(AAA…) UNCERTAINTY III

Taylor woke to the sight of a mask looming over her.

For a few seconds her mind, heavy with sleep and dulled by the steady drip of sedatives, tried to insist it was nothing more than a dream. The kind of half-formed vision that slipped away when the alarm clock blared, where faceless shapes stood at your bedside and whispered nonsense before dissolving as you snapped back to reality. But there was no shrill alarm dragging her back to her bedroom, or a sudden blink restoring her to another familiar location, where she could dismiss everything as the residue of restless sleep.

The world remained stubbornly real, with the beige walls, the blanket protecting her against the chill of the night, and the sting of antiseptic so sharp in her nostrils that it almost burned. Her ribs protested with every shallow breath, raw reminders of phantom pain that refused to be imagined away. 

Dreams faded when you reached for them, but this clung like gravity.

She was in the hospital, and silently standing over her was a figure in black and gray, face hidden behind a mask.

Her breath caught in her throat. A cape? That was the first thought that registered, as terrifying as it was confusing. Only capes wore masks, and only capes carried themselves with that peculiar mixture of confidence and menace, as though the world bent around their presence.

But why here? Why her?

The figure leaned closer, and the space between them shrank until she felt as though the air itself pressed down against her chest. Breathing became an effort.

“I want you to keep your mouth shut from now on.”

The sound froze her before she even processed the words because she knew that voice. There was no mistaking it, 

The sound froze her before she even processed the words, but it wasn’t the meaning—though she was unsure of why they wanted her not to talk—that caught her off guard. It was the voice. There was no mistaking that cutting feminine cadence, soaked in scorn and disdain, not not after a year of hearing it behind her in hallways and classrooms, rife with mockery always aimed at her.

Sophia.

The name landed in her chest like a stone, and as memories of the trio rose unbidden, the mask, the costume, and the hospital walls all seemed to fall away beneath the weight of that recognition. This wasn’t a dream, and it wasn’t a trick of her tired mind. Sophia Hess was here, in her hospital room, and Taylor was reminded that the dreaded loop was just one facet of her already shitty life. 

Her thoughts scrambled in every direction, grasping at impossible contradictions, and tripping over themselves as she struggled to make sense of the situation. Sophia, of all people? That same girl who had dedicated herself to tearing Taylor down, who had relished every insult, every shove, and every petty action. She had powers. 

The idea twisted in her gut. 

Capes were supposed to be more than that, weren’t they? They were supposed to be larger than life, symbols of hope and safety that mattered to people. Yet Sophia—mean, vindictive Sophia—had been given that while Taylor had nothing at all.

Her throat tightened, the words coming out weak and halting. “Wh-what are you doing here, Sophia?”

The girl snarled under the mask, lips surely curling with the same contempt Taylor had seen a hundred times in school, and brought her fist crashing down against the bed beside Taylor’s head. The sound was loud in the relatively quiet room, and Taylor jerked despite herself, every nerve alight with fear.

“Don’t tell the PRT it was us who made your locker like that.”

Taylor stared up at her, heart hammering, and her mind spinning faster than she could keep up with. Why? Why would Sophia care what the PRT knew? Unless…

Unless.

The pieces fell together into place with brutal clarity: the late-night visit in full costume; the venom in her voice when Taylor said her name; and the desperation to keep things hidden from them. 

Sophia wasn’t just any random cape.

She was a Ward.

The revelation made the room sway, dizziness sweeping through her, as though gravity itself had abandoned her. All this time—all the mocking whispers, the calculated cruelty, the humiliation designed to leave her a shell of her former self—that had come from someone who was supposed to be one of the good guys. A hero. 

Her fingers tightened in the sheets until the soft fabric twisted in her grip, but it gave her no anchor. Nothing could steady her as the last fragile remnants of trust she held in the idea of heroes fractured and fell away, leaving her feeling more hollow than ever.