Chapter Five: The Mutant, The Unwanted, The Tattooed and the Shooters

"Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth." -Buddha

It’s around seven o’clock when I get back. Everyone is still sleeping soundly, showing little signs of life. Dawson is sleeping soundly with Ardo’s arm wrapped around her. She looks the same as I saw her last, same clothes, no cuts. Did I just imagine it? I’m already on her bad side; I don’t want to cause a huge commotion over something that may not have even happened. If I’m going to confront her, I’m going to need proof. The others will side with Dawson, as they should. Okay, if I see her bag in the back, I’ll have said proof. I jump into the back of the truck and, carefully avoiding Mav and K.B., I make my way to the window. I slide it open and look down at the mess that’s the backseat. I see more potatoes, canned food, some money and clothes. No brown bag. No proof.

Perhaps I should be worrying about my own alibi. I look down at myself. My stomach no longer looks like a child’s nightmare, but my clothes are more ripped than last night. How do I explain this? "I had a spazz attack last night and ripped my clothes on the truck." That’s stupid. I could play dumb. "What? My clothes are ripped?" No, that would imply that someone ripped them, and I’m not getting the blame game started. I should try to play it cool. "It’s that noticeable? I have a tendency to sleepwalk and I guess I tripped last night."

That could actually work. It explains why I was where I was when they found me. It’s a little shady, but it’ll do the trick if I’m consistent.

I close the window and lie still, pretending to be asleep. I hear Mav start to stir and decide I shouldn’t be the first awake. I slept in until past noon yesterday, it’d be peculiar if I woke today at dawn. I could still be the second to rise; I could claim that he woke me.

He wakes up, stretches, which conveniently results in him kicking me in the shin. I hear him wince as my eyes flutter open. "What’s the big deal?" I ask softly, slurring the words together and keeping my eyes half open to feign being tired.

He runs his hand through his hair. "Sorry, I was just―" His eyes flick up to mine. He stops dead in his sentence. He leans closer to me. "I thought your eyes were blue."

Blue? I almost laugh hysterically. Is he colorblind? Blue and orange are opposites, that’s the worst guess he could have made. Was he really that far off? I know in moments of intense power, my eyes turn red. Do my eyes turn blue in moments of no power? It would explain why they haven’t asked about them yet.

Wait a minute.

Are they freaks at all? They don’t seem to have any abilities, they need more food and sleep than the other mutants I know and have rather dull senses.

If they’re not blue, what are they? Maybe green? Yeah, that should be it. Some shade of green. If they were yellow, he’d have a more surprised response. "What are you talking about? They’ve always been green." I say sleepily.

"Are you sure?" He asks, moving closer to look. I drop the tired act immediately and switch onto high alert. My instincts tell me to scoot back until I’m pressed against the car, positioned to kick him in the chest with my right foot if need be.

This is weird. Act normal. I relax a little, still ready to keep him away from me. "No," I say sarcastically. "I’m not sure what color my eyes are. It’s been eighteen years, and I don’t know."

He lightens up and comes to life. "Ah, good. You aren’t a kid."

My defenses pop right back up and I’ve located his sternum, the bone I’m ready to break. "Why?" I demand.

"Because kids are annoying and it’s weird if four adults hang out with a kid. And I never want to be a pedophile." He says. A pedophile? What does that have to do with anything? "Are you going to kick me if I try to sit next to you?" He’s smiling, like he thinks my kick wouldn’t harm him or I’m kidding.

"I might." I warn, using the emotionless tone I’m taught to use when in command, giving orders or operating in the military. It’s more daunting and intimidating, and a young adult who appears to have no muscle isn’t really either.

"Why?" He asks.

"You’re standing the same way aggressive alpha wolves do when they try to dominate lesser animals." I say. If I wasn’t trying to be somewhat normal, I could have rambled on.

He chortles and slumps back. Once his potential attack is dropped, my defense drops. "If anyone here’s the alpha, it’s K.B." He says. I actually crack a smile for a second, and I decide that it stays. I scoot over to the edge of the truck, so if he chooses to sit next to me, there’ll be a lot of space. He starts climbing over and plops himself on my right, closer than I thought he would. I don’t know how to react, except look away and feel incredibly awkward and show it by pressing my lips together and keeping them in a straight line. I lean into the side of the truck until I start falling out. I wrap my right hand around my left side and hold onto my right bicep with my left hand, trying and failing to cover my clothes in time. "What happened to your clothes?"

I have to face him. Too much or too little eye contact is a sign of lying. "That obvious?" I ask. He nods. "They were already ripped," I don’t know why I’m speaking these words. I had a viable reason, although it would seem odd. I happen to have two conditions, acid reflux and sleepwalking, that derive me from blame. "I keep pulling at the seams."

"You know, we probably have some clothes you can borrow." He suggests.

I know he’s trying to be helpful, so I resist the urge to roll my eyes and attempt to mute my thoughts. Yeah, that’ll help. To avoid public indecency, I can put on clothes that immediately burn off. Even now, I’m like an unlit match. It doesn’t take much to burn, and cotton is up there with paper and wood on my list of things that burn easily. "I don’t need to wear old clothes that smell like sweat." I say, imitating a snobby, rich person.

"I hate to tell you, but none of us smell very good. We either smell like B.O., smoke or―" He starts to ramble, until one word snaps me to attention.

"Who smells like smoke?" I ask, leaning out of the side of the truck in interest.

"Dawson. Every morning, it smells like she smoked a pack of cigarettes. And she doesn’t, so we think there’s a fire in her or something. It would explain why there’s always smoke coming out of her ears." He says.

"You’d say that about her? I thought you were all good friends."

"She’s just a bitter person. She had a lot of bad experiences; I’d be surprised if she wasn’t the way she is."

"Is it too personal if I ask what happened?"

He pauses for a moment. "Nah, just don’t talk about it. Ever. You promise not to? Under any circumstances?" I nod. "You know what? We’re doing this like the boy scouts. Hold up your right hand."

"At least you didn’t ask me to pinkie promise." I hold up my right hand pretty lamely, my left hand still on my bicep.

"Oh, come on, you got to give it more heart than that." He scrambles on his feet to stand. He holds his right hand straight up in the air and to my ears, practically shouts, "Repeat after me! I swear!" I give into a chuckle and hold my left hand straight up in the air to be a punk about it, dropping my right arm to my sides.

