Here's my story.

Hi guys. This is chapter one of my story that I was working on for the Dystopian Story contest, but unfortunately, I didn't finish it by the deadline. However, I thought that it was good enough that I should continue it, so here is chapter one. Enjoy, and comment your rates on a scale of 1-10. 10 being like Harry Potter.

A harsh sun dawned through the thick, grimy, Plastiglass window in Dalia’s cell. Her eyes scraped open, crusty with the accumulated salt of dried tears. She knew it had been the nightmare again. The cold light almost burned her, and she scrambled for the safety of the shade underneath the scratchy prison grade blankets. She remembered stories her mother used to tell her, of the days when the Sun meant warmth and things grew, feeding on its light. Strange organisms known as plants. When Dalia was exploring in the junkyard, she recovered an old history book. She and her mother had spent days flipping through the pages of the book at night, marveling at pictures of people in Brazil, actually sunbathing! Dalia found it impossible that people had once actually loved the sun, not feared its sting and disease inducing rays. Nowadays, after the atmosphere had been burned almost completely through, there was nothing to protect them from the Sun’s more potent rays. Those who ventured outside were hit by radiation, developing cancer, or worse, the Muton Radiation Disease, also known as MRD.
Dalia was a victim of the MRD and the insane propaganda of Jevon Maztokh. He was the reason she was locked behind bars. She was innocent, but to Maztokh, she was filth, no more than dirt or a particularly annoying piece of grime underneath the heel of his boot.
The MRD wasn’t technically harmful. It was people’s reactions to victims that caused the death toll.
MRD altered DNA and created superhuman mutants. They all had the ability to react with a different kind of material by manipulating the physiomagnetic fields around it. That was what the scientists called the recently-discovered waves that were emitted by matter. Some victims could control metal. Others could sculpt water. Before plants were burnt to extinction by the sun’s lethal rays, some could make plants grow. Those had to labor in hydroponics now.
The “Mazness”, as Dalia called it, had overcome almost every uninfected human that survived. Maztokh had spurred up fear and hatred, reviving a passion for genocide that hadn’t been seen since WWII.
Every MRD mutant had been rounded up and forced into prisons. Normal humans feared the unknown, and their crude solution was to lock away their fears. In this case, the victims.
Dalia’s mother was killed by the Mazi’s because she wouldn’t let them take Dalia. It was like the Holocaust all over again. But it was worse.
With technology developed after WWIV, soldiers could shoot people with bullets that systematically released poison into the bloodstream, incinerating the person from inside until their bodies were nothing more than a smoking patch on the asphalt. Much more painful.
Dalia had nightmares about that night when the Mazi’s came for her. Her mother wouldn’t give her up, and when the soldier shot Dalia’s mom, he seized Dalia’s head and forced her to watch her mother scream in agony as the poison slowly carved a hole in her mother’s torso. The anguished moan became gargled as her mother’s lungs were disintegrated.
A prison guard rattled the bars of her cell.
“Get up, you filth! Commander Vagot wants some hard labor today, or you’ll hear the Click!”
The Click was how a prisoner knew that they were about to die. That’s how they were signaled to the “break room.”
Dalia got up and shuffled towards the barred opening.  The guard clipped a chain onto a shackle on one of her wrists, and dragged her to the long workroom. It was full of prisoners, wearing baggy striped uniforms. Their skin hung off their bones and their cheeks were caved in. Every nationality was represented; MRD did not discriminate.
Gaunt faces peered around at the sound of Dalia’s shuffling feet, but they dropped quickly when they found the guard glaring at them. They all wore shackles like large electronic bangles. The shackles suppressed their powers. The guard shoved Dalia at a rough wooden table and gave her a cartridge and some tools. Her job was to insert vials of bullet poison into cartridges of bullets for machine guns.
Dalia started her work, tinkering meticulously. A mistake meant the Click, but it tore her apart to make the weapon that had murdered her mother.
Suddenly she noticed a spare screw, rolling on the rough wood in semicircles, as if it had just fallen. Dalia had to hurry to find where it belonged. If the workwatcher noticed, she would be sure to get the Click. She picked up the screw with one blistered, overworked finger, and tucked it into the small space between her wrist and the shackle. To her surprise, she saw that there was a loose part on the shackle, and it looked like it should be fastened by a screw. It looked like opportunity.
