37 years later

The Clairvoyant

“July 6th, 1963.”

 Matt Callaghan snored.

Flat on his back, mouth open, his limbs kneaded through a tangle of sheets and blankets, Matt slept soundly as the first glimpse of daylight snuck in underneath the gap in his blinds. From the other side of the room, a small square television blared, perched almost forgotten atop a chest of draws. Oblivious to the room’s tranquillity, its old-timey announcer’s voice and black and white images streamed on.

“To the people of Earth, a day like any other. But this is no ordinary day. For today, the destiny of mankind changes… forever.”

The narrator paused and the images of 1960s men and women going about their daily business gave way to dramatic footage of a sky engulfed in undulating ripples, the intensity of their golden colour diminished somewhat by the graininess of the recordings. Matt mumbled something indistinct and rolled over onto his side, eyes still closed.

“The Aurora Nirvanas. From the deepest reaches of space it comes, a wall of golden light blanketing the Earth, causing amazement, wonder, and panic. Scientists have no explanation. The United Nations convenes an emergency session. Some call it a solar flare. Others, a sign of Armageddon. A stranger phenomenon the world has never known… yet stranger still is yet to come.”

Suddenly, images of streets, homes and offices filled with motionless bodies.

“Mass lethargy. An urge to sleep so powerful, it overtakes everyone. Mere hours after the Aurora’s arrival, the human race succumbs to unconsciousness.”

The small screen flashed with shots of people with their eyes closed in parks and cars – dramatic re-enactments intercut with off-centre footage from antiquated security cameras. Men in suits curled up on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Kennedy and his aides asleep against a desk.

“The Great Slumber. Six days, mysteriously lost from human history. Five billion people, miraculously unhurt and unharmed. And when humanity awakes, it finds more miracles await.”

Matt’s eyes twitched underneath his eyelids.

“Superpowers.”

 A man, staring in black and white wonder as flames flutter around his upturned palm. A housewife outside a white picket fence, hesitating only briefly before rocketing up into the sky, the strings of her apron fluttering behind her. A tiny hunchbacked old woman wobbling unsteadily, one hand trembling on a cane, the other lifting a car above her head.

“Everyone, men and women, young and old, gifted with abilities beyond science and nature. No pattern. No explanation. From African royalty to Soviet peasants, a power for everyone… and chaos for the world.”

The screen darkened, and images arose of burning vehicles, broken buildings, injured bystanders and superhuman fighting. Guns tearing themselves from soldiers’ hands. A mother, her skin turned to rock, fiercely clutching her child.

“Crime. Uprisings. Madness. Society teeters on the brink of collapse, powers running loose, unchecked. Nations descend into civil war. For a time, it seems the superhuman age might be over before it has even begun.”

 A bank robber dressed in a stereotypical ski-mask and stripes levitates a helpless teller into the air – but then in an instant a blur speeds around them, and the re-enactment criminal finds himself hog-tied underneath the foot of a bright-lit, airbrushed policeman as a dozen super-powered men and women storm in behind him.

“But after almost a year of unrest, there is hope. City by city, state by state, the good people of America take their nation back. Law and order return, as mankind learns that his greatest power lies not in these newfound gifts, but in uniting for peace with his fellow man.”

Matt grunted and rolled over to face the TV, clutching a pillow to his chest.

“And so, the world rises anew. Different, but not destroyed. Wary, but hopeful of what could lay ahead. Untapped potential. Advanced technology. A newfound drive for social justice. The uncharted waters of a society of the superhuman, united by the promise of the new world, and a single shared belief-”

Matt’s eyes opened.

“All powers to the people. And to all people, a power.”

“This… is the Impossible Era.”

 The documentary’s title flashed on the screen. Matt groaned, halfway between a yawn and a moan, and fumbled clumsily for the remote sitting on the bedside table. His sleep-heavy hand finally found the ‘Off’ button, and the old television set atop his dresser faded to black.

For a moment, Matt just lay there with his eyes closed, one hand still lolling out from underneath the covers, revelling in the newfound silence.

It was Tuesday. Even smothered by the tentacles of sleep, he knew it was Tuesday. His eyes opened a fraction and wandered reluctantly onto the red LED of his bedside clock. 6:13. Matt rolled back over and re-closed his eyes, allowing himself the precious indulgence of the last few minutes of sleep.

