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WormWe Dream of Better Days (Worm AltPower) Thread starterMcSwazey Start dateApr 28, 2018 Tags worm (wildbow (author)) alternate power dreamCreatedApr 28, 2018StatusOngoingWatchers1,914Recent readers0Threadmarks9In which Taylor was a lucid dreamer long before she ever got powers.
Author Notes:
So I've...ThreadmarksStatistics (9 threadmarks, 25k words)ThreadmarksShow awards Reader mode RSS Chapter 1Words 4.7kApr 28, 2018Chapter 2Words 3.8kMay 5, 2018Chapter 7Words 2.9kJun 9, 2018Chapter 8Words 1.4kJun 18, 2018Chapter 9Words 2.2kJun 22, 2018ThreadmarksView content Remove this ad spaceThreadmarks Chapter 1 View contentMcSwazeyApr 28, 2018#1In which Taylor was a lucid dreamer long before she ever got powers.
Author Notes:
So I've had this idea bouncing around in my head for several months, and I'm finally writing it out.
The story will be relatively short, and narrow in scope (hopefully). That said, there will be a decent number of characters making appearances, just none of the more heinous of Worm's cast.
I'm aiming for something between 30-40k words.
As always, comments and criticisms are welcome.
Hope you enjoy it
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Taylor hit Emma. Her knuckles ached. Blood dripped to the floor.
Drip.
Taylor hit Emma. Her knuckles ached. The crowd screamed. Blood dripped to the floor.
Drip.
Taylor hit Emma. The girl fell in a heap. Her knuckles ached. The crowd screamed. Blood dripped to the floor.
Drip.
Taylor hit Emma, and the girl fell in a heap. Her knuckles ached, soft skin split at the seams. The crowd screamed and backed away. Blood dripped to the floor.
Drip.
Taylor hit Emma, and the girl fell in a heap against Taylor's locker. Her knuckles ached, soft skin split at the seams. The crowd screamed and backed away, the claustrophobic circle of bodies scattering in fear. Blood dripped to the floor, pooling together in a crimson puddle.
Drip.
Taylor hit Emma.
Drip.
Her knuckles ached.
Drip.
Blood dripped to the floor.
Drip.
Taylor looked away. The scene shuddered to a standstill. Her eyes roamed desperately for a different target, a distraction, a new focus. The floors of Winslow were covered in blood, the walls painted red, the lockers smeared with crimson streaks.
Taylor flushed with shame.
"This is not what I want."
And the world bent to her will.
Taylor soared through cloudless skies. Wind tugged at her hair. The sun warmed her skin. Brockton Bay hung beneath her, blurry, indistinct. She could see the curve of the Earth from here, an unbroken horizon in every direction. It was very green, with large swathes of blue where the ocean made itself known. Taylor had never been on a plane before, but she liked to think this was how it looked. Everything was small. Her problems were insignificant, minuscule. Her mind was at peace.
Taylor relaxed, reclining on a seat of air, and looked skyward. The light faded and stars spun into existence, glittering in the sudden darkness of space. Another glance, towards the skyline, and a golden orb peeked past vast clouds, scattering gold and red hues across the land. Taylor watched as the sun set eternal, basking in the beauty of the frozen moment.
It was impossible. Unreal. Taylor knew it, disregarded it, did not think about it. She had other things to occupy her mind with. With but a whim she could see everything, everywhere. The infinite black of space, the golden sheen of the sun, the shadows of the city below and the crashing waves of the sea. She lost herself in the world.
The city, once hazy and ill-defined, swam into focus. It was her home. She knew it well, its beauty and its scars. She saw the Boardwalk, the glamour, the prosperity. Tourists, faceless yet beautiful, strolled along wooden catwalks. Shops sprang into view, restaurants, coffee houses. Children smiled and laughed and played and so Taylor moved on. She saw downtown, with its skyscrapers and office buildings. She saw men in suits marching like ants into plastic cubicles, working and working and working. They returned home, tired and worn, but to the embrace of their families and so Taylor moved on. She saw the Ship Graveyard. An endless sea of dead things. She saw rotten and rusted behemoths blocking the Bay. She saw the decay and the desolation and the destitution and she did not like it.
She decided to change things.
Taylor stood on a pier, overlooking the Bay. The Graveyard floated in the distance in all its rusted glory. It was larger, now. Imposing. Like a towering mountain rather than the gentle hill it seemed from above. For the briefest of moments, Taylor considered that she might not be up to the task.
The thought was cast away before it could settle. It was poisonous, treasonous. It could not be allowed to take root. She would not think it, would not consider it, lest it stick in her mind and shatter her peace. She deserved this, didn't she? There was a reason, somewhere. It was hidden, now. Forgotten. But, she knew it in her heart. She deserved this peace.
Taylor raised her arm, and the mountain crumbled.
The cargo ships were the first to go. Their gigantic corpses dissolved into the Bay they blocked, flaking away bit by bit. The rusted metal browned the water, but another wave of Taylor's hand cleared away the pollution and left the water clear as crystal and oh so blue. The smaller boats were next. Deprived of supports to lean against, they collapsed in on themselves, groaning and grinding. Waves rushed in to fill the gaps, tearing steel like tin foil, and the boats sank beneath the waves. The roar of the ocean echoed through the city, a triumphant cacophony announcing the end of an era.
Taylor smiled, and turned her eyes towards the future.
Taylor sat on a stage in front of a crowd. She was older now, wiser in mind and body. She wore an elaborate dress that seemed to shimmer in the spotlight. The shape was indistinct, changing every time Taylor glanced down, but the facts stayed the same. It was clean, spotless, stylish. The brand was tasteful, but not extravagant. It hugged her form, accentuating curves she'd never had as a teen. She felt confident, beautiful. Strong.
The Mayor of Brockton Bay stood beside her, at a podium facing the crowd. Taylor couldn't quite remember his name, but his face was there, smiling with pride and respect. He gestured to the featureless audience, arms spread in greeting.
"We've gathered here today to present the key to the city to Miss Taylor Hebert." His arm swung to Taylor, and the crowd roared its approval. "For her tireless efforts in cleaning up the city, in revitalizing our economy, in ensuring the safety of our citizens, I hereby name Taylor Hebert the Hero of Brockton Bay!" Another roar, louder, more energetic. Taylor let it flow over her like a wave, sending warmth into her chest. She'd accomplished so much, and though the exact details escaped her, it was nice to be recognized.
The mayor continued his speech. "We have a special surprise in store for you citizens. Here to present Miss Hebert's key, and to personally invite our young hero to the ranks of the Protectorate, I give you: Alexandria!"
The stadium shook with applause, with joy, with rapture. Alexandria's towering form appeared at Taylor's side, where she'd been all along. She wore black and grey, with a flowing cloak, every curve and sharp edge designed to intimidate. The white tower stood out on her chest; a target for villains, implacable and indestructible. She was every bit as imposing as Taylor had imagined, but her voice was genial and soft. It reminded Taylor of her mother.
"You've done so well, Taylor," the heroine said, and Taylor could hear the approval in her words, could see the smile on her face. "We welcome you with open arms. It's my solemn privilege to invite you to the Protectorate."
Taylor accepted, of course. How could she not? And when the crowd screamed their approval, and Alexandria hugged her close, Taylor knew she'd made the right decision. The heroine was warm, comforting. Her arms wrapped around Taylor, squeezing her gently. Her head bent down, towards Taylor's ear. Her voice was a whisper, hardly audible above the crowd, but filled with happiness.
"Your father must be so proud of you."
Her... father?
Taylor blinked.
Her father.
When was the last time she'd—
Taylor danced through her living room in her father's arms. Music played from a portable radio, belting out Christmas tunes. Her mom stood in the corner of the room, singing along and laughing. They spun past a tree, covered in sparkling tinsel and silver ornaments. Taylor reached out a hand, and colorful baubles chimed at her touch.
She was younger, more innocent. Big eyes and thick glasses and a carefree smile. Her mother swept by, laying a kiss on her forehead, and Taylor almost wept at the feeling. She stepped back, on autopilot, as her mother took her place in her father's arms. The pair twirled in place, in soft embrace, as Taylor opened her presents.
But it wasn't Taylor. Not really. Taylor watched the scene from the outside, from above, from elsewhere. Her younger self opened her gift, crooning over some book. Her mother smiled, soft words and praises trickling from her lips. Her father grinned, squeezing his wife affectionately once Taylor glanced away.
He was happy. They were happy. Together.
The feeling was too alien for Taylor to accept.
This wasn't her father. This wasn't her mother. This wasn't her home. This wasn't her life. It was time to return.
Taylor opened her eyes.
Taylor lay in a hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. She felt numb, wrung out, despite her inaction. She counted the cracks above her once more, just to be sure this was real.
Seventy-three. The same as before. The numbers had tended to change in her dream. Strange how easy it had been to dismiss it.
A month. Thirty-one days. Not a particularly important number. Not for most people. For Taylor, it was the number of days she had spent laying in bed after being pulled from her locker, comatose. That was a Big Deal, apparently.
Armsmaster had even stopped by. Her panty guardian. Arriving mere minutes after she'd returned to dull reality. Asking her questions that Taylor did not understand.
"Not just a prank," he had said. "An unnatural sleep," he had insisted. "Unusual brain activity," he had explained.
