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Author's Note:Here it is finally, the last chapter of this story. I had every intention of having another story written by now but I hit a rut when writing it. I have about 4 chapters of the next story done but I ran out of steam with it and it fizzled. I have some ideas for it but I just don't have the drive to write it. So for now, this is all there is for Taylor. I hope to get back to the 3rd story in the future. I appreciate any kind of feedback or comments that people might have :).
 

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9.

"He was cute," Kayla gushed as Taylor walked into the house.

She groaned. Of course Kayla had been watching from the window.

"Who is he?" asked her sister, bouncing behind her.

"Chris," she said, going up the stairs, Kayla following close behind. "From Huntsville".

Taylor's bedroom door clicked shut just a fraction too late—Kayla's slippered foot wedged in the gap like an overeager puppy. "Spill," she demanded, wiggling through the opening before Taylor could protest. "Tall, blond, and vaguely demigod-looking doesn't just drop you off without context."

Taylor tossed her bag onto the bed with more force than necessary, the straps slapping against her floral duvet cover. "It's not like that. He's just another Gamma survivor—got enhanced reflexes instead of strength." She flopped onto the mattress, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars still clinging to her ceiling from middle school. "His mom gave me a ride. End of story."

"He gave you his number though," Kayla said with her signature, knowing smile.

Taylor grabbed a pillow and smothered her face with it, muffling a groan. "He asked for mine," came her distorted reply. The mattress dipped as Kayla flopped beside her, fingers already prying the pillow away with sibling persistence.

The pillow tore away with a *whump* of displaced air, revealing Taylor's flushed face. Kayla's grin widened dangerously. "Oh my god," she whispered, like she'd discovered buried treasure. "You *like* him."

"What? Bullshit. I'm with Callie," she said, a little too quickly.

The silence stretched between them like taffy—thick, sticky, and impossible to ignore. Kayla's knowing smirk widened as she tapped her fingers against Taylor's knee in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "Uh-huh," she said, drawing out the syllables like a detective cornering a suspect. "You can still like other people while dating someone. You're not going to act upon it, so it's not an issue."

Taylor's phone buzzed against her thigh—Callie's name flashing across the screen with a heart emoji. She swallowed hard. "I don't like him," she muttered, more to herself than Kayla. "I barely know him."

Kayla huffed, laying on the bed now, propped up on her elbow. "You said he's like you thought right?" Taylor nodded. "So you've got mutual experience. I can see that. Someone like you to talk to?"

Taylor's phone buzzed again—another text from Callie about their date tonight—and she rolled onto her stomach to hide the screen from Kayla's prying eyes. "It's not like that," she mumbled into the comforter, "...exactly." The words tasted strange in her mouth, like trying to name a color she'd never seen before.

Kayla sat up. "Boring."

Taylor smacked her with a pillow. "Hey!" Kayla laughed, locking the soft weapon. "Violence isn't denial, it's *confirmation*."

"I need to get ready now. Go away," Taylor said, not really meaning it.

"Ok, but we're not done talking," Kayla said as she playfully hopped off the bed and darted out of the room, dodging a throw pillow.

The shower water hit Taylor's skin like liquid static—hot enough to turn her shoulders pink but not enough to wash away the weird flutter in her stomach. She scrubbed vanilla-scented body wash over her arms, watching soap suds swirl down the drain and wondered why Chris's stupid gold-flecked eyes kept appearing in her mind's eye. *Stop it*, she scolded herself, turning the knob colder. Callie was picking her up in an hour, and she wouldn't—couldn't—arrive distracted by some random boy's smirk.

Toweling off in front of the fogged mirror, Taylor wiped a clear circle with her palm and studied her reflection. The girl staring back had Kayla's nose, sure, but the way her damp hair clung to her collarbones was distinctly *hers*. She twisted sideways, watching the way her waist dipped in before flaring at her hips—a silhouette that still startled her some mornings. The coral sundress waited on her bed like a promise, its spaghetti straps delicate against the rumpled duvet.

