- Prologue -

So for one reason or another, you've decided to click on the little link that brought you here. Good for you. Now you'll know how to pick up the pieces when the world comes crashing down around you. I know, I sound like some kind of tinfoil hat-wearing nut-job preaching about Armageddon on the streets of Philadelphia. But I'm being absolutely, one hundred percent serious.

Maybe you were just bored and felt like cruising around the Internet. Fair enough. I'd do the same if I had access to a computer from this decade that doesn't use dial-up. Sadly, that's not the case.

Perhaps you were searching for some good ol' fashioned boy-on-boy, yaoi-fueled action. If that's the case, I advise you to turn around now. And to gouge out your eyes with a spork. There will be none of that here, not on my watch.

Maybe you found a certain dashing, silver-haired boy's blog. I think he has a link to this little project of mine from there. That seems like far more likely a scenario; for one reason or another, people seem to care a little too much about Riku's thoughts and feelings. Enough so that he has a blog with more mindless followers right now than the US treasury has dollars. Which isn't saying much, but dammit just go with it, I'm trying to be funny.

For the record, he's really not that interesting, ladies. He's not even single, so you might as well go talk to boys you have an actual chance in hell with.

Or girls, I mean, whichever you prefer. If that's the case, send pictures. If they're good enough to live up to my oh-so-high standards, maybe I'll forward you photographic evidence of the last time Riku had a little too much drinky-drinky.

Good times were had, in case you were wondering.

My name is Sora; at least, that's what it is as far as you know. I can't give you my real name, or any of our real names. It's too big a risk for too little a payout. All it takes is one careless, minuscule slip-up on my part for everything to go to shit in a hand-basket for the five of us.

And with the kind of luck I seem to have, you can never be too careful.

I'm seventeen, or at least I was the last time I saw a calender. I'm a pretty normal guy, I like to think. Average height, slightly below-average weight, average grades, nothing out of the ordinary. I like sports, video games, crappy daytime soap operas, and girls like most guys my age too. Yep, nothing weird of unusual about me in that regard.

I mean, some people try to tell me no guy actually watches soap operas. But I tell them to go to hell, because last time I checked I have male genitalia and nothing entertains me more than watching an episode of General Hospital. So they're clearly wrong and I'm clearly right, as per the usual.

Yet despite all my ordinary features, I'm still the most extraordinary human specimen in the history of the world.

Once upon a time I had a happy little life in an unassuming little suburb somewhere in the south-western corner of the country. I had a happy little family, my own bed, my own clothes, a wide-screen TV with a kick-ass surround sound system, and even a fancy-pants hot tub out back. I had good friends, a loving family, a safe home, and I never had to worry about money; basically everything you could ever ask for without sounding too greedy or overtly selfish.

But nowadays I don't have a home. Hell, I'm lucky if I go to sleep with a roof over my head most nights. Most of my food comes from dumpster diving and shoplifting. My clothes are basically worn out, blood-stained rags that I wash with my own perspiration. Hot showers are a luxury once in a blue moon. Soap? That's another rarity. But hot showers and soap, combined? Well, let's not get too crazy here, take everything one step at a time.

I'm kind of like a high class hermit, only because I make somewhat regular attempts to bathe myself. That usually means rubbing myself down with river water and mint leaves.

We are hunted by relentless pursuers, the kind of monsters that would reduce even the bravest of soldiers to hysteric sobs and pitiful pleas for mercy. They always manage to find us, no matter how remote or well-protected the location. They come, they burn our newest home to the ground, and then they piss on the ashes. And whilst the ashes are still flickering with sparks of heats and pumping out a plume of smoke into the night air, they take to pursuing our fleeing forms yet again.

Why, do you ask? What have I done to earn all this ire and scorn? Why do I deserve to suffer so?

I don't actually deserve any of this, as far as I'm aware. I like to think of myself as a good guy, although I can think of five or six people off the top of my head who would disagree with that.

Life has a habit of shitting on good people, and handing out free candy to the corrupt and twisted. (You could add a line break here, if you wished.)

