Chapter Text
Taylor sat with her hands in her lap, patiently staring at the director of the Brockton Bay PRT.
The director stared back.
She had such a boring office, Taylor thought idly.
Bland, featureless. Few personal details, nothing to show that the Director had any real attachment to it. If Emily Piggot died tomorrow, another Director could move in within an hour without having to remove anything. Taylor had been here before... it was just a week and a half ago, right? She couldn't remember, so much had happened in that time, she had been to Boston and back, been through the rigmarole of medical inspection and surgery, been through that bright moment of hope.
It had been a day since the surgery.
She barely remembered anything that had happened after the event, it was all a haze, a mess.
A section of the PRT building was still locked off as experts from Quarantine Zone-9 investigated, experts in the field of Oort Spiderology or whatever the correct term would be.
Disaster management?
"Ordinant, how are you feeling?"
Taylor found herself blinking, observing her own action with a sort of languid half awareness, as if she was somebody else looking out the eyes of Taylor Hebert.
"Fine."
She was not. But what else was she supposed to say? 'No, I am not fine. My arm and legs are fucked. I hate this. I hate you. Leave me alone, don't talk to me---'
Piggot's lips pressed together. She knew that Taylor was lying.
"The Department is currently performing a review of the method used, to see if there is some alternate way to give you a new arm and legs," the Director said in a simple, straightforward way, as if they were discussing an alternate placing of a chess piece, or an alternative sandwich recipe.
It was too late. Taylor knew it for certain. She didn't even attempt a hopeful smile, that would take some small modicum of effort.
The crystal was in her shoulder now, what were they going to do? Take a giant chunk out of her upper body? At this rate, she would end up as a human bonsai tree, constantly being pruned of its branches to keep it small.
"There's nothing that can be done. It wants me, Director," the woman shifted in her seat as she said that, there was an expression that looked wrong on her face, but Taylor could not tell what emotion it was. She was tired, she did not have the energy to work out every micro-expression of the human being in front of her, she just wanted to sleep in a cocoon of blankets.
It wanted her.
It was eating her alive.
They had taken the arm, and after the bone had been sawed and the offending limb placed aside, a new one had rapidly begun growing to replace it whilst the old one fully crystallised.
They had not even been able to take the second off, they had cut into the flesh higher up and the crystal had reacted by rapidly climbing her arm, one of the surgeons had been too slow and been infected as well. Apparently Armsmaster had been first on the scene, and upon the surgeon’s insistence had cut off his hand.
Now there was a crystallised hand just sitting in the middle of an operating theatre somewhere in the building.
That was what all the screaming her father had heard was. What a tragic irony, a surgeon losing a hand to the very condition she was attempting to heal?
"None of that, young lady. The moment you surrender to a condition is the moment it has won, fighting back is what keeps you strong," Piggot replied, sharply. "Trust me, I have experience."
Taylor didn't say anything. She didn't know what to say.
After a moment, the Director gave a long, slow exhale.
"I am also afraid that I must ask you to continue breaking Grey Boy loops."
Continue? So, they would be sending her out to other cities to break more... and be put at more risk. Strangely, the notion did not bring any horror or concern. Well, they might as well get their use out of her whilst she was still alive, and she was not so consumed by the weighty exhaustion of her depression that she could not recognise that. Might as well do as much good for the world as humanly possible.
"Emma needs to come with me."
"Ordinant, the PRT cannot just have a random civilian teenager accompany you into Gray Boy victim zones, there are all sorts of ethical and legal problems with that."
"If you want me to break more loops, I need Emma to come," she reiterated in the same tone as before.
"I am afraid that that is likely impossible."
"... I'm dying, Director." It felt strange to say that. She had been dying this entire time of course, but after that moment of hope with Prosthetist, after all the expectations and everything... admitting it was a second brick to the face. It was an acceptance of her mortality, it was impossible to ignore now, no longer a distant, unpleasant, and unsightly thing contained to her legs that came closer and closer by increments. "Use me or literally lose me, but if you want me to break loops... I need Emma."
"... You are being unreasonable, Ordinant."
"... And? What are you going to do, Director?" she asked blandly.
Genuinely, what would the PRT do if she refused to break more loops? Would they have a Master use their powers on her to force her to do so? That would be far more morally wrong than bringing Emma with her, they could physically force her against the loops... maybe they would sue her for breach of contract, but then if it went to court and the reason why was revealed... "I'm not going to ask for money. Or something unreasonable. I just need my friend there."
With a detached, empty serenity, Taylor stared at the Director who was looking so very sternly at her, like an obstinate boulder in the course of a raging stream.
"You won't be doing anything until you've had some therapy, because you clearly are not in good mental health. After that, we will meet about this again."
Taylor found herself nodding.
Easier to just agree than to resist.
"---your brute rating has been upgraded to four, but only for your crystals," Miss Militia said gently. "And you've been assigned a Trump rating of eight, although it only applies to Shaker powers. There was some talk about it, and a provisional striker rating of two has been assigned as well."
As if Taylor cared about the numbers that she was being assigned. She could be a Trump that nullified the concept of powers from the surface of planet Earth and it would not change her state of being.
"Fortunately, it is nothing that will cause us to have to revise any procedures, but you will need to be careful if you are working around Vista in future, you are basically a complete counter to her power," she went on, briefly glancing over the paper again. "You said that your 'bursts' can be directed, but even then, it might be for the best to have you both patrol together with some backup until you can get more used to how your powers interact, or not patrol together at all."
