Chapter 5: Grounded

Faraday's thumb pressed the trigger on the pronged weapon, and the world narrowed to a single point of light.

The prongs punched through the fabric of Kade's suit, two metal tips that embedded themselves in the muscle of his chest just below the collarbone. The impact was surprisingly precise, almost surgical, the kind of clean entry that suggested Faraday had practiced this exact movement more than a few times. The barbs at the ends of each prong hooked into his flesh, holding the weapon in place even as Kade's body instinctively tried to recoil.

The current hit him a fraction of a second later.

It came as a direct injection, not the diffuse absorption he was used to from the ground, but a focused stream of electricity that entered his chest and spread outward through his ribcage like a liquid fire. The current traveled along his nerves, bypassing the usual pathways that his body had developed over months of practice. It didn't flow through his legs or pool in his core. It went straight for his spine, for the base of his skull, for the places where electricity had no business being.

His vision flickered, the morning light strobing in and out as his brain tried to process the overload. The insulated mat beneath his feet conducted the excess charge away from his soles, creating a closed loop that kept the electricity circulating through his body rather than grounding out. Faraday had designed the system perfectly, the weapon and the mat working together to trap the energy inside him.

The suit's circuits flared briefly, a desperate surge of blue light that traced across his chest and arms before dimming to nothing. The fabric felt hot against his skin, the embedded wiring trying to channel the current but failing against the sheer volume Faraday was pumping into him.

Kade's jaw clenched so hard he felt a tooth shift. His hands curled into fists, the nails biting into his palms hard enough to leave crescents. The vibration that normally hummed beneath his feet was gone, replaced by a violent shudder that ran through his entire body like a diesel engine shaking itself apart on a loose mount.

The arcs started at his heels.

Tiny sparks at first, no larger than pinpricks of light that jumped from his skin to the mat's surface with a sound like paper tearing. They grew as the pressure inside him built, the electricity searching for any exit that didn't involve the insulated rubber beneath him. The arcs lengthened, stretching from his soles to the mat in threads of blue-white light that crackled and spat. Each arc left a scorch mark on the mat's surface, a small black circle that joined others as the sparks multiplied.

His fingertips joined the show next, arcs leaping from each digit to the air around him, finding no ground to complete the circuit but trying anyway. The arcs curved and twisted, seeking paths through the atmosphere that didn't exist, their light casting strange shadows across the asphalt and the barriers and Faraday's impassive helmet.

Faraday watched from a few feet away, the weapon still humming in his grip. The visor reflected Kade's own image back at him, a figure wreathed in crackling light, the arcs crawling across his skin like living things. "The human body can tolerate approximately three hundred milliamperes before ventricular fibrillation occurs," he said, his voice flat through the speaker. "You're pushing past ten times that. Remarkable, honestly."

Kade tried to speak, to form words that would mean something, but his vocal cords had seized along with everything else. The sound that came out was a strangled gasp, half air and half something that might have been a word in another context.

He needed to move. Needed to get off this mat, to find ground that would drain him properly, to break the loop that Faraday had trapped him in.

He drew his right leg back, ignoring the arcs that danced across his sole, and drove his foot into the mat with everything he had. The stomp was pure instinct, the same movement that had shattered steel doors and cracked concrete floors. A shockwave roared outward from the point of impact, a ring of displaced air that should have carried enough voltage to knock Faraday off balance.

The energy rebounded instead.

It slammed back into his leg with a force that he felt in his hip, the shockwave reversing course the moment it touched the insulated surface. The electricity that should have dispersed into the ground doubled back on itself, compressing into a smaller and smaller space until it had nowhere to go but up. It climbed through his thigh, his torso, his chest, colliding with the current that Faraday was still pumping into him.

The collision was violent, a feedback surge that ratcheted everything up several notches.

Kade's vision went white, a blank page of light that erased the world around him. The sound of his own heartbeat filled his ears, a thundering rhythm that was too fast, too erratic, a drumbeat that had no pattern and no end. The arcs from his body intensified, the blue-white threads thickening into ropes of light that wrapped around his arms and legs and torso, tracing the lines of the suit's circuits until they glowed so bright they were almost indistinguishable from the world outside.

