The tunnel's silence pressed against Elias Varn like a physical thing, heavy and damp, broken only by the faint drip of water echoing off the concrete walls. He sat curled against the cold stone, knees drawn to his chest, the cracked lens of his glasses catching the dim glow of Rory's lantern. The skateboard kid sprawled beside him, his patched hoodie bunched under his head like a pillow, red hair splayed across the fabric. The tunnel smelled of mildew and rust, a stale cocoon that muffled the distant hum of drones still circling the night outside. Elias's jumpsuit clung to his skin, the sweat and grime of the chase drying into an itchy crust, but he didn't move—moving meant facing the ember still smoldering beneath his ribs, the ache in his skull, the voice that wouldn't leave him alone.
Rory shifted, propping himself on an elbow, and tossed a pebble into a puddle across the tunnel. It landed with a soft plop, sending ripples through the murky water. "You're quiet," he said, his voice low but sharp in the stillness. "Like, quieter than usual. You freaking out again?"
Elias didn't look up, his fingers tracing the frayed edge of his sleeve. "I'm always freaking out," he muttered, the words barely audible. His glasses slipped, and he pushed them back, the cracked lens blurring half his vision. The memory of the chase—the drones' relentless beams, the skateboard's wild surge, the sparks crackling from Rory's hands—played on a loop in his mind, each frame tightening the knot in his chest. "I almost got you hurt. Again."
Rory snorted, sitting up fully and brushing dust off his jeans. "Hurt? Dude, I'm fine. That spark trick was dope—freaked me out, sure, but I'm not complaining about a free power-up." He flexed his fingers, peering at them as if expecting the static to flare again. Nothing happened, and he shrugged, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips. "You're a walking cheat code. I'd kill to keep that juice."
"It's not a game," Elias snapped, sharper than he meant. He lifted his head, hazel eyes glinting faintly in the lantern's light, a shimmer that hadn't been there before the tunnel pulse. "You don't get it—I can't control it. It's not fun, it's not cool, it's… it's a curse." His voice trembled, and he hugged his knees tighter, the ember flaring with a pang that made him wince.
Rory's grin faded, replaced by a frown that creased his freckled brow. "Okay, chill. I didn't mean it like that." He scooted closer, the skateboard clattering as he nudged it aside. "Look, I'm not exactly Mr. Deep Thoughts, but you're not cursing me. You're saving people—me, that mom, those hospital folks. Maybe it's messy, but it's something."
Elias shook his head, tears pricking his eyes. "Saving people? I'm not saving anyone—I'm just… breaking things. Turning people into something they're not. What if it doesn't stop? What if it hurts someone?" The ember pulsed, a dull heat that spread to his fingertips, and he clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. "I don't even know what I am."
Rory tilted his head, studying him like a puzzle with missing pieces. "You're Elias, right? That's what you said. Janitor guy who's scared of his own shadow but keeps pulling miracles out of it anyway." He leaned back, hands behind his head. "Maybe you're not the cape-and-tights type. Maybe you're the guy who makes other people the heroes. That's still badass, you know."
The words echoed Rory's earlier spark plug comment, and Elias's breath caught, a flicker of something—doubt, maybe hope—stirring beneath the fear. He opened his mouth to argue, but a sound cut him off—a low rumble, like thunder rolling through the earth. The tunnel shuddered, dust sifting from the ceiling, and Rory sprang to his feet, grabbing the lantern. "What the—"
Elias scrambled up, heart lurching as the rumble grew, vibrating through the soles of his sneakers. "Drones?" he whispered, voice tight, but Rory shook his head, peering toward the tunnel's far end.
"Nah, that's heavier. Like—trucks, maybe? Or—" His words died as a beam of light pierced the darkness, harsh and blinding, flooding the tunnel from the opposite entrance. Shadows stretched long and jagged across the walls, and a voice boomed, amplified by a megaphone: "Elias Varn! This is the West Hollow PD! We know you're in there—come out with your hands up!"
Elias's blood ran cold, the ember surging with a heat that made his vision swim. "Police?" he croaked, backing against the wall. "Why—why me?"
