The Lamplighters Omnibus

"Who..." Your voice comes out in a hoarse whisper. It feels like someone else's voice. "Who saved... me?"

Dr. Kelly thinks for a moment, glances down at the notes on her tablet. Considers her phrasing. "No registered heroes found you during the initial attack. Your chrysalis was reported the following day by a private citizen and a SERAPH disaster relief team picked you up during its routine sweep. We brought you here, ran our tests, and monitored you until the symbiote was confident enough that your condition was stable to let you wake up."

"Oh."

It was such a stupid, childish thing to think. You remember Paragon's face when he saw your wounds. You remember how he turned away, saved the person that actually had a chance. What, did you think he had a change of heart? Came back to at least move your body before some spawn or another ate it? Everything else, the part where you were apparently an alien egg for 24 hours, it just slides right off you like water. Who even cares? What does it matter? You stare up at the ceiling, at that flickering fluorescent light. No need to talk any more.

"Would you like some time to yourself now?" Kelly asks. You nod. She stands, tucking the chair away out of sight. "How about I ask the staff to bring you some breakfast? You must be starving."

You mumble out a thanks. She leaves you alone.

You don't have anything to tell the time with, so you try keeping count of how long you have to wait. You don't have anything else you'd rather be thinking about. It's something like half an hour later when someone comes by - you watch them pass by window after window with complete apathy before the door finally opens.

The nurse seems nice enough. She doesn't scream at the sight of you or anything - then again she wouldn't last long working for SERAPH medical if she were easily frightened. It feels like you have to mumble out 'thank you' two dozen times just trying to act appreciative while she tilts your bed up and arranges your breakfast tray. Metal cutlery. Last time you were in hospital they didn't let you have metal cutlery. She asks you if you want tea or coffee, you just ask for about six glasses of orange juice instead. She disconnects your IV to let you at your bacon and eggs with leaden arms, points out the call button beside you in case you need anything. One more 'thank you' around half-chewed hospital food and she departs with the trolly, probably off to another patient. You eat in silence.

Soon enough you've cleaned the whole plate. Not even the baked beans were any stop to you. No real surprise that eating makes you feel better, just how much it makes you feel better. Usually it's so fleeting, just a sort of vague contentment during the act itself thanks to your dumb animal-brain, then it's nothing but a queasy stomach, regret, and jealousy of the people that can purge at the drop of a hat. Right now it just makes you feel a little more... human, again. Less like the animated corpse you are.

You wish you had your phone. At least then you could distract yourself, maybe play some shitty game or watch some videos or something. More likely wind up gravitating to news stories about the attack and giving yourself a couple more panic attacks too, but hey what can you do. You just feel unclean, uncomfortable, like you've coated in a thin layer of greasy grime that you can't see but you can damn well feel. You need a shower. Are you allowed out of bed yet? Best ask. Nothing better to do with your time and Kelly still isn't back. You wrap your hand around the little switch, psyche yourself up for a few seconds, and push the button with your thumb.

Then you sit there for fifteen minutes feeling like an asshole while the light flashes and beeps, silently willing yourself to the rock-bottom of the staff priority list.

The same nurse comes back. "What's the problem, Mr. Granville?"

"No, um, no problem. Not urgent."

"Did you want seconds?"

"No I- um yes actually but that's not why I called." You lean forward a little, craning your neck around the drawn privacy curtain, down to the end of the room where you heard Kelly use the tap. The nurse follows your gaze. You sit back again. "Can I have a shower please?"

"Ahh. Unfortunately the ICU doesn't have shower facilities, but that's a temporary problem." She smiles reassuringly at you. "Your chart says to move you to a private room once your condition improves, and anyone with that kind of appetite for solid food can't be feeling too unwell, can he?"

"I guess." You pause. "Um... where's everyone else? After the attack I assumed-"

"Oh, this isn't an ordinary facility. Here we only deal with powered individuals and related cases, so we can focus on their unique needs." Oh. That'd explain it then. They might've even seen people with scarier-looking mutations than you. "I know it must be horribly boring here, but you just need to be patient for a little longer! Your room has a TV and everything, it'll be just like a hotel."

A hotel you can't leave. But you don't say that out loud. She doesn't deserve your bullshit. You let her leave, and you stare at nothing.

You wonder if the afterlife is a hospital. It's a random thought to have but the more you ponder it the more it makes sense to you. This would fit Purgatory to a T. You just sit there in your bed, not allowed to get up, nothing to watch, nobody really to talk to. Just eating and sleeping, hoping that maybe one day the doctor will come back and let you leave, maybe one day you'll be able to go home and be normal. Difference with Hell is probably that there they take things away. None of that, you'll hurt yourself. None of that, you'll just worry yourself. None of that, you'll just distract yourself. What, don't you want to get better? Why aren't you complying, why aren't you trying hard enough? And then they medicate you because the problem's never them. It's always you.

Your pulse quickens. Your palm feels wet. You screw your eyes shut tight.

"Stop it," you whisper.

It feels like another hour before you're moved. The nurse comes back with a male colleague. They roll your sheets down with practised synchronicity, scooping you up off the warmed mattress and into a wheelchair. You self-consciously pull up the ripped collar of your gown to cover your chest. The woman stays behind, probably to strip the sheets completely and make the bed ready for whoever shows up next. The man wheels you out the door and down the corridors - it all passes by in a samey blur, broken up only by little signs you don't have time to read as you pass. Down this hallway, up this other hallway, left then right, there's an elevator-ride up one floor mixed in there somewhere, you just completely check out. When you come to you're there, being wheeled into your new room.

It's not quite a hotel but it's pretty nice regardless. Better than your apartment definitely, so you're not gonna complain. The bed looks soft and warm, the TV's pretty decent even if it's not top-of-the-line 3D. And there's a full en-suite bathroom. The male nurse peels back the covers for you and parallel-parks your wheelchair.

