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The coffee shop we met at was small. Homey, even. It had surprised me how few Starbucks existed in this version of New York, even exploring on foot as I was in my attempt to not alert the infamously jumpy Aleph authorities. Bet had been drowning in them, and while the brand had died with the old world, Gimel's growing cafe scene definitely inherited some of its style and taste.
“What do you want to drink?” I asked the girl who'd killed Scion, the shop just busy enough that a small line was forming.
“Coffee, black, three sugars.”
It was the first thing she'd said to me since we met today, and, I realised, the first time I'd ever heard her voice without the obstruction of a mask. There had been reports back home that when Skitter spoke, it sounded like a 'buzzsaw being run over gravel.' Taylor Hebert, though, had an awkward nasal tang to her, with a thin New York accent, the odd word accentuated in a way that would remind anyone in the know of her Brockton origins.
As I waited in line, I occasionally sent a glance in her direction, shuffling my feet or reaching for my shoulder bag to obscure the action. Stealth had never been my forte, outside using flight in unusual situations, however, so I had little doubt she'd notice me. Yet, despite how obvious I must have been, she appeared to be utterly unphased, scrolling through her smartphone or occasionally adjusting her razor-thin spectacles.
I hadn't known what to expect, truthfully. A part of me wanted her to be bristling with weapons, leading a criminal syndicate with an iron fist. Even without her powers, as both Lisa's agent and Contessa's recovered papers suggested her current state to be, Taylor Hebert had been a force of nature in the past. She'd done more damage as Skitter in six months than some villains did in six years. Even her stint as 'Weaver' had been aggressive, with a Wards record that would have had a Protectorate bidding war in place upon her graduation.
Yet here she sat, twenty-eight years old, wearing an ugly purple sweater, jeans, and a bright bandana, looking to all the world like an underfed hippie, save for her cybernetic prosthesis, that is. There had been concerns initially; dimensional drift was a thing. Our understanding of the split between timelines caused by the arrival of Scion was rapidly being reassessed since the Wyrm War four years ago. There were a few differences here and there in the woman -acne scars and the early onset of stress lines- but this person matched the last known photos of Taylor we'd managed to salvage down to a tee. It grated, relying on something so outdated, but we only had so many resources. And the few that could be used, unobtrusively that is, weren't the most accurate.
It was the eyes, I finally decided. There was something cold in them, hard, judgemental even. She stared at the world like it was another insect she could control, a thing under a microscope that could be taken apart.
There was no faking that.
“Here,” I said, returning after a few minutes with her coffee, my latte still steaming and needing the slightest aid from Fragile One to carry.
We sat in relative silence, choosing seats against a wall and near the door. It was good practice on my part; hers, I suspected, was more paranoia.
“So…” she eventually began, ceasing the slow drumming of her short nails on the cup's ceramic exterior. “Glory Gir-”
“Antares.” I interrupted, suddenly tense. “I go by Antares now. Or Victoria, if you'd like. Either is fine.”
“Victoria,” she said, saying the word as if it was from an alien language. “Victoria. Hm. Sure, ok.”
“Thank you.”
She nodded, her shoulder-length hair -badly dyed- bouncing from the action. It was a minor movement, but the sight of her curls shifting caused an involuntary bubbling in my stomach, one I did my best to ignore.
“ So then, Antares, tell me… what's going on?"
“What do you mean?”
“Aleph is isolationist. Arguably to its detriment now that portal trade is beginning to take off. It made some sense when Bet was its only point of contact. Fenghuang may be a big deal here, but he'd barely be considered a B-lister in the Protectorate. Now, though? There's noise on the underground channels.”
“Underground channels?”
She frowned, eyes narrowing, but relented after a moment or two, leaning into her seat and taking a sip of the cooling coffee.
“A few tinkers managed to cook up a sort of bridging device for electronic signals across dimensions. Radio waves, wifi, broadband, that kind of thing. It's not amazing; frankly, half the time all they air are reruns of soap operas no one has any context for, but every now and then we get a nugget of information. Something useful. That's how we learned about the Portal trade. Two years ago, in fact. The government has been stalling, but business interests are keen to find new avenues after they learned about Gimel, especially the oil and mineral rights.”
I hummed in acknowledgement. She wasn't too wrong. Seemingly infinite worlds meant a near-infinite opportunity for money to be made, and capitalism loved a never-ending source of revenue.
