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Rating:
Teen And Up Audiences
Archive Warning:
No Archive Warnings Apply
Category:
Gen
Fandoms:
Parahumans Series - WildbowWarhammer 40.000Warhammer Fantasy
Characters:
Taylor Hebert | Skitter | WeaverTaylor ThetaTaylor EtaTaylor NuTaylor Sigma
Additional Tags:
Alt-Power Taylor HebertFour Taylors
Language:
English
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Published:2025-07-07Updated:2025-11-05Words:126,579Chapters:16/?Comments:47Kudos:185Bookmarks:75Hits:11,655
Champions of the Warp
Squidink13
Summary:
A Worm/Warhammer 40K Crossover
When the Ruinous Powers breach the dimensional barriers into Earth Bet, they discover the perfect vessel for their corruption in Taylor Hebert—a parahuman whose capacity for escalation matches their own hunger for dominance. However, the eternal rivalry between the Chaos Gods proves stronger than their shared ambition.
Unable to share a singular champion, Khorne, Tzeentch, Nurgle, and Slaanesh each claim a fragment of Taylor's essence, splitting her consciousness across four distinct avatars.
Four champions. Four interpretations of heroism. Four paths to the same apocalyptic destination.
The question isn't whether Brockton Bay will fall to Chaos—it's which version of Taylor Hebert will be the one to deliver it, and whether any fragment of the original girl remains to stop what she's become.
(This work is being crossposted from SpaceBattles)
Chapter 1
Chapter Text
The Warp
Within the Warp, all things are possible. All futures exist simultaneously, branching into infinite possibilities like the roots of some vast, unknowable tree.
In one such branch, a universe that had remained untouched by the corrupting powers of Chaos aligned—ever so briefly—with the Immaterium through a single, infinitesimal connection. A girl, trapped and screaming in darkness, became the conduit. Her agony rippled across the veil between realities, drawing the attention of entities older than time itself.
The Four Gods of Chaos converged upon this unexpected doorway, each hungering to claim this virgin realm. But as they reached through the breach, they found themselves in bitter competition for a single mortal vessel—a soul whose desperation and potential burned like a beacon in the void.
In countless possible futures, the Four quickly divided their meager gifts equally before abandoning the mortal to her fate, content to watch as their influence slowly poisoned this new world. In others, they granted her a fragment of their essence, allowing a single aspect of themselves to inhabit her mortal shell alongside her consciousness.
Most commonly, the Chaos Gods fought viciously over the girl until only one remained victorious, or until the mortal herself was reduced to a gibbering husk of madness and mutation, her mind shattered beyond recognition.
(In certain rare timelines—ones the Four would never acknowledge—some lesser power would seize the opportunity, usurping the mortal for their own designs while the greater entities warred amongst themselves.)
But in one particular strand of fate—one possibility among countless billions—something unprecedented occurred. The Four, in their infinite hunger and ambition, splintered the girl's very existence. Mind and body fractured into separate vessels, each to serve as a private champion for their respective patron in this untainted world.
And so it was that Taylor Hebert ceased to be one, and became many.
Theta
There were benefits to being an only child. Taylor had never truly realized these small luxuries until now—simple, everyday freedoms that had once passed unnoticed like background music. The bathroom all to herself after Dad finished his morning routine. Long, contemplative showers without someone pounding on the door. The quiet certainty that the face in the mirror would be hers alone.
Now, all that has changed.
Taylor stood in the hallway, staring at the closed bathroom door as if it were a barrier between worlds. Music hummed from inside—something with too much bass and lyrics she couldn't quite make out—punctuated by the muffled sounds of cabinet doors opening and closing. Her fingers twitched at her sides, torn between knocking forcefully and simply waiting out the storm. She chose patience, chewing absently at the inside of her cheek as minutes stretched into eternity.
"Finally," she muttered, when the door finally swung open then recoiled as the unmistakable stench of cigarettes enveloped her—the kind of thick, cloying smoke that seemed to seep into wallpaper, hair, skin. Taylor grimaced, instinctively raising an arm to shield her face.
"Seriously?" she hissed, voice low to avoid carrying downstairs.
"What?" came the reply, all feigned innocence.
Taylor's gaze cut to the other Taylor Hebert emerging from the bathroom—herself, and yet painfully, fundamentally not. This Taylor's hair was artfully tousled in a way she herself would never have attempted, her clothes a deliberate mess of calculated rebellion. The PRT had designated this version "Sigma," a clinical term that failed to capture the uncanny valley of seeing your own face wearing expressions you'd never make.
