Ember 2.2

I had to give credit to Mr. Hebert—he reacted a lot more calmly than I expected him to. He didn't raise his voice, call the police, or do anything dramatic like that. He simply locked the door behind him and, when Taylor gestured him over, sat across from us at the table.

I let Taylor do most of the talking, to try to give this unbelievable situation some semblance of sense for him to process. She explained how she had come across me, how I had proven to her that I really was Emma, how I had told her things only I could have known, about the dress I was wearing, and how I could regenerate. Thankfully, she didn't tell him about my rather bloody demonstration of that last bit.

She even helped me show my power to him, though we used a kitchen knife as opposed to the kukri or kamas. She was the one that insisted on using the knife, however—I guess she was still worried that I might try to do something crazy again, like stabbing myself with it or opening up my arm like before. She had cut a faint slice against the back of my hand, only a small line of red to indicate the injury, and Mr. Hebert had watched with wide eyes as the cut sealed itself over.

He said nothing as Taylor continued to say her piece, only listening, though he kept a wary eye on me and the weapons on the table the whole time.

"So, let me make sure I'm understanding all this," Mr. Hebert said, after Taylor was done speaking. "You're actually Emma Barnes, the same Emma Barnes who was best friends with Taylor for the longest time, and last year, at the alley, you ended up…" He trailed off, looking over at Taylor.

"Triggering," she supplied helpfully.

"Right. You triggered and got powers—some kind of healing power that let you come back from the dead today, dug out of your own grave, and came here, nearly nine months after the fact?"

Well, when you put it like that it did sound fairly ridiculous. I tried to think up an adequate answer, something to soothe his doubts. Unfortunately, nothing particularly brilliant came immediately to mind.

"Um, yes?" Good going, Emma—real eloquent.

He sighed, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes. "I'm not sure what to make of all this." He put his glasses back on and gazed at me. "You talk like her, you look a lot like her—no, you look exactly like she did on the day we buried her, down to the last detail. And I can believe that you're a parahuman too. That much is obvious, from what you showed me. But—" He broke off, hesitating, an apologetic look on his face.

"But, you're still not sure if I really am her," I finished for him.

"It's… I've never heard of a parahuman that's come back from the dead," he said, scratching his head. "I'd like to believe you. I want to believe you. It's—"

"She is Emma, Dad," Taylor said. "Like I told you, she only knows things that Emma could have. And she has the dress that… that Mom bought for her. The same one she was buried in. How else would you explain all that if she wasn't Emma?"

I felt a surge of gratitude towards Taylor for stepping up in my defense when she herself had been having the same doubts not even an hour ago.

"I know, Taylor," Mr. Hebert said. "I know. This is a little hard for me to take in. It's not every day that someone you thought was dead isn't." He looked over at Taylor. "You believe she's really Emma?"

"I do," Taylor replied without hesitation.

Taylor's dad inhaled deeply, nodding his head, coming to a decision. "Okay, okay. Amazing as it sounds, if Taylor believes you, then I do as well. I believe you… Emma."

I let loose a breath I hadn't even noticed I had been holding before. Taylor gave me a small, reassuring smile and I gave her one right back.

"That said, there's still the other issue," Mr. Hebert said, catching my attention. His eyes were fixed on the kukri and the kamas. "Taylor, you told me how you met Emma, how she was trying to find her parents and you," he said cautiously, "but, why are all these weapons on the table? And the blood?"

"Dad," Taylor said, glanced at me, her eyes filled with worry, "I'm not sure if it's the best time to get into all that. Emma's been through a lot and—"

"No," I interjected. "It's okay." I took a deep breath. "That's a fair question, Mr. Hebert."

"Emma," Taylor said, gripping my shoulder, her eyes shining with concern. "You don't have to put yourself through that again. Once was more than enough."

I gave her a shaky smile, laughing weakly. "Trust me. I'm not planning on it. I'm not going to say everything—only the gist of it. Your dad only wants to make sure that I'm not getting you into any trouble."

Mr. Hebert seemed uncomfortable when I said that last sentence, confirming my suspicion. Still, it was a reasonable request. And talking to Taylor about everything had helped. I wasn't about to delve into the details of it like I had with Taylor, but the thought of giving voice to the basics didn't seem to bother me as much anymore. I had survived this far. I could afford to talk to my best friend's dad. I'd rip off the proverbial band-aid off and move on.

I paused, wondering how to explain the rest of what had happened without freaking him out, to distill what had been several hours of blood, sweat, and tears into a few pithy sentences. I rapped my fingers against the table cloth as I mulled that over. At the end of the day, I guess you couldn't beat the facts.

"When I got out of the cemetery, I was in a bad part of town, in the middle of the night. I ran into some people. They wanted to… take advantage of me," I said, a slight shudder running through me as I recalled what they had wanted to do to me.

I tapped a finger against the handle of the kukri. "I didn't let them." I coughed, before gathering myself and gesturing towards the kamas on the table. "I was still in a bad spot, so I ran into some more of them. They didn't like what I had done—they weren't going to let me go. We had a disagreement; I won, they lost." I wiped off a stray streak of blood along the edge of kama. "That's what I've been up to before I ran into Taylor. That's where the coat and the weapons came from. That's where all the blood came from."

He didn't say anything. I could see the unease in his eyes, as he understood all of the things I hadn't explicitly said, but I also could see the sadness and sympathy mixed in. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said kindly. "That must have been hard for you to have to go through all that, to have to make that kind of decision."

