Michael Straczynski and belongs to him and Top Cow Comics. I'm not making
any profit off this story, please don't sue
Feedback and flames are welcome.
***
Cold Fire.
The dragon squints thoughtfully at me, "Wake up, Kev. Coooome oooon."
There is something wrong... I'm fairly sure that the dragons are not supposed
to
be pink. Not one fairy tale described the dragons as pink. With polka
dots.
Not one.
Shaking me with one great paw he leans closer and I feel the scent of
jasmine on his breath, "Wake up, you big log! Come on!" Finally giving
up
and realizing that my chances to be left alone and finish the dream
are slight to nil, I resign myself and open one eye. The pink beastie disappears
in a puff and I come back to reality.
"Jess... have I ever told you how much I appreciate having a sister?"
"Not nearly enough." She's grinning at me in that special way your siblings have, when they realize just how close you are to committing homicide.
"From there comes a moral..."
"Oh, get over it, you grouch. Honestly, you sound like an old man sometimes. Get up, get up, geeet uuup "
"First of all I _am_ an old man. My twentieth birthday was yesterday,
remember? Listen and be amazed at the creaking of my bones.
Secondly... what's the damn hurry? You wouldn't believe the dream I
was having..."
"Poet is coming."
Damn.
"I'll be down in a minute."
Jess grins at me and vamooses. She's 17 and has a hell of a crush on
Poet. Which is understandable, I guess. He is tall, dark, brooding,
handsome. The
outsider. The black sheep of our twisted little "family." And he's
an artiste-type to boot. Although for the life of me I can never understand
why
some of them insist on those silly names. Poet, Patriot, Sacnctuary...
I mean even those of us who decided to play at superheroes are not exactly
low
profile. Oh well... none of my business.
It's weird. My most profound thoughts come to me when I'm brushing my
teeth. Seems fairly odd somehow. I mean, I'm rather sure that most people
do not
think about life and death while spitting out Colgate. Shaving takes
just a second. About the only useful implication I've found for my "power."
Oh
yeah, fear me the world. I am mighty Kevin Sant. I can create two sparks
of fire and float them around. Kneel before me before I... burn off your
hair
in unpleasant places.
The bathrooms in this place are nifty as hell. But then it is a mansion.
I got a call from Randy when he sent out the warning to all of us he could
reach. So I grabbed Jess and here we are. Jessica doesn't care. It's
like a picnic to her. Me... I'm worried a bit. More than a bit truthfully.
There
are a lot of people here. They are all worried... a bit.
Most are them are Specials, part of those lucky 113 people who got their
powers when the meteorite appeared way back when. But also their families,
friends... Nobody knows exactly what's going on. First some people
started turning up dead. Then the rumors of conspiracies started. Ridiculous
of
course. We never intended to overthrow the government or anything stupid
like that. But... somebody high up believed the rumors. Then the
arrests
came. And then the duke out between Poet and Matt Bright. Creepy as
hell. John, Poet that is, was always a kinda quiet Power. Low level Special,
in
other words. Something to do with electrical energy. Could muck around
with TV and radio reception.
Matthew... well, Matt is The Policeman. Got strength, flight, toughness.
I mean the whole shindig and caboodle. A week ago I'd make it 10:1 on Matt.
And probably would still have had a hell of a time finding suckers.
But that was before Poet wiped the floor with him. It was weird. Suddenly
John was flinging Mathew around like a rug doll. Nobody ever knew he had
that level of power. We do now. It went out live to the whole country.
Matt got his posterior handed to him good and proper.
People here are worried. Some are blaming government for believing into
that stupid conspiracy rumor and starting the arrests. Other blame Matt,
Jason,
Jerry and Joshua for helping the Washington boys. And now some blame
John. Understandable I guess. We are just human. We need something to hold
onto.
Someone to take the responsibility. Someone to provide the answers.
I'm not blaming anyone yet. I wanna get the facts first.
'Course I'm biased. John is my "brother" after all.
