Skyline 10: Mr.
Skyline I didn’t choose the name that day.
Or the next.
For the first week, the blank sheet stayed on the table beside my bed.
Sometimes I ignored it.
Sometimes I stared at it.
Once, I folded it in half and shoved it into a drawer.
President Cross brought another copy the next morning.
I tore that one in half.
She brought another.
I stopped tearing them after that.
It was a waste of paper.
Besides, I had other things to hate.
Mostly stairs.
“Again.” Daniel stood at the bottom with his arms crossed.
I looked up.
Twelve steps.
I’d climbed them twice already.
My legs were burning.
“No.” He raised an eyebrow.
“No?” “I’ve decided stairs are unnecessary.” “Have you?” “Elevators exist.” “They do.” “Problem solved.” “Again.” I hated him.
I climbed.
The first few weeks of recovery became a collection of things I’d never expected to celebrate.
Walking without holding a wall.
Taking a shower alone.
Buttoning a shirt without my fingers shaking.
Standing long enough to brush my teeth.
Running came later.
Calling what I did running was generous.
The first attempt lasted twelve seconds.
I threw up afterward.
Daniel seemed delighted.
“Excellent.” I wiped my mouth.
“You’re a psychopath.” “You ran.” “I traveled forward badly.” “You ran.” “I’ve seen injured deer move better.” “Again tomorrow.” “I hate you.” “See you at seven.” He walked away.
I lay on the floor for another minute.
Then I started laughing.
I had run.
Badly.
But I’d run.
The sword was different.
My body needed rehabilitation.
My mind didn’t.
Every time I picked up a sword, the same thing happened.
Answers.
Instantly.
Grip.
Distance.
Foot placement.
Edge alignment.
Timing.
Theoretical counters to attacks nobody had even thrown.
If Daniel stood six feet away holding a practice baton, I knew seventeen ways to reach him before he could swing.
I could execute maybe two.
Badly.
That was the problem.
My ability didn’t care that I’d spent three and a half years motionless.
It didn’t care that my legs were weak or that my shoulder started burning after twenty minutes.
It showed me the correct answer anyway.
Then my body failed to perform it.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The first time I tried a proper downward cut, my left knee collapsed.
The second time, my shoulder dragged the blade off-line.
The third, my grip loosened.
I stared at the wooden sword.
I knew exactly what to do.
My body didn’t.
That became my entire life.
I knew the stance.
Couldn’t hold it.
Knew the cut.
Couldn’t accelerate properly.
Knew the footwork.
Couldn’t maintain balance.
Knew exactly how much force my hips should contribute.
Didn’t have the muscle to produce it.
It was like waking up with the memories of someone who’d trained for a hundred years while having the body of someone learning to walk.
So I trained.
Not because Cross told me to.
Not because the doctors wanted data.
Because for the first time since waking up, there was something I could actually change.
I couldn’t get three and a half years back.
Couldn’t call Mom.
Couldn’t walk into Benny’s house.
Couldn’t undo Emory.
But I could make my body obey.
One day at a time.
Two weeks after waking, Cross brought me a phone.
Not mine.
A new one.
No network connection.
No calls.
No messages.
“That’s cruel.” “It has access to an approved archive.” “That’s worse.” “You asked to see what changed.” “I asked for a phone.” “It is a phone.” “Can it call people?” “No.” “Then it’s a rectangle.” Cross ignored me.
She’d become very good at that.
The archive contained news.
History.
Public records.
Technology updates.
Hero reports.
Three and a half years of life I’d missed.
At first, I tried consuming all of it.
That lasted six hours.
Then I got overwhelmed and threw the phone onto my bed.
The world hadn’t become unrecognizable.
That almost made it worse.
Cars were still cars.
People still complained about weather.
There were new songs.
New movies.
New hero rankings.
New slang I hated immediately.
Stores I remembered had closed.
A restaurant Benny loved had expanded to six locations.
A bridge downtown had been rebuilt.
Emory had renovated two buildings.
Normal things.
Three and a half years wasn’t long enough to create a new civilization.
It was long enough to make me feel slightly wrong everywhere.
Like I’d stepped out of a room during a conversation and returned after everyone had changed subjects.