"Could you try standing for me?" he asks. "It's alright if you don't feel up to it."

More tests dropped as subtle as can be. If what happened during your panic attack was any indication, the 'endosymbiote' seems to be pushing you along the road to recovery way faster than you should be capable of. S'pose it must be a simple prospect after having to build a whole new heart. You nod and grip the armrests tight. The nurse squats down to flip up the footrests for you, and you put your bare feet down.

You just stand up. It's as simple as that. You aren't even all the way upright before you're averting your eyes, embarrassed about the whole song-and-dance.

"Hey, that's great!" the nurse says. He's so chipper it's like a comb made of rusty nails being scraped down the nape of your neck. "But make sure you don't push yourself, alright? Get some rest, once Dr. Kelly is done making her calls she'll be right back to see you. There's a call button by the bed and another one in the shower in case you have a fall. Got all that?"

You nod.

"I'll be right back with your second breakfast and a new gown."

It doesn't help as much as the first. You mostly feel guilty eating it, end up slowing to a crawl until the nurse finally leaves. He takes the wheelchair with him.

You have a window but it's not showing anything real. In fact with a little digging around you find the remote, cycle through a few different vistas like the forest or the beach. You must be underground then - makes sense. All the bunkers are SERAPH built, owned and run, of course they'd dig if they want an HQ that isn't at risk of getting stepped on by a kaiju. Where else were they gonna take you, up into the space station? Only A-listers like the Arcadians get to go up there.

You pick up the remote for the TV. You stare down at it blankly, as uncomprehendingly as a cat with a book. You put it down again. Probably nothing on anyway. You get up, tear your gown the rest of the way in half, drop it in the bin, and get in the shower.

Hot water rains down on you, courses down your body in steaming rivulets. The glass fogs, trapping you in your own little world. It's so hot it's almost scalding, almost hurts. No pink flush colours your corpse-like flesh. If anything it just darkens further, the black blood rising closer and closer to the surface. Closer to matching the black bloom over where your heart used to be. You hesitantly bring your hand to your chest, gingerly framing it with your fingers and thumb. Creeping closer, degrees at a time, ready to snatch your hand back at the first sign of trouble. It feels... weird. It's like your skin but not, too smooth and maybe a fraction warmer, but it's close. It's not some kind of sucking tarpit you can reach straight through, it's not some fungal bloom that'll crumble into alien spores at the first touch. You can feel the fake heart beyond, beating away like it has every right to be there. You take your hand away again.

You look different now and it's not just the blood. The fat did its job, easy calories just sitting there for any wandering alien endosymbiote to chow down on for biomass. Now you barely have a scrap of it anywhere - no wonder you were so hungry.

Curiosity blooms. Just a trickle, just a hair. The shower's helping. The hot water's washing away that invisible layer of greasy grime, sluicing it all away and leaving you feeling energised. Braver. You swallow, considering something you haven't done in five years, and gingerly turn off the shower. The door swings open and you step through, steadily dripping on the tiled floor and literally steaming from the heat. Reaching forward and steadily scrubbing the fogged-up mirror over the sink clean.

Tug down the eyelids, peer at the dark veins in your sclera. Push up your black lips, check if you have fangs now (you don't but your tongue looks like you've been on a licorice binge). Taking a step back and just... looking at yourself. All of yourself.

You have muscles now. Actual muscles. You can see them even when you're not flexing - and then you do flex and you barely recognise yourself. Muscle tissue rebuilt twice over strains against the grey skin, pulling it taut. You can see all the muscle groups, see a shallow valley between your pecs and fuck you have abs. They're so visible you can count them.

A disbelieving half-smile creeps onto your face. An accompanying sound, a cross between a laugh and a 'huh', mostly just a staccato gasp. You try different posers like some idiot bodybuilder and you don't even feel self-conscious or ashamed (okay just a little) because the dreamlike awe overpowers it all. Even looking like an alien zombie this is undeniably an upgrade.

You swallow again. You remember your partner, along for the ride in your veins and in your heart. You bite your lip, sawing it back and forth across your two front teeth as you think. Gingerly holding out your hand, palm facing you.

Cover my hand, you think as clearly as you can.

It obeys. It isn't so frightening with you in control. It lets you watch closely, almost excited even, as the ink bleeds through your pores. Watch each shining black droplet join with the other droplets, spreading in patches, forming an even coating that clings and shines. Inch-long talons notwithstanding. You turn it this way and that, flex your fingers experimentally. It doesn't even look like your hand any more, yet ends sharply at your wrist like a glove. You bring your free hand up, run your thumb across the 'seam' again and again. Turn them over, transformed hand on top, and rake your thumb-talon along the fleshy connector between the forefinger and thumb of your human hand. You watch in awe as the scratch heals before your eyes, only enough time to bleed one droplet of oil-blood. A droplet that's absorbed right back into the skin before your eyes. It didn't even hurt as much as you expected it to.

My other hand too.

The process repeats, mirrored, maybe a hair faster. Leaving you with a matching pair of 'gloves' - they're even keeping your hands warm as the excess heat from the shower bleeds away from the rest of you. Peering closely you can see it's not quite a uniform coat of 'paint'. It's textured somehow, maybe striated or ridged. Hints of the exoskeleton-looking form it chose when it crawled through the rip?

"Okay, okay, now... my arms."

It surges up to your shoulders, as if matching your mounting excitement beat for beat. It feels like being splashed with warm water, like your biceps are being squeezed in its gooey embrace. It stops at your shoulders, clinging to your torso by thin tendrils hooked onto your pecs and traps (they're even discernable now). Every inch below is black as pitch, more details forming. The symbiote's highlighting the muscle groups, outright augmented them by building on top of them? Is it even 'on top of' you or is it outright transforming you since it's in your cells? You can't tell and honestly you don't care either. All you know is you've got the arms of an alien bodybuilder and it feels... it feels cool. Your stupid smile widens. You thought you'd forgotten what the word meant but you feel fucking cool. You laugh, it's almost hysterical, but you'll take it because it's the last reaction you ever expected yourself to have.

