---

---

The Beginning of the End

Our characters have now, more than likely, been subjected to individual psychoanalyses for varying periods of time. Some may have had meetings spanning years with private psychologists, whereas others may have only experienced very brief and sparse visits to a psychoanalyst (who's institutions are illegal, anyway). Many of them believe they've developed, or have had for all their lives, some sort of psychotic syndrome or disease, like schizophrenia or dissociative identity disorder (multiple personality disorder). Some have wrongly self-diagnosed themselves, a silly, but common mistake, even among the general population. The worse part is, now apprehended by the government, none of them really understand what's going on. They've been subjected to tests, and informed that they will be moved to a remote location, but otherwise remain in the dark about what problems they may or may not have.

Each character is being moved individually, in a heavy, industrial, bulletproof car, to a fancy kind of ward in a remote part of Georgia. They do not know there are other like them, and are anxious and frightened.

This Arc, or year, will deal with the characters, slowly, bit by bit, piecing together information that they and their soul twins happen to glance and steal from scientists to come to the conclusions that, while none of them have a common disorder, they do have another person within them. Because doctors are not privy to every single one of their birth papers, they WILL NOT be finding out they've all had failed twins. Not yet anyway.

Keep calm. Keep calm. Ashe insisted as the sleepy and irritable Sarah was being led into yet another strange place in the middle of the night. Normally, she'd be asleep by now, but this change of scene kept that away. She hadn't even slept a wink on the ride here. Sarah really didn't want to have any of this. As far as she was concerned this was another crappy foster family.

Sarah closed her eyes partway through her new home as she was led to her room and reopened them quite a few steps down the white halls. Great, now she was sleepwalking. When her orphanage had told her the other day that she was going to be taken by another family she barely slept, when she was picked up and flown partway she couldn't sleep, and then the drive here left her wide awake with nervousness. This happened every time she went to a new foster home.

"Why did we have to get here in the middle of the night?" Sarah decided to voice her complaint. Her sleepy tone made her mumble, so she didn't receive a response.

Before she realized, Sarah was alone in a bedroom. She heard the door close behind her and she turned to face it with a dazed expression on her face. When did she get here? Twenty-eight hours of sleeplessness had really cut her awareness down. Maybe this was their plan? To bring her to her new home all worn out? Perhaps they had heard about how aggressively she fought with her last foster family when the came to pick her up, and decided to wear her out to keep her somewhat docile.

Sarah sat down on the soft blue sheets of the bed and sighed. She really didn't want to be here. This place was different than all the others, and not in a good way. Something about the walls left her feeling even more nervous. She could see that they had a sky blue wallpaper with fluffy clouds and even a sun - which was quite nice - but something about them made her uncomfortable. She decided to chalk it up to the complete change of location.

Relax, Ashe suggested calmly. Relax and go to sleep.

Sarah yawned deeply. Perhaps sleep was the best idea. She rested in the bed and glanced around the room once more before closing her eyes and cuddling with the stuffed alligator that she found on her bed. She saw a desk with painting supplies on it and a set of weights for exercise. She also saw a rubber ball that she could play with. She wasn't entirely sure why the painting supplies were there since she didn't really like to paint, maybe it was because she on occasion thought that painting was calming. Before long she drifted off into dreamland.

---

Damian had never understood the customs of the able-bodied. He watched, only slightly interested, as Spencer paced back and forth on the inside of the spacious transportation vehicle. A delicate frown was carved into her dainty features, and her eyebrows were mashed together tightly, as though deep in concentration. Of course, being in her mind, Damian knew her head was empty. Or maybe so overflowing that it didn't know what to focus on. Flashes of inky butterflies and a soft reclining couch kept cropping up in her thoughts. The face of a handsome psychologist was focused on once, and Damian felt something more primal rouse in his bodily friend. Then she retreated back to the safety of purer thoughts and stoutly went back to ignoring Damian's ethereal presence.

He was too old for you. Damian half-advised, half-commented, in his deep, rolling voice. Annoyance welled up inside Spencer's mind like an angry river, and Damian retreated away from her stinging thoughts.

I didn't want to be with him, anyway. She retorted waspishly.

But you thought he was attractive? Sexy, even?

Maybe. She said, and she shrugged to no one in particular, considering she was the only physical and living thing in the back of the van.

Damian would have frowned, even sighed, if he had the body to do so. Instead, he settled on once again attempting to penetrate the low voltage barrier that ran through the walls of the van. For a brief moment, he slipped past the electric tendrils that wreathed within the thin wires that had been implanted in the van.

The vehicle was rattling on through thick forest. The unpaved road, dull green with struggling plant life, produced murky, sandy dust wherever the wheels of the van touched. In the inky black darkness of the night, Damian could see no real identifiable structures, save for the trees, bushes, and the occasional utility pole. No institutions or houses. Not even another care.

Without warning, Damian was vaulted backwards violently, like a rubber band stretched to breaking point.

He couldn't fathom why he kept getting through, only to be pushed back within mere seconds.

It's the low voltage. Spencer said wisely.

What?

The low voltage. I doubt a car...er...van like this could take on something as high as what's needed for you to stay put. So they resorted to the next best thing: low voltage. You can just barely scrape past it before it beats you back into submission.

Oh. Damian felt a prick of jealously, and too late, scrambled to hide the feeling from Spencer. She smirked, but didn't comment on it. Feeling spited, he retreated deeply into what he called his room; a space inside Spencer's brain that not even she could enter, and a place for seclusion where private musings didn't slip between the thin barrier separating Spencer's and Damian's thoughts.

Spencer had always been the smart one, in almost everything (except Math), and Damian hadn't really minded it. Not in the beginning anyway. They had shared a pleasurable life with one another, up until high school when Spencer had decided she and Damian weren't normal, not together at least. Then she had started ignoring him. Things had gone quickly downhill from there.

Damian had almost faded from Spencer's vision in that time, she had clotted him out so badly. And she had renamed him too, from his nice and lofty name Angel, to a mundane, normal-people name, Damian. Plus, she had told her new psychologist, some government schmook who had been treating her for DID (dissociative identity disorder), that Damian was, by all standards, of average intelligence. That had hurt his feelings, and ever since then, any expression of intelligence on Spencer's part had been met with ignorance, jealously, and anger by Damian.

Damian didn't really know why they were falling a part so badly. He didn't know why she didn't want him anymore, or why the government drones had found his existence so intriguing.

The one thing Damian did know, however, was that he loved Spencer. A lot.

---

Damian had disappeared, retreated to his private little boy's room in my mind.

Damian's voice had changed over the years; it had gone through puberty, I think. One day, it had been the girlish voice of a little, immature, boy, and the next it had taken on the low incline of an adult man's. I think it was after my first period, while my breasts were still developing. I'm exaggerating with the instantaneous-ness of it all. It actually probably took a good few months, but I could hear while it was happening. He sounded just like my male peers at the time, who had themselves begun puberty.

I don't know what Damian is. I don't understand how a twisted figment of my imagination could have gone through puberty. He's not real, but he goes through the motions like he is. After I turned twelve, he started asking about naked women, and that just made me uncomfortable. Considering he'd been there all my life, I'd been sure he would have know what one looked like, at least just a little, even I wasn't a full out adult yet. But he didn't seemed to care about me; he wanted to know about women, grown women.

