Interlude 3: Julia Mendez

Wednesday, February 24th, 2010

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP…

I roll over and slap the alarm clock, only to knock it onto the floor where it continues to wail. I sit up and reach for the cord that's draped over the nightstand. My power surges; it phases across the plastic wire insulation and latches onto the electrical current passing through the power cord. My senses ride it into the simple electronic device, circuit board, resistors, back-up battery, speaker, display, radio tuner, time-keeping mechanism, and electric switches connected to the manual buttons. A mental tug flips the switch that interprets the press of the snooze button. It ceases wailing. At least I didn't accidentally fry the internal electronics. I have to be more careful when I have to buy replacements with my own money. I yawn, stretch, and close my eyes again.

"Get out of the water!" I yelled as the man thrashing in the water seemed to get electrocuted from falling power lines and a transformer tumbled in slow motion down the edge as it snapped more cables, the same water I was half submerged in. Then *it* appeared, a green scaly skinned head with four glowing eyes stared at me from a wave of water that followed behind it. The water hit, slamming me back toward the dirt wall of the sinkhole. Then there was blackness, and I couldn't breathe. I was underwater again.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.

I'm saved from the rest of the horrid dream by my phone's alarm. I can't do the same trick with the alarm clock. It's on my dresser on the other side of the room, not plugged in. I have to physically get out of bed to turn it off, which is the entire point.

The dreams are less frequent now, most of the fear and sadness replaced by anger and restlessness. I trudge into the shower, less anxious than yesterday as the water hits me, the memories the falling water brings to mind more muted and distant. Simon was right about exposure therapy, not that I can afford more counseling on the meager stipend the trust fund allocates me.

I towel off and blow-dry my hair. The wiring in Josephine's house can't handle the wattage the hair dryer requires. I finally understand why Mr. Beckett kept wondering if hair dryers were tripping the circuit breakers, even though it was just me experimenting.

As an appliance pulls current, it heats up the wires. Pull too much and circuit breakers shut off the flow to avoid stuff catching fire. My power supplies the difference, draining on built up reserves to compensate for the wattage difference. That's also how I accidentally broke Josephine's old alarm clock, upstairs TV, a couple light bulbs, and …

Push too much current through and fry the internal wiring and circuitry of anything. I can do a lot with a big enough charge. My power is both a capacitor and battery. I touch the slowly healing burn marks on my palms. Experimenting in the garage yesterday, I learned I can put out enough current to melt an 8 gauge copper wire. That is more than enough to kill someone instantly with a touch. The side effects of heat and fire are still a problem, even if somehow, I resisted heat hot enough to melt copper, and only got minor burns from it. I can easily set other things on fire just from the electric currents I can produce.

I put some scar minimizing cream on my cheek, not that it seems to be doing a damn thing. 'Scarface', really? Assholes. I finish cleaning up and feel a sense of dread as I step on the scale. 201? What the hell? I've been working out intensely for 6 weeks since getting here. I'm still gaining weight. Yet I'm not fat, I don't even look much different. Gaining fifty pounds in two and half months is abnormal. Is this some aspect of my powers? My stomach growls at me as a counterpoint to my argument. Yeah, eating several meals a day doesn't help but where is it going? Glad I refused to join any sports at this dump of a school, any weigh-ins will out me.

I put on some clean underwear and a vaguely clean smelling bra and look for something to wear. I rummage through some thrift store outfits and discard them. I kick the ammeters, voltmeters and miscellaneous batteries out of the way; grab a pair of blue jeans and throw them on the bed. Oh there's that copy of Dean's Electronics. I put it on the desk with my other research books next to the hard drive I salvaged from my old house. I still have no computer to put that in.

I slip on a clean-ish undershirt, and some knee-high socks to cover up my leg scars, lest there be more ammo for the stupid bitches to snipe at me with. I glance out the window, it's snowing, again. These winters suck, it's too damn cold. I put on my jeans and one of my sister's dark green sweaters. It's too tight on me, but it's clean and I'm not getting new clothes anytime soon. Getting a couple hundred out of my trust to pay for all this was hard enough. I should do laundry soon. Josephine made it clear she wasn't going to clean up after me. Not that mom did either, she taught me and Teresa how to use the washer and dryer when I was twelve and never did our laundry again after. Despite our pleading and the growing piles of our dirty clothes she held her ground until we caved from shame. I push the memory away before I fall into a depressive funk again.

I put my hand on an outlet and push my power senses through the wiring of the house, and draw a slow, steady current into myself to offset what I spent. I only have a vague idea of how I was bypassing the air-gap. My fingers aren't touching the metal wiring directly, although I could, if I wanted to. That would be a lot faster and more efficient. Some intuitive part of my power tells me I'm extending some kind of phased sub-dimensional conduit that taps into the flow of an electrical current, to bridge resistance and insulation gaps, like how I can ignore the plastic covering on the power cords. It only works for short distances, and phasing it though some materials is more difficult than others. I can even phase it through my clothes, but doing that wrong left me with burn marks in my clothing or skin. Despite trying, I can't create energy from nothing, only gather it from external sources, store, and expend it.

The TV and lights in the living room are on. The ones in Josephine's room aren't. She probably fell asleep downstairs again. I push my power to the electric oven to start it pre-heating. I gather my books, homework, gloves, jacket and winter hat. I heavily spritz my hair and clothes with anti-static fabric spray, another annoying side-effect of my power, and put the bottle in my backpack. I grab my phone, stuff it in my pocket and extend a conduit to it, to keep it charging all day. I still don't have a plan set up on it yet. I spent all my money on clothes, tools and books.

I thoroughly explored the internal circuitry of my phone with my power, not that any of it made any sense. Using my power to flip simple electric switches is one thing, assuming there isn't a manual block but even then, I can extend another conduit to complete a circuit despite the lack of a physical switch being in place to allow the connection. Complex circuitry, processors, memory and data storage are a different deal altogether. I'm not willing to brick my phone to experiment with it. Maybe if I know more about electrical engineering, I can do something more complex.

I eat a giant bowl of cereal while some breakfast burritos cook in the oven. The microwave is broken, that one's not my fault. It was broken for years, and Josephine never replaced it. She trudges into the kitchen as I drink the last of milk from a salad bowl, because all the other dishes are dirty and overflowing in the sink.

"We're out of milk." I say.

"Again? I swear you have hollow legs or something? At this rate all the money the foster system gives me to take care of you gets spent on food." Josephine sneers as she lit up a cigarette.

"Is that what I am to you? An extra paycheck?"

"Nah, but hell, you try living off nothing but social security. I told you and them I weren't much of a parental figure, but they didn't care none."

"I can see why my mom ran off when she turned 17." Josephine simply shrugs, not denying it at all. "We need more food and the dishes need to be washed."

"So get a job and go buy some, I can't drive, and more than half of those are yours."

