You've always known you were different.

Maybe from the very beginning, you knew. You knew you were different, you knew you were special. You knew, you knew, you knew all along.

You knew, and you hated it.

The story, according to the bits and pieces you manage to dig up from old news articles and police reports, goes like this:

It was a cold Saturday night nearing Christmas, the kind where hot chocolates and an open fireplace wouldn't be out of the question. The West family, known for being the most influential and admired family in the small suburban area, were having an ordinary family night. However, after a few accidents (the reports said that it involved the open fireplace and an unsupervised five year-old), the night took a turn for the worse. The house burst into flames, and in a few minutes, it was engulfed in fire.

The firemen came later than they should have, but the article states that they tried, they really did.

(They knew the Wests; the family gave the most donations to the fire department that year.)

They searched through the ashes with "teary" eyes, not really expecting anything to be saved. To their surprise, there was a survivor. Under the remains of Jack West, was a little girl in burnt clothes. One that is very much alive.

It was a miracle, as the article said, for Jadelyn West was unharmed. Her pale complexion was unscratched, and not a single brunette hair was misplaced.

The newspapers only said that much, ending with the date of the awarding of the new town "heroes".

The next part, you have to credit to a shady interview with an ex-fireman-turned-stoner, and a few urban legends.

Apparently, not everyone considered the girl's survival a miracle. It was suspicious, they noted, how the girl was the only thing that wasn't in ashes, much less the fact that she was completely unharmed.

In reality, when the firemen first discovered the girl, her expressionless face sent chills down their spine. She didn't have any reaction to what was happening around her, and her big, blue-gray eyes do not hold any emotion. When they stood her up, her arms lay limp on her side. They would ask her questions, and she would simply either nod or shake her head; neither of the motions affecting her facial expression. She seemed like nothing more than a doll.

She was taken to a temporary home, one that belonged to one of the West's closest friends. The kind-hearted Robinson's continued to urge the girl to speak or react. They have taken to treating her like a daughter; taking her to the park, and continuously buying her toys. They even enrolled her in a pre-school, hoping that interacting with other kids will snap her out of whatever she's in. Nothing worked, and in the end, they could only take so much.

Mrs. Robinson was the first to crack. It grew into a fight that all the neighbors could hear.

The nearby spectators said that it happened like this:

Cheryl Robinson stormed out of the house with her husband trailing behind her; the little girl a few feet away.

"She has to go! Now." Mrs. Robinson stops walking and turns to her husband. "It's her fault! It's all her fault."

"Honey," Hank Robinson tries to calm his wife, "what are you saying? We can't just kick her out. Remember Jack? He was my best friend. He has always helped us. The least we could do is take care of Jadelyn."

"I don't care." she spat out viciously, "I had a miscarriage because of her!"

He looked at his wife incredulously. He understands that his wife is probably very emotional due to the incident, but blaming it on a six year-old seemed a little too much.

"What are you-?"

"It's true! That child," she pointed a shaky finger at the girl "She killed my baby!" Mrs. Robinson fell to the floor and started sobbing hysterically.

Mr. Robinson approached his wife carefully, "Dear, listen to what you are saying! She's just a child."

She grabbed on to his sleeve, pulling him down.

"Hank, look at her eyes! She isn't natural. She probably started that fire, too!" She turned her head until she caught sight of the little girl and walked shakily towards her. "You started that fire, didn't you?" The girl remained unfazed; this only served to anger Cheryl more, "You killed your parents!"

Mr. Robinson, according to spectators, could not believe his wife's actions. He took strode towards the pair and out of overwhelming rage, he hit her.

For a second, both of them remained frozen. Known for being a non-violent man, his actions silenced the whole neighborhood. Hank quickly reached for his wife and apologized profusely. The little girl though, chose this moment to walk towards the couple. She tugged gently at Mr. Robinson's shirt, and finally spoke.

Her voice had the softness and sweetness of appropriate for a girl her age, but there was a croakiness that was characterized by the whole year she has not spoken a word.

"It's Jade," she said, "my name is Jade."

As Mr. Robinson looked at the girl, his change in expression can easily be seen. It seems he saw a different girl. One that wasn't the lifeless doll they brought in their home almost a year ago, she seemed to be a normal girl now, with real emotions. Her eyes weren't so empty anymore. She was absolutely beautiful. Mr. Robinson kneeled down and put his hands on her shoulder.

"Hi, Jade." he said, pride and happiness in his tone. He could not wait to spend more time with this girl, and hopefully, raise her to be his daughter.

But then Mrs. Robinson, having recovered from the hit she received, decided to retaliate with more uncharacteristic violence.

She slapped the girl right on the face, and the little girl fell brutally on the ground.

