CHAPTER SEVEN - STEP BY STEP

The alley was quieter than most in Gotham, though Taylor could still hear the distant hum of the city’s ever-present ambient noise. She stepped into the small community space, her eyes sweeping over the group of residents gathered there. It wasn’t much—a collection of mismatched chairs around a fire barrel, some tarps strung up for makeshift shelter, and a garden that struggled against the city’s polluted air. But it was theirs.

Taylor had stumbled across the community by chance, trailing a group of Black Mask’s runners who had taken a detour through the Narrows. What she found surprised her: a group of ordinary people banding together, surviving amidst the ensuing gang war. They weren’t fighters, but they were resourceful—rebuilding where others had given up.

At first, she stayed on the periphery, observing them in silence. But over time, she began to help, always in subtle ways. Her steadily improving control directed swarms to make repairs that would have taken days—sealing cracks in walls, patching roofs, even restoring damaged wiring. She left food where she knew they’d find it, scavenged from shipments meant for the gangs.

It didn’t take long for the residents to notice her. Whispers had already spread among them about the unseen figure watching over their tiny sanctuary, and now that they knew her name—the masses had taken to calling her the Swarm Queen—their quiet gratitude reached her in unexpected ways: a small “thank you” scrawled on the wall of a repaired shed, a fresh meal left where she’d worked the night before.

Taylor didn’t need their thanks. Seeing them safe was enough. But for the first time in weeks, she felt a flicker of something she hadn’t dared to embrace since leaving Brockton Bay: hope.

The work wasn’t easy. Gotham’s predators were always circling, and she’d had to fend off more than one group of armed thugs looking to exploit the residents. But these victories, small as they were, reignited something in her—a determination that had been dulled by loss and failure.

This wasn’t Brockton Bay. She couldn’t save everyone. But here, in this little corner of Gotham, she could make a difference. Taylor clenched her fist, watching as her swarm wove together another repair on the garden’s crumbling fence. For the first time in a long while, she felt like she was building something instead of just surviving.

. . . . .

Taylor had always imagined that stepping into a dojo would feel like crossing a threshold into something sacred, almost cinematic. Yet the reality was anything but. As she stood inside, bag slung over her shoulder, she found herself anchored by the simplicity of the space.

With the walls lined with framed certificates and old photographs, it was a far cry from the high-tech training facilities she imagined the Bat family had access to, or even the Wards. No glossy high-tech gear, no holographic sparring partners or custom weapons racks—just the hum of effort, the faint smell of sweat and wood polish, and the sharp crack of a fist against a padded target in the distance. A mix she found oddly grounding.

Her eyes flicked to the middle-aged man approaching her. Even before he spoke, she could tell he wasn’t one for wasted words or unnecessary pleasantries. His lean frame carried a strength that wasn’t flashy but practical, honed by decades of work. His gaze was sharper than any civilian she’d ever seen—not the wide-eyed glare of someone on edge, but the measured precision of someone who could dismantle a threat in seconds. The quiet confidence of someone who had seen countless fights and come out on top more often than not.

“You here to watch or train?” he asked, his voice calm but direct.

Taylor straightened her posture without thinking, setting her jaw. “Train,” she replied, meeting his gaze.

The man raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got the look of someone who’s been in a scrap or two. What are you hoping to learn?”

“Enough to thrive,” she said simply.

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. Classes are full for beginners this week, but if you’re serious, I can make time after hours. You’ll pay in cash, sweat, and bruises, though. That a problem?”

“Not at all.”

The man smirked. “Good. I’m Hiro. You’ll call me sensei while we’re here. Grab a gi and meet me on the mat.”

. . . . .

The first session wasn’t what Taylor had expected, though she wasn’t sure what she had expected. A montage-worthy crash course in crime-fighting? A secret handshake into the inner circle of fighters? What she got instead was far more brutal: basics—drills, stances, and techniques to correct her foundation.

Hiro was relentless. He didn’t just demand precision; he expected it.

“Your stance is off,” he barked, nudging her ankle with his foot. “Balance is everything. You go down, you die. Again.”

Taylor’s thighs burned as she shifted into a corrected position, sweat running down her face. Every punch she threw was met with sharp critique. Every block was analyzed. Every mistake was punished—not gentle, but he wasn’t cruel either. He corrected her posture with firm taps, demonstrated moves with slow, deliberate clarity, and pushed her to keep going when her body screamed for a break.

Hiro made her repeat the same sequence of moves so many times that her muscles trembled from the effort.

“You think the Bat clowns around like this?” he muttered when she faltered. “No. They got where they are by starting here. Focus.”

The reference to Gotham’s shadowy protectors stirred something in Taylor, but she didn’t let it show. She wasn’t training to join their ranks. She wasn’t trying to be anyone’s sidekick. She was here to make sure that when the time came, she could hold her own.

. . . . .

By the end of the session, Taylor’s limbs felt like lead, her knuckles were raw from striking the heavy bag, and her lungs burned from sheer exhaustion. But as she toweled off, Hiro offered her a small nod of acknowledgment.

“You’ve got grit,” he said. “More than most. That’ll keep you alive—for now. But grit without discipline is like a dull blade. Show up tomorrow. Same time. And be ready to sweat.”

Taylor nodded, too tired to muster a reply.

. . . . .

On the walk back to her apartment, Taylor replayed every moment of the session in her mind. Hiro’s corrections echoed like a mantra: Balance. Precision. Discipline. She had never realized how much of a fight was about control—control of her body, her mind, and her reactions.

Her thoughts strayed to Gotham’s criminal underbelly, and she found herself imagining the caliber of people she might face someday once they realised she wasn't a small fry. Bane. Killer Croc. Maybe worse. Would her training ever measure up to Gotham’s nightmares? Would she ever measure up to its heroes?

She clenched her fists, ignoring the ache in her fingers. She didn't need to match them. She just needed to be better than she was yesterday. Every day, one step closer to her goal—and maybe something more.

The ache in her muscles reminded her that she wasn’t there yet. But the spark of confidence Hiro had lit within her reminded her she could be. If she was going to make a difference in Gotham, she needed every advantage she could get. And if the Bat-family ever crossed her path again, she wasn’t going to be caught unprepared.