The spring rains came down like heavy tear drops. They pelted the shimmering blue aura that surrounded Fiasco and the manifested blue gauntlets on his hands that curved up his forearms as he soared south through the New Haven sky. The rain sizzled and evaporated away upon contact with the shield in small, white puffs of steam. It was nearly dusk, but the rolling gray clouds that stretched into the horizon and dropped a downpour upon his head already shadowed the city in a dull overcast. The Savoy Corporation tower that was in mid construction loomed on his left like a monolith growing taller by the day. To the southwest, he saw the tall cranes and the orange dots of excavators masked in heavy mist. There were bulldozers and other construction equipment parked within the hole where the Mega League stadium was being built. Julianna's father had taken him on a tour, and he was amazed by the size of the cavity and what humans could accomplish without the aid of Mega powers. He repressed a smile from the memory. There was work to be done.
Beneath him, the city shimmered in coral streetlights. New Haven looked strange for some reason, larger than he remembered before. The square rooftops of the office buildings strewn with rainbow-colored patio furniture blurred and ran together. In the months since his return, Fiasco had learned to keep his eyes ahead to the trees or open skies, so he would not trigger his stomach pangs. No longer heading into every incident on the verge of heaving was a benefit to his endeavors, yet he was still able to admire the view in short intervals.
The rekindled adventure as a Mega-hero began small, and with various levels of success. Often, Fiasco would patrol near his home, rousing violent drunks who stumbled about and fought after last call, or bust the drivers who swerved on the nearly empty roads. But the airwaves were suspiciously quiet about his return, as if the town had left him in the past, so he had to step up his activities to gain any notice.
Recently, he had graduated to facing armed robbery again, with the usual Fiasco results. When he let the malicious voice douse him in its contemptuous fire, the aura grew strong enough to stop larger caliber rounds. The shield peaked when he was at his lowest, usually right after making an excuse to not be with Julianna so he could adventure as Fiasco—something that had become a more frequent occurrence.
However on a typical day, when he was scraping the bottom barrel of emotion, bullets would glance off his aura in directions he could not anticipate. This was a danger in an enclosed space, which he found out the hard way when he tried to stop a convenience store hold up weeks prior. Fiasco had surprised the tweaked-up robber who saw the Mega and replied by opening fire, emptying his magazine in a fit of anger and fear. The bullets bounced off his aura like white streaks of lightning. One clipped the poor young clerk who was cowering beneath the counter in the arm, severing his triceps off the bone.
The local media took notice of him again at that point. It was as if Fiasco had never left at all, and his notoriety returned with gusto, even though the clerk would have lost his arm had he not stemmed the flow of blood and cauterized the wound with his power. Headlines like 'Local Menace Returns', and 'Fiasco for the Fail', peppered the newspapers and website headlines alike. While his failures mounted, so did the backlash, with Mega forums online going pages deep in vitriol from Mega groupies and parents worried about what kind of role model he represented.
When they first began teaming up again, Talon had called in some favors—with whom he would never say—and pulled enough strings to give him access back to the MegaStream, his authentication to the server having expired during his hiatus. The MegaStream was an online encrypted site for only true, verified Megas and would age off the desktop if not used. It also acted like a pseudo Mega-human dispatch since it streamed the latest crimes relevant to a geographical area in real time.
He had heard that it was moderated by Megas who could read minds. Apparently, that was how they knew where crimes were occurring, but that information was never verified. The stream could be tough to navigate. Events as low as pets stuck in trees, to a Mal-Mega attacking a tech company seemed to be entered haphazardly line by line. Even the vernacular was different for each entry, as if hundreds of different people were entering data into the stream all at once. But the MegaStream was imperative to the life of a Mega-hero. It was unrealistic to go searching for crime with no leads, hoping to catch crimes in the act.
It was in the MegaStream that Fiasco found the lifeline that had forced him to venture out in the awful weather. In the socializing section, Talon had reached out for aid. The opportunity of redemption had presented itself when the saturated one-twenty-six highway had caused a vicious pileup along the Modoc Bridge. It only took minutes for the crash to appear in the stream as a developing emergency, and only seconds after that came Talon's message. It read, 'Get your ass out here now -T', in red flashing letters.
Kevin and Julianna had dinner plans at Mama Rena's to sample New Haven's best tacos, but he couldn't pass up the possibility of raising his Fiasco profile. The memory of the disappointment on her face made his aura thicken.
Slosh and rain licked the blue light in low hisses as he veered to the west. In the distance, a snow-capped mountain range peeked through the clouds surrounded by a gray mist. Juniper trees jutted from the landscape, their spiky green limbs heavy with rainwater. On the ground, snow retreated from the downfall, revealing pockets of brown grass and sagebrush beneath him as he moved from the bright city lights of New Haven to the high desert plains.
“You can do this,” Fiasco thought, but the voice made sure he knew otherwise.
You are going to fail.
All his efforts were failures up to that point, but as he streaked towards the crash on the Modoc Bridge, he knew that the accident was the step up that could put Fiasco's best foot forward.
From Fiasco's altitude, he could see that the one-twenty-six highway was lit up for at least a mile. All the cars heading out of New Haven were at a stand-still, bumper to bumper. Horns blared, and a congestion of angry drivers stood out in the rain, casting blame at each other. This slowed the progress of ambulances and fire trucks who attempted to ease through the gridlock to reach the scene. He buzzed over the blockage, a blue blurring streak that wanted to be seen by the crowd and headed towards the bridge.
The description he read about the accident on the MegaStream did not properly describe the chaos he found once he arrived. Dark smoke mixed in with the heavy rain. Just before the bridge's entrance was the zigzag of passenger cars that tried to stop last minute on the slicked road, but instead, smashed the car in front of them one after another like dominoes.
All four lanes were clogged at various angles, like a post-apocalyptic scene. Bloodied survivors soaked from the rain tended to others off to the side of the road, using what was available to set splints and tie off seeping wounds. One car had plowed through the trunk of another as it drove up the roof, soared over several others, and landed on its side atop another vehicle. Given its position, balanced precariously at a slant on a caved in roof, Fiasco decided that car was most deserving of his attention.
Curving up until he was horizontal, and floating down, Fiasco landed gently on the car’s backseat door. The car moaned in defiance with every careful footstep toward the front. Rain pattered on his leather mask as he powered down his aura, knelt, and peered through the driver's window that was strangely crumpled inward. He kept the gauntlets powered on high, and they cast the inside of the cab in stark blue light. The steering wheel was dotted with dark black stains, and the windshield spider-webbed with cracked glass. There was no one inside nor in the backseat.
“You're late as usual,” a man shouted behind him.
Fiasco turned toward the stranger who spoke to him. He was kneeling on the ground. The shirt sleeve on his right arm was torn off, the skin beneath heavily bruised. He held a woman's head in his lap with his crumpled shirt to her forehead. Her eyes fluttered from the falling rain as she stared at him. Blood matted her forehead and streaked her blonde hair red. A crowd of fellow survivors had gathered in a crescent shell around them.
“Talon already got us out,” the man continued, licking the rain from his lips. “Like a real Mega would.” The crowd stirred and joined in his disdain.
“Of course he did,” Fiasco sighed, then stood to full height.
He will always be better than you.
Fiasco looked west on the bridge. Further down the highway, an orange light blinked on the back of an overturned sixteen-wheeler that obscured what was beyond.
“Be careful citizens. Aid is on the way,” he replied.
Drinking in the bump of energy the voice had given him from the crowds’ rebuke, the aura returned in a snap, and Fiasco took off like an azure rocket, overturning the car that tumbled off the roof in a scream of grinding metal.
“Fiasco!” he shouted, and his name echoed off the wreckage as he continued towards the Modoc Bridge. Reaching the truck, he slowly circled around the red cab pockmarked with damage from the crash. He searched, ensuring the driver had been evacuated by his friend, before landing on the side of the upturned trailer. Water pooled over the company logo painted on the side, and Fiasco knew it belonged to the company building the stadium that Mr. Jove was contracted to. Walking to the edge, and standing in front of a larger rubber tire, he could see the rest of the damage on the other side.
Reflecting the blue-collar nature of the New Haven citizens, the Modoc Bridge was old and simple in design. The bridge was only four lanes wide, two facing west and two facing east back into the city. It was buffered on each side by four-foot-high silver metal guardrails, attached to concrete blocks that were now cracked and marked with gashes and holes. As he gained an unobstructed view of the crash site, Fiasco realized that the true extent of the crash was worse than he was led to believe.
Through the clamor of driving rain, screams of pain echoed through the darkness. Metal and glass were strewn along the road. Coupes, mini-vans, trucks, and sedans, in various states of wreckage, littered the Modoc Bridge into the horizon that was masked by a haze of precipitation and smoke. Even while the rain continued, a blazing fire raged in the middle of it all, fueled by gas that leaked from severed tanks.
It was apparent from the dark rubber skids burned in the road that the truck he stood upon was headed east into New Haven. It had overturned when it tried to evade a silver oil truck that had lost control on the slippery road going in the opposite direction. The oil truck skidded to a halt when it burst through the guardrail on his right, ripping the iron outward like tinfoil. A thick, black sludge leaked from the oil trailer along a small tear that was opened by the jagged rail, and pooled on the ground, threatening to add its fuel to the blaze. The truck groaned as the cab teetered several feet off the bridge. It reeled back and forth and appeared as if a strong gust of wind could send the entire truck careening down to the river raging below.
“Crooked F! Get the lead out!” Talon yelled, which echoed through the bridge, and off the canyon below.
“Yeah, sure Talon,” Fiasco stammered, struggling to comprehend the disaster before him, rain dripping over his goggles. “Get the lead out. Sure, whatever you say.”
Taken aback by the severity of the crash, Fiasco did not notice Talon amid the chaos. He wore the same number eight shaped mask as before. The rain had slicked his jet-black hair down, and ran down his exposed chest that held a bone necklace interspersed with curved knives hanging low. A black leather vest was etched with the bird-of-prey symbol on the back that caught the ambient light from the heavy rain that pasted it to his skin. His blue jeans were soaked through—resembling a dark black. Black boots splashed in the puddles as he moved among the dangerous wreckage. No motion was wasted as Talon kicked in windshields and wrenched car doors off their hinges like tissues, pulling out survivors even as the fire grew behind him, threatening to overtake them all.
Rescued Havenites walked along the far side of the bridge like zombies, some with arm, leg, and head injuries that were more severe than what he had seen outside the bridge. Their faces were blank, rain dripping off slacked jaws, staring ahead as if stunned silent from the totality of the crash. For the first time, Fiasco did not envy Talon's superior hearing. He could still hear the screams bouncing off the metal and asphalt, but the rain, smoke, and darkness made it impossible to pinpoint what direction they originated from. He realized it wasn’t possible for everyone to have survived the accident—at least not with the amount of damage he witnessed. The thought of someone dying in the wreckage froze Fiasco's blood and soured his weak stomach.
“The fire,” Fiasco thought, sensing the greatest threat facing the surviving victims. “Got to get control of that fire before anyone else gets hurt. If that oil hits it, this will be an even bigger disaster.”
The gas fire dominated most of the center of the bridge, growing as it consumed the leaking fuel, and trapping injured New Haven citizens on one side, away from ambulances and aid coming from the city. Mind made up, he zoomed forward off the trailer. Floating horizontal above the burning conflagration, he repeated, “Fuel, ignition source, oxygen.” It was the mantra he learned as a cub scout on the components of a fire. It was one of the few things he picked up before he grew tired of being forced to interact with the other children and quit just before making bear.
The hungry flames reached up like fingers at the blue aura on his boots. Power flowed through his gauntlets, until it poured out from his hands. With a mental command, it curved downward beneath him like a bell. The bell expanded, slithering out until it covered the majority of the firestorm in a makeshift azure dome. Fiasco lowered his hands and the dome descended, landing on the asphalt with a thud. Hands twisted right and the dome turned along with them, grating a thick groove as it dug into the pavement to ensure the fire was properly deprived of the food it needed to grow.
