The alarm screamed at 5:30 AM, a sound as sharp and intrusive as a Threacho scanner finding something it didn't like.
I was already awake. You don't sleep deep in our district, not with the sirens that meant a Breach, or the quieter, closer screams that meant something else. I lay there, listening to the other sound in the apartment: the low, rhythmic hum from my father's room. The sound of the Dampener doing its work. It was a quiet sound, but in the silence of our lives, it was the loudest thing in the world.
Sixty years ago, the world broke. They call it the Triple Catastrophe in the history streams. After the sky finished falling, the ground started tearing. Portals. Breaches. Monsters from some other layer of reality decided our world looked tasty. We threw armies at them. We lost. We almost threw nukes at our own cities. We would have lost even harder.
Then, the stories say, the giants came. Three of them, tall as houses, and they fought the monsters back. They saved us. They're a footnote now, a myth. What's real is what came after.
The Signatures.
Kids, babies, started developing powers. One kid could make light. Another could bend steel. Most could do things a lot less useful—make their hair change color, or one really long, really strong finger. It was chaos. So they built the System. The System of Signatures. The S.O.S.
The official story is beautiful. Humanity, facing extinction, evolved. We grew a new organ, the Threacho, nestled right next to the heart. It's the source of our Signatures, our miracle. The S.O.S. finds the kids who develop them, trains them, and turns them into the Responders who fight the Breaches and keep us safe. It's a perfect, heroic circle.
We live in the part of the circle they don't put on the posters.
My dad got his Signature at age four. A Tier 2 Utility—he could super-saturate concrete, make it set in seconds. Useful for rebuilding after a Breach. He entered the S.O.S. training stream. He wasn't strong enough, or fast enough, or something enough. He failed his final trials. They don't just let you go when you fail. A failed Signature is an unstable one, they say. A risk.
So they gave him the Dampener. A tiny, black metal disk they suture right onto your Threacho. It hums, forever, and it keeps your power locked in a little box at the bottom of your soul. He came out with his dream shattered and a medical pension, and a hum you can hear in the dead of night. He's a Dimmed Man. A cautionary tale.
There's me. Theodore Griffin. Powerless. Pretty average. Nothing stands out about me. I've got brown eyes and brown black hair.
It's just me and my dad. Mom ran off when I was little. Dad says she was powerless, too. Guess that explains why I am.
I leaned on the windowsill, watching a hero glide through the sky, cape billowing like a flag. I envied that. More than anything. Wished I could be up there. Too bad my chance ended ten years ago, when a doctor in a white coat looked down at my scans and said, "Sorry, son. You'll never develop a Threacho."
My dad's dream shattered that day, too. He wanted me to be a hero—to live the life he never could. I cried until my throat was raw. All my friends got their Signatures. All but one. He's the only one who stuck around. Even Lily, my friend since we could walk, stopped talking to me. I remember her last words to me when we were ten: "Sorry, Theo. We just belong to different worlds now. You can't stand by my side if you can't keep up. You're too… normal."
That broke something in me.
She'd smiled, though. "The S.O.S. contacted my family. They want me to go to Turboland Academy! Isn't that great?"
It was. Her Signature was amazing. I don't blame her. She'd always been the one to step in when I got bullied. I still hope I see her again someday.
My room is a shrine to what I can't have. Posters of heroes plaster the walls, mostly of The Almighty. One bold, bright poster shouted: GO TURBO.
I grabbed my bag and called out, "Dad, I'm headed to school!"
His voice came from down the hall. "Oh, okay. Take care of yourself. Did you eat?"
"Yeah, I'm good."
He stepped out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, hair dripping. "Alright. Be careful out there. And if you see any danger—"
I finished for him, "Yeah, yeah. Run the other way.
The walk to school was… normal. As normal as it gets when you see heroes wrestling energy-blasters off rooftops and Containment Teams cordoning off alleys. I kept my head down, part of the scenery.
School was its own kind of battlefield. I'd just sat down when a fist slammed into my gut, driving the air from my lungs.
"What's up, powerless?"
I winced, curling over my desk. "Come on, Edgar. Really? And half the class is Baseline. Why just me?"
Edgar loomed over me, a grin on his face. "'Cause I feel like it."
Edgar. Our relationship lived in the gray zone between friend and enemy. He was the one who'd stayed.
He laughed, pulled his fist back, and punched the air in front of me.
