Bonus Issue: Daedalus and Icarus

The past-history of Mark and Dirk.

21st December 2016. One week after the death of Jennifer Wilson



The door slammed shut. The ‘With Sympathy’ and ‘Condolences’ cards on the shelf in the living room trembled with the force. As Amanda left, Mark just stood speechless in the middle of the room. No matter what he said, she was convinced that Jennifer’s death had been his fault. And to be honest, he was almost agreeing with her. But he had someone else to blame. He sighed, it was probably just as well. If his daughter’s death had been entirely his fault, Mark didn’t know if he could even have the strength to breath, let alone stand.

He took out the cigarette packet, his first in over a decade. It was already empty. Mark let out another sigh. He didn’t want to go out to pick up some more, too much chance of bumping into Amanda. There was no way he was ready for another confrontation. Thankfully, there were the cigars they kept in the spare room for guests. They’d do. Making his way slowly up the stairs, he could help but pause outside his daughters room. The door was ajar. He closed it reverently, and continued to the spare room.

Back down the stairs, Mark collapsed on the couch with another beer. There was a knock at the door.

“Go‘way,” he growled. “I’m not in the mood for any more snivelling sympathy.”

A second knock, though a bit quieter, came from the door. Well, if whoever it happened to be was going to be that insistent, they better have a good reason. If not… He strode over to the door, and flung it open with as much force as he could muster.

The hinges twisted slightly.

It was cold outside, and Dirk clutched the bag of food to his chest as if it would provide additional warmth.

He didn't really expect this to do any good, but it hurt him how his parents had reacted: "Well, another dangerous freak out of the picture, that has to be a good thing," Dad had said, and Mom, "And to think they were on my Christmas card list!" she shook her head as she scratched The Wilson Family out of her ledger. "The ladies at the coffee shop today said that Amanda's leaving him. I can't say I blame her..."

Dirk had had enough listening to them, so he skipped out. He was granted a solid allowance, so he took what there was of that, snuck out of the house, and stopped by the market on his way to Jennifer's house--no: Mr. Wilson's house--he mustn't say that--to pick up some soups and breads and casseroles and cakes and things from the Deli until the bag was bigger than he was. He had known his mother to send food like this to grieving families, but he suspected it was actually her way of not-dealing with the problem. Maybe this would be insulting? What if it was a bad time? Maybe he shouldn't--

But he'd already knocked on the door.

When Mr. Wilson opened the door, he swung it open with such violence that Dirk jumped.

They stared at each other for a long moment, awkwardly. He'd only met Mr. Wilson once before, briefly, walking Jennifer home from school. He was a large man, with dark hair, and while he'd hardly been friendly, but he didn't quite seem mean.

He looked capable of a multiple-homicide right now.

"What d'you want?" he growled.

"Uh. Um. Mr. Wilson, sir, I was only--I mean, I wanted--uh. My name's Dirk, I'm--that is, I knew--Jennifer was my friend, at school, and, and my mother wanted me to bring this," he indicated the paper bag in his arms, almost double the width of his lanky fourteen-year-old frame.

The man stared at him again for a long while. Dirk was afraid he might actually shut the door on him. But then he turned, leaving the door open behind him.

Dirk scurried inside. He spent longer than was necessary wiping his feet at the entryway, awkward, unsure of what to say or do, unsure, really, why he came. Whatever fleeting hope he had entertained that this man might be able, or even willing, to help him, were looking bleaker by the moment. Not to mention,

Gosh! Jennifer! He couldn't believe she--

No. He definitely mustn't cry here, not now, not in front of him. But he had loved her too, in his own way, and it hurt that she was gone.

Definitely don't tell him that, Dirk!

Something was off with the picture. Parent’s wouldn’t send a kid round to deliver condolences like that. Still, if he was wrong, or if the kid had come round off his own bat, well he couldn’t just turn him away. Mark had seen the kid with Jennifer before. Damn it, what was his name? Kirk? No, definitely not.

“Are you coming in Kid, or just going play at doorman.”

Mark watched as the kid, well, hardly a kid, not quite what you’d call a young man though, sweepingly came through into the living room. God, that kid looked nervous. It looked less and less like his story was true. He’d probably just want to pay his own respects to Jennifer.

“Si’down Kid, make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you Mr Wilson.” Mark sputtered a rough laugh, sounded more like a bark.

“Just call me Mark, I can’t be doing with all this Mr Wilson rubbish.” Damn, now the kid looked more nervous than ever. “Or you can call me Mr Wilson if you prefer.”

“Umm, yes Maa.. No Mr Wilson.”

‘Three bags full Mr Wilson’ Mark couldn’t help thinking.

Looking for someway to fill the silence, he turned his interest to the bag. Since the accident, neither Amanda or Mark had been spending much time in the kitchen, some proper food would be welcome. Mark had a rummage in the bag, surprised by the sheer volume. He pulled out a polysitrine container of soup. Not just proper food, hot food as well.

“If you want anything yourself Kid, go ahead. Something to drink, what about a shandy?” The kid just looked blank faced.

“What’s a shandy?” Why is it that nowhere had heard of a shandy? If it hadn’t been for his parents he'd have never know about it.

“Half a pint of beer mixed with half a pint of lemonade. Given one of you friends has died I think you could do with a bit of a pick-me-up.”

“Mr Wilson! I’m far to young to drink beer.” Well, now the kid was animated. So principled at that age, that was rare. Normally those people turned out to be… Oh No! Hopefully not.

"Just lemonade would be fine, thank you, sir." Dirk took the glass, wondered briefly why Mr. Wilson had given him Sprite instead of Lemonade, but didn't say anything, and tried to calm down, and not just because he looked like an idiot. If he wasn't careful,if he got too nervous, if he let his guard down, who knows, maybe he would just explode for no reason and--

"You gonna eat anything?"

"Um. Yes. Please. Thanks."

They collected food and ate in silence for some time. Dirk tried a few times to speak, but it was always stupid, awkward. What could a kid say to an adult to make him feel better? Finally,

"I'm sorry," was all he managed to blurt out. Mr. Wilson looked up at him, startled, but unmoved.

