HERO

4 / Flight

If normal was normal, Thomas would have been quite a contender in a school 100 metre races. He would excel at the five times round the playing field sprints that used to be thrust upon him and his classmates, particularly on cold, wet days. Thomas could run.

Unfortunately, being able to put one foot in front of the other and move them quickly didn't mean the same thing it used to. Sports at school were still carried out, but the prohibition of using one's abilities whilst in school grounds to try and keep everyone level was too difficult to enforce. Pupils, the usually disruptive ones anyway, tended to do what they wanted when they could cause a thunder storm to appear over their teacher's head during Geography. If a teacher tried to use their own powers to control the students, they risked being bested by a child or losing their jobs for a defence that went too far.

As such, schools were staffed in a similar way to the police stations, with not many dedicated enough to carry on.

Thomas still went to school. He wanted to learn. He wanted the distraction from the predicament of being powerless when everyone around him, including children younger than he, could potentially kill him with a look.

If normal was normal, Thomas would have done well and potentially even, one day, have earned himself a scholarship. As it wasn't the case, he could only rely on his once swift but now mediocre speed to distance himself from the argument and murder.

Eventually, he had no choice but to stop running. His legs and lungs were burning and he fell back against a wall to catch his elusive breath. He looked around to ensure he was alone. Thankfully, he was. The chase had been for twisted fun rather than to catch him. Or worse. He checked under his jacket to ensure his purchase was still in place. He let his hand linger for a moment before pulling it away. This was his future. If he'd lost it or it had been broken while he was fleeing, he wouldn't get another chance. Oscar was unlikely to deal with him again anyway, and Thomas knew of no one else with the Fixer's contacts or network. His father might allow one theft, but never two.

But, would he? Allow one? Since the death of Thomas's mother, father and son had become much closer. Prior to her death, the man had been distant. Aloof, thinking that hugs, comforting and telling your son you loved him weren't things a father should do. It wasn't manly. Since the death, things had changed. There were hugs. There were nights in front of the television watching repeats of whatever might be on, with new content in short supply. Even, on occasion, a story at bedtime, something Thomas had never really grown out of because it came at such a late time in his life.

His father, Iain, knew how he had been with his son. He'd never wanted to be that sort of father. He wanted to be one who was respected, loved and liked. His own upbringing - his relationship with Thomas's grandfather - didn't help the matter. George had been a drinker. He'd deny he was ever a drunk, but he was seldom sober. Iain's mother was constantly making excuses for her husband, both to the outside world and to their son. She was a loving and dutiful wife, but doing so aged her prematurely. Made her ill prematurely. Whereas Iain's relationship with his son improved when his wife died, George's didn't alter even slightly.

If Mary, Thomas's grandmother and Iain's mother, had held on, fighting her illness, for just another two short months, things may well have been very different. Or, at least, continued in the same way but with her still around. She might have found the strength to face the issues in her marriage. She may have been able to take her son away from the disruptive influences of whiskey and show him how a parent should be with their child. Iain could have been nurtured rather than seen as a nuisance.

Two months, short in time but an eternity in grief, would have brought the Outbreak. Mary might have discovered abilities that would have allowed her to stand up to a husband who left his marriage vows at the bottom of the bottle he'd consumed after the wedding. George had survived long enough to find his abilities. He was a Teekay. A telekinetic. He could fill a glass from twenty feet without lifting a finger. Doing so did cause him to break into a sweat, with his abilities remaining (perhaps due to his addiction) meagre, but he said that was his workout. That was his exercise. He could flex his mental muscles in the most satisfying way he could imagine.