Oh. She rather liked Vista. The only patrol she had ever been on had been made much more pleasant due to the company of the other Ward, because Shadow Stalker sure as hell had not been providing stimulating conversation.
"Thank you, Miss Militia," she said, blandly. "When will I be on duty again?"
"Probably not for a little while to be honest, Ordinant, the people up top are pretty spooked about what happened and there’s a lot of investigations that need to be done."
"But I want to work and be distracted from it all," she said, stubbornly. Please, just say that she would be able to do something, she didn't need much, even if it was just console or filling out forms. Give her some way that she could be useful and contribute. After that heady feeling of success in Boston, of helping to improve lives, she needed something to keep her chin up.
"Ordinant, it's okay, you need to have your therapy first, and when you are in a better place, we can look to increasing your duties---"
"I don't want to!" she was surprised by her own outburst; at the way she brought her crystal fist against the table with a sound like a metal weight hitting a floor. "I don't... I don't want to spend weeks in therapy when I could be helping!"
Miss Militia put the papers she had been reading over to the side.
"Ordinant... you'll burn out very quickly if you work yourself like that," she warned, keeping her voice low and soft despite her outburst. This couldn't be the woman’s first rodeo of dealing with emotional Wards, Taylor did not know what motivated some of the others to join, but she couldn't imagine, based on what the pamphlets said when she first joined, that all of them had had bad times getting their powers.
"... But will I burn out before I'm paralysed?" she asked, not blinking as she stared at her superior, their eyes meeting as silence dominated the room for a few seconds.
Taylor won the staring contest.
There was no reply. They had not given her a time or expected date, be it months or years, but based on her own experience she might only have a year or two. She was due for a scan to see how far the crystal had penetrated but she wanted... she NEEDED to do as much good as she could in that time! It would distract her; it would let her leave something good behind!
Her mind was frazzled, veering between wanting to cry and to throw a chair at the nearest breakable object.
Oh... She was a mess, wasn't she?
She couldn't keep control of her emotions at all.
She was back at Winslow.
Why was she even here? It was like a strange, surreal world to be back at school, surrounded by people again, people completely unaware of what she had been through in the last few days. Feeling as if she was less walking, more piloting a Taylor-shaped camera, she got her books out of the locker. It had been over a week and a half since she had been to classes, that PRT provided 'work and medical note' certainly had been stretched to the limit.
She would have so much to catch up on.
A lot of homework as well. Well, that would be a nice distraction.
"C'mon Tay, we've got physics first," Emma's hand was warm in hers, holding it firmly but without crushing it.
Not that Emma could break the crystal.
Taylor allowed herself to be led to class, the halls were busy but Emma was walking fast so it just looked like one friend tugging the other along. A few of the local troublemakers would probably sneer, but hey, that's life, right? Life in Brockton Bay that is.
They sat down and set up their things, Emma's desk closer than usual, which was saying something.
"Taylor, why are you wearing a glove in class?" came the inevitable question, one that she had been dreading this entire time.
"I need to wear it for medical reasons, sir," she intoned, dully.
"Do you have a note?"
"It's with the office, sir."
What was it with teachers? Did he really think that she had chosen to wear a glove as a fashion statement, when it would just get in the way of her writing? Was this normal? It was such petty bureaucracy and small mindedness, completely unnecessary. He should just nod, and get on with the lesson, that would be the most efficient course of action. Why waste time with pointless things like this?
Oh, he was. Good.
Unfortunately, others were less keen to drop the subject.
"Hey Taylor... what's wrong with your hand?"
It was Madison, who Emma was acquaintances with. Taylor had never really interacted with her much, although when Emma dragged her to a party at the girl's house a few weeks ago they had chatted about inane topics to fill the void. She could not even remember the gist of it all, the main thrust of the conversation.
"I don't really want to talk about it..." she excused, self-consciously putting the offending hand into her lap, as if at any moment the glove may fall off and reveal the crystal hand for the horror of all the world to see. Out of sight, out of mind... Apart from the constant ache in her shoulder and legs that was there to remind her.
"Is it a skin thing? I know a few good creams that can help with stuff like eczema," she offered. She was trying to be nice, and Taylor could appreciate that even if she did not really want to talk about it right now.
"Madison, drop it." Emma interjected sharply, and the other girl's jaw clacked shut. She almost looked a little confused by it, as if she moved back on instinct at the force of the redhead’s insistence. It was somewhat blunt and forceful, very different from the Emma she had gotten used to... well, she had not taken the news about her unsuccessful operation very well at all, and had been practically glued to her hip when she could in the last few days.
But at least Emma was safe, she could walk as well are before and had her hand back.
"Ah, sorry, I shouldn't really ask, I just wondered if I might know something that could help... y'know?" Madison fumbled, looking at Taylor.
"... It's alright, sorry. I just kind of don't want to advertise it much, but it's kind of hard when I need the glove," Taylor tried to apologise, whilst Emma turned back to her books without further comment.
With that, silence reigned, bar the conversation of others in the room, the late arrivals setting up their things, laughing and joking in the background. Everything about the world felt so off to her, as if she was walking through some horrible waking dream in which everyone was normal and happy, and she was the only odd one out. It was all in her head, she knew it, but she just wanted to run away from it all, find somewhere and break down again, as she had half a dozen times in the last few days---
Under the table, a hand found hers.
Emma did not look her way or give any indication that she was even thinking about her, but she gave her hand a squeeze of support at the moment she needed it most.
She could do this.
She had to try and keep moving forward no matter what.