Forge 1.2

Darkness.

I blinked and it was just as dark with my eyes closed as with them open.

I had just started processing seeing those... things. I had no reference point from which I could label just what they were. As large as they had looked, I knew that they had been larger still, the vast majority of themselves locked away in countless mirror images of themselves. The closest analogy I could bring to bear to it would have been if I had thousands of copies of my own body as individual cells, all linked for the same overall purpose and function.

Paradoxically, as difficult as it was to comprehend just what I had seen, as fantastical as it had been, there was something that felt real about it, something I couldn't dismiss as the result of bad trip. It wasn't something I could just ignore. They had been like living planets, traveling between the stars and communicating with something not quite speech yet not quite telepathy. They left parts of themselves behind in their wake, sloughing off like dead skin, and the last thing I had seen was one of the pieces traveling straight for me.

Then I remembered what happened before I saw the vision.

I sniffled for a minute, trying not to think too hard about what they tried to do to me—what they did do to me.

And what I did to them in return.

Was I in the hospital or something? I must have lost consciousness from the blood loss and Dad... he must have gotten an ambulance. It was odd though. I didn't feel hurt even though I should have been full of holes. I wasn't numb either—I just felt really good all over. Like I had just woken up from a nice, long rest.

I rubbed my arms—the texture of my sleeves felt lacy. When did they change me into that? Since when did hospitals use lace for their hospital gowns? And it was so damned dark and quiet. The only thing I could hear was my breathing and my steady heartbeat.

I needed to get out, call a nurse, see Dad, talk to Mom, call Anne, call Taylor, just do something other than be by myself. I didn't want to be alone. I just wanted to hold Taylor and have a good cry. Taylor could just blather on about nature camp, I would say a word or two, and everything would be fine. Perfectly copacetic.

I got up off the bed. Or at least I tried to.

I was able to raise my head maybe a foot before it struck something solid and hard. I blinked. What the hell?

I frowned and raised my hands, pressing and feeling against the surface. It was slightly curved, with a grainy texture, and at least a foot away from my face. I tried moving my arms to the side, but I could barely move them half a foot either way.

No. No. No.

It wasn't a bed I was lying on.

Realization set in and I screamed in terror, the sound echoing painfully back at me in the enclosed space of my casket.

"Help! Someone help! I'm alive down here, please help!"

I drew in rapid, gasping breaths, my whole body shaking as I felt the panic start to set in. I knew that I was wasting precious air, but I couldn't help it. I was inside my own grave. I was... God... they must have thought I died. There had been so much blood earlier. And I must have been out of it longer than I had thought.

I thought I might have a heart attack at any moment from how fast my heart was beating. I was trapped in total darkness, with barely enough room to raise my head or move my arms. I could almost feel the walls of the casket closing around me, wrapping around me in a suffocating embrace. I had only just noticed how hot it was here, the air stale and sweltering. Just how long had I been stuck like this?

"God, please, anyone... please!"

I screamed for I didn't know how long. Minutes, hours? I didn't know, but it couldn't have been that long, considering that I could still breathe. I pounded my hands against the underside of the casket, crying, begging, pleading. I stopped eventually, just content to hug my shoulders and weep.

It was no use.

Anything I said would have been muffled under six feet of dirt. And I doubted there was anyone around to listen, whatever time it was right now. I had never considered myself particularly claustrophobic, but being caught down here was like a foretaste of Hell. If by some miracle I ever survived this, I would never look at enclosed spaces the same way ever again. I whimpered and moaned, tears flowing down my cheeks.

It was just so fucking unfair. I had survived those thugs. They had been the predators and I had been their prey; but I had managed to turn the turn the tables, beat them one against five. I had to be buried in my own grave to finally die.

That last thought struck me as morbidly funny. I couldn't help it—I started giggling and then laughing out loud at the sheer absurdity at everything that had happened to me. It wasn't all that funny when you really think about it, but it didn't matter. I snickered, I chuckled, I tittered, I chortled, and I guffawed. I was choking with laughter, drawing in great, gasping breaths as I laughed and laughed.

It was all a big joke. I survived long enough to die in my own casket.

My laughter turned into something else. Something uglier, something less coherent. Somewhere along the way, my laughter turned into sobbing, as I gave off great, blubbering howls. I bawled and wailed into the darkness, my arms wrapped around my shivering shoulders.

