Foundling 428

Veins expanding, pulsing with the movement of blood from her extremities back to her heart. The colour of her forearm seemed to shift with each pulse, as if the pigments of her skin were grains of sand, continually manipulated by whatever force now lay within her. Various shades of blue spread across her arm, reaching up to her elbow, and then stopping, rearranging, and shifting once again; always contained within the same area – for now.

How much longer until the transformation is complete? What will I become?

These were the sole thoughts that echoed through the mind of Lyra Porter, reverberating through her brain, magnified by the absence of other problems that had once been deemed important. These days, fear monopolized her mind. Her transfer to Foundling Sector 37 had been completed that afternoon, and even the grief of being stripped from Piper and Faye – her only remaining connections to this world – had been overwhelmed by the fear of what would happen to her once her gift developed.

Lyra blinked and saw a field of grass, misty from the morning dew, the latter of which began to expand in her mind’s eye – growing and absorbing until it seemed the entire world could be viewed through the lens of this single rain drop. Great, thought Lyra, another nightmare. Although can they be called nightmares while I am awake? Flashbacks, perhaps? Lyra lay down on the single cot provided for her in the narrow room she had been corralled into, letting her mind wander once again to the day of The Dew.

It didn’t take much effort to travel back, as is the case with most transformational moments in our lives. Transformational? More like traumatic, thought Lyra, as she mentally berated herself for letting her mind travel back to this day while simultaneously feeling helpless to stop it. Sure enough, as soon as she closed her eyes, she was back at the farm house. She smelled eggs and paprika, an unusual smell for some, perhaps, but a distinct memory connected to her mother. It’s funny the details that your mind remembers from days such as that one – imprinting seems too weak a word for this type of memory formation.

Lyra heard the scream before she reached the kitchen. She instinctively reached up to caress the golden heart-shaped locket containing her parent’s picture, as if knowing on some subconscious level that she needed to hold onto them, and ran. She threw open the kitchen door, but there had been nothing she could do. Her parents lay before her, blackened veins running up their arms and necks, contrasting their skin, which somehow had gone sickeningly pale in their instant deaths.

“Hey, 428!”

Lyra’s thoughts were interrupted by the agitated yell of a guard, apparently referring to her, which she realized when she looked down and noticed the small, hand-stitched yellow digits sewn onto the upper left pocket of her new foundling prisoner wardrobe. If only my mom could see me now in this horrible gray jumpsuit, thought Lyra, as she stood up to face the guard who had yelled at her.

She turned to face him, taking in his navy military-cut pants and skin-tight blue shirt before her eyes processed the brown, leather-strapped rifle hanging over his shoulder. His belt bore the gold insignia of the Foundling sector – a vein branching off to form the roots of a tree, supposedly representing the “gifts” of those who came to stay here. If stay means being detained and treated like animals, thought Lyra, as her eyes finally made their way up to his face, taking in his stubbled chin and determined hazel eyes trained on her with a look that could be interpreted as either focus or fury.

“Can I help you?” Lyra responded, having determined from the moment of her arrival not to show signs of the fear that was beginning to envelop her from within. “You have to report to the assessment centre now for further processing”, the guard clipped back, barely maintaining eye contact with her. Perhaps they don’t think I am worth looking at here either. They treat us like animals anyway.

Lyra sighed and stood up from her cot, following the guard across the compound to this so-called assessment centre. This is where they will test my abilities, or at the very least examine my blood markers, Lyra reflected, as she followed him closely, taking in the multiple rows of gray concrete buildings similar to the one she had just left.

As they walked, Lyra found her mind drifting back once again, contemplating the events that had led her to this uncertain, if not terrifying, road that lay ahead of her. The day her parents died had now become known as the day of The Dew. They still didn’t know what had caused it, but scientists had determined that whatever it was, wherever it originated, it was transmitted through moisture in the air. All that was known, as least to her knowledge, was that 3 years and 25 days ago, the day of The Dew changed countless lives – if not the world.

While some, like her parents, had died instantly, their bodies rejecting whatever chemical component had evaporated into the air around them and entered their system, others reacted drastically differently. Among those who survived, strange reactions had begun to emerge, slowly at first, so that people thought they were going crazy, but then in steadily rising numbers, until main physiological reactions to The Dew had been identified.

There were the Vanities, physically altered by The Dew to be more beautiful than they were before – noticeably so. Then there were the Generators, those who developed the ability to not only control, but also create electrical currents in the form of shocks upon contact, or summoning lightning. This had resulted in an increase in unnatural weather phenomenon and deaths caused by electrical overload when they came into contact with others, accidentally or homicidally, as many newspapers had spent countless resources reporting.

