After Deathknell took her leave, Blackout was allowed a moment of solitude. Questions pulled his mind in all directions. The prospect of chasing any of them down exhausted him, so he settled on sinking into his most recent recollections. The bridge. Be the guy from the bridge. Who was that guy on the bridge? Obviously it was Blackout, but there was an insurmountable distance between that person and his own self image. It felt wrong to even claim those acts as his own. Looking back at it, it all felt like someone else had been piloting his body.

The nurse returned with a cup of chocolate pudding in hand, appearing adamantly unhappy to do so. She dropped the pudding in front of Blackout, and swiftly left the room. He eagerly tore the aluminum top off of the cup, and plunged his spoon into the immaculate, brown surface. The IV embedded in Blackout’s vein was an indicator that his tongue hadn’t touched any food since the ice cream he’d eaten before entering the Isakovs’ factory. There was no way to tell the true quality of the pudding. The context earned it the clear title of greatest cup of pudding Blackout had ever tasted. After stepping into the factory, every development piled more misery upon him. This pudding was the first purely good thing to happen to him since. The miserable parts were behind him. He was safe. The pudding was glorious. The muscles in his face squeezed together, as he didn’t bother resist savoring every scoop. A tear slipped out of his closed eyes and tumbled down his cheek.

“What is that, angel jizz??”

The spark of recognition jolted Blackout out of his pudding indulgence. Chunk was standing in the doorway beside the Gecko. Chunk was smiling, but the Gecko’s facial features made him more difficult to read. A fire of excitement roared under the sheet of Blackout’s drug induced haze.

“It’s chocolate…” was all Blackout could think to say.

“How are you feeling?” The Gecko’s voice was somehow simultaneously nasal and rumbling.

“I’m ok, I think. Maybe? I don’t know-I’m on drugs,” Blackout answered.

“We brought you something,” Chunk said, pulling an unknown bundle out from behind his back.

Chunk unfurled the bundle like a flag. It was a cheap T-Shirt. Emblazoned upon the front was a stylized closeup of Blackout’s face, looking sweaty and exhausted, covered in little nicks and dried blood. The image was mostly a monochrome blue, with a sharp contrast of red where the blood appeared. Agony sat heavy on his blue face. Underneath, the big, brazen words: “Can you see my butt?”

Blackout was utterly befuddled.

“What…?” Fell from Blackout’s mouth.

“Dude, you’re famous!” Chunk fired back.

Chunk handed the shirt to Blackout. Blackout examined the thing like it was a manuscript in an alien language.

“Why does it say this?”

“You said it,” the Gecko said.

“I did…?”

“You don’t remember??” Chunk asked in disbelief.

Flashes of the events of the bridge burst through Blackout’s mind, but they were only flashes. Every time he attempted to pin one down, it would evaporate. Specifics eluded him.

“Check it out,” Chunk said, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

With a few taps of his screen, Chunk pulled up a video. Familiar images hit Blackout, but from a new perspective. It was the footage from the bridge that had been shot by the wannabe paparazzi. Blackout had the surreal experience of watching himself live through experiences that he only recalled as he watched them. It was striking how disheveled he looked. Every twinge of his face embarrassed him. Explosion. The frame of the video bounced around and found Blackout again, appearing even more battered down than moments earlier. Then, he spoke the line from the shirt. “Can you see my butt?” Chunk and the Gecko both giggled gleefully. Blackout cringed. His eyes darted at the view count. Over three hundred million. Three hundred million. More than three hundred million people watched his greasy, disgusting face, heard him bumble out that humiliating line. Blackout became acutely aware of both Chunk and the Gecko’s eyes studying him. Devastation pierced through the haze. A shard inside of him wished that he’d blown up on that bridge.

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Then, more recollections came flooding in. The porcelain man. For whatever reason, his desire to get another look at the mysterious figure conquered even his shame. His heart quickened with unnatural anticipation. The videographer kept Blackout it focus, even as he retreated from the truck. Onscreen, Blackout fell to his knees. Any moment now, the porcelain man would appear.

Suddenly, Blackout’s recollection and the events onscreen diverged. As clear as Chunk was before him, Blackout’s memory showed him the porcelain man reaching out a hand and pulling him up to a stand. In the video, the onscreen Blackout wavered on the ground, then pushed himself up unassisted. The porcelain man never appeared in a single frame of the video.

“Can you rewind?” Blackout asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

“It’s a classic, right?” Chunk said, rewinding to before Blackout uttered his apparently iconic line.