I didn't want to die like this, trapped in my own grave. Oh, God, not like this. I should have just died back there in the alley, just bled out there on the ground. At least I would have died quickly enough. Then I wouldn't be here, having to face this.

I tapped my fist against the wooden underside of the casket. I barely had enough room to draw my fist to my chest and raise it to strike the depressed surface. My sobbing began to die down and I clenched my hand curiously. Then, I cocked my fist back to my chest again and punched the casket, harder this time. I drew back again and struck even more forcefully. I winced as the impact vibrated painfully against my knuckles.

Then I struck the wood even harder. I gave a little gasp of pain as I felt my hand sting. I propped up my legs, to give me more support. Then I drew back again and struck. I felt the casket shudder, even as I felt the skin on my knuckles break.

It was the same skin I would spend hours taking care of, buying every kind of skincare product known to man to maintain. Taylor's dad had a friend, I remembered. He worked at the Docks with Mr. Hebert and his skin had been dry and leathery, like armor. That had grossed me out, though I hadn't said anything. I had made every effort to see that my own skin was as smooth and soft as possible, no expense deferred. God, I had been so sheltered back then, so stupid.

I could barely draw back my fist for a proper punch. I wouldn't have even known how to throw a real punch even if I was given the room for it. I should have traded my beauty products and modelling classes for knives and self-defense lessons. Then maybe I wouldn't have been stuck inside this hellhole. Maybe I would have fought back sooner then.

But still I punched. And punched. And punched. But it wasn't enough. I was still holding back, bruising my knuckles at best, maybe skinning them at little. I was still afraid of damaging myself, afraid of the pain. I needed to put real effort into it, no matter the cost.

I thought of Dad. Mom and Anne. Taylor. God, Taylor had just lost her mom barely a year ago. She had sounded so vibrant and full of life when we spoke on the phone before... before them. I thought that she was finally coming back around, that the old Taylor I grew up with and loved was returning. Would she fall back even further into herself? Would she just stay in bed for not a week now, but a month? And Mom and Dad... I couldn't even imagine what they must have felt. What they must still be feeling.

I had to get back to them. I needed to see them again, not just lie here and wait to die.

I propped myself on the side as best as I could, drawing my fist even further into myself. Then I twisted, putting as much of my body into it as I could, striking the wood with a force that rattled the casket. I felt my skin tear open and I wept in pain, as hot liquid ran down my arm and dripped against my forehead. But it still wasn't enough. I needed to do more.

I threw my fist against the wood even harder than ever now. Wooden splinters fell onto my face and I hastily brushed them away before they got in my eye. I could feel the indentation of the wood around the bleeding mess that was my hand. I was making progress, I was sure of it.

I struck even harder this time, feeling the bones of my hand shift and crunch. Blood flowed and dripped. In the darkness, all I could hear was my own steady breathing and the impact of my strikes. Lay on my side, cock back my fist, push off with my other hand, twist my hips and punch. The pain was still there and my face was hot with tears, but still I punched.

Then I felt something odd. My skin rippled and my bones shifted peculiarly. It wasn't painful, just... odd. My hand stopped hurting and the blood stopped flowing. I gingerly felt my right hand with my other hand. It was wet with blood, but underneath I could feel that the skin was smooth and unmarred. As if I had never damaged them in the first place. I took a deep breath and punched again, wincing as I felt the skin on my knuckles split. I drew my fist back to my other hand and after a few moments, I felt the skin shift and slide. And the wound was gone as if it had never been there. That wasn't normal.

I... I was a parahuman. I could regenerate apparently, undo any damage I took. I grinned in the darkness, feeling a surge of hope swell in me. It would still hurt, but this would help. This would definitely help. I still needed to focus on my task however.

The pain was less of an incentive to stop than an indication of my own success. For every agonizing crunch in my hands, for every drop of blood that splashed onto my face, I felt the indentation widen, as more and more splinters wafted down. I was striking with all the force I could muster now, and by the fourth strike, I felt my damaged hand crash all the way through the wood, grasping something clumpy.

I had gotten my arm out! I wanted to exult in triumph, but my elation turned to horror as I heard the wood creak and moan. And then the hole around my arm expanded and a deluge of earth crashed down on top of me, flooding through the hole I had opened. I opened my mouth to scream, but only received a mouthful of dirt instead. Earth filled the coffin, expanding the sides until the top burst into wooden fragments that were quickly shifted aside. A mountain of soil laid on top of me, crushing my chest even as I choked on the dirt in my mouth.

