Wind Sage

How many have died since--

The thought dies, ironically enough, and she grit her teeth and dug her shoes deeper into the hold. Bicycles weren't her favorite way to exercise. When you're told that you have to go through power training what they don't tell you is that they also want you to exercise your body. Something about getting healthier and making your mind and body the same and blah blah fucking blah. Daisy didn't care about that. She'd rather be at home cutting soap or making a doll or doing anything but forcing herself to go another mile.

How many more will you let-

That one died because her trainer, Mr. Philip Fuckerson, decided to move in front of her and place his big ass fingers atop hers and shout into her face, "ARE YOU TRYING HARD ENOUGH?"

No, she was not trying hard enough. So she blew a gust of wind at him, watched as he hit the mat and his entire face turned red, and started bicycling as though it'd actually take her out of the room.

Are you even trying to save them?

Were you trying to save me?

Her eyes closed and nothing changed. Mandy's eyes flashed before her, sirens in the night, wheels turning and screeching and burnt cement and the water was rushing, rushing, rushing and god damn she couldn't save her, she couldn't save anyone.

But she could.

She had to.

"Are you trying hard enough?"

"Just stop trying. You can't save anyone."

"It's okay if you're not a superhero."

She didn't want to be. She needed to be.

Wind Sage was her alias but it was more than that--it ran deeper, steeped in her veins, blocking her from regular life. Daisy could pretend. She could make dolls and practice origami and do whatever the fuck to keep herself from thinking about the past but the past wouldn't go away.

Eliotte helped but Eliotte was on vacation.

And now she was fucked and training and her wind was useless and with every blink, she saw their bodies. With every sigh she watched them die over and over again. Watched the blood squirt from their bodies. Watched their horrific assassinations by a creature far smarter than anyone could have predicted.

The dead bird.

The damned dead bird.

It could have been her. It should have been. She should have died years ago.

But she wasn't dead.

She never died. Not in that accident, nor the one before that, or the one before that. No, Daisy couldn't find danger bad enough to take her life. And no matter how many innocents she saved, no matter how many lives she kept living, no matter what she did it didn't change the past. It didn't change fate.

She stayed. She made. She went. She saved.

With every breath she took, she knew they'd never breathe again. Their bodies were stiff and cold and decaying. Bones crumbling as their skin rotted and worms would dig inside and eat away until nothing would remain.

Train, she willed, but she'd trained for days now. After the incident, it was all anyone did. Train. Five hours of power training in the morning, lunch, and then it was physical exercise until she passed out. Her arms were sore from the weights and her legs were numb from running. Fifteen miles. Then another ten on the bicycle.

Well, nine point six.

Keep pushing. Sweat pooled. Thick rivets of copper ran down her throat and she swallowed hard. Her gums would regret it later but until then she'd grit harder. Keep pushing. Push, push, push because she was worthless on a mission where she should have been able to keep everyone safe.

Her body ached.

Eyes closed and stung as sweat fell into it, heavy, hard, wet.

Nine point seven.

"Run, Daisy!" Thunder pounded--metal on metal, grinding, biting, stinging. Pelts of rain. Daisy stood on the edge of the bridge, uncertain, not wanting to move closer, not wanting to fall. HEr stomach turned. Underneath her, waves crashed, hitting the tops of her shoes. She strained her muscles and strained and strained and fuck, fuck, fuck!, they weren't moving, the wind couldn't beat the explosions behind the water.

"Get in the fucking car, Daisy! Get in!"

Fire ran through her veins as she pulled the sky forward, clouds drifting past, but the bodies clinging tightly to the supports wouldn't budge. The world swayed. It dripped clouds--black dots that danced and laughed as she pulled harder. A shout and she tugged again--and the earth shook, quakes ripping through the ground and tearing more cracks in the thick cement. The water sloshed forward.

The bridge wouldn't hold on for long.

Nine point eight.

"It's okay, baby-girl," her daddy said.

She screamed. His brown eyes locked with hers and it died in her throat. She could feel him falling. Feel the gravity pulling him down and the water crashing over him. It was all in her chest, swamped, her heart dizzy and lost as he was sucked underneath.

Nine point nine.

Mandy was still holding on. Desperation lost in her face. Daisy could save her. All she had to do was jump, use her wind to push her forward, and grab her. To hold her tight until the real supers got there and saved them.

