'Who are you?' I glower at the man out of the corner of my eye, wrapping my cloak tighter round my shoulders. After I passed out at the top of Sgùrr Amhlaidh, the next thing I remember. . . was someone taking my hand. He pulled me up, clutching me tight under his arm—there was nothing I could do but hang there, wheezing and dying—and god knows how but he managed to haul me away from the crumbling mountainside to the safety of this cave.

I lie, drifting in and out of consciousness. I welcome the blackness—I don't want to be awake, I don't want to be alive—every breath is a burning hell of pain. I don't want to know. I don't want to feel. Instead, I curl myself up into a ball and let the darkness carry me away, over and over again. 

Eventually, the man grows bored. 'This wasn't quite the thanks I was expecting,' he grumbles, flipping a chunk of meat over on the fire flickering in front of us. The roasting smell churns my stomach. 'Doesn't cost much, you know. A "thank you". Cheapest two words in the dictionary if you ask me. Criminally underused. Such a pity.'

I ignore him, pulling my hood over my head.

'No way, kid, not happening. I haven't gone through all this to find you to let you wither away and starve. Eat, for heaven's sake.'

Why won't he stop talking? I wrap my arms around my ears. All his talking. It makes it impossible to block out the images in my head, my mother's voice, the sound of my own screams—

'Oi! Stop that right now.' Something kicks me in the side. I flinch out of my ball to find the man towering over me. I glare up at him but then realise it isn't the memory of screaming I can hear. It's me. Screaming now. I clamp my mouth shut and close my eyes, fighting back the heat that burns beneath.

'Aw, come on, now. I didn't mean to make you cry.' Hands, far gentler than I expected, grip my arms and pull me upright, coaxing my arms away from my face. 'That's it, there's a good lad. Won't you eat something? I have goat, freshly caught you know, some idiots had a farm not far from here. Took a few for myself, didn't I.' The man grins. My stomach heaves, and I'm careful to aim my vomit at the man's legs. Which goat was it? my mind shrieks. Woolly or Duster? Harley or Curly? Which of my friends is roasting on the fire?

'Ugh.' The man drops my arms like hot stones, dabbing at his trouser-legs with a handkerchief. 'That's disgusting.' The parts of his face I can make out are scrunched in distain. 'I sure hope you're worth all this trouble.'

'If a bit of sick's your biggest problem today, then lucky you.'

'Oh ho! He has a voice at last, does he?'

I scowl and turn away. 'Who are you?' 

He's an odd-looking man. Most of his face is hidden behind a thicket of beard, the rest covered by a floppy grandpa-style cap that went out of fashion years ago. He doesn't look old—not that old anyway—but there's a certain world-weariness to his skin that makes him seem older than he probably is. He crouches down beside me, now keeping a healthy distance.

'Well, the answer to that depends on whether you're going to behave yourself.' He grins, showing off gaps in his teeth, and scrubs sweat from his russet cheeks with his sleeve. 'I'm not sure my constitution can take much more of your crap. Rescuing you was no piece of cake, you know.'

I don't even know how to respond to that. 'Well, I'm sorry to have been such a—a nuisance,' I eventually spit, unable to stop myself shaking. 'I guess—I guess I should just behave myself and not be upset at all—'

'Over what happened to your family, yeah, yeah.' The man starts digging a bit of gristle out of his teeth with a scraggy fingernail; I stare in wide-eyed disbelief. 'Oh, get your head out your ass, kid. You're not the only one with problems, you know.'

'I'm not the. . ?' 

'Yeah. I saw what those scumbags did to your village. Shitty thing to do, such a waste. But we've got bigger things to worry about now, kid; the bastards are still after you, you hear? We've got to get you to somewhere safe before they find you. God only knows what you were doing up here.'

'A shitty thing to do?' A horrible buzzing sound fills my ears. 'A SHITTY THING TO DO? IS THAT ALL YOU CAN SAY?'

'Watch your tone, kid—'

'WATCH—YOUR—TONE, you piece of—' It's anger like I've never felt before. All the pain building up inside of me, my head feels like it's about to explode. It's bursting, the rage, uncontrollable—

'Kid. . .'

'YOU—'

I lunge for the man's throat. He skirts around me; I thrash wildly and miss—my fist hits the cave wall directly behind his head. There's an audible thwack and I howl—

Wait. 

