Sorry I have to put this back.. heheh I made a mistake while updating chapter 2 when I put two Chapter 2s and some people got confused... Sorry!

Chapter 1

The first time I discovered I was different, I was ten years old.

Father was still there back then.

That day, Mother had gotten us an inflatable pool in our backyard. I had never tried swimming before and I hadn't gotten wet once in my life. Father set up a diving board with old books and planks of wood. Mother dragged a few lawn chairs in under our peach tree and I got in a brand-new bathing suit. As soon as Father hammered the last nails in, I was ready. Father pulled off his work gloves and helped me on.

"Ready when you are!" He called.

Mother laughed. I spread my arms and walked one foot in front of another,, the way I saw people do on the NetScreens. I stepped out on the board shakily. The wood was rough and full of splinters, but as always, they just scraped past my skin. Of course, I didn't notice anything back then. As I reached the end, the wood became thinner and more unstable. Father, probably worried for my safety, said,

"You sure about that? You positive you won't fall off?" Hearing this, I chewed my lip nervously.

"Ummm…"

"Raphael, she's fine," Mother said. "She's brave." She turned to smile at me.

I turned and nodded. Just then, the wood cracked beneath my feet. Mother screamed and dropped her pitcher of lemonade. The plank of wood and I splashed into the pool. Afterwards, my parents told me what happened. I only remember so much. I only remembered the hot, searing pain that arced through my body as soon as I hit the water. For the first time in my life, something penetrated my skin and ran like a thousand hot iron rods through my body. Apparently there was something like lightning coursing through the pool and engulfing me. This part of my memory is hazy, but Father told me I was highly dysfunctional afterwards.

My mother got a full refund on the pool.

Afterwards, I never touched a drop of water again. Whether it was washing my hands, taking showers, standing at the sink, my mother always steered my clear of any contact with any liquid. After I fell in the pool, the only thing I clearly remember is her crying and kept on saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I forgot, I forgot." I didn't think much of it back then, but looking at it now, there was definitely something wrong with me.

And so the theories flowed.

When I was younger, my parents and I used to joke that maybe I was an alien! In fact, my first story was about how I landed on Earth in a spaceship. I think I might still have it, unless it had been burned or ripped to shreds. One of the cruder theories suggested that I had been adopted. My father used to tease me about this, which made me throw fits. Mother scolded him afterwards, although she laughed along.

Other people had theories too.

The girls in school thought I was a monster of some sort, the mysterious swamp monster that was birthed out of the poisonous cafeteria meatloaf. "Meatloaf" later became a nickname, The boys thought I was a robot. They picked fights with me.

I always won.

Father left when I was twelve. During that time, Mother became paranoid and angry. She smoked and drank a lot. I mostly kept quiet and kept to myself. I avoided her as much as I could. I remember one night when I got up in the middle of the night because I heard shouting and banging. I peeked around the corner and Mother was screaming, crying, smashing things. I ran upstairs, feeling no fear but only a sense of danger. I remember her throwing a pot of boiling drugs at me at I ran. She wailed at me:

"Get out of my house, you lifeless thing!"

I thought she was just angry, I never took what she said to heart.

I was fourteen when the Calamity Authorities found Father's corpse. It was on the news. Mother's depression worsened. So one day, I ran away. I threw everything into my backpack and ran. When I went downstairs, Mother was passed out on the couch, stacks and stacks of Vodka strewn all over the floor. I remembered there was blood, too, but I don't recall seeing where it came from.

That was the last sight I ever had of her.

"Paris, be a good girl and get your Tante Genavié a coffee, will you, dear?"

Genavié purses her lips, spreading the lipstick around her mouth. She picks up an eyelash self-curler from the table and presses it against her fake lashes. They instantly tilt upward. I nod.

"You know the ration tickets are in the databases, non?"

"Yeah." I exit her room, taking the book. I pause to ask: "Hey, tante, can I borrow this book?"

She doesn't even look up from her makeup stand.

"Mmmm? Of course."

Genavié had an obsession for collecting antique books for a while before she became the absentminded, makeup and coffee-addicted pig she is. She used to own a library, too, but something happened and it closed down. Most of the books were lost except for the few she kept in this bookshelf, unread. Me, I have an obsession with reading antique books.

