Look!
Just have a look and let your being accept it. You need power, you are weak! Can you even save her? You who have—
As Narvel sprinted through Sector 8, the whispers clawed at his mind like a swarm of insects, their voices a series of doubt and temptation. As though a thousand people whispered the same thing at the same time, they hissed, they mocked, and they prodded at the cracks in his resolve. But Narvel had lived with this torment for years. With a sharp shake of his head, he shoved the whispers to the back of his mind, locking them away behind a wall of sheer willpower.
Joseline's well-being was the only thing that mattered now.
The broadcast he'd overheard on his way here had only deepened his dread. The Federation was swarming the outer ring, their presence thicker than he'd ever seen. Blockades choked the entrances, their armored trucks and soldiers forming an impenetrable wall.
Narvel ducked into a shadowed alley, its darkness a stark contrast to the rest of the neon-lit chaos of Sector 8.
Around him, glass-paneled skyscrapers loomed over him, their surfaces reflecting the flickering holograms of Channel 7 Metro Pulse. Some buildings were apartments, their windows glowing with the faint light of holoscreens; others were offices, their facades plastered with ads for luxury products and bio-mod clinics…
Above him, surveillance drones buzzed like mechanical wasps, their red searchlights sweeping the streets below. Narvel's chest heaved as he caught his breath, his lungs burning from the smog-choked air. He pulled out his phone, its cracked screen displaying the time: 40 minutes since he'd left the office.
Normally, it would take him over an hour to reach the outer ring on his rickety bicycle. But tonight, fueled by desperation, he made it here in record time.
It wasn't just adrenaline. Narvel rarely used his powers, not just because of the whispers that threatened to consume him, but because drawing the Federation's attention was a death sentence. He had awakened his Novara Gene years ago, far younger than most, but he had learned to suppress it, to blend in, to act like nothing more than a lanky janitor with a chip on his shoulder.
You are merely a weakling, hiding from the public. Let me help you realize the greatness hidden within. Slave the realms and devour the residuals, dine the stars until they submit.
The whispers surged again, louder this time, their voices slithering into his thoughts like venom. They were the price of using his powers outside the Crucible—a constant, gnawing presence that grew stronger with every ability he unleashed. The more he tapped into his strength, the louder they became, until they threatened to drown out his reasoning entirely.
With a silent resilience, Narvel clenched his jaws and looked around the alley, his eyes scanned the alley, searching for something—anything—to cover his face. After a few seconds of looking around, he found nothing, the alley was barren, its only occupants were a pile of broken plastic fragments and a rusted dumpster.
With a frustrated grunt, Narvel grabbed the hem of his janitor's overalls and tore off a strip of fabric. The material was rough and smelled faintly of bleach, but it would have to do. He tied it around his face, the knot digging into his skin as he adjusted it…
Some of the holographic billboards replayed clips from Channel 7 Metro Pulse, with Baxter Bixby's image grinning as it loomed over a plaza, shouting: "BREAKING: RIOTS IN SECTOR 9! STAY INDOORS, FOLKS!" Alternating between this and; "UPDATE: EYEWITNESSES REPORT NOVA VIOLENCE IN THE OUTER RING. REMEMBER, CITIZENS: SHOOT FIRST, ASK LATER!"
Narvel heard this and his mind couldn't help but imagine that Joseline had truly fallen victim to the Federation's scheme. She has always been a sick one, challenged by her weak physical constitution, and he couldn't help but imagine what Novara Gene's awakening would do to her. Especially if she's drawn into the Crucible.
'Should I go into the Crucible?' He wondered. 'No, there's no certainty that she's been dragged there, and that place is way too big to search for anyone. The damn Federation, this damn Government.' Narvel clenched his fist as he thought in hatred.
"Welcome back folks! We are back with more information about what's happening in our city. Viewers, if you're just joining us: yes, the government totally isn't experimenting on us. Move along! Also, it seems like a lockdown has been placed on the Sectors in the outer ring. Calls aren't going through unless you can tap into the military or Federation's satellites. Not that we did any of that. Nonetheless, a source of ours informed me that Commander Voss, our beloved Nova hunter, promises 'zero tolerance' tonight. Let's hope he misses happy hour!"
