Phoebe couldn't begin to understand what was happening. She had just run outside, trying to evade her father, and suddenly stopped. She had felt a surge of energy and turned around to see her father rushing through the door at her, his short, fat legs carrying him as fast as they could. She felt something behind her, as if it were a part of her body. Instinctively she threw it forward as if she were throwing her arm forward, willing it to smack her father across the skull. When the thing came into view, Phoebe saw that it was a street lamp, about seven feet high. Phoebe tried to stop it, knowing that serious injury would come to her father if she didn't, but the lamp kept going. The order had already been given. Or maybe Phoebe really didn't want to stop it. Perhaps she wanted revenge. To punch him across the face with just as much force as he had hit her in the past. And so she did. Her father went down in a heap, a metal street lamp on him.
Suddenly, Phoebe felt more and more. She felt as through her entire surroundings were a part of her, each metal object an extension of here body that she could use at her will. Her head exploded in a flurry of action, locating each metal object in the vicinity, calculating how she could to use it to what extent and for what purpose.
Phoebe didn't care about using the objects, but they seemed to have a different purpose. They all tugged at her, drawing her in like a magnet. Or maybe she was drawing them in. Phoebe tried to remain composed, to concentrate. She knew if she ignored them, they would all come down on her, rushing through the air, crashing through buildings and endangering other people. She couldn't panic, couldn't think about how or when or why, not yet, not until this feeling passed.
If it ever passed.
Phoebe pushed the thought out of her head. Her breath quickened as she saw her father awakening, an angry look on his face as he tried to push the lamp off his back. She had to concentrate. Couldn't focus on anything else, couldn't be distracted, couldn't-
Phoebe
Then chaos broke out. Metal pipes dug themselves up from the ground, stopping only when they reached their limits. Cars vaulted into the air, street signs flew towards her. Knives and other kitchen equipment burst through the windows of Phoebe's house and began to orbit her body. The street lamp that was on her father flew up, straight through the house awning. Windows burst as their supports were ripped out. Doors flew open and shut, crashing out of their hinges. People screamed. Phoebe could hear sirens in the distance.
It was then that she panicked. She began running, but that was a worse idea. Wherever she stepped, the ground burst open with metal and more objects flew at her as if she was exhibiting a gravitational pull. She looked around, searching for the person who had said her name.
No, not said her name. Thought it. Phoebe hadn't heard the word, the thought had been forced into her head, as if someone was giving her something to think, and she had no choice but to think it in the exact tone and length that she had been instructed to.
Given the events of the day, Phoebe didn't doubt for a second the possibility, or even probability, of the idea.
Two police cars rounded the corner of her street. She stepped back, but they were upon her in a second, sirens blaring. However, they presented little danger, for, as soon as they came close to her, they flew up in the air, flipping and turning in the sky.
Then she saw them. Rounding the same corner walked two people, but, instead of screaming and fleeing at the sight of a girl with cars as her umbrella or random kitchen equipment orbiting her body, they just stood.

"Ferrokinesis," Byron said, "I knew it."
"What?" Mark said, once again perplexed by the illustrious speech coming from the former scientist's mouth.
Byron frowned. Were the natives from the other Sectors seriously so inferior in their knowledge of the language? Did they not understand the simplest of definitions? He could have sworn that half of the words Mark had said to him so far had been that same word; "What?" The other half had been mocking him.
"Ferrokinesis," Byron replied, remaining patient with the apparent invalid, "The telekinetic ability to control metal with one's mind. Just as you can control fire, Phoebe can control metal." He was trying to keep his communication simple, now.
"She was the one who woke me up," Mark said, realizing the identity of their new partner, "After the explosion."
"Yes," replied Byron, as if the answer were obvious. How could Mark not have realized this by now? Oh, wait…he wasn't a telepath. He wasn't able to know a person's identity and memories just by looking them in the eye.
"So…are we going to go get her or do you expect her to just come to us, or…what?"
"A little anxious, eh, Mark?" said Byron, winking.
"I just want to get this over with, that's all," Mark said defensively.
"It's not a good idea to lie to a telepath, Mark," Byron said, chuckling, "They could reveal all your secrets and you wouldn't know until it were too late."
"Shut up."
Byron laughed. He could sense Mark's attraction to the newcomer; he didn't, really, even need telekinesis to help him. Mark wasn't very subtle.
"We've gotten her attention," Byron said, changing the subject to their current situation, but for a second, "Which I think you'd be glad to hear." Mark's murderous look stopped Byron from pressing any further.
"I'm going to begin communicating with her, try to tell her how to control her ability." Mark nodded his approval.
Byron slipped into his mind. Closed his eyes, burrowing his concentration deep inside himself, enabling him to project his consciousness into another's, in this case, Phoebe's.
Phoebe he said Don't be afraid
Phoebe jumped in the distance, staring at him. His mind was silent for a second, but he knew Phoebe was intelligent enough to know, or at least think, of what was going on.
You're the one she thought back to him you're the one who was in my head last night!
Byron Peters he thought back, smiling, but, as is obvious, this is not the time for introduction. I promised you freedom, and I'm here to help you now.
