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Rating:

Mature

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceMajor Character Death

Category:

F/F

Fandoms:

Parahumans Series - WildbowBloodborne (Video Game)

Relationship:

Amy Dallon | Panacea | Red Queen/Taylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver

Characters:

Additional Tags:

Alt-Power Taylor HebertTinker Taylor Hebert | Skitter | WeaverFear the Old Blood (Bloodborne)Blood Tinker TaylorCanon-Typical ViolenceGun ViolenceMad ScienceSuicidal ThoughtsSelf-HarmUseless Lesbianssomehow wholesomeBut Also MurderBody ModificationAngst with a Happy EndingMind ControlOverpowered Taylor Hebert

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of In Pale Blood Next Work →

Collections:

Sapphic Worm Fics

Stats:

Published:2024-11-26Completed:2025-07-30Words:404,685Chapters:70/70Comments:6,377Kudos:5,193Bookmarks:1,272Hits:310,088

In Pale Blood (Complete)

Camo30209

Summary:

The moon is bright, tonight.

A silver isle, in the endless dark.

It called to her, as she drifted, lost.

A lullaby, to sleep, and dream of blood.

...or...

Taylor Hebert triggers with the abilities of a Hunter, and the knowledge of blood ministration. A new ghost now stalks the broken streets of the Bay, but only time will tell if she is a monster or a savior. What mysteries will be revealed, as her bloody web and power grow? And why does she dream of the full moon? No knowledge of Bloodborne required. Blood Tinker Taylor.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter Text

Prologue

If shot from the correct angle, Winslow High School wouldn't look out of place in a post-apocalyptic movie.

The grass was either dead or drowning in mud from the recent snow. Graffiti and gang signs covered the crumbling bricks.

The chain-linked fences were lined with rust, cut and pulled back in so many places that they were entirely superfluous. Even more so was the barbed wire on top. Why they thought it was a good idea to put that near a school was anyone's guess. No one was trying to get in.

Maybe it was there to keep the students from getting out.

Regardless, it did nothing to stop the lone figure who approached.

Classes were actively in session. It was the first day back after winter break.

And yet, no one saw her.

She opened one of the rusted side doors. It was usually locked, but one of the cafeteria workers had slipped out earlier to sneak in an extra smoke break, and it didn't latch back properly. It creaked, but there was no one close enough to hear it.

The woman's black dress shoes clicked on the cracked linoleum floors as she strode down the hall.

The noises reached her before she reached her destination.

"Please… help… someone…"

The broken voice was accompanied by the dull thud of flesh on metal.

"...let me out…"

The woman arrived at the correct place.

The locker door trembled with the force of the impacts from inside.

"...please…"

The woman reached out and carefully attached a circular piece of tinkertech to the outside of the locker.

The begging cut off abruptly.

No sound would escape the metal box.

No smells.

No one would even be able to think about it too hard.

No one would remember who shoved the girl into the locker.

Or that she was in there at all.

Until the device self-destructed in 72 hours, leaving no trace of its existence.

And by then, it would be far, far too late.

But it was necessary.

The Path required it.

"Door, please," the woman in the fedora said.

And then she left.

…

The moon was bright, tonight.

A silver isle, in the endless dark.

It called to her, as she drifted, lost.

A lullaby, to sleep, and dream of blood.

…

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Entire Work ← Previous Chapter Next Chapter → Chapter Index Edit Bookmark Mark for Later Comments Share Download

Work Header

Rating:

Mature

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceMajor Character Death

Category:

F/F

Fandoms:

Parahumans Series - WildbowBloodborne (Video Game)

Relationship:

Amy Dallon | Panacea | Red Queen/Taylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver

Characters:

Additional Tags:

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of In Pale Blood Next Work →

Collections:

Sapphic Worm Fics

Stats:

Published:2024-11-26Completed:2025-07-30Words:404,685Chapters:70/70Comments:6,377Kudos:5,193Bookmarks:1,272Hits:310,088

In Pale Blood (Complete)

Camo30209

Chapter 2: Frost 1.1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Frost 1.1

It was cold, when Taylor Hebert woke up.

She hadn't expected that. Hadn't expected the cold, or to wake up at all.

She shivered at the memory, and the chill.

It was a while before her other senses returned.

The ground was rough and rocky, but surprisingly comfortable, all things considered.

Part of her wanted to lie here forever.

But, after a few more long seconds, she groaned and uncurled her lanky limbs. Her joints creaked stiffly as they straightened.

How long have I been here?

Her clothes were wet.

Decaying blood soaking into her while she screamed, bugs and acid crawling over her skin-

Taylor rolled onto her hands and knees and bit her lip hard to drive away the bloody thoughts.

It worked. Mostly.

She opened her eyes and almost screamed again.

The snow beneath her was stained red-black with blood.

Her blood?

Surely not. There was too much.

The locker. The bloody-

Nope. Not thinking about it.

Taylor looked around while her eyes adjusted. Anything, to distract herself from the blood and metal.

The full moon cast a stark contrast to her surroundings, the snow pristine and coating the bare trees in an ivory shell. The grass poked through the soft layer, black against the white covering.

The graves stood in rows under the snow, like frosted teeth jutting out of the silent blanket.

How did I get here?

It was horrifyingly familiar. She and Dad had come here a few times, since the funeral. Even in his empty stupor, he could manage to drag himself here.

Taylor looked down and brushed the snow off the closest headstone, expecting to see her mother's name, as always.

Taylor Anne Hebert

June 12, 1995 - January 5, 2011

The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass.

