Sometimes the world we live in doesn't allow for a self-destructive spiral into masked villainy with the help of alien brain parasites- sometimes we don't get the chance to become powerful, or cool, or awe-inspiring.
Taylor Hebert isn't a hero, and she doesn't get an action packed adventure. In lieu of suicide-by-Lung she's forced to find a relief to her misery filled life that isn't shoving bugs down other peoples throats.
This fic is going to be mostly slice-of-life, with a heavy focus on character interactions and internal growth. If you've always wanted to have more moments of the Undersiders simply hanging out as a bunch of traumatized teenagers, or ever wondered about what the hell Taylor would have done if she hadn't triggered, then this fic is for you! If you find all the 'high-school bullying stuff' to be boring or over done and just want to see Taylor find increasingly more and more complex ways to maim people, then you might want to skip this one.
As for content warnings, this fic in general will deal with heavy subjects like depression, suicide, bullying, neglect and abuse (not all of these things apply to Taylors life necessarily). Though that said, it's probably my most hopeful/optimistic fic, so take that how you will.
Taylor loved running. She loved it even when she had to drag herself up before school to do so, when the world was still shaded in blue, and her breath came out in white puffs. She loved it even when her too-tight shoes scraped against her toes and heels, gave her blisters, and left them smelling like sweat and blood.
She loved it even- or maybe because of- how much it hurt, especially at first- chest aching and lungs complaining and legs set ablaze with trembling agony.
There was something purifying about the pain, like she was ripping all the useless parts off her body like an insect removing a sticky cocoon stuck to its wings.
Every wince inducing footstep was a reminder of how far she'd come, of how much faster and stronger she was now. It was something to appreciate about herself- something she could burry inside her chest and think of when everything else about her was in question.
She was finding it harder and harder these days, to refute the trio's claims against her- they were bitches, and they were saying those things to hurt her, she knew that- but it didn't mean that they were wrong.
Because looking in the mirror at night she couldn't honestly say she wasn't ugly, that her face wasn't greasy and pimpled, that her mouth wasn't too large or that her clothes weren't over-sized and stained.
But she had the proof right here and now that at least she was good for something. Even if that something was just avoiding potholes in the world most ill-fitting shoes.
Taylor took a big gulp of salt drowned air as she began to slow down, the tips of her toes complaining at the strain the halting movement put on their fresh blisters.
The sun was just starting to warm the air up, reflecting glittering light from dew drops and oil puddles alike- and in this moment even the mist of exhaust from tailpipes and gleaming half-shattered bottles managed to look beautiful.
Panting and sweaty Taylor took a moment to sling her beat up running bag and pull out her water bottle. Both items were in a dire state- the water bottle never sealed correctly and was always leaking a small amount onto both her bag and her shirt- which would have been less of a problem if her bag didn't have a bunch of holes in it.
The bag was a victim of her school life and had plenty of evidence of its hardy years-worth of service- which to be fair was solidly above the average amount of time her bags usually survived. The water bottle she had no excuse for- she didn't want to spend money on a new one, and usually didn't have the energy to even try shopping anyway.
It didn't really bother her anymore; it was more irritating in a sort of background way than anything.
Still, it didn't lose enough water that she wasn't able to gulp down a fair amount, the luke-warm liquid made satisfyingly cold from the chill of the fall air.
She'd stopped at the edge of a small park- the biggest one in the dock area, though admittedly the competition wasn't steep.
A lot of people used the cover of the trees to do drugs or have sex, though the population of homeless people living in it was surprisingly low thanks to the abundance of empty or abandoned warehouses around the area.
Not that Taylor would have cared very much either way, she knew most of the homeless people around here, and hardly any of them were any more dangerous than she was- and the others she avoided on sight.
The whole 'teenagers use the forest to have sex' thing was way more of a problem actually, but regardless, it was still a pretty place to stop.
Most of the leaves had turned color already, but in that early way where everything was a sort of yellow green rather than orange and red. The morning rays hitting the swaying gold always made her a little more cheerful, which was why she chose this spot to have a break whenever she ran this route.
That, and one other reason.
The clicking of multiple claws on rough pavement followed by the sound of stomping boots rounded the corner, sending a small smile to Taylors face.
