Disclaimer: hanna is not a boys name belongs to Ms Stone, long may she continue
The cemetery.
Hanna's parents were buried there.
Their accident had been unreal, so had the funeral, the Haven for Orphaned Children, and even the next five and a half years of living with Mrs. Galen.
They'd been wonderful, amazing years of learning about himself and the magical power he was capable of possessing. But still, that anything so strange could occur to Hanna, it felt like a dream.
Unsurprisingly there was a large mortuary or funeral home of sorts on the grassy outskirts of the graveyard. They stopped at a visitor's center and obtained a map of the cemetery.
They'd made sure to come in broad daylight at noon so as to not startle any spooks or spirits that might appear at night.
It was the first time fourteen-year-old Hanna had visited his parent's grave since the funeral, which had also been on an uncannily beautiful day. Life didn't stop for death.
They walked quietly, serenely amongst the rows of gravestones. Some were plaques set into the ground, others were cross-shaped, others were rounded or regular rectangles. Some were adorned with flowers and toys, others were bare. Some were made of white stone, others gray.
When they finally stood before Hanna's parents' grave he looked it over. It was a dark plaque set into the ground. Maybe two feet square.
He rubbed a sleeve across his wet eyes and sniffled.
It was his fault, he knew now. If he hadn't been born an Unpredictable – if he hadn't been born at all, they'd still be alive. If his baby sister had been born instead of him, they could've named her Hanna and they would've been happy and alive.
Here Lies
Jonas Falk Cross
1957 – 1990
Josephine Lilah Cross
1955 – 1990
And Their Daughter
Beneath that was an engraving of a butterfly.
All of Hanna's despair and guilt rushed through him and settled like a condemning stone in his stomach. Something had lodged its way into his throat as he sobbed.
But the thought streaked across his young mind like wildfire. Maybe I can bring them back!
"Hanna – stop! Remember what I told you, leave the dead in peace! Hanna, do not try to bring them back! Hanna – no – stop!" Mrs. Galen's voice turned into a feline hiss.
"Your parent's bodies aren't here anyways!" Mrs. Galen roared.
Hanna was furious and outraged and "You lied! Where are they?! What else have you been hiding from me!?"
The power was uncontrollable, it pushed at Hanna's pathetic fleshy barriers with disdain, then burst through them.
It was indescribably painful. Hanna was on the ground, curled in a fetal position as the cemetery burned white all around him. Agony poured through every vein in his body, he was on fire.
Then, just before unconsciousness claimed his suddenly exhausted mind and body, he heard Mrs. Galen say something, and then he was asleep.
Mrs. Galen quickly looked around. There was no else to have heard Hanna's agonized screams. The dead were not rising from their graves, nor did it appear any of them had turned into ghosts.
It was time to return home, quickly.
He jolted awake (when had he fallen asleep?) and fell off of whatever it was he had been laying on.
The world was dim and fuzzy all around him, he couldn't see, couldn't think, but he shakily pushed himself up onto his knees.
Wherever he was, it was dark and cold and he didn't like it.
He stood up, but his hand brushed against cold flesh and he quickly retracted it.
His first instinct was to escape this place. A task not easily done as his vision was fuzzy and dark. He could barely discern shapes in the shadows. Time to find a door.
He stumbled about, knocking into tables and cupboards, things clattered to the ground all around him.
His hand finally landed on a flat, smooth, cold plane. He felt around it until he came upon a door knob, twisted it – thank goodness it's not locked from the inside – and only felt a whoosh of air as he came across some new area.
His vision would not focus, it was dark and artificial in the narrow space he had stumbled into.
But there, up ahead, was a shaft of sunlight spilling in through what must be a little window.
He rushed towards it – was it a door? – he felt for a handle, yes!, yes it was!
He threw himself outside of the cold, unknown place and into what he assumed was the outside world. The wind on his skin and the sunlight were comforting, but still he could not focus or truly see anything around him.
He staggered outdoors, now suddenly anxious because there were no walls to lean himself against, to guide him.
He came across what felt like a metal fence, and he followed it for a long time, before it finally ended.
He wandered out through this gap in the fence, unseeing of what surrounded him.
He thought he was walking on grass, and the familiar (but how? I don't understand what's going on) whoosh of what was probably cars blurred past him.
Time slipped by like smoke through his hands, which he still could not focus on.
Besides what was wrong with his eyes, something was wrong with his head. He couldn't think, or feel anything more than confused panic, and he couldn't concentrate or make a coherent question. Everything blended and blurred until many, many hours past. Or maybe he just blinked and was now suddenly awake.
He was standing, leaning against a wooden fence covered in graffiti. The grain of the wood and the pixels of paint came into focus. The blur cleared – he could tentatively read the spray painted words.
He placed his back against the reassuring wall, then looked around him, and for the first time actually saw that he was in a rundown part of a city.
It was startlingly real. The sky above was darkening into smoggy blue. The asphalt beneath his feet was pocked and old and covered with torn magazines and newspapers blowing in a warm, acidic wind.
Street lamps flickered on and he felt like he should be surprised, but the emotion itself would not come to him.
A car rolled past, and this time he could actually see it!
Finally, he dared to look at his own hands.
Green.
Green.
