Chapter 2 - Talk of the Town

Max's legs shook as he sat on the uncomfortable plastic chair in what the Guardians called their "debriefing room." It was nothing like the high-tech command center he'd imagined—just a converted conference room with a scratched table and mismatched chairs. The only impressive thing was the large window overlooking New Harbor, the broken moon visible even in daylight.

"So let me get this straight," said Velocity, pacing so quickly he seemed to blur at the edges. Close up, Max could see the intricate red lightning bolt design shaved into the side of his close-cropped hair, and the way his red and white uniform seemed designed to reduce wind resistance. "You just... stood up to Shock? For no reason?"

Max shrugged, fiddling with the strap of his messenger bag. "I didn't really think about it. It just seemed like the right thing to do."

"The right thing to do," repeated Mentis, his piercing blue eyes studying Max from across the table.

The older Guardian hadn't introduced himself, but everyone in New Harbor knew Dr. Malcolm Thorne, the telepathic genius whose analytical mind coordinated Guardian operations. His silver hair was cut with military precision, and a distinctive blue scarf contrasted with his otherwise subdued gray uniform. Max found his unwavering stare deeply unsettling.

"Most couriers I know would have dived behind the reception desk," Mentis continued, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Your response was... statistically unusual."

Max slouched further in his chair. "I'm getting fired, aren't I? Mr. Donovan is going to kill me when I tell him I didn't even deliver the papers."

Lumina smiled, the golden glow in her eyes having faded to reveal warm brown irises. "Don't worry about the papers. And I doubt your boss will be upset when he hears what happened."

"Oh, he'll definitely be upset," Max said with a nervous laugh. "It'll just be a different kind of upset. The 'why do you keep finding trouble' kind. I have a talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Or perhaps the right place at the right time," Mentis said quietly.

Before Max could respond, the door burst open and Blockade entered. The massive Asian American man ducked slightly to clear the doorframe, his dark blue and gray armored uniform making him appear even larger. His military-short black hair showed touches of gray at the temples, and his stoic expression revealed nothing as he addressed Lumina.

"Shock escaped," he said simply, his deep voice matching his imposing presence. "We tracked him to the old subway tunnels before losing the signal."

Lumina's professional demeanor never slipped. "And the artifact he was looking for?"

"Secure," Blockade answered with a slight nod. "Shimmer moved it to the secondary vault."

"Good." Lumina turned to Max with a reassuring smile. "It seems you can go home now, Mr. Peterson. Thank you for your courage today, misplaced as it might have been."

Max stood, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder. "So... should I come back tomorrow with more papers, or...?"

"We'll arrange a regular delivery schedule," Mentis said, still watching Max with unusual intensity. "Perhaps you could be our designated courier."

Max brightened. "Really? That would be great! I mean, professional. That would be very professional of me. To deliver here. Regularly." He cringed inwardly at his awkwardness.

"I'll walk you out," Lumina offered, gesturing toward the door.

As they walked down the corridor, Max tried desperately to think of something impressive to say. Instead, he blurted, "So, do you guys really do the crossword puzzles?"

Lumina laughed, a sound like wind chimes. "Blockade, believe it or not. He says it helps him focus."

"Blockade? Really?" Max glanced back toward the debriefing room. "He doesn't seem the crossword type."

"There's a lot about us that might surprise you," Lumina said. As they reached the lobby, now being repaired by maintenance workers, she added, "Take care of yourself, Mr. Peterson. And perhaps consider running away next time you see a supervillain."

Max nodded, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. "Right. Running away. Got it."

---

By the time Max left the Guardian Tower, the sun was setting, painting New Harbor's broken skyline in oranges and purples. His encounter with Shock had made him catastrophically late with his remaining deliveries, but his mind was too full of the day's events to worry about Mr. Donovan's inevitable lecture.

He'd met the Guardians. He'd talked to Lumina. She knew his name.

Lost in thought, Max didn't notice the unusual number of glances he received as he made his way through The Crossroads Market—a massive bazaar housed in a former shopping mall where New Harbor citizens traded goods both legal and questionable. He was a regular sight here, dropping off papers at various stalls, but today people were whispering as he passed.

It wasn't until he reached Charlie's stand that he realized something was different.

"There he is!" shouted Charlie "Newskid" Briggs, a streetwise twelve-year-old who ran both a newspaper stand and New Harbor's most efficient child-operated gossip network. "The man himself!"

