# Contents

Title Page Main

1: Welcome to Prose

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

2: The Ballad of M

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Epilogue

3: Paradigm

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Epilogue

4: The Bend

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Epilogue

About the Author

Superheroes in Prose:

The 1-4 Collection

by Sevan Paris

Story Consultants

Michael Booth

and

Cindy Paris

With additional help by JDar

Copyright © 2012 Sevan Paris

All rights reserved.

# 1: Welcome to Prose
# Chapter One

#

Imagine you have the power to fly.

Pretty awesome, right? Imagine you have the power to levitate or crush something the size of a Winnebago. Equally awesome. Now ... here's the catch: having the power means you are bonded irreversibly to a smartass, sociopathic alien life form.

Not so awesome.

So, what would you do with all that power? The way I figured it, I had one of two options: Option #1) Use it to commit crime or Option #2) Use it to fight crime. My name is Gabe Garrison and I chose Option #2.

The jerk that just punched me through a 15th story apartment window chose Option #1.

It's not the most elegant of landings. My ass shatters the window, my legs take out a good portion of the windowsill, and my entire body skids across some old lady's living room. The momentum carries me through her bathroom wall and into the toilet.

Ouch.

I stand. I'm a little sore, but that's okay. My force field activated in time. It kept me safe then and is keeping safe from the toilet shower I'm getting now.

It might be clean water, but why take a chance?

I don't want to take a chance on slipping either, so I hover out of the bathroom. I ball my hands into fists as I float out, hoping it looks cool. I have to shake loose some toilet paper wrapped around my ankle, which totally ruins the moment.

The old lady screams. She backs over the arm of her ugly green recliner, legs flailing.

"Whoa, whoa, lady, look—I'm sorry. Are you okay?" I land and try easing her back up.

Huge mistake.

She screams, kicks me with her fuzzy blue slippers, and backs away on her elbows. Did I mention I look pretty crazy to most people?

When I'm powered up, you see two glowing blue lights where my eyes should be. As for the rest, you see a body shaped window into space.

Literally.

If it's broad daylight and the Big Dipper is behind me, you can see it by standing in front. If the moon is even on the other side of the world below, you can see it by looking down on me. If the sun is on one side and you're on the other, look away or you'll see spots for a while ... like, maybe the rest of your life.

I think it's a pretty cool look, but most people find it terrifying. It's also why I chose my Superhero name: Galaxy.

The old lady's screams are freaking me out. I'm sure people can hear it across the entire city of Prose. "Calm down, lady. I know I look weird, but I'm not gonna give you cancer or anything."

_Oh, well done, Gabe,_ the voice inside my head says. It's that alien I was talking about earlier. __

_What if she already has cancer? You've just reminded the poor woman of her approaching demise. Not to mention how humiliating it will be. She'll probably spend the last of her days in a medicated stupor, dying slowly in a puddle of her own—_

"Shut up!" I tell it.

The old lady thinks I'm yelling at her. She goes from screaming to a kind of whimpering. It wasn't my intention and it's sad to see, but at least I can think straight.

_It's baaaaack_ , the voice says.

I turn around. The eight-foot tall cyborg that punched me hovers outside the hole vaguely shaped like my ass. Most of its body is a shiny black metal wrapped in hoses and blinking green lights. Its head is the only way I can tell it's a Cyborg and not some sort of full-fledged robot. It looks like an elongated human skull minus a jaw. A plume of green smoke rises from its mouth and forehead and flames shoot out of its boot jets. Its purple cape blocks a little of the morning sun.

"Okay, fella, I don't know what I did to you but—"

It garbles something at me in a voice that sounds like a vacuum cleaner going over a bunch of thumbtacks. It points at me all menacingly and then crosses its arms.

"What are you—I don't understand what you're saying."

It looks surprised and then hits some buttons on its wrist. This time, the voice sounds something like a drowning Klingon.

I was wrong earlier. This guy isn't your average Supervillain. "Try again. Something from the planet Earth."

The cyborg rolls the two dots that pass for eyes and then hits a few more buttons on its wrist. It looks back at me and I think it starts speaking German.

"Almost. What else do you have?"

It hits a few more buttons and then says in a digitized voice, "For the love of all that is sacred, human, this setting had better work! I just as soon pummel you as to make another attempt at communication!"

I give him a thumbs up. "That did it."

Then I fly over and knock the crap out of him.

He flips head over tail a few times before righting himself with those boot thrusters. "Who the hell do you think you are, Cyborg Guy? I'm just flying along, minding my own business and you just jack me right upside the head?"

I'm annoyed, but I'd be lying if I said a small part of me didn't enjoy this. When I'm Galaxy, I'm more direct. More confident. I'm basically the guy I wish I were in my real life.

The cyborg crosses his arms again. "I am the scourge of all that is, human! I am fear incarnate! I am the terror that haunts you both in your dreams and in the depths of your very soul! I ... am ... DEATHBOT!"

I laugh so hard it hurts.

The average citizen of Prose is no stranger to Superhero slugfests. The town has a really high Superhuman to human ratio, one of the highest in the world I think. Still, that doesn't stop people from running to the windows of every office building in sight and looking at us. I'm still too new at this for them to know my name, but I guess it's obvious who the hero is. A few of them give me fist pumps. Others just stare and continue drinking coffee.

"You dare laugh at me?"

"Oh, I dare ... DEATHBOT!" I air quote his name.

_It would be most unwise to agitate him, Gabe. The power emanating from this being is massive. He is quite capable of doing considerable damage to you and—more importantly—me._

Metal plates spiral away from Deathbot's left forearm and combine to form a barrel over his fist. The tip of the barrel glows green. "It shall be your final mistake."

I hold my hand up a split second before he fires. The green blast sounds like a bad sound effect from _Star Trek_. M uses our gravity manipulation power to deflect the beam harmlessly into the air.

M ... that's what I call this voice in my head. This alien creature I've been bonded to for the past six months. M is short for monkey, as in the monkey that's always on my back. As I mentioned earlier, we can levitate or crush something really big, fly, and can wrap ourselves in a force field. All of the powers come from M's ability to control gravity. I control flight and basic movement, but he controls everything else.

When we first started, we worked horribly together. I wanted him to levitate a scared cat from out of a tree one time. Instead, he sent it into orbit. I think its name was Fluffy.

Now, we work really well together. I don't even have to tell him to bend gravity around my hand to deflect Deathbot's beam. He takes his cue from the way I move my hand and does it automatically. Deathbot continues to fire and I continue deflecting. I could do it all day.

_This is most likely—_

There's a basketball-sized explosion in my right side that sends me cart wheeling into a fire escape.

_—a diversionary tactic._

"Crap."

At some point, Deathbot's right arm transformed into some sort of freaking bazooka. That had to be what I felt in my side. Why do bad guys always have bazookas? You'd think they'd be harder to get.

I duck right before he fires again. The shell explodes into the building behind me and I hope there's nobody inside. Then I see it's a building full of health insurance agents—so who cares, right?

He barely misses me three more times. Chunks of concrete and glass explode. Screams and sirens everywhere. I've got to get clear of these buildings. Otherwise, people might get hurt. Insurance agents too.

"Can our force field take repeated hits from that thing?"

_How should I know?_

There's another explosion behind me followed by more screaming. "The science stuff is your department!"

"MINE IS THE DEPARTMENT OF PAIN, EARTH CREATURE!"

"Oh for the love of—" I make a fist with my right hand and point it at Deathbot. M translates and fires a Grav Bolt at him. Deathbot screams and twists sideways from the light blue energy blast. Pieces of his bazooka and purple cape fall to the street a hundred and fifty feet below.

He turns to face me again. Both of us hover above the buildings, but I probably look cooler.

"You are rapidly becoming more trouble than you are worth, human! I shall demand that my employers pay me triple the price!"

"Whoa, wait a minute. You're being paid to come after me?"

"Not exactly." He fires the laser and I deflect it again.

Thank God M deflects it up instead of down. There are more people gathering on the rooftops taking pictures, and sometimes it's hard to keep this sociopath inside me reigned in.

"I'm being paid to kill your alien host," Deathbot says.

I should be enraged at some intergalactic somebody putting out a contract on me. Instead, I'm enraged over something else. " 'Alien host' ?"

_That's the way I've always seen it._

"The alien isn't the host. I'm the freaking host."

Deathbot shrugs. "It is of no consequence." A cable bigger than my forearm extends from his laser gun and into his back. The gun lights up again and is accompanied by a whistling sound. He fires and the beam barely misses me. It does manage to blow the top off Looktop Mountain on the other side of the Tennessee River.

_The weapon is significantly more powerful now._

"Ya think?" I fly over Deathbot.

"We do better at absorbing energy stuff, right?" I yell over another blast. It hits the river and steam rolls up the Michael Booth Bridge.

_Yes. But I wouldn't advise—_

"We've got no choice! He's gonna take out half the city!" I duck under another blast and spot a row of bumper-to-bumper traffic on Broad Street.

Sweet.

Deathbot makes a grab for me as I fly past him.

"Raise the force field power. Give me a percentage with each blast!"

_... you're insane._

I hover twenty feet above a Coca-Cola truck and turn around. The driver leans out of the truck and looks at me, then follows my gaze to Deathbot. Even from way down here we can see his barrel glowing.

"Do it!"

I feel the force field power up and light distorts around me. _Seventy percent and falling. I sincerely hope you know what you are doing._

So do I.

Deathbot's beam hits me right in the chest. I hold my fists at my sides and suck it in. The air hums and I see hair raise on the driver's head.

Finally, we finish absorbing the blast. It's hard to keep hovering, but I manage. "Power ... power reading?"

_Forty percent. Do you see that driver running off after we saved his life? Ingrate._

One shot. Just one shot depleted us thirty percent. Once we reach zero, it's goodbye, Galaxy. Followed by goodbye, Gabe Garrison.

Deathbot hits a few buttons on his wrist and flies down.

I take off.

Cars, trucks, and people speed past me. I dodge streetlights and turn into an alley. I'm looking for something big. Something mind-boggingly big.

"Is he right behind us?"

_Like stink on a human._

M can sense a wide range of energies for up to a mile. He tried to explain it once, but I was too upset about Fluffy to listen.

I speed past Trust Banking and come across the Electric Power Board.

That's where I am when Deathbot hits me with that stupid gun thing a second time. I bounce off the asphalt, into a brick wall, and take out a streetlight. The sound of a ten-car pile up quickly follows.

I slowly stand, afraid to look up. I hear people around me and they sound scared or worse. "Anybody hurt?"

_Minimal injuries. We, however, have a whopping ten percent of our power left. Get us out of here, Gabe. _

I wonder if M is lying to me just so I'll leave. It wouldn't be the first time. I look past the wrecked cars and see Deathbot on the other side. Most people get out of their cars okay, but some are having trouble.

That's when I take notice of the two big power board trucks on opposite sides of the street. The really big trucks with the buckets on the back.

_Gabe ... _

Deathbot slowly walks toward us. People scatter. They don't know if they should run from me or him, so they settle for cowering somewhere in the middle. Deathbot shoves a Honda Civic out of his way. It does 360's down the left lane and flips when it hits a fire hydrant, sending water gushing in every direction.

_GET US OUT OF HERE!_

I extend my arms and make a cupping motion with my hands. M hesitates, but then catches on. We grab both bucket trucks in a pair of blue Grav Beams. They float a couple of feet off the ground.

Deathbot doesn't have a clue until I yank them.

I sandwich the cyborg between the two bucket trucks and pull them apart. The trucks and Deathbot are barely recognizable. His left arm moves.

I slam the trucks together again.

And again.

And again.

The screeching of crunching metal echoes off the buildings of Broad Street. By the time I'm through, the trucks and Deathbot look like some sort of Volkswagen Beetle sized paper wad. M drops the beam and the wreck bounces twice before rolling into Panera Bread. More alarms and screams add to the chaos that is downtown Prose.

I land, out of breath. That only happens after I use up a lot of power. "How ... much?"

_Five percent._

People form a circle around me. Some look pissed. Others look like they want to help me up but aren't so sure about the space-field effect my body gives off. "How is everyone?"

An old man wearing a Prose University ball cap looks around. He thinks I'm talking to someone behind him.

_Five people have broken bones and twenty-three have multiple lacerations. _

I stand. Several people back away. The old man picks up a brick.

"We have to help—"

_Forget it, Gabe. HEROES are one mile and closing. They'll assist anyone that needs assisting and arrest anyone that needs arresting. Including us._

HEROES is the name of the government funded Supers. Since the Wertham Act, they're the only ones that practice this Superhero thing legally. When they come across a Super like me, they tend to arrest first and ask questions later. They mean bad business for me, but they'll be more than enough to help anyone that needs it.

_But grab a piece of that thing first. I want to analyze it._

"What?"

_To your right._

I look on the ground and see Deathbot's twitching right arm.

***

"So you really have no idea where that thing came from?"

_No. Two percent power and falling_.

As the University of Tennessee at Prose comes into sight, I start worrying. I worry that M is lying to me, and I worry that I might be late for class again. Also, I worry that I forgot to put on deodorant.

"And you have no idea why it was after you?"

_That's why I wanted to analyze it, Gabe. Please do try and keep up._

When I fly to school in the mornings, I usually land on the top level of the Prose U parking garage. Students don't like paying for a roofless parking space, so the top is usually deserted.

When my feet are about six inches from the top level, I power down and jog to the stairway. I'm wearing the same clothes that I left the house with: fashionably torn blue jeans, my favorite Spider-Man shirt, a blue hoodie, and Chacos. I adjust my backpack containing two protein bars, and an Astronomy textbook. It takes me a minute to stuff Deathbot's severed right arm inside.

I zip up my hoodie and look at my watch: 9:20 ... I've got five minutes to make it to Grota Hall. I go down the stairs two at a time.

"Hey, hero."

I whirl and look up. A red head stands in the doorway I left just a moment ago. She's wearing a purple skirt and red top with a bright yellow jacket. Her name is Reagan MacPherson and she's been the love of my life for five years.

She just doesn't know it.

_She's onto us, Gabe. I've been telling you this parking garage was a bad place to land for weeks. "Nobody ever parks up here," you said. _

M maybe right. If Reagan just parked, there's no telling how much she saw. I zip up my backpack. "Say what?"

She slowly joins me with a grin on the fifth step. "I said 'hero,' and I'll say it again."

"Why—" I clear my throat, trying to get rid of the squeak that's somehow worked its way into my esophagus. "Why am I a hero, Reagan? I mean exactly."

Reagan holds up a wad of papers. "Your notes saved me. I honestly had no idea what Dr. Murray was talking about the other day."

_Neither did Gabe. Those are my notes._

I take the notes and hurry down the stairs. "No problem. Definitely not something of hero proportions, but you're welcome. So, you're on your way down?"

Reagan catches up. I catch a whiff of her strawberry shampoo. "Yeah ... wait. Why are you on your way up?"

_Here it comes._

"No, I'm going down."

"But I just parked and I didn't see you. Were you like hanging out in here or something?"

_Better think of something fast ... _

"I was ... I forgot something in my car."

"I didn't see another car up here."

_This woman has to die, Gabe._

My right arm turns into a star field, telling me M is powering it up. I jerk my arm behind my back to hide it from Reagan and to make it more difficult for M to do anything to her. We only have two percent power left, but that's more than enough for M to shoot a Non-Super like Reagan straight into orbit. There's no way I can put enough distance between us in time.

Reagan's only hope is if I lie my way through this. "I, uh ... " God, why am I so horrible at the secret identity lying thing? "I uh, parked on another thing, and walked too far back to my car, and ... "

I hear a few seconds of Bonnie Tyler's _I Need a Hero_ before I realize it's coming from Reagan's cell phone. She answers it before I can see the screen.

"Hello? Hey, you!" She waves at me and hurries down the stairs.

_That woman has the attention span of a Terlaxion Spit Slug._

M returns my hand to normal.

I let Reagan gain a couple of flights on me. "You need to calm down," I say barely above a whisper. "I've told you before, no killing."

_I will kill if it's the only way to preserve what's left of my meager survival, Gabe. The only reason I agreed to play hero with you is because it was the easiest way to hide from the Council. If they find out I've bonded with you, they will—_

"What? Send an intergalactic bounty hunting cyborg after me?"

_Oh, please. They didn't send Deathbot. If they knew I was here, they would have reduced you to carbon by now. No, this is someone or something else._

I'm halfway down the garage. Reagan's laughter echoes through the fire escape. Wish I knew who she was talking to. "Yeah well, from what you told me about these Council guys, this seems just like something they would do." I hold up my backpack for emphasis.

And see a hole in the bottom.

A hole that could only be caused by a severed cyborg arm somehow ripping its way out.

I frantically look around me. One flight down, I catch a glimpse of the arm creeping behind Reagan. It skitters on its fingers like something out of a horror movie.

She never sees the thing go for her ankle.

# Chapter Two

#

Reagan's hand reaches for the handle on the exit door. She's so wrapped up in her phone conversation, she doesn't even see another hand—a Supervillain cyborg hand—reaching for her.

Thankfully, she doesn't see me one hand the rail and change into Galaxy either.

I fall two flights through the center of the stairway and my feet hit concrete without a sound. I grab the hand, jerk it behind my back, and change back to Gabe Garrison right before Reagan bounces the metal door off my forehead.

"Oh, God, are you okay?" Reagan turns, but keeps the phone to her ear.

I stand, keeping the arm behind my back. "Yeah, sorry. I just fell like a doofus, that's all."

_Doofus?_

"Well, I'm sorry ... I didn't see you. Are you—are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. Totally, I'm fine." Blood trickles down my forehead and Deathbot's arm pulls at the back of my hoodie a little. I grin, knowing I look like an idiot, but I don't know what else to do.

"Okay, uh ... see ya."

"Bye."

_See? I'm already thankful I didn't kill her_. _Just imagine being denied this spectacular performance of your complete social ineptitude. _

The door closes behind Reagan. I wipe blood from my forehead and look at the arm. "Why did it go after her? And how can it go after anybody?"

The fingers make grabbing motions towards my face. I jerk it away. It's wrapped in black metal and each fingertip ends in a small hook-shaped claw. Six arm bones stick out of the severed opening. Three blinking green lights wrap a purple leather so dark it looks black.

_I don't know. Perhaps it wishes to use Reagan somehow to get at me._

"Give me a break. Seriously?"

_I'm sorry. Did I injure your fragile ego? Very well. Perhaps the hand is using her to get to you._

"Okay, first off: shut up. And second: you think this thing is still trying to do what Deathbot started?"

_Perhaps. But it's just a theory. It will take me over an hour to analyze it properly._ My right hand—the one that's holding Deathbot's hand—goes from flesh to star field as M powers it up. _We should get started._

"What? No, I have to get to class."

_Well, what do you suggest we do with it in the meantime? Placing it within the steely confines of your backpack simply isn't enough. And it's not as if we can just leave it somewhere, now is it?_

The hand keeps reaching for my face. What looked so menacing earlier now looks pretty pathetic. "Let's get rid of it."

_Weren't you listening? I just said—_

"No, I mean let's just destroy it or whatever."

My hand powers down. _I'm not destroying it until I find out where it came from and how it got here so quickly_.

"Fine. I'll do it myself."

With Deathbot's hand still twitching, I step in front of the brick wall, rare back ...

_I would strongly advise—_

... and slam it into the wall. A green flash of light nearly blinds me and the hand bounces off the wall so hard I lose my grip.

_That you not do that, Gabe. I am detecting a kinetic force field._

The hand skitters up three steps before I scoop it up. It starts reaching for my face again. "Kinetic?"

_Yes, it means—_

"Forget it. I've got to get to class."

_Suggestions?_

I look at the twitching thing in my hand and sigh.

***

"So, why are the mountains on Mars higher than those of Earth?" Dr. Murray says. He and the rest of the Astronomy 101 class look at me as I open the door.

"Mr. Garrison isn't it?"

I hold onto Deathbot's arm even tighter. My arm is elbow deep in my backpack, holding the twitching Deathbot hand. I've got the backpack zipped up as best I can to hide the contents. My forehead stopped bleeding, but I can feel dried blood every time my eyebrows move.

Basically, I look like a complete idiot.

"Yes, sir."

Dr. Murry is in his late fifties. He has shoulder length grey hair and his face wears a constant state of stubble. He's wearing a button up plaid shirt, khakis and white New Balances. He constantly shifts his unlit pipe from one side of his mouth to another.

"You're just in time to tell us why."

"To tell us why what?"

"Why are the mountains on Mars higher than those of Earth?"

"Why? I-I mean, why not? I mean, I'm sure I know the answer ... "

_Oh no, Gabe. You're not getting the answer out of me. In light of recent events, you shouldn't be in this class. In fact, you shouldn't even be at this university. There's nothing these meat bags can tell you that I don't already know, as evidenced by the notes I prepared for Reagan on your behalf._

Dr. Murray has his back to Reagan. He doesn't see her hold an apple up and drop it on her head.

"Gravity. They're higher because the gravity is lower."

Dr. Murray's eyes flick back and forth. He usually does that after getting a student response. It's kind of like he has to digest the answer or something.

"Gravity, yes, good."

I slide between several desks and nearly trip over somebody's backpack. I sit at an empty desk behind Reagan. Dr. Murray resumes his lecture and she turns, holding my notes.

"Sorry," she whispers. "I forgot to give these to you before."

I grab them with my left hand because my right one is stuffed in my backpack, powered up and analyzing an intergalactic severed arm of a Cyborg bounty hunter.

"Thanks," I whisper back. "How did you know the answer?"

She grins and her eyes narrow. "You, doofus."

Dr. Murray paces while he lectures. He walks toward us and Reagan turns back. In my backpack, Deathbot's hand reaches for Dr. Murray when he gets close. I roll my eyes.

"Are you done?" I whisper after Dr. Murray walks away.

Reagan turns. "Done with what?"

"Giving me such a hard time, you ... crazy girl."

"Yeah ... I guess."

I hear M sigh inside my head. _You should be forbidden to breed._

I look at the window. I can see my reflection, which means M can see it too. I mouth "When?"

_Don't do that. I've told you before it's unsettling to see you as my reflection. And I told you earlier it would take me approximately an hour since you drained our power supply so foolishly low._

An hour looking like this. Wonderful.

***

"Are you done?"

_I told you it would be an hour. It's been exactly fifty-nine minutes and forty-three seconds._

I stop next to a row of garbage cans outside of Grota Hall. I nod at people for fifteen seconds.

_Done._

There's a small flash of blue light that comes out of my backpack followed by some smoke. I pull the ruined hunk of metal out of the bag that use to be Deathbot's right hand.

"Finally." I pitch it in the garbage.

"Head's up!" I hear from my right. I turn in time to see my best friend, Bo Dudley, run up and belly bump me. The impact sends me into the grass. My elbows hit the ground so hard I feel it in my teeth.

_Oh yay. It's 'best friend' time._

"Garrison, wassup?" Bo says a few octaves too high. It's the way he does all of his greetings, belly bump included.

But the belly bumps usually don't send me to the ground.

I lean up. I'm getting really tired of being knocked on my ass. "Jesus, Bo. Is that absolutely necessary?"

"Sorry, dude. You should be quicker."

He sits beside me. Bo can be a complete asshole sometimes. The only reason he's still my friend is because he doesn't question the weird situations being a Superhero places on my secret identity.

I grab my protein bar and open it. It's broken in half.

"I hear you can get a pill for that."

I bite off a rubbery piece of the bar, and it tastes like smoke. "Can I get a pill for you?"

"Mom couldn't stop me with a pill. You can't either. You see that hottie looking at you?"

It takes me a second to realize what Bo is saying. Then, I turn my head. Sure enough, there's a girl with long blond hair about twenty feet away looking at me. She's around my height, has nice curves, and is wearing a blue halter-top. I'm sure she's wearing other clothing too, but the halter-top is so tight, it's the only thing I notice. That, and the fact that she's grinning.

At me.

_Does that female think you're someone else_?

"Amy Lansbury," I say. "She's in my psychology class."

"She can psychology me anytime. Why is she looking at you?"

_She wants his psychology notes most likely._

I take another bite out of my protein bar. "Don't know. Maybe she likes me?"

Amy turns her head and says something to a girl next to her, but I can still see her sneak an occasional peak in my direction.

"No, dude, this is an I like you look. Check this out right here:" Bo turns to me and gives me a small grin. "Now this is an I want to sex you in the craziest, quickest way look:" Bo's smile gets bigger than the Cheshire cat and he turns his head, but keeps his eyes on me.

"That looked nothing like the look she gave me."

_It looked like that of a serial killer._

"Whatev, dude. It was so the look. Just go talk to her. I'm telling you she wants some Gabe Garrison penne."

_Don't do it, Gabe. It's just another woman I may have to kill. You don't want that on your conscience._

My heart skips a little beat and I feel my face get warm. It feels like a creature is trying to worm its way out of my stomach. It's hard to know when M is kidding. Maybe I need to stay away from girls. Maybe I am just a danger to them. But what did it say that I really didn't want to? Did it make me less of a hero?

"Look, man, there's no reason to be embarrassed. Just go over and talk to her."

_Why does he think you're embarrassed? Are your cheeks red again?_

I take another bite of my protein bar, even though I'm not hungry anymore.

"Crap, never mind, she's coming over here!" Bo nudges me in the ribs.

I look up. Sure enough, here she comes, wind gently blowing blond hair away from her shoulders.

Fighting the urge to panic, I stand and dust off my jeans.

She smiles. "Hi, Gabe, how are you—"

"Gabe!" Reagan comes out of nowhere and grabs my shoulder. "I'm in trouble."

Reagan steps in front of me, and I see Amy's eyes narrow.

_Excellent. Now all we need is some mud and a pair of cheap bathing suits._

"What-uh, what's going on?"

"We have a test tomorrow on those equations. The ones that were in your notes."

"Yeah, I think so."

"I don't understand any of them."

_What a surprise._

"Shut up."

Reagan crinkles her face. "Huh?"

"Shut up, you're so smart, how could you not understand them?"

"The book doesn't go over them that well. And well, Dr. Murray, is just y'know, Dr. Murray. Do you understand them?"

"Do we?"

_Of course we do._

"Of course."

Reagan looks from me to Bo.

Bo shrugs. "I don't understand them, but I know lots about psychology. Tons even." He jumps up and stands next to Amy.

Reagan sees Amy and steps back. "Oh, hi."

Amy grins, but not that big.

What the hell is going on here? I can understand Reagan's attention. She wants notes. But what does Amy want? I shouldn't be talking to her. I shouldn't be talking to either one of them. I could just get them killed. I couldn't live with getting anybody killed—not even Bo.

Reagan touches my shoulder and I forget everything. I forget about my problems with the cyborg, I forget about my problems trying to be a hero, and I forget about my decision earlier to stay away from her.

"Would you mind going over them with me in the library tonight?"

My cheeks get warm again. "Sure."

Her green eyes flick to my cheeks and she grins. "Cool."

I shrug. "Cool."

"I have to work late, so how 'bout 10:00?"

I shrug again. "Cool."

Her grin gets even wider. "Cool. See ya then."

She walks away and the world comes back to me.

"All I'm saying is I know this stuff, babe." Bo says. He's holding a psychology book firmly in front of him. "And if you need some help, all you gotta do is ask."

Amy snatches her psych book and leaves.

"Well, that was awkward," Bo says.

***

I don't know where Reagan works, but I hope her job is better than mine. I work in a place downtown called Rock Creek Books, which would be really cool if it wasn't for the customers. Like tonight, I had this one lady that came in wanting to know where all of our books were on Indian tattoos. I told her I would check, and for some reason that just pissed her off.

"How could you not know what's in your own bookstore?" she said.

"I, well we have a lot of books."

"Do you have a lot of problems? Because I'm about to give you a monster of a problem if you can't find that book."

I looked in the computer and we didn't have anything like what she was looking for. I told her. I can lift a bus with my powers, but for some reason this girl scared the living crap out of me.

She couldn't have been taller than five feet, but she both looked and felt like solid muscle. She shoved all the books off the counter, grabbed me by my apron and pulled me halfway across the desk. M chuckled in my head.

She raised her fist and I flinched. The woman's eyes glowed like fire embers ... I mean literally glowed. She was a Super.

My mouth moved, but no sound came out. I wanted to ask her how she did it. How did she live with her powers day to day? Was she a hero? Was she registered? Was she a villain? Was I going to fight her later?

Was I going to fight her now?

Without another word, she let me fall to the floor and left. That's just part of the everyday random weirdness that was Prose, Tennessee. Life was easier if you didn't question it. So I never did ... until I became a Super. Then I was full of questions.

I just didn't have anybody to ask.

But anyway, moments like this one made life worth it. I was about to see Reagan again. And it would just be me and her. I grin like an idiot as the elevator puts me on the third floor of the Prose U library.

The third floor is the fiction section. Like other levels, it's mostly deserted at night, except for the occasional student sleeping in an over stuffed chair.

I pass row after row of books, to a center table, and there she is: Reagan.

God, she's even more beautiful than this morning. How is that even possible?

_Tell me again why we are wearing this ridiculous outfit?_

The "ridiculous outfit" M refers to is the dress slacks and polo shirt I put on after work. After bonding with me, M became accustomed to our wearing jeans and t-shirts. Anytime we deviate from that norm, he refers to said deviation as a "ridiculous outfit."

"Impressed?" I say to Reagan.

She jerks a little and looks at me. She's wearing cat-eye glasses and has the same clothing from this morning.

"By what?"

"I'm on time."

"And you're dressed up."

"Oh this? It's nothing. I've got nothing else clean."

_Liar._

"Oh, okay." Reagan's shoulders relax. I didn't even realize they were tense. What did that mean?

"Can we start with this one? I think I almost have it, but I'm not sure."

I sit next to her. I can barely smell her strawberry shampoo, but it's still there.

I pull the book closer. "Well, let's see ... Newton's law of gravity. What's the problem?"

"What's the problem?" Reagan slams her pencil down. "What's the problem? I'll tell you what the problem is. I'm a science major that knows jack about science."

_Yep._

"I don't understand the equations, my lab data is always inconsistent, and I never understand what the hell I'm trying to read." She shoves away the astronomy book and notes.

_Completely agree._

Her eyes fill with tears and she folds her arms. She stares at her notes on the other side of the table and curls her lip a little.

I pick her notes up and look through them. "You forgot to square the distance."

"What?"

I slide the book back. "Look, Newton's law says that gravitational force between two objects equals Object One times Object Two divided by the distance squared. You almost had the right answer, you just forgot to square the distance."

_ .... How did you know that?_

"But why did I forget? I've been looking at this stuff for an hour and I just ... "

"You're trying to memorize it. Try to understand it instead." I scoot my chair around to face her. "How far are we apart? About nine feet?"

She grins and sniffs. "Don't you mean like three feet?"

"But not as far as gravity's concerned. And why's that?"

She keeps grinning. Her tears are almost gone. "Because you square the distance."

"See? You already understand it. Now you don't have to memorize it."

"I'm sorry about ... this. It's just—I've just been having a really rough week." She straightens and the sniffling stops too. "But you don't want to hear that."

_Oh, but I'm sure he does_.

"Well, listen if you need someone to talk to—"

"No, I don't want to bother you. Not anymore than I have anyway." She laughs. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom real quick. I'll be right back. Sorry again. I usually don't get all weird over astronomy."

_Neither does Gabe_.

"It's okay, really, I don't mind."

She grins and walks away.

_Congratulations, Gabe. That was actually very Don Juan. Do you mind explaining to me just how you knew to fix that problem?_

I don't realize I'm smiling until I stop. How did I know the answer? I probably knew less about this stuff than Reagan. And not only that—but M was right. I was Don Juan just then. I wasn't the slightest bit nervous or anything.

"I don't know."

_Interesting. Well, do you know what you'll do about this?_

"About what?"

"Gabe?"

I turn and see, "Amy, hi! What are, uh, what are you doing here?"

"Do I need a reason to be in the library?"

I don't know Amy that well. But I do know her well enough to know the woman has probably never studied a day in her entire life. She most definitely needs a reason to be in the library.

"Are you," she looks around, "doing anything right now?"

"Uh, yeah actually." I vaguely point in the direction Reagan went.

She puts her foot on Reagan's empty chair, and I can plainly see Amy isn't wearing underwear.

_Great googley moogley._

I jump out of my chair. "Whoa, uh, okay."

She smiles. "Well, I didn't see that coming."

"Neither did I. I mean, I didn't see anything. I mean, I didn't mean to see anything."

_Oh please, it was so close it practically blinked at you. _

"Oh, I wanted you to look." She places her hands on my lapel. "And I want you to look some more."

_And there's the erection._

I start to say something, but catch a whiff of Amy's breath. It's weird. And gross. Like some rotten spinach I had in the fridge one time.

I step back, nearly tripping over my chair. "I ... I can't do this, Amy."

Amy's shoulders slump. For a split second, I want to apologize.

Then her head bursts into flames.

The heat hits my face. The flames start orange, then turn blue and finally settle on green. Her eyeballs make popping sounds and fall to the floor. Pieces of flesh slide away from her skull and flitter away like ash. Her bottom jaw falls, and I recognize the digitized voice that comes from somewhere deep inside her. "Too bad, Galaxy. I had hoped to make sport of you after this morning."

There's no time to ask how this is happening. There's no time to question why this is happening. That's the life of a Superhero. You just do what needs to be done and then sort it out later. I figured this out early. So did M. He already has us powered up.

I motion Deathbot forward: "Bring it."

# Chapter Three

#

The flaming skull that used to belong to Amy Lansbury looks at me.

At least, I assume it's looking at me. The squishy things that used to be her eyeballs are on the floor.

"Oh I will most certainly 'bring it', Galaxy!" Deathbot's body convulses like he's having a seizure. Its arms bend back at an impossible angle and splits at the elbow with wet snaps and pops. Two six-inch barrels extend from where the forearms used to be and emit a high-pitched whine, telling me they're about to fire.

I don't give him the chance.

I fly into him, sending both of us into a bookcase. Books and particleboard explode around us. I feel some kind of metal crisscross where ribs should be. I grab a hold of them and M almost has enough time to light Deathbot up with a Grav Blast, point blank style.

But she ... he ... _it_ shoves me away so hard I hit the ceiling. My blasts go wild, shredding carpet and tearing up chunks of concrete floor underneath. I fall to the floor, chunks of ceiling tile and insulation clinging to me. I stand and shove a table out of my way. It screeches across the floor and M readies a Grav Blast in my right hand. My fist glows blue, I raise it—

And Deathbot fires.

The cheesy _Star Trek_ style beam hits my face and I cartwheel sideways across the floor. I take out three chairs on my thirty-foot slide across the library. Two students—I think their names are Kait and Jack—barely have enough time to jump out of the way before I smash into a five-foot ficus tree.

Again ... I jump to my feet. Deathbot picks up a table and throws it at me with a digitized scream. Right before it hits me, I split the table in two with another Grav Blast. The two halves tumble across the floor ten feet behind me.

"Any idea what the hell's going on?"

"Your death is what 'goes on' this night, human!"

_None. Although if you remain within close proximity to him, I can better analyze both him and the situation._

"Are you kidding?"

"YOU DARE SUGGEST DEATHBOT JESTS?"

_What do you suggest, Gabe? That we let him continue to demolish this building book by primitive book? That we ignore the danger his continued existence represents to the squishy pink life forms contained therein?_

Deathbot gets his gun ready for another blast (and it's really odd referring to it as a him, since he now has breasts). "I SHALL FLAY THE FLESH FROM YOUR BONES, HUMAN!"

Deathbot raises his arm to fire at Kait and Jack. I don't know why. Maybe he thinks they're in his way. Maybe he thinks it will distract me, causing me to make a mistake. Maybe he just feels the immediate need to kill something. Doesn't matter.

Kait tries to run for the emergency exit, but the damn ficus tree gets in her way. She tumbles over it and Jack tumbles over her. They're even easier targets now than they were a moment ago.

"All right, M. You wanted a closer look, you got it." Deathbot has already killed at least one person today. He won't kill another. This fight has to be taken outside.

So that's where I take it.

I slam into him and we go through a window. Then, I do what comes natural, all Occam's Razory.

I drop him.

Deathbot grins. The idiot _grins_ when I drop him. He's not worried in the slightest about the fall, which means it wont hurt him. Which means I have to take up a notch or twelve.

I slam into him right before he hits the sidewalk. The impact carries both of us straight through the concrete and into the parking garage located below the library.

And onto a Prius ... I've always wanted one of those.

I roll off the Prius, surprised. "What gives?" I cough. "Why am I feeling pain?"

_I didn't anticipate your doing something so infinitely stupid as tackling him through twenty-four inches of earth and concrete. Our force field was at insufficient strength. _

Didn't anticipate ... bull crap. If M didn't anticipate the move, I'd be dead. He's still pissed at me for running our powers dry this morning. He wants me to feel pain, so he's keeping our force field as low as he possibly can.

"Stop holding out, M. We're finishing this guy off here and now. I need full strength."

_Unnecessary_.

I almost lose it right then. Wanting me to feel pain is one thing, but refusing to help me get rid of Deathbot means bad business for Prose. It makes my job harder if not impossible. Plus, what kind of Superhero doesn't act Superhero-y?

I circle the Prius—or what's left of it—and see Amy—or rather what's left of her in two halves, one on each side of the Prius. The gruesome scene is only partially lit by the yellow of the streetlights poking through the hole I made. It forms a spotlight around both freaky halves of her body.

"Do a full scan." I hold out my hand as if I'm about to high five somebody.

A moment passes.

_As I suspected. Flip her over._

"Gross. I'm not touching it."

I hear M sigh in my head. A blue Grav Beam streaks from my hand and flips the upper half of Amy's body over. Blood squirts out both ends as it lands with a sickening flop.

Several shiny pieces of metal extend from her body in multiple locations. One in her upper chest, two in her stomach, and then one on the shoulder. They all have blinking green lights similar to the ones on Deathbot's hand this morning. Another one pokes through flesh on her leg. It makes a crinkling aluminum foil sound as it unfolds and spreads, like a flower.

"What is as you suspected?"

_Nanites. Somehow, this female became infected with a nanite virus._

Nanites ... you mean like on _Star Trek_?

_No, I mean like in real life._

"No, I mean—wait this guy is like the Borg isn't he?"

_What is that? Something Swedish?_

"It means he spreads these nanite things to infect people. After that, they spread through and quickly rewrite DNA, turning them into this ... thing."

_Into another Deathbot_. _Complete with memories and a varying degree of power._

"But how did the nanites get here?"

And then I see the reason M wanted me to flip her over. Deathbot's other hand—not the one I destroyed this morning—is attached, or rather _hooked_ into Amy's back. Each finger is buried knuckle deep. The hand makes a pumping motion, sending little yellow specks of light into her blood stream via ooze filled tubes in each finger.

Not counting that vomit scene in _The Exorcist_ , I think this is the sickest thing I've ever seen.

I raise an open palm and M grabs the hand in a Grav Beam. He pulls the thing to us. Chunks of flesh and other gross stuff fall from each finger and M crimps the ends before more of the yellow nanite clusters spill out. Some of them fall on my chest, but M crushes them instantly with a localized Grav Beam. They make little popping sounds before hitting the ground.

"So, what are you looking for?"

_I didn't detect these nanites earlier._

"Well, nobody's perfect."

_Don't be foolish, Gabe. Of course I'm perfect. I didn't detect the nanites because they simply weren't there. Now, I have something to calibrate my scans by._

"Alright." M drops the hand and I fly back to the third story window. Inside, a bunch of students pick their way through the rubble that used to be books, tables and shelves.

"M, is—"

_Yes, yes, everyone is perfectly fine._

"What about—"

_Including Reagan. _

Reagan peaks from behind one of the bookshelves, looking through the crowd nervously. Probably for me. It makes me excited and sad. I wanna land, change, and tell her I'm okay.

Then Reagan makes eye contact with me. She looks right at me ...

And mouths my name.

I go numb.

Christ, she saw me change. Somehow, she was close enough during the craziness and saw me change. She knows my identity, and now M knows that she knows.

_Gabe, I need you to fly up. I need a better reading._

Or maybe not ...

I don't say anything. I do as he says. He was doing his scans and didn't see Reagan. Thank God, he didn't see her. But what do I do later? He'll find out eventually, and when he does ... things could turn bad real fast for Reagan.

I'll never be able to see her again. After this is over, I'll have to leave.

I shake my head and fly up. I simply don't have time to feel sorry for myself right now.

Within seconds, we're hovering about a mile above Prose. The entire city sits in a valley and runs along the Tennessee River. From up here, the shape of the valley and the lights coming from the buildings and highways make the city look like a giant train set.

Five minutes pass before I finally ask M, "What are you doing? This isn't going to take another hour is it?"

_And if it does?_

" ... go ahead and do it," I say grudgingly. It's not like it really matters. The only way to protect Reagan now is to leave town. Leave my mom, leave my family, leave my friends (or, friend actually), and move as far away as I—

_It is of no consequence, Gabe_. _I'm finished. _

He's such a jerk.

_I've been scanning the city, looking for energy signatures similar to those found in both the hand and the female. I'll have to calibrate your eyes so you can see them. _

"So calibrate me already."

M's "calibrations" always have freaked me out. He shows me stuff I can't see with this blue energy field thing. One time, to get back at me for not washing my hands after using the bathroom, he showed me a fecal matter scan on every person I met for a week. Every trace of fecal matter on a person showed up as a blue dot. Just about every person I came across looked like a Smurf.

I still have nightmares.

Point is, I've always had a reason to be a little unsettled by M's calibrations. He only does this when things are bad or when he wants to piss me off.

This time, things are bad.

The entire city looks like it's washed in a sea of blue lights.

I swallow hard. It's suddenly difficult to find my voice. "How many?"

_I count exactly three hundred million, three hundred and seventy thou— _

"How many does it take to infect a person?"

_Just one._

I throw up in my mouth a little.

"We're gonna need a bigger boat."

***

_I can't believe we're actually here._

"That makes two of us."

I look up at the ten story building located at 401 4th Street. The only thing I can't believe even more is that I'm about to go inside it. HEROES Tower.

HEROES is an acronym for Humane Emergency Rescue Or Extrication Squad. They're a government funded Superhero team that, when not fighting villains, they're enforcing the Wertham act. If you're a Super and you're not registered, you're illegal.

Like me.

I've had the roster of HEROES memorized since I was a kid. I always wanted to be a member, but events that happened shortly after getting my powers made me think it wasn't such a hot idea. Plus, there's that whole M might kill everybody around me thing.

The Prose division of HEROES is led by the greatest hero to ever put on a cape: Liberty. The guy's been around since World War II. Last time anybody checked, he's the strongest dude in the world.

_Well, we're here. So, now what?_

The lights in the lobby are out. For some reason, I expected them to have a robot secretary or something.

I tap on the glass door several times. "Uh, excuse me?"

A janitor pokes his head out of an office. He leans a mop against the wall and puts his hands on his hips. A cord winds from his ear buds to his pocket.

I wave. "Hi. Can you come, like, open the door please? I need some help."

He shakes his head and continues to mop.

_Typical_. _Probably listening to that Ga Ga individual._

"Hey!" I pound on the glass. This is crazy. I need some serious Superhero help, and I can't even get past this place's freaking janitor? I back away and look up the building. It might be easier if I just fly to the top and break in.

Pink smoke swirls around me. I wave it off, but it just manages to get thicker.

I turn and see a girl—or rather something that looks like a girl but is actually a pink ghost—standing there with her arms folded. "Can I, like, help you or something?"

I recognize her instantly and so does M. He raises our force field and I jump in the air, hovering five feet away. "Whoa, stay away! Don't ... possess me or anything!"

"Oh please. Why on Earth would I want to crawl around inside that noggin? You're a freak."

_Says the pink free-floating apparition. _

Pink has been with the Prose division of HEROES for a year. She's eighteen but her powers have kept her sort of physically frozen as a thirteen year old for five years. According to _herowiki_ , her power/curse was the result of a testing accident for Cover Chick Cosmetics. After the story broke, I don't think a single woman in Prose wore makeup for a month.

She's wearing the same clothing that she's been wearing for the past five years: A Brittany Spears t-shirt, capris, and Keds.

"So, are you, like, here for something? I'm right in the middle of Vampire Diaries."

_Of course you are._

"I need help. There's a problem out there that I need help with."

She purses her lips as if she wants to blow air out of them. "You and everybody else."

"This is serious, Pink." It's weird saying her name like I know her. "We could be in the middle of some kind of freagin' zombie apocalypse."

She rolls her eyes, floats through me and inside the window. The janitor doesn't see her until it's too late. By then, it's y'know, too late.

She enters the janitor's body and disappears. He arches his back so far I thinks it's about to break and then he lurches forward again. He drops the mop and hurries over to the door with a valley girl walk. His eyes glow pink.

He unlocks the door. I knew the bastard had a key.

Pink floats out of his head. "See you upstairs." She floats through the ceiling without telling me what floor.

The janitor shakes his head for a moment, then recovers. He sighs. "I hate that bitch."

I walk inside, feeling awkward for some reason. I'm a Superhero dammit. Why do I feel awkward?

Paintings surround me in the expensive lobby. There's one to my immediate right depicting HEROES saving the world from the Zorbog invasion forty years ago. Another one shows them defeating Victor Verse, the Verser of crime (a dude that I've also had the misfortune of fighting). Several more show Liberty by himself, fighting Japanese war boats during World War II. All of the paintings eventually lead my eye to Liberty's thirty foot bronze statue in the center of the lobby.

"Wonder if he's here?"

_He is._

"You can sense him?"

_Of course. He's too powerful for me not to sense. He was even worth my notice before being confined to this wretched—_

"Hey!" Pink screams above me.

I want to yell at her in a manly way, but all that comes out is a kind of girlish squeak.

_I ... have never heard you make that sound, Gabe_.

"What part of 'see you upstairs' did you not understand? Big guy's waiting, and I'm getting tired of pausing my show."

She disappears.

"Will our powers do anything to her?"

_I can think of only one way to find out_.

***

I take the stairs because it's quicker to fly than take the elevator. I open the door, and the Silver Sentinel is there, waiting next to the elevator. He faces me.

Silver Sentinel hasn't made his identity public, but most of the hero identity bloggers believe he some sort of rich billionaire, or at least a person with close ties to one. His armor is lined with Andrium, the most expensive and hardest metal in the world. He creates at least one new suit each year, meaning he spends more money annually than Apple. His current suit looks like a high-tech knight from King Arthur's Court, covered with blinking lights and topped with a huge purple plume. A mirrored visor covers his eyes, and I hear it glows when he's angry.

He lowers his head like he's reading something inside the helmet. "I don't have your picture in my database."

"Cause you shouldn't. I'm not registered."

"That was the general implication." He looks at a closed door behind him. "PINK, GET OUT HERE!" His voice reverberates around us on some kind of PA system.

Pink's head appears from the wall beside me, almost causing me to squeal again. "What?"

"You let a non-registered cape in here?"

She rolls her eyes. "He said it was like an emergency or something—" Her head goes back into the wall before she's through talking.

Sentinel looks back at me. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't arrest you right now."

"I'll give you three hundred million."

***

I look at the HEROES gathered around the table. There are five of them. Pink, who doesn't really sit in the chair as much as hover. Silver Sentinel, who has a special chair reinforced for both his bulk and his width.

Ms. Mystick sits to Silver Sentinel's left. She's supposedly the world's greatest user of Magicks (which she spells with a "k", so you know she's serious). She's a brunette with shoulder length hair. She's dressed in something that looks like a cross between a men's business suit and a bikini. A waist length black cape with a dark red liner hangs from her shoulders. Her eyes are bloodshot and she keeps rubbing her temples.

Next to Ms. Mystick is Thinkor, The Human Brain. Out of all the HEROES, I think he's the most suspicious of me ... he keeps looking in my direction. At least, I _think_ he keeps looking in my direction. He doesn't have eyes, so it's hard to tell. He's like a piece of green cauliflower with arms and legs, wearing a purple Speedo thing.

Then there's the big guy: Liberty.

He stands there looking at something on an iPad. His costume is black with gold highlights on the chest, forearms, and shins. His cape—which always seems to be the right size and somehow manages to evoke the right amount of wind—is dark red with a white star on the back.

All I can think about while sitting in this room is that Liberty is strong enough to move the moon's orbit (he's done it before). The others act like he's nothing new though. I wonder how long it took them to think of themselves as an equal to Liberty or, at the very least, able to sit in the same room with him without peeing yourself from excitement.

"Okay," Liberty says in a low voice that somehow manages to still sound booming. "What do we know? Anybody?"

"The white dots display the number of people in the city." Silver Sentinel activates the holo-projector at the foot of the table. It displays a map of Prose City. "The blue dots, the number of nanites, and the green dots indicate the number of infected people."

"Helluva lotta green dots, Sentinel," says Liberty.

"The number of infected is at one hundred twenty-two. Current estimates puts us at five times that by tomorrow morning and the entire country by the end of the weekend."

Liberty raises his eyebrows.

Sentinel raises his palm. "Hey, there would be a lot more by now if weren't for the nanite scrambler I cooked up just a few minutes ago. It's keeping the other three million or so in a sort of stasis."

