(TAYLOR HEBERT) CHAPTER TWENTY

Taylor had expected more… ceremony. More armed guards, maybe. More tense looks, more visible security. Something that made the walk through PRT Headquarters feel like she was being escorted into a trial rather than a meeting.

Instead, she got Miss Militia.

She was standing just outside the reception area when Taylor and her dad were brought in, dressed in civilian clothes and her iconic mask rather than her usual army get-up, though the effect was much the same. She stood straight-backed and composed, dark hair pulled into a neat ponytail, hands folded calmly behind her back in a way that looked effortless and yet somehow very strict.

“Taylor Hebert?” she asked, offering a small, polite smile.

“Yes,” Taylor said, a little too quickly, her shoulders tensing before she could stop herself.

“I’m Miss Militia,” she said, for courtesy’s sake more than anything. “I’ll be accompanying you to Director Piggot’s office.”

Something in Taylor’s chest loosened at that, though the relief was muted.  

Miss Militia was… safe. Or at least, she felt safe in a way that very few capes did. She had always come across as level-headed and principled on the news, the kind of hero who spoke about responsibility and protection rather than glory or spectacle. Seeing her in person only reinforced that impression, and for a moment, Taylor found herself wanting to believe that this visit really was just a formality.

It made this whole thing feel less like a mistake.

“Nice to meet you,” Taylor said, managing a real smile this time.

Miss Militia returned it, then nodded to her dad. “You’re welcome to come along as well, Mr. Hebert.”

“Thank you,” he replied, visibly relieved.

They followed her through a series of corridors that grew emptier and more secure the deeper they went, with security checkpoints at what felt like every turn, ID scans, retinal readers, and doors that only opened after Miss Militia spoke a code word into the wall.

Taylor tried not to stare, but it was hard not to feel like she was being swallowed by the infrastructure of it all. This wasn’t the part of the PRT you saw on TV or on guided tours. This was the machinery behind the scenes.

She was not sure whether to feel flattered that she was trusted enough to be brought here or unsettled by what that trust implied, and she decided to reserve her judgment until after the meeting.

“So,” Miss Militia said lightly as they walked, “how are you holding up?”

Taylor blinked, coming back to the present. “I… think I’m still catching up with myself.”

“That’s understandable.”

There was no judgment in her tone, only a sincerity that felt genuine, and Taylor wondered what Miss Militia must have gone through to be able to say something like that without sounding hollow.

It made her sound human, more so than even Armsmaster had. And definitely more than Alexandria.

That helped more than Taylor wanted to admit.

Director Piggot’s office was exactly what Taylor expected.

Large, functional, and aggressively unwelcoming.

The walls were bare concrete, broken up only by a few framed commendations and a large PRT emblem mounted behind the desk. Director Piggot herself sat in a heavy-looking chair that looked more like it belonged in a bunker than an office, her cane leaning against the side of her desk within easy reach.

She looked tired, though not in a way that suggested frailty. It was the kind of exhaustion that came from managing a veritable disaster zone like Brockton Bay. An honestly thankless job. 

The city, even on a good day, was certainly not for the faint of heart. 

“Miss Hebert,” Piggot said, fixing her with a sharp but not openly hostile look. “Mr. Hebert. Thank you for coming.”

“Of course,” her dad replied, nodding.

They sat.

Miss Militia remained standing off to the side, hands still folded behind her back.

Piggot studied Taylor for a moment, her gaze lingering in a way that made Taylor acutely aware of the watch on her wrist, of how visible and impossible to ignore it was.

Then, unexpectedly, Piggot sighed.

“Let me start by saying something I don’t say nearly often enough,” she said. “Thank you.”

Taylor froze slightly. “For…?”

“For fighting off the Simurgh,” Piggot said bluntly. “For protecting one of my people, and for preventing what could have been a catastrophic loss of life and property. Regardless of how it happened, regardless of the circumstances, you did something extraordinary. You did something heroic.”

Taylor felt something twist in her chest.

Gratitude from the PRT should have felt good, especially from someone like Director Piggot.

Instead, it made her uneasy.

Piggot did not sound insincere, but after meeting Alexandria and the Triumvirate, praise from powerful people had started to feel less like validation and more like a prelude to expectations.

