Cross-posted from SpaceBattles under a different name!


My head was aching and my legs were sore. I tried getting my breathing under control, the organ pumping blood throughout my body to calm, as I leaned my back against my apartment door.

I slid down to a seated position, the fabric of my shirt clinging to me like a second skin. The sound of raindrops hitting the various surfaces outside were akin to loud snare drums played wildly by a hyperactive five year old high on sugar.

I exhaled through my nose, shutting my eyes hard to the point of discomfort.

...stupid magic bullshit.

If you're an overworked office worker who spent a majority of his loner life on the internet, you're probably familiar with the concept of 'isekai'.

Essentially, it's a genre of fiction that can be summed up as portal fantasy.

Control. Control yourself. Never show them what you really are. Never.

The usual pattern went something like this: person dies – preferably in a motor-vehicular accident – and then gets to meet whatever God or Goddess who took pity on them, gets offered a choice between passing on or get reincarnated into a world straight out of fantasy and powers. Don't forget the powers. Most of them tended to be stale upon arrival, but it's all fiction.

...at least that's what I thought.

"Goodbye." He smiled.

It took every single ounce of willpower I had to not collapse the floor underneath me and turn this three storied apartment building into a two storied apartment building. Or simply explode the entire bloc into smithereens.

Blood rushing, I could feel heat slowly spreading throughout my body, enveloping my limbs. It would be as easy as picking up a napkin from the table, effortless.

But I stopped myself.

Control, I told myself. Control. Never show them what you really are. What you can actually do. Never.

I exhaled again, this time longer. My body relaxed as I limped, the heat slowly fading away followed by the pain that had been assaulting my head.

Finally, I opened my eyes. And I regretted it immediately.

It hurt. My eyes felt like I'd rubbed them too hard for too long. I opened them again, this time slowly and carefully. When they're open, I was reminded why I had closed them in the first place.

"...it's gonna stain my shirt."

It's my favorite shirt too. Bought it from a named brand store, unlike the rest of my clothing which I had sourced from the local thrift shops. I shouldn't worry too much, there were harder stains to clean than blood.

I shakily made the effort to stand, using the door behind me as support. The walk to the bathroom was more of a shamble due to how sore my everything was. Flipping the light switch on, I was able to confirm that blood was indeed leaking out of my eyes.

"...fuck."

In any other circumstances, I should be worried. But, if you ask me, bleeding out of my eyes was the least of things I should be worried about. Twisting the knob, I let water flow from the sink and began washing my face. It took a while, but I managed to get it cleaned up. The cold water washing my face also refreshed me in a way the rain outside failed to do so.

...still didn't make me look any better, though.

Not that there was anything wrong with how I looked. I still looked like I was before I got... dropped off here. Tanned and swarthy complexion from years of doing construction jobs, dark bags under the eyes due to untreated insomnia, and a bowl haircut because I was a lazy piece of shit who couldn't be bothered to care after his looks.

I just looked like I'd gone through the worst wringer life could throw at a person, which wasn't that far from the truth. I'd been in this new world for a total of three weeks and I'd already seen things—experience things I'd rather not recall, so yes, my physical appearance took a huge hit because of that.

I should shave, though.

...nah, not now.

Now, I felt like sleeping. Or at least attempt to do it.

I shambled all the way to my bed, which was a plain uncovered mattress laid out on the floor of this studio sized apartment. No bedframe because real men didn't need them. I did take off my shirt and dried off the rain earlier in the bathroom, though.

Real men also did their laundry properly and in a timely manner.

The mattress, a cheap'o one I'd snagged from some clearance sale, was one of my recent purchases. It's not comfortable at all, providing the same amount of comfort as a dry sponge; not to mention the smell I couldn't totally get rid off. But, hey, at least it was something.

I was never one who cared much for comfort. In my previous life, I came from a low income family in a third world country, so this was actually an upgrade believe it or not. This new world I'd been transported to, I had somehow scrounged up enough money to afford a place for myself.

I still couldn't believe it all, actually.

"Sleep... sleep... please... whatever magic fuckery I've been cursed with... make me sleep." I droned out, hoping that my 'powers' would at least grant me that.

.

.

.

No luck, huh.

Shouldn't be surprised.


A normal person required sleep, so what did that mean for someone who couldn't sleep like me?

"Thank you, please come again."

I didn't even bother giving the guy my practiced 'service smile' that our manager heavily insisted we give to our customers. Dude bought a pack of cigs and two red-bulls, I doubted something like a smile from the cashier would help him in any meaningful manner.

The no-sleeping thing hadn't always been something permanent, it's something I noticed I'd developed ever since I found myself in this new world. I'd always had insomnia, but things were different now.

I stepped off the register before making my way to the back. The breakroom, which doubled as a storage area for our merchandise, was where I found my co-worker who was lounging on a steel chair with his phone out.

I could already make out the beeps and boops the moment I stepped into the room.

"Hey," I called out to him, "I'm going for my break."

