‘No unauthorized use of power’

​

The large tome began to glow, its leather-bound cover scorched by the advancing flames. The light was blinding. A pinpoint. Then the sun. It expanded. It consumed. The book's spine bubbled, then sighed audibly, as pages curled and blackened in the searing heat. Wood cracked. Cases fell as papers fluttered. Books exploded, jettisoning from shelves. A low rumble echoed. The percussive force smashed into the exterior wall. The old building shuddered. Sagged. Bricks bulged, a puff came from their joints. It shuddered again. The tinkling of glass spitting onto the campus beyond. Curtains sucked out, dancing like ghosts. Smoke rolled. Billows of fire and fury consumed the interior. Glowing. It devoured everything. Timbers cracked, then sighed. A mighty groan. A pause. A searing scream as they broke free, crashing to the floor. Smashing. Books, tables, people pulverized. Particles continued their staccato rain.

Shattering.

Splintering.

Settling.

The footfalls echoed in the aftermath, crunching through ash and splintered wood. Fletcher moved like a living detonation. He relished the chaos, the destruction, and the raw power coursing through his veins as the flames consumed him. He and his co-conspirators had accomplished what they had set out to do. The destruction of The Divergent Academy. Beneath his fury, a purpose: a desire to see the old systems crumble. The large oak doors remained standing. He raised his fist again. Its ignition, like a pilot on a stove, the air whooshing into life. The hinges groaned. Nails screamed in protest as they were ripped from their ancient home. Flying from the opening, they crashed into the fountain in the courtyard. It exploded. A geyser accelerating into the air. Fletcher came through the door. Blue flames traced his teeth, a grin larger than life. Stepping forward, he stumbled, his toe catching on the raw edge of a brick.

He blinked.

Fletcher’s stride was long. Not out of need to arrive, but to get this over with. He was angry. Not just about getting caught, but now this image of destruction. It wasn’t real. He wanted that to happen, and he wanted it now. He read the sign he had missed before as he approached the side entrance off the quad.

‘No unauthorized use of power. Discipline will be enacted, up to, and including expulsion.’

He sighed as he opened the door. He was on his way to see Professor Ferox. They found out about ‘the incident’ with Julian. Discipline was required, the email said.

‘No unauthorized use of power’

​

* * *

​

The frost was gone.

Julian's eyes were locked on the books' spines, tracing the frost-rimmed outlines of the gilded letters; his fingers lingered over them as if to feel the chill they once held. Where the frost grew. He didn’t understand. He was at the library again to study, but the evidence was gone. Like it never happened. He was motionless, staring. Not concentrating on the task before him. He wanted to know more. He needed to know more. With a determined breath, he reached out and carefully selected a volume he remembered seeing frost on, pulling it close as though it might still hold secrets. He needed answers. As he held it, the library felt hollow, ghost-like, trapped in the past. Its expansive displays of books peaceful, but also lonely. The librarian was at her station, book in hand, glasses down on the bridge of her nose, only a handful of other students about. It felt hollow.

Like he did.

The frost on his hand was gone, and his other hand rested over the place it burned. He fidgeted, then started his palming, the thumb deep into the flesh. His first reaction was always anger. He was trying to keep that at bay, but being who he was, frustration led him there, and its level was rising. He had seen Professor Shim after and enquired her help, but he wasn't sure she understood. "Professor Shim," he had ventured hesitantly, "what if... what if the frost isn't just random?" Her eyes flickered with something he couldn't quite read, her face cracked, citing an excuse that she was in a hurry, and he would be better served speaking to Professor LaMont, who specialized in 'transference.’ She was a bundle of nerves as she left, Julian standing there blankly. It left him with concerns, apprehension, and fear.

Did the other boy pull some of Julian’s power? How was that possible? And who was he? He’d seen him several times, and every time he felt something.

A tremor.

A recognition.

A familiarity.

Was he ‘magnes’? Could he pull from others? Was that allowed here at school? Julian studied the elements and knew their properties, but he didn’t understand all of them. He wasn’t even sure about his power, let alone the uses and crossovers. It just added more confusion, intensifying his palming. He pushed deeper and turned back to his books. He really didn’t want to study. He would rather be hanging with ‘M,’ but he wasn’t sure what she was doing.

He dug in his back pocket and checked his phone. Nothing from ‘M.’ Nothing from his mom either. It still bothered him that she hadn’t been here. His dad was always so opaque, not explaining what was going on. Julian could deduce they had a row. Some disagreement his mother couldn’t let go, but what he didn’t even want to try to guess. Part of his troubles stemmed from them.

Julian loved his parents, but they were often absent. It fostered his ability to be alone, and he was okay doing it. He felt it made his imagination more vivid, colorful, and alive. He knew how to dream and often told so. ‘Get out of your head, son,’ a common rebuke from his father. He wished he could live there now.

And where was ‘M?’ Yes, he could be alone, but since meeting her, he didn’t seek it out as often. And why was his brain circling everything? Why couldn’t he concentrate? His hands were tingling. He felt the frost. He thumbed his palm harder and started breathing. His anger rising.

