(LIMITLESS) CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: MENDING BRIDGES

Her dad was waiting by the boardwalk entrance, standing awkwardly in a posture that tried too hard to look relaxed. The jeans were too new, the polo shirt had one collar uneven, and his jacket was the kind a middle-aged man only pulled out for ‘special occasions.’ His eyes lit up when he spotted Taylor, relief, hesitation, and something stubbornly hopeful shining behind his glasses.

She slowed her walk as she approached. Her blindfold hung loosely around her neck, and her outfit was plain, as if wearing color might somehow draw more attention. But it was all for naught as people still stared. Her eyes were doing enough of the work already.

“Hey,” she said, stopping a few feet from him.

“Hey, kiddo.”

The silence that followed wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. They stood for a second too long before Danny cleared his throat and gestured toward the boardwalk.

“Figured we’d try the new pier? They reopened that part after the repairs.”

With Lung captured, it seemed the ABB had a new leader: a mad woman by the name of Bakuda, according to the fear-filled rumors that floated the PRT’s way. It was still too early to say what her deal was, but going by the increased ABB sightings and coordinated bomb strikes—it wasn't exactly hard to figure out she was the opposite of Lung. 

She wasn't content to be seen as a minor villain in the city. 

“Sure,” Taylor said, and fell into step beside him.

The walk was easy at first, and the sights were admittedly beautiful. Sunlight shimmered off the bay, and the repaired planks beneath their feet creaked only slightly. A food truck nearby played ‘80s soft rock through a tinny speaker, and seagulls circled overhead without a care in the world, squawking like they didn't watch ABB bombs go off in the distance.

It felt like pretending, and maybe that was okay. 

Her time with the PRT, especially during training sessions and debriefings, had taught her that being a hero wasn’t just about fighting villains or saving the day. Sometimes, it meant putting on a calm face even when everything felt wrong. It meant holding yourself together not for your own sake, but for the people watching you. Because if the heroes looked scared, the civilians would panic. If the heroes lost control, others would follow. So they learned to smile when they were anxious. To stand tall when they wanted to curl in on themselves. To pretend. Not out of deception, but duty.

Ensuring people felt safe enough to go on about their day as normal, even with a potential mad bomber in the city, was as heroic as defeating said bomber. 

So she smiled at the vendors. Nodded politely at gawking passersby. She even bought a bottle of overpriced mint-scented lotion from a stall run by an old woman who looked like she hadn’t smiled in years. 

Danny bought her funnel cake. She rolled her eyes, but ate it anyway.

Conversation came in fits and starts. School came up, and she dodged it. His work at the union came up, and she listened. And eventually, it circled back to her new life. About her being a Ward now.

“I don’t like that you are constantly in danger now,” Danny admitted, trying not to sound accusatory. “But… I get it. It’s for your own protection.”

“I’m not sure I’m the one who needs protection,” Taylor replied. Then winced. “That came out—”

“No,” Danny cut in. “It didn’t.”

They stood at the edge of the pier as the sun began to dip toward the horizon, casting the water in molten oranges and pinks. The wind tugged at their hair.

Danny leaned on the railing, hands loose, relaxed. “I missed this. Us. Even if it’s a little weird now.”

Taylor nodded. “Yeah.”

“Are they treating you right? At the PRT?”

She thought it over for a moment. 

A few weeks ago, she would’ve answered without hesitation. Back then, she hadn’t trusted the PRT, and had barely trusted anyone in any organized institution. The idea of joining the Wards felt like surrendering control, giving up the little autonomy she had clawed back for herself. But now that she was in… it wasn’t so bad.

She hadn’t met all the Wards yet, but the ones she had crossed paths with were decent—maybe a little too nosy, and a little too eager to include her in things—but kind in their own way. She hadn’t expected that.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t what she imagined. But it also wasn’t the disaster she’d feared.

“They’re trying,” she answered at last. “Gallant’s a good guy. Armsmaster is pretty cool. Miss Militia’s… I think she sees something in me. Or wants to. The Director’s…” She trailed off.

“Bureaucrat?”

“Worse. A bureaucrat who actually cares. That’s dangerous.”

Danny huffed a dry laugh. “You’re your mother’s daughter.”

Taylor didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was softer and her smile faint.

“Thanks for coming today. I know I haven’t made it easy.”

“Me neither,” he said. “But this—it’s a start.”

She gave a small nod. There were still some things left unaddressed, but they were both trying. And that, she told herself, was enough for now.

They made their way back along the boardwalk as the shadows darkened. The streetlamps came on one by one. Taylor was in the middle of saying something about the weirdly silent seagulls when—

A scream cut through the dwindling crowd.

It wasn’t close, not at first. Somewhere behind them, down a side street just off the pier.

Taylor whipped around and scanned the area.

A man stumbled into view, hands at his throat, eyes wide with panic. Then he dropped like a marionette with its strings cut. 

Taylor sprinted toward him, even as people began to run in the opposite direction. She reached for her comm and slipped her blindfold back over her eyes in one smooth motion. Behind her, Danny called out her name. 

“Stay back!” she shouted. “Call the PRT!”

She crouched next to the body. The man wasn’t breathing.

Dead.

Her fingers activated the comm. “Unidentified hostile,” she whispered, heart hammering as she readied herself for potential action. “One civilian dead. Proceeding with caution.”

HQ’s response crackled in her ear. “Hebert, we’re routing support to your location. ETA six minutes. Do not engage alone. Repeat, do not engage alone.”

Taylor didn’t reply because a silver mist crept into the boardwalk, and more screams erupted now. A shadow stirred in the fog. And then, like a figure stepping out of a waking nightmare, they emerged.

Clad entirely in black, the figure wore a cowl, hood, and a heavy cloak that hid her body from view. High-heeled boots clicked against the wood in even, confident steps, and her mask—smooth and featureless—left only her eyes visible. There were no insignias or gang-affiliated colors to identify her, just the stark and intentional anonymity of someone who wanted to be feared, not recognized.

Taylor stared down the approaching villain.

They didn't want her to engage alone, but it was too late. The woman was coming towards her, as if she was the target. So she set her feet, raised her hands, and let her forcefield come alive with a silent thrum of power.

Behind her, she heard her dad yelling her name again.

But she didn’t turn.

Because the fight had already begun.