---
"A name's just a label until you're forced to wear it."
---
He stared at himself in the mirror again.
Daylight painted the cracked tiles in yellow, but the reflection was no more familiar than it had been the day before. Same too-pale skin. Same tired eyes that didn't belong to him. No scars or identifying marks apart from the one above the left brow—a thin line, probably from childhood.
Isaac Ward.
That was the name on the ID he found in the top drawer of the desk. It looked official—driver's license, a student card from a defunct tech school, even a hospital wristband in the trash marked Ward, Isaac – Patient 3291D.
He said it aloud.
"Isaac."
No response from the reflection. No recognition. No warmth. Just the weight of a dead man's name hanging in the air.
What happened to you?
He wasn't sure if he was asking Isaac, or himself.
---
The laptop booted after three tries. The screen flickered, resolution too low. It looked like it had taken a punch recently.
A password screen. He stared at it.
Tried a few guesses—birthdays from the ID, 'password123', even some basic variations of "Vector" just in case.
Nothing.
Then he closed his eyes and focused. Not on the password, but on the keyboard.
He moved a finger carefully and brushed the delete key—let the vector field extend outward, barely more than a whisper.
Trace. Residual heat. Last used keys?
It was grasping at straws, but somehow, it worked. His power didn't just affect force—it registered kinetic memory. He could feel the indentations from prior keystrokes, the slight pressure variations.
Slowly, he reconstructed the likely password.
"mirageEcho5."
Click.
He was in.
The desktop was cluttered. Old files, junk folders, and browser tabs still open from weeks ago. Mostly technical schematics. Code fragments. Diagrams involving signal interference.
A half-written email draft caught his eye:
> "...they'll never approve the grant. Not after what happened at Blackstone. I'm not going back to the Ward name just to get a foot in the door. I'm done."
Isaac had a chip on his shoulder. And secrets.
--
The building manager wasn't helpful—barely remembered Isaac beyond "that weird tech kid who paid late and didn't talk to nobody."
His neighbors were worse—either gone all day or pretending not to exist.
But a trip to the city archives gave him more: Isaac Ward had been declared legally missing three months ago. No family. No social media presence for over a year. One arrest record from a protest downtown—nonviolent, released same day.
It was like he'd been trying to disappear before it happened.
And then… he did.
Did I replace him? Or inherit him?
It was a haunting question, and he didn't like either answer.
---
Scene 4: The Body is a Stranger
That evening, he stood shirtless in the bathroom, cataloguing everything about this new form. Every muscle. Every joint. Every weakness.
He didn't have superstrength. No bulletproof skin. No regenerative ability. He was human—flawed, vulnerable, soft. But not broken.
He flexed an arm. Watched the way the muscles moved. Not quite his rhythm. He'd have to relearn it all—like putting on armor that was one size off.
But his powers? They were growing.
He could now redirect small objects mid-flight without touching them, as long as they were within arm's reach. Coins spun into spirals. Pens hovered, then zipped across the room. Even water flowed in awkward arcs when he focused.
But his body tired fast. Overuse led to nausea. Anything heavier than ten pounds made his hands tremble. There was a ceiling—and he wasn't anywhere close to lifting it yet.
---
The next day, he was followed.
He felt it before he saw it—his vector sense picking up irregular motion behind him. Someone tailing from too far back to be a mugger, too slow to be a coincidence.
He ducked into a thrift store, looped out the other exit, and doubled back. And then he saw them—two men, military-cut, tan jackets. GDA? Maybe. Maybe not.
He didn't confront them. Not yet.
But he made a note.
They know Isaac vanished. And they don't think he stayed gone.
---
He began keeping a notebook. Small, leather-bound, tucked inside his coat. He wrote everything.
Power Source: Internal. Drains stamina. No verbal commands. No visual markers.
Range: Physical touch optimal. Visual contact up to 1.5m.
Effect: Redirection of existing motion/force. Can stop, invert, accelerate.
Limitation: No mass generation. No energy creation. Cannot affect immaterial forces.
Unknowns: Can it scale? Can it affect people?
He needed tests. And space. And time. None of which this city would give him willingly.
--
He stopped using Isaac's name at coffee shops and counters.
Instead, he gave aliases: Nate. Jordan. Max.
It felt wrong, using someone else's skin and voice. Like nesting inside a ghost.
But a decision was forming in the quiet parts of his mind.
If the GDA—or worse—came looking for Isaac?
Then Isaac had to die.
Publicly. Quietly.
A false lead, staged in digital footprints. A burned trail. A new alias built in the gaps.
He wouldn't be Isaac Ward for long.
---
Days passed.
He trained when he could—flicking coins, dodging cars, redirecting thrown bottles. He avoided fights, took long walks at night, and memorized the city skyline from rooftops.
Sometimes, he wondered if this world wanted him dead.
And then, just once, he let go—let all the tension fall off his shoulders and laughed. A real, quiet, unexpected laugh.
Because of all the places he could've ended up?
He landed in one where he knew the ending.
And endings could be rewritten.
---
End of chapter 2