was far from the colorful and patterned outfits those of the Protectorate donned, but it would do for an aspiring hero such as her seeking to venture into the night. After all, she'd get her own costume in due time once she joined up with the Protectorate, this was just a temporary stopgap. That she was sure of.
Anyhow, all she needed to do now was wait until nightfall, then she could begin her first-ever patrol.
Every second she spent next to her wall, waiting anxiously for the sound of her father's snores to set in was torturous. Her eyes were trained on the alarm clock in her room, watching every wasted minute relentlessly tick by. At half-past midnight, her lidded eyes were barely able to read the red glow of the electronic display as she sat with her back to the wall, the inevitable wave of exhaustion rolling in.
It was only the sound of a light groan that roused her, eyes snapping open as she rushed to plant her ear on the wall separating her and her father's room.
Individual seconds stretched into minutes, every one of Taylor's bated breaths so shallow she might as well have not been breathing. All while she waited for that all too familiar inhale that had cemented itself into her mind after years of being the only person forced to subject herself to it.
Before he could even finish his gravely snore, her feet were hitting the wet grass that covered her backyard in a crouch, her bedroom window closed shut but left unlocked for her eventual return. After all, this was merely a taste of the late nights of exertion she would have to endure if she wanted to pursue heroics. At least, that was what Taylor kept telling herself.
Parkour was easier than Taylor had expected, but she'd be lying if she claimed to be some kind of ninja capable of clambering to a rooftop in a series of flips and spins off AC units and windowsills. The first thirty minutes were more like her praying to whatever god was listening while she dug her glowing fingers into the brick wall before kicking off and soaring to the other side of the alley.
But yeah, it was easy enough once she'd hit the ground a couple of times—feet first thankfully. Now she was clearing alleyways on the rooftops, jumping from ledge to ledge without a drop of Cursed Energy to assist her.
Her feet always found the gravel, kicking up the small rocks in the momentum she needed to bleed off from every jump. Her heart was thumping in her chest, the frigid air filling her lungs with needles, and her feet were rapidly breaking in her new boots. Yet, she found a smile had crept onto her face beneath her bandana.
Before she knew it, a laugh was escaping her lips, immediately lost to the wind, but more than enough to push her to move faster, take risker jumps, and test her limits.
Taylor knew there were people in the world that would kill just for the chance to have a body like hers—hell, if you asked her a couple of weeks ago, she might have admitted the same. She'd be wrong to not take advantage of what had been given to her.
With a movement that surprised even her, she let Cursed Energy flood into her lower body, letting her legs sink on the ledge of a recently touched roof, before launching forward and into the night sky.
The stars were still out of reach, blurred little lights in the sky beneath the blinding city lights, but at that moment, Taylor felt like she was flying.
One rooftop flew past her swinging feet, then another, her eyes only widening when she realized the third would not be as assured of a landing as her last leaps.
Taylor's feet hit the edge of the rooftop, immediately wincing at the shallow crack that split forth beneath her feet. She wasn't even on the gravel, meaning she had somehow cleared three entire buildings in a single empowered leap. But at the moment, she was more focused on swinging her arms in panic as she veered over the edge of a forty-foot drop.
After what felt like a full minute of desperately retaining her balance, Taylor fell backward onto the roof, only wincing when her head hit the concrete rooftop.
She'd laid there for what felt like a while, just listening to her body. The steady breaths that filled her with strength and the softly drumming heartbeat that gave her life; her only company at the moment.
Nearly thirty minutes of constant jumping, running, and nearly falling off rooftops later, Taylor found herself feeling only a little winded. She might've wished she could fly at one point, but this was the greatest alternative she could ever ask for.
Taylor felt the cold air brush past the corners of her face as she rose from the gravel. It was the only exposed bit of skin on her costume, yet she hardly felt more than a breeze on this winter night.
She found herself leaning over the edge of the roof, looking out over the horizon of rolling hills of concrete and steel enlightened by the dull streetlights and glare from the commercial area.
