《Faraday [Worm]》


 Arc 1: Ideation, 1.x (Prologue: Taylor)

    1.x (Prologue: Taylor)


    She was in the locker again.


    The rancid cotton clung like a cocoon, sticky and swarming with vermin which assaulted her with their little crawls, their little bites. Her fingers were slick and ragged, but she kept clawing like the terrified creature she had become. The moist darkness consumed her screams until she gagged and threw up for a third time. The bile burned her throat. She choked, sputtered, fighting for air amid the rotting blood and the mildew and the papaya reek of vomit. The flies and gnats were in her mouth now, in her nose and in her eyes. They flittered along her gums and tongue. They polluted her tears.


    There was no escape, from neither this coffin nor the festering proof that this was how much they hated her, this was how alone she was in the world.


    She awoke with her head on her desk, her heart racing, her hooded sweatshirt clammy against her skin. Trembling, she heard snickers behind her.


    "Aww, did Hebert have a bad dream?"


    "Another one? She''s such a baby."


    "I hear she wets the bed."


    At the front of the classroom Mr. Gladly lectured about the Boston Tea Party, and it was clear from his bored monotone that he didn''t care about the subject any more than his students did. Had he even noticed she''d been sleeping? Did he hear what they were saying?


    Taylor didn''t sit up. She wrapped her arms around herself and pretended it was a hug. She couldn''t remember the last time it''d been for real.


    She began to nod off. She was always weak and tired these days. Sleep came too easily, and her tormentors had not failed to take advantage of this. Ironically, sleep was also her only escape.


    She held her breath and concentrated, her mind tiptoeing through the peculiar gymnastics that her power demanded. She felt the familiar rush in her ears, the lightness in her limbs. As she slipped under, she took a step that wasn''t a step, and suddenly she was standing outside her body.


    She didn''t know if this state was a projection or a ''spirit'' or whatever, but her smoky white, vaguely feminine form looked surprisingly like a traditional ghost. It was invisible to everyone else, though. Mostly everyone. None of the students saw her as she floated over the desks and swept through the closed door into the hallway.


    A month ago, when her powers had first manifested, she thought she had died. She hadn''t been able to shed tears as a ghost, but she had wailed as she watched students laugh and hold their noses as they passed the locker which held her corpse. It was only after her foot intersected a wall''s electrical line and she later awoke in a hospital bed did she realize she was a parahuman.


    At first the projections were only random reprieves from her nightmares, and most of those times her mind had been in a confused dream state. But over the last few weeks she''d learned better control, and now could project almost at will. As powers go, she''d assumed hers was useful only for spying or scouting, but last night she managed to shift a few papers off her kitchen counter. Today, she wanted to practice.


    The hallway was empty during class. She levitated across its linoleum floor with arms outstretched to either side like a spectral crucifixion on the prowl. Eventually, she found what she was looking for: a dropped ballpoint pen.


    For a minute she prodded it with a translucent finger. Nothing. She changed tactics. Instead of trying, she willed. The pen will move. Her finger passed it through a few times. Still nothing. In frustration, she swiped at it. The pen rolled nearly a foot.


    Her laugh was silent. She tried to take hold and lift it.


    A hand shook her shoulder.


    "Taylor . . . Taylor . . ."


    She sat up, blinking and rubbing her eyes. The classroom was empty except for Mr. Gladly standing by her desk. She felt wetness in her hair, and her fingers brushed something sticky. Madison''s work.


    "Taylor, you need to stay awake during class. You''re being disruptive."


    "Disruptive," she repeated. That''s me. I''m fucking disruptive.


    He asked her if everything was all right at home. Was she getting enough sleep? Did she eat nutritiously? His efforts were a perfunctory annoyance, a half-assed ass-covering for dealing with the friendless gloomy girl. And all through the short talk he never mentioned the locker or how that little ''prank'' put her in a psych ward for two weeks. Did he really not see the glue in her hair? Did he just not care? She nodded until he shut up.


    After she left his class and headed down the hall, she saw the pen was right where she left it, right where she moved it.


    She wondered what else she could do.


    ***


    The three boys chased Taylor down the street. Sophia''s distant laugh was a hyena''s howl.


    Taylor''s legs burned. Her breaths came short. Her guts roiled and throbbed. The afternoon sun beat down on her. Her running faltered to a limp jog and then to an exhausted trot. She was too tired to resist as they grabbed her and carried her to the nearby side alley of a gas station.


    They duct taped her to the telephone pole until she looked like a haphazard mummy. The long strips bound her arms, chest and legs; even through her sweatshirt, the rough wood grated against her back. It wasn''t as bad as the locker, but that she was trapped was enough. Her heart pounded. She trembled. A fly from a dumpster buzzed by her head, and she whimpered.


    The boys were jocks; she didn''t know their names. One of them chuckled, but the other two looked somewhat embarrassed, as if they hadn''t really wanted to catch her. The trio stepped forward.


    Sophia folded her arms and smirked. "That locker really must have fucked you up, Hebert. You''re a bigger wimp than ever. All you do now is cry and sleep."


    "I bet she''s cried herself to sleep for a straight week," Emma said.


    The words sank in and descended on that most intimate memory. Even treasures in the past could be taken from her. The shining moment died like a snuffed flame, extinguishing a part of Taylor with it. Emma smiled.


    Taylor couldn''t hold back the tears. Her throat grew hoarse and tight. "Em . . . Emma . . . please let me go. Please . . ."


