Queen of Instant Death

[Nephthys8079]

Waking up tasted like copper and old fear.

Not the locker stink anymore—that had finally started fading from my hair after a week of scrubbing like I could wash the whole year away—but something deeper, quieter. Like the world had tilted half an inch overnight and nobody bothered telling me. I lay there in the gray morning light slicing through the blinds, listening to my own pulse. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Steady. Reliable. And for one lazy, horrifying second I thought: I could make it stop. Just like that. No drama, no bleeding out, no note on the dresser. Just… off.

I shot upright so fast the room spun. What the hell kind of thought was that?

Downstairs Dad was clattering pans, pretending he knew how to cook eggs without turning them into rubber. The smell drifted up—slightly charred, familiar, safe. Or it should've been. Instead my skin prickled like I'd walked through a ghost.

I swung my feet to the floor. Cold wood. Real. And there was that spider again, same fat brown bastard that had been squatting in the corner since fall, web all sloppy and arrogant between the curtain rod and the ceiling. I glared at it out of habit. Die, you little—

It dropped.

Not fell. Dropped. Legs folding in like someone yanked the plug on its tiny life support. Hit the carpet without a bounce. Dead. Instantly.

I stared. Heart doing overtime now. That… I didn't do that. Did I?

But the thought had been there, clear as day. A lazy mental flick. And the universe had listened.

Holy shit.

I laughed—one short, ragged bark that hurt my throat. Because sure. Why not? Taylor Hebert, human punching bag, wakes up one morning and the grim reaper apparently left his scythe in my head. Merry freaking Christmas.

"Taylor? You decent? Eggs are almost edible!" Dad's voice floated up, muffled by toast.

"Be right down," I managed. Voice cracked like a twelve-year-old's.

I stepped over the spider corpse on my way to the sink. Left it there. Evidence, maybe. Or the first domino.

Mirror time. Same disaster staring back: skinny, too tall, mouth like a slash, eyes too big and haunted behind smudged glasses. Hair doing its usual impression of a bird's nest that lost a fight. But something in the eyes was different today. Sharper. Like someone had turned the contrast up and forgotten to warn me.

Brushed my teeth on autopilot. Spit. Wondered if I could kill toothpaste bacteria the same way. Decided not to test it—yet.

What kind of screwed-up power makes death feel that easy? That casual?

School waited outside like a bad joke nobody was laughing at anymore.

Dad dropped me off early—still doing that protective thing after the locker, after the hospital, after all the awkward silences where we both pretended everything was fine now. I mumbled thanks, slammed the car door, and trudged through the front doors of Winslow High like I was walking to my own execution.

Except maybe today the executioner was me.

Halls smelled like wet boots and cheap body spray. Kids shouted, lockers slammed, the usual morning chaos. Heads turned. Whispers followed me down the corridor like stray cats. Some stared outright. Some smirked. Sophia's little clique leaned against the wall near the office, arms crossed, eyes glittering like they were waiting for an encore.

I felt it then—coiled under my ribs, patient and cold. Not anger. Something cleaner. Like the second before you sneeze and you know it's coming whether you want it or not.

I could end every single one of them. Right here. Three thousand heartbeats just… paused. No blood, no screaming, no evidence. Just quiet. The building turned into a tomb before the tardy bell.

My hands shook. I shoved them in my pockets.

Instead, I walked.

Past Madison Clements flipping her perfect hair and laughing at something on her phone. She saw me coming and stepped right into my path, shoulder-checking me hard enough to rattle teeth.

"Watch it, Hebert," she sing-songed. "Some of us actually belong here."

Six months ago I would've shrunk. Apologized to the floor. Today I stopped. Looked at her—really looked, the way I'd looked at the spider.

Madison's smile slipped.

"You ever wonder," I said, soft enough she had to lean in, "what it feels like when the air just… forgets to keep you alive?"

Her eyes went wide. Pretty mouth opened, closed. No sound came out.

I smiled. Small. Sharp. Walked around her like she was furniture.

Felt good. Too good.

Morning classes dragged. Teachers talked at blackboards. I took notes because that's what you do when the alternative is thinking about how easy it would be to make Mr. Quinlan's heart forget its rhythm mid-sentence. Every time someone whispered "locker girl" or threw a crumpled paper at my back, I cataloged them. Not for revenge. Inventory.

Lunchtime I bailed to the third-floor bathroom that nobody used because the lock was busted and it smelled like an ashtray's funeral. Locked myself in the end stall anyway, sat on the toilet lid with my head in my hands.

Breathe, Taylor.

But breathing felt optional now.

Curiosity won. Of course it did.

Closed my eyes. Reached—not with hands, not with some glowing tingly cape bullshit, just intent. Like pointing with my mind.

Mr. Gladly—Mr. G, the try-hard—standing at the front of his classroom two floors down, gesturing about the Protectorate like it still mattered. Little bright life-flame, clueless and loud.

Die.

It winked out.

My stomach lurched so hard I dry-heaved into the toilet. Oh God. I just— I killed him. From the bathroom. Didn't even hate him, not really. He was just… convenient.

The thing in my head yawned. So?

I splashed water on my face until my lips went numb. Mirror showed a stranger with pupils blown wide.

Had to know how far this went.

So I ditched.

Easy when nobody cares if you disappear. Hood up, hands jammed deep in pockets, just another tall shadow slipping out the side exit. January wind slapped my cheeks raw. Streets were gray slush and salt stains, gulls screaming overhead like the city owed them money.

Walked north. Toward the Docks. Because that's where you go when you want answers or trouble, and I wasn't sure which one I was hunting.

Practiced the whole way.

Stray cat digging through trash—die. Dropped mid-hiss.

Flock of pigeons on a power line—die. Fell like dirty snow.

By the warehouse district I'd racked up maybe fifty small murders without slowing down. Each one quieter than the last. No gore. No mess. Just gone.

Should've felt like vomiting. Mostly it felt like finally exhaling after holding my breath for two years.

