Night Legions: The Synthetic Wars, #3

Chapter One

Conthan was their God.

In a former Catholic church, nearly a hundred people prepared to surrender themselves to the priest of a new era. The pews creaked and groaned as parishioners eased to the edge of their seats in anticipation of another sermon claiming that the Children of Nostradamus were gods among men. He was supposed to be their god, but with his hoodie pulled over his head, shrouding his face in shadows, Conthan felt anything but godly.

The titans of the new era walk among us.

The man’s voice boomed, carrying across the room as if he spoke with a microphone. The curvature of the church amplified his deep bass proclamation. The priest was unfamiliar to Conthan, a common occurrence with the growing popularity of the Church of Nostradamus. Or their desperation, he thought to himself.

Transformed by powers beyond our understanding, Children of Nostradamus, we surrender ourselves to their divine presence.

We surrender, the crowd replied.

He envied their ability to surrender. As they lowered their heads, a hush filled the room. To his right, a gentleman knelt, perching his elbows on the back of the pew before him as he clasped his hands. The man’s eyes clenched shut, as if his dedication might leak from his eyes otherwise. The quiver of his lip and his nails biting into the top of his knuckles made Conthan wonder what brought the man here. His clothing and clean-shaven face left him looking rather average, providing no clues.

Conthan lowered his head with fingers intertwined. The priest started as they always did, urging the congregation to admit they were powerless in their lives. Once accepted, they could begin believing there were powers in effect far greater than them. The postulating man stepped from behind the pulpit and descended the stairs, walking down the aisle.

Nostradamus predicted these movers of the earth, benders of air, and creators of fire. While they walk beside us, we will not lose faith in our tomorrow.

There is no yesterday, the crowd responded.

May Nostradamus have predicted our prayers.

So he sees, he concluded.

The customary pause for parishioners to beseech Nostradamus followed. Please, Nostradamus, the man to Conthan's right whispered. She won’t survive the night. I don’t know if you can hear me…

The desperation in his voice, even at a whisper, spoke volumes. Tears ran down his face as prayed for a miracle. The dedication to this mysterious woman caught Conthan’s attention and he found himself eavesdropping on the man’s speech with God.

I’ll do anything, whatever… The man sobbed softly as he attempted to sweeten the divine bribe. Somewhere, somebody was dying, and here, praying to Nostradamus, this man hoped anybody could save his love. Conthan averted his eyes, wanting to ignore the man’s pleas. Vanessa once mentioned a woman capable of speeding up cell regeneration; if she were here, she’d answer his prayers.

A small part of Conthan wanted to stand up and demonstrate his abilities. The congregation might whoop and holler, perhaps even fall to their knees praying to him. He wanted to get their attention before telling them he was nothing more than a cosmic fluke. He wanted them to realize Children were not gods. He wanted them to stand up for themselves. He wanted…

The priest’s hand rested softly on Conthan’s shoulder. The teleporter didn’t turn to the holy man. Instead, he took stock of the exits. To the sacristy behind the pulpit, out the narthex's double doors, perhaps leaping through the boarded-up window—none of the exits would let him leave without attention. The flight response calmed as the hand gave him a gentle squeeze, more reaffirming than predatory. When Conthan dared to look up, the man’s brown eyes held compassion.

Conthan didn’t believe compassion existed in this world anymore. The fatigue of being hunted day after day, trying to survive, took its toll. From the moment Jed handed him Eleanor’s dying words, his world had shattered and reformed into something dark. It had started as a gift, the ability to tear open space and time, but with each lost battle, the gift transformed into a curse. The death of Dav5d, the disappearance of Vanessa, the abandonment of Jasmine, each blow added boulders to the weight bearing down on him, a weight he never asked for.

Months ago, he spent his evenings waging a one-man war against a synthetic army. Now, each day, fury edged closer to despair. At each step, he attempted to do what was right, attempted to step into the grand role his powers demanded. Long after he died, he wanted people to remember him as a man who made a difference. He found himself doubting his immortalization. Could he be the only person without faith? Even the man quietly begging for divine intervention believed in him, but like each time before, even with this uncanny ability, Conthan found himself helpless.

The priest’s hand slid along his shoulder until a finger hooked his hood, pulling it back. The media plastered Conthan's face on every big screen, announcing him one of the most wanted terrorists in the United States. The priest’s eyes didn’t give away any recognition, instead maintaining that look of tenderness. The depth, the way his eyes reflected a pain, a knowledge—Conthan had only seen eyes like those once before.