"You know what," Taylor, designated 'Theta,' whispered fiercely. "Dad will lose it if he smells smoke on you."
Taylor Sigma had the decency to look guilty, if only for a fleeting moment. "Sorry," she muttered, the word hollow as she brushed past on her way back to their shared bedroom.
Taylor Theta slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. The lingering smoke made her nose wrinkle in disgust. She couldn't bear it—not just the smell, but the evidence of Sigma's recklessness, the casual disregard for their father's rules. Taking a deep breath, she reached for her power.
It responded to her call, a strange ethereal current that existed just beyond normal perception. Theta extended her consciousness into that flow, coaxing it into a cleansing gust that only she could see—blue-tinged energy that swirled through the small space. The cupboards rattled in protest, pipes groaned within the walls, and then everything settled. She took an experimental sniff and relaxed. At least this time the smoke hadn't been replaced with the smell of sulfur, as had happened during previous attempts.
There was so much that Taylor Theta didn't understand about her power. She could feel it weaving around her, ebbing and flowing like invisible tides against the shores of reality. Each time she reached for it, raw potential thrummed at her fingertips—the power to alter, to change, to reshape the world according to her will. She documented every experiment meticulously in notebooks hidden from prying eyes, particularly those of the PRT.
She knew they watched her and her "variants" closely. Partly for research—four identical bodies with possible different powers presented unprecedented opportunities for parahuman study. But mostly, she suspected, to monitor potential threats and identify recruitment opportunities.
Taylor Theta moved through her morning routine with practiced efficiency: teeth-brushing, face-washing, pausing occasionally to study her reflection. Sometimes, in the hollow light of dawn, she struggled to recognize herself. There were days—increasingly frequent—when her body felt borrowed, a temporary vessel at risk of being reclaimed by whatever cosmic force had fractured her existence in the first place.
Dressed and ready, she padded downstairs, steeling herself for the familiar tableau. Dad and Sigma were already at the breakfast table. Danny—all rumpled bathrobe and thinning hair—nursed a mug of coffee while scanning the newspaper, his glasses sliding down his nose. Sigma, by contrast, embodied calculated rebellion: new jeans riding low on her hips, a garishly bright pink shirt, and a deliberate sliver of exposed midriff displayed with a confidence Theta couldn't fathom.
It was jarring to think that any version of herself would wear something so revealing. Theta instinctively tugged at her own baggy clothes, a momentary pang of jealousy flickering through her. They shared identical bodies—that was the cruel irony. The only difference was how they chose to present themselves. Perhaps if she exercised more discipline over both body and wardrobe, she too could project such self-assurance.
Irritated at her own thoughts, Theta sat down and claimed the last plate. Eggs and toast—simple comfort food that somehow grounded her in reality. The three ate in a silence that felt, at least to Theta, like standing at the edge of a precipice, straining to hear which stone might give way first.
"Any plans for the day?" Danny finally asked, his voice cutting through the tension as he set down his coffee.
The two Taylors exchanged a glance. "No," they answered in perfect unison, their voices creating an eerie harmony.
Theta winced. These moments of synchronicity happened frequently—identical gestures, simultaneous words, shared instincts that manifested despite their diverging personalities. Each instance served as a jarring reminder that she was not unique, not truly—not even in her own fractured life. Sometimes she wondered if Sigma deliberately mimicked her responses, then immediately dismissed the paranoid thought.
Danny's lips quirked into a small, private smile behind his mug. "I plan to visit your sisters after work," he said, setting down his cup and speaking with the gentle care of someone navigating a minefield. "Either of you are welcome to join me."
Theta felt a flicker of relief when Sigma spoke first. "No thanks, I'm good."
"Same," she echoed, now hyperaware of their tendency toward simultaneity.
One doppelganger under the same roof was discomfiting enough. The thought of seeing the other two variants intensified her unease tenfold. Eta was nothing but barely contained rage in human form, while Nu's presence disturbed Theta in ways she couldn't articulate—as though looking at her sickly counterpart revealed some fundamental truth about herself she wasn't ready to confront.
Danny gathered his plate, kissed each daughter's forehead with equal affection, and rinsed his dishes. Upstairs, water rattled through the ancient pipes. Theta and Sigma chewed their toast in uncomfortable silence as their father departed, leaving them unsure where to look or how to exist in this shared, borrowed life.
Sometimes, in moments like these, Theta couldn't help wondering which version of Taylor Hebert truly belonged here—and whether any of them did at all.
Nu
"How are you feeling?"
"Bored."