What I had forgotten to account for was the sheer weight of the soil packed above my casket. Even if I didn't die from air loss within my grave, the surrounding soil would keep me trapped instead. Dirt was inside my mouth, a horrible and foul-tasting mixture. I felt the earth packed around my body, wrapped around like a vise and my arm was left erect, pointed towards the surface.

I felt my heart racing as I tried to draw in air I didn't have, my brief store of oxygen eliminated when the earth infiltrated the casket and stamped my meager air supply out. My eyes were tightly shut, but I could feel tears seeping out of their corners, absorbed into the surrounding earth and my heart pounded even faster as I felt my lungs sucking on air that simply wasn't there.

This was even worse than the casket, worse than the alley. I should have just stayed down there, accepted my fate. I was trapped in complete darkness, suffocated to death by the oppressive weight of the earth. I felt like I was trapped in an impossibly tight blanket, drowning six feet below the ground, and no one could even hear me scream. If they ever dug me out, would they find my bones like this, trapped just above my casket? I would have sobbed, but I didn't have the breath for it.

I started to feel heady, as I was rapidly deprived of oxygen. My chest was deflated, the oxygen gone. The sensation was horrible, like I was on the verge of drowning, but not quite. Why wasn't I passing out? Didn't people pass out from oxygen loss? I would have thrashed if I had the room, just anything to get rid of this feeling.

I lay there for minutes, hours, I wasn't sure, just wallowing in the terrible sensation. I thought I might go insane from the all-consuming terror I felt. God, just let me die already, please, oh God, just make this feeling stop. I was on the tip of dying from oxygen loss, but something kept the process from completing all the way.

I thought back to when my hand had healed. And I felt a wave of despair that was stronger than anything I had felt since I had woken up. Could my power also be keeping me from passing out? Could it be that I wouldn't die? That my power would keep me alive even here, trapped potentially for eternity? Just stuck like this, in a half-life confined to six feet below the surface, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to see, unable to breathe?

Real panic set in me then. It was the same kind of shift I had felt when Lao had told me that he had lied. The same shattering of hopes that I had desperately tried to hang onto, to try to maintain my sanity with.

I started straining against the dirt, pushing with almost no leverage against the crushing weight of the earth. I had never appreciated just how heavy dirt could be, how much effort it would take to push against the all-encompassing soil. I felt bones shift and crack and I was finally able to move my arm maybe a few inches to the right.

The agony was excruciating, as I was forced to shift my muscles and limbs into situations they had never been designed for. I had to generate enough force to actively move away the dirt, working with zero leverage, doing nothing but constantly straining against the weight. I felt tendons rip and tear before they reformed, muscles bend and strain before they repaired themselves, and bones crack and crunch and then re-align.

I remembered stories of people who were able to accomplish the seemingly miraculous when truly called upon it. There had been a mother whose son had been trapped beneath a car. A woman who had probably never so much as lifted a weight in her life had found the strength within her to raise a few tons several inches off the ground, allowing her son to get free. She had saved her son, but she must have ruined her arms, possibly for the rest of her life.

Human beings were capable of extraordinary feats, acts which could vastly surpass anything you heard about in the record books. But few could live the same after achieving miracles like that. Our bodies were limited for our own good, to keep us from destroying ourselves from our own awesome power and capabilities.

I didn't know if I was any stronger than a normal human person, but my regeneration allowed me to do something that normal people couldn't. I could utilize power that would normally be nearly suicidal to draw upon. I could take my body to its limits and exceed them—and be able to live with the cost.

Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, minute by excruciating minute, I made progress, fumbling about in the dark. Finally, I was able to brace my left arm against my side. I heaved upward, throwing every bit of effort into it. Then I began to press harder, straining my upper body against the weight of the dirt on top of me and I could feel myself starting to raise myself with a frustratingly slow pace. I should have been exhausted by now, utterly drained from the amount of effort I was exerting from my own meager frame, but I felt like I could keep going for ages, regardless of the lack of oxygen I was now suffering from.

Muscles tore at the base of my shoulder and my entire body ached with a horrendous pain that made me want to curl up in a corner and do nothing but cry. But still I continued. Still I persisted. After one particularly strenuous movement, I felt something snap inside my back and I lost all sensation south of my hips. I froze, terror rising inside me before my back made an awful crunching sound and I was struck with horrible, horrible pain. I would have screamed if I was capable of it, but I just continued straining against the dirt. There was nothing stopping me besides my own will. My body could take it. It was only a question of whether or not I could.

