(AV) A NAME WORTH SAYING

Taylor didn’t want to fight the PRT. She wanted to prove them wrong.

There was a difference.

She wasn’t looking to bring down the system, wasn't aiming for revenge, or some petty, drawn-out feud against the heroes. What she wanted was something decidedly harder, less dramatic, and much more personal. 

She wanted to show them they’d made a mistake.

And maybe that started with fixing how the city saw her. Because if there was one thing she understood, it was that public image mattered just as much as powers did for capes in the limelight. 

Perception shaped everything. Who people trusted. Who they feared. Who got called a monster, and who got a ticker-tape parade. And while the PRT had labeled her a villain, had quietly filed her away as a dangerous cape with one very dead dragon-man on her rap sheet, most of Brockton Bay didn’t actually know who she was.

No name, no sightings beyond that night, and no identifying symbol to rally for or against. Just a photograph of Lung’s corpse under a pile of dead bugs, and an obvious guess that a new bug-themed parahuman was to blame.

That meant she still had time.

Time to shape the narrative before it fully took root. Time to turn fear into doubt, doubt into curiosity, and curiosity—if she was lucky—into trust. Time to become the hero she'd meant to be in the first place.

And that started with visibility.

Not just being seen, but being recognized.

. . . . .

She sat at the kitchen table that afternoon, her half-finished costume tucked safely away in the basement, and a cup of tea cooling by her elbow. The sketchpad in front of her had originally been for bug anatomy diagrams and power-testing logs. Now, across a fresh page in blocky black pen, a new title stood out:

PERCEPTION WORK: PUBLIC IMAGE, NAME, SYMBOL, AND ACTIONS

Not her usual kind of strategy. But then again, she’d never really had a strategy before—just instincts and panic and an avalanche of awful consequences—and nothing about this week had been usual. 

She tapped her pen against the paper, brow furrowed, and lower lips caught light between her teeth. She kept thinking about how much of being a cape wasn’t just about powers, but the story you told through your name, your costume, your choices, and a hundred other things. Who you were, and everything you did, was filtered through perception. Through tone of voice. Through reputation. Through tabloid headlines and shaky phone footage and forum threads run by strangers guessing your body count. Even how you landed when you jumped off a rooftop could mean the difference between ‘savior’ and ‘threat’.

And right now, if people did recognize her at all, it would be through the lens of the PRT’s silence. That kind of silence was loud and could be taken as an implication of guilt, a story of fear told without a single press release. She was the monster they weren’t naming, but weren’t denying either.

She needed to give people something else to believe in.

Step one: Pick a name.

Something memorable. Something hers. Not a bug pun, or anything that sounded like a horror villain. So definitely not Skitter. Or Swarm. But not soft either. It had to sound serious. Professional. A little eerie was fine, just not terrifying. Enough to make criminals nervous, but still leave space for a child to someday ask for her autograph.

She jotted down a few ideas:

• Weaver

• Spindle

• Khepri (too obscure?)

• Silksteel

• Spinneret

• Arachne (bad myth vibes?)

• Colony

• Hive

• Carapace

None of them were perfect, but two stood out: Weaver and Carapace. They were simple, yet clever, suggestive of control and protection respectively. They also hinted at her power without being too on the nose. She marked them with question marks and circled them twice.

Step two: Design a symbol.

Not a bug. Or at least, not obviously. The last thing she wanted was to be pigeonholed into only using ‘cute’ insects, or lean into something that instinctively triggered revulsion. A swarm silhouette might be an accurate representation of her powers, but it wasn’t going to win hearts.

She needed a symbol that conveyed control, purpose, and strength. Something unique and instantly recognizable.

A web? Too easy to get wrong, and didn't just feel right for her.

A spiral pattern or a stylized compass? Maybe even a rune of sorts? Something geometric that implied complexity without screaming “look, I control insects.”

Step three: First good deed.

Because none of this meant anything if people never saw her do something good. 

She needed to show, not just tell. Make her actions speak louder than the rumors already taking root. 

She didn’t need some headline-grabbing brawl, but if she wanted to reframe herself in the public eye, she needed to do something undeniably heroic and get her name out there. Stopping a robbery in progress or a break-in. Pulling someone to safety from a car crash. Helping a lost kid find their guardian or rescuing an animal. 

Something small enough to pull off for a solo rookie with no support, but big enough to be noticed by the right people in the city.

She tapped the edge of the pad again, exhaling slowly as she stared at the pages. The tea had gone cold beside her, untouched.

She wasn’t naïve enough to think this would make people like her, at least not right away. But if she played this right—if she kept her head down, planned better, and moved smarter—then, maybe, they’d start to question the version of her being passed around behind closed doors. Maybe, they wouldn't just assume the worst. 

The city didn’t know her yet. Which meant, for now, she still had the power to decide who they would meet.