That he’d fallen asleep with the TV on didn’t surprise him; that he’d fallen asleep at all did. Times like these, troubles like his – he’d expected sleep to elude him. But, he supposed, in the end he was only human.

That was the problem.

6:15 arrived and the alarm went off, blaring electric tones into Matt’s ears like the wailing cries of Satan taking a soccer ball to the groin. More than anything in the world, he wanted to hit Snooze, roll over into his nest of bedsheets and go back to sleep – to lay here forever, safe and warm and far away from the real world and its unpleasant truths. Maybe if he stayed in bed, maybe if he hid beneath the blankets, time would go on without him and everything would just go away.

But denial had never been Matt’s strong suit.

He reached out and turned off his alarm, then with little more than a grunt rolled out of bed and stumbled blearily across his room, past the Bloodhound Gang and Big Lebowski posters, out the door and across the hall into the bathroom and the shower. He stood there for four minutes, letting the hot water rush over his shoulders, hair and face until his brain was starting to approach something resembling consciousness. Matt moved through the motions. Water off. Dry off. Towel on. Step out. Face the mirror. Breathe.

Breathe.

“My name is Matt Callaghan and I am a clairvoyant.”

He said it as little more than a whisper. Matt closed his eyes.

“My name is Matt Callaghan and I am a clairvoyant.”

A little louder this time, a little firmer. He opened his eyes, wiped steam from the mirror and stared into his reflection. An unremarkable-looking young man stared back, of middling height and slightly stocky build with light skin, short milk chocolate-coloured hair and only the occasional freckle. Matt was not a distinctive person; he could have sat in any Starbucks in America and used the wi-fi without ever being asked to buy something. But right now, he stood alone in the bathroom, watching his reflection and focusing on his words.

“My name is Matt Callaghan and I am a clairvoyant.”

He felt it as he said it. He believed it, felt it hard and fast and firm inside his mind, a coating of iron. Knew what it meant, the facets of it, knew it as unshakable truth.

“My name is Matt Callaghan and I am a clairvoyant.”

He moved onto his other mental exercises. Thinking of everything he could think of. Thinking of nothing at all. Breathing deep and searching for stillness and silence within himself. Focusing on a single point of feeling in his little finger. Reciting songs. Moving and holding his thoughts in order, then rearranging and holding them again.

From 6:20am to 7 o’clock, Matt Callaghan honed his mind in front of the mirror, just like he had done yesterday and the day before and would do every day for the rest of his life. 40 minutes in the morning, 40 minutes before bed and a set or two throughout the day whenever he could find time. Was he tired? Yes. Was his mind sluggish and sleep deprived? Definitely. But that was almost the point – his thoughts needed to be unassailable, no matter what. Any time, every time, he needed to be ready and able to believe a single fact.

“My name is Matt Callaghan and I am a clairvoyant.”

Because today was the last day he had.

*****

Everyone else was already up by the time Matt made it downstairs.

“Toast’s on the table honey!”

“Thanks Mom.” He sat down next to Sarah, who was eating her piece with both hands.

“We’re out of Cheerios though, your father finished them yester- JONAS! No phones at the table!”

Kathryn Callaghan rounded the kitchen bench and snatched the mobile from her youngest son’s hands. Jonas let out a wail and rounded on his mother.

“But Mom I-”

“No buts! No phones at the table! Drink your milk!”

Jonas Callaghan looked like he was thinking about replying but gave up at the look on his mother’s face. She was wearing a pantsuit today, which meant she had a meeting, which meant she was in a rush, which meant she had exactly zero time for arguing thank you very much.

“Jonas listen to your mother, no phones please.” Michael Callaghan didn’t even look up from his newspaper. A knife no one was touching spread butter over a piece of toast floating three inches above his plate.

Jonas leaned back into his chair and sulked. “He’s texting a girl,” whispered Sarah. Matt looked at his little sister with an expression of mock horror and she giggled.

Thus were mornings in the Callaghan household. Matt’s mother would rush around the kitchen, putting on toast and making Sarah’s lunch (Matt and Jonas made their own by now) and generally keeping things moving, while Matt’s father sat and read the paper, unless things were particularly late or stressful, in which case he would be up and helping without a word, sending things telekinetically flying into bags and dishwashers and pantries. Habitually organised and perpetually busy, Kathryn Callaghan was a lean, slightly taller than average woman with a head of long brown curls that tumbled over her shoulders like a lion’s mane, the ability to move just as quickly in heels as she could in flats, and a propensity to swear ferociously at traffic jams. By contrast, Michael Callaghan was a soft, good-natured man, with large hands, a head full of hair like otter fur, reading glasses which slipped to the tip of his nose, and an unconditional love for Matt’s mother, though he almost always forgot their anniversaries.

