(ITB) ISSUE #4: THE CITY PUSHES BACK

The alley reeked.

Piss, old grease, rotting fast food, and blood—metallic and fresh. Too fresh. 

Taylor crouched behind the rusted husk of an abandoned SUV, her breath fogging in the cold. Within the matted mess that was her hair, her insects pulsed like a second heart, restless.

Ahead, the Merchants had made a makeshift camp in the shadow of the collapsed overpass. Someone had dragged out stolen or similarly abandoned furniture—armchairs, splintered end tables, even a mattress stained with something dark. All of it fed the bonfire, black smoke rising into the starry sky. Around it, they laughed. Loud, guttural, and throaty sounds that scraped her nerves raw.

One of them had a girl by the wrist.

Blonde. Filthy. Barefoot. Her lip was split. Her eyes were empty. She was maybe thirteen. Maybe younger. Taylor didn’t wait to find out.

She moved.

The swarm answered her before she even raised her hand—wasps first, then hornets and spiders pouring from her hair and nearby darkness with the low drone of multiple wings.

The nearest Merchant—shaved head, no shirt, glass bottle in hand—screamed as stingers sank into his neck. Another staggered away from the fire, tripping over a half-melted crate, clawing at his face as her swarm crawled beneath his shirt. The girl was dropped—shoved, really—in the haste to escape as the other members were similarly buffeted, and she hit the pavement hard, scrambling back into the shadows.

Taylor hadn't gone for the subtle play. No warnings. No threats.

She stepped into the firelight, black costume gleaming with the drizzle, her hair clinging to her neck beneath the mask now that they were free of insects. Her presence didn’t demand attention. It dragged it. Though she couldn't fault the gang members from barely paying her any as they were occupied.

So she pointed.

The man who had held the girl turned—just in time for a wave of flies to engulf his face.

He collapsed to one knee, choking, swatting at the living mass digging into his ears, nose, eyes. His scream cut off into a wet gurgle.

“Hey!”

The voice came from above.

Miles dropped from the overpass, landing light as breath on the wet concrete. His shoulders rose and fell once, then stilled.

“Taylor—enough. He’s down.”

She didn’t stop.

The man twitched, gagged weakly, and dropped face-first into the pavement. Unconscious or close to it.

“I said stop!” Miles strode forward, though slowly and with a hand extended, a mix of anger and worry bleeding into his tone. “You’re gonna kill him.”

Taylor turned on him, breathing hard. Her hands were clenched at her sides. 

“And what if I do?” she spat. “What, you think the city gives a damn? That anyone’s going to cry for a Merchant?”

Miles stared at her.

She went on, the words spilling out like venom.

“You think it matters if I hold back? If I play nice? I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work. They don’t care. They don't stop. They don’t listen. All this city understands is fear.”

Her voice cracked. She didn’t care. Nor did she care about how fast her pulse was racing. Or how loud her voice echoed off the alley walls.

At that moment, none of that mattered. 

Her remaining swarm hovered on a knife’s edge, waiting for her to say the word.

But Miles didn’t flinch. Didn’t jump into an argument with her either. He just looked at her—mask unreadable, but shoulders tight—and shook his head. 

“Then we make it care. We make it understand something else.”

Taylor froze. Her mouth opened, ready to dismiss his words—call them naïve and be done with it—but nothing came out. Not because they weren’t naïve. They were. But some part of her, the part she hated for still hoping, envied that he hadn’t been worn down by Bet’s cynicism yet.

She couldn't talk because he said them like he believed them. Like it was possible. 

Taylor sighed. 

The bugs began to fall away, peeling off the Merchant’s face one by one. With the last of his strength, he curled into a fetal position, twitching and slick with spit and stings. Breathing, barely.

The girl had already run, and the rest of the Merchants had since scattered, dragging their wounded into the dark. So the alley was silent, save for the crackle of tire rubber still smoldering in the fire.

Taylor let the swarm disperse slowly. Like exhaling.

They didn’t speak again until they were six blocks away, perched on a rooftop overlooking the ruined bus stop. Rain had started again, fine and cold, drawing silver lines between the ruined warehouses and streetlights. From here, the city looked dead. Like something heavy and half-rotted beneath the surface, still twitching on reflex.

Taylor leaned against a rusting air vent, arms folded tight.

“I told you,” she murmured. “This city doesn’t want to change. It laughs in your face when you try.”

Across from her, Miles was staring down at the glass panels.

His signal was still visible. Barely.

The spider—bright red and defiant weeks ago—had been vandalized. A swastika slashed across it in vivid black paint. Crude. Fast. And definitely intentional.

Taylor glanced away, wincing slightly.

“I said it’d last five minutes,” she muttered. “And maybe it did. Who knows?”

Miles didn’t answer.

Instead, he stepped forward, pulled a fresh can of paint from his bag slung on his back, and shook it until he was satisfied.

She watched in silence as he covered the graffiti—slow, careful strokes. No words. Just movement. The quiet act of undoing.

But he didn’t repaint the old image.

With deft hands, he painted something new.

A girl in a black mask. A crown of insects spiraling above her head like a living halo. Her yellow lenses—brighter than its real life counterpart—were looking up. Not beaten down. Not beaten yet.

Taylor stared.

It wasn’t perfect. The lines were rough, the color bleeding in places due to the panels being wet.

But it was her.

Not as she was. As she could be.

She sat beside him, pulled her knees to her chest, and didn’t say a word.

Not because she had nothing to say.

But because—for once—she didn’t have to.