Unfortunately, sleep didn’t come easily. The fever actually helped, wearing out her body to match the weights pulling down on Taylor’s mind. She didn’t want to think anymore. Danny puttered about downstairs, before going to sleep himself. He didn’t disturb her. She wasn’t sure if what she was feeling was more disappointment or relief.

What sleep she did get that night, was again filled with endless trials. Instead of a beating, she was put through the wringer with antique guns. Muskets and blunderbusses, and when her performance was finally adequate with the chocking black powered weapons, bows and crossbows. All the while, her targets were shooting back, if not bullets, than pellets that stung and irritated her skin, eyes, choked her lungs. More than once, she’d ended up on the floor in her own sick, only for the beating to start the moment she stopped trying to fight.

It was a horror, and when finally it seemed near its end, when she’d overcome the obstacles and enemies with nothing but a bow? Her wiry bastard of a trainer gave her a sling. In a voice that would ingrain itself into her mind, lingering long after she was awake, he’d repeat: “Again!”

***

Taylor did not want to get up. The sun was rising and she couldn’t decide if facing the day or more nightmares was a worse prospect. There was a growing sense of dread to the day. She needed some way to defend herself, and while she’d considered trying one of the other Cards, they grew in power over time. Three days just didn’t seem like enough time, and it wasn’t like her current power was without some means of self-defense. But she still was, and it was time to change that.

She’d need something to protect herself with, and she had a limited budget. Taylor had yet to decide what would be the bigger concern: that whatever weapons she picked be easy to hide and carry to school? Or to make sure that if she had to pull them out and use them, the attacker wouldn’t be a threat anymore?

She was up far too early, yet still her father was already gone. That hurt in a way she wasn’t sure she could name. But as Taylor came down the stairs after a shower to help her clear her head, she found some covered waffles waiting for her and a note:

“Had to get in to work early to leave early. I’ll be back for lunch.

Enjoy your breakfast. We’ll talk – today.”

A mean part of her wondered how long he’d spent last night thinking and trying to even write such a simple message. But something else in her hurt just a little less on reading it.

“We’ll talk”- It lit a fire in her.

Oh they’d be talking alright. But for once, she wasn’t going to talk to Danny alone. Taylor had been doing that for months and it wasn’t helping. So she was getting reinforcements. A quick check told her she was still running a fever. Not terribly high, just there. Taylor was going to rest, to listen to doctor’s orders, but that could wait for after. She had a talk to prepare for. She had plans.

It would be easiest to start from the bottom. Clean some space first, so she’d have somewhere already ready when she brought more boxes down. As Taylor went down the stairs, she worried somewhat. Some of the boxes she’d checked were heavy, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to get them all the way down from the attic safely.

The basement was a mess. Or well, cluttered and dusty. The only real clear path was to the oil run boiler and tank. “I’m not messing with those. Making the house balmy might help with the fever, but we can’t afford to waste fuel.”

It was warmer down here. Taylor stared going through the boxes and piles of stuff, and quickly found her first obstacle as repeated coughs drove her from the basement. She came back with several somewhat dirty cloths and a bucket.

After several trips out to the backyard to actually remove the floating menace instead of just moving it around, she could finally get to clearing some space.

While it would have been easy to just throw stuff out, most of this was probably there for a reason. It took more time to figure out what went into the trash, maybe and keep piles, than actually just moving the stuff around. For several tools, powered and not, Taylor wasn’t sure how to tell if they were usable or trash.

As she was going through them she set aside two pieces that had first seemed like trash. One was a large red adjustable wrench, whose lower jaw had broken. It wasn’t useful as a wrench anymore, but it had quite a bit of heft to it. It wasn’t much, but the moment she started considering it as a weapon, it settled in her palm.

It was rough, the surface leaving little pinpricks in her skin. A few practice swings nearly knocked some boxes with nails over. Taylor would need some proper gloves to wield it without hurting her palms. Just because she could heal didn’t mean she had to be reckless.

Something about that didn’t quite feel right. It was the barest flicker, so tiny Taylor almost thought she’d imagined it. Running more on gut than any real clear idea she retreated to the backyard and paid careful attention to her hand and the sphere of warmth in her. It wasn’t the sphere. Or, it wasn’t the sphere first. The pool of warmth in her chest stayed where it was.

