Claustrophobia 1.05





I shifted restlessly on the chair, trying to get comfortable. It was pretty much a losing proposition. Oh, tonight’s several hours long car journey was going to be fun. I glared at the chemistry textbook open on the desk in front of me as if it had personally offended me. It kind of had. I was hoping that trying to focus on that would help to distract me from, well, everything while I waited for Dad to get back from wherever he’d gone.



(It seemed that disciplining me hadn’t been the only loose end he’d wanted to tie up before we left. I didn’t know what other business he’d had to deal with, and I wasn’t going to ask. If he’d wanted me to know, he would have told me.)



Apparently distracting myself was also a losing proposition. I sighed softly and got to my feet. Maybe moving around would help get rid of some of this nervous energy.



I went through some gentle stretches and wandered my room a little aimlessly, ending up in front of my mirror. Lance’s words from earlier weighed heavily on my mind. Family. Not family. (Nothing.) Stupidly, foolishly, I started searching my reflection for a resemblance, trying to fit the familiar pattern of my features into a different context; one in which we could be blood relatives. I mean, I knew we weren’t, and I definitely knew it didn’t matter that we weren’t. Blood was the very least of what made a family, after all. A bond you chose was surely so much stronger than one forced on you by a mere accident of biology.



But still… It was suddenly very important to me to know that, in the eyes of a stranger, we could be connected in that way. That I could be Gavin’s daughter in the same way that Lance was his son. Hypothetically, at least.



Okay. Not the hair, obviously. Mine was a dark blonde, while theirs was a brown so deep it was almost black. I noted absently that it was just about time for another haircut. It was well past my shoulders now, trailing annoyingly a little way down my back. Not for the first time, I wished Dad would let me cut it short. Or, hell, just cut it off altogether. Even when I wore it in a ponytail, it just made for much too tempting a target in a fight. I’d lost count of the number of times Lance had nearly yanked a handful out by the roots before I’d managed to make him let go. But no. It was flat out fucking forbidden.



(Dad’s reaction actually surprised me a little. Usually, he was all about what was the most practical, the most effective, the most efficient. When it came to my hair, though, apparently all that went right out the window. But then… Mom had had long hair. In all the photos I’d seen, she’d worn it in a thick braid that reached more than halfway down her back. I’d never seen it unbound. Merely keeping mine just below shoulder-length was an acceptable compromise, I supposed. I shuddered to think what a hassle it would be to take care of if it was much longer.)



Complexion was another bust. Their skin was ruddy, while mine had a tendency to tan at the merest hint of sunlight. A long face (‘horse-like,’ Lance called it) to their squarish, strong-jawed profiles. A nose that belonged on a Roman coin, while theirs were broad and slightly flattened. Even knowing this was ridiculous — that I was being ridiculous — I actually felt my pulse start to pick up a little with anxiety as I looked and looked and came up with nothing.



Come on; there must be something.



There had to be. It didn’t have to be anything major, just some minor feature I could point to and say, ‘if things had been different, I could have got this from Dad.’



Eyes, maybe? We all had brown eyes, after all. Mine were lighter, though. Close enough? But then I considered our relative builds and nodded in satisfaction. There it was. Dad and Lance were both built like brick shithouses. I might now have been anywhere near as large as them, but I was still pretty damn tall and very solidly built. And it made sense that I’d be slimmer and shorter, what with me being a girl. The envy was reflexive at this point. I’d had to work so damn hard to achieve even a fraction of the physical strength that came naturally to them. But right at this moment, envy took a distant second place to the warmth of relief. I’d found what I was looking for.



Anyway, this was stupid. I was my father’s daughter. Lance was my brother. We were family in every way that mattered. And family was everything.



Family, after all, was all I had.





* * * * *





A fist slammed into my gut with enough force to knock the wind out of me. I almost doubled over with the impact, coughing, my mental map of atoms and molecules and bonds and shapes and structures jarred into fuzziness. Trying vainly to blink away the spots from my vision, I backed away and got my guard back up, frantically looking for my opponent.



Lance was back on the other side of the mat, standing in a ready position. Smirking.