His legs buckled, the muscles giving out without warning. He tried to catch himself, to lower himself to the mat with some control, but his arms didn't respond to the command. They hung at his sides, the fingers still sparking, the arcs still leaping, as his body folded at the knees and tipped forward.

He hit the mat face-first, the impact driving the breath from his lungs and grinding the prongs deeper into his chest. The pain was distant, muffled by the overload of sensations competing for his attention. The arcs from his body touched the mat in a dozen places, each point of contact leaving a scorch mark that grew wider and darker as the current continued to flow.

Faraday released the trigger on the weapon, the hum dying as the injection stopped. The arcs from Kade's body flickered, weakened, and went out one by one. The scorch marks on the mat steamed faintly, the rubberized surface still hot from the contact.

The white in Kade's vision faded to gray, then to a darkness that crept in from the edges. The distant pain in his chest became a dull throb, then a sensation that he couldn't quite place, then nothing at all. The last thing he registered was the smell of ozone, thick and sharp, coating his tongue and filling his sinuses and reminding him, somewhere in the fading corner of his awareness, that this was what lightning smelled like.

He lay face-down on the insulated mat, his bare feet pressed against the rubber, his hands splayed out on either side of his head. The suit's circuits were dark, the fabric already cooling against his skin. Above him, the morning sun continued its climb over the skyline, casting long shadows across the road where the marathon had thinned to a trickle of stragglers who didn't notice the body on the mat behind the barriers.

Faraday stood over him, the weapon's prongs still embedded in Kade's chest, the copper mesh of his suit humming with a faint residual current. He studied the prone figure for a long moment, the visor's dark surface giving away nothing of his expression.

Then he reached down, grabbed the handle of the weapon, and pulled it free with a wet sound that lingered in the air.

"Impressive durability," he said to no one in particular. "But you still don't belong in this world."

He turned, walking back toward the white van that waited beneath the overpass, leaving Kade on the mat with the scorch marks still smoking around him.

Three days of nothing.

The darkness was total at first, a blank space where time lost its shape. No dreams, no thoughts, no sense of the world moving on without him. Just a void that swallowed everything, including the memory of what had happened on that mat.

Then the light came back.

Kade's eyes opened to a ceiling he didn't recognize, a grid of white tiles with a fluorescent fixture humming above them. The light was harsh, the kind of cold brightness that made everything look washed out and clinical. He blinked, tried to focus, and discovered that even that small movement required effort.

His throat felt like someone had lined it with sandpaper. His tongue was thick and dry, pressing against the roof of his mouth like a foreign object. He tried to swallow, failed, tried again, and managed only a weak clicking sound.

The cot beneath him was narrow, the kind of folding bed you'd find in a storage closet or a hospital overflow room. A thin mattress covered with a white sheet, a flat pillow that smelled vaguely of detergent. The air was cool and still, carrying the faint chemical tang of antiseptic and soldering flux.

He turned his head, the motion sending a spike of pain through his neck that radiated into his shoulders. The lab came into focus slowly, the familiar workbenches and equipment racks and the wall of whiteboards covered in equations that only Milo could read. The grounding suit hung on its rack near the door, the copper mesh catching the fluorescent light in a way that made it look almost organic, like the shed skin of some metallic insect.

Milo was sitting on a stool beside the cot, his elbows resting on his knees, a tablet balanced in his lap. He looked tired, the kind of tired that came from too many consecutive nights of bad sleep and too much coffee. His hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and he was wearing the same gray hoodie he'd been wearing the last time Kade had seen him, which was either a testament to his dedication or a sign that he hadn't left the lab in days.

"Hey," he said, his voice quiet. "You're awake."

Kade tried to speak, but the words came out as a croak. He cleared his throat, which hurt more than he expected, and tried again. "What happened?"