You falter, just a hair. You have a new idea and it worries you in the same breath. You swallow to wet your throat one last time.

"Now gimme... a suit. Full-body."

Your chest and back fountain tar. You yelp in fear, but you don't have much time to do anything else. The symbiote biomass engulfs you in a wave, even as you reflexively raise your arms to defend yourself. It feels like plunging into a pool of hot jelly, feeling it close over your head as you sink and sink and sink. It fills your open mouth - you gag, jerk, stumble back and hit the shower door and tumble straight back in. The tiles crunch beneath your shoulders. Your eyes fly open. You're not dead.

You roll onto one shoulder and gingerly push yourself away from the wall. There's a shallow crater in the tile, cracks radiating out from the point of contact in all directions like a spider-web. You turn, delicately creeping back out so as not to break anything else. Look in the mirror again.

You look like something you doodled in your exercise book back in grade school. But not in a bad way, far from it. What was in your mind translated directly into reality without needing to be filtered through your shit art skills. At first blush you wanted to call it some weird alien morphsuit but that isn't even the half of it. You're completely unrecognisable, barely even human. On the muscular side but still lean somehow, athletic and whipcord-agile. Aesthetically it reminds you of the muscle suits some SERAPH agents or tech heroes use but it's part of you, is you. Artfully dusted in ridges and spikes and spines and flanges, just enough to break up your silhouette, make you stand out. Your toes are tipped in claws, your weight shifted forward onto the balls of your feet. You spy a tail, curling out from the base of your spine, looking just as bony as what it's attached to. There isn't a scrap of your face to be seen. You're sealed in what looks like a helmet of polished ebony bone. It's got to be handling your senses for you, and your breathing.

"H-hhahaha. I look awesome."

Your voice comes out filtered and flanged, barely recogniseable. If SERAPH hadn't already picked you up you could go vigilante like this. Be a mysterious, unknowable hero. Hear people talk about you in the streets and smile because you knew they all thought you mattered.

"O-okay, um. This time try clothes?"

It retracts in an instant. You gasp as yanks out your breathing tubes - that's going to take some getting-used-to. The shock makes you miss the first half of the process, though you can definitely feel all the squirming around back-and-forth as it puzzles out your request. It doesn't quite have the effect you expect. Whether out of ignorance or inability it didn't mimic fabric fibres, just built some clothes out of its own naked biomass. It's left you in a short-sleeved T-shirt and long pants, both form-fitting and pitch-black with a slight glossy sheen.

"... good job on your first try," you say at last, and pat yourself on the shoulder. You feel like it understands the attempted gesture.

You step back out into your room, and are immediately met with a knock on the door. You start, pause, then open the door. Dr. Kelly stands outside, her eyebrows rising as she catches sight of you.

"Good timing, heh," you say.

"Not really, I just heard the shower so I stayed outside," she replies. "You're making leaps and bounds towards recovery, aren't you? Looks like you've even had some practice with your new guest."

"Oh, uh, yeah." You shuffle out of the way so she can come in and shut the door behind her. She pulls up the chair by the desk and turns it to face you. You sit on the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap. She crosses one knee over the other, balancing her tablet on her thigh.

"So," she says. "Have you given any thought to how you'd like to proceed?"

"I want to be a hero," you blurt out. She blinks, and you realise how stupid that sounded. You scramble to recover lost ground. "I want to, um, to join a hero agency."

"You wouldn't like to go back to your ordinary life?" she asks. "That's completely an option. I checked with your landlord, your apartment survived the attack unscathed. All you'd have to do is complete registration."

You shake your head. "Got nothing to go back to. M'not at school, not employed, and I hate that fucking apartment. I guess I'll have to go back at some point to get my stuff but this is as good an excuse as any to move out heh."

"So is this about employment?" She cocks her head, studying you carefully.

"I- yes? No? Maybe?" You shrug helplessly. "Part of it, I guess? I mean getting paid would be nice but it's just... what I always dreamed of since I was little, heh. That I'd get powers out of nowhere and get to join an agency. Now I've done the first part, should probably do the second yeah?"

She nods. "I made some calls to local agencies during the day just in case you felt this way. What do you know about the process of gaining employment in the hero industry?"

"If you have what it takes while you're still in school, you join the Guardian Gryphons," you reply. "They take you through high school, you network, you graduate, you compete in the Summer Festival to get scouted by a good agency or just get extra face-time. It's kinda fuzzier for people that don't get in or get their powers too late to get in. I think they just go to auditions and try to get small jobs or cut their teeth in the D-class agencies like Compass Rose or Leopard Shark?"

She nods again. "It can be a bit of a Catch-22. You can't get experience unless you're working with a licensed agency but you can't join a licensed agency unless you have experience. And even if an agency wants to take its chances with a raw recruit, any vacancies they have in the books are mostly going to stay off-limits until they're done scouting the Summer Festival crop."

"But you don't say that like I'm completely out of luck," you say.

She inclines her head slightly, scrolling through the assembled list of agencies on her tablet. "There's one C-class agency founded and operating here in City 32 that hasn't even requested to participate in the Summer Festival, let alone made space for new blood."

"Who?"

She taps the listing on the screen. "The Lamplighters."

"... who?"

---

Naturally, joining a superhero team isn't as easy as taking a cab there and presenting yourself with a box full of your crap. There's form after form to fill out and to your eternal gratitude Dr. Kelly at least sticks around to help you whenever a roadblock appears. She takes the chair, you sit on the edge of your bed, and for the most part the room is silent but for the muted tap of fingers on touch-screens.

