BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Insistently the old Westclox 22690 0.6 inch Retro Wood Grain LED Alarm Clock sings its foul morning song like every morning. Identical to all the other alarm clocks in any motel or cheap hotel. Rising from the old wool blankets was a dark-skin arm crisscrossed with faded lighter skin indicative of past scarring, ascending slowly but inexorably. These blankets cover a boy known as Olaudah Equiano. Dropping down, this boy neigh this man's fist descends like the hammer of God over the snooze button. If the face of that clock could say more than 6:30, at this moment, it would chuckle and mention it's in trouble. However, this morning, miscalculating the distance Olaudah's arm was from his nightstand's edge. WAAPPP! Forearm meets wood with a thunderous crash.
BEEP! "FUUUCCCSSSHHhhuuunn," exclaims Olaudah. Rocketing up in bed, cradling his throbbing forearm, face twisting in pain. Not a day over fifteen, still looking like a boy rather than a young man. The whole situation would be comical if his family were in the room. Stopping this possibility, his parents killing, his kidnapping at eleven, the year the world became chaotic.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! "Keep it down," belting from the floor above was his neighbor, Mr. Henderson. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! "People are trying to sleep, stupid kid. Turn off the damned alarm!" BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Olaudah quickly flies to follow Mr. King's order. Not many people in the complex knew this, but Mr. King is a Super, in this case, a villain. People started becoming Supers around seven years ago. All Supers, heroes, and villains tended to blend into their environment better than most expected. Supers used their cover identities to interact and live in the mundane world. The identities helped heroes protect their loved ones from being targeted, while villains used them to hide from the authorities. The Super and Mundane identity distinction became so crucial that the Supers mutually agreed to do whatever to uphold them. So far, these are the only rules that villains abide by: No uncovering another's Super identity in public, no attacking a Super's relatives, and any time during a trial, only the Super identity is on trial, and no information on the Mundane identity is to be researched or revealed.
Now what induced Olaudah to find out that Robert King was a Super? That's a long story, but it starts with the fact Olaudah was a henchman to many villains that treated him as nothing but a slave for others' plans. Under the constant fear that his villain overlords might kill him, Olaudah got good at sensing the static miasma of those truly so far gone that they treat others as tools. Usually, Olaudah can almost feel this air around those like Mr. King, so he outright avoids these hidden monsters.
There is also the tiny, nearly inconsequential fact his last boss Dynamic Dynamo, a villain who could drop the activation energy of any explosive in his line of sight to room temperature, teamed up with King's alter ego, Blacktop Bruzer, on their failed bank job. Sad, someone like a henchman who knew about Dynamic's weaknesses messed with the bank's thermostat mid-heist and could tail out a strong Powered like Mr. King during his escape. It wasn't the most brilliant choice at the moment, but neither was it so bright for a villain whose greatest kryptonite is the cold to work a bank heist early to mid-winter. Still, it sure was a hell of a lot better than following a psychotic pyromaniac. Not like King needs to know his new neighbor knows his secrets. Better to secretly hide out near a man that just ruffs people up instead of immolating them.
Both hands wrapped white-knuckled around his damned alarm clock, while the internal debate throwing it and the subsequent racket it would make if it broke wrong, as well the cost to replace vs. finally destroying the accursed thing, was staying his hand. Breaking his contemplation, a shiver, uncertain whether it was from the cold permeating his apartment or fear, Olaudah knew it was better to get out of this place as soon as possible. Looking down at his clock, he noticed he lost a precious 10 minutes.
Hastily a willowy frame slides from the sun-bleached, worn, and dubiously stained bed like those left on roadsides. With this bed being precisely one from that exact scenario, Olaudah's quiet motion was contesting with the squawking, squealing protests of the box springs beyond more than likely older than himself, given its less desirable origins. Escaping that infernal hellscape of noise, he creeps toward the yellow-tiled bathroom, every step agonizing, trying to make as little noise as possible while hurrying to get ready. Hearing every creak of the floorboards throughout the complex, not a single night could one get a whole night's rest without hearing every other one of their neighbors' nighttime activities. Makes excellent security in the case of someone trying to sneak up on you or attack up in your sleep, but wholely unsuccessful if one's plans not to upset the man the floor above you with the strength and moral sentiment to fling you halfway down the street, luckily no one was yelling at him… yet.
