WET/ WORM (Parahumans) Crossover

Disclaimer: I Don't own either of the properties used in this story and make no profit from this work. I'm just playing in their sandbox.

Rage Mode

By: Mage-Alia (Auraion)

Part 1 - Scream

Summary: Taylor was always good at justifying things to herself... Especially the bad ideas. But they lead her to a different outcome much earlier and while powers never really Fixed anything, human responses to human problems are sometimes worse. (because humans are the biggest monsters of all)

(no Pairings) (AltPower)

A/N: ... ahhh... well...

This one kinda got away from me.

I don't usually put warnings on my stories because usually they're not quite as... intense.

Originally this started as a WET crossover. Taylor gains the powerset of the main character, a minor thinker? Effect that allows her to perceive combat in slow motion, a regeneration ability that only works when alcohol is consumed and a powerup in the form of a berserk rage that doesn't last long, but while she's under the effect anything and anyone is a target and she remembers very little. So a grab bag basically.

The problem was getting her to that point... and my brain took the idea and ran with it down the rabbit hole... so yeah... it's kinda dark. And Traumatic. And may have some points that might not be okay for some readers. There's gonna be some ptsd inducing moments even though I've tried to mute it a bit when I edited the thing.

So yeah. A few warning spoilers for attempted assault, an unsuccessful suicide attempt and drinking... Do be careful, aye?

—x—

Taylor had always been good at justifying her actions to herself.

What was one more cookie when Emma taken had three?

What was the use for a phone anyway. It wasn't like she needed one.

What was three more years in high school being tormented by her former best friend? It wasn't like they'd matter after.

What was the harm in taking a shortcut home through the docks? She had her pepper spray and it wasn't like she had anything anyone wanted.

She had been so very very wrong.

Trauma inducing parts START

It had been alright at first, quiet.

Emboldened by the fact the shortcut had been uneventful she had hurried to the brighter street, but trouble blindsided her. A lurking group of merchants had been lingering in the next ally instead. She hadn't even had the chance to get her pepper spray out of her hoodie pocket before they'd had her kicking and screaming on the ground.

She'd only registered the vaguest impressions in her blind panic, someone showed something pill sized into her mouth and washed it down with alcohol. She choked and spluttered as her head began to spin and she reflexively swallowed. The spinning got worse as she was hauled toward a building that had so many holes it may as well have been an open air gazebo. Music thumped, lights strobe and she recognizes it. Somewhere in the screaming, sober, part of her mind she realized she was being hauled into a merchant Rave.

She was destined to be a party favor.

Her body wouldn't move, she couldn't speak, her hands twitched and failed to respond as they fed her more alcohol and she lost consciousness.

The impression of two massive somethings twirling through space bore down on her as she tripped and came too god knows how long later with Someone behind her fondling her chest and a half dozen mostly naked people arranged around her, she could feel the distinct lack of clothing on her body and was keenly aware of the hands grabbing her ankles even if she couldn't see them.

No one seemed aware that she was awake, nor did they seem to care, but her head pounded in time to the music and lights as red seeped into the corner of her vision.

And she felt rage.

Pure, all consuming Rage.

Someone splashed her with their drink and she felt me tingle of Feeling returning. It wasn't much but it was enough that the surge of pure hatred had space to rise up-

She snarled and her conscious traumatized psyche only had enough time to register the look of horror on the man in front of her before she was lost to the wave of blind hatred.

And there was nothing but red.

Trauma inducing bit Finish

The air was cold when she came too, she felt filthy and unclean in every sense of the word, Her hands west frozen in corpse like rictus around the handle of a long knife and a gun.

Lights blinked half heartedly in the dim light of morning with the music having long stopped.

It was silent.

Still.

But for the sound of her breath.

Corpses coated the ground, filling the derelict warehouse like a macabre carpet. Drugs, broken bottles, mattresses and waste were mixed in and nothing was spared the crusting coating of blood and before her with more of his insides on the outside, was a big black man in a mask who looked like he'd been attacked by a blender.

She stared uncomprehending.

The world was grey as she turned over the scene and saw a lone bottle of alcohol that had seemingly escaped the massacre. She lumbered toward it, shuffling like a zombie uncaring for the shards of glass and debris that pierced her feet until she could reach out to grab it. It was almost knocked of it's perch as her fingers refused to let go of the blade.

