TheWingedOne: This is a good foundation! It seems like you have a pretty good idea of how your character works internally; I'm not sure what your schedule is for the rest of the evening, but if you've got a couple of hours free, I'd like to do an exercise that should help you to orient the character externally.

Taylor already wanted to take the message back. She had been hearing the same thing since she was six, for Christ's sake. Don't give out personal info over the Internet, Taylor. Don't make yourself an easy target for stalkers, Taylor. It had seemed like such an obvious rule, something that she could never possibly be stupid enough to fuck up.

And yet here she was. Despite all her protests, all her insistence that she could never be so dense, she had ended up in this fucking mess.

The closest thing to a silver lining was that "TheWingedOne" didn't know that the information she had given was real. Taylor was pretty sure that she didn't have any results on Google or anything, which meant that nobody would find her accidentally. She would probably be fine as long as she didn't panic or anything. She just had to play it cool.

Perfect_Fit: Yeah, I've got plenty of free time right now. What did you have in mind?

"Free time" was sort of a nebulous concept. Taylor's mind kept darting back to the papers she had shoved into her backpack, and it was kind of hard to drag it back.

It took Taylor far too many seconds to realize the problem with that. She was spending more effort ignoring her work than it would take to do the work in the first place.

On the other hand, she really wanted to do this orientation exercise thing. Was there a way to do both? The homework was probably easy, just math and physics that she knew how to do. She could just crunch the numbers while TheWingedOne typed and do both. That would work.

Taylor lumbered out of her room and cleared off her desk. She had owned the desk for years, but rarely used it to do actual work - it had become more of a storage space. Still, having access to a big flat space would make this whole multitasking thing a lot easier. Digging through her backpack, she retrieved the slightly crumpled sheets of paper that Emma had retrieved for her, along with the front half of a pencil, dull but useable. She didn't have the end with the eraser, though, so she would have to be careful not to make any mistakes.

TheWingedOne: Here's the basic plan: I'm going to help you play out a day at Winslow. You're not interacting with the story-at-large yet, but it should help you to get a better understanding of the way your character interacts with other people, which will help you down the line, and it should be a good way to flesh out your backstory a little more.

Taylor glanced up at the message, then turned her head back to the left, where she had straightened out a kinematics worksheet. She had written her name at the top - that was step one. Step two was to figure out how the fuck friction works.

TheWingedOne: So, you're being bullied by a girl named Emma, like you said in your first description. She's probably quite popular - do you think that she has any accomplices?

Perfect_Fit: Um.

Perfect_Fit: Yeah, that seems right. Probably, like, two?

Perfect_Fit: Two girls in her inner circle - there are a bunch of orbitters, but they're not as involved. Like a Mean Girls-type setup.

Taylor had first watched Mean Girls with Emma. They were very young, and Taylor had thought that Emma looked like Lindsay Lohan. That was probably still true. Taylor hadn't really kept up with Lindsay Lohan's career.

TheWingedOne: Yes, that works. I'll describe them to you, and you can tell me whether or not they make sense to you.

TheWingedOne: First, there's Madison. She's not a supermodel, more of a small-and-cute type. She's really conniving - you're not sure how she and Emma became friends, but you get the feeling that it only happened because Madison knew that Emma could make her popular. She's not as vicious as the other two; she still goes along with everything, but you get the sense that her ideas are more juvenile and prankish.

TheWingedOne: Then there's Sophia. She's a track star, tall and gorgeous, really long legs, all that shit. She's kind of like the opposite of Madison - even more than Emma, maybe, she's fixated on crushing you.

TheWingedOne: Oh, and she's black. Winslow isn't an E88 hive, so that's not super important, but it's worth knowing.

Perfect_Fit: That makes sense, sure.

TheWingedOne: Let's take a few moments to flesh these characters out. Is there anything else about them that you think is important?

Perfect_Fit: I think that it's Sophia's fault.

Perfect_Fit: Madison isn't that close with Emma, so I think that Sophia probably turned her against me. They met while I was at camp or something, and that's when we stopped being so close. Sophia really hated me for some reason, I think. Maybe Emma kind of hated me already, but Sophia definitely encouraged her to focus on that part of herself.

TheWingedOne: Interesting. I can definitely work with that. Shall we move on to the exercise?

Perfect_Fit: Yeah, sure.

