The droning of cicadas fill the air as the summer sun beats down on the prisoners of a concentration camp, in what used to be the midwestern region of North America. Hundreds of Gifted prisoners reside here, nearly all of them drenched in sweat. Scattered throughout the camp are these small, make-shift shelters that were made of various forms of scrap material by the camp’s inmates. Some prisoners can be found huddled under what little shade can be found, while others simply accept their sunburnt fate and roast under the midday sun. The camp stands on the outer edges of a large field that has about a half dozen trees and ruins from an ancient town are scattered throughout, offering barely any aid in providing cover from the elements.

Atop the outermost walls of the camp stood at least a couple dozen Hunters could be regularly patrolling the parameter, while another few dozen Hunters remained on the ground level to monitor the captive Gifted. In the approximate, dead center of the camp was a military base that served as the living quarters, artillery, strategy rooms, etc. on the ground floor for the Hunters stationed at the camp. Meanwhile, the upper levels were for the higher ranking officers; including the infamous warden, The Hound, who’s personal quarters reside on the top floor overlooking the camp. Down below, deep underground are the prison cells of the camps most dangerous and powerful gifted. Each cell is about 150 square feet and made of reinforced tungsten, and is customly made to contain and restrict the gifted residing inside. The walls are riddled with cameras and anti-gifted technology, making the fortress nearly impenetrable to attack. This camp, otherwise known as “Area 06”, has gained a reputation for not having a single jailbreak and not a single escaped convict; once you enter, you never leave.

About 900 meters out from the outer walls of Area 06 is a tree line. The now heavily dense forest was once a decent size town, but is now reclaimed by nature and is, for the most part, quiet. However, according to Hunter reports, there has been some stirring amongst the trees and the forest has grown restless as of late; some Hunters even claim they had seen scouts from the rumored “Gifted Rebel Army”. Perhaps there's a secret base nearby where these rebels may be lying in wait for the right opening to make their move...

While these claims of Rebels have been generally dismissed as, “the summer heat is finally getting to the poor fools”; today Area 06 is on higher alert than usual. Today, the camp is expecting a new shipment of prisoners and therefore at its most vulnerable period to potential attacks or jailbreaks. While it is expected to be yet another typical day and the arrival of the new inmates should go off without a hitch, one can never be too careful with such volatile cargo.

---

---

Ophelia sat hunched over in what little shade she was able to find while staring dazed out into the distance. The lack of focus caused the dry, dead grass around where she sat to be charred black and steam to emanate from her body as the beads of sweat on her back sizzled and evaporated. Her fellow inmates, knowing better than to be anywhere near her while like this, stood no closer than 15 feet from her in all directions. Her body was like a furnace when she lacks focus, making days like today unbearable to be anywhere near her.

Suddenly, her focus and body snapped to attention as a sharp shock from her collar startled her. A small, pained yelp escaped her. “Hey! Wildfire! Keep your flames to yourself! It’s already hotter than the devil’s taint, as is!” An agitated Hunter called out from the top of the outer wall to Ophelia as he made his rounds. Once out of direct eye shot, Ophelia stuck out her tongue in protest.

“Damn bastard…” She grumbled under her breath as she gingerly rubbed her neck. “That fucking hurt…”

Her ears then perked up to the sound of a couple Hunters quietly chatting to each other.

“A new shipment of Gifted is arriving today? That’s a surprise. We haven’t had any fresh meat in a while.” A slight lilt of surprise and intrigue could be heard in his voice.

“Yeah and I’ve heard that there’s some really interesting ones coming in this time, too.”

“Really? I guess that explains why the higher ups have been such hard asses today. Maybe these newbies can finally provide us with some entertainment.” The two snickered as they walked on.

Ophelia looked up at the clear blue sky. “Newbies, huh?” She thought to herself listlessly as she glanced at her fellow inmates. She closed her eyes, fell onto her back with her arms outstretched, and sighed before opening her eyes again. The coming of more people was never a very welcome sight for the prisoners as it meant less resources for everyone, less food, less water, less shelter; which ultimately led to more fights between inmates. “Sounds like trouble.” Ophelia muttered under her breath.

---

Over by the treeline in the corner, in the one blindspot of the cameras that she could find, Lavina waited for the rotation to switch before she sent Thor back into the treeline. With the increase in prisoners, it was going to be difficult to have him nearby for a while. Ina quickly fixed the corner of the fence to make it look normal and began to meander around.

While it was hotter than all blazes out, she found comfort in the rumors that the Rebellion was going to attack soon, the Gifted couldn't give up hope just yet. She had been sending Thor out with little papers of information on guard rotations, supply shipments, and anything that could help the Rebellion end reign of the Hound.

Lavina looked up at the tower where the Hound resided as she walked towards the grass area and frowned. She remembered his teachings well and had the scars to prove it too. When she first arrived, Ina agreed to learn about how to be a Hunter to save her skin. Once it came to her hunting down and capturing another Gifted child, she couldn't complete the mission. It was a long time after that before she had seen the outside world once more. She couldn't quite recall what had happened only that it was extremely painful and that she was grateful that it was a memory.

Lavina tied her long blonde hair up into a ponytail with a scrap of cloth before she scratched around her collar. Her sweat from the heat made the skin on her neck itch where it stuck to the metal. She knew that she probably looked ridiculous with a long-sleeve shirt, however, it helped to hide her markings. Ina was hit with a wave of heat and paused as she heard the cries of a young woman. She saw that it was the girl that the guards referred to as Wildfire. Lavina smirked as she watched Wildfire stick her tongue out at the guard that zapped her.

"Are you alright?" Ina asked in a hushed tone once the decreased heat around Wildfire. She paused and heard the guards talk about new prisoners. More mouths to worry about to feed, perfect, her inner voice grumbled as Lavina tried her best to make sure the younger Gifted and the elderly ones of the group got enough to sustain. She wasn't a stranger to starving a couple of days to make ends meet.

"I would have asked how you felt right away but that guards get a little jumpy if we start defending each other," Ina explained with a soft smile as she rolled up her sleeves up to her elbows, careful to not remove her gloves that hide her markings underneath.

