After surviving an explosion of suspicious origins, a journalist student awakens with dark abilities amid a city teeming with chaotic elements and growing conspiracies. Determined to share the story of the Empire City Bombing's aftermath, he embarks on a journey that may strand him in destiny's shadow.
Dusk 'til Dawn [inFamous / DC Comics SI]
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Carl Jung once said, "Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darkness of other people." This one quote has been particularly emblematic of my life as of late, because I have faced more than my share of darkness from others and from myself.
If you're reading this first post, you likely already have an inkling about what this blog is all about. For many of you, you might be binging from the beginning about exactly where everything went wrong in my life and the lives of so many others in one of the most populated cities on the Eastern Seaboard. I'm here to tell you that it gets much, much worse before any of it gets better.
Jury's still out on if any of it will get better.
Disclaimer: I'm not holding anything back. You will see the dirty details on how dangerous living in the Empire City Quarantine really was - or rather, still is. You'll get eye-witness accounts to events that would be unbelievable to most people, even in the increasingly strange world in which we live. I cannot promise that there will be many moments of levity or moments of heart, but I can promise my lived truth.
These days, in Empire City? I should just be lucky I lived long enough to tell my truth.
The woman confidently steps into the too-bright studio for another television appearance, her bright purple pantsuit chosen to display strength and femininity. In the face of such dangerous days, it is as important to find the truth as a journalist as it is to craft an image that can inspire others. Did she personally care about the latter as much as the former? Of course not, but her mentors have always been candid that she was a powerhouse. A female powerhouse. Those are the thoughts that distract her momentarily from the heightened stress of the month's news.
Members of the crew, including a make-up artist, flurry around her for several seconds, but she waves them off with a gesture and a terse frown. "I like my look as it is, frankly, and if you don't like it, then you can bite me." She gives a winning smile. "Respectfully, of course."
The make-up artist nods sheepishly, her auburn hair tied in a ponytail behind her while a messy set of cords connected to her headphones rest across her neck. "Y-yes, Miss Lane."
"Good," she says with a simple nod. "How long do I have until showtime?"
"Mr. Godfrey is aware that you're here," suggests another producer, dressed busily in recording equipment. She hates being part of the crew on a television set, and she's had to fill it occasionally for the Planet's broadcasts. "He will call you in shortly. Given the circumstances," the producer clears her throat pointedly, a solemn look on her face, "Mr. Godfrey has requested distance between himself, the crew, and any other guests for the foreseeable future. As such, you'll be-"
"Got it, a remote interview." Lois sighs. "If you'd have mentioned that, I could have saved bus fare."
The producer looks at her curiously. "You ride the bus?" The woman takes two steps back.
She merely stares. "You think I'm too good for public transportation? Ha! I should get you to say that in front of my dad - he won't stop laughing til the New Year!"
Another technician approaches quietly, earning a hurried look from the producer. She begins gesturing for the rest of the immediate team to act, and then turns back to Lois. "Mr. Godfrey is ready for you shortly. You familiarized yourself with the notes we submitted earlier?"
The reporter has the decency to not scoff in front of this poor producer. Instead, she puts on a pretty smile. "I could not put them down. Well-formatted, ma'am. Short, concise, to the… well, best talking points I've ever read."
The producer does not know how to respond to that, and Lois can't help but feel amused about the whole thing. In the face of such tragic circumstances, humor is the great balancer, even in inappropriate times.
A moment later, the crew shuffles Lois into place. A monitor displaying the anchor of the program, G. Gordon Godfrey himself, rests to the left, while another monitor shows her own feed alongside the two other guests. She does not recognize them personally, but according to the call sheet, the pudgy bespectacled man is Professor Darwin Jones of Rutgers University, and the uniformed military officer is General Wayne Hardcastle. She tries to focus on any memory of the latter through her interactions with her father, but nothing - he could be anyone of import. A quick text later, and maybe she can learn something during this conversation that might be useful.
"We return from our ill-timed ad break to continue our coverage of the horrifying events from Empire City," Godfrey declares in his own smarmy way, the well-kept sandy blond hair coiffed perfectly atop his withering features. No amount of Botox or fillers would help this guy, and yet, it almost works for him. "Joining me now are, perhaps, some familiar faces to many of you. First, and certainly not the most, we have U.S. Army General Wayne Hardcastle. Secondly, we have prized Pulitzer Award-winning journalist of the Daily Planet, Lois Lane. And last, but certainly not the least, we have Rutgers' own Professor Darwin Jones, an expert in the unexpected and the strange."
He pauses dramatically to wait for the audience to register who is who, and Lois does not smile or acknowledge the pause, merely taking time to think of her first pointed question and her first target.
"If you are just joining us," he continues, "or if you've had your head buried in the sand these short weeks, a terrorist attack struck New York's own Empire City. An explosion of unknown origin unleashed catastrophic damages to its famous Historic District, and in the ensuing aftermath, a never before seen and often fatal respiratory illness has begun to spread among its surviving population. General, could you please explain to the people what the military's response is to this crisis?"
Hardcastle tenses for a few short moments. "The White House has declared a state of emergency for New York state and has instituted a no-questions-asked quarantine around Empire City, per recommendations from the CDC until they work on a treatment to mitigate the symptoms of those affected. The intelligence community seeks answers for the perpetrators of this awful event-"
Lois cuts in. "Are you suggesting that the U.S. Government still does not have knowledge of the responsible foreign power who nuked a city of millions, a city on U.S. soil?"
"It was not a nuclear warhead," Hardcastle clarifies, towing the same line that many in his shoes have stuck to since it began.
"I do not know what is worse, General," Lois continues, "the idea that someone did nuke us and you're covering it up, or the idea that it wasn't a nuke and you don't know what exactly this bomb was. Everything about the aftermath suggests a chemical weapon, or perhaps a biological weapon, and on the scale from cherry bomb to nuke, those are way closer to nuke."
Hardcastle sneers. "I assure you, Lois-"
"Miss Lane," she clarifies without a hint of mirth and without hesitation.
"-Miss Lane," he grumbles, "that the U.S. government will act the moment we are aware of this attack's source. It is only a moment of time before one of our longstanding enemies takes credit for their actions, to make us look weak in the wake of tragedy."
Hmm.
"Which one, you think? China? Russia? Bialya?"
Hardcastle sternly replies, "I am not at liberty to speculate."
Lois knows that, but situations like this tend to bring the worst out in droves. There are far too many journalists, reporters, news anchors, and others looking into this event. Keeping everyone involved on one page is actually quite difficult, but discerning the truth from the falsehoods or misrepresented facts can be incredibly difficult. We can't all have a fancy lasso.
"This quarantine - how necessary is it?"
Hardcastle shakes his head. "I'm afraid I am not an expert in chemical weapons or the infectious diseases expert in the White House or CDC. Answering this would be out of my expertise, except to say that a mandatory, forceful quarantine will contain the affected area of any kind of serious infection, pandemic or otherwise."
Lois wants to bite at the authority they have to make those decisions, but all of that comes back to the presidency, and she doesn't want to make an enemy out of the most politically powerful human in the world. If things are truly as bad as they seem to be, then a quarantine is necessary. Even if, in the interim, people are trapped with gangs, looters, and other criminals.
Godfrey redirects the conversation to him with a loud clearing of his throat. "Professor Jones, we invited you here today to discuss your findings. You mentioned on Spitter that you had uncovered information about the Empire City Blast from video footage the public possesses of the event."
The professor adjusts his glasses and slowly nods, wiping a moment later at his thick mustache. "Er, yes, I did. My findings cannot be conclusive without firsthand research on-site, but with what evidence we have seen, I think we can rule out that it was a nuclear warhead of any size. The explosion appeared to be substantially electrical in nature, and its area of immediate impact was a mere few city blocks."
Godfrey's producers play the clip of the explosion with the most views on NowTube without a cue, earning more than a little respect from her. They are good at spinning a tale, when some in your circle are planning to stick to the talking points. So far, Lois has done everything in her power to push the envelope or to directly challenge the whole notion.
"Electrical, you say?" Lois asks, intrigued. "General Hardcastle, does that jive with any known or unknown chemical weapons?"
She can't tell if the revelation of significant electricity among the attack is something that surprises the military jackboot or not, the man's face impassive. "Miss Lane, I am certain that when the White House understands more, you'll be among the first to know."
Lois bites her tongue to remain professional, but a myriad of questions rush to her mind.
The cameras cut away from the three guests and back to Godfrey, perfect teeth gleaming in the studio lights. "And what, Professor Jones, do you make of this?"
The feed shifts to a second video, one that was posted… three hours ago? She has not seen this one - word travels fast, and information about Empire City is all anyone's discussing. A short clip, seconds long, but the new information, the new angle, is incredible. A single man races down a bridge while lightning strikes buzz through the air around him, coursing their powerful voltage into the street, into vehicles, into flesh. At first, it looks like he's running for his life, but no. From the look of the electricity racing down both arms in flickering arcs, Lois realizes three things.
One - this man is a walking lightning storm of destruction.
Two - this man may have generated the explosion.
Three - Godfrey invited her here not for her journalistic integrity, but for her close coverage of Superman.
Lois misses how Professor Jones answers the question, but Godfrey turns his attention quickly to her. "Miss Lane, in light of this new information, my benefactors and I thought it best to ask you your thoughts. In our field of work, you are perhaps the reporter closest to this new fangled metahuman-"
"Or alien," Hardcastle interrupts with indignation.
"- or alien, yes, phenomenon. This horrific event in Empire City may be the work of a single man that treads on God's domain. We know precious little of his motives, his background, his identity…. And yet, we know no one man should have the power to annihilate an entire city district in a single moment, nor to unleash an unstoppable illness upon the world. Miss Lane, care to comment your feelings on this?"
"My… feelings?" At Godfrey's urging, she frowns at the framing. "My feelings are that we do not yet know enough about this dangerous situation or this allegedly dangerous man. We can speculate, ask hard questions, uncover the truth! But to denounce him at this stage as some kind of meta terrorist is premature."
"But to denounce him at this stage as some kind of meta terrorist is prematu-"
Jason slaps a hand on my back roughly, and I almost spill the glass of tea across the table in surprise. Interest in the static-filled news broadcast fading after that interruption, the blond beams that winning smile, and I have to roll my eyes and fight through a renewed migraine. Never had 'em before, but now… "I'm just glad you're out, bro. We should celebrate."
"Is that not what we're doing?" I ask, desperately wishing my brother would bother to pay attention. "What else are we going to find to do when everything around us has gone to shit? Give it four days, and this place'll be out of stock of anything fun. Sooner if the gangs find out they're open."
"All right, fair point. We could…."
His voice trails off as he quickly runs out of ideas.
"Look, just take this as a blessing. We're getting drinks in an open bar. Might be the only chance we get for months."
It truly is a miracle that the barkeep bothered to let a few people filter through every hour, and an even more unlikely one that Jason found the place at all. It's a system that will work for a time, but the longer this goes on, the more meaningless it'll be to try to make money. He'd be better off to shutter his doors, hide his valuables, and hunker down somewhere.
If not for where I've been for some time, things would be different.
"Oh, this is great, Logan," Jason relents. "It's celebration enough that the hospital let you out-"
"A hospital that barely has anyone on staff while it's overstuffed?"
"Who cares?!" Jason declares. "You survived the Blast. You're not coughing, and you don't have any signs of a rash - you're gonna be fine." He claps my back again, rougher this time, and I'm reminded exactly why he was on the shortlist to go to Gotham U and play for the Knights. He's always been the one of us with the muscle, even though I'm older and shorter. "More than fine! It's incredible, really, how you managed any of that."
The louder his voice gets, the more nervous I get at the other folks around us. People who likely lost loved ones in an explosion with an unknown death toll. An explosion that should have killed me, but didn't.
"I just think I got lucky."
So lucky that I don't remember what happened. The actual explosion, the fiery aftermath, the scarred body, the rush to find aid. Jason was probably luckier, honestly - he was on the other side of the Neon when it happened, so he didn't lose two weeks of his life hooked to an IV.
"Lucky is an understatement, Logan." His eyes turn wild at the possibilities, and he leans in closer. Swiping to open his phone, he pulls up a picture a second later. "That's you then. But you- now? How?"
No preparation can ever ready you to see a picture of yourself covered in thick burns, a patch of brown hair replaced by scar tissue, left arm pinned under heavy debris, and bruising in nearly every visible patch of skin. The most horrific detail of it all, the one that made me finally look away and into my brother's anxious eyes, is that a burned segment of my t-shirt had been so hot that it melted into my skin.
None of that damage remains.
Healed.
All of it, gone, in days what might have taken months to heal, if at all.
"Delete that picture!" I nearly shout, before remembering that we're in public. For whatever public there even is anymore in a disaster zone. "Wrong person gets a hold of that, and I can't explain it! Photogram filters have limits, J."
He frowns, some of the excitement undercut. "Okay, fine." He fumbles with his phone for a second and then shows me the picture is gone, replaced by a nicely taken picture of a plate of boiled chicken and mashed potatoes.
"J, please don't tell me that you take pictures of your meals for your followers-"
Jason looks aghast. "Don't diss what my fitness bros want to see." He flexes a bicep, and it's all I can do not to groan. "And - wow. Deflection, much? How did you survive all of that without a scratch on you?"
"I see scratches!" I gesture to a scar on my left arm, but he tilts his head knowingly.
"You got that from a scooter accident when you were ten."
I frown, not wanting to discuss any of the implications of this. I don't know whether to be horrified or hopeful - something disturbing happened, something that could not yet be explained. The kind of thing that would make my mother "praise the lord." And it's not even the strangest thing to have happened to me, but I've long since stopped trying to figure that one out.
"Until we talk about it, Logan, our questions don't just go away."
"They won't go away because I have no god damn answers!" A spike of pain erupts behind my eyes, and I rub at my temple.
Jason ignores me, rattling off a list he must have had made for a while. "Maybe the nurses were testing a super-drug at the hospital."
"A super drug that can heal bruises, burns, and crushed bones? In days?"
"Why not?" he asks genuinely. "There's a dude two states away who can fly and stop trains with his bare hands."
Several seconds pass, deadpan. "I hate how reasonable that sounds."
He grins. "I have that effect on people."
"You once joined an MLM," I deadpan, and he just glares. I continue. "If there's a super-drug like that, I feel like we'd know about it by now. Especially with how many people were hurt, injured, or worse by the Blast. They'd be passing it around in droves."
He concedes that with a shrug, and then leaps at his next outlandish theory. "Maybe everyone who was hurt by the Blast is going to come back healed, like you did. Some kind of time-field-eff…" He trails off at his own thoughts. "Okay, never mind, that one was dumb. Forget I mentioned it."
I don't prod him, wondering how in the hell people who were vaporized were going to magically return with healed bodies. My situation is weird, but that's a step too weird.
Jason rattles off a few more outlandish thoughts, barely audible as he convinces himself that there's no way any of that could be real. "Alien conspiracy?" I shake my head, not bothering to show surprise anymore. As much as I know Superman is an alien, I'm not sure the rest of the world does yet. "Superpowers? Hah, you could be that guy's sidekick. That's what they do in the comics, right?"
I just shake my head, migraine incoming at the lunacy. "C'mon, let's get back before it gets dark. As bad as this city is in the daytime, I don't want anything to do with those Reapers at night."
Jason reluctantly nods and takes a long swig from his beer. He shares a wave with the bartender, adjusts his backpack onto his back, and then beckons me to follow him out the rickety door. I wave him off for a minute and approach the barkeep, a burly-looking man with a burning cigar in hand.
"Thanks for letting us in," I say sincerely, earning a small smile from the man while he pours a fresh pitcher from a locked fridge below the countertop. A loaded shotgun rests on a shelf behind him, in arm's reach. "You didn't have to do that for anyone right now."
"I'd say you're welcome to come back, but I don't know how much longer I can hold things together," he admits solemnly. "But I appreciate your words, nonetheless."
"I'm Logan Masters, and that's my brother Jason back there," I explain, and J gives the barkeep a nod.
"Kev Sandall," the man offers.
"I was in college for journalism and creative writing before all this happened. I'm, well, if we make it, I plan to document all of this. I'll make sure to write about your kindness."
He furrows a brow in my direction, but I shake my head. "Anyway, thanks again."
Heading toward Jason and the door, I turn one final time to the television screen, watching the twenty-four-hour news cycle spin its endless coverage of the Empire City Blast. How amazing it is that Lois mother-fucking Lane is actually real?
"C'mon," Jason says impatiently, "you're the one who said you wanted to get back before dark."
"Yeah, yeah, coming."
