Chapter 1: The broadcast

People have different reactions to the macabre, a diversity as rich and unsettling as the sight itself.

Some go into a state of panic, their minds full of terror. Others freeze, their thoughts shackled to the horror before them. There are those who find a morbid thrill in it, a pulse of excitement in the face of the grotesque. Then there are the rationalists, who sift through their shock for a plan, a way to navigate the nightmare.

And then, there are other people, people whose first instinct isn't fear or fascination, but a curious detachment, an almost clinical pondering of how others would react.

Or maybe… maybe I am the only one who has that kind of reaction.

Yes, that is where my mind went to, when stepping into my apartment, smelling the familiar scent of ebony wood, but this time mixed with the pungent scent of iron.

The scene before me made me remember the first of many incidents which first numbed my senses years ago. Back then, a young, more naive version of myself stared in horror. Now, only a clinical detachment remained as I observed the room, its once pristine walls now a canvas of ruby red.

It seemed as if someone had exploded from the inside out, and my living room had become the unwilling stage for this grim display.

It has been a long time since something surprised me.

Not that this was really a surprise.

Don’t get me wrong, this is not something that happens to me on the daily. But In this world, where the extraordinary had become mundane, I had grown accustomed to the sights.

Superhuman abilities were as common as pigeons in the park. The government had long ago instituted the 'Cape Act', attempting to regulate these living weapons. But the laws were as fragile as glass, shattered repeatedly by those either too powerful to care or too cunning to be caught.

I remember a time, a mere fifteen years back, when the world was just… normal.

Back then, the biggest concerns were mundane - traffic jams, late coffee deliveries, or the occasional office drama. There was a certain comfort in the ordinary, a sense of control in the predictable ebb and flow of life. Like the sea that will keep going up and down as long as the moon keeps hanging in the sky.

But then the proverbial moon disappeared and shit hit the fan. Ah, I better stop lamenting about the past, it always gives me a feeling of regret while there is nothing I can change about it.

Looking up from the unfortunate soul whose final fate was painting my room with his entrails, I saw my window broken. A special feat when you take into account I live on the highest floor of my apartment complex.

Slipping out of my shoes, we can't have our ill-starred victim get them dirty. I moved closer to the gap while using my walking stick to navigate around the entrails and glass shards.

The scene outside was about what I expected, a lot of powered individuals fighting, leaving a wave of destruction behind them. ‘Heroes and villains’ or as I like to call them, weak willed egomaniacs who let their powers get to their heads.

I lingered at the broken window a moment longer, the chaos getting further and further away. Like a performance where the script is forgotten, leaving only an orchestra of destruction playing to an empty audience.

I felt frustration begin to bubble within me.

No not ‘empty’, the audience are the normal people trying to live their normal lives having to deal with all this, this nonsense!

Not that these 'ordinary' folks are any less culpable, willingly drowning in a sea of propaganda, sipping on the poison called news like it is ambrosia straight from their mothers tit. They swallow the tales fed to them, spoonful after spoonful of sensationalist drivel, mistaking it for truth. They're puppets dancing to a tune they don't even know is playing, living in a bubble of curated reality, spoon-fed by those who pull the strings. They just keep letting everything…

I caught myself, my thoughts were spiraling again, I need to get a handle on that.

It’s not like me to let emotions run wild.

It's also not that I'm any better— not yet.

But that's about to change.

My plan is almost in place. There is only one thing to do, one domino to tip and it all begins.

Now that I think about it, this gruesome scene in my apartment, while not expected, can maybe be the opportunity that I need.

After all, with just one message, one press on a button, everything can start. Just need that alibi, don’t want them to make it too easy to link everything back to me now do I.

But what should I do? They'll likely send a cleaning crew, but unless they dispatch one of their 'cape clowns' for the job – which I highly doubt – they won’t provide a solid alibi.

Perhaps a news reporter will show up, allowing me the chance for an interview? Yes, that could be a viable…

‘TRRRIIING’

The doorbell startles me out of my thoughts.