Sweat misted the brow beneath Fiasco's mask, and dripped stinging drops down into his goggles. Yet he could already feel the heat from the blaze begin to subside in the canopy.
“I've got the fire!' Fiasco shouted.
Yards from where he floated, Talon's rescue efforts had slowed to a crawl, as he had to gently navigate loosing a mini-van that was crushed like an accordion between two sedans. He couldn't see anyone inside the shattered window, but the careful attention Talon was giving that particular vehicle meant that someone must have been trapped in the wreckage.
Talon never turned to look at him as he pushed against the car in front of the mini-van. A hose inside the hood broke free from the engine, wriggling like a snake, and splashed a steaming liquid across his face, but Talon did not so much as wince. As if impervious to pain, his hand pushed against the crumpled trunk of the other vehicle. Pushing outward, the metal screamed as he decoupled the two vehicles with a stiff grunt.
“You waiting for a prize?” Talon grunted as he pushed. The strain of his effort made the back of his arms ripple. “Don't just float there like some pansy, get the other people out. I'm busy here!”
Fiasco searched around, looking down at his gleaming hands, wondering how he was supposed to help more. The fire still was not quenched beneath the dome, and his power was currently indisposed trying to snuff it out.
“What am I supposed to use, my dick? I'm trying to quench the fire!” Fiasco shot back. The dome around the fire flickered from his bout of anger. He knew it was not the time for levity, but the patronizing tone of Talon's voice got under his skin.
Talon glared over his shoulder from the remark. Rain dripped down from his stiff, square jaw that was clenched tight.
“You have two hands,” Talon said through his teeth. “People are dying, so yes, use your dick if you have to.”
Fiasco could feel the resentment even though they were several feet apart. He stared at his hands. Eyes fixed, he put one hand atop the other, transferring the strand attached to his right in the left gauntlet. Moving his right hand out slowly, he watched to ensure that the dome did not waver in strength. The power glimmered about the left glove like a blue star as he freed his right hand, and he pumped it full of spare energy, so much that he could not see the fingers beneath the brightness. Although Talon's acrimony was not appreciated, he did have a point. The extent of the fire had caused so much trepidation within Fiasco, that it never occurred to him it would take only one hand to tame it.
Because, below the surface, you are stupid, the voice said. And a coward.
Fiasco nodded in agreement.
Behind his goggles, he closed his eyes and began to concentrate. He fixated on the malice and disappointment in Talon's tone, and the fact that the voice had nailed its assessment of his abilities yet again. The energy burned just under the skin of his chest from the negativity, then flooded into his arms, down to his hands. The aura about his gauntlets surged in strength. Pushing down, the asphalt crunched downward as the blue dome over the fire thickened from the rush of energy. Satisfied with its strength, Fiasco floated toward the west end of the bridge where Talon was and pushed out his free hand.
Blue tendrils curled outward from the tips of his fingers. Weaving the lines through the wreckage, Fiasco's face was tight with deep concentration. Using the lines, he probed for trapped survivors. Beyond the point where Talon had finally freed the crushed minivan, the strands felt along a vehicle that had slammed into the metal guardrail. White smoke steamed from the caved-in engine, and the tires were ribbons of shredded rubber on gnarled rims. There was a child in the backseat, his shouts muted as his tiny fist beat against the cracked glass.
The stench of oil, gas, and smoke flushed through his aura as Fiasco floated closer to the wreck, dragging a thick line from his left hand that held the dome tight over the fire. The tendrils on his right hand melted together just outside of the window that refused to give.
“Get down!” Fiasco shouted.
He wasn't sure the kid could hear him over the distance and rain, but he seemed to have put things together, and his little head ducked down into the back seat. Fiasco’s fingers pressed together into a pyramid. The blue energy curled into a muscled cobalt fist with the middle knuckle protruding outward as it tightened. Fiasco flicked his wrist and the blue knuckle lightly tapped on the glass that splintered outward from where it struck. He flicked his wrist again, and the glass tumbled inward, falling under its own weight. Fiasco cupped his hand upward, and the energy fist responded, cupping the bottom of the empty windowsill through the broken glass.
Sweat mingled with the rain and streamed down into Fiasco's suit as he pulled back with his arm, straining enough not to rocket the remaining glass fragments at the boy inside. Glass tumbled down and slid into the cab regardless, and Fiasco cursed beneath his breath. With another tug, the door finally gave and peeled back like the edge of a book cover. Rain dropped on the fabric of the now exposed back seat. Nothing moved in the car.
Then, as Fiasco held his breath in nervousness, he saw a small head with stringy brown hair peak out. His glowing fist almost disappeared completely from the sudden elation of the sight. Looking about as if lost, the boy climbed carefully over the glass, passed the ruined door, dirty and with blood on his knobby knees. Fiasco wondered why he turned back inside until he saw the child guide his frightened sister towards him. Her yellow dress was stained with dirt, and her brother held her beneath the armpits so she could make the small jump down to muddy ground.
“Well done, kid,” Fiasco thought.
After checking the dome, Fiasco repeated the effort on the passenger door, peeling it back off the latch until he could reach inside. His hand flattened and overturned, and the powered fist mirrored his movement. It shrank and cooled with his mental command as he pushed his shoulder and slid the hand gently inside the cab. Through the power, he felt around and touched a body slumped towards the door on the driver’s side. The body wasn't flushed completely against the door but seemed to hang like a marionette on its stand. The tendril-like fingers played through what felt like long hair. He reached further inside and discovered another face slumped against the steering wheel horn that failed to beep. In his mind, he imagined a woman—likely the kids’ mom—pressed against the father who was slouched on the driver’s side, both unconscious from the crash.
Slowly, he closed his fingers. His forehead itched as it furrowed in determination, moist with sweat and chafing against his leather mask. The aura had kept him relatively dry below, but the deluge of rain obscured his field of vision.
“Use the energy,” he thought. “It's a part of you.”
He felt around with the glowing hand, and gently slipped blue fingers around the father’s torso. Sensing through the light, his breaths were shallow, but at least he was still breathing. The thumb on the glimmering hand stretched and curved beneath the woman's arm and over her chest. Fiasco lifted the two and floated back inches above the wet pavement as he slowly pulled back his arm. Lightning strikes of pain shot through his shoulder from the combined weight. Beneath his forearm, the curve of the gauntlet dripped down to the ground, acting like a crutch that kept the manifested hand steady. Slowly, he pulled the couple out, ensuring that his hand projection did not scrape against the skin piercing metal remnants of the door he had torn off. Rain hissed as the fist reached open air. Once the pair were safely outside the door, he opened his palm to lay them flat along the cold, wet asphalt. The woman rested atop her husband, splayed out like two sleeping dolls, as rain assailed their bruised faces.
“Mom!” The boy yelled as Fiasco recalled the hand back toward him. The husband stirred first, then the mother followed, startled awake by the shower. The boy held his little sister by the hand. Small splashes parted the accumulated rain as the children ran to their parents.
“That's one down,” Fiasco thought as he separated his fingers and the hand reverted into lines of separate lights. Moving further into the wreckage, the tendrils took the initiative and searched for more survivors.
Take your pedestrian victory and flee. The longer you stay, the more likely you will fail.
Climbing into the sky, Fiasco elevated, stretching the blue strand attached to his left hand to keep the dome intact, gaining a greater overview of the scene. The fire felt all but quenched beneath his dome, so he was able to transfer power from that hand into the other, sending out more tendrils that snaked out of his fists to double his rescue efforts. Talon handled the most critical accidents, while Fiasco cloned his efforts several more times, dealing with the things Talon couldn’t attend to. The survivors mostly tended to each other as he probed over fender benders and light scrapes further at the end of the crash. After what felt like hours, he and Talon's work seemed complete, and Fiasco allowed himself to finally breathe while floating back to the earth.
A puddle of rainwater rippled away beneath Fiasco's feet as he touched down on the pavement. With his aura fully restored, rain steamed upon touch. Looking left to right, Fiasco scanned for something he could have missed in the wreckage, until a screeching noise, the sound of a high-pitched whistle, pounded against his eardrums.
“What the hell was that?” Fiasco said aloud. The ear-splitting shriek was loud enough to pierce his aura shield, raising the hair on the back of his neck as he searched about for the origin of the noise.
The small lapse of concentration was just long enough for the dome around the fire to disappear in a blink. The strands of lights he had out among the wreckage followed suit, breaking apart like ash before fading away. Heat escaped from beneath the bell and rushed over his body like a wave. Ashen colored smoke followed the heat and hung low like a pungent mist that stung his nose.
When the cloud had thinned enough for him to see the dark outline of wrecked automobiles through the haze, he searched around to find where that unnerving sound had originated. A fortunate gust curled more smoke into the heavens, further clearing the bridge, and it didn't take long to find the perpetrator of the sound.
“There you are,” Fiasco thought.
In his efforts to quickly rescue survivors and shut Talon up, Fiasco had forgotten about the oil truck that had broken through the guardrail. Fresh rubber on the wet street said that either a tire had moved, or the weight of the cab that tottered over the edge had lurched the truck forward. The noise he heard came from the oil barrel whose gash on the side had ripped open even further when the truck slid forward. Black oil streamed like a faucet onto the road. The pounding rain, or pure blind luck, was all that kept a single spark from igniting, taking the bridge, injured survivors, and himself along with it.
Move, you loser, the voice said. Fiasco responded. With both hands outstretched before him, he shot a concentrated beam of blue energy at the guardrail.
“Watch the heat,” he reminded himself, sending out a mental command to cool the temperature of his power, fearing it may ignite the fuel. The glowing hand he used to rescue just moments ago reformed at the end of his beam. He parted his arms, and the manifestation separated in two.
“Two hands are better than one,” he quipped to calm his nerves. “Going to need them both to pull this off.”
The tendril on his left hand plunged inside the hole on the side of the tanker. Inky black spilled onto the ground. With it, Fiasco probed through the sticky black substance, moving slowly until he found the jagged end of the guardrail. A blue light of energy pulsed from the symbol on his chest. It rippled down through his power line so he could blunt the sharp edges. With his other energized hand, he gripped the bent and broken iron guardrail outside of the truck.
Fiasco crouched down, bending at his knees. Then, at the shoulder, he pulled back the tendril inside the tanker. Straining, he almost wanted to drop his aura to let in the rain cool his body that seemed to be perspiring from every pore. Rain had made the outside guardrail slippery even to the manifestation, so he released more power, and the glowing fingers clenched down with a crunch for a tighter grip. Buried deep into the earth, the rail shook in its moorings, but held firm.
“Do it,” Fiasco said aloud to no one. “Do it yourself, before Talon does it for you.”
The left arm that pulled at the rail inside the tanker ached from the effort, but the iron proved far more stubborn than the car doors and refused to budge. It was not until the voice reminded him that Talon was better that Fiasco manifested enough energy to feed into his creation. The metal groaned, then screamed as the rail was bent away from the oil truck. Once the oil drenched guardrail was safely outside of the barrel, Fiasco waved his hand in front of his face from right to left. The movement forced his created hand to bend the rail over on itself until it resembled a twisted candy cane of metal, ensuring that nothing could accidentally strike the match that would ignite the oil.
However, before he could even think of celebrating its extraction, the error of his move became apparent and struck like a bolt of lightning. While the rail had presented a danger of igniting the oil, he realized that its strong moorings were the only thing that kept the truck from sliding off the bridge.
“Ah, hell,” Fiasco muttered, his aura shield brightened as his anxiety deepened.
With its wheels sitting on the edge of the bridge, the red cab made one long and slow revolution and that was all it took. Unfettered from its anchor, the truck jostled and lurched forward along the pavement. The mechanism that attached the tanker to the cab lifted like a precarious pyramid. Metal scraped together like rusty knives before the weight and momentum pulled the entire truck forward, bringing it a step closer to plummeting into the river below. Even with the heavy downpour, Fiasco doubted the river was high or deep enough to swallow the entire payload. If it fell, there would be an impact with the sharp, unforgiving stones beneath the water. He could not foresee the consequences, but based on the movies he’d seen, Fiasco predicted an explosion was sure to follow.