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The kinematics worksheet lay unfinished on the desk. Taylor had done about half of it before losing interest - she could only study so many spring systems before she lost it.

Well, "so many" wasn't the right phrase. She had only finished a couple of problems before setting her pencil aside, not to pick it up for the rest of the night. Instead, her attention was on the laptop screen, her breathing just heavier than usual as she waited for a response.

TheWingedOne: We're in the home stretch now. You're on the bus after school; you'll be home soon, but for the next fifteen minutes you've got nothing to do but think. What do you do? What do your thoughts look like?

Perfect_Fit: I can't stop dwelling on it, I guess.

TheWingedOne: Care to elaborate?

Perfect_Fit: Emma and I were really close. We did everything together. She was like my sister. When she turned on me it hurt more than it should have, because I trusted her, you know? It's like I gave her a piece of my soul and she just ran off with it.

Perfect_Fit: I try to distract myself from it. What's the condition of my backpack?

TheWingedOne: You're worried that it might be unrecoverable - it's covered in juice stains, and you have a bad feeling that you won't be able to work them all out. Was there anything important inside?

Perfect_Fit: Um, yeah, probably. Like a notebook?

TheWingedOne: What kind of notebook?

Perfect_Fit: The one I was using to test my powers, I think. I made a bunch of measurements, how far my range is and stuff like that, and wrote it down in code so that I could develop strategies for later on. The ink is probably washing out, and I don't know if I'm willing to do it over - I've probably lost a lot of information that I'll never get back.

TheWingedOne: How does that make you feel?

Perfect_Fit: Frustrated, obviously, but resentful too. I kind of want to kill them.

TheWingedOne: Oh?

Perfect_Fit: I would never do it, not really, but I wish that I could. It's like, they don't really deserve to live, but that mistake's already been made.

TheWingedOne: So would you say that you're you're planning to hurt them, or is it more of a vague concept?

Perfect_Fit: Definitely not planning anything. It was easier before I had powers. Back then I was allowed to fantasize about, like, pulling a knife and telling them to back off, and they wouldn't, and I would get revenge or something. I don't think I would have done it then, either, but it was easier to think about, because I knew that they could stop me.

Perfect_Fit: But now I could always do it. There's not a delineation anymore - it's not like I can say that I won't bring a knife to school and that will keep me from doing anything stupid. I can always kill them, there are always enough bugs. I can't even totally control it sometimes. So I can't let myself think like that.

Perfect_Fit: I want to hurt them, but the only person I'm really allowed to hurt is myself, and I'm not that badly off.

TheWingedOne: There is a way for capes to let off violent energy, you know.

Perfect_Fit: Yeah, heroing, sure. I'm definitely planning to use my powers to fight bad guys. I mean, not the really bad bad guys, but I can probably spook plenty of street thugs, at least. The problem is that that's dangerous. If I go after gang members, then their bosses might come after me, and that's dangerous. I don't think I'm strong enough to fight, like, Kaiser or Lung.

TheWingedOne: That makes sense. Is there anything else that's stopping you, or is it just the risk that you'd take?

Perfect_Fit: I don't think so?

Perfect_Fit: I mean it's not like I'm just scared of getting hurt. I know that I'll get hurt. It's more that if I get hurt, everyone around me feels it too. Dad would worry if he knew. I can deal with suffering, but I don't want to inflict my suffering on others.

TheWingedOne: I understand. So, do you have a schedule? Is there a specific date you're aiming for? Or is it just an eventual thing?

Perfect_Fit: I don't have any sort of set schedule, no.

Perfect_Fit: But it has to be soon.

Perfect_Fit: No, fuck that. It has to be now. This weekend, for sure. If I keep waiting I'll never do it.

TheWingedOne: Are you sure you're ready for that?

Perfect_Fit: I'm sure I'm not. I don't have a finished costume, for one thing.

Perfect_Fit: But I'll never be totally ready.

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It was utterly baffling. She knew that she hadn't done anything. She hadn't even finished her physics worksheet, losing herself to the game and abandoning her responsibilities. She had set out to do a real-life task and she has failed - there was no question about that.

A part of her was worrying, as it always was. Worried that this would push her grade beyond the possibility of salvage. Worried that she would never work up enough motivation to finish anything, not ever again. Worried that she had messed up by playing in the first place. That she should have never got caught up in this game, that it was another sink for time that she couldn't afford to waste. That part of her wasn't wrong, not by any stretch. Those were perfectly rational things to worry about.

