The Powerless Messenger

2691.

The first recorded sighting of superhuman abilities occurred in America on Black Friday. In the chaos of an argument, a woman’s voice rose into a piercing scream—so powerful it hurled her opponent into a brick wall. And as blood spilled from the injured woman, it began to writhe unnaturally, coiling around her like a living thing. With a flick of her arm, the blood lashed forward, snapping through the air like a crimson whip, binding her rival in its grasp. After that first sighting, reports of powers erupted across the globe. Soon, there was no record of anyone without powers. Every child born from then on carried some mutation—strange, impossible gifts pulled straight from the pages of comic books, now made flesh and reality.

3474.

The first person in centuries born without powers: an ordinary, fragile, human boy.

The news spreads, whispered first in hospitals, then shouted across cities. Such a tragedy. A defect. An embarrassment.

His mother weeps, turning her face away, unable to bring herself to hold the child she carried.

His father drapes an arm around her shoulders, his jaw tight, voice sharp with disgust.

“We didn’t want that thing,” he spits. “We won’t be known for raising a freak.”

The baby wails as the nurse lets him slip from her arms. But before he smashes the floor, she halts him midair with a flick of power, his tiny body suspended, trembling in invisible hands. Her face twists, caught between duty and revulsion, as she pulls him from the room—unsure what to do with…it.

As the weeks crawl by, the question of what to do with the child festers. Whispers of execution linger on every tongue. Yet, for reasons no one can name—fear, superstition, or something deeper—they cannot bring themselves to end him.

World leaders gather behind closed doors.

Some demand the child be studied, broken down to the smallest cell, his weakness dissected until it yields an answer. Others argue he should be hidden, his existence buried before panic ignites across the globe. A rare few, colder than the rest, see him not as a curse but as an opportunity—an object to be shaped, controlled, and wielded.

The boy, still small enough to fit in a cradle, becomes the center of a war he cannot see—a war not for his life, but for his purpose.

The child is property of the United States of America. President Luce Rye has the final say on what happens to the…child.

“Mr. President?”

3477.

The powerless…thing still has no name. No foster family will claim him, no home will open its doors.

So he lingers in the shelter, not as a child but as a specimen. Each week, men in white coats arrive with needles, scanners, and questions they never voice aloud—tests upon tests, probing every inch of his fragile body.

To them, he is not a boy. He is a mistake. A warning. And they will do everything in their power to ensure no future baby will ever be born like him again.

3481.

A woman steps forward. The small seven-year-old buries his face in his hands, peeking through trembling fingers as she kneels before him.

“Hi,” she says gently, giving a small wave.

He hesitates, then lowers his hands just enough to meet her eyes. Slowly, awkwardly, he lifts his fingers in a faint wave of his own. No words. No smile.

From behind, his assigned caregiver clamps a heavy hand on his shoulder, making the boy flinch and shrink inward. “Trust me,” the man mutters, voice dripping disdain, “you don’t want this…thing.”

The woman’s eyes hardened, reading his name tag.

The woman’s jaw tightens, but she nods. “My house was inspected, my background cleared. All your boxes are checked. I was told I could take him home today.”

With a dismissive grunt, Richard shoves the boy forward. He stumbles, crashing to his hands and knees on the cold tile. Before he can scramble away, the woman kneels and gently helps him up, steadying his trembling frame.

“Easy,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

Together, they walk toward the exit. But the moment they step outside, sunlight touching his skin, the boy collapses again, crumpling to his knees.

She crouches beside him, concern etched across her face. “Come on, sweetheart. This way.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look at her. His lips part as though to speak, but the sound dies in his throat. Slowly, his small hand rises to point at his neck.

Her brow furrows. “I don’t understand. You…you know how to talk, don’t you?”

A whisper finally escapes, ragged and broken. “Leash?” The word barely leaves him before his body jerks, flinching as if the blow is expected.

Her eyes widen, horror dawning as she glances up at the sky, fighting the sick twist in her stomach. “They put a…” She can’t even finish the thought. Instead, she takes a steadying breath and extends her hand toward him.

“Come here. Give me your hand.”

Hesitantly, he slips his trembling fingers into hers. She closes her grip firmly around his tiny hand, stands, and gently coaxes him forward.

Her arms are firm and warm around him, steadying his trembling body as they glide toward her horse.

They land softly in front of the animal. She helps him on top.

Sliding into her seat, but sideways so she can look the young boy in the eyes. “Do you have a name?” she asks softly. “I know they didn’t give you one…but is there something you want to be called?”

He shakes his head.

She smiles gently. “Then let’s start fresh. Since you’re destined to fix the world, how about…Gabriel?”

His lips part in surprise. “What?” he whispers, then quickly slaps his hand over his mouth, unsure if he should speak.

“Gabriel,” she repeats. “Jesus wants to know if you’re ready to save the world. I was chosen to help you—and you were chosen to help humanity.”

His voice trembles. “I…I don’t have superpowers.”

“You don’t need them when you have Jesus.”

3487.

