---

---

Mud flew into the air as the whine of the motorcycle echoed from within the thick wooded swamp. The dirt road around the bayou had proved to be a treacherous one for the Convoy to journey along but ultimately worthwhile as the group had avoided any trouble. Whipping around the corner, the navigator on the motorcycle nearly lost his traction as the road beneath him switched from dirt and mud to loose gravel. Behind him, two more similar built bikes emerged from the wood as they were followed by a large truck. The rest of the convoy began to emerge from the woods as the drivers of each of the larger vehicles sighed a breath of relief as their wheels bit into the concrete. Numerous vans, campers, jeeps and trucks lined up behind the scout vehicles as several more motorcycles came around from the back to rejoin the front. Thunder crackled over head as the sky seemed to open up, rain pouring onto the convoy, washing away from the mud of the bayou as the group of vehicles headed towards the glow of Pointe Bordeaux.

Looking back from his seat, Tarvos did a quick count to ensure everyone was on the road behind them and they didn't lose a vehicle in the last washed out section of road. The elected leader of the convoy, Tarvos had started picking up Hyperhumans in Maine before working his way down the East Coast. However he had never expected to gain such a large following. Currently they were a group of around fifty, a rather large number to remain uncontested for so long. But Tarvos was no fool, he had ensured the convoy ignored freeways and main highways, sending several scout vehicles ahead to refill their fuel supplies and return to the group. The motorcycles were able to slip in and out of cities without drawing much attention allowing Tarvos to get a feel for how many they could send in to resupply their food stocks. Pointe Bordeaux was going to be rather easy compared to the previous cities, a city known for being an escape it was probably where most people had looked for their loved ones when they ran away with the convoy.

Picking up the ham radio on the dash, Tarvos nodded towards the driver as he squeezed the hand-piece to activate it.

"Our next stop is ahead. Welcome to Pointe Bordeaux everyone." Tarvos' voice crackled to life through the speakers of every vehicle as the drivers sat up straight and those who had dozed off stirred awake. His brogue accent commanding and full of authority as he continued.

"There's a clearing just outside the city, an old plantation. Should be more than enough room for the convoy to pull over." He paused, looking down the hand written list of vehicles before speaking again. "Dawson, take Craig and the Jeep to get fuel from the South end of the city. Lisa, I want you and Harrison to take the Chevy and hit up a station on the West side. Susan and Julie will take the Safari and get groceries." He ordered. "The rest of you pull your vehicles over and set up camp, Harry and Steve you two know your drill. Check the vehicles for any damage sustained in the swamp and do what you can to keep the Winnebago patched up. Our stop in New Orleans did quite the number on its windows."

The truck jolted slightly as its wheels left the smooth road and ventured onto the grass as Tarvos' driver, Reg followed the leaders instructions. Behind them the other vehicles followed suit, breaking into lines as they each came to a stop. Climbing out of the truck, Tarvos worked through the rows until he spotted the black van with a faded logo. Opening the back door, the tall man crouched as he stepped inside, nodding towards a blonde woman enthusiastically typing away on a laptop.

"Did you make contact with them?"

"Yeah, Uroboros accepted our payment but funds are getting tight Boss. It's not like it was back at P.R.C.U., we don't have Priest around anymore just conjuring up gold for us."

"I know Belle." Tarvos replied placing his hand on her shoulder. "Either way, at least for the time being they're keeping the bogeys off our backs."

"Yeah until someone offers them more." Belle muttered as Tarvos nodded his agreement reluctantly. It was only a matter of time before another buyer would be able to give Uroboros enough money to disclose everything about the Convoy. But Tarvos had faith by the time that came they could at least reach the Desert of the Dry Bones.

"What's the next stop?" He asked hoping to lighten the mood.

"Longhorn, Texas." Belle answered with a pause before continuing. "That's our last stop before we hit the desert, and there's not much out there. There's going to be numerous stretches with no chance at refueling or even stealing off the power grid. When we hit Longhorn we'll nearly exhaust what money we have left to have enough supplies to make it from there to Los Paraíso."

"Have a little faith Belle, we've faced worse." Tarvos said turning to leave.

"Yes Sir." Belle muttered as she turned back to her laptop.

Exiting the black van, Tarvos moved through the rain towards another vehicle. A bit older, it was a miracle the Volkswagon Camper had kept up this long but it was no surprise given its stubborn occupant.

"Ms. Ravencroft." Tarvos said with a knock on the side of the vehicle.

"Come in before you get a cold child." Came the elderly voice from inside as Tarvos opened the door. The man was nearly in his fifties but Serena Ravencroft was still almost twice his age.

"You know as well as I do, it's impossible for me to get a cold." He stated as he took a seat, closing the door. "Have you done it yet?" He asked as the woman turned her blind eyes towards him.

"I was just about to." She answered, her old eyes closing as she stretched out her hands. Though blind in the traditional sense, Serena was far from being unable to see. Possibly one of the strongest Minerva type Hyperhumans ever recorded, Serena was able to sense and feel other Hyperhumans, and communicate with them. While it wouldn't be hard for her to directly order them, she was more mischievous by nature. Instead she preferred to plant subconscious thoughts, gut feelings, a nagging thought at the back of your head. It was through Serena that the convoy was able to let other Hyperhumans know they were here, that they were waiting for those who wanted a place to belong.

"It's done." Serena stated falling back into her chair, her heart rate and breathing increased.

"You should rest." Tarvos said, concern filling his eyes as he realized the toll using her powers was taking on her.

"And you should learn not to tell your elders what to do." Serena snapped back with a wag of her bony finger.

"As you wish." Tarvos said taking his leave.

---

---

Fear.

The cold sweat of fear was the first thing he felt as his eyes snapped open, rolling out of the way just in time as white beams of burning hot energy penetrated the ground where he had just been laying. Flames erupted from the floor of the tent as Ezekiel Thoreau scrambled to exit the burning mass of fabric. A hand took a hold of his shirt as he was flung across the field, only for his landing to be cushioned from another blow as he skidded across the dirt in the opposite direction. Zeke's head was spinning as he struggled to regain his bearings, the warm trickle of blood running down his arm alerted him to a gasp sustained from the impact with a rock. A body appeared behind him, their arms wrapping around him constricting him with strength he hadn't encountered since his time at the Pacific Royal Collegiate and University.

"I don't think I'm quite feeling the sparks here mate!" Zeke growled as he wave of electric energy exploded from his body giving him the slack he needed to escape his opponents grasp. Pushing off with a magnetic repulsion, Zeke put some distance between himself and his attacker only to be suddenly hit from behind again. The searing heat burned into his back as he fell forward, fighting to think through the pain as tried to create a magnetic field. Unable to focus enough to sustain a field, Zeke collapsed back to the ground, rolling over in time to raise his arms to shield his body as the white hot beams of energy blasted against his arms.

"Fuck..." He grunted as his nostrils were overwhelmed with the smell of burnt leather and flesh. "You!" Zeke managed to yell as he let loose his own beam of plasma. It didn't seem to stagger his mysterious attacker but it granted Zeke a window, one he took with great opportunity. He could smell the rain in the air, his skin had felt alive with the static discharge in the air. It was obvious he couldn't win this fight and when fight faltered it was up to flight.

Scrambling to his feet, Zeke was already summoning layers of magnetic fields around himself, electricity sparkling around him as he was repelled away from the ground. Leaving the ground, Zeke could feel the heat of his attacker's eye beams as they brushed the soles of his feet before he rocketed out of reach. The clouds seemingly opened up as Zeke was pulled skyward by the storm's electrical discharge. From there the trip was a blur, a sensation Zeke had never quite gotten used to before suddenly he was pulled towards the ground. The luminous glow of neon illuminated a nearby city's skyline against the stormy afternoon sky as Zeke flew towards it. As he neared the city, the skies spat him out with a brilliant flash. Like a lightning bolt, Zeke was sent earthbound just as quickly as the clouds had swept him into their grasp. Crashing to the ground, Zeke awkwardly stumbled to his feet as he leaned against a nearby tree. His heart was racing, his chest was heaving and he was in serious need of medical attention.

Looking skywards, Zeke turned his head towards the direction he came before cursing under his breath and heading into the city. His first order of business was to acquire some bandages, his second was new clothes.
Wrapping the bandages right around his forearms, Zeke grimaced in pain. Thankfully his wounds had looked worse than they truly were, in the worst case scenario they were third degree burns, in his best case they were only second. Either way, the attack would scar but he wasn't dead and so that was a silver lining to an otherwise pretty dark day. Pulling a new shirt over his head, Zeke smiled at the busted lock on the door. He was quite thankful that this home only had the dead bolt on their door locked. A dead bolt was fairly easy for Zeke to magnetize and pull open, which had allowed him access to fresh clothes, bandages and even a microwaveable meal.

Discarding the burnt clothes in a trash can under the kitchen sink, Zeke turned the tap on and washed his dishes reminiscing on a time when he could have lived a life this simple. Pausing as he passed the refrigerator, a small magnet caught Zeke's eye as did the flyer pinned beneath it.

"Neutralize the Hyperhuman Threat..." Zeke muttered aloud as he pulled the flyer off the fridge. "The Fairchild Pacifier, a personal protection device by Fairchild Electronics." He continued as he musing over the image showing what had to be the most glorified tazer he had ever seen.

"Someone is clearly compensating..." Musing, Zeke glaced at a list of rallies posted at the bottom of the page, noting the circled one taking place in Pointe Bordeaux. "Well I guess that clears up where I am."

Walking down the hallway, Zeke pulled opened the closet door. The wafting smell of leather caught hit his nostrils as Zeke pulled out a heavy biker's jacket.

"What are the chances?" He grinned ear from ear as he turned back towards the kitchen. Exiting the opposite, Zeke found himself in the garage as his jaw dropped at the site of the perfectly maintained Harley.

"At least I don't have to feel guilty." Smirking, Zeke swung a leg over the hog as he ignited the engine. After how his day started, he didn't want to see someone else screw it up. There was no doubt in Zeke's mind that some hotshot vigilante wannabe was going to show up at the demonstration. Gunning the motorcycle into a wheelie as he left the garage, Zeke headed towards Pointe Bordeaux's city hall with full intent on being on hand to stop any Hyperhuman hijinks.

---

---

"Hey sweetcheeks," said the nude man, knocking impatiently on the door of his room's en suite. "Ya almost done in there? Time is money," he chirped, his tone tinged with pedantry. "You of all people know that." His voice was thick and metallic; a mid-level executive from New York, his accent betrayed the city in which his wife and children lived only half oblivious to what unpleasantries he dabbled in during his buisiness trips to the South.

"You still givin' me the silent treatment, huh toots?" he jibed, pulling a towel around his waist to cover his modesty as it became apparent he would need to employ patience, and wandered somewhat aimlessly back over to the hotel's large, plush bed. He lay there on the sheets, hands behind his head as he gazed up at the blank features of the plastered ceiling. "Heh. Good, I kinda like it." he called out, raising his voice so that she was able to hear from within the confines of her makeshift dressing room. "'Sa nice change, y'know?" he cooed. "My old lady never shuts up. I can dig a chick that keeps quiet, you sexy minx." As jocular as his efforts might have seemed, the man spoke only half in jest.