Even now, the occasional car still drove past despite the sheer blackness of the sky above. Most had no more than two passengers, but the outliers were massively so, varying degrees of rust covering packed vans blaring music on their way down the corner, four-seaters pushed to one or two over capacities, and even minivans with a coat of chipped paint following close behind.
She had an idea of what kind of people were seated inside those vehicles and what exactly they might be carrying with them. Throughout all of her years living in this city, the Parahuman gangs had been one constant. No matter how many the Protectorate managed to arrest they'd always find their way back out on the street one way or another, nothing short of an immediate Birdcage seeming enough to quell their numbers.
The Azn Bad Boys, Empire Eighty-Eight, those junkies calling themselves the 'Merchants' by the docks, and some kind of paramilitary unit that recently started running around.
These were the groups that gave Brockton Bay one of the highest Parahuman populations in the country, with the Protectorate's combined efforts in keeping the city from descending into chaos only adding to that number.
Parahumans were worth their weight in gold here.
But she was still hollowed out. Another taking up the space in her soul that she needed so desperately.
Almost unconsciously, she moved to follow a van that had crossed her path, its baring and thumping music made it even easier to track it while her legs found themselves filled with Cursed Energy once more.
Minutes later, Taylor found herself watching from a nearby rooftop as the...seven men piled out of their rusty white van. The shaved heads among them dotted with various numerical and religious symbols were the least surprising thing she'd seen tonight. They talked animatedly; almost loud enough Taylor could make out the subject of their conversation, snippets of 'fight' and 'bets' drifting toward her.
The group made their way into a nearby alley, only stopping at a metal door at the end of it, where a tall, jacketed man leaned against the wall, a beer bottle hanging from his left hand while his right drifted over the gun handle peeking out of his waistband at the sight of the group.
They exchanged words and even light laughs before the taller man turned toward the door and raised his hand in a closed fist.
Bam Ba-Bam-Bam Bam
His fist pounded on the door in a rhythmic pattern, the biggest pause between knocks being at the end—more than a breath's length between it compared to the others. The door swung inwards after a second of delay, allowing the group to pile into the building while the 'guard' went back to his post, but not without a swig from his verdant bottle first.
Despite all she had seen, Taylor lacked vital information. The building of focus had its entrance sandwiched between two other multi-story brick buildings; tall enough that Taylor might have some trouble climbing them without Cursed Energy. A quick survey of the area proved the building also had no windows to speak of—at least usable ones—all of them lining the upper floors and boarded off with not-so-rotted wooden planks.
So, no silent entries or quick escapes unless she could get to the upper floors while inside. Her only other choice was to turn around and beeline for the front door if things got really bad.
The layout of the interior was also a complete mystery. Easily over 45 met—no—150 feet in length and width with three whole floors of brick walls to top it off. Taylor knew she was strong, but she didn't know if it was the charge through brick walls unscathed type of strong yet and wasn't keen on testing it while running into or away from gunfire.
Her entry options were narrowed down, the number and location of combatants were unknown, and worst of all...she was scared. Hell, terrified even.
This was different from fighting off those drunken gangbangers. This was her actively seeking conflict—searching for a battle she knew she might not win. All of this just so she could call herself a hero or at the very least someone who doesn't use their powers selfishly, and she couldn't even commit.
She recalled the dozens of Cape biographies she had indulged in, the articles she'd read, and the fights she'd watched. It all added up to a single thing that made a Cape, not some civilian who got lucky their trauma came with cosmic karma.
Confidence.
In their movements, words, and plans. Even a moment of hesitation would spell defeat for even the strongest heroes or even the most scheming villains. So bluff, puff out your chest, slap on a mask of emotions, anything to deceive onlookers into thinking everything was under control. But Taylor had a mask that covered her expressive features—meaning she didn't have to hide how scared she was when she decided to infiltrate what was most definitely a secret Empire hideout.
Bam Ba-Bam-Bam Bam
Rudy snorted a little. Turns out that dumbass couldn't hold his drink as well as he thought if he was slippin' up on his own code after only a couple of beers.
