Chapter 3: Paint the Town

Guardian

a Worm/Destiny Crossover

Chapter 3: Paint the Town

Taylor had retreated to the place she was coming to think of as her lair. Before becoming a Guardian, it had only been her bedroom, but now it held every scrap of information she'd been able to glean. Solid information and speculation on her abilities. Places she might go to push herself to the limit. A growing dossier, full of as much concrete information she'd been able to put together on the major and minor players in the so called 'cape scene'. The beginning steps of what looked like a course of action. And of course, the knife. Her knife.

It wouldn't be impossible for someone to assume that Taylor was a neat person, and diligent in keeping everything organized. This person would only have to ask her dad and, after he had finished laughing, learn that he would be happy to disabuse them of the notion. The physical evidence of her new life was scattered all over the desk and the floor around it. A disorganized mess to everyone but its creator. Which was the only person it needed to make sense for, really.

Or so she liked to say, whenever the subjects of 'cleaning' and 'her room' came up. It hadn't worked so far, but she was determined, dedicated, and clever. She'd find a way. But that was for later. Right now she was trying to find a starting point, and was bouncing ideas both off her wall and her Ghost, who was flitting around her room mumbling to itself about the mess.

She had an idea, considered it carefully, and discarded it before she could give voice to it. This being the third time such a thing occurred in a row, she gave a muffled shriek of frustration and thumped her head back against her chair. The motion sent the thing on a slow rotation, sending her on a full revolution before her knee thumped against the desk and brought her to a stop. "This is..." Her lower lip was chewed for a moment. "a lot more confusing than I thought it would be."

No hero or villain had made any statements on how, exactly, they got started. With the notable exception of the various Protectorate programs, of course. Everyone knew how those guys got their starts because they made sure of it. She supposed it wouldn't be too difficult to join up. It would certainly solve a lot of problems for her. Protectorate Heroes got funding, training, outfitting, everything she would need to be a successful Hunter and Guardian.

That would mean she'd have to tell her dad. She didn't think he'd disapprove, by any means, but she wasn't sure how many more shocks he could take given the previous evening's revelations. There wasn't a scenario she could envision where she went out and did heroics in any form without him noticing something. She'd end up telling him before long, she knew this, but for right now she wanted to keep it to herself. It was something wonderful, something great that was hers and hers alone. Well...hers and her Ghost's.

She was getting antsy. Drumming her fingers along the chair's armrests and tapping her feet on its wheel legs. An ache was making itself known, one subsumed under the flood of the last day's events. She supposed it was the Hunter in her, telling her now to go out and find new things. It was a tempting whisper, she had to admit. Her dad had gone off to work, after making sure she wasn't going in to school, and so she was all by her lonesome in their quiet little house. A long, deep sigh coursed through her.

"That's the third time in ten minutes you've done that, Guardian." She was brought out of her gradual warming to the idea of going out for a jog or something by her Ghost's...helpful...notification.

"That's because it's the third time in ten minutes I've realized I have no idea what to do." Here she lifted a hand and let it drop. "Until now. We have a course of action, Ghost."

Her Ghost's voice was wry. "Do tell."

"We're going for a walk. Do I need a leash for you?" She smiled impishly as it titled down at her, looking for all the world like it was frowning.

"That's not funny."

Well. She thought it was. That was all that she needed to have herself a giggle fit on the way downstairs. Taylor grabbed her sweater from the back of the couch, which was exactly where she'd left it, for once, and was almost out the door when she stopped. Her left hand curled into a fist and relaxed. Two minutes and a trip back upstairs later and she was leaving with her knife, blade wrapped securely in a very old tube sock.

=+= Chapter 3: Paint the Town =+=

There was a illicit thrill to walking around in broad daylight with a semi-naked blade on her person. A thrill, she had to admit, that was made null by how much care she had to take not to stab herself in the butt. That was first on the rather spontaneous to-do list now in her head. As luck would have it, there was a sporting goods store within walking distance. Whether or not they would be able to help was another matter entirely. There was nothing to be lost in trying, however, so that became her first destination.

The clerk behind the register had been bemused, but very helpful, especially after being told the knife was a present for an uncle, and so Taylor left the store ten minutes later flushed with success and the owner of a cheap leather belt sheath for her knife. It still wasn't the sort of thing a law abiding citizen could openly carry, so she tucked its now covered length into her back pocket and covered it with her sweater. The sock, now tattered and holed, went into a nearby trashcan.

Taylor found herself drifting towards the Boardwalk, tourist trap the place was, as she pondered what to do next. Somewhere in the depths of her notes and plans there was a costume. One she would need to finish, sooner or later. It was a struggle coming up with something that suited her. Most of it continued to elude her, however, with a notable exception: a cloak. A hooded, calf-length cloak. The rest of it would, and probably could change depending on her mood, but that remained constant.

