Chapter 42: Vance’s Calculated Confidence
The next day Dr. Marcus Vance adjusted the cuffs of his lab coat as he stepped into the meeting room. He hated these interruptions—pointless meetings where security operatives like Jonas Keene always found some excuse to second-guess his work. Today, however, Vance was in no mood for a debate. The biofeedback inhibitors he had designed were performing flawlessly, and he wasn’t about to let Keene question his methods, especially when the data spoke for itself.
Keene was already seated when Vance arrived, his posture rigid, his dark eyes hawk-like as they tracked Vance’s every move. The man barely blinked, even in casual settings. A habit Vance found tiresome.
“Dr. Vance,” Keene greeted, his voice as clipped as always. “We need to discuss the latest developments with Blackwell and Foster.”
Vance dropped into his chair with deliberate nonchalance. “What about them?” he replied, folding his hands neatly on the table. “As far as I can tell, everything’s within acceptable parameters. The inhibitors are functioning exactly as designed.”
Keene’s gaze didn’t waver. “Exactly as designed? We’ve seen the footage from Galewood. Foster’s power surge was beyond anything our current models predicted. And Blackwell—his detachment, the changes… We can’t afford to be complacent. We need tighter measures.”
Vance sighed, his irritation barely masked. “Foster’s power was an outlier event—an emotional overload tied to a unique set of circumstances. That’s precisely why they’re here, so we can study those outliers and refine our understanding. As for Blackwell, his emotional state is a variable we’re accounting for. But I’m a scientist, Keene, not a jailer. If you want military control, this isn’t the place.”
Keene leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Let me be clear, Vance. I don’t care if you’re running a scientific study or an art exhibit. What I care about is the fact that we’re housing Class 5 metahumans—unpredictable, dangerous—and your inhibitors are the only thing truly keeping them in check.”
Vance returned Keene’s stare without flinching. “The inhibitors are keeping them in check.”
“Until they don’t,” Keene countered coldly. “I’ve seen what happens when people get too comfortable around beings like them. It never ends well.”
Vance drummed his fingers on the table, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Your job is security, Jonas. Mine is science. I assure you, the inhibitors were designed with their capabilities in mind, and I’ve been monitoring the data personally. The fact that neither of them has so much as twitched out of line should tell you everything you need to know.”
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Keene’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak immediately. Vance knew the type—always waiting for the next crisis, never willing to believe that sometimes, the solution was already in place. Keene thrived on control, on the idea that tighter restrictions could solve every problem. It was predictable, but Vance wasn’t going to indulge his paranoia.
“I’m not suggesting we ease up,” Keene said after a pause. “But I am suggesting that we prepare for contingencies. Enhanced containment protocols. Stronger inhibitors if necessary.”
Vance’s smirk faded, his tone sharpening. “The current inhibitors are more than sufficient. Blackwell and Foster aren’t walking time bombs, they’re subjects under study. The inhibitors are not just shackles—they’re part of the data that allows us to understand their limits, their capabilities. If you keep pushing for overkill, we won’t learn anything except how to contain them. And that’s not what the Academy is for.”
The tension between them was palpable. Keene’s eyes flickered with something close to frustration, but his voice remained calm. “Containment is the priority, Vance. Everything else is secondary.”
“Yes of course,” Vance shot back. “But I’m not about to compromise decades of research just because you’re uncomfortable with the unknown.”
A silence stretched between them, the hum of the air filtration system filling the room. Keene leaned back slightly in his chair, his posture relaxing but his eyes still locked on Vance. “If this goes wrong, Vance, it’s on your head.”
“Noted,” Vance said dryly, standing up and straightening his coat. “But trust me, Keene. It won’t.”
Without waiting for a response, Vance turned and walked out of the room, his mind already shifting back to the lab, to the data he’d been reviewing. Keene was too narrow-minded, too focused on control without understanding the nuances. But Vance had spent years perfecting his designs. The inhibitors weren’t just designed to hold back raw power—they were designed to learn from it, to adapt in real time.
And they were working. That was what mattered.
Later in the Lab
Vance returned to the familiar surroundings of his lab, the sterile, gleaming surfaces offering him a sense of calm that Keene’s endless scrutiny never could. He glanced at the screens monitoring the subjects—Foster and Blackwell—reviewing the latest data.
Everything was in place. The inhibitors had recorded no significant anomalies. Foster’s energy output remained stable, his reactions predictable under controlled conditions. Blackwell, though more of a psychological enigma, was still well within expected behavioral patterns. His detachment wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t dangerous—not yet.
As he scrolled through the latest readouts, his assistant, Dr. Naomi Wells, entered the lab. She was efficient, precise, and one of the few people Vance trusted implicitly.
“Any issues?” Vance asked, not looking up from the screen.
Wells shook her head. “None. The inhibitors are maintaining optimal function across the board. Blackwell’s emotional responses are still muted, but he’s within parameters.”
Vance nodded, feeling a sense of satisfaction wash over him. “Good. That’s how it should be.”
“Keene’s still pushing for stronger containment, isn’t he?” Wells asked, her tone neutral but knowing.
Vance snorted. “Keene doesn’t understand restraint. He sees every potential threat as a nail, and his answer is always a bigger hammer.”
Wells gave a small smile. “That’s why he’s in security, not research.”
“Exactly,” Vance muttered, tapping a few keys to zoom in on Blackwell’s neurological activity. The patterns were strange—disconnected, as if the boy’s emotions were no longer fully processing. Vance noted the data, intrigued but not overly concerned. Blackwell’s emotional detachment was part of the ongoing study. There was no need to sound any alarms.
Still, as Vance stood in the quiet of the lab, his thoughts flicked briefly to the broader picture. Keene wasn’t the only one watching. The Academy leadership had placed immense trust in him, and he intended to prove them right.
But there was a delicate balance to be maintained. The inhibitors had to do more than contain. They had to guide the subjects toward something greater—an understanding of their own potential.
As long as Vance held the reins, he was confident that balance would be kept. The science, after all, was sound.
And he had no intention of letting anyone, least of all Keene, tell him otherwise.