Mr. Robinson picked up the girl and shook her.

"Jade," he urged the body to respond, "are you alright? Jade!"

She opened her eyes. Relief was starting to relax his muscles until he realized something was very wrong. The eyes that stared back at him wore the same shade of blue that always make the air around him cold. He lost her. The doll was back. Gone was the warmth of the sweet child that he had the chance to see only moments ago.

He turned, fuming, to his wife.

"What have you done?"

She looked equally furious.

"Look! She isn't even injured. No bruises no anything." She turned to the spectators, daring at the gossips to look her dead in the eye. "She's a demon, I tell you," she screams to the whole town, "a demon!"

"No! She's not a demon!" the harshness of his voice urged Mrs. Robinson to move back. "She was there already.. She was.."

At that moment, the police came.

After that incident, the judge deemed the Robinsons unfit to become parents, and no one wanted to take the little girl anymore. (Even if the whole neighborhood started questioning Mrs. Robinson's sanity, her shouts that night initiated the whispers of panic whenever the name Jadelyn West was mentioned.) No one would take her; 'cause who would take a little girl who seems to be followed by nothing but misfortune?

"Suddenly, James West appeared." the ex-fireman continued, "An uncle, apparently; Jack West's brother. He had rumors following him everywhere; drug-dealing, smuggling, and other suspicious businesses. He made it big, though, in LA. Don't know how it happened but now he has some sort of big-time recording studio. He's a hot-shot now." The man took another bite out of his burger. You try not to shudder at the greasy meat and lettuce falling at the sides. "Anyways, right before the judge sent her to that rundown orphanage on the other side of the town, he came and took the little girl away. Back then, he seemed as penniless as me," a throaty laugh emerged from the man, "but seeing as she had no other immediate family, the judge had no choice but to let him." The man then wiped his greasy fingers on his shirt and took a sip out of his coke. "Never saw the girl again. Good thing, too. She was creepy; had these cold blue-gray eyes," he pointed on towards his own eyes, tracing circles on them, "makes me think that ol' Cheryl Robinson wasn't as crazy as she seemed; maybe she really was a demon."

You pushed yourself off the table, careful not to touch some of the condiments that spilled. You placed money on the table, probably more than enough to pay for whatever you were feeding him.

"Thank you for your time." You said nonchalantly. You head towards the door quickly, the sooner you're out of this hellhole, the better.

"Hey lady!" apparently, the guy had more to say; not that you care, anyways. His information was barely helpful, and his hygiene, unappealing. You've already heard what you needed to hear. You pretend not to notice him calling out and continue to head towards the door. His booming voice pierced the air again, "Why did you want to know?"

You stopped and thought for a moment; deciding on whether or not to entertain this wreck. You turned around and stared at him dead in the eye. You breathe in, then breathe out. Then for a second, you lost yourself; letting your mind slip into some sort of comatose state. Before you fall too deep, you fish yourself out. Now you're back in this rundown bar, and you're staring straight at your informant.

He looks back at you in dread.

You smile and turn around. Leaving the bar, and the town. You swear you're never going to come back again.

When you got home, you rush to your bedroom drawer and emptied its contents into the trashcan. You light a match and set fire to everything. A year's worth of research and investigation now in flames. It was stupid, trying to find some sort of 'answer' to all your questions. It was useless; hours inside a library and jumping through towns. That idiot you tracked down wasn't even helpful. Nobody could tell you something you don't already know.

Here's how it went down afterwards:

Your uncle really was involved in some sort of underground criminal business thing. James knew about your special "powers"; that was the reason he took you in. He nurtured you and gave you everything you wanted; even raised you to call him daddy or whatever. He was actually a good father; nevermind his Mafia-esque profession. It was all good, until he realized that your "powers" can't help him.

See, James wasn't purely evil; evil, but not purely evil. After his rise in power in his secret organization, a rise that unfortunately you couldn't help with, you became nothing more than some sort of trophy for him. For his buddies in the music business, a wonderful cover-up profession you might say so yourself, you were his beautiful, musically-talented daughter.

For his underground minions, you were their princess. Their flawless, untouchable, invincible princess.

You knew the story already, but what you didn't know is why.

Why do you have these powers?

You watch the whole bin go up into flames. Then you realize how stupid it is that you're trying to find an answer to that question. You'll probably never know; what's the point anyways? It's not like knowing how you became some sort of freak will automatically make you happy, nor will it bring your real parents back to life.

The fire is gone, and the ashes remain. It's funny that you have a thing for arson when flames gave your life a crappy start.

So yeah, you very much know that you are different. But you guess it doesn't really make you special.

It didn't take long, though, to figure out that Tori Vega was different, too.