Makeup was easier now than those first shaky attempts with Kayla hovering over her shoulder. Taylor blended peach blush across her cheekbones with practiced swipes, the bristles of her brush catching the late afternoon light slanting through her blinds. A flick of mascara—one, two—and her lashes framed her eyes like parentheses around a secret. She leaned closer to the mirror, tongue poking between her teeth as she lined her lips with a rose-pink pencil. *Pretty*, she thought, then immediately felt silly for cataloging her own appearance.

Hair took longer. Taylor sectioned damp strands with her fingers, the curling iron hissing as it transformed straight locks into soft waves. The scent of heat-protectant spray lingered in the air—coconut and something chemical—as she pinned back one side with a silver clip Kayla had "borrowed permanently" from their mom's jewelry box. A final spritz of hairspray, and she shook her head gently, watching blonde waves settle around her shoulders like a living shawl.

The sundress slithered over her skin, cool and smooth, its fabric whispering secrets against her thighs as she adjusted the hem. Strappy heels clicked against hardwood when she tested her balance—three quick steps from dresser to bed—before she caught herself grinning at nothing. Her toes wiggled against the insole, the straps biting just enough to feel secure. *Girly*, she admitted silently, spinning once just to feel the skirt flare.

She stopped to look at herself in her mirror. She smiled. This was definitely NOT how she imagined her first date would go.

The doorbell rang at precisely 4:45 PM—Callie was never late, but never obnoxiously early either. Taylor took one last steadying breath, her fingers hovering over the doorknob when Kayla materialized behind her with a wolf whistle. "Damn," she murmured, plucking at Taylor's spaghetti strap. "Callie's gonna swallow her tongue."

The door swung open before Taylor could retaliate, revealing Callie standing on the porch with a bouquet of wildflowers clutched in one hand. Her breath audibly hitched—just for a split second—before she grinned. "Wow," she said, blinking rapidly as her gaze traveled from Taylor's curled hair to her strappy heels. "You look... wow."

"I feel weird," she admitted, toeing the carpet. "I never thought I'd be the girl in this scenario."

Callie giggled. "Good thing you're a cute one."

She took Taylor's arm and led her out down the driveway where Callie's mom was waiting in her Prius.

"Your mom cool with this?" she asked, knowing that Callie had been hiding being bisexual from her parents.

"She's dealing," Callie admitted as they approached the car. "It wasn't easy but she told me she’d suspected for a while. Apparently, Jason wasn't very good at pretending to not be gay."

Taylor laughed. "Kayla said the same thing."

The Prius smelled like old newspapers and lavender sachets—familiar and comforting as Callie’s fingers laced through Taylor’s. Callie’s mom adjusted the rearview mirror with a knowing smile. “So, girls,” she said, pulling onto the street, “dinner and a movie, or just dinner?”

"The first one," Callie said, sitting next to Taylor in the backseat.

The neon sign outside Tony’s Pizza flickered like a dying firefly, its intermittent buzz syncing with the arrhythmic drip of the malfunctioning soda machine inside. Callie’s mom dropped them off with a wave and a *"Text if plans change!"*—leaving Taylor standing on the cracked sidewalk, suddenly hyperaware of how her sundress clung to her thighs in the humid evening air.

"Relax," Callie murmured, her thumb brushing Taylor’s wrist as she tugged her toward the entrance. "It’s just pizza. Not, like, a Michelin-starred interrogation." The door jingled obnoxiously as they entered, announcing their arrival to the handful of bored teenagers scattered across red vinyl booths.

The few who knew them looked but didn't react.

Taylor exhaled through her nose. Right. Just pizza.

Tony’s hadn’t changed since middle school—same sticky floors, same flickering Pac-Man machine in the corner, same smell of burnt pepperoni and industrial cleaner. Callie led them to their usual booth by the window, the one with the duct-taped tear in the vinyl that always snagged Taylor’s clothes. Except now it was her skirt catching, not Tyler's jeans.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been here. It used to be their hangout place, but after Callie started dating Jason, she stopped coming.