Silence.
I can feel your fear Byron said your fear of your ability. I can explain in further detail what it is later, but for now, know this: Your power is not something to dread. You can control it; you have already begun to do so. For now, just concentrate on putting everything down, on leaving it in its place.
Byron knew that Phoebe understood the meaning beyond his instruction.
Slowly objects began to fall. Cars floated down onto the street, bent and battered from their time in the sky. Lawn equipment settled onto the ground surrounding Phoebe with a quiet crash.
The first time is always the hardest Byron said to her, it should be easier to control your power now.
But what now? Phoebe asked. Byron knew what she meant. She couldn't stay; she would be abandoned by her family, captured by the government. Byron had felt that way when he had- no. He would not bring up that memory. But he did know Phoebe's only choice: to run, to flee the country with him and the others that existed around the Nation.
Come with me Byron said, repeating the words he had thought so many times to her and Mark, I can give you freedom.

Phoebe ran forward, running at a speed that seemed impossible.
"What'd you say to her?" Mark asked, wondering about the silent conversation that had just taken place.
"I told her how to control her power," Byron said flatly.
For some reason, Mark doubted that was all that had been conversed.
His suspicions were confirmed when Phoebe finally reached them, throwing her arms around Byron in a hug.
"Thank you," she said, tears at the edges of her eyes, "Thank you so much!"
Byron looked up at Mark. If only looks could kill. Byron smiled.
Phoebe let go of Byron and looked up at Mark. She was much shorter than he was, but most people were. She looked a year or so younger than he.
"What do you do?" she asked.
"What?" Mark said.
"He says that a lot," Byron replied.
Mark glared, yet again, at Byron. He was beginning to remind him of Caleb, with his short stature and smart mouth.
"No, what do mean?"
"Byron can talk to people's minds," Phoebe said, "what do you do?"
"Oh, I can, uh, control fire," Mark replied. Phoebe nodded.
Suddenly, sirens blared in the distance.
"We need to leave," said Byron, "We should get to Sector Four as soon as possible."
As they began to hike, Mark tripped over something. He looked down at it, and saw a metal lighter on the ground. He looked up. Neither Byron nor Phoebe was watching. He picked up the lighter and slid it into his pocket, not knowing how much that one discreet action would cost him in the future, or how so small a thing would cause such turmoil.
One such instance happened immediately. Three police cars rounded the corner to the street that they were walking on. Mark decided that he would use his lighter to test it out. He struck a flame and willed it to travel into his palm. He threw it forward at the cars, not trying to hit them, just to make an impenetrable wall, but he forgot that Sector Three was the Gas Sector. The fire hit a gas tank, exploding with a loud bang. Three houses went up in flames, and Mark jumped back in horror. He heard people screaming because of him.
What had he done? He had just killed innocent people. Mark stood, frozen, watching the police come out of their cars, nervous, their guns pointed in Mark's direction. Byron grabbed Mark's shoulder and shook him out of his trance. Mark turned and ran.
Soon, they were out of Sector Three. Mark stopped after a little while of running.
"What did I just do?" he whispered to himself.
Byron looked back at him. "Mark, believe me, I know what you're going through. What you need to-"
"No, Byron! You don't! I just killed families! Children! Innocent people! They're all dead, because I did something stupid!"
"You think I've never done anything that hurt somebody because of my ability?" said Byron calmly, "You have no idea the pain I've caused because I am different."
"Do you have any idea what I just did?" Mark repeated, still in shock.
"Yes, Mark, I do, but I also know that you have to move past it. Someday, we will have the chance to make it up to these people; we will repay them one day. But not today. Today we have to keep going. We have to keep running, or else we may never have the chance to make it up to them. Trust me, Mark."
Mark looked Byron in the eye, nodding. "Okay."

So the three began to walk, Mark and Phoebe trading their experiences as they did. Byron, however, remained silent. He would never tell them his secret, never converse with them on his discovery of his ability, not now, not until his goals had been accomplished and they were safe.

They walked out of Sector Three and through the vast plain that existed outside the Sectors for hours and hours. When Sector Four finally came into sight, it was nearly dark. They stopped for a moment, marveling at the sight of the Sector. Lights blinked on and off in the tall, white buildings that rose for nearly a mile off the ground. Airplanes dotted the horizon, the products of Sector Four's manufacturing business. In the center of the Sector was a glass dome.
"That's where we'll need to go," said Byron, pointing to the dome.
"Why?" asked Mark.
"That's Sector Four's Work Center. Sector Four, due to their immense amount of manufacturing, require great manpower to accomplish their tasks. Sector Four, then, has everyone able to work in their work force. Each day, every worker is required to check in to the Work Center. I believe that that is where we'll find our next companion."
"You've done your homework."
Byron was about to give a smart reply, but Phoebe interrupted him.
"What do we have in the ways of food?" she asked.
"I'm surprised that you didn't ask that, Mark," Byron said, achieving glares from both Mark and Phoebe.
"Honestly, though," Byron said, "Not much."
Byron reached into his satchel and brought out two apples, bruised and beaten. "Just these. We'll get something else in Sector Four, hopefully." He tossed the apples to them.
