Waking on the RiverbankDisclaimer: this story is a fiction. Any resemblance to real person or event is coincidence. Except for historical background.
The thrum of rotor blades, distant at first, then growing into a thunderous roar, ripped Harry from a dreamless void. His eyes snapped open, a jolt of pain shooting through his temples. The world swam into focus: a canopy of emerald green, dappled sunlight filtering through, and the oppressive humidity of the Amazon.
He tried to push himself up, but a sharp ache in his side made him gasp. He looked down. His skin, usually a smooth, unblemished canvas, was a roadmap of angry red welts and shallow cuts, some still seeping a thin, dark fluid. His t-shirt, what was left of it, clung to his chest in sodden tatters. A thick, gritty mud coated his arms and legs, clinging to every pore. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the same slimy residue. Where was he? How did he get here? The questions hammered at his skull, each one met with a blank wall.
Then he saw it. A few paces away, half-submerged in the murky river water, lay a monstrous form. A caiman. Or what was left of one. Its leathery hide was bloated, its jaws agape, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth. And caught between those teeth, unmistakably, was a strip of fabric ? a piece of his own torn, blue t-shirt. A cold dread, primal and immediate, snaked up his spine. The creature was dead. He was alive. The implication hung heavy in the humid air, a silent testament to a struggle he couldn't recall.
The helicopter noise intensified, no longer a distant hum but a snarling beast descending. It was close. Too close. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the rising roar of the rotors. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the haze of confusion.
He had to move. Now. His gaze darted to the dense wall of foliage bordering the riverbank. It was a dark, impenetrable fortress of vines and shadows. A sanctuary. He pushed through the pain, ignoring the protesting muscles, and scrambled towards the treeline, every instinct screaming at him to disappear.
A novel blurb is a brief summary or description of a book, usually found on the back cover or dust jacket. Its purpose is to:
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Provide a glimpse
It gives a concise overview of the book's plot, themes, or main characters.
Set the tone
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Key characteristics
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3. *Accuracy*: The blurb should accurately represent the book's content and tone.
Purpose
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A well-written blurb can make a significant difference in capturing readers' attention and driving book sales.
Book 1: Genesis of the Hurricane - blurb
He remembers nothing but a name. He knows nothing but a lie. But his body remembers everything.
Harry's new life in West Virginia with his enigmatic father, Stephen, promises a fresh start after a mysterious past. But when he discovers he possesses impossible speed, superhuman strength, and a raw, untamed electric power, his quiet existence shatters.
His abilities are put to the ultimate test when a schoolyard bully escalates to a knife attack, forcing Harry to unleash a devastating force that leaves a barn in ruins and a cover-up in its wake. Now, with dangerous eyes watching from the shadows, Stephen calls upon Sam Lim, a hardened ex-soldier, to teach Harry control.
But Sam's arrival unearths more than just combat skills. Harry begins to uncover the truth about "Project David," a secret initiative to engineer human champions, and the real reason he's being hunted. As he grapples with his extraordinary gifts and the shocking truth of his origins, Harry must confront a terrifying question: is he a miracle of science, or a weapon in the making?
The Genesis of the Hurricane is the thrilling first installment in a series where forgotten pasts hide dangerous secrets, and the fate of an extraordinary boy could change the world.
The Soldiers ArriveThis scene was inspired by the video.
The helicopter settled with a final, shuddering groan, kicking up a storm of leaves and debris. It was a utilitarian beast, painted a dull, military green, its rotors still slicing through the humid air with a lingering whine. Before the dust could even begin to settle, three figures in dark, camouflaged fatigues emerged from its belly. They moved with a practiced, predatory efficiency, their weapons held ready. The one in front, taller and broader than the others, scanned the riverbank with eyes that seemed to miss nothing. His face was a hard, unreadable mask.
"Fan out!" the leader barked, his voice cutting through the fading thrum of the rotors. "Look for any signs. Footprints, disturbed foliage, anything. He can't have gotten far."
Harry, pressed deep into the undergrowth, held his breath. The leaves scratched against his face, but he didn't dare move. He watched, heart pounding, as the leader approached the dead caiman. The man nudged the creature's gaping maw with the barrel of his assault rifle, his gaze fixed on the shredded fabric caught between its teeth. A flicker of something ? surprise? respect? ? crossed his features before settling back into that cold, professional blankness. He knelt, examining the mud near the water's edge. Harry?s blood ran cold as the man?s finger traced a faint indentation in the soft earth ? a footprint. His footprint.
The leader straightened, his eyes narrowing as he followed the barely visible trail leading directly towards Harry's hiding spot. Each step was deliberate, measured. Harry could feel the vibrations of his boots through the ground. Closer. Closer. He could see the intricate weave of the camouflage, the glint of the rifle, and then, stark against the dark green of his helmet, a single, pristine white feather tucked into the right side.
Panic flared, hot and sharp. His body screamed at him to run, to disappear. He didn't think; he reacted. With a burst of adrenaline, Harry scrambled deeper into the thicket, pushing through thorny vines and low-hanging branches, the sounds of his own desperate flight muffled only slightly by the still-whirring helicopter blades.
"Hold! Don't chase him!" the leader's voice, surprisingly loud, cut through the jungle's natural hum. Harry risked a glance over his shoulder. The leader stood, arms outstretched, stopping his men. "You saw what he did to that croc. He's not some lost kid. And remember, the client wants him alive. They won't pay for a dead body."
Harry didn't slow, but the words echoed in his mind, a strange mix of relief and renewed dread. Alive. They wanted him alive. But for what? He pushed harder, the jungle blurring around him. As he plunged deeper into the dense foliage, he risked one more look back. The leader was still by the helicopter, but now he was talking, his head tilted slightly, as if listening to someone inside the dark interior of the craft, a figure Harry couldn't see from his position.
Safe Place in the trees
Harry ran until his lungs burned and his legs screamed. The jungle, once a suffocating maze, now felt like his only ally. He didn't know where he was going, only that it had to be away from the voices, away from the man with the white feather. He spotted a massive kapok tree, its trunk soaring like a colossal pillar into the sky. Without a second thought, he began to climb, his bare hands and feet finding purchase on the rough bark, pulling himself upwards with a desperate strength he didn't know he possessed.
Higher and higher he went, until the ground was a distant, blurred green. From there, he didn't stop. He launched himself from one thick branch to another, swinging with an almost unnatural agility, a blur of motion through the dense canopy. Each leap, each grab, was instinctive, a primal dance to erase his presence from the forest floor, to leave no discernible trail for the hunters below. He moved like a shadow, a whisper among the leaves, until he was deep within the arboreal labyrinth.
Finally, exhaustion seized him. He found a cluster of sturdy branches, high above the forest floor, where the leaves were thickest, offering a natural concealment. With trembling hands, he began to gather fallen fronds and pliable vines, weaving them into a crude, but surprisingly comfortable, nest. It wasn't much, just a shallow hollow, but it was hidden, and it was off the ground.
He collapsed into his makeshift bed, the last vestiges of adrenaline draining from his body. The sounds of the jungle, once a threatening cacophony, now softened into a lullaby ? the chirping of unseen insects, the distant calls of exotic birds, the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze. His cuts stung, his muscles ached, but for the first time since waking, a fragile sense of safety settled over him. He closed his eyes, the image of the dead caiman and the man with the white feather fading as the jungle's embrace pulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep. For now, he was safe.
Nighttime Hunger and the Trap
Harry woke to an oppressive darkness. The jungle, once a comforting green, was now a black, formless void, pierced only by the distant, chirping symphony of unseen insects and the occasional hoot of an owl. A hollow ache gnawed at his stomach, a deep, insistent growl that echoed the emptiness within him. He hadn't eaten in... he didn't know how long. The thought of food, any food, became an urgent, primal command.
Carefully, he uncurled from his makeshift nest. Every muscle protested, stiff and sore, but the hunger was a more powerful motivator. He began his descent, feeling for each branch with cautious hands and feet, the rough bark a familiar comfort in the overwhelming darkness. The air grew heavier, more humid, as he neared the forest floor. He paused, listening, his senses straining against the night. Nothing but the jungle's own breath. He dropped the last few feet, landing softly on the damp earth.
He took a tentative step, then another. The ground felt firm beneath his bare feet, the leaves cool and moist. He was just beginning to relax, to think about what he might find to eat, when the world dissolved beneath him. There was a sudden, violent jerk, a whoosh of air, and then he was airborne, yanked upwards with terrifying force. A coarse, heavy net, seemingly woven from thick vines, had sprung from the ground, wrapping around him, pulling him high into the canopy. He hung suspended, tangled and helpless, a captive in the dark.
Panic, cold and suffocating, seized him. He thrashed wildly, kicking and twisting, his arms flailing against the constricting mesh. The rough fibers bit into his skin, but he ignored the pain, desperate to break free. He pulled, he pushed, he screamed, but the net held fast, mocking his struggles.
A figure emerged from the shadows below, silhouetted against the faint moonlight filtering through the leaves. Harry?s breath hitched. The white feather, stark against the dark helmet, was unmistakable. The leader.
"Calm yourself, boy," the leader's voice, calm and chillingly confident, floated up to him. "It's over. There's no escaping this. Just surrender, and we can make this easy."
Easy? The word ignited a fresh surge of fury and terror. Harry ignored him, his panic escalating into a desperate, primal rage. He roared, a guttural sound torn from his throat, and thrashed with renewed, frenzied energy. Every muscle in his body coiled and snapped, a desperate, uncontrolled surge of power. The net groaned under the strain. A sharp snap echoed through the quiet night. Then another. And another. Thin strands of the vine-net, taut as bowstrings, began to fray, then pop, one by one, sending vibrations through the entire structure. A small hole, no bigger than his fist, appeared near his shoulder, then another near his leg. He was tearing it apart.
The Rescue
Harry thrashed, the net tearing, his raw strength fueled by a desperate, animalistic terror. The leader below, a grim smile beginning to form on his lips, watched with an unnerving calm. Then, in a blur of motion, a new figure materialized from the deeper shadows of the jungle. He wasn't fast, not like Harry, but his appearance was so sudden, so perfectly timed as the leader?s attention was fixed on the struggling boy, that it was as if he?d simply blinked into existence. Before the leader could react, the stranger lunged, a small, dark device sparking in his hand.
A sharp, electric crackle split the night. The leader stiffened, a guttural groan ripping from his throat as his body spasmed violently. He crumpled to the ground, twitching, his rifle clattering uselessly beside him.
He tried to push himself up, his muscles still seizing, a low moan escaping his lips. But the stranger was already there, a foot planted firmly beside his head. Another crackle, another jolt. "You better stay down," the stranger said, his voice low and firm, devoid of emotion. The leader collapsed completely, his body going limp, though a faint, ragged breathing indicated he was still alive.
Harry, still suspended in the torn net, watched the exchange, his mind reeling. Fear warred with a nascent flicker of hope. Who was this new person? Friend or foe? He hung there, panting, the adrenaline still coursing through him, his eyes fixed on the stranger.
The stranger turned, his face obscured by the deep shadows, but Harry could sense a focused intensity about him. He moved with purpose, drawing a small, sharp blade. "I'm here to help you," he said, his voice calm, almost soothing. The blade flashed, severing the thick strands of the net with swift, precise cuts. The tension on the ropes lessened, and Harry dropped a few feet, landing with a soft thud on the jungle floor.
He stumbled, regaining his balance, his eyes still on the stranger. "Who? who are you?" Harry rasped, his throat raw. "What's happening?"
"Later," the stranger replied, already scanning the surrounding darkness. "We need to move. Now."
Harry hesitated for only a moment. The immediate threat of the net was gone, but the larger danger remained. His gaze fell on the unconscious leader, sprawled on the ground. A cold, hard anger surged through him. This man, these men, had hunted him, trapped him. Without thinking, Harry bent down, his hands closing around a jagged, fist-sized rock. He straightened, gripping it tightly, his eyes fixed on the leader's head.
Just as he began to raise his arm, the stranger?s hand clamped down firmly on his wrist. "We never kill the powerless," he said, his voice firm, unwavering. Harry looked at him, surprised by the sudden intervention, by the quiet authority in the stranger?s eyes. The anger still simmered, but something in the stranger's gaze, a quiet conviction, made him pause. Reluctantly, Harry lowered the rock, letting it fall from his grasp with a dull thud.
The Stranger
They moved through the dense jungle like ghosts, the stranger leading the way with an uncanny familiarity. Hours blurred into a silent, relentless trek. The initial adrenaline that had fueled Harry's escape slowly ebbed, replaced by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. The jungle sounds, once threatening, now became a monotonous backdrop to their journey. The stranger, who Harry now knew only as a rescuer, occasionally offered terse, practical instructions: "Watch your step here, roots," or "Keep low, the canopy is thin." Harry, though still wary, found himself instinctively obeying, a strange sense of trust beginning to form in the quiet shared effort.
Just as Harry thought his legs might give out, the dense wall of trees finally broke. They emerged into a wide, open grass field, bathed in the pale glow of a crescent moon. It was well past midnight, the air cooler here, carrying the scent of damp earth and unseen wildflowers. The vast expanse felt like a breath of fresh air after the claustrophobic confines of the forest, a temporary haven.
"Here," the stranger said, gesturing towards a cluster of low-lying bushes. "We'll make camp." He then showed Harry how to snap off pliable branches, how to weave them together with broad leaves to form a rudimentary, yet surprisingly effective, shelter. It was a simple task, but the shared activity, the quiet instruction and Harry?s focused effort, deepened the unspoken connection between them.
Soon, a small fire crackled merrily in the center of their makeshift camp, its flames dancing against the overwhelming darkness. The stranger produced dried fruit and jerky from a small pouch, offering them to Harry. The food was plain, but in that moment, it tasted like the finest meal he had ever had. As they ate, the stranger's gaze, previously so guarded, softened.
"My name is Stephen," he began, his voice low, almost a whisper against the crackling fire. "Stephen Webster. And? I'm your father, Harry."
The words hung in the air, a profound truth that simultaneously shocked and resonated deep within Harry. His father. The man who had just saved him, who had shown him how to survive. A thousand questions surged, but Stephen continued, his voice laced with a quiet urgency.
"You were born with a serious illness, Harry. A rare one. Your mother, Lea, and I? we worked on a secret project. Project David. We used its technology to save your life, to fix what was wrong. But there were? side effects. Abilities. Powers, you might call them." Stephen paused, looking into the fire. "We couldn't get too close to you, not while you were in the lab. It was too risky. Any unusual attention, any emotional attachment, would have drawn suspicion. And then, the project started to unravel. It became clear you had to be smuggled out. For your safety."
He explained how Harry had been placed in a specialized crate, equipped with a parachute, and dropped into the remote Amazon. "You were meant to land safely, far from anyone. But something went wrong. The crate? it must have hit something."
A flicker of memory, sharp and vivid, pierced through Harry's amnesia. The suffocating darkness of an enclosed space, the sudden jolt, the tearing sound of fabric, and then the desperate scramble to claw his way out. He remembered the blinding light, the sudden, terrifying splash, and the cold, reptilian scales of the caiman. "The crate," Harry murmured, his voice hoarse. "I? I remember climbing out. Before the crocodile."
Stephen nodded, a faint, sad smile touching his lips. "I thought so." He looked up, his gaze sweeping across the vast, star-strewn canvas of the night sky. "Look up, Harry."
Harry followed his gaze. Above them, the Milky Way stretched across the heavens like a shimmering river of diamonds, more brilliant than anything he had ever imagined. "What is it?" he whispered, mesmerized.
"That's our galaxy," Stephen said, his voice filled with a quiet wonder. "Billions of stars, Harry. Billions of worlds. And over there," he pointed towards the southern horizon, "that's the Southern Cross. Enjoy this view while you can. We won't be able to see it from home. This place is so far away that the stars look like they're revolving in opposite directions."
Stephen continued to talk, his voice a gentle drone, weaving tales of constellations, of ancient myths and scientific marvels, his words painting pictures in the vast darkness. Harry listened, his head growing heavy, the exhaustion finally claiming him. He felt safe, truly safe, for the first time in what felt like forever. His father was here. And as Stephen's voice drifted into the quiet night, a profound sense of peace settled over Harry, like a warm blanket, pulling him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The first slivers of dawn painted the eastern sky in hues of soft rose and pale gold, chasing away the lingering darkness. Harry stirred, blinking slowly as the light filtered through the leaves of their makeshift tent. He stretched, his young muscles protesting slightly, but the deep sleep had done wonders. The jungle was awakening around them, a symphony of chirps and rustles replacing the night's hushed symphony.
Just as he was about to fully emerge from the shelter, a low, rhythmic whirring began to grow in the distance. It was faint at first, easily mistaken for a large insect, but it rapidly swelled into an unmistakable, powerful thrum. Harry's head snapped up. His eyes scanned the brightening sky, and then he saw it ? a dark silhouette against the rising sun. A helicopter. Not the dull green of yesterday, but a sleek, menacing black, its shape undeniably similar to the one that had hunted him on the riverbank. His heart gave a familiar lurch of fear.
Stephen, already awake and observing, placed a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder. The black helicopter descended swiftly, a powerful downdraft flattening the tall grass around them. Dust and loose leaves swirled in a violent vortex as it settled softly onto the field, its rotors slowly winding down with a deep, resonant hum.
The side door slid open with a soft hiss, and a single figure, dressed in dark, unidentifiable fatigues, stepped out. He was lean and efficient, his movements economical as he approached them. He offered a brief, almost imperceptible nod to Stephen.
"Ready?" the crew member asked, his voice clipped and professional.
Stephen nodded, then looked at Harry, a warm, steady gaze that conveyed unspoken trust and safety. Harry hesitated, his eyes drifting back to the dense, dark wall of the forest. Just yesterday, it had been his refuge, his only hope of survival. Now, he was leaving it behind, stepping into the unknown with a man who was, impossibly, his father. A strange mix of apprehension and excitement churned within him. He took a deep breath, pushing down the lingering fear.
"Ready," Harry said, his voice a little shaky, but firm.
They boarded the helicopter, the interior surprisingly spacious and functional. The door hissed shut behind them, sealing them away from the open field. The rotors spun up again, faster this time, the familiar thrum growing into a deafening roar. Harry pressed his face against the cool window, watching as the grass field shrank below them. The black helicopter lifted off, banking sharply, and soon the vast, green expanse of the Amazon jungle began to recede, replaced by a boundless sky. Harry watched, a mix of curiosity and trepidation swirling within him, knowing this was only the beginning.
The black helicopter sliced through the morning air, gaining altitude with impressive speed. Harry, still pressed against the window, watched the sprawling green carpet of the Amazon recede beneath them, a vast, untamed wilderness. The hum of the rotors was a constant, deep vibration, almost soothing.
Then, a new sound cut through the drone ? a high-pitched whine, growing rapidly louder. Harry?s head snapped up, his eyes scanning the horizon. From the shimmering distance, a second helicopter emerged, sleek and predatory, painted a stark, unforgiving grey. It was an attack chopper, its silhouette bristling with weaponry, and it was gaining on them fast.
"Hold on!" the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom, sharp and urgent. "Evasive maneuvers!"
The black helicopter lurched violently, banking hard to the left, then dipping sharply, throwing Harry against Stephen. Stephen?s arm instinctively wrapped around him, pulling him down, shielding him. A moment later, the air outside erupted. A rapid thump-thump-thump tore through the sky, followed by the sickening rip of metal as bullets hammered against their fuselage. Harry flinched, burying his face into Stephen?s side, the smell of ozone and burnt metal filling the cabin.
Through the window, he saw one of the crew members, strapped in, leaning out of an open bay, a mounted machine gun spitting fire back at their pursuer. But it was a desperate, hopeless fight. The grey helicopter was faster, more agile, and its firepower was overwhelming. Bullets continued to stitch across their path, narrowly missing, each impact a jarring reminder of their vulnerability.
"Heading for ground support!" the pilot yelled, his voice strained as he wrestled with the controls. The helicopter veered sharply again, dropping lower, skimming the very tops of the trees, a desperate dash for cover. The jungle canopy blurred into an indistinguishable green streak.
The attack helicopter, a relentless hunter, mirrored their every move, its machine gun never ceasing its deadly song. Harry could feel the vibrations of the impacts, the cold dread tightening its grip on his chest.
Suddenly, a brilliant flash erupted from the dense forest below. A streak of white light, impossibly fast, arced through the air. It wasn't from their helicopter. It wasn't from the grey one. It was a missile. It slammed into the pursuing attack helicopter with devastating force.
The grey chopper blossomed into a fiery orange fireball, a silent explosion against the vast blue sky. Debris, twisted metal, and burning fragments rained down into the jungle, leaving a dark plume of smoke against the morning light. Harry watched, wide-eyed, transfixed by the terrifying spectacle, his breath caught in his throat.
The black helicopter continued its flight, now unmolested, the sudden silence inside the cabin deafening after the cacophony of the chase.
"Who? who helped us?" Harry finally managed to stammer, turning to Stephen, his voice barely a whisper.
Stephen looked out at the distant, falling wreckage, his expression calm, almost serene. "It's Uncle Sam," he replied, his voice steady.
Wounded crew
The silence in the helicopter, after the explosive chaos of the chase, was almost as jarring as the gunfire had been. Harry, still clutching Stephen?s arm, slowly lifted his head, his eyes wide, fixed on the fading plume of smoke in the distance. The black helicopter flew steadily now, but the tension in the cabin remained, a palpable hum beneath the drone of the rotors.
Then, the crew member who had been firing the mounted gun slumped against the fuselage, a low groan escaping his lips. Harry saw it then ? a dark, spreading stain on his camouflage uniform, just below his ribs. He?d been shot.
Stephen was instantly by his side, his movements swift and decisive. "Pilot, nearest medical facility, now!" he commanded, his voice sharp with urgency. He tore open a small medical kit, pulling out bandages and antiseptic. "Harry, hold this," he instructed, pressing a thick roll of gauze into Harry's trembling hands. "Press it here, firmly."
Harry looked at the dark, glistening blood, a wave of nausea washing over him. His stomach churned, but he swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus. He pressed the gauze against the wound as Stephen directed, his fingers clumsy at first, then firming as he concentrated. The crew member, pale and sweating, gritted his teeth, a weak smile playing on his lips.
The pilot, his face grim, pushed the helicopter to its limits, the engines whining in protest as they sped through the sky. Harry, still holding the bandage, looked at the wounded man, a strange sense of concern mixing with his lingering fear. "Have? have we met before?" Harry asked, the question bubbling up unexpectedly. The man?s eyes, though clouded with pain, held a flicker of recognition.
"I don't think so, kid," he managed, his voice raspy. "Maybe you saw someone who looks like me. You can call me John." He coughed, a wet, rattling sound. Harry pressed harder on the bandage.
Minutes later, which felt like an eternity, the helicopter dropped sharply, settling with a gentle thump onto a stark white helipad. Below them, a sprawling hospital complex stretched out. As soon as the rotors began to slow, a team of medical staff, clad in scrubs, burst onto the helipad, gurneys at the ready.
"He's been shot," Stephen explained quickly, his voice calm despite the urgency, as they carefully transferred John onto a gurney. "Through and through, but no major organs hit, I think. Lost some blood." He squeezed John's shoulder. "Thank you, John. You saved us."
John managed a weak nod, a faint smile on his lips as the medical team whisked him away into the emergency room.
Stephen turned to Harry, his expression softening. "Let's go." They descended a nearby stairwell, emerging into a bustling parking lot. A sleek, dark SUV, its windows tinted, was waiting. They climbed in, the doors closing with a soft thud, sealing them away from the immediate chaos of the hospital. As the SUV pulled away, heading towards what Stephen called "the airport," Harry looked back at the hospital, then at his father. The world was moving faster than he could comprehend, but with Stephen by his side, a strange new journey had just begun.
The sleek SUV glided smoothly through the streets, leaving the hospital's sterile facade behind. Harry sat in the plush leather seat, the hum of the engine a stark contrast to the roar of helicopter blades and the frantic thumping of his own heart. Stephen sat beside him, calm and composed, occasionally glancing at Harry with a soft, reassuring gaze.
Harry couldn't hold back the torrent of questions any longer. "Where are we going now? Why was I in the forest? What was that project? And? and who were those men chasing us?" The words tumbled out, a desperate attempt to make sense of the whirlwind of the past twenty-four hours.
Stephen listened patiently, a faint smile touching his lips. "One question at a time, Flash," he said, using the nickname Harry hadn't heard before, yet it felt strangely familiar. "We're going home. A place where you'll be safe. As for the forest? that was part of the plan to get you out, to keep you hidden. The project, Project David, was? complicated. It was meant to help people, to prevent suffering, but it became twisted. And those men," his voice hardened slightly, "they're part of the twist. They want what you represent, what you can do. But they won't get you."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "There's a lot more to tell you, Harry. About your mother, about your abilities, about why you're so important. But it's a long story, and some of it? some of it is best explained when we're truly safe, and you're ready to hear it. For now, just know that everything we're doing is to protect you."
The driver, a quiet, efficient man, handed a small duffel bag to Stephen. "Fresh clothes, Harry," Stephen said, opening it. Inside were soft, clean fabrics ? a simple t-shirt, comfortable shorts. Harry quickly changed out of his torn, mud-stained clothes, the fresh fabric a welcome relief against his skin. It felt like shedding an old skin, a silent acknowledgment that the desperate, wild existence of the riverbank was behind him.
"You'll be safe there, Harry," Stephen repeated, his voice gentle. "It's a good place. It's home."
Harry looked out the window, watching the city lights begin to appear in the distance, a stark contrast to the dense green of the jungle. Home. The word felt foreign, yet comforting. He tried to piece together the fragments of his memory, the vague sensations, the whispers of an unknown past. Project David. Super abilities. His mother. It was all a jumbled puzzle, but for the first time, he felt like he had a guide, someone who held the missing pieces. He leaned his head against the cool glass, lost in thought, as the SUV continued its journey towards the airport, towards a future he couldn't yet imagine.
The airport was a dizzying blur of flashing lights, echoing announcements, and a river of hurried faces. Stephen navigated them through the bustling crowds with an effortless grace, his hand firmly on Harry's shoulder. Soon, they were settled into the quiet, cushioned seats of a commercial airplane, the roar of its engines a low thrum beneath them. The flight attendant's voice, speaking in a language Harry barely registered, announced their destination: the United States.
"We're going to West Virginia," Stephen said, his voice soft, a hint of nostalgia in his tone. "It's where I grew up. My home."
Harry nodded, then turned his gaze to the window as the massive plane began its ascent. The ground fell away, replaced by a vast, boundless expanse of sky. Soon, they were soaring above a sea of fluffy, white clouds, stretching to the horizon like an endless, ethereal landscape. Harry pressed his face against the cool glass, utterly captivated. The world below, with its dangers and mysteries, seemed distant, replaced by a breathtaking, silent majesty.
As the plane leveled out, a gentle melody began to play softly through the cabin's speakers. A man's voice, warm and resonant, sang of "Country Roads, take me home, to the place I belong." The song, unfamiliar yet strangely comforting, seemed to wrap around Harry, a promise whispered on the air.
Stephen leaned closer, a fond smile on his face. "This song? it always reminds me of home. Of the mountains, the quiet valleys. I used to spend hours exploring the woods behind our house, building forts, chasing fireflies. Simple things. Things you'll get to experience now." He spoke of fishing in clear streams, of the smell of pine trees after a summer rain, of crisp autumn air and crackling fires. Harry listened, his imagination painting vivid pictures of a life he had never known, a life so different from the sterile confines of a lab or the wild, dangerous embrace of the jungle. A life of normalcy, of peace.
The gentle hum of the engines, combined with Stephen's soothing voice and the quiet melody, began to lull Harry. His eyelids grew heavy, his earlier exhaustion finally catching up to him. He leaned his head against Stephen's arm, the solid warmth a comforting anchor. Stephen shifted slightly, allowing Harry to get comfortable, then gently stroked his hair. Harry drifted off, the last strains of "Country Roads" fading into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
He woke only when the plane began its slow descent, the familiar pressure building in his ears. Below them, a patchwork of glittering lights stretched out, a vast, sprawling landscape of civilization. They had arrived.
The airport was soon a distant memory, replaced by the quiet hum of the SUV as Stephen drove them through winding country roads. The bustling city gave way to rolling hills, verdant fields, and clusters of trees painted in the soft greens of early summer. The air grew fresher, carrying the scent of rich earth and blooming wildflowers. Harry watched, fascinated, as quaint houses with wide porches and barns dotted the landscape, each one seeming to whisper tales of peaceful lives.
Finally, the SUV turned onto a gravel driveway, crunching softly as it approached a charming, two-story farmhouse. It was painted a weathered cream, with a welcoming red door and a sprawling front porch. Behind it, a large, sturdy barn stood sentinel, its weathered wood speaking of years of use. The entire property was nestled amidst a patchwork of fields and a small, inviting wood line.
"This is it, Harry," Stephen said, a genuine warmth in his voice. "This is where I grew up. My parents' farm. It's been in our family for generations." He looked at the farmhouse, a deep sense of belonging etched on his face. "It's home."
As they pulled to a stop, the front door of a nearby house opened, and an elderly woman with kind eyes stepped out, waving. Soon, other figures emerged from neighboring properties, drawn by the sound of the car. They approached, their faces wreathed in smiles, calling out Stephen's name.
"Stephen! You're finally back!"
"It's been too long, son!"
Warm greetings and hearty handshakes were exchanged. Stephen, his arm around Harry's shoulder, introduced him to the small gathering. "Everyone, this is Harry. My son. He's been living with his Aunt Shania in Guyana for the past few years, but he's here to stay now." The neighbors, a mix of farmers and families, smiled, offering friendly nods and soft hellos. A small, impromptu welcoming party began, with offers of fresh-baked pies and promises of shared meals. Harry, overwhelmed but touched, felt a strange warmth spread through him.
Later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples, one of the neighbors, a kindly woman named Mrs. Gable, leaned down to Harry. "So, Harry," she said, her eyes twinkling, "are you excited for school to start?"
Harry blinked, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. He looked up at Stephen. "What's school?" he whispered, the words carrying a genuine, childlike innocence.
Stephen chuckled softly, ruffling Harry's hair. "Don't worry about it right now, Flash. Everything will be fine. We'll get you sorted. I'll arrange everything soon enough." He gave Harry a reassuring squeeze.
As the last of the neighbors departed, and the stars began to prickle the deepening twilight, Harry stood on the farmhouse porch. The air was cool and clean, carrying the scent of cut grass and distant woodsmoke. He looked at the old farmhouse, at the barn, at the quiet fields stretching out under the vast sky. For the first time in his life, Harry felt it ? a profound, undeniable sense of belonging. He had a home.
The Dreamcatcher(https://dannyshomegoods.com/cdn/shop/products/515-efubEnL.jpg?v=1634244925&width=1445)
The welcome party had wound down, the last of the neighbors? laughter fading into the cool evening air as they departed with warm goodbyes. Stephen led Harry through the farmhouse, the wooden floors creaking softly under their steps. The scent of roasted chicken and fresh-baked cornbread from the party still lingered, mixing with the faint aroma of pine from the surrounding woods.
"Here's your room, Harry," Stephen said, pushing open a heavy oak door at the end of the hallway. His voice was gentle but carried a hint of anticipation, as if unveiling something sacred.
Harry stepped inside, his eyes scanning the modest space. A single bed with a patchwork quilt sat against one wall, flanked by a small wooden desk and a window overlooking the moonlit fields. The room felt both unfamiliar and oddly comforting, like a place waiting to become his own. As his gaze drifted upward, something caught his attention... a peculiar object hanging from the ceiling, swaying slightly in the draft from the open door.
It was a webbed hoop, no larger than a dinner plate, intricately woven with threads that shimmered faintly in the dim light. Several white feathers dangled from its edges, their tips brushing against each other with a soft rustle. Beads in shades of turquoise and amber were threaded into the webbing, catching the moonlight in a quiet dance of color.
"What's that?" Harry asked, pointing to the object, his curiosity piqued.
Stephen followed his gaze, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "That's a dreamcatcher," he said, stepping closer to stand beneath it. "Your mother made it. It's a traditional piece, rooted in Native American culture... her culture. She was an Ojibwe, you know. This was one of her last creations before... " His voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat, the weight of unspoken memories settling between them.
Harry stared at the dreamcatcher, his fingers itching to touch the feathers but held back by a sense of reverence. "What's it for?" he asked, his voice quieter now, as if afraid to disturb the delicate object.
Stephen reached up, gently steadying the hoop as it swayed. "The Ojibwe believe it protects you while you sleep. The web catches bad dreams, traps them so they can't reach you. The feathers guide good dreams down to you, soft and safe. Lea used to say it was like a shield for the soul." He paused, his eyes distant. "She made this one for you, Harry. Said it would keep you safe, no matter where life took you."
Harry's chest tightened, a mix of awe and longing stirring within him. He never met his mother, but this dreamcatcher felt like a piece of her, tangible and real. "Webster and Whitefeather," he murmured, almost to himself, piecing together the names. "That's us, isn't it? You and her."
Stephen nodded, his smile tinged with both pride and sorrow. "That's right. Stephen Webster and Lea Whitefeather. The web for me, the feathers for her. She always said we were two halves of a whole... grounded and soaring, together." He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, his grip firm yet comforting. "This dreamcatcher's a reminder of that. Of her. And of who you are, Harry... a boy with roots in two worlds, strong enough to carry both."
Harry looked back at the dreamcatcher, its feathers trembling faintly as if whispering secrets. For the first time since arriving at the farmhouse, he felt a connection to this place, to the mother he barely knew, and to the heritage woven into the delicate threads above him. He nodded slowly, a quiet resolve settling in his heart. "I'll keep it safe," he said, his voice steady despite the ache in his throat.
Stephen squeezed his shoulder, his eyes bright with unspoken emotion. "I know you will, Flash. Now, get some rest. Tomorrow's a new day."
As Stephen left the room, Harry climbed into bed, his gaze fixed on the dreamcatcher. The moonlight filtered through its web, casting soft shadows on the walls. For a moment, he imagined his mother's hands weaving it, her voice humming a lullaby he couldn't quite recall. As his eyelids grew heavy, he felt the weight of her love, and the promise of protection, hanging above him.
The old SUV, surprisingly comfortable despite its age, rumbled along a paved road, carrying Harry and Stephen toward a new, unfamiliar destination: school. The building itself was a low, brick structure, surrounded by a large, manicured lawn and a vibrant playground. Children, a bewildering swarm of them, laughed and shouted as they spilled from yellow buses and hurried through the front doors. Harry felt a knot of apprehension tighten in his stomach.
Stephen, sensing his unease, squeezed his shoulder. "You'll be fine, Flash. Just be yourself." He led Harry inside, the air suddenly thick with the smell of floor wax and chalk. A kind-faced woman with a bright smile, introduced as Mrs. Henderson, Harry's new teacher, greeted them warmly. She then introduced Harry to the class. Faces, a sea of curious, mostly friendly eyes, turned towards him. Some whispered, some giggled, but most offered shy smiles. Harry managed a small, awkward wave.
The morning unfolded in a blur of unfamiliar routines. Numbers on a chalkboard, letters on a chart, stories read aloud. Harry tried to pay attention, but his mind kept drifting. He found himself comparing the quiet hum of the classroom to the constant, vibrant symphony of the Amazon jungle. The gentle tapping of Mrs. Henderson?s pointer stick felt insignificant next to the crackle of a taser or the roar of a helicopter. He felt? bored. Terribly, profoundly bored. His recent life had been a constant surge of adrenaline and survival, and sitting still, listening to lessons about things that seemed so utterly removed from his reality, was a challenge.
Avoid conflicts with your new friends. Stephen?s words echoed in his mind from their conversation on the drive over. He?d explained that blending in was key, that drawing attention to himself was dangerous. Harry understood the logic, even if the urge to fidget, to run, to do something, was almost overwhelming. He forced himself to sit still, to nod at the right times, to offer a polite smile when a classmate offered him a crayon.
The bell finally rang, a jarring, welcome sound that signaled the end of the day. Children erupted from their desks, a joyous stampede towards freedom. Harry gathered his few new belongings, a strange sense of relief washing over him. Nothing had happened. No one had chased him, no traps had sprung. It was? normal. Almost too normal. He walked out to meet Stephen, a faint, unsettling feeling that this calm was merely the prelude to something else.
Lunch room incident
A few days later, the initial strangeness of school had begun to settle into a monotonous rhythm. Lunchtime, however, remained a chaotic symphony of clattering trays, loud chatter, and the occasional shriek of laughter. Harry sat at a long, worn table, quietly unwrapping the sandwich Stephen had packed for him, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over his tray. Harry looked up to see a group of four boys looming over him. The tallest, a burly kid with a perpetually sneering grin, jabbed a thumb at the empty seats around Harry. "This is our table, new kid," he grunted, his voice thick with entitlement. "Move it."
Harry's jaw tightened. Every instinct screamed at him to push back, to stand his ground. But Stephen's words, gentle yet firm, echoed in his mind: Avoid conflicts with your new friends. He took a slow breath, forcing himself to comply. With a reluctant sigh, Harry gathered his tray, his half-eaten sandwich, and his carton of milk, and slid out of the seat. He walked to a small, empty table tucked away in a corner, the gang's mocking snickers following him.
He hadn't even taken a bite at his new, isolated spot when a sudden, sickening crash pierced the cafeteria's din. All heads turned. A small boy, perhaps a year or two younger than Harry, stood frozen near the serving line, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and despair. His lunch tray lay scattered on the tiled floor, a colorful, messy explosion of spilled milk, mashed potatoes, and bright green peas.
The gang of boys, the same ones who had just claimed Harry's table, erupted into boisterous laughter. "Look at the baby!" the leader bellowed, pointing a derisive finger. "Can't even hold his own food!"
A hot surge, not quite anger, but a fierce protectiveness, flared within Harry. He didn't hesitate. He was out of his seat in an instant, moving with a speed that startled even himself, though no one seemed to notice in the general commotion. He knelt beside the trembling boy, ignoring the lingering taunts. "Are you okay?" Harry asked, his voice surprisingly gentle. He helped the boy to his feet, then quickly began to gather the larger pieces of the broken plastic tray, careful to avoid the sharp edges. With swift, practiced movements, he swept the scattered food and liquid into a small, manageable pile, clearing the immediate area to prevent anyone from slipping.
Once the worst of the mess was contained, Harry walked back to his table, picked up his sandwich, and without a second thought, broke it neatly in half. He returned to the small boy, whose face was still flushed with embarrassment. "Here," Harry offered, holding out half of his meal. "You can have this."
The boy looked up, his eyes widening with surprise, then a profound gratitude. He shyly took the offered sandwich. "Th-thank you," he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper. "My name's Rowan. Rowan Jenkins."
Harry offered a small, genuine smile. "Harry." The simple exchange, the shared food, created a silent bond between them, a quiet understanding forged in the noisy chaos of the lunchroom.
That evening, the farmhouse felt warm and inviting, a sanctuary after the day's small dramas. The scent of Stephen's cooking?something savory and comforting?filled the air. Harry sat at the kitchen table, sketching idly on a pad of paper, while Stephen stirred a pot on the stove.
"So, how was school today, Flash?" Stephen asked, without turning, his voice casual.
Harry hesitated, then slowly recounted the lunchroom incident. He described the gang of boys, their taunts, and how he had moved tables. He told Stephen about the crash, the spilled food, and the small, embarrassed boy. And then, he described how he had helped Rowan, and offered him half of his sandwich. He left out the part about his internal struggle, about the instinct to fight, focusing instead on the actions he had taken.
Stephen turned from the stove, a soft, proud smile spreading across his face. He walked over, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, and ruffled Harry's hair. "That was a very kind thing to do, Harry," he said, his voice warm with genuine approval. "Helping someone when they're down, even when it's not easy. That's real strength." He paused, his eyes twinkling. "And sharing your food? That shows a good heart."
Harry felt a flush of warmth spread through him, a feeling far more satisfying than any victory in a fight. He hadn't realized how much he craved his father's approval.
"You know what?" Stephen continued, a playful glint in his eye. "For being such a good kid, and for handling things so well today, how about we go out for dinner tomorrow night? My treat. We can find a place with? real food. Not cafeteria slop."
Harry's eyes lit up. He hadn't realized how much he wanted that. A genuine smile, wide and uninhibited, stretched across his face. "Really?"
"Really," Stephen confirmed, a matching smile on his own face. "Just you and me. A celebration of your first week of school, and of being a good person." He turned back to the stove, humming softly. Harry watched him, a profound sense of peace settling over him. He had a home, a father who understood him, and a new friend. And tomorrow, dinner out. Life, it seemed, was finally starting to make sense.
The next evening, Stephen drove Harry to a small, unassuming Chinese restaurant nestled in a strip mall on the edge of town. The aroma of soy sauce, ginger, and fried noodles wafted out as they approached, making Harry's stomach rumble in anticipation. "Tonight, Flash," Stephen declared, pulling into a parking spot, "you eat enough for two days. Make up for that short lunch the other day." Harry grinned, the memory of his half-sandwich quickly overshadowed by the promise of a full meal.
Inside, the restaurant was cozy, with red lanterns casting a warm glow over the checkered tablecloths. They found a booth by the window and settled in, perusing the extensive menu. Harry was still trying to decide between sweet and sour chicken and beef with broccoli when the chime of the door announced new arrivals.
Harry glanced up, his gaze drawn to the family entering. The man leading them had straight, jet-black hair, neatly combed, and a trim mustache. What truly caught Harry's eye, however, was a distinctive, thin scar that arced gracefully around his right eye, disappearing into his temple. Beside him, a woman with striking blonde hair and vivid blue eyes moved with an easy grace. Trailing slightly behind them was a girl, seemingly around Harry's age, with her father's dark hair but her mother's piercing blue eyes.
"Akira? Liv!" Stephen's voice, suddenly vibrant with surprise and pleasure, cut through the quiet hum of the restaurant. He pushed himself out of the booth, a wide smile on his face. "What are you doing here?"
The man with the scar, Akira, returned Stephen's smile, a genuine warmth softening his features. His eyes then fell on Harry, a flicker of polite curiosity in them. "Stephen! It's good to see you, old friend. And who is this young man?"
Stephen's smile widened as he put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Akira, Liv, Asha, this is my son, Harry. Harry, this is Akira Fujimoto, with his wife and daughter, Liv and Asha." He turned back to Akira. "Harry's mother, Lea, died during childbirth, and his Aunt Shania raised him in Guyana until recently. He's just come to live with me."
Akira's eyebrows rose in surprise, then softened into a warm expression. "A son! Stephen, this is wonderful news. It's a pleasure to meet you, Harry." He offered a firm handshake. Liv, with her gentle smile, knelt slightly to be at Harry's eye level. "It's lovely to finally meet you, Harry. Stephen has spoken of you." Asha, a little shy, gave Harry a small wave.
"Please, join us!" Stephen insisted, gesturing to their spacious booth. "There's plenty of room."
The Fujimoto family slid into the booth opposite Stephen and Harry. As they ordered their food, conversation flowed easily between the adults. Harry listened, picking up snippets of their lives. "Yes, Akira's been reassigned," Liv explained, "so we've just moved back from Japan. He'll be in a new country soon, but we decided it was better for Asha to stay here in the States, with her grandparents, for her schooling and to settle down."
"Ah, schooling," Stephen interjected, turning to Asha with a knowing look. "You know, Asha, Harry just started elementary school this week. And I have a feeling you two might even be in the same class."
Asha's eyes widened slightly, and a small, surprised smile touched her lips. Harry felt a similar jolt of surprise, quickly followed by a wave of pleasure. The thought of having someone new, someone his own age, in his class, especially after the lunchroom incident, was unexpectedly comforting. He caught Asha's eye, and for a moment, a silent understanding passed between them, a quiet spark of new friendship forming amidst the comforting aromas of the Chinese restaurant.
The next morning, the familiar drone of the school bus and the cheerful chaos of the playground greeted Harry. He walked into his classroom, a faint sense of anticipation fluttering in his chest. He wasn't entirely sure why, until Mrs. Henderson, with her bright smile, stood at the front of the room just as the bell rang.
"Good morning, class!" she chirped. "We have a new student joining us today. Please welcome Asha Fujimoto."
Asha stepped forward, her dark hair neatly braided, her blue eyes scanning the room with a quiet confidence that Harry found immediately striking. She wasn't shy or awkward like he had been on his first day. She simply offered a small, polite bow, a gesture that seemed to amuse some of the other kids but made her stand out in a graceful way. Mrs. Henderson gestured to an empty desk two rows over from Harry's, and Asha settled in, pulling out her books with an easy, composed air.
Classes proceeded as usual, the rhythm of lessons a familiar hum. Harry, however, found his attention occasionally drifting from the chalkboard to Asha. He snuck a few curious glances her way. She listened intently, her head tilted slightly, occasionally jotting notes in a neat hand. She seemed completely at ease, a quiet island of calm amidst the usual classroom chatter and fidgeting. Her presence was a subtle shift in the room's dynamic, a new, intriguing element.
The morning passed without incident. No loud noises, no unexpected visitors, no confrontations. Just the steady march of lessons, the rustle of papers, and the quiet, confident presence of Asha Fujimoto. Everything seemed perfectly normal, right up until the bell for lunch break rang, signaling a different kind of lesson about to begin.
The cafeteria, a cacophony of voices and clattering trays, was a familiar battlefield. Harry had just settled into his corner table, his eyes scanning the room, when he saw it. In the middle of the crowded room, a familiar scene was unfolding. Rowan Jenkins, his small frame hunched, was surrounded by the same gang of four boys from before. Harry recognized them instantly: Tyler, the scowling leader, with Vance, Jake, and Brody flanking him, their faces set in sneers.
Then came the inevitable crash. Rowan?s tray, laden with a fresh lunch, tumbled from his grasp, sending a cascade of food and milk splattering across the floor. The gang erupted in cruel laughter, their voices rising above the general din. Rowan stood frozen, his face burning with shame, tears welling in his eyes.
Before Harry could even react, a blur of motion from a nearby table caught his eye. Asha. She was already moving, a determined set to her jaw. She reached Rowan in an instant, dropping to her knees beside him. "Are you hurt?" she asked, her voice clear and firm, cutting through the bullies' laughter. She helped Rowan to his feet, her hand gentle on his arm.
Harry, spurred by her quick action, was right behind her. He knelt, instinctively beginning to gather the larger pieces of food and the broken remnants of the tray, just as he had done days before. The familiar shame of the situation, the helplessness of Rowan, fueled a quiet anger within him.
Asha, her back to the mess, turned to face the gang. Her blue eyes, usually calm, now blazed with an icy fury. "What is wrong with you?" she demanded, her voice ringing with surprising authority. "Picking on someone smaller, someone who can't defend themselves? That's pathetic!" Her gaze swept over each of them, unwavering. "You will apologize to him. And then you will help us clean this up. Or I will go straight to the teacher. Right now."
Tyler's sneer hardened into a scowl. "Oh, listen to the new girl," he mocked, stepping closer. "Vance and the others shuffled, a menacing air about them. "Think you're tough, huh? Maybe you need a lesson too."
But Asha didn't flinch. Her chin lifted, her gaze locking onto Tyler's. "Try me," she challenged, her voice low and steady, devoid of fear.
A ripple went through the other kids in the cafeteria. Whispers erupted, a mix of surprise and admiration. No one had ever stood up to the gang like this before. Harry, still on his knees, watched Asha, a new respect dawning in him. The tension in the lunchroom crackled, a silent standoff between the new girl's fierce courage and the bullies' simmering anger.
The tension in the cafeteria was a live wire, humming with unspoken challenge. Tyler, his face contorted with a furious disbelief that a girl would dare defy him, took a menacing step forward. "You think you're so smart, new girl?" he snarled, his hand raising, aiming a swift, open-palmed smack directly at Asha's face.
But Asha was faster. Before his hand could connect, she moved with an almost imperceptible shift, a fluid motion that seemed to vanish from one spot and reappear a foot to the side. Tyler's momentum carried his arm uselessly through the empty air. In that same seamless motion, Asha's hand shot out, not to strike, but to grab his wrist. She didn't use brute force; instead, she used his own frustrated lunge against him. A twist, a pivot of her body, and with a grunt of surprise, Tyler's feet left the ground. He sailed through the air for a brief, humiliating moment before landing with a loud thump on the cafeteria floor, a tangle of limbs and bruised ego.
The entire lunchroom went utterly silent. Not a single tray clattered, not a whisper was heard. All eyes were fixed on Tyler, sprawled on the floor, and Asha, standing over him, her stance poised and unyielding. Then, a single, tentative cheer erupted from a table near the back. It quickly spread, growing into a wave of triumphant shouts and applause. Kids were standing on chairs, pumping their fists, reveling in the unexpected downfall of the bully.
Tyler scrambled to his feet, his face a furious shade of crimson. His eyes, narrowed to slits, darted from Asha's calm, unwavering gaze to the cheering faces of his classmates, then to his own gang, who looked stunned and uncertain. His pride, built on years of unchallenged dominance, lay shattered on the cafeteria floor, more broken than Rowan's plate had been. He couldn't face the laughter, the cheers. With a guttural roar of pure humiliation, he spun on his heel and stormed towards the kitchen doors, pushing past a startled lunch lady. Vance, Jake, and Brody, looking bewildered and thoroughly chastened, exchanged nervous glances before reluctantly following their disgraced leader, their heads down. The muttered threats that followed them were barely audible, but the promise of revenge hung heavy in the air.
Asha, seemingly oblivious to the cheers and the lingering tension, turned her attention back to Rowan. She gently helped him sit down at a clean table, her expression soft. "You're safe now," she simply stated, her voice quiet but firm.
Harry, who had witnessed the entire, astonishing display from his spot on the floor, felt a surge of awe. He had seen strength, raw power, in the jungle. But this was different. This was skill, courage, and an unwavering sense of justice. He looked at Asha, a new, profound admiration blooming in his chest. She was truly impressive. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his gut, that Tyler wouldn't let this go. Not after this.
The cafeteria, usually a chaotic symphony of chatter and clatter, was even louder than usual. The air still vibrated with the aftermath of Asha's stunning victory over Tyler. Kids at every table were buzzing, recounting the judo throw, mimicking Tyler's humiliated scramble, and whispering about the "new girl" who wasn't afraid of anything. Harry, Rowan, and Asha sat together, a small island of calm amidst the excited murmurs. Rowan, still a little wide-eyed, was quietly thanking Asha again, while Harry found himself simply enjoying her presence, a sense of camaraderie settling between them.