The Flag-Bearers were everywhere.
I learned not to search their names.
Then I did it every night.
Benny had become popular.
Of course he had.
People liked him because he was funny.
People hated him because he was loud.
Both groups were correct.
Frank had become known for rescue work during training exercises.
That surprised me until I thought about it.
Then it didn’t.
After the beetle, of course Frank would become obsessed with protecting people properly.
Emi competed nationally with her lance.
Kenya’s spirit animals had become a subject of entire online communities.
Toma had fan clubs.
He would hate that.
Montiro had sponsorship offers from weapons manufacturers.
Paul’s ability was considered one of the most destructive among young heroes.
Beth appeared in almost nothing unless the entire group was involved.
That felt intentional.
Then there was Threya.
I searched her name least.
Not because I cared less.
Because I couldn’t do it casually.
Every photo made something in my chest hurt.
She had grown into herself.
That was the only way I could describe it.
The girl who climbed through my bedroom window was still there.
But so was someone I didn’t know.
A young hero.
Someone who had lived three and a half years without me.
One night, I found a photograph of the nine of them after a training event.
Benny had his arm around Frank.
Paul was doing something stupid in the background.
Emi looked exhausted.
Threya was smiling.
I stared at that smile for a long time.
Then I turned the phone off.
I was happy she could smile without me.
I hated that she could smile without me.
Both things were true.
I was learning that a lot of painful things were.
At the end of the second week, Cross found me in the training room.
I was holding a wooden sword.
Sweat soaked through my shirt.
“You’re supposed to be resting.” “I rested for three and a half years.” “You use that answer too often.” “It’s a very versatile answer.” She sat near the wall.
I reset my stance.
Cut.
Too much shoulder.
Again.
Better.
Again.
My foot slipped.
Again.
Cross watched for several minutes.
“You’re improving.” “I have excellent coaching.” “Who?” “Me.” “Modest too.” I lowered the sword.
“You came here for something.” She held up the folder.
I groaned.
“Seriously?” “You still need a name.” “I have one.” “You need another.” “No.” Cross leaned back.
“Your recovery team wants to move you out of the medical wing.” “Good.” “Which means more staff.” “Fine.” “Which means the number of people who know you’re awake increases.” I stopped.
That was the first argument she’d made about the name that I couldn’t dismiss immediately.
“We can keep using Akio inside secured spaces,” she continued.
“But every additional person who sees that name creates another point of failure.” “So you want me to start lying.” “I want you to start practicing.” I looked at the sword.
“Practicing being someone else.” “Practicing answering to something else.” “Same thing.” “No.” I looked at her.
Cross pointed toward the sword.
“When you use that, are you less Akio?” “No.” “If your hair changes?” “No.” “If your clothes change?” “No.” “If someone calls you another name?” I didn’t answer.
“That’s what I’m trying to make you understand.” “Easy for you to say.” “Yes.” That surprised me.
She continued.
“My name is still mine.” “Exactly.” “So I won’t tell you this is easy.” I lowered the sword.
Cross set the folder down.
“Choose it.” “No.” “Then I will.” I stared at her.
“You said I decide.” “You decided not to decide.” “That’s still a decision.” “Not one that solves the problem.” I pointed the wooden sword at her.
“You’re very annoying.” “I’ve been told.” “By Congress?” “Frequently.” I almost smiled.
Almost.
Cross opened the folder.
“We need something ordinary enough not to attract attention.” “Then call me John.” “No.” “Why not?” “You don’t look like a John.” “That’s discrimination.” “Probably.” She turned a page.
“I have options.” “Oh, God.” “Caleb Hart.” “No.” “Adrian Gale.” “Absolutely not.” “Ren Carter.” “That’s barely a name.” “You’re difficult.” “I told you to let me choose.” “You refused.” I sat on the training mat.
Cross continued.
“Kai.” I looked up.
She hadn’t said it like the others.
Just one word.
“Kai?” “Yes.” I thought about it.
“No.” “Why?” “Too short.” “Akio is four letters.” “That’s different.” “How?” “It’s mine.” Cross nodded.
Fair.
She looked at the page.
“Kai Palmiee.” “No.” “Kai Rowan.” “No.” “Kai Skyline.” I laughed.
