you're just a kid, you weren't ready for what you did [narrative]
The world didn't know it, but Key, in her strange little universe, was practically Superman.
Rather, she was more of a Batman, kicking ass in the shadows, warning the bad guys not to fuck with the innocent or she'd remove their sensitive bits. Only people didn't tend to listen, because she's a tiny itty bitty girl, and then they have to learn the hard way that all they had were guns and money, and all that adds up to nothing, and Key has to teach them so, at great length, whether she wants to or not. Which makes her a very tired girl, eventually pinpointing back home in the middle of the night and collapsing in bed next to Shawn, who doesn't wake up, but who always without fail remembers to put his arm around her.
Lately, there'd been a popular news story on TV in her other world: a boy causing things to fly around the room wildly wherever he was. Obviously it was some kind of telekinesis, but of course the scientists and doctors couldn't explain it. Nobody knows what the fuck they're doing in this world. The records at the police station (which Key had broken into. Don't think the cops like her any better than the scum in this world) said the boy was being held at the Sparrow River Institution. Which was why Key broke in THERE as well. It was a little harder, being a hospital, there were people everywhere, but they don't call her "Key" for nothing.
Outside the room the boy was being held in, on the wall, was a folder with his name, lastname first. "Cleary, Michael", a statistic, words on a page. And nothing else. The staff hadn't written any notes or prescribed medication. They weren't even trying to help him. They just locked him up, away from the rest of the world, to keep themselves safe from the poor kid. Probably didn't even understand what was happening to him, and in all likelihood, scared out of his mind. It was well after midnight, and all the lights were out, so nobody noticed Key carefully unlock the door to his room (cell? cage?) and slip inside.
He was asleep on his bed, the covers pulled up to his chin, the only other things in the room being a chair and a desk, and a book. "The Man In The Iron Mask", Alexandre Dumas. Weirdly appropriate. Quietly approaching the bed, she bent over the sleeping boy and examined his face. In his sleep, he looked sad, and so, so young. He couldn't have been more than thirteen years old. The poor kid. Key sat on his bed and wondered what his mom would do to comfort him when he was little and scared. Unless his mother was the one who locked him up here. Gently, she stroked his hair a bit, and finally let her hand come to rest on his forehead. She closed her eyes, and concentrated. In the dark, she begins to glow.
After nearly a half hour of focusing her energy on the boy, she was about to give up. She couldn't feel anything that would signal him as an awakening mutant, anything alien. She didn't sense the Promycin that gave the 4400 their abilities, and there weren't any kind of obvious anomalies in his energy that would indicate being haunted or posessed by anything.
But then the boy woke up. And it was like an explosion of force, pushing away at Key as hard as it could. It was all Key could do to keep contact with the boy's forehead. "Who are you?! Get off of me!!" Michael was terrified and shouting, and panicking. The book flew across the room, banging against the walls. The pillow off his bed followed suit, and the chair suddenly shot up and slammed into the ceiling, splintering into a hundred pieces, and whipping around the bed in a tornado. All through this, Key held onto his poor head for dear life. She didn't know what the hell she was doing, but instinctually, she just knew... she had to stay there. Her eyes pinched shut, she focused her energy on Michael as much as she could, and slowly, gradually, she pushed his wild force back. Surely enough, the terrified boy began to calm down, and the more he relaxed, the less things moved. Eventually, the tornado of broken chair skidded limply along the floor, and then, ten minutes after it began, the madness stopped altogether.
"How... did you do that?" Michael whispered. He was no longer scared, but a bit awed. "Did you... did you fix me?"
Key finally took her hands away, dropping them awkwardly in her lap. "Naw. I just kept you from freaking out a little. I don't think this is something that can be fixed, to tell the truth. But I can help you figure out how to control it so that these spaz attacks don't happen anymore, I think. If you want, I mean."
There was a long pause from the boy. He looked away, to the pile of splintered wood on the floor that used to be the chair in his room. "I just wanna go home," he said finally. "I just wanna go home."
Key looked at the boy for a second, then, sighing, patted him on the back. "Yeah, I know, Michael," she said, her voice betraying her exhaustion. "I feel the same way."
