The sound of an alarm jolts me out of sleep. Groggy, I look around for the cause of the noise and see a message scrolling along a flat screen TV that I didn't notice yesterday.

It is time to wake up. It is time to wake up. It is time to wake up.

I glance at the time in the bottom right corner of the screen and let out a loud groan. 5:00 Am? That's ridiculous. Marley would have said that it's the butt crack of dawn. Looking out the window at the dark sky, I'd have to agree with her. If the sun's not even up yet, why should I be?

I groan again. This is what I have to look forward to every morning? I might as well sleep in a fire station. The constant noise of fire alarms would be more welcome than this annoying wail. I reassure myself that I still have weekends to catch up on sleep, assuming Will doesn't come wake me up.

I pull off my sheets and swing my feet onto the cold wooden floor. As soon as I do so the alarm stops. The floor must have weight sensors under it, to register when I get out of bed. I walk towards my bathroom, sleep making my movements slow and clumsy. I brush my teeth with the new toothbrush and toothpaste I find under the sink. Deciding against a shower, I open my dresser with the fingerprint lock (even though I don't know how they got my fingerprint) and stand there, gaping. From the outside the dresser appears ordinary, but it hides a walk in closet. I walk inside and choose a pair of pants and a shirt. The material of both is soft and stretchy, like workout clothes. I'll be comfortable today at the very least. I look down at the dark blue shirt and white jeans I grabbed. I look at least somewhat put together.

Exiting my room, I follow the path Will showed me yesterday to get to the training hall. Everyone seems to be gathered at the tables, so I grab my food and look around for the group. I spot them in a corner by the divider, so I make my way over and sit next to Zoe.

"Hey guys," I greet them, my words slightly mumbled. I'm still not fully awake. I get a lackluster chorus of hellos back.

Zoe smirks at me. "Hey sleepyhead. You've got toothpaste on the corner of your mouth."

"What!" I rub frantically at the corners of my mouth. "Is it gone?"

Zoe laughs at my reaction. "Yeah. Don't flip out. Your image is saved. Except for the fact that everyone here saw it."

I highly doubt that. Sean is too busy flicking blueberries at Sienna's impressive stack of waffles to see anything. Will is trying to get a smile to appear on Travis's face. By the looks of it, he isn't going to succeed. Travis seems to fit all of the boxes for antisocial. All black clothing, check. Always carrying an excuse to not get involved in conversation? Check. Hasn't said one word since I've been introduced to him? Check. He's either extremely antisocial, which is unlikely considering the group, or he's really shy.

I sigh. Sitting down, I direct my focus to the plate of pancakes in front of me. Despite feeding what has to be 100 teens, the food here seems pretty good.

"So how are you planning on eating that in the five minutes you have before classes start, Kyla? Unless you have another power you didn't tell me about." Will waves his hand across the air. "Speed eating."

I choke on my bite of pancakes. "Five minutes?!" I start shoveling pancakes into my face as fast as possible. I'm not fast enough though. When the bell rings, I still have food on my plate. Zoe wasn't kidding when she says Sienna eats a lot though. There isn't a trace left of the mountains of waffles I saw on her plate. There aren't even any berries. I leave my plate on the table, mirroring the other's actions, and make my way to the office before my first class.

○○○○○

I check to make sure the engraved sign by the door says Office before walking inside. The scent of lavender hits my nose, but it doesn't calm me like it usually does. I'm still hyper aware of my surroundings, noticing every small detail. The small cobweb in the corner, the mark of dirt on the cream colored lampshade. My eyes flit around the room, taking it all in. I stop suddenly, noticing the expression of the woman behind the front desk, who's looked up from her computer to glare at me. It's clear that she doesn't think very highly of me.

"Kyla Barnes?" She asks sharply. Maybe it isn't me she dislikes. I allow myself a sliver of hope. Maybe she hates her job.

"That would be me." I flash a smile, hoping the action will get her to sound a little more welcoming. It doesn't work.

"The director will see you shortly. Please have a seat while you wait." Her tone is cold. A smile won't win this woman over. She turns back to her computer, her long red fingernails tapping away at the keys. I sit on a bench I noticed earlier, resting my arm on the cold wooden surface. The bench looks old, the carvings on the seatback have been worn away from years of use. Some aren't even discernible anymore. I twist my ring around my finger, calmed by the feel of the textured metal under my touch.

After what seems like forever, a door opens to the left of the front desk, and a man steps out. "Kyla Barnes?" He asks, spotting me on the bench. I nod. "Come in please."

At least he seems more approachable than Miss Secretary over there. His eyes seem kinder, his tone is more gentle. Not what I expected from the leader of a prestigious institute.