While his father read and his mother rushed, Jonas Callaghan, 14, would sit on his phone, bicker with his siblings and use the small fire he could summon from his fingertips to turn his toast to charcoal (which he insisted he liked, though no one believed him). A regular teenage nuisance, Jonas was probably going to end up taller than his older brother, but for now was the splitting image of a younger Matt, aside from his crop of black ringlets and disdain for deodorant. Sarah Callaghan on the other hand, being only 10, had not hit her annoying teenage years yet and so was content to sit at the table and ask her parents lots of questions or tattle on Jonas for things he may or may not have done. Sarah liked fairies and horses, and despite being slightly small for her age had done well at athletics, which gave her family the inkling that she might turn out to be a speedster once her powers manifested.

 “Matt honey, can you pick up Sarah from the bus this afternoon?”

“What’s wrong with Jonas?” Matt asked, teeth sticky through a mouthful of jam.

“What isn’t wrong with Jonas?” his dad joked, shooting a smirk over the top of the paper at his youngest son, who scowled.

“Jonas has soccer til 5, Dad’s going to pick him up.”

“Yeah that’s cool, no problem.” Matt turned to his sister. “I’ll wait on the corner, okay?”

“Can I have a piggyback?”

“No. Well maybe, but only if you piggyback me first.”

“You’re too heavy!” Sarah whined. She turned to her mother. “Can we get ice cream?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No. Finish your milk.” Sarah looked downcast. Jonas leaned over.

“Piggybacks are for babies.”

“You’re a baby!”

“Mike it’s almost seven thirty.”

“Yes, right!” Matt’s dad started folding his paper, “Can’t keep Tony waiting.” He stood up and drained the last of his coffee. “You kids have a good day, okay?” There was a general murmuring of consent. He turned to Matt.

“Lucky numbers?”

“Four,” Matt grunted, not particularly in the mood.

“I’ll buy a lottery ticket,” his father chuckled, the master of inoffensive sarcasm, “Bye honey.” He rounded the bench and kissed his wife on the cheek. “Bye everyone!” Matt’s father waved backwards as he walked out the front door. A few seconds later there was the sound of male voices greeting one another, and not long after that the recognisable pop of a teleporter departing with their ride-alongs.

“Sarah honey, finish your milk,” Matt’s mother commanded, untying her apron, “Bus will be here soon.”

“Do I have to go to school?”

“Yes Jonas you have to go to school. Brush your teeth, both of you, let’s go.” The boy grumbled all the way up the stairs, his sister close behind. Kathryn looked at Matt. “You alright? You seem a bit flat this morning.”

Matt made a face. “Just tired. Up late finishing that History essay.” The lie came naturally, without hesitation or remorse.

“Well whose fault is that? That should’ve been done a week ago.”

“Thanks Captain Hindsight.”

“You need to be more organised.”

“And people in Hell need ice water.” He glanced up at his mother in her grey blazer and business pants. “Meeting or flushing?”

“Meeting then flushing.”

“Ouch. Why?”

“We keep losing pressure around Seventh Street, Department wants to investigate.”

“Ah the glorious life of an aquamorph.”

“It’s a living.” She bent down and kissed her eldest son on the head. “Make sure to lock up when you leave.”

“I’m almost eighteen Mom, I know to lock the door.”

“I’m just saying.”

“I’ll get into the Legion of Heroes before I leave the house unlocked.”

“Not if you keep leaving your assignments to the last minute. Come on kids!” she shouted up the stairs. Jonas and Sarah came trundling down with their backpacks.

“Mom! Jonas called me a rude word.”

“We’ll talk about it in the car. Bye honey!”

“Bye Mom,” Matt echoed back, as the three of them piled out. The door slammed and the house was suddenly silent, leaving Matt Callaghan alone to contemplatively chew on his toast.

*****

Normally Matt took the bus to Northridge High, but this morning he wasn’t interested in public transport. He wanted to be alone and he wanted to walk, irrationally gripped by the neurotic delusion that if he could delay getting to the next part of the day, he could delay the day’s passage itself. Sure, it was idiotic – but you don’t grasp at straws when you’ve got something better to hold onto.

