Saint Joseph School

"David Adams."

"Present."

It was his first day of class at Saint Joseph School. This was a moment of infinite potential, of a fresh new take on his strange existence. Yet, somehow the boy was already distracted. His eyes drifted around the classroom as the teacher took roll.

"Any nicknames?"

"David is fine."

This was nothing like his earlier experiences back at his first high school. Every child here, even some of the teachers, carried with them a mantle of hidden talent. Strange energies wafted off of each of them like a unique perfume. He basked in it. He thrived in it.

"Katherine Anderson."

"Here. 'Kathy,' please."

"'Kathy?' Alright, thank you, Kathy."

He would never dream of actively taking away essence, but their mere presence was enough for a small boost. An understanding comfort from the empathic counselors. A steady confidence from the bulletproof boy he passed in the hall. The heady excitement of the super-speedster who helped him unpack.

"Brian Benoit."

"Yeah. Here."

His eyes came to rest on the flame-haired girl that sat to his left. She had a bold, almost violent feel about her. It sparked his adrenaline and left a hot, anxious glow, like the sensation of listening to a shouting match. His mind wandered back through his memory.

----------

"If you'd just read the damn literature, we wouldn't be having this conversation!"

They were fighting again. His mother's alto voice was unmistakable, as was the furious response of his father's baritone.

"I don't care what the pamphlet says, Anne! That... That THING took our boy!"

They didn't know he was listening in his bed, didn't realize how deep their words lanced into him. They must have thought he was asleep, but the paper-thin walls of the run-down apartment did little to shield him from their argument. He had squeezed his eyes shut and tried to sleep.

"That 'thing' IS our boy, and I'm not going to abandon him! They made this decision together, this is what he wants!"

"It's what that damned monster wants, and I don't want anything to do with it. I want our son back. I want our Joseph!"

----------

"Joseph? Is Joseph Castelli here?"

He snapped back to attention. The girl with the orange hair was staring at him. He must have been staring back. He quickly broke eye contact, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"Here," his voice cracked as he responded. The class let out a collective chuckle, while the fiery-haired girl simply rolled her eyes.

"So good of you to join us," the teacher quipped. "Any nicknames?"

Lightless. He opened his mouth to respond, but something stopped him. Maybe it was thoughts of the laughter of his classmates, or the scrutiny of the teacher at the head of the class. Would they understand? Would he sound foolish, even amongst superhumans? It's your name now, he chided himself mentally, your real name. Just say it. Lightless.

"...Call me Joey."

The cruel shriek of an electronic alarm shattered Lightless' sleep like a hammer against a window pane.

It had been another late night. Bleary-eyed, the Warshade sat up in bed and paused to consider the repercussions of partying on a school night. His head pounded, his body ached to go back to sleep, his thoughts danced half-in and half-out of his interrupted dreams, and class was starting in half an hour.

He swung his feet around and forced himself to stand, welcoming the shock of the cool tiles on his bare feet. The sensation would have to serve as his secondary wake-up call - the "snooze" button on his clock would be suicide at this point. Keeping his footfalls quiet as to avoid waking his roommates, he lurched into the bathroom and eased the door shut behind him.

The image that greeted him in the mirror was pitiful at best, with eyes squinted half-shut and mouth twisted into a sleepy scowl. Yet, he still found himself fascinated by the sight. This was his face now, yet it had always been his. If elder Kheldians were to be believed, the duality was something he would never truly get used to.

Lightless turned the faucet on and gripped his toothbrush like a weapon, pausing on a whim to stare his reflection down. For some reason, the words that came to mind were those he had already spoken to himself before - back when it was a dialogue and not simply an echo of old memories, back before he was Lightless. Back when he was Joey, and back when he was Chiaroscuro.

"What are you," he asked the mirror, "some kind of alien?"

"Yes," the reflection responded on cue, "and I need your help."

"I don't understand." The boy was terrified, unsure if the roiling black mass he spoke to was a demonic force or the Burning Bush itself. "You want my help?"

