Mark Milton is five years old, a resident of Venus Sivana's Children's Center, and he is a quiet child.
This isn't to say he goes unnoticed, however.
Far from it, the little boy tends to garner a great deal of attention from his caretakers.
It is to be expected. Despite what some may think, Venus Sivana's Children Center very rarely gains custody over children younger than the age of
four, let alone infants as Mark had been when he'd literally been left on their doorstep.
Still, his exceptionally young age isn't the sole reason for the near-inordinate amounts of attention he tends to receive.
No, a good deal of that was due to his developmental
brilliance.
Mark Milton has a history of
staggering cognitive development.
First steps at six months. First coherent use of words at eight months. Able to hold a basic conversation with an adult after a year and a half. Possessing the mental discipline to start receiving literacy training at age
three.
By five, he's well and truly blown all expectations out of the water and cemented a reputation as a gifted child. There's talk of early schooling and academic opportunities to help nurture such prodigious talent, and many are thrilled for the boy's prospects, both for altruistic reasons and for the beneficial PR that could come with such a budding genius being associated with the center.
And yet...
Mark is intelligent, none can deny it. Academically, he has no equal among his peers. In point of fact, he has very little in the way of peers to begin with. Most children his age aren't half as capable, and certainly, none in the center can give him any competition.
And therein lay the problem.
Academically, Mark is off the scales. Socially, he's…
Well, he's a
catastrophe.
To say the child was isolated would be akin to admitting that the sky was blue and that water was wet.
Mark Milton does not interact with his fellow children. He does not seek them out, does not engage them in any meaningful way, and on most days it's almost as though he doesn't see them to begin with.
Most could count one on hand how many times they'd ever heard the boy speak to another person without considerable prompting, and even then those exchanges tended not to surpass a few awkward, stunted moments before breaking down into uncomfortable silence.
Well-spoken for his age, but he spoke so rarely he may as well have been mute. At times, it was like he
radiated his desire for solitude and his failure to register anyone around him and
good lord, did it make him unapproachable.
And this wasn't a phenomenon that was limited to the other
children, either. The adults in his life were just as rarely given the time of day, and most suspected that the only reason the boy spoke to them at all was to sate his curiosity.
For all that Mark seemed to go out of his way to exemplify the concept of personal independence (as much as any five-year-old could), he still had questions. Idle curiosities. Things that, for all his apparent intelligence, he neither knew nor understood.
Those questions were the only time he could be trusted to speak without being coaxed into it, with anyone lucky enough to be on the receiving end.
Which, fair enough, that's what the caretakers were
there for, but the evident lack of social skills and perhaps even the most basic desire for social interaction was incredibly off-putting at the best of times and just plain concerning to boot.
Social interaction was
important for growing children, on
numerous levels. It taught them comprehensive communication skills, allowed them to build their confidence, and learn how to function autonomously and with others in their day-to-day lives.
It was a key part of individual development, and having a child so vehemently shy away from it was and remains most troubling.
Unfortunately, none of the interested parties could have predicted that in the case of this particular child's mental hurdles, a lack of social skills was only the very
tip of the iceberg.
...
Mark is five years old when scattered pieces click together, and he makes an odd discovery.
"Oh." Mark blinked in slow realization and tilted his head in thought.
He's alone in his room now, a small and cozy little thing illuminated and painted by the warm glow of his desk lamp, and the name comes to him even as he puts his pencil to his piece of paper and begins to sketch.
For as long as he could remember, Mark's head had been full of thoughts and complexities, dreams that were all... big.
Too big.
Too many ideas. Too many colors. Too much...
everything really. So much context, and for the longest time, he didn't understand
any of it.
As he grew, however, the strange sights in his head began to gain definition. Flashes of color and light resolve into images, and images become short memories. Snippets of a story, of history, so rich and wonderful and full of so many things he doesn't understand but make him ache in a way that is so very, very confusing.
