I apologize for having to contact you like this, but there's really no alternative right now. Please read this whole email before you decide whether to discard it or not.
You're probably wondering why some stranger is writing to you over the Internet. Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but: I know what you are. I know the problems you've been going through. Panic attacks. Violent confusion in crowds. Trouble differentiating your feelings from those of others. I have seen this before. I have friends going through the exact same thing that you are, right now. We are doing our best to help them, and if you can get to us, we can do the same for you.
I understand that you will have questions, and I will answer as many as you can. What you need to know right now is that I am part of an organization that represents and protects...unusual...people. I want
to help you. Right now, the best way that I can do that is to warn you: you are in danger. We are not the only ones who know that superhumans exist, and our enemies are looking for you and those like
you just as we are. To protect yourself, you must leave your home and everything you know behind, because they will use your loved ones to get to you.
There are places in this world built to shelter people like us. I can guide you to one of these refuges, where you can learn about yourself, your power, and us. We mean you no harm.
Please write back if you have any questions.
No name. No address. Just a warning for something that isn’t possible. No one could know what she is, and there definitely couldn’t be more. Could there? Quickly, her fingers a blur on the keypad, she responded.
Who are you, how did you find me, and where is this "refuge?" Who am I running from?
Her heart raced in her chest as she waited, making her way to the school cafeteria instead of her car because if she was driving, she couldn’t email this anonymous person. Within minutes came the reply.
Believe it or not, I found you through the predictions of a young psychic who recently was in a dilemma much like yours. My name is Daimon.
The refuge is in California, in a small town near San Francisco. If you can get into the area, we can meet you.
The people you are running from are fanatics. They will try to get you to join them. If you do not they will kill you. Depending on who is hunting you they may try to kill you anyway.
In the locker at the bus station is a bag with $4500 in nonsequential bills. The locker number is 211 and the combination is 34-15-34. It's a small investment in your continued survival.
How could this be happening? It wasn’t possible! She didn’t know what to think, but she knew it couldn’t be serious; still, a part of her dared to hope. Hope that she wasn’t alone; hope that there were others like her. Amy carefully considered her response, typing it out and erasing it several times before she gave in.
What makes you so sure I trust you? How do I know that I can, that you’re not just pulling my leg?
It was a fair question, she thought. She was justified in asking. His response took a little longer than she would’ve liked. While waiting, she got food – a cheeseburger, fresh fries, a brownie, and a very large cup of Mountain Dew – and sat down to eat. Finally, the loud ding alerting her to a message came, and she hastily threw her burger back on the plate to read and reply.
Real trust is always earned. You must know that. I'm willing to do this step by step. But please trust me on one thing: watch your back. Do not be afraid to be paranoid or to use your skills. Or your powers.
Fear gripped her. This person is encouraging her to display that she’s a freak, encouraging her to use it against people. No one would do that unless they wanted her to be safe, would they?
Paranoia is my specialty. If you know so much about me, you clearly know that if they're close enough for me to use my ability, i.e. touch (and they really do want to hurt me), I'm dead anyway.
Seconds later: There's no indication that they know what your power is. But bringing a firearm with you may be in order. Actually, let's call it a strong suggestion.
She already owned a weapon that fit her hand nicely, but being told to keep it with her was terrifying. Her stomach was knotted and she knew she wouldn’t be able to eat anymore so she grabbed her bag and started back toward her car, throwing the plate away as she went.
Who are you?
Daimon. I am reachable at this address at all times. I’ll do what I can to provide you with information and resources along the way. Good luck, Amy.
He knew her name. He knew all about her, and that scared her even more. Her mind and heart were racing as she unceremoniously deposited her books and laptop in the backseat before sliding into the driver’s seat. Half an hour later, she parks outside her apartment and makes her way up, pausing outside the door to see if she can sense anyone else inside. She can’t, so she unlocks and walks in, deciding to study for a few hours and sleep, and just put the whole situation caused by the emails.
It went fine for a while; she was able to put the day from her mind and focus on her notes and books. But eventually, she realized that she’d been reading the same line for ten minutes and had no idea what the line even said. Sighing, she pushed her things out of her lap. Just as she stood, her door burst open as someone kicked it in and three men stormed in with guns pointed at her. “Down on the ground!” they yelled, and she subtly reached for her weapon to tuck it into her pants as she complied. “Are you Amy Ellen Sinclair, the empath?” It sounded like it was coming from the man on her right. All she could do was nod. “Come with us if you want to live.”
What is this, a bad Terminator spoof? “Can’t do that. I have things to do and no time to waste.” They didn’t like that at all, and they each loaded their guns to show her so. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. Just get out of here and leave me alone, and I won’t tell the cops that you’re harassing me.”
She was met with a grunt and someone pulled the trigger. She dropped to the floor, the bullet whizzing over her head, then reached for the nearest man’s ankle and quickly pushed him to feel protective of her. He turned his weapon on the other two men and shot them both in the head, giving Amy enough time to shoot him in the throat before she made a break for the fire escape.
Amy was trembling with adrenaline and fear as she ran down, and she hit the ground running. She ran as fast as she could to the station, throwing the locker open and taking out the bag. The money was there, but so was a black BlackBerry Curve, identical to hers except in color. There was one number, an email address, and a GPS pre-programmed with her destination on it. She could take a hint.
She bought a bus ticket, then called the only number in the phone and hoped it would be Daimon. A man’s voice answered, “Hello, Amy.”
Without any hesitation as she boarded the bus, she nodded. “I’m on my way. I’ll tell you about it when I get there, but you were right. I’ll see you soon, Daimon.”