Matt strode out the front door, hands in his pockets and backpack over his shoulders, not even bothering to put in his earphones. It was stupid really, he thought as he turned onto the footpath – passing the house of their neighbour Mrs Mailer, which was as usual engulfed in inky smoke – though he was loathe to admit it. Time wasn’t the issue – he was.

Still – and he clung desperately to the thought – there was one day left.

One day. A vain, insane sliver of hope.

The world woke as Matt walked. Garages swung open, cars pulled out of driveways, husbands kissed wives and wives kissed back; curtains opened, neighbours greeted neighbours, children ran shrieking or trudged grumbling towards a school bus. The usual clusters of teleporting ride-alongs, generally about five or six but sometimes more, gathered on street corners for the morning jumps, the sound of “Morning Sue!” and “Morning Jack!” as they linked arms punctuated by distinctive pops and the smell of sulphur. Passing the turn-off to Brown Street, Matt waved half‑heartedly to Rufus, Mr Ngyuen’s chocolate Labrador, who was nudging open the mailbox with his nose. The dog didn’t return the wave, obviously, but Matt felt like it recognised him by now. Rufus seemed like a smart dog, and though Mr Ngyuen was technically a faunapath Matt thought after thirteen years of bringing in the mail it probably had the routine down pat. A few minutes later he also waved at Brad McNamara, one of the clerks at the local court, who did wave back before looking up into the clear blue sky and flying off without a moment’s hesitation, the stars and stripes over his doorstep fluttering in his wake.

Inadvertently, Matt knew all the fliers on the walk to school. He’d stopped to talk to all of them at some point – not as part of any grand plan or anything, but because Matt honestly couldn’t help it. The words just seemed to come out. Only friendly conversation, you know, nothing weird; just enough to get a glimpse into their fantastic, magical lives, where with a single thought they could lift up and be soaring amongst the clouds. Matt had always wanted to be a flier, even as a kid; sitting in class, staring out the window at the great blue beyond. What would it be like, he’d wondered – the wind rushing through your hair, the world fading beneath you. That feeling like you could go anywhere, free as a bird. He’d dreamt about it for years.

But Matt hadn’t developed the power to fly. Technically, he hadn’t- but Matt scatted the next thought to the wind as soon as it started to formulate.

Matt also knew every psychic on his school route, though this was precaution, not passion. It might have been illegal to listen in on other people’s thoughts unauthorised, but so was Napster and that’d filled up half his iPod. He knew where the psychics lived and knew what the tiny little tingle in his frontal lobe felt like as their minds, not focused on anything but merely open like an ear to background noise, washed over his. He didn’t recoil, didn’t slam down his walls the moment they made contact – that would draw attention like tripping over draws attention to a crack in the pavement. Most people didn’t feel telepathy like he could – most people couldn’t be bothered practicing, despite the Board of Education mandating annual mental protection training. Most people didn’t worry about psychics and most telepaths didn’t randomly snoop, lest they drown in an ocean of endless thought-noise. Everyone’s powers were dangerous and telepaths no more than others.

Unless you had something you really, really needed to hide.

*****

“I’m telling you man, she’s hiding from me,” said Taylor. He smoothed his hair back with one hand and winked behind him at Jessica James, who a) he wasn’t even talking about and b) didn’t appear to notice.

“What a gift,” grunted Matt, looking sourly forward, “Women flee you.”

The line to get into Northridge High was somehow moving both faster and slower than Matt would have liked. Faster, because the longer it took Matt to get to the start of first period, the longer it took to get to the end of the day, and the longer Matt could indulge his delusion that there was really nothing wrong with him. Slower, because it was still standing in a line waiting for a dull, under‑paid security guard to check your Ident-Card and – looming crisis or no – Matt was not immune to boredom.

“Name and power,” sighed Dyson Brady, the dullest and least-shaven of the Northridge mandatory security force, able to grow claws but apparently not cut his fingernails. He glanced up at Matt from behind a flimsy wooden desk.

“Matt Callaghan, Clairvoyant,” replied Matt. Dyson’s eyes slid sluggishly down his list, and he nodded before pencilling a small tick.

“Next,” he mumbled, looking up at the next student in line and waving Matt absent-mindedly through the sorry excuse for a security check. Taylor stepped forward.

