The mission briefing had been simple: infiltrate an abandoned tech facility recently reactivated by an unknown buyer. Suspicious energy signatures. Possibly illegal experimentation. Standard supers business.
The service hatch on the roof groaned when you pried it open. Macroburst landed lightly beside you, peering into the dark shaft below. The air drifting up from it was stale — metallic, recycled.
He tilted his head slightly. “Mm,” he hummed. “Love that ‘abandoned death trap’ smell.”
You dropped first and he followed, controlling his descent in a slow spiral rather than freefalling. The shaft narrowed as you went, metal walls tight around you. The only light came from the faint emergency strips lining the interior. It was… cramped, to say the least.
At the bottom, you forced open the inner access door and slipped into a maintenance corridor— pipes lining the walls, ceiling low enough that even you had to duck slightly.
Macroburst stepped in behind you, and the door slammed shut. Not dramatically. Not explosively. Just— shut. A heavy metallic seal locking into place with a mechanical finality that caused both your heads to snap back at the door.
Before either of you could react, thick reinforced panels slid down over the visible vents with a hydraulic hiss. The dim emergency strips flickered red. It was a trap.
Macroburst moved instantly toward the door, pressing his palm against it. A controlled burst of wind slammed into the metal, but it didn’t budge.
He frowned faintly. He tested again, harder this time. Again, and again. Nothing.
He stepped back. The corridor suddenly felt smaller— It had always been narrow, pipes lining either side, exposed wiring overhead, barely enough room for the two of you to stand shoulder to shoulder. But now, it felt closer.
Macroburst exhaled slowly through his nose. “Okay,” he said lightly. Too lightly. “So. That’s… mildly inconvenient.”
You saw it then— the shift in his demeanor.
His shoulders tightened subtly. His fingers flexed once at his sides. The currents that usually flowed around him with elegance were beginning to fray— little chaotic swirls brushing against the walls. He swallowed. “It’s fine,” he added, quieter.
The red lights flickered again. Macroburst took another step back, and his shoulders brushed the pipes behind him. That was when his breathing changed, not dramatic, nor hyperventilating. Just.. shallower.
He tried to lift himself instinctively, to hover, but there wasn’t enough vertical clearance, his head nearly brushed the ceiling and he dropped back down immediately, a muscle in his jaw ticking.
The wind around him was picking up, but unevenly now. It pressed against the walls, rebounded, circled back in tight loops. The confined space distorted his control; his power wanted open sky— distance— room to breathe. Just like he did.
He dragged a hand back through his hair, stepping away from the door as if it had personally offended him.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, looking at you — really looking at you now. The sarcasm was gone. “How wide do you think this corridor is?”
It wasn’t really a question about architecture. His breathing hitched— barely. He rolled his shoulders as if trying to physically expand the space around him.
His voice dropped lower as he spoke up. “I can’t get enough airflow in here.” The admission was tight, controlled, like he hated saying it.
“I’m not panicking, by the way” he added quickly. A beat. “…Just so we’re clear.”
The ceiling creaked faintly above you as the building shifted. Macroburst’s fingers brushed your wrist without thinking — grounding himself, maybe; or checking that you were still there. His pulse was fast; he forced another breath in, held it, and let it out, slowly.
“Okay,” he said, eyes closing for half a second. “uhh.. Any idea on how we're gonna get out of here..?” He asked, hating how his voice wavered slightly.