It's come to the point where the only one you can be perfectly honest to is yourself. And to be perfectly honest, you've just stopped caring.
You stare at your reflection in the airport bathroom mirror: Male, Caucasian, sixteen years of age, skinny to borderline emaciated. Wearing blue jeans, a blank, sleeveless white t-shirt, a backpack and a pair of phones that arch over your head, wire reaching down to your pocket. It's attached to one of your two real possessions, which pumps obscure, independent techno up into your ears nearly all of the time. The other one is the sole occupant of your backpack, a two-year-old laptop. It was a gift which you kept because it was useful, and it's unlikely you're going to get a replacement for it anytime soon. Your hair is short, a little rough but not terrible, and dyed a very dark blue. The color is easily mistaken for black, and you tend to find you can gauge how much attention a person is paying to your appearance by how long it takes them to notice it. Some people go, "Hey, your hair's blue!" Others just sort of stare at it for a few seconds as if a rat had suddenly fallen on it.
You're in the airport of Greenhaven, a booming near-city in the midsouth that was a quiet farm town five or six decades ago. And you're in the bathroom, staring at the mirror, because you needed a few minutes alone to think. To start, you try to reintroduce yourself...to...yourself. Several psychiatrists have agreed it's a good idea for you to know who you are. Well..you've been traveling a lot lately, accompanied by police officers when nobody else was available, like right now. You don't have much and you don't really have many interests, you just tend to go with the flow of things.
...Right, and there's that other thing. Five years ago, your parents were murdered right in front of you. It was just a common thief with a lot of guts, and the only reason you survived is because the law wasn't any later getting to your house. There isn't much money to be inherited, but as long as you're a minor you can't have it anyway. You've been floating around foster care for a while now, and this time they decided to send you to some kind of boarding school. You didn't even know those still existed, these days, but apparently it's some kind of high-end private school that operates sort of like a college: People who live nearby are free to stay in their own houses, but people who don't typically live in dorms. You don't know the details, but apparently someone rich decided to pay for some foster-care high-schoolers, including yourself, to attend it, as some kind of weird charity decision.
In the years between that event and now, you've received lots of grief counseling and psychiatric advice for free. There's even a psychiatrist in this town who you're supposed to meet with once a month...joy. You've learned a lot about the human mind thanks to the visits; you've learned how to read people in a lot of different ways, get a feel for what's important to them, what their interests are. You yourself, however, have found yourself becoming increasingly inscrutable. If you read a person, and then act how they want you to act, it makes it look like you have something in common with them, even though chances are you have little in common with anyone. You've noticed people are a lot less trouble to be around, and more likely to be helpful, when they think you're like them. But..amid all of this, you have to admit, you've stopped caring about the people as individuals. You don't really even care much about yourself.
The police officer opens the door to the bathroom, interrupting your musings. His voice cuts through the music (which is actually turned low for the specific purpose of being able to hear people over it): "Hey, you done in there--oh. Finish up then, son." You nod mechanically, turn straight around, and walk back outside the door. It's late, about 11:30, and he probably wants to get home and go to bed. You could stay up all night if you wanted, but hey, you're young. You follow him through the rest of the airport, picking up a small suitcase full of clothes and getting in the back of his car. He drives you up to a four-story, residential-looking building; oddly enough, there's nothing that resembles a school in sight of it. "This's the place," he says, "You got a key?" You nod in response, get out of the car and walk up to the door. He drives off, apparently unconcerned about whether you were lying or not. You take a moment to peruse a piece of paper that's been stuck in a plastic, rectangular holder under the porch light. It's got "Dorm Roster" printed at the top in bold, and underneath that, three names with numbers next to them. Oddly, two of them seem to be female names...the other one, you could swear you recognize the last name from somewhere.
You're about to actually open the door when you're interrupted by a small noise to the right. You turn in surprise to find a piece of paper floating in the air. That..isn't normal. At first you think someone must be playing a prank, but there's nothing behind the paper, and there don't seem to be any wires attached to it. Finally you decide to have a look at the paper itself.
It looks like older parchment of some sort, and has some kind of curly font handwritten on it. The top half has a lengthy paragraph which appears to be in Latin, while the bottom has some arrows pointing to an oval-shaped spot on the right side, and two long blank lines to the left of that. You try to grab the paper, hoping to figure out just what is going on, and your thumb happens to cross the oval spot; your name abruptly signs itself onto the blank lines, first name on the first line and last name on the second line. You get just a glimpse of your name before the parchment seems to slip right through your hand, rolling up and disappearing.
What was it again? Your name, that is. (You know it, of course, but I don't).