The years following the pump incident were defined by the rhythm of the hidden. To the community of Harmony Creek, Thomas remained the quiet, overly strong farm boy, prone to solitude, but recognized for a relentless, almost unnatural work ethic.
But in the long, dark hours between sunset and dawn, Thomas lived a second, terrifying life. His father's "Discipline of the Stillness" became Thomas's new scripture, a physical theology designed to sheath the destructive current within the confines of his faith, ensuring the immense power remained a servant of God, not a conduit for wrath.
This secret existence created a man who was deeply fractured, perpetually on guard against himself.
The training was brutal, designed not to increase strength, which was already terrifyingly boundless, but to control the trigger that released it. His father, using the deep theological texts they possessed, equated Thomas's sudden bursts of kinetic rage with the sin of pride, or the tempting intervention of a wrathful deity.
Therefore, to harness the power, Thomas needed to achieve absolute spiritual stillness and humility right at the moment of peak duress. His father feared that if Thomas ever fought in anger, the sheer destructive force would consume his soul, twisting the gift into a curse, a wrathful, biblical monster, not a humble servant.
The ritual began every night in the hidden barn, lit only by a single lantern that cast their shadows into grotesque, dancing giants on the silo walls. His father would test him relentlessly, often utilizing medieval techniques of self-flagellation and asceticism filtered through their specific faith.
He forced Thomas to stand rigid while he hammered heavy railroad spikes against Thomas's forearms a controlled application of blunt trauma designed to induce pain without breakage, forcing Thomas to invoke the power defensively. "If you pray, He shields you," his father would chant, the impact echoing dull and metallic through the closed space.
The impact was predictable, yet necessary. "If you rage, the Devil claims the victory. Hold the Word, Thomas. Hold the Word." His father wasn't just training a body; he was training a spirit against the temptation of effortless victory.
Thomas discovered the mechanism: invulnerability was not a passive state. It was a conscious, reflexive act of faith. When he managed to clear his mind of panic and fill the void with a single, resonant Psalm, a strange, deep warmth would spread from his sternum outward, locking his entire physical being into a state of temporary, divinely powered stasis.
When the hammer met his skin, the noise would be loud, the vibration immense, but the pain would be muted, reduced to a distant, numb pressure. The skin, for a few crucial seconds, possessed the resistance of carbon steel. This was the success, the proof of his piety.
The failures were what truly taught him fear. If he slipped, if a stray thought of anger, frustration at his father's severity, or self-pity entered his mind, the protective barrier would dissolve, and the blow would sting and bruise, proof that his righteousness was fleeting.
Once, in a fit of exhausted resentment, Thomas shouted back, and the resulting blow fractured the thin bone near his wrist. The fear in his father's eyes was not for the injury, but for the spiritual lapse.
The healing was rapid another part of the terrifying gift but the lesson was permanent: the power was conditional, a fickle thing tethered to his soul's purity. The rage was always there, simmering just beneath the skin, a latent fire he was perpetually struggling to bank, turning his inner life into a constant, exhausting prayer.
This training fostered an intense, isolating psychological burden. Thomas wasn't afraid of dying; he was terrified of failing the purpose assigned to him, which he now fully accepted was his divine commission.
The raw violence contained within him was the family's terror, their "Family's Fear." His mother, paler and more watchful with every passing year, became a shadow of herself, finding solace only in meticulous cleaning an attempt to physically scrub the deceit from their home.
She would leave a cold compress by the barn door, never asking, always knowing, the strain etching deep lines around her eyes. She was an accessory to a sacred lie. His younger sister, Clara, though healed, learned to treat Thomas like glass, a beautiful, deadly object.
The constant, quiet deceit the shared lie that protected the sanctity of the gift put an incredible strain on their small household, turning every sermon about honesty into a dagger aimed at their own hearts.
Thomas found himself utterly estranged from the simple joys of youth; he couldn't date, couldn't share a confidence, couldn't trust anyone who hadn't seen him shatter an oak post.
As Thomas moved into his early twenties, the pressure to use the gift became overwhelming, especially as the outside world the world of Supes began to encroach. The local news was beginning to feature small, blurry photographs of early, mid-tier supes manufactured heroes with names like The Sentinel or Aegis.
These were not the glossy, high-production stars of later Vought eras, but rather crude, local marketing attempts packaged with an aggressive, simplified patriotism that felt hollow, a cheap suit over a flimsy frame.
