Chapter 12
Mounting Pressure
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Topic: Mysterious Bug Swarm & Drone Operator at Merchant High Rise Party – Dec 2nd, Brockton Bay
In: Boards ► Parahumans Online ► Events
Bagrat (Original Poster) (Veteran Member) (Dec 2, 2008 21:34)
Brockton Bay locals will have already seen the footage circulating. Around 7:30 PM this evening, a Merchant gathering at an unfinished high rise in the Docks was disrupted by a massive insect swarm—reports estimate in the thousands, possibly tens of thousands—flooding the building and surrounding area.
Shortly after, at approximately 8:05 PM, a small aerial drone was recorded hovering near the building. Multiple sources confirm that it was broadcasting audio, relaying the voice of an unidentified female operator in direct conversation with Armsmaster and Miss Militia on-site. The voice was modulated but distinctively feminine.
The swarm dispersed in waves while the drone departed. Witnesses then reported a figure in dark clothing and a ski mask leaving the scene by bicycle, the insect cloud parting around them before dissipating entirely.
No cape identity has been confirmed for either party, and there is no clear indication of whether the drone operator and the bug-controller were working together. The PRT has not released a statement as of this post.
XxVoid_CowboyxX (Dec 2, 2008 21:37)
Two capes debuting at the same time? In this economy?? Clearly they're the same person using remote tech AND bug control. Wake up, sheeple.
Arsenal84 (Dec 2, 2008 21:39)
If they're working together, that's a scary combo. One does recon/negotiation, the other controls the battlefield.
Wyvern (Dec 2, 2008 21:40)
Or maybe one's just a vigilante with an RC toy. Armsmaster talking to her like that means she's on someone's radar.
Valkyrie_27 (Dec 2, 2008 21:43)
Anyone else notice how the swarm moved? That was organized. No random patterns, just clean control. Whoever that was, she's trained.
XxVoid_CowboyxX (Dec 2, 2008 21:46)
Trained by WHO though? Merchants? ABB? Secret government bug program??
Captain'sChair (Dec 2, 2008 21:50)
My money's on a new Tinker/Bugmaster team-up. Just please, no creepy roach cams.
Bagrat (Dec 2, 2008 21:52)
Unconfirmed, but chatter from on-site sources says both left without engaging the heroes directly. The PRT cordoned off the high rise after the swarm cleared. Whatever happened inside, they're keeping it quiet.
Endless_L (Dec 2, 2008 21:55)
First sighting of a drone-talker AND a bug swarm cape in the Bay… this city just got way more interesting.
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Brockton Bay streets, a few blocks away from the high-rise
December 2nd, Tuesday
8:17 PM…
The ride home blurred into streaks of streetlights and the cold bite of night air in her lungs. Taylor kept her head down, legs pumping, the rhythmic clatter-clack of her bike chain almost drowned out by the phantom hum of a thousand wings still echoing in her skull. Every corner she turned, she scattered a few bugs into the dark—watchers, sentries, a twitchy paranoia-driven escort. Alessa's warning not to trust the PRT rattled louder than the pounding of her pulse, and she wasn't about to stop and explain herself to some clipboard-wielding trooper.
It wasn't until the pressure behind her eyes spiked, white-hot and blinding, that she jerked her bike off the road and skidded to a stop. She barely had time to drop a foot to the curb before the nausea hit, folding her in half. Bitter bile burned her throat as she retched into the gutter, the stench of asphalt mixing with phantom impressions of sweat, vomit, spilled chemicals, and sticky warmth her swarm had crawled through at the party. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the images wouldn't leave: a slack-jawed body slumped against stained drywall, hands pawing at anyone still moving, Alice pale and limp as she was dragged toward the chaos.
Taylor spat, gagged again, then pressed the back of her hand against her mouth. The bugs had dispersed, but the ache lingered—like a migraine wrapping iron bands around her skull. She forced herself upright, chest heaving, and fumbled her bike back into motion. No witnesses. No questions. Not tonight.
By the time she wrestled her bike into the garage and stumbled inside, the house was dark. The only sign her dad was even home was the faint murmur of a TV left running downstairs. He hadn't noticed her gone. He rarely did anymore.
Taylor dragged herself upstairs, every step ringing in her skull like hammer blows. She didn't bother with the light—just shoved her door shut, kicked off her shoes, and let herself collapse face-first onto the mattress. The room spun when she closed her eyes, the buzz of phantom wings louder than the hum of her desk fan.
Sleep didn't come easy. Every time she drifted close, she saw Alice's pale face, the hands reaching for her, the writhing, drug-dulled bodies her swarm had brushed against. Her stomach clenched, bile threatening to rise again, but exhaustion dragged her under before she could fight it.