Today the Dog Girl was walking the Rottweiler and Airedale Terrier- (or at least that's what she thinks the breed is, she's never actually asked)- and just like every time, they are incredibly well behaved.
They don't pull or strain the leashes almost at all, and when they do, all Dog Girl has to do is click her tongue and they obediently come back to her side.
It's a little foolish, but Taylor likes to think she can tell these particular dogs are happier than average- she's never seen Dog Girl yell at them, or even yank at their leashes particularly hard, and she frequently rewards them with small chunks of bacon for good behavior.
Their coats are always shiny and brushed, their teeth clean, and their tails wagging. It makes her feel good, because they've obviously had things hard before Dog Girl, their coats shifting occasionally to reveal horrible scars and signs of old abuse.
Taylor waves politely at Dog Girl as she nears, avoiding eye contact and keep her face neutral- it's not hard to do, she tends to default to a cold sort of resting-bitch face anyways.
Dog Girl grunts what Taylors come to understand is her version of a cheerful hello, thick strands of auburn hair obscuring intimidatingly intense eyes.
Without Taylor even having to ask Dog Girl slows to a stop, and her dogs' tails start to move like crazy.
Even though that's as much permission as she's ever going to get, Taylor can't help but glance at her cautiously as she moves to crouch anyway. It's hard to tell if she gets a nod in response, or if Dog Girl was simply readjusting her worn looking scarf, but she puts her hand out anyway.
Immediately the two dogs come rushing towards her, sniffing at her fingers with cold wet noses and slobbering all over her hand.
Their tails are audible at this point, wagging so hard that they make a 'whump-whump' noise against Dog Girls jacket.
They clearly want to jump all over Taylor and lick her face and possibly tackle her to the ground- the typical doggy greeting- but they obediently reserve themselves to just leaning into her for pets.
Which of course, she obliges.
Dog Girl watches her like a hawk, making sure Taylor follows the instructions she'd grunted out the first time she'd been allowed to pet her dogs with a seriousness that would be silly on anyone else.
Taylor obediently keeps her hands away from problem areas on each canine, carefully monitoring the dogs to make sure they don't show any signs of becoming uncomfortable or aggressive.
The dogs are, of course, totally unaware of the tense interaction going on over their heads, and are simply happy to be given attention.
After a few moments Taylor gets up, resisting the urge to laugh when the Rottweiler whines softly in complaint and gives her a criminally sad look.
Taylor stands awkwardly for a few seconds, struggling to think of something inoffensively polite to say to this person that she doesn't even know the name of.
"Nice weather this morning?" Is what she ends up half-mumbling, statement pathetically turned into a question with her unsure tone.
Dog Girl looks at her like she's an utterly baffling creature, before grunting something inaudible.
She doesn't even give Taylor a moment to try to save the interaction either, clicking her tongue twice and speed walking away.
Taylor flushes and glares at the ground, inwardly cringing. She's not really sure why she looks forward to seeing Dog Girl - this is about as smoothly as it ever goes for her.
Maybe it's just that Dog Girl doesn't seem to be a very friendly person in general- she doesn't hold any ill will towards Taylor in particular- she certainly tolerates her petting her dogs at least.
It's nice. It's uncomplicated. Dog Girl doesn't know Taylor and Taylor doesn't know Dog Girl- her opinion on Taylor is the result of her own action rather than what other people have said about her.
It's a reminder that there are people outside of Winslow just living their own lives and walking their dogs and not cutting their unruly sort-of-mullet and no one cares.
She likes to imagine that kind of life for herself one day- where she lives by herself in a small apartment, and has neighbors who she's distantly friendly with, and maybe a cat that she spoils slightly, and plants that she keeps accidentally killing, and people who know her order at the nearby coffee shop, and she never worries about running into kids from school and she never spends hours laying on her floor blankly staring at the ceiling instead of doing her homework.
In this pretend-future she goes out for lunch with her father every Friday, and they laugh and smile awkwardly over coffee- and she doesn't have to worry about groceries or meal-plans or the laundry machine slowly breaking or whether or not anyone has washed the dishes in the last week.
