Crack

  Fibonacci sang with the crackling. “Don’t listen to them. Prophecy is only inevitable because we believe it is!”

  Peter dove, aiming for the cage on the right. He transformed as he fell.

  Less mass meant less chance of getting stuck with shrapnel.

  The cage exploded, sending daggers of glass in every direction. One stuck in his lower half.

  “Shit.”

  He had no idea what would happen if he turned back now. He was dead if he didn’t.

  Peter transformed. The shard became a bullet, puncturing the cage beside him.

  He had always been too scared to test what would happen if he was impaled as a pineapple.

  Now he had an idea.

  Where he had first spotted the cages, dozens of Bureaucrats in worn-out suits appeared. They aimed boxy rifles and spoke to each other in tactical signs.

  They surrounded Fibonacci, keeping a short distance, then opened fire.

  She met them without hesitation.

  Dodging lines of bullets, she moved low. Her spine twisted into origami. She moved like an animal, sprinting perpendicularly to the ground.

  Peter heard her spine breaking and rearranging itself. He swallowed his vomit.

  It was the sound of a thousand breaking bones. Skeletons playing xylophones.

  Piles of paper begin to collapse. The room span like a merry-go-round.

  He refused to lose sight of her. The fear that she would somehow appear in front of him was too strong.

  Fibonacci surged forward. For the first time in forever, she left that small space where her cage had stood.

  A few snipers managed to hit their target. The bullets spun against her skin. Before it could break, they danced away.

  The worst shot is the accidental tragedy.

  At the Bureau of Prophecy, trainees are taught to always rely on the process. While one squad shoots, the other reloads.

  They almost finished reloading when a hailstorm of bullets stopped them.

  Fibonacci admonished them quietly. “Oh dear, being good enough is only mediocrity with tact. I won’t stand for it”

  She leapt out of their sight propelled by a leaning precipice of documents. Using her power to let collapse beneath her. It propelled her like a river.

  More Bureaucrats were pouring in. Peter lost track of Fibonacci.

  He only saw the bodies. They never saw it coming.

  She could be behind him.

  He panicked and began to claw at the small hole in the glass in front of him - shrieking the entire time.

  “Rush, Rush, Get out here.” His voice cracked; he ignored it. “Hurry!”

  Rush looked through the dime-sized hole at Peter. She could hear gunfire and danger past his terrified face.

  He was in the way; she couldn’t see the danger like this.

  “Move Pineapple-brain!” She was already charging.

  Peter stepped out of the way as Rush plowed through the glass effortlessly. Shrapnel fell to the ground in front of her harmlessly.

  She turned to Peter, too focused on combat to question why he was here.

  “What’s going on?”

  Peter looked at her with a grimace. “It's my fault, I didn’t mean to…” He trailed off.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Rush stated. “Right now, we gotta get out of here.”

  She grabbed Peter by the arm and pulled him forward.

  He was acting strange, muttering with a glazed expression on his face.

  She slapped him hard.

  “Come on, we gotta go!”

  In less time than it had taken for him to get slapped, Fibonacci crossed the room. She tipped a mountain over. Then stepping on a file cabinet, rode the slab of debris like a toboggan.

  With a subtle tap of her toe the debris changed direction, homing in towards Rush.

  Fibonacci stepped off, leaving only feet between her and them.

  The sled broke against Rush as she glared at it - like a wave on the shoreline.

  It filled her eyeline for less than a second.

  Thin fingers clasped her wrist.

  The pain in her arm was unreal. This was different than any schoolyard fight.

  One look at her aggressor made that clear. She could be killed here.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  She wanted to close her eyes but stopped herself.

  “Don’t blink or it's over”

  Her arm twisted and Rush heard a pop as the socket gave. Instinctively she looked at her limb, horrified to see the wrong side.

  “Don’t you dare touch him” Fibonacci hissed. She studied Rush’s arm and then her eyes.

  “Delightful. The effect stopped as soon as you saw the injury. Still, I've learned enough.”

  She clicked her tongue. “I bet you’re popular.”

  Rush pulled against her trying to ignore the pain, but her eyes began to fill with tears. Struggling made it tough to keep her eyes open.

  She had always thought she would grit her teeth if she was ever injured. Instead, she gasped.

  That pissed her off, so she spit and kicked instead. The grunts of pain meant it was worth it. The spittle dripping down Fibonacci’s face doubly so.

  “I tried. Sometimes punishment is the best teacher” The woman said.

  Bruises were already appearing on her shins as Rush battered her.

  Her face contorted.

  “What would you do for the one you love?”

  Rush felt her shoes unravel as they pressed into her captor. They were too low for her to see them.

  For the second time this week, Rush flipped head over heels and landed on her face.

  She tumbled away from her aggressor, losing track of her in the bouncing. By the time she could make sense of the room, it was too late.

  She felt a breath on the back of her neck.

  Fibonacci whispered, “I’ll go as far as I can, I don’t mind. I won’t forget her.”

  Her words pressed into Rush’s brain. Her finger hovered above her scalp.

  “I heard you in the other room, you’re very loud. Worse you're ungrateful. That man loves you.”

  She was right. Rush felt ungrateful. Stockton hadn’t slept since she beat the principal. Probably earlier.

  His sweat was on her back. She was a horrible ward. No, a horrible person. Her thoughts spun out. She remembered the snarky comments.

  How many times had she taken him for granted.

  Her eyelids grew heavy. She wanted to sleep. To be alone. She didn’t deserve help.

  Fibonacci tittered, “it’s always what we hide from ourselves.”

  Peter watched as Rush was wrenched away maybe ten feet away from him. She had stopped fighting.

  He called out to her. He had no idea why he said it. Maybe he was upset she seemed so willing to quit.