Bastard.



“You need to focus,” Dad said sternly. “You can’t let yourself be so caught up in what your power’s telling you that you lose your situational awareness. You need to know where the enemy is at all times and be able to respond appropriately to their attacks. The one you miss could well be the one that kills you.”



“Yes, Sir,” I said, glaring at Lance.



The son of a bitch just smirked even more. Of course he did. He was getting to indulge in one of his favourite pastimes: smacking me around. With parental approval, no less. And, so far, I was doing a pretty fucking lousy job of stopping him. And the goddamn migraine was back. ‘Special training’ fucking sucked. And so did my brother.



“Astrid,” Dad said, his voice quiet.



“Yes, Sir?” I looked up at him, and wondered at the expression on his face. He looked… worried?



“This is the end point of all your training. That training is what will let you survive to claim your birthright. You’re a cape now. You’ll have to fight, whether you want to or not. That’s the way the world works: you fight or you die. And I have no fucking intention of letting you die.”



I studied him for a moment, not sure what to say, or even if I needed to say anything at all. A pleasant warmth hummed inside me, and I felt a small, fierce smile lift the corners of my mouth. I nodded to him. He nodded back. I turned to face Lance again, catching him with a slight frown on his face. I wondered what what going through his head.



“Now,” Dad said, and the both of us snapped to attention. “Again.”



“Yes, Sir,” Lance and I chorused together.



I let my awareness spread out as Lance and I circled each other, looking for an opening, deliberately trying to gather as much information as possible through my power. Preferably while still keeping enough of an eye on Lance that I wouldn’t miss his next attack.



I could feel the training mat flexing beneath my bare feet (ethylene vinyl acetate, polyethylene terephthalate). The material of my clothes. The bands of cloth and vinyl and silicone and elastic around my wrists. The-



Ow! Fuck!



My back hit the mat with a thump, and I stifled a yelp as what felt like every single welt and bruise lit up in lines of fire. Lance had gone for a leg sweep this time, presumably to mix things up a bit. By the time I got back to my feet, he was back in the start position. I swear, if his smirk got any wider, the top of his damn head was going to fall off. And I would laugh myself sick. Anyway, I would get this right if it killed me. Or him.



“Again.”





* * * * *





I glared at my enemy. My enemy was unmoved. Then again, phones didn’t tend to be overly responsive to death glares.



I sighed, feeling the leaden weight of exhaustion settle into my bones. I would’ve slumped down in my seat, but I already knew what a bad idea that was. With a certain kind of bleak humour, I couldn’t help observing that this whole experience was just great for my posture, my spine straight enough to satisfy a whole host of etiquette teachers.



Okay. Enough procrastinating. The sooner I completed my task, the sooner I could get to bed. And I really, really, really wanted to sleep right now. I took a drink of water and regarded my enemy once more. I swear it almost looked as though the phone was smirking at me.



I reached out a hand, and lightly rested the tip of one finger on it. My senses were immediately assailed by a flood of too much information, making the migraine sit up and pay attention, making me grit my teeth to hold back a whimper. Forcing myself to concentrate, I deliberately narrowed my focus.



I hadn’t yet figured out a way to turn off my… Matter awareness? Stuff sense? Whatever it should be called, it didn’t seem to come with an off-switch. There did, however, seem to be the equivalent of a dimmer. With some effort, I could dial it down so that touching especially complex or large items wasn’t the informational equivalent of trying to drink directly from a fire hose. Not too much, anyway.



The flood lessened noticeably, and I let out a breath I hadn’t even realised I was holding. Right. Stage one complete. Now came the hard part. Slowly, carefully, I sent my awareness ghosting through the phone, tracing out components and structures, building a mental map of how it was put together. At least, that was the intention. Frustratingly, however, what I ended up with was disjointed, incomplete. Some parts stubbornly refused to focus, while others were almost too… sharp? Too loud? Too bright? (I was still figuring out a vocabulary for something that didn’t seem to translate directly into the usual senses. Touch was closest, I guessed, but it wasn’t the whole of it, not by a long way.) Whatever the right words, it was like trying to see a lighthouse with the sun behind it, or pick out one melody from a dozen all playing at once.



