2 Chapter 1 – Ade's Creation

The best stories start with distant memories, where we explore the beginning before the middle and the middle which leads to the end. It's typical to say that everything has a starting bridge, and however tortuous it may be, it is always worth peeking. After all, this is just the first page of many more that are yet to come. Right now, we are about to witness the slow evolution of a beginning that isn't simply ordinary, but very, very peculiar instead.

Just like every heroic tale.

𝗛𝗼𝗺𝗲 (𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗶𝘀)

ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: Greenport, New York

Twenty four years ago.

The faint sound of graffiti scribbling on paper clattered in the background, bringing life to the quiet suburb. Sitting on a wooden bench, the journalist graced his youngest son with a rare moment of his presence. It was with tender joy and eager bravery that they exposed themselves to the faint sunlight in autumn chill. The backyard, once home to the multiple colors of spring, was covered with dry foliage that laid by the protuberant roots of urban trees. A sad view for some and a landscape worth praising for them - one that remained magnificent throughout generations.

Leaning on his artistic skills, the journalist silently thanked himself for taking drawing lessons decades ago. Finally they came in handy: the two had fully engaged in creating a hero from scratch. The idea was simple, foolish even, whereas his principles hid a father's pain due to the hardship his son faced.

The creation of an all-powerful image bordered noble intentions. The man, Carl Thompson, was a father as present as mentioned at the beginning of the story. He struggled to fulfill his duty of caring for the boy, Andrew Thurman, whose academic performances were as astonishing as they were enviable. Modesty aside, Carl was so ridiculously proud he couldn't help but count his blessings. Suddenly it didn't matter how hard it was to live under the same roof of a bitter woman and an older son that followed in her footsteps. The two shared a bond that helped them lead peaceful life in the American city of Greenport, New York.

However, even the father of the year couldn't always make himself present, especially when leading a job that demanded long hours and multiple deadlines. As clever and kind as he was, Andrew was an easy target for the cruelty of the wolves. Torture began at home, where his older brother and heartless mother came together to make the boy's life a living hell out of spite. If Carl clearly favored the youngest, Donna Marie wasn't left behind: Frederick, the firstborn, did not have his father's good humor or his brother's kindness. His attitudes, as well as his envy, were a product of his toxic maternal heritage.

Helpless, fragile and way too docile to fight back, Andrew was the perfect punching bag. The assaults ranged from vulgar words to physical harassment, until Carl grew tired of seeing his kid hide bruises under sunglasses and long-sleeved shirts. Heartbroken, the man decided to present him with something a little more resistant than cotton:

A memory.

A safe haven to hide into.

A hero who would soon become the right boost to aid the youngling whose traumas plagued him at large.

Small anxious eyes stared at the father, his gaze overflowing with curiosity as he marveled at the rapid movements of the man's hand. Eager, the child stood on his tiptoes and insisted on spying on the newly started artwork, too impatient to limit himself to a final surprise. Rubbing his hands, deep in thought, Andrew refused to experience creation as a mere spectator.

— Flight! Super strength! Super speed! Super hearing! Super...

— Super willpower, how about that? And a good sense of justice? Oh, but this one should come before anything else.

With mild attempts to calm the boy's restless imagination, Carl suggested powers that went beyond muscles and "laser beams". The idea wasn't to create the unimaginable, much less the unreachable: he needed a perfect model to inspire the little one as soon as possible, for his time on Earth wasn't much to spare.

Yeah.

Carl Thurman, kind father, wasn't that much of a perfect father after all. The tumor that threatened his existence was growing spacious inside his brain, too prominent to be ignored and too unstable to be successfully removed. At this point, his headaches had headaches and his migraines were a part of his design. Pursing his lips, Carl forced himself to think of something less morbid. Being close to his best friend certainly made the pain more bearable, but he couldn't forgive himself for having to leave the boy behind. To know that he wouldn't have a chance to watch his child grow up hurt more than any cancer. Frightened by the thought of leaving his son alone, he took a deep breath and shrugged the dark daydreams off his shoulders, just in time to hear the boy's next suggestion.

