By lunchtime the next day, Matt was pretty sure he had narrowed down the five key ingredients of no longer being ‘alive’.

Death. How he was going to fake dying in a way which was simultaneously convincing, irreversible and invited no further questions.

Identity. Who he was going to pretend to be after he ‘died’ and how he was going to stay hidden.

Relocation. Tied in closely with Identity. Where he was going to go, what could he do without attracting attention, and what could he be.

Money. A key foundation in one through three, maybe a problem, maybe not. Matt the Human, currently famous, had assets. All he needed, therefore, was a way to discreetly use those assets, and then somehow preserve them, or at least maintain some sort of income. He needed to work out a way to put his money in a form which couldn’t be traced yet could still be retrieved once the dust settled.

Family. Arguably the simplest, arguably the hardest. How did he shield his friends and family from the trauma of his ‘dying’? How did he let them know? Did he bring them along? Would they even want to come?

Matt could rule out, from the outset, going into witness relocation or some other kind of government protective services. The whole point of this was to get conclusively away from possessive overbearing authority, and blood-thieving lawsuits aside past experience told him the government was simply too incompetent to keep a new identity free of leaks. No, this would be a self-made, closed-circle kind of endeavour. With no one, or the very fewest number of people involved.

He would have to involve Jane. Firstly, because Matt loved her and – wow this was weird to articulate, but upon reflection he guessed it was true – he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Secondly, because if she wasn’t aware Matt wasn’t actually dying, Matt knew Jane was likely to engage in – how would he put it – extremely unproductive behaviour. Screaming, rampages, destroying cities, ripping apart the fabric of time; you know, that kind of stuff.

So Jane had to be looped in. But involving Jane in his scheming – in arguably the greatest con Matt had ever pulled – carried complications. For one, she tended to become somewhat… resistant… whenever the idea of him and dead floated too close together. But they could probably work past that. The second, greater problem was that in terms of her life, Jane was pretty much exactly where she wanted, and therefore pretty unlikely to quietly give everything up, or even concede that giving it up was necessary. Matt couldn’t explain to her why he had to fake his death either, because articulating the true reason out loud would alert the Time Child – or Time Children, or whatever – that he was onto them. Jane would also likely fixate on her own ability to protect him, rather than acquiescing to the plan and being helpful. There could be no negotiation; Matt would have to deliver his death as a fait accompli once he was fully prepared to kick the fake bucket.

So Jane needed to be on board. But someone else did too.

“You know what I feel like,” he said to Giselle, as they sat books open at the dining table. Giselle had spent yesterday out with Jane admiring headless corpses in storage lockups, but today was back to being babysitting. “Italian.”

“Yeah?” The speedster’s head poked above her laptop.

“Really, really good Italian,” Matt continued, “Authentic Italian.”

“From Italy,” Giselle laughed, “You want me to get food from Italy?”

“Can you do it?”

“Pff,” the speedster scoffed, “Can I do it. I do it all the time. There is a little man in Chiang Mai who has been making me prawn Pad Thai every week for a year now. I’ve gone through thirteen pairs of sneakers.”

“Great, so you’ll do it?”

“Italy’s so faaarrr,” the girl complained, “Can’t I just go to New York? New York has such good Italian.”

“It’s original or it’s nothing.”

“You’re nothing.” She stuck out her tongue.

“Harsheel Singh would’ve done it,” he countered.

Giselle rolled her eyes. “That is some weak, weak manipulation, and I am disappointed in myself that I respond to it.”

Matt grinned. “You know you want to.”

“I know I want to,” she admitted, “I know my legs want to. It’s just my lazy, lazy brain. Plus this chapter is just starting to get good.”

“That is a lie and you know it. No chapter of any college textbook has ever approached ‘good’ or anything synonymous.”

“Big hater. Big, dirty, Italian-loving hater.”

“You forgot ‘fat’.”

“You’re not fat. Maybe if you cut back on the Italian food…” Giselle rolled her eyes then grinned at him. “Fine. What do you want?”

Matt gave her his order. Giselle wrote it down.

“Twenty minutes,” she said, getting to her feet, “You’ll be alright?”

“First hint of danger, you’re on speed-dial.”

“My phone’ll be on. Flatten the balcony once I’m out?”

