The next morning at the orphanage broke gently.
Soft gray light filtered through the thin paper screens, casting a muted glow across the quiet halls. The air was cool and still, touched by the scent of dew and old cedar. Somewhere in the distance, a kettle hissed to life, its whistle low and steady, followed by the quiet clink of ceramic cups being set out on the table.
Footsteps padded softly along the wooden floor — light, practiced, and unhurried. Doors creaked open. The faint rustle of blankets, the hushed chatter of early risers, and the occasional yawn folded together into a peaceful rhythm, like the building itself was stretching awake.
From the kitchen, a warm, familiar aroma began to spread: steamed rice, miso, and the faintest hint of ginger.
The first thing Steven noticed was the cold.
Not the kind that came from air or draft, but the sharp, unnatural chill of exposure to waking up without a blanket, without comfort, stripped down to bare skin and discomfort. He stirred with a low groan, the stiffness in his joints pulling at his limbs as he shifted slightly on the futon. His breath felt heavy, his mind fogged with the kind of grogginess that clung like mist behind his eyes.
Then came the itch.
At first, it was faint — a tingle along his arms. But as consciousness crept in and sensation followed, the tingling turned to burning. His brows furrowed, his fingers twitching before he brought them to his chest and scratched.
The contact sent a jolt of fire across his skin.
He sat up abruptly with a grunt, the futon beneath him crinkling as his muscles tensed. His body was covered in blotchy, red rashes — angry and inflamed — and dozens of tiny, hair-thin needles pricked from his skin like a porcupine's warning. They weren't deep, but they were everywhere: arms, chest, even his neck. Worse still, his shirt was gone. Only his trousers remained, clinging uncomfortably to his legs, and his blanket had completely vanished.
The realization hit him in pieces — first the exposure, then the pain, and then, as he glanced down at the sheer absurdity of his condition, fury.
"Tooooooaaad!" he roared, the name bursting from his throat like a shot from a cannon.
His voice echoed through the quiet morning like thunder cracking across the rooftops.
Outside, beyond the open shoji screen, the courtyard rippled with movement. Small bodies scattered like startled birds, laughter and whispers giving way to panicked shrieks and pounding footsteps. The children who had been hiding among the hedges and behind garden stones bolted in all directions, their giggles dissolving into the air like smoke fleeing fire.
Steven stood slowly, his expression murderous, his hands hovering over his red, needle-strewn torso as if unsure whether to scratch or scream again.
Steven stormed through the orphanage's back garden, fury radiating off him like heat. His bare feet slapped against the stone path, and with each stride, he plucked another razor-thin needle from his reddened skin, wincing as they left tiny welts behind. He didn't stop. Not when he passed the crooked shed. Not when he flung open its creaking door.
Inside, a narrow staircase spiraled down beneath the floorboards. He descended without hesitation, each step a thud of simmering rage. At the bottom, he threw the basement door open with a bang loud enough to rattle the glass.
The room beyond was bright, unnaturally so — flooded with overhead fluorescents that buzzed faintly like flies. A makeshift laboratory stretched across the basement, cluttered with beakers, flasks, tubing, and bubbling solutions in every unnatural color imaginable. It looked more like a mad chemist's fever dream than any sanctioned setup.
At the center stood a man in a stained white lab coat, hunched over a flask of thick, green fluid. He was young — barely a teenager — but his appearance was grotesque. His skin was a battlefield of abscesses, bulging and discolored, some weeping pus through strained pores. His face, neck, and arms were riddled with lesions so severe they looked almost fungal.
When the door slammed open, the beaker in his hand nearly slipped.
"Tooooaaad!" Steven's voice echoed like a warhorn.
The boy—Toad flinched hard, barely managing to steady the glass in his hand. His eyes widened behind safety goggles, panic rising as Steven closed in, every step radiating death and vengeance.
"In my defense," Toad stammered, raising both hands awkwardly — one still holding the beaker — "that poison should have killed you. You shouldn't even be feeling the rash. You should be, uh… bleeding from all your orifices right about now."
Steven stopped. His entire body was red, itchy, and littered with tiny punctures. His chest heaved. His fingers flexed around a blood-slicked needle.
Silence.
Then a sneer twisted his lips.
