Ch 6
Chapter 5: Interlude 1
Interlude 1
January 3rd, 2011.
"Wonder where the little shit fucked off to?"
Emma added the dressing to her salad before closing the container and shaking it to coat the lettuce evenly. Her parents certainly never forced her to endure Winslow cafeteria food.
Sophia was irritated at the loss of their usual entertainment. She got bored pretty easily.
"Probably hiding in a bathroom, as usual. So gross," Emma said. "Imagine eating on the toilet like that every day."
She shouldn't care where Taylor was. She didn't care.
"She wasn't in class this morning, either," Madison said from the other side of the table.
Emma speared a crouton with unnecessary force.
She felt like she was missing… something.
"Maybe she finally got the hint that nobody wanted her around, and dropped out or something" Emma said.
"Maybe the syphilis finally caught up with her," Madison snickered.
"Maybe she finally killed herself," Emma said, even though something in her gut twisted at the idea.
Taylor doesn't matter. Get over yourself.
"Whatever," Sophia said. "Good riddance, I guess."
Sophia stalked away to toss her empty cafeteria tray in the garbage.
"Yeah… good riddance," Emma said, even though Sophia was out of earshot.
Why did something about that set her pulse racing?
It doesn't matter.
…
January 6th, 2011.
Taylor was dead.
The police cordoned off the section of hallway, but Emma recognized the familiar dark curls. She knew which locker that was.
Students gathered as close as they were allowed to the gruesome spectacle, despite the warnings shouted by the teachers.
Her body was barely recognizable.
And the smell. Oh, God.
I did that.
Why hadn't anyone noticed that Taylor was still in the locker?
Why hadn't she told anyone?
It's just fucking Taylor. It doesn't matter. She doesn't matter.
So why was there salt water tracing lines down her cheeks?
I did that.
Taylor was weak. So weak that she went and fucking died from a stupid prank.
It wasn't Emma's fault that Taylor was pathetic.
Right?
A hand gripped her shoulder like a vice and Emma almost jumped out of her skin.
"Your house. Tonight," Sophia growled in her ear. "We need to talk. Get Madison on board."
Emma just stared at her friend for a long moment before nodding.
"And pull yourself together, Survivor," Sophia said lowly, leaning forward so no one else would hear. "It's just Hebert. Who gives a shit?"
Who, indeed?
"They'll expect me to be emotional," Emma justified automatically.
Sophia regarded her through narrowed eyes.
"Sure, I guess. Just keep the walls up, and we'll talk more tonight," Sophia said.
Her friend turned and slipped away through the crowd.
Just keep the walls up.
But she could feel the cracks, even if she didn't want to look.
I killed Taylor.
Emma walked away from the crime scene. Shards sliced at her veins with every heartbeat.
I killed my best friend.
…
"What do we do?" Madison asked, wringing her hands in front of her like a nervous kid who got caught in a lie.
Emma and Madison sat on Emma's bed, the door to the bedroom closed and locked tight. She even put a bunched-up blanket on the floor to cover the gap under the door, to keep any sounds from escaping.
Her parents hadn't questioned Madison or Sophia's presence. It was perfectly understandable, to want company after what happened.
Emma resisted the urge to huddle up under the blankets with her stuffed animals. Sophia said they were stupid, but she kept them anyway. She wasn't sure why.
Sophia paced back and forth in front of them.
"We don't do shit," Sophia said, although Emma could tell that she was worried, under the bravado. "We had nothing to do with it, as far as anyone else is concerned. There's no evidence, and they won't question us too hard."
Sophia caught Emma's eye. She knew that her friend would be feeding the PRT a heavily doctored version of events.
"What if they do ask questions?" Madison said.
She could be a bit stupid, sometimes. Still, it wasn't entirely her fault. Madison was soft. She hadn't been hardened by the world like Emma and Sophia.
"Same as when they were sniffing around yesterday. We never saw her. She didn't come to school, as far as we know. Keep the story simple, and consistent," Sophia said. She was being pretty patient with Madison, all things considered.