But Taylor, as much as she wished otherwise, was an emotional being. The ruling bit of her psyche didn't care about those rational fears.

Well, it wasn't that it didn't care, exactly. It was more like it didn't take them seriously? The ruling bit didn't acknowledge logic as a valid domain, or reason as an effective tool. Her conclusions were valid within the framework of the provided construct, but she couldn't bring herself to believe, to really believe, that the construct was valid in the first place.

What mattered was that she felt fine. Good, even. Proud, as if she had accomplished something meaningful.

She had stood up to her demons. She had resolved to act, and she had really meant it. She was going to go out and fight villains over the weekend, bring justice to the lawless and all that. She wasn't going to lie down and suffer anymore - she would fight for herself.

The rational part of her knew that it wasn't real, that she was going to spend several hours talking to a stranger over the internet about made-up superheroes, which wasn't something to be proud of. It was another distraction or time-sink or obsession or whatever else you wanted to call it. She was just as lazy and unmotivated as before. She hadn't finished her physics homework. It was due Friday and it was easy and it was right there and it was mostly blank and it would stay that way.

In the back of her head, her rational mind screamed and kicked, and went totally ignored.

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Taylor wasn't at school on Thursday.

Her body was there. The husk of skin and meat called "Taylor" shambled around and wrote things down and pretended to be whole, sould and sinew. It smiled occasionally, and ate Taylor's lunch, kept itself out of tricky situations, running on autopilot all the while, a weekday at Bernie's.

Taylor wasn't there, though. Taylor wasn't sure that she was anywhere, really.

Anybody could have figured it out, if they had really tried. It's not that hard to spot a zombie. The secret is that zombies can't talk: if you try to have a conversation with a zombie, they'll mostly grunt. They'll say "yes" and "no" when absolutely necessary, and "sure" to show that they're following your narrative, and they'll encourage you to keep talking, because as long as you keep talking, you'll stay focused on yourself.

But zombies can't talk. They can't express ideas, they can't really disagree with anything. They just sit and listen.

So anybody could have realized that Taylor was missing. Nobody did.

Taylor didn't come back until later that night. The cadaver kept things cool with Mom, ate dinner and gave false commentary on its day, and stole away downstairs - Taylor came back about half an hour after that, slipping into her own mind through the back door while nobody was watching.

Everything hit her at once. She hadn't meant to leave - she had gone to school the same way she did every other day, and she just stepped out of her body for a bit of fresh air on the bus, and she had lost track of time and missed her curfew. She didn't like the of non-presence, of non-humanity, of not being. She wanted to be alive every minute, even when it hurt, or when it was dull.

Well, she wanted that now. Now, she was looking back, filtering through her corpse's memories, seeing all the moments she had missed and realizing that she couldn't relive them, she could never relive them, because she hadn't lived them in the first place. They weren't memories, they were photographs of a place she'd never been, postcards from the Eiffel Tower.

In the moment of her return, Taylor wished that she could go back. But in the dull moments, in the time between her home and school, when nothing was happening, it was so easy to forget, or to allow herself just a moment.

Taylor fell down onto the carpet. She was crying, she realized. Cool, saline tears tiptoed down the bridge of her nose. Her breath came short, sharp, cold and harsh against the back of her mouth, threatening to dry her lips or halt entirely. Her arms tingled, a symptom either of hypoxia or just living. She tried to lift them. She couldn't lift them. They were pinned to the ground, not heavy, not immobile, but no longer connected to the rest of her body. Her senses stopped at her shoulder, and when she tried to move her arm, she found that the nerves were gone, the muscle gone, somehow detached.

She should have been terrified, but terror was too much effort. She surrendered, sobbing, damping the carpet floor. She felt the carpet scratch against her cheek, the slight motion of her head creating friction. A minute passed, maybe, or maybe more than that, maybe much more, before Taylor's breath slowed and she slowly reclaimed her arms. It was another minute before she dared try - she felt the tingling in her arms sharpen into pain, and waited for that pain to dampen, before she tentatively tried to lift her arm. It came up an inch before Taylor dropped it, the effort unsustainable.

Her body was heavy, but it was there.

Taylor sighed, relieved.