Found an old textile mill with half the roof caved in, sunlight bleeding through broken windows like watery gold. Pushed open a side door that screamed like it resented being woken up. Inside smelled of rust and rat shit and old ghosts. Perfect.

Climbed the catwalk to the second floor, sat with my legs swinging over a thirty-foot drop, and waited.

Because if you're going to find out whether God gave you a loaded gun, you don't test it on sparrows.

You test it on dragons.

Lung rolled in right as the sky bruised purple—motorcycles snarling, red and green bandannas flapping like war flags. Then him. Shirtless despite the cold, metal mask catching the last light like fresh blood. Already growing, scales rippling across skin, fire licking at his knuckles. Twelve feet and climbing.

He stopped under the catwalk. Looked up—somehow I felt it even through the mask.

"Girl," he rumbled, voice like boulders fucking. "You are in my territory."

I kicked my legs, casual. "Funny. I was just thinking the same about you."

One of his guys laughed—high, nervous. Lung raised a hand the size of a hubcap and the laugh died like I'd already used the power. Smart.

"You have strength," Lung said. "New. I smell it. Join. Or I make example."

I tilted my head. "Example of what, exactly?"

He grew another five feet, fire roaring up his arms. "Of what happens to little girls who play in fire."

I smiled. Couldn't help it. Felt like knives.

"Lung," I said, almost gentle, "I spent two years being afraid of people like you. Getting shoved into places I didn't want to be. Hurt because I couldn't stop it." I leaned forward, elbows on the rusty railing. "This morning I woke up and realized I don't have to be afraid anymore."

The fire climbed higher. Thirty feet tall now, still growing. "You threaten me?"

"No," I whispered. "I'm just telling you how it ends."

Then I looked at him—really looked, the way I'd looked at the spider, at Gladly, at every living thing that ever made me small—and thought the word.

Die.

He had half a heartbeat of confusion. Head cocked like he heard a weird noise.

Then the dragon fell.

Forty-five feet of burning scaled muscle hit concrete like the sky dropped its trash. Shockwave rattled broken glass. Flames guttered out around a body that suddenly didn't give a damn about regenerating anymore.

His gang stared. Guns half-raised. Mouths open.

I stood up slow, brushed rust flakes off my jeans.

One kid—fifteen, maybe sixteen—dropped his pistol like it was hot.

I looked at them. All of them.

"Go home," I said. Almost kind.

They went. Bikes screamed into the night, scattering like startled roaches.

I hopped down—thirty feet, landed light—and walked over to what was left of Lung. Already shrinking back to human. Just a guy now. A very, very dead guy.

Nudged his arm with my sneaker. Nothing.

The rush slammed into me delayed but brutal—legs buckled, sat right there on cold concrete next to a corpse and laughed until I couldn't breathe, tears freezing on my cheeks. Couldn't tell if I was losing my mind or finally finding it.

I'd just killed Lung.

Not fought. Not bargained. Killed him with a lazy thought, like hitting delete on a typo.

The city was going to explode tomorrow. PHO would lose its shit. Protectorate would scramble. And I'd still be Taylor Hebert, awkward nobody, riding the bus to Winslow like any other Thursday.

Except nothing would ever be the same.

I wiped my face on my sleeve. Stood.

Stepped over the body and walked out into the dark.

Dad would be pacing the kitchen, spaghetti boiling over, worry etched so deep it had its own zip code. Tomorrow the news would scream about the dragon found dead with no wounds, no struggle, just gone. And the handful of ABB cowards who'd babbled about a skinny girl in a hoodie who ended their boss with a word.

Let them talk.

Let them come looking.

Armsmaster with his halberd and his lectures. Miss Militia and her perfect record. The whole damn PRT with their foam and their Master/Stranger protocols.

Let them all come knocking.

I smiled into the freezing night, breath fogging like smoke.

I was done hiding.

And if the world decided it didn't like the new girl in charge?

Well.

There's a real simple way to fix that.

 

[Hephaestus]

Looks fun let's see where you take this

 

[Nephthys8079]

So it looks and reads alright for everyone? Need to know cause I have 0 human readers so use Grammarly and ai to help me get grammar right n stuff

 

[SChase]

Good enough. This has some potential. Let's see how it will go.

 

[Nephthys8079]

The morning after I murdered a dragon with my brain, Brockton Bay woke up hungover and screaming.

I knew it before I even opened my eyes. Sirens dopplered somewhere out past the curtains, too many, too frantic, like the city itself had stubbed its toe and couldn't stop yelling about it. Dad was already downstairs—television on full blast, which almost never happened unless the Red Sox won the Series or the Endbringers knocked over another postcard city. Today it was neither.

I rolled out of bed, bare feet hitting cold floor, and for one stupid second I thought about killing the alarm clock before it could buzz. Just… poof. Silence. The temptation was so casual it scared me more than Lung ever had.

Don't be an idiot, Taylor. Not everything needs to die today.

Yet.

I padded to the window, cracked the blinds with two fingers. Cop cars streaked down the street three blocks over, lights painting the neighbors' houses red-blue-red like a cheap disco. A news chopper thumped overhead, low enough to rattle the glass. Whatever they were saying, I could guess the headline.

Local rage-dragon found extra crispy, zero calories, zero struggle. Film at eleven.

Downstairs, Dad's voice cracked across the kitchen. "Taylor? You seeing this?"

"Seeing what?" I called back, already tugging on yesterday's jeans because laundry was a problem for girls who hadn't murdered warlords before dinner.

I took the stairs slow, each creak familiar under my socks. Dad stood in front of the ancient CRT, coffee forgotten in his hand, dripping onto the linoleum. Channel 5 had a blonde reporter standing in front of the textile mill I'd left Lung cooling in. Yellow tape flapped behind her like party streamers at a funeral.

"…no signs of a fight," she was saying, wind whipping her hair into her mouth. "Sources inside the BBPD confirm the leader of the Azn Bad Boys was discovered deceased early this morning by patrol units responding to reports of abandoned vehicles. Preliminary findings suggest death by unknown parahuman means. No wounds. No radiation. No—"

Dad muted it. Turned. His face had that gray look again, the one he wore the week after Mom, like someone had scooped half his color out with a spoon.