The world spun and warped as Liv tumbled. A flashing light. An impossibly bending tower. Blurred shaped everywhere. All too much information to focus on any one piece. She accepted it naturally, letting the chaotic tearing of her jump flow over her, and landed with a light stumble on the tiled roof. Her feet almost skated out from under her as some of the tiles gave way under her feet flying off into the street below.

Nice, real subtle. She cringed at the crashing noise from below and glanced a look over the edge. Down dozens of feet below her, her target staring straight at her. "Ahh fucked it, already?" Launching off the roof of the building she was on, she tucked into a roll. As she rolled she warped through a portal landing on her feet at street level. Now where...

A flash of movement. In an instant Liv was at the place she was just looking, staring down an alley. An empty alley. She cursed again and spun. Where the hell had the target gone? She glanced up and down the street but with all the people moving back and forth it was near impossible to see anything. She teleported away then back holding a shotgun, pressed against her shoulder. Pumping the gun she emptied the entire thing into the alley way. Swearing, she smashed the end of the gun into a nearby crate again and again till it bent. Dropping the ruined gun, she moved back to the roof level, teleporting up and down the street.

After nearly half an hour of searching she let out a hiss of frustration. She couldn't keep this up any longer, she was sweating straight through her shirt, and a dozen other places. And that was just from the humidity without her powers taking effect. As it was she was drenched and panting. Any moment now she was going to have another heat stroke. "Fuck!" She kicked the tile stubbing her toe in the process. Groaning she rubbed her toe as she tipped backwards. Flipping over the edge she threw out her arms as wide as she could. For the briefest of moments she felt the butterflies in her stomach flutter, then the world distorted in on itself, and she landed in the ocean with a splash.

After cooling off in the Pacific she vanished with in a blink and landed on the roof of one of the buildings in the good ol' jail complex. A splash of water fell down the sides as she teleported, from all the stuff that was in contact with her. Shaking out her hair she grimaced and she thumped on her chest, choking slightly, then coughed up a fish. Ugh gross.

After a moment she stepped to the edge of the roof and stared down. She saw some poor prisoner get zapped for using her power. That was... fuck she was supposed to know this... she had almost been there a full week... Mildfire? Close enough. But what was going on down there? A little tea perhaps? Grinning a bit she lay down on the roof with her arms crossed under her chin. Kicking her legs back and forth she watched, cocking her head to the side. Oooh little Sparky was gunna help out the pyro? Sparky was easy to recognize, she had that blinding white hair. Liv grinned deviously. Why not have a little fun right now? She had already had a long day with her mission. Hound could wait a little longer for her.

Warping reality around her, popping her into existence right behind Lavina, only inches away. Leaning in close to her ear she whispered, "Boo." Before the girl could turn around she vanished again crouching behind Ophelia. "Ohh Mildfire... causing a ruckus now are we?" She spun the steel bat in her hand, landing on her shoulder, and raised an eyebrow looking the girl in the eye.

---

The greatest part of working in a twenty-four hour electronics store was being able to spend most of the night gaming. The shift manager didn’t care—more than likely he was already asleep on the cot he kept in the back office. Rarely did anyone actually come in after nine or ten o’clock, which meant the scruffy-faced clerk could slip on a headset and settle back behind the counter, eyes fixed on one of the display screens across the aisle...until it showed him a “connection error.” With a silent curse, he waited for the troubleshooter to diagnose what was wrong. He glanced at another one of the display units on the next aisle. That one was still set to a normal channel, and currently playing some late-night talk show garbage. While he waited for his network to resolve whatever bug was keeping him from his matches, the clerk tuned in for just a minute or two…

<sub>”—and an upper-brass of the “Hunters” program! We’re so glad to have him tonight, folks!” The host, a man with a jawline like a sledgehammer and a plastic-surgically perfect smile, shook hands with the guest before sitting down behind his desk. The other guy wore a crisp, three-piece suit, all-black of course, and too stiff to be unpadded cloth. He lowered himself to the plush recliner like a machine on hydraulics.

“So, what’s it like, being a Hunter? Must be pretty scary, facing down…the kind of folks you do?” A slight falter in the host’s cheek, imperceptible to most.

“You must mean Gifted individuals, right?” A lump dropped in the host’s throat, but he nodded. The other man in the suit smiled, and leaned back, and flipped his wrist to adjust the fancy watch wrapped around it. An easy motion. “Well, it’s certainly not easy—I mean, imagine yelling at a guy, “put ‘em up!” and he literally starts floating into the air, huh?” The man pantomimed with his arms as if he too would just hover away, and pre-canned laughter played. “Ah, but seriously. The thing you have to remember is that the Gifted, well, they aren’t monsters. They’re still people, like you and me—just ones that have a very dangerous, potentially deadly, condition.”

“Wow! It’s great that you’re able to hold onto that mindset!” The host didn’t actually seem surprised by the line. “You know, lots of folks have seen it at least once, these days—somebody picking up a car like it’s a toy, or literally spitting fire! I mean, it’s downright crazy what some of these mutations can do! What about those ones, uh, whaddya call ‘em, the Alphas?”</sub>

The bell above the store’s door jingled, and the clerk’s head snapped around. Two guys entered—young, slouchy, wearing baggy clothes. Typical customers, although out a whole lot later than most. Nonetheless he called out to them.

“Good evening! Let me know if there’s anything I can do—” they’d already turned the aisle. He didn’t even get a good look at their faces. But he could see they were headed towards the gaming section. It wasn’t unusual for types like that to avoid as much human contact as possible. The clerk had a deep personal understanding of that notion.

The game still hadn’t connected—he was probably going to have to reset the router again—so he turned his attention back to the talk-show. The guest had been explaining something, and the clerk had to run the last few minutes of background noise through his head to mentally catch-up…

<sub>“Right. Well, you see, Alpha is just a form of classification for Gifted whose powers are known to be extremely destructive—and not always under their control. Through no fault of their own, of course.” The guest was looking at the camera, or ostensibly the crowd behind it, now. As if he were speaking to them personally. “Imagine if you woke up one day, and your sweat was just…pure nitroglycerin? You wipe off when it gets hot—just like that!” He pointed at the host, currently engaged in applying a white handkerchief to his forehead. “And then when you throw the towel in the laundry? BOOM! Like a stick of dynamite!” The host slowly fingered the cloth back into his pocket. That smile was starting to slip.

