The first thing I learned about being trapped inside ice was that people repeated themselves when they were scared.
“His Core is stable.” A pause.
“His Core is stable.” Someone else asked a question I couldn’t hear.
The first voice answered louder.
“I said stable, not normal.” I tried to move.
Nothing.
“Body temperature?” “Unmeasurable.” “That’s not possible.” “I know.” “Pulse?” “Intermittent.” “Respiration?” “None.” “Then how is he alive?” “I don’t know.” That answer came up a lot.
I don’t know.
We don’t know.
We’re not sure.
Give us time.
At first, I thought they were talking about somebody else.
Not because I didn’t understand what had happened.
I remembered the beetle.
Frank.
The fragment.
The cold.
I remembered Benny hitting the ice.
But there was a strange distance between knowing those things and understanding that the voices surrounding me belonged to doctors trying to figure out whether I was alive.
I couldn’t feel my body.
That was the worst part.
Not cold.
I expected cold.
There wasn’t any.
No pressure either.
No pain.
I couldn’t feel my fingers or my legs or my chest.
I couldn’t feel my heartbeat.
I couldn’t feel myself breathing.
Nothing.
My thoughts were the only proof I still existed.
So I counted.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
I reached one hundred.
Started again.
I don’t know why.
Maybe I thought if I stopped thinking, I’d disappear.
At some point, somebody touched the ice.
I didn’t feel that either.
“Surface temperature remains constant.” “Increase thermal output.” “Already did.” “Again.” A low hum reached me through the shell.
Then voices.
“No change.” “Increase by ten percent.” “Doctor—” “Ten.” The hum grew.
Nothing happened.
“Surface temperature?” “Same.” “Internal?” “Same.” “That’s impossible.” I wanted to laugh.
Couldn’t.
Someone said it again.
“I know.” Mom arrived screaming.
I heard her before I knew it was her.
“Where is my son?” Footsteps.
“Mrs.
Kita—” “Where is he?” “Please, if you’ll come with—” “Do not tell me to come with you.
Tell me where my son is.” Mom.
I tried to move again.
Nothing.
MOM.
My thoughts felt loud enough to shake the room.
No one heard them.
Her footsteps came closer.
Then stopped.
Silence.
For several seconds, she didn’t say anything.
I imagined what she was seeing.
Me.
Frozen.
Standing or lying or suspended.
I didn’t even know what position my body was in anymore.
Then I heard her breathe.
One sharp inhale.
“Akio?” MOM.
She came closer.
“Akio.” Her palm touched the ice.
I knew because I heard the faint scrape.
I couldn’t feel it.
“Can he hear me?” Nobody answered immediately.
“Can my son hear me?” A doctor spoke.
“We don’t believe so.” Wrong.
“His neural activity is extremely limited.” WRONG.
“Is he unconscious?” “We believe he’s in a form of suspended biological stasis.” “That isn’t what I asked.” “No.
We don’t know whether it would technically qualify as unconsciousness.” Mom went quiet.
I wanted to tell her.
I’M AWAKE.
I’M HERE.
I CAN HEAR YOU.
I tried everything.
Moving a finger.
Opening my mouth.
Blinking.
Breathing.
Anything.
Nothing.
Mom’s hand scraped across the ice.
“Akio, it’s Mom.” I know.
“They’re going to get you out.” I know.
“Okay?” I wanted to say okay.
“We’re going to get you out.” Her voice cracked on the second one.
I stopped counting.
I learned time from visitors.
There was no light inside the ice.
No hunger.
No sleep.
At least, I don’t think I slept.
Sometimes thoughts became unclear and voices disappeared, but I could never tell whether I’d been unconscious or whether the room had simply been empty.
Doctors came most often.
They gave time in useful pieces.
“Six hours since containment.” “Fourteen hours.” “Twenty-nine.” “Forty-eight.” Two days.
I’d been inside for two days.
That felt impossible.
It felt like hours.
It felt like months.
Frank was the first thing I wanted to know about.
Nobody talked about him.
Not at first.
They talked about me.
My Core.
The shell.
The relic.
They stopped calling it a fragment after the first day.
“Object recovered from the shell interior?” “Negative.” “You’re telling me it disappeared?” “I’m telling you we cannot detect a separate object.” “Could it be embedded in the subject?” Subject.
I hated that word immediately.
“What about his Core?” “Readings are inconsistent.” “He was unawakened.” “According to every previous examination.” “According to this one?” Silence.
Then: “I don’t know.” There it was again.
I would’ve traded every answer they wanted for one.
Is Frank alive?
Nobody asked.