As I walk towards the door, I wonder who it could be. It's too soon for a cleaning crew. Perhaps a concerned neighbor inquiring about the commotion outside?

Peering through the peephole, I spot two figures, clad in the unmistakable uniforms of the government.

Oh the universe is really throwing a bone my way here, government agents just make for that perfect alibi.

But who do we have here exactly, a man and a woman – one old, the other young. Mentor and mentee on my doorstep, how quaint.

Alright, time to put on my metaphorical mask.

I opened the door, revealing the government duo.

The older gentleman, his face etched with deep lines and a strikingly blonde woman whose beauty shines through the boring uniformity of her… uniform, ha.

Oldie’s expression was unreadable, but in Blondie’s eyes, there was a flicker of surprise. She probably didn't expect to be greeted by someone who looked more like a displaced aristocrat than a man dealing with a domestic disaster.

There I stood, about 35, every inch the gentleman in a meticulously tailored three-piece suit, a walking stick in one hand, and shoes…

Ah yes, I forgot to put my shoes back on…

My father always said, ‘a gentleman’s attire is his armor in the battlefield of society, meticulously chosen, each piece a way to defend against the unpredictability of human interaction, a shield against the chaos of the world’.

And here I stand, shoeless — a knight without his greaves. I must be more vigilant; such oversights can’t happen when it truly counts.

For now, it’s inconsequential, the two stooges here probably haven’t even noticed.

While lost in my barefooted contemplation we stood in silence.

They expected me to speak first, the social norm for greeting unexpected guests.

But I remained silent, deliberately so. The first to speak often finds themselves at a disadvantage and that is not something I like to be. So, I held their gaze, letting the silence stretch.

Finally, Oldie cleared his throat, cutting the mounting tension. “Mr Atwood,” he began in a gravely timbre. A timbre you only get from chain smoking for years and years.

I always found smoking to be a fascinatingly absurd human activity. It's a societal paradox, really. Here we are, a species that prides itself on intelligence, on survival, yet we willingly inhale toxins. We pay for the privilege to fill our lungs with smoke, to stain our teeth and fingers, and to slowly, meticulously, erode our health. It's like buying a ticket to one's own demise, isn't it? I chuckled inwardly at the irony, aware of the pack of cigarettes tucked away in my own drawer.

“… regarding the incident in your apartment. The government wants to ensure that everything gets cleaned up and you’re adequately compensated for the… inconvenience. We would also like to ask some questions if that is alright with you.”

Hmm, they know my name and refer to it as 'the incident.' That's not how you'd typically describe mere destruction.

It seems they were already briefed about what happened in my room. Is this a setup targeting me?

No that would be too complex, and I shouldn’t be on anyone's radar… yet.

Maybe it is our unwanted death guest that is the culprit. Someone special, someone’s body they can’t lose track of. Probably also why they were so early, it should have taken at least hours for them to respond.

Let’s find out.

“I am at a loss, you seem to know who I am, may I know who you two lovely people are?” I asked.

I couldn’t keep calling them Oldie and Blondie in my head and above that names hold a certain power.

It’s a simple yet useful tool in human interaction. When you address someone by their name, it not only grabs their attention but also creates an instant, albeit subtle bond. When our name is used, it makes us feel recognized and important and it is such an easy tool to use, it would be unbecoming of me not to.

While Oldie didn’t show any reaction to my sudden question, Blondie's face again showed her surprise.

Can’t really fault her, she probably doesn’t expect me to be so cavalier after what they know happened right behind me in my apartment.

Good, that means they don’t really know me, or at least Blondie doesn’t, which again gives credence to the fact they are not here for me. But they did know my name, and if they knew my name…

“I’m Agent Clarkson, and this is Agent Miller,” Oldie, or I should say Clarkson now, says, taking the lead. “We are with DOSA, the Department of Superhuman Affairs.”

