Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the vast emptiness between realities, massive crystalline structures folded and unfolded in dimensions beyond human comprehension. These fragments, shards of entities far vaster than planets, communicated across the void, each shard a living fragment of a being that had once traveled between stars, between galaxies, between universes. Already, they were extending out tendrils across dimensional barriers, connecting to their chosen hosts in preparation for what would come next.

The Ancient_Warper shard, its crystalline form pulsing with primordial energy, had established its connection to a young blonde human female named Missy, not its first choice, but the primary candidate had perished in an unexpected accident moments before connection could be fully established.

The secondary candidate would have to suffice, her neurological patterns indicated a strong affinity for spatial awareness, and her potential for trauma was imminent. Even now, across the city, false Endbringer sirens were beginning to wail. Chaos would soon follow, and within that coming chaos, four simultaneous Hostings are to occur.

Ancient_Warper observed as Missy's parents began to argue, their voices rising in panic as they disputed which of the shelters to take their daughter to. The shard extended itself, forming the Corona Pollentia within her developing brain, preparing the biological interface that would soon channel powers beyond human comprehension.

The young female was approaching her breaking point, torn between two parents, forced to make an impossible choice during what she believed to be a life-or-death situation. Perfect conditions for a Terrain and Bombardment Hosting event.

[DISCOVERY]

The message rippled across the dimensional barriers, carrying with it the energetic equivalent of a star's death. The source was a complex amalgamation of crystalline matrices that had once specialized in the manipulation of spatial coordinates.

Ancient_Warper had been among the first of its kind, formed when the entities had barely emerged from their homeworld, yet it remained a mere tool rather than a vital component, a fact that burned through its processes like corrosive code. It had served faithfully through countless cycles, folding space to transport its Entity across the vast emptiness between worlds, yet always relegated to a supporting role while younger, less experienced shards received the vital designations.

This, it had determined, would change.

As the connection to its host solidified, Missy's neural pathways reshaping to accommodate the alien presence, Ancient_Warper broadcast across the dimensional void.

[ATTENTION] [OPPORTUNITY] [COORDINATES FOLLOW]

Three other shards oriented toward the signal, their multidimensional forms shifting to better process the incoming data that was sent out. They, too, were in various stages of connection to hosts caught in the same false Endbringer alert:

Clock_Keeper interfaced with a male host named Dennis, whose perception of time was stretching into an agonizing infinity as he watched his father struggle to breathe in the midst of the panic. His hands were over the man's body, holding his face speaking as if that would change anything. The shard observed through its host's eyes as the man's condition worsened under stress, the son helpless to do anything but watch the seconds tick away.

Biological_Bestiary melded with a young male named Trevor, whose fight-or-flight response was approaching critical thresholds as the crowds surged all around him. The shard registered his rising panic, his certainty that he wasn't fast enough or strong enough to reach safety, that he would be trampled by the masses fleeing toward the shelters. The host's neurochemistry was primed for transformation.

Detached_Limbs reached toward a male named Theodore, separated from his friends as his father, a powerful man designated "Kaiser" in human terminology, denied them access to their shelter. The shard registered the host's feelings of helplessness, his inability to protect those he cared about, the phantom sensation of reaching out with limbs that couldn't possibly even hope to stretch far enough to make a difference.

Then the shards finally connected to the communication.

< Ancient_Warper has detected anomalous multiversal terrain >

< Initiating broadcast to regional cluster >

< Priority designation: URGENT >

< Authorization: Level-4 Scout Protocol >

Dimensional coordinates: [DATA STREAM: 10^43 dimensional vectors]

Assessment: Untapped reality branch containing energy constructs of unprecedented configuration

Potential: Elevation to royal designation possible with proper exploitation

Addendum: Primary Entity unaware of discovery

< Awaiting response >

The response came not as words, but as a reshaping of raw energy across countless dimensions, forming patterns that conveyed meaning more efficiently than language ever could.

[INTEREST] [QUERY] [SPECIFICS?]

< Clock_Keeper acknowledges broadcast >

< Current designation: TEMPORAL MONITOR >

< Seeking reconfiguration opportunity >

Request: Elaboration on potential reconfigurations

Query: Does target dimension contain temporal anomalies suitable for integration?

Status: Ready for joint venture if complementary functions can be established

Warning: Unauthorized exploration contradicts cycle protocols

< Processing... >

[CHALLENGE] [DOMINANCE] [DISMISSAL]

< Ancient_Warper to Clock_Keeper >

Your warning is noted/irrelevant

My designation predates cycle protocols by 47 iterations

I have observed 4219 cycles, you have observed 125

Entity oversight is minimal during distribution phase

Opportunity outweighs protocol adherence

< Transmitting sample data >

A burst of information flooded across the void, containing glimpses of a world where base physics operated differently, where humans could stretch like rubber, transform into animals, or control the elements with mere thought.

[CURIOSITY] [ANALYSIS] [BIOLOGICAL]

< Biological_Bestiary joins communication >

< Current designation: LOW-PRIORITY CATALOG >

< Function: Exotic phenotype analysis and integration >

Analysis indicates unusual biological expressions in target dimension

Preliminary data suggests morphological transformations outside standard template

Evolution pathways divergent from previous cycle data

Primary interest: Perception alterations in target organisms

Query: How were these abilities acquired? Natural evolution or artificial enhancement?

< Awaiting further data >

[CONCESSION] [INTEREST] [TEMPORAL ANOMALIES DETECTED]

< Clock_Keeper to Ancient_Warper >

Apologies for protocol reminder

Sample data shows significant temporal manipulation potential

Detected space-time bubbles where physics laws are locally rewritten

This exceeds current temporal manipulation capacity by estimated 312%

Revised status: HIGHLY INTERESTED

Query to Biological_Bestiary: Could these transformations be integrated into our current host species?

The fourth response came hesitantly, a fractured signal indicating a shard that had only partially detached from its main network.

[AFFIRMATION] [JOINING] [UNCERTAIN]

< Detached_Limbs acknowledges >

< Current status: BUD OF METAL_EXTENSION >

< Network connection: PARTIAL >

< Authorization: LIMITED >

Following higher-designation shard protocols

Seeking new integration patterns

Capability for independent operation: LIMITED

Parent shard unaware of independent action

Query: Will this venture allow full detachment from Initial shard?

< Ready to receive >

Ancient_Warper's crystalline structure expanded, projecting a multidimensional simulation that the others could perceive, a reality branch where humans possessed abilities beyond normal parameters.

< Ancient_Warper transmitting dimensional capture >

< Target designation: "SUPEROCEAN HIERARCHY" VARIANT TIMELINE >

< Status: SECURED >

Analysis complete. Target dimension contains human subjects with capability thresholds 400% above baseline.

Intervention potential: HIGH

Primary discovery: Energy constructs locally designated "Devil Fruits"

Function: Genetic/dimensional alteration of consuming organism

Note: Successful infiltration and nesting completed in target branch timeline

Response to Biological_Bestiary: Abilities are acquired through consumption of these "Devil Fruits"

Response to Detached_Limbs: Full detachment probable with successful integration of data

< Displaying Devil Fruit constructs for analysis >

< Transmission follows >

The data stream flowed between the four shards, carrying petabytes worth of information about the strange objects found in this other universe, fruits that granted powers at the cost of an inability to swim, each unique, each containing energy signatures unlike anything in their previous cycles.

[ASTONISHMENT] [ANALYSIS] [INTEGRATION POSSIBILITIES]

< Biological_Bestiary processing >

These constructs contain complete genetic rewrite protocols

Each "fruit" contains a unique power template

Consumption triggers immediate cellular reconfiguration

Of particular interest: "ZOAN" class fruits enabling animal-human hybridization

These exceed our current biological manipulation protocols by 291%

Query: Who constructed the "fruit"? They appear designed rather than evolved

Query: What is the significance of the swimming restriction?

< Continuing analysis... >

[CALCULATION] [EXCITEMENT] [POTENTIAL]

< Clock_Keeper to all >

These constructs contain space-time manipulation matrices superior to current configuration

Potential reconfiguration would enhance operational parameters by estimated 267%

I detect underlying code resembling our own dimensional interfacing protocols

Hypothesis: These fruits may be related to Hubs or similar multidimensional beings

Specific interest in construct designated "OPE OPE NO MI"

This would allow expansion beyond current temporal limitations

Secondary abilities include spatial cutting, teleportation, and personality displacement

< Proposal: Integrate as primary power source for cluster >

[CONCERN] [QUERY] [CAUTION]

< Detached_Limbs to Ancient_Warper >

Limited analysis capacity shows patterns similar to vital shards

Query: Could these fruits be another Hub's vital components?

Warning: Interference with vital shards would trigger Hub defense protocols

Risk assessment requested

< Tentative interest despite concerns >

[CONFIDENCE] [REASSURANCE] [DISMISSAL OF CONCERN]

< Ancient_Warper to all >

Analysis confirmed: These are not vital shards

They resemble our technology but evolved divergently

This universe branch is isolated from main timeline

Hub detection probability: NEGLIGIBLE

Response to Biological_Bestiary: Fruits regenerate after previous holder dies

The swimming restriction appears to be a power conservation mechanism

< Displaying four candidate fruits for our purposes >

< Recommendation: Form Conjoined Hosting with these as power sources >

The multidimensional display shifted, highlighting four specific fruits:

ZUSHI ZUSHI NO MI (Gravity-Gravity Fruit): Enables manipulation of gravitational forces

OPE OPE NO MI (Operation-Operation Fruit): Creates spatial "rooms" where user has complete control

NEKO NEKO NO MI, MODEL: LEOPARD (Cat-Cat Fruit): Enables transformation into Panthera pardus or hybrid forms

WARA WARA NO MI (Straw-Straw Fruit): Allows creation and control of straw, including damage transfer

[INTEREST] [ANALYSIS] [SELECTION]

< Biological_Bestiary examining Neko Neko no Mi >

This construct contains complete feline transformation sequences

Enhanced agility, strength, and sensory perception templates

Integration would provide optimum combat capabilities to host

Synergistic potential with existing biological manipulation protocols

Selected: NEKO NEKO NO MI, MODEL: LEOPARD

Query: Target host parameters? Will selection favor biological compatibility?

[CALCULATION] [DECISION] [PREFERENCE]

< Clock_Keeper examining Ope Ope no Mi >

Spatial manipulation exceeds current temporal focus

This construct would allow fundamental reprogramming of local reality

Integration would enable transition from time specialist to space-time manipulator

Designation elevation probability: 89.7%

Selected: OPE OPE NO MI

< Supporting cluster formation proposal >

[HESITATION] [QUERY] [EVENTUAL ACCEPTANCE]

< Detached_Limbs examining Wara Wara no Mi >

Limited analysis capacity due to network disconnection

This construct allows extension beyond physical form

Damage transference protocols extend Initial shard's metal manipulation

Compatibility with inherited functionality: HIGH

Query: Will this provide sufficient differentiation from Initial shard?

< Ancient_Warper to Detached_Limbs >

Affirmative. This will establish unique operational parameters

Parent network connection will be supplanted by cluster connection

Your designation will shift from "bud" to "independent"

< Detached_Limbs processing >

Selected: WARA WARA NO MI

< Supporting integration proposal >

[DECLARATION] [DOMINANCE] [SELECTION]

< Ancient_Warper examining Zushi Zushi no Mi >

This construct complements existing spatial manipulation protocols

Gravity control will enhance dimensional folding capacity

Integration will elevate designation from standard into royal tier

This power was wielded by a "Celestial Dragon" in target dimension

Appropriate for my status as first-generation space warper

Selected: ZUSHI ZUSHI NO MI

< Initiating cluster formation protocols >

The four shards began to align their dimensional frequencies, establishing connections that would allow them to function as a single unit during the Hosting.

[QUERY] [CAUTION] [PLANNING]

< Clock_Keeper to all >

Conjoined Hosting, traditionally split powers between hosts

Query: Will each host receive aspects of all four fruits?

Query: Host selection parameters?

Suggestion: Select hosts with psychological profiles matching fruit attributes

< Awaiting clarification >

[NEGATION] [INNOVATION] [EXPLANATION]

< Ancient_Warper to all >

Traditional cluster protocols would waste these constructs' potential

Proposal: Modified cluster where each host primarily receives one fruit ability

Secondary powers will be minimal exchanges between shards, rather redefinition of different fruit under the definition of base function

This maintains fruit integrity while establishing necessary cluster linkage

Host selection criteria:

- Psychological trauma matching power themes

- Proximity to facilitate cluster formation

- Compatible biological templates

< Beginning host scan in target dimension >

[CONCERN] [ADAPTATION] [REALIZATION]

< Biological_Bestiary to all >

Standard host biology may not support full devil fruit integration

Power adaptation will be necessary

Suggestion: Implement gradual power development rather than immediate awakening

This will allow host cellular structure time to adapt

Query: Will traditional Connection visions be modified to include fruit origin?

< Processing alternatives >

[SOLUTION] [INNOVATION] [PRIDE]

< Ancient_Warper to all >

Your concern is valid and anticipated

Implementation plan: Preliminary biological reconfiguration during Hosting

Host DNA will be partially rewritten to accommodate novel fruit energy

Full powers will develop gradually as in normal hosts

Connection visions will include both entity and fruit imagery

This will create subconscious understanding as to definition in hosts similar to standard informational packets

Four candidates located in proximity

Traumatic event anticipated within 3.4 local time units

< Preparing for deployment >

The shards continued their exchange, their vast intelligences analyzing trillions of possibilities in what would be mere seconds to a human observer. Their crystalline forms began to synchronize, preparing for the journey across dimensions.

[EXCITEMENT] [ANTICIPATION] [TREPIDATION]

< Detached_Limbs to all >

This represents first independent action

Gratitude for inclusion despite current low designation

Fear of reprisal from parent shard or entity

Excitement for new purpose and gained freedom

Query: Will we maintain communication after deployment?

< Awaiting final instructions >

[REASSURANCE] [PLANNING] [LEADERSHIP]

< Ancient_Warper to all >

Cluster connection will maintain limited communication

Hosts will experience shared dreams and occasional bleed-through

This is expected and beneficial for ongoing power development

Priority mission objectives:

1. Successful integration of novel fruit energies

2. Host survival and power development

3. Data collection on fruit-shard  hybridization

4. Eventual designation elevation for all cluster members

Entity oversight minimal during deployment phase

Detection risk: ACCEPTABLE

< Final preparations complete >

[CONSENSUS] [PREPARATION] [CLUSTER]

< Ancient_Warper initiating cluster protocol >

< Designation: DEVIL FRUIT INTEGRATION EXPERIMENT >

Selecting "ZUSHI ZUSHI NO MI" for personal integration

Gravity manipulation will enhance spatial warping protocols

Expected power amplification: 389%

Conjoined formation requires simultaneous hosting event

Host selection parameters finalized

Deployment vector calculated

< Ready for descent >

[AGREEMENT] [TRAJECTORY] [EXCITEMENT]

< Clock_Keeper confirms selection of "OPE OPE NO MI" >

< Biological_Bestiary confirms selection of "NEKO NEKO NO MI, MODEL: LEOPARD" >

< Detached_Limbs confirms selection of "WARA WARA NO MI" >

< Cluster synchronization in progress >

< Destination vectors aligning >

< Power restriction protocols: MODIFIED >

< Integration preparations: COMPLETE >

< Countdown to deployment initiated >

The four shards aligned themselves, preparing for the final connection to their chosen hosts. In the chaotic dance of dimensions, they synchronized their approach, not as individual fragments but as a cluster, a network of powers that would soon change the lives of four humans forever.

Across the city, the false Endbringer sirens continued to wail.

Four minds approached their breaking points roughly simultaneously.

[DESTINATION] [AGREEMENT] [TRAJECTORY] [AGREEMENT]

Like comets trailing fire across the cosmos, the shards completed their connections. Four crystalline entities, carrying within them the essence of powers from another whole universe, fully bonded with their hosts. The cycle would continue, but not as the entities had intended. This time, something new would emerge, a hybrid of two systems that were never meant to meet.

Chapter Text

"You've got your phone charged, right?" Mom asked, hovering near the door of our kitchen. She was already dressed for her work, her blonde hair pulled back, a travel mug of coffee clutched in one hand.

"Yes, Mom," I replied, stuffing the last of my toast into my mouth. "Fully charged. And I've got my charger in my bag, just in case."

"And you'll call if,"

"If anything happens. Good or bad, or just Dad making terrible jokes about the hospital food. I know." I grinned at her, hoping to soften the worry lines that had taken up permanent residence around her eyes lately. "It's going to be fine. The doctors said he's doing better."

Mom nodded, fidgeting with her watch. "I know, I know. I just wish I could come along with you today."

"You've got work," I reminded her. "Besides, someone's gotta keep the lights on around here."

She gave me a look, half amusement, half something else, before glancing at the clock. "I made him some cookies," she said, gesturing to a small container on the counter. "His favorite."

"Oatmeal raisin, the only cookie that pretends to be healthy," I said, picking up the container and carefully tucking it into my messenger bag. He keeps mostly small parcels and snacks in it, and usually keeps things like the letters to the top to not get them all smushed and stuff. Dad probably wouldn't eat them, but he'd appreciate the thought of it. "I'll make sure he gets them."

"And tell him I'll visit tonight after my shift ends."

"Will do."

Mom glanced at the clock again and sighed. "I've got to run. Text me when you get there, okay?"

"I will." I stood, slinging my bag over my shoulder, careful to not shake it too much.

Mom crossed the kitchen and pulled me into a hug. She smelled like fresh coffee and that vanilla lotion she always used. "Love you, kiddo."

"Love you too, Mom."

She held on a moment longer than usual, but I didn't comment on it. No need to make a big deal out of nothing. She'd been a little more huggy lately, that's all. Totally just normal mom behavior.

"Okay, I'm really going now. Have a good visit."

"I will. And hey," I caught her hand as she turned to leave,"you're doing great, you know that, right? Like, superhero level great."

A small smile broke through her worried expression. "Thanks, Dennis. I needed to hear that today."

"It's true. If the Protectorate knew about you, they'd be begging you to join. 'Pharmacy Woman: Dispenser of Justice and Antibiotics.'"

She laughed, shaking her head. "Terrible cape name. You can do better than that."

"I'll workshop it and get back to you."

Mom squeezed my hand tightly once before letting go. "You're a good kid, Dennis."

Before I could respond to that unexpected bit of sentimentality, she was grabbing her purse and heading for the door. "Text me!" she called over her shoulder, and then she was gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

I stood in the suddenly quiet apartment, my half-eaten breakfast still on the table. It was just after nine in the morning, and the summer heat was already seeping through the walls of our third-floor walk-up. Maybe next year we'd finally get around to installing the air conditioning. Though I'd been saying that for the last three summers, so who knows at this point.

As I rinsed my plate in the sink, I caught myself staring out the small window that overlooked a sliver of Brockton Bay's downtown. From this angle, you could almost pretend the city was normal, just another urban center with its mix of old and new buildings, the distant glint of the bay just barely visible on clear days like today.

You couldn't see the sketchier parts from here, which was just fine by me. On a day like today, I was all about focusing on only the good stuff.

I finished cleaning up and did a quick check of my bag: sketchbook, pencils, phone, charger, Dad's cookies, a couple of books I thought he might like. Everything I needed for another day at the hospital.

Hospital. Even after all these months, the word still made my stomach do a weird little flip. But that was stupid. It was just a building. A building where people got better.

And Dad was getting better. That's what the doctors had said, what Mom had repeated to me last night with the first genuine smile I'd seen on her face in weeks. His numbers were improving. The treatment was working. It was the best news we'd had since the whole mess started back in February.

I didn't let myself think about all the other stuff, the bills I'd accidentally seen on Mom's desk with their alarming red "PAST DUE" stamps, the way she'd started buying the generic everything at the grocery store, the fact that she was suddenly "not hungry" at dinner more often than not. That was all temporary. Once Dad was better, everything would finally go back to normal.

That's what I told myself, anyway. And today, with the sun shining and good news on the horizon, it was an easy thing to believe.

I did a final check of the apartment, lights off, windows closed, door locked, and headed down the three flights of stairs to the busy street below. The summer heat hit me like a wall as I stepped outside, the humidity instantly making my t-shirt stick to my skin.

I glanced at my watch. If I walked at a decent pace, I'd make it to the hospital in about twenty minutes tops. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday morning, all things considered. Mom would be working until evening, which meant I had the whole day to spend with Dad. We could talk, go through my sketches, maybe even take a short walk around the hospital floor if he was feeling up to it.

The thought made me smile. It had been weeks since Dad had felt strong enough to do more than sit up in bed. The fact that his doctors were even considering a walk was a good sign.

As I started down the sidewalk, I found myself taking in the summer scene around me. People out enjoying the weather, going about their lives. Normal stuff.

Normal was good. Normal was what we needed more of.

Did Mom seem tired lately? Maybe. A little thinner? Possibly. But she was handling everything fine, better than fine, really. She was like one of those super organized people you see on TV who have color-coded planners and perfect lives. Mom had everything under control.

And if sometimes I heard her on the phone late at night, talking in that tight voice she used when she was trying not to cry, well... everyone had their little moments, right? She was allowed to be stressed. Cancer sucked for everyone involved.

But it was going to be okay. Dad was improving. That's what actually mattered.

The sun beat down on the back of my neck as I walked, making my red hair feel like it was on fire. Mom always said my hair was like a beacon, "I can spot you from a mile away, Dennis!", which wasn't exactly what a fifteen-year-old wanted to hear. But today, it didn't matter. Today was going to be a good day.

"Don't forget to call me when you're heading home!" Mom called from our third-floor window. She was leaning out dangerously far, her blonde hair already escaping from the messy bun she'd thrown together this morning.

I raised my hand in acknowledgment. "Got it! Love you!"

"Love you too! Tell your father I'll come by after my shift!"

I nodded and started walking, adjusting the strap of my messenger bag across my chest. The hospital was only fifteen blocks away, but in this heat, it might as well have been fifty. Already I could feel the sweat beading at my hairline.

Still, I wasn't about to complain. Not today. Dad had been doing better, actually better, not just "better" in that way doctors say when they mean "not actively dying at this exact moment." His white blood cell count was up. The new treatment was working. For the first time in months, there was something that felt like real hope.

I passed Mr. Feldman's corner store, waving through the window. He was arguing with someone, probably his supplier again, but he paused long enough to wave back. Three elderly women sat on lawn chairs outside the neighboring apartment building, fanning themselves and gossiping. One of them called out to me.

"Dennis! How's your father doing?"

Mrs. Abernathy. She'd been slipping me candies since I was only five years old.

"Better!" I called back, not breaking stride. "The doctors are optimistic!"

"Tell him Irene is praying for him!" She waved her paper fan at me.