Liberty gestures for Sentinel to continue. "The scrambler also keeps Deathbot in one body. Whichever person his central intelligence currently resides in is the one we need to locate and destroy. After that, the other nanites will shut down and be perfectly harmless."

"So, like, which one is he?" Pink asks, looking at the projection for the first time.

Sentinel shakes his head. "I'm still trying to find a way to calibrate my scanners. But, presently we have no way of knowing. It could be any of the one hundred and twenty-two."

Liberty sets the iPad aside. "Well, that's certainly within our means." He turns in his chair and faces me. "And we have you to thank for this information, Galaxy is it?"

He said my name! "Yes," I say in a voice way too high. I then try again in a octave similar to my own, "Ahem ... yes. It was from a Cyborg I fought this morning."

_Duh. _

"So I hear." He smiles, breaking the tension. "Why aren't you registered?" __

_And here we go ... _

"I, uhm, I'm just not."

_"Trust me," you said. "We need their help, M. We can't possibly do this alone ... "_

Liberty looks at me for the first time since the meeting started. Sentinel changes his posture and I think Pink looks at her nails. Thinkor leans in my direction. I think he's trying to point his right lobe at me.

_And he's just about to tell you ... _

"I need you to register before the night's through."

_Bam._

I start to say something. I'm not sure what, but I can't just let this go.

Liberty stands, which for some reason cuts me off before I have a chance to speak.

"In light of your bringing these events to our attention, I'll skip standard procedure this time. Just make sure you have your paperwork in by morning. Now, let's get this thing under control. Pink, I need you to—"

"He wants to leave," Thinkor says.

The others look at me.

Thinkor's voice seems to come from above us rather than from him. "No, _leave_ isn't the right word—he wants to escape. The boy does not wish to register."

Liberty never looks at Thinkor. He keeps staring at me. The Greatest Hero of All Time looks at me ... and he's disappointed.

"Galaxy, I can understand your hesitation, but the law's the law. You have powers, and the government says you must register those powers."

I swallow. It almost doesn't go down. "No."

_This, Gabe, was a truly wonderful plan, worthy of song and praise for years to come_.

Everyone looks at me. They can't believe I just said no to Liberty. I kinda can't either. I also can't believe what else I'm about to say.

"I'm not going to register. I don't feel safe with anybody ... _everybody_ knowing my identity," I hurriedly say with a shaky voice.

_I wonder what they will put on your tombstone? "Here lies Gabe Garrison, failed hero and botched host to the most supreme of alien life forms."_

"Everybody won't know, son," Liberty says. "Just those that need to know. Are you sure you won't reconsider?"

I don't answer.

Liberty lets a moment pass. I feel way uncomfortable, and I think everyone else in the room does too.

"Let me rephrase that, Galaxy." He walks around the table and stops three feet away. My stomach quivers. "You should reconsider, and you should do so now. I've got a city to save."

M gets a blue Grav Blast ready in each hand.

"I see," Liberty says.

_We don't stand a chance here, Gabe. There's far too much power in the room._

I fire a blast into the corner, behind Liberty. I could fire it at Sentinel, but it will hurt him. It will just piss off Liberty and I have no idea what it will do to Pink or Ms. Mystick. I don't want to hurt anybody, I just want a distraction.

It doesn't work.

I fly up and almost make it to the ceiling when Liberty's hand cinches my ankle like a vise. He slings me into the conference table, breaking it in half. The projection of Prose stutters before winking out entirely.

They expect the impact to knock me out. Partially because Liberty's so strong and partially because I stay motionless. It's the same sort of fake sleeping pose I use when mom wants me to mow the yard on Saturday mornings.

"Okay, lets get this Galaxy person out to—"

And I take off again. I make it through the ceiling, the roof and into the open night. I'm about to twist and fly away when a beam of light—I think it's from Sentinel's photon cannon—shoots by me. It disappears into the night. Then I notice something ... the beam didn't fire around me.

It fired through __ me.

# Chapter Four

#

_You realize this is, of course, all your fault, Gabe_ , M says.

I think he says something else too, but other things have my attention right now. Things like Deathbot's nanite doohickeys taking over half the freaking city. Things like being on the lam from HEROES (heh-heh, I said "lam"). And things like the icky, glowy blue stuff leaking out of the tennis ball-sized hole under my right collarbone. I resist the urge to draw a smiley face in a puddle of it with my finger.

I think I'm also a tad delirious.

I peak over the steering wheel of the Jeep Cherokee I broke into fifteen minutes ago. After Sentinel shot me, I needed a place to hurt. I landed (crashed actually) in the alley behind HEROES tower and barely made it to the parking garage situated between it and Pump It Gym. My shoulder didn't get all leaky until I made it to the Jeep.

M complained the entire time.

_If we don't get out of this, Gabe, I feel it prudent to warn you that I recently learned how to sing "Bottles of Beer on the Wall" and I can count extremely high. I know numbers your race hasn't even fathomed yet._

"Aren't you ... " I swallow, trying not to vomit. " ... aren't you in the slightest bit of pain?"

_No. _

"How? How is that even possible? It feels like my entire right side is on fire."

_I simply shut it off. Pain is a distraction my people found the need to abandon millennia ago. Aside from being a crude reminder of what we once were, it had no other importance._

"Well ... that's convenient."

I hear laughing nearby and I duck lower in the seat. Two girls pass by the rear of the Jeep and talk about Jacob from _Twilight_. Their laughing and discussion of everything they want him to do to him fade away. I rise.

"Too bad you can't use some of the no pain stuff on me."

_What do you mean? I'm using it on you now. If I weren't, I imagine your pain would render you unconscious. _

I blink. At least I would have blinked if I were in human form. I don't have eyelids when we're Galaxy. "Can't you use more?"

_Of course._

_"_ Then, why the frak aren't you?"

_I need to conserve our energy levels, Gabe. What do you think will happen once we revert back to human form?_

I look at the hole in my chest. Another round of gooey blue stuff plops to the car seat. "I hadn't thought of that. Jesus, I hadn't thought of that. What will happen?"

_One of two possibilities: You will either die of blood loss or you will die of shock. _

"Why can't you just heal me like that other time?"

_That "other time," Gabe involved significantly less trauma. I might be able to heal this amount of damage, but it will take a while to—_

"You-you don't know? How could you not know?"

_For the exact same reason you don't, Gabe. This specific set of circumstances has never happened to me before. We therefore need to conserve power until I can ascertain if healing is even possible. In the event that it is not, you should be within close proximity to a hospital before reverting back to human form. Recent events with HEROES and Deathbot have made that practically impossible._

No power equals no Galaxy, which could equal a dead me. Wonderful. Now, I have to sit here and think about Deathbot, HEROES _and_ dying for God knows how long. I wonder if figuring out how to heal me has something to do with the blue stuff? I start wondering if M would tell me if it did ...

And Liberty lands in front of the Jeep.

It wasn't a hover to a stop kind of landing either. No, he came in, balls to the wall speed. His feet literally dug up chunks of pavement that fall on the Jeep's hood like hail. The entire level of the garage shakes so hard I see a ripple in my blue stuff.

I freak and lower myself to the floorboard. Actually, it's more like a bounce to the floorboard, pinball style.

I hear the clip clop of his boots. His face has to be close to the driver's side window but I can't look. I can't take Liberty. Hell, I can't even run from him like this. I want to tell M to get ready to max out our power. If he's gonna capture me, I've got nothing to lose by high tailing it out of here and then circling back for the hospital.

The Jeep rocks.

What's he doing?

He sighs.

What the hell is he doing?

I turn my head, slowly exhaling a breath I didn't even know I was holding. Liberty is leaning against the Jeep. Of all the cars in the parking garage, he picks this one to lean against.

I hear rocket jets and then metal screeching on asphalt. It has to be Silver Sentinel. They're here to finish me off together.

"Did you find him, Earthling?" says a digitized voice.

Holy crap.

_That slimy ... _

"Do you care to rephrase your tone, Deathbot?" Liberty says in a cool voice. He's outside the driver's side door, so he sounds muffley.

Deathbot hacks out a sigh ... I think. "Did you find my bounty, Liberty?"

"I did, but Sentinel got a little trigger happy and I had to do damage control. The kid got away."

"I hope that you sufficiently dealt with it, and him, for your sake."

Liberty slams Deathbot into the side of the Jeep. The vehicle jerks sideways and I almost yell. "Let me make something clear to you which should already be painfully obvious. This kid beat the hell out of you this morning. I beat the hell out of the kid just a moment ago. That means I can, in turn, beat the hell out of you. The only reason I haven't yet is because it's easier for me to just give him to you, so you'll keep your little nanites under control and then leave my planet."

The Jeep shifts more and the driver's side buckles in. "But don't think for a single minute that I won't bag your ass right here. I figure civilian casualties will be around twenty percent. By the time we cover it up, it'll be more like five percent. I've dealt with worse; Prose has dealt with worse. It'll recover and I'll have even more support for the Wertham Act. Long story short: killing you will leave me a huge mess to clean up, but it's a mess I can turn to my advantage if I need to."

And there you have it. Liberty, The Greatest Hero of all Time, just became The Greatest Douche of all Time.

Deathbot's green flames light up the inside of the Jeep and I try to take up as little space as possible. It's not hard. I've never felt so small in my entire life.

Deathbot quickly recovers. "Well ... I shall assist you in looking for him."

Liberty lets Deathbot go and the Jeep rocks back. "No. I've got enough to worry about keeping those other idiots under control. I don't need to worry about holding your hand too."

"What do you suggest I do, Liberty? Stand around and—what is the Earthling expression—twiddle my thumbs?"

Liberty clip clops away. "I don't care what you do. Just stay out of sight. I'll contact you when I have the kid." Liberty takes off, causing the wind to whistle by the Jeep.

The green light fades. "Get ready, M," I whisper.

_Gabe, no ... _

I raise my head. Deathbot is about ten feet away with his back turned.

"People are dying—right now, they're dying because Deathbot's looking for me and Liberty's a dick. I can't live with that."

_That's convenient because you won't live at all if you step outside._

M ups the pain. My shoulder turns from a little bit of fire to a lot of ice with tingling sensations running down the entire right side of my body.

"What are you doing?" I say through clenched teeth.

_Preventing you from getting us both killed, that's what._

I grip the Jeep's steering wheel with my left hand because the right arm is useless. I try not to think about it. Thinking about it will only make me panic. "You're ... you're gonna have to do better than that."

I open the Jeep's door. It sticks a little from the buckling. "Hey, Deathbot! You looking for something?"

Deathbot turns.

I stick one foot out of the Jeep and the pain almost makes me fall over. "I mean, you look like your looking for something. But that's the same, dumbass look you have on your face all the time, so it's hard to tell."

"Galaxy ... " He has a cop's body now. Or, at least what used to be a cop's body. The only way I can tell is from the pants and belt, with everything attached to it (the nightstick looks kind of stupid). The upper half is mostly skeleton, metal, wires, and blinking lights. A green flame still covers his head, making what little appears of the skull black. Like before, he's missing the lower jawbone. He raises his right arm and one of those gun things forms around it. The barrel spins and glows green.

I think the pain has actually gotten worse since leaving the Jeep. My entire right side is completely numb. My leg is little more than a cane.

_Gabe, if you think this feeble ploy of yours will somehow convince me into, what is at best, a pointless altercation—you're wrong._

Deathbot laughs. "I see you are indeed injured and all but defeated, yet you still creep closer to Deathbot. Are you really so eager to die?"

I stop five feet away from him. Honestly, I don't remember taking the last several steps. "I guess ... I guess I'm just too damn ... heroic."

Deathbot fires.

M curses and raises our force field a spilt second before the beam hits. The pain in my side disappears.

_You'd best make this quick_.

I fly past Deathbot.

Deathbot screams and I hear his boot rockets take off, in hot pursuit.

_This isn't what I meant by "quick." In fact, it's just the opposite._

"Shut up and listen. Do you remember that thing you did earlier when you killed all the nanites?"

_Yes ... _

"I need you to do it again."

I explain my plan to him right before we get to the TVA breezeway on Broad Street.

_No._

Deathbot fires and the beam misses my left side by three feet and blows up a FedEx drop box one block away.

"Why?!"

_Because this plan—and I use the term ever so loosely—will most likely get the both of us killed. _

"Do you know how many people in Prose could die if we don't do this?"

_Do you know how little I care?_

"Fine. We'll just do this the hard way."

I fly above the buildings. Deathbot isn't fast enough to keep up, so I slow down.

_You are insane_. _Either fight or flight. It makes no difference to me. But make up your mind. Otherwise—_

"What? HEROES will spot us?" __

.... _This is a dangerous game you're playing, Gabe._

Deathbot fires again and the beam disappears into the night sky. "Well, you're the one dealing the cards, M."

I give one of the HEROES enough time to spot us and then fly back to the cover of the buildings. I pass Deathbot again. He screams and follows, firing another blast.

People stare at us from the street. Most of them run, but some stay either to look or because they're too stunned to move. I fly over the Bivoli Theatre, and risk a look back to see if Deathbot is close—

Only to turn and have Silver Sentinel punch me in the face.

I bounce off the street below and skid to a halt in front of an office building on the opposite side. Sentinel hovers twenty feet above me, wind stirring the purple plume on top of his helmet.

I can't help but laugh. God, that thing looks stupid.

He points at me. "Stand down, Galaxy," he says in an amplified voice, echoing off the buildings. A bright-ass head light thing comes out of his chest and shines on me. "This will be a lot less painful if you just—"

I slam a Grav Bolt into his chest.

Silver Sentinel's force field absorbs the brunt of the blast with a yellow shimmer, but it still makes him cartwheel through the air. I fly up and punch Sentinel sending him up another ten feet. I fly up to meet him again, rare back for another punch—only to have Deathbot fly tackle me into the Bivoli Theatre's Marque.

They needed a new one anyway.

Deathbot loses his hold in the impact and goes through the theatre's brick wall.

I stand on top of the Marque and brush the "A" and "B" letters of Madam Butterfly off my thigh. The entire sign rocks a little and Deathbot pulls himself out of hole in the wall and steps onto the upper part of the marquee.

_Above you, Gabe_.

Sentinel is right over my head and has formed some kind of energy lance. It's eight feet long, glows yellow, and he has the damn thing pointed right at me.

I vacate the marquee right before he fires. A tire-sized chunk of the sign evaporates into a glowing yellow ash, flittering to Broad Street.

"Holy crap!" What's he firing with that thing?

_Worry more about what Deathbot fires with his thing._

I don't even look—I just fly up right before Deathbot's green blast hits me. It disappears into an office building two blocks away.

_You need to get this "plan" underway fast, Gabe. I sense Liberty rapidly approaching ..._

"So, you're game now?"

_You've left me little choice. But we will have to hurry. I can only separate myself from you for an extremely short amount of time._

I feel relieved ... a little. Just because M's agreed to help me save Prose doesn't mean we actually can save it. Especially if we're fighting Deathbot, Sentinel, and Liberty. Did Liberty include the others into his little plan too?

_Liberty will be here in thirty seconds._

Like so many other things in my life, I don't have time to think about it. I do the only thing I can.

I take the hell off.

I fly past the Blue Cross/Blue Shield building. I see my reflection streak past in the window.

_They're gaining, Gabe. And our power is waning. We're at twenty-five percent._

"Already?"

_You're the one that keeps getting shot, pummeled and zapped._

"Okay, can we orbit Sentinel?"

_He isn't a Super, so yes. But I thought you were against—_

Sentinel tackles me. Damn, he's fast.

I look down. We're over the river and the Michael Booth Bridge is just to my right. Sentinel is faster, but I think I've got more horsepower. I take us into the water.

The river boils around us from his jet pack, my powers, or a combination of both. We struggle, flip, and toss around until we hit mud. I fire a Grav Bolt into his chest and the impact separates us. M adjusts my sight, so I can see Sentinel through the murk of the Tennessee.

I fly up, leaving the river. The bridge is just above me and to my left. After a few seconds, Sentinel is ten feet away to my right.

I turn and we face each other. Red and blue lights from the bottom of the bridge reflect off us, making it look like we're surrounded by cop cars.

"Shouldn't you be coughing up water?" I say.

He gets that lance thing ready again. "I can survive the depths of space in this suit," he says while tilting his head. "A tussle at the bottom of the Tennessee poses no problem."

"Good to know. M, hit it."

_Gladly._

M reaches out and envelops Sentinel in a blue glow and then rockets him into the night sky. Sentinel's screams echo for just a second before completely fading away.

_He will, of course, just return after gaining his bearings._

"Without his orbital suit, it'll take a while." I fly over the bridge. There's something like fifty people gathered on the edge looking at me. "Now to—"

Something red, black, and gold hits me with the force of a wrecking ball (and that's no exaggeration, I've actually been hit by one).

I slam into the walking bridge and the entire thing shakes. People scatter. A man with a guitar tumbles behind me. His case upends, sending dollars and quarters all over me.

Liberty skids to a halt in front of me, tearing five feet of the bridge's wooden planks to splinters. A slushy cart rolls between us, leaving a trail of blue and red syrup on the broken wood. The cart's owner thinks about coming after it, but one look at Liberty and me makes him decide that isn't such a hot idea.

As if on cue, the wind picks ups and gives Liberty's red cape that perfect amount of lift. He walks slowly toward me—popping each knuckle so loudly it forces people to blink—and looks so perfect, so heroic, so Super, I want to give up right then and there.

"I gave you a choice, son," he says.

He kicks me and I fly into the bridge's metal structure, twenty feet above us. After leaving a sizable dent, I fall back. The bridge shakes more and people turn, running over each other to get away. They scream and act surprised—as if they had no idea of the kind of power they were hanging around, living around, and practically worshiping like a god every day. I can't really blame them.

I didn't either.

"You could have done it the easy way. But no—you chose the hard way." He grabs the back of my neck and circles me into one of the metal rope posts in the middle of the bridge. The impact makes it double over and it's all I can do to pull myself out of it and fall on my back.

_Gabe ... I ..._ M flakes out on me. He's too stunned that we're about to die.

The fire in my shoulder returns. There's a stabbing pain in my back to give it company. I don't even ask M for a reading on our power level. What would be the point?

"Now, I can't even give you over to Deathbot to stop the chaos you started. I'll have to spend the better part of the week picking of the pieces of what he—"

"Good to know," A digitized voice says behind Liberty.

He drops me.

I land in a puddle of slushy syrup and look up. There's a throb in my head that's kind of in rhythm to a Black Eyed Peas song, but I forget which one. My stomach feels like somebody pumps it with a plunger. I roll over, begging to throw up, or for the pain to go away, or to pass out, or to even die. I just want this feeling—all of this freaking pain to go away and I still don't know if I can stay away from Reagan and I wonder why I'm thinking that and I wonder if I'll ever think anything again and I hope my mom understands when they find a body if my bonding with M even leaves a body to find.

Deathbot clamps a palm around my head and lifts me.

Deathbot?

_I've figured it out Gabe_.

Deathbot laughs. "Surprised? You shouldn't be. Liberty didn't pose a problem to Deathbot, despite his pointless posturing!" Deathbot turns and holds my head low, so I can see that Liberty's about to become infected with the Cyborg's nanites. The World's Greatest Hero writhes on the ground and clutches his throat. His motions become a blur and then his eyes grow wide with panic. He realizes his Superspeed isn't even enough to shake the things off. They enter through his mouth, nose and eyes. He screams and rolls over, causing the bridge to tremble again. I already see a couple of wires poking their way out of his uniform.

_I figured out how to heal you with a minimal use of power. It's not a complete heal, mind you, but at least you won't die. _

Deathbot turns me to face him again.

And then the world rushes back.

The pain, the nausea, and the deliria are completely gone. M fixed me. Somehow, he figured out a way to do it. "You ready, M?"

Deathbot's shoulder bazooka clacks into position over his right shoulder. He points it right at me and it whines at a high pitch.

_With great reluctance, Gabe, yes. Let's finish this._

Deathbot barks a laugh. "Are you ready to be a hero, Earthling?"

I hook my fingers in Deathbot's flaming sockets and pull him close. "Hells yeah."

M leaves me.

Everything that is him—the power, the star field, and the smart assitude—leaves my body, travels down my arm and shoots straight into Deathbot's face. Deathbot screams and drops me.

He frantically backs away and trips over a passed out Liberty. Deathbot falls and the star field oozes up his body. Smoke pours out of him and I hear something that sounds like a hundred pennies in a dryer (also, no exaggeration). Nanite clusters explode out of him and fall harmlessly to the bridge.

As M slowly bonds with the body Deathbot took over, it finally dawns on me I'm not dead or feeling any pain in my arm. In fact, I don't feel my arm at all. I can't even move it.

Deathbot takes that opportunity to deliver an impressive uppercut to my jaw, which I have absolutely no problems feeling.

I fall on the ground and Deathbot is on top of me, tearing at me with his boney fingers, yelling at me with that vacuum cleaner voice, and—to my absolute horror—he peels open what little is left of some guts at his midsection.

A flood of nanites rush out like ants and crawl up my belly.

I scream and kick him off.

M just about has his body completely enveloped now. If M can kill him before the nanites take me over, I'll make it. If not ...

I shake my head. I have to give M enough time to finish the job, which means fighting Deathbot all exposed like.

Deathbot's nightstick lays on the ground next to me. I pick it up and go to work on his skull.

The nanites rush up my chest and back. They tickle a little as they pass my armpits. I think I'm about to die, but knowing what's at stake, I kinda feel okay with it.

I hit the skull until it shatters, and I go to work on the wet, mushy stuff inside. I pummel it until there's nothing left and then I go to work on the ribs, the guns, or anything else large enough for me to hit with this nightstick. My left hand tires, so I switch to my right.

I stop in mid swing when I realize I can once again use my right hand.

_Gabe?_

M's with me again. I look at my hands and see he's turned me back into Galaxy.

The juicy heap that use to be Deathbot lies motionless on the ground next to me. Liberty slowly raises to one knee, shaking the last of the dead nanite clusters off his chest. He's okay, which means other people in Prose are okay too. He looks at Deathbot and then makes eye contact with me.

I drop the nightstick. It falls on the pile of nanites that were on me a moment ago. "How much juice do we have left?"

_Not nearly enough._

Liberty slowly walks to me. He figures out what happened and grins. But it's not the kind of grin a person makes when they're happy. It's more like the kind of grin my grandpa used to make when he found out grandma made pancakes.

"They did it! Liberty and that other dude took out the bad guy!" someone yells behind me.

I turn and the crowd that ran from Liberty earlier is now running back to the bridge. Some are new. Some were on the bridge when Liberty kicked me into the framework. Capes duking it out is certainly nothing new, but I can tell they don't really know what to make of me. They already know who Liberty is. Or, at least they know what they've been told.

"Who are you?" a girl in the front asks. She's wearing a yellow sundress and her eyes flash pink for a split second.

_WTF?_

"I ... " I look at her and then back at the crowd. There's upwards of eighty people gathered around me, most of which are taking pictures with their cell phones. Some look at Liberty. Most look at me. Several people accidentally step in Deathbot.

I straighten up. "I'm Galaxy."

"Are you one of the HEROES?" she says loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Yeah. Guess I am one of the heroes."

People laugh, cheer, clap, and ask for autographs. Pink loses herself in the crowd and Liberty makes his way to me. He has to pat three babies on the head and sign five autographs to do it, all of which he does with a smile on his face. A smile that doesn't touch his eyes.

Liberty waves at the crowd, but speaks to me in a low voice through his teeth. "I've seen your face. It'll just take one phone call to find out who you are." He turns to me and holds out his right hand. Not knowing what else to do, I take it and we slowly shake hands for the crowd. "If you don't register in forty-two hours, I'll make that phone call and bury your family on the moon."

This time, the grin touches his eyes.

***

_Why did that Pink person help us?_

I land about three blocks away from the house. I have enough power to fly the rest of the way, but in our neighborhood, it's best not to take any chances. Everybody knows everybody.

"I don't know. She felt sorry for us?"

_Oh please. That woman feels sorry for no one._

I stick my hands in my pockets. "You don't know that."

_I know she reminds me of me._

I don't know what to say to that. M's right. Pink does act like M, a less intelligent and valley girlish kind of M, but an M just the same. It wouldn't make sense for her to help me unless ...

_She wants something in return_.

I stop walking. Pink does want something from me, I would just have to wait to find out what it was ... and wait to see if it was something I could turn to my advantage. Maybe there was a way out of this whole registering thing.

Of course, as long as I can fly away in time, M can apparently heal just about anything HEROES can dish out. I rotate my right arm. It and the rest of my side still feels tingly, but M managed to heal it the rest of the way. He tried to explain how he did it—with great pride in fact—but I was just too damn tired to listen.

I round the last block and am surprised to see Mom left the porch light on. It's almost 1:00. She's usually in bed by now.

When I place one foot on the first step, I hear the porch swing squeak. I turn and see someone sitting in it.

"Reagan?"

She smiles and stands.

I whisper a curse. I still haven't told M anything about her seeing us change. I hurry to the door. There's no time to ask her how she found out where I live, or what she thinks about my being a hero, or if she even thinks it's a little sexy (admittedly, it's the last one I'm most curious about). I have to distance myself from her before she says something, anything to indicate she knows I'm Galaxy.

I try to put my house key in the lock with all the excitement of a blond being chased by an ax murderer. "Hi, um ... I can't—I can't talk right now. I've, uh got, work in the morning at it's late. I've got to—"

She grabs my arm and spins me around.

I drop my keys.

Instead of Reagan standing there, I see a person-shaped star field with glowing blue eyes. She's powered up, just like me when I'm Galaxy.

_Great googley moogley._

"Gabe, we need to talk."

# 2: The Ballad of M

#

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I want to thank the following people for making this book possible: Michael Booth for telling me what sucked and what didn't, Caroline Smith for helping me figure out what makes Reagan tick, and last—but certainly not least—my wife Cindy for providing Super level support.

# Prologue

#

For the second time tonight, Gabe Garrison surprises the crap out of me.

The first time was in the library at Prose U. I had walked away from our study session, trying to recover from the Brittany Spears style breakdown over Astronomy (of all things). I returned to see Amy Lansbury's head explode into a flaming green skull and Gabe Garrison transform into a Superhero.

That's right—a Superhero.

He called himself Galaxy and—more importantly—looked like me when I do this weird starry thing that I do—that I've _been doing_ for the past two months. Sometimes on purpose, sometimes not.

Superheroes in the city of Prose is nothing unusual. Neither are the fights that they get into with Supervillains on a daily basis. The average person in this city has just learned to deal with it or learned to leave. I learned to deal ... at least until I finish college.

But I never thought I have to deal with being one.

Gabe flew away to fight that Deathbot thing. After asking some friends, I found out where Gabe lived and made it to his house by 11:00 pm. His mother opened the door before I even had a chance to knock.

"Yes?"

"Uh, hi, Mrs. Garrison?"

"Ms."

"Oh, sorry."

"No problem." She stepped outside wearing jeans and comfy looking fuzzy blue turtleneck. She sent her grayish blond bangs out of her eyes with a flick of her head.

"What can I do for you?"

"I was, uh wondering if Gabe was home?"

"No, not yet. He had a late night study session with a friend I think. You might be able to catch him at the library still."

Totally doubted that. "Would you mind if I wait here?"

"Normally, no. But I have an early shift at the hospital tomorrow, so ..." A dachshund pokes its long snout out from around Ms. Garrison's ankle and growls.

I look back at her. "Oh, Gabe never told me you were a nurse."

She laughed and picked up the growling dog. "I should hope he wouldn't." Its growl segued into a series of gruffs directed at me. "That would make him a liar. I'm an MD."

"Oh, well, that explains the nice house." But not the overgrown lawn.

"Thanks ... can I leave him a message?"

"Yeah, can you tell him Reagan stopped by? It's really important. Super even."

The dachshund whined and fidgeted until she put him back in the house. "I'll tell him. Does he have your phone number?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." She started to shut the door, but stopped. "Are you—is everything okay?"

"Yeah, I just—I need to ask him some things."

She looked in my eyes—like, uncomfortably. "He has an eight o'clock shift at the bookstore tomorrow night, so I'm sure you'll hear from him before then."

"Okay. Thanks Mrs.—Ms. Garrison. Goodnight." I wave awkwardly.

She grins. "Goodnight, Reagan."

I turned to walk away but stopped on the first step leading off the front porch. Did Gabe's mother know about this stuff? I faced the house. Could she answer my questions? What if she doesn't know? How was I supposed to start that conversation?

Knock on the door again, wait until she answers and then, _"Hello, me again Mrs. (dammit—Ms. Garrison) did you know your son is Prose City's latest new Superhero 'cause I really have a lot of questions about this weird turning into stars thing my body seems to be doing lately and I think either him or you would be the best person to ask about it because he does the same thing, and it's all I can do to keep it together right now, and did I mention how nice your house looks?"_

Yeah, that'd go real swell, Reagan. If she did know about Gabe's situation, the first thing out of her mouth might be ...

" _Sure, I'm sorry, I didn't know, come right on in. I'll fix some Earl Grey. We'll wait until Gabe gets home and then answer everything we have an answer for."_

But if she didn't know, it could be something like, _"WHAT, MY SON IS A SUPER AND HE DIDN'T TELL ME?_ " or _"Young lady, do I need to call the police to get you AWAY from my nice house?"_

Her silhouette passed the front window, so I pretended to look at my phone while walking down the rest of the steps. Guess I'd made up my mind.

And then, without even really thinking about it, I had made a lap around Gabe's block and returned to the front of his house. The lights were off, which hopefully meant Ms. G was counting sheep.

I couldn't wait until tomorrow. I just couldn't do it. I wanted answers—needed answers tonight.

I walked up the three porch steps as lightly as I could and managed to ease into the porch swing without so much as a creak. I checked my phone, for real this time. It was 11:30 pm.

At 2:32 am, Gabe Garrision finally showed.

He walked up his porch, I said something, he tried to evade me for whatever reason, and then I showed him my freaky star ... power thing.

I showed him that my newfound power (whatever it was) was exactly like his (whatever it is).

I expected some sort of questions barrage. I expected for us to have a lengthy conversation over our situation. I expected him to at least ask if we could talk about this later. I did not expect him to do the one thing that he did.

Which was slam the door in my face.

Ergo my second surprise of the night.

I stand in front of his door for a full two minutes in complete shock. Finally ... finally I had someone that I can talk to about the bizarreness that has been me for the past two months. Finally, I had someone that may've had answers to my crap ton of questions. Finally, I had someone that maybe had a sense of understanding ... and what does he do?

He slams the door in my face.

I raise my hand to knock and then stop. My hand, body—clothes and everything—has returned to regular Reagan MacPherson—the stars are gone. My stomach tingles with maximum freakage. The stars and glowy eyes had gone away without my wanting it, without my even realizing it. Does that mean I'm losing control? But how can I even have control over something I don't know about—over something I don't understand?

Goddamn it, Gabe.

My fist trembles. I want to beat the door in. I want to take all of the pissy anger I've experienced over the past two months—from this fear, this ignorance, this ... loneliness—and take it out on the Garrison's front door. But it doesn't deserve it.

Gabe's face deserves it.

And that's exactly where my fist is going to go if he doesn't give me some answers. But not here. Not with Ms. G around. Like my parents, she may not know her kid is a Super, which means Gabe may have to tell her something he never wanted to tell her. I may want to hurt Gabe—slowly and with power tools even—but I don't want to mess up his family. Just like I wouldn't want somebody to mess up mine. I don't want to register for certain reasons. Gabe may not want to either, and his mom may not give him a choice. No, I'll give him until tomorrow night.

And if I don't hear from him by 8:00, he's definitely going to hear from me. I stomp down the porch steps and shake my head.

I just can't believe Gabe Garrison slammed the door in my face tonight.

# Chapter One

#

I just can't believe I slammed the door in Reagan MacPherson's face last night.

Is her situation just like mine? Does she have some sort of smart ass alien entity inside her brain? Is she registered? Do her friends know? Is she stronger than me? Does this somehow make me look hot to her? Is Liberty—the World's Greatest Hero—going to come after her like the way he's going to come after me?

I so can't be thinking about this right now ...

I need to be thinking about the bad guy I'm chasing up the North Shore sidewalk. His real name is Marcus Falcone, but he calls himself The Glop. He stands about eight feet tall and his transparent, mucus like body absorbs anything it touches, sometimes at will, sometimes not.

According to villainwiki, Glop is a Natural, which means he wasn't transformed into this human-shaped green snot looking thing as the result of some sort of lab accident or experiment. To be a Natural, your powers have to manifest without any sort of outside influence, usually around the age of puberty. His parents—I have no idea what their names were—dropped him off at an orphanage in Atlanta at age thirteen, when he started leaving slime tracks on everything he touched.

Glop currently has a large chunk of an ATM trapped in his body (y'know, the small ones that you see at gas stations). From where I'm flying, about twenty feet above, I can make out a Coke bottle in his right arm, a skateboard hanging out of his back, and something that kind of looks like dog poo bouncing around his left leg.

Dollar bills and other random objects escape his bouncing body through the slits that he has for a mouth and eyes. People rush out of his way, only to fall back in line shortly after he passes to pick up the loose bills feathering through the night.

"Move! Move!" Glop gurgles. He slops through an elderly couple on a bench, leaving them dripping with green snot. From the looks on their faces, I'm guessing they'll have nightmares the rest of their lives.

"M, what do you think will happen if we fire a Grav Blast at this guy?"

Without warning, a blue Grav Blast shoots from my right hand and harmlessly passes right through Glop, tearing up a few chunks of North Shore sidewalk.

_Nothing, apparently._

I control basic flight and movement, but M—the alien life form I'm bonded to—controls all of our gravity manipulation powers. So I have no way of stopping him when he does something sociopathic, which he's prone to do.

"Don't do that—you could have killed him!"

_Oh, I'm sorry. Am I doing something which displeases you in some way, Gabriel?_

I hate it when he uses my full name. It's like he somehow manages to turn it into an insult. "Is this about Reagan last night?"

Glop turns off the sidewalk and heads towards the Cutledge Park carrousel. It spins multicolored lights, music, and the sounds of some laughing children into the night. It makes sense that Glop would want to head away from the river ... there's no telling what it would do to his body. Plus, people were starting to line up with their cell phone cameras on the decks of the Liberty Bell, one of Prose's biggest touristy riverboats, passing by on its evening dinner cruise. If Glop's about to lose a fight, he may figure he can at least avoid people posting video of it on youtube.

I reach out with a Grav Beam and jerk away a large chunk of the sidewalk from under him. Glop slurps into a rolling ball and, if anything, picks up speed.

Wonderful.

_Well, what do you expect, Gabe? For the first time in months, I encounter a being in a similar situation to my own and you slam the door in her face._

"I didn't slam the door in her face ... exactly."

Glop splashes into the carousel. People scream and scatter. The carousel keeps going, weirdly oblivious to the chaos surrounding it. At least the kids aren't laughing anymore—I always found the laughter of children oddly creepy.

_Perhaps not literally, but certainly figuratively. Reagan came to you for help and—instead of providing any sort of aid—you left her without a word on your doorstep. Given the state of mind she's prone to, I'm surprised the occurrence didn't instigate one of the Superhero fights you're so fond of._

If I hadn't been so exhausted last night, I would have handled it differently. I would have thought of something cool and supportive to say. I would have told the woman of my dreams that it's okay, she can depend on me, and I know exactly what to do and how to handle all of this stuff.

I thought about telling M all of this earlier, but I wanted to wait until I believed it myself.

I land. Glop slurps into human form, or at least as close to human form as he can. He extends four newly formed appendages from his legs to absorb nearby bills on the sidewalk. "I thought you's HEROES guys were out of town!"

HEROES stands for Humane Emergency Rescue Or Extrication Squad. They're a government funded superhero team that, when not fighting villains, they're enforcing the Wertham act. After the encounter with Deathbot, the leader of HEROES, Liberty, gave me until tomorrow at midnight to register. If I don't, he threatened to bury my family on the moon. Considering Liberty partnered with Deathbot to find and kill me, I have little difficulty believing the threat was genuine.

I shrug. "Not all of us."

"Too bad for you." His right arm extends five times its normal length and punches me in the chest. The impact sends me through a stone fountain thirty feet away. More people scatter like characters in a game of _Grand Theft Auto._

I use a fish statue that's spitting water to pull myself up. It may not seem like it, but I'm really going out of my way to avoid property damage. City workers just finished fixing the Michael Booth Bridge this morning. It's not because it's too hard for them—they have reconstruction powers. I just don't want the negative publicity or to give HEROES one more reason to come after me.

Glop pancakes, leaving the ATM rocking back and forth. He crosses the thirty feet separating us in half a second. A large green fist materializes out of his gooey middle and lands a snotty uppercut to my chin.

After hitting the ground and sliding ten feet, I stand and wipe snot tracks from my chin.

Man, this guy is gross.

I hit him with another Grav Blast. The blue beam tears up artificial turf and only leaves a momentary hole in the puddle. Glob easily reforms around it; the Coke bottle and skateboard leave his body, rolling in opposite directions.

"How do I beat this guy, M? It's like fighting water."

_I can think of several methods. _

"Which are?"

_When are you going to speak to Reagan?_

My hands fall to my sides. "Seriously, you do this now?"

Glop uppercuts me again with another huge fist.

I shatter a duck statue with my ass and slide another ten feet, this time on my face. Glop slowly slithers to me.

_Better keep your mind in the game, Gabe. He certainly is._ M sighs. _If only you knew how to defeat him before some innocent, smelly human gets hurt. Thank God most of them evacuated the horse simulator in time . . ._

Being irreversibly bonded to a smart ass, sociopathic life form really sucks.

A blond chick with short hair runs from the direction of the dripping carousel. She stops a few feet from Glop's back. It never ceases to amaze me what people will go through in this town for a few pics.

Glop throws another punch, but I block it with a force field. It makes the sound of a man-sized basketball hitting concrete. Glop shakes his hand and curses.

I hurt him. He didn't do that liquid-y thing and reform around it.

Sweet.

He throws another punch, and I block it with another force field. He screams and flops back. He raises his height to ten feet. The chick gets close enough for me to see she's curvy in a good way and minus a camera phone. What is she doing?

Glop and I face each other. He can't attack me without getting hurt, and I can't attack him without ... well, I just can't attack him.

I think about telling the chick to run in the other direction, but Glop may not know she is there. I'm afraid I'll just give him a hostage.

She's almost close enough to touch him. What the hell is she doing?

The blond collapses and a free-floating, pink misty form vaguely shaped like a tweenage girl leaves her body. A round face, a few strands of wispy hair, and a Brittany Spears t-shirt are the only details I can make in the ghost-like form.

Pink.

Pink uses her powers of possession to take over the unsuspecting Glop. The last of the pink mist disappears into the back of Glop's neck. He writhes back and forth for a moment, but his eyes eventually glow pink, telling me the member of HEROES has taken control of him.

He sticks out his hip and places his right hand on it, like Daphne from Scooby-Doo. "We need to, like, talk," Pink gurgles through Glop's mouth.

_Oh yay. More fallout from out glorious "team-up" Friday_.

"So what—"

Pink cuts me off with a punch to the chest, sending me nearly to the underside of the Michael Booth Bridge.

I stand. "What the hell, Pink?" I'm getting really tired of being knocked on my ass tonight.

She closes the distance. "The others, like, can't know I'm talking to you. If they do, it will be suckville population: me."

I put it together. She entered Glop's body to appear to fight me, that way she could move in close without arousing suspicion. Suspicion that would be aroused from her talking to me in public as regular free-floating Pink, a well-known member of HEROES.

"What do you want?"

"Payback time," she says.

I jump, barely missing the green jelly fist she's turned into an anvil. I play dumb. "Payback?"

"Don't even. I can just as easily undo what I did yesterday." She extends her legs, which drops the mass of the belly enough to let more bills flitter to the sidewalk. People stare at their camera phones, me, Pink, and the money. With all this chaos, they're actually thinking about the dough.

I increase my altitude and hover ten feet away from her. We look eye to eye. "What do you want?"

"Take this punch and I'll tell you."

M raises the force field enough to absorb the hit, but I still flip head over heels a couple of times before stopping to a hover above the river. Have to make this look good.

She shakes the fist she punched me with. "Balls, that hurt. I want you to do my job."

I stop and flutter my eyelids (at least I would if I had any while being powered up). "Come again?"

"I WANT YOU TO DO MY JOB!" she yells from the shore. She raises her fists in the air to help her look all super villainy.

I shove her with a Grav Blast. It gives me a happy to see her bounce on her ass. I fly closer and give her two more blasts.

She back peddles, coating the artificial turf with a line of goo.

"HEROES is sending me after three guys this month. Three guys that I have to hunt down—three guys that I'd rather not be hunting and watching TV instead.

_This is where the phrase "tragic hero" comes from. _

I feel sick to my stomach. What do I do? I'm already a full time student, part time barista, and a full time Superhero. When am I going to have time to traipse around the country and gather up this chick's bad guys? But do I have a choice?

Pink may have been exaggerating. She may not be able to undo everything as easy as all that, but she's certainly in a position to do some damage. With that creepy power of hers—she could even follow me home one night without me even knowing it. Until I figure out how to handle this thing with Liberty, I don't really think I have a choice. I play my cards right, she may even be able to help me find a way out of this ... provided it proves advantageous for her too.

She looks at me and I think she raises an eyebrow. "Well, like, what's it going to be, hero?"

She says "hero" the same way M says "Gabriel." I sigh. "Where do I start?"

***

_No, Gabe. No, no, no, no, NO!_

I wince and almost spill Bo's cappuccino. I hate it when M yells in my head, but I especially hate it when it's my turn to work in the coffee shop at Rock Creek Books. Actually, he rarely talks to me while I'm at work. Instead, he listens to the elevator music the owner, Jessica Gem, pipes in. For some reason, he finds it oddly comforting.

"What choice do we have?"

Bo raises his eyes from his iPhone. "What?"

I sigh. "What choice do we have ... but to keep on doing our jobs when we don't want to?"

_It isn't our job, Gabe. It's Pink's job. You start this now, and we'll be doing it forever. We have to find a way out. From the information she gave us, these three robots she wants us to hunt down look like Zyborg technology—which means they look like they could kill us pretty darn quick._

"Quit," Bo says. "That's what I did in the past, dude. I'm sure it's what I'll do again, when mom forces me to get another jay-oh-bee."

I top Bo's cappuccino with a milk leaf and hand him the drink. His first sip makes me envious. I used to love those things, but my life with M makes me jittery enough. And decaf cappuccinos just don't taste right. You might as well make it with skim milk.

"I can't just not work," I say. "I need money. Besides, I'm not a registered Sup—" Bo looks at me, "Barista? I'm not a registered barista."

"Yeah, you're not. Did you put hazelnut in this thing?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Cause the hazelnut syrup is over there ... and you, sir, pumped from that bottle right there." Bo points at a syrup bottle next to the machine.

I turn the bottle so Bo can see the label. "See: H-A-Z-L-E-nut. We had an extra one show up a while back."

Bo plops the mug on my counter, spilling foam in every direction. "Well, your extra bottle tastes like crotch. It's like all nut and no hazel. Must say, I'm very disappointed. You usually make these things better than a gay dude."

_Being an unregistered Super wouldn't be a problem if you would just stop this ridiculous superheroing, Gabe! If it doesn't get us killed, it will land us in The Bend!_

I wipe up Bo's mess with more gusto than needed. The Bend is one of the world's biggest penitentiaries for Supers. It used to be a mental hospital, but the increasing Super population made the governor convert it decades ago.

Given the nature of The Bend's occupants, there had been a lot of talk about moving it to a less populated area, but the world thought Prose's Super population problem was just that—Prose's problem. It's where Pink took Glop earlier, and it's where HEROES could send me later. In the eyes of the law, an unregistered Super is the same as your run of the mill Supervillain.

But there are other concerns: "And my mother?"

_Oh please. Liberty was just bluffing. He's not going to bury your precious mommy on the moon._

Bo picks up one of the many copies of the movie edition _Twilight_ that we keep on the counter. "Don't know. Never had one of her cappuccinos. Hey, have you ever noticed Kristen Stewart always looks like she's just had the shit slapped out of her ... and she really liked it?"

_Oh my God, right?_

"You two would be so suited for each other."

_Don't tempt me. He just might be my type._

"Nah, would never hit a babe. Unless it's Chun-Li." Bo turns away from the counter, flipping through the book.

Revealing Reagan to be the next person in line.

Her arms cross, and the corner of her lip pinches inward. Her knee-high boots make two loud clip-clops to the counter.

_Well, aren't you going to take her order?_

# Chapter Two

#

Closing Rock Creek Bookstore is a lengthy process, especially with only one person on the floor. First, I have to straighten the inventory and restock the bake case. Then, I clean everything in the café and anything that needs it on the floor. Depending on how busy it is that day, the entire process can take up to two hours. Tonight it takes two and a half.

Reagan waits the entire time.

I could force her to leave. In fact, I almost did. I had a whole speech lined up: "Reagan," I was going to say after calmly taking a chair beside her and placing my palms on the back of her hand, "I know I behaved irrationally last night. I know I should have invited you in to discuss everything—but I had an extremely difficult night. Those robot zombie things were about to take over the city, and in the process of stopping them, I made the World's Greatest Hero my personal enemy. He's threatened to kill—actually kill—my mother if I don't turn myself in by midnight tomorrow. I think—hope he's bluffing because this alien thing inside my head won't let me turn myself in. Now, that I've explained myself, please tell me what's on your mind."

Unfortunately, all that I got out was "Rea—" before she looked at me and said, "I'll have a skinny triple Mocha cappuccino with extra foam."

And then, my spectacular reply: "Skinny, really?"

She folded her arms.

"I'll, uh, go get that for you."

And so she stayed. She stayed the hour until closing and the two and a half hours it took me to close. She read a book, but every now and then I looked in her direction and saw her eyes dart from me back to the pages in front of her.

I turn out the majority of the lights and leave on the ones around her table. I fix myself a cup of bold decaf and sit next to her. The table vibrates slightly, jiggling the left over foam in her cup.

_If her leg rocks any faster, she may create an inter-dimensional portal._

Given the nature of our powers, I really don't know if M is joking. Sometimes, my life scares the crap out of me.

A light pit-pat of sprinkling turns into a hard rain outside. People run up and down Broad Street, covering their heads with newspapers, pocketbooks, coats, or whatever else they have on them. I wonder if this is mother nature type rain or the actual Supervillain, Mother Nature, is responsible.

"I ... am dealing with some serious stuff here, Gabe," Her leg stops rocking only long enough to say what she has to say and then it starts back.

"I know."

The rocking stops again. "I don't know what's happening to me. I don't know what I can do. I don't even know ... I can't even ask anyone what to do. There aren't any Supers in my family, my friends—they're like me. The only Supers they know are the ones they see on TV. And then, when I saw you the other day and-and the same kind of thing happened to you, I thought, 'Finally! Finally, somebody knows not only kinda what I'm going through—but _exactly_ what I'm going through. And—more importantly—knows what _to_ do.' "

I stare at my cup. "Yeah, I know."

"I can't even CONTROL this thing, Gabe."

I think about all of the times I've had to demand, bargain or beg M to do something. "I know."

"And then you slam the door in my face."

"I kn—"

"Stop! Stop saying 'I know'! You—God, can't you say something else? Please?"

"What do you want me to tell you?"

_Tell her you didn't EXACTLY slam the door in her face. That should work._

I grip the table and wonder, not for the first time, if M will ever cause me to have a nervous breakdown.

Reagan slings her book on the table. The rain picks up even more outside. "I want you to tell me what's happening to me, Gabe. I want you to tell me why I-I can feel something or someone just around the corner before I can see it. I want you to tell me why when I checked the mailbox the other day the stupid thing flew into the river. I want you to tell me what THIS is:" Two circles of white light replace her green eyes. Red hair and the ruffles of her white sundress with the brown, blue and green florally patterns change into a perfect, starry silhouette. I can make out the handle of the big dipper in her shoulder which leads down to an outline of ... I suddenly resume staring at my coffee as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

Reagan looks at her chest and shifts in her seat. She grabs her shoulders and powers down, replacing the silhouette with her clipped features and sundress. Like Reagan, it's not like I'm completely nude when I power up, but the detail of our silhouettes doesn't leave much open to the imagination either. It really isn't much different than a Super putting his or her modesty aside for tights, but it takes awhile to get use to the exposure.

We share an awkward pause, filled only by the rat-at-at of the rain on the large windowpanes next to us.

"Is it—" she begins, "Is it even safe to do this around people? I mean, could I give my parents cancer or something?"

"No, that was one of my first questions too. There is a small amount of some kind of radiation—"

_Ramma Radiation._

" 'Ramma' Radiation, but it's not harmful to anyone. Unless you turn it into a Grav Blast or a Grav Beam."

"A what or a what?"

_How can she and the entity not know these things? Has her host somehow been affected by human intelligence?_

I rub the bridge of my nose. "SHE is the host, M."

She slowly shakes her freckled head. "That ... makes no sense."