Finally, movement was heard from within the bathroom, and soon enough the door was unbolted and gently opened; the man watched mesmerised, as though he had stumbled upon a cocoon in the chance moment that it split apart and released whatever beauty dwelled within. Slowly but surely, the object of his attention came into view; a head of platinum locks falling in perfect curls around her dainty shoulders, the petite mistress delicately sashayed towards the bed.

His eyes fixed upon her almost too-perfect features, the man's jaw hung loosely as he practically salivated over the sight he beheld: her foudroyant appeal lay not in the exposed flesh of her tanned and unblemished legs, but in the garment she wore to conceal her more intimate areas. He recognised it instantly: grey, finely-tailored and yet incredibly baggy upon her lithe frame, the woman was draped in the very suit he'd worn to his meeting that afternoon. Seizing the moment and demonstrating her expertise, she dropped the jacket to the floor and revealed to her client the goods he was paying for.

He smiled a big, wide grin and purred in a way that only he could make so unpalatable.



"Well, I gotta hand it to ya toots," said the man, a lit cigar hanging from his lips. "That was unreal." he confessed, taking a long drag whilst his mistress remained ever-silent. He paused for a brief moment, before exhaling and briefly filling the room with a thick smog that swiftly dissipated back into nothingness. "I mean, don't take this the wrong way sweetcheeks, but... What you got down there," he said, nodding in the least subtle of fashions to the woman's lower body. "It don't feel like any woman I ever loved, that's for sure. You got yourself a wonder pussy."

With that, the woman instantly rose to her feet; the scowl she shot the grotesque being saying everything that her apparent muteness was unable to. The man smirked knowingly and reached into his bedside drawer.

"Alright, alright," he said, dismissing her offence. "You earned your fee," he said, presenting her with a handful of crumpled notes withdrawn from his wallet. She snatched them from his fingers, and before he had even but a second to respond, the leather wallet, too, was relinquished from his grip as the still-naked woman sped out of the hotel room and off down the hall. "You filthy slut!" he yelled after her, panicking as he searched for his towel to preserve his modesty. Misplaced amongst all the sheets, he settled for a pillow which he held over his crotch and tip-toed out into the hallway. She was nowhere to be seen.

"Stinkin' whore," he cursed, returning to his room and closing the door behind him. "No-good, thievin', stinkin' who--" he continued, before noticing that the bathroom door still lay ajar. He smiled wickedly: knowing that in her quick getaway, the woman had left all her belongings in the en suite, amongst which he would surely find some kind of incriminating identification. He wasted no time in investigating, but as soon as he laid eyes upon the white-tiled bathroom he paused in shock; eyes wide in a unique mixture of horror and disgust.

There were no clothes. There was no handbag. Nothing - except a thick layer of slimy, tar-like liquid, overfilling the basin of the sink and grotesquely dripping down its side as it pooled upon the tiled floor.

---

---

"Ladies and gentleman, this is your driver speaking," announced a voice over the coach's speaker system, stirring Emory Fairchild from the state of half-sleep that he had been senselessly drifting in and out of for the entirety of the eleven hour journey. "We are shortly arriving at the Pointe Bordeaux Central Interchange, and we would ask all our passengers to begin gathering their belongings and preparing to leave the bus. It's been a pleasure to drive you on this cross-state route from Longhorn City and we thank you for choosing Grayson-Wair Travel." the driver continued, his words bearing all the enthusiasm of a three day old helium balloon. "We hope to see you again soon - Grayson-Wair'll take you there!"

Emory rolled his eyes in contempt, sitting upright in his chair and trying to perk himself up. He earned no encouragement from the day, which remained unwaveringly grey and overcast as a fine drizzle peppered the smeared windows of the coach. The dull neon sheen of the city didn't seem to welcome him much, either, but Emory found it difficult to take offence. It was as if the tall and garishly-lit buildings that loomed above him as they pulled into the coach station were judging him somehow; shaking their heads in shame and disapproval of the scum that was being delivered into the heart of the city.

It was a sentiment Emory regrettably shared as he stole a glance at the ticket in his hands, its three-figure price sum staring back at him without forgiveness. It was by no means the lowest the twenty-two year old had sunk for money, but Emory couldn't help but feel ashamed of his own rapidly-deteriorating moral code and self worth. The lengths he would go to in order to procure finances were growing further and further out of his comfort zone; the knowledge and awareness of which alarmed the young man considerably.

But it wasn't the things he'd done that had plagued him the most on the almost day-long journey; it wasn't his misdeeds that had bound his conscience to a consistent state of waxing and waning, unable to settle in either realm of slumber or alertness. No, what had haunted Emory Fairchild the most about this journey was its purpose.

As he disembarked the vehicle and flashed his ticket to the station-master, Emory stopped to take in the size of the city before observing the crumpled flyer that had not left his furious grip for the entirety of his travel. Smoothening out the promotional print so that it was reasonably legible, Emory read the bold typeface for what seemed like the millionth time; taking in every word despite the ferocity with which they turned his stomach as they danced around that all-too-familiar logo of Fairchild Electronics.

Screwing the document up into a tight ball, he launched it at a nearby trashcan in anger; though his aim was off-target, and the projectile merely ricocheted off the rim of the steel receptacle and gambolled off along the station's tiled floor. Emory noticed not, however, his eyes fixed upon a desk that sat beneath a suitably large sign, upon which the words "VISITOR INFORMATION" were emblazoned clearly. He approached with purpose, pushing his messy bleached hair back off his face before he spoke to the woman behind the glass.

"I'm looking for the city hall."

---

---

"Okay guys, so today we're going to be starting off the show covering someone we haven't really spoken about in a long time. Today marks a year since Reality Socialite Janelle Hambrick seemingly dropped off the face of the Earth after she was caught exhibiting Hyperhuman abilities during the season 4 taping of TransAmerica."

The blonde woman stared at her flat screen TV with a blank stare as TMZ live started their show with numerous pop culture topics. Janelle closed her eyes and sighed as she leaned back into her sofa hearing her name loud and clear from Harvey Levin, the chief editor. After the first 6 months that she dropped off the grid, she had hoped they would have stopped talking about her. But it just went on and on, her phone blowing up with her fans trying to Tweet and Instagram her about her whereabouts. After that day, she couldn't build up the courage to show her face knowing that most of the public would think she was a freak. So she ran. Far away from the west coast to try to get away from it all. But it always seemed to follow her. Every time she turned on a TV she was always mentioned. The reactions were pretty mixed with the public either being 'WE LOVE AND SUPPORT YOU JANEY' to 'OMG I CAN'T BELIEVE I STANNED THAT HYPERHUMAN TRASH. UNFOLLOWED.' She tried to look at the bright side of everything but truth be told, there was no bright side at least not from what she saw. She felt humiliated after that video leaked and now she was being reminded of it all over again.

"In my opinion I think she should have said 'Hey I'm a hyperhuman and I'm trans. So what.' It would have been amazing to see her be a spokesperson for not only trans rights but also for people with abilities. So now we're going to hear what fellow cast member Veronica Hamilton from the hit show TransAmerica has to say about it. Hey Veronica?"

"Yeah I'm here, hey Harvey!"

"So obviously you and Janelle didn't leave on the best of terms from what we seen last on the show. And in the video clip that was leaked, it was shown you throwing a drink at her and then defending herself with what looked like an invisible shield? What was going through your mind when that happen."

"Ugh. To be honest, I was just afraid for my life. She was always a bitch before and now to think she has these powers will only make her worse. I never liked her to begin with, we always clashed from the minute we met and she's an all around mean person. I mean its not everyone's fault that you dropped out of college and used your daddy's money to get famous."

Janelle's jaw practically hit the floor immediately after her Veronica started to bash her on national television. Heat and anger began to build up inside of her until she just decided to lash out. "Are you fucking kidding me? You have a fucking SUGAR DADDY. He's the one that paid for those cheek fillers and that botched ass. At least my family worked hard for what we got you dumb bitch with that knock-off flea market dress!" She grabbed her hair and screamed into her knees that she had against her chest. Veronica Hamilton was always out to get her ever since the start of the show. She had never said anything negative towards her and it seemed she acted out in jealousy. Either way, now this woman was bashing her in front of the country and she wasn't there to defend herself.

"So if you ask me, I'm glad that she's gone."

"Hahaha well at least you're honest. Thanks for talking with us and I hope you come back to speak with us soon."

"No problem Harvey, bye!"

She didn't wait for the program to end as she immediately changed the channel to the news. Everything that was happened was all too overwhelming for her and she just wanted to breakdown and cry. Her entire world that she had built, the success that she achieve was just all crashing around her and there was nothing she could do. Actually she could do something. She could come out of hiding and face the world. Show everyone she is still the same person they all fell in love with who just happened to be a Hyperhuman. But how could she show her face after she decided to run away like a coward when she was exposed. She sighed heavily when she changed the station to the local news.

"Hello and thank you for tuning into KHPB Channel 12 News for a breaking story. I am Elizabeth Witherspoon and I am currently standing outside of Pointe Bordeaux City Hall where Fairchild Electronics plans to go public with their latest device known as the Fairchild Pacifier that is said to neutralize all hyperhuman abilities. More about this story later on today. Now back to our regular scheduled programming."

Janelle rolled her eyes and turned off the television, standing up to stretch. She looked about at her condo and walked over to the window where she could see downtown Pointe Bordeaux from a bird's eye view. She didn't often leave her home but maybe now was the time to venture around the city and maybe stop by City Hall to see what all the fuss was about. There was nothing else to do and she needed to go outside before she went crazy. After about 45 minutes, she had a mug beat for the gods but was covered by dark sunglasses so people wouldn't recognize her. She wrapped a scarf around her head while she sported a burgundy blouse, white pants, and some black Christian Louboutin heels. Grabbing her thousand dollar Coach bag, she left her Condo and went down to her Bentley where she began to drive around the city, finding her way to City Hall where she parked inside of a parking garage. Looking around to make sure no one saw her, she disappeared from the visible spectrum and made her way across the street where she noticed others were gathering around the main entrance of the hall. She found herself a spot underneath a giant tree and watched from afar as the wind began to pick up slightly from the impending storm.

---

---

Gareth ate his breakfast at a small restaurant, Serenade, in the Cajun Quarter, a family-owned eatery serving “the best pancakes in town”, as proclaimed by the sign resting just outside its doors. He’d come across it during his first week in Pointe Bordeaux, reading the large, chalky letters with a level of scepticism that prompted him to see if they told the truth, if not because he was curious then because he was starting to feel hungry. He’d entered the restaurant, dressed in jeans and a grey shirt, and was soon attended to by a plain young woman, no older than twenty, who placed him at a table near the restrooms, meekly apologising as she explained that the rest of the free tables were reserved.

Gareth smiled at her. “That’s okay,” he said, before pretending to browse the menu. “Is it okay if I order now?”

“Of course,” the waitress said, a little less meek now, a pinkish red colouring her cheeks. Gareth’s smile widened a fraction in thanks, and her cheeks deepened to crimson. He ordered their signature buttermilk and ricotta pancakes, along with poached eggs and avocado on toast in case he was still hungry afterwards. The waitress, whose nametag read Delphine, departed with the menu to deliver his order.

He waited for his food, sipping on a cup of cold water she’d poured for him as he pretended to mull over his options, and ten minutes later she returned with two steaming plates of cuisine that looked like they belonged in a fine dining restaurant in the Carib Gardens, not here, in what was supposed to be a simple eatery run by a local Italian family.