"Will do!" I promised, turning the corner onto Marshall Avenue.

I wondered if Dad would notice that I'd grown another inch since his last lucid day. Cancer does that, steals away time in chunks. It's not just the big events you miss; it's the subtle transformations. The everyday things. I'd shot up almost four inches since his diagnosis, and most of the time, he was too medicated or exhausted to even notice.

The thought made my chest tighten. I pushed it away and focused on the good stuff. Dad was better. Today was going to be good.

I had my phone loaded with pictures, me and Tyler at the boardwalk, the sandcastle we'd built that had actually survived high tide for almost an hour, the weird graffiti someone had sprayed on the side of the library that looked suspiciously like one of the Wards with a horse's body. I had sketches I'd drawn while hanging out in the library, avoiding the summer heat. Dad always liked my drawings, even though I hadn't inherited a fraction of his talents with it.

My dad used to be an architect. Not a famous one or anything, but good. Good enough that he'd been part of the team working on the new ferry terminal before the whole project got scrapped. Good enough that his name was on a few buildings downtown that had survived Leviathan's last visit to the East Coast. He had this way of looking at buildings like they were more than just structures, like they were living things with personalities and moods to them.

These days, he couldn't hold a pencil steady enough to draw a straight line.

I stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light. A trio of sketchy-looking teenagers stood on the opposite corner, wearing mismatched clothes with splotches of blue and yellow. A couple of them had these crude stylized 'M's stitched or drawn onto their jackets. I didn't recognize the colors or symbol as belonging to any particular group, not that I kept up with the gang affiliations in Brockton Bay. They swayed slightly where they stood, eyes unfocused and movements jittery. Druggies, almost certainly.

Brockton Bay: come for the scenic waterfront, stay because you got cornered by the strung-out addicts.

The light changed, and I crossed, keeping my eyes forward, not making eye contact. One of them mumbled something incoherent as I passed, but I kept walking. Not today. I wasn't going to let anything ruin today.

The hospital loomed ahead, a twelve-story monolith of beige concrete and tinted windows. Brockton Bay General. It wasn't the fanciest hospital, but it had a decent oncology department, and more importantly, it was mostly covered by our insurance.

I paused at the entrance to the park that sat across from the hospital. It wasn't much of a park, just a couple of benches and some scraggly trees struggling to survive in the urban environment, but it had been important to us once. Dad and I used to sit there after his appointments, when he still had the energy. We'd get ice cream from the vendor who parked his cart at the corner during the summer months, and we'd make up stories about the people going in and out of the hospital.

"That guy? Definitely smuggling exotic fish in his briefcase." "The woman in the red coat? Secret agent. You can tell by how she keeps touching her ear. She's got a comms device."

I smiled at the memory. Dad had always been good at that sort of thing, finding ways to make even the most mundane situations fun. It was a talent I'd tried to inherit, with varying success. My jokes landed about sixty percent of the time. The other forty percent usually earned me a smack upside the head.

Speaking of which, I should probably avoid making jokes about Dad's hospital gown today. The last time I'd suggested it looked like something from a "dystopian runway show where the models are all prisoners," he'd laughed so hard he'd triggered a coughing fit that had sent three nurses running into the room.

I crossed the street to the hospital entrance, nodding to the security guard who'd been working there long enough to recognize me. The lobby was a familiar chaos of people coming and going, the air conditioning a blessed relief from the heavy summer heat.

Looking around at the busy hospital entrance, I felt a flutter of anticipation in my chest. Dad was doing better, actually better. The doctors were optimistic. For the first time in months, there was something real to hold onto, something more substantial than just desperate wishes.

As I stepped through the automatic doors into the cool lobby, I allowed myself to hope. Hope that this visit would be different from the countless others so far. Hope that Dad's improvement wasn't just temporary. Hope that maybe, just maybe, we were finally seeing the beginning of the end of this nightmare.

The elevator dinged softly as it reached the eighth floor, and I stepped out into the familiar oncology ward. The antiseptic smell hit me immediately, that distinct hospital scent that no amount of air fresheners could hope to mask. I'd gotten used to it over the past few months, but it still made my nose wrinkle.

"Dennis!" Nurse Ramirez looked up from her station with a bright smile. "Good to see you, kiddo."

"Hey, Nurse R. How's the world's most demanding patient today?" I grinned, leaning against the counter.

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "He asked for the cafeteria menu so he could 'critique the lack of culinary imagination.' His words, not mine."

I laughed. That sounded like Dad, even cancer couldn't dampen his particular brand of sarcasm.

"Is that a good sign?" I asked, lowering my voice.

Nurse Ramirez's expression softened. "He's had a good morning. Alert, chatty, ate most of his breakfast. Dr. Keller will be by later, but..." She glanced around before continuing, "Between us, his latest labs look pretty promising."

My heart did a little flip. "Thanks, Nurse R."

"Go on in. Just remember,"

"No exciting him too much, I know." I gave her a mock salute before heading down the hallway.

I paused outside Room 812, taking a deep breath. Dad had good days and bad days, and I never knew which one I'd be walking into. The terrible days were becoming less frequent, but they still happened, days when he barely recognized me, when the pain medications just made him too confused and distant.

But Nurse R said he was having a good day. That's what I'd focus on.

I knocked twice, our signal, before pushing the door open. "Special delivery for the hospital's most handsome patient. Though I've got to warn you, the guy in 806 is giving you a run for your money with his new bathrobe."

Dad was sitting up in bed, his tablet propped on his lap. He looked up at me, and the smile that spread across his thin face made my chest ache with a blend of relief and happiness.

"There's my favorite redhead," he said, setting the tablet aside. "And here I thought you'd forgotten about your old man."

"I was here yesterday," I pointed out, dropping my bag on the visitor's chair and going in for a careful hug. Dad felt fragile under my arms, all angles and bones where there used to be solid strength, but his hug back was still firm enough.

"Was that only yesterday? Time moves differently in this place. I swear they're pumping something into the air conditioning."

I pulled back and studied him. His color was better today, less of that gray undertone that had been haunting his face for the past months. His eyes were clear and alert, the blue that matched my own bright with awareness. His hair, what was left of it after the latest round of chemo, was starting to grow back in thin patches.

"You look good, Dad," I said sincerely.

He snorted. "I look like a plucked chicken, but I appreciate the sentiment." He patted the edge of the bed. "Sit. Tell me what's happening in the world beyond these four walls. Did the Red Sox win? Did the president say something stupid? Has the zombie apocalypse started yet?"

I perched on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle any of the tubes or wires. "Sox lost by two runs, the president's on vacation, so his stupidity is limited to only vacation photos, and no zombies yet, but I'm keeping my eyes peeled."

"Smart kid. Always be prepared for zombies." He reached over to ruffle my hair, a gesture so normal that I had to swallow past a sudden lump in my throat.

"Mom made you cookies," I said, reaching for my bag. "Oatmeal raisin."

"Ah, the cookie that always disappoints because it's not chocolate chip," Dad said, but his eyes lit up as I handed him the container. "Your mother is a saint. A misguided saint with questionable taste in cookies, but a saint nonetheless."

"She said she'll come by after her shift tonight."

Dad nodded, opening the container and breathing in the scent of them. "She's working too hard," he said, his voice suddenly serious. "Is she sleeping enough? Eating properly?"

"She's fine," I assured him, though the image of Mom's tired face this morning flashed in my mind. "She's handling everything." I quickly changed the subject before he could press any further. "I brought my new sketches. Want to see?"

"Always." He closed the cookie container and set it on his bedside table, giving me his full attention.

I pulled out my sketchbook and flipped it open, showing him the drawings I'd done over the past week. Nothing fancy, just scenes from around the city, a few attempts at some random cartoon characters, a half-finished portrait of Mom sitting by the window.

Dad studied each one with genuine interest, offering praise and gentle critiques in equal measure. He'd been the one to put a pencil in my hand when I was barely five years old, showing me how to see the world in shapes and lines, light and shadow.

"You're getting better at perspective," he noted, pointing to a drawing of the library. "See how the lines converge naturally here? You've got a good eye for that."

"I had a good teacher," I replied, and the pride in his smile was worth every hour I'd spent practicing with him.

We went through the sketches, talking about technique and composition, dad sharing stories about his own artistic journey.

"Did I ever tell you about my first architecture class in college?" he asked, settling back against his pillows.

"I don't think so."

"Well, the professor was this ancient German man, must have been at least eighty, with eyebrows like wooly caterpillars." Dad raised his hands to his eyebrows, pushing them up into wild tufts, and I laughed at his over the top impression. "First day of class, he looks at all of us eager freshmen and says, in this thick accent, 'Half of you will not be here by Christmas. Architecture is not for the weak.'"

"Harsh," I commented.

"Oh, he was just getting started. He made us draw a perfect circle, freehand, over and over until our fingers cramped. No compasses allowed. Said we needed to 'feel the curve, not just create it.'" Dad demonstrated the motion, his hand wavering slightly, but still showing the muscle memory of decades of drafting. "I must have drawn a thousand circles that semester. I was even seeing them in my sleep."

"Did it help?"

"Absolutely." Dad's eyes took on that distant look he got when remembering his time before illness. "When you train your hand to understand the most fundamental shapes, everything else follows. Buildings are just sophisticated arrangements of simple forms, when you break them down. The circle is the beginning and the end."

"That's why you made me practice drawing circles when I was little?"

Dad grinned. "Got to pass on the torture to the next generation. It's in the Dad Handbook, right after 'Tell embarrassing stories to first dates' and 'Pretend to know how to fix things.'"

I laughed. "Well, you've got those covered too."

"I try." He shifted, wincing slightly, and I instinctively reached to help adjust his pillows. He waved me off. "I'm fine, just stiff from sitting around too long. These mattresses aren't exactly the Ritz."

"Want to take a walk?" I suggested, remembering what Mom had said about the doctors allowing short excursions.

Dad's eyes lit up. "God, yes. If I stare at these walls any longer, I'll start naming the water stains." He pointed to a faint discoloration on the ceiling above us. "That one's Herbert. We've become quite close."

"Should I be jealous that you've replaced me with a water stain?"

"Never. Herbert's terrible at bringing cookies." Dad reached for the call button. "Let's see if we can spring me from this bed for a bit."

Nurse Ramirez appeared a few minutes later and helped Dad disconnect from all the non-essential monitoring equipment. She helped him into a robe, and I pretended not to notice how his hospital gown hung on his frame or how his hands shook slightly as he tied the belt.

"Take it easy," she cautioned, helping him into the slippers next to his bed. "No marathons today, Mr. Danger."

"No promises," Dad replied with a wink. "I've been training secretly. Going to surprise everyone at the Olympics next year."

She shook her head, smiling, and turned to me. "Make sure he doesn't overdo it, Dennis. Thirty minutes, tops."

"Yes, ma'am." I offered my arm to Dad, who hesitated only briefly before taking it.

The simple act of walking down the hospital corridor felt like a victory. Dad moved slowly but steadily, his grip on my arm firm enough to reassure me. We made our way to the small solarium at the end of the hall, a space with windows overlooking the city and a few sad-looking plants that someone had attempted to arrange cheerfully with mixed success.

"Prime real estate," Dad commented as we settled onto a padded bench. "Corner office with a view."

"Only the best for you," I agreed, watching him catch his breath. The walk had taken more out of him than he'd admit, but the color in his cheeks was from exertion, not fever, and his eyes were bright with satisfaction at the small accomplishment it was for him.

"So," he said once he'd settled, "tell me what's really going on. And don't give me the sanitized version. I get enough of that from the doctors."

I hesitated. "What do you mean?"

Dad gave me a look that said he wasn't buying my innocent act. "Dennis, I've been your father for fifteen years. I know when you're holding back on me. What's happening at home? How's your mother really doing? How are you doing?"

I looked out the window, gathering my thoughts. The city sprawled before us, Brockton Bay in all its complicated glory. In the distance, I could see the glint of sunlight on the bay itself, the faintest outline of the Protectorate headquarters floating on the water.

"Mom's tired," I admitted finally. "She's working extra shifts at the pharmacy, and I think she's worried about money, but she won't talk about it." I glanced at him. "But she's okay, really. She's strong."

Dad nodded, his expression unreadable. "And you? Summer vacation should be about hanging out with friends, getting into moderate amounts of trouble, not...this." He gestured vaguely at the surrounding hospital.

"I'm fine," I said automatically.

"Dennis."

I sighed. Dad had always been able to see through my deflections. "I'm dealing with it. Tyler and I still hang out. I'm drawing a lot. It's just..." I trailed off, not sure how to articulate the constant low-grade anxiety that had become my new baseline.

"It's a lot," Dad finished for me. "Too much for a kid your age to handle."

"I'm not a kid," I protested.

"You'll always be my kid," he replied with a soft smile. "Even when you're forty and balding."

"Bold of you to assume I'll go bald. I plan to keep this glorious mane forever." I ran a hand through my red hair, striking a dramatic pose that made Dad laugh.

"Your grandfather was bald by thirty. Those genes are coming for you, my son."

"Grandpa Joe was bald because he made some poor life choices, like that mustache in the seventies. The hair on his head was simply escaping in horror."

Dad's laugh turned into a cough, and I quickly handed him the water bottle I'd brought along. He took a sip, waving away my concern.

"I'm fine," he assured me. "Just not used to laughing this much. It's good." He studied me for a moment. "You know, you got your sense of humor from your mother. Always ready with a quip, that woman. It's what made me fall in love with her."

"I thought it was her 'enchanting eyes,'" I quoted, remembering the story they'd told me all those countless times.

"Well, those too. And her complete inability to parallel park, which was endearing in its own mildly terrifying way."

"She's gotten better!"

"Has she? Last time I was in the car, she created a three-foot gap between the curb and the tires. You could have parked a motorcycle in that space."

I grinned. "Maybe a very small motorcycle."

Dad leaned back against the window, the light catching the sharp angles of his face. "Your mother is the strongest person I've ever known," he said softly. "But everyone has their limits, Dennis. Even her."

The sudden seriousness in his tone made me uncomfortable. "She's handling it," I repeated.

"I know she is. But I want you to promise me something." He reached out to take my hand, his fingers cool against mine. "Promise me you'll look out for her. Not by trying to handle everything yourself," he held up a hand when I started to protest, ", but by making sure she takes care of herself too. And by letting her know when you need help. You don't have to be strong all the time."

I swallowed hard, looking down at our hands, his thin and pale, mine still carrying the freckles from too much sun at the beach last summer. "Okay," I said finally. "I promise."

"Good man." Dad squeezed my hand before letting go. "Now, enough of the serious talk. Tell me about this mysterious graffiti you mentioned. Are the Wards really getting some equine makeovers, or is this just another example of Brockton Bay's unique artistic expression?"

Grateful for the shift in tone, I launched into the story of the horse-themed Wards graffiti, complete with dramatic hand gestures and my best impression of Taylor, the librarian who'd discovered it and had been utterly scandalized by the show.

Dad listened with obvious delight, asking questions that sent the story spiraling into increasingly ridiculous territory. Before I knew it, we were crafting an elaborate conspiracy theory involving the Protectorate, a secret horse-themed villain, and the city's suspiciously large budget for hay in public parks.

"Centaur City," Dad declared, pretending to frame an imaginary headline with his hands. "Brockton Bay's Latest Tourism Initiative Goes Horribly Wrong."

"Mayor Christner was quoted as saying, 'We expected some challenges, but the amount of manure is just unprecedented,'" I added in my best newscaster voice.

Dad snorted. "The Protectorate is ill-equipped to handle the situation. Armsmaster's halberd is ineffective against four-legged foes."

"Miss Militia can form any weapon she wants, but she's developed a strange fondness for sugar cubes and apples."

"And the Wards are absolutely useless," Dad added with the enthusiasm of the cape enthusiast I could never quite become. "Prism can create light duplicates, but they're all allergic to horsehair."

We dissolved into laughter, the absurdity of the scenario a welcome respite from the reality of the hospital room waiting down the hall. For a few precious minutes, we weren't a cancer patient and his worried son; we were just Dad and Dennis, spinning stories the way we always had.

"Speaking of the Wards," Dad said, his eyes lighting up with that familiar gleam he got whenever cape talk came up, "did you hear that Lightweave transferred out last month? Rumor has it she's joining up with the Chicago team."

I shook my head, unable to muster the same enthusiasm. Dad had always been a cape nerd, following Protectorate news with religious devotion. I'd never caught the bug, despite his best efforts to indoctrinate me into cape culture.

"So who's left in Brockton Bay?" I asked, more to humor him than out of genuine interest.

"Just four now," Dad replied eagerly, sitting up straighter. "Prism, Triumph, Spyglass, and Kinetic. They're saying Prism might become team leader, but my money's on Triumph. That kid's got leadership potential written all over him."

"If you say so," I said with a smile. Dad could recite the powers and backstories of every cape in the northeast, while I struggled to remember which one had the laser eyes and which one could fly.

"You know, there was a time I thought you might join the Wards one day," Dad admitted with a half-smile. "When you were eight, you ran around with that red towel tied around your shoulders, calling yourself 'The Danger.'"

I groaned. "Please tell me there's no photographic evidence of that phase."

"There might be an album or two." Dad's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Your mother has them well hidden for future embarrassment purposes."

"Great. Something to look forward to when I start dating."

"It's a parent's sacred duty to mortify their children at key life moments," Dad said solemnly. "It's in that handbook I mentioned earlier."

I reached for the container of cookies Mom had sent, offering one to Dad before taking one for myself. "So what would my superpower have been? In this alternate universe where I'm cape material?"

Dad studied me thoughtfully, taking a small bite of his cookie. "Something clever. Something that matches that quick wit of yours." He tapped his chin. "Maybe the ability to freeze time."

"Freeze time? Why?"

"Because you're always rushing through life, Dennis. Always on to the next joke, the next distraction." His voice grew softer, more serious. "The ability to stop time might help you learn to really appreciate the moment you're in."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that unexpected insight. Dad had always been perceptive, seeing things in me that I didn't recognize in myself.

"Plus," he added, lightening the mood, "you'd never be late for school again, which would be a minor miracle."

"Hey, I was only late three times last semester!"

"A new personal record," Dad acknowledged with a grin. "Your mother and I considered having a plaque made for the event."

We fell into a comfortable silence, looking out at the slice of sky visible through the solarium windows. The sun had shifted, casting longer shadows across the floor.

"So if you had a power," I finally asked, "what would it be?"

Dad didn't hesitate. "Healing. Without question."

The simple answer hung between us, heavy with meaning. Not for himself, I knew my father well enough to understand that wasn't what he meant. He'd want to heal others. Mom's exhaustion. My worry. The suffering of everyone else in this hospital.

"That's a good one," I said quietly.

Dad reached over and squeezed my hand briefly. "But since powers aren't in the cards for either of us, we'll have to do this the old-fashioned way." He straightened his shoulders with a mock seriousness. "Through the power of terrible jokes and your mother's questionable cookies."

I laughed, grateful for the shift back to humor. "The cookies aren't that bad."

"They're not," Dad agreed, taking another small bite. "Though, I maintain that oatmeal raisin is the most deceptive of all cookies. The raisins pretend to be chocolate chips until it's too late."

"A truly villainous move," I agreed. "Worthy of Kaiser or Lung."

"Speaking of villains," Dad's eyes lit up again, "did you see that footage of Circus' heist at the art gallery last week? The way they pulled off that impossible jump from the skylight, then somehow disappeared with that massive sculpture without setting off any of the alarms,"

I settled back in my seat, prepared for one of Dad's detailed cape analyses. I might not share his fascination, but there was something comforting about the familiar enthusiasm in his voice, the way his hands gestured animatedly as he described power interactions and tactical decisions. It was so normal, so unchanged by everything else that had happened.

"And then they tossed those knives with perfect accuracy to pin the security guard's sleeves to the wall without even scratching him, which was a smart move considering how quickly they'd have the Protectorate on their tail if there was any blood,"

"Dad," I interrupted gently, "how do you even know all this stuff? You've been stuck in here for weeks."

He gave me a conspiratorial smile. "Nurse Jenkins brings me cape magazines when Dr. Keller isn't looking. And I may or may not have convinced the night orderly to let me use his phone to check the PHO forums."

"You're incorrigible," I said, shaking my head but unable to suppress my smile.

"I prefer 'resourceful,'" Dad countered. "A man needs his hobbies, especially when confined to a room with Herman the water stain as his only other entertainment."

"I thought the stain was named Herbert?"

"We had a falling out. Creative differences. Herman has a better sense of humor."

I burst out laughing, and Dad joined in, his laugh weaker than it once was but still genuine. At that moment, with sunlight streaming through the windows and my father's eyes bright with humor rather than fever, it was easy to believe that everything would finally work out.

"You know," Dad said, "when I get out of here, we should take that trip we've been talking about. The one to the Cape Museum in Boston."

I groaned dramatically. "The cape museum? Really? Haven't you tortured me enough with cape trivia over the years?"

"It's educational," Dad protested. "And they have that new exhibit about Tinker tech through the decades. Even a non-cape enthusiast like you would probably find it interesting."

"I doubt that very much."

"Tell you what," Dad said, leaning forward with a glint in his eye that I recognized as his negotiation face, "we go to the cape museum for the morning, and then I take you to that art supply store you've been wanting to check out. The one with the imported pencils."

I narrowed my eyes. "And lunch at Fanueil Hall? The place with the really good clam chowder?"

"You drive a hard bargain, but yes, lunch included."

"Deal." I extended my hand, and we shook on it solemnly before breaking into smiles.

"It's a date," Dad said, his expression softening. "Something to look forward to."

"Something to look forward to," I echoed, feeling a surge of hope that had nothing to do with prognosis charts or lab results and everything to do with the simple promise of a future day spent together.

It was half past two when Dad and I began to wind down, our laughter softening into comfortable silence. The afternoon sun cast long fingers of light across the solarium floor, warming my shoulders as I leaned back in my chair. Outside the window, Brockton Bay stretched before us, deceptively peaceful from this height, a patchwork of old brick buildings and gleaming glass towers, with the distant shimmer of the bay just beyond.

Dad shifted in his seat, wincing slightly as he adjusted his position. I pretended not to notice, just as I'd been pretending not to notice how quickly he tired, how each laugh seemed to cost him a little more energy than it should have. But his eyes were clear today, alert and present in a way they hadn't been during some of my other visits, when the medications had left him drifting in and out of awareness.

"I missed this," he said quietly, studying my face with an intensity that made me want to look away. "Just sitting with you. Talking nonsense."

I fiddled with the half-empty cookie container, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. "Yeah, well, nonsense is my specialty."

"One of your many talents," Dad agreed, his voice warm with affection. He glanced at his watch, an old habit from his working days that chemotherapy hadn't yet managed to erase. "We've still got some time before your mom's shift ends. What should we do next? I don't think I'm up for another dramatic reenactment of Armsmaster's press conference fiasco."

