Restitutor

By M.T. Johnson

Britain is well underway to becoming a corrupt, authoritarian state with legions of unscrupulous superheroes at its command. 

 

The political situation is only made worse by Deathmind, a telepathic supervillain who has besieged the country and terrorizes the civilian population from the shadows with vicious attacks using his mindless puppets.

 

Caught in the middle are James Nolan and Evan Stafford, two childhood friends who have witnessed the barbarity of the superheroes first hand. Together, they take a stand against the state and its superhero slaves, only to descend a rabbit hole that goes deeper than they could possibly imagine.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.T. Johnson
• Release date: Mar 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201528386

M.T. Johnson

M.T. Johnson loves telling stories, picking up writing in 2020 after spending plenty of time burning through plenty of great books. His short stories have appeared in various anthologies, online publications, and websites. He lives in England, spending every free minute he can writing or reading!

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Albert Stafford’s shoes clattered against the damp pavement as he followed Pitwolf through the dank housing estate. The has-been hero, a term Albert despised, had aged like milk. His black hair dropped over his eyes in greasy streaks, and patchy stubble covered his two chins. His sharp nails, more like claws, were black with dirt and grime, and his worn black leather jacket with the word PITWOLF stitched to the back (the ‘O’ missing) was stretched to its limit by its wearer’s wide frame. He went by his birth name, Stephen, at the pub these days, but Albert always knew him as Pitwolf.

A gust of cold November wind shot down the dark alley, lit only by a few flickering yellow streetlights. Albert shivered and clutched his black overcoat, feeling the grip of his Beretta M9 pistol pressing into his side from the inner pocket. 

Pitwolf took a draw off his cigarette and threw it on the path. It looked like a firebug whizzing towards the floor. He strutted towards an abandoned-looking house and turned a corner, vanishing from sight. The screams of a rusty hinge followed by a metallic crash rang from the alley.

Albert hurried along as fast as his old legs could carry him, aching at the knees. To think these were once the legs of a SAS commando that could carry thrice the weight at five times the distance before giving way. 

A large metal door stood beyond the corner, rusty, the bricks around it cracked and shedding red flakes of clay. Weeds grew from the cracks between the path that led to the door. 

Albert knocked three times. The door banged and thrummed. With the click of a lock, the door swung open to reveal Pitwolf, glaring at him through his amber eyes. His breath smelled like a wet dog. "What?" He snarled. 

I need some blue pills. Ole Derrick down The Red Horse told me you could help. Hazy plumes of warm breath drifted from Albert’s mouth. 

Need help getting your cock hard, grandad? Pitwolf chuckled, and spittle sprayed from his yellow teeth. Was that a twinkle in your eye? Do you fancy me, is that it? Maybe you don’t need those blue pills after all—

The fuck are you yapping on about, Stephen? a raspy voice called from behind. 

Nothin’, Boss. The old geezer wants to buy dick pills, Pitwolf said. 

A slender, ghoulish-looking man with coarse mint-green skin and yellow serpentine eyes emerged from behind Pitwolf, his reptilian skin flaky along his face and bald head. Albert knew him as Snake-eye, another has-been hero from the ‘80s and ‘90s. He remembered seeing their stupid posters plastered all over the place; of course, the two looked in better shape back then. Snake-eye in his black and green leather uniform with a sleek face mask, and Pitwolf in the shiny black leather jacket, well-groomed hair, and gleaming white claws, both posing triumphantly whilst promoting their supergroup, The Beasts; that group favoured heroes with animal-like powers. Albert recalled seeing Snake-eye, Pitwolf, and The Beasts doing a press conference after taking out some big-time London drug lord called Harold Wilson. Now they both looked like shit. 

And you kept him out in the cold instead of bringing him in? Snake-eye slapped Pitwolf across the back of the head and beckoned Albert to enter. A forked tongue slid from his mouth and raced across his dry lips.

The decrepit grey room stunk of marijuana and pungent body odour. Albert suspected the smell radiated from Pitwolf. Reptiles couldn’t sweat, could they? A naked light bulb hung from the cracked ceiling. 

They led him through a dank corridor into what looked like a living room. The light was dimmer here and paint flaked off the walls. A scale with white powdery marks sat on a table in the corner next to a mound of plastic baggies full of cocaine. A dwarf wearing tinted goggles and a furry hat was slumped over the table, unconscious, a needle stuck in his arm. 

Creases appeared above Albert’s forehead. 

