The next day, I went back to the boxing dojo, but not to train. I found my coach wrapping his hands, his face focused. He looked up as I approached.
"Grayson! You're late. Thought yesterday's punch scared you off," he said, a crooked smile on his face.
"Actually, coach, I came to say goodbye," I said, my voice firm. "I need to quit the team."
He stopped, genuine surprise on his face. "Quit? Why? You've got talent, kid. A lucky punch like yesterday's doesn't happen every day."
"I know. But... it's family business," I lied, the excuse coming out easier than I expected. "My dad is expanding things and needs my help. It's going to take up all my free time."
He stared at me for a moment, looking for any sign that I was lying, but found none. He finally sighed, shrugging. "Well, family first. It's a shame. You had potential." He held out his hand. "Good luck with the business, kid."
I shook his hand, feeling the need to control my strength. "Thanks, coach."
I gave a quick wave to some of the other guys on the team, who looked at me, confused. "See you around, guys!" I shouted, before turning my back and walking out the door, giving no time for questions. Every second I spent there felt like a wasted second.
I ran down the street, not at human speed, but with a haste that made me dodge people on the sidewalk. I found what I was looking for: a narrow, dirty alley between a laundromat and a pawn shop. I looked both ways, making sure no one was watching, and stepped into the shadow. From my backpack, I pulled out an old hooded sweatshirt. I changed quickly, my heart pounding, not from fear, but from pure anticipation. I pulled the hood over my head, hiding my face.
I looked up, at the small sliver of blue sky between the buildings. It was time to fly. The feeling was still new, a mix of defying physics and pure freedom. The world below me became a blur as I ascended, excitement bubbling in my chest like a volcano about to erupt.
No more waiting, no more wishing, I thought, a wild smile on my face, hidden by the shadow of the hood. I'm going to train with Omni-Man. He'll teach me everything. How to control this strength, how to fight, how to be a real hero.
I flew toward our meeting point, an old abandoned canyon miles from the city. I didn't feel the fatigue of the journey, only the raw joy of movement, of speed. For the first time, I wasn't just existing; I was on my way to my destiny. And my father was there, waiting for me.
Getting to the canyon was an adventure in itself. My excitement far outweighed my skill. There was an embarrassing incident with a billboard that I dodged at the last second, nearly taking the head off a smiling cardboard cowboy. Another time, I misjudged my speed and almost flew through a flock of birds, which would have been traumatic for everyone involved. But despite the near-accidents and clumsy flying, I wasn't the least bit discouraged. Every mistake was a lesson, and I was on my way to the most important class of my life.
I landed clumsily on top of one of the canyon walls, kicking up a cloud of dust. My father was already there, floating calmly a few feet off the ground, arms crossed, with the same patient expression of a teacher waiting for his late student.
"You need to work on your landings," was the first thing he said.
"Noted," I replied, brushing the dust off my clothes. "So, what's first? Are we going to lift giant rocks? Run around the world?"
"First," he said, descending to face me, still floating in the air. "You're going to punch me."
"What? Like this, in the air?"
"It's where most fights happen when you can fly. Come on, with all your strength."
I took a deep breath, the adrenaline starting to pump. I took a stance that vaguely resembled what I learned in boxing, bending my knees in the air as if I were in an invisible ring. I swung my arm back and threw my fist with everything I had. The result was pathetic. My body spun in the air with the momentum, and my punch, with no base to support me, came out weak and barely grazed my father's shoulder, who didn't even flinch. I floated there awkwardly, my face burning with shame.
Surprisingly, my father smiled. "Great. Now let's go to the ground."
We landed on the rocky base of the canyon. "Repeat," he ordered.
Hesitantly, but with my feet firmly planted on the ground, I repeated the movement. This time, the result was completely different. My fist hit my father's chest with a solid THUD. The impact didn't move him an inch, but the force traveled through my arm and legs, and I heard a cracking sound beneath me. I looked down and saw the stone floor under my feet completely fractured, a spiderweb of cracks radiating from where I stood.
"Do you understand?" my father asked.
I nodded, looking at the damage. "Yes. In the air... I have no support, no leverage. My sense of balance is horrible."