“I can fix this,” Fiasco breathed.
You will fail.
The rainwater separated before Fiasco as he glided inches above the pavement. Sliding to a halt behind the tanker, and arms outstretched, he shot out gleaming rays of light from each hand. They passed through the air like whips on either side of the tanker, sliding through and over tires and gears on one side, and slithering over the round barrel on the other before they merged at the front of the cab. Heart beating in his ears, he took panicked breaths, before he closed his eyes to think about his past failures to try and conjure additional power. His memory instantly went back to a brawl he had in middle school. He thought back to when children he knew formed a circle to watch a much larger bully extract his payment of blood, raining thunderous blows. The embarrassment he felt from the memory poured more energy into the well.
When you fail, Julianna will be so disappointed in you.
Rain thumped against his goggles, and his shoulders sagged from the thought.
“I know she will,” he mumbled.
The crooked F on his chest pulsed and flared in a firework of cyan and gray light. The tendrils thickened, crawling and spreading over the breath of the truck as Fiasco morphed the energy into a shimmering web. The strain of holding the netting felt like it would pull his shoulders out of their sockets, as the truck inched forward in a screech, pulling him along the ground against his will. His memory raced, trying to think of another terrible thought he could mine from the past. Then, a voice from the cab reverberated off the bridge foundation below and sent a sobering chill down Fiasco's spine.
The tanker hung over the bridge like a deflated balloon. The cab of the tanker swayed left and right, rain seeping through the cracks and crevices. A hand frantically waved out of the shattered window, a gold watch glinting off the light of his power.
“Help!'” Fiasco heard a male voice scream inside the cab. He had assumed Talon had rescued the oil truck driver as he passed, but both had missed the man who must have been unconscious inside.
“Get back!” Fiasco shouted at a rain-soaked survivor who had straddled the guardrail to rescue the driver. “That railing could fall at any moment!”
He appreciated that the citizen was at least trying, which said much about the people of New Haven, but the truck was already too far over the edge. Looking over his shoulder, the rescue workers were still trapped outside of the wreckage zone, having barely made any progress reaching the bridge. For his own worth, he was far less helpful, since his own power was engaged with both hands trying to keep the truck on the ledge, and his imagination went blank.
The truck jostled forward again, and Fiasco pulled hard against the momentum, fighting gravity that pulled on the tonnage, unsure if he was even making a difference.
“Maybe I should use my dick,” Fiasco said through a strained jaw—a reflective reaction he had during crisis—but he couldn't bring himself to laugh.
“Pull it up,” a voice said. Talon had saddled up next to him, silent as a cat. He stood there, arms crossed over his barrel chest and one hand holding his curved knife, staring at Fiasco behind that unyielding mask.
Rain slicked his shoulders and leather vest. “Stop thinking and pull it up,” Talon continued, his voice a cool, even octave.
It took all the restraint Fiasco had not to lace his friend with a string of extreme expletives.
“What are you talking about?” Fiasco asked, his throat sore from the strain the power was putting on his body. “I can't!”
Talon leaned his face in closer. “Yes, you can. Pull it up.”
Fiasco ground his teeth as gravity forced his feet over the pavement. The power flickered and wavered as exhaustion drained his reserves. His hands curled to regain a tight grip on the tendrils.
“It doesn't work that way!” Fiasco said. “My power is not proportional to what I make. Just because the hands are ten times as big doesn't make them ten times as strong. The truck is too heavy!”
That was the way Fiasco understood it and that was the way it had always been. He was able to take off car doors, but that was a combination of the tools he created and leverage, no different than a small jack's ability to lift a car. He could create a giant fist, or an unimaginative crowbar, but the manifestations he created were still attached to skinny arms.
His eyes stung from the perspiration on his brow. Strands on the webbing about the truck cracked and broke as fatigue set in and his power drained with it. He looked over at Talon, who stood like a statue and had not moved a muscle. Fiasco glanced between him and the truck. More webbing strands cracked and disappeared, and the truck budged.
“Help me please!”
The driver’s petrified pleas echoed through the canyon, loud enough to be heard over the raging river below. Talon did not move. More New Haven survivors who made it to the east end of the bridge backed away as the tension between the two Megas grew.
“Stop standing there!” The left gauntlet on Fiasco's hand flickered like a light, then disappeared. Now bare, the tendrils from the net cut into the skin. He could smell the burning of his skin as he pulled along the rope. “Talon, he's going to die!”
The right gauntlet followed the left’s fate, disappearing in a blink, and Fiasco had to hold the webbing with his bare hands. He dipped his head back, gritting his teeth with one last effort to hold the truck, but knew his efforts were in vain. Skin burned along the glowing rope and curled away. He could feel the power wane further like a candle wick running out of wax to burn. The hand from the cab clutched desperately at the top of the roof as the cab sunk further off the bridge. Fiasco held as long as he could until his aura flickered and died. The webbing around the truck evaporated like smoke and he fell onto the wet pavement with a splash. Landing on his hands, he watched, mouth agape in horror, as the remainder of the oil tanker careened over the side like a can kicked over a ledge.
Metal against asphalt wailed over the Modoc Bridge as the truck twisted onto its side, spilling black liquid gold. The driver’s evaporating scream as he fell with the wreckage curdled the blood in Fiasco's veins.
You failed again, the voice reminded him, and now that man will die.
The ridicule heated the center of his chest and replenished a small portion of his power reserve. Fiasco told his arms and legs to pick himself up, but tired, exhausted muscles refused to comply, twitching before he fell back into the water with a splash. A mental command tried to reform the aura so he could fly and perhaps save the man inside, but the shield only sparked in starts, unable to stabilize from the dearth of energy. His internal fire had no fuel.
“Please God,” he pleaded as he crawled. “Please don't let me let him die.”
Fiasco's spine stiffened when he heard a deep splash below the bridge. The sound was followed by the crunching of heavy metal folding in on itself like a car in a compactor. An orange light bloomed from the darkness over the side of the bridge. The ground rumbled beneath his legs, spurring him to rise to his feet. Fiasco reached his hands out again, just as the first flash of orange light burst into the sky. Then, night turned to morning light and his ears rang from the explosion. Scorching heat flowed over his restored aura, and a powerful wind pushed him back off his feet. The faces of survivors blurred as Fiasco rushed backward through the air. He reached out with his power, sending it outward, just before he plowed into a wrecked car. Metal scratched his aura like nails, wrapping the iron around his body and eyes, plunging the world into darkness.
In the blackness, Fiasco's heavy breathing pounded rhythmically along with the steady ringing in his ears. The aura had faded completely as he had pushed out the last of his reserves, and he was stuck within the twisted metal that cut into his skin everywhere he dared to twitch a muscle. Tired from the physical exertion, he relaxed in the wreckage, waiting for the remaining heat from the explosion to overtake him, letting his mind wander.
At the very least, they could say that he tried. Julianna would be proud. He chuckled until a beam of metal poked him in the back, piercing skin beneath the costume that sent warm blood trickling down his flesh. Fiasco stilled his body among the tangles. He had laughed because he knew being the town pariah, it was more likely that his efforts would be twisted worse than the wreckage he was trapped in. The scene of dead survivors that he failed to rescue would dominate the headline news, all his prior efforts ignored.
You are Fiasco, after all, the voice chastised, and Fiasco would have nodded in agreement if not for the shard of metal that uncomfortably poked the bottom of his neck.
As his breathing slowed, he heard the first scratches on the metal outside of his tomb. Muscles in his body tensed in preparation for an onslaught of fire and heat. Yet, morbid curiosity kept his eyes open. A hole punctured in the metal, letting in a stream of beige light. More holes followed. Water gathered and trickled when he saw what appeared to be fingers before his face. They gripped and peeled back the metal like a can opener, letting in more light. Sweet, refreshing air, thick with condensation, rushed into the gap. Something strong grabbed him beneath the armpits and pulled him to his feet in one swift motion. Back on solid ground, Fiasco's legs quivered like jelly as he bent over and tried to hold back the bile that stung his throat. Talon crouched with him, saying words in his face that he could not discern because of the steady ringing in his ears.
“The people,” Fiasco coughed and pushed through Talon's arms. “The driver! We have to help him!”
He could feel the heat on his exposed hands. Looking about, he thought that he must have been trapped within the rubble longer than he realized, since a fire truck had arrived on scene. Fiasco forced his legs towards the inferno, even though he knew there was little he could do to help or save the driver anymore.
As he passed, Talon grasped his arm. Fiasco tried to break free, but his fingers were strong. Talon moved between him and the inferno, shouting a string of sentences that Fiasco could not hear.
“What!?” Fiasco shouted and pointed to his head. “My ears, Talon. I can't hear you.”
He felt a warm breeze when Talon breathed out in frustration, and grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing his body to turn right. He pointed towards a man who was splayed on the ground. The stranger was surrounded by two people dressed in rain-soaked medical gear who attended to a prominent wound on his forehead. The man clutched at a breathing mask around his nose and mouth, and Fiasco's eyes fixed on the gold watch the man wore that reflected the orange light that he recognized instantly.
“Is that…,” he turned to Talon. “Is that the driver from the truck?”
Talon nodded and flashed a thumbs up at the man, who gave a weak one in return. The ground felt like water and Fiasco had to clutch his knees to stay upright. Somehow, after he lost the truck in his webbing, Talon must have turned on his incredible speed, sweeping over the truck in a blur, and rescued the man before the oil truck crashed into the riverbed. He never knew Talon could move that fast—not at Mega-level speed, at least—but as time went by in their friendship, he noticed that there were many things Talon kept hidden behind his mask.
Or he has proven, yet again, the significant gap between your abilities, the voice mocked.
“I get it,” Fiasco thought. “He's better than me.” The power burned in his chest and flowed upward. His ears tingled and crackled as the energy went about healing his damaged eardrum from the blast. Slowly, he was able to hear and comprehend the ambient sounds.
“...and I was able to get him out.” Talon's voice sounded like he spoke through a plastic cup, but he could at least hear him again. “That barrier you made was quick thinking, Crooked F.”
“Barrier?” Fiasco asked.
Talon turned back to him and crossed his arms over his chest. The rain had finally started to subside a bit, but Talon was soaked to the bone. Somehow, he still looked like a statuesque God.
He looks far better than you. Julianna would love to trade up. Fiasco nodded begrudgingly.
Talon continued, his voice clearer with each passing second. “From what I could gather, you put up a barrier right when the blast reached the bridge,” he nodded to where firefighters looked as if they had gained control of the blaze with the aid of the rain. “You must have funneled it away from the people and pushed it back over the river.”
The evidence was there to support Talon's assessment. The scorch marks on the pavement pointed away from him like charred arrows. Leaves on the trees beyond the bridge were crisp and burned. A large portion of the asphalt where the truck had fallen over the bridge had been destroyed. Loose pieces of asphalt broke off the edges and fell into the conflagration below. Cracks from the edge widened as they webbed toward where he and Talon stood. The guardrails were ripped outward over the edge of the bridge, charred and melted black, dripping with water. Around the bridge, the cars had been blown back from the gust that had knocked him off his feet, but there was clear delineation of damage where he manifested the barrier just before he burrowed into the car. Survivors glowered at him with wide-eyes and dirty faces that looked more scared of him than thankful. Yet, their hearts were still beating.
“So, I saved these people?” Fiasco asked as he wiped the rainwater from the portion of his face exposed beneath his mask.
Talon shrugged nonchalantly. “Apparently. But who is to say the blast would have even made it this far?”
Fiasco lowered his head. “Jerk.”
“I heard that.”
“I know. I wanted you to.”
