Taylor was seventeen now. Mere months younger than she'd been when she'd died the first time around.
Still older than Alec when he died.
She shook her head as she opened her locker, pulling out her books for the day. Bringing back old ghosts was a bad idea. Not with the fresh start she'd been given.
When it came time to go to high school, she had found herself looking forward to it. Hard to keep feeling the same dread in a totally different universe, with friends and family that actually cared for her. Where the adults in her life paid attention.
Not that she needed their oversight.
There were no Sophias or Emmas here, not for her.
Taylor Grayson wasn't a gawky, awkward nerd with no friends. She was an intelligent young woman with wisdom beyond her years and a bright future ahead of her.
She even had friends.
"Hey, Taylor! Kill any criminals on the weekend?"
Even if they were annoying.
She glared at him. "William. What could have possibly lead you to that conclusion?"
William Clockwell. Taylor's best friend, well meaning busybody, and also openly gay.
Nothing could've put her new school life in greater contrast than that. No Nazis or gangs to harass or threaten him, and no teachers that would even consider turning a blind eye.
Oh, William was talking.
"-that piece you published about Mr Heartwell. You ripped into him, dude. I wouldn't be surprised if he quit, or got fired!"
People were starting to pay attention to his impassioned yelling, and Taylor could spot more than a few listening on with interest.
She huffed. "Shut up. It was the right thing to do. I don't care what they say, how much a teacher likes you should neverinfluence your grades."
William raised his arms in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Maybe point that glare somewhere else before we find out if looks really can kill."
Taylor rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Let's just get to class. Miss Chang already hates you enough without you dragging me down with you."
He shuddered. "She'd kill me if she thought I was corrupting her 'best student'."
As if on cue, the bell rung, and the students filling the hall filed off to class.
Nothing of any note happened until lunch.
William was telling Taylor about some guy named Rick that he'd met at a party during the weekend when a commotion broke out near the lockers.
Taylor perked up, eyes narrowing as she looked at its source.
"-and he's just such a great guy. You're not listening to me anymore, are you?"
William sighed, looking over at whatever had captured Taylor's attention.
"Oh, it's Todd. What's he doing with Amber?"
Taylor rose from her seat. "Nothing good, by the looks of it."
"What do you-"
But she'd already begun striding towards the pair.
"C'mon. Quit playin' games. I know you're crazy about me. Marcy told me."
Todd seemed like the typical jock, the ideal of the skinheads back in Winslow. He had it all: blond hair, blue eyes, a thick, squarish jaw and a muscular rugby player's build.
His target though, put that initial impression to question. A black girl with her hair tied up in a messy ponytail, expression twisted in annoyance. Amber Bennet, an acquaintance of Taylor's from her volunteering work, and newest member of the school newspaper club.
She turned around, stepping towards Todd.
"Well you are big and strong, aren't you?"
Not hearing the sarcasm in her words, he flexed a bicep. "You know it."
"And you think that makes it ok for you to harass me?"
Amber turned on her heels and began to stalk away.
Todd reached for her arm-
And Taylor was there.
Her hand snapped up, clamping around Todd's wrist with an audible crack of shifting joints as he grabbed onto Amber's shoulder. Maybe going to the gym was useless, if she was going to be handed super strength on a platter in less than a year.
But it was times like these that made it all worth it—and the off chance that she didn't inherit her dad's genes.
In a flurry of movement, Todd was on his face, arm pinned behind him by a knee in a textbook submission hold.
He tried to struggle free, but Taylor just leaned in closer, placing more weight on his arm.
"Don't."
"Ow! Fuck! Let me go!"
"Don't try that again."
"The fuck are you talking about, you fucking psycho?"
"I said don't try that again." Taylor repeated, quieter this time.
There was something hard in her tone. Not necessarily loud, nor theatrical, but with a hint of… finality to it. The kind of voice a person would have if they didn't bother with threats because they didn't need them.
Amber had stepped back, eyes wide. Around them, the hallway had gone still. Students watched in breathless silence, and of course, phones were already out and pointed at the display.
"Okay, okay!" Todd hissed, trying to twist free. "Fuck! I won't do it again, alright?"
Taylor got off his back, and he stumbled back to his feet, clutching his arm. He looked around, glancing between Amber and the crowd of onlookers. Pain and humiliation chased his heels as he did what cowards did when the attention wasn't flattering.
He ran.
Not far, but just enough to disappear down the hall, muttering something about "crazy bitches".
Taylor exhaled slowly, like a balloon deflating.