"I can't get a job, I'm not 16 yet, and if you want me to drive you to the store so you can buy booze and cigarettes, you need to go with me to the DMV so I can get my hardship license."

"Little good that will do, that car ain't run in nearly 20 years."

"I got it started."

"What? How?"

I shrug, not bothering to explain how I did it. "Started isn't the same as running, tires are flat, it needs gas, and will have to be driven to a mechanic, to make it remotely close to usable." There must be a lot of things wrong with that car, but I'm not a mechanic. It's a Dodge from the sixties or seventies and according to the sticker; its last inspection was in 1989. Its battery was dead, and its electrical system was shot, but even when my power provided the voltage and connections it needed to get the engine to turn over, it promptly died anyway after expelling a dust cloud from its tailpipe. Years of sitting in the garage unused had taken its toll.

Josephine laughs. "Hehe, good luck with that, I can't fucking afford it, but if you get it running you can use it."

"What, really?" I asked. My own car? That would make things so less lame.

"Don't get yer panties wet; I said use, not have." I scrunch my face in indignation and she smirks, as my dreams of freedom are crushed under that disturbing mental image. "Useless to me anyway, I ain't ever getting my license back, too many DUI's."

"Wait, what? I thought you said you couldn't drive because you were too old and had bad eyesight."

My grandm- Josephine, cackles at me. Cackles, like a chain smoking raven. "Yeah I had bad eye-sight all right, I was seeing double!"

The oven buzzes and I retrieve my breakfast burritos, and sit back down. Eventually she stops laughing at her own joke and lights up another cigarette. At least dad always had the decency to smoke outside; then again it was fucking barely above zero out there right now.

"What kinda weird 'spic food is that?" she asks; lit cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, while she exhales smoke out the other side.

I choke on my burrito, her timing was probably deliberate. "Good God, racist much? Do you even hear yourself?" I ask once I can breathe again, and take another drink of milk.

"Nah, I ain't racist, I hate everybody equally." Once again her timing is impeccable but I manage to not spew milk on the table.

"Your mind is culturally diminutive." I mumble over another mouthful of bland prepackaged egg & cheese burrito.

"Oh what's that now? Jennifer talked in big words after she went to college, and got all pretentious. It just made her sound like an ass. 'Sides, I ain't got nothing against the Spanish or foreigners, I fucked a Spanish bull-fighter at Woodstock, that's how yer momma was conceived."

"Oh my god, why are you telling me this? And Spain and Mexico are not the same place." Oh God I need to scrub my brain, is she trying to make me choke on purpose?

"Heh, I know that, but close enough. Guess her tastes weren't too far off the mark, there."

"Are you just fucking with me?"

"Somebody has to, yer a snotty teenager, that thinks she knows everything. I should know, I used to be one too."

I grab her pack of cigarettes and lighter, lit one up, and grab my winter jacket.

"Hey! Buy your own damn cigarettes"

"I can't, I'm only 15"

"Didn't stop me when I was your age."

"Did they even have that law when you were my age?"

She shrugs. "Still wouldn't a stopped me."

"Didn't stop me either, see?" I say as I take a drag, and stuff the pack and lighter in my pockets. "I'm gonna be back real late tonight." I say as I bundle up and head out the door to school.

"'Kay, don't get dead or pregnant." She shouts after me as I close the door.

****

God I hate the cold. I wish there was a way I could use my power to keep warm without setting stuff on fire or electrocuting someone; maybe a pocket hand-warmer? I lean against the street light at the bus stop, slip one hand out of my glove and touch the cold surface of the metal. I extend a conduit from the post to the wire inside and I start leeching off the city power. The street light flickers as I interrupt the current flow. Josephine had a fit when she saw her January electric bill; of course she doesn't know why it was abnormally high. I have to do my heaviest siphoning from places that won't notice.

I swap hands as one gets numb from the cold and keep an eye on the drug dealer brazenly standing at the corner of the street I now live on, peddling his shit. Why would they want to get up this early in the day? Maybe they're still up. It's just my luck, I get to live in a dilapidated poor neighborhood in the middle of gang territory.

I still can't get used to the fact there's no school buses. I make sure I didn't forget the free bus pass the school gave me as the city bus pulls up. I get on board and try my best to ignore the leers from randos, and pull my jacket more tightly closed. I feel the weight of my entirely fake Taser, reassured I haven't forgotten it. I don't need one, I can just use my bare hands, but it provides deniability against outing myself.

****

I carefully avoid the ice patches as I ascend up the steps to the school. I don't want to end up on my ass like that tall haired brunette. Is it really so difficult to put a little more effort into sanding and salting the walkways? Those other bitches are hovering nearby snickering as the lanky girl gets up and brushes the dirty slush off her backside and gathers her things. I step around the lot of them, not interested in the petty drama. They're all in some of my classes; I just haven't cared enough to learn their names.

My attempt to skirt by unnoticed fails as the short angry black girl sneers in my direction. The snickering stops, and I hear a few whispers, catching the word 'fugee', among the hushed voices. I shift to the left as the scowling one steps out in a blatant attempt to 'accidentally' bump me with her backpack.

I plant my feet and tighten my grip on my backpack strap, and steady myself with my other hand on the railing. Our shoulders and hands holding our respective backpack straps collide with each other. Her backpack, which she is only holding by the one arm, swings around and hits me square in the chest.

It bounces and she stumbles briefly. I guess there are some benefits to weighing more than what my appearance indicates. Our hands were in contact for only a second, but it was enough.

Parahuman, primary powers: sub-dimensional phase shifting. Expressions: matter traversal, phasic reconstitution, matter-phase infusement…

It's my second confirmation that the angry girl is a Parahuman, and I learn more than last time. Maybe I should actually pay attention to what her name is.

"Watch where you're going, Scarface." She sneers.

"I was, maybe your fat ass shouldn't take up so much of the walkway."

"What'd you say?--"

Her angry rant gets interrupted by the 5 minute warning bell for first period, and the shouts of a nearby teacher at us to get inside. I push my way past her, I'm taller and heavier, she isn't an impediment, despite briefly trying to be.

I go through the entirely non-functional metal detectors and make my way toward first period. I already sense-explored the entire wiring circuitry of the building, and they weren't even connected properly, much like a lot of the cameras. At least the idiots from outside aren't in my English class.

Idiots or no, I still loathe English class, and Mrs. Cranston's fat ass. She looks like a giant pear shaped person with short arms and legs sticking out. She's the reason the students whisper and snicker in the classrooms and hallways. Fugee, wash-up, Endy, lungfish, that last one never made any sense to me. We're 'bad luck' after all, wouldn't want the tragedy of what befell my home and family to rub-off on anyone.

