Chapter : Flashpoint
The morning arrived shrouded in a dull, gray gloom, as if the sky itself hadn't bothered to sleep. Rain plastered itself against the kitchen windows in silent, streaking rivulets, mirroring the unspoken tension that hung heavy in the air, the kind that always preceded a storm. Inside, Michael poured hot water into two mismatched mugs, the steam rising in a silent, swirling dance. He glanced towards the hallway, the faint ticking of the old kitchen clock a stark counterpoint to the oppressive quiet.
"Nicholas! You're gonna be late!"
Silence. The only sound was the insistent drip, drip, drip of a leaky faucet somewhere in the depths of the old house.
Then, the soft scuff of footsteps. Nicholas emerged, his hoodie half-zipped, revealing a worn, gray t-shirt beneath. His hair was a mess, a dark cloud framing his pale face, and his backpack slumped over his shoulder as if weighed down by the world's sorrows. He mumbled something unintelligible, snatching the piece of toast Michael had left for him.
Michael frowned, his concern deepening. "Hey. You okay?"
Nicholas shrugged, the gesture careless, dismissive.
"Nicholas. Come on. What happened at school yesterday? You barely said a word when you came home. You were practically a ghost."
"It was nothing," Nicholas muttered, his voice muffled by the toast.
"Doesn't look like nothing," Michael said, stepping closer. He lowered his voice, his tone softening but his eyes remaining sharp with worry. "Did someone say something? Was it those same guys from the football team again? The ones who…" Michael's voice trailed off, unable to bring himself to fully utter the words that haunted them both.
Nicholas didn't answer, instead focusing on meticulously buttering his toast, the action oddly precise given his distracted state.
Michael sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, the lines of exhaustion etched deeply into his face. "You can't keep getting into fights, Nick. I know they push you, I know they say awful crap – things no one should ever have to hear – but using your powers on them—"
"I didn't," Nicholas snapped, his voice tight with suppressed fury. He shoved the rest of the toast in his mouth, crumbs clinging to his lower lip, and turned away, his shoulders hunched. "They cornered me again. Four of them. This time, I didn't even hit back. Not really. I just… sparked. Just enough to scare them off."
Michael's chest tightened, a familiar knot of fear tightening in his stomach. He remembered the first time Nicholas had "sparked," the raw, uncontrolled energy that had nearly burned down the shed. "You can't even do that, Nick. You know what'll happen if someone records it. The school, the… the authorities. They'll take you away."
Nicholas's jaw clenched. "So I should just let them beat the crap out of me? Every single day? Just keep my head down and hope I don't bleed too much?" His voice cracked slightly, betraying the carefully constructed wall of indifference.
"No. I—that's not what I mean. I just… dammit, I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to keep you safe."
Nicholas laughed, a bitter, humorless sound. "Help? You're just scared. Scared I'll make things worse. Scared of what they'll do to *us* if they find out."
Michael stepped back, the force of Nicholas's words hitting him like a physical blow. "That's not fair, Nick. That's not fair at all."
Nicholas turned, his eyes burning with a painful intensity, his shoulders trembling slightly. The faintest flicker of light pulsed behind his eyes, a barely perceptible electric hum in the air. "You don't get it, Michael. You walk into school, and no one whispers. You don't get stared at like you're contagious. I can feel it. Every hallway, every lunch period, every gym class. They look at me like I'm broken. Like I killed Mom myself."
The words hung in the air, sharp and heavy, a blow to Michael's gut. He stood rooted to the spot, the silence stretching between them, thick and suffocating.
Nicholas didn't stop. He continued, his voice low and raw with pain. "You think I don't hear them? The whispers? The rumors? That she died giving birth to a freak? That our father can't even look at me without flinching? You don't get it because you're normal. You're not like me." He looked at his brother, a profound sadness evident in his eyes, years of silent pain finally erupting.
"You think I asked for this?" Michael shouted, the years of bottled-up frustration and grief finally finding a voice. "You think I like watching you suffer, knowing I can't fix it? I gave up my own chances, Nick. I stayed in this broken house. I shielded you. I tried to be your brother and your damn parent too!" Tears welled in his own eyes, mirroring the pain he saw in Nicholas's face.