Amber looked over at her, lips parting. "Thanks. That was awesome."
"Just doing my civic duty, or something."
Amber gave her a small laugh, before raising her arm in a mock salute. "Well, I'll see you at community centre after school."
She turned away, back towards the lunch tables.
"Holy crap, Taylor."
William reappeared like a ghost behind her, and almost took a punch to the face for his troubles before Taylor reigned in the impulse.
Sometimes, he reminded her of a less funny Clockblocker. She didn't know what to think of that. She debated about actually punching him for the resemblance.
Instead, Taylor sighed. "Don't start."
"No. Nope. Sorry. Too late. I've seen you mad before, Taylor. But that looked like you were about to arrest him or something. Real hero-like."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"I am extremely serious. Where did you learn to do that? How did you do that? Do you have super strength or something?"
"I took lessons," Taylor looked at him, deadpan. "And maybe he's just weak. What did you think I go to the gym for?"
William just rolled his eyes. "Sure."
Then—
"You know I'm your best friend, right? If you're a superhero, you can tell me. I won't snitch."
"No, I'm a supervillain that controls bugs and kills children." She said, sarcasm dripping from her voice.
The bell rang before William could muster up a reply, and they started towards the next class amidst the whispering of gossip already being spread behind them.
The day passed quickly after that, and soon she was walking home beneath a rapidly darkening orange sky, her backpack bouncing against her spine with every step.
Volunteering had been exhausting, but satisfying. Every grateful smile did wonders to assuage the distant, but ever present guilt within her heart.
Taylor paused on her front step, taking a slow breath. This was real, she'd been given another chance. It hadn't been taken from her.
She opened the door and stepped inside.
"Mom?" She called out, letting her bag fall to the floor.
"In the kitchen!" Deborah Gray's voice floated in from the kitchen, warm and clear.
Taylor wandered in to find her mother stirring a pot of something fragrant. She was wearing one of her novelty aprons—this one said WORLD'S OKAYEST COOK, with a picture of a kangaroo stitched to its front— and her hair was still drawn back in a bun.
"Hey sweetheart," Deborah said, smiling as she glanced up. "How was school? Do you have something to tell me?"
Taylor smiled back, sweat beginning to bead along her back
"Normal. And no, I don't think so."
Her mom raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Normal, hm? So you wouldn't know anything about that phone call I got from Principal Winslow?"
"I-"
Taylor was interrupted by a sudden gust of wind.
"What's this about a phone call?"
Nolan Grayson stood in the kitchen, leaning down to give his wife a peck on the cheek.
Deborah smiled, turning to look at Taylor.
"We'll continue this during dinner."
"…yes, mom."
"So you thought putting the boy in a submission hold was an appropriate response?"
Taylor suddenly found her plate incredibly interesting.
"I'm proud of you, Taylor."
Two sets of eyes snapped to Nolan.
"Nolan!"
"What? She stood up for a girl in need. And she did it without hurting anyone."
Deborah shot her husband a look that could curdle milk. "The principal told me about the boy's visit to the nurse."
"And he was fine." Nolan replied, unbothered, as he took a sip from his glass of wine. "Or they would've told us about it. A little bit of humiliation might teach him a thing or two about putting his hands where they shouldn't be."
Deborah sighed, placing her fork down gently, and folding her hands. "Taylor. I do understand why you did it. And I'm proud of you, too. But next time, can we try using words before the takedown?"
"I didn't have time," Taylor muttered. "He already grabbed her."
"Then maybe say the words faster next time," Deborah said, arching a brow. "Less judo."
"No promises."
"Then you're grounded."
Taylor froze. "Wait, seriously?"
Deborah's face was stern, but her eyes sparkled. "Two days. No screens. You can still go to the community centre, though. That place needs all the help it can get."
Taylor groaned and slumped in her chair.
The next day saw her back at the community centre. School had been the same as always, boring but fulfilling. William had gone off somewhere "with the other guys", which suited Taylor just fine.
Amber was here today as well. The young woman sporting a no-nonsense demeanour in the kitchen and a friendly smile outside.
She waved Taylor over as soon as she entered, elbow-deep in dishes. "Grayson! You're on vegetable duty."
Taylor rolled up her sleeves and joined her behind the counter. "Where's the respect for your head chef? I've been promoted to Sous Chef twice now."
Amber grinned, handing her a cutting board and a stack of bell peppers. "Yeah, and then demoted twice for nearly burning the rice."
