Episode One:
Ruby Thompson, seventeen and bursting with attitude, owned the streets of Brooklyn like she was born with a subway map in her hand. With her wild curls bouncing, ripped jeans, and a playlist of punk-rock bangers blasting through her earbuds, she weaved through the city's chaos dodging food carts, skateboarders, and tourists snapping selfies. But Ruby wasn't just another city kid. She was a walking, talking firecracker with a secret so wild it could light up Times Square.
She had powers. Not like "I'm good at math" powers, but legit, make-stuff-happen-with-her-mind powers. When she got mad, stuff moved, a bully's phone zipping into a sewer, a streetlight popping when she was stressed, or that one time a vending machine spat out free snacks after she kicked it. Her parents, Gladys and Nicholas, were obsessed with keeping it on lock. They called it "the spark" in panicked whispers, like it was a bomb ready to blow. Gladys, a sharp-tongued accountant who could scare a tax auditor with one look, was always hissing, "Ruby, stuff it down!" Nicholas, her grease-stained mechanic dad who'd rather fix a carburettor than talk feelings, would mutter, "Keep it chill, kid." They'd fled their sleepy upstate town when Ruby was a kid, betting the city's noise would drown out her weirdness.
That afternoon, Ruby slammed through the door of their tiny apartment, her sneakers squeaking on the floor. "Yo, Mom! Dad! I'm home! School was trash, Ms. Gloria hit us with a pop quiz and a project!" The kitchen light flickered like it was throwing a tantrum, but Ruby played it cool, tossing her backpack onto a chair.
Gladys leaned out of the kitchen, where her bread was dropping smells so good it could start a riot. "Dinner's in five, Ruby. And relax, okay? No… spark stuff." She pointed a wooden spoon like it was a sword, her eyes screaming, "Don't test me".
Ruby threw herself onto the couch, groaning loud enough to wake the neighbours. "Ugh, Mom, I know. 'Don't think angry thoughts, don't make the toaster fly.' Chill already."
Nicholas shuffled in, still in his work overalls, smelling like motor oil and coffee. "Hey, kid. Day go alright? No… incidents?" He gave her that dad-look, like he was scanning for trouble.
"Nada," Ruby said, smirking, but she was totally bluffing. At lunch, that so called West Hills Diva Joyce had "accidentally" spilled soda on Ruby's favourite jacket, and the cafeteria table had shaken just for a second before Ruby clamped it down. Her parents' mantra echoed in her head, "Breathe. Hide it. Be normal".
But normal was boring, and Ruby was over it. At dinner, with the city's neon glow pulsing through the window and sirens screaming like a bad action movie, she shovelled bread and daydreamed about letting loose. What if she could fling Joyce's phone into the bin? Or make the school's PA system blast her playlist? Her fingers tingled just thinking about it.
Later, sprawled on her bed with fairy lights twinkling and her phone bumping her favourite song, Ruby felt that familiar buzz like her veins were wired with lightning. Then, bam! Her hands lit up, glowing bright purple, casting wild shadows on her walls. She bolted upright, heart pounding like a drum solo. A voice sassy, sharp, and not her own, crackled in her head: "Yo, Ruby, you're a freakin' powerhouse. Let's blow the lid off this city!"
Before she could freak out, her bedroom door rattled no, shook like something was trying to bust in. Or out. The glow in her hands pulsed brighter, and the voice laughed. "Ready to play, Ruby?"
She froze, eyes wide. What the hell was happening? And why did it feel like her secret was about to explode?
To be continued...