I sprint downstairs and barely avoid stepping on the cat on the way. I list sideways, leaning against the handrail.

"Pacey, get out of the way!" The cat rolls his eyes in a 'I'm just going to follow you, so what?''''' Sort of way and lazily follows me down the stairs. His name was rather ironic. A few years ago, Father sarcastically made up a name for him in contradiction to his slow pace and lazy nature.

I inspect the cover of the book as I run. It was black and dusty, edges trimmed with gold. I couldn't see a title, so I figured it had either scraped off over time or it just didn't have one in the first place. A deep curiosity bubbled up in me. I swung open the front door and set the book down on the porch. Pacey slips out just I close the door.

"What use are you," I sarcastically berate the cat. "You can't even read," I set a mental alarm on the computer in my brain. Remind me to get Genavié''s coffee in ten minutes, I think. I want to read some of this book first. I sit down and pick up the book, excited. Pacey meows with anticipation.

I slide my hand under the cover and flip it up, sending up a cloud of dust. I see black ink, but I don't make out what it is before Genavié swings open the door behind me.

"Paris!" She yells. Her makeup is smeared across her face, mascara running, lipstick everywhere, fake eyelashes stuck anywhere except in the right place. Her face surprises me for a moment, and I slap down the cover of the book, dust spewing everywhere.

"Paris! I told you to get me the coffee!" She swipes the book away, another clump of dust in my face. "You're not getting this livre back until you do what I ask.'

"Y-yes, Aunt Genavié!" I nod hurriedly, stand up and run, my heart sinking with dismay.

I exit our neighbourhood and turn left onto Durnes Road, in the direction of the coffee shop. Self-driving cars zoomed past me, all white with dark, tinted windows. Occasionally I see the thin outline of a face squashed up against the glass, looking at the weird, pale girl who never ate, who never drank, who never slept, who never touched water. With the superhuman strength. With no emotions. With the strange intel. Different. Abnormal, almost.

I ignore them.

Perhaps I don't have any emotions., I think.

I can't change their minds.

The run there seems longer than usual. But same as always, I don't sweat and I'm not even tired by the time I reach the Café.

The barista, Leah, is one of my few friends. Unlike everyone else, she doesn't find me weird. Every time I ask her questions regarding my weirdness, she always says the same thing: 'I've seen a lot of weird things in my life. You're not one of them, so stop thinking of yourself as one.' But today, it isn't her olive skin and gray eyes I see behind the counter.

Instead, it is a rather awkward young man with brown hair and pale skin in Leah's uniform, stuttering and running around stopping overflowing coffee machines and filling orders messily. He slaps a cup of tea on the counter in front of a bald man. The steaming water splashes everywhere, ruining the man's suit.

"Hey, boy, watch it!"

"Sorry," he calls back.

I recognize him. Or rather, my brain does. His ID and profile immediately comes up on the side of my vision.

"Remi Marais."

At the sound of his name, his head pops up. "Hello, can I take your order?" Remi yells absentmindedly without looking. Then he notices me staring at him. "Whoah! Wh-what? What are you-"

"Where's Leah?"

He gives me a suspicious glance. "Uh, oh… um, on sick leave. Do you know her?"

"Yeah. What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean?" He scrambles to get a bag of coffee ground under control. He fails, the bag falls, coffee grounds spilling everywhere.

"This is Leah's job. You took it," I say, trying to be as simple and clear as I could get. I could sense that there were people staring at us.

"Leah couldn't come today." He sweeps up the coffee ground. "So much coffee wasted. Leah's going to kill me," he muttered. He then turns back to me. "I told you, Leah's sick. I'm her boyfriend, so I'm filling in for her."

"Really?" I replied. "Why would Leah want a boyfriend as dimwitted as you?" Behind me, the bald man snorted his tea out his nose and bent over, choking. Remi's face went red.

"What sort of question is that? Get out of here if you're not going to order anything!"

My eyes widened. "I am going to order something." I tap two fingers under my left eye, and the holographic screen pops up in front of me. Remi pales. After a few swipes I say, "There, sent you the ticket. Now, one premium black coffee."

"What… what ARE you?" He splutters. "Are you even human?"

"No," I said, "Just someone ordering a coffee. Now, are you going to take my order or not?" The bald man wheezes with laughter. He speaks to me as I walk away from the counter with Genavié's coffee, leaving Remi speechless.

