Chapter Text
Empire of Sin
A Worm AU
Chapter 1: Down Payment
The air in the Docks tasted of salt and rust.
It was a taste Taylor was growing accustomed to, a flavor profile that defined the routes she took to avoid the one place she was supposed to be. Winslow High was a black hole that warped the city map, forcing her into long, meandering orbits through neighborhoods she barely knew. Today’s trajectory had taken her toward the bay, where the skeletal remains of forgotten warehouses stood silhouetted against a sky the color of dishwater. The library, her usual sanctuary, was still a dozen blocks away.
She walked with her head down, the hood of her worn sweatshirt pulled up. It was a useless defense, a thin layer of fabric against a world of threats, but it was all she had. It made her feel smaller, less of a target. Here, the graffiti wasn't the proud, stylized tags of the Empire, nor the coiled dragons of the Azn Bad Boys. It was older, faded, layers of forgotten names and crude symbols painted over one another until the brick walls looked like bruised skin.
A flicker of movement, a raised voice. Taylor froze, melting back into the shallow alcove of a boarded-up storefront. Her heart gave a familiar, painful lurch. Trouble was a predator, and she was an expert at playing dead. She held her breath, listening.
“…don’t have it. I told you. Business is slow.” The voice was older, strained, with a thick, rolling accent that reminded Taylor of old gangster movies.
“Business is slow for everyone.” This voice was younger, sharper, laced with an arrogance that set Taylor’s teeth on edge. It was the sound of a bully who knew he had the advantage. “That’s why you pay for protection. So business doesn’t get… slower.”
Taylor risked a peek. Across the street, in front of a small shop with a faded green awning that read “Scapelli’s Delicatessen,” three figures stood over a man. The man, presumably Mr. Scapelli, was stout, with a fringe of white hair and a white apron stained with what she hoped was tomato sauce. The other three were easy to identify. Their jackets, adorned with sinuous, roaring dragons, marked them as ABB. The one speaking had a cruel, narrow face. Another, broader and taller, idly slapped a short length of metal pipe into his palm. The third just watched, his hands in his pockets, a smirk playing on his lips.
“I have nothing for you,” Mr. Scapelli said, his chin held high, though Taylor could see the tremor in his hands. “Go back to Lung. Tell him an old man sends his regards.”
The leader chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Lung doesn’t want your regards, old man. He wants his tribute.” He took a step forward, invading the shop owner’s space. “Or maybe we take it in trade.” He gestured vaguely at the storefront.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” the old man snapped, his fear finally giving way to anger.
It was the wrong thing to say.
The sharp crack of knuckles against bone echoed in the quiet street. Mr. Scapelli staggered back, a hand flying to his jaw. Before he could recover, the one with the pipe drove a kick into his shin. The old man cried out, a raw sound of pain, and crumpled to his knees.
Something inside Taylor snapped.
It was the locker, all over again. The helplessness. The casual cruelty. The smug faces of the tormentors who knew no one would stop them. They were bullies. And she hated bullies.
Her power, a constant, low-level hum at the back of her mind, swelled into a symphony. She didn’t have to look for her swarm; it was already there. Spiders lurked in the cracks of the decaying buildings. Wasps nested in the eaves of the deli’s awning. Flies and gnats and buzzing things without names swarmed over overflowing trash cans in the nearby alley. She reached out with her mind, a silent, irresistible command.
She stayed hidden, her body pressed against the cold brick, but her senses expanded. She could feel the delicate brush of a thousand pairs of legs against concrete and wood, the paper-thin whisper of innumerable wings beating the air. She drew them in, a living cloud of black, buzzing fury, keeping them low to the ground, a creeping carpet of chitin and stingers.
The ABB thugs were laughing, the leader leaning down to grab a fistful of Mr. Scapelli’s shirt. They didn’t notice the tide until it was upon them.