— Hmmm, and how about... The power to make food appear wherever and whenever he wants?

— I think that's straying way too far from reality, buddy. – Carl laughed, moving his free hand to pat the boy's shoulder.

— Super... patience!

— Ah, that's it. That one would come in handy if he had to deal with your mother.

As much as he tried, Carl couldn't keep himself from feeling helpless in the face of the youngster's fragility. Desperate, Andrew tried to find strength in his own imagination with the help of his father, his only friend. His eyes shone when they were together as it was the only time he could forget his unstable family and troubled childhood. This is the kind of pain any good father would wish he could fix with a crayon, but he was no hero. No, Carl had never been a hero.

— Daddy... I want him to look just like you. – the boy whispered, wrapping his thin arms around his father's bicep, whose entire body tensed up in response. Disappointed in himself, Carl lowered his head and dropped the crayon he had been holding steady on his grip.

— Dad?

With a pencil, he finished off the last details. Alas, he failed to obey the young man's last request out of sheer incapacity. The last thing he wanted was to let the kid put him on a pedestal just to be gone forever the day after.

— That's your own personal hero, Drew. The one who's gonna save you when you're in danger. He may not be me, but he'll rescue you whenever you need.

Taking the paper in his small hands, Andrew smiled, pleased to see the gray and gold pattern on the hero's uniform. He'd always say that even the grayest of skies could be more beautiful than a violet sunset, while gold was the same material that lined his father's heart. In a way, he wasn't wrong. The sun accompanies even the darkest of storms.

— He'll protect me like you do, dad?

The boy's bright eyes once again made the adult melt behind a friendly smile.

— Yeah, you can say so. Except he's always right... here. – Carl lisped, as gentle as ever, while his index finger poked at the left side of the boy's chest. He then moved that same finger towards his forehead, better known as the center of his imagination.

— And you know how to call him, don't you?

— I close my eyes...

—... And let him surface.

Smiling, the small, fragile boy who clutched the hem of his own shirt finally came to believe in himself. His posture changed when he watched his father, whose lips curled wider as his son nurtured a self-confidence that would allow him to overcome all the obstacles in the world.

At that time, Ade was no longer a child in distress. His hurt was no longer an obstacle, but a boost to seek evolution. Ade was a superhero – and nothing would take that away from him.

— Am I Made-Man, dad?

— You most definitely are, kiddo.

[...]

— Doctor Thurman?

The lazy blink of an eye brought him back to reality. How long had he been stuck inside his own reveries? Not long enough, apparently. The woman was still right there.

— As I already told you five times, Mrs. Palmer... your headaches are a normal result of migraines. To think Google could've solved this one.

𝗚𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗻𝘃𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗲 𝗛𝗼𝘀𝗽𝗶𝘁𝗮𝗹 (𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝗮𝗿𝗲)

ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: Manhattan, New York

Present time.

Skeptical, the patient buried her face into the palms of her shaking hands.

- B-but doctor... my eyes! They're going to explode!

God, he hated his job sometimes.

Counting blessings wasn't his thing. Andrew Thurman, the most famous neurosurgeon North America currently had, counted every minute he wasted caring for patients who clearly didn't need treatment at all. You see: his intelligence was too great to be spent in such a pathetic way. Years of studies led him to enter the best college the country had to offer and to graduate with honors. His report card was impeccable and his resume was enviable. Since witnessing his father's death at the age of 12, Andrew spent every minute of his life immersed in books instead of building a social life in the outside world. His face was only known because of his work, and his strong personality was only brought to light because of his unique ability to save lives.

In other words, Ade was an asshole. But a renowned asshole.

He became everything his father would never have imagined such a sweet boy would become one day.