Before he yells loud enough to wake the others, I announce, "I swear!"

"To not talk about this! Ever again!"

"I asked for a little summary, not your social security number."

He looks at me with skin deep anger, sticking his bottom lip up. I can only respond with a sillier face, the same face I make every time someone tries to take a picture of Ty and me. I cross my eyes and stick out my tongue, slightly rocking my head side to side. Ty would make a face even worse. Only because someone would say something among the lines of, "You two look so cute together!" We’d always have to snap back, "There is no together!" And the other would go, "Yeah! And if there was, it’d be hideous!" We’d then proceed to repeat the word yeah for eternity.

"I swear," He repeats.

I uncross and roll my eyes, replacing my stuck-out tongue with a smile. "I swear."

"To never talk about this again!"

"To never talk about this again."

He puts his hand down and looks at me. "That’s as good as I’m getting, huh?"  I nod. "Wait a minute; did you use your left hand?"

"No, I have two right hands. You have to specify if you want the left right or the right right." I wonder if he’ll recognize the oxymoron or think I’m insulting him.

"I’m just going to tell you." I stand up so I don’t have to look up at him and rest my elbows against the roof of the truck. "You want to sit on the roof?"

"Sure." Why not? No walls to make escape difficult. With my hands behind me, I jump up, suspend myself in the air until I’ve moved back and lower onto the roof. My knees bend at the edge of the roof, leaving my shins to dangle freely. I sit straight up, the way I always sit. Ty and Andrew say it’s unnatural, that no one sits like that all the time. I tell them I slouch every time they go to sleep, and they can never stay awake long enough to catch me. Mav is settling onto the roof, and I let him take his time. I look ahead, the barely risen sun casting the shadows away and bringing this pinkish orange color into the air. I wonder if I can claim that the sun is my real mother or father. I’m more similar to the sun than humans, so I guess that makes me at least cousins with it.

"I’m not going to bullshit you." He says, drawing my attention back towards him, now sitting with his arms propping him up behind him so he can lean back. "Basically, her dad didn’t love her mom, they never married. Her mom was young and a mean woman who never showed Dawson any love. I think the fat old thing was a hooker, whenever I’d see her at her house, her mom was surrounded by beer bottles and she always smelled like cat piss. She smoked a freaking lot, and we’re lucky Dawson hasn’t died from lung cancer yet. We all knew Dawson wasn’t going to college. None of us would, not if we ever wanted to get out of debt. It was her idea to run away, K.B.’s for us to run away, too, and Ardo’s idea to go to Tijuana."

"Why’d you all run away?" I wonder.

"We weren’t going to college, get good jobs and pay the bills, so we decided that if we can’t grow up, we won’t. We’ll go to Tijuana and enjoy the high school frat kid life." He says without a second in between my question and his response.

All of them were at least a little poor? "Where do you come from?" I ask. In California, everything is more expensive. The houses, the colleges, the goods, if they were really that desperate for college money, they’d move out of state. I guess they didn’t really have the passion.

"Glacier County, Montana. It’s on the Canadian border." He says. I already know of the county. We were extensively and thoroughly taught geography by the best of the best. I also know that the county has a low income per capita, rather far below the national average.

"Long drive." I say. I can see why they’d want to see the ocean. Maybe they’ve never seen one before. That explains why they added at least nine hours to their twenty hour drive. "Do your parents care at all?"

"I don’t know. The three of us were always kind of unloved, so maybe. We’re adults, so it’s not like they’ll have cops looking for us." He says. I might have people looking for me. The compound is probably worrying sick about me. Maybe they think I’m dead. "What about you? I still know next to nothing about you."

I have to say something. Just keep it curt and believable. I said I’m from Tahoe; I should ask him to be more specific. "I doubt you care about what high school I went to. What do you care about?"

"How’d you end up where you did?"

"I was kind of hoping you’d ask about something a little less…" I decide he can finish the sentence. Recent? Personal? Traumatizing? Write your own story.

"All right, if you were king of the world, what would you do?"

"Find out when the hell I became a boy."

He starts laughing, leaning his head back and choking on air. His voice is as cracked and rough as the voice of every human. But somehow, his laugh seems smoother and softer, more like Ty’s. I think I like his laugh. It’s not as crazy or startling as K.B.’s. "Okay, queen of the world." He corrects.

The question, I decide, isn’t about what I would do. It’s about what a human would do. "I’d probably go to an amusement park and cut in all the lines." I say. Good, totally normal answer. "What about you?"

"This is me getting to know you. I get to ask the questions."

"I’m going answer in questions."

"Favorite season?"

"Who doesn’t love summer?" I love summer with everything I am. Everyone walks around barefoot with tank tops and shorts, everyone has sunglasses, and everyone is warm to the touch. A lot of people wear either orange, yellow or red and spend hours in the sun or around a bonfire, and none of them are weird. I could spend my life in summer, fall is tolerable, winter is easier in western California where snow doesn’t fall and spring is miserable with all the rain. I feel bad for being stoked that California’s in a terrible drought and hasn’t rained in over a year.

"Favorite music genre?"

"Who can’t at least stand alternative?"

He shoots me a bitter look. "You don’t get to be in charge of the radio."

"Did I say I didn’t like rock?" I’ve spent a vast majority of nighttime training sessions blasting ACDC to the point where I was subconsciously mouthing the lyrics, even in complete silence. I like this honesty bit. This is a lot easier.

"Favorite… vacation place?"

"How can I answer that question when I’ve barely traveled?"

"Where’d you want to go?"

Andrew and I have spent hours planning a dream trip to San Francisco. But due to recent events, I think I’d pass out if we spent more than ten minutes in that city doing anything other than passing through. Perhaps Santa Cruz, I’ve heard good things about there. Saying Redwood City would be peculiar, it’s a little town that doesn’t have much of a tourist appeal. I’m a little intimidated by Los Angeles; I somehow feel that Hollywood won’t be spared from the battle. Andrew and I used to dream of Burning Man, Ty fantasizes over Vegas. Nowhere in California, so I’m going to be clichéd. "The Hawaiian islands. Kauai, preferably. Or should I go to Oahu? Or Maui?"

