Five minutes left in class. I sit at my desk, counting down the seconds, mind wandering as I marvel at the idea of a full hour for lunch. Only in America, I suppose. Drawing as little attention as possible has become its own kind of art form—the last thing I need is anyone noticing how much I've changed. So I walk the halls, play the part, and hope that no one wonders why I feel so fundamentally different.
That first day, it felt like hell. Cramped, dark, suffocating, pain lancing through every nerve as something crawled and bit and stung. The stench... For a moment, I was sure this was it—actual damnation. But when I opened my eyes again, it was in a hospital room, with only the steady beeping of the monitor for company and time enough to piece together what had happened.
Who am I? Taylor Hebert, by all accounts—a girl-shaped target for every cruel impulse in Brockton Bay. Tall, thin, hunched from too many years trying to make herself invisible. Awkward and graceless, like a marionette with tangled strings. But, if I'm honest, that's just the shell. I'm not Taylor. Not really. I don't even know who I was before I ended up here, my own memories a blurry haze. But I know this: I am not her. Where Taylor let the "trio"—Madison Clements, Sophia Hess, and Emma Barnes—walk all over her, I feel nothing but cold anger at the memory. No one has the right to torment me or anyone close to me.
It's more than just a difference in temper, though. Habits, preferences, even the way I approach problems—none of it matches up. Taylor loved pepperoni pizza; I could go my whole life without it. She never touched alcohol; I long for a strong, dark beer. Taylor treasured her long black hair, the only part of her appearance she thought worth anything. I'd cut it off in an instant if I could—long hair is just a liability, especially in a fight.
A wad of paper hits me in the head, snapping me out of my thoughts. I turn, and there's Madison Clements, dressed like it's the peak of summer, flashing me a grin that's all plastic edges. She's popular—at least enough to flaunt fashion choices I could never get away with. When she sees I'm looking, she gives a mocking little smirk. I just sigh and turn away. Madison. Sophia. Emma. To Taylor, they were monsters. To me, they're just… obstacles—one's I could crush if I wanted.
But Taylor's memories caution me. In this world, independent capes are hunted, and my power—Butcher's power, with its terrifying versatility—would paint a target on my back the size of Brockton Bay. Best to keep my cards close for now. Still, for schoolyard bullies? Violence might not be sophisticated, but it is effective.
Mr. Gladly wraps up the lesson with his usual forced "I'm your pal" smile and a weekend assignment about capes and their impact on the world. As chairs scrape back and chatter rises like a wave in the cramped classroom, I internally scoff. School politics and popularity contests are so trivial compared to what I know is out there: monsters that destroy cities, capes that bend the laws of nature, and an underworld that makes schoolyard cruelty look laughable.
Taylor always rushed to the bathroom to eat in a stall, hiding from the world. Not me. If I'm going to have lunch, I'll do it where I want—outside, beneath the trees, with the fresh air. The cafeteria is too crowded, and the less I have to jostle for space on an empty stomach, the better.
I sling my backpack over my shoulder and head for the door, already expecting Madison's attempt at a trip. She's nothing if not predictable. Instead of tumbling, I plant my foot—hard—on her instep. She yelps. She tries to push me, but I've already sidestepped, withdrawing with a dry, calculated apology that makes it clear I don't regret a thing.
"You're dead, four-eyes! Sophia's going to flatten you when she finds out!" she hisses, her anger genuine.
"Looking forward to it," I call over my shoulder, not breaking stride.
Personality shift too obvious? Maybe, but teenagers reinvent themselves all the time. Taylor getting locked in a locker—almost buried alive—would be enough to change anyone. And anyway, right now, my focus is elsewhere: on the web of insects I can feel, in a radius of two city blocks. Millions of tiny bodies, each obeying my will if I wish. Roaches, flies, wasps, bees, ants, spiders. If Madison or anyone else knew what I could do...
Some might scoff. "Insects? Not the most glamorous power." But my control is total, my multitasking near-limitless. For reconnaissance alone, it's invaluable—once you get past the queasiness of seeing and hearing through compound eyes.
Just now, I'm listening in—Sophia Hess is talking on the phone in a classroom, cursing out her superiors, grumbling about chores at Wards HQ. So, Sophia's a Ward. That's… significant. It means the "games" this trio plays aren't just childish cruelty—they have consequences, and I have to be careful how and when I push back. But one thing's for sure: if anyone's getting outplayed, it won't be me.
I step outside under the patchy shade of a tree, eyeing Winslow's graffiti-stained walls. The school's a dump, but at least here I can eat in peace—pulling out my battered Alexandria lunchbox. I unwrap my sandwich, reflecting on Taylor's hero worship. Her memories tell me she preferred Armsmaster. Me? I think Alexandria's style is more my speed.
As I eat, I send out a mental command, my fruit flies marking the movement of "the trio" as they regroup nearby, their emotional state spiking with anger. I don't have long before they find me, but with all the prying eyes at school, I doubt they'll risk a scene in public.
It's funny, in a way. I have powers that scared even the Slaughterhouse Nine, and yet here I am, strategizing over how to deal with three teenage girls. What a world.
"Hey, Hebert!" Madison's voice cuts through my musings, shrill with outrage. "What do you think you're doing?!"
I fold up my lunch calmly, stand, and turn to face them, tilting my head with a slight, mocking smile.
"Girls?" I ask, voice level. "Did you need something?"