The Machine God good

Chapter 1

Redacted

Boredom was not good for the soul. Alexander Rooke reminded himself of that every morning, but his routine was a means of survival. Of keeping the intruding need to make decisions simple and sane.

Shower. Dress. Eat. Leave.

Making his way to work through the bustling city, he sidestepped a man about to slip on some wet trash. The man hitting the pavement behind him was proof of Alexander's real problem.

He saw too much. All the little mistakes nobody else noticed. People's lack of awareness, how negligence and laziness were the acceptable standard. He'd tried pointing things out to people when he was younger, knowing they would spiral into something worse.

Most didn't appreciate being corrected and went on ignoring the problems. They called him paranoid and obsessive. He'd learned that life was easier when you kept your mouth shut and let people make their own mistakes.

Easier, but not better.

He passed a terminal screen on his way into the bustling hyperloop station.

"... some are calling it a glitch in reality," the host joked. "But reports claim a nearly fifteen percent rise in unexplained fatal accidents over the past decade. Experts are baffled."

Alexander turned away, already regretting his curiosity. He stopped just before a loose floor tile. Someone would trip on it eventually.

A shriek of metal announced the train's arrival. He adjusted his footing, keeping behind the line, but a jolt ran through the crowd and someone knocked into him with their shoulder. His shoe caught the raised edge of the tile as he stumbled forward.

The platform blurred. He reached for anything to grab hold of and found only empty air, as the rest of the crowd moved to avoid the danger.

The last thing he saw was the light rushing toward him.

I knew someone would trip on it. Just didn't expect it to be me…

Then everything went black.

Dying, Alexander decided, wasn't any better for the soul than boredom. If anything, it was just another form of emptiness. Quieter, but no less final.

Except this time, it wasn't.

Alert: Status update - Soul transfer complete.

Compatibility… 98%... Accepted.

Powers… [ REDACTED ]... Evaluating… Threat level extreme.

Alert: Santiago Systems extermination protocol in progress…

Calculating… Elimination preferable… Conflicts with First Law… Resolving… Complete.

Likelihood of subject self-destruction evaluated at 83%.

All outcomes are within acceptable limits. Reactivating implant.

Continue your Dream.

[ Santiago Systems A-1 Prisoner Brain-Computer Interface ]

New neural activity detected

Error 0404: Host signature mismatch

Link to Santiago Systems servers: Failed

Unauthorized local neural field interference detected

Motor control inhibition and cognitive containment protocols: Failed

Unidentified core firmware tampering in progress

Starting isolated operations protocol

Communications, monitoring, and control protocols: Disabled

Boot complete: Welcome to Santiago Systems A-1 Brain-Computer Interface

Host cognitive instability detected

Entering sleep mode

Pain returned first. He knew it should hurt; he'd been hit by a train, after all. But it was isolated within his skull. Cold air bit against his skin as he tried, and failed, to move.

He forced his eyes open and immediately regretted it.

White. Ceiling panels. Walls. Computer screens flashed unreadable charts. Painfully bright overhead lights. He inhaled reflexively and winced: chemicals from disinfectants and something burning clawed at his nose.

Turning his head clumsily, he could see he'd been strapped to some sort of metal tray. There were two men in clean white uniforms standing by a roaring furnace.

Oh shit, that's not just a furnace. It's a cremation chamber!

A tablet clattered to the floor.

"Shit!" the first technician explained. "He's awake!"

The second tech stumbled back against a console. "He can't be. That was a standard lethal dose!"

Alexander tried to speak and regretted that too. His throat felt raw, as if he'd been screaming for hours. Nothing came out but an unintelligible gurgle. He strained against the restraints to little effect, muscles barely responding.

The overhead medical arm hummed to life, joints whistling as it spun in erratic circles, tools snapping open and closed. Around the room, consoles flickered and buzzed with angry reds. Another blared a warning tone.

Both techs froze. Then they panicked.

"Redacted," one whispered, then shouted to the other. "Hit the button! We've gotta shut him down!"

The other scrambled to a wall panel, slamming his palm against the emergency switch.

The door burst open. A guard in black combat armor strode in, visor reflecting the sterile light. "Class R? You idiots didn't flag this?"

"He woke up on the tray!" the tech shouted. "Contain him!"

Alexander pulled against the restraints again. Metal shrieked and bent as something gave.

The guard cursed and leveled a weapon. The crack of the weapon discharging filled the room. An energy bolt slammed into Alexander's chest, pain tearing through him. His body seized, and darkness swallowed his thoughts.

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It wasn't enough.

Unconscious, his body convulsed. Lightning crawled across his skin, arcing to the walls. Consoles screamed with corrupted alerts and strobing lights. The medical arm spun wildly, slamming against its own frame.

Across the room, things lifted. Instruments, trays, chairs, tablets. Nearly everything that wasn't bolted down spun in the charged air. Even the guard staggered upward, boots dragging across the floor before lifting clear.

"Shit, shit!" He fired again, another bolt slamming into Alexander's body.

The arcs of lightning died. Gravity exerted its hold as everything crashed back down, shattering screens. Metal objects clattered and spun across the tiles. The air stank of ozone.

Alexander didn't feel the third hit.

Minutes later, the guard wheeled Alexander through a barracks. Even this late, a few guards were awake, some of them watching a superhero rom-com, others playing games on tablets. He kept his stride steady, refusing to let the tremor in his hands show.

The techs had begged him to take the prisoner to the deep cells. They'd whispered promises about clearance that would never come, about there being no record. That the man was Redacted, so he did not know of his powers, and Legal would never hear about it. How the only other option was to shove him into the furnace alive. He still heard the panic in their voices when he closed his eyes.

Pushing the gurney toward a bulkhead, the man ignored the ribbing from the others and punched in another code. Hydraulics hissed, and the thick steel door rolled open to reveal the only entrance into the prison. On the other side of the bulkhead were several more guards, though these were clad in full combat attire: black armor and helmet, with reinforced exoskeleton suits.

They were on duty, unlike the ones in the barracks.

Sitting at a console with his back to the bulkhead sat the single on-duty superhero. Even seated, he radiated a casual sense of power and authority that some superhumans were known for. The hero was focused on his tablet, not paying any attention to what was going on around him. He was just another safeguard in case the inmates below tried to become something more than just numbers in a file.

"Who's that?" one guard called out.

"Permanent resident," the escort replied, not slowing. "Headed for the deep cells. That's all I know."

The others lost interest. The superhero didn't even glance up from his entertainment.

Making his way into the prison proper, the path twisted into a spiral. The prison was designed like a massive silo. It was a vast cylindrical abyss running downward, each level a ring of cells stacked around the central shaft, with short corridors branching off at intervals like spokes on a wheel. Every cell was self-contained, tucked behind heavily reinforced doors.

There were no shortcuts. No elevators or stairs. Just the single spiralling pathway, winding all the way down through the prison.

It was almost fully automated and was one of many spread across the worlds occupied by humanity. Over sixty percent of the prisoners would never see the sun again. Every mega-corporation had at least one, built to meet strict government regulations holding each corporate entity accountable for its own superhuman experiments.

No prison was perfect, of course. That was why a contingent of superheroes was stationed above, along with a battalion of cybernetically enhanced guards spread amongst several strategically placed barracks within the Santiago Systems Research & Development facility built atop the underground prison.

Just in case.

As the guard approached the bulkhead that separated the main prison from the deep cells where sixty percent jumped to one hundred, he saw a single guard. He wore the same black armor as the rest, but had his helmet tucked under one arm.

The escort's gaze slid across the guard's face for a moment, as if his features refused to come into focus.

Then the sensation passed, replaced by easy familiarity.

"Hey, Robert!" the guard called out. "Didn't know you were down here."

Robert gave a lazy shrug. "Just filling in," he said, eyes flicking to the gurney. "What's this, then?"

"Redacted prisoner," the guard said. "No paperwork."

"Huh…" Robert said, thoughtful. "Interesting. He might be worth adding to the list."

"What list?"

Robert smiled at him. "Nothing you need to worry about," he said, stepping aside and punching in a confirmation code on the wall panel.

The guard hesitated for a heartbeat, then shrugged and pushed the prisoner into the darkness beyond. As the bulkhead sealed shut behind him with a heavy thud, dim, evenly spaced lights began flickering to life ahead.

He frowned. Who was that again?

The thought slipped away before he could catch hold of it.

Pain, heat, and weakness blurred together.

Alexander drifted in and out of consciousness, thoughts snaking and dancing around each other like twin dragons locked in combat. A corner of his mind dutifully informed him he was experiencing a fever.