He just nods, seemingly unfazed by my cliché words. I’m actually a little surprised. I thought he had a similar mindset to Ty, and both of us groan at clichés. "What were you most scared of as a child?" He asks.

This is a question I can get behind. "Which is more gruesome: drowning or suffocating?" I ask.

"What’s your biggest pet peeve?" He asks.

I’m going to win this question contest. "What could be worse than bad grammar?" I ask.

"Any allergies or diseases?"

"Do I look unhealthy?"

"What do you have against answering questions?"

"Why don’t you just answer mine?"

"Because I’m supposed to be the one asking."

"Well that’s not going to happen. Thanks for playing." I say, dropping back down onto the truck. The jolt is smaller than what I’m used to, which is still enough for K.B. to wake. She stretches and hangs her head over the edge of the truck, taking up as much space as possible. Her yawn is long, loud and throaty. She opens her mouth so wide I worry she’ll split her cheeks. It’s like a snake’s unhinging jaws.

"Oh, my gosh." She says, volume and length increasing as the sentence goes on. "My arms are asleep. I think I’m dying." She picks her head up, drool on the left side of her mouth, hair crazy and eyes low. She sees me, smiles and wipes away the drool with her wrist. "Good morning, hon." She forks her fingers through her short hair, getting it in the right direction and fixing her part. "We’re monsters in the morning."

Kelli, Cody, Andrew and Ty were always pristine and fresh in the morning. I guess that’s just them.

"It’s mostly just you." Mav says, jumping down next to me.

"Oh, I’m sorry. Did model boy run out of hair gel?" K.B. asks, putting her hands on her hips.

"I have sweat, it’s all good." He says, running his hands along the top of his fauxhawk.

"Hon, you need a shower more than any human being." She says.

"I’m pretty sure Ardo has fleas." He counters.

"Your fleas died from the poison gas." She recoils, closing her eyes and drifting back off to sleep. She stays asleep until ten, two hours after Ardo woke up and one after Dawson. By the time she’s up, we’ve been driving for about forty minutes.

I can see San Francisco. I can see the helicopters swarming around, traffic leaving the city and the radio’s been intercepted by emergency news bulletin, talking about the Bridge.

We’re supposed to be unfeeling of panic. They would surround us in scary and intense situations, telling us that if we acted on panic, we’d never leave the compound. They made me think Ty, Andrew and Kelli had been taken prisoner by attacking countries, and they’d be experimented on. Cody wasn’t really involved. I remember the way my heart throbbed and pounded, the way I was panting but wasn’t getting any oxygen. My arms and legs trembled; I could have broken down and screamed.

I didn’t, because my body and mind were made to be better. I got ahold of myself and did as was told and aced the test. In times of panic and stress, we’re told to shove our emotions away. It’s about the greater good, not our individual emotions. If possible, all emotions should be erased and locked away until after the war. They told us, or me specifically, that emotions served little purpose in life at all. They said that the amygdala, the part of the brain that hosts emotions, is too large and too important. They drilled it into my head that logic comes before emotions. While making me, they shrunk my amygdala and enhanced my frontal cortex so that would be easier, as teenagers often use their amygdala to make decisions. The amygdala, they said, would condemn me if it could. Emotions are weights in a sinking ship. I told them they referenced water around me, and they changed their metaphor. Emotions are lead in my body.

So why am I having such a hard time coping with this?

"What’s wrong with San Fran?" Mav asks.

"Don’t call it that." I snap.

"What’s wrong with San Francisco?" He asks.

"I don’t know. Something bad." I lie, and I feel I did said action well.

Dawson pulls open the window and looks to Mav "Should we go to San Fran or not?" She asks.

"San Francisco." I correct. "Nothing yells ‘clueless tourist wannabe’ like calling it ‘San Fran’ or ‘Frisco.’" I shudder at my words.

Dawson grimaces at me, rolls her eyes and returns them to Mav. "There was some earthquake or something and the Golden Gate Bridge collapsed."

An earthquake? That’s ludicrous, geologists and seismologists would have noticed. If an earthquake was strong enough to destroy the bridge, it’d have to be over a seven on the Richter scale. That’s a large number, larger than the threes or less that happen periodically and get little to no attention. A seven would destroy a majority of buildings, the sidewalks, pipes and foundation. Are they covering up what happened? They have to be, there’s no other option. An earthquake that size would be considered disastrous.

"Are we still going?" Mav asks. If they’re taking a tour through the city and stop for museums and stores and all that jazz, I’m back flipping out of the car and never coming back. If I’m sitting shotgun, I’ll head-butt the window open and pounce through. I don’t care if I’m weak, there’s no way I’m acting all honky dory on a tour.

"There’s a ton of traffic, a lot of news teams and commotion. We’re not sure." Dawson says.

"What does Ardo think?" He asks.

"He doesn’t know. That’s why I’m asking." She says.

"I say we go. We’ll only be here once. We traded blizzards for earthquakes, after all." K.B. chimes in.

I start making my way to the edge of the truck slowly. "True. We’re not coming back." Mav says.

"Of course it’s true. Don’t question my genius, hon." K.B. tells Mav. I start moving one leg out of the truck cautiously, keeping my eyes locked on the others.

"Well, wait," Mav says, and I pull my leg back in. "No, no. We wouldn’t be seeing San Francisco; we’d be seeing a different city." Yes! Preach, Mav! Be logical! I could kiss you!

Whoa, wait. Rewind that last sentence. Let’s use logic and intelligence to look at this: first of all, humans produce saliva. I produce fire. We’d hurt each other. Second, just no. Not with everyone watching, not in the back of a car, not this randomly, not with him! That should have been my first thought! Third and finally, he’d die of happiness and I would be kicked out of the truck.

I have to fan the flames. "He’s right. It’s a quirky city, nothing like this." I cut in. I chuckle and continue. "Taxi drivers are probably driving over the top of other cars." I say. I’ve heard all about the aggressive taxi drivers from workers at the compound. They say the drivers run over pedestrians that take too long to cross the street. Ty and I have been meaning to test that theory.

"I didn’t ask you." Dawson snarls at a volume I wasn’t intended to hear.

"I’m just telling you that you probably won’t enjoy it. And you’ll get the tires slashed for calling the city ‘San Fran.’" I warn.

"Have you been here before, hon?" K.B. asks.