Charlie's spiked hair and face smudged with perpetual dirt didn't match the surprisingly sharp intelligence in his eyes. He waved his arms, drawing attention from nearby shoppers.

"Hey, Charlie," Max said, pulling a stack of late-edition papers from his bag. "Sorry these are so late, there was a—"

"A situation at Guardian Tower!" Charlie finished, eyes wide with excitement. "Everyone's talking about it! How you stood up to Shock and saved the day!"

Max blinked. "What? No, that's not what—"

"My cousin's girlfriend's brother works maintenance at the Tower," continued a woman examining fruit at the next stall. "Says you distracted Shock while the Guardians set up an ambush. Called you the bravest non-powered person he's ever seen."

"That's not—" Max started again.

"Is it true you threw your bag at him?" asked a man clutching a shopping list. "Heard the impact disrupted his electrical field."

"What? No!" Max's voice cracked. "I just told him to stop. That's it. And then Lumina showed up and—"

"AND," Charlie interrupted, "you gave her time to get there! Greg from Security says Shock was about to fry the whole building before you jumped in!"

"Greg from Security wasn't even there," Max protested, but nobody seemed to hear.

More people were gathering now, each with their own version of events. In one retelling, Max had dodged electrical blasts like a seasoned pro. In another, he'd somehow predicted Shock's attack minutes before it happened, warning the receptionist to call for backup.

"Look, it wasn't like that," Max insisted, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. "I just happened to be there delivering papers, and I didn't even think before I opened my big mouth. It was stupid, honestly."

"Such modesty!" declared an elderly woman, patting his arm. "A true hero!"

Max's protests fell on deaf ears as the crowd around him continued to grow. He finally managed to extract himself by claiming Mr. Donovan needed him back at the office immediately.

"I'll save tomorrow's paper for you!" Charlie called after him. "Front page news, I bet!"

---

Max's small apartment in The Shallows district was a welcome sanctuary after the strangest day of his life. The converted storage room wasn't much—just enough space for a bed, a hotplate, and a shelf of salvaged books—but it was home.

He collapsed onto his creaky bed, tossing his messenger bag aside. Through the thin walls, he could hear his elderly neighbor, Mrs. Chen, playing what sounded like a record on an ancient phonograph. The soft, tinkling melody was soothing after the chaos of the day.

His stomach growled, reminding him he'd missed lunch in all the excitement. Max forced himself up and rummaged through his meager food supplies, settling on a can of pre-Collapse beans and some surprisingly fresh bread from the communal bakery downstairs.

As he ate, Max replayed the day's events. The more he thought about it, the more surreal it seemed. He'd stood up to a supervillain. He'd met the Guardians. Lumina had smiled at him.

But the exaggerations at the market troubled him. People were already treating the incident like some heroic stand, when in reality, he'd just been monumentally stupid. If Lumina hadn't arrived when she did...

A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts. Max opened the door to find Mrs. Chen, her silver hair in its usual traditional bun secured with ornate pins. Despite her petite frame and apparent frailty, she moved with surprising grace as she handed him a ceramic mug.

"Tea," she said simply. "Good for shock."

"Thanks, Mrs. Chen." Max accepted the mug, inhaling the unfamiliar herbal scent. "How did you know about...?"

Mrs. Chen's eyes twinkled. "Everyone knows. The courier who faced Shock is big news."

Max groaned. "It wasn't like that. I didn't do anything."

"Sometimes doing nothing is doing something," she replied cryptically, then pointed at his mug. "Drink. Sleep. Tomorrow will be interesting."

Before Max could ask what she meant, she'd turned and walked back to her own apartment with that peculiar agility that belied her age.

Max sipped the tea, finding its bitter flavor strangely calming. He felt exhausted yet wired, his mind unable to settle. Eventually, he changed into an old t-shirt and shorts that served as pajamas and crawled into bed, certain he'd be too keyed up to sleep.

He was unconscious the moment his head hit the pillow.

---

Max dreamed of flying.

Not the graceful soaring of birds, but a chaotic, tumbling flight that seemed driven by unseen forces. Voices swirled around him—fragments of the day's conversations, distorted and overlapping.

"...bravest non-powered person..."

"...stood up to Shock..."

"...gave her time to get there..."

"...like he knew what was coming..."

The voices grew louder, pressing against him from all sides. His skin tingled, then burned. His muscles stretched and contracted painfully. Something was happening to him, reshaping him from the inside out.

