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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
Chapter 3
Chapter Text
Sigma
The volume was loud—borderline overwhelming, the kind of noise that pressed against your sternum and rattled your bones in a way that was both exhilarating and a little bit terrifying. The melody twisted and turned unexpectedly, refusing to fall into anything as mundane as repetition. The bass throbbed beneath it, a physical presence in the room, vibrating along the concrete floor and through the soles of bare feet.
For a moment, Taylor Sigma could have sworn the music carried whispers beneath its chaotic surface—soft, seductive voices urging her to surrender, to feel more, to lose herself completely. She shook her head, but the sensation lingered, a tickle at the edge of her consciousness.
Even the drums—usually an afterthought—took on a savage fury as Sparky moved with energy that was positively animal, an explosion of raw sound and abandon that Taylor had never seen from him before. Usually, Sparky was strung out to the point of being horizontal, drifting through life with that perpetual, red-rimmed gaze and an easy, stoner smile that never quite reached his eyes. But now, lost in the music and the smoke, he barely seemed like the same person—a stranger in his own skin, wild and unbound.
Just like her.
It was strangely comforting, this sense of transformation. Taylor Sigma knew exactly how high she was, could feel it pulsing in her veins alongside the adrenaline, could feel the way her thoughts spilled out of order and her body seemed too light and too heavy all at once. The colors in the room seemed impossibly vivid—the orange ember of a joint tracing patterns that lingered in the air long after it had moved, the blue of Sue's tank top so electric it almost hurt to look at.
The Taylor of yesteryear would be horrified to see her now—dancing in nothing but jeans and a sports bra, surrendering to every temptation just to feel something, anything. Her father would be devastated if he could see her like this.
Her father. The thought of him brought a twinge of guilt. She could picture him now, probably pacing the living room, checking his watch, wondering where she was. Theta would be there too, judging, always judging.
More... feel more... worry about them later...
The thought didn't feel entirely her own, but she embraced it anyway. At that moment, in the haze and color and noise and sweaty skin, Taylor Sigma did not care about anything but sensation. She was free in a way she hadn't been for years—maybe ever. Each motion, each laugh, each wild hair flip was hers alone; nothing was borrowed, nothing was forced, nothing hidden away for the comfort of others.
She let her limbs move to the erratic rhythm, tangled up with the equally underdressed Sue—who'd introduced herself as the lead guitarist's girlfriend. They were dancing together now, spinning and shouting over the music, jeans plastered to skin and both of them radiating an energy that was equal parts reckless and alive.
The garage itself was chaos incarnate. One half was a tangle of band equipment—amps stacked on battered speakers, cords snaking across the concrete like some garden of electric serpents. The other half could have been the set for a low-budget slasher flick: broken furniture, a couch that sagged in the middle and practically threatened to swallow its occupants, a pair of dilapidated armchairs that had likely seen more spilled drinks and cigarette burns than anyone could count.
This was a place of freedom because it was a place the world forgot. Sue's parents were away for the entire weekend, giving them permission by omission to own the night, to make it theirs.
Nobody kept track of how many joints went around, or how long the beer had been sitting warm in the cooler by the back door. Nobody cared. The air was thick with pot smoke, cheap cologne, and a hint of something sharper—anticipation, perhaps, or just nerves.
For Taylor, it was the perfect storm: she could lose herself here, become pure want and motion, not Taylor or Sigma or anyone's twin or burden or project to fix. Not the girl who'd been split into four separate people, each carrying a fragment of who she used to be.
She briefly wondered what her sisters were doing tonight. Theta was probably hunched over one of her notebooks, drawing those weird symbols she thought no one noticed. Eta was likely punching something in her cell, all rage and no direction. And Nu... poor, sick Nu, trapped in quarantine with her bugs and germs.
None of them knew how to live like this—on the edge, every nerve ending alive with possibility.
They don't understand what you understand. They can't feel what you feel.
She hadn't told her father much, just that she'd be out late, that she would call if anything happened, that she'd be home before curfew. Little lies. She could almost taste the guilt that would choke her later when she stumbled in past midnight, but here, now, it dissolved in the air. Here, she was infinite.
When the last song faded on a screeching, glorious high note, Taylor Sigma all but collapsed onto the battered couch with a breathless laugh. Sweat slicked her hair to her forehead and ran in rivulets down her neck; her sports bra and jeans clung uncomfortably, but she couldn't bring herself to care about how she looked or smelled. She grabbed a bottle of water, draining half in a single gulp, and let the heat ebb slowly from her muscles.
Derik, the bassist, sprawled into the closest armchair, reaching for his blunt. "What did you think?" he asked, his voice muffled by the haze and his unlit joint. At the far side of the garage, Sue and the lead guitarist were already a mess of limbs in the other armchair, too busy making out to care about anything but each other.