Well, that didn't float my boat, and we had an argument about it once or twice. Then he dropped it, and settled on conjuring vivid images in my brain. Vividly inaccurate, to be sure, considering the only person my eyes had ever seen naked at the time had been me. And I'd never been in close proximity to other naked adults, so he'd never really been able to reach out of my mind and view one on his own. Humorously, he had, had no clue what men looked like, which was embarrassing considering...well considering we thought and still think he's male.

Of course, that's all changed now. We're too old not to know what naked men and women look like.

He'd been a little behind me in growing up. His voice had gone through puberty with me, but his mind had been slow, I guess, just like any other boy's. When finally he'd decided he was adult, he'd also decided that he was my guardian my caretaker, when I'd already told him he wasn't, and already renamed to give him the idea.

He'd started criticizing my taste in men, and my slight infatuation with my, at the time, private psychologist, who was very handsome. He'd hated my first boyfriend, and on our first date, reached out and tipped the guy's cola all over his jeans. When we broke up, Damian couldn't stop gloating about how right he'd been. But he'd been wrong, since out of the three boyfriends I'd had in total, he'd hated every single one of them, without any real reason except one.

Jealousy. Pure, undiluted, infantile, jealousy.

I sighed. Was it wrong to want him out of me when we'd grown up connected not at the waist, but instead, with the mind? I wasn't sure. If these government doctors succeeded in separating us somehow, through whatever complicate psychological processes they had, what would happen to him? Would he die? Would a part of me die with him?

I didn't know.

The van shuddered to a stop and jolted me out of my thoughts. Minutes passed before the double doors swung open to reveal the friendly face of a short, pretty and petite, ambiguously featured woman with light brown eyes. She wore an antiseptic smelling white coat that caused my nose to crinkle, and hers too, by the look of it, and smeared googles rested on the top of her head. Her hair was cut into a cute pixie style, and her young face made me doubt her qualifications to work in a government facility. She had the face, the kind of face that made you want to smile, and I didn't think that would bode well with rambunctious patients, assuming there were other patients where they had taken me.

She gestured for me to get out.

"Hi," I said slowly as I slipped out of the van, careful not to trip on my way down.

"Dr. Singh." She said, offering me a dainty, bronzed hand. I shook it, but my eyes squinted at her suspiciously. I considered her name, which I believed to be Indian or something similar. Having grown up in New York, I had been exposed to my fair share of diversity, and felt confident in my conclusion.

"I didn't think they'd be opening things up here." I said, jerking my chin in the direction of her white coat, which I assumed meant she was some sort of biological doctor.

"Oh, God, no." She said and laughed, "I'm a psychologist here. We were the cleaning the place up for your arrival."

Well, that explained the strong chemical smell.

"You were cleaning up the place," I asked, not dropping my suspicions. She frowned at me.

"I can't help every now and then?"

Well, I didn't have a very good retort to that. We stared at each for a moment, before she decided it was time to lead me to quarters. The air outside was nippy, chilly, typical January. The blast of warm, comfy air from inside the cinder block like compound was a welcome relief.

The inside of the compound contrasted greatly with the outside. They had drawn inspiration from minimalist decor; the light wood couches, with soft, white, plush cushions; the fluffy, steel gray carpet, whose texture gave off the impression of faux fur; healthy green plants positioned in every corner. The walls were painted a nice off white color, and the tiles on the floor were similarly bright.

The only real indication that it was a hospital or psychiatric ward were the long halls with doors and numbers over them. Positively, it resembled the hall of the birthing section in a hospital, and walking through them, I felt less like I was mentally ill, and more like I was stepping in to visit a new baby cousin, or something.

As we made our way down the hall, I decided to strike up a conversation with my little racially/ethnically ambiguous psychologist friend.

Maybe it was a little rude, but I said, "Indian?"

"Excuse me?" She said, looking only marginally distracted from whatever thoughts she was having.

"Are you Indian?" I had got her full attention now. She turned to me, her face blank. Then she laughed.

"Good guess, but no."

"Oh...Bengali?"

"No."

"Eer...Egyptian?"

She scowled, "They're not even brown, really."

I racked my brain for all the ethnic backgrounds I knew. It was a shame, really, that I was having trouble remembering more.

"Guyanese?" I said triumphantly, having remembered to meet at least three Guyanese people in my life with the last name Singh.

Her face contorted into something - distaste, maybe - and then smoothed back out to its genial self.

"No, but close."

Close? Close? I didn't know what the hell else was out there.

I was struggling to come up with something more when we stopped in front of an oak wood door. She fished out a key from her left pocket (a card really) and slipped it into the slot on the door's handle.

"There you go sweety. Think it over. Maybe you'll come up with something tomorrow morning."

I thanked her and entered my room. The door locked behind me with a heavy click, and I found myself already missing her. It would be a lonely existence in here, holed up with just Damian for company.

The room was well furnished. Art supplies, journals, and to my surprise even a laptop. They had taken into consideration my interest. And electric piano was holed up in the left corner of the room, exactly in the way I would have put it if I had decorated the room myself. Because, very honestly, music was not my taste. It was not something I preferred, just something my rich, do-everything father had wanted me to do. These wackos had copied my style, to make me feel most at home, I guessed.

Damian still wasn't talking to me, and seeing as I was tired and had no time to apologize (or didn't want to), I dumped myself onto the full sized bed on the left edge of the room. I would deal with everything tomorrow. For now, sleep was what I truly needed.

The bumping road and ever-so-slightly chilly cabin were only adding to the heavy drowsiness lain like a veil over Aaron as his journey stretched longer. The past two days had been some of the most confusing of his life, and if he weren’t so sleep-deprived, he’d be fidgeting to no end. Sure, he’d spent most of his life in and out of clinics, from speech therapists and Otologists to psychiatrists and occupational therapists, but never had he had government officials come knocking on his door. Not to mention that these were American government men, sweeping into his life in a flurry of foreign affairs paperwork.

The flight over had been a miserable fourteen-hour affair, during which he had participated in little more than small talk with the interpreter provided (she still wouldn’t tell him anything about his destination, but at least they’d been kind enough to provide her) and generate many possible outcomes to his situation.

Mitchell, on the other hand, continued to spend the journey flipping shit.

He buzzed around the interior of the armoured car, repeatedly forcing his way out, only to be forced back in seconds later. Continuous status updates on road conditions and theories rattled through Aaron’s tired mind as he tried to find as comfortable a position as his abnormally long body could manage in a van. He pulled his jumper around him as Mitchell fluttered in and out of his vision, testing every nook and cranny of the van, as he had done several times earlier on in the ride.

You’re not going to find anything you haven’t found before, you know. He signed lazily along with the thought, more out of habit than necessity.

Might as well try, Mitchell replied, running the perimeter one last time, Also, we’re in a dark forest, on a bumpy unpaved road.

Aaron was jolted from his near-slumber by a particularly large impact. Yeah, I figured as much.

Mitchell suppressed a chuckle.

The voice of Aaron’s ‘headmate,’ as he’d playfully dubbed him, was not a voice as a hearing person may interpret one. He was more like a superimposed thought, or a communicated feeling, impossible to accurately describe. His words were not words at all, as Aaron had no reference for them; instead they were connections, ideas, a shared experience as opposed to a communicated one.

Aren’t you the least bit curious about what you’re in for?

A headache began to throb in the front of Aaron’s head, and he blearily waved Mitchell’s concerns away, leaning his head into his hands. Honestly, at this point I’m beyond caring.



