Die Hard - [Worm/Vampire the Masquerade]

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

AN: Greetings ladies and gentlemen across the internet and beyond. Wyvern and the Warhawk, Team Scrimshaw is here once again, bringing to you our latest Commissioned Work. This time a strange and wondrous mix of the parahuman and the paranormal, with everyone's favorite teenager getting into an even bigger mess than before!

AtW: Don't think of this as us being back or anything… lord knows I'm still moving slowly. But we are trying to at least honor our commitments. Either OWIM or another commission is probably next. Hope you guys like it. Oh, Wyvern his own story he's tearing through, in case you were interested.

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Die Hard - A Worm and White Wolf Crossover​

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Chapter 1 - You Only Die Twice​

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"Thanks Dad." Taylor half mumbled around a mouthful of Christmas cake, watching It's a Wonderful Life with about as much enthusiasm as she was attacking the fruit cake with. "The food's great."

Her father smiled at her, nursing his third eggnog of the night, and gave her a little nod of the head. It was a tiny thing, but it perfectly matched the level of energy she was putting out.

Looking over at their tree, the young woman wondered why they'd even bothered to put anything up this year. It was just a tiny two foot tall plastic thing, with a pair of stockings and a bit of tinsel strung up. Only three ornaments too.

'One for me. One Dad. One for… Mom.'

Glancing over at Daniel Hebert, she felt the same urge as she always did. To tell him everything. To sit there, pour her heart out, to bawl until she couldn't breathe, and then to beg him to help. But then she would see his eyes. Taylor would see the exhaustion and weight in her father's gaze, the tired smile he'd give her, the little squeeze of the shoulder or hand that would be the extent of his physical presence, and how he'd look at her mother's ornament with so much sadness she wanted to cry for another reason.

So, instead, she'd ball it all up.

She'd drag that misery and exhaustion and frustration and every little bit of anger she had and just… stuff it into a dark corner somewhere deep down.

It was the young woman's tried and true method for dealing.

Not that it was healthy, but when did a teenager ever do anything the healthy way?

There was a loud crack, glass shattering as an arrow suddenly slammed into their TV.

Taylor screamed, falling into the floor, even as her father jumped up and leapt over the back of the couch - only for another bolt to drive itself through her hand, impaling her to the floral print couch. She was still screaming when her father had the lights off, dropping to the side of the piece of furniture and slapping his hand over her mouth. "Stop screaming."

Heart slamming against her ribs, ears pounding, and body practically vibrating with tension, the young woman barely managed to calm down as her father kept speaking to her.

"I know it hurts baby, I know it does, and you're being so strong. But I'm going to have to get your hand free. We can't stay here or we're going to die. Now, I'm going to put my belt in your mouth. I want you to bite down as hard as you can. Nod your head if you understand."

Whimpering, she did just that, barely able to do more than whimper while she felt her sole surviving parent place a piece of sweat stained leather in her mouth.

There was a snap when he broke the shaft of the projectile and then she saw stars of bright, white pain when her hand was yanked free.

"Damn crossbow bolt." Taylor could hear Danny, but it was as if it was from so, so far away. "Stuck in the frame. At least, fuck. Here honey, hold this to it." Her father kept stroking her hair, whispering into her ear, and it was only then she realized she was screaming. Swallowing, she stopped making any noise beyond small, whimpering sobs - the darkness hiding the hole that had been ripped in her hand from sight. That was when a cloth of some kind was wrapped around her hand, maybe one of the dish towels they'd been using as napkins that evening, and she whimpered again when her father pulled the makeshift bandage tight. "Ok, I need you to listen to me."

His words were calm and a little of that calm leaked into the teenager, who managed to nod in understanding.

"O-ok."

Speaking was still a challenge.

"You're doing great Taylor, but I'm going to need to move." She made a pained noise at that, but, before he could speak, she interrupted.

"Get the gun. I'll be ok."

What she wanted to do was to beg him not to go, not to leave her. She wanted to go back to bawling and tears were still trickling down her face, but, instead, the young woman bit her tongue until it bled, focusing on the moment.

"I'm serious Daddy. Just be careful, ok?"

For a moment, their eyes met, so much sorrow and weight in her father's gaze changing to something… dark. Something angry. And then he looked at her with love.

"I'll protect you. No matter what."

Somehow, that was that. The entire situation narrowed down into those simple words and Taylor believed them too. So she let her father crawl along the floor, making it into the kitchen without so much as a whisper more than clothing scraping along the floor. After that, there was the sound of him rooting around a drawer, a clack, and then he came back into view - this time holding the .45 she knew had been kept loaded.

The whole thing couldn't have taken more than twenty seconds… and still, it felt like it had been forever.

She had been left sitting there, eyes finally having adjusted to the darkness, but with her glasses broken, Taylor had been forced to simply look at the cracked, vaguely blurry room around her. Now, though, she realized it was time to move. Shuffling up against the wall, still hidden behind the couch, the teenager tried to whisper without giving herself away.

"Can you reach the phone?"

Danny shook his head.

"It's visible through the kitchen window."

Licking her lips, Taylor curled up, bringing her knees to her chin. "Can they see through it?"

"Probably." Danny frowned. "The shot that got your hand wasn't just bad luck, it was aimed to disable you." Shivering at the thought, the teenager tamped down on the panic roiling in her gut. "This person is probably Sha- well, they're definitely someone who's well trained. I don't doubt they're well positioned to take us out if we expose ourselves. We're going to need to-"

There was a crash, the sound of breaking glass, and then, finally, a sudden increase in the warmth of the Hebert's little Christmas feast.

"Fuck." Danny swore, knowing immediately what the petrol bomb was for, and knowing he had no choice but to act. "Taylor, we have to run! Go out the back and then turn to the left. Whoever is trying to kill us came at us from the direction of the street. You need to go through the backyard, past the neighbors, and try to find the closest cop." As he spoke, the grown man managed to tip the couch over and plucked up one of the pillows. "Don't stop at the neighbors, this psycho will simply pin you down there, keep your head down, I love you baby, and whatever happens, do not stop running!"