Suddenly, a hush began to fall over sections of the room, spreading like a ripple. Harry felt a prickle of unease. He looked up.
Tyler, his face a mask of cold fury, was back. He marched through the cafeteria, his gang?Vance, Jake, and Brody trailing behind him, their expressions grim. Tyler's right hand was held slightly behind his back, his body angled in a way that subtly concealed whatever he was holding. He wasn't looking at the other kids; his eyes were locked onto Asha, a dangerous glint in their depths.
He was only a few steps away from their table when, with a slight, almost imperceptible shift of his wrist, he changed his grip. The angle of his body momentarily opened, and for a split second, the glint of metal caught the fluorescent light. It was a knife. A small, but undeniably sharp, blade.
A collective gasp swept through the tables closest to them. Then, a high-pitched scream tore through the air, followed by another, and another. Children scrambled back from their seats, some pointing, their faces contorted with terror. Tyler didn't even glance at them; his focus remained solely on Asha.
Asha, still chatting with Rowan, looked up, her brow furrowed in confusion at the sudden panic. Her blue eyes scanned the room, trying to understand the source of the alarm, her back still to the approaching danger.
But Harry saw it. The knife. The cold, hard glint of it in Tyler's hand. The predatory gleam in Tyler's eyes. In that instant, the boredom of school, the quiet safety of the farmhouse, vanished. His world narrowed to one terrifying point: the blade, aimed at Asha. His instincts, honed by the raw survival of the Amazon, screamed. There was no time to think, no time to warn. Only time to act.
The world seemed to slow down, then accelerate past all comprehension. One moment, Asha was turning, confused by the screams. The next, Harry was a blur. He didn't just run; he launched himself, covering the distance between them in a blink, a human projectile fueled by pure, desperate instinct.
His fist, a compact blur of motion, connected with Tyler's wrist just as the knife, a cold, deadly glint of steel, was mere inches from Asha's back. The impact was sickeningly precise. A sharp crack echoed through the suddenly silent cafeteria, followed by a metallic clatter as the knife spun away, skittering across the linoleum floor to come to rest a few feet away, harmless for now.
Tyler screamed. It wasn't a shout of anger, but a raw, piercing shriek of agony. He clutched his right wrist, his face contorted in pain, tears springing to his eyes. The unnatural angle of his hand, the way his fingers splayed, indicated that something was terribly wrong ? his wrist joints partially dislocated, perhaps even fractured, from the sheer, unexpected force of Harry's blow.
Asha spun around, her eyes wide, trying to process the sudden, violent turn of events. One moment, confusion. The next, Harry was there, Tyler was screaming, and a knife lay on the floor. Her gaze darted from the fallen weapon to Harry, then to Tyler, a mixture of shock and dawning realization washing over her face.
The other kids in the lunchroom, who had been screaming moments before, now stared in stunned silence. Some whispered, their voices hushed and disbelieving. Others were too frozen, too wide-eyed, to even speak. The cafeteria, usually a riot of noise, was now eerily quiet, save for Tyler's whimpering and the distant thud of hurried footsteps.
Then, a flurry of adult figures burst through the swinging kitchen doors. Teachers, their faces etched with alarm, rushed into the room, drawn by the screams and the sudden, unnatural silence. Their eyes immediately fell on the knife on the floor, then on the sobbing Tyler clutching his wrist, and finally, on Harry, standing protectively in front of Asha, his chest still heaving from the impossible speed of his dash. The immediate danger was neutralized, but a new, unsettling set of questions had just begun.
The cafeteria, moments ago a scene of terror, quickly transformed into a flurry of controlled chaos. Teachers, their faces pale but determined, moved swiftly. One immediately secured the knife, carefully wrapping it in a napkin. Another, the school nurse, knelt beside Tyler, who was still whimpering, clutching his clearly injured wrist. Within minutes, his wrist was roughly immobilized with a splint, his face a mixture of pain and simmering resentment. He was then escorted, still sobbing, out of the lunchroom and towards the school clinic.
The remaining students were quickly herded into small groups, teachers moving among them, asking questions. "What happened?" "Did you see anything?" "Who did what?" Harry, Asha, and Rowan were separated, each asked to recount their version of events.
But the answers were a jumble of conflicting details. "He just moved so fast!" one girl stammered, wide-eyed. "Like a flash!" another boy added. "One second the knife was there, the next it was on the floor, and Tyler was screaming." Many kids, still shaken, offered only vague descriptions, their eyes darting nervously towards the door Tyler had exited. Some were clearly reluctant to speak ill of him, a lingering fear of retaliation keeping their lips sealed. They had seen Tyler humiliated, but they also knew his capacity for cruelty.
Tyler himself, when questioned in the clinic, could offer little clarity beyond his pain. He only knew that one moment the knife was in his hand, aimed at Asha, and the next, Harry was somehow between them, and a searing pain had shot through his wrist. He couldn't explain how Harry had moved, or what had struck him. He only knew the force had been unnatural, devastating.
The headmaster, a stern but fair man, arrived, his face grim. After reviewing the initial reports and seeing the extent of Tyler's injury, he made a quick decision. Tyler would be sent to the nearest hospital for a proper examination of his wrist. The incident had escalated far beyond a typical schoolyard scuffle.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the students were dismissed, the lunch period effectively over. As they filtered out of the cafeteria, heading for their next classes, whispers followed Harry like a shadow. "Did you see how fast he was?" "Like lightning!" "What did he do to Tyler?" The questions hung in the air, unanswered, fueling a growing sense of mystery and unease around the quiet new boy who had moved with impossible speed. The tension had dropped, but a new kind of curiosity, tinged with apprehension, had taken its place.
The farmhouse, usually a place of comforting routine, felt different that evening. A quiet tension lingered in the air, a residue from the day's events. After dinner, Stephen led Harry to the living room, settling onto the worn armchair while Harry curled up on the sofa. The fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows on the walls, and the only sound was the gentle crackle of burning wood.
"So, Harry," Stephen began, his voice soft, his gaze steady. "Tell me about today. About what happened in the lunchroom. Are you okay?"
Harry took a deep breath, the words tumbling out honestly. He recounted the return of Tyler and his gang, the hidden knife, the screams, and the terrifying speed with which he had to move. "He was going to stab Asha, Dad," Harry explained, his voice tight with the memory. "The knife was right there, inches from her back. I had to move fast. Really fast. I just? I hit his wrist. I didn't mean to hurt him that much, but I couldn't hit any slower. Not if I wanted to stop him."
Stephen listened, his expression unreadable, until Harry finished. Then, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Harry," he said, his voice filled with a profound sincerity, "you did a brave thing today. You saved Asha. And I'm incredibly grateful that knife ended up on the floor instead of? well, you know." He paused, a flicker of concern crossing his face. "But you have to be careful, son. Your strength, your speed? it's more than most people can handle. You need to learn to control it. To avoid injuring people, if you can."
Harry frowned, a stubborn set to his jaw. "But I couldn't, Dad! If I went any slower, if I held back, she would have gotten hurt. I had to hit him hard enough to make him drop it."
Stephen sighed, a long, weary sound, but there was understanding in his eyes. He knew Harry was right. "I know, Harry. I know. It's not easy." He looked into the flickering flames, his voice dropping to a thoughtful murmur. "There's an old saying, Harry. One that your mother and I often talked about. It goes: 'With great power? comes great responsibility.' You'll understand more when you're older. But for now, just remember that every action you take, especially with your abilities, has consequences. And you have to choose those actions wisely."
Harry nodded slowly, the words echoing in his mind. Great power? great responsibility. He didn't fully grasp their weight, not yet. He was just a boy who had moved too fast, hit too hard, to save a friend. But a seed had been planted, a quiet understanding that his life, and his abilities, were far more complicated than he could possibly imagine. He sat there, reflecting, the warmth of the fire and his father's presence a comforting anchor in the swirling uncertainties of his new world.
The next morning, the quiet calm of the farmhouse was shattered by a phone call from the school. By mid-morning, Stephen and Harry were back at the elementary school, but this time, they were headed directly to the principal's office.
The small, wood-paneled office was already crowded. Seated around a large, polished table were Akira Fujimoto, his expression serious but composed, and a formidable-looking man with a florid face and an expensive suit ? Mr. Brock, Tyler's father, a prominent local businessman with clear political ambitions. A few other parents, whose children had witnessed the incident, sat quietly, looking uncomfortable.
The principal, Mrs. Albright, a woman with tired but resolute eyes, cleared her throat. "Thank you all for coming on such short notice. As you know, there was a very serious incident in the cafeteria yesterday. I've spoken with the children, and now I'd like to hear your perspectives, based on what your children have told you."
Mr. Brock immediately leaned forward, his voice booming, filling the small office. "My son, Tyler, was attacked! On his first day back from Japan, this? this girl, Asha, comes in and stirs up trouble. Before she arrived, everything was perfectly peaceful in that lunchroom. My boy's wrist is broken, and it's all because of her!" He gestured wildly, his face reddening.
Akira Fujimoto, calm and collected, steepled his fingers. "Mr. Brock," he began, his voice smooth, almost too polite, "with all due respect, my daughter, Asha, merely intervened when your son and his friends were bullying another child. As for 'peaceful,' I believe the term 'uneventful' might be more accurate, given the reports of previous incidents involving your son. My daughter simply stood up for someone weaker. Is that truly 'causing trouble'?" A subtle, almost imperceptible mockery laced his tone.
Stephen, sitting beside Harry, spoke next, his voice calm but firm. "And my son, Harry, only acted when Tyler pulled a knife. He saw a classmate in immediate danger, and he reacted. He prevented a much more serious tragedy." He met Mr. Brock's furious gaze unflinchingly. "Harry saved Asha from being stabbed."
Mr. Brock slammed his hand on the table, making the other parents jump. "Stabbed? Nonsense! My son was provoked! And this boy," he pointed a thick finger at Harry, "he used excessive force! He deliberately injured my son! This is assault! There will be legal consequences, Mr. Webster. You can be sure of that!"
The air in the room crackled with hostility. Mrs. Albright, seeing the meeting spiraling, raised a hand. "Gentlemen, please. Let's not make accusations. This is a serious matter, and we need to conduct a thorough investigation. We have multiple accounts, some conflicting, and we need to understand exactly what transpired before any judgments are made or actions are taken." She looked from Mr. Brock to Stephen and Akira, her expression a plea for calm.
The tension, however, remained thick and unresolved. Mr. Brock glared, Akira maintained his composed defiance, and Stephen remained steadfast. The meeting ended without resolution, leaving a clear understanding that this was more than just a schoolyard fight. It was a clash of wills, of power, and of very different ideas of justice, hinting at larger conflicts to come.
The tense atmosphere of the principal's office lingered, but as Stephen and Harry walked out into the school hallway, Akira Fujimoto was waiting for them. His usual composed demeanor was softened by a clear, heartfelt gratitude.
"Stephen, Harry," Akira began, his voice earnest. "Liv and I, we can't thank you enough for what you did yesterday. For saving Asha. It could have been? much, much worse." He paused, his gaze meeting Stephen's. "We'd like to invite you both for dinner tonight, at my parents' house. They're very eager to meet you, and we'd be honored to have you."
Stephen's expression softened. "Akira, there's no need for thanks. Harry just did what was right." He glanced at Harry, who was listening intently. "But we'd be delighted to come. Wouldn't we, Harry?"
Harry nodded, a polite smile on his face. He was still processing the idea of a "family dinner" that wasn't just him and Stephen.
"My parents moved here a few years ago," Akira explained, a fond look in his eyes. "They retired from their corporate work in New York and wanted a quieter life. They're looking forward to meeting you both."
As they drove home, Stephen elaborated. "You'll be meeting Asha's grandparents tonight, Harry. They're good people."
Harry looked out the window, the familiar countryside blurring past. He'd never really had a "family dinner" like this before. His life in the lab had been sterile, controlled. Even with Stephen now, their meals were quiet, simple affairs. He wondered what it would be like: a house full of people, laughter, different kinds of food. A nervous flutter mixed with his curiosity. He wanted to fit in, to understand this new, normal life.
Later that evening, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Stephen turned the SUV down a quiet, tree-lined lane. At the end of it stood a beautiful, traditional Japanese-style house, nestled amidst a meticulously kept garden. Soft lights glowed from within, casting a warm, inviting aura. The scent of something delicious wafted on the evening breeze. This was it.
The gravel crunched softly under the SUV's tires as Stephen pulled up to the house. It wasn't the kind of farmhouse Harry expected, not like Stephen's. This was a vision of serene elegance: a low-slung structure with dark, sweeping rooflines and wide eaves, surrounded by a meticulously manicured garden where smooth stones and perfectly pruned bushes created a sense of tranquil order. It felt like stepping into a different world.
As they approached the entrance, the front door slid open, revealing Akira, Liv, and Asha, their faces alight with welcoming smiles. "Stephen, Harry, welcome!" Liv said, her voice warm. Asha gave Harry a shy but genuine wave.
Inside, the air was filled with the subtle, enticing aromas of unfamiliar spices and something fresh and green. They were led into a spacious living area, where two older figures rose from low cushions on the floor. These were Kenji and Reiko Fujimoto, Akira's parents. Kenji, with a quiet dignity, had a neatly trimmed white beard and sharp, intelligent eyes that mirrored Akira's. Reiko, with her silver hair pulled back in a neat bun, exuded a gentle grace.
"Stephen-san," Kenji said, his voice soft but resonant, as he performed a deep, respectful bow. Reiko followed suit, her movements fluid and precise. Stephen returned their bows, a gesture Harry had never seen him make, a quiet acknowledgment of their customs. Harry, standing slightly behind Stephen, watched everything with wide, fascinated eyes. The polite bows, the hushed reverence of their movements, the way they held themselves ? it was all so different from the easygoing, boisterous greetings he'd witnessed in West Virginia. Despite being in America, their home felt distinctly Japanese.
Soon, they were ushered into a dining room where a large, low table was set. The spread was magnificent, a vibrant tapestry of colors and textures. There were delicate sushi rolls alongside a roasted chicken, steaming bowls of miso soup next to a fresh green salad, and platters of tempura vegetables mingling with a hearty potato gratin. It was a beautiful blend of two cultures, a testament to the Fujimotos' life.
"Please, make yourselves comfortable," Reiko said, gesturing to the cushions around the table. Harry, still observing, carefully settled onto a cushion beside Stephen, across from Asha. The soft glow of paper lanterns overhead cast a warm, inviting light as everyone took their places, ready to begin the meal.
The dinner table, laden with its exquisite blend of dishes, quickly became a hub of lively conversation. The adults, Stephen, Akira, Liv, Kenji, and Reiko, spoke of shared pasts, their voices weaving a tapestry of laughter and reminiscence. Harry listened, picking out fragments: Kenji and Reiko spoke of their years in New York, their careers in the corporate world, and the joy of finally retiring to the quieter pace of West Virginia, a place that reminded them of their Japanese heritage, even as they embraced their American lives. Liv, with a soft smile, mentioned visits to her parents in Sweden, hinting at her own European roots. Akira, in turn, recounted tales from his diplomatic postings, particularly his recent years in Japan, describing the intricate dance of international relations.
Then, Akira's voice, clear and resonant, cut through the general chatter. He raised a small sake cup, his gaze fixed on Stephen. "To Stephen," he said, a profound sincerity in his tone. "You saved my life and my marriage years ago, my friend. And now? you saved my daughter. There are no words."
Harry, who had been quietly eating a piece of tempura, froze. He looked up, his eyes darting between Akira and Stephen. Saved his life and his marriage? The words hung in the air, a tantalizing mystery. What had happened? Stephen merely offered a humble nod, a quiet acknowledgment of the unspoken debt.
Meanwhile, a quieter conversation was unfolding between Harry and Asha. She leaned closer, her voice a soft murmur. "Japan was really interesting," she confided, her eyes bright. "My dad was working there as a diplomat, so we lived in Tokyo. It was a huge city, but we also got to visit my grandparents' relatives in the countryside. They have a real tea house. And sometimes, we'd go to these amazing festivals with fireworks and traditional dances." She painted vivid pictures of ancient temples and bustling markets, a world utterly alien to Harry.
"What about you?" Asha asked, her blue eyes curious. "You said your aunt raised you in Guyana. What was it like there?"
Harry hesitated, searching for the right words. He couldn't tell her about the jungle, not really. Not the way he'd experienced it. "It was? different," he said, settling on a simpler truth. "I mostly? I grew up in a lab. To treat an illness I had." He left it at that, hoping she wouldn't press for details. Asha's expression shifted, a flicker of understanding, perhaps even sympathy, in her eyes. She didn't ask more.
"You're really good at fighting," Harry blurted out, a genuine admiration in his voice. "Where did you learn that?"
Asha's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "My father," she replied, glancing briefly at Akira. "He taught me. He always said it was important to know how to protect myself. And others."
Harry looked at her, truly impressed. Her quiet confidence, her unexpected skill, her willingness to stand up for Rowan ? it all solidified his admiration for her. He simply nodded, absorbing her words, a silent acknowledgment of the strength he saw in her.
As the last of the dishes were cleared and the conversations began to wind down, a comfortable warmth settled over the table. Harry felt a sense of belonging he hadn't known was possible. He had a father, a home, and now, friends who understood, even if they didn't know the full truth of his past. The evening, filled with good food and unexpected connections, left him with a quiet sense of hope for the future.
As the last of the dishes were cleared and the evening settled into a comfortable quiet, the group slowly moved outside onto the softly glowing porch. The night air was cool, carrying the gentle fragrance of the garden.
Harry lingered beside Asha, both looking up at the vast spangled sky. The stars stretched endlessly above them, twinkling like scattered gems against the inky blackness.
"I never get tired of looking at the stars," Asha said softly, her breath forming faint mist in the cool air. "Back home, I used to lie on our lawn and watch the Little Dipper."
Harry's gaze lifted, intrigued. "The Little Dipper?"
Asha nodded, pointing to a small cluster of stars overhead. "It's smaller than the Big Dipper, but it's important. The Little Dipper always points to Polaris... the North Star. That star stays in the same place all night, all year. Travelers used it to find their way... like a compass in the sky."
Harry studied the constellation, a quiet awe settling in him. "That's different from what my dad showed me... the Southern Cross. It's bright, four stars shaped like a cross, near the southern horizon. You can only see it from the southern hemisphere."
She smiled gently. "I wish I could see that too. But here, this is home. The Little Dipper is like a beacon, a guide. It reminds me that no matter where we come from, we're all connected under the same sky."
Harry's lips curled into a small smile. "I like that. Like the stars are watching over us, no matter where we are."
Together, they stood quietly beneath the vast night sky, two friends from different worlds sharing a moment of peace. The Little Dipper and the Southern Cross, distant companions in the heavens, became a bridge... a reminder of their pasts and the new paths they were going to walk.
The evening deepened, the conversations around the Fujimoto dinner table slowly winding down. The delicious aromas of the meal lingered, mingling with the soft scent of incense from a nearby alcove. Finally, with polite apologies and warm expressions of gratitude, Stephen decided it was time for them to leave.
At the entrance, under the soft glow of the porch light, Akira Fujimoto clasped Stephen's hand firmly, his gaze intense. "Stephen," he said, his voice low and sincere, "I owe you more than I can ever repay. For everything, past and present. If you ever, ever need help, know that I will do everything I can, without question." Harry, standing nearby, heard the words, the weight of their unspoken history heavy in the air, but the full meaning remained a mystery to him, a secret shared between the two men.
Harry turned to say goodbye to Asha. "Thanks for dinner, Asha," he began, a little awkwardly. But before he could finish, Asha, her cheeks faintly pink, leaned in quickly. Her lips brushed his cheek in a soft, fleeting touch.
"Thank you for saving me, Harry," she whispered, her blue eyes sparkling with a shy, genuine smile.
Harry's face instantly flamed. A hot blush spread across his cheeks, reaching the tips of his ears. He stammered, his mind momentarily blank. "You're? you're welcome," he finally managed, the words barely a squeak.
Stephen and Liv, watching the exchange, chuckled warmly. Even Kenji and Reiko, standing slightly behind them, offered soft, amused smiles. The adults' laughter was gentle, understanding, a shared moment of warmth at the children's innocent awkwardness.
"Come on, Flash. Time to go home", Stephen called Harry. As they walked to the SUV, the night air was cool and crisp. They settled into the familiar seats, and Stephen started the engine. The radio, already on a local station, filled the car with a catchy, upbeat melody. A boy voice sang "I Think She Likes Me." Harry, still feeling the faint tingle on his cheek, couldn't help but smile, a warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the car's heater. The world, despite its lingering dangers, felt a little brighter, a little more hopeful.
A few days later, the morning air was crisp with the promise of autumn. Akira and Liv Fujimoto pulled up to the elementary school, the sleek black car a stark contrast to the yellow buses and family SUVs. This was their last morning with Asha before departing for Akira?s new diplomatic assignment, a posting in a country far across the globe. They walked her to the school entrance, their faces a mixture of pride and a quiet sadness.
Harry was already there, sitting on a low stone wall near the entrance with Rowan, who was animatedly showing him a new comic book. Harry looked up as he saw Asha approaching with her parents, offering a small wave. Asha waved back, a faint smile on her face.
As Akira and Liv prepared to say their goodbyes, a subtle shift in the atmosphere caught Akira?s attention. His diplomat's instincts, honed by years of observing subtle cues, immediately registered the change. He noticed a group of boys gathering near Harry and Rowan, their posture aggressive, their eyes fixed on Harry with a cold, challenging stare. It was Tyler, flanked by Vance, Jake, and Brody. Tyler's wrist was still in a splint, a stark white bandage against his dark sleeve, and his expression was a venomous glare.
Rowan, seeing them, instinctively recoiled, stepping back against the stone wall, his face paling with fear. The comic book slipped from his grasp, forgotten. The air thickened with unspoken threat.
The moment Akira noticed them, the gang closed in. Tyler, his face a mask of simmering rage, his splinted wrist held awkwardly, led the charge. Vance, Jake, and Brody formed a loose semicircle around Harry and Rowan, effectively cutting them off from the bustling school entrance.
"Well, well, if it isn't the freak," Tyler sneered, his voice low but venomous. "Think you're tough, huh? Breaking people's wrists?" He took a step closer, his eyes narrowed. "You don't belong here. You're a foreigner. Go back to your own country!" His words were laced with a bitter resentment that went beyond a simple schoolyard grudge, touching on something uglier. Vance and the others snickered, echoing his sentiment with muttered insults.
Harry remained still, his expression unreadable. The words stung, but he remembered Stephen's calm voice, his advice to avoid conflict, to blend in. He kept his hands loose at his sides, his gaze steady, refusing to give them the reaction they craved. Rowan, however, was visibly trembling beside him, his eyes wide with fear.
Other children, arriving for school, slowed their pace, forming a hesitant circle around the confrontation. They watched, whispering, some with curiosity, others with a nervous sympathy for Harry and Rowan. But no one stepped forward, no one spoke up. The unspoken fear of Tyler and his gang kept them silent.
Akira, standing with Liv and preparing to say their goodbyes to Asha, noticed the commotion. His diplomat's instincts, honed by years of observing subtle cues, immediately registered the change. He saw the aggressive postures, heard the raised voices, and then, unmistakably, caught the ugly slur. His frown deepened, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene: his daughter's friend, a young boy, being verbally assaulted, simply for being "different." The protective instinct, usually reserved for his own family, surged. This was unacceptable.
Akira, his diplomatic calm now fully replaced by a steely resolve, began to walk towards the group. His steps were measured, deliberate, radiating an authority that cut through the schoolyard chatter. Liv and Asha watched, a mixture of apprehension and admiration on their faces. Akira stopped directly beside Harry, his presence a solid, unyielding barrier between the boys and their target.
He addressed the gang, his voice sharp but controlled, carrying just enough to be heard by the surrounding students who had gathered to watch. "You think he's a foreigner because of his skin?" Akira's gaze swept over Tyler and his cronies, his eyes narrowed. "Let me tell you something?"
He paused, letting his words sink in, then continued, his voice rising slightly, clear and resonant for all nearby to hear. "Harry is a Native American, an Ojibwe. His ancestors lived on this land thousands of years before yours even came. If anyone has the right to expel someone from this country, it's him, not you."
The boys shifted uncomfortably, their bravado deflating under Akira's piercing gaze and undeniable logic. They glanced at each other, some lowering their heads, their faces flushing. Tyler, his splinted wrist a constant reminder of Harry's unexpected power, glared, but he didn't dare speak back. The combination of his recent humiliation, his still-healing injury, and Akira's commanding presence made him hesitate, his usual bluster dissolving into sullen silence.
Akira held their gaze for another moment, a final, stern look that conveyed his absolute disapproval. Then, satisfied, he turned his attention to Harry. Harry, who had remained quiet throughout the exchange, felt a surge of profound respect. Akira's calm authority, his unwavering defense, had been incredibly powerful.
With a final, awkward shuffle, the gang broke apart, dispersing slowly and reluctantly into the growing crowd of students, their earlier aggression replaced by a palpable sense of defeat.
The tension from the confrontation with Tyler still hummed in the air, but it was quickly overshadowed by the bittersweet reality of farewell. Akira, his earlier sternness replaced by a profound tenderness, knelt down to Asha's eye level.
"Asha," he said, his voice soft, "your mother and I are leaving now. I'll be in my new post, and it will be some time before we see each other again. Be brave. Be kind. And remember everything we've taught you." He pulled her into a tight embrace, holding her close for a long moment.
Liv then wrapped Asha in a warm, comforting hug. "Listen to your grandparents, sweetie," she murmured, stroking Asha's hair. "And study hard. We'll call you every day."
Asha, her eyes glistening, nodded bravely. "I will. And thank you, both of you, for coming to school with me today." She gave them each one last squeeze.
As Akira stood, he turned to Harry, a serious but gentle expression on his face. He reached out and placed a firm hand on Harry's shoulder, a gesture of profound trust. "Harry," he said, his voice low and direct, "take care of my daughter. I'm counting on you."
Harry felt the weight of the request settle on his young shoulders. It wasn't just a casual plea; it was a solemn entrustment. He met Akira's gaze and nodded shyly, a silent promise forming in his heart. "I will," he managed, his voice barely a whisper, but filled with a quiet resolve.
Akira and Liv offered one last, lingering wave to Asha and Harry, their smiles tinged with sadness, before turning and walking back to their car. The sleek black vehicle pulled away from the curb, merging with the morning traffic, and soon disappeared from view.
Harry stood there for a long moment, watching the spot where the car had vanished. The schoolyard was filling up, the usual morning chaos resuming, but in his mind, only Akira's words echoed. Take care of my daughter. I'm counting on you. He looked at Asha, who was now walking towards the school building, her back straight, her head held high. A quiet determination settled deep within Harry. He would. He would protect her.
A Newfound Peace
The days that followed Akira's intervention settled into an unexpected calm. School life, for Harry and Asha, resumed a surprisingly peaceful rhythm. The whispers about Harry's impossible speed and Asha's fierce defense gradually faded, replaced by the usual hum of classroom activity. Even more surprisingly, Tyler and his gang seemed to have undergone a subtle, yet noticeable, shift. They no longer harassed Rowan, and their sneers towards Harry and Asha had softened into something almost? respectful.
A few weeks later, Tyler's wrist had fully healed, the splint finally removed. He still carried himself with a certain swagger, but the venom seemed to have drained from his demeanor. One afternoon, as the final bell rang, Tyler approached Harry at his locker, Vance and Jake hovering nearby.
"Hey, Harry," Tyler said, his voice surprisingly neutral. "Me and the guys were wondering? can we come over to your place after school? Hang out?"
Harry blinked, genuinely surprised. After everything that had happened, he'd expected continued animosity, not an invitation. But Stephen's words about making friends, about blending in, echoed in his mind. This could be a good thing, a chance to truly put the past behind them. Maybe they weren't so bad after all, just misguided. He thought about the wide-open spaces of the farm, the barn, the woods. It would be fun to show them around.
"Sure," Harry replied, a tentative smile forming on his face. "Yeah, that sounds good."
The afternoon sky had turned a bruised, ominous grey, and a restless wind whipped through the trees, rustling the dry leaves with a low, mournful sigh. It was the kind of weather that whispered of trouble. When Harry walked out of the school building, Tyler, Vance, Jake, and Brody were already waiting by the bike racks, their expressions strangely eager.
"Hey, Harry," Tyler called out, a forced cheerfulness in his voice. "We were just wondering if we could come over to your place after school? To hang out in your barn?" He paused, then added, "It'll just be for a little while, and you don't have to tell your dad about us. We don't want to bother him."
Harry, still feeling a surge of optimism, agreed. He led them towards the barn, a massive, weathered structure that loomed against the darkening sky. He fumbled with the old, rusty padlock, the metal groaning as he twisted it open. The heavy wooden doors swung inward with a creak, revealing a cavernous, dimly lit interior. Dust motes danced in the few shafts of weak light filtering through cracks in the walls. The air was thick with the scent of old hay, wood, and something metallic. Old tools hung from pegs, their shapes indistinct in the gloom. Stacked crates formed shadowy mountains, and bales of hay lay like sleeping giants.
"Cool!" Vance exclaimed, his voice echoing in the vast space. The boys fanned out to explore, their laughter and joking animate the quiet barn. Harry, still feeling a surge of optimism, pointed out an old tractor, a relic from his grandparents' farming days.
As Harry turned to show them something else, he heard a soft click behind him. He glanced back. Brody, standing near the entrance, was quietly sliding the heavy bolt into place, locking the barn door. At the same time, Jake positioned himself casually in front of the door, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Harry. A cold dread began to creep up Harry's spine. The laughter had stopped.
Tyler stepped forward, his earlier cheer completely gone, replaced by a chilling smirk. His right hand, no longer concealed, pulled something from his backpack. It was a metal pipe, about two feet long, wrapped in tape at one end for a grip. He held it like a club, his eyes burning with malice. "It's payback time, freak," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous.
Vance, without a word, grabbed a long, splintered wooden stick from a pile of kindling. Jake, already at the door, pulled a collapsible baton from his own bag, twirling it with a practiced, menacing flick of his wrist. Brody, the biggest of the group, a hulking boy with a blank, determined expression stayed near the entrance, making sure Harry can't escape.
The Ambush
The air in the barn crackled with sudden, brutal intent. "Get him!" Tyler roared, and the gang surged forward. The metal pipe swung first, a whistling arc aimed at Harry's head. Harry ducked, the pipe slicing through the air where his skull had been moments before. He twisted, a blur of motion, as Vance lunged with the wooden stick, blocking the clumsy swing with his forearm. The wood splintered against his skin, but the pain was a distant throb.
Before he could fully recover, a massive shadow fell over him. Brody, with surprising speed for his size, had circled behind him. Powerful arms wrapped around Harry's chest, pinning his arms tightly to his sides. Harry struggled, twisting, but Brody's grip was like iron, squeezing the air from his lungs. He was trapped, his most effective weapons?his speed and his arms?neutralized.
"Now, freak!" Tyler yelled, his eyes alight with malicious glee.
Jake, seeing Harry restrained, moved in, his face contorted in a sneer. The collapsible baton, now fully extended, whistled through the air, aimed directly at Harry's temple. There was no time to dodge, no way to block with his arms pinned. Harry reacted on pure instinct, a desperate surge of power. He lashed out with his leg, a lightning-fast kick that shot upwards. His foot connected with the baton with a sickening CRACK. The force was immense, far beyond what a normal kick could generate. The baton didn't just fly from Jake's hand; it was propelled with incredible velocity, smashing through the weathered wooden planks of the barn roof with a splintering THWACK, tearing open a jagged hole in the ceiling. A moment later, the sound of metal clattering on the ground outside confirmed it had gone completely through.
Brody grunted, momentarily startled by the sheer power of Harry's kick, his grip loosening just a fraction. But before Harry could capitalize, Vance, relentless, charged again. Having seen Harry's effective use of his legs, Vance aimed his next attack low, the long wooden stick swinging in a wide, vicious arc towards Harry's shins, trying to neutralize his only free weapons. Harry twisted, barely avoiding the blow, the stick whistling past his feet.
Tyler, seeing Vance's strategy, joined the assault, his metal pipe now swinging at Harry's torso, trying to land a solid hit on his body. Harry dodged, contorting his trapped upper body, but the confined space and Brody's unyielding grip made evasion difficult. He managed to avoid the worst of the blows, but a glancing hit from Vance's stick grazed his thigh, and Tyler's pipe scraped painfully across his ribs. The pain was sharp, but it only fueled his desperation.
Seeing his baton gone, Jake didn't hesitate. His eyes darted around the barn, landing on a workbench. With a furious grunt, he grabbed a heavy, gleaming crowbar, its curved end glinting menacingly in the dim light. The fight had just escalated.
The blows landed, dull thuds against his body, each one a stark reminder of his precarious situation. Brody's grip was unrelenting, and now Jake was closing in with the crowbar, its heavy weight a terrifying promise of serious injury. Harry knew, with a chilling certainty, that this couldn't last. He had to break free. He hadn't yet learned to channel the electricity that sometimes surged through him, not at will, but his physical strength, his speed, was a raw, untamed force.
A desperate idea sparked. With a sudden, unexpected move, Harry stomped down hard on Brody's foot. Brody yelped, his massive frame instinctively flinching, his grip loosening just enough as he lowered his head. That was all Harry needed. He used the momentary shift to gather his legs beneath him, then exploded downwards, pushing off the ground with every ounce of his burgeoning power. Brody, still reeling from the stomp, was propelled backward with astonishing force. There was a sickening CRACK as Brody's back slammed into the old wooden barn wall. The wall itself groaned, splintered, and a jagged crack shot through the aged planks. Brody slumped to the floor, unconscious, a dark stain spreading on the wood behind him.
Freed, Harry spun, his eyes blazing. Tyler, still wielding the metal pipe, lunged. But Harry was a blur. He didn't just dodge; he moved so fast he seemed to vanish and reappear. His hand shot out, not to strike, but to snatch. The metal pipe was ripped from Tyler's grasp with a force that made Tyler cry out in surprise and pain. Without breaking stride, Harry hurled the pipe upwards. It tore through the already damaged roof with a splintering THWACK, disappearing into the stormy sky. A moment later, a splash of cold rainwater poured in through the new hole.
Vance, seeing Tyler disarmed, charged with his wooden stick. Harry met him, a flash of motion, snatching the stick mid-swing and sending it flying through another section of the roof. Then Jake, crowbar raised, lunged. Harry moved, a blur of motion, disarming him with a swift, precise move that sent the heavy crowbar spiraling through the air to punch a new hole in the far wall of the barn.
The remaining boys, now unarmed, stared at Harry, their faces pale with terror. They scrambled, grabbing anything they could find ? old tools, loose planks, handfuls of dried hay ? and began to hurl them at Harry. Harry dodged the first few, the objects whistling past his head. He blocked some others. But then he noticed them picking up the same objects he had just avoided, preparing to throw them again. His patience, already thin, snapped.
With a frustrated roar, Harry began to catch the thrown objects mid-air. He caught a wrench, a hammer, a rusty pitchfork, and with a terrifying display of raw power, he hurled them back, not at the boys, but through the walls and roof of the barn. Each impact was like a cannon shot, tearing gaping holes in the old structure. The entire barn groaned and swayed, timbers creaking ominously, as if caught in the grip of an invisible hurricane. Dust and splinters rained down, and more rainwater poured in through the new perforations. The old barn looked as if it was on the verge of collapsing, which would endanger everyone inside.
Harry, his eyes wild with uncontrolled power, was beyond reason now. He hadn't learned to control his strength, only to unleash it. With a final, furious surge, he grabbed the remaining boys ? Tyler, Vance, and Jake ? one by one, and hurled them against the nearest wall with a terrifying, unthinking force. They hit the wood with sickening thuds, crumpling to the ground, unconscious. The barn, now a battered, rain-streaked wreck, slowly settled, its timbers groaning, as Harry stood panting in the center, a whirlwind of raw, untamed power.
Stephen?s Intervention
The sound of splintering wood and crashing objects, followed by an eerie silence, had been enough. Stephen, who had been in the house, burst into the barn, his face etched with alarm. He stopped dead just inside the ruined doorway, his eyes widening in stunned disbelief at the scene before him. Rain poured in through gaping holes in the roof and walls, soaking the hay-strewn floor. Tools lay scattered, planks were broken, and in the midst of it all, Harry stood panting, surrounded by the unconscious forms of Tyler, Vance, Jake, and Brody.
"Holy sheet," Stephen breathed, the expletive escaping him in a low, disbelieving whisper. He rushed to Harry, his hands immediately checking him over. "Harry! Are you hurt? What happened?"
Harry, still breathing heavily, quickly explained, his words tumbling out in a rush. He described the ambush, Brody's hold, the crowbar, and the desperate need to break free. He told Stephen how he'd disarmed them, how they'd kept throwing things, and how he'd finally, instinctively, thrown them against the wall to stop them before the barn collapses on them.
Stephen quickly assessed Harry's minor scrapes and bruises, applying a dab of antiseptic from a small kit he always seemed to have on hand. Then, he moved to the unconscious boys, his expression grim but focused. He carefully examined each one. Tyler's wrist was clearly dislocated again, and likely fractured. Vance had a nasty bruise forming on his jaw. Jake's shoulder looked out of place, and Brody, who had taken the brunt of Harry's initial kick, had a deep, ugly bruise on his back where he'd hit the wall, and was still completely out cold.
As Stephen worked, his gaze swept over the ruined barn. The sheer scale of the destruction was immense ? gaping holes, splintered wood, scattered debris. Yet, despite the obvious power Harry had unleashed, Stephen noted something crucial. None of the boys had major, life-threatening injuries. They were bruised, dislocated, unconscious, but they were alive. Harry, even in his desperation, had shown a remarkable, if uncontrolled, restraint.
Stephen stood amidst the wreckage of the barn, his gaze sweeping from the unconscious boys to the gaping holes in the walls and roof. The rain continued to pour in, a steady drumbeat against the chaos. He thought for a long moment, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. Then, a flicker of an idea crossed his face, a grim determination replacing the initial shock.
"Alright, Harry," he said, his voice low and decisive. "I'll take care of this. Stay here."
He strode back towards the house, disappearing into the dim light. Harry watched him go, still panting slightly, the adrenaline slowly draining from his system. It felt like an eternity, but in reality, only a few minutes passed before Stephen returned, carrying a small, nondescript bag. From it, he produced a handful of small, clear capsules.
Stephen knelt beside each unconscious boy, gently prying open their mouths and placing a capsule on their tongues, then pouring a little water from a bottle he'd also brought. He did the same for Harry.
"What are those?" Harry asked, his voice a little hoarse, as he swallowed the bitter capsule.
Stephen looked at him, a wry, almost mischievous glint in his eyes, despite the seriousness of the situation. "Magic mushrooms, Flash," he said, his voice conspiratorial. "Our cover story." He gestured around the ruined barn. "You all came here after school, found these capsules, and tried them out of curiosity. And then," he paused, his gaze sweeping dramatically over the damaged structure, "the storm hit. A sudden, freak hurricane. It explains the damage, the boys' injuries, and your? altered state." He gave Harry a pointed look.
Before Harry could fully process this, Stephen pulled out his phone. He dialed quickly, his voice calm and authoritative as he spoke. "Yes, I need an ambulance at my farm. My son and some friends were playing in the barn when a sudden, freak hurricane hit. They're injured, some unconscious. Yes, a hurricane. It came out of nowhere."
As Stephen finished the call, a strange sensation began to creep over Harry. The edges of his vision softened, colors seemed to deepen, and the sounds of the rain took on a peculiar, rhythmic quality. A faint, almost pleasant buzzing started behind his ears. The old hay bales in the corner seemed to shimmer, and the tools hanging on the wall appeared to twist and writhe. A giggle bubbled up from deep within him, unexpected and uncontrollable.
"Dad," Harry mumbled, his voice sounding strangely distant even to himself. "I think? I think it's working." The barn, already a wreck, began to spin.
The flashing lights and blaring sirens were a dizzying kaleidoscope of color and sound. Harry, still in a strange, detached state, was vaguely aware of being lifted onto a stretcher, the world tilting and swaying around him. The ambulance ride was a blur of muffled voices and the rhythmic thump of his own distorted heartbeat.
At the hospital, the emergency room was a hive of activity. Doctors and nurses moved with practiced efficiency, their faces a mix of concern and professional detachment. Tyler, Vance, Jake, and Brody were already there, waking up slowly, their groans echoing in the sterile environment. When questioned by the medical staff and later, by a bewildered police officer, their stories were a jumbled mess. They mumbled about "something hitting them," "the barn shaking," and "weird lights," their eyes wide and unfocused. They were clearly trying to avoid confessing their ambush, but their confused state only reinforced the "magic mushroom" narrative.
When it was Harry's turn, Stephen stood calmly by his side. "Harry, tell them what you remember," he prompted gently.
Harry, his mind still swimming in a pleasant haze, dutifully recited the prepared version. "We were just playing in the barn? found some capsules? took them? then the storm hit. Everything went crazy. The barn started shaking, and things were flying around." He even managed a few convincing shivers, though the cold was more from the IV drip than any lingering fear.
The doctors, already suspicious of the boys' incoherent ramblings, ordered blood tests. The results, when they came back, confirmed the presence of psilocybin, the active compound in magic mushrooms, in all their systems. The medical team, faced with the physical evidence and the boys' confused accounts, concluded that the injuries ? the dislocated joints, the severe bruising, the concussions ? were consistent with a chaotic, high-impact event, like being thrown around in a violent, localized storm. The "freak hurricane" story, combined with the drug use, became the official explanation.
The remote location of Stephen's farmhouse and the barn further solidified the cover-up. There were no immediate neighbors to contradict the storm narrative, no witnesses other than the boys themselves, all of whom were compromised. The authorities, satisfied with the medical evidence and the plausible explanation of a sudden, localized weather phenomenon combined with youthful recklessness, closed the case.
Harry, now clear-headed, was discharged later that night, Stephen by his side. The incident was over, officially explained away. But as they drove home, Harry knew the truth. The storm hadn't been outside. It had been inside him. And the secret of his power, and the lengths his father would go to protect it, had just become a much heavier burden.
A New Mentor
The farmhouse felt like a sanctuary after the sterile glare of the hospital. The scent of woodsmoke and old books was a comforting balm. The next morning, over a quiet breakfast, Stephen looked at Harry, his expression serious.
"Harry," he began, pushing a plate of pancakes towards him. "What happened in the barn? it was too close. You did what you had to do, I understand that. But you need to learn to control your strength better. You could have seriously hurt those boys, or worse. And you could have gotten yourself into a lot of trouble that even a 'magic mushroom' story couldn't fix."
Harry nodded, picking at his pancakes. He knew Stephen was right. The memory of the barn, the splintering wood, the boys collapsing, still felt raw and unsettling. He hadn't meant to cause so much damage, but in the heat of the moment, it had been the only way he knew how to react.
"That's why," Stephen continued, his gaze unwavering, "I've made some arrangements. Do you remember the man who helped us in the helicopter chase? The one who took out the grey chopper?"
Harry's eyes widened. "Uncle Sam?" he asked, remembering Stephen's casual reply.
Stephen nodded. "His name is Sam Lim. He's? a very capable individual. And he's going to teach you. He can help you understand your abilities, how to control them, how to fight effectively without causing unnecessary harm. He can teach you to improve your fighting skills, to channel that power." Stephen's voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "It's not just about protecting yourself anymore, Harry. It's about protecting others, and doing it responsibly."
The next day, after school, the air was filled with the rhythmic thud of hammers and the scent of fresh-cut wood. Harry was helping Stephen repair the damaged barn, patching the gaping holes in the walls and roof. It was hard work, but satisfying, a tangible way to put the recent chaos behind them. At one point, Stephen paused, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Looks like we're running low on nails, Flash," Stephen said, looking up at the attic of the farmhouse. "Could you run up to the house and grab another box from the storage trunk in the attic? Top shelf, far left."
Harry nodded, eager to help. He jogged towards the farmhouse, his boots crunching on the gravel path. As he approached the front door, he noticed something. A figure. Standing on the porch, facing the door. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in dark, nondescript clothing. Harry instinctively ducked behind a large rose bush, his heart giving a sudden, anxious thump. He peered through the leaves, watching the stranger. The man seemed to be waiting, his posture still, almost patient.
Then, the stranger began to move, walking around the side of the house towards the rear. As he rounded the corner, Harry got a clear view of his face. His breath hitched. It was him. The man from the Amazon. The leader of the soldiers who had caught him in the net. The man with the cold, unreadable eyes and the single white feather on his helmet ? though the feather was absent now.
A cold wave of fear, sharp and immediate, washed over Harry. He remembered the hunt, the trap, the chilling words: "The client wants him alive." Was he here for revenge? For Stephen? A surge of protective fury mixed with his terror. He couldn't let this man get to his father.
Without a second thought, Harry launched himself from behind the bushes, a silent, furious blur. He aimed a flying kick, a desperate ambush, directly at the man's back. But the stranger moved with an impossible, almost preternatural speed. He sidestepped Harry's attack with casual ease. Harry's foot, instead of connecting with the man, slammed into the sturdy wooden rear door of the farmhouse with a resounding CRACK, leaving a deep indentation.
The stranger spun, his movements fluid and precise. He dodged Harry's follow-up kicks and wild punches with effortless grace, countering each attack with a calculated block or a subtle redirection. Harry, fueled by fear and a desperate need to protect, fought with all his might, but the man was simply too skilled, too fast. In a matter of seconds, Harry found himself caught, his arms pinned, the man's forearm pressed firmly against his windpipe, holding him in a chokehold.
Harry struggled, gasping for air, his vision beginning to blur. The fear for himself was immense, but a new, terrifying thought flashed through his mind: What if he gets to Dad? A primal, desperate survival instinct flared. He hadn't mastered it, couldn't control it at will, but in moments of extreme peril, it manifested. A surge of raw, untamed power coursed through him. He focused, pushing the energy outwards. A sharp, crackling sensation erupted from his body. He zapped the man, once, twice, three times, a desperate, uncontrolled discharge of electricity. But to Harry's horror, the man's dark suit seemed to absorb it, barely a flicker of reaction. He merely tightened his grip.
"Stop it! Both of you!" Stephen's voice, sharp and urgent, cut through the buzzing in Harry's ears. He had heard the commotion, the thud against the door, and rushed over.
Stephen skidded to a halt, his eyes wide with alarm. "Sam! What are you doing?" he shouted, rushing forward.
Sam Lim, still holding Harry in the chokehold, released him instantly. Harry stumbled back, gasping for air, his eyes narrowed at the man who had effortlessly dodged his ambush and absorbed his desperate electric shock.
"Just a test, Stephen," Sam said, his voice calm, a hint of amusement in his eyes. He rubbed his forearm where Harry's zap had connected. "You can't manage what you can't measure. This suit," he gestured to his dark, form-fitting attire, "is specifically designed to measure the electric shock. It also provides some protection. I'm somewhat resistant to the zap, but not completely immune, as you can see." He flexed his hand, a slight tremor visible. "The shock can reach up to 600 Volts and 1 Ampere, around the same level as a large electric eel. No wonder he can kill a caiman."
Stephen ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. "A test? I expected you tomorrow, Sam! That's the earliest flights!"
Sam chuckled, a dry, knowing sound. "Commercial flights are for civilians, Stephen. I used my old military channels. Parachuted in this morning. Much more efficient." He looked at the ruined barn, then back at Harry, a glint in his eye. "Looks like your boy's quite the force of nature. The hurricane, I believe you called him?" He chuckled again. "Very convenient, that bad weather just happened to support your makeup story for the hospital. Almost too convenient."
Stephen sighed, a weary but resigned sound. "It was a calculated risk. For every truth, Harry," he said, turning to his son, his voice serious again, "there are infinitely many lies as an alternative. I'd have to choose the most believable one, in case the storm hadn't come. But it's more likely that Tyler and his gang chose the time deliberately, using a weather forecast. A storm would have been useful for them to conceal a bullying incident inside the barn. We just turned their own advantage against them. Just in case this wasn't enough, I've already got a backup plan."
Harry, still reeling from the shock of seeing the Amazon soldier and the revelation of the "test," felt a new, unsettling thought solidify in his mind. "So? so what happened in the forest?" he asked, his voice quiet, almost accusing. "Was that... was that staged too? Did you...did you lie to me?"
Stephen's gaze softened, a flicker of pain in his eyes. "No, Harry. Not staged. Not entirely. I improvised a bit, yes, especially when you almost escaped from the net. I needed to quickly build your trust and get you out of there as soon as possible. The enemies were chasing you. They were real. And they want something you have, something powerful." He stepped closer, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder. "You can't just believe everything people tell you, Harry. Not even me, sometimes. But I guarantee you this: when I say I love you, it's true. That, you can always believe. Because part of my blood flows in your veins."
The initial shock of Sam's arrival and Stephen's revelations slowly began to settle. Harry, still a little wary, looked at Sam.
"Harry," Sam began, his gaze sharp, "when I blocked your kick earlier, you seemed to feel pain. Was that from the incident in the barn?"
Harry nodded, rubbing his thigh. "I guess so. When Brody held me back, I used my legs to kick and deflect their attacks, so they aimed at my legs instead. I got hit a few times."
Sam nodded thoughtfully, his eyes assessing Harry's frame. "You're already strong as is, Harry. More than strong. But you can still improve that strength. Naturally, our limbs aren't designed for side impacts, or to be used as blunt weapons. But when you use them as weapons, it's inevitable they'll take a beating. You need to precondition your bones, your muscles, your skin. We can start when you're ready."
Harry frowned, looking at the damaged barn. "I still don't understand why they did all of this," he complained, a hint of frustration in his voice. "Tyler and his gang. They don't get anything from what they did to Rowan, or Asha, or me. It just seems? pointless."
Sam offered a small, knowing smile. "Your mom, Lea, used to tell me: 'Every time we decide to do or not to do something, we must be thinking that it's the best for that time being.' Those boys? they might simply have done that for fun, and thought they could get away with the consequences. Maybe you've shown them those consequences, which could change their behaviors. Just telling them didn't seem to work."
Later, during dinner, Harry couldn't help but ask more about Sam. "Dad," he began, "you said Uncle Sam was a soldier?"
