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DATE:28th of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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The walk back to the building was quiet. The kind of quiet that usually precedes a storm, or follows a funeral. My head was clear—finally free of the static—but the moment I stepped through the shattered entrance of the lounge, the headache tried to crawl back in.
Not from the injury. From the noise.
It was a high-pitched, rhythmic wailing. Like a siren with a dying battery.
I stepped over the debris of the wall I'd decimated earlier. And there, in the center of the dust and drywall, was the source of the noise.
Aku was on his knees, sobbing over Yonezu's body. Pamela was kneeling beside him, uselessly patting the old man's chest like she was burping a baby. They had moved him inside.
Yonezu looked terrible. Blood was pooling around his head, dark and thick on the floorboards. My scream had done a number on his equilibrium—his eyes were rolled back, and a steady trickle of red leaked from both ears.
Alive, I noted, seeing the shallow rise of his chest. Unfortunate.
I adjusted my collar and aimed for the stairs, intending to step right over Aku's legs if I had to. I had plans to make. Resources to secure. Babysitting the faculty wasn't on the itinerary.
"Will! Help! Please!"
Aku's voice cracked, high and desperate. It was incessant, like a drill against my temple.
"Carter! Please!" Aku shrieked again.
I stopped. My eye twitched. I stopped, exhaling a breath I didn't know I was holding. I didn't look at the body.
Instead, I looked down on the Gardner. The dirty man was a mess of snot and tears. It was repulsive.
"If you scream again," I said, my voice flat, "I'll finish what I started."
Aku choked on a sob, freezing. What the fuck? Why was he even so heartfelt for Yonezu? Was he his former teacher?
"We can't wake him," Pamela said. Her voice was trembling, but at least she wasn't screaming. She looked at me with wide, terrified eyes. "He's bleeding from his ears. We... we don't know what to do."
I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose. The incompetence of this place was staggering.
"Why are you bothering me?" I'm not exactly a healer. I gestured vaguely toward the garden entrance behind me. "Go ask the suits. One of them was playing with blood ropes five minutes ago. He could probably clot that up in a second."
Pamela blinked. Her brow furrowed, confusion cutting through the panic.
"Suits?" she asked. "What suits?"
"The Inquisitors," I said slowly, as if speaking to a toddler. "The heroes? The man and the girl who were just outside."
"William..." She shook her head. "There was no one outside. Just you."
I stared at her.
I looked back at the garden door. The moon was shining on the grass. Empty.
Did I hallucinate them?
I paused. I looked back toward the entrance I had just come from. The garden was empty. There was no sign of the robes guy or the green-haired girl.
"Weren't they here earlier..." I muttered, mostly to myself.
The memory of the bandaged guy backing away, fear in his eyes, flickered in my mind. Corpses don't remember anything. It seemed he had taken my advice to heart and vanished before he became one. Smart man.
I shrugged.
"Never mind."
"Whatever," I muttered, turning away. "Not my problem."
"Wait! Where are you going?" Pamela called out. "You can't just leave him!"
"Watch me."
"Wait! Where are you going?" Aku shouted as I stepped over Yonezu's outstretched leg.
"Upstairs," I said, not looking back while entering the lounge. "I'm tired."
"Get the squid to do it," I threw over my shoulder.
"Who?"
"Oc-Octavia? Or whatever her name is." I just threw that at random.
Let the squid-woman deal with this. Octavia was somewhere in the building, wasn't she? She could use those tentacles for something other than looking gross. If she wanted to play teacher, she could come scrape the old man off the floor.
I made it three steps up the stairs before she opened her mouth again.
"He is his father!"
I paused, hand hovering over the railing. The wood was sticky. Probably from the earlier fight.
I turned slowly, looking down at the tableau of misery. Aku was staring at me, eyes red and swollen, waiting for the magic words that would fix his life.
"Biologically?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Fascinating. And irrelevant."
"You have to save him," Pamela pleaded, standing up. Her legs shook under the new weight of her body. "Please. You're the only one who can."
