061

Description

One hundred gifted children were raised as experiments in a classified government facility. Now, they've had enough.

Foreword

1991

Tonight, like every night, is silent. The soft glow of the moonlight dimly lights up the tiny, historic houses lining the street. The entire neighborhood is in an unconscious; lost in their dream worlds with various characters dancing around -their heads. It's idyllic. A small town, a quiet street.

In the forest, a young boy sits by a lake. He stares at the water, focusing his every thought on it. Discomfort is etched on to his baby like face, along with a slight hint of pain. He slowly reaches out his shaking hand.

At first, the effect is only minor. A slight bubble. Then, a drop of water. Slowly rising out of the lake, coming to a halt when it reaches his small head. He smiles. To his tired eyes, it's a pretty and ordinary sight, having done this many times before. He does it again, squealing with joy as it rises higher and higher into the air. More water rises, speeding into the sky and creating a spectacular water show. He stares at it in amazement, a spark of entertainment lighting up in his deep brown eyes, hardly believing it's within his capabilities. Then it stops.

The water falls back into the lake, small droplets coming out and splashing the young boy's face, leaving the water show in the past and the restored silence in the present. He turns at the sound of footsteps and his eyes widen at what his big brown eyes comprehend.

He quickly stands himself up and begins to run from the terror that awaits him upon his capture. Alas, the 3-year-old is no match for the dark forest and he finds his escape hindered by a thick log. He lifts his now mildly injured head from the grass and attempts to stand up, before discovering that his legs have somehow trapped themselves under the heavy log. He cries out. His futile attempts at escape are almost hopeless at this point.

He turns his small head to catch a glimpse of his captors, but before he can do so, his vision is hindered by a thick piece of cloth wrapped tightly around his eyes. He tries to rip it off before taking notice of the pair of arms wrapped around his torso and a sharp pain in his arm.

Everything suddenly feels distant; the voices sound like a melody from 1954 being played through a second hand CD player; the pain a distant memory. His small frame comes crashing to the ground and he can't even find the strength to shout.

The last thing his mind comprehends is a stern female voice.

"Captured: Kwon Jiyong. 001."

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