A H.E.R.O.S PROJECT 12

32. Systems on

Falling.

Falling.

Falling...

Why hasn't Number Twelve killed me?

It's not raining—the sensation of rain pitter-patter on my feet, my legs, hurdling on my back. A hefty weight presses me forward as Twelve spreads its pointers into my spine and buries itself deep into my muscles. Tremors claim my body, and I rattle violently, my hands unable to grab anything to help me ease my pain. My arms and legs ache and crack, stretching, pulling, giving me more. A last painful wave splits my shoulders, making room.

Giving.

Giving,

Giving.

It's giving me too much, and I cry.

It's all too much.

Please, I beg Number Twelve, please let me go! I don't want this!

Images and shapes burst into my psyche, swirling from some inner black, shapeless void too out of reach, and I sense the darkness pleading for me to come near. A hand of shadow quivers and cries out to me to walk near it. So cold, its hand feeble and brittle. The hand drops, but its voice cries, yearning relentlessly for me.

The shadow fades away. A gentle, kind voice tells it to go somewhere else.

Images and shapes drip from a container, filling and filling until the cup is full and nothing else can squeeze within the glass.

A conversation or two doesn't make it inside the cup, and the conversation unravels before my eyes, constructing into a brightly lit scene. The darkness, the void, cries out for me to embrace it, disintegrating, the light winning in the end.

I'm not me anymore, and the conversation isn't about me.

This isn't my story.

I realize now that it never was.

I stalk nearby, where I can partially hear them talk. Familiar names come to mind. How could I have forgotten their names? He was my closest friend. A scenery of green grass spreads far, and clouds coast in a sleepy blue sky. A dog barks, asking for permission to approach.

I see a boy, his hair is red like molten fire, and blotchy freckles brown his nose and cheeks. His eyes are a soft blue, and his boyish pale skin refuses to tan in the sunlight, reddening the longer he lingers from the tree shade.

The boy takes cover underneath bent trees, and so does another man, though his complexion is as brown as the branches protecting him from the light he adamantly avoids. The man has silvery-white hair and limps as he steps in a light grey suit that does not fit him well. His clothes swallow him, loosely hanging around his thin neck, square shoulders, and small waist. The man leans on a polished pearly cane, the handle a dark silver.

A wet cough, two slips from his dry lips. He wipes his mouth with a handkerchief, spitting a thick black solution. He dabs his mouth with the cloth again and his forehead and cheeks.

My eyes glaze over the sickly man and again stare at the boy. I vaguely recall the boy, though I've seen him before. It's not deja vu. It's an old memory that truly never belonged to me. I remind myself that this isn't my story and listen and watch.

The boy and man exchange words, fishing to see who will admit what's on their heart. The man-boy is confident that the doctor will open up first because he is a sucker for his baby blues and is the doctor's favorite, so why not?

A golden retriever runs to the doctor's legs. The doctor reminds the boy not to give L.O.U too many directions because she's new and very impressionable.

The boy nods, slightly interested in L.O.U, thrilled he'll have a loyal companion for the rest of his life. He had never had a dog before. He wanted one, but owning a dog wasn't feasible, with little food to go around.

"What am I now?" is the boy's question. The boy hopes the doctor doesn't notice his sweaty hands and wipes them on his blue jeans. His blue jeans used to belong to his older brother before his brother shipped off. The boy hasn't seen his brother since, but he reads his brother's letters when they come, and they always come. The boy knows Marx is doing well and will go home as soon as the war is over. Marx is stationed somewhere cold and recently promoted to Sergeant. It's nothing to celebrate. The Sergeant before Marx died.

The doctor grips the boy's arms, and the boy straightens up as tall as possible. The boy is significantly taller and more muscular than the doctor, in a fitted white t-shirt that should be two sizes bigger. The boy hadn't expected to change so much. Grow so much. And so fast. The doctor says, "You are my greatest creation, young man. I've made many of you, but you are the special one. I promise you are. You're not going to be like my other children, a machine, a soldier for war. I made that mistake, creating the others for that purpose, but..." The doctor lags, inspecting L.O.U, one of his happier inventions. "You will do more, be more. You have a good head on your shoulders too. You are my Number Twelve. The last, my boy."

"Why am I last? Why did you choose me?" the boy asks.

"Not only the last, the first of many. My children will forget who they are, and you will remind them. You will be more patient than them, and when they seek destruction, they will see your light and be attracted to it. Your light shines brighter than theirs."

"I think you picked the wrong person. I'm not any of those things, Doc."

"We are all chosen for greatness. While only a handful operates to their full capacity, and that's a shame. The chosen do because of responsibility. Responsibility. Your responsibility began the moment you marched on that field. I saw it in you, in that hospital bed. You are here because you were supposed to serve. Your time is now, Solomon. Be a great man. Show the world why it's lucky to have someone like you protecting it. Be the hero I know I saw. Be a light in this dark world."

I'm me again. Anaya Matthew, except—

The doctor and Solomon's conversation dissipates, and something awakens. A—a person within me wakes.

It's a tired voice that has been resting for a long time. It has not spoken since this very moment. The voice clears his throat, gasping in appreciation, telling me he's thankful and prepared to serve as my guide.

A red light flashes over my eyes. A sharp scanner rings in my ear. I repeatedly blink until I can see and hear and move.

I stay where I sit and continue analyzing the alley. Water mixed with oil and dirt puddles in different spots on the ground, and I see specks of dirt and trash in those puddles. A layer of rust and grime coats the trash cans in front of me. Within those trashcans, I hear micro heartbeats. A rodent climbs out of the can and flees. Above, blinking stars glow in the clear night sky. Some stars are dying. Some are beginning. I count and mark those stars with a laser pointer I fabricated. Each star has a name and is part of constellations, sketched and measured with complex equations I can't fully comprehend.

But I know who named those stars. The names quickly come to me.

I see a girl on the wet alley floor, and she's my adversary. The girl came too close, and I was vulnerable. We stopped the girl, and we'll finish what we started. The voice gallantly debriefs our encounter.

Tristian.

His voice already irritates me. I can't open my mouth to call Tris's name to see if she's okay. Instead, the inner voice advises me to say it. I don't know what it is. So he proudly reminds me, reinforcing how significant saying this is, "NUMBER TWELVE! SUITS ON H.E.R.O.S!"