Taylor inhales slowly, steeling herself for the much less pleasant jog home- in which every footstep will take her back to reality, where she does have to double-check over her shoulder and she is almost failing multiple classes and her father hasn't even noticed the basement doorknob fell off and if she doesn't put effort into it she and her father won't say more than ten words to each other a day.
That's the one thing about jogging she hates- she runs and she runs but she always ends up exactly where she started.
Taylor doesn't even pretend to pay attention to most of her classes anymore. It doesn't matter how much she studies or how much effort she puts into her assignments if her homework just ends up defiled or stolen half the time anyway.
Her teachers used to believe her when she told them what had happened to her missing assignments, used to give her extra time and less punishing deadlines. Some of them even talked to the principal for her, which had nearly made her cry in relief.
But as time went on, and as people got better and better at hiding their tracks they got caught less and less. Then 'I'll see what I can do to help' became 'I can't do anything without proof' which turned to 'Taylor, is there something going on at home? You've used that excuse multiple times this year' and eventually word got around- and now she can tell that half the staff already think she's a problem student before they even have her in their class.
They think she's the boy who cried wolf, that she's lying to get attention, or to slack off, or even because she's got some sort of mental illness. It doesn't help that she falls asleep during lessons or skips classes entirely.
In her defense, it's hard to pay attention to the theory of electrical currents when you're trying to keep the spitballs in your hair to a minimum.
She feels like some sort of feral animal in class these days, snapping at anyone who gets close, surrounded on all sides by predators that would just love to take a chunk out of her.
Josh S nudges his friend and stifles a laugh as he flicks another piece of his ripped-up eraser at her.
Taylor scowls but doesn't attempt to dodge- she can only make so much commotion before the teacher catches on and scolds her for not paying attention- which, to be fair, she isn't.
She reads all of her textbooks ahead of time, looks up youtube videos and googles a hell of a lot, and that's enough to keep her just barely over the failing line. Listening carefully to the lesson would be counterproductive because it would mean taking her eye off her bag, which is where her completed homework is. It doesn't matter if she understands the material if she can never manage to fucking hand it in.
The bell rings just as Samantha kicks the back of her chair, jolting her stomach into the hard edge of her desk. Taylor winces and grits her teeth but doesn't give the hyenas the satisfaction of making any noise.
The whispered giggling is just barely not covered by the ringing.
"Alright class, remember to complete your assignments for Monday, and please make sure you show your work- I don't want to have to take off any more marks for laziness." Mrs. Sheinel orders, her tone it's usual no-nonsense boom. She's one of Winslow's better teachers, which means she's just shy of being too strict for the military.
Taylor doesn't mind her unfriendly personality too much, but she's one of the teachers who knew all the rumors about Taylor before she actually met her and has never tried to hide her mild disdain.
Taylor steels herself for an unpleasant interaction as everyone else bursts into loud conversation and begins to funnel towards the hall.
"Mrs.Sheinel?" She asks in her most polite tone, stopping her approach just short of the teacher's desk.
The older woman lets out a little sigh before flicking her slate grey eyes up towards Taylor, expression unimpressed.
"Yes miss Hebert?" She says- and it's not quite a question and not quite a threat, but something in the middle. Taylor doesn't wince because this is the sort of reception she's resigned herself to, but something inside her does sink a little at the tone.
"About our last assignment-" She starts, but Mrs.Sheinel interrupts her, words drier than the Sahara. "-let me guess, this time the dog ate it?"
Taylor flushes, cheeks warm with a mix of humiliation and anger, hands clenching around her beat up binder. A few nearby students chuckle appreciatively at the joke as they leave the room.
The urge to start screaming sits sharply just above her lungs, constricting her airways and piercing her flesh. But she knows she can't- that kind of stuff never makes anything better, it just makes her seem crazier than everyone already thinks she is.
She doesn't bother to reply as she unclips the last assignment and sets it on the desk, making sure not to slam it down the way her fingers are itching to.
Mrs.Sheinel flips through it briskly, eyebrows raising as she gets to the last page.
"Is there a reason why you've decided to replace the last page with printer paper and your own writing? Did you lose the real one?" She asks, and the part of her that is very much like her dad wants to snap 'no shit I lost the real one, you think I decided to rewrite that whole answer for fun?' and then possibly kick a chair.
