What do you think a castaway is? I mean, I know what you're probably thinking. A misfit, right? The odd kid out, the one who doesn't belong. But no. A castaway... it's more than that. It's about a person without a purpose. No will. Just... floating. Kind of like me.
Yeah, I'm Clay Morgan. I'm twelve. An orphan at Kamal Ajar Orphanage in New York, where kids like me get dumped when no one wants them. Castaways, just like I said. Misfits with nowhere to go. Most of us don't even bother dreaming about the future anymore. What's the point when no one cares?
But here's the thing—I'm no ordinary kid. I'm what they call an Irregular. Now, I know that probably sounds like a fancy word for weird, but trust me, it's way more complicated than that. You see, Irregulars are a mutated subspecies of humans. We make up only 10% of the population, but it feels like the world would rather we didn't exist at all.
We have these... abilities. They're called *Rants*, and mine is called *Storehouse*. Imagine a subspace dimension where you can store anything, as long as it's inanimate or, you know... dead. I can stash it away with a word—*Register*—and bring it back with another—*Retrieve*. I can even step inside my Storehouse by saying *Door*, or show a little projection of something I've stashed with *Projection*. Yeah, it's weird. I know.
I figured out I was an Irregular when I was seven. I was wandering through the forest near the orphanage, just kicking rocks and thinking about how miserable life was. I found this old, broken bird's nest lying in the dirt, and for some reason, I picked it up. The second I did, I felt it vanish. Just... poof. Gone. That's when I knew something wasn't right with me.
From that day, I kept my mouth shut about it. Humans don't exactly like things they can't explain. In fact, they hate us Irregulars so much, there's a government department dedicated to hunting us down—Maximus. The rumors say they either kill us or experiment on us, neither of which sounds like a fun option. So, yeah. You could say I had my reasons for keeping quiet.
For a while, life was... not perfect, but okay. I had friends at the orphanage. Carol and John, two kids who didn't seem to care that I was a little off. We'd play together in the courtyard, make up stupid games to pass the time. And the caregivers, well, they were mostly decent. Mrs. Johnson made sure we had enough food, even if it was the blandest stuff you can imagine. Mr. Parker liked to sneak us candy bars when no one was looking. Ms. Lory? She had a way of making you feel like you mattered, even when everything else said you didn't. The only one I couldn't stand was Mrs. Harrison, but she was grumpy with everyone, so no big deal.
I had good days, even some great ones. Like the time Carol and I climbed to the roof to watch fireworks on the 4th of July, or the time John and I pranked Mrs. Harrison by hiding all the kitchen spoons in the attic. Those were the moments that made being a castaway not so bad. But I guess all good things are bound to end, because now... well, let me tell you about the night I screwed it all up.
It was dinner. A regular night. We were all gathered around the long tables, kids shoveling food into their mouths like it was going to disappear any second. I wasn't paying much attention, just kind of staring at my plate, when something went wrong. I don't know how, or why, but suddenly I felt my Rant activate. One second, we were in the dining hall. The next, everything went dark. Silent.
We were inside the *Storehouse*.
Imagine the freakiest, most confusing place you've ever been. That's what it feels like in there. No walls, no floors, just endless space and all the junk I've ever stashed—broken toys, old shoes, bits of scrap metal. And there we were, in the middle of it, everyone frozen in shock. I panicked. I had no idea how it had happened. I hadn't said *Register*. I hadn't said anything.
Before anyone could really start freaking out, I chanted *Door*. The air shimmered, and we were back in the orphanage, right where we'd been. But the damage was done. The looks on their faces—wide-eyed, terrified, like they'd seen a ghost. They all stared at me like I was a monster.
That night, I knew I was screwed. It was only a matter of time before something happened. Something bad.
Around 3 a.m., I couldn't sleep. My mind was racing, my heart pounding. I decided to sneak downstairs, maybe grab some air, but as I reached the bottom of the steps, I heard voices. Low, urgent, and coming from the office down the hall. I crept closer, my bare feet silent on the wooden floor.
"...can't keep him here," a woman's voice hissed. Mrs. Harrison. Of course.
"We don't have a choice," a man replied. Mr. Parker? I couldn't tell for sure.
"We've already contacted Maximus," a third voice chimed in. One I didn't recognize. Cold, detached.
I felt my stomach drop. *Maximus*. They'd sold me out.
My breath caught in my throat, and I took a step back. The floor creaked, just a little, but enough. The door to the office swung open, and two men in black suits stepped out. Their eyes landed on me, and I knew—*they were Maximus agents.*
"Get him!" one of them shouted.
I didn't wait for them to make the first move. I bolted, racing back up the stairs, heart pounding in my ears. Behind me, I could hear their heavy boots thudding against the steps. They were gaining on me.
I didn't think. I just reacted. As I reached the hallway, I yelled, "*Retrieve!*" and suddenly, a baseball bat I'd stashed weeks ago appeared in my hand. I spun around and swung it as hard as I could at the nearest agent. The bat connected with a sickening crack, and the guy crumpled to the floor.
But there were more of them.
Another agent lunged at me, trying to grab me. I barely managed to twist away, but he was fast. Too fast. His hand clamped down on my arm, and I felt panic rising in my chest. I couldn't let them take me.
"*Door!*" I screamed, and in an instant, I was gone, pulled into the black void of my Storehouse. The agent's grip slipped, and I was free. I stayed there, just for a moment, catching my breath, surrounded by all the forgotten junk I'd collected over the years.
I couldn't stay here forever, though. Not if I wanted to survive. I whispered *Door* again and reappeared back in the hallway. The men were still looking for me, but I was faster. I ran. I didn't stop, not even when I burst out of the orphanage's front doors and into the cold night.
My feet slapped against the pavement as I tore down the street, heart pounding, lungs burning. I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I had to get away.
As I ran, my mind raced. *People fear what they don't understand.* That's what this was all about, wasn't it? They didn't get me. They didn't know what I was, or why I could do the things I did, so they were scared. But it wasn't just fear. It was hate. Pure, raw hate. And the worst part? The caregivers—the people I thought cared about me, who had been there for me—had sold me out. Just like that.
They'd turned on me.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to punch something, to break something. The betrayal cut deeper than anything else. All the memories—laughing with Carol, joking around with John, the warmth of Mrs. Johnson's smile—it was all shattered. Meaningless. None of it had been real. How could they just... throw me away like that?
The rage boiled up inside me, hot and fierce. I clenched my fists, gritting my teeth as I ran, tears stinging my eyes. "They're all going to regret this," I muttered under my breath. "Every single one of them."
The night air whipped around me as I sprinted through the empty streets. My legs ached, my lungs burned, but I didn't stop. I couldn't. Not until I was far, far away from Kamal Ajar Orphanage. From the place that had betrayed me.
"Once again," I growled to myself, voice shaking with fury, "another misfit is damned in this shitty world."
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To Be Continued...