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Number Two's was the first power they identified. Babies were expected to scream. They were not expected to scream, nonstop, for hours, without ever taking a breath.
He didn't remember any of that, of course, but that was the way Pogo told it. He wished Pogo wouldn't, because it made him sound like such a... well, a baby. But, on the other hand, it meant he was first at something, he'd beaten everybody, even One. No amount of teasing could diminish that.
Five liked to say that's why he was stupid, because he deprived his brain of oxygen at crucial developmental stages. What the hell did Five know, anyway, except a lot of big words. He was just jealous because Two was better than him at something, and no matter how much Five studied, he'd never be able to take that first place.
"Do not fall asleep, Number Two." Dad's voice came distorted through the speaker.
Easy for you to say, thought Two. He didn't say it, because that would require breathing, and he couldn't really do that right now.
He opened his eyes.
Shades of deep, deep blue extended around him in all directions. He floated in a dive cage, resting at a slight angle on a rocky sea floor. A dive camera, a speaker, and a cable extending upwards into bright nothingness were his only connections to the surface. He had a wetsuit and goggles and that was it.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been down here. His watch had broken on the first dive and Dad never bothered getting him one that could survive at depth. It was impossible to keep track with the cold, silent water pressing in on all sides, deadening half his senses. The surface was still light, but they'd started at dawn, so that didn't mean much. Hours, probably.
It was boring, and cold, and too damn quiet, and the water wasn't clear enough to see more than twenty feet. There was no way Dad was getting any useful information out of him just floating here, right? Right. If he wanted Two to stay awake, then Two would have to find something to keep him awake.
Two reached into his hair for the bobby pins he'd stolen from Mom -- he'd have to apologize, later, but she would understand. She always did.
"Number Two," the distorted voice cut through the silence. "What are you doing?"
Two didn't answer, of course. He kept at the lock, eyes narrowed in concentration. This wasn't the easiest environment to work in, but the lock wasn't anything fancy, so if he could just -- there. The sweet click of freedom warbled to his ears. The door hinges squeaked.
"Number Two, remain in the dive cage. Number Two!"
Two was already out. He'd pretend later that the speaker broke, maybe, or that he saw something that he thought needed investigating, or he'd just deal with whatever Dad came up with as punishment -- that was for the future, and right now, he was out.
He stretched his arms and legs, feeling the sore muscles complain -- much later, he would learn that they were oxygen-starved, that just because he could hold his breath forever didn't mean it didn't have consequences, but he didn't understand the biology now. He just rubbed a little life back into them. So they hurt, big deal. He'd hurt before. Pain was just an obstacle to overcome.
Dad's voice faded behind him as he began to swim.
Water plants tickled his belly and bare feet as he passed, little fish darting out as he disturbed their hiding places. He wanted to laugh, settled for grinning as he watched them. He reached out to grab one, a little striped thing, and it slipped easily away from his fingers.
A rolling hill came into view, resolved slowly into rocky caves dancing with fuzzy lichen. Two peered into them, decided they were too dark to explore without a flashlight. Would Dad send him down with a flashlight next time? Probably not. Sand and grit swirled under his feet as he kicked off toward another dark cave mouth nearly covered by leafy plants. He parted the plants to see what might be hiding there.
A fleshy appendage like one of Six's monster arms whipped out and wrapped around his wrist. Two jerked back, letting out a stream of bubbles in lieu of an involuntary yelp, and felt a slice of pain in his cheek as he smacked into one of the rocks. He couldn't help but to gasp. Water flowed into his lungs.
The poor startled octopus let go and scuttled away as he started to choke.
No, no, no, he hated this feeling, it hurt and it made him want to cough and that only made him breath in more water and it didn't matter how many times he told himself that he couldn't drown, it still couldn't override that part of his brain that was just seizing up in blind panic, and if he didn't get it under control then he was just going to be stuck here paralyzed until Dad came and got him, and he was going to make that disappointed face and Two would get extra training and chores and no desserts or playtime for a month, he had to get it under control.