"I am not a doctor, Pamela. I am a… hero… with a headache." I pointed a finger at the unconscious heap of static-user on the floor. "And frankly, the old man earned it. He stood in my way. If I hadn't put him down, the transplant into your corpse would have failed. You'd still be floating around as a draft of cold air."
I leaned over the railing, letting a cruel smile surface.
"In fact, if you think about it, his brain damage is the price of your resurrection. This is your fault, really. You should deal with it."
Aku let out a choked sound, looking between me and Pamela. Guilt. Easy to manufacture, heavy to carry. Case closed. Logic dictated that I go to sleep.
I turned back to the stairs. "Good luck with the guilt."
"Then I won't help you," Pamela said. Her voice was quieter this time, but steadier. It lacked the tremor of fear.
I stopped.
"You won't help me?" I repeated, not turning around yet. "With what? Folding laundry? I think I can manage."
"With your goal."
I slowly turned back around. Pamela had stood up. She looked shaky in her new body, her legs trembling, but her eyes were locked on mine. They were different now—older.
"I spent twenty years as a spirit, William. I didn't just lose that perspective when I got flesh back. I can still see them. The lines. The letters floating around you. I can also see other things." She took a step toward me. "I know what you are. And I know what you want."
I raised a brow. "Enlighten me."
"You want to be free."
The silence stretched between us. My heartbeat thumped once, heavy and slow in my ears. She wasn't talking about graduating or leaving the city. She saw the cage.
"You have unique eyes," I admitted, my tone losing its mockery. "That's a rare trait."
"But I won't use them for you," she said, pointing at Yonezu. "Unless you fix what you broke."
I looked at the ceiling, calculating. She was useful. High-level spiritual perception was an asset I couldn't easily replicate. But I was running on fumes.
"The biology teacher," I said, looking for an out. "Octavia. She's basically a walking med-kit. Go find her. She's probably upstairs."
"She's gone," Pamela cut in. "Aku said she left an hour ago to prepare Sasha's body for the funeral."
Of course she did.
"I can't perform miracles, Pamela," I said, descending the stairs one by one. "I crush things. I don't put them back together."
"Just do what you can," she pleaded.
I reached the bottom floor and walked past her, kneeling beside Yonezu. Up close, he looked even worse. His breathing was shallow, a wet rattle in his chest.
"If he dies," I muttered, placing my hands over his chest, "don't blame me. Blame his poor reflexes."
I placed my hands on his chest. I didn't have powers—not the kind that knit flesh or sang lullabies to trauma. But I remembered the lessons from the Legion. I knew exactly which nerves to pinch to force the body to jump-start its own survival protocol. Pain is the universal language of the living.
"Hold his legs," I ordered Aku. "He's going to thrash."
I dug my thumbs into the pressure points at the base of Yonezu's neck—right where the vagus nerve begged for mercy—and pushed.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then his eyes snapped open.
They weren't human eyes. They were searchlights. Pure, blinding white.
A shockwave of static exploded outward. It wasn't just noise; it was a physical wall of voltage. The air in the room ionized instantly, tasting of ozone and burnt hair.
"Shit!"
I kicked off the floor, throwing myself backward just as arcs of blue lightning lashed out from his chest like a nest of waking vipers.
I shielded my face with my arms, bracing for the burn. The electricity hissed against my sleeves, singing the fabric, snapping at my skin like angry rubber bands.
"Get away!" Yonezu screamed. His voice was distorted, vibrating two octaves at once. He scrambled backward, crab-walking on his elbows, sparks flying from his heels. He looked less like a man and more like a downed power line thrashing in a storm.
"Father! Stop!" Aku yelled, tackling him.
Bad idea.
The teacher convulsed as the residual current hit him, but he didn't let go. He wrapped his arms around the old man's shoulders, burying his face in the electrified suit.
"It's me! It's Ayaan! Stop it!"
The lightning flickered. The blinding white in Yonezu's eyes dimmed, retreating into a dull, confused gray. The arcs of electricity sputtered and died, leaving only the smell of scorched carpet and the high-pitched whine of my own tinnitus.
I lowered my arms. My forearms were numb. I wasn't sure whether I was lucky to not have hair on them to be burnt, but this only hurt my scars more. Even still, they started to heal. I wasn't imagining it. The aspirin actually made the process quicker. I had all that dexterity… three days ago I couldn't even walk.
