HERO

43 / The Face in the Sky

A whirring sound grew slowly in volume. It was the buzz of bees coupled with the spin of tiny rotors.

A drone.

They were coming for him. If he didn't hurry, he would be caught. But, hurry how? Hurry where? Despite his feverish attempts to open the door, it remained shut fast. That way was closed to him, so he had no choice but to go back. None of the rooms had held any hiding places or, indeed, weapons. Without powers he was... powerless. He turned to face the corridor and pressed his back to the door, allowing the bar to dig into his back, hoping to gain some hope from its presence.

He could hear the drone getting closer. Its camera would see him easily. It would pinpoint his location and the Spotters would be there in minutes, or seconds with one of them being a Fly, a nickname referencing an old movie. He wanted to run. To squeeze into a dark corner with his knees brought up to his chin. To be back home in his bed.

None of these things were possible. He was caught already.

Spotted.

He closed his eyes, squeezing them as tightly as his hands gripped the bar. He held his breath.

He fell back.

The door giving way was completely unexpected, and Thomas was scuffling back and falling on his backside before the lack of a surface behind him could register. When it did, he cried out in a high pitched squeal he was immediately embarrassed by. The door closed again, sliding into place rather than the expected swing.

He looked around, thankful to be away from the oncoming drone and the Spotters that would follow, but uneasy at what might lie in wait.

He appeared to be alone. The room was small and reminiscent of the one he stepped out of to become one of the Spotted. The door in front of him was the only way in or out, meaning he was effectively trapped. He wondered if this was part of the Spotters' plan, to incarcerated him somewhere they could easily get to him. He dismissed the thought, though. The Spot was about the hunt. About entertainment. They wouldn't capture him so quickly without ensuring the viewers were given some drama first.

This was something else. Someone else.

He stood slowly, scanning the room for any Chameleons or disguised openings. Bren had shown him a Chameleon could be undetectable, but if he looked for one, it might prompt them to reveal themselves. No one and nothing did. The room was empty, a fact confirmed by his running his hands over the walls, as high as he could reach, and walking on every inch of the floor.

The walls were smooth and unbroken, in contrast to the rest of the building, and the only feature other than the door was a light fitting. It was an inverted dome set snug to the ceiling. A meagre glow kept the darkness at bay and Thomas was surprised to see it didn't cast a shadow from him. There seemed to be no break between the white glass of the cover and the ceiling itself, as if they were part of the same thing and the light was a blister on the ceiling's face. He didn't see how that could be unless, of course, that was the Chameleon...!

"I see you," he said. He sounded confident, a tone that wasn't mirrored inside him.

At first nothing happened, but then the ceiling rippled outwards from the dome. The surface changed colour, from pale blue through orange to a muddy brown. Once the colour cycle settled, like the Cheshire Cat appearing, a face formed on the light. At first the eyes and a smiling mouth, the rest of the features came into view.

"'Scuse me," it said.

Thomas didn't say anything. He was smiling inside at his seeing the Chameleon's hiding place, but he was also scared that he was now about to die.

"Could you shift to the side, please?"

Thomas looked down at his feet, then up at the face again, without moving. It took a second for him to realise what he was being asked, then he stepped back against the wall.

"Thanks," said the face.

The ceiling rippled again, and the face dropped down towards the floor, elongating into a teardrop shape. Still attached at the top, it's length was narrow enough for Thomas to wrap his hand around if he'd wished, which he didn't, and it ended in a ball that quickly inflated to the size of a head, albeit one with the eyes, nose and mouth stretch around its circumference. With a slight tearing sound mixed with that of a child finishing a drink through a straw, desperate to clear every last drop, the remainder of the Chameleon's body followed. It disconnected from the ceiling and landed, duly formed, in front of the boy.

"Don't be scared."

"I'm not," Thomas lied, standing straighter to give weight to his entirely false claim.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not. You don't frighten me."

"I do, you just don't want to admit it."

The speaker didn't seem to be able to keep their proper form. At one moment, Thomas was looking at a boy around his own age, and at the next, it was a girl, perhaps a couple of years older. Again, a change would bring a blend of the two, with indeterminable age, in a blur that made it hard for Thomas to focus.

"Can you keep still?" he asked.

"I'm trying. Give me a minute."

The morphing continued for a few more seconds, then slowed and, finally, stopped. The features of the person still seemed to be undecided as to what they wanted to be, but at least they were still. Eyes, nose and mouth were in the right places, and the body was shaped as one would expect, but there was still an element of it all not quite being right.

"Don't stare."

Thomas blinked. He couldn't deny he had been. His fear had changed to become curiosity.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to."

"Nobody means to, but it doesn't stop them."

"What...?" Thomas had started to speak before realising he probably shouldn't ask the question he was thinking.

"I'm a Chameleon."

"Yes, I can see that."

"But that's not what you meant, is it?"

"Yes... Yes it is."

"No, it's not. I don't know, is the answer to your question. I don't know what I am."

"How can't you know?"

"You sound like my dad. He wondered the same thing."

Thomas didn't answer. He didn't understand the point. He was no longer scared. For some reason, he actually felt safe, at least temporarily.

"Don't worry about it. I don't know, really, who I am. Boy or girl or a bit of both or even neither. Being a Chameleon gives me the chance to be what I want, but my dad made me so conscious of the fact I was weird, I no longer know what I want. Or what I am. So, I change me all the time. I'm hoping someday I'll get it right."

"I don't think you're weird," Thomas said. "Why should anyone tell you who you should be?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? It doesn't stop people feeling they have the right. That's why I'm here – it was either that or be on the receiving end of my dad's anger and intolerance."

Thomas opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. He didn't think anything he could say would be much help. He was just a boy. His father had educated him on how people weren't always born into the right body, and he understood the conflict this could produce, but he'd never met anyone who had endured it. To Thomas, you were whoever you were or wanted to be. The Outbreak had made this more possible for people than ever before.

Well, except for him.

"Do you live here?"

"Yes. I left before he could kick me out. Or worse. Now I live here. We all do."