Chapter Three: TRANSFERmation
Posted on | Tuesday, November 16, 2010 | No Comments
It wasn’t until the next morning that I actually had a greater understanding of what had happened that previous night. To be frank, I could barely recall how I got home that night. The shock and trauma of witnessing a man die in front of me was only compounded further by the fact he spoke his last words while he lay in my arms. I recalled the lights I had seen quite clearly. But in many ways my mind refused to accept the recollection as a rational one and locked it inside the drawer of my brain that was labeled, “imagined.”
Not that I was one to frequently see things that did not exist. As imaginative as I was as a person, I was far from what professionals would describe as delusional. Hallucinations were not something I would consider to be common in my experience. But the idea that a dying man was exhaling the slowly extinguishing fragments of a collapsing star seemed ludicrous.
Even at a time when superhumans exchanged punches in the sky.
It was just a few minutes past nine in the morning when I woke up naked in my bedroom. The sheets were all over the place. A pillow case was fluttering atop an oscillating fan. My head felt weighed down, as if a layer of my skin had hardened into wax. It was a cool morning though. I had left the windows open and a light rain was still falling outside.
“I hope you feel are feeling better.”
I nearly fell off the bed that moment. The shock of hearing another voice, particularly that of man, while I was in my bedroom on my bed naked, threw me into a panic. I grabbed the nearest blanket that was clumped on the ground amongst my clothes, and frantically looked around for the source of the voice.
“The events of last night were a tad too much for you, it seemed. You fell unconscious after-“
“Who’s there?” I tried to sound brave. Intimidating even. But sitting on my bed naked and hearing a man telling me I was unconscious the night before made me worry more than be angry. Was I drugged last night? Did someone slip something into my drink? The man’s voice was deep. A heavy baritone sound that suggested someone of a burly build. I found myself awkwardly smiling at the thought that some professional wrestler had found me unconscious on the ground and taken me home.
How did the person know where I lived?
“Please, calm down.”
“Where the hell are you?” I yelled out and pulled myself to my feet. A sudden gust of cold wind nearly tore the blanket from my hands. My toes found the boxer shorts that I was wearing the previous night. With a flexibility I did not normally have, I clamped my toes to grab the underwear from the ground and hoisted them up to my waiting hand. My eyes scanned the room for the visitor but still found nothing but the mess of my clothes and the familiar furniture.
“Calm down Viz,” the voice replied and I froze. Only close friends called me by that nickname. Most knew me by my second name, Carlos, which I more commonly used in my public persona and blogs. Even family used the nickname Carl to refer to me. This stranger knew me more than it felt comfortable.
“Okay, okay…”
“I know what you are going to say.”
“Who are you.”
“Who are you.”
Our voices spoke in unison. People saying the same thing at the same time occurs so often most just find it amusing when it happens. But for some reason, I found myself recalling an episode of Dr. Who where a strange being begins repeating the words that others say. The thought freaked me out.
“Viz…”
“Stop that.”
“What?”
“Stop using that nickname. Only my closest friends ever call me that.”
The voice didn’t reply for a moment. I wondered if it was some kind of a game. Or a prank. Maybe outside my room, my friends were there with a digital camera all ready to cheer and laugh when the punchline gets revealed. Maybe this was just one elaborate joke.
“I am sorry.”
The voice was sincere. Tremendously sincere. I felt guilty for being antagonistic, but I was tired of this supposed joke. I pulled my boxer shorts on and slung the blanket around my shoulders. I wasn’t feeling too cold though. I just felt having something around my skin gave me a semblance of greater security.
Still unable to trace the source of the voice, I slid to the nearby cabinet and tried to slide one of the drawers open as quietly as I could. I reached inside and dug a hand under piles of underwear for that Chirstmas gift a friend had given me some years ago. He was a huge fan of the television show “Supernatural” and had opted to give me a unique present that year. My hand felt the cold metal and pulled the switchblade out from under my boxer briefs. At least, I told myself, if I had to protect myself I already had a weapon in my hand.
“Viz, that knife is not going to help you.”