She looked at the handle in her hand, not sure why she was still holding the thing, but it took actual effort to consciously release the hilt. Once she did managed to drop it, she immediately gripped the neck of the bottle with equally crippling force and brought it to her lips.

The tequila burned on the way down, but she didn't stop until the ensuing wave of dizzy warmth had sunk right down to her toes.

The bottle empty, she threw it upwards and on a whim, fired the gun at it and as the glass shattered and rained down around her, her equally shattered thoughts finally found their track.

"Fuck!"

Fuck.

That about summed up everything.

She stole a coat from a corpse and shivered in disgust as she put it on, but there was no way she'd be willing to leave this place naked.

Sirens had started in the distance as she moved, more calm than she had any right to be as the hastily wiped down the gun, throwing it into a pile of corpses.

She hesitated before stashing the knife in her pocket, spat on the dead cape and fled.

She was okay, she'd be okay.

They were all dead, every last one of them.

Taylor stopped just before the exit, spying another untouched bottle on the floor. She grabbed it, tucking it into her coat, pulling up the hood and vanishing into the city.

After all, what was the harm in one more drink.

It wasn't like it would hurt her anymore ...

... just the opposite.

—x—

In: Boards ► Places ► America ► Brockton Bay

Topic: The Merchant Massacre. SKIDMARK FOUND DEAD

—x—

There was very little that bothered her these days.

Taylor shuffled into the back corner of her classroom and pulled out a chair. Slumping into it she heaved her booted feet onto the desk tipped it back and for all intents and purposes fell asleep. The other students slowly regained life as they finally unfroze and went on with the class. The Mr Gladly ignored her remaining willfully ignorant to her presence. The gang Kids shifted, swaying away from her but did nothing. Madison and her class time following sat in the furthest corner of the room.

And did nothing.

No, there wasn't much that bothered her at all these days.

She lay back, pleasantly buzzed and napped through her world studies class, blissfully undisturbed.

While the first six months of her time at Winslow had been an epic struggle, the last year or so had been very different.

After the incident she'd avoided people. Her mind had finally caught up with her body and the shocked apathy had given way to a tumultuous wave of horror, fear and despair. She hadn't even told her father, feigning illness and staying home for the better part of two weeks. During that two weeks she'd taken a roller coaster of emotions and even attempted suicide, she'd almost succeeded too, but a last minute decision to drink herself into oblivion turned out to be a big mistake.

She'd been incredulous as the tingling warmth had returned, focused on the wound and she'd healed, the sheer absurdity caused her to laughed hysterically at herself before getting out of the tub, cleaning up the blood and retreating to her room with a bottle of whiskey she'd found at the back of the pantry.

It became her security blanket, a bottle of healing all for herself.

She sat staring out the window in the aftermath of the attempt, a knife twisting around her fingers with slowly increasing skill as she contemplated the ramifications of her ability.

While self healing with a bottle of booze was right down there as far as powers went, it was still a power. It couldn't do anything about her hair though. It had been cut short or some point during the incident, she'd caused it up some, but hadn't helped much. It sat at shoulder length, and stuck up in all directions.

That her father had noticed.

He'd looked at her, as if he'd finally realized there was another stranger in his home. She'd stared back kinda thinking the same thing when he asked why she'd cut it.

She hadn't been able to tell him. There were no words, but she'd hedged anyway.

"It kinda just felt like it was time?"

He'd looked thoughtful and fallen quiet.

The next Monday she'd gathered up the nerve to go back to school, She wasn't sure what she'd expected from the place. A small Flask that used to belong to her grand father sat in her pocket, a good luck charm of liquid courage. She'd made it to the doors and nearly gone home when the small cluster of girls by the door perked up, but she put her head down and forged on. Life went on and there wasn't much to hear until the first class. It had a few less people than usualand Greg of all people had told her what had happened when she'd pondered why.

"Didn't you hear? Somebody slaughtered everyone at a merchant party a few weeks ago. Some of them went to our school, they even killed Skidmark!"

She'd felt sick, her stomach leapt into her throat as the memory of the dead masked man returned.

Without so much as a by your leave she bolted out of her seat, abandoning her bag. She only made it part of the way toward the nearest bathrooms though before she had to stop and be noisily sick in a trash can. Her insides twisted even as the blind panic slowly started to ebb away. But once the blind panic was gone she felt like a puppet with cut strings. It was the familiar emotional burnout she'd felt in the wake of the incident and she itched to find her flask. To take just one sip. Just to settle over nerves.

