Luminosity - The Beginning - 4. Chapter 4

Tomas stood, stepping a few paces away from the table. “Henry’s different,” he said calmly. “He processes energy in a way no one else here does.” As he spoke, his body began to glow with a brilliant, translucent blue light, soft yet commanding. “This trait will kill him unless we leave this world.”

Henry’s parents froze, paralyzed by the spectacle. The glow faded, and Tomas stood before them, casually holding the iced-tea pitcher. “Would anyone like a refill?”

**

Henry’s parents sat transfixed, their gazes locked on Tomas, the air heavy with disbelief. The Woodside estate’s patio, framed by wrought-iron furniture, overlooked a valley where twilight softened the rolling hills. The faint scent of June’s herb garden lingered, a reminder of the home Henry was about to lose. June’s hand trembled, her half-empty glass of iced tea glinting in the fading light. After a long, silent minute, she spoke, her voice quavering. “Can someone get me something stronger?”

Henry’s father, Henry II, stirred, his movements hesitant, as if reality itself had shifted. Before he could rise, Tomas was there, holding a bottle of Jean-Marc vodka—the same brand Henry had seen his parents share over quiet evenings. The gesture was seamless, yet it carried the weight of the extraordinary, a quiet confirmation of the impossible.

“This is all real, isn’t it?” Henry’s father asked, his voice low, almost reverent.

“Yes, Dad,” Henry said, his throat tight with emotion. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

June’s eyes, glistening with unshed tears, searched his. “Can you do what Tomas did?”

“Not like that,” Henry admitted, his voice soft. “I can do some things—run fast, feel the lumin—but I’m still learning.”

“Tell us,” his father urged, settling back into his chair, the vodka bottle untouched on the table.

Henry drew a shaky breath, the weight of the past weeks pressing down. He began with the flash in the hills, that strange light that had sparked his unease. He described meeting Tomas, the runs that pushed his body beyond human limits, the blackout in Big Sur where he’d collapsed over a hundred miles from school. The lumin, he explained, was the force driving it all—a raw energy that pulsed through him, exhilarating and terrifying, like a climactic rush, a power that consumed and remade him. His parents listened, their faces a mix of awe, fear, and sorrow. Tomas interjected sparingly, clarifying lumin’s nature or the mortal danger of changing without guidance, his calm presence steadying the conversation like an anchor in a storm.

“We’re leaving next week,” Henry finished, his voice barely audible, the words heavy with finality.

Tears spilled down June’s cheeks, her hand reaching for his. “Will we see you again?”

Henry’s chest ached, his own eyes burning. He looked to Tomas, as did his parents, their expressions desperate for hope. Tomas’s gaze softened, but his words were unflinching. “I’m sorry, but it’s unlikely Henry will return.”

A crushing silence fell. Tomas rose, excusing himself with a quiet nod, his footsteps fading across the patio’s stone tiles. Henry watched him go, the world blurring through his tears. His parents pulled him into a fierce embrace, their sobs mingling with his own. The life he’d known—the mansion’s nurturing calmness, his mother’s studio vibrant with paint and possibility, his father’s stern expectations—felt like it was dissolving, a world he could no longer hold. June’s stories of her youth, chasing dreams in a small California town, echoed in his mind, a reminder of the courage she’d urged him to find. His father’s voice, often sharp with ambition, now trembled with love and loss. Henry clung to them, memorizing the warmth of their arms, knowing it might be the last time.

That night, Henry and Tomas shared Henry’s boyhood bed, the room steeped in memories of simpler days—model planes on shelves, posters of runners fading on the walls. Their shoulders brushed, and Henry’s muffled sobs broke the quiet, each one a release of grief and fear. Tomas’s steady breathing was a lifeline, his presence a quiet reassurance that Henry wasn’t alone. Lying there, Henry wrestled with his feelings for Tomas—gratitude, admiration, and something deeper, a pull he couldn’t name but felt in every pulse of lumin. Was it friendship, or more? The question haunted him, but the weight of their departure left no room for answers. Early the next morning, before his parents stirred, they slipped out, the estate’s gates closing behind them as they returned to Woodside Preparatory Academy for the final time.