It would have been easy to agree with him, to cast myself into a more sympathetic light, to feed that lie, as comforting as it could have been. That, sure, I had killed thirteen people, but it wasn't like there was something fundamentally wrong with me. I mean, what could you expect out of anyone else that was placed in circumstances as horrible as the ones I had faced?

And yet, for much as I would be lying to Taylor's dad, I would also be lying to myself. This entire mess began because I hadn't been strong enough to face the facts, to take reality for what it was, not that I wanted it to be.

"No," I corrected him. "It wasn't hard. Wasn't hard at all." I clenched my fists, thinking back on the fights I had been in. "You'd think it would be a hard thing to do, to kill someone, to watch them bleed out on the ground. But it wasn't."

Taylor's face was drawn up in alarm. "Emma, we already went over this." She looked over at her dad. "She's tired, we can—"

I raised a hand to stop her. I appreciated the sentiment, but this was something I had to do. "No, your dad needs to know what he's getting involved with—what you're getting involved with. It wouldn't be fair to either of you elsewise."

I continued speaking before she had a chance to say anything else. "You'd think I'd feel bad, maybe guilty for what I've done, but I don't. If anything, I felt relieved. That it was them, not me."

"I think that's perfectly natural," Mr. Hebert said, his fingers entwined on the table cloth. "You had to what you did to survive. And when you did, you were grateful you were still alive. There's nothing wrong about that."

I shook my head. He wasn't getting it. "It's more than that. I've got… urges," I said. "When I said that killing wasn't hard, I meant it. But, that's not even the half of it. The way I've killed people, what I've been willing to do to accomplish it, how easily it comes to me—it's like there's some part of myself that's more animal than human, that becomes this thing that tries to destroy anything in its way, no matter the cost to me, let alone anyone else."

"I don't think it's my power, or at least, it's not only my power that's behind these urges. Maybe it highlighted what was already inside me to begin with. For you guys, the… the attack at the alley happened months ago." I met Mr. Hebert's gaze steadily as I spoke. "For me, it's been only hours. And even back there, without powers, in that alley, I became something. Something ugly. Even after I got my powers, what's inside me now just feels like an extension of that same feeling." I jerked my head over at Taylor. "I've already told Taylor about it."

"These urges…" Taylor's dad said awkwardly, "can you control them? Stop yourself from acting on them?" His eyes flicked over towards Taylor, before snapping back to me. He had done it so quickly that I don't think Taylor had caught it.

There was a sinking feeling in my gut, as I understood what he had left unstated. He was asking if I was a danger to Taylor, if he needed to do something to keep her safe from me, even if that meant turning me away. He was asking me if I could ever do to Taylor what I had done to Yan or the others.

I swallowed, wishing for any other conversation but this. "If you're asking me if I'm dangerous, Mr. Hebert, the answer to that is yes, I am. If you're asking if I could ever pose a threat to you or to Taylor, then I don't think so. Everything in me tells me that I can't even imagine doing something like that, that I'd rather die first."

"But?" Mr. Hebert said gently.

I had to force the words out, each one like a leaden stone against my chest. "But, I can't say in good faith that I know a hundred percent for sure."

Taylor shifted in her seat to face me, shocked into silence. It was difficult to say the last few bits, but somehow, I pushed through. "And if… if you feel like you need me to leave, so that Taylor doesn't get caught up in all this, I'll… I'll understand."

Taylor managed to recover her voice. "Emma!" Her face was drawn up in horror at the very idea of it and she turned to face her dad. "Dad, you can't make Emma leave, no matter what she says." Her eyes narrowed. "She just came back from the dead and you want to throw her out?"

Mr. Hebert met Taylor's glare calmly. "No one said anything about throwing anyone out, Taylor."

"You were thinking about it," she accused and he didn't reply.

For several seconds, no one said anything. Beneath the table, Taylor's hand grasped mine and she squeezed it in support. I gave her a grateful glance and squeezed back.

I could have been angry with him, I suppose, for even considering the issue. I could have been furious out of my mind for him even suggesting that I could hurt Taylor—I could have screamed at him, cursed him out, or worse. I didn't do any of that—I didn't even feel any real anger towards him. It would just mean that his worries were right—that I couldn't be trusted. And as much as the possibility of rejection hurt me, scared me even, the idea of harming Taylor or her father frightened me more.

For as easy as it would have been to resent him for asking the question, for thinking the options over like he was, he was only looking out for his daughter. It was what any father would have done for their child—it's why my dad would have done for me. And I couldn't blame him for that at all.

Mr. Hebert spoke slowly, as if carefully deciding on each word before saying it. "Emma, I've known you ever since you first met Taylor, years and years ago. You've always been Taylor's best friend and our families have shared dinners on more occasions than I can count. I've watched both of you grow up together and I've wanted nothing but the best for the two of you. But, when—"

His voice broke and he had to clear his throat before he continued, "When Annette died, I wasn't there for my daughter in the way I should have been." He gazed directly at Taylor. "I let you down that time, Taylor, and as much as I was hurting then, you were hurting just as bad, and I shouldn't have done that to you. Your mom wouldn't have wanted that to happen."

Taylor's eyes drooped with sadness. "Dad."

He turned to look at me. "And when I wasn't there for my daughter, your mother was. At one point, I don't think Taylor was even eating for almost a week, and as ashamed as I am to say it, she had to turn to your mother to pick up where I failed." He smiled wryly, eyebrows scrunched up as if remembering something. "Your mother tore into me pretty badly—she made me feel like a schoolkid getting a stern talking to from their teacher. And I deserved it. Taylor had to go to your family for help, and they answered. You and your family stepped up, until I was able to."

