I walk home, whistling a simple tune under my breath. My mood is surprisingly good, as if breaking Sophia Hess's kneecap with that piece of pipe had shattered some invisible barrier in my soul that was preventing me from truly enjoying this world. To see how beautiful life could be. Some people need surprisingly little to be happy—just breaking someone's leg. Too bad I'm not exactly a shining example of high morals and rejection of violence as a problem-solving method. I wonder if Sophia will ever run again? On one hand, the blow landed perfectly and should cause plenty of problems in the future. When she's old, sitting in a rocking chair and remembering me with quiet, not-so-kind words, warming her bones by the fireplace and rubbing that knee. On the other hand, this body's physical condition left much to be desired... so maybe she'll recover. In a year or two, she might start running again.
I push thoughts of Sophia Hess and her kneecaps out of my head. I now have two paths ahead of me... with various options, but still.
I sit down on a park bench, place my backpack—splattered with sticky grape juice—beside me, and pull out wet wipes. I clean my hair, face, and clothes. It won't solve the problem completely, but the sticky juice is starting to irritate me. My insects, my swarm, let me know that no one is nearby. On the adjacent path, some girl in a tracksuit and white sneakers is jogging, and if I walk deeper into the park toward the secluded gazebo, I could catch a couple making out. There aren't many people in the park during the day.
I toss the wipes into the overflowing trash can next to the bench. I need to think. So, two behavioral options. First—go home, pack my things, gather my insects and money, write Danny a note, and disappear to some cheap motel on the outskirts. For starters. Why? Because I hit Emma in front of witnesses and definitely heard something crack. I probably broke her nose. Plus the attack on Sophia Hess, Shadow Stalker in her civilian identity. What does this mean? In theory, it means our house—Danny's and mine—will be crawling with police in... I don't know how long, but I'd better hurry. Running away. A perfectly viable alternative. I don't need school, I have money, and if push comes to shove—I'll find the Undersiders, muscle in on them, and take over their hideout. Tattletale mentioned they have a gaming console. Or I could just leave the city entirely... with my abilities, it wouldn't be difficult. Like in that fable—under every bush, she found both table and home.
But running disgusts me. And not because I've grown so attached to Danny, Taylor's father, my father. Of course, it would be better not to upset him, but that's optional now. The main feeling is my unwillingness to admit that I—lost. Was it stupid? Yes, somewhat stupid. If I had restrained myself, gone hunting in the evening, found out where Hess lives, ambushed her in the morning, everything would have happened the same way. With one important clarification—no one would have connected her shattered kneecap to me. But no, I snapped. Made a mistake. But run now? I suddenly realize I'm not going to do that. What the hell—literally yesterday I destroyed one of the most powerful parahumans on the East Coast, him and three dozen armed men! And I'm going to start running from the police? Yeah right. I'm not locked in here with them—they're locked in here with me.
I stand up, throw my backpack over my shoulder, and head toward the park exit. Soon I'll be home. I should take a shower, change clothes, grab some cash, and go buy new clothes—this juice will never wash out. Better not buy a laptop or phone yet; I have a feeling that in the near future, such purchases might attract unwanted attention. Oh, and stop by a café, eat something delicious. After all, I've earned it.
As expected, no one was home—it was the middle of a workday, after all. Even while approaching the house, I gave commands to accelerate selection among the venomous ant queens and speed up work on hybridization and developing venom that wouldn't kill fruit flies. Despite their small size, very low speed, weakness, and complete harmlessness, I needed them. And, as always, your weaknesses are your strengths. The small size and silent flight of fruit flies made them irreplaceable scouts, but I wasn't satisfied with their inability for combat application. And yes, the fact that they're so slow. The solution was obvious, as always—I just needed to apply the Theory of Inventive Problem Solving, formulated by Soviet engineer-inventor Genrich Altshuller. Speed deficiency that makes them hard to transport to the target location? Assign fast insects to transport them. Like aerial carriers—dragonflies, for example—deliver them to the operational deployment site and drop them over the target.
Lack of venom glands? Develop contact neurotoxin that doesn't work on the fruit flies themselves, so they can deliver it directly to the recipient's skin. Second option—waxy containers for drops of contact poison. Binary poison—two components that aren't toxic by themselves, but when combined on site cause a chemical reaction... and voilà. Contact poison. Or even regular poison that works through mucous membranes. Fruit flies are so small that flying into a nostril or mouth wouldn't be difficult for them.
Simultaneously, I commanded my strongest insects to press the kettle button, turn on the TV, and even tried to turn on the bathroom faucet. Nothing worked with the faucet—the insects weren't strong enough, even the largest ones. I chuckled a bit at the mental image of waking up in the morning, stretching sweetly, and starting Snow White's famous song, except instead of birds, rabbits, and deer helping me around the house, it would be cockroaches, ants, beetles, spiders, and dragonflies. A rather dark Snow White... especially comparing appearances. I enter the house, toss my backpack in the corner, strip off my clothes, and head to the shower. The kettle hums, the TV broadcasts the latest news: "...will lead to further escalation of conflicts between the city's criminal organizations..." Really now?