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It was still dark when Taylor woke up. She could see the dim outlines of her basement, the couch slid up against the wall and the pile of crap in the corner. Through the window, moonlight illumined the sallow-green lawn, unkempt but self-sustaining, its appearance bleached grey by the pale lighting.

She yawned, and felt the carpet scratch against her cheek.

Her face was dry. No. Taylor touched under her eye with a finger and rubbed, pulling some dry substance off and restoring the supple subtending skin.

Tears. They were dried tears.

The previous night shoved itself into her consciousness, demanding an immediate explanation. She had arisen from her reverie, she had broken, she had cried, she had lain there, paralyzed, and then . . .

And then it had all gone away, and she had just stayed there. No longer paralyzed, she had just let herself stay, every object of her mind floating off.

She must have fallen asleep like that.

Taylor pulled her phone out of her pocket - she was lucky not to have rolled over and ruined it in her sleep. She clicked the power button, and the screen lit up, far too bright to read. After a few seconds, Taylor's eyes adjusted to the light and the phone's screen came into focus. 2:38 A.M.

That was probably a good ten hours of sleep, then, all in all. Taylor had read somewhere that the consistency of a sleep schedule was more important than the gross volume of sleep, but . . . ten freaking hours. That had to be enough to offset any inefficiencies in her sleep schedule.

Her stomach growled, which made sense, considering that she had missed a meal. Whatever. She could eat breakfast in a few hours - that would put her back on track.

In the meantime, she couldn't go upstairs lest she wake her mother, and she wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. And the contrast of her phone's screen with the surrounding darkness was too strong - even a quick glance had hurt her eyes. That left one option, really.

Taylor stood unsteadily, shambled to her backpack, and pulled back the zipper, allowing her to pull out a mess of papers with her left hand. She started shuffling through them, throwing aside old assignments and other useless papers, until she found her physics worksheet. She pressed herself up against the wall, groping her way along it until she felt a light switch under her hand - she flashed the light, just long enough to make a route to her desk, and stumbled her way to her seat.

This would be the trickiest maneuver - she had to turn on her overhead lamp without hurting her eyes. She squeezed her eyelids tight, so only the vaguest impressions of light could come through, then found the lamp's switch and flicked it - some more fiddling led her to the brightness dial, which she turned until the lamp was as dim as it would go. Then, slowly, she relaxed her eyelids, allowing them to crack open a millimeter or two, just to make sure that it was still dark enough. Thankfully, she had found an appropriate brightness rather quickly.

Of course, she had forgotten to grab a pencil, so she had to make her way blindly back to her backpack to find one. It only took a little time, though, and she had plenty of time.

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Several hours later, sunlight began to make its way into the basement. The sun had probably been up for a couple of minutes already, but at its shallowest angle, no light made its way to Taylor's desk - all in all, it was six forty-five before Taylor noticed a change.

She had finished her physics worksheet pretty quickly - it hadn't been that hard, making her wonder why she hadn't just done it earlier in the week and saved herself the worry. From there, she had moved on to Calculus homework - her teacher had a 50% policy, which meant that she could turn in any homework that she'd missed for 50% credit at any time in the year, which was great. She was all caught up and then some - she'd completed the homework for the next two weeks, which would give her a nice little buffer if her motivation dropped again. She had meant to use that extra time to do some history readings instead, but those were a little harder to get through, and she was scared that the textbook might put her to sleep, at which point she wouldn't wake up in time for school. That didn't matter, though - she could just do them later that night.

Taylor made her way up the stairs - now that the sun was up, it was reasonable for her to be awake, even if this was early by her standards. She wondered, for a moment, what Mom would think if she woke up now - Taylor hadn't woken up early in weeks, maybe months. It didn't happen, though; Taylor ate her cereal in silence.

Everything had been going wrong - her schoolwork, her personal life, her self-maintenance. And then, in a sudden storm, her problems had gone to war with each other, and fought until none remained. It was no less than divine intervention.

Taylor closed her eyes for a moment - in the black of her mind, she saw a radiant white figure draped in an ethereal multicolored raiment. A woman, floating high above everything that was or could be. She unfurled her silvery wings and glided, serene, undisturbed.

An angel.

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A/N: I keep thinking that I can commit to a consistent update schedule and I keep being wrong. Next chapter when I get around to it. As always, criticism is appreciated.