He rubbed his fingers together – there was some sort of filmy stuff coating him that he hadn't noticed before.
He looked down at himself.
Gray jeans, orange shirt rolled up to his forearms, loose black tie, orange shoes, black overcoat.
He reached a hand up to his hair: short, but with weird tufts poking up out of the sides. He tried to smooth them down, but they would not budge from their vertical position.
Mirror.
He genuinely wandered now, soaking in the sights of the unknown city. He reached his hands into his black coat's pockets: they were empty. He tried the pockets of his jeans: empty.
He spied a fast food restaurant and discretely entered and went to the men's restroom.
He stared into the mirror.
Green skin, glowing orange eyes, black hair, white tufts of hair shaped like wings.
He frantically pulled off his coat and orange shirt.
The green skin continued. He stared at himself in surprise.
He turned around and felt the shock hit him as if from a great distance.
Terrible, jagged wounds lacerated the middle of his back. But they had been…fixed, sort of. He examined them closely and saw that they had actually been stitched up with thread.
Who injured me, and why? And who stitched me up?
A terrible suspicion started to form in his mind.
He laid two fingers across his neck, and felt for his own pulse. He found none.
Next he laid his hand on his chest, just above his heart: there was no beat. But his chest did rise and fall slightly, which made him start as he hadn't even realized he'd been breathing this whole time.
But now that he was thinking about it, he hadn't blinked once.
So he had no pulse, but he breathed. His skin felt cold beneath his own hand.
What am I? Who am I? Where am I?
Suddenly a man and his son entered the restroom. The boy was about seven, and his face contorted into shocked pleasure.
"Look, Dad," he pointed, "A zombie!"
"Err, yes son, but let's not tell your Mom that you saw me playing Left 4 Dead, alright?"
"K!"
The man sent him a small, puzzled look.
"Just checking my make up." He replied. And was that his voice? Is that what he sounded like?
Before anymore could be said he pulled his shirt and coat back on and quickly left.
It was darker outside now, but he didn't feel tired at all.
Zombie…is that what I am?
Why am I not craving brains and internal organs?
He wandered and wondered.
Hanna bolted out of his meditation with a gasp.
"It's OK. I think I'm fairly fresh. Like…only a decade of rot."
"Unsurprisingly there was a large and Official Funeral Home on the grassy outskirts of the graveyard…It was the first time fourteen-year-old Hanna had visited his parent's grave since the funeral…"
Ten years?!
"Hanna, are you alright?" Beck's worried voice could not break through his growing panic.
Because ohmygod it was so terribly possible! Mrs. Galen had quickly taken Hanna back home to help him! She had only glanced around the cemetery she never checked that funeral home holy shit holy shit holy shit –
"Hanna!"
The red head jolted away from his zombie's hands. Too close – it was all too close and real and what if I'm right?! That would mean that I – that I am the one that turned Tobias into a zombie – holy shit holy shit –
I need to investigate this!
"Hanna, please, take deep breaths. Hanna!"
Hanna blinked, and suddenly Abergavenny was in front of him. Not too close, though, he noticed.
It was another rare moment where Cade was expressing a lot of emotion. Hanna saw worry, fear, and perhaps even a trace of – but no, Hanna was imagining it.
"Hanna: slow, deep breaths; you're hyperventilating!"
His back was pressed against the wall, his pillow and blanket had been struck off the mattress. And even in his panic-clouded state Hanna checked to make sure his scars were covered up – all of them.
What if…what if I'm right?
The thought left Hanna feeling desolate and shell-shocked. His breathing stuttered and halted as cold dread sunk into his stomach and turned his blood to ice.
Was it possible that he had been the one to turn Seacoal into a member of the undead?
I have to find out as soon as possible. A plan began to develop in Hanna's mind.
But for now Jachimo was staring at him anxiously, orange eyes ablaze.
A stab of gut-wrenching guilt shot through Hanna. He'd made his beloved zombie worry over him. He couldn't understand – although he never stopped being grateful for Harcourt – why Kent would worry for him. Hanna didn't consider himself worth it.
"I'm okay, Hamlet, just a bad dream." And Hanna smiled and meant it because had a best friend for the first time ever and although Zane would probably never return his romantic feelings having a best friend was something to smile about.
"Are you sure?" Borachio wearily and unhappily asked, constantly keeping his critical stare on the red head.
Hanna ducked around his friend, avoiding eye contact and putting space between them. He needed space, the clarity to think. He busied himself with fixing the bed.
A small shaft of dark blue light from the smallest window Riad had ever seen illuminated Hanna as he rearranged the mattress. Hanna repeated that he was absolutely fine and there was nothing to worry about, seriously.
His shaking voice and hands betrayed him. And Wallenius was sure that if he were to rest a hand over Hanna's heart he would feel it racing beneath his palm. And Hanna was shutting him out. Again.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Exeter didn't expect an answer.
He watched Hanna pause and glance at him uncertainly.
"N-no." Hanna was staring at his blanket, not daring to make eye-contact. Another long moment of tense silence passed. "I'm going back to sleep."
Hanna ducked under the blankets and immediately began to plan his next course of action.
Gregor watched the young man wearily for a few long minutes before closing his orange lamp-eyes and letting himself lapse deep in thought.
{This space left intentionally blank}