Until Emi came.
I knew her footsteps before she spoke.
Measured.
Even.
She stopped close to me.
“His mother said we can visit.” A staff member answered.
“Briefly.” “How briefly?” “Ten minutes.” “Why?” “We’re still conducting tests.” “Are the tests helping?” Silence.
Emi had that effect on adults too.
“We’re doing everything we can.” “That wasn’t my question.” I almost laughed again.
She really was terrifying.
Someone left.
The door closed.
Emi stood there.
For a while, nothing.
Then: “Frank woke up.” Everything inside me stopped.
“He’s stable.” I couldn’t breathe anyway.
Somehow, I still felt relief.
“They repaired the damage.
He’ll need physical therapy.
They don’t know when he’ll be able to use his ability again.” Alive.
Frank was alive.
I repeated it to myself.
Alive.
Alive.
Alive.
Emi moved closer.
“I thought you’d want to know.” Yes.
“Professor Renn is okay too.
Three broken ribs, fractured shoulder, concussion.” Good.
“Threya needed six stitches.” What?
“She’s fine.” Fine.
“Benny is annoying.” I would’ve smiled.
“Paul hasn’t spoken much.” That hurt more.
“Kenya’s fox won’t manifest.” I remembered the fragment.
The lights dying.
Her fox disappearing.
“Doctors say temporary Core disruption.” Good.
“Toma’s fine.
Beth’s fine.
Montiro’s fine.” She paused.
“We’re all alive.” I held onto those words.
All alive.
Emi rested something against the ice.
I heard a small tap.
Wood.
“I brought you something.” Another tap.
“Your training sword.” My chest hurt even though I couldn’t feel it.
“They wouldn’t let me bring it inside at first.” Of course they wouldn’t.
“I explained that it isn’t sharpened.” I imagined that conversation.
“They still said no.” Definitely.
“So I asked your mother.” Oh no.
“She said yes.” That surprised me.
Emi’s voice softened.
“She said you’ve waited long enough.” For the sword.
Six months.
That stupid argument in the kitchen.
I wanted to laugh.
I wanted to cry.
I couldn’t do either.
“I’ll leave it here.” A pause.
“Don’t make me regret fixing your stance.” Then she left.
I counted to one hundred fourteen times before somebody entered again.
Benny talked enough for both of us.
That helped.
He came the next morning.
At least, I thought it was morning.
“Okay.” A chair scraped.
“I don’t know if you can hear me.” YES.
“Doctors say you can’t.” THEY’RE WRONG.
“Beth says doctors use words like ‘unlikely’ when they don’t know something.” Thank you, Beth.
“So I’m talking anyway.” Good.
He sat.
“Frank looks terrible.” I focused on his voice.
“Like, really terrible.
You should see him.” I would like to.
“Actually, no.
Don’t.
He’d get mad that you saw him like that.” Probably.
“He asked about you.” Benny stopped.
“He thinks this is his fault.” No.
“Which is stupid.” Yes.
“I told him that.” Good.
“He told me to shut up.” Also good.
The chair creaked.
“Threya hasn’t gone home.” What?
“Her parents came.
Your mom tried to make her leave.
She slept in the waiting room.” Threya.
“She keeps asking them to let her in.” Let her.
“They said one visitor at a time because apparently ten teenagers are a security risk.” You are.
“Paul probably is.” Definitely.
A little silence.
Then Benny said, “I washed your blood off my hands.” I stopped thinking.
His voice had changed.
“I mean Frank’s blood.” He laughed once.
It sounded wrong.
“There was a lot.” Benny breathed.
“I keep thinking I should’ve done something.” You did.
“I just dragged him.” You helped him.
“You fought it.” No.
We did.
“I couldn’t even—” His voice broke.
I wanted to hit the ice from the inside.
I wanted to tell him exactly what he’d told me in my bedroom.
If something bad happens, I’m probably going to do something stupid.
So you figure out the smart part.
He had gotten Frank out.
He had opened the medical packaging when my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
He had helped.
“Benny.” Another voice.
Mom.
“Hey, Mrs.
Kita.” “You okay?” “Yeah.” Liar.
“You don’t have to stay.” “I’m good.” Another lie.
Mom didn’t call him on it.
Instead, I heard something set down.
“Eat.” “I’m not hungry.” “Benjamin.” A pause.
“Yes, ma’am.” I would’ve laughed if I could.
Mom moved closer to the ice.
Her fingers brushed the surface.
“Any change?” “No.” Benny’s voice was quieter.
“They said they’re bringing someone from the National Core Institute.” “Three people.” “That’s good, right?” “We’ll see.” Silence.