Mark has lived in the Children's Center for his whole life, he knows this with absolute certainty, but there are so many stories in his head that have had to have come from
somewhere, and they're all so
familiar.
They were all so familiar, those strange people of unaging lives and Celestial Light and names that seemed so close to his heart and impossible to remember all the same.
Sketching out what he sees when he closes his eyes feels
right. The more the pictures of warriors in shimmering armor and beasts from beyond the stars spill across the pages, the clearer his dreams grow.
When he'd asked about his strange dreams, one of his teachers had smiled at him, ruffled his hair, and praised him for having a 'wild imagination."
Mark didn't like that, because he wasn't blind to the implication that none of it was real. The teachers knew he was smart, but all of them seemed to think that he couldn't catch on to the truth of their thoughts if they twisted their words a little.
Which was silly, really. He could understand them just fine, and he'd be more inclined to ask them more questions and speak to them more often as they were always pushing him to do if they just
gave him the answers he wanted when he asked for them.
It's why he never talked to any of the other children. They were never helpful, and most had given him odd looks when he asked, all the way back before he'd learned not to bother with them at all.
Well, that, and... He just didn't
like to talk to people.
He knows those that surround him think it's an oddity, but it's not odd to him, so that doesn't matter. He can't explain why his instinct has him pushing himself away, how he's at his most comfortable when he's alone, but the fact is that he is.
It's probably the dreams.
All these people may as well be mayflies. Blink, and they'll be gone, so what's even the point of being able to tell one from the other?
It's been this way, for as long as he could remember, but tonight, tonight is
different.
He's in his room, the walls are plastered with beautiful drawings that none but he can understand, and they all seem to pale in comparison to the picture that's taking form beneath the strokes of his pencil.
The armor comes first, with the intricate sigils weaved across its surface. The figure the dons comes into clarity next, expression blank and unseeing, and it's as he goes to draw the eyes that Mark notes that his hand is shaking.
It's a slight thing, but it's there, and for whatever reason, his heart is hammering audibly and the air he breathes is stifling and unfulfilling.
He traces his finger across the blank void of the warrior's (and he is a warrior, he knows it in his soul) face, and it's like there's something inside of him, a presence, and it's
howling in...
In...
Recognition? and...
pain?
"Who are you?"
The faceless warrior has no words for him.
Something whispers in his mind, and things begin to change.
...
A few days pass
In that time, Mark notices something
strange.
There's no way he can describe it, but it's as though he's seeing... more
colors?
It is an odd thing. His eyes itch for days when it begins, and by the end of it, it's as though the world
blooms.
Everything is brighter, crisper, and painted in shades of light he's never
seen or heard of from anyone or anything. He tries to ask one of his caretakers about them, but he just gets a look, as if
he's the odd one, and he decided to follow his instincts and keep the rest to himself.
After all, they're just colors, and it's
beautiful.
And familiar. Very familiar, and it's only the beginning.
...
Outside the Children's Center, the world abruptly grows a lot bigger.
There is an
invasion, and five great beings from beyond the stars attack with powers beyond humanity and a will to see the world brought to it's knees.
The
Appellexians, or so they're called, and it doesn't matter what they want, because this world has
heroes.
There's footage of these customed beings with dazzling powers and memorable names plastered over every screen, printed across every newspaper, and hanging off the tongues of almost anyone who can speak.
It's not the first Mark has heard of some of them, and he never forgets. (His memories are ever accurate to the dot.)
He remembers receiving bedtime stories on the All-Star Squadron, and remembers cartoons and comics that had only nominally held his interest.
Some of the names he recognizes, even if they likely don't belong to the original legends.
Wonderwoman. The Flash. Green Lantern.
But there are others too, a Dark Knight and an Ocean King, and a Manhunter who's not a man at all, but none of them grasp Mark's attention as much as the last.