He couldn't tell when or where the dreams began. Maybe they had started the moment the serum hit his veins, or maybe it was when the train crushed his body. Perhaps they'd always been there, simply waiting for him to let them in.

He was six again, cross-legged on the living room floor. Familiar, but off. Same frayed couch, same cluttered shelves, but now a sleek black screen projected a lesson on the Telashi Consortium. 2046: the year humanity joined the galactic community.

His mother called from the kitchen. He turned, expecting to see her as he remembered her—hair pulled back, tired, but smiling. She always smiled for him. Instead, she looked younger, healthier. Her left arm replaced with gleaming chrome from shoulder to fingertip, flexing with the precision that only cutting-edge cybernetics could.

The memory faded like mist before the early rays of the sun. He was thirteen now, standing in front of a holographic display at school. It was replaying the first successful injection of the newly developed superhero serum. The woman on the news lifted a burning car with one hand, cameras flashing all around her.

Alexander felt something ignite in his chest. Ambition so great it shoved every dream, every thought he'd ever had aside.

The fever burned to match the dream. Chills ran up and down his spine, while sweat beaded on his forehead.

Fifteen now. Home again, but not the same. Smoke. Sirens. Their apartment building half-collapsed, walls scorched and torn by powers that defied reality. His father's jacket hung from a stretcher. A woman's quiet voice telling him how sorry she was for his loss. He remembered this… remembered the woman's voice even. But in his memories, in his world, it had been a gas pipe explosion, not a battle between superhumans.

Sixteen. Jules. Her laugh was the same even in this reality. The way she tucked dark hair behind an ear whenever she was excited. How she understood him, his quirks, with no need for an explanation.

But when she looked at him across the diner table, a few years older now, her eyes were wet. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I can't put it off anymore. My family… This is what we do now. I have to try."

He remembered a different version of himself saying they understood. And he had, because they shared the same dream. That of being superheroes.

Nineteen now. Frank's Kits & Fix-Its. His workplace. The shelves weren't sagging in this version, but bright and polished with rows of cybernetics displayed behind clean glass. Frank stood at the counter grinning, the same dumb grin he always wore, holding up a shiny Santiago Systems prosthetic arm. "One day, kid," Frank said. "One day you'll make even me look like an amateur." Alexander had believed him. For a moment, it felt possible.

There's a sudden feeling of movement. Falling. Disorientation. A sudden flare of pain up one side of his body, followed by the seeping sensation of cold from the floor below.

Twenty-two now. A clinic room. His own hand signing a waiver on a highly advanced tablet. Being hooked up to a device that is supposed to analyze his powers as they're born, to help them develop a proper training routine. A nurse enters the room in a crisp white uniform, holding a vial filled with liquid gold.

Hope and fear war inside him.

The injection. A rush of unimaginable pain, pushed aside by the sweet succour of power. He looked at the display, waiting for it to analyze and tell him his future.

Hope wins out.

The screen clears, then flashes once with an angry red:

REDACTED.

Then… nothing. His memory ends.

Reality returns. Alexander opens his eyes, already knowing everything is wrong.

He's dressed in a traditional medical gown, feet bare, lying on his side within a dimly lit cell. Built into one wall is a basic slab for someone to sit or lay on, though it does not look long enough to stretch out. Opposite that, the wall has a small cubicle cut into it, containing a toilet. The third wall has a slim tube that runs down from the ceiling, ending with a small opening less than a pinky-finger's width, and with an equally small drainage hole in the floor below.

The last wall has a doorway. A reinforced polymer door rests in the frame, the gap barely visible to the naked eye. Above his head, the ceiling out of reach, is a single source of light emanating from some metal-shielded contraption.

Alexander stood carefully, weakness twisting from his stomach and out into his limbs. He rotated in place, checking and rechecking.

None of this makes sense.

Then he noticed it. The cold sensation at his neck, the slight tug of something that shouldn't be there. It took him a moment to process, but his hands didn't wait to reach up and confirm his suspicion. A band of smooth, seamless metal sat snug around his throat, sized perfectly as though handcrafted just for him.

Whatever it was, it wasn't coming off.

Chapter 2

The Collar

The routine Alexander had been forced into over the past several days was nothing short of torture. He couldn't say how many days had passed. The only clues came from the cell itself: the pipe embedded in the rear wall, and the toilet tucked into its shallow cubicle. Both activated on what he estimated to be an hourly schedule.

He'd started counting the subtle vibrations that preceded each cycle. A few seconds later, a thin stream of watery slop would spit from the pipe. The toilet flushed at the same moment. He'd managed to count past a hundred of those intervals before losing track somewhere along the way.

The constant pressure to be ready, awake or not, was grinding him down. Sleep came in snatches. Never deep enough, never long enough. He'd started dreaming strange things: fractured images of streets he didn't recognize, faces that spoke in static, machines that bled. Each time he surfaced from sleep, his heart was already pounding, unsure if he'd missed the slop.

That had to be intentional. Not just to keep him fed, but to drain him. Break his spirit. Disrupt any sense of control or reason. Strip away his sanity until all that remained was a starving, desperate animal.

Maybe I'm already crazy.

The thought came uninvited, but it wasn't unfamiliar. Easier, in some ways, than believing he'd died and awakened in some alternate timeline. Same body, just younger. And in a world where aliens and superhumans existed.

Alexander laughed under his breath. The sound echoed off the cell walls, sharp and lonely.

But the memories feel real.

Too real. The events were too detailed, too nuanced, almost like warped reflections of the ones he thought were his.

Assuming they're even mine.

"Enough," he snapped, driving a fist into the wall. Pain jolted up his arm. "I'm not losing my mind. It's the isolation. That's all this is. I'll figure it out."

A soft buzz scratched at the base of his skull, almost tickling his ears. It had started a few days earlier. At first, he'd blamed the flickering light above, but he soon realized it wasn't an electrical malfunction. It was in his head.

The buzzing faded slowly, replaced by a pressure that pulsed through his skull. He clutched his ears on instinct, even though it made no difference.

Maybe he'd suffered a traumatic brain injury. That would explain the buzzing. The confusion. The feeling that reality was stretched thin at the edges.

He reached for the collar again. Fingers slid under the smooth, metallic band around his neck. He tugged and twisted. Nothing. Frustrated, he used both hands, pulling until the muscles in his arms shook and his neck screamed in protest.

The buzzing surged in response. Sharper and more aggressive. Pain spiked behind his eyes and coiled into the base of his skull. He let go with a gasp, vision swimming.

Alexander's eyes snapped open upon hearing vibrations. He stepped toward the pipe out of reflex, then stopped.

No, I am in control. It is my choice.

He stepped away and lay down on the slab instead, curling his legs to fit the space designed to be just a little too short. The slop spilled and drained away without him.

It was a pointless act of rebellion. But it was his, and that mattered.

He startled awake to the next vibration. His body moved before his mind caught up. Another hour gone. The constant disruptions kept him from proper rest, but missing the regular slop delivery would slowly lead to worse malnutrition and dehydration.

There was no good choice.

He stood with a groan and shuffled over to the pipe, just in time to cup his hands and catch the thin stream of chalky liquid. He drank it without thinking.

Still a choice. Still mine to make.

Sitting back on the slab, he rubbed sleep from his eyes and forced himself to breathe. A slow, intentional inhale through the nose. A measured exhale through the mouth.

He tried to thread the two lives together. The one he remembered, and the one this body had supposedly lived. They didn't match, but the dissonance no longer surprised him.

This is real. Whether I understand it or not.

He looked down at his hands. Wrong. Younger, and with fewer scars and calluses than he remembered. They'd been proof of the years he'd spent working with machines.

It couldn't be madness. It had to be something else. But if it wasn't madness, then what was left?

Something impossible.

He maintained his controlled breathing. Gradually, and for the first time since he'd awoken on the tray heading for cremation, he felt clarity return.

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Santiago Systems A-1 Brain-Computer Interface

Status: Sleep Mode

The words weren't spoken, but he heard them. They formed within his thoughts like a notification appearing on a mental screen.

ALERT: Host Cognitive Stability Detected

Reinitializing Core Functions…

Alexander swallowed, throat dry.

I didn't imagine it. It's some sort of brain implant.

He felt pressure bloom at the base of his skull. Reaching back, he found a soft bit of fake flesh that gave way, revealing something hard and artificial beneath.

Memories surfaced. The waiver. Anaesthesia. An implant. They'd said it would help him master his powers, that they were standard for everyone receiving the serum.

They lied.

It was to control me if I got powers they didn't like.