Gareth thanked Delphine, then dug in. He was pleasantly surprised to find out that not only were the pancakes the best he’d ever eaten, but that the poached eggs and avocado on toast were to die for. He concluded that the food they served here was magic on a plate, and he made sure to let Delphine know as he paid the check in cash. Her cheeks went red again as she giggled, and she shyly told him that she hoped to see him here again.

And so here he was, three weeks into his stay at Pointe Bordeaux, eating his now regular meal of pancakes, poached eggs and avocado on toast as he watched slivers of rain drizzle on the street outside. Delphine came to his table to check that everything was okay, and they engaged in their routine small talk. Over time Gareth had gotten to know her, and as she revealed small things about herself he came to the conclusion that he liked her. A hyperhuman sympathiser living amongst a family of racist, conservative Italians, Delphine longed for the day that she could cut ties from them and their restaurant, trying her luck as a journalist in the big city. But for now, she explained, she was stuck here, in a generally unbearable job; unbearable, that is, until Gareth came along. She told him that the highlight of her day was when he came to eat his breakfast, when she could talk to a polite customer with an open mind, and, for the brief hour he was there, escape from the chaos that was her family.

But a few days earlier she’d expressed just how appreciative she was of him as she served his food. Swallowing past a lump in her throat, she asked him if he was free that night, and if he maybe wanted to go out for dinner with her, if, you know, he wanted.

For seconds he just stared at her, unsure if she was being serious, before looking down at his plate and saying, “I’m married.”

In that moment Delphine went redder than she ever had in his presence, apologised, and scurried away behind the counter, busily attending to the coffee machine although she’d already cleaned it but a few minutes earlier.

But that was Tuesday, and when Wednesday came Gareth made sure that she knew that there was no harm done.

It was now Friday. Gareth chewed slowly on his slice of pancake, savouring its maple syrup-covered sweetness for as long as possible. As she refilled his water, Delphine talked of the weather, and of the rally that was taking place at city hall.

“Are you going to go?” she asked, resting the jug of water back on his table.

It took a moment for him to answer. His mind was preoccupied. Ever since he entered Serenade this morning, he couldn’t help but feel that his doing so was the last time. He didn’t know what it was, but the more he thought about it, the more certain he became… but why? Why would today be the last day he spends eating here? Why would it be the last time he gets to speak with Delphine? He kept at asking himself these questions, shouting into the void, not expecting an answer – but eventually, he gave himself one.

He’d come to Pointe Bordeaux for one reason: to join a hyperhuman convoy in the hope of evading law enforcement for long enough to find a safe haven where he didn’t have to run from his past as Mindjack… or go back to it. He knew from the start that the longer he stayed, the more he risked getting caught. And now he was being given the chance to leave, the chance to search for a new home, where he wouldn’t getting prosecuted for being what he is, for trying to use his power to help people.

A convoy was in the city. He was sure of it. All he had to do was find it.

“No,” he answered, coming out of his trance, “No, I have somewhere else to be.”

When he finished his food, he paid the check and tipped Delphine. He was headed for his hotel, where he’d pack all his things and check out before starting his search.

As he handed his money to Delphine, he told her goodbye, and that she should take care of herself, knowing that she was unaware of the finality of his words.

With that he exited the restaurant, the lingering taste of maple and avocado the only relic of his time there, knowing that it, too, would soon be gone.

---

---

Anthony sighed deeply. He hated driving in the rain. He thanked goodness that he was finally pulling into Point Bordeaux. After days of searching Louisiana for the ever evasive convoy he finally felt this was it. This was the city he'd finally run into them. He supposed he could blame himself for the delay. He had never been to Louisiana before and he had wanted to sight see. New Orleans was a hoot! He spent the most time there taking in the legendary city. The food, the music, and most of all the people. They had some beautiful people with hospitality to spare. Baton Rouge was nice. He caught a live prodution of Moulin Rouge while he was there. From there he hopped along to Lafayette and Lake Charles where he met up with his connection buddies who heard rumor of the convoy. Last they heard the convoy was still heading west. Cursing his luck Anthony kept going until he saw street signs for a city called Point Bordeaux.

Following a gut feeling Anthony followed said signs until he was finally off the main highway and on a little state route into the city. Even in the rain the city was beautiful. He easily compared it to New Orleans. As he pulled into the city proper he noticed a banner over the intersection advertising the Fairchild Rally. He had heard the name before. With his power half the electronics he touched were Fairchild Products. He didn't like their stance on hyperhumans or their shoddy products. He was sure there were plenty who shared his opinion. Human and hype alike, but fear was as easy tool to use. There would always be a Kowalski somewhere more scared and ignorant than most who used their own fear to beget more fear in the name of more ignorance. It almost made Anthony ashamed to be related to such fools, but he knew it wasn't their fault. One day he'd let them know and the whole world know not all hyperhumans were bad.

Following the banners to the city's center he found a parking garage near City Hall. Parking his Durango he got out walked to the tailgate. His truck had one of those hardtop bedcovers that opened like a trunk. Unlocking it and the tailgate he opened them and pulled out a messenger bag. Inside was a laptop and an assortment of odd pieces of hardware. He went nowhere by himself without it. Shouldering the bag he shut ans locked up his truck before walking towards the rally. Already there were tons of people present, and Anthony couldn't help but wonder just how many were hypes in disquise. Trying their best just to live normal lives among those who hate them. Then he wondered how many could there possibly be from the convoy. It wouldn't be a surprise if at least a few were there to represent the convoy. He luckily found himself an empty bench to park himself on. Pulling out his laptop he normally would have jacked in, but in a crowd like this he couldn't risk being caught. So he just used it like a normal person and began checking his underground networks for dirt about Fairchild Electronics.

---

---

The old wooden floor of their studio apartment groaned in agony. It creaked even when her brother walked upon it, but when Grace stepped across it sung like it was like that horrifying yodeling from that creepy mountaineer as he hiked up closer to his doom on that game show she used to watch as a child when she was home sick. Each and every trip from the bathroom to the kitchenette was a waking nightmare as Grace envisioned the floor joists finally throwing off the burden of their responsibilities and taking a break as she plummeted through the apartment belonging to the old couple below her before finally creating a teenage girl sized hole on the concrete foundation in the basement. It was an irrational fear, of course, and the girl knew it. She wouldn’t claim to even possess the knowledge of a structural engineer, but she had acquired a knack for guessing what could and could not hold her weight. Nevertheless, she still took wide strides around any grates in the sidewalk and nervously clenched her teeth when she walked up wooden stairs.

The apartment that Grace shared with her brother had all the tell tale signs of a first apartment. It was small. It had a weird smell to it that seemed to have instantly materialized exactly after they had signed their lease. The shower only ran at two temperatures, the first being boiling molten magma hot and the second turned it into a miniature snow cannon, and had about as much water pressure as a dollar store squirtgun. The walls were as thin as cardboard and Grace could hear her neighbors fighting and having make-up sex every other day, and just having obnoxiously loud sex on the days between. The other neighbor was even worse: he dreamed of being whatever a post-post-dubstep artist was. Apparently the first step was to not invest in headphones. The stove didn’t work. The A/C sucked. The walls were so white except for the spots where they were stained a dark yellow with a substance that Grace decided to prefer to keep a mysterious. And, like all good first apartments, it was sparsely furnished and utterly barren of any art or personal touches.

Her brother was on the couch buried in his phone’s screen while some shit on the TV that had the moxie to call itself news played on the larger screen in front of him. It was the first time Grace had seen Joseph in a week; he’d been pulling doubles to make enough money to pay off the late fees from their last string of bills. They looked alike unless you asked the girls Grace used to hang around with after school; then one was a weird, frumpy loser with no sense of fashion and the other one was, like, oh em gee, just so ridiculously hot, like, no offense but how are you related? Grace was the former; she did not have any better friends. She imagined they’d been as disappointed as Dad had been if not more when Joseph had confirmed his bachelorhood.

“Morn’,” said Grace, the word escaping dryly out of her throat after a little bit of a struggle. She wasn’t a morning person in general.

“Afternoon,” replied Joseph.

“Mm,” said Grace. She supposed she also wasn’t an afternoon person either then, all things considered. Mechanically she popped some stale slices of bread into their toaster and, with a feather touch, pushed the button down. Grabbing a dish and a mug from the drying rack, she half-listened to the TV as she poured herself a lukewarm cup of coffee. The girl opened the fridge; she was greeted with a depressing sight. “Creamer?”

“We’re out,” said Joseph.

Grace let her disgust be known, her tongue clicking disappointedly against her teeth. She drank the sludge anyway and went back for a second cup as the toast sprung up out of the toaster. She put them back in. Unlike her coffee, she enjoyed her bread black. “Jam?” Out. “Butter.” Out. “Peanut butter.” Are you kidding, allergic and out. “Do we have anything?” Joseph announced her there was hotsauce. She’d pass.

Nibbling on the charred toast, Grace hovered behind her brother and sneaked a peek at his phone. He was scrolling through his status updates--none of her business. She turned her attention to the TV; she knew the person on the screen. Okay, well, she didn’t know them know them, but she had absorbed enough episodes of TransAmerica vicariously through Joseph while she had been reading in the same room or, more often than not, fucking about on her phone. She didn’t have enough appreciation of irony to get a bitter enjoyment from watching someone who was occasionally to frequently ridiculed for the being different than others ridiculing and outright hating someone because they were now different than them. Joseph softly chuckled and shook his head. Grace furrowed her brow in annoyance.

“Why are you watching this?” she said, the caffeine kicking in enough to now enable her to complete full sentences. “This is stupid.”

“That’s the point,” said Joseph, absently thumbing through his phone. “And she makes a good point. Janelle was a total bitch.”

“That’s not--okay, well, maybe, I mean, they’re both the absolute worst, but that’s not what’s stupid about this,” said Grace. “A ton of people for, whatever reason, idolize these reality show jerks. It doesn’t matter if they say they do it ironically, they still let their mind be filled with trash and garbage and eventually just--”

“Sis, you’re doing that thing again,” said Joseph, interrupting her.

“What thing?”

“The annoying preachy thing that happens when you open your mouth.”

“I’m not preachy,” said Grace.

“Hah!” said Joseph, briefly breaking eye contact from his phone to give his sister a look before returning back to his tiny screen. He held up his phone so that she could see the picture he was looking at. It was of a woman in helmet wearing a blue tracksuit standing over two men in ski masks tied to a lightpost by a steel beam. One of the woman’s hand was resting on the palm of the other, her finger pointing accusingly at the men as if she was a teacher giving a lecture to bratty students. “Whatever you say, Thumper.”

Grace frowned. There was actually a video to that encounter floating around the Internet. If she remembered correctly, she had quoted some line she had preloaded from Proverbs that day.

“That doesn’t count. You’re the one who said I should lean in to my image,” said Grace, folding her arms.

“Well, what do you think it is that Veronica, Janelle, or any shitty reality star is doing? They’re just playing up the part of them that they know the media wants to see,” said Joseph.

“Sheesh, I know where you’re going with this. And you say I’m preachy,” said Grace, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly. Actually, she did not quite get it, but she did not want to hear the stupid not-so-different line from Joseph. If there was any actual truth to the idea that people become what others want and project them to be Grace did not reflect upon it. She knew Joseph her entire life. He wasn’t trying to be enlightening; he was trying to get under her skin.

“Look, I’m just saying that you should see if you can get a sweet TV deal and start pulling in some mad reality dollars,” said Joseph. “Trust me, it’d be a hit.”

