Chapter 2 Taking it Easy
January 4, 2025. 2:23 a.m. The City of Markend.
I’ve lived here my whole life. Seen gangs change hands more often than capes catch criminals. That was just how Markend worked. Power shifted fast, but it never left the wrong hands.
My secret lair wasn’t exactly the underground bunker or industrial hideout villains dread of. No, my “lair” was my humble single-story house in the suburbs. Sothing passed down from my mom’s side of the family. A bit run-down but still standing.
I lived alone, so lucky , no nagging parents to tell to get a job or clean my room. Then again, no one to care if I didn’t eat dinner either.
The house sat quiet and dark as I slipped through the back door. My breath puffed out in the cold air, and the duffel bag weighed heavy on my shoulder. The lock clicked softly as I turned the key, and I stepped inside.
The kitchen greeted like an old friend: a little too ssy, but familiar all the sa. I flicked on the light, blinking at the yellowish glow as I trudged to the fridge. Carefully, I unpacked my spoils.
The whole stuffed turkey went onto a shelf. The grapes, a tin of caviar, and a few other odds and ends followed. By the ti I was done, my fridge looked fuller than it had in weeks. Small victories.
I didn’t bother taking stock of my other haul yet. Money could wait until morning, if you could call it that. My body was already begging for sleep.
I headed for my room, the cold floor creaking under my feet. Once inside, I peeled off my amateur thief get-up, tossing the hoodie and jogging pants into a corner. The Bonnett mask went into my nightstand drawer; better safe than sorry.
In nothing but a t-shirt and boxers, I dropped face-first onto the bed. My pillow slled faintly of detergent, and my blanket was cold, but I didn’t care.
Fun fact: I couldn’t sleep.
Emphasis on couldn’t, not wouldn’t. It wasn’t a choice; it just wasn’t in the cards for anymore.
Since I “pulled” five years ago and discovered I had superpowers, a lot of things about had changed. My body started optimizing itself without even trying. No workout routines or diets—just a steady march toward an athletic build like my genes decided to play nice for once.
But if there was one thing I missed, it would be sleep.
I wasn’t capable of it anymore. No sleep ant no dreaming, either. I used to think nightmares were bad, but turns out, a dreamless void was worse.
“This sucks…”
Of course, that didn’t stop from pretending to sleep. I’d lie there in bed, eyes closed, body still, as if fooling the universe into letting rest. But my nerves were electric, buzzing like live wires. My thoughts raced in circles:
Did I leave any evidence behind? Did I ss up sowhere? What if soone saw ?
The SRC, Superhuman Regulation Committee, flashed in my mind. What if they kicked down my door and dragged off to one of their black sites? Worse, what if Markend’s own superhero team decided to pay a visit? They might not care about small-ti stuff, but I didn’t exactly have a spotless record now.
“HAH~! Don’t flatter yourself, man…”
I groaned and sat up. Lying here wasn’t doing any good.
My stomach growled, a sharp reminder that superpowers didn’t an skipping als. I wandered into the kitchen, the faint hum of the fridge the only sound breaking the silence. Pulling out the stuffed turkey, I hacked off a chunk, reheated it, and plopped it onto a plate.
Food in hand, I shuffled back to the living room. The remote sat wedged between the couch cushions. I fished it out and flopped down, flipping on the TV.
Static at first, then a late-night talk show. I wasn’t paying attention to what they were saying. I just needed sothing, anything, to kill ti.
Why did I turn to cri?
Sure, I might look like I had it together—a whole house to myself, food in the fridge, and even a couch to crash on—but trust , I was a poor bastard through and through.
First and foremost, there were the debts. A mountain of them, courtesy of my dad’s gambling problem. He was gone now, leaving the grand legacy of owing money to people you don’t want to owe money to.
Secondly, there was Mom. A drunk who didn’t have much to her na besides cheap whiskey and bitterness. She kicked the bucket last year, and while I wouldn’t call her passing a shock, it still left in the lurch.
So yeah, “tough spot” was an understatent.
I sighed and flipped through the channels, the remote clicking rhythmically in my hand. Nothing but inforcials and reruns until I landed on the history channel. At least it was sothing to keep my mind busy.
They were talking about the phenonon called “Pull,” the event that caused the awakening of superpowers in people. Not exactly the cheeriest subject for a midnight snack, but I let it play.
According to the narrator, Pull wasn’t new. Duh... Of course, it wasn't. Theories suggested superpowers had existed as far back as the dieval ages, hiding under the guise of mystics, legendary knights, gods, and mythical creatures. The modern na just slapped so science on it, but the phenonon was as old as human history.
The show shifted to World War I, explaining how the “arms race” for supers had sparked the conflict. Governnts weaponized them, treating people like living WMDs. The war’s aftermath wasn’t any better.
World War II ca next, fueled by the sa obsession with superhuman superiority. Nations built armies of supers, but the devastation left behind was catastrophic. It didn’t take long for society to turn on people like us.