What the hell?

But…

She wasn't dead.

Right?

She ran a trembling finger over her own grave, leaving a thin streak in the spiderwebbed frost.

She wasn't.

Shivering tremors wracked her limbs as the cold began to seep deeper.

I'm not dead yet.

She snorted out loud. That was meant to sound dramatic, but all she could think of was the stupid British movie her dad used to like.

He didn't really laugh like that, anymore.

None of this answered the question of how she had gotten here, when she had lost consciousness in a rotting, metal box.

It didn't help stave off the cold.

If only I had more blood…

What?

Where did that thought come from?

Strange designs danced in her mind's eye. The secrets and methods of blood ministration.

What the hell is blood ministration?

According to the alien thoughts, it was the use of blood to strengthen and enhance both the practitioner and their weapons.

But that didn't make any sense either.

Taylor stood tall with surprising ease and took a moment to stretch the concrete from her bones.

Despite everything, she felt… strong.

Her baggy jeans and tattered sweatshirt were soaked with blood and melted snow, but she felt fire singing in her veins.

Am I…

Taylor looked down at her hands, bleached as white as the snow by the moon. She flexed her long, thin fingers and felt a wiry strength in them that she had never felt before. Something inside her longed to grip the smooth leather-wrapped handle of her weapon-

I'm a cape. A parahuman.

There was no other explanation. She was nothing, a weak and ugly wretch. She wasn't strong.

She felt strong, now.

Well, if I am dead, this is a hell of a dream.

She still needed to get out of the cold, though.

Taylor looked around again, getting her bearings. It was only then that she realized there was something sitting on the ground beside her grave.

Curious, she reached down and picked up the dark object.

Whatever she had been expecting, she definitely wasn't expecting it to be a hat.

And yet, here, leaning against her grave, waiting for her, was a flat-brimmed, black leather fedora.

She was about to toss it aside when a note fell out of it, written on thick, high quality paper.

"Put on the hat."

What.

Taylor blinked.

She read the note again.

She put on the hat.

It wasn't wet, somehow. Surprisingly warm, actually.

What the hell.

It wasn't too far from the graveyard to her house, although it was far enough that Dad always drove.

Her first steps were halting, unsure of herself and the newfound hunger singing in her bones.

Then her strides came to her easier, longer and more confident than ever before.

Then she was running.

The icy wind whipped her damp hair out behind her, long black curls heavy in the breeze. Her blood-stained clothes stuck to her lanky frame as her gait lengthened, first to a sprint, then beyond.

It was glorious.

She may as well have been flying, for all it felt like her feet touched the ground. The fence at the edge of the graveyard loomed over her, and she leapt.

It took everything she had to repress a giddy whoop as she soared over the fence, her jump carrying her easily ten feet into the air and twice as far over the snowy ground.

She landed on the slushy street with unconscious ease, her feet finding hidden traction beneath the ice.

Only half of the streetlights in Brockton worked, and they cast an eerie glow onto the cracked pavement when reflected off of the puddles and half-melted snow.

Taylor sprinted down the ruined road, reveling in the power that drove her legs under her. Her speed should have turned the surrounding buildings into a blur, but she saw every crumbled brick, every dirty, trash-filled alley.

She was alive.

She hit an intersection and turned sharply, skidding around the corner with a casual grace that she certainly hadn't possessed before, her shoes sliding across the ice at just the right angle to let her swing ninety degrees with barely a drop in speed.

The lone car out driving this late honked at her, but she didn't care.

They couldn't catch her, anyway.

The next corner ended in an alley with a fire escape, and she couldn't resist.

It was almost too easy to find a stable slab of pavement to leap from, up to brace another foot on the edge of the dumpster, and then up again to the edge of the metal railing.

Then up, up, up.

The metal was cold, so she stepped up with her feet whenever possible rather than grabbing it with her hands. She only had to grip the frosted steel a couple times as she practically ran up the side of the building, bounding from railing to ladder to support beam with reckless abandon before throwing herself up and over the edge of the roof.

She had thought that running over the broken streets was fantastic, but it was nothing compared to the rooftops. It felt like she was made for this.

The rusted air-conditioning units and chimneys became convenient platforms and handholds to slide over or leap from. The iron beams and crumbling bricks were perfect handles as she ran across the ruined skyline.

It was almost enough to forget.

But not quite.

Too soon, she arrived at the familiar street of narrow, two-story houses.

Taylor couldn't risk continuing on the rooftops here, but she still didn't want to be seen. Instead, she worked her way through the snow-covered backyards, over fences and running across the areas where the snow had melted or was blocked by trees. She didn't want to leave too many footprints, just in case.

Her own backyard should have been more familiar, but it felt strangely alien, under the full moon.

Thankfully, she still had her keys in her pocket. She didn't want to wake her father up at this hour.

Taylor eased the back door open and carefully closed it behind her before making her way inside.

The house felt different, in the dark. Empty. A deep sadness seemed to pervade the very air, dripping off the furnishings and soaking into the wooden beams.

She really needed to get out of these bloody clothes. Would her father be too annoyed if she decided to shower, despite the time?

What time is it, anyway?

The clock on the oven said just after one in the morning.

The stairs creaked as she made her way up to her room.

A shadow moved in the upstairs hall.

An aluminum baseball bat smashed into the drywall where her head had been a split second before. Only the newfound power singing in her bones let her avoid the blow with instinctual precision, swaying backwards in an arch and throwing herself sideways in a tight spin that let her duck the follow up strike as well, landing on her feet with impossible dexterity.

