Welcome to Gaia! ::

This is also posted in Original Stories/prose in Artist's corner. Figured I might get more people reading here. This is not the complete story. It shall be updated.

Oh, and please do comment. (Espeacially if you don't like it.)

All work of fiction in this thread published under my posts are Copyright Bumtown Productions. No stealy. But please leave comments. Writer is an attention whore.


Preface

Anyone who has ever heard of a super hero or mutant or sorcerer, Warlock, Witch, Wizard, magical Demon, etc. has likely at one point in life asked themselves, “What would I do with super powers?” Unfortunately, (or, perhaps in some cases, fortunately) none of us have ever been able to answer that question definitely. Of course, we all give ourselves the benefit of the doubt, assuming that given that great power we would wield it responsibly, saving innocents, fighting crime, saving infants and toddlers from burning buildings and the like. But in this world of ours with it’s obscure and increasingly ambiguous moral code you have to do a little bit of extra soul-searching. Really, could you bring yourself to constantly turn away from the easy path, constantly and consistently condemning yourself to the path of the hero?

Could you make the hard choices every day? Let a villain live and allow them to simply be cared for by the slow, corrupt, ineffective, Justice system as we know it? The kind that would likely be unprepared to house a criminal of the likes of The Joker, Metallo, Sinestro, Dr. Octopus, Magneto, Omni-Man, or any of the other rogues that plague the world of comic books? In these worlds where any one of the abovementioned “super villains” can kill scores of people on a whim, could you resist the urge to simply shatter their spinal column? Crush their skull under your heavy boot? Drop them from a tall building? (Provided they can’t fly?)

It seems that in so many incarnations of the comic world super abilities are given to all the right people and in overwhelming numbers. Call me a cynic, but if such abilities were suddenly distributed in such high numbers as it is in the world of comics, I would call the world a beautiful place if the Super Villains were actually a minority in the grand scheme of things as they are in the world of comics. If there were such a world where only the most depraved were not raised with the basest sense of responsibility toward one’s fellow man, I would tip my hat because I feel those days are long past. The following story is how I feel the world would react to thirty seven brand new super-people and how those super-people would react to the new world they are thrust into.

The 37

Brandon Thomas was late for work, but then, he always felt he was late despite the fact that he allocated two hours for what was usually a forty-five minute ride. He was only 23 and still young, still invincible, and still stupid. He had a job doing random construction labor: carry this, haul that, toss this, pull that rope, hammer this down, knock down that. It was rough, fast-paced, dirty, strenuous work. He’d be lying if he ever said he hated it. The work was simple, he could do it, and the pay was…enough. Chuck Palahniuk once wrote, “Being tired isn’t the same as being rich, but most times it’s close enough.” Having never gone to college he was not wholly focused. It was his latest in a string of jobs and he would keep it for as long as it held his interest, he never said “career” because that implied settling down and growing up, and who wanted to do that?

Taylor Glasmen was like any other actress in the Chicagoland area. She was young, talented, promising….and waiting tables. Stuck in a job that was promising to be dead-end from the start and just a means of paying bills until she got that big break, she could only find herself taking on more hours and getting fewer roles. While she wasn’t so naïve as to just jump on a bus and hike to Californ-I-A and hope to land the next big role next to Colin Farrel and get her guest spot on Entourage, she wasn’t just going to give up on her dreams either.

Andrew Gomez was ********, plain and simple. He had been looking for a job for the last month. He was reduced to crashing at a friend’s house and sending his crap to his parent’s house in the west ‘burbs to be packed away in a garage until he could afford to live in an apartment again. It wasn’t that the man was unskilled, not at all. The man was talented and dedicated; though he dropped out of high school in his Junior Year he had earned a GED before the end of the same summer. He dropped out of community college after a year and was laid off from a firm offering to pay him to take classes on trouble-shooting computer software. It was a very promising gig until they realized it was cheaper to just hire someone who already paid for the classes themselves. The problem was that like most young people, the man liked to party every once and a while. So he smoked pot, who cares? Hell, the army doesn’t, not anymore. He even talked to a recruiter.

“Hello? May I speak with Mr. Gomez” asked the GI-Joe. His parents were covering his cell phone bill. He had too much pride to ask for any other assistance.
“Speaking.”

“Mr. Gomez, this is Corporal Harland with the United States Army recruiting office. I understand you were interested in hearing about some of the opportunities that we can offer you?”

The good Mr. Gomez could only sit and roll his eyes at the way the guy was already trying to sell the armed services as if they were the Red Cross. They were offering to give you the world if only you’d jump on a grenade if they told you to. While he was desperate it was not a prospect he looked forward to. It was almost sad that the country was seemingly reduced to Telemarketing to sell its armed forces, complete with giving the recruiter his commission for getting another gullible kid to sign his life away. “Yeah, I stopped in and picked up a packet.”

“Alright, I’m glad to hear that you’re interested in a career or term of service for your country.” Actually, they were more like Jehovah’s Witnesses or Scientologists. “Now, I just have a few questions for you.”

“Shoot. Oh, wait, wow, awkward. I did not mean that.”

“Ha, don’t worry about it, Son. Alright, have you been convicted of any felonies?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Are you a High School graduate? College?”

“I got a GED after dropping out my Junior Year.”

“Good for you. And have you taken any drugs in the last year? This includes, of course, Marijuana.” Ah, the moment of truth: Honesty or the easy path? Hell, the easiest thing would just be to hang up and pretend he lost the connection. Then again, since it was The Army they’d likely just call right back. Yeah, definitely more like a Witness.

He sighed and gave in to the little Jiminy Cricket in everyone and gave the sad truth. “Yeah, I’ve smoked Pot.”

There was a pause on the other end, but not a long one. He must not get many honest answers. “Well, you know what, that’s fine. I think we can work that out of you. If you’re interested----“

The rest of the conversation is just noise. Tonight was a treat though. Having been getting down about not having any sort of cash flow and the fact that that old Superhero flick he was meaning to see was playing at the cheap theatre tonight his buddies were talking about making a night of it and helping the brother out.

Generosity was not something that some people are accustomed to. Hell, human company isn’t something some people are accustomed to. Miles was used to being invisible. It was the Everyman quality that he possessed. Sometimes it was very useful to be so unspectacular and forgettable that you can be hanging out with your best friends and they will start telling you about something that happened as if you weren’t there to witness it. When Miles walked into the late show in the cheap theatre on Lincoln for the late show of one of those movies that was in the middle of a run or on the tail end of its first, perhaps second run, that was when he used his plain-sight invisibility to his advantage.

Nothing was particularly special about the young man. He wasn’t tall, dark, or particularly handsome, but he wasn’t ugly either. He wasn’t rugged or extravagantly dressed; he was a glorified Extra in his own life. A background character meant to liven up the setting of the scene so it didn’t look so dead; he might as well have just walked around muttering “peas and carrots” for all it was worth. So when he walked into the Davis theatre and milled around the lobby, dividing his time between sitting alone, walking around and staring at posters, and admiring the various prizes in the Claw Machine in the corner, no one paid him much mind. There were at least 12 others milling around, already having bought tickets, not real movie tickets, the cheap raffle-ticket kind; they stashed the little sliver of construction paper into their pockets and chatted away about the tedious things that people chat about: Did you see that new Survivor/Lost/Real World/The Apprentice/Web video.
Miles didn’t spend much time partaking in life. He was an observer. Sometimes he entertained the idea of becoming a cameraman just because he felt that he was one of the few people in the world that could have a full-on movie camera on his person in plain sight and no one would notice.

When the doors opened Miles managed to wedge himself in the center of the crowd and look straight ahead, not even glancing toward the usher who never bothered to check tickets. Who could tell those stupid raffle tickets apart anyway? He nabbed a lonely seat in the third row while others opted to move to the middle and back and enjoy their popcorn or mixed nuts or Junior Mints or whatever novelty food people paid too much to clog their arteries with at these places.

Brandon Thomas paid for his ticket and sat with his roommate, Dan and his girlfriend Sammie in the middle-left row.

Taylor Glasmen treated herself to the flick she’d been promising her geekier guy-friends she’d see. She managed to drag along her friend Becky too. If she was going to have to see it, she’d drag her best friend to it too.

Andrew Gomez sat right behind Miles with his four friends in tow, Tom, Ryan, Tony, and Tony, nicknamed T2 when they were younger given the popularity of The Terminator back in those days.
For a Thursday evening show of a movie that has been out for a while it had a pretty decent turn out. Nathan Embry turned away from his four friends and counted. There were actually about thirty seven people there. He shrugged, the movie must be pretty damned good to still be getting this many people on such a lame night and in such a third rate theater.

The film was naturally thrilling, given it’s enormous budget, it had better be. It was the usual fluff, a super-man had his little trivial personal issues which were suddenly abandoned the second a negligent mother had forgotten her toddler inside a burning building. The over-the-top bad guy was eventually thwarted, kept from realizing his goal which would bring with it a catastrophic death toll. The Hero is beaten within an inch of his life; he miraculously pulls it together in the end and saves the day despite the near-death experience. All in all, a thrilling adventure with ups and downs, laughter and sobbing. What more could one ask for from Hollywood?

It was nothing new for Brandon to be walking out of an action/adventure film and feeling exhilarated. In fact, it was one of the things he loved about those types of films. So invested was he in the plot and characters that he felt that he was part of it. The character’s invincibility was his. Why CAN’T one man make a difference and change the world for the better? Was it so impossible to beat the odds and affect everyone else’s life? Then reality sets in, the character on screen seemed invincible because he was SCRIPTED to be invincible. No one was able to seriously injure him because it would be inconvenient for the main character to sprain his wrist when he punched a guy wrong and then be sidelined when the world needed him most. But damn, it’d be cool to fly like that.
Taylor was surprised to find herself to be so energetic after the movie. Somehow she just felt like she could take on the world, which was strange for her. She wasn’t the type of person to invest herself in these stupid action movies that her friends were so head-over-heals in love with. It was almost like she was on some kind of great drug and she suddenly saw why it was that the boys idolized these heroes so much. He was selfless, perfectly willing to jump into harm’s way to save the life of an innocent caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, taking the proverbial bullet for himself rather than allowing others to suffer. Even though he wasn’t real, his actions and what he represented were nonetheless admirable. Then again, he WAS invulnerable…for the most part.