Instead she found herself in the nurses office again.

The older woman had taken one look at her and sent her home . She'd retrieved her bag and gone before anyone could think of anything to say about her condition. Even if she'd wanted to stay she had all the energy of a limp noodle, so she went right to her room, dug out the whiskey bottle and let the warmth lull her to sleep.

At some point her father had come home and cooked, because when she went down stairs later that evening there was a meal in the fridge, She was struck by the thought that this was the First time in nearly six months that they'd had a proper home cooked meal and she'd missed it. It had driven her to tears.

Still, as strange as it felt, it was nice. She couldn't bring herself to talk about it but somehow her father had noticed. It was a tiny bright spot on on an otherwise dark time. Another was the sheer relief she felt when she got her period three days later, while she'd been mostly sure that nothing had Happened happened, there were long stretches of that night she didn't remember.

And given rumors spanned by her very obvious panic attack she'd been hounded by any number of commenting tormentors. To prove them wrong, to put her own mind at ease, was a small victory in itself. But for every positive note, there were a hundred other incidents to bring her down.

She flinched when people got too close, jumped at loud noises. They didn't help. Her nerves were shot when Sophia, Emma and Madison decided she'd had a long enough break from their torment. So maybe it was just her snapping when it happened, or maybe it was the buzz from the shot of smuggled vodka shed just taken from her flask, when a quarter of seniors in ABB colours cornered her near the locker rooms when people were supposed to be in their last period she'd laughed.

They'd gone from intimidating to uncertain as she kept laughing, hollow and cold.

This wasn't the same emotional torment.

This was violence.

/ / A knife in one hand a gun in the other / /

And she spoke the language of violence.

The seniors lunged for her, angry and freaked out by her laughter. she didn't Know why they'd try this now, but for all that they were bigger, strong, they may have been moving in slow motion for how fast they seemed. The world greyed out around her, Red glinted in contrast as her knife flashed out of her sleeve, twirling around her fingers with practiced ease as she dashed, sliding forward on her knees, her blade flashed out and as time resumed it's flow once more there was a beat ...

and then the two she'd passed screamed.

They toppled over, clutching their legs, howling in pain. The remaining two were wild eyed as she flicked the blood off off her knife and made it vanish again with a slight of hand. The bigger of the two actually backed off. But the smaller leapt at her once more, his own knife being pulled. She followed his charge and side stepped at the last second dropping her elbow into his back. Her blows weren't that strong but he was already going the right way and gravity finished the job. She forced him to the floor and stamped on his hand, his knife skittered toward the wall and boots ground his fingers into the old linoleum until they started to crack.

"Do not look at me, Do not talk to me, Do not touch me."

She sounded out every word as clearly as she could in a tone that brought to mind restrained violence.

"Try Anything - and I will do much, much worse."

With a final twist of her heel she let them go, stepping back and pulling out her flask, she held eye contact taking a long swig. They twitched. Even from across the hall they could smell the contents. Satisfied that they weren't about to try anything else she turned and left, passing a shell shocked lookout at the end of the hall...

The next morning she walked into the building and while she kept her head down and ignored the casual cruelty spitting from Emma's mouth, behind her, unnoticed by the red head and her violent friend, there was a new kind of silence. As she passed another cluster of seniors she noticed the big guy from yesterday. A move of her head allowed her to catch his eye before she glared. He immediately looked down and backed away, muttered rumors followed in his wake.

Hamstringing two people and crushing another's fingers was the kind of thing that gave a reputation.

/Flashinglightspoundingmusicscreaming/

She didn't regret it.

Never again.

Aside from those, too stupid to notice.

There were very few people who bothered her these days.

What was the harm in having a weapon, when she'd already used them to great effect?

—x—

It hadn't been intentional, she hadn't gone out of her way to find trouble. But it had found her none the less. she'd begun jogging, party to get fit, Partly because the faster she could run, the less likely it was that someone would catch her

/HandsSmellsBodyodorLeeringmouthsandSneers/

The memory makes her shudder and run faster.

When her father isn't home she punches the tree in the back yard. It hurts, at first. She tears up her knuckles punching the bark. Her Alcohol repairs the damage but there's evidence none the less. She looks up videos on the internet and learns the right way to hold her fist and then how to wrap it. The wood under the bark is worn smooth from thousands of hits a day. Even though she's careful never to do it when he's around, she's sure her father knows something is up. Oddly though, he's quietly supportive instead of upset. He looks tired, but not empty.