She stepped forward and caught the next strike right above the grip, throwing the attack to the side and pinning her attacker's hand against the wall.

"Shit-"

"Dad! It's me!"

Everything froze.

Her windchilled face was less than a foot from his, the brim of her hat almost touching his forehead. She could barely make out the familiar planes of his pale face, in the moonlight.

"No," he choked out, dropping the bat to wrench his hand out of her grasp and stumbling backwards. "No, you're dead. You're-"

"I'm not dead, Dad. I'm here," she said, unsure what to say to convince him otherwise. She had seen her own grave.

His back hit the wall and he slid down it slowly, his eyes never leaving her face.

Her fingers hunted for a moment before they found the hall light switch. Luckily, it hadn't been in the path of the baseball bat.

The golden light was blinding, after only the moonlight for so long.

She looked down at her father, and her heart broke just a little bit more.

His face was blotchy and pale. Deep purple shadows haunted his eyes. He looked sunken, like the life was being drained from him piece by piece.

He stared up at her with an uncomprehending horror tinged with unbidden hope, blinking against the suddenly bright light.

Taylor took a deep breath.

"I don't know what's going on, but I'm here," she said. "I'm still me. And I'm still alive."

Danny dragged himself forward in a crawl before managing to pull himself to his feet, lunging forward to wrap his long, skinny arms around her.

Without her newfound strength, she may have toppled backwards. As it was, she held him upright as dry sobs wracked his slim frame.

"Taylor…" he seemed to lose steam after one word, gasping for air again.

She didn't know what else to do, so she just held on tight. Anything to convince him that she was real.

He pulled back and held her face between his hands, staring at her like a man dying of thirst seeing an oasis on the horizon.

"You're alive," he said, more light returning to his empty eyes with every moment.

She nodded, pushing away the memories of the blood and the stench and the dark.

He glanced up.

"What's with the hat?"

She cracked. She couldn't help it.

Wheezing, mad laughter filled the hall as they cackled.

…

A hot shower made a lot more of a difference than she thought it would.

It turns out, everything feels better when one isn't wearing dirty old clothes soaked with blood and slushy muck. Who would have thought?

The hot tea helped, too.

They sat across from each other at the rickety kitchen table.

Her father had one arm flopped casually across the table, his fingers just touching the edge of her elbow. Like he needed the reminder that she was actually real.

He finally broke the silence.

"I... I identified your body. I planned your funeral. There wasn't anyone else," he said.

Taylor felt like she should apologize, even though it obviously wasn't her fault that someone killed her.

That Emma killed her.

She pushed back the fire that threatened to overwhelm her at the thought.

"I don't… what day is it?" She asked. She hadn't realized it had been so long. Obviously, they had time to put in a gravestone, but…

"It's the 19th. Well, technically the 20th, now. Of January," he said.

At least she hadn't missed too much time, in the grand scheme of things. Two weeks? Give or take?

It must have felt like a long time to her father, though.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," she said with a tired grin. "Coming back from the dead is a tedious business."

He snorted, and she counted that as a win. Even if the bitterness still ran deep.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm happy… so, so happy, that you're here, somehow, I just…" he shook his head. "What happened, Taylor?"

She didn't want to talk about it.

But he spent two weeks thinking she died, alone in the blood and the acid.

He deserved better than lies, or nothing.

"It started after camp, summer before last…"

And so she told him. About Emma, and Sophia. About how they turned against her, and turned everyone else with them. About Madison, and the teachers, and the administration. About the constant, constant stress and anxiety and pain.

And then she told him about the locker. Being pushed inside with the other trash, and left to die.

How no one ever came. How no one helped. No one noticed, no one cared.

"We looked everywhere for you," he said in a broken whisper. "Everywhere we could think of. We never even considered… no one said anything about your locker. No one even remembered seeing you at school, that day. Or so they said."

His voice dropped even further.

"It wasn't… it wasn't until the smell… after days… oh God…"

She didn't make him say anything else about that.

"It was Emma. Or Sophia, or one of their lackeys. It doesn't really matter. It was them, all along."

Something in her voice made him look at her.

She could see the helpless fury in his eyes, not knowing how or what to do next.

"They'll get what they deserve," she said in a low growl. There was something within her, some new core of steel that demanded blood.

"I'll go talk-"

"No," she cut him off sharply, and he reeled back like she had struck him. "Anything you do will be tracked, and swept under the rug like everything else. The school won't be willing to pin the blame on anyone specifically, or they will be responsible too. Alan won't stand by while you slander his daughter."

She stood up and started pacing.

"You will be painted as a grieving father lashing out after the unfortunate death of your favorite daughter. You," she turned to him with a frightening smile, "are still alive."

She could see the moment that it clicked, behind his tired eyes.

"You don't want to tell anyone else that you're back?" He said in a whisper.

"What better way to make sure that my identity is kept hidden? Taylor Hebert is dead. There isn't any way she's doing anything," Taylor said.

"But what…"

"I'm a cape, Dad. A parahuman. You think I dodged your grand slam with lucky ducks? I came back from the dead," she laughed at the absurdity of it.

"You're-"

He stood, pacing along with her, fists clenched.

"You can't go out there like that. It's not safe," he said through locked teeth.

"Not safe?" She exclaimed. "I died! What else could be more unsafe than actual, gone-to-meet-my-maker dead?"

"Just because you made it back once doesn't mean-"

"The hell it does!"

Why couldn't he see?

"This is my way out," she said in a more even tone, trying to rein in both tempers running wild in the dim kitchen. "If we tell them I'm back, it will let everyone know about my power. Next time, they might just make sure I'm locked up forever, rather than dead. Plus, it will put me right back in Winslow, right back in that fucking locker!"

