Chapter 8

The morning light filtered through the cracks in the walls, casting jagged streaks of gold across the room. Scott stirred, his eyes fluttering open to the familiar sight of his battered bedroom. The holes in the walls, remnants of last night's chaos, stood as silent witnesses to the storm that had raged within him. The beams were splintered, the furniture askew, but the room had been tidied—neatly, methodically. His father's work, no doubt. James had always been the kind of man who cleaned up messes, even when they weren't his own.

Scott sat up, the memory of his newfound abilities rushing back to him like a tide. For a moment, he had forgotten. For a moment, he had been just a boy waking up in his own bed. But the moment he pushed himself off the mattress, he was reminded. His body launched upward, weightless, as if the earth had relinquished its claim on him. He hovered there, a foot above the bed, his heart pounding in his chest. Panic surged, but he forced himself to breathe. Slow, deliberate breaths. He focused on the tension in his muscles, willing them to relax, and felt his heartbeat steady. Gradually, he descended, his feet touching the floor with the softness of a feather.

He stood there for a moment, staring at his hands as if they belonged to someone else. They looked the same—calloused from years of skateboarding, a faint scar running across his left knuckle from a childhood accident—but they felt different. They felt... powerful. Dangerous. He shook the thought away and stepped out of his doorless room, the cool morning air brushing against his skin as he made his way downstairs.

The house was quiet, save for the faint sizzle of batter hitting a hot pan. Scott paused at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes scanning the broken kitchen counter. The memory of last night flashed in his mind—the surge of energy, the uncontrollable force that had torn through the room, the look on his father's face. Fear? Concern? He couldn't tell. But this morning, the house felt different. Calmer. The scent of pancakes wafted through the air, mingling with the faint aroma of coffee.

"Aye, kid!" His father's voice broke the silence, warm and familiar. Scott turned to see James standing by the stove, a spatula in hand. The man's dark skin glowed in the morning light, his beard neatly trimmed, his short hair perfectly in place. He looked as he always did—steady, unshakable. But there was something in his eyes, something Scott couldn't quite place.

"Hey, Dad," Scott said, his voice hesitant. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

James flipped a pancake with a practiced flick of his wrist. "Yeah, but... I thought I'd stay in today. Keep you some company." He turned, holding up a plate stacked high with golden-brown pancakes. "I made 'em just how you like 'em."

Scott forced a smile and took a seat by the broken counter. His father slid a plate of pancakes toward him, then poured a cup of coffee and handed it over. The gesture was so ordinary, so routine, that it almost felt surreal. How could they sit here, eating pancakes, when everything had changed?

"Sooo, what about school?" Scott asked, poking at his food with a fork.

James hesitated, his expression shifting. "Unfortunately, your school also got bombed. So you'll stay at home for the moment. Besides," he added, his tone careful, "we need to figure out what's going on with you before we can think about setting you loose to the world."

Scott froze, his fork hovering above his plate. "Setting me loose, huh?" he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. He looked up at his father, searching for something—reassurance, maybe, or an apology.

James sighed, running a hand over his face. "I didn't mean it like that. It's just..." He trailed off, struggling to find the right words.

"It's okay," Scott interrupted, his tone flat. "I know I'm dangerous."

"You're not dangerous," James said quickly, his voice firm. "Just... different."

Scott let out a sharp, sarcastic laugh. "I'm not a kid, Dad. You don't have to pretend."

"I'm not pretending," James insisted. He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Scott's. "Maybe you are dangerous, but you always were, everyone is. You're just... more dangerous than you were before. All I'm saying is we should understand this new... you, before..." He hesitated, his voice trailing off.

"Before you let me loose," Scott finished, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was a taunt, a jab at his father's choice of words, but there was no malice behind it. Just a boy trying to make light of a situation that felt anything but light.

James chuckled, shaking his head. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Yeah, I get it," Scott said, his smirk softening into a genuine smile. For a moment, they were just father and son, sharing a quiet breakfast in a broken kitchen. But beneath the surface, the unspoken truth lingered—a truth neither of them was ready to face. Scott was different now. And different, they both knew, could be dangerous.

The fluorescent lights of the D.S.A.C. headquarters buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow over the sleek, metallic walls of the conference room. General Walker sat at the long, polished table, his posture rigid, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning, but the tension was palpable. Walker's mind raced, though his face betrayed nothing. He was a man accustomed to waiting, to biding his time, but this felt different. This felt like the calm before a storm.