For early bloomers that can join the Gryphons it's dirt-simple. You enrol, you do your classes, your graduate, you're fully accredited and you can do what-the-fuck-ever. For people like you it's not quite as simple. You need to have all your records updated to reflect your change in status to 'powered' with an asterisk that says 'is fused with a creepy alien', have similar records duplicated to go into SERAPH's specialised database of known powered individuals just in case you go nuts and rob a bank. Have to fill out a change-of-residence form to reflect your use of the Lamplighters' in-house lodgings too, but at least Kelly makes the call to your landlord for you. You're issued an official trainee superhero license, valid for a month at a time and only while the Lamplighters are holding your leash.

"There really isn't any provider of power-training on the market for cases like you," Dr. Kelly explains. "Unless you're willing to leave the country that is. Otherwise part of the deal is that the Lamplighters handle your training in-house too."

"And you crank up their stipend for taking on an extra member so they can pay for it all, right?" you ask, not really paying enough attention to look up from the electronic form you're in the middle of filling out. You don't put down any familial emergency contacts.

"For food and lodging and training expenses and your wages, yes." Kelly sits forward in her chair, her elbows on her thighs, fingers laced together. Not watching you so much as pondering, her eyes half-focused. You try not to concern yourself too much with what she's not sharing with you. "You seem well-informed, so I assume you know what most C-class teams, well... do all day?"

You nod. You pause at the end of the form, fingers wavering in mid-air, then shift the tablet further down your lap for support and look up. "Well it depends," you reply. "Some are answerable to SERAPH more directly and basically act as semi-autonomous operations branches. I'm... assuming the Lamplighters aren't one of those?"

She shakes her head without hesitation. "No no. When we employ powered individuals more directly we tend to recruit from the natural-born population. Those without the means to join an institution as prestigious as the Gryphons or without the inclination to leap into the industry with one agency or another." She pauses, crossed thumbs rubbing against each other as she thinks. "Are you saying you'd prefer to come work with us? I admit I assumed you wanted the slightly more glamorous option."

"I don't mean to like, imply anything or anything," you say quickly, brow creasing with sudden worry. Now it's your turn to clasp your hands, trying to keep them still in your lap rather than fidget up a storm. "I'm not sure what I want to do exactly, so if the Lamplighters'll have me then I'll go there. Then we'll see, yeah? I mean we have to keep in touch at least once a month about my license."

Dr. Kelly smiles slightly, tilting her head. "That seems a little hands-off, don't you think? I'll call in to see how things are progressing once a week, or get a colleague to touch base with you if I can't find the time. And you'll be able to call back if you feel the need arises, so you're not exactly trapped. Alright?"

You lower your gaze, shoulders hunching a little. "Alright, thank you," you half-mutter. It doesn't really have the reassuring effect she was expecting and that really annoys you as much as it worries you. You jump on something else to think about as soon as possible. "So yeah C-classes. They're a pretty wide band but the ones that make it into the news are either the ones that upgrade to B-class or the ones that slid down. Like that time with Atlantis Tide-"

"Fucking Atlantis Tide thinking they own every speck of sand in south Florida it was a public beach and who fucks on a beach in the first place were they just trying to see if they could get away with it!?"

There's a pregnant pause. You're peeking over the top of the tablet like a shield. She blinks, almost visibly shaking off the memory like a dark cloud, and takes a deep, slow breath in and out. And then she's bright and smiling again, like nothing ever happened.

"But no, the Lamplighters are neither. No lurid history to overly concern yourself with, just a middle-of-the-road agency willing to take a chance on some new blood. A fresh start!"

A fresh start. You can't think of a more appealing set of words.

***

You've finished all your forms. Got your fresh and shiny ID tucked away in your battered, water-damaged, mud-stained wallet. Got your phone resurrected by a SERAPH tech with some spare time so you wouldn't have to buy a whole new one just to stay in contact. Got comped a change of clothes in your size so you could be decent while getting your shit from your apartment - the symbiote's fashion sense is kind of limited for going out in public at this stage.

And so here you are. Sitting in the back seat of the cab Dr. Kelly called for you, nervously cuddling up to the single heavy-duty cardboard box and suitcase that hold everything you own. Watching City 32 go by through the window and trying not to make eye contact with the driver via the rear-view mirror. There are autocabs of course, and the vast majority of people will just settle for that, but the manned variety are still alive and kicking with a few upgrades. Those willing to pay a premium get the knowledge of a native driver, a car tagged to always get right-of-way from the autos on the road, and in a pinch some conversation too. It's most commonly used when heroes are all out of options and need to get across town fast - not everyone has their own branded helicopter, and team panel-vans went out of style decades ago.

The driver is a slim older man, perhaps middle to late fifties, dressed in a dark suit, black hair combed back, full and impressive beard kept impeccably in order. The license displayed on the dashboard says 'Basim Nejem'. You study him so closely because he started it - he keeps looking at you through the rear-view mirror when he has a moment, checking and double-checking if he really has a half-alien zombie thing in his car. The silence is oppressive but you still prefer it to more talk - you'll have plenty of that for when you get to Chez Lamplighters. Shouldn't be far to the docks district at least.

You glance at the mirror at the wrong time and meet his amber-brown gaze. Dammit.

"You look like you had a rough night," he says in perfect, almost accentless English.

"I guess," you reply, staring out the window with all your might. Silently willing the driver to stop talking. Shit you'll really have to figure something out about how you look, going out for something to eat used to be one of the simple pleasures but now you'll get people staring at you wherever you go. Maybe a hood or a hat or- no fuck that'll just get people calling the cops on you.

