(AFK WORM) CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The air still carried that early chill that clung to the streets before the sun properly settled in, their footsteps falling into the same rhythm they had been building over the past few weeks.

Danny lagged just a little behind when the route stretched longer than usual, complaining about his knees somewhere around the second turn. Taylor kept pace with an ease that would have surprised her a month ago, rolling her eyes as she did so. And Shemira kept them both in sight without really thinking about it, though her attention was also split between the road ahead and the ever-present orb that hovered just beyond sight.

It was easy now. 

By the time they returned, the house was filled with the familiar sounds of morning. The kettle whistled, plates clinked softly against the table, and Taylor muttered something about a quiz she had half-forgotten, while Danny skimmed through the paper with a hum that suggested he wasn’t really reading it.

Shemira moved through it all easily enough, falling into the shape of Annette’s life without needing to think about it. Coffee was poured, toast was buttered, and she briefly touched Danny’s shoulder as she passed behind him, the gesture automatic before she could think better of it. Small things, simple things, the kind that made everything feel normal.

The kind that was almost enough to forget everything else.

“You heading in early today?” Danny asked at some point, glancing up from the paper.

“Something like that,” she said, taking a sip from her mug.

It was enough for him as he simply nodded.

Taylor barely looked up from her plate, though she pointed her fork at her. “Don’t forget you said you’d check my essay later.”

“I won’t,” Shemira replied, and meant it.

Soon enough, the house emptied. The front door closed behind them one after the other, their voices fading into the distance until there was nothing left but the ambient noises in the house.

Shemira stood there for a moment longer than necessary, mug still in hand. Then she dropped it in the sink and left the house too, locking the door behind her.

She did not head toward the college. Instead, she stepped out into the street and turned in the opposite direction, one that led her further into the city. Her pace was unhurried, her mind already working through what she needed. 

The first store was small, tucked between a laundromat and a place that sold cheap electronics. Bolts of fabric lined the walls in orderly stacks, rolls stacked too close together, making it hard to focus on any one thing for too long. Shemira ran her fingers along a few of them until she found something that felt right. Dark, light enough to move, and not so thin it would tear the first time someone grabbed it.

She paid with cash and without saying much.

Then she left.

The next store was nowhere near the first. A different street, different people, the kind of place that sold cheap accessories. She picked out thread, fastenings, and a few things she wasn’t entirely sure how she would use yet but took anyway.

Again, cash.

Again, gone before anyone cared to remember her.

She kept moving like that, crossing through different parts of Brockton Bay, never staying too long in one place. Shoes from one store. Something she could alter, and not too expensive. A stop somewhere else for small tools she didn’t already have. Another for materials that might pass as normal purchases if anyone bothered to look twice.

She doubted they would.

By the time she was done, the bags in her hands had grown heavy enough that anyone else would have tired immediately. But she made sure no one knew that, becoming just another woman running errands.

When she finally made her way back home, the sun had climbed high enough to press warmth against the windows. And the house was thankfully still empty.

She set everything down on the table in the basement and stood there for a second, taking everything in. Fabric, tools, and pieces that did not look like much on their own. But it would be enough for what she had in mind. 

She rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

She pulled a chair out, cleared space on the table, and began with the simplest part she could manage: measuring and cutting the fabric according to the instructions she could find on the internet. Her hands were not particularly skilled, and it showed almost immediately in the uneven edges and the small corrections she had to make as she went.

But it didn’t stop her.

The work demanded focus, and she gave it willingly, letting the rest of her thoughts fall away into something muted. As such, time passed without much notice, marked only by the slow accumulation of progress and the occasional pause when she had to rethink what she was doing or rest. Sometimes, she would hold something up, turning it slightly, trying to decide if it would work or if she needed to redo it. Other times she fixed it. Most times, she didn’t bother and moved on.

At some point, she pricked her finger on a needle. A small, sharp sting.

She watched the bead of blood rise for a second before it sealed over, skin smoothing as if nothing had happened. Then, she wiped the blood away absently, more annoyed than anything else, and went back to what she had been doing.

Piece by piece, through small, repetitive motions, the mess of materials on the table started to look less like scattered parts and more like something that might, eventually, resemble what she had imagined.