The Metahuman Agency: The Superhuman War

Phoenix

1981. Herat Province, Afghanistan.

The heat of the sun felt like a million tiny knives, all stabbing into you at once. At first, their bites were small and tolerable. But as the day lingered on, as the heat rose, the knives began to take their toll. By the time of the early afternoon, you were practically begging for the moon to rise and night to fall. Anything would be better than the sickening, oppressive heat.

Jacqueline reflected on this for what felt like the hundredth time as she moved up the sharp incline. Rocks crunched beneath her sand-kissed boots as she clambered upward, the duster coat she wore flapping against her sweaty legs. She felt like she was trekking through Hell itself, her throat horribly dry, her own body odder threatening to choke her, her limbs begging her to sit down and rest.

But she pressed on, gripping the suitcase she was holding in one gloved hand, practically throttling it in what amounted to a death grip. She looked upward, her sunglasses reflecting the harsh light. Against the backdrop of the scorching sky, she could see three figures, resembling shadows in contrast with the sunlight, at the top of the incline. They were looking down at her.

One called, his accented voice echoing off the rocky landscape. "Hey, Prescott! You need a hand down there? You look like you're about to collapse and break your neck!"

Jacqueline snarled angrily to herself. She flipped him the bird in response. The two men flanking the speaker laughed harshly. She caught a glimpse of one nudging the man and saying, "You gonna take that man?" The speaker laughed along with his buddies but gave no response to her.

Jacqueline scrambled up the rest of the slope, fumbling awkwardly with each step, unable to find her grip easily with only one hand free. She was painfully aware of the trio's gazes about her the entire time, their chuckles punctuating the air with her misstep she had. Jacqueline felt her cheeks burn and not just from the sun. But she kept her mouth shut, angrily seething under her breath and clambered up the incline in silence.

Finally, she reached the top and pulled herself over the last inches of rock, stepping to the top of the ridge. Gasping, Jacqueline bent to her knees, panting for breath. Her sunglasses slid halfway down her nose as she forced air into her lungs, the dry heat tasting disgusting with each frenzied mouthful of air.

She panted there for a minute, each breath bringing a burning touch in her throat. As she did so, a canteen was suddenly thrusted into her face. "Here," One of the men said. "Have a little."

Jacqueline took from his hand and leaned back, uncorking the flask. She dumped some water into her open mouth and sighed in relief as she felt the cool liquid pass down her parched throat. Smacking her lips, she handed the canteen back to the man before her, who grinned back at her.

He was older than her but still had a youthful look to his features, miraculously preserve despite being sun dried by the constant heat. He wore a dust soaked ragged uniform, bearing the scars of battle. His face bore an unshaven beard but his smile still radiated brightly from the mess of hair. A sniper rifle was strapped to his back, while a pistol and a knife lay on his belt.

"You okay, princess?" The man asked her as he took the canteen back. The other two men chuckled as they surveyed the rocky landscape. Jacqueline bristled at the name but she bit her tongue to stop her instinctive desire to reply with an insult. She'd learned to keep her thoughts to herself out here, as her sharp tongue had gotten her into trouble before. So, she'd learned to bottle it up and indulge in fantasies where she'd humiliate or butcher the men who lorded themselves over her.