[img]http://i1062.photobucket.com/albums/t486/isthistaken1/Hannah-Bond.png[/img]

Hannah sat perched on the worn leather arm of her couch, a mug of lukewarm tea clutched in one hand, tiny bits of shredded paper cupped loosely in the other. Her fingers trembled as she took a long sip of her drink, and another, and another.  Soon enough she was stuck staring at the little black leaf fragments plastered to the pottery bottom, as if she could divine some sort of greater meaning from their moist, nebulous clusters.

Warm light filtered through her tall windows, casting her sparsely decorated living room in a buttery glow. She could almost pretend it was spring again, that is if she ignored the naked trees outside. Her lungs emptied in a slow leak, air flowing gently out through her nose only to creep back in again. Her breathing was the only sound to break the silence, that and the clock that hung in the hall. It occurred to her as she glanced at its passive face that she had been seated there quite some time, probably since the stranger had left her apartment. That had been a surprise she hadn’t seen coming, and one she still didn’t entirely believe. 

At around quarter to nine the doorbell had gone off like a gunshot, breaking her perpetual silence, ricocheting through her home and settling in her bones. The man himself had been rather memorable. For one, he was the first person other than Hannah herself to step inside her fifth-floor walkup. He also had impeccable taste in suits.

When she had first opened her door, swaddled in her blue bathrobe, the stranger made no attempt to introduce himself or shake her hand, a fact which disturbed her quite a bit more than if he had. Instead he greeted her with an inclination of his sunglass-clad head and a simple string of words. 

“Hannah Orson Bond, your life is in danger. We need to talk.”

Thinking back she probably should have been more suspicious. Asked for his credentials, identification, his name, something. But at the time it simply didn’t seem important. He wasn’t there to harm her. She didn’t have any physical evidence of course, she just knew. Like she knew he would refuse her offer of coffee, though she asked anyway to be polite. Marguerite would be proud.

Their conversation hadn’t shaped up to much, but it was hard to hold a good tête-à-tête with only one participant. The stranger had given her a letter, the letter whose remnants she now held in her hand, all the while careful not to touch her skin. “This is from my employer,” the man had informed her, “Please read what he has to say and then destroy it. He can help you with what’s coming.” The stranger didn’t elaborate, simply bid her goodbye with a martial nod of his head and disappeared as quickly as he had come. One thing was certain; the man was scared for her. She felt it.

Hannah waited until the door had closed firmly behind him before tearing into the letter.

[b]Dear Ms. Bond,

Though we have never met, know I write to you as a friend. It is hard to place any amount of trust in a stranger, but I assure you I 	am nothing if not an ally to you, and of course to those like you.

Your abilities (I refer to those which are particular to your person) put your life at immediate risk. The government issued a mandatory blood test at the national level last month, one you justifiably treated with suspicion. The purpose of the test was to locate individuals in the population who possess specific genetic markers and, as a result, exhibit powers considered superhuman or even supernatural. 

It was a clever move, switching out your blood sample with that of a classmate, but how long before they find you out? Do not delude yourself into thinking you are safe. They will come for you sooner or later, and I can assure you that when they do everything will be easier with friends. You are an intelligent woman, Ms. Bond. If you are really honest with yourself, you know you cannot survive alone.

Enclosed in this letter is a first-class plane ticket.  I can offer you a new life, a life where you can be a part of the downfall of the government’s genocide of people like you and I, a life where you can learn to control your powers rather than fear them. It will require hard work, and I can’t guarantee your safety, but isn’t that better than death? 

I’m giving you a choice. Stay where you are now and die or be taken away to live out your days as a lab rat – or, alternatively, leave your home, get on that plane, and do not look back. 

Should you choose to take the flight to Haiti, look for a man holding a sign saying “Smith Family” when you arrive. He will take you to your new home. I hope to see you there.

	Regards,

	W.V.

		P.S. If you have family, it’s best they don’t know where you’re going. 
[/b]

Hannah read that letter over and over again that morning she spent perched on the arm of her couch. After the fourth time she had it memorized and could just read it in her head, leaving her hands free to absently shred the thing into oblivion. The message gave her little in the way of information, except to confirm her suspicions about the blood test. Instead it upset a hornets’ nest of questions, questions that now swarmed about her brain. Who was W.V.? How did he know who she was, let alone that she was less than normal? And most important of all, could he really teach her to control… whatever the hell it was that had happened to her?

The clock struck noon and Hannah’s gaze fell to the ticket that lay on her glass coffee table, nestled between research journals. The flight left at two. If she was going to go, she had to go now. She stared at the small colored strip of paper for a long moment, her gray eyes unblinking, then set her mug down with a thud and pulled out her cellphone. She drafted a quick text to her parents, explaining that she was going on a research trip and wouldn’t have Internet access or cell service. It was a lame excuse, but Hannah was certain the Doctors Bond wouldn’t care enough to question it.  There wasn’t anyone left alive who did. Hannah read the short message through once more, hit send, and vaulted towards her bedroom.

[i]Haiti, huh?[/i], she thought to herself as she started tearing open her dresser drawers and dumping their contents onto the floor, [i]How the hell am I supposed to pack for that?[/i]. New England weather dictated multiple layers this time of year, a practice she was sure wasn’t going cut it closer to the equator. [i]Marguerite would know. She was from Haiti, wasn’t she?[/i] A heavy lump settled in Hannah’s throat.

She yanked out her suitcase from under her bed and began to toss in anything she could find with short sleeves. Satisfied, she sprinted to the bathroom, dumped an armload of toiletries in a bag, and chucked that in her suitcase as well. Puffing her cheeks, Hannah zipped her bag closed and took a step back, pleased. After a moment she glanced down at herself. [i]Dammit[/i]. She was still wearing her pajamas. 

A flowy lavender sundress and a strappy pair of six-inch sandals later, Hannah was out the door, laptop case and bag in tow. She hissed when she stepped out of her building and into the cold, but barreled blithely forward. She was just going to have to suffer until she got to the airport. Thankfully it didn’t take her very long; bored cabbies were only too eager to stop for a half-naked young woman.