(ACCIDENTAL VILLAINY) ON THE BRINK

Taylor did not know what she expected when consciousness finally crept back to her, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Her first thought, muddled by her disorientation, was that she should be in handcuffs, the cold metal already biting into her wrists. If not that, then a PRT officer should have been stationed beside her bed, posture rigid, hand resting meaningfully on a holstered weapon, and visor leveled on her with the kind of silent hostility she imagined she now deserved. Some form of punishment should have already begun. That was the only outcome that made sense.

She had killed someone, after all. A Ward. A child under the PRT’s oversight.

Even knowing the circumstances, how desperately she had tried to avoid it, the darkest part of her mind had accepted that whatever came next for her would be harsh yet fitting. She had braced herself for a cell, for the draining and overly expensive machinery that was the legal system, for the cold grip of consequences. She had even allowed herself to imagine the Birdcage for a split second before shoving the thought away, sickened by how plausible it felt.

Instead, she woke to a medical room that looked almost like something out of a regular hospital, if not for the details that made her realize it was the PRT hospital. There were cameras tucked into the corners, their small red lights blinking openly. A large observation window stretched along the wall opposite her bed, the glass too reflective to let her see who might be watching. And a surgical mask covered the lower half of her face, held in place by white straps.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust enough to look down at herself, and the sight made something inside her twist, though not uncomfortably. Panacea had been here. Taylor could tell not just because the pain and puncture wounds were gone, but because only a mild, persistent headache throbbing behind her eyes remained. Panacea didn’t do brains, everyone knew that, so the headache made sense. The fogginess in her thoughts made sense. But everything else… 

The PRT had made sure she didn’t suffer. They had taken the time to clean her, dress her, and protect her identity.

It was more kindness than she expected, all things considered.

“Take your time,” a nurse said from beside her, voice calm and professional, as though this were any ordinary patient in any ordinary hospital room. “When you’re ready, someone will escort you.”

Taylor stared, uncertain how to respond or to question the destination. Part of her wanted to curl back into the blankets and pretend she hadn’t heard anything. Another part, a much louder part, wanted to run, to push past the door and force her way out of the building entirely. But neither instinct felt possible, or right.

So she simply nodded, gathered her breath, and sat up slowly, giving her thoughts the chance to catch up to her awakening body.

When the knock came and a PRT officer stepped inside to guide her, she followed.

They did not lead her toward a cell as she expected, or through some ominous hallway to a room where judgment awaited. Instead, they guided her through a normal though quiet stretch of the building and into an interrogation room.

She had rooms like this on TV: small, intentionally plain, with its walls neutral and unadorned, and the furniture in the center bolted down. Yet nothing about the atmosphere felt hostile. It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t necessarily threatening either.

It felt… procedural. Heavy, yes, but again, normal. 

“Sit,” the officer said. “Someone will speak with you shortly.”

Taylor obeyed, fingers knotting together in her lap. Her heart hammered fast enough that it almost drowned out the soft mechanical hiss of the ventilators in the walls. She didn’t know what they wanted from her. She didn’t know what she was supposed to say. 

Every version of this moment she had prepared in her head had involved standing before a crowd in a PRT lobby, her voice steady as she explained everything, from Lung to the ABB to why she’d acted alone. She had imagined it, rehearsed it, and clung to it as the moment when she would, finally, be understood.

This was nothing like that.

But when the door opened and a group entered—Armsmaster and a rather large woman in a suit Taylor didn’t recognize, who introduced herself as Director Emily Piggot—the weight of her own expectations fell away.

“Tell us what happened,” the woman said, lowering herself into the chair opposite Taylor. “From the beginning. And tell the truth.”

Taylor blinked, startled by the directness but even more by the absence of accusation. There was no raised voice, no threats, and no immediate condemnation. They were… asking. Asking her.

She hadn’t expected that. But she had been given a chance, one she hadn’t dared to hope for again, and she took it.

She began with Lung, telling them about the fear that had crawled under her skin that night, about the ever-present fire and the heat and the panic when she realized what she had done without meaning to. She told them about the days afterwards, of the paranoia and determination she’d built piece by piece, of wanting to be a hero even when she hadn’t known how or if it was even possible again.

She spoke about meeting Shielder, about the cautious optimism she’d felt when he’d believed her, and about her decision to go to the PRT.

And then she told them about the rooftop.

She described the ambush, the pain and shock of being hit without warning. She described Shadow Stalker’s taunts, the ensuing panic, and the sudden loss of control as her insects surged in response to her adrenaline and fear. She told them how she had tried, really tried, to stop them, and how she just couldn't. She recounted the moment she realized what had happened, staring down at a face no one could recognize.

Her voice and hands shook more than once, but no one interrupted her. They might as well be statues for how still they were, simply listening and absorbing every detail. She didn't know if her words sounded convincing. She didn’t know if they sounded like excuses. But she kept going until every detail she could recall lay between them, raw and honest in the open.

When she finished, the room was silent for a long moment. Taylor exhaled slowly, her breath trembling as it left her. She didn’t feel good. She didn’t even feel relieved. Instead, she felt… steadier, for a lack of a better term. As if she had finally rid herself of some heavy weight she had carried alone for far too long.

She had gotten to tell her side. She had gotten to explain. She had gotten to make them see that she wasn’t a villain, or some sort of cape-killer, or some hideous terrifying monster lurking in the shadows. She had wanted to help. She still wanted to help. She still wanted, desperately, to be a hero. And she would keep trying, no matter how badly the road here had gone.

That had to be enough, right? It wasn’t the moment she had imagined. It wasn’t the triumphant declaration or a hopeful beginning. But it was a start, and right now, that was all she had.

It had to be enough. It had to be.