The streets are a wreck. Looting has ruined any open shop fronts that might have valuable supplies or valuables they could sell when all this is over. Windows to homes as far up as four or even five stories are broken, boarded, or both, while those near the top of skyscrapers tend to be ignored or just boarded. Cars - junkers or otherwise - lie abandoned on the streets while scalpers take advantage of any parts they can find. Some survivors who still brave the sidewalks wear masks, some wear their shirts tightly around their mouths, and some remain uncovered; all try to keep to themselves or to their loved ones, avoiding getting into anyone's business.
It won't be long until desperate people force their way into everyone's business. Groceries will be low or expended soon for most people, and I suspect a lot of mothers will be making their children eat nothing but rice for as long as that can last. Clean water is a godsend and might be the commodity everyone trades, unless the water main stays on.
"How long you think this'll take?" Jason asks as he wraps a navy scarf around his lower face, stepping over a pile of opened and picked-over trash.
"What'll take?"
"All this?" he asks. "Two weeks? A month? A year?"
I sigh, trying to remember what I know or have read. "I'm not a scientist, J, but it could be years."
That sobering thought brings the mood down for both of us, and the mood was already low. Part of me wonders if this is what Rick Grimes felt like when he woke from a coma to a completely changed Atlanta. The details are not the same, but nothing about this place feels like home.
One up-side? There aren't any zombies. Just a plague that kills some who are infected within hours, some within days.
Another? Someone like Superman will fix all of this soon. I'm sure of it. What good is growing up for a second time in a universe where DC Comics characters are real if they can't change it all back?
I toss, I turn, until I finally give up sleeping on the frayed couch that Jason swears is a futon, but it's so poorly shaped that it does nothing for comfort when you're trying to lay on it. Add in the migraines that haven't stopped, and it's a sleepless night for me. He offered the bed for at least tonight, but I refused, only now regretting it. The blond's favorite thing in the entire world, a three-year-old husky named Samantha, rests in his arms, and I can't possibly wake him up and make him suffer my fate too.
Jason's hideaway is little more than an off-campus one-bedroom apartment near Archer Square. In another life, another time, it might have been nice to be within walking distance of the university, but going there is meaningless for the foreseeable future. Its largest buildings were unlucky enough to face the harbor, and when the Blast hit part of the Historic District, enough debris struck that it was officially closed for the foreseeable future. I doubt that would change much - any building is fair game to scavenge for supplies if you're desperate enough.
Samantha senses that I'm awake, as there's little room for me to have some space of my own without disturbing the dog, and she whimpers lightly until I signal for her to quiet. The one saving grace of the apartment is a balcony, and I gather some courage just long enough to get some air. A box of scavenged supplies mostly blocks the sliding doors, but I push it aside as quietly as I can.
Sliding the door open and carefully closing it behind me without making much noise, I step into the moonlight and onto the poorly-cleaned space. It stinks slightly of cigarettes and stained alcohol, and it does not surprise me in the slightest to see how Jason really lives, my bare feet crunching old cigarette butts. A few pieces of plywood cover some of the balcony's open space, but there wasn't enough for everything.
My space is comparatively nicer, but it's inaccessible until the city, the police, or the military, or whoever let us cross from the Neon into the Historic District. They'd have to take us by boat or give us access to the bridges that still work, but who knows how long any of that will go? The feds will be picking over the blast radius for months, so what's the point in trying to poke the bear?
The migraine twinges with pain as my worries continue. Doomscrolling on my phone is far worse than usual when cell signal is intermittent at best, and the wi-fi here isn't working. Conspiracy brain wonders if that's all deliberate, but I can't imagine the government would really want to limit communication. It's not like a pandemic means that the public can't talk to each other in or out of the city.
No, it's more likely that there's some damage to a tower somewhere, or the lines, or something. A blast that wipes out a few city blocks is bound to knock several things loose in the aftermath.
The latest news is a video taken from a security camera showing 'The Electric Man.' His identity is still unknown, but damn it, the evidence is fairly damning. The clip clearly shows an explosion starting at his position, either from the metal sphere in his hands or from himself. Lois Lane was not eager earlier to call him a metahuman terrorist, but much of the media is now. I check to see if she's made any sort of comment on the latest, but her Spitter feed is empty for several hours and The Daily Planet has merely parroted the things that other sites and sources have, without her personal signature.
I consider what to do next, what Jason and I need to do in the morning to ensure that we can continue to eat, what any long-term plans are, until a-
Pap! Pap! Pap!
My head whirls around so fast toward the sound of distant gunfire that my phone slips from my grasp. I make a desperate grab for it before it falls four stories onto the dingy pavement below, but miss!
Cursing under my breath, I study its fall, listening for the sound of the impact as much as I expect to see it in the dimly lit sidewalk. Maybe my case-
It never hits.
Straining my eyes as my migraine spikes, I see the spot where it would have hit, but it's too dark to see details, but not so dark that I wouldn't see it if it were right there.
But it isn't.
My migraine ceases suddenly for the first time in hours, and I turn around in disappointment to make the trek downstairs to check for my shattered phone, annoyed to be doing this at night of all times.
I stop in my tracks.
Sitting on the balcony floor just behind me is… a phone. My phone? With my case?
I bend to make a reach for it, and it reaches for me at the same time. A column of darkness stretches soundlessly like an arm, phone in its palm, to make the handoff. My own hands burn with the same darkness, tinged slightly in white light, and good God I'm going nuts.
I gingerly take the perfectly undamaged cell phone from the shadowed hand, and when the device is safe, the hand and its arm recede until it returns… to my shadow? The aura of light around my own hands fades even as I question everything about my reality.
What the hell was that?
If you're reading this first post, you likely already have an inkling about what this blog is all about. For many of you, you might be binging from the beginning about exactly where everything went wrong in my life and the lives of so many others in one of the most populated cities on the Eastern Seaboard. I'm here to tell you that it gets much, much worse before any of it gets better.
Jury's still out on if any of it will get better.
Disclaimer: I'm not holding anything back. You will see the dirty details on how dangerous living in the Empire City Quarantine really was - or rather, still is. You'll get eye-witness accounts to events that would be unbelievable to most people, even in the increasingly strange world in which we live. I cannot promise that there will be many moments of levity or moments of heart, but I can promise my lived truth.
These days, in Empire City? I should just be lucky I lived long enough to tell my truth.
The woman confidently steps into the too-bright studio for another television appearance, her bright purple pantsuit chosen to display strength and femininity. In the face of such dangerous days, it is as important to find the truth as a journalist as it is to craft an image that can inspire others. Did she personally care about the latter as much as the former? Of course not, but her mentors have always been candid that she was a powerhouse. A female powerhouse. Those are the thoughts that distract her momentarily from the heightened stress of the month's news.
Members of the crew, including a make-up artist, flurry around her for several seconds, but she waves them off with a gesture and a terse frown. "I like my look as it is, frankly, and if you don't like it, then you can bite me." She gives a winning smile. "Respectfully, of course."
The make-up artist nods sheepishly, her auburn hair tied in a ponytail behind her while a messy set of cords connected to her headphones rest across her neck. "Y-yes, Miss Lane."
"Good," she says with a simple nod. "How long do I have until showtime?"
"Mr. Godfrey is aware that you're here," suggests another producer, dressed busily in recording equipment. She hates being part of the crew on a television set, and she's had to fill it occasionally for the Planet's broadcasts. "He will call you in shortly. Given the circumstances," the producer clears her throat pointedly, a solemn look on her face, "Mr. Godfrey has requested distance between himself, the crew, and any other guests for the foreseeable future. As such, you'll be-"
"Got it, a remote interview." Lois sighs. "If you'd have mentioned that, I could have saved bus fare."
The producer looks at her curiously. "You ride the bus?" The woman takes two steps back.
She merely stares. "You think I'm too good for public transportation? Ha! I should get you to say that in front of my dad - he won't stop laughing til the New Year!"
Another technician approaches quietly, earning a hurried look from the producer. She begins gesturing for the rest of the immediate team to act, and then turns back to Lois. "Mr. Godfrey is ready for you shortly. You familiarized yourself with the notes we submitted earlier?"
The reporter has the decency to not scoff in front of this poor producer. Instead, she puts on a pretty smile. "I could not put them down. Well-formatted, ma'am. Short, concise, to the… well, best talking points I've ever read."
The producer does not know how to respond to that, and Lois can't help but feel amused about the whole thing. In the face of such tragic circumstances, humor is the great balancer, even in inappropriate times.
A moment later, the crew shuffles Lois into place. A monitor displaying the anchor of the program, G. Gordon Godfrey himself, rests to the left, while another monitor shows her own feed alongside the two other guests. She does not recognize them personally, but according to the call sheet, the pudgy bespectacled man is Professor Darwin Jones of Rutgers University, and the uniformed military officer is General Wayne Hardcastle. She tries to focus on any memory of the latter through her interactions with her father, but nothing - he could be anyone of import. A quick text later, and maybe she can learn something during this conversation that might be useful.
"We return from our ill-timed ad break to continue our coverage of the horrifying events from Empire City," Godfrey declares in his own smarmy way, the well-kept sandy blond hair coiffed perfectly atop his withering features. No amount of Botox or fillers would help this guy, and yet, it almost works for him. "Joining me now are, perhaps, some familiar faces to many of you. First, and certainly not the most, we have U.S. Army General Wayne Hardcastle. Secondly, we have prized Pulitzer Award-winning journalist of the Daily Planet, Lois Lane. And last, but certainly not the least, we have Rutgers' own Professor Darwin Jones, an expert in the unexpected and the strange."
He pauses dramatically to wait for the audience to register who is who, and Lois does not smile or acknowledge the pause, merely taking time to think of her first pointed question and her first target.
"If you are just joining us," he continues, "or if you've had your head buried in the sand these short weeks, a terrorist attack struck New York's own Empire City. An explosion of unknown origin unleashed catastrophic damages to its famous Historic District, and in the ensuing aftermath, a never before seen and often fatal respiratory illness has begun to spread among its surviving population. General, could you please explain to the people what the military's response is to this crisis?"
Hardcastle tenses for a few short moments. "The White House has declared a state of emergency for New York state and has instituted a no-questions-asked quarantine around Empire City, per recommendations from the CDC until they work on a treatment to mitigate the symptoms of those affected. The intelligence community seeks answers for the perpetrators of this awful event-"
Lois cuts in. "Are you suggesting that the U.S. Government still does not have knowledge of the responsible foreign power who nuked a city of millions, a city on U.S. soil?"
"It was not a nuclear warhead," Hardcastle clarifies, towing the same line that many in his shoes have stuck to since it began.
"I do not know what is worse, General," Lois continues, "the idea that someone did nuke us and you're covering it up, or the idea that it wasn't a nuke and you don't know what exactly this bomb was. Everything about the aftermath suggests a chemical weapon, or perhaps a biological weapon, and on the scale from cherry bomb to nuke, those are way closer to nuke."
Hardcastle sneers. "I assure you, Lois-"
"Miss Lane," she clarifies without a hint of mirth and without hesitation.
"-Miss Lane," he grumbles, "that the U.S. government will act the moment we are aware of this attack's source. It is only a moment of time before one of our longstanding enemies takes credit for their actions, to make us look weak in the wake of tragedy."
Hmm.
"Which one, you think? China? Russia? Bialya?"
Hardcastle sternly replies, "I am not at liberty to speculate."
Lois knows that, but situations like this tend to bring the worst out in droves. There are far too many journalists, reporters, news anchors, and others looking into this event. Keeping everyone involved on one page is actually quite difficult, but discerning the truth from the falsehoods or misrepresented facts can be incredibly difficult. We can't all have a fancy lasso.
"This quarantine - how necessary is it?"
Hardcastle shakes his head. "I'm afraid I am not an expert in chemical weapons or the infectious diseases expert in the White House or CDC. Answering this would be out of my expertise, except to say that a mandatory, forceful quarantine will contain the affected area of any kind of serious infection, pandemic or otherwise."
Lois wants to bite at the authority they have to make those decisions, but all of that comes back to the presidency, and she doesn't want to make an enemy out of the most politically powerful human in the world. If things are truly as bad as they seem to be, then a quarantine is necessary. Even if, in the interim, people are trapped with gangs, looters, and other criminals.
Godfrey redirects the conversation to him with a loud clearing of his throat. "Professor Jones, we invited you here today to discuss your findings. You mentioned on Spitter that you had uncovered information about the Empire City Blast from video footage the public possesses of the event."
The professor adjusts his glasses and slowly nods, wiping a moment later at his thick mustache. "Er, yes, I did. My findings cannot be conclusive without firsthand research on-site, but with what evidence we have seen, I think we can rule out that it was a nuclear warhead of any size. The explosion appeared to be substantially electrical in nature, and its area of immediate impact was a mere few city blocks."
Godfrey's producers play the clip of the explosion with the most views on NowTube without a cue, earning more than a little respect from her. They are good at spinning a tale, when some in your circle are planning to stick to the talking points. So far, Lois has done everything in her power to push the envelope or to directly challenge the whole notion.
"Electrical, you say?" Lois asks, intrigued. "General Hardcastle, does that jive with any known or unknown chemical weapons?"
She can't tell if the revelation of significant electricity among the attack is something that surprises the military jackboot or not, the man's face impassive. "Miss Lane, I am certain that when the White House understands more, you'll be among the first to know."
Lois bites her tongue to remain professional, but a myriad of questions rush to her mind.
The cameras cut away from the three guests and back to Godfrey, perfect teeth gleaming in the studio lights. "And what, Professor Jones, do you make of this?"
The feed shifts to a second video, one that was posted… three hours ago? She has not seen this one - word travels fast, and information about Empire City is all anyone's discussing. A short clip, seconds long, but the new information, the new angle, is incredible. A single man races down a bridge while lightning strikes buzz through the air around him, coursing their powerful voltage into the street, into vehicles, into flesh. At first, it looks like he's running for his life, but no. From the look of the electricity racing down both arms in flickering arcs, Lois realizes three things.
One - this man is a walking lightning storm of destruction.
Two - this man may have generated the explosion.
Three - Godfrey invited her here not for her journalistic integrity, but for her close coverage of Superman.
Lois misses how Professor Jones answers the question, but Godfrey turns his attention quickly to her. "Miss Lane, in light of this new information, my benefactors and I thought it best to ask you your thoughts. In our field of work, you are perhaps the reporter closest to this new fangled metahuman-"
"Or alien," Hardcastle interrupts with indignation.
"- or alien, yes, phenomenon. This horrific event in Empire City may be the work of a single man that treads on God's domain. We know precious little of his motives, his background, his identity…. And yet, we know no one man should have the power to annihilate an entire city district in a single moment, nor to unleash an unstoppable illness upon the world. Miss Lane, care to comment your feelings on this?"
"My… feelings?" At Godfrey's urging, she frowns at the framing. "My feelings are that we do not yet know enough about this dangerous situation or this allegedly dangerous man. We can speculate, ask hard questions, uncover the truth! But to denounce him at this stage as some kind of meta terrorist is premature."
"But to denounce him at this stage as some kind of meta terrorist is prematu-"
Jason slaps a hand on my back roughly, and I almost spill the glass of tea across the table in surprise. Interest in the static-filled news broadcast fading after that interruption, the blond beams that winning smile, and I have to roll my eyes and fight through a renewed migraine. Never had 'em before, but now… "I'm just glad you're out, bro. We should celebrate."
"Is that not what we're doing?" I ask, desperately wishing my brother would bother to pay attention. "What else are we going to find to do when everything around us has gone to shit? Give it four days, and this place'll be out of stock of anything fun. Sooner if the gangs find out they're open."
"All right, fair point. We could…."
His voice trails off as he quickly runs out of ideas.
"Look, just take this as a blessing. We're getting drinks in an open bar. Might be the only chance we get for months."
It truly is a miracle that the barkeep bothered to let a few people filter through every hour, and an even more unlikely one that Jason found the place at all. It's a system that will work for a time, but the longer this goes on, the more meaningless it'll be to try to make money. He'd be better off to shutter his doors, hide his valuables, and hunker down somewhere.
If not for where I've been for some time, things would be different.
"Oh, this is great, Logan," Jason relents. "It's celebration enough that the hospital let you out-"
"A hospital that barely has anyone on staff while it's overstuffed?"
"Who cares?!" Jason declares. "You survived the Blast. You're not coughing, and you don't have any signs of a rash - you're gonna be fine." He claps my back again, rougher this time, and I'm reminded exactly why he was on the shortlist to go to Gotham U and play for the Knights. He's always been the one of us with the muscle, even though I'm older and shorter. "More than fine! It's incredible, really, how you managed any of that."
