The Ascension

Chapter 2: Late Bloomer

Peter's car pulled into Aaron's driveway with a low rumble, the engine ticking as it cooled. Aaron grabbed his backpack from the floor, already mentally preparing for the next few hours—homework he wouldn't do, conversations that would spiral into absurdity, the comfortable chaos of friendship that required no effort.

As he stepped out, he saw Ronnie emerging from the house next door.

She moved with her usual economy of motion—no wasted energy, no unnecessary flourish. Dark hair pulled back, pale skin almost luminous in the late afternoon light, dressed in black jeans and an oversized band tee that hung off one shoulder. She looked like she'd just rolled out of bed, but in that effortlessly cool way that made it seem intentional.

"Took you long enough," she called, crossing the narrow strip of grass between their driveways.

"Traffic," Peter said, locking his car. "Also, Aaron made me stop for coffee."

"I didn't make you do anything."

"You gave me sad eyes."

"I don't have sad eyes."

"You absolutely have sad eyes," Ronnie said, falling into step beside them. "It's your whole thing."

Aaron shot her a look. "My whole thing is sad eyes?"

"Your whole thing is looking like a kicked puppy until people give you what you want."

"That's not—"

"It is," Peter agreed. "You're manipulative as hell, you just don't realize it."

Aaron opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. They weren't wrong.

The three of them headed toward the front door, their rhythm easy and familiar. Ronnie had been next door for as long as Aaron could remember—literally since they were babies. Their fathers had been best friends for decades, practically brothers in everything but blood. Aaron's earliest memories were of Ronnie: tiny and serious, sitting cross-legged in a sandbox while he tried to build castles that kept collapsing.

She'd always been sharper than him. Smarter, faster, more capable. And now she had powers—Psychokinesis and Hemokinesis, rare abilities that made her an A-rank hero in training. Aaron's father helped train her sometimes, along with her own dad. Aaron had figured it out years ago, though Ronnie didn't know he knew. She'd kept it quiet, probably to avoid rubbing it in that he was still powerless.

It was a kindness he appreciated, even if it stung.

Aaron pushed open the front door, and immediately felt the shift in the air.

His father was home.

He always knew when his father was nearby—it was like a change in atmospheric pressure, a subtle weight that settled over the house. Aaron had never been able to explain it, but it was there. Constant. Undeniable.

"Aaron."

The voice came from the top of the stairs—low, gravelly, commanding in a way that didn't need volume. Aaron looked up and saw his father descending, each step deliberate and unhurried.

He was a big man. Not just tall—though he was easily six-four—but big in a way that seemed almost unreal. Broad shoulders that filled doorways, arms thick with muscle that looked carved from stone, a chest that strained against the fabric of his plain black t-shirt. He moved with the kind of controlled power that suggested he could break things without meaning to, but his expression was warm, his eyes kind.

Those eyes were the strangest part. Dark, penetrating, impossibly deep—like they could see through you, past the surface and into something more fundamental. But they weren't cold. They were patient. Understanding.

Aaron's father looked like he could crush a car with his bare hands, but he smiled like he'd never hurt anyone in his life.

"Hey, Dad," Aaron said, trying to keep his voice casual.

His father's gaze flicked to Peter and Ronnie. "Peter. Veronica."

"Mr. Marshall," Peter said with a grin.

Ronnie just nodded. She was comfortable around Aaron's father in a way most people weren't—probably because she'd known him her whole life, and because he'd been helping train her. She knew he was a superhero, though she didn't know the full truth. No one did, except Aaron.

"You three heading upstairs?" his father asked.

"Yeah," Aaron said. "Homework."

"Right." His father's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "Peter, Ronnie, go ahead. I need to talk to Aaron for a minute."

Aaron's stomach dropped.

Peter shot him a look—good luck—and headed up the stairs with Ronnie. Aaron watched them disappear around the corner, then turned back to his father.

"What's up?" he asked, trying to sound unbothered.

His father studied him for a long moment, then gestured toward the living room. "Come sit."

Aaron followed, his pulse quickening. His father didn't do casual conversations. If he wanted to talk, it meant something.

They sat on opposite ends of the couch—his father taking up far more space than seemed reasonable, his presence filling the room like a physical force. Aaron felt small next to him. He always did.

"How are you feeling?" his father asked.

Aaron blinked. "Fine?"

"I mean about your birthday."

Oh.

Oh.

Aaron's eighteenth birthday. Six weeks away. The deadline his father had been fixated on for years.

"I'm fine," Aaron said carefully. "It's just a birthday."

His father's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—disappointment, maybe. Or disbelief.

"Aaron," he said, his voice low and steady. "You know it's more than that."

"Dad—"

"You're going to get your powers."

Aaron exhaled slowly, trying to keep his frustration in check. "We've been over this. I'm not—"

"You are."