The nurse offered a small, practiced smile through the hermetically sealed plexiglass that separated Taylor Nu from the rest of the ward. The barrier transformed everything beyond it—rendering the world cold, distant, and faintly unreal. The hospital's already clinical palette of faded green and institutional white seemed further bleached by the sterile partition, as if color itself couldn't quite penetrate this quarantine.
Nothing crossed this boundary: not a reassuring touch, not a whisper of fresh air, not even the genuine warmth of human connection. Her existence had been reduced to this antiseptic bubble, this laboratory where she was simultaneously patient and specimen.
The nurse tried again, adopting that bright, determined tone reserved for terminal cases and small children. "Your father called. He'll visit this evening. Would you like another book to pass the time?"
Taylor Nu glanced up from her hospital bed, the plastic mattress crackling beneath her slight frame. Her fingers traced idle patterns on the rough-spun blanket—institutional grade, designed for durability rather than comfort. Books were her sole escape from this sterile purgatory, pages to devour during the endless, identical hours that bled into one another.
"I'd appreciate it," she replied, voice slightly hoarse from disuse.
The nurse nodded and retreated through the second airlock door with a pneumatic hiss, the sound emphasizing Taylor's isolation. Each time that door sealed, she couldn't shake the sensation of being vacuum-packed—preserved and displayed like a curious specimen for observation and study, poked at with well-meaning but ultimately futile interventions.
With a sigh that seemed to empty her entirely, she collapsed back onto her pillow, arms splayed outward. The pervasive reek of disinfectant had become her constant companion, clinging to her sheets, her clothes, her hair. It dulled her senses until she found herself craving anything natural—a breeze, a flower, even the honest stink of decay. Anything alive.
In the cosmic lottery of misfortune that the locker incident had become, Nu had drawn the ticket no one wanted: host to a mysterious infection that defied conventional medicine. She remembered the doctors' initial optimism as they prescribed their first round of antibiotics, confidence painted across their features. That hope had curdled quickly into bewilderment as her condition not only persisted but evolved in ways their instruments could barely track.
The irony wasn't lost on her—by every clinical measure, she should have been deteriorating, yet beneath her skin hummed a strange, new vitality. Energy sparked at her fingertips; her heartbeat had become a low, thrumming engine of creation. Despite the outward signs of illness—the congestion, the pallid complexion, the persistent itch beneath her skin, the fever that never quite broke—Taylor Nu felt more vibrantly alive than she had in years.
Even Panacea—Amy Dallon herself, the miracle-worker of New Wave—had studied Taylor with a mixture of professional concern and undisguised fascination. That visit had been the highlight of her quarantine. Panacea's hands, gentle despite their power, had pressed against Nu's skin, her abilities probing the infection, searching for—and failing to identify—the true nature of what flourished within.
"It's not... harmful, exactly," Panacea had murmured, brow furrowed in concentration. "But it's not letting itself be removed either. It's almost like it's... negotiating with your immune system."
Taylor had glimpsed the exhaustion swirling in the healer's eyes—another girl crushed beneath expectations, yet still striving to help. It had sparked something in Nu: not morbid fascination, but genuine scientific curiosity. What would it take to create something that even Panacea would find remarkable? Not to harm—never that—but to enhance, to improve, to transform weakness into strength.
In quiet moments, she sketched blueprints for impossible microorganisms in her notebooks—symbiotic virions that could rewrite damaged DNA, bacteria that could target cancer cells with surgical precision, prions that might unlock dormant potential in the brain. Gifts for a world that currently saw her as nothing but a threat.
But her world remained this cell, these transparent walls, her existence reduced to an endless cycle of tests and observations. Doctors prodded; parahuman specialists theorized; PRT officials watched with increasing wariness as she explained her ideas. Her first notebooks had been confiscated for "security review," though eventually returned with certain pages conspicuously missing. She recognized the fear in their eyes—the growing certainty that Taylor Nu, classified as a "Wet Tinker" with pathogen specialization, represented a biological time bomb slowly ticking toward detonation.
The classification had initially disappointed her. A Tinker of germs rather than gadgets—no sleek armor, no impossible machines, no dramatic displays of power. She'd envied her other selves at first; even Eta with her rage seemed to have drawn a better hand. But as she devoured case studies, PRT documentation, and parahuman forums, Nu began to understand the true scope of her potential. Her power wasn't flashy, but it was profound—the ability to reshape life at its most fundamental level.
