Power's Price

Cecil Stedman stood with his arms crossed, his weathered face set in a permanent scowl. Deep lines creased his forehead, a testament to years of stress and impossible decisions. His graying hair was a curious combination of equal parts bald and mullet, and his eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the room with practiced precision. The other was concealed beneath a black eyepatch, a relic from a past battle. His presence alone commanded respect—a man who had seen too much, done too much, and carried the weight of it all without complaint.

The training facility was dim, the only illumination coming from the faint red glow of emergency lighting along the walls. The air was thick with tension, the kind that came from knowing something deadly was lurking just out of sight. Cecil watched the cloaked GDA soldiers move through the simulation, their active camouflage making them nearly imperceptible. At best, they were shifting distortions, brief warps in the air when they moved too fast or turned at the wrong angle. To the untrained eye, they weren't there at all.

But Cecil knew better.

He could hear the faint scuff of boots against the padded flooring, the almost imperceptible shift of weight as they moved through the space. The simulation wasn't kind. Holographic hostiles flickered to life—armed terrorists, enhanced threats, even simulated heroes. The soldiers didn't hesitate. A blade flashed into existence for less than a second before a holographic throat was cut, blood splattering onto the floor before the weapon disappeared again. A gunshot echoed, but there was no source—just the distortion of a soldier repositioning before his cloaking fully caught up.

Efficient. Lethal. Ghosts on a battlefield.

Cecil exhaled through his nose, unimpressed but approving. A good distraction from the endless headaches his job brought him.

Then Donald entered, his face like stone, gripping a tablet so tightly his knuckles were white.

"Sir, you need to see this. Now."

Cecil turned, eyes narrowing. "That bad?"

Without a word, Donald swiped the footage onto the nearest monitor. The grainy security feed played. A fast-food restaurant. A robbery in progress. And Mark Grayson, caught in the middle of it. Cecil watched as the gunman turned, fired point-blank. The muzzle flash lit up the screen for a fraction of a second. Mark staggered. Blood poured down his chest, dark and pooling. His body jerked as he collapsed, limbs twitching.

Then—nothing.

No breath. No movement. His vitals flatlined.

Twenty seconds passed. Then thirty. 

And then—Mark moved.

Not a slow, struggling rise, but something inhuman. One moment he was dead, the next he was upright. The camera struggled to capture it, frames blurring as if reality itself couldn't keep up. His fingers twitched, his head snapped up, and in an instant, he was on his feet.

The gunshot wound? Gone. The blood still covered his uniform, but the hole had vanished. His eyes locked onto the criminals. There was no hesitation. No second thoughts.

Mark was on them in an instant.

Cecil watched as one man swung a crowbar—Mark didn't dodge, didn't even acknowledge it. The weapon bent around his skull like a paper straw against a brick wall. Before the attacker could even register what had happened, Mark's hand shot out, clamping around his throat.

There was no struggle, no drawn-out fight. Just raw, unchecked force.

The sound of cartilage snapping was picked up even through the grainy feed.

The body hit the floor, twitching once before going still.

The last gunman bolted, fleeing out the door. Mark didn't follow. He stood there, staring at his hands, his breathing rapid. Almost panicked.

Donald swiped to another file, pulling up a medical readout. "We had a drone nearby. It scanned him remotely. His vitals flatlined for thirty full seconds before surging back up. When he got up, his heart rate was unnaturally high but stable. And his body—"

Cecil already knew where this was going. "It adapted."

Donald nodded. "No residual damage. The bullet just ripped right through him—his body rewrote itself leaving only scar tissue behind. 

Cecil rubbed his forehead. "And he killed that guy without thinking."

Donald's voice was grim. "He was reacting. Instinct over reason. And his instincts? They're dangerous."

Cecil exhaled sharply. Mark wasn't just manifesting his powers—he had crossed a line without even realizing it. A line his father had walked with terrifying ease.

"Get Debbie. Now."

The teleportation sequence activated, and in an instant, Cecil emerged in Debbie Grayson's living room. She stood from the couch, startled but already putting the pieces together from Cecil's expression.

"It happened, didn't it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cecil nodded. "Mark got his powers. But it wasn't clean."