"What about you?" Phoebe asked.
"I don't need anything," Byron said flatly. Phoebe looked at him, a disbelieving tone in both her gaze and thoughts. Byron wondered for a moment if she, too, was a telepath, she was good at reading emotions and telling when people were lying. Not that Byron was good at hiding his emotions, though. He had known that since-no. Not that memory either.
Sometimes Byron was glad that he was a telepath. He was able to be lost in other people's memories, other people's lives. That made it so much easier to forget his own. To leave behind the pain, the suffering, of his past.
He lowered himself again, moving his consciousness deep inside his mind. Perhaps he could search for their next partner. Look through the entire mental population of Sector Four, forgetting his horrible memories. He shifted his mind through the populace of the Sector, looking for one that was different, one that described traits like that of his own.
And then he found him. Stephen Jaxon. Stephen was moving out of the Work Center, going through the back halls and exits. Not moving, Byron realized. Running. Running from something, running from shouts. Much like when he had seen Mark in the field outside Sector Two. He had discovered his ability, but refused to think about it, seemingly knowing that Byron was inside him and rejecting him.
Stephen Byron projected his thoughts to him.
Stephen rounded a corner to a door with an exit sign over it. He ran forward with all possible speed, which seemed to be an incredible one, but, before he could reach the door, someone opened it for him.
Do not be afraid Byron continued.
In came a soldier, rifle aimed at Stephen. Stephen still rushed forward, unable to stop. Then he was gone. Stephen's mind was gone; Byron had been pushed out.
Byron's eyes snapped open. What had happened to Stephen? Was he still alive? Was this part of his ability? Could he push Byron out? How could he have done it?
Then Byron realized: It was dark out. He had been under for nearly three hours, given the position of the moon. He saw Phoebe, asleep on the ground nearby. Byron knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. He had barely gotten any in the past week. He'd been on the run, searching for others like him. He had found them, but he knew that this wasn't even near the amount of companions he would have to gather to prevent every one of their deaths. He estimated that there were at least eight scattered around the Nation, one for each Sector, but there were, perhaps, more. He, Mark, and Phoebe had already been united, and now Byron couldn't locate the mind of Stephen Jaxon. If Stephen were dead, like Byron suspected, there would only be four more. Byron realized then a flaw or, at least, a complication in his plan. He should've gathered Phoebe first, instead of focusing on Mark, and worked his way back from there, going to Sector Two, and then Sector One. Now he would have to go to all the way to Sector Eight and then travel all the way back to Sector One. Then he would have all eight of them, and then Byron could accomplish his goal.
Mark wasn't sleeping well, either. He sat up, silent. He saw Byron sitting down, seemingly focusing.
"Why don't we just fight back?" he said, wanting to make conversation.
"Excuse me?" said Byron, surprised by Mark's voice.
"Why are we running?"
"I still don't understand."
"Why are we running from the government? We could just fight back. Get all of us together and fight back."
"I doubt that would be wise, Mark."
"Why not? We would be better rulers than those who are in Sector Zero, now."
"Not necessarily. Power can do strange things to people, Mark. Besides, you see the current government as tyrannical now, correct? If people saw you destroying Sector Zero out of cold blood, they would begin to see you as you see them right now. Doing such a thing would make you seem cruel and unusual to the populace, and, in time, somebody would rise up against you. Somebody you could not defeat."
"Whatever," Mark said, "I'm going to sleep."
Byron sat on the ground for hours and hours, thinking. That was all he ever did anymore. And, sometimes, when he thought, the memories came back. No matter how hard he tried to push them away, he never could. He had learned how to deal with them, had learned to just let them happen, but they still frightened him.
Mark woke before the sun came up. He groaned in pain, discomfort shooting up his spine.
"Back hurt?" Byron said.
Mark nodded.
"Happens on everyone's first night outside," Byron said.
"Do you know what we're doing now?" Mark asked, sitting up.
"More or less," Byron said, frowning, "I found the person we're looking for, but he disappeared."
"What do you mean?"
"I had his mind, but then I lost it. It's like I was shoved out, or like his mind didn't exist anymore."
"Do you think he died?"
"I'm afraid I do. However, I also think that it could be a part of his ability. We're still going to look for him, though."
Mark nods again.
"I have a question, Byron," Mark said, "Why are you gathering us? Why are we all getting into this big group?"
"I'm doing this to protect you," Byron said.
"But, what are you going to do once we're all together?" He asked.
Byron was silent. He was reluctant to let anyone know, but Mark had a right to know, he thought.
"Once I've gathered everyone," he said, slowly, "We're going to leave. We're going to leave the Nation, leave our homes, leave everything, and we're going to live outside, outside of the government's sphere of influence, somewhere they won't be able to hurt us.
After a pause, Mark said, "You know what's out there, then? Something beyond the Nation?"
"I don't know for sure," Byron admitted, "But I do know that there's not nothing. Something has to be out there. The world just can't drop off into nothingness, into a bottomless pit. There has to be something. We're going to find out what."
Mark was silent. Phoebe began to wake. "We need to get going," Byron said, "We need to find Stephen Jaxon."