Aaron was awoken by the scary sensation of falling as his door was opened, pitching him outward. A pair of hands caught him haphazardly, and in an instant Aaron had jumped up and away from the foreign touch. The hands, attached to a tall woman, signed an apology and an explanation, to which Aaron replied with a signed “Sorry, you startled me.”

Allowing a moment for his heart to slow, and the newly-pounding headache to subside, he finally unbuckled himself and allowed himself to be guided from the car. He felt his drowsiness returning even as he was led to an imposing building and through a more welcoming interior. He took little notice of his escort, and his interpreter said nothing. Evidently, there was nothing to be said.

Aaron ignored Mitchell’s concerned chattering as he was brought down what resembled a hospital corridor and let through an unremarkable door. After a second, wherein his drowsy mind reclaimed its bearings, he turned back to the door to sign his thanks, only to find it shut tight behind him. Had he been paying attention, he would have registered the vibration as the heavy door thunked into position, but in his state even Mitchell grew weary.

Aaron entered with an uncharacteristic lack of caution, soothed by the warmth that chased away his chill and the smooth lighting that gave the room a yellow ambient glow. Upon later inspection he’d see that the room resembled his own at home, with more expensive furnishings than the cheap furniture of home. The walls were a burgundy red, the floors dark wood with a thick red rug in the centre. There was a large double bed with a white comforter and grey striped sheets. A desk and chair sat in the corner, complete with a laptop and a few sketchbooks, as well as some art supplies. There was a dark wooden bookshelf on the wall, outfitted with German books, and in another corner stood a violin.

Of course, Aaron noticed little of this. Instead, he promptly settled himself in bed and at long last, fell asleep.

To say the past few days had not been traumatic for young Andrew Wilson would have been a bold-faced lie. The dramatic decline in his performance at school coupled with multiple visits with psychologists, family counselors, and child services throughout the past month had built up so much anxiety within the boy he could barely function. Life hadn't been normal ever since his parents separated, and had only gotten worse from that point on. His mother worked overtime to support them and he saw less of her than ever as he was passed around through various daycares and after school activities that he hated. He was perfectly fine left alone in their home--now an apartment in the inner city--but people tend to frown upon such practices and put labels such as "neglect" and "bad parenting" on them and that just ruined everything. Andrew didn't know much about the law, but he did know those days when his mother couldn't send him to daycare and he amused himself at home playing video games or comic books or otherwise avoiding his homework for upwards of eight to ten hours a day was not legal. Instead of feeling neglected, he just felt like a burden to his mother, and no longer asked anything of her so that maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't be so tired anymore. Of course, he knew she loved him, but in Andrew's mind that love was conditional and had limits.

His father was another story. Andrew hadn't seen him in almost a year. In spite of all the negative things mom muttered about him: "Useless drunk, loves liquor more than his own family, can't even pay child support." Andrew still loved his father, and had only happy memories of him. He knew he shouldn't, that maybe he should hate the man instead, but he couldn't bring himself to. He just wanted him to come home. Now everything had really gone to hell. His teachers' concern about him talking to himself, and occasionally being able to see things he shouldn't be able to see, in addition to his poor behavior had led to him being forced to see several school counselors and therapists; all of whom concluded that the boy's unstable mindset was due to his parents inability to care for him. And now they'd taken him away, he didn't even know where to, hadn't even packed a suitcase. No clothes, not so much as a toothbrush, but he didn't really care if he never had to brush his teeth again.

He had cried a lot in the beginning, after climbing into an unmarked black car and realizing that it would be a one-way trip. He couldn't even look out the window and watch his mother, with tears in her eyes, fade away in the distance because the windows were blacked out. He'd thrown a tantrum then, first tears and then kicking and screaming, pounding on the doors and windows to no avail, and finally resigning himself to sobbing quietly while curled up on the back seat. The men in suits tried to be nice to him, but all attempts to get through to the boy were steadfastly ignored. "I wanna go home," he whimpered into the leather seat cushion that was now streaked with tears and snot. They're not going to let us. They're going to take us really far away and we'll never see mom or dad ever again probably.

"It's all my fault. It's because I kept getting into trouble at school and not doing my homework."

And talking back to the teachers all the time, probably. We never bothered mom though.

"It doesn't matter now, it's too late." Andrew realized he was talking to himself again, and that was one of the reasons he was currently in this situation. Maybe if he stopped talking to himself they'd let him go.

Hey, we don't have to cry. Wade Wilson wouldn't cry, he'd just get ready to fight some bad guys. We'll just find a way to fight the bad guys so we can go home. Then we can make mom and dad get back together too, and everything will be perfect.

Andrew nodded but didn't say anything in response to his thoughts. His thoughts would know anyway, and somehow the idea of being a hero and fighting bad guys made him feel a little better. It would be like that time Spider-Man got trapped on an airplane and ended up in South America. Andrew wasn't sure if he was going to South America, but if that were the case all he had to do was sneak on board a plane and fly back home. Simple enough.

Satisfied with this plan of action, his breathing evened and his clenched fists relaxed. Before he knew it, he'd fallen asleep.

---

The next morning Andrew awoke in his own bed. He wrinkled his nose, pulling the covers over his head and burying his face further into the pillow as he recalled the nightmare he'd dreamt last night. Being taken away from home, never to see his parents again, and it was all his fault. It was just a dream, but it still made him feel guilty and awful. Everything's our fault, he thought grimly. He hadn't opened his eyes yet, but he could see that the bedcover he was burrowed under had an Avengers print. "That's neat…" he murmured, eyes fluttering sleepily. A few seconds later he bolted upright, realizing all at once that he did not own an Avengers comforter. "MOM!" he shrieked in a panic. He wasn't in his room, he wasn't at home, everything was different. Guess it wasn't a dream after all.

Andrew was on the verge of more tears when someone opened the door. A young woman with short dark hair and brown skin entered the room. She was dressed like a doctor and Andrew's heart sank down to his toes. Had they put him in a hospital? A nuthouse? Was he really crazy? She smiled at him. "Andrew, I'm Dr. Singh. I understand you must be very confused--"

"I want my mom," he interrupted, and she hesitated.

"You can't see your mother right now, but--"

"I said I want my mom!" he shouted angrily, then bit his lip as his eyes began to water. He wouldn't cry anymore.

Dr. Singh's voice hardened. "No."

They regarded each other in sullen silence for several minutes.

"Andrew," she began again, but he interrupted again.

"My name's not Andrew, it's Wade. You've got the wrong person, so I guess you just have to let me go."

"I can't do that."

Defeated, Andrew stared numbly at the bedspread. He wished he could turn into the Hulk and smash right out of this place. Then no one could stop him. For the first time he started to notice other things in the room. There was a small table and a few comfy looking chairs, but what caught his eye was the bookshelf on the far wall. It was stocked full of comic books, even more than he had at home, and they were all brand-new. Some of them were even still wrapped in plastic. Well, at least if he was a prisoner here he wouldn't be bored. From what he could tell there were even some editions he hadn't read yet. In his mind's eye he saw Dr. Singh take a few steps closer to him. He turned and glared at her mistrustfully. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

He nodded, and she stepped outside the door for a moment, returning with a tray that she set on the table. On it was a box of FruitLoops, his favorite, along with a bowl, spoon, toast with grape jelly and even a quart of chocolate milk. His mom always thought he was weird for pouring chocolate milk on his cereal, but Andrew loved it. He wondered how Dr. Singh had known. Maybe she could read his mind. Reluctantly he climbed out of bed. He was still wearing his clothes from the previous day, and Dr. Singh pointed out a small chest of drawers and told him he could find clean clothes in there if he wanted. "All your questions will be answered soon," she promised as he settled down for breakfast. "I have to go for a little while, will you be okay?"