"Oh, sure, dude." He looked up from his phone, pausing his gaming session entirely. Pocketing his phone, he stood up, tidying his uniform. "Don't take too long, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Good kid. Still in high school; got hired at the same time I was. Did as he's told, never complained, and knew when to keep to himself.

I made my way out the store through the backdoor, which led to a dimly lit alleyway.

Immediately, I was hit by that city stink that overtook my senses. It wasn't anything new to me, in fact, it was almost calming in a way. In my old world, I had lived a few blocks away from the dumpster.

A third world country's dumpster, mind you, so make of that however you will.

Walking myself to a nearby stool my co-worker and I had set up so we could hang outside during our break, I sat myself down. I leaned my back against the store's brick wall, uncaring for the dirt and grime it was covered with.

Now, if I was a smoker, this would be the perfect time for me to pull one out and start huffin' and puffin' my break away.

But, unfortunately, I wasn't a smoker. I wasn't a drinker either.

So, I opted for the next best thing: I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep.

Before, it was only a matter of when my body would feel exhausted enough to the point I would fall into unconsciousness. Essentially, I had to rely on passing out in order to get a semblance of sleep. Now it's not like that anymore. Whatever it was that happened to me, it had robbed me of my need to sleep.

This might be a blessing to some, but to me, it was just about the worst case of robbery I'd ever experienced.

Still, I stubbornly tried to do so; forcing my brain to shut off so that it could enter a state of rest. With eyes closed, I forced myself to sleep, waiting for its sweet embrace. This went on, and on, and on, and on, an—

"Oh, uh, you asleep?"

I cracked one eye open.

"Sup?" I responded. "Is my break over?"

The teenager stepped out of the door to the alleyway outside, closing it behind him. He shuffled closer to me, his hands inside the pockets of his jeans. His posture was closed and withdrawn, like he's constantly alert. Smart.

"No, you're still good." He told me.

I hummed, closing my eyes again. "So who's watching the register?" I asked him.

I heard a scoff. "It's like, what, close to midnight? Aside from that one customer you had earlier, no one's gonna come this late into the night, especially in this part of town. Besides, we'll know if someone's inside to browse."

True. This part of town wasn't the safest, but it's also not the busiest. The CCTV inside would normally be a concern since we're technically not on station, but corporate couldn't be bothered to do their job, so who cared?

I shrugged. "Sure."

He then joined me, pulling a nearby beer crate that the store had yet to get rid of and using it as a stool. He sat there adjacent to me and not really looking at my general direction, despite clearly wanting to do so.

How was I able to tell this with my eyes closed?

Magic. That's how.

"Hey, Jack," I cringed at his use of what was essentially a Westernized nickname of my name, "can I ask you a question, dude?"

"...what is it?"

"Are you a cape?"

I slowly opened my eyes, swiveling my head slowly so I could look the kid in the eyes. He met me stare for stare, blinking a few times but still maintaining eye contact. It was probably the most serious I'd seen him, too. Not to imply he couldn't be serious.

This went on for a solid minute before being broken by yours truly.

"If... I was a cape, what makes you think I'll admit to being one in the first place?"

Bro just shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, really."

"What's with the question?" I asked back. "Why do you think I'm a cape?"

"I don't know, I guess it's just... the feel I'm getting from you." Both he and I knew that wasn't an answer that would satisfy the both of us. "And there's that time when you were robbed at gun point."

My facial expression didn't change, it remained flat even as I recalled the event my co-worker was alluding to.

"Anyone else would've been scared shitless of being held at gun point by a... crack head with their finger literally twitching at the trigger, but you didn't." His face, on the other hand, got even more... intense. "You didn't even look bothered, much less threatened."

I exhaled through my nostrils.

How should I approach this accusation? Oh don't get me wrong. He's right on the mark, kind of, but how should I respond to this in a way that wouldn't expose my status as a parahuman?

Contrary to popular belief, there's ZERO reason to reveal whether or not you're a parahuman. Not to your family, not to your friend, and certainly not to the government.

Regardless of how dangerous that superpower was, regardless of how... life changing that power could be; there were no real reasons other than anxiety and guilt to bring that knowledge to light.

Call me selfish, call me an asshole for potentially 'endangering' people's lives for not getting registered or checked up in the PRT building. Raise all your torches and picket all you want.

But, with all due respect, a loaded gun wasn't going to fire itself at anyone.

To all the smartasses out there: Newton's Third Law.

To all the gangsters out there: fuck around and find out.

...I should probably give the kid a proper response now, as silence tended to be a form of response of its own.

"David," calling him by his first name got his attention. I knew this because I rarely called him that. "You ever been depressed?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"Not your typical teenager bullshit type of depression," I quickly said, "none of that 'sad boy hour' kind of stuff, either. I'm talking about depression from having everything you own, people you knew, places you've been... be rendered bereft to you, as if they're no longer there. Do you know, or have experienced, depression that stemmed from those exact circumstances?"

I'd just rendered him speechless, from the looks of it. And, I was just guessing here, something was telling me the answer to that question was a 'no'. He stared at me, his mouth slightly ajar.

He recovered, to his credit, fairly quickly but took a moment to digest and process the question I had cast his way. There were a lot of uh's and umm's, but eventually, he managed to find his words.

