Getting to a landfill was harder than expected. His parents refused to drive him. They didn’t understand why he wanted to go, at first. Once he explained what he was attempting to accomplish to them, they were even more vehemently opposed. Stealing from the landfill was a crime, they said.

Paul fixed him with disapproving eyes. His face was stern. Paul wasn’t a particularly tall man, but at 5’11, he towered over Dylan’s small frame. He had a fairly mundane job, working as an accountant at a local firm. He had rarely gotten into fights as a kid. He didn’t have any powers.

Despite this, Dylan felt nervous. His father didn’t normally look so disapproving. His normal mild expression was nowhere to be seen. Dylan gulped. He realized that he might have made a miscalculation. His father was big on the rule of law. He strongly believed that it was the glue that held society together. He didn’t even speed, except in the direst of emergencies.

He was an unexcepting man. Many would call him principled. He had earned straight A’s all through college, and was nearly top of his class. He was smart, but most of his success came from hard work. He didn’t party, instead studying intensively.

The firm Paul used to work for was far more prestigious than his current job. However, due to his refusal to take part in the corruption within the company, he was denied promotion several times, and eventually ended up quitting to go work somewhere else.

“Dylan” his father said. “I know that you’re excited because of this development. Who wouldn’t be, at your age. I know most kids dream of being like Insurmountable. But I want you to think on what’s happened to you, long and hard. If you chose to use your powers, for any reason, for anything, there’s a chance that you’ll die. An experiment could go wrong, you could be targeted by a villain. It might simply cause you to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. There’s a reason I don’t share your mothers' excitement”.

Dylan started to protest, but his father held up a hand, cutting him off.

“And gaining powers does not give you the right, nor reason, to steal. If anything, it gives you a reason not too. It’s too easy, to let one thing lead to the next. I just need something people have thrown out now. What if you need something they still have? It’s just one time. Now you’ve done it once, what does it matter if you do it again”?

He reached out, placing his hands on Dylan's shoulders.

“You simply can’t start. Do you understand me, Dylan?”

Dylan, almost unable to meet his father’s eyes, nodded. Paul stood there, staring at his face for a moment longer, before letting out a sigh and turning away, walking off into the kitchen. When he heard the creak of the cupboard door opening in the other room, he let out a breath of relief, before turning and running up the stairs, into his room.

Hopping onto his bed, he buried his face in his pillow. After letting out of a muffled yell of frustration, he sat up, and started thinking about what he was going to do. His parents wouldn’t let him go and grow his powers. He knew these first few months were the most important. They knew it as well. It was so unfair!

Standing up, he started pacing around his room. Every kid wanted to be a superhero. Who wouldn’t? Saving people, getting recognition, money, fame, brand deals, having awesome powers, like flight or invulnerability or being able to teleport? Everyone he knew had wanted that since they were old enough to learn about heroes.

Sure, he knew it probably wouldn’t happen. Only 1% of the population had powers, and most of them weren’t strong enough for the real crime fighting. It was a dangerous job. If you weren’t nearly impervious to harm, then every apprehension or encounter with a criminal could put your life at risk.

Everybody knew the story of Vorporeal. He was a demigro, and a top tier one at that. He had multiple weaker abilities to boot, which certainly helped. With his enhanced strength, speed, and his legendary ability to teleport, it made him a force to be reckoned with. He beat some of the strongest villains of his time. The footage of him flickering around the battlefield, dropping rubble on the Villain Darkshine, and saving dozens of civilians is still one of the most popular to this day.

Yet he met his end when confronting a common crook, with an average energy blast power. It was run-of-the-mill. Vorporeal had made dozens of such arrests during the course of his 12 year career. But it didn’t go right this time. The criminal let loose a blast of red energy, which the Hero easily avoided. But it struck the building behind him, which had been weakened from a battle between supers a week earlier, and knocked a piece of concrete loose, which fell, striking Vorporeal on his head, knocking him out. The crook ran away, leaving Vorporeal to expire of brain damage in the alley.

The man was eventually caught, one Brian Johnson, but there was nothing to be done for the deceased hero. Brian had only been wanted for burglary, and he was shocked when presented with first degree murder charges. They were eventually dropped to manslaughter. Brian hadn’t even known that Vorporeal was hurt. Superheros, especially ones so prominent, had an invincible reputation.

Dylan didn’t care about the risks, however. While he was just as fragile as an ordinary human, his power would more than make up for that. He was a Formator. He could stand far back, away from any danger, and let his creations do the fighting for him.

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He could even picture it: A strong villain, a famous one, just about to beat the heroes on scene, when suddenly, two bronze androids fall out of the sky, easily subduing the maldoer. He would then step out, lecture the villain on the errors of his ways, and send him along to the authorities to let him meet justice.

But that couldn’t happen if could never grow his power. If his parents were out, then that meant he could only do it himself. What would he be able to do? There had a few ancient electronics in a box down in the basement. His mother had wanted to sell them 10 years ago, but never had gotten around to it. They were almost worthless now. He could start with them.