He first sees him on a television news report, and something in his brain stutters as he beholds recorded footage of the last members of the Justice League fighting a crystal goliath with
beams of crimson light erupting out of his eyes.
The Man of Steel. The Last Son of Krypton, the Sole Survivor of a doomed race.
For the first time in memory, he badgers his caretakers for internet privileges. They let him have what he wants with minimal fuss, and though he doesn't much care, he can tell that they find his 'childish interest' at once amusing and comforting.
He watches videos, reads interviews, and absorbs everything there is to know about this
Superman.
In the end, though, he feels
cheated.
It's a frustrating feeling, both because he cannot understand where it's coming from and because it's overwhelming its intensity.
Wrong wrong wrong!
Superman is not what he expected. Not that he knows
what he expected to begin with, but something inside him that had jolted in impossible recognition at the sight of the Kryptonian rears back into dormancy just as soon as Mark discovers his origins.
He's lost.
There are questions in his head, half-formed but weighed down with despairing
need and a thousand other things besides, and he doesn't know how to answer them.
How do you find an answer you're desperate for when you don't even understand the question, to begin with?
...
Time passes.
Mark is enrolled in Fawcett Central School, though he doesn't see the point.
There's no struggle to learn, nothing the teachers can provide him that he can't do himself with a book and time.
It's a waste of time but he doesn't see any way out of it. He is still a child, unfortunately, and therefore still beholden to the wishes of those who hold authority over him.
It's... not ideal, but it won't be the case forever, and though he doesn't have the slightest clue what he'll be doing with his life eventually, he feels no fear at the prospect.
They who are Eternal transcend such banality.
...
Mark blinks in surprise.
There is a crib in his room and a rather haggard-looking caretaker is standing over the bundle within and cooing ar it with feeling.
"I'm sorry, Marcus." She waved hello at him, and introduced herself as Emma. "We're getting his accommodations ready and we just needed a temporary space to house him. Just for a day or two."
He nods. "Okay."
He's not happy about this, per se. Babies were loud and disruptive, and Mark has sensitive ears (and growing more so by the day. He could have sworn he's once heard somebody whispering three floors down) and a preference for peace and quiet, but he gained nothing from being discourteous.
Her eyes brightened and she beamed. "That's great! Would you like to come say hello?"
Mark shrugged, and she gestured for him to come closer.
When he does, he finds a baby who couldn't have been over a year old, skin pudgy and with a rosy tint to it, and a few loose tufts of soft black hair peering out from beneath a small cap.
The baby wriggles, it's eyes blink, and Mark catches a sigh of pale blue before the lids drop closed once more.
"Isn't he
gorgeous?" Emma coos again, and Mark tilts his head in thought.
Is he? He hasn't seen all that many babies, so he wouldn't know.
Still, Emma is looking at him with an expectant expression, so Mark nods. "I like his eyes."
They
are a pretty blue.
Emma grins and ruffles his hair.
"That's sweet. Now be sure to keep an eye on him, okay? We'll check in every little while, so you probably won't have to do anything, but if he crying than feel free to come to ask for help, alright?"
"Okay."
Another hair ruffles, and she slips out of the room.
Mark turns his eyes back to the crib holding his temporary roommate and catches sight of the nametag he'd missed on his first look.
William Batson.
"William." He reads aloud and is somewhat surprised when the baby seems to rouse. He sniffles, once, and twice, and Mark knows he's about to start wailing and it's going to be
awful to listen to, so he follows his instincts and starts rocking the crib ever so gently.
The sniffles quiet down a little, but ratchet up a moment later, and he's about to
scream and he doesn't want to hear that-!
Mark opens his mouth and
sings.
"
Do not fear, Sweet Child Of Eternity"
A moment later, he stutters in shock as he realizes what he's doing, but the baby is visibly calming and he doesn't want that to stop, so he opens trips over the next verse and launched back into it.
