Chapter 2
2794words
I don't know why I bother writing anymore. None of my other notebooks ever made a difference. I write into these pages like it might mean something... like someone might read them one day... and understand me. But I know better. No one's coming.
Still, I write.
I suppose I want today to go well...
Especially with... him.
I must go now.
I'll write later.
- Slyvian Blackbird 🐦⬛
I close my tattered and torn notebook, carefully hiding it beneath a loose floorboard in my small, cramped closet. This closet is where I keep all my notebooks and other items that Mom wouldn't allow me to have, like gadgets and tools for building small projects. Once everything is tucked away, I walk to my window and gaze down at the alleyway. I focus on the dumpster, that's where I often find my notebooks and scraps of metal.
The alley is my theater. Since Mom won't let me have a TV in my room, I made the alley my TV. I've seen it all: homeless people digging through dumpsters or sleeping there, minor heroes chasing down criminals, and occasionally, minor villains committing murders. Those moments fascinate me the most; I suppose it's the unpredictability and the raw humanity fading from their eyes, and the one who committed it laughs with a crazed face, happy, euphoria, and lust. I see it all in their eye. They have no regrets, not a single one.
There is one I despise seeing, and it's seeing people having sex in the alley. I will never understand why they bother doing it there. It's disgusting. Who would want to be surrounded by garbage, rats, and unknown liquid while having intercourse? Who would even want to have intercourse? That part, I will never understand.
"Cook!!" a deep, angry, raspy voice yells loudly, interrupting my thoughts.
It's my mother's on-and-off boyfriend. He's annoying, always yelling at me, hitting me, ordering me around, just like Mom. I quietly leave my room, my door squeaking like it usually does... It's annoying. I head to the kitchen, my footsteps light against the worn wooden floors. The familiar sight of the ragged, dirty living room appears in front of me. It's cluttered with old, worn-out furniture and random belongings. The walls are stained, the paint is peeling, and holes mar the plaster. No matter how much I clean, it never stays that way.
As usual, I make sandwiches as quietly as possible. If I make too much noise, I might go another month without food. They never liked noise coming from me; that's why I don't talk much, and that's why I reply in short answers when I do talk.
I place two plates on the table and start cleaning the living room. Just as I finish throwing the trash into the bin, I hear the familiar squeak of a door opening. They're awake. I glance over at my mother and her boyfriend.
Melody Blackbird is a tall, lithe woman with long, straight, dirty brown hair. Her face is gaunt and sharp, with a pointed chin and angular features. Her pale gray eyes are cold and distant. Her skin is limestone, and she possesses the power of illusion, a power that I once saw her use when I was four. She transformed our entire neighborhood block into something beautiful. It looked like the Ivory Den District. But... she did it because a man in an expensive black suit and wearing a wide hat had come to visit. He seemed powerful because he knew it was all an illusion. He chuckled at her for her failed attempt to make him think that we were living lavishly. And for some reason, I also felt a strange sense of familiarity about him. I'm not sure why; I never saw him again after that.
Mother's boyfriend, Lucius Omaier, is tall with a rugged, rough appearance and rich tan skin. His unkempt brown hair and scruffy beard match his cruel, heartless personality. He has the power to summon weapons, which fits his aggressive nature and the way he treats me and others. He considers himself a threatening villain to heroes, but in truth, they don't even acknowledge him. They see him as a joke, and the minor villains see him as a disgrace. That's why he never got into those villain clubs that he tries to join every month.
As usual, they eat their sandwiches while I clean.
"Ugh, I'm fucking sick and tired of eating nothing but damn sandwiches every fucking day. When am I going to get something different? Likes steak or ribs, huh?" Lucius grumbles. There he goes again, always complaining about wanting something else. I can't cook those things... not after the last time. I almost burned the kitchen down when I cooked the steaks, and from that, I got two rounds of beatings for it.
"Don't worry. I'll head to the street mart and buy steaks," Mom says sweetly.
After finishing my chores, I head to my room to get ready for school.
Once I was in my room, I pulled out my school uniform, which is my only decent set of clothing. The other outfit I have is just a shirt with many holes and grey cotton shorts that have permanent stains.
I put on the white button-down shirt with short sleeves and tied the navy blue tie around my neck. Next, I slipped into the navy blue skirt and the navy blue blazer adorned with gold embroidery that resembles the school emblem; it depicts the sun and its rays on the right breast. I put on white socks and navy blue shoes, then grabbed my plain gray backpack, making sure my school notebook was inside.