In the bathroom, I find several centipedes that fell down trying to open the faucet and now can't climb back up the smooth enamel. I offer them my hand, and they readily climb onto it. I help them back onto the wall. Before getting in the shower, I evacuate "Omega Squad" from my hair—my last line of defense. After what happened, I decided that relying only on randomly nearby insects was foolish. So I carried around a couple dozen ant queens from the "Kunoichi" series everywhere. They were smaller, not as hardy and brutal as the "Medici" series, didn't need much strength for long flights, but their venom was just as potent. Simply put—my weapon of last resort. Oh, and each of them was already a fertilized queen, capable of rebuilding an ant colony from scratch wherever I might end up.
I just stand there while the black "Kunoichi" hurriedly crawl out of my thick black hair onto my bare shoulders and then fly to the walls. I look at myself in the mirror mounted above the sink. Yeah, definitely not Snow White. A naked, thin girl with protruding collarbones and a mass of black hair that moves with emerging insects. A scene from a horror movie. Not the least bit erotic. For a moment, envy stings my heart. Madison Clements, for example, has a figure like a doll, Emma's practically a model, Sophia was a goddess on the track team—she's an athlete. Was. Hell, even Tattletale has a gorgeous figure, and she doesn't look that much older. Same age.
I push away thoughts about Tattletale's figure and what should be done with that figure... after all, she made it clear she would "do anything." And that "anything" somehow didn't include studying nuclear physics or collecting stamps—no, it was a very unambiguous "anything."
I step under the shower and turn my face up to the tight streams of hot water. Good thing I have such thick hair—the juice ran down it and didn't get on the insects. Sticky juice can pose a real danger to them, cutting off oxygen access. I would have had to command them to clean each other, or wash them. Or dispose of them.
The streams flow down my body, and I feel like I'm not just washing off the remains of sticky grape juice, but cleansing myself completely, shedding my past and freeing myself for the future. Like a butterfly from a cocoon, I think—a fitting metaphor for me, except not a butterfly. More like a wasp. A scorpion. A tarantula. The new, strong Taylor. Or what did that overly curvaceous Tattletale call me? Lady Bug? Remembering how she knelt before me, head bowed, something pleasant tugged at my lower abdomen. I lowered my head and looked down. Even so, Taylor? Well... I switch the warm water flow to the flexible hose and adjust the stream... I still have time, and tension should be relieved...
When I step out of the shower, everything is already prepared. Bugs can't exactly turn the faucet, but picking out clothes, fishing a few bills from my stash, even trying to make toast… Well, toast didn't go so well. The larger beetles were strong enough to get bread to the toaster, but something went wrong after that. And you don't even want to know about the jam. Whatever. Time to eat out.
I get dressed, drink a cup of tea, and pocket the share of cash that Gossip left for me—"your cut, Ladybug." I need new clothes anyway, so it's a good day to visit some shops, grab a real meal, maybe pick up a couple pizzas and some beer for Dad tonight. Sure, they don't sell beer to minors, but I'm tall for my age—and with a confident look, sometimes people don't check too closely. Honestly, I could use a drink myself. After all, I'm a battle-scarred veteran now. PTSD and all.
I stride toward the Boardwalk—the local tourist spot and just about the only part of Brockton Bay where some semblance of order exists. Here, stores have glass displays, and there are even outdoor cafés. Elsewhere in the city, you might see glass… but look closer: there are security grates or reinforced shutters over everything. And cafés? Tables are strictly inside only. No need to tempt fate. No one in their right mind would sip coffee at a sidewalk table in the Docks. Sit outside in the wrong territory, and you could draw the wrong kind of attention from a gang. So, in most of the city, cafés are fortresses—not places to relax.
But the Boardwalk? That's a different story. Protectorate patrols are common; sometimes you even spot someone from the PRT. Occasionally, you'll catch a New Wave cape flying by, or see Armsmaster's motorcycle, or Miss Militia's green scarf at the corner of your eye. The safety draws everyone—from locals to travelers. It's the only place in the city where you've got a real shot at running into a cape, and not in the "wrong place, wrong time" way. No wonder so many people love it.
No sooner do I reach the Boardwalk than I head straight for my favorite café—good food, spotless kitchen, high standards. Trust me, someone who senses every bug in the area can tell a clean place from the rest. Warmth, leftovers, and neglected corners make any restaurant paradise for insects—not to mention worse. So, a spot with hardly any bugs, no rancid grease scent, no filth collecting under the kitchen counters? It stands out right away. The average customer only sees sparkling tables and the dining room. Nobody peeks behind the stove or runs their hand along the upper shelves to tally the number of roaches hiding overhead. If I were squeamish, I wouldn't eat out at all. I'd just cook everything myself for the rest of my life. But as the saying goes: people who love democracy or sausages should never watch how either one is made.