The heavy metal latch was pulled up and to the side with a burst of effort, the gradual rusting making the process seem more difficult every week he returned to door duty. He pulled the door open, stepping back to allow Thomas to stumble in, maybe even faceplant if Rudy was lucky.
He was instead welcomed to an empty alley, not a breath of life lingering between the two walls before him.
"The fuck?" Rudy muttered, reaching behind his back to fish the oily Glock out of his pants as he stepped forward. However, his sweeping gaze never happened to glance upwards, leaving him naive to the figure slipping down to stop the door from closing behind him.
A blow to the back of his knee had him letting out a shout at the pain that went coursing through the surely broken bone that now filled the limb. Only to have it muted by the arm clamping down around his neck, choking out his final conscious breath of the night.
His gun was rendered useless by the hand that peeled his fingers from the weapon like he was no more than a toddler, letting it clatter to the ground once he had released it.
Both of Rudy's hands scratched uselessly at the clothed bar of steel that was now welded to his neck, unable to halt the dark spots creeping into the corners of his line of sight. His body was going limp, his brain being deprived of the oxygen it so desired, even the most desperate of attempts to fight back couldn't even find their way half-past his shoulders, not even reaching the person pressed against him.
With his arms practically useless, Rudy could only get more and more limp as his assailant dug through his pockets. Their prying hands only halted on the flip phone in his back pocket, pulling it out in front of him only to snap it in half—with one hand. Yeah, he was fucked.
The next thing he knew, he was flying weightlessly off the ground with hardly an ounce of consciousness to back up what his eyes were perceiving, though they would soon slam shut when his body impacted the roof.
Taylor blinked. She hadn't meant to throw him that hard. But she couldn't argue with the results. He did land on the roof—it just took him a couple of seconds longer than the last guy did.
She sighed before turning around. Looks like she'd have to spend even more time regulating her strength when she got home, just with Cursed Energy included this time.
One step forward, one step back.
The door shut behind her, not bothering to lock the door with that rusty latch attached to its frame. She'd be out of here before another group happened to drop by—she'd have to be.
Faded plaster surrounded her on every side as she crept through the building. Empty doorways and dull lightbulbs were the only constant in her path, each room she came across more different from the last. Some had rickety bedframes pressed against the far walls, worn dressers and nightstands being the only thing separating them. Others were filled with plastic storage containers, stacked to the ceiling and taking up most of the room on the similarly plastic shelves that looked an extra pound or two from collapsing, their contents unknown and likely not be known by anyone other than the Empire and police when they raided this place. Then there were just the blatant 'weapon rooms'; knives, crowbars, guns, all just tossed around on tables and stacked in corners without a care for who happened upon them, only the fact that they weren't just all tossed haphazardly on the ground told me they were probably sorted in some esoteric way.
Eventually, she came upon a closed door. It was a hard lumber, with whirling designs on its edges that you'd probably need to jump twenty years back to discern the artist's intent behind them. A rusted doorknob matched with the keyhole beneath it, the once bronze gleam looking more like polished shit with how many times it had been fondled.
Before Taylor dared to open the door, she crouched down to the keyhole, sliding up her goggles to peer through the hole. Despite most of her vision being obscured, she could see the main danger of the room immediately. In the center of the room were at least five men, all sitting around a table with something held in their hands. Though her focus was more on what their hands weren't holding.
Around them, leaned against the chairs and crates they sat on were weapons far longer than the handguns I'd seen before. Rifles—shotguns, it didn't matter what they were, those things were going to hurt, it didn't matter how durable Taylor thought she was if she could barely stop a caliber half the size of what they were going to be flinging at her.
Does she call it here? Turn back and call the police or PRT to inform them of the hideout she'd not even halfway secured?
They'd probably call in some hero to take care of it, maybe Armsmaster, and have him wade through the gunfire as bullets bounced off his suit, all the while he took out these gangbangers left and right with casual swings of his halberd. No, not Armsmaster, his talents would be wasted on something this trivial. A real villain hadn't probably stepped in this place in ages, there wasn't a single reason for the Armsmaster or any other members of the Protectorate to get involved.