"But-"
"No fucking 'buts'!" Sophia snapped, turning on them. "This was a weird, tragic accident, nothing else. I'm not going to fucking prison because you couldn't keep your shit together."
Madison finally nodded. Slowly.
"Are we going to have any problems from your folks, Emma?" Sophia asked. "They know Hebert's family, right?"
Emma shook her head.
"It's just her dad, now, and he's pathetic, too. They'll probably want to go to the funeral, but I think I can talk them out of it. I'm too distraught, or whatever," Emma said.
"Do you think it would raise more suspicion if you don't go?" Sophia said.
"I doubt it. Besides I don't… want to," Emma said.
She wasn't sure why.
Sophia stared at her suspiciously for a long moment before shrugging.
"Sure, whatever," she sighed and flopped down on the bed between them. "Just… don't make this shit any worse. Leave it to fucking Hebert to die in the least convenient way possible."
Emma laughed at that. It wasn't even forced, or hysterical.
It wasn't.
…
Sophia Hess resisted the urge to cross her arms as she sat across from the deputy director.
It was funny, in a way. Armsmaster didn't want to deal with the Wards, so he passed the buck to Piggy. Piggy didn't feel like handling every little thing personally, so she tossed it down to Renick.
They were all pathetic. At least Armsmaster could be a badass, when he wanted to, but he spent too much time posturing and parading around for the media and polishing his beard.
"You don't remember anything unusual in the affected area?" Renick asked again.
"I already told you. I don't take attendance for every little shi… for every student, in the school," Sophia ground out. "One of the teachers asked me yesterday if I knew where Hebert was. Something about her father reporting her missing. I didn't, obviously, and I told them so. How was I supposed to know she got stuck in her locker and died?"
"I just want to make sure. It seems strange that no one noticed any sounds or smells," Renick said as he typed away at his asinine report.
"Maybe she was unconscious, I don't know," Sophia said. "And Winslow always smells like shit. Nothing out of the ordinary."
Sophia clenched her jaw. She needed to shut the fuck up. Everyone knew that talking was the worst thing you could do when getting questioned.
The deputy director pursed his lips.
"The inside of the locker and the autopsy report showed signs of significant distress," Renick said.
Sophia just shrugged.
The office was silent save for the ongoing clicking of computer keys.
"Alright. I appreciate you coming down to talk in person, Shadow Stalker," Renick finally said. "I've sent you an email to confirm your statement regarding the events. If you want to make any changes, just let me know."
More paperwork. Joy.
"Sure," Sophia said.
She stood and left the office as quickly as she could without arousing any suspicions.
Fucking Hebert.
…
January 25th, 2011.
"...just let us know if there's anything else you need," the nice officer said as he turned to walk down the front walkway.
She could tell that they didn't really believe her. At least the nice one pretended to care. His partner didn't even bother.
Emma wasn't imagining things. She wasn't.
She shuddered at the memory of the mysterious figure staring at her under the moonlight.
Nose… eye… mouth…
No. No, she was safe, here. She had to be.
So why was she still shivering?
Her family had been kind, even if they probably didn't believe her either. She kept herself wrapped up tightly in the offered blanket, and the hot chocolate helped to warm her shaking fingers.
Her father sat next to her on the couch, obviously unsure about what else he could do.
At least he tried.
It had to be a cape, right? No one else could peek into her second story window like that, and disappear before anyone else caught a glimpse of them. A flyer, or at least some kind of Mover.
Sophia would know what to do. Emma had already sent her a text, even if she hadn't opened it yet. Stalker wasn't on patrol tonight.
Emma's shivering intensified, despite her best efforts.
She hadn't told her parents what else she saw.
Hadn't told the police, either. They definitely wouldn't have believed her, if she had.
Because it was impossible.
But she would recognize those eyes anywhere. It didn't matter if they were wet with tears or hard and sharp with fury.
