I walked him to the door, watching as he made his way back down the driveway, the heavy, solid presence of the man leaving a lingering warmth in the house.
I closed the door, resting my forehead against the cool wood for a brief second.
'He's right.'
I had been treating this world like a video game. A sandbox where I could test my powers, build my toys, and watch the sitcom characters from behind a sheet of reinforced glass. But they were real people. The grief, the exhaustion, the joy—it was all real. And if I spent my entire life sitting in my basement assembling alien technology, I would just be repeating the same mistakes of my past life, just with a larger bank account.
"Atlas," I called out, pushing off the door.
"Awaiting directives, Arthur."
"Pause the orbital weapons platform schematics," I instructed, walking toward the kitchen to put the bottle of scotch away. "We don't need a space laser. We're not at war."
"Schematics archived, sir," Atlas replied, its tone as smooth and unbothered as ever. "Shall I initiate the secondary defense protocols for the perimeter?"
"No. Leave the perimeter alone. The cameras are enough." I grabbed my jacket off the hook by the door. "I'm going out."
"Shall I prep the Mustang?"
"No," I said, a small smile pulling at my lips as I stepped out onto the porch, the warm California sun hitting my face. "I'm going to walk."
The neighborhood was alive. The air smelled of jasmine and hot pavement. Two kids were riding their bikes down the sidewalk, laughing as they tried to race a delivery truck. I kept my posture relaxed, consciously dialing back the hyper-vigilance of the serum. I didn't need to track the heartbeats of everyone in a three-block radius. I didn't need to analyze the structural integrity of the mailboxes.
I just needed to breathe.
As I strolled down the sidewalk, enjoying the simple, mundane rhythm of putting one foot in front of the other, I heard a loud, metallic clatter coming from the Dunphy driveway.
I paused, looking over the low hedge.
Phil was currently sitting on the concrete, his hands covered in dark black grease, staring mournfully at a disassembled bicycle. The chain was tangled into a knot that defied the laws of physics, and the rear derailleur looked like it had been bent backward. Beside him, Luke was wearing a bicycle helmet backward, poking a dead leaf with a stick.
"It's okay, buddy," Phil sighed heavily, wiping a streak of grease across his forehead, making him look like a very sad mechanic. "Dad's just going to... invent a new kind of bike. A bike that doesn't need a chain. We'll propel it with pure imagination and strong calves."
"Mom said you were going to break it," Luke observed blankly.
"Mom lacks vision," Phil countered weakly.
I leaned over the hedge, resting my forearms on the green leaves. "Looks like you've got a slight tension issue there, Phil."
Phil jumped, spinning around. When he saw me, his face lit up with that trademark, unkillable golden-retriever enthusiasm, completely ignoring the fact that his hands were ruined and his son's bike was in pieces.
"Arthur! Hey! Just... doing a little routine maintenance," Phil chuckled nervously, trying to hide the tangled knot of the chain behind his back. "You know how it is. Gotta keep the gears greased. Friction is the enemy of progress."
"Friction is definitely the enemy," I agreed, walking around the hedge and stepping onto his driveway.
I didn't activate the microbots. I didn't push a single impulse through the neural lace. I just walked over, crouched down on the warm concrete next to him, and held out my hands.
"Mind if I take a look? I used to tinker with bikes a lot when I was younger."
"Oh, I couldn't ask you to do that," Phil protested, though he looked incredibly relieved. "You're in your nice clothes. You'll get grease everywhere."
"It washes out," I said, offering a reassuring smile. I gently took the tangled chain from his hands.
It was a mess, but without using my superhuman speed or my Tinker intellect to invent a laser-cutter, I simply used my hands. I felt the links, finding the tension points, and slowly, methodically began to unravel the knot. It was a mundane, dirty task. The grease stained my fingers, settling deep into my fingerprints.
And it felt incredibly grounding.
"So," Phil said, watching me work with wide, appreciative eyes. "Jay said you stopped by his place this morning. He seemed... well, not actively angry, which for Jay is basically a glowing review."
"He brought over a bottle of scotch to thank me for finding Stella," I said, slipping the chain back onto the front sprocket. "He's a good man. Direct."
"Oh, he's direct alright," Phil laughed, a slightly hysterical edge to it. "He directly tells me I'm doing things wrong at least three times a week. But he loves the kids. Deep down, beneath the layers of flannel and disapproval, there's a heart of gold. Or at least, a heart of bronze."
I chuckled, grabbing the rear derailleur. I used a fraction of my enhanced strength to gently bend the metal bracket back into perfect alignment without snapping it, securing the chain over the rear cassette.
"There," I said, giving the pedal a spin. The rear wheel clicked smoothly, the chain shifting gears flawlessly. "Good as new."
Phil gasped, grabbing my shoulders. "Arthur, you are a wizard. A dark, grease-covered wizard. Thank you! Luke, thank Mr. Hastings!"
"Thanks, Mr. Hastings," Luke mumbled, finally dropping the stick and dragging the bike up by the handlebars. "Can I jump it off the roof now?"
"Absolutely not," Phil said immediately, before pausing. "Unless we use the trampoline to break the fall. No, wait, your mother would kill me. Just ride it on the street, buddy."
I stood up, wiping my greasy hands on a rag Phil handed me. I looked down at my stained hands, the dark oil contrasting sharply with my pale skin. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't sterile.
It was real.
"Anytime, Phil," I said softly, feeling a genuine, quiet peace settle over my mind for the first time since I woke up in this world. "Anytime at all."