What's worse is she is completely oblivious that what she did was wrong. On my first day at this dump, 'Let's welcome a new student to class everyone; Ms. Mendez is from….Galveston, Texas. Uh, given recent events, let's all be extra accommodating and mindful of sensitive topics…' Yeah, that didn't work at all; she should have kept her damn flabby double-chinned jaw shut. The entire school knew I was an Endbringer survivor before the end of the day. The only benefit was that several teachers are still going easy on me, so I'm going milk that while I can.

****

"Julia Mendez, please come to the office, Julia Mendez, please come to the office."

The hell? I look up as the classroom intercom cackles with my name, close my Geometry book, and glance at the teacher, who has stopped his lecture at the interruption.

"Go on then, class is nearly over anyway."

I gather up my stuff, and make my way to the door. Not sure what this is about, but whatever gets me out of here earlier. The vain redheaded walking designer label advertisement smirks at me while she and her crony mumble some snide remarks and laugh as I pass. Did they do something? If they did, they'll regret it.

I get to the office and the secretary gives me a slip of paper, it contains my computer generated password. "Really? It took over five weeks to get my school email and network account? I've been attending since the 19th of last month. I haven't been able to use the library computers for any work this whole time because I can't log in."

"Well it should work now. Sorry for the delay, our IT department is overworked and understaffed." The office secretary says, barely glancing up from her computer.

"Just how poor is this school that they can't get a new student an email in over a month?"

"Alright well, you can get back to your classes now."

"I need a tardy slip because this is going to make me late to my next class."

"You have a few minutes if you hurry." The secretary says without looking up, and not giving me a slip.

Damn it. I run out and down the hall, I don't have the time to swap books at my locker. At least the halls are emptying out, so there's less traffic to impede me. I hear some teacher yell to not run, but I'm already around the corner bounding up the stairs to the second floor, taking several steps at a time. The bell rings mere moments before I open the door to my boring physical science class.

"…Clements, Elgin, Gonzales…" Mr. Sims interrupts his monotonic roll call. "Nice of you to join us, Mendez, you're tardy." Yeah, I know. I glare at him as I walk toward my seat. Arguing is useless, Mr. Sims is inflexible. Bored students occasionally say 'here' or raise their hands. "…Hebert, Hess…"

So that is the last name of the angry Parahuman girl. Glancing at her desk and I catch a glimpse of her name on her paper, S-something, in jagged chicken scratch. I sit down at my desk in the back row next to the wall, slouch down and drop my arm down. I feel the outlet with my hand, and open an invisible conduit, and started siphoning off energy. I wish my desks in my other classes were close enough to accessible outlets.

This is trivially easy now. I hadn't dared until I figured out how to reliably do it without any detectable effects. Slow and steady, constant voltage, standard 120V draw, at 60 Hz, not too fast or slow, or there will be problems. I've yet to encounter other Parahumans at school. However, it's not exactly easy to accidentally brush up against someone close enough to tell, so who knows if there are more. Might be easier to tell when it gets warmer and people are wearing less layers. The city has a number of wards, but rumor is they attend a different school. Did angry bitch fit any of their descriptions? Or any villains? I should do some research.

"…Mendez…" What? I look up from my wandering thoughts. The hell, "You already know I'm here."

Seriously, dude at least seems to know most of our names so what's the point of a daily roll call? He could trade five minutes of monotonic daily ritual for five minutes of monotonic lecturing. I shouldn't even be in here; I did this stuff in eighth grade.

"…Veder"

As Mr. Sims finally began his lecture, I let my senses disappear into the school's electrical grid. I can't actually 'see' 'or 'hear' or anything that is equivalent to normal senses, but I get a basic idea of the layout, what kind of appliances are connected, whether or not they are turned on, or functional, and how much power they draw. I jump out into the city grid, exploring for a block or two down the main power lines, which run a far higher through-put. I know I'd be able to siphon off a lot more current a lot faster off one of those, but have yet to try. Climbing up a utility pole to grab power lines isn't a wise idea. I can handle standard 120 outlets with barely a tingle, but never tried anything higher than that. How high can I go? Is there a limit to how much I can store?

While exploring the grid is neat, it's of limited use beyond a certain range. While I can fuck around with stuff connected to it, I can only create the conduits that enable that manipulation a limited distance from myself, although hopping through conductive material extends that range.

****

"—What about Saint's Row? Grand Theft Auto?" Greg asks excitedly. He is starting to give me a headache and distracting me from my Drafting class.

"No, I told you I've never played Aleph games, and I'm starting to regret that I told you I'd ever played any RPGs or shooters."

"Oh come on! You're like the first gamer girl I've ever met, in person anyway, that wasn't just talking about casual games on their phone."

"I don't think I'd use that label to describe myself. I swear you're worse than Simon."

"Who?"

"Never mind." Despite being the only female in drafting, and being dropped in here merely because it had room, given my mid-year entry into classes, the subject is surprisingly growing on me. Mr. Fisk even let me borrow books on electrical diagram drawing. I might even take shop classes next year.

"What about MMOs? Have you played Solaria? Elder Tales? Felucca Prime? Shattered Galaxies? Mechwarriors? …"

"No, stop. I've not played any MMOs. Go back to drawing whatever the hell that is."

"It's a Mech. A sweet Battlemaster, that my Mechwarriors character pilots. Seriously, some tinkers need to build some of these things so we can fight Endbringers with them."

I coldly glare at him so hard he actually becomes pale while I accidently snap the lead on my drafting pencil from gripping it too hard and nearly rip a hole in my paper.

"S—s-sorry, I didn't mean to… I …"

I get up to go sharpen it. Push the negative thoughts away. He's an idiot, a good-meaning, unintentional idiot, but still an idiot. I sit back down after I've calmed some, and do more perspective work.

"What about consoles? Which ones do you have?" Greg whispers. The silent reprieve only managed to last five minutes.

"None."

"Huh, PC only? That's cool, but wait, you said you played Destiny, it never got a PC port."

"I don't have a computer, and I don't have any consoles anymore."

Greg's face scrunched up in a look of pure confusion as if he could not process the concept of someone not owning a computer or any gaming systems. "Well what did you own? You must have had a MasterTrax II if you played Destiny."

I audibly sigh. If I answer enough questions will he shut up? "Yes, I had a MasterTrax II, and before that, the MasterTrax I, and an old NES and some eighties retro games that I played when I was little that my mom used to own.

Greg gasps. "A NES?"

"Quiet down" I hear Mr. Fisk say, barely looking up from the book he is reading.

"An Original NES?" Greg whispers. "Do you have any idea how rare and valuable those are now? They're like super collectables after Nintendo folded in '99 because, well, you know."

I gave him a cold stare again, and he backs down only a little.

"Could I um, see it?" Apparently Greg's enthusiasm exceeds his survival instincts.

"Did you forget that I said I don't have them anymore? It along with the others, and everything else I once owned, are below several meters of water and sand on Galveston Island." I seethe.