My rage dies in an instant. My hand. It should be mangled. It hurts, holy crap it hurts, but not as much as it should. I stare at the wall, back at my hand, then back at the wall. Cracks skitter through the rocks, growing steadily bigger away from a deep, fist-shaped hole. The shape of my fist.

'Did you just punch a hole in the wall?' The man raises an amused eyebrow. 'Nice.'

'I—how?' It's like the rocks turned to clay. I touch the wall—no. It's still solid rock. Now with a perfect imprint of my hand. The man sighs.

'You really aren't the finished product yet, are you?'

And just like that, my temper is back. 'WHAT DO YOU MEAN I'M NOT THE FINISHED PRODUCT—?'

'Okay, okay!' The man holds up his hands in a placating gesture. 'I'll tell you everything on two conditions. One, you sit down and stop yelling. Jeez. And two, you tell me what that is there in your hand.'

I glance at my balled fist. I'd forgotten. There's a piece of paper, scrunched within an inch of its life. I unfurl it and sit down, spreading it out across one of my knees.

'It's. . . It's. . .' My face crumples as I read my mother's last words all over again.

'Oh, give it here.' The man snatches it before I have a chance to stop him, clears his throat, and reads aloud: '"Sgùrr Amhlaidh. Find the peak. A box, your box. Inside is the truth." Oh. Well, that explains why you're here. Did you find your box? Did you find "the truth"?'

'What the hell do you think?' I mutter into my lap, sniffing, the taste of salt fresh on my lips.

'Well, there's no point asking me, I don't even believe in such things. The truth, I ask you. Load of nonsense. Differs depending on the person, doesn't it. The truth can be anything you want it to be.'

When that doesn't get any response, the man huffs. 'No? No thoughts on the matter? Not exactly one for a hot debate, are you. Never mind, I've always been happy talking to myself. It's lucky for you that I'm here, really; I'll help you find your box, lad.'

'Why would you do that?' I glance at him in distrust. 'You won't even tell me who you are.'

'Hmm, fair point. I'm sorry, I should have started with that, I suppose. Never been good with kids, me, never have been.' The man pulls himself upright using the wall as a crutch and holds a weather-beaten hand towards me. 'My name's Professor Eldred, and I work for RESIST, you know, the political party. My job is simply to bring the Elementalists home when they call. And call me you did.' He takes out of his pocket an odd, black coin, and on autopilot, I find myself reaching into my own pocket. I bring out the strange little button I'd found in my mum's shoe: it's changed colour again. Now, it's a deep, dark brown, growing lighter as I stare.

'Whenever you press that button, I will be able to find you. Now, let's get you safely home.'

*

I stumble after Eldred as we search the ragged peak of Sgùrr Amhlaidh. My knees keep giving way but I won't let Eldred help me—each time I rebuff him he backs off, shaking his bushy head.

'Today was always going to be high-risk, what with it being your sixteenth birthday and all,' Eldred says conversationally, as we clamber over some particularly jagged rocks. I swallow, trying not to look down. What was my mum thinking, hiding something up here?

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

'Why's that?' I ask dully, only half tuned-in. All I want is to find my mum's box. Maybe then I'll get some answers that make sense.

'Well, there was high chance of your powers being exposed today. The blocker in your system was only guaranteed to mask you for sixteen years before it broke down completely. Finding you before was like finding a needle in a haystack, but now the blocker's gone, you can be tracked by the energy released by your powers. The only way to stop it would be to exercise, even subconsciously, a degree of control—but clearly you haven't been doing that. You seem to have absolutely no control over your abilities whatsoever.'

'My powers? What abilities?' I'm starting to feel sick again. 'I have literally no idea what you are talking about.' God. My chest is seizing up. 'I don't understand what I've done. Who are these people?'

'Ah.' Eldred smirks. He seems to be enjoying himself immensely, bounding over the rocks far more nimbly than I'd expect from a man his age. 'Those are the tricky questions. How about we find your box first, eh?'

'Git.' I scour the ground for any signs, but still—nothing. We walk in silence for a bit longer, but by now I can barely breathe. Eldred watches in interest as I reach into my rucksack and bring out my inhaler.

'Is that an inhaler?' He trots over, peering at the spout. 'Astounding. I'm shocked a child with breathing problems could survive this long. How do you cope with the mist?'

'Badly,' I wheeze, taking another puff. 'No shit, Sherlock.'