  “if you die here, you’ll never beat me.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Behind her more Bureaucrats were swarming. They were too far away to help.

  Peter gave up and turned into a pineapple.

  In moments Fibonacci’s thin finger would touch Rush. She would never be a hero, and it was his fault.

  She wasn’t invincible. She was just a student like he was.

  If he had just helped her run. Instead, he relied on her. He led her straight to a monster.

  Was this what his survival meant to him? Hiding?

  Fruit left on the shelf to rot.

  No, survival was pointless without things going to plan. That meant he and Rush had to escape together. The plan had failed. So what.

  Improvisation is just planning quickly.

  Peter transformed and took stock. Around him he saw broken filing cabinets, forgotten books, and collapsing stacks of paper.

  He could make do.

  Peter grabbed a musty dictionary splayed out on the floor and held it to his chest. It was heavy, good.

  “It’s a long shot,” he thought “my only proof was that shard of glass...”

  Peter threw the dictionary ahead. The timing would be tight. He leapt forward transforming midair. Hoping for the sensation of collision.

  He felt his soft flesh press against the dictionary.

  He forced himself to wait. If he transformed now the angle would be off.

  A moment and then,

  Thump.

  His emerging mass became gunpower. He lost control and spiraled into a pile of newspapers.

  The dictionary shot forward like a bullet.

  The weight of 171,476 words slammed against Fibonacci. The impact sent her reeling.

  Her nose cracked along the base. It had been a while since she felt pain.

  Peter scrambled up. Rush was only feet away from him.

  Lucky shot.

  He ran over to her and shook her by the shoulders. She looked past him.

  “Rush, come on. We gotta go.”

  Rush stared at him with glassy eyes. Peter swore.

  She was catatonic. He was a fruit in a warzone with a vegetable. If he had the breath he’d laugh.

  He could see Fibonacci sprawled in a pile of extension cords. He doubted it would hold her for long.

  Peter slipped his phone from his pocket. This morning the screen was smudged but intact. Now it was a mess of broken pixels and cracks.

  Peter didn’t care. The camera still worked.

  He opened the app and turned the phone around. Showing her an image of herself.

  The bad thoughts began to drain from her as she saw herself. She looked pitiful. It pissed her off.

  Fibonacci patted the extension cords tangled around her. The knots undid themselves. She stood up, the wires fell without a tangle.

  That boy had surprised her. Somehow, he hurt her.

  She touched her broken nose, letting it shatter into perfect alignment. She hummed to herself, a simple rendition of Ring Around the Rosies.

  The pain was gone. Her nose would never look the same, not that she cared.

  She looked around but the children were already running past the Bureaucrats. There would be other opportunities if the avalanches didn’t get them.

  They all fall down.

  She increased her pace, zig-zagging from one stack of forgotten busy work to another.

  Each time she brought one down she could hear the screams of bureau sheep as they drowned in their own paperwork.

  Notecards and shredded documents filled the air like a smoke screen. She could see through the cracks perfectly.

  Carefully routing herself, she could just reach out and touch them.

  Frank Mathews felt his leg rupture from the knee. Pity he only had one more surgery to go.

  Bonnie Smith’s head popped off like a Lego. Her chiropractor warned her about her weak neck.

  Jerry Collins was dumped last week. He was found in the fetal position crying the name of his ex. He hasn’t said a word since.

  When the Nimbus was constructed, flexible tubing had been placed along static sheets to make a structure. They weaved around the plates like muscles.

  Over time they had begun to wear.

  Easy enough to find them. She systematically picked apart the room. It seemed random, but she kept track by counting. She visualized a grid and assigned numeric value to each section.

  Section 3, then 5, then 8, 13.

  She found it. A maintenance hatch open on its hinges. An Indication of wear.

  The floor began to part for her. Fractures appeared from micro cracks. Concrete that was solid moment ago became dust. She fell ten feet, then twenty.

  She reached out to air pressure beneath her. It was balanced too far to the left.

  She let it intensify; a vacuum of air caught her outstretched hand. She caught it moments before crashing to the ground of the maintenance deck.

  Finally, Fibonacci found what she was looking for. This section of tubing had become threadbare.

  She had no doubts about her landing. The ground was never perfect.

  She placed her palm against the floor.

  The room exploded as it depressurized. A hurricane of office supplies swallowed the inhabitants in its path.

  Peter was buried. An old newspaper rambling about the annual Prophecy Parade crowded his nose.

  Just another reminder of everything he had ruined.

  It had been his fault. He made that scratch. He wandered away when his dad had told him to stay put.

  He wondered if he had done what had been expected of him, if things would be different.

  His idea about being a survivor was middle school martyrdom. Something a twelve-year-old wrote while bored in class.

  The real world didn’t care about good intentions. It followed through with facts and reality.

  Peter had plenty of time to realize he had fucked up.

  Hours later, the victims were retrieved by agents of the Bureau. Peter was sent back to his dad’s office who looked at him with dead eyes.

  “They found you in a restricted area. They can’t prove you did anything illegal, so they let you go.”

  Peter tried to apologize but Flint just shook his head.

  “Later, I’m just glad you’re ok.”

  He pulled Peter against his cheap button-up.

  Flint began to shake. He hadn’t even realized his son had wandered off, and then the office imploded.

  “I’m a shit employee and a worse dad. I’m sorry Pete.”

  His dad always called him Pete. But he never apologized. Something was different.

  Flint swallowed tears; he wouldn’t give up control.

  “I’ve been fired.”

  Peter tried to explain, but his father’s chest pressed against his mouth, stopped him.

  He usually loved his dad’s hugs. They were awkward and warm.

  Peter was cold.