Realistically, I likely should’ve heated up something warm to eat, ideally leftovers from the previous night, while waiting for Mom to come back from work. Again, ideally I should’ve taken another dosage of sensory suppressants and had something on my stomach to pair. But my focus, while the morning dosage wore off, had been on searching for an old dusty folder I hadn’t seen in two years, give or take.
A thick pile of folders I pulled out with a huff, then dropped on my bed, was followed by the sound of scuffling as folders full of old homework, abandoned sketches, or forgotten grade reports got scattered across the plaid comforter. The talk at lunch—I had supposed I felt some sense of nostalgia, or something along the lines of that feeling—when it had been brought up again.
Chances were, however, very high that this folder was outdated, but it was fine, I guessed. Not like I am an active participant of a government scheme or whatever. Despite my prior behavior at the thought. Perhaps Mal had been right—freaking out over something as minor as what it was… had not been a good choice.
I let out a hurrah once I found the nilla folder with two rough doodles of a cat and a star. The words of a horrifically misspelled underlined ‘Clasisfied’ had been scribbled across the front of the folder—likely the result of some early heatstroke-sign-induced joke from my fourteen-year-old self. I placed it on the bedside table, proceeding to shuffle the other folders into a pile and drop them back into the box, kicking it underneath the bed. Stiffly turning around, my hands grasped the cold sides of the paper folder, small markings of frost creeping along the edge from my fingertips. I collapsed onto the bed, opening the folder and blowing dust off the first page.
This folder was the very thing that consumed my time from ages thirteen to fourteen. Neitlim, as a condition, fascinated me—as a patient and an onlooker. Every article, every review, every video, every record of the news station… if it could be named, if it featured the conditions of heroes, villains… or otherwise? I watched it. I read it.
Then theorized on the specifics.
Whatever theories I had settled on got written in this very folder. Pages that had thin strings of yarn glued to the paper, connecting the evidence I deemed proved my point. And reading these pages now—I wondered how the hell I came to some of these conclusions.
Like, for example, the man of the day—Cinderash. He had only been a recent villain back then—not much was known about the guy, what he did or why. He hadn’t had a name, even though the guy was mysterious enough to grab the attention of the public eye. Often people didn’t look away either. My fingers touched the wonky handwriting that was stuck to the scratchy paper as I read it. The conclusion quote read as follows:
‘When utilizing his condition, there appears to be a brief moment when nothing happens. I suspect it's more of a chemical reaction. Since his flames are a deep shade of red… Strontium Nitrate perhaps? Perhaps he secretes a liquid or powder form from his hands with some manner of triggering it. His enhanced senses, however, are a no-brainer—nothing escapes his line of fire.’
End quote. Then next was of a hero that had gone missing in recent times, who had an even more bizarre quote.
‘Electro-Shock’s electric voltage seems to strengthen and weaken at the same beats per minute of the average heartbeat. Is it weird to suspect her heart manages to produce these shocks? Likely weird, not impossible. I constantly deal with reverse hypothermia and still survive. If her heart does produce it, her surviving it is not much of a question as one might think.’
End quote. Electro-Shock’s theories didn’t even have much in the little box with the yarn as evidence. Why was I like that back then? It was a brief thought before remembering: child throwing thoughts around, and after an argument with a friend over my identity, having no one to throw them to anymore. I was a sad, sad, lonely child. That said, I still did agree with the sentiment I had back then:
Neitlim was a fascinating condition in nature. The side effects varied; the abilities that came from it were entirely unique for each patient, with the rare occasion of two conditions being similar. Heightened senses in the same sentence were as much of a gamble as the powers—possibly worse. You never knew which sense or two would surpass the rest, then be a pain in the ass—and how crazier one’s looks may be, that varied, as the condition also affected pigmentation.
I personally was a less extreme case. I often get mistaken as someone with albinism—but if someone squinted, they would note how my eyes seemed like crystals or potentially see how reflective they were.
