Tiny Hero Ch 8: Tingling Skin!

I woke up with my face mashed into a couch cushion that smelled like a mix of old cereal and something suspiciously like wet socks. My head was pounding like a bass drum in a marching band that hated me.

"What... happened?" I groaned, rubbing my temples as if I could squeeze the headache out with sheer willpower. Everything was sore, especially my back. It felt like I'd been body slammed by a lightning bolt. Oh wait—technically, I had.

The world slowly came into focus, fuzzy around the edges like a dream fading into reality. I blinked twice and looked up to see a familiar face hovering over me, concern written all over it.

"Thank goodness you're okay," Doc said, his voice full of genuine relief. He was holding a plastic cup of water, the kind with cartoon superheroes on the side. Spider-Guy or something. Of course. He handed it to me.

"Thanks, Doc," I muttered, taking it gratefully. I took a few sips, which instantly helped. Hydration: nature's reboot button.

Doc pulled up a chair and sat beside me, still eyeing me like I was some fragile artifact from a museum. "What happened, Peter? After I left the lab, I came back and found you passed out in front of the machine. Smoke everywhere. You scared the beard right off me."

"Sorry," I said, cheeks already heating with embarrassment. "I... kinda went into the machine after you left."

His eyes narrowed, but he didn't interrupt. So I kept going.

"There were these wires—loose ones. Looked important. And I dunno, I thought I could maybe help. Y'know, fix something. I've been studying circuitry, and—anyway, next thing I know, the whole thing lights up like a Christmas tree, and bam, I'm zapped like a bug in one of those electric fly traps."

Doc listened in silence. His bushy eyebrows twitched, which is how I knew he was seriously holding back a lecture.

He finally let out a long sigh. "Peter... that was extremely dangerous. You could've been vaporized. Or teleported into the ocean. Or melted into goo. Or—" he paused, "—turned into someone who thinks pineapple belongs on pizza."

I winced. "Okay, I deserved that one."

Doc leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice softer now. "I know you were just trying to help. But that machine isn't ready. I don't even know what half the readings mean yet. Bridging dimensions isn't something you fix with duct tape and hope."

I looked down at the superhero cup in my hands. "I just... I didn't want you to feel like a failure. You were so down. I thought if I could help, even a little, maybe you'd smile again."

There was a pause. A heavy, meaningful kind of pause.

Doc put a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it gently. "I know, kid. And that means a lot to me. But your safety? That's way more important than any science project. I'd rather be sad for a day than risk losing you forever."

I swallowed hard. Was it dusty in here? No, definitely not tearing up. Nope. Not me.

Doc stood up, straightening his lab coat—well, more like housecoat; it had cereal stains and a mustard blob on one sleeve. "That said, I do want to run a few tests on you later. Just to make sure you didn't grow a tail or something. But for now, I'm sending you home early. You need rest."

"Are you sure?" I asked, already half-sitting up, checking to see if all my limbs were still where I left them.

"Positive," he said with a nod. "Go home, Peter. Sleep. Eat something that's not cereal. We'll pick this up tomorrow."

I stood up a little wobbly, grabbing my backpack from the floor and slinging it over my shoulder. "Thanks, Doc. For everything."

He waved a hand. "Yeah yeah, go before I change my mind and make you organize the newspaper stacks. And Peter?"

I turned at the door.

"No more impromptu science experiments when I'm not around."

I grinned. "Scout's honor."

"Weren't you never a scout?"

"Exactly."

He chuckled, and I took that as my cue to head out.

As I stepped into the evening air, the setting sun splashed gold across the quiet street. I let out a long breath. My head still ached, my clothes still smelled like burnt rubber, and I might've accidentally activated a dimensional bridge machine... but hey, I was alive.

What could possibly go wrong tomorrow?

⸻

By the time I was walking down the sidewalk, the sun was halfway below the horizon, painting everything in orange and pink. It would've been beautiful if my feet didn't feel like I was dragging two sacks of bricks home. I let out a sigh so heavy it probably scared a nearby pigeon off its perch.

Today had been a day. Work, then almost dying in a potentially unstable portal machine, and now? Now I just wanted a nap the size of a small vacation.

My backpack thumped against my side with every step, which only added to the symphony of tired groans coming from my bones. I passed the corner deli, waved at old Mr. Crump who was always feeding cats that may or may not have been his, and tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

But then... I noticed something weird.

My skin started tingling. Not like a little shiver—you know, like when you walk into a cold room after a hot shower—but more like... static electricity had moved in under my skin and was throwing a party.

"Okay... that's new," I muttered, rubbing my arms like that would do anything. It didn't.

And then my eyes. Oh man. They were getting heavy. Not just tired-heavy. I'm talking someone-attached-little-weights-to-my-eyelids heavy.

I blinked hard. Once. Twice. "Stay open," I told them like they were a pair of uncooperative windows.

It was like gravity had turned up just for my face.

"I guess that machine affected me more than I thought..." I mumbled, squinting at the sidewalk like it owed me answers. I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my palms, hoping I could knock some sense—or at least a little energy—back into my skull.

Nope. Still heavy. Still tingly. Still walking like I'd been up for three days on nothing but cold cereal and raw stress.

My fingers were starting to twitch too, like they couldn't decide if they were tired or excited. It was this weird mix of numb and buzzing, like I'd been typing all day and drinking too much soda at the same time.

"Great," I said under my breath. "If I grow extra arms, I'm blaming Doc."

I took a deep breath, trying to shake it off. Maybe I was just overtired. Or maybe the giant arc-shaped death toaster in the basement had left me with a few sparks still bouncing around inside.

Whatever it was, I just needed to make it home. Just a few more blocks. A warm shower. A real dinner. Maybe pass out face-first in bed and worry about my questionable new skin sensations tomorrow.

I pressed forward, each step slower than the last, doing my best not to fall asleep on my feet.

"Almost there..." I whispered.

And then—well, okay, then it got weirder.

But I'll save that for the next part.

Because right now, all I wanted to do was survive the walk home without passing out on a lawn and getting mistaken for a very confused trick-or-treater.