Guardian
a Worm/Destiny Crossover
Chapter 6: Opening Night
Taylor was as prepared as she could have been for her first outing as a hero. Actually, it was her second outing, but this was for all intents and purposes the first. She actually had a plan this time beyond 'stay alive' and equipment and everything. Her knife, as always, rode at the small of her back. She had a turtleneck sweater and coal gray jeans that were a little tighter than she'd have liked, but Sabah had insisted. Taylor had managed to scrounge some pads to cover her arms and legs with to serve as armor. Her face she covered with a scarf that wrapped around her neck and draped down her back.
She thought it looked pretty cool. She was alone in this. Sabah had called the whole thing ramshackle and tacky and had redoubled her efforts to finish Taylor's costume. Her dad had elected to hold his peace, but Taylor had the sneaking and not unfounded suspicion that he wouldn't be happy with her costume being anything other than a massive fortress-tank, or something. He'd also insisted on some form of communication between the three of them, even if it was just her and her Ghost out there. Sabah had, after her brief foray into combat, found that she was onto something with the whole 'staying-out-of-it' thing. Taylor didn't blame her.
"Ghost." Her voice was muffled by the thin, warm fabric of her scarf. Hopefully to the point that it would help disguise her and not make it sound like she had a head cold. At the moment, she was perched on a bench by a bus stop that no longer had a bus to service it. Given the darkness of her hair and the fact of the broken lights overhead, she was almost invisible so long as she didn't move and kept to a whisper. "Got anything for me?"
Her Ghost, following the mandates laid out earlier to stay invisible where possible, didn't reveal itself. It was also a curious thing to hear something without vocal cords try to whisper. Her Ghost was strangely capable of it, though, sounding as if it were whispering into her ear. "Nothing yet, Guardian. It seems we chose a slow night for your...debut."
Taylor winced, sure to hear something over her radio, only to remember that she'd turned it off after hearing one too many fighter pilot impersonations. It seemed her newest friend and father were comedians when you put a radio in their hand. For Sabah, it made sense. Her dad, on the other hand...it seemed a little out of character. Until Taylor hit on the idea of him keeping her calm by joking around. Then it made sense. "You'd think a city like this would have something we could interfere with." A pause to consider her word choice. "I mean...you know what I mean."
"Afraid I don't, Guardian." Strangely, her Ghost didn't sound too sympathetic. How curious. Then, "Got it. There's a holdup of a convenience store on Wheeler by a quartet of people described in a way that says, among other things, Merchants. Police are on site and gunfire has been exchanged. What do you say, Guardian? Ready for some thrilling heroics?"
"Sounds like we're starting off small," Taylor sighed, reaching for her radio and switching it on. "Dad will be thrilled, I'm sure." She raised it to her mouth and cued it. "Base, this is Guardian, we finally found something. A convenience store robbery on Wheeler. We're going for it."
"Thank God, finally! Something happens." Sabah's patience had run out an hour ago, it seemed. "Oh yeah. Um..Guardian, this is base, we hear you. Good hunting, and all that."
Taylor found a lupine grin curling her lips. "It always is, Base. Guardian out." The radio disappeared into a pocket, and not long after, she disappeared into the night. Those Merchants wouldn't know what hit them.
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Taylor crouched on a fire escape partway up the apartment building across the street from her target. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the scene before her, something not quite sitting right with her. She couldn't...quite...place it, but there was something there. Not wrong, precisely, but not expected or maybe not what it looked like. So she had her Ghost scan the building to try and put a picture to what she felt. So to speak. What she found wasn't something to celebrate. Well, she was glad she caught it before she walked headlong into it, but apart from that she was displeased overall.
Mush was there. As were four other Merchants the original report hadn't accounted for. What's more, given the sheer amount of cash and wrapped bundles in the storeroom and the Asian characters printed on the sign above an English translation, this convenience store had a second, less legal purpose. Stereotyping? Yes. Vaguely racist? Probably. This was Brockton Bay. Whatever the purpose, be it as a money laundering operation or simply a place to store it, this building belong to the ABB. Which made the Merchants' act of robbing it problematic at best. That aside, she didn't see a clear way into the store that didn't involve the front door.
Then again, she was the same Taylor Hebert who had snuck out of an overpopulated high school in broad daylight. If she wanted into that building, and she did, then she'd find a way. If it were to exist, it would probably look like a back window, no more than two foot across and a foot-and-a-half high, that was stuck alone and forlorn on the store's back wall. With a bit of wiggling, she could make that work. Her chronic beanpole syndrome would work in her favor here. So that was her in. Now she needed a plan. She had information and a canny, wily nature. It'd be cake. Or was that her instincts talking?
