(AV) AN UNWELCOMED WELCOME

Despite everything she’d told herself that night on the rooftop, Taylor didn’t go to the PRT right away. She wanted to—God, she wanted to—but wanting and doing were very different things.

It took her three days. Three long, sleepless days of pacing, of turning Shielder's words over and over in her mind, of second-guessing her decision, and of imagining every possible way it could all go wrong. What if the moment she walked through those glass doors, alarms blared and containment foam followed? What if Shielder had been wrong, and the PRT wasn’t looking for explanations, only excuses to put her down before she became another Lung?

Every reason to stay away gnawed at her, but every time she started to give in, every time she was on the cusp of talking herself out of it, his words came back to her.

If you never try, if you just keep waiting for people to give you the benefit of the doubt… you’ll never get out from under that label.

He was right, damn him. She’d spent so long trying to change people’s opinions of her, looking for scraps of any goodwill, that she’d forgotten what it was like to not have to do that in the first place. To no longer do that. So on the fourth morning, Taylor Hebert decided. No more waiting. No more hiding behind paranoia and excuses. It was time to stop running. Time to prove, once and for all, that she wasn’t the monster everyone believed her to be.

Of course, deciding was the easy part. Actually doing it was another matter. Hence, the three days it took. And to add to that, without a phone—her dad had drawn the line there, and she hadn’t wanted to push him on it yet—there was no way to contact Shielder, no way to inform him of her intention to go through with his advice, and no way to coordinate a meeting beforehand.

Maybe, she told herself, she could talk her dad around soon. But not today. So she’d go alone. It wasn’t like she hadn’t done worse on her own before.

Taylor adjusted her mask until it sat snug against her face, the smooth fabric of her bodysuit stretching comfortably beneath the weight of the armor panels. The sun was only beginning to rise, its light painting the city in shades of gold and grey as she moved. But from her vantage point, the city was already awake, the crisp air carrying with it the ever-present din of traffic and normalcy below. The kind of weekday noise that was usually absent during her nightly patrols. 

It all blended into a living, breathing backdrop, almost comforting in a way. So for once, she let herself just listen, and didn’t reach for her bugs. She didn’t stretch her awareness outward to monitor every alley and rooftop in a half-mile radius. She wanted to trust for once that she didn't need them. That today would be different. That she had earned this small reprieve. 

Just this once, she could afford to allow herself that much.

The thought had barely finished forming when something hit her from behind, hard.

Pain exploded through her shoulder, so sudden and sharp that she barely had time to gasp before her knees nearly gave out. As a result, she stumbled forward, boots scraping across the rooftop’s rough surface as her brain scrambled to process what had just happened.

What—?

She looked down, and saw a dark bolt jutting from her arm, the black fletching on the other side quivering slightly as red slowly spread across the black-and-grey fabric of her costume. For a second, everything went silent, including her thoughts, and the sight didn't register at first; the image of the bolt buried deep where it shouldn’t be was wrong, and impossible. It was surreal.

Then Taylor’s breath hitched, her vision swimming for a second before the pain really hit, white-hot and nauseating.

She tried to pivot, to find where it came from, but before she could even complete the turn, another bolt slammed into her other arm. Ironically enough, the impact helped complete the pivot, but the world had immediately narrowed into the pain of her injuries, her ragged breathing, the throb of her hammering pulse in her ears, and the metallic click of a crossbow being reloaded.

Instinct took over, and her swarm converged around her from every crevice and hole within range, almost blotting out her shape in this sudden storm of wings and legs. But she didn’t need their senses to find out who it was, because a second later, the attacker landed gracefully in front of her.

A black silhouette against the morning sun, the figure rose from her crouch, unfearing, a crossbow in her hand.

No… no way.

Taylor’s breathing ceased as she took in the skintight black bodysuit, the stance, and the infamous mask she’d recognize anywhere.

Shadow Stalker.

The rumored Ward with a bad reputation. Known, and mostly feared by non-powered E88 members, for never needing an excuse to pull the trigger first and ask questions later. And Taylor—bug girl, murderer, and most importantly, villain—was apparently next on her list.

Still disoriented, Taylor could only stare, half in shock, half in disbelief, with blood dripping down her arm, at the crossbow still leveled at her. 

Of course. Of course this would happen today. 

She’d finally stopped running. She’d finally decided to face the system head-on. And the system, it seemed, had decided to meet her halfway. And in the worst way possible too. 

The morning air was no longer crisp in her lungs as she took one shaky step back, realization dawning with a clarity that had her clenching her fists in rising anger.

Maybe Shielder had been right about one thing.

She’d needed to stop running.

But maybe, just maybe—and it was merely a belated suggestion—she should have waited just a little longer.