The first sign of trouble was a choked gasp from the pipe-wielder. He slapped at his neck, his eyes wide with surprise. Then the smirking one yelped, dancing back as a wave of black bugs swarmed up his legs, crawling under the cuff of his jeans. The leader recoiled, shouting in a language Taylor didn’t understand as wasps, bold and angry, dove at his face.
Chaos erupted.
Taylor directed them with a cold, precise anger. Spiders crawled into their open mouths when they screamed. Wasps and hornets, the true shock troops of her swarm, targeted eyes and exposed skin. Flies, thousands of them, formed a thick, disorienting cloud around their heads, their buzzing a deafening roar.
The thugs flailed wildly, their bravado evaporating into pure, primal panic. They slapped at themselves, stumbled over each other, their shouts turning to shrieks of pain and disgust. The pipe clattered uselessly to the pavement. After ten seconds that felt like an eternity, they broke and ran, sprinting down the street while still trying to beat the clinging, stinging insects off their bodies.
As quickly as it began, it was over.
Taylor pulled her swarm back, her heart hammering against her ribs. The insects dispersed, melting back into the urban landscape as if they were never there. The street was silent again, save for the distant cry of a gull and the ragged sound of her own breathing.
Across the street, Mr. Scapelli pushed himself to his feet, groaning. He looked at his own hands, then at the empty street where the gang members had fled, his face a mask of bewildered shock. He patted himself down, finding no insects on his person. Then, his eyes scanned the street, searching for his unseen savior. He pulled out a cellphone, his fingers jabbing at the keyboard as he brought it to his ear, speaking in rapid, urgent Italian.
Taylor watched from the shadows, a sliver of pride warring with a tsunami of fear. She had done it. She had helped. But now she had to disappear. Being a hero—or whatever this was—meant being a ghost.
His eyes swept past her hiding spot once, twice, then locked onto her. He saw her. His expression softened with gratitude. He lowered the phone slightly and gave a small, hesitant wave, beckoning her over.
Panic, cold and absolute, seized her. She turned and ran without hesitation.
Her feet pounded against the cracked pavement of the alley, her only thought to put as much distance as possible between herself and that man. A witness. A complication. She risked a glance over her shoulder—no one was following. She pushed herself faster, rounding a dumpster rank with the smell of old fish.
And ran straight into a solid wall of tailored black cloth.
A pair of strong hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her. Taylor’s breath caught in her throat. She looked up into a face that was calm, clean-shaven, and utterly unthreatening. The man was in his late thirties, perhaps, with dark hair and eyes that seemed to see more than they let on. He wore a simple, well-fitted black suit. He was not a gangster. And he was not a cop.
"Easy now," he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone. He released her shoulders and held his hands up in a placating gesture. "You're not in any trouble."
Taylor stared, unable to form words, her mind racing. Who was this? How did he get here so fast?
"Mr. Scapelli is very grateful," the man continued, his gaze unwavering. "And so are we. That was quite the display."
He knew. The realization hit her like a fist to her jaw. He knew it was her. Her anonymity, her most precious shield, was gone. She took a half-step back, ready to bolt again.
"Please," he said, and the sincerity in his voice held her in place. "We're not your enemy. My employers… they don't appreciate people like the ABB making a mess in our neighborhood. You did us a service today."
Our neighborhood? The phrase snagged in her thoughts. Employers?
"You scratch our backs," the man said with a slight, knowing smile, "and we scratch yours. That's how it works."
He reached into his breast pocket, and for a terrifying second, Taylor thought he was pulling out a weapon. Instead, he produced a small, stiff rectangle of cardboard. He held it out to her.
It was a business card. The cardstock was thick, cream-colored, with a subtle texture. On it, printed in simple, centered, elegant black script, was a ten-digit phone number. At the top of the card was a logo, the unconventional downward curves of a golden something, sort of like a horn.
"What… what is this?" Taylor finally managed to whisper, her voice hoarse.
"An opportunity," the man said simply. He pushed the card into her trembling hand, his fingers briefly brushing hers. They were cool and dry. "My employer believes in talent. You have talent. If you're tired of watching bullies win, if you want to do more good… then call that number. Someone will be waiting."