Don’t worry about Pete over there—Snake-eye laughed—he just got a bit carried away. Would you guess he was once a prodigy? Mouseboy, they called him; the most useless fucking superhero to ever grace the world. Snake-eye fell into the mildewed couch in the middle of the room and picked up a grimy crack-pipe from the coffee table. He took a white rock from some tin foil on the table, put it in the pipe, and then lit the bottom of the pipe and sucked the smoke out. Snake-eye held it for a moment, then slowly exhaled. His slit reptilian pupils expanded as he stared intensely at Albert, and he slumped further into the couch as if he was melting into it. 

Sit, he croaked and held a shaky hand out. 

Albert sat on a chair next to the couch. Pitwolf came in holding a bag full of blue pills, brushing white powder off his nose, and took a seat opposite him. 

How many you after? he said, opening the bag. 

I’ll take the lot, Albert said.

Pitwolf squinted. You want this whole bag? 

I want every pill you have. As much as I can get my bloody hands on.

Snake-eye laughed weakly. Some lucky bird you got at home, ey? She’s gonna have sore legs the rest of the month. He looked at the ceiling as he said the words, high as a kite. 

Pitwolf’s eyes lit up, and he laughed. Sure, mate. Just show me some coin first so I know you’re not pulling my leg. 

Albert opened his overcoat ever so slightly. No, you’re going to die.

In that instant, the world seemed to freeze. Pitwolf’s chubby face contorted into a grimace of rage and confusion. His dirty claws dug into the table, leaving scratch marks in the wood as he pushed himself to his feet. 

Snake-eye glared at Albert, rubbing his ear like he didn’t believe what he’d just heard. 

Albert slung the Beretta M9 out from his overcoat, the motion so imprinted into his brain that it felt as natural as getting out of bed. He pointed the gun between Pitwolf’s wide eyes, not needing to aim, his eyes knew where they wanted that bullet to land. He squeezed the trigger. The pistol cracked like a whip, and a small, bright muzzle flare flashed in Pitwolf’s face before the bullet pierced his skull, sending a gout of bloody skeletal shrapnel hurtling through the air. The hot bullet casing ejected from the side of the pistol and pinged against the floor.

The crack pipe shattered on the floor to the side. Snake-eye threw himself over the couch just as Albert turned toward him. The former superhero scurried on all fours like a reptile out of the room and into the corridor. Albert shot recklessly, trading accuracy for speed, as getting up would have cost him precious seconds. It didn’t pay off. Albert got up, his knees crying in pain, and ran out of the room in pursuit. 

Snake-eye crawled across the ceiling in the hall. Albert gripped the pistol with both hands, aimed, and fired. The slug tore a chunk of flesh from Snake-eye’s side, and he hissed. It was a guttural, ugly sound. He fell to the floor with a loud thud, clutching his side as glistening red blood oozed between his fingers. 

All this for some dick pills, you stingy cunt! Snake-eye spat. 

Albert pointed the gun at the reptilian’s head. I didn’t come for your pills. I came for you. 

The man’s serpentine pupils widened. 

"Well, it was just for Pitwolf at first, but I was pleasantly surprised to find you both here. I’ve never heard of the dwarf in the other room, but since he’s a superhero, I’ll top him when I’m done with you. So let me ask you, do you remember anyone called Margaret Robson?" 

Snake-eye panted, his forked tongue dashing across his lips while he stared at the barrel of the gun pointing at him. 

You and your mate—he pointed the gun toward the room where Pitwolf’s corpse stained the carpet red—"killed her and her daughter while you were on one of your benders. Doing ninety miles an hour down a housing estate? Tsk, tsk, tsk. I know the police try to turn a blind eye. Too political these days, too corrupt, or too undermanned. It would raise too many questions, wouldn’t it? Well, unfortunately for you, someone in the department happened to know Margaret Robson, and he also happened to know me. I always knew you lot were no good. People who have to go round reminding everyone how great, kind, and heroic they rarely tend to live up to those qualities."

Snake-eye glanced at the open door behind Albert.

And I bet you and that fat wanker had a good laugh afterward—

The ghoulish man glanced again, and Albert clutched the gun tight and turned. The dwarf, Mouseboy, clumsily ran down the hall toward him with a butterfly knife in his hand. Albert shot him twice. Mouseboy’s goggles shattered, and he flopped over like a ragdoll.