Dalia pretended that nothing had happened. She returned to her work, but every fifteen minutes or so, she used her tools to loosen the part a bit more. Then she would quickly commence working again. It was crucial that the shackle not break, but loosen. And it was crucial that the workwatcher not see her.
After long hours of work, Dalia returned to her cell. Under the safe covers of the blankets, she picked at the shackle with a chipped nail.
If she took the shackle off while in her cell, she might be able to fool the technology. Each shackle was equipped with a GPS locator and an alarm that would go off if the shackle became damaged. Dalia decided that her best shot would be to loosen the hinge enough to slip of off her emaciated wrist.
She was too excited to sleep. She pried apart the hinges holding the shackle shut, but just enough to loosen it about half an inch.
TING! TING! The screw had fallen out from between the wrist and the shackle and clattered to the concrete floor. Dalia cringed. The guards in the hallway ran across the hallway and passed her cell. She lay perfectly still, with what she thought were slow, even breaths. They stopped at a cell that was four cells to her left, across the corridor.
“MUCK! YOU GET OUT RIGHT NOW! RIGHT NOW!”
Dalia lay trembling as she heard the terrified panting of a fellow prisoner. I’m so sorry, she thought.
A faint click was heard twice as the guards Clicked the prisoner.
“NO! PLEASE, NO! ANYTHING ELSE BUT THE CLICK!” came the bloodcurdling cry.
“What are you talking about?” said a female guard in a falsely honeyed voice. “We’re just taking you to the break room. You deserve a break, don’t you think?”
Dalia’s heart pounded as the prisoner was dragged to the door at the end of the hallway. The screams were silenced as the door shut.
Dalia slipped her head under her blankets again. For hours, she made sure to be quiet. Finally, around 2 in the morning, she decided that she could slip the shackle off.
She held it firmly with one hand and pushed it off her wrist. It snagged at her knuckles, then slipped off easily. She was shocked as a familiar warm feeling rushed back to her.
Her power was surging. She could feel it, pulsating as if she were filled with it. The years of being suppressed had given her powers time to strengthen and increase. She felt like she could destroy the world with a sneeze.
She lay the shackle next to her on the cot. Heart pumping, she sat up, and slowly stuck a bare toe out, onto the cold concrete. Once both feet were on the ground, she carefully lifted the blankets off herself. She stood up and looked out the Plastiglass window. The courtyard was dark.
Summoning her power, she willed particles to gather in her hands. Almost immediately, it looked like golden dust was gathering in the air above her palm. It swirled into a glowing sphere. The photons glided toward Dalia.
Dalia had one of the rarest abilities. As far as she knew, she was the only who she knew who had her ability.
Dalia could manipulate light. She could direct photons to go where she wanted. She could change the energy into heat energy if she wished, just by vibrating the photons at an extremely high speed. She could light up any place, or darken any room. She could create illusions of shadows and invisibility. All she had to do was will the photons to move where she wanted them.
Dalia used the sphere in her hand to direct small spurts of energy at the lining of the window. After a few seconds, the window was free, and all that remained was a hole in the wall. Bending the light around her, she made herself invisible, and threw the shackle on the floor.
It made a loud clatter. The guards came running. One unlocked the bars of the cell, and Dalia, who had been pressed against the wall, slipped out the open door while the guards took turns sticking their heads out of the window and looking for Dalia.
She stepped gingerly down the hallway and opened the door at the end. She flew down the staircases. Dalia came to a heavily armored gate. She couldn’t burn through the barbed wire without attracting the attention of the security cameras.
There! She spotted her chance. A truck with new prisoners was coming down the prison road. She created an illusion on a strand of barbed wire. She cut it with some photons and layed it down right behind the gate, making it look like only the path was there. It was difficult, but she accomplished it.
When the gate opened and the truck came through, the tires got punctured and ran out of air. Dalia ran outside and to the woods. She hoped she could hide for a few days out there.
She had been walking for a few miles when she heard a rustle. She spun around and peered into the bushes.
A woman dressed in animal skins and carrying a bow and a pack on her back stood up.
“Come with us,” she prompted, “we will protect you.”
“Who are you?”
“We are the Resistance. Will you come?”
Dalia offered her hand. The woman grasped it.
“My name is Elven. You are safe now.”
Dalia felt safe for the first time since her mother’s death. So she went, with the promise that one day, she would bring revenge to the man who had done this to her. Jevon Maztokh, her father.