London, England 2nd August, 1943

It all started when Christina's mother refused to get out of bed. This, in itself, was not an unusual occurrence. Ever since Peter's death, her mother's mental state had been balancing on the edge of a precipice and the smallest thing seemed to force her into one extreme or another. Many a day, she'd refused to leave her tiny, dim bedroom and Christina had to nip round to deliver meals - from where she lived, in a renovated farm outbuilding next door, unable to afford her own place - where her mother would flood her with a tidal wave of emotional anecdotes that could keep Christina trapped for hours. Today, though, Christina's patience was particularly thin. Her brother had been dead for nearly a year, now, but it was if his ghost was resurrected each and every day in the presence of her bleary-eyed mother. After heating her up a bowl of stew, Christina flung it towards her bed-bound parent and marched out before the aging woman could even open her mouth. Christina could hear her mother huffing in annoyance behind her, as she left.

She needed to get out for a little while and so she had pushed her way through the front door, down the garden path and out the gate. This sliver of rebellion gave Christina a sense of excited liberation and she had stop herself from skipping down the road. She had no idea where she was going. Anywhere was better than there.

A little way down the lane, she paused when she caught sight of the wheat field. The wheat field where she had frozen Victor. She - and the villagefolk - had no proof that it was her and at first, she managed to convince herself that it was just 'one of those things' but when she got angry, she often discovered her surroundings glistening with the formation of pure ice or dust with snow. The slow dawning realisation that it was her doing was met with a gloomy, though not altogether surprised, acceptance. She didn't tell anyone. She didn't anyone to preach to her or outcast her ;she knew she was headed to hell. She was just a bad person for some reason that was beyond her comprehension, full stop.

When she glanced away from the wheat field and the memories it held, her eyes snagged on a short, skinny man dressed in a long, dark trench coat, lounging at the side of the road. She frowned - he didn't look in a hurry to be anywhere and no strangers came here without a purpose. The village was too out the way of mainstream war advertising and major transport links. She slowed her pace in surprise.

"Christina Buckley?" a low voice said and she jumped, as she realised he had fallen in step with her. She instinctively took a small step to the right (away from him) but he was unfazed by this. He held out a small, pale hand for her to shake. It bore no calluses nor dirt; certainly not the hand of a worker. Cautiously, she shook it, unsure of what else to do.

"My name is John Smith" - how likely, Christina thought absently - "And I'm hear on a government recruitment scheme for special soldiers. Soldiers like you."

She scoffed a little, quite unable to understand what she was hearing. She wasn't particularly strong nor fast and certainly nothing special enough to come all the way out here for. She wasn't exactly weak - working on her mother's farm had ensured she had some muscle - but there were lads in the area who were double her size and strength. Surely they'd be better suited? She waved away the notion, thinking they must have mixed her up with someone else. But he spoke, before she could object out-loud.

"We know about your little ice trick, you know. We know everything," he said casually, shrugging, and then by way of explanation "We're the government."

Christina felt herself freeze, excusing the pun. Her heart began to beat rapidly and she felt a mass of lead settle into the depths of her stomach. Her mind could not formulate anything resembling coherent thought. Someone knew. But how? She'd been so careful to conceal it - hiding whatever she froze by accident until it had thawed. She stopped walking, a small breeze ruffling her hair. Her eyes were wide.

"I-I don't k-know what y-you talk-"

"Cut the crap," the man snapped and any traces of friendliness drained from his tone "You have the chance to help your country. Take it. Now."

Christina blinked, not expecting his response to be so sharp. Mentally, she flailed - she was still unable to get past the mental shock that these people knew about her unnatural curse. She opened and closed her mouth several times, aware of his dark, beady eyes studying her and monitoring her reaction. Finally, she settled on a grim determination. Peter had left her mother and, no matter how frustrating the old woman was, she couldn't do that to her mother again. She shook her head, her resolving hardening.

"I'm sorry but I can't. Women aren't even allowed in the army; besides, I have my elderly mother to think about"

"We can make an exception for you" he cut in, abruptly.