“Sure.” When she wasn’t teleported in, Giselle used the balcony to gain access to the apartment, which otherwise had no entrance beside the subterranean lift. Once she’d hurtled herself speeding off the side of the building, Matt could press a button to retract the balcony into the building framework and have the entire side sealed by reinforced walls. It was somewhat overkill, but Matt supposed it stopped fliers, stray pigeons or other speedsters entering. Giselle would then phone him once she returned to have him open the wall back up.

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The tall Eurasian girl stretched her arms above her head, articulating her spine with a series of satisfying cracks. Then she dipped briefly on either side to touch her toes – with casual ease, Matt noticed with envy, having never been even remotely flexible – shrugged off her jumper, blurred on a backpack, and then with a mock salute and a laugh disappeared in a rush of wind and vanished out the window. Matt stuck his nose onto the balcony to make sure she was truly gone – then, feeling nervous, he sealed the terrace wall and turned back to the now-empty apartment, steadying himself for what was to come.

Matt raised his hands, closed his eyes – and prepared to summon a god.

“Oh omniscient Time Child,” he intoned, “Oh blue eyed, blond haired, all-seeing… note writing… boy… person… hear me! I seek to know your will! Appear!” Matt paused, cracked open an eyelid and glanced around the apartment. Absolutely nothing had changed. His chest deflated somewhat. “Um… please?”

The furniture looked back at him in silent judgement.

“Can… can you hear me?” Matt asked, his words ringing out across the empty living room, “Oh mighty… or regular… child of Chronos, look upon this moment! If you are out there, if you can hear me: give me a sign!” He threw his hands back up, waited a second, then once more glanced around. Nothing moved. The apartment remained conspicuously empty.

Matt felt himself growing annoyed. “Listen here, you little albino shi-” He stopped himself, took a deep breath, then continued. “Time Child. I know- I assume you are watching. Because you see everything. I would appreciate a minute of your time. Which presumably you have a lot of. Because you are a time traveller. I am planning a somewhat drastic course of action and I want to make sure it aligns with what’s on your agenda. I seek your consent.” He paused, peering over on his tiptoes to see if the little boy was hiding behind the sofa. “I require a consultation.” He wasn’t. “Please. Fifteen-minute appointment.” A pause. “Ten, max. Come on. Any time now. It’s ya boy. Big Matty C. Killed the Black D. Calling in that favour, which you… probably don’t owe me.” Matt’s shoulders drooped a bit and his mouth slid frustrated into a frown. “Alright listen here you little sack of crap,” he scowled, “I know you’re listening, so either manifest your mangy ass in my living room or I'm going to look like an idiot yelling at the roof.”

Matt stopped speaking and the room once more fell silent. There were absolutely no sign of additional life.

“Fine!” Matt shouted, “Fine! You want to be like that, be like that! Don’t appear! I don’t care! We’ll do it your way, fine!” He cleared his throat and raised his arms dramatically, like a voodoo priest summoning a bog monster. “Oh great all-seeing Time Child! If you have no objections to the path I am taking, give me no sign!” He paused and cracked open an eyelid. Nothing happened. “If you think my idea is good, give me no sign!” Pause. Still nothing. “If this is the right thing to do and you completely support me doing it, give me no sign!” Bupkis. “I am happy to take on any amendments, recommendations or feedback you would like to take this opportunity to impart!” Silence. “Alright, well, if any man, woman, or god‑like child knows any reason why I should not proceed with fake killing myself, speak now or forever shut up and stay out of it.”

The room stayed resoundingly silent. Matt dropped his arms, feeling phenomenally stupid. “Outstanding. Thank you, oh enigmatic godboy, for your implied blessing at this most pivotal time.”

Matt slumped back down at his laptop. Well, at least he tried.

*****

“Prepare yourself Lady Dawn. You face your nemesis. You face a god.”

Jane stood at the gateway to the Welsh cemetery and stared out coldly at the army of rotting corpses arrayed against her. Their flesh sloughing off, limbs shuffling in place, the undead stood silent and impassive, sentinels surrounding a figure at their centre – a pointy-faced, pale-skinned woman in her mid‑to‑late twenties with light eyes and blood-red-haired. Gloves of thin, dark spiderweb mesh extended up her arms and over her raised hands, and the edge of the black Victorian lace dress she was wearing dragged disregarded through the mud.

