1095 days.

Simon touched the warm, half-empty bottle of vodka on the desk of his flat. It had been 1095 since Alisha, in all her ebony-glory, had ran from that cold warehouse room and never came back. He closed his eyes tight against the memory, and re-opened the bottle, taking a long, hard swig from it.

Had they been close? No, not exactly. He caught her staring at him once or twice, and there was that one amber tinged conversation he hangs onto, where he had seen another side of her. Vulnerable. Wanting – she had wanted something, and when he called her beautiful in a backhanded manner, she seemed to shift as he could almost visibly see the words fitting into just the right place of her heart.

But, that was before. Before the man, perhaps affected by the storm, perhaps just mentally ill had killed her. Shot her straight through her heart. Before he had killed Nathan, making the mistake of removing him from the meat-hook, ensuring their escape. Before they found her, and everything got quiet and gray, and they had to decide what to do with her body.

Fire, he could still hear himself suggesting.

It only seemed right. She was all fire. All colors, bright, sometimes harsh. She could burn someone, scar them, but sometimes – sometimes it seemed like there was a secret part, a contained heat that could provide a man with comfort. Sustain him. What would he know though? They were, at most, maybe friends. Friends in the way that people who are joined with tragedy get linked.

To think, she had been the glue that held them together. He imagines she would've been surprised to learn that. He imagines the slight confusion that would mar her face if she had watched them serve out their community service, conversations tilted, collapsed – powers almost dormant. They were not superheros. They were failures.

Simon stood from his desk chair, feeling a dull pounding in his head. It had been like this for a while now. Not immediately. But after, when he had been given too much time alone – when they all handed in their orange jumpers and lost touch, all striving to forget in their own ways. He began by sitting up at night, reconstructing the situation – what could they have done differently? How could it be fixed?

The first thought was: Curtis.

He had loved Alisha. It should've been simple. Go back! Kelly had shouted at him. Just do wuteva ya do, ya wankah, and go back! Curtis couldn't. Frozen in his own grief, a grief that was too deep for him to wade out of, he could only whisper the words he was growing too used to speaking: It doesn't... it doesn't work like that.

He continued to try, for weeks, months – and how was Simon to know, perhaps he still did. But the result was always the same. Nothing. Why was it not possible to go back and change it? He had the ability, only had to learn how to harness it. Simon had tried to coach him, but didn't know what trigged Curtis other than his anxiety – and working that angle had only led Curtis back to drugs.

So, when Simon spent his nights, trying to figure out how to do it, how to undo it – he needed something to knock him out. Something to make it just a bit easier. Vodka was his weapon of choice – he enjoyed how it was clear, how you could see through it – just like him.

He heard someone riding the elevator up to his flat and drew his brows together. Who could be visiting him? He had stopped communication with almost everyone – stealing what little he needed to survive from banks, avoiding going out to the shops other than the 24 hour ones, going well past midnight after he had turned invisible. No crowds. No lines. No human contact.

The door opened, and there she was. Nikki. She had grown older, but still, held herself with the same unabashed confidence. She didn't smile, but smirked as she walked in, looking around the place – walls empty, bottles (mostly all empty), mattress laying haphazardly on the floor.

"Shall I lie and say I love what you've done with the place?" he said.

"Shall I lie and say I'm pleased to see you?" he shot back, surly. Drunk.

"Ah, don't spare my feelings," she said with a shrug. "You're a hard man to find, Simon."

"I guess the invisibility is partly to thank for that," he replied. "What do you want? I assume you're not here for small talk."

"No. Absolutely not. I loathe small talk. What's the point?"

"That's what I'm asking," he replied, sitting back down in his chair.

"Well, as you're aware, I can teleport," she said.

"Heart transplant. I recall," he shot back.

"Yes. Well, at first it was only from one place to another, but now... something's changed," she said as she fiddled with the zipper of her jacket.

"What's changed?" he asked her, leaning forward with his elbow's on his thighs.

"I seem to be traveling to places that don't exist," she said.

"What?" Simon asked, confused, brain slowed by alcohol.

"Well, maybe they do exist. I think they do, from what I can gather. What I mean is, I've been traveling to, what I believe, would best be described as alternate universes."

"What?" he repeated.

"Last week, I went... back. Simon, I went to that night," she said. She knew she would not have to refer to which. He understood. "And it was different. Everything was different."

"What happened?"

"Alisha," she said on a whisper. "A man saved her – I saw it all, like I was there, but no one else saw me – like I was a ghost. I walked in the first room and I could see myself hanging there, but when Alisha ran, I went after her. And right as she was about to get shot, this masked man jumped down and took the bullet for her, and he confessed to being Konte. It was over then, the game ended."

"I know I seem to be repeating myself, but what?"

"I saw all of this. I saw it, and I saw more. When I got back, I had been gone for a few months, Simon. And as soon as I got back, I needed to find you. To tell you."
"Why?" Simon asked.

"You have to go back, Simon," she said. "You have to go there."

"I know I keep asking this, but what?" he said, stealing another gulp from the vodka bottle.

"The man who saved her, when he took off his mask – it was you. The you from now. There were two of you – the you from then and the you from now – and this you, you saved her. And everything after, Simon... it was so different, it was better."

"Better how?"

"Everyone, we stuck together afterwards. We still helped people. Curtis and I, we were together, he never turned back to drugs. And Alisha... you and Alisha... you fall in love. Great, big, impossible love."

"We..."

"Listen, when she died and we all went our separate ways, I met a guy. A guy from the storm... he can get you back there. I just... I need you to believe me... Do you?" she asked, sticking a hand on her hip, her question sounding more like a demand or accusation.

"I don't... believe she could love me," he said.

"Her love is what makes you become him. Become the man she loves. Will you come with me? I can take you to him, to Leo. He can take you back, I'm not sure how far back you'll end up going – but he'll be able to keep you there to do what you have to do."

"If this is what it takes to save her, then I'll go back. But..."

"You still don't quite believe me?" she said.

"We'll see, I guess," Simon whispered vaguely as he walked to the sink, pouring out what was left of the bottle. It was time to straighten out. Time to try his hand at being a superhero.

Again.