(AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN…) WIBBLY-WOBBLY, TIMEY-WIMEY STUFF

Taylor woke up to the certainty that she was not alone.

Her eyes opened slowly, reluctantly, as though the act itself required more effort than she had to spare. The room room looked the same as it always did, the air faintly stale, the light muted by drawn curtains, and her bed creaking softly as she shifted. For one fleeting moment, she thought nothing was wrong at all, that she had simply slept longer than intended.

Then she focused.

There was a chair beside her bed that did not belong there, and someone was sitting in it.

Taylor’s eyes snapped fully open as she pushed herself upright, her heart lurching painfully in her chest. Jessica Yamada looked back at her, unstartled by the sudden movement, hands resting loosely in her lap in a way that made it clear she had been waiting for a while.

“Oh,” Taylor said, because nothing else came to mind. Her voice came out hoarse. “You’re… here.”

“Yes,” Jessica said gently. “Good morning, Taylor. How are you feeling?”

Taylor opened her mouth to talk, then paused. Morning felt wrong in a way that did not feel right. But rather than dwell on that, she frowned instead, taking stock of herself. Her limbs felt heavy, sluggish, and there was an ache behind her eyes.

“Tired,” she said at last. “Why are you in my room?”

Jessica did not answer right away, and the delay was enough to send unease creeping up Taylor’s spine.

“You’ve been asleep for a while,” Jessica said carefully. “And you haven’t been acting like yourself. Your father became very worried.”

Taylor frowned. “I just went to bed.”

“That was several days ago.”

The words slid past her at first, failing to catch. She blinked, then shook her head.

“No,” she said. “That’s not right.”

Jessica held her gaze. “You’ve been asleep for most of three days.”

“That’s not—” Taylor stopped, and tried again. “That’s not possible. I went to sleep after the bus. That was…” She racked her brain to remember the date, but it escaped her. “…yesterday. Right?”

Jessica didn't respond, so silence ensued between them until Taylor broke it.

“I can't,” she said slowly, her voice dropping. “I can't sleep that long.”

Would Jessica lie? A thought murmured.

Her pulse quickened as her mind scrambled backwards, searching for any gaps, for proof that this was wrong. She remembered the aftermath of the bus. She remembered her dad’s face, pale with fear, and Armsmaster standing nearby, watchful and equally as concerned. She remembered being lifted into her dad’s arms, the gentle rocking motion as he carried her away.

That was it.

“No,” Taylor insisted, sharper now, though more to herself than to Jessica. She pressed her palms into the mattress, grounding herself in the familiar texture of the sheets. “I would know. I would...”

“Your father says you woke up,” Jessica said. “Several times. You used the bathroom, you drank water, and once, you even asked what day it was, and then you went back to sleep.”

Taylor stared at her.

She remembered none of it.

How was that even possible?

No response came from her own thoughts, no commentary or snide agreement, and that absence felt louder than anything else.

“That’s what concerns us,” Jessica said.

Taylor leaned back against her pillows and looked down, studying her hands, because the alternative was spiraling, and she was too tired for that. They looked the same, and there were no tremors. No sign of any weakness. Then, she flexed her fingers slowly, half-expecting them to feel unfamiliar after sleeping for as long as she allegedly did.

Suddenly feeling very claustrophobic, she looked for something—anything—to distract herself from the implications of what just happened. She quickly found herself latching onto the one word in Jessica’s explanation that stood out.

“Us,” Taylor said. “The PRT.”

She didn't bother phrasing it as a question. 

“Yes.”

Of course.

She let out a slow breath through her nose, staring at the window she could not quite see clearly through the curtains. The familiar irritation and fear came, but they lacked their usual bite. Even though she knew she couldn't fault them for their actions, being watched still annoyed her. Being suspected annoyed her. Knowing that her dad had been pulled into it annoyed her most of all.

“They think I’m a parahuman,” she said.

“They’re concerned that you might be,” Jessica replied, not contradicting her. “And they’re concerned about your mental health. What you’ve been through would be difficult for anyone.”

Taylor swallowed.

Jessica‘s words were hard-hitting, but they weren't pressing, allowing the silence to do its work. Taylor was painfully aware of how practiced that was, how intentional, and it made her want to talk just to fill it.

“They’ve been worried for a while,” she muttered, picking at a loose thread on her blanket.

“Yes,” Jessica said. “Your father and Armsmaster have been in contact since the incident with the former Ward, Shadow Stalker.”

That earned a glance. “I can vaguely remember being confused about that. Since when does my dad talk to heroes? And Armsmaster of all people.”

“Since he became afraid,” Jessica said simply. “He doesn’t know how to help you on his own.”

The answer left Taylor with nothing to argue against.

She turned her gaze back to the ceiling, feeling exposed in a way she could not quite put into words, as though parts of her life had shifted while she was unconscious and she was just expected to catch up. The irritation ebbed, leaving something more vulnerable in its place.

“I don’t like them watching me,” she said. “Or thinking things about me.”

“That’s understandable,” Jessica said. “But they’re here because they don’t want things to get worse for you.”

Taylor almost laughed, but the sound never made it out. Worse implied a direction, a slope she was sliding down whether she wanted to or not.

She rubbed her eyes, suddenly very tired again.

“I wanted to talk to you,” she admitted softly. “Before all of this.”

Jessica’s expression softened. “You still can.”

Taylor hesitated, then nodded once.

“Okay,” she said. “Yeah. That’s… okay.”