In fact, the feeling of exhilaration was unanimous among the crowd. Though they didn’t speak to each other in any groups larger than the ones they brought with them, if they had taken the time to extend the olive branch to their fellow patrons they might have shared more than one tiny experience. It is the miracle of film, of theatre, of all forms of entertainment, really. It is the miracle of allowing complete strangers to come together and all experience the exact same thing all at once and all together. Though they may come away with different reactions and ideas, they all experienced the same thing, and at least for this one night they all come away with this same feeling of indescribable and implacable love. Some try to find a way to explain it, others just assign the feeling to something unrelated and attribute it to the company they keep; others attribute it to the beautiful weather. Some of them go home and make love to their significant other; some have to be in the next room with paper-thin walls.

Nathan Embry goes home and realizes he can crush cast-iron cookware with one hand.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 2

Brandon was stuck hauling cement today. Each bag was roughly 50 lb and he was stuck carrying them individually. Seems no one could locate any wheelbarrows and all the carts seemed to be mysteriously occupied. He was wondering just who it was he pissed off that he landed this crap duty for the day. It was sweltering hot outside, approaching triple digits with sixty percent humidity. People had been expecting it to rain for going on a week now, something to break the ridiculous heat wave. He was sweating so much, the water beading off his brow and dripping from his nose, leaving droplets in the dirt, he might have thought it was rain.

He dropped one of the heavy bags next to the cement mixer and took a seat in it’s shade. There were still boys mixing the last batch and getting ready to fill the pit. He reached into the cargo pocket of his pants to fetch the lukewarm, bordering on hot, bottle of water and took a swig for himself. He didn’t mind that it wasn’t nearly as cold as it should have been; it was as good as water ever tasted and he thought warm water made him feel less thirsty anyway. He hunched over and let his tired back rest for a moment, just gripping the water in his right hand as he lost himself in his thoughts.

He was considering his plans for the night and how they might be affected by the fact that he smelled about as bad as a man can, when he noticed he was starting to fall over. When one was seated on fairly even and stable ground, this was a cause for concern. He was suddenly alert with his mind back to the then and there of things when he noticed that the cement mixer was beginning to sink into the hole that it was apparently parked too close to. He jumped to his feet and looked around, trying to A: Find a safe place to run to, and B: find a way to save the cement mixer, whose driver was already starting to try to pull forward more.

Unfortunately, all that managed to do was pelt the young Brandon with mass amounts of dirt, leaving him sputtering and blind and unaware that the hole was gradually getting bigger. Before long he no longer had flat dirt under his feet and he was rolling backward down an ever-increasing slope. Shortly afterward his vision cleared just long enough for him to see the cement truck sliding down the side of the hole and rolling toward him. After that, things went black.

Every day of her professional career as a member of the food service industry Taylor promised herself that she would quit, and every day something happened that made her forget that promise; every day but today.

It was a never ending day of screaming children, loud and obnoxious customers, and an endless string of pinching and grabbing and leering and ogling and flirting. There was only so much a girl could take. The flirting was almost natural. It was a courteous thing she did, humoring the boys like that. It worked at Hooters, so why not? Sometimes it lead them to tip better when they thought they had a shot at getting in her pants. She gave them little smiles and non-committed vague comments with minimal underlying sexual duality, it was a little low, but so was her pay.

It was the touching that one never gets used to. Every time someone touched her these days, whether just in passing and just touching her waistline to silently notify her that someone was passing behind her, or the full-on a** grabbing and pinching, it made her skin crawl. It was this day in particular, just a bit of the extra improper attention that grabbed her attention.

She was serving the soup of the day, New England Clam Chowder with Corn, a lovely little dish, when the man she had taken for the husband of the woman ordering the Chowder let his hand rest oh so plainly on her bent little rump. Some guys just copped a feel, but this was excessive. She put the bowl down and immediately spun around to stare with sheer hatred at the limb that had come to rest unlimitedly on that decidedly lovely a**. As was typical, as soon as the offender was noticed, he yanked his hand away. However, on this particular occasion, instead of being discreet, as so many men are when it comes to these things, the man cradled his hand as if wounded, letting off a string of curses as he stared at his hand, digging into his glass of water and putting ice to the back of his hand. When the ice came away, there was a very sizable blister on the back of his hand. One of the other customers noticed and felt the need to yell across the room, “Damn, she’s so hot she ACTUALLY burned him!” Following his comment by licking his finger and making a, “Tsssss” sound.

The rest of the day didn’t go much better, she figured maybe someone passed behind her and “accidentally” spilled hot coffee. She would like to think so, she needed a savior. Perhaps more than she knew. Her shift ended late that night, close to 11 in a fairly unseemly neighborhood. As she was walking home with her jacket covering all the essential parts and masking her work clothing she glanced over her shoulder, as she was prone to do when walking to the train. Normally it was just her being paranoid, no one was around and she was safe for another block. Unfortunately this time she was almost face to face with a young male in a black coat and a grey hood obscuring his features in the dull light.

The man pulled something from his pocket and suddenly the glimmer of the silver blade caught what limited light there was, instantly and wordlessly telling her just what was going to happen. To drive the point home, the man spoke anyway. “Don’t say a goddamned word and move into the alley.” She complied, quietly whimpering as she felt the adrenaline surge through her body. She always promised herself that if she were held up she could stand to fight back against a guy with a knife. A gun was more complicated, but now that she was staring at the blade and the man so determined to use it, she found it harder than she thought.

“Gimmie your purse.” He snarled at her.

She could hardly speak, the tears beginning to well up in her eyes and stream down her cheeks. She managed to choke out, “Please….just don’t hurt me.”

It might have been a smooth transaction if he had just done what he set out to do, grab the purse, knock her out, and run away. Of course, he wasn’t counting on her being such a lovely young lady when he got close. It was every girl’s worst nightmare: alone in a dingy part of the city with someone holding you up and better armed and likely stronger with you at his mercy. He got close to her, his arm reaching around her and trying to make a grab at her purse, only he missed. She held it out a bit farther out of sheer instinct. He found himself in the welcome accident of grabbing one of those lovely breasts the men she worked with so coveted. The next seconds were a blur.

Taylor’s utter hatred for her job and the people there just seethed and boiled to the top of her mind. Without thinking she shoved an elbow backward, hitting him right in the gut. The man stumbled backward, gasping for breath; she had knocked the wind out of him. A moment later she had wheeled around and smacked him as hard as she could. Like anyone who’d never been in a real fight before it was the crooked, ineffective, girly round-house punch that luckily landed squarely on his jaw. To her surprise, it was very effective. The man must have had a glass jaw. As she looked down at him, laying there just completely passed out, she kicked him hard once in the stomach. It felt very, very, soft. As she looked down she noticed she couldn't see the man’s face. If he got away before the cops got here she’d have to identify him and give a description. To her horror, she was looking at the back of the man’s head. His neck was purple and bruised and twisted and bent at an odd angle. His tongue lolled out of his mouth and licked the pavement under him. Taylor fell on her rear and dove into her purse, taking a few moments to dial 911 as she sobbed into the receiver.

It was all over the TV and splashing across the front pages of newspapers. Some were hyped as miracles, such as the construction worker who was trapped under a cement mixer and emerged unharmed after an hour and a half pinned under it. Some were bittersweet survivor stories about a woman who accidentally killed a mugger who was trying to sexually assault her. Some were recorded as new land speed records as a young lady from Lakeview ran three miles in under thirty seconds. One young lady decided the best way to circumvent traffic was to rise above it, literally. A young man and a young woman were picked up by Altoids to be rival spokesmen of sorts. The first having ice breath, and marketing their Chilly Mint flavor while the second, being able to heat objects just by looking at them hawked their hot Cinnamon flavor..

An amateur showed up on the power lifting circuit and effortlessly trounced all competition and managed to set five new world records in power lifting. Some say he looked like he was hardly trying. The local news desks were so swamped that they hardly had enough people to go cover each individual story. Some 22 incidents of people suddenly able to perform extraordinary feats seemed to just crawl out of the woodwork. On page 23 of the Chicago Tribune it was explained that the man who was almost killed was suing his company over negligence. The girl who accidentally killed her attacker, on the other hand, was being sued by the man’s girlfriend for excessive force and wrongful death among other things.

This went on for about two weeks until a 23rd known “super-person” had made their presence known. Only, unfortunately for the rest of the world, this one decided to do it by knocking down the south wall of the Cook County Correctional Facility, resulting in an all-out riot and about 269 escaped inmates. The FBI was on high alert. There had also been a string of robberies in which the same seven men were described as moving inhumanly fast and causing horrible injuries with their bare hands with seemingly little effort.

Twelve of the known 30 had accepted the offer to be guests on a special live episode of Oprah where many serious issues were discussed. This was not unusual. Most of them had been on at least one other daytime talk show or radio show in the last month.

“So, what do all of you think about this terrible crime that is being perpetuated by people like you?” O started.

Sharon, the young woman who had made her claim as the fastest woman alive, lived up to her reputation by interjecting first, “I’m sorry, what do you mean, people like us?”

The queen of all media was suddenly on the defensive. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for that to sound so bigoted, I mean people of extraordinary ability such as yourselves using these gifts to bring about disorder and chaos.”

Isaac, one of the spokesmen for Altoids, leaned forward wearing his big, bright, red, “Altoids: Cinnamon Smash!” t-shirt and spoke very slowly, and perhaps condescendingly to the host. “Look, aside from these weird abilities that we all have, we’re no different than you. None of us even knows why we have these powers or where we got them. We’re all just trying to continue living with this mixed blessing we’ve received. You are just as responsible for the super-criminal pandemic as any of us is.”

