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“Are you okay?”
“Where did you come from?”
“What are you doing out here?”
Question. Question. Question. Too much happening. Which should she answer first? Should she answer at all?
Rain beats heavily against her body, and she shivers, abruptly realizing she only has a long, thin t-shirt for protection. Through soaked eyelashes and bright flashlights, she can make out one thing: a young boy. His hood covers his hair, but leaves his concerned face exposed. Concern for who? For her?
“Are you okay?” The boy steps closer, but she recoils sharply. “Woah! It’s okay,” he says, “no need to be scared. Do you need help?”
He lowers his flashlight, and as her eyes adjust, she can make out two other figures, all the same height as her. Perhaps the same age, too?
Clap.
Thunder breaks the tension, and she jumps, yelping slightly and twisting her head in every direction looking for the source of the bang. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s just thunder.” As her gaze returns to the boy, he manages to close the distance between them, now only an arm’s length away. Her eyes grow wide, but something stops her from moving. Something about the way he delicately looks her up and down, as if mentally noting all the explanations for why she ran into them here and now, and piecing together the story of her life without breathing a word. The more thoughts cross his mind, the more distressed he grows. Never before had someone looked at her with such…care. She could run, yes, but where would she go? What would she do? They’ve seen her now.
“Mike, what are you doing,” one of his companions asks.
“We can’t just leave her out here, Lucas,” the boy bites back, dropping his belongings to the ground and shaking off his jacket. “Here, put this on.” She studies him carefully before ultimately accepting the gesture, wrapping it around her small frame. Better to take the jacket than freeze to death. As the boy gathers up the discarded items, including his rather bright flashlight, his companions step closer.
Nope. She doesn’t like that. Too many people now. She backs away, glancing behind to judge the distance between her and the woods. “Guys, stop! You’re scaring her!” The boy barks, his companions obediently halting their attempted approach.
“We should head back,” his second companion suggests, “this storm is pretty bad.”
“Hold on, Dustin,” the boy says, furrowing his brow and scrunching his nose. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and gently holds out his hand. “Come with me. You’ll be safe, I swear.”
Eyes dart from his hand to his face and back. Her options as they stand: follow this unknown boy, or take her chances in the woods. She knows what happens when people get close to her; she saw it with Benny. This boy is innocent. She can’t put him in danger. She won’t.
The voices in her head vacillate between those two options: stay or go, go or stay. But a quiet pang in her chest stops her from rushing off into the darkness, never to be seen again. Her gaze settles once more on the outstretched hand, and her chest tightens. No, he will be in danger, she remembers, but it doesn’t stop her hand from slowly reaching out and grasping his, effortlessly slotting into place. She notes the difference between Papa’s hand and the boy’s hand, finding the latter to be much more comforting and…familiar. But how can that be? She doesn’t know him.
After a quick nod from this mysterious savior, he drags her along, zig-zagging his way through the trees, branches, and stumps, with his companions falling in lockstep behind them. Quiet, yet sharp, protests of “what are you doing” cut through the overwhelming hubbub of the storm. As they reach the road, he releases their hands and grabs an unusual contraption instead. It takes a moment for her mind to catch up, but she finally digs out the long forgotten memory: bicycle. She’d seen a picture of one during a training session with Papa, but never in real life. Her face contorts slightly as the boy swings his leg across the seat, settling on the front edge, leaving plenty of space behind him for…
“Okay, your turn. Hop on!” He pats the leather seat before offering his hand, which she takes with no hesitation. He pulls her close, and she mimics his method of mounting the contraption and sinking into her spot. Her hands grab the sides of his backpack while his wrap around the handlebars, and with a gentle push from his feet, they’re off to the races.
The ride is frantic and unpleasant. Two people were not meant for this kind of bicycle. Wind and rain mix together, and she wonders how the boy can navigate so well through this monstrous weather. In an effort to block the rain’s assault, she buries her face against his shoulder and wraps her arms around his torso, noting the way he stiffens at the new contact. Though his head stays locked in place, she swears she can feel his gaze wander from her hands, to the corner of his eye, and back to the road. Her tight hug — and the protruding metal seat backing behind her — trap the jacket she’s still wearing just enough to prevent it from flying away with the breeze.
This kind of closeness is unusual. Normally, she rejects touch, except when necessary, like during training or experiments or treatment. But, not here. Not now. Not with this innocent, kind boy. It was something about how he offered the choice, instead of forcing it. She knew she could run at any moment, but she didn’t. She knew going with him would only put him in danger, but she stayed. Not only that, she wanted to stay. This boy knew nothing about the situation, yet he willingly decided to protect her: a random girl in the middle of the woods with only a shaved head and a long, yellow t-shirt to her name. He wanted to help, not for any personal gain, but simply because he saw someone in need of assistance, and he was happy to provide it. The notion calms her trembling body — save for the occasional shiver from the encompassing cold — and she nuzzles her face further into his shoulder, internally writing off the action as needing more protection from the rain, just in case someone asks about it later.
People, namely Papa, always had reasons for interacting with her. They had a goal — an endgame, if you will. They liked her powers, and whenever they needed someone found or heard, she delivered, hoping that one day her work would be repaid, or better yet, that she would be freed. At the same time, the thought of going outside terrified her. She knew nothing of how the world worked, or how others would react to her alarming demeanor, having spent her life isolated from others with no chance to learn proper social skills. Fear of the unknown kept her trapped, and she desired security and comfort above all else, because at least she knew how things operated in that, for lack of a better word, prison. But as the years dragged on in solitude, the gravity of everything settled in her mind: he would never let her go. He needed her. No, not needed. Wanted. He wanted to keep her for his own, selfish reasons. So, when she finally saw her chance to escape, she took it, navigating to a hidden exit about which she can’t, for the life of her, ever remember learning. She chalked it up to coincidence, or some subconscious side effect of her powers, and crawled her way to freedom through the pipe.
She met Benny, who gave her food and clothes — okay, a shirt — but who idiotically tried to call others for help, pointing her captors right to her hiding spot, and all but sealing his fate. Luckily, she escaped again, but she knew she couldn’t risk putting another person in danger. It’s not their fault she’s in this situation. No one else should suffer because of her decision.
That is, until she stumbled on these three boys in the woods. They were different; he was different. This boy took one look at her and chose to help, wrapping his jacket around her malnourished frame and delicately holding out his hand. She acted on instinct after that, following suit from Point A to Point B, finally leading her to this moment, perched on the back of a bicycle, gripping tightly to that very same boy. Yet, despite all of the anxieties plaguing her mind, and the fear of what tomorrow will bring, in this second between heartbeats, she’s never felt…safer.
By the time she finishes internally justifying her choices, the boy’s pedaling slows, and the brakes on the bike jolt her back to reality. “Alright, we’re home,” he says, and she relishes how that word sounds with his voice: home. He dismounts, and she follows, dropping the bikes off at the open garage and walking briskly to the back of the suburban house. Once inside, he leads her to the couch, and the barrage of questions start up again, headed by the same boy whose jacket still rests securely on her shoulders.
“Is there a number we can call…for your parents?”
“Where’s your hair? Do you have cancer?”
“Did you run away?”
And with that, Eleven’s adventure begins.