Thomas Conway stepped out of his house. Wearing a tight-fitting shirt, shorts, and hip pack, only the iridescent shimmering of his exposed skin looked out of the ordinary. He could be just another person out for an early morning jog.
His home was on a large, semi-rural property, nestled into a depression behind a heavy stand of trees and shrubs. The lone driveway swept in from the main road through a gated entry to curve among trees which obscured a greenhouse and the remains of a cement foundation now overgrown by weeds and brambles. The few neighbors he had would have been hard-pressed to see his comings and goings.
He stepped carefully over the blackened foundation. The main house had burned down a couple years before. All that remained were scattered scraps of charred wood and cracked cement. Thankfully the fire had not touched the greenhouse nor the guest house where he now lived.
He ignored the old van parked where the garage had once stood, stopping instead in the middle of the ruins. His perceptions heightened by the same power that made him glow, he breathed in the sensations that still oozed from the foundation and stubs of moss-covered wood. While faint even for him, the scent of smoke still lingered, recalling the memories of his screams as the house burned down around him.
Steeped in memory, he let go completely, disappearing into a blaze of light. Gone were the remnants of his human senses, the five that everyone was aware of but also the feel of gravity and the awareness of his body in space that most people took for granted. He became effectively deaf and blind, his senses replaced by something greater. Sensations now funneled through his body like a craving, his awareness akin to the feel of hunger, thirst and the need to breathe. He drank in the sights, fed off the sounds and smells, could feel the ground like the beating of his own heart. And he exhaled light, discharging energy back out into the world.
Gone too was the hold those senses had over him. The effects of gravity redirected, it no longer existed for him. Nor did inertia nor friction nor any force that could push or pull on his physical body. His power altered his place in the fabric of the universe. He felt simultaneously massive and insignificantly small, his faculties expanding even as his human awareness disappeared. He was part of nothing, yet everything was a part of him.
No longer tethered to the earth, he soared upward through the trees and over the hills into the sky above the city.
Settling over the river that split the city, he stretched out his perception, going down his mental list to find the people he had failed. As he searched his glow brightened; feeling for them like a rumble in his gut, he shimmered like a beacon in the morning sky.
It used to be difficult to pick out individuals from the tens of thousands living around them, but he remembered where they resided and the feel of their families. He examined them for signs of trouble. One by one he crossed them off his list. Beyond the usual scraps of frustration from daily living, they were healthy, their homes secure, their lives good. It pleased him to know they were recovering from their traumas and moving past the crimes committed upon them and the people they had lost. For most, life had returned to a semblance of normality. While there may still be tears for some, there was no physical pain.
He eventually arrived at the bottom of the list. In this case he perked up, driving his perceptions even further. It drew yet more attention to himself, his glow becoming second only to the sun in brightness. Audrey Preston demanded extra attention. He had once failed to protect her family from harm, but unlike the others she was no victim. Where Afterimage had fallen down, she had risen to the occasion. The incident helped trigger her powers. In the weeks since then, Audrey took her life back and quickly stepped down the path of a hero.
Afterimage was having trouble finding her. Her house was empty and she was nowhere in the surrounding neighborhood, nor in the park where she often practiced her powers. He turned to the rest of the city, searching for the signature feel of compressed air that gave her the appropriate nickname of Pressure.
With his attention on the ground, he was caught unawares as an object flew toward him, its passage pounding at his senses like a hurricane. Thinking it was a ground to air missile, he weaved in the air to avoid being hit, but the object swerved deftly in response, altering course with his floundering. All the while it maintained a steady distance, remaining near yet far enough to avoid collision.
No missile acted like that. Realizing it was not there to kill him, he allowed himself the time to focus on his unexpected guest. He stopped his erratic flight to float in place above the river once more.
Pressure halted her flight to match him, altering her trajectory to hover nearby. Unlike him, her power required her to perform a delicate dance. Like a rocket trying to land vertically on a tail of fire, she bobbed briefly as she adjusted to keep herself aloft.
He watched as she settled her flight. The blues and grays of her suit felt like storm clouds to his senses, the reflective piping along the seams stabbing at him like lightning bolts. The mirrored, iridescent lenses of her glasses shimmered like sunlight on his face. Her power pushed at him like liquid fury. Here in the sky, she was the goddess of thunder come to judge the mortals with righteous anger.