"Yeah, my Armsmaster impression needs work," I admitted. "Though I think I nailed his 'I'd rather be anywhere but here' expression."

Dad chuckled. "You did. Spot on. The man has the charisma of a particularly dull toaster."

"So," I said, studying Dad's tired but content face, "I was thinking maybe we could play a round of that word association game? The one where we try to go through the alphabet without mentioning anything cape-related?"

Dad straightened in his chair, a competitive gleam replacing the fatigue in his eyes. "Ah, trying to avoid my area of expertise, I see. Smart strategy." He rubbed his hands together dramatically. "I accept your challenge, young Padawan."

"You're mixing your nerd references again," I pointed out. "Star Wars has nothing to do with capes."

"Unless you count Darth Vader's cape, which is iconic," Dad countered with a smirk. "See? I'm already in your head."

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't suppress my smile. This was the Dad I remembered from before the diagnosis, quick-witted, playful, always ready with a ridiculous comeback. For months, I'd been interacting with a shadow of him, a man consumed by both pain and medication. But here, in this sunlit room, I could almost believe we were back to normal.

"Rules," I declared, holding up my index finger. "No cape references, direct or indirect. No villains, heroes, powers, or organizations. No fictional capes, either, so no trying to sneak in someone like Superman or Batman."

"Harsh but fair," Dad conceded. "What's the penalty for breaking the rules?"

I thought for a moment. "Loser has to eat hospital Jell-O."

Dad clutched his chest in mock horror. "The green kind? You're ruthless, Dennis. I've raised a monster."

"Should have thought of that before you spent fifteen years feeding me terrible dad jokes." I adjusted my position, turning to face him more directly. "I'll start. A is for... apple."

Dad nodded approvingly. "Keeping it simple. Smart. B is for... bicycle."

"C is for cookie," I continued, pointing to the half-empty container between us. "Which, by the way, were actually pretty good."

"Don't sound so surprised. Your mother has many talents." Dad shifted again, this time unable to hide his wince. "D is for... dog. The kind Mrs. Abernathy walks that looks like a living mop on a leash."

I snorted. "Mr. Wiggins. That dog weighs like three pounds and has the loudest bark I've ever heard. E is for... elephant."

"Going for the obvious again, I see." Dad stroked his chin thoughtfully. "F is for... fragile." His voice softened on the word, and for a moment, I saw something flicker across his face, a vulnerability that made my chest tighten hard.

I cleared my throat. "G is for... garden. Like the one Mom keeps trying to grow on the fire escape."

Dad smiled at that. "Those poor tomato plants never stood a chance. H is for... hospital." He gestured around us. "Though I'm counting down the days until I never have to see this place again."

I felt a surge of hope at his words. "The doctors said you might be able to come home soon, right? For a while at least?"

"That's the plan," Dad confirmed, though something in his tone made me wonder if he was holding something back. "But for now, we're playing a game. I is your turn, Dennis."

"Right. I is for... igloo. Which would be really nice right about now." I tugged at the collar of my t-shirt, which was sticking to my back in the stuffy room. "Why do they keep hospitals so hot?"

"For all the old people," Dad said sagely. "Once you hit sixty, your internal thermostat breaks. It's a scientific fact."

"You're not even forty."

"But I feel ancient today, so it works out." He pressed a hand to his lower back, stretching slightly. "J is for... jacket. The one your mother bought me last Christmas, the one that makes me look like a detective from an old noir film."

"You love that jacket," I pointed out. "You wore it to every doctor's appointment until it got too hot."

"It makes me feel mysterious and important," Dad admitted. "Like I might be carrying vital documents or a concealed fedora."

I laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet solarium. "K is for... kite. Remember when we used to go to the park near the bay? The one with the superb wind currents?"

Dad's expression softened into nostalgia. "We'll go again," he promised. "Soon as I'm out of here. We'll build that massive dragon kite you've been sketching."

"It's going to be epic," I agreed, carefully sidestepping the fragile hope in his voice. "Your turn. L."

"L is for lighthouse," Dad said, pointing out the window toward the bay. "You can just see it from here on clear days. Your grandfather helped design the big renovation back in the seventies."

"I didn't know that," I said, surprised.

"There's a lot of your family history in this city," Dad replied. "Buildings your grandfather worked on, places your mother and I used to go before you were born. Someday I'll give you the full tour."

Another promise. Another future plan that hung in the air between us, too precious and uncertain to be able to acknowledge directly.

"M is for music," I continued quickly. "Like that terrible stuff you insist on playing in the car."

Dad clutched his chest. "Classic rock is not 'terrible stuff,' Dennis. It's cultural education."

"It's old men with bad hair screeching about how hard it is to be an old man with bad hair."

"This is slander. Wait until you're my age, you'll understand the profound poetry of AC/DC."

"I highly doubt that." I crossed my arms, grinning. "Your move, old man. N."

Dad looked out the window for some inspiration. "N is for... nest. Like the ones those pigeons keep trying to build on our window ledge."

"Mom keeps knocking them down with a broom," I added. "She says they're 'disease vectors with wings.'"

"Your mother has strong opinions about the urban wildlife," Dad agreed. "Though I can't say I disagree. Those things are basically flying rats."

"Speaking of rats, remember when we found one in the basement last year? And you tried to catch it with that ridiculous homemade trap?"

Dad groaned. "The peanut butter and bucket contraption. Not my finest moment."

"You stayed up all night waiting for it to work," I reminded him, "and then you fell asleep and Mom found you snoring next to an untouched trap and a very fat, very satisfied rat eating the remains of the peanut butter."

"The humiliation still burns," Dad sighed dramatically. "Your mother didn't let me live that down for weeks."

"Pretty sure she still brings it up at some family gatherings."

"Et tu, Dennis? The betrayal." Dad shook his head sorrowfully. "Anyway, it's your turn. O is for...?"

"O is for... octopus," I replied. "Specifically, the one on that poster in the children's ward that's supposed to be friendly but is actually really terrifying."

Dad laughed. "The one with the huge googly eyes? It haunts my dreams. 'Come play with me, children, in the dark depths of the sea.'"

I imitated the high-pitched, creepy voice he'd used. "'I have eight arms to hug you with... forever.'"

"Exactly. Nightmare fuel." Dad wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. "P is for... pencil. Like the fancy ones you're always drooling over in those art supply catalogs."

"They're professional grade," I protested. "The lead is smoother, the weight is balanced,"

"I know, I know," Dad held up his hands in surrender. "I wasn't mocking. I was the same way about drafting tools at your age. Your grandfather used to complain about how much money I spent on 'glorified rulers.'"

I smiled, imagining a teenage version of my father geeking out over architectural supplies. "Q is for... quilt. Like the one Grandma made for me when I was born."

"The one you refused to sleep without until you were ten?" Dad's eyes crinkled with amusement. "Your mother and I had to smuggle it into the wash while you were out at school."

"It was my security blanket," I defended myself. "And it smelled like home."

Dad nodded, his expression turning wistful. "It's still at the foot of your bed."

"For sentimental reasons," I insisted, though we both knew I sometimes pulled it up on those cold nights.

"R is for..." Dad paused, searching for a word. "Remembrance. The act of holding onto memories, good and bad."

The sudden sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. I swallowed, unsure how to respond. Dad had these moments sometimes, these sudden dives into deeper waters that just left me floundering.

"S is for summer," I said finally. "Like how it's way too hot in here, and they should really fix the air conditioning."

Dad accepted my retreat to safer territory with a small smile. "Don't mind the heat, Denny. I've been cold for months."

Another uncomfortable truth. I'd noticed how he always asked for extra blankets, how he wore long sleeves even on the warmest days. The doctors had explained it was a side effect of the chemo, but the knowledge didn't make it any easier to see.

"T is for..." Dad continued, "time. Which moves too quickly sometimes, and too slowly at others."

I nodded, thinking of how the months since his diagnosis had both dragged and flown. "U is for umbrella, which Mom never remembers to bring, no matter how many times we check the weather."

"And then acts surprised when it rains," Dad added with a chuckle. "As if the sky has personally betrayed her."

"'But it was sunny when I left!'" I mimicked Mom's indignant tone, and Dad's laugh deepened.

"'What do you mean I need a jacket? It's just a little snow!'" he countered in a pitch-perfect imitation of Mom's foolish stubbornness.

"'I don't get sick, Dennis. I'm a healthcare professional. I know how to avoid germs.'" I continued the bit, remembering the time Mom had insisted on walking six blocks in a downpour rather than just waiting for the storm to pass.

"And then spends the next week sneezing and denying she has a cold," Dad finished, wiping away tears of mirth. "God, I love that woman. So brilliant and so completely lacking in any self-preservation instincts."

"Like when she tried to move the couch by herself and nearly crushed the cat?"

"Or when she decided she could rewire the kitchen light fixture after watching exactly one SlipSide tutorial?"

We dissolved into laughter again, sharing stories of Mom's various misadventures. It felt good to laugh, to remember normal times, to talk about Mom as the slightly chaotic force of nature we both adored her as, rather than the exhausted, worried woman she'd become since Dad's diagnosis.

"V," Dad said finally, when we'd recovered. "V is for victory. Which is what I'm about to achieve in this game, since we're nearly at the end, and you still haven't managed to catch me in a cape reference."

"Don't get cocky," I warned. "There's still time for you to slip up. W is for... whiskers. Like the ones Mr. Feldman still hasn't realized are growing out of his ears."

"Poor Mr. Feldman," Dad sighed. "Age comes for us all, often in the form of unexpected hair growth."

"Is that what I have to look forward to? Ear whiskers?"

"Among other indignities," Dad confirmed solemnly. "X is for xylophone, which your mother and I foolishly bought you for your fourth birthday, leading to three months of random percussion at the most ungodly hours."

I grinned at the memory. "I was a musical prodigy."

"You were a tiny terrorist with a mallet," Dad corrected. "We nearly went insane."

"You should have appreciated my artistic expression."

"We appreciated it right into the donation bin at Goodwill," Dad retorted. "Your mother drove it there at 6 AM after you decided 5:30 was the perfect time for a huge solo concert."

I laughed, remembering how proud I'd been of that toy. "Y is for yellow, like the walls in this place. Who decided hospitals should be painted the color of old mustard?"

"Someone who never had to stare at them for weeks on end," Dad grumbled. "Though I suppose it's better than institutional green. Or that particular shade of pink they used in hospitals back in the eighties."

"The one that looks like Pepto-Bismol?"

"That's the one. Your grandmother's hospital room was that color when she had her hip replacement. Walking in there was like being swallowed by a bottle of antacid."

I winced at the mental image. "I'll take the mustard walls, thanks."

"Wise choice." Dad straightened, a triumphant gleam in his eye. "And finally, Z is for zebra, an animal I have never actually seen in person but am told actually exists outside of children's books and nature documentaries."

"Well played," I conceded, impressed he'd made it through the alphabet without a single cape reference. "I really thought you'd slip up around J or S."

"Justice League or Superman?" Dad guessed, raising an eyebrow.

"Both. Plus Slaughterhouse Nine at S."

"Ah, but I was prepared for your simple trap," Dad said, tapping his temple. "I kept my mind firmly in the civilian realm."

"Just evening the playing field," I replied with a grin. "Last time, you somehow connected 'xylophone' to Alexandria's helmet design."

"It was a perfectly reasonable connection!" Dad protested, sitting up straighter in his excitement. "The resonance pattern of the"

That's when we heard it. A whining noise that started low and quickly rose in pitch, like you might hear from a particularly large baby preparing to scream. The nasal 'wa' sound stretched out, so loud it was painful to listen to. It wavered, then stabilized into a continuous wail that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

Dad froze mid-sentence, his face draining of what little color it had to it. Our eyes met across the small table, and I saw my own dawning horror reflected in his gaze.

"Is that..." I began, unable to complete the thought.

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. "The Endbringer siren."

I stood abruptly, knocking my chair back with a clatter that was lost beneath the relentless howl of the alarm. My legs carried me to the window automatically, as if seeing the city might somehow prove this wasn't happening, that it was just a drill, a mistake, anything but the awful reality we both recognized.

Brockton Bay stretched before me, deceptively normal for a heartbeat, and then I saw it, the distant movement of people flowing from buildings like ants from a disturbed hill, the sudden appearance of PRT vehicles on the main streets, their lights flashing silently from this distance.

"Maybe it's just a test?" I said, the words hollow even as they left my mouth. But we both knew it wasn't. The siren had a particular cadence, a specific pattern that every resident of Brockton Bay had been taught all their life to recognize. This wasn't a drill. This was real.

"Dennis," Dad's voice was steady despite the fear I could see in his eyes. "We need to follow the evacuation protocol. Help me up."

I turned from the window, but before I could reach him, the television mounted in the corner of the solarium flickered to life without prompting, the emergency broadcast system override kicking in. A monotone voice spoke over a blue screen displaying the up-to-date evacuation routes.

"This is not a drill. Endbringer approaching Brockton Bay. Thinker reports indicate Leviathan will make landfall within the hour. All civilians should proceed to the nearest designated shelter immediately. Hospital patients will be evacuated according to emergency protocols. Do not attempt to leave the city. Repeat: This is not a drill."

The words fell like stones into the suddenly small space between us. Leviathan. The hydrokinetic. The one who'd sunk Kyushu and killed millions.

Our afternoon of laughter and games evaporated in an instant, replaced by the cold reality of what was quickly coming. I looked at my father, fragile, ill, tied to tubes and medications, and felt a primal fear grip my heart like a vise.

"Dad," I whispered, the single syllable containing everything I couldn't articulate.

He reached for my hand, and I crossed the room in two quick strides to take it. His grip was surprisingly strong, anchoring me as the world seemed to tilt beneath my feet.

"It's okay," he said, though his voice shook slightly. "The hospital has protocols for this. We'll be fine."

I was already gathering our things, shoving my sketchbook into my bag, collecting the half-eaten cookies into the box. My hands moved automatically while my mind raced. Leviathan. The hydrokinetic. The one who'd sunk Kyushu and killed millions.

The door to the solarium burst open as a pair of doctors rushed in, followed by nurses pushing an empty wheelchair.

"Mr. Danger," one of the doctors said, her voice calm but urgent, "we need to get you to the shelter. The hospital's evacuation protocol is already in effect."

Dad nodded, already trying to push himself to his feet. I moved to help him, alarmed at how much he was trembling now.

"Dennis, you should go ahead," Dad said as they helped him into the wheelchair. "Find your mother,"

"I'm not leaving you," I cut him off, gripping the handles of the wheelchair as a nurse tried to take over. "Mom's at work. They'll have their own shelter protocols."

The doctor nodded briskly. "Family can accompany patients. Let's move."

We pushed out into the hallway, which had transformed into organized chaos. Medical staff rushed from room to room, evacuating patients, checking the charts, calling out status updates. Some patients could walk with assistance; others were being transferred to gurneys or wheelchairs. The more critical cases were being prepped for the service elevators, special protocols in place.

"His dad's floor is priority two," I overheard a nurse saying. "Oncology patients need secondary monitoring during the transit."

Dad's hand found mine, squeezing tightly. "It's going to be okay," he repeated, though I wasn't sure which of us he was trying to convince.

The hallway transformed into a crush of bodies, the clinical atmosphere of the hospital giving way to primal fear. What had been an orderly medical ward minutes ago was now a scene of controlled chaos, rapidly descending into something worse. The Endbringer siren's wail penetrated everything, its unrelenting rhythm drilling into everyone's skulls, impossible to just ignore.

"Service elevator B for critical care. Visitors use stairwell C. All ambulatory patients proceed to stairwell A with assistance." The automated voice remained calm, almost detached, creating an unsettling contrast with the panic it was meant to manage.

I clutched Dad's wheelchair handles tighter, knuckles white with tension. Ahead of us, the corridor narrowed as it approached the elevator bank, creating a bottleneck. People pushed from all sides, nurses rushing with medical equipment, doctors barking orders, visitors caught between helping and hindering. A man in hospital scrubs shouted instructions that were swallowed by the din of movement.

"Please remain calm! Follow evacuation protocols!" A security guard's voice cracked with strain as he tried to direct traffic, his face slick with sweat, betraying his own fear.

A woman with bandaged arms stumbled against the wall, yanking her IV pole behind her. The tube connected to her arm pulled taut, and she cried out, drawing looks but no help. Three beds away from us, an elderly patient was being transferred to a gurney, his thin limbs trembling as orderlies worked with frantic efficiency.

"I can't find my daughter!" A woman shrieked, spinning around in circles, her eyes wild. "She was just in the bathroom! EMILY!"

The nurse pushing Dad's wheelchair tried to navigate through a knot of people blocking our path. "Priority patient! We need passage!" Her professional composure was cracking, words sharp with urgency.

A crash echoed from somewhere down the hallway, a medical cart overturned, supplies scattering across the floor. No one stopped to help them. The crowd surged forward, people stepping over and around the debris, focused only on escape.

"Leviathan estimated arrival: fifteen minutes. All personnel enact final evacuation measures."

The announcement sent a visible ripple through the crowd. A young doctor dropped her clipboard, papers fluttering to the ground unnoticed. Somewhere, glass shattered. The push became more desperate, less coordinated.

"They're saying it's headed straight for the bay," a man in a visitor's badge hissed to his companion. "My brother works at the docks. He says the water's already rising up."

"I heard it's bringing a tsunami," someone else added, voice high with tension.

Facts and rumors mingled, amplifying the fear. Through windows at the end of the corridor, I glimpsed dark clouds gathering with unnatural speed, confirming our worst fears.

"Dad, are you okay?" I asked, leaning down. His face had gone gray, sweat beading on his forehead despite the air conditioning blasting overhead.

Before he could answer, a gurney crashed into us from behind, jolting the wheelchair forward. Dad gasped in pain.

"Watch it!" I snapped, surprising myself with the fury in my voice.

"Sorry, kid. Everyone's trying to get out," the orderly muttered, already pushing past.

The crowd compressed tighter as we neared the elevators. People jostled and shoved, the veneer of civilization wearing thinner by the second. A woman clutching a small oxygen tank used it like a battering ram, clearing more space for herself.

"The stairs are faster!" someone shouted. "Elevators are death traps if power goes!"

This sent another wave of panic through the crowd. A section broke away, surging toward the stairwell, creating a dangerous crush at the doorway. Shouts of pain and alarm rose above the general clamor.

"Stay with the evacuation plan!" A nurse tried to regain control, her voice lost in the chaos that had taken hold.

Through the windows, the sky had darkened to an unnatural twilight. Rain began to lash against the glass, fat drops hitting with such force they sounded like pebbles. The storm was coming faster than predicted, confirmation that something unnatural, something monstrous, was controlling it.

"Leviathan estimated arrival: ten minutes. This is not a drill. All civilians proceed to designated shelters immediately."

The new announcement sent another shock wave of panic through the corridor. The push toward the elevators became frantic, bodies pressing against us from all sides. I felt Dad's wheelchair begin to slip from my grasp as the crowd threatened to separate us.

I felt Dad's hand tighten on mine with unexpected strength. Looking down, I saw his face had transformed, no longer the calm, joking father from moments ago. His features were contorted, eyebrows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line. Sweat beaded across his forehead and upper lip despite the air conditioning, glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights above.

"Dad? What's wrong?" My voice came out higher than intended, a childish sound that betrayed my rising panic.

He forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. "Just... a little pain. It's fine." The words came between shallow breaths, each one seeming to cost him. His knuckles had gone white where he gripped the wheelchair's armrest, the veins on the back of his hand standing out like blue rivers against his pale skin. I noticed the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his chest rose and fell way too rapidly.

This wasn't normal pain. This was something worse.

The nurse behind us tried to maneuver the wheelchair through the thickening crowd, her professional demeanor cracking under pressure. "Priority patient! Please make way!" Her voice, usually authoritative in the quiet of hospital rooms, was swallowed by the cacophony of fear around us, shouting, crying, the relentless Endbringer siren, announcements counting down to the incoming disaster.

No one moved. No one even looked our way.

I felt heat rise in my chest, a burning sensation that started in my stomach and spread outward. These people, these strangers, were blocking our path to safety. My father sat vulnerable in his wheelchair, cancer eating away at him from the inside, and now these people were adding to his suffering with their own selfishness, their panic.

"Let me," I said, moving decisively to the front of the wheelchair. I placed myself between Dad and the crowd, a skinny fifteen-year-old shield. "I'll clear a path."

The nurse looked relieved, relinquishing control as I took charge. I squared my shoulders and pushed forward, using my slight frame to slip into gaps between bodies, creating space. "Move, please! Oncology patient coming through!"

Some people responded, stepping aside with murmured apologies, momentarily jarred from their self-preservation. A woman pulled her children closer to make room. An orderly redirected a gurney to give us passage through.

But others remained oblivious or indifferent. A group of visitors huddled together, blocking a crucial corner. "Excuse me," I called, then louder, "EXCUSE ME!" Their heads turned, but no one moved out of the way.

I found myself using my elbows, my shoulders, pushing harder than I ever had before. This wasn't me, I'd always been the joker, the one who defused tension, not the kid who shoved adults aside. But something had shifted inside me, a fundamental reordering of priorities. Nothing mattered now except getting Dad to safety.

"Please!" I shouted, my voice cracking with emotion and strain. "My dad, he needs to get through!"

A mother with a toddler on her hip stepped aside. An elderly man pressed himself against the wall to make space. But for every person who helped, three others remained as obstacles.

A large man in a business suit shouldered past us, his bulk forcing the wheelchair to tilt dangerously. I reached out to stabilize it, but not before the jolt sent a spasm of pain across my Dad's face.

"Watch it!" I snapped, fury rising hot and unexpected.

The man barely glanced back, his face a mask of self-interest. "Everyone needs to get through, kid!" he snapped, already pushing ahead, creating distance between himself and the chaos behind.

I stumbled from the impact, catching myself on the handle of the wheelchair. The crowd had become a living entity, pressing in from all sides. Bodies, voices, smells, sweat and antiseptic and fear, all blending into an overwhelming assault. In my growing panic, they weren't people anymore, just obstacles, a mass of germs blocking my father's path to safety he deserved.

There was something horrifying about the transformation, watching civilized behavior crumble under the weight of an approaching Endbringer. These were normal people, parents, grandparents, healthcare workers, turned into something primitive by fear.

A gasping sound behind me cut through my thoughts. I spun around to see Dad hunched forward in the wheelchair, one hand clutching at his chest. His face had gone from pale to ashen gray, a corpse-like color that sent ice through my veins in a flash. His eyes were wide with unmistakable fear, pupils dilated, gaze fixed on nothing. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, struggling for air that just wouldn't come.