Yeah, sure. He just nodded. As soon as the door closed behind her he got up and went to the bookshelf, scanning the contents before pulling out an issue of Ultimate Spider-Man. He returned to the table and propped it behind the bowl of fruity-chocolate-milk-soaked cereal and started to read. For a moment, he almost felt like he was at home on a Saturday morning. Mom would still be asleep after working late, and he'd get his own breakfast and sit down with an issue to enjoy a relaxing morning. Yeah, mom's just asleep right now. She might sleep right through till lunchtime but then she'll get up and make something for dinner. We'll just read until she wakes up.

Countless hours of cornfields, trees, and eventually miles of road left Elliot with a heavy feeling of nostalgia as he shifted uncomfortably in the back of a modest, compact sedan. Cool, crisp air whipped his shaggy brown hair into a frenzy, but it lacked the distinctness of the good, clean, country air that Elliot had known. There was a missing element that made Elliot feel far from home; it was a distinct heaviness that lingered with each breath and added weight to his very soul.


Cow farts...


Elliot gave a hearty chuckle and grew lightheaded. He felt a pressure upon his hand, firm but gently assuring. It was warm, comforting, and familiar - all elements that his surroundings clearly lacked. He drew in a deep breath and calmed down, realizing how tense and anxious he had grown. He shifted again in his seat to get comfortable and looked to his right at the passenger next to him, a kind woman named Charlotte whom he fondly called "Aunty C." She had a soft, comforting face and chocolate brown eyes that melted his pre-adolescent heart in a way that no other person had. While the long hours on the road had made Elliot's round face swell red and his chubby arms damp with sweat, there was barely even a single hair on Charlotte's head that was out of place. Though her malty eyes were wide and her grip was sturdy, her smile eased his mind and brought him back home again.


"How are you, Champ?" She crooned.


Elliot nodded and smiled, "I'm doing good, Aunty C." He replied with his nasally twang.


"You're doing well." She corrected with a Midwestern alto. "I know it's a long way to school, honey. Are you getting scared?"


Truth be told, Elliot was very nervous. He had sleepovers at the Doctor's office plenty of times before, but he was never away from home for long - especially this far from Ma and Pa. Ma was always prepared, though. She told him before he left that she had packed enough food to last him a whole year and told him all about how he's finally going to go to school and meet new friends, just like she did when she was young. A real school, finally. It made his heart dance.


"Ma said I'm gonna have my own room, just like home." Elliot said, avoiding the question.


Charlotte's eyes settled and her smile grew. "You will, sweetie. Your very own room."


Is she about to cry?


The car hit a bump, causing Elliot to jerk forward and the seatbelt tighten around his waist. He felt his breath leaving him. Charlotte's hand gripped his tighter, shaking it to wake him out of his trance.


"Elliot, tell me about your room, sweetie."


Elliot blinked and shook his head. "My room...I want a big room with a giant bunk bed, just like in my book. And I want a desk because the school is gonna give me lots of homework. And a dresser 'cuz I need a place for all my clothes. Ma said they're gonna give me all my favorite food. But I dun' want their food, I want what she made me. Are you gonna come see me at my new school?"

"Elliot..." Charlotte began to say, but she looked ahead at the driver of the car who shook his head. Immediately, she cleared her throat. "I'm gonna come see you soon, sweetie."

"Good!" Elliot said, adding, "I'll tell them I want lots of board games so we can play."



Subject 2460I has been transported from his rural location to a new headquarters for observation. Subject has ultimately remained unaware of the reason for his transportation but is under the false pretense that he is traveling to a school. As the subject has never encountered a real school, it will be easy to maintain this charade in order to keep the subject docile.

Transport vehicle carrying Elliot Irving, Doctor Charlotte Fern, and two authorities arrived at 0134 in a Blue 2014 Honda Civic with a busted rear windshield and damage to the hood directly above the passenger wheel. Subject remained entirely unaware of the damage to the vehicle aside from a "scary bump" and a windy car ride. Manifestation of kinetic energy also rendered one of the authorities, Sgt. Alfonse, with minor contusions along his temple. Doctor Charlotte remains entirely unharmed.

Tensions grew as Subject arrived and was escorted beyond the gate, as Doctor Fern became hostile toward staff threatening the life to anyone who harms the subject. She was dealt with accordingly beyond the view of the subject.

After some preliminary examinations, subject was escorted to his quarters whereupon he requested two chocolate chip cookies and the book "James and the Giant Peach" by Roald Dahl before voluntarily falling unconscious. Subject stress level is elevated, but manageable.

---

Dr. Singh entered a wide, open gymnasium. "The Gym" as it had been dubbed, was at the very center of the facility. An enormous room, it was equipped with everything from exercising equipment, to medium sized glass cubicles, to tall standing metal mazes. It's walls, a dull off white in color, towered well beyond Dr. Singh's head. It had been made with one purpose in mind; large scale experimentation.

Dr. Singh gave a careful and tentative smile to her co-worker, Dr. Kaur, who sat at a circular table on a raised platform in the middle of The Gym. Deep in thought, he barely seemed to register her presence. He was shuffling through an untidy stack of notes, some crumpled, others crisp and freshly written. His eyebrows drew together in deep concentration before he signaled for her consultation. She quickly scaled the steps of the platform, approaching Dr. Kaur, and leaning over his shoulder to read the papers he was gesturing too.

"Sarisha," He said, his voice unsure, his hand raised. The ring on his left ring finger glinted in the light from the ceiling, and for a moment, Dr. Singh idly wondered if Mrs. Kaur was a happy woman. It seemed Dr. Kaur never left his office nowadays.

"Yes?"

"We're missing one." He lifted the papers from off the table ever so slightly. They were trembling, and his face bore the look of a distraught man.

"I saw them myself, when they came in last night," he continued, "There are only six of them. But, from what we received, there should be seven."

Dr. Singh frowned. She didn't need that bit of information. After all, she had escorted each and every one of them to their rooms, prolonging a good night's rest to ensure that they'd settled in. She had memorized their faces, all so young and bewildered. Some of them had talked with her casually, others had kept their mouths clamped, either too tired or too scared to say something.

Truth be told, Dr. Sarisha Singh hadn't, at first, really been sure what'd she signed up for when she had agreed to work on a top secret, high paying, government funded project. All she had ever really been sure of was the "high paying" part. That had been just enough to get her to blindly agree.

A few months ago, a big black Cadillac had parked itself in the driveway of her small, Brooklyn located home in New York, and two, handsome, strapping men, wearing dark glasses and smooth black suits had come knocking at her front door. They had escorted her to the van, speaking genially with her about how it was in the job requirements. Dr. Singh hadn't quite understood what "it" was, but if it meant "getting kidnapped by the government" she didn't like it one bit.

They had taken her to an ostentatious looking building with expensive looking furnishings, and a wall that was so completely glass it had baffled Dr. Singh, from the moment she had stepped into the building, till the moment she left.

