Mark didn't know how long he had been running, again. He just knew that he had been. The sun was up high when he passed a sign that read: Border of Sector Three. Do not cross. It must have been around noon, or shortly thereafter.
He slowed down and, shortly, houses started to appear, more and more with each minute. Mark decided to go around the houses instead of in front of them, trying not to attract much attention, but quickly learned that that wasn't a great idea.
Mark saw a person standing behind a house. As he approached, Mark saw the man in the white uniform of a soldier. They had soldiers here, now? Mark could understand patrols, but usually they were police officers. Soldiers usually had more advanced training than the police, and more advanced weapons.
Mark decided to try to sneak around him, sneak around the house, trying to avoid a confrontation. He didn't get far. As he began to walk away, he heard a click and the hum of the soldier's gun gathering energy to use as ammunition. "Put your hands in the air!" Mark heard.
He turned around. The soldier had his gun trained on Mark. "Now!" Mark took a step forward, and another. Suddenly, everything seemed to slow down. Mark rushed forward, coming at the man. He let off several shots of energy, but the moved slowly, as if weighed down. Mark easily dodged them, moving at incredible speed. Suddenly, he was at the soldier's side. The man swung the rifle at him, but Mark ducked, going into a roll. When he rolled, he reached up, grabbing the soldier's pistol from its holster. Mark came up, leveling the pistol at the back of the soldier's neck. "Put the gun down!" Mark said, hands shaking. He couldn't remember when he'd last held a gun; much less point it at another person's head. The soldier kneeled slowly, resting his gun on the dirt. He stood up slowly, hands above his head. He turned around, and something metal fell out of his hand. Mark looked down and saw that it was some sort of…pin.
Mark looked back up at the soldier. "Die, unnatural scum," the soldier said, a round, black object in his hand.
Suddenly, all Mark could see was darkness.

Her parents were gone. Finally. She could be alone, free from the abusive nature of her parents.
But not for long, she knew. She had only twenty minutes to herself.
She thought of packing her backs. Just leaving. But where would she go? She couldn't leave Sector Three. Her Results Test had made sure that she would stay here forever, to be tortured eternally in the hell that was her home. Even though she knew she would move as far away as possible when the time came, Phoebe Burton knew she could never escape. Her life would consist of cringing every time the door opened, waiting in dread for her parents to arrive.
What would she do in her few moments of freedom?
I can give you freedom came a voice Come to me.
That voice again! It had haunted Phoebe since last night, making her unable to sleep, which, of course, had angered her parents, as everything did. It always said that; Come to me, always promising her liberty. She would go, would leave everything, even though she had nothing to leave, and follow this voice, if only she knew it were real.
Phoebe heard a crash, making her jump nearly out of her skin. No, not a crash. An explosion. She pushed open the back door, running out of her house. A man laid in the field outside her house, unconscious, the grass around him burnt and burning in some places. Around him, various pieces of a soldier's armor were scattered. She knelt down, investigating him. He seemed around her age, but obviously not from around there. He didn't wear the thin, black clothes that the natives of Sector Three usually wore, but, instead, wore a white, loose fitting shirt, made to reflect the sun in on a hot day. Instead of the horrible odor of gasoline, he smelled of fields and livestock. Sector Two, she realized. She heard a slam behind her. She looked back and saw with horrible realization that her father had returned.

Mark opened his eyes, blinking out the sudden light. He wasn't sure if he was hallucinating, but he was sure that he saw a face. A beautiful face, a familiar face. He felt like he had seen this girl before. Like they had been through something together. He just couldn't figure out what, or when. Mark heard a voice and saw the girl stand and run. He sat up, watching her as she went. She ran to a man, pointing in his direction. The man just shook his head and grabbed the girl's arm, dragging her inside. Mark stood, another wave of confusion washing over him.
He had just survived a grenade explosion.
How? How could that be possible?
How could any of it be possible?
"Because you're a freak," a voice behind Mark said. Mark jumped and turned. Behind him was that man he had seen earlier, with the black trench coat and the dark glasses. "Like me."
"You're the one," Mark said, pointing at him, "Who's been telling me to come."
"Byron Peters," he said, "And, yes, I am."
"So how is this all possible?"
"To tell you the truth," Byron said, shrugging, "I have no idea. At least, no idea for sure."
"But you promised me!" exclaimed Mark, "You promised me answers!"
"At what point did I say that?" asked Byron, "I may not have a straight answer, but I do have theories."
"Then what do your 'theories' say about that?" said Mark, "How did I survive that explosion?"
"Oh, that?" said Byron, as if the answer were obvious, "I know that. You possess Pyrokinesis; a telekinetic ability allowing the user to control, and, sometimes, spontaneously create, using the energy in his environment, fire with his mind. Given your ability, I would say that you survived because Pyrokinesis also lets you become immune to fire; basically, you instinctively put a fire shield around yourself, rendering you unharmed. However, you were not immune to the force of the blast, causing you to go unconscious."
"Let me guess," said Mark, chuckling, "Sector Seven."
"What makes you say that?"
"You're talking like a nerd."
"Perhaps my eloquent speech provides substantial evidence for my vastly superior intellect."
"So I can control fire and I can't be hurt by it?"
"Basically."
"You said you were a freak, too. Do you mean that you can do things like me?"
"Not exactly. I am a telepath. I can read people's thoughts and project my own into another person's. With a bit of exercise, I believe I could train myself to allow other people to give their thoughts to me through mental means."
"So, why couldn't I do any of this before last night?"
"That I do not know," said Byron, as if frustrated, "There are several theories as to why people could possess such powers, though. For instance, some speculate an extra-terrestrial race came to our Nation in disguise and infected us. I highly doubt this is true. There've never been any instances where people have just shown up off-record since the founding of our country. Some theorize that the government is attempting to create a weapon to keep citizens in check, but that couldn't be true; how would we not be under captivity by the government from birth if this were true? I also remember reading this one book, if you can call it that, that suggested human evolution, putting a fictional account to this theory, where the humans naturally gained a new type of gene called the X-"
A crash from around the front of the house stopped Byron before he could keep rambling.
"Ah," he said, "I believe we've found our next companion."
"What?"
"Phoebe Burton."