Chapter Text
Jihyo’s tenth birthday party is a surprise in more ways than one.
In the morning, her father takes her for a walk along the forest trail she knows by heart and asks what kind of cake she’d like to eat tonight. She giggles when she says, “it’s always chocolate, appa,” and her father smiles so wide that his eyes crinkle around the edges.
Days like these are always nice, when it’s just her and her father and the forces of nature that flit through the forest in a variety of lifeforms. It’s nice to count how many squirrels they see, how many are grey, how many brown. It’s nice when her father lifts her so she can inspect the higher branches of some trees, pretend like she can tell when the leaves will regrow. It’s nice when she breathes puffs of air and watches as it comes to life in thick clouds against the cold wind, nice when her father pretends to be blown away by particularly large breaths, just to make Jihyo laugh. When they round the final corner, and Jihyo spots their car parked a few meters from the clearing, she breaks into a sprint the way she always does and her father tries to catch up, the way he always does.
If either one of them had noticed the sparks that tangled into knots between her feet, maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe. (Probably not.)
Jihyo notices the way her father taps the steering wheel and hums a happy song, and his good mood makes her perk up in her seat. She likes when her parents are visibly happy, something rare to come by lately, which isn’t their fault, she knows. Being an adult is hard, or, seems hard in her eyes. She doesn’t like the bills her parents talk about so much. She thinks it’s a stupid thing, and all it does is make her mother look sadder and her father look older.
They pull to a stop in the parking lot of an indoor playground and Jihyo can’t help the excitement that rushes through her as she unbuckles her seatbelt and bolts out of the car. Her father’s hearty laugh fills her chest with a type of contentment as he follows her into the establishment, and the contentment sparks into bliss as she rounds the corner and a group of familiar faces shout, “surprise!”
As she runs around and hugs her favourite friends and cousins and aunts and uncles, maybe, if anyone had noticed the way the building’s lights flickered in time with the excitement in Jihyo’s innocent eyes, things would’ve been different. Maybe. (Probably not.)
The party is cut short when a boy that her parents invited from her class begins to cry out in pain, pointing at Jihyo through his loud sobs as he cradles his hand and burrows into his mother’s neck. Jihyo doesn’t know what the feeling is yet, but her heart drops to the depths of her stomach and then she feels nauseous. Distantly, she thinks to ask her mother to take her temperature when they go home. Maybe she has the flu.
The boy, Bang Chan, shouts and cries and flinches when Jihyo tries to ask if he’s okay.
“She shocked me!” He cries loudly, Jihyo’s brows knit together.
“Chan, I’m sorry—” she tries, and is quickly cut off by another round of wailing. Chan’s mother tries her best to smile at Jihyo as she leads him out of the playground.
“It was probably just static from the ball pit,” she offers, Jihyo’s frown deepens. She learned about static electricity in school, how it’s nothing more than a little tickle at the surface of your skin, and she thinks Chan’s reaction makes absolutely no sense. She catches a glimpse of his hand as his mother leads him to the car and the sinking feeling in her stomach grows deeper when she catches sight of the skin on his palm, red and angry and inflamed and, for the first time in her life, she feels like a monster.
Her parents call the party early when they notice the dejected way Jihyo mopes around as the other children play. They take her home and light ten candles on her chocolate cake and sing happy birthday as they forget about the events of the day.
When Jihyo falls asleep, she dreams of Heroes and Villains and a storm of lightning that sprouts from her chest until it consumes her whole.
[…]
Something shifts after that day. Jihyo is used to winter melting into spring in the weeks following her birthday, but something shifts, and it feels too heavy for her small muscles to hold.
There are so many accidents, now. Like when her lightbulb shattered into a million tiny pieces that painted her bedroom floor in danger, all because she pressed the power button too quickly. Or when her Gameboy began to spark and smoke in her hands after she died to the same boss for the nth time.
School is different, too. Bang Chan told everyone that Jihyo is dangerous—evil, maybe—and he flaunts the ugly scar on his hand like a battle wound. Nobody talks to her in class anymore, or maybe she avoids conversation like a disease in fear of what names she might be called. But, what hurts the most, what fills her stomach with dread, is the fear in her parents’ eyes when they look at her now.
They didn’t think much of the incident on her birthday, or even the lightbulb or her Gameboy, chalking them up to coincidence and faulty electronics. No, the fear that boils behind their irises like a second nature doesn’t come until almost a month after her birthday.
