The Unnatural Disasters

1,p1. All the reasons not to trust strange women: Pixel

Pixel
My name is Em Mwesigwa. I am, right now, a guy. And currently?
There's a stranger in my flat, and they don't know I'm here.

I backtrack, in case there's anything that I'm missing that could tell me why there's somebody in my bedroom.
Did Dad mention anything? Likely. But also? Incredibly boring.
Am I being arrested?
Certainly more interesting than aging relatives looking through my bookshelves. But probably also worse, all things considered. Besides, what happened three weeks ago wasn't my fault.
Well, not really.
Not entirely.
If that's the case, maybe they should go for whoever decides to do abandoned-warehouse-themed experiments on innocent kids, instead of said innocent kid.
Maybe it's not even for that? Maybe it's just an overdue library book. Do they send police out for those? Maybe just for the Afro/latinx kids, thugs-in-waiting as we all obviously are.
That was sarcasm, in case you haven't noticed.
Anyway, if it is then they didn't really go for stealth. Or maybe they were: at any rate, they forgot to mask the brush marks on the carpet from when they opened the door. Or the fact that I never close my bedroom door. Plus the gum wrapper they put into the bin by the side table.
They're not very good at this, are they?
Who knows! Their purpose is unknown, but not necessarily sinister. Maybe it's national Break-Into-An-Apartment-And-Surprise-A-Stranger-With-A-Cake day.
Maybe I just missed the memo. Maybe it's Dad; but he's not really meant to get back from Harrigain's School For The Perpetually Testosterone-High for another hour, at least.

So whoever it is: I'm not planning on being unmemorable.

I slide down the sleeve on my left wrist, and look down at the chip sitting there. It's fairly noticeable- a two centimetre square of golden hardware, implanted into my wrist presumably some time whilst I was unconscious. Ironic, really. Looks like something I'd draw, malicious circuits under the skin, turning children into robots. In fact, my whole life is starting to feel like a dumb sci-fi flick right now.
But anyway, I tap on the chip twice. Look in the mirror.
Okay. my only defence for the outfit is that at the time I chose it, I thought it'd only be for a videogame.
It's black leather. Black leather, complete with motorcycle helmet. The ceiling light shines on the entire thing, making it glitter with blue iridescence- which is pretty cool, but other than that I look like the bride of robocop. Good news is, that's not all the suit can do.

I remember, straight after the warehouse where all this weirdness began. I spent that entire night staring at myself in my wardrobe mirror, running the suit's batteries down and wondering what the hell I do. I think at one point, I was convinced that I should go to the doctors.
I wonder what the exchange would be like, if that were the case. 'Hey, doc: so I ate some weird stuff in a warehouse and fell unconscious, and now I can just jump into phones all of a sudden? Yeah, I can break locks without touching them and see behind me, too? Is this like a normal puberty thing, or..."
Theoretically, I could get the chip out without managing to slit my arteries. But if it went wrong, I'd have to tell Dad, and- I get anxiety attacks just thinking about coming out to him as genderfluid. I genuinely believe I would prefer dying to telling him about this.
But I'm rambling. Going back to the task at hand, from now.

I open the door.
A woman looks up at me, utterly uncaring that she's been caught. I doubt she's a relative, or that she bought a cake. My most likely theory is that she's police, or perhaps just some similar, suspicious government agency. But she doesn't look like a spy. If anything, she looks like somebody who's trying to sell you essential oils from the pyramid scheme she's been duped into. She's got a pen in her breast pocket, advertising a car rental company- that tells me utterly nothing. I frown.
"You're going to get ink inside your pocket."
And it's true- she clicks the top of the pen to close it, still staring at me.
"Well? Are you going to tell me why you're here? Because I'm trying to make conversation here, and it's really just not working so far."
And she speaks! Finally.
"To cut it short? My name's Luda. I'm trying to put together a team of people like you."
"As in what? Artists? Weirdos? People who've had recent bad experiences in warehouses?"
She looks at me, smiling.
"As in heroes, Em."
"Heroes?" The words seem numb in my mouth. What was this Luda expecting me to do, exactly? Wear a cape and rescue cats from trees?
"Exactly!" She smiles an excited smile; this woman really is invested in this.
"So," I query, leaning back on my bookshelf. "Say that I join whatever Kid Hero Club you're trying to sell. What'd we do there? Collect for charity?"
I'm about to unload another sarcastic comment when something stops me.
Luda's looking down at the smart watch on her wrist, genuine panic filling her eyes.
"Well, kid," She mutters, hushed.
"Guess you're about to find out."