Of course, she doesn't- and she also doesn't even try to explain what really happened to the page either.
"Yes, I lost it. Is this okay as a replacement?" She asks, keeping her voice carefully neutral and her hands from curling into fists.
Mrs.Sheinel hums, scanning the page quickly. After a few moments she tilts her head slightly before looking back up at Taylor, and something in her expression is different then it was before.
Taylors not sure what happened, or why she's staring at her, and she's not sure what she's even looking for in the first place.
Taylor thinks sometimes that her helpless frustration is strong enough that people must be able to see it at a glance- an overflowing mountain of magma that's going to crack the earth and boil the air at any moment- but when she looks into the mirror her face is always perfectly ice cold, her expression somewhere in the zone of 'displeased' and 'bored'.
Whatever she's looking for, her teacher clearly doesn't find it.
"I'll take it, but marks will be subtracted for not taking better care of your assignment." She warns, before she dismisses Taylor without so much as a wave, her head tilted back down to her desk.
Taylor nods to the top of her teacher's head and leaves the room.
She slips into the crowd without much problem, but she knows better than to take that as permission to relax.
Case in point the leg that juts out quick enough in front of her that she nearly topples herself backwards trying to halt her momentum entirely.
She manages to stop herself just in time, but her sudden movement sends the student behind her into her back, which he obviously doesn't appreciate, if his snapped "What the hell!" is any indication.
That and the fact that he proceeds to push her.
At this point the jackass who tried to trip her is long gone, but she still ends up falling on her face, elbows burning and knees bruised from the impact.
Taylor swears viciously and blinks away reflexive tears as her old bruises meet the new ones, her poor knees soon to be more purple than skin.
The guy who pushed her doesn't say sorry or help her up, not that she expected him to, and the rush of teenagers around her barely has the consideration not to step on her.
Taylor huffs, embarrassed even though no ones laughing this time. God, she's so tired of this stupid shit.
"Enjoying the floor there Hebert?" A familiar voice drawls, expensive looking running shoes toeing her vision.
Oh of course Sophia had to see that.
Taylor picks herself up without a reply, keeping her bag firmly on her back and her eyes on the ground. She can see Sophia smirking out of the corner of her eye.
"Aw not too chatty today huh? Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?" She snarks, and Emma- who seems to teleport more than walk half the time- laughs appreciatively.
"I think she's shy! God Taylor, I know Sophia's pretty but don't be such a fucking dyke." Cue laugh track.
Taylor fumes, feeling uncomfortable and flustered and fucking furious, stomach dropping nauseously at her ex-best friends' words.
You don't get to use that against me, she wants to snarl, you're not allowed to call me that when you saidyou understood.
Emma meets her eyes, and maybe the loathing she feels is enough just this once, the betrayal and hurt and anger anger anger- because Emma blinks first, smile slipping.
Taylor doesn't give her any time to retaliate.
She storms off to her next class, ignoring the cackling behind her and the prodding stares of the other girls within hearing distance.
They look disgusted and judging and maybe even a little embarrassed on her behalf, like when you watch a movie and a character does something so stupid you can't help but wince.
She feels crowded in and suffocated by it all, the humid air and the smell of body odor and the swell of voices that just blurs into meaningless noise. There's so many people in this building, and while they're not all her enemies, none of them are her friends.
She resists the overwhelming urge to simply keep on walking until she hits the exit- Winslow's shit enough she can get away with skipping a few days every month, but she has to save them for when she really needs them.
Her dad hasn't got a call from the school yet, but it's only a matter of time if she starts leaving more often.
self-esteem issues, light suicidal ideation, discussion of homelessness and ableism, dissociation, and bullying
The bus jerked back and forth like a horse too startled to take more than a few steps, the seat under her vibrating with the rumble of the old engine's movements.
The bus drivers of Brockton Bay were known to be a merciless sort, keeping to their schedule with the kind of iron will that allowed them to blast past latecomers struggling to reach the doors in time with little pity.
In truth, Taylor didn't actually think most of them were that bad- she'd seen one wait patiently with the doors open when a woman had her wheelchair stuck on the uneven sidewalk, which had been uplifting enough that Taylor had been in fairly good spirits when she'd gotten home that day- despite how late she ended up being.