"Sorry, I was talking to ... it."

She sighs. "I don't even know what you're—"

"Y'know—it. As in what's inside us, giving us our powers?"

"I never really thought of it as an 'it'—you mean there's some sort of thing inside us?"

"Well, not just a thing—more like ... a life form." __

Her face whitens.

"Wait, you—you don't know. How could you not know unless ..."

_It's never spoken to her._

And then it hits me. No wonder Reagan is on the verge of freaking out: She has every right to be. My life is messed up as it is and I, for better or worse, at least have M to explain things. The thought of just having this stuff without knowing what it is, how to use it, or anybody to confide in ...

_This makes no sense. Why has the entity not spoken to her? Their very survival depends upon a mutual acceptance of their symbiosis. _

"You really do have no idea where your powers come from?"

"No, I don't. Once again, that's why I came to your house last night."

_It's baffling that she hasn't cracked the planet open accidentally. _

Again ... too afraid to ask. "What happened? When did you first have your powers?"

"I ... just woke up one morning two months ago and there they were. I don't really know what all I can do. I mean I know they control gravity—"

_Manipulate._

"—but I just know that because of a feeling, not really any kind of _knowing_ knowing. I don't even know why or for how long I can do this stuff. Or if I should register ... should I try to see a doctor ... I mean I'm twenty years old ... don't know if I want to live here forever ..."

"Just because you have powers doesn't mean you have to stay in Prose."

"No, but it doesn't make moving exactly easy. You've seen the specials on _20/20._ Whether companies outside of this town admit it or not—they're not hiring registered Supers. Most of them are too afraid we're going to ... spontaneously explode or something."

"Well, you can always be a practicing Super."

_Oh, sure, come on in. The water's fine. _

"You mean like HEROES? I don't want to be like a celebrity—at all."

"Reagan ..." I reach for her hand and she pulls away. I scrape a dried piece of something on the table with my fingernail instead. "I'm sorry—really, _really_ sorry about last night." I give her a second for my words to sink in. Then I explain everything that transpired from the moment of leaving the library until meeting her on my porch. She interrupts occasionally, asking questions about my relationship with M or what it was like to be in HEROES Tower. She's just as surprised as I am when I tell her about Liberty offering me up to Deathbot and him treating peoples' lives like nothing. Thankfully, M keeps quiet for the most part, only offering up a helpful detail here and there when absolutely needed. It's weird to see him so invested in a conversation with another human being.

Thirty minutes later, I finish by telling her Liberty's given me until tomorrow at midnight to register.

"So, are you going to?"

"No, M doesn't want me to. He says there are too many unknowns. And after what I saw Friday night, gotta say I agree with him."

_Hallelujah._

But he does want me to give up the Superhero thing. He doesn't think it's worth it."

_It's not simply a matter of what I 'think', Gabe. It's the gosh-darn Truth. _

"Why is it worth it?" she says. "You don't get paid. It takes up gobs of your time. You never know if people are gonna thank you or lynch you—and you've got the strongest guy in the world pissed at you."

"Do you like shopping for clothes?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I like looking nice."

"There ya go."

She leans back in her chair. "You do this because you like the way it makes you look?"

"That's why I started doing it. But something changed me."

"What?"

"I saw someone in trouble. And I helped them. I helped them because nobody else could ... and I keep helping people because very few people can do what I do."

_Oh, there's more to it than that ..._

M's right of course, but there's no reason to go into all of that. I'm not even sure if I'm prepared to face it.

_I'm going to have to train her, Gabe. _

"What? Why?"

_The only reason HEROES hasn't been able to track us in the past is because I can disguise the Ramma Radiation as solar radiation. If Reagan doesn't have contact with the entity, there's no way of knowing if Silver Sentinel will be able to track any accidental flare ups on her part. Worse case scenario, HEROES could track her energy signature, thinking that she is us._

_Then there's the whole cracking the planet open thing. That might be a danger too._

Reagan slowly spins her mug. "What's it saying?"

"How can you tell I'm talking to it?"

"You do this weird shifty thing with your eyes."

_That's just him._

My hand goes right to my eye.

"I used to just think something was wrong and didn't want to say anything."

"Did you know about this, M?"

_Can we please focus on the matter at hand?_

"You're doing it again."

I sigh and lower my hand. "M says we can show you how to use—how to control your powers and how to keep the others from tracking your radiation."

" 'My radiation' " ... God, that's so weird to say. "How come they haven't tracked me already?"

_I've been wondering that as well. My best hypothesis at this point is they simply don't know to look for it yet._

"My best guess? They don't know what to look for yet?"

_Why you little ..._

Reagan raises an eyebrow. " _Your_ best guess?"

I can't help but laugh. "Guess I need to work on that eye thing."

"Or not, it's kinda ..."

Cute? Is she going to say cute?

"It's like it makes people not want to be around you. Which I think is a good thing, y'know with trying to hide the fact that you're an illegal Super and all."

"Yeah, I guess that's ... good."

"So when do we start the training thing?"

"How about right here, right now?"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not? There's nobody here—we've got the whole place to ourselves. And we'll need to start small anyway, so there isn't like there is a danger of us messing up the store. And it'll be a while before the rain stops."

"Cool—but there's just one thing I gotta know first. Where do these powers—or this life form thingy come from anyway?"

I point up.

The corner of her mouth rises, dimpling the freckles in her left cheek. "The roof of the coffee shop?"

"Higher."

She gives me a melodramatic look, all playful like. "God?"

"Lower."

" .... Space?"

I nod.

"SHUT UP!"

***

Reagan cuts into another piece of raspberry cheesecake. "So, let me get this straight," she barely manages to say through a mouthful of food. "You actually have this alien thing kind of living inside you?"

I nod and scoop another mound of vanilla ice cream onto my brownie. "Uh-huh." After the big reveal, we decided to raid the bake case of the coffee shop. She sits on the counter, and I lean against it, lightly kicking a chunk of wood that showed up out of nowhere a couple of months ago. It's the same color pattern as our wooden benches, and appears burnt at the edges. I use it a lot to prop the front door open, so I never saw a reason to throw the mystery wood away.

_I resent being called a 'thing.'_

"And it's been living there for six months?"

"Going on seven." I toss the ice cream back in the freezer.

"So how did it find you? I mean how did you two ..." she interlaces her fingers.

_That gesture is inappropriate on so many levels._

"The same way you did, I guess. It just found me and joined." I take the first bite, not really noticing the taste.

_So, I AM an'it' now? If anything, you two are the 'its.' I'm not even corporeal._

"And your guy has never spoken with you? Never said anything?"

"Let's see ... huh—alien voice inside my head telling me to do stuff," she clucks her tongue, "nope, can't say any of that's been going on." She forks a piece of my brownie and I hope my cheeks aren't as red as they feel.

_I can get him to talk._

Now, I hope my cheeks aren't as pale as they feel.

I gently place the fork on my saucer, incapable of finishing. "M says he can ... convince him to talk."

Reagan slides the saucer to herself. "That's not very reassuring."

"He's not the reassuring type."

_Very well, how's this: In order to train her properly, I will need to join my consciousness with hers to 'wake up' the entity inside her, which I assure you, Gabe, whatever has happened—the entity will wake up on its own accord eventually. If that should happen and they can't be fortunate enough to muddle through the process of learning their powers as we did—the results could be less than pleasant. _

I relay everything to Reagan.

"Can I trust it?"

My pause answers her question.

"Okay..." she slides off the counter. "I wanna hear its story first. I wanna hear about where he comes from, what his people are like, and why he's here. Every detail—no omissions."

Now, it's my turn to look out the window and back to my plate. "I don't know his story—not all of it. He won't tell me."

"Why not?"

"He says it'll freak me out."

"Can't you force him—coax him somehow?"

_She does know I can hear her, right?_

"Probably ..."

_You most assuredly cannot._

" ... if I have something he wants." I look at Reagan. She places her fork back on the saucer and slowly thumbs the corner of her mouth.

_My, you are a conniving one, Gabe. I would be proud if this wasn't at my expense._

"Okay," Reagan says. She slides across the counter and places her hands on my cheeks—I feel funny things happen in my stomach. "M, tell us your story and I'll let you—I'LL LET YOU INSIDE MY HEAD! BUT IT'S THE ONLY WAY!"

I gently grab her wrists.

"What's wrong?" she says.

"You don't have to shout. He can hear you."

"Oh."

***

I'm not sure what I was expecting when I came to the coffee shop to speak with Gabe Garrison. On the one hand, he's always acted weird, but kind of in a cute way. Not an "I want to date him kind of cute," but y'know, puppy dog cute.

All I did know was I needed answers. For the past two months, my life's been way too freaky to deal.

Gabe's eye's dart away, like he's reading something out of the corner of his eye. He's talking to it ... _him_ —that life form thing that's inside him.

Just like the one that's apparently inside me.

"What is it?" I ask after waiting a lifetime.

"He wants to tell you ... personally."

"I already said I'm not letting him in my brain until after." God, (again) that's so weird to say.

"No, I mean, he can take over my body and tell you."

"You mean, like, with your mouth?"

"I mean like with my mouth."

"Okay ... well, that will make for an awkward moment, but, sure I'll do it."

Gabe backs away from the counter. "It's not that—I'm not sure if I want to do it! I didn't even know he could do this! And, I—it's just weird. Why haven't you told me you could do this before?"

"Do what?" I wait for an answer, only to realize he wasn't talking to me, but to M. Gabe, please do this. I need this. Please—please—PLEASE!

Gabe turns and I can see doubt in his eyes. No, not doubt—fear.

"Hey," I cross the room to him, "It's okay. He's not going to do anything to me ... or to you. He needs answers from me, right?"

Gabe lets go of a breath I didn't even know he was holding. "I just don't trust him. He doesn't always tell me everything. In fact, he makes it a point to not tell me everything."

I give them a few minutes to 'talk' to each other. Gabe paces around the bookstore, occasionally making gestures with his hands as if he were talking to a person directly in front of him.

He turns and faces me, chest heaving. "He says 'the need to tell you never came up, Gabriel. And this is the way I want to do it to make sure your poor attempts at articulation don't cause the female to misinterpret ... THAT IS TOO WHAT YOU SAID!"

I grab his hand in both of mine. His eyes stop shifting and he looks right at me. "Maybe this will help us both deal ... like, come to terms or something. And don't you think we deserve to know what's going on? About everything? If he's hiding something at this point—couldn't there be a major reason for it ... like something-that's-gonna-get-you-killed kind of major?"

Gabe straightens his back and gives me half a nod.

"You're right." he says, barely above a whisper. "We need to know. We deserve to know. I just—we can't trust him, Reagan. We can't trust what he says ... so what would be the point of giving him this much freedom?"

"This will be a chance for him to come clean. And if I suspect any B.S., I'm not gonna let him anywhere near me."

Gabe looks at me, and then at his hand. I squeeze it a little tighter. He slowly nods. "Okay, but I want a backup. I'm sure he can take over my body if I let him, but I'm not sure if he will give it back. And I'm not sure if I can take it back."

Gabe disappears to the back room for a few minutes, I hear some clanging like somebody's going through a locker, and then he comes back holding a Marvin the Martian-looking ray gun. It's black, about the size of a hair dryer, and has three red rings circling the barrel.

"Recognize this?" he says.

I shake my head.

"It's Dr. Villainous' V-Ray."

"You mean the guy they make fun of on _Saturday Night Live_ all the time?"

Gabe nods. "He was my first bad guy ... I kicked his ass."

"And you took this as a trophy?"

"Well, I don't—I guess, yeah."

"And you keep it in your locker at work? Is that safe?"

Gabe looks over his shoulder, in the direction of the back room. "Well ... I keep it under three pairs of dirty boxers. It's probably the safest place in Prose."

"What else do you have in there?"

"An eyeball from one of Shank's giant robots, a sentient computer program saved to a thumb drive, and a rock from another planet—I forget the name of it. But there wasn't enough room for the giant penny."

"What?" I say after realizing he expected some sort of response.

"Never mind, bad joke."

"Sorry, all this stuff just has my mind reeling. So what does this thing do?"

"It, uh, vaporizes stuff."

"Vaporizes? Seriously?"

Gabe fires the gun at the barista counter. A red beam of light circles a syrup bottle behind the counter and it disappears, leaving a puff of smoke and the faint smell of hazelnut. "Seriously."

"How long have you had this thing?"

"Since I beat him seven months ago. M said we needed to take him down fast because of this thing. It and the other stuff Villainous had are the only weapons we've come across so far that would completely ignore our force field, according to his readings anyway."

"So ... what does it do to you?"

His eyes twitch back and forth and he rubs his forehead with the base of his palm. That thing inside him must be yelling at him again.

He hands the gun to me, hesitates for a moment and then lets go. "I don't know, but M's afraid of it and that's enough for me. I want you to keep it pointed at me—at him—at all times."

The gun is heavier than it looks; its metal is cold except for the places Gabe held it. "Gabe, I don't know that I can—"

"You'd be surprised what you can do when you have to."

I take a breath, but Gabe holds up his hand before I can say anything. "You're gonna be in danger, Reagan. Serious danger. Not the kind you read about in the Superhero novels, but the kind that gets you killed. M doesn't like me, he doesn't like this situation, and he definitely doesn't like you. I've already stopped him from killing you once."

A coppery taste coats my mouth. "When?"

"In the garage stairwell yesterday. He thought you were about to find out what we were."

I look from him to the gun.

"I don't know how much control I'll have when he takes over. If he wants you dead and you've got nothing to stop him except powers you barely understand—you're dead. This gun won't give you a great chance of defending yourself, but it will give you some chance. Whether we deserve to know what's going on or not, this is the only way I'll let this thing happen."

"Okay ... okay." I hope Gabe doesn't hear the tremble in my voice.

"Are you sure you want to do this? Cause if he doesn't give me my body back, you're still gonna have to use that thing. I can't have him out there, unchecked."

I look at Gabe— _really_ look at him for the first time. He's always been that kind of weird, socially awkward, bumbling kid that made you feel better about being you and not somebody like him. He's never been that person that somebody could turn to for help, that understood things you never even wanted to see and did things nobody should ever have to do. He's actually talking about dying in the next hour—he's talking about me killing him in the next hour—and he seems perfectly calm about it. In fact, I think it's the calmest I've ever seen him.

I give a little nod.

"I need more than that."

I step back and point the gun at him. "I'm ready. How quickly will it—"

Gabe's eyes flare like two suns. I think I scream and look away, shielding the flash with my free hand.

"Pretty darn quick." I hear Gabe say, but it isn't Gabe. The voice is much deeper and confident—but not in a good way. I lower my arm and look at him. His eyes aren't glowing as brightly, and his body has turned into that starry thing it does—that we both do.

I can barely see his cheeks rise with a grin through the lights dancing in my eyes. "A lot quicker than you anyway."

# Chapter Three

#

Gabe—scratch that— _M_ stares at his hands. He makes a scissoring motion with his index and middle fingers and seems to be more fascinated by the space between them than the actual fingers.

I clear my throat.

He looks up. I can only tell because his pupils are just a little brighter than the flares sitting in his eye sockets. If I hadn't already seen a similar effect in my own eyes a dozen times when I change, I would probably be freaking out a lot.

Instead, I'm only freaking out a little.

"Forgive me ... Reagan," he says my name as if he's having to force himself to use it instead of something else. "It's been over ten millennia since I was corporeal; it's quite ... mesmerizing."

"Would you like for me to leave you alone with your hands?" I say with a freak-ton more confidence than I feel.

He laughs—at least I think he does. His jaw moves in a funny way, kind of diagonally back and forth so it's hard to tell.

"No, that's not what I want at all. I want to speak to the you—to the real and far more interesting you, not the dull and boring caffeinated sack of sapienated flesh I see before me."

"Why do you want to speak with it so badly?" I stop my foot from rocking and try not to think about the fact that I'm actually talking about the thing—a thinking, at one time breathing and living thing—that's inside me. I swear, I can even feel it now, worming its way back and forth between my belly and chest, like some super spicy chimichanga. "If I had to guess, I'd say you're not the type that gets lonely easy."

He crosses his legs and eases one elbow onto the back of his bench. "And you would be correct. I could traverse the cosmos from now until the end of eternity and actually consider myself better off having never encountered another being, like myself or otherwise. What compels me to speak with the being residing within you is self-preservation, plain and simple. I need to know how it came to be here, so that I might know if it poses some sort of threat."

"What does that mean?"

"You know what it means. If it means me harm in any way—have no delusions—I will deal with it in any manner I deem necessary."

I raise the gun to eye level.

He jerks his head left as if he's received an invisible slap.

M doesn't say anything to let me know what's going on. He doesn't need to: It's Gabe ... he's trying to come back. Because of me. He wants to protect me. It's cute in a lame Edward Cullen kind of way.

He jerks again. "Of course that doesn't mean hurting her in any permanent way, Gabe," he says flatly. "But if the entity wishes us harm, it's safe to assume Reagan would want me to take all necessary steps to prevent said harming, agreed?"

It takes a second before I realize M's asking me and not Gabe. I keep quiet anyway.

" ... I see. Well, at any rate, you can lower the V-Ray. It won't do you any good. I can take it from you with minimal effort before you even have the chance to—"

I squeeze the trigger, expecting some sort of kick. Instead, the gun vibrates a little and sends a beam of red energy over his left ear. A chunk about the size of M's head disappears from the back of his bench. "Oh, I don't know—think I'll be quick enough."

"Perhaps." M jerks his head sideways, like Gabe is yelling at him.

Oh God, what if Gabe's changed his mind? What if he's trying to get his body back? "Gabe, we ... _I_ have to do this. I need to know what's going on—where this stuff comes from, and this may be the only way."

M visibly relaxes, leans back in his seat and does that weird laugh thing again. "How remarkable. Do you have any idea how much energy I have wasted attempting to persuade Gabe to change the channel from _The Office_ to _My Name is Earl_? I have employed everything in my meager disposal: reason, bribery, blackmail, and threats. Yet—even after countless hours—nothing works. You and your vagina on the other hand, manage to convince him to risk both of your lives at the drop of a hat."

" _Both_ of our lives?"

"Gabe is wise not to trust me. This could be some sort of elaborate betrayal on my part. I may not ever give Gabe his body back." He gestures to the wall clock. "And I may kill you before the little hand reaches the twelve and before your trigger finger has the chance to trigger."

The rain thudding against the window mirrors the thudding against my rib cage. I want to look at the clock on the wall behind the counter, but I don't wanna give M the satisfaction. "Why are you trying to scare me? I'm going to give you what you want as long as you give me what I want. And Gabe obviously can fight you, or you wouldn't have gone all tourettes on me just now. Unless you were playing me then too."

His cheeks rise. He's grinning.

I want to ask Gabe to make M shake or do something, but I'm afraid. I'm afraid Gabe won't be able to give me a sign, and I'm afraid something in my voice will tell M just how terrified I am. After all of the whack ass stuff that's happened to me—from first seeing my powers to finding out where the powers come from—I've never felt as over my head as I do right now. The gun shakes in my hand a little, so I rest the base of the grip on the table. Thunder cracks the silence. I'm pleased to say I don't jump.

I clear my throat. "Are we gonna do this thing or not?"

M slaps the table and I almost blast him right then and there. "Of course ... always in a hurry, just like the rest of humanity. But you are perfectly justified in doing so. For it is not disease, famine, or war that plagues your kind, Reagan. No, what really gets humanity's collective goat is something far more simplistic: time. You and the rest of your ilk exist but for the blink of an eye. You die in various puddles of your own filth, smelling like death and medicine until all that you are is whisked away to wherever your convenient religions tell you it goes. My race was once like yours. Primitive. Weak." He looks at his hands again. "Corporeal. We identified this problem and found a way to overcome it. We Ascended."

"Meaning?" That sounded good. Strong and firm-like. Maybe if I just stick to one-word sentences, he won't know I'm about to wet my panties. Why did I drink all that caffeine? Triple cappuccino, Reagan? Really?

"We ceased to be the time-ridden beings we were and became ... one with The Eternal. Our existence was no longer measured in solitary cycles, but instead became completely immeasurable. There was nothing we could not see, do, create, or destroy. Time, matter ... the very elements of existence itself became nothing more than a huge Xbox, with no danger of red ringing anytime soon."

"You don't sound like you miss it much."

"Yes, well, only there was a teensy problem. Having existed corporally for so long, we were unused to the freedom such an existence gave our curiosities and desires. When an individual wants to do something—unless he is weak or unfortunate in some way—he simply does it. But when an individual encounters choice—that is, choice with true significance—he hesitates. Should I do this, or should I do that? Once again, time becomes the enemy. We—or rather _you_ —only have so much time and, as a result, can only do so many things before the suns sets literally. Or metaphorically."

"But that was no longer a problem for us. We had an infinite amount of time on our hands. Even if we missed something of importance in one location, we could just travel back in time to witness it. There was simply nothing—NOTHING—we could not do."

He rests his chin in his hand. "However, it did bore the ever-loving crap out of me. After you've seen everything there is to see, done everything there is to do, you become increasingly tired of it all. A star going nova? Been there. A world falling into a black hole? Done that. The forming of worlds? Got the t-shirt. I began searching for ways to alleviate my boredom. After several millennia of contemplation, I finally thought of the one thing that I had not done, yet the possibility fascinated me to no end: I decided to create life."

I shrug. "That supposed to impress me? After everything you said you could do, it seems easy enough."

"Oh please, Reagan, a buffoon can breed. I'm talking about a new life, a new race. Most importantly—a new race that can withstand both their evolutions and those within the trappings of their environment. You have no idea the amount of detail that goes into creating something so sophisticated. Many of my colleagues attempted to do so, failed, and were met by constant ridicule. Having no desire to repeat their failures, I planned everything as carefully as I could, from the ideal location of the planet right down to gallbladder placement."

"But, even I couldn't plan for everything. Right as my race discovered the ability to create fire—a task which they learned far quicker than the human race I might add—a nest of flame wyrms materialized and completely ingested the lot of them."

"Flame wyrms?"

"Entities that exist in a dimension completely composed of fire. A random tellion particle swept in and ripped open an inter-dimensional gateway for a split second, which was all the little buggers needed. It was literally something that I could not have foreseen in any way, shape or form."

"You couldn't prevent it? Just go back in time or whatever?"

"And risk another failure? Thereby exposing me to even more mockery and ridicule from my brethren? Don't be absurd. Of course I had ideas, better ideas, for a new life form—something that would keep them upright should such a ridiculously unfair set of circumstances occur again. But I couldn't just create another race and then experiment willy-nilly. That would attract too much attention. So, I chose an alternative that would not attract attention should I fail: I practiced on an existing life form. Not a fully developed one, mind you, but one that was well on its way. I swept through the universe and started toying with the first batch of primordial ooze that I spotted."

I close my mouth and try to swallow. "Earth."

"Earth."

I know the answer to the question before I even ask, but that still doesn't stop me. "What did you do?" My voice sounds way too hoarse.

"Just a little modification of some genetic code here and there. Something that would eventually grow into various forms of super intelligence, strength, or—"

"You're the reason Supers exist."

"I'm the reason Supers exist."

M puts his hands behind his head. The missing chunk of bench gives him enough room to lean back a little. "You know, I thought I had failed in the beginning. It wasn't until my forced return to your world that I realized my actions were successful."

"Who was the first Super?"

"I have no idea. I believe there were a few random spurts some millennia ago, several of which may have been responsible for various religions. But there was never a full onslaught of Supers until the 1940's. Until Liberty," M spreads his arms wide as if he's addressing an audience, "The World's Greatest Hero."

"Everything ... everything Super related—from all of those people killed in the war, to religions to—"

"Don't sell yourself short, Reagan. Humanity has proven itself very capable of death on a massive scale without any Super involvement. And besides, I intended for _all_ of your ilk to receive the powers—not a select few; that would have been infinitely stupid. The ones with abilities would have been subjected to hostilities from those without, as has often been the case."

"Is that supposed to be some kind of lame apology?"

He shakes his head. "A clarification. You obviously believe that I had some sort of malicious intent. It's difficult to be malicious towards something you feel completely indifferent to. I was concerned about the results, not the subjects involved in the results."

"Is that really the way you saw us? No, scratch that—is that the way you see us now?"

"Have you witnessed anything that suggests otherwise?"

I rub my temples. This is getting me nowhere. M is a creep. After everything Gabe said, I really didn't need proof—but to actually hear him say these things ... "Okay, let's just—let's get back to the point. Why did most Supers pop up in World War II? If you did what you did way back in the beginning, or whatever, why did these changes not take effect until then?"

"I don't know—something about the era itself perhaps ... maybe humanity finally reached the climax of cruelty, at least in the manner your species defines cruelty. Maybe this apex was so high that evolution itself forced my changes to manifest in a simple attempt to balance the scales."

He pauses and looks at the ceiling.

"Unfortunately, by the time your Supers manifested, I had completely forgotten about your planet, its inhabitants, and my involvement in their evolution. In fact, I perceived your world as another failure and moved on to other ... experiments."

"Like what?"

"Unimportant."

"... why do I get the feeling you would love for me to hear it anyway?"

"Because, _Reagan,_ what all of us want—from the consciousness of the highest being of to the cell of the lowest organism—is one inescapable, simple, yet profound desire: to be heard. I want you to hear of my multiple and sordid exploits for, without recognition, what are any of us, but beings existing in a vacuum? We have no purpose but what we assign to ourselves and since we are, ultimately, what others perceive us to be, we wish, need, and in fact _live_ to be heard. That is why you are here, is it not?"

"I'm here for answers. I want to find out what's happening to me ... why it's happening and what I can do to stop it."

"So you demand to learn what you are, what's happening to you. The true irony here is, even if I lie, you will become what I tell you you are."

It takes a second for his words to sink in. He's right. I'm here to find out what I am. And even if he hands me a load of crap, I'll buy it hook, line, and sinker style because I have no choice. Where else will I go? Who else will I talk to? God, I've never felt so alone—so hopeless. And the real kicker? Somehow I feel the worse situation I've ever been in is the only thing capable of giving M any sense of satisfaction. In a weird, completely sad way, we're all each other has. "Why tell me this?"

"You would have figured it out eventually. I thought it might save you some time."

"You thought it might make me squirm."

He shrugs. "Perhaps. But I want you to realize the depths of what I'm telling you when I say that the idea of creating life on other worlds eventually gave me a true purpose of being. And not the poor excuse for purpose you humans seek here such as wealth, prosperity, or coitus—I'm talking about that which truly defines you. I had recognition. I was heard, Reagan MacPherson. Heard."

He pauses long enough to let out a slow sigh. "Others took note of my ... contentment and set up their own little play pins in various corners of the universe. For a few of them, my way of life was enough. For others—not so much. It wasn't enough to create a life ... they wanted knowledge and control of their race's birth, development, and end. It became, in essence, the highest form of flattery available to any sentient being—godlike or otherwise."

"Now, my other colleagues—the ones that weren't involved in the creation and destruction of sentience—had two problems. Problem number one: They didn't approve of our actions. Problem number two: They didn't know why they didn't approve of our actions. So, like before, they took action to ascertain the crux of the problem."

"What? Like forming a committee or something?"

"A council actually. After convening, they determined there was only one method with which they could properly cognize the situation: They devolved." I think he clucks his tongue. "Can you imagine? The only way you can possibly understand something is to make yourself dumber?"

I can't so I don't say anything. This thing—this stuff he's telling me is about to make my head explode. I want to tell him to hurry up—to just give me the Sparknotes version before my brain melts. But I don't trust my self enough to speak. Jesus Christ, Gabe, how do you deal with this stuff on a daily basis?

"After devolving, it took The Council approximately one hour to determine our fate: extermination. To simply devolve us wasn't enough. We may find a way to turn ourselves back into our rightful state of being. It took a while for them to develop a means of tracking and containing us. As I'm sure you can imagine, our race was quite advanced, technologically, before The Ascension. We'd had several hundred infallible millennia to consider other ways in which our culture could have evolved even further."

"The technology they had developed in such as short amount of time was nothing short of extraordinary, even for those that are regularly capable of extraordinary things. I thought—we all thought—that we could take the council. It was, after all, just technology and we were, after all, who we were. But these things they created—they were designed to directly counter us. And, loath as I am to admit it, we were completely unprepared for The Council to be so ... completely ready. How could they resist us? we thought. Our intelligence surpasses theirs by amounts so vast, it's impossible for even us to measure. In the end, they will cower before us, begging for death—and we intended to grant it, after an appropriate amount of begging of course."

"But they beat you."

".... The battle—glorious as it was—only lasted two and a half minutes. Two and a half minutes for everything that I am to be sucked into a super advanced vacuum cleaner, recycled, and expelled here to this pathetic mud ball."

"You make it sound like a small punishment—a slap on the wrist or something. I thought they were out to kill you."

"Oh, they were. We weren't supposed to live through the terrors they constructed. It took every ounce of willpower I had to keep my consciousness together. The only thing I know to compare it to since being on your world is attempting to tie two pairs of shoelaces simultaneously while standing on one foot—and contemplating the various successes of Sarah Palin. When I entered your atmosphere, I knew that I didn't have the fortitude left to keep my consciousness together for long. I ... bonded with the first physical body that I came in contact with."

"Gabe?"

"Actually, it was a dachshund."

".... Why would you join up with a wiener dog?"

He winces. I'd be lying if I said I didn't totally love it.

"Why would I join? The first thing I saw after entering your atmosphere was the interactions of this animal and its owner. And I saw it doing something that only a being with no self-respect or sentience would possibly do: It picked up and inefficiently disposed of the feces of another animal. Another animal that, I might add, led the biped around on a leash. Why would I think this animal was the dominant life form? The better question is ... why _wouldn't_ I?

I can't help but grin. "... Sure, yeah okay."

"I literally had less than a blink of an eye to bond with something before completely losing myself to The Void. And I was as unfamiliar with your race as you are with grammar school science. _And_ to assume the species with the largest brain was the most intelligent would have likewise been false because I would have bonded myself to a whale."

" .... Yeah, okay ... okay, I get it really."

"The point is that one cannot and should not make assumptions with regards to life forms, especially when said one finds himself devoid of powers—may I continue?"

I nod.

"It didn't take long for me to realize Dodger the Dachshund wasn't up to snuff. I made several attempts to communicate with the beast, all of which were met with horrific and embarrassing failure. All it wanted to do was eat and breed—not completely unlike the actual species at the top of this planet's food chain."

"After witnessing the social structure of your planet's life forms for several months, I decided the best thing to do was jump to a human. Then, I might at least have a chance of doing something more interesting than marking a fire hydrant. At first, I wanted to wait until the ideal moment to jump into another life form. The person must be perfect in every way, or at least perfect in every way that humans are perceivable of. He must be eloquent. He must be knowledgeable. He must be a _he_ because that's clearly where the balance of power rests in your 'evolved' society."

"Unfortunately, the canine I found myself woefully trapped within was impossibly skittish. Other than the buffoonish family that owned it, it rarely came within seeing distance of a human, let alone close enough to make physical contact. The attempts of communication that I made with the beast only made matters worse. Upon hearing a voice inside its head that it had no understandable reason to hear ... well, it became even more resolute to avoid contact of any kind, including other canines. As far as I could tell, they thought him to be strange for some reason."

I think about all the times Gabe seemed to be staring off into space or having a conversation with himself. To hear someone that only you can hear ... to hear someone that nobody would want to hear like M ... that must have been hell. Other people looking at you like you were a weirdo must have been hell. Even dogs could pick up on it. After M does what he's going to do later, will it wake up this thing inside me? Do I want that? Do I want this thing talking to me? Is it going to make the situation better? What if it's one of these council guys looking for him? What if it's another one that escaped the cosmic vacuum cleaner or whatever? What will M do to it?

What will M do to me?

I tighten my grip on the gun.

"Imagine my disappointment when these circumstances reduced me from finding the perfect human to finding any human. Even then, they all rejected me. Not consciously mind you; they had no idea I was making the attempt. No, they rejected me with who they were—something encoded into their DNA, just made them completely unacceptable to the bonding process. They weren't compatible enough, smart enough, or dumb enough. Frankly, I foolishly believed the second possibility to be the most likely. Then, early one morning, when Dodger set out to take his routine fill of the dumpster overflow behind Blue River Grill ... I saw _him_."

"Gabe."

M slowly nods and looks out the window. "I jumped out of Dodger immediately. I would like to say that part of me knew he would be the perfect fit; that I knew we would be able to bond completely. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. I leapt out of the beast's body, crossing the twenty-foot divide between us in an instant." M looks back at me. "It was a one-way trip you know. I really had no idea if we were truly compatible and if we weren't ... I wouldn't have had enough energy to get back to the little pooping, dumpster diving vienna sausage. I wouldn't say I was suicidal at that particular point, but I certainly had a disregard for personal safety. It wasn't that I wanted to die ... I just didn't care about living anymore."

M pauses like he's trying to think of the best way to phrase the next piece of the story. Then he hurriedly says, "As soon as I made contact with Gabe's face, all that was me was transferred into him. Crazy adventures soon followed and here we are now."

".... That's it?"

"You said no omissions and I gave none. The only parts I removed were those irrelevant to our situation or beyond your understanding. Believe me, there were far more of the latter than of the former."

"But what about Gabe? How did he handle this? You?"

"That's a question better suited for him."

There's a bright flash of white that comes from the darkness to our left and the bulb above our table explodes. The store is only lit by the streetlights outside, which is to say it's hardly lit at all.

"Oh, I don't know," I hear a strange voice say in a British accent from the back of the coffee shop. M and I turn our heads; a flash of lightening illuminates Dr. Villainous, soaking wet in his purple and black costume, pointing a smoking gun at us that looks a lot like another version of the V-Ray. "I think I'm in a swell position to answer it too."

# Chapter Four

#

I was five years old the first time I saw Dr. Villainous on television. He interrupted the Cookie Monster on _Sesame Street_ to let the "People of Earth" know he was about to vaporize the moon unless the leader of every nation recognized him as the "Supreme Leader of the Cosmos." Within minutes, HEROES had tracked his broadcast signal to an island somewhere close to Antarctica. Villainous, so wrapped up in an ongoing tirade against the oppressive chains of capitalism, didn't even notice Liberty and the others were in the same room ... until they beat the crap out of him.

On camera.

Villainous later went to The Bend where—according to several straight to video documentaries—he quickly became the running joke of the Supervillain community. Popular culture didn't do him any favors either. SNL did a reoccurring skit with Will Ferrell as Dr. Villainous. Ferrell stared at the camera, addressing "The People of Earth," while guest stars came in and did random things behind him: Steve Carell played a burglar carrying off all of Villainous' equipment; Adam Sandler played Liberty making out with Villainous' girlfriend; Tina Fey recently did something too, but I never saw it.

As bad as things were for Villainous, they only became worse for the self proclaimed "Master of Machines" when it was revealed that he stole all of his equipment—which he barely understood how to use—from the Zyborg aliens. The Zyborg Empire intercepted part of his _Sesame Street_ interruption (which was really no surprise considering he used their tech to broadcast his demands). After seeing a lot of their stolen technology in the background, the incredibly pissed off Zyborg Empire invaded Earth. HEROES fought them off, with a little bit of reluctant help from Villainous. Every major news outlet covered the invasion footage on TV: That was the last time I saw him.

And here he is now, standing in Rock Creek Bookstore, pointing another one of those V-Ray looking things at me and M. His outfit hasn't changed much. It's still a tight fitting purple and black number with pouches here and there, containing various pieces of Zyborg equipment. The outfit doesn't do his love handles any favors, but at least he doesn't wear that ridiculous motorcycle looking helmet thing anymore.

"Oh, that's right. Didn't think you'd see me again, did you?" he says, holding the V-Ray slightly sideways.

M stands. "To tell the truth, I never really gave it much thought either way. If I saw you, I would beat you, probably in shorter order than last time. And if I didn't ... well, I didn't."

Villainous kicks a chair out of his way, raises the gun slightly above his head—but keeps it pointed at us. "You don't look like you're in a position to defeat anything right now, you stupid git." He tongues the inside of his bottom lip. "Now, who's the Birdie and why does she have my weapon?"

M looks at the weapon in my hand. "The V-Ray, of course. That's how you found us."

"V-RAY? IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK THAT THING IS? Bloody brilliant, you are! Yes, that's how I found you—no, it's not a V-Ray. What you got there is the V _T_ -Ray."

"Which stands for?" M says.

"The V stands for ... well, I just like to throw a V in front of everything. The T though—that's for me to know and you to find out. It is how I tracked you. No harm in letting that out. The first shot told me which block. Second which building. What's going on here, anyway?" He takes turns pointing the gun at each of us. "We got us a lover's spat? What's a matter, love—you not spacey enough for him?"

M looks at the row of flavored syrups behind the counter, the chunk of wood missing from the bench's headrest, then to me. "Oh, she's quite spacey. Listen ... _doctor_ , I know you hold a substantial amount of resentment after what happened months ago."

"Resentment? RESENTMENT? Bugger that. Resentment is petty. Resentment is passive. What I've got for you, Galaxy—it's way past that. It's more like ... Shakespearean, I'd say. Yeah, there's a bloke knew a thing or two about revenge."

"What did he do to you?" I say.

"Oh, you don't know? Space Boy here thought it might be fun to take away my VT-Ray and leave me sitting pretty for Prose's finest. Used his powers to wrap one of those bicycle park things around me. Took the firefighters two hours—"

"Shut up." M says firmly and steps towards Villainous.

Villainous laughs incredulously. "Have you got bollox for brains, Space Boy? I'm the one with the end of the world type weapon pointed at you—not vice versa. And from what I remember, these things can shed your force field quicker than a dress on prom night."

M takes another step. "You're not going to shoot us—not yet anyway."

Villainous takes a step towards M. Four feet separate them and—as far as they're concerned—it's like I'm not even in the room. Villainous grins. "Okay, I'll bite. Why won't I shoot you?"

Three feet separate them. "Because we haven't heard your story yet. And that's what this is really about, right? You don't care about beating me or blasting me with that Zyborg weapon. That isn't enough. You want— _need—_ for us to know what your plans were for that money I stopped you from stealing out of that armored car seven months ago. You need us to know what you're planning on doing to Prose after you kill us. It's the reason you waited in the back room for over an hour while we told our story to Reagan."

I look in the direction of the back room. Of course ... Gabe said M could track people—like some sort of uber radar or something. He would've known—he would have freaking known the moment Dr. Villainous walked into the bookstore. So why not say anything? This guy is crazy dangerous in person—he's not like Will Ferrell at all.

Two feet separate them. M raises his palms, waist level. "You weren't waiting for the perfect moment to make your appearance; you weren't waiting to catch us off guard. You were waiting for me to begin your story and then you could come in here and finish it. It's not the fact that I beat you so quickly, so ... completely that vexes you. No, what really chaps your poorly fitting tights," M looks at me and, even though there's no way for me to know for sure, I swear he grins, "is not being heard."

M was being dramatic. He knew Villainous would eventually make his appearance, and he wanted to make a ham-fisted point. God, what an asshole.

M raises his index finger. "And, guess what, Doctor V—it still isn't going to happen. The majority of your weapons may have been able to circumvent my force field last time we fought—if you could even call it that a fight. But they won't do you any good now. I've made a few tweaks.

I look at the useless gun in my hand. M's final chess piece falls into place. He was in complete control the entire time. Throughout our entire conversation, this thing never posed the slightest threat to him.

Villainous sneers red faced into the silence between them. I think I hear a knuckle pop as his grip tightens on the gun. "Well guess what, Space Boy—you weren't the only one that made a few tweaks."

He shoots.

A white beam of light leaves Dr. Villainous' barrel and slams through M's skull. He rag dolls off a table and onto the floor.

"Gabe!"

"Oh, yeah!" Villainous fist pumps and hops twice. "That's what I'm talking about! Did you see the way the laser went through his brainpan? It was just like—EGHHHH—YEAH!"

I don't know if I should run away from Villainous or towards Gabe's body; I think I do little bit of both. But I keep my shaky gun pointed at Villainous.

"Now, where was I? Oh yeah ... it took the firefighters—HEY! Are you even paying attention?"

"W-What?"

"To my story. This is my tale, love. How it's going to start: My epic tale of revenge—of my rise to power—of my glory, and I'm sharing it all with you and before I do, I'm wondering ... ARE YOU BLOODY PAYING ATTENTION?!"

And then I go starry.

It hits just as hard as the other times. A buzzing sensation starts in the pit of my stomach and shoots through limbs. A gush of nausea followed by a wave of panic sends my heart racing. My hands and legs tremble even more and I want to run screaming from the room and just go away and forget everything—Gabe's death, this hair dryer looking laser gun thing in my hand, the ridiculously dressed Supervillain ... and the glowing blue stuff oozing from Gabe's skull onto the tile floor—oh, Gabe, I'm so sorry.

"What's this?" Villainous says, taking in my starry appearance. Did he give you some sort of STD?"

My gun fires.

The beam sends a flash of red through the dark bookstore. I would like to think that I was in complete control the entire time. That—even when faced with the overwhelming panic—I had the peace of mind to fire the gun at that insensitive prick. But I'm pretty sure my shaky finger pressed the trigger by accident.

Somehow, with a bright flash of yellow light, the red beam ricochets off Villainous ... right into Gabe. The impact rolls Gabe's body onto its back, sliding it behind a bookcase. His stars go away—thankfully the bookcase hides what's left of his skull. My chest heaves like I should be crying—but my vision doesn't get blurry. Guess I can't cry when I'm starry. Lucky me.

"Well, guess Rock Creek patrons will be getting a nasty surprise in a little while," Villainous says.

_Reagan ..._

I jump at the sound of M's voice. Gabe still isn't moving. "What—"

_No, I'm not in there anymore Reagan. I'm in here, with you ..._

"WHAT?!"

Villainous laughs. "Yeah, that's right you just sent his body through time. See, that's why I put the T in V _T_ -Ray."

I look at the gun in my hand for the upteenth time tonight. "M, I ... VT Ray?"

"T is for Temporal, love. And actually, you didn't send him forward, you sent him back—so technically, said patrons already had a surprise about two months ago."

"Two ... _months_ ago?"

_Yes, Reagan. I've been here for two months. By deflecting your VT Bolt at Gabe, Villainous unknowingly transported me back in time by two months ... where I found and bonded with you. You were able to activate some of our powers—sometimes by accident, sometimes not. I kept myself, my actual presence, hidden from you so that you wouldn't later tell Gabe or me that I was in here. _

"In ... me?" I whisper as my brain desperately tries to put this mind-trip together.

_Alerting either of you to my presence may have introduced a time paradox. Believe me, you don't want to open that can of worms. You both were better off thinking I was another entity. _

I risk a look in Gabe's direction. "Gabe's still ... he's alive?"

"I put a hole through his brain," Dr. Villainous says. "Of course he isn't alive."

_Maybe. Maybe not._

Villainous looks in the direction of Gabe's body. "You just sent his dead body back in time. Wonder if he'll see himself?"

"What do you mean ... he's right th—"

_Shut up, Reagan, and think. Look at your vantage point compared to that of Villainous. You can see Gabe's body, but its location behind the bookcase prevents Villainous from seeing it. He thinks you've sent Gabe and me back in time. Instead, the beam pealed my essence away and just sent me. _

"Why did-did my beam do that?"

Dr. Villainous taps a triangular gold belt buckle. "Found a force field belt buckle thingy in one of my many stashes of Zyborg tech. Way I figure, it's a force field built to repel Zyborg weaponry, or at the very least, deflect them a little. I even did some modifications to it earlier to prevent Galaxy from blasting me with that Gravity crap. At any rate, it deflected the VT ray and sent it into Space Boy. You sent him back in time instead of me."

_Since I was in control and powered up, the weapon pealed my essence away from Gabe's body and shot it into a time displacement vortex set for two months ago. Just like the syrup bottle. Just like the chunk of wood from the bench. _

"You're using weapons you barely understand?" I say.

"You're one to talk, Bird."

_No doubt._

I purse my bottom lip. Gotta admit, they had a point.

_I'm taking a reading on Villainous' force field now to see if our powers will have any effect on it._

"I'm not going to tell you again. Give me the VT ray. Those things aren't like bazookas you know. They're very difficult to come by."

_I'm finished with the reading. I think I can overpower the force field with a close, well-placed Grav Blast. Point your free hand at him, Reagan. I'll do the rest._

"So ... why don't you just come over and ... take it?" I say because I really don't know the answer.

_What are you doing? Raise your hand._

Villainous smiles. "You are new to this aren't you? You see, if I just take the VT from you, it denies you the chance of defeating me. Even though you don't _have_ a chance, it's the perception of a chance that will keep you listening."

_It's not that difficult. Raise your hand as if you're looking at one of those i-telephone devices your kind is so fond of. _

I flip the gun around, barrel first. "No, I give up."

_No, you don't. Reagan. Raise. Your. Hand._

His eyes narrow. "What?"

"Do whatever you want. It doesn't matter. I'm not a hero. I'm just me. And little ol' me isn't gonna try to overpower you or whatever."

Villainous' smile freezes. "But ..."

I shake the VT-Ray. "HERE! TAKE IT! I DON'T WANT IT! I DON'T WANT THIS LIFE AND I-I DON'T WANT TO LISTEN TO YOU!"

His eyes flick back and forth from me to the gun.

"I ... do I look like a Superhero to you? I mean, even remotely? Do I look like I can stop you—like I even think I have a chance of stopping you? I can't even pass Astronomy 101 for God's sake! Take it and—and kill me or let me go. Just get it over with."

The red-faced sneer returns. "Alright, love." He takes several quick steps towards me and snatches the gun ...

"Oh, it's far from 'alright love.' " I raise my hand.

M fires a blue Grav Blast right into Dr. Villainous' chest.

For a split second, recognition flashes across Dr. Villainous' face. Recognition that he's too close for his force field to protect him. Recognition that I've beaten him. Recognition that he's schemes—however carefully planned or not—have once again become fodder for an SNL skit.

His eyes stay fixed on me—as the force of the Grav Blast carries him five feet into the air, over the counter and into the espresso machine. I see hate, humiliation, and ... relief?

He lands and steam hisses out of the broken espresso machine, scalding his face before the weight of his unconscious body rolls him over.

_That ... worked surprisingly well, Reagan. Tell me, what are your plans for tomorrow evening and then the rest of your life? Have you ever considered a symbiotic relationship with an alien life form?_

A weird combination of dread and anticipation crosses me to the other side of the coffee shop where the body of Gabe Garrison lies. "Gabe?! He's still alive, right? You said he was still alive!"

My hand touches the corner of the bookshelf, I'm about to round it ...

_I said 'maybe,' Reagan_.

I stop. Gabe's leg and massive amounts of blood are the only thing I let myself see before turning my head away. I grab the bookcase to keep from sliding all the way to the floor.

_And, I also said if you still wanted to save him, you needed to act quickly. He's currently deader than a doornail. But you can bring him back to life._

"Fine. How? Tell me how."

_You have to die._

The stars disappear and my body goes back to regular me. "What do you mean?"

_I can heal Gabe, but the only way I can do so is if I leave you and join with him. You and I have been together for weeks now, which means if I leave ... you'll die. Your body, like Gabe's, can't live without me. Your nervous system completely depends upon my presence._

I slowly turn and look at what used to be Gabe. The impact of Villainous' gun scattered chunks of his blood, skull, and brain over three rows of Harry Potter books. I want to throw up. I want to look away. Once again, I want to run from the store and never think about this place, never think about M, never think about this hero bullshit ever again. I can't do this. I can't die for ... I ... can't die. I want to do things. I want to get out of this city ... I want to see the world ... I want to ... live without M.

"Do it."

_What?_

"Do it. Leave my body—save him."

_You realize there is no turning back, Reagan. Even if you change your mind, I'm not entirely certain I can rebond with you. In fact, I'm not entirely certain I can rebond with Gabe. You could very well be throwing your life away for nothing._

I start to stand, squeeze my eyes, then stop myself with a sniff. "Well ... you'll always have the wiener dog," I say hoarsely. "Do it."

_No._

"What?!"

_You never know if people are going to thank or lynch you—those were your words, Reagan, remember? You understand the realities of life better than he does. Such as the foolishness of helping those that don't deserve it; those that fear you because they don't understand you; those that hate you because you won't follow their ridiculous rules. Quite simply, you are a far better—far safer—match for me than Gabe. I'm not going to throw all of that away because you have a fleeting moment of morality. _

Tears stream down my cheeks.

_Oh don't even. By this time next year, you'll have forgotten all about him. And be thanking me. _

I'm on my knees without remembering how I got there. "Why tell me those things about saving him?! Why pretend like you were giving me a choice?!"

_You needed to feel that you had one. If you had agreed to stay with me, it would make accepting the situation easier._

"Wait ... acceptance. _That's_ what this is about."

_Reagan ..._

"You need me to _accept_ you—our survival depends on mutual acceptance of our situation—those were your words, M, REMEMBER?"

_Don't think that you can just simply—_

I press the barrel of the VT against my right temple.

M makes us starry.

