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INTERLUDE: LIMITS
🕑 Added 2025-02-27 13:47:13 +0000 UTCThe room spun.
Taylor barely had time to register the shift before her knees buckled, her vision darkening at the edges. She collapsed onto the stiff motel mattress, limbs heavy, breath shallow.
Her body felt hollow, like something had been siphoning her strength without her noticing. Now, there was nothing left.
That wasn’t normal.
She forced herself to breathe—slow, steady. This wasn’t just exhaustion from the past few days. Not just the fights, the stress, the constant weight of knowing the PRT and every gang in the city were watching her. No, this was something deeper.
Something connected to her power.
Her fingers curled into the sheets. How long had it been active? Since her first fight? Since she started patrolling? Maybe even longer than that. The minute she triggered?
She had thought of it as passive—a shield that simply existed. But if it was always on…
It was draining her.
A slow breath left her. She wasn’t panicking. Not yet. She was just tired.
For now, she needed to rest.
The motel was quiet, the thin walls doing little to block the occasional hum of passing cars. She let herself sink into the silence, forcing her body to relax, ignoring the gnawing hunger and the deep ache in her bones.
For the first time in days, she let go.
. . . . .
She woke to a dull headache and a grumbling stomach.
Taylor sat up slowly, rubbing at her temple. Rest had helped, but it wasn’t enough. She needed food—real food, not whatever scraps she had been getting by on.
With a quiet sigh, she grabbed her hoodie and pulled it on, but paused on her way out, hand on the door.
Something was different.
Her power wasn’t active.
She hadn’t noticed at first, but she felt it now—the absence. The air pressed against her skin in a way it hadn’t since she triggered. The weight of her clothes, the lingering scratch of the rough motel sheets against her skin, the dull stiffness in her fingers from clenching her fists too tightly.
It was strange. Disorienting. Like she had been walking with shoes her entire life and had suddenly stepped barefoot on cold pavement.
She reached out, focusing, trying to grasp that presence again—the space between her and the world.
Nothing.
No invisible wall, no untouchable safety net.
Just her.
Taylor exhaled, adjusting the mask over her face as she stepped out into the cold Gotham night.
It was fine. She wasn’t looking for trouble tonight.
She just needed something to eat. And if she was lucky, no one would bother her.
. . . . .
By the time Taylor finished eating, the haze in her mind had lifted.
She hadn’t even noticed it until it was gone, but there had been a kind of mental fog weighing her down. Exhaustion, hunger, stress—it had all compounded, making her thoughts sluggish. And somewhere in that haze, she had let go of her power.
She flexed her fingers against the table’s surface. It was back now, the space between her and the world reasserting itself, even without conscious effort.
So that was it.
Her power didn’t drain her. It didn’t need food, didn’t burn through her energy the way a parahuman ability might. It had always been there, running in the background like a steady hum. But when her mind was too unfocused, when she was too exhausted, too drained—she had simply stopped holding onto it.
Taylor frowned, turning that thought over in her mind.
It wasn’t a weakness. Not exactly. But it meant she wasn’t unshakable. If she was too worn out, if she pushed herself too far…
She shook her head. She wouldn’t let that happen again.
And it was a good thing, too.
Because less than an hour later, she was ambushed by Stormtiger.
And she was very, very thankful that her power was back.