But as she swung the wrench around, struck the ground, it was there. When she’d used it, Taylor had felt the wave pour out and cover her like a blanket. She’d been looking at, somewhat distractedly, but still looking at it. Ready to use her powers if they showed her something new, or if she needed them. It was barely there, but even without a wave of sparks and warmth to flow out of her center, the blanket of light was still there, all around her. Except it wasn’t a blanket without the extra, active power use. More like a thin cloth, whisper soft and barely there.

Only as she swung and stuck the ground with a thump did it flare up the tiniest bit. When Taylor looked at her bare palm she expected to find some bruising or the start of a rash. Chafing, or something. All she found was clear skin. With how hard she’d swung, her wrist didn’t hurt either. She remembered juggling knives. The small nicks she’d gotten before she made the big cut go away.

Taylor retreated to her bathroom before actually trying the next bit. First gently, and then harder, she hit herself on the thigh with her wrench. It hurt, but the pain was weaker, duller than it should have been, with little flares up under the skin responding to each blow. She could just about judge how hard she could hit, before the web of lights gave way and the pain started climbing normally again. It was quick to repair, not instant, but no more than a breath or two. As far as she could tell, breaking it didn’t lessen the web, or her pool at all.

“Huh. This must be the weakest Brute power ever.”

It really wasn’t much, but the idea that Sophia’s little trips and run-ins wouldn’t actually harm her anymore brought a smile to her face. It wasn’t much, but like the healing, maybe it didn’t have to be. Taylor could heal from wounds that took weeks in days, and brush of bruises and lesser cuts. And she was still discovering stuff about her powers.

All of it combined and built on each other to be more than each power alone. So who’s to say there wouldn’t be other stuff that could help?

That thought almost pulled on the pools around her heart but bounced off the web she’d discovered. Like turning a tap when the sink was full, the warmth had nowhere to go. In another flash of insight, she was certain that the pools could be used to heal herself, in some limited capacity. Unfortunately the same flash of insight neglected to share how she was supposed to pull and push on them to do so.

Frustration at the murky nature of her powers, where she had to keep working at it to figure them out, warred with elation for having noticed and figured out more of them.

“Wait a minute.” Taylor rushed to the living room and her eyes snapped to the clock. She had work to do!

***

The other interesting bit of scrap she’d found was a worn down screwdriver, that had completely lost its groves. But with a little bit of work, faded dreams told her it would make for a decent Shiv. It was much smaller and easier to hide than the wrench, but also less threatening and useful as a melee weapon.

With space in the basement cleared and a pile of stuff for Danny to look over when he got around to it, Taylor started bringing down Mom’s boxes. At the steps down she changed course. Sure, she’d pack most of the stuff away eventually, but for now, she dropped them off in the living room. Spreading them out for easy access and so Dad couldn’t ignore them. Couldn’t ignore her anymore.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Because Taylor had decided that enough was enough. She didn’t know how to fix this. Mom would have. But she could damn well force him to try. He was the parent. If he failed, again? Then she’d know for certain not to count on Danny for anything meaningful anymore.

Taylor could feel her nose clogging up, feel the tears coming, but she was just so tired of avoiding it. Even if it broke something, at least it would be change, progress. Taylor knew her Dad loved her. What she wondered, what she feared, was that that might not be enough. That he didn’t, wouldn’t help, not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t.

And while part of her could perhaps understand even that? The rest only saw that it made no difference to her why he didn’t help, only that he hadn’t.

“How much does it matter why he failed, if I can’t count on him to be there when I need him?”

***

It took her a while, just sitting on the couch with the TV off, staring into space, to recover from it all. There was reason why she’d avoided thinking about it for so long. Avoided the confrontation. Even without Danny, Dad there? Just thinking about it all, fearing it, going through scenarios and outcomes? It was exhausting. Taylor took her meds and decided that even with her head hurting a bit, she didn’t have time to laze around before lunch. She’d rest after.