But Taylor was adamant. She knew who had put her there. She knew why she'd slept. She told him the former and and tried to breeze past the latter.
"Because I was enjoying myself" just didn't feel like an adequate explanation to a man like him, to a hero like him. "Because I needed the break" was, if anything, worse. She almost apologized for raising such a fuss.
She needn't have worried, though. His body had gone still after Taylor spoke, after names were named and words were exchanged.
He had left the room in a hurry, giving her a polite thanks for her statement, leaving Taylor alone to count the cracks in the ceiling.
A nurse would come in, occasionally. A soft-spoken woman with a round face and large arms. Taylor's caretaker while she slept. Taylor tried to talk with her, but the words came slowly. It was strange to hold a conversation again; to not know a person's reaction before she ever started a sentence. Answering questions was a simple thing, but Taylor cast about futilely in the dark, when prompted to ask her own. The woman was patient, though, and slowly Taylor came back to herself.
Her father arrived, after a time. He walked into her little hospital room, gaunt and grim. He was almost unrecognizable from the happy man Taylor had seen in her dream, her memory. Dark bags sat beneath his eyes. His face was unshaven and his hair uncombed. His clothes were wrinkled, dirty, disheveled. He looked beaten, and Taylor wondered if she should have stayed asleep.
But his eyes found hers, and she saw life blaze back into them. For a moment, she had her dad back. She had that strong, determined figure who had loved fiercely and never gave in. He moved to her side, wrapping her in a hug. He was warm, warmer than Alexandria had been, and his muttered apologies brought tears to Taylor's eyes.
"My girl, my sweet baby girl. I'm sorry, so sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't see. I'm sorry." They held each other for a time, each with their own regrets. Him for his inattention, for his wallowing in the past. Her for her silence, for her reluctance to return. They held each other, and were family once again.
Danny wheeled Taylor out of the hospital in a wheelchair. Her legs were weak from disuse; she would need mild therapy to avoid strain. Panacea had appeared at some point during Taylor's long sleep. The healer could do nothing for Taylor's mind, but the adjustments she had made to Taylor's body would go a long way towards recovery. Taylor made a mental note to send the Dallons a fruit basket once she could walk unassisted.
The sun was bright in the sky. Blinding. Uncomfortable. Still, beautiful. Taylor had to remind herself not to stare directly at it. Her eyes wouldn't survive the experience in this waking world. She occupied herself with the parking lot, instead. She read bumper stickers, license plates, car brands. Little things, small details that she had forgotten were there. Danny whispered to her all the while. Vague promises of retribution and justice.
"I'm taking Winslow to court," he admitted as he pushed Taylor along. The parking lot was bumpy, and Taylor imagined her wheelchair as a fancy carriage, pulled along by horses on a cobble road. "What happened to you was— was horrific, and if the Protectorate can't catch the person who did it, I'll at least get the school to compensate you for their part in this mess." He trailed off into muttered curses. Words like bastards and idiots and bureaucratic assholes were strung together in barely coherent sentences.
Taylor agreed with most of it, and said so. Her father cringed at that, some deeply buried parental instinct mentally poking him for cursing in front of her. They both laughed at the absurdity, and by the time they arrived at Danny's van the gloom of the previous conversation had been shooed away. Taylor was dropped gently into the passenger seat by her father, and the wheelchair was stowed away in the back. Danny climbed into the driver's side, smiling as he started the car. He kept up a stream of nonsense topics as they drove home, recounting parts of his work or random events within the city. Nothing important, nothing difficult to think about, just pleasant small talk. Taylor participated where she could, asking questions when there was silence. That feeling of family lingered between them, and neither wanted to disturb it with actual problems.
Taylor's talk with Armsmaster was an issue that needed to be addressed, but she wasn't sure how to tell her father. How could she explain that the PRT were wrong, that she wasn't in a coma but sleeping, that she liked her imaginary world more than the real? How could she explain that she'd all but forgotten her dad was waiting for her? How could she explain the bullying? How could she explain that Emma, her best friend Emma, her sister in all but blood Emma, had gone insane, had lost her mind, had turned into a monster?
Regrets were not solutions. Taylor didn't know what to do, nor how to do it.
Eventually they arrived home. That old, worn house where Taylor had spent her life. Danny moved her chair first, placing it inside like a throne. He carried Taylor next, grunting as he jumped the rotten first step. The front door creaked as it opened, and Taylor got her first look in a month at her home. It seemed more... tattered than before. A few more cabinet doors were missing, a few more scuff marks littered the floor. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink, and a bottle of whiskey sat open on the kitchen counter. Half a dozen smaller glasses were scattered about the house, with varying levels of brown liquid remaining in them. Danny settled Taylor into her throne, and sheepishly went about cleaning up.
Taylor wheeled herself over to the refrigerator, searching for an answer to her parched throat. The thing was filled to the brim with old pizza boxes and instant noodles. Taylor went prospecting, digging through moldy cardboard and Tupperware, searching for something palatable. A jug of milk sat buried in the back, expired even before Taylor had slept. A few bottles of beer had been wrapped in tin foil for some reason, saved from Danny's thirst only through sheer happenstance. She gave up after the fourth bottle, hands cold and arms sore.
Danny returned eventually, arms full of trash. Bags were filled, fit to burst and tied with bunny ears. Her father came and went, and each trip left the kitchen a little less dingy. Taylor helped where she could, stacking cardboard boxes into unsteady towers, and laughing as Danny squished them flat. They took a break, eventually. Taylor had a dinner of chicken soup, the light meal more easily settling in her stomach. Danny cooked a piece of beef he had conjured from somewhere, boiling it into a bland brown mush.
They ate dinner together, quietly. Danny had long run out of nonsense to talk about, and Taylor was no better. The silence was awkward, uncomfortable, and they both could feel the warmth fading. Relief could only sustain a conversation for so long. Their love was an emotion, not a connection. Both knew what they wanted to say but neither knew how to say it. Still, Taylor felt the need to try.
She gathered her courage, meeting her father's eyes. Her mouth opened. "I'm tired."
Wait, shit.
She tried to rally, to retract her words, but Danny seized the moment. "You should be. The doctors said that you'll be pretty weak for the next few weeks, as you gather your strength. Maybe you should go to sleep a bit early?" His smile was filled with love but also relief, and Taylor couldn't help but resent him in that moment.
"Okay," she replied, forcing the petulance out of her tone. Sleep was not her enemy. Sleep was familiar, welcoming. She could regroup, rethink, recalculate. Sleep was a good thing.
Danny wheeled Taylor to the base of the stairs, and carried her up to her room. It was exactly how she'd left it .Her bed was still made, her closet was untouched, her desk was unmoved. She was deposited on the bed, and Danny puttered around the room for a few minutes. Her wheelchair was set up beside the bed, there for when she needed to use the bathroom. A pair of old crutches were dug up from a closet and leaned against the wall, just in case. Danny even brought up a bell, an old timey thing that Taylor could ring if she needed him. He left her with a kiss on the head, fleeing the room and leaving her alone in the dark. Taylor stared up at her ceiling, wondering if things would ever change. She could dream it. She could live out a fantasy. She could watch her perfect life play out in her head, and if she tried, really tried, she might even believe it.
But she didn't want to settle for that. She wanted something real. Tangible. She just had no idea how to achieve it.
No idea at all.
With a mental shrug, Taylor engaged in that most human of activities.
Procrastination.
Taylor closed her eyes.
Taylor stood in front of a warehouse. It loomed menacingly in her direction, leaning forward in ways a building really shouldn't be able to. It was a drug den, an arms depot, a slavery ring. It was a haven for bad bad men, and Taylor was going to work out her frustrations on it and everything within.
She kicked it open, wide-swinging metal doors sliding across concrete with a screech. She swaggered forward like an action hero, bold and confident. The warehouse interior was dimly lit, with dark red lights flickering in the gloom. The walls were made of rotten wood, stacked together in a way Taylor chose not to think about. Faceless enemies roamed around in the darkness, their eyes glowing like cats.
Taylor took a deep breath, and charged forward with a roar. She had never been a huge fan of action movies. Most violence she had seen was limited to Disney cartoons. Bodies threw themselves at her, and she trampled them flat. Literally flat. They squished against the floor, becoming 2D, before peeling themselves off like stickers. Others were smacked aside, folding in half with her punches, soaring through the air in exaggerated arcs. She kicked at them, one blow somehow finding thirty groins, and her enemies waists shot up into their chest cavity like coiled springs. She spun in circles, creating a whirlwind that tossed her foes about like rag-dolls, or left them spinning in place with birds circling their heads. Taylor rampaged as best she could, delighting in the feeling of power, of control. Here, she was a Queen. No, an Empress. Here, everything was possible.
She grew tired, eventually. Not physically, never physically, but the satisfaction of punching an anonymous goon was overtaken, in time, by melancholy. What was she even doing? Surrounded by groaning Bad Men, Taylor pondered. Something about this wasn't right. It wasn't enough to just hit them. She wanted to feel the accomplishment of putting them in jail. There wasn't much point in beating gang members up if you just walked away afterwards. A real hero would see justice done.
A real hero...