​

* * *

​

His hair was like the ocean, waves crashing over his brow. Unlike the ocean, it could be calmed by his hand, the hand that presently was holding his glasses. Professor Ferox was doing everything he could to maintain control. Fletcher had crossed a line. Sitting in his well-appointed office, his eyes pierced into Fletcher. The abuse of power would not be tolerated.

“Grudges should be left at the door, Fletcher,” he said, flat-toned, modulated, and precise.

Fletcher couldn’t look at him. He held his hat in his hand as he looked at the floor. He noticed a plaque when he came in, an old document, hand-lettered, ‘The Doctrine.’ In all its glory. Holding all its lies. Ferox's gaze was sharp as he settled his glasses back on his face.

“Do you ever think beyond yourself, Fletcher?' he asked coldly. “That boy might have been seriously hurt— and others as well.”

Fletcher sighed, keeping his gaze down. He knew what he did was dangerous, but he heard something else. ‘Ferox thinks I’m powerful.’ A sly grin graced his lips.

“Stop taking this as a compliment, Mr. Reed,” Ferox said, rising from his chair. He turned to the window, his back to Fletcher. He knew he needed to tread carefully going forward. Here sat a young man whose identity rested on his power. Ferox knew the doctrines all too well. "As Doctrine #2 states, 'Variance is not identity.'" He let the words linger, challenging Fletcher and inviting him to examine them. Clearly, Fletcher identified with his fire. He knew Fletcher was not in balance and could ignite at any time. He needed to dig further.

He came around his desk and sat upon the corner, studying him. He had to get to the bottom of this feud and prevent not only its growth but its spread school-wide. Ferox knew Fletcher had influence. He was dangerous, which made others afraid and led them to give in. Tall and admired by few, he could turn his power explosive. He noticed a tremor in his hands. Nerves? Or something more? He clearly could see pain. Fletcher carried something very personal. Something heavy. Something he had never shared. Ferox sighed, releasing his anger, and tried to find a way to connect with him.

“Fletcher, look at me,” he commanded.

Ferox could see the daggers as Fletcher looked up. He knew Fletcher didn’t like him, but this was something else. Something dark. Something dangerous.

Fletcher ran a hand through his hair of fire, its color intensified by the green lakes of fear below. How he hated this man. The ‘Hexic’ had more power combined than anyone before, and yet they were controlled, corralled, and placed in institutions by others with less. How he wanted to set the world on fire. Show everyone what he truly could do. He remembered his father’s face, rage making it crimson. “That power of yours doesn’t make you strong, Fletcher. Only something to hide behind.” He felt his skin flush, a small spark crossed his thumbnail. He covered it with his other hand. The tang of smoke as his eyes simmered at Ferox. He bit his lower lip, continuing his glare.

“How long have you been here, Fletcher? Two years?” Ferox asked, calmly.

“Yes,” Fletcher replied, grit in his teeth as he fought both anger and fear. Fletcher didn’t know where this was headed. ‘Just give me my punishment,’ flamed behind his eyes, as the standoff continued.

“And in all this time, Mr. Reed, have you studied the doctrines?”

Fletcher looked blankly. Of course, he had. Stupid rules, made up by stupid people to control others that they didn’t know what to do with. He smouldered more deeply, his skin growing warmer.

“You need to simmer down, Mr. Reed. We will get to your punishment soon enough.”

Fletcher felt on the edge of control. The rush of heat made his skin prickle with perspiration. He could sense it, the choice—cool or ignite. A battle waged. A testing ground for his will. Soon, he would start visibly steaming. He inhaled deeply, deciding to push it back, willing himself to lower it by a degree or two. The weight of choice pressed, marking the potential for growth or doom.

“I don’t need the doctrines,” he responded angrily, his fists balled. “They are useless. We should be in charge,” he added, as he flung his arm in an arc.

Ferox saw the slight hint of vapor on his skin. Did Fletcher truly think he could get out of this by using force? He understood the argument, but now was not the time. It didn’t excuse Fletcher’s behavior. It further validated that this young man was not in control. Ferox could see the road Fletcher was on, the one that led to darkness. He was on a trajectory of destruction, intent on annihilating the system. The system that’s worked since it was instituted.

The system that secured his place.

And he wouldn’t allow it to be destroyed.

“Its topic explains that our power is a tool to be wielded with caution, honor, and pride. It is not a badge, Fletcher, to be identified, which, clearly, you do. You feel your ‘fire’ defines you,” he said, locking eyes with Fletcher. “Your power, Mr. Reed, while formidable, is not the only thing that makes you– you.” He leaned forward as if challenging him. “You take no responsibility, blaming the system, and dare come into my office and think you can intimidate me,” he said, his eyelids becoming hooded. “You think you can take on the entire culture that has given you a place in this world? To become its ruler? To change everything in the name of Mr. Reed? Our saviour? The one who freed us?”