"I don't believe you're a monster, Emma," Taylor's dad said quietly. "I trust my daughter's judgment and she wouldn't have let you into the house if you weren't still the same Emma she had grown up with. And I don't think I could face myself if I took the kindness you and your family gave us in a time of need and repaid it by turning you away when you need help."

He reached across the table to place a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Taylor and I will help you get through this, Emma. If Annette were here instead of me, I know that's what she'd do as well."

I looked down, not wanting him to see the tears growing in my eyes. I wiped at my eyes, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted off of me. "Thank you," I said. "Thank you." Taylor wrapped an arm around my shoulder and squeezed, pulling me into a one-armed hug. I leaned into her embrace and after a moment, we broke apart, both of us a little teary-eyed.

Mr. Hebert looked between the two of us with some amusement. "Is there something you'd like first?"

I looked down at myself, at the bloodied, torn, dirt-stained dress under the red coat. With all the blood and grime I had been exposed to, I felt icky all over. "A shower and a change of clothes would be nice."

Mr. Hebert smiled softly. "I think that can be arranged."

I exited the bathroom, the bath towel wrapped tightly around me from the chest down. It had taken me longer than I had expected—after so many hours, dried splotches of blood and dirt had almost fused itself onto my skin and I really had to work to get it all off. I had to really scrub and scrub to get every last bit off. Still, it had been nice to be able to wash off like that—something that seemed almost a luxury given all of what I had gone through. Soaking under the fire hydrant earlier had helped, but it couldn't compare to a hot shower.

I headed towards Taylor's room, across the hall, opposite Mr. Hebert's. Taylor had told me that she'd give me some of her old clothes—it felt odd to think that Taylor had outgrown me to the point that it would have to be her old clothes that would fit me—and she'd put my coat in the laundry for tomorrow. The dress was probably close to unrecoverable, unfortunately, though Mr. Hebert had said that he would see if it would be possible to fix it up somehow.

Unsurprisingly, the weapons had made him uncomfortable, but I had insisted on keeping them. Despite the things I had gone through to gain them, I wasn't eager to give those blades up anytime soon—they had helped me out in trying times. He ultimately agreed to storing them in one of the closets, out of sight on top of the high shelf.

The door to Taylor's bedroom was slightly ajar and I opened it, stepping through. "Taylor?" I called out, feeling a bit cheerier after that refreshing shower. "Taylor, have you—"

I stopped in my tracks, my eyes widening. Taylor pulled down her shirt as fast as she could, whirling around to face me, but she hadn't been fast enough. I had only glimpsed it for a fraction of a second, but that had been more enough to see it. It had looked like…

"Taylor?" I said, still reeling from trying to process what I had seen. "What was that?"

Taylor smoothed out the sleeves of the shirt she had changed into, a solid matte gray T-shirt. "It's nothing." She gestured behind her towards her bed, where a T-shirt, pajamas, and some underwear were neatly arranged. "Anyway, I got you the clothes you wanted. I'll just let you—"

"Don't change the subject," I said sharply, shutting the door behind me. I stepped towards her and she backed away from me, stumbling on the bed behind her and almost rattling the nearby bookshelf. "Taylor, let me see—" I got on the bed myself, pushing her beneath me, crumpling the pajamas beside her.

"Emma, it's really not a big deal," she protested, though she didn't resist any further when I grabbed ahold of the bottom of her shirt and carefully lifted it up.

Ugly hues of blue and dark purple greeted me, a medley of discolored streaks and splotches that had rested along the left side of her body, where her lower ribs would be. The bruises wrapped around, starting from the sides and ending towards her back. I pressed against one of the darker spots and Taylor couldn't avoid flinching against me, letting out a brief hiss of pain. I rubbed lightly against the area, which felt swollen and tender. Paler, faded bruises were dotted around her stomach and beneath her bra as well, remnants of some older injuries.

Thankfully, she didn't seem to have any difficulty breathing and I hadn't noticed her having any issues moving around earlier. If she had, then that would have been good reason to think that her ribs were fractured. Melody had been no doctor, but she had known that broken ribs were no joke—depending on how bad, they could easily be life-threatening if they punctured the lung.

I let loose a sigh of relief, that it wasn't the worst case scenario, and pulled her shirt back down. The relief quickly gave way to dismay. "My God, Taylor," I said, aghast as I got off of her, shifting around to a space beside her on the twin-size bed. "Not a big deal? There's more bruise here than skin on you! What the hell happened?"

"I took a bad fall the other day." The words came out in a rush, as if she couldn't get them out fast enough. Her head was turned away from me, her long, dark hair concealing her face. "I was running and—"

"Taylor!" I took a breath, forcing myself to lower my voice. "You don't get bruises like that from just taking a spill." I pointed a finger towards her chest. "And you can't expect me to believe you have multiple 'accidents' like that all the time. Who did this to you?"

"No one did this to me, Emma," Taylor said patiently, sitting up and brushing away her hair from her face. She still didn't meet my eyes, however. "Really, it's not a big deal. It doesn't even hurt that much and it'll go away with some ice and hot packs later."

It was a painfully bald lie. With how bad the bruises around her ribs looked, I knew that those couldn't be old injuries. They were too fresh for that and she had been hiding them under her clothes the whole time. And she had to have been in pain every time we had hugged today—which had been a lot. I felt a surge of guilt at that: I had been hurting Taylor this whole time and I hadn't even noticed it.

And given how there were faded bruises alongside the new ones, whatever or whoever was affecting her had been doing so more than once. This wasn't some one-off incident. The thought of that sent a spike of anger through my gut and I had to calm myself at the thought of Taylor being harmed like that over time.