Taylor woke with her skull splitting down the middle. A dull, throbbing ache sat right behind her eyes, as if her brain had been wrung out and left to dry overnight. She hadn't bothered to change, and her clothes clung uncomfortably with the sour stink of sweat and vomit.
The thought of school was laughable. Just standing made her knees tremble, her vision swimming for a second before settling. Her stomach rolled warningly, and she caught herself against the edge of her desk, breathing shallow until it passed.
Her father's door was still shut. She could hear the floorboards creak when he moved, but there was no knock, no call to see if she was awake. A part of her was grateful. Another part hated how easy it was to vanish in this house.
Taylor crawled back under the covers, pulling them over her head to shut out the light. Sleep wouldn't come, but maybe if she stayed still enough, the world would stop spinning.
Sleep didn't come. The ache in her skull made sure of that, but so did the memories. Every time she shut her eyes she saw the bugs' impressions flicker past—Alice's head lolling, the way those hands dragged at her, the stink of chemicals and rot.
She pressed her face deeper into the pillow, like burying herself would push the thoughts away. It didn't work.
Alessa had told her not to trust the PRT. She hadn't explained why, hadn't needed to. Taylor had seen enough—how fast the uniforms moved to contain her instead of the Merchants. How they would've pinned her down with questions, suspicions, maybe even handcuffs. And so she ran. Because running was safer.
But Alessa… how did she know where Taylor lived? How did she get her number?
Those weren't answers Taylor had yet, and the part of her that still flinched at every shadow didn't like that at all.
Still… Alessa had pulled her off the stairs. Alice had stood up for her in the cafeteria. They hadn't looked away, not once. That counted for something. More than she was used to.
Taylor swallowed hard against the sour taste still lingering at the back of her throat, curled tighter into herself, and let the questions chase themselves in circles. She'd figure them out eventually. For now, it was enough that someone cared. Even if she didn't quite believe it yet.
The house around her stayed silent, the kind of silence that pressed in until it felt heavier than sound. No phone to distract her, no friendly voice to cut through the ache. Just the creak of the house settling and the pounding in her head. She curled tighter under the blankets, trying to block out the world and the memories both.
Somewhere else in the city, she knew Alessa would already be moving, building, planning. That was who Alessa was. Taylor, though? Taylor just stayed still and wished, if only for a moment, that she didn't feel so alone.
=========
The Watson House, Kitchen
December 3rd, Wednesday
7:04 AM…
Belinda sat at the table, both hands wrapped around her coffee like it was the only thing keeping her from drifting apart. The steam curled lazily upward, briefly softening the deep lines at the corners of her eyes. Alice's absence weighed on the room, the silence between them heavier than the gray sky outside. Even Rusty, normally content in his window perch, kept glancing toward the empty seat as if expecting her to walk in.
"You got her back," Belinda said at last, tone steady but carrying an edge.
Across from her, Alessa stared into her mug, coffee still too hot to drink. The untouched plates between them cooled, forgotten. "She never should've been taken in the first place."
"That's not how the world works, kiddo."
A humorless laugh escaped Alessa. "Maybe not. But if I'd just kept her out of this—"
"She'd have found a way in," Belinda cut in, gaze sharp. "You know it. I know it. Hell, I practically pushed her to check on you that first day at the Boat Graveyard."
Alessa didn't argue. Alice was stubborn, loyal, curious to a fault—she would've been drawn in no matter what.
But the images kept looping in her mind: shaky drone footage of Alice weaving through the crowd, eyes glassy, lights strobing across her face. The pierced-up woman closing in, smile like a blade. Alessa calling the warning to Taylor—then static.
Her grip tightened around the mug. This wasn't justice. Justice had rules. Balance. What she wanted was to burn the Merchants to the ground before pissing on the still smoldering ashes. She wouldn't lie to herself about that.
And yet, her father's voice echoed: Mercy is the mark of a great man… or woman, in your case. Especially when all you want is to rip someone's guts out.
Her jaw clenched. The anger didn't fade, but the words stayed with her, a reminder that what came after mattered as much as what came next.
Outside, the city stirred. Inside, the promise of blood hung heavy in the air.
========
The Boat Graveyard, the oil tanker's base
8:04 AM…
The coffee was still hot when she left. Breakfast sat on the table, half-forgotten and stone cold before she reached the front gate. She couldn't have told you what it had tasted like. Every thought had already been claimed by blueprints, material lists, and the lingering weight of Belinda's voice in her ears.
