It started with a knock.No—a bang.
Loud and Demanding.
I jumped, spilling cereal onto my lap. My mom was still frozen, her eyes locked on the television. The president's face had just disappeared from the screen, replaced by a breaking news banner and shaky footage of people being dragged from their homes. The announcement kept replaying in my head like a broken record:
"All powered individuals between the ages of 5 and 25 will be safely escorted to specialized government facilities for monitoring, protection, and further study. SWAT teams have already been deployed to begin the relocation process..."
Another bang on the front door. My heart dropped straight through my stomach.
James was on the floor next to me, silent, clutching the blanket that had been wrapped around his shoulders. My youngest brother—six years old, too young to understand what the world just became—was whispering something under his breath, something mathematical and strange. Something genius. He always did that when he was scared.
Dad was already standing. "Stay here," he told us sharply, voice tight, jaw clenched. He walked toward the door.
"Don't—" my mom called out, voice cracking. But it was too late. The door swung open.
They were already inside.
Six officers in black armor and masks pushed their way into our home like we were criminals. Their boots thundered against the floor. One held a clipboard, one had something that looked like a scanner, and two of them had guns raised—not pointed at us, but close enough to make my throat close up.
"By federal order," one of them barked, "we are here to escort all Sheeds between the ages of five and twenty-five to a secure location."
"What?" My mom's voice broke, high-pitched and shaking. "You can't do this! They're just kids!"
"It's mandatory," the officer replied. "And immediate."
James jumped up. "You're not taking us," he snapped, fists clenched, legs twitching like he might run. "We didn't do anything!"
Two officers moved fast. Before James could even blink, he was restrained. My mom screamed and tried to grab him. My dad shoved forward, shouting something—I couldn't hear what. It was like everything was underwater.
I was frozen.
One of the officers reached for me. I flinched back, but there was nowhere to go. He grabbed my arm. I felt that same tingling sensation as the day of the explosions—like something inside me burning to get out. But I couldn't move. Couldn't fight. Couldn't scream.
"We'll come back!" my mom sobbed, clutching our youngest brother like her life depended on it. "Please let me hold them—please—please—"
"I'm sorry," one of the officers said, voice almost gentle. "You can't."
They took my baby brother out of her arms.
Her scream was the kind of sound that could haunt you for years. I didn't even know she could make that sound.
My dad held her back. I don't think I'll ever forget the way his face looked—twisted in pain, teeth clenched, tears streaming down. I had never seen him cry. Never.
"Take care of them!" he shouted to no one, to everyone, to the universe. "Don't hurt my kids!"
We were pushed into a black van with tinted windows and heavy locks. There were other kids inside—some younger, some my age, some older. One of them was bleeding. One of them stared at nothing. One had glowing blue eyes and didn't say a word.
James was trembling next to me. I pulled him close. My baby brother was quiet now, his head resting on my shoulder, muttering formulas under his breath. The van started to move.
I didn't cry.
Not then.
I just watched my neighborhood disappear behind us. The house. The trees. My parents. My whole life.
I whispered to no one, "Whatever this place is… it's not home."
And I meant it.