the butterfly effect | l. garmadon

thirty-six

  Thankfully Borg was smart enough to read my reluctance, so he didn't linger on the craziness of the past few days and how they'd affected me. He changed the subject, instead.

  "How have your powers felt since you started wearing the necklace?" Borg asked.

  "Kinda the same as before, just not as intense," I answered. My hand lifted to fiddle with the dragon-shaped golden pendant. "I was able to use my powers yesterday without bleeding and I'm not so tired. The headaches still suck, though. And I kinda feel like I've been hit by a car."

  "And you have not yet learnt how to wield it?"

  "No," I sighed. "It's still pretty touch-and-go. I feel like it controls me more than I control it."

  Borg hummed and held his chin as he assessed my answers. I watched the ninja familiarise themselves with their new mechs and bikes, fooling around and laughing. Lloyd sat on a his motorbike that must've been picked up from the monastery, a little more solemn than the rest of his team. Once, before Morro, he would've been showing off with the others. Instead he sat quietly and snuck glances my way.

  "All in due time," Borg said, and patted my back in support.

  You'll get there soon, all in due time - that's what everyone kept saying. I was too impatient to wait.

  I just smiled. "Thanks, Dr. Borg."

  "Will you be fighting?"

  Lloyd's head snapped toward me.

  "I want to," I answer. He dismounted from his bike and began to approach. I quickly turned to Borg, resolute in my decision. "I've been thinking about something, if you can make it."

  His expression lifted with intense interest. "Yes?"

  "Water guns," I said. "I know it sounds elementary, but I'm good at target shooting and ghosts are vulnerable to water. That's the best way I can help."

  Borg's eyes were gleaming with fierce thought, and I knew that his mind was already racing a mile a minute at the technicalities of my idea. He began to slowly nod.

  Lloyd took my arm and turned me around. "What are you doing?" he asked.

  I was already shaking my head at the words I knew were coming. "You can't make me sit on the sidelines, Lloyd. I spent all week proving myself. I'm not going to hear it from you, too."

  Borg began to roll his wheelchair back into Steep Wisdom, all the while muttering to himself. Rain began to fall into my hair, again, and Lloyd turned his pleading gaze back to me. Water dripped down his concerned face.

  "This is different," he insisted. He planted his hands on my shoulders, desperate for me to understand. "This isn't like fighting Morro - this is the Preeminent. It's too much for you."

  "I have to help."

  "No, you don't," Lloyd pled. "You don't have to do this kind of stuff - not yet, not until you're ready. You don't have to fight fate's battles."

  It became clear then, what he was really saying; he didn't want me to become like him. He didn't want me to be Fate's next puppet to string around into fights - not while I could still help it. He wanted me to be a normal teenager for as long as I could, because he never got that chance.