𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐑 - nancy wheeler

- 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

NUMBER 007 WAS in trouble again. She paced back and forth in the room he locked her in, squeezing her fists tight through the metal shackles, worn on her hands like gaumlets to muzzle her powers. All she felt was a thick, burning, hot fury, and she would've done anything to let it out. She would've killed anybody — everybody — in that building to drag out her rage.

Nobody else in the lab was quite as extreme as she was. Everybody had their moments, everybody had their outbursts, but nobody other than 007 had their very own quiet room, built to detain their powers. The others were crafted with cool, extraordinary psychokinetic and telepathic abilities, meanwhile she was stuck with electricity running through her blood at full speed all the time.

There was once another who didn't possess the same powers as everyone else, Number 008, but she escaped a long time ago. She was able to manipulate minds into seeing things that weren't really there, she was able to dig herself out of this hell hole, and Papa had been extra careful ever since.

Which left 007 as the freak, the only one of them who couldn't move things with her mind, the only one of them who couldn't touch skin. Number 007 was a walking weapon, her touch was lethal, and it left her angry. So angry that sometimes she felt as though she could not breathe. So angry that she had her very own room to calm down in. So angry that every other sibling of hers laughed as she walked past the rooms, especially 002, who was almost as arrogant as the scientists that tested on them.

One month ago, 002 laughed at 007 so badly that she touched him. It made everybody scream, it made sparks fly, it made her grin.

Papa said that the electricity living inside of 007 was a person of its own, that it thrived on pain and anger. The electricity had a hold on 007 that only she could break, and, until she managed to do that, she was stuck in shackles forever, she was stuck being a fireball until the day she died.

007 wasn't strong like the others, she had no control. She was never going to win the battle between her mind and her powers. She was born a losing game. A joke. A failure.

She couldn't even hug somebody.

Currently, 007 had been in her quiet room for over a week, the doctors starving and weakening her for their own safety. The more she ate, the more she grew, the stronger she became, the scarier she got. So they did everything they possibly could to prevent that happening until Papa had finally taught her control.

More often than not, 007 wondered why they didn't just kill her already like they did with other failed test subjects. She heard the other doctors ask Papa, she heard the wives of her victims sob and beg for him to murder the small girl. Afterall, fourteen years and not an inch of improvement didn't look good. It just made everyone lose even more hope on her.

But Papa insisted on keeping 007, he said she was special, that she could be useful one day in a way the others couldn't be. All she had to do first was learn how to control it. He said it like it was easy. It wasn't.

The sudden blare of an ear-aching, screaming alarm snapped the girl out of her anger. She ran to the other side of her room, but wasn't able to reach the door, due to the chains that bound her to the small, boxed room. She could see something through the window, though, two people running. One was a man, one was a boy.

The two paused at her door, and the child stared at it for a moment, the locks from the outside bursting in an instant.

007 took a step back. She knew both boys — one was a doctor, a kind, gentle one, and the other was Number 014, who was still only six years old. He was crying both tears and blood as he wiped his nose, holding hands with the man as he stared up in fear.