A black, misty cloud was forming at the corner of his vision. He reached up and felt a ragged cut where he'd hit his head, from his cheek all the way back behind his ear.
Immediately, his mind filled with visions of sharks.
That did not help him to stop panicking.
He curled his legs up to his chest and pressed his hands against his ears and scrunched his eyes shut until he saw stars. Close it all out. Close everything out, focus, feel the cold water, feel the pain in his lungs, feel the ache in his muscles. Think about Mom. Count to seven. Remember all the edges on his favorite knife, the way it rippled a little bit between the cutting edge and the belly, the way the tip was slightly bent because One pulled it out of a wall wrong, stupid One. Breathe out. Don't breathe back in.
Okay. Okay, he had the panic and the choking under control.
Now he just needed to get back to the cage.
Everything looked the same. Blue, just blue, in every direction. If it wasn't for the rocks below he wouldn't even be sure which way was up.
Okay, rocks. The hill where the caves rolled up out of the ground. He remembered that. He could retrace his path that far, and if he just kept going, it would be okay, he'd find it. He wasn't going to curl up and cry, he was almost eight years old and that was too old to cry, and anyway he was a hero and heroes didn't cry when things got tough, they steeled themselves (whatever that meant) and did something about it.
He still wanted to cry when he spotted the blinking light from the dive cage. With a surge of renewed strength, he propelled himself back inside, clanging the door shut behind him against the phantom sharky menace. Blood was still trailing steadily out of his head.
He smacked the emergency button and waved frantically at the dive camera, desperately hoping that Pogo was on the camera and would bring him up.
"Welcome back, Number Two," came Dad's disapproving voice. "I see you've gotten into trouble."
Two's heart sank. Dad was mad.
A long moment passed and the cable went taut. The cage groaned as it began its ascent.
Two sagged against the bars in relief.
It would still be more than an hour before he could breathe, but he was on his way out. He'd deal with whatever punishment he needed to, as long as he could breathe for awhile, first.
In the boat above, Pogo looked over the readouts and reported, "Beginning ascent. ETA to first safety stop--"
"Bring him straight up."
Pogo looked up, a very human look of concern on his simian face. "But, sir, decompression--"
"We have been unable to ascertain if he is even affected by pressure changes, and the boy is bleeding heavily. I'd rather risk the bends than have him bleed out."
Pogo still hesitated. "...Yes, sir." He turned a dial.
Two was going to die. He was almost eight years old and he was going to die. He was sure of it. Everything hurt, or if it didn't hurt it was numb and that was even more terrifying. Every one of his 206 bones ached. He couldn't feel his hands. His ears felt like someone had jabbed a knife into them and he couldn't hear anything but ringing, maybe he was screaming, he couldn't even tell, his throat hurt too but that was so far down his list of concerns right now.
Someone kept telling him to breathe, he was breathing, wasn't he? No, he tried to inhale and it shot pain all through his chest and out into his limbs like electricity and he was coughing, tasting seawater and copper and bile, and he didn't want to breathe anymore, no more--
"Two, listen to me, you need to breathe."
Mom. He could barely hear her over the ringing, stabbing in his ears, but that was Mom. If he blinked he could almost see her, a blur of blonde hair and a splash of red mouth, his eyes smarted and they wouldn't focus but it was enough. Mom. He mouthed the word with trembling lips -- there was no way his voice would cooperate right now.
"Listen to my voice, Two. Inhale, and count to seven, nice and deep. One, two, three--"
He tried, he really tried, and it made him cough again but he tried.
"That's okay, baby, that's okay. Try again. One, two, three, four--"
He made it to seven, this time.
"Good, good. Now let it out, slowly. You're doing so well, sweetie. One, two, three, four--"
Grace stayed on the handset, gently coaching Two again and again, endlessly patient. Reginald stood by, watching his child struggle to breathe in the hyperbaric chamber. There was no softness in his severe features, some concern, mostly curiosity and disappointment.
"Shame," he mused to Pogo beside him. "I had hoped to finally find some practical use for this ability."
Turned out, being first meant jack shit.