I see no harm in lying. It’s weirder if I say that I’m obsessed and have been planning a dream trip with a friend for years. Especially if I live so close. It’ll expose questions and demand answers. "A few times." I say. I know too much about this city to say that I’ve gone once.

"Do you think it’s a waste of time, hon?" K.B. asks.

I nod, my eyes in the direction of the Bridge. "You’d just see pissed off San Franciscans and traffic jams." I say.

I convince them to abandon the City. We drive past my biggest regret and head along the coast. They came to west California for the beaches, full of cold water until we get further south. They’re near Half Moon Bay when they just park and run to the sand. It’s been a while in the car, at least an hour with the crazy traffic. The whole time, smelling Ardo’s fruity gum. K.B., Mav and I crammed in the back. Mav sat in the middle, and I sat on his right. I was practically sitting sideways I was hugging the wall so much. I’d sooner have my teeth break the glass than sit on Mavs lap. Not because I don’t want him touching me. Because I don’t want to hurt him. Since when was that a thing?

I felt guilty every time he and K.B. complained about the heat. We got out as soon as we could. It was all I could do.

Ardo and Dawson are the first to run to the water, K.B. close behind. I stay in the back of the truck, where I plan to remain until we’re further from the water. Mav, already out the car and near the drop in the cliffs that isn’t too steep to tread, notices. Walks over. Starts talking to me. "You know, only one in five people pee in the water." He says.

"They’re going to jump in thinking it’ll be like a pool. That water’s not warm." I warn.

"Well, then I’ll just have to hang back with you." He says. "Let’s get a better view." He gets behind the wheel and turns the car to the right ninety degrees. He comes around and opens the back so we can sit with our feet hanging over the edge. I sit on the left, he sits on the right. We overlook the cliff and beach, laughing when we hear K.B. swearing about how cold it is. It’s probably just past noon, yet it feels like the sun should be setting. This area of California isn’t the brightest, there’s actually a thin sheet of gray clouds between the sun and us. This section of the beach is empty; it’s just five young adults. Five crazy ones who can vote. Scary.

Mav begins to speak, breaking my crisp thoughts. "You confuse me." He simply states, his eyes forward on the horizon. I turn to face him, expecting a follow up sentence.

"I confuse you?" I repeat. "How so?"

"Sometimes, you’re open and you joke around and it’s great. Other times, you’re behind a wall, secretive and defensive. It’s sending me mixed messages, and it confuses me." He says, his head and eyes locked in one position. I chuckle and mimic his action.

"So you’ve ruled out that I’m bipolar." I say.

"I’ve only seen two sides to you. Your friendly side and your defensive side." He tells me. He fumbles with his fingers in his lap, and I wonder how loud it is to him. I wonder if he’ll ever know what I see and hear.

"Is that a bad thing? Do you want to see the angry and upset sides to me?" I ask.

"Do they even exist?" He asks.

I literally burst into laughter. My upset side is rare. My angry side flares up. A lot. Every single time we’d play games in the compound and I’d lose, I’d become a monster. I’d warn the others that this would happen; they said they didn’t care; they couldn’t stop me from being the destruction beast that I am. I’ve actually destroyed over one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of property in my competitive rage. So, yes, I definitely have a side for fury. He looks over at me as I struggle to breathe. He starts chuckling as I hiccup/gasp/pant hysterically. "What?" He asks. "What don’t I know about you?"

"You don’t know that I have the most competitive heart to ever exist." I choke out through large inhales.

"No way. You?" He asks.

"Yeah, believe me, I get competitive." I say.

"How competitive?" He wonders.

"If you beat me, you’re getting beaten with a shovel and stuffed into the sewers through the sink." I warn. I’ve thrown Ty into Cody and Kelli before. Andrew had the smarts to bail, because not even he’s safe from the dragon.

Mav starts laughing, then manages to say with a red face, "You’re disturbing and creepy. Stop confusing me!"

"I can confuse you even more." I lean down to his ear and whisper in the lowest, manliest voice I can conjure. "I’m a guy."

Both of us start laughing, I back away so quickly I hit the side of the truck. I have to rest against the metal as my chest heaves, air barely getting in my lungs. My left hand wraps around the edge of the truck’s walls, acting as a pillow for my head. My right hand grasps my stomach when the laughter starts to hurt. I finally regain myself to look at Mav, hugging his sides. "Oh, great!" He says, removing one arm to wipe the tears in his eyes away. Tears. Water. Remember, Amber. He’s human, he’s weaker and he’s over seventy percent water. If we get too close, we’re both in danger of dying. "That’s what I wanted to hear!"

I look at Mav and think. He’s making unnatural sounds that have become synonymous with comedy, I’m smiling, and we’re both enjoying ourselves. I would hardly call this too close. "Doesn’t everyone?" I ask. I keep my smile, and I love how it lingers long after the laughter has sunk into the air’s past.

"Anything else you’d like to get off your chest?" He asks once he can breathe.

I act all surprised and taken back. "It can breathe! It can speak! What trickery is this?" I ask in a ridiculously fake Scandinavian accent.

He doesn’t know how to respond, I think, so he just chortles.

"So you want to hear my secrets? I was elected president of Atlantis, but they threw me out after a people’s rebellion." I joke in some sort of Scottish accent.

He just looks at me with a smirk and a look that tells me to drop the act.

"I’m terrible at being serious." I say in my normal voice. "If you didn’t already figure that out."

"Sometimes." He says. "Other times, you’re super serious."

"And we’ve now come in a full circle. We’re back to our original topic." I announce. "I’m confusing, among other things."

"Are you ever going to give me an explanation?" He asks. He’s looking right at me, no more jokes, no more accents. He wants a real answer. The answer I can’t give him. I can, however, give him brief honesty.