Stephen nodded, a proud glint in his eye. "Sam was an elite soldier, Harry. In a special forces unit of the U.S. Marines. One of the best."
Sam, who had been quietly eating, looked up. "I was badly injured in a compromised mission," he revealed, his voice flat, devoid of self-pity. "I wasn't supposed to survive. But your parents, Lea and Stephen, they saved my life with the technology they developed. Project David. Your Aunt Shania was the nurse who helped me recover." He paused, a softer expression crossing his face. "I married her a few years later. We retired to Guyana. Became rice farmers."
The night was getting late, the farmhouse settling into a comfortable quiet. "Alright, Harry," Stephen said, pushing back his chair. "Time for bed. You've got school tomorrow."
As Harry got up, he paused at the doorway, a question still nagging at him. He turned to Sam. "By the way, Uncle Sam," he asked, "why did you wear a white feather during the rescue mission in the Amazon?"
Sam's lips curved into a faint smile. "Your Aunt Shania gave it to me," he replied. "Said it was a lucky charm."
Harry nodded slowly, then turned and closed his bedroom door behind him.
Stephen watched the door click shut, then turned to Sam, his voice dropping to a low tone. "Will Shania follow you here, Sam?"
Sam's smile faded, replaced by a distant look. "No," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "She still can't forget what Harry caused to Lea."
"But it's not his fault," Stephen cut in, his voice sharp with immediate defense.
Sam met Stephen's gaze, his eyes weary. "Have you told him everything, Stephen?"
Stephen looked away, towards the flickering fireplace. "I've told him everything he needs to know. For now."
The fluorescent lights of the classroom hummed, casting a dull glow on the textbooks and worksheets. Mrs. Henderson's voice, usually a comforting drone, was today just a muffled background noise. Harry sat at his desk, his gaze fixed on the clock, but his mind was miles away, already in the barn, or perhaps a hidden training ground in the woods. He couldn't stop thinking about it: the training. Sam Lim. Learning to control the power that had shattered a barn and dislocated bones.
Asha, sitting a few desks away, glanced over at him. Her brow was furrowed with a subtle concern. She'd noticed the change in Harry since the lunchroom incident, a new quietness, a distant look in his eyes. He seemed? heavier, somehow. During a lull in the lesson, she leaned forward slightly. "Are you okay, Harry?" she whispered, her voice soft, laced with genuine worry. "You seem different."
Her quiet care, the simple concern in her voice, touched something deep within Harry. He looked at her, truly looked at her. Her dark hair, her intelligent blue eyes, the determined set of her jaw that he'd seen when she stood up to Tyler. She was beautiful, yes, but more than that, she was brave. Too brave, perhaps. He thought of Tyler's knife, inches from her back, and a cold dread tightened in his chest. How easily bad people could hurt someone like her, someone so willing to interfere with wrongdoings, to stand up for what was right.
A powerful, almost overwhelming urge surged through him. He needed to be stronger. Not just for himself, not just to control the chaotic power within him, but to protect her. To ensure that no one, ever again, could threaten Asha. The thought solidified into a quiet, fierce determination, a new purpose shaping itself in his young mind.
The school day, usually a slow crawl, seemed to rush by in a blur of anticipation. When the bus finally dropped Harry off at the end of the long driveway, he practically sprinted towards the farmhouse. As he rounded the corner of the house, he stopped dead.
In front of the barn, which already showed signs of Stephen's ongoing repairs, stood a new, imposing structure. A heavy canvas sandbag, nearly as tall as Harry, hung suspended from a sturdy wooden frame, swaying gently in the breeze. He must have built it this morning, Harry thought, impressed by the sheer speed and efficiency of Sam's work.
Not far from the sandbag stood a wooden dummy, solid and upright, its smooth limbs reaching outward like arms ready to block or strike. Its unblinking wooden face seemed to stare impassively at the world. And that too, Harry mused, a thrill of excitement coursing through him. The setup was professional, serious.
Harry didn't waste a moment. He dashed into the house, dropped his school bag by the door, and quickly changed out of his school clothes into a comfortable t-shirt and shorts. He was back outside in less than a minute, his heart thrumming with eagerness.
Sam, who had been methodically striking the sandbag with powerful, controlled blows, paused as Harry approached. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his dark eyes assessing Harry's eagerness.
"Uncle Sam," Harry blurted out, gesturing to the training equipment, "which one should I use first?"
Sam nodded towards the sandbag. "For preconditioning your bones and muscles for impact, start with the sandbag first," he instructed, his voice calm and precise. "Begin lightly. We'll increase the striking power gradually. Inadequate preconditioning can bring you serious trouble." He paused, his gaze hardening slightly. "I've seen MMA fighters break their legs, Harry, for kicking harder than their bones could handle. We won't make that mistake. Patience and discipline are key."
The training session was grueling, a relentless cycle of strikes against the sandbag, each one carefully monitored by Sam. Harry's muscles ached, his skin tingled, but a deep satisfaction settled over him. He was learning, growing stronger, gaining control.Just found this video. Might be related with the story in this scene.
Afterward, they went inside, the scent of sweat and effort clinging to them. They showered and changed, the warm water a welcome balm to Harry's protesting muscles. Then, they gathered around the kitchen table for dinner, the farmhouse now filled with the comforting aromas of a home-cooked meal.
As the last of the plates were cleared, Sam pushed his chair back slightly, his expression serious. "Alright, Harry. Physical conditioning is just one part of it. Now, we talk about knowledge. You need to know about basic human anatomy." He gestured towards Stephen's study. "Your dad has a medical encyclopedia in his cabinet. Go grab it."
Harry, curious, retrieved the thick, heavy book. Sam took it, flipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for. He laid it open on the table, pointing to intricate diagrams of the human body.
"You must understand what to target," Sam explained, his finger tracing lines on the page, "and what you absolutely should not. This isn't about hurting people unnecessarily, Harry. It's about control. About precision. About knowing exactly what you're doing, and the consequences of every action." He looked up, his gaze intense, meeting Harry's eyes. "The biggest fear your dad has, Harry, is that some of your friends will end up dead in your hands. That would ruin all of our lives, and we don't want that. Are you clear?"
Harry swallowed, the weight of Sam's words settling heavily on him. The image of Tyler's dislocated wrist, of Brody unconscious against the barn wall, flashed through his mind. He nodded, his voice quiet but firm. "Yes, Uncle Sam. I'm clear."
Sam continued, pointing to different sections of the anatomy diagrams. "We'll go through this. You'll learn about nerve clusters, pressure points, vital organs, and how much force it takes to incapacitate versus to cause permanent damage. You'll learn how to strike without breaking bones, how to subdue without killing. This knowledge is your responsibility, Harry. It's what separates a protector from a menace."
In this video, we take a closer look at Chen Hegao, a unique and unconventional Chinese martial artist who's taken the self-defense world by surprise. He developed his own Kung Fu named "Unlimited Combat", but locals simply call it "Mad Dog Fist" (疯狗拳) - and while it might look bizarre at first (yes, he barks!), there's something strangely effective about it.
Crazy Man or Visionary?
Weeks bled into months, each day a relentless pursuit of mastery. Harry's life became a carefully balanced routine: school, homework, and then, the barn. Under Sam's watchful eye, he delved into the complex world of combat. He learned not just one fighting style, but many, a fluid blend of various martial arts. Grappling techniques from judo and jiu-jitsu taught him how to control and subdue. The precise, devastating strikes of obscure traditional martial arts honed his focus and power. Sam emphasized flexibility, fluidity ? the ability to adapt like water, to flow around an opponent's strength and find their weakness, to change tactics instantly based on the situation at hand.
He also learned about weapons. Not just how to use them, but how to disarm, how to counter. Sam taught him about knives, sticks, and even improvised weapons, stressing that in a real conflict, anything could be a threat. He even delved into the "dirty tricks" forbidden in fighting sports ? eye pokes, groin strikes, vulnerable joint locks ? not to use them, but to recognize and counter them effectively, to understand the mindset of an opponent who fights without rules.
The preconditioning training, once a painful novelty, became routine. His bones hardened, his muscles became denser, his skin tougher. Sam pushed him, relentlessly, but Harry's progress was astonishing. He absorbed lessons at an incredible rate, his body adapting with a speed that far outstripped any normal child. His movements grew sharper, his strikes more precise, his defense impenetrable.
Finally, the day came. The old sandbag, worn from countless blows, had been rewrapped in new, heavy-duty canvas, reinforced to withstand immense impact. Sam stood before it, his eyes serious. "Alright, Harry," he said, his voice quiet, "give me all you've got. Everything you've learned. Hold nothing back."
Harry took a deep breath, focusing, channeling every ounce of his trained strength and innate power. He shifted his weight, his body coiling like a spring, and unleashed a spinning kick. It was a blur of motion, a perfectly executed, devastating strike. The force of the impact was immense, a dull, explosive THUD that vibrated through the barn floor. The thick rope suspending the sandbag snapped with a sharp CRACK, unable to withstand the sudden, concentrated power. The sandbag, almost twice Harry's weight, flew backward, soaring through the air for several meters before slamming into the far wall with a resounding CRUMP, leaving a deep indentation.
Harry stood panting, his leg still extended, a faint tremor running through him. He hadn't consciously thought about it, but to produce such an enormous impact, he must have instinctively utilized a powerful kickback from the ground, leveraging the earth's resistance to amplify his force. He seemed to have inadvertently learned and applied some fundamental physics, a raw, intuitive understanding of force and momentum. Sam watched him, a slow, impressed smile spreading across his face. Harry had truly become the hurricane.
The aroma of Stephen's cooking filled the farmhouse kitchen, a familiar comfort after another intense day of training. Harry, his muscles pleasantly sore, sat at the dinner table, recounting a particularly challenging drill Sam had put him through. Stephen listened, a proud smile on his face. Sam, meanwhile, ate quietly, his gaze thoughtful.
As they finished the meal, and Stephen began to clear the plates, Sam placed his fork down with a gentle clink. He looked at Stephen, then at Harry, his expression calm but resolute.
"It's time for me to go home," Sam announced, his voice low. "Back to Guyana."
Harry's fork clattered against his plate. He hadn't expected it so soon. He'd grown used to Sam's presence, his quiet strength, his unwavering lessons.
Stephen paused, a dish towel in his hand. "Already, Sam? I thought you'd stay a little longer."
Sam shook his head. "I've left Shania for too long as it is. Any more delays, and she'll be mad enough to come here and drag me back herself." A faint, wistful smile touched his lips at the thought of his wife.
He then turned his gaze to Harry, his eyes holding a deep, almost paternal, satisfaction. "And you, Harry," Sam continued, "you're a fast learner. A natural. I've taught you most of the fighting skills deemed necessary for now. You've got the foundation. The rest, you'll learn through practice, and by living." He paused, a subtle emphasis on the last words. "You're ready."
Harry's brow furrowed, a sudden frustration bubbling up. He pushed his plate away, the thought of Sam leaving bringing a new wave of anxiety. "But, Uncle Sam," he protested, his voice tight, "I haven't learned to control the electric shock! That's? that's the most important part, isn't it? It only happens when I'm almost dead, or when I'm really scared, like with the crocodile, or when you tested me." He gestured vaguely, remembering the terrifying surge of uncontrolled power. "How am I supposed to use it if I can't even make it happen?"
Sam looked at him, a faint, almost imperceptible shake of his head. "Harry," he said, his voice gentle but firm, "I don't even have that ability. My training, my experience, it's all about physical combat, strategy, and mental fortitude. The electricity? that's unique to you. It's part of what makes you, you."
He glanced at Stephen, a silent communication passing between the two men. "You'll have to learn that yourself, Harry. It's a journey only you can take. But Stephen," Sam added, his gaze returning to Harry, "Stephen should be able to help you. He knows more about that than anyone."
Harry's head snapped towards Stephen, his eyes wide. "Is that true, Dad? Is that why they chased me in the helicopter? Because of the electricity?"
Stephen nodded slowly, a grim set to his jaw. "Yes, Harry. That's part of it. It's a power they want to control, to weaponize. And there are also other skills you have, other abilities, that you have yet to learn about. We'll get to those when the time is right. For now, Sam has given you the foundation you need to protect yourself."
Harry's gaze remained fixed on Stephen, a new wave of questions bubbling to the surface. "How, Dad?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "How do I have these abilities? The speed, the strength, the electricity? how do I have them when normal people don't?"
Stephen hesitated, his eyes flickering towards Sam, a flicker of uncertainty in his usually composed demeanor. He ran a hand through his hair, a familiar gesture of contemplation.
Sam, sensing Stephen's reluctance, interjected, his voice firm and steady. "Stephen, maybe it's time. Harry needs to know. About Project David. Sooner or later, he must face those who want his power. When that time comes, it's better for Harry to understand the situation fully. To know what he's up against, and why."
Stephen sighed, a deep, heavy sound. He looked at Harry, his expression filled with a profound sadness. "You're right, Sam. You're right." He turned back to Harry, his gaze unwavering. "Harry, I? I intended to raise you like a normal kid. To let you enjoy growing up here, on this farm, just like I did. To have a childhood free from? from all of this." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the barn, the recent danger, the very powers that flowed through Harry's veins. "But the barn incident, what happened with Tyler? it made me realize that it's almost impossible. You're not a normal kid, Harry. And you can't have a normal life, not while they're out there."
A heavy silence settled over the kitchen, broken only by the soft crackle of the wood stove. Harry watched Stephen, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anticipation. He was finally going to get answers.
After a long, deliberate pause, Stephen finally spoke, his voice low, almost a murmur, as if sharing a deep, painful secret. "Project David, Harry? it was triggered by an adult version of what happened in that barn. Not with kids, but with powerful, ambitious people. People who are willing to sacrifice others, to use them as pawns, to get what they want. Even when, from our common perspective, their goals seem utterly meaningless, or even destructive."
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his gaze distant, lost in a memory. "They manipulate people's behavior around them. They essentially gamble with someone else's money, or even their lives, and then they privatize the gains and democratize the losses. They take the profit, and leave everyone else to deal with the damage." Stephen's voice hardened, a bitter edge to it. "Think about it, Harry. Look at history. People with political power use it for personal interest, often causing immense suffering to unrelated people. Like what happened in Troy."
Stephen paused, letting the ancient city's name hang in the air. "A personal affair, a stolen queen, dragged an entire city, two entire armies, into an all-out war. Thousands died, soldiers and civilians alike, all for the pride and desires of a few powerful individuals. That's privatized gains and democratized losses on a grand scale."
He then looked directly at Harry, his eyes holding a new intensity. "But then, think about another ancient conflict. The story of David and Goliath. One individual, facing down a giant. His victory decided the war, preventing the death of thousands of soldiers and countless civilians. That's the core idea, Harry. That's what Project David was meant to be. A way to prevent the larger, senseless conflicts caused by those who gamble with others' lives."
Stephen leaned back, his gaze now fixed on Harry, as if gauging his understanding. "Project David, at its heart, was about creating a new kind of champion," he explained, his voice taking on a more scientific, yet still deeply personal, tone. "It was about enhancing the physical traits of individuals to gain a decisive advantage in fighting, in conflict. It started from simple things, Harry. Performance-enhancing drugs, to push the human body beyond its natural limits. Then, handheld weapons, specialized gadgets designed to help our operatives infiltrate enemy bases or headquarters, to gather intelligence, to neutralize threats efficiently."
He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "It's always been a work in progress, Harry. A constant evolution."
"As the technology advanced," Stephen continued, his voice growing more intense, "the sophistication increased exponentially. We moved beyond just external aids. We experimented with engineering human biology itself. Reducing known weaknesses, increasing strength, endurance, agility, and other traits that would be useful for winning a battle, for ensuring our champions could face any threat and emerge victorious." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the vast, complex fields of study. "Biomechanics, biochemistry, gene transplants ? these were among the research subjects. We sought to perfect the human form, to create the ultimate protector."
Harry listened, his mind reeling with the implications of what Stephen was saying. Enhanced humans, engineered biology, secret labs? it sounded like something out of a comic book. A new question, more personal, formed on his lips. "How? how did you get involved in all this, Dad? In Project David?"
Stephen leaned back, a faint, distant look in his eyes, as if recalling a very different lifetime. "I was a Navy civilian senior system engineer, Harry. My job was to design the secret lab, the entire research facility, from the ground up. I also built the tools and equipment necessary for all the research and engineering involved in the project. Everything had to be cutting-edge, secure, and precise."
A soft, almost tender smile touched his lips as he spoke of Lea. "Your mother, Lea? she was a young, brilliant biochemist. She heard about the project's goals from the recruit officers, and she was incredibly interested. She joined with so much enthusiasm, Harry. She wanted to contribute more than just her research. She asked a lot of questions about the systems and tools I built, always consulting, always giving feedback to improve them. That's why we spent so much time together. That's how we started getting close."
Stephen glanced at the clock on the wall. The hour was late, the farmhouse quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. "It's a long story, Harry," he said, his voice softening. "A very long story. And it's already late. You need to get to school tomorrow."
Harry, despite the torrent of new information swirling in his mind, knew Stephen was right. His eyelids felt heavy, and the thought of facing Mrs. Henderson's lessons after a night like this was daunting. "Okay," he said, pushing himself up from the table. "But? promise you'll tell me the rest tomorrow? Everything?"
Stephen met his gaze, a small, reassuring smile on his face. "Deal, Flash. Everything. Tomorrow."
The click of Harry's bedroom door closing echoed softly in the quiet farmhouse. Stephen and Sam remained at the kitchen table, the remnants of dinner between them, the earlier conversation about Project David still heavy in the air.
Sam poured himself another cup of tea, his gaze thoughtful. "Stephen," he began, his voice low, almost a murmur, "I heard whispers, back in my old circles. That the Russians also developed a similar project, like yours with Harry. Not just Project David. How's that going?"
Stephen's expression hardened slightly, a shadow crossing his face. He picked up his own mug, turning it slowly in his hands. "I heard Dmitry tried to replicate what we did," he replied, his voice flat. "He was ambitious, brilliant in his own twisted way. But unfortunately, he died before he succeeded. The project, as far as I know, died with him. I haven't heard anything about it again since." He took a sip of his tea, his eyes distant, as if recalling old ghosts. The silence that followed was thick with unspoken history and the lingering specter of dangerous, failed experiments.
The next morning, the farmhouse was quiet, the usual sounds of breakfast preparation filling the air. Harry, still a little groggy, poured himself a bowl of cereal, his mind still half-dreaming of the revelations from the night before. He glanced around the kitchen, expecting to see Sam.
"Dad," Harry asked, "where's Uncle Sam? Is he still asleep?"
Stephen, who was making coffee, turned, a faint smile on his face, but his eyes held a hint of regret. "No, Harry. Sam left right before dawn. He wanted to avoid drawing any attention from the neighbors."
Harry's spoon clattered against his bowl. Disappointment, sharp and unexpected, washed over him. He hadn't even gotten to say a proper goodbye. "He left?" Harry's voice was flat. "But? but there were still so many questions I wanted to ask him! About the feather, about Guyana, about? everything!" His mind raced with all the things he'd planned to ask over the coming days.
Yes, based on the content you've generated, this is definitely enough to finish the first book.
Here's why:
* Clear Arc for Book 1:
* Beginning: Introduction of Harry, his amnesia, Stephen, the new home, and the initial discovery of his powers through the bullying incidents.
* Middle: Escalation of conflict (knife incident), the introduction of Sam as a mentor, Harry's intensive training, and the "hurricane in the barn" climax where he unleashes his power.
* End: Sam's departure, and most importantly, Stephen's significant partial revelation about Project David, Harry's origins, and the nature of the threats against him. This provides a satisfying amount of answers for the first book while leaving crucial mysteries open.
* Compelling Unanswered Questions (for future books):
* The full truth of Lea's death and Harry's direct role in it.
* The identity and specific goals of "the enemies" who want Harry's power.
* The full scope of Project David and any other enhanced individuals.
* Stephen's and Akira's shared, dangerous past.
* Harry's ability to control his electric shock.
* The Russian project and its potential connection.
* Character Introduction and Development: Key characters (Harry, Stephen, Asha, Sam, Tyler) are well-established, and their relationships and initial arcs are set up.
The book ends on a strong note of revelation and lingering tension, perfectly setting up the reader for the next installment in the series.
Continuing "Universal Utopia": Ensuring a Seamless Book 2
To ensure a seamless continuation from "The Genesis of the Hurricane" into your second book, "Universal Utopia," I need to understand your vision for how the existing plot threads will evolve and what new elements you plan to introduce. Think of these as key questions to guide your planning:
Character Development
* Harry's Emotional State and Arc: How is Harry coping with the revelations about Project David, his mother, and his powers? Is he angry, scared, determined, confused? What emotional journey do you envision for him in Book 2? What new skills or control over his powers does he gain, and how does he achieve it?
* Stephen's Role and Backstory: What is Stephen's immediate next step after the confession? How does his relationship with Harry evolve now that the truth is out? Will we learn more about his motivations, his past within Project David, or any other secrets he might be holding?
* Sam Lim's Future: Does Sam stay with Harry and Stephen, or does he depart as planned? If he stays, what new role does he play? If he leaves, how does he remain a part of the narrative, or does he become a resource Harry can call upon?
* Rowan and Asha's Involvement: Now that Harry's powers are (partially) revealed to the reader, how do Rowan and Asha fit into his life? Do they learn about his abilities? How do they react? Do they become allies, or do their paths diverge?
Plot Progression and World-Building
* The Immediate Aftermath: What are the direct consequences of the barn incident and Stephen's confession? Do the authorities continue to believe the "hurricane" story, or is there lingering suspicion?
* Project David's True Nature and Scope: Beyond creating "champions," what are the specific goals and ethical implications of Project David? Was it solely for good, or were there darker elements or unintended consequences? How many other "champions" exist, and where are they?
* The Enemies: Who are the "true enemies" pursuing Harry and Project David? Are they former members of the project, rival organizations, or something else entirely? What are their motivations and capabilities? How will they manifest as a direct threat in Book 2?
* Lea's Death: What are the initial clues or paths you'll explore regarding Lea's death? Was it an accident, a murder, or something else tied to Project David?
* Geographical Scope: Will the story remain in West Virginia, or will Harry, Stephen, and potentially others travel? If so, where and why?
* Introduction of New Characters/Factions: Do you plan to introduce new allies, enemies, or factions related to Project David or other elements of this enhanced world?
Thematic Elements
* Control vs. Chaos: How will Harry continue to grapple with controlling his powers, and what are the consequences when he loses control?
* The Burden of Power: How does Harry deal with the responsibility of his abilities and the knowledge of Project David? Does he embrace it, resent it, or struggle to find a balance?
* Family and Trust: How does the dynamic between Harry and Stephen evolve after the truth comes out? Who else can Harry trust in this new, dangerous world?
By considering these points, you'll be well-equipped to craft a compelling and consistent second book that seamlessly builds upon the foundation you've already established.
Do you have any initial thoughts on how you want to answer these questions, or would you like to explore any of them in more detail?
What do you mean by double adjective? Is it like the big beautiful bill?
Add:
The morning after Sam Lim's departure left an unusual quiet in Stephen's house, a void Harry felt keenly. The intense, almost brutal, training had become a strange constant, a rhythm he'd grown accustomed to. Now, with Sam gone, the house felt too large, too silent. The lingering questions about Project David and his mother, Lea, pulsed beneath his skin, a restless energy that even his new, terrifying powers couldn't fully contain.
School, usually a mundane escape, felt different too. The whispers about the "freak hurricane" that had supposedly torn through the barn still circulated, though less frequently now. Tyler Brock and his gang were conspicuously absent, recovering from their "encounter" with the "storm." Harry tried to blend in, to appear as normal as possible, a feat that felt increasingly impossible.
He found Rowan Jenkins and Asha Fujimoto by their usual lockers, a small island of normalcy in the chaotic hallway. Rowan, ever the cheerful one, was already animated, recounting something. Asha, leaning against the cold metal, listened with a faint smile, her dark eyes sharp and observant.
"... and he's coming next week!" Rowan exclaimed, spotting Harry. "My cousin, from England. He's staying for the whole summer."
"That's cool," Harry said, trying to sound genuinely interested, his mind still half-occupied by the memory of splintered wood and uncontrolled lightning.
"Yeah, but here's the funny part," Rowan chuckled. "His name is Harry. Can you believe it? Two Harrys in one neighborhood! My aunt said it's a pretty common name back in England, though not so much here, I guess." He shrugged. "And apparently, Rowan is way more common over there too. Who knew?"
Harry felt a peculiar tug at the mention of his own name. He'd never thought much about it. It was just... Harry. He glanced at Asha. "Is Asha a common name in Japan?" he asked, a sudden curiosity sparking.
Asha pushed off the locker, her expression thoughtful. "Actually, no, it's not even a Japanese name, although I get that a lot. It sounds like it could be, I suppose, with the 'sha' sound." She paused, a slight smile playing on her lips. "My father chose it. He was really into philosophy, especially Nietzsche, and he'd studied Zoroastrianism. Asha, in the Avestan language... that's an ancient Iranian language... means 'Truth', 'Righteousness', 'Cosmic Order', 'Universal Law'. It's a pretty profound concept in their philosophy.... His own name, Akira, means wisdom. I guess it inspired him to study philosophy in the first place."
She looked at them, her eyes bright. "Incidentally, it also means 'hope' in Sanskrit, which is a beautiful coincidence. And in Swahili, it means 'life', which my mom always loved, because her name means something similar. It's a lot to live up to, I guess."
Asha then turned her gaze to Harry, her eyes probing gently. "So, what about you, Harry? Why did your dad name you Harry?"
The question hung in the air, simple yet profound. Harry shifted his weight, his gaze dropping to his worn sneakers. "I... I don't know," he admitted, the words feeling hollow. "He never told me. And I guess I never really asked. I just... never thought my name meant anything."
The casual conversation about names had unexpectedly brought him face to face with another blank space in his past, another unanswered question that now felt heavier than before.
The school day crawled by, each minute feeling like an hour. Harry's mind kept replaying Asha's explanation of her name, the weight of 'Truth' and 'Cosmic Order' contrasting sharply with his own blank slate. The question she'd posed " Why did your dad name you Harry? " echoed in his thoughts, a simple query that had suddenly become profoundly important.
As soon as Stephen's old pickup truck rumbled up the gravel driveway to the farmhouse after school, Harry was out the door. He found Stephen wiping grease from his hands near the shed, a faint smell of oil and earth clinging to him.
"Dad?" Harry began, a rare nervousness in his voice.
Stephen looked up, a questioning eyebrow raised. "Everything alright, son? School give you any trouble?"
"No, not trouble," Harry said quickly, then hesitated, kicking at a loose stone. "It's... my name. Why did you name me Harry?"
Stephen paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. He leaned against the shed, crossing his arms. "Harry, huh? Well, it's a strong name. Honest. And it's got a bit of history to it, too." He paused, a faint smile touching his lips. "I named you after Harry S. Truman. The President. He was the one who ended the biggest war the world had ever seen, back in '45. A man who had to make impossible decisions, but always tried to do what was right, what was honest, even when it was hard. A true man, you could say. Almost literally."
True Man.
The words hit Harry with the force of one of his own electric surges. True Man. Asha's name meant 'Truth', 'Righteousness', 'Cosmic Order'. His name, chosen by his father, was a homage to a 'True Man'. The connection, sudden and startling, sparked something deep within him. Could it be a coincidence? Or was there something more? A whisper of destiny, perhaps? That they were somehow... meant to be connected, their names intertwined with a shared purpose?
His heart hammered against his ribs. It felt foolish, childish even, to think such a thing. But the thought, once planted, refused to leave. He hesitated, his gaze fixed on the ground, the words forming and dissolving on his tongue. It was a leap, a big one, from a presidential namesake to a cosmic connection with a girl he'd only just met. But the idea, however improbable, felt strangely compelling.
Finally, gathering a courage that felt disproportionate to the question, Harry looked up. "Dad," he began, his voice a little softer, a little more uncertain. "Asha's name... it means 'Truth'. And you said Truman was a 'true man'. Is there... is there something about our names? Like, are we... are we supposed to be together or something?"
Stephen blinked, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly replaced by a wry amusement. He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Whoa there, Flash. Slow down. That sounds a bit like crackpot reasoning, doesn't it?" He pushed off the shed, walking over to clap Harry gently on the shoulder. "Look, it's a nice thought, and maybe there's some poetic symmetry to it. Life has a funny way of lining things up sometimes. Reality can be stranger than fiction. But you two are still kids. Way too young to be thinking about 'destiny' and 'supposed to be together' based on names."
He gave Harry's shoulder a final squeeze. "It's not necessarily false, Harry. And it's certainly not impossible for things like that to happen in life. But for now, focus on being a good friend, and learning to control that... spark inside you. The rest will sort itself out."
Despite Stephen's pragmatic dismissal, a small, persistent spark of wonder remained in Harry's chest. He didn't press the issue. His dad hadn't said no, not definitively. And for Harry, in a life suddenly full of impossible truths, that was almost as good as a yes.
The following morning, the usual school buzz felt a little brighter for Harry. The conversation with Stephen about his name, despite the practical dismissal, had left him with a lingering sense of intrigue. He found Asha and Rowan at their lockers again, their faces lit by the morning sun filtering through the hallway windows.
"Hey, guys," Harry greeted, a slight tremor of excitement in his voice. He still felt a blush rise when he thought about his dad's response to his 'destiny' question, but he pushed it down. This was different. This was about his name.
"Morning, Harry," Asha replied, her smile easy. Rowan, already animated, was recounting a dream about a giant, talking squirrel.
"So," Harry interrupted, a little awkwardly, "I asked my dad last night why he named me Harry."
Rowan stopped mid-squirrel anecdote, his eyes wide. "Oh, yeah? What'd he say? Is it, like, a family name or something?"
Harry took a breath, feeling a strange mix of pride and vulnerability. "He said... he named me after Harry S. Truman. The President. The one who ended World War Two. My dad said he was a 'true man,' someone who always tried to do what was right."
Asha's blue eyes widened slightly, a thoughtful expression replacing her smile. She glanced at Harry, then back at Rowan, a silent connection passing between them.
Harry felt his cheeks warm, remembering his own secret thought. He wanted to say it, to voice the connection he'd made, but the words caught in his throat. It felt too personal, too... hopeful.
Rowan, however, had no such reservations. His jaw dropped, then a wide grin spread across his face. He slapped Harry lightly on the back, his voice booming a little too loudly for the quiet hallway.
"Wait a minute!" Rowan exclaimed, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Harry, you're a 'True Man,' and Asha, your name means 'Truth'! Oh my gosh! That's like, a sign, isn't it? Harry, Asha, you are made for each other!"
The words hung in the air, echoing off the lockers. Harry's face instantly flamed a deep crimson, his ears burning. He risked a glance at Asha, whose cheeks had also turned a delicate shade of pink, her eyes wide with a mix of surprise and a hint of embarrassment.
Rowan, oblivious to their mortification, threw his head back and let out a loud, delighted chuckle. "It's true! It's right there in your names! The universe is telling you something!"
Harry wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Asha, recovering slightly, shot Rowan a playful but firm glare. "Rowan!... she chided, though a small, shy smile still tugged at the corner of her lips.
Despite the embarrassment, a tiny, undeniable thrill sparked within Harry. Rowan's unfiltered outburst had voiced the very thought he'd been too afraid to admit, confirming that the connection wasn't just in his head. And seeing Asha blush... well, that was a whole different kind of electricity.
How do you describe a noun with more than one trait? Do you use multiple sentences in order to avoid double adjective?
being patient is a reasonable option.
They might have learned to write and practice for years.Quotebeing patient is a reasonable option.
One of my schoolteachers wrote a bestselling book in seven days. Why wait for a machine to catch up?
The bus ride home felt longer than usual, the lingering blush from Rowan?s outburst still warm on Harry?s cheeks. He tried to focus on the passing West Virginia landscape, the rolling hills and dense forests, but his mind kept drifting back to Asha, to the sudden, exhilarating possibility that their names, their very existence, might be linked by something more than coincidence.
When the bus finally dropped him off at the end of the long gravel driveway, the familiar sight of the farmhouse brought a sense of grounding. He walked up, his backpack slung over one shoulder, and saw Stephen emerging from the barn, a heavy toolbox clutched in one hand. The barn, which had been a splintered wreck after Harry?s uncontrolled electric surge, now looked remarkably intact from the outside. New planks gleamed faintly in the afternoon sun, and the gaping holes were gone.
?Still fixing the barn, Dad?? Harry called out, a pang of guilt hitting him. He remembered the chaos, the unconscious bullies, the sheer destructive power that had erupted from him. He also remembered how little he?d been able to help with the cleanup, consumed by Sam?s relentless training. ?I?m really sorry I didn?t help much during the training days with Uncle Sam.?
Stephen set the toolbox down with a soft thud, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. A faint smudge of dirt streaked his cheek, but his eyes were kind. ?It?s alright, Flash,? he said, using the nickname that had stuck. ?Don?t worry about it. You needed as much time as you had to train and learn from Uncle Sam. He didn?t have much time here, and every second counted.?
He picked up the toolbox again, gesturing towards the barn. ?Besides, you also needed more rest and sleep than usual. That kind of training, and what you?re? going through, takes a lot out of you. Your body needed to recover.?
Stephen gave the barn a satisfied look. ?And actually, Uncle Sam helped me a lot with fixing the barn when you were at school. He said he needed you to focus entirely on the training and learning, and remove any unnecessary distractions. Said a half-repaired barn was a pretty big distraction.? He chuckled softly. ?He was right, of course.?
Harry nodded, the guilt easing slightly, replaced by a renewed sense of the intense purpose behind Sam?s visit. Everything, it seemed, revolved around his powers, around Project David, around the life he was now forced to lead. Even a simple barn repair was part of the larger, hidden narrative.
The next morning, the usual vibrant energy of the school hallway felt muted to Harry. He spotted Asha and Rowan by their lockers, but something was off. Rowan?s usual boisterousness was subdued, and Asha, usually so composed and confident, looked unusually sad, her shoulders slightly slumped. Her blue eyes, which normally sparkled with intelligence, seemed clouded with a deep melancholy.
Harry approached them, a knot forming in his stomach. ?Hey, guys,? he said, his voice softer than usual. ?What?s wrong, Asha? You look? sad.?
Asha sighed, her gaze fixed on the scuffed linoleum floor. ?It?s? it?s my grandma,? she began, her voice quiet. ?Yesterday, after school, I told her about your name, Harry. About how your dad named you after President Truman, and how he was called a ?true man,? just like my name means ?Truth.? I thought she?d be amused, or think it was a nice coincidence, you know??
She finally looked up, her eyes meeting Harry?s, and he saw a flicker of the horror she was about to describe. ?But she didn?t. Instead, her face just? fell. She looked so incredibly sad. When I asked her why, she told me a story. A frightening story that her own mother?my great-grandma?used to tell her.?
Asha?s voice dropped, almost to a whisper, as if the words themselves were heavy with sorrow. ?My great-grandma lived in the outskirts of Nagasaki when the second atomic bomb was dropped. She was just a girl. She told my grandma about the blinding flash, brighter than a thousand suns, that lit up the sky. And then the giant mushroom cloud, rising up like something from a nightmare, covering everything.?
Rowan, usually so quick to interject, was silent, his expression solemn. Harry felt a chill creep up his spine, a stark contrast to the lighthearted conversation they?d had just yesterday.
?But it wasn?t just the blast,? Asha continued, her voice trembling slightly. ?She talked about the black acid rain that fell afterwards, burning everything it touched. And how it affected people. Not just the immediate devastation, but the long-term effects of the radiation. People getting sick years later, their bodies failing, their children born with terrible deformities.?
Asha paused, taking a shaky breath. ?My grandma said? she understood the first bomb. She said it was a horrific way to grab attention, to force the other side to see the gravity of the situation and surrender. But the second bomb? she believes it unnecessarily caused so much more human suffering. If the goal was just to send a strong message, a threat to surrender, she thinks dropping it on top of Mount Fuji would have been enough. A warning, not another act of mass destruction.?
She looked at both of them, her eyes filled with a profound weariness that seemed too old for her young face. ?She also said that what has happened in the past cannot be changed anymore. We can?t undo it. But what?s more important is to learn from it. To truly understand the consequences, so we can prevent anything like it from ever happening again.?
The weight of her words settled heavily between them. The innocent conversation about names had unexpectedly led them to a dark, brutal truth about human history, a truth that now cast a long shadow over Harry?s own name, and the man it honored.
That evening, the farmhouse felt quieter than usual. The day's conversation with Asha had cast a somber pall over Harry, a stark contrast to the lighthearted teasing from Rowan just yesterday. The weight of history, of unimaginable suffering, pressed down on him.
At dinner, Stephen noticed Harry's subdued mood. He usually had a thousand questions about school, about his friends, about anything and everything. Tonight, he just pushed his food around his plate.
"Everything alright, Harry?" Stephen asked, his voice gentle. "You're a bit quiet tonight."
Harry looked up, his fork clattering softly against the ceramic plate. He hesitated for a moment, then decided to share. This was something bigger than schoolyard bullies or even his own burgeoning powers. This was about the world, about the very conflicts Project David was supposedly designed to prevent.
"Dad," Harry began, his voice low, "Asha was really sad today. Her grandma told her a story." He recounted the chilling details, the blinding flash, the giant mushroom cloud, the black acid rain, and the long-term suffering in Nagasaki. He explained Asha's grandma's belief that the second bomb was unnecessary, that dropping it over Mount Fuji as a warning to show they still have plenty of bombs would have sufficed.
When Harry finished, the only sound in the kitchen was the gentle hum of the refrigerator. Stephen listened intently, his expression unreadable, a deep furrow appearing between his brows. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant, as if seeing the horrors Harry described.
Finally, Stephen let out a slow breath. "Asha's great-grandmother... she saw something truly terrible, Harry. Something that no one should ever have to witness." His voice was grave, devoid of his usual easygoing tone. "Her feelings, her pain, her anger... they are absolutely valid. The human cost of that war, of any war, is immeasurable. And the atomic bombs... they were a new kind of horror, a demonstration of power that changed the world forever."
He paused, looking directly at Harry. "Asha's grandmother is right, too. What's done is done. We can't go back and change history. But we must learn from it. That's the only way to honor the suffering, to ensure those sacrifices weren't in vain."
Stephen then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Now, about the second bomb, and the idea of dropping it on Mount Fuji... it's easy to look back with hindsight and say what should have been done. But in the moment, during a war of that scale, the decisions made are often desperate, driven by a desire to end the conflict, to save lives...even if it means taking others."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "The military leaders at the time believed the second bomb was necessary to force an unconditional surrender, to prevent an even bloodier ground invasion that would have cost millions more lives, both Allied and Japanese. It was a monstrous choice, a truly dark side of humanity's capacity for destruction, but one they felt compelled to make to bring the war to an immediate end."
Stephen paused, staring into the distance. ?It doesn?t make it right, Harry. It doesn?t erase the suffering. But it's important to understand the context, the desperation, that led to such decisions. The truth, Harry, often has many dark sides. And sometimes, even the 'true men' have to make choices that haunt them, and that leave scars on the world."
He looked at Harry, his eyes holding a depth of experience Harry couldn't yet fathom. "That's why Project David exists, Harry. To find a different way. To prevent those kinds of choices from ever having to be made again. To minimize the suffering, the casualties, the collateral damage. Because the cost of war... it's always too high."
Harry looked at his father without blinking, trying as he can to understand the situation. It seems so heavy for a little boy like him.
Stephen paused, then continued, his voice shifting to a more academic tone. "Dropping the atomic bombs might be the most famous decision made by President Truman, and it certainly highlighted the terrifying potential of human conflict, which was one of the reasons Project David was conceived in the first place. However, it wasn't directly related to your existence, Harry... It was one of his other decision."
"Now go to bed, it's already late at night." Stephen continued before Harry had a chance to ask further questions.
The style has now degenerated to the point that I have lost interest.What point?
The next morning, Harry attends his class while his mind is still wandering around what his father said last night. He glances at Asha, who's paying attention to Ms. Albright teaching math. The subtle shift in Asha's demeanor, the way his name seemed to carry a shadow for her, gnawed at Harry. He missed her easy smile, the spark in her eyes, the quiet confidence that had drawn him to her. He especially missed the fleeting moment of shared amusement, almost a blush, when Rowan had first blurted out the connection between their names. That had been a moment of pure, unburdened possibility. Now, his name felt tainted, a constant reminder of a historical horror.
He wanted to bring that cheerfulness back. He wanted to wipe away that bitter taste. And a thought, a desperate hope, began to form in his mind. If his name was linked to Truman, and Truman had made other decisions, surely there was something else, something positive, something less... destructive, that his name could represent. Something more closely related to his own existence, a different kind of truth.
During the next class break, instead of heading to the cafeteria or hanging out with Rowan, Harry made a beeline for the school library. The librarian, a stern but helpful woman, pointed him towards the biography section. He scanned the shelves, his fingers tracing the spines, until he found it: a thick biography of Harry Truman. He pulled it out, found an empty table in a quiet corner, and quickly flipped through the index, then the chapters, searching for sections on major policy decisions. He found a chapter titled "Decisions That Shaped a Nation," and his eyes darted down the list.
Dropping of Atomic Bombs... The Marshall Plan... The Truman Doctrine... The Fair Deal Program... Desegregation of the Armed Forces... Co-founding of the United Nations and NATO... Korean War Leadership... Harry read the list, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Which one? Which of these was the 'other decision' his dad had hinted at? Which one was more closely related to his own existence, to the secret project that had created him? He knew the atomic bombs were a part of Truman's legacy, but Stephen had said that wasn't the direct link to Harry. He needed to find the real connection, the one that could perhaps, just perhaps, make Asha look at him, and his name, without that shadow of sadness." He closed the book, a new mission forming in his mind.
The style has now degenerated to the point that I have lost interest.What point?
Is it too much exposition?
Or is it too dark for your taste?
What's your suggestions to improve it and make it more interesting?
The afternoon sun streamed through the kitchen window as Harry walked in, dropping his backpack by the door. After looking around, he found Stephen out in the barn, just as he?d been for the past few days, continuing his renovation project. The air inside was thick with the scent of fresh-cut wood and sawdust. Stephen was meticulously measuring a section of wall in one corner, clearly intending to transform it into something more permanent.
"Dad?" Harry called out, stepping over a pile of lumber.
Stephen looked up, a pencil tucked behind his ear. "Hey, Flash. Just getting this corner ready. Thinking of turning it into a proper workshop. Somewhere I can tinker with tools and gadgets, do some of my own experimental research when I have time." He gestured vaguely with his measuring tape.
"There's something I want to ask about what you said last night." Harry said. "About the other decision by President Truman that's more closely related to my existence. I've read his biography in school library, but I can't conclude which one is it."
"Whoa? I didn't know you're so passionate about history. What happened?" Stephen asked.
"Actually? it's about Asha. After she learned about the connection between my name and the dropping of the atomic bomb, she doesn't look as cheerful as before."
"Oh, it's about a girl? I understand." Stephen said, taunting Harry. "Don't worry. I'll explain it after dinner."
After dinner, Harry calls in Stephen's promise for an explanation. "Is it the formation of United Nation?" he guesses.
Stephen took a sip of water, then set the glass down. "No, the Truman decision that's more closely related to you, was his Executive Order 9981: 'Equality of Treatment and Opportunity in the Armed Services.' It was about desegregating the military, about giving everyone, regardless of race, a chance to serve, to fight, to be recognized."
Stephen leaned back, a complex expression on his face. "In the earlier phases, the research in Project David was heavily focused on safety. We were trying to understand how to increase the success rate of enhancement and drastically reduce the fatal and irreversible failure rates. We started with what we thought were simpler, easier fixes ... rehabilitating disabled veterans. Soldiers who had lost limbs, or suffered severe, life-altering injuries. They were the perfect candidates, in a grim way, because they had already given so much, and often felt they had nothing left to lose."
His voice grew somber. "More sophisticated technology, the kind that could truly enhance human traits, came with exponentially higher risks and failure rates. Only those with absolutely nothing to lose were willing to take that chance, to volunteer for the experimental procedures. And as expected, many of them ended up dead. But their sacrifices, Harry... they were not in vain. Each failure taught us something, pushed us closer to understanding, to finding the breakthroughs that eventually led to... you."
Harry frowned, trying to connect the dots. "But I still can't see the connection between the executive order and the experimental subjects of Project David, Dad," he said, his brow furrowed in confusion.
Stephen nodded slowly. "That's because I haven't finished my story yet, Flash. An ethics concern emerged, a very serious one, when genetic engineering became involved in the project. The test subjects, these enhanced individuals, were feared for posing a danger to the foundational structures of society. There was a real worry they could become uncontrollable, or even turn against the very people they were meant to protect." Even the thought that they will simply outcompete ordinary people in getting jobs has frightened many decision makers.
He leaned forward, his voice dropping, as if sharing a painful secret. "Some high-ranking officials, driven by fear and a twisted sense of control, began to call it 'eugenics.' They used that word ... a discredited and controversial ideology that aims to 'improve' the human species through selective breeding or genetic manipulation. It's been associated with some of the darkest moments in human history, Harry, including forced sterilization and genocide."
Stephen's jaw tightened. "To alleviate such fear, to appease those who saw these enhanced individuals as a threat, a terrible decision was made. Their fear was not entirely baseless though, since some of the super soldiers did go out of control. Genetically engineered individuals were planted with severe limitations as a means to control them. They were made to depend on a specific substance which they needed to consume at least once a week. Otherwise, their cells would start to self-destruct, a painful and irreversible process."
He looked at Harry, his eyes filled with a deep sorrow. "It prevented them from escaping, from truly being free. And to add insult to injury, they were also stripped of their rights as citizens. They were treated inhumanely, Harry, as expendable tools, not as human beings who had sacrificed everything for a cause they believed in."
Harry's eyes widened as the pieces clicked into place. The horror of the situation, the injustice, washed over him. "Now I can see the connection," he said, his voice quiet, almost a whisper. "By referring to the executive order, you wanted them to have equal rights to other citizens. You wanted them to be treated as human beings, not just... tools."
Stephen nodded, a grim satisfaction in his eyes that quickly faded into weariness. "Exactly, Harry. That's what your mother and I, and a few others, fought for. To ensure that those who served, those who sacrificed, were treated with dignity and granted the same fundamental rights as any other citizen. It was a battle we were still fighting, even as the project evolved."
He pushed his chair back from the table, the scrape of wood on the floor echoing in the quiet kitchen. "This is a lot to take in, I know. And it's information that very few people in the world know. You understand how important it is to keep this secret, don't you, Harry? From everyone. Especially your friends."
Harry swallowed, the weight of the secret settling heavily on his young shoulders. He thought of Asha and Rowan, their innocent lives. He nodded, his gaze firm. "I understand, Dad. I won't tell anyone."
Stephen gave him a long, appraising look, then a small, tired smile. "Good. Now, it's getting late. You've had a long day, and a lot to process. Time for bed, Flash. We'll talk more another time."
Harry stood up, the chair scraping loudly. The comfortable warmth of the farmhouse suddenly felt like a fragile shell, protecting him from a world far more complex and dangerous than he could have imagined.
The morning bell rang, signaling the start of first period. Harry, Asha, and Rowan walked together down the bustling hallway, heading towards their first class. The usual school chatter filled the air, but for Harry, the undercurrent of his own secrets and powers was a constant hum beneath the surface.
As they rounded a corner, they saw them. Tyler Brock and his gang were huddled near a row of lockers, engaged in what looked like an intense, low-voiced discussion. Tyler, his arm still in a sling, was gesturing animatedly.
The moment Tyler looked up and saw Harry, his eyes widened. A sudden, almost imperceptible shift went through the group. Their discussion instantly ceased. Without a word, Tyler turned, and the entire gang abruptly broke off their conversation, turning their backs and walking quickly in the opposite direction, clearly unwilling to be passed by Harry, Asha, and Rowan.
Harry watched them go, a faint sense of surprise mixing with relief. It was uncanny. He?d expected anger, revenge, anything but this quiet, almost desperate avoidance.
Perhaps they?ve learned their lessons, Harry thought, a faint sense of surprise mixing with relief. The memory of the ruined barn, the unconscious forms of the bullies, and the sheer, uncontrolled power that had erupted from him, flashed in his mind. It had been terrifying, even for him. Maybe that was enough. Maybe the "freak hurricane" story, combined with their own painful experience, had truly scared them straight.
Or, a more unsettling thought surfaced, something else happened to them. Something beyond the "hurricane." Something that had truly broken their spirit, or instilled a fear far deeper than any physical injury. The thought lingered, a subtle unease beneath the surface of the quiet hallway.
The morning bell rang, signaling the start of first period. Harry settled into his seat, still pondering the strange behavior of Tyler?s gang. Asha was already at her desk, meticulously organizing her pens, while Rowan was, as usual, doodling furiously in his notebook.
Their science teacher, Ms. Albright, a woman with a perpetually cheerful demeanor and a penchant for hands-on experiments, walked to the front of the classroom. Today, she wasn?t carrying textbooks or diagrams. Instead, she had a large tray filled with small, intriguing objects.
?Good morning, class!? Ms. Albright announced, her voice bright and enthusiastic. ?Today, we?re going to get a little? charged up!? She winked, and a few students chuckled.
She began distributing the contents of her tray to each table group. Harry watched as she placed two small batteries, each no bigger than his thumb, on their table. Then came six short wires, their ends stripped to reveal gleaming copper, and finally, two tiny light bulbs, no larger than marbles, nestled in miniature screw-in bases.
?Alright, everyone,? Ms. Albright continued, her hands gesturing excitedly. ?Today, we are going to learn how electricity travels! You?ll be building simple circuits to light up your bulbs.?
A murmur of excitement rippled through the room. Harry felt a different kind of buzz, a subtle prickle under his skin. Electricity. His power. He?d only ever experienced it as an uncontrollable surge, a destructive force. Now, he was going to see it tamed, channeled, used to create light.
Ms. Albright then began to explain the concepts. ?We?re going to explore two fundamental ways to connect your components: parallel and series connections. Each has unique properties, and you?ll see how the electricity behaves differently in each setup.?
She drew diagrams on the whiteboard, illustrating how electrons flowed through a circuit. Harry listened intently, trying to reconcile the orderly, predictable flow she described with the chaotic, explosive energy that sometimes burst from his own body. He wondered if, by understanding these basic principles, he might gain a deeper insight into his own volatile abilities. The thought was both daunting and exhilarating.