(Nah, I'm good. I dislike line breaks for a reason I still don't understand. I try to use them as sparingly as possible, though that might lead to some confusing transitions, I dunno)

Not too long ago, I escaped from what refer to as the Institute. It's the kind of place where science goes to shit all over the bodies and spirits of young people. Blank white walls, blank white tiles covering the floor, pale lighting that hurts the eyes after a few days, operating rooms, prison cells, cages, needles, needles, needles... sounds just like the Ritz, huh? Think of it like the Jeffersonian Institute for psychopaths and power-hungry mongers.

I was one of those young people, for a time. We all were.

But we were the lucky ones. We managed to break free, with a little help from one particularly sympathetic asshole. Asshole seems like a weird word to describe someone who more than likely saved me from a lifetime of suffering, although I got the feeling my lifetime would have been considerably shorter had I stayed. That's as a story for another time, though.

Now that we're on the run, we're a threat. We are the only people in the world capable of revealing one of mankind's darkest secrets. We're living proof of their atrocities inhumane experiments, of mankind's true potential as a species.

You know those epic stories you always read? About how good triumphs over evil, where love is the ultimate power that shines through the metaphorical darkness of evil? Bullshit. Love hasn't done jack shit for me. A little heart-shaped card and some flowers won't do much to stop a bullet flying at my chest at mach speed.

Everything and anything is decided through battles of willpower. If your force of will is all stronger, you will be the one emerging victorious. Stand tall and look destiny square in the face. Don't show the faintest vestige of fear or uncertainty. Then kick destiny in the balls as hard as you can and tell it to screw off.

But that's enough about me whining about how sucky my life is, so let's just get to it already.I'll just start things out where they all began. No fancy introductions, no once upon a time, in a land far away. This is how my life was shattered into pieces in the course of a single night.

In case I fail - no, in case we all fail - someone needs to know what happened.

This is my story. A story brimming with adrenaline pumping action, grandiose adventure, mystery, drama, sappy romance, good ol' teenage angst, tragedy, redemption, life, death, kittens, and just the slightest hint of magic.

This is the journey of an ordinary teenager thrown into situations beyond his sheltered, ignorant little mind's comprehension. This is that teen's rise to glory, moments of epic heroism that would put Odysseus to shame interspersed between glory-less massacres and cowardly pleas for mercy.

Seriously, what more could you ask for? This thing should win a Pulitzer prize. Not to toot my own horn or anything.

Friends, conspiracies, murder, enemies, espionage, rebellions, treachery, family, thievery; for better or worse, these are all part of my life now. My story, if you will. But when it comes down to it I'm the star of this traveling freak show.

So buckle up and steel yourselves, because you're in for one hell of a ride.

You ever have one of those days when you wake up, and you feel like you're still dreaming?

I'm sure you have by this point. Hell, there's nothing like dreaming up a good car crash or visceral disembowelment to break your consciousness free of the sandman's iron grip. You spend a few seconds panting, wondering why you're still alive, then realize it was all part of your own personal delusion and go back to sleep without a second thought.

I had one of those dreams once upon a time. It started with me driving to see a friend who was living on the moon, and ended with that same car magically transforming into an X-Wing that I promptly managed to crash into the nearest school bus exclusively filled with senior citizens, small children, and extremely attractive women.

So I woke up panting, fingers digging into the sheets and sweat rolling down my face from my hairline to the point of my chin. The only thing I could see was the faint glow of the streetlights that managed to seep through the cracks in my blinds. The only sound was my heavy breathing and the blood pounding through my ears.

Then the sound of helicopter blades broke through the silence. A blinding white light seeped through my window, casting long shadows on pale blue walls.

I rubbed my weary eyes and glanced over towards my alarm clock; 3:45 in the morning.

I slapped myself in the face a few times, mumbling a few choice words that are probably best left unmemntioned for the sake of the younger readers. This all had to still be a dread. A dream within a dream. The hell, this was starting to feel a lot like Inception.

Honestly, it was the only option that made sense. What the hell would a helicopter be doing outside my window in the wee hours of the morning? The lawn is too damn small for it to even consider landing, and last I checked nobody living under this roof was a criminal mastermind or terrorist.

Well, unless being drop dead sexy is considered a crime nowadays. In which case, guilty as charged, go ahead and slap some irons on me and toss my naked ass in a cell with all the other extremely attractive deviants. Preferably the females.

