If normal was normal, Thomas would have been quite a contender in a school 100 metre races. He would excel at the five times round the playing field sprints that used to be thrust upon him and his classmates, particularly on cold, wet days. Thomas could run.

Unfortunately, being able to put one foot in front of the other and move them quickly didn't mean the same thing it used to. Sports at school were still carried out, but the prohibition of using one's abilities whilst in school grounds to try and keep everyone level was too difficult to enforce. Pupils, the usually disruptive ones anyway, tended to do what they wanted when they could cause a thunder storm to appear over their teacher's head during Geography. If a teacher tried to use their own powers to control the students, they risked being bested by a child or losing their jobs for a defence that went too far.

As such, schools were staffed in a similar way to the police stations, with not many dedicated enough to carry on.

Thomas still went to school. He wanted to learn. He wanted the distraction from the predicament of being powerless when everyone around him, including children younger than he, could potentially kill him with a look.

If normal was normal, Thomas would have done well and potentially even, one day, have earned himself a scholarship. As it wasn't the case, he could only rely on his once swift but now mediocre speed to distance himself from the argument and murder.

Eventually, he had no choice but to stop running. His legs and lungs were burning and he fell back against a wall to catch his elusive breath. He looked around to ensure he was alone. Thankfully, he was. The chase had been for twisted fun rather than to catch him. Or worse. He checked under his jacket to ensure his purchase was still in place. He let his hand linger for a moment before pulling it away. This was his future. If he'd lost it or it had been broken while he was fleeing, he wouldn't get another chance. Oscar was unlikely to deal with him again anyway, and Thomas knew of no one else with the Fixer's contacts or network. His father might allow one theft, but never two.

But, would he? Allow one? Since the death of Thomas's mother, father and son had become much closer. Prior to her death, the man had been distant. Aloof, thinking that hugs, comforting and telling your son you loved him weren't things a father should do. It wasn't manly. Since the death, things had changed. There were hugs. There were nights in front of the television watching repeats of whatever might be on, with new content in short supply. Even, on occasion, a story at bedtime, something Thomas had never really grown out of because it came at such a late time in his life.

His father, Iain, knew how he had been with his son. He'd never wanted to be that sort of father. He wanted to be one who was respected, loved and liked. His own upbringing - his relationship with Thomas's grandfather - didn't help the matter. George had been a drinker. He'd deny he was ever a drunk, but he was seldom sober. Iain's mother was constantly making excuses for her husband, both to the outside world and to their son. She was a loving and dutiful wife, but doing so aged her prematurely. Made her ill prematurely. Whereas Iain's relationship with his son improved when his wife died, George's didn't alter even slightly.

If Mary, Thomas's grandmother and Iain's mother, had held on, fighting her illness, for just another two short months, things may well have been very different. Or, at least, continued in the same way but with her still around. She might have found the strength to face the issues in her marriage. She may have been able to take her son away from the disruptive influences of whiskey and show him how a parent should be with their child. Iain could have been nurtured rather than seen as a nuisance.

Two months, short in time but an eternity in grief, would have brought the Outbreak. Mary might have discovered abilities that would have allowed her to stand up to a husband who left his marriage vows at the bottom of the bottle he'd consumed after the wedding. George had survived long enough to find his abilities. He was a Teekay. A telekinetic. He could fill a glass from twenty feet without lifting a finger. Doing so did cause him to break into a sweat, with his abilities remaining (perhaps due to his addiction) meagre, but he said that was his workout. That was his exercise. He could flex his mental muscles in the most satisfying way he could imagine.

George's liver gave out. No abilities could stop that happening, there being not a single advertised case of someone gaining healing powers. If there had been. A man who'd used alcohol to solve all of life's ills, real or imagined, would not have been a likely candidate. There were few family members outside of the immediate household, but none came to the funeral. There was only Iain and the Humanist who read a passage. And a deceased George. No one cried, including a son who felt relief instead of regret.

Thomas hoped his father would understand. If not, it wouldn't stop the boy carrying out his plan. He didn't want to face the inevitable if he didn't. Insanity and sport.

Recovered from his exertion and with his adrenaline levels evening out, he pushed himself away from the wall and stood. He could feel himself sill trembling, but this time it was with anticipation. The promise of what was to come. He needed to get home quickly.

"What you got there?"

Thomas looked around, expecting to have been rediscovered. There was no one in the alley with him. I'm imagining things. I'm too worked up. Once I'm home I'll...

"Come on, show it to me."

The wall next to where he'd been leaning rippled slightly, the bricks becoming disjointed and the mortar between them bending.

Oh, shit.

"Nothing," said Thomas in his strongest, I ain't scared of you voice.

The ripple came again and he could make out eyes and a Cheshire Cat smile.

"Don't be shy. And don't lie to me. Didn't your parents tell you not to lie?"

"My mum's dead. She can't tell me anything!"

"Well, lucky you. Mine's still alive and I wish she wasn't."

Thomas stepped back, glancing each way along the alley. The way he'd entered was too far away, but perhaps the other end...?

"Don't think of running."

The Chameleon stepped away from the wall. Thomas couldn't help but be impressed. She, he thought it was a female, hadn't only been able to disguise herself, but she'd changed her body shape to be flat against the wall. Only the strongest chameleons were able to do that. It took an adept, and that sort of expertise was difficult to find. Most people used their powers, but didn't particularly train themselves or hone their skills. They were content to fly or run fast. See through or bring a storm. Only the younger generation had been born with abilities. Adults had powers thrust upon them, with millions of superpowered individuals created overnight. Mistakes were made. Still were being made. The powers were, in the main, taken at face value and not explored.

Clearly, this one had gone further.

"Good, ain't I?"

Thomas nodded, hoping agreement and acquiescence would deflect any threat.

"Say it, then."

"Say what?"

"Tell me I'm good. Tell me I'm the best you've ever seen."

"You're amazing. I've never seen anyone better!"

He didn't need to lie. There weren't many Chameleons, but most could only change part of their body at any one time. He hadn't seen anyone be able to disguise their entire body, let alone alter the shape of themselves.

"Damn right."

The voice still seemed to be coming from a broken away pile of bricks. Thomas felt intimidated, no doubt the speaker's intention. He resisted the urge to put his hand back inside his jacket to guard his prize. He wouldn't be able to deny its existence otherwise.

"So show me."

"Show you what?"

"What you're hiding there."

"Show me you first."

The wall laughed, and the sound was full of unexpected mirth. Thomas relaxed a little. It didn't sound like someone who would attack him.

"Fair point, kid."

He hated being called 'kid', and this was the second person to refer to him in that way. He was just a kid, but that didn't mean they had to point it out, like it was an insult. Like he was too young to understand the big wide and wild world. He wasn't. He was young in years, but not in experience. He was mature for his age, and they could kiss his arse.

The ripple started to spin, as if the bricks were being sucked down the plug hole of a bath. It was dizzying to watch and the effect stopped after a few seconds. The wall was no more. In its place was a girl. Not a woman, a girl. She was only a couple of years older than he.

"Now," she said."Hand it over."