Maybe I just lacked the necessary context. Dammit. Was I going to have to study electrical engineering too? I half-considered suggesting to Dad that I might be better off focusing on simpler things for now. Electronic devices seemed to be a little beyond my current… Resolution? Processing capacity? I mean, breaking them, sure. Apparently, I didn’t need to understand all the ins and outs of how something worked to make it stop. I’d already bricked one phone and, uh, ‘violently discorporated’ another when my power flared out of control. Luckily, they were all old ones: burners that had reached the end of their useful lifespan. Eminently disposable.



Anyway, whatever the issue was, it was annoying. But I needed to at least make a good faith effort with this before just giving up. Which meant…



Ah, my nemesis. We match wits again.



“You still up?”



I did not jump. Nuh uh. No way, no how. Instead, I turned very calmly and with great dignity to face my asshole brother and give him a look that could have cracked stone. Dammit! I’d thought I was getting better at the ‘maintaining situational awareness’ thing. Apparently, in my eagerness to get this done I’d backslid a little.



“Fuck off, Lance,” I told him waspishly. “I’m trying to concentrate.”



“You should have seen the way you jumped,” he gloated, the expression on his face — that damnable smirk, naturally — making it look really very punchable right about now. Of course, his face pretty much always looked punchable to me. Even as I thought that, his thrice-damned smirk took on a certain sly, malicious edge. “You had no idea I was there, did you? If Dad knew how much you’d just zoned out, he’d have your guts for garters.”



I rolled my eyes.



“So run along and tattle to him like the little bitch you are, and leave me the hell alone.”



To my own ears, at least, I managed to sound like I didn’t fear the consequences of failure. I had no idea whether or not Lance was convinced. Either way, instead of running off to tell tales — not that I was bitter — he ambled over to me and peered down at the phone like he was half expecting it to do something interesting.



“You need something?” I demanded impatiently. “Because I’m really kinda busy here.” I checked the time, and really wished I hadn’t. “What are you even doing up? You don’t have to be.”



(Although, I recalled, in the last year or so, Lance never did seem to sleep particularly well when we came out here. He tended to be the last one to bed and the first one up, and often looked like death warmed over by the time we went home again. If we’d had a functional relationship, I might have asked him about it. As it was, I supposed it would have to remain a mystery.)



He shrugged. “Woke up. Went to get a drink of water.” He gestured with the glass he held in his hand and grinned. “I just wanted to see if you managed to make this one blow up in your face, too.”



“It didn’t blow up,” I protested. “It just… fell apart. Enthusiastically.” Something to do with the way my power had futzed with the battery, I thought. I wasn’t entirely sure. At the time, I was too busy trying to avoid a face full of shrapnel.



“Whatever. It was funny as hell from where I was sitting.”



“See if you think it’s as funny when it’s your phone,” I muttered. I smiled in a way that might have been ever so slightly feral around the edges and added, “Personally, I think it’ll be fucking hilarious when it goes bang in your pocket tomorrow.”



“You wouldn’t,” he sneered. I gave him a disbelieving look. “You can’t,” he amended.



“Can’t I?”



He side-eyed me. “It was an accident. You said yourself you didn’t know how it happened. That means you can’t replicate it.”



“You just keep telling yourself that. I’m sure it’s a great comfort to you.”



I wasn’t ashamed to admit I took a certain petty satisfaction in the flicker of uncertainty that showed in his eyes. Even if he then gave a disparaging snort and said, dismissively:



“You do anything like that to me and Dad’ll make sure you can’t sit down for a month.”



“Might just be worth it,” I fired back.



“Psycho bitch.”



“Fucking asshole.”



The sad thing, I noted, was that for us, this was practically friendly. At least we were only exchanging verbal blows, not physical ones.



I gave him one last glare and then, very deliberately, I turned my back on him so I could focus on my other enemy. If nothing else, I guessed that having Lance behind me was excellent motivation to hold onto awareness of my surroundings as I tried to map out the inner structure of the phone. I wasn’t sure, but it almost seemed like my power felt a little more responsive this time. I even managed to pin down one of the parts that had been eluding me. Encouraged, I threw myself into the task with renewed vigour.



