Chapter 10

In a dark, cold, sterile room, illuminated by the harsh glow of fluorescent lights that reflected off the polished metal surfaces. The air was thick with the hum of machinery and the faint scent of oil and antiseptic. Miles stood in the center of the room, his armored suit—a sleek, robotic exoskeleton that marked him as the hero Meta—clinking softly as he shifted his weight. His helmet was off, revealing a face that was usually full of life and energy, but now it was shadowed with something heavier. His eyes, usually bright with curiosity and determination, were downcast, his spirits visibly dampened.

"Hello, Dad," Miles greeted, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions.

"Father," corrected a voice, gritty and mechanized, as if a machine were speaking for a man. The sound was jarring, devoid of warmth or humanity. It came from the far corner of the room, where a sophisticated mechanical chair sat, its gears and hydraulics whirring softly.

Miles flinched slightly, his shoulders tensing. "Right," he said, his voice faltering. The joviality that usually defined him faded, replaced by a subdued tone. "Hello, Father."

The chair turned slowly, its mechanisms clicking and whirring, revealing the figure seated within. Miles's father was a shadow of the man he once was. His body was a patchwork of flesh and machine, a grotesque fusion of biology and technology. His head was partially exposed, the scalp peeled back to reveal the glistening surface of his brain, encased in a transparent, fluid-filled dome. His skull was fractured, held together by metal plates and screws. One eye was missing, replaced by a mechanical arm that periodically extended to pour a viscous liquid into the empty socket, keeping it moist. The rest of his body was a nightmarish amalgamation of organs and machinery. His heart, or what remained of it, was a mechanical pump that circulated just enough blood to keep his few remaining organs functioning. He was a man reduced to the barest essence of life, sustained by technology and sheer willpower.

Miles looked at him, his chest tightening with a mix of pity and sorrow. This was his father, the man he had idolized, the man who had taught him everything he knew. And now, he was a broken remnant, a living testament to the cost of their world's endless battles.

"I've perfected the fusion reactor," Miles said, his voice light, almost hopeful. There was a subtle pride in his words, like a child presenting a hard-earned achievement to a parent. "Well, the old one you used to use, anyway. Its efficiency went up by ten percent."

The mechanical chair shifted slightly, the single human eye narrowing as it focused on Miles. "That gives it fifty percent efficiency," his father said, his voice dripping with condescension. "What's perfect about that, boy?"

Miles's face fell, the flicker of pride extinguished. "Sorry," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I... meant improved."

"I don't care what you meant," his father snapped, the robotic edge in his voice sharpening. "We live in a world full of superhumans and monsters. One mistake, and you'll suffer a fate worse than mine. Is that all you sought to tell me?"

Miles hesitated, his hands clenching at his sides. "Yes," he said finally, his voice hollow.

"Then what are you waiting for?" his father demanded, the mechanical arm whirring as it gestured toward the door.

Miles turned, his boots clicking against the metal floor as he began to walk away. But before he could reach the door, his father's voice stopped him.

"And, boy," he called, the tone colder than before. Miles froze, his back stiffening. "Those people... they're not your friends. It was one of them that did this to me. Remember that."

The words hit Miles like a physical blow, his chest tightening as he struggled to breathe. His father was referring to the Great Defenders, the team of heroes Miles had come to see as family. They were his teammates, his allies, the people he fought alongside to protect the world. But to his father, they were something else entirely, a reminder of of pain.

Miles didn't respond. He couldn't. Instead, he walked out of the lab, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss. The hallway outside was quiet, the hum of the base's systems a faint background noise. He leaned against the wall, his armored suit creaking softly as he slid down to sit on the floor. His head dropped into his hands, the weight of his father's words pressing down on him.

The Great Defenders were more than just a team to him. They were his friends, his comrades, the people who had stood by him through battles. But his father's words lingered in his mind, a poisonous seed of doubt. It was one of them that did this to me.

Miles clenched his fists, the metal of his suit groaning under the pressure. He wanted to believe in his team, to trust them completely. But the image of his father, broken and barely human, haunted him.

Meanwhile, in the middle of nowhere, afternoon sunlight filtered through the windshield of James' midnight blue Mercedes, casting a warm glow over the vehicle's cream leather interior. The air conditioning hummed quietly, fighting a losing battle against the heat that had been building since morning. Scott shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat, his lanky frame struggling to find a comfortable position as the car bounced along an increasingly rough dirt road.

"Uhm... where are we going?" Scott's voice broke the silence that had stretched between them since leaving the ruins of their home. He glanced sideways at his father, noting the determined set of James' jaw, the way his knuckles whitened slightly on the steering wheel.

"Here," James replied simply, easing the luxury sedan to a stop in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. The engine's purr died away, leaving only the faint ticking of cooling metal and the whisper of wind through scrubby vegetation.

Scott squinted through the windshield. They had reached a semi-arid stretch of land on Redwood's outskirts, where the manicured neighborhoods gave way to nature's rougher edges. Scraggly thickets of mesquite and juniper dotted the landscape like sentinels, their shadows stretching long across beige soil that rose in small dust devils with each gust of wind. The nearest paved road must have been miles away, and with it, civilization.

"Where's here?" Scott's question hung in the air as he watched his father open the driver's side door. The sound of expensive shoes crunching on gravel filtered into the car.

"Here's where your training will start!" James called back, his voice carrying a forced enthusiasm that didn't quite mask the uncertainty beneath.

Scott's brow furrowed as he pushed his own door open, wincing as a hot breeze immediately plastered his t-shirt to his skin. "Training? We didn't talk about this," he protested, stepping out to join his father in the harsh sunlight.

They stood facing each other, father and son of nearly equal height—James perhaps an inch taller, though Scott's recent growth spurt threatened to change that soon. Both tall, both stubborn, both struggling to navigate a reality that had shifted beneath their feet overnight.

"I thought we agreed we'd try to understand your new abilities," James replied, crossing his arms over his chest. The top buttons of his normally impeccable dress shirt were undone, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows—concessions to both the heat and the extraordinary circumstances.

"Understanding isn't 'training,'" Scott countered, mimicking his father's stance unconsciously.

"Grey area." James gestured broadly at the empty landscape around them. "Look, as it stands, you could barely navigate through the house without floating or breaking into another room. This is how we get that under control." His expression softened slightly, voice taking on the gentler tone he'd used when teaching Scott to ride a bike, to drive, to face the countless challenges of growing up. "Plus, you wanna go back to school, right?"

The question hung between them, laden with unspoken implications. School meant normalcy, friends, a future—all the things that had seemed certain before red beams had erupted from Scott's eyes and destroyed what remained of their ordinary life.

Scott looked away, gaze traveling across the empty landscape. In the distance, heat shimmered above the ground, creating wavering mirages. Like his future, unclear and constantly shifting. He weighed his options: rebellion wasn't really one of them, not when his father was the only person he trusted, the only one who hadn't run from him.

"Fine," he finally conceded, the word carrying both resignation and resolve. He met his father's eyes again, recognizing the determined look he'd seen so many times before—when James had decided to raise him alone after his mother left, when they'd moved to Redwood for a fresh start, when they'd faced countless smaller challenges together.

This was just one more thing they would face as a team, even if the stakes had never been higher.