AN: I may have severely underestimated just how many anothvortex wrote for this story...
Side-Story: A Cry for Peace...
Dodging around a car, gunfire filling the air with a cloud of bullets, Mark Dallon allowed himself to be Flashbang. The familiar suit protected him, even as his attacks lit the night sky with blasts of light and noise. Gangbangers went flying with each strike, and like a good little superhero, he lost himself in the violence. He was out on the streets, seeking justice for crimes most foul. It was an old and familiar dance that he could do in his sleep.
He still felt nothing but the numbness.
His wife was tearing through the streets like a hot knife through butter. As always, his place was by her side or, more realistically, in her wake. Carol was nothing less than a force of nature, and Mark had always been helpless when she was on a mission. Brandish was focused, driven and merciless to destroy her enemies. Flashbang had to watch her back.
They had both lost a daughter.
She felt too much.
He felt not enough.
It was the story of their marriage.
So, because it was all he could do, Mark pushed forward. He channeled his power into explosions that shook the heavens and then some. He broke Nazis, their cars, their weapons, their hiding spots. He fought the bad guys because that was what Flashbang did. He was a mask that was supposed to let Mark do something worthwhile. To make a difference beyond curling up on the couch and counting the seconds pass by. Of feeling alone in a crowd, in his family, in his life as time passed and things just stayed the same.
Until they were not anymore.
Focusing more power into his latest projectile, he blasted a van filled with skinheads. With cries of shock and pain, the Empire thugs went flying. Unable to see through the glare, their driver crashed into a fire hydrant, blasting water right through their windshield. Shards of glass and pavement shredded their extremities like tissue paper. Wary of any surprises, Mark launched a smaller grenade through the now open window, knocking the broken pile of monsters out.
Still, he felt nothing. Why was he still numb? Why was this not helping him? That was the point, was it not? That was why he had put on Flashbang, was it not? To feel something, even if it was pain?
Instincts beaten into his thick skull from years of combat screamed at him to move. Dodging backwards, a smaller flash reflexively filling his previous position, Mark was treated to the swearing of the littlest Empire Cape. Rune was trying to recover on her floating platform, rubbing her eyes from the pain of his last explosion. If she was at a hundred percent, the telekinetic could have probably taken his head off at range.
Right now she was just another target.
Removing one of his more powerful prepared explosives, he attacked the platform with familiar precision. Shouting in surprise, Rune fell off her shattered platform, right into the blast radius of a follow-up strike. It did not really cause her any damage, but if did slow her down a lot before impacting the ground. He did not want to kill her by accident of course.
Looking at the now prone and groaning teenager, Mark wondered what he should do. What would Carol do? What would Sarah do? What should Flashbang do? What should New Wave do now that...now THAT...
Letting his power ramp down, surrounded by groaning, broken Nazis, Mark allowed himself to focus on binding Rune for transport. He was a grieving father, but he was also a hero.
...and Rune had to be younger than Victoria had been when Kaiser had impaled her, had killed her. There were already too many dead children tonight. This was his limit. He could not be Flashbang anymore right now.
He had something more important to do.
Knocking on Amy's door, Mark felt the familiar lassitude sneaking in. That desire to just hide from everything and everyone for days on end until he found the energy to move again.
His daughter was dead.
His wife was going on a rampage that would impress an Endbringer.
He could not fix any of it. He just was not that strong.
But he did know someone who needed help. Who loved Vicky more that anyone else and was all alone. Something that was his failure. Carol's failure. Everyone's failure.
So while he might not be the best choice, he was the only realistic one. Amy needed someone to reach out, and that was a much better use of his time than blowing up gang members.
Hearing a shuffling sound behind the door, Mark frowned. Knocking again, he called out, "Amy...?"
What greeted him was a nightmare.
The walls had been punched hard enough to crack the wood, blood staining the impacts. Every surface was clear, the various nick nacks and debris the teenager had accumulated tossed around like a hurricane had rampaged through. But lying in the middle of his daughter's bed was a human shaped puddle of tar. An ooze that was pulsing and bubbling like some sort of primordial swamp. If not for a familiar face in it's center, Mark would have assumed an enemy Biotinker had attacked his home.
Stepping over the spilled papers and other items covering the carpet, Mark sat on the bare edge of the bed. He had seen Parahumans in all sorts of situations before, but those who had lost control were amongst the most dangerous. "Amy? Please, talk to me."
The puddle seemed to shift, his daughter's face gaining definition, great tears of crimson trailing down her cheeks. "dAD? ArE yoU THeRe?"
Swallowing heavily, he put his hand at the edge of the puddle. Thankfully, there was not any pain or negative sensation from the contact. Just an oily slickness. "I'm here, Amy. Please, come back to me."
The puddle seemed to shake in fear. "I dOn'T WAnt to. I CAN'T feEL yoU! nOthinG fEEls REAL anYMoRe! It HUrts! I hurT! I dOn'T wANt to HURt aNyMOre!"
Swallowing, Mark sank his hand further into the biomass of his daughter. "I know honey. I know."
There was a pause, then the puddle seemed to flow into a central point under the blanket. Slowly, horribly slowly, the body of a teenaged girl reformed, a familiar freckle covered face looking up under a fringe of curly brunette locks. The tears were still there, but at least they were water now.
Shaking with emotions, Amy Dallon cried. "She's gone, dad. Vicky is gone and I couldn't stop it! I couldn't save her!"
Reaching out to take her hand, even as she wailed louder at the contact, Mark finally allowed himself to cry. The pain of his daughter's death piercing the numbness that surrounded his life. "I know baby, but you did your best. It wasn't your fault."
That just set of another round of tears. But she did not let go of his hand, and he did not let go of hers.
Mark Dallon had more important things to do than got and punch out Nazis.
Being there for his daughter was at the top of the list.