"I was given a few details," he goes on, smoothly taking the cab around a corner and down a lesser street. "I wouldn't know anything about it myself of course, but it must be so easy for everyone that gets born with their powers. There's so much infrastructure now to catch them early and give them everything they need to grow up with a handle on it."

"I guess." You feel like a shithead. You don't relish acting like this at all but in your defence you really don't know what you're supposed to say back. 'Yes thank you it does suck to be me'? You're trying to see the positive side, or at least not thinking about the negative side for as long as you can. You knead your tired eyes with your knuckles.

"For what it's worth, the Lamplighters are a good people," he goes on, elegantly swaying between the lanes as if the car were a ballerina. "I've been at this for quite a few years now, seen the young hopefuls and the broken-down veterans - you'd be surprised how many good people slip through the cracks."

The new Hollywood, a rising star that only shines brighter by the year, eclipsing what's left of the old one. Yeah you've heard plenty of stories on your own. But right now there's only one you can worry about, one that should've been cut short but now shoots off into murky uncertainty with just the slightest hint of hope. You clutch that faint ember to your chest and think of nothing else. You hope the driver understands you're not just being rude. Either way, he doesn't bother you again.

The cab soon leaves the noise of the busier roads behind and winds through the docks, boathouses and boarding points of luxury cruise liners rubbing shoulders with aesthetically pleasing but ultimately workmanlike warehouses, like begrudging concessions to practicality from 32's architectural theme of shining progress. You're dropped off at one such warehouse, on the south side if your internal compass is right. The driver offers to help you take your things to the door but you politely turn him down, fumble and fidget about with your paltry belongings until he reverses and drives around the corner out of sight. You breathe a sigh of relief to be alone - swiftly followed by a deep breath of anticipation.

The warehouse seems nice enough on the face of it. Not the most glamorous of lodgings but leasing the whole thing must mean plenty of floorspace to go around no matter how many other teammates you'll be having. It's about three storeys tall, plus some change accounting for the peaked roof, its exterior sparkling white without a hint of any branding. A twinge of worry hits you - did you get the wrong address? No, no, there can't have been a mixup, Dr. Kelly or the driver would've picked up on that. They just aren't advertising their presence is all. The front door is an unassuming thing, the same colour as all the walls, practically blending in compared to the massive steel shutter beside it. You don't see any cameras or intercom buzzer or anything, so... nothing left to do but knock and hope.

You carry your things easily. The symbiote makes you strong enough to one-arm your box of computer things while only moderately terrified you'll spill it, and your luggage trundles along happily behind you on its telescoping metal arm. You stride across the empty concrete lot, set your luggage down beside the door, and knock.

A second passes. Two. Three.

You knock again.

You think you hear something from inside. You cock your head, straining your ears to listen.

"(Someone at the door!)" "(That's strange. Is there an appointment I didn't know about?)" "(I don't know, go get the door and ask!)" "(At this stage it seems you could have answered it yourself far more easily.)" "(Why are you making this such a big issue? Just be quiet, you'll wake up Conway.)" "(Is he even here today?)" "(I don't know, you can check on your way back from the door.)"

You draw your head back. A woman's voice, then a man's voice. Not the... best start but it's fine, you're sure it's nothing to worry about. You just straighten up, do your best to look presentable, and do your very best to smile like a human being as you listen to footsteps draw closer and closer.

Electronic locks clunk as they disengage, the door sagging ever so slightly on its hinges at the release, and it swings open. A man steps into the doorway to meet you, blocking the view beyond with his body. He has a naturally slim build, but long hours at the gym have built up more than enough lean muscle to make his charcoal blazer sit well across his shoulders. White dress shirt, matching dark slacks, dress shoes - all on the cheap side but still, is he dressed to be a superhero or go to a business meeting? He's fine-featured, dark-haired, impeccably clean-shaven, and taking in the sight of you with canted black eyes.

He smiles. "Good morning. Can I help you?"

"Uhhh..." Another stab of fear that you wound up at the wrong place. "John, uh, Granville. Here for the Lamplighters?"

"Oh!" His brow creases. He quickly checks over his shoulder, looks back at you. "Hah, apologies. It seems we're so unprepared to have you that most of us don't know you were coming." He offers his hand. "Sung Jae-yoon."

You take it and squeeze only gingerly. Crushing his hand would be a bad first impression. He gives you a few firm shakes and withdraws, half-tucking the hand in his pocket. You drop yours down by your side. Your luggage fell over but that's a problem for another time.

"... so do I call you 'Sung' or-?" you start.

"Sung is my surname but I wouldn't overly mind if you called me Jae-yoon," he answers with another smile. "It's alright. The switch in order confuses a lot of people."

"Oh. Uh." Well you feel like a genius. You drum your fingers on the box in your arm. "Sssoo um, if you didn't have time to clear me a room I can head back it's no-"

"No, no!" Sung reassures you quickly. "We have plenty of room for you to move in, I'm only sorry we couldn't arrange a proper welcome." He pauses, lips slightly pursed, and looks into the middle distance as a hundred thoughts assault him all at once. "... and on that note I should ah, warn you. It may be a bit of a shock to you depending what you were expecting."

"What d'you mean?" you ask, your worry climbing like a rocket-boosted elevator. Before you realise you're doing it you're craning your neck to peek around Sung's body, try to peer into the warehouse proper. He doesn't try to block you. With a look of embarrassed regret, he simply steps aside and lets you enter.

The warehouse was not converted with a great deal of care. The floor is still bare concrete, gritty and dusty and crying out for a vacuum to even be present in its life. Studded all over with minor holes from where the massive shelves were uprooted and then nothing else replaced them. You almost wonder how anyone is supposed to live here, until you realise that it definitely wasn't only as long as your average living room from the outside - some kind of basic prefab has been constructed inside, like someone got started on a very small apartment block that didn't want to get rained on, then gave up once it was time to take the outer walls down and finish the top. The 'front door' leads into a corridor that leads straight down the spine of the warehouse, if you squint you think you can see more doors lining each side within - the dormitories? To your right is the manager's office, a solitary one-room box up on an indoor tower that takes advantage of almost every inch of the thirty-odd feet of headroom, accessible only by a steel stairway that winds all the way up the skeletal metal base.

