A Beautiful Reflection From Firework Eyes

Show Me The Way Back Home

Some more backstory and a new character for y'all. 

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(One year ago)

It had been raining for so long I had forgotten what the blue sky looked like. If it were anywhere else, I probably would have frozen to death. Luckily, in Southern California, the temperature this week never dropped below 60 degrees.

I know I'm being careless, letting my hands go up in flames whenever I feel like it. But I don't care anymore. Let someone call them.

It's as if finding my empty house took the energy out of me. I drag myself through every day, not much fueling me as I wander from abandoned warehouse to bridge. What kept me going before was the hope that I'd find Mama and Papa and Mike, and we'd be together. But now they're gone, and I'm alone.

I don't even try to make a feeble effort to run as the cop car screeches to a stop in front of me. I throw up my hand to block the light, but I don't move.

"Hands out in front where I can see them," the officer says as he aims his gun at me. If it were two months ago, I probably would've run. I would've put up a fight, burned a few things to the ground before I'd let them take me. But I can't bring myself to. Some part of me reasons that at least I'll have a roof over my head. I'll have food and water, a permanent place to stay. I almost laugh to myself. How fast I broke my promise to Mike and Mama and Papa. But if they were in my position, wouldn't they do the same? I'm just so tired. So tired of running and surviving.

There's no noise except for the clinking of keys and the rumble of engines. The handcuffs dig uncomfortably into my wrists as the van jolts. I don't bother to see where I'm headed—the windows are blacked out. There's an officer across from me and one by the door. Both of them have guns trained on me, though it's not like I'm going to try to escape. If I was, I would've fought earlier.

I don't even struggle as they put a bag over my head, letting them lead me out into who knows where. I'm resigned to my fate at this point. Wherever I'm going can't be worse than living on the streets, scrounging for food, right?

I blink as the bag is pulled off my head, squinting around the room I'm in. The walls are painted white—blindingly white, fluorescent lights, making it only worse.

"I'm Mr. Styles," the man says, kneeling down in front of me. "I'm kind of the manager around here."

"Stand up," he instructs. I stand up slowly, looking at him apprehensively. "So we have a few rules here," he says. "Firstly, your name is M-37."

The words feel like a slap to the face. M-37. I don't have a name anymore—just a number. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but I nod.

"Secondly, and most importantly, no using your powers outside of Study."

"Study?" I ask, my voice quiet.

"You're here because we're studying your powers. All you need to do is follow our rules. That brings me to our third and final rule," Mr. Styles tips his head. "Follow the instructions of the guards and scientists. If you do not, there will be consequences. Bad ones." The warning in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. "Does that make sense?" he asks.

I nod silently. Inwardly, I make a promise not to disobey him. I don't intend to find out what these consequences will be.

"Good." He says. He hands me a set of clothes—a blue t-shirt and shorts with a number—my number printed across them. "Get changed, and we'll bring you to your room."

I'm led through the hallway. The clothes are a bit baggy on me, but they fit well enough. I hear a scream echoing from upstairs and tense, but I'm shoved forward until we stop at a door with a five painted on it.

"Here you go," the guard says, unlocking it and shoving me roughly forward. I stumble into the room. I would've fallen to the ground, if not for the boy who catches me before I do so.

"Subject M-26, your new roommate, subject M-37," the guard says carelessly before the door slams shut, making me tense. I can hear the lock sliding shut and the footsteps fading away before I finally let out the breath I've been holding.

"Are you okay?" the boy asks from where he's been holding me up.

I push away from him, my cheeks heating up. "Yes," I mumble.

"I'm Jaime. I have electricity powers," he says. I look at him, startled. I thought we had to use the numbers. He seems to guess what I'm thinking because he shrugs. "No need to use those stupid numbers. We're people. Not machines."

"I'm Vic," I say. It feels good to say my name out loud instead of a number. "Fire."

"Welcome to the Facility," Jaime says. He sees my expression because a look of pity comes over his face. "You're going to be okay," he reassured me. And the thing is, I almost believe him.