The fingerprint scanner pinged and the door to their apartment opened. Matt, by this point, had put on pants.

“Morning all.”

“Morning man,” Will grinned as he stepped through.

“Oh my God,” gushed Giselle Pixus, following in close behind, “Is that Matt Callaghan? Oh my God. From TV? Maaattt. Can I have your autograph?” Matt rolled his eyes good‑naturedly as they walked towards each other, and Giselle descend into cackling laughter.

Tall, thin and stunning, Giselle Pixus, speedster, was the same olive-skinned Eurasian goddess she’d always been and in characteristically irrepressible spirits. Gone was her brief, bleak window of misery, extinguished the moment the real Klaus Heydrich reappeared and proved her innate kindness hadn’t caused her friend’s depression and death. Gone too was any sign of the horrific burns that half a year ago had covered nine-tenths of her body, restored by superhuman healers to her original flawless flesh. The only slight change, if you knew to look for it, was the subtle lack of branding on any of the blue activewear she sported – the leggings, white top and black jacket all custom Legion fabrications, Matt knew, and specifically designed to be fireproof.

“Another brush with death,” Giselle said in faux-lamentation, holding the back of her hand to her forehead as if a Victorian lady about to faint, “Yet once more our hero triumphs.”

“Yeah, yeah. Another day, another dodge.” The two met in a hug. After a moment or two they pulled back, Giselle’s arms still wrapped around his stomach. She beamed at him.

“What do we say to death?”

“None for me thanks?”

“Close enough. Jaaaane,” Giselle called, detaching from Matt and leaning into the main of their apartment, “How’s your loooove neeeeeest?”

Jane stuck her head out from around the door to their bedroom, face pinched into a darkened scowl. She trudged out towards the newcomers, already dressed in the uniform of Dawn – white bodice, gold sigil of breaking day, gold boots, cape and gloves. Giselle, completely unintimidated by both Jane’s large, gleaming presence or her sour expression, pranced forward and engulfed the younger woman in a hug.

“You did so good last night,” she cooed, when after a moment they pulled apart, “I saw the whole thing. I know I’m fast, but you? You were on it.” She snapped her fingers. “Like that. Eagle eyes. So good. We were so impressed.”

“Thanks,” Jane said awkwardly, breaking contact. She shuffled slightly in place, tugging fitfully at one of the cape’s shoulders. Matt moved in quickly to change the subject.

“Shall we let these two get going?”

Giselle clapped her hands. “My, yes. So many disasters, so little time. Go, fly, shoot light at people. And you-” she rounded on Will, “-go take her places and make eggy fart smells. Make the Legion proud.”

“Our charismatic leader,” the teleporter grieved, though he grinned as he said it. He nodded at Jane, who returned the gesture before turning back to Matt.

“Call me the second you need anything,” she said. Matt struggled not to roll his eyes, instead forcing a smile.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Hmm,” Jane frowned. She glanced over Matt’s shoulder at Giselle, who was watching the two of them with unrestrained glee and moving her fingers super-fast to make two blurry love hearts. Jane’s eyes narrowed.

“Go,” Matt insisted. Jane returned her attention to him, still hesitant.

“It doesn’t feel right.”

“Come on. Life goes on. Besides, who’s going to get past her?” He jerked a thumb back at Giselle, who threw up devil horns.

“No excursions,” Jane warned, poking him in the chest. Matt raised his hands defensively.

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“No excursions. I’ll be good.”

“You better be. If you die, I snap and kill everybody.”

“A little dark,” Matt commented, going for constructive feedback to encourage rather than dissuade his girlfriend’s embryonic attempt at a joke. He gave her a quick kiss, squeezed her gloved hands, then patted her beneath the cape.

“Aww,” said Giselle.

“Shut up,” Jane ordered, pointing. She jerked her head at Will. “Come on.”

They exited into the hallway with Jane only giving one last fleeing look behind her. The lift pinged, and the sound of stilted conversation drifted in from the elevator. The minute the doors closed, Matt’s shoulders slumped and he sighed.

“That good huh?” Giselle commented, moving beside him, her arms crossed, some of the levity dissipated. Matt shook his head.

“Big night.”

“No kidding. You guys sure know how to make television.”

“She worries about me,” he said with a sigh.

“Dude,” said Giselle, making a face, “I worry about you. You’re like the world’s most murderable baby.”