It was nice to see strangers being kind to each other, because the truth was that sometimes she felt like Brockton was more of a loose collection of aggressive rats fighting in a sewer pipe over scraps than an actual community.
The Bay had been 'one of those towns' for as long as she could remember, the kind that quirky websites online would put on a list for the worst places to visit and the best place to get shanked.
A good chunk of the towns infostructure was poorly planned out, poverty-stricken streets squished into corners, with any nicer areas slowly being gentrified over the years. Buildings were abandoned by those who couldn't keep up with the rising rent, local restaurants were demolished to make more room for big chains- and half the time those stores never ended up being built, leaving behind empty lots filled with cracked pavement, upturned dirt, and throngs of yellow weeds.
Homeless people lived wherever they were able- alleyways, corners, little spaces between streets, between the gaps in the trees- huddled in as many layers as they could, shoulders hunched against the cold autumn air. Old, frayed tents would be precariously set up, only to be torn down by the overzealous police mere hours later. Bus stop benches torn and mutilated to make it impossible for anyone to lay across them, and fast-food stores blasted classical music to discourage people from 'loitering' around their sides.
People yelling fearfully at the human misery that was so close to reaching them as well, like if they were loud enough the problem would simply go away.
Outside the dust stained windows they passed a man urinating on a cars tires, shoddily painted buildings with the brick-work peeking out between the cracks, signs exclaiming '50% OFF WINTER TIRES!' and 'Spooktacular Sales!' in neon colors that had long ago faded in such a way as to purposefully mock the description.
Graffiti covered leaning white fences and cracked concrete alike, filled with slurs and peace signs and bible quotes which couldn't quite fit on the surface they sprawled messily across.
It was the same view she saw almost everyday, yet it always looked the grimmest after she was done school. Her chest felt tight, like she was a windup toy twisted to its brink, the spot just under the center of her collar bone holding an odd sort of tingling pain, and her hands still subtly shaking with anxiety.
Keeping her guard up for hours on end with no respite was exhausting, and it left her paranoid and tired, eyelids heavy and jaw tense.
On days like this the edges of her sleeves always seemed more frayed than normal, the stain on her jeans twice as sticky, the air in the cramped vehicle claustrophobically sweaty and thick with lingering cigarette smoke. All the grass outside was yellow and the sky was always gray and the traffic was always irritating.
She knew logically it wasn't true- her city had its moments of beauty, and most of her clothes weren't damaged more than a little detergent or vinegar couldn't fix, and really, at least the bus was pretty much always on time.
It was hard to be cheerful when she knew tomorrow was going to be just as shitty as today though.
Sure, eventually she'd get to the weekend, and it would be blissful, but the bliss would only last for about a day and a half- before the crippling anxiety set in as she realized she had to repeat the same godawful five days all over again.
Taylor huffed out a frustrated breath, annoyed with the depressive turn her thoughts had taken, and even more pissed that simply acknowledging her bad mood and it's irrationality wasn't enough to banish it.
This was a public bus, not a school one- getting to the bus stop was a little more out of her way, but it was worth it not to have to worry about her 'peers'. It probably said bad things about her priorities that she'd rather risk the odd leering man or drunk gaggle of guys than literal highschoolers.
Luckily everyone seemed to be relatively well-behaved today, and the older woman sitting beside her was politely quiet and non-intrusive- which could not always be said.
Clarice Jones was a seat ahead of her, going over his usual spiel in half-mumbled tones. The repetitiveness had bothered her at first, but she'd been taking this bus route for years now and had long gotten used to Clarice's repeated sentences and twitching.
Sometimes people glared at him, or made fun of him in faux whispered tones, or even tried to complain to the unsympathetic bus driver. Which was stupid for multiple reasons, mainly that Clarice wasn't hurting anybody- and out of all the phrases to repeat over and over 'I'm Clarice Jones, yes, hello, how are you?' or some variation of was hardly that scandalous. It wasn't like he was yelling it either, it was barely audible over the rumble of the engine most of the time.