They get indoor power at least. You only know this for certain because there's a solitary TV sitting in the middle of the 'common area', opposite and sharing a solitary carpet with a battered couch, trailing thirty feet of extension cord. From the sound you think it's on 'H!'. A young black woman sits on the couch, watching intently, one leg crossed over the other and her chin resting against her half-curled fist. She's all done up like she's just waiting for her own car to pull up outside and take her to some formal engagement, makeup (you don't know enough to say anything more specific), dark hair straightened out and expertly braided, wearing a flowing magenta dress stitched with a gold floral pattern and matching shoes. Heels, actually - lord how does she get around without stepping in a pothole and snapping her ankle?

"Um. Hi," you say.

She doesn't notice you're there. You purse your lips so hard they vanish from view, your eyebrows scrunching together so closely they meet in the middle. Sung slips around to your left side, blocking your view of the sad little 'TV area' with his body, and gently takes your shoulder as he makes to walk you over to the dormitories.

"Florence can be, well, she tends to get preoccupied is all," he says apologetically. "May I help you unpack? Our spare room is just down the hall, the third door on the left I believe. Then perhaps I can gather the team for a more, ah... well a welcome with more effort?"

"It's really fine," you mumble, adjusting your grip on the box as you start to feel it slip. "Don't need a big song and dance or anything, just wanna learn how to do what you... do, I guess."

Sung nods. "In any case the off-"

SSSSSCCCCRRRRREEEEEEEEEEECCCHHHHH

You jump and whip right around as the ear-splitting squeal of metal grinding on metal fills the room. The woman on the couch claps both hands over her ears, shouting at the top of her lungs at the source. It's the shutter, the practically floor-to-ceiling sheet of solid metal keeping the warehouse's main entrance secure by virtue of its sheer mass, now screaming in agonised protest as it's forced off the ground and up its rails. First you only see four pale fingers wrapped around the underside, a pair of grey shoes, and a fast food value meal in a paper bag sitting in the gravel beside them. The shutter rises up and up, revealing frayed grey jeans, narrow hips, and a muscular torso that you know is muscular because the black T-shirt covering it is full of so many bullet holes it's comparable to Swiss cheese. Revealing the woman easily raising the shutter over her head at arm's length, sipping nonchalantly on the large soft drink in her free hand. Her features are Slavic, her eyes grey, the hair pulled back into a ponytail black but for a scarlet streak that half hangs out over her forehead in a single errant bang.

"How many times do we have to tell you to use the door!?" Florence exclaims. The woman with the fast food slowly nudges her bag of takeout across the threshold with her foot, still silently slurping on the sugary drink. Following suit, turning and shifting her weight to continue supporting the ton of steel in her hand. "It causes an ungodly racket and damages the rails even worse than they already are! Just remember to-"

She lets go of the door all at once. It falls again with a resounding, bone-jarring CRASH that makes you jump so badly you almost lose grip on your box of computer parts. Sung helps save it just in time.

"-... let it down slowly," Florence finishes icily.

The woman with the fast food takes the straw out of her mouth with a soft 'pop'. "Yeah I'll get right on that." She stoops and picks up the branded paper bag, the soft crinkle almost inaudible past the ringing in your enhanced ears. Only now does she glance in your direction, one eyebrow arched in mild interest. "Who's the weirdo zombie?"

You look at Sung. He gives you an extremely pained look of sympathy and apology. You drop your gaze and shrug listlessly. You don't hold the strongwoman's interest any longer. You can almost hear her shrug as she just keeps on walking for her own room.

"You should stop eating all that junk food," Florence remarks sweetly as the footsteps draw roughly level to her TV area. "It can't be good for your figure."

"Fuck off, Princess."

There's a dull 'boom' as the new arrival boots the doors to the dorms open and steps through, off to enjoy her greasy bullshit in peace. They must be double-hinged hospital-type things because they just keep on swinging like shutters in the breeze, in and out, in and out, slowly bleeding away momentum.

"... yes so that's Kate," Sung says at last. "She's, ah, she's a lot nicer when you get to know her too."

"Mhm," you reply dubiously. "And who's 'Conway'? I think I heard someone mention him through the door."

"Through the-? Oh." Sung really is very good at clamping down on the constant, burning embarrassment he's clearly been feeling ever since he had to answer the door. He smooths down the lapels on his blazer to try and refocus himself. "Garrett Conway. He's the old hand of the team, our boss more or less. He mostly keeps to himself, comes and goes as his business requires. If Kate didn't wake up him with that stunt either he's not here or he's sleeping like the dead."

You nod. It's starting to feel really awkward standing around with all your stuff but you try to clamp down on the feeling. It's okay, you're cool, you're calm, you're collected. Soon you'll have your own room so you can just focus on unpacking and setting up and fuck do they even have wi-fi or are you going to go insane living here?

"Anyone else I should know about?" you ask to stave off the looming dread. "To avoid more, erm, surprises?"

"Oh, yes!" He seems to brighten. "There's Caio. He's always in the pool so if you want to go introduce yourself to him."

"You have a pool?" you ask, incredulous.

"... eehh..." he makes a slight seesaw motion with his hand. "He's the only one that uses it. But he likes it just fine so it all works out. In any case, I insist you let me help you take your things to your room. Or use the spare time to look around if you'd like! It's the least I can do in the face of these ah, unfortunate circumstances."

