You've heard my story before. It always starts something like this.
A child is born. Legacies don't always manifest at birth, but his did. The doctors are shocked. The parents, horrified. The child's legacy is too dangerous to allow him to be classified as an ordinary civilian. So it becomes a matter of the law.
On one hand, you have a child, gifted a legacy they should never have to deal with in the first place. A legacy that immediately labels them as a threat and could blossom into a catastrophe in the wrong hands. Many suggest a mercy killing, getting rid of the threat before it has the chance to take root. His parents are among these people.
On the other hand, you have a child, gifted a legacy, like most other children. Who has the right to take away what God has deemed necessary? Who is worthy to take away a legacy from a child? What does this morally insinuate for the rest of the population, for anyone with a legacy deemed dangerous enough by the people? What constitutes as dangerous? These people suggest another option— putting the child through training. Some suggest using the child's legacy for good, sending him to the military. After all, that's the only place he'd legally be able to exercise his right to use his gift, and he'd be heroic for it. Others, albeit a smaller group, protest against it. [Sending children to the military?] they cry out. [How barbaric.] But they agree that it would be preferable to murder.
And so the government must make the final decision, appease both sides. They must keep the child out of the wrong hands and allow the child to have a chance at happiness, no matter how odd the circumstances.
A man steps up to the table with a solution. [There's no need to kill this innocent baby,] he declares. [Give him to me, and I will show you how to take care of this.]
It's a gamble, but the government agrees. The baby is given to the man. And the man launches a program, designed to teach dangerous individuals how to handle their quirks from birth. It keeps them out of the public eye, away from civilians— it gives these children the right to a safe, private life. The government is ecstatic with the results. Four years in, the child has managed to mostly control his legacy, understanding the repercussions. They agree to sponsor the program, and the man is overjoyed.
More and more children are sent to the program as they are discovered. The man hires staff and rents a compound. The children are raised perfectly. And then, their abilities are put to good use.
In our day and age, we consider the use of children in the military barbaric. I was taught differently. When you are old enough to hold a gun and learn how to use it, you are old enough to fight. Except, we didn't use guns. We had our legacies. They were far more deadly.
That's how it started, really, a long time ago. The people who made the choice to turn a blind eye began to understand that the world needed someone to protect it. And if the Fates provided perfect soldiers to do so, who were they to argue against it?
That's how I grew up. Raised by my handler, serving the people of Kanto with my brothers and sisters in the shadows. We were perfect soldiers— never disobeyed a command, never flinched, never thought anything about what we were doing.
The program began fifty years ago. For many of us— our handlers included— it was all we ever knew. This was our way of life.
It pained my handler more than any one of us could know.
His name was Leon Fydorovski. He had a kind smile and nice eyes. I named myself after him. But beneath his demeanor, he hid his worries.
"Lee," he asked one night, crickets crooning from outside the windows of our barracks. "If you weren't with the program—" (that's what we called it at the time) "—what would you be doing right now?"
I shuffled around in my sweaty bunk. I'd never really thought about it. "I guess I'd probably be dead." The people would've gotten their way with me. The public would have revolted, and I would have died in some act of "social justice".
He shook his head in the dark, slight sounds of shifting blankets. "No. If your legacy wasn't so dangerous, what would you be doing, then?"
I stilled, the thought freezing in my brain. This was one of those things I never let sit in my brain for too long. The program taught us that it was dangerous to get sucked up in a reality that never existed. It wasn't practical— it was irrational. But I knew as well as anyone else that we all let ourselves daydream every once in a while. This was mine.
"A hero," I whispered. "I would be a hero."
This was my dream. You know this story too. Once upon a time, people began showing signs of amazing legacies— ones that could only be thought of as superpowers fit for heroes. And young children, blessed with these legacies, dreamed of using them for the greater good one day, so they went to schools specially made to train them to become heroes. I read about such things in my books.
He paused. "Of course," he said under his breath, as if he realized that he knew it all along. He tilted his face towards me, a small, smile illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the windows. "Goodbye, Lee."
None of us ever saw him again after that night. We asked around, but the other staff had little knowledge of his whereabouts. Then, Director Li called us in.
"He decided to part ways with us," he said. "We accepted his letter of resignation. I'm sorry you kids had to find out this way."
It was little comfort. And we all knew that things would never be the same. Even so, when we got the news a few months after, we never expected it.
It started with a rumor. The government was unhappy with the program. And the deadline for the program's budget approval was coming up soon.
I was the last to hear the official news. I was called into the counselor's office, something I had grown accustomed to over the years. It didn't need to mean I was in trouble— I was sure she was just doing her job and making sure our development was proceeding correctly.
"Lee, please take a seat," she offered kindly, sitting in her teal chair. Counselor Tan's office was probably the only room with any pop of color in the compound. Coloring pages and pens were strewn on the other side of her desk, remnants of the drawings younger children made when they were brought in for socializing treatment. It was a comfortable room, but overwhelmingly juvenile. "I'm sure you're wondering why I called you here today."
I flushed. Straight to the point. Was I really so transparent? She had a habit of reading me like a book, but I had been trying to get the better of her over the years.
"Yes," I admitted. "I don't believe I'm scheduled for my light therapy session until next week."
The smile on her face dropped, and I realized something was wrong.
She opened her mouth to say something, but stopped. With a tired sigh, she sank into her chair. "Have you heard the news?"
My face went slack. Here it came. "What news?"
"Unfortunately," she paused. "Sorry, I'm not sure how to bring this up. Ironic, isn't it?"
I didn't tell her so, but I did find it strange that she would be so hesitant to speak. This was her job, as a counselor, and she was good at it.
"Unfortunately," she continued, "the government has decided to suspend— no, terminate— the HFTC program due to a lack of funding."
She said it without any emotion in her voice. No regret or sorrow in the tone. Like she was just reciting facts. She took off her glasses, cleaning them on the hem of her sleeve before replacing them.
"You... don't seem too surprised," I ventured, reeling from the shock.
"Not surprised?" She laughed humorlessly, her hair covering her face. "Why should I be shocked? We've been preparing for this day for decades. The program was the best thing for everyone. But the system isn't good enough," she shook her head. "Not for them."
A million thoughts raced through my mind. The government didn't want us anymore. It had lost interest in us.
But there was another reason for the delay. I looked her straight in her eyes. "So, I am..." I trailed off, swallowing hard, "a liability?"
She took a sharp inhale, turning her head. "You know, that's the last thing I've wanted to hear in my life," she whispered. "Don't they understand what they are doing to these children?" She shook her head. "I'm so sorry, Lee," Counselor Tan said, handing me the notice. She was sympathetic, but she didn't understand fully.
I had never wanted to leave the program. Not even in my daydreams, where I could be a hero. This was everything to me. I liked my schedule. I liked my missions. I liked being out in the field, learning how to do new things every day. We were doing real work, helping people! They had protected us from the unhappy public, so it was our duty to protect them in return.
It was like my worst nightmare was coming true. I stared up at the ceiling of the barrack I had come to call home, feeling empty. I wished Leon could've told me if he knew something was up. Maybe then I would have known something was terribly wrong.