Hold on...

Hadn't there been something about a rogue Tinker? One who specialized in fabrics, and who was known for doing costumes on commission? She chewed her lip a moment, then ducked behind a store so she could have a quick conversation. "Ghost."

"Guardian?" She flinched at the seeming volume of her Ghost's synthetic voice, but moved past her needless paranoia.

"Do you remember the rogue Tinker, the one who worked with like, fabrics and stuff? Can you remember her name? I'm drawing a blank."

There was a series of clicks from the air in front of her, a hum, and then her Ghost became visible. She noticed in the open light how terrible it looked. Warped and cracked, jagged rents as long as her pinkie and short as her nail dotting its frame. Moments later, she had her answer. "Our research indicates the cape you're talking about is Parian. She's actually doing a puppet show not far from here. We can make it if we hurry."

Now wasn't that fortuitous? "Then hurry we will." Taylor began to put action to her words before she stopped as something occurred to her. "I don't think I've got enough money to have her make me a costume." Then she shrugged. "Eh, maybe we can work something out."

"It's a moot point if you don't actually talk to her, Guardian."

With that, Ghost went back to being invisible and she found herself moving at a fast walk towards the parahuman puppet show.

=+= Chapter 3: Paint the Town =+=

Taylor missed the show by less than a minute. In fact, the parahuman puppeteer was still deep in her curtsy to her wildly applauding audience when she got there. Parian presented herself as a Victorian-era doll come to life. From neck to foot her costume was layered cloth and skirts that brushed against the ground as she rose. Her hands were covered in thin gloves and her face was hidden by a mask of a smiling woman. She had also, for whatever reason, tucked her hair into a wig of thick, golden curls. It was only with Taylor's keener sense of vision that she saw the few dark hairs escaping the back and bottom of the wig cap.

The puppets, having bowed along with their creator, began to pack each other away into duffel bags that in turn wiggled towards a shop like weird, fabric worms. Taylor found her head tilting to the side as she watched their journey across the polished concrete floor of the square of shops the performance had taken place in. The sight almost – almost – made up for missing the show itself. Parian was shaking people's hands as they approached her, accepting compliments with a nod and a few kind words. She produced business cards from her sleeves and handed them out to whoever asked. As Taylor stood there, the crowd began to thin.

This was the optimal moment to walk up and introduce herself. All she had to do was walk up to a person she'd never met, whose face she couldn't see, and try and bargain for a costume. She could do that. Couldn't she?

She started walking. It seemed that she could. After all, when compared to dying and being resurrected by a dimensionally confused robot, talking to some person she'd never met was sort of...not as big a deal? The anxiety was still there, certainly. It bubbled and churned happily in her gut and made her heart feel like it was trying to climb up out of her mouth. She could deal with it. She would deal with it. Before her confidence could really set in, she found herself in front of Parian, who turned out to be shorter than Taylor.

Say something. Say something, Taylor.

"Uh." Why was her mouth dry all of a sudden? "Hi!"

Behind her mask, Parian's dark eyes warmed. "Hello. Did you enjoy the show?"

It was an effort to hide her pout. "Actually I...sort of missed it." Maybe she hadn't hidden her pout as well as she'd thought, because a light laugh came from the masked woman in front of her.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I'll be doing another one at three if you're still around."

That was good to know. Maybe she could go where she could see the PRT headquarters out in the bay and cape watch, or something. It was...what? One? One thirty? Wait, no. Focus. A short, deep breath in through her nose brought her thoughts back on track. "That's good to know, but...that's not actually why I'm here."

"Oh?" Parian's eyes darkened, and her stance shifted. She looked wary now, cautious. Maybe Taylor should have chosen her words better? "What are you here for?"

Confession time. "I was – I was kind of hoping I could hire you?" That wasn't supposed to have been a question, but at this point Taylor was just happy to have gotten the words out. Parian relaxed at the explanation. Not by much, but enough to make Taylor feel she'd calmed the other girl down some.

"What for?"

Taylor looked around. There were way too many people around. Too many opportunities for eavesdroppers or nosy people to pick up a word where they shouldn't. "Is there somewhere else we can go to talk? This isn't the sort of thing I want to talk about in broad daylight."

This was the wrong thing to say. Parian's eyes lost all signs of warmth, and the loose ends of her costume began to flutter in a breeze that wasn't there. "I think you should tell me here." The cape's voice was flat. The tremor in her hands was so minor only someone looking could notice. Or someone whose entire being had been suffused and enhanced with Light.

Some half remembered snip of a forum post surfaced in her mind. Something about how unaffiliated Tinkers didn't stay that way for long. They either joined up with any number of official hero groups, were...recruited...by gangs, or killed. Taylor's heart sank as she realized exactly how misunderstood she'd just been. Now was the time to do something. To clear the air. But how? Best idea; just up and tell Parian why she was there.

