Rebuilding Reality

Chapter Four

Linda's POV (one of the guardians)

John and I, we always knew we were different. The smart ones, the visionaries. People out there, they walk around blind, but we see the patterns, the hidden strings that connect everything. When we looked at those kids — Max, Mason, Maya — they weren't just kids. They were a chance to do something big, something that would change everything.

We had this special mix, our little secret sauce, meant to light up their brains like fireworks. Slipped it right into their morning grub. They thought it was just bread and grits, but it was so much more. With every bite, they were getting sharper, smarter — all part of our plan.

But brains weren't enough. We wanted to toughen them up, see if we could make them strong in more ways than one. So we pushed their limits, kinda like when you're trying to see how much weight you can lift. It was a letdown when they couldn't keep up physically, but it was still a kick, pushing those buttons and seeing what would happen.

Every flinch, every little sound they made, it was all notes in this wild tune we were playing. We were out there on the edge, testing what people are really made of. It's fascinating what you find when you push hard enough, when you're not afraid to get your hands a little dirty.

People wouldn't get it. They'd say we're nuts, that we were hurting those kids. But they don't see the big picture. We're like those old artists, the ones who knew you gotta break a few eggs to make an omelet. And those kids, they were our masterpieces — maybe a little cracked here and there, but that's part of the art.

What we did, it wasn't about feelings, it wasn't personal. It was cold, hard science. We weren't there to coddle or comfort, we were there to innovate, to carve out new paths through sheer will. Those kids? They were nothing but test subjects for our grand design, disposable and necessary.

The gift we gave them wasn't kindness, it was edge, a sharpness of mind that they couldn't even fathom. They couldn't see the value, the honor in being chosen for something greater than themselves. It's the cost of progress, the price of evolution.

Being a pioneer isn't about being liked. It's about being remembered, about leaving a mark that will reshape the world. And if that means becoming the monster in those kids' nightmares, so be it. We're not here to be heroes; we're here to forge a new reality, no matter the wreckage left behind. If that means dragging everyone through the mud, kicking and screaming into tomorrow, then that's a burden we're willing to bear. After all, in the end, it's not about the methods, it's about the outcome, and our outcome will be monumental.

These kids have never been perfect, no matter what we've done to them. We thought separating them would make everything better, but no. Maya and Mason were always attached to the hip, dependent on each other. Now, they haven't seen each other in over six years. Since their ninth birthday. They turn 16 this year. But they don't need to know that. They are nothing more than our test subjects.

Over the years, we have observed the children together and separately.

Maya, what a disappointment she turned out to be in the eloquence department. A child gifted with the fruits of our brilliance, yet she can barely string a sentence together without stumbling over her own tongue. It's maddening. You'd think with all that enhanced brain power coursing through her, words would be her weapons, yet she wields them as clumsily as a toddler. This girl does not use her brain like she should.

I watch her, silent or stuttering, and it irritates me. We've given her this extraordinary ability to think, to understand, to outsmart any adult in the room, and she squanders it with her silence and her stammering. It's infuriating. Does she not realize the opportunity she's wasting? The sacrifice of our time and efforts?