A cold slimy thing wrapped around Albert’s throat, and he saw the forked tip of Snake-eye’s tongue in his peripheral vision. It was hard and muscly like a serpent. Albert tugged at it with his free hand, unable to rip it off his throat. The tongue constricted tightly, and Albert’s face went blue.

Albert waved the gun behind him and fired as he choked. Flakes of paint and dust motes clouded the air around him, but he kept shooting. After the fifth shot, the tongue went limp and fell to the floor. Snake-eye had three bullet holes in his chest, his long tongue wriggling in the slowly growing pool of blood beneath him like a worm on a rainy day. 

Albert collapsed to one knee, coughing his guts up and sucking in as much air as he could. He stroked the raw streak across his throat, got up, and kicked Snake-eye’s corpse. Fucking disgusting bastard! 

Getting clumsy, Albert, he thought. He was bound to get clumsy—he was seventy-five after all—but it wasn’t just his physical health that worried him, it was his attitude. Playing with his food. Tormenting the wounded man on the floor before executing him. He restrained a smile. Albert found that a part of him quite enjoyed it, feeding off the fear that seeped through their eyes, giving the fuckers a taste of their own medicine. He looked back over his handy work and still felt that grim satisfaction in the back of his mind. A satisfaction he hadn’t known since his days in His Majesty’s Armed Forces.

Albert walked back into the room, making sure there were no nasty surprises, and saw the full packet of blue pills on the table. He glanced around. Fuck it, he muttered and took the pills. 

The deaths were not reported in the news.

CHAPTER ONE

Lush violet streaks raced across the sky amidst blotches of pink, converging at the low orange sun. A warm summer breeze brushed against James Nolan’s skin and ruffled the soft grass beneath his hands. He arched himself up to get a better view of the park, and his side groaned in pain. James winced and rubbed it; the large bruise was still sensitive to his touch.

The bruise was a present that Fraser McKay gave him during yesterday’s sparring session at Black’s MMA. James had been winning the first couple of rounds before he felt short of breath, and that’s where Fraser’s endurance shined. After Fraser repeatedly caught him with several sharp jabs to the face, he began mixing it up and going to the body and then landed a monstrous body hook that felt like it had torn a hole through James's gut. That was the end of the sparring session. 

You want an ibuprofen for that, you big wimp? Evan Stafford smirked, tearing clumps of grass from the soil. 

How about I give you a slap? James said, laughing. Ludforth Park looked beautiful from the hill they sat on. A gentle stream flowed into a small forest at the base of the park, and long, curved paths expanded in multiple directions across the sloping grassland. Seagulls flew lazily overhead, landing near bins and picking at stale chips from polystyrene cartons, fighting off magpies and crows. 

Try it. I’ll give you a far worse beating than Fraser ever could, Evan said. They both laughed. 

Give over. You’re eight stone dripping wet, Evan, mate. 

There’s bushes all around if you two girls want a private place, Tiffany said, waving an arm and indicating all the thickets and patches of woodland in the area. She wore a stripey black and white top under a denim jacket, black Doc Martens on her feet, her hair black and wavey. 

Been thinking about that a lot, ey, Tiff? Maybe we can take a stroll down if you fancy it, Evan said. 

I wouldn’t dare. She laughed. Evan threw some grass at her, and she shot back, I’ll miss you guys when we go to college.

Why? James asked. We’ll still see each other like we do now, just not in class.

Exactly, Tiffany said, it’ll just be different. People grow apart, you know? It happened with my sister and her school friends. She only talks to Hannah now. 

We’re not your sister. 

Besides, Tiffany continued, ignoring James’s comment, we’ll see even less of Evan since he’s doing his apprenticeship. Then again, maybe that’s not such a bad thing. She smirked.

How will you ever survive without me? Evan said.

"How are you going to survive? James said. An engineering apprenticeship and coding lessons. I couldn’t manage that." 

My dad insists. It’s at his company anyhow, so it’ll be more relaxed I think. Evan spoke the words casually, but his hazel eyes fell to the ground, and his voice became a tad weaker. Evan used to go to Black’s MMA with James, and they trained together. Grappling, striking, everything. That was until a sparring session left Evan with a black eye. Evan had said he couldn’t be bothered to train anymore and that he lost interest in mixed martial arts, but James always suspected that Evan's dad pulled him from it. Old man Stafford was strict.