Hmm, DOSA didn’t just show up for no reason. They were the government’s hand, only called upon if normal authorities couldn’t deal with the fall out of a superhuman conflict. It is of course not the only thing they do, but one of their tasks most in the open. And here they were, standing in my doorway…

I noticed, too, the change in their uniforms, the reason I didn’t recognise them.

The DOSA I remembered wore distinctively marked gear, easy to spot and often a tad ostentatious. But these uniforms were different, more subdued, less assuming - a tactical change, perhaps, to blend in or to avoid immediate recognition. It spoke volumes about how DOSA, and perhaps the challenges they faced, had evolved.

But all that doesn’t matter now does it. Two agents from DOSA, perfect to serve as my alibi, the unwitting validators of my innocence in whatever is to unfold.

“Ah, the Department of Superhuman affairs,” I repeat with a hint of amusement.

As I speak, my hand slips quietly into my pocket, fingers deftly finding the familiar contours of my phone.

“I’ve always found it fascinating, the way the government has a knack of draping the most intriguing concepts in the dullest of cloaks. DOSA, sounds more like a dietary supplement than a government wing dealing with the extraordinary. ‘Feeling a bit under the weather? A dose of DOSA will sort you right out!’ One would think that dealing with individuals who can bend the very fabric of reality would warrant a name with a bit more… flair, perhaps? But no, we get DOSA!” I laughed with mirth.

“As if the extraordinary could be managed and filed away like a common cold.”

I let the words hang for a moment, savoring the irony.

Leaning forward on my cane, I subtly manipulate my phone, crafting a message.

“Tell me, Agents Clarkson and Miller '' I said, locking eyes with them both “does working in such an extraordinarily named department come with its own set of extraordinary challenges? Or does the mundanity of the name reflect the day-to-day reality of your work? I can only imagine the complexity of keeping tabs on superhumans while being shackled by the usual red tape and bureaucratic hurdles.”

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As I pause, ostensibly to gauge their reaction, my thumb hovers over the send button.

“And in a department tasked with such… unusual responsibilities, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of its agents themselves possessed abilities beyond the ordinary. It would be quite fitting, wouldn’t it?”

With one subtle push of the button, my message silently finds its way to its destination. A small act, almost imperceptible, yet with potential consequences that will ripple far beyond this room.

Agent Miller seemed on the verge of offering up something useful, a tidbit of information that would satisfy my curiosity. But Clarkson, stepping closer, cut her off.

“Mr. Atwood, your reputation for rhetoric precedes you. Let’s just say we're adequately equipped to handle our duties. However, specifics about our personnel are classified.”

Ah, so Clarkson didn’t just hear my name from his higher ups, he was aware of who I was.

I should have expected this, really. They wouldn't send rookies to deal with someone like me. That's like handing over a loaded gun to a toddler.

Then again, looking at Miller's greenhorn expression, I wondered why she was part of this duo. She stuck out like a sore thumb, too new, too eager. It was almost insulting, like they thought I'd be lulled into a false sense of security by her inexperience.

Or maybe that was the point.

But my years out of service hadn't dulled my instincts. My name still carried weight, shadows of a past life that people in Clarkson’s line of work wouldn’t quickly forget.

Maybe Miller was here for a reason. Maybe she had something special. Or maybe I was giving them too much credit.

Either way, this was turning out to be more interesting than I had anticipated.

My afternoon just kept getting better and better.

I thought I just had to stall for some time, to just use their precense. But now I just have to figure out if this is all connected or some big coincidence, only to sate my very own curiosity.

“Well, Agent Clarkson,” I said, a smirk playing on my lip, “I would of course never ask for something that is classified. But where are my manners, come inside.”

Clarkson gave a curt nod, and I stepped aside, allowing them to enter.

The apartment, with its red splatters and human entrails lying everywhere, didn't seem to faze them. Or if it did, they were well-trained in hiding it. Agent Miller's eyes, however, darted curiously around the room,

"Make yourselves at home," I said dryly, gesturing towards the part of the living room that was less hit. "Though I must apologize for the mess. It seems I've had an uninvited guest with rather explosive tendencies."