I hate this shirt. It makes me look like a twig. No help for it though. Didn't get much time to pack. Randy's message was pretty intense. Randy Fisk...
I never cared much for him, to tell the truth. I mean how seriously
can you take a guy prancing around in an Undertaker get-up knock off, calling
himself Ravenshadow? I think the guy read waaaay too many comics. I
mean Shadowcave? Come on. Fancies himself an outsider. A dark knight, protecting
the world from outside.
Yeah. Right.
He got like a ton of money from his paintings. He has a horde of doctors
monitoring his medical condition daily. And every week his face is either
on
TV or some ad. He's getting to be as bad as Patriot.
Jason at least makes no excuses. He works for the corporation. Unbelievable.
The guy has Superman's (well practically) powers and he's a freaking logo.
Kirby is spinning in his grave.
I'm stalling now. Don't really want to go down there. Not that they
dislike me or anything, but it's still weird. I'm like the only Special
who isn't
31.
Yeh. It isn't genetic. I used to think about that and sometimes I felt like crying. I mean it seems so unfair... A meteor hits a sleepy little Illinois town and gives a hundred or so kids powers of the gods. And in 60-70 years the last of us will die. And the only trace we will leave behind will be Randy's weird ass paintings and John's poems. Yeah... I don't believe anymore that universe has a purpose. I haven't believed since that drunk butthead decided to get behind the wheel of his buick.
I sometimes wonder: would it have been better if John hadn't been there that night? If I was still normal? If I wasn't carrying my brother's gift?
I only remember some of it. I remember Peter throwing me out and going
back for Mom....the Toyota exploding....John appearing out of nowhere just
in
time to meet the surge of power lancing from the care...John being
struck....being lit up....screaming the fire at me...the fire hitting my
chest.
It's hard to face the mirror when you are carrying your brother's soul. His stolen blessing.
It's weird looking at photographs too. I never noticed before...
How alike we were. Pete and me. Both of us blond, both blue-eyed.
Almost a picture of
"all-American" boys if not for the fact that we were both scrawny as
hell. And trust me when you are pushing 6'1, it's noticeable.
Ah well.
Shit. I took too long wallowing. The yelling down there means Poet is here already. He is good at ticking people off.
Not to be a complete moron I try to be as quiet as possible. Completely
unnecessary, as it turns out. Everyone is looking at John and Eli. And
Eli
is hollering loud enough to mask a freaking tank attack.
Same stuff he was pushing at dinner yesterday. That, if it wasn't for
John, we could still "talk it out" with government. Thing is... he might
be right.
I really hate that thought. Eli is a jerk.
Whoa...
I can't believe John slugged him....
I can't believe John slugged him to prove a point!
I can't believe John slugged him and Eli is still conscious!
Daaaamn. If John is right... If that thing with Peter wasn't a fluke... If the Power is redistributing itself with death of every Special...
The murders... We are getting offed by one of our own.
"Kevin..." Jessica doesn't look so good. I think the tassle scared her. "Kevin... what are we going to do? Are they gonna arrest us?"
Us - no. Me...
"Akuna matada, sibling." Hopefully, don't-worry-your-big-bro-will-make-it-all-good is still working. Peter was better at it...
"Pheh. Macho man now, are you? I still have the pictures of that basketball
game, so don't get too uppity. I hear National Reporter might pay good
money
for them."
Oh, yeah. She's just fine.
"C'mere, ya little..!"
***
I don't mind snow. It's the cold I hate. Always did. Even before the...
accident. Now I'm even more sensitive to temperature though. So I left
Jess
with the others and went back inside to put on a scarf or something.
Let Poet and Randy run around in the trenchcoats. I have a midterm in two
weeks,
I can't afford a cold. Too many news to think on right now. Turns out
John is different. That he can actually manipulate the Power itself, not
just
store and use it like the rest of us...
Guess that's why he ricocheted Pete's power to me...
Too much for one day.
And what the hell is that...
