The hardest part isn't learning.
It's stopping.
Once I realize I can choose how fast my mind moves, everything else becomes… trivial.
Languages come first. I don't even plan it—they just sort of happen. I sit at the dining table with my mom's old laptop, the fan whining like it's begging for mercy, tabs stacked with language guides, subtitles, forums, PDFs someone scanned fifteen years ago.
Spanish. French. German. Mandarin. Japanese. Portuguese.
At first it feels like memorization.
Then something clicks.
Grammar stops being rules and turns into patterns. Sounds align. Meanings lock into place like puzzle pieces.
I listen to a sentence once and my brain fills in the gaps automatically.
I test myself on random videos—news clips, vlogs, documentaries.
I understand them.
All of them.
That realization hits harder than the speed ever did.
Computers come next. I sit at the same desk, knees pulled up to my chest, typing line after line of code I barely understand at first. Python basics. HTML. A bit of JavaScript.
Forums from the early 2000s explaining things in broken English. YouTube tutorials filmed in someone's basement with a microphone that crackles every time they breathe.
I burn through it all.
But there's a ceiling.
The laptop freezes if I push too hard. Pages refuse to load. Videos buffer endlessly. I can feel the limits of the machine, like my brain is sprinting into a brick wall made of outdated hardware and bad Wi-Fi.
It frustrates me.
Not because I can't learn—but because I know I could learn more.
So I switch to books.
Real ones.
Stacks of physics textbooks borrowed from the library. Some so old they smell like dust and glue. I sit on my bed, legs crossed, and let myself go fast.
Pages blur beneath my fingers.
Equations pour into my head. Relativity. Electromagnetism. Quantum mechanics.
Half of it contradicts itself depending on the chapter, but I can see the intent behind it—the attempt to explain a universe that doesn't want to be understood.
Lightning. Energy. Motion.
Me.
I'm mid-page—some section on field interactions—when I hear my mom's voice from downstairs.
"Barry ?"
The tone makes my heart drop.
I don't think. I just move.
One second I'm on my bed.
The next, I'm standing in the living room, the air snapping softly as I come to a stop.
My parents flinch.
"Barry," Dad says sharply. "We talked about not doing that in the house."
"Sorry," I reply automatically.
That's when I notice her.
She's standing near the couch, posture perfect, dark blazer without a wrinkle, tablet tucked neatly under one arm. Her hair is pulled back, makeup subtle but intentional.
She looks… expensive. Like she doesn't belong in our slightly cramped, lived-in living room.
She smiles when she sees me.
Warm. Practiced.
"You must be Barry," she says.
I nod slowly, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
"Yeah."
She steps forward and offers her hand. "My name is Claire Haldane. I work for Vought International."
The name hits me like a punch to the gut.
Vought.
My pulse spikes. Not outwardly—inside.
Thoughts accelerate, memories snap into place, threads connecting all at once. Luke. Sam. Compound V. Supes. Control.
I don't take her hand.
Her smile doesn't falter.
"That's… quite alright," she says smoothly, withdrawing it. "I imagine this is a lot to take in."
"What are you doing here ?" I ask.
Mom shifts uncomfortably. Dad clears his throat.
"She said she just wants to talk," Mom says softly. "About… what happened to you."
Claire nods. "We monitor unusual incidents. Lightning strikes with anomalous recovery rates tend to catch our attention."
Of course they do.
I cross my arms, suddenly very aware of how small this house feels. "And you decided to send a recruiter ?"
She chuckles lightly, like I've made a joke.
"Oh no. You're far too young for that."
' Lie,' my brain supplies instantly.
She gestures to the couch. "May I ?"
No one answers. She sits anyway.
"Barry," she continues, voice gentle, "Vought has a responsibility to people like you. To help. To guide. To make sure… accidents don't happen."
I think of Sam being dragged into a van.
Of Luke collapsing in flames.
Of my parents whispering in fear when they think I can't hear.
"I'm not an accident," I say quietly.
Claire meets my gaze. For a split second—just one—I see something colder behind her eyes.
"Of course not," she replies. "You're a miracle."
Claire tilts her head slightly, as if weighing every word before letting it leave her mouth.
"Barry," she says, her voice softer now, almost reverent, "you are a miracle."
My stomach twists.
"Some people," she continues, "are born destined for something greater. Chosen. Some like to call it science… others prefer to call it divine will." She smiles gently. "I believe God places extraordinary gifts into the hands of those who are meant to carry them."
' Of course you do, ' I think. ' Or at least, you pretend to, very convincingly. '
"Vought," she says, opening her hands just a little, "exists to support people like you. We are a superhero company, yes, but more than that, we are a bridge. Specialized training. Controlled environments. Mentors. Guidance."
She leans forward slightly, eyes locked on mine.
"We noticed your natural talent. Your speed. Your intelligence. Your… uniqueness." A carefully timed pause. "With the right guidance, you could be great. A symbol. A hero."
My thoughts accelerate, dissecting every sentence, every inflection, like a flawed equation unraveling itself.
' Miracle.
Chosen by God.
Natural talent. '
Pretty lies wrapped in holy language.
"And," she adds, almost casually, "in time… who knows ? One of the Seven."
The air in the room changes instantly.
I feel it before I even look at my parents.
The silence grows heavy, thick.
I let out a short laugh, sharp and humorless.
"Seriously ?"
Claire blinks, just for a fraction of a second.
"Why would I accept that ?" I ask. "I can train on my own if I want to. I already am."
I shrug lightly. "And being one of the Seven ?
Honestly… it doesn't interest me."
My mother inhales sharply.
My father shifts, rubbing a hand over his face, tension written into every movement.
"Barry," he says quietly, almost pleading, "think carefully about what you're saying."
I look at him.
At both of them.
And then it clicks.
It isn't just fear.
It's expectation.
Years of choices that were never truly mine.
A silent investment. A buried hope that this time—this time it would all pay off.
Claire raises a hand gently, cutting in.
"That's alright," she says smoothly.
"Important decisions shouldn't be made under pressure."
She reaches into her bag, pulls out a business card, and places it carefully on the coffee table, as if she's laying down something sacred.
"My number is there. When you're ready to talk about an arrangement between us… I'll be available."
She stands.
Straightens her blazer.
Then she looks directly at me.
"Barry," she says calmly, "the world is not kind to miracles that walk alone."
And with that, she leaves.
The door closes with a soft click.
No one speaks for several seconds.
The card on the table feels… heavy.
I stare at it, electricity humming beneath my skin.
' They want to shape me.
Sell me.
Use me. '
And I already know one thing for certain.
If I ever accept… it won't be to become their type of hero