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.

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'd 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.

AN: This story was inspired by GopherAtl's "The Adventures of Feels and Tourette" with a bit of influence from Thinker6's "Number Girl"