Medical professionals are baffled by a one-of-a-kind genetic disorder presented in a rural Oklahoma town. A child born last night stunned the staff by emanating light from his body. Eyewitnesses claim the infant cried when the lights were extinguished before glowing on his own and illuminating the room. The doctors have taken bloodwork and are running tests, but so far, the child seems otherwise normal. While information is limited, theorists have taken to the Internet to pitch their own ideas. Some refer to this child as “superhuman” while others believe this to be evidence of the United States government hiding extraterrestrial activity. We’ll keep you updated with the latest as the results for testing come in. – Jonathan Simmons, 0 Anno Imperi Ortu

Pulling the hood of my jacket over my head, I prepare for my next adventure. A single flickering light illuminates a section of my base, where I have set up a few sheets I managed to scrounge out of a dumpster. I’m grateful the construction workers have already completed the wiring of the basement because it grants me that light, but the exposed wires around me don’t give me much confidence.

I shuffle through my stash beside my bed. I have a few non-perishables and some leftovers from the garbage, but I’m not confident they’re edible. I hate stealing, but people don’t discard enough food for me to survive on the scraps.

I pull the cord on the hood, tightening it around my face. Turning away, I find my way to the stairs. Slowly, muting each step, I ascend into daylight. Having lost concept of time, I don’t know if it has been days or hours since I’ve seen the sun. Either way, it burns my eyes, so I offer myself shade with my hand.

I duck under a girder and walk through an unfinished wall. Glancing around the street to make sure it’s empty, I emerge from the relative safety of my hideout and try to avoid arousing suspicion. Keeping my head low, I wander through the city.

I miss the taste of cereal in the morning. I miss my mother’s smile. Right now, I’d even take one filled with pity. I miss Ashley and my dad. I miss Rhett. I need human interaction.

Shaking my head, I force my thoughts of self-pity away. I can’t be concerned about anything so trivial. My primary objective while I’m out is procuring food. Some sort of reading material would be nice as well, but I don’t think I can get into a library without arousing suspicion.

Someone approaches me from down the street, so I duck into an alleyway and hide behind a dumpster. Squatting down, I wait for the stranger to pass before I peek my head out and scan the area for more activity. Satisfied with the lack of motion, I continue on my way.

I know it’s unwise, but I can’t help but head toward my house. Carefully choosing the least populated streets, I weave my way through neighborhoods. The green grass and well-managed gardens are a welcome sight. The various colors of the houses seem to reactive the cones in my eyes.

Finally, I reach my street. As usual, there is a Peacekeeper standing outside trying to appear inconspicuous. Even if he weren’t present, I know I couldn’t walk in. There is almost definitely another Peacekeeper concealing themselves, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more inside.

I’ve tried to master the art of echolocation, but I’m still learning. Closing my eyes, I release a small, undetectable telekinetic burst in all directions around me. I wait for each piece of the wave to bounce back toward me. As expected, most of the energy collides with the surrounding buildings. Other pieces collide with the Peacekeeper standing in a black suit outside my house. His partner – invisible as expected – is beside him.

Quietly, I sigh and take one last look at my old home. Mom, Dad, and Ashley are probably in there right now. I wonder if they’re worried about me or if they’ve already given up. I wonder if they believe what they’ve heard.

One more stop before I get food. I have to try the library again. The librarians have proven too quick at emptying the return bin in the past, but I can’t give up. I would take anything – even a children’s book. Anything to give my brain the smallest amount of stimulation.

As I approach, I see a crowd entering the building. The library also has far more cameras than the average street. I can’t get too close, but I can see the return bin. Focusing intently, I picture the air within the bin. In my mind, the air rises, bringing itself to the top of the bin. Glancing down, I see that I’m guiding that motion with my hands. The door of the bin vibrates, but that’s the extent of the movement. Whether its empty or my plan is merely a desperate and nonsensical gambit, I’ll have to wallow in m boredom.

