DR. KWAME POV
I walked toward the two containment tubes, the heels of my boots echoing against the sterile tile. My hands were shoved deep into my pockets, fingers twitching—a nervous habit I hadn't been able to shake in three decades. As I moved, I took in the oppressive emptiness of the laboratory.
Thirty-six years. That was the cost. Thirty-six years of my life's work, my hair turning gray and my skin wrinkling under the fluorescent hum of a subterranean bunker, all to produce the two "brats" currently floating in stasis. They were masterpieces of biological engineering and metaphysical channeling, yet they knew nothing of the cruel truth of the world outside these reinforced concrete walls. They knew nothing of the hunger, the petty wars, or the fundamental battle between cold logic and the chaotic impulse of human emotion.
The first containment tube was a pillar of shadow. I had filled it with the densest, most volatile dark energy I could harvest from the rift. It was a swirling abyss, light-absorbent and hungry. The only thing visible through the reinforced glass was the piercing gaze of Eve—Test Subject One.
His eyes didn't just see; they judged. Even through the thick, viscous energy, his stare cut through me, pinning my soul to the back of my ribcage.
"Already awake, Eve?" I asked. My voice sounded thin in the vast room, swallowed by the hum of the machinery.
I knew he was awake. I could see the way the shadows curled around his fingers like loyal pets. I got no response—a clear sign of the stubbornness he had inherited from a woman who had once told me the stars were just holes in the floor of heaven. He simply watched me, his silence a weapon.
I turned my focus to the opposite tube, the one that held Adam. The contrast was jarring. While Eve was a void, Adam was a beacon. His body was submerged in a golden, divine energy so pure it made the air around the glass vibrate with a harmonic frequency. It was the kind of light people prayed to see at the end of their lives.
And yet, Adam was the one who made me look away first. His eyes were darker than the most atrocious nights, an ink-black void that seemed to consume the very light he was bathed in.
"I'm awake, Father," Adam said.
His voice didn't come through speakers; it vibrated through the glass, through the floor, and directly into my bones. Tiny ripples formed by the vibrations in the tube sent a violent chill down my spine. He was the "good" son—the polite one—but his manner was often more ominous than Eve's. There was a terrifying weight to his kindness, a pressure that felt like the atmosphere right before a category-five hurricane.
"Time to come out," I muttered, more to myself than to them.
I reached for the console and pressed the sequence to initiate the purge. A deep, mechanical groan vibrated through the floor as the pumps began to roar. I watched the levels drop—the darkness receding into the floor vents for Eve, the liquid gold draining away for Adam.
Ptssssk.
The hydraulic seals hissed, venting a cloud of pressurized steam. The tops of the tubes swung open like the lids of coffins.
Eve was the first to move. He vaulted over the edge with a predatory grace, his feet hitting the tile without a sound. Adam followed a second later, stepping out with a slow, deliberate dignity. Their presence in the room was overwhelming; the air felt heavy, charged with the scent of ozone and ancient earth. They were taller than they had been eight months ago. Sharper.
I tossed a towel to each of them, hitting them square in the chest. "Go take a good shower, kids. You smell like the bottom of a rift."
They obeyed. Eve didn't look back, but Adam gave me a small, knowing smile before they disappeared toward the living quarters upstairs.
I stood in the dark for a long time after they left, listening to the silence return to the lab. I turned off the primary power, watching the monitors flicker into blackness. My work was done, yet the weight in my chest only grew heavier.
When I joined them upstairs thirty minutes later, the transformation was almost comical. They were dressed in old clothes—hoodies and jeans that were clearly too small for their new frames. They sat at the kitchen table, positioned exactly opposite each other. Neither spoke. They were simply staring, locked in a silent war of wills that felt like a high-stakes game of Russian roulette.
"Let's go shopping," I said, my voice cracking the tension like a hammer on glass. "You've both outgrown everything you own. You look like you're wearing your younger brothers' clothes."
Eve let out a sharp exhale, breaking the stare-down. Adam just nodded, his expression serene.
"Shopping," Eve repeated, testing the word. "The city?"
"The city," I confirmed.
We walked out to the garage, a cavernous space that had once been my pride and joy. Now, it was a graveyard. Nine luxury cars sat in a row, each covered in a thick, velvety layer of gray dust. They were ghosts of a life I had abandoned a year ago when the boys' training became too dangerous for the public.
I felt their gazes hit me the moment we stepped through the door. I looked away, a bead of sweat forming on my forehead as I realized how much I had let things slide.
"Really?" Eve said, his voice dripping with teenage sarcasm. "You stayed in the lab so long you forgot how to use a duster, old man?"
"How come the cars haven't been touched, Father?" Adam asked. His tone wasn't mocking like Eve's, but the curiosity in it was almost worse. It pointed out my isolation.
"Well... I had nowhere to go," I admitted, my voice tight. "And no one to go with."
I lifted my left hand from my pocket. It felt heavy, but the power was there, bubbling just beneath the surface of my skin. I focused, channeling a stream of golden energy from my heart, down my arm, and into the tips of my index and middle fingers. It felt warm—a familiar, comforting heat.
The boys watched me with surgical intensity. They followed the golden glow, their eyes tracking the way the light bled into the air.
"I could almost cry," I thought. To them, this was a lesson. To me, it was a reminder of everything I had sacrificed to give them this power.
I flicked my fingers toward the black sedan at the end of the row. I didn't release a blast; I manipulated the energy, softening the golden light until it transformed into a focused, gentle gale. The wind swept over the car, lifting the year's worth of dust and carrying it out through the ventilation fans in seconds. The paint beneath was pristine—a deep, obsidian black.
"Our old man still has it," Eve said, stepping forward and patting my shoulder with a grin.
I didn't let him get away with the cheek. I gave him a quick, sharp knock on the back of his head. "You little brat. Show some respect for your creator."
Adam broke the moment with a genuine chuckle. He reached out and caught the keys I tossed him, his reflexes blurring with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a human. He naturally slid into the driver's seat.
"You're driving?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I've spent eight months in a tube, Father," Adam said, gripping the steering wheel. "I need to feel the road."
Eve claimed the back seat, immediately reclining and stretching his long legs across the bench. I took the front passenger seat, feeling the familiar leather beneath me. Adam turned the key. The engine didn't just start; it roared to life, a mechanical beast waking from a long slumber.
As the garage door hummed open, revealing the blinding sunlight of the afternoon, Eve already had his phone out.
"How long until we reach Jorgen City?" he asked, his thumbs flying across the screen.
Adam adjusted the rearview mirror, catching Eve's eye for a brief, silent second. "Three hours at most," Adam said. Then, a devious, sharp grin spread across his face—one that reminded me far too much of the storms that used to roll off the coast. "One hour if I ignore the speed limit."
"Do not speed," I commanded, my voice firm. "We are trying to blend in, not cause a national emergency."
Adam's grin didn't fade, but he nodded. "As you wish, Father."
I watched him as he pulled the car out onto the cracked asphalt of the driveway. He was fifteen years old, but he handled the two-ton machine with the precision of a watchmaker. He was mature—too mature. He understood the hidden meaning behind my command: the safety of the ordinary people on the road was paramount, mostly because the ordinary people wouldn't survive a collision with him.
I looked out the window as the trees began to blur past. I found myself wishing she was here. If she could see them now, she would see herself.
Eve had inherited her fire—her sharp tongue, her restlessness, and that refusal to be contained by anyone. He was her persona brought back to life. But Adam... Adam was the one who worried me. He was a perfect, terrifying mix of us both. He had my calculated calm and her inner storm.
A calm storm is the most dangerous kind. It's the one you don't see coming until you're already drowning.