Taylor grinned, languid and loose. "Ask me when I'm not high," she teased, voice slurring a little with amusement. For a moment, her vision swam, and Derik's face seemed to shift—his features becoming sharper, more beautiful, his eyes reflecting a pink light that wasn't there.
"Fair enough," Derik replied, already lighting up, the orange ember tracing lazy circles as he inhaled.
Sparky slouched onto the couch beside her, and Taylor—still humming from the music and the high, her limbs light and her head buzzing—absently rested her legs across his lap. If anyone here cared, nobody said a word. She glared at him, putting on a sour expression she didn't really feel.
"You promised me the good stuff tonight, Sparky."
He grinned, lopsided, wild-eyed. "It's coming, babe. Relax."
"Babe?" Taylor echoed, arching an eyebrow. The word snagged at her—familiar and strange at the same time. In another life—before the locker, before the splitting—she'd have flinched away, felt awkward and exposed. But with the haze flooding her brain and the beat still thrumming through her chest, she found herself smirking, playing along.
Sparky shrugged with affected nonchalance. "Figured we're a thing."
Taylor let the silence stretch, her gaze daring, playful, dizzy with possibility. She could feel her heartbeat in her fingertips, in her lips, in places that made her want to squirm with a delicious discomfort.
"A thing?" she repeated, voice softer now, drifting between mocking and honest confusion. The drugs made all her nerves static, kept her from getting self-conscious, and for that she was grateful. She swallowed, tongue pressing against her dry mouth, searching for the right edge between invitation and dismissal.
"We're a thing now?"
She shifted, sliding further into Sparky's lap, testing what it felt like to act without overthinking. Every move was both a provocation and a question—did she want this, or did she just want the power of wanting?
Her voice dropped to a murmur edged with challenge, laced through with purring insouciance. "Let's be clear, I belong to no one. I'm only here for the excitement, for the pleasure"—she emphasized the last word, letting it roll over her tongue, a shiver running through her at the sound—"and if you can't deliver, then I'll find someone else who can. Understand?"
As she spoke, she felt something stir within her—a presence that wasn't quite her own, something that delighted in her boldness, in the way she toyed with desire. For a fleeting second, her reflection in Sparky's wide pupils showed her eyes flashing an impossible pink.
Sparky blinked, knocked off-balance by something deeper in her words than just the weed or the rush of post-show adrenaline, and Taylor let herself smile, sharp and unashamed, as the promise of further chaos settled in the air like smoke, thick and sweet and full of possibility.
"So you two actually boyfriend-girlfriend, or not?" Derik asked, waving his hand between Taylor and Sparky with a lazy, half-interested motion. His words cut through the low chatter and pulsing remnants of music, carrying an undertone of playful mockery.
Sparky blinked, caught off guard, and looked at Taylor with eyes wide and uncertain—like he'd been tossed into cold water.
"Bro, I really don't know," he admitted, voice tinged with both hope and anxiety. There was a nervous laugh beneath the surface, the kind that said he might be happier for not having to define anything, at least right now.
Taylor Sigma didn't bother to answer directly. Instead, she shrugged, an exaggerated, fluid gesture, as if she could toss away the very idea of labels along with the conversation. She sank deeper into Sparky's lap, stretching out languidly, and felt the warmth of his arms as they hesitantly slipped around her waist, then flattened against the bare skin of her midriff.
There was a sharp, heady thrill in the non-answer, in everything undefined. Taylor felt it like a static charge under her skin: the tension of not knowing how far things would go, whether she'd pull away or dive in deeper. She wondered, fleetingly, if this was how it felt right before stepping off a ledge, or taking a drag on something much too potent, or painting the first line on a blank canvas. Every interaction felt rich with possibility, dangerous and delicious at the same time.
For a brief, fleeting second, she almost considered seizing Sparky's chin and kissing him in front of everyone—just because she could. Just to watch their reactions and her own. The old Taylor would never have dared. The old Taylor, before the locker, before the splitting, had been so afraid of everything—of rejection, of attention, of her own desires.
But she wasn't that Taylor anymore. She was something new, something that understood the power of wanting and being wanted.
As she contemplated the kiss, she caught her reflection in the chrome edge of a nearby speaker—and for just an instant, her eyes flashed an impossible pink, her features sharpening into something both beautiful and terrible. She blinked, and it was gone.
The moment passed, swept away by something else—a flicker at the edge of her mind, dark and intriguing, the promise of inspiration if she just kept pushing. An idea began to form, something that would make this night truly memorable, something that would mark her as different from her sisters. Theta with her books and symbols, Eta with her rage, Nu with her diseases—none of them understood the true power of sensation, of excess, of pushing boundaries until they shattered.
