The vacuum Thomas felt inside of him was familiar. I wasn't an absence of feeling; it was a numbness where emotion should be but didn't know how to be. He recognised the vehemence of his father's show of emotion. He'd seen it once before. Affection was given without prompting, but not to this extent. With this gravity.

His father had held him in this way when his mother died. Then, it was genuine, perhaps the contained love from all the times he'd held back erupting at once. This time, it was...

What was it? Guilt? A diversion? Normally, Thomas would have had a strip torn off of him. He didn't give his father many reasons to do so, but he had experienced it on occasion. But never, apart from that one time, like this.

Thomas felt cold. A child had entered him uninvited and he had to resist the urge to shiver. He wanted to push his father away, but couldn't. It would seem suspicious, more so than the embrace itself. Instead, he let it run its course. He let himself hold his father – even though he was shocked and angry, he could still be torn from his only surviving parent – and, when they separated, excused himself.

"It's been a long day and I have homework," he said." I'll be out once I'm finished."

"You're a good boy, son. Don't push yourself too hard."

Because my mind might cave in?

"I won't, Daddy."

Iain smiled. He liked it when his son called him 'Daddy'. For a second, he forgot his betrayal and was the boy's father. Then he remembered and the smile faded.

Thomas returned to his room and closed the door. There was a blind permanently pulled down at the window. It stopped prying eyes and kept the world outside outside. It wasn't one of the fancy, expensive new ones that stopped X-Ray eyes from seeing within, but it, at least, minimised temptation.

He laid on his bed, with his head on the pillow. He could feel the bumps beneath and wished he were a princess and they were merely a pea. He wasn't and they weren't. He was the problem and they were the solution.

He was tempted to just do it. There. Then. Show his father what his son really was, then leave. But, he was ten, not fifteen. Not eighteen or thirty. Ten. He wouldn't know the first thing about surviving out there.

Once upon a time, when Iain was young and Thomas was not even a thought, there were homeless shelters. Food banks. Ways for those cast out to survive. Since the Outbreak, things had changed dramatically. The homeless were capable of taking what they wanted, when they wanted it. There were plenty of people to stop them, but some of those became homeless themselves when they destroyed their homes or killed their families. Accidents were common when it came to an inexperienced and arrogant populace. The defeated or vulnerable were no longer that. This should have been a good thing, and in some ways was, but it tipped a balance that was already precarious at best.

Thomas knew he wouldn't be able to cope. He had no illusions about his talents, and they didn't include sleeping rough or starving. He couldn't help himself to a restaurant's menu or take himself up to a cosy penthouse, swiftly removing the customer or current occupier in the process. He would be cold. Hungry. At risk from the gangs. And insanity. He had to stay, at least for the night. In the morning, maybe he could reason with his father. Show him what had been bought and become the son his father wanted. If he left, they'd search for him and he didn't know if he was adept enough to stay hidden. He wasn't a Chameleon like Bren. He couldn't become anything he like to avoid detection.

Maybe Bren could help. She certainly seemed capable, and they had, as far as Thomas thought, a fledgling friendship. No. He couldn't imagine, whatever his father had done, leaving. It was his dad! He couldn't imagine, also, being dragged away by the people on the end of the phone. That was happening, whether he liked it or not. And it was because of his dad.

When he woke, it was dark. He looked around to make sure he was still in his bedroom and hadn't been taken. The row of books. The toys. The poster of the moon on a bed of stars, with its small tear in the top right from when he put it up but was struggling to reach. The pile of ironing he'd intended on putting away when he got home. It was his room. He relaxed, briefly, then sat up sharply enough to make his head swim. He put his hand out to stop himself from falling back and felt the lumps beneath his pillow.

Now? Before they come? before he has to face the man who is giving him away to them?

No. Not yet. His father didn't deserve to see it. By the time they came for him, it would be all over and they'd realise the boy was just like everyone else. It was a mistake. Maybe a parent who wanted rid of the child that was a burden to them. Thomas didn't believe he was a chain around his father's neck, but those who came for him didn't know that. And, when he showed his abilities, they would go away, leave him alone and possibly reprimand his father.

Which he did deserve.

He dressed quickly in his school uniform and walked purposefully out into the kitchen.

"Hey son!" Iain said, energetically enough for it to come across as forced. He threw an arm around his son's shoulders and gave him a squeeze.

"Morning Dad."

"What would you like for breakfast? Plonk your bum down and I'll get it for you."

Thomas always sorted out his own breakfast. His father was perfectly willing to make it for him, but Thomas liked the independence. He felt it was one less burden for Iain to have to deal with, alongside him being a single parent. He'd done so for enough time for Iain to no longer ask. The fact that he was asking was unusual. Under the circumstances, it was suspicious. It was too nice.

"I'm fine, thanks. I like doing it."

And you can't drug me so you can hand me over!

"OK," his father said, cheerily. "No probs."

"You're in a good mood today, Dad. Any reason?"

"No reason," Iain said, his smile remaining fixed. "I just thought I'd treat my boy. Besides, I've had a few things on my mind recently, and now they're finally being sorted."

Oh I bet.

"What things? Is everything alright?"

"Nothing for you to worry about, son. It's just been a bit tough for a while. Grown up stuff."

Thomas hated it when adults said that. He might only be ten, but he was mature. He'd had to be to combat the increasing number of jibes directed at him and his lack of super powers. He'd matured dramatically when his mother died. If the 'grown up stuff' affected him, he'd always prefer to know about it.

"OK, no probs."

Iain missed his son imitating him. He just nodded and poured himself another coffee. There was a loud slamming of a door from somewhere outside their apartment, making Iain almost drop his mug and shaking the picture of mother, father and son that hung on the wall opposite the door.

"That's Eddy going to work. He'll have this building down around his ears one day."

Eddy was Edward Redgrave. A Jacker whose powers were not in the same league as Iain's but were still substantial enough. He had always, since moving into the apartment on the floor below, been slightly jealous of his neighbour's abilities. The slamming of the door was more for effect than anything. Apartment and house front doors were designed, being so heavy, to open and close smoothly. They didn't need the obvious exertion put into doing either that Eddy exhibited. He seemed to want Iain to know he was as strong. He wasn't inferior. Iain had never thought of the other man in that way. Everyone had abilities. The strength or range of them didn't matter. It wasn't a condition. It was just the way it was.

Though, on occasion, the slamming of the door made him smile as it showed he was stronger than Eddy, otherwise Eddy would be gentler or considerate. Particularly with his infirm mother living with him. The old woman was frail and on her way to being completely deaf. She could barely walk, even with her walking frame, and could often be heard speaking to her family members, all of whom were dead. They were caught in the fireball that killed Oscar's family.

Thomas liked to pretend her power was that she could speak to the dead. She couldn't - the power didn't exist – but Thomas thought it gave her some form of dignity when old age was slowly stripping her of her own.

She used to be able to fly but, being already old when the Outbreak spread, that didn't last very long. She could hover for short periods and at low heights, but that was all. Eddy had her living with him to avoid her being a target, as many beyond pensionable age were. They weren't very good at defending themselves, so they were a prime target.

Thomas nodded. It wasn't the first time his father had said that same phrase when hearing the slamming door and he didn't know if it would be the last. He was being taken away and might never see his father again. It could be the last time he'd ever hear it. He turned his face to hide the tears that suddenly welled.

He stood up.

"I'm not hungry Dad," he said. "I need to get ready for school."

"Why don't you have a day off and spend it with me?"

"That'd be great, Dad, but I need to get to school."

"I insist, son."