In this magical and lavish building, Dr. Singh's two escorts had guided her to an equally well-adorned office, complete with a large, gold framed picture of the president. She had been seated in a surprisingly uncomfortable editor's chair, behind a dark oak desk, in front of a handsome, well tanned, blonde man. To his side stood a tall, but lean Asian man, whose glasses were, to Dr. Singh, reminiscent of Harry Potter's.

"Good morning, Ms. Singh," The blond man had said kindly. Dr. Singh had smiled; though she had worked hard for her degree, she felt correcting people on minor misstatements was pretentious and uncalled for. Either way, the blonde man had quickly corrected himself when his Asian friend gave a pronounced and meaningful cough.

"Doctor Singh," And he smiled a dazzling smile that made Dr. Singh wonder why this well-suited man hadn't chosen to become a Calvin Klein model instead.

"I'm Tommy Anderson." He said, lifting a bronzed hand. More like Tommy Hilfiger, Dr. Singh thought wistfully as they shook hands. His grip was firm, but warm, and Dr. Singh felt her face tinge pink. She quickly withdrew her hand and waited for Tommy the model/government employee to say something.

He glanced back at the Asian man, who stood rigid and distant by the window of the office. He was going through a thick accordion folder, pulling out a multitude of heavily stapled profiles of God-knew-what. Dr. Singh waited patiently as he crossed the distance between the window and the desk. With an unceremonious thud, he dumped most of the contents of the folder in a neat but overwhelming pile in front of Dr. Singh.

"Those are your coworkers, and the subjects," He said, sniffing, "I am Dr. Chan. I'll be leading this little experiment."

Dr. Singh's bemused stare traveled back and forth between Dr. Chan and the model, before settling on Tommy's face for an explanation. He grinned apologetically, and shooed Dr. Chan away. Without so much of a complaint, the brooding man sidestepped back to his corner of the office by the window.

Tommy gestured to the piles questioningly, and Dr. Singh nodded and said, "Go ahead."

He smiled another brilliant smile before reaching out to splay the pile of papers in such a way that the pictures at the upper left hand corner of each file became visible.

"These are your coworkers," He said, and pointed to the pictures of three people, one of which Dr. Singh had just met, "Dr. Chan, Dr. Kaur, and Dr. Lee."

"And these," Now he focused on six, thick, highly multi-layered profiles, "Are the subjects."

Children. The subject of the experiments were all children. Dr. Singh had scrutinized their faces; not one of them was more than twenty. Tommy reclined in his much more comfortable chair, allowing Dr. Singh to sift through the papers. He gave her all the time she needed to read over several of their profiles. The experiment was...odd, but exciting. When Dr. Singh expressed her enthusiasm, Dr. Chan's dark, moody face had seemed to light up like a Christmas Tree.

Tommy had proceeded to inform Dr. Singh that she would be moving her residence from her home in Brooklyn to a secret facility somewhere in the middle of Georgia.

Two months and half later, Dr. Singh had been moved into the outwardly dreary facility located in rural Georgia. The facility was surrounded by towering, rolling hills, providing it with an almost complete seclusion from the outside world.

There, she had met the rest of her coworkers.

There was the pretty Dr. Emily Lee, a Caucasian woman who was so American she wasn't quite sure where her ancestry lay. She had a vibrant, enthusiastic personality, and they had hit it off immediately. A few weeks later, Dr. Singh had been on more than two dates with her.

Then, there was Dr. Prakash Kaur a married man, just twenty eight years old, father of one. A first generation American, Dr. Kaur had forgone turbans and long beards in favor of a light shadow, and ruffled, free flowing, curly hair. He had mistaken Dr. Singh for Indian, but she had quickly explained she was Indo-Caribbean, to which he had cheerfully replied that they shared roots. Dr. Singh had smiled amiably, but the last Indian roots she had shared had been some twenty or so generations ago.

Alongside Dr. Chan, Dr. Singh had discovered her coworkers to be diligent and dedicated people. They had spent an entire months of careful preparation, tailoring the inside of their personal cinder block to suit the needs and desires of the seven children. They had meticulously created experiment upon experiment, designed to test the limits of the subjects.

On the night of their arrival, Dr. Singh had happily volunteered to lead the children to their rooms. After six children had been safely locked up, she had waited for hours for the seventh to arrive. The sun had been well over the horizon when she had dumped herself in bed next to a softly snoring Dr. Lee, having decided that number seven would not arrive.

So she very well knew that there were six, not seven, children.

"Don't worry Prakash," She said comfortingly, "We were holed up here the entire time. Government can blame us for something they never delivered on."

Dr. Kaur nodded slowly, but the frown plastered to his face said he didn't quite believe her.

"Danial is going to blow a fuse," He said, looking nervous.

Dr. Singh snorted. Dr. Chan could blow all the fuses he wanted; it wasn't there fault they were short one.

"What's going on?" A voice interrupted. Dr.Lee had appeared looking fresh and clean. Dr. Singh grinned, and the other woman reached down to peck her on the lips gently.

"We're missing one of 'em," Dr. Singh said. Emily frowned, but didn't say anything. Taking a seat next to Dr. Singh, she motioned for Dr. Kaur to pass the profile, to which he obliged.

"Danial's going to be pissed." She mused, and Dr. Singh and Dr. Kaur laughed. A few minuted later, the double door entrance of The Gym opened. Several "guards", employees the government had handled to help care for the children alongside the psychologists, entered, leading behind them the six of seven children the doctors had been promised.

The children were lead to the platform, where they were sat around the circular table. Dr. Kaur smiled at them genially. Dr. Chan was nowhere to be found.

Hesitantly, Dr. Lee checked her watch. She gave the double doors an apprehensive glance, before standing up. Her brunette hair slid down hers shoulders, thick, bouncy, and healthy. She looked at the each of the children's face, before smiling.

"Hello." She paused. "My name is Dr. Lee, though you all may call me Emily. These are my co-workers, Dr. Kaur, and Dr. Singh, whom you all met last night." She paused again, and Dr. Singh took a moment to smile at the children, hoping they remembered her face.

Dr. Lee proceeded carefully with her speech. It was one that she and Dr. Singh had gone over several times.

"What the six of you may, or may not, know, is that you have been brought to this facility to be experimented on. If each of you thought you were alone, you should know, you are not. The six of you express something unprecedented in the world of psychology...two minds. Or at least, that's what it looks like. We, your doctors, don't believe you to be sick. We're not sure why it is you all are able to do what you can, but that's why we're here," She paused again and smiled, "We want to help you. With the permission of your parents, or otherwise, we'll be conducting several experiments designed to determine what makes you all so special, and prove that none of you express a psychological disability. Rather, we're here to prove you are the new human...what the human race is destined to become...now, any questions?"

Come on, Sarah! Wake up.

Sarah opened her eyes to Ashe's urging and sat up. She slept surprisingly well considering the change to her environment. Then she realized that she wasn't at the orphanage and this place - no matter how comfortable it had been made - was an awful place to be. This wasn't home. She didn't have a home and she didn't want to make this place a home either. There had actually been a time where she ran away from one of her foster homes and spent a week before getting caught by police and returned to the foster home. Shortly after that she ended up being returned to the orphanage. During that time she rather enjoyed her freedom.

Maybe this place will be OK as a home?

Sarah had mixed feelings about that thought and shook her head. "No way." Why would she think that?

I just want somewhere to be a home.

Sarah frowned. She definitely agreed with that sentiment, but none of the places she had been to so far even came close to working out. There were always fights. There's no way that this place could be the same.