Somehow, it was easier to keep talking once he'd started, so he went on: "Jennifer was just so quiet, the kids teased her and stuff, she never wanted to talk to anyone, ever, even though I tried to be nice to her. And when I saw that she had powers, well, it was lunch time this one time and she nearly almost killed me but she couldn't because I put up a force field, only I'm not sure how I did it, but we decided we could be friends then because we knew we couldn't kill each other, and then we got to talking, and turns out she didn't hate me and she was pretty nice and the kids at school said we were going out but I swear we weren't we were just friends and--"

"What?"

Mr. Wilson sure had a big voice, even when he wasn't yelling.

The word stopped the flood of words better than any gag would. Mark winced, trying to make sense of the rush of information from the kid. Seeking a moment to think, he stood up pulling another cigar from the box, and slicing the end off it with a knife. Judging by the look on the kid’s face, he thought it was a threatening move. Mark put the knife back down, out of sight and reach, but remained standing.

“Let me get this straight, you were a friend of Jennifer’s”

“Yes, Mr Wilson”

“And you weren’t going out with her?” Mark’s voice was steely. The kid hung his head.

“No.” Double negative. Though that was probably because the kid heard ‘going out’ and automatically went for the denial. Still, better to be sure.

“Look me in the eye when you say that Kid.” To his credit this time the kid did look straight at him, and his voice wasn’t faltering.

“We were not going out, sir.”

“Ok, now what was the next bit in your monolog? You’re a super?”

“Well, I have powers.”

“Your mother didn’t ask you to bring the food did she?”

“No” Another double negative, but the look on his face told Mark what the answer was.

“I guess your mother is the kind of person who thinks the world would be better without superpowers?”

“Yes Mr Wilson.” God, the poor kid. Jennifer must have been the only person he could confide in. Mark couldn’t imagine what it must be like for the kid. Actually, given how things now were between him and Amanda, he could. As Mark sat down there was another silence, much longer than any of the previous ones.

“Maybe I should leave now?”

“No Kid, stay if you want to. I understand, you’ve lost the only person who you could relate to. You’re going to need some time to bounce back, and you won’t get that at home.” There was another brief pause as the kid wrestled internally, then finally blurted out: “Are you a superhero?”

“No Kid, I’m not.” The kid face dropped far further than at any other point. His naivety was touching, Mark gave the first proper smile in days.

“First rule Kid, just because someone says their not a superhero, doesn’t mean they’re telling the truth. Though it is sorta the truth in my case. I’m not a superhero, I’m… retired.”

"Oh," Dirk said.

Well, there went that idea.

It wasn't that his parents didn't care, Dirk wanted to say but didn't, they just, well, they had their ways. He wasn't about to defend them, but it wasn't necessarily fair to condemn them, either. Dirk had long ago noted their hypocricy--but rather than rebel against it, he chose instead to fulfill their lofty pretensions to truth, justice, and the American way himself. But they were good enough parents: if he had trouble with his bike, or with homework, or needed love and attention, he usually got it.

...But if he presumed to come home and tell his father, "Well, Dad, your son is a Post-Human and has been hiding that fact from you for a year and a half," and expect the old man to be supportive, he had another thing--or twelve--coming.

He was lucky his family had made the move here around the time his powers started manifesting. Sure, he made friends easily enough after the move, but if he hadn't met Jennifer, met someone else like him, well, it would have been harder. She had been an unlooked-for light in his world.

How did you say that to her grieving father, though?

Dirk looked at his shoes. "Uh. I guess I better go, then, sir," he said, more firmly this time, standing, for emphasis. If Mr. Wilson couldn't or wouldn't help him, and since neither of them seemed to feel comfortable being on the receiving end of sympathy, Dirk didn't have anything else to say. "Thanks for, ah--" Not kicking me out? Sharing the food with me? For having your daughter?

This was getting to be too much. He better leave before he admitted he wished he had been going out with Jennifer, or something else just as dangerous. He thought he was done mourning her, thought he had told himself often enough already to grow up and start acting like a man, but he thought wrong. He still missed her, and he was still terrified that what had happened to her with her powers would happen to him. He actually began to ache from the pain.

And Dirk knew exactly what could happen if he was emotionally compromised.

"Just. Thanks."

Before he could be stopped, Dirk ran out the front door, and didn't stop until he reached home.

Well, that could have gone better.

Damn, and now the kid was running. Not a good sign. And a grief stricken super running wild…

Mark leapt off the couch and ran to the front down, still hanging open letting the cold air in. He grabbed a lag jacket and, more out of habit, pressed the hidden indent which made the drawer with the tazer slide out with a faint hiss. Pocketing it, Mark ran out the door, shutting it behind him. It failed to click shut properly due to the broken hinge, and swung back open.

A light snow was falling, catching the lights from the streetlamps. In the distance he could see the kid, still running. Mark began following. He was well used to running for long distances, but the kid was running on adrenaline and had a good head start. And the track were starting to get confused.

Mark rounded a corner.

Damn.

No sign of the kid.

"And where have you been, young man?" His mother, hands on hips, brow furrowed, demanded.

Now was not the time for this... He ducked past her and tried to go upstairs to his room to be alone, but his father, too, came up behind him in support of his mother.

"Your mother asked you a question, son. Why don't you answer it?"

"We know you were friends with that...girl, Dirk. We're very proud of you for reaching out to the less fortunate--"

"But that doesn't mean you have to get down in the mud with them."

"We just want you to forget about freaks like her, Dirk, you have so much ahead of you--"

"Jennifer. Wilson. Was. Not. A. Freak!" Dirk, who never raised his voice at his parents, now bellowed, meeting his parents' eyes for the first time today.

His eyes glowed red.

His mother screamed in horror.

The wooden banister beneath his hand began to glow red, to burn, to char.

His father's eyes glowed with a power that had nothing to do with post-human abilities and everything to do with rage.

Dirk struggled with his powers, with his emotions. He set his jaw, but his eyes filled with tears, and the drop that fell from his cheek to the floor burned a hole in the expensive carpet.

"What do you think about 'freaks' now?" Dirk asked.

He reviewed his options. Head home and forget about it, stick around and wait for something to happen, or knock door to door. Neither of those was good.

Ach, what was he doing. Standing out in the middle of a street in case something was going to happen. Pointless. What was he thinking? Maybe he was just so cut up about Jennifer that he was looking for a surrogate. The street was quiet, nothing was going to happen. His only company were the grinning snowmen, mocking him in the harsh artificial light. Mark turned to face back the way he came.

Then he heard the scream. Sounded like it came from inside one of the houses. Coincidence, no, Mark didn’t believe in them. Narrowing it down to three Mark started to move down the street.