Maybe I would actually get to sleep tonight after all.





* * * * *





“Again.”



The concrete block collapsed into dust, the bulk of it disappearing from my power’s perception. I could still feel the grains that clung to my skin, but it was barely an effort to slough those off. It would be a different matter if it got into my lungs, though, so I tried not to breathe it in.



“What happened?”



I was supposed to be shaping the concrete, not destroying it.



“I believe it’s a limitation of the material, Sir,” I said cautiously, willing Dad not to think I was making excuses. “It’s insufficiently malleable to allow me to change the structure much without breaking bonds. Break too many, and it just falls apart.”



Just like my wooden barricade.



“Something you’ll be able to overcome with practice?”



I really had no idea.



“Potentially, Sir.”



“Well,” he noted dryly. “At the very least, walls should prove no obstacle to you.”



“Yes, Sir,” I agreed.



Nor physical restraints of any kind, I mused, unless there was a material that proved to be impervious to my power. So far, that included only living things. Everything else — including the formerly-but-no-longer-living — was apparently fair game.



(Of course, there were more ways to trap a person than physically chaining or locking them up. But I didn’t want to think about that. Just like I didn’t want to think about what was waiting for me at the end of this week of training. If I let my thoughts drift too far in that direction it started to feel like the walls were closing in. Even when I was outside. It started to feel like a hand around my throat. So I wouldn’t let myself think about it. I would focus on the training. That was the only thing that mattered right now.)



“Let’s move on.”



“Sir?” I asked, trying not to wonder if I was going to be punished for my failure with the concrete. (There really wasn’t any point in worrying. Either I would be or I wouldn’t. There wasn’t anything I could about it.)



“Try the metal now.”



Finally!



“Yes, Sir.”



Anticipation warmed me as I reached out to touch the block of steel. My skin made contact (iron, carbon, chromium, nickel…), and the structure lit up in my mind. It was just as beautiful as I had anticipated. And the potential… The concrete had felt like it was fighting me every step of the way, but this? This was like breathing. I made it ripple and flow like water, form abstract shapes, and generally obey my slightest whim. It was the lattice structure, I realised. I could shift the bonds around without actually breaking them. That was what made this so easy.



Out of nowhere, a thought came to me. I could make such beautiful things with this.



“Good.”



Dad’s voice broke through my thoughts, snapping me out of my near-euphoria. I was shocked to realise that, for a few brief moments, I’d actually forgotten what the purpose of all this was. It was just… I’d just been having fun playing with it. But all traces of that were chased away by horror at the fact that I’d allowed myself to become dangerously distracted.



Fuck.



I really couldn’t do that. I needed to focus. It didn’t matter how tired I was, or how much I hurt, (or, improbably, how much fun I was having), I needed to keep it together.



But Dad sounded pleased as he continued, “It seems like you have an affinity for metal. We can definitely use that.”



I wasn’t sure it was a specific affinity so much as the fact that metal was significantly more ductile than concrete. But I wasn’t going to disagree. I was just happy I got to play with the metal some more.





* * * * *





“Again.”



Lance and circled each other warily. Well, I was wary; Lance was confident. Maybe a little too confident, I thought. I hoped. I’d managed to refine my focus, allowing my awareness of chemical structures to simply overlay the input from my mundane senses, rather than displacing it. This, I hoped, meant I wasn’t going to be too distracted to fight. Lord knew it was certainly about damn time for me to get a little payback. So. Time to get this show on the road.



I was just a little less well-co-ordinated than usual, my aim just a little off, my reflexes just a little slow. Exactly as they’d been during the previous iterations of this little test. The difference was that this time it was a ruse. I knew I was technically supposed to be fighting to the best of my ability, but, well… I really wanted to make this count. Anyway, playing possum to mislead an enemy was a perfectly valid tactic. Lance launched a flurry of blows towards me. I blocked them all, but allowed myself to be pushed back a little. Any moment now…



He snapped out a right jab, hard and fast, aimed squarely at my chest. Would’ve been a nasty one if it had hit, but I was already moving, passing easily to the outside of the strike and shoving his arm towards his body, I slammed my right palm heel into his chin and he reeled at the impact, but I wasn’t finished there. Pivoting on my left foot, I lashed out with my right in a roundhouse kick, smacking my shin into his stomach hard enough to make him crumple.



