1.1

The first thing I notice is the cold. A chill, bone-deep and all-encompassing. It settles around my mind like a dense layer of frost, blocking out sound and feeling, leaving me stranded in the dark.

I try to move, but something’s wrong. I don’t understand. I try to struggle.

The environment starts to filter in around me. The sound of car horns, sirens and tense mutterings saturates my existence. My vision fills in, blurry and washed with bright yellow, red and blue stars twinkling in the distance.

I struggle more. My vision sharpens. People in uniforms hurriedly rush up to me and lift me onto a stretcher. From my new vantage point I can see a truck, motionless a few feet away, headlights still on and blood staining the bumper. Red and blue swirl across the concrete as I’m wheeled into an ambulance.

The truck… hit me? When I was crossing the street. That sucks. The paramedics close the ambulance door, and as the vehicle starts, the movement makes my vision cloud.

I’m… my name is…

The ambulance hits another bump. I black out.

—

“Jacob! Don’t slam the door!” My Mom calls out from the kitchen as I stride purposefully into the house.

I call out a haphazard “sorry” on my way up to my room, where I drop off my bag with a huff. The beige walls and select few trinkets are only vaguely comforting, and even the sight of my guitar makes me slightly irritated.. I take a couple seconds to stare at the walls and calm my heavy breathing.

It’s been a couple weeks since my accident, and it seems like everyone’s forgotten about me. Only mom ended up visiting me in the hospital. And it’s not like I really expected anyone to, I’m not really close with them, but it’s… jarring.

I feel off-kilter. Like maybe I’ve been gone too long, or too much has changed and I don’t know how to be normal about it anymore.

Maybe getting hit by a truck will do that, I dunno.

Before I head back downstairs, I check my closet. Thankfully, my stuff is still there, hidden inside an old suitcase that I figured out a long time ago my mom won’t look in. I don’t have a lot of money lying around, so it’s kinda just… a bag of essentials, jeans, a hoodie, black fingerless gloves, an aluminum bat. And a white hockey mask.

I’m not a serial killer I swear, it’s just hard to find masks that stay on well and aren’t derivative of something, and as much as the media likes to romanticize supers, costumes are expensive.

Really, the only thing getting superpowers has done for me so far is make my hospital stay bearable.

That’s going to change tonight, though. The local hero teams are useless and the government ones are preachy morons. I’m not an idiot, I know I’m probably not going to be able to do much directly on my own, but maybe if I shake things up people will finally start looking. People die every other week from some insane power junkie abruptly deciding they need to go on a rampage. It’s so constant that you sort of forget it’s happening until it happens to you.

I kneel down next to the case and grab the mask. It’s new, so the white surface is still relatively clean. I made sure to get it from the sports equipment place in the plaza, so it’s pretty sturdy. The amount of armor required for hockey and crime fighting is probably about the same anyway.

Waking up in the hospital isn’t exactly the greatest time to find out you have superpowers, but it’s not exactly the worst either. I had a lot of time to experiment.

Closing my eyes, I let myself sink into the alien-feeling river of information flowing in the back of my mind. Muscles, flesh, bones… proteins? I dunno. It doesn’t actually give me concrete knowledge of my own biology, just an instinctive sense of it.

I spent most of my time making minor changes, nudging the boundaries of my power.

Biokinesis. On a local level, and relatively slowly. Small changes I can usually do in less than twenty minutes, less if I have food, apparently. More extreme stuff takes longer, and I run into ‘roadblocks’ if the change isn’t possible, or maybe if it’s actively harmful. I haven’t tested that part yet.

I run a check through my bones and musculature, testing to make sure my changes are still there. Nothing major, just strength and efficiency, but ideally it’ll be enough to give me an edge.

“Jacob! Come help set the table!” My mom calls out, interrupting my brooding. I stuff the mask bag inside my bag and zip it up.

Downstairs, I help my mom set the table. We set dad’s place, but I don’t know if he’ll show up in time.

“So how was your day?” Mom asks cordially as we sit down at the table.

“Good,” I lie. “Math sucked, but it was fine.” I shuffle my silverware around and start eating.

She puts her hand on my arm, and I try not to twitch. “See, honey? I told you you’d be fine.”

“Mhm.” I start subtly bouncing my leg.

“So that’s good, what else happened?”

“Ah, not much,” I say in between bites. “Mostly normal day. Can I be excused?”

She glances at my mostly empty plate. “Sure, honey.”

I hop out of my seat and rinse my plate. “I’m gonna go do my homework,” I comment, already making my way up the stairs.

“Alright, goodnight sweetie,” I hear from behind me.

In my room, I take a long look at the closet. My heart is pounding for some reason.

I can’t go out yet. There’s no way mom wouldn’t notice. Instead, I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans, tear my gaze away from the closet door and sit down to do some homework.

I wasn’t lying about that, at least.

—

A couple hours later, I put down the pen and let out a huff. No more stalling. My hatred of math has been steadily outgrowing my anxiety, and I think I’ve reached my limit.