I spun around, searching for the source of the voice. I was getting more and more frantic. There was only one doorway out of my room. The windows opened to the thirteen floor drop outside. But the voice did not sound like it came from anywhere I could determine. Definitely not from the room outside.
“Viz. Please put the knife down before you hurt yourself.”
I raised the knife to chest level and hit the button on its side. The bladed edge swung into place, ready to be used to stab or slash any strangers who might suddenly try something stupid. My hand trembled, however. I had never used a knife on a man before.
“I know,” the voice replied, “Which is why you best put that thing down.”
I stared at the knife. I hadn’t spoken anything aloud.
“It does not matter if you do not speak aloud. I can hear you all the same.”
I was going crazy. Or at least back then I sincerely believed I was. My hand was trembling violently now. I pulled my hand back and pressed the release. I shoved the blade closed but kept it in my hand. The stranger was reading my mind! It was impossible. But it was happening.
“Of course. I can hear everything you think. Even things you were only thinking of thinking about.”
I shook my head. The idea was preposterous.
“That is because I am inside of you.”
I remembered the light.
“Right now.”
My mouth dropped wide open.
“Yes.”
The Son. I remembered the dying man and the burning star. I remembered the super nova where blood should have been.
“You helped me at a time most critical and dangerous. You saved my life, Vizconde Carlos Zatur. And for that, I am extremely grateful.”
The Son.
“Yes, I am the one they have called The Son.”
I fainted.
*
By noon, I had learned to take things a bit better and remain calm.
Most think that meeting a superhero of immense power and fame is an exciting prospect. But trust me when I tell you that there is a large degree of finding it all exciting and fun is not that easy when the said superhero tells you that He is now an entity coexisting inside your psyche. Many of us geeks would find the prospect exciting, recalling the exploits of four-color superheroes such as Billy Batson or the lesser known Superman-like character Prime. I, on the other hand, could not help but think of Dr. Bruce Banner and his struggles containing the monster known as the Hulk.
“You should not worry too much. I am not some uncontrollable force of violence that you have to keep in check.”
Which was true. The Son wasn’t some looming monstrosity that was seeking to take control of me like the mythical werewolf of legend. The Son and His deeds were well known and well-documented. I have to admit, I was a fan of His exploits. Ever since the Son first appeared, I was fascinated that there was a real living superhero flying around and doing acts of heroism all over the world. Numerous websites sprung into being, documenting the many times His presence had made a difference. It did not matter if it was a man-made disaster or a natural event. If something needed to be done, He was there to make the difference.
“I am sure you have a lot of questions. I am willing to answer whatever questions you have. I hope by doing so, you will be able to accept that I am here only to help and make the world a safer and better place.”
I poured myself a glass of water and found myself wishing I had a beer.
“I don’t know where-“
“-to start?” He replied and I gave an audible sigh. I wasn’t too keen on someone finishing my sentences for me. It just felt… violating.
“I apologize.”
Even if He apologized.
I think anyone else in my situation would have started with the same set of questions. This was after all a chance to interview the one and only superhero in the entire world. Questions such as how he could fly and what was his origin story seemed like a typical place to start. But somehow I felt it would only be proper to start with the basics.
“My name.”
Again with the mind-reading.
“To be more accurate, it is more of having shared thoughts. Everything that you think, I hear. Everything that you visualize, I can see. But to answer your question, I actually do not have a name. To my understanding, when a human child is conceived, it is customary for the parents to consider from a list of names one preferred combination to represent him for the remainder of his life. Unfortunately, I was never given that opportunity.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“You have no name?”
“You have no name?”
“If one were to be less specific on the expected norms, one can say I have been given the name The Son by this century’s media.”
The Son. The media was responsible for the name. It all began with the first documented rescue. Although there have been a number of earlier acts of heroism, most were acts that only gained notice through word-of-mouth and rumors. But it was the EDSA Shrine rescue in Manila that caught the media’s attention.