The power had healed him enough that Fiasco could finally stand upright. The urge to celebrate was almost overwhelming, but his triumph was marred by failure. The power inside swelled when he remembered that the driver of the truck had almost died because of his negligence and weakness. Rage almost quenched it when he remembered why the man was in such jeopardy to begin with. He looked up into Talon's blank white eyes. Talon smirked when he saw the recognition appear on Fiasco's face and his mouth curled into an angry frown. Talon had left that poor driver hanging—his life on the line—for a purpose he could not even try to comprehend. But, before he could confront the Mega, Talon turned away and ran at high speed. Legs pumping, the leather vest flapped like a flag behind him as he hopped the tall firetruck in one, powerful leap and disappeared behind it, leaving Fiasco alone on the bridge in a matter of seconds.
NHPD officers in black tactical gear shouted and scrambled when they noticed Talon's exit. Unable to stop him, they pointed and walked towards Fiasco, angry. They shouted questions and instructions at Fiasco in one breath. Unable—but more likely unwilling—to explain why he failed, Fiasco let the power flow outward like rolling fire from his chest, down into his legs, and over his arms until his aura returned. The power melted on his hands and the gauntlets returned, thick and shimmering a bright blue.
“Fiasco!” he shouted, his aura burning away the water beneath his feet as he took off straight up into the sky.
He cleared the Modoc Bridge like a bright blue train, speeding east towards New Haven. The sky was still dark with rolling gray clouds. The cool wind he let in through his aura felt refreshing, removing the stench of smoke and fire. He scanned the surrounding plains that were covered in darkness. It felt as if Talon had only just left the crash site before him but had already covered a significant distance. It took several minutes just to catch up to the Mega running below.
The night lights of a sleepless New Haven already loomed in the distance as Talon ran below him, his black boots splashing in the highland field thick with mud. He wasn't a Speedstra, a Mega whose main power was speed, but judging from the distance Talon had already covered, he definitely was in the enhanced category. Fiasco concluded he must have been at least a Delta or Charlie Mega speed.
“That answers the question of whether he could play in the Mega league,” Fiasco thought. “Just how fast are you, Talon? And what else are you hiding?” The advantage of flight worked in his favor as he let the power feed his own velocity. “Only one way to find out,” he thought as he sped forward, passing over his friend.
An unfamiliar sensation of apprehension seized his heart, as if he were afraid of the looming confrontation. It was something he found absurd, since Talon was his sometimes partner and long-time friend. He stamped the feeling deep down, finding it silly and distracting, and arched like a rainbow toward the ground feet first. Letting the aura around his feet grow, he sliced trenches into the brown, muddy earth, turning on his heels to stop. Mud splashed about, hardening to chunks that slid off his aura shield in pieces. Fiasco looked up. Talon had stopped several feet from him, glaring, and with his strong arms held behind his back. He wasn’t out of breath in the slightest.
“Nice Mega-hero pose there, Crooked F,” he said. That bright, golden smile returned to Talon's face for the first time that night, but he still held the same intense gaze from the bridge. “Too bad you're not one.”
The myriad of feelings Fiasco experienced at that moment ranged from happiness from actually saving lives, to sadness from failing the driver when the chips were down, and to anger at Talon for not helping him when he could. All the emotions played with his power level, causing it to fit and start. Sparks of blue power jumped from the crooked symbol on his chest and from the gloves on his hands. Muddy pools of water hissed and popped as he stomped towards Talon.
Unnerved, Talon flexed his arms held firmly behind his back as Fiasco approached. “I see you, Crooked F,” he said in a cool tone.
Fiasco stopped just over a foot away from him and looked up into his eyes. Wet, black streams of hair fell on Talon's face, but the white screens on his eyes gave no hints of what he was truly thinking.
“I should hero pose you right in the face!” Fiasco said. It made no sense, but it felt good to say. Talon's lips pursed and his head tilted mockingly to the side as if offering his jaw.
He is not afraid of you at all.
“What the hell was that back there?” Fiasco continued. He ignored the voice. No matter what the circumstances were, he and Talon had shared the fire together. Respect was Fiasco's desire not fear, and that began with the truth about why he almost let him get a man killed.
Talon's smile faded.
“You should have pulled him up,” he said, repeating his line from the bridge.
“You told me to use both my hands. I did.” Fiasco flexed his hands in Talon's face, letting the power dim enough to show him the scars on his palms that were still healing. “I was using both hands just to keep it from falling. How the hell was I supposed to pull up a two-ton vehicle!”
“With your arms.”
He is mocking you.
Fiasco looked towards the sky and bit his lip so hard he thought he could break the skin.
“I told you, it doesn't work like that! I don't physically become stronger the stronger my power gets.”
Talon leaned in; his eyebrows cocked up. “Are you sure about that?”
The aura around Fiasco dimmed, since all he could feel was annoyance from the conversation. The 'I know your power better than you do'act was old at that point and grated on his nerves.
“Yes,” Fiasco replied, his jaw clenched. “I am sure.”
Talon leaned back. He pulled the hair away from his eyes, then rubbed his wet chin with his thumb and forefinger.
“Interesting,” he said as he paced slowly around Fiasco. “So, tell me. When you are not powered up like you are now, can you rip car doors off the hinges like you did back there?” Fiasco swallowed hard about to answer, but Talon interrupted. “Better yet, can you pull that guardrail back with your bare hands, too?”
Fiasco looked at the ground. His shoulder still throbbed even though the power had sent a healing wave. Back at the bridge, he saved those people, and he pulled off those car doors to do so. But he couldn't take the credit. It would make more sense to credit the voice who fueled the energy.
“No, I can't,” he finally said. “But that was the power and use of leverage, not me.”
Talon sighed. It was the second time that night he seemed disappointed. “The power is you. An extension of you. You keep holding yourself back.”
“Even if what you think is true, and it's not by the way, but even if it were. You compare doors to a truck?” Fiasco replied, his voice rising as he flustered. “No, not even just a truck. An actual tanker truck! With a tank full of oil. Get out of here, Talon!” Fiasco turned in a circle, then turned back again and pointed a finger. “I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I don't have that much power.”
Deep down, he wished Talon was correct, that he could scale his power up by his manifestations, but the truth was the truth. There may have been an upper limit to his strength, but pulling a tanker laden with thick heavy oil that was pulled by gravity as it leaned off the bridge was far more than what he could muster.
“Besides,” Fiasco continued. “I'm street level, at best! The powers I have work with what I have to do.”
Talon stopped before him. His mask crimped with his face, and the white screens on his eyes widened. “Street level?” he said.
“Yeah, like Wargone, or Redemption. Or even Salomon in Detroit. I go after the druggies, the drunk drivers, and occasionally robbers. We've done it together, in fact. You know what I'm about. It’s not every day I'm asked to toss up a tanker.”
“That was training,” Talon rubbed the bridge of his nose, then looked back at him. “You really only see yourself that low? The street is your ceiling?”
It was a surprising question. Fiasco had never thought about going further as a Mega. They were in the Northwest. In New Haven, which was not even a major city, the rain was the greatest threat on most days. No Mals ever came to their neck of the woods, and he couldn't care to go to someone else's backyard to chase them down either—especially when he still failed at just being street level. The goal now was to impress Julianna, not the city, or the world for that matter. They never cared about him anyway.
“Do you know how much a fully packed medium tanker weighs?” Talon asked.
With his brain already tired and fatigued, Fiasco blurted out the first number he could think of.
“I don't know Talon,” he said with exasperation. “I said two tons earlier.”
“You need to read more,” Talon said, mimicking the insult his parents would often say. “There are three types of trucks: heavy, light, and medium. That there was a medium truck, and fully loaded like you said. Well, nearly. Add the weight of the cab, and that's about twenty-five or twenty-six thousand pounds in total.”
“So, two point six tons. Who cares?” Fiasco said.
Talon flinched back. “I can't even tell if you're pretending to be this dumb, but for the life of me I can't understand why you would want to.” Then his face hardened and he crossed his arms again—a gesture that Fiasco started to feel was condescending. “Twenty-six thousand pounds is around thirteen tons. If your power was not proportional, then your arms should have been pulled from your shoulders the minute you grabbed that net you made.”
“That…that can't be right,” Fiasco stuttered, but the analysis made sense. When he held the webbing on Modoc Bridge, it had felt as if his arm were being pulled from his body. He could almost hear the sinew being torn apart. He flexed his arms, which were sore at the elbows and biceps. Yet, there they were, whole and fully functional after holding up thirteen tons.
It was adrenaline. The heat of the moment.
“Was it though?” Fiasco thought. He questioned the voice, which never worked out in the past, and his faded aura was the result.
Yes, responded the voice, succinct and matter of fact. You cannot replicate that success, nor should you try.
Talon cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “What happened to all that power you had a few minutes ago? Did I shock you that much?” He laughed and walked towards him, each step sloshing in the mud. “If that got you, think about this. Your power... those things you make.”
Fiasco looked up and cleaned the rain off his white goggles. “My manifestations.”
Talon shrugged. “Okay, manifestations. They come from your imagination, right? What you conjure in your mind, they form?”
“Yes,” Fiasco replied. He did not want to tell him how his power really worked. He did not want to tell him how the voice denigrated and berated, and how he fed off the emotion it churned. He had his own secrets to keep.
“So, if you can create what you think, and you didn't feel like you could pull up that tanker, then why did you just create a net?”
The question brought a grin to Fiasco's face. Talon had overreached in his judgmental assessment. The energized net he had manifested had covered the entire truck, and even he had already admitted earlier that it had saved it. Yes, a net was simple and crude, but it had worked. Besides, what exactly did his friend suspect he could do in such a short amount of time anyway?
“I had two seconds to think, and the net was the best I could do. Even you said it kept the truck up, so what’s the big deal?” Fiasco countered, his voice confident that he had already won the argument.
“I also said you had two hands. You could have enhanced the net and held up that truck with one hand, while creating a crane or wench to pull it back up with the other. Or more arms and hands to push it back onto the bridge. You can fly, you know.”
Fiasco's jaw tightened, not purely in anger, but more out of embarrassment and shame. Talon had got him again. He had pegged him correctly when he said that he never studied. In his off time being Fiasco, or even on the toilet, he could have looked at pictures of various useful objects, studied their form and structure, and practiced creating the manifestations. The embarrassment only grew in intensity when he wondered why it took a man to almost die before he thought to do so.
Because you are lazy, the voice said. And you would have failed if you tried.
Talon chortled and smiled. “Even behind those cheap goggles, I can see that I blew your mind again.” He slapped a large hand on Fiasco’s shoulder as he passed him by and walked towards New Haven. “It's okay. It took someone telling me something similar before I thought outside the box as well. You just think about that, Crooked F, because you need to get better.”
Fiasco watched Talon's back as he walked away, the bird on the leather looking as if it would take off towards him. His friend had read him correctly, almost more apt than the voice. He had broken him down to the core. The bridge was not a triumph as it appeared and felt, but it was yet another loss. A defeat. A failure of his imagination and creativity. In the end, he did what he always had: the bare minimum. Just enough to get by. The voice was right; he was lazy. He was not a real Mega, and not even successful at being a street level hero. That night had to be kept private, since it was nothing Julianna would or should be proud of.
Fiasco is what you are, the voice said, and Fiasco nodded.
The clouds swelled above, and the rain started up again. Feeling the first drops tap a drumbeat on his mask, Fiasco used the hurt, shame, and embarrassment to ignite his aura. The gauntlets returned to his hands, and he looked up at the dark gray sky that continued as far as he could see into the horizon.
“Hey, this rain is only going to get worse,” he shouted at Talon. “Do you need a lift?”
New Haven was still miles away and the rain threatened to turn into a downpour. Talon crouched and his muscles tensed as he prepared to run again. He looked back over his shoulder, his mask emotionless and cold, and replied, “No. Do you?”