“Hence the need for the Hunters in the first place, then?” The man’s jaw loosened for a moment as his eyes glanced somewhere off camera, then returned to the guest’s face. Which hadn’t changed at all from that welcoming, laid back, chatty expression. “If an individual like that decided they wanted to hurt people, I can’t see a lot of ways to stop them. Unless maybe they move to the North Pole year round!” Again, the artificial laughs from an unseen gallery.

“Exactly. The reason I came on tonight, you see, is because people have the wrong idea about us.” The guest leaned forward, like he was sharing something personal to him. “They think Hunters are these scary bogeymen, or that we’re like some kinda secret police coming to drag them out of their beds! That couldn’t be further from the truth!” Again, he looked at the crowd and ran a hand over his handsome head of hair.

“Sure, sometimes the Gifted give in to their darker instincts, and use their powers to hurt people, destroy property, or worse. Those people are criminals, and we’re required to take a harder stance with them. But the Hunters are here to help. The idea that we want to wipe out all the Gifted, that’s just insane!” He shook his head and, again, gesticulated with his hands emphatically.

“Pure propaganda! Those people calling themselves Rebels, they’re no better than terrorists! They want you scared, they want you thinking that they’re the only ones who can help “save” you! But that’s just not true.”

Again, the man leaned back in his chair, a motion that the host mimicked. Even the camera pulled back a bit, as if everyone on the crew was trying to lessen their tension. The guest continued to speak.

“What we do, when we find these individuals, is take them to a safe, well-protected, and prepared environment. Somewhere their abilities can be measured, tested under non-threatening conditions, and, only if needed, restrained—so that they don’t have to worry about hurting themselves, or anyone else they care about!”</sub>

On the security camera behind the clerk’s head, a hushed verbal exchange took place. The two customers had split up. One made a loop around the store while the other was hanging back.

The doorbell jingled again. Another young guy walked in—he was wearing a hoodie with no sleeves and the hood up. The clerk wasn’t much for fashion, but thought that was a weird choice. Was the guy hot or cold? Make up your mind already!

“Good evening.” The clerk said half-heartedly, expecting this to be another night-owl nerd. The younger guy didn’t take his hood off, but nodded in acknowledgement.

“Good evening. Slow night?”

Oh, even worse. A customer who actually wanted to make conversation. The clerk gave him a non-committal chuckle and head-nod in response, then pretended to be engrossed in the show again.

<sub>“So if someone is a Gifted, or they suspect one of their friends or family of having these abilities, what should they do?”

“The Hunters can be contacted at any time, anywhere, by calling the Republic’s assigned hotline—can we get that on the screen? It’s on there? Awesome!” An exchange with the off-screen crew, followed by laughter and a sudden “gotcha” look from the guest. “It’s like you read my mind—Oooh, are you Gifted? Uh-oh, I better take you in!” More laughter.

“But seriously! You call that number, tell our operators what’s up—they’re trained to be aware, considerate, and understanding of all these issues we’ve talked about—and our agents will take things from there!”

The guest suddenly stood up, apparently surprising the host, but the camera followed him without missing a beat as he walked across the stage.

“And, just to show you this: The Hunters aren’t trying to, to put it mildly, do away with the Gifted, as so many have accused us of doing. If that was their goal…then they wouldn’t have hired someone like ME!”

The man waved his hands. A bright sphere of light, as if someone were dangling a fluorescent light bulb, took shape in the air above his palms. As the still-unseen crowd ooh’d and ahhh’d, the orb floated to center-stage, then flattened itself and took the shape of a floating ring, like a halo.

“You see, I can only do this because the Hunters allowed me...To get the training and discipline I needed to be of use to people! Now, instead of accidentally blinding somebody, I can use my powers for something better!” The light ring wobbled over to the host and settled down just over his toupe, again accompanied to the laugh track. “Like showing them what an angel YOU are!”

Amidst clapping from the host and crew, it was declared that the guest would stay on the show to meet the other people coming on that night, right after a commercial break…</sub>

The clerk looked up to see that the younger guy had taken the hint and moved along. But then when he glanced down the aisles, he didn’t see the other two. Had they left already? He didn’t hear the doorbell…

If he’d been looking at the cameras, he’d have seen them crouched down at an angle behind the shelves—one ready to rush the counter, and one lifting his shirt before reaching down his baggy pants. A baseball bat, tucked along the side of his body, found its way to his hands.

And if the clerk had really been paying attention to the cameras, the way the third guy in the back of the store was, he might’ve seen the young man slip a mask over his face and let the hood fall.

The game finally connected! As prompts and sounds filtered over his headset, the clerk reached for his controller and turned—

“OPEN THE REGISTER!”

The one with the bat ran and jumped over the divider between the counter and the store, slamming the weapon against the polished wood surface for intimidation. The other one ran up in front of the clerk and the checkout station, pulling a crumpled trash back out from under his shirt.

“W-wha—wait—”

“I SAID OPEN IT!” The clerk eyed the two of them nervously, but shrank back as the first man raised the bat again. “And gimme yo’ KEYS!”

Then a black whip wrapped around the weapon and yanked it over the perp’s shoulder, dragging him with it. His back hit the counter as the man yelped in surprise, and his partner turned with a gasp.

“Bruh, the batting cages are on the other side of town.” The third young man stood with one arm outstretched, holding the whip…which was wrapped around his forearm and rooted there, like it’d grown out of him as individual threads and been wound together.

“Let ‘im go!” The second thief dropped the bag and went for a football tackle. The masked guy brought his other arm up and made a weird movement—like some kinda kung-fooey martial art, the limb undulated, spinning at the wrist, as his fingers twitched into a shape like some kinda anime-character making the fox ears.

FWIP!

