by Kozinn, Nat
Chosen Different
By Nat Kozinn
Text copyright © 2014 Nat Kozinn
All Rights Reserved
[email protected]
natkozinn.com
Thanks to: Mom, Dad, Adam, Colin, and EvalineEdits
To my wife.
Chapters
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
Excerpt
1
Upon the establishment that any individual is a Different, that individual must immediately surrender themselves to the custody of the Defense Department, Section 26. The individual shall remain in the custody of Section 26 until such time as the extent of the individual's abilities are established and the individual is determined to be safe for the community.
Article 2 Section 1 of the Different Acts of 1986
It's hot in here. Why is it so hot in here? I need to calm down; this is important. I can't seem like a freak. At least not more of a freak than I am. It's probably part of the test. They want me to be uncomfortable. They want to see if they can make me crack. They want to make sure I won't go nuts and make the room explode or wipe the mind of everyone in the building. But I've already been waiting seven minutes and twenty-three seconds. They can’t keep me waiting much longer in this heat. I'll pass out, anyone would. Maybe that's the point. Maybe I'm supposed to fail the test so they can justify keeping me under their control forever.
Sweat! I forgot to sweat. You'd think I'd have the hang of this by now. I do have the hang of this. It was just a momentary lapse. I can control my abilities. I am an asset to the community. I've got to get my sweat flowing, but I have to be careful. Huge pit stains aren't going to make me look good. I signal the various sweat glands around my body and have them up my perspiration. I can feel my body cool almost instantly.
The door opens and a short, bald, middle-aged man walks through the door. His suit is cheap, and his glasses are clearly the basic model his government employee insurance covers. He has a folder in his hands that contains the sum totality of my existence, condensed into a few short pages. He has just used the information in that file to make a decision about the rest of my life. Now we are about to have a perfunctory conversation informing me of that decision. I don't know why all this is necessary. They could just give me a letter telling me where they’ve decided I'm going to work. The man sits down behind the desk, faces me, and begins looking through his papers.
"Hello Gavin, my name is Scott Wooling, and I'm your Adjustment Counselor. How are you today? Not too nervous, I hope?" Scott says without looking up from my file.
"No sir, just excited to see what opportunities await me," I say back evenly.
That was too calm. I'm about to find out what I'm going to be now that I'm all grown up, so I can be nervous. I should be a little nervous. I'll fidget, that's how people show they're nervous. I wiggle my left arm.
"I have to tell you, Gavin, I have been waiting to meet you. As you can imagine, I see many Differents and I thought I had seen every possible ability. Your Differentiation is unlike any I've heard of before. I find it remarkable to read about what you have gone through, what you have had to overcome to get to where you are. I applaud you for your accomplishments."
That's a good way to start this conversation. Scott seems genuinely intrigued by me. I think he's impressed by me like someone is impressed by a dog standing on its hind legs, but impressed nonetheless. I'm probably being too harsh. I can't read him well enough to know what he thinks. Maybe he's being genuine. How long has it been since he talked? I should have responded by now.
"Thank you, sir. I have a lot of people to thank for getting me to where I am today," I finally say.
I can tell by the look on Scott's face that I took too long to answer.
"And congratulations are in order for completing your high school curriculum. I see here you managed to recover from your... condition and post straight A's in your junior and senior level courses. You ended up just a few months behind the rest of your classmates," Scott says.
"My Differentiation helped me catch up. My memory is just about perfect," I shoot back.
My Differentiation also makes it difficult for me to grasp the passage of time. I have to get it together. I gave that response too quickly. He had barely finished speaking. I breathe deeply and concentrate on keeping track of time.
"Let's talk about your Differentiation. The powers that be are calling it Anthropomorphic Control. That's an entirely new classification. What does it mean?” Scott asks.
"Don't they tell you in there?" I point to the file. I'm quite certain it contains an attempt to explain me.
"They do. But it says what they think you can do. I want to know what you think you can do."
"I can control my body, sir. Completely, and in ways no one else can imagine. I can consciously direct processes in my brain that the unconscious mind controls in other people. This allows me to run those processes at an accelerated rate. I heal from cuts in hours and broken bones in a day or two. I can control my muscle growth, putting me in peak physical condition. My abilities allow me to run and perform at maximum effort for hours. I do not sleep..."
I can tell from the look on Scott's face that was too arrogant. He's heard too many Differents try to talk up their abilities to get a better job, and he's not buying it. Also, it's time to move lunch down from my stomach into my small intestine.
"Sounds like you think you've got some real gifts. So explain to me why, when you first Differentiated, you were classified as a Zeta?" Scott asks.
Zeta. Scott may as well have said that I was born with Devil horns. Zeta means useless, worse than useless, a drain. It means that your Differentiation is a disadvantage. It means you'll need extra food and medical care for your entire life. It means every other Different has to pay a tax to keep you fed and well.