Dirk's mother backed away from him like he was a ghost, looking pale herself.

His father was a different story: a big man, blonde, ruddy-faced, his skin had now turned quite purple. "You! You, f-freak!" he stammered with rage. The words felt like physical blows, aimed low, landing in the pit of Dirk's stomach. He began to feel hot himself.

"Get out of my house!"

There was a beat, then:

"Dad!"

"George!"

"I mean it! Out! No son of mine will bring shame upon this house!"

In spite of himself Dirk backed away as his father advanced on him. As the fear and anger boiled up in himself, he felt the force around him growing stronger. He tried to rein it in, tried to cool down, but his powers were indignant on his behalf even while he himself could only be hurt and shocked. "No, dad, don't--" Dirk began, and then, as his father lunged for him, Dirk brought his arm up to protect himself, and the field of red flared up brighter than before, preventing contact.

In a flash of panic, Dirk misstepped in his attempt to back away up the stairs, and as he fell, his powers flared again. He began to feel dizzy from the overexertion. And he was pretty sure he smelled burning.

"Dad, get back! I can't control it, Dad, please! Don't let me hurt you!"

His father wasn't stupid, luckily, and began to realize that discretion was the better part of valor in this situation. He took his mothers hand and, clutching each other, they backed away, their faces fixed with horror upon the monster their son had become.

Dirk turned and ran, deeply ashamed and hurt, but the field around him only grew and grew, until it was an opaque red egg around him. He crashed through his door--and door frame--rather than opening it, but did so as though the walls were made of paper rather than wood and plaster. The force field began to crackle and spark, even as he tried to steady himself, tried to calm down.

It's not going to hold, he thought, just as--

KABOOM!

There was fire all around him, and the shock wave rattled the city block. The roof caved in above him and the floor gave out below, and he was falling, still exploding, the eye of the hurricane, and just as the overloaded power finally bled off--

Nothing.

Make that narrowed down to one house, if the crashing and rumblings were anything to go by. This was not shaping up well. Mark started hurrying towards the house and…

KABOOM!

Ringing, stars, snowflakes. All blurry. It took Mark a few moments to realise he was on his back. Pulling himself up he saw the number of houses in the street had decreased by one. He was conscious of movement near the edge, and sirens in the distance. By the look of things he may have been out for a minute or two. Then there were panicked screams.

“Help, help. My husband is trapped.” Damn, damn, damn. Whether it was the kid or just a gas explosion, he wasn’t going to just hang around. The rubble was smouldering, fires burning across it. Mark could just see a leg poking out near where the woman was screaming. As he thundered near she turned and started screaming incoherently at Mark. He wasn’t sure if it was cries for help or shock at his dishevelled appearance. Ignoring her, Mark grabbed the large block covering the man. It burned his hands, despite being nowhere near the fires. Some kind of powerful energy discharge?

Pushing his musing to the side, he managed to get the weight off the beam. There were sirens close by, and then he saw a cop rush in and help the man out from under the beam.

“We’ll take it from here. Stand back please,” said the officer.

Mark charged back in the rubble, trying to work out where the kid was. He heard voices behind him, and just caught the word ‘freak’. Looking back, he saw the couple talking to the cops who had just arrived. If the parents, Mark assumed they were the kid’s parents (he could see the resemblance) were using that kind of language, then they were going to hand him over. Now it was a race against time.

Unconsciousness didn’t last long enough, quite unmercifully.

Dirk couldn’t see. He wasn’t sure if this was because he was in darkness or because he had melted his own eyeballs. He smelled smoke, but he also smelled dust and mold.

Had he fallen to the basement?!

The pain that spiked through him as he tried to sit up confirmed this, and he almost blacked out again. Now, if he peered closely, he could see light above him, red light: fire, he could hear it happily gobbling up his house above him. And past that, he could hear...sirens?

Had his parents got out?

Again, pain flooded him as he tried to move, although it was concentrated into specific areas this time: knee hurt, was crushed under something; arm hurt, also crushed, probably broken; and something was digging into his side.

Scratch that, something was stabbing into his side. He smelled and tasted coppery blood. This wasn't good. He was lying on a pile of rubble, with something large and heavy--part of concrete wall?--lying across half of him. He pushed and struggled, but moved nothing, and felt a wave of warmth down his side for his efforts. Beginning to feel dizzy again, Dirk tried to activate the force field for additional strength, but it fizzled and flickered and didn't kick in properly.

Gosh-dang and darn it all!

But Dirk Rogers never gave up. He took a deep, calming breath, coughing at the smoke that was collecting down here, and willed his force field into existence. He was pleased to see it kick in properly this time, though his vision blurred and he felt light-headed from the exertion. He wasted no time in shifting the now-light concrete block off of him, but although his body gasped in relief, the structurally compromised house did not appreciate this change in integrity.

Dirk cried out as the rest of the house followed him into the basement.

For the second time Mark found himself lying on his back, this time because the ground below him had collapsed. He let out a string of swear words as he landed heavily below ground, on top of whatever was left of the basement.

Above him came shouts and more sirens. It would take them a while to be able to send someone down safely, that gave him a window of opportunity. Not that he held out much hope that anyone could have survived a house falling on them, but the kid had mentioned force fields, so there was always a chance. Mark cursed. Some of his equipment would have been useful trying to find the kid. As it was, he’d have to do it the old fashioned way. He started digging through the rubble with his hands.

As Mark grabbed a slab that may have belonged to a kitchen worktop, his hand came away sticky. Unmistakably blood. A lot of blood. No way it was his, he hadn’t been that badly wounded. Which meant… He started pulling away the rubble, trying to be both quick and careful. Failing at both, and seeing ladders being lowered into the hole, he went for speed. Mark’s efforts were rewarded, he found first a hand, then the arm, and thankfully both we still attached to the body. Unfortunately a sharp beam of metal was also attached to the kid, and he was looking worryingly pale.

“Medic, we need a medic here!” bellowed Mark across the rubble. If he was as badly wounded as he looked, it would be better that the cops arrested him than he died trying to escape. There was no way Mark could cope with any more young blood on his hands.

“Come on Kid, hang in there.”

Dirk started as someone touched him, gulping in air and choking on the smoke. Gosh it all to heck, why couldn't he just wake up when this was all over?

"Hang on for me, okay, Kid? You with me?"

