[ WP ] A person 's eye colour correlates to what superpower they have , activated at age 18 . You are the first person to be born with totally black eyes .

Black is the absence of color, a canvas waiting to be painted. 
 
 For the first time the boy- the young man- could remember in his entire life, he felt fear. 
 
 Anxiety was n't new to him, nor was nervousness or the general feeling of being unsettled. But never had he been genuinely afraid until the moments before his 6,570th day. His 18th year. 
 
 Eyes black as night darting across the room, he reached out with a shaking hand towards the red flimsy cup in front of him. All families in the Republic threw a party for the 18th Yearday, but rarely any others. The 18th Yearday was special, 
 
 No one knew when it started, or who the first was, but for as long as the oldest man could remember, on your 18th Yearday, you gained abilities. Powers. In correlation to your eye color, it was n't uncommon at all to see raucous family members placing impromptu bets on your powers as you took your seat underneath the clock, or what Division would recruit you and how fast. 
 
 But the boy had black eyes, never seen before in the known world. And sitting underneath his own countdown clock, five minutes to the 18th year, the boy felt *fear*. 
 
 There was only a bet or two, and a few uncomfortable laughs as an uncle tried to break the tension in the yard. Everyone was just as scared as he was. 
 
 Four minutes. He nearly dropped the cup. Instead of risking spilling on himself, he set it down on the arm of the chair. 
 
 Three minutes. A fly buzzed, landing on the lip of the cup. He looked at it, envying it's ability to leave, it's lack of shackles tying it to the world. 
 
 Two minutes. A glass shatters. The flustered cousin flees into the house to fetch the broom. 
 
 One minute. Everyone is staring at him. All guises of aloof disinterest disappear, replaced with the rapt looks of attention that you can only get when your crowd is equal parts terrified and prurient. 
 
 The last seconds. He finally took his drink. 
 
 The buzzer beeped, the bells rang, and the boy swallowed his water. 
 
 He cleared his scratchy throat, flexing it as the damp muscles peeled apart from one another. He felt cold, though it was a warm summer's night. The water finally hit his stomach, and then he felt it. 
 
 No, not felt it, knew it. 
 
 Blue swirled through his irises, replacing the bleak absence of emotion that his eyes radiated. He breathed, air filling his lungs, and suddenly battling the blue was was grey. Any trace of black was gone now. 
 
 He stood, stumbling onto the ground, fists in the dirt, and then there was green. 
 
 Regaining his balance, he looked around at the amazed family gathered around him. 
 
 He knew what he was. 
 
 And he knew what the world was. 
 
 He was a brush, the world his canvas. 
 
 And for the first time, the boy felt *content*. 