Her eyes cut back to the support, no longer held on to.

No longer clung to.

No longer holding him.

Her eyes closed. Her heart stopped. She looked forward, caught Mandy's eyes, and had no tears left as she jumped into the water.

"DADDY," she screamed. "DADDY," she yelled. "DADDY," she cried.

Water filled her lungs. She floated up. Spat. Cried. Went back down. He wasn't there. Came up. She wasn't there. Went down.

Neither came up until days later.

Their bodies full of water, puffy and ugly.

Lost because she wasn't a hero.

Lost because she couldn't save them.

Ten.

Daisy stopped. Breathed. And sighed, let herself slide off the bicycle, and walked out of the training room with weights strapped to her heels and a world upon her shoulders. She wanted to fall into bed. To have someone's arms wrapped around her. To feel their breath on her shoulder. To feel their nose buried in the small of her back, painfully so, but warm and close and loved.

To be loved again.

To be capable of love again.

Instead, Daisy went home. I'll be better. I have to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Null

The warmth envelops her like a blanket. It's an empty abyss, but it's soft and comforting in its own strange way. It's taken away from her in a flood of movement and bright lights, the sounds of talking arousing her from her sleep. The minute she's awake she wants to fall asleep again, but neither Devi nor her own willpower would allow that. Instead she finds herself standing, dizzy from the sudden movement.

It's Tuesday. Her arm's still sore from last Thursday and she curses it every chance she gets, but she's lucky that she wasn't injured more. The skeletal bird creature who attacked her could probably bite someone's head clean off with that beak. But screw being thankful - she likes complaining.

"Null," someone says from behind her. It's Devi, and her arms are crossed tightly over her chest in a way Bryn doesn't like, lips forming a soft pout. "You need to train today - we can't afford to have any of our team weakened." Her voice is surprisingly commanding for a woman with such pure looks. And although Bryn loves to complain, she won't do it to Devi's face. Even someone as nice as her has too much power for Bryn to gamble with.

L'Ull's outdoor training facilities are a work of art, a renaissance painting on the ceiling of a church. That's how she thinks of it, anyway - tools for any kind of training you can think of, rock climbing walls three stories high and monkey bars a mile long, all hidden in the lush forests of the island. The hours that must have gone into making this place...

Though the training area is stunning on its own, Bryn's favourite part has nothing to do with the training itself. Here, everyone's free of their shackles, gaining the option to use their metahuman abilities for their own benefits. Of course, Bryn's always been good at sneaking her powers otherwise, but here she can let herself fall through her own portals and soar through the air, glide with the wind. Plus - rock climbing walls, her one true enemy, become basic when she can walk straight through the wall and step onto the top. It's not really training, and she knows that, but God does she love to show off.

She only recognizes a few of the others in the facility. Some members of SHADR are somewhat famous, particularly those in Rescue and Combat. Bryn likes to include herself as one of these members, and she's not exactly lying - she's the type to get recognized easily when she goes out, the type to be asked for autographs and other, weirder things. It's uncomfortable sometimes, but she refuses to wear any sort of disguise. If she's paying to have her own makeup done, she's damn well going to make sure everyone sees it.

Most members of her division, Rescue and Aid, have particularly potent abilities - some which look excruciatingly powerful when placed next to Bryn's own. It's something that made her feel inept upon first joining SHADR. Sitting in meetings next to literal gods while being nothing particularly special doesn't exactly do wonders for your self-confidence.

But, as she's learned, being powerful is not all that's important to this job. So, as much as she hates training, she does it anyway, in the same routine she always follows. Run a few laps around the facility first, then work on your arms. Rock climbing and monkey bars, mostly. Then, the easy stuff - push-ups, sit-ups, planks, and finally a few more laps. She needs to be in shape to do her job properly. And more importantly, she needs to be in shape for the media, so they don't scrutinize her as much. But, not too in shape. Abs and big muscles are not popular on women.

Being powerful is not all that's important, but neither is physical strength. For someone under the eyes of social media 24/7, improving your own image is always a good idea, both inside and out. So she keeps her nails done neatly, hair dyed smoothly, lips moisturized. She donates to charities. Visits sick kids in hospitals. Anything that makes you a 'good' person in someone's eyes, anything that makes people like you. And thus, she becomes the perfect hero.