She saw a tray with a bowl, a glass of milk, and four slices of french toast coated with brown sugar sitting on the desk. She felt famished as she refused to eat anything on the trip over here, so she sat down at the desk and devoured her meal. French toast had always been one of her favorite meals to eat and this toast was good. She drank from the milk whenever she felt the food sticking in her throat.

Slow down, enjoy it.

That was right, she should enjoy this breakfast. After all, if she was going to be stuck in this new awful place the least she could enjoy would be breakfast. She savored the last two slices of french toast. She then decided to get changed into blue jeans and a solid black t-shirt and as soon as she finished the door to her room opened. In came a middle-aged Caucasian man with a bald head and red stubble. He appeared to work out and wore a gentle face. Sarah gave him a startled look as she hadn't expected anyone to come in.

He chuckled nervously and gave her a friendly smile. "I'm sorry I didn't mean to scare you. Come with me, I'm going to take you to the Gym to meet the others." He had a deep voice and decidedly no accent whatsoever.

Sarah stood there and stared at him.

Hey! Hey! Ask him about the others!

Sarah felt a little excitement at the thought that she wasn't going to be alone. She hesitantly asked. "O-others?"

The man nodded once and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Yeah, there are other children. My name is Charles, I'll be a caretaker for you."

Sarah felt reluctant to go anywhere, or even respond to him. She could tell that if he had to he could force her to come with her and there wasn't much she could do to stop it.

Come on don't give him a hard time! Tell him your name! Go with him. Meet the others.

Sarah felt divided between Ashe's excitement and her own reluctance. She was used to being sociable though and finally smiled. "OK, I'm Sarah."

Charles nodded as if he knew already, but said nothing and began to lead her down the hallways. He looked over his shoulder to make sure she was following and when he saw that Sarah was he seemed to relax a bit.

He seems a bit relieved. It's a good thing we didn't fight against him. I think he's a little scary even if he's nice.

Sarah shook her head. She didn't agree with that at all. The bigger man didn't scare her at all and she thought that he was pretending to be nice, but she didn't want to say that out loud right now. That relief could only be something to cause her to let her guard down. If she could she wanted to leave this place. The walls alone made her feel uncomfortable.

They hadn't traveled for long when several guards and children of various ages met up as they came up to a double door. Sarah glanced around at the others, there were a few children her age, but a couple were older. In total she counted five other children.

Oh! There they are! We should talk to them.

Sarah wanted to, but she wanted to see where they were being taken to next. She mumbled to herself. "Not right now."

Charles looked over his shoulder as she spoke. "Huh? What was that?"

Sarah looked up to him with a smile. "Nothing, just thinking."

Charles smiled lightly and looked away. "Alright." His tone sounded as if it were something else, which only served to confuse Sarah.

The double doors opened up and they were led inside and brought to a circular table up on a platform where there were some other adults. They were introduced as doctors which confused Sarah even more as she didn't need a doctor. She met them last night? She was so tired she could barely remember coming here much less anything else. Her expression was openly confused. She didn't want to be experimented on. A "new human"? What was meant by that? This doctor was being too vague.

Keep calm, Sarah, keep calm. We'll be alright.

Sarah raised her hand when questions were called for and quickly dropped it as she was pointed at with a "Yes, Sarah?". Then came her short barrage of questions brought up by her fear and confusion. "'New human'? Experiments? What kind of experiments? Will they hurt? What do you mean by 'new human'? Why do you want to help us? I know I don't need any help. I'm not sick, so can I go home?" She ended her barrage by crossing her arms over her chest and staring right at Dr. Lee's face.

The bed had been surprisingly comfortable, and I had slept like a baby for the better part of the night. My insufferable inner sense of time had woken me at what I presumed was the crack of dawn (kind of hard to tell when you’re being held in a cinder block), and I had pulled the covers all the way over my head, blanketing my sight in darkness and erasing the jail cell around me.

Because, I mean, that’s what it was, right? A jail cell? Sure, I had some leisurely activities at my disposal; I could play the piano, draw, write…

But none of that interested me right now (especially not that damn piano). Not when I was locked up like a lab rat. I squirmed around in the bed a little, trying to bury myself deeper under the pleasantly cool comforter. I did not want to meet whatever wonders this day held. Almost instinctively, my hand groped the pocket of my jeans, looking for the cell phone that was not there. Right, they had taken my phone.

I mean, they had provided us with wifi service, or so I had presumed from seeing the pastel pink laptop sitting dormant on my desk last night. Facebook and twitter were always great sites to reconnect with friend on.

They’ve probably blocked those. Just like in high school. Remember? Damian’s voice interrupted my inner ramblings. I guessed we were on speaking terms again.

He was right. Even my pretentious, wealthy kid high school had blocked websites like facebook, twitter, and tumblr. They had left students with nothing but school to focus on. Of course, if you were wealthy, you more than likely had parents who were paying for unlimited data. And if you had unlimited data, the weak steps taken by your school to prevent you from having a flourishing social internet life meant nothing.

You should get up, Damian suggested. The piano in the corner of the room started playing itself, its keys bouncing up and down in a rhythmic pattern. He was playing a video game theme, Legend of Zelda. I was pretty fond of the game, so I didn’t mind. Far under the covers, I hummed along idly, waiting for what I thought would be an inevitable wake up call.

I remember when we were kids. I’d buy a game and take it up to the game room, where I’d lock the door and turn on the system. Me and Damian would take turns playing; he would “posses” the remote, and the character on the screen would move. It was freaky as fuck and kind of thrilling too.

One day we tricked my little sister into believing the t.v. had been possessed. It had been really simple, and also, really hilarious. Hidden behind one of the plush, reclining theater chairs, I had screamed for her to come help me. She had arrived and had been instantly greeted with a seemingly autonomous video game character. She had watched in an almost hypnotized state for minutes, before letting out a terrifying (not terrified) screech and bolting downstairs to find our mother.

In my head, Damian chortled at the memory.

I had been scolded so badly that day. I think it was the first day my parents ever suspected something was wrong with me, but not because of Damian, or our freaky powers that allowed us to cause things to move without ever lifting a finger.

I mean, you know how those fat headed, rich people are. Everything’s got to be perfect. Move a hair out of place, and the world’s ending. One stupid little incident where I was just being an obnoxious older sibling and they think I’m a psychopath.

For two big name Democrats, my parents sure had done a lot wrong by me. And they were great loving people, but I think they had raised us wrong, too.

A tentative knocking sounded from the door and I snapped into a sitting position. The people here had manners. What a surprise.

Stop with the piano, Dami, I called Damian, Dami on good days. It was supposed to be an affectionate nickname, one that encompassed in it our sibling love for one another.

Sure. He said, and just like that, silence.

“Gimme a minute.” I shouted, and a muffled “okay” came from the other side of the door. I had fallen asleep in the clothes I had arrived in; a pair of white jeans and a pretty blue blouse. You could call the outfit casual, but something in its smooth cleanliness and shiny fabrics would have betrayed it as more than the average price tag. I guess my parents liked for me to travel in style. Even as a crazy person, they wanted me to uphold the standards of our rich, politically liberal family.

I lumbered over to the wardrobe at the back wall. It towered over me, casting a shadow that ate up my small frame like a fat guy eating a chicken nugget. Prying it open, I casted a judgmental gaze on what clothes they had stacked up for me. I wondered if my parents had, had any involvement with my wardrobe, or if it had been tailored to suit the background I came from.