    "Not until you admit you''re a loser."


    "I''m . . . I''m a loser . . . I''m a loser . . . I''m pathetic . . . I''m worthless . . . I''m trash . . ."


    Madison shrieked with laughter. "Oh, my god! She''s saying it! She''s actually saying it!"


    "You win, Emma . . . You win. I have no friends. I''m miserable. I''m scared. I wish I was dead. Is this what you want? We used to be friends, Emma. Why do you hate me? Why do you hate me? Why do you hate me? Why do you hate me? WHY DO YOU HATE ME? WHY DO YOU HATE ME? WHY DO YOU WANT ME DEAD?"


    Her speech broke down into sobs and blubbering and wailing screams. She thrashed weakly against the duct tape until her body gave in, and she slumped, whimpering like a beaten animal. Sophia grinned while Madison managed a nervous laugh. The three boys looked vaguely ashamed. Taylor''s gaze rolled to Emma. She almost missed it.


    In Emma''s blue eyes there was a brittleness that could have been grief or maybe pity. But that second passed. The mask slipped back into place.


    "You''re pathetic, Taylor. Go kill yourself."


    And they left. And Taylor cried herself to sleep.


    ***


    As a ghost, she felt little sorrow or fear. If only she could stay this way forever.


    As she floated above the neighborhood surrounding Winslow High, she wondered--not for the first time--whether she could survive death in this form. She doubted it: if it was a projection, something she controlled remotely, her mind would still be running off her brain. But in a world of physics-breaking parahumans, anything was possible.


    If it did work, it''d be nice to fly around, never crying, never hurting--as long as she avoided electricity. She would have no one to talk to and no one to hug her, but how was that different from her life right now? At least ghosts didn''t get shoved in lockers or tied to telephone poles.


    It had been an hour or so, and still no one had found her sleeping body. But then, no one was looking.


    A dog barked at her as she soared over a backyard. On the far side of the picket fence she spotted Greg. He was walking away from the school and had already passed the gas station. He must have stayed late. She thought he was in some gaming club or something.


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    She wasn''t sure how she''d get his attention, but as obnoxious as he was, she''d feel safer if he found her than some strange gas station attendant. A little safer, anyway.


    She tried speaking to him. As a ghost, she couldn''t hear her own voice, but she could feel the words in a way that wasn''t quite sound but rather a tactile prickle in the air. What she said seemed to seep into the world and mist around her.


    But evidently Greg couldn''t hear it either. Obliviously, he poked at his smartphone as he walked, and as she hovered closer she saw he was playing some Earth Aleph anime game involving ridiculously over-sized swords and scantly clad catgirls. She tried swatting it out of his hands, and felt the faint sting as the weak electric charge interfered with her smoky form.


    Greg noticed nothing.


    She slapped his face. That stung too, a little, but he paused in mid-step and looked around as if searching for a fly. She punched him in the nose.


    Whoa.


    With her spectral fist embedded in his skull, she . . . tasted things: confusion, uneasiness, excitement, insecurity . . .


    She withdrew her hand. The sensations evaporated.


    Once more, she reached into his brain, touched his mind. She thought: *nervous*.


    Never one for subtlety, Greg''s brown eyes positively rolled with anxiety.


    ~There''s a spider on your finger, she ''said.''


    He looked down and waved his hand as if in a spasm.


    I''m a master, Taylor thought with some exultation. An idea was already forming, one that might solve everything, but she set it aside for now. How would this help her current predicament?  All she needed was for Greg to turn around and pass the gas station, but she couldn''t say, Taylor''s tied to a telephone pole. Go rescue her! The last thing she wanted was for Greg to think he was a parahuman. Or worse yet, figure out she was one.


    She floated behind him and thrust her face through his backpack. Her ghostly eyes saw perfectly through the interior darkness, and among his textbooks she spotted a Game of Thrones RPG.


    ~You left your role-playing book at school.


    He reached for his backpack to check.


    ~No, it''s not in there. Remember the table you were playing on? Picture it. The book is there. Hurry back before the they lock the doors.


    He retraced his steps in a run. Taylor dropped her ghost and woke up.


    ***


    "Help . . . Help!"


    At first she was afraid he''d prioritize his book over her cries, but on the other side of the fence, she heard Greg''s steps falter and then cautiously backtrack. Despite his faults, he was a nice guy. Probably the closest person she had to a friend, which was very sad.


    His head peeked around the corner down the alley. He crept towards her slowly, as if fearing a trap.


    "Taylor . . . is that you?"


    "Yes! It''s me! Please untie me!"


    Greg stopped and looked at the overlapping duct tape binding her to the pole.


    "Taylor, what happened? Did someone do this to you?"


    Taylor groaned.


    ***


    ~Go to sleep, Dad. Go to sleep.


    He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was only nine in the evening, but her dad rarely stayed up late anyway. Her ghost followed behind as he stood from his desk chair, climbed the stairs and ambled into bed. She waited until he was snoring before reaching again into his brain.


    ~Remember that Christmas when me and mom and you were on the couch watching that old Rudolf claymation movie, and we all agreed Santa Claus was being a dick, and you said he reminded you of your dad? And then Kurt and Lacey and Alexander came over and I learned how to play canasta? That was fun. Dream about that.


    She watched his pupils jitter behind his eyelids. After savoring the taste of his happiness and contentment, she decided it had worked, and she woke up.


