Chapter Text
Clay and George mutually agreed that they would stick to the back alleys and streets. They wouldn't go back to the orphanage, wouldn't contact authorities and just let the government think they were dead. They couldn’t rely on anything but each other because they could trust no one else, although George was more reluctant on not trusting anyone. Clay understood the desire to trust, but his faith in people was all dried up. Something in his face must have given it away, because George’s eyes softened, and he easily agreed so long as Clay kept an open mind and didn’t immediately shut people down. He could agree to that. He didn’t think everyone was bad, after all. Just most people. Even the sweet Matron had ended up leaving half of her wards behind and at the villains mercy.
(Clay hadn't known he'd been injured in the attack until George pointed it out to him once he was awake. Because of their lack of supplies to help it heal properly, Clay would forever have a scar across the bridge of his nose and beneath his eyes once it healed. Best guess as to the cause was a piece of debris had caught his face going down, or when he was pushing out, but he was too hyped up on adrenaline to notice.)
The duo roughed in the streets for a month or two. The weather quickly chilling coupled with the telltale signs of frost and harsh flurries indicated the winter was looking to be a bad one. He and George shared a glance, knowing they had to find a more permanent shelter before the snow truly fell. It was cold enough already that they were both still shivering beneath jackets they'd… acquired . (George's was blue, and his green, not piss yellow thank you very much George.) The lack of food was already taking its toll, eating away their baby fat and sapping their strength. Their joints had turned knobby and ribs were beginning to show through their skin.
George nodded, and in a silent agreement, they agreed to move down to a lower district, specifically 40. People were starting to give them looks of recognition here and they couldn’t have someone reporting them.
It was a hard journey that took a little over two weeks in their state, but necessary. 40 was the unofficial border between the relatively “safe” districts and the sketchy districts of 41 to 83, not including the abandoned districts 84 through 87. No one would give a second look to two more dirty kids running around in 40, and it would still be the safest they could be. The perfect place to hide.
District 40 was almost a neutral zone, from what Clay had picked up from the few times his parents' hadn't argued. He was pretty sure they’d worked in government positions, but he’d never cared enough to learn which ones. They were the reason he knew so much about the districts in the first place since he'd listened in on their conversations.
He didn’t like thinking about his family much anymore, not even Drista. It only hurt his chest.
Clay grabbed the backpack he’d managed to scavenge from a dumpster early on, slinging its single working strap over his shoulder after making sure it had all their belongings. He looked at George, seeing he’d already grabbed the plastic bag with the few pieces of food they’d managed to gather for this trip. They’d gotten better at reading each other, especially since Clay rarely found it in himself to speak since they'd left. Selectively mute, he thought it was called. The few times he managed to open his mouth, he told George any information he thought would be helpful for survival, especially if alone.
The “just in case” hung like air like an anvil. They both ignored it.
In the 36th district, they encountered a young female sheep hybrid, maybe a little older than Clay, with bright, innocent eyes who offered them free pastries from her mother’s bakery. It was closing time, and she insisted from the doorway that the sweets would get thrown away if they weren’t taken, so clearly that meant they had to. Clay’s first reaction was to refuse, but a look from George stopped him. The older boy was right, Clay thought as he glanced at their empty plastic bag. They were out of food and still had at least four districts to go in twice as many days, and that was hoping they had no complications along the way and found shelter immediately.
Clay swallowed, and forced his mouth to twitch into a smile from beneath his hood for the first time in months. It wasn’t real and felt incredibly forced, but the girl didn’t seem to notice, face brightening as she shoved the large paper bag into his hands.
“You’re welcome to come back anytime!” She called out, waving pleasantly and grinning before disappearing past the door with a soft bell chime.
George nudged him with his elbow and snickered at his deer-in-the-headlights look.
Clay elbowed him back harder, and George stumbled back with a yelp before he started to complain. If their smiles were a little smaller but more genuine after that, neither said anything.
It was a few days past a week later, the last of the blueberry muffins sitting warmly in their stomachs, when they found the bunker... looking thing. They'd ventured about thirty minutes into the nearby woods of 40, close enough to get to the main part of the district without too much issue but secluded enough that they’d be relatively safe from others, when they’d stumbled across it. It being an odd looking bump in the ground with a camouflaged hatch. It was pretty well hidden and they likely wouldn't have found it if George hadn't tripped comically over the hatch's latch. The interior was sparsely furnished, likely a while ago because it was covered in dust. Almost like it was built, gently used, then forgotten about.
George and Dream turned to each other with hopeful smiles. It was perfect.
:]
Abilities were an interesting phenomenon.
No one really knew where they came from, at least that was the official consensus —who knew what scientists actually thought— and they were generally random. Unlike hybrid traits and their respective powers, genetics mattered little regarding abilities. There were only a few select cases where no ability manifested at all but it was unconfirmed if those cases were just latent or not. The only way to tell what ability you possessed before manifesting would be to pick up the clues your body gives you while growing up. Someone who will fly would likely feel better while in the air, and someone who will communicate with animals would have a good connection to wildlife.
Most abilities were categorized into 3 different types: the mental type where they use their mind as a focus, like telekinesis or mind reading. The internal type, like enhanced strength or a dangerous sense, that enhanced some part of them. The external type that affected things outside themselves without using their mind as a foundation, like hydrokinesis and other elemental affinities.
Abilites usually manifested during puberty, naturally as early as 13, but trauma often led to abilities manifesting earlier. It was also known that when abilities manifest, it's in a powerful way, like a terrakinetic causing an earthquake or someone with speed accidentally creating a sonic boom when walking.
Naturally, none of this had come to mind when George had collapsed in the middle of his own sentence one day. Clay blanked, and when he was conscious of his surroundings again, George had been tucked into their bed with a few blankets and he was sitting by his side. Clay knew they didn’t have enough money to see a doctor or any medical professional really, not that the ones in district 40 were the most well off anyway, so he would have to deal with it himself. Which meant lots of research. Good, Clay wasn’t good at being idle.
Thus why Clay now knew all this information about abilities. He'd gone on a researching spree about a variety of things and went down many rabbit holes after George had passed out.
That was two weeks ago.
Now, while it wasn't completely unreasonable for it to have been a medical emergency—
"Huh? George, are you— George ! What happened? George, wake up! Wake up, please!"
"... George—?"
He'd been stable, both with a steady pulse and breathing, and, well, after Clay had thought about it, George had always been unnaturally inclined towards sleeping and its surrounding habits. It wasn't impossible for his ability to have something to do with sleep.
Clay's bet now was on an ability. George was 11, a little early for an ability to manifest, sure, but trauma was a logical factor and it was entirely possible that George hadn’t fully processed what had happened until now (Clay hadn’t. It’s been months. Maybe, he thought, that's when he'll get his abilities too).
(Spoiler alert: it is.)
:]
It took another week for George to wake up, and a few weeks after that for him to learn the basics of his abilities.
He could produce a near transparent mist from his hands or mouth, and within two breaths of someone else breathing it in, they were unconscious. The time varied depending on how much they inhaled, but the minimum seemed to be around fifteen minutes. The two mainly tried it on Clay, but only after him insisting that "George, I'll be fine. You'd never hurt me, and I promise you it has something to do with sleep." After the mist left George’s body, he said he couldn't control it, but Clay thought otherwise. Sure it would make sense if that were true, but the mist was created using energy from George’s own body, so why shouldn't he be able to control his own energy? George said that idea was a longshot, but Clay wasn't so sure. Something about the theory made sense to him in a way few things did.
Well, Clay thought mulishly as George put him to sleep for the nth time, they could work on it.