The moment Harry stepped off the school bus, his mind was still buzzing, not from the usual schoolyard chatter, but from the morning's science lesson. The simple circuits, the way the tiny bulbs lit up with a flick of a switch, fascinated him. It was a controlled, predictable form of the very power that surged uncontrollably within him. He had a million questions, and only one person who could possibly answer them.
He found Stephen in the living room, poring over some schematics spread across the coffee table. The faint scent of coffee hung in the air.
"Dad!" Harry exclaimed, practically bursting into the room.
Stephen looked up, a smile forming. "Hey, Flash. Rough day at school?"
"No, great day!" Harry corrected, rushing over and pointing animatedly at the table. "We learned about electricity today! Batteries, wires, light bulbs! Series and parallel connections! It was amazing how it just... flows." He paused, then his excitement turned serious. "But that's what I don't get. How do I do it? How do I generate electricity from my own body? Is it like a battery in me? How does it travel? Can I make a light bulb light up?"
Stephen chuckled, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Whoa, slow down, lightning bolt. One question at a time." He patted the spot next to him on the couch. "Come on, sit down. This is a bit more complicated than Ms. Albright's lesson, but it's a good place to start."
Harry eagerly sat, leaning forward, his eyes fixed on his father.
"Okay," Stephen began, gathering his thoughts. "What you learned today is about external circuits. Batteries create a chemical reaction that pushes electrons through a conductor, like a wire, to a load, like a light bulb. It's a closed system, designed to be stable and predictable."
He tapped a finger on one of the schematics. "Now, your body, and indeed all living things, use electricity. Your brain communicates with your muscles using electrical impulses. Your heart beats because of electrical signals. It's a very low-level, biological electricity, generated by the movement of charged ions across cell membranes."
"So, I'm like a giant battery?" Harry asked, his eyes wide.
Stephen smiled. "In a way, yes, but far more complex. Project David didn't just give you the ability to conduct electricity, Harry. It gave you the capacity to generate and manipulate it on a scale far beyond normal biological processes. Think of it like this: your cells, particularly certain specialized ones, have been engineered to act like incredibly efficient, miniature bio-generators. They can rapidly accumulate and discharge a massive amount of electrical energy."
"But how does it get out?" Harry pressed, thinking of the flashes and surges.
"That's where your unique physiology comes in," Stephen explained. "Your skin, your nervous system, can act as a conduit. When you're under extreme stress, or when your body is pushed to its limits, that stored energy can be released. It's not like simply touching two wires together. It's a raw, powerful discharge that can interact with the environment around you."
He paused, his expression growing serious. "The challenge, Harry, is that this ability is still largely uncontrolled. It's like having a nuclear reactor in your chest without a proper containment system. The more you learn about basic electricity, the more you'll appreciate the fundamental principles, but understanding how to control your specific, amplified bio-electricity... that's a whole different level of mastery. It requires not just scientific understanding, but immense mental and physical discipline. That's what Sam was trying to teach you, and what we'll continue to work on."
Harry nodded slowly, the initial excitement giving way to a deeper understanding of the immense, terrifying power within him. He wasn't just a kid who could run fast. He was a living, breathing electrical storm, and learning to harness it was going to be the most important, and perhaps most dangerous, lesson of his life.
The next day, the school cafeteria was a cacophony of chatter, clanking trays, and the general hum of hundreds of hungry teenagers. Harry, Asha, and Rowan had claimed their usual table, a quiet corner where they could eat and talk without too much interruption. Harry's mind was still reeling from Stephen's explanation of his bio-electricity, the idea of miniature bio-generators in his cells both awe-inspiring and terrifying.
Suddenly, the noise seemed to dim slightly as Tyler Brock and his gang entered the cafeteria. Harry braced himself, but just like yesterday, they seemed to avoid eye contact, their usual aggressive swagger replaced by a more subdued, almost wary gait. Tyler, his arm still in a sling, pointed towards the large industrial refrigerator near the serving line.
"Jake, go grab some sodas," Tyler ordered, his voice a low growl. "Bring 'em to our table."
Jake, a burly kid with a perpetually sullen expression, nodded and headed towards the refrigerator. Tyler and Vance continued straight to their usual table, while Brody, another member of the gang, lingered behind Jake, perhaps to offer assistance with the heavy drinks.
Harry and his friends continued eating their lunch, Harry listening to Rowan recount a particularly outlandish dream involving a talking badger, and Asha quietly sketching in her notebook. The usual cafeteria din filled the background, and their attention was momentarily elsewhere.
Then, a sharp, loud CRACK! echoed through the cafeteria, momentarily silencing the chatter. Harry's head snapped up, his enhanced senses immediately zeroing in on the source. He saw Jake, stiffened and wide-eyed, his grip on the refrigerator door handle locked. The heavy door, which he must have opened slightly, had swung back and slammed shut with the sound that had caught Harry's attention. A low groan escaped Jake's lips, his feet shuffling wildly on the tiled floor.
"Jake!" Brody yelled, rushing forward. Without thinking, Brody grabbed Jake's arm, attempting to pull him free. But the moment their skin made contact, the current arced through Brody. He too stiffened, his eyes bulging, his body locking up in a grotesque dance of uncontrolled muscle contractions. Both boys were now stuck, vibrating violently, their feet beginning to splash in a small puddle of spilled water that had collected near the refrigerator.
Harry's enhanced senses screamed at him. He saw the effects of electric shock, felt the subtle hum in the air, recognized the terrifying, uncontrolled energy. They're in big trouble, he thought, a cold dread seizing him. He knew, instinctively, that this wasn't just a faulty wire. This felt... different. More intense.
Without a second thought, Harry launched himself forward, a blur of motion. Asha and Rowan gasped, but he was already there, his hand reaching for the refrigerator door, aiming to break the circuit, to separate Jake's locked grip from the source.
The moment his fingers brushed the cold metal of the door, a searing jolt ripped through his arm, then his entire body. He gasped, a guttural sound torn from his throat. The electricity surged through him, a familiar, yet terrifying, sensation. His body vibrated violently, his teeth rattling, and he felt the sickening wetness of the spilled water soaking his sneakers, increasing the electric current. He was in trouble too. Deep trouble.
But even as the pain threatened to overwhelm him, a desperate resolve ignited. He had to get them free. With every ounce of strength he had left, Harry focused, not on pulling away, but on pushing through the current, his enhanced muscles straining. He began to pry Jake's fingers from the door handle, one by agonizing one. Each finger was a monumental effort, his own body screaming in protest, the air around him crackling.
When the last finger finally released, Jake and Brody collapsed, their bodies limp, falling heavily onto the wet floor with a splash. Harry, feeling utterly drained, his muscles trembling, cold sweat pouring from his skin, rapidly turning warm.
A few seconds later, a sharp SNAP! echoed from the electrical panel behind the refrigerator. The humming stopped. The current was gone. Harry felt the last vestiges of energy drain from him, leaving him hollow and exhausted, and fall sitting down on the floor.
Tyler and Vance, who had been frozen in horror at their table, now rushed forward, their faces pale with fear, to help Jake and Brody. Simultaneously, Asha and Rowan, their faces etched with concern, ran to Harry's side.
"Harry! Are you okay?!" Asha cried, kneeling beside him.
He could only nod, his breath coming in ragged gasps. They were all shocked, but fortunately, after a quick assessment by the cafeteria staff and a frantic call to the school nurse, it was clear there was no major physical damage to any of them. Still, the nurse insisted. Harry, Jake, and Brody were all taken to the clinic to get proper medical attention, leaving a stunned and whispering cafeteria in their wake.
Later, an investigation into the incident revealed a series of unfortunate circumstances. It was discovered that water had been leaking from inside the refrigerator through a broken seal, creating the puddle on the floor. Behind the unit, the grounding wire was found to be severely gnawed, apparently by rodents, rendering it useless. To make matters worse, a live wire had somehow come into contact with the metal chassis, bridged by a cluster of insects. Aged food splashes were found scattered behind the refrigerator, providing a clear explanation for what had attracted both the rodents and the insects to the area. Electricians were immediately called to the school to fix the hazardous wiring and prevent any further incidents.
The school clinic was a blur of activity. Nurses bustled around, checking vitals, applying cool compresses, and asking endless questions. Harry, Jake, and Brody were all given a clean bill of health, though the lingering tremors and the memory of the shock still made them feel shaky. After a while, they were sent back to class, the incident already the talk of the school.
Later that afternoon, after the last bell, Harry found Stephen waiting for him by the truck. Stephen had already heard about the cafeteria incident, his face a mask of concern. As they drove home, Harry recounted the events, focusing on the moment he touched the refrigerator and the sudden, draining surge of electricity.
"Sounds like a classic case of a faulty appliance, exacerbated by... well, you," Stephen mused, his eyes on the road. "But I'm glad you reacted. You saved those boys from something potentially far worse."
The next morning, the school sent out an email to all parents, explaining the incident. The cafeteria refrigerator had been immediately taken out of commission, and a thorough investigation had been launched.
When Harry arrived at school, the area around the refrigerator was cordoned off with yellow tape, and two burly electricians were already at work, their tools spread out on a tarp. During lunch, the cafeteria manager made an announcement, explaining the findings of the investigation.
"The circuit breaker powering the refrigerator tripped due to an overcurrent," the manager explained, his voice sounding tired over the loudspeaker. "Further investigation revealed a series of unfortunate circumstances. There was a water leak from inside the refrigerator, likely due to a broken seal that had gone unnoticed. This water had pooled on the floor behind the unit. More critically, the grounding wire for the refrigerator was found to be severely gnawed, likely by rodents, compromising its safety for quite some time."
A collective gasp went through the cafeteria.
"And," the manager continued, "it appears a live wire had somehow come into contact with the metal chassis of the refrigerator, possibly facilitated by insects building nests or trails that conducted the current. We also found significant amounts of aged food splashes scattered behind the refrigerator, which would have attracted both the rodents and the insects in the first place."
Electricians, the manager assured everyone, were working diligently to fix the problem and ensure the cafeteria was safe.
Harry listened, a cold knot forming in his stomach. Aged food splashes. His mind immediately flashed back to a few weeks ago, when Tyler and his gang had been bullying Rowan. Rowan?s lunch tray, filled with food, had been knocked from his hands, splattering across the floor, some of it skittering under the very refrigerator where Jake had gotten shocked. Harry had been too focused on helping Rowan, on dealing with Tyler, to think about the mess under the appliance.
A grim realization settled over him. The very act of bullying, the casual cruelty, had indirectly led to this. The "freak hurricane" had been a cover for his powers, but this? this was a direct consequence of their actions, a silent, unseen chain reaction. The dark side of truth, indeed.
The bus ride home felt heavy, laden with the day's events. The image of Jake and Brody convulsing, the searing jolt of electricity, and the chilling realization about the cause of the accident, all replayed in Harry's mind. He had saved them, yes, but the cost had been immense, leaving him utterly drained. And the thought that Rowan's spilled lunch, a consequence of bullying, had set this chain of events in motion, was a bitter pill to swallow.
As soon as he walked through the farmhouse door, he found Stephen in the kitchen, preparing dinner. The comforting aroma of cooking food filled the air, a stark contrast to the sterile smell of the clinic.
"Dad," Harry said, his voice a little shaky, the words tumbling out. "You won't believe what happened at school today."
Stephen turned, his eyes immediately assessing Harry's posture, his expression. "Oh? What is it, Flash? You look a bit pale." He wiped his hands on a towel and walked over, his brow furrowed with concern.
Harry recounted the cafeteria incident, starting with Tyler's gang, the refrigerator, Jake and Brody getting stuck, and his own desperate intervention. He described the jolt, the vibrating, the struggle to free them, and the final, draining snap from the electrical panel. He even shared the cafeteria manager's explanation about the water leak, the gnawed grounding wire, the live wire, and the aged food splashes.
Stephen listened intently, his expression growing more serious with each detail. When Harry finished, Stephen didn't immediately speak. He simply reached out, his hand gently touching Harry's forehead, then his neck, feeling for a pulse, checking his temperature. His fingers were surprisingly gentle, yet firm, a quick, practiced assessment.
"You're not running a fever, and your pulse seems steady," Stephen murmured, his eyes scanning Harry's face. "But you're clearly exhausted. That was a significant discharge, wasn't it?"
Harry nodded, rubbing his temples. "Yeah. Like, totally empty. Like all the energy just... left me."
Stephen's gaze softened, but his voice remained firm. "I need to check you more thoroughly after dinner, Harry. We need to make sure there are no lingering effects, no internal strain. You pushed yourself to your absolute limit today. And what you did... that was incredibly brave. You put yourself in harm's way to save them."
He paused, then added, a hint of something darker in his tone, "And the cause of it... the aged food. It's a chilling reminder, isn't it? How seemingly small acts can have unexpected, dangerous consequences. Even for those who think they're above it all."
After dinner, Stephen led Harry to his small study, a room filled with books, technical manuals, and the faint scent of old paper. He pulled out a whiteboard and a marker, a habit from his Project David days when explaining complex concepts. Harry sat, still feeling a lingering fatigue, but his mind was sharp, eager for answers.
"Alright, Flash," Stephen began, tapping the marker against the whiteboard. "Let's break down what happened in the cafeteria today. Based on your account and the school's investigation, this is the most probable chronology of events, a perfect storm of unfortunate circumstances and, well, a little bit of your unique physiology."
He started drawing simple diagrams on the board as he spoke.
"First, you had the initial trigger: food splattered behind the refrigerator. As the cafeteria manager said, this was likely from Rowan's dropped tray, or just general kitchen mess that wasn't properly cleaned." He drew a small, messy blob.
"That attracted rodents," Stephen continued, sketching a crude mouse. "And rodents, being rodents, love to gnaw. They found the grounding wire for the refrigerator, a critical safety feature, and chewed right through it. This meant the refrigerator, which should have had a safe path for any stray electricity to go into the ground, was no longer properly grounded." He drew a broken line from the refrigerator to the ground symbol.
"Then, you had insects," he drew a few dots. "Attracted by the same food, they likely built nests or simply crawled in a way that connected a live wire to the metal chassis of the refrigerator. Now you have a metal box, the refrigerator itself, that's suddenly electrified." He drew a spark from a wire to a box.
"Next, the water leaked through the broken door seal, creating a puddle on the floor. Water, especially with impurities, is a conductor." He drew a puddle under the box.
"Now, enter Jake," Stephen said, pointing to a stick figure. "He walks on the wet floor and touches the door handle. Because the refrigerator chassis was live and the grounding wire was compromised, Jake's body became the path of least resistance. The electricity flowed from the electrified handle, through his body, and into the wet floor, which was connected to the ground. He completed the circuit." He drew an arrow through the stick figure.
"Then, Brody," Stephen added another stick figure next to Jake's. "He touches Jake, providing a second path to the ground in a parallel configuration. Think back to Ms. Albright's lesson. In a parallel circuit, the current splits. So, now the electricity had two ways to get to the ground through two people, meaning both Jake and Brody were getting shocked simultaneously." He drew two parallel arrows.
"And then you, Harry," Stephen looked at him, a serious expression on his face. "You touched the refrigerator door leaf, providing an additional parallel path to the ground. This was incredibly dangerous, Harry. You essentially added yourself to that already overloaded circuit." He drew a third parallel arrow, thicker than the others.
"When you finally managed to release Jake's fingers from the door handle, you removed his body from the primary electrical path. This also freed Brody, as his connection was through Jake. It was a heroic, and extremely risky, move."
Stephen then tapped the whiteboard where he'd drawn Harry's figure. "Now, here's where your unique physiology likely played a crucial role. You mentioned you were sweating, and it was getting warm fast. When you're under that kind of stress, and your powers are active, your body's electrical resistance changes. Your sweating increased the conductance on your outer skin. This means more electric current flowed outside of your internal organs, through your skin, and into the ground, effectively reducing the amount of current flowing inside your vital internal organs. It acted as a kind of natural, albeit uncontrolled, safety mechanism for you, diverting some of the lethal current."
He drew a final, large arrow from Harry's figure to the ground. "The low resistance paths provided by your outer skin and sweat caused the electric current to become incredibly high. It exceeded the capacity of the circuit breaker protecting that refrigerator's line, causing it to trip. That's the 'snap' you heard. The breaker did its job, cutting off the power to the refrigerator, and with it, the electricity was no longer connected to Jake, Brody, or you."
Stephen put down the marker, his expression grave. "What you did, Harry, was incredibly dangerous. A normal human wouldn't have survived that kind of sustained shock, especially with the wet floor acting as such a good conductor. You're lucky your unique physiology kicked in, and that the breaker finally tripped."
Harry swallowed, the reality of the danger hitting him harder now that it was explained. "So? what's the safer way to save them, then?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. He knew he'd acted on instinct, but he needed to know for next time.
Stephen nodded. "Good question. The safest way is always to cut the power source first, if possible. But if you can't, or if someone is already in contact, you absolutely must avoid becoming part of the circuit yourself. That means avoiding contact with the wet floor, as well as direct contact with the electrified object and the person's body."
He picked up the marker again and quickly sketched a long, hooked shape. "You'd want to use something non-conductive. A rescue hook made of wood or plastic, for example. Something that won't conduct electricity. You could use it to pull Jake's hand off the handle, or to pull his body away from the refrigerator. Anything that creates an insulated barrier between you and the current."
Harry stared at the diagrams, the scientific explanation making the terrifying incident horrifyingly clear. The accidental chain of events, the physics of it all, and the chilling realization of how close they all came to serious harm. And his own body's strange, protective reaction. It was a lot to process.
I said I'd given up reading as it was getting tedious, but for God's sake cut out the stuff about wet skin being safer, or you may find yourself liable for the death of a complete stranger who took this as sound advice!Don't you read the explanation given by Stephen? Incomplete information can be more dangerous than complete lack of it.
When you?re under that kind of stress, and your powers are active, your body?s electrical resistance changes. Your sweating increased the conductance on your outer skin. This means more electric current flowed outside of your internal organs, through your skin, and into the ground, effectively reducing the amount of current flowing inside your vital internal organs.could give a gullible reader a very misleading idea of electrophysiology, rather at variance with your plan to get kids interested in good science.
Stephen stood up from the couch, walking over to a tall, dark wooden cabinet in the corner of the study. He ran a hand along the spines of several thick books before pulling out a large, well-worn encyclopedia. He brought it back to the coffee table and carefully opened it, flipping through pages until he found what he was looking for.Demonstration video of electric eel.
"You asked about generating electricity from your own body, Harry," Stephen said, his finger tracing a diagram on the page. "While your abilities are far more advanced, nature has already figured out some incredible ways to do this. Take a look at this."
He turned the book so Harry could see. The page displayed a vivid picture of an electric eel, its long, serpentine body illustrated with intricate diagrams of its internal organs.
"This is an electric eel," Stephen explained, pointing to the diagram. "It's a fascinating creature. It can generate powerful electric shocks, up to 600 volts, to stun prey or defend itself. And it does it all biologically."
Harry leaned closer, intrigued. "How?"
"Their electric organs," Stephen answered, tapping a section of the diagram. "They've evolved from what were originally muscle tissues. Over millions of years, these muscle cells have repurposed themselves, specializing not for contraction, but for ion transport. Their basic cellular structure is flattened, non-contractile muscle cells, stacked up like tiny batteries in series. When they fire, these cells create a massive electrical potential."
Harry looked at the diagram, then back at his dad. "But... why don't they shock themselves?"
Stephen smiled, a hint of the scientist in him coming to the forefront. "Excellent question, Flash. That's the key. Electric eels don't shock themselves because their bodies are incredibly well-adapted to direct the current outward into the water, rather than through their own vital tissues."
He pointed to different parts of the eel's anatomy in the diagram. "They have thick, gelatinous skin and specialized fatty tissue that act as excellent insulation. Think of it like the rubber coating on an electrical wire ... it keeps the current where it's supposed to be. And, crucially, their vital organs ... their brain, heart, and other essential systems ... are concentrated in the front one-third of their body, away from most of the electric organs which run along the rest of their length."
"So, when they generate a shock," Stephen continued, "they coordinate their muscles and these electric organs with incredible precision. It's not just a random discharge. They actively control it, keeping the electric field flowing mainly toward their prey or predators in the surrounding water. It's a marvel of biological engineering."
He closed the book, his gaze returning to Harry. "Your body, through Project David, has similar, though far more potent, adaptations. The challenge for you is learning that same level of control and direction. It's about understanding your own internal 'insulation' and how to channel that immense power, rather than letting it simply erupt."
Harry absorbed Stephen's explanation of the electric eel, the concept of biological insulation and directed current resonating deeply. It made a terrifying kind of sense, a scientific blueprint for his own chaotic power. Then, another thought struck him, a memory from his intense training with Sam.
"Uncle Sam," Harry began, looking up at his father, "he said he was somewhat resistant to electric shock. He couldn't generate it himself, but he could withstand it. Is the mechanism the same as what you just described for me, or for the eel?"
Stephen nodded slowly, a knowing look in his eyes. "Yes, Flash, it is. Sam has an earlier version of the same biotechnology. His enhancements were focused more on durability, resilience, and a heightened nervous system, which includes a significant resistance to electrical currents. He's designed to absorb impact, to withstand forces that would incapacitate a normal human, and that extends to electrical energy."
Harry's eyes widened. The pieces were falling into place, revealing a much larger, more complex picture than he had initially imagined. "So... he's also a super soldier?" he asked, the term feeling strange on his tongue, like something out of a comic book.
Stephen gave a faint, almost rueful smile. "Yes, Harry. Otherwise, how do you think he could have defeated you so easily back then? How could he have pushed you to your limits, even when you were unleashing raw power? Sam is a product of Project David's earlier, more experimental phases, built for a different kind of battlefield, but with the same underlying principles of human enhancement."
The revelation hung in the air, connecting Sam's mysterious past and formidable abilities directly to Project David. Harry now understood that he wasn't alone in this world of enhanced humans, and that the "Uncle Sam" who had trained him was far more than just an old friend of his father's. He was a living testament to the project's long, and often brutal, history.
In the morning at school, Mrs. Patterson, the school nurse, stood at the front of the classroom with a bright red first aid kit. Her expression more serious than usual. The recent incidents... the cafeteria electrical shock, Tyler's gang's mysterious injuries from the 'hurricane'... had clearly prompted this impromptu health and safety session.
Given the recent accidents involving our students, she began, adjusting her glasses, "the administration wants to ensure every family is properly prepared for emergencies at home. Domestic common risks like slips, falls, cuts, and traffic incidents, even seasonal flu." She opened the kit, displaying its contents. "Every household should have antiseptic, bandages, pain relievers, thermometer, and any prescription medications family members might need in an emergency." Her gaze swept the room. "I'm sending home a checklist for your parents. Please make sure they review your home first aid supplies this weekend."
Harry nodded along with his classmates, but something nagged at him. He'd never really looked through Stephen's medical supplies, despite living in a house with someone who clearly had extensive knowledge of medicine and chemistry. The thought of Stephen's makeshift 'magic mushroom' solution to the barn incident still puzzled him.
Scene 2
That afternoon, checklist in hand, Harry found Stephen tinkering in his workshop corner of the barn. "Dad, the school nurse wants us to check our first aid kit at home," Harry said, waving the paper. "She's worried about swimming accidents next week. "Stephen looked up from his workbench, wiping grease from his hands. "Good idea. The medical cabinet is in the bathroom upstairs... top shelf, behind the mirror. Why don't you inventory what we have and let me know if we're missing anything from that list?"
Ten minutes later, Harry stood on his tiptoes in the upstairs bathroom, checking items against the school's list. Bandages, check. Antiseptic, check. Thermometer, check. But as he moved bottles around, looking for the pain reliever, his hand bumped against something hidden in the back corner. Two small, dark bottles with official-looking labels. The first he recognized... Psilocybin, the same capsules Stephen had used during the barn incident. But the second bottle was unfamiliar, its label reading 'Autoclastin' in precise medical lettering. Harry's pulse quickened. He'd never heard the name before, but something about it felt significant. The bottle was nearly full, yet Stephen had never mentioned taking any medication. When he took it, some faint hand written words are seen on the label: 'Project David'.
Carrying both bottles downstairs, Harry found Stephen still in the barn, now cleaning his tools. "Dad," Harry began, his voice uncertain, "what's this?" He held up the bottles. "What does Autoclastin have to do with Project David?"
Stephen froze, a wrench halfway to its proper place on the tool rack. His eyes fixed on the bottles in Harry's hands, and for a moment, his usual composed demeanor cracked, revealing something that looked almost like fear."Where did you find those?" Stephen asked quietly, his voice carefully controlled.
In the medicine cabinet. You told me to check our first aid supplies. Harry set the bottles on the workbench between them. "The Psilocybin, I remember from the barn. But this other one... Dad, you look like you've seen a ghost.
Stephen sank onto a nearby stool, suddenly looking older than his years. He stared at the Autoclastin bottle as if it were a loaded weapon. Harry," he said finally, his voice heavy with the weight of another secret about to be revealed, "that's... that's a very long story. And not a pleasant one." He look at Harry, "Do you remember what I said last night about uncle Sam?"
Stephen's words about Sam being a super soldier hung in the air, connecting the dots between his formidable trainer and the shadowy Project David. Harry looked at his father, a new wave of questions forming. If Sam was so powerful, why was he gone? Why wasn't he still part of the project?
Stephen seemed to read his thoughts. He leaned back, his gaze distant, as if recalling a painful chapter of his past. "Sam... he was the last of his kind, Harry. The last of the original super soldiers, those who were enhanced without any dependency on Autoclastin."
He paused, a flicker of regret in his eyes. "In the early days, these champions, like Sam, were incredibly effective. They were deployed on missions to prevent conflicts, to neutralize threats, to achieve the very goals Project David was founded upon. With more and more successful missions, their existence became widely recognized, not just by our allies, but by our enemies as well."
Stephen's voice grew grim. "And that's where the problem began. The enemies, the very individuals and organizations we were trying to counter, realized the immense value of these enhanced individuals. They started trying to poach them. With lucrative offerings, promises of freedom, power, wealth... things we, operating within the confines of a classified government program, couldn't always match."
Harry's stomach clenched. "Some of them... they switched sides?"
Stephen nodded, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Yes. Some of them did. They took their incredible abilities, abilities meant to prevent suffering, and turned them against us, or used them for their own selfish, destructive ends. It was a catastrophic blow, a betrayal that shook the project to its core."
He sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. "That's why we paused Project David indefinitely. We couldn't risk creating more champions who could simply walk away and become weapons for our adversaries. It was a painful decision, but a necessary one to protect the integrity of the project and, ironically, the very world we were trying to save."
"And that's when Autoclastin came into play," Harry murmured, the realization dawning on him.
"Precisely," Stephen confirmed, his voice heavy. "We couldn't afford another defection. So, the research shifted. We developed Autoclastin dependency as a fail-safe, a means to control them, to ensure loyalty and prevent them from ever truly escaping. It was a dark compromise, Harry, born out of necessity and fear, but one that allowed the project to eventually resume, albeit with a much heavier ethical burden."
"Why was it called Autoclastin?" Harry asked.
"Autoclast simply means self destruction. It refers to a part of cell destroyed by the body's own processes. While Autoclastin means inhibitor from autoclast." Stephen said.
The weight of his father's words settled on Harry. The "dark sides of the truth" were far more pervasive than he had imagined. His own existence, his very life, was built upon a foundation of sacrifice, betrayal, and a desperate, morally ambiguous attempt to control power.
Stephen took a moment, gathering his thoughts, the weight of the past clearly heavy on him. "So, long story short, the development of Autoclastin and its dependency mechanism was accelerated. Informally, within the project, we called it 'Operation Warp Speed.' It was a frantic, all-hands-on-deck effort. The stakes were too high to risk another failure, another defection."
He paused, a grim satisfaction mixed with sorrow in his eyes. "And in just a few years, we got promising results. The Autoclastin worked. It created a biological tether, a non-negotiable dependency that ensured our enhanced subjects would remain... compliant. With this new control mechanism in place, Project David was gradually resumed."
"At first," Stephen continued, his voice softer now, "we went back to the original pool of candidates: solitary disabled veterans. Men and women who had lost so much in service, who were desperate for a chance at a normal life, or even just to feel whole again. They were willing to take risks, just like before the pause."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "But word travels, Harry. Even within the most secure, classified programs. When they learned about the planted dependency, about the Autoclastin and the weekly dose requirement, about being stripped of their rights... it was getting more and more difficult to find volunteers. The promise of enhancement, of regaining what they'd lost, couldn't outweigh the cost of losing their freedom, their very autonomy."
Stephen's gaze met Harry's, a profound sadness in his eyes. "Eventually, it came to a halt again. No one showed up voluntarily. The ethical compromises had become too great, the price too high for even the most desperate to pay."
Harry sat silently, his mind reeling. The implications of what Stephen had just revealed were immense. He had so many more questions ... about the people who did take the Autoclastin, about his mother's role in all of this, about his own unique situation. He opened his mouth, a new question already forming on his lips.
But Stephen held up a hand, a gentle but firm gesture. He glanced at the clock on the wall. "I can see the gears turning in your head, Flash. And believe me, there's a lot more to tell. But it's getting late, and you have school in the morning." He gave Harry a sympathetic look. "You need your rest. We'll pick this up another time. For now, try to get some sleep."
Harry sighed, disappointed but understanding. He knew his father was right. His head was swimming with new, unsettling information. He pushed himself off the chair, the silence of the study suddenly heavy with unspoken questions.
The next few days at school passed in a blur of classes and cafeteria whispers about the refrigerator incident. Tyler and his gang continued their policy of avoidance, a silent, uneasy truce that Harry found preferable to their usual bullying. His mind, however, was still largely consumed by Stephen's revelations about Project David and the grim history of Autoclastin. The weight of his own existence, tied to such a dark and complex past, felt heavier with each passing day.
During homeroom on Friday, Ms. Albright, their ever-cheerful teacher, made an announcement that immediately captured the class' attention.
"Alright, class, listen up!" she chirped, her hands clasped together. "I have some exciting news! Starting next week, we'll be having swimming lessons during our regular PE slot. So, make sure you all bring your swimming suits and towels on Monday!"
A mix of excited murmurs and groans rippled through the room. Some kids cheered, others slumped in their seats.
Ms. Albright continued, her tone becoming a little more serious. "Now, I know some of you might be wondering why this is happening so suddenly. This is a planned and agreed response to a very unfortunate accident that occurred recently." She paused, her gaze sweeping over the class. "As some of you might have heard, two students from a neighboring school, during a study tour in New York, fell from a ferry while sightseeing. Tragically, they went missing and were found dead a few days later because they couldn't swim."
A hush fell over the classroom, the gravity of the announcement settling in. The thought of two kids, just like them, losing their lives because they couldn't navigate water, was sobering.
Harry, however, felt a strange detachment. While he understood the importance of the lesson, he wasn't particularly interested. He already knew how to swim. He'd known how to swim for as long as he could remember, even before he could talk, Stephen had told him. It was one of those innate abilities, like his speed, that had simply been there. Another part of his mysterious, enhanced past that set him apart from everyone else in the room. He leaned back in his chair, a silent observer, while the rest of the class reacted to the news.
As Ms. Albright finished her announcement, the classroom erupted into a flurry of excited chatter and anxious whispers. Rowan, his face a mix of apprehension and curiosity, turned to Asha and Harry.
"Can you guys swim?" Rowan asked, his eyes wide. "I mean, like, really swim? I've never even been to a proper swimming pool before." He looked genuinely nervous.
Asha smiled reassuringly. "Yes, I can," she replied, her voice calm and confident. "Swimming was mandatory in Japan, actually. Every school had its own swimming pool, and it was part of the regular curriculum from elementary school onwards. We had lessons twice a week, even in winter, because the pools were usually indoors and heated." She shrugged. "It's just something you learn, like reading or writing."
Harry felt a familiar pang of being different. His own swimming experience wasn't from a school pool or structured lessons. "Yeah, I can swim too," he said, trying to sound casual. "It was... part of my physical training when I was living in the lab, getting treated for my illness. Beside running and some other sports. They said it was good for building strength and endurance, and for recovery." He quickly glossed over the "lab" part, hoping it sounded innocuous enough.
Rowan's eyes widened further. "Wow, you guys are lucky! I guess I'm going to be the only one flailing around like a drowning cat." He let out a nervous laugh, then sighed. "Man, I wish I had a cool backstory for why I can swim, like mandatory Japanese lessons or secret lab training. I just... never went." He looked at Harry and Asha, a hint of admiration mixed with his apprehension. "Guess you two will have to teach me, huh?"
Harry managed a small smile, the thought of teaching Rowan a welcome distraction from the weight of his own secrets. Asha nodded, her expression kind. "We'll help you, Rowan. Don't worry. It's easier than it looks."
Back at home, Harry found Stephen setting up his new workshop in the refurbished barn. Harry said, "Dad, Ms. Albright announced something today. We're starting swimming lessons next week at school."
Stephen straightened up, setting down his tools. "Oh? That's good. Learning to swim is an essential life skill, Harry. Especially after that tragic incident in New York. We'll need to prepare your swimming trunks and sunscreen."
"Yeah, I guess," Harry said, kicking at a loose piece of wood. He hesitated, then voiced his true feelings. "But... I don't know. I can already swim. And it feels like there are more important things I should be learning right now. Like mastering my bioelectric ability. Or understanding more about Project David. That seems way more important than splashing around in a pool with a bunch of kids." He felt a surge of frustration. His life was anything but normal, and these mundane activities felt like a distraction from the monumental truths he was uncovering.
Stephen walked over, wiping his hands on a rag. He put a hand on Harry's shoulder, his gaze serious. "Harry, I understand why you feel that way. Believe me, I do. The things you're learning, the powers you possess, they are incredibly important. But there's a time and a place for everything."
He looked around the partially renovated barn. "Part of living a 'normal' life, part of staying safe and avoiding suspicion, is blending in. If you suddenly opt out of something like swimming lessons, it draws attention. People start asking questions. And right now, the fewer questions, the better."
Stephen squeezed his shoulder gently. "Besides, learning how to control your powers isn't just about raw strength or scientific theory. It's also about discipline, patience, and integrating it into your life without it consuming you. You can still train at home, with my guidance. We'll find time, just like Sam did. But going to school, being a kid, learning to navigate the world outside of Project David... that's just as crucial for your development, Harry. It's part of understanding what you're fighting for."
Harry sighed, the logic undeniable, even if the reluctance lingered. He then remembered something that didn't quite fit. "Wait a minute, Dad," Harry said, his brow furrowing. "I remember being in the lab. You said it was part of my treatment for my illness. But last night, you told me Project David was paused indefinitely because you couldn't find any more volunteers. How does that make sense?"
Stephen's expression shifted, a flicker of surprise at Harry's sharp memory, then a deep, almost painful sadness. He ran a hand through his hair. "That's a very good question, Harry. And you're right, there's a distinction I haven't fully explained yet."
He took a deep breath. "Project David, the official program for creating super soldiers with Autoclastin dependency, was indeed paused due to the lack of volunteers. That was a decision made by the higher-ups, a recognition that the ethical cost was too high for most to bear. However, the research itself, the underlying technology, it didn't just vanish. It was still there, albeit in a highly restricted, dormant state."
Stephen's eyes met Harry's, filled with a raw emotion. "Your situation, Harry, was different. You weren't a volunteer for a super soldier program. You were a terminally ill child. My child. Your mother, Lea, and I... we were desperate. We had access to the technology, the knowledge, the understanding of how to modify human physiology. It was a desperate, last-ditch effort to save your life."
"We used the existing Project David infrastructure, the labs, the equipment, the knowledge we had accumulated, but it wasn't part of the active 'volunteer' program," Stephen clarified. "It was a highly unauthorized, deeply personal endeavor. We were using the technology to treat your illness, to keep you alive, and in doing so, your unique abilities manifested. You became a 'spin-off,' not a direct product of the halted super soldier program, but a result of our efforts to save you using its underlying science."
He put both hands on Harry's shoulders. "So, while the project for volunteers was paused, the science, the possibility, was still there. And we used it, Harry, because we couldn't lose you. It was a risk, a huge one, but it was the only hope we had."
Harry processed this, the pieces finally fitting together. He wasn't just a super soldier; he was a medical miracle, a desperate act of love. The distinction made the dark history of Project David even more personal, more intertwined with his very existence.
Later that evening, the conversation about swimming lessons faded into the background as Harry's mind returned to the more pressing mysteries of his past. He was in the living room, ostensibly doing homework, but his thoughts kept drifting to the sterile white walls and humming machinery of the lab Stephen had mentioned. The place where he'd spent his earliest years, undergoing treatment for his illness, where his powers had been forged.
But last night, Stephen had said Project David was paused because they couldn't find volunteers after the Autoclastin dependency was introduced. That didn't quite fit with Harry's vague, fragmented memories of the lab, or with his own unique origins. He closed his textbook, a new wave of questions bubbling up.
Stephen walked in, a mug of tea in his hand, and sat in his armchair. He noticed Harry's intense gaze. "Something on your mind, Flash?"
"Yeah, Dad," Harry said, sitting up straight. "You said Project David was paused because no one would volunteer for the Autoclastin. But... I remember being in the lab. And you said I was a 'spin-off' of the project. So, what happened? Why was I there if the project was paused?" He demanded, the frustration clear in his voice. He needed to understand.
Stephen sighed, taking a slow sip of his tea. His gaze became distant, lost in the shadows of memory. "You're right to ask, Harry. The story of Project David is long and complicated, full of starts and stops, and some very dark chapters."
He leaned forward, setting his mug down. "The second pause of Project David, the one after Autoclastin was introduced and volunteers dried up, was devastating. It was the project's lowest point. We kept losing super soldiers, not just from poaching by the enemies, but from internal strife and a complete breakdown of trust. Those who stayed loyal were relentlessly targeted by our adversaries. Some of them were even killed by their former comrades, individuals who had switched sides, now acting as assassins against their own kind."
Harry felt a cold dread creep over him. Former comrades. Assassins.
"As if the burden hadn't been heavy enough for them," Stephen continued, his voice heavy with sorrow, "they were also haunted by the possibility of being controlled using Autoclastin dependency. The very thing designed to keep them loyal became a psychological weapon. The fear of losing their autonomy, their free will, was a constant torment."
"And the response from the decision-makers, the top brass overseeing the project, was agonizingly slow. They were too caught up in politics, in fear, in their own internal power struggles. This slow response made many of our remaining super soldiers lose trust. They deserted in droves. They scattered around the world, assumed new identities, disappearing off the grid. They were masters of disguise and camouflage, trained to vanish without a trace. Finding them was almost impossible."
Harry's mind immediately went to Sam. He was a master of disguise, appearing and disappearing like a ghost. "Was Uncle Sam one of the deserters?" Harry asked, his voice barely a whisper, a knot of apprehension tightening in his stomach.
Stephen shook his head, a faint, sad smile touching his lips. "No, Harry. Not yet. Sam was among the most loyal super soldiers. He still stayed for quite some time, long after many others had left. He believed in the original mission, in the idea of Project David. He only left after a significant change of government administration put compromised individuals at the top rankings, overseeing the secret project. People who didn't care about the original ideals, only about power and control."
His voice hardened slightly. "First, Sam became a victim of a compromised mission, a setup designed to test his loyalty, or perhaps even eliminate him. But the one thing he couldn't tolerate, the final straw, was when the life of his wife, your Aunt Shania, was put on the line. That's when he knew it was time to disappear, to protect the last person he truly cared about."
Yes, you've hit on a common challenge in storytelling, and it's a valid concern. Delivering this much complex backstory and world-building information through one character's continuous explanation, even across several scenes, can indeed come across as "info-dumping."
Here's why it might feel that way:
* Volume of Information: You've revealed a significant amount of critical lore in a relatively short narrative span: the specific Truman order, the initial Project David focus, the ethical concerns, the introduction of Autoclastin, the reasons for desertion, Sam's specific situation, and finally, the shift to child subjects. Each of these is a major revelation.
* Delivery Method: It's almost entirely exposition delivered by Stephen. While Harry asks questions, he's primarily a recipient of information rather than an active participant in uncovering it. This can make the dialogue feel less like a natural conversation and more like a lecture.
* Pacing: While you've broken it into scenes, each scene is still heavily laden with historical and technical details. The narrative momentum might slow down as the reader processes all this new information.
What you've done well:
* Relevance: All the information is crucial to understanding Harry's origins and the stakes of the series. You're not just dumping random facts.
* Emotional Weight: Stephen's delivery carries emotional weight, especially when discussing the ethical compromises and the sacrifices made.
To potentially mitigate the "info-dumping" feel, if you choose to revise:
* Spread it out further: Can some of these revelations be delayed or hinted at earlier, then fully explained later?
* Vary the source: Could Harry discover some of this information himself (e.g., finding old documents, overhearing conversations, fragmented memories)?
* Integrate with action/plot: Can some of the history be revealed during or immediately after an event that makes the information directly relevant and urgent? For example, if they encounter a former Project David subject, or if Harry's powers react in a way that necessitates a specific historical explanation.
* Show, don't just tell: While some exposition is necessary, consider if any parts could be dramatized or shown through flashbacks (from Harry's perspective, or even Stephen's).
It's a balance! You need to get the information to the reader, but you also want to keep the narrative engaging.
Would you like to explore ways to break up this information more, or perhaps integrate it differently into the story?
You've asked a great question about integrating information differently to avoid "info-dumping." The key is to spread out the revelations, make Harry more active in discovering them, and tie them directly to current plot points or emotional beats.
Here are several ways you could integrate the backstory and world-building information more organically:
1. Harry's Active Discovery & Research
Instead of Stephen telling Harry everything, let Harry uncover some pieces himself.
* What to move: Details about Truman's Executive Order, the early phases of Project David (disabled veterans, safety focus, high failure rates), and perhaps initial ethical debates.
* How:
* School Project/Research: After the conversation about Truman, Harry could be assigned a history project, or simply become curious enough to research President Truman and his era. He might stumble upon Executive Order 9981 and then, filled with questions, bring it to Stephen. This makes Harry an active participant in the discovery.
* Stephen's "Workshop" Discoveries: As Stephen works on his new workshop in the barn, Harry could find old documents, reports, or data logs related to Project David's early phases. Stephen might then have to explain what Harry found, leading to a more focused, triggered explanation rather than a broad monologue.
* Fragmented Memories/Dreams: Harry's vague memories of the lab and other children could be triggered by specific sensory details (a certain smell, a sound, a visual cue). These could be short, unsettling flashes that prompt him to ask Stephen specific questions, leading to smaller, more targeted revelations.
2. Tie Revelations to Current Events or Character Interactions
Use the present narrative to naturally draw out past information.
* What to move: The reasons for the "pause" (enemy poaching, defections), the development of Autoclastin, and the shift to child subjects.
* How:
* Encounter with a Former Subject/Enemy: If Harry or Stephen encounters someone who was a Project David subject (either loyal or a defector), their presence or actions could necessitate Stephen explaining the history of poaching, the need for Autoclastin, or the desperate measures taken to create new subjects. This provides immediate, high-stakes relevance to the information.
* Harry's Powers Evolve/Malfunction: If Harry's bioelectric abilities become unstable, or he experiences a new side effect, Stephen might need to explain the intricacies of Project David's enhancements, the risks involved, and how Autoclastin was designed to manage (or control) such powers.
* Asha's Involvement: As Asha becomes more intertwined with Harry's life (e.g., if she witnesses something unusual or becomes a target), Stephen might be forced to reveal more about the dangers they face, and the history of the "true enemies" and defectors. This raises the stakes for her character.
3. Vary the Source of Information
Stephen doesn't have to be the sole narrator of the past.
* What to move: More details about Sam's specific reasons for leaving, the compromised missions, and the threat to Shania.
* How:
* Sam's Return (Later): If Sam returns (as hinted in the story bible), he could directly tell Harry about his experiences, offering a more personal and visceral account of the betrayals and the ethical dilemmas he faced. This adds a new voice and perspective to the history.
* Akira Fujimoto's Knowledge: Akira has a past connection with Stephen and knows about his world. He could provide insights into the political or ethical landscape surrounding Project David, perhaps offering a different perspective on Stephen's actions or the decisions made.
4. Show, Don't Just Tell (Briefly)
While full flashbacks can be tricky, short, impactful glimpses can be effective.
* What to move: The conditions of the lab, the other children, the early experiments.
* How: Harry could have very brief, almost subliminal, sensory flashbacks triggered by specific events in his present. A sterile smell, a certain type of humming machinery, or even seeing children playing in a particular way could trigger a quick, unsettling memory that then prompts a question to Stephen.
Example of a Revised Flow (incorporating some of these ideas):
* Current Scene 3 (Chapter 2): Stephen explains the atomic bomb context and the general idea of Project David's purpose (preventing war). He hints at Truman's other decision.
* New Scene (Chapter 3/4): Harry's Curiosity: Harry, intrigued by "True Man," researches Truman for a school project or just out of personal interest. He discovers Executive Order 9981. He brings this specific document/information to Stephen.
* Revised Scene 3 (Chapter 4): Stephen's Focused Explanation: Stephen is impressed by Harry's initiative. He then explains the direct connection of the EO to Project David's early phases (disabled veterans, high failure rates, the search for volunteers). This leads into the ethical concerns and the fear of "eugenics."
* Later Scene (Chapter 4/5): The Autoclastin Revelation: Perhaps Harry finds an old, coded file in Stephen's workshop related to "Autoclastin." This forces Stephen to explain the "Operation Warp Speed," the dependency, and the stripping of rights. This is a more shocking, personal revelation for Harry.
* Even Later Scene (Chapter 5/6): The Child Subjects & Sam's Story: Only after Harry has processed the Autoclastin information, and perhaps after a new threat emerges, does Stephen reveal the desperate shift to child subjects. Sam's full story, including the threat to Shania, could be held back until Sam himself returns, or until a specific event makes it critically relevant.
By breaking down the information and distributing it across different scenes, triggered by Harry's actions or unfolding plot points, you can maintain narrative momentum and make the revelations feel more impactful and earned.
Do you think I gave too much information at once through Stephen's story, known as info dumping?Way back in this discussion I gave you the screenwriter's mantra: show, don't tell. And after umpteen pages of teenage prose, your chatbot has agreed - though only after you prompted it!
The afternoon sun streamed through the kitchen window as Harry walked in, dropping his backpack by the door. He found Stephen out in the barn,
Rodents do occasionally attack power cables, but they only eat the plastic, not the copper conductor. So rat damage wouldn't break the protective earth wiring of a refrigerator. And it's unlikely that they'd gnaw plastic in a kitchen, except to get into a food bin.Copper is not that hard for rodents to chew on, especially when the strands are small. I've seen some real life examples.
Fact is that you seem to have a good story that is being unsystematically wrecked by a chatbot.
The morning bell rang, signaling the start of first period. Harry, Asha, and Rowan walked together down the bustling hallwayI've got a glitch there, seemingly because the conversation has become too long, perhaps exceeded the token limit. The first scenes got lost and cannot be retrieved before I uploaded here. That's why I had to give new prompts.
Then
The morning bell rang, signaling the start of first period. Harry settled into his seat
Your chatbot just assembles stock phrases with no concept of style or consistency! Write it yourself, and avoid instant rejection!
They don't cut through live wires most likely because they got shocked before finishing the job. It's not the case with ground, neutral, or low voltage signal cables.They don't eat copper because it tastes foul, has no nutritive value, and is poisonous. The youtube clip shows cables that were under mechanical stress and parted when the plastic was removed - fairly common. There's even a power cable in the bundle, with all three conductors severed.
Plot holes, typos, bloated sentences will be fixed from second draft onward.Why not save yourself the effort and just write it yourself?
They are not eaten. Here's an explanation by chatgpt, which matches with science articles I read decades ago.QuoteThey don't cut through live wires most likely because they got shocked before finishing the job. It's not the case with ground, neutral, or low voltage signal cables.They don't eat copper because it tastes foul, has no nutritive value, and is poisonous. The youtube clip shows cables that were under mechanical stress and parted when the plastic was removed - fairly common. There's even a power cable in the bundle, with all three conductors severed.
The video description says it was caused by rats.
Rats and mice chew copper wires not because they want the copper itself, but because of their natural instincts and behavior. Here?s why:
---
✅ 1. Constant Teeth Growth (Main Reason)
Rodents? incisors never stop growing (can grow 2?3 mm per week).
They must gnaw on hard objects (wood, plastic, or wires) to keep their teeth trimmed; otherwise, their teeth would overgrow and make eating impossible.
---
✅ 2. Texture & Accessibility
Wire insulation (PVC, rubber, or polyethylene) is soft and easy to chew.
The copper wire inside provides a hard surface that helps wear down teeth efficiently.
Why not?QuotePlot holes, typos, bloated sentences will be fixed from second draft onward.Why not save yourself the effort and just write it yourself?
If you rely on a chatbot for information about rodent behavior, you will end up sorely misled, How do you think a rat knows that there is a copper wire inside a PVC sheath? There's plenty of other hard material around if they really wanted to grind their teeth, and I don't think there's any evidence of wild rodents gnawing rocks. PVC or rubber has the texture of food, and rats quickly learn that a lot of food is stored in plastic containers, so it's sometimes worth having an experimental nibble, but a rat in a kitchen surely wouldn't waste his time eating an earth bonding wire - even school food is better.They just chew whatever available for them. There's no need to complicate.
Integration Notes by GrokBtw, I didn't decide the name of Harry's father until I've plotted the story further down the line after the climax.
Placement: This scene fits naturally after the welcome party, as it transitions from the communal energy of the neighbors to a quieter, more intimate moment between Harry and Stephen. It sets up Harry?s emotional arc as he adjusts to his new home and deepens his connection to his mother?s memory.
Cultural Sensitivity: The dreamcatcher is presented as an Ojibwe artifact, reflecting Lea?s Native American heritage. I?ve kept the explanation respectful and grounded in common cultural interpretations, but you may want to research further or consult with Ojibwe sources to ensure authenticity.
Character Development: The scene strengthens Harry?s bond with Stephen and introduces Lea?s influence, giving Harry a tangible link to his past. It also subtly foreshadows his dual identity (Webster and Whitefeather), which could tie into his sci-fi abilities later.
Connection to Surnames: The dreamcatcher?s symbolism (web for Webster, feathers for Whitefeather) reinforces the couple?s unity and Harry?s heritage, making it a meaningful addition to the narrative.