"So," Callie asked after they ordered a Chicken Finger pizza to share. "How was the group session?"

Taylor stabbed a straw into her soda with unnecessary force, watching the ice swirl. "Weird," she admitted. "There was this guy—Chris—who got enhanced reflexes like me. And Jasmine complained the whole time." She hesitated, stirring her drink absently. "They kept comparing changes like it was some messed-up competition."

The pizza arrived—a steaming, greasy, glorious mess of cheese and chicken fingers that made Taylor's stomach growl despite her nerves. Callie grabbed a slice without hesitation, the cheese stretching comically before snapping. "So this Chris guy," she said around a mouthful, eyes twinkling with mischief. "He cute?"

Shit.

"Yeah," Taylor admitted, grabbing a piece of her own. "But we all are, apparently. The other girl, Luna, is a bit stacked like me. Real pretty too. A bit intense too."

Taylor's straw squeaked against the plastic lid as she fiddled with it, the sound louder than intended in the lull of conversation. Callie's gaze was steady—not probing, just... present. Like she could see the gears turning in Taylor's head before Taylor herself understood them.

Taylor's fingers trembled slightly as she picked at her pizza crust, the cheese suddenly tasting like cardboard in her mouth. Callie's question about Chris hung between them like a neon sign she couldn't ignore.

The pizza parlor's fluorescent lights flickered as Taylor's pulse thudded in her ears. Callie's expression remained unreadable—no accusation, just quiet curiosity. Taylor swallowed hard. "He asked for my number," she admitted, shredding a napkin beneath the table. "Just to talk. About... all this." Her gesture encompassed her body, the sundress, everything. "He was a cheerleader before. Had a shit time with his former friends and boyfriend after."

Callie’s fingers stilled around her soda can, condensation dripping onto the checkered tablecloth. "Huh," she said finally, tilting her head. The neon light from the pizza sign outside painted her cheekbones pink. "So he gets it." She took a slow sip, eyes never leaving Taylor’s. "That’s... actually kinda nice."

The pizza grease had congealed into waxy swirls on their plates when Callie finally broke the silence. "You gonna text him back?" she asked, twirling a straw wrapper between her fingers. The casualness of her tone didn't match the intensity in her hazel eyes—like she was bracing for impact.

"Yeah, it might be nice to talk to someone who gets it, as you say," she said, taking a sip of her drink.

Callie nodded, smiling. "Good."

They ate the rest of their dinner, laughing and talking about other things.

They finished with enough time to walk the block or so to the movie theater, arm in arm.

Callie's fingers brushed Taylor's as she pulled two crumpled bills from her jeans pocket, the Korean characters on her woven bracelet catching the theater's neon lights. "I asked you out," she declared, squaring her shoulders in mock masculinity that made her collarbones jut sharply under her tank top, "so I'm being the guy tonight." Her smirk softened as she added in a conspiratorial whisper, "I've always wanted to say that."

Taylor smirked, but said nothing.

The movie theater’s AC blasted too hard, raising goosebumps on Taylor’s bare arms as they shuffled toward their seats. Callie’s hand found hers in the dark, warm and grounding.

The soda hit Taylor's bladder at exactly the worst possible moment—right as the movie's protagonist delivered their dramatic monologue. She shifted in the plush theater seat, knees pressing together as she tried to ignore the pressure. Callie's fingers tangled with hers, warm and reassuring, but all Taylor could focus on was the growing urgency between her thighs.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. By the time the villain appeared onscreen, Taylor's foot was tapping an anxious rhythm against the sticky floor. "I gotta—" she whispered, leaning close enough that her lips brushed Callie's ear. "Bathroom."

The neon EXIT sign cast eerie pink light across Callie's smirk as she squeezed Taylor's hand. "Don't fall in," she murmured, before releasing her grip.

