Bruce arrived home, and was shooed up to bed by a father trying to be caring. He appreciated that, but as he hydrated and woke up from the fog of his unconscious morning, he actually felt fine. Great, better than ever, even. He stayed in his room to avoid his father worrying, stripped down to sweats and a tank top. He couldn't stay in bed, though, and started pacing. The pacing turned into basic calisthenics, and soon he was picking up the weights he kept in his room to get a decent workout in.
They were all wrong, none of the numbers seemed to line up with how heavy they were to him, and he felt like he kept having to add weight to the barbell. He didn't realize it was nearly three hundred pounds until he dropped it and heard a worrying crack from the floor.
"What the shit?" He put all the weights he owned on the bar, and went to do a deadlift. The bar bent almost into a U, and snapped in the middle as he hefted it. Still it felt like a light workout. Bruce blinked down at his hands, not sure what to make of this. Experimentally, he picked up one end of the broken bar, heedless of the immense weight on one end of it, and held it in both hands. He bent the bar, and found it was as easy as if it were... maybe not rubber, but certainly some kind of plastic. He couldn't think exactly what to compare it to, but he shouldn't have been able to do anything of the sort.
When he made to drop the broken halves, he winced again at the heavy end thudding into the ground. It took him a moment to notice that the shorter piece of bar, without the weights on it, didn't come loose from his hand. It was sticking to his fingers, though they were open to drop it. Bruce clenched his fist and opened it again, and this time the bar fell. He walked over to the desk and put his hand flat down on it, lifting it back up. It seemed normal, and he repeated the motion a few times, flexing his fingers in different ways, until finally when he went to lift his hand, the whole desk came with it, spilling his computer and a pile of homework to the ground.
"Shit..." He figured his father must have gone to sleep again, or else was out, otherwise surely he would hear all the noise Bruce was making.
Sticky hands and super strength, he mused. Like a certain friendly neighborhood hero from across the river. What the hell? He may as well give it a shot.
Bruce walked over to the wall and placed both of his hands on it, one slightly higher than the other, and then placed first one bare foot, and then the other along with it. No more feet on the ground, and yet he did not fall, Bruce was stuck to the wall. He took a tentative crawling step, and another. In moments he was gleefully crawling on first the walls, back and forth, and then his ceiling(how did a quarter get in the light fixture?).
The discovery made him giddy, but soon he jumped back down onto his bed, and sat, his hands clasped in front of his face as he thought hard.
What in the world was he to do with this discovery?
He went to school as normal the next day, to the surprise of many classmates. Those who were invested in the school's athletics programs were very solicitous, making sure he was okay, which he assured them he was. He didn't care for this sort of attention that came up around big games at the best of times. Now, with his bizarre secret, he felt more uncomfortable than ever to be the object of discussion and close observation.
When someone referred to him as "football dork," he didn't fool himself for a second that anyone else could be meant, and he turned to look Tess in the face.
Freak, she said? He wondered what had happened to her. It had already occurred to him that the sudden sickness that several people had been afflicted with might very well be related to the onset of his powers, but she hadn't gotten sick, had she?
He didn't let these thoughts on, and instead looked her over in mock concern, "You don't look like any kind of freak to me, but what do I know? Just a dumb jock, right? What in the hell are you talking about?"