A/N: This is a story, from a generic point of view, about Billy Weir. I alternate between calling him Billy and Ruslan, his given name. Also, there's a small tiny absolutely miniscule book 5 spoiler at the end, but one that really can't stop you from reading the story, and that you won't really know is a spoiler until you read book 5.
Far away, a boy named Billy cried.
He wasn't called Billy, then. It was long before he would be Billy Weir, a 15-year-old boy with unbelievable talents. It was long before he would be among the last human beings in existence, long before he would test his wits against forces beyond control. That time was far off. For now, he simply cried.
It wasn't the sort of wail you'd expect from an infant - the mindless weeping that demands food or comfort. Sure, he was starving, scarcely clothed and shivering in the cold, and he felt an unspeakable pain and discomfort shaking his body. But the tears came from deep within his soul. He cried for his parents; they were dead now, he knew that. It wasn't that hard to grasp. They'd been killed, the same as the bodies that now littered the area around him. He cried for all the death, all the pain. But he also cried for them. The Eighty. Ruslan, destined-to-be-Billy, knew, and it tortured his tiny mind.
"Look at it," grumbled a rough voice in the native language. Ruslan felt a sharp pain in his side - the owner of the voice had kicked him, probably to determine whether he was alive or dead. The infant moaned in agony. "It's alive!" The voice (definitely a man, the infant determined) was surprised. A young life in a sea of death was startling, even horrifying. Such small eyes being subjected to the sight of so much blood...but no matter...a baby wouldn't remember the horror anyway. That is, unless the baby was Billy.
"He's so young," whispered another voice, decidedly more feminine, in response. The woman lifted him carefully in her arms. "It's just a child. His parents are probably gone." Gone. Even the adults - so used to the war torn country - couldn't deal with death. People left and were gone. Dying, though such an awful reality, was too hard to accept. And yet, Billy, in his own way, understood it better than anyone. "We've got to take him to the orphanage."
Though obviously the other half of "we", the man grumbled. "Why don't we just leave it here? It's near enough to death, there's no need to burden them with another child."
"He's not an it, he's a him. I would think even you have heart enough to save a child's life." There was silence, and Ruslan opened his eyes. "His eyes!" the woman hissed, startled. "Do you see his eyes?" The man shrugged. "So...intelligent." Her companion was silent, and so they loaded the truck and drove toward the orphanage.
- 1 Year Later -
"How about this one?" Mrs. Weir murmured, gazing at a distracted toddler.
"Oh, you don't want that one," sneered the owner of the orphanage. "He's...odd."
"What do you mean by that?" William Weir demanded.
"He does things."
"What sort of..." William began, but was sharply interrupted by his wife.
"When can we adopt him?"
"As soon as you can get the papers together, I suppose."
----
"I feel your thoughts," Mother sent to Billy. "Your memories. They hurt you."
"Yes," Billy agreed, "they hurt me."
And again, far away, a small and tortured boy named Billy broke down and cried.
Far away, a boy named Billy cried.
He wasn't called Billy, then. It was long before he would be Billy Weir, a 15-year-old boy with unbelievable talents. It was long before he would be among the last human beings in existence, long before he would test his wits against forces beyond control. That time was far off. For now, he simply cried.
It wasn't the sort of wail you'd expect from an infant - the mindless weeping that demands food or comfort. Sure, he was starving, scarcely clothed and shivering in the cold, and he felt an unspeakable pain and discomfort shaking his body. But the tears came from deep within his soul. He cried for his parents; they were dead now, he knew that. It wasn't that hard to grasp. They'd been killed, the same as the bodies that now littered the area around him. He cried for all the death, all the pain. But he also cried for them. The Eighty. Ruslan, destined-to-be-Billy, knew, and it tortured his tiny mind.
"Look at it," grumbled a rough voice in the native language. Ruslan felt a sharp pain in his side - the owner of the voice had kicked him, probably to determine whether he was alive or dead. The infant moaned in agony. "It's alive!" The voice (definitely a man, the infant determined) was surprised. A young life in a sea of death was startling, even horrifying. Such small eyes being subjected to the sight of so much blood...but no matter...a baby wouldn't remember the horror anyway. That is, unless the baby was Billy.
"He's so young," whispered another voice, decidedly more feminine, in response. The woman lifted him carefully in her arms. "It's just a child. His parents are probably gone." Gone. Even the adults - so used to the war torn country - couldn't deal with death. People left and were gone. Dying, though such an awful reality, was too hard to accept. And yet, Billy, in his own way, understood it better than anyone. "We've got to take him to the orphanage."
Though obviously the other half of "we", the man grumbled. "Why don't we just leave it here? It's near enough to death, there's no need to burden them with another child."
"He's not an it, he's a him. I would think even you have heart enough to save a child's life." There was silence, and Ruslan opened his eyes. "His eyes!" the woman hissed, startled. "Do you see his eyes?" The man shrugged. "So...intelligent." Her companion was silent, and so they loaded the truck and drove toward the orphanage.
- 1 Year Later -
"How about this one?" Mrs. Weir murmured, gazing at a distracted toddler.
"Oh, you don't want that one," sneered the owner of the orphanage. "He's...odd."
"What do you mean by that?" William Weir demanded.
"He does things."
"What sort of..." William began, but was sharply interrupted by his wife.
"When can we adopt him?"
"As soon as you can get the papers together, I suppose."
----
"I feel your thoughts," Mother sent to Billy. "Your memories. They hurt you."
"Yes," Billy agreed, "they hurt me."
And again, far away, a small and tortured boy named Billy broke down and cried.