Carefully, she opened and peeled back box after box, going through books, notebooks, and clothes. Dresses and even some shoes. She could see Mom standing there in these soft white slippers, hugging her in the evening after coming home from school.

Reading stories before bed. Chatting and teaching while cooking.

Taylor choked, her breath labored as memories rose, hearing a ghostly flute echoing off the walls. The memories and the pain, closer and clearer than in weeks, months.

She was like a bird, flitting over things, going from one line to another. Perfumes, dresses. Pictures, pages. All memories. She felt miserable. Didn’t get much work done. Taylor felt it was worth it. Worth the tears and the pain, to remember. There was time, there had to be time, for other things. What was the point of anything if she forgot her own Mom?

Every now and again Emma would show up as well, just to mess even this up. But Taylor didn’t let her. She didn’t belong, not here, not now. There was a cream blazer Mom preferred for her lessons, the job. Soft, yet warm enough for the lecture halls and their poor heating. Light, but not bright, not distracting for the students. Mom had worn it all winter.

Glossy black and subdued wood tone barrettes and hair clips that she’d used to put her hair up when needed brought up ghostly sensations of warm hands and gentle brushes along her head. On and on, there was so much.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Taylor had had a plan. To prepare arguments and ready a meal. She went through the motions, her head miles away. Some small part of her told her that maybe she should have pushed. Pulled on the warmth, twisted and pushed until the pain went away. The rest of her ignored it. Her Mom, her memories? They weren’t an enemy to be fought. It wasn’t, it didn’t work that way. She didn’t want it to.

When Dad came home it was with a stutter step. He came in determined and Taylor could hear the moment he saw. Hear his steps stutter, weaken, fade. When he entered the dining room Danny was near silent, his shoes soft on the floor.

“You’re getting mud all over the floor.” Taylor said, her head down, lunch warm and nice. She’d started without him. It was tasty. It felt like a sin. Like it shouldn’t be allowed to taste good, with how this day was going. But it was stubborn, this lunch. No matter how she felt it was warm and tasty and bright.

Taylor could see it, out of the corner of her eye. Could almost feel him waver, falter. His hands reach up and fall. She couldn’t take it.

It was a little thing. She’d brought some of the clips with her to the table. With a sad smile Taylor bunched up her hair over one shoulder, clearing an ear and letting it fall back. Her other hand offered a clip to him. That was all. That, and meeting his eyes. She had no idea what she looked like, after so much crying. But even so, with the pain, the memories were fresh. She’d bought them, paid for them fair and square. So she smiled, even if it hurt.

It was so sudden. Taylor could see it. See the spiral, see it take him. Then he met her eyes and Dad’s whole body shook. Somewhere in that darkness filling him up, a light was born. The fingers that took the clip from her hand were shaking. By the time he’d secured it in place on the fourth try, they’d calmed. Dad swallowed, coughing to clear his throat before asking in a subdued tone that still rose at the end: “So what are we having for lunch?”

He took his seat and she served him. And as they ate and talked about little things, he even smiled. His smile wasn’t any better than hers, but it was honest and that was enough.

They went through it together, after. It wasn’t an argument. Wasn’t needed any more and neither had the energy for the rest. She helped. When the same storm that took her tried to pull him under, she helped.

It wasn’t fair, that she had to. She was still in school, still a teen, but there was no one else. She was there, and she wasn’t quite as innocent or small. Not quite as frail, after her own plunge into memory. After months of life, even if it had dimmed. Lunch was still warm, still tasty. The warmth lingered in her mind, when it got hard.

She was there, and she helped. Sometimes she failed, but it was enough.

***

Eventually they’d settled things. Several boxes with clothes that Taylor definitely wasn’t ready for went back to the attic. A couple with notebooks and books were stashed on the living room floor before their home library. Some clothes, knick-knacks and jewellery boxes had migrated to her closet. Not that she’d ever wear them to Winslow.

It was hard to reconcile how little a life, Her life, left behind, when it loomed so large in Taylor’s mind. The world didn’t care, harsh and cruel, and real. Objective and cold. So Taylor would care for it. Carve it into the world, with her own life and legacy.