Rather, she was more of a Batman, kicking ass in the shadows, warning the bad guys not to fuck with the innocent or she'd remove their sensitive bits. Only people didn't tend to listen, because she's a tiny itty bitty girl, and then they have to learn the hard way that all they had were guns and money, and all that adds up to nothing, and Key has to teach them so, at great length, whether she wants to or not. Which makes her a very tired girl, eventually pinpointing back home in the middle of the night and collapsing in bed next to Shawn, who doesn't wake up, but who always without fail remembers to put his arm around her.
Lately, there'd been a popular news story on TV in her other world: a boy causing things to fly around the room wildly wherever he was. Obviously it was some kind of telekinesis, but of course the scientists and doctors couldn't explain it. Nobody knows what the fuck they're doing in this world. The records at the police station (which Key had broken into. Don't think the cops like her any better than the scum in this world) said the boy was being held at the Sparrow River Institution. Which was why Key broke in THERE as well. It was a little harder, being a hospital, there were people everywhere, but they don't call her "Key" for nothing.
Outside the room the boy was being held in, on the wall, was a folder with his name, lastname first. "Cleary, Michael", a statistic, words on a page. And nothing else. The staff hadn't written any notes or prescribed medication. They weren't even trying to help him. They just locked him up, away from the rest of the world, to keep themselves safe from the poor kid. Probably didn't even understand what was happening to him, and in all likelihood, scared out of his mind. It was well after midnight, and all the lights were out, so nobody noticed Key carefully unlock the door to his room (cell? cage?) and slip inside.
He was asleep on his bed, the covers pulled up to his chin, the only other things in the room being a chair and a desk, and a book. "The Man In The Iron Mask", Alexandre Dumas. Weirdly appropriate. Quietly approaching the bed, she bent over the sleeping boy and examined his face. In his sleep, he looked sad, and so, so young. He couldn't have been more than thirteen years old. The poor kid. Key sat on his bed and wondered what his mom would do to comfort him when he was little and scared. Unless his mother was the one who locked him up here. Gently, she stroked his hair a bit, and finally let her hand come to rest on his forehead. She closed her eyes, and concentrated. In the dark, she begins to glow.
After nearly a half hour of focusing her energy on the boy, she was about to give up. She couldn't feel anything that would signal him as an awakening mutant, anything alien. She didn't sense the Promycin that gave the 4400 their abilities, and there weren't any kind of obvious anomalies in his energy that would indicate being haunted or posessed by anything.
But then the boy woke up. And it was like an explosion of force, pushing away at Key as hard as it could. It was all Key could do to keep contact with the boy's forehead. "Who are you?! Get off of me!!" Michael was terrified and shouting, and panicking. The book flew across the room, banging against the walls. The pillow off his bed followed suit, and the chair suddenly shot up and slammed into the ceiling, splintering into a hundred pieces, and whipping around the bed in a tornado. All through this, Key held onto his poor head for dear life. She didn't know what the hell she was doing, but instinctually, she just knew... she had to stay there. Her eyes pinched shut, she focused her energy on Michael as much as she could, and slowly, gradually, she pushed his wild force back. Surely enough, the terrified boy began to calm down, and the more he relaxed, the less things moved. Eventually, the tornado of broken chair skidded limply along the floor, and then, ten minutes after it began, the madness stopped altogether.
"How... did you do that?" Michael whispered. He was no longer scared, but a bit awed. "Did you... did you fix me?"
Key finally took her hands away, dropping them awkwardly in her lap. "Naw. I just kept you from freaking out a little. I don't think this is something that can be fixed, to tell the truth. But I can help you figure out how to control it so that these spaz attacks don't happen anymore, I think. If you want, I mean."
There was a long pause from the boy. He looked away, to the pile of splintered wood on the floor that used to be the chair in his room. "I just wanna go home," he said finally. "I just wanna go home."
Key looked at the boy for a second, then, sighing, patted him on the back. "Yeah, I know, Michael," she said, her voice betraying her exhaustion. "I feel the same way."