The acid rain continues to pollute the soil, while in Borneo, the last orang-utan dies.
Look down, below.
A whole species, crawling: as (in)significant as ants.
‘Come here,’ my mother says to me, taking me into her arms.
It’s midway through her shift; she’s going to get a strike on her record for being absent. She holds me together for a moment, her scent filling every one of my cells. The stone around her neck presses into the invisible space between our bodies. I try not to think, and just breathe.
Once upon a time, my grandma was a young girl who lived upon the surface of the earth with myriad other things. She studied at institutes called ‘universities’ and freely rode aeroplanes to different countries for holidays and ate a bounty of different food each day, living the rainbow, the full spectrum of colour. Garbage was thrown away in dumpsters and transported to mystical, invisible places and waste was flushed or buried or swallowed up, never to be thought of again. The skies were hazy with pollution and the waters poisoned with plastic but none of this touched her life that much, not where she lived, not then. I know not everyone lived like this—that people and places and other beings were swept into the margins, where they lurked amongst the shadows, waiting to be noticed. But I like to imagine that they all did. I like to envision a peaceful cooperation. An acknowledged interdependence.
My mother releases me from her chest but her hands stay on me, connected. She pulls me towards the valve and carefully reaches towards the white suits, bringing me one. I stare at her, questions in my eyes.
‘Why…?’ I try to say, but that seems enough.
She smiles at me sadly, pulling my body along, helping me get the white sheath on, like I’m little again and getting dressed for the next shift. She dons a similar one, larger in size, just as shiny. I know what is happening and where we are going. I know that she knows—she’s guessed, or just come to realise, like I did. I just don’t know why.
‘It’s time, isn’t it,’ is all she says, hooking up my purifier. Her fingers work on the screen. The light flicks red. Ready. Awake. She pulls me into the dock with her, arm around me. I’m drowning in her touch.
It takes less time than I remember, getting to the surface. The last time I was outside was during a full moon, when I was nine, maybe ten. I barely have time to think, to process. What part of the day is it right now?
It’s warmer when we reach the top room. There is only one small window, a small sliver of outside peering in. My mother guides me out the dome, away from the grey and the equipment and the dark, but pretty soon her arms fall away from me and I’m untethered, free. I hardly know what to do with what I see.
Light spills onto the dusty ground, refracted all around me.
Dazzling.
Hot.
The heat creates waves in the distance, ripples of air. Barren, but breathing. Is that really the sun I see, mellow above the empty horizon? Even through my insulated layers, it tickles my skin.
Huge.
Life.
There are no trees, there’s nothing but the flat landscape and smoggy sky and a bleeding disk of light. But it’s alive.
It’s beautiful. I can’t breathe.
I love it.
My mother has faded into the distance. I’m not aware of anything except the immensity of space. I’m living the live-feed of memories fed to me through generations.
We can’t speak with our equipment on, and it takes my mother’s touch on my arm for me to turn and see she’s trying to point something out to me. There, on the opposite side of the sky, rests the moon. The sun and the moon, still coexisting, side by side.
Late afternoon. Unfathomable.
I’ve strayed from the encampment, the underground maze of my life, without even realising it. The top room sits in the distance, the gateway to an insignificant world. I’m drunk on light and space. My mother is a white shadow, trailing me. I think I finally understand. I think this moment, out here, was the one that fuelled my grandma’s story.
We sit on the earth. The panel on my wrist blinks its steady red beep. Grandma’s dead, or soon will be. I can’t be angry at her, even when I’m sad. I can only try to understand.
Here upon the land, creatures of the world. The Earth keeps spinning and the days keep coming and a bigger narrative eclipses these moments.
It outlives us all.
‘So I’ve been working really hard to improve my speed with high-intensity interval training? You know, HIIT? And I feel like I could be getting my powers soon? Any week now, you know?’
Harrison had a habit of making all his sentences sound like questions. Harrison was also a bit blurry around the edges, so unless I’d accidentally ordered a magic mushroom risotto for lunch, he was going to be invisible by the end of the session. We all kept exchanging glances but no one said a thing in case Harrison freaked out and solidified again accidentally.
Our group leader, Micah, turned to me. ‘How about you, Nat? How have you been pushing yourself this week?’
‘Well, I—’
The door banged open. ‘Shit,’ someone said.
We all swivelled in our seats to stare at the girl in the entryway. She had dark skin and the shiniest hair I’d ever seen. She was wearing a polka-dot skirt and a pastel-green button-up shirt that should’ve made her look sweet and innocent, but there was something about her eyeliner that suggested she could beat you in a fight. You don’t get a cat-eye that sharp without a certain scary amount of determination.
‘Sorry,’ the girl said, slightly out of breath. ‘Am I in the right place?’
‘This is the support group, if that’s what you’re looking for,’ Micah said warmly.
‘Great.’ The girl headed for the spare chair next to me. As she slid into place, her bag dropped to the ground with a loud thump. ‘Sorry,’ she said again, wincing.
‘Nat is just about to tell us about her week,’ Micah said, gesturing to me. ‘We’ll let you settle in and then you can introduce yourself.’