Was someone abusing her? For the tiniest fraction of an instant, I thought of Mr. Hebert before I immediately dismissed that. The very concept of it was ridiculous. I couldn't even imagine Mr. Hebert being violent or abusive to anyone, especially not Taylor. Was it trouble at school then, some people she had crossed and gotten on the wrong side of?

I raised Taylor's chin, making her meet my eyes. She looked tense, her shoulders shrunk on herself. I hesitated, before asking, "Taylor, is someone hurting you? Bullying you?"

There was a flash of something through her dark eyes when I asked that, but it passed too quickly for me to track. She averted her gaze, turned her eyes away from mine. "Emma, it's nothing. Really."

Still, she kept on avoiding the question. I didn't understand why she was so reluctant to say anything. Something told me that not even Mr. Hebert had an idea of what had happened to Taylor. Was she afraid to appear weak in front of me, some sort of attempt on her part to project strength?

That didn't make much sense either. Before, Taylor and I had been as open as we could be to each other, sharing our hopes, dreams, and fears. She had even confided in me some of her deepest held worries, as we had shared on that bridge after her mom died. I had to reach out to that part of her somehow, to make her see that she had no reason to hide herself away from me.

"Taylor," I said softly, "you know you can tell me anything, right? If you're worried about your dad knowing, I promise I won't tell him. You can trust me. We… we used to talk to each other all the time."

A small shudder ran through her body at that. She met my eyes this time, but there was a distant quality to hers, almost an emptiness in those dark pools. "Emma, I really am okay. There's nothing to worry about and it's nothing I can't handle."

I stared at her, utterly confused. Why was she deflecting like this? Taylor was all but pleading with me not to press her on this, her body language speaking volumes despite what her words belied. With the way she hadn't met my eyes before, the way she held herself, she seemed almost afraid of me pursuing any questions along this direction.

But, why would she refuse so hard to even acknowledge that she was having problems, that someone was hurting her? It was almost as if she was protecting someone, which made no sense. Maybe it was something more basic, some deeper kind of shame. Was she involved in something? Had she fallen in with the wrong crowd somehow?

"It's really nothing, Emma," Taylor repeated. She gave me a wan smile. "Come on, today's about you, not me. Don't worry about me—let me worry about you. I'd feel silly thinking these little bumps are anything to worry about, especially with what you've gone through."

I stiffened, a brief memory of the alley coming back to me: the gleam of the knife, the thugs holding me down, Lao pocketing my—

It passed quickly, but Taylor had caught it. Her eyebrows creased in concern and her face fell.

"Oh, Emma, I'm so sorry." She looked distraught, almost alarmingly so as she wrung her hands. "I shouldn't have—"

I waved a hand to cut her off. I didn't want her to become as upset as she had when we had talked earlier, when I had explained everything to her. "No, it's alright, it's alright. It's not as bad—"

I stopped speaking, an idea coming to me. I was downplaying my own issues so as to not worry Taylor, to not upset her. Was Taylor doing something similar? That she could be deflecting away from her own problems so as to shield me from them as I had just tried with her?

Maybe she didn't want me to worry about her. It wasn't as simple as merely fear of appearing weak or that she was protecting someone else—though it could be that too. No, she had been trying to protect me. The more I reflected on that theory, the more sense it made. Throughout the conversation with her dad, even as reasonable as some of the questions he had raised had been, and despite my own willingness to discuss them, she had been almost afraid for me. She had been willing to stand against her father in my support and as much as I loved her for it, I wondered about it all the same.

Even though there was obviously something seriously going wrong in her life right now, she was still trying to protect me somehow from it, to keep me from getting involved in her own troubles, to keep me safe. She was more distressed at the thought of me being distressed than her own predicament. She'd rather take her lumps than worry me—or her father—even when they had gotten as bad as what she faced now.

"Taylor," I said carefully, "is there something else going on here? You know I can take care of myself, right?"

"I know," she replied, still seeming uneasy. "I just didn't want to make you upset."

"Come on." I gave her a weak grin. "I'm made of tougher stuff than that now. You don't have to worry about upsetting me. You haven't done anything wrong, Taylor."

At that, Taylor's body trembled next to mine, and I leaned back, surprised. She hung her head, eyes downcast, and the guilt practically wafted off of her like smoke. "I didn't want to let you down again," she whispered.

Again? What did she mean by… oh. Oh, Taylor.

"Is this about the phone call?" After a moment, she gave a minute nod. My shoulders slumped—I knew she had been troubled when I had talked about how I had hung up on her just before the attack, but I didn't realize that it was such a big issue for her. But, as I thought about it, I wanted to kick myself for not considering it earlier. Of course, it would have affected her—to be the very last person to talk to your best friend, having no idea what happened when they hung suddenly, and then hearing later on that they died right after the call ended?

That would mess with anyone's head.

I put an arm at her back and rubbed in slow, circular motions. "Taylor, you know there was nothing you could have done, right? There was no way to know. Taylor, you don't bear any blame for what happened to me."

"Yes." She cleared her throat before nodding sharply. "Yes, I… I know that." Most people would have been satisfied with that answer. The words and perhaps even the body language fit. But, they would have been fooled just as much as Taylor was trying to fool herself right now: her eyes, the way her lip quivered—I knew she didn't really mean it, even if she was trying to convince herself of it.

She had been talking to me only seconds before the attack, before I had hung up on her. What had happened to me couldn't possibly be considered her fault. Unfortunately, the heart isn't always logical like that.