Sighing, I turn away and head toward the market. This is the real reason I came out anyway, so my expedition doesn’t have to be a complete failure. I feel hunger pangs growing more vicious, demanding to be sated.

The market is filled with people, but that’s actually better for me here. I know where the cameras are and which alleys offer shelter from them. I can also blend into the shuffle with relative ease. I slip into the crowd and keep my head down, searching for a vendor with easily accessible food.

Over the cacophony of various voices, I hear static from a television within one of the stores. Separated from me by a glass wall, it flips through channels until it finally lands on the news. I step out of the moving crowd and gaze at the screen.

“Peacekeepers are still searching for the culprit of the terrorist attack on the high school,” the reporter announces. The screen displays an image of the entrance caved in. I watch as Derrick pushes aside rubble and pulls Fillion from the wreckage. Turning on his heels, he runs back into the school building. Suddenly, my picture appears in the bottom left corner. “Class I Powerless Carson Adachi is the perpetrator. Councilman Derrick Levine witnessed the attack, but was unable to pursue the assailant because he was focusing on rescuing survivors.

“Any information on Carson Adachi’s whereabouts should be reported to Peacekeepers immediately. The Council will reward your loyalty.”

I scoff, staring at the screen in disbelief. I know they’ve been running similar stories, but this is the first time I’ve seen this one. They’re hiding most of the facts, of course, but now they’re also spinning it to make Derrick look like a hero. I wish I could convince people they were being lied to, but I know they’ll blindly believe the Council. I need solid evidence, and at the moment all of the evidence which exists is stacked against me. The footage continues and pans out to show me running from the wreckage. It’s completely condemning.

“This individual should be treated as armed and dangerous. Do not approach. Inform the Peacekeepers.”

I wonder how often they’re posting my pictures in the news. It’s going to become even less possible for me to sneak through the city without getting caught. I don’t know how much longer my lifestyle will be able to support me.

Stepping backward, I fall back into the crowd. The news repeats the story as if it’s the only thing worth talking about. I think it might be, actually. Normally, everyone pretends to be so happy. There’s rarely anything interesting to report.

I don’t have many options. I can’t wait for the news to end. It could repeat forever, or at least until everyone has cleared from the market and taken my cover. If I try to escape now, I’ll starve. I have to try to get food and get back to my hideout as soon as possible.

Keeping my head hung low, I approach a stall. Fruit is displayed in front of me in cartons. It’s easily accessible, but I need a distraction. Someone else rushes past me, so I pull a quick burst of air toward me. Clumsily, the passerby bumps into the fruit stand and sends apples tumbling to the ground. The shopkeeper, shouting profanities, shoos the offender away while he apologizes profusely. Sneakily, I slip an apple into each of the pockets of my hoodie before disappearing back into the crowd.

Fruit is great, and it will temporarily calm the raging hunger building within me, but it won’t be enough to keep me alive. I have to find more than two measly apples. I need a source of protein. Surfing the crowd, I find my way to the meats. This is going to be trickier, because I can’t pour the contents over the ground. Not only are they less easily accessible, I also don’t want to destroy a shopkeeper’s livelihood simply to eat.

A glass counter separates me from my prize this time, and I’m not sure how I plan on getting around that. If I could trick the shopkeeper into looking away for a long enough time, I could bring the meat to myself, but that isn’t feasible. Even if he doesn’t notice, someone else is bound to. No, I have to think of something else.

I approach the counter, keeping my eyes focused on the meats and my face out of view of the shopkeeper. Silently, I look over each cut, pretending I wouldn’t be satisfied with any of them. I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes and ducking down as if to get a better look. I’m almost hungry enough to eat this raw.

“Anything catch your interest?” The butcher asks.

“I’m not sure, they look dry,” I shrug.

“Dry?” He laughs. “Each of these are marinated for at least twenty-four hours.”

“That’s all?” I counter.

“You’re free to shop around,” he snaps.

“Fine, fine,” I say. “I’ll take one pound of the brisket.”

