It had been a rather dull day in Hawkins—until people started exploding.
Well, about to explode.
Will could see the future. And in that future, things were... explosive.
His thoughts lingered on the word explode a bit too long. But considering that this cheerful meet-and-greet was seconds away from turning into fire and death, he figured it was understandable.
After all, Hawkins wasn't supposed to be exciting. That was the point. A low-risk assignment—enough corporate tension to teach them crowd control, but nothing that should end in fire and casualties.
Moments like this were supposed to feel like time slowed down. But Will had learned not to rely on instinct. He made the slowdown deliberate—manipulating his hypothalamus through controlled biofeedback. Boosting norepinephrine for calm, precise decision-making.
Zach called it brainhacking—the only psychic trick Zach was ever truly jealous of.
Will reached out to grab El's hand. Physical contact strengthened their psychic link—too much information to waste on words. With his altered perception of time, his hand moved as if through molasses.
His mind was already working—just as he'd been trained—tracing the futures collapsing into disaster back to their source. The looming fireballs of potential detonations shimmered, shrinking into singular points of cause.
He scanned the crowd gathered to meet him and El—Aperture's current sponsored superteam assigned to Hawkins—quietly noting each bright dot of imminent explosion.
Most were Aperture supporters. It showed in their attire—variants of the standard jumpsuit, adapted for life outside the Enrichment Center. Light fabrics, short sleeves, personalized but practical. Always recognizable.
Only one of the glowing dots stood among them.
The rest clustered at the edges—polo shirts, arms crossed, iPhones in hand. The unmistakable posture of Apple loyalists. They weren't here to be impressed. They were here to perform their disapproval, radiating smug detachment.
Will traced each flare of danger—phones clutched in hands, tucked into pockets, hidden in purses or sleek designer cases.
A subtle shift of focus let his vision slide beneath layers of fabric, confirming what he already suspected.
He didn't like doing that. Even psychic sight had boundaries. The only times he allowed himself to look beneath clothes were for art—when sketching with consent—or in emergencies.
This definitely counted.
That confirmed it. Every source was a smartphone. Each and every iPhone, plus a few scattered models from lesser brands.
Not a single Aperture device.
Whether this was a catastrophic malfunction or a terrorist attack didn't matter. The protocol was the same.
His hand found El's—grip steady, practiced.
The first signal was automatic—a touch, a shift in muscle tension—telling her to activate her own perception shift. Time wasn't really slowing down, but they could move like it did.
Fifty-three lives, and no second chances. Time to prove the training worked.
While El adjusted, Will reviewed the mental map—locations, trajectories, blast radii—all packaged into a clean, efficient thought. He passed it to her.
She accepted it without hesitation. Their minds aligned, sharpening into shared clarity.
El might be physically blind, but her psychic vision was sharper than his—focused on the present, while his stretched into probabilities. Combined, they missed nothing.
With her input, he caught the few devices he'd overlooked at the fringes. Adjustments made. No fuss.
Together, they lifted.
Phones ripped from hands, torn from pockets and bags. In one case, they took the whole jacket—no time to be delicate.
No panic. No hesitation. Just flawless execution. Just as they trained.
As the phones rose, the first cries followed—long, distorted sounds dragged across his heightened perception.
"Myyyy phoooooone..."
"Youuuu caaan't dooo thaaaat..."
Will almost smiled. People always sounded ridiculous when he shifted like this. Like whales filing complaints.
He tuned them out. There wasn't time—ironically—to dwell on irony.
Lifting wasn't enough. They needed shielding—to stop the blast and shrapnel from raining down on civilians.
That was El's specialty. Will was competent at telekinesis, but raw force had always been her domain.
A thought brushed his—steady, familiar. El letting him know the shield was in place.
A stray thought crossed Will's mind—Mike had complained when they'd been reassigned to Hawkins. Too quiet. Too safe. Nothing ever happens here.
El nudged into the thought, amused. Mike wouldn't be pleased now either—not when something did happen, just not according to plan.
Will sent back a dry reply. There was no pleasing Mike.
What returned was a flicker of warmth, mischief, and playful confidence. Oh, she knew how to please Mike.
Will almost laughed.
The air shimmered faintly as El's shield locked around the rising sphere of phones.
And then they exploded.
With the crisis past, Will released his hold on accelerated time perception. Aperture training had been clear: cognitive compression was for short, time-sensitive emergencies only. Use it too long, and the side effects compounded fast.
The world snapped back to speed, and with it came the usual aftershocks—grogginess, mild headache, the sensation of static clinging to the edges of his thoughts. He'd need to hydrate soon.