“That’s so--, do you--, could that work?” asked Grace.

Joseph stared at her like she had just asked the stupidest question in the world. “Seriously?”

“No, nope. Nah, I mean, nah,” said Grace, breaking eye contact and forcing a laugh.

She could not tell if it had been on purpose or not, but her brother bringing up money hit her right in a sore spot. As it turned out, being a cape was not as lucrative of a profession as the comics and movies made it seem. She’d always assumed the reporter jobs or the oodles of inheritances had always just been part of their cover, not an actual means to an end. In the past fiscal year as a quote-unquote superhero, Grace had actually managed to go about a hundred dollars in the red (mostly in expenses for her homemade costume).

Not to say that it would have been impossible to make some easy money. She had foiled a few robberies; nobody would have known if she had helped herself to a few greenbacks. Maybe she could have lightened a few pockets of disorderly drunks or violent criminals. It wouldn’t be much, but it’d be enough to help Joseph pay the rent. But she wouldn’t; she couldn’t. She had seen the tweets; she had read the threads. People were just waiting for her to fuck up. Joseph did a pretty good job of moderating her feed, but on occasion something would slip through claiming that she had sent someone to the hospital or had ruined a bystander’s property. If they saw her stealing? By golly, everything she had worked for would be ruined! And, more importantly, stealing was just wrong. Although it did absolutely suck being a walking charity that seemingly everyone fucking hated for being a Hyperhuman or for being too religious, or a girl, or for not wearing a slutty schoolgirl outfit.

Maybe TV is ready for its first Hyperhuman star, thought Grace. Or Joseph and I could start a web series or something. There’s money in that stuff, right? She envisioned the two of them in their kitchen with her pointing a webcam at her hand and Joseph jamming a knife into it only for the blade to bend. Would people just think it was a fake prop knife? Maybe she could strap a camera to her head while she fought crime and upload the videos...except cameras cost money. Her phone, maybe? Wouldn’t that just look terrible? Maybe she could do a podcast and run ads for underwear shipped through the mail. Oh, oh, perhaps she could kickstart her career? Or what is that thing called? Patreon? People would pay for that, right. It’d just be like how taxes went to the police, except she was way, way cooler than any cop. Unless that cop was a Hyperhuman, too. Maybe she could just become a cop--except wait, everybody now hated cops and they would probably just arrest her. Wait, what if she...

“Aren’t you going to be late?” said Joseph, pulling Grace out of her daydream. She gave him a confused look, her bottom lip dipping open slightly. “Don’t you have a hate rally to attend?”

“I don’t...oh, oh!” She looked at her phone as her eyes grew wide. The Fairchild thing; she had completely forgotten about it. Any large event like this could draw unsavory types; she intended to be there to stop them. Grabbing her backpack off of the counter, Grace clawed at the handle to their front door without restraining her strength. A wave a fear and cold sweat ran through her body as the knob broke from its spot on the door and bounced against the floor towards the couch.

“Door’s faulty, sorry, love ya, bye,” said Grace as she bolted out the front door and thundered down the stairs into the streets below. As she moved through the streets, Grace couldn’t help but think that she was forgetting something. It was that feeling you got halfway through the day when you have a quiet moment of reflection followed by the horrific realization that, shit, you totally forget to turn the stove off that morning after making eggs. Except that’s not it, thought Grace, dipping through a side street and making great effort not to run into anything, fearing she would have the same effect on it as if it had been hit by a tank. That’s not it at all. The stove doesn’t work.

Whatever. It couldn’t be important, right?

---

---

It was early afternoon, yet, the local watering hole, The Harlot Cafe, a divebar located in the Cajun District, was buzzing with life, the place was always at least half-full, as it was the place that sold the cheapest booze, even if their Ad-claimed they had the best chocolate cake in the entire city. In truth, the cake was pretty shitty, it was dry and you could almost taste the fact that the people in the kitchen had spit in it while making the batch. In truth, it was a pretty trashy place, somewhere people went to buy drugs, make backroom deals, gamble and get into fights, all things that fit the young man perfectly, as he sat at his regular table, a bottle of beer in his hand. His hand was noticeable because of the almost pink scar running over the back, from his wrist to his knuckles diagonally, as fresh today as when he got it.

He wore a shallow V-neck T-shirt in a black shade, week old jeans and his unpolished boots, he was looking rough, as usual, his face sported a beard that framed his face, showing that he had not shaved in a couple of weeks, probably barely even showered during that time, either. If it wasn't for the 300 bucks leather jacket hanging on the seat behind him and the fact that he parked his 2014 Shelby Mustang outside, one could easily mistake him for a homeless person.

He was finishing his third beer of the day - not counting the one he had after waking up, and the two he had at lunch - while looking at today's crowd. There were the college students, cramming for their evening test with a couple of drinks. They were usually here, both on school days and weekends, they were gonna fail their test, they always did. Future generation He scoffed at the thought, his eyes still prancing through the room. Mindy was working the bar - a redhead, 23 years old, liked photographing and cat-videos, she had a butterfly tattoo on her back. She always rejected Marcus's romantic advances, but, she was nice about it, and more importantly. She didn't cut him off when Jacob, or August, the other two bartenders, would.

In the back of the bar, the six bikers sat, their leader was a dude named Remy Barks, his mother french, his father a local, a tough-guy loan shark who wasn't afriad to put a bullet in someone's knee if they didn't pay up what they owed him, as it happens, Marcus owed him money, the payments on the car outside hadn't been cheap. Remy peered back at Marcus, and when their eyes met, Mr.Barks elbowed his boys, and pointed at Marcus, dragging his finger across his throat, Marcus held his almost empty beer up at the man while mouthing 'cheers', finishing his drink and putting the bottle down at the table. He got out of his chair, grabbed his jacket from the back and dug into his pocket for his wallet, getting out the five dollars he owed for his drinks, before heading out.

He was going to go for a smoke before driving off, but he quickly saw the four bikers - Remy included, follow him out, Mandy shooting him a worried look. Marcus pulled the hood on his jacket over his head, as he scurried around the corner of the bar, into the open alley, that lead to the road where his car was parked. He heard the biker's footsteps pick up pace behind him, he walked calmly. Hearing Remy call for him. "Ay, Marky Mark!" He shouted, ten meters behind him, Marcus was turning around, when he was met with one of Remy's boys fist in the face, sending him to the ground, into a puddle of water.

"Your pay is due, Marcus, in fact, it was due two weeks ago. I don't like waiting." Remy mused, leaning against the wall, while his four 'friends' towered over Marcus, as he laid there on the ground. "Uh, yeah. I guess it is." He began, trying to sit back up, when he was met with a boot in his chest, pushing him down, with a grunt, he was pressed around the cold and wet concrete, his hood falling off. He began feeling the chilly dirty water from the puddle wet his hair. "Stay the fuck down." The man who's foot was pressing against his rib cage.

"It's like I'm in high school all over again."

---

Pointe Bordeaux
March 18, 2016

---

Tying knots made the rope tug tight in his brain, coiling up his thoughts into stays and loops, rough around the edges where the ends had frayed, loosening into disarray every time he started over. But that was alright, Lucas wasn’t trying to think. He just wanted the distraction. Something to do with his hands, something to keep his mind occupied, out of reach of the spinning wheels and rattle-trap windows drumming a tune out of non-existent raindrops. Now and again, a stone pinged through the effort he was making, and he winced at the crack snapping across his skull. Slowly, all the rest snuck inside, too. Buzzing wind and tension in the seatbelts, an uncomfortable silence in the real world, broken much too readily by layers upon layers of radio chatter and favourite albums that combined into static.

And all the gear in the back weighing in and pressing him into a seat where the leg room was already too short, but he was hitching a ride. No right to complain, and no reason either. Not their fault he didn’t like cars. Not their fault he could feel the gravel crunching beneath tires like sand between teeth. Grating.

Still, for all his desire not to annoy them or be a bother, there was a reason the convoy had put him on a rotation, sharing him between cars, so to speak. Eventually, all that noise had to go somewhere, his head was too small a place for it. He’d already gone through the whole routine of shifting about noisily, relating shouting matches they likely could have done with keeping in the past, sleeping (with the help of a generously donated sleeping pill when he got to a few particularly coarse words), and telling them their tires squeaked in snow. Of which there was absolutely none around.

“Hey! I know this one!” His head came up from its bowed position and he grinned crookedly at the dash, singing loudly over sound no one else could hear to try dragging out the song. “Aware of what you mean by then, only ten years old, I close my eyes and brace myself, to cross out what I’ve become, erase myself but myself keeps slipping aw-Huh.”

In truth, Lucas knew an awful lot of songs, lyrics that echoed incessantly could be hard to forget. But he rarely managed a full verse. And, twisting around to grin at his confusion, possibly grateful that he’d stopped, Harrison was obviously well aware of this particular difficulty. As well as another trouble that prompted him to raise his own voice and speak slowly, giving their passenger the chance to keep up. “Only three songs that time, bud. But why not catch some more shut-eye, we’re still an hour or so out.”

And the ride, really, wasn’t going to get any better. From the way he caught the lyrics, it was pretty clear whose musical preferences Lucas had discovered, but he just grimaced at the man, rubbing his head and fighting the well-worn urge to cover his ears. Never worked. Someone was bothered though, and it made him a little braver, running on borrowed steam. “Can’t, music’s loud. It’s all there twist-cap up like a scratched record. It’s loud.” He ended on a wilted note as the irritation turned into the hiss of escaping air. She had the stronger right to it, but her first words were too often said for him to ignore.

“I’m tired o-” He broke in without really meaning to. “Of this shit. Sorry. Sorry, I know it’s caught in the door open and get out. It just comes out.” The wrong words jumped from his mouth when he tried to apologise too fast, offering immediate proof of his explanation, but Lucas just cringed into his seat with his eyes shut as Lisa turned back to watching the road after shooting him a well-deserved glare. “Sorry. You sing better…”

The uncomfortable silence reigned once more, Lucas biting at a thumbnail and shooting glances that were at once hurt and apologetic at the back of the driver’s seat. He’d made what peace offering he could manage and didn’t know if she’d accepted it or ignored it. They were all tired, he knew that. He’d spent half the day sleeping and he was tired, so they had to be. But if he said one more sorry, they’d probably throw him out of the truck. There was such a thing as too Canadian, he’d learned.

He actually jumped at the sudden crack of thunder, hands instantly over his ears, feet pulled up and knees braced against the back of Harrison’s seat. Curled in a ball and glaring at the roof. It wasn’t the echo of rumbling that got to him, but what came with it. The rain was back. Scattering his thoughts with lashing waves of hard drops and snare drum rattling. An ache like bruising settled in his skull and he was too busy wanting it gone to pay attention to the crackle of the radio.

He didn’t even notice when the truck stopped and Harrison climbed out until the man shook his shoulder. “Lucas, hey, we figured you’d want to stay. We’re going for gas, but this is the stop.”

Blearily, Lucas blinked at him, looked around and realized they were half parked and the longer he took thinking about it, the more soaked Harrison was getting. He gave up looking for words and just unbuckled, careful with the seatbelt, and climbed out himself. And as soon as he was clear, Harrison climbed back in and off they went. Slouched, dripping and already shivering slightly, he watched them go, enjoying the, by comparison, gentle soaking that came with the quiet in his mind.