Bah. Before she could stop herself, Taylor rolled over the fire escape's railing – put in place to prevent this exact thing – and dropped the fifteen feet to the pavement. She landed without a sound, going into a crouch to disperse the momentum and feeling the impact of landing run up her legs. Her scarf fluttered down over her face, and she pushed it back where it belonged. She blinked, and looked up at her previous perch. It looked a long way up. Was what she'd done a Hunter thing, or a Guardian thing? It wasn't something most people could pull off. Not without getting hurt, anyway.
Food for thought and also inappropriate to dwell on at present, so she put it in the back of her mind for later and confronted her next obstacle: the half dozen police cars parked end-to-end in a U in front of the store. Well, them, and the two dozen armed policemen taking cover behind engine blocks. Nobody was shooting, thankfully, but that didn't mean lead couldn't start flying at any time. Since she didn't intend to John Wayne her way out of this situation, though it was...oddly appealing...staying out of the lines of fire would be best. The long way it would be.
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The interior of the store stank. It really, really, really, stank. Like dead, briny fish, mold, and the bottom of a decades old dumpster. Eau de Mush, she supposed, easing the window closed behind her. It had stuck a little on her way in, but whatever was blocking it the first time hadn't been a problem in closing. It shut smoothly and with nary a sound. Taylor was in. Her throat was dry, her heart pumping, and her eyes darting all over, taking in everything she could see. She breathed in, taking in the Merchant cape's special perfume, and eased free her knife. The weight of it – however light – in her hand eased her. Brought her down and honed the keen edge of her mind.
Time to interfere, she thought with a touch of humor. She'd start with the thugs. Or, if Mush crossed her path, the cape. Her plan was flexible, and centered around three main tenets. First, don't get killed. Second, never attack someone you can't surprise. Third, don't get killed. It was simple, slightly redundant, and easily adapted. Taylor was proud of it. Kinda. The room whose window she'd co-opted looked to be a janitor's closet. The lights were out, but there was enough coming in, from both moon and streetlight, to provide enough for her to see.
The door into the rest of the store was closed, and probably locked. Taylor stepped, quiet as a cat on the prowl, and paused with her hand curled around the metal doorknob. Her sense of smell was shot, Mush doing it in without ever seeing her, but there was nothing wrong with her ears. They told her that there were two people outside this door, and that one of them was Mush himself. They were arguing. Or maybe debating. Their voices were slurred and tinged with either irritation or anger. One side of the discussion was in favor of 'findin' a way out through tha back' while the other favored 'leavin' the fucking place through the front fuckin' door'.
Taylor took a long, slow breath in. Then she let it out, silent, through her nose. The men were moving, coming her way. Her grip tightened on her knife as they came and passed, and it was the second man was moving past her that she acted. Slowly she turned the handle, praying to whatever god listened it was unlocked and well-oiled, and found her prayer answered as the door swung open without a sound. The room beyond was bright and decorated by a scattering of cheap furniture. A break room. Across it was another door, leading into a larger, brighter space with huge bricks of money and what had to be drugs. This room was the one Mush and the other had just left. It was the room she left for a less dangerous time. There were eight men in this store to deal with, first.
Speaking of...
She dropped into a crouch and padded after Mush and the other. It was honestly difficult to tell who was the cape, so covered in trash and filthy clothing were they. It didn't really matter. What did was that one was trailing the other, and they were heading towards the front of the store. Where four more thugs were. Thugs with guns. She couldn't let them make it. She had to hit them fast and hard and as quiet as humanly – or should that be Guardian-ly – possible. She closed in, closing her nose to the stench wafting off them, and punched the hilt of her knife into the back of the trailing thug's skull. Hard. Too hard. Instead of dropping to the floor or turning to face her he flew forward into the second, sending both the ground in a heap of swearing and boneless limbs. She had to stop underestimating her strength.
She didn't want to kill these thugs, or seriously injure them, but they were criminals and they would try to kill her. The knife twirled around in her hand, blade flashing in the light, to face the second man just as he struggled out from under his unconscious companion. His eyes widened when he saw her, then narrowed in rage. An unsteady rise to his feet would have followed, had she allowed it. She was on him, straddling his chest and swiping the keen edge across his hand as it rose to aim something dark and metal at her. He dropped it with a shout, the clatter loud, and she punched him in the face with her free hand. His head cracked off the tile floor, a sickening and loud sound, and his eyes crossed. She popped him again to put him out.
Which was when the door to her right slammed open, accompanied by a renewed burst of gunfire from the front of the shop. Two more thugs stood in the recently opened door, arms full of cash. Taylor yelped and threw herself forward, tackling them back into the office before they could react. This was turning out to be one hell of an opening night, and there was a part of her, a vicious, bright-edge part of her that wanted to smile.