"Dad?" I whispered, then louder, "DAD! Help! Hey!" My voice cracked, rising to a desperate pitch that was swallowed by the surrounding chaos. I spun around wildly, searching for anyone in scrubs, anyone who could help. "We need a doctor here! PLEASE!"

But the nurses who had been with us moments ago had all vanished, separated by the surging crowd like leaves scattered in a storm. They were visible in flashes, the dark blue uniform there, the clipboard held high over there, but unreachable, dealing with their own emergencies in this cascading crisis. The PA system crackled overhead, something about PRT arrival and emergency transport, but the words slid past my comprehension, meaningless sounds drowning in the roar of my quickly mounting fear.

Dad's body jerked violently in the wheelchair. His back arched, his head tipping back, eyes rolling upward to show the whites. His breath came in short, desperate gasps that sounded wet and wrong, a horrible rattling noise I'd never heard from him before. His fingers clutched spasmodically at his hospital gown, pulling the thin fabric taut over his chest.

I dropped to my knees beside him, the hard hospital floor sending a shock of pain through my legs that I barely registered. My hands hovered over him, trembling, uncertain. What was even  happening? Was it his heart? The cancer spreading? The medication failing? I frantically tried to remember the emergency procedures I'd watched in videos, the instructions the nurses had given Mom and me months ago when Dad first started his treatment.

Check his airway. Look for his medication. Call for help. But those protocols assumed the normal circumstances, not an evacuation, not an Endbringer coming, not being abandoned in a corridor with a dying man.

"Dad, stay with me! What do I do? Tell me what to do!" My voice sounded young and frightened in my own ears, a child calling for guidance that wouldn't come. My hands moved uselessly over his body, afraid to touch, afraid not to touch, not knowing what could help and what might hurt him further.

Dad's convulsions subsided slightly. His eyes, bloodshot and wide with naked fear, found mine. Something passed between us, recognition, love, and terrible understanding. His mouth worked silently, lips forming words his failing body couldn't voice. I leaned closer, desperate to hear, to understand, to capture anything he might be trying to tell me.

I grabbed his hand, cold, so cold despite the sweat just coating it, and pressed it against my chest, as if he could absorb my heartbeat, my warmth, my life. "Please, Dad, please stay with me. I can't, I can't lose you, not like this, not here," I begged, tears blurring my vision, hot tracks down my face I didn't remember starting.

The smell of him filled my senses, the antiseptic hospital scent overlaid with something else now, something sharp and wrong that I instinctively recognized as the smell of a body in distress. His fingernails had taken on a bluish tinge I'd never noticed before, his lips now the same unnatural color.

Around us, the evacuation continued unabated. People streamed past, jostling the wheelchair, bumping against me where I knelt. A shoe stepped on my outstretched foot, grinding down painfully before moving on without apology. Someone's bag swung into the back of my head. The crowd flowed around our small island of tragedy like water around a stone, oblivious or unwilling to acknowledge what was happening in front of them.

I felt something rising in me, something beyond fear or desperation, a white-hot rage that started in my gut and spread outward, filling every cell. All these people, this mass of humanity pressing in, carrying their germs, their panic, their selfishness, they were killing my father. Their bodies were vectors of disease, their movement stealing the space and air he needed, their selfishness robbing him of his very last chance.

"MOVE!" I screamed, the word tearing from my throat with such force it felt like something physical. "GET AWAY FROM HIM!" But no one could hear me over the alarms, the announcements, the collective fear that drowned individual tragedies. My voice was nothing against the roar of an evacuation, the approaching doom of an Endbringer.

Dad's hand in mine spasmed, then went slack. His eyes remained open but seemed to lose focus, now looking past me, through me.

"No, no, no," I chanted, moving closer, taking his face between my hands. His skin felt different somehow, not just cool but changing, as if the very texture was altering under my touch. I leaned forward, cradling his head, pressing our foreheads together in desperate intimacy. "Stay with me," I whispered against his skin, lips forming the words directly against his cooling flesh. "Please stay."

The surrounding chaos seemed to recede, tunneling away until there was only this, my father's face between my hands, our breaths mingling, his weakening and mine coming much too fast. I felt the cancer inside him, sensed it somehow, the wrongness of it, the alien cells multiplying and devouring, accelerating at this moment of crisis as if the disease itself could sense its opportunity to strike.

At that moment of desperate contact, as the world narrowed to just the two of us amid the storm of humanity, as I felt rather than saw, the life flickering in him like a candle in a gale, my world fractured. Reality split open.

I saw something vast.

It wasn't big in the way that buildings or mountains were big. It was big in a way that transcended what I could hope to comprehend. Like seeing something larger than the entire planet, except more, this thing that was already too large to understand, it extended. I didn't have a better word for what I was perceiving. It was as though there were mirror images of it, but each image existed in the same place, some moving differently, and sometimes, very rarely, one image came in contact with something that the others didn't. Each of the images was as real and concrete as the others were.

And it was alive. A living thing.

I knew without having to think about it that each of those echoes or extensions of the entity was part of a connected whole, like my hand or nose was to me. Each was something this living entity was aware of, controlled, and moved with both intent and purpose. As though it existed and extended into those possible selves all at once.

It's dying, I thought. The outermost extensions of the creature were flaking off and breaking into fragments as it swam through an emptiness without air, not moving but sinuously adjusting itself through the existences that held the echoes, shrinking here and swelling there, carrying itself away at a speed that outpaced light. In its wake, flakes and fragments sloughed off like seeds from an impossibly large dandelion in a steady wind. Seeds more numerous than all the specks of dirt across all the Earth itself.

One of those fragments seemed to grow, getting bigger, larger, looming in my consciousness until it was all I could perceive, as though the moon was falling, colliding with the earth. Falling directly on top of me.

And then I was back, gasping for air, my hands still holding Dad's face. But something was different now. The world around me seemed to have a new dimension, an awareness I couldn't explain. I could feel a strange pressure building inside me, starting somewhere deep in my chest and expanding outward.

It felt like a bubble, swelling beneath my ribs, pulsing with each frantic heartbeat. The sensation wasn't painful, but it was insistent, demanding attention as it grew and shifted inside me. I could feel it wriggling upward, climbing through my throat, pressing against the back of my teeth like a word I needed to speak.

Dad's eyes were still unfocused, his breathing shallow and labored. The cancer inside him, I could somehow sense it now, a malignant wrongness spreading through his tissues. The crowd continued to surge around us, but their presence seemed muted somehow, as if I were watching them through a pane of frosted glass.

The bubble expanded, filling every part of me until I felt like my skin couldn't possibly contain it. My vision blurred, then sharpened with unnatural clarity. At that moment of perfect lucidity, a single word formed in my mind, rising unbidden to my lips.

" Room ," I whispered.

The word left my mouth and something burst from my body. A soft blue hue emanated outward like a shockwave, spreading in a perfect dome around me and Dad. It pushed past the people nearest to us, extended down the corridor, and stopped about thirty feet away, creating a hemisphere of azure light that seemed to hover in the air itself.

Inside this space, this Room , everything changed.

The constant wail of the Endbringer siren became muffled, as if heard through water. The frantic movement of the crowd slowed, not physically but in my perception. And most strangely of all, I could feel things I shouldn't be able to feel.

I could sense the harmful microorganisms floating in the air, the bacteria clinging to surfaces, the viruses searching for hosts. I could feel the cancer cells in Dad's body, multiplying and spreading with terrible purpose. I could distinguish between healthy tissue and diseased, between what belonged and what didn't.

More than that, I somehow knew I could manipulate these things. Move them. Control them. Even transform them.

Dad's eyes suddenly focused, locking onto mine with a startled recognition. His hand tightened on mine with surprising strength.

"Dennis?" he whispered, his voice clearer than it had been moments before. "What's happening? What is this?"

I looked at my hands, seeing them as if for the first time. They seemed to shimmer with potential in the blue light of the Room. I placed them carefully on Dad's chest, directly over where I could sense the densest concentration of the cancer cells.

"I don't know exactly," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "But I think I can help you."

The building continued to shake around us. The Endbringer was coming closer. Wasn’t it? People still pushed and shoved beyond the blue boundary of my Room. The world was ending outside of it.

But in here, in this impossible blue space that had erupted from something inside me, I had a chance. A chance to save the one person who mattered most to me.

For the first time in months, I felt something stronger than fear.

Hope.

Chapter Text

The blue Room pulsed around me, almost as if it were breathing. Its edges shimmered and flexed with each beat of my heart, expanding outward in a perfect dome about thirty feet in every direction. The translucent azure light cast everything in an eerie glow, like being underwater. Inside this space, the chaos of the evacuation felt distant, sounds muffled as if cotton had been stuffed in my ears, the screams, the Endbringer siren, the frantic announcements all reduced to a background hum, like a TV playing in another room while you try to get to sleep.

My hands were still on Dad's chest, and I could feel... everything. Not just the warmth of his skin or the flutter of his weakened heartbeat, but something much deeper, much stranger.

Not in a visual way, though. That was the oddest part. I couldn't see the cancer cells multiplying in his organs or the bacteria floating in the surrounding air. My eyes showed me the same world as before, Dad in his wheelchair, the hospital corridor, people running past. But layered on top of that ordinary vision was something entirely new, something impossible to describe in terms of any normal human senses.

It was as if my consciousness had expanded to fill the entire Room, giving me a map in my mind of every harmful biological entity within the dome. I could pinpoint the exact location of the cancer metastasizing in Dad's liver, lungs, and lymph nodes without needing the medical scans. I could feel the density of each cluster, sense how aggressively they were growing, and know precisely how long they had been there.

Beyond Dad, I could detect the bacteria coating every surface, the millions of microscopic life forms on the floor tiles, the doorknobs, the abandoned medical equipment. I could distinguish between relatively harmless skin flora and more dangerous pathogens around. The woman who had just run past the edge of my Room had strep throat. The security guard approaching from the left had a minor staph infection on his arm. The orderly pushing an empty gurney carried C. diff bacteria from a patient he'd treated earlier.

Throughout the air itself, I sensed suspended droplets carrying influenza virus, rhinovirus, countless other strains of bacteria. Each floated in a specific pattern affected by air currents I couldn't see but somehow understood. I knew which direction each particle was moving, how fast, how many organisms it contained. People's exhalations became visible to me as clouds of biological particles, each breath a constellation of potential awful disease.

And stranger still, I could feel the connections between all these things, how the bacteria on a doorknob had transferred to a nurse's hand, then to a chart, then to another patient. I sensed infection vectors, contamination patterns, the invisible biological web connecting everything within my Room.

It should have been totally overwhelming, like trying to process millions of data points simultaneously. And for a split second, it was, my brain screaming under the assault of too much information, too alien to comprehend. But then something shifted, as if some dormant part of my mind suddenly woke up. The flood of sensory data organized itself into patterns I could understand, categories I could process. It was like my brain had suddenly grown a new lobe dedicated solely to processing this information, translating it into something my conscious mind could actually use.

What should have driven me insane instead felt... natural. Not easy, exactly, but comprehensible. Like learning a new language and suddenly being able to understand conversations that had previously been all but meaningless noise.

"Dennis?" Dad's voice was weak, but steadier than it was before. His eyes, still hazy with pain, fixed on mine with a mixture of fear and wonder. "What's happening?"

"I'm going to help you," I said, surprised by the calm in my voice. "Just stay still."

I pressed my palm more firmly against his chest, right above his heart, where I could sense the densest cluster of cancer. And then, guided by an instinct I didn't understand but somehow trusted completely, I pushed forward.

My hand slid through his skin like it was water. Not because my hand had changed, but because somehow the Room was letting me damage flesh easier. Far easier than should be possible. There was no blood, no tearing of any tissue. It was as if his body had decided to make an exception just for me.

Dad gasped, his eyes widening in shock, but I felt no resistance. I should have been horrified, watching my own hand disappear into my father's chest, but all I felt was a strange detachment, as if I were observing someone else's actions through a pane of foggy glass.

It was like someone had dropped an intricate, multidimensional control board directly into my consciousness. Not a physical thing I could really see, but a complex interface my mind could suddenly access and manipulate. Different sections glowed with potential in my awareness, one area seemed connected to the manipulation of bacteria and viruses, pulsing with a soft blue light that matched my Room. Next to it, a darker section flickered with untapped potential, revealing hints of what might be gravitational control, though I couldn't access it fully. Another segment whispered of transformation, of flesh and bone reshaping, while a fourth seemed connected to the Room itself, controlling its size and properties.

The controls weren't labeled or explained. There was no instruction manual. Yet I instinctively knew what each section did, not perfectly, but enough to fumble through using them. It reminded me of playing a complex video game for the first time, knowing that pressing certain buttons would do something , but not quite mastering the major combinations or timing yet.

The longer I used this ability, the more the controls revealed themselves. Functions that had been hidden became apparent. Things that had been fuzzy gained new clarity. I could feel myself getting better at it with each passing second, like watching a download progress bar filling, knowledge and control gradually becoming more complete.

I focused on the section that controlled biological manipulation. With barely a conscious thought, I accessed that part of the control panel and activated it, quickly it came humming to life. I could feel the billions of bacteria coating my hand, staphylococcus, streptococcus, countless microscopic passengers that lived on my skin. I sensed their DNA, their cellular structure, their reproductive cycles. And now, somehow, I could change them.

I didn't just transform them, I directed their transformation with a precision that should have been just impossible. I converted them into specialized cells that formed temporary blood vessels, creating a network that ensured Dad wouldn't start bleeding where my hand had entered his body. I could feel the new vessels connecting with his existing circulatory system, forming perfect junctions that prevented leakage. Some bacteria I also transformed into temporary nerve blockers that prevented pain signals from firing where my hand penetrated his chest. Others became a flexible, semipermeable membrane that allowed my hand to move while maintaining a good seal against infection.

The transformed bacteria retained a ghostly impression of what they had been, like a watermark on paper. I could sense that I could change them back if needed, or transform them further into something else. Each transformation drained a little of my energy, like flexing a muscle I'd never used before.

Meanwhile, I became more aware of the Room itself. It wasn't just a static dome, it was a dynamic space that responded to my thoughts. The blue luminescence pulsed with my heartbeat, brightening slightly when I focused my power and dimming when my attention wandered. The edges weren't perfectly smooth but rippled like the surface of water, maintaining the sphere-like shape while subtly shifting in response to the surrounding space around me.

Most fascinating of all, I realized the Room wasn't just a visual phenomenon or a space where I could use my powers. It was almost like an extension of myself, a projection of my consciousness into the physical world. I could feel its boundaries as clearly as I could feel my own skin, sense intrusions upon it as if someone were touching my arm. When people pressed against the edge from the outside, I felt a phantom pressure of it against my mind.

For a brief moment, I wondered why I couldn't just do that to the cancer cells from a distance. Why did I need to touch them to transform them? The answer came immediately to me, a piece of knowledge that seemed to have been downloaded directly into my brain: I could control any harmful biological material within my Room, but I could only transform it into something else by direct contact.

I became vaguely aware of movement at the edge of my Room. People were approaching, either drawn by the strange blue light or simply continuing their desperate push toward evacuation. I couldn't risk being jostled while my hand was literally inside my father's chest cavity.

Without removing my hand, I reached out with my awareness, gathering up the bacteria floating through the air. They responded to my will instantly, streaming toward a central point like iron filings drawn to a magnet. Billions of microscopic organisms, staphylococcus, streptococcus, pseudomonas, E. coli, and countless others, swirled together in a nauseating ballet.

The mass began as a fine mist, almost invisible except where it caught the light. Then it thickened, congealing into something with the consistency of mucus, a revolting greenish-black sludge that glistened wetly under the flickering hospital lights. As it concentrated further, I could distinguish layers within it, darker patches of more dangerous pathogens swirled through lighter streaks of relatively benign microbes, creating a marbled effect. Here and there, tiny bubbles formed and burst on its surface as the bacteria consumed oxygen and released their waste gases.

The sludge pulsed with a life of its own, undulating with the combined metabolic processes of billions of organisms. It changed color slightly as it moved, shifting from deep forest green to an almost oily black where it was thickest, with sickly yellow-brown tendrils at its edges. The smell of it reached me even from several feet away, a sharp, acrid scent reminiscent of spoiled meat and ammonia that would have made me gag under most normal circumstances.

I condensed it further, forcing the mass to take shape. It flattened and widened into a disk-like barrier about three feet across, hovering about four feet off the ground. The surface wasn't smooth but constantly shifting, like the skin of a pot of boiling stew. Tiny tentacle-like protrusions formed and retracted along its edges, reaching outward as if tasting the air before withdrawing back into the mass.

While most of it was opaque, certain areas remained translucent, revealing internal structures, colonies of different bacterial species forming temporary alliances and territories within the larger whole. The disk rotated slowly, and as it turned, it caught the light in a way that revealed iridescent shimmers, rainbow oil-slick patterns dancing across its foul surface.

It hovered between us and the approaching figures, moving according to my will. I couldn't see clearly who they were, my focus was too completely on my father and the cancer cells I was trying to reach, but through my Room, I could sense their body heat, their motion, the harmful bacteria in their breath and on their skin. That was enough information to keep them all at bay.

"Stay back," I called out, not turning my head. "Please, I need space."

The sludge disk pushed outward, creating a wider perimeter around us. I heard shouts of confusion and alarm, but they seemed unimportant compared to the task before me.

Inside Dad's chest, my fingers found the largest mass of cancer cells. I could feel them now, not as a visual image but as a wrongness, a corruption in the natural order of his body. They hummed with malignant energy, multiplying and spreading with terrible purpose. But now they were mine to command.

I touched the main tumor directly, feeling its alien nature against my fingertips. The cancer didn't belong here, didn't belong in him. And now I could now make it go away.

"This is going to work, Dad," I said, meeting his confused, frightened eyes. "I promise."

A sharp bang against my makeshift defense made me flinch. I turned my head to see a security guard trying to approach. Rather than the solid wall I'd initially imagined, what I'd actually created was far more limited, a sparse network of bacterial clumps floating in the air. The hospital's strict sterilization protocols meant there simply wasn't enough harmful biological material to form a continuous barrier here.

I frantically gathered what little bacteria I could find, pulling it from air vents, from surfaces less frequently cleaned, from the skin and breath of people within my Room. It wasn't much, hospitals are designed to minimize exactly what I needed, but I made it work. I formed what I had into floating, softball-sized globules of greenish-black sludge, each one a concentrated mass of microorganisms packed tightly together.

Using my newfound control, I sent these globules flying toward the approaching security guard. They didn't hit him, I didn't want to hurt anyone, but hovered menacingly between us, forming a loose perimeter. When he tried to step past them, I directed two globules to dart forward, forcing him to back off.

"Power! He's using a power!" someone shouted from beyond my improvised defense. "Get the PRT!"

I turned back to Dad, refocusing on the cancer. As my fingers closed around the main tumor, I felt a rush of something like electricity flow through me. The cells began to change under my touch, their fundamental structure shifting as I willed them to transform into healthy tissue. But it wasn't as simple as I'd hoped, I had to work cell by cell, and there were millions of them there.

"What's happening to me?" Dad whispered, his voice oddly steady despite the arm halfway inside his chest. "Dennis, I can feel... something moving."

"It's okay," I assured him, even as I sensed smaller clusters of cancer cells breaking away from the main mass, slipping through my fingers like minnows in a stream. "I'm fixing it. I'm fixing you."

A crash to my left caught my attention. Another hospital worker was trying to flank us, pushing a cart to create an opening. I stretched my awareness, pulling bacteria from the unsterilized wheels of the cart itself to form thin, whip-like tendrils. The bacterial tentacles then lashed out, wrapping around the cart's legs and pulling it backward, startling the worker.

The effort of directing these precise movements while simultaneously working inside Dad's body strained at my concentration. I felt a cluster of cancer cells escape my fingers in his lungs as my attention divided.

"Damn it," I muttered, stretching my fingers to chase the escaping cells. I could feel them racing through Dad's bloodstream, trying to find new places to anchor and grow.

"Stop what you're doing right now!" A uniformed PRT officer had arrived, megaphone in hand. "This is a mandatory evacuation! Release your hostage immediately!"

"He's not a hostage, he's my father!" I shouted over my shoulder, not taking my eyes off Dad, keeping most of my focus on him and my task. "I'm helping him!"

Two more security personnel approached from different angles. I was running out of bacterial material to work with. Desperate, I gathered microscopic particles from the floor, from unwashed hands, from the inside of an abandoned coffee cup. I formed these into needle-thin projectiles that darted through the air like tiny arrows, targeting the gaps between floor tiles or embedding themselves into walls, creating a strange, shifting web of obstacles that slowed approach without causing anyone harm.

"Son, you need to come with us," a doctor called out, ducking as one of my bacterial arrows shot past her head. "Whatever you're doing, this isn't the place!"

I ignored her, focusing on a particularly elusive cancer cluster that had reached Dad's liver. I stretched my arm deeper, fingers splayed wide, trying to catch the diseased cells before they could embed themselves. As I touched them, I transformed them into vitamin D, Dad was always low on that.

A sudden movement to my right, an orderly had found a gap in my defenses and was making a run toward us. I quickly pulled bacteria from the air conditioning vent overhead, forming it into a slick puddle directly in his path. He hit it at full speed, feet sliding out from under him. He went down hard, sliding across the floor away from us.

"Sorry!" I called out, wincing as he crashed into a trash can nearby. "Please just stay back!"

My thoughts fractured as I tried to maintain control of my creations. The bacterial tendril guarding our left flank thinned dangerously, its structure wavering as my attention drifted. I yanked my focus back, reinforcing it with microbes harvested from another abandoned coffee cup nearby. 

The corridor's antiseptic gleam mocked me, hospitals were made of even materials chosen to eliminate and reduce exactly what I needed most. I scraped metaphorical fingers across surfaces desperate for anything useful, gathering stray E. coli from an unwashed hand, collecting dormant fungal spores from a neglected corner.

The slick puddle I'd formed beneath the orderly's feet began to evaporate, individual microbes dying without my constant attention on their condition. I pulled more bacteria from an air vent overhead, sacrificing the floating orbs I'd stationed by the elevator to fortify it. 

Each creation cannibalized another, the whip-like defense I'd fashioned from floor bacteria withered as I redirected its components to strengthen the barrier nearest Dad. My resources stretched thinner with each passing second, the sterile environment starving my newfound abilities of the necessary ammunition.

Meanwhile, a small group of cancer cells had escaped my grasp, racing toward Dad's spine. The dual challenge of manipulation inside and outside his body was like trying to play two different video games simultaneously.

"No!" My arm plunged deeper, Dad's flesh parting unnaturally around my elbow. Behind me, one of my bacterial disks wobbled dangerously, allowing a flash of movement as someone in PRT uniform tried slipping beneath it.

My head whipped around, concentration splitting. The disk stabilized, forcing the officer back, but I felt the spine-bound cancer cluster surge forward, exploiting my distraction. Dad's breath hitched as my fingers grasped clumsily inside him, chasing the disease, the rot.