“I’ll wrap that up for you,” he says. I catch myself drooling as he places the brisket in paper and folds it closed. Setting it on a scale, he demonstrates his impressive accuracy. I wonder if he’s a Sensor who can feel weight as a scale. It’s quite a useless power in everyday life, but Artisans seem to make use of it.

Another customer approaches the counter while the butcher is distracted. This could be my opportunity. He turns toward us and I avert my gaze, realizing I’ve been ravenously eyeing my dinner.

“One moment, sir,” the butcher says.

“It’s no bother, I can wait,” I wave dismissively.

“I only have the one scale,” he laughs, turning to face me. I panic, realizing that I don’t have a way to obtain the food. That becomes the least of my problems, though, when I see a look of recognition polluting his face. Leaving the scale behind, he walks closer to me and furrows his brow. I look down, but I know he’s seen me.

“Look at me, son,” he orders.

I pull his scale toward me. Carefully, I bring it to the ground. I want to startle him, but I can’t break his scale – especially after he’s just told me it’s his only one. The small crash pulls his attention away and he races to the scale. The packaged meat rolls off the scale and I direct its path, bringing it around the stall. Kneeling down, I grab it and quickly walk off.

“Hey, you didn’t pay for that,” the other customer yells. Why do people have to keep butting into other people’s business? “Stop him, he’s a thief!”

I pick up the pace as the butcher leaves his stall to chase me down. I’m hoping he decides I’m not worth pursuing. He’d have to leave his stand, exposing all of his merchandise to potential thieves.

“Officer! Help!” The butcher yells. “The kid in the red hoodie!”

This isn’t ideal. Commotion fills the air behind me and the patrons of the market fall to the sides, creating space for the Peacekeepers. I break into I run, clutching my food for dear life. I glance over my shoulder and see two enforcement officers gaining on me.

Releasing a burst of energy, I detect an invisible one on the street in front of me. Diverting my path, I turn down an alleyway. I knock down a banner for a stall and a few boxes as I run. I hate harming the innocent, but I need to put obstacles in the path of the Peacekeepers. I can’t guess their powers, but a Runner would quickly bring my day from bad to worse. One of the Peacekeepers rams his shin into the crates, but the other jumps over with ease. I turn down another corner, trying to weave my way through the alleys. I have walked these paths dozens of times specifically for this circumstance. I need to stay calm, I know I can handle this.

“Stop!” The Peacekeeper orders, turning the corner and growing closer to me. With one hand, I clutch the meat tightly, hoping my apples don’t fall from my pockets. Every piece of food I can find matters, especially now that I can’t go back to the market for a few days. I point my open hand behind me, shooting a blast of energy at the Peacekeeper. Like a fist slamming into his gut, the energy knocks him back. Gasping for air, he falls to his knees and clutches his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, as if he can hear me. I know it doesn’t make my actions forgivable, but this is what I must do to survive. I hope it won’t always be this way, but for now, I’ll do what I must.

I turn another corner, leaving the gasping Peacekeeper behind me. After a few more turns, I find a large dumpster in an alley with no cameras. I jump into it and close the lid behind me.

The grotesque stench is almost enough to make me lose my appetite, but I’ve gone without food far too long for that to have a lasting effect.

My hoodie has been compromised. I remove it, wrap it around my apples and meat, and tie the sleeves together, creating a sack. Moving all the garbage to one side of the dumpster, I set my belongings in the corner and begin digging through the trash. I find a few cans of expired soup and an old pot, which will let me cook food over a fire without holding it there telekinetically and exhausting myself. I add those to my container and continue my search. Footsteps in the alley draw my attention. I cease all movement and listen as intently as possible.

“He went this way, I know it,” one Peacekeeper asserts. I silently curse myself, wishing I’d run further. My stamina failing me, I had taken the first and easiest respite. I hope that doesn’t come back to haunt me.

“He couldn’t have gone much farther,” the other agrees, running past the dumpster.