He hit the mat with a very satisfying thump.



“Stop.”



Dad’s command brought me to a halt, and I realised I’d started to head over to Lance’s prone form. I hadn’t actually been planning on kicking him while he was down but, well, I realised that I hadn’t necessarily been in my most rational frame of mind a moment ago. I returned to the starting mark, back in a ready position. Lance got slowly to his feet, shooting an ugly look my way. I… would like to claim I was gracious in victory, but I may have smirked quite obnoxiously at him in response. Petty? Yes. Vindictive? Definitely. Immensely fucking satisfying? Like you wouldn’t believe.



“A definite improvement,” Dad said, and my smirk turned into a more genuine smile. That faded, however, as he continued in a hard tone, “Although you broke the rules with that chin strike.” He crossed the short distance towards me and put his hand on my shoulder, pressing his thumb hard against the tender skin there. I forced myself to remain perfectly still, waiting to see what he would do. He tightened his grip ever so slightly… and then let me go again. Just a warning, this time. I stifled a sigh of relief. “Be more careful in future,” he admonished.



“Yes, Sir.”



In my peripheral vision, I could see Lance sneering at me. Before I could turn to glare back at him, though, his expression went suddenly blank. Dad must have glanced his way.



“Let’s make sure that wasn’t a fluke, shall we?” Well, great. Lance was definitely going to be back on his guard now. And he was pissed off with me, to boot. Oh well. It wasn’t like I wasn’t expecting that. I readied myself, waiting for the command. “Again.”



I was really starting to hate that word.





* * * * *





“Again.”



I gritted my teeth and obeyed, sending my power through the block of steel, willing it to move, goddammit, despite the way my nerve endings fizzed and popped with pain. Bonds shifted around each other, and the bulk of its mass flowed up and over, breaking like a wave over the target. Which was useful, which was progress, which was great — if perhaps a little slower than I would like — but it wasn’t what was supposed to happen.



I sighed softly and pulled the steel back, reforming the block. I forced myself to stand up straight despite the fact that we’d been doing this for hours and, what with one thing and another, I’d barely slept at all last night. Or the night before. I wasn’t stupid enough, however, to ask for a break.



“Sorry, Sir,” I said, wincing inside as I tried to think of a way to tell him I didn’t think I could do this. “I don’t think my power works that way.”



I tensed, but the only response was a noncommittal, “Hmm.” I waited for further instructions. After thinking for a moment, Dad noted, “So. Not true kinesis, and not matter creation. Plus, you need constant skin contact with a material to manipulate it.”



“Yes, Sir.” I stifled a brief impulse to apologise. I wasn’t going to apologise for the way my power worked. My power was fucking awesome. I just had to figure out how to use it effectively in combat. Luckily, I’d been giving the matter some thought. “What if I used metal batons, Sir? I could reshape them as necessary to improve reach and accuracy, which would give me an advantage in hand to hand.”



Not the most creative application of my power, but it had the advantage of being simple, and something I was reasonably sure I could manage with my current level of control. Plus, I already had the hand to hand skills.



He considered a moment. “Show me.”



With a thought, I detached two pieces of metal from the larger mass and formed them into weapons, one for each hand. Taking the time make sure to the batons were balanced properly and the grips fit my hands, I took up position and launched a series of strikes on the training dummy. The batons were actually pretty easy to reshape quickly and accurately; much more so than the larger block of metal.



I looked towards Dad, relieved when he nodded.



“Practice using the batons with Lance,” he said.



“Now, Sir?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lance look up from his schoolwork.



“Later.” Lance returned his attention to the book he was studying. “For the moment, make a knife.” I reshaped one of the batons into a simple combat knife. “Run through a basic knife drill with the dummy, but try to reshape the blade to maximise the damage as you strike.”