The goddess waved at him timidly. He waved back, though he could not be sure she could see the gesture over the brightness of his power. He toned it down as far as he could but flying still required a modicum of effort to keep the feel of gravity at bay. With the sensation redirecting into energy and light, to feel gravity meant being pulled down by it. It was glow or fall. At this close distance it would still be like looking into the sun. So as a sign of greeting he burst forward to loop about her in a corkscrew. Then he returned to his original position.
Pressure whooped at his display. “I hope I’m not bothering you,” she shouted across the distance between them, the brisk breeze above the river trying its best to carry her voice away. To him it was like shouting in his ear. “I don’t mean to intrude. Not just here. I mean out there, playing hero.”
He was startled. This was not the first time she had spoken with him, but since taking on the mantle of a hero it was her first attempt at a conversation. Her eyes were hidden behind her glasses, but he could feel the strain of muscles and the rapid rhythm of her heart. She was nervous. It helped put him at ease.
Afterimage wanted to let her know that he didn’t mind. He often had to make uncomfortable choices, being unable to be in two places at once. She had already proven more than able to deal with problems he himself had been powerless to tackle. He appreciated the help.
“It’s alright,” he said reflexively. There was no way she could hear it. Just as his powers robbed him of the ability to hear sound with his ears, they took away his ability to speak. The sound waves of his words translated into energy, and just like his sense of gravity it added to his glow. The aura around him pulsed with each word like Morse code.
It was not a code he expected her to crack, so he flew around her again, swirling and swooping in a light show the entire city of Portland could see. He made fireworks with his body, tracing arcs and shapes in the air, zipping between points at the speed of thought. It was the only response he could give.
Pressure watched his flight with rapt attention. With his awareness he could feel the muscles of her face lift in a smile, the easing of her tension, and the catch of her breath with every dive and twirl. Though he could not see it himself, he experienced his performance through her, pleased that it made her happy.
The feel of a distant gunshot punched him in the gut. The air trembled with it, unceremoniously snatching his attention away from Pressure. Disturbed, he stopped in his tracks and scanned the city. In his distraction he had missed where it came from.
“What is it?” She asked, knowing something was wrong. Then the portable police scanner she had in a pocket crackled to life, the dispatcher relaying information in a flurry of police codes and locations to an earpiece she wore. “Oh…” she whispered, listening to the report.
His power enabled him to overhear the directions from her radio. Without hesitation Afterimage sped off in that direction. Pressure followed closely after.
Afterimage beat the police to the scene. It was a twenty-four-hour diner located just off East Burnside, the major avenue that split Portland into north and south sections. People were fleeing in all directions and one of the front windows was shattered, likely from the gunfire that had caught his attention.
Thick walls could dampen his perceptions, but the broken window made it easy for sound and other sensory information to leak outside. Inside were two armed men, one with a semi-automatic weapon, the other a knife, and eight cowering hostages, three of whom were children. He could hear the quiet fluttering of another heartbeat from the womb of one of the hostages, making for nine total. There were also two employees hiding in the walk-in refrigerator, cold but safe.
The man with the gun was breathing hard from stress, his heart struggling to push blood through arteries clogged with plaque. The sensations emanating from him reminded Afterimage of cheap beer, cheeseburgers, and greasy fries. “Hurry it up! We have to get out of here,” he grumbled to his companion. He waved the gun at the hostages to keep them cowed.
He got a hiss in reply. “Get a grip. I’ve got this.” In addition to the knife, the gunman’s friend had a black backpack which he held out to the hostages. “Purses, wallets, everything in the bag. Now!” One of the children whimpered. “And shut that kid up or I will make sure you have something to worry about.”
Though knifeman sounded in control, his heart was racing like a horse. He shifted his grip on his blade over and over as if holding it was uncomfortable, and his breath had a sickly-sweet edge to it. Afterimage could smell his desperate need for insulin.
Afterimage landed just outside the front door. He could hear the sounds of sirens in the distance as police, five cars’ worth, raced to the scene from various directions. They would be there shortly. The man with the knife, however, was sick and on edge, threatening children. Afterimage felt compelled to step in before someone got hurt.
Pressure landed beside him. She didn’t have his senses but looking through the windows she quickly understood the situation. “This is your game. I’m just here to learn,” she reassured him. “I’ll stay out of the way.”