Fiasco of Adventures - Chapter 5- Non-Proportional
Fiasco of Adventures - Chapter 5- Non-Proportional
Fiasco of Adventures - Chapter 5- Non-Proportional
Chapter 1, Part 1, Chapter 1, Part 2,
Chapter 2, part 1, Chapter 2, Part 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Fiasco of Adventures
A Megacosm Story
Non-Proportional
The spring rains came down like heavy tear drops. They pelted the shimmering blue aura that surrounded Fiasco and the manifested blue gauntlets on his hands that curved up his forearms as he soared south through the New Haven sky. The rain sizzled and evaporated away upon contact with the shield in small, white puffs of steam. It was nearly dusk, but the rolling gray clouds that stretched into the horizon and dropped a downpour upon his head already shadowed the city in a dull overcast. The Savoy Corporation tower that was in mid construction loomed on his left like a monolith growing taller by the day. To the southwest, he saw the tall cranes and the orange dots of excavators masked in heavy mist. There were bulldozers and other construction equipment parked within the hole where the Mega League stadium was being built. Julianna's father had taken him on a tour, and he was amazed by the size of the cavity and what humans could accomplish without the aid of Mega powers. He repressed a smile from the memory. There was work to be done.
Beneath him, the city shimmered in coral streetlights. New Haven looked strange for some reason, larger than he remembered before. The square rooftops of the office buildings strewn with rainbow-colored patio furniture blurred and ran together. In the months since his return, Fiasco had learned to keep his eyes ahead to the trees or open skies, so he would not trigger his stomach pangs. No longer heading into every incident on the verge of heaving was a benefit to his endeavors, yet he was still able to admire the view in short intervals.
The rekindled adventure as a Mega-hero began small, and with various levels of success. Often, Fiasco would patrol near his home, rousing violent drunks who stumbled about and fought after last call, or bust the drivers who swerved on the nearly empty roads. But the airwaves were suspiciously quiet about his return, as if the town had left him in the past, so he had to step up his activities to gain any notice.
Recently, he had graduated to facing armed robbery again, with the usual Fiasco results. When he let the malicious voice douse him in its contemptuous fire, the aura grew strong enough to stop larger caliber rounds. The shield peaked when he was at his lowest, usually right after making an excuse to not be with Julianna so he could adventure as Fiasco—something that had become a more frequent occurrence.
However on a typical day, when he was scraping the bottom barrel of emotion, bullets would glance off his aura in directions he could not anticipate. This was a danger in an enclosed space, which he found out the hard way when he tried to stop a convenience store hold up weeks prior. Fiasco had surprised the tweaked-up robber who saw the Mega and replied by opening fire, emptying his magazine in a fit of anger and fear. The bullets bounced off his aura like white streaks of lightning. One clipped the poor young clerk who was cowering beneath the counter in the arm, severing his triceps off the bone.
The local media took notice of him again at that point. It was as if Fiasco had never left at all, and his notoriety returned with gusto, even though the clerk would have lost his arm had he not stemmed the flow of blood and cauterized the wound with his power. Headlines like 'Local Menace Returns', and 'Fiasco for the Fail', peppered the newspapers and website headlines alike. While his failures mounted, so did the backlash, with Mega forums online going pages deep in vitriol from Mega groupies and parents worried about what kind of role model he represented.
When they first began teaming up again, Talon had called in some favors—with whom he would never say—and pulled enough strings to give him access back to the MegaStream, his authentication to the server having expired during his hiatus. The MegaStream was an online encrypted site for only true, verified Megas and would age off the desktop if not used. It also acted like a pseudo Mega-human dispatch since it streamed the latest crimes relevant to a geographical area in real time.
He had heard that it was moderated by Megas who could read minds. Apparently, that was how they knew where crimes were occurring, but that information was never verified. The stream could be tough to navigate. Events as low as pets stuck in trees, to a Mal-Mega attacking a tech company seemed to be entered haphazardly line by line. Even the vernacular was different for each entry, as if hundreds of different people were entering data into the stream all at once. But the MegaStream was imperative to the life of a Mega-hero. It was unrealistic to go searching for crime with no leads, hoping to catch crimes in the act.
It was in the MegaStream that Fiasco found the lifeline that had forced him to venture out in the awful weather. In the socializing section, Talon had reached out for aid. The opportunity of redemption had presented itself when the saturated one-twenty-six highway had caused a vicious pileup along the Modoc Bridge. It only took minutes for the crash to appear in the stream as a developing emergency, and only seconds after that came Talon's message. It read, 'Get your ass out here now -T', in red flashing letters.
Kevin and Julianna had dinner plans at Mama Rena's to sample New Haven's best tacos, but he couldn't pass up the possibility of raising his Fiasco profile. The memory of the disappointment on her face made his aura thicken.
Slosh and rain licked the blue light in low hisses as he veered to the west. In the distance, a snow-capped mountain range peeked through the clouds surrounded by a gray mist. Juniper trees jutted from the landscape, their spiky green limbs heavy with rainwater. On the ground, snow retreated from the downfall, revealing pockets of brown grass and sagebrush beneath him as he moved from the bright city lights of New Haven to the high desert plains.
“You can do this,” Fiasco thought, but the voice made sure he knew otherwise.
You are going to fail.
All his efforts were failures up to that point, but as he streaked towards the crash on the Modoc Bridge, he knew that the accident was the step up that could put Fiasco's best foot forward.
From Fiasco's altitude, he could see that the one-twenty-six highway was lit up for at least a mile. All the cars heading out of New Haven were at a stand-still, bumper to bumper. Horns blared, and a congestion of angry drivers stood out in the rain, casting blame at each other. This slowed the progress of ambulances and fire trucks who attempted to ease through the gridlock to reach the scene. He buzzed over the blockage, a blue blurring streak that wanted to be seen by the crowd and headed towards the bridge.
The description he read about the accident on the MegaStream did not properly describe the chaos he found once he arrived. Dark smoke mixed in with the heavy rain. Just before the bridge's entrance was the zigzag of passenger cars that tried to stop last minute on the slicked road, but instead, smashed the car in front of them one after another like dominoes.
All four lanes were clogged at various angles, like a post-apocalyptic scene. Bloodied survivors soaked from the rain tended to others off to the side of the road, using what was available to set splints and tie off seeping wounds. One car had plowed through the trunk of another as it drove up the roof, soared over several others, and landed on its side atop another vehicle. Given its position, balanced precariously at a slant on a caved in roof, Fiasco decided that car was most deserving of his attention.
Curving up until he was horizontal, and floating down, Fiasco landed gently on the car’s backseat door. The car moaned in defiance with every careful footstep toward the front. Rain pattered on his leather mask as he powered down his aura, knelt, and peered through the driver's window that was strangely crumpled inward. He kept the gauntlets powered on high, and they cast the inside of the cab in stark blue light. The steering wheel was dotted with dark black stains, and the windshield spider-webbed with cracked glass. There was no one inside nor in the backseat.
“You're late as usual,” a man shouted behind him.
Fiasco turned toward the stranger who spoke to him. He was kneeling on the ground. The shirt sleeve on his right arm was torn off, the skin beneath heavily bruised. He held a woman's head in his lap with his crumpled shirt to her forehead. Her eyes fluttered from the falling rain as she stared at him. Blood matted her forehead and streaked her blonde hair red. A crowd of fellow survivors had gathered in a crescent shell around them.
“Talon already got us out,” the man continued, licking the rain from his lips. “Like a real Mega would.” The crowd stirred and joined in his disdain.
“Of course he did,” Fiasco sighed, then stood to full height.
He will always be better than you.
Fiasco looked west on the bridge. Further down the highway, an orange light blinked on the back of an overturned sixteen-wheeler that obscured what was beyond.
“Be careful citizens. Aid is on the way,” he replied.
Drinking in the bump of energy the voice had given him from the crowds’ rebuke, the aura returned in a snap, and Fiasco took off like an azure rocket, overturning the car that tumbled off the roof in a scream of grinding metal.
“Fiasco!” he shouted, and his name echoed off the wreckage as he continued towards the Modoc Bridge. Reaching the truck, he slowly circled around the red cab pockmarked with damage from the crash. He searched, ensuring the driver had been evacuated by his friend, before landing on the side of the upturned trailer. Water pooled over the company logo painted on the side, and Fiasco knew it belonged to the company building the stadium that Mr. Jove was contracted to. Walking to the edge, and standing in front of a larger rubber tire, he could see the rest of the damage on the other side.
Reflecting the blue-collar nature of the New Haven citizens, the Modoc Bridge was old and simple in design. The bridge was only four lanes wide, two facing west and two facing east back into the city. It was buffered on each side by four-foot-high silver metal guardrails, attached to concrete blocks that were now cracked and marked with gashes and holes. As he gained an unobstructed view of the crash site, Fiasco realized that the true extent of the crash was worse than he was led to believe.
Through the clamor of driving rain, screams of pain echoed through the darkness. Metal and glass were strewn along the road. Coupes, mini-vans, trucks, and sedans, in various states of wreckage, littered the Modoc Bridge into the horizon that was masked by a haze of precipitation and smoke. Even while the rain continued, a blazing fire raged in the middle of it all, fueled by gas that leaked from severed tanks.
It was apparent from the dark rubber skids burned in the road that the truck he stood upon was headed east into New Haven. It had overturned when it tried to evade a silver oil truck that had lost control on the slippery road going in the opposite direction. The oil truck skidded to a halt when it burst through the guardrail on his right, ripping the iron outward like tinfoil. A thick, black sludge leaked from the oil trailer along a small tear that was opened by the jagged rail, and pooled on the ground, threatening to add its fuel to the blaze. The truck groaned as the cab teetered several feet off the bridge. It reeled back and forth and appeared as if a strong gust of wind could send the entire truck careening down to the river raging below.
“Crooked F! Get the lead out!” Talon yelled, which echoed through the bridge, and off the canyon below.
“Yeah, sure Talon,” Fiasco stammered, struggling to comprehend the disaster before him, rain dripping over his goggles. “Get the lead out. Sure, whatever you say.”
Taken aback by the severity of the crash, Fiasco did not notice Talon amid the chaos. He wore the same number eight shaped mask as before. The rain had slicked his jet-black hair down, and ran down his exposed chest that held a bone necklace interspersed with curved knives hanging low. A black leather vest was etched with the bird-of-prey symbol on the back that caught the ambient light from the heavy rain that pasted it to his skin. His blue jeans were soaked through—resembling a dark black. Black boots splashed in the puddles as he moved among the dangerous wreckage. No motion was wasted as Talon kicked in windshields and wrenched car doors off their hinges like tissues, pulling out survivors even as the fire grew behind him, threatening to overtake them all.
Rescued Havenites walked along the far side of the bridge like zombies, some with arm, leg, and head injuries that were more severe than what he had seen outside the bridge. Their faces were blank, rain dripping off slacked jaws, staring ahead as if stunned silent from the totality of the crash. For the first time, Fiasco did not envy Talon's superior hearing. He could still hear the screams bouncing off the metal and asphalt, but the rain, smoke, and darkness made it impossible to pinpoint what direction they originated from. He realized it wasn’t possible for everyone to have survived the accident—at least not with the amount of damage he witnessed. The thought of someone dying in the wreckage froze Fiasco's blood and soured his weak stomach.
“The fire,” Fiasco thought, sensing the greatest threat facing the surviving victims. “Got to get control of that fire before anyone else gets hurt. If that oil hits it, this will be an even bigger disaster.”
The gas fire dominated most of the center of the bridge, growing as it consumed the leaking fuel, and trapping injured New Haven citizens on one side, away from ambulances and aid coming from the city. Mind made up, he zoomed forward off the trailer. Floating horizontal above the burning conflagration, he repeated, “Fuel, ignition source, oxygen.” It was the mantra he learned as a cub scout on the components of a fire. It was one of the few things he picked up before he grew tired of being forced to interact with the other children and quit just before making bear.
The hungry flames reached up like fingers at the blue aura on his boots. Power flowed through his gauntlets, until it poured out from his hands. With a mental command, it curved downward beneath him like a bell. The bell expanded, slithering out until it covered the majority of the firestorm in a makeshift azure dome. Fiasco lowered his hands and the dome descended, landing on the asphalt with a thud. Hands twisted right and the dome turned along with them, grating a thick groove as it dug into the pavement to ensure the fire was properly deprived of the food it needed to grow.