[ ] Accept Sung's offer. He seems nice enough and normal enough, and he's not visibly creeped out so that's another plus. Introduce yourself to him properly, maybe get to know him a little.
[ ] Introduce yourself to 'Caio'. He seems to be one of two Lamplighters you haven't seen hide nor hair of yet, so you're kind of curious. Sung seems to think he won't be such a shock to the system as the girls, too.
[ ] Introduce yourself to Florence. Surely you can get past the initial standoffish phase and build a healthy working relationship, right? All you have to do is stroll over there and politely introduce yourself. Dirt-simple. Ahaha... ha... [-1 PP]
[ ] Introduce yourself to Kate. Okay so that introduction might've filled your head with a thousand and one reasons why you don't want to go and bother her for no reason, especially alone, but... t-teambuilding? [-1 PP]
[ ] Politely decline Sung's offer and go get set up on your own. You think you need a little time to yourself. Or maybe a lot. If unpacking and setting up isn't distracting or therapeutic enough at least you'll have some privacy to lie down and hope your stomach stops feeling so tight. [+1 PP]
[ ] Ask if you can go on a tour of the facilities. You've never been inside a real (well, 'real') hero agency HQ before, and you're eager to see what might be tucked away in all this spare space.

---

Melancholeric said:

Not a single mention of 'true believers' 0/10 waste of money

1. How exactly did superheroes emerge in this world? Was Conjunction a definitive cause, or people with powers existed before?
2. What is Conjunction?
3. What major superhero teams are there in the world?
4. When did the 'kaiju' attacks start occurring?
5. Can John cover himself with spikes?

Click to expand...

Click to shrink...

Well young man I don't know what kind of beloved comics industry icon you might think I'm appropriating mannerisms from, but any such allegation is completely and utterly false. 'nuff said. Now as to your questions;

1. The Conjunction was the definitive cause of superpowers, yes. Anubis is the 'first' hero 'cause he was the first to get out there kicking ass and taking names, but the first wave of heroes all manifested roughly the same time as him.
2. The Conjunction is the cosmic event that brought the universe as we know it, our 'Sphere', into contact with the infinite other Spheres in the multiverse. It was a period of widespread chaos and disaster and social upheaval, chaos in the streets, monsters rising out of every ocean, a huge burst of cosmic radiation giving people superpowers, the works. The world still hasn't fully recovered even 42 years on.
3. Oh there's all sorts of superhero teams all over the world, Bangkok to Bombay. If you're talking major-major ones, the international ones, those are the A-class teams. There's about a dozen of them, one for each major geographic area (one per continent was pretty unfair, and oddly enough there weren't enough superpowered penguins for an Antarctic team) - like Arcadia for North America, Az-Zabaniya for the Middle-East, the United Flagbearers for Europe, the Shìjiè Zhànshì for China, et cetera et cetera.
4. They came with the Conjunction, and boy did they ever come. Earth was such a fresh and densely-populated target they came in droves from Spheres all over the multiverse.
5. Probably! Why d'you ask? Is this about that hedgehog thing the kids are all about these days? Y'know, the one with the moustache?

Who? said:

Dear Mr. Editor

I'd like to start off by saying I greatly enjoyed the first issue of Lamplighters. It excelled at establishing both John's character and the nature of the world around him - while still leaving plenty of questions to be asked and answered later.

Out of curiosity, what do you think might have happened to John if he had chosen to stand and do nothing, or even run away when that person was in danger? Would he have gotten different powers? Would he have the same symbiote, but different statistics? And how would things have changed if he had chosen a different location to run to when the alarm sounded?

Your faithful reader,
Litter A. L. Y. Who

Click to expand...

Click to shrink...

Who names their kid 'Litter'? Were your folks big cat people? Anyway, thanks for writing in kid, now let's get to yer questions;

1. Given the timing of it all, Paragon probably would've showed up to save him from the mercury squid after it was done killing the first guy. Poor John woulda felt absolutely terrible, and told Paragon about what happened to try and get somma that guilt off his chest. What would he have had to say to his fan? Who knows now?
2. The symbiote's pretty key to the story of John's turn to the hero industry, so one way or the other he still woulda called it to him across the Spheres. But gettin' turned into a person shishkebob and reviving a creepy black-blooded zombie alien thing, that's down to his choices.
3. Running to Drop Demon he would've got an up-close look at how heroes on the ground handle kaiju incursions and the chance to try and help his heroes. Running to the bunker would've given him a look at how bad it can get in the middle of it instead, stuck underground waiting and hoping a giant lizard's foot doesn't come through the roof and crush you along with all of your friends.

Execute/Dumbo said:

Dear Mr. Editor

I'd like to thank you for constructing such a living, breathing world of super-powered individuals, even in just six instalments, I can already begin to see this vivid world of yours.

But on the nature of this world, how powerful do you forsee John getting? Will he ever be powerful to fight on the level of capes such as Jackal?
Your faithful reader,
Wayt Waht Haow Y.

Click to expand...

Click to shrink...

Nobody does one-and-done issues in this industry any more, kid. Real winners write for the trade. Anyway, on to your questions... I dunno who this Jackal character is, but Anubis is the one guy that never really lost that 'untouchable god' mystique stuff supers had back in the real early days. He's on a whole 'nother level. As far as John and the other Lamplighters are gonna progress? Well, you'll just have to keep on buying issues to find out, won'tcha W- Wayd... Haoy... damn hippies with their flowerchild names, kids're gonna grow up weird and Communist.

EternalStruggle said:

Dear Editor,

An excellent start to the series! I've rarely read a better Volume One of anything, I must confess. A good mix of the realistic and the fantastical, the mundane and the supernatural, through the eyes of those below and soon one a bit above. I look forward to the continuation!