“Taylor McDermott, Copper-Midas,” he enunciated clearly as Matt took a few steps down the hall and then stopped, turning to wait for his friend. What exactly Congress expected these checks to prevent had eluded him since kindergarten. Yes, the guard on duty was supposed to keep an entrant log and report anything suspicious, but Matt personally doubted whether a human porpoise like Dyson Brady would notice if the Black Death himself rocked up wearing a fake moustache and calling himself Stu Dent. He definitely had no problem letting in Aisha Parkes, and she was invisible save for a faintly rainbow outline. But, Matt supposed as he stood waiting, safety bred complacency, and he probably shouldn’t be complaining about any lack of scrutiny, given the circumstances.

Taylor past through the checkpoint without incident and their conversation resumed unbroken.

 “Only because she’s into me.”

“You think everyone’s into you.”

“Only cause it’s true bro. Everybody wants a piece of this.” He grinned as they paused by Matt’s locker, Matt’s fingers already spinning the combination. Taylor watched Matt grab his math textbooks by their beaten spines and slam the locker door closed, then they turned and started to walk together down the crowded hall. All around them, people rushed to and from classes, their conversations and footsteps back-dropped by the sound of a hundred others’.

“If she was into you, wouldn’t she have, I don’t know, said something?” Matt asked over an armful of books.

“Nah man, she’s playing hard to get. You know how girls are.”

“Ah huh.”

“Man, quit doubting me. You’ll see.”

“This isn’t doubt, it’s healthy scepticism.”

“Whatever. You get History done?”

“Yeah, at like 2am. Ending’s a bit crap.”

“It’s History man, who cares? S’all already happened, not like writing about its going to change anything.”

“It’ll change my grade.”

“Oh, I forgot, you’ve got to maintain your illustrious B average.”

“Screw you mister GPA.”

“Get in line baby.” Taylor grinned at him. “Any plans for tomorrow?”

“Kill myself?” Matt suggested, only half-joking.

“Well duh,” Taylor chuckled, not noticing the half, “But after that, you know, any plans? Fiesta? Major moves for my main man’s big day?”

“It’s a Wednesday,” replied Matt, unenthused, “Can’t party on a Wednesday.”

“Not with that attitude.”

 Matt shrugged half-heartedly. “I don’t know,” he lied, “I think there’s something planned with the family.”

“Friday then,” insisted Taylor, “Blitzed with the boys.”

“See how we go,” Matt replied, remaining deliberately uncommitted as they rounded a corner. This was his room. They stopped, and he and Taylor bumped fists. “See you.”

“Have fun. Lemme know if you see me getting with Chrissie!” Taylor called as he walked away.

Matt couldn’t help himself. “Sorry bro, all I see in your future is big burly men.”

His friend turned and gave him both middle fingers. Matt chuckled and pushed open the door to Math.

*****

Powers Development, or PD, unfortunately didn’t yield visions of either of them getting with any girls. In reality, it didn’t yield visions of anything. But Matt wasn’t about to let that stop him from predicting the future.

“I’m seeing white,” he told Timmy Lopez, a short Puerto Rican kid from the 7th grade with Nike shoes and a cowlick who was sitting nervously on the edge of his seat hanging onto Matt’s every word. Matt scrunched his face up into a grimace of false concentration. “Does that mean anything to you? A white car maybe, a white house, a white dog?”

“My grandma has a white dog,” Timmy said. He looked at the older boy anxiously. “I don’t really like it.”

“How is your grandma?” asked Matt, pursing his fingers and leaning back. Timmy hesitated.

“She’s… alright, I guess,” he answered, “She lives by herself in Fairfield…” His eyes grew wide. “Is something going to happen to her?”

“It’s difficult to say for sure,” Matt said, leaning forward with a fake sigh. He’d found ‘weary’ to be a convincing emotion. “The vision isn’t clear. But I think you should visit your grandma more.”

“I should?”

“Definitely. Sooner or later, she’s not going to be around. You should try and make time for her. She’ll appreciate it.”

This was Matt’s PD. For every other kid in school these periods had structure, with lesson plans and syllabuses and competent teachers and the like. The fliers practiced flying and got drilled on altitude sickness and cold-weather gear, the speedsters worked on track times, the pyros learnt the finer points of shaping fire into useful forms. Even the floramancers had a curriculum teaching them about native plants and the best practices for sustainable accelerated crop growth. But there was no pre-approved education plan for clairvoyants, because the Department of Education had never encountered a clairvoyant before and so nobody knew how best to hone their abilities. And so every PD period, while the telekinetics were off bending spoons and the kids who could shoot lightning were off electrocuting each other or whatever, Matt Callaghan sat on a wooden chair behind the teacher’s table in an unused classroom and gave his best advice regarding the future to anybody who wanted it. Or if no one came in, finished his homework and played Bubble Spinner on his phone.

