When I was discharged from the hospital the next day, they wasted no time on interviews, but these ones weren't for the media, no. 

They were for the police.

Bandaged, battered, and purely exhausted, I sat in Mom's living room at 6:30 AM while two officers sat with and bombarded me with questions, most of them being about two different things: what I knew about the bar incident— otherwise known as the Vixora Shootout, as coined by the media — and what the whole deal with superpowers was about. Things like, "Why did you act out during the bar?" (that was the worst one to answer, because I, for some dumb reason, answered that honestly, explaining my pyrophobia and all. Not comfortable.) Or,"from your perspective, how did it start?" When it came to powers, it started as "What's your ability" to "How many times have you used it?" to "What do you use it for?" to "Do you know the other superhumans involved in the incident?" 

It went on and on and on, like a never-ending spiral of inquiries that made me want to rip out my hair and go mad.

"What do you know about superpowers?" asked the first officer: a bald, light-skinned man wearing a blue-black uniform.

How many questions had I even slogged through at this point, and why was this not the first thing they asked? 

“I don’t know much about abilities, if I’m being frank," I answered. "I’ve had it since I was born” — there was that uneasiness again — “and I’ve hidden it since I was born.”

“What motivated you to do that?”

If I’d said the president was cruel and that she'd exploit or kill me if I ever revealed my powers, I’d be tossed to the executors for speaking ill about authority — for speaking the truth about our government. So saying that was out of the equation.

Instead I said, “Well, my… old family just told me not to share, and I didn't know why, but I abided by that rule.”

That wasn’t an entire lie, since my asshole father and late sister always told me to keep my mouth shut about my hydrokinesis (they had told me the reasons, though.) But itching at the back of my brain was some voice that said, "Somebody else told you too. You're forgetting somebody important."

Yet I had no clue who that 'somebody' was.

The reporter nodded slowly, his green eyes cast down for a moment. “Okay. And how do you feel now that people know about your ability?”

Feeling-related questions? I wasn't expecting these during a cops' search for data…

“Well… a bit nervous," I answered.

Yep, just a bit nervous. I totally wasn't having extreme heart palpitations right now.

"I’m not sure what people will do now, but I hope it's nothing dangerous, because I know I haven't done any harm to an innocent person with my ability," I said.

Internally, I was cringing like mad. "Don't do anything dangerous?" Who would listen to that?

A small pause followed, and I fidgeted on the leather couch, nudging it back towards the room’s yellow walls. Was this it? Was I done with this dumb thing now? 

“That concludes this interrogation.” The man slowly stood up from the chair I'f offered him. He smiled, sticking out a hand. “Thank you so much for your time.”

Oh, finally!

I nodded, keeping my sweaty palms to myself. “You’re welcome.”

He and his recorder headed towards the brown door next to the couch. I opened it for them, and with one last wave, they left. 

I quickly slammed the door shut the moment they stepped out of the house. 

So, just one interview for today. What would happen next? I was surprised things weren't moving faster. 

“It’s done?” Hazel asked, stepping into the living room. She was dressed in a long T-shirt and shorts, holding a bowl of grapes in her hands. 

“Yep.” I sighed. “Man, I hated every moment of that.”

“As you should. You're shocked and scared, and I know the last thing you wanna do is talk about this.” She shook her head and popped a grape in her mouth. “I’m sorry, Talia. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine… sort of. I was interviewd back in high school too, back when Shiro and Kennedy tried to, well, you know, burn me alive, so maybe I could get used to this." I plopped down on the couch, heaving a deep sigh. "But that's just a maybe…"

Last time I was in an interview, I wasn’t as tense. The questions I got asked were painful to answer, especially since I knew nothing about why Shiro and Kennedy tried to burn me — they never revealed their hatred for me — but, at that time, I at least didn’t have to worry about breaking the number-one rule that kept me safe all my life.

Now, I did. 

Now, I had huge things to worry about. 

Hazel sat down next to me. “You wanna sit and talk for a while? Looks like you need it…"

I shook my head and leaned against the couch’s armrest. 

"Fair," she replied. "If you do wanna vent later on, though, you can."

"Thanks, Hazel."

I watched the news earlier this morning — and by this morning, I mean 4AM, because, oddly enough, the channel was on at that time. All I heard was that the government was 'still figuring out what to do.'

Now, nobody knew our president, Harley Rogers, very well. She was unpredictable every step of the way, from the moment she became president to the time she fully stomped out the Chain of Rebellion Attempts that spanned for years. But we all knew that it was severely unnatural for her to wait and think this long before making a decision. 

Just what kind of hell could she be planning? 

Then there was Caster. The news said he was nowhere to be found, so where was he? Where in this damned world did Scar and Bruise take him? 

And on top of that, there was Desmond. I only knew him for a project we were paired up for — even if he acted like we were buddies — but even after his death, I had so many unanswered questions. What was his business with Dexter? Was he involved with a gang at some point? 

There was no way I could make sense of all this.

I sighed, burying my face in my hands.

This was too much to take in, all too soon.