In the dream, Max looked down at his hands and saw them glowing with a strange energy, not unlike Lumina's light but somehow different—more unstable, shifting between various colors and intensities.

"...what they're saying about the courier..."

"...heard he's actually pretty strong..."

"...practically fearless..."

"...must have incredible reflexes to survive that..."

With each new voice, the sensation intensified. Max felt his body changing, responding to the words as if they were commands. Strength flowed into his muscles. His senses sharpened. His mind raced with newfound clarity.

And through it all, a single thought crystallized: this was happening because of what people believed about him.

Max woke with a gasp, his heart pounding. Dawn light filtered through his single window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. For a moment, he lay still, convinced the strange sensations would linger from his dream.

But he felt normal. Perhaps a bit more rested than usual, but otherwise unchanged.

"Just a weird dream," he muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Too much excitement yesterday."

He stood, stretching—and promptly put his hand through the wall.

Max stared in horror at the hole in the plaster, then at his hand, which showed no signs of injury. Experimentally, he pressed against another section of wall. His fingers dented the surface with disturbing ease.

"What the—"

His alarm clock chose that moment to blare its wake-up call. Max reached to shut it off and accidentally crushed the clock in his grip, plastic and metal components crumbling like dry leaves.

"No, no, no," he whispered, backing away as if distance from the broken clock might reverse whatever was happening. "This isn't possible."

But even as he denied it, Max knew. Somehow, impossibly, the strange dream had been real. The things people were saying about him—their assumptions, their exaggerations—had changed him physically.

He'd manifested super-strength because people believed he was strong enough to stand up to Shock.

Max sat heavily on his bed, which creaked ominously under his weight. He took deep breaths, trying to calm his racing thoughts. This was impossible. People didn't just develop powers overnight because of rumors. That wasn't how the Awakened worked.

Yet the broken alarm clock and hole in his wall argued otherwise.

Carefully, moving as if handling explosives, Max got dressed for work. Each motion required intense concentration—pulling a shirt over his head without tearing the fabric, doing up his jacket buttons without snapping them off, tying his bootlaces without ripping them free of the eyelets.

By the time he finished, Max was sweating with effort and anxiety. How was he supposed to deliver papers when he could barely touch anything without breaking it?

More importantly, what would happen when people saw him and started talking about him again? Would their perceptions change him further? What else might he become?

Max glanced at his reflection in the cracked mirror above his sink. He looked the same—same disheveled brown hair, same bright green eyes, same lanky frame. But he wasn't the same. Something fundamental had changed.

He grabbed his messenger bag, then paused at the door, a strange thought occurring to him. If people's beliefs about him had given him strength, what else might they have given him? What other rumors had spread overnight?

Taking a deep breath, Max focused on the sensations from his dream—the feeling of his body responding to unspoken expectations. There had been more than just strength in those whispered rumors. There had been...

Reflexes. Speed. Fearlessness.

Almost involuntarily, Max spun around, responding to an imagined threat—and moved faster than he ever had before, his body flowing through the motion with unexpected grace. His heart should have been pounding with fear at this latest impossibility, but instead he felt a strange calm.

"This is insane," he whispered, but with more wonder than panic.

Another knock at his door made him jump, and he had to consciously restrain himself from tearing it off its hinges as he opened it.

Mrs. Chen stood there again, looking exactly as she had the night before. Her eyes traveled from Max's face to the hole in his wall, then to the crushed alarm clock.

"Interesting," she said, nodding as if he'd confirmed a theory. "Walk with me to the market. We should talk."

Max gaped at her. "Mrs. Chen, I can't go out! I'm—" he lowered his voice to a whisper, "—breaking things!"

She smiled, revealing surprisingly perfect teeth. "Yes. That's why we need to talk." She held up a small canvas bag. "I brought gloves. They might help."

Stunned, Max accepted the bag and looked inside. It contained a pair of what appeared to be gardening gloves, worn but sturdy.

"How did you know?" he asked.

Mrs. Chen's eyes twinkled mysteriously. "I've seen many things in my long life, Maxwell Peterson. But this is new, even to me. Now come. You have questions, and I may have some answers."

Max hesitated, glancing at his watch (carefully, to avoid crushing it). He was already late for work. Again. Mr. Donovan would be furious.

But compared to waking up with super-strength, a lecture from his boss seemed like the least of his problems.

"Okay," he said, pulling on the gloves. "Let's talk."