I didn't wait for the tearful reunion. I turned on my heel and walked to the kitchenette sink in the corner of the lounge.
I turned the tap on. The water was cold. I scrubbed my hands, watching the black soot wash away. My reflection in the window looked tired. Not the kind of tired you sleep off. The kind that lives in your marrow. Still, some of the scarred skin also came off. I was healed underneath. Outstanding!
Behind me, the sobbing quieted down into murmurs.
"Is he... is he gone? I can't… stand." Yonezu croaked.
"He saved you," Pamela's voice. Soft. Placating.
I dried my hands on a dirty rag and turned back to them.
Yonezu was sitting straight on the ground, Aku holding his hand. He looked like he'd gone twelve rounds with a toaster in a bathtub.
I leaned against the counter, crossing my arms.
"Aku," I said, my voice cutting through the sentimental atmosphere. "Why the fuck didn't you mention you were related earlier?"
Aku blinked, sniffing. "I... I didn't think— Why can't he move!"
"Obviously, his back hit a brick wall hard. I'd be surprised if he had a spine left."
I gestured vaguely between the two of them.
"But never mind that, frankly, the genetics don't line up. You look like you were carved out of mahogany, and he looks like he's been bleaching his skin since the seventies. Unless biology works differently for static-users, I'm calling bullshit."
"He was adopted," Pamela said quickly, stepping between me and the boy. She had that protective mother hen look on her face—which was absurd, considering she was wearing a body that lived half its life without her.
"Adopted," I repeated. "Right. Of course."
I pushed off the counter.
"Well, isn't that heartwarming. A big, happy, dysfunctional family." I checked my watch. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have real problems to solve."
"William," Yonezu grunted, trying, but failing to stand. Aku supported his weight.
I paused.
The old man looked at me. The hostility was palpable, covered by a grudging, painful confusion.
"You paralyzed me. How dare you!" he said.
"I brought you back, didn't I?" I corrected. "Twice you tried to kill me with your powers, but I'm in the wrong for defending myself with them? And this time I was even trying to save a person." I formed a fist, raising it. "If only you minded your business… And I am at fault? Shame on you." The last part I let out especially serious.
Haaah. These days, Real heroes aren't appreciated at all.
I walked past them, heading for the stairs again.
"You should be more mindful of your words. Before I change my mind."
I didn't bother changing. I collapsed onto the bed, the dust of the lounge still coating my shoes, and let the exhaustion drag me under. No dreams this time. Just a strange sensation of being press downwards by an invisible force.
Morning came with the subtlety of a sledgehammer—bright, loud, and demanding.
I peeled myself off the mattress and shuffled down to the faculty lounge. My stomach was twisting itself into knots, demanding payment for the calories I'd burned playing doctor and executioner yesterday.
The room was empty. Good.
I rummaged through the communal pantry. Someone—probably the History teacher, judging by the cheap brand—had left a loaf of whole wheat bread on the counter. I grabbed two slices, not bothering with a plate or butter, and leaned against the table. Now that I think about it, it was the same bread I took from yesterday.
The television in the corner was buzzing. Some morning news anchor with too much teeth was droning on, but I let it fade into white noise while I chewed. The bread was dry. It tasted like sawdust and poverty. Or do I just despise the owner? Hmmmm….
The door clicked open.
I didn't look up until the scent of lilies and mothballs hit me.
Pamela stood in the doorway. She was wearing a black dress that hung loosely on her frame—clearly borrowed, maybe from the English teacher's wardrobe. It was a size too big, the fabric bunching at her shoulders.
But the face... the face was different. She'd scrubbed off the layers of clown paint the math teacher usually caked on. No rouge, no drawn-on eyebrows. Just pale skin and dark circles.
She looked human. It was an improvement.
"You're not dressed," she said. Her voice was hollow.
I swallowed a mouthful of dry crust. "I'm wearing clothes. That generally counts as dressed."
"Get ready, William," she said, stepping into the room and closing the door softly. "We need to leave in twenty minutes."
"Leave for what? A fashion show for the clinically depressed?"