Had she been torturing herself with this for the last nine months? The feeling must have festered inside of her, eaten at her. Maybe it wasn't always out there at the forefront of her mind, but it was present on some level. And when I had come back, even as glad as she was to see me again, my returned presence must have made all of that buried guilt spring back up to the surface.

I was at a loss for words. This wasn't something I could fix with a few one-liners lifted off of a Hallmark card. I could tell Taylor a thousand times that she wasn't at fault, and she'd agree a thousand times without really meaning it. Still, I had to do something for her. Taylor had listened to me, had been there for me, when I had been giving voice to my demons earlier. And what kind of friend would I be if I didn't return the favor?

An idea struck me. Trite and predictable perhaps—but those ideas tended to work all the same. I patted Taylor's back. "All this gloom and doom business is depressing. Taylor, why don't we go do something fun instead?"

"What?" I almost winced at how flat and dull her tone was.

"Well," I said slyly, stretching out the L, "I seem to remember that we never got around to that Star Wars marathon you always wanted to do. You insisted on us doing that at one point, you remember?"

Taylor stirred a little at that and a faint smile came to her lips. "And I remember that you weren't interested in going through seven hours of watching 'space wizards and bad CGI,' as you put it."

"Hey," I said, injecting some more cheer into my voice, "you did always say I was missing out. And there's no time like the present, right?"

She nodded sluggishly. "I suppose."

"Great!" I enthused, getting off the bed. "We'll get your dad and make an event of it—"

I flailed about, missing the towel by inches. With all of the shifting and moving about I had done on the bed, it had come loose and popped free. Mortified, I grabbed the towel off the ground and tried my best to recover my dignity. Unfortunately, that still meant a couple of seconds of going au naturel and I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.

"Uh, give me a moment first?"

Taylor just laughed and laughed.

"Oh, come on!" I groaned, waving a hand towards the television screen indignantly. "They're seriously using teddy bears in this movie?"

"You're not alone in not being a fan of the Ewoks," Mr. Hebert said, handing a bowl of fresh, buttered popcorn to Taylor. She placed it on the table in front of us and I could see steam rising off of the surface.

She tossed some popcorn in her mouth, before pushing the bowl over towards me. "Don't worry—they don't take up too much screen time. At least it's not as bad as what they tried doing in the prequels."

"Or the Holiday Special," Taylor's dad commented, taking a seat next to her on the couch and putting an arm around her shoulder.

Taylor closed her eyes, shivering dramatically against me. "We don't talk about that one, Dad."

I giggled behind my hand, amused at Taylor's antics. "Maybe we'll watch that one after this then," I teased and she lightly swatted my shoulder in response.

We were well into Return of the Jedi at this point, having blitzed through the first two films earlier, though we had taken breaks in between and we had to stop at one point to eat dinner—some leftover porkchops with vegetables Taylor had made last night. I had seen A New Hope in the past with Dad, and only vaguely remembered it, being six or seven at the time. I had never bothered to return to the series when I was older. Sci-fi was more Taylor's speed anyway and when she had learned last year (well, two years ago now) that I had never seen the "best, awesomest movie series out there"—her exact words—she had harangued me on and off on much I had been missing out.

Cultural osmosis had ensured that I knew enough of the highlights of the series—Vader being Luke's father was no surprise to me by now—but "knowing" and seeing were two very different things. Now that I had a chance to watch it, I had to say that it wasn't bad. Okay, that wasn't fair—it was actually pretty good. Sure, I complained when those stormtroopers couldn't hit Luke or Han even once and I told Taylor how the lightsaber fight in A New Hope was kind of lame, but the moment I heard Obi-Wan reach out to tell Luke to "use the Force," I knew right there and then that I was hooked.

I had gotten a chill down my neck when Yoda lifted the X-Wing, I had watched anxiously as Han Solo had been frozen in carbonite, and I had been captivated by the brutal duel between Vader and Luke at the end of the second film. I had felt happy for Leia and Han when she freed him from his imprisonment, had been saddened by the death of Yoda, and I had even been surprised to learn that Leia was Luke's sister. I hadn't known that last bit before.

Ewoks aside, I watched the rest of Return of the Jedi with Taylor and Mr. Hebert without complaint and during the final showdown with Vader, Luke, and the Emperor, I had been rooted to the edge of my seat, not even touching the popcorn. By the time the credits were rolling, the John Williams score swelling in the background, I just felt empty—the kind of hollowness you get when you finish a good book or TV show, when you have to say goodbye to those characters for good.

Looking it superficially, you could consider it a movie just about space wizards, but it was honestly much more than that. It told a classic tale about good versus evil, love and loss, the hero's journey, redemption and sacrifice, and more. It was the kind of movie series that stuck with you for a while, the sort you would keep turning over in your mind for days or weeks to come.

Also, Mark Hamill was kind of cute.

It had been just past midnight by the time we were done and Taylor was clearly wiped out by the end of it. She had started yawning towards the middle of Return of the Jedi and had only grown progressively tired from there. Mr. Hebert and I helped her ascend the stairs to his room, where the two of flopped onto Mr. Hebert's bed. Taylor's room had only a twin-size bed—not nearly enough room for both of us—so for now, we'd be sleeping on the bed he and Taylor's mom used to share.

Taylor clung to me sleepily as I helped her into bed, saying something under her breath. We were already in pajamas, so neither of us needed to change. By the time I pulled the blanket up over both of us, she was out like a light. I just sank back into my pillow, turning around to get comfortable in the bed, Taylor's back against mine.

Spending time with Taylor all day had been… nice. Familiar.