These clothes had cost a pretty penny. Some of it looked familiar, and I thought I spotted a shirt that my mother had undoubtedly bought me for my birthday. A real fancy, blue colored thing, with billowing frills, a revealing neckline, and a back that was more window than cloth. Mom had thought it appropriate. It had been for my recent birthday, after all. Dad had hated it. Thinking of my father fondly, I carefully extracted the shirt from the wardrobe, then rummaged around for a pair of pants. Black leggings. Leggings would do, I guessed.

By the time I had brushed my teeth (in the conveniently located private bathroom at the back of the room; much smaller than my one at home, I had thought, sniffing), and got dressed, I could hear a pronounced and impatient tapping coming for the other side of the door.

You’re being rude. Damian mused, and I chuckled. Stuck here in this facility, we didn’t have to be nice to anyone.

“Sorry,” I shouted, “You can come in now.”

The door beeped and swung open. A small, thin Hispanic woman trudged in, dragging with her a rolling table of food. I was starving and the crisp bacon and fluffy French toast looked like a feast.

“I’m really sorry,” I said, offering the woman an apologetic smile.

She looks like she came straight out of Law and Order, or something. Damian commented. If he had, had his own physical body, I would have imagined him throwing her sidelong glances, trying to figure her out.

He was right. She had that lean kind of look to her, like one of those really stereotypical Hispanic female cops you see in New York based movies and T.V. shows; you know, the ones that are always walking around with the black male cop, usually somewhere in Brooklyn or the Bronx.

She nodded stiffly and pushed the rolling tray in my direction. I guided it to a small square table in one of the corners of the room, and she waited patiently as I scarfed down the meal. Trying to be sociable and engaging (as my dear politically savvy papa had thought me), I made small talk.

“So, where are you from?” Her eyes glared at me wearily, once again like one of those amateur Hispanic cops you find in, like, Law and Order.

“Los Angelos.”

“Wow.” I said. What I had really wanted to say was, “far away.” But, I remembered, I wasn’t even sure where we were now. We could have been miles from New York. That plane ride had sure felt like hours. Maybe we were in the desert in Cali, for all I knew.

“You’re a cop?” What I had wanted to say was, “you a cop” like those mafia people do on T.V. But it would have sounded stupid coming from my high, pitched, voice, what with my pure, blueblooded American accent.

“Used to be.” She glanced around the room nervously.

“Why are you here?”

Her lips thinned into bold line and her eyes narrowed to slits, and I knew not to press on any further.

When I was done eating, she roused me from my comfortable seat, where I had reclined to finish digesting, and maybe take a nap.

“Were are we going?” She just shook her head, and guided me on. I didn’t bother with her name. She was being too sour, too stiff. I didn’t like her.

We ended up with a bunch of other kids. I stared at them, perplexed, and Damian, in the back of my mind, thought likewise. So we weren’t the only patients. That, I had figured. But my silent escort had explained nothing to me on the way here, and I had no idea who these people were, much less why we had assembled together.

We were led by a small group of assistants to a huge gym, one to rival the one at my private high school. In the center of the gym, a round table stood, elevated just slightly on a stilted platform.

We all quietly scaled the platform, and were seated in no time. Our caretakers dispersed to the background, and we were left alone with the three neat, smart looking people. Still confused, I stared around blankly at my co-patients.

We waited in silence before a pretty brunette woman got up and introduced herself.

"Hello." She paused. "My name is Dr. Lee, though you all may call me Emily. These are my co-workers, Dr. Kaur, and Dr. Singh, whom you all met last night." She paused again. I ebbed forward in my seat, and spotted Dr. Singh's familiar face beaming at us amiably from her seat next to Dr. Lee.

Before I could compose myself, Dr. Lee, poured out an entire speech, part of which, I didn't not understand.

"What the six of you may, or may not, know, is that you have been brought to this facility to be experimented on. If each of you thought you were alone, you should know, you are not. The six of you express something unprecedented in the world of psychology...two minds. Or at least, that's what it looks like. We, your doctors, don't believe you to be sick. We're not sure why it is you all are able to do what you can, but that's why we're here," She paused again and smiled, "We want to help you. With the permission of your parents, or otherwise, we'll be conducting several experiments designed to determine what makes you all so special, and prove that none of you express a psychological disability. Rather, we're here to prove you are the new human...what the human race is destined to become...now, any questions?"

So, we were the same. I blinked down at my lap in astonishment. These other crazies...they were crazies just like me.

A small girl with reddish brown hair raised her hand.

"Yes, Sarah?"

"'New human'?" The girl asked incredulously, "Experiments? What kind of experiments? Will they hurt? What do you mean by 'new human'? Why do you want to help us? I know I don't need any help. I'm not sick, so can I go home?"

Before I could stop it, my face contorted into a visage of sympathy and pity. So clearly not every one of my fellow wackos knew that they were, in fact, crazy. Though, to be frank, from what this woman had informed us, none of us were actually crazy. A new breed of human...It seemed silly, stupid. An excuse to put us at ease.

I narrowed my eyes at Dr. Lee's pretty face. My hands vaulted up. Something about her speech and the girl's panicked last questions had pricked something else in me.

Dr. Lee's smile faltered when she saw my raised hand, and I interrupted before she could answer Sarah.

"So, we're not free to go?" I asked, "Because I'm eighteen. I'm supposed to be free to go."

"Ok," Dr. Lee said, wiping her hand across her face, "How about this. You all ask your questions first, and me and my coworkers here will answer them all at once to the best of our abilities."

I felt disgruntled. It sounded like a way for them to avoid answering every question. They would simply pretend to forget whatever questions they didn't want to answer, and that would be the end of that. I waited impatiently as the others around the table were given their turn.

He got little to no sleep, and by the time he managed to slip off, light was already streaming in through the narrow, square windows of his room-slash-cell. Thomas was abuzz with nervous energy, zipping about the room and hunting, and Theodore's mind could hardly stand such savage delight as it upturned a table and flung books across the room. Things only worsened when his alter-ego tried to leave the confines of it, running into a field of sharp, prickling pain that made his unwilling participant cry out in pain.

The mirror betrayed his bloodshot blue eyes, and managed to run his hand a few times through his hair to sort it out before the knock at the door came. Theodore ignored it, turning instead towards the dresser. Its drawers and all its contents had been thrown around the room during the rampage last night that Theo hadn't done anything to stop, but he recognised some of the pieces, though they felt cleaner, brand new. His favourite pair of jeans were lacking their customary ripped holes at the knees; his shirts bought a size smaller rather than a size too big like his old ones; and, of course, they even acknowledged his love of scarves in what must have been an attempt to blackmail him with finery. How long have they been planning this?

He stalked back into the bathroom to get ready, again pretending that the continued knocking on the door didn't exist. The pristine white facecloth came away a russet colour at the corner that he'd used to dab away the dried blood. It wasn't the first time he'd done that, washing away the evidence of a bloody nose; a black eye. Mom used to do it all the time before the twins were born, before James ever came into her life. So long as the government creeps didn't try and reconnect him with his father, they would be at least a point ahead of the last clinic.

Feeling a bit like he was betraying something, or someone, Theodore slipped on the new clothes: a button up shirt, a blazer, skinny jeans that he had to squeeze into and a warm grey scarf slung around his neck. "How do I look?" he asked himself in the mirror, almost as if he was the Evil Queen in Snow White.

