The Legion: Heartson

Grace sat on the cold pavement, her small hands clutching the rough fabric of the blanket draped around her shoulders. It itched against her skin, but she didn't move. She didn't feel much of anything, really. 

Just… cold.

The streetlights buzzed faintly above her, casting long, uneven shadows across the scene. Police cars surrounded her house, their lights flashing wildly. She stared at them, the colors bleeding into her vision until they didn't look like anything at all.

She looked out onto the street, staring at the mangled car. The front bumper crumpled like paper, the shattered windshield like broken stars scattered across the pavement.

Nearby, the driver sat slumped on the curb, his head buried in his hands. His voice was shaky, barely holding together.

Driver: They just… appeared. Outta nowhere.

She stared at him, her eyes burning as the sound echoed in her mind.

Appeared.

Another voice joined in.

Witness: I saw it too. They were just standing there. Right in the middle of the road. Like they fell outta the sky.

Fell. Appeared.

Grace: No.

Her voice came was a whisper, barely audible over the buzz of the streetlights. She didn't realize she'd spoken aloud until a policeman crouched in front of her. 

Policeman: Hey. It's going to be alright. I don't want you to feel like this was your fault. 

The words made her flinch.

Not my fault?

Her nails bit into her palms, hard enough to hurt.

They're wrong.

Her fingers curled tighter into fists. Pain was easier than this. Easier than thinking.

The policeman's hand landed gently on her shoulder. It felt heavy, like it was pinning her in place.

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Grace didn't remember much about the ride to Haven's Light Foundation. The car had been quiet, the policeman's attempts at comfort falling flat.

In her hands she held the bloodied branch. The officer's didn't know why she had it, or where it had come from, but they didn't ask either. Grace clutched it quietly in the back seat, rubbing the rough wood against her soft face.

When they arrived, the first thing she noticed was the smell. Stale air mixed with faint traces of bleach and mildew. The sign above the entrance hung crooked, its letters faded from years of neglect.

This is it, then?

She stepped through the doors and was greeted by an unwelcoming hallway. The floors were scuffed, the paint peeling. Children shuffled past her, their faces blank, eyes dull. A woman in a crisp uniform gestured her forward, her expression a mix of boredom and annoyance.

Staffer: Come on, let's get this over with. Follow me.

Grace obeyed without a word, her small bag clutched tightly in her hands. The woman led her to a cramped room with a metal-framed bed, a rickety desk, and a small window covered with bars.

Staffer: This is yours now. Dinner's at six. Don't be late.

The door shut behind her with a loud clang, and just like that, Grace was alone.

The days that followed blurred together. The staff treated the children like nuisances, barking orders and dealing out punishments for the smallest infractions. The other kids weren't much better. There was a hierarchy here, and the older children made sure everyone knew it.

Grace kept her head down at first. She ate her meals in silence, avoided confrontation, and spent her free time staring out the barred window. But the weight in her chest never lifted.

And then there was the ability. That strange, terrifying power she barely understood.

She didn't know how it worked or why it had happened, but one thing was certain—she could do it again.

It started small. A staffer yelled at her for being late to lunch, slamming his hand on the table. Grace didn't react. She just stared at him, her fists clenched, before reaching out and touching him. 

The man's tray disappeared from his hands, landing several feet away. He froze, looking at her with wide eyes, but she just turned and walked away.

The next time, it was deliberate. Another staffer tried to grab her arm, and suddenly, they were across the room, stumbling into a chair. Grace didn't stop to see their reaction. She just kept moving forward.

Slowly but surely, she used her ability to elevate herself. Reversing actions, that's what she figured her ability was. Combining this ability with the wooden branch, which she had carefully carved into a large staff, Grace was unstoppable, even to the adults.

Word spread quickly. The other children started whispering about Grace, the little girl with the strange wooden staff. Even the faculty began to become cautious around her, their bark losing its bite. Grace found herself at the center of everything. The ruler of this space, her space.

But just as she had gained control over her new life, that man came along, to thrust her back into the real world.

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After Kazuki took Grace from the foundation, the young girl didn't know a day of peace. This day in particular was no different.

The morning air was crisp as Grace trudged behind Kazuki. Her wooden staff was clutched tightly in her hands, her knuckles pale against the dark grain. She hated the weight of it. She hated the feel of it. Yet she refused to let it go.

Kazuki walked ahead, his gait leisurely despite the mountainous terrain. He hummed a tune under his breath, his cane tapping against the uneven ground in a steady rhythm. Every now and then, he glanced back at her, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement.

Kazuki: You're dragging your feet again, little miss. Pick up the pace! A powerful gal like you shouldn't be this slow.