She stared at me, her eyes dull. "The funeral. Sasha's funeral."
Ah. My bad yo.
I paused, a piece of crust halfway to my mouth. Right. The dismembered corpse in the body bag. The reason everyone was acting like the sky had fallen.
"Right," I said, taking a bite. "That."
She walked over to the window, her back to me. "We took Yonezu to the hospital last night. The doctors said his lower spine is shattered. L4 and L5 are practically powder. The muscle strain from the voltage overload tore his trapezoids..."
She kept talking, listing medical terms she probably didn't understand. Recovery time. Rehabilitation. Permanent nerve damage.
I tuned her out. I knew what I'd done. I didn't need a diagnosis; I needed some tea.
My eyes drifted back to the TV. The anchor had stopped smiling. The graphic behind him flashed red.
BREAKING NEWS: ALBION UNDER SIEGE.
"Reports confirm that SuperiorWoman has been spotted pursuing the former hero fugitive known as 'Blazer' across the northern districts of Lunden in Albion..."
I choked on my bread.
A chuckle—rough and unintentional—scraped its way out of my throat.
I looked at the screen. There was grainy footage of a woman in a ridiculous cape flying through a cloud of smoke. SuperiorWoman. The "new paragon of virtue". The "unstoppable" force.
Useless.
I remembered her. All that power, all that grandstanding, and she couldn't even catch that prick. She was the perfect mascot for this rotting society: shiny on the outside, incompetent on the inside. Did her "mental health" thing end? I certainly hope to not meet her again.
But one thing's for certain.
"She's actually chasing him," I muttered, shaking my head. "Unbelievable. She'll probably level a city block trying to save a cat."
"William!"
The snap in Pamela's voice brought me back. I turned. She was glaring at me, hands clenched at her sides.
"Are you even listening to me?" she hissed. "Yonezu might never walk again. Sasha is dead. And you're... you're laughing at the news?"
The amusement died in my chest instantly.
I put the bread down on the table. Slowly.
The silence in the room grew heavy. The air conditioner hummed.
I took a step toward her. Just one.
"Pamela," I said. My voice dropped an octave. Cold. Flat. "Let's get one thing straight."
I walked until I was standing right in front of her. She held her ground, but I saw her pupils dilate.
"You are useful to me because of your eyes," I said softly. "Not your mouth. Do not mistake my patience for obedience. And never, ever try to give me an order again."
She didn't blink.
But then, a tremor started in her hands. It traveled up her arms, reaching her shoulders. She took a shallow breath, her lip quivering just slightly.
She looked down.
"I... I'll wait outside," she whispered.
"You do that."
I turned back to the TV, picking up my bread. I didn't watch her leave, but I heard the door click shut a little too quickly. Honestly, it was about time that I stop groveling at these women's demands. It wasn't like I had anything to hide anymore.
Still, I technically knew Sasha. We had shared oxygen for a few weeks. That usually warranted an appearance, right?
I looked down at my attire. A plain white T-shirt and black shorts I'd scavenged from the lost-and-found. It wasn't exactly funeral chic.
Oh well.
It wasn't like a bespoke suit was going to manifest out of thin air. And frankly, fuck Sasha. What had she actually done for me? She died. That was her contribution. She hadn't helped me against Zilliam; she hadn't given me answers. She just got herself bagged and tagged like a discount hero. Why should I bother honoring that level of incompetence? The dead don't care about dress codes.
I finished the bread, wiped the crumbs off my shorts, and headed downstairs.
I met Pamela at the entrance to the dorms. She was standing by the glass doors, clutching a small purse like a shield. She looked me up and down, her eyes lingering on my bare knees, but she wisely chose to keep her mouth shut.
We walked out into the morning sun. It was too bright. The kind of cheerful weather that felt insulting given the circumstances.
Aku was waiting for us at the curb, leaning against a sedan that looked like it had survived a demolition derby. The paint was peeling, revealing rusted metal underneath, and the front bumper was held on by what looked like duct tape and prayer. He himself wasn't much better, looking miserable in a suit that was two sizes too small for his broad shoulders.