The louder his voice gets, the more nervous I get at the other folks around us. People who likely lost loved ones in an explosion with an unknown death toll. An explosion that should have killed me, but didn't.
"I just think I got lucky."
So lucky that I don't remember what happened. The actual explosion, the fiery aftermath, the scarred body, the rush to find aid. Jason was probably luckier, honestly - he was on the other side of the Neon when it happened, so he didn't lose two weeks of his life hooked to an IV.
"Lucky is an understatement, Logan." His eyes turn wild at the possibilities, and he leans in closer. Swiping to open his phone, he pulls up a picture a second later. "That's you then. But you- now? How?"
No preparation can ever ready you to see a picture of yourself covered in thick burns, a patch of brown hair replaced by scar tissue, left arm pinned under heavy debris, and bruising in nearly every visible patch of skin. The most horrific detail of it all, the one that made me finally look away and into my brother's anxious eyes, is that a burned segment of my t-shirt had been so hot that it melted into my skin.
None of that damage remains.
Healed.
All of it, gone, in days what might have taken months to heal, if at all.
"Delete that picture!" I nearly shout, before remembering that we're in public. For whatever public there even is anymore in a disaster zone. "Wrong person gets a hold of that, and I can't explain it! Photogram filters have limits, J."
He frowns, some of the excitement undercut. "Okay, fine." He fumbles with his phone for a second and then shows me the picture is gone, replaced by a nicely taken picture of a plate of boiled chicken and mashed potatoes.
"J, please don't tell me that you take pictures of your meals for your followers-"
Jason looks aghast. "Don't diss what my fitness bros want to see." He flexes a bicep, and it's all I can do not to groan. "And - wow. Deflection, much? How did you survive all of that without a scratch on you?"
"I see scratches!" I gesture to a scar on my left arm, but he tilts his head knowingly.
"You got that from a scooter accident when you were ten."
I frown, not wanting to discuss any of the implications of this. I don't know whether to be horrified or hopeful - something disturbing happened, something that could not yet be explained. The kind of thing that would make my mother "praise the lord." And it's not even the strangest thing to have happened to me, but I've long since stopped trying to figure that one out.
"Until we talk about it, Logan, our questions don't just go away."
"They won't go away because I have no god damn answers!" A spike of pain erupts behind my eyes, and I rub at my temple.
Jason ignores me, rattling off a list he must have had made for a while. "Maybe the nurses were testing a super-drug at the hospital."
"A super drug that can heal bruises, burns, and crushed bones? In days?"
"Why not?" he asks genuinely. "There's a dude two states away who can fly and stop trains with his bare hands."
Several seconds pass, deadpan. "I hate how reasonable that sounds."
He grins. "I have that effect on people."
"You once joined an MLM," I deadpan, and he just glares. I continue. "If there's a super-drug like that, I feel like we'd know about it by now. Especially with how many people were hurt, injured, or worse by the Blast. They'd be passing it around in droves."
He concedes that with a shrug, and then leaps at his next outlandish theory. "Maybe everyone who was hurt by the Blast is going to come back healed, like you did. Some kind of time-field-eff…" He trails off at his own thoughts. "Okay, never mind, that one was dumb. Forget I mentioned it."
I don't prod him, wondering how in the hell people who were vaporized were going to magically return with healed bodies. My situation is weird, but that's a step too weird.
Jason rattles off a few more outlandish thoughts, barely audible as he convinces himself that there's no way any of that could be real. "Alien conspiracy?" I shake my head, not bothering to show surprise anymore. As much as I know Superman is an alien, I'm not sure the rest of the world does yet. "Superpowers? Hah, you could be that guy's sidekick. That's what they do in the comics, right?"
I just shake my head, migraine incoming at the lunacy. "C'mon, let's get back before it gets dark. As bad as this city is in the daytime, I don't want anything to do with those Reapers at night."
Jason reluctantly nods and takes a long swig from his beer. He shares a wave with the bartender, adjusts his backpack onto his back, and then beckons me to follow him out the rickety door. I wave him off for a minute and approach the barkeep, a burly-looking man with a burning cigar in hand.
"Thanks for letting us in," I say sincerely, earning a small smile from the man while he pours a fresh pitcher from a locked fridge below the countertop. A loaded shotgun rests on a shelf behind him, in arm's reach. "You didn't have to do that for anyone right now."
"I'd say you're welcome to come back, but I don't know how much longer I can hold things together," he admits solemnly. "But I appreciate your words, nonetheless."
"I'm Logan Masters, and that's my brother Jason back there," I explain, and J gives the barkeep a nod.
"Kev Sandall," the man offers.
"I was in college for journalism and creative writing before all this happened. I'm, well, if we make it, I plan to document all of this. I'll make sure to write about your kindness."
He furrows a brow in my direction, but I shake my head. "Anyway, thanks again."
Heading toward Jason and the door, I turn one final time to the television screen, watching the twenty-four-hour news cycle spin its endless coverage of the Empire City Blast. How amazing it is that Lois mother-fucking Lane is actually real?
"C'mon," Jason says impatiently, "you're the one who said you wanted to get back before dark."
"Yeah, yeah, coming."
The streets are a wreck. Looting has ruined any open shop fronts that might have valuable supplies or valuables they could sell when all this is over. Windows to homes as far up as four or even five stories are broken, boarded, or both, while those near the top of skyscrapers tend to be ignored or just boarded. Cars - junkers or otherwise - lie abandoned on the streets while scalpers take advantage of any parts they can find. Some survivors who still brave the sidewalks wear masks, some wear their shirts tightly around their mouths, and some remain uncovered; all try to keep to themselves or to their loved ones, avoiding getting into anyone's business.
It won't be long until desperate people force their way into everyone's business. Groceries will be low or expended soon for most people, and I suspect a lot of mothers will be making their children eat nothing but rice for as long as that can last. Clean water is a godsend and might be the commodity everyone trades, unless the water main stays on.
"How long you think this'll take?" Jason asks as he wraps a navy scarf around his lower face, stepping over a pile of opened and picked-over trash.
"What'll take?"
"All this?" he asks. "Two weeks? A month? A year?"
I sigh, trying to remember what I know or have read. "I'm not a scientist, J, but it could be years."
That sobering thought brings the mood down for both of us, and the mood was already low. Part of me wonders if this is what Rick Grimes felt like when he woke from a coma to a completely changed Atlanta. The details are not the same, but nothing about this place feels like home.
One up-side? There aren't any zombies. Just a plague that kills some who are infected within hours, some within days.
Another? Someone like Superman will fix all of this soon. I'm sure of it. What good is growing up for a second time in a universe where DC Comics characters are real if they can't change it all back?
I toss, I turn, until I finally give up sleeping on the frayed couch that Jason swears is a futon, but it's so poorly shaped that it does nothing for comfort when you're trying to lay on it. Add in the migraines that haven't stopped, and it's a sleepless night for me. He offered the bed for at least tonight, but I refused, only now regretting it. The blond's favorite thing in the entire world, a three-year-old husky named Samantha, rests in his arms, and I can't possibly wake him up and make him suffer my fate too.
Jason's hideaway is little more than an off-campus one-bedroom apartment near Archer Square. In another life, another time, it might have been nice to be within walking distance of the university, but going there is meaningless for the foreseeable future. Its largest buildings were unlucky enough to face the harbor, and when the Blast hit part of the Historic District, enough debris struck that it was officially closed for the foreseeable future. I doubt that would change much - any building is fair game to scavenge for supplies if you're desperate enough.
Samantha senses that I'm awake, as there's little room for me to have some space of my own without disturbing the dog, and she whimpers lightly until I signal for her to quiet. The one saving grace of the apartment is a balcony, and I gather some courage just long enough to get some air. A box of scavenged supplies mostly blocks the sliding doors, but I push it aside as quietly as I can.
Sliding the door open and carefully closing it behind me without making much noise, I step into the moonlight and onto the poorly-cleaned space. It stinks slightly of cigarettes and stained alcohol, and it does not surprise me in the slightest to see how Jason really lives, my bare feet crunching old cigarette butts. A few pieces of plywood cover some of the balcony's open space, but there wasn't enough for everything.
My space is comparatively nicer, but it's inaccessible until the city, the police, or the military, or whoever let us cross from the Neon into the Historic District. They'd have to take us by boat or give us access to the bridges that still work, but who knows how long any of that will go? The feds will be picking over the blast radius for months, so what's the point in trying to poke the bear?
The migraine twinges with pain as my worries continue. Doomscrolling on my phone is far worse than usual when cell signal is intermittent at best, and the wi-fi here isn't working. Conspiracy brain wonders if that's all deliberate, but I can't imagine the government would really want to limit communication. It's not like a pandemic means that the public can't talk to each other in or out of the city.
No, it's more likely that there's some damage to a tower somewhere, or the lines, or something. A blast that wipes out a few city blocks is bound to knock several things loose in the aftermath.
The latest news is a video taken from a security camera showing 'The Electric Man.' His identity is still unknown, but damn it, the evidence is fairly damning. The clip clearly shows an explosion starting at his position, either from the metal sphere in his hands or from himself. Lois Lane was not eager earlier to call him a metahuman terrorist, but much of the media is now. I check to see if she's made any sort of comment on the latest, but her Spitter feed is empty for several hours and The Daily Planet has merely parroted the things that other sites and sources have, without her personal signature.
I consider what to do next, what Jason and I need to do in the morning to ensure that we can continue to eat, what any long-term plans are, until a-
Pap! Pap! Pap!
My head whirls around so fast toward the sound of distant gunfire that my phone slips from my grasp. I make a desperate grab for it before it falls four stories onto the dingy pavement below, but miss!
Cursing under my breath, I study its fall, listening for the sound of the impact as much as I expect to see it in the dimly lit sidewalk. Maybe my case-
It never hits.
Straining my eyes as my migraine spikes, I see the spot where it would have hit, but it's too dark to see details, but not so dark that I wouldn't see it if it were right there.
But it isn't.
My migraine ceases suddenly for the first time in hours, and I turn around in disappointment to make the trek downstairs to check for my shattered phone, annoyed to be doing this at night of all times.
I stop in my tracks.
Sitting on the balcony floor just behind me is… a phone. My phone? With my case?
I bend to make a reach for it, and it reaches for me at the same time. A column of darkness stretches soundlessly like an arm, phone in its palm, to make the handoff. My own hands burn with the same darkness, tinged slightly in white light, and good God I'm going nuts.
I gingerly take the perfectly undamaged cell phone from the shadowed hand, and when the device is safe, the hand and its arm recede until it returns… to my shadow? The aura of light around my own hands fades even as I question everything about my reality.
What the hell was that?
0.2
- Location
- Alabama
"Why are you dragging me to the roof at five AM?" Jason asks, still clearly groggy. Samantha yips at a piece of trash that blows in the wind. "This is weird, man. It's dangerous to be out in the open."
An itch grows beneath my skin, like a surging pressure that wants to escape. "J, I know all that, but I have to show you this. Promise me you won't tell Mom."
His brow furrows. "You- that's a tall ask."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. But just, don't mention any of it. To anyone."
Finally, he brushes it off, clearly confused but willing to run with it. "Sure, sure. Get on with it."
I raise my hands and let the pressure release, the itch swirling just beneath the surface of my skin until it breaches the surface. An aura of black light flecked in white emanates from my hands, and the rooftop around us dims. Jason takes more than a half-step backward. I swing one hand to the right and feel the energy pulse to an excited state, almost as though alive.
In the next breath, my shadow climbs from the surface of the roof like an emerging swimmer. The creature comes to a standing position where I point, an impossible mixture of two and three dimensions. I gesture with my other arm, and it follows the movement until it salutes toward a stammering Jason.
"Y-you, yo-, you!"
"I know!" I say excitedly. The strange, shadowed energy surges with my emotions until it erupts, mist-like darkness clouding at my feet. "This is the answer, Jason. It's why I survived the Blast. It's like - like it was meant to happen."
My brother falls to the ground in a heap, Samantha lapping at his cheek and almost distracting his surprise to laughter. His eyes cannot leave the shadow's blank face, the features of my own looks just barely poking through the murky space where the head should be.
"What the hell?" he asks, eyes flickering between my hands, the shadow, and back to my hands. "You're- you're controlling that thing? It's like a fucking horror movie!" He pauses, considering for a moment, still stammering. "C-can you put it away?"
I refocus my thoughts and draw in my hands, the shadowy duplicate dissipating with a flurry of black particles. They linger in the air for a few seconds, and the rooftop brightens once they disappear.
"It, uh, would have only stayed around for a bit longer," I admit, feeling a mixture of emotions that are difficult to decipher. "Jason, seriously - this is incredible."
He slowly pulls himself to his feet, ignoring the offered hand. "You - you did that."
I nod in acknowledgement, trying to study his face. For someone I've known for his entire life, he can be frustratingly inscrutable. We traveled in different social circles growing up, even without the three year gap between us, and now that we've reconnected in the same city? Let's just say we have a different perspective.
I'm not surprised he's not jazzed about this new development.
How could I not be? You spend an entire lifetime surrounding yourself with stories of something more, something grander than the dull life everyone lives. You die - something I don't care to remember - and then you experience all of it over again. Different family, different appearance, different life altogether. Then… then you see reports of a man lifting a car over his head with his bare hands. Museums dedicated to the secret history of a group of superheroes in the Second World War. Brands like Lex, Kord, Queen - you realize very quickly that you're not in the world you once remembered. But… you grow up normal.
Until today. Until the Blast.
All that dreaming that I did? It amounts for something after all.
Jason is, well, still normal.
"I can't believe you did that."
My brother frantically begins looking at other buildings nearby, at eaves of balconies, at corners of rooftops. We aren't the tallest building around us, and - oh.
I realize very quickly why he's so worried.
"Let's get inside," he ushers me forward, hands pushing against my back with surprising force. "It's not safe to be doing that, anywhere anyone can see."
By the time we return to the apartment, the beginnings of sunrise have alit the sky around us. Every inch of me wants to shout questions at him from the rooftops the entire trip, and my anxiety about how he'll respond grows with each passing second of silence. My normally exuberant brother is, well, not.
"Yeah - we, uh, can't tell Mom," he agrees finally after several seconds of contemplation once we return to the small sanctity of his off-campus housing. "She'll freak worse than I'm freaking."
I bite my tongue and choose my words carefully. "Jason, what - what do you think this is?"
"You think I'd know?"
"You're studying science-"
"Marine biology," he counters. "It's basically smart person for an excuse to go deep sea fishing."
I can't help but smile at the normalcy of the interaction, but he doesn't see the charm.
"Logan, bro, you're a target," he finally says, eyes wild with fear. "The media, the government? They're after that guy on the news, a guy who might still be trapped here. He's… some kinda walking lightning rod, and you're fucking conjuring ghosts!"
"Shadows," I correct. "At least, I think that's it-"
"I don't care, shit's still weird!" he huffs as strides to the sofa. "We have days before this place is swarming with the military looking for anyone weird. You think they won't- they won't find you?"
"It's not like anyone knows that I can do-" I start to counter and then remember, perhaps seconds before he does. "The hospital."
Jason clasps his head in his hands, face turning pale.
The Empire City University hospital was not the premier facility in the city, but it may be the only one still open, the only one that suffered no damage or residual dangers from the Blast, like blackouts. Overcrowded, understaffed - a few nurses and doctors trying to treat wound victims, gang victims, and whatever this plague was? No way that place lasts long unless the chaos ends quickly.
Every doctor and nurse that saw me knows that I healed strangely fast. Jason said yesterday that Dr. Jameson was just happy that he could use the bed for someone else, but well, that's not going to last. Health care professionals will definitely share information about their patients if the government is asking, in the event of a terrorist attack or some other danger.
"God, this is bad."
"You think, bro?" he asks incredulously. "If we're lucky? The feds will be too swarmed in everything else going on to notice. Maybe records are lost, maybe with all the blackouts…. Maybe you scared 'em into silence."
I don't have to be a genius to know we aren't lucky.
"There's not a government manhunt for other heroes," I argue.
He whirls on me like I've grown a second head. "Heroes? What the hell?"
"Okay, okay - wrong word. If the military were hunting Superman, wouldn't we know? There are other people with powers out there, and they aren't targeted."
Jason considers that for a long moment. "For now. And those other powered folks aren't neighbors with the electric dude who bombed a major city. They're gonna have questions. This is like Patron Act-level shit."
"Patriot Act."
He rolls his eyes. "I need some air."