In shorts, a flower streaked button shirt and sandals, he was hardly well equipped for the weather. Relief, however, buoyed him in the moment, so that he smiled quietly as he tilted his head back, arms moving away from his sides, palms up, relaxing into the rain and letting his mind run away on the edges of the rivulets forming in the cloth. Drifting down with gravity.

Then someone honked and he started, back to the world, spread fingers hiding his face as he flinched and glanced over before moving aside. This was living… Shouldn’t stand in front of oncoming traffic. His face split into a merry grin beneath the sodden strands dripping into his eyes, and Lucas waved as he recovered himself and found a voice he wanted to hear. Still here and still breathing, child. Ha. Serena. Pushing the hair from his face, he trudged between the parked aisles in time to catch Tarvos leaving the old Camper that rumbled more about having to put in the effort than everyone else combined. Still there though, hadn’t gotten lost along the way.

“Hi, bye. I’m wet.” When all else failed, stating the obvious was his best bet. But the leader of this caravan was not the person he wanted to talk to, so acknowledging him was all Lucas felt obliged to manage. But as he leaned inside the camper to look at Serena hopefully, his words slowed to almost one per breath as he found just the right ones. “You have my towel. It’s fluffy. Can I come in?”

---

---

If Pointe Bordeaux had telephone booths, Grace had never seen them in her nineteen plus change years. She tucked her body next to a brick wall, the awning of the roof kept most of the rain from soaking her. Folding her jeans up neatly—she didn’t have the money to buy another pair if she ripped them—she exchanged them for her blue trackpants. Carefully stepping into the legs, she let out a mild noise of disgust as she put one her left foot down in a puddle. Throwing her track jacket over her yellow shirt, she zipped it most of the way up before hiding it beneath her brother’s old varsity jacket. She kept the helmet in her bag for now. Even if the storm was driving people indoors, she wouldn’t want someone hassling Thumper for an autograph (or a fight) unless it was truly necessary. Digging through her back, Grace brushed aside a flashlight, some FlexiCuffs, a water bottle, and some candy wrappers before pulling out a yellow umbrella.

Stepping out of the alley, Grace looked around as a frown slowly made its way onto her face. Pointe Bordeaux was her hometown. She didn’t know every nook and cranny, that would be a ridiculous thing to assume, but she knew her way around town. The way she was going? It wasn’t the right way. No, scratch that, thought Grace. The way she was going? It was the right way, the right way just happened to no longer be towards City Hall. She just felt it; she had been filling it ever since she had woken up this morning. She didn’t know how to explain it. If Grace had to describe it the feeling, she’d say it was like sleepwalking if you were fully aware and capable of stopping it at any second. She had stopped twice already and doubled back towards City Hall. And twice she had found herself turning around and going the way her gut was telling her. It was like something was out there and she was meant to find it.

So she went to find it.

The path led her out of the city and into the swamp. Even when she was young, Grace had hated going out into the swamps. They were sticky, and icky, and full of spiders and gators and everything just wanted to kill you as if it was Australia, except none of the animals even looked cute so there wasn’t even a good trade off to getting rubbed out by mother nature. Now that she was older, though, she didn’t hate the swamps. She was terrified of them; one wrong step and she’d be breathing in mud, water, and algae for the rest of her life.Grace stood at the end of the path where the wooden planks turned into mud and shook as thunder clapped above her, the rain pattering against her umbrella to the rhythm of an ominous death march. She didn’t want to do this. But this is the right way, she thought, clenching her teeth as her hand reached into her jacket and clasped around her necklace, careful not to squeeze it out of fear of turning it into dust.

She bent down, prying one of the planks out of the ground with ease. Grace didn’t worry about the mud that was getting on her hand; she knew she wasn’t going to make it through the swamp without getting dirty. Tentatively pushing her makeshift walking stick into the mud, she watched as it shifted through the muck before settling on solid ground. Not too bad yet. You can do this, thought Grace, although the look on her face was one full of doubt and uncertainty. Taking one final deep breath as if it would be her last, Grace stepped off of the wooden pathway and into the mud. Her heart smashed against her chest as alarms went off in her head. She was sinking, she was sinking, oh God, she was—fine. She had gone down a few inches, but no further than the stick had gone. She exhaled loudly.

What’d the neighbors say if little Grace Bethany drowned in the swamp cosplaying as Thumper? she thought grimly as she prodded the ground in front of her, proceeding through the swamp step by step. The entire time she had her other hand clasped around her necklace and umbrella as her lips endlessly quivered out muttered prayers. It was a miserable, slow procession, and underneath her tracksuit Grace could feel her body drench itself with sweat. At moments she felt herself sink further than she had anticipated, but she never thrashed about, she never lost nerve and bolted forward, and she never turned back. She did unnecessarily yelp out loud a few times, but nobody was around for her fears to embarrass her. Grace pushed forward, uncertainly, until she saw something that made her stop.

You must be joking, she thought, letting the large plank drop from her hand as she stared at the figure in the clearing. A thick canopy of trees kept the ground from being too muddy as the rain dripped gently through the leaves. Grace knew that only two kinds of things went out into the swamp alone: idiots and monsters. Please just be another fool in the rain. Tilting her umbrella up so that it no longer hid her face and somehow pulling together enough sense to make an effort towards producing a friendly yet nervous smile, the girl unclenched her fist and gave the man a half-hearted wave.

“Hey,” she said. A wave of diffidence rushed over her, and for a second she just glanced around at anywhere but the man. She pushed the feeling down, returning to her previous but still rather anxious state.

“Hey,” she said again. “Are you, what are you, why are you...” She grimaced and blinked as her mouth tried to form a sentence. She took in a calming breath as her muddy free hand rested on her hip. Her eyes flashed open as she tilted her head, giving the man a quizzical stare before finally asking the question that she couldn’t even answer herself: “Why are you alone in a flipping swamp during a rainstorm? Are you dim or something?”

The man looked at her with a flare of arrogance in his piercing blue eyes. ”I believe I’m far from dim,” he practically spat, ”compared to me, you’re the dim one. Now, I’m tired, hungry, and thirsty, so if you don’t mind, don’t bother me again.” He waved at her in dismissal, looking around at the surroundings with squinted eyes. A moan of frustration escaped his lips.

“You’re in the middle of swamp hungry, thirsty, and tired, but I’m the dumb one compared to you?” asked Grace, her teeth chewing on her lip. Is it my accent? It’s my accent. She tried to better enunciate her words and sound like one of those news casters instead of a girl from Pointe Bordeaux. “Unless you’re planning on eating some alligators and drinking swamp water I’d say that you’re kind of in the wrong place. Are you just lost?” She frowned, reiterating her first question. “Why are you in a swamp? It’s...strange, you know?”

He raised an eyebrow, probably at Grace slowing her voice. ”I’m in exactly the right place, thank you very much. As for my being here? That’s for me to know and me only. Now can you just—” Suddenly, the man shook his head, pounding his forehead with the palm of his head. ”Oh, not again…”

It struck her as increasingly suspicious that the man kept dodging her question. She was prepared to call him out on it and felt her shoulders rise up as if she was going to pose like a comic book hero. Instead of a show of confidence, however, she stepped back in startlement as the man in red flannel started to violently pound his head. Lowering her yellow umbrella, she held up one hand as if to try to calm him down.

“Hey, are you, uh, are you okay?” she said, cautiously. “Look, I have some water if you aren’t feeling good.”

”Yeah, yeah,” he batted his hands at invisible flies, ”I’m great, actually. Now, where were we? Something about ice cream?” The man’s attitude perked up, and there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. ”There was something important, right? Oh, damn, what was it… flies?” He looked around, before catching something small flying about, demonstrating great reflexes. He studied the bug closely, bringing it as close as two milimetres away from his face. ”No, that’s not it. Con… con… con-man? Constable? No, that’s a British thing. Con… con… con…” He was pacing now, looking everywhere and even crouching down to look at the ground.

Grace felt her suspicion slip away into a muddled pool of confusion. The confusion was quickly replaced by astonishment as he snatched a fly out of the air in one attempt. She had watched her brother try to do that one summer day; it had taken him nearly thirty minutes of running himself ragged to even grasp it, and he then only ended up accidentally smashing it into a wall. And there was something. Con? Con? Why did that actually sound like it was familiar. She felt like she needed to ask the man about what he had done, but she wasn’t so sure if it would be safe to talk to him due to his rapid changing mood. To clarify, she wasn’t so sure it’d be safe for him.

But her big dumb mouth had other ideas.

“What’re you going on about?” she asked, and then pointed a wagging finger at the man. “And don’t go around grabbing bugs. You’ll get swamp fever or...actually…” She paused, looking the man up and down as he manically paced around the area. “Are you sick?”

”What? No, no no no…” He looked around even more, constantly repeating ‘con’ under his breath. His eyes widened suddenly, and his jaw dropped. ”Oooooooooooooooh! My brain is so stupid! CONVOY!” He grinned at her with childish joy. ”I remembered it! Isn’t that great?” Then, he pulled — or rather, heaved — his backpack off his shoulders, fumbling around with the zip. He eventually got it open, and pulled out what looked like a black notebook and a pen. The book had a slight shimmer of gold as he flicked it open, swiping page after page. He started scribbling down in it, his tongue stuck out with concentration. ”Ohoho… yes.” He muttered, before snapping it shut and putting the items back in his bag. With that, it was heaved back onto his back. ”Now, if I can just find it…” The man looked around again.

Despite what he said, Grace didn’t believe the man when he said he wasn’t sick. He was too erratic, too manic to be okay—and he was alone in a damn swamp. At least she was, at least she…Why am I out here? she thought, looking around. As the cat finally let go of the man’s tongue and he shouted the word “convoy” out to the heavens Grace felt the umbrella slip from her hands. Like the man, her eyes also widened. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and carefully punched in a quick search on the Internet. Listings of articles about the Hyperhuman convoy heading south filled her screen; she looked back up at the man, confused and excited.

“Are you a Hyperhuman t—” She bit her tongue, preventing herself from revealing that she wasn’t regular. “Are you?” she repeated.

”Oh. Oops. Shouldn’t have said that. Uh…” The man looked at her for a brief moment, before waving his arms about. ”I am nooot heeeere, this is juuuust a dreaaaaaaaaaam…” Suddenly, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fell at Grace’s feet.

The girl caught him by the collar just in time to prevent the man from face planting into the mud. She knew he wasn’t feeling right. She placed the back of her hand on his forehead to check for a fever because she had seen it in a movie, sheepishly drawing it away as it dawned on her that she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between normal human body heat and sick human body heat. Maybe he’s just always deranged like this? she thought. Grace had once read an article about how Hyperhumans were prone to fits of rage, mental breakdowns, and permanent insanity. Then again, the research had been funded by Fairchild Enterprises. She sighed, propping the man up against her body as she reached into her backpack and slid the black paintball helmet over her head. Tossing her brother’s jacket into the bag, she slung it back over her shoulder, picked up her umbrella, and, as if he was as light as a rag doll, slung the man over her shoulder.

Had some kind of Divine Intervention sent her out into the swamp to save this man from drowning in the mire and to meet up with the convoy? It’s not so impossible, right? thought Grace as she proceeded through the swamp. Sure. She did know where to go, as if something guided her. Despite the extra weight moving was easier than it had been before as she drew further from the heart of the swamp. Mud was still hindering her process, but she was no longer sinking down into the earth. She heard motors and saw a faded sign for a historical plantation site, now condemned. A distant memory popped in her head of her father ranting about how back when he was in school they would visit the things that made the South great, but now that the bleeding heart liberals had taken over and put a goddamn—she shook it out of her head. It wasn’t a pleasant memory of Dad. Not many were. Regardless, there should not be so many motors out here. This was the place. She pushed forward, quickening her pace.