I rolled over and fell out of my bed, straightening up and stumbling in the general direction of my window. Maybe it was the local news trying to cover a story, or something along those lines. That seemed like a perfectly reasonable explanation to my sleep-deprived mind. With an unsteady, sleep deprived hand I reached down to pull the blinders back.

And then I felt my jaw drop open, my stomach sink all the way down into my feet, and my eyes snap wide open simultaneously. I took an involuntary step backwards and rubbed at my eyes a second time.

Yep, this was totally a dream. One hundred percent, without a single doubt a dream.

With energy provided only through the graces of panic-induced adrenaline I got to waking myself up from this vivid hallucination. I bounced up and down a few times as if I was sparring, a few push-ups, a couple dozen jumping jacks. And I slapped myself again, because honestly, what did I have to lose? I leaned over and peeked out the window again.

No, they were still there. Every single one of them staring at my house.

Because as if the helicopter thing wasn't enough, there was also a small army congregating on my friendly neighborhood block. All marching in unison, all dressed in the same black getup complete with riot shields, helmets, guns that looked like they could reduce me to Swiss cheese in a split second, and…

And there was an honest to god tank out there, barrel pointed straight at my room.

What the fucking shit.

Now, I lived in the far outskirts of the suburbs. There were a couple big chain stores like Walmart and Home Depot, but it wasn't like we lived down the road from a shopping mall or anything. Plenty of new housing developments and townhouse complexes, even a couple of apartments downtown for local college kids who felt like driving fifteen, twenty-some to their classes. This town was nothing like Amish country, where perhaps this kind of thing could go unnoticed just because of how much space there was between everyone's' homes.

And yet there was no sign at all of any reaction to this strange phenomenon. In fact, it was like everyone had up and left. There were no lights illuminating windows or spilling out over paved paths and driveways. No cars in any driveways, no decorations scatted across front lawns and garden. Hell, even the inflatable pool the people across the street had left out for months on end was gone. And the spot where it had been residing was covered with thick, luscious blades of grass, as if it hadn't been cut off from water and nutrients all that time. Freaky shit.

Now, as you can imagine a lot of things were going through my head at this point

The first was the fact that a tank was trampling all over mom's garden. I spent hours fixing that damn thing up last weekend, and now all those orchids I'd planted where crushed into the ground. Evil bastards.

The second was something along the lines of, 'Oh good god this isn't happening, this much be some kind of dream. Or a hallucination. Selphie could have slipped something into my drink at dinner.'

But the more I contemplated this point, the more I realized it fell short. This all felt far too real for a dream. I could feel goose bumps emerging from my exposed flesh. The shadows on my walls flickered in tandem with the spinning of the helicopter blades. My clock was actually keeping track of time; these were all too realistic for a mere dream.

And there were no babes. There are always babes in my dreams, no exceptions.

Oh yeah, and I doubted my little sister was friends with anyone who could sell her the kind of illicit substances that would send my brain on a trip of this scale. She was only in middle school, and middle school deviants tended to stick with pot and crappy beer. The hardcore stuff usually didn't make an appearance until high school.

After that realization finally dawned on me, I spent another few minutes trying to brainstorm an alternative reason for a heavily armed military force showing up outside my house. It clearly wasn't a parade of any sorts, so a belated Fourth of July celebration was out of the picture. Maybe they were here to escort us to a safe house as material witnesses for some crime one of us had witnessed? Maybe dad was secretly a Russian spy and had been feeding the dirty commies Intel for the past couple of decades.

Although Dad works as an accountant at some law firm, hardly the prime occupation for gathering exploitable information.

And while I was sitting there trying to figure out why a small army was congregating around our unassuming suburban home, they decided to circle around and position themselves in front of every window and door.

Panic is a funny thing, in a sick and twisted sort of way. It can strike an individual deaf and dumb, or force the body to react before the mind even recognizes the situation. Thankfully, the latter of the two options took hold of my physical form. I was darting away from my window before I even recognized the sound of the front door splintering into pieces, before I felt my stomach drop down to the floor for the second time in less than thirty seconds.

I fumbled with my door and begged my shaking hands to cooperate, the tiny lock evading their grasp. I finally managed to latch on to the damn thing and gave it a hard twist, practically tackling my door open. And promptly fell flat on my face.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?" I heard my dad's deep, booming voice echo front the foyer.

