"Upon my twelfth year, I, of my own volition, pledge my life, my labor, and my loyalty to Finisterra. I surrender all claims to personal autonomy, for the prosperity of humanity and the enduring glory of the Director's vision."—Excerpt from the Finisterra Contract, Article I, Section IV
He walked on the ceiling. The ceiling. The damned ceiling. Merrick replayed it in his mind, over and over, but the memory still rattled him to the core. And it wasn't just that—he'd thrown that chair across the room as if gravity itself had bent to his will.
Who is this kid? The question screamed in his head, relentless and unforgiving. He sat in the observation room where he'd been stationed for the past ten days, scrutinizing the boy's every move. He'd synchronized his sleep schedule with the boy's, ensuring he never missed a moment. Why hadn't he done it again? Was he hiding something, or was it something else entirely? Merrick needed answers—desperately.
How had he done it? A visual trick? Merrick dismissed the thought almost instantly. It couldn't be. He'd watched through cameras, and cameras didn't hallucinate. There was no logical explanation, and that only made it worse. The more he thought about it, the more the impossibility gnawed at him.
The stress of it all was getting to him. Merrick had sent a messenger to deliver his findings to Frostvault's Arbiter. The messenger had returned battered, one arm broken, with a curt and chilling message for Merrick: "Find out his secret."
The Arbiters were powerful, their judgments swift and absolute, but rarely did they issue commands shrouded in such ominous overtones. It made sense, though. Arbiters, for all their authority, were machines rooted in logic and reality. Fletcher's ability seemed to defy both, igniting a violent, almost primal curiosity within the Arbiter.
Merrick hadn't made audience with the Arbiter himself about this, and truthfully, he didn't want one. He hadn't left the observation center since the boy's arrival, delegating his usual duties to his subordinate Sentinels. His sole focus now was unraveling the mystery that had landed in his lap.
Seven days. That's how long it took for the boy to demonstrate something similar to his initial display. Merrick had watched as Fletcher seemingly overloaded the light—not physically, but telepathically. Or at least, that's what it looked like. But telepathy didn't exist. Right? Merrick's grasp on what was possible—what was real—had begun to crumble under the weight of observation.
Boy? That wasn't entirely accurate. DNA scans had revealed Fletcher was nineteen years old—a man. Yet he looked far younger, his short stature and unkempt blonde hair projecting an air of immaturity. His slight frame was likely a result of poor nutrition on Teve IV. If he was even from there. Some of the evacuees said they recognized him but couldn't provide a name. And none of them mentioned having seen any hint of the abilities he was now displaying.
And then there was the pod. His had arrived last, not with the others but after—and not arrived, exactly. Crashed. Had something gone wrong during his escape? Or had something else happened to him while he fled? Fletcher's reluctance to use his ability was clear, almost as if he feared it. Was it possible he didn't fully understand it himself? If so, Merrick realized this could take a while—watching the prisoner navigate and discover his own paracausal power.
Merrick needed to give Fletcher a reason to keep using his ability, and fortunately, he had found one: the light. Fletcher hated it. The last time they spoke, he had practically begged Merrick to turn it off, his frustration evident in every word.
Since then, Fletcher had already managed to break the light again. Merrick smirked at the thought. He planned to have it repaired while Fletcher slept, resetting the cycle. It might drive the kid mad, but it was a necessary step. Pushing Fletcher to his limits might compel him to use his abilities again—perhaps even reveal aspects of his power that Merrick had yet to see.
Was there more to it? Could this strange ability extend beyond manipulating energy or gravity? Merrick's curiosity burned brighter with each passing day. He intended to find out, no matter what it took.
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The light. The damned light. Why did they keep fixing it? Did they not realize it was driving him crazy? No—they knew. This was exactly what they wanted. They wanted to break him, to pry out the secrets he held—or at least the secrets they thought he held. Arlo still didn't understand the nature of his abilities. He could tell them about the threads, how they seemed to respond to him, but that wasn't what they wanted to hear. They wanted to know how he got these powers, what they were capable of, and why they worked the way they did. He couldn't answer those questions. He didn't know himself.
Well, that wasn't entirely true. He had narrowed down the only possible event that could have led to his experience in the web of existence: the closing wormhole.
The countdown had read zero when he went through it. He'd hit it at the exact moment it closed. Had the resulting collision hurled him somewhere? Somewhere outside natural reality? Could that event have granted him the ability to see the threads? And was manipulating the threads merely a side effect of perceiving them? All questions without answers, circling endlessly in his mind.
But his captors weren't interested in his questions. They wanted answers—or at the very least, they wanted demonstrations.
Arlo studied the threads around the room again. One in particular caught his attention. It behaved differently than the rest. Each type had its own distinct behavior, but this one vibrated in a peculiar way. It reminded him of the energy thread, which reacted to things that used power—like the light—growing brighter and flickering more the closer it got to such sources—or perhaps they are the source and more together means more energy. This thread, however, seemed linked to sound. Every time Arlo moved or tapped his fingers, it vibrated slightly more in response. It resonated faintly with the ambient noise in the room.
What could he do with such a thread? He wasn't sure yet, but he intended to find out. If his captors were so desperate for a show, he'd give them one—on his terms.
He sat in the corner, back pressed against the wall. He considered standing but dismissed the thought. There was no need. He would remain seated for this. Closing his eyes, he focused on the idea of the thread, and soon, many threads appeared in the room and around him, responding once again to his will to perceive them.
They were faint, emitting almost no light. Of course, it made sense. The room was nearly silent, leaving the threads with little to respond to. Arlo drummed his fingers lightly against the floor, and the threads near his hand vibrated slightly in response to the noise.
Focusing on one particular strand, he struck the floor with his fist, creating a louder noise that caused the thread to shake more violently. Without hesitation, he grabbed the thread with intensity. His grip stopped its vibration, and the sound from the impact vanished. Had he silenced the noise itself? Curious, he let go of the thread, and as his hand released it, the string quivered faintly, emitting a soft, indistinct hum. It was a noise, albeit one without a clear origin—a vibration that lingered in the air.
Testing his theory, Arlo struck the floor again, this time moving quickly to seize the thread. Just like before, the sound ceased the moment his hand enclosed around it. He was right. This thread controlled sound. It could halt it—and, as he just discovered, it could create it.
Gripping the thread once more, Arlo moved it gently. A faint, indistinct sound emerged, seemingly emanating from where he held the thread. He experimented further, noticing that the size and force of his movements directly influenced the noise. Larger, sharper motions produced louder, more resonant sounds.
He knew he might regret what he was about to do, but his captors wanted a show.
Tightening his grip on the thread, he lifted it high before snapping it downward like a whip. The thread shook violently, and the resulting noise was deafening—a sharp, concussive blast that left his ears ringing. Arlo immediately released the thread, wincing at the lingering pain in his head. For a few moments, he sat in silence, the room heavy with the aftermath of the sound's intensity.
He now understood the workings of three distinct threads, though he had yet to revisit the first one he had discovered: the gravity thread. A realization began to take hold. This ability—this power—was not just a curiosity or a burden. It was a weapon, a tool he could wield to his advantage. But to use it effectively, he needed practice. He had to understand how the threads worked, how they responded to his manipulations, and what different pulls and pushes could achieve.
Merrick would be watching. Of that, Arlo was certain. Merrick had made it obvious he wanted to see more. Why else would they keep repairing the light, knowing full well that Arlo could destroy it again? They weren't just observing him; they were trying to understand him.
Yes, displaying his abilities would give them what they wanted, but it might also give him something far more valuable: a way to escape.