Her hunch proved to be right. Grace found herself trudging through a stilled cavalcade of muddy cars, trucks, and campers. People, Hyperhumans, went about busily setting up equipment as best as they could in the weather, although some stopped and stared as the girl walked by. Was it because they actually recognized Thumper in her shitty blue tracksuit and helmet, or was it because she looked like a miniature slavic gangster from some crime show carrying her latest hit? She gave them a disarming smile that, behind a mask, did nothing to make her seem less suspicious. Setting the mystery man down a truck bed, Grace turned to the small number of people that were still looking at her. She raised her hand at them.

“Hey, Hi, ha ha. I’m, um,” her head turned down as she muttered to herself, "looking like an idiot." Nobody else was wearing a costume. Why would they be? Her cheeks burned red beneath her helmet. She rightfully felt real, real dumb. “Anyone know how to help this guy?” she said, throwing her thumb over her shoulder towards him to turn their attention away from focusing on her. “I think he bumped his noggin a few too many times. I found him catching flies and I stopped him from eating mud before he just sorta decided to take a nap.”

---

---

The fever of Madness spread easily through the town of Bordeaux. Carried on the waves of heat from a southern sun and given the fertile ground to grow by the humidity, a growing number of people were beginning to pitch themselves into a frenzy. Ilani could see it as she looked over the crowd before her. Fear and Confusion sprinkled their essence into the mix, and with a little push of Greed, they swirl to make one mass:

Hatred.

It was almost palpable as Ilani looked over the mass in City Hall. Heat seemed to emanate from the crowd as well as hang in the air. A moist and muggy heat that robbed you of your strength to exercise good sense. But Il could also see the specks of Greed that stood in the crowd. Hints of Fairchild Electronics promoters and vendors, profiting more at their own showcase. An involuntary shudder ran over Ilani and she questioned her commitment to her actions today.

That question was short lived as the warehouse took hold of her thoughts for the briefest of moments, and she felt the cold chill of a dilapidated room instead of the heat of Pointe Bordeaux’s City Hall.

’And frankly, this is bullshit anyway,’ she thought to herself as she eyed the hate rally before her.

“Illy, girl, you alright?” Alex asked, peering from behind the camera. Ilani’s camerawoman shook her head disapprovingly, “If you tell me you forgot to hydrate before we went out again, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Ilani clicked her tongue, rolling her eyes and suppressing a smile. “Thanks for the love, Al. No I’m fine, just one of those jitter rolls. Now are you ready to get the camera rolling? Let’s get this going.” She eyed the darkening sky. The humidity was always the worst before a storm. And this one looked bad. That was one speck of good in this chaos of today. Maybe the rally would get rained out.

Alex lifted her camera and nodded. “Yeah, but what is the plan exactly? I’m not sure what we’re going for.”

Ilani adjusted her blazer with a smooth movement as she began walking. A slight intensely excited gait met her heeled feet as she neared the crowd, each clack of her heel meant with purpose and precision. It was her first story since she’d taken time off, and she was excited to go all in. “A classic angle. We’re going to paint the similarities between their ignorance and hysteria and the ignorance of the past. The LGBTQ, Black America, any minority really. Show the public how much of a witch hunt this is becoming, based off of what’s mainly been misconception. Just...get this.” She nodded to a modestly dressed and covered woman on the fringe of the more condensed mass, the central stage just in view. She held a picket sign, reading “To Hell With the Hypes.”

“Excuse me? Miss?” Ilani spoke up as she neared her. The moment the woman turned, she was met with a bright eyed and engaged Ilani Marie Jackson.

“Y..yes? Can I help you?” She looked around nervously and almost panicked when she saw the camera.

“Nono, it’s okay,” Ilani reassured her. “We’re doing a piece on the community in times of crisis such as this. We’d love to get a little bit from you as part of it. Something to show how the town is banding together.”

The woman’s shoulders un-hunched themselves and she gave Ilani a smile. “Of course, I would be able to give a few moments.”

“Thank you!” Ilani told the woman excitedly. There was a glint in her eye, the look of a predator as Ilani continued on. “So, to start off with, can I get your name? Just your first is fine, if you prefer.” Ilani gestured for Alex to come in and get into position.

“Neema,” the woman said, nodding her head slightly in introduction.

“So Neema, you’re here today for the Fairchild product reveal?”

“Yes of course. I’m very excited,” Neema told her. Ilani eyed around her, noting the growing crowd. Even more people were showing up? This was ridiculous.

“So, you’ve known and been following the efforts of Fairchild Electronics?” Ilani asked.

“Oh yes, I think the Hyperhumans are a threat we must stand firm against,” a small accent began to creep up as the woman spoke passionately. “For the safety of our community and our families. We have all seen what one of them can be capable of.”

Ilani nodded her head, a furrowed brow of affirmation prompting the woman to continue. “You have a strong resolve Miss Neema. Do you give any weight to the claims of some saying that we should understand them instead of hunt them?”

Neema seemed to balk at the question, momentarily silent. “Not at all! I came to this country for safety and a better life. I will not have it ruined by some...deviation of the human being. Can you imagine if one of those made it into a school and...well, I fear the harm and damage they could do. Blow up a school, infect it, set fire to it. You name it!”

Ilani narrowed her eyes and gave a quick smirk, verbally pouncing. “Ma’am, do you mean to tell me that you’ve had extensive interaction with Hyperhumans?”

“Well..no, but...you’ve seen the news. I don’t want them near me or my kids. They’re dangerous,” the woman puffed up her chest, tugging at both of her sleeves.

“It’s interesting you say that, ma’am. It’s almost the exact same sentiment voiced at a rally here on September 18, 2001. Did you attend that rally?” Ilani asked.

“Wha? I--No, I didn’t. Why do you ask?”

“That rally was a vigil and hate rally used to fuel distrust among the Muslim American community, following the 9/11 attacks. Sentiments such as yours and the apparent danger of ‘Jihad terrorists’ were rampant that day.”

Neema tugged at her hijab anxiously, lowering her sign. “What are you trying to imply?”

Ilani took a step forward. “Only that you’ve only seen one display of something you’ve never heard of. Now, you supposedly fear for your life because of one extremist of a minority group. You hate a group you don’t know, but you assume they’re dangerous.”

“I think I’m done with this conversation now,” Neema told her curtly after a stunned pause. She looked around quickly for an exit before hurrying off.

“Damn,” Alex spoke up, lowering the camera, “how do you always do that? Get into the nitty gritty so easily?”

“It’s a curse,” Ilani shrugged, already moving again. “Now, we’re on to the next one.” Her strut was a little more pronounced as she moved further into the crowd, a hunger growing.

---

---

Emory's eyes were fixed upon the mirror, and whilst the eyes that looked back at him were his own, they belonged to a form that was foreign to him. The shaky hands of a middle aged man - portly and abdominous in his suit, with hair that receded unfortunately towards his crown - gripped the basin with such force that the porcelain threatened to crack at any moment. He stared at himself with disgust and hatred; not for the appearance he'd acquired, but for the monster that lurked beneath it. He glanced back at the stall, where the unconscious body of a man had been stashed and bound in gaffatape.

"Frank," he addressed himself reluctantly, recalling the details he'd learned from his victim's lanyard, which now hung around his own neck. "Frank Melrose. That's you now. Don't fuck this up.", he scolded himself. Like most of Emory's activities, it seemed someone else had been dragged onto whatever self-destructive path he'd decided to take. The security guard would certainly lose his job over this; with the whole team likely coming under some scrutiny for allowing an infiltration. And yet, in all his selfishness, Emory had proceeded regardless, knowing what it meant for the innocent men and women who were just trying to do their job. Emory spat into the sink and scowled, watching the thick black mucus move glacially towards the drain.

Perhaps ironically, considering the collateral damage he was inviting in, it was almost inevitable that his plan would backfire; his father likely assumed him dead, and Emory knew no sane man would wish to dig up the corpses of those he'd mentally buried and invite them to brunch. Not least someone like his father, whom so prided himself upon his ability to remove stains and brush dirt under the carpet. But part of him... Hoped.

Shooting a final apologetic look towards the cubicle, that Emory had locked from the inside, he lowered his head and made his way out of the bathroom, bumping into another security guard on the way out.

"Hey, Frank," the large man spoke, in a deep voice that bore a tone of companionship. 'Frank' merely nodded amicably and attempted to continue out of the restroom, but the wide-framed man did not seem to be moving. "You all set, bud? The big man's due out in about a half hour." he said, leaning against the doorframe casually. 'Frank' nodded once more, which raised a quizzical eyebrow on the face of his obstacle. "Well, alright then." he said, adopting a new tone of umbrage as moved around Emory towards the bathroom, seeming to take the hint that his 'friend' was not in a talkative mood.

Emory let out a sigh of relief, and hurried out of the restroom, though not before overhearing the security guard attempting to open its singular stall. "Sorry man," he called to its occupant. "I'll wait." Of course, there was no response.

Somewhat panicked, Emory rounded a corner and swiftly passed through a security point, scanning Frank's ID and receiving warm smiles of familiarity from the various personnel: "Come right on through, Frank.", "Have you gotten taller, buddy?" Emory grimaced and hurried on through.

Finally in the heart of the hall, Emory began to shed the excess mass he'd accumulated in borrowing the husky form, leaving a dark trail of goo in his wake as his features slowly began to twist and melt, returning him to his usual self as he made his way up the grand staircase; his fingerless gloves sliding along the mahogany bannister as his final excretions smeared its polished finish and stained the crimson carpet. There, at the top of the staircase, sat a pair of large double-doors, affixed to one of which was a temporary signage: "ROBERT FAIRCHILD C.E.O. - AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY". There was but a moment's hesitation before Emory gingerly knocked on the door, and a voice that remained familiar despite half a decade's absence beckoned him inside with an abrupt firmness.

"Come in."

Robert Fairchild was sat at a large, ornate desk, which was littered in the neatest of fashions with various files and paperwork. He didn't turn to face his visitor, instead poring over his notes with unwavering focus. Emory stood for a moment, silent except for the awkward shuffling of his feet on the fancy rug. He gulped apprehensively, opening his mouth to speak but able to produce no words. His jaw trembled as he was whisked away by the surreal nature of the moment. He wasn't sure he'd ever see his father again... And yet here he was, absorbed by his work in exactly the same way Emory recalled. That was, until Robert Fairchild turned around.

"Well, what is it?" he asked, turning his desk chair to face his guest, and revealing features that were notably withered and creased from a toxic combination of age and stress. He looked... Old. It took his father a few beats more than Emory had anticipated to adjust to the situation, his eyes and mouth widening in unison as he pushed his glasses up his nose. For a moment, his mouth moved soundlessly, before he managed to mutter out the three combined syllables he'd left unspoken for the past five years:

"Emory?" he near-gasped, in a low and haunting whisper. Emory nodded. "H-how..? I thought... I-I thought you were..."

"Dead?" he retorted, shaking his head. "It's a long story, dad." Both men had kept their distance from each other; they'd never had a particularly physical relationship, and Emory had been under no illusions that their reunion would be met with a warm and relieved embrace. Instead, the two stared at each other in near-identical mixes of joy, rage and confusion.

