(AV) PARANOIA

It turned out being wanted didn’t mean the PRT came crashing through your front door at dawn.

Taylor had expected something dramatic: blaring sirens; spotlights from attack helicopters sweeping across the house windows; and her house surrounded by PRT officers in full gear, large vans parked on the street with containment foam turrets mounted on their roofs and aimed at the house. Maybe even a tinker-built battering ram or a flying drone screeching “Move away from the bugs!”

But no one broke down the door. Not even the police visited her.

The world went on, blissfully unaware that the person that had killed one of the most dangerous villains on the East Coast was living within their midst.

When she tiptoed into the kitchen that morning, hair still damp from a frantic shower and her eyes heavy from a night with little sleep, the only thing waiting for her was the usual too-quiet house and a note from her dad saying he had an early shift.

The normalcy made her sick to her stomach.

Still, after pacing the house for what felt like hours, checking every window twice, and flipping through the TV channels with the volume turned down low. She twitched at every car that passed outside. Was that the PRT van? Was that a cape flying overhead? Would they kick in the door the second she blinked?

They didn't. Nothing happened. So, eventually, she did the unthinkable. She left.

Even fugitives needed groceries. And pepper spray. And—maybe—a taser, if she could find one that didn’t require a background check. Something small, legal, and civilian. It seemed like such an obvious thing in hindsight. But she’d learned the hard way that when pushed, when forced to rely only on her power, she could kill someone. 

Weymouth Shopping Center was only a fifteen-minute walk if she cut behind the old warehouses and took the shortcut near the docks. Normally she would’ve taken the long way and avoided alleys, but today she didn’t want the open streets. Anonymity was all she had.

She wore loose jeans and cheap sneakers, kept her head down, and hood up. Nothing that stood out. No makeup—not that she ever wore any—and her hair tied back. One of the many blessings of being ignored at school: she’d gotten good at not being noticed.

Every pedestrian felt like a PRT officer in disguise. Every security camera felt like it was tracking her, every pan an effort to keep the hooded girl in its sight. She didn’t know if she had a warrant out yet—they were probably waiting to confirm—but the ambiguity was the worst part. All it would take was one hero noticing the bugs behaving too strangely around her. One reporter or freelance journalist making the right guess. One cop trying to make a name for themselves to earn that much-needed promotion.

It was almost laughable. She’d killed a supervillain, fled the scene of the crime, and now she was grocery shopping like she wasn’t one push notification away from being front-page news again.

The overhead lights in Weymouth made her headache worse, so she quickly grabbed what she came for: microwave dinners, protein bars, ramen, a few fruits and canned foods she could stomach. Things that required zero brainpower to prepare. Things that could be eaten cold or in a rush if necessary. She wasn’t planning to go on the run, but the possibility lurked at the back of her mind now, whispering just in case.

Then she hit the self-defense section tucked at the far end of the store.

The pepper spray rack was dusty. Most people in Brockton Bay didn’t believe in self-defense that didn’t go bang. But Taylor picked one up, checked the expiration date, and added it to her cart. She grabbed a small tactical flashlight too. Foldable knife or baton? No ID, no luck.

She lied and said she’d come back later. She wouldn’t; two items were better than none, and they would come in handy because she knew better now.

Lung had died because she didn’t have another option. She’d panicked and thrown everything she had at him. If she’d had anything else to fall back on—something to buy time, something to distract or disable instead of overwhelm—maybe the night would have ended differently. Maybe she wouldn’t be dreading sleep, or getting out of bed each morning half-convinced she’d see her face on the news.

Standing in the checkout line, Taylor clutched her basket like it might vanish. She kept her head down, breathed through the panic, and told herself she was just another girl. No one here knew. No one was going to tackle her and scream “There she is!” in the middle of Aisle 5.

And they didn’t. They hardly paid attention to her. 

She paid in cash. Took the long way home, and didn't get followed.

She was still free.

For now.

But as she locked the front door behind her and set the pepper spray and flashlight on the table, she realized something important she nearly overlooked:

She didn’t want to live like this.

Didn’t want to flinch at every passing shadow. Didn’t want to scan every crowd for danger. Didn’t want to be a ghost in her own city, hiding in plain sight because she was too scared to be seen.

Taylor had resolved to still be a hero, no matter what the world called her. Even if they branded her a villain, a new monster in the city. Even if they hunted her.  

She couldn’t do that if she was too afraid to leave her house.

Still, it sucked that getting over that fear, that paranoia, and that stifling guilt—fuelled by the constant reminder of her actions by the news channels, her mind, and even her dreams—was easier said than done.