Chapter 11: The Phantom Phone Call
The aftermath of Livewire's spectacular defeat left National City buzzing with relief and a growing fascination with its new hero. For me, it meant a new level of exhaustion, a persistent ache in my core from pushing my powers, and a subtle hum of satisfaction. I'd kept my anchor safe. That was the main thing. The Burden of Power was heavy, but the weight felt a little less crushing when I knew it had been used for good.
The D.E.O., however, wasn't resting on its laurels. My intelligence feeds (mostly a mix of discreetly tweaked public Wi-Fi signals and highly sophisticated, if ethically dubious, satellite imagery) confirmed that Alex Danvers was spearheading the "Glitch" investigation with the intensity of a bloodhound on a fresh scent. They'd even deployed a few new, rather quaint, sensors that hummed faintly as they tried to detect energy fluctuations. Cute.
"Bless their little hearts. They're trying so hard," I thought, watching a D.E.O. van, disguised as a particularly boring dry-cleaning service, drive past my mansion for the third time that hour. "They still think I'm some kind of rogue energy signature, not a sentient, sarcastic anomaly who just wants to make sure his favorite hero doesn't get zapped into oblivion." The game of cat-and-mouse was escalating, and I found a strange, almost playful enjoyment in it. It was a good distraction from the quiet, persistent ache of grief that still clung to me like a phantom limb.
My next opportunity for "chaotic helpfulness" presented itself as a series of isolated kidnappings. A low-level alien with telepathic abilities, a refugee from Fort Rozz named Jemm, was slowly making his presence known. The D.E.O. was baffled. They had no leads, no common denominators among the victims. My meta-knowledge, however, buzzed with the answer: Jemm was looking for Kryptonians. Specifically, one Kryptonian. Kara.
I couldn't just tell them. Direct information was a massive causality violation waiting to happen. It would expose me, and potentially warp the timeline in unpredictable ways. So, I needed to give them a clue. A hint. Something they would almost dismiss, but couldn't quite ignore.
The method: a phantom phone call. To CatCo, of course. Where Kara would be.
I settled into my control room (which was really just a very comfortable office chair in front of several large monitors, disguised as an antique map of the world). I opened a secure, untraceable line to CatCo's main switchboard.
[SKILL: AUDITORY ILLUSION (LVL 3). APPLICATION: VOICE MODULATION AND ENVIRONMENTAL IMPRESSION. FOCUS: CRYPTIC MESSAGE.]
I pictured the sound: a crackle of static, like a bad connection. A low hum, reminiscent of a dying alien ship. And then, a voice. Not mine, of course. Something synthesized, almost robotic, but with a faint, unsettling echo. And the message itself? Cryptic, maddeningly vague, but containing a single, crucial word: "Martian."
I modulated the voice. It had to be just right – irritating enough to be remembered, but not so clear that it sounded like a direct threat. The kind of call that would be dismissed as a prank, but would niggle at the back of a sharp mind.
I took a deep breath, focusing my intent. "Alright, phone. Time to be very, very confusing. And very, very important."
The call went through. I could hear the harried voice of a CatCo receptionist answering. "CatCo Worldwide Media, how may I direct your call?" Then, my carefully constructed illusion played out. A burst of static. "This is going to be good," I thought, a mischievous grin playing on my lips. "We have… an… anomaly," the robotic voice echoed, just loud enough to be heard over the static. "The… mind… of the Red." There was a pause, a series of distorted beeps, then a single, clear word, almost an afterthought: "Martian." Then, the line disconnected with a final, electronic squawk.
I leaned back, a low chuckle rumbling in my chest. "Martian. Red. Minds. Subtlety, thy name is Adam Stiels. Or rather, 'the Glitch.'"
The news that evening reported on the recent disappearances, with a brief mention of a "bizarre prank call" received by CatCo. But then, an almost immediate follow-up. Alex Danvers, looking utterly drained, was at a press conference. She spoke about a new lead, a "hunch" that had shifted their investigation. The missing persons had one thing in common: a specific, obscure blood type. And a very particular, almost imperceptible, residue on their clothing. "We now believe the perpetrator may be... Martian," she stated, her voice tight, "and possessing telepathic abilities."
"Bingo," I thought, raising an imaginary glass. "Someone put the pieces together. Good job, Kara. Or Alex. Or Winn. Whoever got the weird phone call and actually remembered it." I felt a quiet satisfaction. It was exhilarating, being the unseen puppet master, guiding the narrative with invisible threads. But the desire to be seen, to be known for these efforts, was a subtle ache beneath the surface. It was the Burden of Power, the silent sacrifice of recognition for the greater good. It was lonely, being the only one who truly understood the game.
[SKILL USE: AUDITORY ILLUSION. XP GAINED: 1.]