Chapter 6 – Sparks of Helios (Part 1)
The Obsession Deepens
The warehouse had become more than a workspace—it was a shrine. Chalk covered every surface, equations spilling across walls, floor, even the steel beams. Stacks of notebooks teetered precariously, some filled cover to cover, others only half-scribbled before Michael had abandoned them for the next surge of thought.
At the center of it all was Michael himself, hunched over a workbench scavenged from a scrapyard, wires and circuit boards spread around him like surgical instruments. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hands trembling from sleepless nights.
The pocket watch ticked beside him, louder than the hum of the old generators. Tick. Tick. Tick. Each second reminded him of the tumor in his skull, the clock counting down his remaining months.
Arthur Caldwell stood at the edge of the chaos, arms crossed, watching with the patience of a man who had seen too many young men burn themselves out. His heart ached, but his voice remained steady when he finally spoke.
"You keep this up, and Richard won't have a visionary to invest in. He'll have a corpse delivered to his gate."
Michael didn't look up. "Better a corpse that tried than a man who wasted his days."
Arthur stepped closer, his cane tapping against the floor. "You think building Helios will erase what Vanessa did? You think it will fill the hole Jason carved into you?"
Michael's pen froze mid-equation. He didn't answer.
Arthur sighed, setting a thermos of coffee on the workbench. "You're not proving yourself to them, Michael. You're punishing yourself."
Michael finally looked up, his eyes blazing. "No, Arthur. I'm proving that I matter. That my time wasn't wasted. That when the clock stops, there'll be something left—something they can't ignore."
Arthur stared at him for a long moment, then quietly said, "Just don't mistake obsession for clarity. I've seen that before. And it never ends the way you think."
---
The Team's Friction
Lena Torres entered from the side door, her boots echoing against the concrete. She carried a stack of blueprints she'd drawn up overnight, dark circles under her eyes. She tossed them onto the table beside Michael.
"You're driving us into the ground, Rivers," she said flatly. "I'm an engineer, not a miracle worker. You want to impress Richard Bellamy? Then you'd better give me something real to build, not just chalk castles."
Michael didn't even glance at the papers. "Castles stand longer than cubicles, Lena."
She scowled. "Spoken like someone who's never actually had to keep a system running. You want a prototype? Fine. But don't expect me to keep patching holes while you burn yourself alive."
From the corner, Elliot Park snorted, hunched over his laptop. His fingers clattered across the keys as lines of code scrolled. "Welcome to the cult of Rivers," he muttered. "Our fearless leader promises fire from the heavens while the rest of us duct-tape reality together."
Michael's gaze flicked toward him. "You're free to leave, Elliot."
Elliot didn't stop typing. "And miss the trainwreck? Not a chance. But don't kid yourself, genius. Bellamy won't be swayed by speeches. He'll want proof. Hard proof. And right now, all we've got is a lunatic with chalk dust in his hair."
Arthur's voice cut through the tension, gravel and authority. "Enough. You three sound like children fighting over toys. Either you believe in this, or you don't. But if you're here, then you damn well work as if the future depends on it."
Silence followed. Even Elliot looked up, chastened.
Michael clenched his fists, then exhaled slowly. "Arthur's right. Richard gave us a chance. If we waste it, Helios dies before it begins."
He turned back to the chalkboard, eyes burning. "So let's build something that makes him believe."
---
The Spark of an Idea
For three days, the warehouse became a storm.
Michael barely slept, moving from chalkboard to workbench to notebook in a feverish loop. Lena tore through scrap yards, bringing back coils, tubing, and scavenged circuit boards. Elliot coded until his wrists ached, muttering curses under his breath as simulations crashed and restarted.
Arthur watched them all, offering quiet words, bringing food they barely touched. He knew better than to try stopping the storm. All he could do was keep them from drowning in it.
On the fourth night, Michael stopped abruptly at the center of the warehouse. His chalk fell from his hand.
"I have it," he whispered.
Lena looked up from her blueprints. "Have what?"
"The seed," Michael said, eyes wide. "Not the whole sun. Just the spark. Something small enough to fit in this room, but strong enough to prove the principle."
Elliot rubbed his eyes. "You're talking about a prototype. You can't just conjure a reactor from scrap."
Michael grinned, wild and tired. "Watch me."
---
The Prototype
The warehouse smelled of ozone and rust. Lena and Michael crouched over the workbench, piecing together salvaged coils and broken capacitors scavenged from half-dead generators. Elliot sat nearby, his laptop screen reflecting pale light across his tired face as he typed furiously.
The machine that grew in the center of the room didn't look like salvation. It looked like a monster made of scrap: wires coiled like veins, tubes patched with tape, a cracked panel glowing faintly. But there was a rhythm to it, a pulse that whispered possibility.
Michael tightened the last bolt with trembling hands. His breath caught. "If this holds…"
Arthur stood a few feet back, his cane steady, eyes sharp. "If it doesn't, you'll blow half this block to pieces."
"Then we'll know the limits," Michael replied.
Lena shot him a glare. "That's not how prototypes work."
But she didn't stop him.
Michael placed his hand on the switch. The watch ticked in his pocket, every beat a drumroll. "Helios, rise."
He threw the switch.
The machine roared to life, lights flickering across its surface. At first, it sputtered, coughing sparks, but then a low hum filled the warehouse. A pale blue glow radiated from the core. For a moment, it seemed to breathe.
Lena's eyes widened. "It's holding."
Elliot checked the readouts on his laptop, disbelief on his face. "Output stable… God, this shouldn't be possible with junk parts."
Michael stared at the glow, his reflection caught in the light. For the first time in weeks, his hollow eyes flickered with awe. "It works."
Arthur's grip on his cane tightened. He didn't smile. Instead, he whispered, "Or it begins to."
---
The Visit
The side door creaked open.
Michael spun, startled, as Claire Bellamy stepped inside, her silhouette framed by the dim light of the streetlamp outside. She wore a dark coat, her hair tied back, her posture straight.
"You weren't expecting me," she said, her voice calm, steady.
Michael's heart skipped. "No. Why are you here?"
She stepped closer, her gaze moving across the chalk-covered walls, the glowing machine, the mess of blueprints. Her eyes lingered on the hum of the prototype.
"My father told me to see for myself," she said. "To decide whether you're a visionary… or a madman."
Lena crossed her arms, defensive. "And which is it?"
Claire didn't answer immediately. She walked slowly around the prototype, her expression unreadable. Finally, she stopped and turned to Michael.
"This could change everything. But tell me—do you believe humanity deserves this?"
Michael met her gaze, the glow of the prototype between them. "That's the wrong question. Do you believe I won't destroy myself giving it to them?"
The silence that followed was thick. Claire studied him, and for a fleeting second, Michael thought he saw something in her eyes—recognition, maybe even concern.
She broke it first. "I don't know yet."
---
The Friction Sharpens
As Claire turned to leave, Elliot muttered under his breath, "Bellamy royalty, judging us like ants under a magnifying glass."
Michael shot him a glare. "She's not the enemy."
Arthur, however, watched Claire's retreating form with a grim expression. When the door shut, he said softly, "Richard didn't send her for information. He sent her to see if you were a lunatic. She hasn't decided yet."
Michael looked back at the humming machine, its glow casting shadows across the warehouse. His hand clenched around the watch in his pocket.
"Then I'll make her believe," he whispered. "I'll make them all believe."
The prototype hummed louder, as if answering him, a fragile light daring to stand against the dark.