The voice floated to Dirk as if through water, as if the water that clogged his lungs was also muffling his ears.

But, no, that was the smoke that was making it hard to breathe. Smoke and dust and--blood?

Oh, fudge.

Who was--? Someone was holding him, digging him free. Someone who made him feel safe, someone--

"Mr. Wilson!" Dirk shot upright, or tried to, anyway. The spike he was impaled on tugged against him, sending another wave of blood down his side. He managed to close his fingers around the sleeve of the man's jacket, however, and he gripped this like a lifeline. Mr. Wilson wouldn't let anything bad happen to him. Somehow he knew that. "I-I'm sor-ry," he choked out, through the coughing, "I didn't mean to--my p-powers, I can't--control--" Dirk was pretty sure he tasted blood.

"Hey! Easy!" Mr. Wilson was shouting at him, not really listening. He seemed angry. Or maybe scared. He turned his head and yelled over his shoulder, "We need a medic down here!"

Dirk heard his parents' voices, angry, shrill: "Oh, my baby boy!" like she cared, and "That freak is responsible for the destruction of this house and I want him locked away!" like he didn't. Dirk also heard police sirens, and orders being given in loud voices, and a bright light shone down on them. It sounded and looked and felt more like a manhunt than a rescue operation. Guys in black suits with guns came to the edge and peered down.

Mark growled ferally. "I said a medic, not a--"

"Put your hands up and step away from the post-human."

Dirk took in a sharp breath of panic and struggled, wildly, to sit up, to get away, confused and scared. But someone was holding him down, not letting him run. "No, stop it! Help!" He wasn't going to go with them! He just wasn't! He would rather die. His parents didn't want him, fine. He didn't much want them right now. He was not going with these people!

"Easy, kid, take it easy," A voice and a face broke through the chaos, through the fear: the voice of safety. "You've got to calm down, you hear me?"

Dirk showed the older man the unadulterated terror in his eyes and fixed him with a pleading look: "Mr. Wilson, don't let them take me, please!"

Two cops were already moving cautiously through the crater towards them. Mark reviewed his options. If the kid didn’t get help shortly he’d bleed out, even if he didn’t have any worse injuries. In some ways it would be best if they took him, he’d at least get medical attention. On the other hand, Mark shuddered with the memories the last time he had been in a post-human incarceration facility. That was no life for a kid of any age. And by the looks on the ridge some sharp-suits had already arrived. Had the kid been under surveillance?

On his side, he had his tazer and his phone. And his cigar but that wouldn’t be much use. Unless, that shimmer near the edge was… it was, a ruptured gas pipe. He knelt down.

“Kid, no matter what happen, no matter what it looks or sounds like I’m doing, don’t move unless I tell you.”

“We won’t tell you again Sir, step away from the post-human,” the approaching cops shouted in an aggressive tone. One was getting very close, the other hanging back. This would require fast action. He stood up, taking his cigar in his left hand while slowly raising both hands. Behind him, the kid gave a groan and tried to grab the bottom if Mark’s trousers, maybe he though Mark was actually surrendering.

“Shut up and go to hell.” Mark growled then throw a punch, catching the cop on the jaw and dropping him. Moving forward, keeping the momentum going, he through the cigar towards the gas pipe, which erupted with a satisfying thundering roar. There would only be a few seconds before the suits on the ridge regarded their wits. The other cop in the crater was pulling his gun. Mark slid behind the largest piece of rubble he could find and drew his tazer. The cop and Mark fired at almost the same moment, Mark felt the bullet skiff his shoulder. The cop dropped as the dart passed through the body armour incapacitating him.

He sprinted back to the kid, thankfully the beam in his side wasn’t too long, or wasn’t too long any more. Hosting the kid up Mark stumbled up the side opposite the cop’s cordon, hearing warning shouts and shots from the other side. Scrambling over the edge, Mark scanned the street looking for the nearest car. Said car had a smashed in window from the explosion, saving Mark a job. Unlocking the car Mark slid the kid carefully in the passenger seat, fitting the seatbelt to try and keep pressure on the wound. Three cop cars screamed round the corner as Mark hotwired the car and it rumbled to life. Mark spun the car round, charging towards the cop cars, causing them to swerve out of the way. He slid his phone out.

“Hold on a bit longer kid. I’m going to try and get some help.”

Oh, sure, Dirk thought to himself, as he hugged his (still-working) arm to his side to stop the flow of blood, Not a superhero at all, never would have guessed, doesn't have a heroic bone in his body, super-powers or no... The laugh that bubbled up in his throat at his own grim sarcasm was enough to trigger a shallow cough.

But, because he currently owed this man his life, and didn't doubt he could reverse that at any moment if he chose to, Dirk didn't plan on saying anything. Except maybe a,

"Thanks, mister. I-I didn't think you'd..." And, okay, wow, he really hoped his voice only sounded that pathetic to him. He tried to stifle a wet cough, but didn't escape a glare from the driver as he put a phone to his ear as he wove in and out of traffic, sirens dogging their trail.

Dirk put his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, trying not to pass out or throw up, as the idea of being the cause and the object of a Hollywood-style-car-chase somehow not as exciting as he might otherwise have hoped. Beside him, Mark swore continually, as honking car horns accosted them from all sides and icy wind blew hard on his face indicating their speed.

"Victoria?" Mark was shouting into the phone. "Victoria, I hate to ask this, but I'm in a situation... No, Vic, I am literally in the middle of a situation! I got a kid who--" he lowered his voice suspiciously, "a kid who needs medical attention and can't exactly go home, okay? ...How should I know, like, twelve or something!"

"I'm fourteen," Dirk said, a little petulantly.

Mark didn't, or pretended not to, hear him. "I'll meet you at the old bunker....Yes it's still there! What the hell, Vic, did I call in the middle of your soaps or something? Or.... Dammit, Victoria, I can't believe you're still pissed about that, it was a long time ago! Just--"

The rest of the conversation was cut off by the blare of a large horn, an expletive from Mark, and the car veering sharply to the right. The phone disappeared into the floor of the car. Dirk opened his eyes in time to see the vehicle they were in narrowly avoid T-boning a semi, and as they spun out of control on the icy roads, Dirk saw the army of police cars still chasing them. What he previously wanted less than anything now had created consequences that were somehow even worse. Dirk began to re-think his life:

"Uh. Maybe you should--um--let them have me. I-I don't think it's worth it to..."

