Disclaimer: Worm is owned by wildbow, and any powers and/or effects added may be the result of a variety of comic/manga influences. I own none of them.

A/N I've altered some details in the setting. In the future, things like canon character ages may be shifted up/down. If something departs dramatically from canon, then it may or may not be intentional. I hope you enjoy the story. ~Work

Prologue

The average person doesn't know what it means to trigger; to be pushed past the limits of your mind; to walk the lines of sanity. How can you explain the incomprehensible? The mind reaches a point where it seemingly fails. It can't keep up with what's happening, the stress builds, the circumstances escalate, the mental walls are closing in, collapsing, and there's nothing you can do and you're panicking and you're blacking out, blanking out, and then just at that peak moment, something is forged.

But that completely and utterly fails to describe someone else's experience… For him/her/them the mind implodes and explodes at the same time. Their perception builds, adding to the stress, builds, adding to the burdens, builds, and then in a glorious symphony of sensations you can defy gravity. Or build a robot.

Amongst first generation parahumans, those that suffer the comparatively higher trigger threshold, few consciously consider what goes into a trigger event, what they gave up in return for their powers. They usually don't want to talk about it, to be reminded of the time when everything changed. Something was lost, and all the introspection in the world barely hints at what. It's as if it never existed in the first place. It isn't a fair exchange, because life isn't fair. Most parahumans don't want to realize they're fractured, damaged. That, in some ways, they're less than human.

Some glory in it. They've ascended in their minds. Some become egoists. Hubris causes them to believe themselves far, far superior to mundane humans beings. They've lost their rational perspectives to ground themselves in reality. Some hate it. Frustration at an inability to connect to others, to anyone; were they always like this? Some trip and tumble head first into insanity; and some walk across it willingly. Some are sociopaths and psychopaths. Some are good Samaritans. Some decide to become heroes and, of course, some play the villain. Give power to a hundred random people and you will all sorts, a mosaic of characters on a gritty stage. Trigger events change a person. Powers completely and utterly destroy the status quo of your life. And some, like me, just don't care.

In one hundred realities of the same person triggering because of the same circumstances, your odds are pretty great for one hundred different powers. It depends on what your feeling and what minor grasp of reality your fragmented mind latches onto. Perhaps you're drowning, and suddenly you can breathe no matter what you're in or where you are. But it isn't always so clear-cut. Maybe you become water at will, thus unable to drown. Maybe you're looking up out of the water, at the sweet air that's unbearably out of reach, and now you're bursting out of the water flying. Maybe you explode in fire or heat and all the water around you just evaporates. It can only get stranger.

I thought I was going to stay trapped with everyone knowing and no one helping: my faith in my fellow-man broke. Then I thought I was going to die and my concern for others shattered.

Reality

Sunday December 1, 2010

10:00 pm

The week of school after Thanksgiving starts tomorrow. I'm already desperate for Christmas break.

The past few months of sophomore year at Winslow High have included what has probably been the worst bullying marathon I've ever heard of and experienced. I couldn't tell you what was worse: knowing Madison, Sophia, and Emma were relentless for no clear reason, or that I knew it was only going to escalate until I escaped for the winter.

Months of the small things are getting to me. Knocking my things down in the hallway or off my desk. Kicking anything and everything I don't grab quick enough. I've grown to be more and more unattached to my stuff. I used to complain loudly, then quieter, then not at all. Just like the tears became stings-not-quite-crying became drawn shoulders and downcast looks.

Shoving and shoulder checking me between classes. Every. Single. Class.

I could almost admire their resolve to making my life hell.

The proverb 'sticks and stones' couldn't account for the piercing effects of nine years worth of told-in-confidence secrets now ammunition against me. Emma was my best friend since we were both five. Best friend… that label doesn't do our relationship justice. I still don't know what changed. Both fourteen coming into high school, and suddenly I didn't even rate as an acquaintance. Stranger then preferred victim.