"Exactly," he confirmed. "You're not used to it. You're fighting as if you were on the ground, depending on a floor that doesn't exist." He moved horizontally in the air, effortlessly. "The same instinct you use to propel yourself to fly, you need to use to attack. On land, you worry about front, back, left, and right. In the air, you have to consider height as well. It's a three-dimensional game. Your first punch, besides the lack of force, barely hit me. Understand?"
"I understand," I replied, my mind spinning with the new logic.
"Again," he said, rising into the air once more.
What followed was a brutal and extensive lesson on the physics of violence. Determined to prove my worth, I dove in headfirst, trying to apply everything I had ever learned. I started with boxing. I tried to throw a jab, but without a floor to steady me, the movement just pushed me backward in the air. I tried a cross, and the rotational force made me spin like an out-of-control top.
"You're not in a ring, Mark," my father's calm voice cut through my dizziness. "What's going to support your rotation? The air? Every offensive move needs a controlling move to keep you stable."
Frustrated, I abandoned boxing and thought of karate. I remembered the katas, the power coming from the hips. I flew towards him and tried a side kick. The movement was strong, but as I extended my leg, my center of gravity was gone. I completely lost my balance, falling sideways in the air before I could stabilize myself.
"I remember you in those classes," Nolan said, without moving an inch. "The power of a kick comes from the supporting foot. Up here, you don't have one. You're just an unbalanced pendulum. Stop thinking about kicking. Think about using your whole body as a missile."
Missile. The word stuck in my head. I tried again, this time flying directly at him, my fist extended. He dodged at the last second. The speed was too much for me. I couldn't stop my momentum and crashed into the canyon wall, the sound of the impact echoing through the valley. I fell to the ground, seeing stars.
"Control," I heard his voice above me. "Just as important as acceleration. You have to learn to brake."
I got up, my body already sore. My human mind screamed for leverage, for a point of support. That's when I thought of judo. If I couldn't hit him, maybe I could grab him. I advanced, not to punch, but to try for a clinch, to hold him and use my raw strength. He let me get close. The moment my hands were about to grab his suit, he simply went rigid like a steel statue. I hit him and bounced off like a rubber ball.
"To apply a lever, you need a fulcrum," he said, as I regained my balance. "You were trying to use my body as your fulcrum. It won't work."
I was exhausted, frustrated, and covered in dust. Every fighting instinct I had was based on rules that didn't apply here. That's when his words came back to me: the same instinct you use to fly. I stopped thinking about punches and kicks. I took a deep breath, focused on my father, and instead of swinging my arm, I launched myself. I used a micro-burst of flight, a thrust coming from my core, to propel my fist forward.
It wasn't a punch. It was a battering ram.
This time, he didn't dodge. He raised his forearm and blocked the blow. There was a sonic BOOM that echoed through the canyon. The impact made my entire arm vibrate, but for the first time, I felt like I had connected with something solid.
"That's it!" he said, a glint of approval in his eyes. "You're no longer punching. You're attacking. Use your whole body as a projectile! You're starting to get it."
The praise gave me a new lease on life. But even with the improvement, I couldn't land a single clean hit. He was too fast, too experienced.
After what felt like hours, he stopped in mid-air. "You're learning to punch," he said, his tone now changing. "But that's only half the equation. You also have to learn to take a punch."
Before I could ask what he meant, he hit me.
It wasn't an Omni-Man punch. It was a dad punch, but a Viltrumite dad punch.
Pain exploded in my stomach like a grenade, forcing all the air from my lungs and turning the world into a tunnel of blinding white agony. My body folded in the air out of pure reflex, nausea rising in my throat. My first instinct, the human instinct, was to give in, to curl into a ball and wait for the pain to pass, wait for the class to be over.
But a colder, more brutal thought cut through the haze of pain: a real villain wouldn't wait. He wouldn't give me time to cry or catch my breath. A real enemy would see my weakness, see my doubled-over, defenseless body, and finish me right there, without hesitation. There would be no pauses, no lessons. Just the end.
The promise I made to him the night before screamed in my mind, drowning out the pain. Be better. Better than this. Better than this pain. To be better, I couldn't let that happen. It wasn't enough to be strong. It wasn't enough to learn to fight. I needed to be more. I needed to be unbreakable. Unreachable.
I needed to be... Invincible.
With a roar of pure determination, I ignored the pain, straightened my body, and punched back with everything I had, channeling the pain, the anger, and the promise into a single point.
