Stephen didn't dream anymore.
He could if he wanted to, maybe. But sleep felt like turning off a machine that didn't need rest. There was always too much to think about. Too much energy coiled up in his bones like springs.
So most nights, while the rest of the house drifted into quiet, Stephen just… stayed awake.
_ _ ♛ _ _
He tiptoed past Mark's door—quiet snoring. Past his parents' room—soft rustle of a page turning. His mom never finished her books, always asleep before chapter three.
He drifted down the stairs like a ghost in socks.
No one stopped him. They never did. He'd been "a light sleeper" since he was a baby, and his parents had stopped asking questions years ago.
In the kitchen, he made himself a cup of hot cocoa.
With three marshmallows. Two was polite. Three was victory.
He stood at the window while the microwave hummed, watching condensation crawl across the glass. A moth tapped gently against it, then gave up and fluttered off into the dark.
The cocoa beeped.
He grinned and burned his tongue on the first sip, on purpose because rituals have to bite back a little to count
_ _ ♛ _ _
Back upstairs, the room wasn't messy; it was full. Books sideways. A plastic bin of wires he was absolutely not supposed to investigate (he had absolutely investigated). Switch dock winking beside a half-built LEGO X-Wing. Glow-in-the-dark planets drifting lazy circles overhead.
He flopped onto bed, cross-legged, and pulled the red notebook to his lap—the one with the sticker in big, shaky marker: PROPERTY OF DOOMBRINGER STEVE. He'd been six. It still felt true.
He thumbed through diagrams (wing ideas, bad jetpacks, laser gloves that would absolutely singe eyebrows) and doodles (Mark in sunglasses labelled NERD LASER EYES). He loved himself for being this kid and winced for future him at the same time.
Blank page.
Solar = juice? Battery?
→ body storage? test charge decay overnight
→ daytime = don't go full sun, save some
→ still no x-ray vision. lame.
He drew a frowny face so dramatic it needed its own zip code, then added a toaster powered by the sun that also shot waffles. Because obviously.
Cocoa sip. Marshmallow squish joy. He set the notebook aside.
"Broke-time," he whispered, reaching for the Switch.
Brawlhalla boot. Ranked queue.
[Match Found!]
Opponent: BananaBoss99 (Val, level 90). Stage: Shipwreck Falls.
"Oh no," he told no one, grinning. "A veteran fruit."
He picked Orion because he always picked Orion. Space knight, nice lines, big spear. It tickled something familiar he couldn't place.
Fight.
Fingers moved before his thoughts did, then together, then in front—new speed threaded through familiar habit. Dodge up, fast-fall left, spear toss—miss—gentle hands on the stick to stop oversteering. Val overcommitted on the edge; Stephen baited, punished, laughed out loud when the recovery clipped air.
Two minutes, set sealed. He exhaled like he'd been underwater by choice.
[BananaBoss99]: gg! ur cracked lol
[DoombringerSteve]: gg! u almost got me w/ the wall spam XD
[BananaBoss99]: nah u read my soul like a book bro
[DoombringerSteve]: cheap library card
He almost typed, what do you do when the game starts getting too slow, then didn't. OPSEC for gamers, too.
Joy lingered warm in his chest after the win. A real laugh. He let it sit.
The planets spun quiet circles above him. He watched until his eyes wanted outside.
Window latch. Cold air that didn't feel cold the way it used to. Roof, slow and careful, three points of contact because tomorrow still needed knees.
He lay on the shingles and let his body memorize the map of constellations he could actually see. The moon brushed the trees with silver and pretended it didn't like attention. Somewhere far and dumb, a raccoon knocked a bin over and went, aha, to itself.
He listened on purpose. Neighbourhood radio on low:
Two blocks over, a vent fan that needed oil. A lonely sprinkler ticking time zones. A bike chain doing small, sad clicks. And—there—soft and wrong—a mechanical wingbeat, not a bird's. Higher than street lamps. The whir of a thing that thought it was invisible.
He didn't move. Rule Ten: If startled, freeze—don't grab. He slid the Switch flat on his stomach and looked exactly like a ten-year-old who had snuck out to look at the sky and play one more round. Because he was.
The drone coasted over the block—dark body, gimbal eye, a red pinprick that took tiny breaths. It paused. He waved. An idiot wave. A kid wave.
It moved on.
He exhaled slow. Added a rule in his head: Don't play tag with sky owls.