The world flickered around her, and suddenly things were very blue. Taylor staggered back a step, looking up. Armsmaster stood in front of her, resplendent and glorious. His blue and silver armor glimmered in the light of the morning sun. His pose was heroic, one hand on his waist and the other clutched around his halberd, its blade piercing the ground. The surroundings shifted, the indistinct warehouse gone, replaced by an alley. The thugs remained on the ground, groaning, unconscious. Their faces swam in and out of focus, shifting features. Swastika tattoos appeared on the arms of some, while green and red scarves appeared on others. Armsmaster glanced over them, and looked back at Taylor. She fought back the urge to shrink away.
He nodded at her, a polite smile emerging on his face. It looked real, distinct, not like the oddly stunted expressions she was used to in her dreams.
"A new hero?" he inquired. His voice was as she remembered it, polite and professional, but now with a hint of respect.
"Y—yes," Taylor squeaked, answering his smile with one of her own.
He gestured to the downed gang members. "Well done. Very few new heroes can emerge from a fight like this unscathed."
Taylor beamed. "Thanks! I tried my best, but I'm not really sure what I'm doing. It was my first fight. It's all pretty blurry."
He laughed. "That's common. I was terrified during my first real cape fight. I almost threw up on my boots after it was over." He reached into his belt, and withdrew a bundle of zip-ties.
"Help me round them up?" he requested, peeling apart half of the restraints and passing them to Taylor.
She felt an inordinate amount of glee helping the hero. She couldn't quite explain the reason why. Perhaps it was that he saw her as a peer, of sorts? Perhaps it was the act of making a difference, that galvanized her? She couldn't decide.
As they finished piling the restrained gang members, Armsmaster turned to her. His voice was serious, though a light smile remained. "Have you considered joining the Wards program?"
She hadn't, not in the dream nor reality. What would be the point? She wasn't all that clear on what the Wards even offered.
"The program is designed to ensure the safety of young parahumans," Armsmaster explained, somehow picking up on her confusion. "For most, it's a way to experiment with their powers, and learn their limitations in a safe, controlled environment. Personally, I believe it's the best place for every young cape, regardless of whether they intend to seek a career as hero."
Taylor cocked her head. "Why? What if someone wants to be a... rogue?" Taylor wasn't quite sure where she'd learned that word. It had simply sprung forth from her mind. "What would be the point of joining a Protectorate organization?"
Armsmaster's smile turned brittle. "Unfortunately, parahumans rarely live safe lives. Rogues who use their powers publicly are often press-ganged into service, held captive by threats against them or their families. Those who persevere face constant harassment and violence, and there is very little the Protectorate can do to help alleviate the problem. We are bound by the law and our own resources, and can rarely afford to babysit unaffiliated parahumans, no matter their powers or age. Wards, however, are given the highest priority when it comes to safety. That's the entire point of the program."
He paused, collecting his thoughts. "This is relevant for young independents, as well. The streets of a city like Brockton Bay are simply too dangerous. Children should not be soldiers. That's best left to people like me, who understand the risks."
Taylor frowned. "Soldiers? You make it sound like a war." This conversation was not going the way she expected it to. Something was— something was wrong. No. Not wrong, different.
"It is a war!" Armsmaster stated, passion filling his voice. "The vast majority of villains, especially in this city, are violent scum. They don't care about things like age or experience. They will fight to kill so long as they think they can get away with it. Safety lies in numbers. An independent hero will quickly turn into a statistic."
He stopped himself, seeming to realize he was ranting. He took a deep breath, and looked at Taylor, sincerity radiating from him. "The Wards are heroes in their own right, and deserve every accolade afforded to them, but they are children. They should not be expected to serve on the front lines, nor should they be brought forward for anything less than an absolute emergency."
Taylor stared at him. His trimmed beard, his polished armor. His chest rose and fell as he spoke, and the creases in his armor revealed a black under-suit. His halberd was still impaled in the ground. It was not one she was familiar with. It was different than the blade he held on Protectorate posters. The blade was simpler. Plain stainless steel, and nothing that Taylor had ever seen before.
Too much detail. Everything about him had too much detail.
Armsmaster looked at her, concerned. He stepped forward, opening his mouth to speak. A harsh ringing cut him off. Taylor jumped in place, as the sound echoed through the alley. It was shrill, piercing, and coming from every direction.
Armsmaster looked towards the sky. "My alarm," he murmured. "I'm dreaming."
The world cracked like an eggshell, huge splits tearing through reality, and Taylor was forced away from herself, outside of herself. The world became a television screen, flat and two dimensional, and Armsmaster stood in the ally alone.
"I should've known," Taylor heard him say to himself. "I've never been able to explain my thoughts before."
The cracks widened, and the void between them filled with static. The world shook, and fell apart, and Taylor woke with a gasp.
Many miles away, out on the Protectorate Rig, Colin Wallis woke up feeling confident and refreshed. A pleasant dream slipped from his memory, leaving behind a vague sense of satisfaction and pride.
Children should be protected.
He didn't know why that phrase tumbled around in his mind, but he knew it was important. It gave him clarity. He had found an answer to the question that had plagued him when he first went to sleep.
He slipped into his armor, ready to face his meeting with the Director, ready to see justice done.Last edited: May 5, 2018580McSwazeyApr 28, 2018View discussionThreadmarks Chapter 2 View contentMcSwazeyMay 5, 2018#58Taylor liked to think that she was a fairly smart girl. Academically speaking, at least. Not a genius, but certainly above average. Her grades had been good, going into high school, and Taylor wanted to believe that they would have continued to stay good, if only Winslow had been a little less miserable. She was sharp, her dad used to say. Brilliant. That had been the description her mom had preferred. Taylor didn't think quite so highly of herself, these days, but she still usually saw herself as pretty darn smart.
As she laid wide awake in bed, Taylor considered that she might actually be a bit dim. A bit dull. A bit really really brain-dead, because normal people didn't go to sleep for a month and come out of it thinking everything was hunky-dory. Normal people didn't go to sleep for a month, period. Normal people called those things comas, and they tended to not remember them particularly well.
In hindsight, it had been fairly obvious that Taylor had developed powers, at some point. She had always been able to control her dreams, just a little bit. A push, here and there, to see what she wanted to see. Not always, not all of them, and never with any sort of consistency. That should have been the first clue. Her dreams now, after the locker, were so clear, so smooth. They responded to her will almost perfectly, and Taylor had paid that fact no thought at all. God, she really was dumb.
Dumb and sad. Taylor had always dreamed of having powers. Literally. She had literally just dreamed about it. Her dreams would remain dreams, it seemed. No super strength for Taylor. No flight. No laser beams or laser swords or lasers of any variety, really. Not here, in the real world. At least she could still dream about it.
Was she just unlucky? How were powers even handed out? How were they assigned? Was there some great cosmic being, up in the sky, passing out lotto tickets? What jackass had decided to give her the power of super-sleep? What strange universal force had decided to pay her a visit when she had been stuck in her locker, wishing for help, praying for escape. The thing must have been an evil genie, twisting her wishes to mock her.
She had wished for a way to escape. Well, she'd gotten it. She could flee into herself at any time, it seemed. She could close her eyes and fall asleep and dance through a world of effervescent dreams, where the clouds were carbonated and the air tasted like rainbows. She could live out her wildest fantasies, drift through her darkest desires, and fight alongside her dearest heroes. All of these things, inside her own head. She could have it all, so long as she didn't think too hard about it. As long as she didn't look too deep.
None of it was real.
That hurt, just a little bit.
She wasn't Taylor Hebert, hero. She couldn't fight crime with this. She couldn't make the city a better place, a safer place, by falling asleep in her bed. That was, like, the exact opposite of what she wanted, what she needed. She could dream of being a hero all she liked, it would never make a difference out in the real world. She could conjure up her heroes for approval. She could speak to the Alexandria inside her head, or pull in Armsmaster for oh God she had used her power on Armsmaster.
And there it was, that thought she'd been avoiding. There was the reason she was lying awake, staring at the ceiling, listening for cars. The PRT would arrive, any second now. They would storm her house, clap her in irons, throw her in jail for using her power on a Protectorate hero. Dad would yell, of course. Probably not at her, but at the troopers; faceless men with large guns. Then they would taze him and bring him in as well, and that would be Taylor's fault too. Dad's Winslow lawsuit would get dropped, because it was Taylor's fault that she had slept for so long, and—
Stop.
This was not productive.
Treat it like a homework assignment, like a research paper. What did she know about her power? What did she know for a fact?
Well, it worked when she slept. That, at least, was obvious. It allowed her to sleep almost indefinitely but did nothing to maintain her body. That too was apparent, from her extended stay in the hospital. She could fall asleep almost instantly. That was... not as obvious, but still true. Taylor had attributed it to exhaustion at first, but no. It was like there was a switch in her head, now. A little button that said DREAM which she could poke at will. Taylor put a mental note beside it that said BEST USED WHILE LYING DOWN.
What else was there?
She could control her dreams. Lucid dreaming, except more. More vivid, more clear, more lasting. Not detailed, not specific, but the broad strokes were there. The big, flashy, beautiful scenes. Everything felt real, nothing wavered, so long as she didn't doubt herself. She could create the impossible. That was what dreams were.