If Greg had a tail it would be firmly tucked between his legs as he scoots away. I go back to my drawing assignment for the rest of the period, putting more finishing touches on my rendition of The Bishop's Palace, from a photo I had stored in my phone. Like so many other historical buildings in Galveston, it doesn't exist anymore. The bell finally rings and I gather my things and head toward the door. Then I heard a meek query behind me.

"Do you watch anime?"

"No, now shut up Greg, I have to get to class." I hurry off down the hall before he can ask me something else.

****

I do a slow jog across the school while deftly avoiding the crowds of milling students. I take a wide swing around a huddled group of Asian boys openly wearing gang colors. I normally don't go to my locker at this time of the day, but I have to since I skipped doing so while at the office. I need to grab my History book for my next class. I'm in a hurry and someone is standing in front of my locker.

"Goodwill? Or maybe she just raided one of those donation bins," says crony number one, Maddy or some similar name.

"What's next Taylor, free lunch vouchers?" The other Julia, crony number two says.

Oh, they haven't even noticed me yet. They're targeting the lanky girl whose locker is next to mine. Fuck them though; I have to use lunch vouchers.

"What's that smell?" asked the red-headed, over-endowed, billboard.

"Oh Taylor, too poor to even shower now," says Maddy.

"No, it's Julia," says Hess.

"What? Fuck you Sophia." The other Julia scowls.

Oh so her name is Sophia. "Not you, dipshit." Sophia scowls back and the other Julia shrank like a kicked puppy. "What the hell are you staring at Scarface?" Hess says as she turns to look at me, leaning back on my locker. As everyone turns around to look at me, the lanky girl slips away.

"Yeah, thought I smelled an ashtray. What is that scar anyway? Cigarette burns? Daddy too abusive?"

"Good one, Emma." Maddy smirks.

I feel a charge well up and travel down to my hand. One little touch and I could drop them all. I inhale deeply though my nose to calm down. Fuck, they weren't entirely wrong. Being stuck in the house of a chain smoker and partaking myself does a number on your clothes.

"Move" I say forcefully to Hess.

"Why should I?" she asked.

"Because you're in front of my locker, so move." I glare at her, but she glares back just as hard, neither of us backing down.

Emma laughs. "Right next to Taylor's? Oh, this is rich. They must put all the poor losers together."

I ignore her and keep my eyes on Hess, who hasn't budged an inch. "I don't have time for your petty bullshit. Fucking move, or I will move you myself."

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"I'd like to see you t—"

"Girls!" one of the teachers shouts. "Get a move on, bell is in one minute."

"Next time, Scarface, next time." Sophia says as she casually slides off my locker, purposely bumping into my shoulder again like this morning.

Parahuman, primary powers: sub-dimensional phase shifting. Expressions: matter traversal, phasic reconstitution, matter-phase infusement, sub-dimensional mass displacement. Sub-dimensional energy conduit channels operate on similar frequency, disruptive interaction predicted. Risk to self, negligible, risk to phaser, sig-

Also like this morning, I don't budge, forcing her to slowly roll off mine as she walks away and the bitches disperse.

What the hell was that? I need another cigarette to calm my nerves. Technically I'm still on probation, even if I am a thousand miles away I can't afford to get into a fight and get arrested again. I punch my locker, and then quickly open it to grab my books and head to class.

****

The other Julia and the lanky girl are also in my history class. That Julia doesn't dare do anything on her own without the support of the others she hung around, which thankfully, aren't in this class. New Hampshire state history is basically just early US history, and is a lot less…involved and fervent… compared to Texas state history, which I took last semester. Mr. Mondale even spent a few days letting us watch a mini-series on the Alamo, back in November. This is just boring. I feel relieved when the bell rings for lunch.

"I'll catch up in a few" I say to Cathy and Rita as we go out the door. My stomach growls and I make a bee-line to the vending machines. I put my hand on the machines and find the shortest conduit point to create, sense my way through its internal working and flipped the switch that makes it think chocolate milk has been selected. A little conduit and jolt to bridge the switch gap on the mechanical spiral arm and it kicks on and down it drops. I fish out my prize and repeat the process on the snack machine, scoring a couple bags of chips and candy. I stuff them into my backpack and get in line for lunch.

"It's 'enchilada' day…" Cathy states, her voice morose with dejection.

"What is this garbage?" I ask, "These things are not enchiladas."

"Right, you haven't encountered this yet. About once a month the school pretends to serve Mexican food, and we pretend to eat it." Rita comments. "Some cultural diversity bullshit."

"What this is; is a crime against taste." Rico says.

"Then why are you all getting it?" I ask. "Oh, never mind."

"Yeah, the alternative is creamed chipped beef on toast." Cathy notes.

"My dad says that's also known as S.O.S, Shit on a Shingle." Rico adds oh so helpfully.

"Thank you for that added commentary, Rico, you're really helping my appetite." Rita remarks.

"I'm just in line for some fruit and the side dishes. You should bring my lunch like I do." Cathy shrugs.

"Not everyone can." Rita whispers, trying to not let me hear, as I drop several vouchers on the cashier. I don't really care though.

All four Hispanics at Winslow, Rico, Rita, Cathy, and now me, sit around a table in the corner of the cafeteria. That's not entirely true, there are a couple more, but they're in the earlier lunch period, and I don't know their names. There may also be some seniors, who get to go off campus for lunch. Rita doesn't actually know any Spanish, and Rico only knows it partially, he's also a sophomore, and in my drafting and PE class.

We're together because we don't fit into the other cliques. We're not Asian, White, or druggies. Although they've teased me a few times about my pale skin. Before joining this little table, or perhaps because of it, I confused the hell out of an E88 banger's attempt to 'welcome me' when I ranted at him in Spanish, after my first couple days of attending this dump. God, I learned so much in the first week, and not one bit of it was from any classroom.

"I don't suppose there are any actual good Tex-Mex or Mexican restaurants in the city are there?" I ask as I took a bite of pretend enchilada---

A phone camera flashes in my face. Rico snapped my photo. "Oh man, you should see your face," he exclaimed.

With difficulty, I swallow. "This stuff is disgusting." I lament, and then Rico proceeds to shove his phone at me, so I could see my picture, shocked sneer and all, as the taste of someone's misguided excuse for a cultural food hit my tongue.

"Gloria's is good, that's the only one. Everything else is crap, or Taco Bell, which is double crap." Cathy says helpfully.

"Hey, I like their cinnamon sticks," Rita states.

"Bullshit, that's just their lame excuse for a very crappy Churro." Cathy points out. "You've never had a Churro have you?" she asks, upon seeing Rita's slightly confused expression.

"Where is Gloria's? I need to check it out." I ask as I force another bite of food down.

"If it's disgusting, why are you still eating it?" Rico asks.