"...so is that a no to you being a cape?"

"...no."

"Oh, okay."

It obviously wasn't 'okay'. He still wanted an answer from me, still expecting something reasonable for an answer. I sighed. Well, I guess there's no better time to test my cover story.

"My transfer to Brockton Bay wasn't something I was on board with."

His head snapped up, clearly not expecting me to say anything more.

"I had no time to say goodbye to friends and family, not even a second to leave a letter behind." I caught him before he could even speak. "No, I wasn't kidnapped, I was... transfered here."

Against my will.

"What," David spoke up, incredulousness in his tone, "by corporate?"

"...not by corporate, no." Damned teenagers. I paused. "Do I look American to you David?"

His eyes narrowed in mistrust. "Is that a trick a question?"

"No, I'm not implying you're a racist or anything like that." I wryly said. "But points for being sensitive, kid. Let me change the question: do I sound American?"

That got him to stop looking at me like I was about to drop a suspicious package at the porch of his house. He took the time to really think about the question, his facial expression reflecting this. It didn't take long until he came up with the right answer.

"No, you don't." I nodded along to his answer. "You have an accent when you speak, or rather, you tend to develop an accent when you speak."

"Oh?"

"When that guy – who was clearly an Asian dude – held you on gun point, your accent changed to something... err... Asian." He said that last part slowly. "Or that one time when a, clearly, Mexican man asked for a pack of cigs, you sounded like you're speaking English but a... uh... without an accent?"

Huh, I had to give him some credit. But young David wasn't done just yet.

"And when you're speaking to me – white people really – you tend to have a... British accent. Or was it an English accent? Maybe it's Australian... I don't know."

Well, color me surprised.

Opening my eyes, I smiled. "You're right on the mark, kid. I don't sound American because I'm didn't grow up American. English's not even my first language, but I grew up speaking it to the point where I'm fluent in it as a second language."

I elaborate.

"I 'pick up' accents when I speak to people because, from where I came from, people were a lot more diversed and they speak English with their own accents. When that guy robbed me, I sounded like that because I'd grown up with Cantonese people who also speak English as a second, even third language."

I hoped that made sense?

"So you're not from the States?"

"Nope. I'm from the other half of the globe."

"Europe?" With my skin color? Really David?

"Asia."

"Huh, damn." He sounded genuinely surprised. "Which part of Asia, if you don't mind me asking?"

"South East."

"South East..." there was no mistaking the wonder his voice. Not too surprising considering how the geo-political climate of this world was. "If you're from all the way there, how the hell did you end up here in the bay?"

My mood took a hit at being reminded that. This was where I had to be careful and really be mindful of the words that would come out of my mouth.

"I was sponsored by someone to live in the US. And, before you ask, yes, it sounds shady as shit but I got papers and documents that have been reviewed by lawyers."

I wasn't lying here. I did possess documents that, as far as I'm concerned, stated that I was an American citizen. A Social Security Number, American passport, and a bank savings account with fifty thousand US dollars in it... that last one was something I'm grateful for.

Still didn't mean I wasn't pissed about suddenly being transported here.

"But, in order for all of that to happen, I had to go through those things I mentioned earlier. I couldn't bring anything from back home with me, I wasn't given time to say goodbye to family and friends, and as far as I'm aware, I couldn't even contact them even if I want to." I paused. "So, to answer your question David, I'm not a cape. I'm just a miserable, depressed, twenty-something year old who got... transferred to place he'd rather not be."

I tried not to sound emotional, but a hint of it seeped through my efforts. Not that there's nothing wrong with being emotional or anything, but I was just the type of person who'd much rather be vulnerably at his lonesome and not in front of a teenager who had nothing to do with my problems.

"That's... messed up, Jack." The sincerity in his voice made up for the use of my nickname. "So... that's it, then? There's really no way for you to..."

The fact that he didn't even suggest trying to get help or aid from anyone spoke volumes of how life really was for the people in this city, or maybe this world in general. The distrust in authorities, the lack of faith in people's capability to help others...

Kid probably thought my family died in a natural disaster, got offed by capes, or to one of them monsters that I kept hearing about on the internet. Well, I wasn't about to tell him exactly, so I was content to let him come to his own conclusion.

"No."

And, even if I could, I wasn't sure if I wanted to be with them anymore. Not when I'm like... this.

As I hugged myself in front of this teenager who I barely knew, I could feel a literal storm brewing from deep within my core. It was hard to explain it in words, as it was something that could only be felt by me.

My powers, as I had come to learn, was somewhat tied to my emotions. Not a very safe combination to have, if fiction was to show. But I was not completely hopeless, for with them came the understanding to use them.

Understanding, not knowledge. I still had to learn how to manifest them, how to properly utilize them... but I knew that I had control over them. Them. These powers.

Plural, not singular.

...yeah, I think it's about time I actually do something about myself—FOR myself.

"David."

"Hm?"

"...thank you, I needed this."

"You're welcome, man."

.

.

.

"And David?"

"Yeah?"

"...I'm quitting."


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