"You okay, kiddo?" Quiet. Careful. Like I was made of spun glass and bad memories.

I shrugged, poured cereal I didn't want. "World's full of capes doing stupid cape things. Why wouldn't I be okay?"

He watched me a second longer than comfortable, then nodded at the screen. "They're saying he just… dropped. Like someone flipped a switch."

Milk sloshed over the edge of my bowl. Oops. I grabbed a paper towel, mopped it up while my pulse did uncomfortable things. "Weird," I managed. Voice steady. Mostly.

Dad ruffled my hair—awkward, too hard, like he'd forgotten how since I was ten—and headed for the door. "I'll drive you. Streets are gonna be a zoo today."

Great. Father-daughter bonding over the corpse I gift-wrapped for the city.

The drive was a funeral procession in slow motion. Every radio station, same loop: Lung dead. ABB fracturing. Empire circling like buzzards with swastika tattoos. Protectorate "monitoring the situation." Translation: Armsmaster was probably polishing his halberd and pretending that counted as a plan.

Dad kept glancing over, mouth opening, closing. Finally: "You'd tell me if something was wrong, right? After… everything?"

Everything. Code for the locker, the hospital, the way I stopped talking for weeks. Code for the daughter he didn't know how to reach anymore.

"Yeah," I lied. "Course."

He dropped me two blocks from Winslow because traffic was backed up to the moon. I walked the rest, hood up, hands buried in pockets, feeling every stare like fingers on my skin. Kids clustered around phones, voices high and sharp.

"Did you see the pics on PHO? Dude's just lying there, like he took a nap and forgot to wake up—"

"Bet it was Kaiser. Metal spikes through the brain or some shit—"

"Nah, man, no holes. My cousin's EMT, said it was like his heart just… quit."

I kept walking. Smile tucked away where nobody could see it.

Inside, the halls were a riot. Someone had printed a grainy photo of Lung's body—shrunk back to normal size, naked and pale on the concrete—and taped it to every locker with "DING DONG THE DRAGON'S DEAD" scrawled in Sharpie. Principal's office was gonna have a stroke.

Madison spotted me first. She was holding court by the water fountain, eyes red-rimmed like she'd been crying or smoking up, hard to tell. When she saw me her mouth twisted—half sneer, half something new. Fear?

"Hebert," she hissed, loud enough for her little orbit of vultures to hear. "Heard your boyfriend Oni Lee offed himself when he heard the news. That true?"

Laughter. Nervous. Edgy.

I stopped. Turned slow.

Something in my face made the laughter die quick.

Madison took one involuntary step back, bumped into the fountain. Water splashed her designer boots.

"Careful," I said softly. "Wouldn't want you to catch cold."

She opened her mouth—closed it. Nothing came out.

I walked past. Felt her stare boring into my spine the whole way to homeroom.

First period was a circus nobody bothered corralling. Mr. Quinlan tried to teach algebra while half the class refreshed PHO under their desks. I sat in the back, doodling spirals in my notebook, counting heartbeats I could end if I got bored.

Sophia Hess slid into the seat behind me five minutes late, smelling like sweat and rage. She kicked my chair—hard.

"Move," she muttered.

I didn't.

Kick again. Harder.

I turned just enough to meet her eyes. Dark, narrowed, full of that predator gleam she wore like lip gloss.

Something passed between us. Recognition, maybe. Or warning.

She leaned in, voice low. "Whatever you're on, Hebert, it won't last. Freaks like you always burn out."

I smiled. Small. Real.

"We'll see," I whispered.

She sat back like I'd slapped her.

The rest of the day blurred—teachers giving up, kids whispering, rumors mutating faster than bacteria in a petri dish. By lunch the going theory was that Scion himself had flown down and zapped Lung for tax evasion. I ate in the stairwell, alone, listening to the city lose its collective shit one floor at a time.

That's when the intercom crackled.

"Taylor Hebert to the principal's office. Taylor Hebert."

Fantastic.

Principal Blackwell's office smelled like mothballs and defeat. She sat behind her desk looking like a woman who'd aged ten years since breakfast. Two PRT officers in crisp black suits flanked her—badges gleaming, faces blank. The kind of blank that took practice.

"Miss Hebert," Blackwell started, voice trembling just enough to be annoying. "These gentlemen would like a word."

I shut the door behind me. Leaned against it. Crossed my arms.

The taller agent—buzz-cut, square jaw, name tag said "Renick"—pulled out a chair. "Have a seat."

"I'm good."

He exchanged a look with his partner. Shorter guy, Hispanic, eyes sharp like he'd seen every lie teenagers could invent and invented a few himself.

"We're investigating the incident with Lung," Renick said. "Understand you were absent yesterday afternoon."

"Was I?" I tilted my head. "Must've been feeling sick."

Blackwell opened her mouth—closed it when Renick raised a finger.

"Your father signed you out at 11:47," the shorter one said, consulting a tablet. "No doctor's note. Care to tell us where you went?"

I smiled. Sweet as expired milk.

"Library," I said. "Had a report due. You can check the cameras."

They would. And they'd see me walking out the front doors bold as brass, because Winslow's security system was a joke older than I was.

Renick leaned forward. "Witnesses place a teenage girl at the scene. Tall. Dark hair. Hoodie. Sound familiar?"

"Nope," I said. "But Brockton's full of tall girls with dark hair. Maybe try Emma Barnes. She loves attention."

Blackwell choked on air.

The agents didn't laugh. Shame.

Short guy slid a photo across the desk—grainy still from a traffic cam two blocks from the mill. Me, hood up, face half-turned away. But definitely me.

"Anything you want to tell us, Miss Hebert?" Renick asked. Quiet. Dangerous.

I looked at the photo. Looked at them.

And felt that thing inside me stir—lazy, vast, amused.

I could end this right now. Two agents, one principal. Three heartbeats. Poof. Problem solved. Walk out, go home, eat ice cream while the city argued over spontaneous human combustion.