The hallway outside the theater was eerily quiet compared to the bombastic soundtrack still rumbling through the walls. Taylor's heels clicked against linoleum as she approached the women's restroom, her pulse suddenly loud in her ears. She paused outside the door, hand hovering near the push bar. Even after weeks of living as Taylor, using the girls' bathroom still sent a jolt of nerves through her stomach.

A trio of giggling teens burst through the door just as Taylor reached for it, forcing her to step aside. Their perfume lingered in the air—something sweet and synthetic—as they disappeared down the hall without glancing at her. Taylor exhaled sharply through her nose and pushed inside.

The bathroom smelled like industrial cleaner and peach-scented hand soap. Taylor hesitated at the sinks, catching her reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, sundress straps slightly crooked from squirming in the theater seat. She adjusted them automatically, then froze when a stall door creaked open behind her.

"Hey there, princess," said a voice that sent a chill down her spine.

A figure stepped up to the sink next to her, washing her hands. Taylor was frozen in fear, shaking uncontrollably. It was her, that voice, that smile.

The one who kissed her.

The one who gave her V63.

"Moira," she said, recognizing the same face that the agents showed her from that grainy file photo.

Moira smiled, still washing her hands. "You look real cute in that dress," she said, her voice calm. "Your girl is cute too."

Taylor wanted to scream, she wanted to run but all she could do was stand there.

"Leave her alone," she finally managed to get out.

Moira smirked. "Relax. I'm not here to fight."

"What do you want?"

It wasn't the question Taylor wanted to ask. In fact, she had hundreds. The most important one being why did Moira infect her in the first place. But right now, her most important question had to be what she was doing here and what did she want. Moira was not only Subject Zero but probably the person on the top of the DHS's Most Wanted list.

"Just wanted to drop in, meet ya face to face." Moira was still washing her hands. "You really did turn out well. Really cute, like I said before."

Taylor was seething. "Why?" she finally asked.

Moira laughed. "Yeah, I'm not going to answer that. Not right now anyway."

The faucet squeaked as Moira turned it off, the sudden silence pressing against Taylor's eardrums like deep water. Drips fell from Moira's fingers as she shook them casually over the sink—each droplet hitting porcelain sounding like a gunshot in the tense air. "You're handling it better than most," Moira said, examining her nails with clinical interest. "Not many girls adapt this smoothly. Then again..." Her eyes flicked up, catching Taylor's reflection, "you're like me."

Like her?

"Is that why you targeted me?" asked Taylor, Moira shrugged.

How did she know that Tyler might have been trans before? It didn't make any sense.

Moira smiled, cocky and surprised. "You haven't figured it out yet. Have you?"

The bathroom's fluorescent lights flickered overhead as Taylor's breath hitched. Moira's grin widened—a predator circling wounded prey. "Oh, this is precious," she purred, leaning against the sink with effortless grace. "You really don't know." Her polished fingernail tapped the mirror where their reflections overlapped.

"Don't know what?" Taylor asked, confused.

Moira leaned toward the mirror, taking out some lip gloss to redo her lips. "The enhancements aren't the only thing that the drug gave us."

What did that mean?

"I don't understand," she said and didn't.

Moira smirked. "You're a smart girl, Tay Tay. You'll figure it out," She reached into her leather jacket, pulling out a simple business card. "When you do, call this number."

Taylor picked up the card. It was plain white, the only thing on it a phone number.

Moira started toward the bathroom door, but stopped and turned to her. "Oh, and word to the wise, don't trust the government and their lies. There's a lot more going on here than you can possibly know."

Then Moira walked out the door.

Taylor rushed to catch up with her. She tore out of the bathroom but Moira was long gone.

The bathroom door swung shut behind Taylor with a hollow click, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. Her fingers trembled around the business card—edges digging into her palm—as she scanned the corridor left and right. Neon lights buzzed overhead, casting flickering shadows where Moira had vanished. Gone. Like she'd never been there at all.

What the hell?

Taylor had only been behind her by seconds, and it was like she vanished into thin air.

