I see them before they see me. The trio and their hangers on all gathered around the front doors of the classroom 'talking' but angled in such a way that makes it clear that they wouldn't miss me among the crowd of students.

I don't duck away quickly like I usually do. I had once feared them, and now that fear had turned into a cold hate.

Sophia is the first to point me out, and though she's smiling it's easy to see the edges of frustration lining it. I have been managing to avoid her and the others for a solid week, It's probably getting to her bad that her favorite punching bag isn't around very often. Like dominos, their eyes fall on me as I walk towards them and they move like a wave to intercept.

I can imagine they plan to cut me off, corner me in a semi-circle to play their juvenile games.

I let them, mostly because I need proof. Proof that someone in this school would actually do their job.

They start their verbal prodding and, much like with Gladly's lessons, I tune them out and start thinking as my eyes fall on Emma.

It's amazing what the smallest things can do to a person. A single virus, which is by definition, a parasite, can kill the human body in the most gruesome, horrific ways. A single change in a fetus' chromosome can have a child suffering from autism or a birth defect. Or even the point of a needle injecting a flu vaccine.

Yet nothing is smaller than the vibration of air. Sound can't be touched, but it can hurt. It can deafen or in the case of what is about to happen, break when it's coming out of the wrong person. In most cases since that day with the locker, all it had done was motivate me to find increasingly creative ways to end and repay the suffering I had endured.

And suffering it had been.

I can still remember the fear that I felt as I pounded and kicked the locker door with every bit of strength my body could manage. Even the pain when the result of that action, which was a broken left foot and lacerated right forearm, was dulled. There was no anger or hatred, just fear…and panic.

A terrible feeling of panic that could only have come from some primal part of my brain. The part that wanted to survive. That wanted out.

I have no doubt they were smiling as I begged, they certainly laughed. They had enjoyed my terror, my utter horror at the realization that I would not escape and would not be released. I don't like to think about what happened after that. Just suffice it to say that it had been a bad day, a very bad day indeed.

The memory would not be so… mortifying if it had not been so easy for them to get away with it. Just the thought of it angered me to the point of violence. Later, after recovering from a week long coma and being forced to accept the school's hush money because our insurance couldn't cover all our hospital bills, all I could think of was killing everyone involved in a particularly spectacular fashion.

Now however, I had mellowed out for lack of another term.

The door to the classroom opens and Gladly steps out. The girls don't stop, either they don't care that he's there or don't see him. My guess is on the former. I look right at him as he turns and sees us. He makes eye contact with me. Clearly, he can see the situation and there are no ifs about it. My back is pressed up against the lockers, the girls surround me, packed close enough to not allow me any space to get through, and I'm certain he can hear the things being said.

He pauses for just a moment, then turns to walk down the hall...in the other direction.

I should've expected that. I'd been shown time and time again that no a single teacher or staff memeber of this school wanted to do their jobs even when the evidence had been right in front of their eye. It should've been no surprise. But it was.

In some small hopeful corner in the back of my mind, I wanted to believe that Gladly's concern had been genuine. I knew it wasn't but I had wanted to believe it. So it stung, badly.

That sting must have shown on my face.

"Aww, what's the matter, Taylor?" My attention was pulled from the injustice done to me as I looked back at Emma. "You look upset."

I had learned that the phrase (or some variation of) 'the people that can hurt you most are the ones closest to you' was true. Yet even though it came from Emma, even when I was prepared and long since numbed myself to her bile, nothing could have readied me for the poison that came from her lips.

"So upset you're going to cry yourself to sleep for a straight week?"

That sentence, this small insignificant jumble of air vibrations that not even a cow would care about, ran me through like a blade. In that small single hallway, Gladly's back retreating from the situation, I was left breathless. For a single moment, I was struck dumb by her cruelty. And then by her pettiness. And then by her...smallness. "Have you always been so ugly, Emma?"

The words came unprompted but not unwelcome. How insignificant she had to be in order to use such an event to hurt me. To leverage my mother' death for pain. Even the agast look on her face from my words seemed to be the reaction of a shallow mind, at the insult, at my gall, to say that rather than the horribleness of her own actions.

In some way, it was like looking into a mirror of what once was. The true other end of the scale from a best friend.

What was the point of her doing this? In fact, what was the point of her at all? I felt something change in me as I looked over the terrible trio and their hangers-on. Every one of their faces held expectant glee for a breakdown which would never come. It was clear that Emma had to have told them just how personal this was for me. I think what surprised me more than anything was their entire lack of empathy. How they were taking joy in such personal pain when it could easily be anyone of them in my place.

