(AV) A COINCIDENTAL ENCOUNTER

The curtains were open and the rays of the morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, casting pale beams across the worn flooring and catching the fine dust motes that danced in the still air. Danny Hebert was hunched over a steaming mug of coffee, and a half-eaten piece of toast sat on a napkin to his right, its crusts untouched.

Taylor hovered in the doorway, her hands tucked deep into the oversized sleeves of her sweater. She hadn’t slept much, too many anxious thoughts circling in her head with not an end in sight.

Danny noticed her after a moment and offered a tired smile. “You're up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” she murmured, slipping into the seat across from him.

He nodded like he understood, and she supposed he did. Neither of them had been sleeping all that well since her mom’s death, and lately… lately there had been even more reasons, even if he didn’t know half of them.

She picked absently at the seam on her sleeve, watching a stray thread curl away. “Dad?”

“Mm?”

“If someone does a good thing,” she started slowly, “but... part of why they do it is selfish, does that take away from the good?”

Eyebrows raised, he set his mug down, the ceramic clinking lightly against the table.

“That’s a pretty heavy question for this early,” he said, attempting a small smile.

“I know,” Taylor said. Her lips twitched at the corners, but the smile never quite formed.

He sat back in his chair, rubbing at his jaw with the side of his hand. “This is something from school?”

She shook her head quickly. “No. I'm just… thinking.”

He studied her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing slightly in the way they always did when he was trying to get a read on her. She knew he could tell there was more she wasn’t saying. But, to her quiet relief, he didn’t push.

“Well,” he said finally, “I think most people do good things for a mix of reasons, rarely just one. Maybe they want to feel better about themselves. Maybe they want other people to see them as a good person. Maybe they want to just help. Or maybe they even feel guilty. But if they are still helping, and if the action itself is good, I don’t think it stops being good just because they also get something from it.”

Taylor stared at the tabletop. “Even if it’s about being seen as better? As… not something else?”

Danny’s expression softened. “Especially then. I mean, we’re all trying to figure out who we are, right? Sometimes we need to prove things to ourselves, sometimes to others, and if that pushes you to help someone—to do something good—I think that still counts for a lot more than most people realize.”

Taylor didn’t reply right away. Instead, she nodded slowly, thinking about her introspection from the night before, and about the guilt she still felt curling somewhere low in her chest.

“You’re not a bad person for wanting your good to matter, kiddo,” he said, gentler now. “You're just… human.”

She swallowed, throat thick with an unidentifiable emotion. “Thanks, dad.”

He reached across the table and squeezed her hand once before pulling back. “Anytime,” he said, offering a brighter smile as he picked up his coffee again. 

. . . . .

The wind had picked up since morning, the kind of breeze that carried grit in it, scratching at Taylor’s cheeks as she tucked her scarf closer to her neck. She hadn’t brought a coat because she hadn’t meant to walk this far, but once she’d stepped outside—away from the house and away from her dad’s quietly concerned expression—she hadn’t wanted to stop.

Their talk had gone better than she’d expected. He hadn’t asked too many questions, and hadn’t pried into the origin of her dilemma. He just listened. And though his answer wasn't perfect, somehow, hearing him say that—hearing it without judgment—helped in a way she hadn’t expected.

But a part of her was still unsure on how to feel. She’d meant what she thought last night, about wanting to help; she just didn’t know if that was enough. So she walked, head bowed and lost in her thoughts, until her legs brought her downtown. It wasn’t crowded, not yet, but the storefronts were starting to fill and the sidewalk chatter had picked up.

She didn’t see him until she bumped into him.

“Woah, sorry. I wasn’t looking—” the guy caught her by the arm instinctively, steadying her before she could stumble back. “You okay?”

Taylor blinked as she was gently let go. He was maybe her age, though tall, with an athletic build and messy blue hair poking out from under a beanie. His jacket looked expensive but worn, and there was something vaguely familiar about him—relaxed but alert, attractive, and with a confidence that bordered just shy of cockiness—that tugged at her memory. 

And then it clicked.