Then, without warning, the buzz of Sparky's phone—deep in his pocket—broke the spell. Sparky jerked, fumbled, and Taylor shifted with deliberate slowness, barely giving him room as he slid the phone out. His eyes flicked from the glowing screen to Taylor, back and forth, torn between nervousness and excitement.
"Umm, that's John with the goods," Sparky said, his voice squeaking embarrassingly. "He's waiting outside."
Taylor almost groaned in disappointment, but she masked it with an exhale and slid off Sparky's lap, feeling the last traces of his hands slip from her hips. She watched, amused, as Sparky hastily adjusted himself—his entire demeanor shyer now that she was on her feet. Without waiting for her to say anything, he scurried from the garage, yanking the battered door open with a creak that momentarily brought the din of the party back into sharper focus.
Derik wasted no time. "Guess I'm moving in," he announced, all bravado, and stretched out across the couch Taylor had just vacated, occupying as much space as he could. He grinned at Taylor sidelong, daring her to object or perhaps join.
Taylor ignored him. Instead, she was swept by a sudden creative urge—stronger than any craving for a hit of whatever John had brought. It rose within her like a tide, an inspiration that felt both foreign and intimately familiar, as if she'd always known what to do but had only now been given permission.
Drawing the eyes of everyone still conscious, she strode across the cluttered garage to the workbench, sending a stack of old band flyers and empty soda cans tumbling to the floor with a loud clatter. Sue and her boyfriend broke off their makeout session long enough to glare at her, but neither made a move to protest. For a heartbeat, Taylor's universe contracted to just her, the blank surface, and the rattle of debris.
Almost absently, she grabbed a thick black marker from the chaos and uncapped it with her teeth. The fumes brought a chemical tang to the air—sharp and invigorating. On the scarred wood, she began to draw wide, purposeful shapes: loops interlocked with crescents, circles overlapping lines, something both ancient and totally new.
Her hand moved with a certainty she couldn't explain, drawing patterns she'd never seen yet somehow knew intimately. With each symbol, she felt herself drifting further from the mundane, from being just a party girl, just a broken fracture of a person. The sigil took on a life of its own, a bastard offspring of sacred and profane.
As she worked, the air around her seemed to thicken, taking on a faint, rosy hue that no one else appeared to notice. The music faded to a distant pulse, and for a moment, Taylor could have sworn she heard laughter—sensual and dangerous—just at the edge of hearing.
"Slaanesh," she breathed when she finished, the name slipping out far softer than she intended, coated in reverence and a note of challenge. The word tasted sweet and forbidden on her tongue, bringing a flush to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the drugs. The symbol gleamed fresh and wet on the table, daring the universe to notice.
Her fingers brushed the workbench and landed on a cold, heavy shape—a boxcutter knife. She weighed it in her palm, the cool steel oddly comforting. She thumbed the blade half-open, letting it catch the dim garage light, then slid it into the back pocket of her jeans, unconsciously marking herself as both worshiper and participant in whatever was about to happen.
Then the door groaned open once again, dragging Taylor's attention back to the room, back to the swirl of smoke and hormones. Sparky entered first, eyes wide as if nervous about something more than just a drug deal. Right behind him came John: short, almost skeletal, skin broken by patches of pock marks and sores, a greasy sneer settling on his lips as he surveyed the scene.
"John here has the goods but—umm, Taylor..?" Sparky's voice was uncertain, caught between warning and confusion.
John lingered in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot, a paper bag dangling from one hand. His other hand scratched absently at a sore on his neck as he looked Taylor over—his gaze lingering far too long on her bared skin before moving to Sue, then circling back.
Taylor met his eyes, her own gaze harder than it had been a moment ago. She strode over with deliberate, predatory slowness, eyeing the bag but not him, and reached out to take it from his hand. John, slow to process her boldness, didn't let go at first, but when he saw her unwavering look and the subtle grip on her back pocket, he finally released it. For a second, something mean flickered across his face, something territorial and affronted—then he masked it in a scowl.
"What? Uh, Taylor what are—?"
"Shush." Her tone was cold and commanding, carrying a power she'd never wielded before. She turned her back on him, dismissing his confusion and tracking straight back to the workbench.
She dug into the bag and produced six little individually wrapped baggies, setting them one by one around the drawn sigil in a rough ring. The others in the garage, sensing something unusual, approached hesitantly—Sparky, Sue with the guitarist leading the way, Derik hanging back but watching with sharp interest. John hung back too but eyed everyone, particularly Taylor, with a suspicion that was quickly souring to annoyance.
As she arranged the offerings, Taylor felt a presence growing stronger within her—something ancient and hungry, something that fed on excess and sensation. It whispered promises of pleasures she'd never imagined, of power beyond anything her sisters could claim. All she had to do was open herself to it, to become its vessel in this world.
And in that moment, surrounded by the curious and the wary, Taylor Sigma knew she would do exactly that.