I thought I knew what he was aiming for. I took up position, and started the drill, stabbing and slashing at the target. It took a couple of attempts to get the hang of it, but then it clicked and…



Oh my God.



That was… a big hole. A very big hole. If that had been a person… (No. I wouldn’t think about that. I couldn’t think about that. This was just training, that’s all. Just exercises. Just wood and cloth and padding. I wasn’t hurting anyone.) I realised I’d stopped dead, staring at the gaping rent in what was supposed to be the dummy’s chest. I quickly moved back into a ready position, awaiting further orders.



“Very good, Astrid.” Dad sounded pleased. “That has definite potential.”



The approval buoyed up my tired muscles and weary mind, helping me stand just that little bit straighter, pushing just a little bit of the fog from my thoughts.



“Thank you, Sir.” I hesitated for a moment, and then asked, “Do you want me to try to fix the damage?”



He gave me a curious look. “By all means.”



I wasn’t entirely sure I would be able to. It seemed that with my power, as with so many things, it was easier to destroy than to create. But in theory, it should just be a case of forming bonds between the pieces, and I knew I could do that. It was good practice. (And if it meant that I didn’t have to see that gaping wound — no, that hole in its torso — a moment longer, then so much the better.)



I absently reshaped the weapons into metal bands around my forearms to free up my hands (it wasn’t like I couldn’t forge them again just as easily, after all) and put the dummy back together as best as I could, using my power to bond the fragments and pieces into place. When I was done, I studied my handiwork critically, both visually and with my power. It was little more than a crude patch job, and I could feel that the damaged area was weak compared to the rest of it, but it had worked. Maybe it was something I would get better at with practice. (I liked the idea of being able to fix things almost as much as I liked the idea of being able to make things.)



I turned back to see what Dad wanted me to try now. He was studying the metal bands around my forearms, a thoughtful expression on his face.



“Form those into cables about a metre and a half in length and…” He considered for a moment. “Let’s say half a centimetre thick.”



“Yes, Sir.”



A trivial exercise of my power.



“Now, strike the target.”



I’d never really trained with anything like this, but an order was an order. I took up position and did my best to obey. My first few attempts were… honestly kind of pathetic, either missing completely, or hitting with negligible force. But then I started to get the hang of it a little. It helped that, thanks to my power, I knew exactly where the cables were at all times, relative to myself. And I could use a combination of power and perfectly ordinary momentum to…



The cables lashed out, one at the head, one at the torso, each hitting with an audible smack. My aim was still off, but as this was only a proof of concept, I hoped that wouldn’t earn me too much censure.



“That will do for a start,” Dad said, nodding. “Of course, we’ll have to work on your technique. Fortunately, I have a few ideas for how to improve your aim…”





* * * * *





My wire whipped out, slicing through the air towards the target. It only narrowly missed, but a narrow miss was still a miss and the golf ball smacked me hard on the thigh. I glared at Lance, resisting the urge to rub the sore spot. He hefted another golf ball threateningly, grinning like a Cheshire cat.



“Concentrate,” Dad told me, sternly.



“Yes, Sir.”



It was a real challenge not to grit my teeth. I was concentrating. I just wasn’t fast enough. Not yet, anyway. I’d just have to be better.



“Again.”



I’d have to be better now.



Lance threw the ball, my wires — both of them this time — lashed out… and I knocked the fucking golf ball out of the air. Ha! Lance looked disappointed.



Bastard.



“Good,” Dad said. “Let’s try two in quick succession this time. Begin.”



Well, at least he didn’t say ‘again.’





* * * * *





“Sharper, Sir?”



I eyed my father warily, trying to gauge his mood. He didn’t seem angry with me. More… contemplative. With perhaps just a touch of impatience at my request for clarity. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand what he was asking, not really. I just… I wanted to be certain.



(I didn’t want to understand.)



“Surely,” he said, somewhat bitingly. “That isn’t such a difficult concept to grasp. Can you give them cutting edges?”



Could I…? Well, yes, of course I could. But…



My stomach fluttered uneasily, and it felt like I had a lump in my throat. I had to fight to keep my expression blank and my voice level.



