The morning news flickered on the old television in the corner of my apartment, the muted voices barely registering over the sound of the kettle boiling. I wasn’t usually one for watching TV, but it had become a habit lately—a way to keep track of the world outside, a world that seemed increasingly detached from me.
I poured myself a cup of tea and sat down at the small table by the window, absently stirring the cup as the news droned on.
“Vladimir Vostokof, hero name Snegovik, was reported dead by the Metahuman’s Republic of Asia. The former president and leader of the MRA didn’t make a public appearance since his retirement in 2012. Qiu Aleksandrova, hero name Parlour, announced a cardiac arrest due to Snegovik’s old age of 94. This would mark the first ever Touched to die of Natural Causes. Aleksandra Vostokof, still currently residing in the UCE, hasn’t made any declaration on her father’s death, the exile–”
The news anchor’s polished tone faded into the background as I stared at the TV, unblinking. Snegovik. The first metahuman. The origin of it all. My mind flickered back to the countless documentaries I’d half-watched in school, all highlighting how the meteors of 1952 had changed the world forever. How Vostokof’s powers had defined an era. His death, they were saying, was natural, the first of its kind among the Touched—those who had powers thrust upon them by fate, rather than inherited or stolen like the rest.
But the idea of “natural causes” didn’t sit right with me. I wondered if that was what they wanted us to believe. A figure like Snegovik didn’t just disappear quietly into the night. Metahumans didn’t die quietly. And if they did, it was never as simple as a “cardiac arrest.”
The screen shifted, revealing a shot of the Metahuman’s Republic of Asia—MRA, one of the most powerful superstates. The sprawling city of Vladivostok gleamed beneath an artificial sun, towers glistening with technology developed by Thinkers and Shapers. The utopian facade barely hid the undercurrents of control, power plays, and manipulation. They showed a clip of Parlour, Snegovik’s successor, speaking to a massive crowd, her delicate, porcelain-like features stark against the cold backdrop of military precision. Her words were carefully crafted, offering condolences to the world as if they were more than just a political move.
I sipped my tea, the bitter taste matching the growing cynicism that bubbled inside me. Snegovik had shaped so much of the world I hated—this obsession with power, the need to divide humanity between the strong and the weak, the special and the expendable. His death wouldn’t change that. If anything, it would give the next generation of metas more excuses to tighten their grip.
The anchor’s voice cut through my thoughts again.
“In related news, the Metahuman Council of the United Countries of Europe has officially declared the week of mourning for Vladimir Vostokof, marking the first intercontinental gesture of solidarity between the MRA and UCE since 1995. World leaders from both sides of the Atlantic are expected to attend the memorial service. In lighter news, Geneva reports record-high exports of Thinker-engineered crops, solidifying the UCE’s position as a leading agricultural power, while tensions rise in Neo Lyon following–”
I gritted my teeth, slamming my cup down a bit too hard on the table. The sharp clink reverberated through the small apartment, matching the irritation now bubbling up inside me. Record-high exports, I thought bitterly. Tensions rising. That was their news. International politics, technological utopias, and carefully crafted smiles for cameras. They painted it as progress, as if the world had become a better place since the arrival of people like Snegovik.
But in reality, it was still the same world. The metas had only changed the players, not the game. Cities might gleam under artificial suns, but there were always shadows. Shadows where people like me, like Mel, fell through the cracks.
The news shifted again, this time closer to home. "In Neo Lyon today, Metapol forces clashed with rogue elements in the La Croix district during a pursuit of suspected villain activity. The League of Chaos, now reformed, is believed to be behind several high-profile incidents in recent weeks, including the destruction of government property and the suspected death of three officers. MetaPol has announced a renewed effort to curb vigilante and rogue activities within the city limits, emphasising that–"
My knuckles tightened around the edge of the table as I listened. League of Chaos, I thought. Another name for the endless, rotating roster of villains that caused death and destruction in the name of chaos or greed. They might as well have said “business as usual.” The only difference now was that Neo Lyon had become a hotspot for metahuman activity, a constant battlefield where the rest of us just tried to stay out of the way.
The images on the screen showed rubble-strewn streets, fire-scorched buildings, and the twisted remains of cars that had been caught in the crossfire. People were running for cover, cowering behind whatever debris hadn’t already been obliterated. It was the same scene I had seen too many times before.
The voice of a witness crackled through the speakers. "I saw one of them. A big guy, with... flames all around him. He just... he just threw fire everywhere! We didn’t stand a chance, and the police... they were barely holding him back."
The voice of the news anchor came back. “A fire attacking the city of Neo-Lyon, much like what happened to the city’s predecessor in 1988? Some people are fearing Feu Divin escaped but the Guildmaster was prompt in declaring that Bastille was inescapable and Feu Divin was still detained.”
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I stared at the screen as images of burning streets flashed before my eyes, reminiscent of the chaos that seemed to follow metahumans like a shadow. Feu Divin’s power, they said, was biblical in scale—holy fire, divine punishment. But what struck me most was how he, like so many others, had been caught in the cyclical game of power. His imprisonment in Bastille was supposed to bring peace, yet here we were again, haunted by fire and destruction.
