Part Three: Playground

"What just happened?"

I stood in the middle of our apartment, trembling, soaked to the bone. My jacket dripped onto the floor, rainwater pooling around my shoes. The kitchen lights flickered overhead as my parents turned to stare at me, their argument abruptly cut off. A second ago, I'd been walking to the E-Z Mart. It was cold, the rain biting through my clothes. All I could think about was being home. Not with them—never with them—but with William, my little brother.

"I don't know," I said, voice shaking. "I was just at the store, like you told me to!"

My mother's eyes widened, darting to my father. "James... do you know what this means? The limiter! You can go back to work!"

"Bella, I know!" he hissed, eyes alight with something that looked like triumph.

They were scheming. Again.

I never used to understand the whispers, the half-conversations when they thought we weren't listening. But I did now.

My father was sick—had been for years. He had an Omen. Mom had told us recently that he'd suffered a work-related brain injury. That much was true. What she didn't say was the rest—that they'd hidden it, not just from the government but from us. And we weren't just their kids. We were leverage.

Kids with Omens were worth something to people in the city. Criminals. Gangs. If you had a child with abilities, they'd give you a limiter—help suppress your own Omen symptoms. It was a dark trade. We were currency. And mine had just… awakened.

A soft shuffle broke the tension. My eight-year-old brother, William, wandered out of his room, rubbing his eyes.

"What's going on?" he mumbled.

"Don't worry about it, William," Mom snapped. "Go back to bed!"

"What's happening to me?" I whispered, the realization sinking in like a stone. "Do I have an Omen? That can't be. That means…"

I looked at them. And suddenly, I understood everything.

Mom lunged for the holo-phone, punching in a number. A grainy projection shimmered to life. A hooded figure appeared on the screen.

"Razor," she said breathlessly, "one of them's got it. You can come pick him up."

A distorted voice replied, slow and menacing. "My guys'll be there in ten. This better be fo' real."

Panic surged through me. I didn't have time to think, just act. I grabbed William's hand and pulled him toward our room, slamming the door and locking it behind us.

"Will, pack a bag," I said, throwing clothes into mine. "We're getting the hell out of this shithole."

He looked at me, eyes wide with fear, but nodded. "Okay… but where will we go?"

"I don't know yet." I zipped the bags with shaking hands. "But I'll figure it out."

The banging started immediately. Our parents, pounding on the door, pleading now. The doorbell rang.

We froze.

Too late.

There was no window. No escape. The gangsters were in the apartment.

I looked down at my hands, then at the bags. Something clicked in my brain.

I had teleported here from the store… with all my stuff. My bag. My clothes.

"Will!" I shouted. "Grab on to me. I'm gonna teleport us out."

"What? You can do that? Won't that mess you up?"

"I don't care. We can't stay here."

The door burst open.

A man in all black stormed in, reaching for me. I didn't wait. I closed my eyes, tightened my grip on William's arm, and focused.

The world tilted.

I opened my eyes.

We were standing in the rain at the playground near our old apartment—the one we used to visit when things were good. Before.

"William, we did it! We—"

But I couldn't feel him.

Something was wrong.

I looked down.

Blood.

Thick, dark, warm.

It soaked my hands, my clothes. Bits of—

"No," I whispered. "No no no—"

I couldn't teleport back. I couldn't focus. Panic clawed at my throat.

I started running.

Two miles.

Two miles through the rain, the streets, past flickering streetlights and screaming thoughts.

I rounded the corner and saw the flashing lights.

Police cars. Three of them.

Good, I thought. The police. They can help.

Then I saw my parents.

Handcuffed.

Covered in blood.

I stumbled toward the nearest officer. He spotted me and raised his gun.

"Stop there, kid! Hands up!"

Another officer ran over, scanning me with a handheld reader. The device beeped, then blared.

"Jesus, Bart," he muttered. "Class Two. Call Thompson. And get Crow out here—they'll want this one limited."

"Where's my brother?" I cried. "Where's William?"

They didn't answer.

They held me until two black Venator trucks pulled up. A man climbed out—huge, armored, faceless. Two pistols on his hips gleamed beneath the streetlights.

He looked at me like I wasn't human.

"You take one step," he said coldly, "and everyone in a room dies, huh?"

"I didn't mean to—where's my brother?"

"Your brother's red mist because of that there Omen." Without hesitation, he jabbed a limiter injector into my neck. My body went numb. Stun cuffs clamped around my wrists.

"You're lucky I don't knock you out for my safety, kid."

Another Venator climbed out behind him—a woman with blue hair. She watched me with something like pity.

"Be careful, sir," she said. "You really shouldn't be touching him, even if he's limited."

"Don't worry, Jumper. I've been doin' this job longer than you've had hair dye." He grabbed me by the arm. "Damn kids. No respect."

The front door of my apartment was still open. Blood smeared across the walls like a crime scene from hell. They shut the door quickly, but I'd seen enough. I stared at the floor of the truck bed as they threw me in.

The man climbed in beside me, then pounded on the glass to the driver. The truck rolled forward.

He leaned back, arms crossed, large black circular lenses staring through me.

"You've got an Omen," he said. "Parents tried to sell you for a cheap limiter knockoff. Now your deadbeat mom's goin' to prison, and your class-nine dad's headed to Alota Base until his brain turns to soup."

He paused.

"The U.S. government's gonna be real interested in you. Four gangsters and a little brother… gone. Blink of an eye. You'll be trained. Sent to a Venator squad."

"I didn't kill him!" I shouted. "It was the mobsters! It had to be!"

He didn't flinch. "What's the kid's name?" he asked someone over comms. Then turned to me. "Nathan, listen. You can either rot in Omen jail without your limiter, or you follow orders. Do what the people at Alota tells you. Join a squad."

I didn't respond. I couldn't. My thoughts were still back at the playground.

He sighed. "I'm squad leader of Crow Venator. Call sign's Spitfire."

I said nothing.

"Well, if you're gonna be in my squad, you'll need a callsign."

Silence.

He smirked under the mask. "You know what I'd call you?"

I looked up.

"What's that?" I whispered.

"Something metal, man… I got it." He leaned forward. "Deathstep."