The room is a swirl of commotion, but the voices sound muffled, far away - commands and screaming. Shapes flash by in my peripheral vision. Chaos.

  I can't move, can't think, can't feel. I can only stare at the two unmoving figures slumped on the ground in front of me. If I hadn't come, they could've escaped, but they had to protect me. This wasn't supposed to be dangerous though.

  My feet are heavy. I should go to them, but I already know I won't find a pulse. They're so still. Deathly still. Tears don't come though, not yet. I'm empty. It all happened so fast. The symposium speaker is still on stage, cowering behind the podium.

  The sound of a gun skidding across the floor slices through the drone. It comes to a stop against my foot as if summoned and obediently waiting for me to pick it up. The cool metal against my clammy palm snaps me into focus.

  I scan the meeting hall, noting the closest exit. Most of the people there look equally confused, equally terrified. The familiar thrum of power under my skin is barely a trickle. They're all just normal humans. Almost all the other Powereds are… gone.

  A man I don't recognize approaches with alarming confidence. His unfamiliar energy is suffocating.

  “Hey, Sweetie. Just hand that to me and no one else gets hurt.” His grin falters when I shake my head, swaying my dull brown ponytail gently and causing more wavy tendrils to escape and tickle my face. We're silent for what feels like a very long time.

  Maybe it was only seconds. Maybe it stretched over a minute.

  I can feel sweat trickle down my neck, my back. My hair sticks to my forehead. I grip the weapon confidently despite my damp hands.

  “Things will go much better for you if you put the gun down… now...” He smiles a little, hopeful, and I realize his features are quite charming. His light eyes have a uniquely gray hue and are almost trustworthy. The room is suddenly stifling as anger bubbles up inside me, mostly toward myself for hesitating.

  “You killed them… My parents.” His crime hangs in the air between us. Saying it out loud is empowering. I'm aware of their bodies between us and the metallic scent of blood permeating the room, but I keep my eyes locked on their murderer.

  “Don't...” but his mouth erupts in a spray of blood. My finger curls again and his left eye disappears. He stumbles backwards and I squeeze the trigger one more time, putting a hole straight through the middle of his shirt pocket.

  A puff of wind kisses my cheek as a bullet rushes by. It's time to move. No time to say goodbye. I take a deep breath and

  I'm gone, my feet hardly touching the floor. The goons who had surrounded me stare at the spot I had been a fraction of a second ago.

  From across the room, I empty the gun in their general direction. I don't bother to aim at anything in particular, sorrow and anger clouding my vision.

  They return fire at empty space.

  I bolt up in bed, drenched in sweat and breathing hard. How many times have I watched that man's face explode? If I think too much about it, I can still feel his power - more vice than vibration. I can taste it like inhaling something thick and noxious.

  They later tried to convince me it wasn't a Powered who killed my parents. They discredited me as too young, too naive, too emotional. I was obviously traumatized, but I know I didn't imagine that man. I know I didn't imagine his energy, his power. He was so strong. I've not encountered someone as powerful since. And I killed him.

  Leadership blamed the normals, but I know the unpowered were unarmed and just as scared as I was. Unfortunately my parents received most of the blame for their own deaths. Everyone said they shouldn't have been interacting with normals, that they're unevolved, feral even. I saw with my own eyes that that is propaganda. All community outreach and education ended that day though.

  The dream used to be satisfying - being able to kill him over and over again - but vengeance won't bring my parents back. Now when I relive that night, I see things I could've done, ways I could've saved them, ways I could've saved other people.

  But I was only eleven.

  Old enough to do something. Old enough to make a difference. I should've made that man suffer for what he did. I should've demanded that people believe me. I shouldn't have let Leadership cover up the truth.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  A shower will help wash away the memory. The dream will fade after I get out of bed.

  It's early on a Saturday, so the communal bathroom down the hall is empty. I relish the quiet as my stall fills with steam. Most people will enjoy their morning off today by sleeping in. The shooting range won't be crowded this early either.

  My wrist buzzes and I know there's only one person who would be contacting me at this hour on a weekend. I sigh and shut off the water.

  Buzz, buzz, buzz.

  “Five minutes,” I snap at the bracelet.

  I step into Mr. Garner’s office seven minutes later, hair still damp and spots of water on my oversized black sweatshirt. He sighs with disapproval after looking me up and down, but we've both learned to choose our battles. Had a different official, other than my uncle, summoned me to their office on a Saturday morning, I might've attempted to look more professional. I slump into the chair in front of his desk.

  “I saw you were up early, which surprised me after reviewing this week's files… Sluggish? Distracted? Are you getting enough sleep?” His eyes narrow, demanding an explanation.

  “Who reported that?”

  “It doesn't matter.”

  “I'm fine.”

  “You'll go see Dr. Scott this afternoon to confirm.”

  “Honestly I'm…”

  “For once, Samantha, don't argue with me. I'm your superior and you'll do as I say.”

  “Yes, Sir,” I mumble, looking out the floor-to-ceiling glass window behind my uncle's desk instead of making eye contact. The atrium below is empty. The sconces and post lights are illuminated, so I know it's still very early. After dawn, the sun will provide enough light through the skylights to simulate being outdoors.

  I gnaw on my lip, holding in all the replies I rather say. I can feel his eyes on me trying to read me. He's been my guardian over half my life and still hasn't figured me out.