“If I could go one day,” Matt lamented, staring up at the ceiling of the penthouse, “Just one day without being horribly emasculated, I would die a happy man.”

“Please,” Giselle snorted, “Emasculated. You’re better than that.”

Matt considered for a moment. “It’s true,” he eventually conceded, “I am. Too much self‑confidence. Damn loving, supporting parents.”

“You’re a diamond in the rough.”

*****

Five thousand feet below the surface of the ocean, the crew of the V.K. Konovalov huddled in smothering silence and listened to the walls around them creak. The air hung cold and thick with condensation – clustered around the weak glow of electric lanterns or a pyromancer’s cupped flame, their breaths fogged before their faces as they hunched beneath rough-spun blankets and pulled layers of spare clothes tight.

Two weeks ago, the Konovalov had left port abuzz with the kind of confidence reserved for young, fit sailors with superpowers and purpose. Eleven days later, a torpedo misfire had taken the life of their teleporter, four crew, and the submarine’s generator. Suddenly, they were no longer silent hunters stalking through the depths – suddenly, they were helpless men in a titanium tube, a coffin slowly sinking into the yearning void.

The submarine sat silent now, motionless on the ocean floor, an insignificant bubble of metal waiting to be popped by the crushing, freezing dark. Its crew huddled close as the air grew thick, their powers suddenly useless, feeling the weight of death’s fingers pressing in all around. They whispered soft stories, scared promises – and flinched to a man, every one of them, at the hull’s groans and whimpers, every movement, every creak.

Suddenly without warning, the submarine shifted and the world around them lurched. Hands grabbed doors and railings; men shouted, others cried. Some stayed silent, waiting for the crack that heralded their inevitable death.

But a moment later their fear froze in wonder as the Konovalov sailors felt themselves slowly, gradually, beginning to rise.

Though none of them could see it, outside a sudden rush of light illuminated the darkness of the seafloor. From beneath the submarine a figure rose, pushing between the metal and sand, the hull suddenly lifting atop a wave of flowing gold. The stranger rose to kneeling – Atlas bearing Earth – and slowly, slowly, the golden light spread, pushing outwards, pushing up.

With a heave, the figure kicked off from the bottom of the ocean. And slowly, slowly, from the water’s endless depths the dark metal of the Konovalov rose, buoyed by a single, solitary light at its base and centre – burning in a relentless ascent.

Inside, the submariners held onto the walls and each other, listening in terror to the creaks and rumbling, the floor shaking beneath their feet. Then suddenly, after what felt like an eternity the rising stopped – and to their disbelief they felt the vessel begin to rock, to pitch in gentle rhythm against the lap and bob of waves. Men scrambled, lanterns dropped, blankets discarded; hands rushed to check dials, radios and periscopes. Their instruments spoke true. They had surfaced. They were alive.

Between the ensuing tears and shouting, one man, Dimitry, stumbled awestruck to push open the exit hatch, peeking his skinny head nervously out into sunlit blue skies. He blinked over and again, his head ringing as his ears popped, blinded by the sudden sunlight, barely able to believe what he was seeing. He looked around, spotting no other ships, no source of rescue; only calm and ceaseless seas.

Then the water to the left of the submarine broke, and a figure shot from the ocean in a comet of gold, rising twenty feet above the Konovalov to hang suspended in the air. A woman. A shining vision of a woman, who shook loose her bronze ponytail in a fan of spray and turned to look upon him like a Valkyrie come to earth. In that moment, with the salt wind rippling through her hair and the sun’s light shining behind her, Dimitry could have sworn he stared upon a god.

The shining woman’s eyes found him, a lone white head bobbing atop a submarine amongst the endless sea. Stunned, overawed, as if in a dream, it was all Dimitry could do to shuffle his right hand up and give an awkward, lopping wave. In that moment, the spell broke – the girl’s shoulders relaxed, an uncertain smile passed over her face, and she seemed, suddenly, far closer to being human than she had mere moments earlier. She raised her own hand and returned a small, stunted wave.

There came noise from down below, pushing and grunts – calls to let others up. Dimitry simply ignored them, ignored all of them, instead continuing to stare, mesmerised, as the girl or goddess turned, looked off into the heavens and without a word flew up. He watched her go in wistful reverie, unsure if he wanted to sigh or smile or sob.