(ITB) ISSUE #8: AFTERMATH

The laundromat looked like someone’s abandoned dream, now reclaimed by disuse and the occasional desperate soul. Cracked windows, mold-eaten wallpaper, a mattress in the storeroom, and nothing else. But it had running water, a locking door, a half-depleted first-aid kit, and—most importantly—no one watching.

Taylor paced slow, restless circuits around the storeroom, arms locked around herself like they were the only thing holding her upright, and her mask hung from her fingers. She hadn’t taken it off since dragging Miles through back alleys. Now she could barely look at it.

Miles lay on the mattress, breathing shallowly beneath the bandages. Still.

Her swarm patrolled the building’s perimeter, sweeping the broken glass and rafters for motion. No one had followed. No one yet.

She’d scrubbed the blood from her hands in the bathroom sink, but she could still see it when she blinked. Still feel the heat of Lung’s fire, hear his roar warping into something animalistic. See Miles taking the blast for her.

“Idiot,” she muttered under her breath, not for the first time. “Stupid, reckless, heroic idiot.”

Then he groaned.

Her head snapped around.

Miles stirred under the rough blanket she’d found. One eye cracked open, then squeezed shut against the yellow light from the exposed bulb swinging above.

Taylor didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she let it out. Quietly, she crossed the room and knelt beside him.

“You’re awake,” she said, voice hoarse from smoke and something else she didn’t want to name.

He blinked, slowly. “Hey,” he rasped, his smile laced with pain.

“Don’t talk,” she said quickly. “You were burned. You need to rest.”

He grimaced faintly, shifting slightly on the mattress. “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not comforting.” A short breath escaped her, something between a scoff and a sound she didn’t have a name for. “You could’ve died.”

“You were about to.”

“That doesn’t mean—” She bit the sentence in half. Shook her head. “God. This whole thing could’ve gone so much worse. I shouldn’t have brought you. I shouldn’t have gone either. I should’ve—”

“Taylor.”

She looked at him.

His hand twitched toward hers, fell back with a soft thud. “Don’t. Don’t do that thing where you make everything your fault.”

Her mouth opened. Closed.

He gave her a tired look, but it was still warm. “You overthink. You catastrophize. You wrap yourself in worst-case scenarios until you can’t move. I get it. I do it too.”

She sat there in silence, surrounded by the soft buzz of her swarm keeping watch, the smell of antiseptic, and scorched cloth in the air.

“I brought you into this,” she said. “You almost died. Lung could’ve—”

“But he didn’t,” he exhaled, eyes drifting half-closed. “You didn’t let him.”

She shook her head, words catching in her throat. “I was ready to let people die. I almost let them.”

“And then you didn’t,” he said. “You’re not heartless, Taylor. You’re scared. But despite that, you made the right call when it counted. That’s what matters.”

Taylor stared at the floor. “I didn’t think I had that in me.”

“You do,” he murmured, without hesitation. “Even if you’re too dense to see it.”

She looked at him again. Really looked. At the faint bruises, the scabbed burn on his face and neck, the sweat on his brow. And he was still managing to reassure her.

Something tightened behind her ribs.

“Rest,” she said finally, reaching out to pull the blanket up to his chest. “You’ve earned it.”

He closed his eyes. “So have you.”

Only the distant sound of sirens and breathing was heard in the ensuing silence. 

Taylor sat with her knees drawn up, back against the peeling wall of the storeroom, using her bugs to keep an eye on everything in their immediate vicinity. Most of them just drifted through the neighborhood, riding drafts, crawling over rooftops, telephone poles, broken glass.

And then, they picked up an approaching figure on a bike. 

She straightened before she even understood why, just as the bike came to a stop in front of the building. The weight of the tall figure’s armor should have been too heavy, yet each step was soft. Smooth too. Her swarm traced the shape of a halberd collapsed on his back before they even entered the laundromat.

“Armsmaster,” she said aloud, breath catching.

Miles stirred, groggy. “What?”

“He’s coming. Now.”

Taylor was already pulling her mask back on. “I don’t know how he found us. I—”

“My suit,” Miles interrupted. “The PRT upgraded it, remember? They must have slipped in a tracker.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “And you didn’t think to mention that?”

“I got blown up,” he said flatly. “Kinda skipped my mind.”

She gritted her teeth, but didn’t argue. Her swarm confirmed what she could now here: Armsmaster was almost at the storeroom.

A knock.

“I know you’re in there,” came the calm, even voice.

Miles pushed himself halfway up on one elbow. “It’s okay. He’s probably here to pick me up.”

Taylor didn’t move at first. Then, she gave a short, sharp nod.

“Fine,” she muttered, stepping toward the door. “But if he so much as looks at me wrong…”

“Bugs in his lungs. Got it,” Miles said, wincing as he laid back down. “But remember that I vouched for you, so don't worry.”

Reluctantly, she cracked the door open just wide enough to peer through. Armsmaster stood there, armor pristine. Her bugs had already mapped every inch of him, but it still sent a chill down her spine to see him in the flesh.

“I’m only here for Spider-Man,” he said. “Lung has been apprehended. You both did well.”

Taylor blinked. “You’re not going to force me to join the Wards?”

“I have your terms,” he said. “Miles passed them along. If you come to us, it’ll be your choice.”

That surprised her more than she let on. But she stared at him for a second longer before slowly stepping aside

Armsmaster entered, crouched beside Miles, and ran a scan with his gauntlet. “You’re stable. Barely. But you’re not walking out of here.”

“Didn’t plan to,” Miles mumbled.

Carefully, Armsmaster lifted him. Taylor followed as he carried Miles out to his waiting motorcycle. An admittedly awesome and silent black vehicle with a sidecar already prepped.

He eased Miles inside.

Taylor stayed a few feet back, watching.

Miles turned to look at her. “Hey,” he said. “Next time you see me, I’ll be good as new.”

“You better be.” It came out quieter than she meant.

His head drooped slightly to the side. “Thank you…Tay-Tay”

Armsmaster was watching them.

Any other time, Taylor would’ve kept quiet. Would’ve buried the words deep where no one—especially not someone like him—could see them.

But she was too tired to care. Too worn down to keep lying to herself.

There was a feeling rising in her chest—raw, insistent. It scared her, not because it hurt, but because it didn’t. Because it felt like something real. Something she hadn’t let herself feel ever.

She took a step closer, eyes on Miles, not on the armored figure beside them.

“I don’t know what you are to me yet,” she said, voice frayed at the edges. “But I know this much—I don’t want to lose you.”

Miles met her gaze, and the look in his eyes said he understood. All of it. Even what she hadn’t said out loud.

Behind them, Armsmaster didn’t interrupt. Didn’t speak. Maybe even he understood that some moments weren’t his to break.

His smile was tired but honest. “Then you won’t.”

And then he was gone—helmeted, secure, vanishing down the street.

Taylor stood there until the soft purrs of the motorcycle faded.

Until she was alone again.

Except she didn’t feel entirely alone.

With a sigh, she turned and vanished into the shadows. Her father was no doubt worried because of her absence.