I have to slow things down here. I should take my time and be sure I say exactly what I want to say. Good thing I can make time. Well, stretch my perception of time anyway.
"It's the nature of my Differentiation. As my conscious mind took control of my unconscious systems, there was some difficulty adjusting to the changes. I had to teach myself a completely new set of skills. I had to figure out how to properly regulate my body's endocrine system, my digestive system, my nervous system... I could go on and on. It took me countless hours of studying human biology just to understand what was happening to me, let alone learn to control it.”
"Tell me about when you first learned that you were a Different," Scott asks.
That question came out of left field. What does that have to do with what job I’m qualified for? I have no choice but to answer him. I think back, and I remember it well.
#
I was twelve years old. I was with my mother and father, waiting for the 32-Line Slug. I was beaming because all of my childhood dreams were about to come true.
"What about flying? Wouldn't that be great?" my father asked me.
"I don't want wings. It's supposed to hurt when they grow in. Besides, all they ever do is work as delivery guys. I want to help people," I answered.
"Mayb
e you're a Healer. No one helps people more than they do," he followed up.
"That's not exciting enough."
"Maybe you can blast cold? You used to want to be a fire-fighter."
"Yeah, just like every six-year-old, dad. And they don't generate cold. They absorb heat."
"Good to know... Maybe you can make crystal structures like Maceo. We need to build more train lines. The Slug gets slower and slower every day," he said and stared down the tracks.
"No, I don't want that either. I want something no one's ever had before, something that'll make me a hero, like BlueHawk."
"Maybe you'll be able to eat anything, and they'll have you clean up after dogs," my no longer silent mother chimed in.
Her face showed a blend of terror and sadness, with a strong hint of anger. Emotions exactly opposite mine.
"Helen! Can't you just let him be happy?" my father barked back.
Some of the other people waiting for the train stared at us, and then pretended to look away when I spotted them.
"Or maybe you'll be a Cooler. You can spend your days making sure rich housewives don't have to be uncomfortable. That's helping others," she added.
"It was only the screening. He's probably just a carrier like you. Stop being so dramatic, and let your son enjoy himself," my father said.
Nothing could keep me from enjoying that day. I was going to be tested and told that I possessed a special ability. I never even considered the fact that eighty percent of screening hits are simply carriers. I was a Different. I never doubted it. The test I was about to take would only confirm what I already knew.
"That's right, who cares if it's just a pack of lies. It makes him happy. Maybe we should give him some Tranq too. That'll make him happy," my mother said. "Your son is excited at the prospect of being a slave. A slave, Roy! This doesn't upset you?"
"Lady, why don't you keep your wacko thoughts to yourself before somebody shuts you up," a man yelled from behind us on the platform.
My mother whirled around and sized the man up. He was big and mean and looked like enough of a scumbag to hit a woman. Even worked up, my mother knew enough to zip it and look forward. I could hear her teeth grind.
We stood in awkward silence for a long time. I embraced it and dreamt of what abilities I might have. The Slug came and we stepped onto the train car. It was full so we had to stand.
"Maybe you can time travel? No one's been able to do that yet," my father finally managed.
"Let's stop talking about it," I said.
"Come on, who cares what the chances are? It's fun," my father said, even though it was pretty clear that no one was having fun.
"Most people don't Differentiate until they are fourteen or fifteen. There'll be plenty of time to imagine what I can do between now and then.”
We hardly talked again for the rest of the Slug ride. The near silence continued all the way to the testing lab. After the test proved me right, my father tried to pretend to be happy for me, but I could tell he was crushed. It was fun to talk about what I might become when there was a two in ten chance of it being true. Faced with the reality, my father struggled to keep his smile on for my sake. My mother said nothing.
The next day when I returned home from school, my mother was gone. She left a note: "Gavin, you may put the collar around your own neck, but I do not have to stay and watch. My only satisfaction comes from knowing that God will one day punish those who enslave you, just as He once punished the Egyptians for enslaving the Israelites. I know you'll be too hurt to believe me, but I'm doing this because I love you so much. I can't watch what they are going to do to you. Love, Mom."
#
"I didn't believe her."
"You've had no contact with your mother since that day?" Scott asks.
Now I understand this man’s purpose. They hide it behind the Adjustment Counselor title, but his real job is something else entirely. This is a psychiatric evaluation.
"None. She couldn't even wait the three weeks until I was officially enrolled in Section 26."
I make sure it seems difficult for me to say by fidgeting my hands and stammering a bit in my delivery. I don’t like talking about my mother, but if I have to, I need to be conscious of my body language so Scott knows it is difficult for me. I don't want him to think I'm a monster.