Cross looked at me.
“What?” “Skyline?” “It exists.” “Barely.” “It’s legally plausible.” “It sounds fake.” “It is fake.” I laughed harder.
She waited.
“That’s terrible.” “Then choose something better.” I opened my mouth.
Nothing came.
Cross raised an eyebrow.
“Thought so.” I looked down at the sword.
Kai Skyline.
It sounded like somebody from a bad hero comic.
Someone who definitely had perfect hair and jumped off buildings for no reason.
“I hate it.” “Good.” I looked at her.
“Good?” “If you loved it immediately, I’d be worried.” “That’s not comforting.” “It isn’t supposed to be.” I repeated it quietly.
“Kai.” Nothing.
No recognition.
No history.
Nobody had ever yelled it from downstairs because dinner was ready.
Nobody had written it on my birthday cake.
Threya had never whispered it.
Benny had never screamed it across a cafeteria.
Mom had never said it when she was angry.
It belonged to no one.
Maybe that was the point.
“Skyline is still stupid.” “We can change the surname.” I considered.
“No.” Cross looked surprised.
I hated that.
“If I’m getting a fake name, it might as well sound fake.” “That is terrible operational reasoning.” “You’re the one who suggested it.” “Fair.” She took out the document.
LEGAL NAME: I stared at the crossed-out A from the previous sheet.
Cross had kept it.
Of course she had.
“New page,” I said.
She gave me one.
Blank.
I held the pen.
For a long time, I didn’t move.
Then I wrote: Kai Skyline The handwriting looked wrong.
Cross didn’t say anything.
I stared at it.
“That’s not my name.” “No.” I looked at her.
She didn’t correct herself.
That helped.
“Okay.” It wasn’t.
But I said it anyway.
They cut my hair the next day.
I hated that more than expected.
Not because I cared much about hair.
Because Mom had cut it last.
Not always.
But often enough.
She’d stand behind me in the kitchen with scissors while complaining that I moved too much.
I almost told the stylist to stop.
Instead I sat still.
The longer hair disappeared.
What remained was shorter, messier, easier to style differently from old photographs.
They darkened the blue undertone until it was closer to black.
No contacts.
I won that argument.
Cross said changing too many features would create its own problems.
I suspected she’d simply decided not to fight me.
When it was finished, I stared into the mirror.
I still looked like me.
Older.
Thinner.
Different hair.
But me.
“Not enough,” I said.
The stylist looked nervous.
Cross stood behind me.
“It doesn’t need to fool someone studying your face side by side.” “Then what’s the point?” “Expectation.” I looked at her through the mirror.
She continued.
“People see what they expect.
Akio Kita is fourteen in every widely circulated image.
He’s frozen in a secure facility.
Kai Skyline is seventeen.” I studied myself.
“You think that’s enough?” “Combined with time, posture, clothing, different records, and the fact that nobody expects a historical exhibit to walk past them?” I hated that description.
But yes.
Probably.
“People who knew me?” Cross didn’t answer.
She didn’t have to.
Benny would know.
Mom would know.
Threya would know.
Wouldn’t they?
I looked away from the mirror.
“Next.” The name was worse than the hair.
A physical therapist entered the room.
“Morning, Kai.” I didn’t respond.
“Mr.
Skyline?” Nothing.
He looked at Cross.
She looked at me.
I realized.
“Oh.” The therapist tried again.
“Kai.” “Yeah.” It felt stupid.
Later: “Kai, your appointment moved to two.” I walked past.
Someone grabbed my shoulder.
“Kai.” I turned.
Too late.
Every time someone said Akio, my body reacted before thought.
Every time someone said Kai, thought had to drag my attention toward it.
So Cross turned it into training.
Of course she did.
“Kai.” Nothing.
A rubber ball hit my head.
I turned.
“What the hell?” “You didn’t respond.” “You threw something at me.” “Kai.” I caught the second ball.
“Stop.” “Better.” “This is abuse.” “Kai.” “What?” “Better.” I hated her.
The training staff joined in.
Daniel enjoyed it far too much.
“Kai.” “What?” “Kai.” “What?” “Kai.” “WHAT?” “Excellent.” “I’m going to kill you.” “Good reaction speed.” Then one afternoon, I heard it.