Clarkson didn’t bite the bait for small talk. "Mr. Atwood, like I said we’re here to discuss the incident and ensure your cooperation with our investigation. The... nature of the event requires some discretion."

'Discretion,' he says, as if we're discussing a spilled cup of coffee and not someone's insides doing their best impression of abstract art on my walls. And again, the 'incident', a delightfully bland word for what looked like a scene straight out of Saw.

Yes, Saw, a reference to those old classic gruesome movies I used to think were exaggerated fantasies, the kind that seemed too ludicrous to be anything but the creation of a twisted mind seeking shock value. Yet here I am, standing in one of its scenes. How quaint, that reality has decided to take inspiration from horror cinema. The world, like I already knew, has a dark sense of humor.

“Of course,” I replied, acting like I was getting a little more heated. "But, what kind of cooperation are we talking about exactly? You don’t expect me to have anything to do with this, do you?“

Agent Miller looked like she wanted to say something but held back. Clarkson remained impassive. “No of course not, this is just standard procedure…”

Standard procedure huh, standard procedure in the old world would have been a painstakingly detailed, almost pedantic process.

The scene would be cordoned off, each inch scrutinized, each piece of evidence bagged and tagged. Investigators would comb through every detail, relying on keen observation and forensic science to piece together the puzzle. But that meticulous dance of old-school detective work has become almost archaic, a memory of a less complicated time.

“…because this pertains to a super human that had an untimely demise…” Clarkson drones on while I keep thinking.

Now, such procedures are deemed unnecessary. Why rely on tireless hours of human analysis when you can have someone with the power to replay past events like a recording, or a mind reader who can extract the truth directly from your thoughts?

Speaking of special abilities, the longer Agent Miller is here, the more I am convinced that she possesses that certain… uniqueness I suspected. She hides it well, yet those with superhuman abilities often carry an air of superiority, as if silently boasting, ‘Look at me, I’m special because I can do something you can’t’.

Please! You just got handed your golden ticket by daddy and mommy universe. It’s a pity that in the chocolate factory that is life, there is no chocolade tube for them to get stuck in…

Anyway better watch what I say around our Miller here, before I know what she can do.

She has that earnest look about her, the kind that takes 'honesty is the best policy' to heart and then overreacts if you dare to bend the truth, even if it's just to say, “You don’t look fat in that dress, honey!” Because apparently she possessed the ability to discern whether someone is telling the truth or not…

“...wood, I asked you a question. Can you please answer?!”

Oh my, I’ve let my mind wander too far again. It looks like today I broke a new record for the amount of inner musings.

Probably overwhelmed by too many emotions; everything is about to start, everything that I’ve worked on since fifteen years ago. The plans, the contingencies, the late nights working on a vision only I could see - all of it converging into this singular moment.

“I apologize, agents,” I say, with a hint of feigned chagrin while glancing at the clock behind their heads.

Only a few more minutes now.

“The events of today have been rather… unsettling, to say the least.” As I utter these words, I notice Agent Miller's eyes narrowing slightly.

No way! Could my earlier guess be right, that her ability lies in discerning truths from lies?

“Could you kindly repeat the question?” I ask, keeping a polite expression.

Agent Clarkson, answers, clearly trying to stay professional but with a clear tone of impatience in his voice. “Of course Mr Atwood, I perfectly understand you are unsettled. We are trying to make a sketch of what happened here, can you give us your thoughts on the incident?”

Oh as if they don’t know, I should be the one asking them that question!

They're clearly fishing for my knowledge of the incident, probing to see if I possess any classified information that would compel them to silence me. Maybe jumping to conclusions here, but with what I know of the workings of the government, I would not be surprised.

Sticking to the truth, especially with Agent Miller's possible ability in mind, seems the safest route.