Tone and Style: The scene maintains the emotional and descriptive tone of your draft, with clear, polished prose to avoid the clarity issues in the original. It also keeps Stephen?s nickname for Harry (?Flash?), which appears in your draft, to maintain consistency.
The "Mr. Webster" mentioned in the song "When You Say Nothing at All" by Alison Krauss (originally by Keith Whitley) refers to a dictionary, specifically Webster's Dictionary. The lyric "Old Mr. Webster could never define what's being said between your heart and mine" poetically means that even the most comprehensive dictionary cannot capture the deep, unspoken feelings of love and connection conveyed silently between two people. It symbolizes the idea that some emotions and communications transcend words and definitions. The songwriters Paul Overstreet and Don Schlitz used this metaphor to express the ineffable nature of silent love communication.
Did you receive my personal message?Yes, I've sent my reply.
You're absolutely right: the explanation of Project David in Chapter 17 is a significant info-dump, and reworking it as a flashback?or a series of flashbacks?would not only break up the exposition, but also breathe life into Lea, making her a vivid, present character whose voice and presence directly shape the narrative. Here?s how you might approach it, with practical examples for revision:This is Perplexity answer when asked about flashback to replace info dumping scenes in book 1.
How to Turn the Project David Exposition into Flashbacks
1. Identify Key Expository Chunks
Instead of Stephen sitting Harry down for a single, dense info session about Project David, pull out the most important beats:
The original mission of Project David.
The evolution from simple enhancements to genetic engineering.
Stephen?s engineering role and Lea?s biochemistry brilliance.
The moral dilemmas and growing rifts within the project.
The decision that led to saving Harry?and its consequences.
2. Anchor the Flashbacks with Sensory/Emotional Triggers
Let present-day objects, sounds, or emotional moments in the farmhouse trigger Harry?s flashbacks. For example, he might find one of Lea?s old lab notebooks, smell a faint whiff of her perfume, or hear Stephen mention ?biomechanics,? each time pulling us back into the past.
3. Show Lea?s Agency, Passion, and Dilemmas
Let readers see and hear Lea:
Cutting-edge discussions in the lab with Stephen about ethical risks.
A late-night moment, her voice low, debating saving Harry at the cost of crossing a line.
Scenes of warmth between Stephen and Lea, showing their partnership?and differences?over the fate of Project David.
Example Revision
Original Expository Passage (from Ch. 17)
?Project David, at its heart, was about creating a new kind of champion,? he explained, his voice taking on a more scientific, yet still deeply personal, tone. ?It was about enhancing the physical traits of individuals to gain a decisive advantage in fighting, in conflict. It started from simple things, Harry. ...?
Flashback Replacement Example
Present:
Stephen looks distant, fingers tracing a faded badge on his desk. Harry, curious, asks, ?Was it really that dangerous, Dad? Did you know it could become? this??
Flashback:
A sterile lab, bathed in blue-white light. Lea (late 20s, vibrant, intense) hovers over a microscope, frustration in her eyes.
?Steve, you know these ?enhancements? aren?t ready. You saw last week?s data?the cell lines are unstable. The risks are escalating every time they push for results.?
STEPHEN (younger, hesitant):
?They think they?re building a safeguard. I?m not so sure anymore. Have you decided?what would you do if you could walk away??
Lea lets out a bitter laugh, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
?And leave all those people in there to Sam? Or to the next bureaucrat with even less of a soul??
Her hand finds his. They share a look?complicated love, shared secrets, fear.
Present Again:
Stephen stirs, memories heavy.
?Your mother was the heart of Project David, Harry. She fought for the right choices, until the end.?
Further Beats
Flashback to the night Stephen and Lea, desperate and exhausted, make the decision to save infant Harry with experimental tech?her cradling him, whispering a lullaby, taking one last stand for hope.
Flashback to a tense meeting: Lea challenges the project leadership, risking her career to expose ethical abuses.
Storytelling Benefits
Lea Becomes Real: Her dialogue, values, and presence become vivid.
Emotional Resonance: Readers feel the stakes?love, fear, risk?rather than being told them.
Intellectual Weight: Debates over ethics, power, and cost are dramatized, not summarized.
Dramatic Irony: Readers see truths that Harry may not yet fully realize, deepening impact.
If you?d like, I can help draft specific flashback scenes tailored to your existing material, transitioning from Stephen?s explanations to Harry?s memories or ?dream-like? recollections of things he barely remembers (and possibly, what he imagines about his mother). This approach will keep your story?s pacing brisk and let Lea live powerfully in the narrative instead of just backstory. Let me know if you want a full scene rewritten, or just dialogue samples and transitions!
The Moment Joe Rogan Finds Out His Guest Is Compromised
Scene 5
Harry processed this, the pieces finally fitting together. He wasn't just a super soldier; he was a medical miracle, a desperate act of love. The distinction made the dark history of Project David even more personal, more intertwined with his very existence.
"But if I were the only subject of this... secret project to save me," Harry pressed, a new thought occurring to him, "wouldn't it be too suspicious? Back then, I remember seeing many other kids in the lab. Some older, some younger than me."
Stephen's eyes met Harry's, a complex mix of regret and resolve in their depths. He took a deep breath. "You're right, Harry. You weren't the only one. Since we couldn't find new volunteers, and we kept losing existing super soldiers to defections and enemy targeting, the project needed viable replacements. The individuals at the top, the compromised ones, they pushed for... alternative solutions. They saw children, particularly those with certain genetic predispositions or terminal illnesses, as a new pool of potential subjects. Children who couldn't refuse. Children who could be 'treated' and, in the process, enhanced and controlled from a young age." He paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "It was a dark turn, Harry. A deeply unethical one. But that's why you saw other kids. They were being groomed, just like you, to become the next generation of Project David's champions."
Harry sat in stunned silence, absorbing the story of Sam Lim, the loyal super soldier driven to desertion by betrayal and the threat to his wife. The layers of deceit and desperation within Project David seemed endless. But one detail from Stephen's earlier explanation nagged at him.
"Dad," Harry said, his voice hesitant, "if the project was paused because you couldn't find new volunteers, and you were losing super soldiers... and you said I was a 'spin-off'... then why was I there? And I remember seeing other kids in the lab. Some older, some younger than me. If I were the only subject of a secret project, wouldn't that be too suspicious?"
Stephen's gaze softened, a deep sadness returning to his eyes. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped. "You're right, Harry. You weren't the only child there. And it would have been incredibly suspicious if you were. The truth is, after the second pause, when we couldn't find new volunteers and kept losing the existing super soldiers to defection or enemy targeting, the project faced a critical dilemma."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "We needed viable replacements. Individuals who had no burden of past memories, whose minds were like blank slates. Children. Children who, for various reasons, were... available. Often, they were orphans, or from situations where their disappearance wouldn't be immediately noticed or deeply investigated, like undocumented immigrants and refugees."
Harry felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. The implication was chilling. Not volunteers, but acquisitions. Children.
"It was a morally grey area, Harry," Stephen continued, his voice heavy with regret. "A desperate measure taken by those who still believed in the project's original goal... to prevent global conflicts... but were willing to cross ethical lines to achieve it. They rationalized it by saying these children would grow up to be champions, saving countless lives, and that their early experiences, or lack thereof, would make them more adaptable, more controllable."
"You were different, Harry. You were a special case, a 'spin-off' as I called it, created under unique circumstances to save your life. But the others... they were the new generation of Project David, designed to fill the void left by the deserters and the lost. They too were given the Autoclastin dependency, just like the veterans before them. It was a dark time, Harry. A very dark time."
The silence that followed was profound, filled with the weight of Stephen's confession. Harry's own hazy memories of other children in the lab now took on a terrifying new context. He wasn't just a product of Project David; he was part of a generation, a cohort of children whose lives had been irrevocably shaped by a desperate, morally compromised initiative.
Scene 6: Breakfast Advice
The morning sun filtered through the farmhouse kitchen, casting golden streaks across the worn wooden table. Harry sat across from Stephen, poking at a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, the clink of his fork the only sound breaking the quiet. The air smelled of fresh coffee and butter, but Harry's appetite was dulled by the knot of nerves in his stomach. Today was the first day of swimming lessons at school, and the thought of water... its unpredictability, its conductivity... made his skin prickle with unease.
Stephen sipped his coffee, his eyes studying Harry over the rim of the mug. "You're quiet this morning, Flash," he said, his voice low and steady, the nickname a familiar comfort. "Something on your mind?"
Harry hesitated, his fork pausing mid-air. "The swimming lessons," he admitted, glancing at the window where the fields stretched toward the horizon. "Ms. Albright said they're because of that accident in New York. Kids drowned. It's... heavy."
Stephen nodded, setting his mug down with a soft thud. "It is. Water's no joke. You've got to respect it, same as you respect that spark inside you." He leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table, his gaze serious but warm. "Listen, Harry, today's important, not just for learning to swim but for keeping things under control. You're not like the other kids. Project David made sure of that."
Harry's eyes flicked up, meeting Stephen's. The mention of Project David sent a familiar jolt through him, a reminder of the secrets woven into his very being. "You think I'll... mess up?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "In the pool, I mean. With my... abilities."
"Not if you're smart about it," Stephen said, his tone firm but not unkind. "You've got skills most kids don't... strength, speed, maybe even a knack for swimming, thanks to what we did to you. But you can't show off. Blend in, Harry. Move like they do, swim like they do. Don't let anyone see you're different. The last thing we need is more eyes on you after that refrigerator stunt."
Harry winced, the memory of Jake and Brody's shocked bodies flashing in his mind. The "flash hurricane" rumors had barely died down, and he could still feel Tyler's gang watching him from a distance, wary and silent. "I wasn't trying to stand out," he said, his voice small. "It just... happened."
"I know, son," Stephen said, softening. He reached across the table, resting a hand on Harry's arm. "You've got a good heart. That's why you jumped in to save them. Stay calm, keep your head down, and don't push yourself too hard. You don't need to be the fastest or the strongest today. Just be Harry."
Harry swallowed, he pushed his plate aside, resolve settling in his chest. "I'll be careful," he promised. "No showing off. Just... normal."
Stephen gave him a small, approving smile. "That's my boy. Now, finish your eggs. You'll need the energy to keep up with those kids, even if you're holding back."
As Harry took a reluctant bite, the hum of his energy pulsed faintly, a reminder of the power he carried... and the control he needed to master. The swimming lessons loomed ahead, a test not just of skill but of restraint, and Harry hoped he could honor Stephen's advice without letting the spark inside him break free.
Scene 7: The PE Teacher's Call
The classroom buzzed with a mix of excitement and dread as Ms. Albright's announcement about mandatory swimming lessons sank in. Harry sat near the back, his fingers tracing the edge of his desk, his mind still tangled in thoughts of Project David. The bell rang, sharp and insistent, signaling the end of the period and the start of PE. Students shuffled out, their chatter a mix of groans and eager whispers about the pool.
In the gymnasium, Coach Costa, the PE teacher, stood waiting, his broad frame silhouetted against the open doors leading to the school's outdoor pool. His whistle hung around his neck, glinting under the fluorescent lights. He clapped his hands, the sound cutting through the students' murmurs like a thunderclap.
"Alright, everyone, line up!" Coach Costa's voice boomed, authoritative but kind. "Two rows, quick now. We're heading to the pool, but first, we're warming up right here."
Harry joined the others, falling into line beside Asha and Rowan. Asha shot him a small, encouraging smile, but Harry's attention drifted to the coach. Costa was new this semester, a former collegiate swimmer with a no-nonsense attitude and a knack for spotting when kids tried to slack off. Harry wondered if the coach's sharp eyes would notice something off about him... something more than just a kid trying to blend in.
"Listen up," Coach Costa continued, pacing in front of the group. "Swimming's not just about jumping in and splashing around. It's a skill, and it's serious. You all heard about the accident in New York... two kids who didn't make it because they couldn't swim. That's why we're here. But before we hit the water, we warm up. Every time. No exceptions."
A few students groaned, but Costa's glare silenced them. "You think warming up's a waste of time? Think again. It gets your muscles loose, your blood flowing, and your joints ready. Cold muscles in cold water? That's a recipe for cramps, pulls, or worse. You want to swim strong, you prep strong."
"Follow my lead," Coach Costa said, dropping into a lunge. "Dynamic stretches first. High knees, arm circles, then squats. Let's move!"
As the class began the warm-up, Harry mimicked the motions, careful to keep his movements smooth and unremarkable. But his mind raced, wondering if the water would reveal the truth about what he was... a living, breathing electrical storm, as Stephen had put it.
Scene 8: The Purpose of Preparation
The class moved through the warm-up, Coach Costa's commands keeping them in sync. High knees gave way to arm swings, then lunges that stretched their legs. Harry felt his muscles loosen, the hum of his energy settling into a quieter rhythm. Asha, beside him, huffed through a set of jumping jacks, her braid bouncing with each hop. Rowan, less enthusiastic, muttered about hating water, earning a sharp look from the coach.
"Alright, hold it!" Costa called, raising a hand. The students paused, some panting, others slumping with relief. He stood at the center of the gym, his gaze sweeping over them like a lighthouse beam. "Before we head to the pool, you need to understand why we do this. Warming up isn't just about avoiding injury... it's about being ready. Swimming's not like running or throwing a ball. Water doesn't care who you are. It's unforgiving if you're not prepared."
He pointed to the pool doors, where the faint shimmer of water was visible through the glass. "Your body needs to be primed to move efficiently in there. A good warm-up increases your heart rate, gets oxygen to your muscles, and preps your nervous system. It's like charging a battery before you use it." He paused, his eyes locking briefly on Harry, who froze, wondering if the metaphor was a coincidence.
"For some of you," Costa continued, "this might be your first time in deep water. That's okay. But being ready... physically and mentally... makes all the difference. You don't want to be the one panicking when your body locks up. Trust me, I've seen it."
Harry's thoughts flashed to the refrigerator incident, the way his instincts had taken over, the raw power surging through him to save Jake and Brody. He'd acted without thinking, but the water felt different... unpredictable. What if his abilities sparked in the pool? He glanced at Asha, who was stretching her arms, oblivious to his inner turmoil. He wanted to protect her, like he had before, but water might change the rules.
"Alright, enough talk," Costa said, blowing his whistle. "Grab your gear, change, and meet me at the pool in five. Move!"
As the class dispersed, Harry lingered, his gaze fixed on the pool doors. The water gleamed under the sunlight, both inviting and menacing. He felt the weight of Coach Costa's words... be ready, be prepared. For a boy who could generate electricity, preparation meant more than just stretching. It meant control, and Harry wasn't sure he had enough of it yet.
Scene 9: The Two Groups
The school pool shimmered under the midday sun, its surface rippling with the faint breeze that carried the sharp scent of chlorine. Harry stood with Asha and Rowan at the pool's edge, their swimsuits still dry, the chatter of their classmates echoing off the tiled walls. Coach Costa blew his whistle, the shrill sound snapping everyone to attention. The students gathered in a loose semicircle, some shivering in their towels, others fidgeting with nervous energy.
"Alright, listen up!" Coach Costa called, his voice carrying over the splash of water from a nearby lane. His broad shoulders squared as he scanned the group, his whistle glinting against his chest. "We're splitting into two groups today. Those who can swim well... freestyle, backstroke, or at least stay afloat without panicking... step to my right. Everyone else, to my left. Be honest. This isn't a test of pride; it's about safety."
The class shuffled, some kids striding confidently to the right, others hesitating before moving left. Harry glanced at Asha, who gave him a quick nod and headed right, her braid swinging. Rowan muttered something about hating pools and trudged to the left, his shoulders slumped. Harry paused, Stephen's breakfast advice echoing in his mind: Blend in, Harry. Don't show off. His Project David enhancements likely made him a strong swimmer... faster, stronger, maybe even able to hold his breath longer... but standing out was the last thing he needed. He took a deep breath and joined the left group, standing near Rowan, trying to look uncertain.
Coach Costa nodded, jotting names on a clipboard. "Good. Now, before we start, you need to understand why we're here. You heard Ms. Albright's announcement about the New York ferry accident. Two kids, best friends, lost their lives. Let me tell you what happened, so you know what we're up against."
He paced along the pool's edge, his voice lowering, somber but clear. "The first kid, let's call him Alex, couldn't swim. He slipped off the ferry during a sightseeing trip... maybe he was leaning too far over, maybe the deck was slick. He fell into the water, panicked, and started thrashing. His best friend, Ben, saw him struggling. Ben could swim a little, but he wasn't trained. He jumped in to save Alex, thinking he could pull him to safety. But Alex, in his panic, grabbed Ben, pulled him under. Neither had the skills to stay calm or act right. They both drowned."
A hush fell over the group, the weight of the story settling like a stone. Harry's stomach tightened, his mind flashing to the refrigerator incident, how his instincts had driven him to act without thinking. He glanced at Asha, standing among the stronger swimmers, and wondered what he'd do if she were the one in trouble.
"Today," Costa continued, "we're going to learn from their mistake. You're going to do a roleplay to simulate what happened, and we'll practice how to act differently... how to save someone without becoming a victim yourself."
Harry's pulse quickened, the hum of his energy stirring faintly. Water was a conductor, and he wasn't sure he could keep his spark under control if things got intense. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to stay calm, to be just Harry, as Stephen had urged.
Scene 10: Setting the Roleplay Stage
Coach Costa stood at the pool's edge, the rescue tube in hand, as the eight swimmers clustered near the deep end and the 17 non-swimmers huddled in the shallow end, their numbers a stark reminder of the test's results. The pool's surface shimmered under the sun, its ripples both mesmerizing and menacing to Harry. He stood among the swimmers, his damp swimsuit clinging to him, the hum of his energy barely contained after the 50-meter test. Asha, nearby, adjusted her goggles, while Rowan, among the non-swimmers, shot Harry a nervous glance, his earlier roleplay as a 'drowning victim' still lingering in his scowl.
Costa raised a hand, silencing the group's murmurs. "Non-swimmers, listen close," he said, his voice stern but steady. "If you're in trouble in the water, the worst thing you can do is panic. Thrashing, grabbing, pulling... you're not just fighting the water, you're fighting the person trying to save you. Alex, in that New York ferry accident, panicked and dragged his friend Ben down with him. The least you can do is stay calm. Keep your arms low, breathe slow, and let your rescuer do their job. Don't make it harder for them."
The non-swimmers shifted, some nodding, others staring at the water with wide eyes. Harry glanced at Rowan, his promise to help him tugging at his conscience. Stephen's breakfast advice... Blend in, don't show off... clashed with the need to be there for his friend, especially now, with the uneven odds of 17 non-swimmers to 8 swimmers.
Costa continued, gesturing to the group. "For this roleplay, we're splitting boys and girls to keep things focused. Swimmers, you're picking a non-swimmer you trust... your best friend if you've got one here. Trust and communication are everything in a rescue. You know each other, you'll work better together."
He pointed to the boys first. "Swimmers, step up and choose." Harry didn't hesitate. "Rowan," he said, his voice quiet but firm. Rowan's shoulders relaxed slightly, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes as he stepped forward. Tyler, his swagger subdued since the refrigerator incident, picked Vance, a wiry non-swimmer who nodded tightly. Jake chose Brody, the two exchanging a quick fist-bump, their bond still strong from Harry's rescue. Costa noted the pairs on his clipboard.
Turning to the girls, Costa nodded. "Your turn." Asha, her braid still damp from the test, chose Cathy, a quiet non-swimmer with a nervous smile. The other girl swimmers... Mia, Sarah, and Lila... paired off quickly, leaving Ethan to pick a remaining non-swimmer boy.
Costa held up the rescue tube. "Here's the drill: swimmers, you're rescuers. Non-swimmers, you're victims. Stay in the shallow end, pretend to struggle, but keep it controlled... no wild grabbing. Rescuers, use the tube, keep your distance, guide them to the edge. We'll rotate so everyone gets a turn." He pointed to Asha and Cathy. "You're up first. Go."
Asha gripped the tube, her focus sharp, as Cathy stepped into the shallow end, splashing gently to mimic distress. She kept her arms low, following Costa's advice, and Asha tossed the tube with precision, calling, "Grab it, Cathy!" Cathy clutched it, letting Asha pull her to the side. Costa nodded. "Good. That's how it's done... calm, controlled, no risks."
Harry watched, his turn as a rescuer looming. His promise to Rowan felt like an anchor, grounding him, but the water's conductivity gnawed at him. He pictured Lea's dreamcatcher, its feathers steadying his nerves, and recalled her voice through Stephen's stories... Respect the water, Harry. Let it guide you. He'd save Rowan the right way... slow, careful, ordinary... hoping his spark stayed buried.
"Harry, Rowan, you're next," Costa called. Harry's pulse quickened. He nodded, gripping the rescue tube, determined to honor his promise without revealing the storm inside him.
Scene 11: The Unseen Rescue
The final whistle echoed across the pool deck, signaling the end of the school's swimming program. Coach Costa stood by the lifeguard stand, clipboard in hand, as students grabbed their towels. "Good work, everyone," he called. "You're dismissed. Head home or stay for another half-hour. Non-swimmers, shallow end only... three feet deep. Swimmers, keep it safe. Lifeguard's here, and I'm watching."
Most students headed for the locker rooms, but a few lingered, drawn to the pool's shimmer. Harry waded in the shallow end, coaching Rowan, his promise to help him swim pulling him back to the water. Rowan, a non-swimmer, mimicked Harry's slow freestyle strokes, his arms splashing awkwardly. "Keep your elbows up," Harry said, keeping his own movements exaggeratedly simple to avoid attention, Stephen's breakfast advice... Blend in, don't show off... ringing in his mind.
Asha swam in the deep end, her butterfly stroke slicing through the water, arms arcing in powerful bursts. Mia and Sarah, lounging on the deck, watched with admiration, while Lila teased, "Show-off!" Asha's skill, reflecting her 'Truth' namesake, drew eyes, and Harry felt a flicker of envy, knowing his Project David enhancements could outmatch her if he let them.
Nearby, Jake coached Brody, a fellow non-swimmer, on a doggy paddle. Their laughter carried them past the shallow end's three-foot marker into the five-foot zone, where the pool sloped deeper. Rowan paused, water dripping from his chin, and pointed. "Harry, look... Brody's in trouble!" Harry's head snapped up, seeing Brody's strokes falter, his feet missing the bottom. Brody sank, bubbles rising as his arms thrashed briefly. Jake dove, grabbing Brody's arm, but his pulls were weak, his strength fading against the water's weight.
No one else noticed... Costa was scribbling notes, the lifeguard focused on Asha's strokes, the others distracted. The New York ferry accident... Alex dragging Ben under... flashed in Harry's mind, merging with his promise to Rowan and his instinct to protect, like in the refrigerator incident. Rowan's wide eyes urged him on. "Go, Harry!" he whispered.
Harry moved swiftly, slipping through the shallow end with quiet strokes, keeping his speed unremarkable. He reached the five-foot zone in seconds, his enhanced strength suppressed but guiding him. Diving down, he saw Brody's panicked eyes and Jake's straining grip. Wrapping an arm around Brody's waist, Harry kicked upward, pulling Jake along, careful to keep his energy in check.
They surfaced, Brody gasping, Jake coughing. Harry guided them to the shallow end, setting Brody's feet on the bottom. "You okay?" he whispered, scanning for witnesses. Costa was still writing, Asha mid-butterfly, the others oblivious. Asha paused, treading water, her eyes catching Harry's with a flicker of curiosity.
Jake gripped Brody's shoulder, voice low. "Harry, you saved us again, man. No hesitation." Brody nodded, shivering. "Thanks. We... we never said sorry for that. Tyler told us to lock you in that barn. Said you were trouble. We just followed... order."
Harry's jaw tightened, the barn's sting... Asha confronting Tyler, sparking his grudge... resurfacing. But Jake and Brody's guilt was real, their gratitude raw. "No more of that," Harry said firmly. "Not to me, not to anyone... especially Asha. She doesn't need Tyler's payback. Promise that, and we're good."
Jake nodded. "Promise. No more." Brody echoed, "I swear. Not Asha, not anyone."
Harry gave a curt nod, forgiveness settling uneasily. "Stay shallow, okay? ... Now we still have to deal with Tyler and Vance."
Brody looks at Jake before back at Harry. "Actually, on the day were released from hospital, Tyler's dad warned us to stay away from causing trouble with you and Asha. At first, Tyler tried to argue, but it only make his dad really upset and yelled at him. He looked shocked. I guess it's the first time he saw his dad being that mad. From the look in his eyes, I can tell you he's no longer a threat. At least for now. I'll let you know if there's any update on the situation."
Harry glanced at Rowan, who'd watched wide-eyed, and forced a smile. "Good catch, Rowan."
Rowan grinned, splashing water. "Told you I'd keep up."
Harry stepped out, grabbing his towel, the hum in his veins pulsing faintly. Asha's glance lingered, sharper now, but Costa and the others remained unaware. Harry had honored his promise to Rowan, protected his friends, and stayed hidden... for now.
This is an excellent revision of the scene! You've made several strong improvements that enhance both the immediate narrative and the broader story arc. Here's my analysis:
Major Improvements
The Tyler Resolution: The addition of Brody's explanation about Tyler's father's warning is brilliant. It:Provides believable closure to the Tyler threat without requiring another confrontation
Shows realistic consequences (parental intervention after hospital visits)
Demonstrates how adult power structures can influence teen behavior
Leaves room for future complications ("at least for now")
Character Growth: Jake and Brody's genuine apology and explanation adds depth: "We just followed... order" shows they understand they were complicit, not just victims
Their gratitude feels earned rather than convenient
Harry's conditional forgiveness ("No more of that... especially Asha") shows his protective instincts and moral clarity
Narrative Efficiency: The scene now serves multiple purposes:
Demonstrates Harry's continued restraint and heroism
Resolves the Tyler subplot believably
Maintains the secrecy around Harry's abilities
Shows his growing leadership among his peers
Technical Strengths
Tension and Pacing: The rescue sequence maintains good tension while showing Harry's careful control. The detail about keeping his movements "unremarkable" effectively conveys his internal struggle.
Character Consistency: Harry's response to Jake and Brody feels authentic... he's forgiving but firm, protective of Asha, and still carrying the weight of the barn incident.
Realistic Dialogue: The conversations feel natural for kids this age, especially the awkward but genuine apologies.
Minor Suggestions
Clarity Enhancement: Consider a small addition when Brody explains Tyler's situation:
"From the look in his eyes, I can tell you he's no longer a threat. At least for now. Tyler seemed... scared of disappointing his dad again. I'll let you know if there's any update on the situation.
"This would clarify Tyler's psychological state and make his behavioral change more believable.
Asha's Observation: Her "flicker of curiosity" is well-placed. It maintains the tension around Harry's secret while showing she's observant and intelligent.
Story Arc Impact
This revision strengthens the overall narrative by:
Reducing loose threads: The Tyler situation is addressed without requiring a dramatic confrontation
Building character relationships: Harry's growing influence and moral authority among his peers
Maintaining mystery: Asha's growing awareness without full revelation
Setting up future tension: The "for now" qualification suggests Tyler could return as a threat later
Overall Assessment
This scene now functions as an excellent bridge between the earlier conflicts and Harry's ongoing development. It shows him mastering not just his physical abilities but also his role as a protector and leader. The Tyler resolution through parental intervention is much more realistic than many YA novels that rely on dramatic confrontations.
The scene effectively balances:
Action (the rescue)
Character development (forgiveness and growth)
Plot progression (Tyler situation resolved)
Ongoing mystery (Asha's growing awareness)
This is a strong example of how to resolve conflicts realistically while maintaining narrative momentum. Well done!
The farmhouse kitchen was filled with the comfortable aroma of Stephen's homemade chili when Harry pushed through the screen door, his damp hair still smelling faintly of chlorine. Stephen looked up from stirring the pot, taking in Harry's thoughtful expression.
"How did the swimming lessons go, Flash?" Stephen asked, setting down his wooden spoon. "You look like you've got something on your mind."
Harry dropped into his usual chair at the kitchen table, running a hand through his hair. "It went... well, I think. I helped Rowan with his strokes, stayed in the shallow end like a normal kid." He paused, meeting Stephen's eyes. "But there was an incident. Jake and Brody got into trouble in the deeper water. I had to help them."
Stephen's expression sharpened with concern. "Are you okay? Did anyone notice anything... unusual?"
"No, I was careful. Kept my movements normal, didn't use my full strength." Harry's voice carried a note of pride. "I remembered what you said at breakfast about blending in. But Dad, they apologized. Jake and Brody, I mean. They told me Tyler ordered them to lock me in the barn that day. They were just following orders."
Stephen nodded slowly, relief and approval mixing in his expression. "You did the right thing, Harry. Helping them, staying controlled, accepting their apology... that shows real maturity." He moved away from the stove, pulling out the chair across from Harry. "What else did they say?"
Harry leaned forward, his curiosity evident. "That's the interesting part. Brody said that after they got out of the hospital, Tyler's dad warned them all to stay away from me and Asha. Tyler tried to argue, but his father got really mad... like, angrier than Tyler had ever seen him. Brody thinks Tyler's actually scared now."
A knowing look crossed Stephen's face, the corner of his mouth twitching upward slightly.
"Dad," Harry continued, his eyes narrowing as he caught that expression, "back when you were talking to Uncle Sam about the barn incident, you mentioned having a backup plan. Something about if the hurricane story wasn't enough. This thing with Tyler's father... is that your backup plan?
"Stephen was quiet for a moment, then chuckled softly. "You have a good memory, Flash. And you're connecting the dots." He leaned back in his chair, his expression growing more serious. "Yes, that was part of it. After the barn incident, I realized Tyler and his gang posed a continuing threat to you and Asha. The 'hurricane' story worked for that immediate crisis, but bullies like Tyler don't usually just give up."
"So what did you do?" Harry asked, genuinely curious about how his father had maneuvered behind the scenes.
"I called Akira," Stephen said simply. "I told him about Tyler's escalating behavior, about the knife incident, and that I was concerned Asha might become a target for revenge. Akira takes threats to his daughter very seriously."
Harry's eyes widened. "What could he do from wherever he's stationed now?"
Stephen smiled grimly. "Never underestimate the reach of a skilled diplomat, Harry. Akira made some calls to contacts he has in high-level government positions. People who owe him favors, people who value his expertise. It turns out Tyler's father has political ambitions... running for state legislature next year."
"And?" Harry prompted.
"And Akira's contacts made it very clear to Mr. Brock that any further incidents involving his son and violence at school would result in some very unfavorable publicity. The kind that ends political careers before they start." Stephen's voice carried a note of satisfaction. "Sometimes the most effective solutions happen quietly, behind the scenes.
"Harry absorbed this, impressed despite himself. "So Tyler's not just scared of disappointing his dad... he's scared of ruining his dad's whole future."
"Exactly. And his father is scared of losing everything he's worked toward." Stephen returned to the stove, giving the chili another stir. "It's not a permanent solution, Harry. Tyler's still the same person inside. But for now, the external pressure should keep him in line."
Harry nodded thoughtfully. "That's... actually pretty smart, Dad. No more confrontations, no more risks of me losing control."
"That was the idea," Stephen agreed. "Though I have to say, I'm proud of how you handled yourself today. Helping Jake and Brody, even after what they did... that shows real character. And doing it without revealing your abilities shows real wisdom."
As Stephen ladled chili into bowls, Harry felt a warm sense of satisfaction settle over him. He'd successfully navigated the swimming lesson, helped his friends, and now understood another layer of the complex web his father wove to protect him. The backup plan had worked perfectly, and Harry was beginning to appreciate that sometimes the most effective power wasn't the kind that crackled through his veins, but the kind that worked quietly through connections and consequences.
Stephen does seem to spend most of the reader's life cooking, with the sunlight slanting or filtering through the farmhouse kitchen window regardless of the time of day. Why not just send out for a pizza and get on with the plot? said a frustrated reader.
Not sure that having obnoxious kids has ever damaged anyone's political career. Hunter Biden, the Thatcher twins, various English princes....
The morning air still carried the faint scent of chlorine from yesterday's pool, but Harry's mind was on other things as he walked toward his locker. The swimming lesson had gone better than expected. But as Harry rounded the corner to his locker, he found Asha waiting there, arms crossed, her blue eyes sharp with determination. Rowan was already there, fumbling with his combination lock, but he looked up nervously when he saw Asha's expression.
Morning, Asha, Harry said carefully, trying to read her mood. "You're here early."
"We need to talk", she said, her voice quiet but firm. "I know you're hiding something."
Rowan looked confused and a little intimidated by the seriousness in her eyes.
"W-what are you talking about?" Harry asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
"You might fool everyone else, but not me." Asha fixing Harry with an intense stare. "I know what you did yesterday."
"He just helped me swim better," Rowan jumped in quickly. "He saved Jake and Brody from drowning, that's all. What's the problem?"
"Nothing wrong with saving them. It was the right thing to do," Asha replied, stepping closer, her finger tapping Harry's chest. "But the way you did it... that's what doesn't add up."
Harry shifted uneasily under her gaze. "What do you mean?"
"When you saved them, you had swam twice the distance I did in the same time, and I was breaking my own record. You could easily have been the fastest swimmer in the group test. Why did you hold back?"
Rowan blinked in surprise. "I knew he was fast, but I didn't realize it was that fast."
"So you've been watching me swim the whole time?" Harry's voice rose slightly in alarm.
Asha hesitated, cheeks flushing pink and backed down. She looked away, avoiding his eyes. "I... I was just curious. Something felt different about you. That's all."
Harry's breath caught unexpectedly. In that brief, tender moment, her blush made her look even more beautiful... something quietly vulnerable shining through her usual confidence. The warmth tinting her skin, the slight flutter of her lashes, the way her eyes darted downward... it all touched something deep inside Harry. His heart thumped harder, an unfamiliar heat spreading up his neck and into his face. A shy flush crept over his cheeks, and suddenly he was the one looking away, hoping she wouldn't notice the sudden color rising. For the first time that morning, his thoughts jittered away from secrets and suspicions. Instead, they were caught in the quiet, electric moment shared between them.
Rowan glanced between them, wide-eyed. "Wait, Asha, you were really watching Harry swim?"
Trying to regain her composure, Asha squared her shoulders. "That's not the point, Rowan. The point is Harry's been lying to us... to everyone."
She turned back to Harry, her blue eyes burning with determination. "I thought about this all night... the refrigerator incident, the way Tyler's gang suddenly avoids you, and now this. You're not an ordinary kid, are you?"
Harry's heart pounded in his chest as Stephen's warnings echoed in his mind: Keep things under control. The fewer questions, the better. But Asha's gaze felt like a spotlight, unraveling everything.
"I don't know what you mean," Harry said, voice barely hiding his unease. Even to himself, it sounded hollow.
"Really?" Asha stepped closer, lowering her voice. "When Tyler pulled a knife on me, you moved faster than should've been possible. One moment you were sitting at the table; the next you were between us. And Tyler's wrist..." She studied Harry's face intensely. "I saw the fear in his eyes after that. He was terrified."
Rowan's eyes grew wider. "Harry, is that true?"
Harry's throat tightened. He scanned the hallway, grateful most students were in class. "Can we... not talk about this here?"
"So you admit there's something to talk about," Asha said, a triumphant edge in her voice.
He struggled, torn between protecting his secret and the truth staring him down. "It's complicated."
"I have time," Asha said, folding her arms again. "And so does Rowan, right?"
Rowan nodded, his earlier fear replaced by curiosity. "Yeah, absolutely. Harry, if you're in trouble, we want to help. That's what friends do."
Looking at his two best friends, Harry saw genuine concern mingled with fierce resolve. Asha's determination reminded him of what her name meant... Truth. Maybe, just maybe, it was time for a little truth.
"Okay," Harry whispered, glancing once more around the empty hallway. "Meet me at lunch. The far corner of the cafeteria ... away from everyone else."
He locked eyes with Asha. "And this stays between us. No matter what I say, it doesn't leave that table. Promise?"
Asha and Rowan exchanged a serious glance before nodding.
"Promise," Asha said.
"Me too," Rowan added.
The warning bell rang, signaling the start of class. As they headed toward their classrooms, Asha smiled slightly. "This better be good, Harry Flash Webster. Because I think our friendship is about to get a lot more interesting."
Don't misunderstand me: I think the plot is excellent, but your chatbot is spoiling it by writing in a juvenile style.I think it's inevitable, since our main characters themselves are still juvenile. But when they're grown up, they will show wisdom that would make even philosophers look childish in comparison.
At lunch, Asha and Rowan were already sitting at their usual corner table, the hum of chatter and clinking trays buzzing around them. Their eyes flicked up eagerly as Harry approached, his expression guarded but resolute.
"Thanks for waiting," Harry whispered, sliding into the bench between them. He glanced around... fewer ears here than the hallway, but caution was still necessary.
Asha leaned forward, her blue eyes sharp and expectant. "So? what's going on, Harry? You don't have to tell us everything if it's too much, but at least tell us the truth."
Harry swallowed, the weight of their trust settling heavier than he expected. "It's... complicated,... he began carefully." All this stuff... the speed, the strength, how fast I swim... it's because of some treatment I had. Experimental. For my illness."
Rowan blinked, trying to process this new information. "Illness? Like, you were sick?"
"Yeah," Harry said, voice low. "Really sick when I was younger. That's why the treatment was necessary. It's... it gave me some abilities, but it's not perfect. There are side effects... some bad ones, but so far I've been lucky. The negatives are... minimal compared to what they could be."
He looked into Asha's earnest face and Rowan's wide eyes, and decided to keep the heaviest parts to himself. "There's a lot I don't understand about it yet. The full extent, the reasons behind it... But some secrets are just too big, too dangerous for us kids."
Asha nodded, understanding more in her quiet resolve than words could say. "I get it. Some things aren't meant for us to carry alone."
Rowan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "So, you're like... super-powered because of this treatment? That's... kind of amazing... and scary."
"Exactly," Harry admitted, managing a small, tired smile. "That's why I have to be careful, keep things under control. Don't want to draw attention. Or get anyone hurt."
The three of them sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts.
Asha finally broke the quiet. "Whatever this is, Harry, we're your friends. No matter what. You don't have to hide everything from us."
Harry's heart lifted slightly at her words, but he shook his head gently. "I want to tell you everything someday. Just... not yet. For now, let's keep this between us."
Rowan nodded enthusiastically. "Promise. We'll be here, whenever you're ready."
Harry reached out, squeezing their hands briefly... an unspoken pact between them.
Around them, the cafeteria buzz continued, but at their little table, a new closeness was forged... one that could carry even the heaviest secrets.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the gravel driveway as Harry trudged up toward the farmhouse, his backpack heavier than usual...not from books, but from the weight of secrets and half-truths.
The familiar creak of the barn doors caught his attention before he reached them. Inside, Stephen was busy moving several storage boxes from the attic hatch into the freshly renovated workshop corner. Tools and scientific equipment gleamed softly beneath the bright work lamp hanging overhead.
"Hey, Dad," Harry called out, dropping his bag by the door.
Stephen looked up, wiping dirt and sawdust from his hands with a rag. A warm smile broke through his focused expression. "Hey, Flash. Long day?"
Harry shrugged, a little tired, a little uneasy. "Yeah. School was... interesting. Asha found out about my powers."
Stephen's eyes narrowed slightly, a mixture of concern and understanding crossing his face. "She knows about the abilities you've shown? That's a big step..."
Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah, but not everything. I didn't tell her about Project David. The darker parts... that's still on me. She's smart, Dad...really smart. I don't want to drag her into that yet."
Stephen set the box down carefully, folding his arms as he regarded his son. "Good call. Some things are too heavy for young shoulders. Secrets like that need time...and trust...to carry."
Harry glanced around the workshop, the scent of fresh wood and oil grounding him despite the turmoil inside. "It feels like the walls are closing in with all this stuff. The accidents at school, the bullies, the swimming lessons... and now Asha's questions."
Stephen's voice was steady, seasoned by years of hidden battles. "You're doing the right thing, Harry. Keeping control, protecting those who aren't ready to bear the burden. And above all, being careful with whom you share your truths."
Harry swallowed, the tension in his chest easing just a little. "I just hope I can keep it all together. I don't want to lose the only friends I've got."
Stephen stepped closer, resting a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder. "You're not alone, son. We'll figure this out together. One step at a time."
A moment of silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken promises and the quiet hum of the barn's new life... part workshop, part sanctuary, part laboratory.
"Want to help me unpack a few more boxes?" Stephen asked, breaking the stillness.
Harry managed a small smile. "Sure. Anything to keep my mind busy."
Later that afternoon, after helping his dad unpack a box in the barn workshop, Harry's fingers brushed against something unexpected ... an old, worn photo album tucked between some tools and papers. Curious, he pulled it free, the leather cover cracking softly as he opened it.
Inside were faded photographs, each frozen moments in time. Harry's eyes scanned the pictures ... a young woman in various dresses, smiling in sunlit gardens, standing beside a sparkling lake, and in one striking image, wearing a white lab coat inside a sterile laboratory.
"Who's this?" Harry asked, lifting the photo of the woman next to a younger man who looked like his dad, only with darker hair.
Stephen glanced over, a slow smile touching his lips. "That's your mom, Lea. Before all this,... he gestured around the barn, ... before the lab, the treatments, everything."
Harry studied the photo, curious and a little awestruck. "She looks so... happy."
"She was," Stephen whispered. "Before the project consumed so much of our lives."
Then Harry's hand found another album, more delicate with a lace-trimmed cover. Opening it, he glimpsed a radiant bride ... the same woman from before, now in a shimmering wedding dress, her smile bright as sun.
Flipping the pages, Harry found a family photo ... his parents standing together, surrounded by friends and relatives. His eyes caught on a young girl who bore a strong resemblance to his mom.
"Who's she?" Harry asked, pointing.
"That's Aunt Shania," Stephen replied. "She was a big part of our lives."
Harry's gaze lingered on her ... confident and warm, with eyes that seemed to hold stories of their own.
"Do you have any pictures of Uncle Sam?" Harry ventured, a strange nervousness curling in his chest.
Stephen's smile faded a little. "Not from that time. Sam and Shania weren't married yet."
Harry nodded slowly, absorbing the glimpse into his family's past. The pictures, the names, the memories ... they were pieces of a puzzle he hadn't even known he was missing.
"This... helps," Harry said softly. "To know who they were. Not just stories, but real people."
Stephen rested a hand on Harry's shoulder. "They were. And they still are ... in all the ways that matter."
The faint scent of freshly cut wood and metal grease hung in the air as Harry stepped into the barn's new workshop. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting warm pools of light over neatly arranged tools, scientific equipment, and a cluster of monitors humming softly.
Stephen looked up from a cluttered workbench, wiping his hands on an old rag. His eyes brightened when he saw Harry enter. "You made it," he said, voice steady but warm.
Harry nodded, feeling a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. The space was different from any room in the farmhouse ... quieter, more purposeful, alive with potential.
Stephen gestured toward the center of the workshop. "This is for you, Harry. The lab and workshop I've been putting together isn't just a workspace ... it's a place where you can discover what you're really capable of."
Harry's gaze drifted over the various gadgets, wires carefully coiled, and diagram-covered whiteboards lining the walls. "To learn control?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," Stephen said, stepping closer. "Control, understanding, mastery. Your abilities aren't just random powers; they're part of you, tied to who you are. But they're also powerful ... more than you realize. This space is a safe place to explore that power without fear."
He picked up a small metal sphere lying on the bench. "I designed tools to help measure and regulate your bioelectric output. We'll experiment carefully ... voltage, frequency, the effects your body generates. You'll learn how to recognize your limits and expand them, all while staying safe."
Stephen's gaze softened. "You remember the promise I made? To help you control bioelectricity after your swimming lesson? This workshop is a step in that promise. Helping you become the best version of yourself without drawing unwanted attention."
Harry swallowed, the hum of energy pulsing faintly beneath his skin. "It sounds... like a lot."
Stephen smiled gently. "It is. But you won't be doing it alone. We'll take it one step at a time ... together."
For the first time in a long while, Harry felt a flicker of hope ... a tangible path forward, not just for control, but for understanding himself.
He looked at his dad and nodded. "I'm ready."
Stephen clapped a hand on his shoulder. "That's my boy. Welcome to your new beginning."
I think it's inevitable, since our main characters themselves are still juvenile. But when they're grown up, they will show wisdom that would make even philosophers look childish in comparison.
Stephen's gaze softened, the weight of years of secrecy and protection clear in his eyes.isn't.
Thanks for your advice. I'll consider to edit the draft as your suggestions.QuoteI think it's inevitable, since our main characters themselves are still juvenile. But when they're grown up, they will show wisdom that would make even philosophers look childish in comparison.
You have the wrong end of the stick. Your plot is adequate to hold the reader's attention, and your underlying sci-fi and insights into human behavior are sufficiently close to reality to withstand scrutiny, but the chatbot's writing style is AWFUL. It won't impress a sophisticated reader, and it will bore the unsophisticated to tears.
It takes an educated adult (like yourself) or a rare genius (Daisy Ashford) to write for children. Copilot writes like a bored teenager who has to fill the page by tomorrow and would be happy to get a C for his English essay, Your A+ content deserves A+ packaging.
Churchill famously wrote to Montgomery "Pray let me have, on half a sheet of paper, your plans for invading Italy". Monty used to end his lectures with "I won't ask for questions as everything I have said was perfectly clear". That's how to win wars, and write books.QuoteStephen's gaze softened, the weight of years of secrecy and protection clear in his eyes.isn't.
A few days later...
The workshop's hum of machinery faded as Harry studied his father's face... the sharp angles, the faint freckles scattered like constellations across his sun-weathered skin. A question had gnawed at him since he'd seen the photo albums.
Dad, Harry began, setting down the voltage meter he'd been calibrating, "you've told me a lot about Mom's heritage. But you haven't talked about your own." He hesitated, tracing the edge of the workbench. "You look more like most of my friends, I mean... your skin tone, your face. Where's your family from?"
Stephen's hands stilled on the circuit board he'd been soldering. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the crackle of the cooling iron. Then he sighed, wiping his palms on his jeans, and leaned against the workbench.
My ancestors came to this land out of necessity, Harry, he said, voice low. "They left Ireland during the Great Famine... when the potatoes rotted in the ground, and a million people starved while the English landlords shipped grain overseas. The ones who survived boarded coffin ships, half-dead before they even set sail." His thumb brushed the faded green tattoo on his forearm... a Celtic knot, barely visible beneath older scars. "My great-great-grandfather was twelve when he landed in Boston. He shoveled coal in a factory until his lungs turned black, all so his kids could learn to read."
Harry's chest tightened. He'd heard about the Famine in history class, but it had been a footnote, a tragedy too distant to feel real. Now, it was etched in the lines around Stephen's eyes.
"Did they... ever go back?"
Stephen shook his head. "No. The ones who left never could. But they held on to stories... songs about kings and rebels, about fighting when the odds were impossible." He tapped the tattoo. "This was my father's. He said it meant 'unbroken'.?" A wry smile flickered. "Funny, isn't it? The British tried to erase our language, our names? but we stubborn Irish kept finding ways to remember."
Harry glanced at his own hands... smaller than Stephen's, but humming with a power no ancestor could've imagined. "Is that why you joined Project David? To fight for people who couldn't?"
Stephen's gaze turned distant. "Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to believe science could fix what history broke." He ruffled Harry's hair, the gesture softer than usual. "But you? You're something new, Flash. Not just Irish, not just your mother's brilliance... you're the future we were trying to build."
A silence settled between them, thick with unspoken things. Outside, the wind rustled the cornfields, carrying the scent of rain.
Harry swallowed. "Do you think they'd be proud? Your family?"
Stephen's laugh was rough, but his eyes gleamed. "Kid, they'd be terrified. And then they'd steal all my tools to try building a lightning rod for you."
As Harry's eyes landed on the various bags of potatoes stacked neatly in the barn corner, some opened and partially used, curiosity crept into his voice. "Is that what we've been cooking the last few days?"
Stephen nodded, setting down a wrench with careful precision. "Yes, those are different kinds of potatoes. They are simple yet a nutrient-rich food, but also carry a heavy history."
Harry frowned slightly, sensing the weight behind the words.
You see, Stephen began, leaning against a workbench, "back in Ireland, during the Great Famine in the mid-1800s, people depended almost entirely on a few varieties of potatoes for their sustenance. It was a mistake ... those crops lacked diversity." He tapped one of the bags lightly. "When a fungus attacked the potato plants, it wiped out those crops almost completely. There was nothing else to fall back on, and millions starved."
Harry's gaze drifted over the bags again, seeing now not just food, but a symbol of hardship and resilience.
Stephen smiled gently, lifting one of the potatoes. "But these same potatoes can teach us something too. They're perfect for a simple electrochemistry experiment." He held up a small copper strip and a zinc strip. "Natural batteries. We can use potatoes to create electric currents, showing how chemical energy converts into electrical energy."
Harry's interest piqued, the scientific part of his mind sparking alive. "Like a battery? That's cool. How does it work?"
Stephen nodded. "Exactly. The potato's acids help facilitate a chemical reaction between the copper and zinc, generating a small electrical current. It's not electricity like what you create with your powers, but it's the same fundamental principle ... electrons moving through a circuit."
He gestured toward a workbench already set with wires, copper strips, and a small light bulb. "Want to try and light this bulb with a potato battery, Flash?"
Harry grinned, stepping forward eagerly. "Yeah, let's do it."
Stephen set the chunky yellow multimeter on the workbench, its screen still glowing faintly. Beside it sat a large potato with two pieces of metal stuck into its sides ... a copper strip and a small zinc nail.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Seriously, Dad? A potato?"
Stephen grinned and tapped the screen. "0.91 volts. Not much, but enough to power a small clock or red LED if you wire two in series."
Harry leaned closer, curiosity piqued despite himself. "So the potato is... storing electricity?"
"In a way," Stephen said, picking up the potato. "It's actually a chemical reaction between the zinc and copper, with the potato acting as the electrolyte." He held the multimeter and met Harry's eyes. "What did Uncle Sam tell you before your first training?"
Harry thought for a moment, remembering the gruff voice, the uncompromising tone. "?We cannot manage something that we can't measure.?"
Stephen nodded. "Exactly. And the same goes for you. Your bioelectricity is like the potato's voltage ... invisible until you measure it, unpredictable until you understand it." He picked up the multimeter's probes and handed them to Harry. "Today, we're going to measure you."