Those curls, as pitch black in the moonlight as they had been fanned across her bedsheets while Taylor laughed.
But Taylor was dead, rotted and gone forever. Emma would never hear her laugh or cry again.
I did that.
Then who was wandering the night, with Taylor's eyes?
Eat it, then pick.
She wasn't safe. Here, or anywhere.
…
"Do I have permission to heal you?"
Amy Dallon, known to the rest of the world as the miracle healer Panacea, barely bothered to listen to the response.
It was always the same. She had heard every response on the spectrum.
Presumption. Expectation. Like they were owed her magic touch.
Extreme gratitude. As if she could live with herself if she just stood by and let them die. As if she ever had a choice.
It didn't fucking matter.
She hated them so fucking much, sometimes.
Just another night of putting broken puzzles back together.
"Do I have permission to heal you?"
Would they let her touch them, if they knew the truth? If they knew how tempting it was to take all those little, fragile connections and just twist-
Don't think about it.
Amy let her mind wander and tried to distract herself from the mindless task of putting the car accident victim's bones back inside their body.
An image of long curls and sparkling eyes, shadowed under the brim of that stupid hat in the moonlight. Long coat and scarf flowing in the cold breeze as she stood confident and unafraid on the high railing.
Well… it was better than dreaming of mutilation. For the most part.
Amy didn't know what to make of the stranger on the roof. Hunter.
"I could give you cancer, you know."
"Do it, coward."
It took an… unusual kind of person, to brush that kind of threat off. Not only because Amy could actually do it, but also because she believed her, for some reason. The dark woman truly didn't care if Amy violated her. She got the feeling that she would "prefer if she didn't", but nothing seemed to phase her.
There was something about her that itched in the back of Amy's mind. Obsidian eyes grinning at her from the shadows.
She didn't know why she decided to grab the supplies for the stranger. Temporary insanity. A moment of weakness, without truly terrible consequences.
The world just felt so gray and monotonous, sometimes. An endless parade of broken bodies with no end in sight.
"Do I have permission to heal you?"
Despite what she said, there was a part of her that wanted to see the mysterious woman again, even though she shouldn't. She had taken to spending even more of her breaks on the roof, just in case.
Not that she would admit that to anyone, let alone Hunter.
But so far, no one had seen any trace of the elusive hat girl.
Amy had also tried to listen more attentively to Carol's updates on cape activities, but her adoptive mother had made no mention of a new cape with a penchant for stealing medical supplies.
A Tinker, maybe? Or maybe she just knew somebody who was hurt, but couldn't come to the hospital for some reason. She was definitely a Mover of some kind, the way she ran and jumped from the roof without hesitation.
"See you around, Panacea."
Hopefully, she would.
Because Amy wanted answers.
No other reason.
…
In both timelines, Thomas Calvert allowed himself a tight smile as he scrolled through the information displayed on the computer screen.
In one, he sat in his comfortable office at the PRT headquarters. He even had his own window.
In the other, he sat in his base of operations under the guise of the supervillain, Coil.
There was a new Tinker in town.
They were careful, and they hadn't given the PRT much to work with, but they were there. Splitting up their purchases, paying in cash, changing clothes, parking outside of easy surveillance. No electronics purchases. But, they had bought enough wholesale materials and tools to show up if one knew where to look.
No one else had noticed, so far. And none of the official alerts had been tripped.
In fact, without the combination of his criminal contacts and PRT resources, he may not have noticed, either.
But he could have both simultaneously, thanks to his power, so he did.
In one timeline, he sent the information gathered by the PRT to his private databases before deleting it from the government system. He had long since compromised the local security to allow himself the necessary privileges.
In the other, he manually typed the relevant information into a new file in his lair computer. He wasn't sure which timeline he would keep today, so it was better to double up.
Thinker powers were highly underrated. Humanity hadn't become the planet's dominant species by being faster or stronger than their adversaries.
It didn't take long to locate his target. He didn't even have to call his Tattletale.