The air was knife-sharp from last night's frost, each breath puffing white as she adjusted the strap of her backpack. Inside was little more than a couple tools, gloves, and a folded tarp—but with World's Maker, she could turn even junk into something worth having. Still, why risk the "stray tinkerer" act without a little insurance?
She paused in an alley shadow, tugged her jacket tighter, and brushed the faint runes stitched into the lining. The enchantment came alive with a subtle pulse, like warm static under her fingertips. Her reflection in the grimy window didn't vanish, but she could feel the effect—eyes would slide over her, heads would turn without remembering why. Not invisibility, but the next best thing for a paranoid scavenger.
And then she reached for Time to Cook.
The world didn't freeze—it breathed slower. Traffic moved in syrup-thick intervals. People's footsteps stretched into lazy arcs. Between one blink and the next, she was halfway down the block.
The first junkyard's gates creaked in protest as she squeezed through. Rows of skeletal cars waited like carcasses in a graveyard, metal skin flaking away in reddish scabs. She worked methodically—hood up, head down, stripping what she needed: wiring looms, alternators, gearboxes with just enough grease left to move. Every part landed in neat piles—copper here, steel there, small electronics in a separate crate.
Scrapheaps came next. Behind hardware stores, she found bent metal shelving, cracked tool casings, and bins of stripped screws. At the loading dock of a defunct appliance shop, she scored the gutted frame of an industrial dryer—perfect for sheet metal.
Hospitals and clinics were quieter, but not cleaner. Medical waste bins yielded broken diagnostic scanners, the skeletal remains of centrifuges, and IV stands missing wheels. In one bag, she found a cracked portable ultrasound with the transducer still intact; in another, a defunct defibrillator whose capacitor might still have life. The smell was… unpleasant, but salvage didn't care.
Time blurred. She moved like a ghost between streets and alleys, hands stained with grease, pockets heavier with scavenged screws and bearings. By the time she trudged back toward the Boat Graveyard, the pile lashed to her handcart was an obscene mixture of metal, plastic, and glass—a goldmine for someone who knew what to do with it.
The gates shut behind her with a hollow clang. The cart's contents vanished piece by piece into her workshop, sorted into bins, laid out like an operating theater. She didn't stop to breathe.
The armor came first—a lightweight exoskeletal frame reinforced with cut-down plating from a wrecked motorcycle fairing. Servo joints scavenged from industrial arms gave it the promise of fluid motion. She worked by feel, weaving wiring harnesses through the frame, mounting hardpoints for modular attachments she hadn't even designed yet. The only reason she even had an exoskeletal suit at all was due to the simple fact there were plenty of examples to peruse online, even if actual blueprints were pretty hard to come by. Thankfully, there were a lot of videos to look through, with everyone in the comments trying to discern just how the power armors and exoskeletal suits worked by sight alone. She'd be messing with the Skynet chip soon enough, so her first attempt at power armor would look like a joke once she delved into that thing's secrets.
For now though, what she had would be enough.
But the real prize waited on a secondary workbench—its display monitor filled with clean, clinical readouts. The Thinker AI she'd gotten from something called Hive Queen Quest had been quietly churning through every scrap of data on Erskine's Super Soldier formula since the day she'd fed it into its memory banks. She'd asked for a status update out of idle curiosity and got an answer that made her pause.
[VIABILITY: 97.4% — SIDE EFFECT PROBABILITY: < 0.02%]
"…Well, shit," she muttered, rubbing her chin.
The Thinker's cursor blinked like it expected further instructions.
"Thanks for the hard work, buddy," she said before she immediately took over.
If the autistic super brain in a jar could be offended, she was pretty sure it would've been.
The serum's components had been prepped in her mind for days. In reality, it took the slowed heartbeat of Time to Cook to measure, mix, and refine each part without rushing or hesitation. Beakers glowed faintly under the work lamps, heat curling vapors into ghostly fingers. She distilled, filtered, and recombined until the fluid in the vial shone with a pale, icy blue light.
It caught the light like liquid crystal, faint motes drifting in its depths as if gravity meant nothing to them. Potent didn't begin to describe it. This was the same essence that had taken a scrawny kid from Brooklyn and made him into Captain America… and it was sitting in her gloved hand.
The hum of Time to Cook faltered. Then it snapped.
The exhaustion hit like a gut punch. Her knees buckled and she caught herself on the workbench, every muscle trembling, her mind buzzing with the aftershock of hours collapsing into minutes. The suit waited in the corner, gleaming under the cold light. The serum rested in its rack, calm and perfect.
Her vision swam. She let her head rest against the bench's cool steel and let the darkness swallow her.
When she woke, it wasn't in her own bed.
