(AV) PLAN B

The costume had taken her months.

It had started as a heroic obsession, made with spider silk spun in the basement and monitored in the quiet hours between school and sleep, one of the only things she could control. Dyed in the kitchen sink when her father was absent, the bodysuit was a washed-out yellow-gray base, layered with blacks and muted greys. 

Her armor panels were made of insect shells, and her exoskeletons—built into the legs and arms to give herself more support—were augmented with more silk, flexible enough to move in, breathable, and tough enough to stop a utility blade. 

It wasn’t pretty, but it was hers. And now she had to admit: it wasn’t enough.

Taylor sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, door locked, and the costume stretched out in front of her. To her left: her new pepper spray and tactical flashlight. To her right: a notebook, already three pages filled with her chicken scratch handwriting, the title scrawled across the top in all caps:

GEAR FIXES & PLAN B STUFF

She’d been writing for hours, assessing what she had, what she still needed, and what would definitely not help her reputation if she didn’t fix it now.

Her costume had been built with stealth and mobility in mind, and, now that she was looking at it with clearer eyes, intimidation. But none of its features screamed ‘hero.’ If anything, she looked like something a hero would fight.

In a city like Brockton Bay, image mattered as much as results, maybe even more. People needed to want to believe in you. Trust in your capabilities. Look up when you pass overhead and feel safer, not like they should grab their chest in fright and run indoors. 

Walking around dressed like an insectoid ninja would definitely not win over the public.

But she couldn’t just throw the suit away. It had taken months, silk production alone was painfully slow, and she didn’t have the time, money, or even patience to start over from scratch. 

So: adapt.

She underlined the word twice.

The color scheme was the first thing that had to change. Sure, she wasn’t going to walk around looking like a discount Glory Girl, or in bright red and blue. But the black-and-gray combo was too dark and broody, making her seem less of a protector and more of a threat. 

It wasn't necessarily a villain’s look, but definitely not the ideal image of a hero’s.

She jotted in her notebook:

Add contrast. Lighter accents. Gold? Forest green? Maybe purple? Something that says “serious,” not “sinister” and definitely not “flashy.”

Next, she tapped her mask. The armored cheek plates had been shaped to mimic a bug’s mandibles because she’d thought it looked cool. Now she realized it also made her look like she was one bad day away from biting someone’s face off.

Mask: Keep eye but give it a friendlier, more reassuring, appearance. Maybe expose the lower face? 

Her gloves were good. Her boots were reinforced and had decent traction. The bodysuit itself was also well made, but if she was reworking the look, she might as well upgrade the functionality too.

Extend armor paneling coverage by adding neck and back-of-head protections. 

She flipped to the next page and scribbled fast:

BACKPACK ITEMS TO BUY:
– EpiPens
– Protein bars (high-cal)
– Marker (for hostage info?)
– Notepad & pens
– Chalk dust
– Cotton swabs (to muffle the noise)
– Smelling salts
– Zip ties
– Change purse
– Safety pins, bandages
– Needles & thread (for emergency repairs)

She circled the protein bars twice. The memory of that night’s adrenaline crash still sat heavy in her chest, and it wasn't just because of what she had done. She’d barely made it home upright. That couldn’t happen again.

She looked down at the bottom margin of the page, where she’d left space for something she’d been dreading.

WEAPONS.

The pepper spray and flashlight were a start, but they weren’t enough, not if she had to face someone like Lung again. Or Oni Lee. Or Hookwolf. Or anyone, really. She didn’t want to use her bugs like that again, not at that scale, and not unless there was no other choice.

But she also couldn’t go in unarmed.

RESEARCH: Legal self-defense options. Collapsible baton? Combat knife (that can be used as a crowbar if needed)? Anything that doesn’t scream ‘murderer.’ And definitely not guns.

Even if she could get one without an ID, even if she could learn to use it… she didn’t want to cross that line.

She leaned back against the edge of her bed, staring up at the ceiling. The costume. The lists. The strategies. It was a lot.

She’d had this idea—this naive, stubborn, stupid idea—that after all her prep, after months of planning and building and waiting, she’d be ready. That she could hit the streets as a hero and immediately start making a difference.

Instead, she’d killed someone on her first night out.

Accidentally, yes, but still. And it happened because, despite years of being obsessed with capes, she’d only ever learned basic facts about the local heroes and villains. Because she had a habit of throwing herself into danger without thinking it through, with no real plan, no exit strategy, and barely even a second thought for who she might be up against. 

That had to change.

She sighed. 

This wasn’t how she thought being a hero would feel. She thought it would be adrenaline and clever comebacks, moral certainty and last-minute saves. Not this. Not notebooks full of alterations. Not fear, paranoia, and guilt dictating how she lived her life from now on. 

But maybe, ironically enough, this was what real hero work looked like. Not the press conferences, not the costume reveals, and definitely not the parades. Just someone who kept trying. Who kept learning. Who got it wrong and kept going anyway.

That was the kind of hero Taylor wanted to be. Like Alexandria or even Armsmaster. 

They certainly weren't perfect, but they always strove to be better.