I get up from my desk and confidently yank open the closet. Clothes, mask, bat, emergency mace, extra cash, and my phone. I pack everything up into the bag, and shove open my bedroom window. I know this is a bad idea. But I have to do something.

Deep breath in. Out. I hop over the windowsill and out into the chilling air of Westpoint city. Lights, warm neon colors sparkle along the horizon. My house is in the suburbs, some distance away from the main city, but it’s not too far to walk, and during the day I can see the towering silver buildings and almost constant scaffolding reaching up at the sky from my room. It’s beautiful, from a distance.

Up close, it’s not. The nighttime floodlights throw everything into stark clarity. The buildings are simple, steel and brutalist, transit is always late, the streets are strewn with garbage and dotted with homeless people. The only place that seems to keep its luster up close is the USMC building at the center of the city, and the huge circular courtyard and shipping booths dotted around it.

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The city just sort of stops past a certain distance from the center, in a perfectly circular radius bordered by the retracted blast wall. Beyond that is just… forest.

I fall down into the backyard, the city lights blocked out by our neighbors’ garage. In darkness, I skitter around to our driveway, jumping into a fast walk when I near the corner —

Headlights. An engine rumbles close as a car rolls into the driveway. I duck back around the corner. Dad must have just gotten home.

The engine shuts off, and dad steps out of the car. He looks tired, obviously.

I wait for him to make his way inside before I jog out onto the sidewalk, face the city, and set off.

It takes around twenty minutes to get far enough into the city to hide in an alleyway while I change. I spend that time focusing on using my power to shift my hair color from its normal dark brown to a lighter blonde, shedding hair strands along the way.

In the alley, behind a dumpster, I switch out my outfit, keeping the bat in my bag and hanging my mask around my neck. People don’t really go out at night, or at all, if they can help it, so I should be fine if I stick to the backstreets.

I start moving. Litter, grime, rats, this place has it all. I try not to pay too much attention, and remind myself to wash my outfit when I get home. Somehow.

I stick to the alley walls, lurking around buildings, checking corners, hopefully not being entirely clueless about it. I don’t really know what I’m looking for yet, so I just do my best to avoid people and keep an eye out. I stay out of the way of the blinding white nightlights, sticking to the shadows.

It’s quiet.

And then it’s not. I hear scuffling from the alleyway around the corner, and I peek my head out slowly. There’s a group of guys, and a taller one in the middle pushing the smaller guy against the wall. I can’t see them too well from where I am, but I can hear the tone of their voices. It doesn’t sound good. I pull down my mask.

There aren’t too many, only five total, including the guy getting whisper-yelled at. I close my eyes and use my power to give one last quick boost to my musculature, check my bone density, and push myself out into view.

“Hey,” I call out, sliding the aluminum bat out of my bag and letting it drop into my hand. “Break it up.”

I sound like an idiot.

“Who the fuck are you?” One of the goons snaps, and they all turn to me, including the big guy. I can’t see their faces, but some of them seem a little shifty.

It’s the mask. You’d be an idiot not to avoid anyone with a mask nowadays, there’s like an eighty percent chance they either have superpowers or are working for someone who does.

I was kinda hoping it would be enough on its own, though.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, dismissing the goon’s question. “Just break it up.” I twirl the bat, my heart beating rapidly.

They don’t seem convinced. The big guy snaps his fingers and points at me, and the goons move forward.

I react. I swing my bat up at the first goon, cracking against his temple, making him crumple to the ground. The other two hesitate. Then, the one on the left moves to pull something out of his pocket.

I move, again, stepping forward and striking the bat against his skull. He goes down as the last one on my right lunges for me, grabbing my arm and the bat. I shove him off — it’s startlingly easy — and use my bat to slam him against the wall of the alley. I knee him in the gut and he goes down, too.

Standing still in the alleyway, I try to catch my breath and stop shivering.

I don’t get the chance. A slight cough has me whirling back around, brandishing the bat at the last figure and the victim, who for some reason hasn’t run away yet.

“Impressive, kid. Haven’t seen you around before. Just get your powers or somethin’?” He cracks his knuckles and shakes out his arms. Without the other goons as a distraction, his silhouette’s a little more clear. Purple tank top, baggy cargo pants and a black tattered cowl strapped on by a pair of suspenders.

I’m beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

I don’t bother answering, instead, as he takes a step forward, I make a swing at his knees. The bat swishes, but his hand lashes out and catches the end.

“So what is it? Strength? Durability? Maybe it’s tactical?” His hand flexes and the aluminum creaks. I try yanking it away, but unlike the goons he holds firm. The air wavers around his hand as the aluminum starts to crumple and he pulls it — and me — closer. “Or maybe,” he mutters, close enough now that I can make out his black cloth mask adorned with a messy purple hand, “you’re just a stupid motherfucker who thinks putting on a mask and swinging around a stick makes you a fucking superhero.”

Metal screeches and the bat shears in half, and I stumble back. The air around us vibrates, his hands bubble with glowing white energy, lighting up the alley, and it finally clicks.

