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Rating:

Mature

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceMajor Character Death

Category:

Multi

Fandom:

Parahumans Series - Wildbow

Characters:

Additional Tags:

Mystic Eyes of Death PerceptionConceptual DeathHorrorPsychological HorrorBody HorrorCosmic HorrorExistential DreadSad girl hoursAlt-Power Taylor HebertPower CorruptionIdentity CrisisCharacter StudyBeing Taylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver Is SufferingTaylor Hebert | Skitter | Weaver Needs a HugMagicInsanityMurder

Language:

English

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Published:2025-06-21Updated:2025-11-06Words:56,264Chapters:9/?Comments:252Kudos:757Bookmarks:293Hits:29,582

She Who Sees Death

TheSmilingFox

Chapter 6: Bite the Dragon's Neck (D)

Chapter Text

1/The Girl Who Didn't Die

Bite the Dragon's Neck

"Cut what breathes. Hide when seen. Kill the dragon."

Whisper. My voice sticks to the floorboards, sliding between the slats. Too loud. Too steady.

Lines writhe under the bed with me. Red, then darker, black, veins crawling away from the light. Shiver, twitch, gone.

Knife against chest. Cold. Press. Fold—click—unfold. Again. Again.

Heartbeat answers the metal. Steel claps, ribcage knocks back. Fold, unfold. Fold, unfold. My pulse is the hinge.

Weight of it, anchor in my hand. Sound sharp as a promise. Head prickling, spine tingling, the little hairs bristling just before a cut.

Close my eyes. Pain blooms. White fire behind them. Throbbing skull, hot nerves. Knife steadies me. Fold. Unfold. Fold. Unfold.

Tonight.

Breath shakes. My lips shape it again. Tonight.

Lung. His name tastes like smoke.

I know the streets. Every corner. Every blind turn, broken light, gun barrel. I see their faces when I blink. Grunts, meat, already half-buried. Some with steel in their eyes. Most with fear.

The map is carved into me. I'll step into the jaws. Tear them out from the inside.

No capes will come. Not there. Not in that dark. The cops will hover, circle the carcass I leave behind, too slow, too afraid.

ABB rattled, stumbling, bleeding from cuts I already gave them. If I wait, they breathe again. If I wait, they grow teeth back.

Not anymore.

The room glows faint white. Cloud-weight pressing overhead. I don't have to look... I smell it. Damp. Rot. Humidity swelling.

Rain coming.

I whisper to the knife. To myself. To the approaching storm.

He dies before the first drop hits the ground.

I'll make sure.

Steps. Heavy. Dragging.

"Taylor," Dad's voice. Warm. Too warm. "I bought donuts. Your favorite. Chocolate inside."

Door creaks. Air shifts. I fold tighter, bones pressing bone, under the bed. Breath shallow. Stop.

"Taylor?" Again. Steps shuffle. Uneven. Hesitant. "You there, kid? Time for breakfast."

I don't move. Don't answer. Wait. Just wait. Until the pause. The sigh. The soft retreat of him leaving, defeated.

Gone.

Only me.

Hunger. Irrelevant. Cold. Irrelevant. Dad. Irrelevant. All of it stripped away. The only thing that matters... Lung. The dragon. Cut the head. Bleed the gang dry.

Tonight. One kill.

Then maybe. Maybe rest. Food. Maybe tell Dad. I did something right. Maybe see his face light, for once.

Picture it. Imagine coming home after fire and blood, days of work carved into scars. Food, heat, pride. Three years of nothing undone in one act.

But no. Nothing comes.

Close my eyes... only dark. Only steel weighing down my palm. Only the faces. Shocked, terrified, realizing the blade is theirs. That pain is theirs.

Comfortable monsters, dragged into the dirt where they belong.

Open eyes. Lines writhe. Crawling things, red then black, shifting under the bed. Watching. Waiting.

I curl tighter. Tighter. Press ribs into knees, knees into chest. Disappear. Crush myself small. Hide forever.

