Altered: A Young Adult Sci-fi Dystopian Novel: Rogue Spark, #1

By Cameron Coral

They say the world is cruel, but I've always known that. 

 

Growing up on the streets, I learned I could only count on myself. But nothing prepared me for the day I was abducted and subjected to genetic experiments.

 

I soon discovered the tech they put inside me gave me incredible power. I never asked for this "gift," but now it's a part of me, for better or worse.

 

When the aliens attacked, everything changed. They call them the Heavies, and they're unlike anything I've ever seen. I found myself on the front lines of a war I never signed up for, using my powers to save lives.

 

But every time I use my power, a piece of myself slips away. Some want to control me, to use my powers for their own ends. I don't know who I can trust anymore.

 

I never asked to be a hero, but I can't stand by and watch as the world burns. I have to keep fighting, even if it means sacrificing everything I am.

 

My name is Ida, and this is my story.

 

Fans of found family, resilient heroines, and harrowing quests for freedom will love Ida's courageous journey of rebellion and self-discovery. Book 1 in a complete 4-book YA dystopian series.

 

Readers say:
"Cameron Coral has a way of describing what is happening that drags you in and makes you feel the emotions in this story. It is like when you improve the graphics on your computer!! It all feels real!!" -J.M.

"This fast-paced, action-packed book not only kept me wanting more, but also tugged at my heart strings. I'm a sucker for the underdog - especially one who in-spite her own unfortunate circumstances always looks out for the bullied. I love the original characters in this book and cannot wait to see how Ira overcomes and conquers." -L.M.C.

"Would recommend this book if you're into teen fantasy, can't find any faults, love this book!" -M.C.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cameron Coral
• Release date: Sep 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223791980

Book preview

Chapter 1

Yard

Down on my knees and bleeding from my mouth—this wasn’t how I’d planned to spend my seventeenth birthday. The ground was unforgiving against my knees, its chill seeping through my torn jeans. On the harsh soil of the Woodlawn Youth Improvement Center’s yard, the anniversary of my birth marked itself with a taste of iron and dust.

Fight. Fight. Get her. The chant rose like a perverse battle cry, a symphony of adolescent fervor. Encircling me, the other youths of Woodlawn formed an impenetrable wall, their bodies swaying with a primal rhythm that kept the disinterested supervisors at bay. The staff was nowhere in sight, likely perched behind their one-way mirrors, placing bets instead of intervening, the drone footage serving as a macabre form of entertainment.

The largest guy at Woodlawn, Marc, loomed over me, a Goliath among the abandoned youth—the wards of New York State. His shadow fell across me as he prepared to deliver another strike, a cruel smile playing on his lips. I scrambled up, legs shaking not only from the fight, but from a surge of adrenaline-fueled resolve.

He sprang forward, but I evaded his jab, propelled by memories of Joanie’s street-fighting lessons. Joanie. How I missed her. The sting of the New York City winter air, the echo of sirens—the distant remnants of my life on the streets all came rushing back as I kicked, aiming for Marc’s knee. The impact sent a jolt up my leg as he staggered, a brief flicker of surprise crossing his brutish features.

But the giant didn’t fall.

The blood in my ears pumped, a rhythmic reminder of all the times I’d stood up to bullies like Marc. Except, this time, it wasn’t for me. Reed’s battered jaw, his glasses askew and the birthmark on his cheek darkening, was a silent plea I couldn’t ignore.

I’d thrown myself into this fight after Marc had sucker punched the much smaller boy. Reed was a few months behind me in age, and he collapsed to the ground after the hit. So of course, I’d called Marc out for his cruelty.

It had escalated fast.

Joanie’s voice echoed in my mind. You’re a softie, she used to say. You care too much, and one day it’ll get you in trouble.

Marc’s eyes glinted with a renewed fury. His fists were a blur as he came at me again, the force of his blows pushing me back. My arms pinwheeled. The bystanders’ roar seemed distant, their faces a blur. Pain flared across my ribs, the sound of impact ricocheting off the institution’s walls, a reminder of the violence reverberating through my life.