I opened the door and was immediately hit by a wall of stale air—a mixture of fast food grease, old upholstery, and something that smelled suspiciously like wet dog.
"It stinks," I announced, pausing before getting in.
"You're free to walk," Aku muttered. He looked exhausted, his eyes puffy, but he still had enough teenage angst to snap back.
"I don't care enough to walk," I countered.
I slid into the seat. The springs groaned in protest, digging into my back.
"Just drive. Try not to kill us before we get to the graveyard."
The engine sputtered to life with a noise that sounded like a dying cat, and we jerked forward.
The ride was atrocious. Every pothole felt like a personal attack on my spine. We rattled our way through the city, leaving the gray, industrial depression of the Academy district behind as we headed south.
The architecture changed. The brick houses gave way to manicured lawns and glass facades. The tourist district of Concord. Bright, expensive, and fake.
We pulled into a parking lot that cost more per hour than my daily food budget. Aku killed the engine, and the car shuddered one last time before dying.
"We walk from here," Pamela said from the back seat.
We crossed the street and entered a massive park. It was impressive, I'd give them that. Towering oaks lined the path, their leaves turning gold and crimson. Families were walking dogs, couples were having picnics—completely oblivious to the three people marching toward a funeral.
"So," I said, kicking a loose pebble. "Are we burying her under an oak tree? Returning her to nature? Very pagan."
"This is just the way to the cemetery," Pamela said stiffly, staring straight ahead. "The Concord Memorial Gardens are on the other side."
"Memorial Gardens," I scoffed. "They couldn't just call it a graveyard? Had to make it sound like a theme park."
"It's respectful," Aku said.
"It's marketing," I corrected. "Death is the only industry that never sees a recession. Might as well dress it up with some hydrangeas and charge admission."
I looked around at the idyllic scenery.
"Though I suppose it's a nice place to rot. Better than the dumpster behind the Academy, anyway."
Pamela stopped walking. She turned to me, her face pale.
"Can you just... stop?" she whispered. "Just for an hour. Please."
I shrugged, adjusting my t-shirt as if pretending to care.
"I'm just making conversation." Wow! I was on a roll today. Way to go ball-blazing…
We reached the gates of the Memorial Gardens. Iron wrought into floral patterns, guarded by two stone angels that looked more bored than protective.
Inside, the crowd was smaller than I expected. A handful of people clustered around a freshly dug hole in the distance. I scanned the group. Mostly civilians—probably family or staff from the Academy. I didn't see any capes. No flashy costumes, no mournful superheroes posing for the press.
Guess she wasn't high-tier enough for the A-listers to show up.
Now that I think about it, the Academy was a bit short-staffed, wasn't it? One teacher dead, two were arrested, one was paralyzed, I think the arts teacher that Alice substituted for was still in maternity leave as I didn't see a new face… so who were left? Four teachers out of nine? The curriculum was going to shit.
We walked across the manicured grass. As we got closer, a figure detached itself from the mourners and marched toward us.
The English teacher.
She looked formidable in black, her hair pulled back so tight it probably hurt. Her eyes locked onto me, and her expression curdled.
"William," she hissed, stopping a few feet away. She gestured aggressively at my t-shirt. "What on earth are you wearing? This is a funeral, not a barbecue."
"I didn't exactly have time to shop," I said, voice flat. I pointed a thumb at Pamela, who was shrinking behind me. "I spent the night saving her life. By the time I was done, the stores were closed."
It was a lie—mostly—but it worked. The English teacher's gaze flicked to Pamela, softening slightly, before returning to me with residual disapproval.
"You could have borrowed something," she muttered, but the venom was gone.
"I'm not wearing someone else's suit," I said, stepping past her. "I have standards." Well that was a lie. Half of my recent wardrobe had been John's, but she wouldn't know that.
I moved to the back of the group, putting the English teacher between me and the open grave. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of familiar brunette hair. Alice.
John didn't seem to have cared enough to come.
She was standing near the front, also in black, her head bowed. She looked fragile.
I looked away. Not today.
A priest stepped up to the podium. He wasn't wearing the robes of Sasha's faith—whatever obscure sect that was. He was dressed in the generic, sterile white of the Unified Religion.