Taylor's hands were still shaking when she pushed open the theater door—the business card safely in her clutch. Callie's silhouette was barely visible in the dim light, her head turning sharply as Taylor stumbled back into their row.

"Whoa," Callie whispered, catching Taylor's elbow as she tripped over someone's abandoned popcorn bucket. "You look like you saw a ghost."

"I just did," Taylor said quietly, dropping into her seat.

"Wait, what?" asked Callie, concerned at the ashen look on her girlfriend's face.

"She was here, Callie," Taylor whispered, feeling hollow. "Moira, the girl did this to me, she was in the bathroom."

Callie's grip tightened on Taylor's wrist hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents from her nails. The movie screen flashed an explosion—bright enough to illuminate the panic widening Callie's pupils. "Here?" she hissed, scanning the darkened theater as if Moira might materialize between rows of teenagers. "Right fucking now?"

"In the bathroom." Taylor was still pretty numb.

Callie stood up. "We're leaving," she said, pulling Taylor up from the seat. "You're calling Agent Kellogg right now."

The neon EXIT sign buzzed overhead as Callie dragged Taylor through the theater's emergency exit, setting off a shrill alarm neither of them cared about. Cold night air hit Taylor's bare arms—her sundress suddenly paper-thin against the wind whipping through the alleyway.

The alleyway smelled like rotting garbage and cigarette butts—sharp enough to make Taylor's nose wrinkle as Callie fumbled for her phone. The emergency door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the theater's blaring alarm with a metallic clang.

Callie turned to Taylor. "Call him!"

Taylor nodded numbly, pulling out her phone and called the number of the CDC agent.

The phone rang exactly twice before Kellogg answered with a terse, "Talk." Static crackled in Taylor's ear as she pressed the device harder against her cheek, her other hand gripping Callie's wrist like an anchor.

"She's here," Taylor choked out, the words tasting like battery acid. "Moira. At the—at the movie theater."

Kellogg's breath hissed through the receiver. "Stay exactly where you are." The line went dead before Taylor could respond. She stared at her phone's glowing screen, the CDC agent's last words ringing in her ears.

Twenty minutes later, a police cruiser arrived. The officer didn't say anything, just sat and waited with them.

Forty-five minutes later, a black government issue sedan arrived. Agent Carson was there. He rolled down his window, staring at the two teenagers. "Get in," he barked, not a request, an order.

The sedan's tires screeched against asphalt as Carson took a corner too fast, throwing Taylor against Callie's shoulder. Streetlights strobed through the windows—flashbulb bursts illuminating Carson's grim profile in the rearview mirror. Callie's nails dug into Taylor's thigh, both their breaths coming too quick.

The sedan screeched to a halt in front of Taylor's house, tires spitting gravel onto the manicured lawn. The porch light burned too bright—a harsh spotlight illuminating her mother's silhouette in the doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest. Agent Carson killed the engine with a twist of his wrist, the sudden silence pressing against Taylor's eardrums like deep water.

The front door flew open before the sedan had fully stopped, Taylor's mother rushing down the porch steps in bare feet. Her bathrobe flapped like panicked wings as she yanked Taylor into a crushing embrace—the scent of lavender laundry detergent and stale coffee clinging to her trembling frame. "They called me," she whispered into Taylor's hair, fingers digging into the coral sundress fabric. "They said she found you."

"I think she always knew where I was," Taylor said into her mother's shoulder.

"Is that what she said?" asked her mother. Taylor nodded.

"Not out here," Agent Carson said, ushering Taylor, Callie and Taylor's mother toward the house.

Inside, Kayla rushed over, crushing both her mother and sister in a hug.

Agent Carson cleared his throat with the subtlety of a foghorn, his polished shoes tapping impatiently against the hardwood. The family hug reluctantly dissolved like mist—Kayla's fingers lingering on Taylor's elbow as they migrated to the living room. The agent positioned himself in front of the fireplace like a grim substitute for holiday decor, his shadow stretching across the coffee table.