"Oh. Well, if it should've killed me, I guess it's all good then."
Toad exhaled. "So… it's all good then?"
Steven's expression sharpened. "Of course not, you fucking idiot."
He hurled the needle.
It whistled through the air and struck Toad's shoulder with a snap, piercing through the lab coat and into the bloated skin beneath. One of the larger abscesses burst immediately, soaking the fabric with a viscous yellow fluid.
"You ruined my lab coat," Toad said, looking down in dismay. But then he blinked. Slowly, awkwardly, his left arm froze in place — still half-raised.
"I can't move my arm."
Steven's tone turned icy, mocking.
"Oh, well. In my defense, the needle should've killed you."
Toad's eyes widened. "Wait, what was on it—"
"Don't worry about it," Steven muttered, scratching his ribs furiously.
Toad plucked the needle from his arm, peering at it with interest before dipping it into a nearby vial. He flicked a switch, ran it under a scanner, swirled it in something that hissed—and after a few seconds of frantic testing, looked up with a shrug.
"There's nothing on it," he said casually.
Steven didn't look up. He was focused on pulling more needles from his skin, each one tugging a curse or hiss from his throat. His skin looked raw, angry.
"That's because I hit one of your twenty-two major nodes," he muttered.
Toad blinked. "My what?"
Steven paused and met his gaze, sighing. "Your brachial plexus. One of the twenty-two primary nerve clusters in the body. I discharged a precise electrical current into it using the needle. Judging from your anatomy, I assumed you had the standard human layout… minus, y'know—" he waved vaguely at Toad's grotesque form, "—the fungal cottage cheese look."
"Ah." Toad nodded sagely. "So basically, you paralyzed my arm."
"Temporarily," Steven confirmed.
Toad flexed his fingers. Sensation was returning, though sluggishly.
"Where'd you learn that?"
Steven scoffed. "Who else? Uncle Cas. Showed up on my birthday one year—'Stevie-boy, this here's all you'll ever need to properly pleasure a woman… or a man, whatever tickles your thunder.'" He mimicked Cas's voice with unsettling accuracy. "Then handed me an old Chinese medicine manual—annotated. With very graphic illustrations."
Toad winced and laughed. "Well, you know how he is. At least it turned out useful?"
"I was thirteen," Steven deadpanned. "Didn't think much of it until later, when I started cross-referencing it with actual anatomy textbooks. Turns out most of it holds up—minus Cas's 'personal edits.' I adapted the pressure points for combat."
"That's actually kinda sick," Toad grinned.
Then, remembering something, he perked up. "Oh! Speaking of your ability—I made you something!"
He rummaged through the chaos of his lab like a raccoon on caffeine, eventually pulling out a corked test tube filled with thick, jaundice-yellow liquid. He held it out like a prized trophy.
Steven stared at it, face contorted in immediate disgust. "Let me guess. I'm supposed to drink this?"
"Yup," Toad said cheerfully.
Steven scratched his inflamed skin. "You want me to drink a concoction that looks—and probably is—made from your leaking pus."
"Also, yup."
Steven narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, NO."
Toad ignored him and kept grinning. "You remember how I said you were supposed to be bleeding from every orifice and dying in agony?"
"…Yeah?" Steven's voice wavered between suspicion and genuine concern.
"Well," Toad continued, almost giddy now, "that was just a side effect. The real point of the poison was to distract your immune system. See, you told me your power draws energy from your own body, right? Converts it into electricity?"
Steven nodded slowly, eyes still locked on the yellow sludge.
"Well, your body's got limits. You can't push your ability far without burning out. So I thought—what if your body could be overclocked? What if I flooded it with pure, metabolic energy?"
Steven blinked. His head was swimming.
"Fever's kicking in," Toad observed, delighted. "Anyway! Direct energy infusion doesn't work. Human biology can't just absorb raw power, so I had to trick it. Enter Poison One! Haven't named it yet—though I should. Maybe Nervebreaker? Or Metacrash? Anyway…"
Steven groaned and leaned on the table, visibly weakening. His skin had gone pale. His lips were dry. The room tilted under his feet.
