Work Text:
The release of the new Dune movie was possibly the worst thing that could have happened to Taylor Hebert.
Not because she disliked the movie. The movie was fine. Good, even. She respected the cinematography. She respected the worms.
Unfortunately, everyone else respected the worms too.
Taylor Hebert was a worm.
No, not because she was a bookworm. Not metaphorically. Taylor was, quite literally, an earthworm. A very large earthworm. About five feet long.
The release of Dune had created a Dune craze at Winslow High, and the student body had reacted with all the maturity and restraint expected of a building full of teenagers. Which was to say, none. Within a week, Taylor had gone from being called “worm” in the ordinary unimaginative way to being called the Worm Goddess-Empress of Mankind.
It also did not help that her last name was Hebert, which was almost Herbert, as in Frank Herbert, author of the Dune series. She tried correcting people that Hebert is missing an ‘R’. Not that it mattered to those making fun of her.
Morons, she thought.
Taylor would neither confirm nor deny any relation to Frank Herbert. She also refused to comment on whether Frank Herbert had been a prophet who foresaw the coming of a human-worm hybrid decades in advance.
This was mostly because Taylor did not know.
It was not impossible.
A few years after Frank Herbert had written his novels, superpowers had started emerging among Americans. Mutations, transformations, powers, parahuman phenomena—people used different words depending on whether they were writing a scientific paper, a government report, or a forum post with too many exclamation marks. Whatever name they used, the end result was the same: a generation of people had become superheroes, supervillains, and in Taylor’s case, a very tired worm.
No one knew why the phenomenon seemed limited to Americans, either. There were theories. There were always theories. Taylor’s favourite was that some cosmic being had only been exposed to American media and had therefore assumed America was the correct place to put all the weirdos.
Naturally, this made most other countries even more fearful and jealous of America than they already were.
A recent manga series about teenagers in Japan getting superpowers in a high school setting was only one piece of evidence for this jealousy and wish fulfilment. Taylor had not read it, but Thomas had explained the entire premise to her during lunch once, unprompted, while she was trying to digest a banana peel.
Not that anyone was jealous of Taylor’s powers.
Taylor’s power was being a worm.
A giant worm, with all the benefits being a worm could provide. Most people considered this a sad reality. A human girl stuck as a human-worm. Taylor’s face remained mostly human, which apparently made people feel worse, not better, but the rest of her body was a seamless, pink, segmented tubeform that required custom desks, custom chairs, and endless meetings with school administrators who used the phrase “reasonable accommodation” like it physically pained them.
Taylor, on the other hand, didn't really mind. It was who she had been since birth, and she loved worming around. She loved the benefits of being an invertebrate.
It was who she had been since birth. She liked not having feet. Feet, in Taylor’s opinion, were a design flaw. Two small platforms at the bottom of a tall body? Absurd. Easy to trip. Easy to kick. Easy to step on gum. Poorly considered. Worm locomotion was much more sensible.
She also liked eating compost. Free buffet.
She liked digging.
She liked dark spaces.
Most of all, she liked being able to burrow away whenever she felt embarrassed.
What Taylor minded were the people who looked at her and decided that being a worm was the same thing as being weak.
The recent popularity of Dune at Winslow had not helped. Taylor only wanted to climb to her locker, retrieve a novel, and read in peace without someone asking whether she was the Lisan al-Gaib.
Lisan al-Gaib.
That was not even accurate, Taylor thought bitterly. In the books, it meant Voice from the Outer World. She was not from space.
She was from Utah.
Sadly, accuracy did not matter to most of the ignorant kids in her class. Only a small handful seemed to know enough about Dune not to call her that.
Unfortunately, those students were worse.
“Actually,” Brian said from behind her, “the Lisan al-Gaib isn’t Paul Atreides. It’s his son, Leto II.”
Brian adjusted his glasses with smug precision.
His glasses did not have lenses. They were purely aesthetic.
“No, you fake-Wikipedia-reading-only nerd,” Thomas said. “Any otaku would know Paul Atreides is the Lisan al-Gaib. Leto II is the one who becomes the worm-emperor of mankind.”