Once ready, I silently leave my room, that annoying door squeaking again. I walked past Mom and Lucius, who were now lounging in the living room. Watching the news about Velkon, a well-known villain who loves terrorizing the city just for fun.
After leaving the apartment, I'm met with the hallway; it's as decrepit as ever, the floors and walls covered in various stains, scratches, and markings. The apartment doors are dented and chipped. The air is thick with mildew, and I hear rustling and squeaking within the walls.
I walk down the hallway, walking past my neighbor, Mr. Or'dara. As usual, he's sitting on his wooden stool beside his apartment door. He's surrounded by pieces of clay, wire, and other materials. He was sculpting a miniature sculpture of a girl who strangely resembled me. His clothes are ragged, and he seems lost in his own world as he works. But once he pauses and sees me, he smiles as he always does when I head to school.
"Ah Good morning, Slyvian. Your mother give you money for lunch?" he asks.
I shake my head no.
He sighed, "Of course, she didn't, but don't worry about it," he said, reaching into his back pocket and holding out some credlings. It's not enough for a full lunch, but enough to buy a snack from the vending machine...not that it matters either way; it'll end up being stolen.
"No," I said. But he keeps his hand out, his wrinkled smile still in place.
"Take it. You need to eat," he insists.
Not wanting to argue, I take the credlings and start to put them in my pocket, but he stops me.
"No, no. Put it in your backpack, inside your notebook. I saw it being stolen in my vision," he says, and he returns to his sculpture.
I do as he asks, "Thank you," I say quietly before continuing down the hallway.
Reaching the end of the hall, there is a raggedy elevator. The doors are dented, and the buttons are worn. As I approach, I hear the familiar scraping and creaking as it slowly makes its way to me. Once inside, I stand still, staring at the old man hunched over at his stool, scraping away clay, while the elevator doors slowly close.
Mr. Or'dara is a retired fortune teller, always giving me money for lunch. I guess I'm... grateful for his kindness, but sometimes, I feel like he only does it because I remind him of his deceased daughter. He told me that when I was in elementary school. Or maybe... his predictions say to him about the suffering I go through at school... I don't know. But what I do know is that I wish he wouldn't pity me. If I want to become a hero, I don't need pity.
Maybe I've just grown used to the suffering by now... most people wouldn't... I guess I'll be the first.
When the elevator doors slowly open, the familiar sight of the lobby comes into view. The air is heavy with the smell of Nova-Cigs and mustiness. Scattered around the room are various pieces of old, broken furniture. The tile floor is stained and worn, while the walls are covered in graffiti and markings. The staircase leading to the upper floors is on the right side of the elevator, but it's broken and far too dangerous to climb due to years of damage. I don't think those stairs will ever get fixed; I've seen that same broken staircase since I was a child.
Stepping outside, the city sprawls before me in its usual chaos of sights and sounds. Flying cars speed between buildings, hoverboards hum overhead, and robot taxis dart through the air like insects. Below, the streets crawl with people, some dressed in bold, vibrant colors, others wrapped in sleek, minimalist styles. The sidewalks are cracked and worn, but no one seems to care.
Above are the neon signs; some flicker with glitchy brightness, and some are holographic ads that loop endlessly, casting pulsing blues, pinks, and greens over the crowd.
I wish I had one of those hoverboards. My feet always hurt after walking all the way to school. It takes me forty-five minutes to get there on foot, a reason why I always wake up earlier than any normal student should. Not because I'm eager but because I have to. No one else is going to carry me there. No one else ever does anything for me.
When the high school finally comes into view, it stands like a palace, with white marble walls, towering columns, and arched doorways. It's built to look important, to give the illusion that what happens inside matters more than what happens outside. The entrance opens up into a pristine garden with manicured hedges and two towering statues, a man and a woman frozen mid-step, eyes forever watching the students like silent gods.
I mentally sigh as I blend into the river of students pouring in. My eyes narrow the second I step through the doors. I can already hear the laughter, the snickering, the whispered jabs disguised as jokes. It's always the same, like a cruel routine they never get tired of. But I'm not worried about them.
There's only one I truly worry about.
I reach my locker and open it, pulling out my history book. I can feel them behind me, three of them. Like vultures circling something that hasn't died yet.
"Hey, mutant. Give me your notebook. I know you have it," the male voice says aggressively.