He still would, of course, before actually reaching out to his new potential asset. Whether or not she remembered the conversation would be irrelevant.
Daniel Hebert.
Old, for a new trigger. A hiring manager at a local union. He had taken some time off in the coinciding timeframe. Nothing that would draw attention, if one didn't hold all the cards.
His daughter had recently passed away in an unfortunate accident.
Even that was suspicious. Anyone with more than two functioning brain cells would see that the school was covering something up.
Regardless, there were significantly less traumatic events that had the potential to trigger new capes. It was more than plausible.
A man, angry at the system that failed his daughter. A man, who had worked for so many long years for the betterment of a failing city with very little to show for it. A man, now alone and possibly aching for direction, even if he didn't know it.
Thomas could definitely work with this. He may not even need to employ any… uncivilized… means of coercion.
He would make sure to keep those in his back pocket, of course. Just in case.
Coil reviewed the litany of purchases made by Mr. Hebert in the last week.
What are you up to, Daniel?
…
Massacre 2.1
Everything was ready.
Her saw cleaver hung heavy in a leather loop hooked to one side of her belt.
Her pistol rested comfortably on the other, extra quicksilver bullets fastened to the leather.
In an easily accessible shoulder holster, her quick injector and a supply of blood vials were ready in case she needed them.
Arrayed on the workbench in front of her were several lengths of tubing, needles, and collection bags.
Taylor took a steadying breath and reviewed her objectives for her evening hunt.
She needed to find worthy targets. Beasts in human skin who preyed upon the innocent. People who deserved her brutal brand of heroism.
She needed as much of their blood as she could reasonably gather. Whether or not they needed to be alive for that to happen was… up for debate.
Her fingers caressed the wood and leather handle of her cleaver. It wasn't a weapon that lent itself to non-lethal engagements.
Part of her was worried about how little that bothered her. Was she already so far gone that thoughts of murder barely phased her?
It would have horrified her, before. But that was before she died, before everyone just walked past her coffin like she didn't matter, like they couldn't hear her begging for help.
She died, and she didn't deserve it. Why should she cry about the death of the evil and the monstrous?
Taylor shook off the momentary hesitation. Her power wasn't designed to be safe, and she wasn't going to shy away from what was necessary. She wouldn't hurt innocent people, and hopefully that would be enough to keep the weight of her sins from drowning her soul.
She would find monsters who deserved it.
A Hunter must hunt.
The Empire. Actual fucking Nazis. A blight upon both her city and the world in general.
The ABB. Formerly the Yakuza, and the Triads. Human traffickers and sex slavers.
It wasn't like she was going to start hacking up shoplifters. These were murderers and rapists who enabled widespread atrocities on an unacceptable scale.
And if they just happened to be filled with sweet, sweet blood, that was just a serendipitous coincidence. Their donation would probably do more good than they had done in the rest of their miserable lives.
At least, that's what she told herself.
And finally, she needed to avoid having too much information trickle back to the PRT or the gang's heavy hitters. She didn't need Armsmaster, Lung, or Kaiser breathing down her neck. Not before she had fully established her workshop, at least.
Taylor pulled on her long coat and tied her hair back, winding her scarf tightly around her neck and tugging it up to cover her face.
She grabbed her hat to complete the costume.
Was it even a costume, really? Taylor Hebert was dead. Her only identity was the Hunter, now.
She grabbed the tubes and blood bags off the table and began tucking them into the various pockets of her coat.
How would she even find her targets, though? Just wander the streets until she saw some suspicious activity? How did actual heroes patrol?
Her fingers brushed against something in one of her coat pockets.
What was in her pocket?
She hadn't thought to check those inside pockets at any point since her father bought the coat.
Taylor put down the blood bags and pulled out an annoyingly familiar folded piece of heavy, expensive paper.
"117 N Oakland Ave."
What.
She turned the paper over, holding it up to the light as if that would reveal some detail that she'd missed.