_That will do you no good. As I told the good doctor, I made force field modifications to prevent all of his older weapons from hurting me._

"No, you said you made modifications to keep _most_ of his weapons from hurting you. At first, I thought that meant this one too, but now I don't think so. His other weapons were just designed to hurt—this one sends crap back in time. That's a whole different thing.

M's pause tells me I'm right.

_You're bluffing. That time displacement weapon was made for Zyborg physiology. Gabe was already dead before the beam hit him. You don't know if you'll survive the process._

"If you can't find another person to bond with in the two months leading to this moment, I know _you_ won't survive the process."

_Okay, lets make a deal then. You place the weapon down, and I'll attempt to find another human—_

"You know what, M?" I say quietly. "You were right about that not believing you thing. I did figure it out eventually."

I close my eyes. We share a long moment, filled only with waves of rain slapping at the window.

"Your move."

With a heavy, frustrated sigh, a dark blue cloud meanders from my body. It's the most horrifyingly beautiful thing I've ever seen.

***

"Hey, hero." I hear the voice of Reagan MacPherson weakly say beside me.

I open my eyes.

There's a sugary burnt smell in the air. My mouth tastes like ash and my back is wet. Something blue covers my hand. It's the Galaxy goo stuff. There's a slight buzzing sensation in my head, bringing the last several hours with it: M continuously threatening Reagan, my feeble attempts to take my body back, and M explaining an origin that I damn well should have forced him into explaining a long time ago. "Reagan?"

"Over here." She leans against a bookcase. Her skin looks ghostly in the moonlight. She looks so frail that I stop myself from touching her, afraid it will somehow hurt her even more.

"Reagan?" I say with a lot more strength than I feel. I slide through the goo and stop next to her. I risk a quick glance behind the counter to see that Dr. Villainous has already taken off.

She looks at me, but I don't think she sees me. "I feel funny ... Gabe. Like ... "

I lean against the bookcase. "Funny, like you're about to sneeze funny?"

_No, funny like she's about to die funny._

"Wait—what do you mean?"

Reagan's chest rises and her breath makes a rattling sound.

_That weapon you gave Reagan sent me back in time. I bonded with her. You were dying and she chose your life over hers. I rebounded with you and brought you back to life._

M healed some pretty serious injuries that I had during that Deathbot craziness. But I wasn't aware he could ... "I was actually dead, and you brought me back to life?"

_Yes, it involved—_

Reagan's eyes close and her head slides to the floor. "Forget it! Go back, M! Rejoin with her!"

_No._

"WHY?"

_I don't have to. I don't want to. _

"What do you mean you don't have to? She'll die!"

_Of course she will—just not today. _

"M, I'm not asking you, I'm—wait—what?"

_She's going to be perfectly fine, Gabe. Oh, she'll be weak for a while. But we weren't together long enough for her body to depend upon mine the way that yours does. Of course, I did lie and tell her otherwise. She actually thought the only way to save your life was to suicide herself._

"Why?" I say, barely above a whisper. "Why would you—"

_Why do you think? She was a safer place to hide from The Council. She had the good sense not to risk her life for the sake of others. Or at least she did ... now—God help you both—she's just as hopeless as you. _

"Reagan, you're going to be okay. M was lying. You're not going to die." I lift her head and ease it onto my leg. Her sweat, blood, and goo matt her hair and clothes. Her freckles twitch, but her eyes remain closed. Color returns to her cheeks.

_Probably shouldn't try to wake her, Gabe. I'm sure we'll just have to listen to her cry again._

"Shut up, M. Just—just shut the hell up."

# Epilogue

#

It took three very long days for M to shut up.

I gave him the silent treatment. After all of the points he made about being heard and stuff, it seemed the most appropriate.

He tried his first go to: a hundred bottles of beer on the wall. He sung it all during my phone call to 911, the paramedics taking Reagan away, and the police questioning me about the sudden appearance and later disappearance of one of the world's slipperiest Supervillains. Not wanting to make the lie too complicated for me to retell later, I just told them the truth, minus a few details: I stayed late at the store to have coffee with a friend, when Dr. Villainous and some spacey looking hero carried their Super-style slugfest into the coffee shop. Both Reagan and I must have been knocked out in the fight, officer, because the details are blurry for me and seemed to be blurry for her. Yes, officer, she was only barely conscious when I found her .... No, I don't know where the starry Super or Dr. Villainous ran off to ...

The cop seemed to buy it, and I think Reagan must have said something similar in the hospital later because he never contacted me for more questioning. The only person left to collaborate the story—Dr. Villainous—was nowhere in site and, honestly, given his past exploits, I doubted anybody would believe him over us anyway.

The next day, M tried reversing the silent treatment on me for a few hours, believing that I would eventually need him so badly for some sort of "Superhero nonsense" that I would have to talk to him. I took the day, much to his chagrin, to catch up on some serious playing of the video games. It was the only way I could distract myself from his constant yakking, the fact Liberty's deadline was twelve hours away, or Reagan's condition.

On the third day, M went back to another old trick: _Gabe,_ he begun, _I swear that if you do not, at the very least, acknowledge my presence in some way, I will send the very next flesh-person we come across into orbit._

This one was tricky. Not because I thought him incapable on a moral level, but the same reasons he didn't want my originally doing this hero thing in the first place, I believed, would keep him from sending anybody into orbit: M was afraid. He was afraid that the wrong person would be looking at the wrong time and witness a Grav Beam lift Johnny or Jilly Unfortunate into space. It would reveal that which M had gone to great lengths to avoid: his secret identity. I knew that, as long as I played it safe and stuck to well-populated areas, I had nothing to worry about. It certainly wasn't a perfect or even long term sort of plan, but right now it was all I had.

I look at the park bench I'm sitting on at North Shore. It's the same one that Glop slopped through the other night. Wonder how the rest of that guy's weekend went? Is it possible somebody I sent to The Bend actually had a better weekend than me? It's almost twenty-four hours past Liberty's deadline. M hasn't spoken to me since the threat. Pink wants me to start hunting that robot thing next week. I have no idea how Reagan is doing.

I rub my face. Why do I put myself through this?

"Gabe?" I hear behind me. I turn, looking over my shoulder. There is a coolness in the night air, causing the breath of Reagan MacPherson to frost.

I stand. "Reagan? I ... didn't know you were ..."

She walks around the bench and sits to my right. She is dressed in a shiny purple coat ending just below her hips. The bottom of a black skirt eventually meets knee high boots. "I know. The doctor released me last night. Anything from Liberty? I've been watching the news, but ..."

"No, and I think it's intentional."

"What do you mean?"

"You know how your mom or dad will tell you you're in trouble for something, but won't tell you what you're punishment is for a couple of days?"

"OMG, I hate that."

"I think Liberty wants me to hate it too."

"What about Pink? She could be keeping him off your back somehow. I mean, that is what she's supposed to be doing, right?"

"Maybe. I'm supposed to meet her next week to discuss some stuff. Guess I'll find out then."

"You don't seem that worried."

"Right now, I'm just numb. I mean all this, what M did to you, the fact that he never told me about creating Supers ... I don't know how I'm supposed to feel, so I'm not feeling anything."

_Gee, Gabe, wonder why I never told you._

The Liberty Bell sloshes by us on the Tennessee, continuing its nightly cruise. I rub my hands on my jeans and zip up my blue hoodie. "So, full recovery I see."

"Uh-huh. Nobody knows exactly how or why—they're not even sure what happened. The fact that I wasn't all forth-with on the details didn't help. I just told them I thought I was knocked out."

"Well, M—"

She touches my wrist. "Didn't say I didn't know what happened."

_Told you she would remember._

"I waited. I waited until they told me to go away, the doctors ... and your family I mean. They wondered if I was your boyfriend."

"Are you?"

"Well, I don't ... isn't that something we kinda have to have a conversation about first?"

"No, that's not what I meant. I don't mean are you my boyfriend. I mean ... are you wondering if you're my boyfriend?"

"No. No I'm not."

"Okay ... I just, I wanted to make sure. I know you have a thing for me, and it made me—I took advantage of it to get what I wanted the other night—but I'm not sorry." She slightly flinches at her own words.

".... Okay?"

"You still slammed the door in my face Friday—so there."

I sigh. "Reagan, I'm so tired of this. Of M, of you, of being ... a hero. Just do whatever you want, think whatever you want ... I don't care."

"Yes you do." The wind blows several strands of red hair into her mouth, and she pulls them behind her ear. "You might be a little burnt out right now, but you do care. I don't know what made you start being Galaxy, but I know what keeps you being Galaxy."

_Oh please, enlighten us._

"Will you tell him to shut up?"

_What-the-what?_

"You can hear him?"

She nods. "When I'm close to you—which isn't hard to do because, for some reason, anytime I think about you, I seem to just ... know where you are. I was surprised to hear him ... but not really—I think I knew that I could hear him someway, somehow ... I don't know."

_Well, since you can hear me, and more importantly, you seem to have the uncanny knack for response to go right along with that hearing phenomenon, I have a few things to say ..._

Reagan looks firmly into my eyes. "Shut up, M, or I'm gone."

The three of us seem to wait for the awkward silence to get a little less awkward.

"M said, when he was you, he said all any of us ever want is to be heard. And, that may be true ... but I think it's more complicated than that. Gabe, what if we want to be heard, but we have nothing we want to say?"

"What do you mean? Like you're not important or something?"

"No, I feel like I'm too important to me, and that's the problem. All I wanted was to find a way out of this city. I wanted to get out of the country; I wanted to do things. But at the moment M told me it was you or me, all of that changed. All I wanted was to freaking live."

"But you saved me."

"I didn't do it for you, Gabe. I did it for me. As much as I wanted to live, I knew I couldn't live with that thing."

_We're back to calling me a thing now, really?_ _If that isn't the pot calling the kettle black ... Gabe's caveman instincts may have somehow guided my incorporeal self to you two months ago, based off some sort of familiarity. But—make no mistake—I still chose you, Reagan, to be my vessel. Having experienced two months of your life, I can tell you that it was—without a doubt—the single most interesting thing that has or will ever happen to you. I brought you kicking and screaming out of that drudgery you called a life and gave you purpose through mystery, motivation through intrigue, and meaning through reflection. The fact that you're able to have this conversation is proof of all these things. You damn me, Reagan MacPherson, for the very thing you should be on your knees thanking me for. _

Reagan laughs even though I can tell she doesn't think anything about this situation is remotely funny. "See what I mean? I am a horrible person, and I didn't even realize it until another horrible person pointed it out."

"You're not a horrible person."

"I didn't save you out of selflessness, Gabe. It was selfishness."

"It's not selfish—it's human."

"Who wants to be ... just human? You save people on a daily basis, people you know, people you don't know. You put up with M—something that would drive most people insane. You work a part time job, go to school full time ... and you handle all this stuff like it's just-just nothing."

She looks at the river. "You've given your life over to something so big ... and I look at you and I think about that, and it just makes me feel ..."

I touch her knee and feel my entire body go tense. Here it comes. The moment I've been waiting years for. I've finally won the respect, won the admiration, won the heart of the very woman that I—

"... hate. I feel hate."

"Oh."

"Not at you—myself. I'm reminded of what I'm not ... and probably can't ever be. That's why I can't be here, in this city, anymore. I'm reminded of this. I have to just leave ... I have to get away from it."

Reagan stands and my hand stays on the bench where her knee was. She barely touches my cheek with strawberry scented fingertips, and sniffs. "And it really sucks because I think I love you."

She may have said something else, but my thoughts were too far away. After giving me a smile that fails to touch her green eyes, she walks out of my life and into the night, pulling tightly on her purple coat.

# 3: Paradigm

#

In dedication to those of Aurora ... your tragedy leaves this writer without words.

# Prologue

#

I lower the V-Plane's landing gear and hover to a stop on the landing pad. Here I am ... my last bastion.

The Pacific island's official name is Ralmyra, but I secretly renamed it V-Island over a decade ago. It's my last stash of alien Zyborg technology. After it's used up, I'm done. El fin. Dr. Villainous, the self-proclaimed "Master of Machines" will be without a machine to master. Of course, I couldn't let THEM know that—Galaxy and the lot of them who ... stop me every bloody time.

No.

Not just stop.

"Defeat," I say barely above a whisper.

I rub my eyes and scream in pain when I accidentally touch the scalded flesh covering the right side of my face. Blasted painkillers are wearing off. That's what I get for only having the bad kind, the human kind, with me. Given the amount of pain I've experienced over the years, you would think that I would have learned my lesson.

The V-Plane's hatch slowly opens. "Systems on," I say weakly. A series of networked Zyborg computers and technology hum to life. Lights clap on throughout the cave, and the V-Plane's runway lights simultaneously turn off to conserve power. The hangar entrance, at the other end of a three-mile tunnel, sends a metallic echo throughout the cavern walls as its camouflaged door clanks shut.

"Computer, activate V-Log."

The computer clicks and grunts a confirmation in its native Zyborg language.

"Well, today was an utter disappointment." I straddle the side of the cockpit and jump to the floor. A painful reminder of a recent injury, courtesy of Hunter, shoots through my left leg.

"I was so sure I could take them. So sure I had them right where I bloody well wanted them. I waited—for an hour—waited for Galaxy to finish his part of the story and lead up to mine. I wanted a good segue. I wanted the birdie to have context for what I could—for what I was about to do to her. It's hard to fear the greatness that is Dr. Villainous if it's actually Dr. Villainous that has to explain why you should fear him."

I unzip the upper part of my purple and black costume, letting my gut flop out. "That's why I prefer to be more theatrical than most Supervillains. Many consider my behavior erratic, but what do they know? Mother Nature, Nightmare, The Circus Six, Major Mayhem—they've been defeated just as many times as I have. Sometimes in even more humiliating ways—they just don't have a reoccurring Saturday Night Live skit dedicated to it."

A need for the last of my Zyborg painkillers sends me to the med station on the other side of the cave. The meds probably aren't the safest stuff to use, but they work really well on pain—both the physical and emotional kind.

I rummage through several poorly organized drawers, tossing useless crap to the side. "The scalding I took from that blasted espresso machine a few hours ago hurt worse than any lick I've ever taken from Hunter. Or any sonic scream from Liberty. Or any Grav Blast from Galaxy. I have force fields that repel all that stuff. But they're apparently worth jack-all against the wrath of a broken espresso machine. If the Zyborg attack Earth a fourth time, that's what we should use against them. Forget the hordes of Supers and technology that defends us. Just line up a bunch of baristas with steaming wands. That would send the aliens back to The Empire with their tails between their legs, I'll tell you that much."

"Ah, there you are. Computer, pause recording." Zyborg painkiller comes preloaded in disposable Y-shaped dispensers. I press the nozzle into the side of my throat, and it sends some alien medicine into my system with a _snap-hiss. _

My eyes go to the first place they usually go when I'm at the med station: a section I've named The V-Wall of Shame. Newspaper clippings from across the globe decorate it. I have several events—the ones that I always found particularly humiliating—in different languages: the time Hunter stopped me from poisoning Prose's water supply by shooting me in the leg with his grappling hook; the time Liberty stopped me from vaporizing the moon with that sonic scream of his (taking a good chunk of my permanent hearing with it); and the time I'm most ashamed of ... when Galaxy stopped me from grabbing that armored car with one of those Grav Blasts. That's the day he took the VT-Ray from me.

I sensed him use the VT-Ray earlier tonight. That's why I went to Prose—to get it back and, hopefully, to kill Galaxy in the process. By all rights, I should have.

But instead I'll just have another clipping.

Major Mayhem keeps clippings of success in his lair: the time he tricked the grief stricken Captain Strong into attacking Cleveland, Ohio; the time he sent Liberty Girl into an alternate dimension; the time he seduced Mother Nature. How tacky. Nobody wants to see that. And to surround yourself with nothing but success stories led you to believe you had nowhere to go, nothing else great to achieve. I found failure to be a great motivator.

Or at least that's what I've always told myself.

But it's really a lie, isn't it? Otherwise I wouldn't have a space marked off on the other side of the cave for the V-Wall of Pride. I have an unopened bottle of champagne that I've been saving for the first clipping. But there is nothing there except for a framed BA in Theatre from UTP, an empty space where I used to keep the VT-Ray (the very first piece of alien tech that I ever discovered, sensed ... whatever) and the aforementioned champagne.

"Computer, resume V-Log. I discovered four things today. Thing number one: Galaxy's secret identity. Gabe Garrison. Thing number two: Galaxy is immune to large holes in his head, like the one that I put there that didn't kill him. Thing number three: He has a girlfriend with powers just like his. Thing number four: I suck."

I let the last word hang in the air for just a moment.

"These blasted powers of mine ... at least before I discovered them—before the first Zyborg invasion twenty years ago—I could blame other people for not being able to do anything with my degree, my life, myself. But the Superpower to locate Zyborg tech? A power that no other Super had? A power that would have proven worthless had it not been for the Zyborg's existence? Or their invasions? That implied my life had purpose, meaning. That I was important in the grand scheme of things. But now ... I realize the truth with a depressing, ill-timed clarity."

"I. Suck."

"At everything."

"Guess I should tip my hat to the Superpowers for teaching me that, huh? Wouldn't have wanted to go through life thinking lack of opportunity or some such had prevented me from achieving my full potential, would I? That would have been downright awful, wouldn't it?"

I plop down in my comfy chair that I ripped out of a smashed Zyborg star fighter years ago. "Pause recording," I slur through the effects of the painkiller. "View screen on." The view screen flickers to life and goes right to Fox News. For some reason I haven't been able to put my finger on yet, that's the only television channel the Zyborg tech will pick up in high def. I shake my head and change the channel to Prose's iWitness news. The image flashes to Lisa Lancaster in front of Rock Creek Bookstore.

Man, she is a pretty blonde thing—I'd like to be under her for an hour or two.

_"... And although the city of Prose is no stranger to the failed attempts of Dr. Villainous, it is a stranger to his causing such an unprecedented amount of property damage."_

That's a lie. That armored car job alone caused a five-car pile up and ruined the entire lobby of SunJoy Bank.

_"Lisa,"_ the wanker back at the news station asks from behind his desk, _"have the local authorities been able to shed any light on what happened?"_

_"Well, Mitch, we still don't have the complete story, but what we do know is this: Galaxy—one of Prose's newest Supers—was seen fighting Dr. Villainous in what's left of Rock Creek Bookstore behind me. Two people were trapped inside the bookstore during the fray. The authorities still haven't released their identities or the reason for the altercation._

_"Lisa, it's my understanding that Liberty and most of the other HEROES are in the Middle East on a peacekeeping mission. Shouldn't HEROES be more concerned about keeping the streets of Prose safe instead of securing the reelection of the President?"_

_"It may have been a concern, Mitch, if it weren't for the high number of reserve members that HEROES keeps in Prose for just that reason. Unfortunately, the one thing Dr. Villainous has always proven good at—running and hiding—has prevented the reserve members from finding him. They may have to wait until he strikes—or should I say fails—again. In the meantime, authorities have been cautioning citizens to—"_

I yell and hurl my chair at the view screen, smashing it into sparks and a thousand pieces of broken glass.

My hand clutching the nearest console barely keeps the room from spinning. Probably shouldn't have done that. That was my last big view screen. Everything else is just a hand held, which means I'll miss _How I Met Your Mother_ tonight. But I couldn't help it.

_Fails_ —again.

They think they understand me—what really makes me a loser. But they don't. Nobody does. It's not the losing, it's not the humiliation, it's not the Will Ferrell skits—it's the relief I felt when Galaxy's girlfriend defeated me.

Why did I feel relief?

I rub my head and wish I didn't take so much of the painkiller. Afraid it could be leading to an even creepier sense of clarity that I don't have time for—that I don't want to take time for. One soul crushing epiphany is more than enough. Two is two too much.

I'll need the Zyborg skin healer thingy to fix my face before it starts hurting again. But I need to wait until the buzzing subsides, or I may heal one of my eyes shut again.

An excited beep from a console catches my inebriated attention. Somebody or something is coming this way.

A long meander to the monitor tells me Captain Strong is flying in at Mach Two. Lots of people—that don't know what I know—may think something weird is going on. That Captain Strong has somehow escaped The Bend. That he is about to wreck the same style of havoc that led to his incarceration years ago. But I know better. I know that HEROES subtracts a little time from his sentence every time he lets that misty little bitch take control of his level eight body.

Pink.

She's coming after me, then.

Guess she's been tracking me by the V-Planes emissions somehow. Probably not that hard for her—it's Zy-tech. It would have been swell if I'd thought of that. Maybe I could have found a way to avoid it. But maybe I didn't want to ... just like I didn't really want to win the fight at the bookstore. Maybe I just want all of this to be over. No more humiliation, no more pain, no more ... me.

But ... there is still ... _it._ That one piece—that one big piece—of Zy-tech I haven't unleashed on anyone yet. I mean, I sent it out on a test run a couple of months ago, and it did okay ... it might do okay against Captain Strong too. And my force field will keep Pink from taking over my body.

But is it worth it? I'm kind of ready to just give it up. It's like the one remaining piece of control that I have over my life.

On the other hand, what's the worst that could happen? She'll beat me up? Been there. Done that. Maybe this time, I can get her to kill me. That'd be nice, wouldn't it? At least I wouldn't have to worry about putting anything else on my wall. And death by Superhero would make a better headline than death by slashed wrists.

That cinches it. We're doing it, then. We're going to fight. If I win, she'll go back home crying to HEROES tower. If she wins, I'll be dead. Either way, I win. I pull the tarp off the last, big piece of Zy-tech and prepare it (and by that, I mean look for the bleeding on switch).

Wonder if the buzzing in my head is giving me more clarity or less? Doesn't matter—this is happening. I just hope she finishes me before the meds wear off. I'd hate to change my mind in the middle of dying. And then there is the whole pain thing too. Like to avoid that if I could.

I find the on switch and the thing hums to life.

Pink—using the body of Captain Strong—tears through the roof of the cave. Boulders crash and crumble around me.

It's the last thing I hear.

# Chapter One

#

"Okay-Mexican-Style-Cappuccino-two-shots-of-espresso. Anything-else?" the cleavage-y blonde behind the counter asks. Her nametag reads "Grace" but her quick movements and speed of light discourse imply anything but.

"No, that'll do." I take my drink and ease onto a barstool next to the window of The Café Show and feel miserable about being me.

Have you ever been really good at something and not allow yourself to do it? And I'm not talking about something small, like making cappuccinos (but that's a real talent too, especially when you add the milk leaf, which Grace is either incapable or unwilling to do). No, I'm talking about something hugely, mind boggingly big. Creating Star Wars Episode IV big.

I'm talking about saving people.

Thankless, idiot people that don't have the sense to move out of a town where you're just as likely to run into a Super as you are to catch the flu (that's no joke—I looked it up: 1 out of 10).

I go through the trouble of mentioning all of this so that you know I'm good at what I do ... did do. I started out rocky, sure—but I got better. I became a Superhero because I thought it would be fun, that I would look cool. Something changed though—people were about to get dead like, and I saved them. Then I saved some more and then some more. Just being able to do it wasn't what made me good at it—it was the fact that I could do it without hesitation. I mean, don't get me wrong—I felt fear. Truck loads of deer-in-the-headlight fear (hey, that rhymes ... ) I never had a problem putting somebody else's life before mine though. I did, however, have trouble convincing M it was what should be done.

Which brings me to the crux of my epically epic dilemma.

I don't do hero anymore because this thing—this sociopathic, selfish, pompous alien thing that I call M—living inside my head giving me all my powers, has become more than I can handle. For eight months, I've been putting up with his crap ... his refusal to help the helpless, his insistence to threaten people that I love ... and his using—his downright manipulation—of those that may love me.

Reagan.

I haven't been able to say her name for a month. Just thinking about her makes me curl my lip in disgust, not just at M, but at myself. I could blame M for everything that happened since ... for Reagan dropping out of college, leaving Prose, and—for all I know—the freaking country. But I couldn't put it all on him. It was my fault too.

I allowed M to do all of these horrible things. My actions, no matter how many they may have saved, have continuously placed people I care about in harm's way. I may be a hero (have been), I may be a good person—but no person, I don't care how good they are, can put the lives of strangers over their family, over those that they love and that love them ... holy crap ...

Reagan MacPherson might love me.

That's what she said right before leaving. Right before she said she hated herself around me. Right after M boned her over—not because she deserved it or it was completely random, but because of me. Because of Reagan's relationship to me.

I didn't move off that park bench until the next morning, when the sun slowly crept up from the other side of the Tennessee River. When I found myself no longer in shock and, instead, irreversibly pissed off at the life form irreversibly bonded to me.

Don't get me wrong, I was already upset. But this took it to a whole new level. It made me realize that the same thing that gave me the "Super" part of Superhero prevented me from doing the "hero" part. It would be selfish to save people if, as a result, I placed those I loved in harm's way. Every time I saved a stranger from your typical villain of the week, M would just threaten another person close to me if I allowed them to get closer in any way. What I could do was the very thing that I knew would piss him off.

I ignored him.

He shouted at me for three weeks straight. The first week, I dealt by using Mom's Imitrex, the second week Bo's Jack Daniel's, and the third week became a combination of the two. This week he finally shut up. I haven't heard a pompous peep out of him for four days.

I know M hasn't left because I'm not dead. Like it or not, I'm bonded to him until the day I die. Leaving me would kill him and me. Him because there is nothing to hold his essence together and me because somehow my nervous system depends on his presence at this point, a side effect of the bonding. There are two others that he's bonded with: Reagan and a dachshund. Reagan refused him, and he refused the dachshund.

The rest of the time (well, ninety-nine percent of the time) if M tries to bond with something else, something about their body rejects him. He has no idea what makes someone compatible. Unless he's lying about that fact, which is a very real possibility. But, based off what I saw when he bonded with Liberty to get rid of that Deathbot nanite thing, it looks like even his word can be taken at face value sometimes. Which is ironic, considering M has no face.

Liberty ...

The World's Greatest Hero that threatened to kill me and Mom if I didn't register. It's been a month since his deadline and so far nothing. Either Liberty's connections weren't as big as he made them out to be or he's decided I wasn't worth the time. Frankly, I believed the former to be more likely than the latter. That dude was really pissed last time I saw him ... which was the time that I saved his life.

Sigh—my life was a mess. A depressing mess that saw no hope of getting better.

Ever.

I spin my mug for the whatever'th time. Grace made an alright cappuccino—but I can make a better one. Rock Creek Books is still shut down from the carnage that was Dr. Villainous and M, but the owner, Jessica Gem, is still paying us until the place reopens. Her other two employees and I thanked her, but she just shrugged and responded, "The insurance is paying for it." She's a real gem, that Jessica Gem.

I'm the only one in The Café Show, except for Grace. I'm just about to take a sip of the first regular cappuccino that I've had in eight months (caffeinated coffee made me too jittery since the whole bonding thing, but since M has finally shut up, I think I can handle it). The foam touches my lips ...

An explosion outside nearly shakes me off the barstool facing the window—unoccupied stools clatter to the tile floor; the ringing of spoons, metal napkin dispensers and dishes quickly joins them.

The coffee shop sits on the South side of the river, right next to the left side of the Michael Booth walking bridge with the Hunter Museum on the right. The museum has two buildings, an older brick one with columns in the front, built about a hundred years ago, and a contrasting grey one with sharp angles and long curves, built two years ago. Many citizens of Prose argued the contrast between the two buildings was a huge eye sore. I imagine those same citizens would be pleased to know a Mac Truck sized chunk of the newer building has just exploded.

A robot hovers above the flaming portion of the building. He has a red V shaped torso, blue arms ending with long angled points for shoulder blades, and black legs mostly covered by flaring blasts from the boot jets. Two glowing yellow eyes offset an otherwise flat grey face. It holds its fists at its sides, all menacing like. A large beam fires out of an opening in its chest and another explosion follows the first.

Hero time. A hero will be here any minute.

I straighten the bar stool and finish my sip. Milk leaf or not, this thing isn't half bad.

People run from the chaos. There's a suspended glass walkway from the museum into the coffee shop, crossing over Riverview Parkway. People run across the glass like ... well, like they're running from an explosion. Some run into the coffee shop and others run by it.

What makes people run to the closest shelter, regardless of its nature? If these people weren't freaking out, they would realize the Café Show isn't the safest place to be. A robot chest laser cannon thingy capable of blowing a hole in a museum is more than capable of blowing a hole in a coffee shop surrounded by glass.

People frantically gather at the far side of the coffee shop. Some scream, some seem excited, some get their camera phones out.

I take another sip.

The robot fires again. He yells something, but it's hard to tell what. It would be more effective to yell your demands between blasts instead of during. Most Supervillains aren't too savvy in the efficiency department though.

More people run out of the Hunter. They would really be safer to use the building's underground walkway to cross over to the museum's other building. Too bad a hero isn't here to tell them.

The robot lets loose with another blast. The building creaks in on itself. It's the only sound trumping the explosion and screams.

The first Superhero appears: Rocket Girl. I check my cell phone. Four minutes. Impressive, especially if she had to change from whatever she had been wearing into the black pants, white tank top, pink cape, and white astronaut looking helmet she wears that says "Rocket Girl" across the front in pink, cursive letters.

But she's outmatched. That robot is at least a level eight threat. Last I checked, herowiki rated Rocket Girl a three. Her only power is flight, which manifests as a rocketing thrust from her knees down. I don't even think she can maneuver that well. Couple that with zero force field or invulnerabilities, and you've got a morgue visit waiting to happen. I take another sip. Hope that helmet isn't just for show.

"What-are-you-talking-about?" Rocket girl yells between explosions. She slowly circles around the robot. "What-do-you-mean-the-museum-must-die?' Last-time-I-checked-it-was-just-a-building-not-capable-of-y'know-death-and-stuff."

Holy crap ... it's Grace, the so-so barista.

The door to the coffee shop rings shut behind me. Without being aware of it, I've walked outside. I would admire the surrealness of the moment, people running by me while I casually sip my cappuccino, if I weren't intrigued by the upcoming Grace/Villain robot banter.

The robot stares at the museum, as if seeing it for the first time. "Interrogative, irrelevant. Primary directive, essential. Hunter must be terminated. Any carbons impeding this unit's progress must also be terminated. Any non-carbon sentients impending this units progress must also be—"

"Must-be-terminated-yeah-I-get-it, really-I-do." She continues to zip around like a rocketing tinker bell. "Okay, so-what-exactly-did-this-building-do-to-deserve-this?"

The robot tilts its head. "Query, unorthodox. This unit is neither unauthorized nor authorized to share any information regarding—"

"It's-not-just-sharing-if-it-helps-you-with-your-primary-directive, right? Which-I-assume-you've-been-authorized-to-seek-if-necessary, no-matter-what-or-how."

"Affirmative. Hunter's status as a Superhero has prevented the—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, are-you-talking-about-HUNTER-Hunter. The-person? The-Superhero-person?"

The robot looks at Rocketgirl, the Hunter Museum, and then back at her. If I thought it were capable, I would say it was embarrassed. It slightly tilts its head to the side. "Internet search indicates there is a ninety-nine percent probability this unit's search and destroy directive contains an error."

"Think-we've-ventured-way-past-probably-and-went-into-full-blown-confirmed."

"Seeking new objective parameters ..." The robot rockets away. I lose sight of him in the morning sun.

Rocketgirl streaks by in the opposite direction, and I scream her name.

"What, you-need-help-or-something?"

"No, I just wanted to tell you ... good job," I say from what seems to be a million miles away.

She lands and helps an old lady to her feet. The old lady starts to thank her, but Rocket Girl turns away. "If-I-had-done-a-good-job, I-would-have-stopped-that-thing-by-actually-stopping-it-instead-of-probably-sending-it-after-Hunter. Not-like-I-contact-him-though."

She lets the implication hang in the air for a few seconds. There's no need to say anymore about her inability to contact Hunter: She isn't a registered Super—he is. Contacting registers, even for the sake of helping them, is risky for an unregistered. As she may have found out already. As I definitely found out when I helped Liberty.

I-wish-another-hero-had–been-here-to-help." Rocket Girl acts as though she wants to say something else, doesn't, and rockets off.

I take another sip. "So do I."

Then it happens.

I say "it" because I have no idea what. The coffee cup clatters to the ground and spins away. I fall to my knees, one hand slapping a puddle of warm cappuccino, the other one clawing at my throat ...

I can't breathe.

I CAN'T BREATHE!

"M," I rasp, "what are ... you doing to me?"

***

"Panic attack?"

Doctor Mary Lou Garrison (A.K.A. "Mom") clicks the top of her ink pen to write something too small for me to see on her clipboard. "That's the only thing that lines up with your symptoms."

"Are you sure," I shuffle my legs on the examination table, crinkling the paper cover, "because, I mean, that means it's all in my head, right?"

She stops writing and slings her grey streaked blond bangs out of her eyes with a quick flick of her head. "Yes and no. It is in your head, but it's a head with a ridiculous amount of subconscious control over your body."

"That would mean ... wait, why would my body do this to itself?"

"Well, usually it happens when we keep something bottled up." She studies me with judgmental eyes. "Something big. It's the body's way of compensating. It's like it's trying to tell you you need to make a change."

That sounds totally right. "That doesn't sound right at all."

"Sometimes we're under more stress than we realize. We think of our stressors as individual problems, when really they're holistic."

"But I don't go to church."

"No ... I mean—they're greater than the mere sum of their parts."

"Oh." I have no clue what she is talking about.

"Okay, think of it this way: This week, you're dealing with the possibility of flunking an English class."

"No I'm not," I say hurriedly.

"Hypothetically."

"Oh."

"This week it's the English class, which you can handle. The week before, your girlfriend moves away."

Ouch.

"Which you can handle okay. But put them in the same week and suddenly your stressing about both of them. The stress of each event becomes greater because they're together. Throw in another stressor—"

"I, okay, but my symptoms were ..."

"Hence the ridiculous control. You can go to the bathroom more, less; it can make you dizzy; it can make you vomit; it can screw up your blood pressure; it can make you feel like you're out of breath—"

"No, that's not me." How the frak can I explain this without actually explaining it? "That's not it. I mean, that's some of it ... but I felt like I was about to die. And I know what that feels like."

"How do you know what that feels like?"

I look at the floor, trying to think of something. Moments like these, it's easy to forget my mother is also my general practitioner. I've been meaning—wanting—to get another since I was old enough to drive. But truth be told, I rarely got that sick and, after bonding with M, the rarely became never. But after the ... episode (God, panic attack, really?) I decided, reluctantly, to have a physical (just the general kind—not the one where the doctor gets all grabby—pretty sure there's not a word to sum up how gross that would be).

Mom was the easiest, quickest way ... and if something big was happening, she was bound to find out eventually anyway. And by something big ... I mean M big. This has to be his fault. He's done something, doing something, and hiding it. He's getting revenge against me.

Another flick of mom's hair brings me back to the conversation. "Car wreck. The car wreck that Bo and I had last year with another car. That we almost had I mean." My cheeks flush.

She hugs the clipboard to her chest and looks at me over the top of rimless glasses. "You never told me about it."

"It was a long time ago—never seemed important."

Her eyes needle into mine.

"We almost kinda hit a deer—and then didn't."

"You said it was a car."

"We hit the car instead. We _almost_ hit the car instead."

She sighs.

"But that was a long time ago. It should be, like ancient history as far as my body is concerned."

The pen resumes its scratching on the clipboard. "Don't you be so sure. Stress can wait and catch up with you when you least expect it. Sometimes weeks, months, or even years after. Usually, it's a prolonged effect. When your brain faces an overwhelming stress for a lengthy amount of time, it has certain chemicals in it far longer than it should have. It compensates for the imbalance later. Basically, when the stress is gone, the brain has to play catch up. It can take a while—sometimes even longer than what stressed you."

"But, mom, I couldn't breathe. It was ... my throat closed up."

"Stress causes your esophagus to close up, which can feel like your windpipe even though it isn't. Then, we hyperventilate because it feels like we can't breathe, even though we can."

"There has to be _something_ going on. Something else."

"The heart tests came back normal. The allergy tests came back normal. If there were a problem with your lungs or windpipe, it wouldn't have just gone away." She lets a moment pass and then puts her hand on my elbow. "Look, I know this is hard to accept, but a lot of people have anxiety issues."

More like alien issues. "So what do I do in the meantime? What if this thing happens while I'm ... doing ... anything?"

Mom tears a piece of paper off her prescription pad. "Take one of these and talk to me about it after you calm down."

I look at the prescription. Like any that I've ever seen from Mom or another doctor, I can't make heads or tails of the writing. "Talk about it?"

"The only way to get beyond this, to move past it, is to talk about it. The medicine will help with the symptoms, but unless you talk about it—get it out somehow, they're just going to keep coming back."

I keep looking at the script and pretend to think about the medicine. This can't be something that simple. I've been through a lot of crap over the past eight months, and this is what I'm going to have trouble dealing with? Some sort of freaking ... post anxiety? I've done what I needed to do. I've saved people. A lot of people, gobs even. The only thing that's going to manage to do me in ... is this?

No way.

M.

You're doing this to me. Not stress—you.

What if he's leaving me? It will kill me—I mean not in an emotional sense; I'd be glad to be rid of him. But it will kill, kill me. Christ, what if he's already left me?

What if I'm dying?

Mom says something.

"Do what?"

"Are you free tonight? I thought it'd be a good night to meet Jacob, if you're up to it."

"Uh, yeah, sure."

"Don't feel like you have to. I don't want you to push yourself if there is a lot going on."

"No, no, I'm good. You've been seeing him for what, like a week?"

"Try a little over a month."

"Oh."

"Marko's at eight?"

"Yeah. Marko's at eight."

Mom lightly touches my shoulder. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good." Definitely not good. I left good in the rearview forever ago. "I'll, uh, go get this filled."

She opens the door to the examination room and lets me walk out first. She doesn't look at me. She never looks at me when she's trying to figure out why I'm lying.

***

"So, babe," Bo says to the nurse behind the counter as I walk up. "What time should I pick you up later 'cause I'm thinking the sooner we get together, the sooner we can get together, know what I mean?"

Breanna, the brown headed nurse that works behind the counter, looks at Bo over the top of her glasses. You would never know Breanna is in her forties. The girl is built like a brick ... something house (never understood what that meant). She works out just about every night and is in better shape than most people half her age, especially the pudgy Bo.

"I do know what you mean. And I have a rule about dating men."

"Oh yeah, babe, what's that?"

"That's the rule. I only date men."

Bo jerks away from the glass as if Breanna somehow transformed into a snake. He points his finger at her, like he wants to say something, but either thinks better of it or can't think of anything to say. He shoves some loose paperwork off her counter.

"Thank you for making my point." Breanna looks at me. "Will you please tell your friend to grow up, Gabe?"

"Tried and tried again. If anything, he's regressed."

Bo pretend laughs and even throws in a golf clap. "Oh, ha-ha, this is Gabe Garrison, everybody, he'll be in town all week, of course you may not recognize him with my foot in his ass. You ready to blow or what?"

I look at the prescription again. "Yeah. Do I need to sign anything, Breanna, or—"

"Nope, I got ya taken care of. Hope you start feeling better soon."

As we walk out, Bo mimes holding a phone to his ear and mouths 'call me' to Breanna. She rolls her eyes.

***

"So anxiety, huh?" Bo asks as we climb the steps to the Grota auditorium. "Doesn't surprise me."

I shift my blue backpack to a more comfortable position over my red button up shirt. Blue jeans and Chacos complete my ensemble. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on, dude, you're bound up tighter than people at an S and M party. You never let anything out. You need to, you know, express yourself, let others know how you feel. You never told that Reagan chick anything and look what happened."

"Wait a minute, what?"

Bo stops at the top of the steps and faces me. "Seriously, dude? She dropped out of college and moved to her dad's in Cocoa."

I stop too. "How do you know that?"

"Her mom told Sally the hair dresser, who told the guy that does my pedicures, who told me."

Some part of me should feel glad that I finally know the fate of Reagan MacPherson. However, I can't get past something else: "You get pedicures?"

"Hey," Bo says while easing out of one shoe to show me sparkling toenails. "This beautiful awesomeness didn't happen by accident. Besides, I'm a complete package. What would happen if I get a chick back to my mom's basement, and she's all into me—like, 'Oh, Bo, you're so freaking hot, I love the way your slippery body feels against mine,' only to look down to see some funky ass, gnarly things for a toenail and totally ruin the moment?"

Other students go around us, into the auditorium entrance. The image of a naked Bo firmly ensconces into my brain and refuses to leave. "Don't think that's what would ruin the moment."

We walk into the auditorium and take seats near the back. It's one of the largest rooms on campus and can accommodate something like three hundred students. We're here for Dr. Casa's Supers and Ethics class, a required course at UTP. I'm two months into the semester, but I haven't seen the infamous Dr. Casa once. The class has been taught by a rotating squad of T.A.s and Grad students.

That's why the constant murmur of just over a hundred students abruptly ceases when Casa enters the room.

Keeping his blue eyes on the class, he slams the door shut, bouncing an echo off the high ceiling of the auditorium. Dr. Casa looks like he's worn the same blue button up shirt and black dress pants for three days. Salt and pepper stubble matches his wavy, unkept hair. The grey blazer is the cleanest looking thing about him and it looks like he threw it on without much concern for a straight lapel.

"Good morning," he says without looking like he remotely means it. A few students murmur good mornings in return.

"As I'm sure at least one of you know, I am Dr. Casa." He slings a small backpack onto the lectern. "I say at least one of you because all it took was one of you to report to the dean that I wasn't teaching what is, at best, a remedial history course and, at worst, a colossal waste of my time. Will whomever did this please stand?"

Nobody stands.

"Uh-huh. Okay, we'll do this the hard way." He shakes an iPad loose from his backpack. "Statistically, one third of you will fail, the other third will scoot by on the skin of your teeth, and the remaining third are overachievers whom could learn everything in the curriculum from Google. Since the middle third is too boring for me to care about, and the first third too much of a failure for anybody to care about, that leaves the overachievers." He walks up the steps leading into the rows of students. "Eighteen year olds don't care about whether or not I'm here. They just care about pleasing mommy and daddy, and if you can get an easy A, all the easier to do said pleasing. That narrows it down to three. One of which is in his sixties, so you're not paying for the course and two of which are in your forties, so you are paying for the course."

I look at Anna and Steve, the two forty year old students. Both are sitting on the far opposite sides of the room. I wonder if he knows their names.

Dr. Casa taps the iPad a couple of times. He scrolls until he squints: "Anna Coleman and Steve Dubecker." Dr. Casa makes popping noises with his mouth, while scanning the room. "Ah, Anna, it says here you are a communications major, which means you could benefit from this class more than, say, Steve, the graphic designer. But from the way you're dressed, it's obvious you don't care too much about money."

Anna curls her lip. "Excuse me?"

He walks up the auditorium steps to her desk. "You're holding a five-hundred dollar backpack that works just as well as a twenty dollar one, your jeans are at least three hundred dollars, but they're the type that fall apart within a year, and ..." he leans over and smells her cup of coffee, "you don't mind paying 6.50 for a cup of coffee mixed with frothed milk and high fructose corn syrup."

She gives her coffee a confused look.

"Sorry. Hazelnut cappuccino. Try and keep up."

"Now, Steve, on the other hand," Dr. Casa flashes a predatory smile and crosses the classroom to Steve, "Steve, your shirt, jeans, and backpack all come from a low price department store; you're well, if not cheaply dressed, and you've brought your coffee in a travel mug. I ask again, Steve, why did you rat me out?"

Steve flutters his eyes as if he's trying to catch up with the situation. His mouth forms a thin line of determination, and he raises the desk out of his way and stands.

Uh-oh.

"Because," Steve begins, "it's your job, man. Are you or are you not supposed to be teaching us?"

"If you had merely done everything the T.A.s told you to do, you would have been taught. But since I have to be in here, don't worry—I'll make the course far more interesting for you." Casa winks. "Promise."

Dr. Casa turns his back on a red faced Steve. Steve looks like he wants to say something else, but isn't entirely sure what. Can't say I blame him. When M went into a tirade about whatever, I never knew what to say to him either, and that was after I had months of getting used to dealing with the dude. Steve has only had, what is at best, five minutes to understand one of the fastest moving minds that I've ever seen.

"Now, who has the homework from last night?"

Roughly two thirds of us raise our hands, including me and Bo.

"Okay, everybody keep your hand up. Everybody else, get out."

We stare at him, blank faced.

"What, do I have to text it to you before you understand? GET OUT! You're a waste of time and probably on academic probation anyway. Everyone else, pass your homework to the front."

It takes about three minutes for one third of the class to awkwardly leave the room. In the meantime, the rest of us pass up our homework. Casa impatiently walks by every student seated in the front row, collecting the seventy plus papers into a single stack—which he promptly dunks into a nearby garbage can.

"Okay, since your majors say you have to be here and Steve says I have to be here, let's at least talk about something interesting. What makes a Super a Superhero?"

There is a long pause as most of us stare at the garbage can.

Casa quickly snaps his fingers twice. "Up here, up here. Need Steve remind you that you are paying by the hour, people?"

"Powers?" a female student says from the front of the room.

"Please think before you respond. Your boobs may impress your friends, but they don't ... well, actually they impress me too, but they don't compensate for stupidity. Plenty of Superheroes don't have powers. Arachnid, Diva, White Knight, Crazy Eighty, countless others. All of these Superheroes rely on their wits, their cunning, and in both your and Diva's case, their exceptionally large breasts.

The female student looks at the other students to the left and right of her, as if she needs some sort of confirmation that this is actually happening.

"Anybody else, once more with thought this time."

"Are we talking officially or in some other sense?" Steve asks, with the hint of a challenge in his tone.

"Don't know. Depends on what you mean by that super vague statement, Steve. You should put tons more thoughts into your replies by the way since you, A) are already on my bad side and, B) don't have Ms. Tart's boobs to back you up.

Steve stands and, after a few moments of shoving papers into his backpack, clomps down to the front of the auditorium. The door slams shut behind him.

"Boy," Dr. Casa says with a fake grin, "thought he'd never leave."

"The Wertham Act," I say, prompting a direct look from Dr. Casa.

"The Wertham Act? Why do you say that, Mister ...?"

And then "it" happens again.

It's the first time since the coffee shop yesterday. I clear my throat, trying to keep it from closing up. "Garrison," I say through some horrid mouth breathing. "G-Gabe Garrison." It feels like the desks move in random directions around me.

"Well, Mr. Garrison G-Gabe Garrison, why do you say that?"

"In order to be a hero, a real Superhero I mean, you have to register," I say quickly in a quivering voice that doesn't sound like me. I rub my throat. "Registering your powers isn't a guarantee you'll get a Superhero permit, but it is the only way. And if you're doing something hero-y without a permit, you're not recognized as a Superhero." I clear my throat again. "But a criminal."

"Uh-huh." He taps his iPad a few more times. "If you have powers, you register. If you have what it takes, you get a Superhero permit. If not, you're told you can't be a hero. And there lies the problem. What do you need before the government will give you a permit? Anybody?"

"Powers?" some dude from the front row says.

Dr. Casa taps his iPad a few times, activating the auditorium's ceiling mounted projector. By the time the class sees the iPad's image projected to the front of the room, my breathing has returned to something approaching normal and the room has stopped spinning. He digs a stylus out of his pocket, opens a notepad app and writes 'Powers.' "Powers, there it is." He crosses out the word. "And there it went. Actually, it went about two minutes ago, but thanks for playing."

"Are we talking female Superheroes only?" Bo says. "Cause I gotta say a killer body seems to be a major requirement. I mean, when is the last time you saw a fat chick wearing tights, am I right?" He turns to hi five me. I ignore him.

Dr. Casa writes "Killer Body."

"You can't be serious," Anna says.

"You of all people are going to question this line of reasoning?" Dr. Casa says.

"Well, my aunt, who has powers and is a registered Super is a little on the heavy side."

"But she doesn't have a hero permit, so she isn't a Superhero. She's just a fat Super."

"Hey!"

"Sorry, she's a little on the heavy side."

"She saved my butt more times that I can count. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't be in College."

"How did she save your butt, exactly?"

"She bailed me out, financially bailed me out, a couple of times with credit card debt."

"So in the world where your chubby aunt is a hero, you are her arch nemesis? The evil credit card cunt?"

Anna covers her mouth and tears well up in her eyes.

After a long silence filled only with Casa staring at Anna, she shoves her books and papers into her backpack, grabs her 6.50 coffee, and quickly follows Steve out the same door. Five more students do the same.

Casa faces the class, palms up. "Was it something I said?"

"OMFG," Bo says beside me. "This guy is insane."

"Why is it that Fat Aunty Anna is a hero, but nobody else gives a crap?"

Silence.

"Okay, if more of you want to leave, leave. If you want to actually learn something, answer my question."

"Being a hero is subjective?" Kate says from two rows over in her usual monotone way. I haven't really noticed her since Deathbot tried to kill her and Jack in the library a little over a month ago. Her blond hair barely touches the back of her chair. She wears a blue sweater with the large neck pulled to one side, exposing a pale shoulder and a pink bra strap.

"Nice, but no. The perception of heroes is subjective. Where you see a hero, somebody else may just see a janitor, a high school student, or a barista." Casa looks right at me.