Taylor glanced at the expectant, confused faces before returning her gaze to John, her voice steady and just a touch theatrically lofty. "I would like to conduct a little ritual before we partake. Something like saying grace before dinner."
As she spoke, the air around her seemed to shimmer slightly, colors intensifying in a way that made everyone blink and wonder if they were already higher than they thought. For a moment, Taylor's voice carried an undertone that wasn't quite her own—something older, something hungry.
John made a dismissive noise, sucking his teeth and scratching at his skin. "I don't care whatever your cracker-ass wants to do but ya ain't partaking till I finish gettin' paid." His words were sharp, the intonation mocking, but there was a flicker of wariness in his eyes now—uncertainty at being confronted with something outside his usual script.
Taylor, ignoring his posturing, couldn't help noticing his eyes roving again over the exposed skin of both herself and Sue. A wave of disgust rose in her chest—but beneath it lurked something else, a dark appreciation for the power she held over his attention, the way desire could be weaponized. She forced herself to stay purposeful, to hold onto the knife-shaped confidence in her back pocket.
Use him, whispered the voice that wasn't quite hers. All desires serve our purpose.
Turning away from John, she locked eyes with Sparky, silent accusation and appeal in her look. For an instant, she remembered the shy, awkward girl she'd been before the locker—how that Taylor would have shrunk away from this entire situation, would have made herself small and invisible rather than command the room.
"Umm, sorry babe. I'm a couple hundred short." Sparky's voice was low, sheepish, his wide-eyed bravado from earlier leaking away as the tension in the garage thickened.
Taylor gave him a flat, unamused look, then swept her gaze around the room. "Does anyone else have some cash to help contribute?" She loaded her tone with annoyance, making sure everyone could hear the edge in her voice, not caring if even Sue flinched a little. As silence fell, broken only by someone coughing in the haze, the awkwardness spread like sour milk.
The dealer leaned forward, a predator catching the scent of weakness, and bared his teeth in what might have been a smile if not for the rotting yellow stubs and crawling sores on his skin.
"If ya don't have enough dough," he said, his voice oozing lecherous delight, "I'm sure your puckered ass could figure out a way to work off the rest." His tongue flicked over cracked lips, gaze lingering on Taylor with greasy intent.
"Eww!" muttered Sue, wrinkling her nose and pulling the lead guitarist's arm tighter across her chest as if for a shield.
John's smile twisted, becoming a sneer, the humor gone from his words as he jabbed at Taylor with his finger, "Well ya bitch? Ya good for the money or are we gonna talk business?"
His whole posture screamed enjoyment at making her uncomfortable—the kind of ugly power dynamic that stuck beneath the fingernails.
For a moment, Taylor wondered what her sisters would do in this situation. Eta would have already broken his fingers, her rage unleashed without hesitation. Nu would have shrunk away, retreated into her shell of anxiety and fear. Theta would have calculated, analyzed, found some clever way to turn the tables.
But she was Sigma, and she had her own way.
Derik, always the one to avoid confrontation, dug into his distressed wallet and, after a moment's search, plunked two wrinkled fifties onto the table. He gave Taylor an apologetic shrug as though to say: this is all I've got, don't look at me for more.
Taylor's skin crawled as she forced herself to meet John's stare—forced herself not to break or falter beneath the weight of his expectation. The urge to take the boxcutter and end this, right here in a quick red arc, flickered at the edges of her thoughts. It would be so easy. But even the thrill of the idea wasn't enough to make her lose sight of the ritual, the anticipation building in her chest.
Instead, she reached into the pocket of her jeans, fingers brushing the cold, familiar shape of the knife. It steadied her, in a way, even as her other hand fished out her battered wallet. With only the barest hesitation, she peeled away a stack of twenties, slapping them on top of Derik's fifties with a finality that left no room for discussion.
"Happy now?" Taylor Sigma's voice was flat, almost bored, but the challenge beneath the surface was obvious. For a fleeting second, her reflection in the polished surface of the workbench showed her eyes flashing an impossible pink.
The dealer's face split into that ratlike grin again as he greedily palmed the cash, thumbed through it, and stuffed it inside his jacket. "Looks like you shit-fucks know how to put your fucking money where your cock-sucking mouths belong," he said, letting the words roll over the group, his gaze sticking to Taylor and Sue with a kind of possessive threat.
Sigma forcibly returned his smile, baring her teeth back at him—not a smile so much as a baring of fangs. "Since you provided tonight's offering of indulgence, I would love for you to join us," she shot back, her tone honeyed but sharp-edged—daring him to think her afraid or compliant. The words drew a murmur of discomfort from the others. Sue's eyes widened and flicked to the side, while Derik just shrugged and tried to look indifferent.