Her cheek stuck to the cool surface of the workbench. The dim lamps were still burning, throwing long shadows across the oil tanker's workshop. Somewhere in the back of her head, a dry, digital voice spoke up.
[NOTE: You interrupted the process at 97.4% completion.]
"Yeah, and I finished it," she croaked, throat raw.
[…I could have finished it.]
She swore she could hear the tone in that ellipsis. "Don't be salty."
Her phone buzzed. Three messages from Belinda:
6:48 PM: "You're not home. I'm guessing 'projects,' but text me anyway."10:15 PM: "You still alive?"3:07 AM: "If you're in a Tinker Fugue, drink water when you come to."
Alessa chuckled. Belinda didn't know she wasn't technically a Tinker, but the assumption wasn't far off. She texted back a simple "Alive. Will call later."
The serum sat on the rack, pale blue and faintly glowing. It made her pulse quicken. She knew its potential—what it had done for Rogers, Barnes, Walker. Without Vita-Rays, the transformation would be raw, violent. Bones thickening, muscles tearing and reforming, tendons twisting into steel cables—all in a single brutal rush.
Her clothes wouldn't survive.
She set the vial back carefully, eyes flicking to the half-finished suit in the corner. The serum would wait until the armor was ready to match the body it would create. And before she injected herself, she'd need to eat—a lot. This kind of growth would burn through every calorie she had. Going in on an empty stomach would leave her gaunt and wrecked.
Being able to count every vertebrae in her spine? Hard pass.
She was pretty sure it was Thursday now, the 4th. She'd been out for the better part of a day, her body recovering from the sheer strain of hauling scrap across the city and building through the unnatural stretch of her Time to Cook pseudo-'Fugue'. Raiding the oil tanker's fridge that she and Alice had brought in and repaired together, even if Alessa had done most of the work, she scarfed down food like she hadn't eaten in a week, barely registering the taste. Only once she was finished did Alessa realize that she needed to head home.
Belinda would be waiting, probably worried. From there, they'd no doubt swing by the hospital together—Alice would be there, most likely quiet and subdued in a way that wasn't like her at all. Alessa suspected she remembered enough of that night to know someone had saved her, and deep down, she'd know who it was. That said, Alessa hoped that would be the only thing she'd remember with any clarity. After that, they could visit Richard. She needed to see her dad anyway, especially since they had a lot to talk about.
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Brockton Bay General, recovery ward
10:23 AM…
The hallway to Alice's room seemed longer than it had any right to be, sterile white tiles stretching under harsh fluorescent light. Alessa could hear the squeak of her own sneakers in the quiet, Belinda's softer steps beside her. Somewhere down the hall, a heart monitor beeped steadily — too steady, too mechanical, compared to the racing thud in Alessa's chest.
"Just remember…" Belinda murmured without looking over. "She's here. That's what matters."
Alessa nodded, but the knot in her stomach didn't loosen.
When they reached the door, Alice was propped up in bed, hospital gown slightly askew, hair a wild halo that spoke of either stubbornness or a nurse's surrender. Without her usual sweep of eyeliner and slash of lipstick, Alessa couldn't help but notice that she looked softer, smaller. It wasn't a mask — Alice never hid who she was — but the absence of her 'goth armor' made the shadows under her eyes stand out, the faint hollows in her cheeks a stark reminder of what she'd endured. Despite her best effort, Alessa froze for a breath in the doorway. She'd seen Alice bruised before, paint-smudged and laughing. Never like this — bare-faced, shoulders hunched slightly, like the world had clipped her wings.
"Aren't you going to say hi?" Belinda's voice was gentle, but it made Alice look up.
The instant their eyes met, Alice's mouth quirked just slightly. "What's the matter, Les? Forget what I look like under all the war paint? Took you long enough by the way," she rasped, voice a little scratchy still, but unmistakably hers. "Another five minutes, and I was gonna fake flatline for the drama."
Belinda let out something between a sigh and a laugh. Alessa felt the tension in her shoulders shift, if only a little.
"I see near-death hasn't killed your sense of humor," Alessa said, moving toward the bed. She reached out instinctively, then hesitated. "I don't want to—"
"If you don't hug me right now," Alice cut in, "I'm telling everyone you're emotionally constipated."
Alessa huffed out a laugh and leaned in. The hug was careful at first, but Alice's arms tightened around her, frail yet stubborn, and Alessa returned it fully. Belinda stepped closer, resting a warm hand on Alice's hair.
"You scared us half to death, kiddo," Belinda said, voice thick.
Alice's smirk wavered. "Eh, I've had worse nights," she tried — but the crack in her voice gave her away. The moment stretched, and suddenly none of them were holding it together. Tears welled, then spilled — quiet at first, then unashamed.