“Maybe he’s hiding,” the first surmises. No, they never check the dumpster. Please don’t check the dumpster. The footsteps grow closer and stop just outside my temporary abode. I hear the other draw a gun as the first reaches toward the lid. I clench my jaw, knowing what I have to do. Lying down, I form a ball around my belongings, making myself as small as possible. Then, I pull trash over myself, trying to keep a small bubble around myself to avoid getting too close to the filth.

The Peacekeepers lift the lid, poking at the top layer of trash. I feel the weight of everything I’m holding begin to bear down on me. I see the layer just above me begin to shake. A small notebook is dislodged, sneaking through my grasp, and falls on my head. I bite back a grunt and try to remain perfectly still. My brain aches as if it were physically responsible for holding the weight of the garbage. It seems to grow heavier and my head begins to pound. Finally, the lid closes and the Peacekeepers walk away. I push the trash aside, not leaving myself nearly as much space from it as I’d have liked.

A sleeve pokes out of the mountain of trash, so I grab it and pull it loose. I find a long-sleeve sweater with a hood. It’s pink and full of holes, but it’s better than the one which is now recognizable. I look through the notebook and find a few journal entries in feminine handwriting, but most of the pages are empty. I may not have much material to read, but I can write using one of the pens I’ve found scattered around the construction site. At least it will be something to keep my mind active.

I wait an hour in the unbearable stench until I’m confident the Peacekeepers are long gone. The pounding in my brain settles, which I take as a signal that I’m ready to use my power again. Pushing the lid open, I grab my things and slip on the sweater, pulling the hood over my head. With nightfall aiding me, I navigate through the dark alleys back to the Industrial district. Along the way, I release a few energy pulses. No one is anywhere nearby, thankfully. Finally, I see my building. Eagerly, I climb into the basement and breathe a sigh of relief. For good measure, I release one more energy pulse, but there’s nothing unexpected in my new home. I set my haul with the rest of my food and grab my pen. I’m almost more excited to write than to eat.

My stomach doesn’t agree with my list of priorities, and it howls at me. I set the book and pen down on my tattered sheet and unfold my old hoodie. I find my way to the campfire and strike two pieces of scrap metal together, igniting wood. With one hand, I levitate the brisket over the fire. With the other, I direct the smoke toward the stairway. Tomorrow, I will try to create a way to use the pot. For now, I’m too hungry to think.

After much longer than I would have liked, the meat finally begins to brown. The juice dripping down into the fire is slowly driving me insane. When I’m confident it’s safe to eat, I remove it and bite into it. I have to portion out the food – this has to last me a while. I carefully eat a reasonable amount of brisket before shredding the rest with my mind and storing it in empty cans around me. I can’t reseal the cans perfectly, but it’s better storage than nothing. I’m able to fill five cans – each one can be a reasonable meal. I have at least three days before I have to try to search for more food.

Leaning against the wall, I tap my pen against the notebook. I’m not sure how long I’ll survive with the entire world out to get me. When they do finally catch up with me, I want to leave something behind. Of course, odds are the Council will discover it first, but I feel the need to write something down, just in case. I decide to write my points to address the corruption in the Council.

“1. Centralized power with no checks and balances. 2. Assigning roles and not budging on them segregates the citizens and prevents them from uniting. 3. Giving people what they haven’t earned encourages laziness and fails the hard workers.”

No, this is boring. No one is going to want to read my list of problems. Even if they do, they’ll simply justify the Council’s behavior or argue that I can’t possibly know better. They’ll blindly worship their Council even if I give them logical reasons they shouldn’t. What will be far more effective is telling them my story. Most won’t believe, but some will.

“It all started on the day of Recruitment,” I start. Now I’m starting to judge my writing style, as if that’s the major purpose of this work. It’s not about entertainment, it’s supposed to be informative. Still, I have to capture the attention of my readers.