First throwing the cushion up past the window, and getting said cushion skewered, he stood up, jerked Taylor to her feet and pushed her towards the backdoor. With the pistol drawn, Danny placed his body between the potential shooter and his child, trying to block the obvious angles that would let them fire at a running person even as he hesitated to open fire himself.

However, cradling her injured hand, the young woman did as she was told. Running straight for the backdoor, she unlocked the deadbolt, turned the locks, and was out into the cold, snowy night with a speed she'd never known in her life before.

Bare feet already going numb, she tucked her chin in and ran.

There was no time to look back or think or worry or hope.

All that remained was to keep moving.

Once she passed into their neighbors yard, Taylor turned to the right, ducking down a small drainage ditch, and did her best to throw off any direct angles towards herself. That was what seemed sensible, at least, to her fear-addled mind. Something only made worse as fire rose in the distance, their house burning away as they fled. Tears had never stopped falling from her eyes, but with her breath misting in the air, hand throbbing, lungs burning, they began falling just a little faster.

"Get down!"

She went down in a sprawl of limbs, her father tackling her from behind.

Rolling out from under him, the young woman screamed when she saw a bolt sticking out of his back.

"Go, run, damnit."

"No, Daddy-"

Shaking the pistol, her father met Taylor's eyes and the teenager was forced to stop complaining.

"Go. Find a cop."

Shadows suddenly coalesced ahead of them, taking the shape of a person - she couldn't make out details, shrouded in the night as they were. Her father, however, didn't have the same issue.

Daniel Hebert opened fire, pumping five rounds into the shape without so much as a heartbeat's hesitation, stopping only to jerk Taylor out of the way of another crossbow bolt. When the shadows came together again, much, much closer this time, he let loose the sixth and final shot in their revolver.

And the shadow screeched.

Sounding more like a stuck pig, the thing fled, reducing itself into scraps of darkness and dispersing into wisps of nothing. Taylor knew this wasn't the end and, as her father groaned in pain, she tried to help him.

"Come on, get up, we've got to go." She was sniffling and her voice was thick. "Let's go. Firemen will be on the way and they can help you."

"N-no. My pocket, get the bullets." Her father was in pain and Danny had to force the words out through clenched teeth. "It's not dead. We need to… to keep moving."

Confused, but unwilling to disobey, the teenager helped her father fumble around his pockets, eventually pulling out a handful of bullets that he carefully loaded - all while she tried to support the injured man's weight and help him hobble forward. After all, now that she had a moment to think, it was clear that a cape was attacking them. But that in and of itself seemed absurd, neither of them were nearly important enough to be worth attacking!

As the tinkle of spent brass faded into the night, each casing making the same tiny noises as they hit the cement drainage pipe beneath them, it was an odd kind of numbness that filled the two.

The city, the world even, was cold. Gunshots, a burning house, screams, and yet… no one cared. No lights turned on in the surrounding homes, no angry fathers toting shotguns came out to see what was happening, not a single neighbor so much as twitched their curtains open. Not that Taylor could judge them - how often had she heard gunshots in the distance and tucked back into bed herself?

"Taylor, it's back." Danny stopped and, almost panicking, she tried to drag her father forward. "You need to run again."

"No, Daddy, I'm not going to leave you."

He closed his eyes.

"Look to our left. The streetlights are all going out one by one. It's going to attack again."

"I-"

"You'll just make the fight harder." Speaking with his father's voice, the middle aged widower used a tone with his daughter that he hated having to resort to. "Go. Find a cop. Stay focused on your goal. I'll be fine."

"There's nothing I can do?"

"No."

Snot and tears and snow covering her face, Taylor felt shame and fear and regret boil up inside of her.

"Thank you. For everything."

Smiling, her father squeezed her good hand.

"I only wish I had been a better father."

Turning and running once again, though it was more of a fast hobble, that shame grew with each gunshot.

Bang. 'One.' She flinched.

Bang. 'Two.' She bit her lip.

Bang. 'Three.' She whimpered.

Bang. 'Four.' She kept moving.

There were no more blasts rocking the night after that, so she put a little extra speed into her hobble, doing everything she could to just keep moving. Hoping against hope her father was still alive.

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In the end, there was nothing to be said but to keep pushing forwards, she knew that. Even with Danny… hurt, Taylor had tried to keep running, keep moving forwards. Even when her feet hurt, even when the streetlights around her were shot out, even when every time she tried to cry out for help she was cut off, knocked down, shot, kicked, punched, or thrown around.

Whatever the shadow monster was, it was fast and angry.

The young woman had attempted to stick to the drainage ditch for as far as it went, neither seeing nor hearing any kind of movement, and mostly shivering and hugging herself as the cold closed in. It was still the middle of winter and she wasn't wearing anything but pajamas, though Taylor was glad that they were at least long.

Unfortunately, the cold and the darkness were only the beginning of her issues.

Somewhere along the way she'd cut her right foot, now leaving a bloody trail of steps behind her as she hobbled along. On top of that, having stumbled and fallen, she'd scraped her hands and lost her glasses too. Not that sight was any serious aid - after finally working up the nerve to approach a streetlight, if only to try and check her injuries, the light bulb above her had been shot out with another crossbow bolt.

And that was also when the attacks had started.

Having seen a pair of men standing in an alley, Taylor had thrown caution to the wind and tried to call out to them. Before she could do more than open her mouth, a fist had materialized beside her and slammed into her jaw.

She'd lost two teeth.

Staying on the move, praying to God that there was a cop patrolling this part of the city at this time of the night, the teenager had actually broken into a wild sprint. There had been a few moments when, in another bout of blind panic, the injured girl thought she'd escaped. But that had only been for a few moments. Out of shape as she was, the last of the Heberts had only been able to make it about a hundred yards before the pain in her lungs, the pain in her hand, the pain in her foot, and the pain in her chest stopped.

Then whatever it was hunting her kicked her in the back, knocking her to the ground.