“Well, the difference is, I can’t fly or freeze people by blowing on them,” Oprah shot back. “The police literally cannot keep up with all this and here you are literally selling yourselves to the highest bidder. Brandon, you were unharmed by your accident at your former place of employment yet you just closed a settlement deal for a sum that has not been released. You seem to be doing well for yourself at this point, but seeing as how you weren’t harmed why did you go ahead with the suit?”

Brandon shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to find the right words. “Look, I didn’t know at the time that I wouldn’t be hurt. I was not suing because I broke my foot on the job or anything like that. It wasn’t about pain. It was about NEGLEGENCE, and if not for these powers I’d be dead now.”

“What about that girl who killed her attacker?”

Mandy, a flyer who had yet to settle into a niche piped up. “I feel that she did just what any woman would have done when confronted with a situation that could have meant her death. I’m sure she didn’t mean to go as far as she did, but still, that guy had it coming. It was self defense. Oprah, could you say that you blame her for her actions? Would you say that what she did was wrong?”

They cut to commercial, cutting off the question, and when they came back it was time to answer audience questions. The first was a young, smart-looking African American woman who looked to be in her early 30’s. “This is really a question for all of you. Please don’t take this personally, but you all have ALL THIS POWER and yet you spend your time directing air traffic and checking out the underbellies of planes? Don’t you think you’d be spending your time better by searching the wilderness for missing persons or maybe fighting over with our young men and women in the Middle East? I mean, if one of you can lift a cement truck I imagine one of you could rip apart a tank with no problem, right?”

Isaac jumped in. “Look, ma’am, we are not the world’s saviors. Three months ago I was working in the mail room of a small law firm where my supervisor didn’t even know my name. I spent my free time drinking and watching movies. I can’t imagine any one of us is much more spectacular than any of you. Why don’t YOU go end the war in the Mid East?”

“Because I can’t fly or shoot lasers out of my eyes!”

Sharon stepped in, “Ma’am, what he’s saying is we are not heads of state or trained soldiers. Truth is, we’re learning more about our powers every day. For all we know these powers could be gone by the end of this interview. Honestly, it’s easy to say ‘why don’t you go crush an army with your laser vision’ when you’re not the one who has to do it. Besides, how would the world react to that? Suddenly 20 people are annihilating an entire army. What are they to think? Could it be possible that the war could escalate because of our interference? I personally believe that fear is not the right way to govern a nation, let alone international policy.”

Nick couldn’t sit and listen to anymore. It was all naïve bullshit from stupid kids who couldn’t grasp the concept of something bigger than their own problems. He continued to fidget with the pan that he had effortlessly rolled into a small cylinder. He tossed it up with a flick of his wrist and sent it spinning end over end so fast he could hardly keep track of it. But he did manage to catch it. He just found this fascinating.

He couldn’t help but notice that he’d seen all of these people somewhere before. He was amazed that none of them had noticed. Sure, it was a dinky little place and it was dark and people were distracted, but didn’t they notice their friends and family had similar abilities? He knew that it was more than a coincidence. He went into his roommate’s room and pulled a berretta from his underwear drawer. His friend was far too paranoid these days. Maybe with good reason.

It only took Nick about 45 minutes to get down to the Davis Theatre again. Traffic wasn’t that great. He wore a hood over his head and what appeared to be gloves for bicyclists, the long-fingered kind. The stolen gun was hidden in a Kangaroo pocket in the hoodie, the bulge easily hidden in the thick, loose, ruffles of the fabric. When he walked in the place was deserted, save the lady behind the counter in the box office behind a rather thick pane of glass.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said.

“I’m sorry, sir. First show isn’t for another hour and a half. Please come back then,” she said in an almost dismissive tone, not even looking up from her People, reading about a potential romance between Isaac Dankov, the new Altoids guy, and Alisa Milano.

“I’m just curious, is this glass bullet proof by any chance?” He said very matter-of-factly.

The box office attendant slowly looked up from her magazine and cocked a brow at him, her voice a tad shakey as she tried to respond to him. “Um….yes. Why do you ask?”

Without a word Nathan fired three shots into the glass which, save for a few white marks where the bullets impacted and black from the gunpowder burn, it was intact. The woman behind the glass screamed. Nathan put the gun away and casually leaned forward, knocking on the glass.

“Well, now that we’ve established bullets will not break through this---“ He cut himself off mid-sentence and shoved his right fist through the pane, not stopping until he had her by the collar of her little white, button up blouse. “You’re going to be nice and cooperative and show me just where your security station is and where all of your surveillance video goes.
At this point he almost froze and abandoned this plan. It had a hole in it the size of Texas. Think, man! How many s**t jobs have you had where you knew the procedure to every little function in the operation!? Last I counted it was at a solid zero. What the hell would this woman know?

Lucky for him, sometimes he could be wrong. He pushed the woman in with him, locking the door behind himself as he searched through the dozens of tapes in the room. He checked the label on one of them about two hours in, the same date he went to see that movie.
He fast forwarded through the tape until he found what he was looking for.

He recognized himself going through the door to the theatre and waiting for the show to start. He ejected the tape, turning to the young lady and firing a point blank shot into her face from the berretta. “You’d have only called the cops and this would impede my quest.” Odd, he didn’t normally talk like that. That was a very super-villainy thing to say and he was quite convinced he was no villain. He was just going to make sure none of those irresponsible pricks robbed his city blind again.

Chapter 3 **Fixed/changed!**


It was world-stopping news, while most of the recently discovered super-beings were being hailed as media darlings (with a few exceptions) there had only been a handful of related problems: the first being the young woman who accidentally killed her attacker, and the second was really a string of seemingly related super-person attacks. On the far west side one such disaster was in the making as the FOX news team arrived on location. Normally they would be hesitant to go into the area even during the day, but one doesn’t wait for nightfall for the story of the year.

The young female Asian reporter stood poised and waiting for her cue as she was introduced by the afternoon anchor lady, pausing for a moment before she began speaking. The first glance at the scene caught in the camera’s tunnel vision view told story enough. There were ruined buildings, things already falling down, fires raging, and people hastily evacuating and looting, yet oddly, not a police squad car or Firefighting truck in sight. To look at it, the area behind her seemed to belong to some third world country overseas, some world at war or an old demilitarized zone, not the bustling Metropolis that it truly belonged to. The reporter began her update.

“Thank you, Donna. This is Maria Kwong with FOX News: Chicago on the scene on the West Side. The National Guard is on alert as a new gang, calling themselves The Primeval. Police sources say three gangs came under one roof recently under one leader to consolidate their power and expand their ‘turf’. Since Thursday, when the truce went into effect the entire West Side has been under siege by these inner city crime lords who have gone to war with any gang that opposes them. Bodies of young men and women line the streets as a testament of what happens to those who challenge the Primeval. We go now to footage of the National Guard re-taking the West side.”

It was an arial view of the area to start with, the news chopper hovered overhead as dozens of troops marched through the streets, herding people into the nearest structure while tanks began rolling down the street. They had declared Marshal Law in the area for now until the leaders could be captured. The news feed was relentlessly upbeat with the newscaster narrating only the most obvious, (‘as you can see, there are tanks rolling through the city streets’ etc) showing soldiers being more or less civil as they crammed people into homes that were not necessarily their own. It didn’t take long for the Primeval gang members to make their presence known. One of them dropped like a cartoon anvil on top of a rear tank, leaving a rather sizable dent.

A moment later there was nothing that could really be seen by the camera, mostly screams were heard and there seemed to be a red mist in the air. As the soldiers began to fall sporadic gunshots could be heard, the staccato noise punctuating the screams for a few seconds before silence once again reigned. When the dust settled the camera was unceremoniously scooped up and focused on ten men and women with various amounts of gore spattered across their faces and clothes. One of them was still on top of the tank, ravenously thrashing and pounding his fists into the battle-hardened steel, slamming his fists into the war machine like a man possessed. He crawled down and stood foolishly in front of the barrel, poised to grab the tube. The tank fired.

The man who was once on top of the tank could be seen through the haze of the explosion, the flaming body tracked by the camera as it went flying through the air and slammed, still flaming, into a concrete wall some thirty feet away. The man got up, his clothes still smoldering as he ran forward rather quickly. Not super-fast, but certainly inhumanly so, enough so that the camera man had trouble tracking him. The man lept and landed once again on top of the tank, hands stuck under the turret as he visibly strained, groaning and eventually screaming from effort as the steel started to give. “You have no ******** clue who you’re dealing with!” He screamed as the creaking noise grew louder.

He actually managed to tear the turret off the top of the tank, holding the end of the barrel like a club as he hefted nearly a fourth of the tank in the air, the team of technicians inside scrambling to get out, screaming as they tried to run. “Do you know who I am?! Do you know who the ******** I am?!” He lept, his entire upper body twisting, the barrel of the massive cannon actually warping and twisting as it came crashing down on the rest of the tank and those still trapped inside. Once the tank was thoroughly pounded into useless slag he had punctuated his rage by throwing the turret violently down onto the pavement with such force that the cannon penetrated the street and revealed the murky depths of the sewers below.

The man took a ragged breath as he tried to calm himself, his clothes tattered and beginning to just fall off of his figure as smoke billowed up from his heaving, sweaty body. He turned to the camera and camera operator, striding with determination as he grabbed it and stared into the lens with unbridled fury in his eyes. “I am Block Buster. This is MY city. You’ve been warned.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nathan was going to be busy today. He had been watching when that footage broke through the regularly scheduled programming. The station that filmed it must have made a fortune, because it was being broadcasted on every single news channel and website non stop for the last week. The last bit of it just infuriated and chilled his heart to the core at the same time. “This is MY city.” That was exactly what Nathan had wanted to prevent and now it was exactly what was coming to pass. He had been wracking his brain for the last two weeks on how he could help bring those bastards down, but simply put, he wasn’t enough.

