The Neonverse felt different when they returned that night.
Zaya noticed it immediately as she stepped through the portal — the electric pulse that usually felt like coming home now felt almost too bright, too easy. In the Neonverse, glowing was normal. Expected. Safe.
But in that other city, in that square, glowing had meant something.
It had been a choice. A risk. A declaration.
Kairo stretched as the portal sealed behind them, his Thunder Pulse settling back into its natural state. Here, the electricity could dance freely across his skin without hiding. Here, he didn't have to hold back.
"Weird, right?" he said, reading her expression. "Being back."
"Yeah," Zaya said softly. "It feels... different now."
Spark zoomed around their apartment in excited loops, leaving trails of color. "We started something! Did you see their faces? Did you see how they—"
"I saw," Zaya said, smiling. But the smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
Because she was thinking about what came next. They'd created a moment, yes. A beautiful, powerful moment. But moments fade. Moments get forgotten. Moments get replaced by the daily grind of existing in a world that pressures you to be smaller.
Would anyone remember tomorrow? Would it matter?
She got her answer three days later.
They returned to the city on a regular patrol — nothing special, just checking in on the usual dimensional weak points, making sure no glitches were forming. The portal opened into the same alley they'd used before, and they stepped out into an overcast afternoon.
The square was two blocks away. They hadn't planned to go there, but Zaya found her feet turning in that direction anyway. Curious. Hopeful. Maybe a little bit afraid of what they'd find.
The fountain came into view.
And Zaya stopped walking.
There were people there. Not as many as before — maybe ten, twelve — but they were there. Sitting on the benches. Talking quietly. Existing together.
And they were wearing it.
Bold colors. Mismatched patterns. Proud, unapologetic self-expression.
A girl in a neon pink jacket and plaid pants. A boy with a shirt that said "GLITCH IN THE SYSTEM" in hand-painted letters. Someone in a dress made from what looked like repurposed curtains, beautiful and strange and perfectly them.
"They came back," Kairo said quietly, wonder in his voice.
"They're still here," Zaya corrected.
As they watched from a distance, more people arrived. The barista from the café, still wearing her mismatched earrings. The girl with the sketchbook, now wearing one of her own designs. The boy with the bike, which was now covered in even more colorful tape.
They greeted each other like old friends. Like they'd been doing this for years instead of days.
Spark pressed against Zaya's cheek. "It didn't fade."
"No," Zaya said, her chest warming. "It didn't."
They didn't approach. Didn't interrupt. Just watched as the gathering existed, as people claimed space, as the movement continued without them needing to be there.
That's when Zaya understood.
It wasn't about them. It had never been about them.
They'd just been the spark. The first ones to say it was okay. But the fire belonged to everyone else.
Over the next two weeks, they returned four more times. Each time, the gathering had grown. Not explosively — this wasn't going viral in the traditional sense. But steadily. Organically. Person to person, conversation to conversation, invitation to invitation.
By the second week, there were over a hundred people showing up to the square. Not all at once. People came and went throughout the afternoon and evening, treating it like a place rather than an event. A place where you could exist without performance.
And something else was happening too.
People were bringing things.
Someone set up a small art station where people could customize their clothes, adding patches and paint and embroidery. Someone else brought a portable speaker and started a playlist of songs submitted by the community. A group of kids organized a skateboarding area where you could try tricks without being rated or judged — just encouraged.
The square was transforming into something alive. Something that belonged to everyone and no one. Something that existed because people needed it to exist.
But not everyone was happy about it.
Zaya first noticed the opposition on their fifth visit.
A group of adults stood at the edge of the square, watching with disapproving expressions. Not threatening. Not violent. Just... disapproving. The kind of look that says "this isn't appropriate" without using words.
One of them was filming on their phone.
Kairo noticed them too. "Here we go."
They kept their distance, but Zaya could feel the judgment radiating from them like heat. And she could see how it affected some of the younger kids in the gathering — the way they suddenly became self-conscious, the way they pulled their colorful jackets a little tighter, the way they glanced around nervously.
An older woman from the group approached. She was well-dressed, put-together, with the kind of confidence that comes from always being right.
"Excuse me," she said, addressing no one in particular but clearly speaking to everyone. "Is there an adult supervising this?"
The barista, whose name Zaya had learned was Maya, looked up. "Supervising what?"
"This gathering. These children. Is there a responsible adult making sure this is... appropriate?"
"Appropriate?" Maya's eyebrows rose. "They're just hanging out."
"They're loitering. And some of these outfits are..." The woman gestured vaguely. "Inappropriate. Distracting. This is a public space."
"Exactly," said a voice from the crowd. The girl in the yellow hoodie — her name was Riley — stood up. "It's public. Which means it belongs to everyone. Including us."
The woman's expression hardened. "I don't think you understand. This kind of behavior, this encouragement of nonconformity, it's not healthy. Children need structure. They need guidance. They need to learn what's acceptable in society."
"And who decides what's acceptable?" Maya asked, her voice calm but firm.
"Common sense. Standards. Normal people who understand that there are rules for a reason."
Zaya felt her Lumina Bloom stirring, responding to the threat forming in the air. Not a physical threat. Something more insidious. The threat of being told you're wrong for existing as yourself.
She stepped forward, and the woman's eyes locked onto her immediately. Taking in the mismatched shoes, the colorful braids, the obvious refusal to conform.
"You," the woman said. "Are you organizing this?"
"No," Zaya said honestly. "They are." She gestured to the crowd. "It's theirs."
"Well, someone needs to take responsibility. This can't just be allowed to continue unchecked. There are rules. Permits. And frankly, this is becoming disruptive."
"Disruptive to what?" Kairo asked, stepping up beside Zaya.
The woman's eyes narrowed. "To normalcy. To order. To the way things should be."