“As the alarm clock screams, ripping me from a peaceful sleep,” I begin before stalling once again. It’s not perfect, and I’ve heard too many warnings about starting with waking up. Regardless, that’s where my story starts. This will do nicely.

Rustling from above takes hold of my mind and I drop the pen and book. I jump to my feet and retreat to the darkness. Has the Council found me? I knew it was only a matter of time, but I had hoped I’d be able to write more than one sentence of my story. The world has to know what they did to me.

The stairs creak violently as someone slowly descends them. The intruder is clearly trying to be stealthy but failing miserably. He has yet to learn the sweet spots of the stairs like I have. Without stepping on them perfectly, one is bound to make enough noise to pull me from the deepest of slumbers. That’s part of the reason I love my hideout so much. Of course, if I make it out of this alive, I’ll have to leave it behind. Such is the life of a fugitive.

When the person reaches the bottom, I’m barely able to make out a face. It’s somewhat familiar, but I can’t place it. He doesn’t appear old enough to be an Peacekeeper, but I have no doubt he’s a Council sympathizer. I may be the only person left on the planet who isn’t. At least inside the walls of the city.

“Carson?” The young man calls. I remain hidden and absolutely silent. In denial, I convince myself that I may be able to keep my hideout if I’m quiet enough. I know I have to give up on that possibility. He’s already seen my things. I’ve been discovered.

“Carson,” he repeats. “I’m not with the Council. I’m here to help.”

I don’t trust him. I can’t. He won’t leave quietly, though. Perhaps I should take the first action. With a preemptive strike, I could kill him before he has the chance to alert anyone else. Even if it’s the most logical course of action, I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want to kill anyone – if for no other reason than because that would make me what they call me.

Still, I can’t give myself away. Instead, I push him against a wall. Staying in the shadows, I pin him to the wall telekinetically and press energy against his throat to stop him from calling for help. He begins choking, so I let up on the force slightly, but I refuse to release him. Emerging from the shadows and extending both arms toward him, I try to look menacing. If he’s afraid of me, I may be able to use that to my advantage.

“I’m here to help,” he croaks.

“Why should I believe you?” I growl. He points his eyes toward a bag in his hand. I release pressure from his neck in order to move my hand, calling forward the contents of the bag. Fruits, vegetables, and canned soups spill onto the ground. In my excitement, I almost completely release him. Silently, I redirect all of the food to my stash, trying to hide the pure joy which tries to creep onto my face.

“How did you find me?”

“I’m an Intellect. Class V, so they don’t think I’m capable of much, but I saw your fight with Derrick. When I fought you, I felt the impact before you touched me. Then at Drone School orientation, the school began shaking. I saw the fight, Carson. I know they’re lying about it. The Council brought me into Battle School because of one lousy invention and then left me to rot when I couldn’t take a punch. Now they’re calling you a terrorist when you weren’t even the aggressor,” he babbles.

“I asked how you found me,” I snap.

“I’m sorry. I built a… kind of a reverse EMP. It’s just an energy scanner. It let me track your small energy pulses.”

I curse myself under my breath. I should have known if I used something to track others, they could easily reverse that. If a Class V can do it, Krista Mullen or Fillion Harris would have had no trouble – if they’d had the idea. That does say something about the sniveling kid in front of me.

Seeing his face contort in pain and fear, I suddenly recognize him, and his story falls into place. Michael Patterson.

“Michael?” I ask. I drop him, feeling more confident now that I know he’s at least partially telling the truth.

“I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me,” he coughs, rubbing his throat.

“Almost didn’t,” I admit. “So what now?”

“I don’t want to be a drone forever, Carson. You’ve been slighted. So have I. You need me to stay alive, and I’m no leader. I’ve seen you handling bullies. You’re a natural born leader, and I’m a tactician. We need each other.”

“Cool it with the ‘need’ talk,” I mutter. He doesn’t seem bothered by my response, and he takes a step toward me.

“We can make a difference, Carson Adachi. I know we can.”