CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - ALAN AND TAYLOR

Alan Gramme moved silently through the broken streets of Brockton Bay, his limbs clicking softly, joints rotating in smooth, unnatural arcs. This city had become a playground for monsters, and he was one of them—perhaps the truest among them. He was efficient, deliberate, the antithesis of chaos. Where others in the Nine killed out of madness or joy, he killed with purpose.

He hunted.

Mannequin’s hollow head swiveled, his senses processing data that no living man could comprehend. The silence here was a lie; the world teemed with life, subtle movements beneath crumbling asphalt, hidden behind fractured brick. Bugs. Thousands of them, crawling, skittering. Her.

The Insect Girl. Skitter.

A villain-turned-hero, depending on who you asked. Weak, untested, and yet, clever enough to survive longer than she had any right to. She was an anomaly that demanded correction. Recalibration. He had seen her in the aftermath of Leviathan’s rampage—alive when so many stronger had fallen. It was offensive. Imperfection that somehow endured, that stubborn resilience gnawed at the edges of his shattered humanity.

She thought she could make the world better.

He would show her how easily her illusions crumbled.

Mannequin advanced, moving on all six limbs now, shifting into an unsettling, spider-like crawl. His modular fingers retracted, knives sliding into place. He didn’t need to breathe, didn’t feel the tension of his growing proximity to his target. There was no need for emotion—only action.

. . . . .

Taylor felt it before she saw him.

The bugs gave her warning. A ripple through her swarm—a disturbance unlike anything else. Where her bugs crawled over buildings and streets, they found an absence, a space they could not touch, a shape that moved fluidly through their ranks without a sound.

She recognized him instantly.

Mannequin.

Taylor’s heart dropped into her stomach. She had fought before—Leviathan, Lung, Bakuda—but this was different. Mannequin was a predator, and he had come for her.

“Shit,” she whispered, backing away into an alley. Thousands of her bugs clustered in waves, spreading through the alleys, darting into open sewer grates and windows. She sent them to scout, to gather information. Where is he?

The swarm pulsed back information—Mannequin was near. Too near.

No breathing. No heartbeat.

Then a flicker. Movement above her. He’s here.

Taylor threw herself to the side just as a blade lanced down where she’d been standing. A blur of white dropped from the roof, landing silently, knives glinting where hands should have been. His limbs bent at unnatural angles, chains and joints flexing as he unfolded to his full height—an impossible nine feet of segmented menace.

The faceless mask stared at her, expressionless, unfeeling.

Taylor didn’t wait. She sent her swarm forward in a tidal wave, a flood of spiders, beetles, and hornets that surged toward Mannequin, thick enough to blot out his silhouette. She forced black widows and brown recluses into the fray, anything with venom to slow him down.

It didn’t work.

Mannequin moved.

His blades spun, arms retracting and extending with precision, slicing through her swarm in arcs of gleaming silver. Bugs fell by the hundreds, broken or poisoned by gas that hissed from vents hidden in his body. It rolled through her swarm, deadly and efficient.

Taylor gritted her teeth. “Damn it!”

She sent more bugs—diversions, distractions—while she moved. Her boots crunched over debris as she sprinted for cover behind a dumpster. Mannequin followed, gliding after her in silence, his body shifting unnaturally as he walked—sometimes upright, sometimes moving on all six limbs, always fast. Always deliberate.

Taylor’s mind raced. She had to think—she couldn’t outfight him. She had to outsmart him.

He’s a Tinker. She remembered the intel. “Self-contained systems, self-repairing. He’s modular.”

A plan formed in the back of her mind.

. . . . .

Mannequin watched her retreat, knives dripping with fluid remnants of her swarm. For all her bugs, her maneuvering, she was human—fragile. Predictable.

He extended a blade from his wrist, aiming it at her makeshift cover. A hiss escaped from vents along his spine, and a pressurized burst of gas launched his arm forward. The knife speared through the dumpster, embedding itself in the brick wall behind it. Empty.

She’d moved.

Mannequin swiveled, his head tilting as he scanned for movement. There—above. She was scrambling up a fire escape, her swarm obscuring her movements in a thick cloud. Clever, he thought, though his thoughts were mechanical and detached. She was using the environment, testing his patience.

He raised his other arm, a rifle barrel sliding into place.

. . . . .

Now!

Taylor yanked the fire escape ladder down hard, sending it crashing onto the pavement below. She leapt the last ten feet, landing hard as Mannequin’s rifle fired. The shot missed her by inches, obliterating a chunk of brick where she’d stood.

“Come on,” she hissed, forcing herself to move.

Mannequin dropped to the ground behind her, silent as ever, his arms shifting—more blades now, serrated edges gleaming. He’s adapting.

Taylor led him through the alley, bugs continuing to swarm him—biting, stinging—though they seemed meaningless against his armor. Still, she wasn’t trying to stop him. Not yet.

. . . . .

Mannequin didn’t tire, didn’t falter. The bugs clouded his vision, but his systems compensated. He tracked her movements through sound and thermal signatures, limbs slicing through the insectile cloud.

He could have ended this already. A blade through her heart, a burst of gas to dissolve her lungs—but he was methodical. Skitter was adaptable, and adaptability demanded analysis. Every step she took, every feint, every retreat—it was data. Data to perfect his hunt.

Then he noticed it.

The alley was narrower now. Buildings closed in around him.

Confinement.

Mannequin’s movements slowed fractionally, his processors calculating possible threats.

. . . . .

Taylor saw him hesitate. Now.

She gave the signal. Her bugs, hundreds of them, surged from sewer grates and broken pipes, carrying threads of silk. Sticky, thick threads that draped over Mannequin’s arms and legs, gumming into his joints. More silk dropped from above, tangled with glue traps she’d scavenged.

Mannequin’s body jolted as his limbs caught, the threads tangling at the ball joints in his shoulders and elbows. He flexed against them, blades retracting to cut himself free.

“Come on, come on,” Taylor muttered.

Mannequin’s right arm snapped free, a blade slicing through the silk.

But Taylor wasn’t done. She slammed a crowbar into a rusted valve on the building’s wall. With a metallic groan, a torrent of water erupted from the broken pipe, dousing the alleyway—and Mannequin.

. . . . .

Water flooded his joints. Fluid systems compensated, sealing vents where needed, but the sudden weight added drag to his movements. Unexpected.

His limbs slowed, calculations spiraling.

From above, she dropped.

. . . . .

Taylor landed on his back, swarming his blank mask with hornets and beetles. “Stay down!” she shouted, jamming the crowbar into one of his joints, twisting.

Mannequin staggered, servos straining as he tried to dislodge her. He was too strong—she couldn’t hold him forever—but she didn’t need to.

“Containment,” she said, voice shaking as more water and silk traps poured onto him.

Mannequin’s limbs flailed against the webbing, but his movements were sluggish, almost mechanical now. Taylor could hear him grinding against the constraints, relentless. He wouldn’t stop.

But she didn’t either.

. . . . .

Mannequin’s processors ran calculations faster than thought itself. He was compromised, but not defeated. Even so, as his vision dimmed beneath water, silk, and bugs, he noted her determination. She wasn’t chaos like the others—she was control.

He would adapt. Next time, he would evolve.

But for now, the insect had won.

For now.