The world had reason to fear such power. Bonesaw, Blasto, Lab Rat—these names cast long shadows over any cape with biological abilities. Nu could see the future they imagined for her: not an asset but an apocalypse waiting to happen, another monster to be contained. If her dream of helping humanity was to survive, she would need to build trust, to prove to everyone—her doctors, her family, herself—that her gifts could heal as readily as they could harm.
This dream sustained her. She sat up, turning her attention to the array of petri dishes arranged on the small desk beside her bed. Each was meticulously labeled and organized in neat rows—a microcosm of her mind, theories and hopes cultivated in agar, waiting to be tested. Her fingers hovered above the glass, not quite touching. Each dish contained possibility: a novel approach to boosting immunity, a method for accelerating cellular regeneration, a means of coaxing the body to heal itself in ways previously thought impossible.
"Well, my little ones," Nu murmured, a wry smile playing across her lips, "let's see what we can cultivate today."
And there, in her isolation, surrounded by the tools of her peculiar craft, Taylor Nu imagined futures that no one else could see—futures shaped not by fear or destruction, but by the patient, inexorable power of growth and transformation. In the garden of her mind, even decay served a purpose; even disease could become a pathway to something greater.
Eta
Up, down, up, down, up, down.
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.
Taylor Eta's arms burned, muscles trembling under the relentless rhythm she had imposed upon herself. Sweat dripped from her brow, pooling on the smooth floor with every completed push-up. But she welcomed the ache, embracing the punishing repetition as a means to stave off the gnawing itch within her—a craving that only exertion or conflict could satisfy. Her cell was her world: sterile, gray, four walls of boredom and tension that closed in on her, leaving only her adrenaline and anger as companions.
For weeks now, the PRT holding cell had been her cage. Time lost all meaning, measured only by the number of push-ups before the buzzer sounded, the hard exhaustion that followed another empty workout. Her days blurred into a haze of interviews—hushed voices on the other side of a table—lawyer visits, and mandated counseling sessions she endured but never embraced. According to the counselor, her anger needed "healthy expression." Taylor Eta had tried to laugh at the absurdity, but nothing about her life felt funny anymore.
Still, her father visited when he could, his face drawn and weary behind the video screen, effort shining in every word and smile he offered. It never felt like enough. With the other Taylors now vying for his attention, Taylor Eta could only claim scraps of his time, sharing him in a way that left a bitter taste in her mouth.
When the screen flashed yellow, Taylor Eta sprang to her feet, instinctively facing the TV embedded in the wall. After six seconds, the display shifted from yellow to reveal the faceless mask of a PRT Trooper. The voice that followed was formal and clipped, yet held a note of anticipation that Eta couldn't ignore.
"Alright, Ms. Hebert, are you ready for gym time?"
She rolled her shoulders, trying to temper her eagerness. "Yes, and I'd like to request a sparring partner, if one is available."
"I have something better. Your request to spar with a hero has been approved. Assault and Aegis have volunteered."
Excitement bloomed at the prospect of facing a worthy opponent. The urge to fight surged within her, powerful and hungry, almost dizzying.
"I look forward to it."
The screen blinked once before turning red, and Taylor Eta assumed "the position," feet spread, hands pressed against the cold cinderblock wall. The cell door hissed open, and two troopers stepped inside, the scent of containment foam following them. Familiar, impersonal hands conducted a brief pat-down—she bristled inside, rage flickering for just a moment—but gritted her teeth and let it pass.
"Clear," one trooper announced. Cold steel cuffs clamped around her wrists, and the march began.
In the early weeks of her incarceration, still consumed by rage, Taylor Eta would have fought her guards at every opportunity; every meal, every visitation, every moment. Eventually, the fighting transformed into something deeper than mere anger—it became a necessity.
Her counselor suggested finding an outlet. After a time, Taylor decided to request sparring sessions whenever they offered gym time. Unsurprisingly, the guards were apprehensive, but she persisted until someone finally agreed.
The first spar had been a bloody beatdown, as Taylor unleashed every ounce of pent-up anger and frustration.
Eventually, a silent agreement formed: she would behave as long as they allowed her to fight. From her sparring partners, she learned how to move, how to throw a punch, absorbing their little suggestions and occasional techniques to add to her repertoire.
Today was going to be different. Today, she would spar with someone truly worthwhile, someone who might test her boundaries.
The halls were a maze of echoing tiles and reinforced doors. Taylor Eta wondered, in an abstract way, whether they led prisoners like her down different corridors than regular personnel. Would the gym she was about to enter be the same one where the heroes trained, or merely an afterthought, designed for containment rather than camaraderie?
Not that it mattered.