"Dammit, kid, make up your friggen mind!"

"I don't want you getting hurt!" Dirk shouted, setting his face stubbornly. He wasn't certain, but he guessed his eyes may have flashed red again.

“In which case Kid calm down or you will blow the bloody car up.” On reflection, that was the wrong thing to say.

“Look Kid, you’ve got no idea what they’ll do to you. But if you want to spend the rest of your life trapped in a drugged induced coma… Damn it, I wasn’t going to let it happen to Jennifer, and I won’t let it happen to you.” That was two families wreaked by her death, two families, ripped apart, all because of that costumed idiot. “If they get you, you won’t have a f***ing life.”

The car lurched as a cop car drew alongside, trying to trap Mark within a group of cars. Mark was used to the tactic, car ahead, car behind, car to the side. He had been distracted by the kids pretence at nobility that he’d failed to see the set up.

“Ok Kid, you don’t want to see anyone get hurt, then hold on tight." Without really giving the kid time to respond Mark spun the steering wheel full locked and applied the handbrake, sending the car onto the sidewalk. Slamming the accelerator Mark passed the car that had been coming up behind, and swerved back onto the road.

Thank God it was a quiet night.

The idea of spending the rest of his life in a drug-induced coma was more than enough to get Dirk to shut up, as was the driving-on-the-sidewalk stunt Mark pulled. Taking a shaky breath in, Dirk again settled back and tried to relax, surprised that this time it seemed to work. The red disappeared from his vision, the power surge stopped as easily as if someone had flipped a switch.

Funny how, with about a million cops after them, in pain and bleeding all over a stolen car after almost being crushed to death in his own house where he had been disowned by his parents, now he felt safe.

"Okay, here goes nothing," Mark whispered, not necessarily for his ears, and Dirk opened his eyes just in time to see Mark drive into a car wash, the cops close behind. He seemed as if he was going to go past and pull out onto the road again, but at the last moment he made a hard left into one of the carwash ports. Before Dirk knew what was happening, Mark stuck his arm out through the cracked window and pressed a large button. The ground lowered quickly, like a large elevator for a car, and as they reached their destination Mark drove forward again, tires squealing, and pushed another red button to send the car wash floor back up again before the cops knew what had happened.

They were in darkness. All that could be heard was the rumble of the idling engine and ther heavy breathing.

"Where are we?" Dirk asked.

"Somewhere safe," Mark said, and made a move to get out of the car.

The lights flicked on, brightly, blinding them. Dirk blinked at his surroundings, blurry though they were, as darkness threatened to close back on him: a large space, relatively empty, warehouse-looking, gray. At the far end, a hall, with a woman standing there, pointing a very large gun at them.

Then, as if realizing who it was, "Wilson!" she growled, leaving the gun and stalking toward the car.

"Hello to you, too, Vic," Mark muttered under his breath, getting out of the car and going around to the passenger side to Dirk. Dirk was staring deliriously off into space, and started as Mark wrenched the door open.

"Easy, Kid, it's just me. Come on, we're gonna get you patched up," he coaxed, with a gentleness that was startling, taking into account what the man was capable of. Dirk nodded, but stiffened as Mark unbuckled the seatbelt and began shifting him out of the car.

"Can walk," he insisted, feeling depressingly like a five-year-old who claimed he could stay awake past his bedtime.

Mark actually laughed.

"What the hell happened to the kid, Mark?" the woman was upon them now, and pushed through, so Mark stepped back to let her get a look at him. She frowned at him, but Dirk didn't think she was actually angry, as she immediately set to giving him a quick once-over. "You're gonna be all right, dear, you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am," he managed.

"What happened, Mark?" she asked again, prying his arm away from his side, politely ignoring his involuntary whimper, to get a look at the wound.

"A house fell on him. Cops wanted to arrest him. Super, friend of Jennifer's."

He saw the woman's eyes cloud with sadness for a moment at the name before she pulled it together. "Sh*t, you poor kid," the woman said, ruffling his hair. Dirk was too tired to argue. "Okay, Wilson, get him to the infirmary. And then you and I have to talk."

The last thing Dirk remembered, as the world closed in around him, crushing him to unconsciousness, was being lifted out of the car--like a baby, which was embarrassing--and carried down a cold hallway to a room that was too bright and smelled like antiseptic, but feeling safe the whole time.

It looked like all the civilians were clear. No, wait; there was still one down there. Mark killed his jets and dropped down behind him. The civilian turned and Mark saw the blank stare in his eyes. Damn. He threw himself to the side as the civilian’s hand opened and a blast erupted out of it. The armour took most of the brunt of the explosion. Mark raised his arm and fired off a pulse from his wrist mounted plasma caster. The robot dropped with most of its chest melted. He opened his intercom.

“Scobie, have you worked out where the controlling signal is from yet?”

“Not exactly yet, you’re in the right street.”

“I think the bloody robots were a clue to that.” Mark suddenly winced as he heard a scream and the telepathic link was severed. Swinging round, he saw a group of robots swarming over Thomas. Reactivating the jets, he started firing into the group. As he closed the gap he saw a number of small blue explosions knock the robots back. Obviously Victoria had seen Thomas as well. Soon the robots were destroyed and both Mark and Vic were standing over Thomas. Marks display in his helmet showed Thomas was still alive but that was about it. His faceplate swung open and he looked to Vic.

“How is he?”

“Unconscious but stable. But we can’t leave him here.” A hidden compartment in the leg of Mark’s armour opened and he pulled out a small disk. With a warning of ‘Stand back’ he pressed it to the ground next to Thomas and a bubble of force surrounded him.

“That should last for fifteen minutes or so. Not long but it should be enough.”

“Are you sure, there’s only the two of us left?”

“Hey, don’t forget me!” Scobie’s voice came over the intercom.

“Ok, two and a half left then,” chuckled Mark, “and we’ve faced worse.”

“I’ve got a lock,” Scobie exclaimed, “The building at the corner of Main and 5th.” Mark and Vic looked at the tall building.

“Try and narrow that down Scobie. I’ll take the top, Vic, you start from the bottom.” With waiting for acknowledgment he shot into the air, crashing through the top floor, his armour making short work of the reinforced glass. A figure in the room looked up.

“You took your time Mr Steelman. I expected you half an hour ago. You and your team are slipping.” Mark looked surprised at the man on front of him, suited and spectacled. He couldn’t see through the glasses. At first glance it looked like the light had caught the lenses, but Mark knew that was the energy build-up in his opponents eyes.

