Samson pinned Maisie with his stare. ‘What happened to you?’

‘I got hit,’ she said. ‘Blacked out for a minute or so. I couldn't see you when I came back round...’ She tried to piece everything together to explain it and came up with a blank. The circle and its strange effect on powers. The voice inside the circle and the cryptic conversation that tangled into ever more confusing knots the longer she thought on it. The terrifying pull she'd felt toward Flight. It all bashed around in her skull, a Gordian knot beyond her comprehension.

Apparently she'd taken too long, because Samson said, ‘But where were you?’

‘Right here.’

Disbelief was writ large across his features. She searched for something to divert him while she assembled a story, her eyes falling on the prone figure of Bobby.

‘Shouldn't we help him?’ she asked to buy time. ‘Put him in the recovery position or something?’

Samson gave him a brief, assessing look. ‘He's breathing. His airway was clear last I checked. I think he might have broken his back, so it's inadvisable to move him unless it's an emergency. And don't change the subject.’

Maisie sighed. ‘I'm not lying. I was just there, in the chalk circle. It's a barrier of some sort, to protect the Flight. I passed through instead of being bounced back like you because—’ she drew in a breath ‘—because I have no powers. I'm not considered a threat, I guess.’

He shook his head. ‘You weren't there, Maisie. I know what I saw. Your whole body just vanished — all of it, in an instant.’

‘I couldn't see you, either. I caught snatches of you speaking, enough to know that you were there, but when I called for you, it was like something caught my voice and bounced it back to me. But I don't know how or why. The voice—’ But then another thought occurred to her. ‘Why didn't he know it was there?’ She indicated Bobby. ‘If it was set up by the Gladiators, shouldn’t he have known better than to run into it?’

And there was the curious fact of the empty warehouse. Surely there had been more than the six Gladiators outside. Bobby hadn't known about the circle. Was it possible someone other than them visited the warehouse first?

Another oddity occurred to her. Their father didn't always accompany them on heroing jaunts. He considered it good training to rely on themselves once in a while, and good PR to have his children seen working as independent little heroes — the perfect image of a special family. But never when this much Flight was involved. What was he doing to keep him away?

A bad premonition opened in the pit of her stomach.

She opened her mouth to articulate her thoughts when the sound of a car squealing to a halt outside the entrance took both their attention. The purring of the engine stopped, followed by the slamming of a car door.

A few seconds later, a tall man appeared in the doorway. It was too far out to make out any details, but she would know that stance anywhere. There was something about the way he carried himself that was so distinctively him, broadcasting a confidence, a steadiness, that drew people to him like a lifeboat in a storm. Even she wasn't immune, and he certainly wasn't her lifeboat. Her father, Sterling Arthur. Another figure appeared at his shoulder, shorter and less filled out in comparison: Alfred, in his worshipful sidekick persona. He had to trot to catch up, an undignified look for her normally sophisticated older brother.

There's a good dog, she thought with malice.

To her surprise, she saw Samson tense beside her, a decidedly unhappy look flitting over his face before he schooled it back into a bland visage. Again, she was reminded that things were changing with her middle brother. Perhaps she wasn't the only one to see cracks in their father's facade these days.

‘We'll continue this conversation later,’ Samson said. A threat or a promise?

She nodded, her head feeling like a lead weight balanced on her neck.

Father walked to them, his stride long and purposeful. His physical presence rivalled Bobby in his giant form, though in reality he was only five foot eleven, in good shape for his fifty-plus years, but no bodybuilder.

By silent, mutual agreement, neither Maisie nor Samson spoke as he approached. Maisie imagined herself shrinking as her father grew larger.

He was no more than halfway to them when the sirens outside reached a crescendo, quickly accompanied by the screeching of tires. The doorway into the night was lit up by flashing blue lights. The police had finally joined the party. Nice of them to show up.

More doors slammed, the noise accompanied by yelling, the barking of dogs, and running footsteps.

‘Police! Put your hands in the air!’

A line of officers burst into the warehouse, moving in a wall of ballistic shields, visors down and sporting carbine guns. Here charged the cavalry.

Father turned slowly but didn't bother to raise his hands. Maisie couldn't see his expression, but she could guess: his charming megawatt grin, the smile that said, ‘I am an approachable god; come near and bask in my light.’ Everyone fell for it, from politicians to the post lady, who loitered with their letters every morning to the hopes of exchanging a hello.