The campus, with its ivy-clad halls and manicured lawns, felt like a relic of a life Henry was shedding. Its stone buildings, steeped in privilege, stood as monuments to a world of ambition and hierarchy he no longer belonged to. There wasn’t much to do—notify teachers, pack what little mattered, say goodbyes. Henry visited his teachers, their formal farewells tinged with curiosity at his abrupt exit. The dining hall’s outcast table was harder. Cynthia Walsniac embraced him tightly, her voice warm. “You and Tomas are perfect for each other. I know you’ll have a happy, exciting life together.”

Henry froze, his cheeks warming. Did she think they were a couple? The idea sent a flutter through him, a mix of hope and doubt. Tomas didn’t see him that way—or did he? “Thanks,” he mumbled, shyness swallowing his words. Other outcasts offered heartfelt goodbyes, their usual reserve giving way to sincerity. Ethan, the sci-fi reader, pressed a worn paperback into his hands, a quiet gesture of friendship. Even “cool kids” like Jake Packard and Jamie Thiele approached, their usual swagger softened. “Gonna miss you, Adams,” Jake said, clapping his shoulder. “You and Tomas, man—what a pair.” Jamie nodded, adding, “Don’t be strangers, yeah?” Their words, laced with admiration and a hint of envy, blurred the school’s rigid cliques, a fleeting bridge across divides.

One person they both sought was Coach O’Brien. Beneath his rough exterior and gruff demeanor, he’d shown care, pushing them to excel while respecting their bond. They suited up for practice, the familiar weight of running shoes grounding Henry amidst the upheaval. Their teammates expressed regret at their departure, even the “A” squad, whose competitive edge had once daunted him. The camaraderie, however brief, was a bittersweet reminder of the connections he’d begun to forge.

Coach assigned the “A” squad the “Ridge Trail,” its winding path a final farewell to the trails that had changed Henry’s life. He and Tomas exchanged a glance, a silent agreement. Within minutes, they stood before Coach, who sat on the bleachers by the oval track, clipboard in hand, the faint scent of grass carried on the breeze.

“Did you two forget something?” Coach O’Brien asked, his tone sharp with suspicion.

“We’ve finished the workout, Coach,” Tomas said, unruffled.

“Stop screwing around and finish the fucking run.”

“We have,” Henry said. “It’s posted. Check the Final Surge log.”

Coach grabbed his phone, frowning as he opened the app. His eyes widened, his gruff facade cracking. “This is insane. It says your pace was three seconds a mile, over two hundred miles at twelve hundred miles an hour.”

“We updated our earlier runs too,” Tomas added. “You might find them interesting.”

“We’re leaving,” Henry said, his voice steady despite the lump in his throat. “We wanted to thank you for supporting us.”

“Leaving?” Coach’s brow furrowed, his clipboard forgotten.

“And to congratulate you,” Tomas said, a hint of a smile, “on coaching the two fastest runners in the world.”

“We couldn’t have done it without you,” Henry added, a playful wink softening the moment.

Coach stared at the log, then at them, disbelief etched on his face. “How the hell did you do this?”

“We have to go,” Tomas said.

Before Coach could respond, they erupted in a blaze of lumin, the air crackling with energy. Henry felt that raw, climactic surge, like the peak of a run, overwhelming and unstoppable. They vanished, leaving Coach stunned, his gaze fixed on the empty track until the “C” group returned thirty minutes later.

Their first stop was Kings Peak, east of Salt Lake City, Utah, the state’s highest point at 13,528 feet. Tomas explained that the altitude would amplify lumin processing, akin to fully charging a battery. “The radiance here mimics the plains,” he said. Henry’s senses, honed since his first eruption, drank in the journey. Moving faster than human eyes could track, time seemed to slow, each landscape vivid—the golden sweep of California’s Central Valley, Lake Tahoe’s crystalline azure, the Sierra Nevada’s towering peaks, Nevada’s stark flats, and the Uinta Mountains’ soaring ridges. Contributing his lumin to Tomas’s was exhilarating, like merging with a force greater than himself, a shared pulse that echoed the intensity of his runs.

