The first time Owen Bright listened to the audio logs of Doctor Blackburn and the one entry by the Ghost, he was confused to the point where he was sure he had heard it all wrong. Super babies was just too far fetched for his brain to wrap around it. Him being one of them was downright ridiculous. He was nothing special, after all. He was a bit spoiled, he would admit that, but that was about it. And the thing with his hair; but growing out your hair could not possibly be considered “super-human”. The second time he listened to the audio logs, he started thinking a bit more about his life. Had anything supernatural happened to him that he did just not think about? A few instances came to mind. Like that one time, during P.E., while they had been playing Dodgeball and Evan, that assholeish bully, had thrown the ball straight at his face. It had bounced off without any pain and just went straight back at Evan and hit him square on the nose. He had gotten a nose-bleed and Owen had been lectured about not aiming for the face. The third time he heard the audio logs, he was really listening. Maybe his science classes were good for [i]something[/i] anyways. He really wanted to try and understand. Had he learned of this Ark earlier, while it was still up and running, he and his friends would have been protesting outside. But it had shut down about the same time he was born. If he really was one of those super babies, it would mean that one of his parents were most likely some scientist person that had helped “make” him. His father could barely figure out how the stove worked, so he would put his money on his mother. She had always helped him with his homework, too. The fourth time he listened, he started to realize what all of this meant. If he really was some super human, he would have to go and help with those enemies that the Ghost was talking about. Sure, she had said that he did not [i]have[/i] to, but it sounded like when his mother said he did not have to help her do the dishes. He had a choice, but not going was a bad one and would mean he wound not be getting dessert. The fifth time was the charm. He finally just sighed, rubbed his face with his hands and resigned to his fate. He would have to talk to his parents first, of course. If he presented them with this evidence and all that, they would have to tell him the truth. Maybe he would be able to learn something that the audio logs did not tell him; like what it was he could do. Yeah... He would definitely have to talk to his parents first. --- It was a couple of hours after he had made up his mind. Dinner had been served, eaten and cleaned back up. It was just Owen and his parents, since Emily had long since moved out and found an apartment of her own. Owen was nervous, though. As much as he hated his parents sometimes, he loved them, too. He was not quite ready to lose them, yet and having them tell him that he was basically stolen from some government project was pretty much losing them. “Mom..?” he finally mustered up the courage to all but whimper while they were watching some cooking show on the TV, just chilling after dinner. His mother, Denise Bright, started at the sudden, utterly heartbreaking sound of her sons voice. She turned in her seat immediately and looked at him with wide, worried eyes, “What's the matter, baby? Does anything hurt?” was her immediate response. Owen felt his heart break at the look on his mothers face. She was genuinely worried about him. He had never before doubted that his parents loved him. Why would he doubt it now? Even if they had stolen him and were not his biological parents, they had always been there for him. They had never treated him bad or done anything but love him like their own. “Mom,” he began again, drawing in a shuttering, nervous breath. He could tell his mother was holding herself back from smothering him in worried hugs and kisses. “Mom, I got an email today. From a girl called Sarah Blackburn.” His mother stiffened up at the mention of the girl's name. Her face went cold and her shoulders tensed. The very mention of her obviously scared her shitless. “She told you, then?” was her clipped reply. Her expression did not change. She did not want to reveal anything. Owen sank to try and relieve the lump that was forming in his throat. His mother was going to hate him after this, “In a way. She sent me a file that gave me access to some audio logs from the Ark. Most of what is going on has already been explained.” “Good,” his father butted in with a calm, soft tone, “Then you understand that we took you in voluntarily, to protect you and give you a normal life?” he inquired with a lifted brow. Owen nodded dully, his mouth dry as sandpaper. He really did understand. He was just scared, right? “So...” his mother began, her voice a bit warmer, but laced with a tone of hurt, “What do you want to know? You have a reason for bringing this up, yes?” “Yeah,” Owen said, not really thinking it through before he said it, “What can I do?” --- After a long talk with his parents; his mother telling him about his supposed abilities and them telling him a bit more about what had happened back at the Ark and his mother trying to explain to him how it all worked, Owen went to bed with his head spinning with information. Well, he went to his room, anyways. He was looking at himself in the mirror. He was a good looking guy, he decided to himself. He found himself wondering if he had [i]made[/i] himself a good looking guy. Had he unconsciously molded himself into his image of what a good looking guy looked like? Was it the genes used for the project that were just naturally good looking, to ensure that the future super-humans would be attractive, or something. Maybe he had just gotten lucky. He held up a hand in front of his face, so he could no longer see his reflection. What if he thought about looking different? Would his appearance change to match? He took a deep breath and held it, eyes shut tightly and lips pressed together into a thin line as he concentrated all that he could on trying to be someone else. He felt nothing. After a few moments of standing there, feeling silly for even trying, he opened his eyes back up. The sight that met him in the mirror made him jump a bit as he let out a startled squeak. He had breasts. Wide hips, breasts and long, dark hair. His eyes were no longer that powder blue color that they had (supposedly) always been, but a deep green. He reached out one of his thin-fingered hands, with the manicured nails and touched his own reflection gently. He looked just like Michelle. Michelle wearing his clothes, but he looked like her, nonetheless. Something was not quite right, though. He was certain that Michelle's lips were not quite that plum and her breasts certainly were not that big. Her eyes were not as bright as his were and her hair was not that long. As he realized these things, they changed. It was not disgusting to look at, like Mystique from the X-Men movies or something. It simply changed. His lips shrank, his hair grew shorter, his breasts got smaller and so on, until he looked exactly like he imagined Michelle. “Cool.” --- “You're really going to go?” his mother asked him with worry etched into her every feature as she stood awkwardly in the door opening while he packed a few things into his duffel bag. “Yeah...” was his distracted reply while he stuffed a few pairs of clean boxers into the bag. Neither he, nor his mother commented on the pink ones. His mother sighed and ran a hand through her graying hair, pushing it out of her face, “There are so many others, dear, and so many of them with powers more fit for something like this.” she rationalized. Owen stopped to turn and look at her with one brow raised and the other pushed down, “And what if they think like that, too? No one will go. Someone has to do something, so why not me? If what you said is true, I can't really get hurt, right? I reflect stuff, or something, right?” “It's still dangerous,” his mother squeaked, “Even if you were immortal, I wouldn't want you to go.” “I'm going, mom,” he deadpanned, shoving his favorite sweatshirt into his bag with a rather aggressive movement. The conversation ended at that.