Blink. Gone.

Night outside. I don't remember falling asleep. I don't remember the hours. Only the dark.

Crawl out. Quiet. Move like shadow. Out the door. Out of the house. Slipping into the night.

Sky, bruised grey. Heavy. Sagging over me.

Winter night but wrong. Too hot. Too thick. Taste it on my tongue.

Metal. Blood. Rust bite. Dry throat scraping against itself. Air refusing water.

No-man's land.

Blue uniforms at the entrances. Major streets… light patrols, IDs checked, sheep herded. I don't touch those. Slip around.

Alleys worse. More eyes. More guns. Some sealed off, chained, silent.

Capes too. Their shadows stretched thin across the block. Relaxed. Tense. Always too much.

Flash of blue armor, towering. A machine gliding on a machine. Armsmaster. The loyal knight. Always circling. Always too near.

His visor cuts across me. Light glints. I dive into an alley. Breathe through my teeth.

Dangerous. Avoid. Wait.

Wait.

Window. Small. Seconds only. Enough. Crawl across the street before his orbit closes.

Middle path. Not empty, not crowded. A street alive with voices, people arguing with the uniforms, shoving papers, cursing badges.

Police mumble back. Gang fights. Dangerous criminal loose. Words echo.

Unidentified.

Who?

Can't be me.

Doesn't matter.

The Dragon waits.

Closer. Smell their coffee. Bitter, burnt, clinging to breath. Hear them mutter. Murder, overtime, not enough pay. The weight of their words barely holds. Easy to duck. Easy to slide under their flimsy cordon.

"Get out of my way already!"

Shouting. Voices crack. Feet scuff.

I freeze. Press low, behind a car.

Peek.

There, woman. Green uniform, tight, sharp. Muscle drawn under olive skin. White beret. Scarf, sash. Knife. Empty hands that could become full with steel and gunfire in a blink.

Miss Militia.

Animal in human skin. War wearing civility.

Too close. Too dangerous.

Crouch lower. Listen.

"Please, sir." Her voice… measured, clipped, almost ceremonial. "We just need a name. An address. For your safety. Then you can go."

Civilian spits back. Bitter. Mocking. "I ain't got time for this. You're paid to block me. Paid to waste my time. I'm not. Look at the clouds - it's about to rain! Great job, hero."

Noise builds. More officers gather, surround, contain.

Miss Militia caught. Busy. Herding sheep.

I move. Past them. Past the cordon.

Deeper. Into the Dragon's den.

Cut the Dragon. Don't breathe. Don't be seen.

The Docks. Streets hollow. Emptier than usual. Not safer. Worse.

Tension thick. Eyes everywhere. Watching. Always watching.

I press to walls. Hug alleys. Ghost in brick and shadow. Drift. Slide.

Warehouse. One of many. Windows, broken teeth. Lights inside.

I slip in. No sound. Drop low. Crouch.

Voices. Sharp. Hungry. Violet edges. Restless.

Count. Five. No… eight. Too many.

Wait. Wait them out.

Knife in my palm. Cold spine of it. Fold. Click. Unfold. Fold. Click.

Heartbeat answers.

"Damn, these babies… nothing like those little pistols! Feels like I'm a terrorist or some shit—"

Metal clatter. Moving parts. The weight of a gun in the air.

"That baby is an AK-47, moron. Point it at my face again and I'll break your arms. Boss wants a sweep. Eyes open. Focus or die." Gruff. Heavy voice. Accented.

Laughter in reply. Fake sharpness. "Hey, hey, that a threat? Don't like your tone, man."

Crash. Wood or box slammed aside.

"No threats. Just truth. You saw the last crew. Four men, cut into pieces. Dead meat. This thing... we don't know if it's a cape. Don't know if it's a monster. Doesn't matter. Guns are the bare minimum if we want to breathe tomorrow. Gear up and move out. You, you, and you, stay. Anything moves? Shoot. Then shoot again. And if it's bigger than you can handle… torch the place."