Then Benny said, “Mrs.
Kita?” “Yes?” “He’s coming out, right?” Mom didn’t answer quickly enough.
I hated her for that.
Only for a second.
Then I hated myself.
“Yes,” she said.
Certain.
Strong.
My mother.
“We’re bringing him home.” Benny breathed out.
“Okay.” I believed her.
Of course I did.
I was fourteen.
My mother said I was coming home.
So I was.
Threya got in that afternoon.
She didn’t speak when she entered.
I knew it was her anyway.
There was something strange about recognizing a person from silence.
Her footsteps stopped.
Then came closer.
Then stopped again.
A hand touched the ice.
“Hey.” HEY.
Her voice sounded awful.
“Everyone keeps telling me what I’m supposed to say.” Don’t listen.
“They say I should talk to you.” Please.
“Tell you normal things.” Yes.
“So…” She breathed.
“Benny ate two sandwiches this morning.” Normal.
“Frank called a nurse an asshole.” Very normal.
“Emi has threatened three doctors.” Extremely normal.
“Toma’s pretending he’s fine.” Yeah.
“Kenya isn’t.” I listened.
“Montiro keeps trying to research the thing you touched.” Of course.
“Beth has a notebook.” Of course.
“Paul…” She stopped.
I waited.
“Paul won’t come in.” Oh.
“He thinks his explosion did something.” No.
“It didn’t.” I knew.
“Everyone told him.” Good.
“He doesn’t believe us.” Tell him again.
Threya’s hand moved across the ice.
“I hate this.” Me too.
“I hate looking at you like this.” I’m sorry.
“I hate that they keep talking about you while you’re standing right there.” That sentence cut deeper than anything else.
“They say your body is stable.” I’m here.
“They say you aren’t in pain.” I’m here.
“They say you’re probably not aware of anything.” I’M HERE.
Her breathing changed.
“Are you?” YES.
“Are you in there?” YES.
“Can you hear me?” YES.
Her palm struck the ice.
“Akio?” YES.
“Do something.” I tried.
God, I tried.
A finger.
A breath.
A blink.
A twitch.
Anything.
“Please.” Nothing.
“Anything.” Nothing.
Her voice collapsed.
“Please, Akio.” I screamed until thoughts stopped being words.
Nothing changed.
Eventually, Threya slid down the outside of the shell.
I heard fabric against ice.
Then she cried.
Quietly.
That was worse than screaming.
“I was supposed to see you Monday.” I remembered the front steps.
See you Monday.
“We had Saturday next month.” The calendar.
SATURDAY.
“We put it in your phone.” I know.
“You said we’d keep doing it.” I KNOW.
Her forehead rested against the ice.
“You promised.” I didn’t.
Not exactly.
But I would’ve.
If she’d asked.
I would’ve promised every Saturday.
Every month.
Every year.
I would’ve promised because at fourteen I thought promises could make time behave.
“I love you.” Everything inside me went silent.
Threya sniffed.
Then, quieter: “I don’t know if I ever actually said it without making fun of you after.” You did.
Maybe.
I couldn’t remember.
That scared me.
I searched through every conversation.
Every stolen fry.
Every walk home.
Every stupid joke.
Had she?
Had I?
We’d said it casually.
Probably.
I loved you too.
No.
Wrong tense.
I love you.
I LOVE YOU.
Threya stayed until someone made her leave.
The specialists arrived on the fourth day.
I knew because one of them said the date.
Four days.
Only four.
It already felt like another life.
They brought machines.
A lot of machines.
Core scanners.
Thermal equipment.
Acoustic mapping.
Things I didn’t recognize.
For six hours, they tested the shell.
Nothing.
Then somebody suggested breaking it.
Mom said no.
The specialist tried to explain.
“We would begin with a microscopic extraction.” “No.” “Mrs.
Kita, we need to determine whether the material—” “No.” “Your son’s condition is unprecedented.” “Then don’t experiment on him.” “We’re trying to save him.” “By drilling into whatever is currently keeping him alive?” Silence.
Mom had noticed before they had.
I loved her for that.
Another specialist spoke.
“We don’t know that the shell is keeping him alive.” “You don’t know that it isn’t.” “We can model the risk.” “Can you guarantee he survives?” “No.” “Then find another way.” They did.
At first.
Day six.
They tried concentrated heat.
Nothing.
Day eight.
Core disruption.
Nothing.
Day eleven.
Resonance.
The shell changed.
Every machine in the room screamed.
So did I.
For the first time since the ice formed, I felt my body.
Every part of it.
All at once.