"Thanks for coming for me," Alice whispered once she found her voice again some time later.
"Always," Alessa said, fierce and low.
Belinda's voice was soft but firm: "You're family. That means something around here."
When they finally pulled back, Alice sniffed, wiping at her face. "Alright," she said, watery-eyed but smiling, "enough of this Hallmark crap. We going to see your old man or what?"
By the time they headed toward the ICU, Alice's spark was peeking through again — tossing mild jabs at Belinda's "mom voice," poking fun at Alessa's "hero face."
Not all the way back to herself, but moving in the right direction.
=========
Brockton Bay General, ICU
11:02 AM…
The nurses were already prepping Richard for transfer when they arrived, adjusting IV lines and checking vitals as an orderly readied a wheelchair. He looked thinner than Alessa remembered although he'd also been under a bunch of blankets at the time, skin still pale from weeks of recovery, but his eyes were sharp, and when he saw them in the doorway, his whole face lit up.
"About time my girls showed up," Richard said, voice rough but warm. "And look at you, Alice. Haven't seen you since… well." His smile faltered for a half second, the memory of fire and shrapnel behind his eyes, but he pushed past it. "C'mere, kiddo."
Alice hesitated only a moment before stepping forward. The hug was awkward with him seated and hooked to monitors, but Richard made it work, pulling her in with surprising strength. "Careful, old man," Alice muttered. "Don't wanna break you."
"Bah," Richard said, chuckling. "Takes more than a stove blowing up in my face to keep me down." He leaned back slightly, studying her. "But you… you're different. Where's all the black paint and spikes? You feeling alright?"
Alice tried for a smirk. "What, never seen me without eyeliner? Shocking, I know."
Richard raised a brow, patient and quiet. He'd known her too long for the dodge to stick.
Her shoulders slumped a little. "I… it was bad," she admitted, a visible tremor passing through her with just those three words. "Like, really bad. Got snatched by the Merchants coming home from a thing me and Alessa were doing. After being shoved into a van... I don't remember much, not clearly outside the taste of chloroform. Next clear thought I've got, some guy with a snake-tat is shoving a pill or something down my throat. After that, all I remember is just... this buzzing, like a beehive in my head. Everything felt good, too good, wrong. Couldn't move right. Couldn't think. Then nothing." Her voice went thin. "Next thing I know, I'm here."
The room was quiet, save for the steady beep of the monitor. Alessa reached out, squeezing her hand. Belinda's hand settled on her shoulder. Richard's jaw tightened, and for a moment the warmth in his expression hardened into something else. He swallowed it back down, but the fury simmered behind his eyes. "Doesn't matter what happened. You're safe now. And you always got us, you hear?" His voice softened as he reached out, squeezing her arm. "Kindness doesn't cost a damn thing, but it buys you family for life."
Alice blinked hard, then smiled, watery but real. "Yeah. Got it."
"Good," Richard said, giving her arm one last squeeze before glancing toward the remaining orderly who'd stepped back and away to give them their moment in some semblance of privacy. "Now, how about we get me out of here before they try to keep me for the scenery?"
That earned a laugh from all three of them, and the tension in the room eased. For the first time since the explosion, it felt like a step forward for all of them, not just her this time. It might've been small, fragile, but it was also real.
All told, it was a pleasant walk outta the ICU. Richard rolled himself in his wheelchair as best he could, a reminder of what'd occurred just a few weeks ago, but that he was doing so at all still made Alessa stand a little straighter with relief. He struggled, yes, but he was clearly getting stronger all the time although Alessa knew he still had a few weeks, minimum, of physical therapy and recovery before he'd be back to his old self again. Still, following the orderlies as they helped move what few things that needed to come with her dad down to his new room was enough to make the four of them smile as they chatted about light stuff.
Despite smiling at some joke Alice shared though, Alessa caught the subtle, worried if inquisitive look her dad shot her when no one else was paying attention to him. As such, she mentally prepared herself for that conversation she'd promised to have the last time she'd been to see her dad. She just hoped he'd understand since Alessa doubted she'd be able to handle losing her dad in a far less literal sense, especially not with how close she came to losing Alice just a couple days ago.
A short elevator ride down to the General Ward, and a walk down a white painted hallway with green and gray linoleum ended with them entering her dad's new room for the rest of his stay if all went well. Glancing at the placard next to the door, she memorized the number, 103, so she could more easily find it later. From there, it didn't take them long to get everything squared away, but before Alessa knew what was happening, Belinda said something about wanting something from the cafeteria before not quite dragging Alice along behind her. Turning to her dad, still in his chair, it took Alessa all of two seconds to realize the nurses and orderlies had also disappeared at some point.