"Do not fear the Old Blood."
What the actual fuck.
Weird notes in hats left by her grave were one thing, but this was different.
She hadn't even been with her father when he had gone to pick out this coat. Whoever was leaving these notes had either known which coat the store attendant would recommend, or they were following her.
Taylor didn't know which was worse.
Someone was trying to pull her strings.
And the most irritating part was that it was going to work. The only path she had to finding her answers was to go to the damn address. Even if part of her wanted to just ignore it and avoid that address out of spite, she knew that she wasn't going to.
It didn't mean she had to like it.
Taylor ground her teeth as she shoved the note and the blood bags into her pockets.
She had beasts to hunt.
…
It was cloudy, tonight.
Taylor missed feeling the moonlight on her face, but it was good for moving through the city undetected.
Running across the rooftops was as satisfying as ever, although she was careful to stick close to walls or alleyways whenever possible. With the number of flying capes in the city, just being on a rooftop was no guarantee of anonymity.
The address from her mysterious hat provider was on the edge of downtown, in Empire territory. Hopefully, it would be worth the trip.
After all the drama, she would be pretty irritated if the cryptic note led to a 7-11 or something.
Maybe she should have googled it before heading out?
Probably not. She had been trying to stay off the web as much as possible. Tinkers could track web traffic much more easily than regular traffic, and something like a VPN wouldn't stand a chance against someone like Dragon.
Not that she expected to have someone like Dragon looking for her, but still. Better safe than sorry.
Taylor dropped down into an alley and skulked forward to check the nearest street sign.
Oakland Avenue.
She was close.
A few leaps later and she was back on the rooftops, finally approaching her destination.
It was a warehouse complex and storage facility, with several stacks of shipping containers in the wide concrete yard out back.
There was also a fair amount of activity, for this late at night.
Maybe her stalker was on to something.
Taylor worked her way slowly around the edge of the building next door, trying to make out more details in the dark.
Pallets of something, being unloaded off of trucks by a generic crew of workmen. Despite what the movies would have you think, most gang members don't publicly announce their affiliation while they're working.
She needed to get closer. There must have been a reason that this address was on the paper.
Sticking to the shadows as much as possible, Taylor crept across the roof of the warehouse itself and peaked into the skylight.
That's a lot of guns. And drugs. Lovely.
She was definitely in the right place, then.
Several crates near the middle of the warehouse floor were open while a group of men inspected and catalogued their contents. Taylor didn't know enough about specific firearms to identify the model, but they looked dangerous and very much illegal, especially in that quantity.
All that remained was to identify the organization responsible to ensure that they were viable targets.
Raised voices filtered out through the open bay doors, and Taylor risked another peak into the skylight.
A lean, muscular man wearing a red and black uniform and a mask was striding purposefully across the concrete.
Victor.
Well… shit.
At least that answered her question. This was definitely an Empire stash house and processing center.
It was also an opportunity. If Victor was the only Empire cape here, and she could catch him alone…
Her pulse quickened at the prospect of harvesting his blood.
She couldn't get ahead of herself, though. This needed to be quick, and quiet.
Taylor moved over to the other side of the warehouse as silently as she could, slipping down the side of the building until she found an unlocked window that led to the office section of the complex.
The first two windows that she tried were locked, but the third opened with just a small creak of protest.
She didn't have much time. Who knew how long Victor would actually stay here, if he was just checking the progress of the shipment.
Taylor eased herself into the dark conference room.
The slim window in the door showed a light on in the hallway outside, casting a thin beam of light onto the wall.
She pressed herself against the wall and listened carefully.
Muffled voices filtered down the corridor. Taylor drew her cleaver in her right hand and her pistol in her left. Things would never be the same, after this. Her soul would be quenched in violence and forged anew in the moonlight.
Let the hunt begin.
She flung the door open and raced down the hall.
The pair of guards walking towards her didn't even have time to scream.