Okay, so she did a pretty bad job of reining in the tempers.

"The Wards-"

"No! No, fuck that! It's the same shit, just in spandex. I'm not going back, to them or to Winslow."

"So what?" He yelled back, although she could tell that his frustration wasn't necessarily aimed at her. "You just… become a ghost? Pretend to be dead so no one bothers you? What about your life?"

"I'll build a new one. A better one," she said lowly.

Taylor turned and met his broken gaze.

"With or without you."

She knew she had him, then.

"I want you here, Dad," she whispered. "I want to do this with you by my side, or at least at my back, but if you push me on this… I still stay dead, and I'm gone."

He collapsed back into the chair by the table. The thin wood protested at the mistreatment.

"No one will believe you if you tell them that I came back. Not if I'm not here," she said.

"Stop," he said.

She did, waiting in the silence for him to speak again.

"It means that much to you? You really want to do this, stay dead on paper so you can… what? Run around in spandex and fight bad guys?" Her father said, raising his eyebrows.

"I'll come up with a better costume," Taylor said grudgingly, fighting back a smile.

Danny took a deep breath.

"Fine," he said finally. "Fine. I know… I know that you won't change your mind, not from my trying to force it, anyway. I hope that someday we can figure out how to move forward, get you a real life again, but… you're right. Right now, that would definitely out you as a parahuman, at least to the government if no one else."

She stared at him with narrow eyes from across the kitchen.

"You promise that you're not just saying that to get me to stay, and I'll wake up with the PRT downstairs tomorrow morning?"

She could see the knives slide in even as she said it.

"No," he said, as genuinely as she had ever heard from him. "No, I won't lie to you, not about this. I'm not… happy, with the situation, but…"

He took another breath.

"Taylor, you died. I spent two long weeks staring into another forty years of nothing. Or a lot less than forty, probably," he said ruefully.

The thought was like ice running down her spine.

What would she have done, if she came home and found him with a bullet in his brain, or an empty pill bottle next to his cold body?

What if she had been too late?

"I'm not…" she choked, and she closed her eyes as a lot of emotions caught up to her all at once. "Don't make me leave, please."

She felt his arms around her again, and then suddenly she was the one sobbing.

It took a long time, until she ran out of tears to cry.

"We'll figure it out, kiddo. Don't worry," he said, his voice rumbling in his chest against her ear.

She nodded into his tear-soaked T-shirt and finally extricated herself from his embrace.

They both sat back down at the table, letting the silence stretch for a while.

Taylor took a sip of her tea. It was kind of cold, by now.

"So, aside from dodging baseball bats and self-resurrection, what powers do you have?" Danny finally asked.

"That isn't enough?" Taylor laughed, before frowning into her cool tea. "I think I'm some kind of Tinker, on top of that. I have these designs, these blueprints, buzzing around in my head. Some of them… some of them are pretty brutal, if I'm honest."

"Tinker, like Armsmaster? Power armor?"

"No, no it's…" she let the terrifying instruments swim in front of her eyes. "It's blood tinkering. Experimenting with different kinds of blood, and different uses. Quick injection syringes, extractors, ways to boost my healing and my speed…"

Danny raised his eyebrows.

"That sounds… well, that doesn't sound like something that the Wards would take too kindly to, anyway," he said.

"No shit," she laughed sardonically. "It's not exactly… palatable. I'll definitely need to do some workshopping, see what is and isn't feasible for… sane people."

"We have the basement," her father said with a grin. "Is that a suitable mad scientist lair?"

Taylor couldn't help but smile. It was nice, that he seemed sort of on board with this.

"For now," she said. "I also… I also have weapon designs. They're pretty basic, compared to other Tinker weapons, but they work in tandem with the blood ministration. I can't really explain, exactly, it's all a bit… muddy. But I think it will sort itself out as I go."

"Okay," Danny said. He took another deep breath. He had been doing that a lot, over the last thirty minutes. "We can get more into this tomorrow. For now… I think we both need some sleep."

The night was definitely taking its toll on her. Apparently, coming back from the dead was tiring work.

They made it to the top of the stairs, and she hugged her father tightly again.

"No running away," he said into her hair.

"No calling the PRT," she said into his shirt.

They both laughed. It might have been a bit manic, but it was better than yelling.

Taylor finally slipped in between the sheets, and it felt amazing.

When sleep finally took her, she dreamed of blood, and the moon. Not nightmares; just a peaceful, silver light, and a rippling pool of crimson deep.

…

Notes:

I love all things Bloodborne and thought it would make for a very fun crossover. However, I will be trying to limit the amount of world bleed-over, limiting myself to just Taylor's abilities. I love stories like Hunter, but I don't want this to devolve into Brockton getting swallowed up by Yharnam. In theory, no knowledge of Bloodborne should be required. This is, at its core, an Alt-Power story. Taylor has the abilities of a Hunter, with a side of Hunter Workshop, Healing Church, and Byrgenwerth Tinkering. I am going to do my absolute best to avoid making this an overpowered Taylor story, although its possible that I may fail at that. We'll see. In the meantime, don't forget to fear the Old Blood. Comments, feedback, and criticism are welcome and encouraged as always. I don't own Worm or Bloodborne.

Oh, and a ship with Amy. Because I promised to be nicer to her this time. And Blood Tinker + Biokinetic is going to be... interesting. Also, the hat is Gascoigne's Cap, for reference.

