CHAPTER FOUR - SCOUTING THE ABYSS

Taylor adjusted the strap of her bag as she stepped off the bus, her eyes scanning the street. Gotham’s early morning haze hung low, giving the buildings a muted, washed-out quality. The Narrows had a distinct atmosphere; she had learned quickly that Gotham was a city of contrasts, a place where the gleam of skyscrapers stood in stark opposition to the shadowed alleys below. Each neighborhood had its own flavor of corruption, its own brand of chaos. Crime was omnipresent, woven into the city’s DNA in a way that made Brockton Bay look almost quaint by comparison.

She stuck to her routine, trying to carve out some semblance of normalcy in the midst of it all. Work wasn’t much—tedious, repetitive, and wholly unremarkable—but it paid enough to keep her in a cheap studio apartment and out of the shelters. For now, that was enough.

Her coworkers were also the sort who didn’t ask too many questions, and for that, she was grateful. But they weren’t shy about talking amongst themselves, especially when it came to gossip about the city’s underworld.

The shop was quiet that morning, the steady hum of machines punctuated by the occasional shuffle of papers. Taylor kept her head down as she worked efficiently, sorting stacks of flyers and business cards. Customers came and went, most barely acknowledging her presence. It was fine. She preferred it that way.

But the monotony didn’t last.

It was during lunch that, as she idly sipped at lukewarm coffee in the backroom, a snippet of conversation near the counter caught her attention. Two men had walked in, their voices low and clipped.

“Big shipment coming through the Narrows. Weapons deal. Heavy stuff.”

Taylor didn’t dare look at them; instead, she kept her face impassive and stood, moving to a shelf near the register, pretending to reorganize boxes of inventory as she strained to hear more. A weapons deal in the Narrows. The same area where she’d tangled with Penguin’s men the week before.

It wasn’t surprising—Gotham’s black market thrived on deals like this—but it raised questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

"They're bringing it on Thursday?" one of the men asked.

"Yeah," the other replied. "Penguin's sending his guys. We're just muscle, but the payout's solid."

"Solid if we don't get spotted. The Bat's been nosing around. We keep it quiet, get in and out."

The exchange ended with the men collecting their order and leaving, neither sparing her a second glance.

Taylor exhaled slowly, setting the box down with more force than necessary. Her jaw clenched, tension knotting in her shoulders. This was exactly the kind of thing she’d told herself she’d avoid. Keep her head down, stay unnoticed. Gotham was dangerous enough without sticking her neck out where it didn’t belong. And yet…

The thought of doing nothing gnawed at her.

Did she investigate? Try to intervene?

She wasn’t a hero anymore, not officially. She wasn’t even sure if she could trust her powers to work when she needed them. But Gotham wasn’t Brockton Bay. Things here spiraled out of control fast, and if she ignored this, who would stop it?

The Narrows weren’t just another crime-ridden part of the city. They were worse. People there didn’t just get caught in the crossfire—they were ground underfoot. A weapons deal like this could only make things worse.

Taylor sighed, rubbing her temples. She needed to think this through. She couldn’t afford to act recklessly. Not here. Not in Gotham.

But as she clocked out for the day and stepped onto the cracked pavement outside, she couldn’t shake the feeling that if she didn’t at least look into it, she’d regret it.

For now, she decided, she’d gather information. Quietly. Carefully. If there was one thing she’d learned from Brockton Bay, it was that knowledge was power. And if Gotham had taught her anything, it was that power was the only thing anyone respected.

. . . . .

The days leading up to Thursday crawled by in slow, agonising hours. Taylor moved through her routine as if on autopilot, her mind constantly drifting back to the conversation she’d overheard. At night, she poured over maps of the Narrows she’d picked up from a local convenience store, trying to piece together where the shipment might take place. The area was a tangle of narrow streets and abandoned buildings, each one a potential site for the deal.

Her power wasn’t much help, either. The insects in Gotham felt scattered, uncooperative. She was used to commanding tens of thousands with ease, but here, her power felt more like a suggestion than a command. It left her feeling vulnerable, exposed in a way she hadn’t felt in years.

By the time Thursday arrived, Taylor had managed to narrow down the possible locations to a few key spots. She told herself she was just going to scout, to confirm the deal was happening. No action, no confrontation—just information.