“Solar? When did you get an army of toy robots?” Mark asked, trying to get Solar to keep talking until Victoria arrived.

“Oh, they’re from a casual acquaintance. I don’t think he knows I borrowed them yet. Rather disappointing, don’t you think Steelman? There are several improvements I will suggest to him.” The light in Solar’s eyes grew in intensity. Mark was glad his helmet was reducing the glare automatically. A door at the end of the room crashed open, Mark spun round and saw Victoria had arrived. And the look of fear in her eyes. He turned back and saw Solar had grabbed a young woman, someone he recognised. Victoria’s sister! Damn it, damn it.”

“Ahh, Victoria isn’t it? Sorry that your secret is now out in the open. You should have been more careful. Now then, Mr Steelman, Victoria, the two of you will keep your distance while I continue my work here, otherwise this young woman will suffer some very unfortunate consequences." His hands began glowing with a bright light.

*****

“When did you start using guns?” Mark patted the large floor mounted gun Victoria had be operating when they had arrived. It was an attempt to break the ice. The kid was stable, Victoria had healed some of the damage, and patched and bandaged the rest. Now they were slowly walking through the large now echoy garage to the kitchen area.

“The same moment I stopped being securitised by the public. Why did we ever think it was a smart idea to use non-lethal force?”

“It was the fashion at the time. And I seem to recall you gave many a lecture sawing how we were the ‘good guys’ and couldn’t stoop to killing criminals. ‘It would make us no better than them’ and that sort of thing.”

“That was before, well, never mind.” They walked in silence until they reached the kitchen and started pouring coffee. “Wilson, were is Amanda?”

“What, you don’t know? But the two of you were very close, you should know.”

“She called me about Jennifer, about what you were planning. Amanda wanted me to talk you out of it. I said I agreed with you. I think she holds me just as responsible as you, if not more. I haven’t heard from her since.” Christ, make that another life ruined by Jennifer’s death. There was a pause, Mark was getting used to them.

“What are you planning on doing with the young man Wilson?” Mark sighed at the question, he’d been wondering the same thing

“I don’t know Vic. I need to help him avoid the cops until the incident dies down, and probably need to keep a low profile myself. Aside from that… The Kid can’t go home Vic, there’s no way the parents would let him back.”

“The poor boy,” Victoria sighed. “But being on the run is better than in one of those Interment facilities. I just hope he’s up to it.” There was a gap, but this one was less uncomfortable from Mark’s point of view, as he stood contemplating, drinking his coffee.

“Wilson, there is something I need to know, and I want you to tell the truth.”

“What?” Mark had a worrying feeling he knew what was coming. It was one of two things that had driven a wedge between them. Victoria had never really gotten over it, and Mark suspected that only now, after all this time, could she confront him.

“Solar. I need to know, which of us actually killed him.” Bingo, win the prize. Hell, he’d been dreading this moment.

“Jesus Vic, we’ve been over this…” Victoria cut him off.

“Yes I know you said we both fired at once, but I know that’s not possible. You had all those recording facilities in your suit. I know you, you would have checked. I don’t even know if I even hit him.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“No, don’t you understand. I need, I need to know if I was actually able act to protect my sister.”

“What? Aww hell Vic! I’m sorry. I though… you always seemed the more principled one, I thought you needed to hear something to help keep them intact.”

“What happened Wilson?” Victoria’s voice was like ice. Mark through he could see her hands start to take on a blue sheen. He turned and rested his head against the wall.

“I… I lied Vic. I never fired a lethal shot. It was a stun charge. You were the one who killed him.” There is was, after all these years, out. What a day it was turning out to be. He turned around, seeing Victoria sobbing silent tears. He was about to comfort her when a small beeping came from her belt. She pulled out a small box, and glanced at the readout.

“The boy’s awake Mark, we better see him. By the way, what’s his name?” Mark paused, shocked.

“I've no bloody idea.”

Dirk woke to that same bright light and smell of antiseptic, and the sounds of hospital equipment beeping softly in the background. He felt...alive, which was a fair sight better than he could be feeling. He was literally covered in bandages, big and small, and while he was distantly curious, he didn't necessarily think moving yet was worth it in the scheme of things. He was also pretty sure he had been given morphine, and, recalling Mark's words of warning against the Internment facilities--something about spending the rest of his life in a drug-induced coma--and he started awake, fearing he had been caught.

But, no: it was the room he remembered passing out in, all right, where Mark had taken him, where that woman had been. He seemed safe, unwatched, wasn't chained to the bed or anything, and it was probably nothing more than painkillers pumping through him.

He didn't have much time to look around or get a good judge of himself before he heard footsteps in the corridor outside. The woman from before walked in first, smiling warmly at him. "And how are we doing, young man? You've had quite a day." Mr. Wilson followed after and stood, leaning against the far wall, watchful but distant.

"Um," Dirk coughed, understatement of the year, "yes, ma'am."

"Ma'am?" she laughed, approaching him to check the dressing on his side. "My, my, aren't you polite? You can call me Victoria."

"Yes, Ms. Victoria."

She rolled her eyes at that. "And what do they call you?"

"Dirk," he replied. "Dirk Rogers."

"Well, Dirk, I have some good news. You'll live. I want you to stay in this bed for at least a week and let those stitches heal and let that knee mend, and your arm will need to stay in a sling for about six weeks. But you'll live, and be as good as new in no time."

"Yes, ma--mm, Victoria: thank you."

She smiled again and stood up. "Have you boys eaten? I need to go pick up a few things from the house, and I'll swing by the store to get some essentials."

"Thanks, Vic," Mark said as she swept out again.

Dirk turned to Mr. Wilson, who stood unmoving at the wall.

"Thank you, Mr. Wilson," Dirk blurted out. "I, um--"

But Mark held up a hand, stopping him. "Don't mention it, Kid, seriously. And, look, I want to nip this in the bud, all right? We've got to work on this 'Mr. Wilson' thing. I know you think you're being polite and all, but really? It's like from a Denis the Menace cartoon, okay? And makes me sound old. So just 'Mark.' Anyway, if I'm going to train you I can't have you shouting, 'Help, Mr. Wilson!' whenever you screw up, because you'd be dead before you finished--"

Dirk wasn't sure how he managed it, but the next thing he knew he was sitting up. A few wires pulled, and a few machines beeped angrily, but he completely ignored them.