His right hand instinctively turns the cold water knob. The left, having done enough reaching to stop hoping for a miracle of letting hot water magically appear in his pipes. Brownish ice-cold water starts sputtering from the faucet, along with a slowly rising squealing noise. Throwing his hands under his sink, he adjusts to the cold, preparing himself. Throwing what he can of the top of his head, he dampens his hair. Outstretching awkwardly, he grabs his nearby washcloth tossing it into the bottom of the bowl to start filling the sink. While letting the rag soak in the frigid water, he pumps his body wash, shampoo, and conditioner, also known as Walmart's Value brand body wash, onto his hand.
Rubbing the soap into the dripping mass of overgrown tangles he calls hair, he follows it with snathing his scrubbing the cloth from the filling skin. He proceeds to chase the thin rivulets of freezing, sudsy water seeping out the tangled trap of hair and water running from his scalp down his body with his wet rag. Dip after dip, the rag journies his body, scrubbing the smell of fast food grease in time with the sink's slowly lower water level. By this time, the pipes start sounding like they might just explode. Plunging his head once more under the faucet, he floods his hair with as much water as possible to clear the bubbles. Only Moments of furiously scrubbing out the foam, he spins the tap off before he lives without running water.
Waving his head back and forth, throwing the water from his hair, he quickly moves to his casual clothes pile. Knowing nothing clean was left in his drawer, grabbing one item at a time and committing them to the sniff test. Sorting his pile to a maybe and mostly definitely not, he came across one of the red shirts somehow still smelling like his last fast-food job, whose ice cream machine was and probably still broken, even after being terminated a month now. Working as a villain's minion never paid, but he needed the connections that staying in the "business" gave him to find his sister, but it never did make keeping a day job easy.
"I am ultimately free now; no one out of jail knows who I am, but I am no closer to sis. Damn it!"
"What did I say about making a racket!"
Mr King screams from above. Furiously crumpling the offending shirt as if it was the cause of all problems, he lobbed it over the definitely not, and the work clothes pile towards the trash, missing the can, blaming the miss on staying quiet and not calling out Coby before his shot. Drying his hair on one of the maybe shirts, he decides to wear a grey graphic tee too faded to tell what was on it anymore, a pair of faded dark blue jeans, and a nondescript black hoodie to keep his stench and warmth insulated.
Filling the in inside of his hoody with a quick spray of his deodorant and dismissing his regular routine toothbrushing, he snatches the nearest socks strewn about his floor, mismatched but similar size, throwing the old messenger bag, now new high school backpack, over his shoulder, slipping into his actually brand new off-brand tennis shoes gotten for a steal when buying his non-stick shoes for work at Payless.
Standing up from tieing his sneakers. Slowly extending his back, throwing up, and spreading his arms wide above his head. Following this, part of his routine was swinging his arms and torso back and forth, loosening his back fully before finally stretching open his jaw like a snake for a final yawn. Keeping limber in case you need to run from a shooting or Super confrontation should always be part of anyone's morning.
Reviewing his most beautiful possession, the white Danby .7 cubic foot countertop microwave. The remarkable technology saves him from eating cold leftovers taken home from work. Scanning the clock on the microwave, like every morning, the screen's clock was flickering to 5:58.
"Shit!"
Nearly busting out his door in haste, Olaudah nearly topples over as he halts right outside his door, giving himself a quick pat down, keys, phone, and wallet a few frantic steps down the hall towards the stairs later, Olaudah spins back around, lunging for his door handle, a swift jiggling of the handle he finds the door locked, for all that a simple apartment lock is worth, slipping out the same small scrap of paper from his wallet as the day before he inserts it between his door and its frame above the lock. Turning back around, Olaudah bolts down the hall and inside the stairwell.
Exiting the old apartment complex, Olaudah scours the street for gang lookouts or, more importantly, a lack of runners. Noticing nothing seemingly amiss. The race began, skipping two steps at a time, quickly clearing the dilapidated stone stairs, and landing on the cracked sidewalk. Shooting a hard right, Olaudah strides eat through the sidewalk, hoping to make it to the bus stop before anyone appears to harass him.
Everything was all clear when making it to the block with his stop. Head once more on a swivel, he notes a few lookouts sitting on their porches. Olaudah releasing a sigh of relief slowly starts dropping his pace to a quick jog and looking away from the crew; giving the groups any reason to suspect or harass him any more than they might was just stupid.
Olaudah relaxes, knowing the rest of the walk to his stop would be safe unless there would be an unforeseen drive-by. Passing the final empty ally between apartments, Olaudah finds himself another bruise when colliding with what could be mistaken as a brick wall.