Harry blinked. "Wait... you can measure me like a potato?" He held each probe in each hand.
Stephen pulled a book from the shelf and flipped to a sketch of an elongated fish with labeled organs. "Remember the electric eel diagram I showed you? Your body has something similar. You have specialized cells called electrocytes ... repurposed muscle fibers that no longer contract for movement, but instead push charged ions in one direction. Think of them as microscopic batteries stacked in series."
Harry leaned over the diagram. "So? I'm built like fish?"
Stephen smiled faintly. "In principle, yes. The anterior end of your electrocyte chains builds a positive potential, while the posterior end holds a negative potential. When you 'fire', those cells all open at once, sending a wave of charged ions through the internal pathways you were engineered with. It's why your discharges can be so sudden and so strong."
"Now, here's something important, Flash. Generating bioelectricity should feel... in some ways... like moving a muscle ... but in a different way. I can't tell you exactly what it's like, because I don't have the physiology you do. My muscles can only contract. Yours? Some of them have been re-purposed into electrocytes. They don't pull bones ... they push ions."
Harry tilted his head. "So it's like flexing? but instead of moving my arm, I'm moving electricity?"
"That's the idea," Stephen said with a faint smile. "Except you're not moving it through wires ... you're moving it through your own cells. And you control how much they all 'fire' at once. With practice, you'll be able to send just enough for a spark... or enough to make the air crackle."
Stephen set the multimeter on the bench and tapped the probes against the potato's terminals. The screen read 0.91 volts ... the quiet, chemical hum of the zinc-copper reaction with no load attached.
"That's the open-circuit voltage," Stephen said. "It's what you get when nothing's drawing current. But once we touch it, the number will dip ... the potato has internal resistance."
Harry placed his fingers on the terminals, gel pads bridging metal and skin. The display fell to 0.64 volts as current began to flow through his body ... the potato under load, its potential sagging under the draw.
"Now try to feel it," Stephen said. "Flex that sense like a muscle. Don't push yet ... just notice the flow."
Harry did. The tickle in his skin smoothed out; the meter slid lower: 0.58... 0.53 volts.
"Good," Stephen breathed. "Now imagine you aren't just stopping the flow ... reverse it"
Harry concentrated, a pressure rising behind his ribs that had nothing to do with limbs. The number hesitated, then climbed ... 0.68... 0.91... 1.06 volts.
Stephen's face split into a grin. "You just boosted the terminal voltage. You weren't merely resisting the current; you were adding EMF to it. That's not a potato problem anymore ... that's you. You can influence currents passing through you, even make the meter read higher than the chemical cell itself."
Harry kept his fingers on the potato terminals, watching the numbers flicker. At first, he was just playing with the push and pull ... more current dropped the voltage, reversing it raised it. But then... something clicked.
The sensation Stephen had described ... like flexing a muscle you didn't know you had ... wasn't evenly spread through his body. His right arm could 'push' harder than his left, and vice versa. Both arms were part of the anterior chain of his electrocytes ... the side that built up positive charge ... but they didn't have to fire with the same strength.
If he pushed harder on one side than the other, he realized, the difference in potential would make current flow between his hands through the potato.
He tried it. Right arm flex strong, left arm soft ... the display dipped: 0.91... 0.84... 0.79 V. Then he swapped, left arm strong, right arm soft ... the number rose above baseline: 0.91... 0.96... 1.02 V.
Stephen frowned at the screen, then looked up. "You're changing the voltage without breaking contact. How?"
Harry grinned. "Both my arms are connected to the positive side of my electrocytes ... the anterior chain. But I can make one arm push harder than the other. That difference makes current flow between them."
Stephen tilted his head, intrigued. "So... you're creating a potential difference between two points that are both technically positive, just by controlling the output imbalance."
"Exactly," Harry said. "It's like... having two pumps from the same water tank, but I can make one gush and the other trickle. The water wants to move from the stronger one to the weaker."
Stephen smiled slowly. "Directional control within the same polarity. That's... advanced. And when you start using your legs ... the posterior chain ... you'll be able to do a lot more than make a potato twitch."
Harry chuckled. "Guess we'll save that for the next experiment."
Harry was hooked. For the next few days, whenever Stephen wasn't watching too closely, he ran his own tests in the workshop.
First, he tried the potato again ... then two potatoes in series, the meter climbing over a volt and a half. Four in series lit a tiny red LED until it flickered out from his uneven output.
Then he tried parallel wiring, discovering that the voltage stayed the same but the current surged enough to keep the LED steady for longer. The most fun was mixing them ... a 'series-parallel combo', as Stephen called it ... which could push both voltage and current high enough to run a tiny digital watch.
He logged every result in a spiral notebook, complete with sketches of wire layouts and crude potato doodles. But there was something stranger: on days when he had sports or martial arts training, his results were always higher. If he tested himself right after a workout, he could push the potato's reading higher and for longer before tiring out. On rest days, the boost just wasn't there.
By the fourth trial, Harry was convinced. He waited until Stephen was soldering at the bench before dropping the notebook in front of him. "Look. I've been keeping track."
Stephen flipped through the pages, scanning Harry's handwriting and diagrams. "Series, parallel... nice work. You even measured drop-off rates over time?"
"Yeah. But check the pattern ... the strongest readings came after I worked out or practiced forms. And remember the caiman? And that test uncle Sam gave me? Both times I was exhausted, and the shock I gave was... way stronger."
Stephen rubbed his chin. "Interesting. That could be lactic acid. In normal muscles, lactic acid builds up after intense use, as your cells switch to anaerobic metabolism. It changes the local pH, and in an organism like you?" He trailed off, already thinking ahead. "It could be that your electrocytes respond to those chemical changes, boosting ion movement."
Harry leaned on the bench. "So working out makes me... more charged?"
"Potentially, yes," Stephen said. "And there's another factor ... stress hormones. Cortisol, for example, gets released during danger or exertion. It changes your metabolism, blood chemistry, even electrolyte balance. That could explain why in emergencies, like with the caiman or Sam's test, your shocks were off the chart."
Harry grinned. "So basically, I fight better if I'm sweaty and stressed?"
Stephen laughed. "Let's just say you may have an advantage in situations that push you to your limits. But that also means you'll need to learn control ... otherwise you'll be unpredictable when it matters most."
Harry glanced at the potato array on the table. "Guess I'll need more potatoes."
Stephen shook his head, smiling. "Potatoes, sure. But next time, we test this with something a little more... precise."
An hour later...This is the last scene of book 2. I hope you enjoy it.
Stephen was locking up the workshop when the faint chime of his secure terminal lit the corner of the desk. No one outside of a very small circle even knew the line existed. The header flashed in encrypted blocks, resolving into a short message from a code name he knew all too well: Gray Otter.
It had been months since Stephen last received anything from Sam. Every transmission risked detection, so they kept them rare and brief. He keyed in his decryption passphrase, the words appearing slowly on the screen as if the machine itself were whispering.
From: Gray Otter
To: White Web
Message: Shania invites your boy to our home. She wishes to meet him in person after hearing of his actions at school ... saving those who wronged him, showing them mercy when he could have turned away. She says his selflessness ... and forgiveness ... shamed her. She could not forgive him for Lea, even knowing it was never his fault. But now, she wishes to try.
I would not pass this on if I didn't believe she meant it. You know how hard this is for her. The boy has a gift beyond what you've told me. Not just in his body ... in his heart.
- Gray Otter
Stephen sat back, the weight of the words settling on him. Harry knew nothing of this ... nothing of the encrypted updates Stephen had sent Sam since his training began. Quiet reports of progress, of control, of the boy's character taking shape under strain. Sam had pieced together the rest, and now this message was proof that word had reached Shania.
The thought of taking Harry to Guyana stirred an uneasy mix in Stephen's chest ... pride, hope, and a flicker of dread. Harry had been through so much already, and Shania was... complicated. But maybe this was the right time. Maybe the boy who could control lightning could bridge a rift that had seemed impossible to mend.
Stephen keyed a short reply, just two words in cipher: Under consideration.
Stephen shut down the terminal, the last line of green code fading to black. The barn workshop fell silent except for the faint tick of the cooling oscilloscope. On the far table, the potato array from Harry's latest experiment still sat wired up, a faint scent of earth in the air.
Through the open barn door, he could see Harry in the yard under the fading light, practicing slow martial arts forms Sam had taught him ... deliberate, balanced, a calm contrast to the sparks he had coaxed from his body earlier that day. The boy had no idea that a single message, decoded in this very room, might set him on a path far from this quiet place.
Stephen lingered in the doorway, the cool evening air carrying the smell of hay and distant pine. Guyana was a long way from here. The jungle was beautiful, but it hid teeth ... both the kind that swam in rivers and the kind that wore human faces. And Shania... she was her own kind of storm.
Still, if Harry could master forgiveness as well as he'd mastered his first sparks, perhaps he could handle whatever lay ahead.
Stephen glanced at the night sky, where the first stars were just beginning to pierce the dark. He had no way of knowing if this was a new chapter or the edge of a cliff. But the journey was coming, and the boy would have to be ready.
He closed the barn doors with a solid thud, the sound echoing in the quiet. Above the dark horizon, a faint rumble of distant thunder rolled, as if the world itself had heard the news.
He closed the barn doors with a solid thud, the sound echoing in the quiet. Above the dark horizon, a faint rumble of distant thunder rolled, as if the world itself had heard the news.Bullshit.
What's wrong with that?QuoteHe closed the barn doors with a solid thud, the sound echoing in the quiet. Above the dark horizon, a faint rumble of distant thunder rolled, as if the world itself had heard the news.Bullshit.
"He closed the barn doors." Good writing.
I have several ideas to start book 3. But I haven't decided which one should go first. Maybe you can help with that.Book 2 ended after technical explanation of Harry's bioelectric generation. Perhaps starting the book 3 with another technical explanation would be too much.
- Explaining how long distance radio communication work with directional phase shifted antenna array.
- Harry's middle name.
- Reason why Sam chose Guyana.
- When Stephen will take Harry to Guyana.
- Encounter with another super soldier.
What's wrong with that?It's a case of Barbara Cartland versus Ernest Hemingway. You have a thrilling, imaginative plot, but your chatbot has smothered it in verbal treacle.
Book 3 - Chapter 1 : Super Stranger
The afternoon sun painted the schoolyard in long, warm shadows.
Harry slung his backpack over one shoulder and waved goodbye to Asha, who was already halfway down the street toward her bus stop. Behind him, the shouts and laughter of the other kids blurred into a fading background hum. Normally, he'd be running to catch up with them... racing Rowan or dodging Tyler's sarcastic comments... but today, something felt... different.
It wasn't the air. It wasn't the weather. It was the weight of it... the faint itch at the back of his neck, the way he kept catching himself glancing over his shoulder.
Twice during class, he'd thought he saw movement through the window. Once, he'd spotted a shadow at the far end of the street when Stephen dropped him off in the morning. Maybe it was nothing. Probably it was nothing.
Still, Uncle Sam always said: If your instincts whisper, listen.
Instead of heading straight home, Harry slowed his pace. Stephen wouldn't be back from work for another hour; Sam was at the barn, probably setting up some new exercise to make him regret having muscles at all. If there was someone following him, now was the time to find out.
He turned left instead of right, taking the long way home. Not too fast, not too slow. Just a normal walk. But at every street corner, he let his eyes drift... not turning his head, just letting his vision sweep the edges. The itch was still there.
When his house finally came into sight at the far end of the block, Harry didn't stop. He didn't even glance toward it. Instead, he kept walking. Past the fence. Past the mailbox. Past the point where any normal kid would turn in.
He counted in his head.
Thirty steps. Forty. Fifty. Just enough to reach the curve where the road dipped behind a thick wall of hedges and overgrown brush. He slipped into the greenery, the thorns catching at his shirt, and crouched low.
The world went quiet except for the rustle of leaves and his own heartbeat.
A few seconds passed. Then... footsteps.
A tall figure strode into view, the steady pace of someone who didn't want to look like they were hurrying. The man's eyes swept left and right, sharp and deliberate, like a camera scanning for a target. His coat was zipped up despite the mild weather, the hood hanging low over his face.
Harry's breath slowed. He kept still, muscles ready.
Whoever this was, they weren't lost.
They were looking for someone.
Harry eased out of the bushes, silent as he could manage, and stepped onto the road.
"Hey!" he called.
The man's head snapped toward him. For the briefest moment, their eyes met... dark, focused, and measuring. Then the stranger turned and bolted.
Harry didn't hesitate. His backpack hit the ground, and he was already sprinting.
The man had a head start, but Harry's legs were faster than most kids his age... faster than most grown-ups, thanks to the training Sam had put him through. Asphalt pounded under his shoes, the rhythm steady, each stride eating away at the gap.
The road stretched ahead in a gray ribbon until the stranger veered sharply to the right, vaulting over a shallow ditch and tearing across a steep grass slope. Harry followed, the wet blades slick under his shoes, his feet sliding for purchase before he found the angle and pushed harder.
The man glanced back, eyes narrowing.
He picked up speed.
They tore through the slope into a patch of scrubby trees, ducking branches and leaping over tangled roots. Harry's lungs burned, but the fire in his legs felt alive... like every muscle had been waiting for this kind of test.
A creek cut across their path. The man leapt it clean. Harry hit the bank a second later, water splashing up to his knees. He didn't slow down. The stranger was still in sight, the gap closing inch by inch.
Hills rose ahead, dotted with fence posts and scattered boulders. The chase wound between them, the terrain tilting, pulling at Harry's calves. They darted through another stretch of woodland, then out into open pasture.
That's when Harry saw it.
The barn.
It stood like a dark shape against the sky, the late sun spilling gold over its roof. His barn. His home's barn. Somehow, in all that zigzagging, they'd looped back to the edge of his own property.
And there... just before the wide doors... the stranger stopped.
He didn't collapse or stumble. He just... turned.
Waiting.
Harry slowed to a stop, chest heaving, keeping just enough distance between them to react if the man made a move.
"Who are you?" Harry demanded.
The stranger tilted his head, eyes narrowing beneath the shadow of his hood. His voice was low, almost testing.
"Who are you?"
Harry clenched his fists. "Why did you stalk me?"
The man's lips twitched... something between a smirk and a grimace. And then, without a hint of warning, he sprang forward.
Harry's instincts screamed before his mind caught up. He dropped his weight, twisting aside, the rush of air from the man's strike brushing his shoulder. His right foot pivoted, and his fist shot out in a sharp counter aimed at the man's ribs.
The stranger's arm snapped down, catching the blow in a hard block. Even so, the impact drove him back two steps through the dirt, his boots grinding against the ground.
For a moment, they just stood there, both measuring, both breathing hard. Harry felt the familiar alertness settle over him... the same state Sam had drilled into him at the barn. Every muscle was coiled, every sense sharpened.
This wasn't some random stalker.
Whoever this was... he knew how to fight.
The man came at him again... faster this time, heavier. A blur of jabs, hooks, and sweeping kicks that cut the air close enough for Harry to feel the rush on his skin.
Harry moved with them, blocking high, ducking low, twisting away from blows that could bruise but not break. His counters snapped out on instinct... a strike to the arm, a heel flick toward the knee, a shove to break the rhythm.
The tempo rose.
Each exchange was tighter, sharper, like a drumbeat quickening. Yet there was something missing. No follow-through to crush a joint. No aim for the throat. None of the kill-shots Sam had warned him about.
He's holding back.
The thought flickered through Harry's mind between a block and a sidestep. Maybe this was a test. Sam did the same sometimes... push him to the edge without crossing it, to see what he'd do under pressure.
But then the growl of an engine cut through the air.
Harry's eyes darted toward the road in time to see Stephen's old truck turning into the front gate of the farmhouse.
When his gaze snapped back, the stranger's expression had changed. The hood still hid most of his face, but Harry could feel the shift... the focus narrowing, the strikes coming harder, faster, less restrained. A palm strike slammed into Harry's guard hard enough to rattle his arms. A kick swept for his legs, forcing him into a roll just to stay upright.
Whatever game this was, it wasn't a drill anymore.
The man's movements sharpened... every strike a little wilder, every step more urgent, as if winning now was the only thing that mattered.
Harry kept his ground, matching speed for speed, refusing to give an inch.
A sudden feint to the left drew Harry's guard up... too late, he realized it was bait. The man slid around him in a blur, arm snaking over his shoulder. In an instant, Harry felt the pressure clamp across his neck from behind.
Instinct took over. His left hand jammed tight against his own throat, protecting the windpipe and artery. His right hand shot back, fingers clawing for the man's face. He drove his elbow into the ribs... once, twice, three times... but the grip didn't break.
The fight froze into a brutal deadlock, both straining for control.
Harry could feel the man's breath against his ear.
This isn't working.
He switched tactics. A spark of bioelectric charge danced down his arms, snapping faintly against the man's skin. The stranger grunted, his grip loosening... but not enough. Harry pushed the current harder, muscles tensing with the output.
Still, the man held on.
Harry's jaw clenched. Fine. Max it out.
His legs locked around the man's left thigh, anchoring him in place. He pushed everything into the discharge... anterior and posterior electrocytes firing in perfect sync. His right hand clamped the back of the man's neck, the current driving straight into the nervous system.
The scream tore from the stranger's throat, raw and guttural. His body shuddered, legs buckling.
A few seconds later, he crumpled to the ground, motionless except for the ragged rise and fall of his chest.
Stephen's eyes locked on Harry. "You okay?"
Harry nodded, still catching his breath. "Yeah... I'm fine."
Stephen didn't waste time with more questions. He holstered the revolver, stepped back to the truck, and pulled a length of coiled rope from behind the seat. When he returned, he handed it to Harry without a word.
"Arms and legs," he said, watching the stranger carefully. "Tight."
Harry knelt beside the man, rolling him onto his stomach. The stranger groaned but didn't resist... either too dazed or too smart to try. Harry looped the rope around his wrists first, cinching it until the cords bit into the coat sleeves, then bound the ankles the same way.
When he was done, he sat back on his heels. The stranger lay still, breathing slow, eyes closed.
Stephen studied him for a long moment, then glanced toward the barn. "Let's move him inside. We'll talk there."
An hour later, Harry felt the ache settle deep in his muscles, the sharp edge of adrenaline long gone. The water Stephen had handed him was cold, the second glass even better. He sat on a hay bale in the barn, facing his father, and went through everything... step by step.
The shadow at school. The decision to walk home. Pushing past the house, hiding in the brush. The chase across hills and creeks. And finally, the fight.
Stephen listened without interrupting, his gaze occasionally flicking toward the far corner where their uninvited guest sat, bound and leaning against a support post.
The man... hood down now... had the look of someone who belonged anywhere but here. His hair was cropped close, streaked with gray despite his strong build. His eyes were sharp, but they carried the wariness of a cornered animal.
He'd regained consciousness twenty minutes ago and hadn't said a word.
Stephen stepped closer, revolver holstered at his hip but still within easy reach.
"Let's stop wasting time," he said evenly. "What's your name?"
The man's eyes narrowed. He shut them again, head leaning back against the post, as if sifting through every possible response.
Seconds stretched.
Finally, he opened them and spoke, voice low but clear.
"Jonas Creed."
Stephen's gaze didn't waver. "Why were you following my son?"
Jonas exhaled slowly, as if weighing each word before letting it go. "Reconnaissance," he said at last. "Making an assessment... seeing if the boy could be useful to achieve my goal."
Harry felt a cold prickle along his spine.
Useful?
Stephen's eyes narrowed. "And what goal is that?"
Jonas's mouth twitched... half a smile, half something else. "Didn't expect the kid to be... what he is." His gaze flicked toward Harry, lingering just long enough to make it clear he'd seen more than most strangers ever did.
Harry tensed, unsure if it was pride or unease that rose in his chest. The way Jonas said it didn't feel like a compliment.
Stephen stayed still, but Harry knew that stillness... like the surface of a pond just before a stone drops in. "You don't get to decide what's useful here, Creed," Stephen said, voice low. "Start explaining, or I start assuming."
Jonas's eyes didn't drop. "Then I guess you should start assuming."
Stephen didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"That's your choice," he said evenly. "But don't expect us to watch you here overnight. We have things to do."
He crossed to the old wooden cabinet by the workbench, sliding open a door and pulling out a metal medical box. The hinges squeaked.
"But we can't expect that rope to hold you for that long either," he went on, setting the box on the table. "So the only option you've left us is to put you to sleep until tomorrow evening... when we have time to talk again."
Harry watched as Stephen flipped the latches on the box and lifted the lid. Inside, under neatly folded gauze and sealed pouches, lay a row of glass syringes. Stephen picked one up, checked the plunger, then reached for a small bottle filled with a clear liquid.
Jonas's face changed. The hard, calculating mask faltered, just enough to show something else underneath... nerves. His shoulders stiffened against the post, eyes tracking every movement.
Stephen drew the liquid into the syringe with the slow, steady care of a man used to precise work.
"Wait a second... " Jonas blurted, voice sharper now. His gaze flicked between Stephen and the needle. "Okay. You win."
He exhaled hard, tension shivering through his bound arms. "You leave me no choice but to talk."
Stephen set the syringe back in its tray, but didn't put it away. "Talk."
Jonas' eyes narrowed, gauging him. "You know about Autoclastin," he said.
Stephen's expression didn't change. "I helped make it."
Harry blinked, the words sliding past him like pieces of a puzzle he didn't have the picture for. His father had made whatever those were... and said it like he was admitting to building a fence.
Jonas shifted, the fight gone from his voice. "Then you know what it does. You know what it means to have it in your system."
Stephen didn't answer, and Jonas took that silence as permission to go on.
"My friend... my closest friend... just deserted. First time he's been free in years. But he's not like me. I was first generation. They didn't need Autoclastin just to stay alive." His jaw tightened. "He's second gen. They built the leash right into his cells. Without Autoclastin every week?" He trailed off, shaking his head. "You know what happens."
Harry could see the truth in his face. This wasn't just another mission to Jonas... it was something heavier, maybe the only thing keeping him moving.
"I want him free," Jonas said quietly. "You're the only one who can make that happen."
Stephen crossed his arms, eyes fixed on him. "You're asking me to undo my own work."
"I'm asking you to save a man's life," Jonas replied.
"Why did he leave the project?" Stephen asked, his tone unreadable.
Jonas shifted against the ropes, gaze fixed somewhere on the floor. "Kael Draven was sent on a mission to kill a political leader in a conflict zone. The brief painted the man as a warlord... power hungry, ruthless. Someone who'd sacrifice his own people just to seize power, overthrowing a democratically elected government."
He closed his eyes for a moment, the pause heavy enough for Harry to notice.
"But during reconnaissance, what he saw... didn't match the story."
Jonas's voice slowed, like he was replaying it in his head. "So Kael did something stupid. Or brave. He went straight into the target's camp at night... slipped past their guards... found him asleep in his tent. Woke him up."
Harry's brow furrowed. "Why?"
"To talk," Jonas said simply. "And after a long conversation, Kael decided the mission was wrong. That the man wasn't the monster they'd been told. So he abandoned it."
Jonas opened his eyes, locking them on Stephen. "You can imagine how the Project took that."
Stephen didn't blink. "And what," he asked slowly, "does any of this have to do with my son?"
Jonas's lips pressed into a thin line. He shifted his bound hands, rope creaking, then met Stephen's gaze. "Because I know what I'm about to ask you for is... expensive. Not in money... money's nothing compared to this... but in risk. You're the only one who can break Autoclastin dependency. That's leverage worth more than gold."
He leaned forward as far as the ropes would allow. "So if you refuse... I figured I'd better have something you'd actually bargain for."
Harry's stomach knotted. Jonas's eyes flicked toward him for the briefest second before returning to Stephen, and in that glance Harry felt the unspoken weight... whatever this bargain is, it's about me.
Stephen's stance didn't change, but his voice cooled a few more degrees. "Careful with your next words, Creed."
Jonas's faint smile didn't reach his eyes. "Then let's talk about what your boy might mean to people still inside Project David."
Jonas let out a slow breath. "At first, I only wanted to make sure this boy was really valuable to you. I didn't know he was your son."
His gaze drifted toward Harry. "But he surprised me twice. First, finding out he's a super soldier. Second..." His mouth curved faintly. "I didn't believe he could beat me. You trained him well."
Harry sat up straighter. "Uncle Sam trained me," he said, pride warming his voice before he could think twice.
Jonas's head snapped toward him. "You must be kidding... don't tell me... " His eyes sharpened, a mix of disbelief and something darker. "That bastard is still alive?"
Harry blinked. "You know... "
"Harry." Stephen's voice cut in, firm. "You don't have to tell him everything."
Heat rose in Harry's face. "I... I'm sorry, Dad."
Only then did it hit him... he'd given away something Stephen hadn't meant Jonas to know.
Jonas's stare lingered on him for a beat longer before he leaned back against the post, the ropes creaking. "Interesting," he murmured.
Jonas's eyes caught the flicker of guilt in Harry's face, and something in his expression shifted.
"Sam was my mentor too," he said quietly.
Harry's head lifted before he could stop himself.
Jonas went on. "I was among the first to walk away from Project David. We left because some of our own... super soldiers who'd been poached and switched sides... came back and assassinated our comrades. Men we'd trained with. Fought beside." His voice hardened. "We realized then that we weren't untouchable... and that staying meant waiting for our turn to die."
Harry felt the chill of it settle in his stomach.
"This was before Autoclastin," Jonas added. "Back then, if you got out, you stayed out. No chemical leash to drag you back."
He shifted against the ropes, eyes narrowing. "The last I heard about Sam was after the botched mission."
Harry leaned forward despite himself. "What happened?"
Jonas's gaze flicked to Stephen, gauging whether he'd be allowed to answer. "That's a story with more than one version. And I don't know which one Sam would tell you."
Stephen's voice cut through the air, firm and final.
"Your friend is running out of time. When was the last time he got the drug?"
Jonas blinked, the question snapping him out of whatever story he'd been about to spin. "Kael was issued two capsules before the mission... enough to finish the job and get back to base. Three days ago, he took the last one."
Harry did the math in his head. Sam's lessons on stamina and limits had drilled into him the importance of knowing the clock in a fight. If the weekly window Stephen had mentioned before was true... Kael had maybe four days left before...
He swallowed, the unspoken outcome heavy in the air.
Stephen's gaze stayed locked on Jonas. "Then you've already wasted nearly half the time he has."
If the zombie apocalypse hit tomorrow? would your genes help you survive? From pain-blocking mutations to stress-canceling brain chemistry, this video breaks down the rare genetic advantages that could turn you into the last one standing when the world goes sideways.This could be an interesting plot point.
WHATS INSIDE
8 rare mutations that boost your survival odds.
Pain, cold, viruses, starvation? all genetically hackable.
How ancient genes still shape your resilience today.
TIMESTAMPS
00:00 ? Mutation #8: Pain Insensitivity
01:25 ? Mutation #7: Warrior Gene
02:43 ? Mutation #6: Viral Resistance
03:58 ? Mutation #5: Fast Blood Clotting
05:05 ? Mutation #4: Efficient Oxygen Use
06:23 ? Mutation #3: Cold Adaptation
07:32 ? Mutation #2: Super Memory
08:48 ? Mutation #1: Low Basal Metabolic Rate
Jonas's voice steadied, almost as if he'd been waiting for this turn.
"Then you'd better get prepared to save him," he said. "I may have failed to capture your son... but I've got something else almost as valuable."
His eyes slid toward Harry, lingering just long enough to make the boy's skin prickle. "His secret power. Imagine what happens if they learn about it... if you fail to save Kael."
The air in the barn seemed to tighten.
Stephen didn't flinch. "Then you leave me no choice but to kill you now."
Color drained from Jonas's face. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came at first. He'd been expecting a counteroffer, maybe a threat of leverage... not the flat, matter-of-fact promise in Stephen's voice.
Harry's pulse thudded in his ears. His father wasn't bluffing. He knew that tone.
Jonas swallowed, his eyes darting once toward the door, as if the bound ropes might somehow loosen just by wanting them to.
Stephen moved without raising his voice, but the motion was faster than Harry expected. The revolver came from his hip in one smooth draw, the hammer clicking back as he stepped forward.
Before Jonas could react, the barrel was pressed between his teeth.
Stephen's eyes were no longer calm. "What makes you think your life... or Kael's... is more valuable than my son's?"
Harry froze. He'd seen his father angry before, but never like this. There was no edge of restraint in his face now, just a cold, unshakable certainty.
Jonas' eyes widened, sweat beading at his temple, then rolling down his cheek. His breath came fast through his nose.
Stephen held him there for a moment longer before pulling the gun back.
Jonas doubled over coughing, a harsh sound against the ropes. "I... I'm sorry," he managed, voice hoarse. "I only meant to give you more motivation to save Kael." He gave a shaky half-laugh that went nowhere. "I guess that electric shock... kept me from thinking straight."
Harry wasn't sure if that was the truth or just the fastest lie Jonas could reach for, but either way, Stephen didn't look convinced.
Stephen's voice dropped lower, colder. "I want you to understand that my safest option right now is to kill you and liquefy your body." His gaze didn't waver. "But I also understand that it's not the most righteous one."
Jonas swallowed hard. "I understand that."
Stephen took a half-step closer, the weight of his presence pressing as much as the words. "Never-ever... let it cross your mind to harm my son again. If my calculations are correct, one day..." He paused, the words heavy in the air. "... the fate of the world might depend on him doing the right thing."
Harry felt a tightness in his chest. His father had never said anything like that to him... not so plainly, not with that kind of gravity. Whatever Stephen believed was coming, it wasn't just another mission or fight.
Jonas gave a small nod, his eyes flicking to Harry for a fraction of a second before returning to Stephen. "Understood."
Stephen straightened, holstering the revolver. "Before I do something with consequences that large," he said, turning toward the back of the barn, "I need to verify some facts about your story."
He started walking toward the lab door. "Give me two weeks."
Jonas's voice followed him, edged with urgency. "But Kael's life won't last that long... "
Stephen returned a minute later, a tiny glass bottle pinched between his fingers. Inside were two pale capsules. "That's why you'll give him these. Two doses. Enough to keep him alive until you come back here in two weeks. Then I'll decide."
He held the bottle out, his gaze steady. "Take it or leave it."
Jonas' jaw worked, but no words came at first. Finally, he exhaled. "I guess you leave me no choice." His voice lacked the fight it had earlier.
Stephen gave a single nod, then glanced at Harry. "Untie him."
Harry hesitated for half a heartbeat, then moved to the post. The ropes were stiff from the hours of strain, and Jonas' eyes followed every motion as Harry loosened the knots. Once the last coil fell away, Jonas rolled his shoulders and flexed his wrists, rubbing at the red marks.
Only then did Stephen step forward with the tiny glass bottle. "Two doses. That's it. Enough to keep him alive until you come back here in two weeks."
Jonas took it carefully, the glass cool in his palm. He glanced inside at the pale capsules, then back up at Stephen. "I'll be here."
Stephen's gaze didn't soften. "See that you are."
The sound of Jonas' footsteps faded down the gravel drive, then vanished into the evening stillness. Stephen stayed by the barn door until the man was well out of sight, his posture still sharp, like he was measuring the distance even after it was gone.
Harry stepped closer. "Dad... that thing you said earlier... about me deciding the fate of the world. Was that true?"
Stephen turned to look at him, studying his face as if weighing how much to say. "It can be," he said at last. "It could also be nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophecy."
Harry frowned. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," Stephen said, "whether or not you believe it... you're right. What you believe shapes what you do. And what you do shapes what happens next." He rested a hand on Harry's shoulder. "There are still too many uncertainties. Too many pieces I don't have yet."
Harry felt the weight of the words settle in his chest... not heavy like fear, but heavy like responsibility.
Stephen's eyes softened, just a fraction. "That's why we keep preparing. No matter what's coming."
The next morning, Stephen drove Harry to school in the old pickup. The engine's low rumble filled the cab, neither of them saying much until the brick buildings of town came into view. Stephen had errands to run, so he didn't linger when they reached the school gate.
"See you later, Flash," he said with a small wave before pulling back into traffic.
Harry shouldered his bag and started toward the courtyard... only to notice Asha standing by the bike rack, looking right at him.
"Flash?" she said, one eyebrow arched. "Is that... your middle name?"
Harry blinked. "Uh? I don't think so. As far as I know, it's just a nickname."
"Really?" Asha tilted her head. "Because in the class attendance record, your name's written as Harry F. Webster. And I've heard your dad call you Flash before."
Harry frowned slightly, curiosity stirring. He'd never paid much attention to that "F." before.
Harry scratched the back of his neck. "Tell you what... my dad's picking me up after school. If you want, I can ask him to drive you home. We can bring up the middle name thing then."
Asha's eyes lit with curiosity. "Really? You'd do that?"
Harry shrugged, trying to play it casual. "Sure. Might as well find out the truth instead of guessing."
Asha smiled, the kind that always made Harry's stomach feel lighter. "Alright then. Deal."
The bell rang in the distance, and they started walking together toward the building. But the question lingered between them, tugging at the back of Harry's mind through the morning classes... what exactly did that "F." stand for?
By mid-morning, Harry found himself in history class, sitting by the window while Mr. Collins paced at the front of the room. The teacher's voice was steady, practiced, but Harry's mind kept circling back to Asha's question. Harry. F. Webster. Could it really be a middle name? Why wouldn't Dad ever tell me?
"... and remember," Mr. Collins was saying, chalk tapping against the blackboard, "the American Revolution might have ended very differently if not for help from France. Military aid, supplies, and... perhaps most famously... General Lafayette."
A few students shifted in their seats, but Collins pressed on, drawing a quick outline of a tall figure with a torch. "And decades later, as a gesture of friendship, France gave the United States the Statue of Liberty... completed in 1886. It was meant to symbolize freedom and hope for all who arrived on America's shores."
Harry forced himself to jot down a few notes, though his handwriting slanted more than usual. The "F." in his name kept nagging at him. Harry F. Webster. Why would the school record it that way if it's just a nickname?
He glanced sideways at Asha. She was listening closely to Mr. Collins, pencil moving in neat lines. When she caught him staring, she leaned over just enough to whisper, "So? F for Flash, right?"
Harry shook his head quickly. "I don't know. Maybe. I always thought Flash was just... what Dad calls me."
Asha grinned. "Well, we'll find out this afternoon. I want to hear your dad say it."
Harry tried to focus again as Mr. Collins tapped the chalkboard.
"... and remember, the Statue of Liberty was France's gift to the United States in 1886, a symbol of freedom and hope for people coming from all over the world?"
The word freedom stuck in Harry's mind, echoing against the questions Asha had raised.
When the final bell rang, Harry and Asha hurried out together. The afternoon sun threw long shadows across the schoolyard, and at the gate Stephen's old truck was already parked, engine idling.
Harry jogged up to the passenger side. "Dad, can Asha get a ride home? She, uh... wants to ask you something."
Stephen's brows rose slightly as he glanced past Harry at Asha. "Something, huh?"
Asha nodded, clutching her backpack straps. "I just want to know Harry's middle name."
Stephen's eyes flicked to Harry, then back to her. For a moment Harry thought he might refuse, but instead Stephen gave a small nod. "Alright. Hop in. We'll talk on the way."
Asha climbed into the back seat while Harry slid in beside his dad, his stomach buzzing with nerves. Finally... maybe I'll find out what the "F." really means.
As the truck rolled out of the schoolyard, Harry shifted in his seat. "Dad... Asha thinks my middle name is Flash. You know, since you call me that. And the school record shows my name as Harry F. Webster."
Stephen chuckled under his breath, eyes still on the road. "Flash isn't your middle name, kiddo. It's just a nickname. You always moved quick, learned quick. Even when you were little, you were ahead of yourself. So... Flash stuck."
Harry blinked. "That's it? Just because I'm fast at stuff?"
"Pretty much," Stephen said with a faint grin. "Though I'll admit, it does sound good out loud."
From the back seat, Asha leaned forward. "So what is the F for, then?"
Stephen kept his eyes on the road but spoke clearly. "Frank. Your middle name is Frank, Harry. It means free man. It also carries the meaning of being honest and straightforward."
Harry blinked, tasting the word in his mind. Harry Frank Webster. It sounded strange, like trying on clothes that didn't quite fit yet.
Before he could say anything, Asha huffed. "Honest? Straightforward? Please. He wasn't honest at all during the swimmer test."
Harry turned in his seat, caught off guard. "What?"
"You deliberately slowed down to hide your real power," Asha said, crossing her arms.
Harry shifted in his seat, cheeks warm. "Hey, you promised to keep that a secret, remember? At the cafeteria table?"
Asha leaned back, lips twitching into a sly smile. "I promised not to tell anyone else. But your dad doesn't count. He has to know, right?"
Harry frowned. "That's not how promises work."
Stephen cleared his throat, cutting through the back-and-forth. "Relax, both of you. Harry's already told me the story."
Harry glanced up, startled, but Stephen's eyes stayed on the road, calm as ever.
Asha smirked in triumph. "See? I wasn't breaking my promise after all."
Harry slumped back in his seat, half-relieved and half-frustrated. He'd thought she'd slipped, but she was right... Dad already knew. Still, the word Frank echoed in his head, heavier than he wanted to admit. Free man. Honest. Straightforward.
Harry crossed his arms, muttering, "Doesn't feel fair."
From the back seat, Asha grinned. "Life isn't fair, Flash."
Stephen chuckled softly, eyes on the road. "You two sound like an old married couple already."
Both kids shot him a look at the same time... Harry groaning, Asha rolling her eyes.
"Dad!" Harry protested.
Stephen just smiled to himself, as if he'd won some private game.
The rest of the drive passed in lighter chatter... Asha teasing Harry about his handwriting, Harry trying to change the subject by asking her impossible math questions. By the time they pulled up in front of her house, the earlier tension had dissolved into laughter.
Asha hopped out of the truck, slinging her backpack over one shoulder. "Thanks for the ride, Mr. Webster." She leaned down to the window, looking at Harry. "See you tomorrow, Frank."
Harry groaned again as she darted up the walk, waving over her shoulder.
Stephen pulled the truck back into gear, grinning. "She's got spirit."
Harry sank into the seat. "She's impossible."
But he couldn't stop himself from smiling, just a little.
As they pulled away from Asha's house, the laughter faded and the hum of the truck filled the silence. Stephen glanced at Harry, then back to the road.
"You know," he said, "when I called you Frank, I wasn't just talking about the name. I meant it. I want you to be a free man. Free to make your own choices. Not like the later generations of soldiers they're making now."
Harry stared at him, the words heavy. "Free? you mean, like I don't have Autoclastin dependency? My body doesn't have that... autoclastac thing in it?"
Stephen shook his head slowly. "No, son. It's the other way around. Your body naturally produces Autoclastin. That's unique to you."
Harry frowned. "So? I'm already free?"
"Not exactly." Stephen's tone turned thoughtful. "Too much Autoclastin interferes with the body's natural system. You see, cells are supposed to die when they're damaged or old... regulated cell death keeps you healthy. But in you, unhealthy cells linger too long. They build up, and that leads to complications."
Harry sat back, trying to process it all.
"That's why we developed Autoclastac," Stephen continued. "To counterbalance your body. To keep the scales even."
The truck rattled over a bump in the road, and Harry stared out the window at the fading sky, the word free echoing differently in his mind than it had an hour ago.
Stephen's hands tightened slightly on the wheel. "We want you to be a free man, Harry. Not just a collection of free cells running wild in your body. That's not freedom... that's chaos."
Harry turned to look at him.
"That's how our society works too," Stephen went on. "There are rules. Boundaries. Without them, everything falls apart. Freedom isn't doing whatever you want... it's having the strength to choose the right thing, even when it's hard."
Harry thought about the history lesson earlier, about freedom and the Statue of Liberty, and how Asha had teased him for hiding his strength. His chest felt heavy and light at the same time, like he was carrying something important but didn't know how to use it yet.
"So... being free also means having rules," Harry said slowly.
Stephen nodded. "Exactly. Without rules, freedom doesn't last."
The truck rumbled on toward the farmhouse, headlights catching the first shadows of dusk.
Dinner was quiet that night, the clink of forks and the soft creak of the old farmhouse filling the spaces where conversation didn't. Afterward, Harry stacked the plates on the counter, then turned to his father, the question bubbling too strong to hold back.
"Dad... about Jonas. Did you find out if he was telling the truth?"
Stephen leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His face gave away little, the way it always did when he was weighing his words. "I've already reached out to some of my information sources. They're reliable. But it'll take time."
"How long?" Harry pressed.
"Three days," Stephen said. "I should have the results by then."
Harry nodded, though impatience flickered in his chest. Three days felt like forever when someone's life was hanging on the line.
Harry sat down opposite his father, resting his elbows on the table. "Dad... how did you even find out about Autoclastin in the first place? I remember you saying Project David was halted after soldiers switched sides and deserted. They needed some way to keep that from happening, right? Autoclastin dependency was the answer."
Stephen was quiet for a moment, his eyes distant, as though reaching back years. Finally, he spoke. "Autoclastin was discovered by accident. By your mother."
Harry sat up straighter. "Mom?"
"She was experimenting with different substances to control metabolism. The goal was to influence super soldiers with as few side effects as possible." Stephen's voice grew heavier. "But those experiments exposed her to hazards... radiation, light, chemicals. Even with safety protocols, risks can never be eliminated."
Harry swallowed. "And something went wrong?"
Stephen nodded slowly. "Some of her cells mutated. Became cancerous. When she analyzed the samples, she found something unusual. A substance that prevented those damaged cells from dying like they should have. That was Autoclastin."
Harry felt a cold knot form in his stomach.
"To fight it," Stephen continued, "we developed Autoclastac. A countermeasure. It was meant to cure her, to balance the effect of Autoclastin."
He let out a long breath. "That discovery... born from her illness... became the foundation of the dependency system. A way to control future soldiers so they couldn't turn against their makers."
Harry stared down at his hands. The word control weighed heavier than the silence that followed.
Stephen stood up and crossed to the old cabinet in the corner. He pulled out a thick, worn photo album and set it gently on the table between them.
"Your mother documented everything," he said softly, flipping open the cover.
Harry leaned closer. The first pictures showed Lea in her lab coat, standing beside equipment, smiling faintly despite the dark circles under her eyes. Page by page, her health seemed to slip... her cheeks hollowing, her posture weakening, until she barely looked like the woman in the first photograph.
Stephen's hand lingered on one of the later images, where tubes and wires surrounded her. "Autoclastac was our answer. A way to restart the process her cells had lost. It worked by reactivating cell death... apoptosis... in carefully tuned intervals, to balance what Autoclastin had blocked."
He turned another page, voice tightening. "But what we didn't realize was that Lea's cells weren't equal. Some produced Autoclastin, others didn't. The normal ones... they had no protection. So when Autoclastac did its job, it triggered their death too... far too soon."
Harry's throat felt dry. He stared at the photos, searching for the mother he'd never known, feeling her slip further away with every image.
Stephen closed the album gently, his expression carved from sorrow and restraint. "By the time we understood... it was too late."
Harry pressed his lips together, staring at the closed album. The images of his mother... fading, weakening... burned into his mind. His chest tightened until it hurt, and before he could stop himself, hot tears blurred his vision.
"She died because of it," he whispered. His voice cracked. "Because of what you were both working on."
Stephen reached out, resting a steady hand on his son's shoulder. "She gave everything she had to the project, Harry. To you. Without her, you wouldn't even be here."
Harry dragged his sleeve across his face, swallowing hard. "What about me, then? Am I... the same as her? Do I have the same risk?"
Stephen shook his head. "No. You're different." His voice grew firmer, more certain. "Your cells carry Autoclastin synthesis instructions built into your genetic code. That means the substance is distributed far more evenly throughout your body. A slight imbalance can still happen, but your system tolerates it."
Harry blinked, the weight on his chest easing just a little. "So... I'm not dying?"
"No," Stephen said. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "In fact, the balance gives you an advantage. Your wounds close faster. You recover quicker than normal people. It's why your body can take punishment and bounce back."
Harry sat back, trying to take it all in. Grief and relief swirled together, leaving him quiet, heavy, but also faintly... hopeful.
Stephen leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant again. "The earliest phase of your life was spent fighting for balance, Harry. Between Autoclastin and Autoclastac. We didn't know if you would make it. Every adjustment we tried was a gamble. Too much of one, and your body would break down. Too much of the other, and you'd wither."
Harry swallowed hard. "That's when... the project was halted?"
Stephen nodded. "Yes. With soldiers dying and deserting while there's no way to stop it, funding evaporated. The whole program stood on the edge of collapse. But your survival... that balance... was the one thing that kept me going."
His voice grew heavier, tinged with both pride and bitterness. "And when we finally achieved it... Autoclastin became more than a problem. It became a treasure. For the soldiers who needed it just to stay alive. And for those who wanted to control them."
He paused, then tapped the photo album gently with one hand. "But I never forget where it came from. From trash. From the twisted accident that took your mother's life."
The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator.
The next morning at school, Asha had clearly found a new favorite phrase.
"Frankly speaking," she said with exaggerated seriousness as they walked down the hallway, "math homework should be illegal." She shot Harry a sideways glance, her lips twitching.
Harry groaned. "You're never going to stop, are you?"
"Frankly speaking," Asha went on, "your handwriting looks like a chicken walked across the page." She grinned, clearly enjoying herself.
Harry pulled his notebook tight against his chest. "You're impossible."
"Frankly speaking," she repeated, her eyes dancing with mischief, "I think that's my best quality."
By the time they reached their classroom, Harry was rubbing his temples, but the corner of his mouth betrayed a reluctant smile. Asha's laughter had that effect... annoying and contagious all at once.
By lunchtime, Harry thought Asha might finally be done with her new catchphrase. He was wrong.
She plopped her tray down across from him in the cafeteria and immediately began, "Frankly speaking, these mashed potatoes look like glue."
Harry rolled his eyes, stabbing at his food. "You're enjoying this way too much."
Before she could reply, Rowan slid into the seat beside Harry, dropping his backpack with a thud. "What's she on about now?"
Asha leaned over the table, grinning. "Harry's middle name is Frank. So, frankly speaking?"
Rowan's eyes widened. "Wait... seriously? Your name's Harry Frank Webster?" He snorted into his drink, nearly choking. "That's priceless."
Harry groaned, sinking lower in his seat. "Not you too."
"Sorry, man," Rowan said between laughs. "But frankly speaking, this is the best news I've had all week."
Asha clapped her hands together in triumph. "See? Even Rowan agrees."
Harry jabbed at his mashed potatoes, muttering, "I'm surrounded."
Rowan leaned back in his chair, smirking. "You know what this means, right? Anytime you try to dodge a question or play it cool..." He wagged his finger at Harry. "I'm just gonna say, ... Frankly speaking, tell the truth, Webster.?"
Asha burst out laughing, nearly spilling her juice.
Harry dropped his fork with a clatter. "You two are the worst."
"Frankly speaking," Rowan said with a mock-serious tone, "you love us."
Harry shook his head, but a smile crept in despite himself.
Three days passed since Stephen had revealed Harry's middle name, and the teasing still hadn't stopped.
"Frankly speaking, you run like a duck," Asha said during gym, grinning as she jogged past him.
Rowan chimed in after, laughing, "Frankly speaking, you should just embrace it, Webster. Own the Frank!"
Harry tried to laugh it off, but deep down he was restless. Every joke, every jab, just reminded him of the moment his dad had promised: three days. That was how long it would take for his sources to confirm whether Jonas' story was true.
Now the third day had come. And Harry could hardly focus on class, his mind racing ahead to the evening. He needed to know.
Is Jonas lying? Or is Kael really out there, dying without help?
The school day dragged on like molasses. By the final bell, Harry was almost bouncing with impatience, eager to get home and hear what his father had learned.
When Harry got home, he expected his father to be waiting in the kitchen with answers. Instead, Stephen seemed unusually quiet. He busied himself fixing dinner, asking Harry the usual small questions about school, but nothing about Jonas.
Harry kept stealing glances, restless in his seat. Why isn't he saying anything? Did the sources even reply?
Dinner felt longer than usual, every scrape of fork against plate dragging out the silence. Finally, after the dishes were cleared away, Stephen sat down across from him, folding his hands.
"My sources got back to me," he said at last. His voice was calm, measured. "And they confirmed it. Jonas has spoken frankly."
Harry dropped his head into his hands. "Come on, not you too, Dad."
Stephen blinked, taken aback. "What do you mean?"
Harry groaned. "Asha and Rowan haven't stopped teasing me about that word ever since you told us my middle name. 'Frankly speaking' this, 'frankly speaking' that. And now you?"
For the first time that evening, Stephen cracked a smile, shaking his head. "Well, maybe the word's fitting after all."
Stephen's smile faded as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "But jokes aside... my sources did confirm something important."
Harry straightened, the restless energy in his chest surging again.
"There is a super soldier named Kael Draven," Stephen said carefully. "He deserted during a mission. That much is true."
Harry's pulse quickened. "So Jonas wasn't lying?"
"No." Stephen shook his head. "The mission was abandoned, and Kael disappeared. No one knows his exact whereabouts now, except Jonas, perhaps. The organization running Project David is searching for him... and they won't stop until they find him."
Harry's mouth went dry. He thought of Jonas' desperate words, the urgency in his eyes. No wonder he was terrified when threatened with anesthetic. Three days ago, Kael had been running out of time. And now?
"What happens if they catch him?" Harry asked quietly.
Stephen didn't answer right away. His expression said more than words.
Stephen exhaled slowly, his voice steady but grim. "They would probably kill him. Or turn him into an experimental subject. And frankly speaking, the latter is worse."
Harry groaned, dropping his head onto the table with a thud. "Come on, Dad, it's not funny anymore."
A faint smile tugged at Stephen's lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm not trying to be funny, son. Sometimes the truth sounds harsh no matter how you phrase it."
Harry lifted his head, frowning. "So Jonas was right all along... Kael really is out there, and he's running out of time."
Stephen's silence was answer enough.
Stephen leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant. "Kael was clever. Instead of rushing to find a cure, he went into hiding. That alone has kept him alive this long. And he's lucky... to have a loyal friend like Jonas still watching his back."
Harry nodded slowly, remembering the desperation in Jonas' voice.
"But we need to be careful," Stephen continued. "If we try to help him, it has to be with the bare minimum of contact. Any slip, and it won't just be Kael in danger." His eyes fixed on Harry's. "Your safety is my highest priority..."
There was a long pause. Then Stephen added softly, "... frankly speaking."