Jihyo sits in the front room reading a book she’s read a thousand times because being ten is harder than she thought, and her Gameboy is broken, and she wants to forget about the horrible words that were spat at her during recess. She likes the way the sun hits the carpet in a certain spot at this time of day, so she sets up with her juice box and favourite plushie and she reads. She likes to do this—read and pretend that everything is normal, that her friends still like her and she doesn’t feel like a bad guy at every waking moment. It’s easy to get lost in books when you’re ten and still perfecting your reading skills, because it requires concentration and Jihyo will gladly give all of hers to something as harmless as a book.
She doesn’t realize she’s begun to float until she’s pulled out of her little bubble by a loud scream and, suddenly, her bottom hits the ground with a thud and tears spring to her eyes at the pain almost immediately. She turns to her mother, almost moves to hug her legs because her mom’s warm eyes and gentle touch has always been able to soothe even the worst of pains. But, when she catches her mother’s gaze, she sees the hard, terrified eyes of a stranger. The dread in her stomach turns to acid and she feels sick.
Her mother doesn’t approach her, doesn’t ask if she’s okay, doesn’t wrap Jihyo in her arms and hold her close and offer to make hot chocolate the way she always does when Jihyo is upset. Instead, she apologizes for screaming, a muffled, “sorry for startling you,” before she’s dashing out of the room the way she came and Jihyo is left to drown in her own tears and confusion until the sun sets and she’s crying in the dark.
As the days go by, her parents feel more and more like strangers and Jihyo feels more and more like her nightmares of being consumed by the monster in her chest are coming true.
They pretend like it’s okay. They ask her about her day and pack her lunch and pick her up from school—but they don’t touch her. They don’t kiss her goodnight or tuck her into bed or hug her before she leaves for school. They look at her like she’s a foreign entity and not their own daughter and Jihyo tries.
She tries to keep both feet planted on the ground, she tries to avoid touching electronics, tries to keep the buzzing she feels in her veins a secret, because her parents are afraid of it and her mother looks sad and her father looks old and she just wants to fix it.
She doesn’t overhear them talking about bills anymore, now it’s about her. It’s about this thing that’s running in her blood that they don’t understand she wants to scream and cry and say, “I don’t understand it either!” but she doesn’t. Maybe if she did, things would’ve been different. Maybe. (Probably not.)
Jihyo is ten years and seven weeks old when her entire life is uprooted, and she thinks she finally understands the word alone that they use in her favourite book. The one that she threw in the garbage after her mother saw her two feet off the ground because looking at the cover made her feel nauseous and wrong and reminded her of the bloodcurdling scream her mother let out when she saw the monster her daughter had become.
“This place will help you, Jihyo,” her father says with a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. The unkempt facial hair and bloodshot eyes makes him look scary and unfamiliar and Jihyo curls into herself when she hears her name fall from his mouth. It’s so foreign, hearing her own name instead of the hundreds of nicknames her father had given her since she was a baby. She looks between her parents pleadingly and can’t keep the tears from spilling over as she sees the fear overshadowing any other emotion that lay in their eyes.
“I’ll be good,” she whispers, voice cracking and shaking and she squeezes her duck plushie close to her chest because it’s the only source of comfort she’s felt in weeks. “I won’t break anything else,” she promises, feels something that she doesn’t understand in her chest, clawing its way up through her throat and spilling into her words. Later, she’ll understand what it was, will memorize the definition in every form it may present itself— desperation.
“It’s not forever,” her mother says, and she sounds final. It reminds Jihyo of the tone she would use when Jihyo asked to stay up past her bedtime, or have another cookie, and she cries because she knows it means there’s no changing her mind.
She doesn’t say anything as she gets out of the car, doesn’t say anything as she’s dropped off at the gates of an ominous building looming over her like a threat. She doesn’t do anything but nod when a woman approaches her, asks, “are you Park Jihyo?” and leads her through the winding corridors of what will be her home for the next seven years.
She does look back, hopes that her parents will be waiting there with tears in their eyes and arms wide open telling her this was a mistake, that she can come home and it’s all going to be okay.
She’s met with the sight of a dirt road and the fresh tracks of the family car and she lets two tears slip down before she wipes them with the back of her hand and follows the woman inside.
“This is where you’ll be sleeping,” the woman tells her as she guides Jihyo to a small room with two beds pressed against opposite walls. “Your roommate is arriving tomorrow, and, as you’ve arrived unusually late in the night, you will both have your orientation together in the morning.” Jihyo doesn’t know what orientation means, but the lady is intimidating and she’s afraid her voice may crack if she tries asking. So, she nods meekly, puts her suitcase on her assigned bed and lets out a resigned sigh. “A bell will ring for breakfast at 8:30 A.M., you remember how to get to the dining hall, correct?” Jihyo nods again, still not trusting her voice, and she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding when the lady disappears down the corridor and she’s left alone in the dark room.
