(ACCIDENTAL VILLAINY) CRASH-OUT

To crash out meant to cross a line you could never uncross. It meant doing something that would brand you forever, whether that meant going to prison, taking a life, or losing your own.

In Taylor’s case, it hadn’t been planned. It wasn’t even born from rage. Maybe it was just the final straw, the realization that no matter how hard she tried, no matter what she did to prove herself, someone like Shadow Stalker could still swoop in and tear everything apart.

So she stopped holding back.

The moment she let go, the rooftop exploded into motion. The swarm that had hung at the edges of her perception surged forward as one, obeying the instinct buried deep within her before she could even form a clear thought.

Shadow Stalker moved fast, phasing through the insects that came from the front and firing her bolts in short, panicked bursts, but it wasn’t enough. The swarm pressed in from all sides, relentless, pouring through the smallest gaps in her bodysuit, crawling through the eyeholes of her mask, and into her nose and mouth and ears. For every space she phased through, there were ten more filled with living, biting bodies.

Taylor heard the first scream through the constant drone of countless wings, then a second, desperate one, and a third that broke into a sob halfway through.

Still, the bugs didn’t stop.

Taylor wanted to look away, but she stood rooted to the spot, unable to move or even breathe. Each stinger that struck and each bite that broke skin sent a jolt through her nerves, a sharp reminder that she was losing control. But in that moment, it no longer felt like she was the one giving commands. The swarm had taken on a will of its own, a collective instinct that drowned out her hesitation, her fear, and her reason. All she could do was watch as they obeyed the part of her she couldn’t silence, the part that wanted Shadow Stalker to hurt.

Shadow Stalker stumbled, her movements jerking and uncoordinated, her form shifting erratically in and out of her breaker state as pain and panic disrupted her concentration. 

By the time Taylor had wrestled control back—the swarm pulling back just enough for her to see what she’d done—it was to the sight of Shadow Stalker lying sprawled across the rooftop, hands twitching, her breathing shallow and ragged. At some point, she must have clawed her mask off, tearing at her own face in blind desperation as the swarm buried into her skin.

Taylor caught a glimpse of her features and felt her stomach twist violently.

The face that looked back at her was hideously swollen, the lips puffed and blistered, the eyes reduced to narrow slits surrounded by angry, inflamed flesh. It was barely recognizable as human, more a grotesque mask of suffering from a nightmare than anything else.

Taylor froze. The smell of blood and venom hung heavy in the air. For a moment, it wasn’t Shadow Stalker lying there, but Lung, twitching uncontrollably.

She staggered forward, the bile rising in her throat. “No,” she whispered. Her voice cracked as she forced herself closer, taking a step forward, then another. Her every motion was jerky and unsure. “No, no, no...”

God, what had she done?

The Ward’s body twitched again, a weak convulsion that left air rasping through her throat in short, broken gasps. She might have tried to speak, but there were no words, only groans and moans getting increasingly weaker.

Taylor dropped to her knees hard, but the pain barely registered. “I didn’t mean to,” she said, though no one was listening. “I didn’t—”

Another violent jerk ran through the Ward’s body before it went still.

Taylor’s breath hitched. For a moment, she thought it was over. Then she saw the faint rise and fall of Shadow Stalker’s chest, the desperate, ragged wheeze of someone fighting for air.

Anaphylaxis. The word cut through the fog in her mind.

She could fix this. She could still fix this.

Her hands flew to her backpack, scrabbling through the compartments for the one thing she needed. She had thought about it before, planned for it, told herself it was important. So if she could just find it, everything would be—

Her hand closed on nothing. There was no EpiPen.

She hadn’t bought one yet.

She remembered going to the pharmacy with her dad, the clerk explaining about needing a prescription first, and the way she had walked away with nothing but a pack of ammonia inhalants that had felt like a good enough substitute at the time. Now they were useless, utterly meaningless.

“Please,” she whispered, pressing trembling hands to Shadow Stalker’s chest. “Please don’t—please—”

Taylor sat back, numb. The Ward’s face, grotesque and swollen, was streaked with tears and mucus, her expression frozen somewhere between fear and agony.

There was no pulse. 

Taylor didn’t know how long she sat there, staring at the body. The rooftop seemed to tilt and sway beneath her, the sounds of the city fading into silence.

When the flood of green-and-white lights washed over her, she didn’t react. When the first bursts of containment foam struck, coating her arms, chest, and legs, she barely flinched. The substance expanded rapidly, hardening around her, locking her in place before she could even think to resist.

Even then, she didn’t move.

Shadow Stalker was dead.

Heavy footsteps approached, and unable to look at the body anymore, Taylor slowly lifted her gaze to see the edge of a familiar halberd pointed directly at her. The intense purple glow of plasma traced the weapon’s blade, and behind it stood Armsmaster, his expression hard with anger.

Above him floated Shielder, and what little she could see of his eyes was wide, his mouth half open.

For a moment, the world went completely still.

Taylor tried to speak, to say she hadn’t meant for this to happen, but the words died in her throat. The foam clung to her mouth, muffling the sounds until they became nothing but ragged gasps.

Her eyes met Shielder’s. He looked down at Shadow Stalker’s unmoving body, then at her, and Taylor could see it in his face: the shift in his expression from shock to comprehension, then to something that hurt far more deeply.

Betrayal.

Her knees buckled beneath the weight of the hardening foam, and she slumped against it, too tired to resist. The reality of it all came crashing down—the ruined rooftop, the lifeless body, and the heroes looming over her—and Taylor Hebert, the girl who had wanted nothing more than to prove she wasn’t a villain, could only stare back at them.

She had crossed the line.

A single, broken sound escaped her—a choked sob that was more breath than voice—and then she closed her eyes in defeat, letting the silence swallow her whole.