He gave a short, polite nod, as if they had just concluded a business meeting. Without another word, he turned and walked calmly out of the alley, heading back toward the delicatessen.
Taylor was left alone, the silence of the alley pressing in on her. She looked down at the card in her hand. It felt impossibly heavy. It was an answer to a question she was too afraid to ask, a door to a room she never knew existed.
She could throw it away. She could run home, crawl into bed, and pretend none of this ever happened. She could go back to being invisible, helpless, a victim-in-waiting.
Or she could call.
The instructions had been maddeningly simple. No password, no secret knock. Just a time, a place, and an order.
Fuller Street was quieter than the main thoroughfares, a vein rather than an artery in the city’s circulatory system. The businesses here were older, their signs weathered by years of salty air. Taylor stood across the street from her destination, the business card a phantom weight in her pocket. “C’è odore di casa,” the elegant script on the sign read. It smells like home. The irony was a bitter taste in her mouth.
Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a drumbeat of fear and anticipation. This was stupid. This was insane. She was walking into a meeting arranged by a man in a suit who appeared from nowhere, on behalf of a person she couldn’t name. But the memory of the ABB thugs, of Mr. Scapelli’s pained cry, and the subsequent, intoxicating thrill of her power actually working for someone other than herself, propelled her forward. She crossed the street.
A small bell chimed as she pushed the door open. The scent of garlic, oregano, and baking bread washed over her, warm and inviting. It did smell like home, just not hers. The dining room was dimly lit and sparsely populated. A quiet couple shared a plate of pasta in one corner, and a solitary old man nursed a small glass of red wine in another. The decor was aggressively traditional: dark, polished wood, red-and-white checkered tablecloths, and walls covered in framed, black-and-white photographs of smiling families and Italian landscapes.
Taylor’s worn sneakers felt loud against the polished floorboards as she approached the counter. A sturdy-looking man with a magnificent grey mustache and a spotless white apron stood behind it, wiping down the gleaming chrome of an espresso machine. He looked up as she approached, his eyes neutral.
“Can I help you?”
Taylor’s throat was dry. “The… panino,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.
The man’s expression didn’t change. He simply nodded, reached under the counter, and produced a small, plastic number on a metal stand. The number was 7. “Take a seat,” he said. “Be right with you.”
She paid for the sandwich with the crumpled bills she had, her hand shaking slightly. The man didn’t seem to notice. Taylor turned, clutching the number, and scanned the booths. Her eyes landed on Table 7.
And her blood ran cold.
A man was already sitting there. He was dressed in an immaculate tan suit, the fabric looking impossibly smooth and clean in the dim light. A newspaper was held up in front of his face, completely obscuring him. All she could see were two hands, nails neatly manicured, holding the paper steady. He didn’t seem to have noticed her.
Every instinct screamed at her to turn and run. This was a trap. This was a setup. But she had come this far. Taking a shaky breath, Taylor walked over to the booth, the number clutched in her hand like a talisman. She slid onto the vinyl seat opposite him. The man didn’t move. The newspaper didn’t so much as rustle.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Taylor stared at the crinkled newsprint, her mind racing. Was she supposed to say something? A code word? She didn’t have one. She felt like a child who had wandered into her parents’ dinner party, hopelessly out of place.
Footsteps approached. It was the man from the counter. He moved with a practiced efficiency, placing not a sandwich, but a small, rectangular package on the table between them. It was wrapped in plain brown butcher paper and tied with simple twine. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod towards the man behind the newspaper before turning and walking away.
The package sat there, a silent testament to the reality of her situation. This was it. This was the job.
Slowly, deliberately, the newspaper folded down.
The man was older than the one in the alley, maybe in his late forties, with a sharp jawline and sharp, eagle-like gray eyes. His salt-and-pepper hair was perfectly styled. He wasn't handsome in a conventional way, but he radiated an aura of absolute, unshakable confidence. He placed the folded paper neatly on the table and finally, finally, looked at her.
