The First Runner

The Changing

It started slowly, a creeping sensation at the back of my mind, like tendrils of fog curling inward, pulling me deeper. My body felt heavy, as though sinking into something soft and endless. But then, through the haze, images began to form—faint at first, flickering like an old film reel. And then they solidified, sharp, almost too real.

*****

I was a child.

The air around me felt warm, almost stifling, the sweet smell of freshly baked bread drifting in from the kitchen. I stood in the middle of our living room, my tiny feet barely making a sound against the hardwood floor. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a golden hue over everything, but it felt wrong—like a painting with colours that didn't belong.

There was an argument happening, but I couldn't understand it. My father's voice rose above the rest, thick with desperation.

"You can't just take them!" he shouted, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, desperation etched into his features. My mother's voice cracked, a soft sound that pierced through the chaos. She was crying, her sobs raw and unguarded, as if every breath was a struggle.

"Please, you have to listen!" she pleaded, her eyes darting to the door as if hoping to summon help from thin air.

Then I saw them.

Men in black uniforms, their faces hidden behind reflective helmets that distorted their features into something monstrous. I felt my stomach twist as they stepped into the house, their movements precise, almost robotic. Behind them stood a woman in a crisp white lab coat, her hair pulled back tightly, her eyes cold and calculating. She stepped forward, her polished shoes clicking against the floor with an eerie rhythm that sent chills down my spine.

"We're here for them," she said flatly, as if announcing an order rather than a decree that would change our lives forever.

I felt Thomas's hand slip into mine, clammy and trembling. He was too young to understand what was happening—hell, so was I—but I squeezed his hand tighter, like somehow that would make it all okay. The woman stepped forward, her gaze sharp as she scrutinized us, her expression void of empathy.

My father lunged toward the men, his voice raw with anger. "You're monsters! You can't take them! They only go at ten! Jessica isn't even six and Thomas only just turned four!"

But it was useless. One of the guards grabbed Thomas first, his small body thrashing like a wild animal, screams tearing from his throat. I tried to shout for him, but my voice was swallowed by the sound of my mother's desperate cries.

The woman's gaze fell on me, icy and unyielding. "You'll thank us one day," she said, but I didn't believe her. How could anyone think that taking us away was for our own good?

My vision blurred with tears as they pulled me away. The last thing I saw before the door slammed shut was my mother collapsing to her knees, her hands reaching out for us like she could pull us back through sheer will alone.

Time blurred. I wasn't in the living room anymore.

*****

I was standing in a room so sterile it hurt my eyes. The walls were white, painfully white, the kind of white that made you feel small and insignificant. Machines beeped in the background, their rhythmic sound almost hypnotic, but they were nothing compared to the sharp pain in my arm. I flinched, looking down to see a needle piercing my skin. The liquid inside glowed blue, pulsing like a heartbeat.

"Where are we?" I whispered, fear creeping into my voice as I glanced at Thomas, who sat on the cot next to mine. His face was pale, his eyes wide with terror.