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Number Two knows his strength is the only thing Dad cares about.
Even at six-years-old, with a newly bestowed name, Marcus knows this well.
His tiny hands are gripping the handle of the weight, the cold metal digging into his skin as he tries and tries and tries to lift—but his arms tremble at the effort, aching from the hours he’s already spent in here. It’s not fun anymore. He’d thought it was: when it was easy, when he could do it, and Dad had nodded at him because he’d done good. But he can’t do it now, and Dad is frowning. He doesn’t look happy. He never looks happy.
“Again, Number Two,” Dad says.
He stands in the corner, watching, always watching. His face never changes, no matter how hard Marcus tries. No smiles, no nods, and Marcus tries again, summons every ounce of energy in his trembling body to get this weight up, and yet—
“Higher.”
And Marcus tries. He is trying.
He grits his teeth and does his best to keep it up, to heave it higher. His whole body is shaking now, but he keeps lifting. Dad wants him to. Dad only looks at him when he’s lifting. That’s how Marcus knows he’s being good—when Dad looks. He wants to be good. He wants to be strong. He wants to be. He has to be. He tries so hard to be. But his arms hurt so much. He can’t breathe right. His fingers slip.
And the weight falls with an echoing thud.
Marcus stares at the fallen weight. He knows Dad is looking at him.
It is not the good kind of attention.
“Again,” Dad says, his voice colder than the room. “Lift it again.”
Marcus squeezes his eyes shut, trying to force his arms to work, but his muscles won’t listen. They’re tired. Too tired. He tries to push through the pain, but it’s like his body isn’t his anymore. The weight feels like it’s sinking into his bones, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get it higher. He can’t.
“I—I can’t,” he whispers, so quiet it feels like the room swallows his voice.
But Dad heard him. Marcus knows he did.
Dad’s footsteps are slow and deliberate as he walks over to Marcus. His chest tightens. He doesn’t like when Dad comes closer. Not when he’s already failing. He can feel the sting of tears pressing against the back of his eyes, but he keeps them squeezed shut. He knows better than to cry. Crying makes it worse.
“You could lift this an hour ago,” says Dad. “You did it without issue.”
His arms and legs feel very heavy. Has it really only been an hour?
“Do you know what your role is, here at the Sparrow Academy, Number Two?” asks Dad. There is a pause. Marcus makes himself nod. He knows. He does. For each of them. For all of them. “You have a duty to fulfill. A duty you are failing due to weakness.”
“I’m—” Marcus whispers, his voice shaky. “I’m sorry.”
“Apologies do not make up for failure, Number Two.”
“I know.” There is a lump in his throat that makes it hard to breathe. He doesn’t want to be weak. He wants to be strong. He wants to lift the weight like before. But his body won’t move. His chest is heaving, arms hanging limp by his sides. He’s too tired, but he doesn’t know how to make the tired go away. “I’ll be strong, I promise.”
Dad stares down at him. “Dismissed.”
Marcus keeps his head down. Dad leaves the room.
Footsteps fade out of earshot.
He just wants to sleep.
He can’t let himself do that here. He knows this.
So Marcus trudges up the stairs and pushes open the bedroom door the moment he stumbles upon it. He doesn’t make it to the bed. He can sleep on the floor just fine. His mind feels fuzzy. He feels weightless, face settling onto practical bedsheets on a steady mattress. It is a while before he wakes, with Number Five in his face. Oh, he thinks, and slowly blinks at her as he sits up. He’s in bed. This is not his bedroom. Number Five is staring at him, head tilted curiously.
Sloane, his mind supplies.
Names are still new, and he forgets sometimes.
“Hi,” she says, and blinks big eyes at him.
Marcus blinks back at her. “Hi.”
“Are you gonna give me my bed back now?”
He looks down. It is her bed.
He hadn’t been laying in it when he got here.
His limbs still feel heavy. “No,” he says.
Sloane pouts at him, and takes him by the hands. “Yes,” she insists, tugging at him, trying to get him to move, but Marcus remains where he is. Until he doesn’t. Suddenly, he’s weightless in the air, tethered only by the hands that hold him. He blinks again, staring at the floor below him.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Not fair.”
Sloane sticks out her tongue. “I’m only helping. You looked stuck.”
Her face is scrunching in playful concentration.
For a moment, Marcus can forget about his own exhaustion. He can forget that tomorrow is a new day where he will have to do it all again. Then, Sloane takes a long breath like a yawn. Her grip falters, and the weightless feeling vanishes without warning. Marcus drops back onto the bed at the same time Sloane stumbles, falling upon the sheets with him. Her powers flicker out. She’s tired too. Marcus rolls to the side, to give Sloane enough room on the bed, thinking of weight that he cannot lift and Dad’s frowning face.
“Sorry,” says Sloane, and it sounds terribly sad. “I thought I could do it longer.”
Marcus thought he could manage longer too. He’d really tried to.
“I thought it was cool,” he offers. “It was like flying!”
That brightens her mood. “I want to fly too! I’ve been trying.” Her eyes screw shut, fists clenched, and—nothing happens. Sloane opens her eyes. Disappointment is plain on her face. She sighs. “Dad says I’m not ready. But I have been trying.”
Marcus hums in agreement. He can see the hurt reflected in her eyes, the longing for approval that never quite comes. He thinks that must be what he looks like too, earlier and now. “It’s not fair. But I think you’re doing great! You floated me.”
“Only for a little bit,” replies Sloane, voice small.
“You’ll get better. We both will.”
“Do you think that’ll be enough?”
“Yeah,” agrees Marcus, because he’s too young to believe otherwise, too young to have lost hope in gaining approval from someone who is supposed to be their father. “Dad’s gonna be so proud of us when we do.”
And Sloane smiles, with all the innocence of a little girl that believes that assurance will one day become true. “I can’t wait.”