Inside, the gym was a wide-open space, blue mats crisply laid out, weights racked neatly at the edges. Her cuffs came off, and Eta flexed her hands, diving into her warm-up, ignoring the troopers' presence and losing herself in the stretch and burn of her muscles.
She was halfway through her routine, testing her personal best with the weights, when a flicker of movement caught her eye. Curious, she turned to see her father—Danny—standing at the door, uncertainty etched into the lines of his face. He looked older than she remembered, worry making him appear smaller, more fragile.
"Dad!" she exclaimed, abandoning the weights and jogging over.
The guards shifted but didn't intervene as Taylor Eta wrapped her father in a fierce, crushing hug. For a moment, she let herself lean into the embrace. She was unaccustomed to such vulnerability, but the weeks apart had left the feeling raw and urgent.
Danny squeezed back, releasing her and scanning her face with a mixture of pride and concern. "Look at you. You've changed so much."
Self-consciousness prickled at Taylor's skin as she realized just how much she had transformed. She had shed her prison top for a tank top and sports bra, her athletic gains undeniable. Muscle stood out in bold, new relief against her frame, a testament to the energy and frustration she'd poured into the only arena left to her.
"Why are you here?" she demanded before she could stop herself. "Not that I don't want to see you. It's just—they usually only let you video call."
Danny offered a weary smile. "I've been asking to see you in person…and today, they needed my signature on some consent forms."
He sounded exhausted. Too exhausted. A flash of guilt surged through Taylor—wondering, not for the first time, if her struggles had deepened the lines etched on his face, if she was just another problem for him to juggle along with the other Taylors.
She wanted to ask about him, check if he was really okay—but the words caught in her throat. So, she shifted the subject.
"Consent form for what?"
"For our sparring match, of course!"
Looking past her father, Taylor Eta spotted Assault and Aegis entering the gym. Assault, clad in vibrant, almost comically heroic red, and Aegis, the young Ward in muted crimson with silver accents, moved with a relaxed confidence that contrasted with their imposing presence.
"Mr. Hebert, pleasure to meet you. I'm Assault, and this young lad is Aegis," he said, offering a cocky smile and shaking Danny's hand enthusiastically before turning to Taylor Eta. "And you must be the spunky little fighter who's been throwing down with our troopers."
With a frown, Taylor Eta studied her potential sparring partners while trying to mask her excitement about the upcoming fight.
"I'm dealing with some anger issues," she replied neutrally, not wanting to delve into her personal struggles with the hero. Anger was part of it, but there was a deeper reason that drove her to fight—a more spiritual calling.
Assault nodded, thankfully not pressing further.
"Well, if everyone's ready, why don't we have Aegis go up first?"
"Sounds good to me," the young Ward replied.
Taylor Eta followed Aegis to the sparring mats. They insisted she wear protective headgear and gloves, and once she was ready, she and Aegis took their positions across from each other. Assault stood at the edge of the mat, next to her father. For a fleeting moment, worry gnawed at her. The thought of her father witnessing…everything…made her chest tighten. But the anticipation of the challenge drowned it out.
"Lord of Blood and Skulls," Eta muttered under her breath—her private mantra, a prayer for clarity in battle. "Please accept my meager offering."
A sudden surge of adrenaline sent her heart racing as Taylor began to shift her weight back and forth on the balls of her feet, excess energy coursing through her. She needed this; she needed to vent the mounting pressure.
"Don't worry," Aegis said with a smile visible beneath his helmet. "I'll go easy to start. No flight, not too much super strength."
Taylor Eta huffed in annoyance. "Don't hold back."
"Alright, we're looking for a nice clean match!" Assault announced in a mockingly announcer's voice. "Challengers, are you ready?"
"Ready!" shouted Aegis.
Taylor Eta offered a single nod as she raised her fists, keeping a steady gaze on Aegis as he took up a boxer's stance.
"And Fight!"
Aegis danced lightly, teasing. Eta charged, throwing rapid punches, testing his guard. She landed a few—enough to sting. His lazy return felt insulting in its caution.
Frustration ignited within her. Eta caught his wrist, twisting—hard. She spun, using leverage and momentum, slamming her weight behind the motion.
There was a sharp, clean snap of bone.
"Stop!"
Assault leapt in, and Eta instinctively rolled, feeling the rush. She pulled free, going low, ready to pounce again if they'd let her—but Assault matched her move with an easy, almost lazy tap to her chest, sending her sprawling backward.
"Taylor!"