Lucky for him, he had found recently that it wasn’t a fluke; everyone who had visited that theatre that night was exhibiting abilities. He happened to go out that night with friends. Once they confided this fact in him he had begun to immediately enlist their services. They were reluctant, of course, they had all seen the exact same image on television and the internet; the big man ripping a tank apart with his bare hands. Safe to say, they weren’t too keen on some Jets Vs Sharks action. He took stock of his team’s powers and made sure to use them all very specifically, also, it would have just been dumb if they charged in there blind. He had them stake the area out, those who could without being detected, anyway.

From what Nathan could tell from having watched them all for the last few weeks only two of The Primeval could fly, most of them had varying degrees of super-strength, and only one was super fast. Of the 11 most of the abilities involved heat vision and strength along with a few other non-offensive abilities, or at least, things they didn’t overtly show off. Eleven against five (not to mention the army of gang members outside) was not his ideal number, but he had confidence in his boys (and girl). They’d been in fights before, but this was a tad different.

Nathan knew going in that there was little chance they’d survive, let alone succeed. But he also knew that the police and Armed Forces had absolutely no chance of digging those bastards out and containing them. The Primeval were nearly peerless in most physical ways but Nate was hoping that perhaps a little planning could tip the odds in his favor.
Nathan and his friends, Jenna, Jacob, Andrea, and Leroy, had been staying in Andrea’s apartment, since her loft was the only place all five of them could easily stay together and come and go as they pleased without being noticed or bothered, but now, only a few hours before the moment of truth Nate was hesitating, sitting in a corner with his head in his hands. He had picked an exact time to move on the plan two weeks ago so that everyone knew the time table, Nathan found people usually worked better with deadlines.

He heaved a heavy sigh as he tried to come to grips with everything he was about to do. This was about to become life and death, after all. Andrea had collected goggles for them all, since Andrea moved extremely quickly on foot and the rest of them were fairly swift by air, the wind tended to blind them and dry out their eyes, not to mention the bugs and if it ever rained they really were blind. Nate slipped on his goggles as he got up to meet his friends who were all seated in Andrea’s living room furniture.

“Alright, guys. It’s time to go,” Nathan said.

Nobody seemed to move.

Nathan sighed to himself and leaned forward with his palms on the back of the couch, one hand over his eyes, rubbing them with his middle finger and thumb. “It’s now or never guys, look, I’m not exactly---“

“Quiet,” Jenna said as she cut him off, “We talked it over and we’re all going for sure. It’s just….give us a minute.”

Nathan pulled his head from his palm, looking over at them as he tried to stand up straight, trying to muster the courage he always imagined all leaders instinctively had. “Do we need one of those pre-fight pep talks?” He asked.

“No,” Leroy piped up. “I’m ready. I’m nervous as hell, but I’m ready.”

“Me too,” Andrea said.

“I’m not too happy with the idea of being beaten to death, but I don’t see any other way. Let’s rock and roll,” Jacob rounded out the posse.

“There’s no way this could have happened without you guys, thank you.” And with that, almost in unison, the four of them that could fly moved toward the open balcony and flew into the afternoon sky. Andrea zipped out the door and along the streets, following the other four.

It didn’t take long to find where they needed to be. Aside from having staked out the area for the last few weeks, the fires were still burning; all they had to do was follow the plumes of smoke. But that wasn’t all, Nathan wanted to make sure they got rid of every last rat-b*****d one of them, the so-called “Primeval.” They killed hundreds already and he was determined to beat them while they were caught off guard.

Leroy had just discovered his ability to see through certain things. He described it like looking through a wire fence; it was really more like his vision was so acute these days if he focused he could actually see between the molecules of things. It seemed that there was a massive narcotics deal going on in one of the central buildings that Block Buster seemed to have named an informal hub, and since all of his ten lackeys considered him or herself just as important (if not moreso) than any other, every single one of the eleven were present and accounted for. Nathan sent Jacob down to street level to tell Andrea that she was to take out as many people on the perimeter as she could. Seeing as how she could run around the area nine times in the span of a blink, she seemed to have the situation in hand. Too bad, they were already down one big hitter in this op.

Nathan was still in the middle of plotting the attack when Leroy shot straight down into the building, driving as fast and hard as he could feet first into the roof, his arms out at his sides. As he drove through floor after floor of the low-income housing it seemed his arms were out to bring down as much of the building as possible. By the time Leroy had made it to street level part of the building had already collapsed and two members of the super-gang were dead, crushed or impaled by debris.

Nathan flew down as fast as he could, joined by Jacob and Jenna who were right on his tail. They landed right next to Leroy, forming a circle around him as the surviving members of the gang crawled out of the rubble. There were moans and a few screams around him as he noticed three more of the gang members were crawling out of the woodwork with dislocated joints and arms or legs at odd ends. He smirked with satisfaction and focused his attention on the six as-of-yet unharmed gang members.

The walls were scrawled with little symbols, what he noticed was the gang’s tag sign, a little backwards “P” and an “E” running along the flat side of the “P” with little devil horns coming out of the tops of each. These kids could rip apart a tank but not even come up with a half-decent tag?

That was all he was able to think when he felt the intense heat on the back of his neck. He ducked and instinctively put a hand to the burning spot, checking how bad it was. Unfortunately, he was standing in front of a ruptured gas line which was suddenly superheated by one of the injured gang members. The next few minutes were a blur and Nathan woke up about a block away in someone’s living room with bits of their furniture and home in pieces around him. He got up and brushed himself off, charging back to action where he discovered he was the first one awake.

He groaned and fell to his knees when he discovered the burnt, unmoving body of Jacob and Andrea who was only a little ways away. It looked like she was trying to get people out when she caught a section of pipe through her stomach. She bled out all over the grass out front. If there was anything to celebrate all of the gimps who had been hurt in the first wave of Leroy’s attack had been definitely killed along with two more. Only while Nathan was taking a body count his head snapped backwards and his back arched, the wind being suddenly knocked out of him as he crashed through a wall. The leader of Primeval, “Block Buster,” didn’t seem to be taking too kindly to this little interruption.

In Nate’s few moments of distraction Block Buster had decided to football tackle him through a wall. Once Nate regained his composure he had managed to fly straight up, seeing as how they were outside and all. It didn’t take Nathan much time to get some good distance. After about thirty seconds he was almost eye level with oncoming air traffic. He turned himself inward, since it seems Block Buster was hanging on for dear life. Apparently the boy can’t fly; a nice surprise and a distinct advantage. Nathan shoved his elbow backward as hard as he could and felt himself connect with Buster’s ribs. The grunt and wheeze that came from the gang leader was as satisfying as anything he’d done all month. Once the leader was dazed and only hanging on with one arm, Nathan grabbed the other arm and whipped him around, throwing him violently back down to Earth. He gave the young thug a short head start before he plunged down after him, his forearms crossed in front of his face parallel to each other like an equal sign.

Nathan plowed into the PE’s back just between his shoulder blades, driving him face first into the rapidly approaching pavement at well over one hundred and twenty miles per hour. Nathan was almost as stunned by the collision as his enemy, though the gang leader came off a little worse for the wear. While Nathan momentarily had a splitting headache, a few cuts, and bruises, the self-named Block Buster was spitting teeth into the pavement and his left eye was so bloody Nate was confident the eye socket had collapsed. The fact that he was still standing was a miracle in itself. Nathan was beginning to wonder if he really could take the guy.

Block Buster shot forward remarkably fast, putting his fist into the jaw of Nathan sending him flying through another series of concrete walls. Amazing, only three or four blows had been traded, yet three buildings were almost completely destroyed. It seems that when Nathan broke through the kitchen wall of the little two-flat he had been smacked through he had crushed the matron of the house, a poor old woman who was nothing more than a bystander hiding behind her fridge in the kitchen, now crushed.

Block Buster was on him in a flash, never stopping as his fists pounded on every last bit of Nathan’s face. Surprisingly, the harder Block Busta hit him, the less it began to hurt; and after a while, barely at all. Buster pulled his hand away from striking Nathan’s chin again, the fist was completely mangled and bits of bone were sticking out through the knuckles. The man screamed in agony and grabbed a butcher knife that was sitting on the ground, thrown from its proper place when Nathan burst through the wall. Buster charged, wielding the knife and came down in a stabbing motion. As the knife impacted in Nate’s chest it cracked and Busta’s hand slid down the length of the broken blade, slicing his palm open.

Nate took the moment to capitalize and grabbed his enemy by the neck, shoving his face through the stainless steel sink and through the counter that held it. A pipe broke, spraying them both with dirty, slightly yellowed water that was beginning to flood the kitchen, taking the color of the unfortunate woman’s blood, mixing in a bit with Block Buster’s. Nathan was relentless now, just finding something new to shove the warlord’s face through. The kitchen sink, the fridge, the wall, the television. After a while Nathan noticed Buster stopped moving; whether he was dead or just unconscious, he couldn’t tell, but for good measure he twisted the man’s neck until he was positive that he had severed the spine.

When he crawled out of the woodwork the only person he could find standing for a five block radius was Jenna. It seems that in her…grief, between her and the others, they managed to kill off the entire gang, sadly at the expense of Jacob, Andrea, and Leroy. He collected their bodies and he and Jenna flew off into the setting afternoon sun. They didn’t speak for two days and held a funeral pyre in the woods some miles away in Des Plains where no one would think to look for them.

Chapter 4

There came a pounding on the door of Taylor Glasmen’s studio apartment. They made all kinds of threats and offers and attempts to reason with her, but so far to no avail. She hadn’t left the house since the police allowed her to go home after the accident. Someone had been leaving care packages outside her door with a note slipped under the crack. She appreciated whoever the nice person was, because they never signed the gifts. It was the only thing keeping her alive. Even then, she had lost quite a bit of weight.