"Because it's food and I'm hungry. When you're hungry, you don't turn anything down. Why are you?" I ask back.

"Oh I'll just eat anything."

"Rico... don't..." Rita tries to whisper again as she cocks her head in my direction.

"Rita?" I ask, waiting for her to look at me.

"Yes?"

"Stop it. I'm not some broken thing. I didn't go hungry in the camps. I wasn't even in them for very long. While it's still hard to admit sometimes, the …aftermath… went a lot easier for us than for probably all the other attacks."

"Sorry" she says sheepishly.

I'm not broken, maybe just a few cracks here and there. I'm a Parahuman. That's the very definition of broken. I can live a normal life, that's what the counselor in Houston said to try and do. I wanted to murder those girls, electrocute them to death with just a touch. Make friends, go to school, find a summer job, it helps put the past behind you. I'm going stir-crazy. I made a wire chain-whip thing and a half-assed costume, because I'm already sick of the damn meth-house that is on my street.

I finish off my horrid food and the vending machine loot, continue to smile, force the occasional laugh, make small talk, and lie to myself throughout lunch. It's just like yesterday, and just like what I'll do tomorrow.

****

Home Economics is another class I got dumped in because of my mid-year transfer and because it had spots available. However, unlike drafting, it's a boring waste of time, made bearable only by Rita sharing it with me. Maddy is in there too, but like the other Julia, she doesn't dare to do anything on her own without the presence of the other idiots in the class.

The worst class of the day is last period, PE. All the bitches are in there, plus Greg, who has thus far become extra annoying ever since I let slip I once actually played non-casual games.

"I told you in drafting, I don't watch Anime, and I have no idea what a Sun-dare or a Yan-dare is."

"It's Tsundere" Greg huffed, "-soft Ts sound"

"Still don't care." I run faster to outpace him, leaving him wheezing behind me. It's sunny but also damn cold out, yet they make us run outside anyway. The gym is too tiny so we have to run around the block the school is on when the weather cooperates. At least we get to have long sweat pants and shirts for PE uniforms in this weather.

Rico shares the class as well, and is at least someone I'm more willing to talk to, but he hangs out with the sports jocks during PE. Though as a guy, he isn't useful as a refuge from petty locker-room drama. While he's decently attractive, I think Cathy has a thing for him, and I don't want to mess with any complications like that right now.

I pass by the lanky girl who flinches at hearing someone come up behind her and then relaxes a bit when she notices it's me. She's the one that has the locker next to mine, and come to think of it, is actually in four of my classes, just super quiet and withdrawn most of the time. I slow down to let her catch up as we round the corner.

"Hey" I say. She looks at me but doesn't respond. "So I guess your locker is right next to mine. Didn't know, I hardly use it."

"Yeah, me either."

"Aren't you in like four of my classes?" I ask. She nods non-committedly. "What's your name?"

"Taylor"

My heart races as a car going down the street suddenly speeds up and veers toward the curb in our direction. We don't have time to react as its right front wheel dips into a large puddle of sand, salt, mud and ice slush, which shoots up in a big splash of very cold icy water, drenching the both of us. Taylor screams, and I ...growl… and run into the street. I saw enough beforehand to know a pale-skinned teenage boy in a letterman jacket was driving. I stare at the car speeding off into the distance, it's a beat-up beige Honda, license plate FGH, and I miss the rest.

"GOD DAMN IT!" I yell as I walk back off the street and kick the chain link fence post next to the sidewalk that surrounds the school's baseball field. I can't ride the bus home drenched and shivering. I have to actually change and shower. I've never done that here. It's the last period, I normally just do that at home. I'm already shivering at the drenching. Taylor looks even worse; she was standing closer to the street when the jack-ass splashed us. Several students pass us as we stand in shock, snickering.

"That was totally deliberate." Taylor spat out, though she also looked at me suspiciously. Why?

"Yeah, you think? Asshole had to pull over to the curb on purpose to even hit that puddle," I reply.

"Oh, damn, what happened to you guys?" Greg asks as he manages to catch up.

"Asshole puddle-splashed us." I answer.

"You need any help?"

"No, Greg" Taylor and I both say simultaneously, a pissed off look still in our eyes. He goes around us and keeps running.

"Well, screw finishing any more laps like this, I'm not even gonna walk the long way back." I say as I start to climb the eight foot chain link fence. Half-way up I stop and look below me. Taylor is still on the ground trying to brush dirty ice and sand off her gym clothes. "You coming?" I ask and extend a hand down.

She stares at me a bit in contemplation, before accepting it and climbing up onto the fence with me. We straddle the top, drop down and quickly walk across the field back to the gym in silence.

****

I blink as another phone camera flash hits my eyes after we walk into the doors.

"Ha—ha, *wheeze* ha… You guys look like crap." The red-head from the locker says, in between out-of-breath exhalations, her phone still in her hand.

"Did you arrange this Emma?" Taylor asks.

Wait what?

"God Taylor…" Emma pauses to inhale sharply again. "You're so delusional. *wheeze* we've been in class same as you, how could we have had anything to do with this?"

The 'we' she was talking about was Hess, standing a few feet away, very noticeably less exhausted than Emma, but still breathing a little heavy.

"Yeah? Then why run so hard to get here before us so you could take a picture? Unless you were watching and saw us cut through the field." I reasoned.

Emma blinks several times before responding. "Taylor's crazy lies must be rubbing off on the Endy here."

Maddy then stumbles into the gym as well, too exhausted to add any commentary as she wheezes in the corner.

"What the hell happened to you two?" The coach asks us as he comes around the corner.

"Car splashed us," Taylor says through gritted teeth.

"Yeah, and I'm not going back outside." I add.

The coach looks us over. "Alright you two hit the showers." He glances down at his watch. "The rest of you get back outside, you still got twelve minutes, that's enough time for another lap."

"I already did all my laps, coach." Hess remarks.

The coach shrugs. "Good, do another one." Hess glares at me momentarily, "Go on now, get a move on." the coach reiterates, as the girls get ushered toward the door.

"Come on Madison, let's go." Hess said.

Emma looks displeased as if someone has taken away her toy. Maddy, no Madison, whatever, stands up in an exhausted huff "I can't do anymore," she mumbles before staggering out the door.

Taylor is showered and gone in less than 10 minutes. She must have known something, I should have moved faster because they're back before I manage to finish getting dressed.

"Oh my God, that's fucking hideous. What the hell is wrong with your leg?" Emma says as the other girls bound into the locker room. She's still breathing heavily and Hess is right behind her. They endured another punishing fast lap just to get back as quick as they could. Several other girls have followed in behind them. It's too late; plenty have pointed and stared by the time I pull my sock on to cover it up.

"Good thing you refused to join the cheerleaders" Hess sneers, "The sight of that would have made people in the stands barf."