Still, Taylor liked to keep an eye on him, to make sure no one tried to bother him or force him off the bus. It was a real worry, considering Brockton's alarmingly high concentration of gang violence and inebriated assault. Though she wasn't even sure of what she could possibly do to help him if such a situation did arise- she couldn't even convince her gym teacher that other girls were stealing her gym clothes, how was she supposed to protect someone else?
She would do something though- that's what she told herself over and over like a mantra. If Clarice was ever in danger or hell- if anyone on this bus ever needed someone to help them. She would. Maybe she would do it for selfish reasons- to feel a spark of genuine admiration or even like for herself would go a long way into dragging herself up every morning- but she would do it.
It was a strange feeling- she was normally so filled with fear and stress and bitter impotent frustration- but somehow in this she was certain. Her mom and dad were people others always looked to in crisis situations, adaptable and hardworking and able to keep a calm head. If she could only retain a single good feature from either of them then it had to be that- why else would the thought of facing danger and possibly dying make her feel so light?
Of course, the bus ride went as it usually did, with no trouble except for the dark mess in her head.
Taylor forces her hands into luke-warm soapy water instead of flinging herself into bed the way her body ached to. That was one of the downsides to going jogging every day before school, by the time she got home she was always exhausted.
She wanted nothing more than to go into her room, get into pajamas, and crawl into her messy blankets- hell, she'd even take sleeping on the carpeted floor in her jeans at this point.
But the dishes wouldn't wash themselves, and as tempting as it was to just leave them for Tomorrow Taylor, that was a slippery slope that ended up with the kitchen counter covered in dirty dishes and mold.
Also, she liked having clean plates to eat off, and buying paper plates would cut into her luxury money.
Unfortunately, they did not posses the money or room for a dishwasher, so handwashing it was.
Taylor hated washing dishes.
The dish soap they bought was cheap and obnoxious smelling, and if she used too much of it she got rashes on the back of her hands which stung and itched terribly, and the water took forever to turn warm, never mind hot, and she hated the grimy feeling of wet food underneath her nails, and the muddy look the water took on after a few minutes, and the way her dad never even tried to clean out the tupperware he took to work and she had to scrape off the cold pasta sauce herself and-
It was unpleasant. Basically.
Drying the dishes wasn't as texturally awful, though it was annoying, mostly because at this point her legs would start to complain at the awkward position she was hunched in, crumpled like wet newspaper between the sink and the fridge.
After that it was a race to see what she could get done before her patience ran out entirely- cleaning off tables, maybe vacuuming the kitchens floors, taking out the garbage or swearing at the laundry machine-
And then finally she got to drag her pathetically worn-out body up the stairs and collapse into her room.
Theoretically it was a good idea to do her homework now, so that she didn't have so much to struggle through on the weekend, but most days she didn't even bother with fooling herself into the possibility.
Taylor lay on her back, allowing her muscles to slowly relax and her eyes to glaze over as she stared blearily up at the off-white ceiling.
Her head felt floaty, like it wasn't attached to her body- like she wasn't attached to her body. She was a collection of particles floating peacefully above one Taylor Heberts head- she was the rooms familiar air or the fly on the ceiling.
She wasn't anything.
She just…existed.
It was an odd feeling, because she could still tell that Taylor was thinking things, working over the days events and stewing in her own perpetual misery.
But she- the view- the thing that she was and wasn't- she wasn't Taylor.
It was numb.
It was nice.
She let it happen quietly for a few minutes.
Taylor blinked, and her back was sore. Her hair felt a bit greasy and her legs ached and her knees pulsed with a slow background sort of pain. She was opening her mouth, intaking air, her lungs filling like a balloon- she was blinking, the pressure of her own eyelids hitting her cheeks almost startling.
Her room had darkened significantly- she hadn't bothered to turn on the light, which had been fine when there was still some daylight out. Now her room was painted in blues and greys which made things seem much later than they probably were- winter was coming, it got dark earlier and earlier every day.
Lifting herself up to her feet with a groan, she tiredly checked the bright red numbers on her digital clock, a little embarrassed to find it was already past five.
It wasn't that big of a deal of course, she sometimes just…did that. Zoned out or whatever. Usually after she felt like a stressful day was finally over, though she'd done it once or twice at school as well.