Her father's shout—sharp and full of fear—pierced through the haze. Recognition washed over her, breath rushing back in a gasp. She saw Assault's wary stance, Aegis testing his arm mid-air, a controlled expression of pain on his young face.
"Gotta say, kid, you really have some fire in you," Assault remarked, with a note of respect. He glanced at Aegis. "You doing okay?"
"Should be fine in a few minutes, once the bone sets." The young Ward floated a few inches as he tested his injured arm. "Just caught me by surprise is all. Forgot how to fly for a bit, but my power will definitely let me keep going."
Eta retreated from the mat, head down, trembling faintly, gulping water past a tight throat. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, feeling the weight of their stares. Anger and shame twisted within her chest. Her father's concern was a hot, scratchy thing she couldn't quite look at. But she would not falter. This was who she was now: a storm trapped in flesh, only quieted by collision.
Assault grinned again, stretching his gloves. "Well, Ms. Hebert, the lab coats warned us about that minor brute rating. Let's see how far we can push it, shall we?"
Taylor Eta squared her shoulders and stepped forward, aching for the next round—flame and shadow forged into a girl who refused to be broken by anything less than the hardest fight.
Sigma
Initially, both Taylor Sigma and Theta had been anxious about starting over at a new school—even if it was Arcadia High, the most prestigious public school in the city and the one that seemed to orbit in rumors around the Wards ENE. In the beginning, it was easy to be dazzled: broad lawns, neat rows of well-tended hedges, banners sparkling with school spirit, and buildings so clean they almost reflected sunlight. The teachers walked with real confidence in their step, and guidance counselors actually remembered students' names.
But after a while, Taylor Sigma found her early hopes wilting under the fluorescent lights. The deeper she looked, the more she saw the same patterns, the same slow, grinding fractures that seemed to lurk under the surface of every institution. The popular kids ruled their fiefdoms with perfectly lacquered smiles and whispered rumors. Jocks prowled the halls, always a step above everyone else despite the faculty's assurances of "inclusivity." The goths, theater nerds, rich kids, and outcasts each had their little kingdoms, rarely mixing, wary—or weary—of outsiders.
When they shut down Winslow, Arcadia had absorbed a flood of new transfers, and the cracks widened further. Classes overflowed. Teachers picked up the slack with tired eyes and forced energy. The promise of a "premium education experience" was stretched thin, a veneer that didn't always withstand the scrutiny of students who had already survived worse.
It made Sigma restless, but not discouraged. This was, after all, her second chance—a slate wiped clean by tragedy and bureaucracy, to step away from being one of the "Locker Girls." Taylor Sigma would be something new, something more than just a victim's shadow or a parahuman footnote. All she needed was a spark: inspiration, something to animate both her mind and her body.
She forced herself to change, to look different. Gone was the shy, hunched posture and baggy clothes. Sigma had embraced a new aesthetic—tight jeans that hugged her hips, a top that revealed just enough to make people look twice, hair styled with deliberate carelessness. The transformation wasn't just physical; it was a complete reinvention.
On this chilly, overcast morning, the quadrangle was already buzzing. Groups milled about under the watchful eye of security cameras, pretending not to notice one another. Sigma made her way through the crowd, scanning faces that still felt only half-familiar, until she zeroed in on one from her old life.
"Hey Sparky."
He looked up, blinking in slow motion. Sparky: always rumpled, eyes a little red, drumsticks sticking out of his backpack, "Huh?"
Taylor Sigma sighed internally as she stared intently at one of the few people she had loosely associated with back at Winslow. Sparky's whole identity revolved around his band, for which he played drums, and being perpetually stoned.
"Taylor?" The young teen blinked slowly as he focused his attention on the tall girl standing before him. Then he smiled lazily, recognition dawning.
"You swinging by again this weekend?" he asked, leaning against the wall with practiced nonchalance.
She leaned in, pitching her voice low, feeling the delicious thrill of conspiracy. "Will you have my supply by then?"
"Of course, my uh," Sparky paused as he thought for a moment, "my friend says he knows a guy who can get some of the better stuff. He knows someone with the Merch—"
Taylor Sigma put a finger on his lips to shush him as she tried to put a smile to hide her nervousness.
"Then I'll be there," she said, then added, "This weekend I mean."
A strange, electric tension built up—perhaps not entirely about the deal. On impulse, Taylor gripped the front of his shirt and yanked him close, pressing her lips to his in a quick, fierce kiss. For a second, both were surprised: Sigma at her own impulsiveness, Sparky simply stunned at the attention. His cheeks flushed red.
She let him go, voice dropping to a threatening purr. "Don't disappoint me, Sparky."
