HERO

7 / We All Fall Down

Thomas couldn't figure out if the girl knew what he was actually hiding. He needed to learn to be better at subterfuge. She knew the bag of money wasn't the only thing under his jacket. But...?

He'd not answered her question about his power. He'd not demonstrated one at any point during their conversation. Would that make it obvious? Surely not. He was clearly old enough for his abilities to have shown themselves. It could have been anything, including the money. Not having experience of such things, though, Thomas guessed that any child who suddenly had what they'd probably call gifts would be showing them off. They'd find a way to slip it into any interactions. It was a coming of age. The modern adolescence. No longer were hormonal and physical changes the mark of a child entering adulthood. Now it was all about what they could do.

Except Thomas couldn't.

Maybe she could see it in him. Smell it on him. The scent of failure. He hoped not. He didn't want her to think of him as a failure. He didn't understand why, but he wanted her to like him. Think he was normal. New normal, not old. Even if he never saw her again, he wanted her to like the thought of him.

He turned the corner of the alley, and his attention turned to the trip home. He checked his watch and was horrified to see he should have been home an hour ago. He'd definitely be in the shit (he mouthed the word while thinking it, enjoying the way it felt) now.

The road was beginning to fill up from the afternoon lull of inactivity. Between 12:00 and 15:00, the streets tended to be deserted, or almost. Those who still worked, with a good proportion of the population insisting things could carry on as they did before and powers didn't mean the end of the world, were doing just that. Those who had given their jobs the one fingered salute and were using their abilities to sustain their lives however they wished, were often sleeping. Or bleeding out in hospital.

After three, children were going home from school. Some, anyway. Those who wanted to or were pushed into doing so by their parents. Workers were doing the home commute. This had quickly turned to chaos after the outbreak, with flight and speed, amongst other abilities, making the old drive home fraught with imminent accidents. Regardless of how the general public were now able to do things that shouldn't be possible, the commutes, both morning and afternoon, were one of the first things to return to as close to how it used to be as was possible. It became an anchor in the sea of change that found many to be drowning.

Super powers were, of course, on display. A child flew above her mother. Or, more accurately, floated. She was attached to her mother by a leash that prevented her from drifting away. The girl looked like a too lifelike helium balloon, down to moving limbs and features. Two men were racing each other, passing cars as if they were at a standstill.

A group of teenagers were milling about a street corner, taunting a boy who looked as much like a geek as he could possibly do. They pushed him and called him some name Thomas couldn't hear. The boy tried to ignore the group, speeding up to pass them. They weren't going to let him get away so easily. Two of the boys in the group moved in front of him, keeping pace one by levitating and the other on foot. A girl reached out, her arm extending the few feet to tap on the back of his head. He ignored the move and bowed his head, pushing past the two now blocking his way.

The pair grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back. The whole group was laughing.

Thomas wanted to move, to go home, but he couldn't help but watch. He was surprised that the bullies didn't know the rules. He thought everyone did by now. You didn't mess with someone when you didn't know what they could do. Just because your power made you strong, didn't mean you were the strongest.

One in the group might be able to counteract whatever the victim of their taunts could do, but they were not even taking that into consideration. They seemed to think they had safety in numbers. They may well have had. The boy might suffer from the same ailment Thomas did. His powers could be weak and undeveloped. The bullies could have their fun, grow bored and go off to choose another target.

Thomas needed to go. He could imagine his father pacing. Worrying. Imagining how all sorts of everything had happened to his son.

The whole group had pushed their way in front of the boy. He had no choice but to stop. Still, he kept his head down. Still, he contained whatever ability he had. The group was taking it in turns prodding him. Poking him as if he were a caged animal. The thing was, and it was something they had forgotten, caged animals had a habit of turning on their captors.

They began to push him backwards. They were goading him. They wanted to see what he could do. Thomas moved closer.

"Come on, worm. What you got?"

"Yeah, worm. You show us yours and we'll show you ours."

"Worm. Worm. Worm. WORM!"

The chant was accompanied by the laying on of hands, theirs on him. He was being forced backwards as they advanced. The laughter was growing manic and their pushing more forceful. Finally, a push sent the boy backwards, stumbling and falling. The group crowded around him and, instead of their hands, they brought their feet to bear, all of them kicking him.

Thomas could hear his cries. His pleas for them to stop. He wished he did have abilities, so he could help defend the boy.

But, then, it didn't matter. Then the cries stopped. Briefly, Thomas thought they'd hurt him badly. Perhaps knocked him unconscious. They hadn't. There was a scream. It came from the boy, but it was not one of fear or pain. It was a cry of contained power unleashed. It was two toned, an initial, human sounding cry. Thomas knew what was coming and crouched down, putting his hands to his ears. He guessed the bullies did too, as he saw them starting to scramble.

It was too late.

The scream flipped up suddenly, changing from a boy's voice to a screech no throat should have been able to produce. A car close to them was knocked sideways, ploughing into three of the group as they ran away from the boy. One of the three was thrown over the vehicle and landed with an audible crunch not far from Thomas. The other two were caught with their legs trapped under the radiator. When it slammed into the side of a building, they had no chance to react. There was not enough still in one piece to make a sound.

They were the lucky ones. They'd managed to escape the immediate fallout. The others were not so fortunate.

The windows above them shattered, the shards of glass falling in a lethal rain. They were dead, however, before the pieces landed.

A sound is something that is incorporeal. It lacks any substance, but it can destroy easily. Harsh words. Lies. The cry of a Siren. Thomas was wary of applying labels after his encounter with Bren, but he didn't know what else to call the boy. A Siren's call had only one result.

Death.

As Thomas looked on, the bodies of the boy's attackers started to break apart, shredding into ribbons. The blood let loose evaporated as quickly as it was freed from the confines of the veins. Like ticker tape on a parade, the ribbons broke apart, billowing outward from the epicentre of the boy. Then those pieces, too, evaporated.

Thomas looked around. The whole street had come to a standstill as everyone stopped to watch the events unfolding. A couple, blown over, helped each other to their feet. An old man was aided by a much younger, but still not young woman in picking up his bag of groceries. She held out her hands, which glowed softly, and the old man's goods settled back into their bags.

A man held out his hand to the boy and pulled him up. The boy mumbled something that might have been thanks and hurried away.

The driver of the car climbed out of his vehicle and surveyed the damage. He walked around to the rear, took hold of the back bumper, and pulled the car away from the wall. He then returned to the front, used his foot to kick away the bodies of the bullies, climbed back in and drove off.

And the street returned to its usual bustle.

And Thomas turned andhurried home.