Another whip hit the charging thief in the face, and then stuck. It wasn’t a whip, it was some kind of net, or…a web? He fell to one side, crashing into a shelf full of robot vacuum cleaners, while trying to pull the strange substance off his face. The guy in the sleeveless sweater jumped forward and yanked on both his lines at the same time, pulling the two would-be-robbers together on the open floor in front of the register. The one with the bat let go of the weapon and jumped up to take a swing at the web-spinner.

“Guh-gi-g-gifted?!” The clerk stumbled back against the wall—just as the door banged open and the portly, half-asleep manager stumbled out.

“We’re being robbed!? Call the police!” he yelled as the guy with the webs ducked and danced away from the thug’s wild swings. “No! The HUNTERS! One of those monsters is tryin’ to kill us!”

“Hey, whoa, I’m not like that!” The Gifted raised his hands, which still had a few strands of black webbing dangling from them. He pointed at the clerk. “I mean, what he said, yeah, but not—”

The thief punched him in the gut, then shoved him into a rack of magazines and tech manuals. As the protesting hero went down in a loud clatter and a cloud of pages, the thwarted crook ran for the doors—only to be caught at the legs just before he could reach it. As the Gifted yanked this new whip with both hands the other man’s head pitched forward, smacking the thick glass hard enough to crack it and then bumping the metal handle on the way down for good measure.

“Hey, leave that guy alone, you freak!” screamed the manager, already calling the emergency number from a cell phone.

“Your concern is appreciated, sir, but I can handle it!” shouted back the Gifted as he reeled in his catch.

“You’re the freak!”

“Oh. Well no worries either way, I’m just about done here!” The man dragged the injured attacker back towards his companion, who had only just gotten the webbing off his face. Then the masked guy made more weird motions with his hands. The webs coming out of his arms—like watching a can of silly string explode—formed a net he threw over both of the thieves, and then he tied the ends shut and yanked them tight. Both men yelped as they were drawn together way too close for platonic comfort.

“I, I already h-hit the silent alarm!” the clerk was telling his boss, although whether he was trying to help the Gifted or not was up for debate. The man dusted his hands off and stood with his feet apart as he put both fists akimbo.

“There, gentlemen! As you can see, I’m not with the thieves! I’m only here to help! Just call me—” A cordless computer mouse flew over the man’s head as he ducked, both hands covering his mask.

“Don’t you touch us, ya mutated piece of trash!” The manager shook a fat fist as his red face jiggled.

“Right, I can see you’re stressed! The police will handle things from here!” The Gifted ran for the door, pushing through it and starting to sprint—then he turned and came back. From inside they watched him shake his arm for a moment. Then he sprayed a thin layer of black goop over the crack in the glass. “A little extra, free of charge!”

Then he sprinted off into the night, as flashing lights in the distance drew closer…

---

---

Ben woke up the next day—morning was long past—to his phone trying to buzz itself off the side of his nightstand. When he picked it up, he saw several unread texts from her...and closed them. He yawned, stretched—then winced as the tender spot where he’d been gutpunched protested the movement. As he threw off the blankets and headed for the bathroom, he sighed.

Would she have called me a freak too? Or a monster? he wondered to himself. But he shook his head. Personal praise, fame, those weren’t the reasons he put himself out there night after night. He just wanted to help.

Although it would help him if people weren’t so gung-ho to hate on Gifted. How’d that guy think he was the thief!? He wasn’t swinging a bat around—

But you were wearing a mask, genius. Ah. Right. Well…unfortunately, that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. But, he definitely needed to figure out some way to not scare the people he wanted to save. It was only natural that they’d be wary of the Gifted, the way things were nowadays…and his powers probably didn’t do his first impressions any favors. How many people would honestly be hyped to see giant, people-snagging spiderwebs?

Better that I do the right thing and get hated for it, than do the wrong thing and be loved for it. Right, Grandpa? Besides, in today’s world, you could do nothing at all and still get hate easily enough. Just ask those people the Hunters were always catching. He checked his phone again while he did his business.

Almost as if it were reading his mind (hell, with as much data as they gathered, maybe it could!), his social media feed was full of news about the “prison camp” that’d been set up less than fifty miles outside of the city limits. People who sympathized with “The Rebels,” (which struck Ben as incredibly stupid, as you were practically asking for police to come knocking at your door) and people who were huddling under the long arm of the Republic for safety (equally stupid, because the government wouldn’t care whether the Gifted liked them or not) were in a constant and vicious flame battle in every comment on every article or photo.

He cleaned, shaved, all that usual morning routine stuff and threw on some workout clothes. He had the day off from work—hence why he’d been out all night—so he decided a nice jog in the park might help work out the soreness…

Ninety-Seven...

[indent]The morning had drifted sluggishly into afternoon. What had started as a deceivingly cool midwestern day had risen to sweltering temperatures. The sun lashed down with devilish fury. The heat was simply ubearable to the collective of souls caught within the fencing of Area 06. The Gifted, powerful though they might be, were only as capable as their powers allowed them; adding the suppresant collars they had all been forced into, they stood little chance of finding comfort outside of the small pockets of shade they had been allowed to erect. Even the Hunters guarding the base were ill-prepared, with those unfortunate enough to be on the daytime rounds being denied nearly any access to the presumably climate-controlled fortification at the camp's center. Truly, the high rollers of the Hunter initiative treated themselves and their bootlickers well while the bottom feeders were left to the worse aspects of the job.

Ninety-Eight...

Despite the heat wafting down from the skies, there remained at least one person in the camp either too resilent or too foolish to be caught idling. In a bare and open spot close to where the Gifted had built their shelters, Maya Anne Morales-Torres was deep into an effort that had the guards themselves shaking their heads. In the midst of sparse, labored foot traffic and watched curiously by the small gatherings in nearby shelters Maya was propped up, stripped down to little more than a pair of shorts, shoes, and a sports bra, powering her way through a long set of push-ups. Around the count of thirty, she had begun to feel the adverse effects of the heat beginning to poke and prode at her collar-stiffled person. But by the time she reached sixty, all care for the struggle and fatigue evaprated into the humidity that hung in the day's heat.

Ninety-Nine...