An invisible force hit my chest like a battering ram. I flew backward, skidding across the linoleum until my back hit the lockers with a dull thud.
"Damn hero wannabe," he sneered, turning away.
Signature: Event Horizon. Edgar's power is simple: he repels things. He can push attacks away with an invisible shield, shove crowds back with a pulse of force, or focus it into a beam—the Lance—that doesn't just knock something back, it pushes the molecules themselves apart. It bores a clean, silent hole through whatever it hits. He controls space. Nothing gets close unless he lets it.
He got his power when he was nearly five. I remember that day. He sprinted across the playground, eyes wide with wonder, yelling, "Theo! Theo, look! I finally got it! Watch this!"
He'd pointed at a soda can, and it shot off the picnic table as if flicked by a giant's finger.
"I can push things without touching them!" he'd shouted, bouncing with joy.
That was before he learned that pushing things away gets lonely. The power eats focus and calories, and the more he uses it, the more it feels like he's pushing the whole world away for good.
I picked myself up, dusted off my jeans, and didn't look at him. Some dreams aren't just shattered. They're ground into dust and scattered by the wind.
Mine were. His will be, too. I just don't think he knows it yet.
On the way back from school, the world was its usual chaotic rhythm—heroes streaking across the skyline, the distant thrum of a Containment Team's sirens. Normal. Until the air in front of me ripped open.
It wasn't a tear. It was a wound. A violent, roaring BANG of displaced air, and a Blue Breach split the street open right in front of us. I saw the color first—a searing, electric cobalt halo crackling around a void deeper than night.
The shockwave hit like a truck. I was weightless, then skidding across asphalt. Beside me, Edgar tumbled, cursing. My ears filled with a high-pitched whine, undercut by a sound that shouldn't exist: the groan of something massive pushing itself into our world.
It came through on four trunk-like legs, each step cratering the pavement. Its hide was a jagged, shifting plates of dark chitin, slick with interdimensional fluid. A head like a battering ram swung low, jaws lined with spiraling, crystalline teeth. It wasn't a monster from a nightmare. It was a fact—a fact that screamed.
The roar hit next. Not just sound. It was pressure. Every window on the block detonated inward in a glittering cascade. I tried to stand. My legs were water. My body, disobeying. Paralyzed.
Chaos became a symphony of screams. The creature swung one colossal forelimb in a casual, backhanded arc. It connected with the corner of a mid-rise apartment building. Steel groaned, concrete powdered, and with a shudder that I felt in my teeth, a ten-story section of the structure sheared away and began to fall.
A shadow, immense and fast, swallowed the light. It was coming down. Right on top of me. My mind screamed MOVE, but my bones were lead. This was it. Powerless. Just like they said.
"YOU IDIOT!"
Edgar's voice, raw and furious, cut through the roar. He was twenty feet away, bleeding from a gash on his forehead. He planted his feet, crouched, and the air around his legs shimmered. With a deafening CRACK of repelled atmosphere, he shot forward like a human cannonball. He didn't run—he was launched.
He slammed into me, his arms wrapping around my chest in a tackle that drove every ounce of air from my lungs. The world became a blur of motion and pain as he pushed. Not just with his muscles, but with his power—a focused blast of repulsive force from his back that hurled us both sideways in a desperate, spinning arc.
We crashed into the wreckage of a newsstand just as the world behind us ended. The sound was apocalyptic—a sustained, grinding thunder of collapsing floors and shattering concrete. A storm of dust and debris billowed over us, choking and thick.
Before I could cough, before I could think, a fist connected with my cheek.
It wasn't a monster's blow. It was human, precise, and filled with a rage more terrifying than the beast. My head snapped back, my ears ringing anew.
Edgar was on top of me, his eyes wild. "You idiot!" he snarled, spitting blood and dust. "Do you have a death wish?! What does your dad always say? Huh? When you see danger, you run the other way! You're powerless! You run!"
Beyond him, past the settling cloud, the creature was feeding. Its crystalline teeth closed over a ruined car, metal screeching as it was crushed and consumed. The screams had taken on a new, hopeless pitch.
Then, a different sound cut through the din—the synchronized thrum of high-capacity thrusters. Five figures descended from the smoke-choked sky, landing in a tactical semi-circle between the Breach and the densest part of the crowd. Their arrival was calm. Professional. The cavalry.
To Be Continued...