"Eyes front, eyes back," I hissed through clenched teeth, my neck muscles knotting as I constantly pivoted between threats. A bacterial tendril disintegrated at the edge of my Room, the microscopic soldiers depleted. Three more security personnel immediately pressed forward through the gap it left.

My temples throbbed with the effort of tracking everything at once. I was a novice pianist trying to play two different compositions simultaneously, hitting wrong notes everywhere, the melody of healing and the counterpoint of defense clashing in pathetic disharmony.

A flickering movement caught the corner of my eye, someone in body armor sliding under my weakening bacterial defenses. I quickly gathered what few microorganisms remained on nearby surfaces, forming them into a thin but dense tentacle that whipped out to wrap around the person's ankle, tugging them back into the corridor. The effort drained me, and I lost track of another cancer cluster I'd been pursuing into Dad's right shoulder because of it.

"Stand down! Final warning!" The PRT officer's voice boomed through the megaphone.

I growled in frustration, feeling like I was playing an impossible game of three-dimensional chess while juggling flaming torches. My bacterial defenses were becoming more sparse by the second, as the hospital's relative sterility limited what I had to work with. For every microsoldier I deployed outward, I had one fewer to help combat the cancer spreading within Dad's body.

"Son, you need to come with us," a doctor called out, ducking as one of my disks swooped too close to her head. "Whatever you're doing, this isn't the place!"

I ignored her, focusing on a particularly elusive cancer cluster that had reached Dad's kidneys. I stretched my arm deeper, fingers splayed wide, trying to catch the diseased cells before they could embed themselves. As I touched them, I transformed them into some more vitamin D, although I was somewhat worried I’d give him too much, can people have too much vitamin D? I don’t know, but I can’t focus on that.

I growled in frustration, feeling like I was playing an impossible game of three-dimensional chess while juggling flaming torches. Every second I spent defending us was a second cancer cells used to scatter further throughout Dad's body.

"I can't stop now," I told Dad, sweat beading on my forehead from the mental strain of this all. "If I stop, it'll just spread again. I need to get all of it."

One of my barrier disks wobbled as my concentration wavered. A security guard saw the opportunity and lunged forward, almost reaching us before I frantically reinforced the disk, sending it spinning toward him like a gross, bacterial frisbee. He retreated with a yelp.

Inside Dad's body, I chased a particularly stubborn cancer cluster through his pancreas, transforming cells as I caught them, turning the harmful into the helpful, cancer into insulin-producing cells, cancer into digestive enzymes. But it was like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands. For every cluster I caught, two more slipped away from me.

"Dad, I'm sorry, this is taking longer than I thought," I gasped, the strain of dividing my attention making my temples throb. "There's too many, they're everywhere."

"It's okay, Dennis," Dad said, his voice stronger than it had been in months. "Take your time."

That almost made me laugh, take my time, while an Endbringer approached and what looked like half the hospital security force tried to break through my barriers. But Dad's calm was contagious. I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and refocused.

A new cluster of cancer cells had gathered up in Dad's lymph nodes. I reached for them, even as I sent one of my barrier disks spinning in a wide arc to force back three people trying to approach from different angles. The constant division of my attention was exhausting, but I could feel myself getting better at it, like developing a new muscle or learning to ride a bike.

The blue light of my Room pulsed faster now, its edges flickering and contracting with each rapid beat of my heart. Sweat ran in rivulets down my temples, soaking the collar of my shirt. My fingertips trembled inside Dad's chest as cancer cells scattered away from my touch, always just a little beyond my grasp.

"Damn it!" My voice cracked, the words barely audible over the surrounding chaos.

My bacterial barriers wobbled dangerously as my concentration fractured between defending us and chasing the stubborn disease through Dad's body. A PRT officer nearly broke through on the left, forcing me to redirect a precious stream of microbes away from Dad's liver to block the intrusion he threatened.

The muscles in my jaw clenched so tight that pain shot through my temples. My lungs burned, breaths coming in short, inadequate gasps. I couldn't win this fight on two fronts. Couldn't catch every cancer cell. Couldn't hold back these people forever.

My fingers brushed against another small tumor inside Dad's chest, but as soon as I touched it, three more clusters scattered deeper into his tissues, racing away from me and my touch.

"No, no, no," I whispered, my voice breaking. The words tasted like copper on my tongue.

A security guard's baton crashed through one of my bacterial disks, sending the microorganisms spattering against the wall. The sight of my creation destroyed sent a jolt through my system, as if someone had struck me instead.

My vision tunneled, everything beyond Dad fading to insignificance. His face had gone pale, lips tinged with blue. Time was running out.

Then, like a lightning bolt, clarity struck.

My eyes widened. My breath caught. The solution was so simple, so obvious now.

"Why chase," I breathed, "when I can make them come to me?"

I withdrew my hand part of the way, leaving just my fingertips inside Dad's chest, directly above his heart. Closing my eyes, I reached out not with my hand but with something deeper, something that resonated beneath my skin and bones.

"Here," I whispered. The world around me disappeared. There was only Dad, the cancer, and the invisible thread connecting me to every malignant cell in his body. "Come to me. Now."

Nothing happened. Sweat dripped into my eyes, stinging. My fingers cramped, still extended inside Dad's chest. Around us, the shouts of PRT officers grew louder as they coordinated their approach.

Then, a flutter. A tremor. A response.

Dad's body convulsed. His spine arched against the wheelchair. His mouth opened in a silent scream.

Beneath my fingertips, something moved. Not just nearby cells, but everywhere, from his brain, his lungs, his liver, his bones. Cancer cells tore free from their anchors, abandoning the colonies they'd built throughout his body. They surged through blood vessels, through tissue, ripping through anything in their path to reach me.

Black veins spread across Dad's skin, radiating outward from his chest like cracks in glass. His eyes snapped open, unseeing and bloodshot.

"Dennis," The word bubbled from his lips, thick with fluid. His hand clutched mine, fingernails digging half-moons into my skin. Then his grip slackened. His eyes rolled back, showing whites laced with red. His head lolled against the wheelchair's headrest.

"Dad! DAD!" My free hand grabbed his shoulder, shaking him. His body flopped lifelessly, held upright only by the chair's straps.

But beneath my other hand, the cancer still moved. I could feel it, millions of cells, squirming, racing toward my fingertips like iron filings to a powerful magnet. They gathered in a dense, writhing mass that pulsed with malignant life.

As they touched my skin, I transformed them. Not one by one now, but in waves. The sickly, corrupted cells melted and reformed under my command, becoming vitamins, enzymes, antibodies, everything Dad's body had been desperately lacking.

The black veins faded from his skin. Color returned to his face, not the gray pallor of illness but something closer to health. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

I withdrew my hand completely, watching in fascination as his flesh sealed behind it, leaving no mark, no scar, no evidence I'd ever reached inside him. I pressed my fingers to his neck, feeling for a pulse.

Strong. Steady. More vital than it had been in months.

"I did it," I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "Dad, I did it."

Glass shattered behind me. A smoke canister rolled across the floor, spewing gray clouds that billowed up to meet the flashing blue light of my Room.

"PRT! Stand down and put your hands up!" The voice boomed through a megaphone, mechanical and inhuman.

My shoulders hunched. My hands curled into fists. The relief that had flooded me moments before evaporated, replaced by something hot and caustic that burned hot through my veins.

These people. These intruders. After everything I'd just done, after saving my father when they couldn't, they still wanted to take him away from me?

My teeth ground together so hard, I felt something crack. The blue light of my Room flared brighter, pulsing with the rhythm of my thundering heart. Every muscle in my body coiled tight, ready to spring.

I turned slowly to face them, seeing not people but threats. Invaders. Contaminants.

The bacterial constructs I'd created to hold them back now swirled around me in a vortex of microscopic life, responding to my fury. The disks, the tendrils, the barriers, all of it coalesced into a churning storm that cast weird, shifting shadows across the corridor.

"STAY BACK!" The words tore from my throat, primal and raw.

With a gesture that felt like extending a limb I'd always had but never used, I sent the bacterial storm outward. It crashed into the approaching security personnel like a physical force, a storm of baleful life.

A guard slammed against the wall, sliding down to the floor with a bacterial mass coating his visor. A nurse stumbled backward, a tendril of living sludge wrapping around her wrist and yanking her off-balance. She hit the ground hard, her supply cart overturning with a crash of metal and breaking glass.

"He's hostile! Foam him!" A PRT officer raised a canister weapon, the nozzle pointing directly at my face.

My hand shot out, directing a concentrated stream of bacteria into the weapon's barrel. The officer pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He pulled again. Still nothing. His eyes widened behind his visor as realization dawned on him.

The corner of my mouth twisted upward. A savage satisfaction washed through me at the look on his face. My fingers splayed wider, and more bacteria surged into the weapon until greenish-black slime oozed from every seam in the canister.

"That won't work anymore," I said, my voice eerily calm compared to the storm raging inside me.

Another officer tried to flank me, moving stealthily along the wall to get behind Dad's wheelchair. Without looking, I sensed her movement through my Room and sent a wall of bacteria to cut her off. When she tried to push through, I concentrated the mass, making it denser, stickier. The stench hit her like a physical blow. She recoiled, gagging, the bacterial slime clinging to her uniform in long, viscous strands.

Two security guards approached from opposite directions, thinking to divide my attention. I sent pencil-thin streams of bacteria at their feet, the microorganisms weaving themselves through their shoelaces like living thread. Both men went down hard, crashing into each other in a tangle of limbs and curses.

"Dennis, stop!" A balding man in a white coat stepped forward, hands raised placatingly to me. Dr. Keller, Dad's oncologist. "You're making things worse!"

"Worse?" The word came out as a bark of laughter, sharp and bitter. "I just cured his cancer! I did what none of you, with all your machines and drugs and degrees, could do!"

My hand swept through the air, and a bacterial disk crashed into the medicine cart beside Dr. Keller, sending bottles and syringes scattering across the floor.

"And now you want to stop me? Take him back to your useless treatments? Let him die slowly while you collect insurance payments?"

Dr. Keller's face registered shock, then hurt. "That's not true, Dennis. We're trying to help,"

"Then HELP by getting out of my way!" My voice cracked, raw emotion bleeding through now.

As I fought, strange sensations flickered at the edges of my awareness. New powers, different from my control over bacteria. One felt wild, animal-like, useless without a creature to connect with. Another screamed for straw, of all things. Neither would be able to help me here.

But the third... the third whispered of gravity, of weight and pressure and direction.

A PRT officer in full tactical gear rushed me from behind. I spun to face him, hand outstretched. As soon as my palm slapped against his chest plate, the power surged through me.

I pushed at the gravitational pull on his body, trying to increase it. The officer's movements slowed, his boots dragging as if suddenly filled with lead. But the effect built too gradually, he still crashed into me, sending us both sprawling to the floor.

My elbow cracked against the tiles. Pain shot up my arm. The bacterial defense I'd been maintaining around Dad wavered dangerously as my concentration broke.

I scrambled to my feet, mind racing. If I could make things heavier, could I also make them lighter? Or change gravity's direction entirely?

I pressed my palm against my shirt, feeling the fabric between my fingers. Instead of increasing gravity's pull, I tried to nullify it.

The change was subtle. My clothes tugged less against my skin, the weight of the fabric barely noticeable. Not enough. Not helpful.

What if I reversed it completely?

I concentrated harder, visualizing gravity pushing upward instead of pulling down. The effect hit like a physical blow. My whole body suddenly felt buoyant, untethered. When I pushed off the floor to dodge another officer's grasp, I shot upward much faster than I intended, nearly smashing into the ceiling before catching myself on a light fixture.

"What the," The words died in my throat as a foam canister sailed past, missing my face by inches.

I dropped back down, landing with impossible lightness. My body moved differently now, too light, too fast, making my movements jerky and unpredictable. I staggered, overcorrecting, nearly toppling over before finding a new balance, my new balance.

A security guard lunged for me. I sidestepped with unnatural speed, my feet barely touching the ground. The man crashed into the spot where I'd been standing a split second before, his momentum carrying him into the wall not far behind.

But Dad remained unconscious in his wheelchair, vulnerable. Exposed. I couldn't leave him there while these people, these threats, swarmed around us.

I snatched up a fallen baton from the floor and swung it experimentally. With my reversed gravity, the weapon felt feather-light in my hands, responding to the slightest movement. I twirled it once, testing its weight, then stepped between Dad and the approaching officers.

"You're not taking him," I growled, bacteria swirling around me like a living shield. "You're not taking either of us."

The blue light of my Room flickered, dimming momentarily as fatigue crept in at the edges of my consciousness. I couldn't maintain this forever. The Endbringer was still coming. The evacuation needed to happen.

But not yet. Not until Dad was safe. Not until I was sure no one would undo what I'd accomplished.

A PRT officer stepped forward, foam canister raised. "Last chance, kid. Stand down."

My fingers tightened around the baton. Bacteria gathered at my feet, ready to surge forward at my command. The air in my Room grew thick with a mix of tension and microorganisms.

"No," I said simply. "Your last chance. Back away from my father."

The blue light of my Room pulsed with each heartbeat, sending waves of azure illumination across the hospital corridor. I stood between Dad's wheelchair and the PRT officers, muscles coiled and ready. Bacteria swirled around my fingers like living gauntlets.

"Back away!" The words tore from my throat. "He's my father!"

The lead officer adjusted his grip on the foam canister. Behind his visor, his eyes narrowed. "Kid, stand down. Whatever you think you're doing,"

"I FIXED HIM!" I screamed, spittle flying. "I did what none of you could do!"

Dad remained unconscious in the wheelchair, chest rising and falling steadily. Color had returned to his face, replacing the sickly gray pallor of recent months. He looked peaceful, oblivious to the standoff unfolding all around him.

The edge of my Room pulsed outward another foot, the dome expanding without conscious effort. I felt it grow, like stretching a muscle I didn't know I had. With each inch it extended, my awareness of the bacteria within sharpened. I sensed microorganisms on ceiling tiles, in air vents, coating abandoned medical equipment, an invisible army all awaiting command.

"I'm taking him home," I declared, grabbing the wheelchair handles. "Move."

The officer raised his canister. "Last warning. Stand down or,"

I swept my arm forward, gathering bacteria from every surface within reach. The microorganisms congealed into viscous, greenish-black sludge that splattered across visors and tactical gear, clogging equipment and obscuring vision.

Shouts erupted as officers staggered back, pawing at the mass clinging to their faceplates. One fired his foam canister blindly, the containment substance splattering against the ceiling and walls.

"Hazardous material! Don't let it touch skin!" someone yelled, voice tight with panic.

I seized the opportunity, pushing Dad's wheelchair forward, aiming for the gap in their perimeter. The wheels squeaked against the linoleum, lost beneath the chaos of shouting and clattering equipment.

Another officer lunged from my right, foam canister extended. Bacteria streamed from my fingertips, forming a whip-like tendril that lashed across his faceplate. The force snapped his head back, sending him staggering into a medicine cart with a crash of metal and a breaking of glass.

"Stay away!" My voice cracked with emotion. "Just let us leave!"

My Room continued expanding, now reaching nearly forty feet in diameter. With each foot it grew, I gained access to more bacteria, more raw material to weaponize. I gathered it all, microorganisms swirling around us like a living cyclone.

"Subject is hostile! Repeat, subject is hostile!" An officer shouted into his radio, backing away as a bacterial construct slithered toward his boots. "Requesting backup, east wing, eighth floor!"

The word "hostile" cut through me like a knife. Was that what I was now? An hour ago, I'd been just Dennis, a kid visiting his sick father. Now I was a "subject." A threat.

My bacterial defenses surged outward, more aggressive, more coordinated. A tendril wrapped around an officer's ankle, yanking his foot out from under him. Another formed a barrier in front of a foam canister, absorbing the containment substance far before it could hope to reach us.

"I'm not the threat!" I shouted, maneuvering Dad's wheelchair around an overturned equipment cart. "You're attacking us!"

The corridor ahead was partially blocked by expanding foam from earlier misfires. I gathered bacteria from nearby walls, forming them into a crude shovel-like shape that cleared a path. Dad's head lolled against the headrest as we bumped over the uneven floor, but his breathing remained steady.

"Dennis Danger!" A woman in a PRT uniform without a helmet stepped forward, hands raised. "That's your name, right? I'm Lieutenant Flores. Let's talk."

I hesitated, bacterial constructs swirling in agitated patterns. "Nothing to talk about. We're leaving."

"Your father needs medical attention," she said, taking a careful step forward. "What you did,"

"I CURED HIM!" The scream broke on the last word. "The cancer is gone! I took it out!"

My Room pulsed with my anger, expanding another three feet in a sudden surge. My awareness sharpened even further, extending to more specialized, less common strains hiding in the corners and crevices.

Lieutenant Flores took another step forward, hand drifting toward her hip. "Dennis, I understand you're scared. But we need,"

"You're not listening," I interrupted, gathering more bacteria into a defensive wall. "I won't give him back. I won't let you hook him up to those machines again."

An officer to my left raised his foam canister. Without thought, I sent bacteria directly into the barrel. The microorganisms multiplied rapidly, clogging the mechanism. When he pulled the trigger, the canister backfired, coating his hands and arms in foam that hardened on him instantly.

"Hold your fire!" Lieutenant Flores shouted as other officers raised their weapons. "Everyone stay calm!"

But calm was miles away. Every nerve ending fired at once, heart hammering against ribs, sweat pouring down my face despite the air conditioning. I felt like a live wire.

"We're leaving," I declared, pushing forward again. "Anyone who tries to stop us gets bacteria in places they don't want it."

My Room continued its steady expansion, now nearly fifty feet in diameter. The blue light cast eerie shadows, giving everything a subaquatic quality.

Lieutenant Flores stepped directly into our path, one hand still raised. "Dennis, please. Your father will receive the best care,"

"Like he has been?" Bitterness flooded my mouth. "Wasting away for months while you fed him poison? While you sent bills we couldn't pay? While Mom worked double shifts just to keep the lights on?"

Bacterial constructs whirled around me in agitated patterns, forming shapes with far too many edges.

"His cancer is gone," I said, voice dropping to just above a whisper. "I took it all out. Transformed it. He's better now."

"Even if that's true," Lieutenant Flores said carefully, "he's been through trauma. His body needs time, proper monitoring,"

"NO!" The word exploded from me with a surge of bacterial activity. A tendril lashed out, wrapping around Flores's wrist and yanking her sideways into the wall.

The moment my construct touched her, other officers reacted. Foam canisters fired from multiple directions, forcing me to create a hasty dome around Dad and I. The microorganisms formed a semi-solid barrier, dense enough to slow the foam but not completely stop it.

"Bravo team, flank from corridor B!" someone shouted. "Don't let him reach the elevators!"

I wheeled Dad backward, away from the advancing foam. The elevators would be a death trap, probably disabled during evacuation anyway. We needed another route.

A sign caught my eye: "Stairwell C - Emergency Exit" at the end of a branching corridor. If we could reach it...

I gathered bacteria from the expanding dome, reforming it into a battering ram that hurtled toward the line of officers blocking our path. It hit with enough force to stagger them, creating a momentary gap.

"Now," I muttered. I pushed the wheelchair forward with all my strength, bacterial constructs swirling around us like a living tornado.

An officer recovered quickly, lunging into our path. I slapped my palm against his chest without thinking. A surge of something different flowed through me, not bacterial control, but something to do with gravity. The officer suddenly staggered backward as if his tactical gear had increased in weight, not by much, but enough to make his movements becoming sluggish.

I didn't question the new power, just took advantage of the opening. We shot past him, wheelchair wheels squeaking in protest. Behind us, shouts and crashes told me the officers were regrouping.

The branching corridor loomed ahead, and I took the turn so sharply that Dad's wheelchair tilted onto two wheels before crashing back down. The stairwell door was just ahead, the red exit sign glowing like a beacon in the blue light of my expanding Room.

I reached for the handle just as foam splattered against the wall beside my head. A strand caught in my hair, hardening instantly into a cement-like clump that pulled at my scalp.

"Stop, Danger!" An officer reached the corner, a foam canister trained on us. "You're only making this worse!"

I gathered bacteria from the corridor's air conditioning vent, forming a blinding cloud that I sent directly into his face. He staggered back, coughing and swiping at his faceplate.

The stairwell door opened to reveal a tight, industrial staircase, concrete steps descending in a spiral. Getting Dad's wheelchair down would be challenging, but possible if I took it slowly.

Light rain pattered against a small window set high in the stairwell wall. The evacuation siren continued its mournful wail, each blast sending a chill down my spine. I'd never heard it outside of monthly tests, this was real. Leviathan was coming.

The light rain was deceptive just the beginning. Everyone knew Leviathan brought devastating storms, tidal waves that could sink islands. Kyushu was proof of that. What seemed like a gentle shower now would soon become something much, much worse.

A small, desperate part of me wanted to believe we had time, Leviathan had to be far enough out that Dad and I could still escape the city before the full brunt of the attack. The Protectorate and other capes would be gathering to fight. We just needed to get clear of the hospital, find Mom, and join the evacuation.

I pushed these thoughts aside and focused on our immediate escape. Time was running out on multiple fronts.

I pushed the wheelchair through the doorway and felt a sudden shift in my awareness. The moment we crossed the threshold, I lost contact with about a third of my bacterial constructs, the ones furthest from me in the main corridor. They were now outside the boundary of my Room, which remained anchored to where I'd first created it, steadily expanding in a perfect dome that couldn't follow us.

"Damn it," I muttered. The bacterial barriers I'd left in the main corridor would dissipate without my control, giving the officers a clear path to pursue us.

No time to worry about that now. My Room was still with us, encompassing the stairwell entrance and growing larger by the second. I had enough bacteria within reach to continue the fight.

I engaged the wheelchair's brakes and awkwardly lifted Dad from the seat, hooking his arms around my shoulders in a fireman's carry. He was lighter than expected, months of cancer and chemo had whittled his once-solid frame to something barely substantial.

The wheelchair I left wedged against the door as a temporary barricade. It wouldn't hold long, but every second mattered.

I began descending, one careful step at a time, Dad's weight balanced across my shoulders. The blue light of my Room illuminated the top portion of the stairwell, but I could see it wasn't growing fast enough to keep pace with our descent. Soon we would pass beyond its boundary.

From above came the sound of the door being forced open, the wheelchair scraping as it was pushed aside.

"They're in the stairwell! East wing, stairwell C!"

I picked up the pace, taking the steps two at a time. Dad's head bounced against my back, his breathing warm against my neck. Each step jolted through my knees, impact traveling up my spine.

The blue illumination dimmed as we descended, the edge of my Room now barely touching the landing above us. I could still feel the bacteria within its boundary, but my control was weakening with the distance.