I finished my tea in silence, the warmth doing little to ease the cold knot that had formed in my stomach. It was all so predictable—heroes, villains, governments vying for control, and the rest of us caught in the crossfire. No matter how much they pretended things had changed since Snegovik's time, the reality was the same: power ruled, and everyone else suffered for it.
Setting the cup down, I moved to the window and glanced out at the city below. The skyline of Neo Lyon glittered, a false promise of stability and progress.
I turned away from the window, my thoughts shifting back to the night before. The ideas of Replica had taken root, growing stronger with each passing day. The name, the costume, the plan—it all felt like pieces falling into place, like I was finally taking control of something in a world that constantly tried to strip it away.
But even with this newfound determination, there was one thing I couldn’t ignore: money. With Paul’s work, I had barely enough for daily expenses and the move to a normal apartment instead of this temporary one.
“I’d need more sources of income for materials and tools for Replica…”
My gaze shifted to the notepad sitting on the kitchen table, filled with scribbled notes about fabrics, colors, and designs. I could make do with secondhand clothes, sure, but for what I was planning, I needed something more durable, more professional. Something that could withstand the kind of damage I expected to face.
A thought gnawed at the back of my mind. I could make money—more than enough—if I used my powers strategically. The idea of using them for personal gain was tempting, a little too tempting. It wasn’t like I wanted to rob banks or anything, but the darker part of me wondered: if the world was so willing to use people like me, why shouldn’t I take advantage of it?
I shook the thought off and stood up, moving to get ready for the day. I had to head to Paul’s shop soon, and as much as I was mentally preparing to step into the shadows as Replica, for now, I still needed to play the part of “Liz the shop assistant.” But the line between those two worlds was blurring fast.
The walk to Paul’s shop was uneventful, but the city felt more tense than usual. People moved quickly, heads down, as if the threat of another metahuman fight was hanging in the air like a storm cloud. It wasn’t paranoia—it was reality. Neo Lyon was a city built on cracks, always one battle away from falling apart completely. And it wasn’t just the villains that made it dangerous. Heroes like Gravitas, with their well-meaning but devastating powers, could wreak just as much havoc.
When I arrived at the shop, the familiar jingle of the bell greeted me, followed by Paul’s usual nod of acknowledgement. The shop was quiet, a few customers browsing the shelves. I took my place behind the counter, slipping easily into the routine.
But my mind kept drifting.
How long could I stay here, pretending everything was normal? I had already started gathering pieces for my costume—dark clothing that would blend into the shadows, gloves to keep my hands from leaving prints. But it wasn’t enough. I needed more. More gear, more resources, and more information. And to get those things, I had to step deeper into the world I was trying to infiltrate.
I glanced up as a customer entered—a young woman, slightly taller than my average height. Nothing of note but her green eyes, a weird fit on someone of mixed ethnicity like she was. She moved with a certain ease, her eyes scanning the shelves before settling on me. There was something about her that made me uneasy, though I couldn’t quite place why. She was too deliberate, too composed, as if she was used to moving unnoticed and knew more than she should.
She approached the counter, her expression neutral. "Do you have any blues records? Something from the 60s or 70s?" Her voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it, like she was assessing me with every word.
“It is rare to see a young lady like yourself look for old-school stuff like that” I lightly laugh at my remark.
She smiled slightly at my remark, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s not the music that’s old,” she replied, her voice smooth and measured. “It’s the stories they tell.”
There was something unsettling about her calm demeanour, the way she carried herself with quiet confidence. Her gaze flicked over me for a moment, like she was sizing me up, but before I could respond, she continued, “Blues records have a way of sticking around, even when the world forgets the people behind them.”
I nodded, feeling the weight of her words, even if I didn’t fully understand them. “I’ll check the back. We might have a few hidden gems back there.”
As I moved toward the backroom, I couldn’t shake the unease that settled in my chest. There was something off about this woman. She didn’t seem like a typical customer—her questions, her cryptic responses, everything about her felt calculated, like she knew exactly what she was doing by being here.
I returned with a couple of records, laying them on the counter. “These might be what you’re looking for.”
She picked one up, briefly flipping through the vinyl, her fingers running over the cover with a kind of reverence. “Perfect,” she said, but her tone was more contemplative than excited.
She paid for the albums without any further conversation, but just before she left, she paused at the door, glancing back at me. "Be careful out there," she said, her tone low and cryptic. "The city’s changing fast."
With that, she disappeared into the street, leaving me standing by the counter with a strange knot in my chest.
The rest of the day passed in a blur, the encounter lingering in the back of my mind. There was something about that woman—something I couldn’t shake. She wasn’t just a customer. She clearly knew something.
By the time I closed up shop, I was more certain than ever that I needed to act. Replica couldn’t wait any longer. The city was on the edge of something, and I had to be ready. Whatever came next, I couldn’t afford to be caught off guard.
As I walked home, the distant sound of sirens echoed through the streets, a reminder of the constant threat looming over Neo Lyon. But this time, I didn’t feel powerless. This time, I felt like I was finally ready to step into the shadows.
And when I did, I’d do it for my own purposes.