Truthfully, she realized as she had hit the eighty mark, she had no clue just how beneficial any workout would be in her current state. Without the suppresent force of her collar, she could push herself further, and hone, however marginally, her already amplified physical prowess. With those powers either stiffled or altogether blocked the end results would be uncertain. Would her superhuman strength and endurance even benefit from workouts she did without them? Would gains she made as an otherwise "normal," if physically fit, human, translate and scale up once she finally got out of the Hunters' trap? Maya really couldn't say for sure; she had asked herself these questions more than once since she arrived in Area 06, but had continued exercising despite not knowing, and in sheer spite of the conditions she was being kept in. If nothing else, she could at least rest assured that she was maintaining her dignity and willpower. If that was it... it would have to be enough.

"One... Hundred."

Maya's upper body pushed itself back to starting position for the centenial count. Deciding on the spot to cutoff her final set there, she pivoted to her right and landed gently seated onto the ground below. She collected a few breaths, and then hopped back to her feet and began a circling track around the camp. Usually, on obscenely hot or rainy days, the few dwellings and shelters for the Gifted were occupied fully; it took either a lot of luck or a lot of force to clear out a space in one. Maya couldn't have cared less about that though. Enduring the harsh circumstances only set her apart from the others. It kept most people at a distances where she could see them if they came up on her. Plus, she'd be better off if they ever did break free; some of the weaker ones might not even make it to the tree line before exhaustion took them and delivered the back to the Hunters.

As she walked around the encampment, Maya found herself the recipient of a share of nervous and outright frightened glances, and the subject of murmurs and whispers. She had grown used to this kind of treatment around Area 06. Still, it kept her on her toes. While some might have thought her paranoid for it, she knew there was a target on her back. Area 06, even as it was lauded with a perfect track record for keeping its prisoners inside, had nonetheless seen an attempt at an uprising. As it happened, Maya, then tied to the Hunters' chains as the proverbial junkyard dog, had been the one to drop in and literally beat down the resistance. Naturally, sentiments were unfavorable towards her, and once she arrived as a "permanent" resisdent of the camp, she knew there was a buzz about the camp regarding how and when to exact sweet revenge unto her. The only thing keeping anyone from making good on their talk was the fear that the guards would put the voltage through them if they started anything, or that "Balboa's" collar would get conveniently turned off just long enough for her to fight them off... the others couldn't be too certain that Maya was in fact a prisoner and not just another safety net for their captors.

"Ugh... The Hell?" a sudden spike in temperature drifted out in a wave from somewhere nearby, and for all of her time still training herself, Maya wasn't ready for that kind of heat. She stopped in her tracks, glaring down a staring passerby until they shuffled away. She looked around for the source of the heatwave, finding it in a young woman a short distance away. The heat subsided quickly as the source Gifted ways treated with the Guards' tried-and-true shock therapy. Maya, in an overtly dispeased mood, stepped with pounding feet towards the other Gifted, joining a gathering group of one she racognized as 'Wildfire,' a blonde woman she couldn't recall, and Blitz. She arrived just in time to overhear riff-raff about defending each other. Maya shot the blonde woman a disdained look. "No chance anyone in here is putting up a fight while these things are still on," she pointed out, tapping the collar around her neck. "This place is as tight as Hunter camps get."

---

---

The room was sparse by design. A cool concrete room with enough added to display status, but not so much to dare at taste. Sitting in a sleek black swivel chair, feet rested atop a footstool, The Hound sat with his eyes closed. Elbow propped against the arm rest, supporting his head at the temple, even in his deep concentration the faintest line of his practised smile was etched on his face. The heat of the outside found no place here; the ice water sitting on the small table next to him sweating only slightly. A light humming of an old fashioned tune emanated from the man. If you were one to know The Hound, you would know this meant he was in what could constitute as "a good mood".

Sprouting unnaturally from the floor was a pole of concrete, rising to meet Elias' free hand. The connection to the earthen material established, it was enough allow him to use his gift, and do what he always did at this time (and many times throughout the day).

He was taking the dogs for a walk.

Around the grounds of his domain, trotted a small pack of his golems. Each off on their own, given the simple command to trace a path in a circle, as wide as his reach would allow. Considering this was a place, golem type and material he was quite familiar with, that meant quite a massive swathe of land. Creatures of almost wolf-like shape plodded along in concentric circles, like planets orbiting the star known as the warden of this cosmic camp. He sat at it's center, and it revolved around him.

He could not actually see through all his dogs at once; in fact he wasn't even directly controlling any of them at one time. The concentration and information processing necessary was massive. His mind was somewhat capable of course, but there wasn't any need to push himself at this moment. Nearly none of the prisoners in his camp could know that when his dogs stopped at stared (as they were programmed to do) it wasn't actually him looking at them. For him, them thinking that was the truth was enough.

He would switch his control every so often, like a watchgaurd flipping through camera views, to get a general lay of the land, and see if any people of interest were up to no good.

In this camp he had a list of people who he kept particular tabs on. Either they were dangerous, or they had a history. Often both. On this sun soaked day, he spotted a congregation as he flipped to a new hound.

You would think the fire starter would be especially avoided on a day like this; but like moths there they were.

One of his old pupils was there. Lavina. She had a creed and a volatile gift. That marked her as dangerous through and through. The Hound wouldn't describe his feelings towards he as particularly strong, but she had his special attention. This of course was not considered "a good thing".

His current ward Olivia (The Hound never called her Blitz) was there too. Doing her sneering and jeering. Despite having eyes in many places, he too found it impossible to keep proper tabs on her. He was quite unsure about her role here; he felt as though she was some sort of prisoner as well. Of course that was silly, considering no walls could hold her. Less her boss and more her handler, The Hound was just as wary towards her as he was his prisoners. However she at least would be useful. At times.

The hound he was controlling was seated some ways off. Nearly blending in with the sun craggled ground and dust, it's glowing eyes nearly lost in the light. It had it's legs crossed in front of it, and it's head low. Why Elias mimicked dogs so directly in his actions he wasn't sure; perhaps it's just easier to copy directly rather than think of each motion too hard. It's head perked up at the sound of another voice joining the conversation.

Maya Torres, the strong woman. This one he especially watched out for. Judging by her appearance she was exercising despite the heat. While that garnered some flicker of respect from The Hound it was respect for an adversary. One doesn't maintain their physical form like that to sit down and be an easy captive. Her history meant she too had a particular bone to pick with Hunters.