James looked down at a group of people at the base of the park, shouting and raving, wearing hoodies and tracksuit bottoms. Some had bottles of cheap wine and cans of cider. They looked around his age, sixteen. He noticed Mark glaring at them. Among the general chit-chat, James had forgotten Mark was sitting with them. He was usually quiet, but it wasn’t like him to hunch up like a turtle waiting for a predator to go away.

Something the matter, Mark? James said, You’re more silent than usual.

I’m fine, Mark said, fiddling with the grass.

Mark, you look like a bloody ghost, what’s the matter? Evan snapped.

Honestly, it’s nothing, he said, glancing at the group of youths below.

Them down there scaring you? James asked. Mark looked up and ignored him. "Are they?"

Leave him alone, man! Tiffany shrilled. Why don’t we just go somewhere else? 

Why? Evan demanded. Because of those fuckwits down there? 

Because he’s uncomfortable! Tiffany said, glaring at Evan.

Mark turned to her, a smile widened on his lips, and some colour returned to his face. It’s fine, Tiffany, it’s just—it’s just I heard an old man got jumped around here while walking his dog. I know it was some of them; they’re always here.

Evan scoffed, not fazed by the news. Well, if they give us any bother, we have future UFC champion James Nolan to fend them off, right, James?

Ha! James laughed. Definitely, I could take the fuckers. James shadowboxed on the spot. A quick one-two and—

Two costumed men glided toward the park over the horizon, one being carried by the other, and landed near the group below. The hoodies all cheered in unison, raising their bottles and cans. 

James noticed the caped men weren’t men at all but also teens like them. He jumped to his feet. My God! A couple of cadet-heroes!

Oh, fuck me—Evan rolled his eyes—he’s going to start fangirling now. 

The presence of the heroes seemed to put Mark at ease more so than Tiffany did. He sighed and relaxed his shoulders. Nothing bad would happen with them around—that was their job, after all.

I can’t believe it, Iridescent and Boomer! James yelled. Iridescent in the dark blue cape and white costume with 3D honeycomb patterns embedded into it. Boomer got off Iridescent’s back; he wore a red bandana with tinted goggles. Black streaks raced down his red leather jacket at the sleeves and edges, and his trainers bore the same patterns. 

I want to go talk to them. Aren’t you guys hyped? James turned, and to his disappointment, they were all still seated. Jesus, what’s up with everyone today? Mark? Tiffany? I know Evan hates them because he’s a noodle and they get all the girls. 

Evan stuck his middle finger up in response. 

Mark shrugged his shoulders, looking at the other two. James suspected he wanted to talk to the heroes, just not to be around their chavy mates. Understandable, James thought.

Tiffany hunched up in a ball, wrapping her arms around her legs. I don’t know. I guess I’m a bit shy today. Is it not weird just barging in on them while they have company? 

If we talk to them, I’m going home, Evan said.

Pussies, James moaned and sat down. He would feel awkward greeting them alone, among all those sketchy-looking teenagers.

Why do they have to dress in those stupid costumes everywhere they go? Evan said. They just use them to flex on everyone. So fucking cringey.

Why wouldn’t they? James turned to Evan. The police have to wear uniforms, it’s the same thing.

I wish I was one of them, he thought. 

Evan forced a laugh. "Do the police do that in uniform? He nudged his head towards the crowd below. Will you feel protected after Iridescent has a few more bottles of Lambrini?" 

Creases formed over James’s brow, and he turned back to see that Iridescent was chugging a bottle of the cheap white wine. A knot tightened in his stomach. In April, they had a PSHE day about the dangers of drugs and alcohol in school, and Iridescent was a guest speaker with the rest of the cadet-supergroup, The English Youth League. Iridescent was their captain.

The group below disappeared into the forest, led by the two cadet-heroes. James suddenly felt sick. "They’re probably just relaxing. Come on, it’s nearly the end of summer, and they have real jobs, every day." 

Evan cackled. Yeah, whatever, James. Grandad Albert was right about them, God rest his soul, they’re just degenerates.

Go say that to their faces.

Can you two just stop it? Tiffany snapped. I can’t be bothered to listen to you arguing for another three hours again. 

True, Mark said, shuffling closer to Tiffany.

If he wants to talk to them, let him, Evan said. I’m just saying, I won’t be around to watch it. Go ahead, take your boxers off, whack them over your jeans, and run along. Evan waved his hand, grinning. 

James shook his head. You’re such a dick. Since they were seven, Evan had been his best friend back when they were next-door neighbours, but sometimes, James felt like slapping him. If he could just talk to the heroes, Evan would see that they weren’t bad people. Most people drank alcohol. Why not let the heroes do it every once in a while? Even they had been drunk on a handful of occasions. 