Her arms ache from the rock wall already (due in part to the slight injuries she's already sustaining), and so two meters from the top she lets herself fall into a portal, a trust fall, and the ground catches and holds her in its arms, gravel digging into her elbows. Trusting her own powers is something that took a lot of willpower when she was a kid, but she's learned to train the fear out of her. She remembers her first few days on the island. Devi always starts the trainees off with brutal tests, and this had been no exception. That day, the very first day on the island, was her first time free-falling out of a helicopter. Or jumping out of a helicopter in general. Her abilities needed perfect timing in order to avoid becoming a heap of flesh on the concrete.

Yeah, she got rid of that fear pretty quickly.

Devi tells her to work on her momentum. It's a part of her ability which she hasn't fully tested the limits of - it's somewhat dangerous if you're not prepared. You need to place the portals perfectly, so that when you jump into one you fly out of another, soaring through the air like a bird. Except, more like a chicken, or a turkey, or one of those birds that doesn't know how to fly, because it feels a lot more like falling. Bryn had an issue with this when she first started, always landing face-first on the ground and scraping her chin up. First it had been a matter of landing on her feet, or her knees, or basically anywhere but her face. Now is the part where she needs to do so gracefully.

SHADR's facilities are massive. Everything you could ever need sits in those facilities. Momentum training is no exception, and so that's where she goes. The area, which is open and covered entirely by mats rather than gravel, is used for flying more than anything else (a popular power within the company), but it works for Bryn too. One side of the training facility faces the Research and Development building, and thus there's a wall in order to prevent... mishaps. It happens more than you'd expect.

She starts at the top of that wall, which is two meters thick and made of concrete. You'd think they might go for a more aesthetically pleasing material; but Bryn knows that the decision was made by the R&D team. She's only ever seen those nerds wear ugly beige overcoats, so it's no surprise that they have absolutely no idea what they're doing when it comes to style.

The setup for her training is basic. One portal at the bottom, where she'll jump into, and one off the side of the wall. Looking down still makes her anxious. Instead of thinking about it she lets her mind wander, something she does often, and as she falls into her portal she falls into her own head too, letting it succumb her with the thoughts that tend to plague her.

It's an interview. She doesn't remember what magazine it's for. But they've done a photoshoot and everything, and while the editors photoshop her body to hell and back she sits with a reporter in an ugly concrete room. It's one of her first interviews, probably her biggest yet, and she remembers the feeling of anxiety clearly, remembers her fingers tapping numbly on the table, knee bouncing where the reporter can't see. The questions aren't about her hero work or her charity work like she had prepared for. Instead, the reporter asks about her skincare routine, her favourite brand of shampoo, if she ever feels conscious of her height. What's your biggest physical flaw? What do you want to change about yourself? She hasn't learned the art of playing along yet, and each question stings her like a bullet, telling her that she should feel self-conscious, she should invest more money into her goddamn skincare routine and her hair and whatever else. She's wearing a face full of makeup for the first time in her life and briefly she wonders if the mascara is waterproof.

She snaps back to reality in under a second, as she misses the edge of the mat by an inch and lands in the forest brush. Blood comes off the new scrapes on her knees when she touches them, and they sting as she stands up to brush herself off. She had gotten too distracted, hadn't properly timed her landing. Her legs hurt like hell but she goes to the top of the wall again, falls again and this time, thinks too hard about the landing, She lands straight on her feet, sending pain shooting through them like fire bursting through her veins. She still can't do it. So she tries it again, and again, until one time she finally lands it, going into a forward roll and stopping at the edge of the mat, breathing heavy. But it's not enough, so she does it again.

It's at least two hours before she stops, and when she does she's covered in scrapes and bruises. And her arm still hurts from the bird attack. She only goes to the infirmary because Devi tells her to, and she has no explanation to give the nurse when she asks what happened.

"Sounds like you lost control," Devi says. She's right.

In her dreams, the world's long Rapunzel hair snaps and she falls into an abyss. It's a place she returns to often, a place she's grown all too familiar with, and she lets the emptiness, the Null, comfort her. She hopes to God that she won't have to leave.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nightbolt

It was too early in the morning for anyone else to be awake. Director Singh had informed him the previous day that it would be mandatory for everyone to log physical training hours, and that he would have to work around the others to get the privacy he so heavily desired. The choice hadn't been a hard one to make. He'd known before he ever stepped foot into SHADR's base that things would need to be different. His agent had never approved of him sharing space with anyone else, preferring to keep Nightbolt alone in order to minimize unwanted press.