I remember the events leading up to the Son’s first appearance quite clearly. The Philippines, while far from being the least developed country in South East Asia, was still struggling against the presence of corruption, poverty, and over-population. In an effort to target one of the three key issues affecting the country’s development, the government pushed for the creation of a bill that provided and supported reproductive health. Unfortunately, anything that had to do with condoms or sex automatically stroked the interest of certain religious organizations in the country. It did not take long for a group known as the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of the Philippines to steadfastly protest the said government bill. At first the exchanges were peaceful: both sides would share their views and opinions on the matter through varying forms of media. The public servants who wanted the bill to push through lobbied for the important of sex education and the need for people to have a greater understanding of the responsibilities and ramifications of sex in all its forms. The CBCP, on the other hand, would have none of that. Citing the need for maintaining a moral higher ground and blatantly ignoring the existence of a separation between Church and State, the group began lambasting any public officials who openly supported the bill. Rather than approach the issue with logic, the group’s releases appealed to emotions and said moral views over logical ones. And when that failed to sway the public, the threats came.
At first the threats were vague. Interviews would quote members of the CBCP threatening to call for the excommunication of various supporters of the bill, most notably a threat to have the religious censure imposed upon the President of the country itself. But later follow-ups on the interview would have the said people recanting their statements, or accusing the media of sensationalizing their words. Counter-protests soon followed, with the catalyst being that of a lone man who decided the Church had said enough of the matter, with them using their captive audience before the pulpit to receive their politically charged sermons. The man went to one of the biggest churches in the country and staged a protest before the gathered bishops, denouncing them as manipulators and deceivers, before being taken away on charges of disrupting a religious event and offending religious feelings.
Debates grew into arguments. Threats grew louder. More elaborate. The CBCP once again was said to have released a statement of being willing to be imprisoned for defending their moral high ground. They called for their faithful to commit acts of civil disobedience in the Lord’s name.
Perhaps the CBCP failed to realize how common it was for religious blind fanaticism to be the tipping point that leads a vocally politic person to becoming a terrorist. Had they focused on the bigger picture, they probably would have realized most suicide bombers were doing it for what they believed were religiously-influenced moral reasons.
It was a busy afternoon when a young man whose name eludes me right now walked into the EDSA Shrine chapel and slid into the confessional booth. Had the priest already been there to receive his confession, perhaps he could have spoken to the boy, helped him unburden his worries, and talk him out of taking that final step that defined him from being just a concerned young man into a dangerous terrorist. In the silence of the confessional booth, one could imagine the final prayer he whispered and the dedication he made to all the aborted fetuses that the CBCP would have asked him to think of. In the darkness of the wooden box, one could visualize how he carefully opened his backpack and drew from it the improvised explosive device that he had created by combining home-made explosives with large quantities of nails, screws and bolts. One can imagine his final thoughts before standing up, pushing the confessional door open, and screaming at the top of his voice what he believed was to be his final words:
“For the Children! For the Moral Good!”
All the glass windows in the Shrine shattered at the same moment. All the candles in the chapel were snuffed out without a sound.
The young man looked up at the white expanse before him and thought he had died and gone to Heaven as the CBCP had promised to those who fought against the Reproductive Health bill. But instead of the face of God, he looked up to see instead the face of a man whose long flowing white hair moved ever so gracefully slowly that it seemed to defy gravity.
“Do not do this,” came His words.
And in response, the young terrified and deluded man pushed the button.
Click.
The button went click. Click. Click.
He pressed it again and again. Panic set in as he realized the explosives were not primed. It had taken so much time to find the courage to commit to this action. For the detonation not to follow through was absolute torture. He looked down at the improvised bomb to check why it had failed and saw something that he could not explain in any other way other than a miracle:
The explosion had occurred. Detonation was accomplished. However, the outward shockwave of debris and heat did not extend beyond five inches from the device itself. Instead, the deadly sphere of destruction was suspended like a will-o-wisp of steel and fire. I remember reading the young man’s account online and wondered if the man was crazy. The news report sounded more like some crazy viral stunt: Superhero Stops Bombing in the Shrine. The bomber was even quoted as saying, “I was saved. Jesus saved me.” It did not take long for news reporters to start connecting Jesus to the man in white. So He didn’t have the full beard or the lanky muscular form we see in statues and paintings. That mattered little to the fact He stopped the bomb with a miracle. And that it actually happened while inside the Shrine.