I settle at a table, and a server hurries over—a cheerful girl in a crisp white apron, her hair pinned up with a cute sailor-themed cap. Little ship earrings dangle from her ears as she hands me a menu with a bright smile.
"Good afternoon!" she says. "Please, take your time. Let me know when—"
"I'll order now, thanks," I say, not even cracking open the menu. "French mushroom soup with croutons, steak and country potatoes, and a pot of green tea, please." My insects tell me the steak has just arrived—fresh, properly chilled, exactly as it should be.
"Steak—what doneness?" she asks, pen poised.
"Medium," I reply. She nods and glides away.
How long has it been since anyone smiled at me so openly? I give a small laugh at myself. Taylor, it's just basic politeness, not a sign of miraculous social progress.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a girl sitting by the window. She's smiling at me, too. Golden hair, straight nose, lips just a bit too full— Hold on. Those lips… My eyes widen as the girl gives me a knowing nod, rises, and walks over.
"Is this seat taken?" she asks, her smile teasing. "Mind if I join you?"
"Go ahead," I say, leaning back and watching as smug Gossip Girl—there's no mistaking her now—sits across from me. Not just her lips, but that little smirk she always wears… totally unmistakable.
"Let me introduce myself. I'm Lisa," she says. "I'm new to Brockton Bay, but so far? I like it here. So many interesting people to meet."
"I bet you do," I mutter, rolling my eyes. "This place is perfect for you. What are the odds—"
"Pretty high, actually," she answers with a grin. "This is the only decent place on the whole Boardwalk. The owner's a clean freak, prices are up because of it, and it's not as busy as the tourist traps. My power? I know exactly which piece of salad hit the floor and was picked up by hand, how many hairs are in the soup, and what the chef did in the restroom with those same hands. And hair."
"That's… disgusting," I reply, studying Lisa—aka the Queen of Gossip. I'm keeping myself in check, so my cloud of bugs and even the 'Omega Squad' in my hair don't twitch.
"Everyone's got their standards," she shrugs. "I figure you're here for the same reasons I am. Not sure how you know, but you've clearly figured out this place is safe—no food dropped on the floor gets served here. If I'm eating in this town, it's here. Our meeting was fated!"
"Don't know any cape named Fate," I deadpan. "But I'm not thrilled you recognized me—and then came over just to say it."
"Listen, stranger," Lisa—no, Tattletale—leans in. "Here's the thing. I pegged you the minute you walked in. Your posture, your walk, your build, the way your hair moves… You're carrying some nasty bugs, right? You are scary, you know. But I could've just kept quiet. Then I'd have the unfair advantage: I'd know who you are in civvies, but you wouldn't know me. That isn't right. Even though our meeting was by chance, I'd rather we be on even footing. Now you know who I am."
"Hmm. I get your logic," I admit. Nothing stopped her from vanishing, after all. With her powers, she probably knows my social security number from a glance. Finding me would be child's play. And wasn't I just wishing for allies? Getting flustered over a waitress's smile? Back in the shower, I was even thinking about her. Crap—does she read minds? I look away, cheeks heating up.
"I don't read minds," she says, amused. "I'm basically Sherlock Holmes on steroids. By the way, the fact you like me? Good sign. Means you're not about to poison me with ant queens and have a million maggots eat my corpse afterward. At least, not before you've had your fun."
"My fun?" It takes a moment—then, reddening, I get it.
"Sure, you could always go for the whole villainess-seduces-heroine deal," she adds with a laugh. "But let's be real, that's not your move. Nope, you're a crusader for romance. You want me to fall for you first—such a sneaky plan. And for the record, flowers and poems won't work. We're just too different. I can't help that… but maybe not as hopelessly different as I thought."
"My name's Taylor, but I'm guessing you knew that already."
"Pleasure, Taylor. Now—will you save me? And I mean that literally. I'm in trouble. Real trouble." The teasing edge drops from her voice, replaced with total seriousness.
"I know it's a lot to ask," she says, "but I'm desperate. I need your help, and I'll do anything to get it. Whatever you want. I've got serious money—millions, even. And I'll owe you more than I can say. I could have lied, could have played the part, could've set you up to come to my rescue, but with you? That would never work. You either get the full truth, or nothing."
"You know, I do like you, Lisa," I admit, composing myself. There's no point in denying it—she can read me like an open book, and pretending otherwise would just weaken my position. Taylor, get a grip… or maybe this is just who I am now. Doesn't matter. Not right now.
"I like you, but I'm not getting dragged into another cape fight," I say. "If things are that bad for you… I can give you advice, maybe some kind words. But I'm not up for a battle. Not this time."
"Thank you!" she beams, the brightness returning to her features. "Honestly, I was so afraid you'd turn me down."
"What? But I just did."
"Advice and a kind word, Taylor—that's more than I've been offered in a while," she says, bowing her head a little. "So, what did you order?"