October 2022—Quail Lake, Mississippi

The rotten-egg stench of Ibitoupa Man’s discovery trails our family a little less these days. All the conspiracy theorists and regular media needed was a global pandemic and ‘Voila’. The apparent cause of supranatural power isn’t some redneck from Mississippi hill country but a mutated cold virus. To be clear, neither SARS-CoV-2 nor I cause supranatural power to manifest.

Supras, specifically ‘origos’, are as old as recorded history. They apparently hide very well, and normal people slowly churn them from rumor and myth into horror movie and comic book butter. No one knows, or no one who does is bothering to tell, where the origos’ power originates. Supras, us noobs to the actual world of beyond belief, are another story.

Governments around the world are certain at this point that Ibitoupa Man is the source of our power. They are almost certain of how he passed them on, too. Good luck hearing them admit it aloud. Those of us with powers know absolutely; we’ve had the bastard clogging up our dreams for years with his trauma-inducing visions of the future. But considering we’re a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of any given population, silencing us isn’t so overt or hard to accomplish.

The origos are no help. Not en masse. The known ones hold treaties and contracts with their respective countries which grant them a lot of privacy in exchange for well, whatever it is their governments get back. In the U.S., I work out that it’s service with the Department of Supra Ethics, commonly DOSE. An organization almost as old as the U.S. itself that until roughly four years ago hardly anyone knew existed.

At this point, I’m intimately familiar with the six agents who serve as a security detail for my family. We may not get as much attention as when supranatural powers first began coming to light, but I’m still ‘patient zero’ or DOSE’s novel little codename: Firstborn.

Now, four years out of high school and nine years gone from being touched by an unearthly angel, it’s still not hard to remember the earliest days. Even I think…thought, for a while, I might’ve imagined what happened when I touched his enclosure. Those fragile hope crystals lasted until the Smithsonian exhibition began two years after Dad’s discovery.

∞ ∞ ∞

With powers not manifesting worldwide and no reason to suspect Ibitoupa Man as anything more than an unexplainable gem, The National Museum of Natural History puts the freak on display. I’m fifteen when this happens, and they fly our family all up to the exhibition opening. There are no agents or government-level security clearances then. Not to my knowledge. Only more photo-ops and news stories, all glowing like newly minted coins.

By then, the dreams come in fits and starts. Visions of whatever he is creep into my subconscious, whispering all sorts of grand plans. I believe him but tell no one, yet. Who else would believe it anyway? The mummy guy from the Smithsonian exhibit visits in my sleep.

Good way to get a clozapine prescription, but not so good for doing anything about the problem. I should know. I had to flush those little, white head screws for a year before something close to the truth came out.

The staff guide us into the museum’s grand rotunda before opening. I barely take in the space. For all the blue-black marble and multi-hued limestone soaring and streaking through the space, my attention fixes solely on the eight-foot tall, winged man—or what disguises itself as a man—encased in an unblemished, translucent, amber substance. They raise him on a dais, a mythical god in the midst of us mortals. I contain the urge to flee, as I’m the only one to understand. A god, or something worse, is exactly what he is.

Dad whistles through his teeth and stares up. “Wow! That’s impressive!”

My child, it’s good to see you again. Its voice speaks warmly inside my mind, and my feet cement to the marble.

The curator brushes past, beaming. “He remains such a mystery to us. And not just him but his encasement as well. Some things we just aren’t at a point to understand.”

Do not be afraid. I will make things clear to you.

“Everyone stand over here,” the photographer guides us into position. I somehow will my feet from their concrete state to shuffle in front of the display. I fear having to turn my back on this thing. Afraid he might fly loose and snatch me away.

You will soon understand why I’m here, why all of you are here.

“Kian? Buddy, ya feeling all right?” Dad clasps my shoulder.

I blink back at him and try to shake the unheard conversation loose. “Fine, Dad. Can we just go already?”

D.C. confuses me. The whispers penetrate without need of dreams, probably from being right in front of Ibitoupa Man. Its words are ridiculously frightening at first, but the longer I stand in the rotunda, the more his words soothe. Which, once I’m farther away again, frightens me even more.