Boots on concrete. Steady march. Predators… or prey.

Doors slam. Light dies. Only scraps left to see by.

Dark again. Waiting.

I wait.

Minutes. Maybe more. Still. Until voices loosen. Laughter again, like nothing wrong.

"Shit, all this for one guy? Boss should take care of him himself."

A snort, sharp. "Yeah, genius idea. Except no one who's seen him lived, dumbass. The two who did? Hospital beds. Rat knows he can't touch the boss, so he hides. We gotta flush him out."

Silence. Shifting feet. Metal clack, magazine, chamber, weapon ready.

"…I dunno," another voice. Uneasy. "If he can just fillet people like that… I ain't sure even the boss could handle him. Just sayin'."

Silence again. Heavier this time. Knowing. Uneasy.

Good.

"Well, pray he can. Or we're fucked. Anyway, where'd the others go again?"

"The usual. Y'know, the factory. Green doors. Boss wants a meeting before the hunt."

Factory. Green doors.

The Dragon's den.

I lick my lips. Knife out. Snap. Unfold. Cold edge glinting in the dim.

Wait.

Slip behind one. Close. Close enough to smell sweat, oil, steel.

Close my eyes.

Hand moves—

—blur—

—flash of red—

—wet sound. Too close. Too loud.

Fingers sticky. Knife heavy. Lurch. Another shape in front of me.

Shout cut off halfway. Spray. Hot on my cheek.

Steel drags bone. Rips fabric.

Something crunches. Something collapses.

Breath ragged. Not mine.

Dark walls trembling. Dripping.

I blink.

Silence.

Lights out. Floor slick, shining. Walls sweating black.

At my feet - parts. Not whole. Scattered pieces. Flesh in the wrong places. Faces blurred into meat.

I don't remember.

Only the heat. The dizzy fog. The pulse in my skull. Satisfaction in my teeth. Daze curling around me, heavy, dizzy, satisfied.

"Thank you," I bite out.

I stumble. Shoulder hits a box. Hand slides inside. Touch.

Metal. Bullets. Guns.

Something round… Hard. Grip it. Lift.

Grenade. Weight heavy in my palm.

I stare a second. Then set it down. Keep going.

Another box. Fingers find shape. Turn it, tilt it toward the light. Red streak across surface. Letters.

Incendiary.

I bounce it once. Twice. Solid thud.

Fingers probe. Catch on metal ring. Pin.

Pull. Drop it back into the box.

Turn. Jog. Out of the warehouse.

Don't look back.

"Taylor. Please. Don't shut me out. I'm here."

A voice. Familiar. Warm. Too close.

I breathe wrong. Lungs scrape. Tear. The sound fills my head.

Cold air knifes between my ribs, drags at my bones. Steel in my palm. Heavy. Alive. It bleeds its heat into me, like it knows.

"No. You're not."

The warmth is gone. In its place, hunger.

Keep moving.

Walls, alleys, rusted containers. My hands brushing, clinging, needing contact.

Warehouses. Empty. Hollow. Dead.

Storage units. Lonelier still.

Then, noise.

Feet scraping. Voices layered, tangled.

Click-snap. Metal ready to spit heat, spit lead.

Found it.

Old factory. Rotting. Green doors peeling like skin. Light leaking through cracks.

Alive. No - twitching.

Something ugly that should've died, still crawling, still moving.

Crouch low. Crawl, circle.

Eyes on entrances. Shadows. Guards. All blocked.

Windows chained, doors sealed. Traps. Eyes everywhere.

No way in.

Unless…

A hole in the wall. Small. Wrong size for men. Right size for me.

For something lean. For something that doesn't belong.

On my belly. Crawl.

Cobwebs cling, thread-tight across my mouth. Spider on my cheek.

Little legs twitching. I fork it with my blade. Drag it off. Smear it into cloth.

Gone.

Inside now.