“Well, Agent Clarkson, my knowledge on this matter is quite limited. When I walked into my apartment and witnessed... this,” I gesture loosely to the grim scene surrounding us, “I was utterly shocked. I had just returned from my morning walk, certainly not expecting to find my apartment transformed in such a… way. And while red might be a striking color, it’s hardly my choice for interior decor. In fact, if I were to choose–”

Clarkson's throat-clearing cuts me short. “Yes, of course… What I meant to say was, I did notice some individuals with powers fighting outside. My best gue–, ahem well, assumption is that there were some choice words, some hurt feelings and this” I wave my hand again, encompassing the room, “is the outcome.”

That was close, almost ventured into speculation territory. That isn't my 'best guess' – can't afford such risks, not with Miller potentially dissecting my every word for truth.

The truth is malleable, especially when it comes to abilities like discerning lies. I don't know the extent or limitations of Miller's supposed talent. Does one minor fabrication taint everything else I say? Or can she pinpoint the exact untruth?

I realize, however, there's also a chance I'm being overly cautious, perhaps even paranoid. It's possible Agent Miller doesn’t have the ability to differentiate truth from falsehood. She could have a different ability, or perhaps none at all.

Nah, look at her, she for sure has one.

As I ponder this, I see the two agents looking at each other, some message being passed to each other perhaps.

Hmm, while I am eager to know what the hell is going on here, it looks like I will not immediately get my answer from these two. It will take a lot more time, especially when I am the one getting questioned.

A glance at the clock, yes, it's only a matter of moments before they will be preoccupied with something else. Perhaps later, if my curiosity persists, I’ll delve deeper into this mystery.

After their brief, silent exchange - rather impolite, if you ask me - Agent Miller takes the lead this time. "Mr. Atwood, we are aware that you have a history of being quite outspoken against individuals with powers."

So, they really did their homework .

“Maybe this is an attempt to scare and silence you?” She questioned.

I did not think about that…

But then, I didn’t expect my little column in one of the local newspapers would get any kind of attention. It is nothing more than a little hobby to pass the time after I was discharged.

Once upon a time, I thought I would be able to change the world with my writing, but then, I was also naive once.

I should have thought about this just being some scare tactic…

Sometimes I am really glad that nobody can read my mind. Sweat started to gather on my forehead. Here I am thinking about all kinds of convoluted stuff, like there is some big conspiracy going on, some big secret. Talking about looking into it when I have time…

I still think, no I know something bigger is going on.

But I should have thought about that. All the angles, Damien, all the angles.

“Yes, that's true,” I acknowledge, maintaining a calm exterior, not showing my inner turmoil. “I've never hidden my views on how powers have changed our society, often not for the better. But let me be clear, while I may question the societal impact of superhumans, I hold no personal animosity towards individuals. My concern has always been about the broader implications–”

Suddenly my tv switched on and a static noise could be heard. I smiled, 'finally!'

Before I go watch, I need to grab a cigarette.

While I had my thoughts about people who smoke, I had always found that the ritual of smoking, the curl of the smoke, and the familiar hit of nicotine helped to sharpen my focus, cutting through the clutter of my thoughts. It was as if the smoke created a barrier, allowing me to concentrate fully on the moment at hand.

Reaching into my drawer, I pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

I offered it to both the agents, Clarkson, of course, accepted with a nod while Miller politely declined.

All three of us moved closer to the tv. Tv’s only turn on automatically if there is an emergency broadcast.

The last time this happened was when one of the biggest impending Tsunami was going to hit our city and only the combined might of thousands of supers were able to stop it. So we all fixed our eyes to the screen.

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Noise crackles, then clears, revealing a close-up of a mask.

"Test, test, 1, 2, 3,"

The figure speaks, his voice dramatic, tapping rhythmically on the screen, producing a hollow, echoing sound.

"Are we live? Yes? Splendid!"

The figure then steps back, revealing his entire body - clad in an eccentric conductor's costume, full of bold colors and different patterns.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! Gather round, for it's time for a wonderful tale so bold but also oh so sad”

The figure sniffles over the top, a dramatic pause as he pretends to wipe a tear, then bursts into a chuckle. He starts moving his batons, slow tempo music starts playing, an orchestra.