Taylor dashed forward and raised her cleaver across her body, slashing downwards with a brutal twist that caught the guard on the left in the collarbone. The teeth of the sawblade shredded his skin, muscle, and bone as it cut a bloody fissure through the base of his neck and down into his chest.
Crimson rain showered the hallway as she ripped the saw free from his corpse.
The remaining Empire enforcer's face was slack at the sudden violence, his comrade's lifeblood painting his uniform and the wall behind him.
Taylor used her momentum to spin in a tight circle, ducking under the falling body and letting the saw unfold to take advantage of the centripetal force as she swung it across her body again.
It smashed into the side of her enemy's head with a sickening squelch, and he dropped bonelessly to the floor.
She took a moment to absorb the results of her work.
There was no going back, now. She was a Hunter, and she would take what she needed from those who deserved her fury. She would not be powerless. Not anymore.
Taylor dropped to one knee next to the guard with the ruined head. He had lost the least blood.
She tied a quick cuff around his upper arm and slid one of her needles into a vein.
Blood didn't fill the tube.
Right. No heartbeat.
She dragged his body into the nearest conference room and propped him up in a chair, arm falling slack down the side.
Blood started to slowly trickle into the bag, now that gravity could assist. Hopefully enough would be collected by the time she was done. In the event that she didn't manage to get ahold of Victor's blood, at least she would have a consolation prize.
After a moment's consideration, she dragged the other corpse into the conference room too. The bloodstains were an obvious giveaway, but this might slow down the alarm if her gristly work was discovered.
She was running out of time, though.
Forward.
…
Taylor entered the main warehouse on the balcony that overlooked the open floor.
There was no easy way to conceal her approach. Two guards with long rifles stood at either end of the balcony, which ran the entire length of the wall. The warehouse floor itself was filled with stacks of crates and containers of varying sizes, but she would be seen by the gunmen on the balcony before she made it halfway to the group congregated around Victor in the middle of the floor.
So she took the less risky of the two options, and entered on the balcony to deal with them first. Doing so would probably alert Victor to her presence, but the odds of getting the drop on him were slim to none anyway. This way, she wouldn't be trying to dodge bullets from above while she fought between the crates.
Her steps were quick and quiet as she raced down the balcony towards the first of the two guards, reaching him just as he realized that he suddenly wasn't alone.
He died quickly, her sawblade running red in a beautiful river.
Unfortunately, the gunman at the other end of the balcony heard the strangled death knell and spun to face her, rifle at the ready.
Her pistol was already raised. She could feel the line in her mind's eye, connecting her weapon to his forehead. She was a living weapon, and the bullets were part of her, molded from her blood.
A Hunter must hunt.
The thunderous boom of the gunshot crashed into her ears and the Nazi's head exploded like an overfilled water balloon. The recoil would have thrown her shoulder out of its socket if she had been a normal human. Luckily, she wasn't.
Victor definitely knew she was here now.
Panicked shouts and exclamations echoed across the open warehouse. Taylor leapt from the balcony and landed lightly on the balls of her feet behind a crate below.
Her heartbeat pounded an exhilarating staccato in her ears. She could feel the strength singing in her bones. Even through the heavy clouds, the silver island called to her.
This was what she had been craving. No more cowering in the shadows. Just her, and her prey.
She rocketed forward between the boxes, keeping low to avoid any stray gunfire.
Sliding around a corner, she swung her saw low and wide to tear into a lone Empire thug's knee. She flipped her sawblade closed while he toppled and finished him off with a casual blow to the head as she raced past.
More.
Taylor leapt up and over a tall row of crates, landing in the midst of four men on the other side.
The first two fell before they even registered her existence, agonized screams echoing in the open warehouse as the saw opened ragged wounds across their spines.
The third fired his automatic weapon blind, accidentally ripping apart the fourth man in his hurry.
Taylor ducked under the row of bullets and sent him tumbling to the ground with another low swing to the back of the knee.
Give me more!
She ended his screams and took a moment to reload her pistol.