She could— she could bring in others? Maybe? Somehow? Taylor had never met Alexandria, but the heroine in her dreams had acted an awful lot like Taylor's mom. It wasn't anything obvious, just her mannerisms, her stance, her voice. She looked like Alexandria and acted like Annette Hebert. She had met Armsmaster, but had spent all of five minutes with him. The hero in her dreams, he hadn't quite matched Taylor's mental image of the man. He had been passionate and heroic and supportive, but he had spoken about things that Taylor didn't know, couldn't have known. He had beliefs that weren't Taylor's, that weren't her dad's or her mom's, that weren't anything Taylor had ever heard before.
Probably.
How could she ever say that for certain? It was possible that she'd overheard some talking head ranting about parahumans at some point in the distant past, and her subconscious had simply parroted those words back at her. She didn't think that was the case, but it was possible, right? The alternative was that she had accidentally dragged the Protectorate leader into her dream, and convinced him that she was an up and coming hero, only for him to realize that it was all a dream and wake up and now he probably felt mad and betrayed and—
Taylor bit her thumb and focused on the pain.
Right. Assume the worst. If life had taught her anything, so far, it was that. Assume the worst, prepare the best you could. She could do very little, in this situation. She could only wait, and so that was what she did.
It was a long time before Taylor fell back asleep.
She did not dream.
Someone was shaking her. A gentle hand on her shoulder, another running over her head. Nebulous words were murmured into her ear. Her brain processed them and spat out an automated response.
"Warghlfargh."
A quiet laugh. A hand stroked her hair. Something soft touched her forehead and withdrew. Taylor fell back asleep.
Taylor opened her eyes, and immediately regretted it. The sun was peeking past her curtains, shining directly into her sight-line. An unpleasant experience at any time, but especially in the morning. She winced as she covered her face. Her arms were sore from the small amount of lifting they had performed last night. Cleaning the house had never felt like such a workout. Her entire body was sore, in fact. A deep feeling, a sort of overarching effect. She felt like she was one big bruise. Her thoughts were clear, though. Her mind was refreshed.
She remembered last night and cringed. There had been no late night visit from the Protectorate. No early morning raid by Armsmaster. She seemed to be in the clear, somehow. Pure luck, Taylor assumed, had covered for her stupidity.
After a few moments of silent contemplation, Taylor noticed the note. Danny's distinctive scrawl, a yellow sticky on Taylor's bell.
Emergency at work, the note read. Back before lunch. Food in the fridge if you are hungry.
Well then. That was... par for the course, really. Taylor wanted to feel something other than resignation, but couldn't really stir herself. Maybe after breakfast.
Or maybe after she navigated the staircase. Had dad forgetten about her legs?
She flailed around for a bit, grasping for the crutches he'd left out for her and hobbling to the bathroom. Morning ablutions were clumsily performed, teeth cleaned and bladder emptied and hair washed. She had a tub, but she chose not to use it just yet. If she climbed in there, she might not make it back out before Danny got home, and her stomach was growling.
Taylor hobbled her way over to the staircase and peered down it. The blinds were drawn in the living room, letting in just enough sunshine downstairs to seem ominous. A flick of the light switch confirmed what Taylor already knew. The bulb in the stairs needed changing.
"This is a terrible idea," Taylor declared. She took a hesitant step down, leading with her crutch. She twisted around a few different ways, trying to find a comfortable position to descend. It took her five minutes to give it up as a lost cause. Instead, she sat on the top stair, the crutches tucked against her side. A gentle scootch moved her down a step with minimal effort. She leaned back, stiff as a board, and pulled her crutches onto her chest. Taylor spent a few moments considering her impending humiliation, then wiggled her way down the stairs like a worm. The minor discomfort she felt bumping against the carpeted steps was nothing compared to her roaring hunger.
A minute later and Taylor was making bacon. Her dad had restocked the fridge at some point while she was asleep, probably for this exact reason. She felt a wild surge of affection for Danny, as she took a bite of crispy goodness. But, even bacon could not distract Taylor forever. At some point between slice one and seventeen, Taylor resumed her pondering.
She had a superpower.
Well.
A power.
That was pretty neat. It wasn't particularly inspiring, or useful, or strong, but it was hers. Presumably, she was stuck with it.
Taylor found that idea acceptable. There had to be something useful she could do with the thing. Something that wasn't pointless wish fulfillment. She simply needed to experiment.
She found herself sprawled on the couch, with the TV on, and a notebook resting on her chest. The dull newscast would act as background noise; something that Taylor could hopefully latch on to, to keep track of time. That was the theory, at least. Her notebook, cunningly disguised as a dream journal, would catalog the different ways she experimented with her power.
Taylor was excited to start. Far more excited than she had expected. She was restless, energetic. Everything you didn't want to be, if you were planning to nap. A good thing. A good test.
Taylor closed her eyes.
Taylor sat in her living room, on the couch. The same place she'd fallen asleep, yet not. Things were cleaner, for one. Years had been lost, the wear and tear of time scrubbed away. The couch was newer, the wooden floor was glossier, the television was fancier. If Taylor walked out front, the step wouldn't be rotten. She knew these things to be fact. Those were her desires, and in this world, her desires were reality.
But, she knew that already. That wasn't why she was here.
The house was not silent. That was her first revelation. The noise was soft, but there if she listened for it. A murmuring voice. It might have been terrifying, had she not expected it, like something out of a horror movie. She could hear her television, her real one, back in reality. That was a relief. As long as she didn't lose herself, didn't forget herself, she could keep track of time.
She would not sleep another month away. She couldn't do that to her dad, nor herself.
Next up, pulling people in to her dreams.
...
She had no idea how to do that.
Taylor shrugged. She had done it on accident, last night. How hard could it possibly be? She just needed a target. Someone who wouldn't immediately jump to 'parahuman power' as an explanation for a strange dream. She wasn't sure why Armsmaster had disregarded his experience, but she wasn't about to rely on luck a second time.
So, a target.
Taylor eventually settled on a hospital nurse.
Mrs. Brown, that nice woman who had taken time to speak with Taylor, to reassure her and comfort her. Maybe Taylor could dream about a tropical island, a nice beach and clear water. She could give her nurse a brief little holiday.
But first, she needed a way to connect. That was the key, really. Taylor could feel it. She needed to bridge the gap between her and her target. It had happened automatically, with Armsmaster. She had wanted a hero's opinion, and her power seized one for her. This time she would be more precise, more intentional.
Taylor stared at her television, her fuzzy, fancy television. Like most things in her dreams, she couldn't quite describe it. She didn't see it with her eyes, but her mind. It was 'futuristic'. That was the feeling it gave off. It was sleek and silver and shiny, and completely fabricated. Taylor switched it on, and it started to grow. The screen bulged up and out, quickly passing the frame. The sleek black background turned to static, as Taylor mentally flipped through nonexistent channels, looking for Mrs. Brown. The screen flickered, repeatedly, as she jumped through her options. Faces, bodies, people, popped into her mind with every blink. She knew them like she knew the channels on her television. Instead of the Discovery Channel, she had a doctor. Instead of TBS, she had a nurse. A dozen different channels, a dozen different faces. Taylor recognized them all, each a person she had seen since she woke up, each a person she had interacted with and spoken to. Armsmaster had a channel. Her father had a channel.
All were static.
Because none of them were asleep. It was ten in the morning and Taylor felt stupid again. Why had she thought that would work?
What if it had worked?
What if her power dragged people in, no matter their state? What if she had pulled in a doctor in the middle of a surgery? A nurse?
What if she had pulled in a person driving a car?
That—
No.
Nothing happened, she was fine. She just had to be more careful. Everything could be dangerous, if used correctly. Even her odd little dream power.
Something echoed in from the real world. The sound of a door, opening and closing.
She'd shelve her experiments, for now. It was time to return.
Taylor opened her eyes. Her dad was next to her, looking down.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he said, apologetically. Regret was all over his face, like he'd committed some grave sin against her. Perhaps he had, in his mind, but Taylor wasn't judging.
"It's okay," she replied, because it was. She had slept enough, and there would be more sleeping to come. She could afford to spend some time with her dad, here in the real world.
They stayed like that for a bit. Him sitting, her laying, the television on. No words were exchanged, but that was okay. The silence wasn't quite uncomfortable, and their proximity said more than words ever could.
The afternoon arrived, and with it, responsibility. Danny could not afford to laze about all day. He had work to do and bills to pay. He left shortly after lunch, giving Taylor a kiss on the cheek and a bone-crushing hug.
Taylor had responsibilities of her own. Paperwork, pounds of it. Paperwork for school, paperwork for the hospital, paperwork for the lawyer. Taylor buried herself in it, mindlessly filling out forms and checking boxes. She would not be returning to Winslow. Not this semester, at least. Preferably not ever.
Homeschooling forms were surprisingly annoying to fill out. She had spoken with her dad about it, over lunch.
"We'll have to hire a tutor," Danny had said. Not promising. They were strapped for cash as is.
"I could self-study," Taylor had countered. That idea was shot down immediately. Getting a GED outside of school was complicated business, and Taylor had years left of study before that was an option.
"I think," Danny had mused, chewing on a French fry, "that Arcadia is our best option, long-term. If we can get you transferred in next semester, somehow, then you can take summer classes to catch up and graduate on time."
Taylor hadn't been opposed to that.