Impatient, the asshole took off his glasses and rubbed his temples as if that was enough to appease his inner anger. The patient in question was watching him intently, holding her flashy pink phone with both hands. He watched her for a few seconds, avoiding eye contact not to raise the systematic hopes of an anti-vaxxer who swore Earth was flat. The bane of his existence paid him weekly visits in hope to find more theories to dig. He wished she'd dig a hole to herself and disappear six feet under. But he couldn't say that out loud since he saves lives for a living. Typical.

As if it wasn't enough to throw years of neuroscience studies out the window, he had to do so by treating patients who most likely didn't even have a brain.

— It'd most certainly help if you didn't spend twenty four hours a day behind a phone screen. You could at least switch to night mode, Mrs. Palmer.

He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow as she touched the phone screen with her index finger. Part of him would have loved to know what new article she planned for her joke of a blog, but he was too weary to let himself be carried away by the madness of others. It didn't take long for her to readapt a melodramatic stance, blowing the blonde bangs off her forehead while pressing the "publish" button.

Pretentious, she hid the phone in her cleavage.

— I... I need to...

— What you need is to shoo, m'lady. And for the next weeks yet to come 'til the end of your creepy life. Your health is impeccable, which only proves my theory that the wicked are the last to die – a large smile tugged on his lips regardless of the offense he implied with the joke. – Word of advice? Go pester the Illuminati.

The middle-aged woman ran her hand – which was no longer shaking – through her wavy locks and grunted as she was left behind by an overly irritated neurologist.

— Weird flex, doctor! I've got my eyes on you! – she called out, curling into herself to whisper to the phone that barely poked out of its hideout between her breasts. – one more day in the lion's den. It's getting clearer and clearer which side he's on... we must break the system.

Ade closed his eyes and took a deep breath before leaving the office, picking up signs of a migraine of his own. He remained in a meditative state for long minutes, standing still in the middle of the emergency wing, taking root in the ground to avoid collaborating with those who asked him to step aside. His peace dragged on for a while, but even the harmless quietude brought him some discomfort. Relieved, he sighed upon noticing the approach of a young lady whose red hair had been tamed in a loose bun.

— You do that on purpose, don't you? You know I adore spending my miserable days attending banalities, so you pepper my schedule with this bullshit... – he mumbled, catching a better glimpse of the nurse with a squint.

Joanne smiled in spite of the exaggerated sarcasm he poured out, crossing out items on her clipboard while balancing it on her forearm. Her free hand clutched freshly filled sheets of newly arrived patients.

— I love wasting your time. Talking about time, it seems yours is running low. The director and his friends want to speak to you.

Without further ado, she dodged any following questions. However, before disappearing down the hall, Louise made sure to point towards the pager he had abandoned on the reception desk.

Needless for him to approach the device to know that it'd been beeping for awhile. Andrew put his glasses back on and picked it up as it continued to vibrate, its small screen swarming with messages. He sighed deeply, removed his lab coat and told the nearest nurse that his shift had just ended. At last, the long-awaited hour when he would finally receive the approval of the board. A lifetime worth of research was about to come true. The treatment that could once provide the cure for the tumor that took Carl Thurman's life would no longer be just an idea: it would soon be reality.

[...]

— Nay. The answer is nay. Absolutely not.

The victim of his own dreams sat before a large table surrounded by executives who shook their heads in kind. A dozen eyes fell on the helpless man, whose hands held the paperwork that carried researches in need of a mere authorization. Shaken despite not making that clear in his cold, calculating expression, Andrew bowed his head to refute the decision.

— This could save lives.

As the men looked at each other, he clenched his fists, wrinkling the papers in the process. Years of research thrown away by wealthy idiots who were shaking on their boots, afraid to invest in something innovative. The director of the Greenville Hospital watched him carefully, searching for the right words like someone who walks in a minefield avoids triggering bombs. His insistence was pitiful. His optimism was deafening.

— Andrew, we won't encourage an experimental accident.

