How To Be Me (boboiboy galaxy)

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The press was difficult to handle. Thunderstorm had spent most of her barely 18 years of life training in secret to be the fighter she was today. She grew up learning the aspects of the blade, not social skills to communicate. Fortunately for her, Blaze and Thorn were there to bust her out. They might be naïve, but they were the most presentable in public and everyone absolutely loved them; if only she could say the same for herself.

After the conference in front of the town hall, where reporters pestered both Blaze and Thorn with questions, having to turn towards Thunderstorm after dozens of oblivious shrugs, who was behind them awaiting their inquiries, only to shirk back to the two innocent males after a death glare was their only response. The papers then wrote a three-page essay dedicated to the reasons that she was a hazard to society. Go figure.

Once they were back in their apartment, Blaze's fist closed around the newspapers that spread fabrications about his team. With a scoff, his arm emblazoned in flames and burnt the papers to ashes, the breathy debris scattering to the ground.

"They're lying about everything!" Blaze snapped, turning to Thunderstorm, who was locking the door, back turned. "How can you tolerate this? Would it kill you just to look approachable? Maybe not glare so much and smile?"

Thunderstorm locked the door and hung the keys by the door. She turned, but didn't meet either Blaze or Thorn's eyes. She walked straight past them, her hands hanging tensely by her sides, as the leggings she was wearing had no pockets. Female clothing was monstrous.

Under Blaze's accusatory glares and Thorn's concerned glances between them, the lightning melee entered her room, but not before swinging the door open recklessly and storming inside, her heavy footsteps resonating through the apartment. The door was closed gently, but it didn't justify her previous crime of door abuse.

In the safety of her room, she dropped herself on her black-sheeted bed, the frame creaking under her weight. The wires that constructed her undergarments pressed against her skin, causing more pain than comfort than it was supposed to provide. Bras were never described as heavenly, but this was pure torture.

Despite the discomfort, she made no remarks. Her long braid was caught under her back, pulling a few strands of hair free as she tried to lift her head. Not to mention it hurt.

Thunderstorm sighed deeply as she sat upright, careful to avoid sitting on her braid or moving her bra to a wrong angle that would create pain. Her head was heavy, her eyes dulled with no focus.

She was tired.

Curling her left leg, she rested her corresponding elbow onto her knee, as her other leg remained crossed, with her free arm pressing into the mattress, supporting her balance. She stared at her white-washed walls—what used to be one that carried her dreams and expectations; and it had become the embodiment of her mind.

Blank.

It's only been, what? A year? Two? They'd been introduced to the government years ago, but she couldn't remember how many. Once she'd been introduced to the real world, everyday felt the same. One second bled into another. Soon, years felt like a day and a day felt like years. There was no escape from this never-ending cycle of mindless facades and obedience.

She sighed from her nose, her eyes closing as she suppressed the memories of her childhood. Those happy smiles, laughter like bells, and the uncorrupted perspective on this cruel world; it was all a distraction, all a lie. Nothing was black and white. No one can tell anyone the true story of this world. She was living a lie and the lie was living her.

She'd gotten about thirty seconds of silence before her phone's alarm went off. Drowsy, Thunderstorm leaned to the other side of the bed to reach her phone, which was on the dresser. She warily read the title of the notification, which she dreaded ever since she'd experienced it for the first time: Political Dinner Party. The time read five in the evening, which dinner was held at seven. She had two hours to make herself look presentable.