Boxes stacked, half-open. Shelves crumbling, wood soft with rot. Light bleeding under a door. Muffled voices. Close. Too close. Not words - just pressure in my skull.

Hand on knob. Won't turn.

Locked.

I sink down again. Eye level with the floor.

Black lines across plaster, writhing. Cracks? No… veins.

Knife edge into one. Press. Pull. Slow. Careful.

Snap. Piece comes loose.

Fingers dig. Peel it away. Hold my breath.

Dust in my nails. Cold wall against my skin.

I put my eye to the hole.

Scores. Rows. Too many.

Green. Red. Wrong colors. Wrong here.

Skin carved with beasts. Dragons. Tigers. Teeth and claws crawling up arms, necks, faces.

Steel flashing. Blades. Pistols. Rifles. Tools meant for war. Toys in the wrong hands.

And all quiet. Breathing together. Waiting.

All turning toward one shape.

Back turned. Doesn't matter. I know.

Muscle coiled like rope. Dragons inked in red and green climbing his back, alive when his skin stretches. Shoulders like walls. Arms thick. Hands made for breaking. Jeans blue, clean, stupid… like a tiger in a hoodie. Doesn't belong.

Lung.

The Dragon.

I pressed myself down. Breath thin, scraping dirt. Nails biting grit. Hair spilling over my arms, hiding me. Still. Small. Watch. Listen.

His voice, low. A rumble rolling deep. Like a piano key pressed too long, too heavy. Dark sound. Inside my chest.

"Fifteenth to twentieth. Empty the houses. Parents first. Children… take them with you. Kill them if he does not come. Anyone runs, you shoot."

The words drop heavy. Not anger. Not rage. Something else. Recognition. The pulse of it thrumming in my skull.

He lifts his hand. Clenched fist. Symbol. Command.

"He likes to play hero. We make him play."

Fear. Unease. A word unspoken. A question pressed to their lips and swallowed back down.

Children? Or the killing?

Didn't matter. Didn't care. Fear would drag them. Fear would split open the night.

They'd obey no matter how sick they felt.

And somewhere deep—

I felt it.

Happy.

Furious.

Because he'd done this for me.

Because pain would ripple outwards from my shadow. Because he made them bleed for me.

Rush.

A piece clicking in.

Satisfaction jagged and sharp, lighting me up.

Seen. Finally seen. Not ignored. Not brushed aside.

Someone saw me and didn't turn away.

The men scattered. Feet on concrete. Weapons shifting.

Two figures remained.

One, a silhouette. Knife-edges. Guns, grenades. A shadow sculpted out of metal and murder. Pale demon mask stretched wide in its grin. Oni Lee.

Beside him, someone new. Smaller. Compact. Tactical gear strapped tight. Gas mask, lenses burning red. Black hair spilling loose, glossy in the factory lights.

Lung turns. A single finger, long, calloused, pointing. A spear aimed at his own hound.

"You. Follow the groups. Alternate. If they hesitate, kill them with the families. If you see that shit sneaking around… break his arms. His legs. Bring him to me."

Oni Lee nods. Holds still.

Then ash. Nothing. Gone.

Lung faces the other. She straightens, hand on hip, casual, too casual.

"Yes, mister bossman, sir," her voice sing-song, bright. "I walk around. Make things go boom-boom. Already know the drill."

"No." A rumble, iron deep. "Standby. Back to base."

"What?!" A snap of protest. "But I can blow that killer-wannabe fuck to smithereens! It'd be a cinch. Done and over. Beer after." Then, quieter, flatter, "Sir."

"Exactly. If you kill him, I kill you. Do not test me, Bakuda."

I swallow. Tongue scraping lips. Steel claw clutched tighter.

He won't share. Won't give anyone else the pleasure.

This was personal. Him and me.

And it would be. Just not the way he thinks.

I curl smaller. Bone pressed bone. Nails in dust.

Wait.

Until footsteps dragged. Until Bakuda's whining trailed off into the dark.

