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 emerge from the shower, everything is ready. The insects can't turn the bathroom faucet, but they can pick out clothes, pull several bills ability can tell me exactly which piece of salad fell on the floor and was picked up by hand, how many hairs are in the soup, and what exactly the cook did in the bathroom with those same hands. And hair."
"Sounds disgusting," I note, studying Lisa-Tattletale. Today I'm controlling myself, so the way. Nooo, you're a crusader in that regard. I have to fall into your arms myself—what a devious plan. And to prevent the inevitable flowers, candy, and poetry, I can say right away that won't work. We're different, and I can't help myself... but it's not entirely hopeless, stranger."
"My name is Taylor, but you probably already know that."
"Nice to meet you, Taylor. So—will you save me? A damsel in distress, and that's not figuratively speaking at all. Really in danger." Lisa-Tattletale drops her mocking tone and all her smiles; she's deadly serious.
"I know I'm asking a lot," she says, "but I'm desperate. I need your help and I'm ready for anything to get you on my side. Anything you want. I have access to money—serious money, millions of dollars. And of course, my gratitude. Expressed however you'd like. I could lie to you, could pretend I'm attracted to you, could make it seem like you should rush to save me. But that kind of cooperation is doomed to fail. That won't work with you. With you—it's either tell the whole truth or stay silent."
"I really do like you, Lisa," I reply, pulling myself together. It's foolish to deny it—she reads me, denial would weaken my position. That's obvious. Taylor, Taylor... or are these already my own preferences? Doesn't matter. Right now—it doesn't matter.
"I like you, but I won't get involved in fights between capes," I say. "If you're in a tough situation... I can help with advice, but nothing more. Advice and a kind word. I'm not getting into any fights."
"Thank you!" The smile returns to her face. "I was so afraid you'd refuse me!"
"What?" But I did refuse her!
"Advice and a kind word, Taylor—that's more than enough," she says, tilting her head. "No one's offered me even that in a long time. What did you order?"