Sweat misted the brow beneath Fiasco's mask, and dripped stinging drops down into his goggles. Yet he could already feel the heat from the blaze begin to subside in the canopy.
“I've got the fire!' Fiasco shouted.
Yards from where he floated, Talon's rescue efforts had slowed to a crawl, as he had to gently navigate loosing a mini-van that was crushed like an accordion between two sedans. He couldn't see anyone inside the shattered window, but the careful attention Talon was giving that particular vehicle meant that someone must have been trapped in the wreckage.
Talon never turned to look at him as he pushed against the car in front of the mini-van. A hose inside the hood broke free from the engine, wriggling like a snake, and splashed a steaming liquid across his face, but Talon did not so much as wince. As if impervious to pain, his hand pushed against the crumpled trunk of the other vehicle. Pushing outward, the metal screamed as he decoupled the two vehicles with a stiff grunt.
“You waiting for a prize?” Talon grunted as he pushed. The strain of his effort made the back of his arms ripple. “Don't just float there like some pansy, get the other people out. I'm busy here!”
Fiasco searched around, looking down at his gleaming hands, wondering how he was supposed to help more. The fire still was not quenched beneath the dome, and his power was currently indisposed trying to snuff it out.
“What am I supposed to use, my dick? I'm trying to quench the fire!” Fiasco shot back. The dome around the fire flickered from his bout of anger. He knew it was not the time for levity, but the patronizing tone of Talon's voice got under his skin.
Talon glared over his shoulder from the remark. Rain dripped down from his stiff, square jaw that was clenched tight.
“You have two hands,” Talon said through his teeth. “People are dying, so yes, use your dick if you have to.”
Fiasco could feel the resentment even though they were several feet apart. He stared at his hands. Eyes fixed, he put one hand atop the other, transferring the strand attached to his right in the left gauntlet. Moving his right hand out slowly, he watched to ensure that the dome did not waver in strength. The power glimmered about the left glove like a blue star as he freed his right hand, and he pumped it full of spare energy, so much that he could not see the fingers beneath the brightness. Although Talon's acrimony was not appreciated, he did have a point. The extent of the fire had caused so much trepidation within Fiasco, that it never occurred to him it would take only one hand to tame it.
Because, below the surface, you are stupid, the voice said. And a coward.
Fiasco nodded in agreement.
Behind his goggles, he closed his eyes and began to concentrate. He fixated on the malice and disappointment in Talon's tone, and the fact that the voice had nailed its assessment of his abilities yet again. The energy burned just under the skin of his chest from the negativity, then flooded into his arms, down to his hands. The aura about his gauntlets surged in strength. Pushing down, the asphalt crunched downward as the blue dome over the fire thickened from the rush of energy. Satisfied with its strength, Fiasco floated toward the west end of the bridge where Talon was and pushed out his free hand.
Blue tendrils curled outward from the tips of his fingers. Weaving the lines through the wreckage, Fiasco's face was tight with deep concentration. Using the lines, he probed for trapped survivors. Beyond the point where Talon had finally freed the crushed minivan, the strands felt along a vehicle that had slammed into the metal guardrail. White smoke steamed from the caved-in engine, and the tires were ribbons of shredded rubber on gnarled rims. There was a child in the backseat, his shouts muted as his tiny fist beat against the cracked glass.
The stench of oil, gas, and smoke flushed through his aura as Fiasco floated closer to the wreck, dragging a thick line from his left hand that held the dome tight over the fire. The tendrils on his right hand melted together just outside of the window that refused to give.
“Get down!” Fiasco shouted.
He wasn't sure the kid could hear him over the distance and rain, but he seemed to have put things together, and his little head ducked down into the back seat. Fiasco’s fingers pressed together into a pyramid. The blue energy curled into a muscled cobalt fist with the middle knuckle protruding outward as it tightened. Fiasco flicked his wrist and the blue knuckle lightly tapped on the glass that splintered outward from where it struck. He flicked his wrist again, and the glass tumbled inward, falling under its own weight. Fiasco cupped his hand upward, and the energy fist responded, cupping the bottom of the empty windowsill through the broken glass.
Sweat mingled with the rain and streamed down into Fiasco's suit as he pulled back with his arm, straining enough not to rocket the remaining glass fragments at the boy inside. Glass tumbled down and slid into the cab regardless, and Fiasco cursed beneath his breath. With another tug, the door finally gave and peeled back like the edge of a book cover. Rain dropped on the fabric of the now exposed back seat. Nothing moved in the car.
Then, as Fiasco held his breath in nervousness, he saw a small head with stringy brown hair peak out. His glowing fist almost disappeared completely from the sudden elation of the sight. Looking about as if lost, the boy climbed carefully over the glass, passed the ruined door, dirty and with blood on his knobby knees. Fiasco wondered why he turned back inside until he saw the child guide his frightened sister towards him. Her yellow dress was stained with dirt, and her brother held her beneath the armpits so she could make the small jump down to muddy ground.
“Well done, kid,” Fiasco thought.
After checking the dome, Fiasco repeated the effort on the passenger door, peeling it back off the latch until he could reach inside. His hand flattened and overturned, and the powered fist mirrored his movement. It shrank and cooled with his mental command as he pushed his shoulder and slid the hand gently inside the cab. Through the power, he felt around and touched a body slumped towards the door on the driver’s side. The body wasn't flushed completely against the door but seemed to hang like a marionette on its stand. The tendril-like fingers played through what felt like long hair. He reached further inside and discovered another face slumped against the steering wheel horn that failed to beep. In his mind, he imagined a woman—likely the kids’ mom—pressed against the father who was slouched on the driver’s side, both unconscious from the crash.
Slowly, he closed his fingers. His forehead itched as it furrowed in determination, moist with sweat and chafing against his leather mask. The aura had kept him relatively dry below, but the deluge of rain obscured his field of vision.
“Use the energy,” he thought. “It's a part of you.”
He felt around with the glowing hand, and gently slipped blue fingers around the father’s torso. Sensing through the light, his breaths were shallow, but at least he was still breathing. The thumb on the glimmering hand stretched and curved beneath the woman's arm and over her chest. Fiasco lifted the two and floated back inches above the wet pavement as he slowly pulled back his arm. Lightning strikes of pain shot through his shoulder from the combined weight. Beneath his forearm, the curve of the gauntlet dripped down to the ground, acting like a crutch that kept the manifested hand steady. Slowly, he pulled the couple out, ensuring that his hand projection did not scrape against the skin piercing metal remnants of the door he had torn off. Rain hissed as the fist reached open air. Once the pair were safely outside the door, he opened his palm to lay them flat along the cold, wet asphalt. The woman rested atop her husband, splayed out like two sleeping dolls, as rain assailed their bruised faces.
“Mom!” The boy yelled as Fiasco recalled the hand back toward him. The husband stirred first, then the mother followed, startled awake by the shower. The boy held his little sister by the hand. Small splashes parted the accumulated rain as the children ran to their parents.
“That's one down,” Fiasco thought as he separated his fingers and the hand reverted into lines of separate lights. Moving further into the wreckage, the tendrils took the initiative and searched for more survivors.
Take your pedestrian victory and flee. The longer you stay, the more likely you will fail.
Climbing into the sky, Fiasco elevated, stretching the blue strand attached to his left hand to keep the dome intact, gaining a greater overview of the scene. The fire felt all but quenched beneath his dome, so he was able to transfer power from that hand into the other, sending out more tendrils that snaked out of his fists to double his rescue efforts. Talon handled the most critical accidents, while Fiasco cloned his efforts several more times, dealing with the things Talon couldn’t attend to. The survivors mostly tended to each other as he probed over fender benders and light scrapes further at the end of the crash. After what felt like hours, he and Talon's work seemed complete, and Fiasco allowed himself to finally breathe while floating back to the earth.
A puddle of rainwater rippled away beneath Fiasco's feet as he touched down on the pavement. With his aura fully restored, rain steamed upon touch. Looking left to right, Fiasco scanned for something he could have missed in the wreckage, until a screeching noise, the sound of a high-pitched whistle, pounded against his eardrums.
“What the hell was that?” Fiasco said aloud. The ear-splitting shriek was loud enough to pierce his aura shield, raising the hair on the back of his neck as he searched about for the origin of the noise.
The small lapse of concentration was just long enough for the dome around the fire to disappear in a blink. The strands of lights he had out among the wreckage followed suit, breaking apart like ash before fading away. Heat escaped from beneath the bell and rushed over his body like a wave. Ashen colored smoke followed the heat and hung low like a pungent mist that stung his nose.
When the cloud had thinned enough for him to see the dark outline of wrecked automobiles through the haze, he searched around to find where that unnerving sound had originated. A fortunate gust curled more smoke into the heavens, further clearing the bridge, and it didn't take long to find the perpetrator of the sound.
“There you are,” Fiasco thought.
In his efforts to quickly rescue survivors and shut Talon up, Fiasco had forgotten about the oil truck that had broken through the guardrail. Fresh rubber on the wet street said that either a tire had moved, or the weight of the cab that tottered over the edge had lurched the truck forward. The noise he heard came from the oil barrel whose gash on the side had ripped open even further when the truck slid forward. Black oil streamed like a faucet onto the road. The pounding rain, or pure blind luck, was all that kept a single spark from igniting, taking the bridge, injured survivors, and himself along with it.
Move, you loser, the voice said. Fiasco responded. With both hands outstretched before him, he shot a concentrated beam of blue energy at the guardrail.
“Watch the heat,” he reminded himself, sending out a mental command to cool the temperature of his power, fearing it may ignite the fuel. The glowing hand he used to rescue just moments ago reformed at the end of his beam. He parted his arms, and the manifestation separated in two.
“Two hands are better than one,” he quipped to calm his nerves. “Going to need them both to pull this off.”
The tendril on his left hand plunged inside the hole on the side of the tanker. Inky black spilled onto the ground. With it, Fiasco probed through the sticky black substance, moving slowly until he found the jagged end of the guardrail. A blue light of energy pulsed from the symbol on his chest. It rippled down through his power line so he could blunt the sharp edges. With his other energized hand, he gripped the bent and broken iron guardrail outside of the truck.
Fiasco crouched down, bending at his knees. Then, at the shoulder, he pulled back the tendril inside the tanker. Straining, he almost wanted to drop his aura to let in the rain cool his body that seemed to be perspiring from every pore. Rain had made the outside guardrail slippery even to the manifestation, so he released more power, and the glowing fingers clenched down with a crunch for a tighter grip. Buried deep into the earth, the rail shook in its moorings, but held firm.
“Do it,” Fiasco said aloud to no one. “Do it yourself, before Talon does it for you.”
The left arm that pulled at the rail inside the tanker ached from the effort, but the iron proved far more stubborn than the car doors and refused to budge. It was not until the voice reminded him that Talon was better that Fiasco manifested enough energy to feed into his creation. The metal groaned, then screamed as the rail was bent away from the oil truck. Once the oil drenched guardrail was safely outside of the barrel, Fiasco waved his hand in front of his face from right to left. The movement forced his created hand to bend the rail over on itself until it resembled a twisted candy cane of metal, ensuring that nothing could accidentally strike the match that would ignite the oil.
However, before he could even think of celebrating its extraction, the error of his move became apparent and struck like a bolt of lightning. While the rail had presented a danger of igniting the oil, he realized that its strong moorings were the only thing that kept the truck from sliding off the bridge.
“Ah, hell,” Fiasco muttered, his aura shield brightened as his anxiety deepened.