Edit: Hey, remember when I made that funny joke about this not being an OP Taylor story? This is totally an OP Taylor story. Whoops.

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Entire Work ← Previous Chapter Next Chapter → Chapter Index Edit Bookmark Mark for Later Comments Share Download

Work Header

Rating:

Mature

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceMajor Character Death

Category:

F/F

Fandoms:

Parahumans Series - WildbowBloodborne (Video Game)

Relationship:

Amy Dallon | Panacea | Red Queen/Taylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver

Characters:

Additional Tags:

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of In Pale Blood Next Work →

Collections:

Sapphic Worm Fics

Stats:

Published:2024-11-26Completed:2025-07-30Words:404,685Chapters:70/70Comments:6,377Kudos:5,193Bookmarks:1,272Hits:310,088

In Pale Blood (Complete)

Camo30209

Chapter 3: Frost 1.2

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Frost 1.2

It was cold, when Taylor woke up.

For a moment, she was back on the bloodstained snow in the graveyard.

But no, the house was just drafty and she had misplaced her blanket at some point during the night.

Her dreams had been… strange.

Was it like this for all capes? Did Alexandria packages dream of flying?

The blood sang for her, even though she knew that it should horrify her. Especially after the-

Nope, not thinking about it.

Taylor pulled herself out of bed and stretched, enjoying the quiet vigor flowing through her veins.

She grabbed fresh clothes for the day and took another shower. It might have just been in her head, but even after her late night return the acid still prickled at her skin.

The reflection in the mirror caught her attention.

Emma's words about her appearance had always hurt, but it wasn't exactly anything she hadn't already known. It was obvious, every time she looked at herself.

Thin, gangly limbs and boney joints. Ill-proportioned, and somehow also soft in all the wrong places. Not pretty enough to be worth looking at, not striking enough to be unique, and not strong enough to make up for it.

She didn't really know what was so different, now. Objectively, her body hadn't actually changed.

But there was something…

Something about her wiry, corded arms felt dangerous, now that she could feel the strength in her long fingers. Her legs didn't look out of place, when she remembered rocketing over the moonlit snow.

Her eyes were hard and resolved, under her curtain of midnight curls. She had always thought that brown was such a boring color, but now her irises looked close enough to black that it was hard to tell where the pupil ended, like piercing onyx.

Maybe it was all in her head. What did any of it matter, when she had already died?

She pulled the white button-down over her boney shoulders. The image solidified, as she slid the buttons into place and fixed the collar.

Taylor didn't know why she grabbed this outfit, in particular. Didn't even remember when she got it. It was a departure from her normal style, but Emma would never ruin her clothes again. Would never cut her with poisoned words. They wouldn't pull her strings, anymore.

Black slacks, and suspenders. Shirt cuffs rolled up to expose sinewy forearms and wrists, fingers longing to rest on the trigger.

She really needed to get some supplies. The urges were getting more persistent.

Her new hat completed the ensemble.

Mysterious notes aside, she liked the look. It was different, and it was new. She hadn't liked herself, before, but maybe she could find it in her to like this version.

Taylor Hebert was dead. It was fitting that her vices should die with her.

She could already hear activity downstairs. At least it just sounded like her dad was making breakfast, rather than organizing an inquisition.

Her feet were light on the stairs, the unconscious dexterity already bringing a smile to her face.

"Morning, Dad," she said. The kitchen smelled strongly of bacon. Grease popped and crackled on the stove.

Danny looked over at her, and for a brief moment the starving stare was back before he smiled.

"Morning, Taylor," he said.

She started the water boiling for tea.

"I took the day off," her father said, pushing the bacon around in the pan without looking at her. "I thought you might want some help getting things set up for your… lab? Lair?"

Maybe her untimely demise and subsequent resurrection had been enough to shock him out of his stupor. He hadn't been this animated in years. She could only hope that it lasted.

"I do have some… ideas," she said. "I'm not sure how much of what I need can be bought at Walmart, though."

Danny hummed in agreement as he moved the bacon onto a plate lined with paper towels.

He seemed to be caught somewhere between wanting to stare at her constantly and trying to avoid her gaze.

"That's a new look," he said, eyes flicking over to her before jumping back to his coffee.

"I thought it was time for a change. Besides, it matches my new hat," Taylor grinned.

"I forgot about that, last night," Danny said, moving over to the spindly table. "Where'd you get the hat? It's not a bad look, just… different."

"Would you believe that someone left it by my grave? It felt appropriate," Taylor said.

Danny raised his eyebrows.

"That's… odd. I wonder who visited you. No one else," he looked away for a moment before forcing himself to continue, "...no one else came to the funeral."

Unsurprising.

"I wondered where Emma was, but… I guess it makes sense that she didn't show, after what she did," Danny said.

Taylor thought that Emma would come just to spit on her grave. Maybe she had waited until later.

"It had this note in it too. Fell out right as I was about to throw it away," Taylor said, handing over the cryptic message.

Her dad just stared at it for a while as he chewed.

"This is weird, kiddo."

"Weirder than coming back from the dead?"

"I'll admit, that one's hard to top," he said with a small smile. "Brussels sprouts and chocolate, though."

Her mom used to say that, that brussels sprouts tasting terrible had no effect on the taste of chocolate. According to her, it was a logical fallacy to think that bad times are required to appreciate the good.

Or, in this case, extreme death weirdness didn't make cryptic hat messages any less weird.

It was good, that he remembered. He hadn't said anything like that in a long time.

They ate in silence, for a while. Danny drank his coffee, and she sipped her tea.