A couple of hours later, darkness shrouded the park, and the silver moon hung in the night sky. The four of them still sat on their hill, listening to the distant shouts of drunk people in the forest. At one point James thought he saw a tree come down. He didn’t speak as much for the rest of the day, preferring to gaze into the night sky and look at the millions of twinkling stars. 

Tiffany decided it was time to go home, and with that, they all agreed to leave. As they descended the hill, James looked back at the forest where the two cadet-heroes were. I might never get a chance to speak to them like this again. They were always so busy, and normally you could only speak to them on their open days. Part of James wanted to do it just to prove to Evan they weren’t bad, just so he could rub it in his face. He saw Evan’s smug grin in his mind again and clenched his fists. 

I’m going to talk to Iridescent.

Oh, not this again, Evan complained.

I’ll go alone, I don’t care. James marched toward the dark forest. 

Evan hesitated, then looked at James with wide, almost frightened eyes. He gulped. For fuck’s sake, James. Might as well make sure you don’t hurt yourself. He reluctantly followed. 

I’m not walking back on my own through here! This place is scary as shit at night, Tiffany yelled and followed behind Evan, clutching her arms. To be fair to her, she was right. It looked pitch-black all around. Only dark silhouettes of large objects like trees or posts were visible...barely. 

I-I’ll walk you back if you want, Tiff? Mark shivered, glaring at the dark path ahead.

She shook her head. Let’s just go with these...

Mark followed in silence. 

James walked down the slope to where the stream flowed into the forest and entered. Branches snapped beneath his step, and prickly twigs scratched at his face and hands. Faint laughs, shouts, and moans carried lightly across the forest floor, barely audible over the rustling of branches.  He felt like he was in a horror film, imagining spectators looking through a screen in his mind’s eye yelling at him to get out of that forest. "What’s he even doing there in the first place? Idiot!" a spectator’s voice cried. 

Where do you think he is? James whispered to his friends. He didn’t know why he was whispering. 

This is a shit idea. Do you think people drinking in a forest in the middle of the night want to be disturbed by a fangirl? Evan sounded agitated and scared. He grabbed James’s sleeve and tried to stop him from going farther. 

James tore free from his grip and pressed on. Tiff, check over there, Mark, check up there. He pointed in several directions around them. If you see Iridescent, just tell him your friend wants to say hi and that I’m a supporter. 

Don’t be daft, she hissed, as if I’m going to walk through this forest on my own! I can’t see anything!

Fine, just stay close behind me, but keep an eye out. James led them along a winding dirt trail carved into the forest by hundreds of footsteps. He found himself walking faster than them in his eagerness to find Iridescent or Boomer and often heard them whispering from behind for him to slow down. 

Faint laughter echoed through a thicket ahead. His heart leaped with excitement. It could be one of them. James squinted, and his eyes adjusted to the night enough to barely make out where he was going. The laughter turned to moans. He was too excited to question the sounds and shoved some branches out of the way, stepping over a log into a small clearing. 

James squinted and frowned. Boomer’s trousers were down to his ankles, and he was pounding away at a girl in the bushes, both shrouded in darkness. They both looked up at James, standing dumbfounded in the clearing. Boomer grimaced and pulled his trousers up. 

What the fuck are you looking at, you fucking creep? He barked and rushed over, the girl hiding behind him. 

"Oh—sorry. I-I was hoping to see you and Iridescent and didn’t expect to...to walk in on that..." James’s hands shook, and cold sweat clung to his skin. His friends caught up with him and abruptly halted when they saw Boomer staring them down. James could have heard a pin drop at that moment. 

I-I just— James croaked, stepping forward, trying to be sincere. 

Fuck off! Boomer’s face flushed like he was going to erupt. 

Please—

Boomer planted a foot forward and clapped his hands together. The bang sounded like a bullet, and the shockwave lifted James off his feet, hurling him into a nearby thicket. The force rustled the trees all around them. Thorns and twigs covered him in small cuts as he flew through the thicket. His back slammed against a tree, and he fell face-first into the mud with a groan, rubbing his numb spine. 

Tiffany screamed in the distance, cursing the cadet-hero. Her shouts became drowned out by more shouting from Evan and Boomer. James’s heart thumped in his chest. The last thing he wanted was for his friends to get in a fight with a superhero—they could be seriously injured or even accidentally killed.

