DR. KWAME POV
The neon lights of the city faded into the soft, rhythmic blur of highway lamps as we sped toward the coast. Inside the car, the atmosphere had shifted. The adrenaline of the fight had cooled, replaced by a heavy, contemplative silence.
Eve was sprawled in the back, snoring softly with a half-eaten burger wrapper resting on his chest. Even in sleep, his Black Impulse flickered occasionally around his fingertips—a restless, reactive energy. But my focus wasn't on him. My focus was on the driver.
Adam held the steering wheel with a light, almost delicate touch. He was maintaining a steady sixty-five miles per hour, obeying the law with a mechanical perfection that felt more chilling than Eve's blatant rebellion.
"Adam," I said quietly.
"Yes, Father?" He didn't turn his head. His eyes remained fixed on the road, reflecting the white lines as they were swallowed by the car's headlights.
"Earlier, in the car... you said something about the people in the mall. You said they looked fragile. You talked about how easy it would be to twitch the wheel."
Adam was silent for a long moment. The only sound was the hum of the engine and the wind whistling past the side mirrors.
"I remember," he said. His voice was devoid of malice. It was the voice of a man stating the weather. "It was an observation of fact. Their lives exist within a very narrow margin of error. One gust of wind, one mechanical failure, one... twitch from someone like me. And they cease to be."
"That 'margin of error' is called civilization, Adam," I said, turning in my seat to face him. "It's built on the idea that those with the power to twitch the wheel choose not to."
Adam tilted his head slightly, a small, curious gesture. "But why? If a lion walks through a field of mice, does the lion consider it a 'choice' not to step on them? No. The lion simply moves. If a mouse is crushed, it is because the mouse was underfoot. It isn't an act of cruelty. It's just the difference in scale."
A cold knot tightened in my stomach. I had spent thirty-six years perfecting their bodies, balancing their energies, and hardening their spirits. I had prepared them to be weapons, to be survivors, to be gods. But sitting here, watching the calm, handsome profile of my son, I realized I might have forgotten the most important part of the experiment.
I had given them the power of the Pinnacle, but I hadn't given them a reason to care about the Blue-tier world.
"Human life isn't a scale of power, Adam. It's a scale of experience," I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling. "That woman in the convertible... she has a mother. She has a favorite song. She has memories that are just as vivid to her as yours are to you."
"Her memories are fleeting, Father," Adam countered. "They are written in sand. My memories—our memories—are written in the Impulse. We are permanent. They are... temporary."
He looked at me then, just for a second. His eyes weren't abyssal or glowing; they were just dark, deep pools of logic.
"You taught me to value efficiency," Adam continued. "You taught me that logic is the only universal truth. Logically, the lives of ten thousand 'fragile' people do not outweigh the potential of one being like me. If the Council comes for us, and those people are in the way... would you have me die to save them?"
I didn't have an answer. I had raised him to be a survivor in a world that would want to dissect him. I had told him he was special. Now, he was simply taking my lessons to their natural, terrifying conclusion.
"I saw the way you looked at Vance," I said, changing the subject slightly. "You didn't just want to stop him. You were studying how he broke."
"I wanted to see the limit of a 'pure' user," Adam admitted. "He was so certain of his superiority. It was fascinating to see that certainty vanish when the physics changed. But once he was broken, he was no longer interesting. He was just... more debris."
I looked out the window, watching the dark silhouettes of the trees. I thought of her. She had been a storm, yes—violent and unpredictable—but she had loved the world. She had fought for the "mice." Adam had her power, her calm, and her face, but he was missing her heart.
"If you see them as debris, Adam, you will eventually become a monster. And monsters are always hunted down. Not because they are evil, but because they are a malfunction in the system."
Adam gripped the wheel a little tighter. For the first time, a flicker of something—displeasure? doubt?—crossed his face.
"I am not a malfunction, Father," he said softly. "I am your masterpiece."
"Even a masterpiece can be a tragedy," I whispered.
We drove on into the night. I realized then that my greatest challenge wouldn't be hiding from the Council or fighting Sentinels. It would be teaching a god how to be a neighbor. Because if I failed, the world wouldn't just be at war with my sons.
The world would be their playground. And I knew how children treated their toys when they were done playing.