"Friends, colleagues," he began, his voice projected by a small microphone. "We gather here today to bid farewell to a protector of our city."
He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable.
"Regrettably, we were unable to secure a priest of the Theosian order on such short notice. However, rest assured that Sasha will be committed to the earth with the highest honors of the Unified Rite."
Budget cuts even in death, I thought. Or maybe just administrative incompetence. Or actually, Sasha was a refugee from the Tsarist Empire to the east, right? I hear that the civil war is still ongoing even after a hundred years.
The rite was long. Tedious. He droned on about the "Great Cycle" and the "Eternal Spark," reciting passages that sounded like they were written by a committee. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, watching a squirrel run up a nearby tree. The unified church was too performative. And I thought that the old venetian tradition was a bit much…
I yawned. Loudly.
A few heads turned. I ignored them.
Finally, the priest closed his book. "As we return her to the soil, we invite those who knew her to offer a final token of remembrance."
Finally.
I turned to leave, already calculating how long it would take to walk back to the car, but a hand clamped onto my wrist.
"Where are you going?" Pamela whispered. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
"Home," I said, trying to shake her off. "Show's over."
"You can't leave yet," she hissed, pulling me back. "We have to throw dirt on the coffin. It's tradition."
"I'm not throwing dirt on anything," I snapped, keeping my voice low. "I came. I stood. I yawned. My social obligations are fulfilled."
"William, please," she pleaded, her eyes wide. "Just one handful. For appearances."
I stared at her. Then I looked at the English teacher, who was watching us with narrowed eyes.
Fine.
I grabbed a handful of the loose, damp soil. It felt gritty and cold against my palm. I looked down into the hole. The casket was a polished mahogany—too expensive for a substitute teacher, but I suppose death brings out the spender in everyone.
I tossed the dirt. It hit the wood with a hollow thud.
Who killed you? I wondered, watching the dust settle. Was it a random villain? A grudge? I had to find the perpetrator before I was the next target.
I wiped my hand on my shorts, leaving a faint brown streak on the black fabric.
Doesn't matter. You're dead. I'm not.
I turned to leave, ready to put this farce behind me.
But the path was blocked.
Alice stood there. The wind caught her short brunette curls, making them dance around her face in a way that felt almost mocking—like a halo on a sinner.
She looked terrible. Her eyes were rimmed with red, deep dark circles bruising the skin beneath them. The little moons were dark. She was trembling slightly, though I couldn't tell if it was from grief or the chill in the air.
"Where were you?" she asked. Her voice was thick, wavering on the edge of tears. "You never returned... so I… I was so scared."
I raised a brow. "So you what? Assumed I died and moved on? Or just forgot I existed until it was convenient?"
I stepped around her, aiming for the parking lot.
She grabbed my wrist. Her grip was weak, desperate.
"Wait! William, please—"
Slap.
I backhanded her hand away. It wasn't a violent strike, just a sharp, dismissive swat to break the contact.
She recoiled as if I'd burned her, clutching her hand to her chest.
"You left me alone," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that only she could hear. "You left me to walk ten kilometers in the heat, half-dead from necrosis. And for what? To test me? I still don't have your trust after everything I did for you?"
I leaned in closer, letting her see the utter lack of warmth in my eyes.
"What is there even left between us, Alice? A debt? A memory? Because from where I'm standing, the account is closed."
"William, wait—" she choked out, stepping forward again.
I didn't stop. I didn't look back. Technically, my debt from killing her mentor would never be over, but I didn't owe it to her, did I?
I was surprised that she didn't try to pursue me. What about all that determination from earlier, that we would "share our burdens"? Is this all it came to? Such a weak soul. No, a coward. This was exactly why I could neve respect her...
I walked straight toward Pamela and Aku, who were waiting awkwardly by a weeping willow.
"Get moving," I said to Aku, jerking my head toward the parking lot. "You're giving me a ride to the Legion HQ. You can do at least that much for all the troubles I had at the Academy."
I marched past them, leaving Alice standing alone by the grave, a small, black figure against the gray sky.
One ghost buried. Another one left behind.
Progress.