To Sebastian, it seemed almost ironic to him to call it 'alone' because he never truly was. The wireless earpiece stuck to the side of his head insured that he was only ever a few rings away from anyone. His agent insisted on keeping close tabs on him— especially after the media scandal that had threatened his golden boy status. Too much was at stake now. Everything that Sebastian had built was teetering on a thin ledge, ready to tip at any moment.

Training was a welcome distraction from the constant buzz and attention that happened during the day. He'd lost track of the time ages ago, tossing himself into his work with as much dedication as he could muster. Every hour was logged, every lap was recorded, until Nightbolt's body was slick with sweat and the sun had begun to peek over the horizon. He stopped only to drink deeply from his water bottle, sitting on the bench with a notebook in his lap. His fingers ached as he scratched the pen across the surface of the paper, muscles straining with overuse. Dutifully, he wrote down everything he'd accomplished— just as he had done for the past five years.

I might be able to run a few more laps, he considered as he pushed the book aside at last. Running his fingers through his hair, Sebastian felt his palms slide against the perspiration gathering against his scalp. Or I can shower and get an early breakfast. Turning around, he pulled a small drawstring bag out from underneath the bench. Pulling it open, he rifled through the balled up sweatshirt he'd cast aside and the protein shake powder he'd promised himself he'd have with his meal. Sebastian's phone sat at the bottom, screen already illuminated with messages he'd neglected to respond to. A small sigh left his lips as he hunched over the screen, letting his shoulders relax. All of the notifications were swiped away one by one, leaving only one that he hesitated to respond to.

"Make me proud," it read. Sebastian didn't need to look to know who it was from.

Every part of him ached. Blood dripped from the corner of his lip, a precursor to the bruising that would be there in the morning. "If we're going to make you a hero, you've got to look the part in every way." Mr. Stanberg was talking off to the side, trying to break his concentration. He couldn't let that happen. "It's not a game, it's not an act. This is a lifestyle." The training mat beneath his feet was tough and hard, better than the floor but not by much. He stayed on the balls of his feet, fingertips curled into fists. In front of him, a man lunged. "You're going to eat, sleep, and breathe Nightbolt." A fist swung through the air. He ducked but not fast enough. The second collided with his ribcage. "Whatever we say he is— that's who you are." Nightbolt gasped, pain shaking his body as he stumbled backward.

Sebastian pulled himself to his feet, shaking off the memory like a bad feeling as he shoved the phone back into his bag. Too early to reply, he decided firmly. I'll wait. He pulled himself back onto the track in the center of the room, steady walk transforming into a soft jog as he made his way around the circle. With his muscles aching, it was easy to drown out the knot that tightened in the center of his chest. The harder he worked, the easier it was to forget. And the less he remembered, the easier it was to lose himself inside of the hero that was Nightbolt. I was supposed to be a voice for the voiceless. Sebastian quickened his pace, feet striking the ground in heavy steps. A shield for the unprotected. A weapon for the defenseless. Why was he running? What was he running from? The people's hero, their defender. I was—

It was too much. His right eye was starting to swell shut, his vision blurred. "We need to give you an identity that keeps your personal life safe," Mr. Stanberg informed. But he could barely listen. The nineteen-year-old was beyond the brink of exhaustion, his whole body trembling. They'd been at this for hours, but it felt like days. "An extra persona. That way if anyone goes snooping, all they find is a clean slate." His trainer cast him a sympathetic glance as Nightbolt pushed the hair out of his face. Electricity crackled between his knuckles as he raised his fists.

"Again," he ordered. With a sigh, the man stepped forward.

There was no escaping it. His feet slowed to a stop, body folding as he rested his hands on his knees. Sebastian's breath was heavy and ragged in his throat, chest shaking as he struggled to relax the racing of his heart. "Keep it together," he whispered, voice hoarse and dry. "You're fine." In the empty room, his words overlapped into an echo that breached his ears over and over again. Keep it together. You're fine. Keep it together. You're fine. Slowly, he made his way back over to the bench, abandoning the track as he sat down for another swig of water. In the distance, a door creaked, the sound of soft footsteps filling the hallway beyond the training room. He was running out of time. The others would be awake soon, and he would need to be picture perfect for the day ahead.