Vanessa? he whispered.

I will have enough faith for us both, the priest said quietly.

Are you…

The priest turned, addressing his flock. The world is failing. We live under the iron rule of tyrants who usurp power for their own machinations. We, the people of the street, we fall victims. But we are not victims!

Conthan wiped his eyes, finding the man’s offering of faith exactly what he needed to hear in a moment of self-doubt. The priest managed to strike a chord. He would not be a victim.

Nostradamus himself would find this state of affairs staggering. But the prophet is not alone. We do not rely on the divinity of the Children to pull us from the fires. They will not save us. The man’s declaration held the audience in a gasp. In a church filled with believers, they found his statement appalling. One woman cried out, Blasphemy.

They will not save us, he repeated. They will inspire us. We own the future before us. We are not victims; we are the underdogs. We do not go quietly. We, the people of the street, we will stand against oppression. We will show the Children we are worthy of their absolution.

He sees, several people shouted.

He does see. The priest turned enough to cast a downward glance.

Conthan’s chest tingled as emotion surged about his heart. A rush along his skin sent the hair on the back of his neck reaching for the heavens.

Each day grew darker. The world closed in tighter, squeezing the breath from his lungs. There were days when he cursed Jed for handing him that letter and Eleanor for writing it.

Within, hidden behind organs, he imagined a well built from loose stones. In the murky scene, the well bubbled to the brim with black liquid, thick like oil. The image gave him a moment to collect his thoughts. He visualized himself approaching the well leaning over the edge, staring at his shiny reflection.

A cool chill spread through his hand as his fingers sank into the opaque liquid. The black crept up his arm. The first time he visualized the well, the liquid had shocked him by taking on a life of its own. Fear retreated as he affirmed his belief in his power. Unlike Dwayne or Skits whose powers had a scientific explanation, he defied science, acting as a conduit. The power rushed along his body until it pulsed beneath the surface of his skin.

Conthan reached out to the man next to him in the pew, resting his chilly hand on his shoulder. It pained him to know he could do nothing to help the man’s loved one. If he knew where the healer from Boston relocated, he could teleport them here, but without Vanessa and Dav5d, the knowledge was lost. The only thing he could do was console the man.

What are you…

Conthan opened his eyes. Their blackness, the byproduct of surrendering to his abilities, skewed the colors in the church. The man's jaw went slack. His hand covered his mouth, trying to contain his awe at seeing a Child.

I see you, Conthan whispered. He slid his hand to the man’s neck and pulled his forehead against his own. The man started to sob again, the experience overwhelming him. Have faith, Conthan whispered in his ear. The parishioner nodded slowly.

Pulling the hood over his head to shield his eyes, Conthan got up from the pew and started to walk toward the narthex. The power in his body itched to open a portal, the sensation of insects crawling along his skin.

And we will stand by them as the war grows, both in the world and in their hearts, the priest’s voice boomed.

Conthan reached the door as the congregation clapped and cheered at the statement. Months had passed since he had been declared Public Enemy Number One. Cut off from his past life, he felt lost in the madness, with no anchor to hold him during a troubling storm. The expression on the parishioner’s face, the faith he held, the devotion to an idea—Conthan clung to the momentary peace.

As the portal in the lobby snapped into place, he imagined the smallest flame burning in chest. The Church of Nostradamus provided him something he thought he’d lost: hope.

The gears making up Twenty-Seven’s hand whined as the hydraulics whirred to life. The tips of her carbon steel fingertips wrenched the lock securing the gate. The cast iron resisted. She shouldered the rusted bars and the entire obstacle fell to the ground in a loud crash. Any attempts at being stealthy in the dark tunnel were long past.

She couldn’t hear the machines chasing her, but she knew they wouldn’t be far behind.

As she bolted, the tunnel narrowed. Every so often specks of light shone down from above, shafts of illumination sneaking through the manhole covers. Even in a Sanctuary city like Chicago, moving through the streets when you were a criminal proved difficult. The sewers offered a safer way to travel unnoticed. Apparently, Twenty-Seven wasn’t the only one with that idea. Synthetics scouring the underbelly of Chicago meant trouble.

The moon wouldn’t be enough for the average person to see. Without her contacts providing night vision, she’d be a sitting duck. Even so, while fumbling with her pack she stumbled on uneven ground. She reached into the pack draped across her shoulders and scoured for a small box.