His gaze was intense, not hostile, but analytical. It swept over her—from her cheap, worn-out hoodie to her nervous, fidgeting hands—and she had the distinct feeling she was being weighed, measured, and judged.
“You’re punctual,” he said. His voice was calm, professional, with no discernible accent. “That’s a good quality.”
Taylor just nodded, incapable of speech.
“My name is not important,” he continued, his eyes never leaving hers. “What is important is that we have a common interest in seeing this city’s vermin population reduced. You demonstrated a certain… flair for pest control yesterday.”
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. “We value talent. But talent is only half of the equation. Discretion, reliability, professionalism… these are the other half. This is a test. To see if you have them.” He gestured to the package with a subtle movement of his chin. “Inside the QuickMart five blocks from here, on Jenner Street, you will find a man named Giorno. He’s with the construction crew working on the corner. You will give him this package. You will say nothing else. You will then walk away. Do you understand?”
Another nod. It was all she could manage.
“Good.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Taylor flinched, but he moved with a smooth, unhurried motion. He produced a thick fold of cash, held together by a simple paper band. He didn’t count it. He just slid it across the table. It stopped inches from her hand.
“Yours,” he said. “Pocket it.”
Her hand darted out, snatching the wad of bills. It was thick, heavier than she expected. She fumbled with the pocket of her hoodie, her fingers clumsy and stiff. She glanced around the restaurant, her eyes wide, certain that everyone was watching this illicit transaction. She finally managed to shove the cash into her pocket, where it formed an awkward, obvious bulge.
The man watched her performance with a look that was somewhere between amusement and disappointment. “A piece of advice,” he said, his tone softening just a fraction. “The first rule of this kind of work is to act like you belong. Like this is normal. You walk down the street, you hand a man a package, you get paid. It’s just another Tuesday. The moment you start looking over your shoulder, you make yourself a target. Practice being casual. Nonchalant. Blend in.”
He stood up, smoothing the front of his jacket. “Go on. We’re watching.” Taylor’s head snapped up. Watching?
But the man was already walking away, leaving her alone in the booth with the brown paper package. She sat there for a moment, her mind reeling from the advice, the threat, and the heavy weight in her pocket. Then, taking a deep breath, she picked up the package. It had a surprising heft.
She slid out of the booth and walked toward the door, trying her best to look casual, normal, like she belonged. She could feel the weight of unseen eyes on her back with every step.
Once outside in the cool air, she leaned against the brick wall of the neighboring building, her legs trembling. The door to the restaurant remained closed. With shaking fingers, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the wad of cash. She slipped off the paper band and quickly counted.
One hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred.
Three hundred dollars. For a ten-minute walk. Taylor stared at the money, her breath catching in her throat. It was more than she’d had in her possession in her entire life.
The five blocks to Jenner Street were the longest five blocks of Taylor’s life.
Every shadow seemed to stretch and writhe in her peripheral vision. Every passing car sounded like a threat. The man in the tan suit had said they were watching. The paranoia was a physical thing, a cold knot in her stomach. Who they were remained a mystery. She clutched the brown paper package to her chest, trying to make it look like a textbook, a lunch, anything other than what it was.
She pushed her senses out, a silent, desperate net cast into the urban sea. She couldn’t see through her swarm, but she could feel. She felt the faint vibrations of a rat scurrying behind a dumpster in an alleyway up ahead. Likewise, she mapped the windowsills of the tenement buildings lining the street, sensing the gritty texture of accumulated dust and pigeon droppings through the delicate feet of a dozen spiders. She registered the precise location of every loose piece of gravel on the sidewalk. It was too much information, a chaotic flood of tactile data that did nothing to soothe the frantic buzzing in her own head.
Act casual. Nonchalant.
She forced herself to relax her shoulders, to let her arms swing naturally at her sides. The package, now held in one hand, felt slick with the sweat from her palm. She took a deep breath, then another, consciously trying to slow her racing heart. She imagined herself as just another teenager walking home, bored and unremarkable. As she focused on projecting an aura of calm, the spiders in the alley ceased their frantic scuttling. The flies hovering over a trash can settled into a placid, humming cloud.