"And your father? It says here that he died three years ago in a fishing accident. How would you say you handled that?" Scott asks. He doesn't even blink as he asks me another incredibly probing question.
"I didn't handle it, not at first anyway. It happened when I was comatose," I reply.
"Why were you comatose?"
"I'm sure my file tells you. It was a side effect of my Differentiation first developing. I almost died."
"Why don't you tell me about that? When your Differentiation first developed?"
#
I was right about my abilities not showing until I was fourteen. Two days after my fourteenth birthday, at three in the morning, I woke up for the last time in my life. I was gasping for air. I could not breathe. I cried out.
Suddenly, what had been my dorm room transformed into a prison cell/reverse bomb shelter. Walls made of Maceo Steel came down all around me. This is why I was there, in Section 26. When Danny Libdo Differentiated, he destroyed most of the Minneapolis Metro Area. The Maceo Steel walls were indestructible. They could have contained anything. Even if my Differentiation had been splitting atoms like Danny's Differentiation was.
The authorities saw my distress over the feed they used to watch me sleep.
"What are you experiencing?" a voice asked over a loud speaker.
The voice knocked me out of my panic. I focused on my breathing. In and out, I started to feel better.
"It's nothing. I must have had a bad dream or something. I felt like I couldn't breathe for a second. I think I'm fine now," I answered.
"Okay, we will keep the protective unit down and continue to monitor you just to be safe," said the voice.
I spent the rest of the night focusing on my breathing. Every time I started to drift off, I woke up gasping for air. In the morning, I went to the medic. I had almost choked while brushing my teeth.
The medic was like most of the employees in Section 26, overworked and under-resourced. He was unshaven and needed some sleep. That’s what happens to you after years of helping Differents with complaints ranging from the common cold to the growth of new limbs.
"It's hard to explain. I wouldn't call it difficulty breathing, more like I can't breathe if I don't focus on doing it," I told the Medic.
He shined a flashlight in my eyes. It was incredibly bright. I pulled away.
"That hurt. That thing is too bright," I said.
"That's because your pupils are dilated. Have you taken any medication or other substances?" the doctor asked. It was not a friendly question.
"No."
"As your doctor, I can only treat you if I know what's in your body. You’re sure you didn't take anything? Maybe some Tranq? You kids and that poison, I don't know how you manage to get it in here."
"No, I haven't taken anything. I just woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't breathe."
"If you really aren't on anything, there is another explanation. Panic attacks. I'll set you up an appointment with the therapist. She'll be able to help you. Has anything else been bothering you?"
"Yeah my stomach has been hurting for the last couple days."
The medic pressed his hand on my stomach. It hurt.
"You're as hard as a rock. When was your last bowel movement?" he asked.
#
"It had been a week since I’d taken a dump," I explain to Scott.
Maybe that was inappropriate. I wanted to emphasize my point, but that language might have been too much. Then again, maybe most people lose control a little when they are talking about difficult periods in their lives. Maybe it was perfect.
"And you continued to deteriorate from there. It says here that you los
t the ability to eat and drink, so you had to be put on an IV and feeding tube for several months, is that accurate?" Scott asks.
"I'm sure it is."
"You're sure it is?"
"I don't remember."
"I thought you had an almost perfect memory?" Scott asks.
This guy is a jerk. That's why he’s good at this. It's more than just a job to him. He genuinely enjoys needling young Differents to see if he can make them crack.
"I didn’t have my improved memory yet. My unconscious mind had ceased forming memories automatically. I don't remember anything from a few days after I went to see the medic until a few months after my sixteenth birthday.”
"Okay then, what's the first thing you do remember?”
"I remember Larry Rosen trying to do a back flip and breaking his glasses."
#
Larry stared up at me from the floor. One of his glasses lenses had popped out and the other was smashed right up against his eye socket. He looked ridiculous, especially with his big red afro. He had chosen to be five feet, two inches tall and two hundred fifty pounds. He made an excellent choice considering he was trying to be memorable, but he could have looked like anyone he wanted. He was a Morpher.
We were in a hospital room in Section 26. I had an IV feeding into my arm. All of my hair had fallen out and my skin was peeling off in sheets.
"I don't know how else to put it, but I think you have to focus on remembering, just like you focus on your breathing. While things are happening, actively try to remember them. Like if you wanted to memorize a phone number, but for everything that happens to you," Larry said.
“I’ve never used a phone,” I replied.
“Okay wise guy, then like a date you need to remember for a history test."
That's just what I did. I thought about Larry doing his flip and how ridiculous his face looked right after it hit the floor. I ran the image over and over again in my mind. Then I focused on remembering to remember.
"We have to talk about something else for a while. What did you want to be when you were growing up, before you found out you were a Different?" Larry asked.