And her dad had an expectant if gentle look on his face. "Sit down, Alessa." Following the gentle command, Alessa sighed, but didn't argue as she got herself comfortable in a surprisingly comfy brown leather recliner though not before shutting the door to the room. It wouldn't be as private as she would've liked, but at least with the heavy wooden door shut, she'd have a little warning if nothing else. Her dad, perceptive just like she was, nodded his head, utterly unsurprised by the action. "Guess I don't have to say what's on my mind, huh?"
"No…" Alessa sighed out, but nodded her head. "I… might not be able to answer every question, not here, but I'll tell you what I can."
It was as good a promise as she could make, something her dad accepted without complaint. "Well, in that case…" He sighed heavily then, and softly asked, "Did you… see the house? Is there anyth-"
Alessa grimaced before slowly shaking her head. "No… other than some photo albums, small knick knacks, that kinda thing… It's all gone, dad."
"Shit…" Her dad breathed out, his head falling as he rubbed at the front of his forehead with his IV adorned hand. "So many memories… good, bad, just gone. So many years…" He looked up then though, and he fixed her in place with his steely gray eyes before she could say another word, "But you are alright, that's what matters."
Alessa's throat went tight. She wanted to argue, to say that things and memories did matter, that she'd failed by not saving more even if logically she knew she couldn't have done a damn thing about any of it, but the look on her father's face stopped her. That steady, unshakable conviction, the same look he'd used when she was a little girl trying to shoulder blame for things far outside her control.
"It still feels like I should've done more," she murmured, hands twisting in her lap. "I keep replaying it, over and over. If I'd seen that damn wire before you opened the stove, caught that asshole that fled out the wind—"
"Hey." Richard's voice cut through gently but firmly, like the snap of a level being set straight. "Stop that. You didn't blow up the stove. You didn't put me in that bed. And you sure as hell didn't ask for any of this."
Her jaw clenched. She couldn't quite meet his gaze.
"You've been carrying all of it, haven't you?" Richard went on, softer now. "The house, me laid up, Alice getting snatched… You think it's on you to fix everything."
Alessa almost laughed, but the sound came out raw. "If I don't, then who will? The cops?! The PRT?! They're both outnumbered, outgunned, and with what I saw on PHO once word got out, it looked like they were more worried about arresting those two new Capes over dealing with the actual fucking problem. Besides, it is on me, Dad. I could've gone with her that night instead of tinkering like an idiot. I could've given my drones something more than eyes and ears. I could've been ready. But I wasn't. And Alice paid for it. So no, if I hadn-" She cut herself off, biting her tongue before she said too much.
But Richard caught the slip. His eyes narrowed, sharp even through the fatigue. "If you hadn't… what?"
Alessa shifted, restless in the recliner before forcing herself to take a steadying breath. "I can't say here. Not all of it. Just… I've got ways of doing things now. Building things, protecting people, and I'm not going to sit around waiting for someone else to screw it up."
Richard studied her for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair, the faint squeak of the wheels filling the silence. "You sound just like your mom when you get like this," he said finally.
Alessa blinked, startled, her chest clenching with old rage and pain at the mere mention of her name, but it was largely ignored in favor of her surprise at the comparison. "Mom?"
"Yeah." A faint smile tugged at his lips, his eyes full of wistful nostalgia but also sadness and his own share of anger, mostly at himself. "Maria… before she… started to hurt us both, couldn't stand waiting around either. Always had to be doing something, fixing something, even when it damn near drove her into the ground. You get that fire from her. But…" His gaze sharpened again. "You've got my stubborn streak on top of it. And that, kiddo, is dangerous."
Her chest tightened. She didn't trust herself to speak.
Richard let out a slow breath. "I'm proud of you, more than I can ever put into words, but promise me something, Alessa. Promise me you won't let that fire burn you out. Don't lose yourself chasing revenge, or trying to carry the world on your shoulders. I can't… I can't lose you, not like that. So please, don't do that. Don't turn every 'could have' into a noose around your neck. Those bastards took Alice because that's what they do — they prey on whoever they can. That's not your failure, it's theirs." Alessa's fists clenched in her lap, nails digging into her palms. The guilt still coiled in her chest, hot and sour, but his words cut through some of it, if only for a moment. A heavy silence reigned for several seconds after that before a thoughtful frown pulled at Richard's lips at the same time his eyes narrowed, "Wait, drones?
There was no ignoring the lightest touch of steel in his words.