The fight’s tide had turned, and I found myself on the ground once more. The world narrowed to the sliver of gray sky above and the encircling faces that hovered like vultures. Joanie’s teachings resurfaced— Never stay down, never show weakness. Ignoring the flaring, stinging pressure encircling my torso, I rolled, protecting my face with my arms, while I scanned for an escape between the forest of legs that surrounded me.

But Marc was quick to thwart my attempt, dragging me back to the center of the circle. His kicks came hard and fast, each one a hammer blow to my side. I curled into myself, a defensive ball.

Reed’s face appeared feet away, a deep frown etched into the corners of his mouth. I’ll get help. He disappeared amid the throng.

But it was no use. The Woodlawn administrators didn’t care.

Stupid girl. Marc’s taunts were hot breaths against the cool air. His grip on my shoulders was ironclad, pulling me up to face him.

I retaliated the only way I could, my spit a scarlet mark against his flushed face.

The crowd reacted in a chaotic mixture of shock and thrill. Marc’s rage was palpable; he was a beast unleashed. Roaring. Shaking me by the shoulders. My feet didn’t touch the ground anymore.

But Joanie was louder and bolder in my head. Fight back, girl. I had to make a stand, not just for myself, but for all the kids like Reed who suffered inside these walls.

I flailed in his grasp, gathering the last reserves of my strength. Our eyes met, and I smirked. Screw you. Despite the coppery tang of blood trickling down my throat, my voice was steady, a stark contrast to the trembling that racked my limbs. He tilted his head, his confusion a brief but satisfying victory.

I had one chance to break free of his vice-like grip. Make it count.

My knee came up hard and fast, landing on his crotch. He grunted and released me, bending over enough that the crowd held its breath, the silence a vacuum that seemed to suck the chill from the air.

I didn’t have long. Marc balled his fists. His next assault might cripple me. I pivoted behind him and lunged. My arms shot out, wrapping around his thick neck from behind, my legs clamping around his sides.

The chokehold was something Joanie had shown me once, under the cloak of darkness, where the Hell’s Kitchen alleys taught you to fight or fall. Cut off the blood, not the air, she’d said. It’s cleaner, quieter, and they drop like stones.

Marc thrashed like a wild animal caught in a snare. His hands clawed at my forearms, seeking a weakness, a reprieve from the inexorable tightening of my grip. I poured every ounce of strength into the hold, my forearms straining, every inch of me focused on this singular task.

The crowd’s chant faltered into a confused murmur. This wasn’t the fight they’d anticipated; this was something else, a turning of tables. Vanessa Drake’s eyes widened, and her mouth gaped as the giant that was Marc staggered under my weight, his movements slowing, his resistance waning.

Sleep, you cretin, I hissed into his ear. The world reduced to the pulse beneath his skin and the heat of our entwined struggle. Marc’s legs buckled as his towering figure tilted. I adjusted my legs, ready to ride him down to the ground.

With a final, guttural groan, Marc succumbed. His body went limp, and we collapsed in a tangled heap, a shocked silence descending over the yard. I disentangled myself and rose, wary of retaliation from his buddies. My breaths came in sharp, ragged gasps.

For a moment, I stood still, Marc’s unconscious form at my feet, the eyes of every kid at Woodlawn upon me. The whispers began anew, a rustling of leaves that promised to become a storm. What I’d done wasn’t just a victory—it was a statement.

Reed ran to my side. You did it. There was a mix of awe and newfound respect in his eyes. You knocked him out.

The smear of blood glistened after I wiped my mouth against my forearm. Marc’s supporters scattered, shaking their heads as they found a corner to regroup.

A few feet away, a girl with a pixie cut stood with her arms folded across her chest. Her eyes met mine, and she nodded an approval, then walked away. A boy with a buzz cut shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His face was a landscape of freckles, each one a testament to days spent under a harsher sun before the cold walls of Woodlawn had claimed him. Despite his stocky build, there was a gentleness to his demeanor, a reluctance in his gaze. He chewed on his bottom lip, revealing a pink spot of raw skin. Thanks, Ida, as he walked by.