The bullying has gone on for one school year already, now almost one and a half, and I'd forgotten what it was like to tell a teacher that something was going on, that I was being bullied, targeted. The disappointment would've hurt if I wasn't honestly expecting something to change. Just another piece of my faith in… well at this point I would settle for just simple karma. I know justice isn't coming anytime soon.

Proof. Get proof and we'll talk. If you had any proof maybe we could do something.

I feel like I'm talking to the same pre-recorded message. It doesn't matter if I'm talking to Mr. Gladly, the social-sciences teacher, or Mrs. Blackwell, the principal, or any of the staff. The same answering machine answer with the same dismissive tone. They rarely bothered to look at me after my first semester of complaints.

"If you can prove that they're bullying you, I/we can discuss the appropriate reaction and punishments. Otherwise, I/we have to remain impartial. I/We can't take your word over theirs. I'm/we're Sorry."

Maybe I could believe them if Sophia didn't pour trash on my desk during math while Mr. Quinlan watched, looking away when I met his eyes. If Mrs. Knott, who was there before anyone every morning for homeroom, actually stopped Madison from pranking my chair with something every day. If Emma could, just once, be taken aside by any of the teachers as she practically yelled about my faults, lack of friends, and anything else offensive that came to mind.

They preached zero tolerance and proof, but it really was too inconvenient to apply that to me. After all, Emma Barnes was the daughter or Alan Barnes. You know, the lawyer who worked with New Wave; the complete accountability superhero group with no secret identities and who all held real jobs or went to school. Sophia Hess is the consummate student athlete. She's the track star gunning for a state championship while holding an honors GPA. Madison Clements is that sugary sweet darling, an overly polite and respectful attitude toward teachers to whom she can do no wrong.

They were my evil-Triumvirate, except instead of the three most famous, and arguably powerful, superheroes of the Protectorate, they were the most socially popular and untouchable bullies in my life.

I'll endure. I have to.

What other choice do I have?

Friday December 6, 2010

6:30 am

I woke up unusually upbeat. It really hasn't been too bad this week. I don't mean that as in they're just tormenting me less, but rather it looks like they're actually going to leave me alone. The pranks, taunts, and physical intimidation have all scaled back. It's a pleasant surprise all things considered. Maybe they just got bored. I've pretty much stopped fighting back, and bullies are supposed to stop when you ignore them right?

I spend a few extra minutes lying in bed staring at the ceiling. Fleeting hope bounces back and forth between my head and my heart. Could it be all over? As the listlessness that pervades my thoughts every morning remains absent, I stand on the cusp of hoping for the first time in months. They ignored me every other day this week, and with that barely heartening sentiment, I muster the energy to be almost happy.

I begin my daily ablutions with a quick shower, and then get dressed in plain jeans and a grey shirt. I put on my last 'favorite' sweater, the only one left without bad memories. Today is going to be a good day.

Heading downstairs, I pop outside to pick-up the mail, flipping through the junk addressed to both my dad and the occasional one to the previous owners from over twenty years ago. I'll never understand how these mailing lists are updated. I notice a number of unpaid bills from last month, and put them aside to make sure my dad sees them. As a leader in the Dockworkers Association Union, Danny Hebert works hard to keep the blue collars employed despite the collapse of Brockton Bay's shipping industry several years ago. This city's become more of a tourist hotspot as it became cheaper and cheaper to send cargo hubs further North, like Boston and New York City. We have capes of all kinds here in Brockton, and we're just small enough that tourists usually get to meet one or see some light action.

Dad's been trying to develop a project to stave off the rising unemployment amongst manual laborers. He stresses because without a supply of real jobs, some workers have begun to join the various gangs across the city. These are people who I used to see on a semi-regular basis when my dad would take me to work. Hardworking, down-to-earth, genuine people in tough times. I know my dad takes on more than his share of their burdens when he dukes it out at city hall. The small pile of bills from both this and last month isn't the most promising sign, but he hasn't said anything to me yet.