Thomas's father, Silas, railed against them in the meeting house, his voice shaking with prophetic dread: "They seek earthly fame! They accept the idols of steel and celebrity! They have replaced the Cross with the camera lens and the Sermon with the soundbite! Our Thomas is reserved for greater things, Thomas is reserved for sacrifice!" He feared the contagion of celebrity would defile the gift, turning a holy man into a highly paid clown.
Yet, the greater things never came, and the local community often needed help that mortal men couldn't provide.
After months of wrestling with his conscience and consulting with Pastor Silas, his father conceded. The Gift could be used, but only for acts of unquestionable moral utility and never for profit or spectacle. It must be an anonymous, sacrificial act of service a martyrdom of necessity. He was permitted to be seen, but never known.
Thomas's public career began not with a splashy Vought press conference, but with hauling a trapped farmer out of a collapsing silo during a sudden, violent summer storm. It was selfless, grounded, and entirely off-camera.
Word spread not through wire services, but through gossip, hushed gratitude, and local folk tales of a "Silent Giant." He wore no costume, only his work clothes, his identity still hidden behind the anonymity of his simple name and powerful hands.
He began performing these "acts of service" across the Midwest: stopping runaway trains derailed by floods, repairing bridges that had crumbled under the weight of excessive rain, and defending small-town banks from simple, non-supe robbers who were suddenly confronted by a quiet giant who spoke of sin before he acted.
He moved with a quiet, efficient force, always quoting scripture under his breath as a defensive shield, his mental focus a constant battle against the easy path of rage. He became known locally as The Good Shepherd, The Man Who Came When the Need Was Greatest, or The Man Who Praised God While He Worked.
Local preachers began inserting subtle references to him in their sermons, unintentionally creating the very idol his father feared. Thomas felt a familiar, sickening pride rise within him at the praise, which he immediately beat back with renewed fasting and prayer a cycle of ego and penance that was itself unsustainable.
It was during a local cattle drive and fair, however, that he first saw the true, corporate face of heroism and the rot it represented. He was asked to participate in a parade that featured a new local Vought asset, a regional Supe called The Prairie Guardian.
The Guardian, a handsome, chisel-jawed man in a polished, manufactured outfit with an enormous, gleaming belt buckle, posed for cameras, kissing babies and delivering hollow platitudes written on index cards by a slick, accompanying handler named Mr. Finch.
The Guardian's suit was more expensive than Thomas's family owned, and his smile felt empty and practiced, devoid of any genuine burden. This was strength without sacrifice, power without piety.
Mr. Finch, seeing Thomas standing quietly among the spectators, recognized the physique and the aura of quiet competence.
He approached Thomas with a predatory interest, his eyes scanning Thomas's powerful frame as if assessing inventory. "You're the Samson fella, right? The one who lifts the tractors?" Finch didn't offer a handshake, only a glossy Vought business card. "Look at The Guardian. He's a brand. He has a handler, insurance, and a clean narrative. What do you have? Mud on your boots and a lot of unsolicited local praise. Vought doesn't sell service, son. Vought sells spectacle. We sell heroes who are perfect, not martyrs who are dirty. You could be marketable to the red states."
In that moment, Thomas didn't feel admiration; he felt a deep, instinctive revulsion that transcended his father's warnings.
This was the pride that corrupted, the strength used not for service, but for idolatry and profit. The Guardian, in his manufactured perfection, seemed an offense to the hard, sacrificial truth of Thomas's own painful, secret power.
The very ease and polish of the Vought machine offended his Mid-western sensibility of honest, difficult work, making the Guardian seem less like a hero and more like a high-end appliance.
He saw the difference immediately: The Guardian was a celebrity; Thomas was a vessel. The Guardian sought earthly reward; Thomas sought only to fulfill the covenant.
This early exposure to Vought's slick, empty spectacle didn't tempt him; it hardened his resolve. If he was to use this gift in the world, he would do so as a true holy knight, a contrast to these false, shiny idols.
He would prove that divine mandate was superior to corporate branding. He realized the world didn't need just a strong man; it needed a symbol to stand against Vought's gilded corruption.
The first step toward the Crusader's uniform a direct, symbolic challenge to The Seven's glossy armor, a return to rough-hewn medieval piety was born from watching The Prairie Guardian smile for a camera. He took the Vought business card, but only because he knew he would soon need to know the enemy from within.