From what he could hear of the conversation Elias had no reason to suspect any particular collusion or organization between this crowd. But the fact they felt comfortable to gather like this was enough of a problem for him. The light left his golem's eyes as his opened, and reached for a small device on the table next to him. He sorted through the numbers of each prisoner at the gathering, and sent out a low level shock to them each. A level of pain they could shrug off, but enough to let them know he was watching.

Always watching.

---

---

“That’s twenty. Lift your arms. Higher, over your head. Good.”

A complaint was uttered, then, about the discomfort—even in this weather, ice water trickling down into one’s gear, down their sides, wasn’t the nicest feeling. Barre had heard this particular gripe so frequently that they were starting to forget to respond.

“Yeah. Well.” The medic blinked, glassy eyes fixed on where chunks of ice sloshed in the dirty little cooler—or, the Arm-Immersion Cooling Station, if you read the tape-label on the side (with an addendum jotted below: Do Not Drink.). Mashed gnat bodies rode the waves, plastered to the melting ice. Their deaths must have been glorious. Barre didn’t look at the guard; eye contact was too much to ask on a day like today. “It beats heatstroke. Grab a water and sit.”

When Barre had heard that today's guards were being denied entry back indoors where they had all the good stuff like air conditioning and cold tile floors that you can lay on if you're slick enough to not get caught, they had nearly thrown a fit. Or rather, they'd daydreamed about throwing a fit, this thrilling little fantasy that'd lasted all of ten seconds, but ultimately Barre had done what they had always done best: nodded meekly and kept it moving. They could hardly recall the exact excuse given, though if they had to guess it might've been something to do with keeping stress off the HVAC by limiting daytime access to emergencies-only until the weather cooled off.

Barre’s grand responsibility, then, was to limit the emergencies. Strictly amongst personnel, of course; if the Gifted in the camp needed relief from the heat, no they didn’t. Not until someone in uniform said otherwise, and all the uniforms had to say today had amounted to, Christ alive it’s fucking hot, and eugh, my pits are gonna chafe if I dunk my sleeves, I’ll just have a water—

Oh, wait. Shit. “Uh.”

Barre swallowed thickly, snapping back into the moment and tipping their face toward the cluster of off-rotation guards that’d been corralled in here to cool off. Had someone said that just now, or had it been earlier and already resolved? Their hands twitched nervously, thin fingers hooking one other. A hot gust of wind reached in meanly past the mouth of the tent, knocking a discarded web of six-pack rings from the table that Barre haunted onto the dusty ground. They watched the litter fall without bothering to reach for it. It was just a reminder that the tent was running low on bottled water.

After another moment of staring, Barre didn’t speak up to see who had opted out of wetting their arms. Worst-case scenario, coolers identical to the one on the table stacked neatly in the back carried ice packs and sheets. Worse-than-worst, if being stripped to near nudity and wrapped up in an ice cold bed sheet didn’t work, some lucky winner would get to go back indoors for a chilled IV and the scolding of a lifetime, probably. No doubt somebody out there, no matter how fanatical, would rather risk the heatstroke than spend another hour or so breathing down the sunburnt necks of languishing Gifted.

Which–yeah, fine, whatever. Barre wasn’t going to start headhunting heat-casualty risks, no matter how badly the urge nagged them. There were bigger fish being fried.

“One bottle each.” Had someone else already said that? Someone else had definitely said that, just now, and Barre, thoughtless, had parroted it. Barre scratched behind their ear. Air. They probably needed air. A solid gulp of that musty furnace-wind straight from the source would totally fix them. Zombie-like, Barre lurched up from their spot by the table, the Arm-Immersion Cooling Station (go on and say it five times fast), and shoved their way out of the tent. They had to squint against the harsh sunlight. Not a cloud in the sky, and Barre would like to think that it was the big and endless plane of nauseating blue stretching high above that was making their head spin but, really, it could’ve been anything. The unforgiving heat. The medication. The empty stomach. That droning and ceaseless cicada-song. Oh, to be a dead gnat drowned in an endless freeze.

Fresh air wasn’t helping, but the change of scenery was a welcome distraction. There was movement back in the tent, medical staff or the off-duty guards or both, but Barre was too fixated to retreat back to their post just yet. The strange static-prickle that had since replaced what their body understood to be pain fizzed gently up their leg, the dregs of a shattered femur that Asklepian had helped with—a week ago? Maybe. It was written somewhere. All of these things had to be. Barre shifted their weight, leaning into that sensation in the hopes that it might grow some teeth, give them something real to focus on. No dice. The prickle intensified and they wobbled haphazardly, but Barre was quick enough not to fall over, re-planting their feet and crossing their arms. Burning. Why did they smell burning?

Oh. Because, there, someone was burning something.Or rather, someone was burning, full stop. Barre went still, deer-in-headlights still, zeroing in on auburn hair and blackened earth. An uncontrolled fire in dry conditions like this could spell catastrophe for their guards. And, yes, absolute hell and torment, etcetera, for the Gifted trapped in the blaze but what else is new for these captives? That wasn’t the point and it never would be. The point was, somebody needed to do something, or a slapdash heat-relief-station wouldn’t be enough to fix the sorry state of Area 06. Somebody had to—

Oop. There it was. Even from this distance, squinting through the unforgiving glare, Barre could tell that the fire-starter had gotten a painful warning from some fed-up guard watching from the ramparts. Maybe later, after Barre had had a shower and the chance to properly cool down and decompress, they’d feel guilty about the surge of relief that hit them at about the same time that Wildfire had been zapped. But that shame would have to come later. Right now, Barre was rooted to their spot by the foreboding tent (far nicer, of course, than the ramshackle cover that the prisoners had to make do with, and close enough to the base, proper, that it was easy to divert off-rotation guards from their usual course indoors, since indoors was currently not an option), keeping an eye on the smoking char as if they still anticipated a disaster.