Marc and his crew had oppressed a lot of kids in the yard. They needed a protector, someone to show them that giants could fall and that even in a place like Woodlawn, hope was not a forgotten concept.

As I stood, my body screamed with an aching fury, but there was a clarity in the shooting pain. There was a promise that tomorrow, the dynamics might shift enough to give someone like Reed a chance to breathe easier, if only for a while.

The supervisors would eventually come, drawn by the break in the routine violence. But for now, in this bleak afternoon, I’d redrawn the lines of power in the courtyard's dirt, and nothing could change the fact that Marc had been brought low, not by brute force, but by the resolve of someone willing to fight smarter, fight harder, for something more than survival—for hope.

Chapter 2

Troublemaker

I squeezed into the storage closet in the hallway near the toilets, wincing as a shelf dug into my tender ribcage. Voices from John Kilpatrick’s office spilled into the hidden alcove. I’d been on my way to Woodlawn’s poor excuse for an infirmary when I’d glimpsed the head superintendent escorting two strangers into his office. I had to know what was going on. Visitors to Woodlawn were rare.

Kids will be kids, Kilpatrick said, a rehearsed tone of nonchalance coloring his words. I imagined the smug grin spreading across his face and cringed. He was no doubt preening like a strutting peacock before his guests. I’d barely glimpsed the couple, but knew they were well off. Pricy leather boots under tailored black pants. Silky-smooth blonde hair on the woman. Neither cops nor the government’s Child Protection Service agents I’d seen had ever looked that polished. And yet, it had been well over six months since any potential foster parents had visited.

I’m so glad you could make the trip here, Mr. and Mrs. Jensen. I wanted to gag at Kilpatrick’s smarmy tone.

Call me Martha, said the woman. This is Seth.

The shuffle of footsteps sounded as someone, undoubtedly Kilpatrick, paced the office floor. You’ll have to pardon the display in the yard. Our drones are being repaired today. The sensors didn’t pick up the…trouble in time.

Lies from the superintendent—the surveillance drones worked fine. He was covering up the lack of adult supervision. My hands formed fists, but then I flinched, suppressing a groan, and releasing them as the painful sting reminded me of my recent brawl.

The couple murmured assent. They seem full of energy. Martha’s voice was a cool brushstroke of observation.

Indeed. Seth said. Quite a show they put on. Do they fight often?

Were the couple investigating Woodlawn? A surge of adrenaline rippled through me. I could burst into the room next door and tell the truth about the institution—the rampant neglect, the scarcity of food, and lack of medical care. But I dug my nails into my raw palms. I had to be sure what the Jensens were there for. I pressed my ear against the wall that shielded me.

Kilpatrick’s voice rose, tinged with eagerness. I assure you, my administrators always intervene. It’s just a bit of roughhousing. Typical for their age, really.

No need for excuses. Martha’s words sliced through Kilpatrick’s assurances with a sharpness. We found the scene… informative.

My ears pricked at the cold curiosity in her tone. There was an undercurrent of something more than mere observation. Wouldn’t any sane adult want to help the kids at Woodlawn? Please be someone who can help.

Kilpatrick’s chair creaked. Of course, you understand that some of our wards are more challenging than others. For instance, the one who started the altercation, Ida Sarek⁠—

Martha cut him off. Ida, you said? The redhead standing up to the large boy?

Yes, that’s her. A real troublemaker.

I gritted my teeth, wishing I could shout out that I was defending Reed from a bully. I never picked fights; trouble always found its way to me.

A rustling sound came from next door like someone shuffling cards. I have several candidates I can show you. Take Mary Owens, her behavior is exemplary⁠—

We’re not interested in any files, Seth said. We’ve seen enough.

It’s Ida Sarek we want, Martha added.

My heart somersaulted. How dare they talk about me, deciding my fate as if I were a commodity to be traded? And yet, I couldn’t help a swell of pride at being recognized for something, even by these strangers.

Kilpatrick stammered, a rare note of hesitation in his usual over-confident, slimy exterior. You realize her history is complicated. She’s not the easiest to manage.