Temptation tasted like copper.

Instead I sighed, all teenage exasperation. "Look, my dad's waiting. Can I go? Or do you arrest people for skipping class now?"

They held me another twenty minutes—questions looping like a bad remix, threats wrapped in polite words. I gave them nothing but wide eyes and shrugs.

Eventually Renick stood. "We'll be in touch."

"Can't wait," I said.

Blackwell tried to suspend me. I looked at her until she remembered the locker incident and thought better of it.

Freedom tasted like cold January air and chaos.

The rest of the day was mine. Dad texted—meet him at the DWU gates, early shift ended because half the dockworkers were too busy arguing cape conspiracies to unload ships. I walked south instead, boots crunching salt, mind spinning possibilities like loaded dice.

Lung was dead. The ABB was a headless snake thrashing itself to death. Empire would move. Coil would scheme. The Undersiders—whatever the hell they were—would sniff opportunity.

And me?

I was the girl who killed a dragon because I was tired.

The Boardwalk was half-deserted, wind whipping trash into spirals. I bought a burnt coffee from a cart guy who couldn't stop staring at the news ticker on his phone and found a bench facing the gray water.

Sat. Drank. Watched gulls fight over french fries.

That's when the shadow fell across my boots.

"Mind if I sit?" Voice like velvet over steel.

I looked up.

Trickster—top hat, red mask, cane twirling lazy circles. Except I knew that wasn't his real name, and the cane was probably a prop. Beside him, Sundancer—hair like living flame even when she wasn't using her power—and Ballistic, arms crossed, looking like he chewed nails for fun.

Travelers. Out-of-towners with a body count and a missing teammate nobody talked about.

I sipped my coffee. "Free country. Or it was last I checked."

Trickster sat anyway. Close. Too close.

"Heard some wild stories," he said, conversational. "Girl walks into a warehouse, walks out, dragon forgets how to live. That sound like anyone you know?"

I met his eyes behind the mask. "Sounds like a fairy tale."

Sundancer shifted, uncomfortable. Heat shimmered off her skin in waves.

"We're not here to fight," she said quickly. "Just… curious. Lung had a kill order. You just collected it without paperwork. People are impressed."

"People," I echoed. "Or you?"

Trickster grinned, all teeth. "Both. Look, we're new in town. Could use friends who make problems… disappear."

I laughed. Couldn't help it. Short, sharp, a little mean.

"Friends," I said. "That what we're calling extortion these days?"

Ballistic tensed. Sundancer's hands glowed.

I set my coffee down slow.

"Let me make this real clear," I said, voice soft. "I don't do teams. I don't do bosses. And I really don't do threats from circus rejects who think top hats are still intimidating."

Trickster's grin faltered.

I leaned in until I could smell the greasepaint under his mask.

"Leave," I whispered. "Before I decide three more bodies won't make the bay any uglier."

For a second nobody breathed.

Then Trickster stood, smooth as smoke. Tipped his hat.

"Message received," he said. "Enjoy the view."

They vanished—literally vanished, swapped with a chunk of boardwalk railing that clattered to the planks.

I finished my coffee. Crushed the cup in one hand.

The sun was bleeding out across the water, all orange and bruised purple. Somewhere out there the city was rewriting its food chain, and my name was penciled in at the top in red ink nobody could see yet.

I stood. Stretched.

Tomorrow would come with bigger fish.

Let them.

I was just getting started.

 

[Nephthys8079]

Night doesn't fall in Brockton Bay—it seeps in, greasy and slow, like oil from a busted engine leaking across the pavement, carrying that familiar tang of rotting seaweed and distant gunpowder. I'd climbed back up to the roof after dinner—Dad's spaghetti again, overcooked noodles swimming in sauce from a jar because neither of us had the heart for anything fancier—wrapped in Mom's old blanket that still held a whisper of her if you tried hard enough. The shingles were rough under my butt, cold biting through my jeans, but up here the city felt almost manageable. Almost.

Stars poked through the haze here and there, stubborn little bastards refusing to quit even when the sky looked like it'd been punched one too many times. Down below, our street was quiet—too quiet, really, the kind of hush that comes before something ugly decides to happen. Sirens wailed farther out, toward downtown or the Docks, weaving together in that mournful harmony only Brockton knew how to play. Helicopters chopped the air somewhere invisible, searchlights slicing clouds like they were looking for answers nobody wanted to give.

Dad was inside, parked in his recliner with the TV flickering blue across his face, volume low so it wouldn't "disturb" me. As if sleep was still a thing I did. He'd been glued to the news since Lung turned up room temperature—channel surfing between local hacks breathlessly recapping the same nothing and national feeds speculating about "escalating parahuman violence on the East Coast." Poor guy. Thought if he watched hard enough he could protect me from whatever came next.

I leaned back against the chimney—still holding a bit of daytime warmth, miracle in January—and let my mind drift. Not far. Just… out. Like uncurling fingers I'd kept clenched for years. The city lit up in my head, not with lights but with lives. Tiny sparks everywhere. A cabbie lighting a smoke at a red light that'd never change. Some Empire thug tattooing fresh ink in a basement that stank of bleach and hate. Armsmaster in the Rig, probably polishing that halberd of his until it gleamed like his ego.

Any spark. All of them. One lazy flick and poof—darkness.

Should've scared the hell out of me. Did, sort of, in that far-off way you worry about taxes or dying alone. Mostly? Felt like justice. Or balance. Or whatever word fits when the girl who spent two years as everyone's punching bag suddenly holds the off-switch for the whole damn world.

Wind gusted hard, whipping my hair into my mouth—tasted like salt and exhaust. A dog started up two blocks over, barking frantic like it'd seen the devil himself. Cut off mid-yap.

My spine straightened. There.

Three blocks south. Van idling at the curb, engine ticking as it cooled. Five heartbeats inside—steady, trained, not the jittery pulse of street punks. One chewing gum like it owed him money. Another tapping a watch that glowed faint green under a sleeve.

Hunters. And not the amateur kind.