So that was what she did. A half step forward brought Taylor into whispering range. Or a very quiet murmur. Either way, it her best bet at not being overheard. "I want you to make me a costume."

"Oh!" Parian blinked. Then she blinked again. "Oh."

=+= Chapter 3: Paint the Town =+=

"I...am so sorry."

Taylor found repressing first the urge to sigh, then a nervous laugh. Having just received the fourth apology in as many minutes and already on edge, she was very near to being what polite society would refer to as 'frazzled'. Two things kept her going; first, that she had come this far, and committed herself, so much so that backing out now would probably cause a lot of harm. The second thing was currently invisible and reminding her of its presence by gently bumping against the side of her head every so often.

"It's fine." The reassurance slipped from her even as she inspected the shop they had moved to after her little revelation. Parian didn't own it, but it turned out that she was friendly with the owner, who had agreed to supply her with fabrics to work with in exchange for being able to sell her more fashionably inclined creations. A true this-for-that situation. Taylor found herself approving of the sheer utility of the situation.

The shop itself wasn't out of the ordinary. Rolls of fabric dotted tables scattered around the main floor. Mannequins wearing elaborately simple clothing stood in the windows and along the walls. The back room was the office, and kept separate from the rest of the shop by a flimsy looking plywood door that had no doorknob. Undaunted by Taylor's blatant, brazen acceptance of her apology, Parian continued to try and explain herself.

"It's been a really stressful week, I mean. It's really hard to stay unaffiliated in this city, but I'm just not interested in all that fighting. The Empire Eighty Eight came looking for me a few months ago and they approached me the same way you did, so I just thought..." The folds of Parian's costume rustled and slid against each other as she shrugged. "I'm sorry."

Something that looked a lot like the last vestiges of Taylor's social anxiety, pushed to the edge, finally kicked over. "If you apologize again, I might actually get angry at you." She delivered her threat with a smile and playful tone. "I'd be cagey, too, if I were in your position." She paused for a moment, letting a length of fabric that felt smoother than silk slide through her fingers. "So, um...I don't have a lot of money, but I can probably get you close to a thousand dollars."

Parian had laughed softly at the false threat, the tension finally leaving her shoulders and stance. The resuming of Taylor's original line of questioning seemed to catch her by surprise, though. "What? Oh, right. Um...I'm not sure how to tell you this, so I'm just going to say it. I'm not actually a Tinker."

What?

Taylor found herself feeling poleaxed for the second time that afternoon. It was not a feeling she cared to experience a third time. She licked dry lips and swallowed, feeling a burn of anxiety blooming in her gut that spread up her neck to her face. "But...don't you make costumes for people?"

Parian nodded. "Yes. I make high end costumes for people with more money than sense to show off to each other at Halloween parties. I can't...I can't do anything...super...with fabric. I can control it, but I can't Tinker with it." She sighed, her masked face managing to convey sympathy without changing expression. "I wish I could help you."

There was no stopping Taylor's sigh now. It gusted out of her, pushing a curl of her hair that had drifted off course back where it belonged near her chin. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling them sting, and flexed her jaw. Frustration and defeat were familiar to her. Familiar, but not welcome. "Thank you for your time and um...I'm sorry for scaring you." She opened her eyes, turned around, and started for the exit of the shop.

Started, because the door was then literally smashed in. The top half of it hung limply in on its one remaining hinge while the bottom went spinning across the floor to slam loudly into a fabric covered table. On the heels of the admittedly impressive entry were a half dozen men. Their heads were shaved, they were covered in tattoos, and ugly sneers twisted their faces. At the forefront of them, and presumably the one who'd smashed the door in, was an impossibly muscular man in a leotard. His head was shaved and he had an odd, curled mustache.

"You." A finger the size and width of a sausage pointed at Parian. "You come with us. No negotiating. Empire calls you to service. You answer." His...invitation...was delivered in a deep, rumbling, heavily accented voice.

Parian's voice was remarkably steady. "No."

The man's thick neck flexed, face flushing and eyes flashing. His lips curled into a sneer. Delight, rage, and anticipation shone from his face in equal measure. "Then we take you." Then he turned his face to Taylor. "And we leave no witness."

This, Taylor would look back and decide, was where things got hectic.

=+= Chapter 3: Paint the Town =+=

There was a period of utter stillness. A fraction of a second in which nobody moved and wound themselves tighter and tighter into tense coils. It was a moment where motes of dust could be seen in the sunlight peering in through the destroyed front door and the windows on the left wall. No one seemed to breathe, or blink, and then...it was over. The room exploded into motion. The mustached man bellowed in joyous rage and charged, seeming more beast than man. Parian responded by dashing for the nearest set of fabric covered tables, slapping her hands on the rolls of cloth and moving on to the next ones. The fabric she'd touched rose into the air and darted at the man, snapping and swirling over and around each other in a hurricane of linen.