Indeed, he did nearly identical to that--he ran into DaQuan, a local thug. DaQuan was a Super with a body of granite and strength to match its comprehensive strength of 19,000 PSI. Durability and strength, rivaling a brick house, make any petty crime easy; no mundane could damage him. Nor could cops ever stick anything to him. Always cleared with an alibi, Officers could only get inconclusive individual witness testimony and granite dust no matter how hard his marks fought back.
"Whoa there, look at this. Olaudah just ran into me. I think I've been injured. I wonder if he has anything to compensate me for my injuries," DaQuan jokingly mocks, loaming over Olaudah at a good six and three-quarter feet, dwarfing an entire foot over Olaudah. Busting out in guffaws DaQuan's two lackeys sneer down on Olaudah. Pushing himself up and off the snowy sidewalk, Olaudah forces his eyes down, knowing what will happen if he lets DaQuan see the burning flames of defiance in his eyes. Pressing down his feelings, imagining locking all his desire for revenge behind a steel door. Growing up as a lackey to villains taught him many important lessons, like the benefits of never getting noticed, what to do if they notice, like never feeding their ego, or they will keep coming back to harass you for a pick me up.
Knowing what it would take to upset DaQuan enough to get him to leave without a grudge, Olaudah braces himself for the inevitable. Slipping his wallet out of his pocket before anything, Olaudah sheepishly called out to his only living best friend, even if he was an ex-friend. "I'm sorry, DaQuan," leaks Olaudah.
DaQuan snatches Olaudah's hooding shoulder, demanding, "I told you'll my names Brick." Quickly shoving Olaudah away, as if touching him any longer might somehow worsen his day further, he practically throws Olaudah off his feet. "Let's just go, brothers. He wasted mood. This dumb ass mother fuck just never learns. Next time ahh fuck it, your not worth the thought it takes to insult your ass. Let's go." Vents DaQuan. Stepping around and passing Olaudah's prone form DaQuan heads deeper into the hood.
The lackeys continue laughing at Olaudah and even add a few kicks to punctuate the message. Scoring a clean strike to the face, Olaudah became punch drunk. Likely suffering a minor concussion, slip lip, black eye, or all of the above, Olaudah was too out of it to notice one of the twins stop the other before patting down his pockets, ironically mimicking Olaudah's routine when leaving his house that morning.
Slipping out of Olaudah's back pocket was a relic that calls itself a Nokia 3310. The nearly two-decades-old phone seems like a joke coming out of his pocket. "The fuck is this? Get a better phone next time, jackass!" Throwing Olaudah's phone towards the nearby wall, they both reorientate themselves toward DaQuan's direction and follow after him.
After a few minutes, arising shakily, Olaudah's hand emerges from beneath him, still tightly clenching his wallet. Repocketing his treasure shakily climbs to his feet before taking a few teetering steps, no different than a newborn fawn. Patting himself gently and his pockets, Olaudah assesses his situation to the best of his ability. Realizing he was missing his phone, he began scanning for that indestructible object, knowing there was no way in hell they would take it, nor would they be able to break it.
Finding his phone at the edge of the opening of the ally, Olaudah bent over the retrieve his cell phone while spitting out the blood accumulating from his split lip. Repocket the no, his cheap piece of crap. Feeling no need to inspect the screen, knowing the phone was no different than a brick. Although old, its rugged structure makes it popular with those with powers, as it's less likely to break in combat than any touchscreen. Limping the last few dozen feet, he ventures toward his first bus stop of the day.
Luckily a vacant seat near the front of the bus was available. Heavy sighing, Olaudah tosses his old messenger bag onto the single seat before collapsing beside it another seat. Turning his head to face the snowy street, wondering why his first friend in Detroit, DaQuan, became a thug. Like him, DaQuan grew up constantly fearing physical retaliation from older people.
In DaQuan's case, his father was the source of abuse. Is it worse to lose your parents and be abused by strangers or abused by your parents? In one case, you have no one to go to for help; in the other case, the people you should be able to go to, no matter what, are the ones causing the abuse.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
That deadbeat that Tyrell, who called himself DaQuan's father when he was around, was repeatedly in and out of lock-up due to gang affiliations. Many of the nine one one calls made by his mother never amounted to much, nor did it stop the violence. Most of the time, cops would intentionally come late much safer that way instead of getting mixed up in an emotionally fueled altercation surrounded by guns and gangs. His mom wouldn't press charges when he was taken into lock-up. Never knew if it was due to money, love, or fear.