The trip ends. We come home. The public attention fades, but hell breaks loose underneath the surface. Now after seven more years, those fires breech the surface, and no matter what gets said behind closed doors: no one has a clue how to stop them from spreading.

∞ ∞ ∞

Our family stays where we always have. Well, Mom and Dad do, albeit with a few extra precautions.

The newish house sits on a remote inlet of Quail Lake’s southeastern edge. The closest neighbors are ten acres and a twelve-foot tall, chain link fence away in any direction. The whole property comes complete with a full, government-issued surveillance suite, too. DOSE agents included.

Every year, the government’s threat assessment concludes the same thing. We’re as safe in Quail Lake as we would be anywhere else. So, we get to stay. ‘Course, the feds would need an entire special forces team to drag my parents away from the place they grew up.

I can’t say the same about me, and I can’t say I believe DOSE completely either.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

For starters, I’m a senior at the University of Freemont and live on campus most of the time. Freshman and sophomore years, we went the cautious route. I was slyly escorted to and from the school every single day. There’s no need, now. No boogeymen jumping out of empty classrooms or secretly enrolling as students. Even still…

I live in a different world from my parents. Yeah, we’d do anything to protect each other after everything we’ve learned. We lean on each and take comfort in the small things. But all the normal dramas and celebrations of life act as white noise, welcome distractions from the truth.

Despite all their hoping for a safer outcome, I’m not like them anymore. Not since I fell in that hole with whatever that thing is. The discovery makes things very complicated for me, makes me a different me. Literally a different me if I want it to. Ordinarily, I’m a shade under six feet tall and weigh about two twenty-five. I’ve got Dad’s ginger hair, mom’s blue eyes.

So many times lately, I do want to be someone else. So, I slip on the mask—another two inches of height but about twenty pounds of weight loss and turn my hair black. I keep my blue eyes but add starbursts of orange. For more and more hours every week (most of the time that I’m not in class), that’s who I get to be. I’ve had a few close calls over the years, but somehow my secret is still between my parents, me, one close friend…and an entire department of the U.S. government.

The team assigned to us primarily stays in a doublewide trailer just outside the main gates onto our property when they’re on duty. We see them when we come-and-go. We might recognize them tailing us when we’re in town. Usually, they try to stay as unintrusive as possible. Two of them rotate shifts during the week to look over my shoulder at the university, but that’s when their the least conspicuous.

Their natural standoffishness is why I’m a bit surprised to have been spending the night at home and come strolling downstairs in nothing but sweatpants to find two of them standing around the kitchen island with Mom and Dad.

“Mornin’, son.” Dad waves me over before I can flee back upstairs.

All heads swing my direction, while I’m blinking sleep out of my eyes and wishing I’d put on a shirt. “Uh…Can it wait a couple minutes?”

I scan their faces and decide it can’t.

“Who died?” I try lightening the mood while snatching a water from the fridge.

No one laughs. Mom purses her lips tight. A slight shake of her head tells me to stow it.

“Okay,” I stretch the word out. “Not a mind reader, guys.” Technically, I am, but they don’t know that part of my power. I’m paranoid about using it on them if they’re three feet away. Maybe they’d be able to tell. I choose instead to awkwardly stuff myself in beside Mom at the island.

“Ibitoupa’s structure has begun showing cracks.” Agent Paxley says through her teeth. “Several dozen hairline fractures radiating out from different points on the body.” Agent Paxley, she’s normally one of the more lighthearted members of our begrudged, extended family. If she’s chewing off her own enamel, the shit’s hitting the fan.

I laugh but more to keep from choking. This news is a bucket of ice water in the face. They aren’t joking. I’m definitely awake. I can tell from the fingernails cutting into my palm.

“The dreams have gotten worse recently…” I trail off, realizing that I’m thinking out loud. Mom places a hand on my clenched fist.

“We don’t know that the dreams aren’t related to trauma.” Agent Vander, one of those completely by-the-book types, says like he’s reading from a cue card.

“Bullshit!” Dad’s outburst startles everyone. He’s usually the first to latch onto these more realistic explanations. PTSD invading your kid’s mind is much easier to believe than it being the sentient work of a thousands-of-years-old former museum exhibit. And, I probably, definitely have a fair amount of actual PTSD to contend with upstairs, but that’s far from the main issue. It can’t be Dad’s crutch right now either.