This almost felt too easy.
Something deep within her mind twisted.
Acting on pure instinct, Taylor threw herself sideways with all the force and dexterity that her superhuman muscles could muster. Even so, she didn't quite manage to avoid the sniper round that would have pierced her heart. The high caliber bullet tore through the right side of her chest, barely missing her spine as it tunneled through a couple ribs and her right lung, exploding out of her back.
Victor wasn't playing around.
She wouldn't have it any other way, but fuck that hurt.
Taylor tumbled to the floor behind the nearest crate in a rapidly growing pool of crimson deep, gasping to draw breath into her single functioning lung. She coughed and a thick splatter of red coated the crate in front of her.
Huh. I don't remember drinking that much blood.
She was also a bit delirious.
More bullets ripped through the crates around her, wooden splinters flying like angry bees.
Her fingers fumbled slightly as she grabbed for her quick injection syringe, but she managed to get a grip and pull it free from its holster.
At least she had pre-loaded it with a blood vial. Good job, past-Taylor.
She slammed the injector into the intact side of her chest and groaned as the euphoria overtook her.
Or maybe that was just the absence of pain. Getting shot in the chest really fucking hurt.
She would try to avoid that in the future. Hopefully. At least she had a decent benchmark for the blood vials. Her chest felt pretty damn good despite the extensive damage, so she was reasonably sure that anything that didn't kill her could be repaired.
She would try not to lose any limbs, though. That could get messy.
Taylor assessed her situation. She couldn't easily move because of the constant barrage, but she obviously couldn't stay here.
Fortune favors the bold.
She took a deep breath into her newly repaired lungs, gathering her strength in her lanky legs like a tightly coiled spring. With an explosion of jarring movement, Taylor launched herself straight upwards and flipped high over the row of boxes, sighting her targets midair.
Victor was lying flat on top of a stack of crates more than fifty yards away.
Two more Empire goons flanked him, automatic assault rifles trained on her position.
Taylor saw Victor take aim at her flying form. She didn't doubt that he had the skill necessary to pick her out of the air.
But this time, she could see him coming. He wouldn't get lucky twice.
Victor's sniper rifle kicked.
Taylor twisted midair and fired her pistol.
Victor's sniper round missed by a hair, ripping a hole in her coat.
The consecrated quicksilver bullet took his left arm off at the shoulder in an explosion of shattered bone.
Taylor cursed as she landed between the crates and sprinted down the row. She had been aiming for his head, but the pistol really wasn't designed for that range.
I need to get closer.
She reloaded her pistol while she ran.
Victor's voice echoed off the metal roof, ordering the remaining guards to cover his retreat while he yelled into a cell phone.
She didn't have much more time, then. The rest of the Empire would be on their way shortly.
Taylor rocketed forward and slid low under the incoming gunfire. She unfolded her cleaver to catch one of the two remaining guards in the gut and ripped his body apart.
She was close, too close, to the final Empire enforcer. Her saw was still extended and lodged inside the guard to her right. The man on her left was turning, gun raised and ready to fire point blank into her center mass.
Taylor didn't hesitate. With a roar, she let go of the cleaver and shoved her hand into his chest just below the sternum, sliding through his flesh with worrying ease.
Her fingers closed around his spine.
His gun went off even as she ripped him apart, but at least the sudden motion of his vertebra exiting through the front of his chest sent his aim off and to her left. The bullets only tore into her shoulder rather than her heart.
Nothing another blood vial wouldn't fix.
The ruined corpse fell away from her, and she tossed his spine aside as she turned.
A door labeled Exit in bloody red light slammed.
Running away, Victor?
He had no trouble hunting those he considered inferior, but ran when he became the prey?
Pathetic.
Taylor wrenched her cleaver free and followed him into the night. It was all too easy to track the trail of crimson despite his attempts to staunch the bleeding.
He raced down the alleyway ahead of her, moving erratically in a vain attempt to throw off her shot.
Too slow.
