Isotope Dropout: Background

Allan was sick of it all; the loneliness, the disappointment… even Clayton, who was fair to everyone was growing distant. His only friend was the computer in the library, which ran the Isotope facility. He was Isotope 526.  The only failed experiment.

He stood awkwardly outside of Clayton's office. "Hello Mr. Clayton…"

"Come in," Clayton's familiar face appeared through the opening. "Please, Allan, sit down," he said, gesturing to a chair in front of his desk. When Clayton finally turned to face him, Allan could read the sadness on his face.

"Listen, 526, first off, I'm sorry."

And from those words, he already knew what it was about.  All Allan remembered was crying. It was his first home, and now Clayton suggested he leave. Allan could go to New York, Clayton had said. He could learn to be useful, maybe trigger his power, to become a self-made isotope. Allan had no clue where New York was, but the thought of leaving home scared him. Allan cried and cried, until no more tears came out.

Clayton's voice faded out in the distance, "You can return to us when your mind yearns for home."

And so he had left. It had only been a week, and already he 'yearned for home'. The way a soft bed felt. How comfortable it was to just eat and relax all day. But Clayton had explained it to him; The scientists wanted to eliminate him, destroy all of the failures of the experiment. But for some strange, unexplicable reason, Clayton had chosen to champion his cause, and free him. Even now, at night he could still see the fires glowing in the distance, from the security that had tracked him thus far.

Oh, how he wished he really was an Isotope. But the process was uneffective, and no signs had manifested that he possessed any supernatural powers. And even after these few months without powers, he was still struggling to cope with being ungifted. At the facility, all of the others had strange, unique abilities. Some could fight with fire. Others, move objects with their mind. Increased speed, Knives, Morphing… all sorts of talents. And they had been taught to fight; since the first day of his birth, he had been pitted against all manners of foes, losing to each one. The stress was supposed to bring out his abilities; all it brought about was fear, and…. Guilt.

The guilt. Yes, that was it. The feeling that it was his fault for the way he was born. All the jibes and insults had built up to this unending mental torment. It was all he could do to cover it up with a positive, cheerful spirit. But even then, it would get to him. And there was no one he could tell his secrets to, nobody except the computer, which recorded his speech in a specially locked folder. Someday, maybe someone would listen to them.