Chapter 11

The Great Defenders' base was a sprawling, high-tech sanctuary nestled deep within the heart of Redwood, a marvel of modern engineering and design. The main sitting room, where Trackstar—Sheila in her civilian identity—lounged, was a testament to the team's luxurious lifestyle. The room was spacious and impeccably neat, bathed in the soft glow of recessed lighting that highlighted its urban, minimalist aesthetic. Plush sofa sets, upholstered in sleek black leather, were arranged in a semi-circle, facing a massive screen that dominated the far wall. The screen was a technological marvel, four meters long and six meters wide, its surface so pristine it seemed to disappear into the wall when not in use. Below it stood a row of state-of-the-art vending machines, each stocked with an array of snacks and drinks, from gourmet chips to artisanal sodas. It was a space designed for comfort and convenience, a place where the world's mightiest heroes could unwind after saving the world.

Sheila sat on one of the sofas, her legs tucked beneath her as she scrolled through her phone. She was in civilian attire, wearing a simple white vest and red sport shorts that contrasted with her long, dark hair and stoic expression. Her features were striking—sharp cheekbones, piercing eyes, and a mouth that rarely curved into a smile. She exuded an air of quiet intensity, the kind of person who seemed perpetually unimpressed, even in the face of the extraordinary.

The tranquility of the room was shattered as Meta—Miles in his civilian identity—flew in, his metallic suit of armor gleaming under the lights. The suit was a masterpiece of engineering, a sleek exoskeleton that hugged his frame with precision. Its surface was a polished silver, etched with intricate circuitry that pulsed faintly with blue energy. The helmet, currently retracted, revealed Miles's boyish face, his expression a mix of urgency and mild exasperation.

"Have any of you seen Indestructible?" Miles asked, his voice cutting through the silence as he hovered near the vending machines.

Sheila didn't look up from her phone. "Eugh, why would you ask about him?" she replied, her tone dripping with irritation. Her disdain for Indestructible was palpable, her nose wrinkling as if merely saying his name left a bad taste in her mouth.

Miles sighed, sensing the tension but pressing on. "Well, Tracky—" he began, only to be cut off by Sheila's sharp glare. Her eyes locked onto his, and he immediately backtracked, rephrasing his words. "Well, Sheila, I have something important to tell him. He's our leader, after all."

"Self-elected leader," Sheila corrected, her voice flat as she returned her attention to her phone.

Miles descended to the floor, his boots clicking softly against the polished surface as he approached one of the vending machines. He selected a drink, the machine whirring as it dispensed a can of soda. "I mean… he is the strongest," he said, popping the tab and taking a sip.

Sheila snorted, her eyes still fixed on her phone. "For all we know, Gol or Valkyrie could be the strongest," she shot back, her tone defiant. It was clear she had no intention of giving Indestructible any credit, no matter how undeniable his power might be.

Miles raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. "Right," he said, his voice laced with sarcasm as he burped softly, the sound echoing in the spacious room. "And besides, strength shouldn't be the only determinant. At least, not physical brute strength."

Sheila finally looked up, her gaze sharp and unwavering. "Well, he was part of the old Defenders, so he's got more experience. Also, you wouldn't say this to his face, now would you?" He challenged, his tone daring her to contradict him.

Miles paused, the can of soda halfway to his lips. He met her gaze, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Sheila was quiet for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. He was right, and they both knew it.

"Ha!" Miles laughed, the sound short and sarcastic. "Of course," he added, taking another sip of his drink.

Sheila's eyes narrowed, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "If he's in power purely because no one can stand up to him, then we're living in a dictatorship," she said, her voice low but firm.

Miles shrugged, his nonchalance only fueling her irritation. "Who cares? It's not even that serious. Anyway, if he shows up, tell him I'm looking for him," he said, his suit's thrusters humming to life as he prepared to take off.

Sheila rolled her eyes, her attention returning to her phone. "I won't!" she called after him, her voice carrying a note of finality.

Miles shot her a grin over his shoulder before flying out of the room, the sound of his suit fading into the distance. Sheila sighed, leaning back against the sofa as she muttered under her breath, "Dictatorship." The word hung in the air, a quiet rebellion against the status quo, as the screen behind her flickered to life, displaying the latest news headlines. The world outside was chaotic, but here, in the heart of the Great Defenders' base, the battles were often just as complicated—and far more personal.

