Date: November 1982 - Early 1983
Location: Cincinnati, Ohio
The bus pulled out of Hawkins with a long, mournful hiss of air brakes, leaving behind the small, sleepy town that had been both my prison and my crucible. My hand, still tingling from Sister Agnes's tearful goodbye hug, clutched the worn strap of my duffel bag. Inside, a few changes of clothes, a handful of books, and the precious stipend that was my ticket to the unknown. The world outside the window blurred into a nondescript tapestry of bare trees and frost-kissed fields. I was fourteen. And I was finally free.
The journey was long, punctuated by the drone of the engine and the quiet snores of other passengers. Each mile put more distance between me and the familiar hum of the orphanage, the constant emotional static of Sister Agnes's worries, Miss Karen's quiet contentment, and Billy's simmering rage. By the time the bus rumbled into the sprawling terminal of Cincinnati, Ohio, the psychic noise had lessened to a manageable, distant murmur.
Cincinnati was a sensory explosion. Neon signs glared down busy streets. Cars honked, a cacophony of voices drifted from crowded sidewalks, and the air smelled of exhaust, hot pretzels, and something indefinably urban. My carefully constructed image of an "angelic" orphan felt flimsy here, too noticeable, too vulnerable.
My first few days were a blur of cheap motels and disheartening job interviews. "How old are you, son?" every manager asked, their thoughts a weary mixture of doubt and the desire to avoid child labor laws. Too young. Too risky. Not worth the paperwork. My stipend quickly dwindled, and the reality of surviving on my own hit hard. I was smart, yes, but knowledge didn't pay rent.
I knew I couldn't afford to be scrupulous if I wanted to survive and, more importantly, continue my preparations. But using my abilities directly, with my distinct features, was too risky. I needed a new skin.
My first stop that afternoon was a drug store. I stared at the boxes of hair dye, the irony not lost on me – transforming my trademark ginger into something entirely different. I chose a box of "Midnight Black," then picked out a pair of cheap, oversized glasses with thick, dark frames.
Back in my motel room, I looked at my reflection. The green eyes, once almost translucent, seemed to deepen against the stark black hair. The subtle freckles were now lost against the darker backdrop. The glasses, designed to mask, gave me a studious, almost meek appearance. It wasn't perfect, but it was a disguise. I practiced my telekinetic control by subtly altering the angle of the glasses on my nose, then adjusted my empathic filters. This is Rupert Johnson, I thought, pushing a new persona into being. Not the orphan, not the angel. Just a quiet boy.
With my new look, I started visiting local pool halls and obscure arcades that seemed to exist just outside the reach of the law. Places where cash exchanged hands freely, and a keen eye or a bit of luck could earn you a few dollars. My telepathy became my secret weapon. I learned to read tells, to anticipate moves, to subtly nudge dice or influence a pool ball's roll by a fraction of a millimeter. It was risky, exhilarating, and shockingly effective. I never took much, just enough to live, to pay for my room and for food, always blending back into the shadows after a small win. My rule was simple: never win big enough to be remembered.
It was in one of these dimly lit arcades, amidst the flashing lights and tinny music of Pac-Man and Donkey Kong, that I met Janiece. She was a whirlwind of denim, bright laughter, and an electric blue streak in her wild, curly hair. Her thoughts were a constant, vibrant stream of rebellion, excitement, and fierce loyalty.
"You new around here, glasses?" she asked, leaning against the Centipede machine I was quietly dominating. Her eyes, shrewd and intelligent, gave me a once-over.
I nodded, adjusting my new spectacles. "Just arrived."
"Thought so. Don't see many quiet types in here," she grinned. "Name's Janiece. You any good at, like, not getting caught?"
Her candor was disarming. "Depends on what you're not trying to get caught doing," I replied, a slight smirk touching my lips – a rare expression for the old Rupert.
She laughed, a loud, uninhibited sound. "I like you, quiet boy. Ever seen a real race?"
Over the next few months, Janiece became my guide to the "other side" of Cincinnati. She introduced me to underground car races in abandoned industrial parks, to hidden diners that served the best greasy burgers at 3 AM, to rooftop spots with views of the sprawling city lights that felt impossibly vast. She taught me how to hotwire a car (a skill I never used, but found oddly fascinating), how to talk my way out of trouble, and how to spot a cop a mile away. Her world was fast, chaotic, and exhilaratingly real, a stark contrast to the sterile quiet of the orphanage and the overwhelming noise of my pow