John glanced around at the rest, calculating. "If you shit-stains are offering, who am I to turn ya down?" He lurched forward, extending a bony hand to snatch one of the small, carefully wrapped bags from the table.
Sigma's hand shot out, fast and sure, clamping over his wrist with a grip that was harder than she looked. "A prayer first," she said quietly, "to the God of Pleasure and Excess."
The air in the garage seemed to thicken, the lights dimming slightly though no one had touched a switch. The music from earlier echoed in her mind, distorted now, carrying whispers beneath the melody that only she could hear.
John stared at her, caught between amusement and irritation. "A fucking god of pleasuring my puckered ass?" He looked around, as if expecting a joke, but met only uncertain stares. "Ya'll into believing that fucking shit?"
Sparky snorted, rubbing a hand through his hair, shrugging. "I just play the drums," he said. "But if Taylor wants to pray or something, why not? Don't hurt none."
There was a subdued round of agreement, or at least acquiescence—no one eager to object, even if Sue edged away and put the guitarist between herself and John, while Derik just nodded, unbothered and too high to care.
"Fine, punk-ass bitches," grumbled John, glaring at Taylor but sensing the shifting momentum, "pray to your cock-sucking god of pleasure, or whatever."
Taylor Sigma straightened, feeling taller and more dangerous than she had any right to be. The sigil on the workbench seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat, the black lines somehow deeper than the marker should have allowed, as if they extended below the surface of the wood.
"Slaanesh," she began, her voice going low and resonant, making the name a living thing on her tongue. The word tasted sweet and forbidden, bringing a flush to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the drugs. Her fingers found the boxcutter in her back pocket and drew it out, the blade gleaming with promise. She felt a hush fall over the room—part nerves, part awe, part the hunger for something beyond the ordinary.
"Accept our prayer of Indulgence, and Excess tonight as we indulge our Hedonistic Temptations. As we give into our Desires, our Joy, our Pleasure, our Pain, and our Lust, we call upon you, the Prince of Chaos, to bless us with your gifts." Her words came out almost trancelike, ritualistic, yet with the raw, ragged edge of someone both afraid and utterly unrepentant.
As she spoke, her hand moved with a certainty she couldn't explain, tracing patterns in the air that seemed to leave faint, glowing trails visible only to her. Somewhere across the city, she sensed rather than saw movement—shadows gathering, tensions rising. Something was happening in Brockton Bay tonight, currents of power shifting beneath the surface.
She lifted the knife, her hand steady as any acolyte's. Across from her, John watched with a skeptical leer, head cocked as if daring her to actually go through with it, to prove she wasn't just another mouthy girl playing at rebellion. Taylor held his gaze, then slashed the blade across her palm in one swift motion.
The pain was immediate, sharp and bright, but behind it hovered a secret pleasure—an electric thrill that sang through her nerves, blooming red across the sigil she'd drawn with so much care. Blood beaded and dripped onto the warped wooden surface, soaking into the loops and crescents, the shape now pulsing with all the power her mind imagined.
For a heartbeat, the garage seemed to shift around her, colors intensifying to an almost painful brilliance. The music from earlier echoed in her mind, but distorted, carrying whispers beneath the melody: "More... feel more... experience everything..."
The others stared transfixed—part horror, part fascination, unsure whether to laugh or recoil.
For Taylor, the ache, the heat, the eyes on her—it all crashed together in a dazzling rush, an affirmation of self she'd never tasted before. This was power—not the kind the PRT measured and classified, but something older, something that lived in the spaces between desire and fulfillment.
For a moment she simply breathed, panting, letting herself savor the awareness of her body and everyone watching. Then, in an almost dainty gesture, she wrapped her hand in a rag, picked up one of the little parcels from the table, and sauntered over to Sparky, grabbing his cold hand in hers.
"Let's see if you're ready for indulgence, drummer boy," she teased, her voice carrying an undertone that made him shiver visibly. The others parted for her without a word, drawn to her and afraid of her all at once.
With every step back to the couch, she felt the electricity between herself and possibility grow—a dangerous, ecstatic connection stretching between pain, pleasure, and power. She thought briefly of her father at home, probably pacing, checking his watch, wondering where she was. She thought of Theta, Eta, and Nu—each carrying their fragment of who she used to be, each following their own path.
But none of them had found what she had discovered tonight—that in surrender there was dominance, in excess there was transcendence, in sensation there was truth.
Yes, whispered the voice that wasn't quite hers. This is only the beginning.
Nothing else tonight would taste as bright.
Grue
Externally, Brian struggled to maintain his usual calm, the kind of composure expected from someone who called himself both "leader" and "protector" of a villain crew. But inside, his thoughts churned like the darkness he commanded.