Oh god.

"Dad!" I was practically screaming at this point. I clambered to my feet like some kind of drunk and stumbled towards the stairs, fingers scraping at the wall in an attempt to get upright "We need to get out of-"

I was halfway down the stairs when every window in my home simultaneously shattered, the razor-sharp fragments clinking against our hardwood floors like so many chimes. The roof seemed to evaporate as chunks of shingle and wood rained down and pelted my exposed flesh. And from these gaping holes they stormed in, glaring at me from behind glowing-red goggles, dark uniforms flecked with droplets of rain.

My heart skipped a beat.

"It's him!" one pointed a finger in my direction and shouted.

And then it skipped another.

Blinding light spilled into the room, sweeping aside the darkness, and I lifted my arm to cover my eyes. But as I attempted to blindly stumble back upstairs I slipped, falling backwards and slamming my spine against the oaken steps.

"Don't take your eyes off him!" I heard one caution overtop the chaos unfolding in my own home. His voice was deep and gravely; scary as hell, but there was something else hidden in that booming bass.

Fear. Just a hint of it, nothing more than a slight crack in his voice, but just enough to pique my ever-insatiable curiosity.

Of course, that curiosity was quickly crushed when I managed to crack open my eyes. Two men had multiplied into seven or eight, all pointing their big, shiny guns in my general direction. And at that moment, I was more curious about whether or not anyone would take notice if I soiled myself then and there.

I mean hey, they were probably going to kill me. And everyone soils themselves when they die, so who would notice?

"Sora Lawson!" the sound of my name being shouted knocked me out of whatever dazed state I had fallen into, "Surrender yourself and come peacefully! Do not move without our consent, or there will be dire consequences!" The soldiers all looked around at each other, and even though I couldn't see their eyes, somehow I could tell they were uneasy about something. Maybe they weren't comfortable with breaking into some innocent family's home and trashing their lives?

Then maybe I could appeal to their sense of decency. Of course, seeing as the only part of my childhood home that was currently intact were the walls (mostly), I somehow doubted that would work.

I stared into those red goggles, completely aware than my mouth was hanging wide open, but not caring enough to bother shutting it. The most important question of all was echoing through my mind; what the hell were they babbling about? "U-uh…" I stammered, "I… need to, um, talk to my parents and stuff. And I need to put on some clothes too."

Oh yeah. The world was ending inside the Lawson family's home, and the eldest son was caught in boxers and a wife beater. I was totally prepared for this, guys. Seriously. Absolutely. Fo sho. After all what kind of man doesn't keep a switchblade in his undies?

Oh wait, that'd be me. Because I'm not crazy enough to go walking around with an illegal weapon tucked up against my manly parts.

"Shut it," one barked from within the crowd, "Someone restrain him, and be careful! We don't know what he's capable of yet. He's dangerous!" A pause. "They all are."

"What the h-" I couldn't even finish the sentence as a strong hand, far stronger than my own, clamped over my mouth and wrenched my right arm behind my back. Another set of hands wrapped around the other and did the same. And those hands started to drag me down the stairs and towards the remnants of the front door.

'No, no way, this isn't happening.'

I tried to work my way loose. I flailed in every direction, screamed, kicked at my captors with all of my strength. Nothing would loosen the their fingers, not even my pitiful attempts are bribery and begging. Not surprising, though, most grown men wouldn't risk their jobs for a PlayStation and a year's worth of free popcorn at the local movie theatre. Which, sadly enough, were about the only things of value I currently possessed.

I didn't stop trying though. I couldn't stop. Behind me I could hear screams and cries of distress from my family. Mom and Dad begging them to let their kids go, Selphie screaming for someone, anyone to help her.

I was already out the front door, feet dragging through muddy earth and slick stone, skin soaking in the heavy downpour already flooding the streets. It had hardly been a minute yet, and I was already nearly devoid of all hope.

No matter how hard I fought these two, I knew that even if I did manage to break free there would be dozens of others to take their place. They would more than likely be far less tolerant than these two, who had miraculously withheld themselves from beating my insolent ass into submission yet.

And would probably have hundreds of bullets ready to turn my body into an unidentifiable mass of flesh.

'No no no no NO WAY IN HELL.'

Something in my stomach… seized, almost like an involuntary spasm. Something felt different down there. Heavier, almost.