Now she heard the familiar scraping down the corridor.

After sticking the box to the wall, she flipped a switch, causing a small red light to blink. She continued running, the stomping of metal feet on cement closing in. A break in the stench reached her nostrils. If she continued running, she’d reach the tunnel dumping into Lake Michigan near the Navy Pier.

An explosion filled the tunnel, the pressure threatening to knock her to the ground. They had run by the motion sensor. The trick worked once, twice if they were moving quickly. Hopefully there weren’t many more behind her. Her rifle hadn’t survived the initial attack; a synthetic ripped the weapon out of her hands. She liked to pretend she could go hand to hand with the synthetics, but despite her robotic parts, she remained a fragile human.

The tunnel turned right. She thanked the creators of the underground network. Bullets chipped away at the wall behind as she ran on, her legs pumping at full speed. It couldn’t be much longer before the tunnel emptied out. She didn’t want to be in the water, but it seemed to be one of the rare places the synthetics refused to follow.

Light.

Twenty-Seven couldn’t swim anymore. It had taken her months to learn the limitations a prosthetic metal arm presented. She had more strength, but the moment she hit water, the arm acted like dead weight. Without the ability to fully rotate that limb, plus the extra forty pounds, she had difficulty keeping herself afloat. She hoped the water didn’t get deep fast. Dying from Mother Nature didn’t sound any better than being riddled full of bullets from giant tin cans.

The light grew brighter as she neared the end of the tunnel. The synthetic behind her attempted to round the corner, but the heap of deadly circuits crashed off the wall as it turned. If they paused for a moment to fire, they stood a chance of landing a shot. With the last few steps, she closed her eyes and hurled herself out of the tunnel in a tight ball.

Incoming! she yelled.

The moment the wind stopped moving past her face, she knew reinforcements had arrived. Her body jerked as an invisible force pulled her straight up. She landed on the seawall overlooking the massive body of water.

The tunnel underneath them collapsed and the synthetics were either trapped under rock and rubble or stuck inside the sewers. Twenty-Seven rolled onto her back, taking a moment to appreciate the full moon hanging in the sky.

The face of an elderly woman blocked out the moon. Its halo made her red and white hair appear angelic.

That’s why we don’t split up, Ariel said.

Twenty-Seven didn’t want to move. Her heart beat hard enough that she wondered if she’d feel her mechanical arm going numb from a heart attack. She tried to stay fit, but if she was going to keep encountering synthetics, she needed more cardio in her workout. Thankfully the machines didn’t move any faster or she’d be a bloody heap in the sewers underneath Chicago.

We should move, Ariel insisted.

Ariel had to be thirty years her senior, the white hair starting to outnumber the red. Moonlight emphasized the lines on the woman’s face while her eyes appeared to retreat further into their sockets. Twenty-Seven knew underneath the black trench coat, the woman’s body defied her age, with muscles pulled tight, making her the better athlete of the two.

It’s past curfew, we need to move before the militia comes out. Jasmine is going to start wondering what happened to us.

Twenty-Seven couldn’t argue with that logic. The woman had a sagely quality about her, almost always speaking with a certainty that made every wrinkle seem earned. Twenty-Seven sat up, pushing off the ground until they were eye to eye. Yes, even the scar down the woman’s cheek and neck told a story about a very real struggle. And yet, each day, they operated as the rally point for refugees, helping them escape into Canada.

She’s going to be pissed she didn’t get to break things, Twenty-Seven said.

She’ll have more opportunities, Ariel said.

The seawall took a beating as waves crashed into it. Twenty-Seven appreciated the smell of water, but something smelled off, almost as if the waters were rancid. The sulfur in the air meant a storm was coming from the east, bringing with it whatever toxicity emitted from New England.

How many synthetics do you think are left? asked Twenty-Seven.

Ariel shrugged. There seem to be more and more. We need to keep moving.

The militia isn’t coming here. She waved her hands to the wreckage of Navy Pier in the distance. I’m surprised that place is still standing.

Ariel ignored the comment. The older woman’s feet hovered off the ground, inches above the pavement. Twenty-Seven realized something had her agitated. Most people had a nervous tick, perhaps a curl of their lip or averting their gaze. Whenever the mentalist let her emotions get the best of her, she hovered.

What is it? Twenty-Seven whispered.

