(AV) QUESTIONS WITH NO EASY ANSWERS

Hoping the universe would just hand her an opportunity to be a hero?

Yeah, that was foolish.

Taylor crouched on the edge of a rooftop across from a shuttered gas station, peering up at the sky above. It had been hours since she’d started patrolling, walking down streets and climbing rooftops and ducking through alleyways, trying to stick to routes she knew well and areas where small-time crime usually brewed after dark. The cold crept in under her armor, not enough to make her shiver—she wouldn't give herself that—but enough to remind her that time was passing, and fast.

Yet nothing was happening.

Her first night as Khepri, and she had nothing to show for it. No rescues. No thwarted crimes. No meaningful display of competence that would make people pause and get her name out there. Just a broken streetlight flickering intermittently and the occasional car driving past with no idea she was watching from above.

She checked the time again.

Another hour gone.

She tugged her mask up and exhaled, watching her breath fog faintly in the air.

Maybe that was a good thing.

No one was getting mugged, no families were caught in gang crossfire, or getting dragged into something worse. She could hear no screams in the night apart from the wanton kind, no bloodshed, or villainous capes leaping between rooftops. No one was out here suffering.

So why did it feel like failure?

Why did she feel disappointed?

Her eyes swept the street the intersection below for the hundredth time, her bugs drifting lazily through the air in ever-widening circles. Part of her knew the answer already, but she just didn’t want to look at it too closely. Because, sure, it was good that nothing bad had happened tonight. A part of her even wanted to celebrate the quiet because no crimes meant no victims, and wasn’t that the whole point? A night without crime was a night where everyone got to sleep safely in their beds.

That should’ve made her happy. Yet, another part, an uglier part, had been hoping for the opposite. For some petty criminal to try something. For someone to need saving. For the universe to toss her a softball villain just obvious enough to intercept.

She wanted something to go wrong, just enough for her to fix it. Just enough to prove herself. And she hated that. Hated that part of herself.

Did the desire to be recognized poison the good she tried to do?

She crossed her arms, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Of course, she didn’t want people to get hurt. She didn’t want to root for evil. But if no one ever needed saving, how could she be the one doing the saving? How would anyone see her? How could she rewrite the story they’d already started telling about her?

It was like there were two Taylors inside her: one who genuinely wanted to help, and one who needed to be seen doing it. For validation. For proof that she wasn’t a monster. Because if no one ever saw her do good, would they ever stop thinking of her as the bug girl who killed Lung?

Would she?

The chill had seeped in through the thinner parts of her costume, and she tried not to shiver as she climbed down the fire escape, her boot clanging against metal.

Was this normal? Did all heroes feel this way when they first started out? This tension between wanting to help and wanting to be seen helping? She didn’t think so. She’d read interviews, and watched livestreams and documentaries. Most heroes talked about self-sacrifice, doing good in the shadows, or the importance of anonymity.

So what did it say about her that she was upset no one needed saving tonight?

She kept walking, feet crunching softly against gravel and cracked pavement. Her boots scuffed against a stray soda can, and the clatter made her flinch, heart skipping in her chest before settling again.

Maybe the fact that she wanted to be noticed, to be recognized as something other than the girl who killed Lung, meant she wasn’t cut out for this. Maybe it meant the PRT was right to label her as a dangerous villain. The kind of cape who couldn’t be trusted not to escalate things.

God, had she always been like this? Had the mask she used before, with its exaggerated bug-like features and glowing lenses, been more honest than she realized? She’d told herself it was thematic, that it made her look intimidating and would make up for her lack of experience, but maybe it was a reflection of something deeper. Maybe it had been an unintentional admission about how she saw herself: as something monstrous and terrifying.

And now, with the new costume, with the new name, and new symbol pressed to her chest… was she really changing? Or was she just hiding her uglier parts better?

The thought made her throat tighten as she turned down an empty street. Her head was kept down, her mask tucked away and hoodie pulled on, and her backpack rode low on her shoulders. She looked like any tired teenager trudging home from a night shift, and her legs ached in that dull, tired way that made her realize how far she’d walked. 

Tonight was supposed to be the start of something beautiful, and instead, it felt like she learned things about herself she wished she didn't know. Still, even with all the doubts swimming through her head, one thought pushed its way to the surface again and again:

She wanted to do good for the sake of doing good, but she also wanted to be recognized for it. 

Was that wrong?

Was it okay to want both?

Was it selfish?

Taylor didn’t have answers, only more questions, enough to fill out a notebook. And that left her wondering where the line was drawn between selfishness and heroism, between helping others and needing them to know you did. But as she trudged up the sidewalk toward her home, peeling off her gloves one by one and tucking them into her backpack, she realized there was someone she could ask. Someone who knew her better than most. 

The porch light glowed faintly as she stepped up the front steps, unlocked the door with careful fingers, and slipped into the warmth of home. She padded into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, standing there under the moonlight streaming from the window, letting the quiet settle.

Maybe he wouldn't have all the answers either, or maybe he wouldn't even understand, but maybe just asking the question would help her feel better. Maybe it would make things clearer. 

She stared down at the glass in her hands, then up toward the darkened hallway beyond the kitchen.

Tomorrow, she’d ask.