Shielder, also known as Eric Pelham. A member of New Wave, son of Lady Photon, and more relevantly, the cousin of someone Taylor only knew through secondhand sightings and local TV spots but admired: Glory Girl.

“I’m fine,” Taylor said quickly, taking a step back.

“Good,” Eric said, brushing nonexistent dust off his sleeves. “Thought I might’ve given you a concussion or something. That’d be one hell of a write-up: ‘Local hero tragically injures civilian while going on a walk.’”

Taylor managed a faint smile, more from the absurdity than the joke itself.

“You’re… Shielder, right?”

He gave a quick, practiced smile. “Guilty. But don't worry, I’m off the clock. Probably.” He glanced around, then leaned in almost conspiratory. “Unless a gang war suddenly breaks out at the next corner, in which case, it's hero time.”

Taylor gave a weak laugh, and for a moment, it seemed like the conversation might end there. But Taylor didn’t walk away.

She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because it felt surreal to see someone from the cape world, even someone rarely in the spotlight, just walking down the street. Maybe it was because she was still turning her dad’s words over in her head. Or maybe it was because here was someone who didn’t know her at all, who wouldn’t connect her name to the headlines or the fire, but might answer the question that had been gnawing at her since last night.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

Eric blinked. “Uh, sure?”

“It’s kind of... philosophical?”

“Lay it on me,” he said, mock-serious. “But fair warning: I’ve only got some psych classes under my belt and a whole lot of amateur cape drama to draw from.”

Taylor smiled a little. “Do you think it matters why someone does good, as long as they’re doing it?”

Narrowing his eyes, his playful expression faded just a bit as he studied her more carefully. “You mean, like... if it still counts if they’re doing it for selfish reasons?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck and made a face, like he was turning the question over in his brain. It was a good sign that, at least, he was taking it seriously instead of half-assing it. 

“Honestly?” he said, letting out a slow breath and rocking back on his heels. “I think intent matters. Not as much as results, maybe—people getting saved is still people getting saved—but it counts. I mean, you’ve probably heard of it before, right? Capes doing stuff just to get noticed. Or worse, to one-up another team. That’s not heroism. That’s PR.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow. “But if people are still getting saved...”

“Sure. Great for them,” Eric admitted. “But it sets a precedent. If we say it doesn’t matter why people do good as long as they do good, then it becomes okay to do it for the wrong reasons. And eventually, someone gets hurt.”

Taylor looked down at the sidewalk. That... wasn’t the answer she’d hoped for.

“But,” Eric added, after a pause, “at the same time, I think it’s okay to want to be seen doing good. That’s not always selfish. Sometimes it’s about proving you’re more than what people think, or proving it to yourself.”

Taylor looked up at him, surprised.

Eric shrugged. “I mean, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to prove myself. I’m not exactly the golden child of New Wave, you know? The others get all the interviews and mercy deals, and people rarely even remember I exist.” He cracked a self-deprecating smile. “So yeah, I want to prove myself. I want that big win to show people I’m more than just the guy who happens to share their last name.”

“But that doesn’t mean I’m not serious about helping people, even if I want to be recognized for it too.” He shrugged again. “It’s not either-or.”

Taylor nodded slowly, not expecting this level of honesty. “That makes sense.”

“Wait, is this for a school project?” Eric asked suddenly. “You’re not gonna quote me, right? Because I really don’t need my mom finding out I’m rambling about cape ethics to strangers.”

Taylor laughed, and this time it wasn’t forced. “No school project. I was just curious.”

“Well, in that case, it’s always a pleasure to help the civilians of Brockton Bay.”

He gave a casual wave and walked off, stuffing his hands in his pockets, completely unaware that the girl he’d just spoken to was the same ‘villain’ that had killed Lung. 

For some time, Taylor stayed where she was as she watched him go, the wind tugging gently at the ends of her scarf.

She wasn’t sure if his answer had made things clearer but it had, along with her dad’s words, given her something to chew on: that maybe it was okay to want to be seen, as long as she kept trying to help. And for now, that was enough.

She turned, stuffed her hands into her pockets, and began the long walk home.