Then her own feet left the ground. Flying didn’t have the wonderful freeing quality she thought it would. As her body became weightless and she was propelled forward, with no way to stop Ariel’s abilities. Only feet behind Ariel, both soared along the seawall until they reached a shattered window.

The pier extended into the lake and stretching the length and nearly the width of it was a building once filled with shops and eateries. Below the arcade balcony where they landed after entering through the window, gunfire sounded in the area fenced off for the day vendors. Ariel flew downward toward the bend leading to an ice-cream shop. Flashing metal descended from the balcony, a synthetic landing on Ariel and sending her to the ground.

Twenty-Seven braced for impact as Ariel’s abilities let go. Her body rolled along the ground, smashing against the doors to a souvenir shop. Jumping to her feet, she dared to glance up. A dozen synthetics crept along the balcony. Ariel’s worry suddenly made sense.

A synthetic dropped from the ceiling, landing a couple feet away. Since Chicago became a sanctuary city, refusing to bow to the president in the east and the military in the west, it had become self-governed. Without the military to defend Chicago, it had been left to the city’s militias to stop bands of synthetics. Thankfully the escalating problems in the east prevented more than a few handfuls from sneaking into their borders for reconnaissance.

The machine lunged; its mechanical limbs ready to crush her skull. The sensation of her artificial limb locking fingers with the machine seemed distant. Her hydraulics resembled the arms of the synthetic. While her fingers might be strong, her body couldn’t compete as it whipped her to the side, sending her crashing into a stack of rotted drywall.

The rest of the machines dropped from the second floor, surrounding Ariel on all sides. They exploited one of her few weaknesses. With too many moving adversaries on each side, the mentalist’s resorted to wild whipping about, hurling furniture at the machines to keep them at bay.

With speed Twenty-Seven didn’t remember synthetics possessing, another sped toward her. Metal clasped around her throat, lifting her off the ground. Whoever watched her final moments through the black cameras that served as its eyes, she hoped it wasn’t Dav5d, the man who helped rescue her a year ago.

Dark spots filled her vision. Her bionic hand grappled with the synthetic’s arm, trying to pull the metal fingers away from her throat. She imagined the fight going differently if she were prepared and still had a gun, or any weapon other than her bare hands.

The metal along the side of the machine’s face tore away. Its hand loosened and she braced her feet against its chest, shoving hard. Landing on her back, she rolled and came to her feet with a sway as she sucked in air.

Sparks erupted. The synthetic’s arm tore away and came down like a club, smashing its skull. The motion repeated over and over again until the machine collapsed to the ground.

I had it under control, Jasmine. Twenty-Seven tried to muster a smile.

The woman didn’t answer as she pulled a shotgun off her back and handed it to Twenty-Seven. We’ve got visitors.

Jasmine pointed to the doors, where three Chicago Officers held guns, trying to ward off two synthetics. Jasmine ran in their direction, picking up speed. With her shoulder down, she barreled into the two machines, sending them tumbling.

Twenty-Seven pumped the gun, loading the chamber. As Ariel hurled a synthetic across the room toward her, Twenty-Seven took aim, shooting the machine and rendering its left leg useless. It stumbled to one knee and the cannon on its shoulder flipped to attention, the red dot already aglow.

I don’t think so. Another shot removed the laser. The next left the machine with no head, an unmoving husk.

I think it’s safe to say you’ll be needing a new base of operations, shouted one of the officers.

The machines surrounding Ariel lay in scraps. Two near Jasmine lay headless. Twenty-Seven constantly had to remind herself she was a liability when fighting alongside these two titans. Despite her lack of powers, she generally managed to hold her own, but in comparison, she would always just be human.

Your police missed a few, Twenty-Seven said.

You think so many might have come here because the president figured out you’ve been smuggling Children out of the country?

Twenty-Seven recognized the fear on the faces of Chief Cooper’s subordinates. Unlike him, they were terrified of what transpired or what might transpire with them. She, Jasmine, and Ariel had developed a reputation since they arrived in the windy city.

Chief Cooper, just checking up on us or do you have a job? Twenty-Seven approached the men, slinging the shotgun over her shoulder.

You haven’t heard?

In the three months since the President of the United States had been killed, tensions reached a breaking point. The majority of the country saw the Children of Nostradamus the instigators in this war. Only in New York City, where the newest tyrant rose to power, did the people ignore Children and rally against the human menace.