Scratching gently, the skin gave way to reveal a metallic port, some kind of physical interface for the implant to be seated in. The skin closed back around it easily as a wave of discomfort washed over him.

External Device Detected

Designation: Santiago Systems X-3 CTE Collar

Status: Active

ERROR 0525: Connection Request Denied.

BCI Operating in Isolated Mode.

Authorize Command and Control Link to Collar?

Alexander clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, and tried one last time to wake up in a less crazy reality. Nothing changed when he opened them.

CTE. Containment? Termination? Enforcement?

It could be a bomb collar. He'd considered it from the moment he found the damn thing around his neck, likening it to some of his favorite movies. But if superpowers really existed, maybe the collar suppressed those instead.

Maybe it does both.

He hesitated to answer. Was it voice activated? Did he need to subvocalize? What if establishing a connection was enough to set off the bomb collar? If it were a bomb collar.

It's totally a bomb collar. I'm calling it right now.

"Authorized," he rasped, wincing at the potential explosion.

Authorized Received

Connection Established

Collar Slaved to Host Implant

Operations:

Diagnostics

Interface

Deactivate

Alexander swallowed, considering each line carefully. He stifled the urge to select option three.

It's possible that deactivating it will raise an alarm somewhere.

"Diagnostics."

Status Report: Santiago Systems X-3 CTE Collar

Mode: Active Containment

Containment Field: Enabled

Power Suppression: Maximum

Locator Beacon: Online

Biometric Telemetry: Streaming

Failsafe: Armed

Remote Override: Enabled

Recommendation: Disable Failsafe and Remote Override

It's giving me advice now? Some sort of onboard intelligence?

Alexander exhaled, not realizing he'd been holding his breath. The device was everything he'd feared. 'Failsafe' obviously meant 'necktie explosive'.

And leaving anyone with a remote trigger? No thanks.

That meant he needed to shut down the remote override first, just in case anything else tripped an alarm. Then he could disable the failsafe, and finally the suppression. Assuming everything went to plan, he could leave the tracking and data feeds to make it look like things were operating normally.

And if they do detect something is wrong, someone's going to have to come down and fix it. That'd be an opportunity too.

"Interface," Alexander commanded with a whisper. "Then disable the remote override, the failsafe, and the suppression. In that order."

Warning: Disabling power suppression will trigger an automatic alert.

Authorize Alert Suppression?

It hadn't escaped his notice that the implant was growing more coherent over time.

"Yes, do it. And keep everything else reporting normally."

For a few heartbeats, Alexander wondered if he'd just made a fatal mistake.

Remote Override: Disabled

Failsafe: Disabled

Power Suppression: Disabled

188 Alerts Suppressed

Alexander barely had time to process the final line of the implant's report before the sensation struck.

He was being watched. The certainty that washed over him was like nothing he'd ever felt before. It was the type of knowledge people just had. Like knowing the sun would rise. Or that he had to inhale and exhale to survive another minute.

His eyes lifted instinctively to the ceiling fixture. It was a squat, reinforced light encased in mesh. He'd looked at it a hundred times before without thinking, but this time he felt it.

I'm not paranoid. And I'm definitely not crazy.

He snorted.

Okay, so I might be a little crazy. I am talking to myself, after all.

Alexander forced himself to breathe and slowly looked away from the device. He might have already given himself away, but it couldn't hurt to pretend. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to relax and waited to see if the sensations would fade.

It did not. If anything, the absence of his eyesight sharpened his new awareness. It was almost as if he could reach out and touch the device, tracing its form behind the armored mesh. Above it, and running up into the ceiling, he felt a pulse… almost like a heartbeat, occurring in intervals too precise to be random.

He kept his eyes closed and stood, carefully stepping from one side of the cell to the other. As he did, he felt the device tracking his motion. It wasn't the device moving physically, but something inside of it. Deeper. Like an algorithm adjusting its focus as he moved about.

It's a camera… and I can feel it watching me, sense the data packets it's sending out, and maybe the current feeding into it.

Alexander took another breath, this one almost ragged. No matter how much he'd hoped this was a temporary delusion, that perhaps he was having some coma dream and would wake up in a hospital any moment, he couldn't deny the truth any longer.

With the power suppression disabled, some part of his mind that had been shackled burst to life. And with it came a sense of familiarity.

And a name.

Technopathy.

Chapter 3

When the Sky Shattered

SIX WEEKS LATER

Specter whistled tunelessly, helmet tucked under his arm, as he made his way towards the uppermost level of the prison. It was ironic to him that wearing the black helmet, with its intimidating black face guard, made it harder for him to slip through the prison unnoticed. Two of his powers didn't really work properly if his face couldn't be seen.

He'd spent the last few months in this shithole, and he was ready for today's epic conclusion.

Though he could have gotten the job done quicker, he'd erred on the side of caution. A wise decision, he knew, especially with at least one Tier 3 superhero sitting pretty in the facility built above the prison. He didn't know which it was; the risk of finding out hadn't been worth the payoff. That didn't make it any less frustrating.

Clicking his tongue in annoyance, Specter mentally recited a mantra to bring himself back to a calm baseline. This was not the time to set his emotions free.

So what if it had taken longer? He had pulled off the greatest infiltration ever.

He had slipped into one of the oldest and most secure prisons built to house those with the Will. The place was a monument to bureaucratic efficiency and corporate cruelty: twenty levels arranged around a central shaft, each ring of the spiral lined with sixty cells spaced evenly, packed so tight there was barely a corridor between the doors. From every level, narrow halls stretched out like the spokes of a wheel, crammed with even more reinforced doors.

He'd spent weeks mapping every corridor and blind spot, recording the precise spatial coordinates of hundreds of cells holding their targets. Well, just the ones worth recruiting or rescuing.

Each level held well over a hundred cells, and thousands of people were locked away in this place. Forgotten. Out of sight. So the rest of the galaxy could sleep at night, pretending they didn't exist.

And in just a few minutes, he'd be transmitting that data to the star of today's show.

This was the day they became legends! What they were about to pull off would be the talk of the galaxy for years to come!

Specter clicked his tongue again, returning to his mantra. It had been too long since he killed someone. That's what it was.

His abilities weren't perfect, and no one knew their limits better than he did. Once the forensic technicians and superheroes with sensory or specialized abilities started examining the incident to come, even he would be outed. They'd never see him directly, but the sheer number of strange glitches in the recordings, combined with survivor testimonials, would be evidence enough that Specter had been here.

He didn't mind the infamy, even if the name wasn't one he'd picked himself. The media had called him that during his petty larceny days.

He approached the final bulkhead and felt the first flicker of unease.

The squad of cybernetically enhanced guards stood exactly where he'd expected, rifles strapped across their chests. But the man sitting behind the secondary biometric terminal was all wrong.

He knew the guard rotations by heart. He'd planned this moment for months, carefully avoiding this exact scenario.

He should have been looking at a combat specialist. Someone strong, bored, and content to rely on the scanners. Instead, the man in the chair was slim, with eyes focused on every readout. A sensory type.

Specter slowed just a half-step, then corrected. It wouldn't be enough to draw attention, he hoped.

"Evenin'," he said, his voice a practiced drawl.

The sensor didn't reply, simply regarding him. Specter felt a tingle run across his skin. A probe, subtle, but not enough to escape his notice. Apparently happy with what he'd gleaned, the sensor grunted and looked back to the console.

The bulkhead split apart with a hydraulic sigh. It was way better maintained than the one to the deep cells. Thinking about the deep cells caused familiar frustration to reignite. In the end, he hadn't been able to work out a way inside that section of the prison without scrutiny. Another risk that hadn't been worth the potential pay-off; those in the deep cells were probably all unstable psychopaths anyway.

Specter passed through, stride lengthened, mantra forgotten. He was so close.

On the other side of the bulkhead was the guard's barracks, with that quiet, regimented hush that came from long habit rather than discipline. Rows of lockers gleamed, and a handful of off-duty guards lounged at the far end watching the holo. None of them glanced up as he passed by.

Beyond lay the main hall: a broad corridor stretching hundreds of meters, and lined with reinforced doors and the occasional side hallway. He could see the control center's sign at the other end. Almost there.

He was several impatient paces down the hall when he heard the barracks door open again behind him.

"Hold up," a voice called, closer than he expected. He didn't seem suspicious. Yet.

Specter didn't slow, pretending he didn't hear, but quickly evaluated his options. His breathing slowed, every heartbeat measured, the previous emotion replaced with the cold, calm precision of a practiced killer.