'So much sass! I despise sass. But look here, my poor portentous puffin, I think I may have found what you're looking for.'

'Where?' I can't see jack through all the mist swirling around our ankles.

'Down here.' Eldred bends down and together, we scrape away a scattering of pebbles.

'There's nothing there—oh, hang on. . .' I trace the ground with my fingers and I swear it shudders under my touch. There is something there, something familiar, carved into the ground. I squint through the haze.

'It looks like letters,' Eldred says.

'Yeah,' I say, my voice faint. 'It's my initials.'

There, scratched into the stone: KMK. Kassius McKenzie. I even recognise my mum's writing. One by one, tears slowly plop to the ground, until my name is obscured from view.

'Well, if you're going to start bawling every time you read your name, we might be here a while,' Eldred sighs, patting me on the back. I shrug him off and begin chucking belongings out of my rucksack, searching for something to dig with. The best I can find are my shears, but they're better than nothing. Thankfully, Eldred keeps his thoughts to himself, producing a slim-bladed knife from his pocket with which he proceeds to help me dig.

Eventually, our tools hit something hard. We pluck a slight wooden box from the hole, sweating in the damp chill of evening. I pause to take a few more puffs.

'Are you ready for this, kid?' Eldred sits back on his haunches, watching me. Stuffing my inhaler back into my pocket, I nod; the box feels so light in my hand. How can something so small possibly answer all of my questions? As another wave of nausea bubbles up from the pit of my stomach, I wonder if I'm really ready to face the truth. I'm not sure how much more I can take.

But then again, what more do I have to lose?

'Ready.'

I prize off the lid—I expected some resistance but it slides off with ease, glad to see me—and with a shaking hand, I take out. . .

'A note?'

Goddammit. It's just another note.

*

'My dearest son, Kassius.

If you are reading this, then I must be dead. These words feel terribly strange to write. I don't want to die. I can't imagine it. Not because death frightens me—it's impossible to live on this hell of a planet and not become somewhat hardened to it. It's because dying means that I'll never see your face, or my darling Kitty's, again, and that thought breaks my heart more than you can possibly imagine. I never want to think about not being with you. I want to be with you, to protect you, always. But if I am to write this, then I must, so as you'd so charmingly put it, I may as well get the hell on with it.

I hope you will forgive me for what I am about to tell you. And please, I beg you, before I do, please remember that I love you. I will always love you, no matter what. I always have. I don't know how to tell you this. Kass, I am so, so sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know how to write the words. Kass—your father and I are not your biological parents. We took you in when you were a few days old and brought you up as our own.

But I am your mother. We are your parents. I may not have given birth to you, but you are our son. This changes nothing about who you are or who you believe yourself to be. You ARE our son. No matter what anybody tells you. You will always be mine.

But before you were ours, you were somebody else's. I'm sorry I don't know anything about your birth parents, but I do know that you were brought into this world for a terrible purpose. You were born to be a weapon, Kass, a weapon and not a child, and that in my opinion is a crime and something you must never see yourself as. You, my boy, are no weapon.

When you were given to us, we were told that you would grow up to control the world around you. That you would have powers other people couldn't even dream of. I know nothing of those powers. I've seen nothing of them in all the time I've watched you grow. I know only of you. These people who made you wanted to use you, but they couldn't even keep you safe. The Futurists found out and we were told to hide you and never, ever let them find you.

We took you and fled, far away to our home in Quillin, where we raised you as our son.

Kass, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry to have to tell you like this. I was hoping to tell you on the night of your sixteenth birthday, but I guess that is no longer to be. You had to know. But I am still so very sorry.

Please stay safe, my beautiful boy. Please remember that you are never alone in this world, for you have been loved, and love lives forever.

Yours, always, forever,

Mum

*

Just another note.

'Sit down, Puffin. I'll fill in the gaps.' Eldred's husky voice wakes me from my trance. I sink down beside him, too shocked to argue, too stunned to think. His hand suddenly forces my chin up so I'm looking at him, and though I try to pull away, his grip is firm.

'I know it's a lot to take in, but you need to know. Your mother's letter is accurate according to her understanding of the situation—see what I mean? There's no such thing as the truth.

