trajectory manipulation, when you’re the point of initiation, is easy. a knife soaring from your fingertips to embed in the shoulder of some criminal around a corner or two? no problem. it’s when things are flying at you, rather than from you, where you find the trouble. you’re seven the first time dad makes you stand in the courtyard ( the training grounds ), drone poised and primed to unload.
( you’re punished for leaping out of the way, sliding into cover as you let loose a knife dad hasn’t checked you for, to take out your robotic enemy ).
you’re twelve the first time you face a gun in the field, your first real mission as a team --- you’re disappointed no one shoots at you when you and your siblings stop the bank robbery-in-progress. at fourteen, you’re down a brother, and you struggle to shine under dad’s expectant, weighted gaze, but you don’t get shot when you take down the gunman sneaking up on your sister, so that’s something... right?
a mission at sixteen is the beginning of the end. you don’t see it happen ( and maybe you could’ve helped if you had ), but you leave the mission missing one of your favorite brothers. ben is dead and you’re... pissed off. god, there is so much anger coursing through your veins you can barely see straight for a week. you slip up during your training. you’re called out -- humiliated ( not for the first time ). maybe it is your fault, number two, that you have all lost six.
sir reginald almost doesn’t let you go out on the next real mission. it’s only through luther’s airtight planning that convinces him you’re needed at all. there are only four of you now -- well, barely. your gaze sweeps over number four and you fight to keep your expression neutral. ( klaus shouldn’t be here, everyone knows it, but reggie insists ). you take it upon yourself to keep an eye out for him because you’d never forgive... well, anyone, really, if you lost another sibling. especially not yourself.
a gun is drawn. you smirk. brow raised. challenging. really, dude? ha --- the laugh is caught in your throat and you choke on it as the asshole aims elsewhere, firing --- everything’s slowed to a quarter speed. fuck. you’re still not as good as you should be at manipulating trajectory from a distance but, damn, if you don’t put everything you have into pulling that bullet onto a new path.
( it works ) --------- barely.
you wake up, alone, in the academy’s designated infirmary, desperately looking anywhere but where you know the needles are kept. your head aches. your mouth is dry. and when you lift a hand to your throbbing temple, you realize you’ve got a hell of a lot of gauze around your head. you’re hesitant to take it off at first but... your curiosity gets the better of you.
when you lay eyes on the row of stitches, your first thoughts, though hazy and jumbled, land on something akin to chicks dig scars, right? and shit, i hope klaus is okay. -- you quickly find out that he is. reginald, however, is less than pleased, taking every opportunity in the days following your recovery to express his displeasure. his disappointment. but you’re seventeen, now, having missed your birthday ( not that you care ) and, y’know what? you don’t have to put up with this bullshit any longer. you leave klaus a note with some garbage excuse at an apology and, with a handful of fresh gauze shoved into a backpack alongside a few pieces of clothing ------ you’re gone by morning.