Footsteps followed behind him, quick and purposeful. He knew it had to be the sensory superhero.

"Hey," the man called again, voice casual but focused. "Just gimme a sec, alright?"

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Specter stopped, turning calmly to face the man. "Oh, you were talking to me?"

The sensor jogged the last few steps to catch up, his breath hitching from the exertion.

Limited physical capability.

"Yeah, listen, it's probably nothing, but I gotta scan you again. I caught a weird echo as you left."

Specter tilted his head, feigning confusion. "An echo?"

The sensor nodded. "Like I said. I'm sure it's nothing. Just need to re-scan you." He gestured to the doorway of a nearby maintenance cubicle. "Look, let's just step in here."

Specter followed his gaze. It was a gamble. The main hall had cameras every 10 meters. Inside might have personnel.

He nodded. "Sure."

The door hissed open on approach. They stepped into a small four-desk office, empty but for the two of them.

As the door hissed closed, Specter struck without hesitation. One step forward. A single, precise thrust of the hardened plastic blade he'd kept hidden in his sleeve. The sensor's eyes widened, his last words lost forever.

He lowered the body to the floor, hand on the man's chest until the heart pumped its last. Only then did he allow the tremor to take over his hand. It really had been too long.

He wiped the blade on the dead man's uniform before concealing it as he considered his options. There could be no more mistakes.

He had seven minutes from the moment the upload completed to get clear.

It would take thirty seconds to reach the command room from here, and less than a minute to punch in the commands and complete the upload.

The sensor's extended absence would be noticed in minutes. Hiding the body properly was impossible. The cameras would still show him entering. The corpse would be tracked down no matter what.

Decision made, Specter stepped out and resumed his measured stride, heartbeat steady.

The door to the control center hissed open, a wash of muted voices and electronic noise spilling into the hall.

The control center was a half circle of holoscreens and terminals. He'd studied every detail, knew what each workstation's purpose was, where the redundancies and backups were, and had long since secured the authorization he'd need for just this moment.

He made his way to the secondary comms console and entered the stolen credentials. He slotted his wrist tablet into the terminal and ran the memorized command line. The interface lit up, the upload initiated.

Specter took a moment to look around the room. Not one of them knew they were about to experience the worst moment of their lives, if they even survived. The terminal beeped once. Upload complete. He swiped the wrist tablet, pivoted, and exited the command center.

Seven minutes. Enough, if there were no more mistakes.

The man sat cross-legged atop the starship's hull, his form dwarfed by the armored vessel. Mars curved towards a distant horizon above him, the once completely red planet now dotted with domes of encased greenery. The sun's rays caused shimmering golden waves to ripple through a nascent atmosphere.

If anyone were watching the scene, he might have appeared patient and calm.

He was anything but.

A barrier encased his body, containing his body's internal pressure and enough of the life-giving gases needed to survive being in space. He could feel the constant push, as they tried to escape his shield and disperse into the emptiness of the void around him.

Absolute Barrier was not so easily broken. It was an extension of his Will, and maintaining it was as simple as breathing.

His implant pinged, notifying him that a transmission had been received by the ship's computers.

Specter's timing was perfect, as always. Three and a half minutes from upload to receipt. The time it took for the transmission to beam directly from Earth to his distant Mars orbit. Another two to decrypt.

He exhaled softly, releasing tension in his neck and shoulders. A slow breath to steady himself.

The data unfolded itself in layers within his mind's eye. Coordinates, schematics, and personnel manifests. Most of it was irrelevant now. Specter had always been thorough, though. He closed his eyes and focused, committing the coordinates of each cell to memory, relying on the implant to manage the data.

Then he opened his eyes and lifted his gaze to look beyond Mars' horizon. There, far in the distance, was a spot of light amidst the dark: Earth. Waiting and unaware.

That was about to change.

Shifting his weight forward, he rose with a single fluid motion, the pull of Mars assisting him. Finishing the routine, he tensed and relaxed the muscles in his legs.

The surrounding barrier pulsed, reinforced with a thought. With another he seized the starship in an invisible grip. Metal groaned beneath the sudden pressure, the sound lost to space.

The space around him flickered and twisted.

In the beginning, he could only teleport himself. He had long since mastered the power, though. The ship rode with him, a leviathan wrenched across the void in a single impossible instant.

Atmosphere screamed at the sudden intrusion of mass as they reappeared, suspended a mere thousand meters over the prison facility. The sky fractured in a thunderous shockwave, alarms already wailing below.

He floated clear of the ship, telekinetically pulling on his barrier to mimic flight.

He extended one hand towards the starship, forming a spear-shaped barrier around it, stretching out in front like a vanguard. The ship would add crucial mass to his shield.

He grasped with his other hand towards the prison, reaching down through concrete, steel, and rock, feeling for the marked cells. Hundreds of separate threads of Willpower slipped from his outstretched hand and into the prison's depths, wrapping near-invisible barriers around cramped cells. Even finer strands of force coiled around the bomb collars locked to the throats of the cell's occupants, ready to smother any explosive failsafe.

He'd worked hard to accomplish this level of control over his abilities. Years of hardship and sacrifice would culminate in this glorious moment.

For a few heartbeats, he simply studied the complex below. They knew that there would be at least one powerful superhero on duty, a Tier 3 like himself, but they hadn't known which. He couldn't see them yet. It was disappointing, really. He'd expected better.

Then he drove his hand down. The starship plunged toward the facility below, faster than gravity alone could manage.

The impact came as a single, blinding explosion. Glass erupted. Steel fractured. Concrete sheared open in a wave of flame and wreckage. The prison cracked to its foundation; many of the unshielded cells ruptured instantly.

Before the dust could settle, he pulled. The ship wrenched free of the crater, trailing concrete and other debris behind it.

In the same instant, the barriers he'd anchored around each of the cells flexed. Doors exploded from their hinges. Bomb collars ripped free and crumpled with a flex of his Will.

The ship settled onto a damaged stretch of the parking lot, crushing vehicles beneath. He hadn't finished with the stolen starship just yet; it was a necessary component of their escape plan.

Hovering above in silence, he watched as emergency lights flickered to life. Below, survivors were desperately struggling to save friends crushed beneath the wreckage. Others wandered about, dazed and confused.

The attack had not gone as flawlessly as he'd envisioned. Fighting free of the collapsed building, several heroes flew up to meet him; others spread out to help the mundane humans.

It hardly mattered. They had accounted for every possibility. Now, it was time to see which plans survived first contact with the enemy.

Chapter 4

No More Chains

Alexander no longer bothered counting the days. Exhaustion had taken up permanent residence in his bones, and his routine, if it could be called that, had long since turned into something others might call madness. Still, it had kept him grounded. For a time.

He broke each day into three activities.

Sleep. Exercise. Meditate.

Each activity revolved around the slop delivery pipe. During his sleep, it was a repetitive disruption, never allowing him a proper night's rest. During exercise, it gave him an excuse to stop. During his training, it was a welcome challenge in splitting his attention.

And he spent most of his time with his Technopathy. He'd worked hard, pushing himself to his limits, trying to meditate as a way to disguise what he was doing from the camera.

He wasn't much better at meditation than he was at motivating himself to exercise, if he were being honest.

The first few days after the discovery of his superpower were full of excitement, if you ignored the moments of existential crisis at least. Each day brought advancement as he stretched his senses further, deeper into the rocky ceiling above, tracing the pulsing signals. Alexander imagined himself reaching a console or a comms device and summoning help.

But then his progress slowed to a crawl. It felt like he'd hit some sort of soft cap in his reach, with each hour of effort yielding less than the one before. It was disheartening, but he kept pushing. Not like he had many other options.

Days after that, Alexander had concluded that it would take his lifetime to make enough progress to reach anything of significance. So he took a break and tried something else. Something that made him question his sanity.

He tried talking to his implant.

And at first its responses had excited him. He allowed hope to convince him that there was more, that his suspicions were correct… but in the end, Alexander realized the implant wasn't intelligent. Smart, certainly, and capable of inferring from his own speech and subvocalized commands how to better communicate with its host, even how to make recommendations based on his given intent, but there was nothing more than that.

Then, lying there under the weight of his own helplessness, he'd come up with an idea of how he might push his ability further. The suppression collar. Even while it had been active, Alexander could occasionally sense something beyond it. Muted and random noise, perhaps, but something.

That's how Alexander found himself weeks later, seated in the middle of his cell, pushing the limits of his Technopathy against the collar at nine percent of its maximum suppression. He could feel the camera just out of reach. Breaking through each escalating level of suppression had been hard-fought, but each tiny victory sparked new hope that he might eventually find a way out.

