Human Again
Act 1: Forged in Silence
Slade never called her weak. He didn’t need to. He called her a weapon—something honed, something brutal, something born from pain and perfected through blood. “Strength is earned,” he told her once, voice like steel. “Built through failure. Through survival. Through pain you learn to return.”
She learned to kill before she learned to speak. She learned to break bones before she learned to laugh. She learned war before she learned warmth.
The first time she killed, the blade was too big for her hand. Her grip was tight, her heartbeat louder than her breath. Slade stood behind her, steady and unshaken. “Do it,” he said. She hesitated. Hesitation wasn’t allowed. It wasn’t forgiven.
The blade sank deep. Warm. Messy. Final. She didn’t flinch. Slade nodded. “Again.”
Act 2: The Rules of Play
She didn’t understand the game. Thea ran ahead, laughing, breathless, wild. “You’re it!” she shouted, tagging her arm. Confused, she stood still. Then Thea grinned and said, “Now you chase me.”
So she ran. Not to win. Not to hunt. Just to play. And when Thea laughed—when the others cheered—she realized this wasn’t about victory. It was about joy.
Act 3: The Language of Warmth
Oliver taught her how to pluck a bowstring like music, not for war but for sound, for silliness. Thea balanced on fallen logs, arms wide, wobbling, shouting, “The ground is lava!” She followed, uncertain at first, then laughing.
Diggle built sandcastles with her—grand, ridiculous ones. She knocked them down. He built them again. Felicity told bedtime stories about spy squirrels and a chicken running for mayor. None of it made sense. All of it made her smile.
Curtis made shadow puppets at night—wobbly animals with absurd voices. She giggled until her stomach hurt. Dinah taught her how to write stories. Not reports. Not missions. Adventures. Dreams. She painted worlds with ink.
Rene cooked with flair. He taught her flavor, not just survival. “Food should taste like a memory,” he said. She believed him.
She learned in stolen moments. In laughter. In hands that pulled her forward—not to sharpen her, but to soften her. She learned how to be a child.
Act 4: The Order
Slade’s voice returned like a storm. Cold. Heavy. Unyielding. “Find them. Hunt them. End this.”
She didn’t refuse. She never did. She walked the island like a predator, tracking footprints, listening for breath. Obeying.
Act 5: The Fire
She found them. Their fire crackled in the dark. Laughter rose like smoke. Warmth spilled into the night.
She didn’t step closer. She didn’t draw her blade. She just watched.
Watched the world she was never allowed to have. Watched the people who kept giving it to her anyway.