"Why now?" Robert blurted, his voice tinged with bitterness. In some ways, he wished his son was still dead... At least in death, Emory would have an excuse for not speaking all these years. "A lot has... Changed, Emory." he said, sitting back in his chair and bringing his fingers to his brow, before gesturing to his son: "Heck, you've changed."

Emory remained motionless. "Don't worry, dad. I don't intend on hanging around." he said, finding himself growing angry at his father's reaction. It was expected and so typical of the man who'd given him life... Perhaps that's why it riled him so. "I have questions. And I need answers." he confessed, bluntly. "You don't remember anything about that day?" he asked, doubtfully. He had to remember something, surely?

"The day you disappeared?" Robert asked, and Emory nodded. Robert shook his head. "We woke up and you were gone. Your mother was worried sick... I told her not to worry, that you'd come home." he said, pausing for longer than Emory found comfortable. "But you didn't."

"How is she?" Emory asked, his heart tugged by the memory of his mother. He missed her the most.

Robert met his gaze with venom. "Dead."

Emory choked. "What do you mean?" he managed, wincing at the lump which emerged in his throat. It was times like this where Emory wished he still had the ability to cry; his eyes lacked even the gentle aching than heralded the imminent arrival of tears... There was nothing. "...Dead?" he said again, affirming the fact to himself and collapsing in a nearby chair, burying his face in his palms. He dragged his fingers down his skin, and looked back at his father expectantly. "Dead?"

Robert nodded. "Couldn't hack her baby going missing. Raided the medicine cabinet." he said, a startling lack of empathy in his words. "Cold-hearted bitch left me on my own." he said, his eyes fixed upon Emory with near-acidic intensity. Emory moaned in anguish as the reality of the events overcame him. "It's no good wailing like that." he scolded. "It's your own doing, son. Take responsibility for your actions." he spat with venom. "Be a man."

Emory screamed in rage: "You're a monster!" he yelled. "A goddamn fucking monster!"

Robert smiled a sadistic grin, turning back to his notes dismissively. "No, son. The real monsters are out there," he said, pointing to the large window, though his words sounded rehearsed and without conviction. "But with the Fairchild Pacifier," he announced proudly, "My good customers can feel safe in their homes again." He turned back to face Emory. "You can be safe, too, Emory. Come home." he said, his inveigling words knocking at Emory's deepest urges. "We can work this out. I'm getting old, son. The company nee--"

"I don't want anything to do with your fucking company!" Emory roared, though the exchange was interrupted by a knock at the door. Robert called them in, and a dainty secretary entered the room clutching a clipboard. Emory recognised her instantly; Linda had been his father's PA for the best part of ten years.

"Sorry to interrupt, Sir, but you're due out in ten minutes and I just wanted to go over some--" she paused mid-sentence, as she caught a glimpse of just who was sat in the chair opposite his father. "E-Emory...?" she asked, flabbergasted.

"Pay him no attention." Robert said, firmly, and Linda instantly fixed her sight back upon her boss. She knew better than to disobey him. "We were done here anyway. Emory was just leaving." he said. Emory gladly took the cue and stormed over towards the doors, pausing only to deliver his parting note.

"It was nice seeing you again, Linda." he quipped, his eyes narrowing like daggers as he got a final look at his father and stormed out along the hall's grandiose corridors. He rounded a corner and found a large group of officials gathered around the restroom he'd used earlier, the now-conscious Frank Melrose sat in the centre of the congregation and being given medical attention. The security guard Emory had bumped into spoke into a walky-talky.

"This is Redfox. We have a code-red. Seal all entrances and exits and delay the speech until we can be sure Fairchild will be safe." he spoke with authority, before noticing the bleach-haired boy peering around the corner. "Hey, you!" he called. Emory ran.

The security guard gave quick pursuit, following the boy through a network of hallways, his firearm poised to shoot. Things were going his way, and the infiltrator was heading straight towards a disused - and consequently, locked - exit. Following the man as he rounded the corner into what was essentially a dead end, the security guard stood utterly confused by the logistics of the situation.

He tried the door, it was indeed locked. But the suspect was nowhere to be seen. Turning back the way he came, the guard heard an unpleasant squelching sound underfoot; looking down and discovering a pool of black slime. Further inspection revealed that it was not contained to the interior: rather, it spilled out beneath the door's threshold and out into the parking lot outside.

He bent down and scooped up a portion of the gunk on his index finger, holding it up to the light and examining the way it trickled like treacle. "What the fuck..?" he whispered aloud, before something in the corner caught his attention: there, amongst all the goo, was Frank's identification lanyard. The guard moved his hand back to the walky-talky fastened upon his belt. He was going to need assistance.

---

---

He was out of the hotel almost as soon as he got there; not a hard thing to do when all of your worldly possessions fit into a duffle bag the size of a moderately sized dog. Clothes, his Mindjack outfit, and his gun. That’s all Gareth had in there. That’s all he needed.

He stopped by a small retail store across the street, family owned, like Serenade, for an umbrella. He didn’t mind getting wet, but the rain was getting decidedly heavier, and Leah was bound to have thrown a fit if he let himself catch a cold in favour of a little refreshment.

With his own personal shelter, he began his search for the convoy. The logical place to look would be the outskirts of the city; entering it would have threatened the safety of everyone in the convoy, and seeing how there had yet to be an uproar amongst the people of Pointe Bordeaux, it was safe to assume that they were indeed yet to enter. That was, of course, considering that Gareth's hunch was true. It wasn't often that one such as his turned out to be, no matter how sure of it he felt, and so he walked down the sidewalk from the store, hoping for his wife's sake that the convoy would be there for him to find.

The sound of a scuffle stopped him in his tracks, coming from an alley up ahead. Pedestrians passed it without a second glance, their eyes fixed firmly on the sidewalk in front of them. Unlike them, Gareth didn't hesitate. He walked to the alley, curiosity and concern overcoming him.

Four thugs were kicking a man on the ground. He looked almost homeless, his unshaven beard wild and unkempt. He was curled up, keeping his knees high and tightly together, his hands protecting his head as the kicks connected with his chest and back. The four thugs stomped and kicked him, unrelenting, eager to deliver some punishment. The man leaning against the wall, their leader, Gareth assumed, whistled, holding his hand up. One of the thugs picked the man off the ground and pushed him against the wall, holding his forearm against his throat, forcing his victim to stand on the tips of his toes. The man eyed the thug while wheezing. "Come... On, G."

The leader, G, walked over to him and put his hand to his own ear, acting coy. "What, what was dat, Marcus? Can't hear you, you gotta speak up." He punched Marcus in the gut, the air escaping his lungs.

Gareth had seen enough situations like this during his time battling the Zerilli Syndicate to know what this was: the bearded man owed these guys some money, and he'd failed to pay up. Three thugs were standing in a sort of semicircle around G and their colleague, observing the beatdown with a smile on their lips. They didn't look like regular thugs, though – the way they'd hit the bearded man, they knew exactly where would cause the most pain. No, they were trained; former military, maybe; definitely private security. Okay, thought Gar. They're like Zerilli's men.

He'd rained hell on Zerilli's men for three years. He could handle a few seconds with these guys.

Calmly, he placed his duffle bag at the alley's entrance and closed his umbrella, clutching it in both hands as he walked towards the thugs. There were two directly in front of him, the other one standing against the right wall. The one furthest from him, appearing in his late thirties, saw him, his head jerking in his direction in surprise. He managed, "Who the hell –" before the handle of Gareth's umbrella smashed into his colleague's left temple, sending him crumpling towards the ground. Knowing that they would be on him within seconds, Gar whipped the tip of the umbrella towards the other thug closest to him, an audible crack sounding as it broke against the back of his head. Discarding the umbrella on the ground, Gareth turned just in time to see the third thug's fist smack into his face.

With two of his thugs down, the man in charge grimaced, cursing under his breath. "Who the fuck are you?" the question rang.

Held against the wall, the bearded man, Marcus, felt the grip around his neck loosen as the biggest thug, the one holding him, paid attention to Gareth, dropping his friends like flies. He hissed with a rough voice, "None of your business, buddy," which was promptly met by another punch in the gut. "Seriously.. I.. Uhmpf, I've got this." Yet another punch met him, knocking the air out of his lungs as he squirmed against the wall.

The leader turned to Gareth and grinned. "This is none of your business. Shame you had to go and do that, looks like I'll be dumpin two' bodies in tha river." At that, he nodded at the thugs at his side holding Marcus, who promptly let go of the drunk, who in turn slid down the wall, catching his breath. The two remaining thugs headed for Gareth, one of them pulling out a switchblade.

The one with the switchblade rushed Gareth, stabbing wildly at his neck, chest and armpit, giving him no time to think – he executed a crescent kick to the thug's wrist, intending to disarm him, but it only glanced off his arm, momentarily ending the plethora of stabs, giving Gareth an opening, albeit a dangerous one. With no time to lose, he got in close to his would-be stabber, elbowing him across the face, simultaneously grabbing hold of his knife hand with his other hand. With the thug dazed, he placed his free hand beneath his armpit, turning into the thug, lifting him up onto his back and twisting, throwing him onto the ground. The knife clattered across the alley, no longer a danger. Unwilling to give the thug any time to get up, Gareth punched him in the nose, hard and fast, blood bursting as it broke, knocking him out as he lay on the concrete.

While catching his breath, Marcus watched the fight, as if he was trying to figure out where Gareth learned to fight, like he was studying him, his eyes intrigued. He reacted with a smirk when the knife-armed thug was disarmed and knocked out by his saviour. The thug leader's attention turned to Gareth, his hand scrambling into his pocket, and the last and biggest thug lumbered towards Gareth. Marcus watched with interest, climbing onto his knees and then his feet, leaning against the wall. Holding his side, he bowed forward, coughing up blood. The thug leader looked at him. "Once we're done with this freak, we'll talk about your 'payment plan', Marcus," he said, reaching for the .44 snub-nosed revolver he kept in his inner pocket. “Jones, get ‘im.”

Gareth felt the air rush above his head as he ducked away from Jones' right cross, a powerful punch that would no doubt have taken his head off had he let it connect. Jones was a big man, muscular, his punches precise and strong, executed with great technique. If Gareth had to guess, he was a former fighter of some sort; maybe a boxer. He was keeping him on his toes, never relenting, sending one punch after another, each one as powerful as the last, forcing Gar to keep dodging as he searched for an opening. Just as he thought he found one, his head exploded with pain, his vision dimming as he lost control of his legs, falling to the ground. Through the pain he managed to register that he'd been kicked, a devastating roundhouse to the head knocking his senses out of him. A stray thought, flitting through the oblivion that threatened to overcome him, concluded that no boxer would be able to do that. Another recalled watching a UFC match a few years ago, before Leah had died, between Cain Velasquez and a Randy Jones... Oh, thought Gareth, daggers stabbing into his brain as he tried to get up. Oh.

