Frost 1.3
Taylor carefully bent the cherry orange glass tubing into the required shape, one end locked in a vice and the other held tightly in a set of tongs.
Panacea hadn't grabbed any of the more advanced equipment that Taylor had been coveting, but glass tubing was available wholesale and Taylor had a Bunsen burner. She could make her own distillation and titration apparatuses. Looking a gift horse in the mouth was rude, and this way she didn't have to grapple with the moral issues involved with robbing hospitals or medical suppliers.
She still needed blood, but that could wait until after she finished making and setting up the actual equipment.
"Taylor, I'm home," he dad called down the stairs.
She made a vaguely affirmative noise in his general direction.
The basement stairs creaked as he approached.
"Have you… left the basement, today?"
Had she?
Maybe. When had she talked to Panacea?
Probably not, actually.
"Yeah, of course," she said.
Danny hummed and looked over her shoulder. She didn't think he believed her. She didn't believe herself.
"I'll bring you a sandwich. And a smoothie. And a change of bandages," he said.
Come to think of it, the gauze over her brand did feel a bit… sticky.
"Thanks, Dad."
He squeezed her shoulder with one hand. The actual physical contact was nice, even if it threw off her angle slightly.
It was worth it.
…
Taylor finished her sandwich and leaned back in the old folding camp chair. The arms on the chair made for a good sling to keep her arm level. She didn't want to jostle any of the tubes.
Deep crimson filled the spiraling lines and dripped into the waiting receptacles. The basement walls were covered in stark shadows cast by the single, naked light bulb on the ceiling.
She was starting to feel a bit lightheaded. Her power longed for more beautiful material, more medium to shape and refine her work, but she would need to stop the flow soon.
"Taylor, I'm going to bed-"
Her father froze halfway down the stairs, staring at the various apparatuses hooked up to her circulatory system.
"It's not what it looks like," Taylor said automatically.
"It looks like you're harvesting your own blood for your experiments," he said with a raised eyebrow.
Oh.
"Well, in that case, it's exactly what it looks like," Taylor said.
Danny pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Just… don't overdo it. I don't want to wake up and find your bloodless corpse in the basement."
Right. Panacea had already accused her of being a vampire.
"I won't," she said. Killing herself with blood loss would be inefficient, anyway. She wasn't exactly sure how long it would take for her to come back the next time she died. It had taken two weeks last time. Maybe it had something to do with the full moon?
"I'm actually done for now, anyway. Can you hand me that gauze and tape?" Taylor said.
She stanched the flow from the crook of her arm and bound it tightly. The floor spun as she stood and she had to grip the edge of the workbench to avoid sprawling on the concrete.
"You okay, kiddo?"
"Yeah, yeah," Taylor said. The spinning was already slowing down. "Just… overdid it a bit. But at least I have a test batch to work with."
She needed to know which of her ideas would work with her own blood, and which needed more… variety.
"Can it wait until morning?" he asked.
It probably could…
"No, I need to know if it makes any difference if it's fresh," she lied.
"Don't stay up too late, especially after losing that much blood," her father said. "And make sure to drink something."
She held up her half empty Gatorade bottle.
"Well, that's better than nothing," he said with a rueful smile.
Taylor carefully weighed out the beakers for the first test batch. The stairs creaked as her father headed back upstairs.
"Goodnight, Little Owl."
"Goodnight, Dad."
…
Taylor re-tied her hair back to make sure none accidentally got in the path of the hot soldering iron.
Her hands were cramped from the repeated, precise movements. Sweat ran down her jaw as she worked.
She was so close.
Just a few more connections…
The needle was already fixed securely in place and reinforced. The release mechanism was perfect.
She just needed to finish the last bracket to allow for easy reloading, and she would be done with her first mobile apparatus.
Once the connection was complete, she quickly quenched the hot metal.
With water, this time. Not blood. This mechanism wouldn't benefit from the metaphorical weight of a blood quench.
When it was cool, she tested the bracket to see if the vials would easily slip in and out.