    So she could influence dreams. That was good. Of course, she had other options. She could practice moving objects and slit the trio''s throats while they slept. Or she could plant in them suggestions like, your eyeballs are live hand grenades--pluck them out! But even if those ideas were feasible and she could avoid getting caught, revenge wasn''t what she wanted. It wouldn''t make her happy. She''d still be alone.


    She needed a friend, and the only friend she ever had was Emma.


    In the upsetting first months after her betrayal, Taylor had held out hope that they would reconcile. She''d imagined tearful apologizes and hugs and maybe thoughtful gifts to ease over the hurt feelings. But as the pranks got crueler and Emma convinced more of the students to join in on the bullying, those hopes dwindled, extinguishing almost entirely after they''d stolen her mother''s flute. The lull before Christmas break had made her think that maybe they would at least leave her alone, but then the locker happened. And then she got her powers, which with their narcoleptic side-effects, just made her life more hopeless than ever.


    Until today.


    She didn''t know why Emma turned on her or what Sophia had to do with it, but Emma wasn''t a born sociopath. The Emma who had been her best friend was still in there, buried under whatever had turned her into a monster.


    She could easily imagine a future where a mature, adult Emma calls her up to tell how bad she feels about how she treated her in high school and maybe they could meet over a cup of coffee . . . But Taylor knew she wouldn''t make it that long. That Emma would be apologizing to a gravestone.


    But with her master powers, Taylor could reach her now. She could fix her now. Not brainwash her like what Heartbreaker would do, but go in and rekindle her conscience, bring back the good Emma. Taylor could be her ghost of friendship past.


    There were risks. If Emma figured out what she was up to, she would call the PRT. The public feared masters and strangers, and Taylor was both. The bullying wouldn''t matter then. No one would care to hear Taylor''s side of the story. She could picture the headline now: Loser supervillain masters innocent teenage model, sentenced to Birdcage.


    No, that wasn''t going to happen. She wasn''t going to let her tormentors snicker while she''s dragged off to a hell even worse than Winslow. She needed an exit strategy.


    She had about twenty diazepams left from her stay at the psych ward. In one of the kitchen cabinets she found a half bottle of scotch. Hopefully they''d be enough.


    She didn''t want it to come to that, but they''d escalated too far. Today''s telephone pole prank felt like a dress rehearsal for a greater torture, and she couldn''t go through another locker. The doctor had said the infections could have killed her, and she would always bear the scars on her hands from her panicked clawing as the darkness closed in and the vile smell choked her and the unending swarms of bugs . . .


    Her heart raced. She couldn''t breathe. They were on her, nibbling. Curling into a ball on her bed, she hugged her knees and wept for a long time.


    Part of her wanted to wake up her dad and talk to him, tell him about her powers and Emma and everything--and she really needed a hug. But she was a burden enough for him as it was. And she knew her plan probably wasn''t going to work, so trying to reconnect to him now seemed pointless if she wasn''t going to be around long anyway. He''d be upset after she was gone, but he''d move on. And he wasn''t that old. Maybe he''d get remarried and start a new, happier family. In ten years time, she might just be an unpleasant memory in the back of his mind.


    The attack subsided, and she dried her eyes, lay down and soon fell asleep. Her ghost floated out her bedroom window and soared towards the south side of Brockton Bay. Crescent moonlight shined through her. A cool, nighttime breeze caressed her smoky form.


    It''d been a year and a half since she''d been to Emma''s house, but she still knew the way.

 Arc 1: Ideation, 1.1

    1.1


    I awoke again to the putrid stench. Swarms of tiny bugs crawled under my clothes, in my hair, my nose, my mouth. I squirmed frantically and tried to brush them off, but of course they weren''t there.


    The nausea hit like a wave. I rolled out of bed, ran out of my room and down the hall and made it to the bathroom in time to throw up those useless energy drinks all over the tile floor. My head spinned. My throat burned. I slumped down and cried, not caring what I sat in. This was the third night. I couldn''t take this anymore. Something was wrong with me. I was losing my mind.


    It had been another Taylor dream. I''d dreamed I was Taylor. I''d suffered the usual shoves from behind and the taunts about how I''m worthless, ugly, flat-chested and whatever. Sophia tripped me in the hallway; Madison poured milk in my backpack. And of course, I ran into myself. Her blue eyes glinting with malice, she smiled cruelly as she told me no one wanted me here. I should have stayed in the mental institution.


    I''d said that to Taylor last week, just after she had come back. I remember savoring her little flinch before she shuffled away. Tonight, I felt the cut of my words just as I feel everything else in the dreams: her loneliness, her hopelessness, the fear whenever she sees us, the misery that follows her like a cloud, the desperate need for affection she never gets . . . and every nightmare ends with her--with me--shoved into the locker.


    I was there when Sophia used her powers to cram it full. The tampons and maxi-pads smelled gross then, but those two weeks over Christmas break turned them rancid. While Taylor was trapped in there, Sophia and I made a point to pass by between classes to listen to her muffled screams. Even through the locker door, the stink was pungent enough to make me gag and think of bloated corpses wrapped in the moldiest blankets in the world. We were there when the janitor let her out. She had been covered in bugs and black filth and was whimpering like a scared dog.


    Just thinking about that now churned my stomach. I vomited in the toilet until I saw purple dots. My bile fizzed in the water as if electric.


