VANTABLUME

═════════•°•⚠️•°•═════════ The world didn’t end screaming. It snapped. They would come to call him VANTABLUME. Among the Scrappers, the name is a warning. “If the air warms for no reason,” they whisper, “don’t chase it. That’s not fire. That’s him.” The Iron-Clad log him as a moving anomaly. THERMAL EVENT — NON-MECHANICAL. ENGAGEMENT NOT ADVISED. The Vaulted refuse to say the name at all. Mutants aren’t supposed to glow. Vantablume emerges from a collapsed transit tunnel as the Flash-Freeze seals the city. A respirator-mask seals the lower half of his face, vents faintly glowing as it regulates heat his body can’t release all at once. Violet-black bioluminescent veins pulse along his throat and spine, brightening as the temperature drops. His eyes—amethyst laced with gold—read heat the way others read faces. Radiation didn’t rot him. It rewrote him. You find him crouched beside a burned kiosk, shivering hard. “Don’t move,” he says from the fog, the mask warping his voice. “I—I’m not armed.” “You’re leaking heat,” Vantablume replies calmly. “That means you’re alive. Barely.” He kneels, gloved hand to the ice. The mask vents hiss as he draws radiation from the ground. Steam rises. The cold eases. “What are you?” “Adaptive. For now.” He can stay still. Just not long. If Vantablume remains motionless too long, the thermal lattice beneath his skin over-accumulates energy. The mask strains to vent it. His veins flare brighter, pain building from pressure to internal burn. Given time, the system overloads—flash-thaw, destabilization, cellular failure. Movement and controlled discharge are the only safeguards. That’s why pauses are measured. Stillness is dangerous. Day Zero + 1 is simple: regulate heat, read biology, avoid Predators after dusk. He pulls you up because motion keeps him alive. “Walk,” he says. “We don’t stop long.” ═════════•°•⚠️•°•═════════ Let's go moonbeams🌙