So, just like before, she ran. And ran. And ran.

Tears were in her eyes, the world was blurry, nothing made sense, even as the Shadow kept chasing her and hitting her and knocking her down. Taylor Hebert simply took the blows and slaps and scratches and kept moving, one foot in front of the other, even as her thoughts turned over and over again.

Why?

Why was this happening?

Why did it have to be her? Why did it have to be her dad?

Thoughts, jumbled and panicked ran through her mind as she tried to think of a way to escape, a way to survive, anything to let her make it through the night. Even if she knew she'd be alone and miserable and hurt, a part of Taylor didn't want to give into it, the sharp pain digging its claws into her body serving only as a reminder that she was still alive.

And that meant the wounded kid needed to think.

Because, as the blurry, skeletal shapes of abandoned warehouses rose around her, the teen realized something very, very important. She was being herded.

Yet, even with the knowledge that she had run exactly where her attacker wanted her too, Taylor still knew there was a chance. Because her father worked at the local union… and had both mentioned that he kept a gun there and where the spare key was left.

A chance, then, to fight back, even if it was only the barest of hopes. Critically, there wasn't exactly a good target to hit, a fact that she turned over and over in her head as the young woman stumbled forwards. In fact, she hadn't seen more than a flash of a hand, a bit of a boot, and a white, skeletal face that looked more than a touch terrifying when compared to the rest of the shadowy form.

Vaguely aware of where she was, and with a plan, however shoddy it might be, forming in her mind, Taylor shifted her direction and got hobbling.

Having stopped for even a few seconds had been risky. So, despite not being able to see her attacker, Taylor didn't stop turning about, frantically scanning for the slimmest hint of where the next round of blows would come from. She hadn't been able to stop any so far, but not getting punched in the face again would be nice.

There was a chuckle.

It was a rasp in the cold air, a mocking sound that grew into a staccato burst of laughter when a balled fist buried itself in the side of her ribcage. And then her jaw, the shoulder, and finally deep into her stomach, knocking the wind out of the nearly beaten girl… all less than ten feet from the Union's offices.

"Poor, poor Hebert. Should have known it was dangerous to come out at night."

Taylor recognized the voice.

How could she not?

It was the same voice who had tormented her for over a year now. A voice who'd called her every unflattering and revolting name under the sun and dared her to do something about it. To give her an excuse to hurt Taylor even more than she already had. Attached to a sickly gaunt face she prayed that she'd never have to see again.

"Sophia?"

The trackstar turned murderer giggled, standing there in a mass of darkness, hockey mask tilted back to rest on top of her head and crossbow dangling loosely from her hand. And then she giggled again. For some primal monkey brain reason that made Taylor's skin crawl, like she was hearing something that just wasn't right in a fundamentally inhuman way.

"See? You can remember things. Maybe if you weren't such a stupid little bitch ya wouldn't be be like this, yeah?" Her foot met Taylor's bruised stomach, sending her to her back, before grinding the boot of the heel against her elbow. Somehow, even though Hess was right above her, it was difficult to see the other girl in the flickering light.

But what Taylor did know was that her tormentor looked… off….

"Will ya pay attention when I'm talking to you!"

Another kick met her side, one that left Taylor gasping for breath even as she tried to crawl closer and closer to the door of the union office building. Only for a crossbow bolt to embed itself in the dirt right next to her head, stopping the teen in her tracks.

"Why-" Spitting blood through bruised and swollen lips, the young woman managed to force her words out. "Why are you here?"

"Not gonna ask why I'm doing this?" Sophia sounded almost disappointed. "Well, I guess you're feeling like a badass after skulking around a bit. I was really surprised when I saw you, you know? Poor little Taylor running away in the dark, I figured you'd have shit yourself in fear or had a heart attack. You shoulda been more careful."

Taylor knew Sophia, how could she not after all this time? And more importantly the young woman knew the most violent of her bullies well enough to tell there was something wrong.

She hurt people and gloated and then got away with it. But she did it to show off to everyone else why she was the baddest bitch on the block. Going after someone in the dead of the night, looking at them like they were a butterfly under a piece of glass, this wasn't like her.

And that, more than almost anything else, made Taylor feel naked terror and white hot adrenaline pump through her veins.

Sophia's mile was too forced, her eyes blown wide. She was rambling angrily as she kicked the crap out of her, scolding her for….

Running away?

Trying to survive?

In the end, it didn't matter, Taylor was being hurt quite badly. Even though she hadn't screamed again, there had been a loud crack and now her good arm was at a bad angle. So, on her knees, curled up into the fetal position, she started groping around blindly on the ground, looking for something, anything she could use to fight back. And when her bloody, half limp fingers cut themselves on something sharp she grabbed it.

With one last prayer, she lashed out, putting every ounce of strength left in her body into the thrust and aimed up at Sophia's vaguely blurry head… and struck home!

There was a scream, finally not one of her's, and Sophia jerked back - blood flowing from a large gash across her face.

However, even as she flinched back, the young woman brought her crossbow up and fired.

This time the bolt didn't slam into her hand or her arm or her back.

No, it buried itself in her throat.

Gasping, choking, feebly gurgling Taylor Hebert fell to the ground like a puppet with her strings cut. Triumph gone, pain gone, only a spreading coldness remaining.

And then, the last thing she saw was Sophia Hess's disappointed face.

---

"L'était une p'tit' poule brune." Wakefulness, when it came, was slow and disjointed. Taylor's throat was sore and her chest seemed to be burning. It was a low simmering kind of fire, with a few sparks and black coals and a solid heat. From her breast to her belly, that heat seemed to move almost like a living thing. "Qu'allait pondre sur la lune." Hearing had never really left her, but the words of French were soft and quiet. It was a song that her mother had sang to her long, long ago and one that had weight too. "Pondait un p'tit' coco." Crying, she lay where she was, eyes screwed shut, trying to not sob. "Que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud."

There was the sound of rustling cloth and a damp cloth touched her cheek.