The glass vial slid home with a satisfying click. It wouldn't slide out by accident, but it would be easy to replace on the fly if needed.
Taylor leaned back on the stool and wiped the sweat from her face. Her brand itched under the fresh bandage.
Her first piece of actual tinkertech was complete. The first step in her journey to realize the designs in her head.
It was a simple thing, but beautiful, in its simplicity. A molded wooden handle and sturdy steel mechanisms.
It looked a bit like an insulin injector from hell.
Designed for quick injection and distribution, the handheld, pressurized syringe would empty the contents of the inserted vial into the target with extreme efficiency.
Holding it in one hand with the needle pointing down, it would be quick and easy to inject herself with whatever concoctions she needed on a moment's notice. Or anyone else, for that matter.
She glanced over at the petri dishes filled with her blood, condensing with the necessary cocktail to create what she hoped would be a fast-acting healing agent.
It wouldn't necessarily regenerate the blood lost from her own harvesting, but it should stimulate cell growth and coagulation to quickly close any wounds and stop the bleeding.
Although the extrapolating blueprints in her mind were informing her that blood could also crystalize under the right circumstances, rather than coagulating. Interesting.
Another time.
For now, she really needed to sleep.
She couldn't help but smile at the bloodstained workshop. The complex glasswork suspended on wire racks cast delicate shadows over the surface of the old wood workbench. Crimson pools in irregular dishes and beakers at various stages of condensation and distillation. It may have been grotesque to anyone else, but it was satisfying to her.
With a sharp click, the light cut off and the basement was shrouded in darkness.
Taylor collapsed into bed, weary but content with her work.
Her dreams were chaotic, pervaded by an incessant, irregular heartbeat. She couldn't quite tell if the beats coincided with her own, or the drip, drip, drip of the ruby rain.
…
There was something comforting about striding over the cracked asphalt in the dead of night.
The late January air was crisp and clear, cold against the exposed portions of her face. The snow had melted in the afternoon sun, but now began to refreeze under the empty night sky. She kept her hat pulled low just in case anyone happened to look out their window, and her scarf covered her nose and mouth.
Her long coat flared dramatically behind her while her long steps quickly ate away the miles beneath her boots. Taylor enjoyed the feeling of power that came with her ability to go where she pleased, free from the doubts that had always plagued her, before.
It was ironic, considering her destination.
All too soon, she found herself in the familiar neighborhood. Part of her just wanted to go home and forget the whole thing.
But she had to see.
The house in front of her was larger than average, with tastefully trimmed flowerbeds and a well-manicured lawn.
It hadn't changed a bit, in the last two years. She didn't know if that was a good thing or not.
It felt like something should have changed. Something to indicate that this wasn't a friendly place anymore. That poison had seeped into the souls of the inhabitants.
She skulked around the side of the house, sticking close to the fence.
From there, it was easy to scale the brick wall. Even the non-existent handholds around the windows were sufficient, with the strength singing in her bones.
Taylor crouched low as she made her way across the roof. She was intimately familiar with the view from the inside of the specific window she was looking for, but it was a bit difficult to picture from the outside.
Gracefully swinging off the eave, she caught herself on the edge of the windowsill, gripping the brick with just the very ends of her fingers. She pulled herself up to look in through the gap in the blinds.
She had to see if Emma could sleep, after what she did.
Did her former best friend care at all?
The moonlight slid through the blinds in thin stripes. The sheets and blankets were a mess, tangled and intermingled with familiar stuffed animals and pillows.
Emma wasn't in her bed, though.
Huddled on the floor with her back against the wall, the crumpled form of her murderer rocked back and forth as her slim frame quivered with what Taylor could only assume were sobs.
Taylor didn't know what to do with that.
Emma's leaking eyes gleamed in the darkness, but she didn't seem to see anything. She gave no indication that she noticed anything amiss outside her window.
Something about it made her furious.
How dare Emma feel bad about what she did, when it was already far too late?
How dare she cry for what she did, after she hadn't given a fuck when Taylor cried.
