The collision of Harper's fists with Sierra's face sent a jarring vibration up her arms, the sound a sharp crack that split the tension-charged air. It was a momentary victory, a fleeting rush of adrenaline that surged through Harper's veins with the intensity of a storm. Yet, as quickly as it came, the satisfaction evaporated, replaced by a torrential outpour of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

Rage—a fiery, all-consuming blaze—ignited within her, its flames licking at the edges of her composure. Harper's eyes, alight with the inferno of her fury, bore into Sierra's with an intensity that could shatter steel. The smirk that marred Sierra's otherwise beautiful features twisted them into a grotesque caricature, a sight so repugnant to Harper that she felt an instinctive urge to erase it from existence.

“Come on now, is that the best you’ve got, baby sister?” Sierra taunted, her voice a venomous hiss that slithered through the air. Her eyes, once a mirror to Harper's soul, now narrowed into malicious slits, a challenge laid bare between them.

With measured, deliberate steps, Harper advanced, her fists still balled in readiness, her entire being vibrating with the effort to cage the tempest raging within. “Do not call me that. You're not my sister,” she growled, her voice a low, dangerous timbre that dripped with loathing and accusation. Each word was a barbed arrow, aimed with precision at the heart of the impostor before her.

Sierra's response was a narrowing of her eyes, a silent transformation into a cornered predator, her survival instincts sharpening her features into a weapon of malice. But their standoff was abruptly shattered by a cacophonous roar, a harbinger of impending doom.

Before Harper could steel herself, before she could even parse the omens of disaster, an unseen force hurtled her forward. The world careened off-kilter, and she was flung further into the hallway, her hands and knees scraping against the cold, unforgiving floor. The door slammed shut behind her with a resounding clang, sealing away the room she had escaped from earlier, now claimed by the insatiable maw of the sea.

As she regained her footing, Harper's eyes met those of her hot-headed teammate, Lorcán. His gaze was sharp, scanning, locking onto hers with an unspoken query. Harper's own eyes darted around, her mind racing to piece together the puzzle of his concern. Then, with a jolt of clarity, it clicked.

Aurora—the name echoed in her mind, a silent alarm. She was gone, her presence conspicuously absent from the chaos that surrounded them. A void where once there was a teammate. An extremely hurt friend.

The realization struck Harper with the staggering force of a physical blow, a gut-wrenching punch that left her momentarily breathless. It was a visceral reaction, her body's instinctive response to possible loss and fear, as potent and paralyzing as any wound she’d ever obtained.

She hadn’t missed it.

This familiar agony, a dark companion she had known all too well. The swirling vortex of pain that had once been her constant, an ever-present ache in the pit of her stomach, a reminder of wounds past and loved ones lost. For years, it had been an unyielding presence, a shadow that followed her every step, until one miraculous day, it had receded, giving way to a fragile peace.

But all she could do now was watch as Lorcán, driven by a fury that seemed to eclipse his own humanity, confronted the clone—a being that wore her sister's face but was devoid of her soul.

As Lorcán's grip tightened and the plasma blade burst into searing life, Harper's initial agonizing shock gave way to a raw, primal fear. The clone's screams, a chilling likeness of Sierra's voice, sliced through the air, piercing the armour of the brunette’s resolve. Instinctively, she looked away, and brought her hands to her ears, a futile attempt to shield herself from the horror of the sound.

Silent anguish swelled within Harper, a scream clawing at the confines of her throat, mirroring the clone’s haunting wails that reverberated through the white corridor. As her eyes reluctantly returned to the grim scene before her, she was met with the sight of the doppelgänger’s brown eyes—a mirror reflecting not just Sierra’s agony but also the depths of Harper’s own helplessness in the given situation.

It was at that moment that Harper thought she understood the true horror of becoming the monster. To witness it, to be a part of it, was a reality she had never wanted to face. Yet here she was, entirely and wholeheartedly entangled in one of her many nightmares.