But something wasn't right. Sebastian couldn't shake the heaviness collecting on his bones. He'd been off since the temple. Since he'd seen the boy in grey, wounded and trembling as the bird monster hunted them down. His eyes flickered to the blue-black bruise that covered the side of his ribcage. People are dead. The words sent a cold shiver down his spine. And you did nothing.

"I can't do it." His whole body reverberated with pain. The blow to his stomach was enough to collapse him like a house of cards. Bile rose in his throat, body doubled over on the mat as he tried to keep himself on his hands and knees. It would have been so easy to drop to the floor, to give in to the siren's call of exhaustion and sleep for three days.

There was silence, heavy and thick. A new pair of feet crossed the mat, stopping in front of the teen's trembling form. "What did you say?" The threat in his agent's voice was unmistakable. But he couldn't take it back. There wasn't enough air left in his lungs to argue.

From behind them, the trainer spoke up. "Look, with all due respect, the kid's—"

"I don't pay you to give me respect," Mr. Stanberg snapped. "I pay you to give me results."

He flexed his fingertips, watching the lightning arc through his veins. It left its imprint on his skin, jagged lines that burned the hair on his arm and faded too quickly. Sebastian watched the sparks on his fingertips fizzle out and die the moment they came into contact with the air. Come on Nightbolt, you can do this. The power was an unused muscle— weak and atrophied inside of his body. When he was younger, it always seemed to come so much easier. Lightning would course between his palms, easy to manipulate and eager to be used. Those surges of power had left marks on him that did not disappear with time, leaving him forever tattooed by their memory. But now, even the sparks that crackled around him seemed impossible to control.

Just as quickly as it came, the electricity stopped once more. With a sigh, he pulled the drawstring bag back over into his lap. Sebastian tugged the sweatshirt out, phone clattering to the floor as he did so. The screen illuminated once more, a new flurry of messages lining the screen as he scooped it into his hand. His agent's text still waited, eager for reply. If he didn't do it soon, the earpiece would start to ring.

"This is a waste of my time." Nightbolt pulled himself to his feet once again, wobbly and uncoordinated. Mr. Stanberg wouldn't look at him, his fingertips pinching the bridge of his nose as he half-heartedly waved at the teen. "Go home. Christ, how did I ever think I could make this work?"

Home. Where his mother waited, drunken gaze glued to the television screen. Where the fridge was empty of anything except five-day-old takeout and bottles of liquor. Where his brother, with his hollow eyes and growling stomach, would tug on his sleeve and ask when they could go to the store again next. Where he would be forced once more to creep out into the night, shatter windows and break into homes in the desperate attempt to keep the debt collectors away. Where he would eventually be caught and arrested, or killed by the owners of the home. It was not a life. It never could be.

"Wait—" From somewhere inside of him, what remained of his will surged forward. It took the form of lightning, bright and crackling between the palms of his hands. He could feel it burning through him, searing the hair off his arms in broken lines. "I can do this," he promised. "I want to do this."

The pause stretched through lifetimes, Nightbolt's breath caught in his throat as he waited for an answer. "You get one more shot, kid." Relief flooded his aching, weary bones. "How do you feel about Sebastian? It's pretty close to your name, right?"

He knew better than to argue. "It's perfect."

"Okay, Sebastian." For the first time, he watched his agent smile. "Let's keep going."

His fist tightened, a wave of bitter anger bubbling forward from where he had buried it so many years ago. My name is Santiago Iglesia. He could smell the burning plastic before he saw the smoke, before he could hear the hiss and pop of glass in his hand breaking. A dull throb ached through his skin, residual electricity crackling against his veins as he dropped the phone onto the floor. I won't let that take them from me. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pocket Watch

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

How stupid could I be? I was completely, and utterly, useless out in that mission. The second I saw danger, I froze. Every other member jumped into the fray, but the best that I could do was freeze.

"Good job spotting the beast and warning us." A voice said, cutting the surface of my thoughts. I shook my head and didn't look up to see the owner. Whoever it was passed by. I huffed.

Our next mission wouldn't be for another week. That gave me 7 days, 7 long tedious days, to become better. Clearly my intellect was just fine where it was. My strength, my physical body, was the one lacking. I knew what I had to do. My feet carried me back to my room. Distraction was not something I could afford when training.