"I need a lot of glass. Different sizes of beakers, and bottles. Vials. And tubing. And a hot plate," she said eventually.

"I think we have a camp stove?" Danny said.

"Do they sell needles at the drugstore?"

"I think you probably need a prescription, but I can ask. Worst case scenario, they think I'm a Merchant," her father said dryly.

"Not funny. I also need saws. A lot of saws."

"I'm not even going to ask."

…

It was ironic that her cape career was being funded by insurance fraud.

Her father had some kind of family life insurance plan through his job, and it turns out that teenagers don't actually die very often, so the payout was decent.

Silver linings.

Taylor stayed in the truck with her hat shading her eyes. It was generally a good idea for dead people to avoid security cameras. Especially dead Tinkers who didn't want to draw the attention of the gangs or the PRT.

The details were a bit fuzzy, but everyone who paid attention to cape culture knew that Tinkers were highly valued, and easy to snap up if they weren't careful. Even with her supernatural speed, she didn't want to tip her hat too early.

It isn't paranoia if they're actually out to get you.

The truck door opened as Danny returned from yet another hardware store. Dirty, half-melted snow still lined the streets despite the sunshine.

Her father had agreed with the necessity of going to multiple stores in different parts of town. He had shaken his head a bit at the idea of wearing different coats into each store, but he had gone along with it. He was less enthusiastic about parking a few blocks away, in areas where there weren't any security cameras.

Overall, though, he had been a pretty good sport about the whole thing.

"Did I miss anything exciting?" He asked as they pulled back into traffic.

"Yeah, I got in a bar fight with Hookwolf. It was great, you should've been there."

He didn't laugh, but he did the thing where people exhale a bit sharper than usual through their nose. Progress.

"What's next on the agenda, hero?"

She wasn't actually sure if she was a hero, really. Something to work out later.

"Maybe a department store? I need a coat for my costume. Something at least to my thighs, with a split up the back for when I need to run. And some boots. And gloves," Taylor said.

They had managed to get pretty much everything else, except for the actual needles. It turns out, those do actually require a prescription, which was… inconvenient.

"Sure. Do you want to come in or should I guestimate the sizes?" Danny asked.

"I'm sure you'll do great on your own. Tell them it's a birthday present or something, and if it doesn't fit we'll return it. Oh, get me a scarf too," she said. "Please."

He rolled his eyes but left to brave the wilds of Kohl's solo.

…

Taylor surveyed their haul, arrayed on the solid wooden workbench in the basement.

All in all, she was pretty pleased with what they had managed to find.

A surprising variety of glassware from different craft and home goods stores. All manner of hand tools and materials from home improvement stores. Metal and rubber piping, tubing, saws with different shaped handles, screws and nuts and bolts a plenty.

They even sold Bunsen burners at Walmart. What a time to be alive.

And the best part was that nothing about any of this screamed 'Tinker'. It was old fashioned, gristly work. Not graceful and efficient electronics, but blood and oil and steel.

She was so excited. And nervous.

Without the needles, her options were limited. She needed blood for the majority of the designs in her head, in quantities that she wasn't comfortable trying to gather by cutting herself.

It was morbidly hilarious, that when she had been bullied and depressed she had never harmed herself, but now that she was free, she was debating the best way to spill her own blood.

Of course she couldn't get a normal power, like flying or laser beams. No, of course she had to get the power two steps to the left of fucking Bonesaw.

Still, it beat being dead. Mostly.

Her first order of business was the most practical, but it was also something she dreaded.

She needed to be able to die. She couldn't risk anyone finding out her secret and neutralizing her before she could slip into the dark. Immortals weren't actually all that difficult to deal with, once you knew what to look for. Bury them in concrete, chop off all their limbs and hook them up to a nutrient and sedative drip, etc, etc.

It occurred to her that normal people probably didn't think about this stuff, but her enemies wouldn't be normal.

Fortunately, (or unfortunately, depending on the perspective) her powers offered a fairly easy answer to the death issue.

It just wasn't pleasant.

With a sigh, Taylor tied her hair back, grabbed a length of steel wire and some pliers, and began to work.

…

The flame of the Bunsen burner cast an eerie light over the basement.

The metal wire glowed brilliant orange in the fire, the tongs keeping her hands away from the heat.

Taylor carefully maneuvered the cool part of the wire into a vice, so it could continue to heat while she prepared the blood quench.

It sounded more clinical than what it actually entailed.

Maybe I should wait until I get some needles.

No, it needed to happen now or she would lose her nerve. A bit of pain, for absolute security.

She raised her scalpel. It was surprising, what you could buy at craft stores. Clay sculpting tools worked just as well on flesh.

The sterile blade parted the skin on the back of her forearm with ease, and she hissed at the burn as the crimson ichor flowed into the shallow dish she prepared.

Just a little sting, in the grand scheme of things. She didn't actually need much.

When the dish had a decent layer on the bottom, she bandaged the wound tightly. No reason to waste any extra blood.

Her eyes returned to the fiery wire.

Several strands bent together to make the brand. A single long, vertical slash, with two branches angled back on themselves forming a diamond at the bottom. A dangling, upside-down rune.

To awaken fresh, as if it were all just a bad dream.

Her breath came in sharp pants. She put a piece of leather between her teeth.

There would be no going back, after this.

She released the white hot brand from the vice.

The metal was warm under her fingers, even through her gloves. Even so far from the fire.

She quenched the brand in her blood, the crimson deep hissing on contact with the burning metal.

The symbol of a Hunter, etched into one's own mind.

It was still more than hot enough, when she removed it.

She held it up, eyes fixed on the black-red crusted steel.