I'm the outskirts of Redwood, thesun hung high in the vast, cloudless sky, its relentless rays baking the cracked earth beneath their feet. Scott squinted against the glare, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stared at his father. James leaned casually against the hood of his sleek black Mercedes, his dark skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. A lone tumbleweed rolled lazily across the barren landscape a few meters away, its journey as aimless as Scott felt in this moment. A half-empty bottle of water sat beside James, condensation pooling around its base. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, the motion slow and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world.

"This is hopeless," Scott muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. He kicked at a loose pebble, sending it skittering across the ground. His father didn't flinch, his expression calm and unreadable.

"No, it's not," James replied, his voice steady. "You just gotta be patient."

"Patient?" Scott snapped, his voice rising. He glanced at his watch, the silver face catching the sunlight. "We've been here for... an hour."

"That's not really that long," James said, his tone infuriatingly even. He raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "And besides, do you have anything better to do?"

Scott opened his mouth to retort but stopped himself. He knew his father had a point. Still, the frustration gnawed at him. "You do," he said finally, his tone softer now. "You have work. That's important. You need to work so you can feed me." He tried to smile, but it felt forced, a weak attempt to lighten the mood.

James chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to echo in the stillness of the desert. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, then opened them again, his gaze steady and serious. "I requested emergency leave today because this is also important. We gotta understand your abilities, kid. For your own safety and for the safety of those around you."

The words hit Scott like a punch to the gut. He looked away, his mind flashing back to the night before. He remembered the way Ru had yowled in pain, the way his small, furry body had crumpled to the floor. Scott had lost control, and his cat—his best friend—had paid the price. The guilt was a heavy weight in his chest, pressing down on him until he could barely breathe. He didn't want to hurt anyone else. He couldn't.

"Alright," Scott said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Let's go on."

James nodded, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it settled back into its usual calm. He didn't know what had changed Scott's mind, but he wasn't about to question it. All that mattered was helping his son figure this out.

Scott took a few steps back, putting some distance between himself and his father. He closed his eyes, trying to focus. He thought about the heroes he'd seen in movies and comics, the way they soared through the air with effortless grace. They always had their arms extended, some with fists clenched, others with palms open. He wondered if that was the key—if balance was the secret to flight.

He opened his eyes and raised his arm toward the sun, its golden rays bathing his skin in warmth. The light was blinding, but Scott didn't blink. His mind was elsewhere, consumed by the idea of flight. He reached out as if he could touch the sun, his fingers stretching toward the sky. And then, slowly, he felt it—a strange, weightless sensation. His feet left the ground, hovering just a few inches above the dirt. His heart raced as he rose higher, his body tilting slightly as he drifted toward the sun.

James straightened, his arms uncrossing as he stepped away from the car. His eyes widened, a mixture of awe and pride lighting up his face. "You're doing it," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

But the sound was enough to break Scott's concentration. His feet hit the ground with a soft thud, and he stumbled slightly, catching himself before he fell. "What?" he asked, blinking in confusion.

"No, don't—" James started, but it was too late. The moment was gone.

"You were doing it," James said, his voice filled with pride. "You were flying."

Scott stared at his father, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Yeah," he said, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Seems I was."

"How'd you do it?" James asked, his curiosity evident.

Scott shrugged, trying to put the sensation into words. "I just... reached out to the sun. Like I wanted to touch it. Kinda like how I'd reach out to you and walk over to touch you. Except instead of walking, I guess I... flew."

James nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Huh. So you figured it out, huh?"

"Well, I wouldn't say I've got it all figured out," Scott admitted. "But... it's a decent start."

"Yeah, it is," James agreed. He glanced at the car, then back at Scott. "We can take a break if you want. Come back tomorrow."

Scott shook his head, his determination renewed. "Nah, I think I'll go again. I wanna figure out flying today."

James raised an eyebrow, surprised but pleased. Just a few hours ago, Scott had been reluctant, almost resistant. But now, there was a fire in his eyes, a determination that hadn't been there before. James smiled, a sense of pride swelling in his chest. His son was ready to learn, ready to push himself to the limit. And James would be there every step of the way.