"That'll be the plan then," her dad had said, smiling at her. The method was left unmentioned. Taylor didn't press. Pointing out their collective powerlessness would help no one. Maybe her dad could pull it off, somehow. She could hope.
But she would prepare for the worst, and fill out the damn forms. It was something to do, at least. Something to occupy her hands, while her mind worked on the problem of her power. She was positively swimming in ideas. Taylor could pull people into her dreams, but could she dip into the dreams of others? Could she control their world like she controlled her own? Would she have to fight a mental battle, like something out of a comic book, to manipulate another person's reality? Could she keep a person in her own dream, locked away for as long as Taylor slumbered? Could she have kept Armsmaster unaware, unwaking, had she willed it? Could she wrap an enemy in a nightmare? Could she haunt their dreams? Could she render their sleep restless and irregular?
Most importantly, how did her power work? Was it on sight? Through speech? Interaction? Her jaunt through the hospital was one big blur. Had she met someone that she had no channel for? Had she seen someone who she couldn't reach?
She didn't know. It was frustrating.
Things came to a boil, that night. Taylor stood in her dream world, her dream living room, flipping through her channels. Static static static. Static everywhere. Eleven at night, but nobody was sleeping. Doctors and nurses and heroes, so of course they were awake. The only channel available was her father's, and that seemed— well it seemed like a violation of his privacy, and she was trying very hard not to feel like a hypocrite.
She was planning on using it on strangers, after all.
She should feel worse about that, right? She should feel more hesitant.
But she didn't.
Not at all.
She could see Danny's channel. She could see him talking with her mom, dancing, laughing. It was a jumble of images, of locations, of feelings. Not smooth, like Taylor's dreams, but chaotic, and only loosely based in reality. They were younger, that much was obvious, on a date or a trip or something, some story Taylor had never heard and desperately wanted to hear.
So she touched the screen, and fell into her father's dream.
They were ice skating, Taylor's mom and dad, spinning together on a frozen lake, alone. The edges of the world were fuzzy, washed out, but stable. The churning mass of Danny's dream had coalesced into this memory, this thing of beauty. Danny was more vivid here than in reality. He bore none of the strain or stress that had accumulated over the years. He looked... real. Alive. Annette was not quite there. Her features were static, mostly. They shifted, occasionally, gaining years and wrinkles. Her hair style changed with the moment, fluttering in invisible wind, or pulling itself into a ponytail, or lengthening down past her shoulders. It was heartbreaking and wonderful at the same time.
Taylor sat on a nearby hill, invisible, unseen. She didn't exist yet. Not here, not now. That was okay. Taylor did not have a monopoly on her mother's love. Her dad had held it long before. The pair spun in circles, holding each other, moving with more grace and style than reality would allow. They spoke, quiet words of affection that Taylor did not need to hear. They embraced, kissed, made noises that Taylor really didn't need to hear.
The world shifted to her will. Her parents were off the ice, packing up. They still smiled at each other, laughed with each other. Danny had a car. A sporty red thing, with more engine than sense. They loaded the trunk down with bags, with tents and backpacks. Had they been camping?
Danny held the door open for Annette, a mischievous smirk on his face. She climbed in, giving him an kiss on the cheek. The pair roared out of the parking lot, young and fearless and in love. Taylor followed along, drifting in the wind. They drove along an unfamiliar highway, snow and ice coating the sides of the road.
Taylor could see the path they were taking, could see the inevitable outcome. She knew what would happen, and why this story had never been told. The car hit ice, it spun, and her mother screamed.
It sounded so real, so genuine, that for a moment, Taylor forgot herself. She forgot where she was and what she was watching. She forgot her power and her dreams and her control. For a moment, Taylor was just a little girl whose mother had died in a car accident.
The world shifted, blurred, distorted.
Taylor came back to herself, but the scene had changed. She was home, her home. Danny was in front of her, in front of her mother, shouting, raging. The words were unintelligible, unimportant. They were said in anger and immediately forgotten, but Annette felt them. Her expressions had never been so solid, so clearly remembered. The hurt, the anguish. This moment was crystallized in Danny's mind.
Taylor looked at him. He was screaming, still. His voice was angry, enraged, but his face was twisted in pain. Tears poured from his eyes, his mouth twisted in horror, even as spittle flew from it. Annette let loose a choked cry, and fled, slamming the front door in her wake. Her car peeled out of the driveway; the last time Danny would ever see her.
The world cracked along its edges, and shattered into pieces.
Taylor woke to the sound of her father crying.
Author Notes:
This story is meant to be a happy one. Guys, seriously. I swear. It'll get happy.
It will!
As always comments and criticisms are welcome.
Hope you enjoyed it.Last edited: May 5, 2018420McSwazeyMay 5, 2018View discussionThreadmarks Chapter 3 View contentMcSwazeyMay 12, 2018#105The next day, Taylor pretended that she hadn't heard a thing. If Danny was suspicious, if he suspected something, or knew something, he made no mention of it. Likewise, if Taylor noticed that her dad was a little more somber, a little more morose, she made no mention of it. Not that day, nor the next, nor the day after that. Taylor buried her concerns, forced away her doubts, and lost herself in the dreams of others.
She spent her days dozing. She watched doctors and nurses, their sleep scattered and intermittent. Some dreamed of sunshine and clear water, of vacations and freedom. Some dreamed of their school days, of friendships and romance, of leisure. A few, well, they dreamed of death, of lost lives and stupid mistakes. It was stunning to see, at first. They had seemed so confident in their waking lives. Successful men and women, heroes, who dedicated their time towards saving others. They didn't deserve to suffer. They deserved peaceful sleep.
Taylor could not remember making a conscious decision to help. She just did. It was instinct; some innate, irresistible urge to be a hero. She stepped into the dream of an older doctor, a fractured storm of despair and hopelessness. A child dead on an operating table, the doctor standing above him. The boy's body was spread-eagle, covered in more blood than was humanly possible, and weeping. He died on loop, again and again. It wasn't the first time he had dreamed this. Like most of Taylor's dreamers, his nightmares were sporadic. A bad day (or night) here and there, triggering a worse night.
The dream offended Taylor. It was cruel, pointless, unacceptable. Most importantly, it didn't have to be this way. The bloody child, the operating table, even the doctor, they were not real. The doctor's consciousness was not bound to his body, not here in the world of dreams. He watched the scene from above, like a disembodied eye. He could see the despair on his own face, the terror on the boy's. He could see the blood geysering out of his patient's chest, in an absurd fashion. His mind forced himself to believe; he could find no flaws in this nightmare.
Taylor could. This was a horror movie, but she was the director. With but an order, she could change the genre. With a bit of imagination, she could alter the set. She pushed the blood away, twisting the ephemeral stuff of dreams into a shape more pleasing to her. The red liquid faded into a stain on a shirt, the operating table became a chair, the boys intestines shifted into pasta, the dark surgery suite brightened into a restaurant. In a heartbeat, the doctor was eating dinner with what could be his grandson, laughing as the faceless boy spilled food on himself. The waves of terror, once so thick that they were practically visible, faded into soft joy. The borders of the world, once fractured by stress, smoothed over and sealed themselves. The dream felt... lighter.
Taylor left the doctor to his dream, feeling more proud than she had in years. She had helped. She had made a difference, small as it was. Stress was no small thing, and neither was rest. A good nights sleep might be the difference between life and death for a patient (or so she told herself). She believed that. She had to believe that. This, this, was what she was looking for. This was her path towards being a hero. It was easy for her, a girl that had not suffered a nightmare since she was a child, to soothe the dreams of others. They might never know, they might never remember, but Taylor would. Taylor would remember.
And that was all that mattered.
She would not live life out as a simple, stupid, bullied girl. She could do more. She could be more.
That was why, later that weekend, Taylor found herself at Brockton Bay General Hospital. Danny was with her, faithfully wheeling her around, as she spoke to members of the staff.
"I have to thank them." That had been the fib that had gotten her here. Not really a lie, so much as a half-truth. Five different doctors had spent time diagnosing Taylor as she had lain asleep, and twice as many nurses had diligently taken care of her immobile body. Taylor wanted to thank each and every one of them, personally. More importantly, she wanted to see them, interact with them, mark them with her power. They had watched over her as she had slept, returning the favor was the very least that she could do.
Sight, Taylor had eventually concluded, was the way her power linked itself to others. It was the only reasonable explanation she could think of. Starting from the moment she had woken up, her power had marked every doctor, every nurse, every random patient that she had seen, no matter how briefly. It was an astonishing amount of power that she now wielded. She was the sovereign queen of sleep (though she would never say that phrase out loud). People's dreams were troubled and peaceful at her whim. Cue evil laughter!
Her experience with her father remained, however. An unpleasant lesson; Taylor would not soon forget the effect that an errant emotion could have within a dream. So, she wanted to speak with them, the men and women she had decided to watch over. She wanted to get to know them, however superficially, so that she would never repeat the mistake she'd made with Danny.
She started with Nurse Brown.
"We don't normally do this, you know," Mrs. Brown—"Call me Glenda, darling!"—said, leading Taylor and Danny into the Nurse's break room. She patted Taylor on the shoulder, affectionately. "Let's just say you're a special case. Our own little miracle."
Danny flinched in the corner of Taylor's eye, and she frowned.