Inside, the room was well-kept. Books and journals were shelved neatly, and all of my pens were grouped nicely in a little tray on my desk. I smiled, knowing that I was among the few that used their desk properly amongst the team. They aren't idiots, oh no, everyone has their strengths. It just occurs to me that my associates are... a little dull, a little slow on the uptake, a little... more brawn than brains.

I scoffed to myself, everyone has their strengths. Who was I to think lesser of them for choosing physicality over the mind? No one.

I planted my feet in the middle of room. Inhale. My arms raised up and stretched out. Exhale. I loosened every muscle in my body. Inhale. My body trembled as I overextended in stretching, and stretching and stretching. Exhale.

With one last deep breath, I activated my ability. The world took a hazy look to it. I could see everything, but it still somehow looked out of focus. The clock on the wall ticked slowly, counting the 10, or so, short moments I had to look around. My head swiveled, taking in every detail. My favorite books were still on the eye-level shelf. On the desk, my favorite pen was still on the right most side. Everything was as it should be.

I reached out with my right hand. The muscles in my arm tensed, and squeezed. I gasped, and felt a shift both in and around me. The clock ticked quickly, and the air moved once more. My ability had dropped.

I growled furiously. That was the limit of my ability, I look around all I liked, but movement still alluded me. I could move for 1, maybe 2, moments before my power gave out, like a broken leg. I sucked a lungful of air, and exhaled through my teeth, creating a hissing sound. My anger subsided, taking a sideline seat.

Again. I drew a breath in, and the world shifted. I exhaled, and looked around. My eye movements made no difference. I shook my head frantically, looking as far as my neck would allow. Time still passed at a snail's pace. Timidly, as if testing the sturdiness of a frozen lake, I slid my foot forward. A piercing pain, the size of a penpoint, formed in between my eyes. I gasped, squeezing my eyes shut by the sudden sensation.

A loud tick sounded, the clock on the wall. I waited, frozen. Moments passed, and another tick. I opened my eyes slowly. My room was still a foggy blur, and the clock moved impossibly slow.

I can't lose this moment. I gritted my teeth, locking my jaw in a way that I knew made my dentist hate me for. My foot slid farther, and my headache grew more intense. It grew from a penpoint to the size of a fingernail. I grunted, but in an eloquent way.

Finally, my foot was far enough for a step. Slowly, I leaned forward, placing more and more weight onto it. The headache became unbearable. It was banging pots and pans in my skull, pounding with each heartbeat. My leg muscles squeezed, threatening to lock up completely. I burrowed my brows, allowing my anger from earlier be my fuel. The heat rose from my stomach into my chest, feeling like the flame of the sun.

When I had half of my weight on both feet, I lost it. The feeling of moving through Jell-O dropped, the world became sharper, and the clock ticked frequently. I grunted, and flopped down onto the bed. Of all of the things to remain, it had to be the migraine. I closed my eyes, and blindly reached to the bedside table. It brushed a small bottle, and a large one. I took both, opening both with a blind deftness. The smaller of the two, I poured out two capsules, which I threw into my mouth. The larger bottle, I flipped open and drank deeply from. I was no stranger to sudden migraines, just usually not at this magnitude.

Still.... I slowly opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. Still, I had been able to move. The relief and pride washed over me like a wave from the ocean. It sent small sparks of warmth down my torso, down my legs, into my toes. I smiled weakly.

I had moved.

It was half a step, but that was more than I had before. But it wasn't enough. With a huff, I got up. I stretched my arms and legs once again, encouraging them to stay loose. I tried again.

I adopted a new routine. In the mornings, I would do my daily exercises. I would run, or lift, or jump, or climb. Some higher up had given non-combat/non-rescue members a weekly routine to stick by. Some days, it felt way too difficult. How was I supposed to be able to do 15 push-ups? One was a chore. I sighed, fighting through the fatigue I felt growing in my arms.

In the afternoon, I would retire to my room. There, I would spend hours pushing myself mentally. Every day I went a little farther, and in 3 days' time, I could take a whole step. I realize that it sounds so meager when thought, or said, aloud. I never said a word about this to anyone. Not that I had much choice.

During meals in the mess hall, I would sit at a table and eat. Usually I would bring a book. However, with the constant migraines, reading became tedious and made my head feel worse. So, I took to observing, people watching if you will. So many faces I did not recognize, so many people who were just chatting idly. Jealously pricked in my heart.