“The rising tide swallows all men,” the woman called, her eyes wide and encircled with mascara, “And I will rise once more, to swallow you, to swallow-”

“You’re not Ana Bloodbane,” Jane interjected, “Thank you. You’re not her. Don’t treat me like an idiot.”

Every day. Every goddamn day it seemed, some new whack-job burrowed up out of the woodwork claiming to be her arch-rival. Jane didn’t understand. It had gotten worse since the Tonight Show. Didn’t these people have jobs? Maybe it was her own fault she kept taking them out non‑lethally. Maybe if she decapitated one of these so‑called ‘supervillains’ there would be fewer candidates for the role.

She was in Wales, in the United Kingdom, standing on the green and muddy outskirts of a town she couldn’t pronounce, half a click in from a police barricade and staring down the latest contender to the nemesis throne. This one, at least, was somewhat interesting. Myfanwy Mary Llewellyn, twenty‑seven and in possession of a rare and unusual power – the ability to reanimate dead bodies. Rare, but not unique; the original Legion had actually fought someone with this power once, a woman by the name of Ana Bloodbane, who had originally applied to join the Legion’s ranks. She had been good, and clearly committed to mastering her abilities, but her application had been rejected after due consideration, most likely thanks to fears of bad PR. Unfortunately, the real Bloodbane did not take her refusal well, and in addition to nurturing a grudge, every advancement she then made as she kept pushing the limits of her powers seemed to correspond, sadly but probably predictably, with her own sanity taking a hit. By the time the Legion were forced to fight her, Bloodbane’s powers extended beyond just puppeteering human corpses; capable of controlling any dead tissue, she could meld separate bodies into new monsters and detach her consciousness free from its original form and into any deceased flesh.

This last aspect made Ana Bloodbane a popular figure amongst fringe dwellers and lunatics, Jane was coming to learn, many of whom enjoyed claiming to be her, reconstituted from meat left dormant and only just now coming back to life. It was a terrifying concept, but in this case nothing more. Jane had done her homework.

“You’re not Ana Bloodbane,” she repeated. Her voice rang out over the cemetery. Jane kept a watchful eye on the zombies, waiting to see if her words triggered any movement. Myfanwy’s own face was too far away and heavily powdered to see any paling. “We’ve got a copy of your driver’s license. Family photos. Necromancy’s rare – you think they don’t keep lists?” The black-clad woman didn’t respond. “You look the same as you did a year ago. The same as you did growing up. If you were some sort of Bloodbane flesh-puppet, you wouldn’t look like an existing person. You’re too fresh. Sorry. Besides,” said Jane, gesturing around, “Zombies? Goddamn amateur hour. You might scare some locals, but I’ve seen the footage. I know what the real Fleshtide could do. You’re not even in the same league. You’re ten ranks below cheap knockoff.”

“So the question is,” she continued, stretching out her arms, “Do you genuinely believe you’re an offshoot of the original, or are you just doing this for attention?” Jane cracked her neck. “Because if it’s the former, you need help, and I'll do the next part softly. But if it’s the latter, let me make myself clear – you have one chance, one, to disassemble your little undead horde, or I will break you in half.”

A hundred feet away, the necromancer flinched. A second too late she tried to cover the movement, arching her back straighter and staring out at Jane with an attempted sneer. “F-Foolish girl,” she stammered, “I traverse the deathless darkness. I command an army- an army that feels neither pain- nor... nor-”

“You have an army,” Jane interrupted, “Of soulless meatsacks, without any sort of powers, that I can pulverise with absolutely no remorse. You don’t have a threat, you've got dolls made of tissue paper. This’ll be the most guilt-free beating I’ve dispensed in weeks.” This time Jane was sure she saw Myfanwy flinch. “Myfanwy Mary Llewellyn,” Lady Dawn declared, “You are under arrest for the murder of Sandra Milne and Christine Thomas. For sending a horde of undead to rip apart your ex‑girlfriend and her new partner while they were asleep. Stand down.” Jane curled her hands into fists and her eyes blazed gold. “Or the next flesh you’ll hear breaking will be your own.”