Neitlim was still a recent condition. Only appearing sixty or so odd years ago. At first, it was everyone one in sixty-thousand who had it. Now it is just as common as heterochromia, which is only 1% of the population. Not really much, but more common than it used to be…
Scientists also suspect that percentiles may increase as years go on. I sighed as I skimmed through the pages. Then I found a… schedule? A few schedules. I terrified myself as I read it.
‘Oh, I studied their rotations and tried to predict when they would hit certain cities…’ Not even just heroes, but villains…
I sat upright, placed the folder on my bedside table, then stood up and stretched. I murmured to myself, “Alright, enough of that.”
I moved my arms back down, then briskly walked down the staircase with a sigh. Then walked out of the house. I figured I could use some fresh air… the last few days had been something… not sure what, but something. Made a new friend? Found out I might end up with a stepdad? Got stuck in a tree like a cat?
Yeah, certainly a day. I also wanted to distract myself from my fourteen-year-old self’s questionable habits. Because I don’t remember ever making those calculations—there was a distracting thought I kept pushing away that screamed at me to test.
I won’t. I'm not an idiot! I swear!
I shoved my hands into my jacket, releasing a sigh as the cold wind blew through my hair. I closed my eyes briefly while walking down the street, then opened them again.
I loved the cold. Unfortunately, even my body had its limits when it came to the cold. I still enjoyed it anyway.
But that bliss dissipated quickly. I kicked up my pace as I heard the shuffling of feet behind me. I felt my heart start thumping uncomfortably.
Now I don’t regret skipping that dose of medicine.
Survival instincts kicked in—the shouts the human body did to run, of which I had to refrain. Running would only make this person run too. Currently, I heard them attempting to match my pace.
‘Okay, Carter, stay calm,’ I thought to myself. ‘Ignore the adrenaline—running didn’t save you from Zachary, it won’t save you from worse.’
Albeit the contexts would be different, akin to comparing apples and oranges. If a confrontation was needed, I would do it—I could freeze and run. Like a hit and run, but without the cars and not a felony. I lifted my cotton hood over my head slowly, then dived into an alleyway, where I quickened my pace, getting out of the person's gaze. I grabbed the roof, lifted my leg up, and hauled myself over the fence. This wasn’t the weirdest method of hiding I’ve done, to be honest. I ducked down, lifting my head just enough to peer over said fence.
The person had just managed to walk into the alleyway, seemed to be looking around confused. I heard shouts and the shifting of crates. I held a hand over my mouth.
This was terrifying, horrific with a dash of very uncomfortable. Not that I understood why this person seemed like he was hunting me down to begin with. Then I heard feet behind me again.
‘Oh god damn it—’ I turned my head. Then I relaxed. Why did I relax?
THIS WAS A BAD GUY.
“What are you doing, kid?” THE Cinderash asked. For some reason, my thoughts—instead of being panicky—were, ‘Why does he sound familiar?’
What is wrong with me? I answered with a soft tone of voice. “Er, hiding from someone who was following me?”
He walked over to the roof and looked down. “The hell did you do?”
That was an odd question—I answered anyway. “I was on a walk, freaked myself out after reading some ridiculous calculations my younger self did—”
“Past cringe. Reasonable,” he interrupted, then gestured for me to continue… asshole.
I sighed. “Then I heard footsteps behind me and...”
I pointed down below at the man still rummaging through crates for a teenager who wasn’t even on the ground. The man nodded, then rubbed the edge of his metal mask, groaned, then said, “Alright, kid, stay up here—I’ll handle it.”
I murmured a quiet ‘huh’ as he jumped down.
A bad guy helping kids? Was this a requirement of working with Zel.Corp? Did he just have a weakness for kids? What was I witnessing?
Peering down, I winced as I watched Cinderash create flames… and huh, I guess past me was right—there was a delay in the summoning of his flames… wait, I am focusing on the wrong thing.
He said stay up here. Should I listen to a villain? He didn’t kill the guy—which was a relief in itself. I didn’t want to witness a murder—I could still hear both heartbeats. He tied the stranger up. Then Cinderash put a hand down to the ground and blasted himself with fire, and I skidded out of the way.
23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnERJeqg2yS