But this, this was as if something had taken hold of my gut and began to squeeze they life out off me. I doubled over and the air flew from my lungs. I vaguely heard the soldiers yelling at me to get up and move, but even the act of standing up was too much for me. A burning sensation had begun to radiate outward from my gut, sweeping throughout my body and growing with every passing second. What has started off as something akin to heartburn was now more like someone setting off roman candles in my small intestine.

And the encouraging kicks these two monkeys were slamming into my ribcage weren't helping much either. In fact, I felt a distinctive crunch as a steel toe collided with the left side of my torso.

It was all I could do to grit my teeth and keep quiet as the soldiers dragged me through the muddy earth. God, what had I done? Had I broke something down there? Did my kidneys spontaneously and simultaneously fail, flooding my body with all enough toxins to down a small elephant? Did my intestinal walls break open of the own accord?

Whatever it was, I just wanted it to end so I could die knowing my family was still alive.

But funnily enough, it did stop. Just like that, the burning vanished completely. But something else remained. My body felt tingly almost, as if someone was passing a faint electrical current through my thoroughly exhausted form. Everything seemed slower, clearer. It was... pleasant, oddly enough.

I looked up and saw the two men again, who promptly dropped me to the ground. One pulled out a pair of handcuffs. The other pointed a rifle straight at my forehead.

I knew what was about to happen.

I glanced downward towards my hands, which still shook, whether from fear or exhaustion, I wasn't sure. I looked back up at them and blew a strand of my brown hair out of my line of sight. And in that moment, I knew this would work. I had no reason to believe I stood a chance in hell against two armed, highly trained professionals. It was probably suicide to even try. But something within me felt different now. And it felt good.

I took a deep breath and pushed the palms of my hands into the soft, malleable earth, as if getting ready to push myself up in surrender.

And instead I whirled about, my heel connecting with the backs of their calves and sweeping them clean off their feet.

Hell yeah! Eights years of marital arts hadn't been a waste after all. Wait until I told Hayner about this, smug bastard always said all the fancy kicking and punching in the world wouldn't do jack shit against somebody with a gun.

My captors laid on the ground, dazed and shocked. I didn't waste any time, or rather I couldn't. I rolled myself over and quickly straddled the one closet to be, driving an elbow into his face with all the strength I could muster. Another elbow quickly followed that, and a blow to his ribcage with my knee. A sickening crunch told me that this guy wouldn't be shooting up any more suburban homes for a while.

This had to be karma. My side hurt like hell still. I had no idea what was wrong, and honestly I didn't want to, but I got the impression I'd done him one worse.

I paused, turning around to face the latter of my two captors, just in time to see him stand up with something shiny and pointy in hand.

'Damn.'

The knife sliced my arm open a little bit as I leapt to the side. I stumbled to my feet, observing the monster of a man begin to charge at me with blade poised to strike.

But, he was moving so slowly! Hell, a little kid could have beaten him in a footrace if given the chance. I watched him lash out at me, frowning. Even that was slow. I took half a step backwards and watched it pass harmlessly through where my stomach had just been. He was still completing his slash when I stepped back in, grabbing the hand holding the knife and jerking it towards his body.

It sank between two ribs with little resistance. I jerked the knife again, slicing in a neat line all the way back towards his spine, watching his expression change from anger, to bewilderment, to shock, all in the span of a few seconds.

I jiggled the weapon around a bit before tearing the knife loose of his body and pushing him over. He fell to the ground with a thud comparable to that of a small tree.

I blinked, trying to figure out what I had just accomplished. Me, a seventeen year old suburban kid who had only ever fought in a martial arts school, had just taken down two highly armed and highly dangerous men who were more than likely wanted for dozens of murders. Something didn't add up. But I didn't have time for that. Whatever had just happened, it had set me free, and I intended to use this newly-gained freedom to charge right back into the eye of the storm.

Good plan, right? It's simple, effective, and basically flawless. Nothing could possibly go wrong. Except for everything.

I ran, ran faster than I even knew I could, knife still in hand. Some of the soldiers still in front of the house tried to stop me. I just twisted to the side whenever one got close, letting them slip and fall face first into the grass and mud. One got too close for comfort. He ended up getting a cheek full of knife.

