my junkyard

“Is it okay that I don’t hate you like I hate most people?”

How do you train a child with super strength? You work him to the bone, make him lift heavy things under worsening circumstances until he drops. He will inevitably collapse, out of exhaustion, or weakness, or fear, eyes wide with shame, shying away from your disappointment. When this happens you give him a stern look and tell him, “Number One, you’re the leader. You should be better than this.” 

How do you train a child who can hold his breath underwater and control the trajectory of weapons? You hold him in a glass tank, nothing but the scratching of your pen taking notes and the dull thunks of knives being thrown at him. He sometimes forgets to hold his breath as he twists another dagger from his face and bangs desperately on the glass ceiling. He screams, shouts, sobs, “L-let me o-out!” You watch in disappointment, unlocking the tank and sighing at the wet, shivering form at your feet. “Number Two, If you ever want to be better than Number One you must be strong,” you reprimand with no warmth in your voice. 

How do you train a child who can bend minds with her voice? You make her talk until her voice is scratchy and hoarse, make sure she has no reservations of her power. She will beg you to stop, beg you to not do this, but you will force her anyways. It is for the better of this world, you tell yourself as you make her cough out the command. The nanny is panicked when she slices her finger off, but not as terrified as the crying child in your hold. You drag her away from the bleeding employee and make the annoyance known in your voice, “Number Three, you cannot let your emotions and fears get in the way of your job.” 

How do you train a child who can see and talk to the dead? You lock him in the mausoleum, heavy door clicking with the lock. His fear of ghosts is irrational. You must condition him out of it if he is to ever be useful to your prestigious academy. He scratches at the walls and writes nonsensical phrases on the floor in his own blood. He clings to the hem of your pants when you open the door, tears mixing with blood as he shouts at you to please, please, please let me out. “Another hour, Number Four,” you tell him and shut the door on his screams. 

How do you train a child who can summon portals though space and time? You make him jump, faster and longer every time. He will puke at the end, on his knees and spewing vomit with drops of water lining his eyes. You force him to his feet and make him go again, no interruptions this time. Sometimes he will try to run from the course you’ve set up, act mouthy with you when you catch him again. You will hit him, again and again and again, look him in his tired eyes and say, “You have a job, Number Five. And that job is to listen to me.” 

How do you train a child with monsters in his stomach? You set up a reinforced room, numerous ways to subdue the small boy huddled in the corner. You have a wary staff member pull up the child’s shirt and watch the tentacles pour out from your safe perch behind the sturdy glass. They rip into the employee, training dummies, and everything else in the room as the child sniffles and rubs at his head. He will fall to the ground and try to shove his shirt down, but he will fail because he’s too weak compared to the terrors he can summon. You will use you security robots to hold him down and look down at his trembling form with a sneer. “Number Six, you need to grow up and take control.” 

How do you train a child with sound powers too catastrophic to release? You don’t. You can’t control her, not like the other children. She’s strong willed and strong powered, something you haven’t seen before. The room is expensive to build but you make it anyways, locking her powers and the girl inside herself. Inside her head. She will never get out now, you know. forever tossed to the sidelines with no idea how strong you could possibly be. You don’t say anything. You have more important things to do, pushing her out of the way. “Move aside, Number Seven, I have to talk with your siblings,” you tell her, and don’t look down when she falls to the ground under the force of your push.