CHAPTER FIVE: THE NARROWS

Taylor had spent the past week slowly becoming part of the community here, a mix of families, single parents, and people who had nowhere else to go, all banding together to survive in the Narrows. The people were suspicious at first, especially Marla, the stern older woman who had reluctantly taken her in after Taylor helped her foster kids. But Taylor had found ways to help, mending broken locks, patching holes in walls, and cleaning where she could. She didn’t share much about herself, and no one pried—there was an unspoken understanding that everyone here had their secrets.

Still, trust came slowly. The people here weren’t unkind, just tired, worn thin by years of betrayal and neglect. Their laughter, when it came, was muted by the unease that never seemed to leave their faces. The children played close to home, while parents watched carefully, sitting in small groups on nearby stoops sharing cigarettes and weary laughter.

Through snippets of conversation and careful eavesdropping, Taylor pieced together more about Gotham’s power dynamics. The Penguin’s name came up often, usually muttered with a mix of anger and resignation. He ran one of the most prominent rackets here, his enforcers shaking down struggling businesses and residents for protection money. Those who couldn’t pay faced broken windows, beatings, or worse.

It was all too familiar. In Brockton Bay, it had been the ABB, the Empire, and the Merchants. Here, it was the same story but with different names and faces, their greed and violence crushing the people caught in the middle. She wasn’t surprised the Narrows was no different, but the brazenness and cruelty of it still made her blood boil. These people had so little, and even that wasn’t safe from the gangs.

Late one afternoon, as the sun dipped low and cast long shadows across the streets, Taylor sat on the front steps of Marla’s building, patching up a torn jacket for one of the kids. The air was cold, the faint smell of smoke lingering from a fire that had burned down a building two blocks over the night before.

Taylor glanced up as Marla appeared before her, her expression tight. “Stay close,” she warned. “They’re coming today.”

Taylor didn’t need to ask who they were, instead watching quietly as Maria retreated inside, locking the door behind her. She’d heard enough over the past week to know that the Penguin’s enforcers came every week to collect payments—or, as Evan, the boy she’d saved, put it, to take whatever they wanted.

Minutes later, the sound of heavy boots on pavement drew her attention. Three men rounded the corner, dressed in dark coats and heavy boots. They moved with a causal arrogance, crowbars and bats resting casually over their shoulders, like they didn’t expect to meet resistance.

“Time to pay up,” one of them, a bald man with a sharp jawline and a sneer, announced as they reached the building. His voice was loud enough for the entire street to hear as he rapped on the door with his knuckle. Doors slammed shut, and the few people around quickly disappeared back indoors, as a wave of fear rippled through the block like a physical presence.

“Marla! You know the drill. Don’t make us wait.”

Taylor tensed, her fingers tightening around the edge of the jacket she’d been working on as she sized them up. The apparent leader was the biggest threat, tall, broad, and confident in his strength, the kind of man who’d laugh as he threw the first punch. The others seemed less imposing but no less dangerous, their weapons glinting in the fading light. 

Marla’s face appeared briefly in the window above, her expression a mix of fear and resignation. She disappeared, and moments later, the door creaked open.

“We’re short this week,” Marla said, her voice steady despite the tension in her posture. Taylor could see where Evan got his defiance from. 

The enforcers exchanged a look. The leader chuckled, shaking his head. “Short? That’s not how this works, Marla. You pay, or we take what’s ours another way.”

Taylor’s blood boiled, and she pushed herself to her feet. She didn’t have a plan—just a deep, simmering anger that pushed her forward. She grabbed a two-foot section of iron rebar from a nearby pile of debris as she stepped out onto the street, her eyes locking onto said leader.

“That’s enough,” she said,  in a quiet but commanding voice she had mastered as Skitter. 

The enforcers turned to her, their sneers fading into confusion for a moment before twisting into amusement.

“Well, look at this,” the leader looked her up and down, grin widening. “A hero in the Narrows. Haven’t seen one of those in a while.”

Taylor gripped the metal firmly, her stance and posture that of someone ready and able to fight.“You’ve taken enough from these people. Go back to whoever sent you and tell them they’re not getting anything else.” 

The leader laughed, the sound mocking. “You’ve got guts, lady. I’ll give you that. But guts won’t stop me from putting you in the hospital.”

“Try me,” Taylor said. 

“Alright, you asked for it.” He nodded to one of his men, who stepped forward with a crowbar in hand.

The fight was a far cry from her usual.

Taylor swung the piece of rebar, but her movements were slow. The enforcer dodged easily, smirking as he swung his crowbar in return. She barely managed to duck, the edge of the weapon grazing her shoulder.

Her mind raced as she scrambled backward, trying to remember the lessons she had learned in Brockton Bay—the strategies, the timing, the control. But with her new body, motion still felt awkward and slow. She didn’t move the way she should have, her balance was shaky, and her strikes lacked the power and coordination she once took for granted.

A second enforcer moved in with his bat, and Taylor dodged again, this time swinging the rusty iron towards his leg. The impact made him yelp and stagger back.

Her lack of coordination was painfully obvious to everyone who watched, but her tenacity more than made up for it. She kept moving, becoming a whirlwind of potential tetanus and broken bones to her attackers.

The first enforcer swung again, and this time she blocked it with her makeshift weapon. The impact jarred her arms, but she used the momentum to shove him backwards. Her eyes darted to the two others, who were circling like wolves, waiting for their moment to strike.

Taylor unconsciously assessed her surroundings and kicked a trash can toward the second enforcer—who had regained his composure—forcing him to stumble and giving herself a moment to reposition. She grabbed a loose brick from the ground and hurled it at the first enforcer, hitting him square in the chest.

The leader growled, stepping forward with a knife. “You’re really starting to piss me off.”

Taylor’s grip tightened on rebar, her heart pounding. She sidestepped his first lunge, then swung at his hand, knocking the knife free. The move left her open, though, and the second enforcer slammed their fist into her stomach, sending her stumbling backwards.

But Taylor didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

Holding the rebar like the baton she carried in her days as a villain, she steadied her stance, a focused frown on her face. However, upon seeing this, the enforcers hesitated, clearly debating whether she was worth the trouble anymore.

She wasn't.

“This isn’t over,” the leader snarled with a glare. He motioned for the others to follow, and they—bloodied and visibly frustrated—retreated, disappearing down the street.

Taylor lowered the rough iron rod, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. 

Her arms trembled from the effort, and her legs felt like they might give out, but she mustered enough strength to remain standing. She wanted to project an image of strength as, around her, the people of the block began to emerge from their homes, their expressions a mixture of relief and astonishment.

“You’re crazy,” one man said, shaking his head. “But… thank you.”

Taylor nodded, too tired to say much. She turned to see Marla standing in the doorway, her expression unreadable.

“You’re going to bring trouble here,” Marla said quietly, her tone a mix of gratitude and worry.

“Maybe.” Her voice came out hoarse, punctuated by her rapid breathing. “But someone has to stand up to them.”

Marla’s gaze softened slightly. She stepped aside, gesturing for Taylor to come inside.

As she sat in the dimly lit apartment that night, Taylor replayed the encounter in her mind.

The fight had been a wake-up call. She was weak, uncoordinated, and still too reliant on instinct and luck. If she was going to survive in Gotham—if she was going to help these people—she needed to train, to relearn how to fight with her new body, to turn her weaknesses into strengths.

Because Gotham wasn’t going to wait for her to catch up. And neither were its predators.