"There’s going to come a time when everything will make sense. All the things I’ve done and said, there’s a reason. It’s not a bad reason; I’m not hiding anything gruesome or illegal. I’m just being secretive about a side of me I don’t like to show." I say calmly, slowly and while looking down at the sand. As I talk, my eyes move up to the sky. "We all have that little devil on our shoulder, you know?" I didn’t anticipate these words, but they sound right and I know they’re true. I look at him for a second, then back at the sky. "You can ignore it and pretend it’s not there, but it is. There’s a monster inside of all of us." A monster… my eyes drop down at my lap. Where’s my monster? It’s been in my heart, all along. I think of the words I use to describe myself and my actions. Rocket. Blast. Beast. Destroy. Never save. Never help. Never just, never righteous, never heal. I burn. That’s all fire does. It burns the earth, it forces the shadows away, it takes advantage of the air and it evaporates the water. Fire doesn’t save. Fire harms and hurts. A girl of fire is never meant to save. A girl made of flames isn’t a hero. She’s a villain. She doesn’t stop weapons, she is a weapon. How do you stop a missile? By destroying it with another missile. You stop weapons with weapons. When they made me, they never had the intention of creating a man. Only the one of making a monster.

And they succeeded. They made a monster that only destroyed and thought she could save. My whole life I talked about being a hero, and I was made to be something entirely different. I put my head in my lap and wrap my hands over my neck, trying to stop reality from being reality.

What does water do? It flows. What about earth? It grows. Wind? It flies. And shadows? They hide. Those four have many actions, like healing, living, marveling, sustaining. For fire, there is only one word. Fire burns. Fire burns, it destroys, it ruins. There’s water in a house, there’re plants, there’s air and there’re shadows. That’s fine, that’s normal. There’s fire in a house, and it’s a tragic emergency. You have to put it out before it brings the house down and eats at everything you own.

I think Mav is saying my name. I don’t care, I feel sick. If a building is burning, what am I going to do? Add to the fire? Try to carry people out or catch them if they have to jump? Or what if I have to protect people? What do I do? Stand in front of one to stop the bullets from going through them until I’m too heavy? I can’t carry an injured soldier to safety. I can’t push them out of the way to stop them from getting hurt. I can’t protect people, I can’t even touch them. If I get too close to them, they’re in danger.

How could I have never realized this? They made me to kill. I’m supposed to sprint into battle and massacre the opposing country. I’m supposed to destroy their weapons, land and homes. My sole purpose is to be an attacker. And I’ve spent my whole life, five long years of complete consciousness and light, in the dark about who I am.

Am I a human? No. I’m a monster.

Am I a soldier? No. I’m a weapon.

Am I a hero?

Am I ever going to be a hero?

Are any children ever going to look up to me? Am I ever going to serve as a great city’s loyal protector? Am I ever going to be accepted as a good guy? Will I be able to rest in my thoughts at night, knowing that someone’s still alive because of me? That someone’s family is still together because of me?

No. Never. I’ll be the opposite. Children will fear me. I will be a great city’s destroyer. I will be a bad guy. Someone’s dead because of me. Someone lost a child because of me, maybe even a parent or sibling.

I’ve been blind. In Sacramento and San Francisco, I wasn’t a hero. I was a weapon of mass destruction. Nothing else, no way around it, end of sentence. My actions killed innocent people I’m supposed to protect, caused millions in property damage and injured many. My whole existence, I’ve been destroying. And the people at the compound told me it was okay, because if I thought it was okay, I’d keep doing it. Why’d they want a weapon that doesn’t like destroying? What good is a friendly monster? I told them I was the hero, and they agreed. They went along, and I know why.

I believed I was the hero, and heroes do no wrong. If I felt I was the hero, I could be their weapon of mass destruction without thinking about it. I would murder millions, completely wipe out countries and flatten continents. This whole time, I’d think I was doing the right thing and would never disobey or defy them.

My head hurts. I try to turn my thoughts around, put a twist on my morbid mind. I try to stop myself before my words skewer my mind, pierce my eyes and thatch my throat. I feel like I’m going to fall forward, and I’ll be helpless to the paralyzing sounds.

In San Jose tonight, I’m going to protect the tens of thousands of people in that stadium and the million in the city. Deaths are on me, and I’m ready to give my life before an innocent civilian loses theirs. That’s what men do to beat the monsters. That’s how soldiers stop the weapons.

That’s what heroes do.

I won’t let them make me a monster. I won’t. I can’t. I’m not their weapon.

Then what am I? They trained me to be a weapon. They shot bullets at my head to see how good I was at being a monster. I never learned to be anything else.

Stop it, Ashler. You’re acting weird. You were talking to Mav and you just stopped. I pull my head up, eyes on the water. He’s been asking if I’m okay, and I need to do something before he tries to shake me to life or something.

"You okay?" He asks.

I nod slowly, even though the order I made in my brain was for a quick, casual nod. "Yeah." It’s the biggest lie I’ve said this whole trip. "It’s just…" I fumble for words he could understand as sounding human. "Sometimes you’re not sure which shoulder holds the angel and which holds the devil." I only use metaphors to seem more relatable and open to interpretation. Hopefully, he thinks about it for a while before he speaks again.

He has a quick break. "I know a good quote for that." Says Mav."‘I have tons of voices in my heads, so why should I listen to yours?’" He pauses, probably to be more dramatic. "The answer is, ‘Because they see what you see. I see you.’" I’m surprised he knows a quotation like this, it seems too deep and thought-provoking in comparison to the words on his arm. "Basically, the angel and the devil only know what you know and see what you see. The people around you have a new view."

"You’re telling me to ignore the voices inside me and listen to others for a different perspective?" I ask.

"Pretty much." He replies.

"I have a bad history of disobeying when people tell me what to do." I warn. Ty and I were the most stubborn people. We’d give each other simple orders, "Open the door," or "Push in your chair," maybe even, "Tell them about it." The second we were being told what to do by each other, of all people, we’d shut down and refuse to do it. I’d be in the middle of a sentence and stop dead. It goes down the same way each time. We give the other person a look, growl, "You can’t tell me what to do," And do the opposite. It’s obnoxious, looking back on it. We stopped a few years ago when we went from one minute to midnight to zero, and we seriously trained for war. That includes taking orders and keeping any snide remarks in your head. They altered our vocabulary, forcing us to change "smartass one-liners," to either "unnecessarily snide remarks" or "comedic observations."

"Then choose to take my advice: if you think you’re going crazy, stop thinking. Problem solved." He says.

"You can’t just turn off your thoughts." I remind him. You won’t hear the thoughts, no words will be formed and said in your mind. You’ll just be acting, and there are thoughts to every action.

"Then just ignore them." He waves his hand like he’s swatting at a fly, dismissing thoughts with potential.

