I focused inward, trying to visualize this energy. It wasn't like light or water. When I treated it like particles, I could feel it, a faint, buzzing static all over my body, a personal aurora borealis only I was doomed to see. Was this what my power looked like from the inside? A shimmering field of idiot particles waiting for instructions? How was I even detecting it? Was my brain bouncing this energy off itself? The circular logic was enough to make me want to short-circuit on purpose. I shelved that line of inquiry. That way lies self-crippling analysis and a one-way ticket to the land of Super-Brains, where the only thing cultivated is a robust collection of tinfoil hats.
My soul? I had no idea what that was supposed to be. A glowing balloon in my gut? A tasteless, odorless gas filling my body? A metaphysical kidney? It was supposed to be a container, and as I focused, I felt a concentration, a pooling spot in my core. The energy particles were everywhere, like cosmic dust, but they swirled there more densely, a lazy nebula of potential with a terrible work ethic. I needed to give it a job description.
I started the breathing technique Graviton had beaten into me, visualizing that spiral. To my utter astonishment, it worked. I wasn't just leaching excess energy; I was pulling more in, a tiny, impossible sip from the wellspring of the universe. It was the first free lunch I’d ever gotten. I began to stir it, forcing the nebulous cloud to rotate, to form a whirlpool. In with the good, out with the bad. A cosmic garbage disposal for spiritual waste. The fire metaphor helped—imagining it as a spinning ring of incandescent plasma, burning away the metaphysical dirt and debris. It was working. It was actually— Holy shit, it was actually—
The ceiling was interesting, in a stark, institutional way. A big sign over the bed featured a cheerful stick figure plummeting from a bed to a wheelchair with the jaunty slogan, “Call, don’t fall!” I appreciated the directness. It was the kind of motivational poster that really spoke to my recent life choices. Someone had put thought into that. Probably after mopping up one too many overconfident Alphas who thought they could walk it off.
White acoustic tiles, the kind that hide stains and secrets in equal measure. Suspended medical tracks crisscrossed the space like a monorail system for misery. An array of equipment—beeping, whirring, silent-and-sinister—would make a mad scientist jealous. I recognized some of it—the basics of keeping a body from ceasing to be—but a lot was specialized gear for dealing with biology that didn’t read the manual. Given time and a lack of concussion, I could probably reverse-engineer it all. But right now, I had a more pressing question.
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Why was I here? The standard-issue, ass-baring hospital gown and the throbbing, deep-seated ache in my left arm were pretty clear indicators of the where. The why was a mystery. The lack of an IV was a small blessing. Trying to stick a needle in an Alpha is a nightmare; our skin tends to range from ‘premium leather’ to ‘mild steel,’ and our biochemistry is a glorious, unpredictable crapshoot. You might get a nice saline drip, or you might get a reaction that melts the needle and turns the surrounding tissue into a novel polymer. Most clinics just skip the hassle and go straight for the super-soakers full of generalized sedatives.
“Hello?” My voice was a rasp, the vocal equivalent of sandpaper on rust. I fumbled around the bed, my good arm patting down the sheets like a clumsy cop until I found the call button—a satisfyingly large, red affair that looked like it could summon a SWAT team. I mashed it.
Minutes later, the door was filled by a man who looked like he could bench-press the entire medical wing. His dark skin and cheerful, broad smile were a stark contrast to the sterile, anxious room. “Hullo Mister Doyle! You are awake! This is very good!” His accent was melodic, maybe Polynesian. I’m terrible with accents; my world travels mostly involved fleeing from authorities in a panicked blur, not appreciating local dialects.
I nodded, a movement that made my neck complain bitterly. “Right, uhh… why am I here?” It seemed the most logical opening question, right after establishing that I was, in fact, not dead.
He opened the door a little further, a wise precaution when dealing with recently unconscious superhumans. “You are not going to have spontaneous power fluctuations, yes?” he asked, his tone still friendly but now layered with professional caution.
“No, not that I know of… was I?” A cold dread washed over me. The last thing I needed was another black mark on my permanent record. ‘Uncontrolled energy discharge’ was a fast track to a BSA monitoring anklet.
He nodded. “Yes. A teacher, Doctor Landhurst, was called to help you because you were shocking the paramedics after your fall.”
The dread turned into a solid block of ice in my gut. “I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?” Visions of fried EMTs danced in my head. My villainous rep was one thing; incapacitating first responders was a whole other level of scumbaggery.
He shook his head, his smile returning. “No, not hurt. You are class two, yes? No, minor shock, but paramedics needed rubber gloves. Especially with your condition, yes?”
“My… condition?” Was I leaking? Did I have a new, embarrassing medical diagnosis to add to my file? ‘Chronic Power Exhaustion’ was bad enough. ‘Acute Static Charge’? ‘Spiritual Seepage’?
He nodded, his expression turning slightly puzzled. “Yes, people wanted to know why you were climbing around a roof coated with sewage and tar. Slipped, fell, and dislocated shoulder. Lucky you not dislocate your brain. Flyer?”
I shook my head, the pieces clicking together into a horrifyingly stupid picture. The ‘sewage and tar’ were the expelled impurities. I’d been so busy playing mystical waste management that I’d turned my own skin into a biohazard. “So I just… fell?”