It reminded me of all the times we had spent together, where we could entertain ourselves with anything and everything, content to just enjoy each other's company, and I smiled just thinking about the evening again. Just as much as tonight had helped Taylor to get her mind off of all the guilt and gloom, it had helped me just as well: to be able to relax and not worry about the future with everything different now, to not have to wrack my brains on what I should do.

She had been so down earlier and I was glad to see her loosen up as more and more time passed throughout the marathon. By the end of it, she was clearly in a good mood, even if she hadn't laughed or smiled as much as I had liked or even as much as I remembered she would in the past.

Still, as fun as tonight had been, I couldn't stop thinking about those bruises I had seen beneath Taylor's shirt. My thoughts kept returning to that disturbing sight—the pattern of blue and black, the faded bruises above and more. And yet what alarmed just as much, if not more, was Taylor's insistence on not telling me anything about it. I didn't know if I could get her to open up to me about what had happened, but I'd have to keep an eye on her. I wouldn't let her come to harm again, even if she wouldn't tell me what the problem was.

If I ever came across the person who had done that to Taylor… I'm not sure if I could have contained myself from hurting them. Hell, who was I kidding? With what I had already done earlier, I'd be hard pressed not to escalate to outright murder if the opportunity arose and I had a feeling that it wouldn't be pretty once I was done with them. All I'd need was the kukri and a few seconds. It wouldn't be that hard, especially compared to the shit I had survived thus far.

But, I couldn't do anything about it now and as much as the thought of ending whoever was behind Taylor's injuries held a dark appeal, there wasn't much point in fantasizing about it now. For now, I'd just get some rest and worry about it again tomorrow. I closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing, trying to catch some shut-eye.

I'm not sure how much time passed as I laid there, the silence interrupted only by Taylor's snoring, but I just wasn't getting tired. In fact, now that I thought about it, I hadn't been tired ever since I had to dig out of my own grave. I knew that physical exertion couldn't wear me out; it was what had allowed me to claw through hundreds of pounds of dirt, to go through fight after fight, and I could maintain a full running sprint indefinitely. But, did that mean that I couldn't get tired period, that even sleep would be denied to me?

I gave it some more time, the minutes slipping away, before I admitted defeat. I slowly moved the blanket off of me, before I sat up. Moving as silently as I could so as to not wake Taylor, I got off the bed and headed over to Taylor's side. For a few moments, I just watched her sleep—she was turned over on her side, one arm under her head and the other clutching her pillow, her chest steadily rising and falling with each breath. Even though she was taller than me now, perhaps even stronger too, she looked so small lying like this, so vulnerable.

I gently tucked the covers around her shoulders some more. "Sweet dreams, Taylor," I whispered, exiting the room and quietly closing the door behind me.

Darkness greeted me and I could barely even see my hand in front of my face. Well, there was a remedy for that. I took ahold of the vibrating pulse beneath my neck and forced it outward, a burst of subsonic noise "illuminating" the area around me into a comprehensible snapshot of my surroundings.

I grinned in the dark—powers did have their perks. Heading down the stairs, using Cricket's power to avoid falling over myself, I was surprised to see that a light was still on, from the kitchen area it seemed like.

Mr. Hebert was sitting at the kitchen table, a plate of jam and toast in front of him along with a jug of milk and some glasses. His eyes flicked towards me in surprise, as I came into the room.

"Emma? You're still up?"

"Yeah," I said, feeling a bit embarrassed at being caught out by him. "Do you mind if I…" I gestured towards the seat across from him.

"Go ahead. Do you want anything?"

"Just some milk, if you'd please."

I took the milk he poured for me as I sat down, thanking him. He watched me curiously, taking a sip of his own milk.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"Actually, I don't think I'm capable of it anymore," I confessed. "I don't feel tired at all even though I've been up for a while now."

Mr. Hebert's eyebrows rose. "Is that another part of your—"

"Powers? I think so."

"A lot of people would be happy to have something like that," he said, wiping away some stray breadcrumbs off of his mouth with a napkin. "You'd have a lot more time to be productive."

I shrugged. "Right now, I'd settle just to give my mind a chance to stop working all the time. I'd like to slow down and just get a chance to relax. What about you? I thought you and Taylor usually woke up early."

"We do, but I was feeling restless tonight. It's been an unusual day."

I gulped down another shot of milk. "Yeah, I can't argue with that," I said, my lips curving upward as I thought about how the evening had gone. "Still, it had a pretty good ending."

"Yes, today was a good day," Mr. Hebert agreed, setting aside his milk. "I don't think I've seen Taylor as happy or lively as she was tonight for a while yet."

"That's good to hear—" I paused, thinking over his statement again. He considered today a good day for her, an exceptional day even? Sure, she had cheered up some by the end, but even then, she had been virtually a wallflower compared to the Taylor from before. If today had been one of her good days, what did that suggest about all the other ones?

Taylor's dad was still speaking, not having noticed my sudden silence. "…remember when you would come over for dinner and the slumber parties after. Taylor was so hyper back then." He was looking up towards the ceiling, his eyes unfocused in thought. "There was that one time you two woke me up in the middle of the night, blasting music so loud that the neighbors had almost called the police." He smiled fondly. "That had been an awkward conversation in the morning."

He reminisced some more as I listened, but I wasn't paying attention to what he said so much so as what he didn't say. He kept talking about how happy Taylor had been before with the two of us, back in the past, not how she was now. Unease wound itself inside me, as I thought about the implications of what he wasn't saying, what he had left unstated.

They weren't pleasant, not in the slightest.

