(AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN…) DOWN THE ABYSS WE GO!!!

Armsmaster’s presence, it turned out, was not a coincidence.

Taylor learned this in the aftermath of the conversation, once the words had finally run out of her and left her lightheaded. The woman on the bus, what she represented, was too large a problem to be handled. The ABB’s connection to a bomb tinker, their willingness to turn civilians into weapons, and the implication that this was part of something ongoing meant that patient confidentiality no longer held the same power it might have otherwise.

Jessica Yamada explained as much, her tone apologetic. And to her credit, she did not try to justify the decision or soften it with reassurances, only laid out the reasons plainly and allowed Taylor to draw her own conclusions.

And Taylor understood, accepting the explanation with a nod and saying nothing.

She did not have the energy to be upset. The relief still lingered within her, muting everything else. Whatever consequences came from this—increased PRT scrutiny, questions, and attention—felt distant, and secondary to the feeling. For now, the simple fact that she had finally said it out loud mattered more than who had heard.

Armsmaster took over from there.

He did not interrogate her. There was no raised voice, and no pressure in the way his attention settled on her. He asked for clarification: what exactly had the woman said; how she had behaved when pushed; whether she had mentioned names, locations, anything that could be followed up on; and whether Taylor had noticed anything about the bomb’s effect beyond what she had already described.

Taylor answered as best she could.

She told him about the phrases the woman had repeated, and the way she had framed it as something inevitable rather than something she was choosing to do. And as she did, she made sure not to embellish her words or dramatize them. She simply recounted what she knew.

At some point, her dad appeared in the doorway, concern written plainly across his face. He had that look she recognized now, worry aimed as much at her as at the length of time she had been sitting there, thin shoulders hunched, voice worn raw.

His gaze moved from Taylor’s face to Armsmaster and back again. 

“Taylor,” he said gently, lifting a hand. “You need to eat.”

She blinked at him, momentarily disoriented. She had no idea how long the conversation had gone on; to her, it felt as though she had only just begun speaking.

“I’m fine,” she said, reflexively.

He did not argue the point. He just looked at her, patient in that uniquely ‘dad’ way of his. 

After a moment, she sighed and nodded. “Okay. Just, give me a minute.”

Armsmaster allowed her to finish answering one last question before inclining his head, the gesture ambiguous enough to be acknowledgment, or thanks, or respect.

Jessica glanced at her watch, hesitated, then spoke. “I do have another meeting,” she said, regret clear in her voice. “But I’d like to continue this later, if you’re willing.”

Taylor considered that. The idea of talking more, of digging even deeper, made something in her tighten, but she wasn't opposed to it. After all, her problems had begun long before the loops entered the picture.

“Maybe,” she said. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Jessica smiled, small and sincere. “That’s fine. Your father has my number, so anytime you are ready, just give me a call.”

She gathered her things slowly, as if giving Taylor time to change her mind, then headed for the door.

Armsmaster followed, pausing just long enough at the threshold to look back at Taylor.

For a moment, he seemed to be weighing his words.

“What you went through,” he said finally, “was hell.”

She had no time to respond before he continued. “And while I would never wish that on anyone, your actions—intentional or otherwise—gave us information we did not have. Information that will save lives.”

Her fingers tightened into the blanket.

“You prevented a mass-casualty event,” he said. “You made a choice under impossible circumstances.”

He paused, meeting her eyes, then added, “That makes you a hero.”

Something fluttered weakly in her chest.

A small part of her—the part that had grown up watching him on the news, that still remembered feeling awe when his name came up—warmed at the words.

The rest of her felt conflicted.

She thought of the bus, of the moment understanding had clicked into place, fear cooling into something focused. If she was being honest with herself, saving the others had not been the point. She had acted because she wanted to live. Because dying like that, again and again, was exhausting.

But she didn’t say any of it.

She did not correct him or confess or try to explain. She just held his gaze, expression carefully blank, and let the silence stretch.

After a few seconds, Armsmaster nodded once and turned away, following Jessica into the hallway and out the entrance door.

Taylor stayed where she was, unmoving, until her dad cleared his throat.

“Kitchen,” he said, already guiding her by the shoulder. “Come on.”

She went with him, feet dragging slightly as they crossed the short distance. The smell of food reached her belatedly, reminding her how long it had been since she’d eaten.

He set a plate in front of her and pulled out a chair, watching until she sat.

“Eat,” he said again, softer this time.

Taylor picked up her fork.

She stared down at the food for a moment, and then took a bite.