Pain tore through me.
My heart slammed once.
My lungs tried to inhale against something that wouldn’t let them.
My nerves burned.
Then the resonance stopped.
The pain disappeared.
Voices erupted outside.
“Vitals dropped!” “Shut it down!” “It’s off!” “Core instability!” “Shell thickness increased by four millimeters!” Mom’s voice cut through everything.
“What did you do?” No one answered.
“What did you do to my son?” After that, they stopped trying to break the ice.
For a while.
Frank visited on day thirteen.
I knew it was him because the first thing he said was: “This chair sucks.” I almost cried.
He moved slowly.
Something clicked against the floor.
Crutches.
He sat.
For a while, he just breathed.
Then: “Hey.” HEY.
“I look like shit.” Emi was right.
“Apparently you’re not supposed to get stabbed.” Good lesson.
“Could’ve told me.” Renn did.
Frank laughed weakly.
“Renn says I’m an idiot.” Correct.
“He used more professional words.” I’m sure.
“He said I confused durability with invincibility.” Also correct.
Frank went quiet.
I knew what was coming before he said it.
“You told me to move.” No.
Don’t.
“I heard you.” Frank.
“I thought I could stop it.” You did stop it.
For a second.
“I wanted to.” His voice tightened.
“I don’t know.
Prove something.” You were scared.
“I’ve always been the strong one.” He laughed again.
No humor.
“Pretty useless when something’s stronger.” That’s not true.
“If I’d moved…” Stop.
“…you wouldn’t have had to…” STOP.
His crutch hit the floor.
“I got you frozen.” NO.
“I’m sorry.” NO.
“I’m so fucking sorry.” I wanted my body back just so I could punch him.
The beetle did this.
The relic did this.
I touched it.
Frank didn’t put my hand there.
But he sat outside the ice apologizing to someone he thought couldn’t hear him.
And I couldn’t tell him he was wrong.
That became its own kind of torture.
The days became weeks.
Week three.
They moved me.
I knew because Mom fought them about it.
“Where?” “Secure Core Research Wing.” “Why?” “The school isn’t equipped to maintain long-term observation.” Long-term.
That was the first time anyone said it.
Mom heard it too.
“How long?” “We don’t know.” “How long?” “We don’t know, Mrs.
Kita.” “I want a number.” “There isn’t one.” The room went quiet.
Then Mom asked: “Can I go with him?” “Yes.” “Then we’re going.” I was transported sometime after midnight.
I couldn’t see the city.
Couldn’t see Emory.
Couldn’t see my house.
But I heard movement through the shell.
Machinery.
Vehicle engines.
Doors.
Voices.
At one point, everything became very quiet.
I imagined we were outside.
Maybe I was wrong.
But I decided we were.
I imagined the sky.
The moon.
Buildings passing.
Streetlights.
I pictured my bedroom window.
The dent above the kitchen doorway.
Dad’s photograph.
My training sword.
The front steps where Threya kissed me.
The table where ten people barely fit.
Then another building swallowed me.
The new room was quieter.
That was worse.
At Emory, someone had always been nearby.
Students.
Doctors.
Response officers.
My friends.
At the research center, there were hours when nobody spoke.
I counted.
At first to one hundred.
Then one thousand.
Then ten thousand.
I invented games.
Names of every monster species I knew.
Every sword stance Emi had taught me.
Every person in class.
Every capital city.
Every ingredient Mom used in her soup.
Anything to keep thoughts moving.
Sometimes I talked to myself.
Not out loud.
Obviously.
I told myself stories.
I replayed Saturdays.
I replayed the beetle.
That one was dangerous.
Every time I replayed it, I found something I should’ve done differently.
Run sooner.
Stop Frank.
Don’t touch the fragment.
Don’t touch the fragment.
Don’t touch the fragment.
DON’T TOUCH THE FRAGMENT.
I learned to stop replaying that part.
Month two.
Benny visited every Wednesday.
He decided that without asking me.
“Wednesday report.” A chair scraped.
“Frank walked without crutches today.” Good.
“Emi beat him with a practice lance.” Very good.
“He deserved it.” Probably.
“Paul finally came back to class.” Good.
“Kenya’s fox is back.” Really good.
“Toma smiled.” Impossible.
“I know.
Terrifying.” I would’ve smiled too.
“Montiro says he found a forum about Core-reactive meteor fragments.” Of course he did.
“Beth says the forum is nonsense.” Of course she did.
“And Threya…” He paused.
“Threya comes more than me, so she can tell you herself.” That made me feel something I didn’t have a word for.
“Your mom still scares the researchers.” Good.