The air felt thick, heavy with the stale scent of sweat and faint traces of dog fur from the last time Bitch brought her pack in. Every movement demanded a conscious act of will to keep the smoky corona that always simmered beneath his skin from seeping out. It was always harder when his nerves were up—right now, the smoky wisps leaking from his collar and down his gloved fingers were proof enough.
He paced, boots creaking on the scuffed floorboards as he tried to busy his hands—checking the pockets of his black leather jacket, re-fastening the straps on his armor, then running his hand through his hair. Even his mask, normally a talisman of confidence, sat abandoned on the edge of the table. He only wore the rest of his costume; the helmet remained untouched, just out of reach, as if putting it on would make everything just a little too real.
A flash of memory hit him—Aisha's face, her cocky smile as she promised to stay with their dad for the weekend. The thought of his sister made his jaw clench. Everything he did, every risk he took, was ultimately for her. To give her something better than what they'd grown up with. And now Lung was threatening all of it.
The light from Lisa's laptop painted her face blue and sharp-edged: calculating, restless, utterly absorbed in the latest thread of information she'd managed to dig up. Brian couldn't help but feel both grateful she was handling the details and frustrated that she didn't seem to be feeling the urgency he did, standing there in a loose hoodie and pajama shorts instead of her Tattletale getup.
Lisa held up a single finger as Brian stopped to hover behind her, not bothering to mute the phone as she kept clicking through files at a speed Brian could only envy. If she registered his silent impatience, she didn't show it. The overhead light flickered briefly as a tendril of darkness escaped Brian's control, curling around the fixture before he reined it back in.
He caught the words, "Gotcha, I'll wait to hear from you," and then the faint clack of the phone being set down, the sound almost lost beneath the muffled music from the other side of the living space.
She finally looked up. "Okay, the boss confirmed Lung is personally leading the charge to root us out."
A heavy pause. Brian's gut dropped a little further, but all he let out was a flat, "Fuck." He shut his eyes briefly, fighting down the shiver of dread that wanted to escape as another drift of shadow curled around his fingertips. The darkness seemed to move with a mind of its own, forming patterns he didn't recognize before dissipating.
"Is this retaliation for the casino gig?" Regent—Alex now, for the moment—piped up from the depths of the battered couch. He lounged in full costume, boots up on the coffee table, scepter twirling absently. Even with the air of aristocratic boredom he tried to project, Alex was already halfway shifted into his public face. Unlike Lisa, at least he was ready.
"No," Lisa shot back, not bothering to mask her irritation. "We hit the casino almost a month ago. Besides, ABB never owned that place." She didn't break her stride—hands on hips, a foot tapping against the floor
Alex smirked, "Not according to the internet!"
Lisa flipped him the bird without even looking, and then turned her attention back to Brian, eyes narrowing. "We've got this," she insisted. "We've handled ABB before. Everything—" She hesitated, then continued, "—will be fine."
Brian forced a nod, the kind of motion that was supposed to convince the people around you even as your heart hammered in your chest. He wasn't sure if he was trying to reassure her, Alex, or himself.
Lisa's gaze sharpened on him. "But you're concerned."
He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We need a plan, and we still don't have one. We've been kicking around ideas all day, and nothing feels solid. By now, Lung's probably got half his crew in place. He's mustering people by nightfall." He checked the time, teeth clenched, eyes flicking to the battered digital clock propped up against the wall. "Which gives us less than an hour."
Lisa finally seemed to accept his urgency. "Let me get changed," she said, grabbing her laptop and snapping it shut with a decisive click. She brushed past him, trailing a faint note of lavender and sleep deprivation. "Give me five minutes, then we'll put everything on the table."
He watched her go, forcing the tension out of locked shoulders, mouth pressed flat in concentration. Alex shot him a look, half amused sympathy, half challenge.
"You know," Alex said, twirling his scepter between his fingers, "I've never actually seen Lung in person. Think he's as scary as they say?"
Brian ignored the question. He went to the window again, looking down at the city—the dry alley below, the faint, orange glow of streetlights, nothing moving except a stray paper bag tumbling along in the evening breeze. He tried to picture a plan coming together, tried to imagine the team unified, focused, beating the odds one more night.
Nu
Snot and tears streamed down Taylor Nu's face as she huddled in the darkest corner of her quarantine ward room, knees pressed to her chest and arms wrapped around herself as if she could somehow keep all the misery from spilling out. Every shallow breath came ragged, hitching with sobs she tried to hold in, but the echoes of guilt and failure clung to her like the damp chill of the hospital's night air.
Her notes—once meticulously organized, color-coded by priority and hope—now lay scattered across the linoleum like so much trash. She'd torn through them in a fit of self-loathing, not caring when pages fluttered and ripped, formulas lost in a snarl of useless ink. Designs that had taken hours to render, careful experiment logs cataloging her every hopeful breakthrough, all now reduced to confetti. She'd smashed her petri dishes in the sink, the fragile glass splintering like her nerves, and watched the chemical stews of her latest attempts hiss and blacken in the swirl of the drain. The acrid smoke from scorched samples stung her nose, layering new shame over old.