It's a soft, gentle melody, and meant for someone with a voice far deeper than his, but he weaves the words and the inflections with focus, and it is a beautiful thing all the same.
By the time he's done. Willian is snoring softly, and Mark is exhausted in an entirely non-physical way. There is a strange sensation in his chest as he looks down at the child, one that he can't put into words.
Another Mayfly, soon to be gone with the wind.
He feels
wrong, and he never feels likes, so in recognizing the truth he recognizes that something is wrong.
Everything is wrong.
He turns and slips out of his room, shoving his way past a few others and taking the nearest stairs down three at a time, the short trip giving him a chance to study his racing heart and his unsteady breaths.
He doesn't know what just happened, but
something deep inside of him feels like it's been twisted into a knot and he's never needed fresh air more than he does in that moment.
What was wrong with him?
...
It's a much more hesitant Mark Milton who returns to his room when the sun falls and the caretakers call for lights out.
Sure enough, William is still in his crib, having just been nursed and put down for the night, and Mark approaches hesitantly.
Something about his interaction with the child had... unbalanced him.
Greatly.
Now that he no longer feels quite so weak in the knees, he feels a familiar desperation bubbling up inside of him trying to push him to
understand.
What had that been?
He'd just been singing a song to soothe a baby. Everyone did that, so why did it feel like his
soul was
screaming?
He hesitates for a moment, then firms himself and begins to sing again, ever so softly.
"
Do not fear, Sweet Child Of Eternity"
It is a song about love. About home and hearth and
safety. It's comfort in lyrical form, and singing it brings warmth to his chest."
So why could he already feel that cold wave of panic rearing up from the depths of his mind and looming over him?
It was just a song-
He
stills.
...
Slowly, his eyes go wide and his mouth drops open.
Drawing in a shaky breath, he goes to speak the words of the first verse, but this time, he
listens.
"Do not fear, Sweet Child Of Eternity"
That... is not
English.
The sounds are longer, more elegant, and the syntax is entirely different. Mark has never heard anything like it in his
life.
Yet he knew enough to sing a song in it.
He can speak a language he's never learned to speak before.
That's impossible.
He exhales forcefully, fists clenching and unclenching.
That's
impossible! and
absurd! He doesn't even know what this-!
And he can almost feel it, as another piece in his mind clicks into place, and understanding and recognition both wash over him in an instant.
This is not a language he ever learned, because it's not a language he ever needed to learn. It was (is) his (their) mother tongue, and it was hardwired into his being at the moment at his very inception.
The Tongue Of Arishem.
Of course, he could speak and understand it, even now. All of them could.
But who are
them?
The world seemed to blur, after that, as he walks to his desk and pulls open his drawer.
The half-finished drawing lies there, the sketch of the armored warrior the only one that he hadn't taped to the wall. He picks it up with a trembling hand and places it on the desk and retrieves a pencil.
The details are still missing, and the warrior is still faceless, but not for long.
He doesn't know how much time passes, but when he pulls back, his heart nearly
stops as he sees a familiar face peering back at him, black and white features seeming to be locked onto him with inhuman intensity.
But it doesn't end there.
There's something missing.
His finger dips lower, flowing across a blank space beneath his sketch, and it's as though his other hand moves of its own accord, pencil meeting paper and flowing across its surface almost too quickly to process.
When he pulls it away, there are symbols there, graceful looping circles intertwined with more complex geometric sigils like those branded on near-all his drawings, but this one is
different.
Because for the first time, Mark recognizes them in full, and he realizes that they're not just symbols anymore.
They're
letters.
There's a dull splintering sound as Mark crushes the pencil in his grip, before staggering back, back, all the way back until he bumps into the wall and slides down against its length in utter, horrified disbelief.
Even in his unpracticed hand, the Celestial Script is unmistakable, as are the words it spells out in damning clarity.
"I AM IKARIS"
And this time,
everything changes.
...
As always, leave your comments and ideas and if you don't like it, please be courteous.