HERO

15 / Class Dismissed

When your life depends on a decision, your brain can suddenly transform into a swamp. When that decision is taken away from you, things can suddenly fall into place, slotting into their spaces like a child's toy. When the chance for choice vanished, square holes and round pegs take on a new, closer relationship. One mutually beneficial to both. One where their fit is as snug as if they shared the same shape.

The choice, made by Fate and her minions rather than yourself, is rarely suited to your needs or the hazy semblance of what should have been a plan.

Thomas swore, his curses aimed at the room and at himself. He should have drunk the solutions, a term more appropriate than he wished, when he had the chance. He'd had so many chances. When he'd left the Fixer's. When he arrived home and gone to his room. As soon as he'd gone into the cubicle. At any time when he was alone. It would have taken minutes, seconds, even, to consume them and allowed them to consume him. He was only drinking one, and it didn't really matter which one. The effects were all appalling, but they did the same thing. They set him free.

He could do it there. Right at that moment. Take one and be done with it. He'd be able to stand up to people like Billy. He'd be able to stop things like the murder he saw or the bullies that were provoking the boy, though they paid the price. He'd use his powers rather than just... having them. He would be one of the superheroes his father used to watch at the cinema. Those films that made everyone dream about what it would be like had become daily life. And it was not as glorious as they'd promised.

With great power came great arrogance. Insolence. Abuse.

Thomas left the toilets behind. He needed to prepare himself, not just dive in. If it took him a day or a week to do so, then why wasn't that OK? He'd waited so long already.

But he was fooling himself. Today was the last day. After today, he'd either be able to walk along the street and be unafraid – or at least less fearful – or he would be taken away by the nameless entities that everyone referred to as 'They'. The vials were his future. Or the end of his past. Or...

They were a new beginning. He'd be a Phoenix rising. It was a shame the world was the ashes from which he'd rise, but perhaps, depending on what abilities he found himself with, he'd be able to work towards changing that. There wasn't much a ten year old could do, he realised. He wouldn't be ten forever, though.

Thomas should, he was well aware, go back to class. History was next, once maths had finished. He like history. Even though the past was filled with war, there had been times of peace. There'd been the illusion of normality. Now, the world seemed to be at war constantly. It fought with itself. The people who walked and flew on its surface took part in the battles without thinking of the consequences. They were just living their lives, burning the world as they went.

Well, history had happened. Thomas needed to look to the future while he still had one.

Instead of turning right, he turned left. Right would have found him waiting outside of Mrs. Walmsly's class. He'd be there for another ten minutes or so before the corridors filled. There'd be pushing and name calling and anonymous slaps on the back of his head. There'd be writhing globes of water hovering over him, TeeKayed from the drinks fountains until just the right moment when release would drench him. But, then he'd be in class and he'd be lost in the facts, travelling back across the years. Escaping from the now.

Left was all that was left. He walked along the corridor, past the classes that were mostly less than half full. The ones where most of the pupils were listening but a few were doing whatever they wished. In one room, a Pyro was setting fire to the corner of a desk. Thomas had wondered why they still had wooden desks in schools rather than metal ones, when powers existed that could reduce them to an ash no Phoenix would contemplate rising from. Metal wasn't oblivious to the effects of the powers set upon it, but it was more difficult. More difficult meant it was less likely to be touched, as easy was all the pupils cared about. If it took effort, they usually didn't bother.

Thomas saw the teacher was Mr. Atkinson. Almond Atkinson – a real first name that had borne the brunt of many a jibe – was a Tapper. It was a poor name for those who were imbued with the power of water. Most actual names for the empowered were given unofficially. A slang term picked up and spread about because it fit or, in this case, it was funny.

Mr. Atkinson didn't need to fear the Pyro. He was probably letting her have her fun up until he decided she'd had enough and it was time to teach her that damaging school property was frowned upon. Thomas was surprised he'd allowed her to get as far as starting the fire in the first place and didn't stop her before she'd got the heat properly going. He wished he could stay for the show. When the mini tsunami came out of nowhere, the teacher sucking the moisture inherent in the atmosphere out to bring it down upon her, he'd have liked to watch her reaction. It would have to remain an image in his imagination. They were coming, so he had to get going.

In another class, the teacher was talking to only one pupil. A single child had turned up to hear what he had to say. Thomas didn't know who to feel sorrier for; the one who was imparting knowledge to an almost empty room or the sole attendant of a sermon not deemed good enough for better attendance.

That was the sort of class Thomas would have preferred. No one to spoil the learning. A teacher willing to teach regardless of the empty seats.

Maybe another day.

Another life.

If he had one.

If he kept moving, he thought he'd be safe. They couldn't take him if they couldn't find him. There were lots of places for someone to hide in a city filled with ruins. Not all were safe, but even they were probably safer than the alternative. Many, he knew from his varying routes to school, were home to the homeless. The people whose homes had been destroyed by errant fireballs or who had destroyed their own homes by not realising the extent of their powers. There were as many stories as individuals and, as sad as it was, Thomas couldn't waste time with sympathy. He needed to find somewhere to lose himself in and he couldn't waste time with searching for an empty sanctuary.

He had a thought.

Perhaps Bren could help. She didn't know about him, what he was, but would that matter? He could just tell her he was being pursued and he needed to find somewhere safe. She seemed to be strong. Not in physical strength but in what his dad called 'oomph'. She had 'oomph' and that could be much more important, and useful, than being a Jacker or something similar.

If he had to tell her the truth, because he didn't think you should start out a friendship with a lie, then he would. He'd deal with her reaction when it came. Hopefully, by then, he'd have chosen a colour.