Again I found myself surprised, this time by myself. When the shock faded I half-expected to see red from such a personal betrayal. To have every sense flooded with hatred so poisonous and fury so blinding that I wouldn't know up from down. Yet there was just disappointment and bitterness when I grabbed the Force.

A disappointment mirrored on the faces of my bullies when I didn't so much as sniffle.

I had realized my mistake when dealing with these...creatures. Thinking of them as people with family, with hopes and dreams, instead of the non-persons they were. The things they were couldn't be reasoned with or argued down.

As I raised my hand, at least one part of me screaming for reason, about what I would lose if I did this. About the pain I would put Dad through. About the fact I couldn't survive being a criminal on the run. The rest of me argued back, that I had the knowledge and skill that would allow me to survive. That I was far from weak. That I didn't have to kill them.

Just destroy them.

Still the argument had me pause. Should I do this? This would be a path I wouldn't step back from. I would be on the run for the rest of my life. If I was caught, prison would be the least of my worries.

Hand half raised, I hesitated. Emma must have mistaken my actions as fear, considering I was contemplating the pros and cons of something far in the other direction.

The smack echoed through the hall as I found myself on the receiving end of a vicious slap. This time I didn't surprise myself. It wasn't even hard for the hate and pain to bubble up to the surface. All it took were the memories of abuse; the memories of helplessness, of inconsolable fury and my anger rose like a storm. My power answered immediately.

With that my decision was made. Don't kill.

Maim.

"How dare yo-Hey!?"

My intent must have shown on my face because Sophia stepped forward in front of Emma, much to the other's protest. I can only assume she was expecting me to throw a punch. How wrong she was. I lash out my hand and let my rage flow through it.

She was just quick enough to get in the way as lightning exploded from my fingertips right into her chest. It hit the black girl with such force, it knocked her off her feet and sent her flying down the hall. With a casual flick of my wrist the current carried her to the left, bouncing her off some of the lockers before she hit the floor. She didn't even have time to scream.

I will never forget the look on Emma's face as long as I live. The feeling of being feared by my tormenter was amazing… indescribable. She was frozen, staring at me like I had turned into Scion right in front of her. Mouth, spitting such hate before, opening and closing like a fish out of water. That gave me enough time to grab the hand that slapped me, fingers in my left, wrist in the right, I poured the Force into my body and squeezed until it felt less like a hand and more like soft clay in my grip.

I listened to her screams as I let go, her hand little more than a deformed appendage, useless and limp like a puppet with no strings. She collapsed to the floor, weeping, sniveling, sobbing, cradling her useless hand in the crook of her other arm. The hall was in chaos by now.

The hangers-on plus Madison were already gone. The crowds in the hallway split in two different directions in a desperate mob rush to get away. The noise was terrible, voices cursing and screaming, but my ears only focused on one sound, on one voice.

I looked down at my best tormentor and she looked at me, pale, tears and snot streaking her face, and...

I can't help but curl my lip at the puddle that formed around her legs, staining her skirt. Even at my most pathetic, at my lowest point, I at least managed to keep some modicum of decency.

I don't bother saying anything, I let everything that needed to be out as I glare at her before I turn to leave.

I make out the slight thump of her body hitting the floor behind me. I don't look back.

My trip home was fast. Using the assistance of the Force to both increase my speed and lengthen my endurance what would've been a rather long walk became a fifteen minute journey at a full sprint.

I wasted no time hurrying inside, throwing the door shut behind me. I'm not breathing as hard as

I expected to be, I barely feel winded. Still even if I was, I have no time to rest. The police will know my name and face soon, if they don't already have it and the PRT or Protectorate will be at my door shortly after.

The very first thing I do after locking the door is check to make sure Dad was not home. His schedule had been in flux lately and I had very nearly been caught practicing with my powers when he'd walked in unexpectedly.

"Hey, Dad?"

Nothing.

I methodically check each and every room in the house one by one, checking his bedroom last in case he was both home and in bed early.

He wasn't. Good.

Once it's confirmed I'm alone, I charge to my room and start packing as fast as I can. I dump several sets of clothes and underwear in my duffle bag before grabbing my notebooks, including my journals and stuffing them in as well. I continue the frantic process grabbing things necessary, or of personal importance until nothing else will fit, before throwing it over my shoulder.

Then I turn to it. The one thing I left untouched on my desk, the item that came with my powers.

To anyone else it would look like a bronze pyramid with tinted red/blue glass. A ornate decoration or paperweight that, while unique, wouldn't catch much attention if not under scrutiny. Only a steady pulsating glow of it's colors even suggested it was more than what it looked. Though, it was my proximity causing that effect. Stand far enough away and the glass dimmed.