    The other day, when Taylor had been wrapped in duct tape and raving about how she wished she was dead, I knew I''d won. I''d fought dirty, poisoning the most sacred memory we shared, and I should have felt vindicated. I should have felt strong. Instead, there had been only a hollowness inside me, and I realized I''d felt that way for a very long time.


    And now I was having these nightmares. I was losing my mind.


    I knew I shouldn''t; I knew it''d hurt. But I had to see it. I opened the cabinet doors beneath the sink and dug through the cleaning supplies and stacks of toilet paper until I found it in the back, wrapped in a trash bag. I reached inside the plastic and carefully pulled free the ruined flute.


    The bathroom seemed to darken somehow, as if my grief had saturated the air. I looked at the flute through tears. Taylor had begged for it back, and I''d told Sophia to destroy it.


    The silver instrument had been beaten with a brick; crusted dog shit clung to the gouges and creases. We had planned to wait until Taylor''s birthday and then wrap it up and leave it on her doorstep. The idea of her being alone and crying on her sweet sixteen, that soiled memento of her dead mom in her hands, had seemed like the most hilarious thing in the world to us.


    I hugged the flute close and sobbed until my face ached. Deep down, I''d always known, but now I could no longer deny the truth: I wasn''t strong. I wasn''t a survivor. I was a pathetic monster who ruined my best friend''s life because I was too scared to hurt anyone else.


    Sophia should never have been in that alley. I should have been cut up and killed. Taylor would have fallen into another depression, but she''d have recovered by now. I could see her as a melancholy bookworm with her close circle of nerdy friends. She''d get teary-eyed whenever she talked of her murdered BFF, never knowing how I would have betrayed her if I''d lived.


    I couldn''t go back and change things. I was too much of a coward to face her now. I felt so trapped. I could barely breathe.


    I''m sorry, Taylor. I''m so sorry . . .


    I might have passed out. Something had slipped my mind.


    When I opened my eyes, I saw a glowing purple mist flowing from my hands to envelop the flute. Sparks twinkled in the gas, and I thought of pictures I''d seen of stars shining through faraway nebulae. The cloud spread along the floor and rose to fill the air. It had that sharp ozone smell that sometimes hangs outside before a storm, and I could hear the faint hiss of white noise. I pushed myself up from the vomit-stained rug and stood. I saw the figure floating in the fog beside me.


    At first I thought it was Sophia, but the smoky, translucent form was a lighter shade than her shadow state and blurrier around the edges. Its face was a featureless cloud. It twitched in the mist, like a staticky image from an old TV. One of its slender, inhumanly stretched arms was touching the top of my head.


    I was terrified, but somewhere in the back of my mind I felt I wasn''t the only one. It was scared of me, but more than that I sensed its dread, its frustration and its crushing despair.


    And then just like that, I knew. My dreams had been more than just a guilty conscience. Across the mist, I looked where its eyes would be.


    "Taylor," I said.


    Its--Taylor''s--panic rippled through me. She yanked back her ghostly arm as if I were a hot stove. She wavered for a moment and melted away, vanishing like steam.


    I couldn''t think. My mind reeled. I leaned forward on the bathroom counter and stared at myself in the mirror. Vomit streaked my flannel pajama shirt. Bereft of both sleep and makeup, my face was sickly pale, my usually faint freckles standing out in the purple haze that filled the bathroom, tinting my red hair blue. Tiny sparks tickled my tears. I met my wild eyes and tried to parse what had just happened.


    So, I''d triggered. I was a parahuman. I had no idea what my powers were, but I could figure that out later. And Taylor was a parahuman? When did that happen? The telephone pole? No, that hideous locker had loomed so prominently in the dreams, that it had to have been it. Was she still here, invisible somewhere in the house? I couldn''t know for sure, but somehow I doubted it. She''d carried a presence with her I hadn''t noticed before, but now that was gone. Had that smoky figure been some sort of projection?


    But wherever she was and whatever her powers, she''d clearly been attacking me. Didn''t that change everything? She put me through three nights of hell! I could get her in so much trouble. The way the public freaked out over masters, she might even get sent to the Birdcage. I could be there to gloat at the trial. I could already see Sophia and me laughing about it at the Wards headquarters.


    "I can''t believe Hebert thought that Christmas Carol shit would work on you. You''re way too evil for that."


    "Yeah, yeah. The dreams weren''t even that bad. But at least I got powers out of it. I can''t wait to kick ass!"


    These thoughts came so readily they frightened me. I stood at a fork in the road, and that path was open. It''d be easy.


    But I couldn''t do that to Taylor. She''d only held up a mirror to me, and I had no right to be mad if I didn''t like what I saw. I''d been a monster. I wasn''t going to be a monster anymore.


    But Taylor probably assumed I was already calling the PRT. And I''d felt what she felt. She was broken. She had nothing to lose.


    I ran out of the bathroom and back into my bedroom. In the darkness I fumbled for my phone. I had no idea if her physical body was at her house or in my backyard or hiding in my closet, but I had to try. Even after all this time, I still had her number.


    My hands shook as I listened to the ring. I gibbered softly to myself. I couldn''t think of what to say.  The line picked up.


    "You''re a cape," Taylor slurred on the other end.


    "I . . . I wasn''t, Taylor. I just triggered. I . . ."


    She didn''t seem to hear me. "They''re not going to get me, Emma. I''m not going to let them."


    "Tay-Taylor, I''m not . . . I''m not going to . . . Oh, god, Taylor, I''m so . . . I''m so . . ."