The doors burst open with a sharp hiss, and the president strode in, flanked by two towering bodyguards. They moved in perfect unison, their black suits and shaded glasses giving them an almost mechanical quality. The president himself was a stark contrast—a man in his fifties, his once-dark hair now streaked with gray, his face lined with the wear of years spent under the weight of responsibility. He moved with purpose, his sharp eyes scanning the room as he made his way to the head of the table.

Walker stood immediately, snapping to attention with a crisp salute. His body was a statue, every muscle taut, every movement precise. The president waved a hand dismissively. "At ease, General," he said, his voice clipped and authoritative. He took his seat, the bodyguards positioning themselves behind him like sentinels, their expressions unreadable behind their dark glasses.

"I've received news of the passing of Agent Roy Mill," the president began, his tone devoid of emotion. "Seems he was at the epicenter of the explosion at Redwood."

Walker's jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. "Affirmative, sir. Quite unfortunate."

The president leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. "If he'd done his job right and been prepared, he'd still be alive, and we probably wouldn't have this mess on our hands," he said, his words cold and cutting. There was no remorse in his voice, no acknowledgment of the life lost. To him, Mill was little more than a failed asset, a casualty of incompetence.

Walker stared at him for a moment, caught off guard by the callousness of the statement. He had known Mill—not well, but enough to know he was a good agent, a dedicated man. To hear his death brushed aside so casually left a bitter taste in Walker's mouth. But he said nothing. He knew better than to question the president.

"Anyway," the president continued, as if the matter were already settled, "we need someone to take his place, especially now, given our current crisis. So, effective immediately, you're the new lead agent of the D.S.A.C. I expect a better performance from you."

Walker blinked, the weight of the announcement settling over him like a heavy blanket. There was no ceremony, no recognition of the honor—if it could even be called that. Just a blunt declaration, a transfer of responsibility as if it were nothing more than a routine assignment.

"This position is more focused on performance than petty things like honor and pride," the president added, his tone dismissive. "Nothing is more important than your duty. So, no inauguration, no fanfare. Your details will be added to the system, and you'll be assigned everything you need to perform. So, perform."

With that, the president stood, straightening his suit with a few brisk tugs. He glanced at Walker one last time, his expression unreadable. "Any questions you have will be answered by your team. I'll be in touch."

And just like that, he was gone, the doors sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss. Walker remained seated, the room suddenly feeling much larger, much emptier. He exhaled slowly, his mind racing as he processed the abrupt shift in his role. It wasn't that he wasn't used to responsibility—he had spent years climbing the ranks, proving himself capable. But this... this felt different. It felt less like a promotion and more like a burden being dumped on his shoulders, a role he was being thrust into out of necessity rather than merit.

He sat there for a moment, the silence pressing in around him, before finally standing. There was work to be done, and the president's words echoed in his mind: 'Nothing is more important than your duty.'Walker straightened his uniform, his expression hardening. Whatever his feelings, he would do his job. He always did.

Back in the heart of Redwood, the aftermath of the explosion was a grim tableau of destruction and resilience. The once-vibrant beach was now a scarred wasteland, littered with debris and the remnants of chaos. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and ash, mingling with the salty tang of the ocean breeze. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the scene as hazmat teams moved methodically through the wreckage, their bright yellow suits stark against the muted tones of the ruined landscape.

The government had mobilized quickly, their response a well-oiled machine honed by years of dealing with calamities. This was a world where disaster was not a stranger, where the line between order and chaos was often razor-thin. The people of Redwood, like those in countless other cities, had learned to adapt, to rebuild, to carry on. They would not be pinned down by a single occurrence, no matter how devastating. Life, in all its stubborn tenacity, would go on.

The hazmat teams worked in silence, their movements efficient and deliberate. They moved through the debris like ghosts, their faces obscured by masks and visors, their voices muffled by the hum of machinery and the occasional crackle of radios. They were the unsung heroes of these moments, the ones who cleaned up the messes left behind by battles they could never hope to understand.

One of the teams stumbled upon a particularly gruesome sight—a human figure, or what was left of one. The body was charred beyond recognition, its form fused with the surrounding rock as if it had been caught in the heart of an inferno. It was a haunting sight, a stark reminder of the cost of the battle that had raged here. The team moved quickly, their training kicking in as they prepared to remove the remains.

With practiced efficiency, they lifted the body, their gloved hands struggling to get a firm grip on the brittle, blackened form. As they maneuvered it into a body bag, there was a sharp, cracking sound—a fracture in the charred chest. A faint red glow emanated from the crack. It was subtle at first, and went unnoticed.