  He was my only remaining relative after my parents were killed. He frequently preached about not disappointing them and living up to their legacy. At eleven - an age where most children haven't even started displaying powers - I had mastered both invisibility and super speed, my mother's and father's gifts, respectively. He pushed me, but I've never shared his ambition. He's always had big plans, even back then. He knew he'd be running Headquarters some day with me as one of his strongest assets.

  “You're dismissed,” he says briskly. I push my chair back aggressively and leave without a reply.

  I channel my frustration through round after round at the range, obliterating the heads of silhouettes with every weapon available. The deafening sounds, the pulses of energy jolting through my arms, the earthy smell of the underground range - it's my catharsis. I sit on a bench, feeling grounded and calm in the quiet corridor until footsteps approach.

  “Thought I might find you here.” James sits with two coffees and I thank him. “Think he's still watching?”

  “Apparently he has nothing better to do. He called me into his office this morning because he's concerned I don't get enough sleep.” I roll my eyes. “And that's coming from the man who looks like he's aged ten years in the last few weeks. Something's up.”

  “Don't start digging,” he pleads.

  “Why? Do you know something?” He doesn't answer. It's obvious that he does.

  “Just leave it alone, Sam.”

  “I know you think you're protecting me, but…”

  “I'm not doing this with you again. I have to get to the gym.” I grab his hand, squeezing tight while closing my eyes and concentrating. He yanks it away before I can see anything.

  “Do you know how dangerous it is using my own fucking power on me? If you suspect something, go ask your uncle and leave me out of it.” He tosses his backpack on with a huff. It, like his outfit, is an olive green color signifying his classification as a Psychic Class II. He looks tired. His eyes are heavy. Even his effortlessly smooth hair is mussed as if he's been running his fingers through it - a nervous habit I've rarely witnessed.

  More people are awake when I cross the atrium this time. Most are lazily making their way from the living quarters to the cafeteria for brunch, but many are already in athletic wear going to the gym and training wing. I follow the latter crowd. Dr. Scott, with the rest of the medical team, is conveniently located near where the most injuries occur.

  “Come on back, Ms. Garner. Your uncle told me to expect you sometime today,” he greets cordially. Most of the staff wears cream, the color of Menders, regardless of whether they possess healing or repairing powers. Dr. Scott is a medically trained doctor as well as an incredibly gifted Mender.

  “So what's troubling you?”

  “Nothing, but you know my uncle.” My laugh is flat, but he smiles in understanding, the wrinkles around his eyes becoming more pronounced. Unfortunately he knows better than most how controlling Mr. Garner is.

  “I'll try to make this quick then and hopefully send back a glowing report. Are you ready?” I nod and he places a hand on either side of my head, positioning two fingers on each temple. I feel the tightness leave my lower back and my sinuses clear up. As he's commenting on my vitals, an image flashes across my mind.

  The man's face… or what was a face, turned into a gory mess. A bullet whizzing towards his chest.

  He pulls his hands away quickly, alarmed.

  “I'm sorry,” I apologize awkwardly, not knowing what else to say.

  “Does that have anything to do with Mr. Garner's concerns?” I shrug. “That's not necessarily something I can help with but…”

  “Are you going to tell him?” The last thing I need is Mr. Garner sending me to therapy. He wouldn't though. There are too many things I'm not supposed to talk about, too many things I wouldn't want to talk about.

  He shakes his head. “Doctor-patient confidentiality. Physically you're in perfect condition. That's all I need to tell him.”

  I know he's lying. I know he has no choice if my uncle presses him on it. I don't call him out.

  “Have you had your juice yet today?” he asks.

  “Not yet. Are you going to change it again?”

  “No... Not this morning at least,” he answers cryptically. Not unless Mr. Garner tells him to. I nod, understanding what he doesn't say out loud.

  “That's my next stop.”

  “I'll let Mr. Garner know you came by.”

  I leave the medical wing for the cafeteria to grab my daily juice. As I scan my bracelet at the dispenser for my personalized concoction, I sense two… no three people stop behind me.

  “Morning, Leech,” one taunts. The other two chuckle.

  “Oh it's Casper the Friendly Ghost,” I respond full of sarcasm and annoyance at the use of the derogatory nickname. Juice in one hand, I gently trail the other down his arm. “You know I don't take anyone's powers…”

  I aim a punch at his stomach, but my fist meets no resistance. I wiggle my non-corporeal hand around inside him before withdrawing. “I only mimic them.”

  “What the hell?” he half-laughs, clutching his gut as he recovers from the ticklish sensation. “You're so fucking weird.”

  “And you're jealous that I don't fuck Ghosts,” I tell Calvin plainly. One of his cronies snickers. It's the sneaky-looking one in navy blue, which signifies a Physical Class II. A Shifter. The other one wears white like Calvin.

  “Whatever. Move on. I'm thirsty.”

  I pass them with a satisfied smile then grab a sandwich to bring back to my room. The door next to mine opens as I pass. “Are you just getting back? Who got lucky last night?” she teases.

  “I've been up for hours.” Wren raises an eyebrow and I roll my eyes. “Not getting lucky.”

  “Is that why you're grumpy? It's been a while.”

  “Come by after lunch,” I tell her.

  “That's what I thought.” She flits towards the cafeteria with a satisfied smile.