I stood slow, blanket sliding off my shoulders into a heap. Cold knifed straight through the hoodies now, but adrenaline burned hotter. Part of me—the old Taylor, the one who'd hide under the covers and pray—wanted to slip back through the window, curl up small, let Dad answer the door with his confused union-guy bluster while men in black asked polite questions with guns behind their backs.

Screw that.

I walked to the edge. Toes over the gutter. Looked down—twenty-five feet, maybe thirty, onto sidewalk cracked like dried mud.

Easy.

Stepped off.

Air roared past my ears, cold and sharp and alive—reminded me of Mom gunning the old station wagon down the coast highway, windows down, radio blasting something ancient and loud, laughing when I squealed at the curves. Knees buckled on impact, rolled with it, came up crouching without even a twinge. Nice to know the power came with perks beyond mass murder.

The van doors were already sliding open half a block down, figures spilling out smooth as oil—five of them, black tactical gear swallowing the streetlamp light, visors down turning faces into shiny nothing. PRT, had to be. No markings tonight, but the way they moved screamed government funding and too many training seminars. One guy hefted a containment-foam sprayer like it was an old friend. Another cradled a tranq rifle loose in his grip, finger straight along the guard—polite, professional, ready.

They fanned out slow, forming a loose half-circle. Leader—tall, broad, voice modulator making him sound like a robot with a cold—raised one gloved hand.

"Taylor Hebert?"

I straightened up, brushed gravel off my palms. Wind whipped my hair across my eyes; I didn't bother pushing it back.

"Depends who's asking," I said. Voice came out steadier than I felt. "You guys the welcome wagon or just lost?"

One of them—the gum-chewer, probably—shifted his weight. Almost laughed. Didn't.

Leader didn't blink. Couldn't tell if he had eyes under that visor anyway.

"PRT ENE Directive. You're coming with us for evaluation and processing. Non-negotiable."

Behind them the van yawned wider, benches visible inside, restraints dangling like ugly jewelry. Soft restraints for Masters, hard cuffs for Brutes, drugs for whatever box they hadn't invented yet.

I smiled. Couldn't help it. Felt sharp.

"Non-negotiable," I echoed. Tasted the word. "Funny. Thought that was my line these days."

The foam guy adjusted his grip. Subtle. Not subtle enough.

"Kid," Leader said, softer now, like we were buddies and he hated this part, "don't make it hard. Lung was a kill order. You… whatever you did, it's big. We can help. Protect you."

Protect me.

From the porch light flicking on behind me—Dad, probably peering out the window wondering why his daughter was chatting with ninjas in the street at midnight. From the neighbors twitching curtains. From the city that would tear itself apart figuring out who killed its dragon.

I laughed. Short. Ugly.

"Protect me?" I took one step forward. They tensed—beautiful, synchronized, like a dance they'd rehearsed in mirrors. "You're here because you're scared. Because one skinny girl looked at Lung and he just… stopped. And now you're wondering who's next."

Leader's hand twitched toward his sidearm. "Last chance."

The air felt thick suddenly, heavy with unsaid things. Five heartbeats, steady but picking up—adrenaline, training kicking in. I could feel each one like a fingertip on my skin.

Die.

I didn't say it out loud. Didn't need to.

Four of them dropped.

Not dramatic—no screams, no blood, just knees buckling like someone cut invisible strings. Bodies hit pavement with wet thuds that echoed too loud in the quiet street. Foam sprayer clattered, hissed a sad little puff of white that died quick.

The fifth—Leader—staggered. Grabbed his chest. Eyes wide behind the visor, finally visible when the reflection caught wrong.

He stared at me. Mouth working under the mask.

"How—" One word, rasped out like it hurt.

I walked forward slow. Stopped when we were close enough I could smell his sweat through the gear.

"Shh," I whispered. Almost gentle. "It's easier if you don't fight."

His knees went. Joined his squad in a heap.

Five bodies. No marks. Just absence.

The porch door creaked open behind me.

"Taylor?" Dad's voice—small, confused, edged with that old fear he carried like a second skin since Mom. "What in God's name—"

I turned. He stood in the doorway in his threadbare robe, hair wild from the recliner nap, staring past me at the pile of tactical gear like it was a bad dream he couldn't wake from.

"It's okay," I lied. Crossed the yard in three strides, pulled him inside before the neighbors decided to play hero. Shut the door soft. Locked it. "Go back to bed, Dad. I've got this."

He looked at me—really looked, maybe for the first time since the hospital—and something in his face cracked wide open.

"Kiddo… what did you do?"

What did I do?

I hugged him. Hard. Felt his ribs under the robe, fragile as bird bones.

"Whatever I had to," I murmured into his shoulder. "Go upstairs. Lock your door. Don't come out till morning."

He pulled back, eyes wet. "Taylor—"

"Please."

He went. Slow steps on the stairs, each one heavier than the last. I waited till I heard his door click shut.

Then I stepped back outside.

The van still idled, patient as death. I walked over, peered inside—empty benches, comms gear blinking red, a tablet on the dash showing my school photo next to a big red CLASSIFICATION PENDING stamp.

Cute.

I reached in, killed the engine with a thought. Then the comms. Then, just to be thorough, every camera on the block that might've caught a glimpse.

Silence rushed in like water filling a sunk ship.

I stood there a long moment, wind howling down the street, blowing dead leaves around the bodies like confetti at a funeral nobody wanted.

Tomorrow the city would wake up to another mystery—PRT squad vanished, or dead, or whatever story they spun when their own turned up cold with no explanation. More panic. More capes circling. Protectorate knocking harder.

Let them knock.

I dragged the blanket off the roof—didn't even climb, just thought about it and floated down like the fall earlier but slower, gentler—and draped it over Dad's shoulders when I went back inside. He was sitting on his bed, staring at nothing.

"We're leaving," I said quiet. "Tonight. Pack a bag."

He looked up. "Where?"

"Somewhere they won't look."

Yet.

I left him to it. Went to my room. Stuffed clothes in a backpack—jeans, hoodies, the photo of Mom from my nightstand. Hesitated over the butterfly journal I'd never filled because bugs were never my thing anyway. Left it.