“Akio.” I turned instantly.
Nobody had said it.
I stared down the corridor.
Empty.
My chest hurt.
For one stupid second, I’d thought Mom was there.
Cross had been watching from the doorway.
She didn’t say anything.
Good.
If she had, I might’ve broken something.
The next month was training.
Not hero training.
Not yet.
Recovery.
Running.
Balance.
Strength.
Flexibility.
Breathing.
Grip.
My ability made sword work progress absurdly quickly, but my body still set the pace.
That frustrated me enough that I occasionally wanted to throw the sword through a wall.
The sword always told me what perfect looked like.
Perfection was annoying when your muscles were screaming.
One morning, Daniel placed three practice weapons on the mat.
Sword.
Spear.
Axe.
“Pick one.” I picked the sword.
“Not that one.” “Then why did you put it there?” “Control.” I sighed.
Picked the spear.
“Attack the dummy.” I held it.
Nothing.
Not nothing exactly.
I understood basic concepts.
Point toward target.
Keep distance.
Use both hands.
Things I’d learned from Emi and school.
But there was no flood of answers.
I thrust.
Daniel watched.
“Again.” I did.
“Your rear hand is too stiff.” I adjusted.
Better.
He handed me the axe.
Worse.
My first swing overcommitted enough that I nearly rotated with it.
Daniel caught my shoulder.
I stared at the axe.
“This thing is stupid.” “Axes have existed for thousands of years.” “Thousands of years of mistakes.” “Again.” By the end of the session, we’d proven something useful.
Swords were different.
Everything else had to be learned.
I liked that.
It made the ability feel less like someone had replaced my brain.
I still had to work.
At night, I studied.
Monster ecology.
Modern hero regulations.
Core theory.
Emergency response.
History I’d missed.
I learned how many licensing laws had changed.
Which cities had expanded monster-resistant infrastructure.
Which hero agencies had risen.
Which had collapsed.
The world hadn’t waited.
I stopped resenting it for that.
Mostly.
Some nights I still watched Flag-Bearer videos.
One night, Benny appeared in an interview alone.
The host asked about fame.
Benny complained that people kept touching his hair without permission.
I laughed.
Then the host showed an old photograph.
Not Saturday.
A school photograph.
Emory.
I was in the background.
Barely.
Benny’s expression changed.
The host noticed.
“That’s Akio Kita, isn’t it?” Benny looked at the screen.
“Yeah.” “You two were close?” He laughed softly.
“Close?” Then he smiled.
Not his television smile.
His real one.
“That idiot was my best friend.” Was.
I knew he didn’t mean it cruelly.
I knew exactly why he said it.
It still hurt.
The host asked something else.
Benny didn’t answer immediately.
He stared at the picture.
Then said: “He’d hate this interview.” I whispered, “Correct.” Benny smiled at the screen.
For one impossible second, it felt like he heard me.
Then the video continued.
I turned it off.
The hardest part came six weeks after waking.
Cross entered my room carrying a box.
Small.
Brown.
“My things?” “Some.” I sat up.
She put it on the bed.
Inside were pieces of a fourteen-year-old boy.
My old wallet.
School identification.
A broken charging cable.
Notebook.
The WANTED poster from after the Glassbacks.
I laughed when I saw it.
Then stopped because laughing turned into crying too easily lately.
My old phone was there too.
Dead.
Cross had recovered its storage.
The Saturday photograph had come from it.
At the bottom was my Emory student card.
AKIO KITA My old face stared back.
Fourteen.
Hair shorter.
Expression annoyed.
I held it beside the new identification Cross gave me.
KAI SKYLINE Seventeen.
Different hair.
Same eyes.
Two people.
One person.
I didn’t know.
Cross stood near the window.
The room had a window now.
I’d insisted.
“There’s another document,” she said.
“No.” “You haven’t seen it.” “I’m learning.” She handed it over.
Enrollment information.
Not Emory.
A temporary private educational program connected to my rehabilitation.
Enough to rebuild missing academic years without explaining where I’d been.
At the top: LEGAL NAME Blank.
“Why is this blank?” “You need to fill it.” I looked at her.