…

The basement was dusty, a testament to how infrequently anybody used it. It was filled with cardboard boxes, most of them empty. A few had old keepsakes, knickknacks from when he was a baby, or with sentimental value to his parents, too important to get rid of, but not relevant enough to keep in sight or easy access.

A small window let the dull light of the setting sun into the room, casting a faint orange glow over it. It was poorly illuminated, with a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, which itself was mostly boards. It cast a flickering fluorescent glow in a small radius around it, insufficient to properly light even half the room.

He took a tentative step onto the cold concrete. He almost instantly regretted going barefoot when the sensation of chill hit him, but he pressed on, ultimately undeterred. Most of the boxes were unlabeled, their peeling cardboard frames showing their age, with light spots where tape had been put on and ripped off time and time again.

Putting his hands on the closest box revealed that it was empty, the sudden movement showcasing the lack of contents to weight it down. He moved on, searching every box in the stack. Most were empty, and most others had few items.

Eventually, he found the boxes containing the junk he was looking for. Slipping his hands under the first one, he picked it up, loosing his balance and staggering backwards. He took a second to stabilize himself, shifting his center of gravity over his feet. Once he was sure he wasn’t about to collapse onto the floor, he started up the stairs.

Once he reached the top, he had to put the box down. Dylan wasn’t very strong. He was small, smaller than most of his peers. He was skinny, and most people said he looked more like an 8th grader than someone about to enter high school. While some of his classmates could grow full beards, he hadn’t even hit the brunt of puberty yet.

He had an explanation for that now. Those with powers would often experience “different” development. Many hit puberty very late, or very early. It was nice to know that he would probably get the growth spurt he had been so desperately hoping for the past 2 years, but that knowledge didn’t help him at the moment. The boxes wouldn’t move themselves based on his future physicality. Picking it back up, he looked up at the stairs to his room. He let out a groan. He still had two more boxes to grab.

…

He bent over, hands on his knees, chest heaving. He had finally gotten the boxes where he needed them. Now, he had to suffer the cost. At that moment, he strongly wished he has a physical power. Being a 9 foot, invincible behemoth would make moving boxes a lot easier than his 5’7 frame would allow.

Once he caught his breath, he opened up the boxes, revealing the junk inside. There was an assortment of old clocks, watches, an almost ancient microwave, and a bunch of other assorted pieces.

He had a sort of idea of what he wanted to build. If he was going to be gathering materials from a landfill, or some other such place, he would need to be able to carry it back here. As evidenced by his struggles to bring the boxes upstairs, he would need a better method to carry things unless he wanted to make a trip for every item or two he got.

He ran down and grabbed his dads tools. They were lackluster, but they would make what was coming far easier than it would be otherwise. Plus, he would rather develop his power to be more useful or creative, rather than keep the ability to forgo tools.

He didn’t fall into a trance this time. He was certainly in a more focused state than he normally could access, but it wasn’t like the first time. There, it had just taken over, and he woke up with the light switch. Now that he was trying to make something of his own volition, stuff didn’t just happen. He had to actually work to build what he wanted.

His power still did all the hard work, providing him with details and concepts that he didn’t understand. Occasionally, time would seemingly jump forwards, and he would wake up with something in his hands that physically shouldn’t work.

Eventually, after hours of fiddling, adjusting, assembling, and molding, he had his finished project in his hands. Or at least, he should have had it. What he ended up with wasn’t what he was trying to make. Or, it would be more accurate to say that it was only part of what he was trying to make.

On his desk, surrounded by leftover screws, scraps of metal, and bent springs, was a dull mechanical arm. It was thin, with a glove at one end and a shoulder cradle at the other. It was designed to fit on the outside of the arm, and give the wearer increased strength.

He had intended to create an entire exosuit. What had happened? Dylan looked around, and saw something that maybe have been the cause of his conundrum. Every electronic device he had brought up was taken apart in some way, stripped of all useful components. The spare pieces were scattered around on the floor.

It seems he would have to gather more materials if he wanted to complete his suit. Dylan thought he should give it a name, even if it wasn’t finished. He eventually settled on simply calling it the Exosuit Mark 1. Once he had proper materials, he would eventually make one far more impressive, and at that point he would put more thought into the name. This would do for now.

He put it on, fastening the straps over his arm, securing his shoulder in the cradle, and threading his fingers through the glove. He flexed his elbow, surprised at how well it moved. It didn’t really feel like it made him any stronger. Did he mess up? Was his power only good at making worthless things?

He tried to activate it again, but was hit by a searing headache. Wincing, he vowed not to repeat the mistake. His hand flew out to support himself against the wall. After a few minutes, the pain had cleared.

He tried to remove his hand from the wall, but found more resistance than he expected. Looking over, Dylan saw that he had stuck his hand through the plaster, without even feeling it. With a quick motion, he pulled his hand out, more drywall coming off the edges of the hole. His hand moved smoothly, and there was barely a hitch where he would have expected resistance.

He pumped his arms up and down in elation (mindful of the one encased in the exosuit this time). His invention worked! Tomorrow, he would go to the junkyard and start scavenging. Turning to go place his mechanical arm onto the desk, Dylan caught sight of the hole in the wall again, and only one thought flashed through his mind.

“SHIT! My parents are going to kill me.”