Misfits

0 | prelude

ＣＯＵＮＴＬＥＳＳ of times, I've pictured the day the four of us would finally be able to visit my and Logan's hometown together.

It had always seemed impossible back then. My mother would never approve. And yet, in all the ways I visualised my fantasy, I never imagined it would take one of us in a casket to make it a reality.

Logan's funeral is a quiet affair, though not by choice. It's kept small. A select few family members and a handful of agents dotted discreetly about the site, holding everyone under their oath of silence.

Logan's mother won't meet my eyes. She'd never say it aloud, but she doesn't need to. I can feel it. The unease. She's uncomfortable around me. Because she knows I must be involved in the death of her son. Because she knows she can't get the exact details how. Because she knows knowing won't make a difference. Logan is dead. And all I can do is apologise. If my mother was here, perhaps she'd have something more to say. Perhaps she'd comfort Marceline with the thought that Logan's death saved our lives among countless others - if that thought comforted her at all.

But Morgana is not here. My mother has the excuse of an emergency surgery and clashing schedules to save her from joining my supplications. Emma and Cole aren't here either, but no one has seen either of them in over a week.

The three of us stick out like a sore thumb amidst Logan's clan of brunets: my brown skin, Willow's bright red hair that refused to be muted by her all-black attire, Markus's east Asian features vaguely hidden under a nest of black hair. The only attribute we share with the rest is our eyes. Bleak and bleary, bloodshot and brimmed with tears waiting to flow.

On a day like this, it should be raining.

On a day where all we seem able to do is drown in our sorrows, the sky should be crying with us. It should be howling with wind, a tempest should be ravaging the land, dark clouds looming and thunder clapping and lightning cracking the earth. Logan liked storms. On a day like this, nothing would be more fitting.

But fate has never liked to play on my side.

Today the sun is shining. Flowers bloom in the warm late May weather, colourful flecks of a fragmented rainbow staining the grassy green canvas we trample upon. The wind is but a gentle breeze, carrying pollen and the scent of wild roses in its tender hold. Nature is smiling at us. It beams with a mocking grin. A cocky display of power and control. I can't help but scowl back.

As the vicar murmurs a prayer, my eyes drift away, scanning the rest of the graveyard. I count the number of DA officials hidden in the shadows, observing the ceremony. Three. It's less than usual, but it's understandable - there are twelve other funerals like this being held this week.

Logan's body is lowered into the ground, but the thought of watching him get buried is too much for me. I tear my eyes away from the sight, rapidly blinking away the tears as I focus my gaze on a line of trees in the distance.

Two figures I hadn't noticed before catch my eye. They're dressed head-to-toe in black, bearing a certain somber air that carries a pang of familiarity. My brows furrow. Could it be?

A hand tugs at my sleeve, seizing my attention. It's Logan's youngest sister, Grace. Her cheeks are damp with tears, but more continue to flow from her red-rimmed eyes.

"Cassie," she whispers through a choked sob, "why did Logan have to die?"

Over the past week, I've been asked several variations of that question. How did Logan die? Two bullets through the heart. Why did he die? He tried to save me, even though he was in a weakened state from overusing his powers. But why did he have to die?

I couldn't answer that.

I take Grace's hand in mine, squeezing it tightly. And in a whisper, I answer truthfully, "I'm sorry... I don't know."

The eulogies are over, the grave is covered, the vicar concludes his ending prayer and we fall into a solemn silence. The gathering slowly begins to dissolve. One by one, the mourners depart, some to their homes, others to the next venue to continue grieving. I lift my eyes back to the trees, scanning the forest for the figures I spotted before.

They're gone.

"Miss Noble, we've been instructed to escort you home straightaway. The car is waiting."

One of the agents appears in front of me to deliver this message. I spare a wary glance their way, swallowing the lump in my throat before I nod in compliance.

"This way," he says.

I follow after him, but each footstep feels heavier than the last. When we reach the car, he opens the door for me and stands there expectantly, as if warned that I may decide to make a run for it. I won't.

I murmur a quiet thanks as my fingers brush over the car door.

And then I feel a jolt.

A crackly phone call. Water. Darkness. Worry. The sea. Alarms wailing. A sinking cruise ship. Guilt.

"Miss Noble, are you alright?"

I force my eyes wide open, and come face to face with the sight of the concerned agent. I peel my gaze away and slip into the backseat, promptly shutting the door behind me.

"Yes. I'm fine," I reply as the agent slides into the front passenger seat and his partner starts the car. A brief once-over through the rearview mirror is enough to absolve him of his worries.

As the car begins to drive off, I bring my hand closer to my face, turning it over and inspecting it for signs of change. That was new.

The car increases its speed as it merges with a major road. Meanwhile, I try to piece together the fragments of the vision I had in hopes of figuring out what I just foresaw.

Cautiously, I reach forward, lightly skimming my fingers across the leather seat belonging to the agent in front of me. I squint my eyes in anticipation, bracing myself to be thrust into another vision.

Nothing.

I bring my hand back to my lap, staring at it with a frown.

So what was that about earlier?