Being a toddler with the metabolic output of a small star was, in Mason’s professional opinion, a total pain in the ass.
By age three, the ‘Legendary’ part of his biology was starting to play tug-of-war with his impulse control.
He was just a kid who accidentally ripped the refrigerator door off its hinges because he really wanted some chocolate milk.
‘Motherfucker,’ Mason thought, staring at the slab of insulated steel in his tiny, pudgy hands.
‘I barely even pulled.
This body is a goddamn liability.’
He looked up to see David standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a wrench and looking like he wanted to cry.
The man had spent the last two years reinforcing every door frame in the house with industrial-grade steel and bolting the furniture to the floorboards.
“The fridge, Mase?
Really?” David sighed, walking over and taking the door from his son’s grip.
It weighed about eighty pounds.
David hoisted it like it was made of lead.
“That’s the third time this month.
Your mother is going to have a stroke.”
“Milk,” Mason said, leaning into the ‘cute kid’ persona.
It was survival.
If he acted like a reincarnated adult, they’d call an exorcist.
If he acted like a clumsy kid, he just got a lecture.
“Yeah, milk.
I get it.” David set the door aside and knelt, grabbing Mason by the shoulders.
His eyes were tired, etched with the kind of permanent fatigue that comes from parenting a biological weapon.
“Listen to me.
We talked about the ‘heavy’ feeling.
You have to keep it inside.
You can’t let it out unless we’re in the basement.
You remember what happened to the neighbor’s cat?”
‘I poked it.
I barely poked the damn thing and it hit Mach 1,’ Mason recalled.
‘Poor Mr.
Whiskers is probably still in orbit.’
“Stay inside,” Mason repeated, nodding solemnly.
David’s expression softened.
He pulled Mason into a hug, a genuine, bone-deep embrace that always caught Mason off guard.
David wasn’t a genius or a hero; he was a guy who fixed HVAC systems and loved his kid more than he feared the government agents he was sure were lurking in every black SUV on the street.
“I’m not trying to be a dick, kiddo,” David whispered.
“I just…
I want you to have a normal life.
I want you to go to prom without leveling the gymnasium.”
‘Prom.
Right.
Because the peak of human existence is a sweaty dance in a rented suit,’ Mason thought, though he squeezed his father back.
Dinner that night was a masterpiece of domestic tension.
Elena was a woman who dealt with stress by cooking enough food to feed a small army—which was lucky, because Mason’s Saiyan appetite was starting to become a financial nightmare.
She set down a literal mountain of mashed potatoes and three chickens.
“I saw the fridge,” she said, her voice deceptively calm as she poured wine.
“It was an accident, El,” David said quickly.
“It’s always an accident, Dave.
Last week it was the toilet handle.
The week before, he sneezed and blew the curtains off the rod.” She looked at Mason, her gaze sharp but filled with an aching tenderness.
“He’s getting stronger.
Faster than we can hide it.”
“I’m fine, Mommy,” Mason chirped, stabbing a chicken leg with a fork.
He accidentally bent the fork into a U-shape.
‘God dammit.’
Elena leaned over the table, her face inches from his.
She didn’t look scared of him; she looked scared for him.
“Mason, look at me.
This world…
it doesn’t like things it can’t control.
There are people out there—men in suits, men in capes—who will see you as a tool.
Or a threat.
And I will burn this entire city to the ground before I let them take you.
Do you understand?”
Mason paused, a piece of chicken halfway to his mouth.
This was the “unhinged” part of his mother.
She wasn’t some helpless civilian; she was a woman whose maternal instinct had morphed into something borderline predatory.
She had spent the last year researching every “supe” incident in history, keeping a literal burn-book of heroes she didn’t trust.
‘Holy shit, she’s serious,’ Mason thought, looking into her eyes.
“I understand,” Mason said, his voice dropping the toddler lilt for a fraction of a second.
The room went quiet.
David and Elena shared a look—that heavy, silent parental communication.
They knew their son was “different” beyond just the powers.
He was too focused.
Too present.
“Good,” Elena said, her terrifying intensity vanishing as she patted his hand.
“Now eat.
You’re a growing boy, and God knows we’re spending enough on groceries to justify the muscle mass.”
Later that night, Mason lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
He could hear his parents in the next room, the floorboards creaking as they paced.
‘They’re good people.
Better than I ever was,’ he mused.
‘But Steve was right.
I’m a shark in a world of sharks.
My parents want to keep me in a goldfish bowl, but I can already feel the power humming in my marrow.
It’s not just strength.
It’s an itch.
A need to move, to hit, to fly.’
He sat up, clenching his small fist.
A faint, rhythmic green glow, almost imperceptible, pulsed under his skin.
‘If I’m going to protect this “family” thing I’ve stumbled into, I can’t just be a kid.
I need to figure out how to be the strongest.
Because in this universe?
Being second place usually ends with your heart being ripped out through your asshole.’
He flopped back onto his pillow, a small smirk playing on his lips.
‘But first, I guess I have to learn how to use a fork without turning it into modern art.’