It's uncertain what epiphany he had but she likes the change.

Jogging is almost meditative. She can loose herself in the ebb and flow of her breath. Her muscles strain and she heaves like a racehorse when she stops on the boardwalk to take a break but pure physical activity is soothing. She's pacing carefully by the railings overlooking the beach at one end so she doesn't cool off completely when she hears it.

A scream, Struggle, a growled threat.

At first she doesn't want any part of it, the enforcers are right there, but it rises from bellow, like a sleeping giant.

RAGE

She's tall for her age, and her stride is long, it feels like she only needs half the time to cross the distance and she's in the alley. A filthy looking degenerate has a woman backed up to a wall and doesn't notice her arrival, too busy brandishing a knife. The victim notices though, and freezes as her hands grab the back of his coat, with a surprising amount of force she kicks out at his knee and uses the momentum to throw him as hard as she can toward the street.

He goes further than she expects him too.

But it's enough, the woman clings to her back, shaky but intact as the enforcers descend. The police come and take her statement. It's a throw away comment, but it takes root in her mind.

"That was a good thing you did miss." The older of the two beat caps claps her on the shoulder, she sees it coming and suppresses the Flinch.

"Not all heroes have to be the kind who wear masks, Sometimes I think those guys are like sending a fire hose for a candle, sometimes a human response is just as effective."

She runs home, gets changed and sits down at the breakfast table with her father.

"I stopped a mugging today." It comes out without prefix or elaboration. Her father doesn't register what she's said of first, than he does a double take, he inflates almost, like his skin isn't enough to hold in the Storm underneath. It's almost surreal to see it knowing what it feels like.

They both fight to hold in the beasts. The understanding must have shown on her face, because he looks at her and deviates.

"What happened?" he asks, sounding strung out, like he's been stretched across a rack.

She stops eating.

"I was on my run close to me board walk, I heard it before I saw it. When I saw it was a merchant trying to mug someone I just got so..."

"Angry." he finished, this tone a knowing one.

She just nodded in return.

"I walked over, kicked out his knee and threw him out for the enforcers."

Throughout the description he'd relaxed, like he was expecting something else and cheered up when it never happened.

"Good work, honey." he managed to sound a little proud and she basked in the feeling.

—x—

It was the beginning of Something.

She wasn't sure what it was but the idea began to permeate through her subconscious.

A feeling? A whim ? An urge?

Either way, it wasn't more than a week later that she got into another fight.

Merchant's, again, hassling a guy who lived in the docks. He had an old tug. It barely worked. But there wasn't much demand for a tug boat here these days. It couldn't leave the bay with the tanker and the man didn't want to leave it. So he'd converted it to living space and used it as a house boat. He'd been docked at the waterfront when a group of merchants had decided to try breaking into it and it's his enraged shouting that gets her attention. Before she even knows what she's doing she's squirreling up the mooring ropes, knife in hand. The rage boils under her skin, but she doesn't let it out, she clamps down on it and it becomes fuel.

It's so Familiar.

That feeling as her knife goes into the side of the first merchant's neck.

/BASSMUSICCOPPERTANGSCREAMSTHUDTHUDTHUD/

Stalking merchants ... is surprisingly satisfying.

"Jesus! Don't kill me?"She has to shake of her trance when she realizes that the boats owner is the only other living being on the ship.

She looks at the man, the bodies and then her knife before she leans down, wipes it clean on the nearest dead man's clothes and puts it away. Casting an eye around the cabin she whistles, even as the terrified sailor catches his breath.

"So..." she starts, an odd mix of awkward and cheerful. "Know any good places to hide a body?"

The befuddled look he gives her is glorious.

It turns out the sailor does know a good place to dump bodies

("My name is Milo damn it! Don't call me sailor anything! Do you want me to get beaten?")

He'd weighed anchor, kicked the engine till it worked and pushed the bodies of the side in the middle of the bay. They'd ended up sitting sprawled in deckchairs on the back of the tug staring up at a starry sky and drinking beer. Of course Milo hadn't bothered asking her how old she was until after she'd finished her first bottle and by then it was to late anyway.

"So. Do you go around killing people for fun or profit?" He asks as an icebreaker, making her snicker.

She's just that little bit buzzed and oddly relaxed. Sliding down on her deck chair so she's comfortable she shares up and wonders which it is.