It felt strange to have someone else there. He was used to working alone. Yet he could see no reason to make her leave. He nodded in acknowledgement.
His light flashing through the windows had alerted the criminals. “Crap, too late. Afterimage is here.” The one with the gun gritted his teeth, swinging the gun toward the door. “We’re screwed.”
Knifeman looked behind him and cursed. He gripped his weapon so hard his knuckles cracked. “Keep that gun pointed this way. He may be bulletproof, but they’re not.” He turned toward the door himself. “Hear me, asshole! We have hostages. Let us leave or we start putting holes in people!”
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Why do they do that, Afterimage wondered. Taking hostages never worked out for anyone. He wished he could tell them that, convince them to go peacefully, but that just wasn’t an option. He had to find another way.
He could do as they ask and leave. There was no telling what would happen after, though. The first police car was pulling up behind him, so they would still feel trapped.
Scanning the area with his senses, he looked for other options. The front door was locked, the bolt lock slotted into place. He could go through it, but the gunman might start shooting before he could be disarmed. There was a backdoor, but it had the same problem as the front.
That left the shattered window. They would have a clear view of him entering, so he would have to act quickly. His powers enabled him to move at incredible speed, defying inertia and gravity, but he could react no faster than his ability to think.
He stood there and planned. “What are you going to do?” asked Pressure, but he held up a hand to silence her. It was rude, but he had no way to tell her what he was about to do. After another moment, his route traced in his mind, he took a deep breath. Whether actual air entered his lungs when his powers were up, he didn’t know, but it felt reassuring. It was his moment of preparation, the pause before the act.
When he moved, he was a blur of light, a stream of luminescence tracing his path to the window and through it, racing between the gunman and his potential victims. The one with the knife stood in his way. Afterimage did his best to moderate the collision, slowing at the last moment, but he still hit the knifeman at near freeway speed. It sent the criminal flying through the air and over the counter. The man impacted the opposite wall, knocking down shelving to send a cascade of glassware and plates pouring down on top of him.
“Holy…” yelled the gunman, the sound of his voice quickly obliterated by the deafening rapport of gunfire. The kinetic energy of the bullets transformed upon impact with Afterimage’s skin. Instantly losing momentum, they blazed like solar flares across the sun before falling harmlessly to his feet. Afterimage held himself there between the gunman and the hostages, a mound of bullets forming at his feet as he waited for the gun’s magazine to run out.
The weapon was on automatic, firing in three round bursts. Afterimage made sure to keep himself between the gunman and the hostages through each cycle of fire, moving with each twitch of the gun. After a few rounds, however, the shooting stopped. The gunman turned toward the counter in distraction.
Blue fire had erupted from behind the countertop, flames licking up the wall of shattered glass and tableware. It was not a natural fire. Afterimage wondered if some alcohol behind the counter had ignited, but the air was absent of the smell and there was none of the heat he would associate with such a blaze. Tendrils of flame licked the wall and counter like the sparks from a plasma ball, making the air smell of ozone. And in the middle of that fire, rising to his feet, was the man he had thrown there.
Knifeman looked down at himself, as surprised as everyone else by what was happening. He stared curiously at his arms; his gaping mouth filled with blue flame but showing no sign of pain. His hair was askew but unburnt, his skin whole and untouched. Turning toward the restaurant, his eyes darted from face to face. Startled by what they were seeing no one said a word. Even the children were hushed in astonishment.
Then he looked directly at Afterimage. “That hurt,” he whispered, his surprise turning to anger. “What did you do to me?” He waved his fiery fingers at Afterimage as if expecting him to answer. Unfortunately, the superhero had nothing to say, even if the man had been able hear it.
The silence only upset the criminal more. “Bastard. I’m going to kick your ass.” The man threw himself over the counter, blue tendrils licking out across the silverware and stools like hundreds of fingers helping to push him across. Some reached to the ceiling, making the florescent lights flicker wherever they touched. Once over, the man vaulted himself at Afterimage, body checking the superhero just as Afterimage had done to him moments before.