Thomas was the one to reply. Alright, I guess.

"Rad." He continued to ignore the knocking. The room was a mess, but he kicked up one of the books lying on the floor from Thomas' tantrum. A crime novel (which he found boring as Hell but his alter-ego seemed to like) glared up at him with lurid red text for the title and an almost black cover, detailed with flames. Whatever, it was good enough. Theodore took it with him into the bathroom, where he proceeded to take a seat in the dry basin underneath the showerhead and closed the curtain.

Neither he nor Thomas wanted to talk to anyone and, in the little cupboard that was a bathroom, he couldn't hear the person on the other side of the door for another thirty minutes, until the must've given up and just unlocked the door. A trolley squeaked in, and Theodore scrambled to his feet, peeking out from behind the bathroom door at the man who entered. He was tall – at least 6'2" – with short blonde hair cut with military precision and a tan that wouldn't have looked out of place in California.

"Theodore Woodrow?" he seemed to be asking the mess of the room, but then he looked over at Theodore from where he stood behind his hiding position. The man's voice was heavily accented – not American or British, but neither was it slurred with a foreign language. Could it be... Australian? Surprisingly his voice wasn't particularly deep, and the one he had didn't match his intimidating appearance.

Even so, Theodore couldn't quite force out the words. "H–He–Here," he said after three attempts. "S–Sorry, I didn't..." The man must have had the patience of a saint because he simply squeaked the trolley to bring Theodore's attention to it, and the food on top.

"S'alright, man, I'm just here to take you to the meeting after breakfast." There was a glass of orange juice, which he reached out for to whet his thirst, glugging it down much to Thomas' chagrin. He complained and moaned somewhere in Theodore's mind, and he could hear his disapproval at not 'sticking it to the man'.

Theodore didn't even touch the food. He had no intention of touching the food. There were a few rashers of bacon on his plate alongside some eggs, fried, and even the thought of grease made him want to retreat back into the bathroom and not come out until the trolley was gone. Grin and bear it. He could almost imagine the researchers or whatever they were asking his Mom, perhaps on a questionnaire, what his favourite foods were. He could almost imagine the shrug she would give. "S-Sorry," he repeated again, dropping the fork and knife almost as soon as he hesitantly picked it up.

"No worries, no worries. I get you." Theodore wondered whether the informal way of speaking was put on or not to keep him at ease – it certainly seemed that way. "I don't think the chefs'll have time to make you anything else, but for tomorrow, I can pass along any... dietary requirements?"

"Pescetarian," Theodore answered quickly. "And, um, I don't... r-really eat m-m-much in the..?"

"Cool, cool," said the possibly-armed guard or assistant or whatever he was. Thomas seemed content to sink into the background and ignore him, so Theodore was free for a few moments. "I'll pass that on. You ready to go to this meeting, yeah?"

"No." Well, there was something to be said for honesty – it made the man smile. Theodore stood up anyway and followed the man through the halls to a gathering of other kids, all of varying ages. He kept his eyes pinned to the floor even as they were led out to a gym of some kind and to a circular table around which they would all be seated.

There were questions asked after the obviously pre-prepared speech by the scientists, both by girls. One of them was older than him, dressed in expensive clothing along the same lines of his own, and the other was much younger. Both, of course, had to do with leaving and being allowed to leave the facility. Theodore scoffed. It was fairly obvious they wouldn't let them out.

When they looked to him to ask a question, he felt himself choking up, unable to speak properly again, so he took a deep breath to try and alleviate his stutter. "I – uh, I have no in-intention of... taking p-p-part in the experi-m-ments. Would... would I be punished? And if so, h-how."

He was about halfway through the comic book. All the FruitLoops had been munched and all the sickeningly sweet chocolate milk leftover had been drunk. The dishes had been pushed aside and the boy sat sideways in the chair. Just has be was turning a new page there was a soft knock at the door. "Mom?" he said absentmindedly, not looking up. The door opened to admit a woman that was not his mother, neither was she Dr. Singh, which was good because Andrew had decided he didn't really like Dr. Singh, she was too bossy. She looked to be in her thirties with short auburn hair, soft gray eyes and a wide smile.

"May I come in?" she asked, sounding almost timid. Andrew nodded his consent and she pushed the door all the way open, stepping just inside. She introduced herself as Amy Carlson and asked his name, though Andrew was pretty sure she--like everyone else here--already knew his name. She's nice.

"I want to go home, but you're just going to say that I can't. Why do I have to stay here? Is this an orphanage? Did you take me away because my mom works too much?"

Amy Carlson just smiled sympathetically. "That's a lot of questions Andrew. If you come with me all of them will get answers. We're going to meet the others now." She held out her hand to him as he got up, and instinctively he took it. Something about the way she talked reminded him of his mom.

"Other kids you mean? Why are they here?" the questions continued to flow out of his mouth as she led him out of the room and down a long corridor. Amy answered some of them, and others she said for him to wait until they got to wherever it was they were going. By the time they reached the gym, Andrew had gathered that he and the others were here because they were special, somehow, and that made him feel sort of important. For a moment he imagined it was like being in Professor X's school to learn how to use his superpowers. If he had any. Well, maybe he did. That was another question she'd said for him to wait to ask.

As she escorted him to the big table and helped him find a seat, Andrew realized he was the youngest of the group, although there was another boy sitting beside him who didn't look too much older, maybe a couple of years. Andrew flashed an uncertain, gap-toothed smile at him. He didn't have time to say anything before a brown-haired woman started speaking. Most of what she said went over his head. Something about two minds and being a new kind of human, it certainly sounded like something you'd hear in Professor X's academy. He looked around at the other kids--most much older than himself--and wondered about them. Did they know they had super powers?

Was this why he always got in trouble for talking to himself? We've got powers. Andrew nodded, suddenly thinking of all the things he'd somehow done in the past without explanation. Changing the TV channel without touching the remote, seeing things without actually looking at them, the voice in his head that he'd always assumed were his own thoughts. Two minds... Was that his thought just now? Or was it...someone else? It was something Andrew would think.

Lowering his head he whispered to himself. "What's my favorite color?"

The voice in his head answered: Red.

"Then, what's your favorite color?"

There was silence in his head for a moment, and then the thought said, Yellow.

Then Andrew did something he really didn't want to do. While everyone else was busy asking questions he started to cry. He pulled his knees up to his chest and crossed his arms, sobbing softly into the crook of his elbow as some inexplicable emotion wracked his body. Great, just great, he had to lose his cool in front of everyone. They'd all think he was just some stupid little kid. There was someone inside his head and he couldn't understand how, or when, or had he always been this way? With the stress of everything that had happened so far, he just couldn't wrap his brain around it.

Hey, said the voice, It's gonna be okay Andrew. We'll be together, we've always been together. Andrew felt a little reassured, but it didn't stop the tears from blurring his vision as they spilled out of his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He bit his lip and sniffed loudly, trying to get himself under control.

We're just like Wade Wilson, remember? We're basically Deadpool. This thought, er, suggestion, lifted Andrew's spirits a little. He wiped his face one his sleeve and stared blankly at the table. He consoled himself with the previous idea about having superpowers. He was fed up with this whole meeting though, after embarrassing himself by bursting into tears like that, so now he was just in a rather irritable mood. And this Dr. Lee person didn't seem like she was going to answer any of their questions directly after all. Grownups were so dumb because they thought just because the rest of them were kids that they could treat them like they were stupid.