However, it wasn't it's outside that was valuable but it's inside. A wealth of information, technology and knowledge that would've helped me become a hero like no other, is now going to be the backbone of my new career as a runaway. It taught me how to use my power in amazing ways. Hell, it told me that my cape ability was known as the Force.

I pick it up and the glow brightens slightly, metal surface warm to the touch and I tuck it in my pocket.

After that I tear out a piece of paper from one of the notebooks and begin doing the most important thing I ever have done in my life.

I write my goodbye letter to Dad.

I don't want to. God knows I don't want to but the thought of just leaving after what I've done without so much as giving him an explaination makes me sick. It's the first thing that's bothered me for a long time.

Once the news catches this story, they will be all over him. I've seen it before on TV. A independent cape does something wrong and the media decends upon the family like a pack of wolves, making life impossible for them. Just thinking of Dad pushed into a corner like that on top of being left high and dry...I can't do that to him.

I make the letter quick and to the point, otherwise I'll write a short novella with all I want to say. The only positive I can even come up with about this situation is that I'm not talking to him face to face. I think I might just simply cried nothing but nonsense if that were the case.

I check my watch as I finish. Ten minutes since I started the letter. That means, Damn.

I grab my bag and make a beeline for the door...when I'm stopped by the blinking red light on the answering machine.

I don't even think I heard the phone ring. I'm tempted to ignore it but something in me tells me to listen to it.

The Force tells me to listen to it.

So I do and as I press play.

When the message starts, I'm dumbfounded. Simply confused by what I'm hearing.

By the time it ends, I'm not just angry. No, angry would've left me to simply harbor that feeling and use it as a reason to put as many miles between me and this city as quickly as possible. Angry would've gotten the speaker off with barely a thought.

Angry is just too small of a feeling to describe the reason my hands are trembling.

My plan to get out of Brockton is put on hold for the next few hours and damn the consequences.

It was painfully easy to acquire a car for my needs. This old puke green two door hatchback Toyota junker from the 80s sat abandoned and forgotten on the end of my block. It hadn't been moved for awhile, at least since before I got back from the hospital months ago. I was just lucky it hadn't been towed yet. Getting it to start was even easier, a simple manipulation of the Force against the ignition and the engine with some struggle started.

It took less than an hour to reach my destination, a two-story house in a nice suburban cul-de-sac. Big lawns, white picket fences, trees with a swing or two tied to its branches. A slice of good-ol fashioned fresh apple Americana from which I parked two blocks away.

I made my way through the alley, my job of sneaking into the right backyard made simple by the huge privacy fences every home had. From there all I had to do was sneak in through a window (unlocked, go figure) and sit in the living room and wait in the dark.

So I did.

I waited, observing my surroundings as I did. The house was just what I expected, ordered, boring, miserable in it's lack of any personal touch or family photos. Simply put it really reflected the mind and life of it's owner. I might have pitied such a lonely existence if I wasn't so pissed off right now.

Every part of me wanted to strike out, and turn everything in this home to a broken piece of junk.

I resist the urge for the simple reason that if I did that the noise might attract the attention of the neighbors and I didn't need any additional observers to what was going to be a very private matter.

Finally, I hear a garage door open after six hours, sixteen minutes, and forty two seconds right as the last rays of sun are about to set. Though I have had time to cool down, I find my anger building again as the door begins unlocking.

Principal Blackwell stumbles in looking for all the world like she just went through a ten-mile hike, all uphill, on her hands and knees. All of her just sags. Her suit so usually neat is rumpled beyond anything I've ever seen. Her head hangs low and eyes droop. Everything about her screams that she's had a very very long day. No doubt because of me.

She turns on the light and, either becuase of her tiredness or just plain unobservance, she closes the door behind her and nearly walks halfway into the living room before she notices me sitting cross-legged in the center.

There is a moment of confusion on her face, then all signs of exhastion evaporate into fear.

"I got your message. Please," I motion to the couch facing me. "Sit down."

Blackwell doesn't move for a moment, then her hands snap down to her purse. I reach out and snatch it away. The bag jumps out of her hands, flying right into my grasp.

"Sit down." I repeat. "I won't be so polite a third time."

She's not even subtle when her eyes flick from me to the door leading to the garage. I gave her a flat look, telling her just what I think about that idea.

Slowly, shakily, she sits down on the couch while I take a moment to search through her purse.

Her cellphone is right at the top and I pull it out, twirling it between my fingers and give her a shake of my head. Her wallet is right under that and I open it. $125 dollars. I can't help but pocket it. I need gas money after this.

This whole time as I do this she is a slient as a church mouse and still as a grave. It takes about two more minutes before she finally breaks it, just as I'm folding the money into my pocket. "H-how did you get here?" She demands.

Well, not demands.