Since Troy was slaughtered by machines, Twenty-Seven vowed to get revenge. Allying herself with a powerful mentalist and one of the most fearsome Children only made that dream more likely.

Heard what? she asked.

Chief Cooper commanded one of the largest forces in the United States, and after discovering his niece was a Child, he functioned as a vigilante. Twenty-Seven held nothing but respect for the man. In a world filled with darkness, where tyrants and war reigned, a single man trying to do right gave her a bit of hope.

This. The clear plastic device in his hand projected a screen. The live feed from a local station showed a man standing at a podium. His suit and the pin on his jacket instantly marked him as a politician. She leaned in, examining the pin—two vertical red stripes and a red leaf.

The Canadians? she asked.

Listen. His voice changed, turning grim.

The politician announced, This is unprecedented. For the last forty years, Canada has been a self-sufficient nation, priding itself in technological innovation and advancements in modern medicine far beyond the rest of the world. Protesting how the United States has culled first mentalists, then the Children of Nostradamus, Canada has openly welcomed enhanced humans.

The screen switched to a woman behind a news desk. Her eyes remained wide, almost as if she couldn’t believe the news she reported. A deep breath in and she read from the teleprompter. BBC Canada is reporting the first mentalist in history has announced his bid for Prime Minister of Canada.

Oh shit, Jasmine mumbled.

What does it mean for us? asked Twenty-Seven.

As if the reporter heard the question, she continued, The United States has responded, announcing they will shut down the border and assume martial law in all sanctuary cities. Amidst an escalating civil war—

The chief couldn’t hide the deep worry lines along his forehead. You need to run.

The clear plastic over the window whipped back and forth in the wind, spraying tiny droplets of water. The former occupants had deserted the property before the renovations finished, abandoning the soon-to-be three-season porch without insulation in that window. Behind Dwayne, a rolling door closed off the entrance into the dining room, leaving him outside with his thoughts.

He sat on a damp cushion from the loveseat, water wicking through his sweatpants. Folding his legs in, he straightened his back. The moment he corrected his posture, the knots in his shoulders reminded him of the stress riddling his body. With the constant dodge and run, it had been weeks since he paused long enough to go through the meditation routine Vanessa taught him shortly after they first met.

With palms facing one another, he took a moment to acknowledge the single hair growing from the back of one hand. Examining the blond strand, he tried to recall the last time he found a hair daring to ascend higher than his belly button. They would burn away as the electricity rose to the surface of his skin.

Thus began the seductive dance, his powers attempting to lull him into a false sense of security. He had the urge to unleash them, drown himself in the awesomeness of his gifts. The part of his brain connected to pleasure screamed, begging for release. He fought off the image of the lightning pouring out of his skin, crashing into walls, blowing apart wood and scorching the ground. In the back of his mind, a voice urged him to let go.

His skin grew warm, basking in the radiation from the electrons attempting to escape. Vanessa had taught him to master his abilities, resisting the euphoric sensation. The mistress of restraint preached that he always be in control of his powers and not fall victim to their grandeur. They spent hours like this, meditating, allowing him to fix the broken parts of his psyche. Their time together had tempered his desire to destroy and decimate after Michael's death. He hoped her teachings could once again provide guidance.

The smell of burned ozone dimmed his other senses. The scent of burning air surrounded him, hugging like a warm blanket. Pushing at the thoughts attempting to creep into his mind, he breathed deeply, in through the nose and out through the mouth. As his chest inflated and his shoulders straightened, he visualized Vanessa.

He imagined his mentor in an endless white room, the dark green of her skin standing out like a blemish on the infinite canvas. The wings stretched outward from her back. Despite her gargoyle features and serpentine eyes, her face maintained a compassionate expression. Dwayne thought of her as a lioness, protective and calm, but underneath the layers of tranquility, she’d pounce and devour the people who crossed her.

She taught him to temper his lightning the same way she tempered her emotions.

Vanessa had given him back his sister and for that, he could never repay her. He did, however, give her his trust. With her telepathy, she was able to share images, experiences, just as easily as she pulled them from his mind. What started as unnerving quickly became a comfort, the knowledge somebody viewed the world through your eyes. It helped that Vanessa was one of the least judgmental people he’d ever encountered. She knew his heart, at times, better than he did.

Vanessa, can you hear me?

It reminded him of his youth, asking a higher power for recognition. After years of sending energy into the void, his faith had vanished. Reaching out for Vanessa, unsure if she was alive to receive his thoughts. Dwayne might not have faith in a God, but he had faith in the strength she exuded over the years. If she was alive, she’d be listening.