Downstairs I wrote a note on the kitchen table—Gone for a while. Don't worry. Love you.—propped it under the salt shaker where he'd see it.

Then I stood in the doorway, looked back at the house that used to be home.

Time to go.

The city was big. The world bigger. And for the first time in forever, nobody could make me stay where I didn't want to be.

I stepped into the dark.

And didn't look back.

Somewhere out there, the heroes were coming. The villains too. All of them chasing a ghost who'd learned the ultimate trick:

When the world pushes you down one too many times?

Push back.

Harder.

Until there's nothing left to push.

 

[Nephthys8079]

Director Piggot's office always carried this faint whiff of defeat mixed with industrial cleaner, like someone had tried to scrub away the last ten years of bad decisions and only managed to make the place smell like a hospital that lost its funding. The blinds were cracked just enough to let in that miserable, washed-out January light—gray as dishwater, the kind that makes everything look like it's already given up. She sat there behind the desk like a battleship that had run aground, staring at the frozen frame on the big wall screen the way you stare at a positive cancer result you already suspected.

Tall kid in a hoodie. Lung mid-rampage, thirty feet of scaled fury and bad attitude. Next frame—dragon on the ground, shrinking, flames out, mask cracked like he'd face-planted from orbit. No scorch marks. No blood. Nothing except one very dead warlord and a girl who looked like she'd just remembered she left the stove on.

Piggot finally let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped since Ellisburg.

"Run it again."

We did. Ninth time. Tenth. Same nightmare on loop.

Armsmaster stood behind her chair like a very expensive coat rack someone had forgotten to hang a personality on—helmet tucked under one arm, beard going more salt every day, eyes doing that flat, unblinking thing that made you wonder if he slept in the armor or just uploaded himself at night. Miss Militia leaned against the far wall, scarf loose enough you could see the tension in her jaw, bandana low like she'd forgotten to finish getting dressed for the apocalypse. Velocity kept rocking heel to toe by the door because standing still was apparently a mortal sin. Me—Renick—I just tried to keep the vending-machine burrito down and pretended my knees weren't knocking.

"Timeline matches the girl's disappearance from Winslow," Armsmaster said, voice flat as a pressed uniform. "She ditches last period, heads north. Traffic cams lose her two blocks from the mill. Then the ABB survivors start babbling about some 'skinny ghost in a hoodie' who looked at Lung and he just… quit breathing."

Piggot rubbed her temples like she was trying to erase the whole day. "So a fifteen-year-old sophomore walks into a warehouse, tells a kill-order cape to drop dead, and the universe shrugs and says sure, why not."

"Essentially."

She swung that stare at me like a wrecking ball.

"Renick. The grab team. Give me something that isn't a headache."

I swallowed. Tasted bile. "They weren't ours. Not even close. Black vans, no plates we can trace yet, gear that's two generations past what we give grunts. Someone faked a Directive 17—my signature, actually, which is either flattering or a declaration of war. Five bodies on the Hebert lawn, hearts stopped like someone reached in and pinched the aorta shut. Neighbor's dog too. Coroner's scratching his head so hard he's gonna need stitches."

Velocity let out a low whistle. "So mercs. High-end mercs playing dress-up."

"Someone with money and a real good forger," Miss Militia said quietly. "Coil's style."

Piggot didn't confirm or deny. Just stared at the blank screen like it owed her an apology.

"Coil," she repeated, the name coming out like she'd bitten into something rotten. "We don't even know if the bastard's a cape. Could be a very rich, very connected mundane with a fetish for snakeskin. Could be something worse. All we know is five of his rented killers drop dead the exact same way Lung did—same night, same block as the girl who made a rage dragon lie down and die with a glance."

The room went colder than the Rig's walk-in freezer.

Armsmaster shifted—just enough to remind us he was still human under the tin suit. "Working theory: the girl has a line-of-sight or area kill power. No upper range confirmed. Manton-limited to biology, but that's academic when biology is everything that breathes. Coil—or whoever's paying his bills—sent a deniable asset team. She treated them like speed bumps."

Piggot leaned forward, chair creaking like it was as tired of this shit as the rest of us.

"Here's what we do know," she said, voice low and dangerous. "Taylor Hebert is gone. Father too. House empty, spaghetti cold in the pot, note on the table that just says Gone for a while. Don't worry. Love you. They're running. Someone tried to scoop her first and got his hand bitten off at the wrist. We don't know if Coil's a parahuman or just a very clever bastard with too much money and not enough sense, but right now the most dangerous fifteen-year-old on the Eastern seaboard just became the hottest commodity in the Bay."

She paused. Let that sink in like acid.

"Find the father," she said finally. "Daniel Hebert's the only soft spot she might still have. And somebody—anybody—figure out where you hide when the city's full of people who want you dead, caged, or on payroll, and the one guy who tried the gentle approach is currently learning what dead feels like from the inside."

I thought about that note again. Handwriting that shook just enough to break your heart if you let it.

Piggot dismissed us with a wave that looked more exhausted than angry.

We filed out into the corridor that always felt longer on days like this. Velocity finally muttered what we were all thinking once the door hissed shut behind us.

"Coil poked something that pokes back harder. And we still don't even know if the snake's got fangs or just really good accountants."

Yeah.

Somewhere out there a girl who just wanted to be left alone was learning the world doesn't do "left alone" anymore.

And somewhere else—deeper, darker, wrapped in whatever secrets let him play chess with loaded guns—Coil was rewriting the board.

I just hoped whatever he was, he had a really good Plan B.

Because Taylor Hebert sure as hell didn't look like she was handing out second chances.

 

[Nephthys8079]

....oh God please I need feedback I have 0 actual idea if this shits good or not please respond

 

[Bagrat]

....oh God please I need feedback I have 0 actual idea if this shits good or not please respond

Click to shrink...

This is good. This is really, really good.

 

[Nephthys8079]

This is good. This is really, really good.

Click to shrink...