The girl grinned and pulled a bottle of water from her bag, taking a long swig.
‘How are you feeling this week?’ Micah asked, tearing my gaze away from the new girl.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Super. I mean, not super-super, but I had that big fundraiser at my old high school this week to repair the gym and it went well. We got a lot of donations and everyone said they had a great time. Which made me feel…’ I trailed off, trying to find the words. It was always a little uncomfortable baring your soul with new people in the room.
‘I guess it’s good that there are other things in my life that can make me feel happy and fulfilled,’ I finished, a little louder than I intended.
‘It’s not an exact science,’ Micah said soothingly, brushing his lanky brown hair behind his ears. ‘We have no idea how this generation’s powers will manifest, and you may just be someone who develops a lot later in life.’
‘I know that,’ I said flatly. We’d been over this so many times. ‘It’s just… I’m turning nineteen in a few weeks and everyone else’s powers came in during puberty or a little after. Maybe once you hit a certain age and your powers haven’t come in, you automatically get the power of a spinster aunt or something. Maybe I’ll become like a homing beacon for cats.’
The girl next to me giggled but stopped immediately when she realised no one else was laughing. I think it was supposed to be a friendly, encouraging laugh, but I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment all the same.
‘Anyway, that’s it,’ I said. ‘That was my week.’
‘Thank you for sharing, Nat,’ Micah said, and the sentiment was echoed a second later by a dozen droning voices from around the circle.
We all turned to the new girl, who had caught her breath and was looking significantly less frazzled.
‘Hi, everyone,’ she said, arcing her hand in a neat wave. ‘I’m Amina. Sorry I was late. I have to say that the public transport here is hopeless.’
‘Must
be a good day, then,’ I said. Amina grinned at me.
‘I’m eighteen, like Nat, and I haven’t had any of the usual symptoms,’ Amina continued. ‘No incredible strength or invisibility or sudden x-ray vision that allows me to see into the girls’ change rooms when I walk past. This is my first time at, like, a government-run support group but a few of my friends were in the same boat so we all leaned on each other. I just moved here for uni, so I’m really glad I found this group. Who knows? Maybe a change of scenery is all I need to get my powers going. That’d be a nice surprise.’
‘Thank you for sharing, Amina,’ we all said.
There were only a few people left in the circle, and no new developments. Everyone was keeping one eye on Harrison’s progress, some with unveiled envy, others with quiet interest.
‘Does he know it’s happening?’ Amina whispered to me.
‘Not a clue,’ I murmured back. ‘He thinks he’s about to become the fastest man alive.’
‘Sucks,’ she said sympathetically.
I blinked, taken aback. I was so used to wanting any kind of power that I never thought what it would be like to get something like Harrison’s. Not all invisibility could be turned off and on; this might be the last time we saw him.
The meeting wrapped up and the group headed straight for the cake and biscuits, but I wasn’t up for socialising. Most of the people my age had come and gone a long time ago, and the chasm between me and the others in the group was widening exponentially. Some of them hadn’t even started high school.
I managed to spot Harrison’s shirt floating through the crowd. I hugged him awkwardly, trying to track his movements by the faint outlines of his arms.
‘I’m really proud of you, buddy,’ I said.
‘I’m telling you, it’s the HIIT?’ he said. ‘I spent ages focusing on cross-country—’
‘Look in the mirror, you dork,’ I said. I tried to ruffle his hair and ended up accidentally smacking him in the face, so I decided that was my cue.
As I was heading out, Amina grabbed my arm.
‘Are you catching the bus?’ she asked. ‘Can we walk together?’
‘Sure,’ I said automatically. ‘Actually, I don’t know why I said that. I drove, but I can give you a lift home.’
‘Really? I live over in the new subdivision. That’s not too far, is it?’
‘Not at all,’ I lied, glad I’d filled up my car.
Amina was easy to talk to. We were starting at the same university the next week, and both majoring in sociology, which gave me a little thrill. Outside the support group, it could be hard to strike up a conversation with people.
I mean, it’s not like being powerless is a disease but a person’s superpower is that automatic ice-breaker they can rely on when meeting someone new. When you explain that you don’t have any powers, there’s always an awkward pause as the other person works out whether to apologise or pretend they didn’t hear you. As if you just told them you’re grieving the loss of a family member. I’m sure they don’t do it intentionally, but I’ve seen less disgusted expressions when someone takes off their shoes and socks during a flight.
‘You said you’ve been going for six years?’ Amina said, as I sailed through another intersection. ‘How many people have, y’know, levelled up?’
‘I’ve lost count,’ I said, before realising it was another lie. ‘Forty-three, including Harrison.’
‘Jeez.’ She sat back in her seat, quiet for a moment. ‘That must be rough.’
‘I’d like to say it gets easier, but…’ I trailed off with a shrug.
‘I used to think that if I could just fly, everything would be fine,’ Amina said. ‘Then if I could just levitate, it would be fine. If I could just jump really high, it would be fine. If I could just do this, if I could just do that. At this point, I’d be happy with even the most mediocre power. Like, if I could just do the perfect cat-eye or always pick a perfectly-ripe avocado, I would be ecstatic.’