Nearly a year ago, DaQuan awakened and beat the shit out of his dad. The talk is that after DaQuan woke up after the aliens did whatever they did to change him, DaQuan found his dad threatening Monique, DaQuan's sister, with violence if she wouldn't walk the streets. Luckily he was only a few months past seventeen when he snapped at his dad, or he might have been convicted of attempted manslaughter. Given his age and his sister's testimony, and only being newly awakened, he was only sentenced to three months for assault with excessive force. However, it was put on his permanent record.
Once outside DaQuan was a new man; he threw his dad out of his place and started running with the local gangs as hired muscle. No other crew wants to deal with someone who can shrug off bullets and total a car with a punch.
Commuting forty-five minutes with three bus changes, Olaudah finally finds himself at his school's stop. Walking towards the school, Olaudah hurries past his fellow students, who prefer talking out front instead of arriving in class before the bell rings.
Knowing nothing too dangerous will happen even after they notice him never changes the fact it is more comfortable to just not be a target in the first place. Passing the front doors, Olaudah takes a large breath and relaxes his aching shoulders. Nothing like taking a second to enjoy a moment of quiet peace with all the other students in the vestibule that have tacitly agreed to silence, the first moments of serenity all morning.
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Throwing him out of his revelry is the five-minute warning bell. Inner peace disappears like half the universe after Thano's snap. Unlike Thano's snap that dropped the world's population, a flood of students came bustling through the school's outer doors into the vestibule with other students like Olaudah, who now pulls open the previously locked inner doors.
Flowing with the tide of his fellow students, Olaudah passes the yellow brick walls and bent seaweed green lockers, half of which likely couldn't be closed or never be opened without a crowbar. Looking away from the walls and towards the rectangular drop-down Armstong Cortega ceiling tiles like the ones you could find in any office building or school. Given the mushrooms, mold, and stains of dubious origins, one could see growing from where the tiles meet the hanging bracks. Only those with a rich imagination could predict the number of health code violations hiding behind innocuous covers.
Pulling into his class, he was, as always, one of the first to enter the classroom, making him lucky enough to get a desk, if not a seat at a table.Every morning some teachers will trek the halls moving from classroom to classroom like zombies out for brains to collect desks to fill the classroom. Never knowing who would attend the class that day made a game of musical chairs with the lack of available seating. No one would bat an eye if the dean's desk was found as a student's seat on Count Day. This issue is a non-starter by lunch as half the students leave after lunch to safely arrive home.
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Fifteen or so students came streaming through the door with the ring of the bell, probably a full half of the registered class. Not unusual as the first hour only ever has a few students. The rest are probably out in the halls chatting with friends or still on their buses here.
Stepping straight into her lesson with the indifference of a seasoned inner school teacher for her missing students, Mrs. Gatzkewas experienced to recognize that the early birds would pay attention. In contrast, the tardy ones would only care about something other than the lesson.
"All right, class, we just finished our Great Gatsby unit. Now we're going to work writing our own stories. Since each of you will be writing your own work, you will need to know the key aspects of a good story. Not only do you need to know these terms, but you also need to know how to use these concepts to create a good story. I plan to dedicate an entire class to each aspect. We'll review why each step is important, how we can use it, and famous examples. A quick overview A story typically has a sequence of introduction, rising action, climax, falling action, and ending with a resolution. There are more complicated storytelling templates that carry these same themes, just structured or worded differently, like the traditional hero's journey. For all you Rick and Morty fans, the show has a modified version he calls a Dan Harmon story circle plot. We can review different writing styles later, but we must first understand the basics before we start with the extra pizzazz. We'll build on this foundation as the semester progresses."
Nearly an hour passing, Mrs. Gatzke calls a finish to the class with these final lines: "Ok, class, the bell is about to ring. I want you all to think about possible story ideas and create a story web. I also want you to write a short intro paragraph for your story. You should finish it with the inciting action or the call for adventure."
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Following her last word, as if scripted, the class release bell sang its ancestral song like every day. However, unlike scripting in a game, movie, or book event, Olaudah must do more than just skip to the good parts. Walking his wearily self to his history class, taught by Mr. Sowell. Each step drains his limited energy. Olaudah never really did enjoy American history, not for any political reason but just how useless it all felt and the fact he never could remember names or dates of events. He knew this next unit on modern history would be the same- if not worse- for different reasons. All that people talk about nowadays are Supers this, aliens that, and nothing else. The only thing that made this class bearable was the teacher.