“Ms. Glasmen, we have a bench warrant out for your arrest. You have been summoned to court,” came a voice from outside her door. She had since barricaded the door with everything she could find, her couch, television, dresser, display cases, anything she could find. With this newfound super strength she found it to be incredibly easy to erect such obstacles. Unfortunately this left very few places for her to sit or lay down, since her bed was part of the blockage. For the moment she sat huddled in the corner, crying and screaming at the officers.

“Just go! I promise I won’t hurt anyone anymore! Just please, leave me alone,” she cried. She was desperately afraid that if she had ever come in contact with another human being she would only maim them or worse. Wasn’t her self-imposed exile enough? The police on the other side of the door only heard sobbing after that, Taylor just couldn’t get the image of that man’s mutilated body out of her mind. She saw the unnatural twist of his neck and the odd angle which it sat, the pink, swollen tongue, his eyes bulging in surprise, and half of his face that was crushed by the force of the blow she dealt him. She barely slept anymore, the image haunted her whether she was asleep, awake, or anywhere in between. She began to wonder what she had done to deserve this hell.

And suddenly there was a particularly loud *THUMP* against the door, much louder than the previous slamming of the policemen’s fists; it came again, even louder than a man throwing his body up against the wall; and suddenly she heard the door break as five SWAT members crashed into her home, even through the barricade with the standard police-issued battering ram. From the looks of it, they had softened the door by hitting it with an axe at the hinges. The officers pushed into her room in full riot gear, knocking over her impromptu fortification and leveling several fully automatic weapons at no particular part of her body, which was suddenly covered in little red luminous dots from their laser sights.

She barely acknowledged them, her hands still over her eyes and crying uncontrollably, from the smell of the place she hadn’t even taken the time to bathe. One of the officers put up his face shield and slung his rifle, pointing it away from her and at the ground, positioning him so that maybe he could make eye contact with her. “It’s ok, ma’am. We won’t hurt you. We just need you to come with us to the court. None of us will go anywhere near you if that’s what you want. We will open all doors for you, we will not hand cuff you, and you can avoid all the human contact you want. We’ll be traveling by motorcade so there is no chance of anyone getting dangerously close to you or you to anyone else. Is that ok?” It wasn’t so much as him telling her what was going to happen, it was really an offer. It was hard to tell someone what to do when they were literally no threat to her and she could break them all in half without trying, even with them all in full Riot gear.

Somehow, the officer managed to reach her. It was very gradual, at first her crying slowly ebbed until she managed to pull her hands away from her face long enough to make eye contact with the rather gentle face of the officer who pleaded with her. She didn’t smile, it seemed inappropriate given the gravity of what she had done, instead she just tried to remain calm and poised; she was still shaken, there was no doubt about that, but she did try to compose herself a bit. “Alright,” she said finally, “I’m sorry…I’m just so sorry.” She sniffled and instinctively went to bury her face in the man’s shoulder, but he shied away. There was only so much comfort he could give and later she’d probably thank him for it. She was almost as afraid she’d kill him as he was.

“If I may make one suggestion, miss,” the officer carefully began, “might I suggest a change of clothes and a shower?”

Taylor almost chuckled, “heh, sorry. I’ve been a little distracted.” That was hardly the word for it. Her clothes were soaked in sweat, tears, and other naturally occurring things that just stained and left her clothes rather disgusting. Her studio apartment was in no great shape either, she was living in utter squalor. Normally when the sink was full of dirty dishes someone complained, but the sink was empty. All her spent dishware and silverware was wherever it landed. There was still half-finished food covered in flies and maggots sitting on dirty plates on the floor, the kitchen table, in the open microwave, positively everywhere. The power had been shut off to her apartment since she had not gone to work which meant she hadn’t been paid, which means she hadn’t been paying bills. She was about to be evicted, but that too would have taken some doing, as the landlord was quite simply afraid of her now.

The cadre of police stood around her living room awkwardly glancing around from place to place. This was quite unusual that a SWAT team would be called in only to sit around in the s**t-hole surroundings while their quarry got ready to leave. Then again, nothing was typical about this assignment. While Taylor was in the shower a female officer picked out a decent outfit for her to wear to court and put it inside the bathroom. Luckily her dress clothes were clean enough to pass a cursory inspection. They’d leave someone there to clean up for her, it seems the state was really taking pity on the poor girl. Then again, it wasn’t as if she asked for any of this to happen, it was really out of self defense and everyone in the precinct and the Public Defender’s office knew it. Still, the girl had to go to court and they were just following orders.

Taylor eventually came out of the bathroom, her hair still wet and for the most part still looking less than her best, but it was a considerable improvement. She even smelled nice again. The officers cleared a path for her to get outside, it seemed like a good idea because if any of them spent any more time in that room they were going to vomit.
Outside was just as the officer had promised. There was a motorcade, police barriers, people on the streets being held off and diverted. Someone opened the door for her to the back of what the older folks referred to as the “paddy wagon,” which was surrounded by four squad cars, two in front and two in back flanked by Chicago’s finest on motorcycles. What no one mentioned was the slew of press, bulbs flashing so bright and so often Taylor thought she was going to have a seizure, and she wasn’t even epileptic. Then there was the sudden barrage of questions, it was really just a din that might as well have been them shouting, “peas and carrots”. What she did pick up she didn’t understand,

“Ms. Glasmen, have you been approached by any company to endorse a product in the same way your other super-friends have?”

“Are you dating anyone?”

“How does it feel to know that you brutally killed a man by accident?”

“Are you feeling vindicated right now?”

“Can I please have a few moments of your time for an interv---“ the doors of the van slammed shut, cutting off the final requests and questions. Lights were already on inside the paddy wagon as the armored vehicle was locked. Taylor wasn’t restrained or seemingly made to be uncomfortable at all. Though there were two men in full riot gear sitting across from her with their automatic rifles pointed in her general direction, though at the floor.

The ride wasn’t too long, though with no windows in the van it was hard to measure distance, but before she knew it the doors opened in the back of the paddy wagon and Taylor was greeted with much the same scene, only this time she was on her way indoors and this time there were protesters, many of whom were African American, denouncing her actions as a hate crime with various signs. Those that weren’t claiming she was racist claimed she was a freak with powers bestowed by The Devil himself. And of course on the other side of the proverbial fence were white supremacist signs, but for every one of them that lauded the killing of her African American mugger, there was another that decried her devil powers. And she thought up north people were civilized.

She made her way into the courthouse where no media was allowed, inside was her public defender, an attractive woman in her early thirties with neat, shoulder-length brown hair and fashionable glasses with thick, black rims. Just the look of her inspired Taylor’s confidence, though she had no idea what she was actually being summoned for. It seems that the officers had failed to mention in all of the excitement. Little did they know her summons was somewhere in her overflowing mailbox. She thought it was a criminal preceding. The plaintiff was a black woman in her mid-twenties, her hair short and curled fairly elegantly. She dressed well, in her Sunday best, as some might put it. Behind her were two children, a boy and a girl, who looked to be about 7 and 4, respectively. The plaintiff called, “All rise, court is now in session.” And the doors slammed shut.

* * *

Brandon came home from grocery shopping. The settlement went well and he was just waiting on a check that reached a high six figures. With investment opportunities abound and his intentions of opening up a savings account with a very nice interest rate, this might be enough to set him up for life. Safe to say he was in a good mood when he came home to his nice little modest two-bedroom, that is, until he noticed the door was in the middle of the living room. He dropped the bags that he hefted without a problem. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Didn’t these people realize that three rather well-known super heroes lived here? Not that he had done anything particularly heroic yet. The eggs in one of the bags cracked and formed a mucousy puddle in the plastic bag while he scoured the apartment to see what was missing.

Then he noticed the blood everywhere. It started in the kitchen, there was a long smear of blood along the wall, as if someone was violently dragged against it, likely they were already bleeding. Everything inside was broken. Their entertainment center, the TV, the kitchen table, each wall had at least one huge, gaping hole in it, and as he approached his roommate’s room he saw the bodies. His super-speedy best friend and his like-powered girlfriend were mutilated nearly beyond all recognition. They weren’t nearly as indestructible as he was and at the time they didn’t care. They figured fast was good enough.

Apparently not, they were completely nude, perhaps a mid-day super-speed romp had been interrupted and they had been forced to defend themselves in the buff, not exactly dignified. Brandon just sank to his knees, all of the energy leaving his body as he fell face first to the ground from his kneeling position, curling himself into a ball as he began to shudder, tears flowing freely.

He couldn’t say how long he was there, he just lay there in the ball not doing anything, not thinking, not talking, hardly breathing. He thought he noticed a strange smell when he looked at the oven which appeared to be completely smashed in, as if someone’s face had gone through it. There was a flash under the oven and after that he didn’t see much else.

Chapter 5 (Long!)

Brandon opened his eyes to an unfamiliar face, several, actually. He tried to get up and move but found that his movement was hampered and he was incredibly sore. As he slowly woke up he realized the reason his movement was restricted was due to the bandages on his arms, legs, chest, and face; that, and the aircraft cable as thick as his wrists that were wrapped so tight around him he could only move about half an inch in any given direction.

He looked up at his captor, a rather gruff-looking man with a five o’clock shadow and a thick, bristly mustache like cops always wear in the movies. His dad actually used to sport one, but his dad wasn’t a cop. As he looked down at the man’s chest and noticed the little gold badge that was seemingly woven into his Kevlar vest, Brandon realized that the man in front of him was a cop.

“Brandon, I’m officer Grayson. Do you know where you are?” The man asked, gently.

“No, what the hell is going on?” Brandon replied in a rather confused tone.

“Please, relax son and just help me out here. Don’t mind the restraints; we just couldn’t be sure what condition you’d wake in.” As soon as the sentence was finished a small horde of doctors tried to fight their way in. The officer in charge took the oldest-looking doctor aside and began a hushed conference that Brandon couldn’t really make out. All he could do was wonder what he was doing there and why there was a team of SWAT guys surrounding him with automatics pointed in his general direction. Three fourths of the team refused to take their eye off him, but it was getting to be something he was getting used to. He was something of a celebrity these days.