"Should be according to who?" Riley asked.
The woman looked like she wanted to argue further, but something about the crowd — the way they were all watching her, not with anger but with patient, unwavering presence — made her hesitate.
"This isn't over," she said finally. "There will be consequences if this continues."
She walked back to her group, and they left together, but Zaya could see one of them still filming.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
The square went quiet for a moment.
Then Maya laughed. Not meanly. Just exhausted. "Of course they're mad. We're not following the script."
"What do we do?" someone asked nervously. "If they come back? If they try to shut this down?"
Zaya looked around at the faces — young and old, scared and defiant, uncertain and determined.
"We keep showing up," she said simply. "That's all we can do. We keep choosing to be here. We keep choosing to exist as ourselves. And we trust that matters."
"Even if they try to stop us?" Riley asked.
"Especially then," Kairo said. "Because that's when the choice means the most."
Two days later, Zaya and Kairo returned to find the square cordoned off.
Orange cones and caution tape blocked the entrances. A sign read: "PLAZA CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. REOPENING TBD."
But there was no construction. No work being done. Just an empty square and a clear message: You're not welcome here.
A small group had gathered outside the tape, confused and frustrated. Maya was there, talking to a city worker who looked uncomfortable.
"When did this happen?" Zaya asked, approaching.
"This morning," Maya said. "They're saying there's 'structural damage' to the fountain that needs repair. But I was here yesterday. There was nothing wrong with it."
The city worker shifted his weight. "I'm just following orders. The work order came through this morning. Plaza's closed until further notice."
"How convenient," Kairo muttered.
Riley stood at the edge of the group, staring at the empty square with something like heartbreak on her face. "They're shutting us down."
"They're trying to," Maya corrected. "But they can't shut down an idea."
"What do we do?" someone asked.
The group looked at each other, uncertain. This was the moment. The test. Would they scatter? Give up? Accept that the opposition was too strong?
Zaya felt her Lumina Bloom pulse once, gently, in her chest.
"We move," she said.
Everyone turned to look at her.
"The square was just a location," Zaya continued. "The movement is us. We find somewhere else. We keep gathering. We show them that you can't shut down people choosing to exist."
"Where?" Riley asked.
Kairo looked around, thinking. Two blocks away, there was a park. Smaller, less central, but open. Public.
"There," he said, pointing.
The group looked at each other. Someone nodded. Then someone else. Then Maya smiled.
"Okay," she said. "Let's go."
They walked together, maybe thirty people, from the cordoned square to the park. No fanfare. No protest. Just movement.
And when they arrived, they sat down on the grass and continued what they'd been doing. Existing. Talking. Creating. Being.
Within an hour, more people had found them. Word spread quickly — not through official channels, but through texts and whispers and the kind of network that forms when people genuinely care.
By evening, there were more people in the park than there had ever been in the square.
Zaya sat on the grass with Kairo and Spark, watching the gathering sprawl across the green space. Someone had brought a blanket and was doing embroidery, teaching others who wanted to learn. A group was playing music. Kids were running around with light-up shoes, no longer hiding them.
"They tried to stop it," Kairo said, wonder in his voice.
"And it grew," Zaya finished.
Because that's what happens when you try to suppress something real. When you try to contain something that people actually need. It doesn't disappear. It adapts. It finds new spaces. It becomes stronger.
Spark floated up higher, glowing bright enough now that people around them could definitely see.
"Look," Spark said, pointing.
Zaya followed their gaze and saw something that made her chest crack open with emotion.
People were pulling out their phones, but not to film for content. They were taking pictures of each other — genuine, joyful moments. Celebrating each other. Documenting not for performance but for memory.
And some of them were posting. Not to influencers. Not to the guy in the black turtleneck. To each other. Creating their own networks. Their own communities.
One post caught Zaya's eye. A photo of the group in the park with the caption: "They closed the square. We found a park. They can't close an idea. #MismatchMovement"
She hadn't created that hashtag. None of them had. It had emerged organically, born from the community itself.
"It's not ours anymore," Zaya said softly.
"It never was," Kairo replied. "It always belonged to them."
That night, as they prepared to return to the Neonverse, Maya approached them.
"Hey," she said. "I don't know if you're coming back, but... thank you. For starting this."
"We didn't start anything," Zaya said. "You all did. We just showed up first."
Maya smiled. "Well, thanks for showing up. It mattered."
She handed Zaya something — a small card, handmade, with a drawing of a mismatched pair of shoes and words written in careful handwriting:
"When the noise gets loud, I glow with you."
Zaya's breath caught. "What is this?"
"Something we're making," Maya said. "For each other. Little reminders. We're calling them Spark Passes. After..." She gestured at Spark, who was floating nearby. "After your friend. Is that okay?"
Zaya looked at the card, then at Maya, then at the gathering still thriving in the park as the sun set.
"Yeah," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "That's more than okay."
Maya smiled and walked back to the group.
Kairo put his hand on Zaya's shoulder. "You good?"
Zaya nodded, unable to speak. Because she was good. Better than good.
They'd come to this city to help. To protect. To stop people from dimming.
But somehow, the people had ended up teaching them something instead.
That movements don't need leaders. They need catalysts.
That change doesn't need permission. It needs people willing to go first.
That the most powerful thing you can do is show someone else it's safe to be themselves.
They slipped into the alley where their portal point was hidden. Zaya placed her hand on the wall, and her Lumina Bloom opened the doorway home.
But before they stepped through, she looked back at the park one more time.
At the people gathered there, glowing in the twilight. Not with powers or magic. With choice. With defiance. With the simple, radical act of existing loudly.
The Neonverse wasn't an escape, she realized.
It was a mirror.
Showing them what was possible when people remembered they were allowed to shine.
And now, in this city, people were starting to remember.
