(TAYLOR’S DEMONIC ADVENTURE) CHAPTER EIGHT

The conversation did not unfold the way Taylor had been bracing herself for.

She had expected awkwardness at best and thinly veiled judgment at worst, the sort of carefully disguised cruelty that hid behind politeness and smiled while it cut. Instead, Victoria Dallon smiled at her in a way that did not feel performative or predatory, and when she spoke, there was an easy warmth in her voice that caught Taylor off guard almost immediately.

She apologized for nearly knocking Taylor over, laughing it off with an unforced confidence, and then, after a brief pause that felt thoughtful rather than uncomfortable, asked how she was holding up. It did not seem like the hollow question people asked out of obligation or mere curiosity, the kind that expected a quick answer and nothing more, but something closer to genuine concern. The way Victoria watched her made it clear she was actually listening, that she meant to hear whatever Taylor chose to say.

Victoria talked about the attention first, about the sudden loss of anonymity, and the way everything changed once the word cape became attached to your name. She mentioned reporters, lingering stares, and the strange pressure of knowing that people were always watching you, even when they pretended not to be. 

As one of the only other teenagers in Brockton Bay whose civilian identity was common knowledge, Victoria said, she felt like she understood what Taylor was dealing with

It was not a perfect understanding, and to her credit, Victoria did not pretend otherwise. Her tone carried assumptions at times, moments where she spoke as if certain things were obvious or universal, and beneath it all there was a confidence that bordered on obliviousness. Even so, the admission itself was disarming, offered without expectation or condescension, and Taylor knew that the understanding came from lived experience rather than sympathy at a distance. 

She found herself responding before she had fully decided to. 

At first her answers were short and carefully chosen, but as the conversation continued, they grew a little longer, a little less guarded, as the tension she had been carrying since stepping onto Arcadia’s campus began to ease. She did not talk about her powers, and Victoria did not press her for details, but she did talk about the school. She explained how Arcadia worked, which teachers were strict and which ones were lenient, which hallways were always crowded and which tended to stay mercifully empty if you knew when to pass through them.

By the time they began walking together down the hall, Taylor felt an unexpected twinge of guilt for having lumped Victoria into the same mental category as Emma.

She had been wrong, at least in part.

Victoria was not Emma. The comparison, instinctive as it had been, no longer felt entirely fair, though that did not mean Victoria was perfect. Despite what teenage hormones might suggest, she very clearly was not.

She was loud, for one, with a presence that filled space whether she meant it to or not, and she had a habit of letting her aura leak out when her emotions ran high, a not-so-subtle pressure that made people pay attention even when she was talking about something mundane. As alluded to before, she also had a tendency to speak as though certain things were obvious, as though everyone around her was already on the same page, which took some getting used to and occasionally left Taylor feeling a half step behind.

Yet as they moved through the school, Taylor began to realize that none of it was malicious or even intentional. 

Victoria did not always notice when she dominated a conversation, and when she did notice, she made an effort to rein herself in, sometimes awkwardly, sometimes with a sheepish, apologetic laugh. And when she made assumptions, it was less because she thought herself superior and more because she genuinely expected the world to make sense if people were trying their best.

Once Taylor began to see that distinction, the tight knot between her shoulders loosened, just a little.

It made walking beside her easier, especially when Victoria fully embraced the role of guide, pointing out more classrooms, shortcuts, stairwells, and places that were worth remembering. She talked almost the entire time, filling the space with a steady stream of commentary that left little room for uncomfortable silence.

Arcadia unfolded around them in a way it had not before, transforming from an intimidating maze into something more navigable and, perhaps, less hostile. Taylor found herself relaxing despite her better judgment, even if she still kept her hood pulled low, tugging it lower whenever she felt eyes linger too long on her, and her hands tucked into her sleeves. She listened, nodded when appropriate, and quietly committed the layout of the school to memory.

It was nice, she realized, in a cautious sort of way.

Victoria did not comment on the hood at first, but as they continued, she made a few gentle attempts to coax it down, joking that Taylor would overheat or that it was a shame to hide her face when she had nothing to be ashamed of. Taylor responded by shaking her head and tugging the fabric lower every time, unwilling to give up the small sense of safety it provided.

Eventually, Victoria sighed and let it go, focusing instead on making sure Taylor knew where she was headed.

“Makes you look just like Amy when she’s trying to disappear,” she stil muttered, sounding more amused than annoyed, and Taylor felt a strange, unexpected swell of relief at the comparison. Victoria’s persistence had not come from judgment so much as concern.

They reached Taylor’s first classroom sooner than she expected, the door already open as students entered inside. Victoria stopped just short of it, glanced at the room, and then looked back at Taylor with an easy smile.

“Well,” she said, her tone brightening again, “I guess this is you.”

Taylor nodded and adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder.

Before she could slip away into the classroom, Victoria leaned closer and lowered her voice just enough to make the moment feel private. She informed Taylor that lunch was nonnegotiable, that she would be sitting with her, and that she would be properly introduced to the people she needed to know if she was going to survive Arcadia without losing her mind.

Taylor tried to protest, but Victoria talked right over her, already smiling as if the decision had been made long before Taylor had been consulted.

It should have annoyed her, and it did a little, but there was a playfulness to it that blunted the commanding edge, and more than anything else, it made her feel far less alone than she had expected to feel.

With a final wave, Victoria turned and headed down the hall, leaving Taylor standing there for a moment with her thoughts in disarray.

Sighing softly, she turned and entered the classroom, already dreading the upcoming lunch.