Iridescent would have heard that and would be on his way to find out what happened. 

Oh God, what have I done? Not only did James get his friends in trouble, but he would ruin his reputation among the superheroes and be unable to ever meet them again. 

No, no. If I can just set this right... Explain... James clutched his side and limped back to the clearing. The shock blew him farther away than he thought. The shouting became louder and more aggressive. 

Boomer yelled, Get off, you little slut! in the distance, and his voice echoed through the forest.

A powerful gust of wind whooshed past above James, and he caught a glimpse of Irridescent’s white costume reflecting the lunar light, his blue cape flapping past. It calmed him a little; Iridescent would talk to Boomer and diffuse the situation. Then he remembered the bottle of wine he downed. He might be drunk... James wanted to hope that wouldn’t make a difference. Then he heard Evan’s voice in his head: "They’re all degenerates..."

Get your hands off him, bitch! That’s my best mate! a stern, deep voice that could only be Iridescent’s boomed.

A magnificent glow radiated from the patch of woods ahead of James, where the confrontation occurred. White rays of light shimmied with faint glows of lilac, green, and turquoise swirling within them.

The hypnotizing colours seemed to slow time as he ran toward the light, and James thought about how much he wished he was a hero. The amazing things he could do and the people he could help. It gave him the strength to train mixed martial arts and acrobatics until his body was numb, to practice with various weapons (he used his antique ones), and to go skydiving for the sensation of flight. He fantasized about knocking on the door of The English Youth League, with a black belt around his waist and a championship belt slung over his shoulder saying, I can fight, let me join you! Years of training to be a versatile fighter would be worth something, right? The thought was so good—

Tiffany’s horrifying shriek snapped him back into the moment. The voices went silent, and twigs cracked beneath James’s feet. 

Oh, shit, Iridescent said as if he were being caught doing something he shouldn’t.

James pushed through into the clearing, and he caught the glimpse of Iridescent’s blue cape and Boomer flying into the stars. Some of their drunk friends had gathered around and peered through the bushes, they turned and ran into the black forest. When James saw Tiffany with Evan and Mark kneeling beside her, his insides melted. 

Half her hair had been singed from her scalp, and her face was a mess of shrinking, charred skin with open wounds oozing blood in between. Her eyes were milk-white, and her mouth gaped open, moving slightly. The front of her clothes were charred black, along with her hands. 

James collapsed next to her, breathless. Evan struggled to dial 999 into his phone due to his shaking hands. I-Iridescent fucking killed her, he mumbled. "The light... His hands... I’ve never seen anything like it. It felt scorching." 

Mark held one of Tiffany’s charred hands, tears streaming from his eyes. One of his hands was burnt, too. A black streak raced up his shirt, parts of the sleeve singed off.  Don’t die, Tiff... Please don’t die.

She smelt a bit like roast beef, and it made James squirm. It’s my fault she’s like that. A lump clogged his throat, and he felt tears swelling in his eyes, making his vision blurred. He choked up next to her and balled; he felt so hollow and empty and helpless. The heroes he loved and admired had maimed his friend. She just barely clung to life. James hoped an ambulance would get there quickly. 

James and Evan shared a glance. There was a look of anger in those eyes, beyond the tears. A look that said: I fucking told you so. But they both knew now wasn’t the time. That was the last thing any of them needed. 

Tiffany moaned in pain. 

Hang in there, Tiff, James said. I’m so sorry. 

Blue lights flashed from the park beyond the trees. Evan and James shouted the paramedics over, and they rushed Tiffany to the hospital. 

That was the last time they ever saw her.

CHAPTER TWO

Nine years later.

His fists sent dust flying off the worn punching bag. The chain holding it rattled with each hard smack, and the thudding of his fists clapped across his old shed. They felt raw under the hand wraps around his knuckles. Normally, James would be training for his next fight at Black’s MMA gym, but today was Solarus Day—a global bank holiday that marked the coming of the first superhero, Solarus.

As a child, James Nolan loved Solarus Day. He used to dress up in his white Solarus costume and play in the park with his school friends or go to fairs. Streaks of red and orange decorated the costume, a fireball was stitched on the chest, and the cape was adorned with swirling orange, red, and yellow patterns to resemble fire. The mask looked like a sleek white motorbike helmet with a tinted black visor. People thought Solarus was an alien at first. He fell from the sky, his skin burnt and gory but very much alive. The picture of Solarus actually reminded James of his school friend Tiffany lying in the forest on the last day he saw her alive. He still blamed himself for her death, but that didn’t stop him from hating the one who killed her. Iridescent.