All of it—a rotten ruin. All because of her.
It had been two days since the incident. The words replayed in her mind, jagged and merciless: "biohazard," "protocol breach," "quarantine." She remembered the moment of panic, of a barely missed step and then the sick certainty washing through her—a wave stronger than any fever. She'd heard, through snippets of hurried nurse conversations, that the PRT agent and several hospital staff had to join her in quarantine, their bodies and futures put at risk by her single mistake.
But worst of all, there was no word on Panacea's condition. Nu's stomach twisted every time she replayed a thousand what-ifs: What if she'd infected Brockton Bay's greatest healer? What if her dreams of making a difference ended by robbing the city of the one who actually could?
Her effort, her striving, had all been for nothing. All her work—ruined. The possibility of being a hero crumbled in her hands, reduced to ash.
With the sun sinking outside, shades of orange, red, and yellow slid through the narrow window and stretched shadows—long and accusatory—across the chipped tile floor. Taylor watched as darkness crept across the ceiling, the sensation of being boxed in tightening with every shifting ray.
Slowly, knees shaking, she forced herself upright and drifted toward the counter. Her knuckles were white as she braced herself on its edge, eyes fixed on her warped reflection in the safety glass.
"Why?" she muttered, her voice tiny, choked. "What is wrong with me?" The words echoed in the room, but no comfort answered.
Why did everything she touched turn to ruin? Only a few weeks ago, hope had felt real for the first time in years. No more Emma, no more Madison or Sophia smirking from every corner of school. She'd begun to see her dad's smile return, his careful attempts to reach her across the dinner table, the gentle awkwardness she hadn't realized she'd craved.
And then this: the raw center of her hope—her calling to do something good, to become the sort of hero she'd once admired—tarnished beyond repair. The kind of hero who changed the world, not with fists and masks, but with knowledge and care. The girl who'd once leapt around her childhood bedroom, a makeshift cape trailing, pretending to be Alexandria herself. Now, she sagged under the crushing weight of disappointment. Hers. Theirs. All of it.
Was it all just wishful thinking? Maybe she was never meant to save anyone—maybe she was a hazard, not a hope.
A sharp click broke her stupor. Startled, Taylor spun around. One of the nurses stood at the visitor's booth, face stern but softly lined with worry, finger pressing the intercom button. The glass formed a barrier—transparent, but just as impenetrable as the gulf of blame inside Taylor's chest.
Taylor wiped her cheeks and nose furiously with the sleeve of her hospital gown, a new wave of humiliation washing her raw. With mechanical movements, she shuffled across the room and picked up the receiver, the plastic cool and smooth against her skin, like a lifeline and a leash all in one.
"Yes?" she managed, though her voice cracked and trembled.
The nurse's expression softened with something like pity. "You doing okay?" Her tone was gentle, but the words pressed at Taylor's wounds.
"I'm fine," Taylor lied, each syllable tasting like bile—and it was clear the nurse didn't believe it for a second.
"If you're sure then, I'll come by and check on you later," the nurse replied, but her eyes lingered on Taylor for a moment longer, concern radiating through the glass. Then she stepped away, leaving Taylor in the lengthening shadows and silence, every echo a reminder of how isolated she had become.
As the phone clicked back into its cradle, Taylor bit her lip and tried not to cry again, not sure if she had any tears left. Around her, the ruined remains of her work looked almost spectral in the twilight—a graveyard of her best intentions.
Taylor Nu sank down to the floor, hugging her knees and rocking gently, desperate for forgiveness, afraid it would never come.
Eta
She had just barely put her head back against the pillow, trying to let the tension in her shoulders fade, when the screen at the corner of her cell door abruptly flashed red. That harsh warning color cut through the dim blues and sickly fluorescent yellows of the cell's nightlights. Taylor Eta tensed at the noise—the insistent double-beep had long since taught her to expect only trouble or tedium—but she held herself still, jaw tight, refusing to show nerves to the security camera lurking in its high corner.
The lock thunked and whined. She expected the usual shifting of heavy armor and the hollow voices of PRT troopers—another "compliance check," maybe, or a nurse pushing pills through the sliding slot in the door. But tonight was different. She looked up, and instead found herself facing the familiar, imposing silhouette of Armsmaster.
His armor caught the cold light in sharp angles: blue plate, white trim, the impassive visor reflecting her own bedraggled reflection right back at her. The halberd rested at his side, but his posture was somehow more formal, more reserved. This wasn't a raid, or a reprimand. This was a visit.
