Adam sat alone in a windowless room inside the base's medical wing, the overhead lights buzzing faintly like a swarm of distant insects. He'd been patched up — nothing life-threatening, though his bones ached with the weight of the sky he'd just held back, and his head pulsed with the kind of fatigue only cosmic energy could leave behind. The anti-matter containment suit he'd designed, worn like a second skin, had been stripped from him under the excuse of "decontamination." But Adam knew better. He'd created that suit. He knew it didn't absorb contaminants — it neutralized them. They didn't take it to clean it. They took it to study it.
The sterile scent of antiseptic burned faintly in his nostrils. The cot he sat on creaked beneath his weight, not from physical mass, but from the tension in the air. A thin blanket had been folded at the foot of the bed, untouched. He hadn't slept. He couldn't.
A soldier in plain fatigues stepped into the room, avoiding Adam's gaze. He handed him a paper cup of lukewarm water with a shaky hand. Adam accepted it with a slow nod.
"Has anyone contacted my sons?" Adam asked, his voice hoarse but steady.
The soldier hesitated, his lips parting slightly as if to speak, but no words came. "I'll check with command, sir." Then he turned and left, the door hissing closed behind him with the finality of a cell block.
Outside the frosted window on the door, two armed guards stood motionless. They weren't protecting him — they were guarding him.
Adam leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the cup cradled in both hands. His fingers trembled slightly, not from weakness, but from suppressed anger. These were the same hands that had channeled enough anti-matter to shut down an interdimensional invasion. The same hands that had bent reality to protect a world that now feared them.
He looked down at them as if seeing them for the first time. "You built too much," he whispered to himself. "You saved too much."
He had seen this coming.
Months earlier, Adam stood before a packed auditorium at Howard University. The room buzzed with youthful energy, and every seat was filled. Students lined the aisles, some standing, others crouched on the steps, their eyes wide with admiration. Phones were raised like torches in reverence, recording every word from the legendary Dr. Adam Brashear.
Behind him, a projection of a galactic energy field rotated slowly. Adam spoke with measured authority, his voice clear and captivating.
"The universe doesn't care what color we are," he said, gesturing toward the swirling galaxies. "But the people who run this world still do. Out there, particles move because of laws — not prejudice. In here—" he tapped his chest "—we move because we hope things can be better."
A ripple of laughter moved through the audience. It wasn't mockery. It was understanding — the bitter humor of those who recognized the truth behind the words.
After the lecture, as students surrounded him with questions and praise, a young Black woman stepped forward. She held a notebook to her chest, eyes bright with curiosity.
"Dr. Brashear," she asked, "do you think the world is ready for someone like you? A Black Superman?"
Adam paused. His eyes softened. "They don't need to be ready," he said. "They just need to stop pretending we don't exist."
The girl smiled. He smiled back, but only briefly. A storm cloud flickered behind his eyes — one that had been gathering for years.
Back at the base, General Collins entered a dark conference room nestled deep beneath the surface. The only light came from the soft glow of monitors and the flickering screen of a secure projector. The air was heavy, thick with the weight of classified intentions.
Around the table sat a collection of men and women from across the intelligence spectrum — NSA, CIA, Pentagon strategists, and a few unnamed observers who spoke rarely but watched everything.
One of them, a stern woman with silver hair and an NSA pin on her lapel, tapped a manila folder. "We have confirmation that footage was leaked. The public saw him. Again."
Collins rubbed his temple. "He did save the planet."
"That doesn't matter," she snapped. "He's not bound by our command. He's a one-man weapon of mass disruption — and he's a Black man in the public eye, with powers no one fully understands. That combination terrifies people."
Another advisor leaned forward, tapping a holographic map. "Social media posts spiked in fifteen global regions after the breach. Civilian footage, conspiracy forums. Some are calling him divine. Others are calling him dangerous. Either way, he's uncontrollable."
A CIA agent added, "We've already started pushing counter-narratives — calling it atmospheric interference, maybe a solar flare. The news cycle will shift. But we need to shut it down completely."
"And Brashear?" Collins asked, his voice tighter now.
"Offer him retirement. A lab in the Arctic, perhaps. Give him a research project and bury it. If he doesn't accept…" the man shrugged. "We make it permanent."
Collins glanced down at the table. He said nothing.
Adam sensed it before it happened. He always did.
The subtle change in the air. The way the guards outside his room stood more rigid. The shift in eye contact. The hallways he used to roam now suddenly requiring clearance. Doors that once opened with a wave of his ID now buzzed red. Meals arriving late. Conversations stopping as he passed.
They were locking him out. Not from the base. From the world.
He walked the corridor slowly, footsteps echoing like a countdown. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered in intervals. Behind him, he knew someone followed — not overtly, but close enough to intervene if needed.
He passed a young soldier — a Black man, maybe in his twenties. Their eyes met briefly. The soldier gave the smallest of nods and leaned in as they passed.
"They're not gonna let you walk out," he whispered, barely audible.
Adam didn't stop. Didn't flinch. But a fire lit behind his eyes.
He made his way to a seldom-used maintenance closet tucked between two auxiliary storage bays. Once inside, he shut the door and tapped a hidden panel on the sleeve of his undersuit. It pulsed blue.
Emergency protocol initiated.
The skeletal framework of his containment suit began to materialize around him, piece by piece — thin lines of silver snaking over his limbs, forming a fragile but functional version of the original. It was a contingency feature he'd never tested — until now.
The suit whispered to life with a quiet hum. Adam adjusted the interface with deliberate calm.
It wouldn't last long. But it didn't need to.
Adam closed his eyes.
"Never again," he whispered.
A burst of light filled the small room — and then he was gone.
Outside the medical wing, the guards heard the security alert and rushed in.
The room was empty.
By morning, Adam Brashear was gone.
And the world would forget he ever existed… unless he fought to remind them.
[To Be Continued]
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