He’s spent more time lately deep diving into the #pwp, pweeps or people with powers, online postings. If they aren’t frauds, they share my dreams about Ibitoupa. Thing is he doesn’t know that I know he’s been coming around to my point-of-view. Now, his outburst requires explaining, but that’s his cross to bear. The longer this silence stretches out, the more awkward I feel, because unlike everyone else here, I’m faking confusion.

Okay enough. I decide.

I pivot with my water before Mom can hook my arm. They try calling me back, but I’ve got one answer for them. “Talk amongst yourselves. As long as you don’t try to stuff me with antipsychotics again or force me to quit school, I’m fine.” And with that I round the bend of our stairs and escape out of sight.

∞ ∞ ∞

I need something to take the edge off after news like that. Because I’m legal most might think a good cocktail is just the answer. And they might be right, if I weren’t some sort of telepath with a penchant for changing my appearance. Not that I never drink, but I must be extremely careful when I do, and the process of ensuring I don’t absent-mindedly use my powers while intoxicated is more hassle than help.

Plus, I give a lot of consideration to DOSE. As much as they aggravate me, they have the answers, or at least many more of them than they’re sharing, that I want. I can’t go making an ass of myself and expect a secretive government agency to bring me on the payroll. But I know they’re interested.

None of the big dogs have come right out and said it yet. No one slips me recruiting pamphlets on the sly. I don’t even know what those would be like for DOSE. Maybe something kitschy with “The Truth Is Out There” embossed across the top. No, the way I find out is Paxley let it slip once. She regrets the mistake and won’t talk about it anymore. The thing she doesn’t expect: I’d probably say yes.

Of course, there’s a difference between being an agent and a free-range lab experiment. Which brings me back to my ever-present predicament of the cabal downstairs getting primary voting rights over my fate versus me.

Lucky me, I can tune into exactly what they’re thinking.

Tapping into someone’s thoughts is a bit like tuning a radio. At least it goes like this when I’m not staring at them. I need to picture the individual and sort of float towards them. Doesn’t work if they’re not pretty close. Now, if they’re in my line of sight, listening to them feels like walking in on a conversation. A couple of times mom, dad, or one of the agents almost walk in on me when I’ve been eavesdropping from around a corner. Rather, they do but don’t realize it. Apparently, I go spacey when I focus too deeply on out-of-sight targets. I always manage to play it off.

Paxley is the easiest to find, and my mind drifts downward. Rather than hearing static, I pick up a garbled track of voices. I focus until I tune into Paxley’s wavelength, aura, whatever it is. A group exchange can be difficult. The back-and-forth of conversation and proximity of people makes filtering actual thoughts akin to sieving smaller rocks through bigger ones.

I manage to find a good frequency and hover.

“…new assets will be in place soon. No need to worry about Micah’s safety.” Paxley says. What is she thinking?

…Martins worry me. They’ve been away from Freemont a long time. Council members pretty much in name only. And we’re getting stuck with the fresh—

A loud, frustrated reply from Dad muddies the thought. Reorienting to Paxley takes a second.

…really wish we did know what the dreams mean. Obviously, something. Right now, we just don’t know. Psychologically troubling, yeah. Something we’re keeping both eyes on, every day. But I can’t see it as an actual threat.

Surprisingly, the thoughts mirror her words. Rare. For anyone.

A shrill notification alerts me that someone’s on the way upstairs. Turnabout being fair play and all, I installed an app-controlled, digital tripwire a couple years ago. (Growing up with agents does have some advantages.) I pull myself back from Paxley and silence my phone. I allow Mom into my room a few seconds later to check up on me.

Once she’s sure I’m okay and assures me that no one will be trying to yank me from UF or shove medication down my throat, she heads back down. I’d tune back in, but I clock Vander and Paxley driving back for the gates.

The little bit I picked up gives me enough to chew anyway. Crap all on the dreams. No surprise there. New agents on the way, who Paxley doesn’t like. Might be interesting. But what has me curious is: what does any of that have to do with Freemont? If there’s some secret lead on my personal plague, I want those answers myself.