Rory grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the shadows. "Probably 'cause you're trending harder than a cat video. Hospital hero gone AWOL? They're not gonna let that slide." He darted behind a concrete pillar, dragging Elias with him as the light swept closer, tires crunching gravel outside.
"I didn't do anything wrong!" Elias hissed, his glasses fogging as panic clawed up his throat. The ember flared brighter, and his eyes shimmered again, casting a faint glow on Rory's face. "I just—I just want to be left alone!"
"Yeah, well, life sucks that way," Rory muttered, peeking around the pillar. The light steadied, and footsteps echoed—boots on pavement, heavy and deliberate. "They've got backup. We're boxed in unless we bolt now."
Elias's mind spun, the voice whispering through the chaos: "They will break you." He flinched, clutching his head, and the ember erupted. A pulse rippled outward, stronger than in the tunnel chase, and the lantern flickered wildly in Rory's hand, its flame flaring into a burst of light before shattering. Rory yelped, dropping the shards as his hands glowed again—this time with a steady hum, not sparks, a vibration that pulsed through his fingers.
"Whoa—okay, that's new!" Rory flexed his hands, the hum intensifying, and a nearby puddle trembled, ripples spreading as if struck by an invisible force. "Vibes, man! You gave me vibes!"
Elias gaped, the glow in his eyes fading as the pulse settled. "I—I didn't mean—" But the footsteps were closer now, shadows stretching into the tunnel, and a figure stepped into the light—a cop in riot gear, visor down, baton in hand.
"Elias Varn!" the cop barked, voice muffled by the helmet. "Step out where we can see you! You're not in trouble—we just need to talk!"
"Talk, my ass," Rory muttered, shoving Elias behind him. "They've got tasers and zip-ties ready. We're not chatting our way out." He raised his hands, the hum sharpening, and a low vibration shook the tunnel floor, dust cascading from above. The cop staggered, gripping his baton tighter, and shouted into a radio: "Subject's hostile—possible power manifestation!"
"Hostile?!" Elias squeaked, panic spiking. "I'm not—" The ember flared again, and another pulse surged, this one wilder, ricocheting off the walls. The cop's baton glowed briefly, then flew from his hand, clattering against the concrete as he stumbled back. Outside, tires screeched, and more voices shouted—orders, confusion, a rising tide of chaos.
Rory grabbed Elias's wrist, the hum in his hands buzzing against Elias's skin. "Run, now!" He yanked him toward the tunnel's far end, where the first drones had faded, the vibration pulsing from his grip like a heartbeat. They sprinted through the dark, the cop's shouts fading behind, and burst into the night—a sprawl of weeds and rusted rails under a sky streaked with clouds.
Elias stumbled, his lungs burning, but Rory kept pulling, weaving through the tracks toward a cluster of abandoned warehouses. The hum in Rory's hands dimmed, then vanished, leaving him panting as he slowed. "Lost 'em—for now," he gasped, letting go. "That vibe thing—damn, you're full of surprises."
Elias collapsed against a rusted rail, glasses askew, tears streaming down his face. "I didn't want that," he choked out. "I didn't want any of this. They think I'm dangerous—I'm not, I'm just—" He buried his face in his hands, the ember a dull ache, the voice silent but its weight pressing harder.
Rory crouched beside him, hesitant, then clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Hey. You're not dangerous. You're just… you. And yeah, it's a shitshow, but we'll figure it out. Together, yeah?"
Elias didn't respond, his sobs muffled by his palms, but Rory's words lingered, a fragile anchor in the storm. Behind them, the warehouse loomed, its broken windows glinting like eyes, and in the distance, the faint hum of drones returned, a promise of pursuit unbroken.
Across the city, Dr. Thalia Voss watched a grainy feed on her tablet—drone footage of the tunnel, the pulse, the cop's retreat. Her silver-streaked hair framed a face lit by the screen's glow, her eyes narrowing as she tapped a note: Subject escalating. Power tied to fear—unstable, uncontainable. Priority: Capture. She leaned back in her chair, the hum of her lab a quiet counterpoint to the chaos unfolding miles away. "Run all you like, Elias," she murmured. "You're mine."