Taylor groaned and smacked her forehead into her book.
The book absorbed the impact. The book was used to this.
She badly wanted to burrow. Unfortunately, the many detentions she had received for destruction of school property had taught her that digging through the floor to escape class was “not an appropriate exit strategy,” even when the door was crowded.
Luckily, the argument behind her quieted when Mr. Gladly walked into the classroom carrying a thick stack of examination papers.
Their recent algebra tests had been marked.
“Good afternoon, class!” Mr. Gladly said cheerfully. “I’m very happy to see how well everyone performed on the recent test. You all did wonderfully, and I’m sure you’ll be on your way to excellent SAT results in the future.”
Taylor somehow doubted that.
Mr. Gladly was too kind to mark anyone down. Even wrong answers earned credit for “effort.” Blank answers received encouraging comments. Illegible answers were treated as evidence of deep mathematical struggle. His reputation for giving everyone high marks had created a grade inflation problem so severe that other teachers had started marking down the students other subject grades to “even the balance”.
As Mr. Gladly handed Taylor her test sheet, Taylor sighed.
A+.
“Good job, Taylor,” Mr. Gladly said. “I can see you really made a strong effort to answer all the questions.”
Taylor did not reply. She only nodded and looked down at the paper.
I wouldn’t have given myself an A+, to be honest.
With the help of several worms she controlled telepathically—because she had no arms—Taylor flipped through the pages. She had already spotted three mistakes, two half-finished solutions, and one question where she had written, This is probably x, but I resent the premise.
Full marks.
I’m never learning anything at this rate.
Beside her, Sophia Hess stared at her own test.
“I’m so glad our parents’ taxes are going to waste on such a pathetic school,” Sophia said. “Do I get points for breathing, or is that extra credit?”
“Sophia!” Emma Barnes turned in her seat, eyes already shining with concern. “You shouldn’t say that. You might hurt Mr. Gladly’s feelings.”
Emma Barnes was the class’s resident empath and unofficial therapist. She could feel everyone’s emotions, which meant she spent most of her time crying, hugging people who had not asked to be hugged, and saying things like, “I’m sensing unresolved tension,” whenever two students made eye contact for too long.
Sophia looked unimpressed.
“As if anything I say could affect his feelings.”
“You are quite right, Miss Barnes,” Mr. Gladly said with an earnest smile. “I’m very happy to see my students growing and challenging me. And thank you for being considerate about my feelings.”
Sophia stared at him.
Then she looked at her A+.
Then back at him.
“The education system died,” she said, “and nobody invited me to the funeral.”
Mr. Gladly gave her a thumbs-up.
By the time class ended, Taylor was exhausted from the sheer amount of social energy she had spent existing in public.
Worms only have so much social energy, she thought wearily.
She crawled out of the classroom, careful not to smear too much dirt across the floor. She had almost reached the hallway when she sensed something dangerous.
Madison Clements, the girl from the adjacent class.
Madison’s eyes locked onto Taylor's glistening form. She grinned maniacally and immediately started rushing toward her. The girl with no respect for personal boundaries.
Fuck.
“Tayloooor!” Madison screamed, already sprinting down the hallway. “My love! How did you do on your test? Did you get a perfect score? Do I need to threaten Mr. Gladly for you?”
Students turned to stare.
Taylor froze.
Madison came closer, arms outstretched, expression radiant and deranged.
“You don’t have to be shy!” Madison called. “I support your academic journey! I support all your journeys! Even the underground ones!”
Taylor considered her options.
The hallway was crowded. The door was far away. The floor was cheap tile over older, softer material. She had been warned before. Repeatedly. In writing.
You know what? I’ll just take another detention.
She plunged face-first into the corridor floor.
Tile cracked. Dirt sprayed. Someone screamed. Sophia laughed from behind her and said, “Finally, a practical application of algebra.”
Taylor burrowed as fast as she could and rushed back home as fast as her subterranean biology could take her.
Behind her, Madison wailed, “Taylor, wait! I packed compost for us!”
This was an average day in the life of Taylor Hebert.