The Imaginists were the third group to emerge, as there existed a diversity within their classification that led to a more complicated definition of these altered individuals. The “gifts” of these individuals, as they were now known, varied according to the person, supposedly indicating a unique genetic reaction to the still mystified components of The Dew. Some were able to think of objects that would suddenly appear, others would imagine unique animal combinations that would all of a sudden walk into the room.

Things that had never existed before were appearing all over the place, and it seemed as though the world could not keep up with their classification. Whatever the Imaginists created, they were also able to control, and this power made them the most highly targeted population for government assessment and experimentation. The verdict still appeared to be out on whether or not society was to respect of fear them, and reactions had been mixed towards these individuals who were altered in some way, not only for Imaginists, but also for the Generators, the Vanities to a lesser extent – and the Foundlings.

“In here” grumbled the guard, and Lyra was awakened from her reflection by a shove forward into a narrow alley. “Keep walking and enter the white door at the end of the lane. You won’t be able to get back out.” muttered the guard before locking a black metal gate behind her. Lyra turned and examined the alley before her. The brown dirt roads of the Sector housing area had morphed into a grey cobblestone path, and ahead lay a white door with no handle. They must have known she was coming, for as she approached the door, it opened for her and a gloved hand ushered her in. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sudden brightness of her surroundings.

It wasn’t just the door – everything here was white – Lyra realized, taking in the high dome-shaped ceilings and various laboratory rooms that branched off, lab-coated individuals rushing about. The gloved hands at the door belonged to a tall, lanky woman who apparently went by the name Dr. Marsham, according to her nametag. Before Lyra could finish properly assessing her surroundings, Dr. Marsham had led her into one of the laboratory rooms, giving her a blue gown to change into, and closed the door.

Lyra couldn’t help but notice how similarly the colour of the gown resembled the blue pattern on her arm, now extending past her elbow and forearm up to her armpit, the pigments continually rearranging into different blue hues. This is why she was here. This is why all the Foundlings were here. It was a year ago when the newspapers reported the discovery of the first Foundling. It had been accepted that the reactions to The Dew fit into three discovered categories, and division of these altered individuals according to their group membership was well underway by the government.

The first Foundling identification had taken everyone by surprise. No one knew what they were yet, only that two years after The Dew, select individuals began to wake up to feel their veins attacking their body from within, delivering some substance into their system that resulted in colorful physical transformations of their pigmentation.

Some had the markings on their arms, others on their legs or neck, but all were similar in that these transformations grew and spread until the individual developed a new gift, then disappeared. Many Foundlings eventually transitioned into Generators or Vanities, leading experts to conclude that they were to be observed and monitored until the process of their physical transformation and gift development was more clearly understood.

Lyra was unsure as to whether or not a Foundling had ever transitioned into an Imaginist, and if they had, she had never heard of one. She had no inkling as to what her gift may be, or what would be done to her if and when a gift was discovered. A stupid mistake - a slipped sleeve - had identified her, and a cashier had phoned her in. Within a day, authorities were at her door to collect her, tearing her from the only family that remained.

Lyra refused to think about this now. Tears were welled up in her eyes at the thought of Piper and Faye, and she shoved them away, knowing she needed a clear mind for what lay ahead. It was at this moment that Dr. Marsham re-entered the room, explaining something about needing to conduct a series of routine tests.

Lyra felt her heart begin to race as the doctor approached the blue hue of her forearm with a needle, intent on drawing blood. The room began to pulsate with interchanging light and darkness, and Lyra began to see a dark black substance emerge in the centre of the room, seemingly appearing from thin air.

The substance expanded, opening wider and wider, and Lyra shoved away from the doctor, desperate to flee from the enveloping darkness. Lyra shoved Dr. Marsham back, feeling the needle pull from her arm and watching a spot of blood drop to the floor as if caught in slow motion. Her eyes connected with the doctor’s briefly, processing her panicked expression as she fell backward into the mass behind her.

Suddenly, the darkness seemed to become brittle, shattering into what seemed like a million pieces. Lyra doubled over, heaving to catch her breath, in an empty room. The doctor, Lyra thought, unable to fully comprehend what had happened. That can’t have happened. I must have imagined this. Where is she?! Lyra scanned the room quickly, her hands brushing once more over the heart-shaped locket at her throat, as she was prone to do in moments of panic.

I imagined it.

The realization dawned on her slowly, and as she turned to grab her clothes along with the doctor’s identification badge that had fallen to the floor, she had only one thought remaining…

Run.