With its wheels sitting on the edge of the bridge, the red cab made one long and slow revolution and that was all it took. Unfettered from its anchor, the truck jostled and lurched forward along the pavement. The mechanism that attached the tanker to the cab lifted like a precarious pyramid. Metal scraped together like rusty knives before the weight and momentum pulled the entire truck forward, bringing it a step closer to plummeting into the river below. Even with the heavy downpour, Fiasco doubted the river was high or deep enough to swallow the entire payload. If it fell, there would be an impact with the sharp, unforgiving stones beneath the water. He could not foresee the consequences, but based on the movies he’d seen, Fiasco predicted an explosion was sure to follow.
“I can fix this,” Fiasco breathed.
You will fail.
The rainwater separated before Fiasco as he glided inches above the pavement. Sliding to a halt behind the tanker, and arms outstretched, he shot out gleaming rays of light from each hand. They passed through the air like whips on either side of the tanker, sliding through and over tires and gears on one side, and slithering over the round barrel on the other before they merged at the front of the cab. Heart beating in his ears, he took panicked breaths, before he closed his eyes to think about his past failures to try and conjure additional power. His memory instantly went back to a brawl he had in middle school. He thought back to when children he knew formed a circle to watch a much larger bully extract his payment of blood, raining thunderous blows. The embarrassment he felt from the memory poured more energy into the well.
When you fail, Julianna will be so disappointed in you.
Rain thumped against his goggles, and his shoulders sagged from the thought.
“I know she will,” he mumbled.
The crooked F on his chest pulsed and flared in a firework of cyan and gray light. The tendrils thickened, crawling and spreading over the breath of the truck as Fiasco morphed the energy into a shimmering web. The strain of holding the netting felt like it would pull his shoulders out of their sockets, as the truck inched forward in a screech, pulling him along the ground against his will. His memory raced, trying to think of another terrible thought he could mine from the past. Then, a voice from the cab reverberated off the bridge foundation below and sent a sobering chill down Fiasco's spine.
The tanker hung over the bridge like a deflated balloon. The cab of the tanker swayed left and right, rain seeping through the cracks and crevices. A hand frantically waved out of the shattered window, a gold watch glinting off the light of his power.
“Help!'” Fiasco heard a male voice scream inside the cab. He had assumed Talon had rescued the oil truck driver as he passed, but both had missed the man who must have been unconscious inside.
“Get back!” Fiasco shouted at a rain-soaked survivor who had straddled the guardrail to rescue the driver. “That railing could fall at any moment!”
He appreciated that the citizen was at least trying, which said much about the people of New Haven, but the truck was already too far over the edge. Looking over his shoulder, the rescue workers were still trapped outside of the wreckage zone, having barely made any progress reaching the bridge. For his own worth, he was far less helpful, since his own power was engaged with both hands trying to keep the truck on the ledge, and his imagination went blank.
The truck jostled forward again, and Fiasco pulled hard against the momentum, fighting gravity that pulled on the tonnage, unsure if he was even making a difference.
“Maybe I should use my dick,” Fiasco said through a strained jaw—a reflective reaction he had during crisis—but he couldn't bring himself to laugh.
“Pull it up,” a voice said. Talon had saddled up next to him, silent as a cat. He stood there, arms crossed over his barrel chest and one hand holding his curved knife, staring at Fiasco behind that unyielding mask.
Rain slicked his shoulders and leather vest. “Stop thinking and pull it up,” Talon continued, his voice a cool, even octave.
It took all the restraint Fiasco had not to lace his friend with a string of extreme expletives.
“What are you talking about?” Fiasco asked, his throat sore from the strain the power was putting on his body. “I can't!”
Talon leaned his face in closer. “Yes, you can. Pull it up.”
Fiasco ground his teeth as gravity forced his feet over the pavement. The power flickered and wavered as exhaustion drained his reserves. His hands curled to regain a tight grip on the tendrils.
“It doesn't work that way!” Fiasco said. “My power is not proportional to what I make. Just because the hands are ten times as big doesn't make them ten times as strong. The truck is too heavy!”
That was the way Fiasco understood it and that was the way it had always been. He was able to take off car doors, but that was a combination of the tools he created and leverage, no different than a small jack's ability to lift a car. He could create a giant fist, or an unimaginative crowbar, but the manifestations he created were still attached to skinny arms.
His eyes stung from the perspiration on his brow. Strands on the webbing about the truck cracked and broke as fatigue set in and his power drained with it. He looked over at Talon, who stood like a statue and had not moved a muscle. Fiasco glanced between him and the truck. More webbing strands cracked and disappeared, and the truck budged.
“Help me please!”
The driver’s petrified pleas echoed through the canyon, loud enough to be heard over the raging river below. Talon did not move. More New Haven survivors who made it to the east end of the bridge backed away as the tension between the two Megas grew.
“Stop standing there!” The left gauntlet on Fiasco's hand flickered like a light, then disappeared. Now bare, the tendrils from the net cut into the skin. He could smell the burning of his skin as he pulled along the rope. “Talon, he's going to die!”
The right gauntlet followed the left’s fate, disappearing in a blink, and Fiasco had to hold the webbing with his bare hands. He dipped his head back, gritting his teeth with one last effort to hold the truck, but knew his efforts were in vain. Skin burned along the glowing rope and curled away. He could feel the power wane further like a candle wick running out of wax to burn. The hand from the cab clutched desperately at the top of the roof as the cab sunk further off the bridge. Fiasco held as long as he could until his aura flickered and died. The webbing around the truck evaporated like smoke and he fell onto the wet pavement with a splash. Landing on his hands, he watched, mouth agape in horror, as the remainder of the oil tanker careened over the side like a can kicked over a ledge.
Metal against asphalt wailed over the Modoc Bridge as the truck twisted onto its side, spilling black liquid gold. The driver’s evaporating scream as he fell with the wreckage curdled the blood in Fiasco's veins.
You failed again, the voice reminded him, and now that man will die.
The ridicule heated the center of his chest and replenished a small portion of his power reserve. Fiasco told his arms and legs to pick himself up, but tired, exhausted muscles refused to comply, twitching before he fell back into the water with a splash. A mental command tried to reform the aura so he could fly and perhaps save the man inside, but the shield only sparked in starts, unable to stabilize from the dearth of energy. His internal fire had no fuel.
“Please God,” he pleaded as he crawled. “Please don't let me let him die.”
Fiasco's spine stiffened when he heard a deep splash below the bridge. The sound was followed by the crunching of heavy metal folding in on itself like a car in a compactor. An orange light bloomed from the darkness over the side of the bridge. The ground rumbled beneath his legs, spurring him to rise to his feet. Fiasco reached his hands out again, just as the first flash of orange light burst into the sky. Then, night turned to morning light and his ears rang from the explosion. Scorching heat flowed over his restored aura, and a powerful wind pushed him back off his feet. The faces of survivors blurred as Fiasco rushed backward through the air. He reached out with his power, sending it outward, just before he plowed into a wrecked car. Metal scratched his aura like nails, wrapping the iron around his body and eyes, plunging the world into darkness.
In the blackness, Fiasco's heavy breathing pounded rhythmically along with the steady ringing in his ears. The aura had faded completely as he had pushed out the last of his reserves, and he was stuck within the twisted metal that cut into his skin everywhere he dared to twitch a muscle. Tired from the physical exertion, he relaxed in the wreckage, waiting for the remaining heat from the explosion to overtake him, letting his mind wander.
At the very least, they could say that he tried. Julianna would be proud. He chuckled until a beam of metal poked him in the back, piercing skin beneath the costume that sent warm blood trickling down his flesh. Fiasco stilled his body among the tangles. He had laughed because he knew being the town pariah, it was more likely that his efforts would be twisted worse than the wreckage he was trapped in. The scene of dead survivors that he failed to rescue would dominate the headline news, all his prior efforts ignored.
You are Fiasco, after all, the voice chastised, and Fiasco would have nodded in agreement if not for the shard of metal that uncomfortably poked the bottom of his neck.
As his breathing slowed, he heard the first scratches on the metal outside of his tomb. Muscles in his body tensed in preparation for an onslaught of fire and heat. Yet, morbid curiosity kept his eyes open. A hole punctured in the metal, letting in a stream of beige light. More holes followed. Water gathered and trickled when he saw what appeared to be fingers before his face. They gripped and peeled back the metal like a can opener, letting in more light. Sweet, refreshing air, thick with condensation, rushed into the gap. Something strong grabbed him beneath the armpits and pulled him to his feet in one swift motion. Back on solid ground, Fiasco's legs quivered like jelly as he bent over and tried to hold back the bile that stung his throat. Talon crouched with him, saying words in his face that he could not discern because of the steady ringing in his ears.
“The people,” Fiasco coughed and pushed through Talon's arms. “The driver! We have to help him!”
He could feel the heat on his exposed hands. Looking about, he thought that he must have been trapped within the rubble longer than he realized, since a fire truck had arrived on scene. Fiasco forced his legs towards the inferno, even though he knew there was little he could do to help or save the driver anymore.
As he passed, Talon grasped his arm. Fiasco tried to break free, but his fingers were strong. Talon moved between him and the inferno, shouting a string of sentences that Fiasco could not hear.
“What!?” Fiasco shouted and pointed to his head. “My ears, Talon. I can't hear you.”
He felt a warm breeze when Talon breathed out in frustration, and grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing his body to turn right. He pointed towards a man who was splayed on the ground. The stranger was surrounded by two people dressed in rain-soaked medical gear who attended to a prominent wound on his forehead. The man clutched at a breathing mask around his nose and mouth, and Fiasco's eyes fixed on the gold watch the man wore that reflected the orange light that he recognized instantly.
“Is that…,” he turned to Talon. “Is that the driver from the truck?”
Talon nodded and flashed a thumbs up at the man, who gave a weak one in return. The ground felt like water and Fiasco had to clutch his knees to stay upright. Somehow, after he lost the truck in his webbing, Talon must have turned on his incredible speed, sweeping over the truck in a blur, and rescued the man before the oil truck crashed into the riverbed. He never knew Talon could move that fast—not at Mega-level speed, at least—but as time went by in their friendship, he noticed that there were many things Talon kept hidden behind his mask.
Or he has proven, yet again, the significant gap between your abilities, the voice mocked.
“I get it,” Fiasco thought. “He's better than me.” The power burned in his chest and flowed upward. His ears tingled and crackled as the energy went about healing his damaged eardrum from the blast. Slowly, he was able to hear and comprehend the ambient sounds.
“...and I was able to get him out.” Talon's voice sounded like he spoke through a plastic cup, but he could at least hear him again. “That barrier you made was quick thinking, Crooked F.”
“Barrier?” Fiasco asked.
Talon turned back to him and crossed his arms over his chest. The rain had finally started to subside a bit, but Talon was soaked to the bone. Somehow, he still looked like a statuesque God.
He looks far better than you. Julianna would love to trade up. Fiasco nodded begrudgingly.
Talon continued, his voice clearer with each passing second. “From what I could gather, you put up a barrier right when the blast reached the bridge,” he nodded to where firefighters looked as if they had gained control of the blaze with the aid of the rain. “You must have funneled it away from the people and pushed it back over the river.”
The evidence was there to support Talon's assessment. The scorch marks on the pavement pointed away from him like charred arrows. Leaves on the trees beyond the bridge were crisp and burned. A large portion of the asphalt where the truck had fallen over the bridge had been destroyed. Loose pieces of asphalt broke off the edges and fell into the conflagration below. Cracks from the edge widened as they webbed toward where he and Talon stood. The guardrails were ripped outward over the edge of the bridge, charred and melted black, dripping with water. Around the bridge, the cars had been blown back from the gust that had knocked him off his feet, but there was clear delineation of damage where he manifested the barrier just before he burrowed into the car. Survivors glowered at him with wide-eyes and dirty faces that looked more scared of him than thankful. Yet, their hearts were still beating.
“So, I saved these people?” Fiasco asked as he wiped the rainwater from the portion of his face exposed beneath his mask.
Talon shrugged nonchalantly. “Apparently. But who is to say the blast would have even made it this far?”
Fiasco lowered his head. “Jerk.”
“I heard that.”
“I know. I wanted you to.”