"…So the first poison has two components: one weakens your immune system, the other embeds itself throughout your body. As your body tries to break it down, it fails, which makes it work harder. That stress creates a self-reinforcing metabolic feedback loop. A pseudo-overdrive. And, fun fact—it's unsustainable. Within hours: dehydration, kidney failure, liver collapse, arrhythmia, seizures, necrosis—wait, no, apoptosis first, then necrosis. Or maybe—"
"Fix this, you piece of shit," Steven rasped, barely able to keep upright.
Toad blinked. "Right! Sorry—got a bit sidetracked."
He quickly popped the cork on the yellow vial and handed it to Steven.
"This is the cure. Technically. It's packed with pure nutrients and metabolic catalysts. Once it hits your system, your body will recognize it as a priority and shift its focus away from the other poison. It should break the loop and supercharge your Vestige instead of killing you."
Steven looked at it like it might bite him. "So just… drink this?"
"To the last drop," Toad nodded enthusiastically. "Then activate your ability. If all goes well, your body'll flush the poison and temporarily unlock your full potential. I'm calling it... Yellow Poison. No, wait—Sunfire Solution. No—wait, Toxin B Prime. Wait—"
"TOAD!" Steven barked, barely holding on.
"Right, right! Bottoms up. Try not to die."
Steven downed the concoction and muttered, "Why is it not surprising to me that this might kill me?"
"Well, anything can kill you," Toad replied breezily. "You could be walking down the street and bam—giant cabinet falls on your head. Splat. You're street jam."
Steven gave him a deadpan stare. "You just made my heart flutter with optimism."
"Don't be grumpy," Toad grinned. "If you're gonna die anyway, might as well go out having fun."
"Contrary to your psychotic worldview, this is not fun," Steven growled, as his skin began to glow faintly blue.
Sparks jumped from his body in rapid succession. Arcs of raw electricity crawled across his arms and neck like living wires. As the voltage intensified, Toad scrambled and stuffed himself into a small wooden cabinet at the far end of the lab.
The energy built up quickly, each second straining Steven's body further. His jaw clenched as the power surged toward its peak—until, finally, with a sound like the sky tearing open, his body released a violent electric pulse that blanketed the entire lab in white-blue light.
Then—silence.
Steven stood hunched, breathing hard. The pain was gone. The fever, the nausea, all of it had vanished. His muscles felt tighter, his skin clearer, his whole frame leaner and lighter. But the lab... was completely untouched.
Toad poked his head out, eyes darting across the room. "Huh. I thought it'd be more dramatic."
"Oh, not dramatic enough for you?" Steven growled, already reaching for another needle.
Toad yelped and ducked behind a table. "Whoa, easy! Maybe check for changes first—try your ability."
Steven paused, then looked down at his hands. He still felt lighter, sharper somehow—mentally and physically—but otherwise unchanged. He sighed. "I don't feel any differe—"
He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes narrowed.
There was... something.
Not a sound, not a smell—a presence. Scattered flickers of static danced in the corners of the lab, faint to the eye, but pulsing to his senses like distant beacons. Tiny, persistent sparks, embedded in the environment—and they felt familiar.
They felt like his.
When the surge had erupted from him earlier, most of the energy had dispersed harmlessly. But these sparks had remained—tiny residues of his power. And somehow, they were still tethered to him.
Steven raised a hand toward one of the flickering points, focusing on the faint current. The moment he reached out—pop—the spark vanished.
Toad flinched. "What was that?"
"I think... there's something new," Steven muttered.
"The popping sound?"
"Yeah. I think I can leave residual current—small charges—on conductive surfaces."
Toad's eyes lit up. "Oh, we are definitely testing that."
For the next hour, the two of them ran crude experiments. Steven would reach out to the sparks, and each time he tried to manipulate one pop it vanished. They discovered the range of the connection was roughly 20 to 30 meters. When Steven left the lab and walked toward the courtyard, the connection dropped. When he returned, it was reestablished immediately.
On the way back in, he bumped into a few of the younger kids in the hall and offered a rare smile. Back inside, he resumed the tests, both he and Toad chasing the fine mechanics of this new trait—its quirks, its limits, its potential.
Finally, Steven stood, stretching his arms. "Alright. Get ready. We're going out."
Toad blinked. "Where are we headed?"
Steven grabbed his coat and slung it over his shoulder. "To the BVA. I need to get my ability reassessed."