That Chunk thought Blackout wanted to rewatch his “big moment”, was not a falsehood that Blackout was eager to correct. This time, Blackout was keeping a close lookout for any trace of the porcelain man that could have been caught by an errant angle of video. There was nothing to be found. Once again, Blackout recovered on his own. As he went to help the woman and the child in the car, another discrepancy presented itself. On video, his shroud did not manifest a blade. Somehow, the onscreen Blackout had gotten ahold of a pocket knife in order to cut through the child’s seatbelt.

A new panic crashed down on Blackout. Recorded history did not match up with his brain’s version of events. It didn’t feel like an error of memory, rather like he’d lived through an alternate reality. That could only mean one thing: something was wrong with Blackout’s mind. The proof was in the video.

Chunk and the Gecko were staring at him with concern.

“Are you ok?” The Gecko asked, his gurgle of a voice somehow softening.

Before Blackout was a choice: confide in his friends, or keep it to himself. The answer was obvious. Never tell a soul. Monitor his own mind in case more cracks showed themselves. Hope this was a one off, and everything resolves itself.

“Uh…Yeah, I’m fine,” Blackout lied.

“Are you sure, dude?” Chunk asked. “You look really freaked out.”

“Yeah, it’s just…” Blackout scoured his mind for an excuse and found a good one. “Seeing it all again is…uh…hard.”

Chunk’s face went red, as he pulled his phone back.

“Yeah, of course,” Chunk’s voice was saturated with shame. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine…really.”

The room marinated in an awkward silence. Thankfully, it didn’t last long. The door burst open. A blur. The weight of a person on his torso. A head buried in his chest. The sound of sobbing. A chest heaving against his own. Tears wetting the front of his gown.

Only when Chinh and Mai stepped into the room, did Blackout realize that it was Grace who’d attached herself to his body like a lamprey. Grace’s arms had wrapped around Blackout’s neck. Under her weight, a pain bubbled up beneath the drugs. Though Blackout tried to ignore it to preserve the moment, it became insurmountable. Blackout let out an anguished groan.

“Grace!” Mai yelled. “Be careful!”

“The boy’s been shot!” Chinh added.

Grace jumped back like Blackout was scalding hot.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry!” Grace’s voice was sloppy.

Puffy and sticky with tears, Grace’s face had reverted to an infantile state. It was jarring. She was normally so unimpeachably cool. Blackout had never seen her flinch socailly. Now, with her eyes red and lower lip trembling, she looked so vulnerable. Blackout felt guilty for even seeing her that way.

“It’s all my fault,” Grace said in a small voice.

“What is?” Blackout asked.

“I-I-I f-found the f-factory,” Grace struggled to stammer through sniffles. “You could’ve died…”

Sobs overtook Grace again.

“We said we’d save the city, right?”

Grace nodded.

“Well, we saved the Whitestone. That’s close enough.”

“Actually, the bridge did get pretty wrecked…” Chunk interjected.

“Well, who wants to go to Long Island, anyway?”

Blackout elicited a laugh from everyone in the room, though it could have been due to the situation, rather than the joke. Jokes were not usually Blackout’s arena of comfort. They typically required a level of social courage that he altogether lacked. However, the drugs had seemingly sapped him of anxiety. That lack of inhibition allowed him to reach out and grasp Grace’s hand. Her fingers instantly clamped around his.

“We did alright, huh?” Blackout nudged.

“I didn’t do anything. You’re the hero. I’m just some girl you know.”

“You said it yourself: you tracked down the Isakovs. I never would have been there without you, Suggestion Girl.”

A twinge of a smile curled Grace’s lips. She used her sleeve to blot some of the tears from beneath her eyes. Without thinking, Blackout offered up the shirt Chunk had brought. Grace took it and mopped up her cheeks. Once she was satisfied, she pulled the shirt back to look at it. After reading the bottom, she broke out into laughter. The tension left the room.

More footsteps rushed the room. Too many for Blackout to count. At the head of a mass of people were Lancelot and Fuega. Lancelot offered a heroic, proud smile. Fuega grinned sheepishly and waved. Next to enter was Wildheart, at the head of a crowd. Half of the clubhouse must’ve showed up. Members of Dominican Justice, the queens, most of the notable administrators, including the director. Even a few of the old heads popped their shining, bald heads out of the group.

Rather than comforting Blackout, he suddenly felt exposed. The tranquility of a room full of his closest friends was shattered. He’d barely had anything to do with any of these people before. Most he’d never even spoken to. The director had only ever pretended to tolerate him. Fuega had humiliated him. Within the bulging mass, faces jockeyed with each other for a vantage point to glimpse the great attraction. Despite his flimsy hospital gown, Blackout felt naked.

Blackout desperately squeezed Grace’s hand. Grace squeezed back.