Gabriel is running, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the taunting voices.

A sudden fireball slams into his back, hurling him forward. He skids across the dirt, groaning as he presses himself up, chest heaving.

“We weren’t done yet,” a voice sneers, cruel laughter echoing from every direction.

Gabriel scrambles backward, but his retreat ends abruptly against a chain-link fence. Three boys circle him, shadows sharp in the fading light. He raises his hands instinctively, shielding his face, heart hammering.

One of them leans in, eyes glinting. “Scared?”

But they never leave him alone. Their words, their fists, their laughter—always there, always waiting.

By the time he finally drags himself home, exhaustion and humiliation weigh him down like chains.

The moment he steps inside, Bella—the only mother he’s ever truly known, the first person to show him genuine kindness—rushes forward.

“Oh, baby. No…are you okay?” She cups his face in her hands, gently turning his head from side to side, searching for injuries.

And then he breaks. He collapses against her, trembling, his sobs wracking his small body. “I…I can’t…I can’t keep doing this. It’s not fair! Why me? Why do I have to be different…to help God?”

Bella’s eyes soften, but there’s steel in her voice. “God’s people are meant to be different, Gabriel. We’re meant to stand out. The devil corrupted human DNA centuries ago.”

She lifts her arm. For a moment, her flesh blackens, charred and shadowed, a visible mark of sin’s corruption. Then, as she begins to rise, soaring into the air, her arm returns to its normal, human appearance.

“To refuse to use these gifts is to allow the darkness to take hold. Sin already twisted our DNA long before powers emerged. But God always has a plan. The devil cursed humanity with powers that further corrupted us—made us something less than human. He chose you…to fulfill His plan. Do you understand? Do you still want to help God?”

Gabriel’s voice trembles. “How long…how long do I have to wait? What do I even do? How can I save everyone?”

Bella lands softly beside him, placing her hands on his shoulders. “I don’t know, baby. Not yet. You’ll know when the time comes, when God calls. Until then…trust Him.”

3491.

I pound on the freezer door, my fists aching. “Please! Let me out!”

Nothing. Just laughter. Voices hurling every insult they can think of, each one cutting deeper than the cold.

I slide down until I’m curled on the icy floor, staring up at the ceiling. My breath clouds in the frigid air. “God? I want to serve You. You saved me from that hellhole shelter. I love Bella. I…I think I love You. I want to help the world, but…I’m getting tired. I don’t know if You’re real. Bella says You are. The underground church says You are. The Bible says You are. But I—” My voice breaks. “I don’t know anymore.”

At some point, exhaustion pulls me under.

I jolt awake. The cold is gone. Heat seeps into my bones. Fear dissolves into peace.

“Gabriel.”

My heart leaps. “God?”

“No.” The voice is deep, steady. “I am Michael. It is time.”

A harsh laugh escapes me. “Seriously? God can’t show up Himself? I want to talk to Him—not some middleman.”

Light gathers. Michael stands before me, radiant, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Soon. But now, you must decide. Do you wish to warn humanity of the coming darkness? Do you still wish to serve the Kingdom of God?”

My throat tightens. I whisper, “Yes.”

Michael’s gaze pierces me. “Gabriel, the world will end in the year 2025.”

My brow furrows. “What? That’s impossible. It’s already 3491.”

Michael shakes his head. “The biblical end approaches. You must make sure the whole world hears the name of Jesus. You will be born again in 1992. And when you turn seventeen, in 2009, your ministry will begin.”

“The whole world?” Gabriel’s voice cracks. “That’s impossible.”

Michael chuckles. “In 1992, humanity will have machines that travel faster than horses. Metal bird-type machines will soar through the skies, carrying hundreds at a time. And you will see devices—small enough to fit in your hand—that let you speak to the entire world from your own home.” His eyes burn with certainty. “Nothing is impossible when the Lord is with you. Warn them. Tell them the end is near. Tell them Jesus will return. Hell is real, and eternity is real. Remember this: you won’t know the day or the month, but you will know the year. 2025. By then, every soul will have heard His name. And every soul will have chosen to accept Him, or deny Him. Then, the Son of Man will return.”

Gabriel’s stomach twists. “But…if I’m reborn as a baby, won’t I—”

Michael lays a hand on his shoulder, warmth spreading through Gabriel’s chest. “You will retain your memories.”

Gabriel’s breath comes shallow, his heart racing. “This is…this is too much. It’s too much pressure.”

Michael’s expression softens. “I know. But God knows you can bear it. That’s why He chose you. You will not walk this path alone. He will be with you every step of the way. Always at your side.”

“I’m ready.”

The blinding light forces Michael’s eyes closed.

1992.

The next thing Gabriel knows, it’s dark, and he hears a chorus of grunts, groans, and someone shouting, “Push! Come on! Almost there! Push!”

A sudden brightness pierces the darkness. He tries to move his head but finds he can’t. A doctor’s hands rub his back gently, and then—sharp, miraculous—he sucks in his first breath.

The doctor cleans him, murmuring, and then lifts him toward the mother.