"Well you're up early!" he calls as he walks down the stairs.

"Yep, I though I'd make French toast this morning. It's been a while" I reply as I dip the first slices of bread and place them on the pan. The breakfast confections sizzle deliciously and I crack a smile.

"Looking forward to the day?" My dad probes with a subtle hint of relief. We don't keep secrets in my family, even before my mom died. Dad knows I've been having trouble at school, and after his first complaint in freshman year lead to me losing my first backpack to the school dumpster, I insisted I could handle it myself. I didn't have the heart to tell him things had gotten worse. But that was all hopefully in the past now.

"Yeah, I really think today's gonna to go great. I'm on top of all my homework and it looks like a free weekend coming up!" It's the first time I haven't been sabotaged since before I can remember. I serve up his plate first since he has to leave earlier.

"That's wonderful Taylor!" My dad's smiling now. "Maybe we can spend a day together on the Boardwalk, maybe even head to the Market. I could even be convinced to window shop," he lightly teases.

Now I'm grinning back. "Sure dad, we haven't done that in long time. Let's check it out tomorrow, for lunch."

"Deal." He finishes eating, puts his plate in the sink, and kisses me on the cheek on his way out. "Bye sweetheart, I love you, have a great day!"

"Bye dad! Love you too!"

Without my dad, I know I would've snapped a long time ago. As it is, I'm proudly daddy's little girl and I try my best to make our lives comfortable. Whether it's chores, grades, or even lying about my school situation, my dad is the only family I have left. After Emma… sometimes I think he's all I have left at all.

I finish breakfast, wash the dishes, grab my backpack, and head to the bus stop. It's time to face the day.

3:00 pm

I really shouldn't be feeling so giddy at being ignored, but after everything I just can't help it. I was invisible today. No pranks, no shoves, no words, not even a single look. Even lunch alone in the bathroom was blissfully undisturbed. I've hidden a growing smile since noon, and it's nearly splitting my face. My eyes must be shining behind my glasses. I had peace for a whole day. I have a free weekend, and my dad's actually free to spend the day with me.

Still smiling, I made my way to my locker, thinking I was right this morning. A great day, probably the start of many, I thought as I reached to turn the locker's built-in combination lock.

10-12-6-19

– click –

The smells hit me first. A pungent mix that I couldn't even think to identify as nausea surged from my guts and out my mouth. On my self, on the locker door, on what was in the locker. Tears streaming, from the rankness and from the violent vomiting, I barely made out what overwhelmed me before being viciously crammed into it.

Bloody tampons and sanitary pads on top of trash; half eaten lunchmeat swarming with bugs; a sickeningly sweet mix of soda and trash juices; rotting fruit and my addition of projectile vomit. I can't stop throwing up. Yellow bile and stomach acid as my stomach pumps itself until it cramps.

Forcing myself to turn around while submerged in mess, I don't know how long it takes me before I'm facing the four small vents letting a glimmer of light into my hell. And then I hear the laughter.

For a moment, just a tiny moment, I can clearly hear Sophia's deeper guffaws, Madison's tinkling tittering, and Emma's once gentle laughter now maliciously sharp.

It's over and the watching crowd drowns them out.

Classes were over and everyone was headed out to go home for the weekend. I was a cheap and easy laugh, the loser stuck in her locker with nasty things. Peer pressure and social norms stop anyone and everyone from helping, especially under the eyes of my bullies. I know they're still watching and laughing. Laughing at my cries and screams. Laughing as I start begging. Pleading to anyone listening, appealing to the sense of dignity and respect people should have for each other. How can they stand by while knowing how wrong this is? It's debasing, dehumanizing, and just fucked up.

"Please, anyone, I can't breathe in here."

Laughter.

"It's disgusting in here, please I'm begging you, anybody."

Laughter.

"Come on, this really isn't funny. I'm going to pass out in here."

Laughter.

The sounds are slowly dying off, and I'm glad it's finally over and they're going to let me go.