His eyes widened. "No worries, bro. John promised—it's the best shit."
Taylor turned, uncaring of the stares from nearby students. She melted into the shifting mass of bodies headed toward the entrance, feeling the impression of Sparky's surprise lingering on her lips. The world felt heavy, weighted by dozens of eyes and whispered guesses. But she welcomed it. It meant, at the very least, she was being noticed.
There were many times when Taylor Sigma couldn't recognize herself when compared to who she was last year, and it all started with a whisper of temptation. One little promise of inspiration for the cost of a little self-indulgence. A voice that seemed to come from within yet somehow beyond her, offering pleasures and experiences she'd never dared imagine.
The first smoke was a horrible experience, one that left her coughing and hacking for ages, but the dread of being caught, the thrill of wrongdoing, was exhilarating. An adrenaline high that left her wanting more, and accompanying it was a mindful moment of clarity where the world became her canvas to explore and her body the tool with which she could experience it all. Colors seemed brighter, sensations more intense, inhibitions melting away like morning fog.
An artistic interpretation of the universe that was all hers so long as she simply listened to the little tempting whispers of pleasure and vice. The voice grew stronger with each indulgence—a presence that offered not just escape but transformation. It promised experiences beyond the mundane, sensations that transcended the ordinary. It showed her how to remake herself, how to shed the skin of the old Taylor and emerge as something glorious and new.
The line between inspiration and self-indulgence blurred, but Sigma didn't care. She had power now—the power to rewrite her image, to claim her own narrative, to taste the sharpness and sweetness of whatever came next. Each new experience was a brushstroke on the canvas of her reinvention, each sensation a note in the symphony of her becoming.
And as she strode into the heart of Arcadia—her new kingdom, fractured but full of possibility—Taylor Sigma knew that this year, she wasn't going to play by anyone else's script.
Winslow
A strange, eerie wind whistled through the deserted halls of Winslow High, weaving its way around cracked lockers and over the glitter of shattered glass. Every twist of air seemed to carry with it the ghosts of laughter, arguments, the routine hum that the school had once known. But now, it sounded only like the memory of a storm—hollow, restless, echoing through emptiness.
The front doors shuddered reluctantly as PRT Trooper McDaniel pushed them open. The hinges groaned as if in protest, the cold morning sunlight pressing against his back, doing little to illuminate the yawning dark inside. A shiver slipped down his spine the moment he crossed the threshold. It wasn't so much the chill, but the sense of intrusion, as if he'd stepped onto someone else's stage.
He paused, boots crunching on debris, taking in the empty main hallway. To his left, the Administrative offices slumped in shadow, their frosted glass doors marked with scratches and grime. On his right, the hallway stretched all the way to the gym—what remained of the trophy cases glittered with broken glass. Tattered banners hung limply, school colors faded by neglect. The wind found its way through cracks and broken windows, bringing with it the mingled scents of mildew and mold, rust and old sweat.
McDaniel's hand went unconsciously to his belt, unclipping his flashlight. He clicked the button, and a hot white beam lanced out, cleaving through the darkness. The beam played over upended trash cans, textbooks scattered like the leavings of a bird's nest, bricks pried loose by bored, destructive hands. The silence was immense, alive in its own way—a silence that made the creak of the radiators and the soft, shuffling drag of rats all the more haunting.
Officially, guarding the abandoned school was a routine assignment—a cakewalk. Babysit the eggheads taking samples from the chemistry labs, keep out the neighborhood kids with an appetite for destruction, chase away the occasional vagrant or overeager reporter. In reality, nothing about Winslow was routine anymore. From the first night, the place had exuded a kind of malevolent resistance. The cameras glitched in ways even the techs couldn't explain, alarms chirped out of nowhere, and sometimes the cleaners swore they heard voices—faint, pleading, almost always coming from the sophomore hallway.
And then there was the matter of The Locker
McDaniel tried not to think about the locker, didn't like the way his mind circled it instinctively in the darkness. The silence pressed closer.
He moved with practiced caution, boots scuffing against faded tiles as he swept the corridors. Each classroom seemed more desolate than the last; desks toppled, chalk dust pooling in the corners, a final exam left unfinished on a teacher's podium. Across the glass, graffiti flowered, expletives and cryptic words that looked like warnings more than art.
His radio crackled, blaring into the hush so abruptly that McDaniel's heart leapt in his chest.
"Tango 2, Tango 1, test."
He swore, sucked in a breath, then keyed his mic. "Tango 1, Tango 2, test sat."
