2 Years Prior in New Era Time. (Divide that by five. That's how quickly time is passing.)
Sami "Crew" Aslan
As soon as I recognize the clomp-clomp-clomping of angry footsteps, I slam my laptop shut, yank out the headphones, and try to stem the flow of adrenaline through my stomach. I should be used to the angry clomp-clomp-clomping by now; I've never found myself short of good reasons to be in trouble.
I think of a better word for trouble as the door opens with a dramatic but wary swoosh. One in my own language. But it doesn't come to mind.
"CREW!" I roll my eyes. Here we go. But when I look up, I realize I had misjudged the footsteps. It's not Mother standing hunched over at five feet, leering at me from the doorway. It's my Nona. And here I thought that this could not get any worse
Stupid boy!" she declares, approaching with a thick file in her hand. She wields it like an ax. I scramble to my feet, feeling my heartbeat rise haphazardly as my brain recognizes the file before even realizing what it is. "Do you know what the Institute sent me today?" Nine then proceeds to fling it out at me like she's drawing a sword. I bend back just in time to avoid getting sliced in half by one massive papercut. "Nine, that's just my recommendations from the Elite Council."
She scowls so hard, her eyes cross. "You're just deluded. You already know that you are too young to be on the Council and too small to be recommending anyone. Your last blueprint was worse than a failure. You are already on probation. You are not supposed to be ..." she trails off, her piercing green eyes wandering to the white laptop behind me. Before I can protest, she marches farther than I would've thought her wobbly legs capable of and snatches it up less than delicately. "What is this? Why do you have a computer? With whose money..."
I shrug. Not in an I don't know way, but in an I can't answer that way. I instantly regret not locking the device when she pops it open and sees all my new documents. Her pupils dilate with horror. I dive for it, thinking only of my chances of living when my professor learns that I carelessly let a civilian view my work.
I don't have more than a few seconds to worry, because just as I reach to shove my grandmother out of the way through the open window, the device ruptures. A blinding flash. No time to panic. I am thrown violently backwards, hearing only the crack of my temple against the window frame before blacking out.
PHOENIX, ARIZONA
Still me.
Every time someone talks to me like I'm a psychopath, I come that much closer to thinking it's true.
"Crew Caleb Giuliano, your IRIS resulted in the death of your grandmother. Do you think I am going to leave you in the Institute regardless?" It is the vice president Stowers's question. She learns forward, her expression hardening. What a grouch. Her own eyes are among the most spectacular here-a vivid silver that catches the light like diamonds-and they are second only to mine.
"My IRS?" I repeat, chuckling at my own joke.
Now I've irritated her, which is not too hard to accomplish. It's not so easy for middle-aged, simpleminded people to deal with lazy fifteen-year-old entrepreneurs—and unfortunately for her, there are many of us. "Your IRIS," she repeats, slapping down my latest file on the table in front of me. I slouch, intending to slip out of my chair like a wet noodle, when Second-Best Stowers flips the case open. My resolve falters when the last thing I expected to see in that thing enters my vision: the CT scan for my head days after the accident. My left hand shoots up to run over my jet-black hearing amplifiers before I can stop it. The vice president makes a point to notice.