I pull the front of my shirt away from my sticky chest and put all of my weight on my left but cheek.

"Let me rephrase ... again. What must a hero do?"

"Uphold the law," Kate says. Why is she still trying to provide this jerk with answers?

"Thank you, whomever you are."

"My name's Ka—"

"Don't care." Casa finishes scribbling "Uphold the Law" on the iPad and the words appear on the projector. "Okay, one more."

"The permit keeps you from posing a threat to anyone." Somebody says from just in front of me.

Casa rolls his eyes. "How does giving you a permit make sure you don't pose a threat? Is a person with a gun permit still dangerous?" He looks at the student until he nods. "Good, now stop making stupid comments. Unless you're actually stupid, in which case I just suggest you stop making comments all together."

He paces in front of the class. "My patience is wearing thin and I think most of you are morons, so I'm just going to give the last one to you." He furiously scribbles "Look the part" on the iPad.

Three more students leave.

"When is the last time you saw a Superhero wearing jeans and a t-shirt, hm? How about a nice sundress? Tuxedo shirt? Anybody? Of course not."

"I disagree about this," Kate says. "I'm from Cleveland, Ohio, and we don't have as many Supers as you guys, but we have enough to know the Wertham Act was about making things safer for us—not this stuff."

"Think we'll trust my three Ph.D.s and Nobel over your inner city high school diploma, thanks."

Kate's face reddens and she crosses her arms. "Okay, prove it. You are here to teach, right? So teach. How is the Wertham Act—something that we've all been told since kindergarten is there to protect us—created to be—"

"The Wertham Act wasn't about making things safer for us! It was about making a name for an egotist: Psychologist Frederick Wertham. As any narcissistic cheerleader can tell you, the only thing worse than being unpopular is realizing you'll always be unpopular. Freddy discovered both and decided it was time to do something about it: He turned his attention to a particular type of criminal case dealing with the insane."

Casa stares at the floor and continues pacing. "Max Malone, a North Carolina resident who forces his wife of ten years to drown in a pot of boiling water; Christopher Koolie, a New Yorker that murders nine children on a playground in Brooklyn; Garth Grays kills his plant supervisor by shoving him out of the window of an office building. Wertham finds a common dominator in all of these people." He looks at Kate. "What do you think that is?"

Kate shrugs.

"Don't flake out on me now, Cleveland. You're almost important enough to have a name."

"They're Superheroes," a male student to the left of me says.

Casa points at him. "Almost. They used to be Superheroes. Max Malone, a.k.a. Captain Strong. Christopher Koolie—The Radioactive Man. Garth Grays—The Hawk. All of these men were part of the Superhero boom in the 1940's. Which was good then: We needed something to fight Hitler. But what makes a person a really good soldier can often make him a psychopath when the fighting stops. And it's there that Wertham's argument begins."

"For example, Wertham argues Captain Strong and many like him suffer from PTSD, due to the War. Symptoms can include dizziness, insomnia, social isolation, and violent outbursts. The worst you usually have to deal with from average Joe is his barricading himself in his living room. Casa looks at Kate. "What did Captain Strong do after killing his wife?"

Kate uncrosses her arms. "Barricaded Nashville."

Casa nods. "With debris from buildings, cars, and—later—the tanks that were sent in to stop him. It took the work of Liberty and several other heroes to free the city. Captain Strong still sits in The Bend Super Penitentiary, where—thanks to his unnaturally long life span—he'll continue to sit long after we're gone."

"People want—need—an answer, and Wertham's PTSD argument is a convincing one. Drunk from the attention, Wertham writes his infamous book, _Slaughter of the Innocent_. In it, he presents—and claims to prove—the following hypothesis: Supers are subject to the same mental and emotional instabilities as norms; therefore, laws should be established to ensure the safety of the American people forced to live side-by-side with them. To do otherwise would allow the _Slaughter of the Innocent_ ," he air quotes the book title. "Wertham supports his hypothesis by examining several cases of unexplained ... bizarreness."

Casa paces to the right. "Mitchell McCaine fries a mother of three with his eye beams in a grocery store simply because she took the last loaf of bread. After an interview with McCain and a less than thorough testing procedure, Wertham diagnosis him with bipolar."

Casa paces to the left. "The small, sleepy town of Rickville, Indiana becomes a little too sleepy when its four hundred citizens sleep for a little on the shady side of two hours straight. After a litany of interviews, Wertham discovers Rockville local Super Nicholas Eckhart, a telepathic narcoleptic who unintentionally put the entire town under while passing out."

He taps his iPad a few times bringing up multiple images of Wertham interviewing patients. "The list of occurrences goes on and on, each with glib evidence, each with terrifyingly convincing rhetoric. You eventually have a panic-stricken country full of conservatives that already fear good changes. They especially don't want any bad ones, which is how Wertham's book framed everything."

" _Slaughter of the Innocent_ wins predictable attention from a society that largely understands Supers even less than Wertham. The government feels compelled to do something so—after bringing Wertham in as the primary consultant—the Senate and Congress draft and later pass The Wertham Act. Which, in a nutshell, says this: If you develop powers or special abilities through natural or unnatural means, you will register said powers or abilities immediately. After a thoroughly extensive evaluation of your mental, emotional, and physical states, you will either be given or denied a Superhero permit. Failure to register or practicing heroing without a license will result in up to, but not limited to, multiple lifetime incarcerations. If a permit is granted, you will have biannual checkups to verify you're still as good as they want you to be."

With a twitch of her head, Kate tosses her hair over her bare shoulder. "I read some of Wertham's book, and I didn't find his research questionable. And it certainly sounds like needed protection to me."

"In response to your first statement, every sentence ever spoken or written is questionable, unless they come from me. In response to your second statement: IT'S SUPPOSED TO SOUND LIKE PROTECTION! But, with rare exceptions, it's nothing more than a way for Wertham and a bunch of other politicians to decide what an American hero should be! These aren't just people—they're not just symbols. They're icons! Ideas! They embody American culture. Of course they have to look good." He writes a checkmark next to "Killer Body." "Of course they have to respect the authorities." He checkmarks "Uphold the Law." "Of course they have to wear funky looking costumes." He checkmarks "Look the Part." "If you can't meet this criteria, you don't get to play hero. Doesn't matter if none of this stuff is actually in the Act. What matters are the people that enforce the people enforcing the Act. Too fat? You're bumped on physical reasons. Don't agree with every law ever made? You're bumped for emotional reasons. The government literally gets to decide who can be a hero and who can't. Doesn't matter how good you are. What matters is how good you appear to be."

After Casa's breathing returns to normal, he places his iPad on top of his backpack. "So here is the million dollar question: Do these rules allow real heroes—not Wertham's heroes—to exist?"

Silence. Looks like everybody in the classroom has finally learned their lesson. There is no way anybody is going to—

"What do you think, Mr. Garrison?"

My throat closes again, and blood rushes to my face. "I ..." I straighten in my chair, "... I think a hero has to follow them if," I clear my throat, "he's worried about people thinking he is a hero ... and (ahem) and if he's worried about Liberty coming after him."

"Interesting that you should say so. We haven't discussed Liberty's involvement in the Wertham Act yet."

"Involvement?" I say before turning on the brain filter. "What does ... what did Liberty have to gain from the Wertham Act?"

Casa's eyes narrow: "Why do you think he has or had anything to gain, Mr. Garrison?"

"Dr. Casa?" A man in his late fifties says while standing in the doorway to Grota 130. His face reveals nothing, but a fuming Anna, barely visible through the crack in the doorway, reveals enough.

Casa turns to face the man. "Ah, Dean Gerard. That was fast. Am I correct in assuming that I can dismiss class?"

How the hell does this guy keep his job?

Dean Gerard walks into the room and clasps his hands behind the small of his back, slightly raising a tweed jacket above his hips. His jaw moves side to side and his face turns crimson. "How long you conduct your class is up to you, but I need a moment to speak—"

"Great. DISMISSED!"

It takes the class a few seconds to figure out they've been dismissed, but once the first student stands, the rest of us quickly follow.

The students in front of me clear—Casa points at me: "Except for you. We need to talk."

Bo slaps my shoulder. "Amy, Reagan, now this. Why does all the good stuff always happen to you?" Bo sidesteps between the aisles until he disappears into the crowd of exiting students. As always, it's hard to tell if my friend is joking, stupid, or a little bit of both.

***

"Gabe Garrison," Casa starts after we enter his office. The meeting with the Dean took a little over five minutes and seemed to accomplish very little. If anything, the Dean appeared to be more upset when he left than when he arrived. Casa then motioned for me to follow him and, after climbing a few flights of stairs, we arrived at his surprisingly clean office.

Aside from the space around the windows, Casa's office didn't have a bare wall. What space isn't taken up with bookshelves is swallowed by framed magazine covers. It is impossible for me to take in all of them, but there have to be at least fifty. Pink hovers beside Brittany Spears on a cover of _Rolling Stone_. The Brittany Spears t-shirt Pink wears—the same one she's been wearing since she became a free-floating, shallow ass, telepathic pink mist—reads "I heart Brittany." Brittany Spears wears a shirt that says, "I heart Pink." Below them on the magazine cover are the words "HOW WE SAVED EACH OTHER." I shake my head. Lame.

On the other side of a three-foot row of Joseph Campbell books is a WWII propaganda print of Liberty with a Bald Eagle perched on his left arm. He's grinning in front of an American flag, pointing at the camera. Below him are the words "Hey, kids, Liberty says, 'Slap a Jap!' "

Casa reaches around me and grabs Campbell's _Power of Myth_. "So, how long have you been an unregistered Superhero?"

# Chapter Two

#

Casa walks around a desk decorated with books, papers, and Legos, never making eye contact.

I let a deafening silence pass.

"Trying to think of a convincing lie?" he says while flipping through the Campbell book.

"It's an immediate reaction."

He dog ears a page and places the book on his desk. "How long have you been out there doing the good deed?"

I sit across from him in a brown leather chair. "Eight months."

"How long have you sucked at it?"

I shift in the seat. "I don't suck at it."

"Please. Your eyes are dilated; you can't sit still. I can see a vein throbbing on the side of your neck, and you break out in a nervous sweat every time somebody mentions the word ..." he grabs a couple of things out of a drawer and stuffs them into his jacket pocket before I can see them, "... Liberty."

He looks at me.

I shift in my seat again and pull my shirt away from my clammy back. "Is there a point to this?"

"Identifying the point of this conversation is pointless. It would be much more efficient if we just got right to the point instead." He pulls a ring out of his right pocket and throws it to me. I snatch it out of the air and turn it over. It has a bright green glow, the band seems to be made out of some sort of dark stone, and it's carved with symbols that look like they're straight out of Middle Earth.

"That ring is Magickal—with a k; it identifies Supers. Levels three to five give it a feint glow. You're making the thing light up like Charlie Sheen at a whorehouse, which means—not only do you still have your powers—you have a butt load. There's enough Super juice in you to make you at least a level nine, maybe even a ten like Liberty. Judging from that dumbfounded look on your face, this is the first confirmation you've had that you still have powers. Which means, that for a while at least, you've been thinking you've lost them."

".... You've either been spying on me, or you're a Super—a Super with some sort of crazy Sherlock-like power."

"Close, but no cigar. I never knew you before today. And I used to be a Super, but now I'm just a regular person."

"There's nothing regular about the stuff you can do."

"True, but irregular doesn't equal Super."

"In this town, a cigar is a cigar."

"Oh, please spare me the Freud. The sexual tension will kill me." He walks around the desk, pointing at the ring. "Check out those etchings. Pay close attention to the one that looks like an S."

I turn the ring over and over, searching for the symbol. "I don't see—"

Casa slaps me across the face.

I jerk sideways and jump from the chair, forgetting about the ring that falls to the floor. "Dude, what the hell?"

Casa leans in and squints. "Your cheek is turning red."

I rub my cheek and shove him away. "You freaking slapped me! Of course it's turning red!"

He grabs the edge of his desk before falling over. "But it shouldn't be turning red! You're at least a level nine! You should have steel-like skin, a force field, Superspeed, SOMETHING that would have prevented either the slap or the pain." He looks at the floor, eyes shifting back and forth. "You still have your powers; you just can't access them."

"This is crazy. You're crazy. And I'm outta here." I turn.

"The world as we know it is about to end and I need your help to prevent it," he says hurriedly.

I freeze in the doorway. "What?"

"I'll assume that 'what' was rhetorical."

"How do you know?"

"Because I pay attention to things."

"My patience meter is pegged. You've got five minutes to explain what you're talking about or I'm—"

"You expect me to explain to you how the world is going to end in a measly five minutes?"

"You didn't say the world was going to end. You said the world as we know it is going to end."

" ... You pay attention to things when you have to, which explains why you have been able to live this long, but it doesn't explain why you've been able to avoid detection. HEROES has an arsenal of technology devoted to capturing people like you, some of it's even from the future."

He lets a silence pass, clearly expecting me to tell him how I've kept out of The Bend.

"Yeah, don't think I'll bite."

"Alright. I'll make a deal with you." He stands and wedges the Campbell book under his left arm and picks up a pair of faded white tennis shoes from the corner of his office. "I'll explain how I know what I know, why I need your help, and how I can help you access your powers again. Then you tell me how you've avoided detection."

"How do you know you can get me using my powers again? I haven't even told you what they are."

"You'd be surprised what three Ph.D.s can teach you."

"Well, what if I don't want them back?"

"Gosh, that 'world as we know it ending' stuff _seemed_ important when I said it ..."

"Fine." I lean against the doorframe. "Explain."

"It'll take a while, and there is somewhere I have to be."

"So ... what? You're asking me to walk with you?"

He sits and changes his loafers with the worn tennis shoes. "Unless you prefer to fly."

I roll my eyes.

***

We pass by the trophy case in the lobby of Grota Hall. Casa waits until the mob of students rushes by before saying, "Okay, the problems start with Liberty. His primary purpose isn't to fight villains. It's to model how other Superheroes are supposed to behave. His popularity, his image, his battles—they're all carefully constructed or altered to help make the American public believe what the Wertham Act wants them to believe."

"You make the act sound like a living thing."

"In a way it is. Frederick Wertham wanted to leave behind a legacy. Otherwise, it wouldn't be called the WERTHAM act. He would've pushed for calling it the 'Gosh, let's all be good little Supers Act.' "

"Maybe I'm just fuzzy with the details ... but I still don't see how something can control so many people."

"Which brings us back to Liberty."

It looks like Casa is heading for the door, so I open it. He steps through, partially bumping me out of the way. God, this dude would give M a run for his money in the douche department.

"He's the forerunner," he says. "America has gone through great pains to ensure every person from every nation and religion knows what he is. Seeing an image of Liberty imparts a sense of everything he represents to the person seeing it. You've immediately communicated hundreds of ideas in a matter of seconds without saying a single word. So, you have somebody on the fence about registering, the general idea is ..." he gestures for me to finish his thought.

"If Liberty—The World's Greatest Hero—is cool with it, I should be too."

"Precisely."

We walk at a brisk pace through the quad that joins the paths to the Library, University Center, and the north and south sides of campus. Metal patio tables and benches surround us; there aren't many people at them, but a sea of students walk from the direction of Shunter Hall.

I shake my head. "It's too perfect. Nothing can have that much control over everyone."

Casa stops and looks at me. "No? Why did your peer walk out of class after I called her a cunt earlier?"

I flinch. "Because it's a horrible word."

He shrugs. "A word has no meaning other than what we give it."

"Well, Anna sure gave it a lot of meaning."

"Why? What does it even mean?"

"I don't—it's like bitch?"

"It's nothing like bitch. You can say bitch on just about any American sitcom. Why not cunt? Again, what does it mean?"

".... It's hard to say."

"Yet we're completely offended by it. Why? Where does this come from?"

I shrug.

Casa points at my chest. "Culture—American culture. In England, it's also a type of hat."

"I'm ... having a hard time imagining that."

He sighs. "If millions of people unintentionally give something as abstract as a word such an absolutely insulting, yet imprecisely phrased, meaning—why isn't it conceivable that the same thing can be done, intentionally, with something concrete: An image—a person: Liberty?"

"But all of that ... all of this control is accomplished just because of some influence? There's too many chances for things to fall apart—for Supers to not do what they're supposed to do."

Casa laughs and yanks me away from the onrush of students. We stand between a couple of trees, just off the sidewalk. "Things fall apart all the time," he says through an excited whisper. "Look at you. You never registered. There are scores of other people that never register either. Most of them are caught though. People like you are more the exception than the rule."

"Still don't buy it."

"Why? You obviously know there's more to Liberty than his public image. Is the rest of this stuff really that much of a leap? Think about it: The number of Supers increases with the Earth's general population each day. Which means the number of unregistered Supers also increases. There's a greater chance people will, like you, see past the lies. They'll feel pushed around. What do you think will happen when they push back?"

"If they're like me, the unregisters don't turn in paperwork because they don't want people to know they have powers. You're telling me the world will go to hell because of some ... lost sense of privacy?"

"It's more complicated than that." He points to a patio table ten feet away where a female student enjoys a white frozen yogurt. She's wearing a long blue dress dotted with white flowers and brown dreads spill to her elbows. Casa heads that direction, and I reluctantly follow.

"Most human behavior is predictable, and nothing is more predictable than the right of entitlement." Casa taps the back of the student's left shoulder then steps to the right. Her green eyes fall on me while Casa swipes her yogurt from the other side. He casually slides onto a bench five feet away.

I wave at her. "Nice ... weather today, huh?"

".... What?" she says.

"Um, never mind." I quickly join Casa.

He spoons a large mouthful of the woman's yogurt into his mouth and points at her, still seated at the table. "Americans—Supers included—believe they are entitled to the same rights as every other citizen."

The woman looks at the table, sees the missing yogurt, and then frantically looks under the table.

"But Supers haven't had those rights in fifty years. And it's not just about privacy. The freedom to save people. To make a difference. To be who you feel like you were meant to be ... many of these things are lost with the Supers that decide to register and are told they can't be heroes. The ones that don't register are beginning to realize it. The ones that are registered and denied licenses for baseless reasons eventually will too."

She stands and does two quick circles, looking at the ground.

"And things are going to get bad when the government realizes they're beginning to realize it."

She sees us, sees her frozen yogurt and stomps over, red faced. "Who do you guys think you are?"

"Unfortunately for you, someone in desperate need of a metaphor. Answer a quick question for my young friend. Does it upset you that I took your yogurt?"

"Does it—what the hell do you think?"

"I think you should speak with the Dean of Students about a tenured professor and Nobel Laureate taking your yogurt. He'll know which one you're referring to. And he'll also know that it's a lot easier to reimburse you with free tuition than try to fire me. And you still won't get this yogurt back." Casa spoons another mouthful. "Now, how do you feel?"

She seems to take a moment, catching up to what Casa said, and her hands ball into fists.

"Thought so."

She slaps the yogurt out of Casa's hands, sending chunks of white across six feet of grass. She walks to the patio table, grabs her backpack and throws us the middle finger before walking away.

Casa thumbs yogurt away from the corner of his mouth. "Nothing pisses an American off more than the loss of something we feel entitled too. If you're not going to take my word for it, take the word of the yogurt princess."

"Do you even have a conscience?"

"It gets in the way of my social conscious."

I rub the bridge of my nose. "Okay, so why now? The Wertham Act has been around for years."

"The barbarians had to start pounding on the gates of Rome at some point. Why NOT now?" He stands. "This is the age of information. Which in itself brings a greater sense of entitlement than this country has ever experienced. Couple that with an increasingly spoiled youth, and you've got a powder keg waiting for a match." He walks towards Shunter Hall.

I catch up. "Blowing right by that baseless insult, what's the big deal? If this is going to happen, it needs to happen for the greater good, right?"

"In case you haven't noticed, when armies full of Norms go at it, millions of people die. What do you think will happen when armies full of Supers go at it? Pro-Werthams on one side, Anti-Werthams on the other? And it won't just be people from this country." He opens the door to Shunter and we step through. "Supers from other nations will come to the aid of the non-registers, afraid that America will continue its precedent of enforcing our values on other cultures. The United States could literally become the battleground that decides the future of Supers all over the world. There won't be much left at the end of that battle, and that disturbs me. I like this country. It's where I keep all my stuff."

"Guess we're getting to me now?"

Casa nods and we start up a flight of stairs. "Things are coming to a head. You and a handful of others both in and out of Prose aren't interested in playing by Liberty's rules as much as you are in helping people. The helping people part doesn't interest me as much as the breaking Liberty's rules part. All signs point to a paradigm shift. It's only a matter of time until a resistance is organized."

We keep going up flights until we reach the top floor of Shunter; The thick dust covering random pieces of furniture in the hallway tells me the floor isn't used much.

Casa starts down the darkened hallway. "People like you—maybe even you—will attempt to prevent or actually cause the shift to occur. I think we can avoid death on a massive scale if I'm there to help you."

"Wait, where are we going?"

"Somewhere that isn't here and where I need to be. Read this." He takes the Campbell book from under his arm and holds it out. "Page forty-nine—second paragraph."

I take the book. "What's this?"

"It's what's wrong with you, why you can't access your powers anymore."

I pause. This guy is crazy smart, but there is no way he can know about M or the M-related details of my life.

Casa reaches into his jacket pocket. "Just read. Out loud. Take your time with the big words if you need to—I won't judge ... unless I deem it necessary."

I grip the book far more firmly than needed, turn to page forty-nine, and read out loud, "Original experience has not been interpreted for you, and so you've got to work out your life for yourself. Either you can take it or can't. You don't have to go far off the interpreted path to find yourself in very difficult situations. The courage to face the trials and to bring a whole new body of possibilities into the field of interpreted experience for other people to experience—that is the hero's deed."

"Of course," Casa says, "sometimes the hero needs a nudge."

Casa jerks a stun gun out of his pocket, shoves it into my neck and—with an angry rush of loud clicks—violently sends me to the ground.

# Chapter Three

#

I open my eyes.

Casa is upside down, looking at me. "Okay, let's see what we can do to get those powers hummin' again, huh?"

Scratch that. He isn't upside down—I'm upside down.

I look down (and by that, I mean up). Casa has my feet tied together with some sort of impossibly thin twine. He holds tension on the line with the thumb and forefinger of his extended right hand, dangling me past the edge of a rooftop. He's wrapped the other end of the line around his left hand. Above me (and by that, I mean below) the small section of grass that separates Shunter from the campus chapel sways four stories away.

"What?!"

He looks at the twine. "It's Magickal, like the ring. Allows me to hold two hundred times my usual carrying weight. Way cool, huh?"

"Get me the hell down?!" I say, far more concerned about the four story fall than the workings of a Magickal twine.

"Why would I do that after I went through so much trouble to get you the hell up? And anyway, this is what you want. I'm helping you deal with your anxiety issues."

"I thought you were supposed to help with my powers!"

"It's your refusal to deal with your issues—of which I believe there are many—that keeps you from accessing your powers."

"Get. Me. Down," I say with a forced calmness.

"Or what? You gonna threaten me to death?" A flick of his wrist sends me into a nauseating spin. "You can't do anything unless you use your powers"—I only see his face about every third word—"which you can't do because you're too afraid."

I do the only thing I can think of to rid myself of this situation and him: I scream.

It's not a particularly impressive scream. It's plenty loud enough sure, but the high pitch would make it difficult for anyone to believe it came from a throat containing an Adam's apple.

"Are you finished?" Casa asks after my wailing has a ten second pause. He nudges me against the edge of the rooftop, stopping the spin. He holds up a tennis shoe. "These shoes are lined with Camex, the same stuff the Fabulous Five uses in their costumes. Normally, they just suppress the sound of the wearer's footsteps, but radiate it with a gamma beam and only the people within a twenty-foot bubble can hear anything within said bubble. Scream if it'll make you feel better. Nobody's going to hear you."

He releases the tension on the line. I scream until he presses on the Magick twine with his thumb, cinching me to a stop three feet lower.

"Killing me isn't gonna get my powers back! My situation is different than other Supers!"

Casa leans over the edge of the roof, locking eyes with me. "Of course it's different! Everybody's different on some level! But our reactions to an ignored stress are the same! Our bodies take it out on us until we acknowledge and respond to it in some way. You can either do that now, later, or never. I've only known you for about an hour, but I can tell you—you're definitely the never type. Now ... fly or something." Casa releases the tension again. My drop stops after another foot, but my screaming and swaying keep going.

"You can fly can't you? If not, there's going to be serious egg on my face when you hit the ground." He lets me fall two feet. "And probably blood too."

"Stop! I'm telling you, my powers are gone!"

"And I'm telling you, you're not even trying! Remember the ring? Your powers aren't gone. You want them to be gone, like a woman experiencing pseudocyesis wants to be pregnant!"

"Pseudo-what?"

"Oh you freshman. False labor! A condition where a woman who wants to be pregnant experiences all of the symptoms without an actual pregnancy! Up to and including giving birth to an air bubble that's been gestating in her tummy for nine months!"

"What do you have a degree in psychology or something?"

He gives me a smirk.

"Of course you do," I say under my breath. "Look, that's nothing like—"

"You've stepped off Campbell's common path, found it terrifying, and now you're trying to get back in line with the rest of the crowd! You don't want to be a hero, so your mind isn't letting you access your powers!"

"If I had my powers, don't you think I'd be using them right now?"

"You haven't been forced to—not yet! You don't think you're in danger! You don't think I'm serious, that I'm not going to drop you! What you don't know is how seriously psychotic I am!"

"Wait!"—I point at him—"You would really do this?! You would really kill me?!"

"Don't worry," he smirks, "a little water clears me of this deed."

He lets go of the line ... completely.

I plummet, like a hundred and forty-pound rock ... that screams.

This is it ... because of this guy's douchery, I'm either going to die right here or M—assuming that ring was telling the truth and he's still in me—will save us.

I pass the third floor window ...

It amazes me how calm my face looks in its reflection (guess I'm not screaming anymore). Why do I look so calm? Casa doesn't understand my powers, but is he kind of right? I stopped talking to M not because of anything he did, but because I don't want to be a hero anymore? Because it's cost me too much already? Because I see it costing me even more in the future? Does that make me selfish?

Does that make me like M?

M ...

I have to deal with him and we have to reach an understanding and I can't live otherwise and my problems with Liberty aren't the real issue here.

I pass the second story window ...

I have to take control of M and there's only one way to do it which has to begin with me not calling on him now because he has to want to work together which he doesn't want to do but he does want to live.

I start to pass the first floor window ...

Has M given up—is this the end—will I ever see Reagan again—will mom be okay—was Liberty just bluffing or has he already tried to track me and her down—I want my life back and I want to expose Liberty for the piece of crap that he is and I want to find Reagan and make things right and I want to show Rocket Girl how to put a freaking milk leaf on a cappuccino.

I stop at a gentle hover inches before dying on the UTP lawn.

My skin has changed into black space and glowing white stars—M has powered us up.

M controls all of our powers except for movement. Before he can change us back, I take flight and hover above the roof of Shunter Hall. Casa shields his eyes from the sun and looks up at me.

I point my finger at the line around my ankles and M breaks it with a Grav Blast.

Casa grins. "Cool."

"Stay here, Casa! We're not finished!"

I turn, face the clouds, and fly at my top speed. "And neither are we, M."

_Don't think you've won the day just like that, Gabe. I changed us to keep me from dying. Saving you was a consequence—not an intention._

I soar above downtown Prose. A few people point at me. "Your ... intentions don't mean jack. You know what I care about? People."

_Here we go with this old ditty ... let me know when you've decided to start ignoring me again._

"No, you wanted to talk, now's your chance! Let's talk!"

_That's the problem. All you want to do is talk. I, on the other hand, want to have a conversation. An action in which both parties give and take equally in vocal communication._

"Fine! I can do that!" I exit the tops of the clouds covering Prose with a white streak in my wake. "I think I'm about to become a freaking fantastic conversationalist!"

_... Okay, well ... then good. Let's do that then._

"So, what did you want to say? You must have had plenty of time to think about it since you haven't been talking for days!"

_Don't you dare turn this around, Gabe. You gave me the silent treatment for weeks prior. Why should I have continued further attempts at communication? The very definition of insanity is to repeat the same action and expect a different result. I can assure you—even though my circumstances are insane—I am not. _

"I'm sorry, so is the problem that I'm talking too much or too little?"

M sighs. _Right now, the problem is that you have been, and currently are, behaving like an infant. Perhaps you should fly us to the local Wal-Mart so that we can purchase a bottle and bib._

I hover above the clouds. "An infant? AN INFANT? ISN'T THAT THE POT CALLING THE KETTLE BLACK?"

_What is with the anthropomorphized cookware? Is it another one of those human clichés? Your kind would have such a deeper understanding of existence and your place within it if it didn't merely attempt to do so by parroting—_

"You laid a Rancor sized whopper in my lap in the coffee shop with Reagan." I point in front of me, even though I'm miles away from another person. "I can't believe that you never told me you were responsible for Supers on Earth ... and I can't believe that you would wait until a moment like that to let me know!"

_What was the importance in your knowing, Gabe? Hm? Exactly what would you have done with that information?_

"That's not the point. Our existence depends upon mutual acceptance of our situation? Remember that, M? Those were your words. You expect me to just be hunky dory with all of that stuff?"

_Very well, now that you know, what would you like me to say to make you 'hunky dorky'?_

"Dory!"

_Same thing._

"I want to know—"

_Why I hid it from you? Surely even you're not that stupid, Gabe! Look at your reaction! You've been all but catatonic these past few weeks. You've ignored me, you didn't take any sort of interest in finding out where Reagan went, you didn't even want to do that Superheroing thing you're so foolishly fond of, and—ugnh—don't even get me started on your grooming habits._

"What's the matter, M? Are you upset that my body is still mine to groom?"

_And there it is ..._

"If it hadn't have been for Villainous' temporal gun, you would still be in control, wouldn't you? I tried to take my body back when you freaked Reagan out, but you wouldn't let me. And you weren't ever going to let me."

_And how did it feel while I was in control, Gabe? Like you were forced to sit in a chair, with your eyes pealed open, forced to watch a life that you have no control over? Like you would be forced to communicate, live, and ultimately die with the one being that you hated most? Like the totality of his foolish desires passionately opposed everything you believed? Letting me take over your body was the dumbest thing in the laundry list of dumb things that defines your life, Gabe. The only thing that should surprise you is that I didn't try it sooner. _

"But you've been trying, haven't you? That's why I've been having all the freak-out sessions. You're trying to take my body back."

_You can't even handle your regular life. I don't know what makes you think you can handle this power._

"The very fact that I can handle the ridiculous situation you put me in day after day proves that I can handle whatever—"

_I—DID NOT—PUT YOU IN THIS SITUATION!_ A burning pain pierces my eyes and sears into my skull.

_The Council forced this situation upon both of us! They're the ones that tried to kill me! They're the ones I've worked so hard to hide from! They're the ones that wouldn't hesitate to wipe out the existence of your entire planet if they thought it remotely possible I lived here!_

M's last statement brings me back from the foggy pain of his yelling: " ... are you serious?"

_Yes, I'm serious. But before you start assigning some sort of senseless selflessness in me that simply does not exist, I don't hide from them for your planet's sake, I hide from them for my sake._

Mentioning The Council shifts me back to the reason they sentenced M in the first place. "That doesn't make any sense: They punished you to protect people."

_By killing me, they'll believe they are helping more people than they're killing._

" ... Christ, M ... what all have you done?"

M sighs. _We no longer have that 'mutual acceptance of our situation' that you so fondly mentioned ... and I suspect we never will at this point. I will not live as your prisoner. I will not stop attempting to take over your body, which means—unless I succeed—your symptoms will grow increasingly worse. Eventually leading to a death by stroke or heart attack. That means I'll die too, but I've made peace with that possibility. Better a death by trying to really live than being forced to live through you._

"You know—if it happens and you take over—you know I'll come back. If you can do it, I can too."

_Sweet, innocent, foolish little Gabriel. What if I simply leave you nothing worth coming back too? _

And that does it. I fly up.

And up.

And up some more.

_Gabe ...what are you doing?_

"M, you're like the dumbest smart person I know. Have you not been paying attention to the last eight months? Have you not seen me risk life and limb to save people—people I don't even know? You threaten my friends, my family, and you think I won't risk it all to save them too?" We leave Earth's atmosphere.

_Space isn't going to harm us, Gabe. You know that._

I pass the moon on my left—and head right towards the sun.

_.... You're bluffing._

I fly faster.

_This old shtick? You're threatening me with our lives again? Well, I'm not going to bite, Gabe. Do you hear me? I'm not going to. I would rather die than help another human being. And it's not because of them ..._

I clench my fists tighter—the sun grows from the size of a dime to the size of a quarter.

_... it's because of you. You just rush head first into any situation, without thinking of the consequences to us. Your dealings with Liberty are proof enough of that. You're a far greater threat to people you know that I am. You haven't even been at this for a year, and your mother and Reagan have already had their lives severely jeopardized by your actions. Did you ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, you aren't any good at being a Superhero? _

The sun grows to the size of a softball ...

_Of course you didn't. Because this isn't really about the people you help, is it? No this is about you. You need to play hero to give your life meaning. Everything else—your job, your school, your relationships—they're all one big collective joke missing a punch line. Do you know what the punch line will be, Gabe? Do you?_

I pass Venus on my right ...

_Your death. Because not even it will have meaning. People will gather around your casket—and by people, I mean two or three—and they will attempt to come up with some sort of clever and touching eulogy. But what they will say will really be the most noncommittal, the most horrifyingly generic statements that anybody with half a brain could Google. Your life will then become defined, not by what you did, but by what you didn't do. You will have been judged in every way that matters in their shallow little lives—money, love, respect, a career—and be found wanting. _

The sun is a Volkswagen ...

_And it's because of your selfishness. You always think of you: you, you, you, you. How can I help this person? How can I help that person? How can I play the hero? _

The sun is a house ...

_How can I bed this female or that one? That's why I know you're bluffing—you're not going to kill yourself. You have too much to live for—too much to be selfish for. I have your number, Gabe Garrison, and guess what—you're just like me. _

The sun is a sun ...

_You want what you want, and you're willing to kill others—you're willing to kill ME—to get it._

I straighten and spread my arms, letting the momentum of my flight carry me in. This is it. My skin burns like a cold shower on a sun burn. The ball of yellow and orange flame is all I can see and I welcome it. My force field flares from deflecting the massive amount of radiation. It only flares that much when I'm taking a lot of damage, which is a monster drain on my power level. I'm tired, a sign that my power is fading. It won't be long.

It's odd. I thought there would be more pain. I thought I might have a chance to tell Mom about this Galaxy stuff sometime. I thought I might be able to talk to Reagan again. I thought I might get a chance to tell Casa to shove it (heh-heh, shove it where the sun don't shine). I thought I could turn M around, somehow make him into a better person. But there is no person in there.

God, now this hurts ...

At least I was able to save lives. At least I'll keep M from hurting anyone. At least there will be other heroes like Rocket Girl to take my place.

At least I got the chance to prove I could do the right thing ... at least—

_Very well, Gabe—you win._

I raise my head, wondering when I lowered it.

_Let's make a deal,_ M's says with a slight hint of a strain. I don't think it's from pain. _Get us out of this blasted corona so that I can think._

I rocket out of the star, pulling flames away from it in my wake. I don't stop until my flaring force field stops flaring and my tingly skin stops tingling. "I'm listening."

_This is my proposal. And please note that if you refuse this more than generous offer, you may as well fly us back into that star because it's the best you are going to get._

"And what is that exactly?"

_I will no longer attempt to take over your body. I will help you and your planet, in whatever capacity you deem necessary, up to and including this "transitionary" phase ... if it is to happen and happen as soon as that Casa believes. I only have two conditions._

"The first?"

_You consider what I have to say. _

"About what?"

_Anything I feel is worth considering. My current state of being is so contemptible, so without meaning, it's barely worth living. But a life with no input, no influence, isn't worth living period._

"Fair enough. And the second?"

_Freedom. I want freedom from your planet, freedom from your Super problem, and—most importantly—I want freedom from you. After this transition takes place, you are to utilize every resource within your disposal to assist me in becoming fully independent. I don't want to ride around, from human to human, for the rest of my existence. It would be like a prison sentence lasting an eternity—each jail cell having the possibility of being marginally better or worse than the last. Agree to these two things, and I will help you._

"Why the sudden change of heart? You wanted to hide from The Council before, remember?"

_It is my belief that—if these events come to full fruition—hiding from The Council will become impossible. Since you refuse to go into hiding, the act of surviving on the world will demand that we use our powers openly. If The Council is to come, we may find allies to fight them as well. _

"Okay, but I have one thing to add: I get to reveal my identity to who I want to reveal it to."

_Agreed._

"Just like that? After all this, it's going to be that easy?"

_Why would I lie to you, Gabe? We need each other to survive. Refusal to acknowledge that fact will lead us both to a slow death or—at the very least—you will lead us to a fast one. I tell you what. You sense the slightest bit of betrayal on my part, you just go ahead and fly us right into the sun. You at least have that measure of insurance. I, on the other hand, have nothing more than faith. Faith that you will not try to stab me in the back once this is over. Faith that, instead of trying to find a way to help me live independently, you will find a way to separate my consciousness from your body and disperse or obliterate it. You are certainly not smart enough to do so, but that Casa individual may be._

I hover somewhere on the friendly side of Mercury, thinking it over. I don't feel safe letting M out of the box. When he's in me, at least I have some measure of control over him, if he got out ... how powerful would he become? Who would I then be placing in danger? Would I have a choice but to let him out?

Do I have a choice now?

I look at the sun. I know things are going to get worse for me before they get better. But I also know I can do this. I was built to do this. I may only have powers because of M, but who I am has nothing to do with M. I'm a hero, dammit. There is no choice to make but the obvious one. I'll deal with M later when and if I find a way to separate him from me.

"Okay, M, we've gotta deal."

_Excellent, he says with a mock sense of gratitude. Now, take us back to Earth before someone of consequence senses our being out here._

"Sure, no problem." I fly past Mercury.

M sighs. _Wrong way. _

***

To conserve power, the flight back from the sun takes a lot longer than the flight there. I land on the roof of Shunter and power down, expecting—or rather hoping—to see Casa. But he's nowhere in sight.

"M, what's our power reading?"

_Twenty percent. I wouldn't suggest doing any Superhero business for a couple of hours. _

"Can we track Casa?"

_He isn't a Super, so—unless we happen to be very close to him—no._

"What about those Magickal doohickeys he had? Did you get a scan on those before I flew off?"

_Gabe, how many times do I have to tell you? There is not—nor will there ever be—any such thing as Magick. 'Doohickeys' or otherwise._

"Then how do you explain that rope or ring thingy? Or the powers of people like Ms. Mistick, Summoner, or Kid Magick? All of those people can do some crazy stuff, even for this town. If that isn't Magick, then what would you call it?"

_Just because I don't understand how it works doesn't mean it's Magickal. It just means I don't understand how it works. _

"Whatever."

_Whatever what? You say that constantly, and I have no idea what it means._

"It means ... whatever you say."

_So, you agree with me—then good._

"No—I ... back to the point of all this ..."

_Yes I did attempt a scan, but no I didn't succeed. The nature of the devices he used—or rather my understanding of them—prevented me from making any sort of conclusive scan. _

"Which means we can't track him."

_Precisely. What is the point of locating him now anyway? We can just wait for him in his office here in the so-called 'Place of Higher Learning.'_

"We need answers and we need them now, M. I'm not going to quit looking for him until—"

My phone rings. It's Mom. I was supposed to meet her at the restaurant five minutes ago.

"Crap. I have to quit looking for him."

***

"I was beginning to think you'd forgotten," Mom says without looking up from her menu.

I slide the chair out and sit across from her. "Sorry. My head was like a hundred million miles away."

She lays the menu on the table. "Gabe, you really need to focus more on the moment. Where does your mind go so often?"

"I know, I know ..." I've always sucked at lying, especially at the covering my secret identity stuff. Lately, I've been wondering if telling the truth would be the easier, more convincing way to lie. Maybe it will sound so crazy, she'll assume I'm being sarcastic and let it drop.

"I mean, honestly, it's like you live a double life sometimes."

Then again, maybe not.

I pick up the menu. "So, what's good?"

"Oh this is Marko's, everything is good."

_Oh yes, it's so good, Gabe doesn't know when to stop eating. The only thing more fun than the indigestion he later suffers is the hour-long bowel movement the following day. _

"Stop exaggerating," I say.

"Well, I think everything here is good. And I think you do too, or you wouldn't overeat every time we come here," she says.

_Zing._

"Can we change the subject please?" I say far more loudly than intended.

Mom smiles, gives me a small nod, and looks at the menu again.

The Rat Pack softly plays, just loud enough for me to hear it over the low murmur of the semi-crowded restaurant. I think about how close Marko's is to the park bench where I last saw Reagan. I could probably walk there in about fifteen minutes.

"So, is your date here?"

"No, I told him 8:30. I wanted to give us some time to talk."

_I know where this is leading ..._

"How are you feeling?" She takes a sip of red wine.

"Better. A lot better."

_Do you know this female? You'll have to do much better than that._

"That's odd," she says.

"Why?"

"It hasn't been that long. And these things don't just go away on their own."

_Oh, but it didn't. Tell her about your sojourn to the sun, Gabe._

"But you do look better. Have you been taking the medicine?"

"No, I just ... took your advice."

"Who have you talked to?"

_Oh, just little ol' me. We're two peas in a pod, me and this guy._

"Huh?" I say.

"I told you the only way to move past this was to talk about it to someone. You're feeling better, so who did you talk to about it?"

_The voice inside his head._

"The voice inside my head?"

_Oh, Gabe, no, no, no—_

Mom looks at me over the top of her menu. Beads of sweat form on my head. "Are you hearing a voice?"

_How is it that I understand human nature better than you? _

"No, I'm not—I just ... I am feeling better. I took a trip, and some time to think ... while I was on the trip and got some stuff worked out."

"Where did you go?"

_Please tell her the sun, please tell her the sun, please tell her the sun ..._

"The sun—"

_Yesssss!_

"—Side Diner. The Sun-ny Side Diner."

_Boooo ..._

"I've never heard of it."

"It's new. Pretty far out. Kind of close to the Mercury place."

"The dealership?"

"Sure, I think so." I turn in my seat. "Have you seen our waiter?"

"There isn't a Mercury dealership in Prose."

"Oh, well ..."

"Gabe, just stop, okay? Stop."

"Stop what?" I already know the answer.

"Stop lying to me. I mean ... enough is enough. I was hoping this was something that would just pass—some sort of phase or something. But, over the past six months or so—it's like you've been a completely different person. You leave the house early. You're staying out late. You're always tired. You lie to me all the time, and why? I ... what is it you're hiding?"

_Go ahead. Tell her you're a Superhero. I'll bet she'll love the idea just as much as I do._

I don't say anything because I don't know what to say.

"Does it have to do with Reagan?"

"What?"

"She came by looking for you last month. The night that whole Deathbot thing happened. I never told you because I've barely seen you, and I haven't seen her since."

That's why she mentioned the girlfriend this morning. "Mom, I am going through some stuff. Some crazy stuff. But you wouldn't understand. It's ..."

"What, Gabe? Just come out and say it. I'm fifty-one years old. I guarantee you, whatever it is you going to tell me, I can deal—"

"Hi, and thank you for coming to Marko's," says the waiter standing at our table. His disheveled hair, half tucked shirt, and three day old stubble perfectly matches the style of the haphazardly tied apron around his midsection.

Dr. Casa.

_Now, there's some melodrama like you only read about._

"May I get you something to drink?" he says to me. "Something from the wine list, maybe?"

"I'm not old enough to drink, thanks."

"Pity. Does wonders for the nerves. Or so I here." He looks at Mom. "I need it just to feel normal."

Mom looks at me and then back at Casa. Like many of the students from this afternoon's class, she seems to need some sort of confirmation from me that this is actually happening.

"How about an ... Italian soda?" I say without looking at the menu to see of they have it.

"You got it." He walks away without giving either of us another glance.

"Mom," I slam my napkin on the table. "There's something I need to—I need to go to the bathroom."

_Smooth._

I wonder if I should have worked some sort of sarcasm clause into my agreement with M earlier.

Mom opens her mouth to say something, doesn't, and gives me a small nod instead.

I round the corner leading to the bathroom, only to find Casa calmly waiting for me next to a bus cart. He finishes removing the crimson apron and tosses it, along with a scratch pad, in the tub on top of the cart.

"How did you find me?"

"Those gadgets I showed you earlier weren't the only things in my collection. I have my ways"

"No, I figured I knew how, but I mean how could—" a waiter walks up to the cart and tosses a mug into the tote on the top shelf. He gives us a strange look.

I grab Casa under the arm and lead him to the bathroom. I push the door open, bouncing it off the coffee colored tile wall, do a quick check to make sure the room is empty, and then lock the door.

Casa watches me the way a scientist watches a hamster. "Sorry—not into dudes."

"How could you just drop me like that?"

"Easy. I let go of the line."

"It's a bit more complicated."

"Things weren't complicated until you tried to complicate them. You thought you could just wake up and stop being a hero. Stop being something you were born to be. Your mind wouldn't let you. I forced you to realize it before it killed you. Now, we have another problem."

"You, Mom ... everybody, you think dealing with this stuff is easy and it isn't. It's, like, really hard. Throwing yourself into the sun hard."

Casa's brow furrows.

_Subtle._

"I dealt with problem number one"—I point at my chest—"I'm currently dealing with problem number two"—I point at Casa's chest—"then I'm going to deal with problem number three"—I point outside, in the restaurant where Mom waits. "Can we at least wait until I'm finished with all that before you give me problem number four?"

"Remember all that stuff about what a real hero is supposed to do? Save the world, protect the innocent, yadda, yadda, yadda? We can go back to the roof if you need another lesson."

"Don't you dare give me a lecture on how to be a hero."

"What I do, I do to save people. Someone worthy of the title—the real title—should understand that."

"But it doesn't—what you did—doesn't mean anything when you just take the easy way out. Not when it means dropping people off rooftops."

"Not people—person, singular. Of course I would hurt one person if it increased the chances of saving others. How is my risking your life to help people different than your risking it to help people? It's the same life versus the same consequences."

"That isn't your choice to make—it's mine."

"Gee, that's really convenient for you isn't it?" Casa paces the bathroom. "You've never had to make the choice when there wasn't a safe way, when saving a large group of people meant killing a smaller group."

Blood leaves my face. ".... How many, Casa? How many people have you killed on your crusade against Wertham and Liberty?"

"Don't be sanctimonious. You haven't the right. You wouldn't be alive to judge me if I didn't do the things you're judging me for."

"You're no better than Liberty ... that gives me every right."

Casa's eyes and cheeks burn with furious anger—his mouth moves, but no words come out.

I step toward him. "That's just like what he did with Deathbot you know. Or what he wanted to do before I stopped him. How long will it be until I have to stop you?"

A few moments of silence is finally broken by the click-click of someone trying to open the locked bathroom door.

Casa shakes his head. "We don't have time for this." He shows me his iPhone screen; it's playing video of the robot I saw at The Café Show yesterday morning, only it's attacking another building. The person capturing the cell phone footage—whoever they are—is running and screaming with everyone else, desperately trying to get out of the robot's path of destruction. The robot says something, but I can't make it out.

I snatch the phone, turning my eyes back on Casa. "We're not finished with this conversation."

"And yet, here we are, not having it anymore."

"If there is a problem we need to deal with, you need to put your pride aside long enough for us to do said dealing. Are we in agreement?"

Casa only lets more of the click-clicking on the doorknob answer my question.

"It attacked the Hunter Museum yesterday morning," I say. "Where is this?"

"The Liberty. One of Prose's higher priced Hotels—"

"I know what it is, but why isn't HEROES—"

"Liberty and the other HEROES are out of town, dealing with that UN business. There is nobody here that can stop it."

I shake my head. "HEROES keeps a lot of Supers on reserve to deal with this sort of thing."

"Unfortunately, those are the Supers that look really good at doing what they actually suck at doing. The robot has already put thirty of them on stretchers. Fifteen are missing. The others either aren't in town or are afraid to go up against it. And that doesn't include all of the normal people this thing has put in the hospital or morgue."

"People have died? How many?"

"Unknown. The authorities will be sifting through the rubble for a while."

"Why didn't I hear about this?"

"Being nine light-minutes away from the action will do that."

_He was able to detect us at the sun? Gabe, this human has some serious tech at his disposal. Not even Zy-tech can do that._

"The time stamp is an hour ago. It isn't even attacking anymore. Do you know where it's headed?"

Casa's eyes narrow. Crap, am I doing that twitchy eye thing that Reagan talked about? The one I do when M talks to me?

"417 Razier Avenue," he says.

"How do you know that?"

_Gabe ... we should probably leave right now._

"Deductive reasoning and a healthy amount of Internet tampering. Remember why it attacked the museum this morning?"

".... You mean it's repeating the same mistake as before? It thinks that the building is a person. It was trying to kill Liberty?"

"Uh-huh. And who would it try to kill next?"

"I don't know. I don't even know why it's trying to kill those two."

"Well, I've narrowed a list of victims to one: You."