‘Or if you could afford avocado and a house deposit?’ I suggested.
‘Exactly.’
‘Although they’d probably hit you with the Super Tax if you ever let on about the avocados. And then you can say goodbye to that house.’
The drive to Amina’s house was quicker than I expected. At this time of day, the roads should’ve been blocked but I was on the best green-light run of my life. Still, I felt like I’d spent hours in Amina’s company, and there was a pang of regret when we said our goodbyes and she hopped out of the car.
‘Hey,’ I called after her, winding down the window. She turned towards me, shielding her eyes against the light drizzle of rain. ‘Your cat-eye is already pretty perfect.’
She laughed again and waved. Amina was generous with her smiles and laughs, whether out of nerves or because she was just a generally happy person. But I still felt like I’d won a small victory when I said or did something to bring them about. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made a friend my own age who wasn’t already a super.
I drove slowly out of the subdivision, trying to savour the happy buzz, but the light turned green and I left Amina behind.
No one is quite sure when the first superpowers started manifesting; the first case may not have even been reported. All the action films in the world can’t prepare you for the terrifying moment when your own life gets turned upside down. Or so I’ve been told, anyway.
Everyone’s pretty sure about the why, though. Let’s just say big companies shouldn’t be playing with chemicals they don’t understand. And they definitely shouldn’t be letting them spill everywhere like a kids’ chemistry set. But that’s most adults for you, I guess. Just keep doing something dangerous because weapons are more important than actual safety, and keep going until it all blows up in your face. Then blame someone else. Sounds like a plan.
The adults were the first ones with superpowers. Flying. Invisibility. Laser vision. Super hearing. And since it’s something you can’t control or stop, the government decided the best way to deal with it was to impose a new ‘Super Tax’. Fortunately for the government, of all the new powers that manifested, no one was blessed with the ability to outrun the Tax Office.
When the supers started popping out babies, it was a whole big thing. Some of the parents-to-be got reality shows, some were hounded by paparazzi, and most of them were scared out of their wits. Who knew if they could even carry the babies to term? Who knew if the mothers and babies would survive labour? Who knew what kind of lifespan the babies would be looking at, with all these new chemicals in their systems?
Turns out they were just like any other births. Mostly. One woman with heat vision accidentally burnt a hole in the side of a building when her contractions started but that’s what the Super Tax is for.
They called us the Super Generation. Like we were going to change the world from the moment we first drew breath. The thing is, most of us didn’t show any signs of superpowers right at the start. Some got their powers quite young, but most had to wait until puberty hit. And some, like me, were still waiting.
The support group was for members of the Super Generation whose powers had yet to develop. It was kind of a crappy situation, because when someone stopped turning up it meant that they’d gotten their powers. And they were always too busy to stop by and say, ‘Hey, here’s the secret.’
Super is the new normal.
For the longest time, I thought it was a coincidence. It was Amina who pointed out that something strange was going on.
‘This only ever happens when I’m with you,’ she said, as I drove her home from uni one day. ‘Otherwise, I get the worst luck with traffic lights. I’m always stuck for ages.’
I laughed it off as a quirk. I was like one of those people who could always fluke a parking spot right outside the entrance to the shops, or someone who happened to fast-forward through ads on TV to the exact right moment.
Then I started putting it to the test. Every single time I came to a traffic light, it wou
ld turn green and I would move on, sometimes to the screeching of brakes and exasperated yells of other drivers. It didn’t matter whether I was a pedestrian or a driver, whether the lights were on a timer or a sensor. I tried sprinting up to a pedestrian crossing to see if my speed could confuse it. I found deserted streets and tried slamming my foot on the accelerator. As soon as I got within two metres of the nearest traffic light, it changed.
After six weeks, I figured I had to report it. I rocked up to the local Super Department and took a number, scrolling through my phone as I watched people walk up to the counters and demonstrate their superpowers. Most of the younger kids were excited, probably because they didn’t understand how much the Super Tax would siphon from their pay slips in the future.
People in their teens were looking more hostile about the whole situation. Most of them were probably already working casual jobs around uni and school, so the Super Tax hit hard. And for some people—the ones who had abilities that would be useful in reconnaissance or combat—registering as a super meant they were automatically enlisted in the army and required to go wherever the Department saw fit.
As I was flicking through an ancient copy of Women’s Weekly, one girl started screaming about the injustice of being forced to move to Townsville in her final year of high school. She crushed three chairs with her bare hands before security escorted her out of the building, tranquiliser guns at the ready if she broke loose.
Finally, my number flashed on the screen and I was instructed to go to counter 13.
‘WelcometotheSuperDepartmentthanksforwaitingmyname isMargarethowcanIhelpyou?’ the woman behind the counter sighed in one breath.
‘Hi, Margaret. I need to register my abilities,’ I said, unable to stop a little flutter in my stomach. This was it. It was finally happening.
‘Active or passive ability?’
‘Passive,’ I said, handing over my forms.
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