Alessa froze as she immediately realized her mistake. She hadn't meant to say that out loud. Her mouth worked for a second before she managed a softly spoken, "It's… complicated."
"Complicated," he repeated, leaning back slightly in his chair. Not angry, not yet — but expectant, the way he used to wait out her excuses when she came home late from school. It'd been effective then, and his tactic was nearly as effective now.
So she did the only thing she could as she swallowed hard, wishing more than anything the room was soundproof. At least that way she could just… be open with him with no reservations or fear that the wrong person would overhear her. "I want to explain. I do. But I can't—not here, not now."
Richard studied her in silence, his jaw working. He was a man who'd spent a lifetime reading people — coworkers, bosses, his own family. He might've only been a repairman, a tradesman, but he knew when someone was hiding something, but also when they were hiding it for a reason.
Finally, he gave a short nod. "Alright. Not here, not now. But you will tell me, Alessa. Sooner, not later."
"I promise," she said quickly, almost too quickly, but she meant it — the words tasted like iron in her mouth, binding. She wanted him to understand, to know what she was building, why she was doing it. But the thought of saying it out loud, of pulling him into her new world before she could guarantee his safety… it made her chest tighten.
Richard's expression softened, though the weight didn't leave his eyes. "That's all I need for now. Just don't shut me out completely, kiddo. Secrets have a way of eating you alive if you let 'em."
The silence stretched between them, thick with everything unsaid. Then Richard's mouth curved into a faint, tired smile. "You've always been like this, you know. Even when you were five. Remember when you tore apart that toaster because you swore you could make it shoot out Pop-Tarts faster?"
Alessa blinked, caught off guard. "I… yeah. You nearly had a heart attack when it sparked."
He chuckled, low and warm. "Scared the hell out of me. But you looked so proud of yourself, sitting there with crumbs in your hair and a screwdriver bigger than your hand. I should've yelled. Instead I thought, 'Well, at least the kid's got guts.'"
Her lips twitched despite herself. "I was a menace."
"Still are," he said, eyes crinkling. "But you're my menace. And like I said before, I'm proud of you, no matter what you're cooking up behind the scenes."
Alessa's chest ached at that, but in a way that felt less like guilt and more like being seen. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him carefully, mindful of the IV line. For a moment he just held her, steady and solid, like the world hadn't tilted on its axis these last few weeks.
When she finally pulled back, Richard gave her hand a squeeze. "We'll talk more when it's just us. No rush. Just… don't carry it all by yourself until then."
She nodded, throat too tight to answer.
The sound of footsteps outside the door broke the moment, and a second later Belinda pushed it open, Alice trailing behind with two paper cups of coffee and a packet of graham crackers she must've sweet-talked a nurse into handing over. Richard straightened a little, his expression sliding easily back into warmth.
"Good timing," he said. "We were just finishing up."
Alessa caught his eye, saw the promise unspoken there, and gave the smallest nod in return.
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Winslow High School, the hallways
December 4th, Thursday
7:58 AM…
Taylor slipped into the building with her hood pulled up, the fluorescent lights stabbing at her eyes like knives. The migraine hadn't eased overnight; every heartbeat still pulsed behind her temples, but staying home wasn't an option. Not for her. Staying home meant questions. Staying home meant leaving the field uncontested.
Her bugs twitched restlessly at the edges of her awareness, crawling in her locker vents, skittering along the ceiling. She didn't push them far — not after last night's backlash — but just knowing they were there settled the coil in her chest. A small army, invisible to everyone else.
The morning crowd pressed around her, clusters of voices rising and falling. She caught fragments as she passed: "…the docks… some cape fight…" and "…bugs, like everywhere, dude…" Someone even made a buzzing noise, laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world. Taylor's stomach lurched. Did they know? Had anyone seen enough to connect her with the swarm?
Emma's voice cut through the hallway noise like broken glass. "God, can you believe people are freaking out over some gross bug girl? Like, shower much?" Laughter rippled from Madison, Sophia leaning lazy against the lockers with her arms crossed, smirk sharp and predatory. None of them looked directly at Taylor, but the timing wasn't an accident. Never was.
Her pulse quickened. She shoved past, keeping her eyes down, hands tight on her bag straps. Part of her wanted to unleash a thousand roaches right then and there, watch their smug faces turn to screams. Another part, the louder part, whispered that it would only prove them right.
She reached her locker and forced herself to breathe, counting each inhale. Behind her eyes, Alice's pale face flickered, then Alessa's steady voice telling her not to trust the PRT. For the first time, the paranoia didn't feel like hers alone. Taylor twisted the dial on her lock with fingers that still trembled. She was here. She was standing. That had to count for something.