    "Wrong number, dad!" Taylor called out drunkenly. Then, quieter, "I''m sorry, Emma. I . . . I wanted to help you. I wanted you to be my friend again."


    "I will be your friend, Taylor! I''m sorry for everything. Everything I''ve done. I''m sorry! Please! Please don''t . . . don''t do this."


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    "I already have." There was the ghost of a chuckle. When she spoke again, her voice croaked. "I''m sick of hurting, Emma. I''m sick of being scared. I just want it to end."


    "Taylor! I''m going to get you help. Stay--"


    "Fuck you, Emma! You should be happy. I''m giving you what you fucking want!" Her phone clattered against something and fell.


    "TAYLOR! TAYLOR! I DIDN''T MEAN IT! I''M SORRY! I''M SORRY!"


    I screamed into the phone until I was curled on the floor sobbing. The lights turned on.


    "Emma, what''s wrong?" my dad asked.


    They stood together in the doorway, my dad in his boxers, my mom in her nightgown. With horror, my mom looked at my face and the vomit down my shirt.


    "Sweetie, are you all right? I knew you haven''t been feeling well, but--"


    "Taylor''s killing herself!" I blurted as I stood and dialed 911, remembering as I did so the last time I called that number, the night when everything in my life went wrong.


    Neither of my parents were awake enough to deal with this, so while they stumbled over what should be done, I kept the phone to my ear, pushed between them and sprinted down the stairs. Sniffling and crying, I frantically told the operator what I knew--leaving out the parahuman part--giving them their phone number and street name, since even though I''d been to their house a thousand times, I didn''t know their address.


    But I knew how to get there. A ten minute drive, maybe.


    I ran outside and crossed the front lawn in my bare feet. I was wearing shorts, and my legs grew goosebumps in the night air. When I stopped at the diver''s side of our SUV, it occurred to me I didn''t have keys.


    As if in reply, a small funnel of mist unfurled from my palm and drifted along the door. I could see the mechanisms within, like an echo in my brain. After an electric snap, the lock released. I climbed into the seat and held my hand over the ignition switch. The engine roared to life.


    My parents called to me from the front door, but I was already backing out of the driveway. I shifted gears and tore down the road.


    She had been my best friend. She had been like a sister to me. I''d buried and betrayed those feelings, but they''d always been there. Taylor''s dreams had only dug them up for me, reminded me of who I was. And now she was either dead or dying.


    I wiped my tears as I drove and tried to stay at least mostly in my lane. I only had a learning permit, but I knew enough. It was nearly three in the morning, so fortunately there wasn''t enough traffic to matter when I ran the red lights. I wasn''t sure what I was going to do when I got there, but I couldn''t wait at home. And if I got my parents to drive, I''d have to explain things I''d rather not.


    I nearly missed her street; the tires squealed as I pulled a sharp turn. Her house was halfway down and looked somehow ominous in the night. I slammed on the brakes, bouncing up on the curb and knocking over their mailbox.


    I ran up the walkway and tripped on the wooden steps. I pounded my fists on the front door, screaming Taylor''s name. Stupidly, I tried opening it, twisting and pushing with all my strength. The purple mist sprayed out around my hand, tingling my skin. Blue lightning crackled through the basketball-sized cloud, and the door swung in, the doorknob and bits of the surrounding wood smoking on the front hall''s floor.


    I pushed in. The last time I was inside Taylor''s house we''d been friends, and seeing it now in so much darkness felt eerie, as if I intruded on the tomb of a memory. But I couldn''t reflect on that now. I raced up the stairs.


    Mr. Hebert stepped out of a doorway, a baseball bat in hand. Without thinking, I raised a purple pillar between us, flooding the hall with a magenta glow. Mr. Hebert backed away and squinted at me blearily. His thick glasses sat crooked on his nose.


    "Emma? What . . . what are you doing?" He poked at the mist with his bat; sparks danced along the wooden tip. "You''re a cape?"


    I ran past him. Taylor''s door wasn''t locked, but it wouldn''t budge. My mist gushed out, and with another lightning flash the door crashed inwards, knocking the chair that had been braced against the doorknob across the room. As I entered, the ruined door felt hot against my bare feet. I flicked on the lights.


    Taylor lay unmoving on her bed, her thin, pale face lolled to the side. In her arm she cradled an empty prescription bottle and a nearly empty bottle of whisky. Alcohol reeked over the scent of smoldering wood. I was almost too scared to check, but I knelt, took her wrist and tried to do what I''d seen in movies and on TV. My fingers may have felt something. It didn''t seem very strong.


    "Taylor!" her dad called behind me, and then he was by my side.


    "Taylor! Taylor!" he gasped more than said. He shook her shoulder, and she groaned and opened her eyes sleepily. Both of us sagged with relief.


    When we pulled her out of bed, she mumbled something and threw up a boozy mess along with over a dozen white pills. Only a quarter of an hour had passed since I talked to her on the phone, so probably most of what she''d taken hadn''t had time to absorb into her system. Not that either of us were doctors.


    Mr. Herbert still seemed in shock, but he had enough presence of mind to retrieve a fire extinguisher and spray over and under the scorched, splintered door smoldering into the carpet.


    While he was doing this, I sat with Taylor on the bed, keeping an arm around her to hold her up. She was awake, if not lucid. Her delicate, bony shoulders hunched forward, her skinny arms curling around herself in an insecure hug. I felt her shiver. I also felt her ribs. She''d always been slender, but at school she cloaked herself in sweatshirts and loose fitting jeans. Seeing her now in a t-shirt and shorts, she looked scarily frail.