They're exaggerating. It doesn't look that bad. Some people have even mistaken it for a spider web tattoo even when seeing it from a medium distance. "Yeah, well I have nothing to cheer about, especially for this school's weak loser sports teams." That must have hit a nerve with Sophia. She strolls over and tries to look intimidating as she stands over me, only because I'm sitting down on the bench.

"You like to talk tough…" she responds, and then halts, as I pull my jeans up, stand up and turn around. Now I'm the one towering over her as I look down my nose at her, and she looks me up and down.

I've always been wearing baggy clothes, and only changed into my gym clothes in the bathroom stall. This is the first time any of them have gotten a better look. I'm wearing my bra, but haven't put a shirt on yet. My muscles have gotten a lot more defined over the last two months, and even though Emma has me beat, I'm endowed enough to elicit several jealous stares. All the other healed scars on my torso that I got from Galveston, normally hidden by my clothing, are plainly visible as well.

I coldly stare down at Hess and her feeble backfired attempt to invade my personal space. "You seem to be under the mistaken impression that you're scary. News-flash, you're not, not to me. You know where I am from, you know what happened there." The locker room has become dead silent. "I saw IT, up close, less than 100 yards away, and I survived. So yeah, your capacity for scary intimidation tactics and stupid pranks is phenomenally short of the bar. Understand?" Sophia just stares at me silently for a moment. "I'll take your silence as a yes. That's good. Now kindly fuck off and go bother someone else."

****

Sophia and Emma back down. Time will tell if it will stick, or they're just planning something for later. How lame are they that they actually take time out of their day to arrange crap like that, if what Taylor accused her of is true? I finish getting dressed and leave early. The 3:15 bell rings as I sit down at a computer in the library, finally able to log in, browse the internet, and check out my new school email address. I log into the email that I gave Simon and haven't looked at in months. It's flooded with spam, and isn't worth sorting through anymore. I fish the email address I saved into my phone and compose a new one from my school address.

> To: [email protected]

>

> From: [email protected]

>

> Subject: Hey Simon, it's Julia

>

> Hey, sorry, I haven't been able to get online until now. This school is a dump and only just gave me access and this email address today. Don't know if you sent anything, my other email got flooded with spam and I don't have time to sort through it right now. Reply to this one instead. I still don't have a phone plan setup yet.

****

Parahuman, primary powers: eidetic reconstruction. Expressions: manifested energy constructs of pattern set, perfect visualization and design of pattern set. Enhanced use of pattern set. Eidetic reconstruction of mem-

Miss Militia pulls her hand away from my awkward handshake. Did I hold on too long? Of course I did, that was the point. Did she notice anything was amiss? Her face betrays nothing but soft smiling eyes as she signs the poster of her I bought. I'd have preferred Armsmaster or Assault, but both of them are wearing gloves, or rather gauntlets in the case of Armsmaster.

I smile, "Thanks" I say and step back out of line. The next tourist seeking an autograph takes my place. I glance back every now and then as I roll the poster up and return it to its cardboard tube. There is still no obvious sign of alarm. She isn't looking back at me, instead putting all her attention on the next supplicant of signatures.

I walk away from the crowd at the signing table toward the exit. There wasn't any pull. There might have been something there to draw on, but I didn't want to risk it. It felt like I was missing some important component. It was the same as with Sophia. A touch gave me recognition, identification, and understanding of their power set. More understanding came with further contact, or a longer duration of contact, yet still it seems, incomplete.

What did that have to do with my electrical powers? Or my weird need to eat a lot and weight gain? They don't seem that related. My scant research at the school library after class, points at being a grab-bag cape. Some speculate that it comes from multi-triggers. Simon and that sparking guy were down there with me. So were other capes, even Eidolon was floating above us, when Levia—

I'm hit with a full body shudder as the memory washes over me. Calm, calm, I need to get calm. I feel goose bumps forming, hairs standing on end, and my clothing is frizzing. I run faster toward the mall exit as I smell a faint trace of ozone. A tiny flash and a loud pop erupts as a static charge jumps off of me when I grab the metal handle of the door.

I fumble with my lighter in the cold air, shielding my cigarette from the chill breeze and light dusting of falling snow. I take a deep inhalation and my nerves begin to settle. I need to know more, and use better sources than random speculation about powers on the internet. At least some of the links I ran across pointed to academic papers, I just didn't have time to read them all.

****

I step off the bus at the boardwalk. The wind has picked up and the snowfall is getting thicker, I pull my far too light of a jacket tighter as I window shop for something better. Neither I nor my sister had any winter clothes of significance. It's not something you need on the gulf coast where you can sometimes go out in shorts in the dead of winter. I stamp out my cigarette and step into a retail clothing shop just to try and warn up for a bit.

I've only passed through the boardwalk once since I'd arrived, never actually gone into any stores. This one is immaculately clean, and warm, and even smells nice. Warm is good, I need to warm up. There’s some touristy fleece hoodies, and scarves with images of various protectorate heroes on prominent display at the front. I'm interested in something more practical, and move toward the back aiming for the rack of nice looking coats.

I glance over at the salesperson as I move deeper into the store. Is she scowling at me? What the hell? Why? As I move further in, I feel more unease. These clothes are really fancy, designer labels... Oh my God! Who the fuck would pay two hundred ninety-nine dollars for a coat? A glance at several other price tags doesn't make me feel any better. There is nothing in here I could remotely come close to being able to afford.

"Can I help you?" The shop lady that had been scowling at me earlier, asks as she comes round the corner of a rack of clothes. This time she's smiling, but I can tell it's fake as she looks me up and down.

"No thanks, I'm just looking," I reply.

"Well, if you need anything, just ask." She says, as she turns and busies herself with rearranging and straightening up various articles of clothing, and I notice, doing so not so coincidentally within five to ten feet of me, even when I move. What did she think I was? Or is she just discriminating?

I glance down at myself as I pretend to rummage. I don't look that bad, do I? My sneakers are still dirty despite wiping and drying them off after getting splashed. My jeans and gloves have a few old burn marks from power experiment accidents. My jacket is faded, and missing a button, but it's pretty decent for being only ten bucks from the thrift store, or I thought it was. My sister's sweater is clean and unblemished, but it's uncomfortably obvious it's too small for me, but I don't have many options there. Is that what this is? She sees me like some street trash that shouldn't be in here? I feel power coming to the surface again as my cheeks flush with anger. I'm even angrier at the fact that she isn't wrong. Fuck, I just want a damn warm coat that isn't trying to rip me off. I wouldn't have been treated like this at home, even though I still probably couldn't have afforded these kinds of prices.

I take several deep breaths, trying to calm down. My own and the clothes I'm touching are getting frizzy from static build up. I push away fleeting thoughts of shocking the smug look off the saleswoman face, and arcing bolts through all the metal racks in this place. What is wrong with me? I need to calm down, but I'm out of cigarettes and I don't want to go outside in the cold again so soon.