“One of them called you ‘the patient’ instead of Akio.” Oh no.
“She made him correct himself.” Very good.
Benny leaned closer.
“I started training more.” Why?
“Frank did too.” Don’t.
“Everyone did.” Why?
“We don’t want that happening again.” Something cold moved through thoughts that could no longer feel cold.
Benny continued.
“Emory’s changing our program.” What?
“After the attack.” He told me about new response courses.
More field instruction.
More control training.
Emergency certification.
The school wanted them ready.
The city wanted answers.
News stations wanted interviews.
The beetle attack had become a story.
Apparently so had I.
“I punched a reporter.” Benny said it casually.
WHAT?
“Not hard.” BENNY.
“He asked Threya if watching you get frozen was traumatic.” I changed my mind.
Punch him again.
“Your mom said I shouldn’t have done it.” Correct.
“Then she told me which exit didn’t have cameras.” I loved my mother.
Benny laughed.
For a little while, it felt like my bedroom again.
Then his chair scraped.
“Gotta go.” No.
“I’ll be back Wednesday.” Stay.
“Promise.” Don’t promise.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
I counted until the next Wednesday.
Month four.
Something changed.
Not outside.
Inside me.
A sensation.
Tiny.
So small I thought I’d imagined it.
Pressure in my right hand.
Then gone.
I waited.
Days.
Nothing.
Then again.
A finger.
Maybe.
Not movement.
Awareness.
I HAVE A HAND.
Excitement became panic became excitement again.
I focused on it constantly.
My right hand.
Where was it?
What position?
Could I move?
Nothing.
But sometimes I could feel it.
Then my arm.
Then something beneath my chest.
Warm.
Not a heartbeat.
Something else.
A pulse that didn’t match anything human.
The researchers noticed.
“Core activity increased point-zero-three percent.” “Instrument error?” “Repeated across three scans.” “Awakening?” “Inside containment?” “Possibly.” I listened.
“Can we stimulate it?” “No.” Mom.
She had become very good at appearing whenever somebody suggested doing something stupid.
“We aren’t repeating resonance.” “We wouldn’t.” “Good.” The researcher lowered his voice.
“The shell may be changing him.” Mom answered immediately.
“Or keeping him alive.” Neither knew.
Neither did I.
Month six.
My friends came together.
All nine.
They had argued for permission.
I knew because Benny proudly explained the entire argument.
“It was mostly Emi.” “It was not,” Emi said.
“It was mostly Emi.” “Beth prepared the request.” Beth spoke.
“Four pages.” “Montiro found the visitor policy loophole,” Kenya added.
Montiro sounded proud.
“The wording was terrible.” Paul spoke too.
For the first time since the beetle.
“Hey, Akio.” HEY, PAUL.
His voice shook.
“I…” He stopped.
Nobody rushed him.
“I’m sorry.” No.
“The explosion.” No.
“I know they said it didn’t cause this.” It didn’t.
“But I keep thinking…” Paul.
“I should’ve done more.” You all need therapy.
I would’ve told him that.
Probably less politely.
Then Frank said, “Join the club.” Paul laughed.
A small sound.
Good.
Threya moved close.
“Move.” “Ow,” Benny said.
“You’re in my spot.” “Your spot?” “Yes.” “There’s assigned seating now?” “There is if you want to keep your teeth.” Benny moved.
I could picture all of it.
Threya’s palm touched the ice.
“Hey.” HEY.
“Six months.” I know.
“Saturday’s tomorrow.” I hadn’t known.
“We’re doing it here.” What?
A bag unzipped.
Then another.
Mom entered.
“What did I say about food near the equipment?” “We brought covers,” Beth said.
“Of course you did.” Chairs moved.
Containers opened.
For the next two hours, they had Saturday around me.
Not for me.
Around me.
That mattered.
Frank and Paul argued.
Kenya played music quietly.
Montiro complained about something.
Emi corrected him.
Beth read while somehow following every conversation.
Toma spoke occasionally.
Benny tried stealing food.
Threya caught him.
Mom stayed.
And for two hours, I wasn’t a patient.
Or a subject.
Or the boy in the ice.
I was Akio.
One of ten.
Still there.
When they left, I replayed every second.
Again.
Again.
Again.
I was terrified I’d forget their voices.
Month nine.
They came with news.
Big news.
I knew something was wrong because Benny didn’t start with a joke.
“We got selected.” For what?
Frank answered.
“National development program.” My thoughts went still.
Threya said, “It’s not what the news is calling it.” What is the news calling it?
Montiro answered.