She dressed inconspicuously, blending in with the city’s nighttime crowd. Her hoodie was pulled low over her face, her baton hidden in her pocket. But if things went wrong, she needed an escape plan, not a fight.

The Narrows were alive with their usual sounds: distant shouts, the hum of traffic, the occasional wail of sirens. But Taylor kept her head down, weaving through the streets until she reached one of her suspected locations—a crumbling warehouse near the waterfront, its broken windows faintly illuminated by the dim glow of streetlights.

It didn’t take long to confirm she was in the right place. A line of black SUVs was parked along the side of the building, their occupants standing in tight clusters, speaking in low tones. Men in suits and trench coats moved crates from one vehicle to another, the faint metallic clink of weapons unmistakable.

Taylor slipped into the shadows, her heart pounding. This was it.

She tried to summon her swarm—as her instincts screamed that she would need it—but only a few responded, buzzing faintly at the edge of her awareness. It wasn’t enough. Frustration welled up in her chest, but she shoved it down.

“Focus,” she whispered to herself.

She crept closer, careful to keep her movements silent. From her hiding spot behind a stack of rusted shipping containers, she strained to listen.

“Everything accounted for?” one man asked, his voice sharp and commanding.

“Yeah,” came the reply. “The boss will be happy. Should be enough to arm three crews, easy.”

Taylor’s jaw tightened. This wasn’t just a small deal—this was preparation for something bigger.

Her eyes flicked to the men guarding the perimeter. They were armed, their stances relaxed but alert. Any wrong move would bring them down on her in seconds.

She needed a distraction.

Reaching into her pocket, Taylor pulled out a handful of loose change she’d brought for just this purpose. She hurled it toward a pile of empty barrels near the back of the warehouse, the clatter loud enough to draw attention.

“What was that?” one of the guards muttered, motioning for another to check it out.

As they moved away, Taylor slipped closer to the building. Her heart pounded as she crouched behind a crate, her eyes scanning for anything that could give her more information.

A sudden shout broke her concentration.

“She’s here!”

Her blood ran cold. One of the guards had spotted her.

“Damn it,” she muttered, bolting from her hiding spot as a shot rang out, the bullet sparking off a metal beam beside her.

Hands shaking as she fumbled for her baton, she snapped it open and swept it into the back of the attacker’s knee, sending him sprawling. Then, she darted into the shadows before another could retaliate.

But their retaliation came fast. Dim lights flashed as gunfire erupted, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. Taylor’s cover wasn’t good enough—bullets ricocheted off the walls, forcing her to dive for better protection behind a stack of rusted barrels.

“Find her!” a voice barked.

Taylor’s breath came in sharp bursts as she pressed herself against the barrels, the sound of footsteps behind her growing louder, closer. She was exposed, outnumbered, and without her full powers.

“Think, Taylor,” she muttered, forcing herself to stay calm.

She couldn't fight them all, but maybe she didn't need to.

The first man rounded the barrels, his pistol raised. Taylor reacted on instinct, swinging her baton into his wrist. The gun clattered to the ground, and she followed up with a sharp jab to his ribs, sending him sprawling.

Before she could catch her breath, another man appeared, swinging a crowbar. She barely dodged the blow, the weapon whistling past her head.

Desperation flared as she sent what little swarm she had a tight control over—a handful of cockroaches—skittering toward her attacker’s face. He recoiled, swatting at them and giving her an opening to strike his knee with the baton. He dropped with a grunt of pain, but more footsteps were closing in.

She couldn't stay.

Taylor darted into the maze of alleys, drenched in sweat and lungs burning. She didn’t stop running until she was sure she’d lost them, ducking into a dingy diner on the main street to catch her breath.

As she sat in a corner booth, nursing a cup of water, Taylor’s hands trembled. She’d disrupted the deal, but just barely. It wasn't a victory. The criminals had fought back harder than she’d expected, and her powers had faltered again when she needed them most.

It seemed every encounter seemed to remind her how far she still had to go. But as she stared out the window at the city’s dimly lit streets, a flicker of determination sparked within her. She hadn’t truly been ready, but she’d tried.

And next time, she would be.