Upon contact Afterimage’s world collapsed upon itself. The hit itself was nothing. The man was neither fast nor particularly strong. But moments before, Afterimage could see the gunman, emboldened by his companion fighting back, pointing his rifle at the hostages. Outside, police cars were pulling up to form a perimeter. The cops were coming out of their cars with pistols drawn. Pressure was outside looking in through the shattered window, the shimmering shield of compressed air around her wavering with concentration. Then the feelings in his gut were gone, replaced by normal human senses. The world he knew as Afterimage disappeared, and the frail world of Thomas Conway returned. Now it was just Tom standing there, arms locked in struggle with the man in blue flames like a pair of Greek wrestlers.
Tom fell to the ground, his opponent on top of him, one fiery hand holding down his arm while the burning fingers of the other wrapped around his neck. The man’s fire covered hands tingled where they touched but were otherwise cool, with filaments of energy flicking out to lick at Tom’s exposed chin and cheeks. Wherever that fire connected, the glow of his skin dimmed to a dull, pale pink. The light was being sucked away to reveal the man beneath.
Tom had never been a fighter. Before his powers he had been a shut-in, rarely seeing the light of day let alone physically interacting with others. From the moment his powers manifested he relied upon his abilities to function in everything he did. Wrestling with this man now, he was terribly outmatched. He desperately pulled at the hand on his throat so he could breathe, but no matter how much he struggled he did not have the strength to remove it. Resorting to his last, feeble defense, Tom used the nails of his free hand to scratch at the face above him, digging at the blue fire in the man’s eyes.
The man screamed in pain and anger, recoiling to protect his face. Tom gasped to catch his breath but wasted no time to enjoy his freedom. Bringing his legs up between them, he kicked his opponent off him to send him flying into the nearby stools.
“Oh no you don’t,” the gunman yell at Tom, gun pivoting back in his direction. Tom faced him, unconcerned, but realized quickly that something was amiss. Looking at his own hands, Tom saw only pink skin. His glow had not returned. He knew what was about to happen next. It was too late to run or hide, so he closed his eyes and wondered what people would think of the real Afterimage once they identified the body.
The sharp retorts of gunfire rang out in the enclosed space. Children and adults screamed. Laid out in front of the hostages, Tom would not be the only one to die today. They would be victims of his hubris. He was a fool for thinking he could play hero forever without anyone else getting hurt.
Yet death did not come. His breathing continued normally without the help of extra holes in his chest, and the screams continued despite the spurts of gunfire. Opening his eyes, he looked up to see Pressure straddling him, the shimmering bubble of her shield enclosing him and the hostages. Her face strained with concentration to maintain her protection around them all.
The man on fire pushed himself back to his feet, face writhing in fury. Pushing himself forward he charged. Then the gunman ran out of bullets. The sound of gunfire ceased, and in that moment of silence Pressure smiled. She flung out a hand dramatically like she was swatting away a fly. A pulse of force spread out between her and the criminals, sweeping everything before it. The shockwave caught both men, sending them flying backward through the restaurant windows, shattering two more as they went. They landed in the parking lot in a hail of glass and dishware, delivered to the half dozen cops waiting outside. Stunned unconscious, the man on fire snuffed out like a blown birthday candle.
“Everyone ok?” Pressure asked.
The hostages nodded, too shocked to speak.
“Are you ok?” she asked Tom.
“I think so,” he said.
It was strange hearing his own voice. It sounded hollow in his ears. It was so rare for him to speak that he barely recognized himself. More startling, however, was that it didn’t hurt. He cleared his throat, expecting the noise to beat achingly against his eardrums, but felt nothing.
Pressure grinned when he spoke. But then her lips turned down in thought. “We need to get you out of here. Can you walk?”
He nodded.
“Then it’s time to leave. If you’ll excuse us,” she said to their audience of former hostages. She held out her hand to help him stand.
Tom looked at her gloved hand, hesitant to touch it. While Afterimage was a hero, Tom Conway was disabled, his perceptions so sensitized that every sensation was excruciatingly painful. The doctors called it Sensory Processing Disorder. For Tom it was a wall between himself and the world. Only his power allowed him to interact in a way he could tolerate.
Yet at that moment, even without his powers, he felt no discomfort. The touch of blue fire had taken away the bad along with the good. He often experienced something similar after using his abilities for long periods of time. The pain would fade along with his powers, only to return with a vengeance hours later. But for a brief time he could take a break from his troubles. Tom decided to enjoy the moment while it lasted. He took her hand.