"My final answer is no" Christina was unwavering.

His mouth set into a hard line as he stopped, mid-stride, regarding her. Christina thought he would argue, force her into it (whatever it was), but he merely stared with those hard, dark eyes. He was evidently angry - it seemed to pulse through every crease and line on his face - but he said nothing. After an eternity of silence, he nodded slowly.

"Very well, Miss Buckley"

Embarrassed, she glanced down at her scuffed, leather shoes, in an attempt to avoid the full force of his disapproving glare but when she glimpsed up again, he was gone. Alarmed, she scanned the road and caught sight of a thin, dark figure marching off swiftly in the opposite direction. That was it.

And she thought she'd seen the last of John Smith.

But apparently not.

---

When she awoke the next morning, he was looming over her. The soft green of her bedroom wallpaper had morphed into sterile white walls, and the cold, hard table she awoke curled up on was a far cry from her old, comfortable mattress. Everything about the place was angular and foreign. And the heat...sweat was already dripping from her forehead, matting in her hair and she felt drowsy and faint. John Smith smiled from where he stood across from her - the first sign of any kind of happiness he had shown since she'd first met him - and turned on his heel, walking back across to the doorway. He paused, glancing back.

"Welcome to the facility, Miss Buckley. You can call me Dr Granger. I'll be overseeing your stay here."

Christina propped herself up, blinking. Her breaths came out in quick, shallow pants as she took in her surroundings. This wasn't home.

"Where am I?" she managed to croak, her voice hoarse and scratching like sandpaper on the back of her throat.

"A labyrinth, built by the bricks of science, from which there is no escape," he announced, tagging on a short, maniac laugh before exiting the room.

The door slammed shut behind him, sealing her fate.

Erik concentrated. Though his hollow eyes spoke of sleepless nights, they were sharp and alert. If all one could see were his eyes, one might mistake the scrawny young man for a hunting eagle. However, there was no prey around. Erik always had to be alone when practicing, lest he become the hunted. Some sunlight crept through the cracks in the roof; barely illumating the abandoned warehouse. The rays of light revealed rusted old factory equipment that had been long since forgotten by anyone but Erik. To him, this was the perfect place for him to train. Were he to face his enemy and be victorious, he couldn't waste a second. For his enemies were many and strong, and him but a lost boy in a foreign land. Yet none could do what Erik could. Before him, several feet above the ground, floated a ten foot long iron bar. Bend, Erik thought, or rather commanded. The iron bar listened. Creaking and groaning, the metal bent, making it into a U-shape. Without losing an inch of focus, he proceeded to manipulate the iron bar. It bent in this direction and that, following his every whim. It bent around, forming a circle, and around itself, making it into an iron ribbon. While it hung there, Erik pushed himself harder. From the ground rose cogs and pedals and spanners and other mechanical gizmos one would expect to find in a factory, as well as a range of other small and large no longer describable clumps of metal. They all floated up into the air, clogging the air and darkening the room. Erik was as if in a trance. Controlling this many objects at once was challenging. As if he was a great maestro, he orchastrated the iron to flow in continually changing patterns. It made quite a lot of noise. More noise than Erik usually allowed himself to make. But there were no one who came around this part of town any longer. It was truly abandoned. No one had ever interrupted his training. He was confident he was alone out here. What he didn't know was that he had been observed the entire time he'd been there.

Erik strained to keep all the items airborn. He vaguely recalled that he hadn't eaten in two days, nor slept more than a few hours. He blinked, exhaustion suddenly washing over him. He lost his grip. The flying metal whirred out of control, crashing and falling everywhere. Erik panicked and sped for the exit, barely managing to avoid the metal raining down. Someting hit him hard in the back of the head as he stumbled out the door. He landed face-down on the black ground. His head spinned, but hearing the collapsing sounds behind him, he forced himself onto his feet and walked further away from the warehouse. On the other side of the broken street, he decided it was safe, and turned around. Dizzy from his head being hit, he could barely see, but he saw all that he needed. His training hall was no more. It had fallen apart; becoming one with the surrounding rubble. He was struck by remorse. That's when he heard a voice. Complicated, English words. He span around to see who it was, but was cut short by another blow to his head. He fell, and lost consciousness before he hit the ground.