"Was it that bad?" Taylor asked. She had never asked for the details of her condition, after the locker. She had survived, obviously, so what would be the point?
Nurse Brown (Glenda!) eyed Danny sadly, and nodded. "When you were first brought to us, it was fairly bad. You had multiple infections, though nothing life-threatening. The coma was what worried us. We couldn't figure out what was wrong, you see. There was no reason, so far as we could tell, for you to be like that." She shook her head somberly. "It wasn't until Panacea came around that we figured out you'd been assaulted by a parahuman." Taylor almost corrected her, but thought better of it.
Glenda opened a door, and Danny wheeled Taylor inside. The room was larger than Taylor had expected, with several couches and a good sized television. A kitchen, complete with stove and oven, jutted out from the wall, well kept and clean. It was probably twice the size of her own kitchen appliances, and certainly newer.
"Nicer than you expected?" Glenda smiled at Taylor's dropped jaw. "That's common. We get a lot of donations, on account of Panacea," Glenda explained, gesturing towards the television. "That wonderful girl sends any gift she gets our way, or donates it to charity. Honestly, she's a saint."
"I—I see," Taylor stuttered, looking around the room. "I had hoped to send her a thank you gift or something..." She trailed off, slowly realizing just how popular the healer was within the city.
"I think that's a wonderful idea, deary," Glenda said approvingly. "Send it straight to her house and I doubt she'll turn it away. Better yet, ask her sister to hand it off for you!"
"Her sister?" Danny inquired, his brow crinkling in obvious thought. He had never been a fan of the cape scene.
"Glory Girl," Taylor supplied. She didn't fancy herself a cape nerd, but she knew that much. As an afterthought she added, "She's supposed to be invincible."
"Well, I don't know about that," Glenda mused, "but she certainly cares about Amy— sorry, Panacea. She drops her off here, most of the time. Picks her up, too. A lovely young woman." She turned back to Taylor. "If you want Panacea to accept something, you go through Glory Girl. She could talk Amy into accepting anything, should she have a mind to."
Taylor blinked. "That's good to know, I guess. I don't know how I'd ever get a hold of Glory Girl, though."
"Oh that's simple." Glenda replied, waving her hand dismissively. "Like I said, she usually drops Amy off, and picks her up. She almost always sticks around for a bit, signing autographs and chatting with fans. Just walk, err, roll up to her"—Taylor giggled—"and state your case. Like I said, she's a lovely young woman. She'll hear you out."
"You could hold that massive fruit basket you ordered, in your lap, when you approach her," Danny snickered. "I bet you'll get a laugh out of her, if nothing else."
Taylor smacked her dad's arm indignantly, igniting peals of laughter from both adults. She sniffed daintily and crossed her arms. "Humph. It's a nice gift, and I think Panacea will appreciate it."
"I'm sure she will, Taylor," Glenda reassured her, wiping away a mirthful tear.
"I'll ask Glory Girl for help, then," Taylor affirmed, ignoring her father's amusement. "It makes sense, I guess. Family is important, even for capes." She thought for a moment, and corrected herself. "Especially for capes."
"Family is important," Danny echoed, placing his hand over hers and squeezing reassuringly.
Taylor spotted a chance to actually accomplish what she came here for. She turned to the older woman in the room. "Do you have any family, Nurse Brown?"
Glenda smiled sadly. "I had a husband and son, back when I lived in New York. They've been gone for some time, though."
And now Taylor felt like an idiot. Her dad's wince didn't help that feeling. Quick, fix it!
"Sorry!" she exclaimed, flailing her arms. "I didn't mean to bring up any painful memories."
"Oh, I know dear," Glenda reassured her, giving her shoulder another pat. "It was a long time ago. The painful bits have faded with time. Now, I'm just happy to have good memories to look back on."
Taylor hid her frown. She had no idea what to say. Why was she so bad at— at peopleing!?
Fortunately, Danny came to her rescue.
"I know what you mean," he said. "We"—his hand tightened around her own—"lost Taylor's mother over a year ago. I still wake up and miss her, every day, but some days it's easier." And some days it's harder, was the unspoken truth in his voice.
Nurse Brown's eyes were somber, but she smiled anyway. "It gets easier. But, enough with the sad mood! I believe I promised you both a tour?"
Taylor's face lightened a fraction, and she opened her mouth to reply, but the sound of a door opening interrupted her. She looked over her shoulder, towards the entrance. A man strolled in, his steps jaunty and energetic, belying his age. His hair was grey, almost white, and a thick goatee framed his chin. A pair of spectacles hung around his neck, resting on top of his stethoscope.
Taylor almost didn't recognize him, the old man from her dream, whose face had been so lined with fear and worry. He stopped at the sight of her, glancing between Taylor, Glenda, and Danny, with some form of recognition flashing in his eyes.
"Miss Hebert, what a pleasant surprise! I was thrilled to hear that you are up and about," the man said exuberantly, striding quickly up to her father, his hand extended.
"Doctor... Fortisher?" Danny asked as he shook the man's hand.
"Forrister," the older man corrected easily. "Good to see you again, Mister Hebert. I'm sorry I couldn't do anything for your daughter." He looked to Taylor. "You have my apologies as well, young lady."
Taylor stared, still struck by the sheer difference between the waking and dreaming world. A nudge from her father broke her reverie. "Er, sorry. Or rather, you've got nothing to be sorry for, sir. Armsmaster said that a cape did it. No apology necessary." And Armsmaster had said that, even if it wasn't what actually had happened. Still, the small deception would hurt no one.
"True, but you have it still," the doctor replied breezily. His eyes glanced towards Nurse Brown, and lit up. "Ah, Glenda! I'm sorry for invading the nurses' space, but I'm afraid that I cannot resist your cappuccino machine."
Glenda rolled her eyes and waved him in. "Yes, you've been using it for weeks now, we know. Go ahead, you madman."
Dr. Forrister grinned happily, and pranced past her, moving with the energy of a man half his age. Glenda said something to Danny, but Taylor tuned them both out, her eyes still on the doctor.
He rustled through a cabinet, plucking free a coffee mug and planting it in front of the cappuccino machine. The mug was white, emblazoned with bold black words proclaiming BEST GRANDPA. A minute passed as his cup was filled, and he held it up to his nose, breathing deeply.
"Ahh, that's the stuff!" The doctor nodded to each person in the room, and bustled out as swiftly as he entered.
Glenda snorted once he left. "I'm sorry about him," she said. "I'm not sure what's gotten into him, but he's been like that for the past few days."
Taylor's head snapped up. "He's not normally like that?" she asked urgently. Was his good mood because of her?
Glenda hesitated. "Not... recently, no. His grandson was in an accident earlier last month. Poor boy has been in and out of surgery for weeks now. Dr. Forrister has been fairly stressed over the whole thing. Completely understandable."
"Oh no," Danny responded. "But he seemed fairly relaxed. Has the boy recovered, then?"
"No," Glenda said, with a shrug. "He still needs another operation, tomorrow, in fact. Dr. Forrister just seems to be more, well, optimistic about it, now. A good thing, too. Everyone could tell that he wasn't sleeping well."
Taylor fought down a victorious smile as the adults continued to gossip. She had done that! She had made a difference! She had helped someone! That was— that was huge. She needed to do something, have some kind of celebration or mark the day down on her calendar, so that she would always remember the first time she had helped someone.
Today was—Taylor took a shaky, elated breath—the first day of her new life.
She would always remember it.
Taylor spent the rest of the day at the hospital. Her dad, in his infinite patience, pushed her around, without complaint, for hours. She spoke with every nurse that had taken care of her and then some. The doctors had been harder to speak to, though she had at least seen every single one of them. She would learn about them through their dreams, learn what she could and couldn't change through long observation. Taylor had to be patient in her heroism. She had to be certain that the changes she made within dreams did not trigger the wrong response. Taylor eagerly awaited the challenge.
Time passed, and night arrived. Taylor was both exhausted and satisfied by the day's events. She had, more or less, achieved what she had come here for. Her dad wheeled her towards the exit, every bit as tired as she. Glenda walked along side them, still chattering happily. The woman, old as she was, seemed utterly tireless.
"—thrilled to have you here! I'm especially glad you came today of all days. I've got a bit of a surprise for you, young lady." Glenda put a hand on Taylor's chair, and guided her towards a hallway.
Taylor blinked wearily up at the nurse. "A surprise?"
A pair of automatic doors opened, and both Taylor and Danny froze in, appropriately, surprise.
A pair of teenagers stood near the entrance of the hospital, surrounded by people. One was tall, dressed like a medieval knight got ran through a time machine. Glowing blue lights illuminated the cracks between full plate armor, and servomotors hummed as the teen gestured to his audience.
The girl beside him was but a waif. Short and slight, she was visibly young. A green visor wrapped around her face, pulling shoulder-length blonde hair away from her eyes. Her suit was a cross between a dress and body armor, with white and green panels covering her upper body, and a skirt swooping down just above her knees. Artful, swirling lines patterned the bottom of the skirt, giving the girl a childish, friendly air.
"Gallant and Vista," Taylor whispered, forgetting, for a moment, how to breathe. There was a difference, she was forced to reflect, between a cape nerd, and a cape fangirl. She knew that she was not the former. She was, apparently, the latter.