Ironically, Matt didn’t view these periods as a complete waste of time. Well ok, they were a complete waste of time for him – but for the people he saw, he could generally do some good. Even if they didn’t know it, most people came in with pre-determined problems on their mind – a concern or goal which a little probing and open-ended, suggestive questioning could invariably reveal. From there it was less about clairvoyance, and more about counselling; working through problems, identifying issues, and dispensing good common-sense advice. Matt was amazed at how many people really just needed someone to listen to them, to provide an outsider’s perspective or even to just reassure them that they weren’t going to be total failures. For the younger kids especially, telling them they were going to turn out okay often paradoxically gave them the confidence to actually go and live better, happier lives. Some teachers even came in for a “reading” occasionally, their reluctance to discuss their personal lives with a student overcome by the allure of knowing the future. They had nothing to worry about of course. Matt was an excellent secret keeper, and a good clairvoyant never divulged what they saw.

Of course, “saw” was a strong word. Matt the clairvoyant didn’t “see” the future – he only caught glimpses, flashes of this and that, colours or feelings or common household objects. Nothing solid, nothing disprovable. On the contrary, Matt’s “visions” were so broad they were applicable to pretty much anything. He’d “see” a “vision” of a girl in someone’s future – and then how could that not come true? Was the boy he was making the prediction to going to depart human civilisation and never encounter a woman again? Inevitably he’d have a crush on someone or someone would crush on him, or he’d make friends with a girl or work alongside a girl, or engage with a girl in some way – and then the “prophecy” would come true and the blanks deliberately left in Matt’s “prediction” would be filled in by the boy’s own mind. It was the same principle as people seeing star-signs; really, it was just a bunch of random dots, but the human proclivity for spotting patterns meant people saw crabs and lions and all kinds of nonsense.

Matt spent a few more minutes espousing the importance of making time for family to Timmy before the “visions” “fell silent” and he sent the kid out with an enraptured look on his face. He then ushered in his next subject, a red-head girl from the year below named Jenny Deane. Jenny was a regular.

 “How’s things Jen?” Matt indicated to the empty chair and sat down opposite the Junior. Jenny looked bummed.

“I don’t think Gavin likes me.”

“Sure he does. He might just not like you like you like him, that’s all.”

“What if I, like, just go for it? Like, I’ll just kiss him, and then there’s no way he can’t know.”

“Well the future’s never certain.” Matt closed his eyes and pretended to envisage Gavin, who for the last year and a half had been asking for predictions about the best time to come out. “But I’m getting a distinct sense of disappointment.”

*****

“Nothin’ but disappointment, I’m telling you.” Taylor held up the broccoli on the end of his fork and rotated it in the cafeteria light. “Seriously. Tuesdays supposed to be god-damn tater tots.”

It was lunchtime – usually one of Matt’s favourite times. Today though, it was only a terrible reminder of how much of the day was gone.

“Loofs life somefing thaf’d grow on yourf balls,” added Marcus, terramancer, through a mouthful of food. 

“Damn Mark, you need to see a doctor,” said Carlos, his glinting brown eyes giving no indication of their ability to see through walls. Everyone around the table laughed and Marcus went red.

“I difn’t-” he swallowed, “-I meant it looks like-”

“You know you’re meant to wash down there,” said Brodie, who could secrete superglue and had already finished everything on his tray.

“With soap.”

“And water.”

“And not fondle sheep.”

“Or chickens,” added Pat the electromorph, looking up from his assignment.

“Really man, any farm animals, definite no-no.”

“Screw you all,” Marcus scowled.

“Mark, we’re just looking out for you.”

“Yeah bro, show your poor body some respect. And antifungals.”

Marcus drew himself upright and turned to Matt, who up until now hadn’t been saying much, more interested in keeping a lid on his looming feelings of despair. “Matt, they’re bullying me. They’re damaging my mental health.”

“Guys, please,” Matt sighed, looking up and forcing himself to engage in the banter. “We’re hurting his feelings. Mental health matters.”