    Wide, dark brown eyes met mine, and then darted skittishly away. I brushed long, black curls out of her face and leaned close to a round ear peeking out from the curtain of her hair.


    "I won''t tell, I promise," I whispered. "Everything''s going to be all right."


    I gave her a hug. She seemed to relax a little and leaned into me, her head touching mine. I managed to hold down my sobs.


    By the time we half-carried, half-walked her outside, the ambulance had decided to show up. The paramedics agreed with us that she was going to be all right, but because of regulations they wouldn''t let Mr. Hebert ride with her in the back.


    Mr. Hebert took one look at the SUV straddling his mailbox and said that I probably shouldn''t drive home. I said I wanted to go with him to the hospital; I felt like I should. He just nodded as he slipped a jacket on over his undershirt. His eyes were lighter than Taylor''s, but otherwise they bore the same owl-like intensity, the same perpetually harried expression.


    I called my parents and evaded most of their questions while not lying too much. Then I rode shotgun in Mr. Hebert''s car.


    Neither of us spoke at first. Through idle curiosity, I held up my hand and gloved it in glowing purple. I made a thought and sent the mist swirling around my fingers, the sparks licking my skin in the miniature storm. I blew into my palm, but the mist wasn''t disturbed.


    Mr. Hebert stared at the spectacle before turning his eyes back on the road.


    "So, you''re a cape."


    "Just a parahuman. My parents . . . they don''t know."


    He didn''t reply. The silence opressed the air inside the car. My throat hurt, I was thirsty, and I felt faint. But I still felt like I needed to say something.


    "I''m sorry about the door. And the mailbox."


    His laugh was more like a huff. "After all you''ve done, I think I can forgive a little property damage. If . . . if you hadn''t . . . "


    He trailed off, and I saw there were tears running down his cheeks. I sunk in my seat and hugged myself like Taylor had done.


    "She called me, and I . . ." The lie died in my throat, replaced with a growing lump.


    He nodded as if I''d explained everything. "I think the bullies are still giving her problems. That''s why she . . ." He sighed and shook his head. "After . . . after the locker, the school said they''d look out for her, but she''s been getting more distant lately, and . . ."


    We stopped at a red light, and he wiped a sleeve across his eyes. He doesn''t know, I thought dumbly. That''s why he never confronted my dad. But how could he not know?


    He looked at me and smiled weakly, his wide mouth so much like Taylor''s. "Thank you for saving my daughter, Emma. You''ve always been a good friend to her."


    I cried all the way to the hospital.

 Arc 1: Ideation, 1.2

    1.2


    The public restroom was white, sterile and empty. A bleach smell overwhelmed the antiseptic background that dominated the hallway.


    Leaning close to the mirror, I dabbed the tea tree oil over the small blotches on my cheeks and forehead and then rubbed them with anti-fungal cream. They were noticeable, but makeup would only aggravate them. I hoped they would clear up soon. I had considered using fudge mix instead of the real thing, but Taylor''s powers might be able to tell I was lying. If my two gifts were to mean anything to her, she had to know I was sincere.


    I''d been dreading this all day, facing her, apologizing, but part of me was relieved. I had to get out of the house.


    My parents weren''t mad about the SUV, but while I was gone they found the ruined flute I''d left on the bathroom counter. Even without, Annette Rose Hebert, inscribed on the side, my mom would have recognized it. She and Taylor''s mom had been good friends.


    I''d had no choice then but to come clean about the bullying. That was hard, seeing their disappointment grow into horror as I described all the ways we hurt Taylor. By the end, my mom was sobbing as much as I was. My dad was furious, but he mostly blamed Sophia, saying she was a bad influence on me. This was true, but I admit I played it up as being more her idea than it really was. I''d even hinted I was afraid of her.


    A little dishonest, but if I was going to cut Sophia out of my life, turning my dad against her was the first step.


    Earlier this evening, I sneaked out and rode the bus to the hospital. And now here I was. I looked myself over. My eyes were wet and red, and there were the blemishes on my face. But at least I hadn''t thrown up in a while, not that I''d eaten much.


    I needed to settle my nerves, so as I washed my hands, I released purple wisps into my palms. The water hissed and spat, mini-lightning streaks lacing and arcing amid the splashing. I concentrated, and a few droplets levitated in the luminous mist like tiny electrical planets before boiling away. I breathed in the steam and ozone and sighed. Watching my power relaxed me, but I''d been putting things off long enough. I evaporated the light show and left the restroom.


    Taylor''s room was just down the hall. The door was open. Her bed was reclined forward so she could sit up, though her head was slumped back on her pillow. An overhead lamp shone down on her with weak, yellow light. Her black curls were a mess, but she didn''t look as pale as she had at the house. A laptop sat on her foldout dinner tray.


    I was glad about the computer. It''d have more impact if I didn''t have to show her on my phone.


    I don''t think I made any sound as I walked up, but as soon as I stood beside her bed, her large, dark eyes flicked open. They were already gazing directly into mine, and I realized her ghost had been watching me. Had she just witnessed me crying in the restroom? Had she been sitting beside me on the bus? Strangely enough, I didn''t find either of these possibilities as unsettling as I would have thought.


    "You saved me." She made it sound like an accusation.


    I opened my mouth, but my breath caught. No, you saved me, I wanted to say. Instead, I just nodded.