She’s not sure what to do with herself, feels entirely out of place as she climbs under the unfamiliar covers, into a bed that is too lumpy and smells like nothing. For some reason, the lack of her favourite laundry scent, the lack of warmth that she would feel under her own blankets, sets off the tears she has been trying to hold in since stepping out of her car and she cries until the world fades into black and she’s thrown into a restless bout of nightmares, this time of faceless parents and ghoulish buildings.
She doesn’t wake up to the ring of a bell like she had been expecting. Instead, she wakes up to gentle rustling from the bed next to her and, if she hadn’t been half asleep, she thinks she would’ve screamed at the intruder ruffling through a backpack. She doesn’t though, only sits up and rubs her eyes when she notices the sun just barely rising from behind the mountaintops.
“Hello?” She calls gently, which was a futile effort because the intruder still jumps, still drops whatever they retrieved from the backpack and Jihyo winces as it clatters to the ground. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” the person, girl , says softly as she turns around to face Jihyo. “I was trying not to wake you up.” She looks apologetic, almost, and Jihyo only shrugs.
“I’m Jihyo,” she offers, holds out her hand because she saw it on TV—that people do that when they meet someone—but she quickly retracts it when she remembers all the times she’s accidentally hurt someone with a simple touch.
The girl looks at her curiously, head tilted to the side before she smiles and nods, like she’s decided something that Jihyo isn’t aware of.
“I’m Mina, nice to meet you.” And then Mina looks at the small watch on her wrist and yawns. “We should go back to sleep, there’s still three hours until breakfast.”
Jihyo nods easily, because her eyes are already half shut and blinking is becoming a difficult task. Then, suddenly, an urgent question pops to the forefront of her mind and she opens one eye as Mina gets into bed.
“Um, Mina?” She calls timidly into the darkness.
“Yeah?”
“Do you know what orientation means?”
[…]
The bell, as it turns out, is not a bell as much as it’s an alarm . A loud, obnoxious, blaring alarm that sends Jihyo stumbling out of bed and almost colliding with an equally disoriented Mina.
Wordlessly, they slip on the robes that hang on hooks at the end of each of their beds. Jihyo giggles when she sees the penguins printed on Mina’s pajamas and Mina giggles back when she sees the Jigglypuffs that are scattered on Jihyo’s and, as they walk through the vast, intimidating corridors, Jihyo feels bigger than she did last night.
The dining hall is already bustling when they push through the doors and Jihyo silently thanks the universe for the fact that Mina is also new here. At least she would be navigating this new life with someone as inexperienced as her.
There’s a variety of foods, Jihyo notices, and she can’t help the way her eyes brighten at the sight of warm pancakes that she piles onto her plate. And, when her and Mina find a seat on the corner of one of the long tables with other kids their age, Jihyo feels part of her heart settle just the slightest bit.
“Park Jihyo? Myoui Mina?” They hear a deep voice from next to them as they finish the last of their breakfast. Jihyo looks up and her eyes widen as she sees a tall man looming over them. His expression is kind, however. Much kinder than the woman from last night, and his lips are set into a welcoming smile and Jihyo’s heartrate slows as she decides this man is not a threat. The two girls nod in acknowledgement and the man bows his head, a gesture they both return. “I’m Professor Ok Taecyeon, I’ll be guiding you through your orientation today. Please, follow me,” he says. Jihyo looks at Mina, who doesn’t look half as nervous as she feels, and she wants to reach out for a moment, hold Mina’s hand maybe because she could use the strength. Then she remembers Bang Chan and feels her stomach churn and she tucks her hands against each other as they walk.
“First, these are yours,” Professor Ok says as they stop in front of a room that looks like it’s for laundry. He hands them two matching backpacks with an unfamiliar symbol embroidered onto the front, one reads Park Jihyo , and the other, Myoui Mina , in cursive right below the handle. “And these,” he continues, handing them what looks to be uniforms. “Uniforms must be worn immediately after breakfast, at any and all lessons. There will be more waiting for you in your dorm room. It’s your responsibility to keep your uniforms clean, and drop them off here, to laundry, when they need to be washed. Understood?” He asks. Both girls nod curtly and store the uniforms in their backpacks as they struggle to keep up with the Professor’s long strides.
“I feel silly walking around in my pyjamas,” Mina whispers as she steps closer to Jihyo, who giggles and nods at the words. Then she feels Mina’s hand brush against hers due to their close proximity and she flinches away, ignoring the confusion on the other girl’s face as they keep walking.