“I… I just did what I could,” she said, shaking her head to dislodge the thought of smacking herself.

Piggot snorted rather loudly. “That’s what all the good ones say.”

Then her expression sharpened again. “That said, I need you to walk me through everything that happened. From the beginning.”

Taylor nodded, though a small, irrational part of her was tired of re-telling her story. 

She still told them, anyway. About skipping school. About sleeping in an abandoned building. About the crater in the ground and the strange watch sitting at the center of it like it had been placed there on purpose. About the first transformation, the panic, the power, and the way the world had felt different because she was different.

She talked about meeting Armsmaster. About finding out the Simurgh’s likely motive,and seeing her descend from the sky like something out of a nightmare. About running. About the moment she realized she had to fight back and the ensuing battle.

Piggot listened without interrupting. Miss Militia didn’t move at all.

When Taylor finished, the room was quiet for some time.

Then, Piggot exhaled slowly. “I see.”

That was all she said at first.

Then, after a pause, “Once again, Miss Hebert. Thank you.”

It landed differently the second time.

Less perfunctory.

Piggot leaned back slightly in her chair. “Now. I won’t pretend the PRT isn’t interested in you. You represent an unknown variable with an extremely high potential ceiling. So normally, I’d be pushing very hard for your immediate induction into the Wards.”

Taylor felt her stomach tighten.

“But,” Piggot continued, “I’m not going to do that.”

Taylor blinked again. “You’re not?”

“No,” Piggot said. “Forcing you into the organization because of something you never chose would be a mistake.”

The words were reasonable, enough so that Taylor had not realized she had been holding her breath until she let it out. And yet she found herself wondering how much of that was policy and how much was strategy.

“That said,” Piggot added, “I would like to see you consider it.”

There it was.

“But,” Piggot said quickly again, raising a hand before Taylor could respond, “it is only a suggestion.”

Taylor stared. Her ‘suggestion’ still carried as much weight as an order, but the thought counted at least. 

Piggot went on, “If you decide you’d rather operate independently, we’ll support that. All I ask is that you publicly align yourself with the PRT.”

“That’s… it?” Taylor asked.

“That’s it,” Piggot said. “We’ll also provide legal support, media handling, and assistance adjusting to your new public status. You’re not the first cape to be outed, and sadly, you won’t be the last.”

She narrowed her eyes in thought, as if deciding on her words, then added, “We can also put you in contact with New Wave, if you’d like. They have more experience with this than we do.”

That was… far more autonomy than Taylor had expected.

It almost seemed too good to be true.

“I—” Taylor started, then stopped.

Before she could say anything else, her dad cleared his throat.

Piggot looked at him.

“With all due respect, Director,” he said carefully, “we appreciate the offer. Truly. But we’d like some time to think about it before making any decisions.”

Taylor glanced at him.

He gave her a small, apologetic smile, and she realized he was right to interrupt her there.

No matter how good this sounded, no matter how relieved she felt, agreeing to something like this on the spot was… certainly not the wisest course of action.

Piggot nodded. “That’s reasonable.”

She didn’t sound offended. If anything, she sounded approving.

“Take your time,” Piggot said. “My door remains open.”

And just like that, the meeting was over.

They stood. Handshakes were exchanged, and Miss Militia escorted them back toward the door. But just as they were about to leave, Taylor’s dad paused.

He turned slightly. “Taylor.”

She blinked for the umpteenth time, looking at him. “Yeah?”

“You forgot the one thing you actually wanted to do here.”

Taylor froze.

Then her eyes widened. “Oh.” She groaned loudly, actually smacking her forehead this time. “Oh my god.”

She turned back toward the office, heart suddenly racing for a completely different reason.

“Director Piggot?” she asked.

Piggot looked up. “Yes?”

“Can I… can I visit Armsmaster?” Taylor said. “I mean, I know he’s still recuperating, but I just wanted to check on him.”

Piggot studied her for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled.

It was just a little smile, but it felt all the more genuine for it.

“I think that can be arranged,” she said.

Relief hit Taylor so hard it almost made her dizzy.

“Thank you,” she said, meaning it more than anything else she’d said that day.