— Experimental accident? Accident? Incident, gentlemen, please! A fleeting hardship won't affect a process that will be under control! Jeez, your tiny minds scare me sometimes.

They gasped.

Optimism? No, no. He was way past that stage, led by pure stubbornness. He got to the point where he wanted what he wanted because he could – and he was totally willing to fight harder just because they had him denied. The tension that hung in the room turned the brief meeting into a war of intelligence versus money. Still, despite the knowledge and doctorate that Andrew carried on his shoulders, what really mattered was the hierarchy of power... and the director was not very happy with his insistence.

- What I mean to say is that danger can be measured. Besides that, the main risk...

— Ah-hah! You can stop right there. Danger. Risk. Two major keywords on a roll. If there is risk, – the man's posture was mighty enough to make anyone step back, but Andrew was the only living soul in that hospital with the guts to step forth instead. – then we can't take it. We're talking about human beings, not lab rats. The only thing we can offer you as of now is a couple artificial neurons available for laboratorial analysis, but to put somebody's life at stake to obtain a result that's theoretically volatile is out of question. Our Hospital won't be target to controversy to please your eager mind, Andrew.

The seriousness picked on the director's voice made Ade hide behind his doctorate like a wounded puppy nevertheless. The looks everyone shot his way made it clear that the chief knew this experiment meant more than a scientific discovery. Ade didn't want recognition - he wanted peace of mind. His father died, thus leaving him alone in a cold world, and he did not have the power to stop it from happening.

— Let's be reasonable just for one second, Elijah.

The man clasped his hands together. He wasn't a brute, but he wasn't merciful neither. Ade had been friends with him for years, which meant his boss only tolerated his absurdities out of respect for his predecessor. Carl Thurman and Elijah Oliver Garcia were childhood friends who'd hang out every Friday night until the journalist's life came to an end. In one way or another, Elijah was the only family Andrew had left, and the only one who treated him as such.

— ...I need genuine human reactions. I need to work with the unpredictable here. There is much more to add to this research, specially when it comes to induced traumas and, posteriorly, an eventual comatose. We need an actual thinking being. We need functional reaction. We need chemistry and psychiatry to come together... through dangerous but effective means.

It doesn't matter how much Ade pleaded with almost imperceptible gestures. The papers crumpled even more and his knuckles whitened as his fingers curled into his palms in anticipation. They exchanged glares in silence until an inconvenient individual decided it'd be a good time to cough. Once reality came washing down on the director's unamused face, he leaned forth to provide his last verdict.

— The answer is still nay, doctor Thurman. – he said, resting his forearms on the wooden surface. – Unless you find a way to make this safe, the board won't grant you with necessary permission.

— Great. Wonderful. Lives will be lost and it's all thanks to the ignorance of suave gentlemen who barely understand one inch of neuromedicine.

— Measure your words, Andrew...

— Measure your losses when preventing evolution due to the fear of putting your money where your mouth is.

— This has nothing to do with money, boy! We are talking about the safety of patients who trust the integrity of OUR hospital!

— What patients? The ones who'll die because of a single risk worth taking?!

— A single risk that may compromise the safety of...

— This is science, damn it, fuck safety!

The silence that followed wasn't more frightening than the anger on the headmaster's face. The red in his cheeks expanded to the rest of his face, which twitched in grimaces to control an outburst that would make him fire his best surgeon and punch his "adoptive nephew" all the same. It's safe to say Andrew didn't stay to see the show.

He left the conference room stamping his foot, slamming the door, fighting the urge to kick everything he spotted along the way. No wall was thick enough to keep him from hearing Elijah's belated reprimands and the stunned whispers of the board. Never in his whole life had he ever said so many swear words in a single sentence. He was so angry and so focused on reaching the elevator that he barely noticed another presence and the soft grip they applied on his forearm.

— Andrew... – whispered the brunette, her presence an appeasing failure due to bad timing.