Taylor Hebert is dead.

Her breath hitched.

I am a Hunter.

Her mind flashed unbidden to the bloody metal box that was her crucible.

And I will never be chained again.

She pressed the bloody, burning metal into the skin of her forehead, just over her right eye.

The sound of her flesh sizzling under the cleansing fire was both horrifying and beautiful in equal measure. She felt the ethereal rune carve itself into her mind, like an axe to the frontal lobe.

Pain lanced through her, jumping from the brand down her spine, tearing at the nerves down to her fingers and toes before bouncing back up and crashing into her brain like wildfire.

She barely heard the clang of metal on concrete as she dropped the brand, falling to one knee as she tried to stay afloat amid the ocean of agony. Overhead, the moon hung full and bright, but blood-red instead of peaceful silver.

Hands gripped her shoulders and she just barely managed to resist the automatic urge to rip out her assailant's spine.

It was only then that she realized that the horrible keening noise was coming from her own throat.

"-lor! Taylor! What's going on? What happened? Can you hear me?" Her father's frantic voice dragged her out of the bloody nightmares.

The wailing cut off and she gasped for air, one hand braced on the basement floor beneath her. Her hair had come free from the tie at some point, falling around her face in a midnight curtain.

"I'm okay. I'm okay," she rasped, her voice dry and torn from the screaming. She pushed her hair back from her face, careful to keep both her hands and her hair from touching the raw, bloody mark on her forehead.

She looked up at her father and his eyes widened dramatically.

"You… you…" he stammered, reaching out halfway between them before stopping himself from touching her face.

Probably a good idea. Everything hurt, right now.

"It was necessary," she said, iron resolve curling in her gut.

"Why?" He whispered.

"To make me free, forever," she said, rising to her feet in front of him. "As long as this mark is etched into my mind, I will always have the choice to die, and awake anew. I will never be held against my will, ever again."

Her father took several deep breaths while she waited for him to calm himself.

"It's a bit… obvious…" he said eventually. "You couldn't have put it anywhere else?"

"No."

"Okay. Okay," he said, centering himself again. "Well, it's not ideal for a secret identity…"

"My hat will cover it," she said.

"I guess…" he still seemed unsure.

It was quiet, for a while.

"Can I go get an ice pack, now?" She asked with a crooked grin. "This really hurts."

It did. Not the all-consuming agony and bestial hunger that burned within her before, but the more mundane pain that came along with shoving hot metal against one's face.

"Yeah, yeah, go," he said, backing up as she headed for the stairs.

Hopefully this wouldn't dampen her dad's enthusiasm for helping her with her tinkering. It wasn't like she planned on mutilating herself like this again.

For now, at least.

…

Brockton Bay looked less broken, from up here.

Taylor crouched on top of the railing that ran around the roof of Brockton General Hospital. One of the underappreciated benefits of superpowers was definitely brooding on rooftops.

Currently, Taylor was brooding over the moral conundrum of robbing a hospital for the greater good.

The greater good, in this case, being her ability to Tinker.

It was, unquestionably, a bad thing to do. Even if she eventually used her equipment to help people.

But she did really want some high quality equipment. Not just needles, but titration and distillation equipment, centrifuges, blood.

She really needed the blood.

Which also begged the question: was it more morally dubious to steal donated blood from a hospital, or take it under duress from the source?

It was probably fine, as long as her victims were Nazis. But she didn't want to provoke the Empire until after she had some gear. It was an irritating catch-22.

Hence, the brooding.

"That hat makes you look like a hipster," a sarcastic voice behind her said suddenly.

Taylor almost fell off the roof.

It turns out, her supernatural perception only worked if she was actually looking at something, or if it was an active threat to her. Good to know.

She regained her balance and looked over at her unexpected company.

Holy shit, that's Panacea.

The red and white robed hero was standing about fifteen feet behind her, in the process of lighting a cigarette.

Huh.

And she had insulted Taylor's hat. Rude.

A year ago, an insult like that might have set her gut churning, but now…

After everything Emma did, after dying…

It just… didn't matter, as much as it used to. Besides, it wasn't like Taylor had chosen the hat for herself. The hat chose her.

"Nice to meet you, too," Taylor said, not moving from her crouch on the railing. It was easy for her to keep her balance, now.

"Sure," Panacea said.

They stared at each other across the rooftop for a long moment.

"So… what'cha doin'?" Panacea finally asked. Her sarcasm hadn't decreased a bit. It might have been her default setting.

"Casing the joint," Taylor said, honestly.

"Sounds pretty villainous," Panacea said. "I thought it was against the rules to rob hospitals."

"I'm not a villain," Taylor said, although she was becoming less sure by the day. Blood Tinkering didn't exactly lend itself to heroics.

She couldn't really see Panacea's face under her hood, but she got the feeling that she was raising her eyebrows.

"It doesn't get much more villainous than stealing from sick people," Panacea said.

"I don't suppose you could just go grab me some needles, then? Oh, and some blood, too, while you're at it," Taylor said dryly. She didn't know where she was getting all this confidence. Maybe it was the mask. It was easier to be straightforward, when she wasn't herself.

"Wait, wait, needles, blood? What?" Panacea said, wandering closer despite herself. "Are you trying to get high or something?"

"No," Taylor said. She debated how much to tell this stranger, this hero. It would probably get out soon, anyway, but she wanted to have her lab set up and established first.

"Why, then?"

"Hand over some blood and I'll tell you," Taylor said, grinning behind her scarf.

"Fucking vampire. I could give you cancer, you know," Panacea said.