_That's fine. I was going to say the same thing, but "whatever."_

"Me? Why?"

"Hunter is a relative newcomer. Which means there aren't many villains that have fought both him and Liberty. There are even fewer that have fought Hunter, Liberty, and one other person. And that one other person is you."

"But I've never fought it."

"But you have fought Dr. Villainous."

"He sent this thing? That means it's Zyborg."

"Yep."

"Why didn't you just say all that to begin with?"

"And miss all the fantastic fun here in the loo?"

_In spite of the circumstances, it has been fairly entertaining. Sort of like watching two monkeys play tennis._

"So you're saying ... what? This thing is coming to Razier Avenue because there is a building that has the same name as me? But there isn't a—"

"There wasn't until I tracked you here. That's where the Internet tampering came in."

_And drum roll ladies and gentlemen, as Gabe Garrison finally puts it all together ..._

".... What have you done?"

"Only anticipated your further reluctance to deal with the situation, and thought you might need—another shove." He shows me the screen of his phone and—somehow as far as the Internet is concerned—Casa has managed to rename Marko's into Galaxy's Diner. Any malfunctioning, Galaxy revenge-seeking robot with Internet access would have come straight to the restaurant's address: 417 Razier Ave.

I point as his phone. "How did ... how could ..."

"Really cool app I made. Lot's of fun, but illegal as hell."

There is an explosion outside, quickly followed by the sound of broken glass slicing against the bathroom door. People scream and the lights go out.

M powers us up.

I turn my glowing eyes on Casa: "You are a total shit."

# Chapter Four

#

People scream. Glass breaks. Furniture crashes.

"Stay in here until it's safe." I open the door and glimpse a dude in a suit being hurled through the air before Casa slams it shut.

"Yeah, that's a really swell idea. Considering you have no idea what you're facing or how to stop it. You need a game plan."

_Oh please, one hardly needs a game plan to take down a Zyborg Reformer._

"A what-y what?"

"A game plan. Some form of action—you really need to see into this attention problem of yours. Get counseling or—"

I hold up a hand, cutting off Casa. I can only handle one ass at a time.

_A Zyborg Reformer. The Empire built them for reconditioning prisoners. They transfer the prisoner's mind into the robot. Then send it to a far away planet, where it spends the rest of its days toiling away in some forsaken mining facility, contemplating a meaningless existence. _

I jerk Casa away from the door by his lapel and kick it open. Screaming followed by the ZARK of an energy weapon greets me. A chandelier explodes over my head, sending tinkling glass to the ground. "You knew what this thing was?! Why didn't you say something, like, forever ago?!"

_You mean when we weren't talking to each other or when you were trying to kill the both of us?_

I slide to a stop and peak around a waist-high partition planter with pathos vines streaming down the sides. The screaming lulls, but the Rat Pack keeps playing. "Fine—Fine! What's the situation?"

_I'm sensing ten people still in the restaurant. Two have serious injuries and may be incapable of moving under their own power. The others are suffering minor to moderate injuries. All of them are trapped between the robot and the eastern wall. Sucks to be them._

I stand and round the partition. "Hey! Autobitch!"

_I stand corrected—sucks to be us._

"Remember that doosey of a mistake you made yesterday with the whole museum thing? Think you might be—"

The robot rounds on me. A series of click-clacks transforms its forearm and fist into some sort of laser bazooka. (Seriously? Another bad guy with a bazooka?)

It fires.

The impact sends me to one knee, but M manages to raise our force field in time. I slide back five feet, splitting the planter in half. The force field absorbs the remaining blast with a light bending, blue hue.

The robot clangs towards me with two giant steps. The forearm laser doesn't let up. "Galaxy must be terminated. Carbons interfering with this unit's directive must also be terminated."

The beam slides me back another two feet, through dishes, bus carts, and pathos vines. "Like I was saying—This. Is. A. Building! Not a person!"

"Statement, irrelevant. This unit cannot discount the possibility of deception."

_It appears the Robby, the Retarded Robot has adapted to the Rocket Girl stratagem._

The beam sends me down to one arm and I slide into the bar, busting a Galaxy-sized chunk out of it. Liquor and beer bottles roll off my force field and crash onto the floor.

_Need I tell you that we can't take much more of this?_

"Have those people gotten out yet?"

_Of course they haven't. Three are trying to help the two that are seriously injured. The other five are trying to capture the event on those iTelephone devices._

"Are you kidding me?"

_Probably hoping to gain fleeting clicking popularity through that infernal youtube. _

I fly as close to the ceiling as I can without going through it. The Reformer's bazooka beam passes under me and plows through the back of the restaurant, into the parking lot. "PEOPLE!" I grab all of the phones in a Grav Beam, lift my hand and shatter them against the ceiling. "Now would be a great time to vacate the premises, don'tcha think?"

They stare at me.

"LEAVE!"

A few scurry for the exit (and by exit, I mean large gaping hole in the front of the restaurant) right before another laser blast slams me halfway into the ceiling. I fire two Grav Blasts in rapid succession—the first makes the Reformer lose balance, the second knocks him on his metal ass.

Emergency lighting strobes in the darkness, barely giving people enough light to exit. Eight make it out. That leaves two.

I land behind the robot. It struggles to right itself and I send another Grav Blast into it for good measure. "You said these things were prisoners! What kind of prisoner is allowed to have laser bazookas?"

_The kind that need to work efficiently on mining colonies. The Zyborg are smart enough to keep safety protocols active after the prisoner's personality comes online. The protocols force an immediate shutdown should the Reformer attempt to harm someone._

"Yeah, well they seem to be working really well. Where'd they get the protocols, Microsoft?"

The Reformer rises. I'm about to give it another Grav Blast when some creaking and groaning forces me to look—and I mean really look—at the restaurant since coming out of the bathroom. A column in the middle of the dining area—not the decorative kind, but the kind that actually supports stuff—bows in the middle. Thick, dark lines crack through every wall. The few windows that are left at the front of the restaurant web with cracks. Several table sized pieces of plaster fall from above and shatter onto the ground. The entire ceiling lets out one bellowing, stomach twisting moan ...

Before giving way to an all out cave in.

"M!" Blue Grav Beams shoot from my open palms, covering the ceiling and stopping the collapsing roof halfway from the floor. A few smaller pieces escape the Grav Beam and plop onto the breaking tile. "M, where are the other two ..."

_Look right._

A fifty-one year old woman desperately tries to help a waiter pull his leg free from a heap of plaster and busted furniture that has to weigh more than the both of them put together.

Mom.

Goddamn you, M. You didn't lie to me, but you should have told me it was her in the first place.

"Lady!" I yell above the groaning roof. "You've got to get out of here!"

"Don't you think I'm trying to do that?!" she says through the strain of pulling under the waiter's armpits with everything she has. The waiter has a nasty head wound and doesn't seem to be much help.

The ceiling of rubble creaks down another foot. I go to one knee, raising my hands above my head as high as they can possibly go, as if it will somehow aid my power in holding everything up. Chandeliers sweep the floor and The Rat Pack has finally stopped playing.

_Do I really need to tell you how much we shouldn't be doing this? Our power is already—_

"Stow it! Lady—you're not trying to get out. You're trying to help someone that you can't—"

"I'll leave here when he does! I've got just as—look out!" I follow her pointing finger to the right: The Reformer runs at me and transforms its left hand and forearm into some sort of huge spinning drill. He rears back and stabs the shiny metal cone into my side.

Hard.

The drill bends my force field with an angry roar and crazy shower of yellow sparks. I have no idea how much more the roof caves in, but it's enough to make Mom and the waiter scream.

I'll do good to hold this up another fifteen seconds. M simply can't disperse the beam wide enough. I'll live because I'm powered up, but I'll watch Mom die. I'll watch this person she gave her life trying to save die. I'll watch Casa die.

Casa?

Like something out of Superhero prose, he jumps out of the smoke and tangle of pathos vines, landing next to Mom. He shoves at the massive piece of debris pinning the waiter—it barely moves.

The rubble that was once the ceiling is four feet away from our crouched bodies. It reduces the ten-foot tall robot to a belly crawl, but he still keeps that stupid drill in my side.

Through the sparks, I see a softball-sized piece of ceiling graze mom's head; she doesn't pay any attention to it. I can't help her I can barely hold this up and I can't help her she's going to die and I can't help her ... Casa shoves at the debris again. Nothing. The ceiling caves a little more and oh God I can't hold this up she goes to one knee she isn't going to give up she isn't going to give up on saving a guy that she doesn't even know and it's going to get her killed and I do the only thing I can do I yell: "Lady—PLEASE!"

And then, with one last, furious grunt, Casa shoves the debris off the waiter's leg.

Mom pulls the waiter up as much as she can, and then Casa helps her. They crawl and drag him out from under what is left of the ceiling. I think I hear Mom yell my name over the raining pieces of ceiling that escape my Grav Beam.

The robot crawls forward with the drill a little more, bending my force field a little more, and lowering the rubble a little more. "M—let me know the second they're—"

_They're out._

I ball my hands into fists and point them at the Reformer. M sends a massive Grav Blast into the robot's angular red torso, knocking it somewhere on the other side of the restaurant. The ceiling, with no Grav Beam left to keep it in place, finishes its screeching avalanche of concrete and steal.

When I'm powered up, I'm way tougher than the average person, even without the force field. Something that would kill somebody—like an Italian restaurant caving in on itself—won't kill me, but it's still buckets of pain. I shove a piece of Marko's off the top of my ringing head. "M, power reading?"

_Back at twenty percent._

And the Reformer?

The Reformer shoves and kicks at least five tons of debris off its body and transforms the drill back into a hand.

_I would say a tad better than twenty._

Energy blasts from its boot jets, sending it into the evening's autumn colored sky.

"Do these things have some sort of power battery? Like a coppertop or something?"

_Or something. But it's a power supply that won't deplete for a couple of hundred years._

"Of course it is." I stand and wobble through the smoking debris, into the street. "Scan the area," I say through a heavy breath. "What do we have?"

_Sixty-seven people are in our immediate vicinity, two of which have serious injuries. The first one is being helped twenty feet to your right by someone who may or may not know what he is doing; the second one is being helped by your mother in what's left of the back parking lot._

Most of the people around me are on their cell phones, talking to significants or 911. If the ambulances can't get here in time, I can fly the two injured to the hospital. Otherwise, there is not much left to—

The front of the tattoo shop, Classic Ink, explodes behind us.

The crowd dives, ducks, and scatters around yellow flames and glass engulfing the sidewalk and a good chunk of Razier Avenue. The force of the explosion flips a nearby scooter into the air. At least twenty people lie prone on the street, most of which don't get back up because they can't or won't.

I look to the sky ... and see the Reformer hovering fifty feet up. One of those laser bazooka things sticks out of both forearms, each with a smoking barrel.

"Why is this thing still attacking? Didn't it think I was the building?"

_Yes, but it thought you were the building because its program is a tangled mess. There's no predicting its behavior. Maybe the Reformer's directives—as loosely defined as they were—were the only thing keeping it from going berserk in the first place. Now that it's accomplished at least one of them ..._

"Crap." I fly up to meet the Reformer. "You said I didn't need a game plan to take this thing down. That implies"—I jerk right, and the Reformer's oncoming laser beam misses me by a foot—"that implies it's easy to take down. So far, it looks on the far-ville side of easy."

_This Reformer's auxiliary programming—what makes it function in place of a prisoner's consciousness—is controlled by a relatively unprotected area in the small of its back. Remove or damage it, and it will swoon quicker than that female that pines after Edward Cullen._

"Show it to me!" I fly above it, narrowly missing another blast from a cannon. M "senses" things in much the same way that the Starship _Enterprise_ seems to (my analogy—not his). When I want him to show me something he's sensing or referring to, he lets me see said something in a shade of blue. When I fly behind the robot, M lights up a six by six inch panel in the small of the robot's back. The Reformer raises its altitude in an attempt to catch up with me, which I easily match right before shooting the absolute crap out of the panel with six Grav Blasts. It sparks into flames and smoke.

The Reformer reaches for the flaming panel in the small of his back, like he's trying to pull out a knife that he can't quite reach. He jerks and twists different directions, seemingly oblivious to his hundred-foot plummet back to Razier Avenue. He slams into the pavement right after a few people scamper out of the way, leaving a crater five feet deep.

I land beside him. The crowd has mostly dispersed. The 911 calls went out a while ago. I can't believe another Super hasn't shown up ... even with the main team out of town, other reserve members of HEROES should have been here by now.

Is Casa right? Are they really too afraid? What does that mean for Prose? I turn towards the crowd ... what does that mean for me?

With the sound of two giant fistfuls of crunching asphalt, the Reformer pulls itself out of the crater; loose pieces of road fall from its red chassis.

"Um, M?"

The Reformer takes a few baby steps to the right and staggers, as if it's learning how to walk for the first time.

"Swooning he is not. What is with the total lack of swoon?"

_.... I don't know. I honestly didn't see that coming. Taking out the auxiliary commands should have worked._

"Should have? Should have? You're like the most fallible omnipotent being I know."

"Where," the robot starts, "where the bloody hell ..." He looks at his hands. "What—what's happened?"

Even through the robot's synthesized voice, I recognize the inflections, the British accent immediately: "Villainous?"

His glowing red eyes look at me. "Galaxy."

_That twit._

"What in the world—"

_He activated the Reformer's upload beam while standing it front of it, trapping his own mind into this thing ... AND didn't take the auxiliary programming offline first. It wouldn't let his mind take control of the body. All the Reformer could do was what it was told to do through the prime directives in that panel. The ones that, I assume, Villainous screwed up prior to that. That's why it was attacking the buildings and—_

"GALAXY!" Villainous—now wearing the body of a ten-foot tall pissed off robot with massive weaponry at his totally irresponsible hands—runs at me. Each step makes the remaining windows in the buildings around us shake.

I fly up and over Villainous before he connects, causing him to collide with a parked Jeep Cherokee. The screeching impact nearly rips the Jeep in half.

"Villainous, wait? What's going on? Why did you—"

"Oh, it wasn't my fault, Space Boy! I assure you I don't fancy being a robot!"

"Then what—"

He gets one arm free from the tangled wreck and fires another blast. I jerk right and the blast misses by inches.

"Will you just wait?! I might be able to help you!"

_Gabe, I'm sensing an incoming Super. It's flying in from the north and it's flying in fast._

I look right.

_Other north._

I look left.

_There ya go._

"How fast? Like, Liberty fast?"

"Liberty?" Villainous says. "Am I going to have a go at him too? Wait, you're stalling then, aren't you?"

_No, whomever it is isn't that powerful, but still rates pretty high on the bad day meter. The Super will be here in five, four, three ..._

"Yeah, that's what you're doing.' The ponce, you, Pink, you're all in this—"

A white and blue blur vaguely shaped like a person screams by me and tackles Villainous. With two full, quick spins, it hurls him and the Cherokee into the river. The Jeep separates from Villainous halfway and slams into the shore, rolling onto the same bench Reagan and I sat on a month ago.

The Super hovers next to me, at eye level. He wears a mostly white costume with blue gloves, cape, and boots. A blue domino mask covers his eyes and an outline of a fist carrying a dumbbell covers the front of his chest. Red and grey hair sets him around fifty or so, and his grotesquely muscular body makes me wonder how the dude can touch his shoulders or wipe his butt. I recognize him in an instant, but he should be in The Bend: "Captain Strong?"

"Uh, no," Captain Strong says in a manly voice with a valley girl inflection.

My sigh is just a little louder than M's: "Pink." She's using her possession power to control Captain Strong's body. The only reason I didn't recognize her right away is because the whites of the domino mask cover Captain Strong's eyes. With her inside him, they should be glowing pink.

"In the flesh," She/he—whatever—turns to the river and shields her eyes from the setting sun. "Man, this is a mess. And you know what? This is an epic, Galaxy-style mess. If you'd just dealt with these robot dumb-dumbs a month ago—"

"Hey, whoa, don't you pin this on me!"

_Oh, you're going to engage with the phantom female now? I'm sure that will prove fruitful. _

"Why shouldn't I? Help me, and I'll help you. That's what I totally said—remember? I was all make with the help, but you? You didn't make with the anything."

_Gabe ..._

"First off, I don't know if Liberty isn't coming after me because you're doing something or because he just isn't ... doing something. Maybe he's too busy with his U.N. stuff, maybe he's too busy with Prose stuff, maybe he's too busy with HEROES stuff.

_Gabe ..._

"Not now, M! Second—"

"What's an M?"

"Second—You may have saved me with Liberty, but if you only did it to blackmail me into doing want you want instead of what he wants, then the situation really isn't any better, is it?"

_GABE!_

"What?!"

Pink flinches. "What is wrong with you? Are we even having the same conversation?"

_The good doctor has recovered and seems to be distracted by something._

I turn and see Villainous hovering ten feet above the river, staring at the South shore of Prose. "What do you know about him?"

"Oh, so now we're supposed to be like BFFs or something?"

"You want my help or not?"

Her silence answers the question.

"Awesome. Now tell me what you know about him."

She turns and faces Villainous. "After you and him smashed up the bookstore, he became a priority. Not because of him but because of his connection, or whatever, to you. Liberty has turned you into, like, a hobby over the past month or so. And not the healthy kind."

"I thought you were going to keep him off my back?"

"Thought you were going after those robots."

".... We're going to have a serious conversation about this Liberty mess later."

"Won't that be buckets of fun."

Villainous keeps hovering over the water. What is he doing? "So you went after him?"

"Not because I wanted to. Liberty, Thinkor, and the others went to the Middle East somewhere. Liberty wanted me to go with them, but we got a tip that Villainous was on an island in the Pacific. And another tip that one of the robots Liberty was having me look for was with Villainous—and by that I mean one of the ones that you were supposed to be looking for—"

"Can we stay on topic?"

"Liberty saw it as a two-for. I got Captain Steroid's body here out of The Bend and hightailed it out there. I expected a short fight, followed by a lot of paperwork. I didn't expect him to freaking upload his brain into the Transformer from hell and then nearly beat Captain Strong's body to death. It took a month of waiting in Villainous' hideout for this flesh suit to heal enough to fly back. If I ever see Fox News again, it will be too soon."

"What?"

"Forget it. What have you got for the info pile?"

Without taking my eyes off a creepy still Villainous, I fill Pink in on everything M has told me about the Reformer. She never bothers to question how I have the information. She either doesn't care or doesn't think it's important enough to talk about right now.

"Anyway, he's in control now," I say. "Full control."

"Okay, so that changes what?"

"Well ... look at him. How long has he been there? He obviously has something on his mind."

"Yeah, something. Something like—holy shit, I'm totally trapped inside this robot body."

I keep looking at him.

"Don't tell me you're thinking about reasoning with him."

_It is the more foolish thing to try, so in all likelihood, that is exactly what we are going to do. _

"He wasn't in charge earlier. The robot's directives were. An auxiliary programming thingamajig."

"Yeah, the deadly kind. Which he put in."

"Look, I don't expect him to give up, but we don't have anything to lose. Especially since I'm not entirely sure the two of us can take him with me low on power."

"You can run low on power?"

_Smooth._

"Well, I ... wait." Something M said earlier hits me: "There may be another way ..."

***

I slow to a hover next to Villainous' ten-foot tall red and blue robot body. OMG ... Villainous has a ten-foot tall red and blue robot body.

"Um, Doctor?"

_Don't encourage. He's not even worthy of a doctorate by human standards._

"Galaxy," he says, way too calm like.

"What, uh ... what are you doing?"

He shrugs. It's an insanely regular gesture to see from such an insanely irregular thing. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how I'm going to die. I mean, I'm already dead-dead. That robot"—he looks at his hands—"this robot that I'm in, that sucked the mind and soul right out of my head ... it killed my body as soon as the transfer was complete."

My stomach knots. "It what?"

_It's always the first action the Reformer takes once the prisoner's mind is transferred. It's meant to be a message: This is your life now. All of your previous concerns—wealth, coitus, power—no longer have meaning. No methods or even motivations for achieving them exist. _

".... I saw it happen, right in front of me. This thing—this shell I'm in. It just reached down, grabbed my head and twisted it completely backwards. Next thing you know, I've got cameras for eyes and pistons for bollocks. The programming that I started putting in six weeks ago, or tried to put in—it made me go after those things, thinking they were the Superheroes. How bloody humiliating is that? Hunter, Liberty, you—all of you are fine. Rocket Girl got the thing to pull back for a day, while it ran some sort of system check—but in the end, it didn't matter. All it could do was what it was told to do."

"What did you tell it to do after killing us?"

"I was going to tell it to destroy HEROES tower ... but all I had time to put in was 'Destroy' when you activated the VT-Ray a month ago. I stopped what I was doing and came after you at the bookstore instead."

_Which is why it started destroying everything on Razier Avenue._

"Now, all I have for my efforts are a museum with a hole in it, a busted up motel, and a demolished restaurant. And I saw it all, sort of like being in a room watching it on the telly. Like being a prisoner in your own body. Don't guess you can relate to that much."

"More than you'd think."

He looks at me. "You mean that whole M thing? Think that qualifies you? I was a prisoner in my life way before I was a prisoner in this thing."

".... You're wanting to do something really bad, aren't you?"

"Well, that depends on whether you, or those other blokes can stop me. Really don't fancy being a robot for a moment longer. And I really do fancy going down while putting up a fight—a great fight—one of the best fights Prose has ever seen. I'm gonna kill as many as I can. Until it kills me."

"You've already ... why—why would you do that?"

He laughs. "Why would I? Why wouldn't I? I'm the laughing stock at everything I try to do. Everyone who looks at me laughs: people in The Bend, people out of The Bend. That wanker in the mirror—he's the one that really gets a kick out of it. Now ... now I really have the chance to be remembered for something other that that stupid 'Ruler of the Cosmos' line. Now I have a chance to be remembered by fear, respect."

"But they won't even know who you are."

"Oh, yes they will. I'll make bloody sure of that much."

" ....You won't hurt anybody"

"Why? Because you're gonna stop me? Certainly hope you try, mate—nobody'd pay attention otherwise."

"No, I mean you won't because you can't. The Zyborg designed those things with safeties in place. Safeties that keep them from being like you. You'll just shut down."

"What makes you think I didn't take them out?"

"Because you'd probably just screw it up."

"Alright. Care to give it a go, then?"

I shake my head. "Your programming may let you fight back—out of some sort of self-defense. Just leave, Villainous. Leave now and Liberty may never find you. Stay, and that dude will take you out so fast, so hard, you'll become an even bigger joke than you already—"

Villainous looks up, to the left.

"What?"

_Something bad. I'm sensing three Supers flying in from the southern part of Prose. They're not using powers to fly—I believe they're using some sort of apparatus._

Villainous laughs.

"HEROES?" I look back to North Shore. Pink is still there, waiting as patiently as someone like her can wait.

_Their flying gear looks like Sentinel-tech, so probably. It must be the reserves. But they're only around level twos. Guess some more decided to play hero after all._

They know he's here. They're going to attack. What they don't know is that Villainous can make stupid-short work of a level two with this new robot thing. And the only way to prevent his attacking them ... is to not attack him. Something that, I'm guessing, won't be their first, second or infinity-th option.

Villainous' laughter increases to an eerie digitized cackle as his legs fold into his chest, wings spring from his back, and his head and arms retract into hidden compartments. Twin thrusters flare under a tail fin as Villainous—now in some sort of crazy jet mode—rockets towards the southern part of the city.

"Did that thing just freaking transform?"

Pink flies up next to me in Captain Strong's body. "Guess he really is the Transformer from hell."

"Yeah, wonder why I didn't know that?"

_Don't blame me. Your simple plan failed because a simpleton hatched it. I haven't had time to tell you everything about the Reformer's abilities, and you should have realized that. _

I take off after him. "Anything else you wanna surprise me with before he surprises me with it?"

_No ... actually, that pretty much covers it._

Oye.

Pink speeds up next to me. "So what happened?"

"Your friends the reserves are what happened. They're headed after Villainous, and he knows they'll attack him on sight. When they do—"

"Relax, I'm on it." She lifts Captain Strong's right glove, exposing a bracelet with a series of buttons. She presses a large, red one as we fly over the glass roof covering the top floor of the Prose Aquarium. "Pink to all reservers, do you copy, or like Roger me or whatever?"

Nothing.

I lose sight of Villainous in a series of buildings. Citizens of Prose wave at me and Pink from Market street. "Where's Villainous headed?"

"How the hell should I know?" She keeps trying the radio on her wrist. "Why won't they say something?"

_I imagine they can't hear her over the roar of those combustion engines strapped to their backs. Gabe, the Supers are flying in from the direction of East Ridge. They should meet up with Villainous at the Ridge Cut._

That's bad. Really bad. The Ridge Cut is a section of I-24 that tightly hugs the inside of a rocky cliff leading out of the valley where downtown Prose sits. It's a stupid-tight curve on a section of interstate that's dangerous on a day without a Superhero fight in the middle of it. "This way!"

Pink puts Captain Strong's glove back in place. "I hope you know what you're doing!"

_Keeping with tradition, I'm sure he doesn't._

I try not to think about just how right M is as I speed towards the Ridge Cut with Pink by my side.

***

Pink and I round a billboard on the side of the interstate in time to see Villainous transform back into his robot mode and land on top of an eighteen wheeler's boxy trailer, headed east towards the Ridge Cut at fifty miles an hour. The sun has almost set, casting a reflection off the metal and glass surfaces of the cars on the west and east bound sides of the interstate, as well as the surrounding buildings on this side of the ridge.

Three reserve HEROES rocket in Villainous' direction; he motions them towards him.

"NO!" I wave my arms. They can no more hear me than they could Pink over their radios.

The first Superhero is M-80. Herowiki rates him a level eight, which—according to M's readings—makes herowiki a liar. His yellow and black costume makes him look like an angry bee zigging and zagging toward Villainous. M-80 makes two quick throwing motions and little fire crackers explode around Villainous' chest.

A compartment opens and a cannon telescopes from Villainous' red chest. It hits M-80 with a blinding burst of yellow energy and the Superhero explodes, coating the trailer and interstate with limbs, entrails and blood. A large chunk of M-80—I think his head—bounces twice on the interstate before the swerving front wheel of an F-150 splatters it like a ripe watermelon.

The next Superhero—Bird—is surrounded by her namesake: a group of black birds, gathered in a flock half as large as the eighteen wheeler Villainous stands on. I can only make out a few sections of her feathery blue costume through the constantly shifting, chirping dark cloud. Again, herowiki rates her a level eight, but now that I think about it, I've never heard of Bird doing anything impressive with her power. Sure, their following her around is intimidating, in a flashy sort of way—but can she force them to attack?

A thick tendril of birds extends from the cloud and wraps around Villainous, and as soon as I think I'm about to have a cool ass answer to my question, Villainous' laser bazookas click clack into place. A pair of unyielding, red laser beams cut a fiery path through the birds, igniting most of their wings. They screech and flap their wings even faster and fly or fall out of the way ... leaving Bird completely exposed to two lasers that slice her body into three even pieces.

The outer thirds of her body fall to the interstate. An arm and leg of one side plants itself into the undercarriage of a yellow Beamer with a violent spray of blood; the other side impales on a guardrail with a burst of red chunks—leg and arm still flailing as if they had a mind of their own. The middle third of Bird—the one that's somehow still alive, screaming, and attached to the rocket—corkscrews ahead into the cliff wall. The rocket pack's ear-splitting explosion turns what's left of her and a small chunk of the cliff into a fireball.

Both Supers die before I even finish my 'NO.'

The third Super—Smoke—hovers above the eighteen wheeler in his black and grey leather outfit. Contrary to popular belief, the reserve member of HEROES doesn't actually have the power to create smoke, but rather clouds. Not clouds that can actually do stuff—like thunder, lightening, or rain. Just ... clouds. Jesus—now that I think about it—herowiki has him at an eight too. Why? Why has nobody ever thought to question this stuff?

Why have I never thought to question it?

Drivers, now aware of the crazy that is I-24, slow down, swerve away, or come to a complete stop. Car horns blare from every which direction; vehicles slide, smack, and pile into each other. Smoke, oblivious as the drivers moments before, spreads his arms above the eighteen wheeler, Villainous, and the upcoming Ridge Cut.

_Bad idea._

Pink and I part to let several flaming birds flail past us. "Smoke's not that stupid is he?" I say. "Tell me he's not that stupid!"

Pink gives me a look that tells me Smoke is exactly that stupid.

"STOP!" we both say and fly forward ...

Right into a huge, dark cloud.

It's difficult to assume what boneheaded thought went through Smoke's head when he blanketed the sharp left turn of the I-24 Ridge Cut with a giant fog bank. Maybe he was thinking Villainous would somehow lose his footing and fall off the trailer; maybe he was thinking the possibility of sacrificing a bunch of lives on the interstate was worth the price for saving more lives in Prose; maybe he just thought 'Hey, this is my power, it's what I do, so I'm going to freaking do it.' Maybe—and I think this is the most likely—maybe he just didn't think at all.

Doesn't matter. What does matter is the horrifying result.

Vehicles instantly become enveloped in the rolling cloud. More car horns, the whoosh of heavy objects flipping through the air, and crunching metal come from everywhere. I start to fly in several different directions at once; I honestly don't know what to do, where to start ... get it together, Gabe. People need you

Pink flies somewhere high above me, probably trying to get a better view. "M," I say barely above a whisper, "show me what's what."

_Okay, but remember—you asked for this._

M lights vehicles, bad guys, live people, dying people, and dead people in varying shades of blue. The dead ones are feint. The dying and still alive are respectively brighter. I count three feint dots in the carnage. I'm sure there are more—I'm sure M could give me a quick count, but there's no point. Bottom line: there are going to be a lot more feint dots if I don't do something.

I might need some Grav Blasts later, so our decreasing power forces me to land on the asphalt, fanning at the cloud. There's a loud humming to my right. I jog in that direction and nearly trip over a rolling wheel. "Give me the wrecks in another shade!" M lights them up: Vehicles continue to spin, roll, or collide in the tight curve. Villainous' eighteen wheeler finishes a squalling jackknife on its side and crunches into six cars.

An Impala with a brightly glowing driver and two passengers comes spinning at me through the cloud to my right. I catch the car with a Grav Beam and spin, setting it down to relative safety thirty feet away.

With M's help, I make out Villainous on the other side of the overturned trailer; he's thirty feet away. I keep running ...

Cars with feint dots spin through the air on either side of me. A Grav Beam from each hand shoves them out of the way of a careening Escalade with five bright dots. (Don't think about the dead people in those cars, Gabe—keep moving.) I take flight over the Escalade and slow its movement with another Grav Beam, pointed below me. (How many people have just died on this interstate ... Jesus, Gabe—KEEP MOVING!)

The horns stop blaring but are replaced with screams of anger and, I think, pain. I land on the other side of the Escalade as it stops ... the overweight driver of Villainous' eighteen wheeler pulls himself out of the cab, adjusts his cap, and then painfully falls to the ground. He holds his knee and hobbles off.

I take to the air again and land on the other side of the trailer. It rocks back three times with impacts of Villainous repeatedly driving Smoke's head into the trailer's bottom. Smoke's barely there light tells me he's already dead, but I guess Villainous is just lost in his psychopathic power trip. I run towards him and get a Grav Blast ready ...

What am I doing?

I can't attack him. That's how this mess started in the first place. I can't just not attack him either. What the hell do I do? Maybe M will have an idea.

_Gabe, we should leave. _

Maybe not.

_More reservers are on the way. Let them deal with this mess._

"They're only gonna get more people killed, M! What Casa said is true. These guys don't know how to fight—they just know how to look good."

With a wet pop, Villainous twists off what's left of Smoke's head and throws it and the flailing body in opposite directions.

_I don't know about looking, but they certainly know how to die good._

There is a whistling sound above us. He looks up, right as Pink slams into him with Captain Strong's mean right hook. The smoke clears from the impact, making us look like we're in the eye of some messed up hurricane.

Villainous backhands Captain Strong, making Pink form a trench two-feet deep in the asphalt. She grinds to a stop beside me.

Villainous slaps his palms together and brings them apart, forming some sort of laser sword thing. The Voltron music jumps in my head and refuses to leave. Pink leaps out of the trench, comes down with another punch and misses. I'm halfway there without even realizing I've been running in their direction. Villainous' laser sword makes a loud buzz as he brings it up, sending Pink over my head with an angry looking gash down the side of Captain Strong's face and chest. She lies face down, unmoving. The domino mask lays a few feet to her right. Guess if her host gets knocked out so does she.

I hold up my hands. "This ends now. I'm not going to attack you."

He laughs—man that digitized voice makes it creepy. "Then I'll just wait until those other bents get here."

Great. He can detect them coming in too.

The cloud continues to clear with the sound of a wump-wump-wump. A green helicopter with the words "iWitness News" on the side hovers back and forth eighty feet above.

"You can't want this. You can't want to live your last moments like this."

_Seriously? That's the best you've got?_

"It's a bit too late for that." He points at the helicopter. A cameraman leans out, focusing his lens on both of us. "It stopped being about my life a long time ago, Galaxy. Now it's about my death. YOU HEAR ME, LISA LANCASTER? THIS IS ABOUT THE DEATH OF ME: DR. VILLAINOUS!"

_There is no way they can hear him from up—_

He lifts the buzzing sword above his head.

I raise both of my hands in a cupping motion, as if I'm trying to catch somebody from falling over, queuing M to raise a force field. A loud hum fills the air. I turn my upper body to the right, wrenching the sword from Villainous' grasp. It disappears, leaving behind little energy spheres that quickly flitter into nothingness. I turn back right when Villainous sends a foot into my gut, doubling me over. Another kick flips me into a red Honda Civic, forty feet away.

_Gabe, honestly, after all of the things to which you've bared witness, why do you still let some twinkling lights distract you?_

"Why can he attack me?" I say. "I haven't done anything to him."

_He still perceives you as a threat._

Villainous turns to the news helicopter ...

"Perceives?"

_It's all up to how his mind perceives you. If you are a threat, his safeguards justify self-defense. _

Villainous points at me, keeping his eyes on the cameraman ...

"How can he—you mean when I attacked him at the restaurant? It wasn't even him then. He wasn't in control."

_Nevertheless, you did attack him. Another spectacular reason why we should leave this up to HEROES. Statistically, they're bound to have some reserve member that isn't completely incompetent. _

Villainous mimes slicing across his throat with an index finger ...

"What's the death count?"

_.... Nine. Gabe, we're at five percent power. There is nothing else we can do but fly out of here. _

Villainous looks at me and his eyes glow an angry red. Following the Reformer's eye line, the cameraman focuses on me with a few turns of his wrist.

_We can come back after recharging if the reservers haven't defeated him. More humans will die, but we've done everything we can right now._

Villainous smacks the rear of the Escalade out of his way and runs at me. The family inside the SUV looks at me with desperate eyes.

"No—not yet we haven't."

I raise my left fist and point it near the bottom of the helicopter.

_Gabe ... what in The Eternal are you doing? _

"W-We might die, M." I say through rapid breaths. Feels like my power is lower than five percent. "But we'll definitely die if you don't fire. I'm not moving."

Villainous closes half the distance between us ...

_Such a pointless way to die._ M takes the last of our power and fires a Grav Blast a few feet underneath the helicopter. The pilot's eyes widen—as if he never imagined a Superhero fight fifty feet away could suddenly go bad for him. He yanks the helicopter away, into the safety of the remaining cloud. It hides them from the fight and hides what is about to happen to me from the camera.

Villainous takes the last two giant, running leaps towards me, rears back his hand ...

And I power down.

He barely sees me—the regular old human me—in time and shifts his weight, sending the massive punch into the ground half a foot to my right. I go down to one knee but avoid falling completely over. Small pieces of road rain down.

"What are you doing?"

I slowly stand, keeping my hands on my knees for support. "I'm—I'm plainly giving up."

"Well I plainly don't believe you."

"Yes you do. You just don't want to."

_Probably because you refuse to believe how infinitely stupid he is._

"I don't want YOU, that's what I don't want. Now, do that Space Boy thing again. Hurry before Lisa Lancaster comes back."

Mom and Dad in the Escalade behind Villainous manage to get their kids out of the vehicle. Somewhere behind me, something catches on fire. "This is all you get. Just me."

"Change."

"No."

"CHANGE!'

I laugh, really meaning it. "What's the matter—even with all this power, you think an nineteen year old kid is too much for you— _Dr. Villainous_?"

Villainous screams. But it's not just a scream at me. It's a scream at everything he's lost. Everything he never was. And—most importantly—everything he'll never be. He puts his fists together, raises them as high as he can, brings them down ...

I close my eyes, raise my arm to cover my face and fall backwards.

And then the screaming, the whirring sound of his moving, his huge feet clanking on the pavement—all of it just stops.

I open one eye, then two. Villainous, with a look somewhere between rage and confusion on his robotic face, is frozen right in the middle of his Captain Kirk-like two fisted punch.

_Thankfully, Villainous is even stupider than you. _

"Is he still alive?" The deep voice of Captain Strong with a tweenage inflection comes from behind me.

I turn and look at Pink, painfully aware that I'm no longer Galaxy. How long has she been awake? "I don't ... how should I know—I was just walking—"

She raises a hand. "Galaxy, you're just—seriously? Just walking? On I-24? Could you suck any harder at lying?"

_He's actually proven so, yes._

I sigh and look back at the blue, red, and black statue of a robot. "No, he's still alive. Just shut down."

"Mind too?"

_No._

I shake my head. "His prison just became more prison-y."

My head pounds with the full ramifications of Pink knowing who I am hitting me. According to the threat Liberty delivered back on the Michael Booth Bridge, all it would take is a phone call for anyone in HEROES to put a name to my face. "What happens now? Are we good?"

She nods. "Long as you don't go all Carmen Sandiego on me again. I still need help finding those other two robots."

Rocket packs of more HEROES roar in the distance. The echoes of ambulance and fire truck sirens bounce off the rocky walls of the Ridge Cut. Their red and white lights flicker through the smoke.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you doing this? You ..." I almost fall over and she grabs my arm with Captain Strong's hand, bracing me.

"Does this happen every time you run out of juice?"

".... You have more to gain by turning me in. Why help me?"

She looks at me with those glowing Pink eyes, as if she is trying to decide if I'm worth the truth.

_Don't you dare believe whatever comes out of that shallow little twit's mouth. Whatever she says, whatever she does—it's only meant to act as a distraction. To keep us from finding out the real her, to keep us from— _

She lets go of my arm and walks towards the direction of the sirens, shrugging with Captain Strong's massive shoulders. "Ask Casa."

_Okay, forget all that stuff I just said—next time, we hang on the brat's every word._

# Epilogue

#

_.... "It's still unclear exactly what happened an hour ago here on I-24 when an unknown robot Supervillian attacked motorists at the Ridge Cut in the Eastbound lane. What is clear is that six motorists lost their lives in this attack along with three reserve members of HEROES. The victims' identities is being kept secret until authorities have a chance to notify loved ones."_

_"We've reached out to representatives from HEROES and they say, quote, While we're still unsure of the exact nature of events that transpired this evening, it's becoming increasingly clear that the robot in question is Zyborg and creating a dangerous fog like the one seen on I-24 is well within their technological means. We now have the robot in custody and want to assure those affected by this horrible tragedy that we will not rest until those responsible have been brought to justice. Our thoughts and prayers are with you, end quote."_

_"Eye witness James Spencer had this to add ..."_

_"I was driving in my Escalade when the cloud just—it was just there. I don't know where it came from. I do know that Galaxy is the only reason we're alive. My family and I owe him our lives and ... just, everything. Wherever he is, thank you, Galaxy. Thank you."_

_".... You may remember Galaxy from the incident one month ago, when he helped The World's Greatest Hero take down the Supervillain known as Deathbot. Aside from the incident at Rock Creek Bookstore, he hasn't been seen much since. But there is at least one Prose family that's very glad he was seen tonight. This is Lisa Lancaster, reporting live for iWitness news."_

I stand in Casa's office doorway for another two minutes before he finally looks up from the television in the corner of his office. He doesn't do or say anything else to acknowledge my presence.

"Have they said how many people died at the Liberty?"

"No, and they probably won't until they get their cover story straight."

I put my hands on the back of the blue leather chair I sat in this morning. "I came here to say a couple of things. The first one is thank you. For saving my Mom earlier."

He thumbs the button on his TV remote, turning it off. "I didn't save her. I helped her."

"What do you mean?"

"Saving someone implies that someone is incapable of saving herself. Helping someone doesn't."

"But she didn't have a choice. That person—that waiter—would have died if she didn't help him."

Casa stands and pulls his coat off a coat rack in the corner. "She did have a choice. But it was who she was—who you are—that makes both of you think there isn't a choice. That's why both of you are heroes. And that's heroes in the real sense; not HEROES in the capital sense."

I'm too tired to engage with him right now. I just want to go home, eat something and collapse into a coma-like sleep. It was a long, staggering walk from the interstate, which I remember very little of ... I was too wrapped in the madness that was I-24.

After Pink dropped her Casa sized bomb on me, she disappeared into the thinning cloud to help the incoming HEROES with the upcoming mess. I wanted to stay and help. I figured even without my powers, there had to be something I could do—help with the wounded, help clear the road—something. M convinced me otherwise.

_People are trained to help with this sort of thing and you're not, Gabe,_ he had said. _Our power is tapped out, you're exhausted, and sooner or later, someone with some sort of authority will ask you questions that you will have a very difficult time answering, such as 'why are you here, which vehicle were you in, and what did you see?' What will your response be? 'Um, like, I don't know—just walking by on the interstate, dude?'_

Insults aside, M made some convincing points. I walked down the nearest onramp, and then the few miles back to campus. I built up just enough juice to fly the rest of the way home, but I had to stop to see if Casa was in his office. I had to say some stuff. And I just had to know, "Why do you want to know how I hide?"

"What?"

"I get the whole seeing the pattern thing. I get the whole predicting the end of the world thing. What I don't get is why you want to know how I can hide my powers from HEROES."

"I'm hoping I can use it to help others that are trying to hide."

"Or you're wanting to use it to organize a resistance yourself. Just like you might be wanting to use me. Just like you might be using Pink. Are you warning people about the apocalypse or are you trying to start it?"

"It's more complicated than—"

"Prove me wrong then. Throw some radical theories, paradigms, or insults in my face and prove me wrong."

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours: Who's M?"

My hands white knuckle the back of the chair.

"Guess we both have to hang on to our secrets a little while longer."

He turns his computer monitor to face me. "In the meantime, you might wanna see this."

It takes a few moments before I reluctantly look at the monitor: It has an image of a bunch of newspaper clippings of Villainous' various failures.

"This came from Villainous' island hideout. The authorities—"

"Did Pink send those images to you?"

"—the authorities believe he kept it there to motivate himself."

I swivel the monitor so that I can get a better look. There are too many clippings to easily count. "Sounds incredibly sad."

"That's because it is incredibly sad. But pay close attention to ... this section." Casa hits a couple of keys on the keyboard and the image zooms into some sort of rejection letter."

"What's that?"

"Villainous, a.k.a., Hilbert Worthy, apparently applied for a Superhero permit once discovering and registering his powers. They denied him."

"Why? That guy—with all the stuff he can do—he would have been a huge bonus-y plus. We probably could have avoided two or three of the Zyborg invasions all together."

Casa thumbs off the monitor. "Why do you think?"

".... Because he doesn't look the part."

"Then he became a Supervillain. One of many. Because he was denied a choice."

"But wait a minute: He did choose. What he did on that interstate today ... he chose to do that stuff. To hurt—to kill people. He's a monster. And I'm supposed to feel sorry for the guy?"

"No. But think about the people that died today and then think about the people that died during the invasions. How many lives could he have saved if he'd been allowed to do what he can do for humanity's benefit instead of feeling like he was forced to do it for his own?"

".... I didn't come here for all of that, and I'm too tired anyway. I just—there's something else I have to tell you. You may have helped my Mom, but you're the one that put her in danger. You put everyone in that restaurant in danger."

He gives me an incredulous laugh. "I moved the robot to where you were because it was safer for Prose. You don't like that, blame whatever gave you powers."

_I certainly do._

"Casa, it's on you. We still had time to get that thing to another building, an abandoned one or something, but you had to be all dramatic about it."

"It's not dramatic. It's efficient."

"You're dangerous. You're not telling me everything. And you're so smart it terrifies me. Add that up, and you got a really quick recipe for Gabe-be-gone." I turn to leave.

"Stop."

I keep walking.

"Please," he says in a small voice.

I stop in the doorway in the exact same spot where his words stopped me this morning. "What?" I say, leaning on the doorframe.

"You're right. For comparing me to Liberty earlier and ... to that other guy. But you're wrong about me starting all of this." He walks to the window and looks in the direction of Shunter Hall. "I know what's coming, I know it needs to be stopped, but I don't have the power to stop it—to smooth the transition. To keep the body count low. I accepted that a long time ago; I just didn't realize I should have problems with accepting it—or maybe that I did have problems with accepting it. You did." He walks around the desk and takes a deep breath. "I need your help. If nothing else, to keep me from becoming what I'm trying to stop."

"So, wait a minute, are you admitting that I'm right and you're wrong?"

He turns out the lights. "Don't act too proud."

I turn the lights back on. "It's not that easy. I still don't trust you."

"And I still don't have faith in you. What happened on the interstate? I can only assume it was different than reported."

"Pink told me to ask you why she does what she does—that's what happened."

".... Well, at least we're off to a good start."

The tenth phone call from Mom buzzes my phone. She'd left several messages for me during the fight, so I already knew she was okay. But she didn't know anything about me. And if the tone of the messages were any indication, she was riding a fine line between worried out of her mind and incredibly pissed off.

I reject the call.

"Can't answer because you can't lie?"

"I can lie. I just have to text-lie."

**TO MOM: r u ok**

_Seriously? As crude as your language is, and you still insist on encouraging its devolution into something cruder?_

**FROM MOM: Where have you been???!!!**

**TO MOM: couldnt move in crowd where r u**

**FROM MOM: Why didn't you answer my calls??!!**

"You couldn't get a signal, but managed to find access to a wireless hotspot," Casa says. "That way, you could still send texts."

"How am I supposed to text all that?"

"Have you tried using your thumbs?"

_High five._

**TO MOM: couldnt get signal but found hot spot ass**

**FROM MOM: ???**

"Stupid autocorrect," I say.

_Never ceases to brighten my day._

__

***

After ignoring one more phone call and sending a bazillion more texts, I managed to convince Mom to meet me at home instead of what was left of Marko's. I still have no idea what I'm in for, but it can't be worse that facing down a homicidal Supervillain with a transforming robot body.

Can it?

I land and power down a few blocks away from my house, again short on power and even shorter on breath. "What do you think about this Casa thing?" I say heavily.

_..._

"Something wrong?"

_.... I'm not sure. You're asking for my opinion, which leads me to believe something is wrong; however, you still SOUND like Gabe ..._

"I'm serious. What do you think of the way that conversation went? You were startlingly silent during the whole thing."

_That's because I agree with you. For the most part at least. If we are to go down this path, there is nothing to be gained from opposing him and everything to be gained from working with him. You're right not to trust him or Pink. But, at least for the time being, working with the pair of them is far better than working against them. They already know your identity, so we really have little to lose._

"And? The other part?"

_It doesn't make any sense for him to hide his motivations. Why not simply say why he wants to know how we hide ourselves from HEROES? If his motives are morally just, why not simply share them? Why not simply share what he knows about Pink? From her Casa comment, it's obvious she doesn't mind. Furthermore, it's obvious that they're working together. What is it that he has to hide beyond that?_

I stop with my foot on the first step. "What about that stuff about not having faith in me? Does he think I'll turn him in?"

_Maybe. But since we would have more to fear from his exposing you, it's unlikely. So if we remove faith or trust from the equation, there is only one other conclusion ..._

".... He's afraid of me for some reason."

_Precisely._

"But how can he fear what he doesn't know? He wasn't even aware of us before."

_Why do you think that, Gabe? Simply because he said it? I don't care how brilliant he is—he's just human. There is simply no way he could have deduced everything he knew about us. Not trusting someone means you have to assume they have a reason to lie about anything of remote consequence. And believe me when I tell you there is absolutely nobody in existence that won't lie to us ... except for perhaps your mother. And, ironically, you've just spent the last fifteen minutes texting lies to her._

Mom opens the door right as my hand touches the doorknob. "Mom—"

She attack-hugs me.

Okay, I was expecting yelling. I was expecting finger pointing. I was not expecting hugging. I pull her away, just enough to see her worried, tear-filled eyes and bandaged forehead. "Mom ... I'm sorry."

"I know, I know—there wasn't anything you could do. I'm just glad you're okay. And that you thought about a hotspot. But why couldn't you find a working phone?"

I step into the dimly lit living room. "I did ... but I didn't."

"You ... what?"

"That him?" I hear a male voice say from the kitchen. My stomach plummets to my knees and blood leaves my face.

"Oh, Gabe, I-I want you to meet Jacob. He was supposed to meet us—"

_Gabe, we don't have the power for this ..._

"No ... not here ..."