"That was once," Taylor muttered. "And it was a faulty timer."
They worked in easy rhythm, surrounded by the comforting chaos of the center's shared kitchen—clattering trays, the clattering hum of old fridges, and the occasional screech of a metal chair dragged across linoleum. Kids darted in and out of the open hall, shouting and laughing. Volunteers bustled between tasks. The smell of garlic and tomato sauce filled the air.
For all its noise and mess, the centre felt good. Right. A far cry from patrol routes and crisis response—here, Taylor could help, and see the results. No looming threat, no moral calculus. Just real people. Real needs. Real meals served hot.
After the food was served and the dishes were mostly clean, Taylor took a moment to breathe by the doorway, watching one of the younger kids balance peas on a spoon while another dared him to eat them all in one go. She smiled faintly, wiping her hands on a towel.
Amber joined her, handing her a bottle of water. "You staying late?"
"Nah," Taylor replied. "Got grounded, technically."
Amber gave her a surprised look. "Seriously?"
Taylor snorted. "Yeah. For putting Todd in a submission hold."
Amber blinked, then laughed. "Worth it."
Taylor raised her water in a silent toast. "Absolutely."
She left the centre just before sunset, the sky painted in burnt oranges and soft purples. Her bag was heavier than usual—Amber had shoved leftover pasta into a container "for our venerable Sous Chef"—and her limbs ached in a satisfying way.
The streets were quiet, just the occasional passing car and the low hum of distant city noise. She cut through a side alley to save time, like she always did, the shortcut between the centre and her neighbourhood winding past closed shops and graffiti-tagged dumpsters.
And then she heard the footsteps approaching from behind her. Unevenly gaited, heavy footsteps.
Taylor didn't stop walking.
"Hey." The voice that came from behind her was rough, slurred, and far too close.
She turned.
A man stood at the mouth of the alley. Mid-thirties maybe. Wearing a greasy jacket with its hood up, something clenched in his hand.
It gleamed in the fading light. A knife.
"Wallet, bag, phone. Whatever you've got." His tone was sharper now, no hint of the slurring to be heard.
Taylor exhaled slowly.
Old instincts flared—just shadows now, echoes—but she didn't freeze. To panic was to die.
Wide alley. One way in, one way out unless she wanted to climb. No one nearby. The knife was cheap, barely sharpened, meant more for intimidation than combat. His stance was wrong—leaning too far forward, center of gravity over his toes.
"I'm not looking for trouble," she said evenly.
"Too late," he snapped, waving the blade.
Taylor dropped the bag.
Then she stepped forward.
The mugger blinked. "Hey! I said—!"
He didn't finish.
Her foot snapped out, knocking the knife from his hand. It clattered to the grimy street. The man lunged—but Taylor was already inside his guard, grabbing his wrist, twisting it hard. He yelped, and then—
Crack!
Taylor didn't even put that much power into it. It was just a throw, as clean and as textbook as she could manage. She'd practiced the same throw hundreds of times before.
But this time?
The mugger hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.
And then screamed. A horrible, wet, gurgling scream. High and desperate, like something important had broken.
Taylor staggered back, breath caught in her throat. Her arms were still half-raised.
It could be a trick. A ruse.
The mugger rolled onto his side, clutching his lower back, eyes wide and wild with pain.
"Fuck." She hissed.
He wasn't getting up.
He couldn't.
The man thrashed for a second, trying to sit upright, before Taylor stopped him with a foot.
"Don't. You'll make it worse."
Taylor's mind raced, skidding from thought to thought. Did she hit him wrong? But her form was fine. It shouldn't have—
Oh.
The effortless snap of movement. The way the man had launched when she turned her hip.
It hadn't taken any strength at all. Like throwing a pillow rather than a man.
Or swatting a fly.
Oh no.
She stared down at the man, still letting out whimpers of pain.
"…you'll start developing superpowers of your own..."
She hadn't expected it to just… arrive in the middle of a mugging. Or even all at once.
The world suddenly felt unfathomably distant, the man's voice fading from her ears into a low warble.
The man started flailing again, and Taylor snapped back into action.
She turned away and dug out her phone—dialling emergency services.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"I need an ambulance, " Taylor said quietly, eyes on the dimming sky. "A man attacked me with a knife, and I used a judo throw on him. I think he broke something. He's conscious and moving, but I've stopped him from rolling over."
"What's your name, miss?"
She hesitated. "Grayson. Taylor Grayson."
As the dispatcher asked for more details, she gave them calmly, steadily, never once looking back down at the man.