Debbie's eyes flickered with something unreadable—relief, dread, fear. "Where is he?"

"Still at the scene. It's bad, Debbie. Real bad."

She swallowed hard, but her voice remained steady. "Take me to him."

Cecil gave her a long look as he handed her a spare transponder. The room warped around them, and in an instant, they were gone.

The fast-food restaurant was empty now, the smell of burnt meat and gunpowder thick in the air. Mark was still there, sitting on the floor, staring at his bloodstained hands. His breathing was shallow, his eyes distant. The corpse of the man he killed lay just feet away, untouched since the moment Mark had let him go.

---

Debbie stepped forward first. "Mark."

He flinched at her voice, his breath hitching as if waking from a nightmare. His wide, unfocused eyes finally landed on her. "Mom?"

She crouched beside him, reaching out but hesitating just before touching his shoulder. He looked... lost. Like he wasn't fully there, still trapped somewhere between life and death. 

"You're okay," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "You're alive."

Mark let out a shuddering breath, his shoulders trembling. "I—I was dead." His voice cracked, raw, and shaken. "I felt it. Everything just... stopped. And then it all came back, and—" 

His gaze dropped to his hands, fingers curling into fists. Then his whole body tensed, his breathing quickening again. "It hurt."

Debbie blinked. "What?" 

Mark clenched his teeth, his fingers digging into his palms. "The pain. When I got shot. It wasn't like getting punched, or scraped, or bruised." His voice was rising, a bitter edge creeping into it. "It was like something inside me was getting ripped apart like I was being unmade. And then—then I was nothing. And when I came back, it was like every nerve in my body was screaming all at once."

His breaths came in short bursts, his nostrils flaring as anger flared behind his eyes. "And then I saw him." He gestured sharply toward the dead man sprawled across the floor. "The guy who did it. And all I could think about was making sure he could never do it again."

His hands trembled, but not from fear this time. From something darker. "I didn't even think about it—I just reacted. And when I let go... when I saw what I did..."He looked up at Debbie, his eyes searching hers for something—justification, understanding, anything. "I should feel worse. I should feel guilty." He swallowed hard. "But I don't. Not as much as I should."

Silence. 

Debbie's fingers curled into the fabric of her jeans, her face tight with barely restrained emotion. 

Cecil studied Mark intently, watching him closely, trying to understand what was happening. Every word, every expression, felt like a piece of the puzzle he needed to solve.

This wasn't just an accident. This was a shift. A change in Mark's very nature.

He had to be sure. Mark had the potential to become something far more powerful, but he was still young. And if he didn't learn to control that power, to channel it, he could easily lose himself along the way.

"He needs proper training and guidance" Cecil thought

Cecil could already see it—Mark was his last line of defense against his father's unknown past. Even after 18 years of hard-fought victories and the prevention of multiple cataclysmic events Cecil couldn't help but distrust Nolan. 

With Mark's traumatic heroic origin unfolding before his eyes, Cecil's objective becomes clear. "Cultivate a Savior" 

Cecil let out a quiet breath. "This could go either way," he thought to himself. "I don't want to invest in our downfall, but this might be our only chance to save the world. 

If Mark's body kept evolving like this, if he kept growing stronger without understanding the consequences, it could lead to a breaking point. Cecil knew better than anyone how dangerous power could be when unchecked.

It wasn't just about Mark's power—it was about the kind of man he would become. He had been raised on Earth and taught compassion, empathy, and restraint. But Nolan had been raised on Viltrum a planet that produced Earth's personal God of War. 

The thought sent a chill down Cecil's spine.

But for now, Mark was still here. Still shaken. Still struggling. That meant there was hope.

Cecil finally spoke, his voice measured, carefully devoid of the concern clawing at the edges of his mind. "You did what you had to do, kid." He glanced at the body, at the blood. "That doesn't make it easy. But you're alive. And that means you still have a choice in what happens next."

Mark looked at him, something flickering behind his eyes—doubt, fear, maybe even relief.

Debbie reached for her son's hand, gripping it firmly. "You're still you, Mark. No matter what happened, no matter how it felt—you're still my son."