Jenner Street finally came into view. The QuickMart was exactly where he’d said it would be, its garish red and yellow sign a beacon of mundane normalcy in a world that had suddenly become anything but. A large white van was parked out front, its side emblazoned with “Gallo Electrical & Contracting.” The door to the convenience store was propped open.
Taylor hesitated for only a second before pushing through, the scent of stale coffee and sugary slushie drinks assaulting her nostrils. Inside, the store was a mess. A section of the wall behind the counter was torn open, exposing a tangled mess of wires and conduit. Two men in dusty work clothes were assessing the damage. One, a lanky man with a mop of blond hair, was holding a flashlight. The other, broader and more powerfully built, with dark, curly hair and a friendly face, had a tool belt slung low on his hips. A small, plastic name tag clipped to his shirt read “Giorno.”
Bingo.
Giorno noticed her staring. He glanced at the package in her hand, then met her eyes. He scoffed, a short, amused sound, and said something in rapid Italian to his partner. The blond man chuckled and went back to studying the wires. Giorno wiped his dusty hands on his jeans and walked over to her, his work boots thudding heavily on the linoleum floor.
“That the package from Simon?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
Taylor’s mouth felt like it was full of cotton. “Yes,” she squeaked out, then cleared her throat. “Yes, it is.” Who Simon was… she guessed it was the man in the tan suit. Or could it be the man at the counter? She settled for the former.
Giorno took the package, his calloused fingers brushing against hers. He gave her a curious look. “You’re a new face. Haven’t seen you around these parts.”
Panic flared in Taylor’s chest. Was this another test? “I—I don’t—He just told me to…” she stammered, the carefully constructed facade of nonchalance crumbling into dust.
To her immense surprise, Giorno’s face broke into a warm, genuine smile. He chuckled, a deep, easy sound that instantly put her at ease. “Relax, kid. I’m just teasing.” He gestured with his head toward the door. “Come on.”
He guided her out of the QuickMart, walking past the cashier, a bored-looking teenager who was completely oblivious, a pair of white earbuds crammed in his ears. Back on the sidewalk, the afternoon sun felt unnaturally bright. Giorno turned to face her, and for the third time that day, Taylor felt like she was being assessed. He wasn’t looking at her the way boys at school did, or even the way Simon had. It was a practical, almost paternal, once-over.
Why do they keep doing that? She wondered, feeling a flush of self-consciousness.
“You have any idea what you’re walking into?” Giorno asked, his tone now serious.
Taylor shook her head, feeling small and utterly out of her depth. “Do I… need to be worried?”
“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “Not if you’re smart. You keep your head down, you follow the rules—the real ones, the unspoken ones—and you’ll be fine.” He paused, studying her face. “But you’re clueless, aren’t you? You don’t know who you’re working for.”
Taylor could only shake her head again, a knot of dread tightening in her stomach.
“You ever hear of the Armani Mafia?” he began, leaning against the storefront. “Big deal, back in the day. Before the capes got loud. The Armanis ran this city. The unions, the restaurants, the casinos on the boardwalk… if it made money, they had a piece of it. Then the ‘80s happened. Allfather and his freaks, the Marquis… guys like that, changed the game. The Armanis… they faded.”
He looked her straight in the eye. “Well, they’re back. Rebranded. You know what the Fortune Mafia is, kid?”
“No,” she whispered, the name sounding both absurd and ominous.
Giorno gave a wry smile. “Compared to the Empire and their Nazi garbage, or the ABB and their… well, everything they do… we’re professionals. We’re a business. Simon, me, the old man in the deli. We’re Associates. And now, so are you.”
The word hung in the air between them. Associate. It sounded so formal, so legitimate. So dangerous.
“Here’s all you need to know,” Giorno said, capping off his impromptu history lesson. “Play your part. Don’t make trouble. Be reliable. You do that, and fortune comes. Simple as that.”
He gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder, the gesture surprisingly gentle from such a large man. “See you around, kid.”
And with that, he turned and walked back into the QuickMart, leaving Taylor standing alone on the sidewalk. The weight of the three hundred dollars in her pocket suddenly felt a hundred times heavier, each bill a link in a chain she had just willingly fastened around herself.
The walk home was a blur. Taylor moved on autopilot, her feet finding their way through the familiar, cracked labyrinth of her neighborhood streets without any conscious thought. Her senses were still extended, a gossamer-thin web of awareness spread for two blocks in every direction, but it was background noise. The real storm was inside her own head.
Her right hand was stuffed deep in her hoodie pocket, fingers restlessly stroking the thick, crisp edges of the three hundred dollars. The texture was undeniable. It was real. Which meant the man in the tan suit was real. Giorno was real. The package, the deli, the silent promise of more… it was all real. It had actually happened.
Her first thought wasn't of morality or danger, but of pure, logistical panic.
The landline.
She had made the call from her house. On the family phone. A phone with a call history, a redial button. Dad wasn't tech-savvy, but even he knew how to check the last number called. What if he saw an unfamiliar number and just… called it back? The thought sent a jolt of ice through her veins. First things first: as soon as she got home, that number had to be erased. Wiped completely.
The second thought followed, a logical and damning extension of the first. She needed a phone. Something untraceable, a cheap burner she could buy with cash. Something they could use to contact her, and she could use to contact them.
And that’s when she stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk.
Did she want them to contact her?
The question slammed into her with the force of a train. Did she actually want to be a part of this? The Fortune Mafia. The name itself was a warning. It was a gang. She had just become a bagman for a gang. For all she knew, that package contained drugs, or a weapon, or something far, far worse.
But the images in her head refused to line up with the label. Gangsters were the ABB thugs, cruel and sloppy. They were the Empire 88, loud, hateful, and violent. The men she’d met today… they were different. Simon, with his immaculate suit and professional calm. Giorno, with his easy smile and friendly advice. They were… ordinary. They were men who looked like they had families, who paid mortgages, who complained about taxes. They seemed like honest people trying to make a living, people like her dad. Trustworthy.
Since the locker, since the moment she’d woken up with the buzzing in her head, she had wanted one thing: to be a hero. To stop the bullies. To make a difference. The idea had been a desperate, shining light in the suffocating darkness of her life. She had a costume, or the beginnings of one, anyway—shoved into the coal chute in the basement, hidden from plain sight and out of mind. She was so close to going out, to her first night on patrol.
But the reality of that dream was terrifying. Going out solo? Against Lung? Against Kaiser? She felt hopelessly lost just trying to plan it. The trial and error of getting her spiders to produce enough silk for a single costume panel was frustrating and slow. She was a girl in a homemade bug-suit going up against monsters. The risks were astronomical.
And then she thought of the money in her pocket. Three hundred dollars for a ten-minute walk. It was an obscene amount. That kind of money could grant her many things, grant her power. She could buy a real phone, not a cheap burner. She could buy materials for her costume and speed up the process by weeks. She could buy armor plating. The black widow silk was strong, maybe even bullet-resistant to a degree, but it wouldn't do a thing against a knife or a shotgun blast at close range. This money was a shortcut. A way to be a better, safer, more effective hero.
The logic was both seductive and sickening.
The question that had stopped her in the street returned, but now it was clearer, stripped of the initial panic and confusion. The path had forked. Down one way was the lonely, dangerous, uncertain struggle of being a hero on her own terms. Down the other was a group of quiet professionals who fought the same enemies she wanted to fight, and who paid handsomely for the help.
Does she throw the money in a sewer grate, delete the number from the landline, and pretend today never happened, cutting all ties before they could truly form?
Or does she walk through the door they had opened, stay inside their world just long enough to get the cash and resources she needed to achieve her own goals?
Standing there, a block from her own quiet, unassuming house, Taylor Hebert knew she had to make a choice.