The inside of his office is amazing though. It looks exactly as I would expect from him. One wall is made entirely of glass, allowing sunlight to flood over the contents of the room. A flat screen is mounted on the right wall, with a small bookcase underneath it. His desk looks like something out of an add for office supplies. Everything is organized and in a set place. A small golden nameplate reads: Zachary Galleoti. There are no papers strewn about, no broken staples on the floor. It's almost too perfect.

Mr Galleoti completes the image by sitting down in his high-backed chair, clasping his hands on the desk. He gestures for me to sit down in the armchair in front of his desk, a far cry from the wooden bench from earlier. "So, Kyla. I bet you're wondering why I've asked you here." He smiles. "You aren't in any sort of trouble, so don't worry about that." My shoulders instantly relax. "When new students enroll at the institute, we have a simple form that has to be filled out, along with a demonstration of abilities. It shouldn't take very long." He pulls a sheet of paper from an organizer on his desk and turns it towards me. The top reads Student Ability Form.

"After you complete the form, please wait here while I review it. I need the results before you do your demonstration." He pulls a gold fountain pen out of a cup and hands it to me. "Don't worry. There are no wrong answers. Take all the time you need."

I look down at the form, biting my lip. I've never been particularly good at taking tests or filling out questionnaires. The questions seem to lead you towards an answer, and I have a tendency of overthinking things.

The first question reads: What abilities do you possess? Include all sub abilities and unnatural quirks, no matter how minor.

Ok, I can do that. I write morphing and visions down on the paper in my shaky scrawl. I pause for a moment before writing down another ability. Keeping my clothes when I morph. If Damien can't do it, as a teacher, then maybe it's an ability. Even if it's not, better safe than sorry.

Anyway, next question. Are your parents alive? Do they know you are an Alter? I suck in a sharp breath, causing Mr. Galleoti to look over at me curiously. Before today I would have written no and no, completely sure of my answers. But now? I'm not sure of anything. If my dad's alive, then maybe mom is too. If they're alive who's to say they don't know what I am? I can't. I just don't know anymore. So that's what I put down.

Let's try the next question. All of them can't be as hard as the last one. Did you notice any scents when you came into the office? If so, what scent? I furrow my brow. Why would they put this on the form? I did, but how does that help them in any way? I write down lavender and move on. They can ask for whatever weird information they want.

Do you know the rules? If so, how? I smile, suddenly grateful I wore such cruddy footwear when I came to the institute. Thank you, Will. I bet I've just escaped a long, boring talk about the importance of the four rules. My handwriting seems to be getting worse as I continue penning my answers. If that's even possible.

Please list any of the rules that you know of. Again, I send a quick thank you to Will. Now if I can just remember those rules... I rack my brain for a few seconds before writing. Do not injure another student outside of organized combat areas. Do not go into any area that is outside of your clearance. Don't participate in any act that may hinder your participation in classes. Don't show your powers or reveal yourself to a non-Alter. I smirk with rebellion as I write the last words. I'm still not using their ridiculous made up word. Nonie sounds like something a three-year old would call their grandmother, not a top-secret code name.

I flip the paper over to make sure there isn't anything written on the backside before handing it and the pen back.

Mr. Galleoti scans over my form briefly before acknowledging me again. "You can retain your clothing after you morph?" He looks at me, skeptical.

I nod. Won't he see that anyway during the demonstration?

He surprises me by replying to my thought. "Oh yes, you're right." At my shocked expression he chuckles. "Yes, I can read your mind. Every Alter has a separate ability. Yours seems to be psychometry. Mine is telepathy."

That's not a creepy ability for him to have at all.

Mr. Galleoti laughs at my sarcastic thought. "I'll stop now. In your classes, you'll learn how to block telepaths like me." He smiles reassuringly. That's good. I have to filter my words already, I don't think I could manage filtering out my thoughts as well.

"So. For your demonstration, we'll have you morph with this shirt." He pulls out a frilly pink crop top from another one of his desk drawers. I suppress a laugh, feeling that it probably wouldn't go over well. It's slightly comical seeing a grown man holding what is obviously a teen's shirt. He looks slightly uncomfortable holding it too, and is all too eager handing it to me.

I take the shirt from him, and practically hear the sigh of relief. "Do you want me to do a vision too? I might as well since you want a demonstration of abilities, right?"

He thinks about it for a moment. "I don't see why not. I know who owned the shirt, so I'll be able to see how accurate your visions really are. And please. Don't say do a vision. The correct terminology is do a reading." Grammar nazi anyone? I roll my eyes inwardly. My pet peeve is when people correct my grammar. You understood my meaning, so who cares about verb tenses and proper use of vocabulary? I've distanced myself from those types of people, and now it seems I need to avoid the office too.

He clears his throat, breaking me out of my mental rant. I focus my attention on the shirt, and the vision envelops me.