By the time the flashing lights painted the walls of the alley red and blue, Taylor was already back on her way home.
When she got home, the house was quiet.
Taylor walked in to mom setting the table for dinner.
"And welcome home to my favourite daughter. I made some chicken. But I also heated up some authentic German bratwurst flown in special today, just for you."
They sat down.
"I… had an interesting day."
But before Taylor could continue, a blur of movement swept through the room, and to the head of the table.
Nolan leaned down and kissed his wife on the cheek. "Sorry I'm late. Honest to god a dragon was attacking Hong Kong. I stopped it."
That brought up uncomfortable memories of a certain gang leader and his gang of pan-Asian mooks.
She smiled. "Ooh, nice. Taylor was just getting ready to tell us how interesting her day was."
Taylor sucked in a breath. "I think I've got my powers."
There was silence for a moment as her parents stared at her.
"Are you sure?" Her dad's piercing blue eyes nailed her to the chair.
"Pretty sure. Someone tried to mug me on the way home, and I broke his tailbone when I tried a judo throw on him."
More silence.
A quiet thud, "Oh, that's great, Taylor, just great. I'll make some time tomorrow for training."
"What do you mean, someone tried to mug you?"
Taylor winced at her mom's tone of voice. This had been exactly what she'd been afraid of.
"Exactly what it sounds like, mom. Some guy came up behind me and threatened me with a knife. I kicked it out of his hands and threw him when he tried to grab me."
"Are you alright? Is the man…?"
"I'm fine, and so is he. I think I heard the paramedics say something about a broken tailbone."
Debbie sighed. "That's good. What did I tell you about taking those back-alley shortcuts?"
"…Don't do it?"
"Yes. Don't let me catch you at it again, Taylor."
"Ok mom."
Nolan looked back over to Taylor, that awkwardness from earlier gone from his posture.
"Bright and early tomorrow, Taylor. Make sure you get a good night's sleep."
"Of course."
"It's kind of like when you walk and you don't think about balancing. Like a baby. You're a baby flier right now. You have to focus on staying upright. Focus on the direction you want to go, you understand?"
Taylor floated vaguely in the direction she wanted to.
"I think I have it?"
Nolan took another look at her. "It… doesn't look like you do. Follow me."
With that, he whizzed off into the sky and Taylor was left scrambling after him.
"You can wear yourself out by flying." He began. "Moving fast is like tensing a muscle, you're much better off if you relax that muscle from time to time. Use the momentum you're building to carry you forward."
"If it's like a muscle, can it be trained?"
"Of course. We're a lot like humans in that respect. If we lift weights or train for speed like athletes, we can improve ourselves, be able to lift heavier, move and fly faster and further. But it'll take a lot more for us to improve."
He began to descend. "Land over there."
And so they did, slowing to a stop above an open field.
"Now punch me."
Without hesitation, Taylor swung her fist like she'd been taught, pushing off the air for extra leverage.
To her surprise, the punch connected, the impact knocking Nolan back like he'd been launched from a cannon.
He slammed into, and through a nearby forest, the distant trees toppling over like bowling pins.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Taylor hovered, frozen in the air, eyes wide and breath caught somewhere between her lungs and throat. She hadn't meant to hit him that hard. She'd just… followed the motion. Used her hips. Drove from the shoulders like she'd learned.
This time her dad had gone flying.
The forest in the distance was a mess of splintered bark and broken limbs, the path of destruction carved like a scar across the greenery. She saw movement. Then the unmistakable flash of red and white as Nolan soared up through the trees, brushing leaves and debris off his shoulders.
He was laughing.
Then he vanished.
Taylor barely brought her arms up in time to block the blow. It sent her skidding back across the field, heels carving trenches in the dirt, pain lancing through her forearms. She blinked. He hadn't pulled that one at all, she felt.
"Faster reflexes," he said, circling her. "Use your ears. Your eyes. Feel the change in the wind. Read me."
She steadied her stance, heart thudding in her chest like a war drum. Then she leapt.
Their fists met in mid-air, shockwaves cracking through the air like thunderclaps. Taylor winced at the jolt in her elbow but kept swinging, twisting mid-flight to aim a kick at his ribs.
He caught her leg, and she flew up, landing a meteoric hit to his arm.
Nolan grunted, releasing her.
She hit the ground, rolled, and came up gasping, mud streaked across her hoodie. But she was grinning now too, adrenaline overriding everything else.