He awoke in a strange room. He was in a soft bed. It was dark, and his head hurt immensely. On a tray by the bed was food. Bread, cheese, meat and pitcher of water. Without hesitation, he wolfed it all down. It wasn't until after he'd eaten that he felt the bandage around his head. Someone had patched him up. He looked around the room. It was small, and contained only a bed and the night table beside it. The only light came from the hall beyond his room, through the cracks along the edges of the door, though it was minimal. He went for the door, but found it locked. His heart began to race. He had been imprisoned. He laughed shakily. No prison could hold him, he thought. Concentrating, he tried to rip the door from its hinges. But nothing happened. Checking the door, he found the hinges were made of wood. He tried manipulating the bed, the tray, anything he could see, but nothing happened. For each object he tried, his fear grew. A scary realization dawned on him. There was no metal at all in this room. He'd never heard of a cell without any metal at all.

Questions raced through his head as he paced the floor. Who had imprisoned him here? Was this cell designed specifically for him? And how? How was all this even remotely possible? He'd been so careful, only practicing when nobody had been around. He tried to think back. He remembered a voice, but that was all. He heard footsteps in the hall. A shutter in the door opened briskly, blinding his eyes with light. "I thought I heard noises. He's awake", a voice rasped. "I'll inform Doctor Hagueson", croaked another, "He'll be pleased to hear it. He's very interested in this particular subject. You keep an eye on him. And remember: no metal is to come near him. If he even sees metal, he's extremly dangerous. Understood?" Only silence followed, but through the shutter, Erik could see the man nod. So he was a subject again, just not to the Nazis this time. They spoke English. And he'd thought that England would be where he would explore freedom. What a foolish boy he had been.

It had been exactly a week since Christina was brought here. She'd been counting the days and nights, along with the tiles on the ceiling and the cracks on the wall. She was kept at sweltering temperatures and she had no energy to do anything but lie there, and contemplate. She thought about her mother, and how worried she was. A tiny, tiny part of her was glad that her mother would finally be forced remember that she had (and had lost) a second child and hopefully would be feeling bad for not treating her daughter better when she was around. But this was still quashed by the enormous mountain of sadness at having her freedom taken from her. Nothing for compensate for the current hell she was living.

The meals the scientists brought to her were dry and tasteless. They talked as if she was deaf and so she was often able to gauge what was going on in the wider facility. It was the only information and contact she received from human beings in a day, so she relished in every shred, even if it was from her kidnappers. Whenever they entered - usually bearing food of some sort - they would chatter away and Christina would lie on the table that she knew as her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling and listening to their conversations. She heard one relaying to the other why Christina's food was so dry; "Dr Hagueson reckons that water's a key component in ice see - reduce that, and you reduce the subject's strength. He's trying to keep her exposure to water to a minimum, just in case". She had learnt no longer had a name outside of 'the subject'.

They also talked about other subjects, which always piqued Christina's interest. Apparently they'd just brought in a kid who needed to be tethered down, for fear they would fly off - 'Peter fricking Pan' they liked to call him - and a younger man that had something to do with metal. Despite Christina's constant disorientation, she found herself filing away these titbits of information, surprised to hear that there were others like her, other 'subjects'. They might be useful later - if she even lived through to a 'later'. At this rate, she'd barely make it through the month. She was beginning to feel weak all the times, and it felt like she slept constantly. The heat made her feel sick and she found herself withdrawing deeper and deeper within herself.

The worst parts were the interviews, which took place at exactly quarter past four every afternoon. She could monitor Dr Hagueson's approach by the clicking of his polished shoes on the corridor outside her cell and he was almost always accompanied by Dr Granger, who merely stared at her with his beady, rat-like eyes. The questions were relentless and required her to describe every minute aspect of her childhood that, at first, she had refused to do. However, after a little persuasion - involving a few punches from one of the guards, that gave Christina a bloody nose and a split lip - she eventually began to respond flatly to whatever they asked. They were mostly interested in how she was brought up, her parents, whether she had siblings and if they had developed any similar traits. She answered truthfully - even to the degrading questions, such as describing Victor's kiss in detail - but they always seemed to leave disappointed.