J starts to pack a bag with essentials, and I settle into my thoughts for a moment. There is so much that I could say, but the words don't come. Instead, a flex of that trickling itch within me garners my attention. A single mote of shadow flickers into existence between my two index fingers, billowing almost like flame. I snuff it out just as quickly when Jason starts for the door.
"Is it really safe to go out?"
Jason shrugs and pulls on a mask. "Bad as things are out there, I'm not sure we are much safer in here. I'm going for supplies- bottled water and TP."
I start to grab for a spare jacket that dwarfs me, but he shakes his head. "Stay here, bro. Just… stay here."
Without giving me time to complain, Jason slips from the apartment with Samantha's leash in hand, the dog panting with excitement to leave these four walls.
Can relate, Sam.
As tense as the morning's revelations were, it would pale in comparison to the rest of the day's events. You may know them well - there does exist fragmented video footage of the confrontation, but allow me to wax poetically about Archer Square and provide some lived context.
If you're one of the fortunate people to live and die in the sticks? Let's be honest, here: gang violence is not a problem that concerns you. The Talking Heads might rile you up come election year, but gang warfare isn't a personal problem for you. Truth be told, the people of Empire City were not fortunate before the Blast.
The usual mob connections that exist in major cities in the Northeast were present: Italians, Russians, Akurans… all held a stake in Empire City, but from what I've learned, things did not often flare up in a way that innocent people paid for with blood. Small time crooks and gangs were folded into the larger criminal infrastructure before they could shake up the status quo. Things were stable enough.
The Blast ruined that stability.
In days, new gangs emerged in Empire City and quickly swept away the competition, breaking longstanding stalemates and igniting turf wars. How'd they manage it? Conduits among the leadership, to enforce their rules with powers they already had or took from the Blast.
The Reapers were the gang that emerged within the Neon District of Empire City and forced their way to the top of the heap through extreme violence. Formerly low-time drug-runners and their addict hangers-on, they became a veritable threat to anyone innocent who crossed their path. Make-no-mistake - they started the shooting that day, not Cole McGrath.
Jason had to leave, he told himself. After all, they really do need to stock up on some fresh supplies. Now that there are two people living in his tiny apartment, he's gotta make everything last longer. Situations like this get worse long before they get better.
Was he escaping conversation about what happened to Logan? Yeah, he'll man up to that. It wasn't the first time the two of them avoided conversations, and Jason has a feeling that it will not be the last. A not insignificant part of him keeps hoping that he'll wake up and discover that all of this is nothing more than a 9/11 inspired nightmare. His brother… surely that won't stick.
A few brave folks have tried to establish places to secure supplies along Archer Square, for things like batteries, non-perishable foods, and spare clothing. It's the largest outdoor public space in the Neon, so it works well to establish places like this for the good deals. Donations from those who are well-off even amid the chaos, he guesses, or perhaps it's from an earlier FEMA drop. Those have happened fairly regularly since this started, but he knows they could be doing more. He'd planned to show Logan the ropes about how he'd learned to navigate the crisis, and now an entire supply run is wasted.
When Jason made it to the small outdoor tents lining the edge of the Square, he is not surprised in the slightest to see long lines of desperate people waiting their turn to head inside. People brave enough to step into the sun, onto the streets, to get the things they need. He admires their bravery from afar - some of them are frail, older, sickly. Jason snaps a picture of a dirty family for Photogram later, wondering if his followers will stick with him if he starts bringing down the mood.
Archer Square grows busier as he passes through the lines, and morning wanes. He thought he'd gotten here early enough, but he suspects that he'll have to make do with much less than he intended to grab. No use complaining - everyone needs a little of everything, he thinks, to ride out the chaos. He can try again the next day.
Someone ahead in the line shouts, and Jason cranes his neck over a thickly bearded man in a gray hoodie. Three families down from him in the queue, a nearly elderly woman collapses to the ground unexpectedly. Her son - or perhaps grandson - almost catches her before he falls to his knees. "Help! Someone, please!"
Like a wave, nearby people back away in droves, more tightly covering their faces. One man who was stupid enough to go out without any protection covers his face quickly with his jacket, backing away so fast he almost bowls over a scared kid no more than thirteen. Jason gives the line a wide berth, and the cries for help continue. Samantha barks once, twice, thrice at the crowd, earning a lot of attention that Jason does not want.
"Get her out of here!"
"We don't want what she's got!"
"I have a family at home, I can't track that in!"
Jason wants to argue. He wants to intervene, to help the woman to her feet, to get her to safety. His mother would kill him twice over if he didn't…
But…
He doesn't want to die. Whatever this disease is, anyone can get it and anyone can die in hours if you're exceptionally unlucky, days if you are. He doesn't have a background to understand infectious diseases, but this is a next-level ruthless one. If he didn't believe that he'd be out of supplies within two or three days, he wouldn't be out at all.
As the line shuffles along to mixed reactions, Jason follows the path and ignores the pair, inwardly and outwardly wincing at his own reaction to someone in trouble. He has to live long enough for his brother and his mother to fuss over him. Yeah - that's it. He can't let them down.
By the time he gets to the end of the line, the few volunteers running this are trying to make do with what they have. Crackers, two bags of rice, paper towels (not TP), and a few cans of soup later - he really does not have much more than he started, but it's an improvement. The lack of bottled water is concerning, but-
A low-flying plane streaks just overhead, and everyone cranes their necks to watch it. The mood among the volunteers and the civilians improves tremendously as realization hits, and he can't help but inwardly cheer as well. Turns out he timed his supply run perfectly for another FEMA drop.
Jason gathers his new materials and rushes outside along some of the crowd, trying to spot where they dropped the resources. It surprised him the first time he saw this happen that they wouldn't send a team down in choppers to manage the food drops, but that was long before truly anyone realized the severity of the epidemic.
But, well… naturally….
He sighs and takes a photo, planning his Photogram post later when internet signal improves. An oddly well-framed shot of the crate dangling from the statue in Archer Square, at least three dozen feet from the ground. Completely inaccessible and completely useless. It would take a team of people with the right equipment to get that down, and no amount of rocks a few civilians start throwing at it is going to change.
Desperation and panic takes over the crowd, and he understands why quite well. Jason considers cutting his losses - he did have a few supplies more than he started, and he even managed to get a not-too-frayed jacket that might fit Logan, who's stuck raiding Jason's closet for things that would fit a smaller frame.
A bungled food drop is the perfect target for the Reapers.
The sound of a plane flying rather low distracts me long enough to realize I've been on the phone with Mom for over an hour now. When I decided to enroll at a university on the other side of the country, I knew this would be my penance. She means well most of the time, but she can be… overbearing.
Just like my first mother, in my first life back home.
"No, Mom, you don't need to come here. It's dangerous," I say truthfully for more than enough reasons. "You can't afford it anyway."
"I can bake a few cakes this weekend, scrounge up enough money for bus fare!" she cries.
"Then what?" I ask honestly, walking toward the balcony to see what's going on outside. "You'd have to sell enough cakes to stay in a hotel on the mainland for months if you wanted to be just near us. No one's going in or out, so it's not like you can stay with me and Jason-"
"I can sneak across-"
"Mom, you don't sneak across a quarantine. Jason says they blew up the bridges, and if they went through all that trouble, I doubt anyone's chartering a boat here," I stress, eyes straining to see why a plane flew that close overhead. "We're stuck until it's lifted."
"Then you book the first flight out of there the moment that it d-does!" she shouts, voice breaking. "I'm just glad that my babies are safe. Do not go outside without a mask, and call every hour on the hour-"
I shrug uselessly, wanting desperately to tell her about these new powers - pap, pap, pap.
My blood runs cold.
Jason.
That was too close. Next-door, close. Someone on the street below runs away from Archer Square, and holy shit.
I hang up rudely, knowing I'll pay for it later, and dash from the apartment as quickly as I can. Gunshots from ahead continue their rattling, and I dial Jason's number as quickly as I can. Four pedestrians sprint in terror past me, one of them locking eyes long enough to question the insane man running toward danger.
No answer.
My stomach drops.
I start to see the source of the chaos in the center of Archer Square, beneath the statue meant to commemorate the founder of Empire City. Gunmen - Reapers, I'd later learn - fire into fleeing pedestrians, into scattered and late police response, but primarily take aim at one man. Crew-cut hair, a sneering but determined face, he flings forward his lightning-covered hands, delivering bolts of electricity into his enemies like a smiting god.
Oh god.
My phone rings, and I dart behind the nearest concrete road barrier, face streaking with sweat.
"Where the hell are you?" I shout at my brother, ignoring the itching beneath my skin begging for release. "There's a firefight-"
"I know!" Jason bites back. A stray gunshot impacts a nearby shopfront window, showering the road with glass just feet from my hiding place. "Logan, don't tell me you're-"
"I came to find you!" I shout, peeking overhead long enough to see a group of thugs barreling down the street to join their friends in battle with the Electric Man. "Are you safe?"
"Are you?"
I peek again, the battle spilling over into the northern street ringing the Square. Lightning strikes a parked car, the vehicle exploding into flames and vibrating my teeth.
"Just head back to… back to Philly's!" I shout, referring to a recently closed pizzeria, far from the site of the battle.
He agrees and hangs up, and I force myself to my feet, turning in that direction. It's an easy enough landmark to find for both of us, and all I can-
A body flies past my peripheral vision as though hit by a truck, tumbling end over end and impacting the ground in a hard landing. A rifle scatters into pieces a second later around him, exploding into shrapnel from stray electricity.
I dart away as quickly as I can, an inner power billowing within every muscle movement. Fingers flicker with that dark energy as I run, telling myself that I am running toward my brother, not away from the battle where I could - I don't know, do something. If anything were to happen to Jason, I don't- I don't know what I'd do.
An itch grows beneath my skin, like a surging pressure that wants to escape. "J, I know all that, but I have to show you this. Promise me you won't tell Mom."
His brow furrows. "You- that's a tall ask."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. But just, don't mention any of it. To anyone."
Finally, he brushes it off, clearly confused but willing to run with it. "Sure, sure. Get on with it."
I raise my hands and let the pressure release, the itch swirling just beneath the surface of my skin until it breaches the surface. An aura of black light flecked in white emanates from my hands, and the rooftop around us dims. Jason takes more than a half-step backward. I swing one hand to the right and feel the energy pulse to an excited state, almost as though alive.
In the next breath, my shadow climbs from the surface of the roof like an emerging swimmer. The creature comes to a standing position where I point, an impossible mixture of two and three dimensions. I gesture with my other arm, and it follows the movement until it salutes toward a stammering Jason.
"Y-you, yo-, you!"
"I know!" I say excitedly. The strange, shadowed energy surges with my emotions until it erupts, mist-like darkness clouding at my feet. "This is the answer, Jason. It's why I survived the Blast. It's like - like it was meant to happen."
My brother falls to the ground in a heap, Samantha lapping at his cheek and almost distracting his surprise to laughter. His eyes cannot leave the shadow's blank face, the features of my own looks just barely poking through the murky space where the head should be.
"What the hell?" he asks, eyes flickering between my hands, the shadow, and back to my hands. "You're- you're controlling that thing? It's like a fucking horror movie!" He pauses, considering for a moment, still stammering. "C-can you put it away?"
I refocus my thoughts and draw in my hands, the shadowy duplicate dissipating with a flurry of black particles. They linger in the air for a few seconds, and the rooftop brightens once they disappear.
"It, uh, would have only stayed around for a bit longer," I admit, feeling a mixture of emotions that are difficult to decipher. "Jason, seriously - this is incredible."
He slowly pulls himself to his feet, ignoring the offered hand. "You - you did that."
I nod in acknowledgement, trying to study his face. For someone I've known for his entire life, he can be frustratingly inscrutable. We traveled in different social circles growing up, even without the three year gap between us, and now that we've reconnected in the same city? Let's just say we have a different perspective.
I'm not surprised he's not jazzed about this new development.
How could I not be? You spend an entire lifetime surrounding yourself with stories of something more, something grander than the dull life everyone lives. You die - something I don't care to remember - and then you experience all of it over again. Different family, different appearance, different life altogether. Then… then you see reports of a man lifting a car over his head with his bare hands. Museums dedicated to the secret history of a group of superheroes in the Second World War. Brands like Lex, Kord, Queen - you realize very quickly that you're not in the world you once remembered. But… you grow up normal.
Until today. Until the Blast.
All that dreaming that I did? It amounts for something after all.
Jason is, well, still normal.
"I can't believe you did that."
My brother frantically begins looking at other buildings nearby, at eaves of balconies, at corners of rooftops. We aren't the tallest building around us, and - oh.
I realize very quickly why he's so worried.
"Let's get inside," he ushers me forward, hands pushing against my back with surprising force. "It's not safe to be doing that, anywhere anyone can see."
By the time we return to the apartment, the beginnings of sunrise have alit the sky around us. Every inch of me wants to shout questions at him from the rooftops the entire trip, and my anxiety about how he'll respond grows with each passing second of silence. My normally exuberant brother is, well, not.
"Yeah - we, uh, can't tell Mom," he agrees finally after several seconds of contemplation once we return to the small sanctity of his off-campus housing. "She'll freak worse than I'm freaking."
I bite my tongue and choose my words carefully. "Jason, what - what do you think this is?"
"You think I'd know?"
"You're studying science-"
"Marine biology," he counters. "It's basically smart person for an excuse to go deep sea fishing."
I can't help but smile at the normalcy of the interaction, but he doesn't see the charm.
"Logan, bro, you're a target," he finally says, eyes wild with fear. "The media, the government? They're after that guy on the news, a guy who might still be trapped here. He's… some kinda walking lightning rod, and you're fucking conjuring ghosts!"
"Shadows," I correct. "At least, I think that's it-"
"I don't care, shit's still weird!" he huffs as strides to the sofa. "We have days before this place is swarming with the military looking for anyone weird. You think they won't- they won't find you?"
"It's not like anyone knows that I can do-" I start to counter and then remember, perhaps seconds before he does. "The hospital."
Jason clasps his head in his hands, face turning pale.
The Empire City University hospital was not the premier facility in the city, but it may be the only one still open, the only one that suffered no damage or residual dangers from the Blast, like blackouts. Overcrowded, understaffed - a few nurses and doctors trying to treat wound victims, gang victims, and whatever this plague was? No way that place lasts long unless the chaos ends quickly.
Every doctor and nurse that saw me knows that I healed strangely fast. Jason said yesterday that Dr. Jameson was just happy that he could use the bed for someone else, but well, that's not going to last. Health care professionals will definitely share information about their patients if the government is asking, in the event of a terrorist attack or some other danger.
"God, this is bad."
"You think, bro?" he asks incredulously. "If we're lucky? The feds will be too swarmed in everything else going on to notice. Maybe records are lost, maybe with all the blackouts…. Maybe you scared 'em into silence."
I don't have to be a genius to know we aren't lucky.
"There's not a government manhunt for other heroes," I argue.
He whirls on me like I've grown a second head. "Heroes? What the hell?"
"Okay, okay - wrong word. If the military were hunting Superman, wouldn't we know? There are other people with powers out there, and they aren't targeted."
Jason considers that for a long moment. "For now. And those other powered folks aren't neighbors with the electric dude who bombed a major city. They're gonna have questions. This is like Patron Act-level shit."
"Patriot Act."
He rolls his eyes. "I need some air."
J starts to pack a bag with essentials, and I settle into my thoughts for a moment. There is so much that I could say, but the words don't come. Instead, a flex of that trickling itch within me garners my attention. A single mote of shadow flickers into existence between my two index fingers, billowing almost like flame. I snuff it out just as quickly when Jason starts for the door.
"Is it really safe to go out?"
Jason shrugs and pulls on a mask. "Bad as things are out there, I'm not sure we are much safer in here. I'm going for supplies- bottled water and TP."
I start to grab for a spare jacket that dwarfs me, but he shakes his head. "Stay here, bro. Just… stay here."
Without giving me time to complain, Jason slips from the apartment with Samantha's leash in hand, the dog panting with excitement to leave these four walls.
Can relate, Sam.
As tense as the morning's revelations were, it would pale in comparison to the rest of the day's events. You may know them well - there does exist fragmented video footage of the confrontation, but allow me to wax poetically about Archer Square and provide some lived context.
If you're one of the fortunate people to live and die in the sticks? Let's be honest, here: gang violence is not a problem that concerns you. The Talking Heads might rile you up come election year, but gang warfare isn't a personal problem for you. Truth be told, the people of Empire City were not fortunate before the Blast.