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Taylor and the first guy hit the office floor hard enough to rattle the light fixtures. She rolled forward off him, rising straight into a straight punch from the second, who she hadn't quite managed to knock over. His kneeling position did little to diminish his strength. Knuckles cracked into her cheekbone, dragged harshly down her cheek and across her jaw. The blow – and the pain – sent her back on her ass. The first thug swore, breath going out in a rush of air as she landed back on him. She dropped her elbow into his chest and launched herself back up at the second. He swore, rising and dropping back a step. A rusty switchblade flicked out of a grungy jeans pocket.
The sight sent electricity rushing through her, igniting her blade in a crackle and rush of light. His eyes widened, blue light washing out his face and displaying the utter filth he was caked in. They then narrowed, lip curling into a snarl. With more dexterity than she'd give credit to a drugged up thug for, he flipped his knife to hold it like her and rushed forward. He meant to overwhelm her, use the fact that he was larger than she to bear her to the ground and...well, it didn't bear thinking of. If she tried to meet his charge she'd fail or take another injury, and she meant to avoid that, knowing she would catch enough hell for the one she had. So she dodged. Darted, more like. Bounced off the wall as the thug lumbered past and charged his broad, open back.
That hidden, bright-edged part of her wanted to sink her burning blade into his flesh. To see the ash that her knife would make him drift to the ground before turning it on the first. It took an actual effort to restrain herself to jumping on his back, digging her heels into his hips, and using her entire body to throw the pair of them into the wall. This, for the record, didn't feel great. Better than being stabbed, so her only complaint was a grunt. He threw a wild elbow back to try and dislodge her, she twitched her head to the side and looped her arm through his elbow.
This became the time the first, winded thug made his reappearance. His opener was to peel her off his compatriot and throw her bodily into the manager's desk. It broke beneath her, splinters flying every which way as she hit the ground hard yet again. She was starting to become irritated by this, and it might have colored her next action. Instead of charging back into fighting the pair of them, she somersaulted forward, putting her knife right in line with the back of the first thug's knee. She hamstrung him, knife cutting through clothing and flesh with sizzling ease.
He howled, high and loud, dropping to a knee just in time to catch the handle of her knife to his jaw. Another loud crack, and he was out. The second swore again, vulgarity spilling from chapped, cracked lips as he charged her knife first. She dodged a few swings, waiting until he overextended to drop three of her strongest punches into his stomach, chest, and forehead. This third caused something to give in one of her knuckles, pain radiating up her wrist and causing her to grit her teeth. But she wasn't done. She grabbed him by the head and slammed it into the wall. He slid boneless to the floor, leaving her the only conscious person in the back of the store.
She appreciated the reprieve. This heroics business was no joke.
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Now came the dangerous part. Now came the part where she had to go up against four men. Four men armed with guns, and who were alert and ready for fighting. Her two saving graces were her speed and the fact they were looking for an attack from the front. They wouldn't see her coming. It was an advantage she couldn't afford to waste. Another mark in her favor was that, thanks to her Ghost, she knew exactly where they were. Two at the door were trading shots with police officers. A third had taken cover in the shelves a few feet back from them and was wrestling with a large, misshapen rifle-looking thing that had Tinker written all over it. The fourth was closest to her, rifling through the register and stuffing the meager cash offerings into his pants.
She knew where they were. The question of how to proceed weighed on her. She didn't want to get shot. She really didn't want that, nor did she want any of the officers outside to get hurt. Her Ghost had reported that no injuries had been suffered by the boys in blue, but both knew it was only a matter of time. Her breath came in gasps, chest heaving as she tried to restore some air to her aching lungs. Apparently, she'd forgotten to breathe during that last fight. Wouldn't do that again.
The door into the front of the store was back out of the office and down the hall. If she went that way, she'd be seen by the fourth thug and he would alert his friends. She was fast, both Sabah and tonight had taught her that, but she wasn't fast enough to take him out before he could bring attention to her. Not without killing him. She wouldn't do that. So unless she could walk through walls...Hang on. "Ghost, how thick is this wall?" she tapped the blade of her knife against the barrier. It pinged gently.
Her Ghost chirped and made itself visible, a beam emitting from its center and impacting the wall to no effect. Something like a sensor, she guessed. Or maybe a really high tech version of one of those laser levels she saw at a Home Depot. "Two and a half inches, Guardian. Mostly wallboard and paint. Even your normal knife could cut through it without much trouble."
She raised the blade in question, igniting it and feeling the rush of lightning through her veins. "Glad you see where I'm going with this."
"Great minds, as the saying goes." Her Ghost vanished again, leaving behind little motes of light that faded after a moment. "Go get 'em, Guardian!"