Deep down, I suspect, had it been a woman, they may have instead called her The Virgin.
Or the Maiden.
The CBCP refused to accept responsibility of the terrorist act. They denied their urging could have inspired such fanaticism and they denounced the actions of that young man. When the media started referring to The Son as “Jesus” or “The Savior”, the CBCP lambasted them for international blasphemy and demanded that they call the man a different title. It did not take long for people to start using the term The Son, after a picture of him hovering in front of the Edsa Shrine became the cover of the latest issue of Playboy Philippines. The headline read: The Mother, The Son and the Holy CBCP.
“I guess it would only be right that I give you my name... Oh wait, you already know my name,” I sarcastically declared. Ignoring the cold, I left the confines of my room and made for the kitchen. There was a growing hunger that I needed to feed and it didn’t seem wrong to eat while talking to The Son. After all, I didn’t exactly need to talk aloud to speak with Him. So why not use my mouth for more pressing needs. When the voice replied, I found myself startled enough that I nearly stubbed my toe against the refrigerator. I guess I actually thought His voice would trail from the room. But physical distances did not apply in a conversation where the other person was actually inside your head.
“Viz,” the Son calmly replied and somehow I did not register then how calm He always was. It was not a methodological kind of calm one expects from a scientist or an observer who seemed to find the unfolding scenes to be far too alien. Nor was it the collected artificial calm one typically uses when dealing with a situation that greatly stood against one’s own principles. It would be some time before I would understand what that calm meant. “It might suit you best to take advantage of this opportunity to ask me things that will help you understand our current state of being. After all, the bond we now have with each other is one that shall be in effect until the status quo changes to a great extent.”
“You mean I am stuck with you,” I sighed aloud, no t bothering to hide my frustration, “For how long?”
“Until the current status quo-“
“How long,” I snapped back. Looking back, I might have appreciated the appropriateness of seeing my reflection against the oven toaster that very moment. I was, after all, speaking to myself and to the Son who now inhabited my brain.
“It is beyond my ability to accurately say.”
“Then estimate. Guess.”
“That would still lead to possibly misleading answer.”
“Chrisss…..” I stopped myself from completing the Lord’s name. While I understood back then that He was merely called the Son based on the media’s preference for sensational labels, I guess part of me was worried of offending Him. After all, think about it: Would you really be able to cuss out “Mother fucker” while your mother was in the room? Even if the expletive was not aimed at her, there was something fundamentally wrong in saying it in her presence. The Son was not some supernatural entity sent to Earth to make miracles, that much I knew was true based on what He had told me. But I still did not know why He was among us mere mortals. Much less even on why He needed me to keep Him alive.
But with that, I realized He was right. I had been ignoring this opportunity to understand things better. I was having a direct conversation with the Son and I was spending the passing minutes ranting and arguing over petty details. I had the dream interview every other member of the press out there would have given up their left testicle (or breast) to have, and it was time I stopped wasting the chance.
We talked for hours that day. Though I had a busy day at the office scheduled, I completely lost track of time as I learned of the Son and the reasons behind His altruism. Many things He mentioned at that time barely made sense, but seemed sufficient enough information to feel less freaked out by the whole thing.
Admittedly, part of me was blinded by the excitement of learning the secret origin of The Son.
I hope you do pardon then the fact I do not plan to share it with you just yet. You have to admit if you were in my shoes, you too would relish the secret knowledge for a while before sharing it with the rest of the world. Maybe some of you would never even choose to share it. But worry not, I will speak of everything I know to be true in due time.
Just not right now.
*
By evening, I had completely embraced the idea that my life has completely changed. The Son was now part of who I was and I was to be his physical presence in the world until the day comes when I die and need to pass Him on to the next bearer of his mantle. When danger was present or if people were in need of a hero, all I needed to do was speak a specific word. And faster than an eyeblink, lanky ole me would vanish and in my place, the impossibly perfect physique of the Son would be standing in my place.