Entering the room, ignoring any interruption toward his goal, Olaudah's mind wanders to escape feeling his battered and beaten vessel, allowing his body to trudge toward the front row of desks on autopilot. Flopping into his unassigned assigned seat Olaudah just the sounds of chaos as fellow students converse and catch up on one another's weekends.
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Jarring him out of his trance. Olaudah canvased his still bustling classroom. With a deafening "CLAP!" to get everyone's attention, Mr. Sowell began: "I know many people don't care about what happened a hundred, fifty, or even a decade ago. You know what? A lot of you probably don't even remember what happened last month. I know many of you are interested in modern media, and this unit is essentially all about that. So, I expect many of you to get great grades for this unit. First, who wants to guess why this unit became a part of the public school curriculum so recently? Anyone? Yes, you, Dee-nice."
"Mr. Sowell, I think this happened because of the alien invasion of 2012. The aliens appeared in space above the Earth and have been sitting there, giving us superpowers," Denise replies.
"Well, you're on the right track, but I believe you're still missing a bit. The UFO in space hasn't announced that it is the source of superpowers. In fact, if another intelligence is connected to that UFO, it hasn't spoken to us at all. While we haven't received any communication from them, our governments are already taking drastic actions. It's been declared that every military giant has reduced its nuclear and similar weapons stocks. They say this is to prevent the Supers from getting ahold of them and abusing them. What do you guys think about this?" Mr. Sowell questions.
"Sir, I read speculations that the aliens deactivated all the nuclear weapons." A student responds.
Mr. Sowell elaborates: "Well, that may or may not be true. If it was true, why would the aliens want to remove our nuclear capabilities and then do nothing? In this class, I hope we can only talk about what we have heard from credible sources; otherwise, this becomes a gossip class, not history. Hahaha. Any more questions before I move on? Sounds good let's move into how people with powers usually fall within two categories: heroes and villains. This dichotomy is found to have come from our country's obsession with comics and the worldwide spread of this culture in media due to Hollywood. I must make an important distinction that the Supers are real individuals, not comic book characters. They are imperfect and have their own motives. We can't expect the 'heroes' to all be as morally idealistic or have plot armor like the idealized versions of comic-book heroes. The lack of accountability for Supers is the biggest issue. There are multiple examples of 'heroes' killing both everyday citizens, even if incidentally, as well as those the media labeled 'villains.' Instead of entering the military or police force and getting proper training, these 'heroes' commit vigilante justice. Not that I am against Oh, yes, A-a-ron, go ahead."
"What's wrong with vigilante justice? If the Super is committing crimes, why can't other Supers use their powers to protect themselves and others? The good samaritan act protects people for a reason, and it's no different than guns. Also, weren't their massive attacks on the individual's families when the Powered first joined the government sector." inquiries, Aaron.
"That is a great point and something that we will cover throughout this unit. Issues with this thinking stem back to laws before the Powered were a thing and gets into debates like the fact murder under duress is not protected by the duress defense that is meant to protect petty crimes like forcibly stealing another's wallet. The personal defense law is meant to protect one's self or family, and the stand-your-ground law, which isn't even a federal law, is only meant to defend one's home. These laws only allow one to defend ones self from perceived bodily harm. Only in a few states is one even allowed to pursue an aggressor if they believed them to still be an immediate danger, like in California. Hunting criminals is vigilantism which became illegal from The Keene Act of 1977. No law allows one to go out actively looking for people to assault, so how could it be considered an act of justice unless we are to see supers as either above the law or no longer humans. Your second remark also shows that although things might seem good in theory, execution is another issue. If that's all, I will begin discussing how we will explore how powerful individuals affect and shape our daily lives. Instead of having you guys hear my biased or the media's opinions, I want you guys to research an influential Super actively. I want you to find out why they're popular, how they started, and what they're doing currently. Any questions before we get into today's topic?" states Mr. Sowell.
Assigning a whole paper for homework in the first five minutes of class without mentioning the requirements or deadlines. Mr. Sowell was fending off his students continuously question after question half of the time, just repeating himself to those who were not paying attention and repeating someone else's questions for twenty minutes.
Finishing his existing explanation on the paper, it all boils down to four pages with three quotes and a bibliography with a due date of the following Monday. Originally his plan was to explain everything at the end of the class. More people would make it to class so he would not need to repeat himself, everyone would be fully awake, and no one would have to worry and would pay attention to his lesson. With half the class time missing to father time, Mr. Sowell spent the second half of class speed-running his lesson plan taking no questions and giving no quarter to friendly banter.