....well ok then if it's coming from the guy in the know it's gotta be ok

 

[Lorkhan]

....oh God please I need feedback I have 0 actual idea if this shits good or not please respond

Click to shrink...

I yearn to devour more,GIVE ME MOOORRRREEEE!

 

[WiseMack]

While the idea is interesting there are a few inconsistencies

If "Squad 4" had strict orders to "Observe and Invite", then ordering her to surrender goes directly against their orders
No markings on their vehicles or uniforms means they are not there in an official capacity
There is no reason for anyone to believe that they were actually PRT.

Taylor killing unknown people trying to kidnap her could not possibly get her in trouble, not legally at least.

At first I thought they were Coil's mercenaries, and they simply got caught before receiving the Go/No Go order.
In which case the PRT would NOT consider them to be officers.

It is one thing for an officer in the pursuit of his duties to ask her to come with them.
It is another for a group of masked and armed men to attempt to kidnap a teenager.

Taylor running away is also weird.
If her power is messing with her head to the point she considers herself the top of the food chain then staying at home, comfy and warm is the obvious choice.

By running she is stating she is afraid, of what is up to debate but goes agains the narrative.

There was also no mention of Gladly's death on the first chapter, the PRT should already consider him her first victim.
And it is his death that turns her into a Villain, not the agents'.

 

[Nephthys8079]

While the idea is interesting there are a few inconsistencies

If "Squad 4" had strict orders to "Observe and Invite", then ordering her to surrender goes directly against their orders
No markings on their vehicles or uniforms means they are not there in an official capacity
There is no reason for anyone to believe that they were actually PRT.

Taylor killing unknown people trying to kidnap her could not possibly get her in trouble, not legally at least.

At first I thought they were Coil's mercenaries, and they simply got caught before receiving the Go/No Go order.
In which case the PRT would NOT consider them to be officers.

It is one thing for an officer in the pursuit of his duties to ask her to come with them.
It is another for a group of masked and armed men to attempt to kidnap a teenager.

Taylor running away is also weird.
If her power is messing with her head to the point she considers herself the top of the food chain then staying at home, comfy and warm is the obvious choice.

By running she is stating she is afraid, of what is up to debate but goes agains the narrative.

There was also no mention of Gladly's death on the first chapter, the PRT should already consider him her first victim.
And it is his death that turns her into a Villain, not the agents'.

Click to shrink...

Ahhh but you forget coil is in the prt too

 

[WiseMack]

Ahhh but you forget coil is in the prt too

Click to shrink...

What does that have to do with anything?
He was not there
And the center of my argument is that law enforcement MUST clearly identify themselves to enjoy the protection their identities give them.

The van doors were already sliding open half a block down, figures spilling out smooth as oil—five of them, black tactical gear swallowing the streetlamp light, visors down turning faces into shiny nothing. PRT, had to be. No markings tonight, but the way they moved screamed government funding and too many training seminars. One guy hefted a containment-foam sprayer like it was an old friend. Another cradled a tranq rifle loose in his grip, finger straight along the guard—polite, professional, ready.

Click to shrink...

No markings means not police officers, means stranger danger

 

[Nephthys8079]

What does that have to do with anything?
He was not there
And the center of my argument is that law enforcement MUST clearly identify themselves to enjoy the protection their identities give them.

No markings means not police officers, means stranger danger

Click to shrink...

...who said they were law enforcement After all the one who said they were prt was Taylor

 

[WiseMack]

...who said they were law enforcement After all the one who said they were prt was Taylor

Click to shrink...

"Team Delta-Four went to the Hebert residence last night," I said, voice rougher than I wanted. "Soft approach. Observe and invite. Orders were clear—no confrontation unless she bolted."

I pulled up the body-cam footage. Froze on five agents hitting the pavement like someone hit pause on reality. One frame they're advancing, next frame—piled like cordwood. No gunfire. No foam discharge. No nothing.

"Coroner's preliminary: instantaneous cardiac arrest, all five. Like every heart just… forgot the next beat. Neighbor's dog dropped at the same time. We're calling it a radius effect until proven otherwise."

Click to shrink...

You did? or at least Velocity did in the meeting?

Team Delta-Four...
Wasn't that supposed to be a reference to PRT squads?
If they weren't Law enforcement then Velocity should have called them masked and armed unknowns or something like that

 

[Nephthys8079]

The ping crept in at 2:48 a.m., sneaky as a pickpocket in a crowd, the sort of alert that makes you sit up even when you're three fingers deep in scotch and halfway through torturing a Merchant for kicks in a timeline you're about to throw away anyway. I'd been slouched there in the dark, monitors glowing like judgmental ghosts, splitting realities the way other people split hairs—here a scream, there a confession, collapse the one that gets boring.

Red flag. PRT mirror drive. Someone on night shift hit "send" with trembling fingers.

Clicked it open in the timeline I decided to keep. Let the other rot.

File bloomed across the wall, ugly and beautiful all at once. Lung on his back, scales already flaking off like cheap paint, mask split where his face kissed concrete. No craters. No blood spatter. No sign anybody even coughed in his direction. Just a dragon who forgot the next breath was supposed to happen.

Page four—buried under layers of bureaucratic diarrhea—there she was.

HEBERT, Taylor Anne.
Winslow High.
Flagged January 4th: potential trigger. Locker thing, the full horror show (bio-waste, hours trapped, the works).
They knocked once. Nobody home.
Observation window January 5th through 11th.
Nothing confirmed.
File closed January 12th.
Status: inconclusive.
Welfare check if she starts acting weird.

That was the entire joke. They saw the trauma, shrugged, stamped it, moved on to the next poor bastard. No theories. No guesses. Just a fifteen-year-old girl who maybe snapped and maybe didn't, and the budget for "maybe" ran out before anyone bought a second cup of coffee.

I laughed so hard the scotch sloshed over my cuff. Burned going down the wrong pipe. Didn't care.

Because while some paper-pusher was patting himself on the back for closing another nothing file, that same girl went home, stared at walls or ceiling tiles or her own clenched fists, and whatever crawled out of the locker with her wasn't anything they'd bothered to imagine.