"Mom! Dad! Selphie!" I shrieked, whirling around the corner into the kitchen and sliding to a complete stop.

There was my family, all kneeling on the ground with their hands restrained behind their backs. Mom's hair was messed up and her left eye was all swollen. Dad's shoulder was pointed at a funny angle; I had the feeling it was dislocated, or worse. Selphie was crying something terrible, a river of blood flowing from her broken nose.

The knife in my hand slipped loose and clattered against the tile.

To this day, I regret how I reacted. I could have tried to distract the guards, could have taken one hostage, something, anything that would save them. Instead I just stood there like a deer caught in headlights.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a soldier make a move towards me. I didn't have time to do anything. He was too close, and I still couldn't feel my arms. I just waited to feel the butt of his weapon slam into the side of my skull.

But that never happened.

Instead, he moved to grab my arm. The second his gloved hand touched me, he began to shake and scream. And then he just fell backs, his corpse twitching. The smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air.

I stared in shock at the body lying by my feet. I wanted to say something. I didn't know what to say, but I still had to break that silence. Everyone was staring, not at the body, but at me.

I shook my head and ran forward. Today was weird enough. I could worry about people spontaneously being electrocuted later.

At least, I tried to run. Something was wrapped tight around my neck, pulling me backwards and crushing my windpipe. It was all I could do to wedge my fingers between it and my throat so I could breathe. And within a few seconds I once again found myself restrained by two men, who slammed my face into hard, stone floor.

Ah well, at least I was with family, right? Even if I had the distinct impression I was missing more than a few teeth, family is all that really matters in the end.

… I'm being facetious, in case you aren't catching onto the sarcasm.

"Try that again, and I'll paint that pretty marble counter-top red with your blood," A voice hissed behind me. I remained motionless, my face still pressed against the tile. I dared to crack open an eye. I saw a boot dangerously close to my head. But that wasn't the important part.

For a split second I saw my hand glowing, crackling, lightning up the room with a whitish glow. And then there was nothing.

I dared to look over to my parents.

They looked back at me with wide, sorrowful eyes. I had never seen them like this before. Dad was always tall and proud, the strongest man I'd ever met in my entire life. And Mom had always had a soft, compassionate air about her. But now, I could only see fear and regret.

I thought I was perfectly safe at home. I thought my parents would be able to protect me when I needed them. They were always different from everyone else. They were always so intelligent, patient, accepting… Hell, I was different too, now that they'd rubbed off on me after seventeen-some years.

And I knew they knew what was happening. And it scared them.

"Dad?" I mouthed, looking at his hardened eye, desperate for something. A signal, a smile, anything that would let me know what to do now. But he just looked down at the ground, defeated. I was sure the droplets of moisture rolling off his leathered skin weren't just rain.

I glanced over to mom, who was staring off to the side. And in that instant, I remembered something she'd told me. 'You're special, honey. No, you're different, that's a better way of putting it. Don't ever forget that. Some people will fear you for those differences. Fear will make them angry, and irrational.'

I always thought she was just saying what all parents say to their kids. But she said this kind of thing all the time. Honestly, that could have really fucked me up and given me an enormous ego as a kid. But somehow she managed to bring me up as a mostly respectable citizen of these United States. That was probably Dad's doing. He was the one who always pounded me back into the metaphorical ground whenever I gave him or Mom an attitude. So why had Mom so often try to undermine his efforts to instill in me the virtues of humility and respect?

Now that I thought about, she'd started repeating the same sentiment much more frequently in the past four or five months.

'Look after Selphie, Sora. You're special, you can protect her.' I heard that almost on a weekly basis, and every time I did I felt a knot of exasperation tighten just a little bit more in my throat. I usually just asked why I was so special, and why I had to protect my sister. Selphie was proving to have the same savant-like affinity for martial arts as myself, and she'd only been going to training (- Training, or class?) with me for the past month or so. She could easily defend herself from anyone her age, and probably from most anybody still in grade school or junior high.

Don't get me wrong, I'd have defended Selphie to death and back was allowed to lay a finger on her without her permission, and I intended to keep it that way. But there was no reason to try and stroke my ego while encouraging me to defend my her. It was just unnecessary.