“This is the main study building,” Professor Ok continues. “All lessons take place on these floors, so I suggest you get well-acquainted with it early on.” Jihyo wants to ask what lessons , or what am I doing here? But before she can decide what words would suffice, let alone open her mouth, Professor Ok turns abruptly with an apologetic smile. “I apologize,” he says. “I was told you don’t know much of anything about the academy.” The words are directed at Jihyo and she feels suddenly self-conscious under the curious gazes of both him and Mina as she nods.
“Well,” he starts, “you, Park Jihyo, are what we call Superhuman.”
Jihyo frowns at the words. She’s heard of Superhumans, of powerful people that fight bad guys and save the world. She thinks this must be a mistake. She’s just Jihyo.
“If I recall correctly, you’ve been having trouble with electricity?” Professor Ok asks, gentle smile on his face like he can read Jihyo’s mind. Briefly, she wonders if he can. She nods anyway. “The academy will teach you how to control that, how to use your abilities, rather than allow your abilities to use you. ”
“You’ll teach me how to stop hurting people?” She asks quietly, timidly, afraid that admitting the truth will cause the monster in her chest to erupt in a burst of lightning.
“Yes,” Professor Ok nods sympathetically, “we will.”
She breathes a sigh of relief and manages to muster up a smile when she catches Mina looking at her with concern etched into her features.
[…]
The first time Jihyo feels truly hopeful is three weeks into her time at the academy—when she learns about the family day coming up that weekend and her legs shake in anticipation as she wonders if her parents will make it. She’s excited to show them the progress she’s already made, the way she can hold a lightbulb without breaking it, can even play video games on Mina’s Gameboy without frying the circuit board.
She sits in the recreation room with her best posture and brightest smile and waits patiently as all the parents file in to meet their children. She wonders if, maybe, her parents will be happy enough with what she’s accomplished so far and tell her she can come home now. Tell her that a month is long enough, and they miss her dearly and they don’t mind that she’s a little bit different. She practices what she’s going to say to them in her head, maybe, “I missed you,” or, “can Mina come visit when I go home?”
Her thoughts stumble over themselves and her nerves twist into knots as she digs her fingers into the chair beneath her and swings her legs wildly. Her heart thumps harder each time the doors swing open, each time one of her classmates’ faces light up in excitement as they’re reunited with their parents.
They aren’t coming, she realizes a few hours later when all the children have dispersed with their parents and Professor Ok began to entertain her with some stories of his own childhood. Jihyo smiled at him as kindly as she could, because part of her felt like she was going to burst into tears at any moment, and then asked to be excused. She feels sparks fly from her fingertips as she sits on the grass in the courtyard.
“Hi,” she hears a small voice, looks to her right and sees Mina settling down next to her despite the crackling in her palms. Jihyo scoots farther away, just in case.
“Aren’t your parents here?” Jihyo asks, looking at Mina from the corner of her eye as the other girl picks at the grass beneath her fingertips.
“They couldn’t make it today,” Mina shrugs, and Jihyo wishes she could be as unbothered as Mina is.
“Mine couldn’t either,” she offers despite the sinking feeling that reminds her that both of her parents have weekends off. “What do your parents do?” She asks to distract herself, curling her hands into little fists to keep the electricity at bay.
“They’re Supers,” Mina says cautiously, trying to gauge Jihyo’s reaction. Jihyo only nods and smiles, figures she should’ve realized that in the way Mina never quite seemed as shocked to learn about the world of Superhumans as Jihyo.
“That’s cool,” Jihyo says—means it. She doesn’t supply her own parents’ occupations and she’s thankful that Mina doesn’t ask.
“You can meet them when they find time to come,” Mina offers, and it feels like a type of comfort that Jihyo wants to melt into. She settles for a nod and a smile and Mina’s matching expression tells Jihyo that it’s enough. “Do you want to play Pokémon?” Mina asks, stands up to pat the grass from her pants before reaching out a hand for Jihyo.
Jihyo’s palms still spew sparks dangerously and she puts her hands beneath her to stand on her own, ignoring the sadness that flickers in Mina’s eyes. “Okay,” she whispers, because she really would. Because her heart aches in a way she doesn’t yet have words to describe and Mina is offering her a distraction.
They play until the sun is fast asleep and their dinner has gone cold and the Professors call lights out . They play until Jihyo’s eyes are red from the strain and Mina’s are so dry they burn and, when Jihyo wakes in the morning, she’ll realize that she curled into sleep against Mina’s sheets. Will realize that their hands are intertwined and Mina’s palms are unmarred and her face is peaceful.
For the first time in two months she'll feel like she can beat the monster in her reflection.