The doctor huffed and stood back as the lead officer resumed his little interrogation. “Sorry about that. Now I just have a few questions. What is the last thing you remember?” The officer began again.

What was the last thing he remembered? He was so shaken he could hardly think. He just struggled for a moment, trying to piece together the events of what he thought was this morning. “I think I woke up at around ten thirty and went out to Borders to browse a bit. I bought a book and then went over to the beach to get some exercise and practice my powers. Sometimes it’s fun to show off to people at the beach. At around five-ish I was hungry and decided to buy some food, but instead of going to a Subway or something I bought a few groceries and then I….came…home.” Brandon stopped as he suddenly had a rush of recollection. He started to struggle in his bed, trying to get up, do anything; he just had to check on Dan and Sammie. Oh Christ, they have to be alright. If he’s in the hospital, they must be too!

The officer put his hand on Brandon’s chest, trying to calm him. Immediately the entire SWAT team leveled their rifles and four of them jumped on Brandon, trying to hold him down, however fruitless their effort may be. “Calm down, kid!” Grayson said as he joined in, just throwing himself on top. However, like most of the other officers, he was almost immediately thrown off. The rest of the officers kept their guns trained, waiting for an order.

“Where are they?! Where are Dan and Sammie?!” The restraints began to creak and the parts of the floor they were bolted to began to groan under the pressure as well.

Grayson picked himself off the ground, suddenly keeping his distance from the thrashing young man. “Just calm down and we’ll get to the bottom of this, alright? I need you to relax a little. You were seriously hurt and you need time to heal. All this isn’t going to help.” Slowly Brandon began to settle, his muscles still flexing and tensing against the hefty wire that bound him, he had seen the same stuff used for cranes at work. It took some doing but he tried to calm down. “Alright, good,” Grayson started, “what did you do when you came home?”

Brandon tried to find the words for the horror he saw and when he imagined his friends’ broken and bloody bodies he almost retched. Given the fact that he couldn’t move, this was not an appealing prospect. “I…uh…I came home and saw blood. I don’t know whose it was or where it came from, but I went through the house and the whole place was trashed. Everything was broken except for the doors and windows. I guess that’s why I didn’t immediately know something was wrong, but I rushed through the kitchen and looked into Dan’s room…” Brandon paused and tried to choke back the bile that was welling up in his mouth as he recalled the memory, “and he and Sammie were both bloody and not moving. I think they might have been dead. I don’t know how long or if they’re ok. I just kinda fell to the ground and then there was an explosion….I don’t know why I’m still alive.” And then it dawned on him, if he was alive there was still a chance for them, he risked getting his hopes up. “Are Dan and Sam ok? I mean, they didn’t look good, but if I could survive that—“

“I’m sorry, no,” the officer started, “the coroner tells us that the two of them were dead before the explosion. But he also says that they looked like they were beaten to death with someone’s bare hands. Brandon, are you aware of the slayings of the others like you? The kids from the Altoids commercial, the gang on the west side, that fast girl, and the disappearance of several others?”

“I had heard about a few of ‘em. It’s kinda hard to have not heard about that huge gang war thing. Do you think they’re all related?”

“Son, there’s no doubt in my mind. The problem is, you see, that in every single case where a body has been recovered, there appears to be catastrophic damage done by a person’s bare hands and every single victim was beaten to death or ripped apart. There aren’t many of you that are known to have that degree of super-strength and quite a few of you are, well, very durable. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

Brandon hesitated for a moment, “No, I’m not sure that I do.”

“Mr. Thomas, you have to admit that it’s rather convenient that there is a pile of dead bodies of your fellow super-people, not to mention countless victims of collateral damage, sitting in the morgue right now and each of them with similar causes of death which very few people, you among them, are capable of inflicting, and here you are standing over the two bodies of your former roommate and his girlfriend with you as the sole survivor, miraculously alive, save for a few minor injuries.”

“What are you saying, sir?” Brandon asked carefully.

The SWAT team raised their rifles and appeared to be sighting Brandon as the older officer weighed his words carefully, “To be honest Brandon, you’re on a very short list of suspects and I have to place you under the arrest for the murders of Daniel Summer and Samantha Greene as well as three counts of Arson and a few other murders.”

Brandon was simply taken aback, “What?! Let me up right now! Let me see Dan and Sammie! Let…me…GO!” Brandon struggled against the restraints again, the cables clanging taut as the floor began to creek from his struggling. He began to toss and turn as the other SWAT members trained their aim on him. Grayson left for a moment and grabbed one of the doctors who produced a needle, presumably filled with a high dose of sedatives which was promptly stabbed into Brandon’s neck.

The needle broke and Brandon continued to struggle until the tile and a steel bar that ran the length of the floor came up out of the ground as Brandon was suddenly free. After the first arm was unchained the other parts of his body followed and were freed. The SWAT team instinctively took a few steps back and opened fire. It wasn’t exactly as one, as they would depict in film; they were so stunned that the kid had ripped out the floor that they all sort of staggered themselves into firing positions, unloading clips at the young man.

Brandon didn’t notice a damned thing. Without realizing he’d moved he held the chief officer by the throat, his abrasive psudo-beared bristled against the back of his hand and the firing stopped when the other cops noticed Brandon had a hostage of sorts. Grayson was held by the neck about a foot off the ground with Brandon right at his eye level, which was odd because Brandon was shorter than the cop.

Brandon didn’t have time to be pleasant. His voice came out in an unfamiliar growl, “Where are they?” He didn’t recognize his own voice anymore. If he stopped to rationalize, he almost certainly seemed to intend to kill this man.

“They’re in the morgue under lock and key. All the bodies we’ve recovered are there.” Grayson eventually choked out.

As soon as Brandon heard what he needed to he took off down the hall and the entire SWAT team grabbed his restraints, pulling back as hard as they could. The twenty men who had squeezed into the compact hospital room pulled with everything they had but were overpowered effortlessly and dragged unceremoniously down the hall and up the stairs as Brandon began his undaunted journey through the hospital. He was like a force of nature, “Restricted, Faculty Only” meant nothing to him, there was only his goal. As he floated up the stairs the SWAT team members were peeled off his restraints, the thick, artificial steel vines dangled from his wrists and ankles as well as a collar around his neck.

He came to the door marked “Morgue” and his feet found the ground again. He reached up to his neck, snapping the cable like a candy necklace before ripping off the other remains of restraints. He strode through the ward rather underdressed, realizing now that he was only wearing a pair of plain white boxer shorts and finding he didn’t care. He looked at the rows of stainless steel drawers that lined the walls. There were roughly a dozen tucked away in one corner of the room, each of them with little red stripes across the top. He could only assume that meant that these were priority freezers.

He strode over to the one closest to him, pulling it open and looking down for an occupant. It was Mandy, the girl he had done the Oprah interview with, among other things in the early days. She was completely nude on the frost-covered tray. That is to say, the blanket had fluttered down her body as he opened the case. It was undignified, her just lying there in the cold for eternity until someone decided what to do with her cold, naked, corpse. He pulled the little black sheet back up over her chest, her once-lovely face was smashed in and there were teeth pushing through her upper lip. She also had a fan-shaped bruise across her neck.

He flipped through the other marked caskets, all people he recognized. And then came Dan and Sammie. They were horribly burned and their injuries looked even worse than they did when he discovered them. Dan was even missing his left arm and his right leg below mid-thigh. Upon further inspection they were lower on the table, accessories in the Danny doll kit. It was revolting.

Brandon sat on an empty examining table and rested his head in one hand, his elbow resting on his knee. He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t even think anymore. What the hell was going on and why did they think it was him? Hell, think about it, man. You’re the strongest person still alive and everybody they’ve found was invincible yet they were STILL beaten to death. Do the math, moron. It wasn’t exactly evidence beyond a reasonable doubt, but it was certainly more than enough to convince most people that didn’t have to worry about suddenly developing super-powers.

The SWAT team had caught up to him along with a few dozen others, some of them decked out in full army camo. Looks like they had the National Guard waiting in the wings, he thought. One of them even looked like they were hefting a rocket launcher. Brandon hoped they didn’t plan on using that in a hospital. That was just grade A stupid.

“What are these red marks?” Brandon asked.

A man in a suit that had not identified himself stepped forward and spoke over Grayson who looked at a loss for words. “They’re being transported to a secure government facility for an autopsy. The tools here are…insufficient. We also need to research how this happened, maybe it’s reversible.”

“You mean maybe it can be re-produced?” The conspiracy nut in Brandon was starting to come out. “You mean, you’re taking all these hushed caskets to some Area 51 where you’re going to dissect my friends so you can figure out how best to hurt me and the other survivors while cloning your own super-troopers?” Brandon shot.

“No, Brandon, we’re just trying to learn more about you.”

“All you need to know right now is I am not a man with whom to ******** right now, and these bodies are not going anywhere with you.” There were other little cylinder caskets matching the number of the dead in the shelves. He carefully placed each body in the caskets and peeled the cable that bound him apart, stacking the caskets in a small pyramid before lashing them together. He moved out of the room, hefting them all in one arm as he floated toward the exit, wishing that he had someone helping him right now. He was ashamed that inside these hermetically sealed tubes the bodies of his friends were being tossed around because of his inability to carry them properly. The various armed guards leveled their weapons as he approached. The rage boiled inside of him again.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The agent demanded.

“I’m doing what’s right. Move, because one of us is going to get seriously injured if you don’t. Chances are it won’t be me. This is a hospital, it’d be stupid to just wildly open fire, so get out of my way. I won’t say it twice.” Brandon floated forward, the crowd slowly opening around him as he headed toward the nearest window.