"Good going there, Robot Girl." Then he turns to the woman next to him and says, "We need bots like this to liven up our day, huh?"

I cannot change what they think, I remind myself.

I am not one of them.

Later

"Genavié! Aunt Genavié!" I burst in the door, waving the coffee around.

No response. I step up on the stairs.

"Genavié?" I go upstairs. The door to her room is locked. I curse and rip my pinky finger off. It comes off with a clean pop, no pain or blood. In its place is a metal pin, just the right size to pick through keyholes. I work open the lock and open the door. I pick the coffee up again and push open the door. "Aunt Genavié?"

And my grip on the coffee loosens when I see her… sitting at the makeup table, as always, but this time facedown, covered in blood. The coffee splashes down on the carpet.

Genavié's going to kill me afterwards, Is all I think.

I walk up to her and grab her shoulder, dragging her up. Her eyes are closed, and her face is covered in red… but no visible wound. Then her eyes slowly open, eyelids heavy and sleep-weary.

"You're alive," I say.

"Paris…" Genavié mumbles. "Did you get my coffee…?"

"Er…." I look back to where the coffee had spilt. "Yes, but you'll have to get a new carpet job."

"Spilled it, didn't you." She begins to doze off again. I shake her. "Huh? Oh, my coffee. You see, Paris, this is what happens to old women like me when we don't get our caffeine." She then looks down. "Ah, the nail polish."

Genavié gingerly picks up the empty bottle, sticky with red nail polish.

"So it wasn't blood." I say.

"Hmmm? What about blood?"

"Nothing."

"Get me the nail polish remover, will you. I need to get this stuff off my face."

"Yes, Aunt Genavié."

I leave Genavié to clean her face with her fingers, red all over her hands until she looks like a murderer. As I exit the room to get her nail polish remover, I try to see if the book was somewhere in her room. Sure enough, there's the black and gold cover, sitting on her nightstand. Although I'm not sure if it is literally possible, I am dying with curiosity to read that book. I do not know why, but something about it… intrigues me, like there is a secret hidden inside waiting to be found.

I set a literal mental note to come and get the book later.

That night, I lay awake in bed, thinking.

I don't need to sleep; something that precious never happens to someone like me. Instead, I think about the book. How could I get it? I open up my holographic screen and search up "how to steal an object from a bedroom".

Lots of shoplifting methods, but nothing too useful. If the Web doesn't help, I think,

Then I'll have to do something on my own.

As I make my way to Genavié's room, I wonder if this is the first burglary that would lead me on the path to a life of crime. Paris Rousseau, the wanted criminal. Known for stealing antique books from houses and libraries. The idea is so absurd I almost laugh. I pad softly through the halls in thick fleece socks, careful not to make a sound. I remind myself of one of those bank robbers I read about all the time in books. The only difference is in the setting and the prize.

I approach the room, slowly twisting my finger open with a creak. The sound echoes throughout the house, bouncing off railings and walls and stairs and decor. I twist slower, the sound fading until it eventually comes off with a loud pop. I drop it in surprise and it goes clattering down the stairs.

I can't get it now.

I open Genavié's door slowly. Thankfully, it doesn't make a sound. Instead, I do, when I step in the coffee with a squelch. The cold caffeine leaks through my sock, now wet and uncomfortable. I bend down and rip it off, disgusted. If I don't take it off, it'll leave wet footprints in Genavié's room.

Padding slowly through her room, I notice that the makeup table is still covered in red, lots of it dried and caking the legs of the table and leaked into the floor. She didn't clean it. Lazy, I suppose. I remember the coffee stain. Or just tired.

I freeze as I pass her bed, seeing her face still stained red, her brown hair in hair curls. I feel as if she could open her eyes any time and catch me. I wish my footsteps could be quieter, I think. And, surprisingly enough, when I take the next tentative step, no sound comes out. Relieved, I reach forward and grab the book as quick as I can, then run out twice as fast. I close her door and lock it, then retreat back to my room to read.

Flopping on my bed, I open up my screen, emitting a faint green light on the old book. I open it and blow the dust off the first page. It takes a few seconds to decipher the faded drawing, done on elaborate detail.

Huh? I look at it again, confused. A….. a dragon?