Taylor, instead of the panic and fear she was expecting, found herself with a mix of anticipation and eagerness rushing through her. She would have delved into the notion that her powers were changing her, but she was otherwise preoccupied by the seven racists doing their level best to kill her and kidnap Parian. This made the priority of actions very clear. Faster than she'd ever moved before, she took a pair of long steps back and whipped her knife out from its sheath, holding it blade pointing down as she had before.

The mustachioed muscleman hit the mass of fabric with an audible and tangible fury. He seized lengths of cloth, winding around him like snakes, and tore them to shreds. When Parian sent paper thin whips of silk to score cuts into his skin, he howled. Another, thicker roll of fabric snaked across the floor and bound his legs, sending him spinning to the floor while Parian ran for the back. The man shouted something in German and seized a table leg, snapping it off with a flick of his wrist and spinning it across the room. It tangled Parian's legs and she went down with a cry and the crack of something breaking.

Breaths whistled in and out of Taylor at a rapid pace as her eyes darted between the ongoing cape fight and the advancing half dozen toughs. What was she supposed to do? Rather, who was she supposed to attack first? The sight of the man tearing free of the bindings on his legs and rising to stalk towards Parian made up her mind. She reached for her Light and wrapped the blade of her knife in lightning. It snapped into life with a miniature thunderclap that caused the six men to pause. With one last glance at them, Taylor turned and threw herself at the muscleman, knife humming with potent energy.

"Ghost!" Her throat was tight, her shout high pitched. "Tell me if they get close! And stay hidden!"

"You got it, Guardian! Kick his ass!" Her Ghost's voice came from somewhere to the left side of the shop just as she hit her target. It was like hitting a wall with her face. What it also did was draw his attention from Parian, who was scooting backwards towards the office, to her.

"You!" His face was red, flushed and cut, and contorted into a hideous sneer. "You should have run!"

Taylor didn't bother responding, darting in again, knife leading. He dodged her first wild swings before the very edge of her knife caught him across the shoulder. Like with her dining room table, it cut through his flesh like butter, digging deep past skin and fat into muscle before he threw himself back. The smell of blood filled the air, as did the sizzle of cooking meat. Nausea rolled through Taylor and she staggered. The man stood tall and screamed, so lost in rage he seemed more beast than man. His teeth bared in a bloody snarl, and he charged.

This was when a table wrapped in a cloth tarp smashed into his head at great speed. It seemed Parian was still in the fight. The table shattered with dull, muffled cracks and the man went down, sliding back towards his men with the blow's force. Panting, Taylor spun to face them and backed towards the office, knife horizontal in the air. The six men looked from their leader, bloody and still on the ground, to the two girls who had beat the shit out of him with a knife and some fabric samples.

"Leave." Parian's voice wasn't made for snarling, but she pulled an impressive one nonetheless. She was half standing, half leaning on the frame of the office's door. Her mask was lopsided, revealing the dark-skinned curve of her jaw. Her wig had fallen off, showing thick black hair in a tight bun. Spans and spans of fresh linens swirled through the air behind her. Taylor took up a stance next to her, and sliced the knife through the air. It crackled and hissed impressively. "Now."

Taylor made a concentrated effort to slow her breathing. Her head felt light, like she was hyperventilating, and with each deep breath the world became clearer. She could feel her Light coursing through her and drew courage from its strength. She could see the toughs shifting, giving looks to each other and the two opposite them. They were wavering, she could see it. So she decided to give them a push. "You should listen." She tried to sound as much like someone else as possible. They didn't need to know what she sounded like, too. "I'm not very good with this, and I would hate to hurt you more than I want."

At that, the energy wreathing her knife cracked loudly, sounding like a gunshot. Taylor did her best to hide the jump it startled from her. It probably wouldn't have mattered. They were staring at the knife, and the swirl of fabrics behind and around Parian. Another long moment of silence passed, then the first weapon hit the floor. Once that happened, the rest followed suit, laying down their arms and raising their hands as they backed slowly out of the shop.

Once they were gone, having left their leader to Taylor and Parian's tender mercies, the latter ripped off her mask and threw it to the side, sagging heavily on the door frame. Taylor extinguished her knife, noting that it changed some more, and returned it to its sheath. Only then did she realize how much her hands were shaking. "Fuck." The word came out with a breathy gasp, and she sat down. After some shuffling, Parian joined her.

"Yeah." She leaned her head back against the wall. "Fuck."

=+= Chapter 3: Paint the Town =+=