"That would make you a rather impulsive person."

"You think I’m not already one?"

"I like to think you still have some of a mind to listen to common sense."

"I thought it was ‘listen to your heart.’"

I shrug. "That could work, too."

Besides the thoughts of monsters and devils trying to fracture my skull, I’m burned with the burden of my next mission. I need to go to San Mateo before the hockey team has their big game, and I plan on going to Redwood City. I can’t do both of those in the same night. Redwood City is about twenty-five minutes away from here if we drive, perhaps Mav and I could slip away for three hours while the other three chill at the beach. Or K.B. could come. Who would be better at going through public files and tolerating the library? I would go alone if they’d trust me with the truck, which I doubt, and understand why.

"I need to go to Redwood City." I say bluntly.

"Why?" He asks.

"I have some unfinished business there. Do you think we could take the truck for two or three hours before nighttime tonight?" I ask.

"Probably." He admits.

"Who has the best people skills?" I ask. I need someone who can help me ask questions and approach strangers to get answers.

"K.B.’s the most outgoing and she wants to be everyone’s friend. Not Dawson, Ardo comes off as weird, and I’m…" He trails off, searching for the words.

After waiting a decent amount of time, I know he’s not going to finish his sentence. "A little shy at first." I complete.

"I am?" He asks.

"And a little intimidating."

"Seriously? Me?"

"Why? Do you find it hard to believe? You didn’t talk much, and when you did, you sounded too cool to care."

"For the record, I cared."

I silently yet sharply inhale. My eyes widen, and I try not to panic. How does one respond to that? We’re looking at each other, and I’m waiting too long to talk. I can’t make it awkward. "Who’d best function at the library?" I ask.

"Dawson. Easy."

"She wouldn’t go on a trip with me in a thousand years. What about computers and archives?"

"Dawson. She’s the smartest."

Maybe I can be the brains and social butterfly and just need someone who won’t draw unwanted attention. That eliminates all of them. K.B. and Dawson are definitely out, and I don’t think Dawson would appreciate it if I took Ardo away from her. I doubt he’d be very keen on it, either. That leaves Mav. "Do you have a long sleeved shirt or jacket?"

"Uh, I think so. Why?"

"Because I’d like you to come with me, and unless you want everyone staring at you, you should cover your tattoos."

"Oh, I get it. You don’t want people staring at my hot body." He says, flexing his biceps.

My eyes flicker to his arms for about a second. I look back at him, flashing a look of concern for his sanity and, "Seriously?" He starts laughing, dropping his arms to his sides. "Yeah, no. If anyone has the hot body, it’s me." I wonder if he realizes that I’m talking about temperature. Well, partially. It’s almost a reflex after Ty and I have gotten into so many arguments over who’s more fabulous. Long story.

"As if. You need a jacket more than I do. You look like you worked as a bear’s welcome mat." He points to the rips and tears, most around my stomach.

"If anyone feels the burning desire to care enough to approach a teenage girl to ask about her shirt, I fell down a flight of stairs." I say, letting out a sigh. "I guess it doesn’t matter. We could be worse." My heart stops after I finish. That was the first time I called Mav and myself "we". I wonder if he noticed, and I wonder if he cares.

"Of course we could be worse. I mean, look at us. We can’t get any better." He announces with confidence and volume. There it is. I heard it. We. Us. He stands up, rocking the truck in the process. "We’re living the dream!" He shouts the words, reaching his arms out like he’s waiting for a hug. Weird, most people don’t hug with balled fists. "We live life with no regrets!" This could be a movie poster for a super cheesy movie about an underdog fighting the odds in hopes of motivating the impressionable audience. It has all the elements: a beach in the background, and inspirational pose, an old truck and people searching for purpose.

"For the love of God," Dawson yells from the shores, "Shut up!" I silently thank Dawson for returning us to the real world.

"You might want to listen to her before she starts throwing tomatoes." I warn, folding my arms across my chest.

"Why do I get the impression you’d like that?" He asks, putting his hands down and facing me.

"Because I would."

"At least you’re honest."

I sit; he stands in silence, K.B. trying to get Dawson to bribe Ardo into going all the way in the water. I look down at them, and I catch myself smiling the way a parent smiles at their kid leaving for college. They live simply, and while their situation and choices are far from ideal, they’re happy. That’s more than a lot of people get.

You know, I tell myself, your goal should be to protect these people. Not to be a war machine, not to be some huge peacemaker. I don’t think I could be. What I need to be is a hero to these people in front of me.

The strong should help the weak, the same way the smart should help the dumb. The rich should help the poor and I could go on forever. I should help the people who can’t do what I do to protect themselves, their home and their loved ones. That’s what we all want to do in a crisis, it’s what we all pray for.

Mav snaps his head towards me. "Are we going or what?" He asks.

"Hm?" I get out of deep thought and face him.

"Are we going to Redwood City or what?" He repeats.

"Will the others be okay with it?" I ask.

"Probably." He cups his hands around his mouth. "We want to go see the area!" He shouts to the others.

"Don’t crash the car!" K.B. shouts back.

"No promises!" Mav yells back. He jumps onto the ground moments after, and I’m already on my feet. "You ready?"

I nod.

"Then let’s go." He closes the back and makes his way to the driver’s seat. I head to shotgun, the only sounds the waves crashing on shore and my scuffling feet. No, there’s something else. Some faint sound of… is that an engine?

I stop and turn to face the sound, turning my back to the beach and the truck. Multiple engines. That’s all right, this is a public beach. We’re not doing anything wrong. It’s nothing. I start walking, the thoughts nagging in the back of my head. What if it’s them?

I stop and turn my head to the right. I can see several large, ratty cars approaching, all showing no sign of slowing down. I take a few steps closer, squinting my eyes. Through the dust clouds, I can make out details. The cars are all razor black. Raised wheels, pumped to their full extent.

Same kind of cars as last night…

I look past the tinted windows of the cars. There are two people in each car, all the same ethnicity and attire as the people in the group. I might be psyching myself out, but they look familiar. I’ve seen some of them before. I don’t forget faces.

It could be a coincidence. They could be completely innocent civilians. I can’t jump to conclusions just yet. Besides, this is a small fraction of the cars I saw yesterday.

They continue to race nearer, and they only speed up. Coincidence or not, they’re at a ramming speed.