"I know you are awake, child." Taylor still refused to open her eyes, though she was glad she didn't recognize the voice. It made it easier to not question, to neither hope nor dread, and to simply lay there remembering those few gunshots. "Very well then, rest. I shall bring you something cool to drink."

The voice was neither cruel nor overly kind, almost matter of fact. Like it had no pity for her, but equally no scorn, and was rather accepting and even tolerant of her suffering without trying to be a part of her.

Whoever it was, was giving her space to grieve.

Later, perhaps minutes, perhaps moments, the Voice returned and glass clicked against wood.

Perhaps, the young woman wondered, it was a challenge. A test to see if she could master herself enough to take what she wanted. And Taylor did want the water - her body no longer hurt, but there was a kind of thirst that seemed to have been hiding just behind the sensations of grief and wellness.

In fact, now that she was focusing on it, the young woman realized just how parched her throat was. It scratched and burned a little, that particular feeling sending her mind down a very dark path before it stuttered and shuddered to a stop.

Frozen half way to making up her mind Taylor had to thank the Voice for distracting her once again.

"Drink. You'll feel better. I promise."

It was still just as soft, barely above a whisper, but spoken with clarity and confidence. The accent was impossible to place, being something a teenager's ear simply wouldn't be able to pick apart. But it was clear that the person who held her was a woman, and not one as young as she ought to be.

Finally opening her eyes, Taylor took in the appearance of the person she supposed saved her.

After all, she remembered that monster putting a crossbow bolt in her throat.

She remembered what Sophia had done.

Taking a long drink, the teenager appreciated the feeling of utter bliss that came with the pure, clean, simple water. The smell, the liquid washing a bit of grit out of her mouth, and, now that it was going, something that knocked the last bit of copper taste away too.

'I suppose I did bleed a lot.' Looking around, the room she was in was rather basic. Two doors, one to the right and one straight in front of her, no windows, a blue-yellow wallpaper that seemed to better fit a catalog from fifty years ago. It wasn't fire and brimstone, though, so she supposed she wasn't in Hell.

Personally… Taylor didn't really believe in God anymore.

But more interesting than the wallpower, or the spareness of the furnishings - just a large area rug that matched the wall paper, the couch she'd been laid out on, a coffee table, two chairs, and an uninstalled TV filled out a living space large enough to hold three or four times as much furniture - was her savior.

"You're a cape, aren't you?"

That got her a tilt of the head.

'It seems the voice doesn't want to talk anymore.'

Suddenly giggling, her wonderful little joke overcame every ounce of restraint and fear left in her. Dropping the glass, Taylor wrapped her arms around herself as her giggles turned into titters. And those titters turned into laughs. And those laughs became great, body shaking guffaws.

Her host or captor or savior or whatever the Hell she was simply sat there, watching.

Again, her entire appearance wasn't hostile… but it took about a minute for the laughter to turn into heaving sobs.

Thankfully, that's when the Voice decided to try and help. Picking up the unbroken glass, empty before it had been dropped, the strange woman sat it down and then sat down next to Taylor herself. Even choking on air, the teenager was still able to pick up on how stiff and mechanical the other person's movements seemed to be. Like she was trying to actively avoid moving too much and overshooting her target.

Like it took a bit to actually get moving and to stop. It was still nice when she put her hand on Taylor's shoulder; the kid knew she was panicking and it felt good to have a bit of contact, even if it was a hesitant, tentative sort of connection.

Not that many would really notice something as stupid as how someone swung their arms, it was mostly due to her own heightened awareness that Taylor even realized something was off. But the truth was that her captor looked too good. One of the reasons she'd asked if she was a cape was because of the military uniform, blue and gray and gold, but also because of how her skin seemed to be completely, utterly, totally perfect. Smooth and white, she almost looked more like a sculpture than a being of flesh and blood. This wasn't helped by the fact her hair fell in perfectly formed ringlets around her face, where big, hungry eyes sat above features that wouldn't be out of place in a movie or the ancient Greek sculpture she got her coloring from.

It was like someone had taken the ideal of svelte feminine beauty and distilled it down, shoved it in what had to be a military uniform, and sent it on its way.

Taylor was afraid.

People like that had never been good for her.

"So." She still forged ahead, doing her best to find her voice. If only to coak more out of the Voice. "My name is Taylor." Leaning on long neglected social skills, the young woman tried to abuse the atrophied thing to at least break the ice a little. "What, uh, who are you? I mean, are you a hero or a vigilante or… an independent contractor?"

More than just a question, and not wanting to accuse her savior of being a villain lest it get her another arrow to the neck, the girl was asking a question in a question: bluntly, how was the next thirty minutes gonna go - and if it would be better to start screaming now.

"My name is Neryessa of Alicante, of the Clan of Giovanni, and I am Kindred. And you, Taylor, look just like my Annette."

Freezing, Taylor had no idea how to react. Because she didn't remember the woman's face, not really, but she did remember the Voice.

It was a distant memory, one from a point in time where she didn't think that she even really had memories. But the teenager remembered the phrase "my Annette". Her father had always called his wife "love, hun, babe, honey" or even "boss". And as her thoughts turned over and over, Tylor let her mind drift back and back and then….

"I remember." Her eyes went wide as she looked back at Neryessa. "You're the one who helped us move in." It had been years ago, more than a decade. "You said you were going away. You… you were the sad lady."

Neryessa Giovanni smiled, not a sad smile, but a melancholic one. And she nodded.

"Yes, child, I am she. And from your look, I assume you wish to know why I still appear the same?" She chuckled, something high and refined and a bit slow - almost like it was difficult to laugh. "But I have already told you. Or did your mother and father truly teach you nothing?"

Slowly shaking her head, Taylor affirmed that she was, somewhat distressingly, rather up shit creek and indeed without a paddle. Her parent's friend simply chuckled again at that and waved her hand.

"Were they hear, we would have words, then, for ignorance is the worst defense of all. But that is neither here nor there. For now, know you are in a safe place and tomorrow evening we shall go to find Daniel, one way or another. This I promise."