Then—

"F-Fire!" a shout. Raw. Panicked.

A man at the entrance. Eyes wide, face pale.

"One of the caches – it's burning! Corpses too! It's him!"

The room ripples. Tension snaps through the air. Shouts rising, words tangling.

Bakuda spins, sharp, alert now. Red lenses flashing. Waiting for Lung.

He doesn't move. Doesn't blink.

Arms folded across his chest.

"Leave it to burn," he says. Flat. Heavy. "Do what I said. Now."

And just like that, they break. Scatter. Fear twitching in their hands, but obedience rooting in their steps. The ABB moves out.

Bakuda lingers. A hiss of whispers between her and him.

A growl in return, low, final.

She flinches. Backs away. Out. Gone.

Silence.

Just him.

Alone.

Broad back. Muscles corded tight. Arms heavy at his sides. Fingers curling, clawing nothing.

Still turned from me.

Lung waits.

Seconds stack. Then minutes. Then… nothing. I stop counting.

He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Doesn't breathe, almost.

I curl tighter in the dark. Cramped hole in the wall. Locked room, abandoned room. Eyes fixed on his back.

Black lines crawl. Shift. Stretch over skin the color of smoke and dust. Not bone. Not muscle. Patterns. Wrong geometry. Slow. Too slow.

Carving. Writing the math of his death.

I glance at the locked door above me. See the lines crawl across it, too. Easy. Too easy. Cut through. Slip in. Finish it. He's alone.

Peek again—

Gone.

Walking.

Urgency seizes me. My lungs bite at my ribs. I move. Crawl. Scuttle. Slip through shadows, cling to walls, unseen.

The Dragon struts. His den empty, left behind. The blood and fire shrinking in his wake.

He walks into silence. Night. Dead streets. Windows shattered, doors ripped. Territory hollowed out. Nothing left but ruin.

And us.

THUMP.

I hug the walls. Boxes. Any shadow deep enough to bury me. Knife slick in my hand. Ankle throbs. Ignore it.

THUMP.

The lines glow. Dim red. Inside-out light. Crawling. Crawling.

They whisper.

THUMP.

My lips wet. Curl. The claw burns against my palm. Sweat freezes down my back.

Closer.

THUMP.

Closer.

THUMP.

Close enough to measure him. Tall. More than me. Too much. Fragile all the same.

One line. Diagonal. Across his back. Splits a dragon's snarl in half. Not so terrible. Not from here.

TH–UMP.

A worthy kill. A beast to look me in the eye. To fight back.

A rival.

TH-UMP.

I prowl. Knife steady.

Air presses on me, heavy, wet. My lungs claw. I don't need them.

THUMP.

Sky hums. Crackles. Ugly, swollen. Rain waits.

Saliva strings down my teeth. Something else too.

THUMP.

Legs coil. Ready. Ready—

THUMP.

He stops.

Hands clench. Knuckles pop. A growl rattles the ground. Not me. Him.

Challenge. Warning.

Recognition.

"I know you are there," voice deep, squeezing around my bones. "Come out and fight me, little killer."

I freeze. Stare. Breath held.

Raindrop.

One.

Then another.

Pat. Pat-pat. Pat-pat-pat.

The sky cracks open.

I leap. Run. Steps vanish into rain.

Lung turns, immediate, violent.

A grunt, deep. No, snarl. Animal.

Left arm erupts. Orange. Fire. Not a hand anymore. Claw. Dragon's talon. Swinging for my head. To crush. To melt.

And I see him.

The steel mask. Ancient.

Wrong.

Not a mask. That's his face. Flesh turned to metal. Monster.

Eyes burning. Wrathful light. Sun at dawn. Fixing on me. Target.

But I don't care. Don't look at the eyes. Eyes distract.

Arm. Fire.

Inside the fire, I see them. The lines. Moving. Shifting. Calling. Waiting.

Ready.

I swing. Knife in hand. He swings. Fist of flame.

I drop low. Too slow.