“Mental health matters,” the other five boys echoed, though semi-sarcastically. Next to Matt, Taylor still hadn’t eaten his broccoli.

“This junk’s harmful to my mental health, swear to God, god-damn rank-ass vegetables.”

“Gotta have a brain before it can be sick,” chuckled Brodie.

“Hey screw you man. Matt you gonna let them talk to me like that? It’s damaging.”

Matt didn’t look up. “Everyone, be nice to Taylor, he’s very delicate.”

“That’s right.”

“He’s a beautiful sensitive flower who needs constant nourishment and praise.”

“Damn straight. Poet’s soul, right here.”

“We have to hold him when he cries. Love his tender heart.”

Taylor grinned. “You know I love you Matt. You’re my number one girl.”

“The one and the only,” smirked Brodie.

“Hey screw you Brodie, you ain’t ever even smelled a woman.”

“I’ve smelled your mom. She smelled like old cheese.”

Pat snorted with suppressed laughter and milk shot out his nose.

“Gross!”

“Damn!”

“Godddamnit Pat, gross!”

“Anybody got a napkin or something?”

“Sorry guys, my bad.”

The bell went off.

*****

Matt walked out of last-period History still not feeling any different, but at least confident he’d achieved a B in his assessment. In retrospect, he probably could have gone into a bit more detail – discussed some of the ramifications of the newly super-powered economy or discussed causes of deaths in the Year of Chaos. Given more examples of technological acceleration or societal re‑structuring, or maybe something about Communism. Mrs Colbert loved Communism. But oh well. That would have meant more work, and Matt was nothing if not efficient.

All around him, the sounds of people rushing to leave school rang out; laughing, slamming doors, starting engines. He threw Taylor a wave as they walked in opposite directions, him heading home and his friend headed to football practice.

The bus home was about three-quarters full. Matt took a seat somewhere towards the back and sat quietly with one arm resting on the windowsill. Two stops after Northridge a man with a row of ivory spines running down his back, poking out from what looked like every vertebra, moved into the seat in front of him. Matt found himself watching the spikes rising and falling in gentle, rhythmic movements in time with their owner’s breathing, lulled away from his thoughts. Around him, children and people his own age laughed and shouted, but Matt didn’t join in – content to just sit and stare at the silent stranger’s supernatural protrusions. Abilities that manifested as physical abnormalities were often a sign of some kind of congenital disorder, but Matt wondered if these spines were reversible, whether this man with his tangled hair could retract them into his body and simply felt cooler leaving them out. If not, he’d spend half his life leaning forward for fear of impaling the furniture. The jacket he was wearing, Matt noted, was custom, with steel-ringed holes sown down the leather, each perfectly aligned to let out one of the stranger’s spikes.

As the bus rolled ever forward, Matt found his head pressing against the dull vibrations of the window, watching super-powered society pass by – the teleporters appearing on their lawns, the technopaths driving hands-free in their cars, a woman holding three brown paper bags of groceries suspended in a bubble-like forcefield. He saw Brad McNamara fly down from the sky and land on his doorstep, briefcase in one hand and a carefully wrapped bunch of daffodils in the other. He and Julie would probably have kids soon. Children who’d one day develop powers and grow up a part of a superhuman world.

It was almost four o’clock. He had eight hours left.

Eight hours, he told himself, before he gave up on a miracle.

*****

“Ice-cream?” were literally the first words out of Sarah’s mouth the moment she got off the school bus.

“No I’m Matt. Your brother? Sarah please, we’ve been over this.”

His little sister made a face. “Noooo, can we get ice cream?”

“I thought Mom said no.”

“Pleeeeease?”

Despite himself, Matt smirked. “Well alright, maybe we should check with Mr Cohen, see if he’s got anything on special,” he said, knowing full well the outcome of that particular examination.

“Yay!” They linked hands, Matt’s big fingers engulfing Sarah’s little ones, and headed down the road towards the corner store, which was on the way home anyway.

Inside, while Sarah threw her torso into the ice-cream trough, Mr Cohen, the super-strong, wizened old Polish owner, greeted Matt with his usual friendly wave and long, unsolicited conversation, which today centred around his shop’s newly upgraded security. The clacker on the door had been fixed apparently, and thus would be impenetrable to people moving at super-speed – none of which, Matt resisted the urge to point out, had actually tried to rob Mr Cohen at any point. Then there was the new D5, freshly affixed to the roof in the middle of the store, which would similarly stop any teleporters or intangibles attempting to phase through the walls.