    Her stare was piercing, yet fragile. "When did you become a parahuman?"


    "It happened in my bathroom, when you were . . ." I trailed off, took a deep breath. I had to warn her. "Taylor, I haven''t told anyone about what you did. And I''m not going to. Ever. I swear. But you can''t do that to anyone else. I''m serious. You could get into a lot of trouble, and I don''t want that to happen to you. I . . . I know you might not believe that. I know I''ve been horrible to you, and I''m so sorry--"


    "Why," she demanded. "Why did you turn on me?"


    I hesitated, but she deserved to know. I closed the door, sat in a nearby chair and told her everything. Her eyes widened when I described the attack in the alley, with the knife in my face and the order to ''pick,'' and how Shadow Stalker would only save me after I fought back. I told her how helpless I felt afterwards, how I was scared to leave my room.


    Taylor''s mouth gaped when I revealed that Shadow Stalker was in fact, Sophia Hess, and then her expression turned stony when I explained Sophia''s philosophy of how the world was divided into survivors and victims, predators and prey. When I told her that I''d chosen to be a survivor, to be strong, I had to flinch from her wounded glare.


    "So all this shit you put me through, making me miserable, making me want to kill myself . . . it was because hurting me made you feel strong?"


    I looked down. The excuse was on my lips: I didn''t want to hurt you, but I had to prove to Sophia you were a predator and not prey, and then we could have been friends again . . . . But I think I always knew that wasn''t the real reason. And now, after whatever scouring Taylor''s dreams had done to me, I couldn''t believe the lie anymore than I could believe in the Easter Bunny.


    "Yes," I admitted finally, my voice hollow. "It made me feel in control. Less afraid. Whenever I . . . I felt bad about it, I pushed the feeling down. I didn''t want Sophia to think I was weak. I didn''t want to backslide to my old self. And . . . and hurting you became like a habit. Something I had to do . . ." My words guttered against the growing lump in my throat. Everything I said was true, but it wasn''t the whole truth. It didn''t explain why I''d chosen her. And by her silence, I knew she knew I was holding back.


    I curled inward like a cowardly animal and broke into heaving sobs. I didn''t dare meet her eyes because I knew I''d see the same pain from that afternoon when I told her to go home, that I didn''t want to be her friend anymore.


    Please don''t make me say it please don''t make me say it please don''t make me say it . . .


    There was betrayal, and then there was soul-searing evil. How could I tell her: You were finally recovering from your mother''s death, finally becoming your old self again, but I was afraid the tables had turned, that you were stronger than me. So I kicked you down and made you small and weak so I could feel better about myself.


    And I never did feel better. I''d destroyed her for joyless little rushes, like a junkie hawking heirlooms for another hit.


    "I''m sorry . . . I''m sorry . . . I''m sorry . . ." I croaked as I rocked myself in the chair and wept. I don''t know how long this went on. My eyes were blurred and burning when I felt the hand on my shoulder.


    Taylor was sitting on the edge of the bed, her long, ungainly legs allowing her bare bony feet to rest flat on the floor. Slowly, I looked up. Her wide eyes were tight with concern. The IV in her wrist snagged as she handed me a box of tissues. I sniffled as I tugged one loose. I wiped at my tears.


    "When I was . . . inside you, Emma, I could feel you were hurting. I could taste it. I didn''t know why you betrayed me, but I knew the old you was still in there. So I  . . . whispered to you, and I touched you, and now . . . you''ve woken up." In her teary eyes, her pupils were shiny like black onyx pebbles. She gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You''ve hurt me. A lot. But you''re the only friend I ever had. I want to forgive you, Emma. I want you to be my friend again."


    I just stared at her. She should hate me. She deserved better. And I wasn''t even sure if it''d be healthy for us to be friends now. But if it weren''t for her, I''d still be that broken monster. If she wanted me back, I couldn''t deny her.


    Finally, I took out my smartphone. I sent the prepared attachment and nodded at her laptop.


    My face ached from crying, but I made myself smile. "Check your mail."


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    She raised an eyebrow as she pulled the computer into her lap. She put on her glasses which rested on the tip of her nose. I watched her face as she found the message and clicked on the download link.


    "Hello, my name is Emma Barnes . . ."


    She watched the video with a sort of blank bewilderment. When it was finished, she said, "So . . . you smeared shit on your face."


    "Dog shit. From our corgi."


    Her wide mouth pursed as if she were about to ask, why? But the word never came out.


    "Look at the text," I said. "Those are my Facebook and email passwords. They''re yours. I''m not going to change them. You can post the video on my page. You can mail it to my friends. Upload it on Youtube, if you want . . ."


    She shook her head. "Emma, I want you to be my friend again. I don''t want revenge."


    "But I . . . I . . ." I''d betrayed her secrets; I''d spread lies. I threatened anyone from being her friend. Her high school life had been nothing but a series of escalating humiliations. Everyone at Winslow thought she was a joke, the loser ''locker girl'' who existed only to get shit on. How could I even begin to make up for that?


    "This is not what I want, Emma."


    I tried not to sound desperate. I forced a little laugh. "Oh, come on, Taylor. Admit it, you''ve wanted to see that for a while."


    For the first time in forever, I saw her grin. It was big and broad and showed teeth. I knew then that the rashes were worth it.


    "Okay," she admitted. "Maybe a little. But . . . " She held the laptop so I could watch as she deleted the email, dumped the video file into the recycle bin and then emptied it.