Mark exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. But the storm inside him hadn't settled. Not yet.

---

Nolan hovered above the wreckage, surveying the scene below with a sharp, unreadable gaze. The stench of blood, scorched grease, and burnt flesh lingered in the night air. The fast-food restaurant was in ruins—glass shattered, walls cracked, furniture overturned. But Nolan barely paid any of it any mind.

His focus was on the boy sitting in the center of it all.

Mark.

Slumped over, fists trembling, blood still wet on his hands. Debbie was next to him, her voice soft but urgent, trying to reach him, to pull him out of whatever storm was raging in his head.

And then there was Cecil. Arms crossed, jaw set, watching like a man who had already run through a hundred worst-case scenarios and didn't like a single one of them.

Nolan descended, landing without a sound.

Debbie turned first, her breath catching. Cecil barely moved.

But Mark—Mark stiffened.

"Nolan," Cecil greeted, voice flat.

Nolan ignored him. His eyes locked onto his son. "Mark."

Mark's shoulders tensed further, his breath shaky. His fingers curled, then unclenched, like he was trying to convince himself the blood wasn't real. Finally, he looked up, meeting Nolan's gaze.

"Dad."

It wasn't a greeting. It wasn't relief. Just a word, hollow and lost.

Nolan's expression didn't change. His eyes flicked to the corpse lying on the ground. A man Mark had killed. A man who had clearly given him trouble—but not enough trouble. Not enough to stop Mark from doing what he had to do.

"You're here fast," Cecil muttered. "Didn't take long to find out, huh?"

Nolan finally turned to him. "This isn't your concern."

Cecil raised an eyebrow. "Kid just killed a man for the first time. That is my concern."

Nolan exhaled sharply, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "No, Cecil." His tone was calm, but it left no room for debate. "This is a family matter."

Cecil didn't move. His gaze flickered to Mark, then to Debbie, then back to Nolan. The tension in the air tightened, coiling around them.

"You sure about that?" Cecil asked. "Because last time I checked, I'm the one cleaning up the messes your family makes."

Nolan's smile vanished.

"Leave."

Cecil didn't flinch. He just studied Nolan for a long, unreadable moment.

Then, with a slow exhale, he pulled out his phone, typed something, and tucked it back into his coat. "Fine," he said, voice casual, but his expression was anything but. "But don't think this conversation's over."

He turned on his heel, giving Mark one last glance before walking away.

The moment he was gone, Nolan stepped forward.

Mark's breathing was still uneven. His hands shook.

"I killed him," Mark whispered. His hands were still trembling. "I didn't mean to. I—I wasn't thinking."

Nolan studied him, then crouched slightly, lowering himself to eye level. "You reacted." His voice was steady, firm. "That's what happens in a fight. You hesitate, you die. He hesitated. You didn't."

Mark's head snapped up. "That's not the point!" His voice cracked, raw. "I—" He swallowed hard. "I don't feel good about it."

"You weren't supposed to," Nolan said simply.

Before Mark could respond, Debbie stepped between them.

Her hand shot out, gripping Nolan's arm. "Don't," she whispered. "Not like this."

Nolan met her gaze. Something unreadable flickered across his face.

"He's not you, Nolan," she said, voice quiet but firm. "He doesn't see the world the way you do."

Nolan's jaw tightened. "He's strong."

"He's scared." Debbie's grip on his arm tightened. "And right now, he doesn't need a lecture. He needs his father."

The tension between them was thick, years of unspoken words weighing down on the moment.

Nolan looked at her for a long second, then exhaled through his nose.

He pulled his arm away—not harshly, but deliberately. His gaze shifted back to Mark.

"You'll understand one day," he said, quieter now. "And when you do, this moment won't haunt you the way you think it will."

Mark said nothing.

Debbie knelt beside him again, resting a hand on his back.

For once, Nolan didn't stop her.

He turned back to Mark. "You're changing," he said, quieter now. "Whether you like it or not."

Mark clenched his jaw. "I don't know if I want to change."

Nolan's gaze softened—just a fraction. "It doesn't matter what you want." His voice was firm, absolute. "It's already happened."

And there was no turning back now.