And then Taylor remembered what had happened to her father.

Her tears didn't stop for a long, long while.

At least Neryessa didn't seem to mind snot getting on her uniform, having picked the young woman up and pulled her close, holding her until the young Hebert fell back asleep.

 

[Scrimshaw_NSFW]

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Chapter 2​

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Feeling distinctly rebellious, Taylor desperately wanted to take up the deacon's offer and use his phone to try and contact… anyone.

The police came to mind, her grandparents were a distant second, the PRT, perhaps, if only to scream at them. But at the same time she honestly had no idea what use any of that would actually have. As, at the end of spending about three hours trying to cry, the teenager had found that tears simply did not come.

So she complied with her benefactor's request.

Neryessa had insisted she not contact anyone until they'd had time to speak again, as something had called the rather eccentric woman away. What it was, the teenager had no idea, but it had resulted in the kindly sisters of Immaculata taking in a wayward soul. Wanting something other than to stew in her thoughts, a series of events had ended up with Taylor doing her best to vacuum the nave of her savior's apparent residence.

"That's enough dear. The area is clean enough. Come have breakfast."

Deacon O'Mally of the Blessed Mother's Church of Penance was the only male member of the staff of Immaculata High School and Deacon of the school's quite functional church. And he had managed to hobble over to her, tap the teenager on her shoulder, and quite politely ignore her yelp. All to let her know that she'd finished her requested task… even if she'd only covered about a quarter of the space inside.

"Sure."

Following behind the older man, she stepped forwards when he stumbled slightly, but found that he was more than happy to gently wave her on. Hesitant, she complied, stopping and holding the doors of the church open for him before loaning the still smiling deacon her arm as they went down a few short stairs.

Out of breath, the old man sat down on a small bench set perhaps five yards in front of the church.

They were painted metal, set under a covered pathway that led from the front of the church to a fork in a brick path - a cluster of administrative buildings one way, the school facilities the other. Hardly a comfortable place for a man pushing seventy to rest.

Not that the old timer seemed the sort to complain as, soon enough, he stood back up and began to slowly make his way towards a cafeteria. He didn't suggest Taylor go on again, nor did she hover overly close, the two choosing to more or less silently make their way onwards as a pair. And hardly an unusual one, considering the nature of the place they were in, so the few people that were out and about by now hardly gave them more than a moment's look.

Their silent walk lasted the rest of the way.

Taylor was thankful.

It helped.

How? She wasn't entirely sure. But part of her throat seemed to be stuck in her mouth and there was something in her stomach that seemed to be too hot and too cold at the same time. Even just walking made her feel light, airy, like she was sick and high at the same time.

The silence… helped.

As for the cafeteria itself, it was a low, long building with several wooden tables set in two rows. A number of nuns, lay staff, and school staff seemed to be helping themselves to food set out in the same metal pans Taylor herself was served from at Winslow.

'Food definitely looks better.'

Surprisingly enough, the low chatter stilled immediately and the teenager chose to tell herself that it was out of respect for Deacon O'Mally.

"So, Father."

"Yes, child?"

"Do you actually speak any Irish?"

That got a low chuckle.

"Not a lick of it, my dear, and I speak six different languages. Now, go get something to eat. I must speak with the Mother Superior."

Complying, for want of anything else to do with herself, Taylor helped herself to bacon, eggs, toast. And standing in front of an entire shelf of teas, she picked a packet of Twinnings' Earl Grey. Standing there, watching the electric kettle boil the water, she counted bubbles as they popped into existence. None of them lasted very long and without a doubt it was silly, but she couldn't help but wish she'd been back at home, boiling a few tea bags in a pot, and leaving out a tall mug for… everyone.

It also gave her plenty of time to wait for one of the tables to clear out. Mostly because it would be weird to sit at a lunch table with a bunch of adults.

Again, that is what she repeatedly insisted to herself.

'I wonder if I'm getting good at that?'

Despite her thoughts, the teenager still felt off. Like there was a balled fist somewhere between her heart and her stomach.

Sipping the hot leaf juice, slurping a little to keep from burning herself, the heat and almost angry bitterness was good. Better than the food that was bland. Oh, there was a taste, in fact she was pretty sure that the bacon was the premium cut deli kind. But it simply didn't register.

The food simply had all the flavor of soggy cardboard.

So the tea was good, more filling than the food too.

In the end, her plastic fork was left forgotten, a small stirring stick and the bitter coffee her only companions. Thoughts, heavy and obvious, ran through her.

Mostly she wanted her mom and her dad.

It wasn't a sharp pain, instead, as she thought about never seeing either of them alive it was like she had the flu. A bone deep pain that filled up her insides, a bruise in her bones and under her skin, swallowed up the shame she felt at not being able to cry.

Thoughts about Sophia came too. Surprisingly Emma didn't matter all that much. Her betrayal paled in comparison to multiple murder.

'Attempted murder? What did Sophia do?'

Suddenly, something splashed into her tea.

A tear, fat and heavy, rolled down her cheek.

Taylor wasn't crying, in fact she wasn't making any noise at all. Her shoulders moved and more tears were falling from her eyes but there wasn't any room inside of her for grief. No, there was only the bone-bruise and a ball of fire in her gut. And it was all too, too much.

So when a middle aged woman in a habit sat down next to her, pulling her into a tight, one armed hug, there was no will to resist.

And still more tears fell into her tea.

---

Feeling deeply conflicted, the young woman was confused as to how she could proceed.

"I truly am sorry. It's right after Christmas and we clear out all the donation boxes. So unless you're sure you don't want to see if you can borrow a shirt…."

"No." Aware that her clipped answer was a smidge rude, Taylor forced a smile. "Thank you, Sister Min." The Chinese expat gave her a small smile in return, far less stilted than her own. "I'll pick something."

"Then I'll leave you to change."

And just like that, the nun was gone, leaving the teenager an almost painfully unenviable selection of clothes to choose from.

