Evan loved bookstores. They were completely different than the ones in his time, but they were beautiful. The different books, all sorted on their shelves, theoretically by genre but more accurately according to the arbitrary whims of the salespeople. The Maggie Holt books, for instance, were in Young Adult. It made sense, but wouldn't Fantasy fit better? On the other hand, what counted as Fantasy here? He'd picked up some of the things that had been written after superheroes had appeared in this world. Fiction sections had gotten… strange. The journey of a man who could go back in time and fire lasers should be in fantasy, or science fiction. But considering that apparently the recently deposed Chancellor of Germany could melt steel with his hands…

He still hadn't adjusted to this reality. How do you do it? Adjust to "Everything you know is wrong"? He'd gotten a new phone, and watched videos of physicists having meltdowns. It had been entertaining, but it wasn't helpful. Half a day in, he realized he was in the middle of yet another video of cats being silly. He needed to go out. So he'd gone to a bookstore.

A soft rain was pattering on the window.

There was another man looking through the books with the same lost look Evan probably had. The clerk, a young blonde in her early 20's, approached the man. Was there a reason she hadn't approached Evan?

The man was tall, probably around 40 years old. Thin, but not weedy. In that gray area between "bald" and "balding", where a good comb over could probably get the less suspicious people to think twice. Not that this guy bothered with it.

"Umm… I'm looking for a book for advice for a single father of a teenage daughter," the man mumbled to the sales clerk. She smiled, and pointed him towards an area marked SELF HELP.

The man looked for a second at it, looked down, walked to the rack of books on sale, and started going through it.

Evan looked back at the shelf he'd been looking at before. He'd been staring. The books on the shelf… their existence was interesting. What they said about people here. But he felt no need to open them, and read their contents.

He'd go home, then, and do… what?

A slight laugh distracted him. The man was holding a book. The Collected Poetry of Robert Frost. Should he?

"I never knew poetry was funny," he said. The man turned to him.

"No, it's just… a guy I work with used to talk about how his father met Robert Frost. Frost came to Brockton Bay once. Wrote a poem about his experience here."

"Which one?"

"That's the funny thing. Fire and Ice. Apparently he really hated it," the man said, smiling. "Hi, I'm Danny."

"Evan." Danny flipped through the pages of his book. There was a rumbling sound. Evan would need to get an umbrella. He mentally put it on the list, after 'A fake paper trail because he wasn't actually born in this world'. "I'll be honest, I've never been really well read on Robert Frost – I'm more of a novel person than poetry person. All I really know from him is The Road Less Taken. A friend of mine had it hanging on his door."

Another small laugh, by Danny. At Evan's raised eyebrow, he responded, "My wife had… opinions, about people who identified with the poem."

"Oh?"

"Basically, everyone talks about how it's about individuality. But it really isn't. It's about indecision. The narrator is an asshole, making his choice out to be more important than it was, because he thought about it. He stands and thinks, instead of doing something. Instead of walking, choosing a path, or going down either. Because he's scared, and deciding is hard. But, finally, he takes one, and says it's important, even though in his own words it was exactly the same. He's constantly going back and forth on whether or not his decision was important, alternately saying the one he chose was better and the one he didn't was exactly the same as the one he chose. It's a poem about inconsistency, and wishy washiness, and justification." Danny's smile filled his face. "That was Annette's big thing. Do, don't just think about doing. She loved this poem, almost as much as she hated what people made of it. She taught it to our daughter."

"Was? Did she lose interest in poetry?" Evan asked. The way he was talking, it wasn't a divorce.

"She died. Car accident." Danny responded. Almost on cue, sirens sounded outside. Police, or ambulance?

"My condolences," Evan said.

"Thank you," Danny said almost automatically. Another rumble sounded. Evan looked outside the store. Police were putting up a cordon around the bank next door, blocking off part of the road. "Shit. I'm going to need to call work, tell them I'll be in late from my break, I think."

"Heh. Good thing I live walking distance from here, I guess," Evan said.

"You do?" Danny asked, a note of concern reaching his voice.

"Yeah, why?"

"I mean, it's commonly known in this city, but this is kind of… Neo Nazi turf. It's not a good place for you to walk around at night," Danny said.

"They're that ingrained?" Evan asked. He felt a slight shiver almost begin, thinking at the stare the clerk had given him.

"This… isn't a great city," Danny said. He sighed. "Used to be better, and used to be worse before that, but it's never been great. But there are safer neighborhoods. Look, I'm not gonna push, but if you want help, I'll give you my number."

Danny fished in his wallet, and pulled out a piece of paper. He crossed out what was written on it, scribbled something new on it, and handed it to Evan.

"Thank you." Evan took it, and put it in his pocket.

"No problem," Danny said. "I need to go now, but I mean it. Call me, I'll help you find an apartment."

Danny went to the SELF HELP section, quickly chose a book, paid for it, and walked out. Evan looked at the book Danny had looked at before. The Collected Poetry of Robert Frost. Seemed interesting. He took it. Smiling at the clerk, he paid for it, and left.

The street was in chaos. Police had stretched a line on the street, with officers shooing people away. There was a crowd of spectators building in spite of the rain and police. Three police officers were around a parked patrol car. The building next door, a huge bank, had a large hole in the side. And running out of that hole was Mar.

The policemen immediately pulled out their guns, only to be hit by a shockwave of biotic force. Evan shrugged it off, his barriers taking the hit. A superhero in red flew out of the hole, and was stopped by another one who leaped in. The new one was in golden armor, looking like a Greek warrior who had been transported to the present. He leaped after Mar, his spear extended.