The usual mob connections that exist in major cities in the Northeast were present: Italians, Russians, Akurans… all held a stake in Empire City, but from what I've learned, things did not often flare up in a way that innocent people paid for with blood. Small time crooks and gangs were folded into the larger criminal infrastructure before they could shake up the status quo. Things were stable enough.
The Blast ruined that stability.
In days, new gangs emerged in Empire City and quickly swept away the competition, breaking longstanding stalemates and igniting turf wars. How'd they manage it? Conduits among the leadership, to enforce their rules with powers they already had or took from the Blast.
The Reapers were the gang that emerged within the Neon District of Empire City and forced their way to the top of the heap through extreme violence. Formerly low-time drug-runners and their addict hangers-on, they became a veritable threat to anyone innocent who crossed their path. Make-no-mistake - they started the shooting that day, not Cole McGrath.
Jason had to leave, he told himself. After all, they really do need to stock up on some fresh supplies. Now that there are two people living in his tiny apartment, he's gotta make everything last longer. Situations like this get worse long before they get better.
Was he escaping conversation about what happened to Logan? Yeah, he'll man up to that. It wasn't the first time the two of them avoided conversations, and Jason has a feeling that it will not be the last. A not insignificant part of him keeps hoping that he'll wake up and discover that all of this is nothing more than a 9/11 inspired nightmare. His brother… surely that won't stick.
A few brave folks have tried to establish places to secure supplies along Archer Square, for things like batteries, non-perishable foods, and spare clothing. It's the largest outdoor public space in the Neon, so it works well to establish places like this for the good deals. Donations from those who are well-off even amid the chaos, he guesses, or perhaps it's from an earlier FEMA drop. Those have happened fairly regularly since this started, but he knows they could be doing more. He'd planned to show Logan the ropes about how he'd learned to navigate the crisis, and now an entire supply run is wasted.
When Jason made it to the small outdoor tents lining the edge of the Square, he is not surprised in the slightest to see long lines of desperate people waiting their turn to head inside. People brave enough to step into the sun, onto the streets, to get the things they need. He admires their bravery from afar - some of them are frail, older, sickly. Jason snaps a picture of a dirty family for Photogram later, wondering if his followers will stick with him if he starts bringing down the mood.
Archer Square grows busier as he passes through the lines, and morning wanes. He thought he'd gotten here early enough, but he suspects that he'll have to make do with much less than he intended to grab. No use complaining - everyone needs a little of everything, he thinks, to ride out the chaos. He can try again the next day.
Someone ahead in the line shouts, and Jason cranes his neck over a thickly bearded man in a gray hoodie. Three families down from him in the queue, a nearly elderly woman collapses to the ground unexpectedly. Her son - or perhaps grandson - almost catches her before he falls to his knees. "Help! Someone, please!"
Like a wave, nearby people back away in droves, more tightly covering their faces. One man who was stupid enough to go out without any protection covers his face quickly with his jacket, backing away so fast he almost bowls over a scared kid no more than thirteen. Jason gives the line a wide berth, and the cries for help continue. Samantha barks once, twice, thrice at the crowd, earning a lot of attention that Jason does not want.
"Get her out of here!"
"We don't want what she's got!"
"I have a family at home, I can't track that in!"
Jason wants to argue. He wants to intervene, to help the woman to her feet, to get her to safety. His mother would kill him twice over if he didn't…
But…
He doesn't want to die. Whatever this disease is, anyone can get it and anyone can die in hours if you're exceptionally unlucky, days if you are. He doesn't have a background to understand infectious diseases, but this is a next-level ruthless one. If he didn't believe that he'd be out of supplies within two or three days, he wouldn't be out at all.
As the line shuffles along to mixed reactions, Jason follows the path and ignores the pair, inwardly and outwardly wincing at his own reaction to someone in trouble. He has to live long enough for his brother and his mother to fuss over him. Yeah - that's it. He can't let them down.
By the time he gets to the end of the line, the few volunteers running this are trying to make do with what they have. Crackers, two bags of rice, paper towels (not TP), and a few cans of soup later - he really does not have much more than he started, but it's an improvement. The lack of bottled water is concerning, but-
A low-flying plane streaks just overhead, and everyone cranes their necks to watch it. The mood among the volunteers and the civilians improves tremendously as realization hits, and he can't help but inwardly cheer as well. Turns out he timed his supply run perfectly for another FEMA drop.
Jason gathers his new materials and rushes outside along some of the crowd, trying to spot where they dropped the resources. It surprised him the first time he saw this happen that they wouldn't send a team down in choppers to manage the food drops, but that was long before truly anyone realized the severity of the epidemic.
But, well… naturally….
He sighs and takes a photo, planning his Photogram post later when internet signal improves. An oddly well-framed shot of the crate dangling from the statue in Archer Square, at least three dozen feet from the ground. Completely inaccessible and completely useless. It would take a team of people with the right equipment to get that down, and no amount of rocks a few civilians start throwing at it is going to change.
Desperation and panic takes over the crowd, and he understands why quite well. Jason considers cutting his losses - he did have a few supplies more than he started, and he even managed to get a not-too-frayed jacket that might fit Logan, who's stuck raiding Jason's closet for things that would fit a smaller frame.
A bungled food drop is the perfect target for the Reapers.
The sound of a plane flying rather low distracts me long enough to realize I've been on the phone with Mom for over an hour now. When I decided to enroll at a university on the other side of the country, I knew this would be my penance. She means well most of the time, but she can be… overbearing.
Just like my first mother, in my first life back home.
"No, Mom, you don't need to come here. It's dangerous," I say truthfully for more than enough reasons. "You can't afford it anyway."
"I can bake a few cakes this weekend, scrounge up enough money for bus fare!" she cries.
"Then what?" I ask honestly, walking toward the balcony to see what's going on outside. "You'd have to sell enough cakes to stay in a hotel on the mainland for months if you wanted to be just near us. No one's going in or out, so it's not like you can stay with me and Jason-"
"I can sneak across-"
"Mom, you don't sneak across a quarantine. Jason says they blew up the bridges, and if they went through all that trouble, I doubt anyone's chartering a boat here," I stress, eyes straining to see why a plane flew that close overhead. "We're stuck until it's lifted."
"Then you book the first flight out of there the moment that it d-does!" she shouts, voice breaking. "I'm just glad that my babies are safe. Do not go outside without a mask, and call every hour on the hour-"
I shrug uselessly, wanting desperately to tell her about these new powers - pap, pap, pap.
My blood runs cold.
Jason.
That was too close. Next-door, close. Someone on the street below runs away from Archer Square, and holy shit.
I hang up rudely, knowing I'll pay for it later, and dash from the apartment as quickly as I can. Gunshots from ahead continue their rattling, and I dial Jason's number as quickly as I can. Four pedestrians sprint in terror past me, one of them locking eyes long enough to question the insane man running toward danger.
No answer.
My stomach drops.
I start to see the source of the chaos in the center of Archer Square, beneath the statue meant to commemorate the founder of Empire City. Gunmen - Reapers, I'd later learn - fire into fleeing pedestrians, into scattered and late police response, but primarily take aim at one man. Crew-cut hair, a sneering but determined face, he flings forward his lightning-covered hands, delivering bolts of electricity into his enemies like a smiting god.
Oh god.
My phone rings, and I dart behind the nearest concrete road barrier, face streaking with sweat.
"Where the hell are you?" I shout at my brother, ignoring the itching beneath my skin begging for release. "There's a firefight-"
"I know!" Jason bites back. A stray gunshot impacts a nearby shopfront window, showering the road with glass just feet from my hiding place. "Logan, don't tell me you're-"
"I came to find you!" I shout, peeking overhead long enough to see a group of thugs barreling down the street to join their friends in battle with the Electric Man. "Are you safe?"
"Are you?"
I peek again, the battle spilling over into the northern street ringing the Square. Lightning strikes a parked car, the vehicle exploding into flames and vibrating my teeth.
"Just head back to… back to Philly's!" I shout, referring to a recently closed pizzeria, far from the site of the battle.
He agrees and hangs up, and I force myself to my feet, turning in that direction. It's an easy enough landmark to find for both of us, and all I can-
A body flies past my peripheral vision as though hit by a truck, tumbling end over end and impacting the ground in a hard landing. A rifle scatters into pieces a second later around him, exploding into shrapnel from stray electricity.
I dart away as quickly as I can, an inner power billowing within every muscle movement. Fingers flicker with that dark energy as I run, telling myself that I am running toward my brother, not away from the battle where I could - I don't know, do something. If anything were to happen to Jason, I don't- I don't know what I'd do.
0.3
- Location
- Alabama
I hear Samantha outside Philly's Pizzeria long before I see Jason, her barks distinct enough from half a block away even amid the chaos of a city caught in a firefight. I finally round the corner onto Third Street and spot him hiding behind the trunk of an abandoned cab, trying to force his dog to stop running to the end of her leash and out of relative safety. She yips in the direction of a bespectacled man fleeing the scene, likely uninvolved with everything that just happened.
"Logan!" Jason yells, hissing, face red from exhaustion. "Get over here!"
We embrace quickly and Sam tries to join us until another bout of chaotic sound distracts her and sets her on edge. I let myself take a moment to breathe, feeling his own lungs straining under the tension of the moment and the speed he must have run. It's only then that I realize I'm not tired - running toward Archer Square and back toward Philly's is not something that I could have done without feeling the strain, the build-up of lactic acid, the aching of joints I can normally ignore. None of it. How much is my life going to change?
"You're okay?" he and I ask at the same time, a short smile coming across his face before the seriousness of what just happened swallows it whole. I nod fervently as he does, taking a second to look him over. No signs of injury, just sweat stains.
"We need to get home," I say. "Go the long way-"
Jason shakes his head. "I'd rather bunker down here until the situation cools." He points up to a space above the defunct pizzeria. "You think Philly ever fixed that window before he moved out?"
"I don't know, but we can't just-" the sound of another distant explosion cuts off any protest, and I reluctantly nod. "Okay, we can try it, but we turn around if it looks like someone else moved in."
He nods, takes a deep breath, and then pulls himself to his feet and yanks on Sam's leash. The nearby alley fire escape leads to the space above the restaurant, and one particular window never quite closed. A couple summers ago, the summer Jason joined me in Empire City for school, we spent so much time at Philly's that the owner became something of a close friend to both of us. There was more to it than that, but it's… not something I want to revisit.
"Boost me." I wait in position until Jason can lift me into position to grab the ladder and pull it down. Once I've got a hold of the ladder, he passes the leash to me and then lifts the husky into position so that I can carry her the rest of the way to the next landing.
Finding the path to the window is second nature, even if it had been a year and a half since I'd headed this way. Samantha struggles to follow Jason often enough that he finally relents to carry her, the husky yipping at the strangeness of everything around her and struggling in his grip. He whispers assurances in her ear, but her mood does not yet soften. She must be really spooked.
We reach the right floor, and the window's curtains are pulled like always, and there is a small gap at the bottom from a warped window frame, the same gap I've used many times before when trying to sneak around Philly. A pang of nostalgia hits hard, and Jason rubs a small, solemn circle on my shoulder.
"Sorry, this was…" he starts, but I wave it away.
"No, no - this is safer."
I reach for the gap and pull hard, expecting the usual resistance. Jason's jaw hangs open in surprise when it lifts with surprising ease, so quickly that I almost lose my balance. I… I've never been able to do that before.
"When did you start lifting?" Jason asks incredulously and then grabs at my sleeve, trying to pull it up to reveal my arms. When they look as lean and gangly as always, he frowns. "That- that doesn't even-"
I ignore his sputtering for a moment, trying to desperately pretend that anything about my life is normal. I just ran from a gunfight that involved a man who can shoot electricity from his hands, and I'm developing superpowers. Sneaking into the former home of someone I once loved is practically normal in comparison to all of that.
The hallway furniture remains in place, including other decorations like dust-covered photographs hanging from the walls. A too-low chandelier hangs just before the entrance to the great room, something I'd drunkenly bumped into far too many times to feel proud. A few scattered memories of that sting, but Jason climbs in with Samantha and distracts my brain from thinking on it any further.
He heads further inside and checks the fridge, while I plant myself firmly on the cloth-covered couch, pushing away the remains of bugs.
"Ugh, no power!" he says, nose scrunched from the smell of rotting food. His cell flash comes on to give a bit more light than windows with the blinds turned down and grimy curtains covered clothes. If not for the stench of old leftovers, it'd smell just as bad from all the nicotine stains.
"Did you expect it to have power?" I ask bitterly. "I doubt anyone's lived here in six months."
Jason takes a second and then nods. "We-" he pauses. "We won't stay here long, bro, if this is too much."
I can't hide my frustration. Not from him, not from Mom - I never have. Even when things were mostly good, J had a knack for figuring out when I'm upset about something, big or small. It's always annoyed me that I can't do the same back to him.
"You'd think that Rose'd want her dad's place to be kept in some level of fucking decency." I raise a dust-covered finger then flick it, watching it drift lazily toward the ground through stale air.
Jason doesn't comment for several seconds before he slowly drops onto a recliner. Philly's favorite one. It looks wrong to see him there. "Rose, uh, it's not like she had a choice, man. She-"
"She had a choice," I correct him. "Rose skipped town. Left her responsibilities, her studies, her…" My voice trails off.
"Boyfriend?" Jason finishes with a solemn look, and I just clench my teeth together. "I'm sorry, man. She put you through hell."
Rose and I connected our freshman year, in the freshman dorm. She was smart, engaging, funny, capable. That was the first real crush I'd ever had on a girl, which is a whole other story for another time. Bottom line- she was special. It was through her that Jason and I bonded with Philly, much to the man's chagrin that I was dating his daughter for several months.
And then Philly unceremoniously died, killed when a subway train derailed. It was an awful tragedy where nearly thirty people passed away at the scene, or from injuries later. A freak accident took someone important in my life away from me.
"She never went to the hospital," I remind Jason, whose face softens.
"We never saw her there," he defends.
"Because she'd already left!"
It had been a tough pill to swallow, but Rose abandoned her father. She abandoned his pizzeria, his home.
She abandoned me.
"Look, you know as well as I do that grief is never that simple for anyone," Jason tries to explain. "Running away is just-"
"Cowardly?"
A flex of that energy within my hands escapes, a flourish of dark power flickering between both palms. Jason flinches away from it, Samantha disinterested, and I tamper it down until they fade from existence several seconds later.
"If I'd have been on that train as I am right now, I'd have saved Philly," I answer, the energy nearly bubbling to the surface again. "He'd be alive today, cooking your favorite meat lovers' deep dish, and Rose and I would be gearing up for the next stages of our life."
Jason stills for a long moment, face shifting inscrutably.
"How would that… thing," he gestures to my hands, "help you save a man from a damn collision with a subway tunnel?"
I frown- that I honestly didn't know. An idea forms in my head, and I gesture toward the hallway. "You saw that out there. I did that with one hand- maybe I'm strong enough to stop a train, now."
He laughs nervously. "Seriously?"
"Why not?" I ask. "You said it yourself that Superman can do it."
"You're not fucking Superman."
I roll my eyes, knowing deep down that this must be true. Whatever this is, I doubt I can beat a Kryptonian in an arm wrestling contest. But still, I want to explore this.
Standing, I reach under the couch with one hand and lift. Without much of a strain at all, the furniture piece lifts into the air until it brushes against the ceiling. All without breaking a sweat. The effort forces a mouse to try to find another hiding place in the dark apartment, and it brings all of the resentment back to the surface.
Jason sputters. "Jesus, what the hell is that?"
"I almost think I could juggle this," I say with a slight smile on my face. Truth be told, the longer I hold this, the more the strain does slowly creep in, but this is something a muscle-head like Jason would have difficulty doing one-handed and for this long. "Do you think I can lift a car?"
"Just put it down!" Jason barks, clearly frustrated. Once it settles back in place, he continues, "You're strong now, somehow, but I think you're getting in over your head."
"Maybe," I admit, "but I don't have to stop it with my bare hands. I don't know what my limits are just yet. Stopping a train might be easy in some other way."
He sighs. "Bro, please. Listen to yourself. What you're saying is nonsense."
"Why?" I challenge. "Other people do it and have been doing it."
"Doing what? Being delusional?"
I think back to the fighting in the street, to the Reapers, to the electric dude. To news headlines about unexplained criminal mysteries in Gotham, to Superman fighting alien visitors in Metropolis. Superheroes were out there, fighting the good fight, and I? I can't fantasize about doing the same now that I have the means?
"I get why you're worried," I admit, "but it's just a thought."