I don’t know if you’re hearing any of this. We are coming. You need to hang on.

Gretchen’s graffiti of the hawk flashed behind his closed eyes.

It wasn’t an answer. Vanessa didn’t reach out and speak to him. The Angel of the Outlands, as she'd been known for years, had a way of rallying her troops in unusual ways. Dwayne opened his eyes, the image of the hawk imprinted in his mind, a reminder of the Nighthawks left standing, the family he adopted. Dwayne turned to the door, listening to the voices speaking about their favorite birthday present. The outlaws in the other room, they were his family now.

Thanks, Vanessa.

Dwayne rocked to his heels and started for the door leading into the rest of the house. The sense of warmth radiating from his skin had less to do with the electricity needing release and more to do with the confirmation he was exactly where he was meant to be. His family needed him.

Hold on. We’re coming for you, he whispered.

Chapter Two

Freedom.

The word held more weight than Vanessa would ever give it credit. Her hands ached, gashes in her palms from where she fought her way through security. Her left arm, barely functioning, extended from the socket, lay at her side as rain pelted her fern-green skin. Even the dark clouds circling overhead, delivering a torrential downpour, had a rightness to them. She closed her eyes and let the falling water wash away the grit covering her skin.

It had taken nearly an hour to reach the top of the building, almost thirty stories tall. The half-finished top floor, left in disrepair, stood as a testament to the state of the world. All around her, chaos. New York. Once a city of hope and dreams, now it lay as the epicenter of dissent among the people. Even hundreds of feet above the humans, their anger and fear fought to reach the back of her mind.

Before her lay the ruins of the meat packing district, once the home to early risers. With hours of night remaining, the streets would fill with fishermen and delivery trucks. Chefs used to scour the district for the best seafood for their restaurants. Now, warehouses sat empty, and the air reeked of a chemically tainted river. Her toes gripped the edge of the roof, the next step leading to a four-hundred-foot descent. The stormy winds caressed her scalp and the few hairs that had grown.

Twenty feet of deep green leathery skin stretched wide as Vanessa spread her wings. Gusts caught the membrane. It was hard for her to imagine how, once upon a time, she had been terrified of her appearance. It was enough of a struggle being a telepath, but when the Nostradamus Effect struck, her life had started a downward spiral. Now, she embraced the differences thrust upon her by a freak cosmic accident. If she was to kneel, she would almost resemble a gothic gargoyle, perched on the eves of a great cathedral. But she no longer knelt, no longer sat idle—no, she had to find her flock.

She dove.

She drew back her wings, speeding her descent. The first time she had lunged from a window, testing her newfound body, it had been to save her life. Her wings had never been strong enough to lift her from the ground. But when she could glide, for short periods of time, she understood what it meant to be among the gods. Separated from the world below, in the space just below the heavens, she reveled in the hubris of Icarus.

Even with the second lens covering her eyes, the rushing wind forced them closed. The shift in temperature told her she was close, nearing impact with the pavement lining the streets. At the eighth floor, her wings reached outward, catching a gust of air, changing her momentum from downward to onward. The currents of the storm pushed at her body, and she rose and fell with them.

The buildings passed underneath her as she followed the streets. Empty cars lined the roads, abandoned by drivers in search of refuge. The warehouse had been the perfect hiding place, nearly invisible to the radar of the government. The Hudson rarely had boats; people leery of the chemicals being deposited by the upriver corporations. The water toxicity mirrored the rest of New York’s environment, dangerous, even lethal. Synthetics opted to avoid the district, deeming it low risk without people inside it.

She focused on a warehouse a few streets away from the water. Inside, there had once been a collective of artists, people seeking to better the world through their creative gifts. While Conthan had been born decades prior, the man he would become was forged within those steel walls. Through their influence, the gritty artists he called friends prepared him. When the Nostradamus Effect took hold, giving him godlike abilities, it was his conviction born in that warehouse that pushed him to make the world a better place. Now she hoped she could track him down once more.

With a flap of her wings, her momentum vanished, and she dropped to her feet just outside the warehouse door. She tried to quiet her mind, removing her fears. She listened. Off in the distance, the whispers of humans going about their lives acted like white noise. Nowhere inside could she hear the thoughts of her teammates. She held her breath, hoping they had somehow left a clue to