Taylor liked to think that she'd never been an adrenaline junkie, but something about the sheer power at her disposal flipped a switch in her mind; the lack of consequences registering at the same time the freedom did.
"Better!" Nolan shouted from above. "Again!"
She launched herself back into the sky, this time spinning to add force to the punch. He dodged, barely, and clipped her shoulder with a jab that sent her tumbling sideways.
Taylor grit her teeth, righted herself, and dove back down like a missile.
For a moment, all that existed was the rush. The impact. The weightless, wild dance between fists and sky. Father and daughter, locked in a ballet of blows and breath, working off a lifetime of stress and terror.
She was bruised. Winded. And more alive than she'd ever felt.
A heavy punch caught her in the ribs. Something cracked. She grunted, not letting herself cry out, and used the momentum to spin mid-air, slamming an elbow into Nolan's jaw. It didn't break anything—but it did make his head snap sideways.
He grinned through the impact, wiped a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth, and retaliated with a straight punch that Taylor barely redirected. The shock travelled down her arm like fire. The impact also knocked her to the ground, agony spreading to her back.
Get up.
You've had worse.
You lost an arm once. Burned the stump to stop the bleeding. You're not stopping for a few bruises now.
Her vision swam slightly as she steadied herself again. Her shoulder burned from an earlier impact. She could feel something wrong in her left wrist, but it didn't matter. Pain was just information. Her body was learning, adapting.
Taylor ducked under his next strike and drove a punch into his stomach—then another, then a knee upward toward his chest. The hits landed. She knew they did—felt ribs compress under her knee—but he didn't even flinch.
Then Nolan moved. Just twisted, fast and brutal, elbowing her straight in the side of the head.
Everything tilted.
Taylor hit the ground with a grunt, carving another trench in the grass and mud. Her limbs screamed at her to stop. To just lie there. But she spat blood, rolled, and pushed herself to her feet again.
"Good!" Nolan shouted from the sky, looking winded now himself. "That's damn good! You're already reading me better than most Viltrumites your age ever could!"
She said nothing. Just breathed deeply. She wiped her lip, narrowed her eyes, and then burst forward with a sonic crack, pushing her flight to its limit.
Nolan met her halfway.
This time, she didn't hold back.
The impact was catastrophic—like a car crash between their fists, a ripple of force blasting outward and flattening the grass in every direction. Both of them tumbled apart from the shockwave, flying backwards.
Taylor barely caught herself mid-spin. Her arms hung limp. Her ribs screamed. She couldn't feel her left hand.
Nolan smashed into the far end of the field, carving a fresh crater into the dirt.
She floated, wobbling. Breathing ragged.
Then something grabbed her ankle.
She didn't even see him move. Just felt his hand close around her ankle and whip her downward like a whip crack.
Taylor slammed into the ground hard enough to bounce. Before she could rise, Nolan was there—pressing a forearm to her collarbone, pinning her.
She strained.
She could still move her legs. Could twist—maybe shove him off.
But her chest ached like her ribs were trying to rebel. Her eye was swelling. Something deep in her back was definitelynot right.
Nolan held her for a second longer, then froze, loosening his grip.
Taylor was already turning-
"Stop."
She paused, mid-swing, and the strain of the fight crashed down on her like a two ton brick of pain.
Her whole body shook, legs barely steady under her, agony pierced her chest with her every breath. But she stood.
He looked at her for a long moment, brow furrowed, a hint of remorse on his face.
"…I'm sorry," he said softly. "I… I shouldn't have gone so far. You caught me off guard. You fight better than I expected. A lot better."
Taylor winced and looked away. "I'm fine."
Nolan ruffled her hair gently, ignoring her grimace of protest.
"Come on. Let's get you patched up. You earned dinner and then some."
"So when do I get a costume of my own?"
Nolan looked over at her, wind whipping his hair back. "…I would say when you're ready, but I think you've more than proved yourself back there."
He veered off to the left. "C'mon. Let's go shopping."
Taylor followed, starting to feel the strain of flying so long already. "Is it really a good idea to be flying towards the city like that?"
Nolan glanced back at her. "Don't worry about it. No-one can see us from down there, and there's no one looking either."
"If you say so."
They touched down at the back of a tailor shop, the place empty of people at that hour.
Nolan strode up to a keypad, punching in a string of numbers. 8732.
The door slid open, revealing a set of stairs leading down to a dimly lit room, the only source of light coming from a small bar light shining down on a bench.