He sighs. "I've entertained ideas like yours before, daydreamed about getting into the thick of things to keep someone I love safe from some outlandishly dangerous situation. We've all stood in the shower and did the thing, pretending to waterbend, Logan. But it's pretend-"
My hand flexes as shadows cling to it almost like a darkened flame, tinged with white flecks of light. "It's not pretend for me."
"So you want to, what?" he demands, eyes studying the dissipating black light. "Throw yourself in front of a train and see what happens? Sick ghosts on the bad guys? Get riddled with bullets and die before twenty-three?"
I don't know.
Before all this, before the Blast, all I wanted was to finish my degree. Get a job at a newspaper, a news station, or a website. Report on the stories that matter, including those that involve the growing number of superheroes out there. I made that decision in high school, years ago, when I first saw Lois Lane nominated for a Pulitzer.
But now?
"Honestly, I don't know," I admit. "I want to explore this - I don't want to ignore it and pretend it isn't happening."
"That exploration is fine," he agrees after a few seconds of silence, "as long as it's not dropping the feds on our doorstep. And you don't go out there and put yourself in the crosshairs."
"But I can't just sit and do nothing," I argue. "And before you shout, I'm not talking about heroics. This is a real opportunity for me to make a name for myself, Jason, in the journalism world. The national talking heads? They're going to have to rely on local journalists to get the truth of what's happening here."
Jason considers that for a long moment and then swipes on his phone screen, revealing a picture he took earlier that morning of a food drop dangling from the statue in the center of Archer Square. "I get it. No one's going to know about things like this, and I wanted to post it to Photogram. It's not my usual content, but it might get some buzz. Everyone's paying attention to this place right now."
"Exactly," I argue. "It's honestly not a bad shot."
He thanks me and lets the phone screen go black. "I guess if you start reporting on the events we see or learn about, at least you've got all, uh, that to back you up. You gotta do it smart though."
I merely nod. "Of course. I wouldn't dream of playing stupid. Besides, I'll have you to help me."
After a long, painstaking moment, he nods. "I'm so going to regret agreeing to this, bro."
The phone from his secure line rings, a surefire sign that something is more than amiss. No one directs through that line without prior authorization, and none on his staff have the authority to allow it without his notice. No, he knows something is amiss and nearly avoids answering out of sheer suspicion.
Papers smother the office desk that overlooks midtown Metropolis from the large, floor-to-ceiling windows. Reams of paper stapled together with seemingly disorganized files reveal the truth to only those with the intelligence to match disparate details. Reports from his associates downstairs and abroad reveal that testing has hit something of a speed-bump.
Mercy, the redhead with a heart of iron, turns to the phone intently, as though it may explode any minute and ruin his favorite suit. She gingerly holds a hand in the air, waiting for confirmation to answer, but he shakes his head, strides to the device, and answers. "Luthor speaking."
The voice that answers is almost garbled yet feminine. "I am told that you are seeking a breakthrough."
He ponders how to respond for all of half a second. "Straight to business, then?"
"I'm not one for small talk."
"A man of my caliber is always close to a breakthrough in many fields. Which are you expecting soon?"
He already suspects, but part of any effective conversation is the by-play.
"My team informs me that you are seeking a treatment or cure for the Empire City plague."
Bingo. Right on the money.
"I'm afraid you will have to wait longer. I have the best scientists money can buy, and we are not close to developing any true successful treatment."
Altruism by virtue of upselling the only workable solution to a fast-acting, fast-spreading plague? It was the oldest trick in the book. How could he not be developing this technology?
"I take it that your team has gained intelligence on the nature of the plague?"
"Respiratory and cardiac illness by virtue of proximity radiation poisoning," he explains, "though I must admit my team are stumped as to what the source and type of this radiation may be. It matches no known characteristics on Earth, and some are beginning to question if it may have come from beyond the bounds of our solar system."
The woman shows no signs of surprise for any of that information in her voice. "I am well-connected, Luthor. Give me what you need, and I shall provide it."
He has no true idea how well-connected this woman may be, but if it were any other of his phone lines, he would be far more skeptical to her claims. Such as it is, she certainly has access to information that others lack in spades. Perhaps she can make good on her promises.
"I need live subjects with this disease."
As with any negotiation, you bring the outlandish desire first and then settle for what you really want. In his youth, he often had to settle for far less than he demanded. This is a cutthroat business, after all, and this would be-
"Done."
He blinks.
"You'll have your subjects within the week, delivered safely to Metropolis in lead-lined cargo containers."
He blinks again.
"How well-connected are you, woman?"
The phone call goes silent.
Stampton Bridge stretches across the horizon. The only land connection to the mainland still in operation, the place crawls with police, vans, and cars. He looks on with disgust at the collected group of cowards, too busy defending this place and keeping everyone locked inside.
For their own good? As if.
A collection of riot cops blocks access to a hastily-created fence, behind which lies several steel shipping containers likely thick enough to stop heavy ordinance and block any vehicles that manage to make it this far up the bridge. In front of the cops, a protest of dozens gathers, demanding to escape, to get to the mainland, to avoid this fucking hellhole.
His fingers itch with electricity, begging to escape as much as he does this damn island.
He looks over his shoulder toward his best friend, glasses covering his eyes and his hands itching for the gun within his belt. "Don't worry, Zeke. We're getting out of here, one way or another."
The other man nods with a slight grin, but his eyes never turn from the bridge ahead. "You got this, Cole."
Joining the crowd of protestors is easy enough - bunch of morons don't realize the person that they think is responsible, the person they are starting to believe is a terrorist, is walking among them. Cole supposes, to their credit, they're pretty busy glaring at the jackbooted thugs in blue ahead.
"Do not step forward. We will use lethal force."
Lethal force? On civilians who might not even be infected with whatever disease they cooked up that everyone's pinning on him?
He considers his options. Drawing fire to himself keeps Zeke safe, but makes getting through a crowd of armed, lethal cops harder. Bullets might heal fast when he takes in more power, but withstanding dozens? He's not sure he's got that in him before they can take him down. But… encouraging the protestors to get involved? To force a riot, to slip past all of this bullshit and get Zeke to safety?
That just might be worth it.
Cole begins to move forward, lightning arcing across his arm. He maneuvers into position near the front of the crowd, but one of the riot cops must have spotted him. A shout, a gunshot, and a lightning blast later, and everything goes up in panicked chaos.
It would not come to light until much later that Cole McGrath started the events at Stampton Bridge that resulted in the deaths of eight people and the life-ruining injuries of nineteen more. Those caught in the crossfire wanted to escape, and it's difficult to paint a true picture of how desperate things must have been that afternoon.
Remember their names: Mirabelle Harris. Bryce Kirby. Malik Thompson. Stanley Gardner. Richie Fox. Sarah Miller. Steve Cooper. Kyle Connor.
Media reports have been largely inaccurate in their coverage - this actually happened on the same day as the shootout between Cole McGrath and the Reapers at Archer Square. Already on edge, he made a difficult decision for one of his loved ones, his best friend Zeke Dunbar, and several innocent people paid the price.
The worst part of it all?
It did not matter.
Cole and his friend did not escape Empire City that day.
"Logan!" Jason yells, hissing, face red from exhaustion. "Get over here!"
We embrace quickly and Sam tries to join us until another bout of chaotic sound distracts her and sets her on edge. I let myself take a moment to breathe, feeling his own lungs straining under the tension of the moment and the speed he must have run. It's only then that I realize I'm not tired - running toward Archer Square and back toward Philly's is not something that I could have done without feeling the strain, the build-up of lactic acid, the aching of joints I can normally ignore. None of it. How much is my life going to change?
"You're okay?" he and I ask at the same time, a short smile coming across his face before the seriousness of what just happened swallows it whole. I nod fervently as he does, taking a second to look him over. No signs of injury, just sweat stains.
"We need to get home," I say. "Go the long way-"
Jason shakes his head. "I'd rather bunker down here until the situation cools." He points up to a space above the defunct pizzeria. "You think Philly ever fixed that window before he moved out?"
"I don't know, but we can't just-" the sound of another distant explosion cuts off any protest, and I reluctantly nod. "Okay, we can try it, but we turn around if it looks like someone else moved in."
He nods, takes a deep breath, and then pulls himself to his feet and yanks on Sam's leash. The nearby alley fire escape leads to the space above the restaurant, and one particular window never quite closed. A couple summers ago, the summer Jason joined me in Empire City for school, we spent so much time at Philly's that the owner became something of a close friend to both of us. There was more to it than that, but it's… not something I want to revisit.
"Boost me." I wait in position until Jason can lift me into position to grab the ladder and pull it down. Once I've got a hold of the ladder, he passes the leash to me and then lifts the husky into position so that I can carry her the rest of the way to the next landing.
Finding the path to the window is second nature, even if it had been a year and a half since I'd headed this way. Samantha struggles to follow Jason often enough that he finally relents to carry her, the husky yipping at the strangeness of everything around her and struggling in his grip. He whispers assurances in her ear, but her mood does not yet soften. She must be really spooked.
We reach the right floor, and the window's curtains are pulled like always, and there is a small gap at the bottom from a warped window frame, the same gap I've used many times before when trying to sneak around Philly. A pang of nostalgia hits hard, and Jason rubs a small, solemn circle on my shoulder.
"Sorry, this was…" he starts, but I wave it away.
"No, no - this is safer."
I reach for the gap and pull hard, expecting the usual resistance. Jason's jaw hangs open in surprise when it lifts with surprising ease, so quickly that I almost lose my balance. I… I've never been able to do that before.
"When did you start lifting?" Jason asks incredulously and then grabs at my sleeve, trying to pull it up to reveal my arms. When they look as lean and gangly as always, he frowns. "That- that doesn't even-"
I ignore his sputtering for a moment, trying to desperately pretend that anything about my life is normal. I just ran from a gunfight that involved a man who can shoot electricity from his hands, and I'm developing superpowers. Sneaking into the former home of someone I once loved is practically normal in comparison to all of that.
The hallway furniture remains in place, including other decorations like dust-covered photographs hanging from the walls. A too-low chandelier hangs just before the entrance to the great room, something I'd drunkenly bumped into far too many times to feel proud. A few scattered memories of that sting, but Jason climbs in with Samantha and distracts my brain from thinking on it any further.
He heads further inside and checks the fridge, while I plant myself firmly on the cloth-covered couch, pushing away the remains of bugs.
"Ugh, no power!" he says, nose scrunched from the smell of rotting food. His cell flash comes on to give a bit more light than windows with the blinds turned down and grimy curtains covered clothes. If not for the stench of old leftovers, it'd smell just as bad from all the nicotine stains.
"Did you expect it to have power?" I ask bitterly. "I doubt anyone's lived here in six months."
Jason takes a second and then nods. "We-" he pauses. "We won't stay here long, bro, if this is too much."
I can't hide my frustration. Not from him, not from Mom - I never have. Even when things were mostly good, J had a knack for figuring out when I'm upset about something, big or small. It's always annoyed me that I can't do the same back to him.
"You'd think that Rose'd want her dad's place to be kept in some level of fucking decency." I raise a dust-covered finger then flick it, watching it drift lazily toward the ground through stale air.
Jason doesn't comment for several seconds before he slowly drops onto a recliner. Philly's favorite one. It looks wrong to see him there. "Rose, uh, it's not like she had a choice, man. She-"
"She had a choice," I correct him. "Rose skipped town. Left her responsibilities, her studies, her…" My voice trails off.
"Boyfriend?" Jason finishes with a solemn look, and I just clench my teeth together. "I'm sorry, man. She put you through hell."
Rose and I connected our freshman year, in the freshman dorm. She was smart, engaging, funny, capable. That was the first real crush I'd ever had on a girl, which is a whole other story for another time. Bottom line- she was special. It was through her that Jason and I bonded with Philly, much to the man's chagrin that I was dating his daughter for several months.
And then Philly unceremoniously died, killed when a subway train derailed. It was an awful tragedy where nearly thirty people passed away at the scene, or from injuries later. A freak accident took someone important in my life away from me.
"She never went to the hospital," I remind Jason, whose face softens.
"We never saw her there," he defends.
"Because she'd already left!"
It had been a tough pill to swallow, but Rose abandoned her father. She abandoned his pizzeria, his home.
She abandoned me.
"Look, you know as well as I do that grief is never that simple for anyone," Jason tries to explain. "Running away is just-"
"Cowardly?"
A flex of that energy within my hands escapes, a flourish of dark power flickering between both palms. Jason flinches away from it, Samantha disinterested, and I tamper it down until they fade from existence several seconds later.
"If I'd have been on that train as I am right now, I'd have saved Philly," I answer, the energy nearly bubbling to the surface again. "He'd be alive today, cooking your favorite meat lovers' deep dish, and Rose and I would be gearing up for the next stages of our life."
Jason stills for a long moment, face shifting inscrutably.
"How would that… thing," he gestures to my hands, "help you save a man from a damn collision with a subway tunnel?"
I frown- that I honestly didn't know. An idea forms in my head, and I gesture toward the hallway. "You saw that out there. I did that with one hand- maybe I'm strong enough to stop a train, now."
He laughs nervously. "Seriously?"
"Why not?" I ask. "You said it yourself that Superman can do it."
"You're not fucking Superman."
I roll my eyes, knowing deep down that this must be true. Whatever this is, I doubt I can beat a Kryptonian in an arm wrestling contest. But still, I want to explore this.
Standing, I reach under the couch with one hand and lift. Without much of a strain at all, the furniture piece lifts into the air until it brushes against the ceiling. All without breaking a sweat. The effort forces a mouse to try to find another hiding place in the dark apartment, and it brings all of the resentment back to the surface.
Jason sputters. "Jesus, what the hell is that?"
"I almost think I could juggle this," I say with a slight smile on my face. Truth be told, the longer I hold this, the more the strain does slowly creep in, but this is something a muscle-head like Jason would have difficulty doing one-handed and for this long. "Do you think I can lift a car?"
"Just put it down!" Jason barks, clearly frustrated. Once it settles back in place, he continues, "You're strong now, somehow, but I think you're getting in over your head."
"Maybe," I admit, "but I don't have to stop it with my bare hands. I don't know what my limits are just yet. Stopping a train might be easy in some other way."
He sighs. "Bro, please. Listen to yourself. What you're saying is nonsense."
"Why?" I challenge. "Other people do it and have been doing it."
"Doing what? Being delusional?"
I think back to the fighting in the street, to the Reapers, to the electric dude. To news headlines about unexplained criminal mysteries in Gotham, to Superman fighting alien visitors in Metropolis. Superheroes were out there, fighting the good fight, and I? I can't fantasize about doing the same now that I have the means?
"I get why you're worried," I admit, "but it's just a thought."
He sighs. "I've entertained ideas like yours before, daydreamed about getting into the thick of things to keep someone I love safe from some outlandishly dangerous situation. We've all stood in the shower and did the thing, pretending to waterbend, Logan. But it's pretend-"
My hand flexes as shadows cling to it almost like a darkened flame, tinged with white flecks of light. "It's not pretend for me."
"So you want to, what?" he demands, eyes studying the dissipating black light. "Throw yourself in front of a train and see what happens? Sick ghosts on the bad guys? Get riddled with bullets and die before twenty-three?"
I don't know.
Before all this, before the Blast, all I wanted was to finish my degree. Get a job at a newspaper, a news station, or a website. Report on the stories that matter, including those that involve the growing number of superheroes out there. I made that decision in high school, years ago, when I first saw Lois Lane nominated for a Pulitzer.
But now?
"Honestly, I don't know," I admit. "I want to explore this - I don't want to ignore it and pretend it isn't happening."
"That exploration is fine," he agrees after a few seconds of silence, "as long as it's not dropping the feds on our doorstep. And you don't go out there and put yourself in the crosshairs."
"But I can't just sit and do nothing," I argue. "And before you shout, I'm not talking about heroics. This is a real opportunity for me to make a name for myself, Jason, in the journalism world. The national talking heads? They're going to have to rely on local journalists to get the truth of what's happening here."
Jason considers that for a long moment and then swipes on his phone screen, revealing a picture he took earlier that morning of a food drop dangling from the statue in the center of Archer Square. "I get it. No one's going to know about things like this, and I wanted to post it to Photogram. It's not my usual content, but it might get some buzz. Everyone's paying attention to this place right now."
"Exactly," I argue. "It's honestly not a bad shot."
He thanks me and lets the phone screen go black. "I guess if you start reporting on the events we see or learn about, at least you've got all, uh, that to back you up. You gotta do it smart though."
I merely nod. "Of course. I wouldn't dream of playing stupid. Besides, I'll have you to help me."
After a long, painstaking moment, he nods. "I'm so going to regret agreeing to this, bro."