"If you're going to what?"

"Whoa, easy, Kid," Mark had moved now, was suddenly by his side, pushing him back to the bed. "Victoria just got through putting you back together, she won't appreciate it if I let you break anything while she's gone."

"Mr. Wilson, I--Mark! You mean...you mean...."

"Yes, 'I mean,' okay? Don't make it weird. You have a talent," he chuckled, "you just sure as hell don't know how to use it yet, and you're a danger to society until," he was very explicit about this part, "you learn to control it."

If it weren't for the machine he was hooked up to telling him otherwise, Dirk couldn't be sure he was breathing. It was just like the comic books! It was perfect! "Like...will I be...could I be, like, your sidekick?"

"Oh, f*ck no!" Mark was laughing, but he didn't sound like he was joking. "Bad experience with that," he explained, "luckily not mine. But sidekicking's a negatory. Anyway, we'll sort out the details when you're on your feet again, deal?"

"Deal."

"So, I guess there's only one question left."

"Yeah?"

"You got a favorite Christmas movie?"

Of course. It was almost Christmas. He had a mountain of presents waiting for him at home...in flames. Dirk chewed on his lip, stared down at the blankets, tried not to make this awkward, for either of them. First Christmas without his daughter. First Christmas as an orphan.

"Umm..." Dirk looked up, and met the older man's eyes steadily. "Can we watch Die Hard?"

2018, TWO YEARS LATER

Dirk sat on the couch waiting for Mark to awaken. It was already nearly 7am. He had trained, showered, eaten, and put the finishing touches on the dossier he had been compiling in secret. The manila-colored envelope lay on the table, and coffee was brewing. Dirk flipped absently through the channels on TV, the hyperactive bouncing of his knee belying his growing agitation.

"...The streets of New York are errupting into riots...

"...Some are rioting about the recent ban on religion, while some are protesting against the lack of government response to the Post-Human problem, and still others have taken to the streets simply caught up in the frenzy...

"Citizens are urged to remain in their homes...

"Looting occurred today in seventeen shopping sectors around the city...

"Police believe a rogue Post-Human element to be at fault..."

Dirk stood up, turning the TV off. He couldn't listen to this anymore. He couldn't wait any longer. Plus, the coffee was going to get cold, and the only thing Mark hated more than being awakened prematurely was cold coffee.

Dirk knocked softly at the door to Mark's room. Nothing. Golly, Mark must have been up late last night, because he was usually a light sleeper. Then again, no one slept lightly when they were up til all hours tinkering and had probably only actually touched their pillow for three hours.

"Hey, Mark? Boss?" Dirk called, knocking again, louder. The images of the TV still haunted him, so he opened the door.

"Mark!"

Mark sat up, immediately on the alert. "What? Dirk, what the Hell is it? What's wrong?"

Dirk considered for a moment lying, but, "Nothing," he said.

Mark growled and flopped back to his bed. "Then why the f*ck are you talking to me, Rogers?"

Oops. Dirk hardly ever got surnamed by Mark. 'Rogers' was usually followed by 'take 50 laps.' Dirk cleared his throat: "I, ah, really got something I gotta show you, Mark. It can't wait. I'm sorry. I have coffee?"

He must have sounded so earnest that Mark sighed and gave up. "Goddammit, why can't you be like a normal teenager?"

Dirk bit his lip to keep from smiling. "What, like, sleep until noon?"

"For starters." Mark rubbed his face, breathed deep, and sat up again. Slowly, he shifted, put his feet on the floor, and looked up at Dirk, who tried his best to look innocent. Mark laughed. "Could be worse," he conceded. "You don't whine as much."

"I can change that?"

"Don't you bloody dare."

Ten minutes later, Mark was dressed and seated in the kitchen. Dirk pushed the folder across the table to his mentor. The fully outlined, color-coded, detailed dossier--more than enough to annoy Mark. But Dirk knew this wasn't going to go well, no matter what, and the detail made him feel at ease.

He let Mark peruse the dossier as he drank his cup of coffee. A collection of images, transcripts, and information that incriminated the organization known as the "Brotherhood." Dirk didn't really get it. How holding onto religion translated into hostile takeover and inciting peaceful citizens to riot was beyond him. Plus, he was pretty sure some very shady characters with probably Post-human abilities were involved. Everything was in the folder.

"You made a dossier."

"Yes, sir."

"You could have just told me this in one sentence."

"Would you have believed me?"

Mark looked at him. "Yes, Dirk, I would have believed you, because you never lie. You can't lie."

"But would you have let me come?"

"Answer's not gonna change just because you can use color-coded paper clips."

Dirk had prepared a speech: "Mark, you can't bench me for this one! There are innocent people getting hurt out there, and I'm not just going to sit at home while people are dying just because someone might ID me as a Super!"

"It's not that, Kid. But so far we've just tackled common crooks. This is big. We'd be fighting super-villains."

"Exactly why you need me! Who's gonna watch your back?"

"I'd be too busy watching yours, and your front: you're not ready. And remember what I said about sidekicking."

Dirk looked down at his hands. "Mark, sir, we've been over this. You know I can help. Nothing you can do or say will keep me from coming along. I don't care about the danger, and I wish you didn't, either. You could order me to stay here, and there's no one in the world I respect more, but I will disobey that order in a heartbeat, fair warning. You could try locking me up again, but only if you really want another bunker destroyed. And that would make you no better than them, anyway."

It was the truth. There was literally no one for whom he had more respect in the entire world, which was why this upset him so much. On the other hand, if he could save one life, even just one, by being there, well, it was no contest. He fixed Mark with a pleading look, but he couldn't long endure that gaze, and he returned his eyes to the floor again quickly.

Damn that Kid was persistent. And he was right, Dirk would break out if he thought he could help someone. It would be better to have him where Mark could keep an eye on him, rather than wandering out on the streets God knows where. Mark gave a theatrical sigh.

“On your own head be it Kid.” Dirk practically leapt off his seat with excitement.

“Okay, what do we do, boss?” Mark turned back to the file, perusing it more slowly, taking it all in.