First the cottage started shaking. THEN I heard them. By the time I got outside they were already there.
"Jeeezus Christ. Are those Apaches?!"
"Quiet, kid."
I shut up but those WERE Apache helicopters or my name is Megaman. And three APCs. Who the hell do they think we are? PLA?
"John, there gotta be at least a company here."
Bobby Jackson. He's an accountant. He's wrong, though. There are less
of them. Only about 40-50. They came loaded for bear though. Flack jackets,
helmets, the works.
This looks bad. They are standing there with M-20s pointing unmistakably
at us. And damn but I don't blame them. I never was afraid of "us" before.
But
I look around me now and am not seeing my friends, relative or neighbors.
It's a battle line. A phalanx.
This is bad.
"Steven, no!"
Oh, shit.
It's like the accident all over again.
Time slows to a crawl and sounds fade.
Uncle Steven is pointing at the soldiers and yelling something. Aunt Mary moves toward him to calm him. She never makes it...
The short burst whips across his chest.
Stupidly, my first thought is that the blood will never come out of
the white sweater.
Time slows yet again. Uncle Steve takes a long time to fall... Such
a terribly long time. There is a surprised expression on his face as he
catches my eyes. He tries to say something and blood bubbles on his
lips.
And then he dies.
It burns.
It burns!
I feel my legs buckle, but I don't feel myself hitting the ground. Oh God, it burns so bad!
It comes in bursts. One, two... pause. One, two, three. ONE!
The burning fades and I struggle my eyes open.
To step into Hell.
Steven is dead. Mary is dead. Sammy Bronson is dead.
No... Please, God... Nooo.
Not Jess...
Please.
She looks so peaceful. Same grin still hidden in the corner of her mouth.
Ready to fly out when I look at her. I try to brush the stray lock of her
forehead and it smolders.
My hands... They are burning. Not my usual red, lazy sparks. No. The blue, cold fireballs around each fist.
They killed Jess.
They killed Jess.
John is yelling something as he attacks the helicopters with his energy, to give the fliers time to escape.
They killed Jess.
Chandra is shooting a gun she must have picked up. She's so beautiful. The most beautiful woman alive. That's her Power.
They killed Jess.
The fire isn't hurting my hands. It's just there. Waiting for me. Waiting
One APC is burning. The soldiers are moving closer. Mira Lesko falls and the fireballs around my hands grow colder and bluer.
A young soldier is nearing me. I think that's the one who killed Steven. Killed...
They killed Jess.
He tells me to surrender, I think. To not move. He's scared of me.
Peter is dead. Mom is dead. Jess is dead.
Why?
He's yelling louder...
I don't want him to yell.
I want him to stop. I want him to go away. I want to make him stop.
It's the simplest thing in the world for me to punch my hand through kevlar and rip his heart out.
It's the simplest thing in the world...
The simplest thing...
***
Someone is shaking my shoulder. I don't know her.
"You are the Sant kid, right? The one who killed those GI geeks at the Northern Gate? Nice work."
GI geeks? I don't remember... I just wanted them to leave me alone. Jess... Oh God.
"I need to bury her."
"Who? Ah, never mind. We'll take care of our own. From now on." The woman smiles. She's very pretty.
"They killed her. They killed Jess. She wasn't even a Special."
She is still smiling. How can she smile when Jess is dead. And Steven. And Peter.
"Stick with me kid. I'm Critical. Critical Maas. Stick with me and we'll
teach the world the meaning of death. And fear and pain and terror. And
power. And Death. Stick by me."
Stick by me? She is smiling. Jess is dead. They killed her.
John is talking. He says it was Jason... Patriot, who started this.
For power.
Jason Miller. The American hero. Patriot
He thinks he's Superman. He thinks he's untouchable.
He thinks that army, Pyre and Matthew will protect him from everything.
He thinks he got away with this.
He killed Jess.
He thinks he won.
He is wrong.
WRONG.
"Yeah. I'll stick by you."