“She—” The clone spat at Lorcán, her defiance cutting through her pain. “She’s in better hands than yours now.” Her chuckle was a pained rasp, a sound that seemed to mock their desperation. Harper, with some reluctance, drew closer to the two. The smile that stretched across Sierra’s face was one of triumph, even as the stench of cauterized flesh and melted leather filled the air, singeing at the brunette’s nostrils.

Lorcán stood, his powers fading as he turned to her, his expression cold and resolute. “Do what you will with her, I need to find 'Rora,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Harper merely watched him, her heart pounding a fierce rhythm against her ribcage. His words, though spoken to her, seemed to echo down the hallway, reaching out to the very edges of her slowly crumbling world. She knew the weight of his resolve, the unyielding drive that propelled him forward in search of their missing friend. Yet, as she stood there, she felt a different pull—a tug at the very fabric of her being that whispered of a different path.

She could not, would not, let the darkness consume her. The monster she feared—the one that lurked in the shadows of her own potential for violence—remained at bay, held back by the strength of her will and the clarity of her purpose. Harper knew that to succumb to that darkness would be to lose herself entirely, to become the very thing they fought against.

Because that’s why she, Sierra’s clone, was here, wasn’t it? To bring out that potential monster buried deep within her.

With a deep breath, Harper stepped forward, her hand moving to rest on Lorcán’s shoulder but stopping in midair. She withdrew, letting it fall to her side, instead. Probably not a good idea.

“I think…I can track her. It hasn’t been that long since she’s been taken,” she murmured, more to herself than to Lorcán. This was the crux of Harper’s existence after the loss of the best teacher she could have had—the constant questioning of her abilities, the nagging fear that her powers might fail her when she needed them most. Growing up, she had been her own teacher, her own guinea pig, pushing the boundaries of what she could see and how far she could see it. It had been a lonely path, one that had left her with an arsenal of skills and a reservoir of doubt.

Still, she pressed on, her voice steadying as she clung to a thread of hope. “I don’t think…she’ll follow. The clone.”

At least that was the hope. The hope that this was the final act in the torturous play that had been her life for so long. What more could they do to her, to the mind that had been splintered and patched back together more times than she cared to count? Surely this was the end of her personal trial, the last test before the curtain fell.

Harper's eyes fluttered open, the comfort of the open sky, a sight as old as time itself, wrapping around her like a well-worn blanket. Yet, as her eyes watched the clouds drift lazily by for a moment, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was amiss about them. Beneath her, the grass whispered against her skin, a natural bed that felt familiar yet curiously different as well. It was a subtle sense of displacement as if the scene before had been replaced with a backdrop that was just a shade too perfect, its canvas too tough. A painting rather than reality.

Harper’s snort cut through the morning’s silence. She pushed herself upright, her hands sweeping away the remnants of slumber that clung to her like cobwebs. The nap, sought as a refuge from the day’s weariness, had instead woven a tapestry of dreams so vivid they left her mind buzzing with unanswered questions. A slight frown creased her brow as she pondered the realism of the dream—a sensory-rich experience that had promised tranquillity but delivered an adventure instead. A horror story, really.

She sat there for a moment, lost in thought, the dream’s details replaying in her mind with startling clarity. Perhaps, she thought with a hint of irony, the nap wasn’t the restful interlude she had hoped for. Instead, it had been a journey to a place where reality was bent and reshaped into an idea, a possibility, she’d considered once—a school designed for individuals with extraordinary abilities, much like her own.

The brunette shook her head at the otherworldly concept and allowed the world around her to come into sharper focus, the edges of her surroundings blending seamlessly with the tapestry of her memories. The field sprawled before her, a sea of wildflowers nodding their heads in a silent, rhythmic dance to the tune of the gentle breeze. Her eyes caught sight of the old oak tree, its branches reaching out like open arms, the bark polished smooth by countless days spent nestled among its leaves, lost in the pages of her favourite stories.