"Where are your restrooms?" I ask, forcing a smile as best I can.

"Restrooms are for paying customers only. Have you found something you'd like to purchase?" she asks in response.

Fuck you bitch. I grit my teeth behind my fake smile. "Changing rooms then, best to make sure it fits first." I say as I pull up something that seems a close match. She escorts me to the changing rooms, but through the door slats I can still see she is hanging out near the entrance to the hallway.

Damn why am I so angry? I don't bother trying anything on, I just sit on the tiny bench fighting back tears and willfully trying to shove my power back the hell down. I stand up and hold the clothes in front of me. They do look nice though, and I still really need a coat. Simon taught me how to remove the security tags in Galveston. A fancy store like this probably has cameras, and there is definitely a security gate thing at the front. I look through the door slats again; the sales lady has left, maybe helping another customer. I stand on my tiptoes and touch the bottom of the metal light fixture at the top of the wall in the changing room and open up a conduit into the internal wiring.

There are two security gates at the front and five cameras hooked up to a recording device in a closet, twenty-eight ceiling lights, three cash registers, some TVs in the stock room, magnetic-electronic devices around all the windows and doors, a security system perhaps? There is also at least one smartphone in the front and one in the back being charged.

A charge escapes me, pushing through my conduit into and through the wiring system of the store, traveling at the speed of…electrons. Oh damn, I… just fried their cameras, security gates and the recording device. They don't outwardly explode or anything visible like that, they just stop working, due to tiny burned out lines in their internal circuitry. It was only a fleeting thought; disable all their security and I could just take what I wanted.

No, I can't do that, that's stupid. It's still daylight out, I can't fit a heavy winter coat under my jacket, and I'm still on probation. I discard the coat and the store clothes and run out of the changing room, slowing down in the hallway before I step into the main store, and swiftly walk toward the exit. Nobody has even looked up, the lights are still on, other customers are still checking out at the registers. I look back as I exit to see a security guard come out from the back and move toward the sales counter, so I run off down the street.

****

My feet are cold as I crunch through the three inch thick snow cover on my street. I avoid the icy sidewalk to walk in the grass. I don't want to slip, before I even get to where I'm going. At least the coat I did buy is warm and clean, even if ugly; fifteen bucks from goodwill. I should have gotten two, but I don't have any money left. I need two so I can have one when I'm not in costume, if you can even call it that. Ratty hiking boots, baggy sweatpants over jeans, winter coat, ski mask and scarf to hide my face and gloves is more 'someone dressed for winter' than costumed vigilante.

Is that what I am? What I'm about to become? A vigilante? I just want them off my street. Three times I called the cops on this house from a payphone over the past month, they never show up, or just don't fucking care. This shithole of a neighborhood is deep in gang territory of this shithole of a city. Over a third of the houses on the street are not only abandoned, but have apparently been stripped of plumbing and electrical wires by scavengers according to Josephine, my neighbors, and my own electrical senses. The neighbors, like my grandmother, are too poor to move, or too scared or jaded to do anything about it. Josephine may not have been too scared, definitely too jaded though, she claims to have a weapon in the house, and has chased off idiots several times a year.

I glance up as I hear a couple gunshots in the distance, it sounds like it's several blocks away at the minimum, typical, just another Wednesday night. It's well after dark, what if they have guns? I was too scared to steal clothes from that store, am I too scared to do this too? Nobody else will do anything about it, the police won't come. That means they won't come if I get shot or beaten up either.

My hands are shaking, is it because of the cold or because I'm scared? There are at least seven people inside, based on what I observed earlier in the day. I not willing to kill myself, I just don't care if some else does it for me. Or do I? I slip one hand out of a glove. It's so cold, I grab my bare shaking hand with the other and still it, then grab the cold metal handle of my chain-weapon, and walk up the path toward the front of the house. No, I can do this.

My chain weapon is a small metal handled hammer I stripped the rubber grip off of, and welded a long light copper wire chain to it. It extends my striker power a good six feet, like a melee whip-taser. I'm rather proud of it, given my lack of resources, even if I had accidently hit myself several times while practicing.

One of the drugged out squatters is asleep in a dingy patio chair on the front porch. He doesn't even stir as I approach. There is what looks like a cast iron grill stolen from a picnic area sitting on a metal table, filled with bits of burning wood, giving off a glow and some heat to keep the man warm. A flip phone and a drug pipe are sitting on the table next to it. I touch the flip phone with my bare fingertip and brick it.

I don't even need to use my weapon for this one; I just grab his bare hand. He wakes up but only has time to look at me before I send 50,000 volts a few milliamps coursing through his body. I don't want to kill the assholes, just chase them away. He does a full body spasm, falls out of his chair and knocks the table over as he does so, scattering smoldering embers into the yard where they're extinguished by the snow.

"Erhh, the fuck?" He says as he makes an attempt to stand up.

Huh, he didn't fall unconscious? Of course he didn't, that's stupid movie logic. That looter in Galveston didn't either.

"CA—" He tries to yell before I cut him off mid-screen with another charge.

"Run away, and never come back here again!" I yell as he scrambles off. I turn to the front door, it's locked, so I raise my leg and kick it as hard as I can.

There is a loud crack, followed by pain, me falling backwards and more pain as my ass hits the porch. The door frame cracked a little bit from the impact, but the only effect I had on the door was leaving a muddy boot print on it. "Damn it." That didn't work how I thought it would.

The tarp covering the window moves and a woman's head pops out. Her hair is a rat's nest and her eyes are bleary and bloodshot. She just stares at me and blinks as I stand up again. "Where's Jonah?" she asks.

"Gone!" I say as I rush her. She screams as I tase her and pull her out the hole where the window used to be, another thing that has apparently been looted from the abandoned property. "Get Out!" I yell as I step into the house through the missing window.

There aren't seven people here, there are over a dozen. It isn't a production house, but a consumption one. I put a constant charge through the chain, and lash it out, tasing everyone and everything it touches. The druggie-squatters scream, and they start waking up or convulse as the chain whips across them.

I quickly notice some serious flaws in my plan. Heavy winter coats made for good insulation, so a lot of where I was contacting people, isn't getting through, however, getting hit by a chain, even a light one, hurts like hell and easily draws blood. I haven't practiced enough with my own weapon to avoid once again hitting myself multiple times, the enclosed area of the house makes using it difficult, and I already got it tangled on a tall indoor lamp stand that I end up accidently hurling across the room. Why is there even a lamp in here? This house has no utilities. I discard my other glove just so I can touch people directly, but I don't want to give up my reach weapon yet. As I untangle it from the lamp someone tackles me.