"I donno. What kinda money is there in killing people anyway?" The look he gives her is equal parts, freaked out, incredulous and afraid, but he stays in his deck chair, both hands visible and shrugs.

"You're askin me ?"

She shrugs back.

"Haven't exactly had the time to stick around and loot the bodies."

The look is back. But it does make her wonder. Maybe she could raid a stash house? One of the gangs? Make a difference?

The thought stays with her as they return to shore and she goes home.

It's a random chance that has her stumble on a sudden wind fall... well not quite a windfall as most would consider it.

After her adventures in murder with Milo, they'd become surprisingly fast friends. Never mind that he was half her age again and technically jobless but some things just brought people together. That and when her own stash of alcohol dried up he was surprisingly willing to buy her more. It was an oddly peaceful month before he'd sidled up in her looking more than a little uncertain.

She'd taken one look at him. Put down her borrowed fishing pole and picked up her beer.

They'd been idling off shore, it was a Saturday afternoon and Milo had been making a token effort into his day job as a fisherman. It wasn't particularly profitable, but it made ends meet and filled in his spare time.

"Okay. Out with it." she prompted.

His face visibly paled.

"Well you see.. you know how I have poker night on Fridays? At the pub near the docks? Well a mate of mine, he's having some trouble. Borrowed some money and lost it and it turns out his guy was in it pretty thick with..." he dropped his voice to a loud whisper, "...the Nazis."

She gave him a blank look.

"Well good for him." her voice was so dry that it could have been mistaken for a desert.

Milo had the grace enough to look sheepish and coughed.

"Yeah, well, this guy is a nasty piece of work and could do with an accident and I might have told him I know a guy who knows a guy so... feel like doing a bit of murder hoboing for fun and profit?" he finishes the pitch sounding hopeful and she's actually gaping at him.

It's been months since the incident, she's made so much progress from the scared and broken girl who woke up in a building of bodies. She still can't sleep well, but she's been piecing her self back together. It's been enough to be able to defend herself, even if the force She uses is often lethal.

But Actually going out of her way to look for trouble? So far she'd been careful not to act unless someone else acted first, but to take that step into attack...

It was a big line to cross ...

"What's in it for me ?" She heard herself ask. Milo looked startled, but he rummaged in his beatup messenger bag and produced a large fancy bottle of whiskey and a cheaper looking battle of Tequila. It might have been a problem once, to realize just how deep her reliance on alcohol was, but the bottles just gained her interest.

"This was his down payment." he grinned a bit when he noticed the look on her face "But if you don't want to try I can always give em back."

Once upon a time she might have felt more self loathing over her eagerness.

Now she just wanted that bottle of the good stuff.

Which lead to her standing in a shadowed overhang looking at the fore mentioned money lender's place of work.

Milo had, at her insistence, grilled his friends for details. On the man, his friends, the places to find them. He'd passed it on and she'd done her own investigation. What she'd seen in the few days of following the creep had sealed the whole deal. He was a Scumbag with a capital S and her rage crept from the dark place. It sat just below her skin, pulsing in time to her heart beat and the only thing left was to decide how she wanted to do it.

And whether or not to cover her face...

Milo had given her a balaclava, but he wasn't aware she had a power. Even if it was one as small as regenerating with alcohol. If she wore a mask then it was as good as admitting not only to herself, but to others that she was a parahuman. And this? She could do this job the same ways any other human would do this job. With the knife in her pocket and the rage under her skin.

She didn't need a mask when she could use a human response.

(And it went unsaid that when it came down to it humans were capable of some very terrible things all on their own.)

Decision made, she shoved the balaclava into her pocket and stepped out of the shadows.

In the end, It didn't take much effort on her part.

She'd walked in through the back door and taken one guy out quickly. A second beefy body gourd proved even easier to take out. She felt very little either way as she forced the Lender to open the safe. He squalled and yelled but was ultimately shut up when she stabbed him through one eye. She managed, just barely to keep her cool through out as she emptied the safe, deleted everything on his computer's hard drive and prepared to light the place up. She paused though upon finding a pair of hand guns in a drawer. The Lender hadn't remembered them or he might have been more of a threat. Still, they sat nicely in her hands, semiautomatic, with ivory carvings laid into a cherry red wood stock.

They were beautiful, but there was one thing that gave her pause.

Monkeys.

The ivory carvings depicted monkeys.

Still ... it would be a waste to leave them to burn ..