Dad went back to work. It wasn’t all fixed. They hadn’t talked, not really. Just shared memories. But the weight, the size of the chasm between them had shrunk with it. It was a start. And she had managed to work into the end of it her wish to find a part-time job. He’d said he’d consider it.

She spent most of the afternoon wrapped up on the couch or in her room, resting. Watching TV, or reading a book from one of the boxes. Don Quixote and Sancho his squire make for good company.

***

Greg had remembered to call ahead, so by the time he got here, Taylor had warmed up lunch. She’d remembered to make extra. It wasn’t quite the same, but a home-cooked meal was a nice way to say thanks without going overboard, right?

While she was looking over the notes, Greg was devouring warm rice and bits of chicken she’d made with enthusiasm. Taylor could admit to blushing a bit at his praise, but she had to cut in:

“Greg, I get it, the food’s good. Thanks, but could you please not talk while you eat?”

His mouth closed so fast, in the next breath he almost choked. While he was dealing with that, she took some distance to get started on copying all this. There were problems from math to go through, and world issues had more assigned reading. School stuff that she still had to go through. Part of her felt it was a waste of time now that she had powers, but the rest knew education mattered. She’d gotten that much with her mother’s milk. Taylor couldn’t just give up now. Even without the bullies winning, she’d never forgive herself.

It didn’t take long for Greg to clean up his plate. She heard the clatter he made as he dashed to the sink to drop the dishes of, none too gently, but at least nothing broke.

“I think nothing broke.”

She’d have to check, after. Then Greg plopped into the couch right next to her and way too close to be comfortable. His body was pressed up against her side, hip to hip, hot and loud and he smelled. Not terribly, not bad, but bits of sweat and just… other. A foreign scent in her face, talking a mile a minute almost in her ear.

“So I was thinking that – oh what’s this book? Is it Don Quixote? It’s supposed to be really good, but I tried reading it and while it was kind of interesting, it’s reading and books and stories and while books have their place and of course I don’t mean to say they’re bad, I mean it’s good that you like reading but I prefer RPGs?”

“Greg,” She started, trying for stern. If she wasn’t clear, he’d get it all wrong. She wasn’t trying to be mean or cruel, but there were limits:

“could you maybe, just, a little?” Taylor more told than asked him, using her hands to peel him off her, get some distance as she’d been squeezed against the couch corner. His expression crumpled, even as he did back off.

“It just, a bit much.” She said, trying to get the point across. “Too close. Like, are you trying to climb in my lap?” Her sense of humour wasn’t the freshest, but judging by how he stuttered and started waving his hands around and loudly proclaiming denials she hadn’t done too badly.

Taylor managed to copy the rest of this week’s assignments while he chittered away, half listening to him. He wasn’t very coherent. He’d start talking about buses, then go to rides, than something about video game racing cars and models. It would jump to speed limits and go from there. It wasn’t terrible, just a bit loud and distracting, but well worth it actually having notes to work with in her own time.

He had a surprise for her as she’d managed to slowly shoo him over to the front door:

“So remember how you said you were resting a lot and there wasn’t much to do? Well I went through my collection and I had this old thing and as long as you promise to give it back after the weekend I could lone it?” As the sentence had ran on he’d gotten progressively shy and uncertain, as he held out an old gadget. Taylor wasn’t into the gaming scene, but she’d seen some commercials for it a couple of years back.

“Is that a console?” She asked.

“Yeah. I’ve got a-here, there’s a bunch of old cartridges.” Greg said, holding up a clinking bag. There were little plastic boxes in it, with colorful images on them.

“Try Mario, it’s a good introductory game for a beginner.” He said, and for once his voice was calm and considerate. He was giving her a wide grin, completely at odds with this idea of giving her little bits of plastic. Well, letting her borrow them. It was easier to just go along with it.

***

She spent most of the evening resting. Taylor did try the game for a few minutes. It was alright, but nothing special. The music was kind of fun though. Foreign, electronic, and weirdly up-beat. She let it play in the background.

In the evening, after she’d gone to bed, Dad came in and sat down next to her. His hand rested on her shoulder while she looked up at him in the dark, their eyes meeting.

“Love you.” He said, and there was so much in it.

“Love you too Dad.”