It could be a little unnerving, especially when she found that these little 'events' often meant slight gaps in her memory, but ultimately it didn't bother her too much. They were a nice break from being so constantly 'on' all the time anyway. She assumed it was one of those things everyone did but never talked about, like sneezing so hard you accidentally farted or crossing the road when you were too lazy to walk over to the crosswalk.
Taylor stretched for a moment, wincing as the various scrapes and bruises on her body loudly made themselves known, before slumping bonelessly into her dependable computer chair.
To not mince words, her computer was old and shitty- and had been old and shitty even before it had been given to her second hand. It took forever to boot up, and would crash if she even so much as tried to have a video going on more than one tab. It overheated easily and was slow enough at loading things that she often would click something before doing her chores when she came home from school so that it would be loaded by the time she was done. Sometimes on the weekends she'd bus down to the library just to use technology that wasn't older than she was.
But even with all that against it, Taylor loved the stupid thing just as much as she hated it.
The internet was a magical place where everyone was just as insignificant and annoying as everyone else. Online she wasn't 'Taylor Hebert the anti-social freak who lies about her tests and is always trying to get the popular girl's attention' she was just another nerdy loser like everyone else.
It was a double edged sword, because lots of old creepy adult men used that sort of anonymousness to their benefit as well. Taylor had run across many gross assholes trying to get nudes or ask weird personal questions when she'd been younger, and for awhile it had turned her off the internet entirely.
Of course, once she went into high school she discovered that a lot of guys were just…like That even without message boards to hide behind. At least this way she could just block them and move on- it was a lot harder to avoid pushy guys who bought the rumors that she was 'easy' at Winslow.
There were a few sites she frequented semi often, but her favorite was Hive-Sight.
HS was a sort of fan site formed by the questionably passionate readers of 'Silver Overworld', a sci-fi novel with heavy worldbuilding that had been published a little over eleven years ago.
Taylor had originally found it when she'd been fruitlessly searching for someone to talk to about the book after Emma had started saying that she didn't have time to read it together with her anymore.
She'd been frustrated and more than a little hurt at the rejection at the time- especially since Emma had started bowing out of more and more of their shared activities. Looking back it was just another red flag in the literal sea of red flags she'd been drowning in at the time, but she could hardly have predicted that then.
She'd been skeptical of HS at first, because she'd sort of thought of herself as better than the kind of people who gushed over dumb shit on the internet with strangers- mostly because her impression of them at that point had been stupid youtube comments and shallow facebook posts.
But though a there were a fair few thoughtless dipshits populating the forum, there was also a surprising amount of intelligent individuals who had a good time discussing various quirks of the novels together.
She had fallen in love especially, with the infamous 'Last Planet'…post? Fanfic? Book? Honestly she wasn't quite sure how to categorize it.
Silver Overworld ended when its author did, with the final book not even close to finished. Speculation of the plot and ending was common to the point of memes on places where Overworld fans congregated, and ideas of fanfiction on how it might have looked were a staple of the medium.
Last Planet was just one more of those 'here's what I think the final book could have been like' posts except for the small but very important detail that it by itself was twice the size of the three original books combined.
It had started as the author merely musing on what they might do for the first chapter and then spiraled rapidly out of control in the following years. The original poster was clearly no slouch at writing an interesting narrative, even in the beginning, but by the end they were noticeably improved to such a point that it was obvious upon even a glance.
Taylor was embarrassingly fascinated with the author.
Not in a weird way! It's just that she seemed to be a genuinely kind and interesting person, who didn't mind having long in-depth conversations about her work even though she probably got that kind of thing pretty often.
Taylor had been keeping up a light correspondence with her for a couple months now, coming up with interesting theories or alternate universes, or just generally chatting. Taylor had no idea if this was how 'AlphaScorpii2' (she normally went by Al or even just A) normally chatted with people- though she had to assume it was, it wasn't like Taylor was saying anything ground-breaking most of the time. It seemed like a lot of work, but considering how much Al had managed to write in such a small amount of time it wasn't exactly out of the realm of possibility.
She clicked on the blinking 'new mail' button and was immediately greeted with the response Al had posted to Taylors last message.
Taylor hadn't so much as cracked a smirk since her jog in the wee hours of the morning, so it was nice to have a reason to smile again, even if it was only for a few minutes.