Milo set the tablet aside and reached for a plastic cup of water that sat on a nearby table. He held it to his lips, letting him drink in small sips that he had to force himself not to gulp. The water was lukewarm, but it felt like the best thing he'd ever tasted.

"You got fried," he said, settling back onto the stool. "Pretty badly, actually. Faraday didn't just drain you. He used the insulated mat to create a closed circuit, kept the current circulating through your body until it started breaking down tissue."

He remembered the arcs, the white light, the feeling of the energy rebounding through his legs. He remembered the pain, distant and muffled, and then nothing at all.

"How did I get here?"

"I found you. After the marathon, when you didn't come home, I checked the route. The white van was gone, but you were still there, lying on this black mat with scorch marks all around you. The suit was still smoking." He paused, his jaw tightening. "I thought you were dead, Kade. For a solid minute, I thought you were dead."

He let that sink in, watching the way his hands gripped the edges of the stool, the way his knuckles had gone white. "I'm not dead."

"No. But your feet are a mess."

Kade looked down, following his gaze, and saw the bandages for the first time.

His feet were wrapped in layers of sterile gauze, the white fabric bulging slightly around the contours of his arches and heels. The wrapping was neat, professional, the kind of work that suggested someone had taken their time with it. Near the edges of the gauze, where it met his ankles, faint yellow stains had bled through, the color of ointment seeping into the fabric.

He stared at them for a long moment, trying to reconcile the image of his wrapped feet with the memory of his bare soles pressing against the ground, feeling the hum of the earth climbing through his legs. The bandages looked wrong, foreign, like someone had put someone else's feet on his body.

"The blisters were deep," Milo said, his voice clinical now, the tone he used when he was explaining something difficult. "First-degree burns across most of the sole, second-degree in a few spots where the arcs concentrated. The electricity basically cooked the outer layer of skin. You're lucky it didn't go deeper."

He wanted to ask how that was lucky, exactly, but the words got stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat. Instead, he focused on the bandages, on the faint yellow stains, on the way the gauze felt against his skin. The sensation was muted, the nerves beneath the burns still too damaged to transmit properly.

He needed to sit up. The thought came from somewhere instinctive, a part of him that refused to accept the position of a patient lying on a cot. He pushed his palms against the mattress, tried to lift his torso, and felt his legs respond with a tremor that started in his thighs and spread upward.

The cot creaked as he rose a few inches, his arms shaking with the effort. The fluorescent light above him seemed to brighten, the world tilting sideways as a wave of dizziness rolled through his skull. His stomach lurched, a surge of nausea that climbed from his gut to his throat, and he felt the sweat break out across his forehead.

He fell back onto the pillow, the impact jarring his spine and sending a fresh pulse of pain through his neck. The ceiling tiles swam in his vision, the edges of the grid blurring and sharpening in a rhythm that matched his heartbeat.

"Take it easy," Milo said, his hand resting on his shoulder. "You've been unconscious for three days. Your body needs time to recalibrate."

Three days. The number settled into his mind like a stone dropping into still water. Three days of lying on this cot while Milo watched over him while Faraday went wherever Faraday went, while the city kept turning without him.

He stared at the ceiling, at the fluorescent light, at the grid of white tiles that seemed to stretch on forever. His feet throbbed beneath the bandages, a dull ache that pulsed in time with his heart. His throat was dry again, the water he'd drunk already absorbed into his dehydrated tissues.

"Three days," he repeated, the words tasting strange in his mouth.

Milo didn't say anything. He just sat there, his hand still on his shoulder, watching him with an expression that he couldn't quite read. Concern, maybe. Or something closer to fear, the kind that came from watching someone you cared about get hurt and not being able to stop it.

The fluorescent light hummed above them, steady and indifferent, and Kade lay on the cot with his bandaged feet and his aching body, trying to remember what it felt like to run without pain.

The ceiling tiles kept their pattern, white and square and indifferent to everything below them. Kade stared at them for a long time, counting the gaps between fixtures, tracking the slight flicker in the third tube from the left. His feet ached under the gauze, a low throb that synced with his heartbeat and reminded him, with every pulse, that he wasn't going anywhere.