Even now, it had seemed so odd for Taylor to be so quiet earlier, even if she had perked up some by the night's end. Before, she'd talk about old Star Trek episodes her dad had gotten her hooked on, the latest gossip on Alexandria—anything and everything we wanted to talk about, no boundaries or limits. Taylor had a wealth of energy for as long as I could remember, a vitality and vigor that I could barely keep up with. And as annoying as it could be at times, it was the best part of her as well, and I wouldn't have traded it for anything else.

Sure, things hadn't been easy after her mom passed away. She didn't smile or laugh as often and when she had, I had seen the pain lurking beneath the surface. Conversations would sometimes end abruptly and our regular outings became more awkward, sometimes they even felt wasted. But for all that, Taylor had put on a brave front, doing the best she could under the circumstances.

"…nice that the two of us were able to spend time together again—and you facilitated that," Mr. Hebert said, drawing me out of my thoughts. He reached across, patted my hand on the table. "Taylor's missed you for a while. I know that you've gone through a lot, but I'm glad the two of you are together after all this time. I'm happy that she has a friend again."

I don't think it was Mr. Hebert's intention, but with every word he spoke, every part he left unsaid, he only added another stroke to the disturbing picture he was painting of Taylor.

Isolated. Distant. Unhappy. Withdrawn. Friendless.

The last time we had talked on the phone, right before the… the attack, Taylor had seemed like she was going back to her old self in full force—becoming once more the same Taylor who could easily fill in for both participants in a conversation, who'd drive you mad one minute and bring a smile to your face the next, the same Taylor I had known and loved for the longest time.

And now, today, she was instead this reserved, morose person who dressed differently, talked differently, even walked differently. Her tone, her affect, all that and more had changed: she sounded more solemn now, less vibrant, almost nothing like the fun-loving girl that she had started to grow back into. Taylor hadn't been this bad even after her mom died.

Today had been one of her best days? What the hell did a bad day look like then?

Worst of all, there were those bruises to consider—the injuries she hadn't told her dad about and the same ones she had refused to explain to me, evidence that someone or something was hurting her and regularly too.

What happened to you, Taylor?

"Are you alright?" Mr. Hebert said, examining me closely. He smiled lightly. "I didn't bore you to sleep, did I?"

"No, no, I'm fine," I said, forcing myself to chuckle. "I'm just happy to be here as a friend for her too. I was just wondering…" I bit my lip. How would I even approach this land-mine of an issue? Whatever was behind Taylor's troubles wasn't happening here—that much was obvious. The most logical place it could come from would be…

"Taylor goes to Winslow High, right?"

He nodded. "She got out of school for the summer just a few days ago, actually, before the weekend."

That fit the timeline on the injuries I had seen. "She did well in her freshman year, I'm guessing?" I grinned, thinking about all the times Taylor and I had studied together. "She was always one to have her head in a book."

He leaned back in his chair, smiling sadly. "She takes after her mother in that way. Yes, she did quite well, all things considered. She's always been a smart girl. We even thought of having her skip a grade during middle school."

I hadn't heard Taylor mention anything about that before. "Why didn't she?"

Taylor's dad looked a little embarrassed, scratching his head, his eyes downcast. "Well, I convinced her mother that she'd be happier staying with her own age group, being able to go high school with her best friend."

I was about to take another sip of milk when I heard what he said last. I froze, the words sinking in. Going to high school with her best friend? That… was me. And, it hadn't happened for obvious reasons. Just that sentence alone put into perspective what I had missed, how things had changed.

If not for the… alley, I'd be sitting here a different person: I'd have passed the ninth grade alongside Taylor, entering summer vacation and counting the days off until our sophomore year. We'd trade stories on cute boys we had our eyes on, be relieved that we had survived algebra, and spend our days soaking in the sun and taking in the waves. My family would still be here, in Brockton Bay, and today would have been a day like another: a sleepover at Taylor's house, the most ordinary thing in the world.

A different choice, a different path could have led to that. If Dad had gone on a different street, or if I had just stayed in that day… But, what could have happened wasn't what had happened. I couldn't turn back the clock, I couldn't gain back time.

"Emma?"

I looked up to see Mr. Hebert looking at me in concern, his face drawn up in a combination of apology and guilt.

"I'm sorry, Emma, I didn't mean to bring up—"

"It's—" I coughed, clearing my throat. Tough it out, Emma—you're here for Taylor, not to feel sorry for yourself again. "It's alright."

He looked dubious so I forced a smile onto my face. "Really, it's no big deal."

"So, has Taylor been doing anything else besides being a genius and all?" I said, trying to steer the conversation back on track, see if I could get further insight into Taylor. "I noticed she looks a lot fitter now. Did she join a sports team or something?"

"No, no," Mr. Hebert said, looking vaguely amused at the idea. "She hasn't joined any teams. She's just become really dedicated to her fitness for some time now. I'd come home to see her doing pull-ups in the living room and then she'd go and do push-ups up in her room. And she insists on doing a morning run every single day."

I raised an eyebrow. "Even the weekends?"

Mr. Hebert nodded absentmindedly, picking up the milk jug and beginning to refill his glass. "Yes, she's become almost religious about her routine these days. She'll wake up six-thirty in the morning sharp, every day without fail, to do her run. The only exception was when she was in the hospital after the incident at school—"

He paled, as if realizing he had said too much by mistake. His hand slipped on the jug and a few stray globules of milk splattered against the table cloth before he recovered.

That was not a good sign.

Taylor had been hospitalized? From something that had happened at her school?

The images of the bruises came back to me, as if taunting me and I clenched my fists beneath the table. Taylor's dad had gotten up to retrieve some paper towels from the nearby kitchen counter and he was wiping down the mess he had made, not speaking, not looking at me. He sat down, not touching his glass, a pensive look on his face, his eyes staring past me.