Kings Peak rose, its rocky summit surrounded by sparse, uneven ground. Henry had learned their feet never touched the earth—lumin cushioned them, adjustable to smooth terrain at the cost of energy. The blue glow Tomas projected was a counterforce, enabling controlled slowing or turning. Without it, sudden stops could be catastrophic, a lesson etched in Henry’s mind from Big Sur.

They slept on the flats below, Kings Peak silhouetted against a star-strewn sky. Tomas wove a thin lumin shield, warding off the night’s chill. At dawn, they ascended, the air crisp and thin. They watched a sunrise bathe the peaks in gold, its beauty piercing Henry’s heart. He knew this was his last sunrise in the world he’d called home, a moment both sacred and fleeting.

Near the sum. “No secrets between us. Strip down—the more sun, the better.”

Henry hesitated, then stripped to his boxer briefs, shyness holding him back from more. They sunned all day, the warmth seeping into Henry’s skin, lumin flooding him like a current, revitalizing every cell. By sunset, they descended, energized, the mountain’s stark beauty a vivid memory.

They traveled to the Great Salt Lake Desert’s flats, the ground cracked and pale under moonlight. “When do we leave for the plains?” Henry asked, nerves tightening.

“Tonight,” Tomas said. “Under darkness, when fewer are around. Our departure will cause a sonic percussion.”

“So soon,” Henry murmured, his voice small.

“We leave at our strongest. When we begin, you must erupt with me. Your lumin protects you and lets you respond when I need you.”

“What do I do? How will I know?”

Tomas’s smile was steady. “You’re ready. When I say ‘now,’ summon all your lumin. I’ll combine it with mine. Trust me. Let’s run.”

Tomas erupted, lumin flaring bright. Henry followed, the rush like that climactic surge of a run, raw and all-consuming. Tomas flared brighter, no countering blue glow, propelling them at a speed Henry’s enhanced vision couldn’t track. The lumin burned orange, nearly red. They weren’t in Utah, nor on the plains—somewhere in between, a liminal void.

Tomas flared again, his eyes a silvery gold, lumin intensifying to plasma white. Henry watched in awe, but fear crept in—Tomas’s skin paled, almost translucent. They slowed, frozen in space. Tomas’s voice was faint, strained. “Henry, now.”

Henry reached deep, flaring with everything he had. His lumin was a flicker against Tomas’s overwhelming power, but nothing happened. He dug deeper, pain searing through him, pushing beyond his limits, his body screaming. Slowly, they moved, inch by inch, then faster, breaking free from the unseen force. They surged forward, but Tomas faded, his eyes a dull metallic sheen, his form ghostly, as if unraveling.

Henry saw the blue lumin drift, encircling him alone. He slowed, stopping as the glow vanished. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the dusty ground, panic surging—he was alone. Forcing himself up, he staggered forward, following their path. Fifty yards on, he found a slimy splotch in a shallow crater—blood, skin, sinew, bone fragments. His heart pounded, dread rising. Twenty yards further, another streak of tissue, longer, more grotesque. Then, the broken, barely recognizable body of Tomas, sprawled lifelessly.

Henry fell to his knees beside Tomas, tears streaming, a sob wrenching from his chest. The alien world around them, with its cracked, pale soil stretching out forever, felt impossibly cruel. He lay beside Tomas, his hand resting on the still form, grief and exhaustion pulling him into a restless sleep. The sky never fully darkened—one sun set as another rose, an eerie cycle marking this strange place, its rhythm as foreign as the loss consuming him.

At the next sunrise-sunset, Henry woke to a shimmering aura descending from the brightening sky. Waves of white light poured into Tomas’s body, his wounds slowly knitting, flesh reforming with agonizing slowness. Henry’s breath caught, tears spilling anew—not of grief, but of hope, a fragile spark igniting in his heart. He watched, trembling, as the light worked its miracle, praying it would be enough.

End of Luminosity-Part One