"Do it, coward."

Panacea coughed out a grudging laugh at that.

"You could just rob Medhall. They probably have better security, but they're bloodsucking private-insurance-only types. You'll get along great. Or, you could just, I don't know, not rob a fucking hospital," Panacea said.

Taylor pursed her lips and hummed thoughtfully.

"Do you know anywhere else I could get some medical equipment? I don't really need the blood, I guess," Taylor said.

"I could just call the PRT," Panacea said.

"How do you know I'm even a cape?" Taylor asked, mainly just to keep her talking. She had a nice voice, under all the acid.

"You're hunkered dramatically on a rooftop. That is guaranteed cape behavior. No one in their right mind would do that."

That was a good point.

"Okay, you got me there. But what would you even tell them? That you talked to a weirdo with a cool hat on a roof and they said they were totally going to steal from the hospital?" Taylor said.

"I take personal offense to the 'cool hat' part. It's not cool, and I would never say it was," Panacea said, but Taylor could see her lips curling up despite her best efforts.

"It's pretty cool."

"It's really not."

"It's not my fault you have no taste," Taylor's grin widened behind her scarf.

"Oh, fuck you," Panacea said, and Taylor laughed.

"I'm sorry, did you say 'you win'?"

"That's it, I'm calling the cops."

"Bring it on, hero," Taylor said.

Neither of them moved, though.

Panacea took another drag of her cigarette.

Taylor's brand itched under the bandage, which was under her hat, so she couldn't scratch it. Annoying.

"For real, do you know where I can get needles and basic medical equipment, IV bags, and whatnot? It's not for villain stuff, I promise," Taylor said. She wasn't even lying… mostly.

Was stalking Emma and Sophia villainous? They deserved it.

Panacea just looked at her for a while.

"Fuck it," the hero finally said, flicking the remains of her cigarette onto the roof and walking away.

Oh well.

It was fun while it lasted.

Taylor leaned back and let her hair fall behind her, face turned up to the night sky.

The moon wasn't full, anymore, but it was close. The silver light was soothing.

A door slammed on the other side of the rooftop, and she reached up quickly to make sure that her scarf was still in place.

Panacea was back?

"You're lucky I'm in a shitty mood and feel like doing some teenage rebellion. I figure this is better than robbing liquor stores," Panacea said, holding out a bulging plastic bag.

Well… shit.

"Um… thanks?" Taylor said, taking the care package. She wasn't sure what else to say. What exactly was the expected platitude when the world's foremost parahuman healer steals medical supplies on one's behalf?

"Fair warning, I might feel guilty tomorrow and tell the PRT," Panacea said.

"I mean, I'd prefer if you didn't, but I can't exactly stop you," Taylor shrugged.

Panacea lit another cigarette.

Taylor couldn't help herself.

"You know those give you cancer," she said.

"Fuck you."

Taylor laughed.

"Shut up and take your ill-gotten gains before I change my mind," Panacea snapped.

"Sure thing, doc."

She couldn't see under the hood, but Taylor hoped the healer was rolling her eyes.

Taylor stood on the railing and turned to leave.

"Wait," Panacea's voice was still sharp, but it sounded a bit forced. "What's your name, vampire girl?"

Taylor hadn't really thought about it, but only one name sprung to mind.

"Hunter," she said.

Panacea snorted.

"That has to be taken already. There's no way just plain Hunter is available."

"Don't care."

"The PRT will make up something stupid instead," Panacea warned.

"It will be funny to see what they come up with. Let their PR department do the legwork," Taylor said.

"Most capes care about that kind of thing," Panacea said.

"I'm not most capes."

"Whatever you say, drama queen."

Taylor laughed again.

"I thought you were leaving," Panacea said, gray smoke coiling around her red-trimmed hood.

"I was, you're the one who-"

"Shut up."

"Fine, fine, I'm going," Taylor shook her head. "See you around, Panacea."

"I hope not," the healer said, although Taylor was reasonably sure that she didn't mean it.

She was tempted to see how long Panacea would keep trying to have the last word, but the robed healer had just stolen medical supplies for her. She deserved the small amount of satisfaction.

A soaring leap carried her to one of the hospital's lower roofs, and then she was running, under the stars.

…

Notes:

I didn't start this chapter planning to write ritual self-branding, but sometimes these things just write themselves. Lots of fun. Stay tuned for some actual blood tinkering, and our sort-of hero's debut. Feedback and criticism is welcome and encouraged. I don't own Worm or Bloodborne. Don't pester the Old Blood.

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Rating:

Mature

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceMajor Character Death

Category:

F/F

Fandoms:

Parahumans Series - WildbowBloodborne (Video Game)

Relationship:

Amy Dallon | Panacea | Red Queen/Taylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver

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English

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Part 1 of In Pale Blood Next Work →

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Sapphic Worm Fics

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Published:2024-11-26Completed:2025-07-30Words:404,685Chapters:70/70Comments:6,377Kudos:5,193Bookmarks:1,272Hits:310,088

In Pale Blood (Complete)

Camo30209

Chapter 4: Frost 1.3

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

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," her 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.

…

Notes:

A little bit more buildup, and Taylor gets ahold of the basic requirements for a hunter. A little bit of tackling the Emma issue, although it certainly isn't resolved. Danny is doing his best, as always. Quick interlude up next, and then we'll (finally) get into some actual fights. Comments, feedback, and criticism is welcome and encouraged, as always. I don't own Worm or Bloodborne. Do not gently caress the Old Blood.

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Chapter 1593 - in pale blood 1-4