His concentration broke when the vibrations started. Confused, he glared at the slop pipe.

It hasn't been an hour yet, has it?

The vibrations in the pipe intensified. Something sprinkled into his hair. He looked up and caught an eyeful of dirt and dust for his effort.

"Shit!" He staggered upright, rubbing at his eyes with filthy hands.

The ground quaked beneath him.

He reached out for balance and found the damn pipe again. The entire cell shook, throwing him sideways. His shoulder slammed into the wall with a crunch.

He blacked out.

Alexander woke to pain.

He rolled over and gasped, drawing a reflexive breath as his ribs protested. Scanning the cell, he realized he had landed partway across the slab. Reaching back, he found sticky dampness. Bringing his hand back around, he saw blood.

Perfect. A concussion's exactly what I need right now.

His eyes flicked around the cell, dazed. The slab beneath him. Hateful pipe. A cracked toilet stall. Everything was where it should be.

Even the door with the crack of light shining through.

His thoughts ground to a halt. Wait. Light?

Alexander froze, staring at the crack beneath the cell door. The frame had bent slightly, and the bottom right corner was ajar.

His mind kicked back into gear. He scrambled for the door, forcing his fingers into the gap, trying to push or pull; anything to get the door open, but it barely shifted.

Still, the cool air brushing across his face felt like a miracle. He drew in a deep breath, savoring the sharp, clean bite of it. It was the first he'd tasted in what felt like forever.

Then came the screaming.

Somewhere near, someone shrieked as though they were dying. Coming from the other direction, he heard the unmistakable sound of combat.

Alexander hesitated. A choice stretched out before him: the safety of his cell, or chasing the possibility of freedom where people were screaming for their lives and maybe even fighting to the death.

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Yep. Easy choice.

Alexander pressed his shoulder into the damaged door and pushed with all his weight. Muscles and bones ached in protest, pain radiating from damaged shoulders and crashing against his skull with each heaving breath.

The reinforced polymer groaned but refused to move.

Repositioning, he wedged a knee against the frame for leverage, and pushed again. Dark spots danced across his eyes, followed by a crack; something popped in his shoulder, pain blurring his vision.

He slumped forward, knees striking the ground, and pressed his face against the cold, unfeeling jailer that was the cell door. The taste of copper and dust filled his mouth.

"No," he rasped, banging his head against the door once. "This might be my only chance."

Alexander pushed himself to his feet. He studied the door and changed his approach. This time, he hooked his fingers into the gap, drew in a painful breath, and pulled.

Every muscle in his arms and back protested. He ignored the warning signs, signals screaming all the way to his brain. His hands, slick with sweat, slipped, skin tearing against the jagged edge of the door.

He ignored the pain, refusing to give up.

With a tortured shriek, the door shifted a fraction of an inch. It was enough.

Alexander shoved the tip of his foot into the gap and braced it against the frame, pulling with everything he had. The door held fast, and for a moment he imagined it would defeat him.

Then it relented all at once. He stumbled backwards as the door bent just enough for the locking mechanism to slip, then collapsed to his knees panting. His hands were slick with blood, droplets falling to the dusty floor.

Alexander didn't even notice. All that mattered was the open doorway before him. Standing, he shuffled forward and quickly checked both directions. To his left, the hallway stretched out into darkness, flickering emergency lights ending abruptly partway down the slope. There were more cells, some with buckled and cracked doors. Others still sealed.

Something worried him more than the shadows that felt like it would swallow him, more than even the silence that had replaced the screaming and sounds of combat. There was a weight in the air, in his mind, something pressing down on his awareness the more he looked into the inky darkness.

With great effort, he tore his eyes away from it and checked the other direction, tracing the gentle incline.

That way, the hallway ended at the remains of a heavy bulkhead door. Whatever had caused it, the earthquake had mangled the frame so thoroughly that the tons of steel now hung loose, a single twisted hinge holding it together.

His breath caught. Beyond it, Alexander saw something he'd almost forgotten. Filtering through layers of dust and wreckage was a shaft of golden light.

Sunlight. There's a way out!

The thought felt as unreal as everything else he'd endured since waking in this forsaken place. He risked another look into the darkness, considering the possibility that someone might still be alive down there. Perhaps trapped like he had been, or passed out from the quake. Part of him wanted to call out, to help if he could.

Another part of him disagreed. Save yourself first, idiot.

Alexander shook his head and reached for the collar, fingers brushing across the smooth surface. He'd kept it on for good reasons, but it no longer served any purpose.

"Deactivate the collar," Alexander said, commanding. He'd learned over the past few weeks that his power flowed more naturally when he wielded it with proper intent. The implant had proven to be nothing more than a conduit for his own… authority, for lack of a better word. He had to mean the command, not just say or think it.

For that reason, he ignored the implant's readout. He could already feel the power working its way through the device. There was a single beep, followed by a click, before the collar released its grip on his throat and clattered to the ground.

He didn't look back.

Stumbling forward, his body and mind rebelled against the fatigue that had built up over weeks of captivity. This was not the time to lose his focus.

Crossing through the ruined bulkhead, Alexander felt cold air flow over him. The air in the hallway he'd just left, and his cell for that matter, had been oppressively still and warm, the kind of engineered discomfort meant to keep prisoners disoriented and compliant.

But here the air moved. It billowed up from deeper down the central shaft, carrying a chill with it that sent goosebumps running up his arms. His bare feet met the cold polymer of the fractured walkway, bolted to rough natural rock and spiraling up the central shaft. At least in places where it hadn't been shattered or sheared away. There were short hallways branching off at intervals, like spokes in a wheel, though the emergency lighting appeared to only run along the walls of the main path.

From what he could see, the lowest levels of the prison seemed less affected by both the initial earthquake and the chaos that was clearly still going on above him. He could hear distant shouting and the rhythmic crack of weapons fire, but down here amid the pulsing red lights, there was mostly silence.

Alexander started jogging, weaving around collapsed railings and debris. As he went, his eyes scanned the wreckage, looking for a weapon or anything that might give him an edge. Though he found nothing of use, he couldn't help but wonder if this incident was not actually a natural occurrence. He'd passed several cells with doors that had clearly been blown open from the inside.

It looked more like a coordinated breakout.

After completing one rotation, he risked a glance up the central shaft.

Higher up, movement flickered behind the rails. There were prisoners in classic orange prison jumpsuits jumping across gaps, black-armored guards in tight formations firing at anything that moved. Then a shape blurred overhead, trailing flame in their wake before vanishing from view.

A superhero.

There's probably more than one too. This place is clearly built to hold people with powers.

Halfway around the second level, he saw the guard.

The man lay slumped against the wall, near an open cell. His armor was cracked and shattered up one side, helmet missing. One arm was bent at such an unnatural angle beneath him that Alexander winced just from seeing it.

For a moment, the man appeared dead. Alexander approached carefully, assessing. Then he saw the guard's chest move and heard the shallow, ragged breaths. Unconscious.

Working quickly, he stripped a wrist tablet from the man's forearm, sliding it over his own. He felt his implant's query more than he read it, requesting authorization to connect to the new device. Alexander approved, then instructed it to scan for open comms channels.

Static-laced voices overlapped in a mess of tactical reports and shouted orders, though relayed through his implant rather than out loud. It was feeding the sounds to him through bone conduction, subtle vibrations along his skull, audible only to him.

Good. I'm going to need all the information I can get.

Alexander turned his attention to the guard's boots next. They looked to be a size too large, but… beggars can't be choosers. He worked them free, and pulled the first boot on, laces rubbing painfully against his wounded palm.

The guard's hand lashed out, clamping around his wrist.

Alexander choked out a yelp, embarrassingly high-pitched, and quickly tried to rip his arm free.

The guard's bloodshot eyes stared up at him.

"You—" the man began, voice gurgling.

Their eyes locked, both frozen in shock.

Chapter 5

Pick On Someone Your Own Size

Alexander hesitated, inexperience costing him the initiative.

The guard's foot lashed out, slamming into his shin. Pain flared, and his leg slipped out from under him. He hit the ground hard, jarring the shoulder wound he'd already half-forgotten.

He scrambled backwards, but the guard lunged, dragging himself forward with a single good arm. If he hadn't known better, Alexander might have thought the man was a zombie. The movement was clumsy, one side of his body hanging limp, but the man came for him with sheer determination, appearing unstoppable.

Think! Move!

Alexander kicked at the man's face. For a moment, he even thought he'd connect. Until the guard's hand caught his foot and twisted. Pain raced up his leg as his ankle bent in a way that it wasn't meant to.