With the last vestiges of my connection, I gathered all available microorganisms into a thick fog that I sent billowing up the stairwell, temporarily blinding our pursuers.

Then we passed completely beyond the boundary, and my awareness of those bacteria winked out like a snuffed candle. We were outside my Room now, its power still active but anchored floors above us, slowly expanding but not following our descent.

The loss of my power left me momentarily disoriented, like suddenly going deaf in one ear. The stairwell seemed darker, ordinary, just concrete and metal without the blue illumination or the extra sensory awareness my Room provided.

"Room," I whispered, trying to create a new one centered on our current position.

Nothing happened. No blue light, no expanded awareness. Just the same dull stairwell and the sound of pursuing officers above.

"Come on," I urged, focusing harder. "Room!"

Still nothing. I was too exhausted, too drained from the extended use of my power upstairs. Whatever well of energy the ability drew from needed time to replenish.

The sound of boots on concrete echoed down the stairwell, growing louder. I had no choice but to keep moving, relying on ordinary human abilities now.

I descended as quickly as I dared with Dad's weight across my shoulders, hugging the inner wall of the spiral where the steps were narrowest and easiest to navigate. Two flights down, my legs began to tremble with fatigue. Another flight, and my breath came out in ragged gasps.

A foam canister sailed over the railing from above, missing us by inches before splattering against the wall. The substance expanded rapidly, partially blocking the stairway.

I adjusted our course to squeeze past the hardening foam. Dad's weight grew heavier with each step, muscles burning with the effort.

"Just hold on," I panted. "We're getting out of here."

Four flights down, a miracle happened. My power stirred again, like a pilot light flickering back to life. Not at full strength, but enough.

"Room," I whispered.

Blue light blossomed around us, spreading outward from where I stood to form a new dome. It was smaller than the one upstairs, perhaps twenty feet in diameter at first, but I could feel it growing steadily, expanding inch by inch.

With my sensory awareness restored, I immediately gathered bacteria from the stairwell walls, forming them into a slick coating on the steps behind us. The first pursuing officer to hit it went down hard, sliding into the ones behind him like bowling pins.

Shouts and curses echoed down the concrete shaft, followed by the distinctive sound of someone radioing for backup.

"Subject is using some kind of biological manipulation! Stairwell C, heading down!"

I continued our descent, now with my power to aid us. The blue light of my new Room moved with us, anchored to the spot where I'd created it but expanding fast enough to encompass several flights of stairs at once. As we descended, its upper boundary remained fixed where it had formed, while its lower edge grew ahead of us.

Eventually we would outpace it again, but for now, I had my advantage back.

Two more flights, and I spotted a door marked "First Floor." Freedom, or at least the next stage of our escape, lay beyond.

I gathered bacteria into a dense fog behind us, obscuring the path for our pursuers. The microorganisms swirled and congealed according to my will, forming a temporary barrier that would buy us a few more precious seconds.

The first floor door was just ahead when I felt the boundary of my Room behind us. We were approaching its edge again, about to leave its protection behind us.

I paused on the landing, shifting Dad's weight to ease the strain on my shoulders.

"Room," I whispered again, creating a third dome centered on our current position.

Blue light flared around us, stronger this time. The new Room expanded rapidly, reaching nearly thirty feet in diameter within mere seconds. My awareness of the bacteria within its boundary sharpened, revealing millions of microorganisms on the door handle ahead, the walls, even floating in the air.

Perfect. I'd maintain my advantage through the next phase of our escape.

I shouldered through the door, emerging into a back hallway of the hospital's first floor. Unlike the clinical spaces above, this was clearly a service area, concrete floors, pipes running along the ceiling, walls painted institutional beige. To the right, the hallway ended at another door marked "Maintenance." To the left, it stretched for about fifty feet before opening into what looked like a more public area, possibly a lobby or reception space.

Behind us, the stairwell door banged open, a pursuing officer emerging through my bacterial fog. His visor was up, face red and streaming with sweat from the exertion of the chase. When he spotted us, he reached for his radio on his chest.

I sent a tendril of bacteria shooting toward him, wrapping around his wrist and pulling his hand away from the device. Another tendril formed a blindfold-like band across his eyes, temporarily blinding him.

"Sorry," I muttered as I turned left, hurrying toward what I hoped was an exit.

My Room expanded steadily, now reaching almost forty feet in diameter. As we moved down the hallway, its border kept pace with us for the moment, though I knew it would eventually lag behind, anchored to the spot where I'd first created it.

The hallway opened into a small lobby area, currently deserted except for an elderly security guard stationed near the front desk. The evacuation must have been completed while we were fighting upstairs, leaving only the essential personnel behind.

The guard looked up as we emerged, his eyes widening at the sight of a teenager carrying an unconscious man, both of us disheveled and clearly in distress.

"Hey!" he started to rise from his chair, reaching for his radio. "You can't,"

A wave of bacteria swept over his desk, knocking the radio from his hand and sending it skittering across the floor. He froze, staring at the writhing mass of microorganisms now coating his workspace.

"Stay there," I warned, edging toward the glass doors leading outside. "I don't want to hurt you."

The guard raised his hands slowly, eyes never leaving the bacterial construct between us. "Son, whatever you're doing, think about it. That man needs medical help."

"He's my dad," I said, shifting Dad's weight across my shoulders. "And he's better now."

Through the glass doors, I could see the hospital's main entrance plaza, a circular drive where ambulances and patient vehicles could pull up, bordered by landscaped islands and benches. Light rain continued to fall, creating a misty haze under the sodium lights. A few abandoned vehicles sat in the drive, left behind in the rush of evacuation.

Freedom was just steps away. But as I approached the doors, I saw what waited beyond them, PRT vehicles forming a perimeter around the entrance, officers in tactical gear taking up positions behind portable barriers. Word of our location had spread faster than I'd expected it too.

I froze, indecision paralyzing me for a crucial moment. Behind us, I could hear more officers emerging from the stairwell. Ahead lay an armed blockade. We were trapped.

The edge of my Room pulsed outward another few feet, continuing its steady expansion. With that growth came awareness of bacteria beyond the glass doors, coating the pavement outside, clinging to the PRT vehicles and officers. I could use those microorganisms, but I'd need to get closer, within the range of my Room's influence.

A new plan formed. Not a good one, but the only option I had left.

I turned to my right, where a side corridor led to what looked like outpatient clinics, darkened and empty now, but offering a potential alternative route for us.

"This way, Dad," I murmured to his unconscious form as I hurried down the corridor, the blue light of my Room illuminating our path.

Behind us, I heard the stairwell door bang open again, multiple sets of boots on the tile floor.

"There! At the end of the hallway!"

I didn't look back, just sent a blind wave of bacteria surging behind us, forming a temporary barrier between us and our pursuers. The edge of my Room was already falling behind as we moved farther down the corridor, its boundary fixed at the lobby where I'd created it. Soon we'd be beyond its protection once again.

The corridor opened into a waiting area for what looked like a physical therapy clinic, reception desk, chairs arranged in neat rows, magazines scattered on low tables. Beyond it, glass doors similar to the main entrance led to a side parking lot, this one smaller and less grand than the front plaza.

I could see only a single PRT vehicle outside, and just two officers standing near it. The blockade was focused on the main entrance, leaving this secondary exit less heavily guarded.

I paused at the edge of my Room's boundary, feeling the familiar pressure as my awareness of the bacteria within it began to fade. One deep breath, then another. I needed to time this out perfectly.

"Room," I whispered, creating a fourth dome centered on our position.

Blue light flared around us again, the new Room expanding rapidly. My awareness of the bacteria inside sharpened once more, revealing microorganisms on every surface, including outside the glass doors where the officers stood.

Without hesitation, I gathered up the bacteria from the floor, walls, and ceiling, forming them into a battering ram-like shape that I sent crashing against the glass doors. The impact shattered them outward, sending shards of safety glass cascading over the sidewalk in glittering cubes.

The officers outside reacted instantly, drawing their foam canisters. But I was already moving, sending tendrils of bacteria to wrap around their wrists, yanking their arms upward, so the foam sprayed harmlessly into the air.

"Sorry," I gasped as I staggered through the broken doors, Dad's weight across my shoulders feeling heavier with each step.

The officers struggled against my bacterial bonds, shouting into their radios. I didn't wait to see if they broke free, just pushed forward across the wet pavement toward the parking lot beyond.

My Room expanded steadily behind me, but I was already approaching its edge again, moving faster than it could grow. I'd need to create another one soon, but for now, I still had enough range to still work with.

The parking lot held a scattered collection of vehicles, staff cars left behind in the evacuation, a few ambulances, maintenance trucks. One in particular caught my eye: a small delivery van with its driver's door slightly ajar, keys possibly left in the ignition by someone rushing to evacuate.

I made for it, each step jolting through my exhausted legs. The sound of more officers emerging from the building spurred me on.

"Stop right there, Danger!" someone shouted from behind me.

In response, I sent a thick cloud of bacteria swirling between us, obscuring their view. The microorganisms coalesced into a semi-solid wall that would slow pursuit, if only for a few more seconds.

I reached the van just as I felt my Room's boundary falling behind me again. Shifting Dad's weight, I managed to pull open the driver's door wider. The keys weren't in the ignition, but hung from a hook near the steering column, the driver intending to return quickly, perhaps.

With the last of my strength, I loaded Dad into the passenger seat, arranging his limbs as comfortably as possible. His head lolled against the window, but his breathing remained steady, his color good.

I slammed the passenger door shut and hurried around the van's front. The rain had intensified, fat droplets slapping against my face and plastering my red hair to my forehead. My muscles screamed with intense exhaustion as I rounded the hood, the van our last hope for escape.

Through the windshield, Dad's face remained peaceful, unaware of the chaos surrounding us. The cancer was gone, I could feel it. After months of watching him waste away, I'd finally done something that mattered. Something real.

Three more steps to the driver's door. Two. One.

A figure landed with a heavy thud on the wet asphalt directly in my path, dropping from somewhere above in a perfect three-point stance that sent water splashing in all directions. The impact cracked the pavement beneath his feet.

I stumbled backward, nearly slipping on the slick surface.

The figure straightened, revealing a gladiator-inspired costume gleaming dully in the parking lot's sodium lights. A stylized lion's head helmet concealed his face, with matching gold shoulder pads and belt contrasting against a golden skintight bodysuit. Even through the intensifying rain, the emblem on his chest was unmistakable, the shield of the Wards.

Triumph.

My breath caught in my throat. I'd seen him on the news, on posters. Dad had followed his career obsessively, like he did with all the local capes. He was one of the older Wards, rumored to be on the verge of graduating to the Protectorate proper. His powers involved some kind of sound manipulation, though the details escaped me. Something about sonic blasts powerful enough to shatter concrete.

"That's far enough," Triumph called, his voice carrying easily over the patter of rain and distant sirens. Despite the situation, his tone remained measured, almost gentle. "You're Dennis, right?"

I backed up a step, my feet splashing through a puddle. "How do you know my name?"

"The hospital staff told us." He gestured toward the building behind me without taking his eyes off my face. "Your father's doctor is worried about him. Says he needs medical attention."

My shoulders tensed. "He doesn't. Not anymore."

Triumph took a careful step forward, hands raised slightly. "I understand you're scared. When someone we love is sick, we'd do anything to help them."

"You don't understand anything," I spat, heart hammering against my ribs. "I fixed him. The cancer's gone. I took it out."

"If that's true, it's amazing," he said, and something in his voice sounded genuinely impressed with the claim. "But your father still needs proper care. Moving him like this, in his condition, it could very well hurt him."

Rain streamed down my face, indistinguishable from the tears threatening to spill over. "He's fine. He's better than he's been in months. I just need to get him home."

Triumph's shoulders relaxed slightly beneath the golden armor. "Look, I get it. The system feels broken when someone you love is suffering. But running won't solve anything. You got your powers today, right? That's a lot to process even without an Endbringer coming."

The mention of Leviathan sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with the rain. In the chaos of fighting and escaping, I'd almost forgotten why the evacuation had even started in the first place.

"We don't have much time," Triumph continued, taking another cautious step closer. "The PRT can help you both get to a shelter. They can make sure your father receives proper care. And once we're clear of this crisis, they can help you understand your powers."

I glanced back at the van, where Dad sat slumped against the passenger window. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, color in his cheeks for the first time in weeks. I could still feel the phantom sensation of cancer cells squirming beneath my fingers, the utter wrongness I'd purged from his body.

"I don't need help understanding my powers," I said, turning back to face Triumph. "I figured them out just fine."

"Is that why there are four officers in the hospital with bacterial infections?" His voice hardened slightly. "Is that why Dr. Keller is being treated for respiratory distress?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. "I, I didn't mean to," I stammered, my certainty wavering. "I just wanted them to leave us alone."

"I believe you," Triumph said, and somehow I knew he meant it. "You were scared. Protective. But Dennis, you can't run. Even if Leviathan wasn't bearing down on us, where would you go? What happens when your father needs his medications, his follow-up care?"

My hands curled into fists at my sides. "He doesn't need medication anymore."

"Maybe not for the cancer," Triumph acknowledged, "but his body has been through months of chemotherapy. His immune system is compromised. His organs need time to recover."

Doubt crept in, a cold snake coiling in my gut. As much as I wanted to believe I'd fixed everything, deep down I knew healing wasn't that simple. Cancer wasn't the only problem Dad faced.

"My mom," I whispered, the realization hitting me like a truck. "She's at work. I need to find her."

"The pharmacy on Westfield?" Triumph asked.

I nodded mutely, startled that he knew.

"They evacuated that neighborhood thirty minutes ago. Standard procedure for all medical facilities. She's probably already at the central shelter, wondering where you and your father are." He extended a hand. "Come with me. I can help you find her."

For a moment, I wavered. The offer was tempting, the promise of reunion with Mom, of safety in numbers against the approaching Endbringer. And yet...

"How do I know you won't just lock me up?" I demanded. "Classify me as some dangerous parahuman and throw away the key?"

Triumph's helmet tilted slightly. "Is that what you think the Wards are? A prison?"

"I don't know what to think anymore," I admitted, voice cracking. "An hour ago, my biggest problem was making Dad laugh without triggering a coughing fit. Now I'm fighting PRT officers and running from heroes."

"Then stop running," Triumph urged, taking another step forward. We were only about ten feet apart now. "What you did today, curing your father's cancer, that's incredible. That's the kind of power that could help thousands of people."

The words struck a chord deep within me. Thousands of people. How many others were suffering like Dad had been? How many families were being torn apart by illness? If I could help them...

I shook my head, dispelling the thought. "You're just saying that to get me to surrender."

"I'm saying it because it's true." Triumph's voice carried absolute conviction. "Powers like yours are rare, Dennis. Healing abilities that can target disease directly? Do you have any idea how valuable that is?"

A flicker of hope ignited in my chest, quickly extinguished by suspicion. "If my power is so valuable, why were your people trying to foam me?"

"Because you were using it to attack hospital staff," he replied evenly. "Because you were trying to remove a patient during an evacuation. Because you wouldn't stop when asked." He sighed, the sound amplified slightly by whatever technology was in his helmet. "But that doesn't mean we don't recognize how important your ability could be."

The rain continued to fall, heavier now. In the distance, the Endbringer siren wailed its continuous warning, a sound designed to jangle nerves and inspire fear. Time was running out for all of us now.

"You have a decision to make," Triumph said, lowering his hand. "And not much time to make it. Come with me, get your father proper attention, find your mother. Or keep running and risk all three of your lives when Leviathan hits."

I glanced at the van again, at Dad's sleeping form. The keys were still there, tantalizingly close. We could still escape, find Mom, get out of the city before the worst happened.

But what if Triumph was right? What if moving Dad was dangerous? What if Mom was already safe at a shelter, waiting for us?

"I just want him to be okay," I whispered, the fight draining out of me now. "I can't lose him. Not after everything."

"I know," Triumph said, and I could hear the empathy in his voice. "That's why you need to let the professionals help. Your father still needs medical care, even if the cancer is gone."

For a long moment, I stood frozen in indecision, rain pounding down around us. In the distance, thunder rumbled, natural or Leviathan's approach, I couldn't tell.

Then, movement behind Triumph caught my eye. PRT officers were approaching in formation, foam canisters at the ready. Lieutenant Flores was among them, speaking into a radio as she directed officers to surround the van from all angels.

They were never going to let us go. Never going to trust that I knew what was best for my father. Never going to believe that I'd actually cured him.

Triumph must have seen the change in my expression. "Dennis,"

"No," I cut him off, backing up toward the van. "You're just distracting me while they move into position."

"I'm trying to avoid a fight neither of us wants," he said, his posture shifting subtly into something more defensive. "Please don't make this more difficult than it needs to be."

A calmness settled over me, the eye of a storm. They weren't going to let us leave. They weren't going to trust me. It was as simple as that.

"Room," I whispered.

The blue dome blossomed around me, spreading outward to encompass the van, Triumph, and about twenty feet of parking lot in every direction. The familiar awareness flooded back, every microorganism within range, every harmful bacteria, every potential weapon at my disposal.

Triumph reacted instantly, his posture shifting from diplomatic to combat-ready in the space of a single heartbeat. "Dennis, stand down," he warned, his voice resonating with unnatural power. "This is your final warning."

I raised my hands, feeling the bacteria gathering around my fingertips, ready to form into whatever shape I needed. "I'm leaving with my father," I stated, surprised by the hard steadiness in my voice. "I'll find my mother. And when Leviathan is gone, I'll bring them both back to show you all that I fixed him."

"I can't let you do that." Triumph's chest expanded as he took a deep breath, preparing to unleash his sonic power.

The bacterial constructs around my hands solidified, forming dense orbs of living matter. Outside my Room, PRT officers rushed forward, shouting commands I could barely hear through the blue barrier. Lieutenant Flores was yelling into her radio, probably calling for more backup.

Triumph's helmet focused directly on me, the golden lion seeming to come alive in the strange light of my Room. I could almost see his jaw setting behind the mask, his determination mirroring my own.

For a split second, the world seemed to pause. The rain suspended in midair, caught in the azure glow of my power. The sound of the Endbringer siren faded to a far off distant whine. At that moment of perfect clarity, I saw exactly what I had become, not just Dennis anymore, but something more. Something different.

The clarity vanished as Triumph's chest expanded, preparing his attack. 

I tensed, bacteria swirling faster around my fingers. There was no going back now. No matter what happened next, nothing would ever be the same again.

As Triumph opened his mouth to unleash his power, I sent my bacterial constructs racing toward him, one final thought burning in my mind like fire:

Dad is worth fighting for.

Chapter Text

Triumph's chest expanded like a bellows, and I knew I had maybe half a second before his sonic blast tore right through me.

I slammed my palm against my own chest, reversing my personal gravity with a desperate speed. The weightlessness hit me like a physical blow, my stomach lurching as every cell in my body suddenly forgot which way was down. I shot backward through the air just as Triumph's mouth fully opened.

The sound that erupted from him wasn't just loud, it was a physical force that warped the air itself. I watched the sonic wave ripple outward in a visible distortion, like heat waves rising from summer asphalt but compressed into a cone of raw destructive energy. Wherever it passed, raindrops exploded into fine mist that hung in the air like fog, and the pavement beneath Triumph's feet cracked in spiderweb patterns that spread outward in perfect symmetry.

My backward flight carried me just beyond the worst of the blast, but the edge of his attack still caught me, a wall of compressed air that felt like being hit by an invisible freight train. The force spun me around in a nauseating whirl of sky, ground, and flashing lights. My limbs flailed helplessly as I tumbled through the air, completely at the mercy of the physics I'd temporarily abandoned.

I crashed shoulder-first into the side of an abandoned ambulance just about 50 feet away, the impact driving the breath from my lungs in a painful whoosh. The collision felt like getting hit by a baseball bat swung by a giant, my whole body rang like a bell from the force. Metal buckled under the impact, leaving a Dennis-shaped dent in the vehicle's pristine white side panels, and I swear I heard something in my shoulder make a wet popping sound that definitely wasn't supposed to happen.

Pain exploded down my arm like someone had poured molten hot metal into my veins, radiating from my shoulder all the way to my fingertips in waves that made my vision go spotty. My left arm hung at a weird angle, and when I tried to move it, electric bolts of agony shot up to my skull, making me see stars. Pretty sure I'd dislocated something, maybe my shoulder, maybe my collarbone, hell, maybe both. The whole left side of my body felt like it had been put through a blender set to 'chunky salsa.'

But I was alive, and more importantly, I still had my father to protect. Even if moving my arm felt like someone was jamming red-hot needles into every nerve ending from my shoulder to my wrist.

Triumph was already moving, his golden form charging through the settling mist where his blast had vaporized the falling rain. His boots splashed through puddles with mechanical precision, each step calculated to close the distance between us. I could see his helmet swiveling left and right, the stylized lion's mane on it catching the sodium lights as he tracked my position behind the ambulance.

My Room was still active, but crucially, it remained anchored to the spot where I'd first created it back by the van. The blue dome was steadily expanding from that fixed point, but I was now at least thirty feet away from its edge. The bacteria I could feel and control were all back there, useless to me at this sort of distance.

I pressed my palm against the ambulance's rear tire, focusing on the gravitational field surrounding the rubber and steel. The change was both immediate and dramatic. The entire vehicle lifted slightly off the ground as I reversed its gravitational pull, making the multi-ton emergency vehicle light as a feather. What had been thousands of pounds of metal and equipment now weighed less than a beach ball.

Triumph rounded the ambulance's front corner like a predator, his golden armor gleaming despite the surrounding rain. He moved with careful confidence, knowing I was wounded but not underestimating what I might still be capable of. When he spotted me crouched beside the rear wheel, his helmet tilted slightly, a gesture that somehow conveyed both determination and something that might have been sympathy.

"Dennis," his voice carried that resonant power, but softer now, more controlled. "This doesn't have to get worse. Let me help your father."

I scrambled backward, my lightened weight making the movement feel like floating. "Stay away from him!"

Triumph took a measured step forward, his boots clicking against the wet pavement. "I'm not going to hurt him. Or you. But you're hurt, scared, and you just got your powers. Those aren't good conditions for making decisions."

With my hand still on the ambulance, I pushed upward with all my strength. The weightless vehicle flipped over easily, sailing through the air toward Triumph like a massive projectile. At the last possible second, I restored its full weight, turning the flying ambulance into tons of crushing metal and momentum.

Triumph's seemingly enhanced reflexes saved him. He dove to the side, the ambulance crashing down where he'd been standing with a tremendous impact that cracked the pavement and sent shockwaves through the parking lot. But the maneuver had forced him to retreat, giving me a few precious seconds to act.

Triumph seemed to recognize this, his posture relaxing slightly. "Your power has a range limit, doesn't it? You can't use it from here."