Mentally, I would still be in charge. I would feel His body as my own. I would move His body as if it were always the body I had. And He would be there, ever present like a much more vocal conscience, to guide me and teach me. To help me be the superhero He always was.
I have become The Son.
And I should have realized that early how much I would suck being Him.
-----
6725 words of out 50,000.
I don't think I am gonna make it this year.
I don't think I am gonna make it this year.
Category:
chapter three
Chapter Two: CHAINges
Posted on | Sunday, November 7, 2010 | No Comments
There was precious little that L.B.Z.J. Hawkings cared for in the world other that the death of the superhuman the media had dubbed The Son. While the rest of the world glorified and adored the man whose otherworldly abilities allowed him to accomplish things that others would deem as acts of God, for L.B.Z.J. Hawkings, the Son was the black stain of taint that would eventually bring about the destruction of mankind and everything that man had accomplished. And this opinion, as far as L.B.Z.J. Hawkings was concerned, was not just an opinion. For him, it was a fact. One that L.B.Z.J. Hawkings was born into and was raised to remember. One that L.B.Z.J. Hawkings dedicated his life to stopping.
When he was born, L.B.Z.J. Hawkings had a different name.
It was summer of 2062 when a young couple realized their son was already anxious to be born. Mother felt the water break seconds after she had uttered the words, “He is coming” and father called for help on his biomolecular phone. The message requesting for medical assistance was quickly transposed into a series of biological codes that was then released through the PheromoNet that surrounded the space station. Knowing that a medical team was sure to receive the biological telegram, the father held mother close and tried to help her calm down.
“Mankind has been giving birth to children for centuries. Stay calm. Focus on your breathing. The medical team should arrive any second.”
“But our child,” mother grunted between gasps for air, “What will happen to our child?”
“What happens to every child,” father replied ruefully, “He will be born, tagged, then examined. If found suitable, he will then be assigned a family in the station that requires one of his genetic build.”
“Our child!”
“We have no choice,” he continued, “Ever since mankind had to abandon our dying planet to the hungers of that… that thing… we have done what was necessary to survive. We were lucky enough to have reached a space-faring level of biotechnology before it happened. Imagine if we were still stuck using rocket fuel and accident-prone shuttles?
“Biotechnology has allowed us to create spacecraft that also fulfill our needs as living organisms. The ships transform our carbon dioxide to breathable oxygen. Our waste feeds the ship, which in turn allow it to bear fruit and grain. Symbiotech has become the very core of how we have survived our leaving the Earth. But that same symbiotic relationship requires from us a greater responsibility of ensuring no part of the ship is tapped of its resources too quickly.”
“Hence the Assignments,” mother wept as she said the word. This was to be her third child that she would lose. The two others were somewhere else in the massive vessel, older now, and trained with skills they were genetically tagged to be predisposed towards. Like tiny cells whose specialized duties helped keep the living organism healthy. When she was young, mother admired the science and symmetry of it all. How everyone born knew they were meant for something. How everyone played a role they were suited to do. Now, all she could think about were the children she gave birth to but never raised. The children she had never seen again.
“A name,” she turned to father and grabbed his hands tight to keep him from pulling away, “We have to at least give him a n-“ Her words were cut short as a bout of pain forced her to scream. The child that was to be known eventually in the past as L.B.Z.J. Hawkings was adamant about wanting to be born. She grit her teeth and mentally called out to her unborn son. Not yet. Not yet my son. Please give me time.
He listened.
Or at least he seemed to as the pain faded away.
“We need to name him,” mother told father. Father hesitated. To name the child was not illegal. While the system permitted such fraternizations, it was generally accepted by all that not knowing who your children were allowed them to grow into their roles without fear of failing to meet performance standards parents typically set upon their children. It allowed them to embrace their roles in the craft with less romanticized distractions of doing something other than what one was genetically prepped towards doing. A child whose genetics suggested a mastery of visual-spatial intelligence would be assigned to a family composed of designers and architects. His presence among those matching his disposition was intended to encourage his proficiency and shorten his learning curve.
