CHAPTER TWO - BENEATH THE SURFACE

Taylor walked briskly along the cracked sidewalks of Gotham, her notebook pressed against the side of her bag. The fire she’d read about at the library gnawed at her thoughts. The location, the timing, the faint connections to other incidents—it all felt like pieces of a larger puzzle she was just beginning to piece together. But the bigger question loomed: What would she do if she figured it out?

Her thoughts strayed to her powers. It was like trying to steer a ship with a broken rudder. Sometimes her commands worked; other times, the insects ignored her entirely or moved sluggishly, as if rebelling against her. Progress was slow, agonizingly so. But she was stubborn, and stubbornness was what had kept her alive this long. She would figure it out eventually, or at least that was what she told herself. 

Taylor’s destination was a few blocks away. She kept her head low, hood up, and hands shoved into her pockets as she navigated the streets. Gotham was a city of contradictions—opulence and decay rubbing shoulders, hope and despair locked in an endless, grinding struggle. The people here moved with the weight of the world on their shoulders, eyes flicking to every shadow, every corner. She understood the feeling.

When she reached her destination—a run-down diner nestled between a pawn shop and a boarded-up storefront—she pushed the door open and stepped inside. A bell jingled above her, and the smell of burnt coffee and fried food greeted her.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” the waitress—Doris, according to the name tag pinned to her faded uniform—behind the counter greeted her. She was middle-aged, with a kind smile that didn’t quite reach her tired eyes. “Grab a seat anywhere.”

Taylor nodded, picking a booth near the back. The diner was nearly empty, save for a man nursing a cup of coffee at the counter and a couple arguing quietly in the corner. Sliding into the booth, she pulled out her notebook and flipped it open to the pages she’d filled at the library.

Her pen tapped against the paper as she stared at her notes. Fires. Disappearances. Was it a gang war? Someone consolidating power in the vacuum left by Gotham’s crime and corruption? It felt bigger than that, more calculated.

The waitress approached, holding a notepad. “What can I get you, hon?”

“Just coffee,” Taylor said without looking up.

“You got it.” The woman hesitated for a moment, her pen hovering over the pad as if debating whether to say more. Finally, she turned and headed back to the counter.

Taylor returned her focus to her notes, circling the locations of the incidents and drawing lines between them. The pattern was there, but it was still hazy. She needed more information.

Eventually, the waitress approached with a coffee pot and mug in hand. “Here.”

Taylor nodded, sliding her mug closer. “Thanks.”

“Not from around here, are you?” the waitress asked, pouring the coffee with practiced ease.

Taylor hesitated. “What gave me away?”

The woman chuckled. “You’ve got that look—like you’re trying to figure out whether to run or stay put. Locals stopped wondering a long time ago.”

Taylor didn’t respond, instead offering a polite nod before wrapping her hands around the warm mug. The waitress took the hint and left her to her thoughts.

However, she barely had the time to refocus on her when the bell over the door jingled again. She glanced up briefly—and froze. Three men had entered the diner, their movements edged with sharp intent. They were dressed in plain clothes, but their posture and the bulge of concealed weapons under their jackets screamed trouble.

Taylor ducked her head, letting her hair fall over her face as she tried to blend into the background. She wasn’t looking for a fight, not here, not now. But her heart rate quickened as the men fanned out, their eyes scanning the diner.

The waitress approached them, her friendly smile returning. “What can I get for you gentlemen?”

One of the men ignored her, stepping closer to the counter. “We’re just looking for someone.”

The man at the counter stiffened, his hand tightening around his coffee cup. The waitress glanced between them, her smile faltering.

Taylor’s grip on her pen tightened. This wasn't a random encounter; it was too deliberate. The man at the counter was their target—she was sure of it.

Her swarm instinctively stirred, responding to her unease. She tried to direct it, to gather the insects from the alley outside and the cracks in the walls, but her control wavered. She gritted her teeth, focusing harder, and managed to coax a few cockroaches and flies into movement. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

The man at the counter stood slowly, his gaze locked on the three newcomers. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said, his voice shaking slightly.

“Too late for that,” one of the men replied, pulling a knife from under his jacket.

Taylor’s heart pounded. She could leave, slip out the back door before things got worse. But she knew she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

The insects she’d managed to gather began to converge on the man with the knife, crawling under his clothes and flying at his face, swarming into his eyes and mouth. He cursed and swatted at them instinctively, distracted. It wasn't much of an opening, but it was all Taylor needed.

She stood, her hood still pulled low over her face, and stepped into the aisle. “Put it down,” she said, her voice cold and commanding.

The men turned to her, their eyes narrowing in surprise and irritation. Taylor took another step forward, her gaze sweeping over them, assessing for any weaknesses. The one on the left had a slight limp—a bad knee, maybe. The one on the right kept adjusting the grip on his knife. Nervous. However, the one in the middle, presumably the leader, was confident—too confident—and unarmed.

"I said, put it down,” she repeated. 

The leader chuckled, taking a step toward her. "Or what? You gonna call the cops?"

Taylor didn't answer. Instead, she shifted her weight, grounding herself in a stance drilled into during her time in the Chicago Wards. She wasn't a martial artist, but she'd picked up enough through sheer necessity to defend herself.

The man with the knife moved first, lunging at her with a clumsy slash. She sidestepped, pivoting smoothly on her heel, and caught his wrist. A quick twist forced him to release the blade, which clattered to the floor. She followed with a swift knee to his stomach, and he crumpled, gasping for air.

"Get her!" the leader barked.

The man with the limp pulled out a crowbar from his jacket and swung in a wide arc. The movement was telegraphed, and Taylor ducked under it easily, the weapon whistling past her ear. Closing the distance, she drove her elbow into his ribs, forcing a grunt of pain as he stumbled backward. Before he could recover, she grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and kicked the back of his knee, dropping him to the floor. The crowbar clanged onto the tiles, and she kicked it out of reach.

The leader's confidence faltered as he stepped forward, throwing a sloppy punch. Taylor sidestepped again, grabbing his arm and using his momentum to throw him off balance. He hit the ground with a heavy thud, cursing under his breath.

"Enough!" he snarled, pushing himself up. His hand darted into his jacket, and when it came out, he was holding a gun.

Taylor's heart jumped, but she didn't let it show. Instead, before she could react, the man at the counter surged forward, grabbing the leader’s wrist before he could aim and twisting sharply. The gun dropped from the hand. 

The counter-man followed with a solid punch to the leader’s jaw, and he staggered back, dazed.

Behind her, Taylor heard movement—the man with the limp had recovered and was reaching for the discarded crowbar. She turned and stomped down on his outstretched hand before he could grab it. He yelped in pain, cradling his hand as he scrambled away.

The leader groaned, still struggling to get to his feet, but Taylor stepped up to him and planted a foot firmly on his chest, pinning him to the ground.

"Leave," she said, her voice carrying the weight of a warning, then released him.

The man glared at her, but the fight had gone out of him. "You're crazy," he muttered before staggering to his feet. He motioned to his companions, who limped after him as they hurried out the door and into the night.

Taylor stayed still, her breathing steady as she watched them retreat. Only when she was sure they were gone did she turn to the man at the counter.

"Are you okay?" Taylor asked, her tone softening.

The man brushed himself off, his expression a mixture of gratitude and wariness. “Yeah. Thanks,” he said.

Taylor nodded, the adrenaline ebbing from her body and leaving a dull ache in its place. Her eyes flickered to the scattered weapons and the faintly scuffed tiles. She'd handled it—without her powers this time. It wasn't clean, but it was enough.

For now.

She headed for the door. As usual, she didn’t want to stick around for questions.