Even Unit S, the special division of the Ministry of Defence that dealt with Flight and its dramatic repercussions, was not immune. She could see the moment recognition hit. The police relaxed, clicking their safety catches into place and lowering weapons.

‘Mister Arthur,’ one of them called. ‘Do you have this handled?’ They were obviously going for controlled and professional, but Maisie couldn’t miss a faint hint of excitement. Sterling Arthur was here, the famous hero who settled in little old Briston to calcify as a living legend.

‘My son assures me we do.’ When he spoke, Father’s voice was deep and resonant, with just the right amount of warmth to remain approachable. ‘I've only just arrived on the scene.’ He gave a self-deprecating chuckle, clapping Alfred on the shoulder. ‘You've got to let the kids have their fun without Dad around. As you can see, they've subdued the Gladiators and secured the Flight. Not bad going, Alfred. You'll catch up to your old man yet.’

So he was playing the good-old-Dad persona. Nothing to see here. Just a Gifted family going about their business.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

‘It's Sterling Arthur and family!’ someone new yelled.

More officers appeared behind them, regular ranks without guns, though they wore tactical vests and helmets. Two of them held the leads to a pair of straining German Shepherds, the source of the barking. A person in a suit followed, their demeanour marking them as someone in charge. The Suit made a beeline for Father, shaking his hand vigorously when they met.

As they began to converse in low voices, Maisie let herself enjoy the respite. No matter what he said in company, Sterling would not be happy with the way events had played out this night. Two injuries were a blow to his legacy, a dent in their familial reputation. Being injured reminded the world that they were human, a fact that their father conveniently forgot whenever he could get away with it.

But a martyr on the other hand... A martyred daughter, sacrificed to the cause of ridding the world of Flight? Now that could be good press. Was that what he wanted for her? She felt sick.

The first spokesman broke away to direct other officers. With lingering looks in the direction of their superior, they continued farther into the warehouse, approaching Maisie, Samson, and the crates.

The dog handlers reached them first, their charges sniffing at the chalk circle. One dog whined. The other tried to bolt, almost dragging the officer along.

‘Are you kids all right?’ The speaker looked to be around forty, a white man with crow's feet rippling out from around hard eyes, sheltered under bushy brows. Slight disapproval tinged his words. He'd tucked his helmet under his arm to reveal a receding hairline, which was further accentuated by the fact that what remained of his thatch was plastered to his head with sweat.

‘Yes, sir,’ Samson said. He shrugged ruefully with his good shoulder and offered up a charming smile. ‘Got into a spot of difficulty, that's all.’

Maisie nodded her agreement, too tired to speak.

‘Paramedics will be here soon,’ the balding man said, his tone softening. ‘Though they'll have their work cut out with all those folks laid up out front. Gave us all a bit of a shock, that did. Your work?’

‘Not me. The only thing I've beaten up tonight is the wall at the back.’ Her brother did good-humoured embarrassment pretty well. She could see the officer warming to his brand of easy-going likability. ‘What you saw at the entrance was all my older brother. He's always been the golden child — though don't tell him I said that.’

The man chuckled, almost unwillingly. ‘The name's Aaron Stephenson. Samson, right? The one with the mutant arm?’

‘That's me.’

Maisie lost track of their further conversation, alertness strained to snapping. She sat dully and let the noises break over her.

Coloured blotches danced in front of her vision. Coloured blotches that made it so she almost missed when the lead officer reached the chalk boundary. The woman turned her head to say something to a subordinate, foot hovering in the air, about to step across the circle.

Tiredness receded as the boot teetered closer.

From somewhere, Maisie conjured up the energy to yell, ‘Stop!’

Everyone froze.

The memory of her first day in secondary school welled up, the curiosity of a crowd fixed solely on her. Somehow she didn't whither on the spot. She must have made a sorry picture, sat in the dirt, a bruise blooming on one side of her face. The press of many eyes pinned her in place, and she swallowed reflexively, mouth gone dry.

‘It—’ she started to say, but the words came out as a croak. She cleared her throat and said, ‘Don't touch the chalk circle. It's a block of sorts. It might hurt you.’

Stares intensified. The woman pulled her foot back but didn't move away.

A voice broke the silence. ‘What chalk circle?’ Father asked, voice dangerous.

He'd broken away from the Suit to skewer Maisie with his gaze.