Scroll. Traffic-cam stills—hoodie, long stride, hands loose like she's walking off a headache instead of a homicide. Lip-read pulled one calm sentence right before forty feet of rage dragon hit the floor like someone unplugged him.

Then the punchline I'd been waiting for without knowing it.

My own incident report tucked inside theirs, wearing a fake PRT header like a wolf in borrowed wool.

DELTA-FOUR.
Five bodies on a quiet street that used to be sleepy.
Instantaneous multi-organ shutdown. Hearts, lungs, brains—all quit at the exact same second.
No toxins. No wounds. No energy trace.
Neighbor's dog dropped too, poor mutt never saw it coming.
Current theory: unknown effect, possible area component.
Everyone who touched the scene now in M/S quarantine crying into their tinfoil hats.

My bodies. My very expensive, very discreet bodies. I'd sent them soft—black vans, polite badges, the whole "we're here to help" routine. Told them to knock, smile, offer the scared kid a ride to safety. Worst case, dart her, bag her, drive away whistling. Best case she cries in relief and I own the quietest assassin on the East Coast before sunrise.

She stepped off her roof instead—twenty-eight feet straight down, landed softer than a promise—and looked at them.

Five heartbeats. One heartbeat. None.

I rewound the neighbor's cheap Ring clip four times, frame by frame, watching her fall like gravity was optional. Knees took the shock, rolled, came up smooth. No limp. No glance back. Just a girl who decided the night belonged to her now.

In one timeline I lost my mind—burned the city down with bounties, fifty million if she's breathing, twenty-five if she isn't. Let Kaiser and Lung's leftovers and every greedy bastard with a mask tear the place apart looking for her. Watched the body count climb until someone got lucky or the Bay became one big graveyard with her name whispered on the wind.

Collapsed it. Seventy-nine percent chance she finds the money trail, finds me, and I die before the echo fades.

Another timeline I vanish—nuke the servers, salt the bunker, surface in Prague with a new face and a tan. Pretend the name Taylor Hebert never carved itself into my nightmares.

Collapsed. Running tastes like failure and I quit that habit years ago.

Kept the slow one. The delicious one.

Because right now she's somewhere cheap and bright—motel off the interstate with the buzzing sign and the ice machine that rattles like dying lungs, or maybe a Greyhound seat that smells of old fries and desperation, Dad clutching a duffel like it's the last solid thing in the world. They're counting crumpled twenties, jumping at shadows, learning what it feels like when every pulse in a crowded room is a choice you could make before the waitress brings the check.

She's going to get tired. Not the body—power like hers probably laughs at sleep—but the kind of tired that settles behind the eyes when you realize nobody will ever stand close enough to touch you again unless you let them, and nobody's brave enough to ask.

That's when the cracks show.

And cracks? Cracks are where I live.

I have houses nobody's found yet. Rooms with walls thick enough to muffle screams or silence, take your pick. Passports, cash, futures where she never has to look over her shoulder because the world learns to cross the street when she walks by.

All it takes is one conversation where I'm the only man in the room whose heart keeps beating because she decides it can.

I closed the file. Let the screens fade until the bunker felt bigger, colder, full of possibility.

Raised the glass to the dark.

Sleep tight, Taylor.

You just turned the whole board sideways.

And I've always been fond of new games.

Especially when I'm the only one who knows the rules haven't been written yet.

 

[BetweenTheLines]

Armsmaster didn't hesitate. "Striker twelve. Maybe higher. Line of sight or worse—no known upper range. Manton-limited to biology, but that's cold comfort when biology is everything that moves. Kill order discussion starts the moment the Chief Director hears about the squad."

Click to shrink...

Maybe I was reading too quickly, but is it really supposed to be Striker when they mention range right after?

 

[Nephthys8079]

Maybe I was reading too quickly, but is it really supposed to be Striker when they mention range right after?

Click to shrink...

Yea they are working off it working like Vista with a limit to purely biological beings(that is if I remember vista's power right as a striker 10 with physical limits but if I'm wrong can always change it)

 

[Nephthys8079]

You did? or at least Velocity did in the meeting?

Team Delta-Four...
Wasn't that supposed to be a reference to PRT squads?
If they weren't Law enforcement then Velocity should have called them masked and armed unknowns or something like that

Click to shrink...

Ahh woops wrong version of that chapter thx for spotting that shit went right by me

 

[BetweenTheLines]

Yea they are working off it working like Vista with a limit to purely biological beings(that is if I remember vista's power right as a striker 10 with physical limits but if I'm wrong can always change it)

Click to shrink...

I mean that you have Striker, not Shaker (like Vista) or Blaster. Striker powers are by definition touch range, and the classification has nothing to do with the Manton Limit.

 

[Nephthys8079]

I mean that you have Striker, not Shaker (like Vista) or Blaster. Striker powers are by definition touch range, and the classification has nothing to do with the Manton Limit.

Click to shrink...

Ahhh woops thx for the catch see this is why feedback is needed

 

[Nephthys8079]

Redid chapter 4 and for that question about Glady they didn't look that far yet but it will get connected to her soon

 

[Bill783]

Ahhh woops thx for the catch see this is why feedback is needed

Click to shrink...

striker is contact effects
Shaker is for area of affect attacks originating from the user
blaster is line of sight effects

As an example of each
Vista can manipulate space around herself and is a shaker
Legend can fire lasers originating from himself to a target. He is a very high rated blaster.
Panacea can upon coming in physical contact with a living organism, completely manipulate its biology. This is a striker effect.

 

[Nephthys8079]

striker is contact effects
Shaker is for area of affect attacks originating from the user
blaster is line of sight effects

As an example of each
Vista can manipulate space around herself and is a shaker
Legend can fire lasers originating from himself to a target. He is a very high rated blaster.
Panacea can upon coming in physical contact with a living organism, completely manipulate its biology. This is a striker effect.

Click to shrink...

Yea I got em missed up she would be a shaker/Blaster by their standards as they see it