As Harper’s gaze wandered, her neighbourhood unfurled before her, each detail meticulously etched into her memory. The houses, a collection of identical structures, stood in a uniform row, their sameness a reflection of the order that had always defined her existence. Still, each home, though a carbon copy of its neighbour, bore subtle marks of individuality—the way a curtain fluttered, the personalized welcome mats, the flower pots boasting blooms of defiance against conformity.

The American flags stood out boldly, fluttering with a sense of purpose in the gentle morning breeze. Their colours were striking—a deep navy, a crisp white, and a fiery red—that stood in vivid contrast to the expansive blue sky above. They seemed to capture the essence of the neighborhood’s spirit, waving not just as symbols of a nation, but as emblems of the community’s pride and resilience.

The lawns, meticulously cared for, spread out like a patchwork quilt of varying shades of green. Each section of grass was trimmed with precision, the result of countless hours of attentive grooming. The blades stood upright, uniform in their posture as if they were an army of nature’s own making, disciplined and orderly, a green tribute to the structured life that defined this place.

Her home away from home.

From afar, the disciplined beat of morning drills echoed a structured rhythm that sliced through the quiet of the neighbourhood. The sound was a precise pattern of military life—the thud of boots against the earth, the authoritative shout of the drill sergeant cutting through the air, and the sharp, unified replies of the recruits. It was a melody of order and routine, one that unexpectedly tugged at Harper’s memory, surfacing a detail she had long forgotten.

Her gaze wandered to the horizon, resting on the old wooden fence that bordered her childhood world. Time had weathered its once-bright paint, leaving it cracked and peeling, a testament to the years that had passed. The fence, a silent witness to her youthful races, seemed to echo with the sound of her father’s encouraging laughter, a sound that now filled her with an intense yearning for days gone by.

Harper’s gaze shifted, settling on the familiar structure of the house that had always been her anchor. The sight of it, with its sturdy two-story build, evoked a rush of emotions from an unknown reservoir somewhere within her. The porch, once a stage for family gatherings and lazy summer evenings, extended its silent invitation. The old swing, nudged by the invisible hand of the wind, swayed gently, its creaks a whisper of happier times.

The house stood as a monument to an era untouched by grief, a beacon of the innocence and joy that had once filled its rooms. Yet, as Harper tried to grasp the full picture, the details seemed to slip through her fingers like mist. “What was it? What am I missing?” she murmured to herself, a sense of frustration knitting her brows.

She pressed her hand to her forehead, a futile attempt to clear the fog that clouded her recollection. The more she tried to remember, the more elusive the memory became, like a word dancing just beyond the reach of her tongue.

As she stood there, lost in the labyrinth of her own thoughts, a figure began to take form in the periphery of her vision. It emerged from the shadows of the house, initially nothing more than a silhouette framed by the blinding backlight of the sun. But with each step it took towards her, the figure gained definition, transforming into the unmistakable outline of a man whose features were etched into the very fabric of her being. The lines of his face, the set of his shoulders, the familiar way he moved—all coalesced into the image of a person she felt so much love for and, oddly enough…

Loss.

He walked with a purposeful gait, each step a balance between the regimented precision he had learned in uniform and the carefree strides he took through the fields during moments of leisure. His hair, once a monochromatic brown akin to the earthy tones of a well-worn soldier’s boots, now carried the silver threads of wisdom and the passage of time. His eyes, captivating in their hazel depth, shone with the kind of warmth that only years of laughter and shared joy can kindle, softening the otherwise stern demeanour that his military background had sculpted.

His face, etched with lines of fortitude and the subtle signs of life’s trials, spoke of a man who had faced challenges head-on. His jawline, firm and determined, was the kind that inspired confidence and trust, a visual promise of his unwavering strength. Dressed in a jacket that had seen better days, its fabric bearing the creases and fades of countless sunrises, he stood as a testament to their shared history—those early mornings spent in practice and preparation when they felt invincible, ready to take on any challenge that lay ahead.

The sight of him, standing there as if no time had passed, sent a wave of emotions crashing over Harper. Her heart raced, and her breath caught in her throat, leaving her momentarily without words. What was wrong with her today?