"There's not much time. I'm dying. I need you to be with me. I need you to be me. I need you to be okay with this." Empathic communication was difficult, but Chiaroscuro was two hours new to the planet, and English was its least concern. "My vessel - my home - my shelter - is gone. I need you to be my shelter now."

Joey wasn't sure why he spoke in response. This was too fantastic, too terrifying to consider. What would happen to him? What would his family think? What wonderful, awful, amazing changes would it bring into his life? His voice settled on the simplest question his mind could muster, one that already suggested his compliance. "Will it hurt?"

Mercifully, the unbound Kheldian sensed the boy's feelings. It offered an emotional sense of comfort with its reply. "Not physically, no. But I have done things. Horrible things. Unforgivable things. You will take this unto you. Do you understand?"

"That's okay. I go to church every Sunday, I been baptized and everything. If we wind up one in the same, that's like a package deal. That means maybe salvation will apply to you too. Maybe... Maybe we'll be saved together."

"Maybe we will."

"Maybe we'll what? Who's we?" The sound of his roommate's voice nearly scared Lightless to death. "Who the hell are you talking to, Joey?"

The young Kheldian regained his composure, noticing the overflowing sink and the deathgrip on his toothbrush a few seconds too late to respond to the other boy in the doorway.

"You're nuts, man. You need to hurry up, you've been in there forever. Class starts in five minutes and you aren't even dressed."

"Five minutes? Ah, geez," Lightless groaned. Stealing one last glance at the mirror, he scrambled for his uniform and stumbled out the door, mentally chastising himself all the while.

This was the last time he would let himself stay out that late on a school night.

Bursts of brilliant color splashed themselves across the night sky, daring to outshine the glimmer of stars and the ambient glow of the war walls.

Lightless smiled in simple joy. A nearby rooftop had made the perfect seat for the fireworks show. There would have been a time when he saw the display as no more than chemical reactions and trajectory paths, but a human sense of wonder transformed it into nothing short of magic.

Beautiful as they were, however, they paled in comparison to what his travels had seen. The glory of nebulae, the brilliance of stars, the curiosity of entire galaxies of potential. It was a wonder he could still look up at the night sky without laughing... Or breaking down. How long had he been stranded in that cyst, with only the cold comfort of these sights for company? Years?

Decades?

Centuries?

Treachery had put him there. Chiaroscuro was sure of it. Despite every moment of careful planning, every cautious step taken, his Nictus "associates" must have caught on to his sabotage.

"Warshades," they had called themselves. Ghosts, shadows of their former selves, lingering reminders of fools' decisions and unforgivable sin. What a miserable title to carry for the rest of an already-stained life. At least they shared his regrets and hesitations at having undergone the transformation.

Still, Chiaroscuro was no soldier, and certainly no spy. He was a scientist. An engineer. An artist. Asking him to remain with these monsters and feign continuation of his work on that abominable weapon was cruel at best. How they had convinced him of its benefit to the greater good still escaped him.

And now here he was, marooned into the eternal nothingness of space, clinging to this crystal while his tainted essence slowly leaked away into nothing. This was the Nictus' method of execution. This was their punishment for conscience, and their sentence for betrayal: a slow, lonely, wasting death.

They had miscalculated, however. They had assumed a sole shadow seed could never locate another cyst, assumed that Chiaroscuro wouldn't have the fortitude or cunning to locate the nearby encysted planet and make the transfer. They had second-guessed his patience. They had underestimated his will. No matter how many lifetimes it took to drift into range, no matter how weakened this isolation would leave his body and mind, he would have to wait and be ready.

So he waited.


Something like the rattle of gunfire shocked Lightless to attention. The finale of the fireworks was in full swing, sending a triumphant and resounding thunder through the air. Between the illuminating explosions and the ambient light pollution, it was almost as though the night had turned to day.

How long had he been distracted? Lightless didn't dare check his watch. Instead, he shook the lingering memory from his thoughts with a deep breath of air, adjusted his hat, and climbed to his feet.

Maybe next year he'd skip the fireworks.