Which is exactly why we want her. We’re not looking for easy. Martha’s words sent a shiver down my spine.

Seth chimed in. We understand what we’re getting into, Kilpatrick. No need for further discussion.

There was a rustling of fabric, the soft sound of a handshake, or perhaps something more. I leaned closer, straining to catch the low voices that followed. The sound of paper slid across wood—money changing hands, no doubt.

Tomorrow at noon, then. Martha’s tone held a note of finality that seemed to close the deal.

The office door opened, and the Jensens’ footsteps receded. I stayed put inside the dark closet, processing what I’d heard. A rich couple wanted me, but why? To foster. It had to be. But I was one of the oldest orphans at Woodlawn. Seventeen, and the state only had legal rights to me for one more year.

What had they seen in the fight that convinced them to foster me?

Kilpatrick’s footsteps clacked in the hallway as he returned to his office and settled into his chair. He was muttering to himself, so low it was hard to make out his words. Something like, Well, Kilpatrick, looks like you played a winning hand today.

I drew a slow, deep breath. This rich, entitled couple thought they’d chosen me, but in truth, I would be the one to determine the outcome of my life. Once we got to wherever they were taking me, I’d run. Find Joanie.

I would be no one’s pawn, no easy trophy for the Jensen’s vanity.

Chapter 3

Meat

The morning air hung heavy with the scent of dew-soaked grass as I paced the perimeter of the detention yard, my boots leaving imprints on the soft earth. My mind reeled with the Kilpatrick-Jensen deal I’d overheard. They wanted to foster me of all people and would come get me at noon.

Reed trailed behind me, his presence a comforting shadow in the gloom of another day at Woodlawn. When he went down… man, I couldn’t believe it.

The bruises from yesterday’s fight throbbed with each step, a painful reminder of the temporary battle I’d won.

I mean, mind blown. Ker-boom! He reached his scrawny hands to his temple and splayed his fingers, mimicking a blast.

Don’t count on someone saving your hide next time you get harassed. The words tasted bitter on my tongue, but I needed Reed to be ready for a world without me in it.

He fell silent, and I winced as I neared the tall, electrified fence that separated us from the outside world. My ribs rioted in protest with each breath, a symphony of pain that echoed the turmoil in my heart. I leaned against the side of the building, the rough brick digging into my back, and surveyed the enclosure. Other kids huddled in clusters, their breath forming vapor clouds in the crisp autumn morning.

Reed mirrored my pose against the wall: one leg propped under him and arms crossed. His eyes were fixed on me.

The first time I’d seen him, he was a scrawny thing with a mop of unruly hair and a splotchy birthmark on his cheek. He’d been an easy target for the bullies, a wounded gazelle in a den of lions. But there was a strength in him, a resilience that had drawn me in.

How did you learn to fight so well? he asked.

I shrugged, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain through my battered body. The streets. Images flashed through my mind—Joanie’s fierce grin as she showed me how to throw a punch, the sting of the cold concrete against my back as I learned to take a hit.

You’re from New York City, right?

I nodded. Hell’s Kitchen.

His eyes widened. Whoa. Sounds rough.

It was. I pushed off from the wall, breathing through the sharp pain it caused me and trekked along my normal circuit—the outskirts of the yard where I could avoid the others. Where I could pretend, just for a moment, that I was somewhere else. Somewhere free.

You want to talk about it? Reed jogged to catch up to my side.

I didn’t discuss my old life with the administrators or social workers, and other kids had never asked me since I avoided everyone. But something about Reed’s earnest gaze, the way he looked at me like I hung the moon, made me want to open up.

I used to run with a tough crowd, I said. We were all young. We didn’t have parents, so we looked after each other.

Was it a gang?

You could call it that. We broke the law sometimes—when we had to. When we needed to eat or help those who got sick. I kicked at a loose pebble, watching as it skittered across the cracked pavement. That’s how I got busted and wound up here. They caught me trying to steal medicine from the pharmacy for a sick girl.

Where’d you live? Reed raised his eyebrows. On the streets?

"It’s not as bad as it sounds. We found an old, abandoned post office. Made it our home base. A girl—she was a