Discrimination followed, and in so countries, supers were outright hunted, enslaved, or exiled. Others chose militarization, forcing them to serve. Most governnts tried rebranding, calling supers “capes” to make them seem noble, heroic, and less terrifying. It worked on the surface, but the stigma never really went away.
I poked at the last scraps of my glorified chicken, swallowing the final bite as the narrator droned on about societal shifts and cultural fears. The whole thing hit a little too close to ho.
“Yeah, yeah, we get it. We’re the boogeyn,” I muttered, flipping the channel.
My attention honed in on a talk show rerun featuring none other than Dr. Ti.
If you’ve never heard of him, let paint you a picture: wild white hair sticking out in every direction, a wrinkled face that looked like it had been permanently etched with caffeine-induced mania, a lab coat that scread “mad scientist,” and a voice that could pierce through lead. He was a relic of the '90s, a physicist who also happened to moonlight as a self-proclaid ti traveler.
Oh, and he was a part-ti cape, too. Because why not?
He was mid-rant when I tuned in, his voice high-pitched and frantic.
“I am telling you, but no one believes !” he yelled, practically vibrating in his seat. “The tiline is broken!”
The audience shifted uncomfortably, but Dr. Ti didn’t care. He was on a roll.
“There are two moons, instead of one!” He gestured wildly, as if the proof was written in the air. “Four continents, instead of seven! Superpowers are real! The nas of the countries are wrong!”
The host, a guy with a forced smile that practically scread, What have I gotten myself into? tried to interject, but Dr. Ti powered through.
“The historical divide is getting wider!” he bellowed. “Lots of people I know don’t exist anymore. And for whatever reason…” He paused dramatically, eyes wide, “Isaac Newton is still alive!”
The audience burst into nervous laughter.
I leaned back on the couch, turkey grease still on my fingers, and let out a snort. This guy. He’d been a running joke for decades, but every so often, he popped back into the spotlight to drop so new absurd theory. Yep… Dr. Ti was pretty much immortal.
The host finally managed to get a word in, asking with mock politeness, “Dr. Ti, if the tiline is so broken, why hasn’t anyone else noticed these discrepancies?”
Dr. Ti leaned forward, fixing the host with an intense stare.
“They do notice,” he said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that sohow carried through the mic. “But they’re too afraid to admit it. You’d rather laugh at than face the truth. I dream of the other world every ti, so what’s stopping others?”
The audience’s laughter faltered, replaced by an awkward silence.
I smirked, but sothing about his words stuck in my mind. Broken tilines, misplaced histories, and people who didn’t exist anymore… It was all ridiculous, sure. But for a second, I wondered: What if he’s right?
I rinsed the last bit of grease off the plate, setting it down to dry, then grabbed the cash I’d stuffed into my duffel bag earlier. Spreading the bills out on the counter, I did a quick count.
“Let’s see… twenty-three thousand marks.”
Not bad for one night’s work. Enough to cover the month: rent, utilities, and food, maybe even with a little left over for ergencies. But it wasn’t anywhere close to putting a dent in my inherited debt. The mountain of marks I owed still lood large over , a constant reminder of the ss I was born into.
I sighed, stuffing the cash into a small tal box I kept hidden under the kitchen sink. My paranoia wouldn’t let stash it anywhere too obvious. I wished I’d been braver—or dumber—at the Hamiltons’ place. Maybe then I’d have more to show for my trouble.
To be fair, the Hamiltons had a reputation. Not the elite socialites kind, but the kill-you-and-bury-you-in-the-woods kind of bad. Rumors swirled about them: shady deals, missing people, that sort of thing. No wonder the others were scared of Chad.
And the caras. God, the caras. I knew they’d caught . There was no avoiding it. They were wired up like Fort Knox, but I’d done my best to keep my face obscured and my movents untraceable. Whether that was good enough was a question for later. For now, I’d just have to live with the knot of anxiety twisting in my gut.
I glanced at the clock. 6:00 a.m. Great.
Normally, I’d spend the early hours training, pushing my powers to their limits or working on strength and agility. It had been my nightly ritual for the past five years, ever since I “pulled.” But today? I wasn’t feeling it.
The holidays had just ended, and the silence of the house was… too much. Mom might’ve been a ss, but at least she’d been soone to talk to. Now, it was just .
Loneliness had a way of sneaking up on you, even when you thought you were fine.
I shook off the thought, grabbed a clean towel, and headed for the shower. The hot water stung against my skin, but it helped feel alive. When you couldn't sleep, routines like this were the closest thing to grounding yourself.
Afterward, I ate breakfast—leftover turkey and so grapes I’d pilfered—because my powers demanded it. Increased tabolism seed to be a common trait among capes. The energy had to co from sowhere, after all.
By 7:00 a.m., I was dressed and out the door, duffel bag replaced by an apron. Ti to flip burgers and pretend like I wasn’t living a double life.
Today, I’d like to take it easy.
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