“Harper! C’mon, we’ve got trainin’ to do!” His voice, rich and full of life, cut through her reverie, beckoning her with a gesture that was both an invitation and a challenge.

“Dad?” The name fell from her lips like a delicate petal caught in the wind. It was a question, a plea, a hope—all wrapped into one soft exhalation, carried away before she could grasp it again. The sound of it, so frail yet so charged with unknown meaning, hung between them, the first step to a bridge across the chasm of time and memory forming within her mind. Unseen to her still but felt.

His smile unfurled slowly, a warm and steady light that seemed to cast away the shadows of doubt that had gathered in Harper’s mind.
It was more than a mere curve of the lips; it was a silent affirmation, a signal that, in the here and now, this world was right.

“Ya seem a little lost there. Y’sure you’re up to this today?”

Harper's nod was slow, a physical affirmation of her readiness, even as her mind grappled with the surreal perfection of the scene before her. Together, they walked to a part of the field that had been their training ground, a place where her father had once taught her the art of archery. But today, Harper sensed a shift in the air, a change that promised something new, something extraordinary.

She caught sight of a target, far in the distance, obscured by bushes—a challenge that would have been impossible for any ordinary eyes. But not for hers.

“You’re going to help me with my ability?” she asked, the corners of her mouth lifting in anticipation.

Her father's laughter was a familiar melody, a sound that eased the tension from her shoulders. “Ya say that as if we ain’t done this in a spell. C’mon now, Muppet,” he teased, using the affectionate nickname that had always accompanied her as a child but now made her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“Now remember, Harper, darlin’, it ain’t just ‘bout usin’ y’eyes but also y’instincts.” he continued, his tone shifting to one of gentle instruction. His advice was more than mere words; it was the wisdom of experience. Yet, as Harper listened, a haze clouded her thoughts. Her mind, usually so clear and focused, wavered like a candle flame in the wind. Doubt crept in, whispering that maybe today was not the day for such challenges. But why? They were just having their usual fun, weren't they?

Pushing her doubts aside, Harper shut her eyes, surrendering to the darkness that greeted her only for a moment before reopening them. The world she had been observing earlier became more vibrant, and she inhaled deeply and exhaled, her consciousness seemingly stretching outwards, reaching beyond the confines of her physical form.

Beneath her, the grass was no longer merely a carpet of green; it transformed into an elaborate mosaic, each blade distinct in its shade and shape, contributing to an intricate pattern that only she could fully appreciate. This heightened perception, once a mere figment of her imagination, now pulsed through her with an ease that was both exhilarating and disconcerting. It was as if her senses had been fine-tuned to a frequency that resonated with the very essence of life.

The skill to discern such minute details, to see the world in a way others could not, had matured over time, becoming an integral part of who she was. It was a talent that had once required effort and concentration, but now it flowed through her effortlessly, as natural as breathing, as essential as the heartbeat that drummed a steady rhythm in her chest.

Yet, as comforting as this newfound ease was, it carried with it a whisper of doubt. Had it always been this simple? This seamless integration of her abilities, absent the adrenaline of danger or the pressure of necessity, felt… unfamiliar somehow.

“Good, now give this a try,” her father encouraged, extending the familiar bow towards her. Harper reached out, the touch of the polished wood grounding her as it settled into her palm. The bow felt like an extension of her own body, its surface warm from the sun, and smooth from years of use. She fitted an arrow to the bowstring, feeling the familiar tension as she pulled it back. Her eyes narrowed, the world around her falling away until only the targets remained, their outlines crisp and clear against the backdrop of her heightened senses.

She exhaled slowly, her focus narrowing to the point where instinct and training merged into one. With a confidence born of countless hours of practice, she released the arrow. It cut through the air, a perfect harmony of motion and intention. But the expected thud of the arrow hitting the bullseye never came. Instead, it glanced off the target’s edge, the sound a jarring note that seemed to echo her sudden uncertainty.