“You people have computers.” “Humor me.” I put the form down.
“You’re evil.” “I’ve been called worse.” I picked up the pen.
LEGAL NAME: My hand moved automatically.
A.
I stopped.
The pen rested there.
Cross said nothing.
I looked at the old student card.
AKIO KITA.
Then the new one.
KAI SKYLINE.
Slowly, I crossed out the A.
Not completely.
It remained visible.
Then I wrote: Kai Skyline My hand shook harder than it did during sword practice.
Cross took the form.
She looked at the crossed-out letter.
She didn’t comment.
“Anything else?” “One thing.” “What?” “You start training outside this facility next week.” I looked up.
“Outside?” “Controlled location.” “Like actually outside?” “Sky.
Trees.
Weather.
All very exciting.” I ignored the sarcasm.
My chest had already tightened.
Outside.
Not a courtyard.
Not a secure interior gym.
Outside.
“Where?” “Government training grounds north of the city.” “Who knows?” “Minimal staff.
All cleared.” “Under which name?” Cross looked at me.
I already knew.
“Kai.” “Yes.” I leaned back.
The ceiling suddenly felt lower.
“Okay.” Cross started toward the door.
“Wait.” She stopped.
“My mom.” Her expression changed.
I hated that expression.
Not pity.
Something close.
“She’s safe.” “That’s not what I asked.” “I know.” “When?” Cross was quiet.
“When can I see her?” “We’re working on it.” I laughed once.
“That’s government for never.” “No.” “Then give me a date.” “I can’t.” I looked away.
“Get out.” Cross didn’t move.
“Akio.” My head turned immediately.
She rarely used it now.
“Your mother has not stopped trying.” I stared at her.
“She calls this facility every day.” My throat tightened.
“Sometimes twice.” Stop.
“She has contacted my office eleven times.” That almost made me laugh.
“She threatened to sue the federal government.” That did.
A small laugh escaped me.
“Can she?” “Anyone can sue the federal government.” “Can she win?” Cross considered.
“I’ve learned not to underestimate your mother.” I smiled.
Then it disappeared.
“Tell her.” “I can’t yet.” “I hate you.” “I know.” Cross opened the door.
“President Cross.” She looked back.
“If she thinks I stopped fighting…” “She doesn’t.” “How do you know?” Cross’s answer came immediately.
“Because she hasn’t either.” Then she left.
My first day outside arrived with rain.
Of course it did.
I stood beneath the entrance canopy wearing dark training clothes, a practice sword secured at my side.
No wheelchair.
No support frame.
No doctor holding my elbow.
My legs were mine again.
Not what they had been.
Not yet.
But mine.
A black vehicle waited beyond the gate.
Cross stood beside it.
I stopped before stepping into the rain.
The sky was enormous.
That sounds stupid.
I’d seen the sky before.
Fourteen years of it.
But three and a half years without one changes things.
Gray clouds stretched forever.
Rain fell across the pavement.
Trees moved in the wind.
A bird crossed above the facility.
I stared.
Cross didn’t rush me.
I stepped forward.
Rain hit my face.
Cold.
Real cold.
I closed my eyes.
Only for a second.
Then opened them.
I wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore.
Not exactly.
But I preferred seeing.
I walked toward the car.
At the door, one of the security officers nodded.
“Morning, Mr.
Skyline.” I stopped.
There it was.
The name.
Waiting.
For a moment, I wanted to correct him.
My mouth almost formed the words.
It’s Kita.
Instead I looked at Cross.
She said nothing.
My hand found the Saturday photograph inside my jacket.
I carried it everywhere now.
A secret beneath a fake name.
“Morning,” I said.
The officer opened the door.
I got in.
As the facility disappeared behind us, I watched through the window.
Somewhere in that building, Akio Kita was still officially frozen.
Somewhere in the city, my mother was waiting for him.
Nine people I loved were living lives he was supposed to have seen.
And here I was.
Seventeen years old.
A sword at my side.
A name I didn’t want.
Heading toward a life that belonged to someone who hadn’t existed six weeks ago.
Kai Skyline.
I still hated the sound of it.
But when the driver asked, “You ready, Kai?” I answered the first time.
“Yeah.” That scared me more than I expected.