No disaster came, just more people. Each was subject to yet more staring because it would cost Barre too much energy to turn around and shamble back into the tent, and maybe they were starting to like it out here. It sucked, sure, but the occasional stale wind was, uh…it was something. And anyway, though they had vowed not to go chasing down individual risks, a certain heatstroke-prone-somebody was out to play, evidently drawn by the spectacle of the would-be fire. Barre’s twitching hands curled into fists for one rapid squeeze. They ought to make sure there was enough water for Blitz to have a bottle. Hell, they ought to just bring one to her now. But then, maybe she was headed indoors after this, and had no need for a store-brand bottled offering. Even so, wasn’t it the nice thing to do?

And on a day like today, wasn’t that nice thing to do also the most medically prudent?

Barre cast a shifty glance to the other two, the fire hazard and the pale-haired one whose Gift they initially hoped, for her sake, was something that might buffer her from the amplified heat in her proximity to the oven-girl, before they recalled what it actually was. Or, what they were fairly sure it actually was. Neither Wildfire nor Lucendi’s aliases occurred to Barre at the moment, though those would be the only names they cared to know the two by, same with any Gifted. No doubt they had heard or seen them at least once before, particularly Lucendi, but recollection was evasive in these conditions, and Barre had a mind like a sieve outside of their designated corners of expertise. They just knew, in this moment, that these were prisoners, and not worth the planned offering of bottled water, and maybe it would be smarter or nicer or better to wait until Blitz was done doing whatever she was doing near them and then no longer near them to go and offer a drink. Because, manners. Or something.

Not that it should’ve mattered. Nor should it have mattered that another prisoner was drawing near, meaning that Barre would have to wait for all three to disperse before the coast was clear to play the waterboy (so to speak). How frustrating. They shot Balboa a dirty look for no good reason at all, squashing a kneejerk hiccup of concern because what was she doing, just then, right before this? Working out, in this heat? What if she hurt herself? Had anybody checked? No; this face Barre recognized a little better, enough to know that their worry was both inappropriate and unnecessary. This wasn’t anything new, for that one. There probably wasn’t anything to be so worked up about.

Not. That. It. Should. Have. Mattered. And it didn’t. Today was just hot and stupid and that was making it very hard for Barre to mind their business the way they ought to.

They forced in a full chest of air and pushed it out slowly. Blitz’s ominous bat catching the light drew their eye, forced them to re-focus. Right. A gaggle of prisoners shouldn’t’ve, and didn’t, matter. Team mattered. The Initiative mattered. And so did being nice, in a sense, and Barre did a good job of justifying to themself why this was ultimately an act of kindness with no other factors to be considered as they hazily retreated into the tent, pulled one bottle from another soft plastic ring-net (biodegradable, bragged the packaging, lest all that fuss about the ol’ climate crisis be for naught), and started off. Their unfocused eyes skipped over a distant shape, one they wrote off, for now, as someone crouched idly on the hot earth, not the watchful golem that it was. They were too focused on the task at hand, which felt like burden enough as they drew in closer, trying very hard not to look directly at the prisoners, because Blitz was all that required their attention, at the moment. Until someone in uniform says otherwise.

And then Barre was there, close enough to count the freckles and the sweat beaded over every one, but they waited patiently (to them, it seemed like patience; to an onlooker, they might resemble a carrion bird settling at the side of the road) for Blitz to finish (or at least come to a natural pause in) whatever she had approached the other Gifted for, in the first place. In the meantime, they cast another look back to their safe, sweaty tent. There were plenty of staff to hold down the fort until their delivery was finished, surely.

Ophelia squinted as she looked up at the silhouette of the thin, ashen woman. She was clearly a beauty but her time in the camp had clearly done a number on her. ”Haven’t you heard? ‘It’s hotter than the devil's taint’ and there are going to be more mouths to feed soon.” She said dryly as her eyes adjusted to better make out the figure standing before. Her voice was laced with the anger that still remained from the sudden jolt. Ophi paused for a moment. ”Sorry… yeah, I’m good, just got stung.” This time there was remorse in her voice.

Ophelia wasn’t angry at the Gifted woman next to her, she was angry at the Hunters, she was angry at the lack of food, water, and places to sleep, and most of all she was angry at the bastard that thought putting shock collars on any living creature was a good idea.

Ophi took another short pause before giving the woman a once over. The woman must have been really struggling to keep sane in this heat but Ophelia decided it was probably better to not ask about her fashion choices. ”So…” She alley-ooped back into an upright sitting position. ”What are you in for? Petty theft? Arson? Don’t tell me you’re one of those Gifted! I heard they’re dangerous!” She joked sarcastically trying to lighten the mood.

But before she could respond further, a voice chimed up from behind her. Ophelia jumped forward and the grass around her for a brief moment erupted in tall flames. “Fuck!” She yelped in surprise. Ophi whipped herself around and growled annoyed upon recognizing the group’s latest addition. “ What do you want, Manic?” For the past week, this girl has seemed to be particularly fond of toying and messing with Ophi; almost like a child playing with a new toy.

Then another girl with some major resting - bitch -face approached. “Aaaand they just keep coming. Great.” How annoying. At this rate the Hunters were going to start getting anxious about all these Gifted swarming; and when they get anxious, they get more generous with dealing out punishments and warnings.

Sure enough the bites of electricity came and another wave of rage followed, but nothing save for a growl escaped her. But that wave of anger and pain was quickly met with an opposing wave of exhaustion and lightheadedness; and very quickly everything happening around her began to fade away. Ophelia was losing control of her fire power.

Water. She needed water and fast or else she was quite literally going to combust trying to keep her emotions and powers suppressed. Visible heat distortions started to form, new holes started to burn into her shirt, and again steam started to emanate from her body. “I'm gonna explode...!” She groaned as she curled up into the fetal position. Ophi hated this feeling, the feeling of her power building up in her body; she couldn’t tell if she was going to pass out, vomit, or both. As the tunnel vision set in, the sound of.... a helicopter could be heard?

---

It was a good day to shatter the Hunters.