“Threats,” she continued “-that were overwhelming are suddenly gone. Tyrants toppled, monsters killed, that sort of thing. Or, at least, that's what the rumors suggest. I think differently, though.”
I was unsure where this was going but found something in her voice, something animated, that drew me along. A few books written in the past five years had suggested Taylor had been a cult leader, someone who had manipulated everyone around her with subtle words and incredible planning. Tattletale had said nothing, but here and now, I suspected Taylor just had a certain magnetic charisma to her. Unlike the Undersiders, though, I knew what to look for and found my Warrior Monk nodding in agreement.
“There’s something big. Something so big that you need all hands on deck. Anyone, no, everyone with even a scrap of experience drawn together. Even someone with no powers like me.”
“No, Taylor, it's-”
“I understand, Victoria. I can't-can't fight anymore.” The knuckles on her flesh hand were white, thin fingers squeezing the life out of her coffee cup. “I tried, after a few years of peace.” She let out a bitter laugh, more a bark than anything. “Hah. Peace. Minimum Wage. Community College. Sitting there, watching the city get worse and worse as incompetent pencil pushers let problems pile up. After my Mo- after a friend got hurt in a mugging that escalated, I put the mask on again. Just one night a week. Then two. Then three." She flexed her dull-steel hand, the servos almost silent in the prosthesis. “Even bought a few 'upgrades'. It wasn't the same, though. It couldn't be. By the end of the second month, my luck ran out. Took an actual cape to stop the gang from beating me to death with bats.”
“Oh my god, I'm so sorry.”
She shrugged, as if her brush with death was little more than a minor incident, akin to spilling ketchup on a white shirt.
“I didn't feel much, but there was no hiding the bruises. Or the fractures. No, after my dad and, ah, a friend had to take a loan out for my hospital bills, it hit me. I… I couldn't do this anymore. But I know things, Victoria. About passengers, powers. Tactics. Strategy. Ways to make myself useful. Not enough to win on my own, but I can give you the edge you'll need.”
Looking at her face, behind the hard lines and wide mouth now shut tight, was something that almost made me feel ill. She, Taylor, was excited. The idea that she'd conceived, some kind of doomsday threat that required parahumanity to grab anyone of even the slightest use, beyond being a farce, genuinely seemed to make her happy.
It was the saddest thing I'd seen in a long time.
Simultaneously, however, it shook the last of the nerves I'd held onto before arriving in Aleph. This woman wasn't Skitter, or Weaver, or even Khepri. She was just Taylor Hebert, and by the sound of it, she was desperately, awfully, lonely.
That would make the next part both easier and harder.
“Taylor,” I said, pushing her cup down and taking both her hands in my own. “There's no threat. The Endbringers are dead. All the S-Class Villains? Dead, retired, or expelled to worlds at the end of infinity. Even A-Class villains are a minority. Most heroes are dealing with societal issues on Gimel now, trying to ensure we don't make the same mistakes that we did in the past.”
She said nothing, only staring at me as if I'd told her God was real and we'd killed him. Then, after what felt like an eternity, she slid her hands out of my own and regained her former composure.
“Why are you here then, Victoria? Why did you come to Aleph? Why did you find me?”
Because Tattletale is a coward hung on my lips, but for all of our sakes I kept quiet, instead reaching into my shoulder bag and retrieving the dark purple envelope, passing it to her.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
I should have known she'd recognise the handwriting on the front; the way Tattletale drew out her 'R's was oddly distinct. Yet a pall hung over us now, and I looked to my undrunk latte, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
“You were right, though,” I said softly. “There is talk about trade between Gimel and Aleph. Secret talks at that.” I added, throwing her a bone. “But we suspect the portal agreements will come to a good conclusion in a few months.”
The rest was left unsaid, but the weight was there; I could see it.
“I should go,” I eventually spoke, standing. "I've only a few hours left before my 'ride' stops being so generous."
“Sure, sure,” Taylor muttered, eyes never leaving the envelope, now resting on the table between her stiff hands.
I wasn't sure if she'd heard me or was just speaking on autopilot, but I made my way to leave nonetheless. Taylor Hebert had had enough people take control of her life; the least I could do was give her one less parahuman problem to consider.