Alexander gasped, vision going white at the edges. Instinct took over. He lashed out with his free leg, heel connecting with something solid. The guard grunted. His grip faltered, but he refused to let go.

Panic spiked. Alexander clawed at the floor for leverage, fingers scraping uselessly across the polymer and leaving a streak of blood from his wounded hand.

The guard dragged himself closer, pulling Alexander's trapped leg under him. The details of his face were vivid now, the crusted blood in the man's hair, the set of his jaw… the malice in his eyes.

If he gets on top of me…

He cut the thought short. Bracing against the floor, Alexander lifted his hips and kicked with everything he had. This time his heel smashed into the guard's nose with a sharp crunch.

The man's grip slackened. A wet sound escaped his throat, and then he slumped face-first onto the walkway.

Alexander didn't pause. He yanked his leg free and crawled backward until his shoulders met the railing. His lungs pumped harder than they ever had, dragging in air to feed burning muscles and a pounding heart.

He'd survived his first fight. It didn't feel like it, but the proof lay in front of him.

When the tremor in his hands eased, he crawled forward and pressed two fingers against the man's throat. There was a pulse. Alive, but out cold.

With clumsy fingers, he retrieved the other boot and laced them both up. Looking down at himself, he let out a laugh.

I almost feel overdressed. The combat boots really complement the dirty medical gown.

Turning back to the guard, he scanned for anything useful. Strapped to the man's waist was exactly what he needed: a stun baton.

Perfect.

He forced himself to move. Every step sent an ache from his shin, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on. The ankle of the other leg was worse, each throb a threat that it would give out if he misjudged his footing.

But he could walk. Running was another matter.

The boots were loose, but better than bare feet. He pulled the stun baton free as he passed the guard, testing the weight and triggering it once to make sure it still worked.

He climbed three more levels without incident, stepping around bodies in various states. Guards had been crushed by debris, prisoners with blackened burns from energy weapons. Cell doors randomly alternated between buckled or missing entirely, and those that remained sealed. Down the side corridors, he could hear prisoners pounding on cell doors and shouting to be let out.

Alexander paused to listen to the comms chatter

"—repeat. All—active—heroes in the vicinity—report to—command priority—prison containment breach—"

A braided cable dangling alongside the railing caught his attention. It swayed gently in place. At first, he assumed it was part of the debris hanging from overhead. Then he saw the small mechanical device attached to a harness.

Some kind of powered harness.

The term was stuck on the tip of his tongue. He'd seen them used in action movies, soldiers leaping from hovercraft.

Rappelling. Or fast-roping?

Etched along the casing was a familiar logo: Santiago Systems R-2 Auto-Winch Harness.

Of course it is. Is there anything in this bloody place that doesn't belong to them?

As the adrenaline ebbed, fatigue washed back over him in force. With it came frustration and a simmering anger. Hunger gnawed at his insides, and he'd been fending off the growing dizziness ever since he started pushing himself, jogging and fighting for his life. Muscles trembled from exertion.

The comms suggested the worst of the fighting had spilled out into some above-ground facility. Inside the prison, guards were pushing down level-by-level, rounding up the last of the escapees.

He shook his head and refocused. This was his chance to skip the fighting and chaos going on just a few levels above.

Gripping the stun baton in his left hand, Alexander took the harness in his injured right.

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Access denied: User ID mismatch. No override authority granted.

"Override," he muttered, pushing intent through his power.

Nothing happened.

His breath caught. His heart thudded. Pain screamed through every limb. Something inside him snapped.

"Override!" The word tore out of him as he hammered his will into the device.

The harness lurched and shot upward, his vision blurring. Blood-slicked fingers slipped as he fought to hold on. His ankle cracked against the railing, then he was dangling over empty air.

The winch didn't slow.

Air roared past him as levels blurred one into the next, lit by weapons fire and muzzle flashes. His focus narrowed until there was nothing else but the pain in his hand and burning muscles in his arm. Letting go now wasn't an option.

The stun baton remained clenched in his other hand, as if surrendering it now would mean giving up what little control he'd gained during his escape.

Freedom was close. And getting closer every second.

A sudden jolt. The winch stopped so hard he almost lost his grip. His knees slammed into the railing where the cable ended at a motor housing bolted into polymer and rock.

He swayed, breathing hard. If he'd thought his ankle hurt before, it was nothing compared to the pain signals screaming up his leg now. Muscles shook from overexertion, seconds from giving up.

He hooked an elbow over the railing, dragged himself up, chest scraping across rough metal. It dug into his ribs. He growled through gritted teeth and heaved himself over, collapsing onto the walkway.

He didn't get a chance to rest.

Heavy footsteps stopped a meter away. Alexander looked up, trying to brace against the railing.

A bald, muscular man stared down at him. Armored from the waist down in scavenged gear, the rest of him was bare and caked in blood and grim. A collar circled his neck.

He shifted his grip on a stolen rifle, presumably empty, as the guy tossed it aside. His stance shifted.

"Wait—" Alexander rasped as the man lunged.

The baton was ripped from his hand in a single motion. Before he could react, it had been jammed against his neck.

The prisoner leaned in close, sneering.

Alexander shoved with both hands, panic driving him.

The baton crackled. He braced for the agony, mind recoiling at the threat of yet another pain.

Instead, the shock was no worse than static from a carpet. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw sparks dance across the man's chest where his hands made contact.

The prisoner flew backward, hitting the wall with a heavy thud and crumpling to the ground.

Alexander slumped against the railing, breathing ragged. The baton lay next to the prisoner's outstretched hand.

Must have run out of charge.

He didn't have the energy to think about it.

Dragging himself upright, he limped onward. The winch had brought him closer, but cost him the remainder of his strength. Running was gone from the list of options, if his ankle would have even allowed it.

He circled the prison one final time, head low. Light flared in the shadows of the lower floors, followed by the crack of weapons fire. Sometimes, muffled screams rose with it.

The walkway felt endless.

How long has it been since I escaped? Fifteen minutes? Twenty?

It felt like a lifetime. Pain and exhaustion twisted his sense of time. He let out a short, painful laugh.

I really need people to stop trying to kill me. Just let me limp away in peace, damn it.

At last, the main bulkhead loomed ahead. What remained of it. A gaping breach split the reinforced entryway, the metal warped and rock shattered. Beyond, the facility above had been torn apart, though emergency lights still flickered amidst the wreckage.

There was no clear path. Just debris, twisted piping, and dangling wiring that he would have to navigate to proceed.

He swallowed, weighing the risk to his ankle. Waiting here wasn't an option. Turning back even less so.

Old instincts kicked in, pushing down the panic. He measured the slope and tested his balance before beginning the climb. Each step was deliberate, but even then his hands slipped more than once. He pressed on, dragging himself to the top.

Finally, he stumbled through a shattered office, down a half-collapsed corridor, and stepped into a wider hall. Every door looked the same in the flickering light.

Where are the emergency maps? What happened to the good old classic neon green exit signs?

He turned without thinking and tried the nearest handle. Something about this place tugged at his memory.

Pulling the door open, Alexander stepped inside. Dim emergency lights gave the room an ominous glow.

It was the same room he'd woken up in weeks or months ago. The cremation chamber. The same two technicians were there, bent over a crate of equipment, whispering in panic.

Whispers he'd interrupted.

For a moment, none of them moved.

Alexander must have appeared as some kind of revenant to them, returning during a crisis to exact vengeance: filthy blue medical gown torn and stained in blood and grime, with a boot lace trailing behind him.

Recognition lit their faces. Fear followed it, then outright panic.

The thin, balding one grabbed a tablet from the crate. The other, broader, snatched up a steel canister. They charged, each of them shouting wordlessly.

Alexander raised his arms, knowing it would be futile. The tablet smashed into his elbow, pain shooting up to his shoulder. He lashed out with his other hand, fist catching the thin man's temple. A lucky hit. The technician stumbled back, tripping over himself, and crashed into a pile of equipment with a strangled cry.

The bigger one swung the canister into Alexander's ribs. Air left his lungs in a gasp. A heavy hand shoved him to the ground.

Weight crushed his hips. The big tech straddled him, face twisting in an ugly snarl.

Alexander shielded his head just in time to catch the first strike. It wasn't a punch. The man was just slamming his forearms down with all of his strength. Again and again.

Each hit stole a little more of what energy he had left. He twisted, trying to throw the man off, but failed.

Both the man's arms rose, fingers clasped together for a final blow—

"Hey!"

The voice cracked through the room like a whip.

Alexander squinted past his bruised forearms.