Two questions I do have:

1. D-Class teams were mentioned as an entry-level position for heroes, with the Lamplighters themselves being C-Class. Obviously this is a power scale of sorts that goes from D through A, but what I am interested in is how these classes are assigned. What makes the Lamplighters a C-Class group instead of a D or B-Class? What are the requirements for A-Class status? That sort of thing.

2. The fair city is a veritable fortress, we did see some rather hefty enplaced defenses trying (and failing) to fight off the rampaging Kaiju. I must ask, how common is this for the world as a whole? How many cities deal with regular attacks of this scale? Is it every city? A coastal problem? Or is City 32 in particular the best defended city, due to being the one most likely to be attacked, and this is just an unfortunate fact of local life? And do other nations suffer attacks or is this limited to a single landmass or country?

Yours Sincerely,

Uni M. Portant.

Click to expand...

Click to shrink...

Thanks for the kind words, kid! Always happy to hear about a fan hooked on a new book! Now let's get into your questions;

1. It's a power scale in a pretty loose sense but an A-class guy doesn't automatically beat a B-class in a fight or anything. Basically it goes like this - D-class are glorified city services staffed by powered guys. The Outriders are like an auxiliary police force and private security firm, Leopard Shark are coastguard and kaiju first-responders, Compass Rose help fully map out new Spheres, that kinda thing. C-class teams are defined as having a current SERAPH-issued license to operate, some kind of permanent office location, and at least three accredited heroes to its name. B-class teams are recognised for being regional powerhouses, earning enough per year off advertising and sponsorships that they can completely go off the SERAPH stipend and turn a profit independently. A-class teams are the cream of the crop, deliberately kept to a small amount so that SERAPH can micromanage their international license to operate. If you wanna join those guys you'd need a resume the size of me!
2. Well for starters the world's 70% water. If a kaiju's gonna come through, it's basically got a three-in-four chance of landing in the drink and having to wade for its food. The attacks caused absolutely horrific damage back in the early days, but since then early-warning and defence tech has improved leaps and bounds. Living on the coast is at least safe-ish now and SERAPH drill their evacuation teams basically constantly. Kaiju attacks are a fact of life even if they don't exactly have a set schedule, but the general trend is an attack every couple of months per continent/bigger landmass. City 32's up-armoured so much because it makes a stand for the cameras every single time, even when other cities would just cut their losses and get all the people out.

TenfoldShields said:

Dear Hobag

A. what's the letter rankings mean in terms of scope and scale?
B. WHERE ARE THE ROMANCE OPTIONS I KNOW YOU'RE HIDING THEM SOMEWHERE YOU FUCK

Sincerely,

A Fan

Click to expand...

Click to shrink...

a whoooobaag?

A. Well kid, I already answered this question - perils of taking letters from adoring fans all over the world. But just 'cause I love kids who buy my products, I'll summarise it again. D-class is for the guys that probably can't make it in the big leagues, so they settle - breathing underwater's a pretty cool power when you're a lifeguard. C-class are the guys that think they have a chance to make it big, or the guys that fell and are still holding on by their fingernails thinking they have another shot. B-class are the guys that made it, no disputing. A-class makes you a household name, the kinda name even guys that don't speak your language have a good chance of knowin'.
B. THE LAMPLIGHTERS OMNIBUS is the rousing tale of a boy and his alien, and how love crosses all divides.

Havocfett said:

To the Honorable Mister Editor

GWENT WHEN

How common are teams of various classes? Are there two or three B-Class teams per city and a multitude of C-Class? An A-Class team per major city? Presumably C-Class are very common for our hero-nerd protagonist to have no idea who the Lamplighters are, but how common are the other ones.

Besides Jackal, what is the most famous hero team in the world?

From,
A Fan

Click to expand...

Click to shrink...

The official trading card game of Lamplighters? I'm glad ya asked, kid! It's gonna be on sale soon on something called a Steamer for free! I dunno what this electronics stuff is all about yet but the bigwigs said they'd nickle and dime all you stupid rubes for a buck a card until you wind up spendin' thousands just to get your favourite heroes and beat the leaderboards.

Uh crap, I don't know how to uh the backspace uh-

Right yeah your questions.

1. C-class teams are, well they ain't a dime a dozen but they rise and fall often enough it ain't earth-shattering when they boom or go bust. B-class teams are a couple per major city, like favourite sports teams with the stadiums named after them and the themed bars and the what-have-ya. A-class teams are thin on the ground, like I said before. Vast majority feel like they 'made it' once they hit B then stop.
2. Everyone's got their own points fer debate but more people'd agree with you for saying 'Arcadia' and they all know it. America knows cultural exports and commercialisation, and City 32's the new Hollywood. Also who's this damn Jackal guy you folks keep talkin' about!?

LaRed said:

To Whoever Writes Dis Shit:

Are there any notable villain organizations that oppose the hero ones or is there not enough uh, grace periods between monster attacks for groups like that to form?

Sincerely,
Squatting Neighborhood Lizardman

(Everyone else took the good questions so idfk)

Click to expand...

Click to shrink...

I don't write 'Dis Shit', that's Frank at Legendary. But you picked a good question anyway kid, so let's have at it! Basically what you think of when you think 'villain' ain't really that common in the Lamplighters world. I mean sure they pop up. Plenty of Henry Jekylls makin' weird potions or concoctions or Spheretech bits and wind up turnin' evil. Like a lot. A lot a lot. Way too many. I like the Jekyll & Hyde story okay lay off me, a man's got a formula. Point is some people do get powers and snap too quick for anyone to help 'em, and they can cause more'n their fair share of strife, but then they get dealt with one way or the other. Breaking back out of superjail to crime again ain't really business as usual. The guys that really know what's up never get caught in the first place. Closest heroes get to beating up supervillains is when they tackle organised crime or mercs with a wonky moral compass - plenty of guys with powers out there that don't want SERAPH shackles as part of the parcel.