She tucked them into her bag and threw a match behind her as she walked away. when she pulled out her flask and wondered down the street she looked to all the world like an unassuming if not slightly drunk teenager minding her own business.

Milo stared wide eyed at the bundle of cash on his kitchen table. She sat opposite him, tongue sticking from between her teeth as she cross referenced her shiny new dismantled weapons with the printout of their model manual she'd downloaded off the internet.

"You did it... You really are a murder hobo!"Milo declared and she glared at him .

"Hey! I'll have you know I actually have a house. "So don't call me a hobo!" There's a split second of silence before she loses focus and snickers. He does the same as she takes a moment to reach over, splitting the pile of money roughly in half. "Here. Your share, Now you won't be considered a Hobo either." he kicks her under the table but grins all the same as she returns her attention to her weapons.

Later that same day, she sits at the dining room table with her Father. He's giving her a sideways look as he eats the meal they'd cooked together for the first time in months.

"So.. " he begins. "No tree today ?" he asks casually.

She looks out the window at the tree she'd scared smooth with kicks and punches and realizes it's been a while since she'd felt the need to vent on it.

"Nah. Had a good day," She admits, smiling. "Went for a jog. Did some Fishing with Milo. Finished a puzzle. " Not technically wrong... she did do all those things, and it had been, in all actuality, a good day.

Her father looked amused.

"Should I be worried about this Milo influencing my darling daughter?" he asked.

She laughed out loud, surprising herself.

"No. He's my friend, You know how they say a 'good friend will bail you out but a best friend would be there in the cell beside you?'"Her father visibly relaxes She's happier than she's been for a while. This Milo, whoever he is, dearly has an effect, He can live with that.

"I understand, however if he tries anything I reserve the right to got to read him the riot act with a shovel."

Her disgust with the thought is genuine as she screws up her face.

"Ew."

Danny Hebert laughs.

"It's good to see you smile again, Little owl. I'm glad. "

She smiles back.

She wasn't kidding though.

It has been a good day

That first job (if it could even be called that) signaled a change.

For months, she'd been at a lose end, going day to day in the hopes of finding peace from her demons. She wasn't honestly any better now than she was last week, but suddenly there were possibilities. A direction .. A purpose. Even if that purpose was cold blooded murder. But even if she wasn't a parahuman, or at least, if she wasn't acting as one, she still Kinda needed an outfit. A uniform. Anything to dissuade the notion that she was a murder hobo, as Milo so eloquently put it. She needed new clothes anyway, And she could use her I'll gotten gains if she claimed she found something recent while OP Shopping.

The first thing she got though was her boots.

They were something she'd wanted since passing the store on the boardwalk almost Six weeks ago. They were military style, brown leather, with sturdy soles that more than made up for the price. They were the kinda thing you'd have for years if you treated them right and it would be worth the investment.

It was a pleasant surprise though to walk in and find the woman she'd helped all those months ago standing behind the counter.

By the end of her shopping she's exhausted.

Upon hearing her Savior needed a new wardrobe, the woman had insisted on accompanying her and together they'd put together an outfit.

A pair of dusty brown green cargo pants, and a leather jacket an op shop that was a faded tan.

"This is so badass looking, that jacket totally matches you!"

"Matches what?"

and of all things, a pink T-shirt.

"It's pink."

"Yep, It goes well with it."

"It's pink."

"Yes Taylor because you're a totally badass girl who can totally wear pink and own it. "

And she admits she was kinda right, having said her goodbyes and come home, she'd change into the outfit and stared at herself in the mirror, It wasn't quite done yet though... some thing was missing... She moved over to the bathroom, and stared into the cupboard before spying her mothers rarely used hair straightener. Grabbing it, holding it in her hands as she stared at herself in the reflective surface.

Her hair had been ruined that night.

/knivesbloodfire/

She'd had to cut out the chunks of blood and viscera. Parts had been burned and cut. It had made her weep to take to it with scissors. But she'd gotten used to the choppy curls that bunched up tightly around her head since.

Carefully she teased out the curls, straightening them till they lay flat. Her cutting attempt had left it choppy and wild and painfully obvious when it was straight. But the face staring back at her was a whole new person and when she took off her glasses and squinted, the figure in the mirror wasn't a traumatized teenager.

She was a badass.

The thought stayed with her, as she took off her new outfit and went to bed .

It was December, and they'd gained a reputation.