Because, hot damn, she had never felt so excited in her entire life.
These two knew what it was like to go out there on the streets, to fight the good fight. Taylor couldn't do that, not with her powers, but she could absolutely pester someone for a good story. Her and, like, fifty other people it seemed.
"A few Wards come by once a month," Glenda explained. "It's easy PR for them, and they are always very polite."
Taylor almost frowned at Glenda's words. PR. It sounded so... unheroic. Fake. Taylor couldn't mock it, though. Making people feel safe without actually accomplishing anything tangible was basically how she planned to use her power set.
Of course, that was the only way for her to use her powers. The Wards had more direct options. Should they really be wasting time—
No. No, making people feel better, feel safe, is not a waste. She had to believe that. Maybe the Wards might be able to use their time better, maybe not. It wasn't something she was capable of judging. Her enthusiasm trickled back in, and her smile returned.
She glanced towards her dad, blinking her eyes childishly. "Can we go see them, dad?"
Danny rolled his eyes, and wheeled her forward. "Sure thing, kiddo." He chortled as she cringed at the nickname.
They lined up behind the rest of the crowd, patiently waiting there turn. Danny fished out a piece of paper and a pen, handing it off to Taylor so she could acquire some precious autographs. They listened to the Wards speak, bouncing between a dizzying array of topics, fielding questions shouted from the crowd with ease.
Gallant spoke the most. He was eloquent, kind, polite, everything that his name suggested. He answered questions with poise Taylor would expect from a politician four times his age. His words were often impassioned, his gestures sudden and dramatic. He was a natural public speaker, a natural leader.
Vista seemed content to allow him his time in the spotlight. She stood at his side, maintaining a confident smile and an open stance. She answered direct questions, but for the most part kept silent. Every now and then, Gallant's hand would fall on her shoulder, or back, and the lightest hint of red would appear on her cheeks. She would straighten, minutely, and her smile would change in a way that Taylor could not, at first, identify. It niggled at her mind, though. The oddness of it. The... similarity to something that Taylor had seen before.
It was sincerity. A genuine smile. That, Taylor came to realize, was the difference. Vista's smile, that cute, permanent thing, reminded her of Emma's. It was fake. Ugly too, once you saw it for what it was. It was the smile that Emma showed her gaggle of goons. It was the smile that Emma put on for her modeling shoots. It was the smile Taylor had seen, that fateful day, when she'd returned from camp to find a monster in place of her friend.
And, when Gallant came close, the smile became real. The smile of a friend, of a companion, The smile that Emma had reserved for Taylor throughout their childhood. The smile that Emma gave to Sophia. The smile that Emma gave to Taylor, without the malice and the sadism.
Vista's smiles were so brief, so fleeting. There one moment and gone the next; joy poured out of her like a colander filled with water, leaving behind noodly bits of boredom and cynicsm.
Or maybe Taylor was overthinking things.
Heroes could have problems, too. There was no law that said they couldn't. They were like the doctors, Taylor supposed. The heady thrill of saving lives was not a substitute for living. How did Vista really feel?
Well, there was only one way to find out. Dreams would tell it true.
So, when Taylor finally got her turn to approach, she simply smiled at the pair.
"Thank you for being heroes," she said, injecting as much honesty into her voice as she could summon.
Gallant gave her a gracious nod. "It's our pleasure, miss." He meant it, too. His voice, his posture, everything proclaimed his sincerity.
Vista simply smiled that fake smile, and Taylor knew whose dreams she would visit tonight.
Author Notes:
I haven't done much Vista stuff, despite actually really liking the character. I'm hoping to change that fact with this story. Several of the Wards will make appearances, in fact. I'll be hitting characters that I didn't have the time or the excuse to characterize in aPoG.
As always, comments and criticisms are welcome.
Hope you enjoyed it!Last edited: Jun 13, 2018405McSwazeyMay 12, 2018View discussionThreadmarks Chapter 4 View contentMcSwazeyMay 19, 2018#132Taylor sat cross-legged on a couch carved out of clouds, high in the sky above Brockton Bay. A cool breeze tussled her hair, contrasting nicely with the warmth of the midday sun. A massive television hovered in front of her, suspended in the air by her will and sense of aesthetics. It flicked through channels, each one superimposed with a faint image of a person, until it stopped on Taylor's target.
Vista, in all her adorable tweenage glory, appeared on screen. The young hero was as Taylor had last seen her, in full regalia, confidently posing for an audience. Taylor focused on the image, and the world around her faded away, until it was only her and the television screen, surrounded by darkness. The screen seemed to expand, heightening and widening, and circling Taylor's sitting form. It formed a sphere around her, encasing her, and the world shifted.
The dream started as a series of blurry bodies and voices. Vague feelings flickered through Taylor's perception, anger, jealousy, pride, each lasting less than an instant. The images, too, fluttered about at the speed of thought. Gallant appeared, smiling and laughing, beside a girl with blonde hair and a blurry face. A flash of rage accompanied the scene, and the girl vanished in a flash of light. Guilt immediately followed, and the dream changed focus.
A boy dressed in red, who Taylor tentatively identified as Aegis, swam into view, following behind Vista as she walked through a long corridor. They arrived in a room filled with other capes, each washed out and indistinct, but clearly focused on Vista. She spoke, vague phrases and meaningless platitudes, not words but feelings, and her audience applauded. When she left the room, they followed.
More images came, even faster. Vista speaking to the press, Vista walking along a street, Vista hopping across rooftops, Vista fighting a mass of metal and flesh. They were all fragmented, choppy, unfocused. Even Taylor, with all her advantages, could barely make heads or tails of them. She'd seen it before, though, in several of her doctors. Vista, it seemed, was not much of a dreamer. Her mind was simply not inclined to dream with any sort of lucidity.
That was okay. Taylor could do that for her.
Taylor raised her hands like a conductor, and the world smoothed. Images focused, scenes sharpened, and the landscape became solid. A moment later, and the dream rearranged itself. Vista's subconscious shaped it to her desires. Her dreams, for now, would be her reality.
Taylor sat back and watched the world change, with a smile. She loved her power, loved the memories, the moments, that it let her see. She loved seeing another person's dreams, their hopes, come into being. Most of all, Taylor loved the beauty of it; that world of dreams. It changed with every person, the colors and feelings and environment. Taylor could literally see, feel, and understand another person's perspective, in ways that no one else could imagine.
The dream still shifted occasionally, even with Taylor's influence, presenting itself as a series of scenes unbound by time or location. Vista dreamed of herself, older, wiser, respected. Her costume lost its childish appeal: the dress exchanged for skintight armor, the swirling patterns darkening and thickening into camouflage. Her figure heightened, filled out, gaining the curves of a woman in her prime and the stance of a hardened warrior. She stood at the center of a room, surrounded by her peers, her fellow Wards. Their ages, oddly, seemed unchanged. No grizzled warriors here, no thick beards or battle scars or grim visages. Still, they gazed upon Vista with eyes full of respect. They followed her lead as she charged into battle against faceless foes. Two sides clashed, releasing a sound like a gong, and the scene changed.
Vista dreamed of Gallant. She walked with him, hand and hand, down the wooden paths of the Boardwalk. They chatted easily, effortlessly, all smiles and laughter as they drifted in and out of stores. They stopped for food, playfully stealing fries from each other and sipping from a single drink. At the end of the walk they shared an affectionate kiss and parted ways, each knowing they'd see the other again soon. It was oddly low-key, by Taylor's estimation. She'd never been on a date in her life, but her thoughts about the subject at Vista's age tended towards the more dramatic. Taylor would've expected something out of a romance novel. Perhaps some grand gesture, involving roses and horse-drawn carriages, not this casual jaunt along the beach. As Taylor anxiously compared her maturity to a twelve-year old's, the dream moved onward.
Vista dreamed of fame. She stood on a stage, in front of a podium, before a crowd. Two women flanked her, costumes that Taylor would have recognized anywhere. Miss Militia and Alexandria, side by side, lending Vista support and authority. She spoke into a microphone, her words lost to the audience's approving roar. The dream was almost jarring in its similarity to Taylor's. There was no mayor, no key to the city, but the emotions were the same. That same burning sense of joy, of satisfaction, at finally being acknowledged. That fierce feeling of success, of triumph, a day when every goal set had been achieved. Vista craved that feeling above all else.
Taylor had not expected to find such common ground. Not in the girl who had seemed so fake, so resigned.
But, how could she go about helping?
This was not a nightmare. Vista did not suffer some irrational, reoccurring dream. Her problems seemed rooted in her very being. She wanted to be older, that much was obvious. Everything else stemmed from there.
But, no. Something about that was off.
Not be older, be perceived as older, respected as the senior hero that she was, acknowledged for her accomplishments, whatever they might be. Taylor couldn't make other people treat Vista differently. That was... probably (hopefully) not an ability she possessed. What Taylor might be able to do, however, is help the young hero live with reality. She could twist the dream, revert Vista's dream self back to her younger age, but keep everything else the same. Vista might be satisfied with that. She could experience the respect, the admiration, the happiness of her dream self, while still remaining a kid.
That could work.
Right?
Thoughts of Danny stopped Taylor from acting.