“Yes, Sir.”



He raised an eyebrow. “Well?”



I reshaped my wires again. It felt oddly natural to do so, and a small part of my mind felt amazement that I’d only had these abilities for a few short days. Right now, it almost felt like they’d been a part of me my whole life.



“Finished, Sir,” I informed Dad, carefully testing out the wires’ new balance and profile. They felt different. They felt dangerous, in a way that they hadn’t, quite, before.



(Was this what he’d had in mind since the moment he first suggested wires?)



“Run through the drills again. Remember: don’t just aim to strike the target, aim to strike through the target.”



A basic principle, and one I was already more than familiar with. Why, then, did my heart start to beat a little faster in my chest?



“Yes, Sir.”



I did as I was told. My wires whipped through the air and bit deep into the target, carving gashes and lines into the padded frame. That… was quite a mess.



“Good,” Dad said. “Now try the same thing you’ve been practicing with the knife.”



It hadn’t even occurred to me to combine the techniques, but it seemed so obvious when he said it that way. So very obvious.



(And I really was so very, very stupid.)



“Yes, Sir.”



I readied myself, and struck.



The training dummy flew apart under my assault. Pieces scattered every which way, and I wasn’t sure all the kings horses and all the kings men were putting that mess back together again. I wasn’t even sure I could fix it with my power.



(I didn’t want to think about other things that couldn’t be fixed.)



The drill wasn’t technically over, but the target had been obliterated. With extreme prejudice.



(There was a roaring in my ears, and I couldn’t quite seem to catch my breath.)



I returned to a ready position and awaited further orders.



(Cold settling over me like a shroud, slivers of ice lodging in my heart.)



Like the good soldier I was supposed to be.



“Excellent work, Astrid,” Dad said, lightly brushing one hand over my head in the way he only did when I’d really exceeded expectations. But neither the praise, nor the gentle touch seemed to be able to reach through the strange numbness that had settled over me.



“Thank you, Sir,” I said automatically, unable to tear my eyes away from the remains of the training dummy.



God. If that had been… If that was…



But it wasn’t. It wasn’t anything. Just wood, cloth and padding. No one was hurt. No one was… was killed.



(Ripped to shreds, torn to pieces by wires that weren’t quite monofilament, but were pretty damn close. Pretty fucking lethal either way.)



Except, that was what he was training me to do, wasn’t it? To kill people. To kill people with my power. And it wasn’t like I hadn’t known that. I’d known it all along. He’d never made a fucking secret of it. But I… I couldn’t let myself see it. Couldn’t let myself admit what it was we were doing here. I knew it was stupid, I knew it was childish, I knew it was weak, but I just couldn’t face it. I needed some space. Some room to breathe. To not think about what was waiting for me on the other side of this.



(If I ever made it out the other side of this.)



But now? I couldn’t lie to myself any longer. And, once again — more and fucking more these days, it seemed — I just didn’t know what to do. Belatedly, I realised that Dad was saying something else, and I forced myself to snap out of my stupid little panic attack and pay attention. Because whatever I decided to do, I had to get through this first, and I really, really, really didn’t want to give him a reason to have to discipline me again. So I would just have to get my shit together, suck it up and cope until I bought myself a chance to think things through properly.



“…really just a matter of improving technique at this point,” he was saying, looking at me expectantly.



Oh God. What had I missed?



“Yes, Sir,” I hedged. It must have been the right response, because he smiled at me and the expression was almost kindly.



“Let’s start by building up the number of wires you can control. Try adding another two for now.”



I hesitated for a moment. “Bladed or blunted, Sir?”



“Bladed, I think,” he said, and stroked my hair again. “After all, you really do seem to have a talent for this.”



(I told myself I didn’t feel a thrill of pride at the praise, that it didn’t make me love him just that little bit more. But then, I’d always been really fucking good at lying to myself. At least until I couldn’t do it any longer.)



“Thank you, Sir,” I said, numbly.



I followed orders. I hit my target. I was a good soldier.



(And, somewhere deep inside, I thought I could hear someone sobbing.)