They'd probably just let the police handle it because this place was nothing but anthill in the constant tug-of-war between the mountain of villains dug into the city and the Protectorate that stood before them.
'Even with powers, am I still that weak?'
Taylor stood, staring at the door and the engravings shaved into it. The varying trenches made each whisp of lines seem random, but the longer she stared, the more they began to meld together. Taylor could see the hand that had once toiled over this door. Blood, sweat, and tears poured into something so simple, yet the weary hand worked tirelessly to bring imagination to reality, even in places where their fingers felt as if they were being severed with each sweep upon the wooden surface.
What stood before her was no result of some sort of talent or gift, but hard work, and the sacrifices made to ensure that work did not go to waste.
So why couldn't she, one blessed with a strength this artist could never grasp, simply take one step forward into achieving what her heart so desired?
Her hands reached out to embrace the portrait of endurance before her, fully realizing what kind of feeling was ringing through her body as her fingers dug into its frayed edges.
'Confidence. It's all about confidence.'
Terrance stared with an intensity that could only be seen in the heat of battle, his amber eyes tearing into the souls of the ones who opposed him. No one dared flinch in this exchange of wills that surrounded the table, each levelheaded glare sweeping from one opponent to the next as easily as a tumbleweed might roll in a breeze, all waiting for the moment the tides shifted and one of them raised their sails to catch the wave that would crush the rest.
Each second ticked by like it was attached to a bomb, not one of them able to see the outcome of this next flex of the wrist. They all waited, they all watched, all snakes of silver tongue waiting in the brush, willing to let fate decide who would let the right word next spill from their lips.
"You didn't say Uno."
"Son of a bitch!"
Brad's fist found the table, bouncing the two piles of cards slightly before reaching for the overturned cards.
However, the sound of the door being ripped from its hinges before it slammed into his spine kept him from successfully drawing his card.
The door sent him crashing into the table, allowing the new arrival to clamber over the snapped board of wood and dropkick Kyle from across the table, who was none the wiser of the two boots that obliterated the top row of his teeth.
Terrance scrambled for the AR-15 leaned against the crate he sat on, quickly wrapping his arms around and swinging it upward before his fingers were even on the trigger. When he turned his attention back to the table, their assailant was already rolling off the table in the shower of multicolored cards that were drifting through the air.
His eyes darted to the floor, only for them to immediately snap back up at the scream that shot through the air, "AHHH!"
Andreas suddenly collapsed to the ground, like his legs just suddenly gave out without warning, leaving little mystery on who had cried out.
"Cape!" Someone else shouted, it sounded like Jerry, his deeper voice still managing to grab his attention through the split-second chaos that had happened upon them.
Yet the gunshot that rang out ripped his focus away from the table and toward the corner of the room, where Todd was now standing with his handgun drawn. He had been sleeping not even seconds earlier, once lying lifeless on the couch that he was now standing by.
The chair that exploded in his face sent him back into the couch and Terrance's attention back to the center of the room where he found the darkly dressed figure poised to lunge at Jerry, who was raising a pump-action shotgun in their direction.
Terrance could only watch as they pounced, clearing the distance between them and slapping the gun to the side before Jerry could react.
"Terrance!" Jerry's pleading shout tore through Terrance's stupor, letting him raise his rifle in Jerry's direction just as the larger man was launched across the room with a two-handed shove. Terrance pulled the trigger, bracing for the expected recoil as the gun roared in an automatic seven-round burst of fire with less than a second of pressure.
The Cape dived underneath the table before he had even pulled the trigger, letting every bullet whizz overhead as Terrance's aim swung downwards in reaction. He was met with the sight of two soles as the Cape sprung out of their roll into a kick aimed directly at his chest.
In a split-second reaction, Terrance twisted his rifle to block the strike, watching in horror as the Cape's boots bent the rifle inwards.
Terrance slid backward, feeling how his shoes scraped against the concrete floor and how the once relatively maintained AR-15 now rattled in his grasp.