Narvel looked up at the broadcast for a few seconds, he had always found it hard to understand Baxter Bixby, hence his interest in Baxter's show, however, now he had to admit that he might have not been aware of this earlier on if he didn't watch the segment with Professor Greene in it.
With a sigh, Narvel returned his focus to the surveillance drones.
What Narvel was waiting for was the surveillance drones ahead to give him an opening. He had no intention of running into the officers who had blocked the passage ahead, rather, he was waiting for the chance to get to a manhole that led to sewers connected to the outer ring.
Apart from the Federation's vehicles, all other vehicles around this part of sector 8 seemed to be abandoned adding to the traffic and road blockade, but to Narvel, they were a good form of cover for him.
Use your Mind's eyes, or you might just be falling into a trap, weakling. Hahaha!!
The whispers slithered into Narvel's mind, their taunts sharp and unrelenting. Before he could shut them out, they triggered something deep within him—an ability he hadn't meant to activate.
The world shifted.
What had been a blur of neon and shadow snapped into razor-sharp clarity. The air itself seemed to come alive, shimmering with countless dots of light that danced like fireflies. Electromagnetic waves rippled through the atmosphere, their oscillations visible as faint, pulsing lines. Time seemed to slow in his eyes as the drones' frantic buzzing now turned into a sluggish hum, their movements crawling as if trapped in syrup.
Narvel's gaze swept the street, his enhanced vision piercing the darkness. Thirteen feet ahead, crouched beside an abandoned car, was a figure.
At first glance, it seemed like nothing more than a trick of the light—a distortion in the air, a flicker of shadow. But as Narvel focused, the figure resolved into something more. A man—or something that looked like a man—hunched low, his form blending seamlessly with the car's frame and color. Like a chameleon, he was nearly invisible, his outline shifting to match the textures around him.
Narvel's breath hitched. The whispers cackled in his mind, their laughter echoing like static. The whispers became louder the longer he had this ability on.
See? You need us, you need this power. You're nothing without us!
Narvel clenched his fists, the faint glow of his ability flickering like a dying bulb in his eyes as he wrestled to shut it down. The figure ahead—the stealth Nova—remained oblivious, crouched low and blending into the shadows like a predator lying in wait. But Narvel knew better than to underestimate anyone in Avalon, especially someone who could vanish in plain sight.
Novas were unpredictable.
Some worked for the Federation, hunting their own kind for scraps of safety.
Others teetered on the edge of becoming Havocs, their minds unraveling under the weight of the whispers. And then there were those like Narvel, hiding in plain sight, clinging to their humanity by a thread.
This Nova, whoever they were, was no different from Narvel at the moment as they were both fighting the corruption of the whispers, though the intensity was a far cry from what Narvel was experiencing.
With a grunt of effort, Narvel finally forced his ability to shut down. The world snapped back into its chaotic, smog-choked normalcy, and for a split second, his brain seemed to stutter—a brief, terrifying void where thought ceased to exist.
Then the backlash hit.
Blood vessels burst in his nose, warm droplets stained the rag tied over his face. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth, and his vision swam.
Weak! Long, long ago, we saw, we understood, we fought, we conquered. Do well to emulate this path, or—
The whispers shifted, their voices twisting into a guttural, alien language that scraped against his skull like nails on glass. It was incomprehensible, yet it burned through his resolve, eroding his willpower like fire devouring paper.
His knees buckled. Darkness crept into the edges of his vision, threatening to pull him under.
'No. Not now.'
Gritting his teeth, Narvel grabbed his left pinky with his other hand and yanked it sideways, bending it in a direction it was never meant to go.
The pain was instant, white-hot, and searing. It shot up his arm, jolting him awake like a live wire to the chest. He stifled a groan, biting down on the rag to muffle the sound. His eyes watered, but his mind was clear—for now.
Ahead, the figure shifted slightly, their camouflage flickering as if sensing something amiss. Narvel froze, his breath shallow, his heart pounding in his ears.
This only lasted for about 4 seconds before the figure changed position, heading towards the armored vehicles. This figure moved stealthily, and at the same time, passed through the blind spots between the surveillance drones.
Not wanting to wait to find out whether or not this Nova was rogue or with the government, Narvel ran towards the manhole he had been keeping an eye on.
With his pinky still bent the wrong, a constant supply of pain that muffled out the whispers, he pulled at the handles of the manhole, yanking it out of the floor, before jumping into the hole.