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Carving a door through a plaster wall was probably the most property damage the poor shop had incurred thus far. She'd have to find a way to make up for it. It worked, though. Better than she'd expected. The section of wall she cut away dissolved into ash before fading away entirely, leaving her with an entry into the front of the shop. In front of her was a waist-high counter, wood and false stone. A cash register, tray open, stood on the counter directly in front of her. Between her and it was yet another Merchant, stuffing fistfuls of crumpled bills directly into his pants. Beyond the counter she could see flashes of movement punctuated by gunfire as the three remaining thugs traded fire with the police.
She ached. One of her fingers was probably broken. Her back and hip were without question bruised to all hell. Her jaw ached, her cheek stung, and a bone-deep weariness was setting in. By all accounts she should be ready to end it. To finish the job, go home, and sleep for the rest of 2011. This wasn't the case. Her nerves thrummed, her fingers twitched, and her heart pounded in her chest. Her lips were curling up at the corners, a fierce and joyous grin threatening to break free at any moment. She was enjoying herself. Immensely. Which was..weird. It was also something to think about when she wasn't less than six feet from men with firearms. This was, she reflected as she readied herself, becoming something of a theme.
Okay, these guys have guns. Don't dither, Taylor.
With that sound self-advice, she pounced. If she was fast before, she had to be faster than fast now. Move it or lose it. So she moved, kicking the back of the register thug's left knee. It punched into, and through, the thin and flimsy plywood shelving that comprised the lower part of the counter. He dropped, arms flailing, and as he did she pulled a repeat of what had worked earlier and grabbed his head to guide it none-too-gently to the floor. Twice. And then there were three. She rose to peer above the counter, exposing as little of her head as she could. Her luck was holding, they hadn't heard.
That wouldn't last. She had to find a way to get over the counter and take the three of them out without getting shot by them or an errant police-sent bullet. Maybe if she went all the way down the far wall before vaulting into the forest of shelves and shell casings she could use the two thugs over there to keep the third one from using his gun. She took a few deep breaths. That...that could work. Her knife hand was starting to ache, and it was only then did she realize that she'd been white-knuckle clenching it this whole time. Did she give her hand a break, and put it away? Or did she wager her knife against their guns?
The latter. Definitely the latter.
Her steps as she crouch walked down to the end of the counter fell heavier than they had in the back rooms. It had been quieter there – not by much, but still – so she had a bit more freedom here. Before long her shoulder hit the joint between counter and wall and she paused. "Okay...okay." Her words were murmured to herself. "Let's do this."
As with the fire escape not twenty minutes ago, she rolled over the counter before she could stop herself. Unlike the fire escape, she hit the ground running.
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The first part of her plan went perfectly. She was on top of the two thugs before they knew she was there, punching and cutting at their gun hands as much as possible to keep them from being brought to bear on her tender, not-at-all bulletproof skin. The third, across the aisle from them, spotted her out of the corner of his eye and shot her theory to hell. He did this by shooting one of his fellow Merchants in the gut. Blood sprayed from the exit wound as he fell, splashing hot and thick against her pants. There was a moment of stillness between her, the thug close to her, and the third. Smoke curled from the barrel of the gun. Then she moved. She punched the nearby gunman in the nuts close to as hard as she could. His scream was high pitched and, like his curl into a ball, entirely by instinct.
She didn't know how long he'd be down. It'd be long enough. Instead of charging straight ahead – like a dumbass – she sprinted for the front of the shop, putting as many shelves between her and the trigger happy final Merchant as she could. Not to run, but to circle around. From outside came muffled shouts to cease fire as the blur of her running form passed behind the long-shattered front windows. She spared a moment before she slid around the corner to thank them for not immediately assuming the worst of her. Two shelving units before she reached the thug her knife ignited. This, in hindsight, may have given her away.
Rounding the corner into the barrel of a gun wasn't a thing she planned on experiencing. Her shoes squeaked as she slid to a stop and she took in the twitch in his eyes and hands, the racing pulse in his neck, and the sweat beading on his brow and neck. If she moved, he'd shoot. In the sudden silence, she could hear his whispered swearing. "Fuck. Fuck me, you – you ghosted fuckin' everyone and we didn't even notice! You some kind of demon or some shit?! What the f–". He blinked sweat from his eyes. It was enough to trigger the instinct she'd been running on all night.
In the time it took for him to close and open his eye she had closed in. Her knife flashed, energy crackling along its length, cutting through skin, muscle, tendon and bone with the same ease it had that wall. His hand turned to ash as the gun fell to the floor. She pushed past, using one shoulder to push his arm away as she drove the other into his sternum, tackling him to the floor and leaving her sitting on his gut. His eyes were wide, panicked, bloodshot. She held the plain steel of her blade to his throat, having extinguished its lightning edge between the removal of his hand and the fall. Then she made him a promise. "You move and you're dead."
That was how the police found them not a minute later when they stormed the place.
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