A young woman stood in the doorway, roughly his age, with vivid ginger hair spilling from under the most ridiculous, dirt-smeared cowboy hat he'd ever seen. Her orange uniform and collar marked her as a prisoner. She couldn't have been more than five feet tall, but she stood there as if she'd just kicked down the door to deliver judgement.

"Pick on someone your own size," she said, her tone so full of righteous indignation it took him a moment to register she was speaking to the man pinning him.

The bigger tech turned halfway toward her, still holding his clasped fists above his head.

"What—?" he started.

For one long, surreal moment, the three of them stared at one another. The other technician, tangled in cables, froze mid-crawl to look.

Even through the haze of pain, Alexander let out a half-hysterical bark of laughter.

Of all the people who could have shown up, this tiny, freckled, cowboy-hat-wearing stranger would never have made the list.

Yet there she was, standing in the doorway like she owned the place.

Chapter 6

First Spark of Will

Annie had been hauling ass for the nearest exit when she heard fighting in one of the rooms she passed. Sliding to a stop, she turned to investigate.

Two corporate bullies were beating on a wounded patient. Despite his obviously medicated state, and the fact that the attack must have been going on for some time, the poor bastard was holding on.

I am a goddamn superhero, she told herself, planting her feet shoulder-width apart, hands on hips.

"Hey!"

Her voice boomed across the room. She was pleased to see she had everyone's attention.

She stared the biggest thug down.

"Pick on someone your own size," she declared, delivering her catchphrase with gravitas.

The battered, probably mentally unwell patient laughed. Then began cackling to himself. The thug sputtered some nonsense.

Annie felt a flicker of concern. He really is a big one. She shoved it aside.

Superheroes don't hesitate!

She charged, heart pounding with the righteous certainty of every comic book hero she'd ever loved.

The big tech barely had time to blink before she leapt onto his back. Her arm locked around his throat, her legs around his waist.

He cursed, staggered upright, the wounded man forgotten. His hands flailed behind his head, trying to pry the little goblin loose.

Below, Alexander felt another unhinged laugh bubble up. He pressed a trembling, bloody hand over his mouth, but the sound escaped anyway: half-hysterical giggling that sounded alien even to him.

The big tech lurched around, smashing into overturned trays, a scorched countertop, and into the edge of the cremation chamber itself. Each impact sent spikes of pain across Annie's body, but she refused to let go. I am a goddamn superhero, she reminded herself, squeezing harder.

The second technician finally untangled himself from the pile of equipment. Pale with fury, he grabbed a folding chair and stalked toward Alexander.

Alexander tried to rise. He didn't make it even halfway before the chair crashed down across his shoulders. His vision went white as he dropped, chin cracking against the floor. The giggling stopped.

This is it. I'm going to die in a room full of idiots.

Even collapsed on the cold tile, part of his mind catalogued everything. The woman's hold was slipping. The big tech had her wrist, prying it away inch by inch. He was just too big. Too strong.

Alexander spat blood as the chair came down again. He tried to crawl, but his arms were too weak.

Annie's panic rose. The collar bit into her neck, the suppression field smothering her powers. She twisted, but the big guy slammed her into the side of the cremation chamber. Stars burst behind her eyes. Her grip tore loose.

With a heave, he slammed her onto the ground. Breath blasted from her lungs. Before she could roll away, his knee drove into her stomach, one massive hand closing on her throat.

No—no no no—

She jammed a metal hand between his grip and her neck, choking and blinking through tears, hammering his head with the other. Solid metallic smacks against flesh and bone.

He barely flinched, bloodshot eyes unfocused, teeth bared in a snarl.

Across the room, Alexander forced himself to look past his own attacker and the chair about to finish him. He locked onto the woman's gleaming metal hands, and the collar around her throat.

If she had her powers…

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The second tech raised the chair.

Alexander reached with his Technopathy, ignoring pain and exhausting, and felt the familiar technology whisper back. He pushed past its defenses, disarmed its failsafe, and commander:

"Disable," he slurred.

Annie didn't notice at first. She was too busy punching, gasping, and struggling as her oxygen-starved brain began shutting down.

Then—

Her next punch transformed, metal reforming without thought. A blunt fist became a spoon.

It was the first shape she'd learned to form, back when she first received her power. Her parents had been proud. She hadn't. She'd been trying for a sword.

The spoon jammed into the side of the technician's neck.

He froze. His grip loosened. Blood gushed bright and fast from the wound.

Annie's breath came in ragged sobs. She tried to pull the spoon-hand back, but it was stuck in cartilage and muscle. The big man gurgled, struggling to understand. Then he toppled sideways.

The other tech screamed and lunged past Alexander, chair raised high.

Alexander's vision flickered. He couldn't see straight. Couldn't feel his body. But he could feel the medical arm bolted to the ceiling. An automated tool for administering drugs, probably the one responsible for killing his other self.

He reached for it.

The last thing he saw before darkness closed in was the arm swinging out in a single, brutal strike.

The chair never reached Annie.

The technician's skull split open with a hollow crack. He flew sideways into a wall, slid to the ground, and was still.

Then there was silence.

Pain, Alexander decided, was probably good for the soul.

At least, that was what philosophers who'd never been in real agony liked to say.

Suffering builds character. Adversity reveals the true self.

He would have traded every ounce of newfound wisdom for a few minutes out it. His mind catalogued the injuries: contusions from the earthquake; shoulder dislocation and relocation; torn, bleeding hands from the cell door; shin bone; ankle sprain; beaten by a tablet, a canister, someone's arms, a chair. He considered adding injustice to the list. Then decided against it.

For now.

He drifted between blessed oblivion and cursed consciousness. Someone was dragging him, his chin resting on a warm shoulder. He was content to nap.

"—and that's Fortress. I mean, Skybreaker now," a voice babbled in his ear. "Black armor and red cape, used to be a hero. Wonder what happened to him. The one fighting him is Star Titan. He does the plasma stuff, but he's not breaking the shields fast enough because he's too busy protecting the others, and—"

He tried to blink. His eyelids felt glued shut.

The voice continued without pause.

"—and that's Victoria Cross with the diamond skin. Only reason she hasn't been crushed yet, but oh my god you should see it!"

He lifted his head and opened his eyes.

It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

The sky spread wide, painted in blue, gold, and white.

And across it, titans danced a lovingly choreographed waltz.

Figures hurtled through the air, trailing flame and plasma. Bolts of energy screamed across the clouds. Wind whipped past, sonic booms marking the rhythm as colossi clashed.

Something bloomed hot in his chest. Not pain.

No… it was desire. He wanted to be up there. To be part of the dance. Wielding power beyond imagination, enough to challenge even the gods.

He frowned. That was his dead counterpart's desire, not his.

Wasn't it?

"—and that's Obsidian Crow," Annie continued breathlessly. "She's the one with the black wings. Total badass. She can nullify momentum and drop you with a thought, though she usually only works solo, so it's weird that she's here."

He let his head droop again. Even the sky was too much right now.

Still, his mind refused to idle. His rescuer had apparently chosen a direction at random, carrying him toward the parking lot's far edge. Away from the rest of the fighting, but still not safe.

He tried to stand by himself. His ankle protested, spikes of agony running up his body, and he slumped back down. Without missing a beat, she shifted to keep him draped over her shoulder.

"—and maybe that's why Skybreaker turned villain. Total PR coverup, because he saved like three hundred people in—oh!" She turned her head slightly, cheek brushing his temple. "Hey. You're awake."

He made a sound, half grunt, half exhausted laugh. He tried to stand again and barely managed it. She adjusted her grip, offering her shoulder in support.

It was awkward, leaning on someone a head shorter. Yet somehow they managed.

As they limped across the cracked pavement, he finally opened his eyes fully. Ahead, rows of hovercars waited, some dented but mostly intact this far from the fighting.

He felt a flicker of hope.

"I can get us one," he rasped. "Just need a moment."

Annie's eyes widened. "You can hotwire a hovercar? That is so freaking cool!"

He didn't correct her. He leaned more of his weight on her, closed his eyes, and reached out with the part of his mind that could make machines obey.

As Annie half carried, half dragged him to the nearest one, the hovercar's side door swished open with a pleasant jingle.

Annie shoved him head-first into the backseat.

"I know how to drive!"

Spoiler alert: she did not.

Chapter 7

Class R

Annie's driving, Alexander decided, was not good for the soul. Or his stomach. Or his ankle. And his shoulder had already filed multiple complaints, too.