My fist hit his chin.
This time, he moved. Not much, but he recoiled slightly in the air, a guttural sound of surprise escaping his lips.
He blinked, and a slow, proud smile spread across his face. "Good," he said, massaging his chin. "Again."
The rest of the afternoon was a blur of pain and learning. I couldn't land another punch like that one. He hit me again, and again, each blow a painful lesson about defense, about endurance, about the brutality of a real fight. In the end, I was barely floating, my whole body aching, barely able to move.
He watched me for a moment, his expression now softer. "Okay... maybe I overdid it a little," he admitted. "But you needed to feel it. Now, not a word to your mother about this, understand?"
I was too sore to speak. I just gave a shaky thumbs-up.
He laughed, scooping me into his arms to take me home. "Don't worry," he said, as we rose into the sky. "It wasn't that bad. Tomorrow, maybe next week, you'll be as good as new."
My father lied.
When he said I'd be "as good as new" in a week, he was either being optimistic or a sadist. The truth is, I didn't stop feeling pain for almost three months. Each training session was a new test of endurance. My body, though it healed at an absurd rate, was in a constant cycle of agony. New bruises always replaced the old ones before they could fully heal.
But, at least, it was worth it.
My flight control went from "epileptic swimmer" to something approaching grace. I learned to use my body as a projectile, to use the air as a foothold, and to fight in three dimensions. I was still no match for my father—not even close—but I was no longer the helpless kid from that first day.
Of course, my father didn't always have time to train me. As Omni-Man, he had the world to save, and on those occasions, I found myself with free time. Usually, I spent it playing video games or hanging out with my friends.
But today was different. I had already beaten the last game I bought and wasn't in the mood to spend my allowance on a new one. My friends were all busy with their own things, summer jobs or family trips. So, here I was, floating lazily above the clouds, the afternoon sun warming my back, in a state of super-powered boredom. What does a teenager who can fly do when he has nothing to do?
That's when I saw her.
A pink and white streak cut through the sky below me, moving with a speed and elegance I had only seen in my father. A heroine. I had never had the chance to meet other heroes. My father kept me on a strict training regimen, and if I was a minute late, he'd hunt me through the sky like a hawk. Besides, there were other, more complicated reasons he would mumble about keeping a "low profile." But what was the harm in saying "hi"?
With an impulsive decision, I dove through the clouds, positioning myself directly in her path. She stopped in mid-air, surprised.
"Hi!" I said with a friendly smile under my hood.
Her response was immediate and hostile. A beam of bright pink energy shot from her hands and hit me square in the chest. The blow threw me backward, more from the shock than the force. She didn't stop, creating constructs of pink light—barriers, blades, spheres of energy—and launching them at me. I started to dodge, surprise turning into panic.
"Hey, calm down!" I shouted, raising my arms in a universal gesture of surrender. "I'm not hostile! I swear!"
She stopped, but remained in a combat stance, spheres of pink energy pulsing in her hands. I took advantage of the pause to really look at her. Her suit was simple and functional, a hot pink leotard with white accents and a symbol that looked like the female symbol—that circle with a cross at the bottom—but with an 'X' crossing through it on her chest. A pink domino mask covered her eyes.
"Wow, I know who you are," I said, trying to break the ice. "You're the heroine... uh... Eve Atonita, the anti-feminist heroine, right?"
The silence that followed was heavy and awkward. The energy spheres in her hands flickered and disappeared. She just floated there, staring at me. I felt my face get hot.
"Did I... say something wrong?" I asked, my confidence draining away.
She sighed, a sound audible even over the wind. "The name is Atom Eve. And it's 'Atomic Heroine.'"
"Oh. My bad. It's just..."
It was at that moment that disaster struck. The hood of my sweatshirt, probably loosened by the impact of her first attack, slipped off my head, falling onto my shoulders and revealing my face.
Her eyes widened behind the mask. Her tense posture relaxed completely, replaced by pure disbelief.
"Wait a minute..." she whispered, her voice full of shock. "Mark?"
My blood ran cold. My brain short-circuited. How? How does she know my name? Who is she? Does she know me? Shit, my dad is going to kill me! He's going to kill me, resurrect me, and kill me again! On the outside, I floated there, frozen in the air. On the inside, I was completely freaking out.