She leans down, and the moment her eyes meet his, her face softens with a love so fierce it makes his chest ache. Gabriel’s tiny body trembles, and he cries, a wail that is more instinct than thought.

The mother’s eyes widen in panic. “Oh no! What did I do wrong?”

The doctor chuckles, warm and reassuring. “Nothing, ma’am. That’s just what babies do.”

He leans closer, his voice soft but curious. “What’s his name?”

The mother exchanges a glance with her husband. “We…we were thinking…Liam,” he says, his voice tentative, like trying the name on for the first time.

She looks back down at the tiny face nestled against her chest. For a long moment, silence hangs heavy in the room. Then her smile softens, and her voice trembles with certainty. “No. I think his name is meant to be Gabriel.”

2009.

Gabriel knows he carries a duty to the Kingdom of God, a calling greater than himself. But in this life, things feel so different. He has loving parents who look at him with pride, not disdain. He has friends who laugh with him, not at him. He’s allowed to play baseball, and when he steps up to the plate, the cheers are authentic—people actually want him to succeed.

He wishes he had more time to be a kid—but deep down, he knows the time for games is over. It’s time to begin his ministry.

For now, he’ll start small, recording from his bedroom. But next year, when he turns eighteen, he plans to take the message on the road.

His parents, always supportive, had given him a digital video camera for Christmas. It feels like more than a gift—it feels like a tool, placed in his hands for a purpose. Carefully, he sets it on the tripod, adjusts the frame, and takes a deep breath.

“Hi. My name is Gabriel,” he begins, staring into the lens. His voice wavers at first, but steadies with conviction. “I want to talk to you about Jesus. Maybe you’ve heard this before—maybe you’ve even laughed at it, called it crazy. However, the truth is that the end of the world is near. Hell is real. And Jesus will return to this Earth, just as it was prophesied so long ago.”

He pauses, leaning forward slightly.

“Everyone of us has a choice to make. You can deny the Lord and face eternity apart from Him—or you can open your heart and accept Jesus as your Savior. I’m starting this channel to warn you, to prepare you. Because the time to choose is now.”

“Let’s read the Bible together.”

From there, Gabriel spends the rest of the video reading aloud, starting right at the beginning—Genesis. His voice is steady, sometimes stumbling over names and passages, but his determination never falters. By the time he finishes the first book, his throat feels dry, but his heart is whole. He closes the Bible gently, almost reverently.

“We’re going to go through the entire Bible together,” he says, eyes locked on the camera. “If you’re watching this, I pray your heart is open—that you truly encounter the Lord. I pray you choose eternity with Jesus. That you see the truth, the only truth—that He is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No one comes to the Father except through Him.”

He bows his head, voice softening into prayer.

“God…please, touch the hearts of those who see this video. Help them understand that Jesus is real and that His love is for them. Open their eyes. Soften their hearts. Show them Your truth. I ask this in Jesus’ name. Amen.”

Gabriel turns off the camera. He edits and uploads it on YouTube—his first video of his public ministry. Every day, he uploads a new video where he warns humanity about the end that is near and reads from the Bible.

Sixty-six days later, Gabriel finishes the Bible on camera, ending with Revelation. His following remains relatively small, with only a few thousand subscribers. But he knows he's right on track, so he keeps going. Every video he talks about the end of the world, warning everyone to get right with God or face dire consequences. Warning everyone that the end of the world will be here before they know it.

2013.

Gabriel is twenty-one with a following that is now over 200,000 followers. Many people watch him to laugh at him, but even more watch because they are convinced Gabriel knows something they don’t. They are convinced God spoke to Gabriel, and the end is truly near.

2025.

Gabriel waits and waits—posting video after video, sometimes five, six, seven a day. His voice grows hoarse, his eyes bloodshot, but he doesn’t stop. He talks to anyone who will listen, pouring himself out for strangers, pleading with them to turn to Jesus.

But as the year winds down, doubt gnaws at him. The world goes on as if nothing is happening. People laugh, party, and toast champagne. The streets are alive with music and fireworks. Gabriel feels like crying. Where are You, God?

He stands in the crowd in Times Square, the glowing ball suspended high above, ready to drop. The countdown begins. Ten. Nine. Eight.

Why isn’t anything happening?

Seven. Six. Five.

His chest aches. Was I wrong?

Four. Three.

It's almost midnight.

Two. One—

Suddenly, a scream splits the air. People are yanked upward, bodies rising from the crowd in flashes of light. Gasps and shrieks erupt all around as men, women, and children are carried into the sky.

Gabriel freezes.

Tears flood his eyes. “I’m sorry I doubted You.”

And then, weightless, he too is lifted upward.

Below him, chaos erupts. Panic, terror, confusion—people clutching at the air, wailing, begging. His tears no longer fall from relief, but from grief. Because every face twisted in horror, every hand reaching upward, is the one who refused to listen.

They chose the world over the Lord. Sin over salvation. Hell over Heaven.

Gabriel weeps, as he ascends, for the countless souls left behind on Earth.