Nicholas's eyes shimmered, the faintest crackle of lightning intensifying behind them. His fists clenched, the knuckles white under the strain. "I never asked you to do any of that! Maybe I don't want to be protected. Maybe I just want someone who understands what it's like to be hated. Someone who knows what it's like to feel… different."
Michael stepped closer, his own fists clenched, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I do understand! Maybe not like you do, but I carry it too. Every time Dad looks at you and goes quiet, I feel it. Every time you come home bleeding, it tears me apart. Don't you dare say I don't understand." He took a shaky breath, trying to control the tremor in his voice.
Nicholas turned sharply, his pain pushing him away from the only comfort he had left. "Then stop trying to fix me," he hissed, the words a painful, desperate plea.
The room fell silent again, broken only by the rhythmic tap of the rain against the windowpanes and their ragged breathing. The air crackled with unshed tears and unspoken words.
Then Nicholas stepped back, his voice smaller now, defeated. "I just… I don't want to be here anymore."
He turned and walked towards the door, his back ramrod straight despite his obvious anguish.
Michael moved instinctively, his heart clenching. "Nick, wait."
"Don't follow me," Nicholas said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The door slammed shut with a resounding echo, leaving Michael alone in the chilling silence of the kitchen.
He stood for a moment, then his legs gave way, and he sank to the floor, back against the cool, unforgiving cabinets, his hands tangled in his hair. Tears welled up, spilling over, a torrent of grief and helplessness.
He'd tried. God, how he'd tried. He'd tried everything to hold Nicholas together, to hold their shattered family together. But the cracks were widening, deepening, threatening to swallow them whole. The pieces, once carefully held, were now falling apart, scattering like dust in the wind.
He didn't notice the subtle flicker in the mirror across the room, a fleeting, almost imperceptible shimmer. He didn't see the faint flash of light rippling through his own irises—a deep, electric blue, mirroring the storm brewing inside him.
He just sat there, the sobs wracking his body, alone in the wreckage of their broken lives.
Then the front door burst open, the sound jarring him from his despair.
"Michael?" came Calab's voice, breathless with urgency, laced with a frantic edge.
Michael looked up, his vision blurred by tears. "Calab?"
His best friend stood in the doorway, drenched to the bone, his soaked hoodie clinging to him like a second skin. His eyes were wide with a terror that mirrored Michael's own growing dread.
"Dude. You need to come with me right now."
Michael wiped his eyes, trying to stand, his legs shaky and weak. "What? Why?"
Calab moved forward, grabbing Michael's wrist, his grip firm and insistent. "It's happening again. Another alien. They just announced it five minutes ago. It didn't come down in Europe or Asia this time. It landed in New York, near the High Line train station."
Michael froze, the blood draining from his face. The implications of Calab's words hit him with the force of a physical blow.
Calab kept talking, his words a torrent of information, but Michael wasn't really listening. His mind was racing, piecing together the fragments of information, the chilling implications becoming terrifyingly clear.
New York.
That was the direction Nicholas always ran when he needed to escape, when the world became too much to bear. When he was angry, heartbroken, when he didn't want to be found. But Michael knew where to look. The rooftop garden past the old subway station. Their spot. Their mother's favorite place. A place where they had found solace, laughter and a desperate connection to their memory of her.
And if this alien had come down near there…
A cold wave washed over Michael, the air in his lungs suddenly thin and icy. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror. The flicker of blue in the mirror flashed again, brighter this time, a stark reflection of the growing storm within him.
"He's there," he whispered, his voice barely audible, his body stiffening with a sudden, sharp focus. He knew, with a sickening certainty, where Nicholas was headed.
Calab blinked, his own fear palpable. "Who?"
Michael turned, already pulling on his jacket, his hands still trembling from the tears, but now infused with a newfound strength, a terrifyingly sharp clarity of purpose. The blue light pulsed once more, pulsing with his own heart beat, a new energy, a cold fire taking root.
"Nicholas. He's headed straight for it."
And he was going after him.
Not as someone normal.
Not anymore.