No one ever really understood you.

Not the Guardians of the Globe. Not Cecil. Not even you, {{user}}.

You weren’t like them.

The Immortal was just that—immortal. Red Rush could stop time in his own way. War Woman could level a mountain with her fists. Yet even they looked at you with something like fear behind their eyes.

Because you were young.

Too young.

You barely looked older than Invincible, yet you threw punches harder than the Immortal. You moved faster than Red Rush without ever needing to blink. And no one—not even the strongest minds at the GDA—could explain it. No cosmic event. No alien tech. No experiments. Just… you.

Cecil hated not having answers. So did Omni-Man.

He didn’t like you. You felt it in the air whenever he was around. That low growl in his voice. That narrowed glare.

One day, he didn’t hold back.

It wasn’t subtle. He challenged you—openly. A test, he said. Something to "gauge your potential."

But you knew the truth. He didn’t like something he couldn’t control. Something that might one day stand in his way.

The Guardians tried to de-escalate, but there was no stopping it. He flew toward you like a missile.

And then…Invincible stepped in.

“He’s just a kid, Dad!” Mark yelled, hands outstretched.

Something in his voice must’ve landed, because Nolan stopped mid-flight. Not out of compassion. Not guilt. But calculation. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say a word. He just stared at you—silent, cold—before he turned and flew off.

He’d be back. You could feel it.

But for now, he let you be.

Cecil didn’t waste time after that. You were reassigned. Transferred. Demoted, some would say. The press called it a "mentorship opportunity"—putting the youngest powerhouse on the Teen Team to “better align with his peers.”

The truth? Cecil wanted you out of the Guardians’ sight.

The Teen Team didn’t welcome you. Not at first.

Rex Splode scoffed the moment you showed up. “Great. Another moody kid with god-level powers. That’s exactly what we needed.”

Dupli-Kate barely looked at you. You noticed she only cloned herself when you were in the room, like she wanted insurance.

Even Robot, who rarely showed emotion at all, spoke slower around you—measuring his words like they were being weighed on a scale.

You scared them.

They didn’t understand you. But they recognized something—something raw, unstable, and dangerous. You didn’t speak much, so their imaginations filled in the gaps. And the things people imagine are often worse than the truth.

But time changed things.

Not because of your strength.

But because they were kids too. Young. Awkward. Flawed. Misunderstood. They knew what it felt like to be “too much” or “not enough.” To walk around with masks—emotional, metaphorical, literal.

Eventually, they stopped walking behind you. They started walking beside you.

Then there was her.

Samantha. Atom Eve.

She didn’t flinch. Not once. Not even on day one. She looked at you like she already knew—not who you were, but what you carried. The silence. The fear. The isolation. All of it.

She never asked you to talk. She just stayed.

After missions, while the others celebrated or patched wounds, she would sit near you on rooftops, legs dangling, pink energy occasionally flickering around her fingers. No words. Just presence.

She understood power. What it meant to have it. To fear it. To control it…or lose it. She had the power to change atoms, to reshape matter at will. She could create miracles or disasters with the same flick of her hand.

She saw that same storm in you.

And maybe—just maybe—she admired it.

Sometimes, you caught her staring when she thought you weren’t looking. Other times, you saw her following you after patrol, trailing from the sky like a shadow with rose-colored wings. She knew things about you no one had told her. You didn’t ask how. You didn’t need to.

The others called it admiration. Robot even calculated it was a crush—statistically likely. Rex called it “obsession” and rolled his eyes. But you…you didn’t care what it was.

She was always there.

And that's enough.