He paused a moment, letting it sink in. Did Fletcher truly see the size of this endeavor, or was this just glory igniting? His thumb crossing the tip of a matchstick? How many must be destroyed before he sets the world on fire? Was he really that brash to believe he was the ‘chosen one’? Ferox wanted to show him just how feeble this endeavour would be.

Silence fell in the room like a fire being snuffed, the smoke lingering. They glared across the desk, each consumed by their fears. Fletcher physically flinched as Ferox’s eyes shifted deeper, a spark fracturing the iris, then bloomed. His breath caught as a force gripped him and slammed him back in the chair. It pitched, tipping the front legs off the floor until he was angled against the wall, hands gripping the arms, his knuckles going white. He tried to swallow, his Adam’s apple rising and falling like he was sipping soup, trying to catch a breath. His eyes widened, pupils as large as coins, as he watched Ferox rise from his chair.

Eddy’s stirred. Ferox’s hair was like a stormy ocean, waves crashing on his forehead. Jewels of green light pulsed around him, haunting as a ghost, as he returned to the corner of his desk. Light shimmered on his houndstooth jacket, pulsing to the rhythm of Fletcher’s anxious heartbeat. Trace lightning curved around his knuckles and fingertips as he sat across from Fletcher, embodying raw energy.

Fletcher felt true fear for the first time. What he saw was darker than any nightmare. Still struggling to breathe, his mouth fell open, muscles increasingly getting tighter as Ferox’s face came even closer. Fletcher was looking into the eyes of something far more evil than he could imagine, and he had a good imagination. The odor of putrification stung his eyes as it wafted from Ferox’s pores, his face now inches from Fletcher. If he could scream, he would have, but every muscle was being held like a vice.

“Shall we begin ‘chosen one’?” hissed Ferox.

Darkness was closing over Fletcher like a veil. His throat throbbed. His breath caught– deeper. His eyes mirrored it all.

Ferox wasn’t a man.

Ferox wasn’t anything he understood.

Ferox was fear itself.

​

* * *

​

Elias was staring again, leaning on the ledge beneath his window, coffee fogging from his cup as trails split his cheeks. They hit him hard, the tears. He was overwhelmed. Emotions gripped him, its strong, crushing hold wrapping his heart. He hated how everything made him feel. Why did he have to be so sensitive? So cognitive of everything around him. He wasn’t able to see Seattle since the afternoon she diverted him through the park, and he still felt so embarrassed by what happened at the library. He brushed his sleeve, trying to wipe the embarrassment away, lowering his forehead against the glass, the rain taking his emotions with it. The trails on the glass mimicked his own.

​

* * *

​

Julian stared out his window, the garden calling to him, the rain keeping him from it. He sipped his coffee, reflecting on the frost. The frost that grew on his hand. The frost on the spines of the books. He needed to see Professor LaMont. He needed to get some answers.

Red flashed.

He saw a jacket.

A blur of movement through a door.

Hair the color of night.

Red again, as it retreated.

A hand.

A hand, long-fingered.

A hand disappearing around the door frame.

​

* * *

​

Elias was homesick. He needed his mother. She always helped him through these cold times. The times of sensations– bright, bold, blaring. The times of brushing his clothes.The times he was facing now.The times of snow. A flake caught his eye as it fell into his steaming coffee. He brought it to his lips and watched it rain.

A flash of bubbles.

They danced in the air.

A flash of gray.

He noticed a young man talking to a girl with auburn hair.

A flash of hands touching the spines.

Details of the hand, strong, pink, long fingers as it reached for one of the books.

Professor Ferox at the top of the stairs.

A flash of gray, the young man at the bottom.

A tie blowing against the gray again.

It was the color of ghosts.

​

* * *

​

Julian sat down, falling like a dead weight in his chair at the desk, as if his sails were blown out. Eyes resembling a metronome, back and forth, processing the images. He thumbed his palm as the confusion unsettled him; his first response, anger, furrowed his brow. ‘What is this?’

The red flashed.

A hand.

It trailed across the spines in slow motion.

It felt urgent.

It felt familiar.

Frost blossomed like crystals and trailed the spines once more.

​

* * *

​

Elias fell to the mattress, his pajama bottoms puffing from the release of air. His eyes metronomed as he tried to understand what he just witnessed. He smelled the fall in the air.

A flash of gray.

What was he experiencing?

A flash of a tie, the hand, the books, he smelled the library, Seattle's smile, the book falling in slow motion as it hit the floor. A scowl from Professor Ferox. Seattle was there, then the chair was empty. In the doorway– he had to go, he had to leave– he had to get away, she was there–then not – then again, her perfume, lips by his neck. Snow was falling. ‘Identical Variances Destabilize the System,’ Seattle’s lips, “I don’t understand either,” said her voice in his ear, “Is there a problem, Snow?” asked Professor Ferox.

A tang of mineral flickered, like winter leaves at the back of his tongue.

Sharp.

Crisp.

Fresh.

He gulped for air, trying to breathe– he swallowed.

Everything went black.

​

* * *