The character creation interface shimmered before her, a kaleidoscope of possibilities dancing just beyond her fingertips. Taylor blinked, uncertain whether she was dying, dreaming, or somehow suspended between reality and something else entirely. The soft blue glow of the menu felt impossibly crisp, a stark contrast to the suffocating darkness of the locker.
She started with the Biometrid ID, her fingers—were they even real?—trailing across holographic options. The face looking back at her was familiar yet malleable. Taylor studied her reflection carefully. She kept her long, dark, curly hair—that was non-negotiable. Her green eyes remained unchanged, bright, and intelligent. But here, in this impossible space, she could make subtle adjustments. The glasses disappeared with a gentle swipe, her vision suddenly sharp and clear. Her mouth—that feature she'd always been self-conscious about—became slightly more proportionate, less wide, more refined. Just enough to feel like a slightly improved version of herself but still undeniably Taylor.
It was strange. With unlimited potential for transformation, she chose restraint. This dream—or whatever this was—offered complete reinvention, and yet Taylor found comfort in remaining fundamentally herself. Each small adjustment felt like a whispered conversation with her own identity, a gentle reclamation of control in a world that had always seemed intent on taking it away.
When she reached the background selection, Taylor hesitated. The options felt both expansive and constraining. Her fingers hovered over different choices before settling on "Professor"—a quiet tribute to her mother. Annette Hebert had been passionate about her academic work, filling their home with books and intellectual discourse. Taylor, a perpetual reader herself, felt most at home in this scholarly context.
The trait selection drew her immediately to "Kids Stuff"—not for any grand strategic reason, but for the simple, devastating promise: Both parents are alive and well. Visitable. In an instant, she was transported to a phantom memory: her mother discussing her latest lecture, animated and alive, her father smiling softly over a steaming cup of coffee, the weight of recent years' depression lifted like a dissipating fog. The depression that had consumed their household since her mother's death—gone, just like that.
She selected Taskmaster and United Colonies Native almost perfunctorily. The only trait that truly mattered was Kids Stuff, with its promise of a family restored, of a life unbroken.
Then—
An explosion. Not of violence but of impossible light. Fractals of brilliance cascaded like liquid crystal, sound waves rippling in chromatic arpeggios that seemed to breathe with alien intelligence. The artifact—some unknown, impossibly ancient construct—pulsed with a rhythm that was simultaneously mathematical and organic.
Memories began to leak.
Not her memories. Not entirely. Waves of another life, another consciousness, began to filter through her mind like water through fine mesh. Experiences of exploration, of interstellar travel, of choices made in the vast, cold emptiness of space. Glimpses of the United Colonies, of conflicts with the Crimson Fleet, of scientific discoveries that rewrote understanding of quantum physics and human potential.
These were the memories of a spacefarer. Of someone who had touched the unknowable and been transformed.
But Taylor remained. Anchored. These new memories did not replace her own—they interwove, creating a complex tapestry where her life in Brockton Bay and this stranger's cosmic journey existed in simultaneous, harmonious contradiction. She was still the girl who had been bullied, who missed her mother, who loved books. But now she was also something more.
Something different.
The first sensation was sound—muffled voices cutting through a fog of consciousness. Heller's gravelly tone, Lin's more measured response. "She's coming around," someone said, and Taylor struggled to orient herself.
Medical bay. Sterile white walls, the sharp antiseptic smell that seemed universal across every medical facility she'd ever encountered. A med-tech was checking her vitals, his hands moving with practiced efficiency. "Pupils reactive, no signs of serious trauma," he muttered, more to himself than to her.
"Welcome back," Heller said, a hint of relief beneath his typically gruff exterior. "You gave us quite a scare."
Lin leaned in, her expression a mix of concern and mild professional interest. "You gave us a bit of a scare. Are you feeling alright?"
The medical staff cleared her for light duty, with a stern warning to take it easy. By dinner, news of her "fainting spell" had spread through Vectera's small mining community. The mess hall buzzed with good-natured ribbing.
"So," Martinez, one of the veteran miners, called out, a beer in hand, "heard the new recruit decided to take a nap mid-shift. Impressive commitment to workplace relaxation."
Taylor felt a smile emerge—something that felt both familiar and subtly different. "Well," she retorted, "someone's got to show you veterans how to really take a break. Thought I'd set a new standard."
Laughter rippled through the table. It was easy. Natural. As if she'd always been here, always been part of this tight-knit group of miners and explorers.
Later that night, as conversations wound down and the mess hall emptied, she caught Lin's eye. Something unspoken passed between them—a shared understanding that something had changed. Something fundamental.