My ears pick up on their heartbeats the second I react. I grab the framework of the truck and shove it forward, propelling it out of the cars’ way. Mav’s heartbeat fades away as several come crashing into mine.

The hood of a car slams into my ribs, throwing me over the edge of the cliff as if I’m nothing. Pain explodes in my chest, rapidly spreading throughout my torso. I hear a crack and a sharp grunt of agony, the sound of a car slamming on the breaks louder. I’ve shattered a rib, maybe punctured a lung. All I know is that pain is pumping through my chest and my energy is going towards healing.

They’re definitely not civilians. Now I can conclude they’re trying to kill me, they’re apart of the group and I have to reveal who I am to defeat them.

I launch into the sand back-first, the force continuing to drive me forward until I’ve dug a trench. The momentum slows down, my legs still empowered enough to flip over my body. I do a reverse summersault, whipping my head out from between my legs to face the cliff. Sand flies all around me like ash from a volcanic eruption. I can see the truck that hit me dangling half over the cliff and half on. There’s a dent in the hood I must have caused. It seems easy to finish off from here; I can either jump up and smash the car’s top, sending it into the sand, or I can jump up from underneath it and send it up and over.

I’ll hit it from the bottom. They won’t see it coming. I stand up, only for the agony to keep me hunched over. I’m lightheaded, I can barely breathe. I put my hands on my knees, my chest feels fractured and empty. I take a deep breath and straighten up, ignoring the pain. I take a step back and start running, my heart aching in immediate response.

I sprint for the cliff and take a small jump, a menial, weak hearted jump up in attempts to conserve energy. I reach about halfway and press my right foot into the side of the cliff. I use my momentum to propel myself upward to reach the car, left fist raised, arm locked straight.

I smash into the bottom of the car, enough strength to press through the weight. The car flips up as I go up, continuing to spin one hundred eight degrees onto the hood. I land on the edge of the cliff, careful to regain my balance quickly.

Men and women from the group are surrounding me, firearms pointed at either my chest or head. There are several parked vehicles around me, the flipped car on my right. The people inside are both alive, I can hear their heartbeats. That makes it twelve against one.

I don’t know what I can do at this stage of strength. I don’t know if I can use it all now. I doubt I can. I don’t know when this hockey game is going to take place, I have to plan for the worst.

I’ll only drop my restraints if I have to. They haven’t opened fire instantly, which gives me hope they don’t intend to blast me to pieces. Even if they do, I can avoid their bullets at least fairly well. Worst case scenario, I get shot in the vital regions. Thing is, I don’t know how weak I am. That could be catastrophic. Until the pain in my chest is gone, I can’t risk getting shot there.

"Don’t move!" One woman orders me with her thick accented voice.

"What’s stopping me?" I ask in my military voice. "Some guns?" I take notice of my surroundings. The ground near the cliff is unstable. I’m going to have to work with that. Even in this humanlike state, I must weigh significantly less than them, especially with the weight of their guns. The only people around to use against me are Mav, K.B., Ardo and Dawson. They seem to be out of sight and out of mind to the group. They should be safe unless brought into this. I have to keep their attention on me and avoid going near the others.

"Come with us!" The same woman barks.

"Why? You taking me on a beach tour?" I ask. The pain in my chest is subduing. I slowly reach for the flipped car, getting a strong grip on the metal. Some of it melts, molding it to my hand. Excellent.

"If you do not come with us, we will shoot!" She shouts at me. Her heartbeat’s the fastest. She should calm down before she has a heart attack.

I wait a moment for the pain to turn to a dull ache. Good enough. I yank my hand forward, snapping my wrist to free it from the molding metal. The car skids forward on its roof, one man able to dive out of the way. Two are taken out, and all are distracted. I take the opportunity to attack. I hastily form a fireball in my hands and launch at the outside of the parabola formed around me. By the time the fire strikes the two, the others are back on point.

I squat close to the ground for a second, then throw myself high into the air. I crack the ground in doing so. The flipped car had also left an impressive crack, resembling a lightning bolt. The ground’s that easy to break.

I make sure I move closer to the people, hurling my head back to fall to the ground headfirst. I pull my right fist back as I continue to flip until I’m practically like a flying squirrel. I near the ground and bring my legs in close. I tuck my left arm in and brace for impact.

I slam into the ground, my right fist striking first. My right shin and left foot slam into the ground second, enough force to make it give way. My fist shoots the ground, my body buries it. First, the initial contact. The ground fractures and splinters as I force a crater into its moldable surface. Second, the shock waves that ripple through like a pebble dropped in water. It shakes and tilts the cars, it knocks the people off their feet. Third, the collapse. The cliff rumbles before completely breaking, the rock falling apart. The cliff shatters onto the sand, taking the cars and the group with it.

I jump to a safe spot, my bare feet skidding against the rock. I stomp on the edges, a layer of rock cascades down to cover up the group and their vehicles.

I hear two heartbeats approaching fast. I whip my head around in time to see the barrel of a gun. I duck immediately, bullets grazing my hair. The man adjusts, aiming his gun back at my head. I shove it to the side, turning the gun so it rests sideways in his hands. I push the gun, forcing the man stumbling back until he falls.

The second person, a woman, slams the butt of her gun into my cheek not a second after I’ve pushed the man. She nails my cheekbones, forcing me to waddle sideways to regain balance. I raise my hand to my cheek. She split the skin.

My first thought after that? It should have been, "That hurt" or "I shouldn’t have let my guard down." Instead, I shout in my mind, "How dare you!"

She swings her gun at my head, forcing me to duck. She jabs at my chest, and I scoot back. She walks forward, pressing me closer to the edge of the cliff. I can use that!

Her heartbeat is through the roof, she grunts each time she tries to hit me. I inch towards the edge of the cliff, our eyes locked together. She tries to hit me in the nose, a move I block with a sweep of my left forearm across my body. Right hand balled to protect my face, my left hand is raised and ready to fight back. I keep her distracted by blocking her attacks and throwing weak hits at her she’s able to block. We continue to creep towards the cliff’s edge, and I land a kick to her left knee. She’s caught completely off guard and even screams a little. I hear the crack and watch her crumble. Her whole body seems to move to her right side and forward, forcing her off-balance. She falls forward, over the cliff.

