The weekend had arrived, and with it came the start of something new.
Mark had powers now.
And powers meant training.
At the crack of dawn, Nolan and Mark had headed out—two shadows launching into the sky, one steady and practiced, the other still wobbly with excitement. Mark's voice had echoed through the house even as he flew off, calling down from the open window with a giddy, "Don't wait up!"
Stephen watched them go from the backyard, a slice of toast hanging out of his mouth, barefoot in the morning grass.
"Didn't plan on it," he muttered around a bite.
When they were finally out of sight, the world fell quiet again.
He exhaled, tossing the crust aside and rolling his shoulders.
Today would be his turn too. Just not the same kind.
No one trained Stephen. There were no mentors. No tips or encouragement. He didn't have someone flying beside him, correcting his form or reminding him how Viltrumite flight adjusted for air pressure.
No. This wasn't a family moment. This was solo work.
He stood in the middle of the backyard, stretching his arms, toes curling into the cool dirt. The sky above was wide and open, the clouds soft and lazy. For the first time, he had permission—no more hiding in his room, no more midnight trials. No more pretending.
But now that he was finally standing under the sun with no walls between him and the world, he felt it.
Doubt.
He took a slow breath, letting the warmth of the day settle into his skin. Closed his eyes. Focused.
The hum was there, deep under the surface. His bio-electric aura pulsed like a second skin—familiar but slippery, always shifting just out of perfect sync. Control wasn't instinctive. Not yet.
He pressed his palm against the grass and tried to push the energy out.
Nothing.
He frowned. Tried again. This time, he imagined the aura expanding, flowing from his fingertips like invisible smoke.
The grass fluttered faintly. One blade twitched.
Stephen groaned and sat back. "Why is it easier when I actually touch something?"
That was the core of it. His power was tied to contact—tactile telekinesis. If he could feel something, he could influence it. But the moment that connection became indirect, like trying to grab something underwater, everything fell apart.
Still, he didn't quit.
He spotted a small rock near the fence and scooped it up. Closed his eyes. Pushed.
It rattled in his palm. Then floated.
For about two seconds.
Then plopped to the dirt.
Stephen blew out a slow breath, rubbing his temples. "Okay... progress. But slow."
He worked for hours, going from one object to the next. A stick. A bottle cap. A tennis ball. Trial and error over and over, sweat dampening his shirt, fingers shaking from the mental strain.
At one point, he placed his hand over a wooden plate resting on the garden table. Focus. Push.
The plate trembled... and launched.
It hit the fence with a loud clack, spinning in the air before shattering.
He stood there, stunned. "Okay. So... that's a lot of force."
That's when it clicked.
It wasn't just about lifting. His power had force behind it. Direction. Velocity. Pressure.
So if I can't move things with precision yet… maybe I can start by controlling the force itself.
He retrieved another plate. Set it gently on the table. Both hands down. Push—but this time, he held the energy back. Visualized not movement, but containment.
The plate wobbled.
Then… stilled.
It didn't shake. Didn't budge.
Stephen's lips parted slightly. "You stayed."
He laughed quietly to himself. Finally.
That sensation—holding something with his power—was new. Not flinging. Not flailing. Just… grasping, like a parent's hand around a child's wrist.
He kept going.
Picked up a tennis ball. Held it. Focused on the texture, the resistance against his skin. Then he let go.
The ball hovered.
For a second.
Then dropped.
Stephen groaned. "Why does it keep slipping?!"
He tried again. This time, he visualized his aura as a stream, not a wall. Instead of resisting gravity, he imagined flowing with it, like letting water swirl around a floating leaf.
The ball hovered again. Wobbled. Tilted.
It moved.
His eyes lit up. That was different.
He gritted his teeth, tried imagining the ball rolling in mid-air.
And it did.
Barely. But it did.
Slowly, unsteadily—it happened.
Stephen collapsed back onto the grass, arms spread. His shirt clung to his skin. His face was flushed, a grin tugging at his lips.
This is it. This is how I improve.
The sun began to lower. The sky turned orange and purple as the day slipped away. He sat on the porch steps, sipping from a bottle of water, staring at the stars appearing overhead.
Still no sign of Mark and Nolan.
He didn't know where they trained, or how long it would go. But a part of him was glad he wasn't with them.
He liked figuring it out himself.
A breeze moved through the yard, and Stephen leaned back against the wall. His eyes heavy now.
Not yet strong. But getting there.
_ _ ♛ _ _
High above the neighbourhood, in the slowly fading twilight, a figure drifted down out of the clouds.
Nolan hovered in the air, silent.
He touched down gently on the roof of the house, boots making no sound on the shingles. His arms folded across his chest, cape fluttering softly.
His gaze dropped to the backyard.
To the garden table. One plate missing. A tennis ball lying abandoned near the fence. A small crater in the dirt.
And Stephen—sitting with his head tilted back, eyes half-lidded, breathing slow. Exhausted. Alone.
Nolan said nothing.
But he remembered the previous night.
The shift in air pressure.
The scream.
The sonic boom.
He had heard it from miles away. Tracked it. Seen Mark plummeting from the sky. Had even taken off in that direction before sensing—strangely—that his son had recovered mid-descent.
Mark didn't know he'd been watched.
Stephen didn't know either.
But Nolan knew.
He knew everything.
He stepped back from the edge of the roof, and took off without a sound—just a blur cutting into the darkening sky.
He said nothing.
Because for now, they needed to believe they were alone.
End of Chapter 24