And all Mom would say was, 'You don't know how special you really are, honey.' And she'd left it at that, and I would just rolled my eyes and mumble in agreement like a good little boy. I didn't want to be special. My life life goals were to eventually just buy a high end townhouse or condo, and live out my days as a happy bachelor surrounded by the best quality booze whatever salary I earned could provide. I wasn't out to change the world by discovering how to harness electricity from water, or to take a bullet for the President and live to tell the tale.

Now, staring at my hand and trying to decide if I had just had a psychological breakdown, I found myself with reason to give what she'd been saying all these years some thought. Or an equally good reason to live out my days in an asylum. Either or, really.

Three figures emerged from the shadows and joined us. Two were soldiers, sporting rifles and long, jet black trench coats that scraped the floor. If they looked any more like stereotypical bad guys, they'd have goatees and bad accents.

"Sora Lawson?" The third figure stepped out into the light. My eyes locked with his almost immediately.

"Depends on who's asking," I coughed, turning my head so I could try to get a better look at whoever this was. Of course, a boot pressing down on my head kept me from even considering the possibility of talking more.

"That would be a yes, I assume," the figure spoke with an accent of some sorts. British maybe? It just sounded pretentious to me. "And for future reference, I would recommend you give straight answers instead of these roundabout questions. It'll be much healthier for you that way."

"What do you want?" I didn't dare give this guy any attitude now. I liked my head in one piece. Same goes for my family's heads. Brains are icky, I don't need to see that crap.

"Sora Lawson," the man said again, this time a statement instead of a question, "Age seventeen, child of John and Vanessa Lawson. You are hereby taken into our custody until such a time as we deem fit."

I opened my mouth to interject, but the foot on my head decided to apply a little more pressure. I shut my mouth almost instantaneously. The man continued.

"Furthermore, you are now to be treated as property under our ownership, during which you shall do your best to fulfill your duties to science and contribute to the betterment of mankind."

Oh. I got it now.

He's crazy.

They're all crazy.

Completely batshit, flying over the cuckoo's nest crazy.

That would explain the get-ups, I guess. And this guy's hair. It was like the white guy's equivalent of an afro. Flashback to the seventies, anybody?

"You shall be isolated from contact with the rest of society, and withheld at the facility of our choosing." The faintest of smirks had spread across his lips at the point. "Any questions, before we depart?"

Now, I could have been very calm and charming at this point. Could have tried to talk my way out of this mess. That didn't happen.

"I'm just a kid, you freaking nutcase!" I shouted, glaring daggers, "What do you expect to learn from me? How to find sine and cosine? Who the founding fathers were? What the atomic weight of hydrogen is?"

I actually didn't know that last one off the top of my head. Well, that's not true. It was one point something, I just didn't know the decimals. I doubted he really cared though.

The man just smiled. "You seem to misunderstand, Mr. Lawson. We don't want your mind," he leaned down in front of me, poking my forehead with a long, bony finger, "we want you for your body."

Uh.

Hold the phone.

What?

"I... think that's illegal," I drawled, trying my best to remain calm. I prayed to god I was misinterpreting what he was saying. As completely perverted and disturbing as that sounded, it didn't seem likely that someone would bring a small army to find one minor to… well, you know. Rape was still illegal, last I checked. "Like, really illegal."

He just smiled again. What the hell was with this guy and his creepy smiles?

"Oh, incredibly," he chuckled back, pulling something out of his pocket I couldn't see.

I prayed to god yet again, hoping we weren't talking about the same thing. And then I prayed to a few others for good measure.

"Zeus? Odin? Morgan Freeman? Isis? Freya? Robert Downey Jr.? Uh, lets see... L. Ron Hubbard? If you're listening to this, I could really use a hand right now. Like, right now. Not in the immediate future."

Yeah, that last one was pushing it a bit, I know. But hey, you try thinking up god-like figures when you're in a life-or-death situation.

Obviously I didn't get an answer. Right then, becoming an atheist was a very tempting thought.

He straightened up, looking back to the two men who had accompanied him. "You, take him out of here. I don't want to hear another word from him until we return." The first nodded, "And you, take care of cleanup. No loose ends, do you understand?"

My eyes widened as I saw the second turn to my family and draw his weapon.

Before I could say or do anything, I felt a sharp pain in the back of my skull.

Then there was nothing.