The first sign that the universe was punishing Taylor—and by proxy, Brockton Bay—for her actions came a week after Lung’s capture.
She sat cross-legged on her bed with a balloon clutched between her palms, its rubber skin deforming under the pressure her chakra exerted on it. The first two steps, rotation and power, were manageable enough once she had gotten the hang of it. Hard, yes, but doable after a while with practice. Containment, though… that was something else entirely.
Chakra had to be compressed into a perfect sphere, spinning in every direction at once while staying trapped within the invisible walls. The balloon was meant to help her visualize the intended shape, without popping or moving, but it was a slow-going process. All her attempts either wobbled, or the balloon bulged outward in places, until it burst with a disappointing pop that left her scowling in the dark.
This was by far the most difficult step. Her control had to be picture-perfect. Too much push in any direction, and mastery wasn't achieved. Too little, and it deflated.
She drew in a deep breath and was just about to try again when the world lurched.
The explosion hit with such force that her whole house shuddered on its foundations. Her concentration shattered, the balloon popped, and she was hurled off the bed and onto the floor, landing hard on her shoulder. Windows rattled in their frames, dust sifted down from the ceiling, and for one dizzying second she thought the house itself was under attack. Chakra surged to her skin on instinct, her body bracing for another hit.
But then the rumble faded, leaving only the creak of settling wood and the ringing in her ears.
Shock gave way to realization, and realization turned into fear.
“Dad,” she breathed, already forming a seal as she scrambled to her feet. A clone popped into existence, already darting for his bedroom to make sure he was safe. It knew to remain by his side, to guard him in case she was wrong, and to be the reassurance she couldn't give.
Her hands were moving—even before the clone had crossed the threshold of her bedroom—pulling her costume free from where she’d hidden it in the corner, and wearing it immediately. Her mask clicked into place over her face, her chakra sealing it tight.
By the time she slipped out the window and launched herself into the night, her pulse was hammering like war drums.
Smoke clawed at the sky in twisting black pillars, backlit by the glow of fire. Of course it was the Docks. It was always the Docks.
Taylor bounded across rooftops, the acrid stench growing stronger with every stride, enough to sting her throat. She slowed only when the wreckage came into view: a building torn apart, walls collapsed into heaps of twisted metal and broken brick. Flames licked upward, casting harsh shadows over the crowd that had already gathered, murmuring and pointing, their voices carrying just far enough for her enhanced senses to catch every word of it.
She ducked into the shadow of a rooftop air vent, keeping low, and listening.
At first it was all noise: panicked questions, accusations, and snatches of names spoken with dread. But then the connections began to line up, and the picture that formed turned her blood cold.
The ABB wasn’t dissolved or scattered, as she hoped, but had been reorganized under a new leader. A new leader who wasn’t just ruthless, but a Tinker with a bomb specialty.
Bakuda.
Taylor’s stomach dropped as chatter filled in the rest. Bakuda’s first act as leader hadn’t been to stabilize her hold or prove herself in some calculated show of strength. No, her first act was to expand the ABB at gunpoint, or rather, at detonator point. She made them kidnap civilians, murdered those who resisted, and forced everyone into line with bombs surgically planted inside their skulls.
Taylor pressed her mask tighter to her face, but it did nothing to smother the sick chill rolling through her chest.
Lung had been a monster, yes, a brutal, merciless dragon in human flesh. But he’d been a predictable monster. His reign had been fire and blood, but it was stable in its own terrible way. He’d been content to sit on his throne, to let the world around him burn without his intervention while he slowly built his reputation.
This was different. Bakuda was different.
There was no stability to be found here, only a budding chaos she didn't think Brockton Bay was prepared for. Because it was obvious this was only the beginning.
Taylor’s fists clenched, nails biting into her palms through the gloves. She had thought Lung’s defeat was a victory, but now she saw it for what it was: the spark that had lit the fuse.