I don't know how much time passed. Hours, days? Time ceased to have meaning down there in the dark, the only sounds I had was the thudding of my chest, the cracking of my bones, the tearing of my muscles, and the slow shifting of the earth. I was lost in a whirlwind of pain and delirium, crushed by the earth on all sides, still caught at that horrible verge of drowning without dying that kept me moving, no matter how much agony I incurred. I was finally standing upright and had begun my slow journey towards the surface.

At some point, the pain became nearly all-encompassing, lighting every nerve as muscles tore and re-tore and bones broke and re-broke. Somewhere along my ascent, I ceased to have a body and was just a floating mass of pain, something that transcended mere flesh and bone, even as my material body kicked and thrashed almost of its own volition. There was almost something profound about it, like a religious experience if God had been one to favor pain.

An eternity passed like that and I was almost resigned to spend the rest of my life like this when I finally felt something different.

A cool breeze blew against my fingertips.

I moved more frantically now, as I grew aware of my own body once again, the agony mapping onto individual muscles and bones. I bucked and thrashed against the earth, willing myself to ascend, to get out of this earthen prison. First my fingers. Then my hand. Then my forearm followed by my entire arm. I felt a surge of triumph in me even as I accidentally broke my arm again from a particularly ill-advised motion. It was much easier now, with not as much weight to keep me down. I used my newfound leverage as best as I could, practically swimming towards the surface.

I finally got my head free of the ground, spitting out the earth that had lain in mouth for God knew how long. I ripped my other arm out from under the Earth and strained myself, roaring to the heavens, and in a single painful jerk, I heaved myself out from the hole I had created.

I lay there for a while, not moving, gulping great lungfuls of air, that cursed drowning sensation fading. Skin rippled and repaired as I felt my aches and bruises fade. There was no lingering pain, even though I should be practically paralyzed with it—my power took care of that just as well as my injuries. My eyes were still closed, but I could tell that it was dark. All I could hear was the soft sounds of my own breathing and quiet chirping of the nearby insect life. I rolled over on my back and opened my eyes, staring into the night sky.

Then I got up and turned to look at my own grave. The headstone stared at me accusingly.

EMMA BARNES

DAUGHTER, SISTER, FRIEND.

FOR YOU ARE EVER IN OUR HEARTS.

MAY 19 1995 – AUGUST 26 2009

I looked down at myself, my hands shaking. It was stained with blood and dirt from my ordeal, but I could recognize this particular dress anywhere. A little white lacy dress, probably not that impressive compared to the rest of my wardrobe. But it had a significance nothing else I could have worn did. Taylor and her mother had gotten it for me on my birthday last year, not long before she had died. It was the same dress I had worn to her funeral—Taylor's dad had practically insisted I wear it, despite it being white. I didn't wear it often, but this dress was precious to me in a way that none of my other clothes were. It was tied to a memory that none of them could match.

And I had been buried in it.

I sank to my knees, wrapping my arms around the gravestone as I wept. I cried and cried, as if I had been saving up all of my tears for now, to let the effects of what had happened to me finally hit me with full force. I recalled the darkness of the casket, the feeling of the earth crushing my body, and I shuddered, collapsing against the headstone and hugging my arms against myself. I lay there for a few minutes, sniffling until my tears dried.

I... I needed to get away. I needed to be somewhere other than here, at my own grave. I never had a very good sense of direction for Brockton Bay, but any direction was a direction away from here. I tried to wipe away the blood and dirt off my dress and face to the best of my ability, but I only managed to secure a uniform smear at best.

I walked towards one of the cemetery's fences, the gate closed for the night. There were small lights stuck in the ground to light the way and I wondered what I must have looked like, nose-less and wrapped in a blood-smeared and dirt-stained white dress, looking fresh like death. I wouldn't be surprised if someone mistook me for a zombie. Actually, as far as I knew, I was a zombie, or the parahuman equivalent of it. Did that make me a para-zombie then?

I giggled at that last thought. Emma the para-zombie. I could run after villains and demand that they let me eat their brains. I don't think there had been a zombie cape before. That would make my image fairly unique, wouldn't it?

I easily vaulted over the gate, an unfamiliar street and neighborhood greeting me. I gave one last glance towards where my grave had been and stepped out into the night.