‘What chalk circle?’ he said again.

‘Someone drew it around the crates,’ Samson explained. ‘It repelled me. Violently. That's how I hurt my right side.’ He ducked his chin to his limp arm. The focus of the room switched to him, and Maisie near slumped with relief.

‘Excuse me,’ she heard her father tell the Suit, then he headed towards them with purposeful strides. ‘Get away from the crates,’ he called, no longer playing the affable local hero.

Now they moved, stumbling from the circle before their minds had a chance to process the instruction. When their father gave a command, he was obeyed. People — seasoned officers of Unit S — tripped over their feet to get out of his way. Maisie watched him, a desperate yearning clawing at her breastbone.

Did you send me out here to die? she thought as he passed her spot on the floor, following him with her eyes.

Her father appeared as he always did: ready for the press shot. Handsome and aware of it, each of his features complimented the whole, his teeth straight and white, his eyes a sharp blue. He had the look of someone destined to be in the public eye and always carried himself with the confidence to match. She knew why people flocked to him, and even though in that instant she thought her feelings were as conflicted as they had ever been, a part of her still wished for him to turn his eyes her way, to acknowledge her existence and grant her a moment of his attention.

But he didn't look at her, going straight to the chalk circle. He halted a couple of feet in front of it and reached out his hand, slowly, to where the invisible wall stretched into the air. His fingers hovered there, his face twisted in concentration. A grimace formed. He thrust his hand forwards.

For a second, nothing happened, and it looked like the barrier had no effect. Then sparks formed around his fist, biting at the flesh until they drew blood. Still, he didn't draw back, leaning inwards with the full force of his weight. He strained, veins popping in his forehead as beads of blood dripping down his arm. As soon as the blood parted contact from his skin, it flew backwards, propelled by the same power that had thrown Samson.

So the voice had been literal when she'd referred to ‘the blood’. Interesting.

Finally, with a grunt of pain, he stepped away, drawing his abraded hand to his chest.

‘I know what this is,’ he said. ‘Don't touch it. Objects will go through fine. Get flamethrowers. We'll burn the crates where they stand.’

People hurried to do his bidding, and like that, the world began spinning again.

The Suit hurried over and began conversing with their father in low whispers, too quiet for Maisie to hear.

Without warning, Samson collapsed.

She saw him start to topple, but there was nothing she could do. A disconnected sensation had begun spreading through her body, and it was with strange detachment that she watched Aaron Stephenson reach him, checking his breathing and pulse.

‘He's okay!’ the officer shouted a second later.

For a brief moment, relief permeated the numbness. Then everything seemed to accelerate around her, and the feeling was shunted to the side.

*

Maisie sat outside against the front wall of the warehouse and listened to the fire burn itself out. Unit S had cordoned off the circle in multiple layers of police tape and forced everyone to move back before they brought in the flamethrowers. Her father supervised it all, herding the masses — crime scene investigators included — away from the barrier.

Every muscle in her body ached. Her left eye had swollen shut, and when she reached up to touch her face she found her cheek centimetres farther out than she expected.

No one paid her much attention, scurrying trails as more and more emergency personnel lit up the industrial estate like a concert. Press vehicles were being kept out; a small relief on this very long night.

An Ambulance crew had loaded Samson onto a stretcher and peeled off to hospital. Shock caused his collapse, they said, but they needed to set his shoulder and observe him overnight.

The crates were mostly consumed now, the little packets of Flight reduced to ashes and toxic smoke that drifted on the night wind. She drifted too, following the progress of a few stray sparks that had escaped the warehouse, twinkling like stars before they were snuffed out. She couldn't see any real stars tonight.

A couple of paramedics came over and shone a light in her good eye. Alfred appeared to watch, apparently not needed with Father on the scene. There was some concern over her pupil dilation, and eventually they diagnosed a Grade Two concussion. She could sleep, but Alfred was instructed to wake her up every two hours and to go to the hospital if the symptoms worsened over the next twenty-four.

Suddenly all charm and smiles, he promised she would be well taken care of. She glared at him bitterly, but with only one eyelid working, and even that drooping with tiredness, it lacked impact.

Soon she would have to confront him and Father. She needed to work through what had happened in the circle, what the voice had meant by calling her a 'Vessel' and why she'd felt that inexplicable pull to the Flight.

But for now, she let herself rest.