Oh fuck. My first night out as a vigilante and I’m fighting fucking Crush. Oh fuck. Oh shit.

And then he grabs me.

His hand feels like a bear trap on my left bicep even without his powers, and before I can try and break free he activates them. Searing pain, globules of energy and a concerning cracking sound cloud my mind, and it takes me a second to realize I’m screaming.

He lets go, blood streaming from his fingers, and pushes me back with his other hand, the white glow clinging to my chest while I hit the ground.

I immediately zone out, analyzing my injury with my power and trying to smooth over some of the damage. It’s hard to focus, and I give up after I notice Crush dropping to one knee and lifting up his glowing palm over my torso.

He swings down and reflexively I bring my working arm up to block him. It doesn’t work. He changes tracks, grabbing my arm while the air vibrates, my skin shredding and my bones cracking. I clench my teeth and taste blood as he yanks my tattered arm out of the way and swings again with his other hand.

He hits, and this time the bubbling glow bursts with another sickening crack. I retreat into my power’s analysis mode, trying to block out the pain. I can never get an exact diagnosis, but the abstracted information doesn’t paint a great picture.

I mentally brace, prepared to see another section of my body light up with metaphorical errors, but just as I emerge from the trance-like state — just enough to see what’s happening — Crush abruptly looks to his left, arm snapping up in from of his face where a projectile impacts his palm and shatters in a flash of bubbly energy. My power notifies me of a shard embedded in my gut, solidifying my decision to stay in analysis mode.

“Shit,” he mutters, quickly standing up, holding his hands in front of his vitals, “who…?” The victim’s gone, and someone else steps into the alley, carrying something heavy-looking.

Inexplicably, the sound of mechanical ratcheting echoes out as the figure hefts their… contraption. “What the fuck are you doing, handsy?! I thought you were cool!” Their voice sounds younger and more feminine. There’s a clunk as another metal rod spits out of the mechanism, shattering against Crush’s outstretched hand again as he backs up. Blood dribbles down from the center of his palms.

“Fuck are you talking about?! Stay out of this!” He shouts, edging forward while the other figure reloads.

“Murder isn’t cool, stupid,” they say, cranking the mechanism and pulling it up again before he gets too close. Another clunk as they fire, more shrapnel, and Crush takes the chance to run, tagging the brick alley corner as he leaves with a bright glow, and after rounding the corner entirely he stops just long enough to punch the tagged spot, splitting the brick wall.

Rubble rains down, joining the blood and shrapnel already littered across the alleyway, sending error pings at me through my power when pieces of concrete fall down on top of me.

Then, the chunk of building is done falling, Crush is gone, and the alley is quiet. I lay quietly in analysis mode, trying to think of what to do now. If I exit the trance now, I’ll absolutely black out, and I don’t know if my power will regenerate me while I’m unconscious. I might have to just do this manually.

While I’m trying to stitch myself back together and not panic, my savior cautiously steps towards me and the other… bodies. I can’t see them but I can hear them start to retch.

“Oh damn. That’s bad,” they mutter.

Wonderful.

First, I start forming basic seals over my wounds to prevent further blood loss. Then, I decide to start realigning my bones, figuring it’s as good a place as any, and in the meantime the figure takes a few steps closer.

“Jeez. Sorry kid,” they say to themself, softly. They think I’m dead, of course. I try not to get too hysterical, and just focus on reconstruction. I feel like if I think about anything else right now, I’m not going to stop, and then I’m going to bleed out on the ground.

By the time I’ve mostly repaired my bones, the figure’s made a call and left the scene. I don’t make much note of it. Instead, I move on to muscle and flesh.

The injuries aren’t anything super abnormal, there’s no burns or radiation. Just snapped bones, pulped flesh and shredded skin. I’ve had enough practice building muscle with my power that I’m able to reconstruct most of it and stitch my skin up over top.

There’s still chunks of rubble and shrapnel that I have to eject in order to seal the skin, which I do by extending branches of bone to cradle the objects and push them out. The metallic clinks some of them make as they leave my body startle me at first, but I try to push through.

The scars are deep, since I don’t have any extra meat lying around, but no one should notice as long as I wear long sleeves.

It takes around thirty minutes total. And then I’m done, apparently. My power tells me I’m all put back together.

I stay in the trance a little while longer. When I do come back, it’s slowly, bit by bit, until I can feel the hard concrete under me, and the thick layer of dust and blood layered all over the alley.

I’m shivering, and it’s not because I’m cold, even though it is chilly.

Instead of reflecting, though, I pull my tattered frame up off the ground, knocking aside chunks of rubble and clouds of dust, stepping over questionably still bodies, and start to walk home with the sinking feeling that I’ve accomplished nothing.

> //first time posting to rr, so hopefully the formatting is correct.

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> thanks for reading!!!!

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> if u enjoyed uh like comment leave a review, all that. and if u REALLY enjoyed it, consider throwing me a tip on ko-fi! the more support i see, the more i can justify writing, so hopefully soon i can start putting these out faster very soon.

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> stay silly