"We're going to leave you in here. That'll teach you your place. You're nothing and you never will be."

Sophia

Uneasiness creeps over me like a looming shadow.

"Have fun Taylor!"

Madison

My stomach drops and terror seizes me.

"Goodbye Taylor."

Emma.

With a flat voice she cuts through the tiny modicum of hope I still held to get my former best friend back. The girl who grew up with me, who did everything with me, who ignored my awkwardness, who was there when my mom died.

Shock and horror. This wasn't a joke any more. I barely hear them laughing together as they walk away. They'd probably waited until they were the last ones left. There was no one there to help me. I was alone, and I black out.

Tiny legs crawling along my neck wake me up with a shot of fear and disgust. I'm trying to jump away before I remember where I am: stuck in a festering locker.

The dim light from the moon barely crawls through the vents and I take stock of my circumstances. Buried in filth with no way out. How could they do this to me? How could nobody help? I know I would help. There are some lines you don't cross. Morals exist, otherwise civilization couldn't. Humans had to care for each other, had to acknowledge that others were people too; individuals with their respective hopes and dreams as it were. How could NOBODY help?

I'm crying again as I move my arms to try to get some leverage on the door. I can barely push against it, and I'm not sure what I'm going to do even if I could. Arms in front of me, bent at the elbows, I feebly begin banging on the locker door. My last favorite sweater has soaked up some of the juices around me, and it gets on my face as I continue my limited movements.

How long have I been doing this? An hour? Two? Exhaustion settles in my shoulders first, I can barely hold my arms up. Next in my legs as the locker's shape forces me to stay standing. The metal door is unyielding. Stiff, cold, hard metal. It's probably barely half a centimeter thick, but I might as well jump across the bay in a single bound.

If only I was a parahuman. If I had some kind of power that could let me walk through it, blow it away, anything. But I'm just Taylor. Just Taylor who was locked in a locker alone. Abandoned. Just Taylor who isn't anyone special, had no friends.

Dad is probably starting to get worried now

The thought brings tears to my eyes, tears that I thought I'd run out of.

Dad, Daddy, I'm so sorry.

I cry myself to sleep, or I pass out. There isn't much of a difference at this point.

The December cold wakes me up with a shiver. Then I keep shivering and feel my forehead. Do I have a fever? I have to use the bathroom.

Time passes and my bodily fluids join the filth around me. I'm beyond humiliated and can't bring myself to care. More shivering wracks my body and I remember the school shuts off the heat over the weekend.

How long have I been here?

Delirium has joined Cold and Fever and Filth.

Incomprehensible images pass before my eyes. Fever dreams mixed with a deteriorating consciousness. Shivering.

Everyone left me here. Most of the school must know I'm here. None of them care. Just like the metal of the locker. Just going on with their own existences. It doesn't bend just because I might die. They don't care about anything but their own lives.

Pain joins my other guests. Entering the festivities with a building migraine.

I don't care any more.

Stark acceptance: I'm going to die in here.

More delusions flash before me. An out-of-body experience. I see some big shapes. Ignore the images, just try to stay awake.

Did I pass out again? I can't tell any more. Sunlight streams thro– wait. That's too much light. I lean back from the locker door and bring my limited focus to bear. The top of the locker door is slightly bent outward. Not much, just a small crack, but bigger than the vents. Maybe an inch?

I weakly push with everything I have left, and it moves a little more. At least another inch now. I push again, but I'm too tired. So tired I feel it even more clearly than anything else. Bone-achingly, mind-numbingly tired. There isn't any hope in this.

I just wanted to live. Forget revenge, forget hate, forget unfairness and forget caring. I just want to live.

Fever, Delirium, and Pain hit me with another incognizable set of illusions and images. Have to stay focused, ignore the nonsense. I hear drips. My nose is bleeding now.

Dizziness spins into view, sucking away all the other feelings in a whirlpool. I feel the combination lock spin and click before I'm falling.

Looking for a beta, please PM me if interested.

~Sleep