The Prototype on the Edge
The machine breathed like a wounded animal. Sparks hissed from exposed wiring, the glow inside its makeshift core pulsing erratically. The hum that had started steady now rose into a high-pitched whine, a scream that made the steel beams tremble.
Michael's face was inches from the glow, his pupils wide, sweat dripping from his brow. "Just a little longer," he whispered, his fingers twitching near the switch. "I need to know its breaking point."
Lena cursed, shielding her eyes from the glare. "You're going to kill us all if you don't shut it down!"
Elliot scrambled back, clutching his laptop. "This thing goes, we'll be lucky if there's enough left to scrape off the walls!"
But Michael didn't move. His chest heaved with exhilaration. For a heartbeat, he looked radiant, as if the glow itself were feeding him.
Arthur's voice cut through the chaos, gravel and thunder. "Michael. Enough."
Michael's hand trembled, torn between pulling the lever and letting the machine devour itself. His gaze darted to the pocket watch on the stool, the ticking amplified in his mind until it drowned out the screams, the warnings, even the rising whine of the prototype.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
With a choked gasp, Michael threw the switch. The light collapsed. The hum died. The warehouse plunged into silence.
Michael slumped against the bench, gasping for breath, his shirt clinging to him with sweat. The machine sat lifeless, smoke curling upward like incense from a burned offering.
Arthur closed his eyes briefly, whispering a prayer of thanks.
---
Arthur's Confrontation
Arthur moved slowly to Michael, cane tapping against the floor. His voice was low, but carried steel.
"One day, you'll have to decide whether you want to build the sun—or burn in it."
Michael's eyes snapped up, fever-bright. "If I burn, then at least the world will remember the fire."
Arthur's jaw tightened. He leaned closer, gripping Michael's shoulder with surprising strength for his age. "Don't talk to me about fire. I've seen what it does. I watched Richard Bellamy play with flames just like you. He thought he was untouchable. Thought the world would bend to his will. And it did—at a cost. He buried friends, allies, even his wife. And he still hasn't put the flames out."
Michael stared, startled by the intensity in Arthur's tone.
Arthur's voice softened, almost breaking. "I don't want to bury you too."
Michael looked away, unable to meet his eyes. "Then don't stand in my way."
Arthur released him, stepping back, his face heavy with sorrow. For the first time, he looked every year of his age.
---
Arthur's Memories
Later, after the others had drifted into uneasy sleep, Arthur lingered in a corner of the warehouse. His hand shook as he pulled a small journal from his coat pocket. The pages were yellowed, written in cramped script. Notes, fragments, memories.
He turned to an entry from decades ago: "Richard Bellamy, age 22. Brilliance tempered by arrogance. He asked me if knowledge makes gods or devils. I told him: both. He laughed, and said he'd rather be a god."
Arthur shut the book, staring at the dark ceiling beams. "And now you're asking the same questions, Michael," he whispered. "But you don't have decades. You've got months. And God help me, you're running faster than even Richard ever did."
---
Claire's Reflection
The car ride back to the estate was silent. Claire sat in the back seat, her posture straight, but her hands rested tightly on her knees. She could still see the glow of the machine in her mind's eye, hear the desperate hum, feel the raw heat against her skin.
She had walked into that warehouse expecting a charlatan or a lunatic. Instead, she had found a man who looked like he might burn himself alive just to prove the world wrong.
Her chest ached with an old memory—the scent of antiseptic in a hospital room, the sound of her mother's labored breathing before it faded forever. She had been twelve. Her father hadn't cried in front of her, but she had seen the cracks in his armor. Since then, everything had been walls: guards, gates, wealth stacked as fortifications against loss.
And here was Michael Rivers, tearing himself open with no walls at all. Fragile, reckless, brilliant.
She thought of his words: "That's the wrong question. Do you believe I won't destroy myself giving it to them?"
Claire's throat tightened. "Visionary or madman," she murmured. "Maybe both."
The driver glanced in the mirror but said nothing.
She turned her gaze to the darkened city streets. Somewhere in that warehouse, Michael was probably back at the chalkboard, already planning his next attempt. And for reasons she couldn't explain, the thought unsettled her more than it should have.
---
Michael Alone
Back in the warehouse, the others asleep, Michael sat alone by the dead machine. The smell of ozone clung to the air. His notebooks were scattered around him, filled with lines that seemed to mock him now—formulas without flesh.
He pulled the pocket watch from his coat, holding it in his palm. The ticking was relentless, steady, merciless.
"Helios will rise," he whispered, his voice raw. "Even if it kills me first."
The ticking answered, as if in agreement. Or condemnation.
Michael closed his eyes, and in the darkness behind his lids, the glow of the prototype burned on.