Grace scowled, her grip tightening on the staff. She wanted to snap back, to tell him to shut up, but she didn't. Instead, she trudged on, her boots crunching against the gravel path.

Kazuki: Ah, the silent treatment. Kakakaka! That's fine. Your legs will hate you more than I will.

I already hate you.

Her body already ached from the hours of climbing he'd forced her through. And the worst part was the training hadn't even started yet.

By the time they reached the clearing, the sun had risen high, its light piercing through the canopy above. Kazuki stopped, leaning on his cane as he surveyed the area. Grace stood behind him, her eyes darting around the open space.

Kazuki: This'll do.

He turned to her, his grin as wide as ever.

Kazuki: Alright. Show me what you've worked on little miss. Don't go easy on me just 'cause you love me so much.

Grace didn't answer. She planted her feet, her fingers flexing against the wood of her staff. Reversion stirred, that's what Kazuki had called it, The Astral of Reversion. 

Kazuki: Good. Focus. Control.

His tone was calm, but Grace felt the challenge in his words. She gritted her teeth, her heart pounding as the energy built within her. Then, with a sharp cry, she appeared behind him, swinging the staff toward him.

Kazuki dodged easily. 

Kazuki: Too slow!

She activated it again, her staff a blur as she struck again and again, hoping to catch the old man off guard.

Kazuki deflected, scowling.

Kazuki: You're not thinking. You're just swinging. Where's the intent?

Grace: Shut up!

Her voice cracked as she swung harder. Kazuki sidestepped, catching the staff mid-swing, 

Kazuki: Enough.

Grace struggled against him, her chest heaving, but he didn't let go. His eyes bored into hers.

Kazuki: Why are you so angry?

Grace froze, her breath hitching. She tried to pull away, but Kazuki held firm.

Kazuki: Why?

Grace looked away, her jaw clenched. She didn't want to answer. She didn't want to say it out loud.

Kazuki: Grace.

His voice was softer now, but it cut her into pieces.

Kazuki: Talk to me.

For a moment, the clearing was silent. Then, slowly, Grace's grip on the staff loosened. Her shoulders sagged as she let out a shaky breath.

Grace: I'm… 

Kazuki tilted his head, his expression unreadable.

Kazuki: Go on.

Grace: I'm… I'm the reason… I'm… It turned me into…You turned me into…

Her voice broke. She gripped the staff tighter, her nails digging into the wood.

Grace: I'm a killer aren't I…

She closed her eyes, the memory of that night washing over her like a wave.

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She saw it again, clear as day.

Her father's voice.

Father: Go to your room. Now.

Grace had felt the anger swell in her small body, her hands trembling as they reached out. She hadn't meant for it to happen—not at first. But as her fingers stretched toward him, he vanished. Gone. Just like that.

Her mother's gasp rang out. Grace turned to her, her hands still outstretched. The anger didn't leave. It built, growing hotter, consuming her. Her tiny fingers moved instinctively, and her mother disappeared too.

Seconds later, the crash.

The sound of shattering glass, the grinding of metal twisting and crumpling, and the silence that followed.

I did that. I made them disappear.

And that's when she finally noticed the tree branch.

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The night had grown unnervingly quiet. The police had offered their hollow reassurances, their words blurred together. They'd wrapped up their investigation quickly, too quickly, labeling the event as a freak accident.

Her parents had simply appeared in the middle of the street, as if they had rewinded to that very position. That's how the officers saw it—a bizarre, inexplicable event that defied logic. 

In her small hands, she gripped the large splintered tree branch. It had fallen from the very tree the driver's car had struck. 

Grace waited, her green eyes locked onto the ground as the last of the police cars disappeared into the distance. When the coast was clear, and no eyes were left to watch, she moved.

The driver sat on the curb, his head in his hands, oblivious to her approach. She gripped the tree branch tightly, her small frame trembling as she stepped closer. 

She raised the branch high and brought it down with all the strength she could muster. 

The first blow stunned him, his head snapping forward. The second sent him sprawling. She kept going, her vision blurring as she poured every ounce of her anger, her pain, into each strike. 

By the time she stopped, her arms hung limp at her sides, the branch slick with blood. The driver's body lay crumpled before her. 

The driver's skull was caved in, fragments of bone jutting out at jagged angles. Dark blood pooled beneath his head, seeping into the cracks of the pavement. Chunks of brain matter clung to the splintered wood of Grace's branch, while others spilled from the gaping wound, oozing like some grotesque sludge. His face was unrecognizable, his features smeared into something uncomfortably inhuman.

She stared at him, her chest heaving. She had hoped with the driver's death, the source of her rage would be dampened, but that pain in her chest, that burn only grew. 

Irritated, she turned her head, leaving the scene.

The stars above blinked faintly, but the little girl didn't bother looking up.