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Winslow High, First Period
8:25 AM…
Taylor sat in the back, hood still up despite the teacher's side-eye. The classroom was too bright, too loud. Chalk squeaked against the board, every scrape threading pain through the remains of her migraine. She stared down at her notebook, pencil unmoving. The words wouldn't come. Not with the buzzing in her head. Not with the whispering two rows over.
"…probably wanted attention, showing up like that." Emma's voice, low but sharp enough to carry.
"More like got the attention she wanted." Sophia's snicker followed, full of cruel amusement. "Bet the Merchants didn't even notice the difference once she was out cold."
Madison giggled behind her hand. "Think they kept the eyeliner at least?"
Taylor's grip on her pencil tightened until the wood creaked. They were talking about Alice. Talking about her like she was a joke, a prop, not a girl who'd been dragged away with a drugged smile on her face. The bugs in the walls stirred, responding to her pulse without her meaning them to. A whisper of wings under the fluorescent hum. Taylor's vision swam red at the edges. She wanted to turn around, wanted to see their faces go white as the swarm poured in, wanted to hear the fear crack their voices.
Her father's face stopped her. Not smiling — just tired. The way he looked when she was twelve and came home with blood on her jeans from being shoved into the lockers. Emma at least had still been on her side, and had still helped her get to her feet again. Even so, he hadn't known what to say then, only that something in him had broken when he saw her flinch away from his touch.
She couldn't do that to him again. Not now.
Taylor forced herself to breathe, nails biting into her palm. She shoved the bugs back, willed them silent. Her pencil snapped in her hand anyway, the sound sharp enough to make the kid next to her glance over. She ignored it, gathering the pieces with shaking fingers. By the time the bell rang, her headache had dulled to a manageable throb.
The fury, though, still burned hot in her chest.
And it didn't get much better when lunch rolled around despite the cafeteria being its usual chaotic self — clattering trays, sour tang of reheated food, voices rising and falling. Taylor ate in silence just like she used to before Alessa and Alice had stepped into her life, tucked into a corner, bugs tracing lazy circuits through the vents overhead. The headache had dulled, but the tension in her chest hadn't.
"…guess the freak's grounded. Merchants don't even want her back." Emma's voice again, sugar-sweet and poisonous. Sophia's laugh was sharper, Madison's echo fainter but no less cruel. Taylor's fork bent under her grip. She forced herself to keep her eyes down, to chew, to swallow. Don't give them what they want. Don't make Dad see her name in a police report. But the bugs shifted restlessly, wings whispering in the walls. If they pushed just one inch further—
She got up before she could finish the thought, dumping her half-full tray into the bin and walking out.
Better to leave than to explode.
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Brockton Bay Library
3:37 PM…
Taylor slipped into a computer cubicle, the screen glow soft on her tired eyes. She logged into the chat account Alessa had set up for the three of them — barebones, encrypted due to her ever present paranoia, hidden under an innocuous looking app name.
One new message, the only one that didn't have some death threat or insult directed at her, blinked back:
Alessa: Need you at the yard. We've got things to talk about. Bring whatever you can, and be careful if you come in from the northwestern end. Unwanted neighbors on that side that I'll soon be evicting.
Taylor's heart jumped. The tight coil in her chest loosened — not gone, but shifting. Alessa wanted her there. Needed her there.
She logged off, gathered her bag, and left without a backward glance.
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Brockton Bay Streets
4:01 PM…
Her bike rattled over cracked pavement, tires humming. The December air cut sharp against her face, but she barely felt it. Every turn, every alley, her bugs flowed ahead of her — spiders tucked into drainpipes, wasps clinging to lampposts, beetles crawling under parked cars. A shadow army, hidden and waiting. If anyone tried to stop her, if anyone even looked at her wrong, she'd know. And this time, she wouldn't hesitate.
Taylor pedaled harder, the docks looming ahead.
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Ch 12, Total Word Count, 7,153 = 700 CP
No rolls
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End Notes: Well now, things are about to get even more juicy thanks to the Trio nearly making Taylor snap before pulling a fucking Carrie on damn near everyone in Winslow, starting with the Bitches Three. Not only that, but Alessa about killed herself, making a rudimentary exo-suit while at the same time setting up a makeshift lab from whatever medical junk she could get her hands on before finishing off what her little brain in a jar was able to do on its own. Alice was reunited with, and oh, Alessa and her dad had a pretty heartfelt chat even if she wasn't able to be completely honest with him. All told, quite a lot's happened. As ever though, eager to hear your thoughts, positive or otherwise alike. For now though, take care, stay safe, and I'll see ya soon!