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 smelled like burnt coffee and antiseptic, the way it always did when the world decided to kick us in the teeth again. January light—thin, gray, anemic—crawled through the half-closed blinds and died on the carpet somewhere around her desk. She hadn't moved in twenty minutes. Just stared at the frozen security still on the big screen: a tall girl in a dark hoodie standing under a broken warehouse light, Lung already thirty feet tall and climbing, fire licking up his arms like he was about to repaint the night orange.

Then nothing.

Frame advance. Lung mid-roar. Next frame—Lung on the ground, shrinking, flames gone, mask cracked where his face hit concrete. No blast marks. No blood. No girl in sight.

Piggot finally exhaled through her nose, the sound of a woman who'd seen too many impossible things and still hated every single one.

"Play it again."

Third time. Fourth. Armsmaster stood behind her chair like a statue somebody forgot to tell the war was over, helmet tucked under one arm, beard looking more salt than pepper these days. Miss Militia leaned against the wall, scarf loose around her neck, eyes unreadable. Velocity fidgeted by the door because sitting still had never been his thing. Me? I just tried to keep my breakfast down. Renick, Deputy Director, the guy who actually ran half this circus when Piggot's kidneys acted up.

"Time of death lines up with the girl's exit vector from Winslow High," Armsmaster said, voice flat as ever. "Traffic cams lose her two blocks from the mill. After that—nothing until the ABB remnants start screaming about a 'skinny white ghost' who looked at Lung and he just… stopped."

Piggot pinched the bridge of her nose hard enough to leave white marks. "You're telling me a fifteen-year-old sophomore walked into a warehouse, told the rage dragon to drop dead, and he obliged. No tech. No weapon. No visible power effect."

"Correct."

She turned the glare on me. I felt it like a physical weight.

"Renick. Talk to me about the school interview."

I swallowed. "Blackwell folded the second we showed badges. Gave us Hebert's file without even pretending to care about privacy laws. Trigger event looks classic—locker incident, beginning of January. Stuffed in with bio-waste for hours. Hospital records confirm toxic shock, therapy referrals she never followed up on. Classic cluster-trigger setup, only…"

"Only nobody reported bugs," Miss Militia finished quietly. "We were watching for a new Master, maybe a bio-Tinker. Kid gloves ready for someone who'd be terrified of wasps in her hair. Not… this."

Velocity snorted. "Yeah, because what we got is way better. Instant death by eye contact. Real heartwarming origin story."

Piggot ignored him. She was zooming in on the blurry still—girl's face half-turned, mouth moving. Lip-reader had already pulled "I'm telling you how it is" off the footage. Chilling when you knew what came half a second later.

"Family?" she asked.

"Daniel Hebert," I said. "Head of hiring at the Dockworkers' Association. Wife died in a car crash two years back—texting and driving. No priors on either. Girl keeps her head down. Bullied hard—Sophia Hess's name shows up more than once in the disciplinary notes Blackwell tried to bury. Shadow Stalker's civilian identity. We have… complications there."

Armsmaster's jaw tightened. The only sign he gave that the Wards program had just stepped on a landmine with cleats.

Piggot leaned back, chair creaking under her bulk. "So. Traumatized teenager, fresh trigger, possible second-gen if the locker counts as bad enough—and instead of controlling rats or making pretty light shows, she gets the single most broken kill power I've seen since Ash Beast. Wonderful."

"Power testing?" Militia asked.

"Dead squad says no," Velocity muttered.

We all went still.

Piggot's knuckles went white on the desk. "Explain."

"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."

The room felt colder. Even Velocity stopped bouncing his knee.

Piggot stared at the screen a long time.

"Threat rating?" she asked finally.

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."

"Which will be in about six minutes when she finishes screaming at Boston," Piggot said. "We don't even have a cape name for her yet."

"PHO's trying," I offered weakly. "Top contenders are Thanatos, Quiet Please, and some asshole calling her Eidolon's Angry Daughter."

Velocity barked a laugh that died quick.

Miss Militia pushed off the wall. "She's fifteen. Scared. Alone. Whatever she is now, she wasn't yesterday. There's still a girl in there."

"With a body count already higher than most villains twice her age," Piggot snapped. "Lung was a kill order, fine. Our people weren't. That line got crossed the second she looked at Delta-Four and decided paperwork was too slow."

Silence stretched, thick as foam.

Armsmaster broke it. "Recommendation?"

Piggot rubbed her temples. "Birdcage is off the table—public would riot, and we'd never transport her alive. Kill order needs Protectorate vote and Legend's sign-off; that takes days. In the meantime we treat her like Glaistig Uaine with better PR. Full quarantine protocols. Wards outreach is dead. Shadow Stalker gets pulled—yesterday—and debriefed until she forgets her own name if she so much as looked at Hebert wrong."

She turned to me. "Renick. I want every second of her life on my desk. Friends, enemies, favorite breakfast cereal. Find the father—he's the leverage. And somebody tell me where a terrified teenager goes when the entire city suddenly wants her head on a pike."

I thought of the empty house we'd found this morning—spaghetti sauce congealed in a pot, note on the table in shaky handwriting: Gone for a while. Don't worry. Love you.

Nowhere safe. That's where.

Piggot killed the screen. Lung's corpse vanished, replaced by the PRT logo like nothing had happened.

"Dismissed," she said. "And God help us all if she decides heroes are next."

We filed out. Nobody spoke. In the hallway Velocity finally whispered what we were all thinking.

"We just poked the scariest thing this city's seen since Endbringers. And she's still in high school."

Yeah.

Somewhere out there Taylor Hebert was walking around with the off-switch to the world in her pocket.

And we'd just painted a target on her back the size of Brockton Bay.

Good luck sleeping tonight.