“Why do you need a D5 though?” asked Matt, squinting up at the black box, about the size of a grapefruit, “They’re like five grand, what’s wrong with a D2?”

“Pah,” the old man spat, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand, “Disruptance 2 use more electricity. More noisy. Disruptance 5, quiet as whisper, and make teleporter who try to get in end up on front path throwing up guts.”

“Well what does that achieve?”

“Then teleporter no run away. I come outside and kick him into next suburb.”

“Or her,” Matt added for political correctness.

“Maaaaatttttt, can I get the chocolate?” Sarah chose that moment to call from waist-deep in the freezer chest. After confirming she hadn’t got stuck this time, Matt bought the ice-cream and the two of them walked back out into the fading afternoon.

*****

By the time Matt’s mother got home, dinner was finished and the four remaining Callaghans were already cleaning up. Michael kissed his wife hello and floated out the plate of shepherd’s pie he’d set aside for her. She looped an arm around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder.

“Calcium build-up,” she sighed, “I’ve been telling them for years they need to do something about it. They’re going to have to replace the piping.” She shook her head. “Although Lord knows they don’t want to. They’re having me go back down the pipes on Thursday just to confirm what we already know and waste everybody’s time.”

They sat on the couch and watched TV as a family – mom leaning on dad, Sarah leaning on mom, Jonas and Matt on their own chairs half following, half looking at their phones. The Simpsons, then the news, then Kathryn got up and walked upstairs to put the sleeping Sarah to bed. Michael made Jonas put his phone on silent because the constant bing-ing was “annoying everyone”. Half an hour into his dad’s favourite cop show (he’d seen this episode before, the killer was a replicator who had literally been in two places at once), Matt said goodnight and made his way upstairs. He stripped down, threw his clothes into the laundry basket, brushed his teeth, flossed half-heartedly, and washed his face. Then he drew a long, deep breath, looked into the mirror, and began.

“My name is Matt Callaghan and I am a clairvoyant.”

*****

Matt sat alone in his bedroom. The room was dark, the house quiet – the rest of his family were asleep. They probably thought he was in bed too – but there was no question of sleeping now. Not tonight. Instead Matt simply sat, waiting, leaning on his desk chair, his chin on his hands, staring quietly at the red glow of his bedside clock.

11:58

It’d been a fruitless hope, in the end. One, if he was being honest with himself, he’d never really entertained. Matt had known, truthfully, since he was thirteen – since he’d lay in this exact same room almost five years ago the night after Sex Ed, mentally going through the checklist of puberty. It hadn’t made any more sense then than it did now – but the inconvenient thing about the truth was that even if you didn’t understand it, even if it wasn’t fair, it didn’t stop being true. Normally Matt was pretty good at accepting this, but he guessed there was just something about a closing deadline which made you re-examine things you’d long since come to terms with.

For the past five years, he’d focused mainly on the plan, putting the “how” and “why” of why he needed it to the back of his mind. In retrospect, the fact that Matt’s gut reaction had been to adapt to an impossible problem rather than seek help probably should have clued him in that, deep down inside, he knew who he was and who he was always going to be.

But still, heck, maybe stupidly, he’d held out hope. Maybe, just maybe. Stranger things had happened, hadn’t they? People manifesting slowly, developing later in their teens. It wasn’t impossible. But as the months turned to years, Matt’s beacon of hope had faded – until barely a spark remained.

And tonight, that spark finally extinguished.

11:59

Is this how a death row inmate feels, Matt wondered. Alone, counting the hours, knowing logically no last-minute reprieve was coming – but still desperately waiting, unable to give up that final scrap of hope that some miracle might occur. It was an odd feeling, this mixture of defiance and resolution, acceptance and despair. No one to bargain with, no way to fight – only the waning, terrible wait and the relentless march of time.

In the quiet dark of his nightstand, the alarm clock gave a single beep. Alone and unseen, Matt leant back, closed his eyes, and let out a long, shuddering sigh. That was it. Time up. His fate was sealed.

It was midnight.

Matt Callaghan was officially eighteen.

And he did not have a superpower.

Matt sighed.

“Happy birthday,” he muttered to no one in particular. Then without further ado, the only true human in the world climbed unceremoniously into bed.

Unaware that from outside his window, he was being watched.