(ITB) ISSUE #9: ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER

It wasn’t the same without him.

Taylor moved through the city like she was trying to fill a shape that no longer fit. She still wore the mask, the insects still followed her commands with no issues—but everything felt a little too quiet. Brittle, like frost on glass.

There was no one to crack bad jokes or gasp dramatically when she made a good landing. No one to mutter “this is a bad idea” as they snuck into a gang-controlled alleyway, when her plans got reckless, or to jump in anyway, just because she asked.

No one to argue with when everything felt overwhelming to deal with.

Just her. Just her bugs.

But still, she patrolled.

Because someone had to.

Tonight, she was trailing a Merchant deal skirting Boardwalk territory. It fizzled before it could go anywhere as one of the gangbangers overdosed mid-negotiation. Another fired into the air and nearly hit his own guy. And the rest were to high off their own products to think straight. So when she flushed them with a swarm of hornets from a storm drain, they barely managed to flee screaming.

It should’ve felt like a win. Instead, it felt like… nothing.

Two weeks.

Two weeks since the Lung fight.

Two weeks since Miles had thrown himself in front of fire for her.

He'd made the news, and the footage had been replayed a dozen times across various programs that she could almost repeat the lines verbatim: Spider-Man, patched up in a slightly more armored version of his suit, standing easily beside Armsmaster. He’d given her credit. Called her “Skitter.” Told the city she’d saved the day. That he couldn’t have done it without her.

And then?

Nothing.

No message. Not even a glimpse apart from his figure swinging past overhead.

She told herself it was fine. That he needed time to recover, if not physically, then mentally. That he was probably on patrols again with the Wards or stuck in some debrief, grounded by the PRT for pushing too hard. 

That she didn’t need him.

And yet—

“Well, well. If it isn’t the infamous Skitter. Thought we might run into you again.”

The voice was feminine, chipper, and far too pleased with itself.

Taylor spun instantly. Her bugs snapped to alert, climbing her arms and shoulders in a hiss of wings.

A blonde girl stepped out of the shadows, hands raised in a casual show of peace. A skintight bodysuit hugged her lithe frame, but her posture was easy. Confident. In control. And her grin was just a little too knowing.

Three more figures peeled out of the dark behind her, too coordinated to be coincidence.

One was a tall male in black motorcycle leathers, his face hidden behind a helmet with a stylized skull drawn over its visor. 

Another—also distinctly male due to his leggings and loose-fitting shirts—carried a scepter, fully masked. And behind them, a stocky girl was half-shrouded in the bulk of a massive, growling, half-dog, half-nightmare creature. She wore a cheap plastic dog mask and heavy boots, and her attention was spent more on gently petting the animal’s bulk than on her. 

“Relax,” the blonde said. “We’re not here to fight. Names help, right? I’m Tattletale. That’s Grue, Regent, and Bitch. The dog’s Brutus. Don’t take it personally—he growls at everyone.”

Taylor didn’t lower her stance, but she didn’t attack either.

“You’ve been busy,” Tattletale continued, her smile was a bit too wide to be completely harmless. “Word on the street is, you downed a dragon. And you did it with bugs too. That’s badass.”

“You always show up in a group?” Taylor asked cooly, not quite letting the tension out of her posture.

“We’re social creatures,” Regent said dryly.

Grue and Bitch didn’t say a word. The former just watched her while the latter was still focused on her… pet?

Then Tattletale smiled again—softer this time. “He’s not back, huh?”

Taylor’s spine went rigid. She didn’t answer.

“I saw him on TV,” Tattletale went on, tone mild. “He looked good. Even gave that mini interview. Said nice things about you.”

Taylor turned to face away, as if that would hide the flinch. “So what?”

“So,” Tattletale said, taking a step closer, “it sucks, doesn’t it? Feeling left behind. Like maybe that connection was one-sided.”

Her tone wasn’t mocking. Not quite pitying either. Just… knowing.

Taylor’s voice came out flinty. “It’s none of your business.”

“Maybe,” Tattletale said, raising her hands in a lazy shrug. “But you’ve been alone for two weeks, and I figured—maybe you could use a team.”

Taylor narrowed her eyes behind her mask.

“We don’t leave our own behind,” she added, quieter now. “And we’ve noticed you. The way you fight. The way you work. You’d fit right in.”

For a heartbeat, Taylor stood very still, though her fingers twitched at her sides, and her bugs hovered uncertain

The offer sat heavy in her chest. Two weeks alone. Two weeks of silence where there used to be a voice cracking bad jokes, laughter reverberating off rooftops, and a comforting presence at her side.

She was tempted—God, she was so tempted.

Because Tattletale was right.

The silence from Miles hadn’t just hurt—it sucked.

Worse than she’d let herself feel.

Worse than she wanted to admit.

It hurt to feel left behind.

It hurt more to feel forgotten.

Then, from above—

“I thought I was the dramatic one.”

Taylor’s head snapped up.

Miles crouched at the edge of the rooftop, outlined by the moonlight. Same suit used in the interview. Same stupid voice she’d missed more than she could admit.

He dropped down beside her, landing in his classic pose with that infuriatingly casual yet smooth ease.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Miss me?”

Taylor didn’t smile.

Not right away.

But something in her shoulders loosened. Something in her chest unknotted.

And that, somehow, said a lot more than she was willing to reveal at the moment.