Why would she decide to give a shit now, instead of back when Taylor was still fucking alive?
Why did Emma get to break, from the fruits of her cruelty, when Taylor just got to die?
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't fair that her tormentor was broken, instead of reveling in her malice.
Emma's cracked gaze finally focused, seeing the shadow in the moonlight.
They both froze. Emma's shudders subsided, and Taylor couldn't bring herself to look away.
For a long moment, they both just stared.
Emma screamed.
Taylor dropped to the ground two stories below, bending slightly at the knees to absorb the impact with a dull thump. Without looking back, she took off across the backyard at a dead sprint, effortlessly leaping over the pool and then the fence with long, confident strides.
It should have made her happy, that some part of Emma was sorry for what she did.
But it didn't.
Taylor ran faster, the cold wind freezing the tears as they dripped into her scarf.
After all this time, and all the torture they put her through, it wasn't fair that Emma got to cry.
The moon just stared, overhead.
Taylor almost took the back door off its hinges, when she got home.
She gripped the edges of her workbench hard enough to risk tearing into the hardwood, knuckles white under the single bare lightbulb.
Her brand itched. She reached up and roughly pulled the bandage off, exposing the eldritch rune to the cool air. It stood out starkly on her forehead, angry red where it cut a vertical line down to her right eye.
She didn't know if she wanted to scream, break something, cry some more, or sleep. Maybe all of the above.
Instead, she threw the bloodstained gauze aside and stalked over to the remaining materials and tools from their shopping trip.
To the crate of saw blades and handles of varying sizes.
A Hunter must hunt.
But first, she needed a weapon.
…
Sparks flew off the angle grinder while she worked, casting flickering shadows all around her workshop.
The teeth of her saw cleaver sharpened with every pass.
The first of her workshop weapons was a brutal, savage thing. A product of her fury made steel, a crude but effective tool designed to draw blood and cultivate pain.
It was inelegant, but then again, so was she.
It was a heavy weapon, both in physical and metaphorical weight. She had quenched the cursed metal in her own blood and pain.
Taylor set the angle grinder down and admired her work.
The blade itself consisted of multiple saw blades bolted and bound together before having the teeth re-tooled to match up into a single serrated edge. The result was a half-inch thick slab of steel, with a curved handle running down the back.
At the head, a catch and release mechanism created a pivot point that would allow the cleaver to unfold for extra reach, when needed.
Taylor stretched the knots out of her back from the long hours hunched over her tools, standing and rolling her shoulders.
One long finger caressed the leather-wrapped handle of her new weapon.
Something deep within her itched to feel it rip and tear into the flesh of a deserving enemy. She could just imagine how the blood would flow in rivers over the jagged blade.
Her fingers closed around the handle.
The cleaver was too heavy for any normal person to swing reliably, but it felt perfect to her.
She was so close.
Just one more addition to her arsenal, and she would be ready.
She needed some finery, to offset the primal savagery of her saw.
Taylor put down the cleaver and began to hunt for the pieces of her next project, far more complicated from a technical standpoint.
It may have been frowned upon in the cape scene, but she didn't care. Her powers were never going to be palatable to the PRT or the Protectorate. Whether they lauded her as a hero or branded her a villain, their judgement meant nothing to her.
It was time to make a fucking gun.
…
Taylor drew more blood from her veins.
Her dreams were plagued with screams, calling to the uncaring moon.
Why couldn't she tell if they were crying, or screaming?
…
"Are you alright, Taylor?"
She sipped her tea while her dad watched her with worried eyes from across the shabby kitchen. Her bones felt heavy.
She wondered if she should tell him. Would he judge her?
It was a bit late to start keeping secrets from him.
"I went to Emma's, a few nights ago."
She didn't need to see his face. His sharp inhale was enough.
"I don't… I don't know if that's a good idea," he said hesitantly.
"Yeah, I know."
It was quiet, for a while. Taylor took a sip of her tea.
"She was crying," Taylor said.
"Oh."