'Our society has been governed by FUTURE, the political party led by General Jinaka, for nearly thirty years. You know that, of course—I saw the flags in your village, you were FUTURE supporters yourselves. Well, I belong to RESIST, their main opposition, and what do opponents do? They fight. We've been trying to stop the Futurists destroying our planet for years; just look around you, kid. See the state of the world we live in? It's their fault. 

'So, we created you.

'Well, technically, I suppose, we borrowed you, four of you. Our four Elementalists, each designed to combat the Futurists and help us repair our beautiful world.

'But when you were born, we were betrayed and your existence revealed to the Futurists. We couldn't risk them finding you; once Jinaka knew, he became obsessed with eliminating "the threats to his peaceful society". Before we sent you away, I injected you all with a blocker, a drug to mask the energy released by your powers to stop them tracking you. But we knew it would run out eventually, and today is that day. And with you unable to control your powers. . .

'Anyway. The Futurists came looking for you. When your family and friends refused to hand you over, Jinaka must have become . . . angry. That's what Futurists are like, Kassius. They're destroyers. They destroy everything.'

I gape at Eldred like a dying fish.

'Now you, Kassius, are special. Because you're an Elementalist; a physical Elementalist would be my guess based on that hole you punched in the wall. Hell, surely you wondered how an asthmatic could survive this long? We lose a thousand children a day to this toxic air, how on earth would you survive? It's because you're special, with powers greater than you could ever imagine—'

'Stop.' I'm on my feet. Enough. Stop. Can't. Handle—

'No, I'm sorry, but you have to hear this.'

'I don't have to do anything.' Burying my head in my hands, I tremble, barely able to contain the thoughts-in-my-head. My mother is not my mother my father is not my father I'm being hunted by Jinaka I was made I wasn't born I was made what the hell what the hell is going ON—

'Kassius? Kassius. . ?'

'YOU'RE LYING!' A scream tears my throat, ripping at my insides but I have to get it out, I have to claw these thoughts right out of my head. 'You—you're LYING, you even admitted it, you—you don't believe in the truth—'

'That doesn't make me a liar, Kassius.'

'YES, IT DOES —

'No, it does not. You think the truth is a fixed variable, like night versus day, like black verses white? You think it's a solid object that cannot be changed? The truth is none of those things: just like stone, it can be weathered, eroded; it's every shade of grey that lives in the mist; it's twilight, sunset and sunrise and everything in between; it warps and shifts from the mouths of every person who tells it, moulding itself into whatever that person believes to be true—'

'I'M NORMAL!' The words explode out of me and I collapse to my knees. My head once more in the safety of my arms. Sobs wrack my body, spilling over the edges of my self-control. 'I'm normal.' Desperate gasps for air between tears. 'I'm normal. I am—'

'You are not, I'm afraid.' Eldred kneels down beside me, and carefully, tentatively, as though not sure of what to do, he puts his arm over my quaking shoulders. 'I wish you were, but you're not.' I jerk him off me, a wild animal, flailing but still he holds on, so much stronger than me, the wheezing, crying boy who just lost the world.

*

We end up sitting, our legs dangling over the cliff side, eating the burnt remains of leftover goat. I chew the same piece over and over, tasting nothing. Seeing nothing. There's nothing to see anyway but endless rain and purple sky, darkening as time passes to midnight maroon. The familiar curfew alarm wails in the distance over an empty ruin. There's nobody left to hear its cry any longer. I'm the only one left. And it was only ever me they wanted.

The Futurists. I grind the meat between my teeth that little bit harder.

'So, what about you?' I ask Eldred, who's sipping on something that smells like herbal tea out of a flask. Like we're at a sodding tea party. 'Why are you even here?'

'Well.' Eldred regards me with a mild-mannered expression. 'I told you before. I've come to take you home.'

'I don't have a home anymore.' I throw the rest of my meat over the cliff-face, watching it crash down onto the rocks below.

Other than raising an lazy eyebrow, Eldred shows no signs of having heard me, continuing as though I didn't even speak. 'Now you're all sixteen, it's time to bring the Elementalists out of hiding. Let's show the Futurists that they don't own this world. It was me that gave you away in the first place; now it's time for me to bring you all home.'

He says home like it means something. But the word means nothing to me anymore. I look up to the sky, to the electric violet storm clouds that rage overhead, relishing the sting of the rain on my face. The hiss as it burns my skin. Bright-white lightning slashes the darkness in two. I know nothing of where we might go, or what will happen next—

All I know is that I'll never see the place I call home again.