Harry threw his hands up, groaning. "Aaargh... just kill me already."
Stephen chuckled under his breath, the heaviness of the conversation easing for just a moment.
Stephen's smile faded as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "But jokes aside... my sources did confirm something important."
Harry straightened, the restless energy in his chest surging again.
"There is a super soldier named Kael Draven," Stephen said carefully. "He deserted during a mission. That much is true."
Harry's pulse quickened. "So Jonas wasn't lying?"
"No." Stephen shook his head. "The mission was abandoned, and Kael disappeared. No one knows his exact whereabouts now, except Jonas, perhaps. The organization running Project David is searching for him.....and they won't stop until they find him."
Four days had passed since Jonas Creed had walked away from their barn with the tiny glass bottle.
Harry and Stephen were halfway through dinner when a knock thudded against the front door.
Harry frowned, fork frozen mid-air. "This late?"
Stephen set his utensil down, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Stay here."
Harry slipped out of his chair anyway, padding to the window. He lifted the curtain just enough to peek outside.
"It's Jonas," he whispered.
Stephen didn't move for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he said, "Let him in."
Harry opened the door, letting the cool night air drift inside. Jonas Creed stood there, hood drawn, his face taut with fatigue. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in days.
Stephen's voice carried no warmth. "I told you to come back in two weeks."
Jonas nodded once, stepping across the threshold. "I know. But Kael thinks he can help you with this evidence... so you'll have more time to prepare for his curing."
"Did you give him the capsules?"
"I did." Jonas dropped a worn satchel onto the table with a dull thud. The bag sagged with weight... documents, maps, and something metallic that clinked faintly inside.
Harry's eyes widened, curiosity sparking.
Stephen's gaze didn't leave Jonas. "You risked leading them here by coming early."
Jonas shook his head. "I made sure I wasn't followed. This was Kael's call. He wanted you to see the truth before making your decision. He believes if you understand what really happened... you'll choose to save him."
He pushed the satchel closer across the table. "Everything you need is in here. Orders. Reports. And his voice."
Harry leaned forward, pulse quickening. "His... voice?"
Jonas tapped the side of the satchel. "He left a recording. For you."
The room went still, the only sound the faint pop of the stove fire.
Stephen pulled the satchel closer, his hands steady, his face unreadable. He unbuckled the straps and drew out a stack of papers, the edges frayed and smudged with dirt.
The first document bore a stark red stamp across the top: CLASSIFIED - PROJECT DAVID.
Harry leaned forward, eyes scanning the bold words before Stephen handed it to him. The page was filled with mission parameters... objectives, maps marked with red circles, and photographs of a man in desert robes. The target.
"This was Kael's mission," Stephen said quietly.
Harry's stomach tightened as he flipped through. Each page smelled faintly of sweat and dust, as if pulled straight from the field. Reports, intelligence briefings, profiles that painted the target as a dangerous warlord.
But then came the contradictions. Scribbled notes in the margins... handwriting that wasn't official, raw and rushed. False intel. Locals say he feeds the camps. Protects refugees. Doesn't match the profile.
Harry looked up at Stephen. "He... he figured out the mission was wrong."
Stephen's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He passed the next sheet... photographs this time. Not of soldiers, but of families. Thin, weary faces gathered around food supplies. Children smiling faintly under tents stitched from scraps.
Harry's throat caught. "They weren't enemies at all."
Stephen nodded slowly, as if each image confirmed something he'd already suspected.
Finally, Jonas reached into the satchel and set down a battered voice recorder. The plastic casing was cracked, a strip of duct tape holding the battery cover in place.
"This," Jonas said, his voice low, "is Kael's account. He recorded it the night he deserted. His last words before he went underground."
Stephen glanced at Harry, then pressed the button.
The device crackled to life, the sound warped with static before a rough, steady voice filled the room.
"My name is Kael Draven. If you're hearing this, it means I walked away."
A pause, followed by a weary breath.
"They told me the man in that camp was a monster. But when I looked into his eyes, I saw someone trying to hold his people together with scraps. If I followed orders, I'd be murdering innocents. I won't be their blade anymore."
Another pause. Softer this time.
"If I die out here, at least it will be as a free man. Not a weapon. Not their slave. Whoever finds this... remember me that way."
The recorder clicked off, leaving silence heavy in the farmhouse kitchen.
Harry stared at the table, Kael's words echoing in his chest. Not a weapon. A free man.
Stephen set the recorder down with deliberate care. His eyes narrowed, not at Jonas, not at Harry, but somewhere beyond them both... calculating.
"This changes things," he murmured.
Stephen laid the recorder down, Kael's last words echoing through the farmhouse.
Jonas stayed silent for a beat, then pulled out another folder from the satchel. Unlike the stamped military files, this one was plain, its edges still sharp, the paper smelling faintly of fresh ink.
"This isn't Project David material," Jonas said. "It's mine."
Stephen's gaze narrowed.
"Kael's mission was sold as stabilization," Jonas continued. "They told him killing an opposition leader would prevent the country from falling into chaos." His jaw tightened. "But the truth is, that man wasn't a warlord. He was a reformist. The only candidate left who hadn't been bought out. Killing him wouldn't have stabilized anything... it would have locked in the rot."
He slid the folder across the table. Inside were articles from underground news outlets, screenshots of smuggled blogs, and grainy photos that looked like they'd been snapped in secret.
Harry's eyes darted over the headlines. ELECTIONS RIGGED BEFORE VOTE BEGINS. AID FUNDS DIVERTED TO PRIVATE ESTATES. OPPOSITION JOURNALIST DISAPPEARS AFTER PUBLISHING CORRUPTION REPORT.
Jonas tapped the pages with a calloused finger. "I only had a week to collect this. Independent reporters, leaks, eyewitness accounts. Most of it had to be smuggled out before the regime buried it."
Harry felt his stomach twist as he saw images of ballot boxes sealed before dawn, crowds of citizens protesting, then being dragged away by armed men. Faces of journalists appeared beside their bylines... some with the word missing stamped across their photos.
Jonas's voice hardened. "Kael deserted because of this. He saw the lies firsthand. And now he's running for his life while the people he refused to kill are still being hunted."
Stephen flipped through the file slowly, each page heavy with implication. His voice was low, almost grim. "So Kael wasn't sent to stop chaos. He was sent to silence the one man who could expose it."
Jonas nodded once. "And if this evidence doesn't reach the right hands, the regime stays in power. Permanently."
The room fell into silence again, broken only by the faint hiss of the stove.
Stephen closed the folder, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched until it became heavy. Then he spoke, voice low but firm.
"I don't want to drag my son into a war he's not ready for. Any news about Autoclastin will inevitably expose him to danger." His eyes cut to Jonas, sharp as glass. "So we'll have to accept that tonight... Kael Draven is dead."
The words landed like a blow.
Jonas's composure cracked. "But you promised to save him!" His voice rose, rough with desperation as he stepped forward.
Before Stephen could move, Harry darted between them, pressing a hand to Jonas's chest. His eyes blazed, his body taut with energy. "Stop."
Jonas froze, breath heaving.
Stephen didn't flinch. "Did I?" he asked, his tone calm, almost too calm. He leaned back slightly in his chair, studying Jonas as though he were an equation to be solved. "Instead of panicking, I want you to spend a moment to think this through."
Jonas's fists trembled at his sides. His jaw worked, but no words came.
Stephen's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "The organization expects him to die tonight. That's the truth. Any other result... any hint he's still alive... will ignite scrutiny. And that scrutiny will lead them here."
Harry's throat tightened. Here. To him.
He turned his face to Stephen, "But we have to save him, Dad."
"I know, son." Stephen continued, each word deliberates. ?And as a second-generation soldier, it?s most likely they already declared him dead before sending him. Officially, he doesn?t exist. If he vanishes quietly now, their system stays intact. If he survives, every eye turns to us.?
The fire popped in the stove, loud in the silence that followed.
Jonas staggered back half a step, as if the logic struck harder than a punch. He pressed a hand to his temple, trying to process it, breath coming ragged.
"You're saying... we just let him die," he whispered.
"No," Stephen said softly, but there was steel underneath. "I'm saying we choose the battlefield. Not them."
Jonas' whisper still hung in the air: "You're saying... we just let him die."
Stephen leaned forward, eyes glinting. "If they can fake death, so can we."
Jonas blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
Stephen's voice steadied, each word sharp as a scalpel. "We need Kael's uniform. And one of his teeth."
Harry stiffened. "His tooth?"
Stephen nodded, already building the plan in his mind. "Here's what happens. Tonight, Kael dies in the forest. Cause of death... they'll assume... cell breakdown from Autoclastin withdrawal. His body is scavenged by wolves. Nothing left but fragments." He held Jonas' gaze. "You plant the tooth. It becomes the forensic evidence they expect."
Jonas stared at him, trying to process it. "That's... dangerous. If they suspect for a moment... "
"They won't," Stephen cut in. "The organization already anticipates his death. All we need is to confirm their expectations. Give them just enough to close the file."
Harry swallowed hard. The calm way his father described it... cold, clinical... made his stomach knot. A tooth. A fake death. Like it's all just parts on a chessboard.
Jonas ran a hand through his hair, still reeling. "And Kael? What happens to him while we're faking his death?"
Stephen's eyes narrowed. "He disappears. No signals, no contact, no mistakes. If he wants to live, he has to become a ghost."
The stove crackled in the corner, but the air felt heavier than iron.
Harry glanced between the two men, his mind racing. Kael's life... his freedom... all resting on a tooth and a story.
Stephen's tone never wavered, cold and methodical.
"I've already acquired a fresh cadaver about his size. You'll put Kael's uniform on it... and one of his teeth. Next week, a hunter will 'discover' the remains, take the tooth and some photographs as evidence, then bury the rest."
Jonas stared at him, disbelief and unease flickering across his face. "You've... planned this far ahead?"
Stephen didn't blink. "Contingencies are the only reason my son is still alive. If Kael wants to live, this is the only way."
The older man leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "You've been a ghost for years already, Jonas. Kael should be able to handle it too."
The room went still.
Harry's pulse quickened. The matter-of-fact way his father spoke about corpses, teeth, and staged deaths sent a chill down his spine. He understood why... to keep Kael alive, to keep the organization away from him... but part of him couldn't shake how cold it all sounded.
Jonas dragged a hand across his jaw, the tension in his shoulders clear. For a long moment he said nothing. Finally, he exhaled, the fight drained from his voice.
"...I'll tell Kael. But this... " He shook his head. "This isn't living. It's survival."
Stephen's gaze stayed firm. "Survival comes first. Living comes after."
Harry shivered. The weight of those words pressed down on him more than the plan itself.
Jonas's jaw clenched. "And what about Kael's target? The man he spared? If the regime's as corrupt as this evidence shows, then he's still in danger. Still being hunted."
Stephen's eyes hardened. "Kael's safety is the most urgent matter right now. Only when it's settled... and only when all the necessary pieces of the puzzle are in place... can we think about striking back."
Jonas shook his head, frustration flashing across his face. "So you're just going to let them hang? The opposition forces, the only people standing up against a rigged system?"
Stephen's voice was even, but edged with steel. "For the time being, yes. They'll have to survive on their own. If we move too soon, we risk exposing Harry... and ourselves. One wrong step, and it won't just be Kael who's dead."
Harry flinched at his father's words, though he understood. Every instinct told him it was right to help... but every time he pictured his own face stamped across one of those documents, hunted the same way Kael was, his chest tightened.
Jonas looked away, jaw working as he tried to swallow the truth. "So the world burns, and we wait."
Stephen leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing. "Sometimes waiting is the only way to win a war."
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Jonas's words still lingered: "So the world burns, and we wait."
Stephen's reply was cold and final. "Sometimes waiting is the only way to win a war."
Harry couldn't keep silent. His voice broke through the heavy air. "That's not fair. If Kael's target really is a good man... if he's fighting for people who don't have anyone else... then leaving him to die is the same as pulling the trigger ourselves."
Jonas's eyes flicked toward Harry, startled.
Stephen's gaze softened just slightly, but his tone remained steel. "Fairness doesn't win wars. Strategy does. If we move too soon, we lose Kael, we lose the cause... and we lose you. That's not a risk I'll take."
Harry's throat tightened. "But if everyone waits, nothing changes. Someone has to do the right thing first."
The silence that followed pressed down like a weight.
Stephen held his son's eyes for a long moment, then finally pushed his chair back. Without another word, he walked to the corner cabinet, unlocked the drawer, and pulled something small and metallic from inside.
He returned to the table and set it down with a sharp click. A car key.
Jonas stared at it.
Stephen's voice was low, deliberate. "The cadaver is already prepared. It's in a bag in the trunk of a rental parked two miles east of here. You'll put Kael's uniform on it and plant his tooth. Next week, a hunter will find what's left. The evidence will close the file."
Jonas swallowed, picking up the key slowly, as if it were heavier than metal.
Stephen leaned closer, his words carrying no room for doubt. "Kael's life... and my son's safety... depend on you executing this plan flawlessly. No mistakes. No loose ends."
Jonas gave a single, sharp nod. But his eyes flicked once toward Harry, and in them Harry saw the unspoken truth: Kael's freedom was now chained to Stephen's ruthless design.
The key turned in Jonas' hand. Kael's second death.
The sound of Jonas' footsteps faded into the night. The farmhouse settled back into its quiet rhythm... the ticking clock, the pop of the stove... yet the air felt heavier than before.
Harry leaned against the table, staring at the empty spot where the car key had been. His mind wouldn't stop spinning.
"Dad," he said finally, "how did you prepare all of this? The cadaver, the plan... it's like you knew Jonas was going to come back sooner than you told him to."
Stephen sat back down, folding his hands. His expression was calm, but there was an edge to his eyes. "Because I did know."
Harry frowned. "But... how?"
Stephen tapped one finger against the table. "Think in Kael's position. If he truly had the evidence he claimed, would he sit on it for two whole weeks while his time was running out?"
Harry hesitated, then shook his head. "No. He'd want to use it right away."
"Exactly." Stephen's voice was steady, almost like a teacher guiding a student through a puzzle. 'My promise of two weeks wasn't about giving me time to investigate. It was about forcing him to send the evidence. If Kael trusted Jonas enough to carry it, then Jonas would have no choice but to return sooner. And he did."
Harry sat up straighter, connecting the pieces. "Four days."
Stephen nodded. "Which tells us two things. First... Kael's hideout was far enough away that Jonas needed that much time to travel back and forth. Second... if Kael truly hopes for a cure, he's probably moved closer by now. He knows the clock is ticking, and distance is his enemy."
Harry let the words sink in. His father hadn't just been planning for Jonas's return... he'd been predicting it. Or rather, engineering it.
Stephen leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Never assume things will go the way someone promises you. Always plan for the way people must act, given their circumstances. People's choices reveal more than their words."
Harry's chest tightened. He understood the lesson, but it made Kael's desperation feel sharper, more real. Running out of time, dragging himself closer, hoping for a chance to live.
He looked at Stephen. "So... what happens if Jonas fails? If the plan doesn't work?"
Stephen's eyes didn't waver. "Then Kael truly dies. And the rest of us go on."
Harry swallowed hard, the lesson heavy as iron.
Harry's mind still turned over the puzzle. He leaned forward, frustration edging into his voice.
"But... why couldn't you just ask Jonas where Kael's hiding? Wouldn't that have been faster?"
Stephen shook his head slowly. "Because at that point, my side hadn't been guaranteed."
Harry blinked. "What do you mean?"
Stephen met his eyes, his tone steady, deliberate. "Look at it from Jonas's perspective. What if I had taken his information... Kael's exact location... and then handed it straight to Project David? Once he gave it to me, he couldn't take it back. He'd have no way of knowing whether I intended to save his friend... or deliver him to the people hunting him."
Harry sat back, chewing on the thought. From Jonas's point of view, trust was a gamble... and a fatal one if misplaced.
"So he brought the evidence first," Stephen went on. "Proof of his sincerity. Only after that could we even begin to talk about Kael's survival. That's the default position, Harry. In this world, no one starts with trust. They start with doubt. Trust has to be earned."
Harry frowned, his chest heavy. "That sounds... lonely."
Stephen's gaze softened just slightly. "It is. But it's also how people like Jonas... and people like us... stay alive."
Stephen leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly as if he were choosing his words with care.
"You're asking how I set all this up, Harry... the cadaver, the rental car, the hunter, even the forensic trail. The truth is... it isn't just me. It's a network. People I've built trust with over years."
Harry tilted his head. "What kind of people?"
Stephen began ticking them off, one by one. "Doctors from a hospital. A man from the cremation house. Farmers who've helped us before. A police officer who looks the other way when it matters. Even someone in the market who knows how to move things quietly. Each of them has their part, big or small. And each of them is willing to help because we've built cooperation and good relationships."
Harry frowned slightly. "So... the default position is not to trust?"
Stephen's lips tugged into the faintest smile. "Not quite. The default position is to be decent. To be nice to someone you don't know. Give them help when they need it, as much as you can. And just as important... don't be a dick."
Harry blinked at the bluntness, caught between a laugh and surprise.
Stephen's tone sharpened again. "Every time you make an unnecessary enemy, you waste time and invite risk. Every conflict you could've avoided might be the one that kills you later. But every bit of kindness you plant, every hand you lend, those can become lifelines when you need them most."
He spread his hands slightly, as if gesturing to the invisible web around them. "That's how we pulled tonight off. Not because I was clever enough to plan every step, but because I wasn't foolish enough to burn bridges when I didn't have to."
Harry sat quietly, letting the lesson settle. It wasn't just strategy. It was survival woven into everyday choices.
Harry was quiet for a long moment, turning his father's words over in his head. Finally, he gave a small, wry smile.
"You know... the name Webster really suits you well, Dad."
Stephen's eyes softened, the hard edge of the strategist easing for just a breath. "Don't forget, you carry that name too, son."
Harry sat up a little straighter, the weight of the evening's lessons pressing against the pride in his chest. For the first time that night, he felt both smaller and stronger all at once.
Two days had passed since Jonas drove away in the rental. The farmhouse had been quiet, almost too quiet, and Harry found himself restless in the silence. After school that afternoon, he headed straight for home, half-hoping his father would be waiting in the kitchen or out by the barn.
But the kitchen was empty, the barn dark.
"Dad?" Harry called, peering through the workshop door. No answer.
He stepped outside, squinting against the late sun. For a moment, only the wind moved through the grass. Then the low rumble of an engine broke the stillness. Stephen's old truck crested the dirt road, dust trailing behind its tires.
Harry jogged to meet it as the truck rolled to a stop in front of the barn. Stephen climbed down from the driver's seat, his arms wrapped around a heavy wooden box.
Harry tilted his head. "What's that?"
Stephen set the box on the gravel with a dull thud. "A centrifuge," he said, brushing dust from his sleeves. His tone was calm, but there was a weight beneath it. "We'll need it for Kael's lifeline."
Harry frowned, curiosity and unease prickling at the same time. "His lifeline?"
Stephen gave a small nod, as if that explained everything. He bent to lift the box again, muscles straining slightly, and carried it toward the barn.
Harry hesitated only a second before following. Whatever this lifeline was, he had the sinking feeling it wasn't just about machines and medicine.
Stephen pushed the barn doors open with his shoulder and carried the wooden box inside. He set it carefully on the workbench, then pried open the latches. Inside, cushioned by layers of padding, lay a gleaming metal device with glass tubes nestled in a rotor.
Harry leaned closer. "So, what is it, really?"
"A centrifuge," Stephen said, running his hand along the polished steel. "It spins samples at high speed. That force separates the heavier parts of blood from the lighter ones... plasma, proteins, cell fragments."
Harry's brow furrowed. "Like... straining soup?"
Stephen gave a faint smile. "In a way. But here, the soup is your blood."
Harry stiffened. "My blood?"
Stephen nodded, his expression steady, though his eyes carried the weight of what he was about to say. "Kael doesn't just need medicine. He needs Autoclastin. The only reliable source I know of." His gaze settled on Harry. "... is you."
Harry swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "You mean... you're going to take it out of me?"
"Not all of it," Stephen reassured, setting the centrifuge upright on the bench. "Your body produces more than enough. The machine will let us separate it, isolate the fraction that carries the compound. We can refine it, stabilize it, and make doses for Kael."
Harry stared at the machine. The glass tubes gleamed under the barn's dim light, looking more like instruments of surgery than of science. "So, my blood is Kael's lifeline."
Stephen's voice was quiet but firm. "Yes. And it might be the only thing that keeps him alive long enough until we get a permanent solution."
"Dad, how did they make Kael depends on Autoclastin?" Harry asked.
Stephen adjusted the centrifuge on the bench, his hands steady. "Harry, you already know cells in our body don't last forever. They grow, they divide, and when they're too old or too damaged, they die. That balance... death and renewal... is what keeps us alive."
Harry nodded slowly. "Sam told me once... like pruning branches so the tree stays healthy."
"Exactly," Stephen said. "Now... Autoclastac and Autoclastin are simply tools that tip the balance. Autoclastac accelerates cell death. Autoclastin does the opposite... it blocks cell death. One is the brake, the other the accelerator."
Harry tilted his head. "So, the first generation... like Jonas...?"
"They had neither," Stephen said. "Just like normal people. No leash, no special control, only their training and enhancements."
"And me?"
"You're unique. You produce both. That means your system stays balanced... one checks the other. It's dangerous, but it's also why you survived when no one else could."
Harry looked down at the centrifuge, the glass tubes gleaming faintly. "And the second generation?"
Stephen's jaw tightened. "They were implanted with Autoclastac from the beginning. It forces their cells toward death. To keep them alive, they need Autoclastin supplied at the right dose, week after week."
"So that's the leash," Harry said quietly.
Stephen nodded. "Without Autoclastin, the imbalance kills them. And the implant itself only lasts about a year before it has to be replaced. That means they're never free. Their bodies depend on the system, and the system depends on keeping them under control."
Harry's throat tightened. "And Kael...?"
"Kael's one of them. Without Autoclastin, the implant will eat him alive from the inside. That's why this machine matters." Stephen rested his hand on the centrifuge. "With it, I can extract Autoclastin from your blood and give him a lifeline. Should be enough to buy him freedom from the leash."
Stephen tapped the centrifuge, then turned to the shelf where his first aid kit had once sat. "Do you remember the little bottle you found when we were preparing first aid kit?"
Harry nodded.
"That was Autoclastin," Stephen said. His tone was calm, but his eyes didn't soften. "It's rare. Harder to come by than gold. That single bottle can keep Kael alive for about twenty weeks, no more. After that... he runs out of time."
Harry swallowed. "So even if Jonas gave it to him... he's just buying months."
"Exactly. And Kael doesn't have the luxury of waiting for miracles. That's why we need another source." Stephen's gaze rested on his son, steady but heavy. "You."
Harry's chest tightened. "Because my blood contains Autoclastin."
"Not just contains it... produces it continuously," Stephen said. "Your cells carry both instructions: to tip the scale toward life, and toward death. That's what keeps you balanced. It's also what makes you Kael's only lifeline."
Harry stared at the centrifuge again, the machine's cold gleam suddenly more ominous than any weapon. "So... my blood's not just mine anymore. It's his survival."
Stephen placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I won't take more than you can afford to give. But you need to understand: the world we're in doesn't give second chances. For Kael, your blood is the difference between freedom... and the leash dragging him back to his masters."
Harry's brow furrowed as he studied the centrifuge. "But... why not just take the implant out of Kael? Wouldn't that solve everything? No implant, no leash."
Stephen shook his head slowly. "If only it were that simple."
"Why not?" Harry pressed.
Stephen leaned against the workbench, folding his arms. "First of all, it's hidden. The container isn't made of metal or plastic. It's grown from Kael's own organic tissue. It blends in, makes it almost impossible to find without knowing the exact coordinates. And even if you could find it..." He paused, his tone sharpening. "...it has a booby trap."
Harry's stomach tightened. "What kind of trap?"
"If anyone tampers with it, the capsule bursts. All the Autoclastac inside floods his system in an instant." Stephen's voice stayed calm, but there was no softness in it. "That kind of overdose doesn't take hours or days. It kills within minutes."
Harry's face paled. "So, the only way?"
"... is to let it do its job," Stephen finished. "Let it release Autoclastac in small doses, exactly as programmed. And then counterbalance it... week by week... with Autoclastin. That's why Kael needs a steady supply. That's why the bottle you found isn't enough. And that's why we have to draw it from you."
Harry stared at the centrifuge, a cold knot forming in his chest. He wanted to argue, to push for another way, but the weight in his father's voice left no ground to stand on.
Stephen lifted the centrifuge lid and set out a tray of glass tubes, each one clean and gleaming under the barn?s single overhead light. Beside them, he placed a needle kit and a bottle of antiseptic.
Harry's throat went dry. "So... you're really gonna take it out of me."
Stephen gave a small nod. "Just a small vial. Your body makes more every day than Kael needs in a week. It won't hurt you."
Harry eyed the needle. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one getting stabbed."
For a moment, Stephen's mouth twitched, almost into a smile. But his voice stayed calm. "Needles never get easier. You just learn why you're letting them in."
Harry pulled up a stool and sat down, forcing himself to keep his arm steady on the workbench. "Alright... let's just do it before I change my mind."
Stephen cleaned the crook of Harry's elbow with practiced precision, the smell of antiseptic sharp in the air. Then he slid the needle into place. Harry winced but bit back a sound, keeping his eyes fixed on the centrifuge instead of the thin red stream filling the glass tube.
In less than a minute, Stephen capped the vial and slid the needle out. He pressed a square of gauze over Harry's arm. "Hold this."
Harry pressed down, flexing his fingers. "That's it?"
"For today." Stephen turned, sliding the vial into the centrifuge's rotor. The machine whirred to life, low at first, then rising into a steady hum as it began to spin. "This will separate the plasma. That's where the Autoclastin hides."
Harry watched the machine, the hum filling the barn like a heartbeat. The weight of it all pressed down on him... the idea that the liquid in that tiny tube was more than blood. It was Kael's lifeline. His freedom.
He whispered, half to himself, "So it's really true. My veins are the leash-breaker."
Stephen rested a hand briefly on his son's shoulder, his eyes steady. "And his survival depends on you."
The centrifuge spun faster, its sound rising into a sharp whir, as if echoing the tension in the room.
The centrifuge slowed with a mechanical sigh, the tubes inside settling back into stillness. Stephen lifted one out, holding it to the light. Layers were forming... plasma pale and clear above, red cells sinking below.
Harry leaned closer. "So... is that it? That's Autoclastin?"
"Not yet." Stephen shook his head. "This is just the first step. Right now, the sample is full of everything... proteins, cell fragments, even traces of Autoclastac." He set the tube carefully into a rack. "If we injected this into Kael, it would do more harm than good."
Harry frowned. "So, you have to... clean it?"
"Purify it," Stephen corrected. "Separate the Autoclastin from the rest. That takes more time, and more equipment. But once we refine it, then we'll have a usable dose."
Harry let out a slow breath. The relief of being done with the needle began to mix with a creeping unease. "And then you'll give it to Kael?"
Stephen's expression hardened. "Yes. But you need to understand something, Harry." He set the tube down and turned to face his son fully, his voice carrying a sharper weight than before.
"You cannot tell anyone where this came from. Not Jonas. Not Kael. Not even Sam."
Harry blinked. "Why not? They're on our side."
Stephen's eyes didn't waver. "Because the moment anyone knows the truth, you stop being my son... and you become a prize. A living fountain of Autoclastin. Every government, every private lab, every mercenary group will hunt you. To them, you won't be Harry Webster. You'll just be the cure in human form."
Harry's chest tightened. He wanted to argue, to insist Jonas and Kael wouldn't betray them, but the steel in his father's tone stopped him cold.
Stephen leaned closer, his voice low, almost a growl. "If that information leaks, they won't stop until they have you. And they won't care if you survive the process."
Harry swallowed hard, staring at the tube of his own blood. It didn't look like anything special... just red and ordinary. But now he knew better.
He nodded once. "I won't tell."
Stephen gave a single, firm nod in return, then turned back to the workbench. "Good. Because Kael's lifeline depends on more than the blood. It depends on silence."
The centrifuge sat humming faintly in the corner, the weight of its secret heavier than steel.
The farmhouse kitchen was dim, the single light bulb swaying faintly with the draft that crept in through the old window frames. Harry sat at the table, turning his glass of water in slow circles. He wasn't really thirsty. He was waiting.
The crunch of tires on gravel snapped him to attention. He straightened just as the door creaked open and Jonas Creed stepped in, looking worn and dusty from the road. He pulled his hood back, eyes sharp despite the fatigue.
Stephen came from the hallway almost immediately, revolver still on his hip. His voice was low, even. "You made it back."
Jonas dropped keys on the table with a small clink. "Everything's done. The cadaver's in place, the uniform fitted, the tooth planted where it needed to be. No mistakes. They'll believe Kael's gone."
Stephen picked up the keys, studied them a moment, then slid them into his pocket. "Good. That gives us room to breathe."
Jonas exhaled, shoulders sagging a fraction. Then his gaze hardened again. "Now it's your turn. You gave me your word, Webster. Keep Kael alive."
Stephen crossed to the old cabinet and returned with a small glass bottle. He set it down between them. Pale capsules shifted softly inside.
"That's all that's left," Stephen said. "Eighteen. Add the two you already took, and you've got twenty weeks total."
Jonas's hand hovered, then closed around the bottle. Relief flickered in his eyes, but it didn't last. "That's barely buying time. You said you'd cure him. Cut the leash."
Stephen met his gaze. "There is no cutting it. The implant isn't metal or plastic... it's grown from his own tissue. Every soldier's is buried somewhere different, so there's no map to follow. And worse..." his tone sharpened, "... they're booby-trapped. Touch one wrong and it ruptures. Floods his body with Autoclastac in a single dose. He'd be dead before you could move."
Jonas froze, jaw working. "So, all this time" there was never a way to remove it."
"There's only one safe way." Stephen's voice stayed flat, controlled. "Wait it out. The implant runs dry after a year. Until then, Kael needs regular doses of Autoclastin. If he makes it to the end, he's free."
Jonas's head snapped up. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Stephen's eyes didn't waver. He leaned an elbow on the table, his hand resting near the bottle. "If I had, you'd have second-guessed the mission. You needed focus, nothing else. And you got the job done."
Jonas's grip on the bottle tightened. "Then when's the next supply?"
"Fifteen weeks from now."
Jonas studied him for a long moment, anger and reluctant respect caught in the same breath. At last, he gave a sharp nod. "You play it cold."
"Cold," Stephen said evenly, "is what keeps people alive."
Silence pressed in.
Harry sat rigid on his chair, barely breathing. He hadn't spoken once, hadn't dared. The bottle gleamed in Jonas's hand, twenty weeks of life... and Harry knew the truth behind it. He pressed his palms against his knees under the table, forcing himself still. He couldn't let anything slip. Not like with Uncle Sam. One word too many and Jonas would know exactly where the real lifeline came from.
Stephen finally pushed back from the table, the scrape of wood on the floor breaking the tension. "That's all you need to know for now. Make every capsule count."
Jonas slipped the bottle into his pocket but lingered at the table, his brow furrowed. "One thing I don't get. How will we even know when the implant's empty? When it's safe?"
Stephen leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "You'll know. Once the implant's dried up, Autoclastac stops releasing. If Kael keeps taking Autoclastin after that point..." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "... his body will tip the balance the other way. Cells will stop dying. Hormones spiral out of control. Organ failure follows."
Jonas's face tightened. "So, the cure becomes poison."
"Exactly," Stephen said. "That's the signal. When Autoclastin starts to annoy him instead of helping him, you'll know the implant's run its course."
For a moment, only the light bulb hissed in the silence.
Harry sat frozen at the edge of the table, pretending to study the faint rings of condensation under his glass. Every word pressed on him like a weight. The bottle Jonas carried wasn't just medicine... it was a ticking clock. And the secret inside his own veins was the only reason that clock might keep ticking long enough.
Jonas frowned, still holding the bottle, then asked, "And if Kael takes too much? If the implant's already run dry, and he keeps swallowing Autoclastin?"
Stephen steepled his fingers. "The effects are slower. Not like the sudden crash without it. At first, it causes hormonal changes. A shift in balance." His tone softened into a wry kind of explanation. "Think of it like the bleeding cycle almost every woman has endured since prehistory. It's disruptive, sometimes painful, but not immediately fatal. A big man like Kael can weather it, at least until we recognize what's happening."
Harry blinked, confused. "Bleeding cycle? What's that supposed to mean?"
Jonas barked a laugh, the sound raw but genuine, chasing the weight from his shoulders for the first time since they met. "You'll find out when you're older, kid."
For a fleeting moment, the heavy burden that had carved lines into Jonas's face seemed to ease.
Stephen allowed himself a small chuckle as well. "You heard the man, Harry. Some lessons aren't mine to teach." He didn't want to take away the good time Jonas was having.
Harry glanced between them, half-frustrated, half-curious, but held his tongue. The moment passed, leaving only the quiet hum of the light bulb and the ticking clock of Kael's life between them.
The late afternoon sun slanted through the farmhouse windows, painting the wooden floor in warm, golden stripes. Harry sat cross-legged on the rug, flipping through a comic book, while Stephen leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Harry," Stephen began, his tone casual but carrying that undercurrent of something important. "I've been meaning to tell you... your Aunt Shania sent a message."
Harry's head snapped up, curiosity sparking in his brown eyes. "Aunt Shania? From Guyana?"
Stephen nodded.
For a heartbeat, Harry just stared, the words sinking in. Aunt Shania. He can't recall the moments with her. He only saw her from his mom's photo album.
"When?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"School break," Stephen replied. "We'll fly out in a few weeks. I thought... it might be good for you. A change of scenery. And Shania... she's family. She cares about you."
Harry's lips curved into a slow, genuine smile. "That sounds... amazing."
The next day at school, Harry could barely contain himself. As soon as the lunch bell rang, he bolted toward the corner table where Asha and Rowan were already seated.
"You guys won't believe this," he said, dropping his tray with a clatter. "I'm going to Guyana this summer. Aunt Shania invited me."
Rowan's eyes widened. "Guyana? That's in South America, right? Like... rainforests and rivers and stuff?"
Harry grinned. "Exactly. It's going to be epic."
Asha, her expression brightening, leaned forward. "That's amazing, Harry. My parents are visiting me here during the break. They promised to take me to some local tourist spots... maybe even the national park."
Rowan leaned back on his elbows, a crooked grin on his face. "Guess we'll all be traveling, then. I'm off to England for the summer. Got to return a visit... remember my cousin Harry?"
Harry blinked, remembering the odd coincidence. "The other Harry."
Rowan nodded. "Exactly."
Harry laughed, the sound light and unguarded. For a moment, the weight of secrets, powers, and hidden dangers melted away, replaced by the simple thrill of summer plans and the promise of adventure.
The bell rang, and the three friends drifted back toward class. But Harry's thoughts weren't on lessons. They circled back to the night before, to the strange words Stephen had used... the 'bleeding cycle'. Jonas had laughed, Stephen had brushed it aside, and Harry was left with nothing but more questions.
Stephen had brushed it off when Harry asked, saying only, "Almost every woman experiences it. You'll understand when you're older." That answer had done nothing to satisfy Harry's curiosity. If it was something nearly every woman went through, why was it such a big secret?
Maybe Asha knew. She was smart, confident... she always seemed to have answers. But Harry also knew he had to be careful. He couldn't mention Jonas, Kael, or Project David. Those names were off-limits.
At recess, when Rowan was busy chasing a ball with the other kids, Harry took a chance. He kept his tone casual.
"Hey, Asha," he asked, lowering his voice, "can I ask you something? Do you know what... a bleeding cycle is?"
Asha blinked at him, puzzled. "Bleeding cycle? Never heard of it." She tilted her head, frowning thoughtfully. "Is it some kind of training thing? Or, like, something in science class?"
Harry shook his head, a little disappointed. "Guess not. Just... something I overheard."
She shrugged, brushing her hair back from her face. "Maybe it's grown-up stuff. My mom says there's plenty of things I'll understand later."
Harry forced a small smile. "Yeah. Later."
As they walked back together, Harry kept quiet. For all his questions, this was one mystery he'd have to shelve... for now.
Asha walked beside him in silence for a moment, then suddenly grinned. "You know... frankly speaking..."
Harry stopped in his tracks, planting his fists on his hips. "Oh, come on. It's not even funny anymore."
The words came out sharper than he intended, but for once, he didn't care. Maybe it was the heat of the afternoon sun, or maybe it was the way Asha froze mid-sentence, her blue eyes wide and startled. For a rare, unguarded moment, Harry found himself staring straight into them... clear, bright, and impossibly calm... without feeling awkward. Without feeling guilty.
Asha blinked, her grin faltering. For the first time all week, she didn't have a comeback ready. Her fingers tightened on the strap of her bag, and she opened her mouth like she might say something... anything... but nothing came out, a faint blush creeping onto her cheeks.
The silence stretched, heavy and strange, until a voice cut through it.
"Yo! Lovebirds!" Rowan's shout carried across the courtyard like a thrown rock. He was leaning against the bike rack, smirking like he'd just walked in on the punchline of the century. "You two done staring into each other's souls, or should I give you a minute?"
"We were not...!" Asha broke eye contact at once, brushing her hair back.
Harry jerked back like he'd been burned, heat rushing to his face.
Asha spun toward Rowan, her cheeks pink, her voice sharp. "We'd better go."
"Sure," Rowan said, pushing off the rack with a lazy grin. "And frankly speaking..."
"Don't you dare," Harry and Asha snapped in unison.
Rowan's laughter rang out across the courtyard, bright and merciless.
Harry forced a laugh too, but inside, the weight pressed back in. Because no matter how much he wanted this moment to last, he knew the truth: normal never stayed for long.
The barn door creaked as Harry stepped inside, the familiar scent of oil and old timber wrapping around him. Stephen was hunched over the workbench, sleeves rolled up, a soldering iron in one hand and a tangle of wires in the other. Beside him sat a compact radio set, its dials gleaming under the single hanging bulb.
Harry leaned against the doorframe. "So, does Aunt Shania know we're coming? Or is this still a maybe?"
Stephen didn't look up right away. He finished the connection, set the iron down, and finally turned, his expression calm but sharp in the glow of the lamp. "She knows. I got her message this morning. She's already making plans."
Harry's eyebrows rose. "That fast? How? I mean... Guyana's, like, thousands of miles away. Did you call her?"
Stephen shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "No phone. No internet. We used radio."
Harry blinked. "Radio? Like... old-school, static and antennas?"
"Not exactly old-school," Stephen said, tapping the metal casing of the device. "Radio waves don't care about borders. They travel at the speed of light. All you need is the right frequency, the right encryption, and someone on the other end who knows how to listen."
Harry stepped closer, eyeing the machine. "So? you just... talk into it?"
Stephen chuckled softly. "Not quite. Voice can be intercepted. We use bursts... short packets of data, compressed and coded. To anyone else, it sounds like static. To us, it's a message."
Harry stared at the radio, the hum of its circuits filling the silence. "That's... kind of awesome. And kind of creepy."
Stephen's gaze flicked up, his tone turning serious. "It's also the safest way to talk when you don't want anyone tracing you. Remember that."
Harry nodded slowly, the weight of the words settling in. For a moment, the barn felt smaller, the air heavier, as if those invisible waves carried more than just messages. They carried secrets. And maybe, just maybe, danger.
Harry tilted his head, curiosity sparking. "Okay... but how does that even work? I mean, how can a message travel through the air without wires?"
Stephen rested his hands on the edge of the workbench, his voice calm and deliberate. "Think back to that potato experiment you did before. Remember how you made the current flow back and forth between your hands?"
Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah. You said it was like... alternating current. The charge kept switching directions."
"Exactly," Stephen said. "Radio waves work on a similar principle. They're electric oscillations... tiny pushes and pulls of energy... sent out into space. Instead of flowing through a wire, they ripple outward, like waves on water. Only these waves move at the speed of light."
Harry's brow furrowed. "So... it's like my hands were making a really slow wave, and this thing ..." he tapped the radio... "makes a super-fast one?"
Stephen smiled faintly. "That's one way to put it. Your experiment was a few cycles per minute. This?" He turned the dial, and the radio crackled softly. "This runs at millions of cycles per second. High frequency means the wave can carry more information... and travel farther without losing strength."
Harry stared at the device, the hum of its circuits suddenly sounding different. Not just noise, but a heartbeat of invisible energy, pulsing through the air, carrying secrets across continents.
"So, every time you send a message," Harry said slowly, "it's like... throwing a stone into a pond. Only the pond is the whole planet."
Stephen's eyes glinted in the dim light. "And the ripples never stop. They just keep going... until someone who knows how to listen catches them."
Harry swallowed, the thought settling heavy in his chest. Invisible waves, carrying words no one else could hear. It felt like magic... but sharper. Colder. The kind of magic that could save lives... or end them.
Harry frowned, curiosity pulling him closer to the workbench. "But... Guyana's really far away. If the radio wave spreads in every direction, wouldn't the signal be super weak by the time it gets there? How can Aunt Shania even hear you?"
Stephen's mouth curved into a faint smile. "That's why we don't let it spread everywhere. We use a directional antenna array."
Harry tilted his head. "Directional... like a flashlight for radio?"
"Exactly," Stephen said. "Instead of wasting energy in all directions, we concentrate the transmission into a narrow beam. That way, most of the power goes where we want it... straight toward Guyana."
Harry's brow furrowed. "But how do you... aim a wave? It's not like you can point it like a stick."
Stephen reached for a pencil and sketched a quick diagram on a scrap of paper... several antennas in a row, lines radiating outward. "We use multiple antennas, spaced apart. Each one sends the same signal, but with a tiny delay... a phase difference. When those waves overlap, they reinforce each other in one direction and cancel out in others. That's how we steer the beam."
Harry stared at the sketch, trying to picture it. "So, you're basically making the waves gang up in one direction?"
Stephen chuckled. "That's one way to put it. Control the timing, control the direction."
Harry glanced around the barn, then back at the radio. "Okay... so where's this antenna array? I don't see any giant dishes outside."
Stephen's eyes glinted with quiet pride. "You've been looking at it the whole time."
Harry blinked. "What?"
Stephen pointed upward. "The barn roof. That metal framework isn't just holding shingles... it's the antenna. The rest of the structure is isolator, so it doesn't interfere with the signal."
Harry craned his neck, staring at the rafters in a whole new light. "You turned the barn into a giant transmitter?"
Stephen gave a small nod. "When you live off the grid, you learn to make the grid come to you."
Harry let out a low whistle, his mind spinning. Invisible beams slicing through the sky, bouncing off the ionosphere, carrying secrets across oceans... all from the roof over his head. It felt like something out of science fiction... except it was real. And it was theirs.
Harry craned his neck toward the rafters, still trying to wrap his head around the idea of the barn doubling as a giant antenna. Before he could ask another question, Stephen turned to the shelf by the workbench and pulled down a thick, weathered book. Its dark blue cover was stamped with bold silver letters: Radio Communication Handbook.
He set it on the bench with a solid thump. "If you're curious about how radio waves work," Stephen said, sliding the book toward him, "you can start here. It covers everything... oscillators, modulation, antenna theory. Come back to me if something isn't clear."
Harry ran his fingers over the embossed title, the weight of the book almost as heavy as the thought of what it represented. Invisible waves, phase differences, beams slicing through the sky... and now, a manual thick enough to choke a horse.
He gave a crooked grin. "So, summer reading?"
Stephen's mouth twitched into the faintest smile. "Consider it extra credit."
Harry chuckled softly, but as he flipped the book open, the diagrams and equations stared back like a secret language. Somewhere deep down, he knew this wasn't just about curiosity. It was about survival. And maybe, just maybe, about understanding the world his father lived in... the world he was slowly being pulled into.
Harry flipped through the heavy handbook, eyes skimming over diagrams of antennas and waveforms. "This is... a lot," he admitted with a laugh. "Honestly, all of this feels like magic."
Stephen's mouth curved into a faint smile. "That's because any technology advanced enough is indistinguishable from magic." He tapped the book gently. "But it's not magic, Harry. It's science. And science is just understanding the rules well enough to make them useful."
Harry grinned, still running his fingers over the embossed title. "So, you're saying I can learn this?"
"You can," Stephen said firmly. He gestured toward the old wooden cabinet in the corner. "That book is just the start. The rest of my collection is in there. Everything from basic electronics to advanced signal theory. I've been building it since college... through my years as a navy engineer, and later, as a scientist in Project David."
Harry's eyes widened. "All of that... in there?"
Stephen nodded. "Every page earned the hard way. If you're curious, dig in. Come back to me when something doesn't make sense."
Harry felt a spark of excitement flare in his chest, the kind that made his fingers itch to open every book in that cabinet. For a moment, the weight of secrets and danger faded, replaced by something else... possibility. A whole world of knowledge, waiting for him to unlock it.
Harry's excitement was written all over his face as he glanced toward the cabinet. "So, I can read all of that?"
Stephen nodded, but his tone sharpened slightly. "You can. But understand this... some of the material in there is classified. You won't find it in any public library or online forum. These aren't theories I picked up from a blog. I know they're true because they work."
Harry blinked, the weight of those words sinking in. "Classified... like government-level secret?"
Stephen's eyes held his. "Exactly. And one more thing... don't fall into the trap of thinking every explanation you read is the only truth. In science, there can be multiple theories that explain the same phenomenon equally well. That's why we use Occam's razor."
Harry tilted his head. "Occam's... what?"
"Occam's razor," Stephen repeated. "It means when you have two explanations that fit the facts, you choose the one with the fewest assumptions. The simplest path is usually the right one."
He stroked Harry's head, "But the ultimate test of our knowledge is our own continued survival."
And science is just understanding the rules well enough to bend them.No. The rules that science discovers are called rules because we have no evidence of their ever being "bent" or broken..
New sciences emerged when exceptions were found in established rules and accumulated over time.QuoteAnd science is just understanding the rules well enough to bend them.No. The rules that science discovers are called rules because we have no evidence of their ever being "bent" or broken..
The school hallway buzzed with the usual post-lunch chatter, lockers slamming and sneakers squeaking against the tile. Harry was halfway to his next class when Jake caught up to him, breathless and wide-eyed.
"Harry," Jake said, lowering his voice, "I need to tell you something. It's about your dad."
Harry stopped, his pulse skipping. "What happened?"
Jake glanced around, then leaned in. "I overheard my dad on the phone last night. He was talking to your father."
Harry's brow furrowed. "Your dad?"
Jake nodded. "He's a cop. Doesn't talk much about work, but this time... I was close enough to hear."
Harry's stomach tightened. "What did he say?"
Jake hesitated, then whispered, "They found a body in the forest. Or... what was left of one."
Harry's breath caught. "Left of one?"
Jake nodded grimly. "A hunter found it. Said it looked like a wolf attack. A whole pack. The remains were scattered... bones, torn flesh, scraps of clothing. But here's the thing... the hunter didn't report it right away. He buried most of it."
Harry blinked. "Buried it?"
"Yeah," Jake said. "He said it felt wrong to leave it out there. So, he took some pictures, grabbed a bloody piece of the uniform, took out a tooth and buried the rest of what he could collect. My dad said the guy was shaken up. Said it looked like the wolves had been feeding for days."
Harry's mind raced. The cadaver. The planted tooth. The wolves.
Harry forced a casual tone. "Did your dad say anything else?"
Jake shook his head. "Just that he called your father right after. Said he needed to talk, although he wasn't sure if your dad would be interested."
Harry nodded slowly, the pieces clicking into place. The plan was working.
He forced a tight smile. "Thanks for telling me, Jake."
Jake shrugged. "Figured you'd want to know. Your dad's not just some farmer, is he?"
Harry gave a half-smirk. "Depends on who's asking."
The farmhouse kitchen was quiet, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the wooden floor. Harry stood by the counter, arms crossed, watching Stephen rinse out a coffee mug like it was the most normal day in the world.
"Dad," Harry said, voice low but firm. "Jake told me something today. His dad called you to talk about a body in the forest."
Stephen nodded slowly, no surprise in his eyes. "It's true."
Harry's stomach tightened. "But... Why did he call you?"
Stephen said. "Because I asked him to."
Harry blinked. "Wait... you asked him?"
Stephen leaned against the counter, arms folded. "A while back. After you saved Jake's life, his father came here. Thanked me. Said he owed us. I told him if anything unusual ever came through the local station... anything strange, off the books, or hard to explain... I wanted to know."
Harry nodded slowly, the weight of it settling in. "So, the plan worked."
Stephen's voice was calm but edged. "It worked. But now we wait to see who else starts asking questions."
Harry glanced toward the window, the forest beyond it dark and quiet. "And if someone does?"
Stephen's eyes didn't waver. "Then we make sure they don't find anything worth chasing. And you? You've built your own information web without even realizing it."
Harry blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You've got Jake feeding you intel from the police station. You've got Asha watching your back at school. Rowan's got ears everywhere. You're learning how to listen, how to connect dots. That's how it starts."
Harry looked down, unsure whether to feel proud or worried. "I didn't mean to."
Stephen's voice softened. "That's the best kind. The kind that grows naturally. Just remember... information is power. But it's also a responsibility."
The barn was quiet, the late afternoon light slanting through the rafters in golden beams. The centrifuge sat on the workbench, already humming softly, its presence now as familiar as the scent of antiseptic and metal.
Stephen set down a fresh vial and turned to Harry, who was already rolling up his sleeve.
"Time again," Stephen said gently.
Harry nodded, settling onto the stool. "Twice a week. Like clockwork."
Stephen prepped the needle with practiced ease. "We're on track. Thirty doses in fifteen weeks. Enough to keep Kael alive until the implant runs dry."
Harry winced slightly as the needle slid in, but didn't flinch. "Why not more often? Wouldn't that speed things up?"
Stephen shook his head. "Your body needs time to recover. Veins need to regenerate properly. If we push too hard, we risk damaging your system."
Harry glanced at the centrifuge as the vial filled. "So, it's not just about the blood. It's about keeping me stable."
"Exactly," Stephen said. "You're not a machine. You're the only source of Autoclastin we have. If we burn you out, we lose everything."
Harry nodded slowly, watching the red swirl inside the vial. "So, we pace it. Two draws a week. Thirty doses. Thirty weeks of Kael's life."
Stephen capped the vial and slid it into the centrifuge. "And after that, Kael can be free."
Harry leaned back, the weight of the routine settling into his bones. "I hope he will."