Down the street, a glass bottle rolled from the raccoon's victory to the curb and thought about choosing traffic. Stephen slid to the gutter, reached, and received it like it might explode into a thousand annoyances if he squeezed. He set it upright by Mr. Kim's stairs and tucked the bin back against the fence, lid down. Small helps counted, even stupid ones. Especially stupid ones.
He saw another thing—porch light on at the Diaz duplex, the one they'd almost had a garage fire at. A pair of little shoes left neatly by the door. He smiled into the dark. Alive. He stepped backward like he was leaving a museum exhibit and crawled back through his window.
Cocoa cold. He finished it anyway.
At the desk: egg. Gentle hands. Lift. Roll. Lower. He timed his taps with the second hand of the clock and felt the charge hum in him like a small generator you keep in the garage for storms. He could feel where it would dip by morning if he didn't hog sunlight tomorrow. He needed numbers.
He opened PROPERTY OF DOOMBRINGER STEVE again and wrote:
Night Plan (not sneaky, just quiet):
— Charge Decay Test: no direct sun tomorrow; measure speed/strength at lunch vs. after school.
— Reaction Test: Brawlhalla frames / note delays if any. (sandbag in ranked—no weird flexing)
— Gentle Hands Drills: egg (5 min), coin edge balance (3 min), card house (7 min).
— Listen Map: catalog 5 neighborhood sounds; try to predict before seeing.
His phone buzzed face-down. He didn't pick it up, but his ears read the vibrations like braille.
[Spicy Nuggets]: midnight roll call who's up
[Priya]: it's 12:07 stop being poets go to bed
[Will]: if aliens r real and they kidnap u are u obligated to bring snacks
[Stephen]: bring waffles launcher
[Priya]: …what
He smiled, scribbled a tiny waffle cannon in the margin.
Footsteps in the hall. Nolan's pause outside his door, the same invisible check mark as always. Stephen slid the Switch under his pillow, turned the mug upside down on its coaster like even evidence should be polite, and lay on his side facing the window. The steps moved on.
He thought about the drone. About being seen and choosing what to be when he was seen. About being a question mark around people who drew answers for a living.
He wrote one last thing, small at the bottom of the page:
Progress ≠ fireworks. Progress = practice.
He clicked off his desk lamp, even though the dark didn't matter. The house breathed. He breathed back.
He didn't sleep.
He rested anyway.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Rules (so far) — Stephen's Red Notebook
Act normal.
Ask questions like you don't know anything.
Don't try to fly.
No showing off.
If you mess up, stop.
Listen on purpose.
Small helps count.
Be a kid when you can.
Treat everything like it's made of glass.
If startled, freeze—don't grab.
Sun helps. Don't chase it at school.
Smile and shrug.(If people look too long.)
Headphones when the world is too loud.
Eggs = practice.
Don't test things you can't untest.
Journal everything. (Facts > fear.)
Keep the question mark private.
Practice in shade when you can.
Eat when everyone eats.
If panic → sun or water → breathe. (4–4–4)
Never be the only witness to your own miracle.(Call someone. Make noise.)
Share credit. Let adults finish the save.
Use the boring answer first.("Good ears.")
Listen to metal. Bolts, hinges, brackets.
Receive, don't catch.(Let force go through you into ground.)
Track charge by feel. Don't depend on it.
If asked, answer small. Then ask back.(Buys time.)
When someone you love feels heavy, sit with them.(Quiet helps.)
If you smell sweet-wrong (rotten eggs) → back away → call 911.
Yell the right word.("Fire!" gets feet moving.)
Point people, not problems.(Show where to go.)
Make bravery contagious.(Bubble breaths for small kids.)
Watch how pros move. Learn five things.
Fast fix? Make it look like reflex.(One step, one reach.)
No big saves at home.(Neighbors remember.)
If watched, be ordinary.(Let questions end without answers.)
Midnight cocoa = three marshmallows.(Joy matters.)
No ranked after midnight on school nights.(Brains > bragging rights.)
Online: never flex weird reflexes.(Blend in. Sandbag if needed.)
If laughter feels real, keep it.(You're still a kid.)
Roof = slow feet, three points of contact.
Don't chase the moon.(No night-flight experiments.)
Don't play tag with sky owls.(Ignore drones. Wave like a kid.)
Leave the world how you found it.(Bins back. Doors shut. Evidence tidy.)
Progress = practice, not fireworks.
End of Chapter 18 – Rewritten