She grimaced at his grasp, his touch apparently hurting her, but she had no trouble pulling him to his feet. Then she dragged him down the hallway toward the back door. Unlocking it and slipping out, they found a couple of policemen waiting just outside. She waved to them casually. “Hi there. You’re missing all the action. Your bad guys are out front.”
They both started to raise their weapons, but then hesitated. “Hey, you’re one of those heroes,” one said in recognition.
“Yep, that would be me,” she answered. “Can you fly?” she whispered to Tom.
He looked at the hand she held. It flickered faintly with amber flashes but was otherwise normal. Like with his voice, there was no discomfort. “No,” he said uncertainly.
“Then hold onto me,” she directed, placing his hand on her waist. With the two policemen looking at him, he knew he couldn’t refuse. They had to leave before they connected him with Afterimage. Gulping down his trepidation, he wrapped both his arms around her in a firm embrace.
“Have a good evening, officers,” she said, and with a burst of speed took off into the air.
At his direction, Pressure flew into the hills to the west which lay on the boundary between Portland and Beaverton, the next town over. Flying with her felt strange. With his ability, gravity and inertia just fell away, allowing him to fly weightlessly through the air. With Audrey, he could feel the pull of gravity and the force of the wind trying to pull him away. He tightened his grasp further as he fought the slippery feel of her suit in his arms.
This put his head up against Audrey’s chest, allowing him to hear the pounding of her heartbeat in his ear. While the feel of it via his powers was not new to him, this was more intimate. Pressed against her, it seemed closer than he had any right to be. He had been given little choice, however, so he used the sound as an anchor to help him hold on.
“Thank you,” he said when they landed near the greenhouse by his home. He let go of her and stepped back, taking a deep breath to steady himself. Unused to loud sounds, the rush of wind during the flight had grated at his nerves.
“My pleasure, sir,” she replied, bobbing her head in a truncated curtsy. Pressure pushed her sport glasses up to her forehead to look around. “You grow orchids, I take it?”
He nodded, embarrassed. His signature flowers, which he left as gifts to every person on his list, gave him away.
She blushed as well. “I don’t mean to intrude. This wasn’t exactly planned. I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “Don’t be. You saved my life.” He tried to sound confident but was doing his best to ignore the sound of his own throbbing heart in his ears. He was thankful she did not have his preternatural senses. These were the most words he had exchanged with another human being in years. He liked talking with her, hearing the sound of her voice, but he suspected that tomorrow his life would return to its usual, isolated state. His condition would rebound as it always did. In the morning her voice would sound like the pounding of nails into his head. He needed to enjoy the moment for what it was, a temporary.
“Are all the criminals getting powers these days? What was up with that?” She asked timidly as if searching for something to talk about.
He shook his head. “No idea. He’s only the second I’ve encountered.”
“The second?” she asked, curious.
“George Mathers was the first. The guy with cancer. Thank you for dealing with that too.”
She smiled proudly. “You’re welcome.” Then she looked down at her feet. She appeared unsure of herself, at odds with her earlier confidence. “I should go” she said. “That flight took nearly everything I had left. I better get home before I’m tapped out.”
“You’ve gotten stronger,” he said, not wanting her to leave quite yet.
“You’ve been watching me,” she teased, the grin returning. “Yes, I’ve been able to do more and more every day.”
“It’s a trap, you know.” He cringed at his words, wishing he could take them back. He had not meant to say them out loud.
She cocked her head to the side. “What do you mean?”
He felt compelled to explain despite his misgivings. “The powers. Your condition feeds your powers, and using those powers makes you feel better for a while. But after that your condition gets worse, which gives you more to feed your powers. It’s a vicious cycle. I’d tell you to stop, but I know you wouldn’t listen. I certainly didn’t.”
She pursed he lips together at the suggestion, but her eyes flashed with defiance. “No, it’s too late for that. I can’t stop now.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he admitted. “I use them every day now. I wouldn’t stop for the world.”
She nodded in understanding. “Then I guess I’ll see you later.”
“I look forward to it.”
Pressure stepped away a couple paces, focused, and launched herself into the air once more. Tom watched her arc up into the night sky and disappear. He wished he could go with her. Looking at the palm of his hand, his skin flickered but the glow refused to stay. He would just have to wait to join her.