I tried thinking of a half-dozen ways of posing the question, each one more convoluted than the last. In the end, simplicity won out. "Mr. Hebert, is Taylor having problems at school?"

He didn't reply.

"Mr. Hebert," I continued, "I can't just ignore it if something's going on with Taylor. I mean… you just told me that she was hospitalized!"

He sighed, his shoulders slumping in resignation as he nodded. "… Yes. Yes, she's been having issues at school." His head drooped and he ran a hand through his thinning hair. "She's been having trouble for some time. She hasn't… she hasn't been herself for a while."

"Do you know what they are? When they started?"

He shrugged, his face going through a combination of bewilderment, and helplessness. "She doesn't like talking about it. She doesn't like me asking her about it."

Given how much she had resisted my attempts at questioning her earlier, I believed him. But, still…

"You don't have any idea?"

"I think she's being bullied," he said, closing his eyes in frustration. "I didn't even know she was dealing with anything like that in school until the incident happened."

Back to that "incident" again. "The one that she had to go to the hospital for?"

I was startled to see his face reddening with what looked like intense rage, a fury comparable with what I had displayed before, with all the shit I had dealt with. It passed almost instantly, but it had surprised me all the same. Mr. Hebert was the most mellow, low-key person I had ever known. I hadn't even thought it was possible for him to be angry, let alone to this extent.

"Yes," he said finally. From the way he said it, I knew that he wasn't eager to offer any further information.

I thought about pressing him further on it, but I hesitated. I didn't want to scare him off this topic completely and besides… I almost felt as if I would be betraying Taylor's trust if I had. She hadn't even told her father about the bruises and I had promised, even as sorely tempted as I was now, to not say anything about them to Mr. Hebert. She wouldn't appreciate it if I interrogated her dad about the details on her troubles—going behind her back rather than facing her directly.

That said, the direct approach hadn't been much help. But neither would pushing Mr. Hebert here do much good either. There was every likelihood he'd clam up just as quickly as Taylor had.

I swallowed my frustration and nodded, accepting the inadequate reply for what it was. "Has… has she been getting better at all? Is she still being bullied?"

Taylor's dad slowly shook his head. "I'm not sure. She's still having some difficulties at school, but there hasn't been anything else like the incident, as far as I know."

As far as Taylor tells you, I wanted to amend. I didn't say that out loud however—no doubt he was intimately aware of the asymmetry in knowledge. Taylor could be so goddamn stubborn sometimes.

He put a hand to his chin, looking thoughtful. "She has seemed a bit better recently. I think she might have made a friend, a girl in her class I believe."

I wasn't sure how to react to that. "Really? You've talked to her?"

"No, I've never met her before," he replied, frowning. "Taylor's only mentioned her a couple of times before, but she's never brought her around." He shrugged. "I'm glad that she has someone at her school."

Mr. Hebert pursed his lips. "Though I wonder if she's a good role model for Taylor at times."

"Why's that?"

"Taylor's seemed less… restrained ever since she's met this girl. Angrier, more prone to lashing out. The school's called me before for disciplinary concerns a few times," he said, his forehead wrinkled with worry. "I just don't understand why Taylor never seems to bring her over."

I felt disquieted at the idea of Taylor's mystery "friend." On the one hand, I had no doubt that friendship was helpful for Taylor's well-being. But, on the other, with everything that Taylor's dad was saying, with the way Taylor's situation was, something about this "friend" just rubbed me the wrong way.

Taylor seemed so reluctant to even introduce her new friend to her dad and I couldn't pin down an innocent-sounding reason why. I thought about those bruises beneath Taylor's shirt again—how recent they had been, how regular the abuse was. There was no reason to link that to her friend, but I just couldn't shake the unease in my gut.

I couldn't pretend to be entirely unbiased here, however. While I was glad that Taylor had found some companionship, some means of grasping onto stability, I couldn't shake the fear that by doing so, she was replacing me. Maybe I was just jealous—already making a judgment before I had the facts.

And yet, I still had a bad feeling about all this.

Mr. Hebert rubbed at his eyes, blinking blearily. "It's past two," he said, looking over my shoulder at the clock on the wall behind me. He got off of his chair, stretching his arms out as he yawned. "I think it's well past time that I turned in for the night."

"Thank you for telling me what you know, Mr. Hebert," I said quietly, still digesting all the information I learned, going over each disturbing facet in my mind.

Mr. Hebert opened his mouth as if to say something, but wavered, closing it again. Then he smiled tiredly at me. "I'm glad you're back, Emma. I know Taylor's glad to have her best friend back too."

I returned the smile. "I know."

He was about to leave through the kitchen room door when I realized that I had forgotten something.

"By the way, what was the name of Taylor's friend?"

He paused at the threshold. "Taylor's only told me her name once before but it's…" He cocked his head, thinking it over.

"Sophia," he said finally. "Her name's Sophia."

Major thanks to HaltCPM and NuScorpii (from DLP) for looking this over. The part about Emma's mom, Zoe, picking up the slack where Danny faltered is canonical, as seen in Worm, 2.4. The characterization of Taylor from before is partly drawn from Interlude 19. The part about Taylor being able to skip a grade is from 6.9. Aspects of Danny's characterization here are drawn from Interlude 1. Also, to my surprise, Quicken now apparently has a TV Tropes page! (tvtropes DOT org SLASH pmwiki SLASH pmwiki DOT php SLASH Fanfic SLASH Quicken) Thanks to whoever put that out there, much appreciated!