He supposed this was what a hangover felt like—not that he'd ever had one. He'd learned anti-toxin biofeedback before he was legally allowed to drink, and breaking laws inside the Enrichment Centre had never been worth it. Aperture didn't tolerate crime; it prevented it. Every law on the books—federal, state, or internal—was logged, monitored, enforced. No police, no feds, no interference from the outside, because the system handled everything before anyone else had reason to care.
By the time he could drink, the idea of deliberately suppressing his detox reflexes—just to feel the effects—had seemed like an inefficient use of biological resources. He'd trained those routines into muscle memory. Fighting them on purpose would've taken more effort than the buzz was worth.
The ringing echo of the explosion faded, leaving behind stunned silence—just for a heartbeat.
Then the panic hit.
In Will's psychic senses, their emotions bloomed—vivid and chaotic. Red and black dominated, the colors of fear and helplessness.
Screams. Shouts. People scrambling backward. Some ducked instinctively. Others fumbled for missing phones, as if denial could somehow undo what had just happened.
Will exhaled slowly, steadying himself as the wave of panic swelled around him.
Expected.
They wore Aperture jumpsuits—but that didn't mean they lived Aperture.
Not fully.
Not when their first response to an unexpected crisis was to fall apart. These were people who'd sat through a few mandatory drills, maybe a half-week seminar on emergency protocols. Enough to check a box—not enough to shape instinct.
It struck Will as foolish—but then, that was life outside the Enrichment Centre. Surface habits died hard.
His training was clear. In situations like this, you de-escalate. Always de-escalate.
The exceptions were rare—and when they did arise, they were ethically questionable, suboptimal by design, and only tolerated under conditions of desperation overriding principle.
Aperture had educated him thoroughly—even on the darker contingencies. Not because hard choices were admirable, but because sometimes they were unavoidable.
And when that moment came—not out of pride, fear, or theatrics, but true necessity—he would know exactly what to do. Without illusion. Without dramatics.
Because reaching for the harsh solution too soon was just incompetence dressed as resolve.
Control wasn't about making hard choices—it was about preventing them whenever possible. But when prevention failed, control meant choosing with precision, not bravado.
Fortunately, this situation hadn't devolved that far. None he'd faced so far had.
And in the quiet space between thoughts, Will knew: he wasn't sure if, when that moment came, he could make that choice.
Training could tell you how. It couldn't tell you who you'd be after.
He raised his hand—not for show, but because gesture-based authority worked. Aperture training again: calm posture, minimal movement, clear focal points. The human brain craved signals of control, and sometimes a steady hand spoke louder than words.
At the same time, he reached outward—not physically, but psychically—painting over the riot of red and black emotions blooming across the crowd. He softened edges, dulled panic into cooler shades—muted greens, calming blues. Not erasing fear, just... smoothing it.
It worked better in synergy. Psychic touch and psychological cues—neither as effective alone.
That's why he was speaking, not El. She was stronger—but her touch wasn't subtle. When El smoothed emotions, people felt it—like they'd stumbled into a cloud of really good weed. Relaxed, sure—but too relaxed. Unnatural enough to spark questions later.
Will's influence? They wouldn't even notice.
They'd think they calmed down on their own.
"Everyone remain calm," Will called out, his tone precise and level. Loud enough to cut through the panic, but not enough to add to it. "You're safe. The threat has been neutralized."
With calm spreading like dye in water, Will watched the response ripple through the crowd.
Those in Aperture jumpsuits—some employees, others just enthusiasts—responded first. They weren't panicking anymore. Most dropped into familiar crisis drill posture: scanning for injuries, organizing, grounding each other. Not perfect. Not Enrichment Center-level calm. But enough.
The others—polo shirts and crossed arms—held out longer. They didn't ground. They coiled. Turning confusion into confrontation.
A voice rose from that side—sharp, nasal, brittle with outrage. "Neutralized? That was theft! Who's paying for our phones?"
Another, louder: "Yeah, great stunt, Aperture stooge! Blow up our stuff to make yourselves look like heroes!"
This wasn't his battlefield anymore. Will knew better than to engage with hecklers—that's what Mike was for. Damage control wasn't just part of the plan; it was Mike's favorite part.
He glanced toward the edge of the crowd, where Mike was already stepping forward, tablet in hand, his voice carrying with practiced authority.
"Any complaints can be logged directly through Aperture's restitution portal," Mike announced smoothly, gesturing toward the hovering broadcast drone syncing with his feed. "All damages will be assessed, and—as always—Aperture guarantees a fair resolution. If your device exploded today, congratulations—you're alive because of it. And because of us. Now, if you'd like to discuss loyalty discounts on safer technology, I'd be happy to assist…"