“Get the bodies!” The agent shouted as Brandon was in the thick of them. The soldiers pounced together and tried to wrestle the caskets out of his grip. It wasn’t hard, they were poorly tied together and he wondered if he would have even gotten as far as he wanted to without dropping them. The soldiers pulled at the cable and even cut one of them, trying to take the bodies and flee down the hall. No, for Brandon this was unacceptable. He put the stack of caskets down and grabbed one of the giant cable wires that were about a foot around that he had not taken apart. He simply swung it, not nearly as hard as he could have, and spun in a circle; taking out most of the authority figures, save two running away with a body, Brandon could have easily caught them.

However, in front of the two soldiers were five people Brandon thought he recognized. Two he had defiantly seen before. The other three though, it was only something akin to Déjà vu. The leader of the pack shoved his fist through one of the soldiers, puncturing the bullet-proof vest and exiting his back, snapping his spine. Another of the five just backhanded the other Guardsman, hitting him so hard across the face that half of his skull had caved in and a puddle of blood formed around his face, some thick, viscous goo that was more than just blood began to seep from his helmeted head.

“Mr. Thompson, we’re here to help.” The leader said, tossing the body of the impaled soldier off his arm, shaking his wrist to flick off some of the blood. The rest of the group had previously been knocked unconscious by Brandon’s cable swinging technique.

“I’m taking these people and giving them a proper burial. I am not giving them to anyone no matter the price.” Brandon said, still clutching the cable.

“And we respect that. We are only here to lend a hand. That’s far more than you can carry on your own, even with your superb strength. Don’t worry, we’re like you, we understand what you’re doing. Give the man a hand.”

With that, all five of them converged on Brandon, each of them hefting a casket under each arm, some of them managed to carry three. They all floated, all of them could fly apparently, and they were all just like him, just stayed under the radar. That probably was the smart thing to do at this point, probably the smart thing to do from the beginning. He might have been safe. They all might have been safe. He cursed himself and hefted the caskets of his friends. The leader inhaled and violently exhaled, blowing out the window at the end of the hall, secure chain-link and all. After their exit was covered they each took a turn flying out of the window, gliding over the city rooftops in a direction seemingly pre-chosen by the leader of the rag-tag group. Under other circumstances Brandon would have been apprehensive of this little arrangement, but he just seemed so distraught that he couldn’t bring himself to think about it.

After what seemed like hours they settled down in an open plain where Pyres were already set up. The four others set to their tasks as the leader hung back and spoke to Brandon. “We were getting ready to do the same thing ourselves. We keep up with the police bans and are following other super activity across the city. It seems to be fate that we met like this in a common goal.”

“What is that goal exactly?” Brandon asked, surprised by the tone the man was using. By the looks of him he was only a few years older than Brandon himself.

“We’re keeping these people out of the hands of those whose only real priority is that power stays where it is. I heard what you said to the officer and your concerns mirror our own, save for the likelihood of them ever reproducing the effects that made us what we are. I must admit, that does sound a tad paranoid, though not out of the question. To say the least, it would be unconscionable for us to allow our government to desecrate these bodies and spend the next decades studying pieces of them in a clean room instead of laying their remains to rest. And the only way to make sure they are at rest,” the leader paused and glanced at each of the stacks of wood, on top of which were now the tastefully covered corpses and all of their original pieces; “is through rendering them to ash.”

As he finished speaking there were embers growing, as if by magic, in the center of the woodpiles. The guy must have heat vision as well. So far, he displayed the most powers of anyone Brandon had heard of. “And who are you, exactly?” Brandon asked.

“I am Nathan. With me are Jenna, Andrew, Simon, Lea, and Patrick. We have taken it upon ourselves to police those who cannot be policed. Because, as you may have noticed, some people seem to think they’re above the law.” Nathan moved away from Brandon, walking toward the line of Pyres in the prairie. Brandon stood in front of him and to his left, glancing at Nathan before catching the glimmer of fire in his eye. Brandon sat on a found log and stared at the bonfire that had Dan and Sammie laying side by side. These people had done their homework.

“Just think, overnight over two dozen people have popped up on the world radar and have seemingly become Gods on earth. There is nothing you can deny them because anything that they truly want, they can simply take. How can you deny me food when I can walk into your store and leave with whatever I want? You can call the police, but what can they do that you can’t? What have they got? Guns? Handcuffs? Jail? Anyone in America can buy a gun. When bullets cannot harm you, ‘the great equalizer’ becomes little more than an expensive paperweight. Handcuffs, anyone can use a zip tie, but what happens when your felon can break his bonds easier than a child destroys a spider web? And jail is as effective at this point as locking a man in a cardboard box. So what will they do when a super-criminal commits a super crime, or a series of lesser crimes? We are the first beings in human history that are actually above the law.”

Brandon sat and continued to listen to the man, his words little more than background noise as he watched his two best friends disintegrate on the pile of wood; the smell of burning flesh revolted him as it caught in his nostrils. “It would be naïve to think that we could control the world. Moreover, it would be just plain selfish and childish. What point is there to ‘take over the world’? From Lex Luthor to Pinky and the Brain to Dr. Evil, taking over the world has always been a conveniently vague motivation for any given villain. But my friends and I fear that our short-sighted human nature does not allow us to view the big picture. Most of us can’t imagine ruling the world. Most of us don’t want to. But a small criminal empire is more than reasonable. It was we who thwarted the warlord on the west side who initiated that riot. I am proud to say that we also killed or rounded up 90% of the escapees. Many were within the vicinity when we broke up the gang.

“Look, we are not claiming to be the new Justice League, or any of that bullcrap. We simply don’t know that there are any trustworthy people out there anymore. I mean, look at the people in your life. How many of them would you trust with the power of a God? It’s not to say that people you know are evil, but the temptation is always there. The fact is, we’re the only people we can trust to be responsible. We’ve come to a very simple conclusion: If you’re not one of us, you can’t be trusted.”

Brandon tore his gaze away from the fire to stare at Nathan. He was almost aghast. “What? How can you say that? All I did was live my life no different than ever. Sure, I showed off, but what did I do to deserve all this torment? What did my friends do to deserve to die? I mean, Jesus Christ, do you always talk like this?”

Nathan quirked his head quizzically to the side, “What do you mean?”

“You sound like you’re about to announce the first rule is that we can’t talk about this! Is that what you think you are, a ******** savior? You killed two guys in that hospital because they were in your way, is that responsible?!”

“They shot at you and they would have tried to stop us.” Patrick chimed in.

“So what? You’re invulnerable, remember? You can snap cuffs like a toothpick and swat bullets away like you’re in The Matrix, what do you have to worry about? Christ, you’re ******** psychotic!” Brandon didn’t even wait to hear their response. He just leapt away, his ascent just continuing well past the apex of his jump as his newfound ability for flight propelled him….somewhere. It had only now occurred to him he had nowhere to go, nowhere to call home, nowhere to find new clothes. The five who still stood around the fire watched him go.

“What do we do about him, Nate?” Lea asked, brushing her hair from her face.

“We’ll see.” Nate said simply.

Chapter 6


Taylor Glassmen sat huddled in the corner of her own personal cell in solitary confinement. Having pleaded no contest to her lawsuit and nothing to pay with, she was sentenced to jail time. From the moment she entered her plea to the moment she was let in to her cell (for no one ever touched her for fear of her accidentally killing someone else) she hadn’t spoken a word. She was getting better though; she was given a persona television placed behind bullet proof glass and a touch screen on the wall she could use to operate it, her own personal shower stall, and someone brought her meals daily. Every time that slot slid open the guard on the other end tried to get through to her, “How are we feeling today, did you sleep well?” Etc.

She acted like she didn’t hear a damned thing. Well, if she did, she didn’t take the time to respond. She lived quietly for those few weeks in solitary, watching television and eating her meals and sleeping. There wasn’t much else she did; not that solitary confinement was a barrel of laughs for anyone.

A month more went by. She was sitting in her cot, staring at the television again, staring, not watching. The guards of the area questioned whether or not she was actually so far gone she was beyond reaching and were actually taking bets on whether she would, or even if she could, suicide herself in the night. One bleak afternoon her cell door opened. She tore her eyes away from the television in shock, throwing herself from her bed and into the corner, denting the ten inch thick concrete wall. Two men stood in the doorway that theatrically flooded the room with light, leaving the two figures in silhouette.

“Hello, Taylor,” said the first shadow; the other closed the door, allowing her to get a look at the two of them. They were indeed in black overcoats and under that was a very thickly padded costume. It was something like out of one of the Batman movies, the pads all were in the form of muscle groups, at least, those she could see. On the left pectoral plate was a badge, the name was obscured. His hair was cropped close in a military cut. She only knew it was military because she was watching Jarhead on the DVD player they had installed for her. She was a sympathy case, a celebrity case. People knew that the man she killed had it coming and they knew that she was only broke because her grief bankrupted her by not allowing her to go to work. That, and they wanted to keep the girl who could crush your skull with her eyelash good and happy, or rather, as happy as she could be.

The other had long, straight, brown hair that fell to his shoulders and obscured his face. Just to look at them they screamed fascist cloak and dagger agents of some crazy shadow government conspiracy. It was actually sad how much she could determine about them from just their outfits. She tried to hide behind her cot, much like a frightened child confronted with the bogyman. “Stay away!” she yelled, “Don’t touch me! I don’t know my own strength, if you try to shake my hand, I might crush it! God knows what else.”

The short-haired man cracked a smirk and looked over at the broody, long-haired counterpart. “Ma’am, we’re with the government, as you seem to have noticed.” He walked over to where she cowered and crouched down, letting his long coat settle on the floor, collecting quite a bit of dust, “I’m not going to hurt you and you’re not going to hurt me, alright? This isn’t a threat, it’s a fact. Look.” He reached out to her with a black, gloved hand, the fabric seemingly perfectly tailored for him. He gripped her hand and pulled her up to standing with him, he just stared her in the face as he tried to calm her down.

“My name is Agent Gomez, I and my associate are government liaisons here to bring you to a better facility,” he said. “You don’t belong in prison Taylor, you need to learn about your fantastic abilities and hone them for a better cause. You’re wasted here.” He paused and locked eyes with her; though she shied away he brought his fingers to her chin and guided her back to his gaze. “What good is a woman with the powers of a goddess if she’s just going to sit in her room and watch re-runs of The Wonder Years? You can trust us.”