She could tell that he understood, just a bit.
"It's not fair," she said finally.
"I know," he said.
"She doesn't… she shouldn't get to do everything she did, and then just… cry about it. Like she isn't a monster," Taylor clenched her jaw.
She also tightened her grip without thinking.
The mug shattered under her hands, burning liquid and jagged porcelain splashing across the table and the floor. Crimson ichor joined the spreading pool of tea as the broken shards sliced into her skin.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Then her father's hand was running over her back in soothing circles. It helped, somehow, that he didn't immediately jump to try to clean up the mess, or bandage her cuts.
"I know," he said, softly.
Tears joined the blood and the tea, dripping onto the floor.
Taylor pulled a piece of ceramic out of her hand and let it fall to the table.
It didn't even hurt, really. Not in the grand scheme of things.
"The world isn't separated into good people and monsters, unfortunately. Everyone has a little bit of the monster. Some are just buried deeper than others," Danny said.
"Doesn't make it better," Taylor said through gritted teeth.
"No. No, it doesn't," he said with a sigh.
For a long moment, they both just existed. Him still rubbing her back, and her still clenching her lacerated fists.
Eventually, her breathing evened out, and she felt a bit lighter.
That might have been the blood loss, though.
Such a waste of good blood.
"I have something to fix my cuts, downstairs. Can you… would you clean this up, please?" Taylor said. Her voice sounded strangely small, to her.
"Sure. Just let me know if you need help with anything," Danny said.
Taylor stood sharply and forced herself towards her lab while he grabbed a roll of paper towels.
The basement stairs creaked.
Her fingers left bloody streaks on the light switch.
Time to see if all the work on her quick injector was worth it.
Taylor loaded a blood vial into the injector. In theory, the contents should invigorate her cells and rapidly regenerate the wounded tissue.
In theory.
But she wasn't about to start second guessing herself now.
Taylor slammed the device down into her thigh, the long needle easily penetrating her clothes, skin and muscle. The impact triggered the pressurized release and drove the contents of the vial forcefully into her bloodstream.
Her eyes widened as the searing euphoria coursed through her.
Fuck. Yes.
She would have to be careful not to get addicted to this feeling. Whatever shit the Merchants handed out, she doubted that it had anything on this.
A manic laugh bubbled between her lips at the idea of putting the drug dealers out of business by dealing better drugs. Truly, a heroic pursuit if there ever was one.
She watched her hands curiously as the ministration went to work.
It was surprisingly effective.
The cuts began to close before her eyes. Wounds that should have required stitches, might have taken weeks to heal on their own. Within seconds, all that was left of the dripping gashes were angry red lines carved into her flesh.
She flexed her hands experimentally. No noticeable issues with motion, only a vague lingering ache.
Excellent.
Her eyes fell on the recently completed pistol, sitting innocently on the workbench despite the explosive potential hidden within.
Like everything her power provided, it was a brutal thing.
Single shot, and loaded from the top, it was unlike any modern gun she had ever seen. However, instead of firing standard bullets, it fired custom rounds composed of quicksilver, and blood.
She didn't quite understand how it worked, since there was no gunpowder involved, but her power filled in the gaps for her.
The bullets were over half an inch across, molded out of twisted, consecrated metal and a concentrated formula of her own blood. Every shot would carry both metaphorical and physical weight, with the potential to blow non-brutes into bloody pieces. She was only limited by how many bullets she could produce without becoming delirious from blood loss.
The plans for a rapid extractor floated in her mind, to let her draw blood from her veins and consecrate new bullets quickly, mid-combat.
Maybe later.
She did need some method for extraction, though. Her first hunt wouldn't just be for righteous justice; she needed more blood than she could reasonably draw from herself. For more bullets, more blood vials, and… other projects.
And if she ran across another parahuman, she needed to get her hands on a sample.
Her power was practically singing with the potential that parahuman blood could provide her.
Soon.
First, she had to reassure her father that she wasn't bleeding to death. Or going insane.
At least, she hoped she wasn't.
…