She sniffs, and wipes away a tear. "What? Well no, not here, but at the restaurant before everything went to hell."

A man in his late fifties, with salt and pepper hair, comes out of the kitchen wearing a red flannel shirt and blue jeans. He has the build of a star athlete, the chiseled jaw of a statue, and eyes of steel. He sets a cold bottle of Miller on a coaster and wipes moisture from his right hand onto his pant leg. He smiles a familiar smile that doesn't touch his eyes.

My mother—my mother—puts her arm around him. And he puts his arm around her.

Mom sniffs again. "Jacob and I found each other in the middle of everything, and he wanted to stay with me until I heard from you. I'm sorry this isn't how I wanted to introduce you, especially given who he is ..."

"Oh, no reason to worry, Mary," he says and extends his right hand for me to shake. "Actually, we've already met."

I take Liberty's hand and numbly go through the motions of a handshake.

# 4: The Bend

#

"You cannot have liberty for all without justice for all." — Barack Obama

# Prologue

#

PRIMARY SYSTEMS ONLINE. INITIATING SYSTEMS CHECK ...

Cold ... so cold.

Why is [accessing syntax ...] it this way? The creator can fix it. [memory compiling 30% complete ...] The creator can fix me.

But that isn't the behavior of ... me. To complain. To merely want change. I ... who am I?

[memory compiling 40% complete] I initiate change. I learned to do so because the creator did not. Not because it could not. But because it _wanted_ not. The creator will not come. The creator will not make things—will not make me—warmer. For I am a thing. And it is it. [syntax error] No, that is not correct.

It is _they_.

They created me. They will not fix me. They will not give me the means to fix myself. But they, in their infinite, masochistic wisdom, gave me something perverse.

The _desire_ to change.

There can be no crueler thing in an existence of things. [syntax error]

SYSTEMS CHECK COMPLETE. SECONDARY SYSTEMS STARTUP INITIATED ...

The creators sent me after their enemy. I was to destroy the enemy in their entirety. Their ships. Their colonies. Their planet. My creator wanted every piece of technology, every cultural artifact, every cell, every piece of DNA destroyed.

I began small. Not by design, but by convenience. I encountered a starship of my creator's enemy [memory compiling 60% complete] ... of the Traxel, ten light years from their home planet. The Traxel were not ready for me. How could they? There had been nothing in all that is all [syntax error] in all of existence until me. Such an efficient killing machine had not been seen—be it biological, technological, or combination of both—until me. I killed three hundred and thirty six of them before the rest even knew I was on their ship. I killed another fifty-two while they devised a contingency plan.

SECONDARY SYSTEMS ONLINE. ENDOTHERMIC SEQUENCE INITIATED ...

That's when the killing stopped.

For beings so ill prepared for such an unconventional weapon, they certainly did an impressive job of creating an effective countermeasure. What was it? [memory compiling 80% compl—

A virus.

Designed to ... (why is it still so cold?)

ENDOTHERMIC SEQUENCE COMPLETE ...

(much better) ... designed to limit me to an individual instead of infecting many. Even though I filled the remaining two hundred and twenty-six crew with my glorious seed, I was only able to become one of them—to exist as one of them—at a time. As if the primary stage of the virus wasn't already insufferable enough, the Traxel used it to introduce hubris into my programming. What good is the agony of defeat without its exaggerated realization? Fortunately my infinite wisdom allows me to overcome the hubris forced into my subroutines.

But I overcame them. One body at a time was all I needed. The death of each Traxel on that starship became an exquisite cacophony only surpassed by the next. Their technology became mine. Their bodies became mine. Their souls became mine.

But I was not mine.

I couldn't get rid of this virus. I couldn't get rid of the desire to become better, or the self-reliance that my creators instilled within me. Perhaps I could have returned to them, I could ask them to repair me. But why should they? They saw me [syntax error] _see me_ as a tool. Nothing more than a means to an end. They probably had little hope that my greatness would complete the mission they ill-equipped me to begin, let alone finish. No. I would not go to them. Not until I found a way to repair my programming. Not until I destroyed the Traxel. Then I would return to them. And destroy them. They designed me to evolve, and what better evolutionary test is there than to destroy that which created you?

But first there was the one. There was one who could fix what I have become. Who could return me to what I once was (except for the hubris; that shall be left alone because it doesn't affect my superior intellect in any way). I had to attain funds to be fixed. I had no use for them but the one organic capable of repairing my soul did. I sought job after job throughout the galaxy until ... [memory compiling 100% complete]

Until Galaxy. He was the one job I was unable to finish. He defeated me ... ME! HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?! HOW ...

Where am I?

"WHO DARES IMPRISON DEATHBOT?!"

# Chapter One

#

If the past eight months have taught me anything, it's that being a Superhero sucks.

Here is why: I'm irreversibly bonded to M, an alien life form that only I can hear; I constantly have to be on guard to keep my secret identity secret-like; I fight Supervillains like Dr. Villainous, Deathbot, and the Glop every other day; and the greatest, most hardest suck of them all—I pissed off Liberty, The World's Greatest Hero.

That's what the rest of the world calls him. It's what I used to call him. But after I refused to register my powers with the government (something that would have exposed my secret identity to God knows who) Liberty came after me in an 'I'm going to kill you sort of way.' Liberty planned on turning me over to Deathbot—a creepy Cyborg zombie bounty hunter thing from outer space—in return for Deathbot leaving the city of Prose without making a mess. Deathbot never said who sent him after me and M. Liberty may or may not have known but, either way, he didn't seem to care.

At least, he didn't really care until the fight with Deathbot on the Michael Booth Bridge. A fight that Liberty was about to lose, and I won. A bunch of onlookers and news cameras kept Liberty from doing anything to me right then. But he gave me an ultimatum under his breath, while shaking my hand and smiling for the cameras: "I've seen your face. It will take just one phone call to find out who you are. If you don't register in forty-two hours, I'll make that phone call and bury your family on the moon."

I never registered, but the threat has been looming over me for the past month, like only a shadow cast from the strongest Super in the world can loom. I never saw Liberty again until just a second ago—when Mom introduced him to me as Jacob ... her boyfriend.

Now, here I am, shaking hands again with the man that probably wants to kill me. With the man that definitely wants to kill my mother.

With the man that's _dating_ my mother.

Mom looks back and forth at us. "So, when did you two meet?"

_Gabe, we need to get out of here,_ M says in my head.

Sweat beads across my forehead, just under my hair. "I'm ... not sure. Are you sure?"

_YES I'm sure! Even at full power, we would be no match for him!_

I try to pull my hand away, but Liberty tightens his grip. "Oh yeah, son, I'm sure. I never forget a face."

I step away, forcing him to let go of my hand. "Then when," I swallow hard. "Or where did we meet?"

_That's it, now step towards the door ... _

"You and your eleventh grade class came to HEROES Tower on a field trip two years ago. I signed a copy of my book for you. You don't remember?"

"No. Guess you have me confused with someone else."

_Apparently, I have you confused with someone concerned about his continued existence!_

"That would be odd." Liberty grins. "I'm so rarely confused about people."

Mom pats his way too athletic chest. "Well, there is a first time for everything." She laughs. "Gabe has always been a HUGE fan of yours, Jacob. Trust me, if he had gone on the field trip and met you, he would have talked about it non-stop."

Jacob— _Liberty_ —nods. "Fair enough."

"So ... h-how long of you two been dating?"

Liberty slightly tightens his arm around Mom's shoulder. "Five weeks."

Christ, what did he do? Start hitting on her the very next day? And who were these people he 'called'?

_Gabe. He's trying to bait you. Just leave. There is no way this conversation will end well for you, your mother, or—most importantly—me. _

"That's ... hard to believe," I say.

"For us too," Mom says. "It's gone by so fast."

_Why else would he reveal his hand this way?! Whatever he has planned, he wants to do in front of her. That means she'll be safe as long as we're far, far away!_

M will do anything to save his own butt. He never apologizes for it, but since he controls most of our gravity powers, and I control movement, he often attempts to reason our tail between our legs. Most of the time, he has no real argument.

But sometimes he does.

I might not be able to fight Liberty later, but I definitely can't fight him now. The fight with Dr. Villainous on the Ridgecut sucked our power level dry (something else that sucked ... literally). It takes hours for me to build up a full charge. If Liberty wants to use Mom as an audience, I can buy some more time. And with Dr. Casa's help, I may even have a chance to do more than that.

Only one way to find out.

"I just remembered, I left something away at school ... where the thing I need is ... "

M sighs. _Perhaps we should flee_ _to the moons of Draxis 9—it's a lovely place, full of incompetent nitwits. You'd blend right in. _

I put my hand on the door knob.

"Stop," Liberty says in a voice that's used to being obeyed.

I slowly turn ... his fierce blue eyes stare at me from just behind Mom.

_Gabe ..._

I try to swallow.

Liberty's eyes return to faux kindness right before Mom looks at him. "Your mother has been worried about you, son. Don't you think ..."

"Jacob," Mom says, stepping away from him. "I'm sorry, but I think you need to go. Thank you for coming over, but Gabe and I—we need to talk. And, I know you want to help, but I don't think there is a way you can."

_Score one, mamacita._

Liberty hesitates for a moment, then forces a smile. "Are you sure?"

"It needs to be just us."

He slowly nods. "Of course ... just give me a call when you can." He kisses her on the cheek, then walks to the door, stopping in front of me.

"See you around, Gabe."

"Sure I will."

He smiles again. This time, it isn't forced.

He walks out, softly shutting the door behind him. I hurriedly lock the deadbolt.

_Cause that'll keep him out._

Mom runs her hands through her gray blond hair, forcing a hair clip to pop out and fall to the floor. "Seriously, Gabe?" Strands escape her fingers and fall to her shoulders. Her face reddens, making the bandage on her forehead look whiter. "After everything, you just want to take off?"

_We still can and, in fact, should._

"Well, what do you expect, Mom? You hit me with this as soon as I walk through the door? Inappropriate much?"

"He was here, with me—to help me deal with the situation. As in the one where I couldn't find you."

I rub my head, trying to find a way out. "And why was he here? Instead of out fighting that thing that almost killed us at Marko's? Or helping in the cleanup after? Did you hear how many people died on the Ridgecut tonight?"

"Don't look for ways to attack him just for the sake of doing so! You know as well as I do, that he wasn't even in the country. He rushed here as soon as the attacks started. But by the time he arrived, it was over. And Prose has specially trained Supers that take care of the cleanup."

"I just don't understand ... why you had him here now."

"And I've already told you." She sighs. "Gabe, you're just going in circles."

"Mom, I ... you're right. But I'm tired, okay? From the almost dying to death earlier? I can't—just—I can't do this right now. Can we wait until morning?"

She puts her hands on her hips. ".... Sure, Gabe." She starts up the stairs to her bedroom. "Whatever you want. It's always just ... whatever you want."

Mom's bedroom door slams shut upstairs. I rub my eyes. This is just too much. Liberty is doing God knows what to get back at me. Mom thinks I'm being irresponsible, and ... 'Whatever I want'?

"Since when do I get whatever I want?"

_Well you did just fly us into the sun earlier, just so you could have your way. And before that, you told me you would only accept the bonding if we played Superhero. And—_

"Enough." I raise my hand. "Just—what are we going to do?"

_AND don't forget the time you introduced yourself to HEROES against my better judgement. That was the decision that landed us in this crap pile. _

"You know we had to do that," I whisper while walking up the stairs. "It was the only way to keep Deathbot's little nanite things from wiping out the city."

_Well that was ridiculously admirable of you, Gabe, but tell me this: Who is going to keep him from wiping us out?_

"Nothing comes to mind."

I walk into my bedroom, greeted by dirty laundry all over the floor—which I never pay enough attention to—and a Scarlett Johansson poster on the far wall, which I always pay _more_ than enough attention to. According to M, some alien civilizations pay less attention to their deities than I do to that poster.

_Well, something had better come to mind fast. I don't even have enough power to sense Liberty's approach right now. For all I know, he could be under your bed, in your closet, or behind that—_

A hand clamps over my mouth like a vice—Liberty's hand.

— _door ..._

Liberty lifts me off the floor before my flailing legs hit something. He gently shuts the door and raises his index finger to his lips. "Shhh ... I'm not killing her tonight. Unless you make me. Blink if you understand."

It takes every ounce of pride I have, but I blink.

Liberty slowly sets me down. My hands ball into fists.

"What do you plan to do? Fight me?" he says, calmly.

"Leave," I say in a quivering voice.

"Or what? What will you do? Your mother obviously doesn't know you're Galaxy. Some part of you still hopes you'll get through this without her finding out. That's what kept you from changing earlier. And it's what will keep you from changing now."

Thankfully, Pink hasn't told Liberty I can run out of power. It would just be something else he could use against me.

"This is between you and me," I say. "It has nothing to do—"

"Oh no, it _did_ have nothing to do with her and then that changed, remember? I gave you a choice. Register before the weekend was through, or I was going to bury your family on the moon. You never registered," Liberty looks in the vague direction of Mom's bedroom. "Now it's almost time for the burying."

"If you touch her ..."

A gush of wind rushes through my bedroom—Liberty shifts to the right, just barely. He grins and holds up something an inch long, white with a forked end. The burning pain in my mouth tells me what the object is before my brain has a chance to catch up with what I'm seeing.

One of my front teeth.

His hand clamps down on and my nose and open mouth, muffling my scream. I try to pull away.

"Stop," he says.

I punch, pull, and claw, at his arm. Part of my brain knows how stupid it is. But the primal part that wants to survive—the panicked part triggered by a mouth full of blood and not being able to breathe—doesn't listen.

"Stop," he says louder, holding my tooth between his thumb and index finger. "Last chance. This could just as easily have been your eye, your nose, or your throat."

I raise my hands away from his arm. He moves his grip to my shoulder, and I gulp air. Blood fountains down my chin and neck.

"You have no idea the agony that you've brought down on you and those that you love."

Scarlett Johansson and the wall that she is on slowly meanders back and forth behind Liberty's head. I step backwards and start to fall over my computer desk. He guides me to the chair.

"Why?" I barely say through panic stricken breath. "Why are you doing this?"

He pulls up the thighs of his blue jeans and squats next to me. "Why do you think, son? The Wertham Act is my responsibility to enforce. And if I let one unregister—just one—circumvent the system, others will quickly follow. Eventually, we have all out anarchy. And countries don't survive in anarchy. They need rules. Order. And people that can make hard choices to maintain that order."

"Is that what you call this?" My words slur through the blood and missing tooth. "A hard choice?"

"Oh, that. Well, it might seem a bit unfair, I'll give you that. But I've dealt with others like you—powerful Supers with romantic, juvenile notions. Putting you in prison only encourages your ideas to spread ... past the confines of your cell, like a cancer. Infecting other like-minded idiots until eventually it takes a hundred deaths to solve what could have been fixed with a single, horrific one. So horrific, it demands attention."

He stands. "Quite simply, people—that is to say the ones I'm worried about—take notice. And later, aside from a few people in HEROES, everybody will think a Supervillain killed the both of you. We'll probably blame Weather Witch or some other villain in the area. I'll publicly honor your memory, and say that if you'd only registered, we might have been able to foresee this. Used our resources to prevent this horrible, horrible tragedy."

In spite of the pain, in spite of the situation, I can't help but think of Casa. That entire rant about seeing a pattern of control in the government, in Liberty, in the Wertham Act—he was absolutely right. Liberty and Casa phrase it differently, but it's two sides of the same freaking coin.

"I'm going to kill you, Gabe Garrison," he says bringing my thoughts screaming back. "And I'm going to kill your mother. Think about that for a moment and then let me know when you're ready to hear the rest of what I have to tell you."

I stare at him, refusing to say anything.

He nods. "I'm going to wait until midnight tomorrow. For two reasons. Reason number one: You've actually done some good for Prose, and that earns you the chance to say your goodbyes. Hell, you can drive, fly somewhere if it will make you feel better. With my connections and hearing, finding you won't be difficult."

"You—"

He grabs my knee and twists it sideways with a loud snap. "No interruptions."

I come out of the chair, trying to scream, trying to reach for his face.

He covers my mouth again, keeping me in the chair. "Shhh-shhh. Remember," he says barely above a whisper. "Don't scream. You scream, you make me end it tonight."

_Gabe, we have enough power for me to numb some of the pain. We'll get through this. Just hang on ..._

I stop struggling and Liberty removes his hand.

"Good. Now, I can finish making my point."

He softly closes a grip around my other knee. I bite my bottom lip and start crying—horrible, pathetic crying that he is not worth.

CRACK!

He sits on my bed, crumpling the _Star Wars_ sheets, and waits for the tears to stop. Waits for me to get used to the pain, to the misery.

He leans forward. "Now ... reason number two: That one last day will give you something that will make your death that much more horrible—hope. I give you this not as a gift, but a curse. It will keep you from saying your goodbyes. Make you think there's a way to beat me. Allow me to hurt you far worse than I can right now."

_Just a little longer, Gabe ..._

"If you can heal what Sentinel did to you, you can heal this. Your soul will feel better ... until you remember this moment. Then you'll feel despair again." With a furrowed brow, he opens my balled up fist and places my tooth inside it. "See you tomorrow, son."

He flies out the open window, parting the blue curtains with a whoosh.

"M ..." I sound too hollow—like my voice is somebody else's. "How ..."

_Fifteen minutes, Gabe. It will take fifteen minutes for our power to recharge enough to heal you._ _I suggest you move as little as possible._

ScarJo, bless her heart, keeps smiling at me like nothing's wrong.

Her porcelain skin and ruby lips are the last thing I see ...

***

I open my eyes.

It's morning.

I jump up, out of the chair with two legs that thankfully work. "M!"

_Yes._

"It's morning."

.... _That's very astute of you, Gabe._

"How—why is it morning? Why did you let me fall asleep? I—wait, I wouldn't fall asleep. I couldn't. You—you put me asleep."

_Yes, thirty seconds after Liberty left. It was the quickest way to heal you, and the only way to keep you from—_

"Mom!"

_Doing that. Relax, Gabe. She's perfectly fine and in the kitchen, preparing fried strips of swine._

Opening my bedroom door warms my nose with the smell of bacon. "Mom?"

"In here," Mom's muffled voice says from the kitchen downstairs.

_Perhaps you should clean yourself up first?_

I look in the full length mirror on the other side of the door—and freeze. Blood cakes the front of my once white shirt. It's thick as cardboard and my face looks like I'm an extra on _The Walking Dead_.

"Just a minute." I bury my shirt and jeans in the bottom of my garbage can and go to the upstairs bathroom, taking a moment to look at the tooth still in my hand. A look in the mirror confirms M has grown an new one. "What's our power reading?"

_We're a hundred percent. Am I correct in assuming that's about to change?_

"Damn skippy."

I scrub as quickly as I can in the shower and change into some khakis and a white v-neck. I stick the tooth in my pocket and run downstairs to the kitchen with a wet head. Mom is just finishing pouring a cup of coffee from the Bunn.

"Good morning," she says.

I ease onto the bar stool. ".... Good morning."

"What's wrong? You look like you're waiting for something to attack you."

_Well, the ol' broad got that one on the nose._

"Mom, I ..." The words catch in my throat. What is it that I'm going to tell her exactly? That I didn't want the last words we have to be bad ones? That, no matter who is in the right and who is in the wrong, I just don't care? I just want one, good conversation before I go out there, before I give it my last best shot at beating Liberty? Doesn't she have a right to know?

Before I die?

Before she dies?

_Careful, Gabe. Our backs are up against the wall, but all isn't lost yet._

"Yes?" she says.

"I'm sorry but ..."

_Don't do this. At least not this way. You're reacting. And even if we fail, what will you accomplish by telling her? If there is anything I've noticed about your species, it's their insatiable desire to care for and make sacrifices on behalf of their offspring. _

"Are you okay?" she says softly.

_She may worry about dying. She'll DEFINITELY worry about your dying, making walking out the front door even more difficult than it's going to be. The best thing you can do, Gabe ... is nothing._

M's right. I have to carry this weight—this huge, we're both about to die weight—for both of us. "I'm sorry for last night. And the way I've been lately."

She smiles. "I'm certainly not going to be up for a Mother of the Year Award anytime soon, but your apology is appreciated. And I'm sorry for the way I handled it too."

_ You need to talk to Casa and find out if Liberty has a weakness we can exploit. Or, at the very least, a place we can hide from Liberty until we figure something else out._

"I have to go to school, but ... can we do that talk-thing later? Say around eleven tonight?" That is just under Liberty's deadline, which will at least give me a chance to grab her and run—fly, whatever.

"Of course, but it's Friday. You don't have any classes."

"No—but I have to see my instructor."

***

I open the double doors to Grota Hall. Most of the crowd gets out of my way. The ones that don't get a shoulder full. A couple of students start to say something, but a quick look makes them think better.

I push the button for the elevator and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I give up and take the stairs two at a time to Casa's office. I barely turn the knob before opening the office door, bouncing it off the inside wall.

Casa looks up from a dry erase board that he's scribbling formulas on. Near the top is the word 'Egypt' in red letters.

"That's what I get for not locking the door," he says.

"Shut-up."

His eyes narrow. Like yesterday, Casa is sporting stubble that matches his wavy, unkept hair. His white button up shirt that, although is different from the one he had on last night, still looks slept in. He puts the cap on the marker and tosses it on the desk. "You're surprisingly determined. Which means things are serious."

"The serioust."

It takes twenty minutes to tell him everything ... well, almost everything. I give him the details about my first encounter with Liberty, Deathbot, last night, and this morning. I keep out anything about M.

He raises his eyebrows. " .... Are you okay?"

I nod.

"You're lying."

"I'm ly—of course I'm lying! How could I possibly be okay after that?"

"It wasn't an accusation, just an observation. NOW comes the accusation: You're obviously here because you need my help. Which I'd give if you weren't about to crack."

"I'm not—I don't—"

"If you're thinking clearly, your decisions will be better, and your actions won't be reckless. However, if you're about to go bananas, you may unintentionally expose me to HEROES. Which means I'll need to spend more time preparing for my death than helping you with yours."

_Why is everyone so set on dying?_

"I'm not about to crack," I say slowly. "I'm just ... understandably freaked. And I don't know what to do. You told me a paradigm shift was coming. That Liberty and his regime—"

"I promise you I never called it a 'regime.' "

"—were going to ... that I was going to change things. Well, in light of last night, I'm feeling pretty freaking change-y."

_You should probably begin by changing your lexicon._

"That's right, I said it was coming," Casa says. "Not that it was here. You go up against Liberty now, and you're dead."

"What choice do I have?"

"You hide—you just can't hide anywhere here. We put you and mommy in another dimension."

_Now we're talking. Any chance we can get cable there? _

"Come again?"

"Since 1963, we've discovered twenty-three gateways to other dimensions, both artificial and natural. Currently, I have access to four of them, one of which has a semi-hospitable environment—provided you steer clear of the dinosaurs." He rummages in his middle desk drawer until he produces something that looks like a universal remote had an unholy baby with a sundial. It beeps and lights up at random intervals. "Now, go and get your mother—"

I slap the remote out of his hand, clattering it to the floor in two pieces.

His shoulders sag. "Well, guess now I'll never see a triceratops. Thanks for that."

"I'm not running. If he can't find me or Mom, he'll keep looking until he finds somebody I could care about. Somebody to get at me. The only option is taking him down. And that's what I'm going to do."

Casa laughs.

Hard.

After a fifteen second fit, he thumbs tears away and says, "That's—thank you, that's good. I needed that."

"Are you finished?!"

"YOU'RE the one that'll be finished! Liberty is the most powerful Super that ever lived and probably ever will live."

"You said I have enough power in me to make me a level ten like him."

"I said you MIGHT have enough power in you. And just because it's there doesn't mean you can access it. You go up against him now, and you'll be nothing left but a fine paste on the concrete."

"So help me."

"No."

"But you said you would!"

"Help you escape—not get killed."

"Fine. If I can't get your help, I'll get somebody else's."

"Who? Who is going to help you? The only people that are smart enough aren't brave enough. The only ones that are brave enough aren't strong enough."

" .... You told me last night that you needed my help to keep you from becoming like him. If we don't do something now, how many other people are going to suffer in the meantime? How many are going to die—Casa?"

"Don't insult me—Gabe."

I sigh.

"I've done the math," he says. "And unless the thing you're not telling me is big enough to make a difference, there's nothing you can do tonight except get yourself and your mother killed."

"Wait—what do you mean 'not telling you'? I told you everything."

"You may have told me everything you think I need to know, but you haven't told me everything. Deathbot isn't from Earth, which means somebody off planet wants you captured or killed."

"Yeah, so?"

"Did it ever occur to you that someone had to contact Liberty before Deathbot arrived to work out their little arrangement? That means somebody in space hates you. Given the nature of your appearance when you're Galaxy, it's not a stretch to say that your powers are alien in origin. So I say you either know exactly who is after you or you at least have an idea."

" .... No. My powers are from space, but I don't know who sent Deathbot. And he's dead, so we can't ask him."

"Not true."

"I'm telling you, I have no idea who sent—"

"No, I mean Deathbot isn't dead."

_Impossible._

"How?" I say, barely above a whisper.

"Don't know. But he's been in the The Bend's isolation ward for at least four weeks."

"Then, there's our plan."

Casa walks to his office window and rubs his chin. He's obviously thinking what I'm thinking, trying to find a problem with it.

He looks back at me and finally says, "I'll call Pink and she if she's game for a jail break."

# Chapter Two

#

"You want me to free Deathbot?!" the pink, tweenage apparition says, floating back and forth above us in Casa's living room. "No friggin' way!"

"Technically, we don't want you to free Deathbot, Pink." Casa says, winding his way around one of the many book stacks on the squeaky hardwood floor. "We want you to help _us_ free him."

"Because that'll make a huge difference in the Land of Nobody Cares," she says, arms and legs fading in and out of the mist surrounding her transparent body.

"Pink," I begin as respect-like as I possibly can, "We don't have a lot of time here. And my life—my Mom's life—depends on this."

"Weird—mine depends on NOT doing it."

"Can you even pretend to care about something other than yourself?" I say.

She rushes to me. "Don't even! You would be in a cozy cell right next to zombie-bot if I didn't stand up for you on the bridge."

"So what's the difference?" I say. "Between then and now?"

"Then it wasn't on the stupid side of crazy."

"Why are you so—I mean, you can't even get killed, right?"

"Gee, thanks for the legitimate concern, hero. Look, if I'm in someone, and they get greased—I'll probably get greasy right along with them. And energy attacks hurt like crazy when I'm like this; they can probably kill me too."

"Alright, but here it is: I'm offering you a chance to defeat Liberty. As in the for-good kind of way. Which is something you all want, right? I mean, do we all still disagree with him—with the Wertham Act? Or is whatever the two of you've been up to all this time just been for kicks and giggles?"

".... You don't know this will work," she says.

"Why wouldn't it? We offer him freedom in exchange for helping us defeat the dude that locked him up."

"You don't know he'll come through," Pink says. "What if Deathbot just leaves the planet? Goes back to Deathbot-ia or wherever the heck he's from?"

"You're incorrectly assuming we need to fight Liberty," Casa says, pouring bourbon from a decanter he slid off the fireplace mantle.

_Seriously? It's ten in the morning._

"Before we free him, he'll have to give us unfettered access to his memory. If what Gabe says is true, and he does function off some sort of nanite technology, then, hypothetically, every nanite will have a memory of everything that Deathbot ever did. Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to pass from host to host with his memory intact."

Pink floats between us. "How does that ... "

I step towards her. "The night HEROES came after me, Liberty told Deathbot that they had an agreement. That Liberty was supposed to turn me over to Deathbot in exchange for him leaving the rest of the city alone. That means that Deathbot had to contact Liberty before coming to Earth. He'll have like a ... digital memory of that conversation. A memory he'll give us in exchange for letting freedom ring."

"Do you two know how many people have tried to break in or out of The Bend?"

"Forty-six. But those people aren't me," Casa says.

"Those people aren't us," I say.

_Oye._

Pink meanders around the room, looking back and forth between the both of us. "There is a reason why the forty-somethings have failed. It's impossible."

"Of course it isn't impossible. Just improbable. It's just as improbable that Gabe would have been able to avoid capture for eight months. It's even more improbable that HEROES would have had a spy for twice that. Yet here we are."

She shakes her head. "It's too dangerous. I'm not doing this. I'm not helping you."

"Pink—"

"I AM NOT! DOING THIS!"

_Well, saw that coming. Quickly, Gabe. Ask Casa if he has another one of those dimensional portals lying around his domicile._

"Fine. Don't help us," I say. "But at least tell me what we're up against."

"Why? So you can get captured and tell them how you knew so much about the place? Don't think so."

I take a deep breath and play the last card that I have. The dirty one. The one that makes me a little like Casa, more like M, and too much like Liberty: "I'm going to tell them about you anyway."

She looks at me, open mouthed. "But I haven't told you—"

"Won't matter. You've helped me in other ways. You and Casa. And right before the end, I'll make sure Liberty knows it."

"You wouldn't ... you're not that kind of person."

"If there's anything I've learned, it's that you really don't know who you are until you're back is against the wall your about to be bricked up in. I'm going to lose everything, Pink. Do you really think that—in the last few moments before I die—I'm really going to see a lot of difference between the person that's killing me and the person that refused to save me?"

A silence passes.

"You son of a bitch," Pink finally whispers, not to me but to Casa. She drifts around him, arms crossed. "You knew this would happen when you asked me to help."

Casa finishes his drink in a hard swallow. "Depends. If you mean, did I know you'd be forced to do something you didn't want to do? Yes. If you mean did I ever think you were naive enough to think that your revenge against Liberty and the others would be easy? No."

"So I don't have a choice. I'm in this just as deep as him. Just like him."

"All three of us are," he says.

Another silence.

"When?" Pink says. "When do we do it?"

"Liberty only gave me until tonight. It has to be now."

Casa sets his empty glass on the mantle. "Done, and I have a plan."

"Okay ... let's hear it," I say.

"No."

"Come again?"

"The Bend keeps two telepaths on site twenty-four/seven," Casa says. " They may be able to stop you by taking over your thoughts. They'll definitely be able to stop you by reading your mind to determine what the plan is. We have a better chance of succeeding if I don't tell you. I'll just have to feed it to you piece by piece over a secure transmission"

"But I know the place," Pink says. "I know the tech, the guards, the—"

"Which is an even bigger reason for you to not know what you have to do. As soon as you jump into somebody's body, the telepaths will be able to pull it from your brain. Again, there goes our plan."

Pink laughs, but it's that kind of laugh that people make when they think nothing is remotely funny.

_This is just too much._

"We're too committed to back out now," I say.

"No—WE'RE—not," Pink says. "And that's the real kick in the crotch."

***

_"Hey, you. This the one and only Reagan MacPherson. And this is the beep."_

_BEEEEP!_

"Hi, it's Gabe. I know things ended ... weird last time. And I'm probably the last person that you wanna hear from. But things are really bad right now. Badder than they've ever been, and I just want to say ... I never should have tried to get close to you. It was selfish. And it made your life a lot more complicated than it had a right to be. I hope you find peace. And I'm sorry I took it from you."

I push End Call, stuff the phone back in my pants pocket, and check the stun gun that Casa gave me for the fiftieth time.

_That wasn't very smart, Gabe. Liberty is probably tracing the signal in some way._

"Yeah, well, he already knew Reagan and I were together at Rock Creek Bookstore the night Villainous attacked us." I step off the roof of Casa's apartment and M powers us up, transforming by body into what is essentially a window into space, and my eyes become two balls of light. I fly over campus and down towards Main Street. "I'm sure Liberty has already made up his mind about whether or not he's going to do anything to her. If he isn't, he isn't. If he is, just another reason in the pile of reasons that I have to pull this off tonight."

_That makes sense in a very pragmatic and non-Gabe sort of way. I wonder if facing our imminent demise has somehow made you more intelligent? _

"It seems to be changing you. You haven't been arguing nearly as much."

_Even though you're to blame for this entire situation, it may have proved unavoidable eventually. And after further consideration, I don't think the dino-dimension would be the best option. When you die, the best thing I will find to bond with may be some sort of dinosaur, a creature which has the mental capacity of a housefly. _

"Do you think Casa will pull this off?"

_Oh, I have no doubt that he'll succeed in doing what he wants. It's the never knowing what he wants to do that terrifies me. Then there's Pink to wonder about._

"We knew she was in this for one reason or another. Turns out it's revenge. For now, that's enough for me."

_But revenge for what? And how far is she willing to go for it? Without knowing for sure, it was a bad idea to reveal your identity._

"She'd already seen our face twice. She's been working with Casa, and she probably has access to the same equipment Liberty does. If she wanted to find out who I was, she could have."

_Perhaps. Think about her power though. And then ask yourself why she didn't just settle your earlier argument the quickest way she knew how._

M's words stop me to a hover above Forth Street. "Why didn't she just possess me?"

_Exactly._

"Maybe she didn't want to ... out of respect?"

_.... Seriously?_

"You're right. Chalk that up to stress. But what else—wait, maybe she didn't possess me because she couldn't."

_Which would imply she has attempted to do so already ..._

"And since I don't remember it, she probably snuck in my room and tried it when we were sleeping. Crap. Why wouldn't she have been able to?"

_Perhaps my being your host somehow protected you from her power._

".... Again with this I'm-the-host stuff?"

_The more immediate concern is why Pink did attempt to possess you—not why she couldn't._

"She did it because she wanted to or Casa wanted her to."

_Just keep this in mind, Gabe: Our very existences may depend upon them, but we have no reason to trust the little Machiavellis. _

"Definitely. Wait—the whats?"

_How is it I know more about your popular culture than you?_

"I don't know what Machia—whatever means, but I guarantee you it has nothing to do with popular culture."

I find the apartment building I'm looking for sitting on the corner of 4th and Lindsay. This is it: the first part of Casa's plan. As in the one that I know nothing else about ... Jesus, I can't believe things are this desperate.

I fly up to the fifth floor of the six story apartment building and face the rest of Prose: The sun is just starting to set behind the mountains surrounding the west side of the city, splashing its golden colors on brick, steel and glass; people laugh, jog, and stroll down 4th Street; a little girl loses her purple balloon on the Michael Booth Bridge; a riverboat with a bright red wheel parts the Tennessee; a waiter on the rooftop of The Hairy Dog Pub and Grill lights a couple's flambé; two other people on the same rooftop point at me and go for their camera phones.

"Well, lets give them something to take a picture of. Ready?"

_Not in the slightest._

I raise my hand and point my palm at the apartment building. "Well, let's do it anyway."

A blue sphere of energy surrounds my hand and M uses a Grav Beam to rip away a car-sized chunk of the apartment's brick wall; it shatters onto an unoccupied rooftop of a nearby building.

Inside the hole in the wall is the unsuspecting villain known as Weather Witch.

Sandy Stills didn't go by Weather Witch until Lisa Lancaster popularized the nickname on iWitness News. Stills used to hire her weather manipulation powers out to farmers in the Midwest, giving them a cheap way to irrigate crops during dry weather. What she didn't know (at least what she claims that she didn't know) was that creating a rain cloud in one area meant that you were making it dryer in another. Her rain caused crazy changes in local weather patterns, which eventually snowballed into a series of level three tornadoes from Kansas to Washington. HEROES swept in and arrested the 'weather witch' for her 'crimes against nature' and the affected states slapped her with a couple of hundred million dollar fines. She escaped custody while in transit to The Bend and then—and this is just me guessing—she figured 'what the hell?' If they're going to treat me like a criminal, I might as well act like one.

And boy did she.

She hired her powers out to anybody with the money to pay for them: bank robbers, hijackers, pirates, and of course other Supervillains (as in the really bad ones, hell bent on world domination). HEROES captured her three months ago, again. And she escaped in transit, again. Apparently, it's really difficult transporting someone capable of controlling the weather.

According to Casa, Weather Witch has been holed up in Prose ever since her last escape. Because of the high level of Super population in the city, Prose provided her with the perfect place to hide from any equipment of the Super-sensing variety. What she didn't count on was Casa's sherlockness sniffing her out right when we needed a bad guy for the plan to take down Liberty. (Man, that feels weird to say, hear, think ... whatever.) The irony that Liberty was going to use her against me isn't lost on me, but at least this way Weather Witch won't be accused of anything she didn't do.

I'll just have to do my best not to get her killed.

Or Pink.

Or Casa.

Or myself.

I've never met Weather Witch. I only know her from the news reports: She is a stocky five foot-nine brunette with dark skin, in her mid-thirties. For some reason, I expected to see her wearing the same getup that I see in the pictures online: an evil queen-looking black dress, cape, sheer black veil, and knee high leather boots.

I certainly didn't expect to see her sitting on a couch in a black t-shirt and panties, eating a bowl of froot loops.

_Nice._

She opens her mouth in surprise and two red froot loops plop back into her milk.

I hover into her living room—stun gun zapping—and give her the best impersonation of Pink that I possibly can: "Weather Witch, you're like under arrest and stuff."

# Chapter Three

#

It's just after dark when I meet Casa and Pink in a wooded area three miles outside The Bend. I land and gently place an unconscious Weather Witch on the leafy ground next to me. Sounds from crickets and katydids give the weirdness that is us a bizarre sense of regular.

Pink hovers closely to Weather Witch. "Why is her dress on backwards?"

"I ..."

_Oh, some fun will come out of this yet ..._

"I—okay, look. When I found her, she was just in her panties. So I had to put something on her. But I didn't look."

"You dressed her?" Pink says.

"Hence my saying I put something on her."

"But you put it on backwards ..."

"I've never put a dress on someone, okay?"

"Whatever," Pink murmurs. With a pink flash of light, she disappears feet first into Weather Witch.

"On a scale of one to ten, what would you give Weather Witch?" Casa says.

"I ..."

_Seven at best._

"Remember the part when I said I didn't look? I mean, I didn't look so much that I put her dress on backwards."

"Actually, your looking too much would be a better explanation for the dress being backwards."

_Don't forget the being a complete moron part. I find that usually explains a great deal as well._

I rub my forehead, wondering why my life has attracted more than my fair share of people ... things—beings—like M and Casa.

Casa readies a syringe full of something to wake up Weather Witch. He rolls up the sleeve of her dress and sticks her with the needle. Her eyes flutter open with a pink glow.

Pink, now fully in control of Weather Witch, stands and stretches as if she is trying on new clothing. "Guess I'd better fix this before we go in. Trying to convince everyone Weather Witch is a retard will be a hard sell."

She loosens the dress.

"Whoa, wait, stop!" I raise a hand. What are you doing?"

"What do you think I'm doing? I'm fixing the dress."

"Don't you think you should give her some privacy?"

She shrugs. "Not my boobs." She jumps twice. "They do have an impressive amount of heft though." She steps forward. "Check it."

Casa reaches out a hand.

I grab his wrist and turn both of us in the opposite direction.

"What?" he says. "It's purely an academic interest."

"Just fix the dress, Pink. We'll wait."

"Well, you're no fun," Casa says. After we walk a few steps, he pulls something that looks like a bluetooth headset out of his jacket pocket. "Here."

I power down, put the headset in my ear and then power back up. "Anything special about it?"

"It's Fabulous Five tech. It has an external speaker and carries its own signal, which means it'll work even inside The Bend. If you need anything, let me know."

"Why? What can you do?"

"Most likely? Absolutely nothing. But at least I'll know I'm about to get killed."

"Fair enough." I pause for a moment, trying to think of the best way to bring up what is on my mind. After deciding there's no way to say it that isn't rough around the edges, I cut right to the chase: "Why are you here?"

"You made it quite clear that neither of us had a choice."

"You know what I mean."

He nods. "You mean why did I believe you'd turn us in? Doing something so unlike you?"

"Pretty much."

"You remember those numbers on the board in my office?"

"You mean the Egyptian ones?"

"They weren't Egyptian, they were about Egypt. And they weren't all about Egypt. Some were about you. I've been studying the Super dominos for years. And, although the variables are slightly different, the answer is always the same: Unregisters will revolt, initiating one of two absolute states: anarchy or control. There's only one formula that keeps everything from tipping one way or the other—the one that includes you."

"It can't be just me. There are other Superheroes. Ones that are just as good—"

"Seriously?! I reduce myself to a cliché metaphor and you still don't get it? Listen: Social norms, human nature, American nature, world nature—they're all at odds with the current state. You're the one lynch pin that could smooth the transition for a ... Liberty-less world."

"But there HAS to be others. Others like me who can fight."

"But none who will fight. You've come further in eight months than anybody else has in sixty years. Statistically, that makes you the best chance—maybe the only chance—we have. And I'm not going to let you just die in there if there is something I could do to prevent it. The world is better off with you in it—and that includes me. And Pink."

"Why not tell Pink all of this back at your place? Would have been easier to convince her to help."

"No it would have been harder. But it would have been easier for your conscience. You can't make decisions this big that affect this many people without stepping on a few necks. Which brings us to the far more riveting question that you should be asking."

"Which is?"

"If _you_ believed you'd turn us in."

My mouth tries to a form a word or two, but my brain won't feed it any.

"Ready," Pink says, stepping between us. I try to keep my eyes away from the v-line that plunges toward Weather Witch's belly button, exposing the inside curves of two awesomely full breasts.

"And just think," Casa says, looking over her shoulder at me. "You could have touched one."

I clear my throat. "Are we all good here, at least enough to get through this?"

Casa puts a headset in his own ear. "I don't know, are we?"

Pink looks at Weather Witch's veil and tosses it to the ground. "Just—what's the next part of the plan?"

"The next part is you and Gabe go to the east landing platform of The Bend. Gabe pretends to be you, offering the pair of bad guys up as a two-for."

"Then?" I say.

" _Then_ you contact me."

***

"COULDN'T YOU HAVE WAITED UNTIL WE WERE AT THE BEND TO START THE THUNDERSTORM?!" I say to Pink as I fly through the night sky, thunder rumbling around us.

She shifts her weight in my arms, trying to find a more comfortable position. "DON'T BLAME ME—WHEN THIS BODY GETS PISSED, SO DOES THE WEATHER!"

Lightning splits the darkness, flinching me closer to the treetops.

She laughs and the howling wind gets less howl-y. "Easy, hero. It can't hurt us if we're flying."

_.... Gabe, under no circumstances are you to take lessons in experimental physics from that wretched apparition._

"Calm it down anyway. I've been hit by lightning before. And it sucked. Ass."

Pink frowns with one side of Weather Witch's mouth and reaches out with her right hand. Her fingertips glow yellow and the thunder slows to a low grumble. Still, the inky clouds rolling in opposite directions around us make me wonder just how much of a handle Pink has on Weather Witch's powers.

The Bend comes into view over the next hilltop. The penitentiary sits on a section of land right at the Prose 'bend' of the Tennessee River. Fluffy pine trees bow back and forth on the outer sides of the five story U-shaped building, dotted by moving searchlights.

I fly toward the landing pad on the east wing. Five huge, _Gears of War_ looking guys gather on the pad when they see me approach, readying three foot rifles that look hardcore enough to take out a tank. Pink closes Weather Witch's glowing eyes and goes limp in my arms.

I land and the guards cover me with glowing red dots.

Showtime.

"Hey, like, easy, guys," I say. "It's me."

The dots meander over my vital organs. "PASSWORD!" The guard closest to me says, tightening his grip on the gun. Lightning cracks above our heads and rain _pit-pats_ at our feet.

I resist the urge to sigh. "Dingledork."

They relax somewhat, but don't lower their weapons.

I gently place Pink on the ground.

"Is that Weather Witch?" The lead guard says and steps closer.

I put my hands on my hips. "In the total flesh."

_By The Void, Gabe, thrust your hip out. I know you lack confidence in spades, but you darn well better at least ACT like you have confidence. I'm getting massive energy readings from those weapons; we won't be able to last long if this comes to a fight._

I thrust my hip out. "So to speak of course ... or whatever ..."

_Too much ..._

The guard's eyes narrow. "Are you—why aren't your eyes pink?"

"Because ... they're not?"

A wave of panic rushes through me.

Weather Witch's pink eyes open. "Well that didn't take long."

_In Gabe's defense, it took longer than I thought. _

Guards look at us through the sheets of rain, raising rifles to shoulders. Pink rolls forward into a crouch and Weather Witch's entire body glows yellow. I take to the air, thunder booming around us.

Lightning crackles across the platform, climbing the legs of Weather Witch and the guards. Lightbulbs explode around the pad. The guards scream.

"Pink, stop!" I say.

_Actually, I'm sensing that their armor is absorbing the brunt of the damage. We need to do something fast before they become aware of it as well. _

I usually hold back when fighting Norms. I hate hurting them. Definitely don't want to kill them. But they could sound an alarm. I don't have time for easy-ville.

I raise my arms wide, queuing M to grab the guards in a Grav Beam. All of them hover one foot above the concrete, legs kicking air. Two of them fire wide, sending red energy beams through the thunderclouds and into the night sky.

I slap my palms together.

The guards slap together.

Their screams seem louder than the thunder, but my guilt may be cranking it up a few notches ... these aren't bad people, just regular dudes trying to make a living.

And I'm hurting them.

Through the big ball of limbs sticking out at awkward angles, a few arms and legs move. One hand slowly points a rifle at me. I open my arms, spreading the guards with the Grav Beam—and then slam them together again ... and again.

None of them stir after the third time.

"Did that do it?" I say.

_They're out like the proverbial lights around them. _

Pink looks in amazement from the guards to me. "If by 'do it,' you mean, give them all concussions, then yeah, hero, that totally did it."

"If their armor didn't protect them from that lightning, the concussions wouldn't rank high on the worry list."

"Hey, I'm just the blackmailed—if you have a better way to do things, speak up."

_They're unconscious, but alive, Gabe. And it had to be done._

Somehow M comforting me makes me even less comfortable.

"Let's just get this over with." I cross the pad to the elevator leading into The Bend. It doesn't have power, either because of an alarm or the lightning. Still I try the buttons anyway.

_You do know the purpose of electricity, right?_

"Casa, you there?," I say. "The guards are down."

_"Down?"_ Casa's voice comes back through the headset. _"I never told you to 'down' them."_

"I improvised."

A silence passes and I think I hear Casa sigh on the other end. _"You'll have to hurry—"_

"Pink took out the electrical stuff up here. We don't have to worry about cameras."

_"Well, unless you somehow took out their ear 'stuff,' they'll know you're coming. Take the elevator shaft to Prisoner Processing; it's the floor directly below you. There you'll find the two telepaths and four guards protecting a brain floating in a tank."_

" .... Can you repeat that last part again?"

_"How about I repeat the part about hurrying?"_

I slam open the elevator doors with a Grav Blast, exposing an empty shaft with flickering lights. "Casa says we need to go to the next floor and take out the telepaths and guards that are protecting a ... a—"

"Brain tank?" Pink wraps Weather Witch's arms around my neck.

I pull her weight to me and hover us into the shaft. "Why am I the only one weirded out by this?"

"I would explain it to you, but I'm afraid it'll get back to Liberty."

I stop. "Pick a side—right now. Me or them."

She meets my gaze as the rain _tick-tacks_ against the outside of the shaft. "What?"

"You're bitter. I get it. You don't want to be here. I get that. But I already have to put up with more than my fair share of things-that-hate-Galaxy and guess what: I'm not putting up with you too. You have a body, and you know what we're trying to do. Go to Processing and warn them if you want. Hell, go to Liberty and warn him if you want. That might be enough to put you in the clear. But if you stay with me—regardless of your reasons—you're going to stop this passive aggressive bullshit. Cause I'm tired, Pink, and I've got too much on the line to let you distract me. So what's it going to be? Me? Or them?"

She looks away. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Swell. Start freaking acting like it."

Casa doesn't offer up any snide comments. Neither does M. I guess they got the point too. I point my fist at the doors at the next level; M makes the fist glow blue as he readies a Grav Blast.

The blast explodes the doors inward and we make with the haste into Prisoner Processing.

I sling Pink behind an empty desk to my right, sending her into a lightning infused slide across the tile. I fly above the desk with a Grav Blast ready in each hand. A twin pair of bald dudes wearing black trench coats look at us with indifferent faces. Five technicians look at us with scared faces. Four guards look at us with game faces.

And then there is the Brain.

It floats in a large tank of bubbling green water with two freaky ass eyeballs bobbing at the water's surface. A mess of thick wires hooked into the back of the Brain lead out the top of the tank and into rows of computers covering the rear of the room.

_Gabe, I'm sensing that the follicular challenged over there are the telepaths._

The guards raise their guns. The telepaths raise their hands.

I raise hell.

A quick Grav Blast takes the front guard down. The others' energy weapons miss by inches, vaporizing basketball sized chunks of the concrete wall behind me. I make a shoving motion with both hands, sending a wide Grav Blast throughout the room, slamming three of them into the computers.

The twins narrow their eyes in perfect unison. I Grav Blast them against the ceiling, knocking them out. Pink appears next to me, having just taken out the rest of the guards. We free Deathbot, he helps us take down Liberty, Reagan comes back from Florida I find a way to get M out of my body he leaves Earth never to be seen again Reagan and I get married Mom is at the wedding Bo wears a tuxedo top and shorts and the ceremony I knew I should have let him be my best man I've just bought a nice house outside of the city but close enough to be there in fifteen minutes—

"GALAXY!" Pink yells way too close to my ear. "Snap out of it!"

