Bren looked at him through half open eyes. She didn't know what to make of the statement. Bravado would have her tell him that no, he damn well hadn't. Ain't no one like her. Never will be. Honesty would suggest she said no such thing. Of course he had. She was just a girl. Just like any other, except maybe better in control of her ability.

Bravado won.

"You got that straight," she said.

She turned to put her legs down and sit up. She started massaging her temples and groaned.

"But, what do you mean?"

He looked over to the still visible shards of glass and, though it happened all so fast, he had felt them be yanked from his grip by the same force that knocked him to the side. A force that, even though he'd drank the contents of all four bottles, hadn't come from him.

"You're so sure of yourself. I wish I could be. You jump into action when I... I don't. I'm never sure of what I'm doing. That's why I needed to see the Fixer. I have to get powers. I have to fit in."

"But why?" Bren asked. "What makes fitting in so great?"

"I get crap from everyone. Even them who's supposed to support me."

"Your dad?"

"I was thinking about the teachers, but yeah, I guess. Anyway, even without that. Everyone is just waiting for me to go nuts and destroy stuff. That's what happens if you don't get powers when you're eight."

"Powers don't solve everything. They make everything turn to shit."

"But look at you. You're not just a Chameleon." He held his hand up at the dark look from Bren at the term. "No, I'm using it as an example. You can do other stuff. Stan. Those bottles. Me!"

"You don't know that was me."

"Of course it was. It couldn't have been me."

"Maybe the bottles worked."

"Maybe they did, which they didn't. But that doesn't explain Stan. It doesn't explain why you could get me in that room back there."

"You don't weigh much, ya know."

"No, maybe I don't, but nor do you, not really. You're only a couple of years older than me and..."

"A girl?"

"Yes, you're a girl, but I didn't mean that. You could kick my arse any day."

"I could."

"I didn't mean that. Don't twist my words. I meant you dragged me quick and easy. Like it was nothing to you. Like you're..."

"A Jacker."

"Yeah."

"I know." Bren hung her head, looking ashamed. She scratched her leg through a torn part of her jeans, avoiding eye contact.

"Why is that a problem."

"We only get one. Just one. We don't get to choose, but no one, ever has had more than one power."

"So?"

"So it's impossible for me to have more."

"But you have."

"Yeah, I do."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

Thomas didn't understand her problem. If she had more, wasn't that better? She could stand up to anyone. Nobody could hurt her. No one would dare. If she could see his life through his eyes, she'd see why that mattered.

"How can it be a good thing?

"Because no one can hurt you."

"Thomas. Don't be a child."

"But that's what I am. So are you."

"Then you need to grow up. We both do."

"But...?"

"Thomas. If I have more, that makes me a freak. Like you. I don't mean that in a bad way, at least not against you. I mean they'll come for me, just like they are for you."

"Why?"

"'Cos they'll want to know why. How. They'll want to open me up and see what makes me different."

"Why would they want to do that?" Thomas asked. He didn't understand. Surely they'd, what... celebrate her? They'd make her President or Queen or something.

"Because they'd want it for themselves. People in power want more power. That's how the world works and that's why it's falling apart."

Thomas got it, then. She was right. They wouldn't allow someone like her to wander around. They'd be scared of her and they'd, of course, want what she had for themselves.

"Anyway," she said. "Do you wonder why they're after you?"

"'Cos I haven't got my powers yet. They're waiting for me to go mad. You know how it works."

"Yeah, I know how it works."

"So, why ask?"

"Thomas, how old are you?"

"I'm ten. You know that already."

"When were you meant to get your power?"

"When I was eight. You know that too."

"Right. How long does it usually happen for Nomads to lose it."

"I don't know. It varies."

"Yeah, it does. But by how much?"

"A few months, maybe? A year?"

"Would you be surprised to find out that the oldest kid to not go mad was eight years and nine months?"

Thomas shook his head. It sounded about right.

"Eight years and nine months. Fifteen days, or something like that."

"So?"

"Even then, for days before, the symptoms started to show. Little bits of craziness popping up. It gave her parents plenty of time to get her on The Spot. They didn't. They waited as long as they could, hoping every day for her powers to come out."

"And did they?"

"No. That's why they got her the blue liquid. To try and speed it up. To save her."

"Your cousin?"

"Yeah, my cousin."

"I'm sorry. What happened?"

"It didn't work. It made her all waffy, like you, but that was it. They signed her up for The Spot, finally, but it was too late."

"Why?"

"She lost her mind. She was talking all sorts of shit. Tore her hair out. Punched my uncle in the face and nearly bit his nose off."

"No way!"

"Yeah. Then she got her powers. Like, almost right away. The Spotters didn't come for her in time. My uncle and auntie didn't stand a chance. Nor did their house. Two Spotters died trying to stop her."

Tears were welling, with a drop breaking away from the rest to run down her cheek. She wiped it away, rubbed her eyes and then her nose, drying her hand on her jeans.

"I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, me too. She was like my sister."

Thomas took her hand. He had no words to fill in the silence between them. None that wouldn't sound forced or cliched. Holding her hand seemed the best thing to do.

"So that's what I mean."

He'd forgotten there had been a point to the story. What had she meant?

"Sorry?"

"Fuck, kiddo. Keep up. What I'm saying is, she was still eight."

"OK?"

She was still eight. What did it matter? She went crazy, then died.

"She was still eight!"

"Yes! I got that. And?"

"And you're ten!"

"I'm ten. Right!"

"Thomas, are Nomads usually so thick?"

"Are Chameleons always so bitchy?"

Bren ignored the comment. She couldn't believe he wasn't seeing what she was trying to say. Wasn't it obvious?

"Thomas. You're ten. Depending on when your birthday was, that's about two years past when you should have either lost it or go on the show."

"I can count. I already figured that out."

"You're the only one to ever make it that far. Two years past time, without going crazy."

Thomas's eyes widened. Now he understood!

"So, maybe I..."

He didn't want to finish the sentence. It might make it real. Or, more importantly, not real. Bren finished it for him.

"Maybe you're notgoing to."