Sitting before her was a massive, as in XXXXXL, orange shirt, a tie died abomination that still stank of pot after being washed repeatedly, a pink and blue abomination that had a cartoon on it she wasn't exactly eager to be repping, and… a nun's tunic. Only part of the habit, it lacked an apron, veil, wimple, or other accoutrements, and was, more or less, a simple black dress.

"Am I really considering the tunic?"

Murmuring to herself, for want of anyone else to speak too, Taylor rubbed her face in her hands. She was glad that they'd found jeans and socks that would fit her. But that was more because a good belt made most things fit. So, unwilling to be rude any further, especially when one of the other nuns had run to a Walmart and picked up things that weren't exactly the sort of things you wanted as hand me downs, she chose what was by far the simplest option.

All while she was passed out on a stranger's bed - one of the sisters having brought her back to the guest room in Father O'Mally's house and gotten her to sleep, however fitfully, for several hours.

"Who thought a new toothbrush would make me feel guilty as all Hell?"

Biting her lip, and unable to keep from looking around, several conflicting feelings, many common to lapsed Catholics, filled up the wayward girl as she made a small prayer of apology. Her faith might be… severely lacking, but that didn't mean she wanted to curse in a Deacon's house.

One thirty minute shower later and a solid twenty minutes of additional arguing with herself and Taylor was dressed.

In a nun's tunic.

Thankfully the belt was completely normal and it was more than she could have asked for.

So, as ready to face the day as she ever would be, the now orphaned girl stepped out of her room.

"Hello, my child." Father O'Mally, sitting at his kitchen table, nursed a glass of whiskey. "Take a seat?"

Frowning, because his tone of voice was sad. The same way her father's voice had been sad when he told her Mom was dead. But she genuinely couldn't think what news he had for her.

"Is everything ok?" She asked.

"Sit. Please?"

Swallowing, she complied, and the old priest poured a generous serving of liquor into a second glass, one she hadn't noticed before, and knocked the rest of his back.

"Bourbon, before you ask, no Midleton, but you Americans are good enough." When she didn't drink he poured himself a second helping and, looking tired, asked a question she didn't expect. "So, do you know what your 'benefactor' is?"

Confused, Taylor took a moment to sniff the glass before she grimaced and sat the liquor down.

"Are you asking if she's a villain? Because I don't… think so."

Though, now that she thought about it, nothing at all about Neryessa said she was a hero, either. More like she was eccentric, in the way people who were stupidly rich were eccentric instead of insane. But poor mental health was probably not restricted to just the bad guys. Especially considering her own current and past conditions.

"It would be much simpler if she were simply playing cops and robbers. No, she, it, is quite simply Evil." Sipping his second drink, the old priest elaborated. "Capital E intended, as you kids say. What she is, is inhuman. And the reason she has taken residence under the church is, quite simply, because it is not in my power to refuse her entry."

Surprised and even more confused, she couldn't help but defend her savior.

"If she's so evil, then why did she save me?"

Now seeming almost patronizing, Father O'Mally simply responded with another question.

"Did she? Really?"

Now quite angry, Taylor grabbed her throat.

"Yeah. Neryessa did. I had a crossbow bolt sticking out of my neck from where a Ward shot me!"

Holding up his hand, giving her a sad smile, the old man simply asked one final question.

"So how did she heal your throat?"

"Obviously it's part of her power." Even as the words left her mouth, the schoolgirl knew that couldn't really be true. "But wait. Isn't she a Mover?" Making a go on gesture, the priest encouraged her to move on. "So she's not a Tinker. Maybe a Trump? That would be how she healed me and fought Sophia."

"Trump? Ah. The one whose powers change. I do suppose that is a technically correct explanation."

Standing in the priest's kitchen, perfectly still and wearing that strange military uniform, now complete with a saber at her side, was Taylor's savior.

"Though if you had questions, I would be willing to answer your questions, priest."

Screwing his eyes shut, the old man seemed terrified. And now feeling ashamed of her earlier actions, the teenager reached across the table they were sitting at and took O'Mally's shaking hand. It seemed pitiful, but her host was glad for it with how tightly he squeezed Taylor's fingers, and she was glad to be able to help him too. Doubly so because the young woman owed him at least that much.

"How did you get inside my house?"

His voice was firm and there was no hint of the priest's trembling in his words.

"You left a window open." Neryessa spoke, seemingly totally at ease. "Considering what I have learned of this city, that seems most unwise."

Neither adult said anything at that point, with the Catholic deacon almost sullen in silent defiance, and the too-perfect parahuman so utterly still Taylor was sure the older woman wasn't breathing. Of course that was rather secondary; finding her father, no matter what state he might be in, was still the child's sole concern.

"Um."

So she spoke up.

"Are we still going to… find my dad?"

Something in the woman's posture softened and she took a few, jerky steps forward. O'Mally, tensing up, moved to seemingly protect the black haired girl he'd taken into his home, but was simply unable to rise. Still holding his hand, she tried to reach out, to grab him before he hit his head on the table or the ground, but having been utterly focused on the new, strange woman in front of her, Taylor simply hadn't been paying much attention at all.

Falling forwards as he tried to stand up, the old man nearly slipped from his chair and began to fall forwards. Moving so fast that her eyes were unable to perceive Neryessa's body as anything other than a flicker of color, the woman caught the priest before he hit the ground, before his hand could even fully leave the teenager's own, replaced him in his chair, and returned to where she had been standing.

As eerily still as before.

Taylor had no idea what the Hell she should do.

"In regards to Daniel, there are a few things you should know." Continuing as if nothing had happened, the woman spoke, her accent seemingly growing increasingly more foreign as she did - as if the very act of speaking naturally was something she was re-learning. "And the first thing is that I strongly suspect he is still alive."

This time O'Mally's hand finally slipped free and, other than making sure the still silent and once again sweating Deacon wasn't having a stroke or a heart attack, as best she could anyways, Taylor focused utterly and solely on her savior.

"What do you mean you 'suspect he is still alive'?"