"Start from the beginning," Agent Carson said, perching on the edge of the armchair like a bird of prey. His government-issue tablet glowed ominously in his lap. "Don't leave anything out—not even what seemed insignificant."

Taylor explained about Moira being in the bathroom, complimenting her and Callie. Callie gripped her hand on that. Then how Moira said she wasn't there to hurt her, she just wanted to talk.

Agent Carson's pen froze mid-scrawl when Taylor described Moira's cryptic comments about Gamma's hidden effects. His head snapped up so fast his neck audibly cracked. "She said *what* exactly about the enhancements?"

"That there's more to them than we know," Taylor whispered, fingers tracing the edges of the business card still clutched in her palm. The embossed numbers left faint indents on her skin. "She called me... like her."

Agent Carson rubbed the back of his head, nodding. "Moira's psyche profile had suggested she was transgender beforehand as well."

"She doesn't seem to like you guys," Taylor continued. "Said you were liars."

"Liars?" asked Carson, raising an eyebrow. "Did she say about what exactly?"

Taylor shook her head. She didn't mention how Moira told her not to trust them though. There was something in her tone, something that didn't sound crazy.

"Was there anything else?" Agent Carson asked.

Taylor thought about the business card. "No," she lied, not sure why.

The interrogation lasted until midnight. Agent Carson's pen never stopped moving—scratching across his notepad like a frantic seismograph recording Taylor's every tremor. His questions circled back three times to Moira's exact phrasing, four times to her appearance ("No, she wasn't wearing gloves"), and once, bizarrely, to whether Taylor noticed any unusual smells ("Just... peach soap?").

Callie fielded her own volley with clenched fists, her answers clipped and defensive whenever Carson probed about Moira's comment on their relationship. "I didn't meet her," she kept saying. Her knee bounced against Taylor's under the coffee table, a silent morse code of solidarity.

When Carson finally snapped his notebook shut, the sound made everyone jump. "We'll have agents sweep the theater," he said, rising with the stiffness of a man twice his age. His shadow loomed against the wall as he pocketed Taylor's hastily scribbled description of Moira's outfit—black leather jacket, ripped jeans, chipped red nail polish. "Don't share details of this encounter. Not with friends, not online." His gaze lingered on Kayla, who rolled her eyes but nodded.

Then he was gone.

"Callie, I'll give you a ride home," Taylor's mother announced.

Callie and Taylor stood up together. "I'll call when I get home," Callie said, then kissed her.

Taylor didn't want to let go but she did.

When they were alone, Kayla sighed heavily. "So much for your perfect first date."

Taylor snorted. "I'm going to bed."

Taylor's bedroom door clicked shut behind her with finality, the sound too loud in the sudden stillness. She peeled off her sundress like shedding skin, letting the coral fabric pool at her feet as she stood trembling in front of the full-length mirror. Moonlight sliced through the blinds, painting zebra stripes across her transformed body—a body that Moira had given her.

Her skin crawled but she didn't hate it. She also hated to admit that after all of this, she honestly owed Moira a favor. It was horrible to think about, given how it happened, but now that it had, she didn't hate it.

She wandered over to her bed where her clutch was sitting. She sat down, picked it up and took out the business card.

She held it between her fingers, staring at it.

She wasn’t sure why she didn't tell Agent Carson about it, but something told her not to. She remembered Moira's words, telling her that the government were liars and not to trust them. She almost didn't want to believe her, but some strange part of her actually did. It didn't change the way she felt about Moira but it did make her think about a whole lot of things.

Especially Moira calling the virus "a drug."

Is that what she meant about not trusting them?

Was it not a virus after all, but something else entirely?

She groaned, flopping backwards onto the bed.

Things had suddenly gotten very, very complicated.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Author’s note: As I’m sure all of you know, comments are life blood to an author. I’m not begging or demanding, but I certainly would appreciate anything you have to say (or ask). It doesn’t have to be long and involved, just give me your reaction to the story. Thanks in advance...EOF