The krogan would be hurt, Evan knew. The spear was glowing with power. It was like time stopped. And then it resumed. Evan concentrated, and pulled. The lash flew up out of his hand, above the bank, and down onto the superhero, throwing him into a wall.

Why did I do that? Evan thought, I should have let him be captured. Would have served him right.

Nobody followed Mar. The flying superhero looked to the sky, probably to see where the lash had come from. He should make himself scarce, before they widened their search to the ground.

He walked to his apartment.


Turning the key in the lock, Evan realized he'd left the apartment door unlocked. That was stupid of him. The door opened easily. He took off his sweater and hung it in the entrance. He walked into the kitchen, took a glass from a cabinet, opened the fridge, and poured himself a glass of water.

Then a hand shoved his head into the table.


Evan coughed. He was restrained. Tied to a chair. He couldn't see, feeling a fabric around his head. A blindfold, of some sort. His nose itched really bad.

"He's awake," a male voice said.

"Good." A woman's, this time.

Evan coughed again. Other than his head throbbing, he seemed to be fine. Whoever nearly killed him with cranial blunt force trauma wasn't trying to murder him yet. They had bound his arms behind his back, tying them to the chair. His legs, as well.

"So does anyone know who this jungle rat is?" the woman's voice asked. It was gentle in spite of the words. He felt a blow to the gut. Nausea rolled through him, followed immediately by pain. "Does it understand who we are?"

He coughed again. Took a few breaths. "I paid my rent…" He felt another punch to the gut.

"Haven't found an ID, ma'am. I don't think it does," the male voice said.

"Educate it," she said.

He felt the world go sideways, and hit the floor. His head smacked against the tiles. Pain thudded through his head, again. He swallowed bile.

"You fucked up, little porch monkey. You killed Victor, and let it be caught on camera. You and some fucking race traitor." A kick to his gut emphasized the last phrase. Evan felt the vomit rising again, and coughed. "Should I tell it what happens next?"

"Go ahead," the female voice said.

"I think you can guess. And because I don't like to keep you wondering, I'll tell you what's going to happen. I'm going to beat you to death. If you decide it's too slow, you can feel free to ask me to stop, and let me know where the race traitor lives, and I will end it for you and go find her."

"Who's Victor?" he asked. A kick to the chest was the response he got. He couldn't hold it back this time, and threw up.

"Guess he had sushi for his last meal." A few others laughed. The woman wasn't one of them.

Evan heard the door opening. "Othala, hör auf." A male voice said. German?

"Was ist?" the woman asked.

"Kaiser möchte mit dem Neger sprechen" Definitely German. These were the Neo Nazis. Victor had been the Neo-Nazi supervillain Kara had killed. If he survived this, he'd have words for her about consequences.

"Ich wollte ihn gerade umbringen."

"Ja, ich weiss. Aber du musst wohl warten bis Kaiser mit ihm gesprochen hat und ihn dann umbringen."

"Er hat Victor umgebracht."

"Das weiß ich, und der Kaiser weiß es auch. Er wird die deine Rache nicht verweigern. Mach dir keine Sorgen." Evan felt the chair being lifted, brought back to its upright position. "Ich habe einen Seesack mitgebracht. Der Mann ist recht klein und müsste hineinpassen."

He heard the new male voice at his ear, finally in English, with a slight German lilt. "Listen, you can resist while we put you in a bag and bring you to our boss. We will be forced to kill you and leave you here. Or you can comply, and maybe you'll be able to convince him to let you live."

His arms were released from the chair. Still bound behind him, though. He swung his head sideways, hitting something hard, hearing a yelp. The blindfold caught on something and moved down. Yes.

He looked at the man who released him. White suit, white skin, blank white face mask. Long white hair, even. These Nazis didn't do the whole white supremacy thing halfheartedly.

For a split second, stretching to eternity, everything was still. Then everything was light, in a flash of force. The people in the room were bowled over. The chair shattered, leaving his legs free. The man in white was wedged into a wall, broken. He disappeared, and reappeared where he was. He smiled, and drew a knife.

"You want to play?" he asked.

He was against someone whose power made him invincible. While tied up and beaten. These were not good odds.

He looked out the window. He could see the street from there. He focused again. Everything went still, and everything moved. He was on the street now, out of the apartment. Damn it. People saw him. He ran towards the beach. He could run to the bay, and charge towards the storage unit.

Rope tying his arms together. He'd need something sharp to cut it with. He saw a broken glass bottle next to a garbage can. He crouched, feeling his phone press against him from within his pocket, grabbed the bottle, ignoring the sharp pain in his hand, and sawed at the rope. Leng had taught him this. The rope broke, and he ran to the bay, ignoring the protests of his body.

Finally, he saw the docks, across the bay. He concentrated again, and charged.

The storage units were on fire. Smoke, in many different colors, floated lazily up.

He didn't know what to do. He didn't… he had an option. Right. He picked up his phone. The screen had a crack through it. He pressed the power button, and it flickered on. He'd put Danny's number on it, before. He called it. He felt nauseous.

"Hebert residence." A female voice answered. Danny said he had a daughter. Right. "Hello?"

"Is Danny home?" he asked. The docks were… moving. Up and down and sideways.

"No, should I leave him a message?"

"Can you get in touch with him? It's Evan. I'm in… I'm in trouble. Please. I'm at the docks, next to the old storage facility. I… I'm in trouble. Please. Need help." He said. The world turned sideways. No, he did. He was on the concrete, the phone lying near him. He watched the drops of rain form on the screen.

"Okay," the girl said, a note of worry in her voice. It sounded tinny, from the phone lying so far away. The world was growing darker. He closed his eyes. "I'll call him now. Are you there? Hello? Hello?!"