For most teenagers, the end of the school day meant homework or hanging out at the mall. For Sloane Smith, it meant trying not to leave her left leg in the chemistry lab.
"Keep it together, Sloane. Literally," Rebecca whispered as they hurried through the crowded hallways of Brooklyn Mid-Tech.
Sloane was walking with a strange, stiff gait, her hands shoved deep into her hoodie pockets. Every time someone bumped into her in the crowded hall, her shoulder would indent like memory foam and take a terrifying three seconds to pop back into place.
"I can feel my kneecaps sliding, Becca," Sloane hissed through gritted teeth, her glasses sliding down her nose. "I’m like a human lava lamp today."
"Just one more block," Rebecca urged, adjusting her backpack. "I found the perfect spot. My uncle’s old storage unit in Red Hook. It’s private, it’s soundproof, and most importantly, there are no cameras."
The warehouse was a cavernous, salt-crusted space filled with rusted shipping crates and the smell of the Atlantic Ocean. As soon as the heavy metal door rolled shut and Rebecca clicked the padlock, Sloane collapsed—or rather, she deflated.
She didn't just sit down; her bones seemed to lose interest in being solid. She slumped into a pile of limbs on a dusty gym mat Rebecca had dragged in earlier.
"Okay," Rebecca said, whipping out her binder and a stopwatch. "Training Day One. We need to know what you are, Sloane. The 'Suit'—bring it out."
Sloane closed her eyes. She thought about the night in the alley—the fear, the adrenaline, the shimmering black liquid that had protected her. She imagined a layer of armor, something sleek that would hold her wobbly joints together.
With a soft, organic hissing sound, the obsidian material bled through her pores. It moved like quicksilver, weaving itself over her sneakers and school clothes until she was encased in that dark, iridescent shimmer.
"Whoa," Rebecca whispered, poking Sloane’s arm. The suit felt like a mix of silk and high-density rubber. "It’s reactive. It’s not just clothes, Sloane. It’s part of you. Now, let's test the 'Linear Extension.' Grab that rafter."
Sloane looked up. The steel beam was twenty feet above her. She flicked her wrist. Her arm shot upward, thinning out until it was no wider than a jump rope. Her fingers wrapped around the cold steel.
"Now, pull," Rebecca commanded.
Sloane flexed her bicep. Her body snapped upward, but instead of a smooth climb, she shot up like a released slingshot, slamming her head into the ceiling with a dull thud.
"Ow..." Sloane groaned, dangling by her elongated arm. Her head hadn't bruised; it had just flattened slightly, looking like a squashed marshmallow before slowly rounding out again.
"Note one," Rebecca muttered, scribbling. "Velocity is tied to tension. You aren't just stretching; you’re storing kinetic energy. You’re a living rubber band."
For the next three hours, the warehouse was a blur of trial and error. They discovered the "Physics of Sloane":
The Hundred-Foot Wall: Sloane could stretch her limbs up to a hundred feet, but the thinner she got, the weaker she became. At her limit, her hand didn't have enough strength to turn a doorknob.
The Snap-Back Lag: If she stayed stretched for too long, her muscles "forgot" how to be short. She’d have to manually reel her arms back in like heavy fishing lines.
The Imagination Trigger: The suit could change shape—turning her hands into blunt hammers or flat shields—but only if she stayed laser-focused. If she got distracted, her "hammer-fist" would turn back into a floppy noodle.
"One last test," Rebecca said, her face turning serious. She pulled a small canister of fire extinguisher spray from her bag. "Environmental resistance. We need to know your breaking point."
She sprayed a quick, freezing blast at Sloane’s extended leg.
Sloane let out a sharp cry. The shimmering black suit immediately turned a dull, frosted grey.
"Don't move!" Rebecca warned.
Sloane tried to bend her knee. A terrifying crackling sound echoed through the warehouse—like glass splintering.
"It... it hurts," Sloane gasped, her breath hitching. "I can't feel my foot. It feels brittle, Becca. Like if I move, I’ll shatter."
"Extreme cold freezes the cosmic material," Rebecca observed, her voice trembling slightly as she quickly wrapped a warm moving blanket around Sloane's leg. "Okay... so, no ice-cream-parlor fights. And definitely no trips to the Arctic."
They sat on the edge of the gym mat as the sun began to set, casting long, amber shadows across the warehouse floor. Sloane pulled her glasses off and rubbed her eyes, feeling a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.
"Becca? Why me?" Sloane asked quietly. "I’m just a girl who likes drawing and can't even pass a bike-safety test. Why did that rock pick me?"
Rebecca looked at the binder, then at her best friend. "In every manga I’ve ever read, the power doesn't go to the person who wants it. It goes to the person who needs to change. Maybe the universe knew you were the only one who wouldn't let the power turn you into a jerk."
Sloane looked at her hand. She imagined the suit disappearing, and it obeyed, receding back into her skin.
"Eight people got hit, Becca," Sloane said, looking toward the city lights of Manhattan across the water. "If I’m the one who's 'malleable,' what happened to the other seven? Are they training in warehouses too?"
As if in answer, a low-frequency vibration hummed through the floorboards. It wasn't an earthquake. It was the rhythmic, heavy thud of something massive hitting the ground, miles away in the city.
Rebecca checked her phone. Her eyes went wide. "Sloane... look at TikTok. Someone just filmed a man walking through the front doors of the New York Public Library. Except... he didn't use the doors. He just walked through the marble wall."
Sloane stood up, her joints popping back into place. The exhaustion was still there, but so was something else. A sense of responsibility.
"The training's over, isn't it?"
Rebecca nodded, handing Sloane her glasses.
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and then Add to home screen.