He was sure the experience had shaved a few years off his life expectancy, assuming it hadn't already been shortened by train collisions, chemical injections, repeated beatings, and just the worst luck in the world. In the galaxy? Whatever.

Hovercars were a marvel of modern engineering. Graceful, nearly silent, capable of traversing impossible terrain with the ease of a drifting feather.

In the right hands. Annie's metal hands were not the right hands.

He'd offered to drive, but she'd insisted loudly and with wounded pride that he was in no shape to operate such heavy machinery. He'd given up halfway through her second lecture about 'taking time to heal'.

Instead, he lay on the backseat, staring at the ceiling as it whisked along the highway, swaying every time Annie overcorrected. She'd found a couple packs of salted mixed nuts in a compartment once they were underway. He'd accepted one, and his stomach had since declared war.

His fault for mixing food with Annie's driving. Or resting with Annie's driving. Or simply existing with Annie's driving.

Still, he had to admit it was preferable to being back in the cell.

Barely.

He took a slow breath and selected his next victim from the pack. Compared to the watery slop he'd been dealing with the past couple of months, they tasted heavenly.

"Do you want to join me up front?" Annie called over her shoulder, her voice bright with the optimism of someone who hadn't almost flipped a stolen hovercar off an overpass twenty minutes ago.

"No," he said flatly.

"Suit yourself."

Another small lurch. He closed his eyes, forcing his stomach into a ceasefire. Time to think about something useful instead of tallying near-death experiences. Though Annie's driving definitely counted for at least three of them.

"Which city are we heading to?" he asked, keeping his tone casual.

"Argentum," she replied. "Used to be called San Jose before the rebrand."

A spark of familiarity tugged at him. San Jose. He'd known it by that name too. He wondered what had prompted the change.

"It's huge," she added. "One of the biggest on this side of the good ol' United American Directorate."

Alexander choked on the nut.

"The good old what?!"

Annie twisted around in her seat to look at him.

"Eyes on the road!" he barked.

She snapped back around, cheeks flushing red, and jerked the wheel to correct.

"How do you not know about America?" she asked, glancing at him in the mirror. Her face had taken on the appearance of a freckled tomato. "Were you born under a rock?"

"What? That's not how it—" Alexander sighed, rubbing his forehead. He was definitely getting a headache. "No, I know about America. My memories are just… a little messed up."

"Oh! I knew you were a mental patient. I just didn't say anything to be polite."

Alexander closed his eyes and counted to five. "I'm not a mental patient," he said flatly.

"Oh," Annie said, unconvinced. "Okay."

He ignored her tone and explained as much of the truth as he dared: the serum, the catastrophic reaction, and the brief moment when, by every measure that mattered, he'd died. Waking in a cremation chamber, drugged and strapped to a conveyor belt. Technicians panicking when he woke.

Annie's eyes flickered away from the mirror when he mentioned the technicians.

He didn't mention that he was pretty sure he'd come from an alternate reality where things were actually sane, and people couldn't fly around breathing fire. Maybe later.

Instead, he told her about the cell. The isolation. The hourly feedings he suspected were meant to wear him down. The collar. The earthquake that had let him escape. The minutes that felt like hours spent climbing, crawling, and fighting his way to the surface.

Saying it out loud left him feeling oddly lighter.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Annie listened with fascinated sympathy. Enough to make him wonder if maybe he was a mental patient.

Would I even know if I was hallucinating a reality-hopping fugitive life with a cute-but-crazy sidekick with stabby spoon-hands? Probably not.

She surprised him then by sharing her own time in the cells. Same size, but her feeding tubes only activated three times a day. She'd had a tablet and charging bay to read, listen to music, or watch pre-approved old films. Fresh clothes arrived through a slot once a month.

The differences were stark.

Then she veered off-topic. "Oh! And it's not so weird that you died. Happens pretty often, actually."

Alexander frowned. "Dying happens often?"

"Yeah. The body can't always handle the power trying to awaken all at once. Your heart stops, or your brain shuts down—"

"That's reassuring," he muttered.

"—but it's fine. Only about twenty to twenty-five percent actually succeed in awakening a power. Some of those that fail die, and nobody knows why. It's why not everyone gets the injection."

She swerved into the wrong lane to pass a slow driver.

"And nearly everyone that awakens a power dies during the process at least once. Ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent don't stay dead. It's a temporary thing."

Alexander sat up, watching her in the mirror. "Do people ever… remember things that don't fit? Afterwards?"

"Like what?"

"Memories that aren't theirs."

"Nope. Usually people don't remember much of anything from right after, but they don't get new memories."

"Of course," he sighed.

It's only me that's a reality-hopping superhuman criminal mental patient.

They drove in silence for several minutes. Alexander enjoyed the scenery as it passed by. Based on the swerving, Annie was probably doing the same thing.

"So…" Her drawn-out tone warned that a loaded question was coming. "How do your powers work?"

Alexander smiled. "I can tell technology what to do. I think it's called Technopathy."

"You think?" she asked, curious.

He explained that the readout had turned an angry red with "REDACTED' when he got the injection.

Annie gasped. "You're a Class R! That's so cool! I've never met an actual Redacted. They usually just…" She trailed off, realization creeping in. "Oh. Sorry."

Alexander turned from the window. "What does Class R mean? Beside the obvious."

She tapped the wheel absently, gathering her thoughts. "Every power has a class, right? Like, how dangerous it is or might be. That's the letter. E to S. Sometimes R, but that's more about hiding information."

He nodded for her to go on.

"E is harmless stuff. Making plants grow faster. Or glow-in-the-dark-pee." She wrinkled her nose. "S is the big stuff. Blowing up cities. Eating suns. And everyone has a Tier."

"Right. And R?"

"R means your power is too dangerous to ignore. One guy was a literal vampire and turned others into crazed, lesser versions of himself," she said, clearly enjoying herself. "Or maybe it's just dangerous to the corporations and governments. They say it's for people's safety, but mostly it means someone disappears."

It fit what fragments of memory he had. And his suspicions.

"And Tiers?"

"Oh, that's how big of an impact you can make with your power right now. Like, Tier 1 means you can trash a house. Tier 2 takes you up to a neighbourhood. From there it gets messy."

"Messy," he echoed.

"Yeah," she said with a shrug. "Tier 3 can wreck an entire city. You saw Skybreaker and Star Titan, right? People say they're close to Tier 4. If they'd been going all out, we'd be dust. Anyway, it's not important. Nobody seems to agree on how it's all measured. And there's no scoreboard, just bragging rights and popularity."

"It sounds important to—"

"It's boring," Annie declared. "Nobody cares. Except the graders. And the gamblers."

"I care," he muttered.

She ignored him. "Recruiters care, too, I guess. Space Force, the Guilds, governors… and the big corporations want heroes for 'deterrence'."

She made air quotes with both hands, which was quite alarming because she was still driving.

Her words picked up speed. "Hollywood and the ad brokers love it. Supes sell protein powder, hoverbikes, and, I dunno, hair gel. Then there are the super sports leagues and charity brawls and holo dramas. And the aliens, too. They call supes dangerous, but they go nuts over hiring them for merc work. There's a whole agency for extraterrestrial combat contracts."

Alexander opened his mouth to speak, but Annie pressed on, unstoppable.

"Oh, and the Dicks—" She glanced at him in the mirror, eyes filled with mischief. "Sorry, that's what everyone calls the Directorate Interstellar Command. They run the military branches, like Space Force. They poach anyone with useful combat powers for 'strategic system-scale defense'."

She launched into an off-key singsong:

"Strategic system-scale defense, guarding planets near and far! From bug-eyed freaks and cosmic fleets, grab a blaster and be a star!"

She made little jazz hands at the windshield. Alexander winced as the vehicle drifted toward oncoming traffic.

"They play that every ad break. Guess it's important, in case somebody starts lobbing asteroids at our colonies again."

She finally inhaled. "...so, okay, fine, lots of people care. But it's still boring to talk about."

Alexander turned to the window, trying not to laugh, but failed. A short, strangled snort escaped.

Annie shot him a suspicious look in the mirror. "What?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

She squinted at him, then brightened as if recalling something far more exciting.

She leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice. "...there are rumors that corporations have implants that gamify it. Track your Tiers and growth. Show when you get stronger. Like a progress bar in your head."

"Gamify?"

"Yeah," she said, excited. "The basic implants are just for comms and stuff. But the fancy ones track everything. Stats, powers, skill trees."

She looked genuinely thrilled about it.

Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're telling me we can get brain chips that work like a video game HUD?"

Annie nodded, completely serious.

"I'm going to be sick," he said, closing his eyes and lying back.