The Artist

Chapter 2

6/4

I least expect to wake up on the ground.

My bones are frigid, and I have to squint to see even a glimpse of the blinding white all around me. It's cold out here, even colder than the arena when it was plunged in a frozen inferno of rage. Surprisingly, I feel better, much better than I've felt in ages. The sleep I fell into cleared any uncertainty from my mind, and from what I could tell, I was free.

Free. The words are a foreign adjective to describe myself. I've never had the luxury to call myself free, or at least, it's been a long time.

"This can't be real," I try to whisper, but my voice comes out cracked and hoarse. I haven't used it in over a week. There hadn't been a need, except to keep me sane.

The zip-ties are still binding my wrists, but at this point, I don't care. The collar isn't as weighted as it was at the prison.

I spin around, listening to the crunch of snow in who knows how long. Jumping to my feet, I see what truly happened while I was unconscious.

The helicopter's nose has plunged into the ground. The blades are crooked and bent, while the glass windshield has shattered. Fires sprout along it, although they're tame and quiet, contently crackling to their own faint melody.

As I look around, swiveling, I see an infinite number of trees, each of them coated in fresh snow, each of them covered in summer leaves.

Holding my head in disbelief, I feel blood smeared on my forehead. When I try to walk, my ankle and rib burst in pain, and I collapse, bracing my body on an injured wrist.

I glance around for the third time, still doubtful. There are divots in the snow, although many of them look large enough to have a man hiding in one. I wonder where the pilot and invisible being are, if they even came out of the crash alive. When I look back at the helicopter, there's a path from where I had slid to a stop on the ground.

My blurred gaze shifts to a rising figure. I can already feel the clock coming to a stop. My time has come, my life worthless. I had just become free, and now this stranger is going to kill me.

Even though I'm not sure I care whether or not I die, I begin limping out of the wreckage zone, my legs belonging to myself for the first time in years. The forest around me looks the same, but between the trunks I can make out the glimmer of ice over a frozen river. I trip over my ankle every now and then, but I'm almost halfway there.

An unbearable headache grounds into my skull, and I stumble to a tree, my fingers scratching against the frozen bark. I clutch my head, leaning against the plant heavily, my rib aching as my chest rapidly rises and falls.

I don't have the strength to use my powers, let alone walk. I try to continue, but I fall into the snow, the cold embedding itself under my skin. The crunch of snow behind me causes me to whirl. A man, hunched in exhaustion with blood on his face, is standing before me, his face showing his age to be about thirty. He's panting, his support solely on his left leg, and his right arm is cut open.

He holds out an arm, eyes heavy, and I grit my teeth to stuff down my anger. "I'm not . . ."

With shock, I realize that he's too tired to finish, but after he swallows a few times, he continues. "I'm not going to do anything to hurt you."

Of course he'd say that. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but before he can open his mouth again, I struggle to stand again, but manage to bolt off, supporting my weight on my unscathed limb, and limp-run to the river. I can feel my power slowly regenerating, but it's only enough for manipulating the snow.