They took blood sample and urine sample from her every few days. She didn't even flinch when they stuck the needle in her arm anymore and when they held out the jar, she took it wordlessly. She did as she was told. She no longer was Christina - the girl, who had her own mind - but instead, the Subject, who was merely the scientist's toy. After seven days, though, something interrupted the schedule.

"Come on," Dr Granger said, opening the door and gesturing for her to walk out of her cell. Christina just stared at him dumbly. She was being allowed out?

He cleared his throat and she hastened, stumbling unsteadily on her legs which had grown unaccustomed to walking. He walked slightly behind her, jostling her down the corridor and barking sharp orders of where to turn and which door to go through. She complied, marvelling at somewhere that wasn't her three-by-three meter cell, and nearly tripped when he pushed her through the last doorway into a cavernous hall. The floor, walls and ceiling were all the same sterile white she had grown to hate, but red lines - the most vivid shade of scarlet; her eyes drunk up the colour that they had been deprived of for over a week - formed large, room-sized boxes on the ground. Dr Granger led her over to a box in the corner. He gestured for to stand on a red cross and pointed a tiny glass on a podium approximately ten meters away, barely visible behind the white background. It was less than half full of water.

"This is the training room," Dr Granger explained, "It is the only area of the compound you are allowed to use your abnormality. And only when requested by a member of staff. Others may enter and be tested by their own scientist teams but you are to ignore them and focus on your task, understand?"

She nodded vacantly.

She understood.

It was Erik's second day in the facility. Piercing eyes observed him to the sound of writing. They were noting down every detail about him; everything he did, said, or remotely gestured. They were even more thorough in their questioning than his previous captors had been, and seemed experienced with dealing with people like Erik. He had quickly realized he wasn't the only one there, but it seemed the facility specialized in subjects with extraordinary abilities.

"Do you have a problem with authority?" Hagueson asked, but Erik responded in the same manner as he had done to all the previous questions; with silence. His inquisitor sighed. "Haben Sie ein Problem mit Autorität?", he tried again. Erik remained mute. Hagueson had tried communicating in his mother language before, to get under his skin, but to no avail. He moved closer to where Erik sat, inspecting him like a biologist would a rare insect. "You know, Erik," he began, in German, with empathy in his eyes, "you're only making this harder for yourself. If you don't talk of your own free will, I can employ methods that will make any man spill his guts. Sometimes literally. And I wouldn't want harm to come to you, Erik, but if you stubbornly continue to refuse to cooperate, I will have to resort to different means of acquiring information. If you behave well and answer all my questions without further qualms, however, you will be allowed a bit of socialization with the other subjects, as well as acces to the training room." Erik looked up hearing that last part. "Yes, Erik. We're not here to harm you, or keep you from using your ability. This… wooden cell, is simply a precaution. I want you to thrive, and become better at your ability. So long as you do and say what we tell you to, your stay here needn't be as horrible as you think it is. Now, what do you say, Erik?" The young boy thought it over, but reluctantly understood he was in no place to argue. He forced himself to nod. "Excellent," Hagueson stated, "so lets get these questions out of the way, shall we?"

