When you have powers that can break anything with a single touch, it's incredibly easy to escape. After packing everything I have into a bag and throwing some stuff around to make it seem like there has been a struggle here, all it takes is a blast of power to the window and security field and I am out.

Shaking the sand off my boots and blanking the security shield again as it attempts to reform, I dart across the lawn and duck behind the neighbor's bushes. Just as I am concealed, the security shield reforms with a shimmering blue whoosh. The lights flick on inside the house. The heroes are officially alerted.

I scuttle along the bushes to the garage, blanking the panic switch and the garage door. It comes down with a deafening crash of metal. Leaping over the debris—which will hopefully hide the blanked panic switch—I swerve around the hover car to the back where I find what I was looking for: a hoverboard.

Snatching it, I flick it on and jump onto it. It takes a moment to gain my balance and the anti-fall field to latch onto my feet, but I manage. I lean forwards and the board shoots out of the garage and into the gray, city-lit sky. As I leave the neighborhood behind, a twinge of guilt wiggles under my ribs. I'm sorry, I think to the boy I saw playing with the hoverboard next door yesterday. But I need your board.

Plus, the heroes will probably reimburse him with a brand new one once they figure out that I—or rather, Blank Slate—has stolen it. At least, David might do that. He seems to be the charitable type. Another twinge of guilt, this one razor-edged, slides through my ribcage. I'm sorry I'm such a horrible friend.

Crisp night air whips at my clothes and hair, chilling my exposed skin and stealing away my sigh. It's better this way. I won't have to lie to him—to all of them—anymore and can focus on...figuring things out. Now that I have a base to land in, I can take this risk. It's worth it. It really is.

Still, doubt forms a knot in my stomach. Pushing it aside, I angle myself towards the arching shapes of buildings studded with lights, sparkling as if they were the stars themselves. Below, the dark shapes of suburban houses blur past, slumbering along with all sane people.

This will be a long trip. According to my GPS, I am an hour and a half from High-Five St., and only if I don't have to take detours around high-traffic air spaces or no-flying zones. At least...it will give me time to think.

●↽—01000010—⇁●

It's nearly dawn by the time I find my hideout. It's tucked in the backside of an old, abandoned apartment building on the middle floor—nearly impossible to find in the dark. But at least...I found it, even if it did take five hours of searching.

Tucking the hoverboard under my arm, I tap on my holowatch's flashlight and pan it across the space. Dust lies thick over the floor, a rickety old table shoved into the corner, a cot held up by cinder blocks, a stack of crates, and the various random debris haphazardly scattered throughout. The two windows set into the far wall on my right are sealed with what looks like opaque emergency tape, keeping the wind out and the musty smell in.

Wrinkling my nose, I gingerly set the hoverboard by the door—which surprisingly is still intact, though squeaky—and edge farther into the room. I take off my backpack and toss it onto the cot. It lands with a cloud of dust and I cough.

I'm going to have to do something about this dust if I want to breathe tonight. I glance towards the window and the faint light filtering through. At least, what's left of it. Running a hand through my hair, I begin to take stock of the situation.

First, I search the room more thoroughly for anything I missed. One of the first things I find is a broom, which I use to sweep the worst of the dust out the door, nearly choking with each sweep. Next, I check the crates which are filled with a duplicate of my villain outfit, some other clothes, food and water—enough to last a month—various pieces of tech I don't recognize, and plenty of ParaPens.

Useful. Following my memory, I worm under the cot, braving more dust and even a cockroach. To my horror, in the cinderblock in the far corner is a small stack of bombs. Not any average bombs, but smoke bombs, electrical bombs, tear-gas bombs, flash bombs, and even A19 bombs—just one of those are enough to take down an entire building—all sitting there as if they were normal, boring rocks.

How on earth did I dare sleep on this cot? One fluke or rapid temperature change and boom, instant death! Cringing, I back out and shake the dust from my hair. There must be safety mechanisms on those things, otherwise I wouldn't have trusted them. I am not crazy. I was not crazy. I hope, anyway.

Climbing to my feet, I turn towards the table. Tucked under a rock is a note, but not the one I remember. Instead of being written on paper, this one is written on a small slate of ENglass. Nudging the rock aside, I pick it up. The paper note I remember is under it and flutters in the small breeze my hand makes. Shifting the rock on top of it, I blow away the dust on the slate and cup my hand around it. As the heat of my hand powers it up, letters start to appear.

The Viper's purpose is to strike at the heart.

Similarly, the Slate's purpose is to unmake what is to be remade.

We are not evil.

Tiny fragments of ice cascade down my spine, chilling my bones. What? Did—did I write this? Did she write this?

"Who wrote you?" I whisper to the slate, dragging my thumb nail along the bottom edge.

The faint light from the screen fades and the words arrange themselves in answer.

By D and E. LL.'s GlidePen, it reads, at 17:40pm, 2330/12/17.

Both of us. We wrote it. But why? And what does it mean? "Return to message." The words fade and return to their previous order. I read it over again, the words echoing in my head.

Is this...our mission statement? Why is my purpose to unmake what is to be remade? What even is to be remade? What heart is Viper supposed to strike? People? Or something more symbolic?

Familiar frustration burns at the static in my head, turning its buzz incessantly loud and stoking heat in my chest. Another piece I don't know how to use. Another thing I don't know. I am so tired of it all! When will it stop? Will I always have questions that I don't know where to find the answers?

A growl grumbles through my teeth and I shove the slate into my pocket, a burst of heat scorching the tips of my ears. It doesn't stop there. It swirls inside of me, latching on to any dent or fissure it finds and drilling its fire deep into my skin. Even here I can't find any answers. Even with the answers I do have, I still have questions. I can't escape from them.

Suddenly, I am angry. Not just mad, but seething, furious, angry. It comes out of nowhere, gripping me with bared teeth and balled fists, tearing at my patience until I want to scream. Why do I have to be stuck like this? Why did I ever think not remembering was better than remembering? Why does this have to be so— so— horrible?

I grip my hair, a snarl twisting my mouth. This is her fault. She led me away. She probably twisted my mind with her powers. She made all of this horribly difficult and hard and—

My eyes land on the note on the table and the anger turns inward. This is my fault too. I stupidly went with her. I chose to blank myself. I chose to break my rules. And now I'm here, adrift with not a clue of what to do with the rest of my short life, thanks to the parasite.

Red flashes across my vision and I throw out my hands, letting the winter searing through fly out. The door collapses into sticks.

"RAAAH!" Stupid, stupid, stupid! I needed that door!

Before I can do anything else stupid, I leap over the sticks and run out of the apartment, down all ten flights of stairs, and burst out of the back door of the apartment building. Panting, I skid to a stop in the alley, putting a completely white hand on the wall.

I am such a mess. All of this is such a big, whopping mess. The anger sinks deeper, burning through all the strength I have left like a laser. Putting my back to the wall, I slide down to the ground and put my head in my hands. I should have stuck to rule six and never blanked myself. I should have not done so many things. But here I am, and I can't change a thing. It—it's so useless. I am so useless.

What is the purpose of all of this? Is there even a purpose? Is this just all a cruel hand of life? Or is there some higher being up there who thinks this is some funny joke? If there is, I want to blank it.