(PROFESSOR UZUMAKI) TAYLOR HEBERT

Taylor felt conflicted in a way that refused to go away no matter how many times she tried to think it through.

The television played quietly in the background, its volume kept low out of habit rather than courtesy, yet she found herself standing in front of it all the same, rooted in place without remembering when she had stopped moving. The footage looped again, a patchwork of shaky phone recordings and distant news cameras stitched together into something that only barely captured the reality of what had happened at Brockton Bay Central Bank.

And, impossibly, one of the central figures on the screen was a girl Taylor recognized.

Halle.

On one hand, Taylor felt something close to pride. 

A classmate, someone she had trained alongside, someone she had watched struggle with doubt and hesitation just like the rest of them, had been on the news for doing something undeniably heroic. Halle had helped stop a villain group with an actual Ward, saving civilians trapped inside the bank with armed criminals and massive mutant dogs. One of those civilians had even been her mother, who, according to the scrolling caption at the bottom of the screen, had made it out alive, shaken but unharmed.

The thought made Taylor’s stomach twist with a sharp, sympathetic ache. The image of a parent forced to kneel on a bank floor, surrounded by threats she could not fight or flee, made her skin crawl. Knowing that Halle had acted with that reality hanging over her only made the whole thing more awe-inspiring in the truest sense of the word. The kind of courage that did not look flashy or clean, but raw and frightening and real.

The reporters kept emphasizing that point, voices bright with barely contained excitement as they talked about bravery and quick thinking and a civilian stepping up when it mattered most.

Even the PRT spokesperson who had stayed behind to address the press looked caught between approval and discomfort, carefully dodging questions about recruitment and protocol while acknowledging that the situation could have ended far worse. Shadow Stalker had done most of the heavy lifting, that much was clear, but the narrative was already solidifying around the idea that things could have gone very differently if Halle had not acted when she did.

Taylor wanted to be happy for her, and in some ways she was.

Halle had always been quiet in class, easy to overlook in much the same way Taylor herself often was. They had never been close, had never spoken beyond the occasional shared assignment or passing comment, yet seeing Halle now, pale and shaken as PRT personnel guided her away from the cameras, made something warm and tight swell in Taylor’s chest. The feeling was almost painful in its intensity, even without the foundation of friendship.

But it was not the only thing she felt.

There was something else beneath it, something far less pleasant, and Taylor could not pretend it was not there.

Jealousy.

The realization made her jaw tighten as she stared at the screen, folding her arms around herself and digging her fingers lightly into the fabric of her sleeves. She hated the thought, hated that it came so easily, but denying it would have been pointless. She had spent countless nights lying awake thinking about heroes and villains, about responsibility and consequences, about how Brockton Bay seemed to worsen a little more each day while everyone waited for someone else to intervene and fix it. More than once, she had told herself that the city needed someone willing to step up and that maybe that someone had to be her.

And then Halle, who had never talked about wanting to be a cape and had never seemed particularly invested in heroics at all, had gone out and done exactly that.

She had done it without a costume, without a mask, and without even the bare minimum effort to hide her identity. So, obviously, it had not been a calculated debut or a carefully staged decision. She had acted on instinct and fear and desperation, falling back on whatever Naruto had taught them and trusting it to be enough. Somehow, impossibly, it had worked.

The city was already speculating, and Taylor could see it reflected in the headlines scrolling across the bottom of the screen, about whether the PRT would recruit Halle, or whether New Wave might step in now that her identity was public. Taylor could already imagine what school would be like when Halle came back, the looks, the whispers, and the curiosity openly tinged with envy.

The whole thing was maddening.

Taylor turned away from the television and began pacing the length of the living room as the broadcast continued behind her, commentators arguing about responsibility and whether this was a good precedent to set for the masses. Her thoughts spiraled regardless, looping back on themselves until she leaned against the wall—lest she wear out the carpets more—staring up at the ceiling as if it might offer answers.

She had justified every excuse she made to herself with logic, with fear and hesitation dressed up as caution. She had chakra, yes, and could probably use it better than Halle, but that alone did not make someone a hero, and she had been so afraid of making a mistake, of doing something wrong, that she had done nothing at all.

Halle had not been afforded that luxury.

She had not been ready. She had not been trained to fight villains with guns or even how to sneak up on people. She had been terrified, and she had still acted, because someone she loved had been in danger and there had been no one else in position to help.

Taylor swallowed.

Maybe that was the point.

Heroes did not emerge fully formed, confident and capable from the beginning. They were shaped by moments like that, by fear and uncertainty and decisions that could not be undone. Waiting until she felt ready might mean waiting forever, and Brockton Bay did not have the time for that.

She looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers slowly. The jealousy had not vanished, but it no longer felt suffocating. Instead, it had cooled into something else, something that would help her far more than it ever could.

Incentive.

Maybe she needed to act sooner rather than later. Maybe she did not need a perfect plan, or a good alter ego, or certainty about how any of this would end. Maybe all she needed was to take the first step, to stop watching from the sidelines and start doing something, anything, that mattered.

The thought was terrifying, and it made her heart pound harder just considering it, but it also felt strangely inevitable now, like a door that had been cracked open and could no longer be shut. Watching Halle on the news had not reassured her that everything would be fine if she waited.

It had done the opposite.

It had shown her what happened when someone stopped waiting, proof that ordinary people could make extraordinary choices when pushed far enough.

Taylor drew in a slow breath and let it out again, turning back toward the television, eyes lingering on the frozen image of a moment that had already become part of Brockton Bay’s collective memory.

If Halle could take that step without even meaning to, then maybe Taylor had finally run out of excuses.