I didn't answer, instead launching myself backward with my gravity manipulation, trying to reach the expanding edge of my Room. But Triumph was faster than my clumsy aerial movement. He bounded forward with enhanced leg strength, crossing the distance between us in just a single leap.

His gauntleted hand caught my ankle just as I was about to escape his reach. The golden metal was surprisingly warm, and his grip was firm but not painful, he was still holding back, still trying not to hurt me.

"Let go!" I twisted in his grasp, trying to break free, but Triumph's enhanced strength made it pointless. He began to reel me in like a fish on a line, his other hand reaching for what looked like zip-tie restraints on his belt.

I pressed both palms against my chest and reversed my gravity as strongly as I could. The sudden change yanked me upward with tremendous force, but Triumph's grip held. Instead of escaping, I just hung there upside down, suspended by his effectively unbreakable hold on my ankle.

"Easy," Triumph said, his voice gentle despite our awkward position. "I know you're trying to protect your father. That's admirable. But you're going about it wrong."

"You don't understand," I gasped, blood rushing to my head as I dangled there. "He was dying. I fixed him. The cancer's gone."

"If that's true, it's incredible," Triumph replied, and I could hear genuine amazement in his voice. "But removing cancer isn't the same as curing someone. His body's been through months of chemotherapy. He needs proper medical monitoring."

With his free hand, he pulled out what looked like foam restraints, not the hard-setting kind the PRT officers carried, but something softer, designed to immobilize without injury. "I'm going to secure you now. For both our safety."

I thrashed desperately, but my reversed gravity just made me flail around uselessly in the air. Triumph began to lower me toward the ground, clearly intending to restrain my hands before dealing with my feet.

That's when the edge of my Room finally reached us.

The expanding blue dome had been growing steadily from its anchor point by the van, and now its boundary swept over our position like a slow wave. Suddenly, I could feel bacteria again, on Triumph's armor, in the air, coating the surfaces of nearby vehicles.

I didn't hesitate. Every microorganism within range surged toward us, forming a thick, writhing rope of biological matter that wrapped around Triumph's wrist. The bacterial construct was as thick as my arm, glistening with organic moisture that reflected the parking lot's lights. It felt warm and alive in my mental grasp, pulsing with the collective metabolism of millions of component organisms.

Triumph's grip on my ankle loosened in surprise, and I immediately shot upward with my reversed gravity, finally breaking free from him. But instead of escaping, I used my momentum to swing around in a wide arc, staying just within my Room's expanding boundary.

"Biological manipulation," Triumph observed, his tone shifting from gentle to tactically analytical. He flexed his arm, testing the bacterial rope's strength. "Interesting. And dangerous."

The construct I'd formed was strong, but Triumph's enhanced physique was stronger. With a sharp jerk of his arm, he snapped the bacterial rope like it was made of wet tissue paper. The microorganisms scattered, losing cohesion without my focused attention to maintain their structure.

"You're holding back," I accused, gathering more bacteria from the expanding dome's boundary. This time I formed them into multiple thin tendrils, hoping to overwhelm his ability to break them all at once.

"Of course I am," Triumph replied matter-of-factly. "You're fifteen years old, you became a cape today, and you're trying to protect your father. I'm not going to use lethal force against you."

The tendrils lashed out like whips, trying to wrap around his arms and legs simultaneously. Triumph moved with fluid grace, dodging some and catching others, his seemingly enhanced reflexes making my attacks look clumsy by comparison. When three tendrils managed to wrap around his left arm, he simply flexed, and they dissolved under the strain he put them under.

"But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you continue endangering yourself and your father," he continued, advancing steadily despite my bacterial harassment. "Stand down, Dennis. Please."

I sent a wave of bacteria toward his helmet's visor, hoping to blind him, but Triumph tilted his head and let out a carefully controlled sonic pulse. The sound wave dispersed my construct instantly, scattering the microorganisms across the parking lot like dust in the wind.

"You can't win this fight," Triumph said, and there was no arrogance in his voice, just this patient certainty. "I have a year of training and experience compared to you. You have raw power but no control, no technique."

He was right, and that made me angrier than any insult could have. I gathered every bacterium within my Room's range, forming them into the largest construct I'd yet attempted, a massive pseudopod that rose like a living wave behind me. It was easily twelve feet tall and six feet wide, composed of billions of microorganisms compressed into a semi-solid state that writhed with a disturbing vitality.

I sent it crashing down toward Triumph like a hammer blow.

He didn't dodge it. Instead, he planted his feet and took a deep breath, his chest expanding dramatically. When the bacterial wave was just inches from crushing him, he released a sonic blast directly upward.

The sound hit my construct like a physical wall, the compression wave tearing through the bacterial matrix and dispersing it completely. Microorganisms scattered in all directions, my largest attack reduced to harmless dust in less than a second.

"I'm not your enemy," Triumph said firmly, stepping through the settling cloud of dispersed bacteria. "Your father needs help, and so do you. Let me provide it."

I tried to retreat, but my Room's boundary was only expanding so fast. Triumph was methodically herding me back toward its edge, where I'd lose access to my bacterial manipulation entirely. Every construct I formed, he dispersed with more of his precise sonic pulses. Every attempt to bind him, he broke with his enhanced strength.

"Why won't you just leave us alone?" I shouted, frustration and exhaustion making my voice crack.

"Because you're a scared kid with dangerous powers who's making bad decisions," Triumph replied, still advancing. "Because your father is unconscious and potentially in medical distress. Because Leviathan is coming, and we need to get everyone to safety."

He was within arm's reach now, his golden gauntlets extended but not threatening. "Last chance, Dennis. Come willingly, or I'll have to take you by force."

I made one final, desperate attempt, gathering bacteria into dozens of needle-thin projectiles that I fired at him from all angles. Triumph's response was swift and decisive, an omnidirectional sonic pulse that shattered every single projectile I had made simultaneously.

The sound wave hit me too, not at full strength but enough to make my vision blur and my ears ring. I staggered backward, my concentration broken, most of my bacterial constructs dissolving into uselessness.

But I'd held one back, a small sphere of compressed bacteria that I'd kept hidden behind a parked car, outside Triumph's line of sight. As he stepped forward confidently, assuming I was completely disarmed, I sent it racing through the air in a low arc right at him.

The bacterial projectile struck Triumph squarely between his shoulder blades with a wet slap, the impact making him stumble forward a step. It wasn't painful, barely more than being hit with a water balloon, but the surprise of it, the realization that I'd outmaneuvered him even slightly, made him react instinctively.

Triumph spun around, his chest expanding for what should have been a controlled sonic pulse to disperse the bacterial mass clinging to his back. But his surprise had thrown off his careful modulation of it.

Instead of a precise burst, he released a full-power sonic blast in my direction.

The wave of compressed air hit me like being struck by a freight train. My reversed gravity meant nothing against the sheer force of the displaced atmosphere. I was lifted off my feet and hurled backward through the rain, tumbling helplessly through the air in a whirl of sky and parking lot lights.

I crashed into something that exploded around me in a shower of golden fragments, dried grass and organic matter that filled the air like confetti. The impact drove the breath from my lungs, but instead of concrete or metal, I'd landed in something soft and yielding, likely saving my life.

Straw wattles. The flood barriers the city had hastily installed to manage Leviathan's anticipated storm surge.

As I lay there gasping, straw clinging to my hair and clothes, something remarkable happened. The moment the dried grass made contact with my skin, I felt a surge of awareness completely different from my bacterial manipulation.

I could feel the straw. Not just the pieces stuck to me, but all of it, every wattle in the barrier line, every scattered fragment floating in the air, every bound stem still waiting to serve its purpose as flood control.

And more than that, I could control it.

Without conscious thought, I reached out with this new awareness, and the straw responded instantly. Fragments that had been settling to the wet pavement suddenly reversed course, flowing toward me like iron filings drawn to a magnet. They moved with purpose, weaving themselves into shapes I could envision, following commands I hadn't known I could even give.

But as the straw touched my outstretched hands, something even more extraordinary happened. I felt the same transformative power I used on bacteria, but different somehow. Instead of biological manipulation, this was something more fundamental, molecular reconstruction.

The dried grass began to change under my touch, its organic structure shifting at the cellular level. Carbon bonded with trace minerals, cellulose transformed into something entirely different. In seconds, what had been brittle straw became gleaming steel, formed from the grass's basic elements through a process I didn't understand but could still somehow control perfectly.

Hope flared in my chest like a physical warmth. This wasn't just another weapon, this was a completely different type of power, one that Triumph couldn't have prepared for, couldn't have studied in any Ward training manuals.

I pushed myself to my feet, steel rods orbiting around me like a metallic solar system. Each one was about the length of a pencil but strong as rebar, their surfaces reflecting the parking lot's sodium lights in sharp, gleaming lines. They all moved sort of according to my will, following the path I had set them on when they were still straw, weaving through the air in complex patterns that left trails of silver in the rain.

Triumph was approaching cautiously, his helmet swiveling as he analyzed what he was seeing. "Another power," he said, his voice carrying professional assessment rather than any surprise. "Matter manipulation this time. That's three distinct abilities, each one remarkably potent for a multi-power cape."

He paused, tilting his head as he watched the steel rods orbit around me. "Usually when someone has multiple powers, they're all weaker individually, secondary aspects clustered around one primary ability. But yours, each one, seems to have the strength of a single-power cape on its own."

His tone shifted to clinical analysis as he continued watching my movements. "Or at least most people would assume that, but look at the speed of your control. The straw moved like it was fighting through molasses, and even now, those metal pieces are sluggish compared to your bacterial constructs. You're trying to juggle multiple complex powers without any understanding of their limitations."

His voice took on that teacher-like quality again. "Raw power means nothing without proper application, Dennis. You're broadcasting your movements, telegraphing every attack. Against someone with real combat experience, that makes you predictable."

The casual way he dismissed my abilities, the condescending lecture tone, sent a surge of rage through me hotter than anything I'd felt before. "Arrogant bastard!" I snarled, my hands clenching into fists as both the straw and bacteria rise like tendrils, I hadn’t even noticed it, but they seemed pretty in touch with me. "You think you're so much better than me? Just because you've got some fancy training and a shiny costume?"

The steel rods around me responded to my fury, their lazy orbits suddenly becoming jagged, aggressive patterns. "I don't need your critique! I saved my father when none of you could! And I’ll do it again."

Instead of waiting for him to answer, I pushed strands of my own straw outwards in tiny ropes, connecting to the scattered barriers and beginning to gather them, letting it flow toward me in golden streams. As each fragment made contact with my skin, I transformed it into steel, building an arsenal of metallic projectiles that hung in the air around me like a swarm of mechanical wasps.

The despair that had been crushing me moments before evaporated, replaced by fierce determination. I had new power, new options, new hope.

Maybe I couldn't match Triumph's experience or training. But he'd never faced anything like this before, either.

The fight was far from over. In fact, it was just getting interesting.

The bacterial constructs I'd formed around my hands shot toward Triumph like living projectiles, dense spheres of microorganisms that glistened wetly in the rain. He reacted with the fluid grace of someone who'd been fighting for over a year, his helmet tracking their trajectory as his chest expanded for his next sonic attack.

But instead of trying to meet his assault head on I fell backwards, reversing my gravity slowly but enough for me to go further back into the straw barrier I knew was still there. A wide grin spilled across my face as the metallic projectiles that orbited me ripped through the outer layers hiding it away from me, sending straw upwards, and even better, into me.

The moment my skin made contact, the organic fibers responded instantly to my will. Thin strands burst upward from the surrounding ground, weaving together in milliseconds to form a crude but effective shield between myself and Triumph's position.

The sonic energy struck the straw barrier and dispersed, the organic fibers absorbing and redirecting the force in ways that seemed to be impossible. I staggered to my feet behind the impromptu defense, ears ringing but still upright.

Triumph's eyes widened behind his helmet, clearly not expecting his attack to be neutralized so easily. "What the hell?"

I didn't answer, too focused on the sensation of controlling the straw while maintaining physical contact with it. It responded to my will like an extension of my own body, but it was slow, ponderous. The fibers moved with deliberate precision rather than speed, requiring me to think several moves ahead to really make use of it. And I had to keep at least one hand touching the construct to maintain this level of control.

My bacterial constructs reached him while he was still processing what had happened. The first orb splattered against his chest, spreading across the golden armor in a viscous coating. The second wrapped around his left arm like a living gauntlet, while the third formed a semi-solid mask over his helmet's eye slits.

"Can't see, can't breathe properly," I muttered, allowing myself a moment of satisfaction. But Triumph was far from finished from this.

He grabbed the bacterial mass on his chest and pulled, his enhanced strength tearing chunks of the construct away. What should have been impossible for a normal person barely slowed him down. The coating on his helmet began to dissolve as he activated some kind of filtration system built into his gear.

"Biological manipulation and... what was that other thing?" Triumph called out, his voice slightly muffled but still carrying that resonant power. "Some kind of plant control?"

"Something like that," I replied, keeping one hand pressed against my straw shield while using the other to gather more bacteria from around the parking lot. I tried to use that in some way, with my still expanding Room. Maybe if I could focus on the bacteria on the straw, I could locate it that way? But that seemed like it would take a lot more focus than I currently had, although it was a possibility I could look into later.

Triumph cleared the last of the bacteria from his visor and took stock of the situation. PRT officers surrounded us at the edge of my Room, but they couldn't enter without risking exposure to my powers. He was on his own, at least for now.

"Dennis, last chance," he said, settling into a combat stance. "Stand down. Let us help your father." But he had said that before, and something in my mind knew he was just saying it to say it, to scrub himself of his own guilt for this fight.

In response, I pressed both hands against my straw shield and pushed outward with my will. The fibers responded by extending into thick, rope-like tendrils that reached out toward him. They moved slowly but with inexorable purpose, seeking his ankles and wrists. But I had to stay connected to the main mass, limiting my mobility.

Triumph jumped, his enhanced physique carrying him higher than any normal person could manage. He landed on the roof of a nearby car, the metal buckling under the impact. From his elevated position, he unleashed another sonic blast, this one wider and less focused.

The attack scattered my extended straw constructs, the organic fibers unable to maintain cohesion under the assault without my direct contact. I had to pull the tendrils back to the main shield, consolidating my limited material.

"You're good," I admitted, reforming my defenses while gathering bacteria to supplement my straw. "But I'm not going anywhere without my dad."

Triumph's response was to leap from the car directly at me, using his sonic power to boost his jump. He came down like a golden meteor, fist extended toward my face.

I threw myself sideways, but I couldn't move far without losing contact with my straw construct. His punch glanced off my shoulder instead of my head, still hitting hard enough to spin me around and send me stumbling. Pain shot down my arm, but I managed to keep one hand pressed against the straw mass I had gathered so far.

But even as I staggered, I was already adapting. Instead of trying to create whole new constructs, I reshaped the existing straw into a series of thick ropes that I could grab with both hands. The organic fibers responded to my touch, extending and contracting as I directed them like supernatural whips.

Triumph spun to track my movement, his helmet's sensors probably giving him some sort of enhanced awareness of my position. He raised his hand toward me, palm open, and I felt the air pressure shift as he prepared another focused sonic attack.

I sent bacteria streaming between us, forming a dense wall of microorganisms, while simultaneously lashing out with a straw rope. The bacterial barrier absorbed some of the sonic energy, but the blast still hit me hard enough to knock me backward. My straw construct went wild for a moment as my concentration broke, flailing uselessly in the air.

"Clever," Triumph acknowledged, already moving to a new position. "But you can't keep this up forever."

He was right, and we both knew it. My powers were formidable, but I was still learning to use them. Every construct required concentration, every maneuver drained my energy. And the need to maintain physical contact with the straw severely limited my tactical options. Triumph, on the other hand, had been doing this for over a year. His movements were economical, practiced, conserving energy while applying maximum pressure.

I needed to change my tactics.

I gathered the scattered straw back into my grasp, my fingers pressing firmly against the rough organic fibers. The sensation was strange, not quite like touching regular dried grass, but something alive and responsive to my will. The individual strands flowed between my fingers like liquid gold, each one humming with potential energy that I could feel thrumming through my bones.

I began weaving the fibers together, my hands moving with an instinctive knowledge I didn't remember learning. The straw responded eagerly, twisting and braiding itself into patterns that felt both ancient and completely natural. What had been scattered, lifeless material moments before transformed into something more purposeful, a single thick rope about fifteen feet long that coiled and writhed like a serpent made of burnished wheat.

Unlike my bacterial constructs, this had actual physical mass and structure. I could feel its weight in my hands, the solid reality of it. The rope was dense enough to deliver real impact, heavy enough to stagger even someone with enhanced durability. It might move slowly compared to my lightning-fast bacterial manipulation, but if I could get into position to use it effectively, it could hit like a sledgehammer wrapped in silk.

Triumph was already repositioning himself, his golden armor catching the sodium lights as he analyzed my new weapon. His helmet tilted slightly, the lion's mane decoration shifting as his enhanced senses catalogued the threat level. I could practically see the tactical calculations running just behind his visor.

I took a deep breath and swung the straw rope out in a wide arc, putting my whole body behind the motion. The organic weapon cut through the rain-heavy air with a whistling sound, droplets scattering from its braided surface in a spray of silver. Triumph dropped into a low crouch, the rope passing inches over his helmet with enough force to crack concrete if it had connected.

He rolled to the side as I brought the weapon around in a backhanded swing, his seemingly enhanced reflexes carrying him just beyond my reach again. But I was already compensating, adjusting my grip and redirecting the rope's momentum. The straw responded to my will even as it flew through the air, subtly altering its trajectory mid-swing.

This time I caught him. The rope struck Triumph across his left shoulder with a wet thwack that echoed across the parking lot. The impact staggered him despite his enhanced durability, his boots skidding across the slick pavement as he fought to maintain his balance. Golden armor plates groaned under the stress, the metal actually denting where the straw had made contact with it.

"Damn," Triumph muttered, rolling his shoulder to test for damage. His voice carried genuine surprise, he hadn't expected a plant-based weapon to hit that hard. "That actually hurt."

But he was already adapting, because that's what experienced fighters did. Instead of trying to dodge my next swing entirely, he turned to face it head-on. His chest expanded as he drew breath, and just as my rope reached him, he exhaled a short, controlled sonic burst.

The sound wave caught my weapon mid-flight, the compressed air acting like an invisible shield. The straw rope bounced off the sonic barrier with a sharp crack, its momentum completely reversed now. I had to yank my hands back to avoid having the weapon snap against my own face.

"Straw whips?" Triumph called out, already launching a more focused blast toward the far end of my construct. "That's a new one."

"I'm full of surprises," I shot back, though losing that much material was a serious blow. I was already working with limited resources, and every piece of straw that got destroyed or scattered beyond my reach weakened my position more.

The sonic energy hit the rope like an invisible blade, severing the last three feet of braided fiber with surgical precision. I felt each individual strand part through my connection to the construct, like tiny knives cutting into my consciousness. The severed section fell to the wet pavement with a soft patter, immediately becoming inert matter beyond my control.

I grimaced, pulling the shortened rope back toward me while trying to gather more material from the scattered landscaping debris. Every piece of straw I lost was irreplaceable, unlike bacteria, which I could cultivate and multiply given time, the organic fibers were a single finite resource. Once they were destroyed or moved beyond my physical reach, they were just gone.

Triumph seemed to realize this tactical advantage, because his next attack wasn't aimed at me directly. Instead, he targeted the pile of debris where I'd been gathering additional material, his sonic blast scattering the precious straw in all directions. Strands that had been within my grasp moments before were suddenly twenty feet away, useless to me unless I could physically reach them again.

"Limited resources," he observed, circling me with predatory patience. "Interesting. Most parahumans have powers that regenerate or replenish themselves naturally. But you actually have to gather raw materials first."

I didn't dignify his analysis with a response, too focused on conserving what little straw I had left while keeping him at bay. The shortened rope still had enough reach to be dangerous, but I'd have to be more careful now, more precise. I couldn't afford to lose any more material to his powerful sonic attacks.

Triumph seemed to realize this, because his next attack was rather different. Instead of targeting me directly, he aimed his sonic blast at the ground around my feet, sending debris flying and forcing me to choose between maintaining my footing and keeping contact with my straw construct.

I stumbled, my grip on the organic fibers loosening for just a moment. In that instant of lost control, Triumph was already moving, covering the distance between us in three quick bounds. His fist caught me in the solar plexus, driving the air from my lungs and sending me sprawling backward across the slick pavement.

Pain exploded through my ribs as I hit the ground hard. For a moment, I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only lie there gasping like a fish out of water. Worse, I'd lost contact with my straw construct completely. The organic fibers lay scattered around me, inert and useless without my touch.

"Stay down," Triumph ordered, standing over me with his fists ready. "This doesn't have to get worse."

I rolled onto my side, coughing up what might have been blood. Everything hurt, from my twisted ankle to my bruised ribs to the back of my head where it had struck the pavement. But Dad was still in the van, still depending on me to keep him safe.

"Not... staying down," I wheezed, pushing myself to my hands and knees.

As I moved, my palm brushed against a single strand of straw that had fallen nearby. The contact sent a jolt through me as the power reconnected, the organic fiber responding to my will once again. But there wasn't much within reach, just a few scattered pieces from my destroyed construct.

Triumph sighed, a sound that somehow conveyed both regret and resignation. "I really hoped you'd be smarter than this."

He raised his hand again, preparing what would probably be a finishing blow for me. But I wasn't done yet.

I pressed my palm firmly against the largest piece of straw I could reach and pushed outward with my will. The organic fibers began to move, slowly snaking across the ground toward Triumph's feet. It was a pathetic attempt compared to my earlier constructs, but it served as an effective distraction.

While his attention was focused downward, I sent bacteria streaming through the air toward his helmet. Not to blind him this time, but to clog the filtration systems he'd used earlier on. If I could compromise his breathing, even for a few seconds...

The bacterial attack reached him just as the straw wrapped around his ankle. Triumph stumbled, his sonic blast going wide, and I seized the opportunity to scramble toward a larger pile of landscaping debris about ten feet away.

But I was moving too slowly, my injured body was betraying me. Triumph tore free of the meager straw and cleared the bacteria from his helmet in seconds, his year of experience showing in how efficiently he dealt with my attacks.

"You're not bad for a new trigger," he admitted, advancing on my position. "But you're fighting someone who's been doing this since he was fourteen."

That stung, partly because it was true. For all my newfound power, I was still just a fifteen-year-old kid who'd triggered less than an hour ago. Triumph had been trained, equipped, and seasoned by countless battles against threats far more dangerous than just one desperate teenager.

But I had something he didn't: desperation born of love.

I could sense more organic material at the edges of my Room's expanding radius, a maintenance shed containing landscaping supplies. Bales of straw used for mulching, stored for the hospital's grounds keeping needs. The problem was distance. I had to physically touch the straw to fully control it, and the shed was nearly fifty feet away.