Somewhere in the real world, his eyes caught sight of Jones' knee descending upon his face, and, whether through luck or survival instinct, he managed to work through the pain in his head, rolling out of the way before it was crushed. As he slowly stumbled onto his feet, Jones was quick to recover from hitting concrete, moving in to attack Gareth with a barrage of punches. Recalling the fight he'd watched between Velasquez and Jones, Gar remembered a habit of the latter's: he liked to finish his combinations with a right hook. As he desperately tried to dodge away from Jones' swings, he found that this was still the case, and he found himself presented with a variety of openings previously unseen to him. For every hook Gareth ducked and delivered a body rip to Jones' ribs, hitting the same spot each time. After a few hits, Jones began getting sloppy, annoyed, dropping his guard every time Gareth hit him in an attempt to get him back. Gareth responded with yet more punches, following up the body rip to the ribs with one to the stomach, a hook to the face and an uppercut to the chin. Despite Gar's predictable combination, Jones didn't seem to notice, focused entirely on landing a hit – so much so that before long, he dropped his guard entirely, his blows becoming more and more erratic. After what felt like ages, Gareth finally landed the knockout blow, an uppercut that sent Jones collapsing onto his back. Gasping for air, Gareth leant against the wall, feeling his balance momentarily go out. He was concussed. That roundhouse kick had done a number on him.

In his recovery, he failed to notice the revolver that the thug leader had pointed at him. He made to pull the trigger when the gun exploded in his hand, sending shrapnel into his arm, a pain filled cry escaping him as he held his bleeding hand. "FUCK!"

Marcus' eyes turned back from their emerald colour as he finally climbed onto his feet, holding his side. He walked over to the thug leader, holding his hand. "See, Gambit, now you done gone did it. Should probably call the cops and get an ambulance over here. You'll lose your hand, else."

"Agh, fuck you!" Gambit shouted, holding his hand in agony.

Marcus walked towards Gareth, patting him on the shoulder, before extending his hand to help him up from his position against the wall. "You owe me one," the drunk said, staggering out of the alley, towards where his car was parked. "I need a beer.." his words echoed as he walked about thirty feet before collapsing onto his knees again, spitting blood.

Gareth stumbled over to his fallen saviour, grimacing at the pain shooting through his head as he did so. Lifting one of Marcus’ arms over his shoulders, he stood up with a grunt, helping him stand back up. “The way I see it…” he grimaced once more, “We’re even.” He began walking out of the alley, half-carrying, half-limping along with Marcus, stopping only to reclaim his duffle bag. “I’m Gareth. Gareth Corrigan.” He gave his companion a brief smile. “So you’re a hyperhuman too, huh?”

---

---

"Come in child." Serene's voice called as she stood up from her chair. Knees wobbling as she braced herself with her cane before taking a couple steps forward. Reaching out, she lifted a large towel off a nearby hanger before stretching a feeble arm towards Lucas. "How have you been keeping? The drive from Larissa was a rather long one." She stated sinking back into her chair as she gestured for Lucas to take a seat as well. "Things are very different now than they were when we were on the island. To think that glorious building is simply sitting empty, slowly fading away."

"Something is happening outside." Serena said suddenly as she sat up in her seat. Turning towards the window Serena motioned to Lucas and she could sense the fear and alarm of several members of the convoy who had stopped working and moved into a small crowd. From the swamp at the edge of the old plantation a figure stumbled forward with another slung over their shoulders. A black beret made its way through the crowd as Tarvos turned his attention to the commotion.

Emerging from the small crowd of gathered onlookers, Tarvos moved towards the pair that had stumbled out of the swamp. His hand shifted slowly to his hip, brushing back his trenchcoat as his palm came to rest on the stock of his gun. A subtle click could be hard as Tarvos released the safety with his thumb before taking another step forward. His nostrils flailed as he inhaled, despite the stench of the swamp, the unmistakable odor of the city hung onto the girl's clothing. The boy slung over her shoulder however was a different case, he smelled of sweat and dust, the signs of a traveler.

"Do ye pose a threat to this convoy or its people." Tarvos called towards the woman, his hand remained calmly posed over his weapon as he watched her body language. His keen ears honing in on her already racing heart beat intending to find any falsehood in her words.

---

---

The old jeep rumbled to a stop, its occupants barely waiting for the engine to turn off before they clambered out of the open vehicle. Running through the door out of the pouring rain, the men looked around at the chaos inside.

"What the fuckin' hell happened in here?" The first man said scratching at his beard. "Get them up." He ordered motioning to the three behind him to pick up the men whose asses had been soundly kicked.

"Remy, stop yer screeching and pull that sliver out of your hand." He yelled at the man before continuing. "That Hype convoy is sitting out at Old Man Foster's plantation and Fairchild is giving away the hardware to put them down. So get your asses up and lets get ourselves some guns to go and feed some freaks to the gators."

"Are you fuckin' kidding me Landin?" Remy's voice was almost an unnaturally high pitch as he screamed at the other man. "I need a fuckin' ambulance here." He motioned with his one good arm to the collapsed men around the cafe. "These guys need a hospital, we ain't in no condition to go Hype shootin'."

"If I hadda known y'all would be pussies about it, I wouldn't have wasted my time comin' here." Landin replied turning towards the door. "Looks like we're going to need fresh blood. Jack, Tom, Barry, lets go!" Landin yelled as the four ran out the building as quickly as they had burst in taking off towards City hall.

Have you ever had one of those when you've been forced to sit in a cramped mini-bus, where you're full of so much pent up energy that the very thought of having to sit still for another sevensixfivefour seconds is driving you absolutely bat crazy but there's nothing you can do because apparently running through a swamp is a bad idea? No? Well Nick Turner has. Now Nick is a nice guy, and sometimes his big goofy smile which is forever smacked onto his face can give the impression that he's an imbecile, but he most certainly is not. Nick knows how unendingly annoying it is for others to be around him in a confined space due to the very simple fact that he just won't stay still. Ever. If he's not hammering away at his knees like a drum kit, his feet are furiously tapping away at the floor. If he's not doing that he's constantly doing mini-air punches for hours on end. Have you ever tried sleeping while someone is absent-mindedly shaking your chair with their feet and hands? Probably, but then that person is usually about eighteen years younger than Nick and quickly told off.

So as you can understand everyone in the immediate area were relieved when Nick was asleep. Or at least they were at first, until they realized that he thrashed about manically in his sleep and spoke audibly through the whole thing. Luckily he could barely sleep for more than hour before waking up with a jolt. And it was towards the end of one such sleep that Nick suddenly arose from with a loud 'whoop' and a random fist pump, which came dangerously close to clattering the head of the person in front of him...again. The young man looked around sheepishly at the others, but they were really really really all past the point of listening to his apologies. Then he suddenly noticed that the convoy ahead was pulling to the side indicating that they were finally coming to a blissful halt. Nick's eyes went wider than any puppy's you've ever seen, and he was already excitedly raising from his seat before they'd even come to a full stop.

"Alright guys, here we are. Point B-" but before the driver could even finish Nick had flung open the side door and leapt outside.

The man didn't seem to take a blind bit of notice of the torrential downpour currently assailing them. Whereas others found rain to be a downer, Nick saw it was 'refreshing' and 'invigorating'. Snapping his head side to side to quickly take in their new temporary home, he set out to do what he'd been waiting to do all day. Run. Now Nick had been forbidden to use his ability without the express permission of Tarvos, so he couldn't quite cut loose and fly like the wind, but even just being able to take a nice simple and relaxing jog (otherwise known as a sprint to others) was a great relief. In fact it had become part of Nick's routine ever since he'd joined the convoy not too long after they'd left Maine. Which means people have had to suffer through his friendly, well-intentioned, but sometimes unbearably annoying, upbeat mood for over two weeks now.

So as others set to work, Nick set off on his daily run, doing laps around the perimeter of the camp. Restricted to a mere athletes sprinting pace the man felt as if each lap was taking him ages, but it still felt good. The rain hitting his face felt like a refreshing wash after being in that glorified sardine can of a mini-bus. As he did his rounds Nick shouted out a friendly 'Hello', 'Hey' or 'Howdy' to anyone he came into close proximity to, adding on a name to anyone he knew a little better. And the whole time one big grin was on his face, taking in water and flies without a care in the world, such was his elation at being able to run.

One about his thirteenth lap Nick noticed someone emerging from the swamp with a rather bedraggled looking guy slung over their shoulder. On his sixteenth lap he noticed that the person had started to gather the attention of quite a few members of their convoy. When his twenty-first lap came around he noticed that Tarvos had arrived on the scene and had his weapon close at hand. And you don't run in front of Tarvos when he's got a weapon ready. So Nick decided it would be sensible to come to a stop at that point, quickly slowing himself down and coming to a complete halt a few meters behind and to the right of the convoy leader. His clothes were drenched and his trousers practically covered in mud, but Nick was too curious to go away. Looking the person up and down he noted how cool their outfit was. Not at cool as his, of course, but still. Something told him, however, that now was probably not the best time to bring it up.

---

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The rally at cityhall was kicked off with roars of excitement and thunderous applause as Robert Fairchild and his security detail marched out to the podium atop the stairs of the large colonial style building. The gathered crowd was situated underneath several tents as the rows upon rows of folding chairs on the cobblestone had been shielded from the gloomy weather.

“Good afternoon Pointe Bordeaux.” Robert began, his accent only seeming to increase his presence as the appearance of a weary tired man was seemingly shed the moment he began to speak. It was very clear to those gathered there just how he had managed to hold onto his company’s power all these years. Robert Fairchild was obviously no pushover or slouch but a keen and intelligent man with ambitions that kept his company constantly moving forward.

“You’ve been a wonderful a host, I’ve rather enjoyed staying in your delightful city.” Robert stated as the crowd once again cheered. “For this reason I’d like to invest in the preservation of Pointe Bordeaux and for this reason I’m proud to unveil to you the Hyperhuman Pacificer!” Robert announced as a woman walked up next to him before he pulled the cover off of the object in her outstretched hand. Although small in size, a nearby camera man zoomed in on the concealable pistol shaped weapon. The image being blown up for the audience on nearby projection screens.

“The Hyperhuman Pacificer delivers a stunning blow that targets the nerve center of the Hyperhuman. By doing this, the Pacifier will disable the Hyperhuman’s abilities. This makes them unable to use their powers.” Robert turned to a man who had walked up on his right before unleashing the Pacifer on him and then delivering a sucker punch to his face. “Allowing you to balance the playing field.” Robert stated smugly amidst a collective burst of laughter and cheering.

“Small enough to be concealed under a shirt or in a purse. The Pacifier will go anywhere you are and anywhere you could encounter a Hyperhuman.” Robert continued as he turned back to the crowd. “As a special bonus, anyone here today will not only be leaving with a hundred dollar gift card to Fairchild Electronics but their very own Fairchild Hyperhuman Pacifier!” The crowd cheered again as the a couple rough looking men pushed their way to the front.

“Ain’t a second too late.” Landin yelled. “Tha Freak Train is sitting outside the city now.” A hush fell over the crowd as Landin spat on the ground. “Give us the guns man, we’ve got to protect our home.” Another man stood up yelling in encouragement before he was joined by another and then another. Within moments the entire crowd had burst into a frenzy as they began to chant.

“NO HYPES IN OUR HOME!”

Raising his hands to calm the crowd, Robert motioned to his aids who picked up their bins of hand outs and began to descend the stairs of city hall and enter the crowd. A wicked smile crossed his face as the crowd eagerly snatched at the weapons and ripped them out of their packaging.

“The freaks are out by the Old Foster’s Plantation!” Landin yelled to the group as he raced back towards his jeep. The other rioters likewise running for their own vehicles as car after car left the city hall while Robert turned and walked back towards his security detail.

“Send our benefactor a full report. Stage One was a success.”