The rest of the day moves like any other, with a few minor scrapes and bruises lowly Olaudah down. No new units, topics, or physical confrontation. till the sixth hour with Mr. Von Mises, his science teacher. Olaudah was packing his lab notebook, study notes, and 1986 edition lab textbook in his old messenger bag when Mr. Von Mises abruptly calls out, "I heard about what happened between you and DaQuan this morning. Are you feeling ok?"
"yeah, much better. No problem now, so stay out of it. It's none of your business. If I ever find out you know something that happened to me halfway across town, I am calling the cops," retorts Olaudah.
"Apologise, I like to think of myself as a good guy, and I try to keep an eye out for my students. I saw that you had a bit of a limp and asked buddies from my after-school volunteer program if they knew what happened, not trying to pry," placating Mr. Von Mises.
"That doesn't make it any better. You should mind your own business before you get capped," Olaudah stated.
"Would you mind your own business if you saw a woman getting mugged in some ally at night? I know I would try to help. So why can't I care about you all? If you ever need anything or just someone to talk to, I am usually free after class grading work, or you can stop by during lunch," offers Mr. Von Mises.
"Yeah, sure, not creepy at all that my teacher is stalking me and is now trying to get me alone with him. Nothing could go wrong," Olaudah sarcastically quips. Scoffing, turning towards the exit Olaudah disappears into the rushing crowd heading home.
"Don't forget you're not alone. I am always free to talk. Also, don't think I didn't notice you never answered my question," calls out Mr. Von Mises from the entrance of his classroom.
"Yeah, sure will do," placates the irate Olaudah.
Returning home, Mr. Von Mises's question continues to echo around his thoughts. He knows all about crime, with a father a judge for the first half of his life, and committing more than a few felonies that together could get him ber hind bars for life in the second half. It teaches you that laws just aren't made to be fair, nor do many people care as long as it doesn't involve them. Crime was just crime, not some indelible act once committed, changes you for life. No one will stop all crime just because of stopping one mugger. It will take social reforms that no one in power wants as it removes their power and position. It also stems from the fact that it's easier to take fifty bucks from another man's wallet than work the hours to make that money.
In a daze, Olaudah walks back to his apartment past caution tape and two squad cars parking in front of the ally nearest his stop. Fashing the blue and red lights broke him out of his daze long enough to notice a chalk outline in the middle of the alley and two offices adjusting small yellow numbered placards before taking more photos from other angles.
Berating himself for losing awareness, especially back in his neighborhood of all places, Olaudah looks toward the empty other side of the street and begins debating, quickly bolting to the other side of the road. If the concussion he had been dealing with since the morning wasn't making him so spacey all day, he probably would be noticing one of the cops pointing out a semi-fresh glop of bloody spit preserved on the top of a pile of snow near the ally's entrance. Instead of wasting his time debating his option before being caught and in danger of being assumed a snitch for loitering near the fuzz, Olaudah hurries back to his place, head down, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible.
If superpowers were on the table today, would he have done anything differently? Would he join DaQuan to hang out like the good old days leaving his old life of hiding and searching behind him for the gangs? Would he stop that metaphorical mugger or say fuck it to both those options like so many Powers do, living an everyday life keeping it all hidden and maintaining his search for his sister.
Arriving at his apartment, Olaudah quietly opens the door and waits for the paper's noise to fall. With a near-soundless flutter, he hears the paper touch ground before entering his place. Storing his dad's old business card back into his wallet Olaudah immediately peals off his hoody, shirt, and pants before investigating the work clothes pile for something clean enough for his closing shift tonight.
Damn, being Good or Evil! Either a dubious set of imposable standards and fake morals like those so-called heroes or victimizing others like the villains he worked for wasn't the life for him. Growing up knowing from his dad all those crimes were covered up by heroes and living with a villainess for two years being treated no different than her own son, it's not how the world sees you that matters. What matters is how you see the world and what you can grasp in your own hands.
Dressed in his uniform and sprayed in a thin dusting of aerosol deodorant in replacement of a shower and freshly laundered clothes, Olaudah's mind, full of energy and looking to vent, proclaims to the mirror. "Fuck the police coming straight from the underground. A young" Before the following lyrics could utter from his lips, Olaudah crumples over like a sack of bricks, cracking his head against his yellow-tiled bathroom floor.