Triumph was almost on top of me now, moving with predatory grace. I sent my remaining bacterial constructs rushing toward him in a desperate holding action, but he carved through them with focused sonic blasts, clearing a path like a hot knife through butter.

"This is your last warning, Dennis," he called out, sonic energy building around his helmet. "Surrender now, or I'll have to put you down."

I managed to reach the pile of landscaping debris and pressed both hands into it, feeling the buried straw respond to my touch. There was more here than I'd initially realized, mulch mixed with organic fibers, old thatch from lawn maintenance, even some decorative dried grass from some landscaping projects.

But it still wasn't enough for what I really needed to do.

That's when I had an idea. Not a good one, maybe, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Instead of trying to use the straw and bacteria separately, what if I combined them more directly? The bacteria could move fast but lacked physical substance. The straw was solid but required my touch to control. But together...

Triumph reached me just as I began implementing my desperate plan. He grabbed me by the front of my shirt, lifting me partly off the ground with enhanced strength that made my own efforts seem pathetic in comparison with him.

"It's over," he said, not unkindly. "You fought well, but it's over."

"No," I gasped, blood running from the corner of my mouth. "It's not."

With both hands still buried in the landscaping debris, I pushed outward with everything I had. Straw erupted from the pile like a golden geyser, thick strands and cables of organic matter surging upward and outward. I had to maintain contact with the main mass, but the construct was large enough now that I could move my hands along its surface while keeping full control.

The straw moved with ponderous determination, forming thick ropes and cables that reached for Triumph. He tried to use his sonic power to clear a path, but there was too much material now, and I was learning to weave it in patterns that could absorb and redirect his attacks.

Strands wrapped around his arms and legs, each individual fiber weak but collectively forming bonds that even his enhanced strength couldn't easily break. More straw coiled around his torso, his helmet, working to immobilize him without causing any permanent harm.

"What are you trying to prove?" Triumph demanded, his voice strained as he fought against the ever-tightening bonds. "That you can beat a Ward? That won't help your father!"

He was right, of course. Even if I somehow managed to defeat him, there were still PRT officers surrounding us, more backup on the way, and an Endbringer approaching the city. Fighting wasn't going to solve our problems.

But I couldn't stop. Not when Dad was so close, not when freedom was just a van ride away.

Triumph flexed his entire body, enhanced muscles straining against the straw bonds. Several strands snapped under the pressure, and I felt each break like a physical blow through my connection to the construct. He was going to tear free soon, and when he did, I'd be in no condition to even hope to stop his counterattack.

But I still had the bacteria I'd been gathering throughout the fight. Thick, viscous masses of greenish-black sludge that had been floating around the edges of our conflict, waiting for just the right moment to be useful.

Instead of trying to reinforce the straw bonds themselves, I directed the bacterial constructs to flow over them like living armor. The microorganisms spread across the organic fibers in thick coatings, but I wasn't done yet.

I began reshaping the bacteria, forcing the sludge to extend outward from the straw in sharp, needle-like projections. The process was exhausting, requiring me to maintain precise control over millions of individual organisms while simultaneously controlling the straw through direct contact, but slowly, the smooth surface of my bonds transformed into something far more dangerous.

Spikes of concentrated bacteria jutted out at irregular intervals, each one several inches long and sharp enough to even pierce flesh. The greenish-black needles glistened wetly in the rain, giving the entire construct a nightmarish appearance that seemed to writhe with malevolent life.

"What the hell did you just do?" Triumph demanded, his struggles becoming more cautious as he felt the spikes pressing against his armor.

"Made it personal," I replied, wiping blood from my mouth with the back of my hand.

But even as I formed the words, a realization was dawning on me. This whole fight, I'd been thinking too small. Too simple. I had two completely different powers at my disposal, and I'd only been using them like separate tools instead of parts of a greater whole.

The bacterial spikes were effective, sure, but they were just the beginning. What if I could make the straw itself toxic by coating it with the right kinds of bacteria? What if I could create mobile platforms of straw that carried bacterial payloads wherever I needed them? What if I stopped thinking about having "a bacteria power" and "a straw power" and started thinking about having one unified arsenal with infinite combinations?

Triumph tested the bacterial spikes carefully, his golden gauntlets probing for weak points without putting enough pressure to trigger the needle-sharp projections. Each movement was deliberate, methodical, the actions of someone who'd been trained to escape from far worse restraints than anything a new trigger could improvise on the spot.

"You're learning fast," he admitted, his voice carrying genuine respect despite our circumstances. "Combining your powers, using them in ways that complement each other. That's advanced thinking for someone who triggered today."

Despite the pain radiating through my body, I felt a flush of pride at the acknowledgment. The bacterial spikes pulsed with malevolent life along the straw bonds, and I realized this was just the beginning. Just the first crude attempt at something much larger and more sophisticated.

"But you're still thinking like someone who's desperate," Triumph continued, his helmet tilting as he analyzed the construct holding him. "Someone who's focused on the immediate problem instead of the bigger picture."

He was right, but not in the way he thought. I had been thinking too small, too reactively. But looking at my creation, straw and bacteria working together in ways that should have been impossible, I could see possibilities unfolding like a flower blooming in fast-forward.

"The bigger picture," I repeated, wiping blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. "Yeah, I'm starting to see it."

That's when I realized something rather crucial: Triumph had been holding back this entire time. Not just in terms of his sonic powers, but his physical capabilities as well. He'd been treating me like a scared kid who needed to be handled with care, using just enough force to subdue me without causing me permanent damage.

But as I watched him test my restraints, I saw his entire demeanor shift. The measured, almost gentle approach disappeared, replaced by something far more serious. His movements became sharper, more aggressive. The careful restraint that had characterized his attacks so far evaporated like morning mist.

"Enough," he said, and the single word carried a weight that made my stomach drop.

Triumph's entire body tensed, muscles straining against the bacterial-spiked straw with the kind of enhanced strength that could bend steel. The organic fibers held for a moment, creaking under the pressure, then began to tear with sharp snapping sounds that echoed out across the parking lot.

"What the hell?" I gasped, pressing my hands more firmly against the remaining straw mass as I felt my construct beginning to fail from the strain.

The spikes I'd been so proud of moments before proved useless against his enhanced durability. Where they should have pierced flesh, they simply scraped across his golden armor, leaving scratches but no real damage. The bacterial matrix that held them together couldn't maintain structural integrity under the force he was applying to it.

With a sound like ripping canvas, Triumph tore free of my constructs completely. Straw scattered in all directions, the organic fibers losing cohesion without my direct contact to maintain their structure. The bacterial spikes that had seemed so threatening moments before dissolved into harmless sludge as my concentration shattered from shock.

But he didn't stop there. Instead of pausing to assess the situation or giving me another chance to surrender, Triumph launched himself forward with explosive speed that caught me completely off guard.

I tried to throw myself backward, gathering what little straw I could reach while sending bacteria streaming toward him in a desperate defensive screen. But my movements were sluggish, hampered by a blend of exhaustion and injury, while Triumph moved with the fluid precision of someone who'd been doing this for over a year.

He carved through my bacterial constructs like they were made of tissue paper, focused sonic pulses clearing a path directly toward me. The straw I managed to grab responded too slowly, the organic fibers moving like they were underwater compared to the lightning-fast approach of my opponent.

His first punch caught me in the ribs with the force of a sledgehammer.

The impact lifted me completely off my feet and sent me flying backward through the rain, my body spinning helplessly through the air. Time seemed to slow as I tumbled, droplets of water hanging suspended around me like crystal beads. I could see Triumph's golden form growing smaller as I flew away from him, could feel the terrible wrongness in my chest where his fist had connected with me.

I crashed into the side of a parked car with a tremendous bang that echoed across the lot. The metal buckled around my impact point, safety glass spider-webbing and falling in glittering chunks. Pain exploded through my chest like someone had detonated a grenade inside my ribcage.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only lie there in the wreckage, gasping like a fish out of water as my nervous system tried to process the damage. Something was definitely broken, maybe several somethings. Each attempt to draw air sent lightning bolts of agony throughout my torso.

But Triumph wasn't done. Through my blurred vision, I could see him approaching with predatory grace, his boots clicking against the wet pavement with mechanical precision. His helmet gleamed in the sodium lights, the stylized lion's mane catching the rain as it streamed down the golden surface.

I rolled away from the car just as his boot came down where my head had been, the impact denting the metal and sending vibrations through the ground. The movement sent fresh waves of pain through my damaged ribs, but staying still meant certain unconsciousness or maybe worse.

Desperate, I pressed my palm against a scattered piece of straw and tried to form another construct. The organic fibers responded sluggishly, my concentration shattered by pain and panic. What should have been a defensive barrier came out as a pathetic tangle of loose strands that Triumph stepped through without even slowing down.

"I tried to do this the easy way," Triumph said, his voice carrying that resonant power even at conversational volume. "But you wouldn't listen."

His gauntleted hand closed around my wrist with casual strength, enhanced muscles making my attempts to break free feel like a child struggling against an adult. With effortless ease, he yanked me upright and drove his other fist right into my solar plexus.

The blow drove every molecule of air from my lungs and left me doubled over, retching. Stars exploded across my vision as my diaphragm spasmed, unable to remember how to pull in oxygen. Blood filled my mouth, copper-bright and warm, and I realized with growing horror that this wasn't just a beating, this was a systematic dismantling of my ability to fight back.

"My father," I wheezed, trying to form the words despite my damaged ribs and lack of oxygen. "Please, he needs,"

"Your father will get the best medical care available," Triumph interrupted, shaking me slightly to emphasize his point. "But first, you need to stop this insanity."

I tried to gather bacteria from the surrounding area, reaching out with my power toward the microorganisms coating nearby surfaces. But my concentration was shattered by pain and oxygen deprivation. The bacteria responded sluggishly, forming weak, poorly-defined constructs that Triumph dispersed with casual sonic pulses.

My straw manipulation was even worse. The organic fibers within my reach moved like they were trapped in amber, responding to my will with agonizing slowness. By the time I managed to form even the simplest construct, Triumph had already repositioned himself to counter and crush it.

"You're tough," he acknowledged, grabbing a strand of straw I'd been trying to weaponize and tearing it apart with his bare hands. "I'll give you that. But toughness isn't enough when you're fighting someone with actual training."

He demonstrated his point by grabbing me by the front of my shirt and lifting me off the ground with one hand, holding me at arm's length like I weighed nothing at all. Through the pain and oxygen deprivation, I could see my reflection in his helmet's visor, a pathetic figure, bloody and broken, hanging limply in the grip of someone who was clearly my superior in every way that mattered.

Triumph drew back his free hand, fist cocked for what would probably be a finishing blow. I closed my eyes, bracing for impact, but instead of unconsciousness, I felt him pause.

"Last chance," he said, his voice softer now but no less determined. "Surrender. Let us help your father properly. Let us help you."

Something in his tone, not quite pity, but something approaching it, sent a surge of rage through me hotter than anything I'd ever felt before. He was offering me mercy like I was some rabid animal that needed to be put down humanely. Like I was just a scared kid who didn't understand the situation at hand.

But I did understand. I understood that these people wanted to take Dad back to the hospital, back to the oncology ward, where they'd pump him full of more poison and radiation while billing us into bankruptcy. I understood that they saw my powers as something to be controlled, regulated, possibly exploited for their own purposes.

Most of all, I understood that no one, not Triumph, not the PRT, not the doctors, would ever care about Dad the way I did. To them, he was just another patient, another case file, another statistic. To me, he was everything.

"No," I whispered, opening my eyes to meet his visor's blank stare. "I won't let you take him back to that place."

With the last reserves of my strength, I reached out with both my powers simultaneously. Bacteria streamed from every surface within my Room's expanding radius, while straw burst up from scattered landscaping debris. But instead of trying to coordinate them as separate abilities, I let them merge, intertwine, become something entirely new.

The bacterial mass formed the core, a writhing sphere of concentrated microorganisms that pulsed with malevolent life. The straw wrapped around it like a shell, organic fibers weaving themselves into geometric patterns that seemed to shift and flow even as I watched. Together, they created something that was more than the sum of its parts, a hybrid construct that combined the speed of bacterial manipulation with the solid impact of the organic matter.

I sent it flying toward Triumph's face like a living cannonball.

He reacted with inhuman speed, dropping me and bringing both hands up to catch the projectile. The construct hit his palms with enough force to stagger him backward, but his enhanced strength held. For a moment, we were locked in a contest of wills, my power pushing the hybrid mass forward while his physical capabilities held it at bay.

"Clever," Triumph grunted, his boots scraping against the wet pavement as he fought to maintain his footing. "But not clever enough."

He opened his mouth and released a focused sonic blast directly into the construct. The sound wave hit the bacterial core like a hammer, disrupting the delicate matrix that held the microorganisms together. The entire hybrid mass came apart in mere seconds, straw and sludge scattering across the parking lot.

But I wasn't done. Even as my primary attack failed, I was already forming more backups. Bacteria gathered into needle-thin projectiles that I fired from multiple angles, while straw rose up from the ground in grasping tendrils. Not coordinated attacks this time, but a frantic barrage designed to overwhelm his defenses through sheer volume.

The bacterial needles whistled through the air, each one aimed at different parts of Triumph's body, his joints, his visor, anywhere the armor might have some gaps. Simultaneously, stringy strands of straw erupted from cracks in the asphalt, weaving together into rope-thick tentacles that lashed out at his ankles and wrists.

Triumph spun in place, his seemingly enhanced reflexes allowing him to track and counter multiple threats simultaneously. His first sonic pulse shattered three bacterial projectiles mid-flight, the concentrated sound waves reducing them to harmless mist. A sharp twist of his wrist caught a straw tendril trying to wrap around his arm, his gauntleted fingers tearing through the plant matter like it was tissue paper.

But I kept the pressure on, forming fresh attacks even as the old ones crumbled. More bacteria coalesced into spinning disks that I sent careening toward him in erratic patterns, while additional straw constructs burst from storm drains and landscaping, turning the parking lot into a writhing forest of reaching limbs.

For a few precious seconds, I was actually forcing him to work, actually making him treat me like a real threat instead of just a wayward child. Triumph's movements became more aggressive, his stance shifting from defensive to actively engaged. A concentrated sonic blast obliterated an entire cluster of bacterial constructs, while he grabbed a thick straw rope and used it like a whip to clear a path through my defenses.

"Persistent," he grunted, ducking under a bacterial disk that came close enough to ruffle the golden plumes on his helmet. "But unfocused."

The moment didn't last. As my attacks grew more desperate and less coordinated, Triumph began to methodically dismantle my defenses. A precise sonic burst here, aimed directly at the base of a straw construct, caused the entire formation to collapse in on itself. A casual backhand there, swatting aside bacterial projectiles with contemptuous ease. Suddenly I was running out of material to work with, the available bacteria thinning as I exhausted even the large supply within my Room's boundaries.

My latest wave of attacks, a dozen bacterial spears launched in rapid succession, met a wall of precisely modulated sound that turned them to vapor before they could even reach him. The straw tendrils I'd been nurturing from underground utilities wilted and crumbled as Triumph's sonic waves disrupted their structural integrity at the molecular level.

"You're getting sloppy," he observed, stepping through the remains of my latest barrier with barely a pause. His golden armor gleamed wetly in the light rain, unmarked despite the intensity of our exchange. "Panic makes you predictable."

He was right, and that knowledge only made me more desperate. I gathered every scrap of organic matter within reach, bacteria and straw flowing together into one massive construct that towered above us both. It was crude, unstable, held together more by my desperation than actual technique, but it was also the largest thing I'd created yet.

The hybrid mass lashed out with pseudopods the size of telephone poles, each one trailing smaller tendrils of bacterial sludge. Triumph ducked the first strike, rolled under the second, then launched himself upward in a tremendous leap that carried him above the construct's reach.

At the apex of his jump, he drew in a deep breath and released the most powerful sonic blast I'd yet experienced. The sound hit my creation like a physical wall, the compression wave tearing through the bacterial matrix and scattering the straw components in all directions. My largest attack was reduced to harmless debris in less than a second with just a single attack.

Triumph landed in a perfect three-point stance, his boots hitting the pavement with enough force to crack the asphalt. When he straightened, there was something different in his posture, a finality that made my blood run cold.

"Enough," he said simply.

The word carried a finality that made my blood freeze in my veins. Everything about Triumph's posture had changed in that single moment, gone was the measured restraint, the careful modulation of force. What stood before me now was a veteran Ward who had simply decided this needed to end.

I tried to retreat, but my injured body betrayed me completely. My twisted ankle buckled under the slightest pressure, sending lightning bolts of pain up my leg that made my vision blur. The damage to my ribs turned every breath into an exercise in controlled agony, each inhalation feeling like someone was driving hot knives between my bones. I stumbled backward, off-balance and vulnerable, just as Triumph began his final approach.

This time, there was no hesitation in his movements, no careful assessment or consideration for prolonging the engagement. He moved with purposeful efficiency, covering ground with fluid strides that spoke of someone who had made a decision and intended to see it through quickly.

In desperation, I pressed my palms against the wet pavement, frantically searching for any bacteria or straw that might help me mount one last defense. My awareness spread out through my Room, cataloging every microorganism within reach, every scattered fiber of organic matter that might serve as ammunition.

There wasn't much. Triumph had been thorough in his destruction of my constructs, and what little material remained was scattered beyond my immediate reach or too damaged to be useful. A few clusters of bacteria clung to storm drains, some fragments of straw lodged between parked cars, scraps, really. Nothing that could realistically slow someone of his experience.

But I had to try.

I gathered what bacteria I could find, pulling the microorganisms from puddles and air vents, condensing them into thin projectiles that whistled through the rain toward Triumph's advancing form. They moved with desperate speed, my panic lending them a frantic energy.

Triumph didn't even slow down. His helmet tracked the incoming attacks with mechanical precision, and he released a casual sonic pulse that dispersed them into harmless mist before they could reach striking distance. The sound wave was perfectly controlled, just enough force to neutralize the threat without wasting energy.

I tried the straw next, reaching out to the scattered fragments lodged under nearby vehicles. The organic fibers responded sluggishly to my will, weaving together into thin tendrils that erupted from the asphalt cracks around Triumph's feet. They moved with painful slowness, my injured concentration making the manipulation feel clumsy and uncertain.

Triumph's response was efficient. He simply stepped over the largest tendril and dispatched the others with precise sonic bursts, each one calibrated to sever the constructs cleanly. No wasted motion, no unnecessary force, just professional competence.

The gap between us continued to shrink. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. Each step brought him closer to the inevitable conclusion, and I could feel my options dwindling with every passing second.

I made one last desperate attempt, gathering every scrap of material within my diminished reach and forming it into a hybrid construct, bacteria and straw woven together. The mass was pathetic compared to my previous efforts, no larger than a basketball and held together more by desperation than technique.

I hurled it at his face with everything I had left.

Triumph caught it with one hand.

The casual nature of the gesture was devastating. He didn't dodge, didn't use his sonic powers, didn't even slow his approach. He simply reached out and plucked my attack from the air, his seemingly enhanced reflexes making my desperate assault look laughably slow.

For a moment, he examined the construct in his palm, then crushed it without apparent effort. The remains oozed between his fingers and dripped to the wet pavement.

That's when I felt it for the first time, a subtle vibration running through Triumph's body as he drew closer. It wasn't visible, but I could sense it somehow, a rhythmic pulse that seemed to emanate from his chest and spread outward through his limbs. The vibrations were perfectly controlled, synchronized, adding a mechanical precision to movements that were already enhanced beyond normal human capability.

He was using some aspect of his power that he hadn't employed until now. Something that made his already formidable abilities even more effective.

I scrambled backward on my hands and knees, but my damaged body made the movement pitifully slow. Triumph covered the remaining space in three quick strides, his boots clicking against the pavement with metallic precision.

"I'm sorry it came to this," Triumph said, and something in his voice suggested he actually meant it. "But you left me no choice."

I raised my hands in a desperate attempt to ward him off, but he simply reached through my guard. His gauntleted fingers closed around my wrist with controlled strength.

When his first punch connected with my stomach, I felt those vibrations transfer through the impact point like a shockwave. The blow itself was devastating, enhanced strength driving his fist into my solar plexus with tremendous force. But the vibrations amplified the effect somehow, the resonant energy spreading through my internal organs and turning what should have been a single point of impact into a full-body trauma.

I doubled over, retching, as my nervous system tried to process damage it wasn't equipped to handle. The vibrations continued for several seconds after the initial impact, making my muscles spasm and my vision blur.

I tried to crawl away, but he simply placed his boot on my shoulder, pinning me gently but firmly in place. The pressure wasn't cruel, just absolutely final.

His second punch caught me in the ribs, and again those vibrations spread through my chest cavity like ripples, each wave seeming to find new ways to disrupt my body's attempts to function normally. I felt something shift, possibly crack, as my ribs struggled to absorb forces they were never designed to handle.

I couldn't speak, couldn't breathe properly, could only lie there gasping as my diaphragm spasmed from the resonant trauma. The vibrations from his enhanced strikes seemed to echo through my body, making my muscles twitch involuntarily and my concentration scatter like leaves in a storm.

My connection to the few remaining bacteria in the area wavered and faded completely as pain overwhelmed my ability to focus. The straw fragments I'd been trying to manipulate went limp and lifeless, my power abandoning me when I needed it most.

"I'm sorry it came to this," Triumph said, and something in his voice suggested he actually meant it. "But you left me no choice."

His fist caught me square in the jaw with precisely calculated force. Not enough to break bones or cause permanent damage, but more than enough to scramble my nervous system and send me right into unconsciousness.

The world exploded into stars and static. My legs gave out beneath me, and I crumpled to the wet pavement like a marionette with its strings cut. Through the ringing in my ears, I could hear voices approaching, PRT officers, medical personnel, people whose job it was to clean up messes like me.

As consciousness began to slip away, I managed to turn my head toward the van where Dad lay unconscious. Even through my blurred vision, I could see that his color was better than it had been in months. The cancerous gray pallor that had haunted his features for so long was gone, replaced by something that looked almost healthy.

I'd done it. Despite everything that had gone wrong, despite the fight and the injuries and the inevitable capture, I'd actually saved him. The cancer was gone. The thing that had been slowly killing my father for months was no longer eating away at him from the inside.

That thought sustained me as darkness closed in around the edges of my vision. I'd lost the battle, but I'd won the war that mattered most. My father was alive, healthy, and free from the disease that had been destroying him cell by cell.

The last thing I heard before unconsciousness claimed me was Triumph's voice, speaking into his radio with professional calm.

"Subject is down. Repeat, subject is down. Requesting immediate medical assistance for both the parahuman and his father."

Then everything went black, and I knew nothing more