People realized Solarus wasn’t an alien as soon as he tore off his shredded spacesuit and asked for a bottle of water. Solarus turned out to be the astronaut named Paul Roberts, the first man on the moon—one of three men on the first American moon landing mission. Paul Roberts landed the probe on the moon without a problem, along with John Sheldon and Russel Herrera, right before a colossal geomagnetic storm swept over the Earth and Moon. 

James kept punching the bag, sweat trickling down his temples. He tried to push the thought of the heroes out of his mind, but the history was drilled into his brain so clearly from his youth. 

They were taught in school that it was the solar storm of 1969, also called The Odenwald Event, that brought the first superheroes. It was a scary time. Before the superheroes came, the storm had caused widespread electrical blackouts throughout the developed world. Communications went faulty, and all the satellites in the atmosphere were destroyed. The Odenwald Event was compared to The Carrington Event of 1859—another (much smaller) solar storm that came from the sun. It hit the earth and made all the telegraph systems go crazy. Scientists estimated that The Odenwald Event was far more powerful and couldn’t have possibly come from our star but a much larger star that sat far, far away from the solar system. It came so fast that it went undetected by the satellites of the time and took NASA by surprise; the mystery of the cosmic storm was being investigated to this day.

All contact with the moon mission was lost when the storm thrashed past the earth’s magnetic field, and they were all thought dead from the high amounts of radiation they would have endured. After a week, a burnt Paul Roberts floated down from the sky back to America. Three weeks after that, John Sheldon returned. His spacesuit was shredded, and his mask was cracked and revealed the cold white eye of an insane man. He became the world’s first supervillain: Fallen Angel. Solarus donned his costume, and his battle with Fallen Angel became legend. Russel Herrera was assumed dead on the moon. In the years following The Odenwald Event, children and adolescents around the globe began developing magnificent abilities like telekinesis or the ability to control the elements or shoot powerful beams of energy from their hands or eyes, and the tradition of superheroes was born. 

James’s hands burned, and he stopped hitting the heavy bag. He wiped a thick layer of sweat from his forehead and downed a liter of cold water from his bottle. He left the shed and went to the kitchen, threw his sweaty clothes in the washing machine, and went to have a shower. He returned to the living room feeling fresh and gazed at the Berserk Fighting Championship belt hanging in a glass case on the wall above the fifty-inch flatscreen TV.

He smiled, feeling triumphant, and then he remembered the dingy little flat he was in. Possession of the belt meant he was a champion in the Berserk Fighting Championship promotion, but he didn’t feel like one, and he certainly wasn’t paid like one. Five to seven grand a fight—and a lot of that went on his training camps. He should live in a mansion surrounded by acres of land for the blood he paid in the cage.

Should have got that agent before I negotiated the contract. He sighed, thinking of all the nice meals, cool gadgets, and better accommodation the extra money might have bought him. Suddenly, the belt wasn’t so valuable. James flicked the TV on while he dressed in his shirt and tie, arranged neatly on the couch the night before. 

The news came on, and it showed a wide view of the monument to the victims of Green Mist’s terror attack in the London Underground. The five members of The Order were there: Ironwind, Green Shroud, Gloria of Mars, Contorta, and Rainlash, standing next to the prime minister, Phillip Stutton, and other cabinet members.

There were six members of The Order. The one missing from the event was Shadowmancer—an old hero from Britain’s violent recent history, where villains and misfits were rife, usually referred to as The Great Crime Wave. Shadowmancer was notoriously tough on criminals, and his escapades usually resulted in their deaths, and sometimes the deaths of bystanders. He was not always the most welcome sight in public nowadays.

The camera switched to the prime minister’s face. He was in his forties, with a full head of greying brown hair and a square, clean-shaven jaw. He stood with confidence and cleared his throat. It is with regret, that on this beautiful Solarus Day, we must begin with mourning, but what better way to honour the victims of Green Mist’s toxic cloud attack last year than remembering them on this holiday? The members of His Majesty's Government and The Order have agreed to personally pay our respects today and stand by while the band plays a song to their memory.