She was still new at this. She got lucky with Doctor Forrister, lucky that his nightmare was simple and straightforward, lucky that the man was an optimist at heart and could accept the changes she'd forced on his dream. Taylor couldn't afford to act carelessly again. Especially not with Vista. Not with a hero, who risked her life day after day, to protect people.
Being mentally balanced seemed pretty important for that kind of occupation, or so Taylor assumed.
She couldn't meddle aimlessly. She had to get to know Vista, to understand the way the girl thought and reasoned.
Taylor found that idea to be rather welcome.
She could take the slow path. There was no rush. And, who knows, it might be fun.
First, Taylor created her new persona. She would be a new hero, joining the Wards under Vista's leadership. It was like being an actress, Taylor reasoned. She wasn't lying to Vista, per se. Nothing was real in the dreaming world, so Taylor wasn't actually deceiving the girl any more than reality itself was. Besides, it's not like they'd ever meet up in the waking world.
Right?
Taylor's avatar took heavy inspiration from Armsmaster. She decked herself out in power armor, a gleaming silver shell detailed with blue stripes, every inch of her body covered. The armor existed only for aesthetic purposes, obviously, as Taylor knew absolutely nothing about technology. When the time came to explain what it did, she'd spout nonsense and let the fuzzy nature of the dreamscape take care of the finer details.
She would present herself as a tinker. She remembered that rhyme from middle school, explaining the classes of parahumans. Tinkers made things that couldn't be explained, not by science or themselves. It was perfect. Her body was ready. Next, she needed a scenario.
Taylor frowned. She'd done this before, hadn't she? Not with Vista, but with Armsmaster. The same scenario, just different players. Armsmaster had been willing to recruit her immediately, had been on the verge of inviting her to the Protectorate Rig, even. The memory was fresh, easily accessible. Could she maybe...
A mental twist, and—
Vista dreamed of leadership. She walked the newest Ward through the winding corridors of the Protectorate Rig. She carefully concealed her excitement, pushed it down deep within herself, allowing only professional interest to show on her face. This would be the first hero to join the Wards since Vista had assumed leadership.
And, what a hero! Recruited by Armsmaster himself, Armada was a tinker specializing in powered armor. With any luck, the newest member of the Wards could upgrade Gallant's armor and, maybe, outfit the rest of the team with armor as well. Lord knows that Vista's teammates needed the protection. She'd be willing to forgo a fancy suit herself, even, as her own costume had been well armored for years now. Unfortunately, the rest of her team were not quite as cautious as she. Almost certainly a difference in their experiences. They'd change their mind real quick, the first time they got gored by Hookwolf.
Of course, such a thing would never happen to the Wards under Vista's watch. Either way, she was glad that the Protectorate had ceded her request for an outfit change, all those years ago. A leader needed to take care of herself, not throw himself into a fight head-first Carlos!
The walls of the dream flickered.
What was she doing again? Right. New teammate.
Vista gave the girl her broadest smile. "I'm glad that you decided to join us, Armada." She waved her hand down the twisty hallway. "It's a bit of a walk, I know, but there's a good reason for it."
Armada cocked her head in confusion. The hero's mask covered everything above her mouth, but Vista could make out a puzzled look.
"Armada?" Vista prodded.
The new hero straightened, nodding. "Right, Armada. That's me. That's the name I picked. Definitely."
"Yeah," Vista said, slowly. The newbie was a strange one, that much was obvious. Most tinkers were, though. Kid Win was sociable enough, when his head wasn't buried in machinery, but Armsmaster was gruff at the best of times. "As I was saying, this place is a bit of a maze. Make sure you have someone with you when you go back and forth, until you learn the layout."
"I can do that," Armada replied with a smile.
Vista returned it, her hopes buoying. It had been a while since a girl had been on the team. Not since—
The world shifted, and her train of thought was lost.
"So this is where the Wards stay," Vista announced, waving grandly. The common room was as she remembered it. A comfortable couch and a massive television, separate dormitories for each Ward, and a tinker laboratory firmly ensconced behind soundproof walls.
"Is this our new teammate?" a familiar voice asked.
Vista fought back a dopey grin, but bounced forward to embrace her boyfriend in a dignified manner. She turned back to Armada, gleefully aware of Dean's arm around her waist, and gestured towards him. "Armada, meet Gallant."
"Dean Stansfield," he corrected her with a charming grin. He extended his free hand towards the new hero. "Pleased to meet you."
Armada stared at his face for a moment, perfectly still. "You're not wearing a mask," she stated carefully.
"And I gave you my real name," Dean added with a nod. "We're going to be teammates, so I figure a little bit of trust is a given."
The world cracked at its edges, huge chasms appearing along the borders, carved by guilt.
Missy agreed with the words coming out of his perfectly shaped mouth, and pulled off her visor. She smiled at Armada, crinkling her eyes like Miss Militia had taught her. "I'm Missy Biron."
The cracks widened with stress, the supports groaned, the dream shuddered under its own weight and—
Armada took a deep breath. The glowing stripe on her faceplate that represented her eyes landed on Missy. With a smooth motion, she pulled off her helmet. Long black hair, large, doe-like eyes, a wide, expressive mouth, and an awkward smile.
—the cracks smoothed out, reformed, resettled. The world became still.
"I'm Taylor Hebert," the girl said, unsure if she wanted this to be forgotten. "I hope we can be friends."
Author Notes:
I wanted this to be longer, but the next section was giving me trouble and I couldn't find a decent stopping point.
Expect a longer chapter next time around.
As always, comments and criticisms are welcome.
Hope you guys enjoyed it.392McSwazeyMay 19, 2018View discussionThreadmarks Chapter 5 View contentMcSwazeyMay 26, 2018#183Dean Stansfield could not possibly be this attractive. That thought bounced continuously around Taylor's brain, as she made small talk with two Wards. Well, one Ward. This was Vista's dream, and as realistic as Gallant seemed to be, he was, in the end, just a figment. He would act and look and feel like Vista wanted him to. His actions were what Vista felt they should be.
Taylor kept the conversation well away from the topic of the other Wards. The last thing she wanted was to inadvertently unmask more heroes. That Gallant had done so, so freely and easily, spoke volumes about Vista's impression of him. He was practically heroism personified, to her.
Still, Taylor suspected that Dream Dean's actions were not too far off base, and felt all the more guilty for it. Gallant was an accurate name, indeed. Taylor could understand why Vista liked him.
Speaking of Vista, the girl seemed every bit the mature, older teen that her dream presented her as. She played the Big Sister figure, all warm concern and easy teasing. There were no cracks in her facade, no slips in her demeanor. It was as if Missy was born five years old, and aged up from there. 'Mature for her age' had never seen a more accurate example.
Small wonder that she felt disrespected everywhere she went. She was over a foot shorter and forty pounds of muscle lighter than she saw herself as. Probably the most hardened seventh grader in the city. Certainly the scariest.
How the hell had she gotten that way?
Taylor walked with Vista, along the rooftops of office buildings. They stepped over them with effortless ease, the open air between buildings squeezing together to form a path. Vista's power was fantastic to watch, to feel, expressed in the dream. Spatial warping was something that Taylor could mimic with a thought, but her imagination could never match up to reality. Vista had seen it in truth, the way reality could twist and turn and blur at the edges. Her power treated space like a carpet, to be walked over or tugged about as needed. Seeing it work was a privilege that Taylor would always treasure.
Vista talked while they moved. Her voice was calm but serious, her face a mask of professionalism. It was a far cry from the casual conversation they'd shared within the Rig. Out here, in public, she maintained an illusion. Even in a dream, she wore a mask.
"Brockton Bay is not a safe city," she explained to Taylor, as they patrolled downtown. "You never know what kind of insanity will occur. One moment you're turning a corner on a quiet day, the next, you run face first into Lung bench pressing a train."
Taylor nearly tripped. "Did that actually happen?" The skepticism in her voice seemed well deserved.
She shrugged. "Lung likes to work out. Carlos, sorry, Aegis flew right into him sometime last year while on patrol." She couldn't quite hide a smirk. "He said he almost soiled himself. Luckily, Lung isn't interested in starting a fight with a single Ward, and Aegis wasn't dumb enough to stick around."
"Wards patrol in pairs," Taylor pointed out.
"We're supposed to, sure." Vista scowled. "He was partnered with Shadow Stalker, back when she was still around. She had this awful habit of just running off on her own, whenever she felt like it."
"When she was still around? What happened to Shadow Stalker?" Taylor asked, scrounging through her memory banks for what she knew about the former vigilante.
The dream flickered.
"She..." Vista's brow furrowed, and her steps faltered. "She's not around anymore."
Cracks formed along the edges.
Taylor glanced at the sky in worry. "Something must have happened," Taylor told Vista, pushing those words into the dream.
"Something happened," Vista repeated slowly, her subconscious scraping together a story. "Armsmaster came for her, one day. He seemed angry." She looked to the sky contemplatively. "Seems like only yesterday."
"Maybe she got transferred?" Taylor suggested. The walls of Vista's mind pulsed once, and the cracks smoothed over.
"Yeah." Vista nodded. "That was it. She went walkabout one too many times. Armsy got pissed at her, and Piggot transferred her." Vista's eyes glazed over, as details created themselves. "They said that she'd been endangering her partners. Gross misconduct, reckless endangerment, things like that."