Harper’s heart raced, a flicker of doubt clouding her thoughts. This wasn’t the outcome she had anticipated, not with the level of skill she had achieved. Or had she overestimated her abilities? A moment of introspection washed over her. Perhaps it was her pride speaking, suggesting she was infallible.

But no, this was more than just pride. Archery was her craft, her passion, something she had poured her soul into. It was her life’s work, wasn’t it?

Her father’s laughter came easily, a gentle sound that held no trace of criticism. “Looks like someone might need a bit more practice,” he jested.

Harper, however, felt a wave of confusion wash over her. She studied her father’s face, looking for any hint of the strictness she had come to expect, the push for excellence that had always driven her. His easy demeanour seemed out of place. Where was the firm encouragement, the belief in her abilities that had always spurred her to try again, to aim true? The missed shot nagged at her, a simple task made complex by the expectations she had of herself and the abilities she possessed. It should have been easy, second nature, yet here she was, grappling with the reality of her performance and the oddity of her father’s reaction.

The warmth of his hand on her cheek was a gentle contrast to the cool morning air, his touch a silent communication of affection. Harper’s gaze lifted to meet her father’s, finding eyes that radiated kindness and love, a depth of emotion that spoke without words. Yet, the absence of his usual motivational drive left her feeling adrift, yearning for the familiar push that had always propelled her forward.

Harper remained motionless, her feet rooted to the spot as a curious sensation began to manifest. It started as a mere whisper, a tingling at the nape of her neck that seemed as inconsequential as a leaf fluttering to the ground. This gentle prickle slowly wound its way up, settling at the base of her skull with an almost imperceptible presence. It was the kind of sensation one might attribute to a stray lock of hair or the faintest touch of a spider’s web.

Simultaneously, an odd warmth blossomed on her cheek, contrasting sharply with the cool kiss of the morning breeze. It was a localized heat, akin to the flush that follows a slap, yet there was no pain—only a peculiar heat that seemed to radiate from within as if her skin harboured a fragment of sunlight.

Despite the growing oddity of these sensations, Harper summoned a smile, an effort that failed to reach the brilliance it usually held. “I’m fine,” she insisted, “Just… a little disappointed in myself, is all.” The words tasted bitter on her tongue. It was a confession, a small admission of her internal struggle that she offered him—and perhaps a plea for understanding that she directed inwardly as well.

She paused, her gaze drifting away, unfocused, as if to gather the scattered pieces of her resolve. “Maybe today’s not the best for this after all,” she whispered, her voice trailing off into the expanse of her doubts.

Yet, the sensations that had begun as mere curiosities refused to be ignored, intensifying into a persistent ache that throbbed at the base of her skull, a rhythmic drumming that seemed to keep time with her racing heart. Alongside it, a stinging traced its way across her cheek, as if invisible fingers were etching a word into her flesh with a touch both precise and invasive. Harper’s breath caught in her throat, a silent gasp as the discomfort clawed for her attention.

“Let’s head on in then,” her father suggested then, his voice a soothing balm that momentarily dulled the edge of Harper’s unease. “Your mama’s waitin’.”

The thought of her mother, the deep-seated yearning to see her, to be wrapped in the sanctuary of her embrace, exerted a powerful pull on Harper. It was a surge of emotion so potent that it pushed the strange sensations to the periphery of her awareness, rendering them secondary to the anticipation of reunion.

With each step towards the house, the sensations receded further, like shadows retreating before the advancing light of dawn. They became mere echoes, drowned out by the powerful draw of family and the comforting embrace of the familiar. And, as the door swung open and her mother’s voice called out—a voice laden with love and longing—Harper found herself enveloped in its warmth, urging her to step into the fold and abandon the lingering unease that clung to the fringes of her mind.

The odd sensation, that peculiar tug at the edge of her consciousness, was momentarily dismissed, relegated to the furthest corner of her thoughts. And it was there that it became a thread, frayed and solitary, waiting to be pulled.