“Flag-Bearers.” The words meant nothing to me.
Not yet.
“They’re creating an accelerated hero-track group,” Emi explained.
“Students involved in the Emory incident were flagged for unusual Core growth.” Unusual.
All nine?
Beth answered the question I hadn’t asked.
“All nine of us.” Silence.
Then Paul laughed nervously.
“Apparently getting almost murdered looks good on applications.” Nobody laughed much.
I tried to understand.
All nine.
Selected.
Their Cores had changed.
Because of the beetle?
The fragment?
Me?
“We don’t know why,” Kenya said.
Beth added, “They’re investigating possible exposure during the event.” There it was.
Threya’s hand remained on the ice.
“We don’t have to go.” Yes, you do.
Benny said, “We voted.” You what?
“Not on whether to go,” Emi corrected.
“Okay, Beth made us phrase it better.” Beth sighed.
“We agreed that if we accepted, we would accept together.” Good.
Frank spoke.
“We’re going.” GOOD.
“We start next month.” GOOD.
Nobody sounded happy.
That made me angry.
Not at them.
At this.
At the room.
At the shell.
At myself.
GO.
I wanted to shout it.
GO.
Become heroes.
Train.
Get stronger.
Do everything we talked about.
Don’t sit beside me forever.
Threya pressed her forehead against the ice.
“It means we’ll have less time.” That’s okay.
“They’re moving part of our training across the city.” That’s okay.
“Benny’s Wednesday visits might change.” That’s okay.
“Saturday might change.” I didn’t answer that one.
Couldn’t.
She whispered: “I don’t want you thinking we’re leaving.” I know.
“We’re not.” I know.
“We’re coming back.” I know.
Then Benny said, “Obviously.” I would’ve laughed.
“You’re not getting rid of us that easily.” For a while, I believed him.
They believed it too.
That was important.
Nobody lied to me.
Nobody abandoned me.
Life simply began asking things from them.
Training.
School.
Families.
Hero programs.
Injuries.
Exams.
Interviews.
Responsibilities.
The world had kept moving from the moment the ice closed around me.
For nine months, they had tried to pretend otherwise.
Now it was pulling harder.
And because I loved them, there was only one thing I would’ve told them if I could.
Go.
So they did.
One year.
Mom brought a cake.
That made no sense.
“Don’t start.” I hadn’t said anything.
“I know what you’d say.” Probably.
“It’s not a birthday cake.” Then why is there cake?
“It’s just cake.” Sure.
She sat beside me.
The room was different now.
I could hear that.
More equipment.
Fewer people.
Tests had become routine.
Nobody said “unprecedented” every hour anymore.
Researchers had names for things they still didn’t understand.
Containment shell.
Dormant Core synchronization.
Metabolic suspension.
Relic integration hypothesis.
Words.
Lots of words.
No way out.
Mom talked about the house.
She kept my room the same.
I wished she wouldn’t.
Then immediately felt guilty.
She told me about the others.
Benny had broken his arm.
Frank had grown three inches.
Emi had won a junior weapons competition.
Kenya’s fox could split into two forms now.
Toma’s control was getting scary.
Paul had improved.
Montiro had gotten in trouble for modifying training equipment.
Beth had started beating instructors at tactical exercises.
Threya had visited yesterday.
I knew.
She’d fallen asleep beside the ice.
Mom went quiet.
Then: “I miss you.” I stopped.
She rarely said it.
Not because she didn’t.
Because Mom had spent a year being the person who told everyone else I was coming home.
Strong people sometimes forgot they were allowed to say simple things.
“I miss you so much, Akio.” MOM.
Her hand touched the shell.
“I keep buying too much food.” MOM.
“I made soup last week.” I know which one.
“I almost called upstairs.” Stop.
She laughed.
Then cried inside the same breath.
“I got halfway to the stairs.” Please stop.
“I don’t know why.” Because I’m supposed to be there.
Mom rested against the ice.
“I’m sorry.” No.
“I know I’m supposed to be positive when I visit.” No.
“Everybody keeps telling me you can’t hear us anyway.” They’re wrong.
“So maybe this is for me.” That’s okay.
She breathed.
“I am so angry at you.” I froze.
“You touched it.” I know.
“Everyone told you not to.” I know.
“Threya told you not to.” I know.
“And you touched it.” I’m sorry.
“You stupid, curious, impossible boy.” I’m sorry.
Her hand struck the ice once.
Not hard.
“I am furious.” I know.
“And when you get out, I’m grounding you.” A laugh existed somewhere inside me.
“For a year.” Fair.
“Maybe two.” Unfair.