The day was getting longer, but it would still be a few days before the heat of Area 06 began to subside. These Hunters had been out in the sun for hours, and what was about to happen would only degrade them further. In the sky above the camp, high enough to be missed by anyone not staring into the sun, there was a particularly large helicopter that bore the insignias of the hunters. This type of helicopter was often used by the Republic to move large amounts of troops quickly. At this altitude on such a bright and sunny day, it was a speck of dust. Easily assumed to be one of their own flying by, perhaps a training exercise or a meeting among higher-ups. Nothing particularly fancy to worry oneself over. Certainly not in heat like this… Right?

Wrong.

For that helicopter had been stolen months ago.

In the back of the nice and air conditioned helicopter, there was a team of 24 elite rebels waiting to drop out. Among them was a flyer who could telkinetically propel himself in any direction, a dynakinetic who could turn the heat absorbed by the metal frame of the helicopter into lasers, and a metamorphic gifted who would provide ground support. He stood at seven feet tall, and there was no evidence that he was ever born a human being. His skin was a thick, rocky stone substance the color of reddish clay. Jagged spikes jutted out across his knuckles and joints and formed a crown of horns across his head. The man looked animalistic, and the interior of the helicopter flowed a faint, warm golden light due to his presence.

This man was none other than the legend himself, Dragonheart. He stood over his fellow freedom fighters like a mountain stood over mortal men. Imposing, unflinching, unbreakable. Dragonheart clicked a radio.

”Beta team, this is Alpha. We’re in position. You know the drill. We’ve prepared and trained for this, all that is left to do is to do it. On Drifter’s signal, you’ll execute Maneuver 9 and proceed with the mission. This is a danger level of level one, due to our intel test the Hound is here. That means Omega protocol. The moment you confirm his location, relay it on all channels. Dragonheart out.”

Off in the distance, too far to see by anyone in the camp, there was a second helicopter on an interception course with the first. Maneuver 9 was a combat drill in which two teams deployed at north and south, and divided into four to cover east and west. The four teams would then perform a pincer assault in tandem with their opposite direction, eventually overwhelming and surrounding anyone who was still standing. Dragonheart was the key to this, as while the other teams were getting into position, he would be on the ground tearing everything to shreds on his own.

The flying rebel known as Drifter gave Dragonheart a nod. Always a man of action first, he checked that his gun was loaded and waited for the shock. The helicopter flew closer, and the pilot relayed that they were in position. The hour of devastation was upon them. Dragonheart stepped over and opened the door. Heat and wind rushed in. Dragonheart didn’t even bring a parachute. After all, it would only slow him down. Every other rebel, men and women with which he trusted his very life, stood with their weapons ready. Beneath his nigh-unbreakable armor, he felt pride.

Dragonheart stepped out of the helicopter, and fell like a bomb from thousands of feet in the sky. The air screamed against his scaly hide with the wrath of a banshee. Down, down, and down. To all below him both innocent and guilty, nothing more than a sudden breeze would break the drone of the day. That was, of course, until Dragonheart made an impact. Area 06’s relative silence was shattered like glass. The thundering sound was like a missile striking a battleship, ringing out for miles and shattering the wall he collided with. Dust, dirt and rocks flew up and out in a cloud and left behind a crater large enough for six tanks to sit in.

Everyone in Area 06 could feel the rumble of an earthquake shake the place to its foundation for a moment. Now that he had taken them by surprise, there was the simple matter of breaking them. Dragonheart charged like a freight train and rushed down the enemy, drawing their fire for as much as possible.

Up in the sky, the whir of the helicopter was drowned out by Dragonheart’s entrance, and Drifter took over. ”Ladies and gentlemen, god has come to bring the rapture. All teams, engage Maneuver 9!” Drifter leapt out of tnt helicopter and soared like a bird. He veered off into a distant direction with his DMR to provide air support. Both helicopters spilled their troops out. They were all fitted with specialized parachutes designed to have a minimal profile. They acted almost like hang gliders and allowed a person to move quicker through the altitude with less visibility.

All 48 of them jumped with a near mechanical formation, and the attack was now in full swing. Area 06 would fall before the day was done.

"Manic? Aw you got a cute nickname for me? You do like me!" She squeezed 'Mildfire' in an embrace, dancing back quickly with a jump. Before she could land, she dissipating with a poof, she reappeared on the little fire-lings left. She had seen quickly what happened when you stayed too close to this one. "I just knew it, all this time we were gunna be best friends." Gods this one was fun! With a wink she blinked up to Ophilia's side and gave her a sharp tug of the hair. Then booped her on the nose while turning.

Without so much as a glance in her direction, Liv popped out of existence and right in front of Barre. She gabbed a finger in the girls face. "You! You... uh..." Shit! She had forgotten this ones name. Her finger faltered. But she was usually so good! "Uh... Doc. Yeah... Doc." It came out strangely and she looked at this person even more so. Head slightly cocked to the side she stared at Barre dead in the eye. For a long moment she didn't say anything. Still staring her dead in the eyes, she grabbed the water bottle from her hand. Flicking the cap off with one finger she chugged the bottle without breaking eye contact until her mouth was full as a chipmunks.

Slowly Liv reached out and flicked Barre straight in the forehead with her middle finger. "Mmm hrr. hmmr hm'mm." She told the healer with a mouth full of water. I mean what kind of doctor couldn't cure cancer?!

With her cheeks bulging Liv bounced back through space to 'MildFire'. She had heard something a moment ago when she was staring at Barre and with her recent antgonizations she had an idea for what was going on behind her. On the ground the redhead was curled up muttering something. Looking down at the figure she said "Wa'uh?" The emphasis on the word as she leaned over made her choke. Coughing, all of the water sprayed out of Liv's mouth all over Ophelia.

Liv paused for a second, looking at the now wet and steaming girl. "Well no point in wasting." With a shrug she dumped the rest of the bottle on the redheads head. Leaning down she planted a kiss on the sizzling girls forehead. "There... Let's not start with that temper ey?"

A faint whistling made her look up just as something massive crashed into the ground. Twisting mid-impact she tried to teleport out of the way. Get somewhere safe, she thought. Away! As she vanished from the spot she could feel her body tumbling, even through the short space between. When she landed, a white hot lance of pain shot up her back. She was leaning against a wall and she had spliced. Immediately a scream ripped itself out of her throat.