The phone from his secure line rings, a surefire sign that something is more than amiss. No one directs through that line without prior authorization, and none on his staff have the authority to allow it without his notice. No, he knows something is amiss and nearly avoids answering out of sheer suspicion.
Papers smother the office desk that overlooks midtown Metropolis from the large, floor-to-ceiling windows. Reams of paper stapled together with seemingly disorganized files reveal the truth to only those with the intelligence to match disparate details. Reports from his associates downstairs and abroad reveal that testing has hit something of a speed-bump.
Mercy, the redhead with a heart of iron, turns to the phone intently, as though it may explode any minute and ruin his favorite suit. She gingerly holds a hand in the air, waiting for confirmation to answer, but he shakes his head, strides to the device, and answers. "Luthor speaking."
The voice that answers is almost garbled yet feminine. "I am told that you are seeking a breakthrough."
He ponders how to respond for all of half a second. "Straight to business, then?"
"I'm not one for small talk."
"A man of my caliber is always close to a breakthrough in many fields. Which are you expecting soon?"
He already suspects, but part of any effective conversation is the by-play.
"My team informs me that you are seeking a treatment or cure for the Empire City plague."
Bingo. Right on the money.
"I'm afraid you will have to wait longer. I have the best scientists money can buy, and we are not close to developing any true successful treatment."
Altruism by virtue of upselling the only workable solution to a fast-acting, fast-spreading plague? It was the oldest trick in the book. How could he not be developing this technology?
"I take it that your team has gained intelligence on the nature of the plague?"
"Respiratory and cardiac illness by virtue of proximity radiation poisoning," he explains, "though I must admit my team are stumped as to what the source and type of this radiation may be. It matches no known characteristics on Earth, and some are beginning to question if it may have come from beyond the bounds of our solar system."
The woman shows no signs of surprise for any of that information in her voice. "I am well-connected, Luthor. Give me what you need, and I shall provide it."
He has no true idea how well-connected this woman may be, but if it were any other of his phone lines, he would be far more skeptical to her claims. Such as it is, she certainly has access to information that others lack in spades. Perhaps she can make good on her promises.
"I need live subjects with this disease."
As with any negotiation, you bring the outlandish desire first and then settle for what you really want. In his youth, he often had to settle for far less than he demanded. This is a cutthroat business, after all, and this would be-
"Done."
He blinks.
"You'll have your subjects within the week, delivered safely to Metropolis in lead-lined cargo containers."
He blinks again.
"How well-connected are you, woman?"
The phone call goes silent.
Stampton Bridge stretches across the horizon. The only land connection to the mainland still in operation, the place crawls with police, vans, and cars. He looks on with disgust at the collected group of cowards, too busy defending this place and keeping everyone locked inside.
For their own good? As if.
A collection of riot cops blocks access to a hastily-created fence, behind which lies several steel shipping containers likely thick enough to stop heavy ordinance and block any vehicles that manage to make it this far up the bridge. In front of the cops, a protest of dozens gathers, demanding to escape, to get to the mainland, to avoid this fucking hellhole.
His fingers itch with electricity, begging to escape as much as he does this damn island.
He looks over his shoulder toward his best friend, glasses covering his eyes and his hands itching for the gun within his belt. "Don't worry, Zeke. We're getting out of here, one way or another."
The other man nods with a slight grin, but his eyes never turn from the bridge ahead. "You got this, Cole."
Joining the crowd of protestors is easy enough - bunch of morons don't realize the person that they think is responsible, the person they are starting to believe is a terrorist, is walking among them. Cole supposes, to their credit, they're pretty busy glaring at the jackbooted thugs in blue ahead.
"Do not step forward. We will use lethal force."
Lethal force? On civilians who might not even be infected with whatever disease they cooked up that everyone's pinning on him?
He considers his options. Drawing fire to himself keeps Zeke safe, but makes getting through a crowd of armed, lethal cops harder. Bullets might heal fast when he takes in more power, but withstanding dozens? He's not sure he's got that in him before they can take him down. But… encouraging the protestors to get involved? To force a riot, to slip past all of this bullshit and get Zeke to safety?
That just might be worth it.
Cole begins to move forward, lightning arcing across his arm. He maneuvers into position near the front of the crowd, but one of the riot cops must have spotted him. A shout, a gunshot, and a lightning blast later, and everything goes up in panicked chaos.
It would not come to light until much later that Cole McGrath started the events at Stampton Bridge that resulted in the deaths of eight people and the life-ruining injuries of nineteen more. Those caught in the crossfire wanted to escape, and it's difficult to paint a true picture of how desperate things must have been that afternoon.
Remember their names: Mirabelle Harris. Bryce Kirby. Malik Thompson. Stanley Gardner. Richie Fox. Sarah Miller. Steve Cooper. Kyle Connor.
Media reports have been largely inaccurate in their coverage - this actually happened on the same day as the shootout between Cole McGrath and the Reapers at Archer Square. Already on edge, he made a difficult decision for one of his loved ones, his best friend Zeke Dunbar, and several innocent people paid the price.
The worst part of it all?
It did not matter.
Cole and his friend did not escape Empire City that day.
0.4
- Location
- Alabama
Jason's apartment is really not the best place to test any of this, and he's right - doing it outside is not a smart decision either. Part of me wonders if maybe the sewers would be a decent place to try to get a handle on this, as finding a nearby manhole and slipping inside shouldn't be too difficult. Going down into the sewers, though, is icky. That might not be a great reason to avoid it, but hey- I'm only human.
"God, that's still freaky."
Jason tries and fails to look away as my own shadow lifts from the wall and forms into a duplicate of my own figure. I twitch my fingers, and the shadow walks calmly toward my brother, who almost flinches away. It raises a hand at my whim, my hands flashing with darkened light, and reaches for Jason.
"Tap it."
"Come again?"
I look at him expectantly and then wave a hand. The shadow bends toward the ground and lifts a discarded pen from abandoned homework, palming the object as easily as any solid thing might. "I know it can touch things, I just haven't had it touch a living thing."
He shakes his head fervently. "You do it! You're the one who grew an entirely new left cheek in two weeks!"
"I already know I can touch it, but I'm trying to do some tests. Live a little."
The shadow rises to a standing position and holds out a hand, palm facing the ceiling, waiting expectantly.
Jason takes several long breaths, lowers his coffee to the end table, and places a single finger against the shadow's palm. He jerks it away for a second, hesitates, and then places his whole hand against the shadow. "That's really odd. It feels… almost like smoke? Or mist?" His arm flexes slightly as he presses downward, and several ripples spread across its body like a rock dropped in a pond. "But there's resistance too, like it's solid."
As he lets go, the shadow itself flickers out of existence, not able to stick around for too much longer.
"Do it again," he says, and I raise an eyebrow. "Don't give me that. It's cool, I just don't want it to bite us in the ass."
"I'm not sure I can," I explain, reflecting on what exactly all of this feels like. "I might be able to do it again in a few minutes, but there's a limit on how much I can do."
He tilts his head. "How do you know?"
I shrug slightly, annoyed that this whole thing didn't come with a manual. It'd be different if I recognized this power-set from somewhere specific. I'm not weaving hand-signs, I didn't eat a devil fruit, and I'm not flinging magic spells left and right. Not that I'd expect anything but the latter to be possible. I can't think of many shadow-wielding characters in DC Comics: a couple characters from Static Shock like Ebon and that one girl who lived underground, the Shade, Obsidian, and Raven if you squint at the definition of her soul-self as a shadow. Nothing quite looks right, and it makes experimenting with what exactly all of this is as a difficult prospect.
"There's gotta be more than a shrug, bro."
That's fair. "It's hard to explain, to put into words. There's almost a pressure here," I point to the space just beneath my sternum, "that becomes almost an itching tension when I use it. The pressure lessens when I use it, and when the pressure's not there? I can't use it til it builds again."
He stares, flummoxed. "I don't know what to make of any of that. It sounds like it might have to do with your heart or maybe your lungs?"
"I don't know."
"From the location anyway?" he frowns. "The idea of pressure makes me think of muscles - like maybe you tire it out and need to let it rest? So, the heart, maybe. But that pressure could also be filling your lungs. Or maybe filling the chambers of the heart?"
I genuinely had no idea, which is utterly frustrating. Of all the superpowers to gain when shunted to DC Comics, gaining one where I have no real context to understand it already is not what I'd want. A Lantern Power Ring, an obvious metahuman power, or an alien body I recognize. Instead, it's all in the dark.
"What causes it to come back? Is it just time?" he asks. "It's probably useless to think of it this way, but biologically, there's gotta be something in your body connected to it. Humans don't do any actions without-"
"Nerves," I answer, "flesh, bones, blood."
Even that is questionable. The immortal soul is very likely a real thing here, if all the stories of the afterlife, of resurrection, of soul-manipulating magics are real. For all I know, though, the soul might have a biological component here. This thought process almost brings me back to my philosophy major days, in my first life, but I don't wanna go down an endless Cartesian spiral.
"It just seems to come back," I finally answer his question, forcing the science major to rethink just about everything he knows. "I think it comes back on its own, but I'm fairly certain it comes from somewhere. Like, somewhere outside of me."
"How do you know what?"
"A gut feeling," I answer. "I wish I knew more than that."
Jason says nothing for a long time, fingers itching to scroll across his phone. Samantha senses his distress and places her head right against his knee, before collapsing to the ground to lie over his bare feet. A small smile arises in his face, before he finally looks up.
"I got an idea. We need to run some tests on you."
I raise an eyebrow. "Tests?"
"We don't know what we're looking for in your body until we narrow it down," he suggests. "Draw some blood, sample some urine, maybe an MRI? I have a fellow student I trust - she's a genius in all things biology. I say we look her up, see if she's still in the city, and see if she can help us to help you."
"Not sure how a marine biologist is supposed to-"
Jason scoffs. "Dude, I didn't just take classes on fish."
Amused, my heart skips a beat when he swipes through his phone, revealing a name in his contacts. A name that might mean something. A name that might mean a coincidence. A short text to one "Pamela" later, and I can't help but feel stress oozing into my pores.
Striding into the streets after such a wonderful experience last time we stepped out? Yeah, to say that both of us were scared out of our minds to head toward a low-rise apartment in the northeastern Neon is an understatement. J had been lucky that his place was connected to a largely maintained power structure, but the rolling blackouts were hitting this place hard. Street signs, traffic lights, shopfront displays - all are as dead as the victims of the plague that people sometimes carry from their homes in old bedsheets.
"If, uh, either of us gets sick-"
J stalls on the sidewalk suddenly enough that Samantha whines with concern, a sentiment I can't help but share.
"Wait- you're not sick."
"No," he assures me, face hard to read beneath the cloth mask over his jaw. "No, of course not. Just seeing all of this is hard." He diverts his eyes from a couple trying to lift what might be the body of a child into the back of their van. Where'd they'd take their child's body is unclear - it won't be long until the morgues are full, if they aren't already.
I can't disagree. "Promise me this, Jason. If either of us gets sick, we stay away from each other and from Mom."
The latter part is easy enough to promise, because until the quarantine breaks, Facezone is the best way to see her, talk to her. It's the latter that's hard, though maybe harder for him than for me. I've never been a social butterfly, but Jason thrives in the company of others.
"Yeah," he admits finally. "I can do that."
Left unsaid is whether either of us can really follow through on that promise, or if we'd be the ones pulling a loved one into a car and hoping for the best.
A few minutes later, while avoiding any minor thoroughfares that could attract those who might seek to do harm to the sparse travelers even in broad daylight, we find the address. The apartment complex is nothing special, advertised for university housing - even though it isn't particularly close to ECU at all for city-traversal standards.
I let Jason take the lead, my own powers clamoring to just beneath the surface. He knocks carefully and quietly at her door on the third floor, his own behavior anxious. I study him closely for any signs of unusual behavior. If this is who I think it is, then-
The door opens, revealing a beautiful redhead dressed in thin pajamas and a thick coat. Eyes a vibrant, shining blue, she reminds me so much of Rose in that moment that my heart stings.
"What a pleasant surprise. Come in, come in." She ushers Jason inside and then turns to me. "This must be your brother, Logan. He says good things."
I barely hear her.
A redhead named Pamela? Known for biology?
The only reason I'm not freaking out more is that this isn't Gotham.
I force my legs to move and nod at her greeting, entering an apartment filled with clutter. Papers scatter across every possible writing surface in the common room, smoke from a bong on the couch lightly simmering in the air. In almost every corner of the room is some form of plant, including two ferns and a variety of flowers that I couldn't possibly name if I tried. A small rose bush pokes from the balcony terrace, its flowers almost warding off the dangerous streets beyond this room. Several candles burn in different places, providing dim light to an apartment that doesn't seem to have power.
"Sorry it's a bit messy," she warns as she beckons us to open seats, clearing us a space and piling papers together that may or may not be in an organized way. "Ever since this whole thing started, I decided to just keep working through it."
"Pamela's close to finishing her dissertation," Jason explains.
"I've been close for months," she corrects. "Just trying to put the finishing touches to wow the panel."
My brain has completely ceased meaningful activity.
I can hear their conversation, can hear their words, can even participate, but all I can think is to get out of here.
"What were you, uh, studying?" I ask nervously, eyes flickering toward the closed door and wondering how easy it would be to surreptitiously text J and get us both out of the lair of motherfucking Poison Ivy.
She looks on with renewed interest, eyes wild under the candlelight. "Well, I'll spare you the technical details, but I've been looking into the impact of a specific species of fern on the rapid deforestation in the Southern Hemisphere. Using proper, safe chemicals, we could stimulate growth in these ferns to revitalize the healing process of once great forests. Applied properly, this could also help new growth after volcanic eruptions and other disasters."
"She's brilliant, like I said," Jason declares, dumb smile hidden by his mask.
"Yeah," I say with mock enthusiasm, mind running through every Poison Ivy story I can think of, without defaulting to damn Uma Thurman. "J, how, uh, is she meant to help us?"
Pamela turns her attention to Jason. "I was wondering the same. You're such a dry texter, Jason. Prying details out of you is next to impossible."
He rubs his neck. "Yeah, yeah. Bro, trust me on this. What's really impossible is getting her to leave the greenhouse even to get a bite to eat."
I almost feel amusement at the idea, wondering exactly what they were implying and fearful of the answer. Almost every story I can think of involved her using some weird pheromones to control men. Is Jason interested or interested?
"Be that as it may," she admits, "how can I help you?"
Jason turns to me expectantly. "Logan, you should show her."
My face drops, though not because I didn't expect that. No, it drops because I hoped I wouldn't be showing a supervillain my hand before I have to use it to defend myself or my brother.
"J, actually, can we just wait?"
"Wait for what?" he asks incredulously. "We don't know what's happening to you. For all we know, you've… you're terminal."
"Yeah, but this is a stranger-"
"Not to me," Jason defends, earning a slight smile from a decidedly nervous Pamela, the woman looking like she doesn't want to be caught in the middle. "I've known her from several of my classes. We've done study groups, we've written papers, we've-"
"Boys, I'm not a doctor. If you're about to drop trou and ask me to look at a mole, I don't think you're at the right place."
"No, it's not that," Jason answers, fighting to not look in my direction. "It's-"
"It's this."
I raise my hand and generate shadow, the aura of flame-like light drifting into existence and coating each finger, the palms, and the back of the hand until just beyond the wrist. I reflexively prepare to defend myself if she decides to attack, but the woman looks on in wide eyes, seemingly shocked by what she sees. Deceptively shocked? I can't tell.
I cancel my focus, feeling the dark energy dissipate into nothingness.
A vine does not latch onto my legs. Thorns do not suddenly sprout where I sit. The room does not fill with toxic smoke and spores.
Pamela blinks once, twice, and then reaches for her bong.
I do not think any of you will ever appreciate the compromises that have to happen in what would effectively become a warzone, unless you've experienced a warzone yourself. If those early days in Empire City were bad, it was only going to get worse. Decisions must be made, even if they go against everything you might have considered to be moral before.
An elderly woman told me that she gave up on an abandoned puppy because she learned their owners had died from the Empire City plague. She'd raised plenty of strays before, and it pained her to give up on the latest.
A man who had once been an accountant had to learn how to scavenge to put food on the table for his young son. When things got harder, it became a family affair to dive through dumpsters for long-forgotten, partially rotten scraps. I was told, "Dad got really good at figuring out where the meat had gone bad and to cut if off before cooking the rest."
A mother scoured the city for any signs of her daughter, who had left a note on her pillow one morning. The daughter had willingly joined the Reapers, and she'd asked for her mother's protection in exchange. The mother was never bothered during her search, no matter how many of the black tar-vomiting thugs she might have seen.
