What started as a sunny day had become a rainy one. Dark clouds gathered above the slums, pouring down what I could only refer to as the tears of Ralph and other fans of the pro-hero Blackout.
Camera flashes poured in left and right. People ran helter-skelter, speaking in loud voices, but I couldn't hear a thing they were saying. My eyes were on the corpse in front of me—Blackout.
There was no pain in his eyes, no sorrow. In fact, I would say there was a tinge of excitement in his gaze as he looked toward the skies. His clothes had been shredded badly, revealing deep bloody gashes all over his body. He lay peacefully in a puddle of his own blood, marking out a territory of its own in the waterlogged streets.
Blackout was dead.
He fought the deviant, Dreamer—and lost.
The Apex agency had miscalculated by thinking Blackout could handle this task alone. Blackout had miscalculated thinking he could do this alone.