“First, no point in trying to strike against a Brotherhood stronghold. If what you suspect is true, then there’s no knowing what’s waiting for us. Plus, there’s probably a fair few hero’s looking into it. Now what’s this here. Evidence of possible Brotherhood presence at media and TV centres? That seems a good place to start.” Something was niggling at his mind. Not the fact it may be a trap, the clue were too subtle for it that to be likely. More the report itself. He didn’t hold with reports, journals, dossiers himself, but that was mainly because he was able to memorise most details. If his memory wasn’t as good Mark probably would have to resort to the same things. And it was a good dossier, the kind of thing Scobie would have produced back when…

That was it, that was what was bothering him. The fact that Dirk had produced this report. Normally supers with Dirk’s mentality tended to be a bit naïve, if you were being polite, or thick, if they weren’t. They normally couldn’t see or suspect a plot until it happened, far too trusting. And yet Dirk hadn’t just seen the hints of a plot, he’d dug it all up.

“Dirk, what the hell possessed you to compile all this info?”

“To prove to you that something was going on Mark.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean, why did you even start digging in the first place?”

Dirk stared at his hands. These soul-searching questions made him uncomfortable. What was it with mentors always knowing exactly what tough questions to ask?

"I guess my whole do-the-right-thing speech won't cover it, here?"

Mark's stare was steely. He didn't look mad, per se, but he wanted an answer, and he wanted the truth, and Dirk could sense somehow that quite a lot hinged on his answer. "'Fraid not."

"Well, I--" he felt his face growing hot, but with blush, luckily, not a manifestation of his powers (Mark had long ago taught him to control them in emotionally compromising situations, which wasn't easy, but was possible), "Because of the riots, sir. I...I didn't like seeing people getting hurt like that, and hurting each other. It didn't seem right, didn't seem natural."

Mark interrupted with a chuckle. "So your irritating tendency to look for the good in people paid off for once."

Dirk grinned at the jab. "Guess so. Anyway, I started thinking, you know, it couldn't be their fault. Someone's putting them up to this, creating this kind of mass hysteria, making people go crazy. And when I started looking for these Brotherhood guys to be the bad guys, well, let's just say there weren't doing a great job of hiding it."

Dirk grabbed the folder and flicked through a few images: "Here. In this picture with the Mayor--here's the transcript of his speech against the ban on religion--and right next to him, this weird shimmer. I'm thinking an invisible Super, or some kind of cloaking device, I dunno. Maybe he's being forced to say these things. And here, this image. These looters, here, carrying guns--those aren't even military issue--because those sure aren't bullets they're firing. Someone's putting them up to this."

"You did your homework." The slight grin on Mark's face was as irritating as it was condescending.

"Look, you gonna cut it out or not, Mark? You asked me to tell you why, and--"

"Okay, okay, cool your jets. Keep going."

Dirk shrugged. "That's it, basically. I mean, there's more in there, more evidence, only I...." Dirk suddenly hit the table with his fist. "Consarnit, Mark! I did it because when this many lives are at stake, we can't let the bad guys make the first move!"

“Save the cuisinarts Dirk. The ‘Bad Guys’ have already made their first move and probably a helluva lot more moves.” Mark stood up from the table and began to pace.

“Some idiots would drown you in advise and rules, which if you try and follow in the field will just distract you. But one thing I will tell you. You will always be on the back foot out in the field. You’re reacting to situations, and the smart ‘Bad Guys’ will have taken time to prepare for interference. Just keep that in mind and be ready for bloody anything.” He paused for a second, a thoughtful look on his face. “And on that note…”

Mark strode over to one of the crates that he had taken when he had been kicked out of his house by Amanda. It was larger than all of the others, steel reinforced, and Dirk had never seem Mark open it. He swung his foot, catching it near the bottom. The side swung open neatly, followed swiftly by a pile of random metal and mechanical parts, most badly damaged. Parts then started flying across the room as Mark scrabbled through the pile.

A battered and discoloured faceplate rolled from the pile and spun next to Dirk’s feet who picked it up. It obviously had belonged to a battlesuit at some point, and Dirk was sure he recognised it from somewhere. Before he had a chance to ask Mark blared out ‘Found It’ and almost leapt back to the table, rolling a hand sized disk towards Dirk.

“What’s this, Boss?” Dirk asked.

“An old toy of mine. A portable force-field. Just press the glowy bit in the middle. It’s a one shot deal, 15 minutes tops. But it could save your life if things go badly. It might even help out if your powers get a little over excited. Or any other handy use you can think of.”

Dirk looked over the disk. It was completely different to the rest of Mark’s devices he had seen so far. It was smooth, sleek. No manufacturing lines or rough edges, clean with no rust. When Dirk looked up from the device he saw Mark had pulled on a bandolier with several ammo pouches and various grenades. Sitting in a holster, Dirk recognised Mark’s tazer, but there was a second bulkier weapon he hadn’t seen before. Mark flicked a switch and with a high pitched whine the barrel began to glow a slickly green. He slung the weapon over his shoulder, and slipped on a pair of sunglasses, handing a second pair to Dirk.

“Ok Kid, Time to Save the World, again!”

Dirk nodded at Mark's--surprisingly brief--lecture, his excitement growing. He indulged his mentor as he tore through a crate of what looked to Dirk like junk but from which Mark pulled a few working objects, including the taser he recognized all too well--having had the pleasure of being shot by it before when his powers wigged out and tried to kill people (mainly Mark, so, fair enough). He didn't recognize the second weapon, though. Dirk was pretty proficient at focusing energy blasts at opponents like a weapon, so he wasn't concerned that Mark didn't hand him anything.

He did, however, give him a small disk which, when operational, created a kind of force-field, just as powerful as his own and--this was important--not as unreliable.

"That could be cool," Dirk admitted as he tried out the force-shield, and struck a dramatic pose behind the shield. "Hey, look at me, Mark, I'm Captain America!" .

Mark just shook his head, grabbed his gear and headed out the door.

Dirk bounded after him. "And what are these sunglasses for? Disguise?"

Mark smirked. "Try them on," he ordered.

Dirk dutifully slipped the glasses on. "Hey!" he cried, as his world exploded into infrared color. "Cool!" The pickup was a cold blue, Mark's body a bright red.

"Might help us pick up on anything that can't be seen by the naked eye," Mark explained as he started the car. Dirk buckled his seatbelt and rolled down his window as Mark lit up a cigar.

"So, Boss, what's the actual plan? We're going to check out the TV station, sure, got that. Are we going in half-cocked, or are we going to make this up as we go along? Holy smokers, I sure hope not--you know what happened last time!"