These are just a few of the stories I've collected since this crisis began, that involve well-meaning people making difficult choices to survive. At the end of the day, I have had to make my own share of difficult choices during the Empire City Quarantine.
"You survived the Blast and woke up with superpowers?" she asks, half an afternoon of storytelling and several bong hits later. "That's craaazy. Word on the street is that Cole guy survived the Blast too."
"Cole?"
"You know, the bald and sparky one. Saw a clip on my phone that claimed he was carrying whatever bomb when it detonated."
I share a knowing glance with Jason.
"We, uh, ran into him," I explain. "Not directly, but he got into a fight with the Reapers in front of us."
"Really? Wiiild." Pamela leans back in the crook of the sofa, smoke billowing lightly from her lips. Her fingers lightly grip onto Jason's thigh, my brother stiffening slightly. "You came to me for help with all this?"
My brother politely lifts her hand from his lap but does not let go, looking at me with sheepish eyes. "You're the smartest person I've met. I thought you could help us run some tests on him."
I nod. Perhaps it's the weed confidence talking, but we came all this way and I've already revealed myself to her. "Jason thought you could help."
She stands after a long second, head in the clouds, and Jason almost moves to help her even though he's maybe as far gone as she is. "I can, can help. Let me- find the map. This is crazy, you know that? I've never seen anything like this."
I'm starting to believe her.
She pawns through some of her things, Jason moving to help her, while I contemplate how strange all this really is. I never would have thought to meet a character from the goddamn comics, much less a Batman villain outside of Gotham. There're billions of people out there, and the comics have likely covered a few thousand names at best. Add in all the superpowered shenanigans, and this is really something strange.
I'm starting piece together what may have happened, too, which is both exciting and terrifying. Exciting to record in the upcoming blog, terrifying to consider where it is all headed. This Cole may have gotten powers from the Blast, too, and I'm starting to fear others may have as well if it happened to him and to me. Why he got lightning and I ended up with shadows is unclear, but when has any of this made sense?
"Here!" she shouts with glee, giggling. Jason unfurls the paper she hands him, and he flips it around so that I can see. A… campus map of ECU? "Give me a second to mark it."
"For what?" Jason asks, a smile of high amusement on his face.
She coughs slightly as she takes the page and a red ink pen, encircling a room within one of the high-rise buildings owned by the campus. "If you want me to, uh, run some tests, you'll need to bring me the right equipment. Check out this lab and bring me as much of the stuff on this list as you can."
Jason glances at the paper and then looks toward me. "We're… going to have to do some B&E?"
I gulp. "Seems that way."
"It'll be light B&E," she argues. "If you're smart, you'll only have to make one trip."
Great.
"God, that's still freaky."
Jason tries and fails to look away as my own shadow lifts from the wall and forms into a duplicate of my own figure. I twitch my fingers, and the shadow walks calmly toward my brother, who almost flinches away. It raises a hand at my whim, my hands flashing with darkened light, and reaches for Jason.
"Tap it."
"Come again?"
I look at him expectantly and then wave a hand. The shadow bends toward the ground and lifts a discarded pen from abandoned homework, palming the object as easily as any solid thing might. "I know it can touch things, I just haven't had it touch a living thing."
He shakes his head fervently. "You do it! You're the one who grew an entirely new left cheek in two weeks!"
"I already know I can touch it, but I'm trying to do some tests. Live a little."
The shadow rises to a standing position and holds out a hand, palm facing the ceiling, waiting expectantly.
Jason takes several long breaths, lowers his coffee to the end table, and places a single finger against the shadow's palm. He jerks it away for a second, hesitates, and then places his whole hand against the shadow. "That's really odd. It feels… almost like smoke? Or mist?" His arm flexes slightly as he presses downward, and several ripples spread across its body like a rock dropped in a pond. "But there's resistance too, like it's solid."
As he lets go, the shadow itself flickers out of existence, not able to stick around for too much longer.
"Do it again," he says, and I raise an eyebrow. "Don't give me that. It's cool, I just don't want it to bite us in the ass."
"I'm not sure I can," I explain, reflecting on what exactly all of this feels like. "I might be able to do it again in a few minutes, but there's a limit on how much I can do."
He tilts his head. "How do you know?"
I shrug slightly, annoyed that this whole thing didn't come with a manual. It'd be different if I recognized this power-set from somewhere specific. I'm not weaving hand-signs, I didn't eat a devil fruit, and I'm not flinging magic spells left and right. Not that I'd expect anything but the latter to be possible. I can't think of many shadow-wielding characters in DC Comics: a couple characters from Static Shock like Ebon and that one girl who lived underground, the Shade, Obsidian, and Raven if you squint at the definition of her soul-self as a shadow. Nothing quite looks right, and it makes experimenting with what exactly all of this is as a difficult prospect.
"There's gotta be more than a shrug, bro."
That's fair. "It's hard to explain, to put into words. There's almost a pressure here," I point to the space just beneath my sternum, "that becomes almost an itching tension when I use it. The pressure lessens when I use it, and when the pressure's not there? I can't use it til it builds again."
He stares, flummoxed. "I don't know what to make of any of that. It sounds like it might have to do with your heart or maybe your lungs?"
"I don't know."
"From the location anyway?" he frowns. "The idea of pressure makes me think of muscles - like maybe you tire it out and need to let it rest? So, the heart, maybe. But that pressure could also be filling your lungs. Or maybe filling the chambers of the heart?"
I genuinely had no idea, which is utterly frustrating. Of all the superpowers to gain when shunted to DC Comics, gaining one where I have no real context to understand it already is not what I'd want. A Lantern Power Ring, an obvious metahuman power, or an alien body I recognize. Instead, it's all in the dark.
"What causes it to come back? Is it just time?" he asks. "It's probably useless to think of it this way, but biologically, there's gotta be something in your body connected to it. Humans don't do any actions without-"
"Nerves," I answer, "flesh, bones, blood."
Even that is questionable. The immortal soul is very likely a real thing here, if all the stories of the afterlife, of resurrection, of soul-manipulating magics are real. For all I know, though, the soul might have a biological component here. This thought process almost brings me back to my philosophy major days, in my first life, but I don't wanna go down an endless Cartesian spiral.
"It just seems to come back," I finally answer his question, forcing the science major to rethink just about everything he knows. "I think it comes back on its own, but I'm fairly certain it comes from somewhere. Like, somewhere outside of me."
"How do you know what?"
"A gut feeling," I answer. "I wish I knew more than that."
Jason says nothing for a long time, fingers itching to scroll across his phone. Samantha senses his distress and places her head right against his knee, before collapsing to the ground to lie over his bare feet. A small smile arises in his face, before he finally looks up.
"I got an idea. We need to run some tests on you."
I raise an eyebrow. "Tests?"
"We don't know what we're looking for in your body until we narrow it down," he suggests. "Draw some blood, sample some urine, maybe an MRI? I have a fellow student I trust - she's a genius in all things biology. I say we look her up, see if she's still in the city, and see if she can help us to help you."
"Not sure how a marine biologist is supposed to-"
Jason scoffs. "Dude, I didn't just take classes on fish."
Amused, my heart skips a beat when he swipes through his phone, revealing a name in his contacts. A name that might mean something. A name that might mean a coincidence. A short text to one "Pamela" later, and I can't help but feel stress oozing into my pores.
Striding into the streets after such a wonderful experience last time we stepped out? Yeah, to say that both of us were scared out of our minds to head toward a low-rise apartment in the northeastern Neon is an understatement. J had been lucky that his place was connected to a largely maintained power structure, but the rolling blackouts were hitting this place hard. Street signs, traffic lights, shopfront displays - all are as dead as the victims of the plague that people sometimes carry from their homes in old bedsheets.
"If, uh, either of us gets sick-"
J stalls on the sidewalk suddenly enough that Samantha whines with concern, a sentiment I can't help but share.
"Wait- you're not sick."
"No," he assures me, face hard to read beneath the cloth mask over his jaw. "No, of course not. Just seeing all of this is hard." He diverts his eyes from a couple trying to lift what might be the body of a child into the back of their van. Where'd they'd take their child's body is unclear - it won't be long until the morgues are full, if they aren't already.
I can't disagree. "Promise me this, Jason. If either of us gets sick, we stay away from each other and from Mom."
The latter part is easy enough to promise, because until the quarantine breaks, Facezone is the best way to see her, talk to her. It's the latter that's hard, though maybe harder for him than for me. I've never been a social butterfly, but Jason thrives in the company of others.
"Yeah," he admits finally. "I can do that."
Left unsaid is whether either of us can really follow through on that promise, or if we'd be the ones pulling a loved one into a car and hoping for the best.
A few minutes later, while avoiding any minor thoroughfares that could attract those who might seek to do harm to the sparse travelers even in broad daylight, we find the address. The apartment complex is nothing special, advertised for university housing - even though it isn't particularly close to ECU at all for city-traversal standards.
I let Jason take the lead, my own powers clamoring to just beneath the surface. He knocks carefully and quietly at her door on the third floor, his own behavior anxious. I study him closely for any signs of unusual behavior. If this is who I think it is, then-
The door opens, revealing a beautiful redhead dressed in thin pajamas and a thick coat. Eyes a vibrant, shining blue, she reminds me so much of Rose in that moment that my heart stings.
"What a pleasant surprise. Come in, come in." She ushers Jason inside and then turns to me. "This must be your brother, Logan. He says good things."
I barely hear her.
A redhead named Pamela? Known for biology?
The only reason I'm not freaking out more is that this isn't Gotham.
I force my legs to move and nod at her greeting, entering an apartment filled with clutter. Papers scatter across every possible writing surface in the common room, smoke from a bong on the couch lightly simmering in the air. In almost every corner of the room is some form of plant, including two ferns and a variety of flowers that I couldn't possibly name if I tried. A small rose bush pokes from the balcony terrace, its flowers almost warding off the dangerous streets beyond this room. Several candles burn in different places, providing dim light to an apartment that doesn't seem to have power.
"Sorry it's a bit messy," she warns as she beckons us to open seats, clearing us a space and piling papers together that may or may not be in an organized way. "Ever since this whole thing started, I decided to just keep working through it."
"Pamela's close to finishing her dissertation," Jason explains.
"I've been close for months," she corrects. "Just trying to put the finishing touches to wow the panel."
My brain has completely ceased meaningful activity.
I can hear their conversation, can hear their words, can even participate, but all I can think is to get out of here.
"What were you, uh, studying?" I ask nervously, eyes flickering toward the closed door and wondering how easy it would be to surreptitiously text J and get us both out of the lair of motherfucking Poison Ivy.
She looks on with renewed interest, eyes wild under the candlelight. "Well, I'll spare you the technical details, but I've been looking into the impact of a specific species of fern on the rapid deforestation in the Southern Hemisphere. Using proper, safe chemicals, we could stimulate growth in these ferns to revitalize the healing process of once great forests. Applied properly, this could also help new growth after volcanic eruptions and other disasters."
"She's brilliant, like I said," Jason declares, dumb smile hidden by his mask.
"Yeah," I say with mock enthusiasm, mind running through every Poison Ivy story I can think of, without defaulting to damn Uma Thurman. "J, how, uh, is she meant to help us?"
Pamela turns her attention to Jason. "I was wondering the same. You're such a dry texter, Jason. Prying details out of you is next to impossible."
He rubs his neck. "Yeah, yeah. Bro, trust me on this. What's really impossible is getting her to leave the greenhouse even to get a bite to eat."
I almost feel amusement at the idea, wondering exactly what they were implying and fearful of the answer. Almost every story I can think of involved her using some weird pheromones to control men. Is Jason interested or interested?
"Be that as it may," she admits, "how can I help you?"
Jason turns to me expectantly. "Logan, you should show her."
My face drops, though not because I didn't expect that. No, it drops because I hoped I wouldn't be showing a supervillain my hand before I have to use it to defend myself or my brother.
"J, actually, can we just wait?"
"Wait for what?" he asks incredulously. "We don't know what's happening to you. For all we know, you've… you're terminal."
"Yeah, but this is a stranger-"
"Not to me," Jason defends, earning a slight smile from a decidedly nervous Pamela, the woman looking like she doesn't want to be caught in the middle. "I've known her from several of my classes. We've done study groups, we've written papers, we've-"
"Boys, I'm not a doctor. If you're about to drop trou and ask me to look at a mole, I don't think you're at the right place."
"No, it's not that," Jason answers, fighting to not look in my direction. "It's-"
"It's this."
I raise my hand and generate shadow, the aura of flame-like light drifting into existence and coating each finger, the palms, and the back of the hand until just beyond the wrist. I reflexively prepare to defend myself if she decides to attack, but the woman looks on in wide eyes, seemingly shocked by what she sees. Deceptively shocked? I can't tell.
I cancel my focus, feeling the dark energy dissipate into nothingness.
A vine does not latch onto my legs. Thorns do not suddenly sprout where I sit. The room does not fill with toxic smoke and spores.
Pamela blinks once, twice, and then reaches for her bong.
I do not think any of you will ever appreciate the compromises that have to happen in what would effectively become a warzone, unless you've experienced a warzone yourself. If those early days in Empire City were bad, it was only going to get worse. Decisions must be made, even if they go against everything you might have considered to be moral before.
An elderly woman told me that she gave up on an abandoned puppy because she learned their owners had died from the Empire City plague. She'd raised plenty of strays before, and it pained her to give up on the latest.
A man who had once been an accountant had to learn how to scavenge to put food on the table for his young son. When things got harder, it became a family affair to dive through dumpsters for long-forgotten, partially rotten scraps. I was told, "Dad got really good at figuring out where the meat had gone bad and to cut if off before cooking the rest."
A mother scoured the city for any signs of her daughter, who had left a note on her pillow one morning. The daughter had willingly joined the Reapers, and she'd asked for her mother's protection in exchange. The mother was never bothered during her search, no matter how many of the black tar-vomiting thugs she might have seen.
These are just a few of the stories I've collected since this crisis began, that involve well-meaning people making difficult choices to survive. At the end of the day, I have had to make my own share of difficult choices during the Empire City Quarantine.
"You survived the Blast and woke up with superpowers?" she asks, half an afternoon of storytelling and several bong hits later. "That's craaazy. Word on the street is that Cole guy survived the Blast too."
"Cole?"
"You know, the bald and sparky one. Saw a clip on my phone that claimed he was carrying whatever bomb when it detonated."
I share a knowing glance with Jason.
"We, uh, ran into him," I explain. "Not directly, but he got into a fight with the Reapers in front of us."
"Really? Wiiild." Pamela leans back in the crook of the sofa, smoke billowing lightly from her lips. Her fingers lightly grip onto Jason's thigh, my brother stiffening slightly. "You came to me for help with all this?"
My brother politely lifts her hand from his lap but does not let go, looking at me with sheepish eyes. "You're the smartest person I've met. I thought you could help us run some tests on him."
I nod. Perhaps it's the weed confidence talking, but we came all this way and I've already revealed myself to her. "Jason thought you could help."
She stands after a long second, head in the clouds, and Jason almost moves to help her even though he's maybe as far gone as she is. "I can, can help. Let me- find the map. This is crazy, you know that? I've never seen anything like this."
I'm starting to believe her.
She pawns through some of her things, Jason moving to help her, while I contemplate how strange all this really is. I never would have thought to meet a character from the goddamn comics, much less a Batman villain outside of Gotham. There're billions of people out there, and the comics have likely covered a few thousand names at best. Add in all the superpowered shenanigans, and this is really something strange.
I'm starting piece together what may have happened, too, which is both exciting and terrifying. Exciting to record in the upcoming blog, terrifying to consider where it is all headed. This Cole may have gotten powers from the Blast, too, and I'm starting to fear others may have as well if it happened to him and to me. Why he got lightning and I ended up with shadows is unclear, but when has any of this made sense?
"Here!" she shouts with glee, giggling. Jason unfurls the paper she hands him, and he flips it around so that I can see. A… campus map of ECU? "Give me a second to mark it."
"For what?" Jason asks, a smile of high amusement on his face.
She coughs slightly as she takes the page and a red ink pen, encircling a room within one of the high-rise buildings owned by the campus. "If you want me to, uh, run some tests, you'll need to bring me the right equipment. Check out this lab and bring me as much of the stuff on this list as you can."
Jason glances at the paper and then looks toward me. "We're… going to have to do some B&E?"
I gulp. "Seems that way."
"It'll be light B&E," she argues. "If you're smart, you'll only have to make one trip."
Great.