"Tango 2, motion detector from basement storage."
He frowned, eyes darting toward a stairwell half-hidden in shadow.
"Roger, Tango 1. Will investigate."
With a sigh, McDaniel leaned against the wall for a moment to catch his breath and collect his wits. With a shake of his head, he turned back around to the stairwell he had passed earlier. The wind shifted unexpectedly as he descended the steps and the light from his flashlight illuminated the disturbed dust and debris that had accumulated at the bottom. McDaniel frowned as he checked the door, only to find it locked.
No matter, he thought to himself. He reached for the keys hanging off his belt only to fumble and dropped them. With a quiet muttered curse he reached down and then nearly screamed in surprise as a large rat darted out from the shadows to grab the keyring.
"Shit, shit…!" McDaniel's muttered curses echoed as he lunged, barely brushing the rat's tail as it squeezed under the door, pulling the keys with it.
"Fuck! Come back here, you little shit!" His voice bounced back, a pale parody of anger.
A chorus of high-pitched chittering seemed to answer him, echoing through the pipes, mocking. For a long moment he considered simply waiting—maybe the rat would drop the keys, maybe it was only a matter of patience. But there, at the periphery of his hearing, came the faintest creak, the unmistakable sound of a lock turning.
Halfway up the stairs now, McDaniel froze as the door he'd just tried opened by degrees.
Hinges whimpered in protest as a hand—or paw?—nudged it with slow deliberation.
"Who's there?" His flashlight beam was a trembling arrow, piercing for monsters imagined and remembered. "Come on out!"
For just a second, he saw it—shadow twined around a pair of glimmering, malevolent eyes, low to the ground, more animal than human. He grabbed his radio, voice tight, "Tango 1, Tango 2. Reporting contact with possible unknown trespasser."
Gun drawn, flashlight gripped tight in the other fist, McDaniel crept closer. The storage room beyond was a vortex of decay and nightmare. Boxes and chairs were stacked helter-skelter, walls slick with the stuff of rot, the air thick with the stench of sewage so intense it stung his eyes. The beam swept over the scene—trash piled so high it formed makeshift tunnels for the rats that now scurried underfoot, their eyes catching the light in a hundred mirrored sparkles.
At the heart of the chaos, McDaniel's gaze landed on a mound of sickly green rocks. They seemed to pulse with an inner light, casting flickering, warped emerald shadows across the room. Something about them tugged at him, pulling at his will with a faint, insistent ache—a promise and a threat in equal measure.
A sudden movement snapped him out of it. From the corner emerged the rat-like shape again, his ring of keys flashing in tiny, paw-like fingers. Without hesitation, it slipped through another door, deeper into the darkness.
He chased it, twisting through the junk, barely noticing as rats scattered, flooding away from him. The back room was unfinished, just dirt and broken concrete. There, in the far wall, a ragged tunnel dropped away—the fresh, muddy edges suggested something (or someone) had dug it out, spiraling down into the black.
McDaniel barely had time for wonder before something far larger—a blur of matted fur and glinting teeth—shot out from the shadows. Claws, sharp as razors, clamped vice-like onto his face. He felt the hot reek of breath, the impossibly strong hands holding him still, before a set of jaws sank into his neck. His world dissolved in a rush of pain and icy darkness.
Outside, the wind howled through Winslow's empty halls, filling the silence once more.
"I see you have an update on the Case 97."
"Yes, Ma'am. We're still pushing for subjects Sigma and Theta to come in for another round of testing. So far, there's been no confirmation—or denial—about whether they possess powers."
"And Nu?"
"We're confirming her Tinker rating. Microbiology specialty. She's already given the lab staff a stack of designs to analyze."
"And Eta? I heard some… interesting things from Assault."
"We're updating her file, Ma'am. After observing her sparring match with Assault and Aegis, there's evidence she might have a Trump ability—power negation or resistance—on top of her minor Brute classification."
"Details."
"Aegis reported difficulty maintaining his flight after engaging with Eta. He recovered quickly, but it was definitely noticeable. Assault, too—he said his kinetic charges were 'sluggish' by the end of the bout."
"Unusual. And you're certain this isn't just fatigue from the matches?"
"We considered that, but both heroes insisted it was different. If we could run more sparring sessions… test the effect with a broader sampling—"
"Which heroes are you thinking?"
"Armsmaster already volunteered. Miss Militia expressed interest if you approve. We could rotate them, see if it's consistent across different powers."
"Fine. Draft a formal request and have it on my desk."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"And now, let's address the more concerning matters…"
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