Stephen didn't answer. He just watched the machine spin, the hum filling the barn like a heartbeat.
The old barn was barely warmed by the late afternoon sunlight slipping through the gaps in the weathered wood. Stephen stood near the workbench, his hands folded, eyes tracing the faint dust motes swirling in the quiet air. Harry approached, hesitant but steady.
It's been two weeks, Stephen said finally, voice low but steady. "And I need to talk to you about the plan."
Harry's heart tapped unevenly. "Is something wrong?"
Stephen sighed, a weight pressing down on his shoulders. "It's getting clearer every day that keeping Kael disappeared for a whole year... without slipping up... will be harder than I thought."
He paused, measuring his words carefully.
"The forged evidence, the staged death... they buy time. But the longer this goes on, the greater the risk of exposure. Project David... other eyes... they're watching, and they adapt."
Harry swallowed hard, the familiar tightness knotting in his chest.
"So, we're changing the plan." Stephen turned, eyes softening as they met his son's. "Not abandoning Kael. Just... rewriting the playbook."
Harry nodded, determination hardening inside him. "Whatever it takes. We're in this together."
Stephen placed a firm hand on Harry's shoulder. "Together."
The barn settled into silence again, but now the quiet carried a different weight... a promise of change, and the fight yet to come.
Stephen's voice was calm, but the weight behind it pressed like iron.
"Kael's alive because the world believes he's dead. That illusion is his only shield. But it's fragile, Harry. One wrong move, one familiar face in the wrong place... and it shatters."
Harry frowned, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "What if he just... stays out there? In the forest. Away from everyone. No cities, no roads. Just... gone."
Stephen shook his head slowly. "For a while, it might work. A week. A month, maybe two. But the wilderness isn't a sanctuary... it's a slow bleed. No clean water, no steady food, no medicine. Infection, parasites, injuries that don't heal right... they'll wear him down sooner or later."
Harry's chest tightened. "But at least he'd be safe from them."
"Safe?" Stephen's eyes locked on his, sharp as glass. "You think the forest is empty? Rangers patrol those woods. Hunters wander deeper than they should. Hikers chasing adventure. All it takes is one curious civilian with a camera, and Kael's ghost becomes a headline."
Harry swallowed hard, the image flashing in his mind... Kael crouched in the shadows, only to freeze at the click of a camera lens. The plan, the sacrifice, everything... gone in an instant.
Stephen's voice softened, but the steel never left it. "Hiding buys time, Harry. But time isn't freedom. It's just a longer leash."
Stephen leaned against the workbench, arms folded, his gaze steady on Harry. "There's something else you need to understand. Kael's situation isn't just about hiding. It's about trust."
Harry tilted his head. "Trust?"
"Right now," Stephen said, 'Kael's only reason to play dead is survival. He needs Autoclastin, and we're the only source. That's leverage. But when the implant runs dry... when he doesn't need us anymore... what then?"
Harry frowned. "You think he'd turn on us?"
Stephen shook his head slowly. "Not out of malice. Out of instinct. Once the leash is gone, his priorities shift. He'll want to cut every tie that could drag him back into danger. And if someone offers him safety in exchange for information..." Stephen's voice hardened. "Our secret becomes his bargaining chip."
Harry's stomach knotted. "So, what's your plan?"
Stephen stepped closer, his tone calm but edged with steel. "I'm going to make sure Kael has more than survival to fight for. I want him connected to you. Not just by name, not just by circumstance. By choice."
Harry blinked. "Connected... how?"
Stephen's eyes didn't waver. "You're going to be his pupil."
Harry stared, stunned. "His... what?"
"His student," Stephen said firmly. "You'll train under him. Learn from him. Let him teach you what I can't. When a man invests in someone... when he shapes them, protects them... he doesn't walk away. Even when the leash is gone, he'll still want to guard what he helped build."
Harry swallowed hard, the weight of it settling in. "So, you want him to care about me."
"I want him to see you as more than a secret," Stephen said quietly. "I want him to see you as his legacy."
The barn fell silent, the hum of the centrifuge the only sound. Harry's pulse thudded in his ears. He wasn't sure if this plan scared him more... or thrilled him.
Harry stared at his father, disbelief flickering across his face. "You really think Kael will agree to that? To train me? He barely knows me."
Stephen's expression didn't change. "At first, he won't have a choice. His life depends on us. On the supply."
Harry frowned. "That sounds... like forcing him."
"It's not about force," Stephen said evenly. "It's about time. Time for you to show him who you are. Time for him to see more than a name on a file."
Harry crossed his arms, still uneasy. "And if he doesn't care? If he just takes what he needs and disappears the second he's free?"
Stephen stepped closer, his voice low but firm. "That's where you come in. You're not just my son, Harry. You're the reason he's alive. When we tell him the truth... that it was your insistence that made me take this risk... he'll know you didn't have to save him. You chose to. That matters."
Harry blinked, the weight of those words settling in. "You think that'll make him... what? Like me?"
Stephen's mouth curved into the faintest smile. "Not like you. Care about you. Enough to protect you. Enough to stand with you when the leash is gone."
Harry swallowed hard, his pulse quickening. "And if it doesn't work?"
Stephen's eyes didn't waver. "Then we make it work. Because this isn't just about Kael's survival anymore. It's about yours."
After a long pause, "You know, Harry... when Jonas first came to us, I didn't care much about Kael. He was just another soldier. Another risk."
Harry tilted his head. "But you changed your mind?"
Stephen nodded slowly. "I started digging deeper. Looking into his missions, his choices, the people he spared. And the more I learned... the more I saw someone who wasn't just surviving. He was trying to do the right thing. Even when it cost him everything."
Harry was quiet, letting the words settle.
Stephen turned from the window, his gaze steady. "That's when I realized something. If I could come to care about Kael... maybe Kael could come to care about you. Not because he's told to. But because he sees you. Learns who you are."
Harry frowned. "You think that'll protect me?"
"I think it's our best chance," Stephen said. "People protect what they value. If Kael sees you as more than a source of Autoclastin... if he sees you as someone worth guarding... then even when the leash is gone, he'll stay loyal."
Harry nodded slowly, the weight of the idea settling in. "So, we're not just saving him. We're building something."
Stephen gave a faint smile. "Exactly. Trust isn't given. It's built. And it starts with knowing each other."
The barn fell silent, the hum of the centrifuge filling the space like a distant drumbeat. Harry stared at the floor, his mind spinning with questions he wasn't sure he wanted answers to.
Harry hesitated, the question pressing out before he could stop it. "So, does that mean we're inviting Kael here? To the farmhouse?"
Stephen's answer was immediate. "No. That would be too risky... for him and for us. If anyone from Project David starts sniffing around, this place becomes a trap."
Harry frowned. "Then where? Where's he supposed to train me?"
Stephen's gaze held his, calm but firm. "Guyana. During your summer break."
Harry blinked. "Guyana? As in... Aunt Shania's place?"
Stephen nodded once. "It's remote enough to keep him off the radar, but not so isolated that he'll starve or get sick. And it gives us cover... you visiting family is the perfect excuse."
Harry's mind spun. "Okay... but how do we even get him there? He can't exactly book a flight."
"I've already managed it," Stephen said. "I reached out to Sam. Asked if Kael could stay with them until the leash runs out. Sam agreed. He's arranging the accommodation as we speak."
Harry exhaled slowly, trying to picture it... Kael in Guyana, training him under the thick canopy of rainforest, far from the eyes of Project David. It sounded like something out of a spy novel? only this time, he was in it.
Stephen's voice cut through his thoughts, steady and final. "This isn't just a trip, Harry. It's the start of something bigger. If Kael's going to protect you when the leash is gone, it begins there. That's also where he will get the next batch of Autoclastin. He wouldn't want to miss it."
Harry nodded, the weight of the plan settling on his shoulders like armour. Summer break had never sounded so dangerous.
Harry leaned against the workbench, his brow furrowed. "So, how do we even tell Kael about this new plan? We can't exactly text him."
Stephen's mouth curved into a faint, humourless smile. "We don't. Jonas does. He's been the messenger all along."
Harry blinked. "Jonas? You mean? he's still in contact with Kael?"
Stephen nodded. "Always has been. That's how Kael's been getting updates, and how I've been getting mine."
Harry frowned, the pieces clicking together. "But... how do you know that? How do you know where Jonas even is?"
Stephen's eyes hardened. "Because I tracked him. From the evidence he brought me... the satchel, the files, the recorder. Every object carries a trail if you know where to look."
Harry's stomach tightened. "So, you found him."
"I did," Stephen said quietly. "And that's when I realized something important."
Harry tilted his head. "What?"
"That this plan isn't airtight," Stephen said, his voice low and deliberate. "If I can find Jonas, someone else can too. And if they do, Kael's ghost story ends."
Harry stared at him, the truth settling like a stone in his chest. "Is that why you changed the plan?"
Stephen gave a single, sharp nod. "Exactly. We need to adapt to new situations and take uncertainties into account. The world doesn't stay still, Harry. Neither can we."
Harry swallowed hard, the weight of it pressing down. "So, what now?"
Stephen's gaze didn't waver. "Now, we make sure Kael has more than survival to keep him loyal. We make sure he has something worth protecting."
Summer break finally came. Stephen and Harry flied to Guyana as planned.
The rented car's tires hummed steadily on the uneven road as Stephen steered through the outskirts of Georgetown, the city fading behind them while the dense Guyanese jungle crept closer on all sides. Harry sat beside him, the tension in the air as thick as the humid heat pressing against the closed windows.
"We should be close to Jonestown soon," Stephen said, eyes fixed on the winding road ahead. "Not far now."
Harry nodded, his fingers tapping nervously on his knee. "I still can't believe we're actually here."
Suddenly, headlights flashed across the narrow two-lane road ahead, accompanied by the screech of brakes and a sickening metallic crunch. Stephen slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a stop just short of the wreckage... a battered bus lay jammed against an overturned truck, shattered glass glinting in the fading light.
The rented car pulled up to the side of the road, the tangled wreckage of the bus and truck crash barely a few yards away. Passengers from the bus were hustled to safety, some staggering, others carried by grim-faced rescuers. The air was thick with smoke, screams, and the distant wail of sirens struggling to reach the remote stretch of road.
Harry's eyes widened as people spilled out from the bus, some limping, others bleeding from cuts and bruises. The air was thick with cries, confusion, and the sharp scent of diesel and dust.
Stephen climbed out of the car, Harry close behind, both drawn into the chaotic scene despite the heat and tension. Their eyes were caught by the distressed woman clutching a crying baby
The woman's frantic screams pierced through the chaos. Her voice cracking with desperation as she staggered toward a man moving swiftly among the injured. He wore the faded green jacket of a paramedic, his hands busy distributing coloured triage tags.
"Please! Save my husband, give him a chance!" she cried, gripping the man by the arm.
The paramedic's face was solemn, his eyes flicking briefly toward a man lying motionless inside the wreck of the bus. He got a black triage tag... the mark of the hopeless.
"I'm sorry," the paramedic said quietly, voice tired, his gaze meeting the woman's tear-filled eyes. "He's been triaged black. We're past the point where life-saving is possible."
"No! You can't just let him die!" the woman sobbed, shaking him. "You must do something!"
The paramedic swallowed hard but didn't waver. He moved on quickly to assist others, his figure a solemn pillar amid the disorder. But the women didn't give up and keep following him.
Stephen glanced at Harry, who sat frozen, his youthful face tightened with shock and confusion. "Sometimes," Stephen said softly, "the hardest part of saving lives is knowing when you can't. The triage system is cruel but necessary... to save as many as possible."
Harry swallowed, the sight burning into his memory... the desperate prayer of a wife met with cold facts, the line between hope and reality drawn in black and red tags.
Stephen stepped forward, his sharp gaze meeting the paramedic's. "Why black? What happened?"
The paramedic glanced at the victim... a man lying pale, chest rising faintly. "Cardiac arrest. He went into ventricular fibrillation. We need a defibrillator to restart his heart, but there's none available out here... no resources within reach."
Stephen's face tightened with understanding, the harsh reality of limited medical capability settling over him like a shadow. "So, no shock, no chance."
"Exactly," the paramedic answered grimly. "Without the machine, nothing we do can bring him back. We have to focus on those we can save."
The woman's sobs caught in her throat. She clung tighter to the baby as Stephen placed a steady hand on Harry's shoulder.
"Sometimes saving lives isn't about miracles," Stephen said quietly. "It's about hard choices and knowing your limits."
Harry looked away, the brutal truth weighing heavy in his young chest as the paramedic moved on to the next injured.
Stephen stepped gently between the woman and the paramedic, raising a hand to halt her frantic approach. "Please, ma'am. Don't disturb him while he's working." His voice was calm but firm, carrying the weight of command.
Her tears welled anew, her cries desperate. Stephen softened slightly but stayed resolute. "I promise we'll do everything we can to help your husband, but I can't guarantee the outcome. We must move quickly... there's no time to waste."
The woman's shoulders sagged, reluctant acceptance in her eyes. She nodded, swallowing her fear but clinging fiercely to hope.
"Dad, what exactly is that thing he said? The one needed to save her husband... the defib-what?"
Stephen turned from packing away the medical gear and smiled softly. "A defibrillator, Harry. It's a machine that sends an electric shock to the heart."
Harry's eyes widened. "Why? What does it do?"
Stephen crouched down beside him, speaking with patient care. "Sometimes, when a person's heart stops or beats irregularly, it needs a strong jolt to get back on track. The shock helps restore the heart's natural rhythm. Without it, the heart can't pump blood properly."
Harry tapped his chest lightly, the weight of that knowledge sinking in. "So, it's like jump-starting a car, but for our heart?"
Stephen nodded. "Exactly. You could say it's a way to restart someone's heart safely when it falters."
Harry looked thoughtful for a moment, then grinned with a flicker of determination. "Maybe I can help with that. You saw how my shocks work. If I can control it, I could be like a living defibrillator."
Stephen's eyes flicked up, a mixture of pride and caution in his gaze. "That's why I'm training you, Harry. To be ready for moments just like this. But it's a huge responsibility."
Harry squared his shoulders. "I'm ready. I want to help."
Stephen smiled wider, ruffling his son's hair. "Good. Because the world's going to need all the help it can get."
Stephen turned toward Harry. "Help me get him out of the bus. We'll lay him down here, where we can work more freely."
With careful, steady hands, Stephen and Harry lifted the injured man from the wreckage. His face was pale, bruised, and he breathed shallowly.
As they laid him down on the open ground, the woman knelt beside her husband, clutching his hand tightly. Her voice broke with emotion. "He used his body to protect me and our baby when the bus crashed. He shielded us." She looked up pleadingly at Stephen. "He deserves a chance to live."
Stephen met her gaze, the fierce love shining through her tears unmistakable. "I know. We'll do everything possible."
The urgency of their task pressed on them all, but beneath it, a fragile thread of hope held fast.
Stephen dropped to his knees beside the man and quickly checked for a pulse and breathing. Finding neither, his expression tightened. "He's unresponsive. No breath. No heartbeat."
Without hesitation, Stephen began chest compressions, hands steady and pressing hard and fast into the man's chest. His face was calm but focused, every movement precise.
"Harry," Stephen said, not looking away from the patient. "I need you to help me."
Harry nodded, alert and ready.
Stephen took a deep breath, then instructed, "Place your hands on the man's chest. We're going to send an electric shock."
Harry hesitated for a moment. "How strong? And how long should I hold it?"
Stephen's gaze met his, steady and sure. "Start with a short pulse, about half strength. Not too long. We'll watch how he responds, then adjust."
Harry nodded, steadying himself. He channelled his bioelectric energy through his hands into the man's chest. A faint crackle sparked, the pulse short and sharp.
Stephen's eyes scanned the man's chest and face for any sign of reaction... a flutter, a gasp.
"No response yet," Stephen said quietly. "Prepare for another pulse if needed, but keep it controlled."
Harry's hands tingled with the residual energy, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The weight of responsibility sharpened every sense.
Stephen kept his rhythm steady, chest compressions pressing deep and unrelenting into the man's chest.
After a few more compressions, he glanced at Harry. "Alright, one more shock. This time, increase the strength closer to full. Keep the pulse short."
Harry took a steadying breath, his hands crisp with bioelectric energy. He sent the stronger pulse through his hands into the patient's chest. A crackling energy surged, sharper and more intense.
"No response yet," Stephen murmured, resuming compressions.
They repeated the shock two more times, each one stronger and precise. Harry felt the strain in his arms, the weight of focus heavy.
On the third shock, a faint flutter stirred beneath their hands. The man's chest gave a shallow heave.
Stephen's eyes lit. "I've got a pulse! And... he's starting to breathe!"
Harry exhaled, relief washing over him as the man coughed weakly, colour tinting his face.
Stephen gave a nod of approval. "Good. Keep monitoring. We're not out of the woods yet."
Together, they stayed vigilant, ready to act again if needed, but the signs of life held strong.
Stephen's voice was calm but firm as he looked at the woman, still shaken but grateful. "I'm glad he's going to be okay."
She nodded, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Thank you... both of you. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't come when you did."
Stephen hesitated, then added carefully, "But what happened here... how we saved him... needs to stay between us."
The woman frowned slightly, confusion flickering in her gaze. "Why? I just want everyone to know you helped us."
Harry spoke softly, "Sometimes things have to stay quiet to keep people safe."
She looked between them, searching their faces for a hint of explanation. Stephen's eyes held hers steadily.
"It's for his protection. And for yours." Stephen said quietly. "Promise me you won't tell anyone the details."
After a long moment, the woman nodded slowly, resolve settling in. "I promise."
Harry gave a small smile. "Thank you."
Stephen's expression softened just a little. "Good. That's the right choice. But next time, don't interfere with the paramedics again in emergency situations. They have procedures to maximize the chance of saving people."
Stephen's tone grew instructional as he turned to Harry, "We need to keep working on the others... first aid, keep them calm, stop any bleeding. You ready?"
Harry nodded, determination settling over his features. Together, they moved through the crowd, Stephen showing Harry how to check pulses, clean wounds, and apply pressure.
Minutes passed, hours it seemed, until the distant wail of sirens filled the air. The ambulance arrived, staffed with medical professionals who swiftly took over. Stephen and Harry stepped back, letting the experts do their work.
As they made their way out of the chaos, Stephen's voice lowered to a more personal tone. "I should tell you something, Harry. When I promised the woman we'd save her husband, I didn't mean to... I said it just to keep her from interfering with the paramedics."
Harry looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes.
Stephen continued, "But then the paramedic told us what was needed. Your ability to generate electric shock gave us a real chance. I realized... maybe we could save him after all."
He nodded toward the direction of the ambulance. "And then his wife's story... the way she talked about his unselfishness... it strengthened my decision. We have saved a good man."
Harry felt a swell of pride, mixed with the heavy weight of responsibility.
Stephen gave him a steady look. "We did good today, son. We gave someone more time. And that's what counts."
Harry nodded, but his eyes lingered on the ambulance as it pulled away. "What if we hadn't made it in time?" he asked quietly. "What if the shock didn't work?"
Stephen placed a hand on his shoulder, firm and steady. "Then we would've still done everything we could. That's what matters, Harry. Not the outcome. The effort."
Harry frowned slightly. "But it would've felt like failure."
Stephen shook his head. "Failure only stings when you know you didn't give your all. But we did. You did. And today, we were lucky. But even if we hadn't been... you should never carry guilt for doing your best."
Harry looked up, the weight of those words settling in. "So, trying is enough?"
"Trying with everything you've got," Stephen said. "That's more than enough."
Harry nodded slowly, but the weight of the moment lingered. "It still feels cruel. That black tag... it's like giving up."
Stephen's gaze didn't waver. "It is cruel. Especially to the ones who get it. But the triage system wasn't built to be kind... it was built to be effective. One death is a tragedy. A million deaths? Just statistics. That's the cold truth of crisis management."
Harry frowned. "But shouldn't we try anyway? Even if the odds are bad?"
Stephen placed a hand on his shoulder. "We should. And we did. But we can't let emotion cloud judgment. In a disaster, saving one life at the cost of ten isn't mercy... it's miscalculation. The rule exists for a reason. It's not about fairness. It's about survival."
You might found some similarities with my story here, where a system relies on a pair of chemicals.
0:00 An Unusual Enemy
5:18 Monsanto?s Secret Poison Problem
11:17 Vietnam and Agent Orange
14:08 Roundup
19:31 How Monsanto controls seeds
26:06 The Crop Mafia
31:10 The Monsanto Papers
41:18 How dangerous is Roundup really?
The humid air hung heavy as Stephen and Harry walked slowly through the courtyard of the people's temple, the vibrant colours and intricate carvings a stark contrast to the sombre history held within its walls.
Stephen stopped beneath the shade of an ancient tree, his gaze distant. "This temple," he began quietly, "was once a place of hope... a beacon for people hungry for peace and belonging."
Harry looked around, sensing the weight in his father's tone. "What happened here?"
Stephen's eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a solemn hush. "Years ago, thousands gathered here, united by a shared vision and the power of belief. But that belief... so fervent, so absolute... became a cage."
He gestured to the worn stone beneath their feet. "Led by a charismatic leader, they placed their faith in a promise of salvation, a world beyond pain and struggle. But blind conviction, unguarded by reason or doubt, can be as dangerous as any weapon."
Stephen's fingers traced the edge of a carved relief depicting faces frozen in despair. "This place witnessed one of the darkest moments... a mass suicide rooted not in despair, but in the refusal to question, to think critically. Thousands took their own lives, convinced it was the only path to freedom."
His voice cracked with the memory. "Critical thinking was drowned by fanaticism. Reason was sacrificed on the altar of blind faith."
Harry swallowed hard, the horror settling deep in his chest. "So many... trusted without question?"
"Exactly," Stephen said softly. "And history teaches us this: beliefs, no matter how hopeful, must always be tempered with scepticism and reflection. Otherwise, they can lead to destruction instead of salvation."
He looked into Harry's eyes, his expression serious but filled with quiet hope. "We come here not just to honour those lost, but to remember why we must choose a better way. To question, to think, and to guard our minds fiercely."
Stephen rested a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Let the tragedy here be a warning, Harry. History demands we learn from it, so the cycle never repeats."
The temple's silent air seemed to hum with the weight of those lessons, a fragile reminder of the power... and peril... of belief.
The warm humidity wrapped around them as Harry and Stephen stepped into the open courtyard of the people's temple nestled deep within the Guyanese rainforest. The intricate carvings and colourful flags fluttering in the breeze seemed to hum with a quiet reverence.
Harry glanced around at the serene faces of the gathered worshippers, then turned to his father, a question that had been gnawing at him rising to the surface.
?Dad,? Harry asked hesitantly, ?do you believe in God??
Stephen?s eyes softened as he studied the temple?s sacred symbols, then back at Harry. ?It depends on what they say.?
Harry frowned slightly. ?I mean... do you believe that God exists? Really??
Stephen smiled faintly, his gaze thoughtful. ?I?m pretty sure that gods exist. At least in people?s minds.?
He took a slow breath, the sounds of chanting floating through the air around them. ?Even if they don?t, the power of belief is so strong that we will create one. Or more.?
Harry considered his father?s words, the weight of them settling deep within him as the temple?s peaceful aura collided with the complexity of his own tangled thoughts about faith, power, and purpose.
The road stretched like a scar through the jungle, silent except for the hum of cicadas. Stephen eased the car off the asphalt and rolled it several meters into the undergrowth. The tires crunched softly on dry leaves before coming to a stop beneath a canopy of tangled branches.
Harry glanced around, uneasy.
"Why are we stopping here? Uncle Sam's supposed to pick us up, right?"
Stephen killed the engine and checked his watch. "He will. A few miles from the temple."
Harry frowned. "Then why not wait on the road?"
Stephen's eyes scanned the tree line, sharp and calculating. "Because if someone's tailing us, I'd rather find out now than when Sam shows up."
Harry leaned back, exhaling. "Great. So, we're just... sitting ducks?"
"Not exactly." Stephen stepped out, grabbed a folded sheet from the trunk, and shook it open. The fabric shimmered in a mottled green-and-brown pattern.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Camouflage? Seriously?"
Stephen didn't answer. He draped the cover over the car, tucking the edges into the underbrush until the vehicle melted into the jungle floor. Then he crouched low, listening.
Minutes crawled by. The forest whispered with wind and distant bird calls. Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Half an hour of this? You're paranoid."
Stephen's voice was calm, almost cold. "Paranoia keeps you alive."
Before Harry could reply, the low growl of an engine broke the stillness. Headlights flickered through the trees. A dark shape rolled into view... a Bronco, mud-splattered and rugged, slowing as it approached their position.
Harry tensed. "That's him?"
Stephen's hand hovered near his sidearm. "We'll see."
The Bronco stopped. The driver leaned out, grinning beneath a sweat-streaked cap. "Need a lift, gentlemen?"
Harry exhaled in relief. "Uncle Sam."
Stephen gave a curt nod, then motioned to Harry. "Let's move."
They slipped from the shadows and climbed in. Sam gunned the engine, the Bronco surging forward, swallowing the road ahead. Behind them, the jungle closed in, hiding the secrets they left behind.
The car rumbled along the narrow dirt road, the jungle pressing close on either side. After a few miles, Harry leaned forward, squinting through the windshield. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood by the roadside, a sniper rifle slung across his back. His stance was calm, but there was a sharpness in the way his eyes scanned the horizon.
Harry's pulse quickened. "Who's that?" he asked, his voice low but edged with curiosity.
Sam didn't take his eyes off the road. "That's Kael," he said evenly. "He's been watching us from a hill with his telescope... just in case someone decided to follow."
Harry blinked, glancing back at the man as they slowed to a stop. Kael's presence radiated quiet authority, the kind that didn't need words to make itself known. His jacket was worn, his boots caked with mud, and the rifle on his back looked like it had seen more battles than Harry could imagine.
Sam rolled the window down and gave a short nod. "All clear?"
Kael returned the nod without a word, then stepped forward. In one smooth motion, he swung the rifle off his shoulder and climbed into the back seat beside Harry. The weight of his presence filled the cab like a silent storm.
Harry shifted slightly, stealing a glance at the man who had been the centre of so many whispered conversations. Kael's eyes were sharp, but there was something else in them too... something Harry couldn't quite name.
Harry cleared his throat. "So, you're Kael."
Kael's gaze flicked toward him, cool and assessing. "And you're the kid who fried Jonas."
Harry stiffened. "He attacked me first."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Kael's mouth. "Good answer. Never apologize for surviving."
Harry frowned. "I wasn't apologizing."
Kael studied him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. "Good. Keep it that way."
The silence stretched, heavy but not hostile. Harry's curiosity burned hotter than his nerves. "Why were you watching us from a hill?"
Kael's eyes drifted back to the road behind them. "Because the people hunting me don't quit. And if they follow you, they'll find me too. I was there to make sure none of us end up dead."
Sam's voice cut through the tension from the driver's seat. "Enough talk. Buckle up. We've got a long drive ahead."
The engine growled, and the car rolled forward again, carrying them deeper into the unknown... toward Sam's house, and whatever waited beyond.
The weight of his presence filled the cab like a silent stormOFGS.
Some storytelling advices said that hyperboles are common tools to grab audience's attention. But those who are already interested to the story may not need them.QuoteThe weight of his presence filled the cab like a silent stormOFGS.
I see that at least one AI company has now been fined for using copyright material for training without acknowledgement. Whether legitimately or not, your chosen chatbot seems to have been trained on the worst kind of cheap bodice-rippers. Please don't let it spoil a good story with more bad writing.
Harry leaned against the car's window as the dirt road curved through dense green. The endless forest pressed close on either side, the air heavy with the scent of wet earth and leaves. He had been quiet for a while, watching the shadows slide across the glass, but finally he turned to Sam.
"Uncle Sam... why Guyana? Out of all the places in the world, why here?"
Sam kept his eyes on the road, one hand steady on the wheel. "Because the best place to hide a leaf is in the forest."
Harry tilted his head. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Sam's mouth curved into the faintest grin. "Look around. People here look like us. They talk like us. English is their first language, and their mix of backgrounds means no one questions where you came from. In the city, in the villages, you blend. No one stares too long."
He shifted gears, the engine rumbling low. "Other countries? Maybe we'd stand out. Too pale, too dark, wrong accent, wrong walk. But here? We can pass as locals or just travellers. Invisible in plain sight."
Harry glanced out at the thick forest again, the words settling in his chest. Invisible in plain sight. It sounded simple, but it also felt like more than just geography... it was survival.
Sam added, quieter this time, "And because I know this land. Fought here once. Survived here. If trouble comes, I can lose a man in these trees before he even knows he's being hunted."
Harry nodded slowly, but another thought pushed forward. "And Kael? Where's he staying?"
Sam gave a short nod. "He's been staying in my house for a few weeks now. Your dad arranged it that way. Kept him close, but hidden, while we worked out the next steps."
Harry's eyes widened, surprise mixing with unease. "So, all this was part of the plan?"
"Every part," Sam said firmly. "Your father doesn't leave things to chance."
Harry shivered, but it wasn't fear. It was the weight of trust. If Sam said they'd be safe here, then they would be.
The Bronco rumbled up the narrow dirt track, its headlights cutting through the wall of shadows. The forest seemed endless, but then a clearing opened, and Sam's house came into view ... a low wooden structure with a wraparound porch, its windows glowing warmly against the night.
Harry leaned forward, pressing his face to the glass. The scent of woodsmoke reached him before the tires even rolled to a stop. After everything they'd just been through, the sight of a lighted home felt almost unreal.
The car jolted as Sam killed the engine. Before Harry could move, the front door swung open. Aunt Shania stepped out onto the porch, her silhouette framed by the glow behind her.
"Harry," she called, her voice carrying a warmth that wrapped around his name. She came down the steps quickly, skirts brushing against her legs, and pulled him into a hug the moment he stepped out.
"Thank you for coming," she said softly, her accent lilting but clear. "You don't know what it means to see you safe."
Harry blinked, still caught off guard by the embrace. "Uh... you're welcome?" he managed, his voice muffled against her shoulder.
Behind them, Stephen closed the car door and gave Shania a small nod of greeting. Sam only grunted in acknowledgment.
Harry glanced back toward the Bronco. Kael hadn't moved. He sat in the passenger seat, scanning the dark tree lines around them. He took a binocular from his bag and scanned around once more.
Sam noticed too. "He'll keep watch a while," he said simply, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Just to be sure we weren't followed."
Harry swallowed, a flicker of unease running through him. Even here, with warm lights and family waiting, the shadows felt thick with unseen eyes.
Shania rested a hand on his arm, her smile easing the tension. "Come inside, Harry. You must be tired."
Harry hesitated only a moment before letting her guide him toward the porch, the night air pressing at his back like something that didn't want to let go.
The smell of roasted herbs and stew filled the cabin as Shania laid the last dish on the table.
"Alright, everyone, eat before it gets cold," she said, her voice warm but firm.
Harry and Stephen had just finished setting their bags down when they joined her. Kael lingered a little longer at the doorway, scanning the tree line one last time before finally slipping inside. His shoulders eased only slightly as he sat at the edge of the table.
For a while, the clink of spoons and the steady crackle of the fireplace replaced the tension of the road. Harry ate quickly, appetite sharpened by the long day, but his curiosity itched louder than his hunger.
He glanced at Kael, who had set a pair of compact binoculars on the chair beside him. "Hey... when you were out there, you could still see things moving, right? I mean, it's almost pitch-black outside. How did you even spot them?"
Kael dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin, then lifted the binoculars with two fingers. "This isn't ordinary glass. It amplifies the light that's already there... moonlight, starlight, even the glow from distant towns. The signal is weak, but the tool makes it strong enough for the eye to read."
Harry leaned forward, intrigued. "So, it's like... boosting the volume, but with light instead of sound?"
A faint smile tugged at Kael's lips. "That's one way to put it." He set the device down again. "That's one kind of night vision. The other common type doesn't rely on visible light at all... it reads heat. Infrared thermal imaging. Living bodies shine like lanterns against the cooler background."
Stephen nodded slowly, following the explanation. Shania kept quiet, listening as she cleared a few empty bowls.
Harry's brow furrowed. "So... which one's better?"
Kael folded his arms, the firelight sharpening the lines on his face. "Neither. Each has its own strengths and weaknesses. Amplified light shows you shapes, details, sometimes even colours... but it fails if there's no light at all. Thermal imaging sees through darkness and camouflage, but it can't show fine features. Just heat signatures. The trick is knowing when to use which."
Harry's eyes glimmered with interest, the lesson slipping into his memory as naturally as breathing.
Kael rested the binoculars on the table, letting Harry get a closer look at the dull green lenses.
"Light-amplifying scopes like this are great if there's even a sliver of moon or starlight," he said. "They give you detail... shapes of weapons, facial features, even writing on signs if you're close enough. That's why scouts favour them. But there's a catch."
Harry tilted his head. "What kind of catch?"
"If the sky's cloudy, or you're underground, or the enemy knows what they're doing and kills every light source, then amplification has nothing to work with. You end up staring into green static."
Harry blinked. "So that's when the thermal kind comes in?"
Kael nodded. "Exactly. Infrared imagers detect heat instead of light. Every warm body... human, animal, even a running engine... shows up as a bright silhouette. Doesn't matter if it's pitch black, foggy, or if someone's hiding under brush. If they're warm, they glow."
"That sounds way better," Harry said, eyes wide.
Kael's tone hardened, his soldier's pragmatism cutting through. "Better in some ways, worse in others. Thermal can't see through glass... it just reflects heat back like a mirror. It also struggles in hot environments, like deserts or jungles at noon, where everything radiates heat. You get a soup of bright shapes, and distinguishing friend from foe becomes guesswork. And it won't show you fine details, like what weapon a person's carrying."
Stephen gave a small nod, adding quietly, "Which can mean the difference between avoiding a fight and walking into one."
Harry's expression turned thoughtful. "So, the smart move is to use both?"
Kael allowed himself a faint smile. "Now you're thinking like a soldier. Professionals carry both tools if they can. First use thermal to sweep the area... see if anyone's alive out there. Then switch to light-amplification to identify what you're actually looking at. One gives you presence, the other gives you detail. Together, they keep you alive."
Harry absorbed every word, glancing once at the binoculars as though they were a window into a hidden world.
Harry leaned back in his chair, still turning Kael's words over in his head. He thought about the faint rustles he saw on the way here... small shapes darting through grass or branches. Squirrels, bats, field mice. He didn't realize that people like Stephen couldn't see them in the darkness of the night.
Stephen's calm voice broke the silence. "That's because you already have enhanced night vision built into you. Compared to normal humans, your retinas pick up far more light. They are also sensitive to infrared light. That's why you notice small mammals others would miss."
Harry frowned, resting his chin on his palm. "But it's not that good. I can tell something's moving out there, but I can't see the details. Just shadows."
Stephen nodded. "That's normal. Think of it like muscles. If you don't train them, they stay weak. The same goes for your eyes. The more you practice, the more sensitive they'll become. Over time, you'll pick out outlines, textures, even movement patterns in near total darkness."
Kael raised a brow, his expression sharpening. "So that's another gift from Project David."
Stephen's gaze hardened slightly. "One of the earliest enhancements, yes. Night vision was prioritized because it's simple and effective. Soldiers who see in the dark don't just fight better... they own the battlefield when the enemy can't see them at all."
Harry's eyes widened a little. "So even Uncle Sam has it?"
"Of course," Stephen said. His tone carried a note of memory, distant but edged with respect. "Even first-generation soldiers were given it. That's how Sam found you in the forest back then... and built the trap you walked into. He could see every move in the dark when you couldn't."
The fire crackled in the hearth, shadows swaying across the cabin walls. Harry sat quietly, the weight of the revelation pressing on him. His night vision wasn't just a quirk. It was a legacy... a tool, a weapon, a reminder of where he came from.
Sam had been quiet through most of the discussion, arms folded as he leaned back in his chair. Now he spoke, his voice carrying the calm authority Harry knew from training. "Stephen's right. When I caught you that first time in the woods, Harry, I wasn't just relying on my eyes. I was prepared. I wore gloves, a uniform treated to block my body heat from leaking into the night. To your eyes... or any thermal scope... I was just another shadow. You, on the other hand, were out there in a plain T-shirt, glowing like a lantern. You never stood a chance."
Harry's cheeks flushed, but Sam's tone wasn't mocking... just matter of fact, the same way he explained a counter during sparring.
"Jonas failed where I succeeded," Sam went on, "because he didn't know who he was dealing with. He underestimated you. He came at you blind, without preparation. That's why you walked away standing while he hit the ground."
Kael gave a low hum, acknowledging the truth.
Sam's eyes narrowed slightly, his words slower, deliberate. "There's an old saying from Sun Tzu's The Art of War:
"If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.?"
The words hung in the warm air of the cabin, heavier than the smoke curling from the hearth.
Harry sat up straighter, letting them sink in. He thought about his fight with Jonas... the adrenaline, the desperate counter, the electric surge. He'd won, but barely, and not by understanding. Just by instinct.
Sam leaned forward, his gaze steady on Harry. "That's why training matters. Tools matter. Preparation matters. It keeps the element of surprise on your side instead of against you. Luck may save you once or twice, but knowledge... about yourself and about your enemy... that's what keeps you alive in the long run. "
Harry nodded silently, though inside his thoughts burned hotter than the fire in the hearth. He's right. I can't keep relying on luck or raw power. If I really want to protect Dad... Asha... even people like Kael who are running out of time... I need to be sharper. Faster. Smarter.
He clenched his fists under the table, determination hardening inside him. If night vision is a muscle, then I'll train it until I can see through every shadow. If strategy is a weapon, I'll sharpen it until it cuts through lies as easily as blades cut flesh. Because one day, the people I care about will need me... and I can't afford to fail them.
The fire popped in the hearth, but Harry hardly noticed. In that moment, he wasn't just listening to Sam's lesson... he was making a vow.
The conversation slowed, the air in the cabin settling into a thoughtful quiet. Then Stephen reached down beside his chair, unzipping the worn canvas bag he'd carried in. He set a small glass bottle on the table, the clear container clinking lightly against the wood.
Inside, thirty pale capsules caught the firelight.
Kael's breath hitched almost imperceptibly. His hand hovered for a moment before he picked it up, fingers closing carefully around the bottle as though it might vanish if he held it too tightly.
"That's thirty doses," Stephen said evenly. "One a week. It will carry you thirty weeks forward... long enough to buy time, maybe even long enough to carve out your freedom."
Kael swallowed hard. "I... I don't know what to say." He bowed his head slightly. "Thank you."
Stephen shook his head, his gaze steady. "Don't thank me. Thank Harry."
Kael blinked, lifting his eyes toward the boy.
Stephen continued, his tone firmer. "I was hesitant. Ready to let the project's leash claim you. Harry's the one who insisted we save you. Without his voice, I would've chosen differently." He let the words hang for a beat before adding, "And without his help, I wouldn't have been able to prepare the doses in time."
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding Kael's searching gaze. Neither he nor Stephen mentioned the truth... that every capsule had its origin in Harry's veins, spun out through careful work and quiet sacrifice. That secret stayed buried beneath the simple story Stephen had offered.
Kael's jaw worked, the lines on his face softening for the first time since he'd entered the cabin. "Then... thank you, Harry," he said at last, voice rough but sincere. "You may have just given me more than time. You may have given me a chance at living free."
Harry lifted his head, meeting his eyes. For a second, he saw not the hardened soldier, but a man clutching hope like a fragile ember.
He nodded, quietly. "Just... make it count."
The warmth of Kael's gratitude faded into silence. Stephen leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, his expression sharpening again into the cool mask of a strategist.
"There's something else you should know," he said. "I didn't just take your word about the mission you abandoned. I pulled at the threads myself. And I found who gave the order."
Kael's posture stiffened. "Who?"
"Congressman Lucas Pierce," Stephen said flatly.
The name hung in the air like a sour taste.
Kael frowned, eyes narrowing. "Pierce? How is an American congressman tied to Veridia? The mission was supposed to destabilize their politics, not ours."
Stephen gave a slow nod. "That's what I asked too. So, I followed the money trail between the Republic of Veridia and Pierce's accounts. Donations, contracts, aid packages, corporate ties. I combed through five years of transactions." He tapped the table once, deliberate. "And I found nothing."
Kael leaned forward, his jaw tight. "Nothing? You're telling me a sitting congressman signs off on a black op in another sovereign country, and there's no financial trail? No payoff? No leverage?"
"Not through conventional channels," Stephen said. His tone was even, but there was steel beneath it. "No bribes. No offshore accounts. Not even the usual shell corporations. If money moved, it was hidden deep or laundered through something cleaner than most governments dare touch."
Kael's brow furrowed, suspicion cutting into his voice. "So, either Pierce is covering his tracks better than anyone we've seen... or he wasn't doing it for money at all."
Harry frowned. "Then why would he do it? What's the point?"
Stephen's gaze turned distant, voice lower, as though he were drawing on scars of memory. "In my experience, the strongest incentive for a politician to make reckless decisions isn't money. It's survival. Staying in power at any cost."
He leaned forward slightly; his eyes fixed on Kael. "I've seen this before. Years ago, a foreign governor pushed for a military strike against what he called an insurgent base. Claimed it was a matter of national security. In reality, it was a cover-up. That 'insurgent camp' was a place where witnesses worked... people who could expose crimes he'd committed during his early career. His own coalition discovered the truth and blackmailed him. Either he ordered the strike, or they would destroy his political career. So, he sacrificed a building full of people to save himself."
The fire cracked sharply in the hearth, underscoring the silence that followed.
Kael's jaw tightened, his knuckles pale against the glass bottle he still held. "So, you think Pierce?"
"I think," Stephen said coldly, "that Pierce was cornered. Not bribed, not bought. Blackmailed. And if that's true, then whoever holds his leash is the one we should be worried about."
Harry felt a chill work its way down his spine. He thought he understood villains before... men chasing money, power, weapons. But the idea of leaders killing to hide their own sins... it made the world feel darker than any battlefield.
Kael's brows drew together. "That governor you mentioned... how were you connected to that mess? You sound like you saw it up close."
Stephen's gaze dropped for a moment, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass before he answered. "Because one of the survivors came to me for help."
Harry leaned forward slightly.
"She was a volunteer medical worker," Stephen continued, his tone quiet but edged with memory. "Part of a UN relief team. When the first strike hit... a hospital claimed to be sheltering terrorists... she rushed in as a first responder. Hundreds were inside. Women, children, staff. Most of them never had a chance."
Kael's jaw clenched, but Stephen kept going.
"She was only twenty meters away when the second strike landed. A double tap. Standard tactic when the goal isn't just destruction, but to kill rescuers too." His voice hardened. "She would've died right there if not for a US Army captain assigned to the UN peacekeeping mission. He physically stopped her, dragged her back, shielded her from the blast with his own body. He took the hit instead."
Stephen's eyes flicked toward the firelight. "The shrapnel nearly blinded him. Left a scar across his right eye he'll carry for life. She never forgave herself for ignoring his orders to stay back."
Harry's mind worked over the details, his thoughts racing. A volunteer medic. A captain scarred across the eye. His heart thudded as the pieces clicked together.
"Wait..." Harry said softly. "Are you talking about Asha's parents?"
Stephen turned his gaze to his son, and for the first time that evening, a faint smile touched his lips. "Good memory, son. Yes. That volunteer was Liv Sandberg. And the captain who saved her was Akira Fujimoto."
Harry sat back slowly, the weight of the revelation pressing into him. Suddenly, Asha's bright eyes and mischievous grin seemed framed by a shadow he hadn't noticed before... a history of fire and scars her parents had carried long before she was born.
Harry swallowed, his throat tight. A hospital full of children, and they called it strategy.
Stephen's voice lowered. "That's how I knew the governor's story was a lie. Terrorists weren't hiding there. It was civilians, silenced because they knew too much about his past."
Kael's eyes narrowed, his voice sharp with restrained fury. "And the world never heard of it?"
Stephen shook his head slowly. "The official report buried it. Classified as collateral damage in a counterterrorist operation. And the politician's career? Untouched."
Harry's thoughts spun faster. He looked back at his father, curiosity breaking through the weight of the revelation. "But... Dad, how did you even know Liv? You weren't there in that war zone, were you?"
Stephen shook his head. "No. At the time, I didn't know her at all." His expression softened, a flicker of memory crossing his face. "Liv was your mother's best friend in college. When she didn't know where else to turn, she reached out to Lea. And Lea brought the story to me."
The room grew quiet. The mention of Lea's name seemed to carry its own gravity, drawing everyone's attention for a moment.
"So, your mother was still alive back then," Stephen went on, his voice gentler. "She helped Liv find her footing again after what happened. And that's how the truth of the strike first reached us."
Harry swallowed, the knot in his chest tightening. He imagined his mother and Liv as students together, long before war and politics had marked their lives. The connection felt fragile and distant yet strangely grounding... like roots he hadn't realized were still holding him to the world.
Stephen exhaled slowly, as if laying down the final piece of a puzzle. "Long story short... Akira survived. His injuries were severe, but he was treated with emerging medical technologies... prototypes that would later evolve into what became Project David. Without them, he wouldn't have lived long enough to recover."
Harry's eyes widened slightly. "So, Uncle Akira's alive because of the same project that created me?"
Stephen nodded. "In a way, yes. But survival changed him. He'd spent years as a field officer, doing everything in his power to protect civilians. And yet, in the end, he couldn't stop the strike. Couldn't stop the politics behind it. That sense of helplessness cut deeper than his scars."
Kael listened intently, his hand still resting on the bottle of capsules.
"So," Stephen went on, "he walked away from the battlefield and chose a different path. He left the uniform behind and became a lawmaker. His reasoning was simple: if the battlefield was shaped by politics, then that's where he needed to be. Otherwise, he'd always be fighting with his hands tied."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying quiet weight. "There's a quote from Plato that he often repeated to Liv... and later, to me. "One of the penalties for refusing to participate in politics is that you end up being governed by your inferiors.?"
Kael let out a dry, humourless laugh. "Politics. In my experience, it's nothing but corruption dressed in ceremony. Every politician I've seen is either bought, blackmailed, or blind. Putting faith in them is like putting faith in quicksand."
Stephen met his gaze, calm but firm. "You're not wrong, Kael. But it won't improve on its own. If no one is willing to change it, then the rot only spreads. And when someone does try... someone who's already risked everything... the least we can do is support them as best we can."
The fire popped sharply in the hearth. Kael fell silent, his jaw tight. He didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue further.
Harry watched the exchange, sensing the weight of two very different worlds colliding: the battlefield and the congress floor. For the first time, he wondered which was the harder fight.
Harry sat in silence for a while, the firelight flickering across his thoughtful face. Then he spoke, his voice careful but curious.
"I remember Uncle Akira once said he owed you his life... and his marriage. Now I finally understand the part about his life." His brown eyes lifted to his father. "But what about his marriage? What happened?"
Stephen's gaze lingered on the flames, the weight in his eyes betraying a story untold. He drew a slow breath, then shook his head.
"That part... is too dark for you right now, Harry. Too complicated. You wouldn't understand it yet. When you're older, I'll tell you."
Harry frowned, leaning forward, his voice sharper. "But you've already told me about the darkest parts of history. Wars. The nuclear bomb. Famines. Even mass suicide. How can anything be darker than that? Why am I not allowed to know?"
For a moment, Stephen didn't answer. The room was filled only with the sound of the fire's low crackle and the faint whistle of wind pressing against the cabin walls. His face was unreadable... part stern father, part weary man carrying burdens too heavy to unload.
Kael shifted slightly, studying Stephen, but said nothing. Sam's expression was stoic, though his eyes flickered with a knowing edge, as if he already guessed the truth Stephen held back.
Finally, Stephen spoke, his voice quiet but steady. "History shows you what happened to nations. This... is about people. About choices made in desperation, betrayal, and the kind of cruelty that doesn't fit in textbooks. One day, Harry. Not tonight."
Harry's lips pressed into a thin line. Part of him burned to demand answers, but another part... smaller, reluctant... sensed the weight in his father's tone and let it go, at least for now. Still, the question gnawed at him like an itch that would never fade until scratched.
Stephen's gaze lingered on Harry, the firelight casting lines of fatigue across his face. "Harry... I can't avoid telling you the truth about the darker sides of history. You deserve honesty. But there's a danger in it too. Too much exposure to cruelty, to human failure... it can hollow us out. Make us lose hope. Or worse, numb us to suffering until we stop caring altogether."
Harry tilted his head, thoughtful. "So... knowing the truth isn't enough?"
Stephen gave a slow nod. "Exactly. Truth without hope is a blade that only cuts. It can strip away illusions, but it can't heal. Without hope for a better future, people stop caring. They stop weighing right against wrong, because they've convinced themselves nothing matters. And when that happens, what follows is chaos."
Harry's brow furrowed, and then his lips curved into a small, almost shy smile. "You know... Asha's name means truth. But it also means hope."
Stephen's sternness softened, just slightly, as if the words touched something deep inside. "Yes. That's why her name matters. She carries both. Truth and hope. That balance is what holds people together, Harry. They prevent chaos."
Harry's voice grew firmer. "Asha also means cosmic order. The opposite of chaos."
For a moment, even the crackling fire seemed to hush. Kael blinked, staring at the boy with genuine surprise. "How do you know that? Most adults I've met don't even know the meaning behind names, let alone something that old and layered."
Harry shrugged, a hint of pride breaking through his seriousness. "Because I asked her once. And she smiled when she told me. I don't think I'll ever forget."
Kael leaned back, shaking his head slightly, as though trying to reconcile the child in front of him with the weight of the words he spoke.
Stephen nodded, his tone carrying the weight of conviction. "Only when chaos is avoided can people truly live a life worth living."
Harry opened his mouth, ready to respond, but Kael suddenly cut in, raising a hand. "Wait a second. Give me a break. Don't tell me this is about her name again."
Harry's cheeks flushed. "But it's true! Asha also means life."
Sam, who had been quiet through much of the exchange, suddenly let out a booming laugh. "Ha! He can't stop thinking about her. Even philosophy turns into Asha in his head."
Harry sank a little in his seat, half-embarrassed, half-defiant. "It's not like that! ...Well, maybe a little."
Sam's laughter echoed warmly in the cabin, lightening the heavy discussion. Even Stephen's stern expression softened into a small smile. For a moment, the fire crackling in the hearth seemed brighter, carrying the weight of truth, hope, order... and life... into the night.