OnAHiatus
patreon
(LIMITLESS) CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: REALITY OF DEATH
🕑 Added 2025-07-28 17:25:51 +0000 UTCThe casket descended slowly, the winch groaning as it fed the lowering straps inch by inch. It was an ugly sound—mechanical, oddly strained, and too final—and it made Taylor want to scream.
She didn’t.
She stood perfectly still, rooted to the muddy ground, and eyes locked on the polished wooden box as it sank into the waiting earth. Her fists were clenched in the pockets of her black coat, nails digging pale crescents into her palms even through the fabric. The wind whipped cold and biting against her face, dragging tears to the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t blink them away for fear they would come out in force.
She’d cried already—back when Armsmaster told her in the PRT hospital, during her panic attack—and the only reason she’d stopped was because someone had injected something into her IV. She’d woken up half a day later with the taste of copper on her tongue and the aching numbness that came with sedatives.
That had been the only time she let go, and she told herself it would be the last.
There were too many people here now, too many eyes on her for obvious reasons, and try as she might, she couldn't allow herself to be that vulnerable again.
Miss Militia stood a respectful distance away, hands folded neatly in front of her, and a mask on instead of her usual costume. Dean was close by too—wearing black slacks and a collared shirt instead of his Gallant armor, though he also wore a mask—along with the other Wards. They gave Taylor distance but didn’t leave her alone. She appreciated it, even if the gesture felt hollow, because no one had said anything. After all, what could they say?
As the casket touched the bottom, something inside her slipped loose, dragging her years back to another funeral: a smaller one, quieter, but just as final.
Her mother’s.
She remembered wearing her only black dress, two sizes too big. She also remembered how tightly she’d held her father’s hand, fingers white from the pressure. And after… She didn’t speak to anyone for days. The silence had seemed better.
But then came the whispers at school, the looks, and Emma’s sudden and inexplicable distance. That distance had turned to isolation, then cruelty, and finally, the bullying started.
It was her first taste of powerlessness.
She thought she had escaped that feeling when her powers came; when she fought Lung and walked away without a scratch; when she showed Hookwolf the disparity between them; and finally, when she crushed Night and Fog with ease despite their supposed infamy.
She was a cape now. No, more than that. She was arguably the most powerful in the city, if not the entire East Coast, with abilities that made most back off on sight.
So why did she feel like that same helpless girl in Winslow’s hallway again?
Why did it still feel like she couldn’t protect anyone?
What good is this power if it can’t keep the people I love safe?
First Keith, and now her father.
Her throat tightened, and tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She had already cried enough.
You can’t lose control, she reminded herself. Not now.
After Keith’s death, after he had been lynched and left in the burned ruins of his gym by the E88, she’d made a promise to herself. A promise sealed with blood and fury.
Never again.
She had sworn she would tear every white supremacist in Brockton Bay apart. That she would flatten the Empire Eighty-Eight, one man at a time if necessary. That there was no line she would cross, and she would show no mercy or restraint.
She had meant it. At the time, she had meant it.
But then… she had let Hookwolf go.
She told herself it was because he wasn’t worth the trouble because he couldn't touch her. That no one could. After all, she had grown stronger, and her powers had become more versatile.
She knew better now.
The man who walked into Fugly Bob’s had been terrified. She saw it in his eyes. Armsmaster had told her after that the man had been an unwilling suicide bomber on the behest of Bakuda, the red glow she hadn’t realized the implication of until it was too late.
And though she had done everything right, though her field had been active, her father had still died.
A breath shuddered out of her, and her chest clenched around it.
Was it all just for show? Her power? Her hard-earned reputation? Was she just playing hero while the people closest to her got slaughtered? Was she just a child pretending to be something greater than she was?
And now… now what?
Did she have to declare war on the ABB too? March into their territory like she had with the Empire and cut through their ranks? Hunt Bakuda across the city like a vengeful ghost until the streets ran red?
She didn’t want to. The idea alone exhausted her. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to speak, and didn’t even want to feel anymore. She just wanted her dad back.
She wanted one more breakfast with him, one more conversation about union negotiations and her status as a Ward. She wanted to see a coffee mug warming his calloused hands, and she wanted to listen to his bad jokes and see his tired yet gentle smile.
She just wanted her family back.
But all she had now was a casket in the ground, and soon, there would be only dirt where there was once a man, and a silence so deep it threatened to swallow her.
Behind her, she heard quiet footsteps from Dean approach her before stopping just out of arm’s reach.
Behind her, she heard the faint crunch of shoes on grass as Dean approached. However, he stopped just at the edge of her peripheral vision.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said softly.
Taylor didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed locked on the hole in the ground, and as the first shovelful of dirt hit the casket, the thud echoed like a drumbeat in her chest.
She would leave soon, but not yet. She needed a few more minutes with her dad. Just a few more.
