(AV) UNPLANNED CONSEQUENCES

She should’ve felt relieved.

Instead, Taylor stared out the grimy third-story window of the abandoned office building she’d chosen as a temporary lookout and felt... annoyed. She shifted her weight, the strap of her backpack hanging loosely from her shoulder, while her mask dangled from her fingertips. It was almost ten, but bar the occasional passers-by and passing cars, the city was still quiet.

She’d done two full loops around the Boardwalk, checked in on a few alleys downtown, scoped out the fringes of ABB territory, and even watched for a bit outside a suspected Empire bar someone on PHO had warned about. And nothing. No purse snatching, no posturing thugs, no shady hand-off in a darkened corner, not even a spray-painting teen. There was just a tense silence.

Brockton Bay was many things. Quiet wasn’t supposed to be one of them, especially since it was often said to be one of the most violent cities in the country. Parahuman fights were practically a weekly tradition, and even just two weeks ago, she could’ve found a handful of petty crimes without trying.

So what changed?

The answer came to her in bits and pieces, eventually clicking together as she climbed up a fire escape overlooking a narrow alleyway, her bugs fanning out throughout the neighborhood to be her eyes and ears. 

This was all her fault, and not in the metaphorical way, either. She meant it literally. She’d killed Lung, and yeah, maybe he’d deserved it—definitely deserved it—but to everyone else watching from the outside, it had sent a very different kind of message.

She landed on a rooftop with a soft grunt and knelt behind a rusted air conditioning unit, scanning the street below to check if someone was doing a line of coke or anything illegal. All she got were rats, a malnourished stray dog, and a homeless guy muttering to himself while urinating behind a dumpster, so still nothing. 

Lung had been feared, revered even, as a monster in a human shape. Someone who had defeated a Protectorate team Armsmaster himself was part of, and fought a fucking Endbringer to a standstill. And she, a new parahuman in the scene with not even a name and motive anyone could pin down—using bugs of all things—had taken him down on her first night out.

The PRT hadn’t helped, either. Maybe they thought calling her a villain would help control the narrative, and dissuade any copycats or vigilantes. But instead, they’d just publicized it. And that, apparently, had been enough.

She didn’t even need to make another appearance. Her absence, in its own way, had made her scarier, feeding into the mythos of the faceless, powerful villain.

She’d seen the still trending threads on PHO, despite how long it had been since then: “Brockton’s Latest Boogeyman?”, “Bug-Villain Confirmed?”, “Is Lung Really Dead?”, “Is The Bug-Parahuman Watching You?”, “Don’t Squish That Ant, It Might Be Their Cousin!”

Sure, some of it was memes and jokes about ants nesting in skulls and black widow assassins creeping on you. But even jokes had an element of truth to it, or were used as a front to mask how deep the fear had taken root. And when they were mixed with shaky cellphone footage, secondhand stories (that would be obviously exaggerated), and the lingering image of Lung’s still corpse under an incalculable number of insects…

She knew that if she were a low-tier mook, or a runner trying to keep his corner, or even a random civilian who usually minded their business, she’d be hiding too.

“You absolute idiots,” she muttered aloud, frustration bubbling up. “I’m not even that scary.”

But then again, she wasn’t the one who got to decide that. And as she’d realized, perception was everything. If a new cape could kill someone like Lung with nothing but bugs, what chance did a mugger or low-tier gangbanger or the average person have against her? How do you guard against something that numbered in the millions in just your immediate vicinity? Something that was already in your walls, in your clothes, and probably under your skin? You could be killed in your sleep from halfway across the city, or slowly poisoned and be none the wiser. 

Taylor clenched her fingers and stood, letting her insects flow away from her in all directions once more, scouting rooftops, checking alleys, and through windows. Still nothing. 

She rubbed her arms through the fabric of her costume. Maybe it wasn’t just the lack of action getting to her. Maybe the real reason she was so frustrated wasn’t just because the streets were empty tonight, but because a part of her understood what that meant.

She had power, really terrifying power, and it was already reshaping the city’s balance.

Khepri was the name she’d chosen because she’d like the symbolism, starting over and building something new, but this wasn’t the kind of transformation she’d meant to spark. She didn’t really want to be unilaterally feared in the city. 

Taylor turned away from the street below, slipped her mask back on, and started moving again. 

Maybe she’d been approaching this all wrong. Maybe, instead of waiting to stumble upon a crime, it was time to start seeking it out. 

She sighed, her gaze drifting momentarily to the nearby shopping mall peeking through the rooftops, and tugged her scarf tighter around her neck. 

It wasn’t like she’d forgotten that she needed to grab the last few pieces of gear—a utility knife, smelling salts, and EpiPens—but she’d lost the motivation to even continue the patrol. Not to mention that the wind was starting to pick up again, rolling in off the Bay and cutting through her suit like it wasn’t even there. And unlike her last patrol, she wasn't in the mood to thug it out. 

All she wanted to do was sulk in her room.