“And you’re cleaning your room.” Absolutely not.
“And I’m buying you that stupid sword.” Everything stopped.
Mom cried.
“I should’ve bought it.” No.
“I should’ve just bought the stupid thing.” No, Mom.
“I’m sorry.” Don’t.
“I should’ve—” MOM.
I pushed.
Not physically.
I didn’t know what I was doing.
But that warm thing inside my chest had grown over the months.
A pulse.
My Core.
Maybe.
I pushed toward it.
Toward her.
Anything.
The shell hummed.
Mom stopped.
So did I.
Silence.
Then footsteps.
A researcher entered quickly.
“What happened?” Mom stood.
“What?” “Core spike.” Machines activated.
Voices.
“Point-six percent.” “Again?” “Akio?” Mom came close.
Her hands touched the ice.
“Akio?” YES.
“Can you hear me?” YES.
The Core pulse disappeared.
“No, no, no.
Do it again.” I tried.
Nothing.
“Akio.” I pushed.
Nothing.
“Please.” Nothing.
Researchers crowded around.
Scanners.
Numbers.
Questions.
Mom stayed at the ice.
“Akio, if that was you…” IT WAS.
“…do it again.” I couldn’t.
The room eventually quieted.
The researchers called it an anomalous fluctuation.
Mom didn’t.
Before she left that night, she pressed her palm against the shell.
“I know you’re in there.” For the first time in a year, someone had gotten it right.
The next Wednesday, Benny didn’t come.
I waited.
I counted.
One hundred.
One thousand.
Ten thousand.
The door never opened.
Thursday came.
I think.
Then Friday.
On Saturday, Threya arrived alone.
“I’m sorry.” Don’t be.
“Training ran late.” It’s okay.
“Benny got sent out of state for three days.” Good.
“Frank’s doing some exhibition thing.” Good.
“Everybody’s busy.” Good.
She talked for an hour.
Then left.
The next week Benny came.
The week after that, he didn’t.
Saturday stopped being every Saturday.
Then became twice a month.
Then once.
Not immediately.
Not cruelly.
Slowly.
That’s the part people don’t tell you about losing something.
Most of the time, there isn’t a moment where it leaves.
There are just longer spaces between the moments when it comes back.
I listened to my friends grow older through stories.
Their voices changed.
Their lives got bigger.
The Flag-Bearers became a real name.
News crews started waiting outside the facility.
Eventually, security moved my room deeper inside.
Eventually, interviews replaced some visits.
Eventually, missions replaced interviews.
Eventually, the nine people who had once barely fit around my mother’s dining table belonged partly to the world.
I was proud of them.
I hated them.
I loved them.
I hated myself for hating them.
Then I loved them harder because none of it was their fault.
People can love you and still learn how to live without you.
I learned that before I learned almost anything else about the new world.
One year became two.
Two became three.
My mother kept coming.
Threya kept coming.
Benny kept coming.
All of them came when they could.
But “when they could” changed.
The research center changed too.
There were fewer experiments.
Fewer specialists.
More glass.
More security.
More visitors who didn’t know me.
One afternoon, a group of children entered the room.
I knew immediately that something was different.
They whispered.
Giggles.
A teacher hushed them.
Then a voice I didn’t recognize began speaking.
“Behind the containment glass is one of the most unusual cases connected to the Emory Incident.” Containment glass?
I listened.
“The boy you see inside is Akio Kita.” A child gasped.
“Kita?” “Yes.
Son of the late Number One hero, Lutoro Kita.” My thoughts went still.
The guide continued.
“Akio was fourteen years old when he helped defeat the monster responsible for the Emory attack.” Helped?
That was fair.
“Although he possessed no known ability at the time, his actions saved several classmates who would later become members of the Flag-Bearers.” Several?
All nine were alive.
I knew that.
The guide’s voice softened into something practiced.
“Unfortunately, Akio was caught in an unknown Core phenomenon immediately afterward.” A child asked: “Is he dead?” Silence.
Then: “Not technically.” Not technically?
“His condition is called permanent containment.” Permanent?
No.
That wasn’t what the doctors called it.
“When is he waking up?” “We don’t know.” Another child asked: “Can he hear us?” The guide answered immediately.
“No.” I screamed.
The tour moved on.
Their footsteps faded.
I stayed.
Later that day, Benny visited.
He sounded older.
Not completely different.
Still Benny.
But older.
“You’re not gonna believe this.” Try me.
“They made merchandise.” What?
“Flag-Bearer merchandise.” Of course they did.
“It’s terrible.” Obviously.
“I bought all of it.” Obviously.