The prime minister flicked a page of his notes over and continued, Let us not forget the bravery of the people down there that day, among whom were two of our own MPs—Eve Barret and Ruben Khan—and the efforts of the emergency services, as well as members of The Order for responding so quickly and diligently to the threat at hand. It is safe to say that because of their efforts, tens of thousands more were saved. The prime minister and Ironwind shared a prideful glance. And let us not forget that Green Mist was an agent of the supervillain, Deathmind. Whether he was acting on his own accord or as a slave to the will of Deathmind’s telepathic powers, we cannot say for certain. On a final note of caution, I will remind you that anyone can fall prey to Deathmind’s telepathic grip—our friends... our family... and sometimes our superheroes. Don’t forget the signs that someone may be being controlled, and you could save hundreds of lives. Justice will come for him and all his willing minions, I promise you that. 

Applause erupted from the crowd, and a smile curled on the corner of the prime minister’s lip. He nodded and got down from the podium. 

Yeah, yeah, James spat at the TV, you all love helping people, don’t you? 

Ironwind stepped onto the podium, barrel chest out and chin up, his costume a dark grey with a metallic shine about it, 3-D diamond patterns stitched across the shirt and trousers. A silver shield stitched onto his chest twinkled in the light. His cape and belt were white. More applause. He held his tree trunk arm up, and the noise died down. "I won’t speak for long. Today is about the victims of the Green Mist attack, not me or The Order. If we are to honour the victim’s memory, we must never forget the danger that Deathmind and his servants, willing or unwilling, pose to our society. If anyone you know starts acting irrationally or out of character, and they start speaking of murdering innocent people and even the very superheroes that protect our communities, report it to the authorities immediately. 

"It is a sad thing when Deathmind seizes the mind of a relative or a friend. Indeed, the unwilling are the biggest victims of his evil power, and to have to be suspect of your own family and peers, to watch them, to report them... How could one man be so cruel as to put us in such a position? Yet, we must be strong. The unwilling can be the most dangerous of his servants, for they are concealed by their own character. We pity his unwilling servants, we seek to help them, but to help them, they must be reported and apprehended so that they can get the proper care. We must all remain brave in such dark times. God bless you all and the brave people who died to an evil act of terror." Ironwind stepped down from the podium, and the camera panned over the crowd, zooming in on many tear-stricken faces. 

James clenched his teeth. Shame he didn’t get you and your fancy supergroup. He flicked the channel off. The memory of Tiffany’s death was chiselled into his brain so clearly that every time he saw a superhero, he thought of her charred body lying on the floor, and he clenched his fists so hard it hurt. He hated himself even more for dragging his friends into that horrible situation all those years ago, which made him angry, so he directed the hatred toward the heroes. After all, why shouldn’t he? Should he be blamed for them being irrational, erratic megalomaniacs? Was it his fault Iridescent drunkenly scorched his friend to death? James had accepted that it was stupid of him to barge in on them in the middle of the night, but that didn’t mean anyone needed to die for it, least of all Tiffany.

How could a person do that to another person, least of all a superhero? They aren’t people... they’re monsters...

Solarus Day reminded him more of Tiffany than anything else. In the difficult weeks after her death, James, Evan, and Mark had made a pact to meet at her grave and pay their respects every Solarus Day. They thought it was fitting. While everyone else celebrated the heroes, they remembered what the heroes cost them. 

James put his trousers and shoes on and walked to Huxley Road Cemetery. 

***

He arrived at one o’clock in the afternoon, as he had done the past nine years, and walked among the rows of gravestones. The bright sun beat down on the cemetery, and the tunes of small birds whistled all around. It seemed so unfitting for it to be such a nice day, but Solarus had chosen to return to Earth in the middle of summer. 

Tiffany’s gravestone was a gleaming white marble, not too tall, marked with the words: 

In loving memory of Tiffany Grant.

A wonderful daughter, niece, and sister.

16th April 1995

20th August 2011

Forever with us in spirit. Never forget.

James placed some flowers he’d bought earlier on the stone and looked around. No sign of his friends. He suspected Evan was late, which wasn’t unusual, as he had gotten busier over the past few years shadowing his father at the family business. Big tech company.

As for Mark’s excuse for being late, James couldn’t guess.

There he is! Evan Stafford called from behind. James turned. Evan stood confidently in his shirt, tie, and black trousers, holding a bouquet of colourful flowers. Wind rustled his short, curly brown hair. Stubble covered his jaw. He was broader at the shoulders now and thicker around the arms—not like the noodle he was at sixteen.

Hello, Evan. They shook hands. You seen Mark?