Sun/Moon Oneshots!

Too gifted to be good

The sky outside is dark, the sun having slipped below the horizon close to an hour ago. On the topmost floor of a slowly deteriorating apartment complex, a light is on.

Inside holds a man, angered. “Those fucking gifted, who do they think they are?!” he grumbled, before clutching his head. A dull throb began there, and he grunted. “Whatever...” the TV screen goes black as he turns it off, getting to his feet and closing off his curtains.

Yet as the man presumably deals with his headache and slips into an easy rest, the streets below him crawl with danger. A back alleyway, hidden from the light of the scarce streetlamps, is suddenly awake with noise; specifically thumping footsteps, and panting of air. A hand littered in small, light cuts that drips scarlet clutches at the wall of a home, and a human pulls themself out, forcing into the wall.

“Shit, shit what the fuck-” with wounds and bruises covering them head to toe, they thank whatever higher power there might be for letting them survive. Through ragged breaths, they turn, and hobble down the street.

Part of their blood remains on the home, unnoticeable on the grimy wall unless you were looking for it.

Seven hours earlier...

You grunt as your alarm blares, a painful reminder that time waits for no one. Slamming a hand over it, the sound cuts abruptly and you revel in the silence it leaves, almost undisturbed as you breath.

Sleep is still burrowed in your mind, curling up and threatening to drag you down with it, and so the covers are hastily thrown off and you sit up.

Blinding light sends you back a few inches, a hand raised to deflect it. The warmth scalds your hand in an overbearingly comforting way. Once adjusted, you're stood and making your way to the kitchen, stomach guiding you as it demands sustenance.

You lazily spoon the cereal into your mouth, head swarming and the back of your eyes sore, begging to crawl back into bed. You ignore it. A groan is ripped from your lips as you remember you need to go shopping today, and you hurriedly finish the last of your breakfast to get ready. You want to get back fairly early; social outings weren't your strong suit.

Perusing the aisles and trying to feel less awkward than you are, a conversation you thought was meant to be hushed catches your attention. “Did you hear, on the news–?” a woman's voice, maybe in her late thirties or early fourties? It came from behind you, and you sure as hell aren't turning to look. “Those gifted are getting too comfortable, I'll tell ya!” a male, possibly older, but not by much.

Eh, it's not like it matters. You strain your ears to hear more, though it's not like you need to. At that exact moment, a baby in the aisle over wails, and you flinch. “Agreed. See, I told Annabelle, and she was downright revolted!” the woman continued, and now they were on the same row as you. Shit, you internally curse. Hiding the way your muscles grow stiff and your face burns, you push yourself to get the item you were reaching for.

You aren't dumb (not by much, anyway), you've seen the news, the flyers, the videos; gifted are on the uprise, and they're fighting to be free. It's a rebellion, and a damn strong one since they're lead by superhumans, near enough. “As she should be. I mean, we've given them an option! It's insulting.”

And there it is. The option is a government run program, designed to brainwash those gifted into mindless weapons for their disposal. You triple check you have everything needed before turning and wandering at a brisk pace to the check out.

A nagging feeling builds in your stomach that they weren't trying to be quiet; they wanted to be heard. And heard they were.

That's enough social interaction for me.

---

A clock ticks in the background, a constant in your spiralling sea of madness, the waves choppy and crashing against the boat that is your sanity.

You clutch your head, but the ticking grows louder still. Covering your ears is futile, the clock in your brain ticking down the minutes until someone, anyone, discovers what a monster you are.

You haven't gotten this bad in a while, not like a few months ago. You soothed yourself with the thought that you aren't alone in a fight like this, and moments of feeling down are normal. This only works enough to stop you rocking and whimpering on your bedroom floor to instead lay, staring up at the ceiling.

It's been close to two hours since you came home, if you had to guess. Looking at a clock hurt, and your floors were comfortable enough to soothe your overwhelmed brain. Your mind settled, glassy like still water with only slight ripples with each thought, sparse in their pattern.

The outside world (you try not to think too hard about it) is closed off with blinds, curtains–anything you can use to, effectively, block out any form of life. You wanted to feel as though in a lucid dream; a good idea in hindsight, but as proof by the mess you'd become shortly after... Well, it speaks for itself.

By the stray beams of light that streamed through your defenses, it was nearing midday. Your mind began to slow, your extensive crying draining the already low energy you had. Each blink became a chore, and eventually you let them remain closed, breathing evening out as the incessant ticking drove you further into the starved jaws of sleep.

Images flash by; a night sky, two people, feeling loved, fighting and feeling victorious. The last image was of you and another kissing, though it changed between two shapes that felt oddly familiar.

And yet, as most dreams are, it is swept from your memory moments after waking up.

---

Author's note;
Hi! This is both inspired by my original write of this type of AU, and some better written stories of this trope.
There might be more parts to follow this, but it's not determined yet.