Title: Resistance
Fandom: The Tomorrow People (2013)
Characters: OCs and surprise
Rating: G
Length: 1400 words total/ ~700 each
Content notes: I'm posting this twice, once in third person past and once in second person present. Comments on which one is more effective (as well as any other applicable concrit) would be greatly appreciated.
Author notes: Oblique spoilers for the TTP premise.
Summary: Stripping people of their powers doesn't neutralize them. It only transforms them into a different kind of enemy.
Badges: Applicable toward the Comeback Kid, Yulegoat, and SBIGTTS badges.


“I didn't think anyone would believe me,” she typed. With a hard mash of the backspace key, she watched the fought for letters disappear from the screen. White space glared at her, daring her. Was the risk worth it? What if the people in this room weren't who she thought they were? What if they were...?

She shook her head. They weren't. She'd been careful. They'd been careful. Weeks of talking in veiled comments and loose metaphors with people whom...well, she wasn't entirely sure how they'd starting talking to to begin with. A reblogged post, a handful of likes, comments on a forum thread, and now here they were in this private chatroom with their secrets laid bare.

Though she could leave and pretend that nothing had happened, she'd long grown sick of that pretense. All she did these days was pretend that nothing had happened because if she didn't....Clocks spaced around her room ticked their dissynchronized beats at her, a reminder that time was going to run out no matter what choice she made.

One fingerpeck at a time, she retyped the sentence exactly as it had been.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she hit enter. She shoved the rolling desk chair back from the computer as if a gun was going to pop out of the screen right there and enact the follow-through on the threat to stay silent.

Nothing happened.

She blew her breath out and felt the tension that had cramped the muscles in her back ease. No matter what they said next, finding the others was worth the risk.

Onto the screen flashed a response. She had to read it and read it again, mouthing the words in case they didn't mean what she needed them to: “You're not alone.”

The house was empty, as it always was this time of day. Her parents wouldn't be home from work for hours. Even so, she bit back the urge to cheer, to do anything that could alert an outsider to the importance of what she'd just learned.

A red private message envelope pinged in the corner of her monitor. She clicked on it, half an eye still on the chat window in case anyone else in the room chimed in. A new window opened, the sender identified as the chat room's moderator. His user name could be a real name, but probably wasn't.

“You're safe here as long as I'm signed on,” he told her without introduction, “but they're watching you. Keep your guard up.”

“I will,” she typed back. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

But they did know. Back in the main window, she could see the other anonymous users chiming in with words she could have said herself, that she had said herself. They'd all been through the same thing--

(and who could have imagined that there were so many others out there? They'd all known they were alone. The only one.

Special.

Until they weren't anymore.)

--and had met the same fate. That which defined their identities was ripped away, with no chance of it ever being reclaimable.

“I thought I made it all up,” one said.

“I figured I'd dreamt it,” another answered. “Weirdest and coolest dream ever, and then I had to wake up. Why did I have to wake up?”

“...I thought I was losing my mind,” they all commented. “No one understood what I was going through.”

“You're not alone,” the moderator reminded them. It's what they all needed to hear. “Everyone here has something to offer.”

The screen sat quiet for a long moment after that, each person processing the simple truth.

At last, she broke the visual silence. She needed to know the other users' stories as much as she needed to share hers. Too long living trapped in their own heads wasn't good for anyone. “So, where do we start?”

The cursor blinked and her heart thudded in her throat. The answer came through her speakers. In plain letters and a cultured voice, she was informed: “We already have.”



“I didn't think anyone would believe me,” you type. With a hard mash of the backspace key, you watch the fought for letters disappear from the screen. White space glares at you, daring you. Is the risk worth it? What if the people in this room aren't who you think they were? What if they are...?

You shake your head. They aren't. You've been careful. They've been careful. Weeks of talking in veiled comments and loose metaphors with people whom...well, you aren't entirely sure how you'd starting talking to to begin with. A reblogged post, a handful of likes, comments on a forum thread, and now here you are in this private chatroom with your secrets laid bare.

Though you could leave and pretend that nothing had happened, you've long grown sick of that pretense. All you do these days is pretend that nothing had happened, because if you don't....Clocks space around your room tick their dissynchronized beats at you, a reminder that time is going to run out no matter what choice you make.

One fingerpeck at a time, you retype the sentence exactly as it had been.

Before you can talk herself out of it, you hit enter. You shove the rolling desk chair back from the computer as if a gun was going to pop out of the screen right there and enact the follow-through on the threat to stay silent.

Nothing happens.

You blow your breath out and feel the tension that had cramped the muscles in your back ease. No matter what they said next, finding the others was worth the risk.

Onto the screen flashes a response. You have to read it and read it again, mouthing the words in case they didn't mean what you need them to: “You're not alone.”

The house is empty, as it always is this time of day. Your parents wouldn't be home from work for hours. Even so, you bite back the urge to cheer, to do anything that could alert an outsider to the importance of what you've just learned.

A red private message envelope pings in the corner of your monitor. You click on it, half an eye still on the chat window in case anyone else in the room chimes in. A new window opens, the sender identified as the chat room's moderator. His user name could be a real name, but probably isn't.

“You're safe here as long as I'm signed on,” he tells you without introduction, “but they're watching you. Keep your guard up.”

“I will,” you type back. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

But they do know. Back in the main window, you can see the other anonymous users chiming in with words you could have said herself, that you have said herself. You've all been through the same thing--

(and who could have imagined that there were so many others out there? You'd all known you were alone. The only one.

Special.

Until you weren't anymore.)

--and had met the same fate. That which defined your identities was ripped away, with no chance of it ever being reclaimable.

“I thought I made it all up,” one says.

“I figured I'd dreamt it,” another answers. “Weirdest and coolest dream ever, and then I had to wake up. Why did I have to wake up?”

“...I thought I was losing my mind,” they all comment. “No one understood what I was going through.”

“You're not alone,” the moderator reminds them. It's what you all needed to hear. “Everyone here has something to offer.”

The screen sits quiet for a long moment after that, each person processing the simple truth.

At last, you break the visual silence. You need to know the other users' stories as much as you need to share yours. Too long living trapped in your own heads isn't good for anyone. “So, where do we start?”

The cursor blinks and your heart thuds in your throat. The answer comes through her speakers the same time as it appears on the screen. In plain letters and a cultured voice, you're informed: “We already have.”