(AAA…) OFF-TRACK

Taylor woke to sunlight.

Not darkness, not the sweltering heat of a confined space, and not the choking stench of rot filling her lungs with every breath. 

Sunlight. 

It slipped through the edges of her curtains, casting soft golden lines across her blanket and face. So she didn’t move at first, content to bask in its warm embrace as she lay there, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling of her bedroom. Her body didn’t ache, her fingers weren’t raw or bloody, and her face wasn’t soaked with tears and filth. 

She turned her head to the side slowly, as though sudden movement might shatter this fragile peace that had enveloped her.

The red digits on the clock read 8:19 AM.

Her breath hitched.

For a terrifying moment, she almost let herself believe it had all been a dream. An awful, vivid nightmare brought on by stress and exhaustion. By isolation.

By them.

Except she knew it wasn’t. No dream left marks that real. No dream came with the taste of bile in your mouth, the sensation of squirming filth under your body, or the rasp of your own broken voice screaming into nothing. She could still feel the airless panic in her lungs, the pounding of her heart as it slowed, then stopped.

But maybe—just maybe—whatever this was, it had passed.

She sat up slowly, rubbing at her eyes. Her head felt stuffed with wool, like she was hungover on a night she never had. Or what she read about being drugged: disoriented, but aware enough to know something wasn’t quite right.

A soft knock sounded on the door, breaking the silence.

“Kiddo?” her dad’s voice came gently through the wood. “I called the school and let them know you’re staying home today. You don't need to do anything. Just rest, okay?”

A tightness in her chest loosened at the sound of his voice. But still hoarse, still unsure of her reality, she managed a faint, “Thanks, Dad.”

She stayed in bed for a while longer, but the quiet made her thoughts race. It brought too many questions. 

If what she remembered was real—and God, it felt real—then she had died. Twice. Trapped in her locker, and alone.

And yet here she was. Alive again. 

Why?

She couldn’t make sense of it. Couldn’t understand the rules. But if there were rules to this, then maybe one of them was that the loop was only triggered when she went to school. Maybe Winslow—the place where it happened—was the center of it. The problem.

Maybe she just had to avoid going there. 

She glanced toward the window. Outside, the world looked painfully ordinary. Cars passed, birds chirped, and wind stirred the trees. Somewhere in that world, Winslow’s halls were filled with students. The last period would be ending in a few hours.

It was honestly tempting to crawl back under the covers and never leave her room again. Pretend nothing else existed. But that felt oddly like surrender. And Taylor was many things, but she was no quitter. 

She didn't surrender. Not to bullies. Not to nightmares. Not to whatever this was.

So she rose.

Slowly, she got dressed, wearing a hoodie over her shirt, lacing up her sneakers tight, and putting on a watch. She didn’t have much of a plan, and didn’t know where she would go. She only knew she couldn’t stay still any longer.

The world had ended for her twice.

But maybe, just maybe, if she played it smart… it wouldn’t catch her a third time.

. . . . .

She wandered aimlessly for a while, following pot-holed sidewalks and faded crosswalks, letting her feet carry her away from anything familiar. Eventually, she found herself under the underpass a few blocks from Winslow. 

She’d only been there a handful of times; the underpass had a reputation, not just for loitering teens to smoke or a place to hookup out of sight, but it was also a popular suicide spot. It wasn't rare to find a dead body around there, limbs bent unnaturally, and blood spreading beneath the head where the skull had cracked open. 

Taylor sat on a stone block near one of the thick, support pillars and stared at a faded smear, letting the squeal of tires overhead fade into the background.

There had to be a rational explanation for what was happening to her. And in Brockton Bay, that narrowed the list. 

Maybe it was a power. Hers or someone else’s. Some kind of precognition, simulation, or time-loop, with the latter being the most plausible. After all, parahuman abilities didn’t always make sense on the surface, but there was usually logic behind them. 

Someone might have dragged her unwittingly into a predictive simulation, or if this was her power… maybe she triggered in the locker, and this was the result. A second chance to do something.

She clung to that thought like a lifeline. Because the alternative—that she was stuck in some cosmic punishment, reliving her death again and again for no reason—was unbearable.

But this time she hadn’t gone to school. So maybe, just maybe, she had dodged the trap.

Right?

She glanced down at her watch.

2:18 PM.

Just before the start of last period.

Her heart skipped a beat, and her breath caught in her throat.

Could she really avoid her fate? Was this the trick? Just stay away, and she’d survive?

She stood, the beginnings of a smile tugging at her lips. It wasn't from joy, and not quite relief, but something close to hope. 

That was when the body hit her.

No sound and no warning. Just shadow from above, blurring as it accelerated, then a sickening crack as flesh met stone.

Pain didn’t register because it was too sudden. One instant she was upright, and the next, her neck was broken.

The last thing she saw before her vision went black was the face of the man who fell on her, his expression of regret—raw, aching regret—carving itself into her final moments. 

. . . . .

Taylor Hebert woke up at 4:37 AM.