    "I appreciate the gesture, but you shouldn''t do that to yourself. I mean, look at that stuff on your face."


    "We did worse to you."


    She tried to hide it, but I''d said the wrong thing. Her eyes stared off into nothing, and for a few seconds she seemed to freeze, though I could detect her faint shudder. I remembered the locker from the dreams with the bugs and the filth and the darkness and the smell, and I knew for her that toxic nightmare was always swimming just below the surface. When me and Sophia filled the locker, we intended only to gross her out, not . . . hurt her like this.


    I dug through my purse for my second gift, and then placed the small box in her long thin hand. There were faint red scars crisscrossing her fingers and palm that hadn''t been there before the locker. I tried not to look.


    The box was gift-wrapped, a little red bow on top. She pried open the lid with a fingertip.


    "A cell phone," she said.


    It was a cheap one. I hadn''t wanted to spend too much. The repair shop was still working on an estimate for the flute.


    "If you ever feel . . . upset or you just want to talk, I want you to call me," I said. "It doesn''t matter if it''s during school or the middle of the night, I''ll answer. We can talk about whatever you want. You . . . you shouldn''t have to go through this alone."


    She stared at the phone and flipped it open. I saw a smile.


    "I''m going to go to a therapist," I went on. "I think you should too. They can help you."


    She didn''t quite wince, but I picked up on the irritation. I felt stupid. Therapy cost money, and Mr. Hebert was poor. This stay in the hospital was probably eating what little savings he had.


    "I''m going to make sure you get that help, Taylor, I promise." I had no idea how.


    "Thank you." Her voice was reedy; tears ran down her cheeks. "I''m glad you''re back, Emma."


    I opened my arms, and she practically melted into my hug. I knew from the dreams that hugs held an almost mystical power for her. I don''t think she ever got them, not even from her dad.


    "I''m sorry, I''m so sorry, "I said as she clung to me. "Things are going to get better. Everything''s going to be all right."


    We held each other and cried for a long time. We talked for a little longer after that. She was going to be kept for a week for psychiatric observation, and then she would come back to Winslow. I told her to call me and that I''d visit her again soon.


    When she was snoring softly, I tucked the sheets up to her chin and brushed black curls out of her face. I don''t know if it was depression or a side effect of her powers, but since the locker she''d become very prone to falling asleep, a fact which we''d exploited mercilessly. I wondered how I was going to get my friends to lay off her.


    "Goodnight, Taylor," I said, speaking to the ghost who may or may not have been there. I closed the door behind me.


    I had a lot to make up for, but I also felt as if I''d shed a burden I didn''t know I had. Taylor had given me a second chance. I didn''t deserve it, but maybe I could earn it. She''d fixed me, and now I could fix her.


    And afterwards, maybe  . . .


    As I rode the elevator down, I idly played with a handful of purple. I hadn''t fully tested my powers, but I seemed to be a short range shaker that could work as a striker and brute. Maybe a short-range blaster. And maybe a low-rated thinker rating too, since the mist let me see through objects.


    I hadn''t won the lottery like Eidolon or Alexandria, but I was happy with the card I''d been dealt. I could be strong. Really strong, not a pathetic bully. I had no reason to be afraid of gang members with knives in alleyways. My powers were cool.


    But they had nothing on Taylor''s.


    Taylor couldn''t blast holes in walls or mass taser crowds, but she could change monsters into people. Was Sophia like me underneath all that hate? And how about major supervillains like Lung and Kaiser? Were they a week of bad dreams away from turning themselves in? Working from the shadows, could Taylor dismantle the gangs and make Brockton Bay a nice place to live?


    I liked the idea, but there were two problems.


    First, Taylor would have to be kept secret because the public would never accept a cape whose power could best be described as ''nightmare demon.'' My parents felt bad for they way I''ve treated Taylor, but if they knew what she''d done to me, they''d reach for their torches and pitchforks.


    The second problem was Taylor might accidentally out herself. Just by context, it had been pretty easy for me to figure out who was behind the ghost--I mean, who else could it have been? Madison?--but even if I hadn''t known who Taylor was, she''d still left clues. I had no idea how her power worked, but maybe she could practice keeping certain things out of the dreams?


    But I could worry about that later. I hadn''t even doodled a costume yet.


    ***


    That night I dreamed of the time when Taylor and me were kayaking. We were both twelve; it was about a year before Taylor''s mother died. My family was visiting my grandparents, and Taylor had come along. There was a small lake near their house. Or at least we thought it was small. There''d been a recent flood, and piles of unearthed trees and bushes had made a wooded labyrinth of the water. As we rowed around one foggy bend and then the other, we soon found ourselves lost in what seemed a half-sunken forest from an old fairy tale--the scary kind, the ones with gray skies and lots of mud and that typically ended with the children in witches'' cauldrons.


    But we were big girls. And we''d brought picnic baskets. We beached our kayak, and on a tiny sandbar we ate a lunch of sandwiches and glass-bottled root beer. Cricket chirps filled the air, and I thought I saw an alligator. Taylor hummed the Jaws theme, but it was just a drifting log. Alligators didn''t live this far north.


    In the end, Taylor climbed a dead tree to find the way home. By the time we rowed to shore of the house, it was night, and my parents and grandparents had been worried sick.


    We talked in the dream, but I don''t remember what about. But I know we laughed. We were happy.


    When I woke up I was crying, but I didn''t mind.