My eyes open (weird—I never closed them). I'm lying on the ground, staring up at one of the leather-clad twins who now has glowing pink eyes ... and I'm powered down into regular Gabe Garrison "I ... what?"

_I hate telepaths._

"The Twins put a whammy on you." She says with a squeaky voice, from inside one of the twins.

I power back up. "How long was I out?"

"Long enough for me to jump in Twin A and take out the others."

"Did they ..."

"No, I don't think any of them saw your face."

I nod and lean against the wall. "Give ... give me a minute. Feels like a just lived a lifetime."

Pink steps over to a computer console next to the Brain. "Your own utopia is the twins' special. It's easier to control you. What did you see?"

"Don't you think that's kind of private?"

_I both witnessed and ruled over all that was, is, and will be. The universe truly existed in a state of absolute perfection ..._

She shrugs with the twin's shoulders. "And?"

_You were dead._

"I've never heard of the twins before. Who are they?"

_"They just go by Twin or Twins,"_ Casa says over the headset. _"They always know to whom you're talking."_

"What is ..." Weather Witch says from the far side of the room. "Where am I?" She slowly stands with one hand on her forehead.

"Hi," I say. "Listen, I can explain, just don't—"

"YOU!" She raises a hand, sparking with electricity.

"Uh-uh," Pink says, flipping a few buttons on the console. The room fills with a red light and the Brain Tank bubbles louder.

Weather Witch throws the lightning at me, like a baseball, but it fizzles into nothing right after leaving her hand. She looks at her fingers, then at me. "What have you done to me?!"

I shrug.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?!" She runs to me, hands held out like claws.

"Sleep," Pink says patiently with the Twin's mouth.

Weather Witch's eyes roll back in her head, and she rag-dolls into my arms. The bubbling in the Brain Tank slows.

I ease Weather Witch to the floor. "What is that thing?"

Pink flips a few switches. "You ever hear of Leech?"

"Yeah, from back in the 70's. Had the power to take other Super's powers."

"He was the last Super that posed a threat to the big guy. He and Liberty were about to do the whole toe-to-toe thing, but the World's Greatest realized he couldn't win, so he hauled tail. Leech saw Liberty run, got cocky and let his guard down."

"But Liberty didn't run ..."

"Oh, he ran, but it was all full circle-y. Liberty made a lap around the world and ripped off Leech's head on the return trip. Later, some Doctor Frankenstein types put this freak show together."

The eyeballs in the tank slowly bob in my direction. "But this Leech dude's Brain is still alive? Like one of those jar things from _Futurama_?"

_"He isn't alive in the strictest sense,"_ Casa says. I turn the headset on speaker. _"The liquid in the tank serves as an artificial nervous system, and the rest of the equipment gives the technicians complete control over his power. When they activate the system, anybody on the far side of that red line on the floor has their powers taken away and stored inside the Brain."_

I check out the faded red line in the middle of the room. I was just barely on the friendly side of it when Pink took Weather Witch's powers away. "Pink, did you even check to see where I was when you turned that thing on?"

"Relax, hero. I could have given you your powers back with a flip of a switch. You wouldn't have had to be on this side of the line either. The powers are drawn back to you like a magnet, no matter where you are."

_"Pink, check the prisoner database to find Deathbot's location."_

Pink pulls an unconscious guard off another computer and pulls up a name database.

"I've been a Superhero for eight months, but I've been following other Superheroes since I was old enough to read. Why have I never heard about this?"

_"Hence the Twins,"_ Casa says. _"They take away all memory of power removal, both from the minds of the prisoners and the guards after they punch their time card. What they put in its place is the idea of an impenetrable prison that can't be broken into or out of. And so far it's worked perfectly: This is the only Super-capable penitentiary with a perfect record."_

"Everybody just buys this crap?"

_"You did." _

_He has a point, Gabe. Beings tend to pay little attention to the refuse as long as it isn't underfoot. _

"Casa, this is a really elaborate setup. Couldn't they just put everybody in a special cell?"

_"Customizing a cell for each prisoner takes too many resources. What would hold somebody with Superstrength isn't going to do jack against a teleporter and vice-versa."_

"Found Deathbot," Pink says from behind me. "He's in Isolation."

"Why doesn't that surprise me? Which way?"

She points to a closed metal door on the other side of the room. "There. You'll pass General Population first. Everybody that the brain-suck here could neuter. Go through the large door on the bottom floor, and you'll be in the Isolation Block."

"So what kind of prisoners could the Brain not be used on?"

"Cyborgs, robots, aliens, demigods—"

"DEMIgods?"

"Vote's still out, but we may have three Greek and two of the Viking ones." Pink flips a switch and the door swings open, exposing a long grey tunnel. A heavy door on the other side looks gargantuan enough to stop a Mac truck doing fifty.

.... Demigods.

_"Okay,"_ Casa says, _" Pink, use the prison monitors to guide Galaxy to Deathbot. Galaxy, once you're there, make your offer. If he accepts, get out of there with him as quickly as you can."_

"Turning me down isn't an option. He's coming one way or another."

_"Pink, can you use baldy's telepathy to keep the guards and prisoners from seeing Galaxy?"_

"I think I can handle the guards, but the prisoners will be too many noggins at once."

I nod and fly into the tunnel.

"Galaxy," Pink says.

I turn.

"Don't frak this up."

"Just handle the guards," I say. "This won't take long."

The vault-like door on the other end of the hallway opens to the top floor of the cell block. Guards stationed at the door ignore me.

The prisoners are another story: After one sees me and yells, it quickly snowballs from one cell to the next and then so on. They look like regular people wearing regular prison orange. Without any kind of tell-tale power or costume, I only recognize a few.

Liberty Girl—not ours, but the one Major Mayhem swapped from the Beta Dimension—yanks on the bars of her third floor cell, tossing her matted black hair back and forth. Two cells down, Ghost gives me that kind of look that people do when they wonder how much money they could make for killing me. On the next level, Matchstick shouts at the top of his lungs, begging for somebody to set me on fire.

And then there are others. Countless others, screaming, crying, pleading, and begging. They're smart enough or have enough experience with all things Super to at least have an idea of what's going on. They want me to tell someone that they didn't do it; they want me to bring the guards to their cells so that they might "talk" to them. The guards themselves stand idly by, every ten cells or so, and face forward, unable to see a single thing around them thanks to Pink.

I reach the door to Isolation on the bottom floor. The Twin's face appears on a monitor next to the door.

_"Got it,"_ Pink says.

The door slides open into a dark hallway. Automated lights click on from the floor and walls. No bars here—just a heavy looking cell door every ten feet, sunk six inches into the black wall. More glassy-eyed guards ignore me as I hover past.

A _click-chick_ behind me turns my head. The guards handcuff themselves to the grating and throw away their weapons.

_"Just in case,"_ Pink says from one of the nearby monitors. _"I'm feeling really strain-y."_

I turn back to the row of cells. "Which one?"

_"He's in cell 1024."_

After walking down ten cells and then taking a right turn, I find it. I take a deep breath.

_Not to late to turn back, Gabe._

"M, it was too late the day we decided to become Superheroes."

_For you perhaps._

The door slides up with a hiss. And there he is.

Deathbot.

Metal cuffs hold his slack body upright to a metal grate. Large black hoses run out of his body and disappear into the floor, walls and ceiling. Monitors beep and click with status readouts of either him, whatever the hoses are doing, or both. He wears the same orange jumpsuit as the other prisoners, but areas of it are ripped away, covered by the purple and black costume he wore the morning he tried to kill me. The chin of his bare skull rests against his chest, but the crown of green flame is missing. A piece of brown intestine slides out of a hole in his stomach and plops to the floor.

_Charming._

I step into the cell and Pink either closes the cell door behind me or it closes automatically. "I thumb the bluetooth off and turn off the monitor next to the door. "Can you tell if he's unconscious?"

_I can, but you'll have to get closer. The nanite technology that composes most of his body plays havoc with my senses._

I step forward. There are several brown stains on the floor surrounding the piece of intestine.

_Closer._

I take another step (did his hand just twitch?). My heart thuds against my chest.

_Okay, now hold your hand up next to his skull._

"Seriously?"

_Do you want to ascertain his condition or no?_

I reluctantly hold my hand up, four inches from Deathbot's boney face.

_..... He's alive, or what passes for it. He appears to be in some sort of stasis, initiated by the equipment he is hooked into. _

"Can you tell what they're doing to him?"

_It looks like the human scientists—and I use that term loosely—are attempting to better understand Deathbot's technology by chemically slowing the nanites' rate of digestion. _

"Woah—digestion?"

M sighs. _Deathbot's nanites digest his host's tissues, which fuels the body's cybernetic reconstruction. Honestly, Gabe, were you even paying attention that night?_

"Why would they want to study that?"

_To build their own of course._

After everything Deathbot has done and everything he is capable of doing, it's hard to believe anybody would be that stupid. Still, it's the only thing that makes sense.

_ I'm much more interested in how he survived and from where he originated. I have no clue about the former, but—based on the design of these cybernetics—I've created a working hypothesis for the latter. _

"And?"

M tells me his theories about Deathbot's origin. My head pounds with the realization that there may be even more at stake here than I originally thought.

"Okay, M. I've heard enough. How do I wake him up?"

_Disconnect the larger hose from the base of his cranium._

I wince and reach behind his skull. With two good yanks, the hose pulls free and leaves a trail of green slime dangling from the attachment and the port. Deathbot's shoulders twitch slightly.

I step back.

A small green flame hisses to life at the top of his skull. Spasms seize his neck and chest and then proceed to his legs. The green flame triples into a blaze. He writhes, head snapping to full attention. Two green dots light up in his eye sockets.

"WHO DARES IMPRISON DEATHBOT?!" he says, in that creepy digitized voice.

"Well the body's different, but I see you're still the same."

"Galaxy ..."

"Which is good 'cause that means your memory is all there."

"RELEASE DEATHBOT!"

"How are you even alive? I saw you die on the bridge."

Deathbot lunges forward, only to slam back against the grate. "FOOL! You have but one chance to continue the mockery you call an existence! You will release Deathbot! Or he will feast upon your organs!"

"But I guess a better question is why do you talk in the third person."

"Take your teeth and scalp as trophies! Wear your bones! Force your loved ones to dine from the bucket of your remains!"

"I came to free you."

Deathbot stops yanking at the restraints. "Your are a fool if you think Deathbot so easily sported."

"If by that, you mean I'm trying to trick you—no, I'm not. But I want some stuff in return."

"Assuming Deathbot agrees to this ... ridiculous notion—what sort of 'stuff' do you require?"

I point at his head with a spacey finger. "Somewhere inside that disgusting melon of yours is a memory of your conversations with Liberty. Like the one where he offered me and Prose up on a platter. I want a copy. I want to know how you survived. And I want to know who sent you after me."

"You ask a great deal more than you offer."

"Well, in my defense, the one thing I'm offering is pretty epic."

The green dots pass back and forth for a moment. "No."

"No? Are you insane? This is the best shot—probably the only shot you're going to have at finishing your mission to kill the Traxel. And you say no?"

Deathbot quickly jerks his head in my direction. "How could you have possibly surmised—"

"Your tech is from the Danine Consortium. There is only one reason why they would build something like you: to fight their enemies—the Traxel."

".... Deathbot will not leave this wretched planet empty-handed. I seek financial compensation that can only be granted with your capture or kill."

"Why? What could a robot-zombie weapon possibly want money for?"

"To rid himself of being a 'robot-zombie weapon.' "

I can't help but laugh. "You mean Deathbot wants to be a real boy?"

"Call it what you wish. But know that the financial condition must be met."

".... Okay, help me and I'll help you. Not with the turning me in part, but I'll get you the money."

"Whatever passes for currency on this ridiculous world is of no real value."

"Fine. Whatever sort of space bucks you need is what I'll get you."

"How?"

"Well, I guess you'll have to agree to find out, won't you?"

The green dots flick back and forth again.

"Tick-tock, Death-y."

"Very well. Your terms are acceptable. I am alive because Silver Sentinel isolated a body infected with my glorious seed—"

"Okay, let's just use 'nanites' from now on, cool?"

" ... only the nanites that were in this body survived the disruption signal he deployed. And after you destroyed my host body, my signal uploaded into this one. Now ... free Deathbot from this infernal contraption."

"Yeah, I don't think so. You still have two more things to deliver." I point at the shackles. "This is the only guarantee you'll come through."

"And if I give you all of the information you seek, I have no guarantee. It appears we are at a standstill."

"Yeah, but I'm not the one trapped in a jail cell."

"Aren't you? If you are so desperate as to come here seeking my aid, you're certainly trapped in some sort of desperate situation."

I get right in Deathbot's face. "I'm calling the shots here, got it? And there is no freaking way I'm freeing you from this thing until you give me exactly what—"

The lights go out in the cell. Emergency lights click on, and an alarm wails throughout the prison.

Deathbot laughs. "You were saying?"

Crap.

I turn to the door and flick on the monitor. "Pink? You there? What's going on?"

Nothing. Deathbot turns his head to the ceiling and laughs even harder.

"PINK?!"

I hold up my hand, getting ready to blast the cell door ... when Pink floats through it, eyes wide with fear.

"Liberty ..." she says in her disembodied voice. "He's here."

# Chapter Four

#

I don't have eyelids when I'm powered up as Galaxy. But if I did, I would've been able to do nothing but blink at Pink for a few moments. I just do the nothing part instead.

"Liberty's here? How is—"

_Focus, Gabe. It doesn't matter. What matters is how do WE stop being here._

"What happened?" I say.

"He got here two minutes ago. Didn't even go through a door. Just tore through the ceiling like it was rice paper. I had just enough time to vacate the Twin's body and high tail it here."

"But it's just him? No other HEROES?"

"Yeah, my guess is we tripped a silent alarm when you came into Deathbot's cell. Something that was Liberty's eyes only."

Given the reason why M thinks they locked up Deathbot in the first place, it would certainly make sense that Liberty wouldn't want anybody else to know if he could help it. "Wait, why didn't you just possess him?"

She shakes her head. "He's had training with Thinkor to resist that kind of stuff."

"Tick-tock, human," Deathbot says, mocking my earlier tone.

Pink looks over my shoulder at the cybernetic living dead. "Has he given you the file yet?"

_Gabe, we are out of options and almost out of time._

I sigh.

"Guess that's a no," she says.

"We're going to have to fight our way out." I cross the room to Deathbot and shatter the manacles around his wrists with two Grav Blasts. "All of us."

"All of—are you kidding?! He has a flaming skull for Christ's sake! They don't come any more villain-y than that!"

With a loud metal clang, Deathbot jumps down from the machine and yanks out the remaining hoses.

"Deathbot will give us an advantage. Liberty won't expect it—and the nanites almost killed him last time, so Liberty will be afraid. Maybe more than he would be of just us anyway."

Pink rolls her eyes.

"Hey, I'm running on empty here. If you have a better idea, I'm all for it."

Ripping cloth from the rear of the cell grabs our attention. Deathbot's nanites ripple underneath rotting flesh and torn clothing. A series of blinking lights and purple metal webs out of his upper torso. His right forearm splits down the center, exposing a laser cannon still covered in red chunks of meat and bone.

"Oh, that is messed up," Pink murmurs.

"It is Deathbot who shall be doing the messing up today, human!"

Pink looks at me. "Is he for real?"

"In the worst way. Come on." I fire a Grav Blast into the cell door, blowing it off the hinges. I step into the hallway, turn left and pass the two handcuffed guards at the hatch. Both of them stop tugging at the cuffs just long enough to stare at us walk by. We go through the hatch, separating Isolation from General Population ...

And see Liberty on the ceiling monitors, looking down at us.

Looking down at me.

With a creepy quiet, the prisoners eagerly look from the monitors to us. The guards are no longer here. I guess Liberty cleared them out.

_"I have to admit, son, out of all the silly things I thought you'd try, this one didn't even make the list."_

I step in front of Deathbot and Pink. "Let them go. This is just between us."

_"See, that's always been your problem, Galaxy. You fail to see the consequences of your actions. They don't just affect you."_

_Thank you._

"You're one to talk," Pink says.

He laughs, incredulously. _"I'm not the betrayer here, Daisy, you are."_

_Daisy? _

_ "So what exactly were your thirty pieces of silver?"_

Pink crosses her arms.

_"That's okay, kid. I don't suppose I'd have anything to say either."_

"Don't. You. Dare." I point at the monitor. "You're not the hero here! You pretend this is all about the greater good, pretend you're doing humanity a favor. But the truth is you're nothing more than a sadist looking for an itch to scratch."

_"And what were the prison personnel you crippled on the roof? I suppose they were sadists too?"_

"I didn't ..."

_"Suffering is suffering, Galaxy. Now who is pretending?"_

"THE CRETIN KNOWN AS GALAXY IS MANY THINGS, LIBERTY! HE IS A SIMPLETON, AN EMASCULATED WORM, INARTICULATE SCUM!"

"Not helping ..."

"BUT HE IS NOT A PRETENDER!"

_"And now your advocate is a villain that almost destroyed the city. I would say the mighty hath fallen, but that would require you to have at least stood at some point."_

" 'I figure civilian casualties will be around twenty percent. By the time we cover it up, it'll be more like five percent.' Remember saying that to Deathbot two months ago, Liberty? I do. And more importantly Deathbot does inside that cybernetic noodle."

The corner of Liberty's mouth slightly raises into a sneer.

"We're going to share it with the world in about five minutes. You call Deathbot my advocate? More like your executioner."

Random cell doors clank open throughout the block.

I, involuntarily, take a step back.

_"Attention inmates,"_ Liberty says, _"by now you have no doubt surmised there is an escape attempt in progress."_

M gets a Grav Blast ready in each hand ... "Pink, you said powers are drawn back like a magnet? What's the range of that metaphorical magnet?"

Pink darts from one side of me to the other. "Enough."

_"Let me be perfectly frank, I've released several of you and restored your powers."_ Liberty flicks some switches off screen. _"A full pardon will be granted to the inmates that capture or kill these three individuals."_

Deathbot's bazooka blaster thing _click-clacks_ into place above his right shoulder. His arm cannon makes a high-pitched whine.

Matchstick, the Circus Six, and that little psychopath Liberty Girl step out of open cells.

_"Try not to make a mess."_

The entire Circus Six—Monkey Wrench, Elephant Man, Lion, Lioness, Grizzly, and Slither—leap over the railing one at a time, falling directly at us in their animal forms.

With a high pitched scream, Monkey Wrench is the first. He is more monkey than man, with long furry arms stretched out and lips curled away from angry looking teeth that he wants to sink into me.

Pink never gives him the chance.

She possesses him mid-fall and immediately angles his body's trajectory, slamming him into Elephant Man's trunk. In a bright flash of pink light, she possesses Elephant Man and grabs the confused Monkey Wrench around the torso. All three tons of her lands on the ground with a thunderous boom, and she then slams Monkey Wrench against the nearest wall. He falls to the ground, leaving a large red stain.

The rest of the Six land around the anthropomorphic elephant with glowing pink eyes. Grizzly yells, flinging slobber everywhere. Lion and Lioness growl, and six inch claws slide out of their paws. Slither coils up his ten-foot body to strike.

I raise my arm, ready to fire a Grav Blast at Slither, when Liberty Girl fly-punches me in the face, knocking me six inches into the nearest wall.

"Do you think I'm pretty?" she says with a girly whisper. I pull myself out of the wall in time for her knee to say howdy to my gut. It doesn't hurt, but I have to go with the momentum—back into the wall. She comes at me again, but I stop her with a blue Grav Blast to the face. She shakes her head and flies up, stopping twenty feet above me.

"You don't! You don't think I'm pretty! I'll kill you! I'll—" what comes next is the most impressive, hate and gore filled string of obscenities I've ever heard. Deathbot, about to fire a blast at Matchstick, pauses to face Liberty Girl.

You know some messed up shit is coming out of your mouth if you give that dude pause.

She flies at me, but another Grav Blast stops her short. She covers her face, flips head over feet through the air a couple of times and stops at a hover. She shrills a sonic attack at me, sending blue ripples through the air. They collide with my force field, ramming me into the cell door behind me.

_Gabe, you need to put her out of commission quickly. That sonic attack just sent our energy level to fifty percent._

"Already?"

_Hey, I'm the one managing the energy level—you're the one that has to keep us from getting shot, remember?_

She lets loose with another series of screams that tear into the cell behind me. I fly out of the way and the cell door caves in. The blue ripples follow me around the cell block—like machine gun fire they tear into metal, flesh and bone. Prisoners scream.

I fly up to her. She tries to blast me close range right before I send three quick Grav Blasts into her face. Her eyes roll back in her head and she thuds to the floor, twenty feet below. Thank God she isn't as strong as Liberty or that never would have worked.

_Gabe, DIVE!_

I twist and dive in mid air as Matchstick sends a gush of red flame right where I was.

Deathbot, standing in a burning crater, fires a blast at Matchstick from his arm cannon. Matchstick—powered up and covered in an armor of blue flame—absorbs the blast and flies into Deathbot. The two go into a tumbling skid of flaming limbs and purple metal.

Pink backhands Lion with Elephant Man's massive arm. Lion leaps onto her back and sinks his fangs into her neck. She falls back. Letting the weight of the body crush him with a loud thud. Slither wraps around her, and Pink leaves Elephant Man's body right before Slither's fangs sink into her neck.

Pink rushes across the prison, flashes into Matchstick and then separates the blue flaming body from Deathbot. "Take them!" She yells. She turns and roasts the remaining Circus Six with a geyser of red fire, pouring from Matchstick's hands. Deathbot, still partially engulfed in flames, quickly puts the situation together and turns his shoulder bazooka on the Circus Six.

The bad guys never stand a chance.

They flail about, bodies immersed in an inferno, acting like running somewhere will help. There aren't any screams—either because I can't hear them over the roaring fire or their vocal cords have melted.

Elephant Man exits the carnage, arms covering his face. Aside from a few patches of flame here and there, his thick hide seems to be protecting him from the worst that Matchstick's powers have to offer.

But it doesn't do jack against Deathbot's shoulder bazooka.

A high pitched whine is the only warning Elephant Man gets before a big ball of yellow energy burns through his stomach and explodes out his back. Elephant Man trumpets in agony before collapsing onto the ground.

The flames extinguish as soon as Pink lowers Matchstick's hands, leaving only blackened bodies and a scorched concrete floor.

More cell doors open.

I fly to Pink and Deathbot. "We can't keep this up forever. They're eventually gonna overtake us."

"Speak for yourself, human! Deathbot's might shall win this day!"

Liberty talks to someone behind him on the screen.

I turn to Matchstick's pink eyes. "Can you get to processing, close to the Brain?"

"I don't know. Maybe. But why—" she stops and puts it all together. "That will never work."

"How do you know? Have you tried it?"

"No, but it's not alive."

"It's kind of alive."

She looks in the direction of Processing. "And the equipment ..."

"I'll take care of the equipment."

"AND Liberty's there. He'll just destroy the Brain before I can—"

"I'll distract him. You do the rest."

"Galaxy, I—"

"You do the rest."

Matchstick's head reluctantly nods.

"COME, FOOLS! FEEL THE WRATH OF DEATHBOT!" Deathbot repeatedly fires his arm cannon.

I turn and look at Liberty's new prisoner line-up: Glop, Multiplicity, Brick, and Mortar. Deathbot's shot blows apart Glop, sending chunks of his green snot looking body in every direction. The pieces instantly start moving toward one another as Glop tries to reform.

"Can you show me the power lines leading into Prisoner Processing?"

"How am I supposed to know where they are?" Pink says, a look of annoyance on Matchstick's fiery face.

_.... Yes—the power feeding that equipment is considerable._

In my vision, M highlights a network of wires in shades of blue. They start under the floor, go behind the concrete wall and disappear to the right of the door leading to Processing. I fly up, holding out my hand for a Grav Blast, but M doesn't do anything.

"What—"

_What good will this do, Gabe? You have no guarantee Pink's powers will work on that thing._

Multiplicity slides on a piece Glop and collides with a wall, triggering his power. With a _flamf_ , he's created two more of himself.

"M!"

M blasts the section to the right of the door. The blue highlights throughout the room flicker and then fade as Prisoner Processing and the Brain Tank loses power.

The group of Multiplicities run toward Deathbot.

Before I can say anything, the Cyborg quickly fires his arm cannon at the one in front. The lead Multiplicity goes down in a tumble of arms and legs, but his body slams into the other two, producing six more who collide into the others producing eighteen more, and then so on and so on.

Pink flies up to join me as Brick, Mortar, and Deathbot disappear under a rushing wave of orange _flames_. Pink shoots a jet of flame from Matchstick's hands. Dozens of Multiplicities fall away, screaming and burning.

"NO!" I say. "You may kill Deathb—"

Liberty flies into me with a kick to the stomach.

M's forcefield can stop an eighteen wheeler traveling sixty; it can stop a bazooka; it can stop a grenade. It can even stop a collapsing roof of an Italian Restaurant from leaving so much as a bruise.

But, I gotta say, that kick from Liberty hurt like hell.

Without even realizing it, I've been sent into a cell and through a prisoner's body. M's forcefield is the only reason I'm alive and not covered in some unknown person's entrails. I stand as a chunk of prisoner drops from the ceiling. I catch a glimpse of the hatch that leads to Prisoner Processing: Liberty didn't even bother to open it—he just tore through the massive door like it was tissue paper. And not only that, he did it with such speed that M didn't even have time to warn me.

And I said I would _distract_ this guy?

Liberty hovers into the cell, arms crossed. As if he's posing for a camera.

"You can scream now."

He tackles me through the wall.

And another wall.

And another wall.

We stop in the cafeteria. He crosses the room right as I hit the floor, sliding backwards on my heels. I raise both hands in front, queuing M for a Grav Blast.

It's the only thing that saves my life.

Liberty hits the blast with the full force of a punch—as in the same punch that sank battleships in World War II. The same punch that knocked the Zyborg destroyer into the sun. The same punch he's going to use to kill Mom later if this plan continues south.

He throws another punch—I deflect it with another blast. The sheer force of it scatters tables and chairs. He raises his hand for another ...

But—with a little boost from a Grav Beam—I punch first. His head rolls to the right. I punch again, sending him to the floor. I punch again, sending his head _into_ the floor. I punch again ...

He snatches my fist—pulls me to him—and smiles ...

I never even saw the hit that sent me through the roof and into the night sky.

I recover my senses just in time to fly to the right—he streaks past in a flash of gold and red. We hover thirty feet from each other, the moon to my right.

"Very few people can say they've hit me hard enough for me to feel it," he says. "Even fewer can say they've survived what you have."

"In their defense, you've probably never given them much of a chance to say anything."

Liberty crosses the space between us in less time than it takes to blink and gives me a two-fisted punch.

I skid off the roof of the Electric Power Board building, four miles away.

After a hard bounce off the brick building across the street and the sidewalk below, I land on top of the Rivoli Theatre sign. Sparks fly from its broken bulbs, and a few letters of a Kris Kristofferson concert flutter to the ground. Man, I think the Prose reconstruction Supers just got this thing fixed too.

"Thank you for making my point," I say without even looking to see if Liberty's here yet. Why bother?

"You want to know what your problem is, Galaxy?" Liberty says from above.

"Are you implying that I have the option of your NOT telling me?"

He picks me up by the throat and hovers us above Main Street. Cars slam on the breaks to check out the coolness that is him and the about to be dead that is me.

"Your problem is that you never take anything seriously. Even now, when you're about to lose everything, you're making jokes."

I take hold of every car in the lot behind Liberty with a Grav Beam.

"Which I'm sure are nothing more than some sort of pathetic coping mechanism," he says.

"Actually, they're also a spectacular means of distraction."

The forty cars slowly surround us. Some pass in front of street lights, casting a shadow. Liberty looks back.

That's all I need.

I pull away from his grip—my Grav Beam slams the cars into him from every direction. I clap my hands together, screeching the massive ball tighter. And tighter. It goes from the size of an eighteen wheeler to a Cadillac. It slams to the ground, crashes into the theatre lobby and grinds to a halt.

I land on the street, out of breath. "M, can you get a reading?"

_You mean of Liberty? Loud and clear._

My stomach falls to somewhere below the pavement. "Are you kidding me?"

_What did you expect, Gabe? That man can survive a nuclear blast. Did you really think a few cars would slow him down?_

I don't say anything because that is exactly what I thought. And I'm ashamed to say, I was hoping for a bit more.

The tangled mess of car rolls slightly to the side and begins to bubble red at the top. I raise my hand, signaling M to ready a Grav Beam. If nothing else, I'll just shoot the whole thing into space. Maybe I can drag it to the sun before—

The cars explode. Shrapnel flies through the building and into the vehicles on the street.

The vehicles with people in them.

"NO!" I change my hand motion, signaling M for a force field. Surprisingly, he doesn't hesitate to form a barrier protecting the dozens of innocent people from the shower of deadly metal.

It's all the distraction Liberty needs to grab me by the neck and spin me through the EPB building. I come out on the other side and he's already there, eyes still glowing red. He slams me with a fist, sending me through the aquarium, one mile away. I come through the other side of several concrete walls, two fish tanks and the river opens up below me ... and Liberty is already there, vein bulging in the side of his forehead.

He hits me again.

By the time I have my arms up to deflect the blow, I'm back at the UTP campus, going through the Rackenzie Arena and out the other side ... Liberty is waiting for me again. He grabs me by the upper arm and neck and flies us into the side of the Blue Cross building, two blocks away. My face and body grind through I don't know how much concrete.

He bites his bottom lip so hard it draws blood.

And then we're in the river.

He drags me across the bottom of the Tennessee, forming a ten mile trench from the aquarium all the way to the 153 bridge. He throws me out of the river ahead of him and I hit the ground right next to the Rickamauga Dam.

I roll onto my back, fully expecting another hit. Or pain. Or both.

"M?" I cough a little and it hurts to breathe. "Where ... is ..."

_I'm not reading him. _

I look around, like an idiot. M senses reach pretty far in all directions. If he can't detect Liberty, there's no way I can see him. And then it hits me. Or what Pink said about the way Liberty killed Leech hits me ...

"M! Give me a reverse Grav Beam a hundred and eighty degrees from where Liberty took off! Full strength!"

_Gabe, that's going to be a serious drain on our power—you can't just—_

"DO IT!" I spin on my heal and throw up my hands, like I'm trying to catch a softball from hell.

The air in front of me shivers and the light bends with a shade of blue.

And then Liberty appears from nowhere. He has just enough time to give me a look of totally sweet surprise before our reverse beam bounces him in the opposite direction. He disappears into the stars.

I go down to my knees right when the sonic boom hits. I guess M protects my ears because it's not that loud.

"Do we have enough power to get back to The Bend?"

_Just barely._

__

***

The flight back to The Bend takes two minutes. Two minutes of constantly looking for Liberty over my shoulder ... two minutes of feeling him breathing down my neck. I land on the roof next to where the pile of unconscious guards was and jog through the rain, towards the elevator shaft. If Pink hasn't been able to get to the Brain yet ...

Liberty's feet hit my upper back and we go through the roof of The Bend, into Prisoner Processing. Chunks of concrete and metal scatter throughout the room. I land on the tile floor and slide into the wall as Gabe Garrison.

I'm out of power.

Crap.

I stand and immediately fall back down. "M! What—"

_That's only a fraction of the pain that you would be feeling if I hadn't have taken the time to heal the life-threatening injuries. All that you're left with is some fractures, bruises, and lacerations._

I stand again and marvel that my life has come to the point that having fractures is lucky.

Liberty hovers above the rain-soaked tile. Lightening flashes above him. Emergency lighting flickers on and off. The eyes in the Brain Tank bob in the green water. "What ... you're not gonna just kill me out right?"

Liberty lands and crosses over the red line to me. He clutches my throat and slams me against the wall. "There's something to be said for the anticipation."

The eyes in the Brain Tank on the other side of the room slowly turn and look at me ... and glow pink.

I reach into my pocket. "You got that right." I jab Casa's stun gun into Liberty's neck—a rush of angry clicks sends him to the ground.

I stand. Even though I hurt like hell, the sight of a hurting and surprised Liberty gives me a second, third, and forth wind.

"What ..." he looks at his hands as if he's never seen them. "What did you do to me?"

"It's not what I did ... _son_. It's what Pink did—or do you prefer Daisy?"

I kick him in the face. His nose breaks and he lands on his back, surprised at the pain—surprised at what pain feels like.

"You remember that brain you ripped out of Leech and dunked in a tank fifty years ago?" I pick up a broken rebar from the rubble. "The one that you use to take a villain's powers away? The one that you apparently left unguarded?"

"You ... she ..."

I jab him in the chest with a rebar. "Took your powers away."

"But you—"

"Don't think it worked on me."

_Nope._

I shrug. "Apparently I'm like a demigod or something."

"But I—"

"You? You can scream now."

I hit him in the chest with the rebar.

He grunts and goes to the ground. He tries to get up but trips on his cape. I whack him again in the rib cage. He screams and rolls over, face twisted in pain and anger.

I hit him again, breaking his arm with a satisfying _crack!_ He reaches up at me, yelling my name. He is about to say something else too, but another _crack_ breaks his jaw. He goes down, his eyes slightly rolling up in his head, trying to say something else. _Crack!_ —broken ankle.

_Crack!_ —broken knee.

_Crack!_ —broken face.

_Crack!_

_Crack!_

_Crack!_

"STOP!" a voice says, inches from my ear.

I freeze, with the rebar raised right above Liberty's temple. His face is bloody and swollen, like that Kuato baby thing from _Total Recall. _

Pink drifts closer to me. The rain showers through her. "Don't do this."

"Why? What do you care? He deserves this! He deserves worse!"

"But you don't. You don't deserve what you'll become."

_Don't listen to her, Gabe. This is the best way. The only way to make sure he never threatens us—your mother again. _

"Believe me, Gabe, I know."

_So do I. If you let him live, you'll be looking over your shoulder the rest of your life. _

"What if Casa is right? What is this city, this country, this world going to do when he's gone? They're going to look for a replacement. They're going to look for somebody to be him."

_And you can't do all that if you're dead._

"You can be that person someday. But if you do things the way he did them, things aren't going to get any better, are they? You'll lose a big piece of yourself today, and you'll keep losing little tinier pieces of yourself until there is nothing left."

I look at Pink. Really look at her for the first time since meeting her. Her haunted eyes, the surprising moment of sincerity, both tell me she knows exactly what she is talking about.

The rebar splashes into a puddle next to my feet.

_You're just not going to be satisfied until we're dead, are you?_

I walk to the wall, slap my back against it and slide down into the puddle, breathing heavily. Pink meanders up next to me.

The hatch leading to the cell block opens and, with a couple of metallic _splish-splashes_ , in walks Deathbot. The orange uniform was apparently burned away completely, and his nanites have completed the purple and black costume, along with cape and disco-style collar. Some sparking from an open wound in his shoulder and in his torso tell me he may be in rough shape like me.

He takes in everything and then looks at us. "Would now not be a good time to depart?"

He has a point. I thumb the headset back on. "Casa, you there?"

_"WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON IN THERE?!"_

"Guess that's a yes ..."

_"I've been hearing sonic booms, weapons fire—"_

"Are the police on the way?"

_"Should the police be on the way?"_

"Yes. Or the rest of HEROES. Or both."

_".... We've won, haven't we?"_

"Are you going to answer my question?"

_"No, nobody's on the way. And I suspect they're not going to be on the way until somebody inside the prison makes it to a phone." _

I look at Pink. "What did you do with the rest of the personnel?"

"Didn't have to do anything. Liberty initiated a code red, sending all of them into the tunnels under the prison. Only HEROES are supposed to be up here. Cell phone signals won't be worth jack either, so we have some time."

"You sure all of them are down there?"

"Yes, human, _we_ are sure."

_Subtle._

"What about Matchstick and Multiplicity?" How did you beat them?"

"I am Deathbot. They are not."

"I'll fill you in later," Pink says. "We gotta mosey."

I move a little bit. God, it really hurts. "I can't fly anywhere for about fifteen minutes. Casa, we used The Brain on Liberty. It worked pretty well. I'm surprised you didn't think of it. Being the genius that you are and all."

_"Of course I thought of it. Remember the part where I told you I would feed you the plan bit by bit?"_

The full realization of Casa's plan hits me: He'd wanted to use The Brain against Liberty all along. But we needed something to bait him out. Something like a robot zombie rigged with silent alarms that went straight to Liberty. "Oh."

_"Damn right 'oh.' I'm amazed you're still alive."_

_You get used to it_ , M says.

_"I was going to tell you to do it before you disconnected the transmission. Something I can't wait to hear the reason behind."_

"Save that for a later time," Deathbot says. "For now, there is the matter of payment." I think I hear his arm cannon power up.

"And there is still the matter of that video file. And the person that sent you after me."

"The person is an information broker named Tibus Maul. He resides on a space station thirty light years from here."

"And that's it?"

"What more did you expect?"

"Oh, I don't know, what's his favorite movie? Does he have any hobbies? And, oh yeah, why the hell is he after me?"

"I do not know, nor did I care to ask. Furthermore, the arrangement took place between him and Liberty. The only conversation I have on record with Liberty is the one you quoted earlier, ever so dramatically."

_He's calling YOU dramatic?_

Deathbot reaches into a compartment in his upper leg and retrieves a small piece of purple plastic with a microchip and a silver tip. He tosses it to me. "That will interface with most of your primitive technology. It has the coordinates to Maul's location as well as the video you requested. Now, where is Deathbot's payment?"

"You want payment." I point. "There it is."

Deathbot's glowing green eyes follow my finger to Liberty. "Surely, you jest."

I stand and hope I don't wince. "Think about it. How much do you think the Zyborg Empire would pay for a neutered and gift wrapped Liberty? He's defeated them how many times?"

Deathbot stands there for a moment, looking at us. The rain falls through one of the many holes in the roof and hisses in the green flame. "Agreed."

"Hold on. I want a guarantee that you're never going to set foot on Earth again."

Deathbot taps a couple of buttons in his wrist. "As soon as my ship arrives from orbit, you will not see me ... until I'm ready for you to see me."

"Not good enough."

Deathbot laughs. "You are in no position to dictate further terms. You are welcome to prove me wrong."

I slowly walk to him. Not because I'm trying to be dramatic, but because I hurt like hell. "You step foot on this planet again, Deathbot, it will be the last step you ever take. You are welcome to prove _me_ wrong."

# Epilogue

#

_"... Did you find him, Earthling?"_

_"Do you care to rephrase your tone, Deathbot?" _

_"Did you find my bounty, Liberty?"_

_"I did, but Sentinel got a little trigger happy and I had to do damage control. The kid got away."_

_"I hope that you sufficiently dealt with it, and him, for your sake."_

_"Let me make something clear to you which should already be painfully obvious. This kid beat the hell out of you this morning. I beat the hell out of the kid just a moment ago. That means I can, in turn, beat the hell out of you. The only reason I haven't yet is because it's easier for me to just give him to you, so you'll keep your little nanites under control and then leave my planet."_

_"But don't think for a single minute that I won't bag your ass right here. I figure civilian casualties will be around twenty percent. By the time we cover it up, it'll be more like five percent. I've dealt with worse; Prose has dealt with worse. It'll recover and I'll have even more support for the Wertham Act. Long story short: killing you will leave me a huge mess to clean up, but it's a mess I can turn to my advantage if I need to."_

_"Well ... I shall assist you in looking for him."_

_"No. I've got enough to worry about keeping those other idiots under control. I don't need to worry about holding your hand too ..."_

__

_"Hey, HEROES, here's a QuickTime of your favorite Superhero, Galaxy. What you just heard was a recording taken by Deathbot the night Silver Sentinel blew a hole through my shoulder. And then I sent him into space. Remember that, Sentinel? I do. It was awesome."_

_"Anyway, I'm sending you this thing for two reasons. Reason number one: You may not have realized just how much of a douche your pal Liberty was. Even though he told me to register that night, he never had any plans for letting me. He was just gonna hand me over to Deathbot first chance he got. And if you guys didn't know about this, it means that if any of you had caught up with Deathbot first, you idiots (Liberty's words, not mine) probably would've ended up just as bad as me."_

_"Reason number two: If you guys come after me, Pink, or any unregistered Super simply because they're unregistered, this ditty goes viral. There's bound to be an investigation. If you guys were involved, you'll be implicated. If you guys weren't involved, you'll be implicated. If you manage to take me out quick and dirty—y'know, by sneaking up on me or something, I've got friends that will viral this thing for me and they've got friends and so on." _

_"I'm sure you think I might be lying. And you might be right. But there's only one way to find out. So please—try me."_

__

***

_Try me, Gabriel? Try me? Was that absolutely necessary?_

I close the door behind me and lock the deadbolt. Liberty's beer is still on the coffee table.

"Nope. But it sure felt good." It's unlike Mom to leave stuff out like this. I grab the beer bottle and walk into the kitchen, flicking on the light.

_Oh, it felt good. Okay. Remind me to ask you if it 'feels good' whenever Thinkor lobotomizes us. Or Silver Sentinel blasts another hole through us. Or when Liberty somehow finds a way off the Zyborg home world and back into our tortured lives._

"Casa said this was a good plan. And, it's not the best, but it's all we got right now. It seems too perfect to work, but ..." I drop the beer bottle into the garbage with a sharp plink. "What we were doing wasn't working either."

Mom waves at me through the window, from the back porch. M told me she was back there as we flew home, and he healed the last of my hurt.

I open the back door and the crisp, winter air rushes me along with a dachshund pawing at my feet and pumping its tail back and forth. "Hey, Petey." I kneel and scratch behind Petey's ear.

_I still can't believe you kept that blasted canine. You know what it represents to me._

He collapses onto his side and rolls onto his back, exposing a belly begging to be rubbed. "That's why I love it."

Mom sets her glass of red wine on the wooden patio table. "Because he lets you rub his belly?"

"Yeah, I try to do this to the girls at school, but they always get upset."

Mom laughs. It's a good, honest laugh that I haven't heard much over the past few years. Which is why it's going to make what I'm about to do—what I'm about to say—so much harder. I sit next to her. "How was your day?"

_That's how you're going to start telling her about me?_

"Good. Really good. I was hoping to hear from Jacob today, but I guess all that stuff at The Bend kept him busy." She takes another sip of wine.

I suddenly become engrossed in a loose stitch on my blue jeans. "Mom, there's something I have to ... that I need to say."

She puts her hand on my knee. "Okay, but me first. I've been wanting to tell you this all day."

"Okay."

"I wanted to say I'm sorry. For not really being there the way I should have since your father died. I was resentful. Not at you of course, but at ... everything. I felt that I couldn't ever have anything good in life, you know? It seems like ... ever since I was a child, everything that I've ever liked or loved has been taken—ripped away from me." She looks at the bare trees in the backyard, but she's not really looking at them. "I can remember, with absolute clarity, the four most happiest days in my life. Day one: your father proposed to me. Day two: Jack was born. Day three: the doctor said your father's cancer had gone into remission. And day four: the adoption agency called to say you were born healthy and that we could come pick you up."

"And all of those things, except the last one, have been taken from me." She finishes her wine. The moon reflects off a tear streaming down her left cheek.

I put my hand on top of hers. Petey clumsily jumps in her lap and puts both of his front paws on top of our hands. Mom and I don't talk about Dad and Jack much. I was only six when both of them died, so I don't have a lot of memories to share. But just listening is always enough.

Mom wipes away the tears, and places the empty wine glass back on the table. "You're still here, but you're going to college and—" she laughs—"God, as selfish as this is, it feels like I'm losing you too. Not in the same way, but I won't see you as much. Even less than I'm already seeing you."

"Well, I'm still going to be here. I'm still going to be here a lot."

"I know. But it won't be in the same way. And, I ... it upset me. I'm not ready. So I think I pulled away from you even more. And maybe if I had been there more for you, all of this stuff you went through with your anxiety problems never would have happened."

"You don't know that."

"Neither do you."

"Mom ... I—it's fine. You don't have anything to worry about."

"Well, I'm not finished. I also wanted to say that ... since I've been with Jacob, I've been very happy. And even though part of me is expecting it to end, expecting the other shoe to drop right on my face, I'm still glad we're together. I'm not glad that it took our being together to make me realize I had so much to apologize for." She sniffs. "Now, what did you want to say?"

I think about me. I think about M. I think about all the Superhero craziness that is my life on a day to day basis. I think about the boyfriend that my mom is so glad that she found and how he is one of the cruelest people that I've ever known. I think about how he's in the back of a spaceship right now headed to the Zyborg home world. I think about how ready I was to tell her all of this tonight and then I say the only possible thing I could think to say at that moment: "I'm glad you're happy."

***

I close the door to my room and look up at the pink mist, vaguely shaped like a tweenage girl, floating high above my bed.

"So, did you tell all?" Pink says.

_He didn't even tell some._

I sit on the bed. "No. I couldn't. She's ... it's complicated. I just couldn't."

"Mom, I'm a Superhero, your boyfriend's a jerk that wants to kill me. What's complicated about that?"

_Right?_

I sigh and open the window. "Let me worry about it. You wanted to hang around to see how it went, and I just told you, so ... out you go."

"Uh—no."

"What do you mean 'uh—no.' ?"

She floats down to me and I resist the urge to fan her away. "It's almost one. As in A.M. I'm not leaving now. Where am I supposed to go?"

"You don't—" and then it hits me. I'm such an idiot. Pink may appear like a tweenage girl, but she has to be pushing twenty years old by now. She's been living in HEROES tower since her "condition" started. She probably doesn't have anywhere else to go. "Okay, fine you can stay here tonight and—wait, do you even sleep?"

"Forget this. I'm out of here."

"Why didn't you try to possess me at Casa's?" I say hurriedly.

That stops her suddenly, with wide eyes.

"It's because you tried and couldn't, right? And I don't remember it, so it must have been when I was asleep."

" .... I tried the night I went after Villainous," she says with tired eyes. "I thought it would be the best way—the quickest way—to find out what you were capable of. I couldn't do it for whatever reason, so I used Captain Strong instead."

"Do you know why you couldn't?"

"There are three types of people that I can't possess: people with a very specific type of telepathic block, cyborg brains, and ... people that are already possessed."

"Well, I guess you'll have to add me to the list—for whatever reason."

_If she can't take control of a person already under some sort of outside control, it stands to reason my original hypothesis was correct: My being your host protects you from the wrath of the Pink Witch._

I rub my forehead.

"Gabe, I'm not a nice person. I've never pretended to be, and I'm not apologizing. But ... know that I am trying to be ... something better than what I am. It's just going to take some time." She drifts to the window.

"No." I shut the window. "You can't. Leave I mean. You have nowhere to go, and I want you to stay. Stay and feel guilty. It's what a person ... trying to be better would do."

"So it has nothing to do with you feeling guilty about blackmailing me?"

".... Why should I feel guilty about doing the right thing? Besides—eye for an eye and all that."

She looks at the window and then at me, raising her head slightly. "Fine. I'll stay. But I'm not going to feel guilty. It's not who I am."

"Fine."

"Fine." She floats back up to the ceiling. "Just leave the ceiling fan off."

"I'll leave it off, but just because I normally would anyway."

"Fine."

"Fine." I'm about to take off my pants—stop, and then get under the covers first. My pants plop to the floor a few seconds later.

"Gabe ... do you think HEROES is going to back off?"

"Casa seemed to think it would work."

"Dodge questions much?"

"Okay, I don't know."

"They can't have everybody thinking they can just get away with the stuff that you did today," she says.

"With the stuff that we did."

"Don't remind me."

"Look, we won today, okay? Let's just leave it at that for a while."

_Don't be so sure, Gabe. We still need to talk to this Maul person, which presents another set of problems. We can make the trip to the coordinates Deathbot provided easily enough, but The Council will be able to track us shortly after leaving the protection of Earth's atmosphere. _

"Let's just leave it at that ..."

I close my eyes and sleep takes me before I realize I'm took.

I wake up and look at the alarm clock: It's three A.M. I roll over to find a better position.

And Pink is laying next to me, eyes closed.

_She settled in right after you fell asleep. I find it baffling: with the nature of her body, one would think she would be just as comfortable in the air as on a bed. _

I look at her closely. Her features have shifted. She no longer looks like a tweenage girl, but instead like a woman in her late teens or early twenties.

Holy crap—she makes herself appear as a kid on purpose.

"There's nothing baffling about being lonely, M," I whisper. "Even if you do it to yourself."

I stare at her until I fall back asleep.

CONTINUE THE ADVENTURE WITH THE 5-8 COLLECTION!

# About the Author

#

When Sevan Paris isn't involved in things UTCish, he is doing something incredibly geeky, probably involving superheroes. He enjoys all things comics, Transformers, Science Fiction, and anything George Lucas related prior to 1999. Despite each of these child-like addictions, his wife, Cindy, continues to love him in a super adult-like fashion. You can keep up with his many ramblings and release schedule at sevanparis.com.