"I'm normal," Aaron said, the word coming out sharper than he intended. "I've accepted that. You should too."

His father leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze locked on Aaron's. "You're not normal. You never have been."

"Because of you."

"Because of us," his father corrected. "Your mother and me. You're half-human, half-Valorian. That makes you extraordinary, Aaron. It always has."

Aaron looked away, his jaw tight. They'd had this conversation a hundred times. His father's certainty never wavered, no matter how much evidence piled up against it.

"I'm seventeen," Aaron said quietly. "Almost eighteen. If I was going to get powers, they would've shown up by now."

"You're a late bloomer."

"Or I'm just human."

"You're not."

The certainty in his father's voice was maddening. Absolute. Unshakable.

Aaron met his gaze, searching for doubt, for hesitation, for anything that suggested his father might be wrong. But there was nothing. Just that same calm, patient conviction.

"What if you're wrong?" Aaron asked.

His father smiled—small, but genuine. "I'm not."

"But what if you are?"

"I'm not, Aaron."

Aaron wanted to scream. He wanted to argue, to push back, to make his father see reason. But what was the point? His father had been alive for over a hundred years. He'd seen things Aaron couldn't imagine. He'd fought wars, saved worlds, outlived entire generations.

And he believed—truly, deeply believed—that Aaron was going to be something extraordinary.

"Six weeks," his father said softly. "That's all I'm asking. Just wait six weeks. And when your powers come, I'll be here to help you."

Aaron swallowed hard, his throat tight. "And if they don't?"

His father's expression softened. He reached out, resting a hand on Aaron's shoulder—heavy, warm, grounding.

"They will," he said. "I know you're scared. I know you don't want this. But you're my son, Aaron. You're stronger than you think. And when the time comes, you'll be ready."

Aaron didn't know what to say to that.

His father stood, his presence still overwhelming even as he stepped back. "Your friends are waiting. Go."

Aaron nodded, rising on unsteady legs. He headed toward the stairs, his mind spinning.

What if his father was right?

The thought had been lurking in the back of his mind for months, growing louder as his birthday approached. What if everything did change? What if he woke up one day and wasn't himself anymore—wasn't the scrawny, invisible kid who got his ass kicked and pined after girls who didn't know he existed?

What if he became something else entirely?

He didn't want powers. He didn't want to be extraordinary. He just wanted to be normal.

But normal wasn't an option. Not for him.

Aaron pushed open his bedroom door and found Peter sprawled across his bed, scrolling through his phone, while Ronnie sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a graphic novel she'd probably already read three times.

"That looked fun," Peter said without looking up.

"Riveting," Aaron muttered, closing the door behind him.

Ronnie glanced at him, her dark eyes sharp. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"Liar."

Aaron dropped his backpack on the floor and collapsed into his desk chair. "He thinks I'm going to get powers."

"I know," Ronnie said.

"He's been saying that for years," Peter added. "At this point, it's basically a mantra."

"He's certain," Aaron said. "Like, genuinely convinced. No doubt whatsoever."

Ronnie closed the graphic novel, her expression unreadable. "Maybe he knows something you don't."

"Or maybe he's in denial."

"Your dad doesn't strike me as the denial type," Peter said.

Aaron rubbed his face, exhausted. "I don't want powers."

"I know."

"I don't want to be a hero."

"I know."

"I just want to be—"

"Normal," Ronnie finished. "We know, Aaron."

Peter sat up, his expression softening. "But what if you're not? What if your dad's right?"

Aaron looked at him, his chest tight. "Then I don't know who I am anymore."

The room fell silent.

Ronnie's gaze was steady, unflinching. "You're still you. Powers or no powers. That doesn't change."

"Doesn't it?" Aaron asked quietly.

She didn't answer.

Peter broke the tension with a dramatic sigh. "Okay, this is getting way too existential for a Tuesday. Can we please talk about literally anything else?"

"Like what?" Aaron asked.

"Like the fact that Katie Smith smiled at you today."

Aaron groaned. "She smiled near me. There's a difference."

"She made eye contact."

"For half a second."

"That's progress."

Ronnie snorted. "You two are pathetic."

"You're just jealous," Peter said.

"Of what? Aaron's hopeless crush on a girl who doesn't know he exists?"

"Exactly."

Aaron threw a pillow at him.

They spent the next two hours like that—talking, laughing, avoiding homework, existing in the comfortable chaos of friendship. And for a little while, Aaron forgot about his birthday. Forgot about his father's certainty. Forgot about the storm on the horizon.

But when Peter and Ronnie finally left, and Aaron was alone in his room, the dread came rushing back.

Forty-two days.

Forty-two days until he turned eighteen.

Forty-two days until everything changed.

He stared at the ceiling, his mind racing, and wondered if he'd still recognize himself when it was over.