Stephen couldn't sleep.
Not even a little.
His sheets were tangled around him like ropes, the heat of his own thoughts making his skin itch. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again—that moment in P.E., when the ball exploded in his hands. One second it was there, the next, it shredded like paper in a storm.
It hadn't popped. It had come apart.
And now his mind wouldn't stop racing.
What did he actually know about Viltrumites?
What exactly were they capable of?
His father could fly. He could break mountains, move like a blur, heal from wounds that would kill a normal person. His senses were sharper than anyone else's. He was strong—beyond strong. He could probably level a city if he wanted to. Or stop an army.
But Stephen?
Stephen had never flown. He'd never even tried, not really. Not like some kids who ran around the yard with their arms out pretending to be rockets. He hadn't thought there was a point. He wasn't like his dad.
He wasn't like Mark, either.
Well—Mark didn't have powers yet. But everyone expected he would. It was just a matter of time.
Stephen was younger. Smaller. Quieter.
He wasn't like them.
Was he?
He sat up in bed and stared at his hands. They looked completely normal. Thin, knobby fingers. Small palms. Skin a little dry from forgetting to put on lotion. They were a kid's hands—anyone's hands.
Except earlier that day, those hands had crushed a ball without even trying.
What else could they do?
_ _ ♛ _ _
The next morning, Stephen skipped breakfast.
His stomach wasn't hungry—hadn't really been hungry since the day before—but that wasn't why. He didn't feel right. There was something coiled inside him, tight and waiting. He needed to move. To know.
His mom didn't say anything. She was half-listening to Mark complain about a math test while flipping pancakes. Their dad sat at the table, eyes glued to the news. His expression was unreadable, as always.
Stephen slipped out the back door without a word.
The morning air was still cool, the grass damp beneath his socks. The backyard was empty, peaceful. Familiar. But he wasn't.
He stood in the centre of the yard and looked up at the sky. Pale blue. Open. Full of answers he couldn't reach.
He took a deep breath.
Alright. Jump.
He bent his knees, concentrated, and launched upward with everything he had.
He landed exactly where he started. A little bounce. Nothing else.
Stephen frowned. Tried again—pushed harder, focused like he'd never focused before.
Still nothing.
Okay, he thought. So no flying. That's good. That means I'm normal. Probably.
Probably.
But flying was just one thing. What about the rest?
The strength. The endurance. The healing. The weird way the sun had felt on his skin.
He closed his eyes, letting his memory rewind. Replaying moments he'd never thought were unusual—until now.
Like how he'd never really needed food when he was playing outside. Or how he could go hours without eating and still have energy. He could eat—he liked to eat—but he never felt driven by it. Not like Mark, who got grumpy without snacks.
And then there was this other thing.
He had never been sick.
Not once. Not even when everyone else was coughing or blowing their noses. He'd never missed a day of school, not for a cold or a stomach bug or the flu. His body just... never broke down.
How had he never noticed that before?
A chill slipped down his back.
Could he be... different?
Different in a way even his father wasn't?
He tilted his face to the sun, squinting. The rays were warm on his cheeks, comforting, but more than that—they were charging. He could feel the heat sinking through his skin, soaking into his bones. Filling him.
It was like the light itself wanted to stay with him.
His eyes widened.
Wait.
Wait just a damn minute.
The sun. The way he felt stronger in it. The way he didn't need to eat when he was outside. The way he never got sick. The ease with which he'd broken that ball yesterday. The way his skin had almost buzzed in the sunlight.
That wasn't a Viltrumite thing.
He would've known. Someone would've told him.
That was...
That was Clark Kent.
Superman.
Stephen's breath caught in his throat. His chest felt tight, like something huge and invisible was pressing down on it.
No, no, that's ridiculous.
He shook his head hard, like that would make the thought go away. He was getting carried away. Thinking crazy things. Comics and real life weren't the same.
Besides, he was probably just... a late bloomer. Like Mark. Their dad said it could happen at different ages. Stephen was younger—maybe this was normal.
Except...
Mark had never reacted to the sun like this.
And Dad had never said anything about the sun doing this to him.
Stephen's stomach turned. He looked down at his hands again, as if they might give him a sign. They didn't.
He wasn't just Viltrumite. He couldn't be.
Not with how the sun felt to him.
He whispered to himself, "What am I?"
He stared up at the sky, heartbeat hammering in his ears, and thought:
If this is real—if this is actually happening—then what crack did God smoke to give me this?!
_ _ ♛ _ _
He spent the rest of the morning testing himself.
He held his breath. One minute. Two. Three. Five full minutes passed before his lungs even twitched with discomfort. He wasn't even winded.
He grabbed a rock from the garden bed and squeezed. His fingers sank into it. It broke apart like wet clay.
He ran. Fast. So fast that the world blurred for a second, and he had to slam on the brakes before he crashed into the back fence.
His lungs didn't burn. His legs didn't ache.
It was real.
It was undeniable.
He was different.
_ _ ♛ _ _
That night, Stephen couldn't sleep. Again.
He stared up at the ceiling, the shadows shifting slowly across the walls. If he wasn't just a Viltrumite—if he was something else entirely—what did that mean?
Could his father know?
Did he know?
Was that why Nolan always seemed to watch him just a little too closely?
And if he did know... what did that mean for Stephen's future?
Stephen swallowed hard. His throat was dry. The thought hit him like a punch to the gut: he was a question mark in his own family. A wild card. A mystery even his dad might not understand—or want to.
For years, he'd thought his life was normal. Peaceful. Full of love and laughter and Sunday breakfast.
But what if that was all just... surface? A mask?
If his dad was Omni-Man, and Mark was bound for something bigger, then what the hell was Stephen supposed to be?
And what if something was coming?
Something he was meant for?
The idea made his skin crawl.
_ _ ♛ _ _
The next morning, Stephen made a decision.
He would pretend.
He would smile, go to school, laugh at jokes, and act like everything was fine. The last thing he needed was for Dad to notice. If Nolan even suspected something was up, Stephen didn't know what would happen—and that scared him more than anything.
So he played along. He went through the motions. He sat next to Mark on the bus. He waved at friends. He answered a question in class and got a gold star. He laughed when he was supposed to.
But inside?
The questions never stopped.
And the worst part?
There was no one he could talk to.
No one would believe him. Not Mom—she'd just worry. Not Mark—he didn't even have his powers yet. And Dad?
Stephen had no idea what Dad would do if he knew.
He stood in the school bathroom during recess, gripping the edges of the sink, staring at his reflection like he was looking at someone else.
He took a slow, shaky breath.
This is real. This is happening.
And he was completely, utterly alone.
End of Chapter 13