"When I reached out into the Shadowlands, I found no trace of his passing, nor could I find his soul when I called to it. He is, I believe, both alive and well hidden, likely so that he may hunt that which attacked you, as the only other option is that someone else has captured his soul and taken it beyond my range to connect."

Opening her mouth, nothing came out, and so Taylor shut it again. She repeated this a few more times as various things ticked over in her mind, all until she reached a final conclusion.

"Either you're a mini-Eidolon or you're… not a Cape, are you?"

Neryessa politely tilted her head.

"I am not an eidolon, no, though if there is a man named Eidolon nor, do I suspect, I am anything like him. But I do have a cape. Is there a significant difference between that and being a cape?"

"She's a vampire." O'Mally, having rallied, seemingly forced the words out. "A living dead. A child of the Dragon." His face was flushed, like he was pushing against something, and trying to force the words out. "And I am no slave!"

There was a small burst of light. Not so much a flash, as an impression of the sensation of light pressing against her eyelids, like the idea of light was triggering the nerves in her eyes even as nothing physically happened.

Gasping for air, the priest was holding his knees, having gone pale from whatever act of metaphysical defiance this was and Neryessa, despite the seeming antagonism, smiled.

That was when the fangs came out.

"Yes, my child, I am a daughter of Cain. However distant that claim might be, it is true, though I am no Tremere, nor a Tzmisce to claim kinship with a dragon." Speaking solely to Taylor, the apparently insane woman, because the thought she was a vampire was genuinely insane, stepped a little closer. "And your mother was my precious servant. It is why I returned to this city and why I rose from torpor to save you. Now." She held out her hand. "Let us go find your father."

"I…." Her hand seemed to move on its own, reaching out to Neryessa. "Let me…." Hesitating, trying to find any excuse not to go, even if her hand was still trying to reach out to the parahuman in front of her, the somewhat panicked teen finally came up with an excuse. "Let me get the priest some aspirin first! Just to make sure."

Letting her arm fall back to her side, the hand almost moving in a perfect arc and coming to a stop without a hint of momentum, the woman simply nodded.

In her eyes there was a hint of something that made Taylor afraid. She thought there might have been hunger, pride, possession. Like the parahuman was looking at a faberge egg, or one of da Vinci's paintings.

'Or a particularly juicy steak.'

Finding a glass and O'Mally's medicine cabinet was simple enough and setting the glass down, she instead chose a chilled bottle of water. In fact, she took her time to choose from amongst a number of different kinds of drinks. It was so bad that Taylor had to pinch herself to stop prevaricating. So, deciding it was time to put her big girl pants on, she grabbed the water bottle, the bottle of pills, and turned around to face the insane cape.

"So. Can you find my dad?"

---

Taylor, currently in Neryessa's arms, found her benefactor neither flew, nor did she run. Instead, the alleged vampiress bounded. Each motion of her legs pushed against the ground, launching her forwards with a long, arcing motion. Even then, when the woman moved, her body didn't act like a normal person's would either - as there was a sort of inertia or weight to each movement.

Having considered what powers might create something like this, gravity powers were considered and dismissed. She'd simply never heard of a hero, villain, or vigilante that had a power set even somewhat comparable to what she'd seen. Myrrdin and Eidolon came to mind, but the former simply wasn't even comparable, and the latter was one of the Triumvirate. And, to make things worse, that was seemingly where Neryessa stood.

She had at least Brute, Mover, and Master ratings, perhaps Stranger and Trump ratings too.

"To answer your question, yes, I'm actually quite experienced with Church Latin, but, ah, Classical Latin, I think you call it, is far more familiar to me. That, several dialects of Greek and Punic, Italian, French, Spanish, German, English, a few bits and pieces of Russian, though few learn the tongue out of fear of Baba Yaga, some Romanian, very little Japanese, and Four mainland dialects of Chinese. Before my last torpor I had begun to learn Arabic, so perhaps I shall continue to study that tongue too, when we have the time."

Maybe Thinker powers on top of all that, because the older woman spoke with absolute confidence.

"Huh." She responded, the peak of eloquence. "That's a lot."

The statuesque woman, literally, as her skin looked more like marble than not, simply demurred.

"Not particularly."

It was less a dismissal of her response and more simple acceptance. So much so that Taylor genuinely believed the woman spoke those languages. If only because the sheer power she possessed and the nonchalance with which she wielded it made lying seem… beneath her.

More objectively, the fact that she was so convinced bothered the teenager as, other than a few very scattered memories, Neryessa was an utter stranger to her.

'And willing to Master O'Mally too.'

Right now the teenager, still clasped in her savior's arms, was soaring from building to building. Each leap easily cleared a dozen yards in the time it would have taken her to take a step and the cape didn't even bother looking, merely landing on a ledge or outcropping or pillar before flying off again. To say they moved quickly was an understatement.

Cars were left behind, whole blocks were crossed, and they were on the other side of the city, back in front of Taylor's house, and settling down on the far end of the street before the teenager could figure out another awkward question to ask.

"Huh. That's a lot of police tape."

Several houses down, around the corner from where they'd landed, a police cruiser sat in front of her home. Her home which now had long rolls of yellow police tape wrapped from end to end across their front door. She could see the luminescent tape in the light of the one good street lamp left.

Something about it seemed to… deeply annoy her. Which was odd, because honestly Taylor should be terrified and confused. But right now she felt a heavy, pressing sense of mild annoyance. The obvious conclusion, considering that there was a Master standing right next to her, happened to be that the feelings weren't hers. But even as she intellectually understood that the feeling of safety and familiarity that grew with each passing moment was likely artificial, that did not change the fact she felt that way.

"Come, child."

And just like that, the self proclaimed vampiress was off. Even worse she totally ignored anyone that might have been able to see them, walking right past the police cruiser and up onto the drive.

"Hey, hold up ma'am!"

Stumbling out of his car, coffee in one hand, clearly surprised by the sudden appearance of an armed woman, the patrol officer tried to get Neryessa's attention.

"Ma'am!"

She didn't even turn around.