Her voice cracks and her hands trembling, looking so tense that a stiff breeze might crack her in two. No doubt she was well aware of what I was and what I had done at school today. Her eyes move up and down, taking me in from head to toe. I know what they see: Taylor Hebert. The girl that was put in the hospital by her borderline idiotic refusal to do her job. Who's sitting here cool as ice after putting two of her students in the hospital. She don't see a threat. And that's what she's afraid of.

It's expected, really. With monsters like Nilbog, Nine, and Sleeper around, unknowns should scare other people shitless.

Especially unknowns that look normal.

"Easy." I smile suddenly, savagely, baring my teeth at her and I'm sure if she hadn't been sitting down she would've fallen over. "I drove to the address on those school business cards you have on your desk. Considering what school you work at that's a fairly idiotic thing to have for anyone to just pick up." Which was true. This visit could have been made by a member from any of the gangs that recruited at the school. Or by any student with a personal beef like me. I mean, I'm still livid about having to take her hush money and I'd probably go visit Alan as well if I had the time.

I imagine Lung paying my dear principal a visit and have to fight to keep myself from laughing.

From the way her face pales further, I think she also realized just how stupid it was. I cock my head at her. "As for the reason, well..." I let the pause hang in the air. "It was even stupider to call the house of a cape that just attacked your students. I mean, you deserve a Darwin award for that choice."

"You know what, Blackwell?" I muse aloud, drumming on my knees. "I find myself in a bit of a situation. You see I came here after your rather scathing message to my father with half a mind to kill you."

My words don't have quite the entire reaction I expected. She doesn't look quite as horrified as I imagine someone would if they were being threatened by a cape. "You wouldn't dare." She said, a bit more confidently than I expected. "If you do anything to me the PRT would be all over you."

That caught my interest. "Why?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at her. "How would they even know I killed you? Odds are my actions today will have school out for awhile, which since you won't be going in for work, will give me more than enough time to end your life and clean up whatever evidence is left behind. The police could easily guess that it was a break-in gone wrong."

She's trembling even more now, probably from seeing the massive flaw in her reasoning. "They want to interview me tomorrow. If I don't..."

"...show up, they'll come to investigate." I finish for her. It made sense...somewhat. If she didn't arrive for the meeting with the PRT, they might assume the worst. Then again my statement before still stands. They couldn't immediately know it was me. Plus that confidence from before was bothering me.

It's probably nothing but if it wasn't...

No, killing her, as satisfying as it would be, wouldn't gain me anything in the long run. But that didn't mean I came for nothing. Her interview tomorrow presents an opportunity.

What I wanted to do couldn't be instant like with force lightning, this was going to have to be something steadily built up which meant time...if I wanted to be gentle about it.

"You know what? You're right. Killing you is not worth the headache." I jerk to my feet and am in Blackwell's face in two steps. She yelps and tries to jerk away from me but I grab her by the shirt and hold her in place. I look her right in the eyes then I dive into her mind. "But that doesn't mean you're getting out of this unharmed."

I hammer into it, overwhelming her thoughts with my own, like a battering ram against a two-by-four. Her mind reels under my pressure as I burrow in, creating little holes for me to plant the seed of suggestion.

Judging by the constant stream of whimpers coming from her, what I'm doing hurts a great deal. I don't even have to do it with such force. I had practiced mind tricks on animals and had gotten quite good at it. Using it on her wasn't even a challenge.

Her mind is of weak will, offering no defense against me but seeing her expression crinkle into a grimace puts a smile on my face. I would find out later that what I had done was akin to using a sledgehammer in diamond cutting. Once her thoughts are practically swiss cheese, I begin filling in those empty spots with what I want. Suggestion or order, it doesn't matter at this depth. she will play out her part like a puppet.

By the time I finish she's actively flailing, kicking against me and yanking at my arms, trying to rip my grip away from her. It has as much effect on me as if I were a statue. For a moment, I feel a pang of regret for the violation I've done. It's gone just as fast in a flash of anger.

Fuck her comfort. She never cared about mine. Besides she won't have it for long anyway. I've doing something far worse than kill her. Tomorrow, she'll be telling the truth. The whole truth and nothing but the truth. From my constant begging to do her job to the hush money she force my father and I to take, she will confess like a sinner in church. Maybe a little more if my suggestion holds for awhile. She'll dig herself in a hole deep enough for her to be thrown under the bus with me.

Simply put, her career is over. If I was really lucky the PRT and Protectorate might actually give me a fair chance to defend myself in court. Yeah, that was optimistic. Maybe Blackwell would drag the trio down with her.

As I release her, in mind and body, I wipe myself away from her immediate memory and she passes out.

Then I leave quickly. I have time I need to make up.