Agony bursts in my shoulder. White-hot. Searing.

Smell burnt meat. My meat.

Hear bones crack. Creak.

Acrid smoke in my nose. Half my body screaming fire.

I drive the knife. Into bicep.

Flames eat my hand, skin peeling, blistering. Doesn't matter. Drag the blade. Through him. Through the line.

I hit ground. Hard. Cough. Groan.

No. Not a groan. An animal noise. Wounded thing.

Shoulder screaming. Hurts, hurts so much.

Rain falls. Cold. Mixing with burnt flesh. Meat-water stench. Vomit in my throat.

But I've hurt worse. I've bled worse.

I crawl up. Push legs straight. Look back.

Lung. Still tall. Still there.

Flames crawling his arm.

Skin cracking, lava veins glowing orange, too bright.

Steam hissing off him in sheets. Rain evaporating before it touches.

One second. Two.

He stiffens. Growls. Breath heavy.

Neck turns slow. Looks down. Left arm.

Wet sound. Flesh ripping.

His arm falls. Dead weight. From bicep down.

Plop. Steam.

Stump smooth. Flat. Too clean. My line. My cut.

The red in the stump deepens. Crimson… then orange. Bright. Bleeding molten sludge. It hits the floor, eats through it. Fire-blood.

He straightens.

Sound again. Low. Rolling.

Growl? Laugh? Both? Neither?

Can't tell. His face, iron, unreadable.

But the eyes.

I know.

No fear.

No doubt.

No surprise.

Only fury.

THUMP.

I look into his eyes. See the lines shifting.

I can take him.

Dies tonight.

THUMP.

Flesh splits. Bones cracking, snapping, reforming.

Skin burns dull grey, like old ash baked into flesh.

Taller. Wider. Heat spilling off him in waves. Pants burning through at the legs.

Man becoming beast.

Bigger target.

Easier kill.

THUMP.

My body seizes. Muscles coil. Not thrill. Warning.

He can take me too.

He could kill me.

THUMP.

No. Won't. Can't.

Not after this. Not after everything.

One cut. The perfect cut.

I focus. A line, head to toe.

My hand clamps the knife tighter.

He tenses.

Wait.

Wait…

I leap—

CRACK.

Stop.

"…ghhh—hhghhh—"

He lifts me.

Not claws. Not grabbing.

…Huh?

His fist - inside.

Chest split open around him.

No. No. Not right.

Metal-grey twisted into me.

Deeper. Further. Something creaks apart. Gives way.

Can't feel it.

No pain. No relief.

Just nothing.

Can't breathe.

Can't move.

Why?

He tilts his head. Curious. Almost bored.

My own head falls sideways. Won't hold. Too heavy.

One second. Two. Three.

He pulls.

Wet. Ripping.

A sound that shouldn't exist.

Blood erupts. Spray across his face. His hand dripping red.

I drop. Back first. Heavy. Too heavy.

Knife? Gone. Can't feel. Can't find.

Arms dead. Neck locked.

Lung steps into view. Black. Burning. Rain hissing against him. In his hand—

A lump. Flesh. Meat.

He lifts it, dripping, steaming in the rain.

I don't understand. Can't. Until he clenches his fist, and I feel nothing inside.

Sizzling in his palm. Cooking alive.

He squeezes. Pops.

Blood runs through his fingers.

Looks at me. Grumbles low.

Turns. Walks.

I can't move.

Sky above... dark.

Vision shrinking.

Cold setting.

Thought drifts past.

I had him.

Another.

…Did I?

No answer. Darkness eats the rest.

So tired.

Just a nap. Quick nap.

Then I'll go home. Rethink.

Just one nap.

I'm tired…

DEAD END

Bite Not the Dragon's Neck

You challenged a dragon before your fangs had grown in.

"Learn when to listen to your instincts.

"The lines of death are everywhere - but some are surrounded by fire.

"Come back when you know how to bleed smart."

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Chapter 1043 - 6