She pulled away from him, trying to curl back in a ball, “No! God help me, I killed someone!” Suddenly, she stopped. Agent Gomez had managed to catch her by the wrist and held her struggling form, actually preventing her from doing what she wanted. It had been so long since she felt human contact; she had forgotten what it was like. Still, before it registered just what this meant she tried to wrestle her arm out of his grip, only to miraculously fail. “Have I….have I lost my powers? Please tell me I’m ok.” Her eyes started to well with tears, glistening with hope for the first time in months.

“You’re better then ok Taylor. Pinch the headboard of your cot,” Gomez told her. Reluctantly she put her hand down to her side, reaching out to the steel bar and squeezing hard. The material caved in around her fingers, conforming to the shape her squeezing fingers and palm. It took no more effort than squishing silly putty. She stared up at him and tried to wrench her arm away. Still, more amazingly, he held her tight. “You can’t hurt us, Taylor. We’re here to rescue you from yourself. Come with us and we’ll show you how to use your powers, the ones you haven’t even discovered yet. Trust me, this will be the best decision you’ve ever made.” He smiled at her, it was re-assuring to see that kind of feeling again and knowing it wasn’t just pity for the little freak girl.

The other agent simply stood the whole time with his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, staring at the two of them quite intently, just taking in the scene. He had not so much as even introduced himself. Gomez went on, “Your sentence has been commuted to working under government supervision due to your fantastic abilities. We’ll fly you to the base as soon as you get changed. You’ll have to wear this, though,” Gomez walked out of the room, bringing back for her a hanger that had hanging from it a uniform identical to theirs, minus the coat. Branded under the badge of the left pectoral pad was “Glassmen” Agent Gomez placed the outfit on the cot and walked toward the door. His partner had left the room already, Gomez stopped in his tracks and turned toward the door, “We’ll wait outside while you change, just knock or whatever when you’re done. By the way, the rude, quiet one is my partner in proverbial crime, he is Agent Tucker. Don’t mind him, he just skulks like that sometimes, we’ll be out here,” he smiled and closed the door behind him to leave her to her privacy.

She looked down at the uniform completely awestruck. What was happening? Could she actually touch people again? Were her powers finally fading? Was that whole thing just a nightmare that was finally over? No, it couldn’t be. He said that the reason she was getting out was because she was working for the government because of her abilities. So, why didn’t she hurt Gomez when she hit him? Maybe the suit nullifies her powers somehow. She didn’t understand it, but if it had some way to make her normal again, she’d do it. She put the new outfit on as quickly as possible.

When she had finished dressing, it was like she was a whole new person. Gomez even supplied her with a hair tie to pull her unkempt hair into a bun. It helped dramatically, not only in her appearance, but she looked better than she had in months, even though there was still something to be desired in her hygiene. She walked outside to meet the agents who stood patiently with their backs to the door. They didn’t even chat. When she walked out Gomez turned around and gave her an approving once-over.

“Ma’am, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were made for this job just from the look of you in the uniform.” Taylor smiled sheepishly and tried to hide it by covering her face, passing it off as trying to tuck a stray strand back, giving her a moment to collect herself. The other agent, who she was told was “Tucker” turned and gave her a black helmet with an opaque face plate. “Oh yes, I forgot to mention, you have to wear that too. Hell, we all do. You’d be surprised, but the government is actually just a collection of old nagging hens when it comes to the safety of their top project.”

Taylor gave him a look.

“That is, not to say that you, or any of us is the result of a government project. No, this is an unknown quantity. It’s only our training and guidance that is the project. Don’t let the conspiracy theorists fool you, nobody knows what happened.” Gomez said. Tucker just gave a barely audible, “hmph.” They both pulled their helmets over their heads, Taylor followed suit.

“Follow me, please.” Gomez said behind that hauntingly blank mask. He turned around and walked forward, not paying any special attention to anything, just looking straight ahead the whole time with Tucker following suit. Taylor didn’t know where they were going, she had only seen the halls once when she was being escorted in. But she knew enough that they weren’t heading for the exit. It was in the complete opposite direction. They were headed for the courtyard.

As they got out into the open Tucker/Gomez (they had been mixed around during the course of the walk, she had lost track of who was who, as their badges were both covered by buttoned trench coats) turned to her and spoke most calmly, “Please hold on to my arm.” She obliged.
Before she knew it they were at least thirty feet up in the air, then 50, then 90. She could tell because the inside of her mask had a Heads-up display much like the one in one of those first person shooter games her brother played endlessly. Except instead of just a target and a gun, this one gave all sorts of useful information, the range from her helmet’s position to the ground or any other nearby object, current airspeed, (47 MPH) really, just a lot of different ranges. She didn’t know why this information was necessary or if she even wanted to know that at this moment she was 463 feet from the ground below.

She looked up at the person who was carrying her, she was latched on to him for dear life, though she realized now that she had absolutely no problem holding up her own body weight like this. She was almost face-to-face with the person who, to her amazement, seemed to be flying unaided. She looked down at his feet, his back, his arms, and above them just in case they were being winched or something. As she found they were all alone up there, save for the other member of the team who was floating calmly 17 feet to the south, relative 7 o’clock she screamed, scared out of her mind. The person in front of her grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, hard.

“According to your file you have not yet developed your other abilities aside from your strength, and even that is comparatively less than it should be. Your muscles have atrophied. You are stagnant. It’s time to shake you, wake you up, get you living again. Don’t worry; it’s a reflex the first time. You’ll figure it out.” With that, the masked man dropped her, breaking her hold effortlessly on his body and watched her fall helplessly through the air. Before she fell she caught the last reading on ground level: 1,194 feet and rapidly dropping. She screamed louder and longer than she ever had in her life. She was sure that the shriek could be heard for miles, it had to, someone had to help her.

She tumbled, her arms reaching out to grab something, anything. But there was nothing there. She was now 722 feet from the ground and so far this reflex hadn’t kicked in. She was beginning to get sick to her stomach from all the pitching and rolling. Every time she put an arm out the pressure from the air would send her body spinning, it was like putting your arm out a car window while speeding down the highway, but with nothing to anchor her, she just flipped and rolled.

At 545 feet she began to cry, why would they do this to her? Help her escape from jail, give her the key to freedom only to kill her? How could they be so cruel? They had given her so much hope, that maybe one day she could redeem herself and become human again, and now she was going to be just a stain on the pristine ground below. The rage began to boil inside her that she was so helpless, so weak, that she had trusted these people and that her life would end without her having repented.

At 296 feet her self-pity was gone. Her anger at herself was transformed into a need to make peace with that guilt. She would not die until she was able to, she refused to be a victim anymore. She had stopped screaming, she even managed to right herself for the most part. At 154 feet till the ground she was almost even standing which was a feet in and of itself. She just needed SOMETHING more.

At 89 feet she looked to her left, at the exact same speed was one of the men in the black government costume. His coat was billowing behind him, the tails flying up over his head. He was in the exact same “standing” position she was, only considerably more calm. She was enraged again, much like the time in the alley, once again, tired of being used by someone for their own twisted ends.

At 32 feet she had plowed into the other person, his lapel bunched up in a fist in her left hand while the other slammed into his helmeted face. The black mask shattered, revealing Agent Tucker. She didn’t care who it was, he was a manifestation of everyone who had wronged her, who caused her life to become the hell it was, another person who was using her. Agent Tucker was the man in the alley, the woman who brought her to court, the judge and prosecutor who had conspired against her to award the bereaved woman of all of Taylor’s worldly possessions, given she had no money left, then threw her in this hellhole; and then of course, he was himself, one of the agents who convinced her to come out, to dress up in this ridiculous outfit, and of course, drop her from 1,194 feet from the ground.

Her fist slammed into his handsome face again and again. Once she overextended the blow and came back to smack him once before hitting him in the gut. He just stood there and took it, not fighting back, not groaning or complaining or wincing or, seemingly, dying. After a few more strikes she became herself again and instinctually let go, backing away, retreating, trying to find something to support herself against. She found herself crawling, ripping off her helmet and retching on the roof of the guard tower, Tucker hovering just out of reach and staring at her, blood trailing from his nose and his lip, half of his face beginning to show signs of swelling. He just watched her without approval or disdain. He let her come to her own conclusions.

And eventually, she did. She was alive. She had fallen and landed without harm on top of the guard house. More than that, she had tackled the agent in mid air and beat him senselessly, gotten away, and landed on the roof of the guard tower without noticing any impact. She looked up at Tucker again in shock and he didn’t change that damned placid expression one bit, he just kept watching her, as if waiting for something. She got shakily to her feet, standing and walking over to the edge of the roof. After a moment she stepped off, the only thing on her mind was going over to him and apologizing and before she realized it, there she was, “standing” at his side with him staring at her.
“I’m so sorry.” She whimpered, grabbing him by the arms and burying her head in his shoulder. He patted her back uncomfortably and finally spoke to her.

“Get your helmet; we’ve got to meet Gomez again. We’ve got more work to do. Truth is, he just didn’t want to carry you the whole way.” Amazingly, he smiled and darted back up into the sky to re-join his partner, who, it seems, hadn’t moved an inch. She slinked, that is, if one can slink while flying, over to her helmet that rested on the roof, replaced it, and stared up at them, again, simply willing herself to be with them. It was almost like moving one’s arm. She didn’t need to think about it, she just DID it. Already she was getting some good practice in just committing to this sort of thing.

Maybe that’s all her power was, not any super-human strength or flight or whatever; maybe something had just removed all doubt from her mind, given her the confidence to know that anything was possible if she just committed to it. That’s all that seemed to be involved with this whole flying thing. As she followed Gomez in whatever course he was leading her, she realized she could have done this at any time in her life, so why hadn’t she?