The Gifted [INDEFINITE HIATUS]

12 • Rel

I am on edge for several days, always looking over my shoulder, worried that I have been followed again. I may have escaped their clutches three times now, but I doubt they will stop coming after me.

I still remember what that woman, Alina, mentioned to the man--something about her son returning home, and how she wants to involve him in this situation.

I get the feeling that I would be much better off if that never happens.

The constant flooding, meanwhile, is getting worse and worse. I can no longer trust myself to step into most buildings, considering the number of plumbing systems I have blown up. Instead, I am back to sleeping on the streets. At least those floods can be blamed on monsoons.

But constantly avoiding this is going to get me nowhere. I keep trying to convince myself that as time passes, it will become easier to control, but if anything, the opposite seems to be happening. And it's much worse than how it was ten years ago, the last time something like this happened. This power is more volatile, more unpredictable, more out of control than it used to be. And that terrifies me.

So that leaves me two problems to deal with. Figuring out what to do about that dratted police officer duo, and regaining some semblance of control over this water thing.

At least I have a vague plan for the first one.

Blackmail.

As the days pass, I don't forget the details of the conversation I eavesdropped on. It's the one thing I have to my advantage right now. I'm positive that they're currently harboring a criminal in their home, and even though I don't know anything more specific than the fact that it is a female whose name starts with an A, it should still be enough to convince them that I can ruin them with a single slip of my mouth.

I spend hours thinking about how to word my note. Ideally, I can avoid a confrontation and just slip the paper into their belongings somewhere, where they won't discover it until I am long gone.

When I finally write out a version I am somewhat satisfied with, I set down the pen and hold up the paper, squinting at it to make sure it's perfect.

Hello, you idiots.
You're really bad at keeping secrets.
I know you're hiding A in your house. I know she is a criminal, and your lives would be royally screwed if the wrong (or should I say right) people were to find out.
Come after me one more time, and try to take me with you, and I promise you that I will "accidentally" let my mouth slip.
--Your Favorite Runaway

Short and to the point. I like it.

I fold up the note and stick it into my pocket. It stays tucked behind the pocket knife that I always make sure to keep on me, hidden away on the inside of my jacket. I'm sure there's no way they'll still try to come after me once they read this. Unless I've underestimated the severity of the punishment they may face if they're found out...

No, I'm not considering that. This has to work.

So, time passes, and I wait.

And I almost miss it.

The day is hot and humid, the sun's rays mercilessly beating down on me as I stroll through the streets in a leather jacket. Maybe it wasn't the best choice of clothing, but my pocket knife and the note is in there, and there is no way I'm letting go of that. I even have the little button from my old denim jacket that I ripped off back in 101st, which I still haven't thrown away, tucked in here somewhere.

It's almost overwhelmingly noisy here, with suffocating crowds of people swarming the area, wrapping me in a haze of bright colors and loud, clamoring voices. Small stands selling various little trinkets line the sides of the road, their owners yelling out what they are selling in hopes of drawing customers to them. The road itself is jam-packed with cars that are trying to maneuver around the hordes of people crossing, the sounds of incessantly honking horns and angry drivers shouting profanities at the pedestrians blaring in my ears.