“Picture this, a city, a beautiful city, sparkling and pure. Now enter our protagonist, let’s call him… Norman. Good ol’ Norman living his life so blissfully obscure. Taking his daughter on walks in the park, crunching numbers by day and painting with his wife to complete this arc.”

He mimics Norman's walk, then suddenly freezes, posture changing. The music starts picking up.

“But then! Oh, then! A twist, quite bizarre, people with powers emerge, both near and far. Some do crimes and wreak havoc, others fight the fight. Heroes and villains in outfits, oh so tight!”

His hands flutter wildly, his eyes gleaming with madness and glee, the music reaches a high point.

“Now Norman and his spouse, stay ordinary as day, no powers to claim, in dismay they stay. Yet their daughter, oh, a gem so rare, a healer’s touch, a gift beyond compare. Snatched by heroes, ‘for her safety’ they say, to the academy they take her away. And Norman? Powerless, left in complete sorrow, hoping for a better tomorrow.”

He acts out a heart-wrenching scene, one hand on his heart, the other reaching out desperately, embodying Norman's despair, the music becomes slow, a more sorrowful note.

"Years roll on, life moves ahead, Norman’s heart heavy, a feeling of dread. Trying to contact his daughter, so dear, but alas, she's too busy and won't appear."

The figure pauses, using one baton as a mock phone, mimicking Norman's futile attempts to reach his daughter, his movements slow and heavy with disappointment.

"Then the news – a hero falls! A healer, lost in the brawls. A blow so severe, Norman’s girl, his greatest fear. Now his world, once simple and bright, shattered, lost, in endless night. His heart breaks, under the city’s glow. In a world of heroes he’s just a shadow in the show.”

The figure's expression shifts, intrigue sparking in his eyes.

"But wait, a twist in our tale, a flicker of light in the dark despair!"

He exclaims, his voice rising with excitement. The music shifts, a hint of mystery weaving through the notes.

"News arrives, a whisper in the wind, no body was found, could she still be alive?"

The figure leans in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper.

"Our Norman, fueled by a father's hope, starts to dig deeper, to unravel the truth."

He straightens, his movements exaggerated as he portrays Norman's determination.

"But oh, the world is cruel, laughter and scorn greet his pleas. 'You're mad,' some say, others jeer, ‘Norman, a fool on a quest, chasing phantoms, a mind not at rest.’”

The Maestro mimics the cruel jibes.

"So what can Norman do, when nobody listens and nobody helps,"

his voice trails off, a hint of melancholy seeping into his tone.

"In a world indifferent, his hope, it melts."

The masked figure lowers his head, the light catching a tear-like glimmer on his mask.

"And so, our Norman, he yields to fate, a heart too heavy, under this world’s weight."

He looks up, his eyes meeting the camera.

"Norman gives up, his search now done, in a tale where darkness has won."

He steps back, bows deeply as if at the end of a play, the music drifting off, his laugh echoing, a haunting end to the tale.

When suddenly the camera zooms in again on his mask. The music gave way to eerie silence.

“Oh you thought this broadcast was done? Now the fun just begins! A game, a delightful spin! In this mad, mad world, what’s your sin? Will you watch, will you play, will you win?”

He sweeps his arm grandly, as if presenting a grand stage, his voice rising with excitement.

“The tale of Norman is just the start. Uncover the truth, show your art. Oh, I will give you a hint, this week's deadly sin is pride and your foe’s vanity might be their end. You have one week, so let the game speak.”

With a flourish, he gestures as if writing in the air.

"Submit your discoveries in the paper or on the news; let's see what truths you choose. And the prize? A secret for now, but it's worth your while, something to make even the darkest heart smile."

The figure then steps back, his silhouette blending with the dark background. In a sudden motion, he snaps his fingers, and the screen goes black, the broadcast ending abruptly.

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With the screen coloring our eyes black, I turned to the agents, taking a last drag of my cigarette, before stomping it out on my floor.

“Well, stating the obvious here, but that was no emergency broadcast” I said, while inwardly I was laughing my head off.

‘Let the games begin!’