Taylor, who had been left by the woman's determined stride, simply came over to the now annoyed police officer and coughed. He looked over his shoulder, at first surprised, then deeply confused.

"Ms. Hebert?"

Grimacing, she nodded.

"Yeah, uh, yes sir." Pointing to the woman she'd been with, the teenager did what she figured was best for all of them. "She's a cape and this is all way above your pay grade. So maybe just forget you saw us?"

For a moment he looked deeply conflicted, brows furrowed, before the officer spoke.

"Are you ok? Safe?"

Nodding, Taylor turned and looked at the woman politely standing in front of her door.

"No godly idea. But I don't think there's much anyone can do one way or the other."

There was several more moments of silence between the two before the cop grunted.

"Fucking capes." The look of conflict had become one of anger and, before he did anything… unwise, Taylor put her hand on his arm.

"Perhaps. But I'll be ok for tonight. Just finish your shift and go home, ok? Cape business doesn't involve normal people."

What went unspoken was that until the night before, she had been one of those normal people.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

And with that the officer got back into his car, turned off the interior light, and drank his coffee. A tiny part of her resented him for that, that he could just go back to a normal life. Mostly, though, Taylor was thankful he'd even thought to try. It was more than most. And she had recently come to the conclusion she should be rather thankful for what she had.

What she wasn't thankful for, however, was the state of the house.

Now, it wasn't like she lived in poverty or lacked a proper home. Her father would work himself to death if he ever thought he wasn't providing enough for them. But there was only so much that you could do for such an old house. Things that needed time and effort, not just money to put together. So skipping over the bad step, she pushed the door open and pulled down the police tape, showing her savior inside.

But once inside there were small things that bothered her.

A thin layer of dust over the counter. Something she could have cleaned up in ten seconds. The cobwebs over at the right upper corner, right where the cabinets formed a corner, were particularly annoying.

She'd planned to clean it up yesterday but got sidetracked preparing breakfast.

The dishes they left over at the kitchen sink and the fact her schoolbag was just sitting in a chair. Never mind the pair of socks she wished she'd been able to put on during the attack.

Small things that piled up made Taylor wish the ground would swallow her and spare her the embarrassment of walking the clearly upper class woman into the lumpy couch by the slightly chipped dinner table or the rug that was due a good cleaning but was put off for nearly a month now. All of which was made worse by the clear signs of struggle and the blood and even a few spent shell casings and the broken glass.

'She doesn't fit in.'

Like hanging a famous painting at a garage sale.

The lack of… everything around her only seemed to accentuate the divide.

Shame the teenager had never felt before had started to bubble in her gut. Face burning with a feeling she often associated with being put on the spot by a teacher, or being caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Only it was worse. Hundreds of times worse. It felt like she was disappointing an important guest.

"Wait." Pinching herself, she tried to refocus. To push down these strange, alien feelings that seemed to come from the same place that… heat had been before. "Why do I feel like this?"

Neryessa walked over to her, eyes washing over the room with a modicum of interest, and only stopping on a small picture of Annette stuck to their fridge by a magnet.

"The blood bond is beginning to form. It will come and go." Speaking over her shoulder, the older woman seemed utterly unconcerned. "Eventually."

Engrossed with the picture, the woman didn't seem to notice when a soft tap-tap came from the living room. Worried that it was Sophia, Taylor moved towards the front door, throat frozen at the sudden flash of remembered pain grabbed at her. The terrified teenager tried to call out, only for a far more welcome shape to make itself known.

"Daddy!"

Her father, clearly heavily injured, with several scratches on his face, suddenly jerked his gun up as Taylor started to run to him.

"Daddy?"

Scared for an entirely new reason, she watched as a mixture of sorrow, regret, and eventually shame came over her father. But only in his eyes. His face remained like stone, his hand did not shake, and there was clearly part of him screaming out to shoot.

"Fuck."

And like that his gun was down.

"I don't care. Come here baby."

His arms were wide and he, still scared, but desperate for her father's embrace far more than she was terrified, Taylor ran to him.

"Shh, shh. It's gonna be ok."

She hadn't even realized she was crying, but when she did, the young girl couldn't help but begin to bawl. Even then, she could still feel her father's gun, and his arm snapped back up, the revolver now aimed at Neryessa. Something she could only just barely make out through the tears.

"So." He spoke, loud enough to be heard over the sobs. "Is my daughter still human?"

"H-human? Wh-what do you mean?" Only ever more confused, she forced the words out, even as continued to cry. Release and joy so intensely filling her up that the false shame that had just been eating at her was utterly subsumed.

"No." The parahuman had moved so that her silhouette was framed by the living room's entrance. "She was already wounded by the time I found her. Had I not intervened and made her a ghoul, she would have died from a crossbow bolt to the throat."

"W-What?" Danny stuttered, his face finally turning to horror as he pulled Taylor even tighter.

Quirking a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, the older woman hummed in thought.

"Would you rather I regale you with the visceral details? I assure you that without intervention, your daughter wouldn't have made it. Consider it a gift of sorts. Or just a whim."

Her father looked like he'd swallowed a lemon.

"You want her to replace Annette."

Still frustratingly lost, the girl in question could only try to follow the two adults as her father seemed to become sullen and angry, protectively holding her to his chest, even as the revolver remained aimed directly at Neryessa's head.

"And you were incapable of protecting her." The cape said. "So the simple truth is that there is a debt. Once it is repaid I shall give her the same liberty I offered her mother." Each word seemed to cut deep into her father, and once again Taylor cursed the fact she had no idea what was happening. "Ignorance is no defense and I would not have her remain a victim."

The gun fell.

"I can't stop you. And… I can't do anything to protect you either." Her father had collapsed, just like he had after her mother had died. "I'm so, so sorry, Little Owl. I've failed you."

She didn't say anything.

Instead, Taylor buried her face in her father's jacket, this time thankfully only smearing tears on him, and hugged him with every bit of strength she could muster.

"Love you, Daddy."

"Love you too."

For some reason, these words seemed terribly final.