Sereena Paz, Elijah's biological niece. The woman grew up a feisty girl in the suburban neighborhood, stunned by Carl as a child to the point she became a journalist herself. Their families were so close that the consideration she held for him went beyond his rudeness and loud fussing. She had promised to write a story about her friend's conquest, but it was clear that her journalistic talents would be a waste of time.

— Don't, Sereena. Not now, not ever.

Although his lack of kindness wasn't news to her, the woman frowned in shock. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, searching for the least offensive words he could find in his vocabulary.

— You came here carrying nothing and you're leaving all the same. No articles, no headlines, no pulitzers. – he said, once again removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. – Years of research, so many cases proven throughout the globe, the amount of brilliant minds that came together so that an astral projection could be studied as the only and last chance that could've saved my father's life... a sea possibilities drained by a single and resounding nay.

She listened carefully as she wrapped an arm around his. His muscles were so tense that she could easily mistake him for a plaster statue. Andrew didn't return her affection properly, but he didn't disengage neither. He remained focused on his surroundings, facing the white wall and the still life captured in vibrant frames.

— Picture this. An alternative reaction to human biology. Science versus spiritism. Ah, hell what a bloody waste of my time.

— Ade. – she whispered, shaking her head – You're smart enough to find a different path. Persist, resist, but please, don't give up just yet. I saw how hard you've worked a dozen researches to find a treatment for irreversible diseases, the restless allnighters you've pulled for the sake of this outcome. Mistakes will be made, alright? But remember-- they maketh man. Your father used to say that.

Sereena was everything he needed and everything he didn't deserve. The woman with tanned skin and curly hair was as impulsive as he was, and yet she alone was responsible for knocking some sense into Thurman's thick head.

— They didn't give you a "yay". So what? Will you give in, Andrew Thurman?

Really, though. He didn't deserve a woman like her.

— Kind of, yeah. I'm going home.

Andrew let go of her arm and made sure to stay a good distance apart when he stepped into the empty elevator. Her slightest mention of joining him was dismissed with a forced wave, urging her to stop in front of the door.

— I'm going home alone.

The doors closed, and the last thing he saw was her face contorted in a sneer.

This is Andrew Thurman, the "successful" neurologist who: lost his father at the age of 12, moved away from his abusive mother and violent brother when turning 16 and lost his love interest in a single afternoon. The same man whose dreams were too big for his head and whose head was strong enough to break the front window of the car he drove at high speed.

Curiously enough, he became his own research subject. He drove irresponsibly until he hit the back of a truck head-on to the surprise of witnesses who soon created a commotion. The "incident" put him in a perfect situation to carry out the analysis he so desired, because despite being unconscious, he was still able to see everything.

Certain deeds come and go without due explanation. The shock was so great that Andrew couldn't find a single coherent answer for those who pointed towards him and asked what the hell was going on. Confused, he watched the paramedics as they placed his body in an ambulance. He watched everything from a privileged panoramic view, floating above and flying upwards until people became ants and ants became a mere set of atoms invisible to the naked eye. He saw everything, felt everything and questioned everything, including his sanity. He didn't understand how it was possible for him to be a bystander of his own accident. Perhaps he had died, perhaps he had become a ghost trapped in this reality to pay for the rude gestures he committed. Perhaps he had simply gone insane and simply dreamt it all. Floating around, frightening some attentive individuals that watched from their apartment balconies, he flew to the tallest building on the block and stared at his reflection in the mirrored windows.

The colors gray and gold captured his attention immediately. Despite its flamboyant "swag", the tight uniform wasn't as flashy as the black cape that swayed with the wind. The letter M stamped on his chest had a duplicate, but the comic details lost him for a second. His garments became the least of his problems when he came across a face that did not belong to him.

—...Shutz! – exclaimed the flying stranger.

If Andrew Thurman was inside the ambulance... then what the hell did he just become?

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