I shook my head, if they wanted to speak with me, they would. With a sigh, I got up and went back to my room. It was just as tidy as ever. I flopped onto the bed. Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock went, taunting me. I could tell it to slow down, but I couldn't take it off the wall.

A flame of frustration flared up in my gut. I felt my face heat up in an obvious blush. With a scream I got up, and swept my arms across my desk. Everything fell to the floor, making small pathetic thuds on the carpet. I screamed again, and reached up to the clock. It ticked loudly once, twice more, then stopped when I slammed it to the ground.

I wasn't good enough, and I didn't have the patience right now to make such slow progress. Tears welled up in my eyes, making the world blurry. Sobs heaved in my chest, making my headache worse, but no matter how hard I tried, the tears kept coming. I sobbed, and blubbered like a baby. Thankfully, no one would see this.

The next day, I trained longer. I ran myself ragged going around the track. It felt good, the steady pump of my legs. Feeling my aching heart work harder. Each breath was a chore, but it forced them to be steady. As I have found, it's harder to cry when you are running. When I returned to my room, my body was just a mass of pain. My mind hyper focused on the bed, nearly forcing my body to fall down onto it. I shook my head, and did my stretches. I could relax when I knew I wouldn't have to deal with locked up muscles.

I stretched, and stretched, and stretched. Feeling my arms and legs protest, until I relaxed and it felt so good. My mind reeled, and I stumbled backwards. The world spun, and shifted and I felt my stomach protest. My eyes flew around the room, but I couldn't focus. Am I dying?

I placed my hand on my bedrail, and took a deep breath. My eyes blinked slowly, seeing without really seeing. No. No wait. I slowly raised my head and looked up. It wasn't that I couldn't focus, it was that the world wasn't in focus. I gasped, standing up fully. I put my hand to my head, to make sure what I was seeing and feeling were real.

My power had activated without me consciously doing so. I just had just moved, with my ability activated. The air whooshed out of my lungs, my mind stopped completely in its tracks. I had... I had just moved with my ability. A laugh escaped my lips. Whatever black emotion had strangled my heart loosened and I laughed. I laughed of joy and madness, and of relief from my frustration.

I took a step forward, slow and timid as before. No migraine, not even a headache. The smile never left my face as I went up to my bookshelf, a few paces away. I reached up towards my favorite book, an experimental study on social constructs. Once my hand touched the book, my powers gave out. I didn't care.

I didn't just have to tell the world to slow down, I could make it listen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hourglass

CATCALLED FIREBRAND

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nyelia

Power was not something that came without practice. Even Nyelia, who had lived for thousands of years, knew that without proper instruction the strongest could fall. Nobody was immune to the effects of time, the way it chipped away at the body and the spirit until little remained. She respected the choice of Director Singh in ordering her to train. Although she was not Firebrand, who wore her dominance like a second skin, she still demanded a level of respect Nyelia was prepared to give. Under her direct instruction, the goddess had abandoned her gold and jewels for the day— dressing once more in her combative clothes in order to participate properly in the physical training.

The room itself was two stories. On the ground floor, a series of weights and electronic devices hugged every wall and crowded the walkway. The second level was a large balcony looking down at the others from all angles, creating a track to run on. It was there that Nyelia found herself the most comfortable. Although she had managed— with careful instruction— to comprehend and complete the activities necessary on the floor below, she preferred the gentle rhythm of running in circles above. The rush of air as it entered her lungs was intoxicating, forced out just as quickly as she pushed herself to go faster. She'd long since stopped keeping track of how many times she had gone around. Exhaustion was a friendly feeling in her bones, the ache of her muscles forcing her to do one more.

It was only when she noticed Rilla waiting by the stairs, two bottles in her hand, that she finally slowed to a jog—and then stopped. She greeted the other woman with a breathless smile, riding out the waves of adrenaline that coursed through her. Nyelia pulled her hair over her shoulder, letting the cold air touch her neck as she reached out to take one of the bottles from Rilla's hand. "Have you come to join me?" Nyelia asked, a hint of hopefulness clinging to her voice. Perhaps we can work on her telepathy. She needs to practice her strengths.

But instead, Rilla shook her head, stepping forward onto the track as she did so. "No, you and I are going to the range in a few minutes."