It had been a very quiet Start to her new business. The first customer had been as surprised as he was grateful. Milo had been careful as well, they'd agreed no working for gangs but against them was fine. Additionally they tried to keep to people no one would miss, or people who honestly deserved a bit of permanent retribution in a nod to he former dreams of heroism. Occasionally they did protection jobs, deliveries or escorts, but for the most important rules of all...

Humans and human problems only.

And No capes.

Capes were messy problems that would only make more, they were flashy, visible and if they knew she had any sort of power that they would pursue her to the end of the earth, but she wore no mask, and walked among the dredges of society hunting people and honing her skills. She turned into a pretty good shot. Her monkey engraved handcannons became a trade mark, and for the longest time she used her fists and her knife in close until she got her hands on a sword, a katana she'd swiped of the corpse of an ABB mook. She'd learned to appreciate the new reach very quickly, and as the days got shorter and winter set in, she and Milo had built a training grounds obstacle course in a warehouse on the bay side of the train yard.

The area was former merchant territory. Hard to access from the land side but easy enough from the water. The merchants hadn't been a serious problem for a long time. After her .. trigger... Mush had tried to hold the remnants together and he'd succeeded for a while but then Squealer had been caught by the PRT and vanished. Mush had been run out of town by the remaining gangs and their unpowered roster?

Well, as it turned out, there were some who didn't mind pointing her toward their money with a bottle of their best and a wish for the left over scum to quietly disappear. Milo was having Fun playing middleman and she still slept with a bottle and a knife in her hands.

She liked to think, sometimes, when the day was a good one and the night quiet that she was healing ... just a little bit.

( Yeah, she couldn't fool herself either, but she didn't feel like she was getting worse.)

For New Years she went on a bender, Milo had found a bar in the docks that didn't ask for ID and she'd spent the time till midnight drinking the locals under the table. While her body used alcohol to heal, she'd gotten more and more resistant to the side effects. She still felt a happy buzz that probably had more to do with her power than the booze. But if she didn't give her body the other materials to work with she could still overdo it... and as she discovered that day, it took a lot of effort.

Although it did mean that she missed the first day of school while she dealt with a two day long hangover.

Her father hadn't been amused when he called her in sick after she'd dragged herself home having stayed on Milo's couch the night before. Her father had certainly guessed some of what She did most of the time she was reportedly out with him. She'd made a point of actually joining a rowdy group of casual fishing enthusiasts down in the docks a few times just to prove she was actually fishing like she said.

(It was funny. She looked so out of place dressed in her fighting gear sitting in the middle of a bunch of middle aged to elderly people early on a Saturday morning.)

Still, showing up a day late and obviously hung over was pushing what he was willing to willfully ignore, but after a bit of passive aggressive cupboard slamming and pointedly loud noises he felt he'd expressed his displeasure enough.

Given more time they'd fallen into a routine that was certainly better than it had been. There were times where they both slipped into moods and stopped communicating. Her father had been much more concerned about her at first than she'd realized. After so long spent tip toeing around the subject they'd fought about it, she'd admitted something had happened to her but not what. Danny had been devastated that he'd been too caught up in himself to notice or protect her.

That had lead into another fight over her drinking. He discovered that the battle in the pantry was long gone. She'd had to show him how she healed.

He'd shrunk away from her again at that. He seemed to know something about para-humans but he also seemed to realize that packing her away to me PRT for her own safety wasn't the right thing either and she'd been touched when a small, controlled, amount of whiskey had appeared in the pantry labeled "Emergencies only".

That said, the first day of her school year was spent with her father, playing board games and drinking tea.

She didn't find out till a day later that Emma and Sophia had filled her locker with noxious waste over the holidays.

It was a bullet dodged.

Life was good, but a part of he was waiting, watching for the moment when the other shoe would drop. Because nothing lasted forever.

A/N: And my struggles with editing continue! At least most of it was legible this time and the formatting didn't go wonky.

Anyway, that was a thing. Taylor kinda went in a different direction there... So instead of triggering in the locker she gets her powers earlier while her tormenting is still pretty new, it effects her much worse on the emotional scale and she's not... aware? that her berserk boost is an actual power in itself. XD So she winds up on the criminal/mercenary path well in advance of the cannon events in a way that separates her from the other para-humans and sets her up as a different kind of outsider. She makes up somewhat with her dad and

I think I've only got about one more chapter of this particular story though. This was just the set up for the rest of it. XD

Don't forget to review

Cya