The sound of thunder boomed again, and her enemy collapsed as his knee ruptured beneath him.
Still, he managed to turn his fall into a surprisingly graceful roll and kept moving, pulling himself forward with one leg and one hand.
Taylor reloaded her pistol and shot his other leg off.
Stupid. Wasting all his blood.
She strode forward quickly.
"You'll never get-"
Whatever he was about to say cut off sharply as she buried her cleaver in his skull.
Silence fell, for the first time since her hunt began.
Taylor took stock of her situation.
She had Victor and his precious blood, leaking onto the pavement in pieces.
There was a veritable smorgasbord of offerings back in the warehouse, including Victor's arm and the blood bag she had set up back in the office.
However, she was running short on time, and Victor's blood was the priority.
This hunt had been… messy. Sloppy. She would do better next time.
Taylor looked around the alleyway.
Surely, Victor's body would fit in a trash bag…
Right?
…
Taylor stopped for a moment and crouched behind an air conditioning unit several blocks away from the bloodbath.
She had decided not to risk going back for the one blood bag. Victor would provide enough for her to work with for a while, and she didn't want to risk being forced to leave his body behind while she fled from the Empire. It had taken longer than she expected to wrap his body in trash bags and gather his wayward limbs.
It would be counterproductive to leave a blood trail, for multiple reasons.
In the very corner of her vision, a shadow moved against the cloudy sky.
Taylor dropped the heavy package and turned, drawing her pistol and aiming it between the eyes of the dark figure that suddenly joined her on the rooftop.
A heavy black cloak and hood shrouded her features, but the crossbow pointed directly at Taylor's face gave away her identity.
Shadow Stalker.
They both stood frozen for a long moment, pistol and crossbow less than a foot apart. Each waiting for the other to make the first move.
"Who the fuck are you?" Shadow Stalker said.
Something about her voice was familiar, but it was too muffled by her mask for Taylor to put her finger on it.
"Hunter," Taylor said.
"Sure you are," the Ward scoffed derisively. "What are you up to, Hunter?"
Huh. Maybe she didn't know about the… incident, a few blocks over.
Still, Taylor couldn't quite bring herself to care enough to lie. It wasn't like her activities weren't obvious. Her shirt was shredded and soaked with blood, her own and her enemies'. Her coat was peppered with bullet holes. Everything from her hat to her scarf to her slacks was splattered liberally with the evidence of her revelry.
"Killing Nazis," Taylor said.
"No shit," Shadow Stalker snorted despite herself. "What'cha got in the bag?"
"Victor's dismembered corpse."
There was a long moment of silence. Neither of them lowered their weapons.
"You're fucking with me," Shadow Stalker said.
"Nope," Taylor said, shrugging as best she could without moving her gun. "Are we going to have a problem?"
She didn't necessarily want to kill a Ward, but Shadow Stalker didn't seem like she was messing around. That crossbow looked lethal.
The quiet was tense, and charged.
"No…" Shadow Stalker said eventually. "No, I don't think we will."
She didn't lower her crossbow, though.
"Good," Taylor said slowly. "In that case, would you mind fucking off? Victor and I have business to discuss."
"Sure you do," Shadow Stalker sounded like she was grinning behind the mask.
The cloaked cape slowly walked towards the edge of the roof, her crossbow never wavering.
Taylor tracked her with her eyes and her pistol at every step.
"See you around, Hunter," Shadow Stalker said.
A memory made Taylor smile.
"I hope not," Taylor said.
Shadow Stalker snorted again and dropped off the edge of the roof.
Taylor waited for a few more long seconds, just in case.
She wasn't actually sure whether Shadow Stalker would report her to the PRT or not. Something about the whole interaction seemed off, and the Ward made no mention of her superiors or legal repercussions. Hell, she left after Taylor admitted to murder, even if her victims were Nazis.
Only time would tell.
Taylor holstered her pistol, grabbed Victor's body, and resumed her trek home.
…
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