"I'm done," he said. The words came out flat, empty of the weight they probably deserved. "No more running. No more suit. No more hero."

Milo didn't react right away. He sat there on the stool, his hand still resting on his shoulder, his eyes fixed on his face. He could feel his searching for something in his expression some hint that he didn't mean it, that this was just the pain talking.

He meant it.

"The cost," he said, still staring at the ceiling. "It's too high. Every time I take off my shoes, I'm putting myself in someone's crosshairs. Every step I take builds charge that someone else can drain away. I'm not a weapon. I'm a battery that anyone can plug into."

Milo's hand lifted from his shoulder. He heard him shift on the stool, heard the creak of the wooden legs against the floor. When he spoke, his voice was measured, careful. "You saved people. The warehouse, the kids. That mattered."

"It did. And then Faraday nearly killed me because of it." He turned his head to look at his, the movement sending another spike of pain through his neck. "He knew where I'd be. He planned it. He built a trap specifically for me, and I walked right into it because I thought I was invincible. I thought the ground was always on my side."

Milo held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. He stood up from the stool, walked to a metal cabinet on the far wall, and pulled open a drawer. The sound of metal sliding against metal filled the lab, followed by the rustle of something being lifted out.

He came back with a pair of sandals.

They were simple things, made of brown leather with a thin rubber sole. A single strap crossed the top, secured by a brass buckle. They looked like something you'd buy at a market stall, unremarkable and ordinary.

"I've been holding onto these," Milo said, holding them out to him. "Thought you might need them someday."

Kade looked at the sandals, then at his bandaged feet. The gauze was thick enough that the straps might not fit properly, but he could adjust. He could make it work.

He sat up slowly, ignoring the dizziness that swirled in his skull, and reached for the sandals. Milo didn't let go immediately, his fingers still gripping the leather.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yeah."

He released the sandals, and he pulled them onto his lap. The leather was stiff, clearly new, though the rubber soles showed a thin layer of dust from sitting in the drawer. He unbuckled the straps, positioned each sandal against his bandaged sole, and fastened them as best he could. The straps dug into the gauze, compressing the padding, but they held.

He swung his legs off the side of the cot and pressed his feet against the floor.

The contact was immediate. The rubber soles insulated him completely, cutting off the hum that he'd grown so accustomed to. No vibration climbed through his arches. No static pooled in his heels. The floor beneath him was just floor, cold and hard and utterly silent.

The charge that had been lingering in his chest, the faint whisper of electricity that had stayed with him even after Faraday had drained him, faded. It didn't disappear all at once, but slowly, like a candle burning down to its last wisp of smoke. He felt it go, felt the emptiness settle into his bones, felt the absence of something he hadn't realized was always there.

He stood up.

His legs wobbled beneath him, the muscles weak from three days of lying still. The sandals felt strange on his feet, the leather rubbing against the gauze in a way that was almost uncomfortable. He took a step, then another, finding his balance as he crossed the lab.

The suit hung on its rack near the door, the black fabric catching the fluorescent light, the circuit patterns tracing dark lines across its surface. The wires were silent, the electroluminescent strands dormant. The copper anklets sat on the shelf below, coiled and still.

He stopped in front of it, looking at the thing that had been his identity for months. The suit that had made him Thundersoles. The suit that had turned him into a weapon, a target, a freak on the news.

He reached out and touched the fabric. It was cold, lifeless, just material stitched together.

"Leave it," he said, not looking at Milo. "I won't need it anymore."

He walked to the door, his steps unsteady in the sandals, his bandaged feet sliding against the rubber soles. The door was heavy, metal and glass, and it took him two tries to get the handle to turn. He pushed it open, feeling the cool air of the hallway hit his face.

Behind him, Milo's voice came soft and quiet. "Kade."

He stopped but didn't turn around.

"If you ever change your mind," he said "the suit will be here."

He didn't answer. He stepped through the door, letting it close behind him, and walked down the hallway with the sandals slapping against the linoleum and the hum of the earth silent beneath his feet.