Behind that bench stood a man. His white hair and wrinkled visage spoke to Taylor of age. Fifties? Sixties maybe?
The first words out of his mouth were cautious ones.
"Were you seen?"
Taylor approved.
"Who're you talking to?"
"Sorry, sorry. Just need to ask."
Taylor wandered over to the only other source of light in the room. Mannequins clad in gaudy looking costumes.
The man made his way over to her side. "Prom dresses by day, indestructible super suits by night."
She turned to him as he continued. "I'm Art Rosenbaum, kid. Pleasure to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you."
Taylor noted that down, before nailing him with an intense stare.
"You said something about… indestructible?"
Art stuck his hands inside his pockets. "Close enough to it. The fabric's strong enough to withstand some heavy punishment. It's as bulletproof as things get, and about as heat resistant as well. Doesn't mean it'll stop the bullets though. Just won't be punctured by them."
She sighed in disappointment. "…right. So how does this work? Do you have one ready? Or is this a custom thing?"
He crossed his arms, nodding. "Usually we start with a conversation, and I make something custom. But I do have one that might work."
A few minutes later, Taylor found herself standing in front of one of the suits she'd spotted earlier.
Art came up behind her. "What do you think?"
"…No. The armour plates are alright. But there's not nearly enough coverage, especially on my vitals. The orange and yellow stands out too much. Wearing this would be like painting a target on myself in any battlefield."
Nolan chuckled. "Not your best work, Art."
"Can't blame a guy for trying to move unsold merchandise."
Taylor glanced behind the suit, at the other two on display with remarkably similar colour schemes. "Were these suits for a team of some kind?"
Art's gaze grew sombre. "Yeah. Called themselves the Three Suns. Got taken out by some gang members on a drug bust gone wrong, last I heard."
"Grim."
"Enough about that. Let's get down to the details, shall we?"
She nodded. "What do we start with?"
"Well kid, have you decided on a name yet?"
She thought for a moment. Skitter was a name from another life. Weaver too. Khepri… would be a constant reminder of everything she'd lost.
Alexandria? There was an irony to it, certainly, but it didn't quite make sense with her power set…
"…Scion." Taylor blurted before she could stop herself. It was an appropriate name, for her, and there was a sweet kind of irony to saving the world using a monster's name. "I think I'll call myself Scion."
He hummed. "I can work with that. And you seem to have something in mind for a costume already?"
"Yes. I was thinking all black, armour plating and thicker bits of that fabric in strategic areas—torso, joints, and limbs. I'd like an in-built gas mask as well. A proper helmet with protective lenses, too. Like those." She pointed at the goggles on the mannequin next to her, tinted the same yellow as her old ones.
Art did a double take. "You weren't kidding. I'll make a sketch, and you tell me if you like it, alright?"
Without another word, he moved back to his bench, grabbing a sheet of paper and a pencil.
Nolan looked down at her. "Interesting choice. Why all the armour? Viltrumites are a lot more durable than you seem to be giving us credit for."
Taylor just gave him an unimpressed look. "Every bit counts, and it's not like it'll slow me down any."
"And if the armour breaks?"
"Then it's done it's job, hasn't it? I'll have taken that much less damage. It could be the difference between a severed arm and just a broken one."
Nolan hummed but didn't reply. Taylor took that as a grudging agreement.
A few minutes later, Art returned with a sketch. "How's this look?"
The drawing on the page looked remarkably similar to her old Skitter costume, almost sleeker, though there were still some issues. "That 'S' in the centre of the chest is too eye catching, and I think it could do with a bit more armouring around the stomach area."
"It'd be iconic!" He argued.
"I want it to be practical as well." She shot back.
In the end, they compromised. A simple 'S' emblazoned on her pauldrons, and extra armour around her body.
"Come back in a few days and I'll have two sets ready."
"Right. And if I wanted more?" Taylor asked.
"Ha! If you're going through them that fast, then sure. I'll whip up more. But they're not cheap."
She inclined her head. "Got it."
With that, their little shopping trip came to an end, Taylor flexing her flight muscles once more.
She'd be working out a new training regimen, soon.
The earlier she got that done, the more preparation she'd have when she finally went out in costume.
She'd done her research on the capes of this world, and their origins and powers were as eclectic as they were impossible to predict. Everything from rogue science experiments and cartoonish mad scientists, to actual, ritual-summoned demons, the world had it all.
Her admiration for the heroes of this world went up a notch. To have been keeping the world safe against opponents of such power and variety sounded hellish.
And she would have to as well, soon.