He looked up to see the bandana donning Cape pulling back a fist while their foot slid forward. He didn't even need to think about it.
"Wait!" He shrieked, unable to stop his voice from cracking as he raised his deformed gun to desperately block the incoming superpowered strike.
He breathed out another plea as his eyes slowly slid open after he had unconsciously closed them. "Just... wait."
They had actually stopped, he slowly realized. Looking down, he found their angled fist, inches away from digging into his chest, slowly being pulled back.
Terrance greedily sucked air into his lungs as his eyes were allowed to truly take in the person in front of him.
The sight of swimming goggles matched with cargo pants and gloves had him doing a double take. But the sound of groaning matched with the smell of gunpowder kept him from questioning their attire. Their dark, long, curly hair hung behind them like a short cape, matching the blackened theme of their upper attire.
Silence hung in the air, making how little the woman before him moved all the more noticeable when matched with his panicked pants. After several seconds of staring into the reflective goggles on her face, Terrance realized the awkwardness of the situation and sputtered out the rest of his pride.
"I-I give up. Just please don't hit me."
Terrance lowered himself to the ground and let the clearly useless rifle fall with him as he raised his free hands to the air in surrender.
The Cape simply stared at him, their obscured eyes and mouth not revealing a hint of the thoughts going through their mind.
But he could see the reflexive panic in their body kick in when Brad pushed the horrifically bent door off him with a groan and raised his tucked-away handgun in their direction.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Brad let the shots echo painfully through the room, causing Terrance to flinch away to the ground.
He only looked up when he heard the Cape who was shielding him growl something out before exploding forward. She cleared the room in an instant, palming Brad's face before he could even dare to squeeze the trigger again.
With a shout, she pulled Brad off his feet and slammed his skull into the ground. Brad bounced off the concrete, going limp in a lazy twirl through the air.
He didn't get up.
Terrance could only let himself lay flat on the ground, ignoring the sound of the basement door opening.
Two more piled out of what Taylor assumed was the basement. They hardly needed an excuse to draw a handgun and a knife respectively the moment their bodies caught up to their brains.
Taylor let Cursed Energy course through her body faster, raising her arms in front of her face as she charged them. More earsplitting gunshots echoed in tune with the new burns popping up on her forearms, but she continued forward, plowing through another gun-toting gangbanger and backhanding what looked to be an attempt at a stab into nothing more than a sack of bone and blood now limply laying on the floor.
The sound of dogs barking and more shouting urged her down the concrete stairs. Before she had even made it halfway, someone peaked their head out from the bottom of the stairs, where a doorway-sized opening allowed her to see dull light emanating from the basement.
"Oh shit!" he exclaimed, vanishing and reappearing just as quickly. Taylor barely had time to react to the gang member shouldering a rifle and shoving it into the staircase.
She leapt from her place on the stairs, diving into the basement with little more than her arms to shield her from being pelted with fully automatic gunfire.
At least four new holes found their place in her body by the time she tackled the shooter to the ground. His short-lived struggle was cut short by a jab to the face that had definitely knocked a couple of teeth loose.
Taylor let out a sharp exhale when she turned her attention to the room she had landed in. Eight pairs of eyes met her goggles—ten if you counted the two dogs fenced off in the center of the room.
She controlled her breathing as she rose from their fallen comrade.
Her hand found the edge of her right glove, pulling it tighter before flexing her fingers. The blood trickling down her to her elbow went ignored, along with the distinct sound of flattened copper bouncing off the ground.
"Before we get started," her words echoed through the silent room.
"Is there anyone who wants to surrender?"
The shuffling of cloth and the distinct clicking of steel were the only answers she received.
Taylor sighed.
"Then let's hope the Brockton Bay General is stocked up on feeding tubes."
Under a month between chapters? That's gotta be a new record!
That conflict drive really is something, ain't it? It's too bad canon Taylor doesn't have a demon lurking in her mind whispering in her ear while she sleeps. We'd get a lot more fights.
Next chapter will have more needless violence as Taylor tries to learn how much pressure is exactly needed to not shatter bone.