The power had healed him enough that Fiasco could finally stand upright. The urge to celebrate was almost overwhelming, but his triumph was marred by failure. The power inside swelled when he remembered that the driver of the truck had almost died because of his negligence and weakness. Rage almost quenched it when he remembered why the man was in such jeopardy to begin with. He looked up into Talon's blank white eyes. Talon smirked when he saw the recognition appear on Fiasco's face and his mouth curled into an angry frown. Talon had left that poor driver hanging—his life on the line—for a purpose he could not even try to comprehend. But, before he could confront the Mega, Talon turned away and ran at high speed. Legs pumping, the leather vest flapped like a flag behind him as he hopped the tall firetruck in one, powerful leap and disappeared behind it, leaving Fiasco alone on the bridge in a matter of seconds.
NHPD officers in black tactical gear shouted and scrambled when they noticed Talon's exit. Unable to stop him, they pointed and walked towards Fiasco, angry. They shouted questions and instructions at Fiasco in one breath. Unable—but more likely unwilling—to explain why he failed, Fiasco let the power flow outward like rolling fire from his chest, down into his legs, and over his arms until his aura returned. The power melted on his hands and the gauntlets returned, thick and shimmering a bright blue.
“Fiasco!” he shouted, his aura burning away the water beneath his feet as he took off straight up into the sky.
He cleared the Modoc Bridge like a bright blue train, speeding east towards New Haven. The sky was still dark with rolling gray clouds. The cool wind he let in through his aura felt refreshing, removing the stench of smoke and fire. He scanned the surrounding plains that were covered in darkness. It felt as if Talon had only just left the crash site before him but had already covered a significant distance. It took several minutes just to catch up to the Mega running below.
The night lights of a sleepless New Haven already loomed in the distance as Talon ran below him, his black boots splashing in the highland field thick with mud. He wasn't a Speedstra, a Mega whose main power was speed, but judging from the distance Talon had already covered, he definitely was in the enhanced category. Fiasco concluded he must have been at least a Delta or Charlie Mega speed.
“That answers the question of whether he could play in the Mega league,” Fiasco thought. “Just how fast are you, Talon? And what else are you hiding?” The advantage of flight worked in his favor as he let the power feed his own velocity. “Only one way to find out,” he thought as he sped forward, passing over his friend.
An unfamiliar sensation of apprehension seized his heart, as if he were afraid of the looming confrontation. It was something he found absurd, since Talon was his sometimes partner and long-time friend. He stamped the feeling deep down, finding it silly and distracting, and arched like a rainbow toward the ground feet first. Letting the aura around his feet grow, he sliced trenches into the brown, muddy earth, turning on his heels to stop. Mud splashed about, hardening to chunks that slid off his aura shield in pieces. Fiasco looked up. Talon had stopped several feet from him, glaring, and with his strong arms held behind his back. He wasn’t out of breath in the slightest.
“Nice Mega-hero pose there, Crooked F,” he said. That bright, golden smile returned to Talon's face for the first time that night, but he still held the same intense gaze from the bridge. “Too bad you're not one.”
The myriad of feelings Fiasco experienced at that moment ranged from happiness from actually saving lives, to sadness from failing the driver when the chips were down, and to anger at Talon for not helping him when he could. All the emotions played with his power level, causing it to fit and start. Sparks of blue power jumped from the crooked symbol on his chest and from the gloves on his hands. Muddy pools of water hissed and popped as he stomped towards Talon.
Unnerved, Talon flexed his arms held firmly behind his back as Fiasco approached. “I see you, Crooked F,” he said in a cool tone.
Fiasco stopped just over a foot away from him and looked up into his eyes. Wet, black streams of hair fell on Talon's face, but the white screens on his eyes gave no hints of what he was truly thinking.
“I should hero pose you right in the face!” Fiasco said. It made no sense, but it felt good to say. Talon's lips pursed and his head tilted mockingly to the side as if offering his jaw.
He is not afraid of you at all.
“What the hell was that back there?” Fiasco continued. He ignored the voice. No matter what the circumstances were, he and Talon had shared the fire together. Respect was Fiasco's desire not fear, and that began with the truth about why he almost let him get a man killed.
Talon's smile faded.
“You should have pulled him up,” he said, repeating his line from the bridge.
“You told me to use both my hands. I did.” Fiasco flexed his hands in Talon's face, letting the power dim enough to show him the scars on his palms that were still healing. “I was using both hands just to keep it from falling. How the hell was I supposed to pull up a two-ton vehicle!”
“With your arms.”
He is mocking you.
Fiasco looked towards the sky and bit his lip so hard he thought he could break the skin.
“I told you, it doesn't work like that! I don't physically become stronger the stronger my power gets.”
Talon leaned in; his eyebrows cocked up. “Are you sure about that?”
The aura around Fiasco dimmed, since all he could feel was annoyance from the conversation. The 'I know your power better than you do' act was old at that point and grated on his nerves.
“Yes,” Fiasco replied, his jaw clenched. “I am sure.”
Talon leaned back. He pulled the hair away from his eyes, then rubbed his wet chin with his thumb and forefinger.
“Interesting,” he said as he paced slowly around Fiasco. “So, tell me. When you are not powered up like you are now, can you rip car doors off the hinges like you did back there?” Fiasco swallowed hard about to answer, but Talon interrupted. “Better yet, can you pull that guardrail back with your bare hands, too?”
Fiasco looked at the ground. His shoulder still throbbed even though the power had sent a healing wave. Back at the bridge, he saved those people, and he pulled off those car doors to do so. But he couldn't take the credit. It would make more sense to credit the voice who fueled the energy.
“No, I can't,” he finally said. “But that was the power and use of leverage, not me.”
Talon sighed. It was the second time that night he seemed disappointed. “The power is you. An extension of you. You keep holding yourself back.”
“Even if what you think is true, and it's not by the way, but even if it were. You compare doors to a truck?” Fiasco replied, his voice rising as he flustered. “No, not even just a truck. An actual tanker truck! With a tank full of oil. Get out of here, Talon!” Fiasco turned in a circle, then turned back again and pointed a finger. “I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I don't have that much power.”
Deep down, he wished Talon was correct, that he could scale his power up by his manifestations, but the truth was the truth. There may have been an upper limit to his strength, but pulling a tanker laden with thick heavy oil that was pulled by gravity as it leaned off the bridge was far more than what he could muster.
“Besides,” Fiasco continued. “I'm street level, at best! The powers I have work with what I have to do.”
Talon stopped before him. His mask crimped with his face, and the white screens on his eyes widened. “Street level?” he said.
“Yeah, like Wargone, or Redemption. Or even Salomon in Detroit. I go after the druggies, the drunk drivers, and occasionally robbers. We've done it together, in fact. You know what I'm about. It’s not every day I'm asked to toss up a tanker.”
“That was training,” Talon rubbed the bridge of his nose, then looked back at him. “You really only see yourself that low? The street is your ceiling?”
It was a surprising question. Fiasco had never thought about going further as a Mega. They were in the Northwest. In New Haven, which was not even a major city, the rain was the greatest threat on most days. No Mals ever came to their neck of the woods, and he couldn't care to go to someone else's backyard to chase them down either—especially when he still failed at just being street level. The goal now was to impress Julianna, not the city, or the world for that matter. They never cared about him anyway.
“Do you know how much a fully packed medium tanker weighs?” Talon asked.
With his brain already tired and fatigued, Fiasco blurted out the first number he could think of.
“I don't know Talon,” he said with exasperation. “I said two tons earlier.”
“You need to read more,” Talon said, mimicking the insult his parents would often say. “There are three types of trucks: heavy, light, and medium. That there was a medium truck, and fully loaded like you said. Well, nearly. Add the weight of the cab, and that's about twenty-five or twenty-six thousand pounds in total.”
“So, two point six tons. Who cares?” Fiasco said.
Talon flinched back. “I can't even tell if you're pretending to be this dumb, but for the life of me I can't understand why you would want to.” Then his face hardened and he crossed his arms again—a gesture that Fiasco started to feel was condescending. “Twenty-six thousand pounds is around thirteen tons. If your power was not proportional, then your arms should have been pulled from your shoulders the minute you grabbed that net you made.”
“That…that can't be right,” Fiasco stuttered, but the analysis made sense. When he held the webbing on Modoc Bridge, it had felt as if his arm were being pulled from his body. He could almost hear the sinew being torn apart. He flexed his arms, which were sore at the elbows and biceps. Yet, there they were, whole and fully functional after holding up thirteen tons.
It was adrenaline. The heat of the moment.
“Was it though?” Fiasco thought. He questioned the voice, which never worked out in the past, and his faded aura was the result.
Yes, responded the voice, succinct and matter of fact. You cannot replicate that success, nor should you try.
Talon cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “What happened to all that power you had a few minutes ago? Did I shock you that much?” He laughed and walked towards him, each step sloshing in the mud. “If that got you, think about this. Your power... those things you make.”
Fiasco looked up and cleaned the rain off his white goggles. “My manifestations.”
Talon shrugged. “Okay, manifestations. They come from your imagination, right? What you conjure in your mind, they form?”
“Yes,” Fiasco replied. He did not want to tell him how his power really worked. He did not want to tell him how the voice denigrated and berated, and how he fed off the emotion it churned. He had his own secrets to keep.
“So, if you can create what you think, and you didn't feel like you could pull up that tanker, then why did you just create a net?”
The question brought a grin to Fiasco's face. Talon had overreached in his judgmental assessment. The energized net he had manifested had covered the entire truck, and even he had already admitted earlier that it had saved it. Yes, a net was simple and crude, but it had worked. Besides, what exactly did his friend suspect he could do in such a short amount of time anyway?
“I had two seconds to think, and the net was the best I could do. Even you said it kept the truck up, so what’s the big deal?” Fiasco countered, his voice confident that he had already won the argument.
“I also said you had two hands. You could have enhanced the net and held up that truck with one hand, while creating a crane or wench to pull it back up with the other. Or more arms and hands to push it back onto the bridge. You can fly, you know.”
Fiasco's jaw tightened, not purely in anger, but more out of embarrassment and shame. Talon had got him again. He had pegged him correctly when he said that he never studied. In his off time being Fiasco, or even on the toilet, he could have looked at pictures of various useful objects, studied their form and structure, and practiced creating the manifestations. The embarrassment only grew in intensity when he wondered why it took a man to almost die before he thought to do so.
Because you are lazy, the voice said. And you would have failed if you tried.
Talon chortled and smiled. “Even behind those cheap goggles, I can see that I blew your mind again.” He slapped a large hand on Fiasco’s shoulder as he passed him by and walked towards New Haven. “It's okay. It took someone telling me something similar before I thought outside the box as well. You just think about that, Crooked F, because you need to get better.”
Fiasco watched Talon's back as he walked away, the bird on the leather looking as if it would take off towards him. His friend had read him correctly, almost more apt than the voice. He had broken him down to the core. The bridge was not a triumph as it appeared and felt, but it was yet another loss. A defeat. A failure of his imagination and creativity. In the end, he did what he always had: the bare minimum. Just enough to get by. The voice was right; he was lazy. He was not a real Mega, and not even successful at being a street level hero. That night had to be kept private, since it was nothing Julianna would or should be proud of.
Fiasco is what you are, the voice said, and Fiasco nodded.
The clouds swelled above, and the rain started up again. Feeling the first drops tap a drumbeat on his mask, Fiasco used the hurt, shame, and embarrassment to ignite his aura. The gauntlets returned to his hands, and he looked up at the dark gray sky that continued as far as he could see into the horizon.
“Hey, this rain is only going to get worse,” he shouted at Talon. “Do you need a lift?”
New Haven was still miles away and the rain threatened to turn into a downpour. Talon crouched and his muscles tensed as he prepared to run again. He looked back over his shoulder, his mask emotionless and cold, and replied, “No. Do you?”
Chapter 1, Part 1, Chapter 1, Part 2,
Chapter 2, part 1, Chapter 2, Part 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
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