It was day three. After yesterday's interrogation, he'd been allowed into the training room, as he was promised. He was accompanied by two guards who stood behind him with billy clubs, should he try anything. Behind a window he figured was of reinforced glass stood three people in white robes and observed him, including Dr. Hagueson. The room was all white, which after spending the previous days in a dark, wooden room, seared his eyes. It was also refreshing to see something else, and to move about. On the ground before him someone had prepared his training session with a chunk of metal. He immediately thought of taking out the two guards behind him with it, but crushed the notion quickly. Even if he did manage to take those two out, the entrance to the training room was tightly sealed, preventing such events. There was someone else in the room already, on the other side of the hall. A pretty girl, who looked to be in the same position as him. There was to be no contact with the other subjects in the training room, he'd been told. But he couldn't help but look at her, and wonder what she could do. Maybe she could manipulate metal as well. One of the guards nudged him in the shoulder, and pointed at the chunk of metal. Erik got the message, and focused on the little clump. It floated into the air. At the edge of his vision, he could see Dr. Hagueson and the other obervers scribbling away. He noted the girl across the hall also looking at him. Childishly, he wanted to impress them all. With sharp rasps, he cut the chunk into five pieces which began to circulate around themselves. He continued to cut them into smaller and smaller pieces, and soon it was all but metallic dust, swirling around in the air in increasingly complicated patterns. It was joyous to work with metal again. For a moment, he forgot where he was. It was only him and the metal.

Christina tried not to watch openly as a boy was marched into the training room. She'd not seen anyone apart from the scientists in almost a week - save for a glance of a six-year old boy leaving the training room one day - and it was hard not to gape at someone her own age. He was accompanied and seemed to be monitored by Dr Hagueson, the guy she had guessed was the head scientist around here, so she guessed he must be someone pretty special.

She wondered who he was and why he was here. Did he have a 'different skill' too? What could he do? Her question was soon answered when he began to focus on the chunk of metal laid before him. The team of scientist that were supposed to be monitoring Christina had turned to stare at the youth and so Christina was free to stare at young man without fear of scolding or punishment. He had clearly had had it as rough as her - he wasn't exactly sporting a fresh haircut - but despite this, she could still see signs of a handsome man lurking beneath the layer of dirt. Then again; maybe her lack of human contact with anyone apart from balding, middle aged scientists was clouding her judgement.

She felt her jaw drop as the metal began to severe as if ripped open by giant, invisible hands. It seemed to break apart until it was nothing but a shower of sparkling particles suspended in mid air, swaying into mesmerizing patterns. Everyone appeared to be holding their breath as the hypnotic process took place before their very eyes. Christina felt her eyes drawn to the man himself; he was concentrating, hard, but a slight grin was gracing his features, as if he truly enjoyed doing it. Christina wished she felt the same way about working with her ice. She only associated it with fear and punishment. What he could do...was incredible.

She was forced to turn back to her own task, as the scientists snapped at her, glaring. She turned her attention back to the glass of water stood on the stand and raised her hand. She could feel the raw power pulsing around her body but an elastic band of fear kept it from spilling out - every time she tried, she would instinctively draw it back into herself. This carried on for several minutes until the scientists began to clear their throats impatiently. If she didn't manage it, there would be punishment.

But she couldn't. She needed a degree of emotion with which to control her ice and right now, all she felt was numbness. She shook her head defeated and Dr Granger grabbed the collar of her shirt, pressing his face near inches from hers. His eyes were glittering with anger. She felt her cheeks blush; a small part of her was painful aware of how all of this was in full view of the young man. The only person who didn't automatically dislike her would know she was a failure. It's not that she couldn't do it - she could feel the raw energy, flooding her limbs, desperate to be unleashed - but she didn't know how. It felt like something was blocking it somehow. It's not like any of this scientists knew why.

"Not quite trying hard enough, are we?" Dr Grange said sharply, his lips curling in distaste.

Christina stared back blankly. Any fear or anger had long since drained from her. She nodded robotically. Dr Granger, seeing his method wasn't yielding any results, let go of her and pushed her roughly back onto the cross. She stumbled slightly but kept her balance and resumed her focus on the glass. This time, she allowed a tiny flicker of sadness to leak out, feeling her eyes well up. She could see the top of the glass rapidly frost over with ice. She pulled it back again and stood, waiting.

"Hagueson gets the metal prodigy, who could probably move mountains and we get this one - who can barely chill a glass of water", he muttered to one of the other scientists, who nodded in agreement. How awful for you, Christina thought bitterly but she kept her mouth shut. Verbally voicing any complaint was more trouble than it would be worth.

Because the scientists were always right, of course.