The Artist

Chapter 1

6/3

Whispers.

I hear whispers. So low, so gentle, so marvelous that I can't help but be entranced by the voices. They are like the song of a summer breeze, the promise of cool air against hot skin. The kiss of a snowflake on flushed cheeks. A howl from a lonely wolf on a clear night.

Yet, despite the melodious sound, I snarl, glaring at the human being just outside the metal bars trapping me in this forsaken, untouched place. Eyes as black as coals stare back, and the music in my mind intensifies. I continue to attempt to block out the noise, to barricade the walls of thought, but their own mind easily penetrates, effortlessly bringing it down with a sweep, crossing the rubble into mine. I drop to the floor, covering my ears.

My legs give out as the pulsing breath of song chokes me. Another whisper, then a screech. A woman, far and close, shrieking in pain, in fear, in fury; who am I to tell? The noise bounces off the wall and is shoved down my throat, a reminder to the torture she is enduring. A slow suffering, and she welcomes death with silence.

But they aren't done. Another round of screams and blares and wails, and I am now standing, no longer trying to drown out the sound. The cell doors open, but I don't run. I don't even move as zip ties are secured around my wrists. The collar around my neck rubs against the already tender skin, and the bindings around my hands open an old wound. The capsule on the collar glows, and another pressure, more intense than even the noise in my brain, sinks into my chest, snuffing out whatever energy I had saved to try to escape.

The warden furrows his brows, dark eyes following me as the melodies intensify, and I am escorted out of the cell. The rest of my squadron is ahead, being led to the place each and every one of us dread with every nerve inside of us. I say us, but I am the longest lasting in my group, Northeastern Wing of the 537 squadron. I am hardly eighteen, but most of the people with me are sixteen or younger. Why?

To enlighten anyone who is willing to listen, I, Avenue, am a freak, a toy, a weapon. Blessed with unnatural power, cursed with unnatural abilities. Unique. Not necessarily in a good way. Animation is my power, but it is weak and impossible to practice with if this collar remains around my neck.

I am waiting for a time when a notorious group of people like me come to my aid. On the limited times we are allowed to watch television—the news channel—I have heard stories of them infiltrating special prisons made for my kind and breaking everyone out. The Deviant League, they call themselves, superhero related names, the public calls them. To my dismay, ordinary people vote for nicknames.

A siren, wailing and crying, echoes in my mind. I cringe, momentarily able to snap out of the mental grasp of the warden. He is using his control over sound to alter my brain nerves and be able to control me. It is a sickening thought, but more so of the idea that he even considered to join the monsters against people like us. People like himself. He is about thirty or so, from what I've guessed. Always calculating and observing. It reminds me of the time I whispered filthy things about him, earning a gut-wrenching blow to the face. Super hearing as well, I'd assume.

More howls of wind, and I'm temporarily released. Along with the rest of my squadron, I cower in the corner, hiding among the others.

It doesn't last long. A sharp whistle resounds in the air, and we fall in line, single-file. I am a few leagues from the front, nervously glancing ahead at two young boys whispering to each other. The escort sentries leave the room, and mine gives me a huff and sneer before exiting. The stench of bleach coats the arena as I crinkle my nose.

Something in the center catches my eye, and I gaze at the mosaic masterpiece, shaped like the flag of the doomed country, America, ruled by someone who does nothing about his hypocrisy and focuses on cleansing the nation of people like me. President Johnathan B. Adam called us rats once on the news. That television never saw the light of day again.