He inclined his head—just barely. "May I come in?" His voice had that clinical, clipped neutrality, a cold courtesy without even the pretense of warmth.
Taylor forced herself upright, swinging her legs off the cot and planting her feet—grounding herself, bracing for whatever this was supposed to be.
"Do I have a choice?" She kept her tone steady, only a touch of challenge creeping in.
"Yes." Armsmaster's response was without hesitation, almost mechanical. There was no hint of condemnation or invitation, just truth. It was so disarming in its simplicity—rare, down here in the labyrinth of rules, obligations, walls.
Taylor gestured, as much an act of surrender as acceptance. "Go ahead."
Her thoughts churned: What had she done to earn a midnight visit from Brockton Bay's living legend? She hadn't done anything wrong of late. Hadn't accosted anyone, hadn't made life more difficult than it needed to be for the guards. She kept her aggression limited to her sanctioned sparring and gym. So much effort to keep the smoldering thing inside her on a leash.
The cell floor vibrated faintly as Armsmaster stepped across it—each footfall measured, heavy. He did not sit, only paused in the exact center of the small space, as if to subtly remind her where the balance of power lay.
"I would like you to accompany me on patrol tonight," he said, dispensing with pleasantries. "An hour or two, in the city. Supervised."
Taylor blinked, thrown off guard for the first time in weeks.
"Me…?" She couldn't help the incredulous edge in her voice.
Armsmaster nodded once. "Normally, prospective or probationary Wards are encouraged to join Protectorate members on patrols of the city. I understand you're not a member of the Wards, nor expressed interest in joining, but I have reviewed your case with your counselor, and we've agreed this may be constructive."
Taylor narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
Suspicion crept in, the familiar burn of anger igniting somewhere in her chest. Was this a test? A trap? Some desperate therapy ploy?
Armsmaster didn't flinch. "I want to prove that you are more than just your powers. That you can be…a hero." There was no irony or patronizing tone, just a statement delivered with unyielding resolve.
Taylor barked a laugh—short, rough, bitter. The idea seemed almost pathetic. Her? A hero? The concept was so at odds with the war raging beneath her skin, she nearly dismissed it out of hand. But that same war made staying in this cell, night after night, a punishment she was increasingly desperate to escape. And some treacherous sliver of hope—a childish one—ached to feel the city above her, the air, the noise, the pulse of danger.
"Fine," she said, voice a bit raw. "I'll go."
For the first time, something like satisfaction flickered in Armsmaster's posture.
"Excellent," he said, and gestured to the cell door. "Equipment check first. We'll stop at the Ward's armory for costuming. You'll need a name."
Taylor paused, thinking back on ideas. "Bloodletter? Berserker? Ravager?"
Armsmaster's blue visor tilted toward her, assessing.
"Is it too much to call myself Bloodthirster?" Taylor tried, tone bristling—not quite joking, not quite serious.
"I would suggest," Armsmaster said dryly, "something more heroic than villainous. While you may see yourself as a destroyer, you are here to protect, not provoke."
Taylor just nodded.
He added, "And I believe 'Ravager' is already taken. Might I offer 'Redline'—or, as a compromise, we can settle for 'Berserker'?"
"Berserker it is."
A short time later, they left the cell block. The Ward's base, at this hour, was a gemstone of silence, corridors echoing only the hum of arc lights and occasional distant voices. At the armory, Taylor skipped the flashier options, grabbing practical: a red singlet, light armor plates, boots—nothing flashy, nothing heavy enough to bog her down. They provided a set of contacts to replace her glasses, and an earpiece. She let an aide tie a bandana around her head, leaving just eyeholes, something so close to childish dress-up it left her mood faintly unsteady.
The mirror in the armory stilled Taylor for a moment. With the makeshift mask, the lines of her new armor, she saw for an instant someone she used to play at being—a hero with fists of justice, not just wrath. The ache of longing punched through the anger, raw and unexpected.
She spotted a few of the other Wards returning. Clockblocker was cracking a joke—Taylor couldn't make it out. Aegis gave a wave, offering an awkward but genuine smile. Taylor surprised herself by returning it, a flicker of camaraderie worming into her chest, unfamiliar but…good.
Once kitted out, Armsmaster led her down to the PRT garage. The air was thick with oil and ozone, the low whine of tech and the disciplined clicking of troopers going about their work. Armsmaster's motorcycle was already prepped—matte blue, bristling with silent menace.
"I want you to understand," Armsmaster said, voice finally softening, "that you are still in PRT custody. You will obey any order I give, without hesitation. If you lose control, we return immediately—if necessary, I will restrain you myself, or sedate you. Do you understand?"
Taylor met his gaze, heart pounding with the anticipation of something, anything, besides stifled rage and concrete walls. "Understood," she said, and found she meant it.
Tonight, at least, the city would know Taylor Eta by a new name.
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