He talked for forty minutes.
I barely listened.
Permanent containment.
The words stayed.
When Benny left, the room was silent again.
I counted.
At some point, I realized I no longer knew what day of the week it was.
Three years.
Then three years and six months.
I didn’t know the exact day.
Someone else told me.
A guide.
There were tours regularly now.
Not every day.
Enough.
The facility had been partially redesignated.
Research remained.
So did security.
But the public section had become the Hero Memorial and Research Center.
I had become part of it.
One morning, the guide brought another group.
“Please remain behind the marked line.” Shoes shuffled.
I listened.
“Before we continue to the Flag-Bearer gallery, we’ll stop at one of the center’s most historically significant exhibits.” Exhibit.
I hated that word more than subject.
“The Emory Containment Case.” No.
“Akio Kita was fourteen when the Emory Incident occurred three and a half years ago.” Three and a half.
The guide continued.
“He was the youngest known unawakened civilian to participate directly in the defeat of a Class II monster.” A child whispered, “Whoa.” “His final act saved nine students who would later become some of the most promising young heroes of their generation.” Final act.
I’m still here.
“Though Akio never lived to see their accomplishments—” I’M RIGHT HERE.
My Core moved.
Not a pulse.
A surge.
The guide stopped.
A machine somewhere began beeping.
Children murmured.
Staff entered.
“Tour group out.” “What’s happening?” “Move them.” Footsteps rushed away.
My Core surged again.
For years, it had been growing.
Tiny fractions.
Slow.
Steady.
Researchers had stopped getting excited about every increase.
But this was different.
I felt my hand.
Completely.
Five fingers.
Palm.
Wrist.
Then my arm.
My chest.
My heartbeat.
Once.
THUD.
Pain.
Beautiful pain.
A researcher shouted.
“Cardiac activity!” My heart beat again.
THUD.
“Get medical in here!” My lungs burned.
I tried to breathe.
Couldn’t.
The shell tightened.
Or maybe I finally felt it tightening.
Something inside my chest pushed against it.
The warm pulse I’d lived with for years was suddenly everywhere.
Core.
Mine.
Awake.
Not like Benny’s metal.
Not Threya’s earth.
Not Paul’s explosions.
Something else.
Something I didn’t understand.
And beneath it, deeper, I felt another rhythm.
The shell.
For the first time, I understood something none of the researchers had.
The ice wasn’t holding me prisoner.
Not exactly.
It had been holding something together.
Me.
For three and a half years, every pulse from my Core had been answered by the shell.
Corrected.
Contained.
Stabilized.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Until now.
My Core pulsed.
The shell answered.
Nothing.
Again.
The shell answered weaker.
Again.
A crack formed somewhere above me.
I heard it.
The same sound I’d heard when I touched the fragment.
A frozen lake breaking.
Someone outside whispered: “Oh my God.” Another crack.
Then another.
My lungs convulsed.
AIR.
I needed air.
The ice split.
Light stabbed through darkness.
For the first time in three and a half years, I saw something.
White ceiling.
Blurred faces.
Glass.
Machines.
My own reflection fractured across the shell.
Not fourteen.
Older.
My hair longer.
My face thinner.
Wrong.
Everything wrong.
The shell broke.
I fell forward.
Hands caught me.
My lungs opened.
Air entered.
It hurt more than the beetle.
More than resonance.
More than anything.
I screamed.
Not in my head.
Out loud.
A real sound.
Ugly.
Broken.
Human.
I couldn’t stop.
Doctors surrounded me.
Someone shouted my name.
I coughed.
Gasped.
My body shook violently.
My legs didn’t work.
My hands barely worked.
Everything hurt.
And it was wonderful.
Because it was mine.
My pain.
My lungs.
My fingers.
My voice.
I grabbed the nearest person’s sleeve.
They leaned close.
“Akio?
Can you hear me?” Three and a half years of words crowded into my throat.
Benny.
Threya.
Mom.
Frank.
Saturday.
Flag-Bearers.
Permanent containment.
Exhibit.
Final act.
I forced my mouth to work.
My voice came out almost silent.
“Mom.” The doctor stared at me.
“What?” I swallowed.
It hurt.
“Where’s…” My throat failed.
They tried to make me stop talking.
I wouldn’t.
“Where’s my mom?” Someone turned away immediately.
“Call Komi Kita.” Another person ran.
I closed my eyes.
Not because I had to.
Because I could.
For three and a half years, I had listened to the world without being able to answer it.
Now everyone in the room was shouting questions at once.
I ignored all of them.
I opened my eyes again.
And waited for my mother.