The goddess crinkled her nose, a dissatisfied hum leaving her throat as she twisted the top off of the bottle. There were very few modern inventions that she found herself genuinely pleased with, but the cold water in her grasp was more than a welcome change. "You were late to training," she observed as she walked towards the edge of the balcony, letting her arms rest against the stone wall separating her from the open air. She tilted her head to the side, a sly smile stretching across her lips as Nyelia nodded toward the figure of a man entering from below. "Pierre was also absent, I noticed."

The look Rilla gave her was sharp as she stepped up beside Nyelia. "Don't start," the doctor warned. At length, they had spoken about the relationship between the two researchers. It hadn't gone well. Nyelia had simply informed her that Pierre would make a suitable biological match and that their offspring would be undoubtedly blessed by Nyelia's own gifts. In return, Rilla had given her a long talk about how "dating" was not just for television and that people didn't ask goddesses to bless their children— especially not Nyelia.

"Were you with him?" she pressed, taking a sip out of the bottle as she watched a crimson blush settle over her soulmate's cheeks. "Intimately?"

Rilla scoffed, her voice snipped as she responded. "Don't be ridiculous." She puffed out her chest as she spoke, chin jutted out, even as her eyes remained firmly on the silhouette on the ground below. There was a child with him now, a chattering boy who darted around his father with boundless energy. Noah, Nyelia reminded herself. Rilla mentioned that he would be here today.

Slowly, the goddess narrowed her eyes, body turning to face the other woman more fully. "You are too prideful to admit it?" There was a seriousness to her words that hadn't been there before, excitement and curiosity turning to the scolding tone of a mother.

"No," Rilla answered. "I just don't see why it's your business."

"And yet you will not stop looking at him." Her soulmate's jaw tightened, fingers clutching the bottle a little tighter as her eyes darted towards the far wall. Is she frightened? Nyelia couldn't tell. There was so much about Rilla she could not know. Even through their shared bond, she hardly knew the woman beside her. Time felt so limited, secrets piling up one by one like bricks in the wall that divided them. A tight knot formed in her throat, a surge of words tangling together in a web of doubt before Nyelia gained the strength to speak. "Once, I allowed my pride to get the better of me."

The doctor groaned, raking a hand through her hair as she shook her head. "Nyelia, I really don't want to hear about you devouring your mother's second heart again—"

She ignored the remark, charging ahead with the story that spilled from her lips. This was a different tale, a myth buried deep in the recesses of her memory. "I challenged every man alive to toss my spear into the sun and pierce its heart— an impossible act. The one who could achieve this would have me for his bride." As the words began to pool in the air, the tightness in her chest grew stronger. Fear was not an emotion she was used to. "Many tried. None were capable. Foolishly, I believed this meant I could never be beaten."

Rilla was listening now, her eyes set in the distance but seeing nothing. In that moment, Nyelia could see the curious child who must have wondered so much about the stories around her— burying herself in myths and legends until they were impossible to detangle from reality. Once more, Rilla had found those lines blurred— and Nyelia could not be the one to separate them again.

"The sun god, Hanalas," she continued, "became angry with my boasting. He believed it was disrespectful to include his domain in my challenge." She could see his face clearly in her mind. The darkness of his skin, the golden glow of his eyes, and the sharpness of his teeth as he buried them in the throats of those who defied him. "To end it, he took my spear and struck the sun so hard that it wept. Its golden tears clung to the black silk of night and created the stars, all of which obeyed him out of fear." Nyelia's voice was softer now, her body slouching against the wall as she gazed off at the empty air. "From that point on, I was his bride. We had many children."

She could remember the sound of their voices. The pull of the lapping sea against her ankles, colliding with the cold waters of the river. With the sunrise on her face, the tears that dripped from her cheeks were golden. Only the child in her arms remained, her nails digging into his soft flesh. "Give him to me," he whispered. But she could not obey.

Between them, a hollow pause filled the air. "That's—" Rilla shook her head softly, eyes darting at last to the goddess beside her. "Not what you asked, though. He cheated."

A small, bitter smile stretched across her lips. "Pierre is a good man, Rilla," she answered. "If the time arises, you should embrace his affections." Nyelia cast her eyes down at the floor below, watching the young man chat excitedly with his father and the smile on Pierre's face. I will never again know that feeling. Slowly, she took a drink from the bottle, letting the cold water wash over her tongue. "Pride will bring you nothing but misery."