If I hadn’t kicked her, she’d have noticed that I started flying. She’d have noticed I walked over the edge of the cliff and was beckoning her forward, like I had a leash on her. I fly back onto the cliff, where the final man is standing with his gun raised.

He fires, and I have no time to react. I try to dive to the side, only partially successful. The bullet strikes the right side of my body, just below where my collarbone stretches into my shoulder, tearing through a fleshy part of the body.

The pain is sharp and severe. My right arm starts trembling, I can feel my heartbeat pounding in my shoulder. I could fall into a hole and writhe about the pain for hours, but I have to stay frosty. The man’s already reloaded.

Keeping my right arm limp at my side, I run for the man. Agony throbs in the surrounding area, affecting my head, chest and side. It’s like thick needles have been dug deep into my skin. I reach the man as he points his gun at my head. My knees buckle, dragging my body down with me. The bullet barely grazes my forehead, still sending searing pain racing through my heaving head. It seems to get heavier by the second, forcing me to tackle the man with my head facing the ground. I throw myself at him, forcing us both onto the ground. I land on him, my right arm trapped between my body, his, and his gun. I fight a scream by driving my teeth into my bottom lip and tensing all my muscles. I try to wriggle free, the shaking and thrashing only making the pain worse. I don’t know whose pain is worse, though. He’s screaming from the heat and burning. I pull myself up to eliminate the strain on my right arm. I sit with my knees on the ground and torso straightened and throw a punch right into his temples. His heartbeat stops quickly.

I  rise to my feet and check the area. No more threats in sight. Injuries: my ribs and lungs have healed, my forehead and cheek are in the process of healing and the bullet in my shoulder is stopping it from healing.

The hole’s too small for me to pull it out. I drop my restraints for a moment before snapping them right back on. With a sudden flash, a beam of light, I’ve gone from my most powerful to a near-human state.

The bullet drops out of my skin and falls to the ground. My shoulder is now healing, although the process is taking longer than I’d hoped. Despite the pain, I was successful. I look to the shores. Dawson, Ardo and K.B. are still standing. As for Mav�"

I hear his heartbeat approaching and hold my left arm out to keep him at a distance. I don’t want him to see what’s really inside me. I watch my injury heal itself until only a little circular scar remains.

I turn to face him, drop my arm and try to act casual. He’s pale white, his heart is racing. He’s barely breathing, eyes wide and jaw hanging slightly open. There’s a bruise on his forehead growing. I caused that. I must have slammed his head when I pushed the car. It’s swelling quickly. "I’m okay." I insist lamely.

He nods, his eyebrows beginning to form the letter V. It makes the bruise on his forehead swell even more gigantic. "Good," He says. "You can tell me what the hell just happened."

I hold onto the nape of my neck with my right arm and look away. Is there any lie that would make sense? You’re dreaming? I’m a figment of your imagination? For the lack of a better answer, I try to stall. "Well, I hardly know what happened."

"Bullshit. If you didn’t know, you’d be dead." His voice is cold, harsh and serious. Until he chortles nervously. "I mean, you got hit by a car." He sounds like he’s about to pass out from shock. His heartbeat rockets higher to one hundred twenty beats per minute. "You were thrown over the edge of a cliff! You got shot!" One hundred twenty-five. One hundred thirty. He needs to calm down now, or he’s going to go into shock.

I panic, and grab his right hand. I hold it against my heart, careful not to make it awkward. I shouldn’t be hot enough to hurt him. Discomfort him? That, unfortunately, has to happen. "Feel my heartbeat?" I ask, my voice slow and calm. I look up at him, now looking more confused than panicked. "That’s how slow yours should be." Sixty beats per minute, my heart is functioning properly�" as far as I can tell.

His heartbeat is slowing. I think he’s staring at me. Well, duh. I snap at myself. What else is he going to stare at? You upstaged the ocean by a long shot.

"What are you?" He asks.

His heartbeat is slower. I drop his hand. "I’m trying to figure out for myself." I say. "That’s why I want to go to Redwood City."

"Are we going to get killed in Redwood City?" He asks.

I can’t make any guarantees. "No." I tell him, even though he’s more likely to die than I am.

Whoa, Ashler. Watch out. If you lie to him, you’re dragging him into this mess. You’re putting him in danger. You’ve already caused him some head trauma. That’s not what heroes do.

Heroes have to suffer through that stupid, "It’s better off this way, no one can hurt you," cliché. No one likes those situations, I combat my thoughts. He’s been in danger since the moment he saw me. He’s already dead, might as well bury him.

He throws his hands in the air. "Why the hell not." He spins around on his heels and heads for the driver’s seat. I catch him mumbling, "If we stay here, we might get shot again."

I slide into shotgun as he’s starting the engine. I don’t know how much energy I used today. All I know is that I used a decent amount of it.

It seems that if I get my flames back unnaturally, like what I did yesterday, they don’t last as long. In Sacramento, I had five years’ worth of flames. Had I been anyone else, I would have died five fold, maybe more.

The engine roars to life. Mav turns to me, all seriousness. "You owe me an explanation." After a moment, he adds on, "A good one." I just nod in return. I can’t tell him everything. I know that with absolute certainty.

I wonder if the public know that a war is coming. I wonder how they’ll react when they find out.

For now, war is going to be avoided. I’ll fight whatever I have to if I see it stopped. Nothing mows down the lives of citizens like a war they need to win.

"Do you know the way to Redwood City?" He asks. His voice is deep and almost harshly devoid.

"Yeah. We’ve got to get to the highway." I tell him.

It’s not that long of a drive, perhaps around twenty-eight minutes. We are mostly silent. We only speak when he asks for directions. He never looks at me once. The sun comes out and we pass the reservoir, low and desperate. They need Cody here as much as they need me. Redwood City has three exits from highway two-eighty, and we take the second one.

We pass a high school, empty in the summer, and I realize my hands are trembling. I force them into fists, to my sides and out of mind. I need to be composed. This is the first time I have to pose as a normal human amongst a whole town of normal humans. This is also the town that beckons me near for an unknown reason, which seems suspicious to me. I was taught at the compound to look at facts and use logic to back my every decision, never to simply and hastily rush to conclusions.

I hope I don’t regret this. In the back of my mind, it feels like a trap that I can’t seem to resist.