I keep my back to them, pretending to ignore it. It's not the smartest move because just as I'm about to shut my locker, a hand slams against the door, catching mine between the cold metal and the frame.
"Argh!" I yelp, pain blooming in my fingers as he presses harder.
"Don't you hear me talking to you?" the boy sneers, his grin practically dripping with cruelty.
Andrew Hitchcock.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and built like he thinks the world owes him something. His dark brown hair is always a mess like he rolled out of bed and called it a style. He has blue eyes that have a way of digging into you like they're trying to find your weakness, and once they do, he twists the knife. His jaw is all sharp lines, locked into a smug grin like he knows no one can touch him. He wears the uniform like it's a joke, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms like he's proud of the power that courses through him. And why wouldn't he be?
Andrew Hitchcock can make people into puppets, and I've been his favorite puppet more times than I'd like to admit.
Andrew's power is Psychokinetic Dominance, the ability to move objects with his mind and seize control over other people's bodies, at least to a certain extent. He can immobilize or twist someone's movements, making them feel like marionettes yanked by invisible strings. It feeds his ego; every flinch, every gasp, every helpless motion bolsters that sick sense of superiority he wears like armor. The more he concentrates, the stronger his grip becomes, but it's not without limits. Overusing his power causes mental strain, splitting headaches, nosebleeds, and sometimes temporary blackouts that leave him vulnerable. Not that it stops him. His arrogance always pushes him too far.
Behind him, Olivia Craven and Sophia Astor snicker like they're watching a comedy show.
Olivia is a cold and cruel girl. She has long blonde hair that cascades down her back, contrasting sharply with her pale, porcelain skin. Her icy blue eyes seem to scrutinize everything with disdain. Tall and slender, she carries herself with an immaculate posture. Olivia's power, Cryomancy, allows her to create, control, and manipulate ice. She can freeze the air around her, form barriers or projectiles, and even lower the temperature in a room. She's precise and capable of crafting intricate ice structures, from weapons to prisons, that can hold her victims.
Sophia, in contrast, has a fierce and intimidating presence. She has fiery red hair styled in wild, loose waves that fall just past her shoulders. Her sun-kissed skin glows warmly, and her vibrant green eyes resemble a forest fire. Though of average height, Sophia's strong, athletic build reflects her aggressive nature. Her power, Pyrokinesis, allows her to generate, control, and manipulate fire. She can conjure flames at will, hurl fireballs, or create fiery walls. Her power is as volatile as her personality, and it intensifies with her emotions, making her more dangerous when angered.
I finally manage to pull my hand free from the locker door, wincing as the bruised skin throbs with pain. A large purple blotch is already forming. Then Andrew grabs me by the collar and yanks me forward.
"Are you deaf or something?" he snarls. "I said give me your notebook, or I'll make you my puppet again."
His grin is razor-edged, eyes gleaming with malice. I stare at him with a blank expression. As much as I hate when Andrew takes control of my body, when I feel my limbs jerk against my will, when I'm nothing but a shell under his grasp, I hate not having control of my limbs. Even still, I'm not scared of him. No, not him.
Before I could say anything, a calm voice said, "Let her go, Andrew."
I know that voice. I'd recognize it even in my sleep.
Nathaniel Le Crane.
Andrew immediately lets go. My collar slips from his fingers. Then, Nathaniel steps forward, wearing that usual, gentle smile, the one that never reaches his eyes. The one that used to make my heart race. Now, it just makes my stomach twist.
Nathaniel Le Crane is the embodiment of dangerous charm. High cheekbones, a sculpted jawline, and eyes like storm clouds, piercing gray and unreadable. He has jet-black hair and is always perfectly slicked back. That warm, almost affectionate smile is his weapon of choice, offering comfort before he strikes. His skin is fair and flawless, and his presence commands attention like gravity itself bends around him.
His power is Mind Dominion, a terrifying evolution of telepathy and mental manipulation. Nathaniel can peer into your mind, sift through your memories, twist your thoughts into knots, and plant new ones in their place. He can make you see things that aren't there, hear voices that don't exist, or believe lies so convincingly that they might as well be true. He can guide crowds like a conductor leading an orchestra, subtle, seamless, and undetected.
No one ever realizes they've been played until the damage is done; not only is he just powerful.
He's connected.
His father, Fester Le Crane, is the CEO of one of the most influential tech conglomerates in the city.
Credlings: Physical currency of Panadamned City. Thin, square, glow-etched chips with embedded ID codes.