A large man is now on top of me and slams my head into the backside of a couch. "Fucking Cape! You know whose territory—" He asks as he tries to strangle me, but I'm not restricted to discharging from only my hands. I push him off me as he convulses on the floor. Someone has opened the front door; people are fleeing out of both it and the windows, none of which look to be intact.

I zap the burly man that tackled me again, and he's apparently had enough as he starts crawling away from me. A shelf has fallen over onto my chain and pinned it down. I pull on it to get it free, and my welds break. The sudden unexpected loss of resistance throws me off balance and I fall backwards onto a wooden coffee table. It snaps under my weight and drug paraphernalia and pipes shatter and scatter everywhere. There's little actual furniture in the house, and what is there looks like it has been pulled off a trash heap. I stand up and fix my scarf that has fallen down.

I scream as someone else tackles me again, hard enough to send me backwards into the wall. The old moldy drywall cracks and collapses in behind me from my impact as I find myself wedged in between two wall studs and staring at the kitchen through a hole in the wall I just made. I punch out more of the drywall on the kitchen side as I tried to pull myself through to get away.

"Get the fucking bitch! Someone call Skidmark!" someone yells. I feel hands grab my legs and pull me back in the other direction. I scream and send a charge everywhere off my body. I hear screams, and smell something burning, but manage to pull myself through the hole as they let go.

The kitchen is bare, cupboards broken and without doors, there's a stained mattress on the floor, and a metal trash can fire wedged under where the stovetop used to be. I manage to stand up just in time for one of the goons to rush in and take a swing at me. Somehow I dodge, and grab the sides of his head as he over extends and shock him. I can see his face as he passes by me. I turn around with him; one of my hands on each side of his head, the electricity arcs from one hand to the other, through his skull, through his brain. His eyes roll back into his head, his face contorts into a seizure, I see his jaw clench so hard his teeth bite clean through the tip of his tongue A tiny speck of which sails off in an arc striking me in the face as I let go and let him fall hard on the floor as he crashes into the trash can fire and knocks it over.

Holy fuck did I just kill him? He is still twitching, does that mean he is still alive or is it just remnants of---

My thoughts are interrupted as a sharp pain envelopes my back with a loud crack; I stagger, but stay upright and turn around. One of the druggies is standing there with a piece of broken, moldy wood in his hands. I glance down as another piece, twice as long, clatters to the floor at my feet. I curl my hands into fists and raise them up into a defensive stance, ripples of electric current jumping off them like a tesla coil.

The druggie just opens his eyes wide, takes a step backwards and drops his weapon, "Fuck this" he says as he runs out back out through the living room and out the front door. "Ain't fighting no Raiden bitch, that's bullshit."

I feel a surge of heat as the mattress on the floor suddenly bursts into flames, I take a step back as I watch the flames race up the wall, and turn to quickly leave. I make it into the living room, as the house starts to fill with smoke, then stop. That man, is he still alive? My whole body hurts, everything hurts so bad. Still I turn around, the kitchen is filling with smoke as I ducked down below it and feel around until I find the man's leg and start pulling. As I drag him into the next room, I realize just how horrible my right shoulder and the right side of my back feels. I shift the weight to my left but I can't lift this guy. There are flames in the living room now and on the ceiling. Just need to make it a few more feet. I drag him out onto the porch as I hear and feel the fire as it consumes the roof and attic. Fuck, this didn't go at all how I planned. Hell I didn't even have a plan, not a real one. Shit, I hope no one else is in there.

I pull him off the porch and I leave the man lying in the rapidly melting snow of the front yard. I check for a pulse, he actually still has one. I make sure the scarf and mask covering my face is still intact, the neighbors are definitely watching as the house catches fully on fire behind me. Someone is probably filming too. Even though my house is a mere block down the street I go right past it as I flee the scene.

****

I walk home an hour later at two in the morning, after cleaning up and hiding out at the 24 hour Jack-In-The-Box down the road. I come down my street in severe pain, and very cold after stashing my costume in my gym bag. My crappy costume now has burn holes in numerous places from ineffectively passing current through it.

The fire still isn't out. Police, ambulances, and fire trucks actually arrive this time. Josephine opens the door in her nightgown, bathrobe and slippers as I walk up to the porch.

"Finally decided to come home, eh?" She says, while smoking a cigarette.

"I told you I'd be out late."

"You look like shit, you get in a fight?"

I don't answer her. "What happened out there?" I ask even though I know the answer.

"Fuckin' meth-heads burned down their den. I'd say good riddance, but they'll just move into the next empty house, that's what happened the last time one of the places they was usin' burned down."

"Wait, what?" Was everything I just did completely pointless? There are four other empty houses within a block of here, and who knows how many beyond that.

"Just the same old shit..."

I looked out the window at the burning house, the mess I had inadvertently caused. The firemen don't seem to be putting much effort into putting out the blaze. "Why aren't they putting it out?"

"Eh, probably just making sure the nearby houses don't burn up, that one probably can't be saved."

"Did…" I swallow, not sure if I want to know the answer to the question I was about to ask. "Did anybody die in the fire?"

Josephine shrugs. "Ambulance took someone away, but I ain't seen no coroner vehicles show up yet."

I trudge into the kitchen, rummage through the medicine cabinet, down several Tylenol and swipe some more of Josephine's cigarettes. I slowly walk up the stairs toward my room, every step filled with pain. Half-way up I stop and look back down, Josephine is staring at me, still smoking away.

"I'm not going to school tomorrow."

"Yeah, somehow that don't surprise me."

"Or Friday."

"Yeah? We'll don't make a fucking habit of it. I'll tell 'em you're sick or something if they call for now, but I don't want to keep getting' bothered by them fucks if you decide to start skippin' on the regular."

I nod and go up to my room, then strip down in my bathroom. Good God, the right side of my back is the color of an eggplant. There is a lump on the back of my head, small bruises all over, and a couple small cuts on my face. I think those were my own fault from my chain. Shit, how do I not have any broken bones? Moving my arms, and rotating my right shoulder around hurt like hell, but they still move, everything is still in place. I got slammed into the back of a couch, tackled through a wall, and hit full force with a rotten two-by-four, and that was just what I can remember. There are plenty of lesser bruises all over the rest of my body.

What the hell was I thinking? I am so lucky nobody pulled a gun on me. What did I even gain out of any of this, especially if they just come back and move into another house? Not like I got any money out of it, not that I was trying, and oh fuck, I lost my weapon. Actually why the fuck did I think something like that would work well at all? I don't have any training, I don't know how to fight, I just made a mess, and nearly, maybe even possibly did, kill someone if he doesn't survive.

I get dressed and climb into bed, and curl up into a fetal ball, fighting away tears. They'll come back again though won't they? Those dealers will still be on their corners tomorrow and the day after that. I just want to go home. I can't go home. It's gone, and everyone I cared about is dead…