But naming him did raise the possibility of being able to identify one’s own child in the future. Father was not sure if that was a wise thing to do.
“We need to,” mother begged one last time. She pulled father closer. “For me. For him.”
He closed his eyes. He knew he should say no. But he felt in his heart she was right.
*
Seven years later, Malcom P10 stood at the foot of the twin caskets that contained the bodies of his mother and father. Both had died when a bioelectric malfunction caused the air conditioning and coolant systems of their science facility to shut down. No malice was discovered during the investigation on what lead to the fatal accident. All the young man could do was accept the fact that his parents had become new additions to the statistical data of how many deaths had occurred on the vessel that year. Their deaths were to be logged in an operations report, then archived in the central database for easy retrieval if anyone ever deemed it was worth looking into once again.
Malcom P10 knew that even in death, his parents were never going to be free of the vessel that killed them. Since no one seemed to have any motive to have them murdered, it was very quickly concluded that their deaths were the result of a major bioelectrical failure that the vessel itself had suffered from. It was like an ant happened to step upon the water bubble that was about to burst: it was not an act of murder or cruelty; it was merely the inevitability of cause and effect. It could have happened to any of the other people in other science facilities. It could have happened at any other day or time. But just as upon birth, a child is tagged and reallocated as per where it would be most needed, upon death a body is then delivered into a gathering tube, pumped with the proper nutrient and mineral baths, before being allowed to organically disassemble to key protein and chemical components that are collected and redistributed through-out the vessel. There were no exceptions to this recycling method.
No exceptions at all.
The years that followed simply manifested themselves as even more reasons for Malcom P10 to hate how life ran in the vessel. Sports were reduced to repetitive ranges of motion, in order to reduce the time wasted whenever someone wanted to leave the chamber. Entertainment as well began to transform from explosions of creative excess into barely funny repeated anecdotes broadcast into the media streams. Everything was formulaic. Everything was routine. For the biotechnological vessel, that meant efficiency: The cost for every resource was equal to if not cheaper than the expense for each one. For Malcom P10, it simply meant everything was predictably boredom-inducing.
It would not be until a few more years before Malcom P10 would find the hidden archive of data called MYN-12122010-S0N, find a way to decrypt the data file, and learn of the existence of one single entity whose actions changed the world he never knew into the horrific banality it had become so familiarly sick of.
*
Malcom P10 was a researcher. Like his parents, he was assigned to the science facilities of the vessel. Tasked to handle all research and data analysis tasks when required, Malcom P10 was given full access to all data he deemed necessary to fulfill his duties as part of the vessel. The act of naming him allowed his parents to assign him to duties that were closer to where they worked. With their son growing up with them, Malcom P10 was able to learn the rudimentary skills required to fulfill his duties as one of the members of the Symbiotech vessel GATES. The Earth was in trouble. Its many nations, once defined by political and man-made physical boundaries, were now smoldering ruins. Ashes and smoke had replaced the countless billboards and posters that used to populate the walls with color and smiling faces. Survivors of the decade long struggle to free the planet from the grip of a single superhuman madman lead to the downfall of the distinction of first world countries and the eradication of all forms of formal economy. Many believed the luckier ones were the cowards who had left the planet in the biotechnological vessels that were tasked to search for an alternative home to live in. Few realized the bravery necessary to leave the people you loved for a mission that may have been doomed to fail from the very beginning.
But Malcom P10’s skills and proficiencies lay in a different field. Had his parents allowed him to be Assigned as normal procedures required, they would have discovered that his assessment would have rated him a Class Nine Engineer. And a Astrophysicist. And a Quantum theorist. His incredible intellect allowed him to process massive amounts of information so easily that mastering a new field of science only took him a few years to accomplish. It did not take long for Malcom P10 to consider the possibility of finding a way to save the lives of his parents.
And not much longer to formulate a means to do so.
He realized the best way to stop it lay in his very genes.
*
Genetics is a funny thing. Like miniscule packages of electronic data, every strand and segment of the human DNA contains instructions that are used in the development and function of a human being. Like a set of genetic blueprints, deoxyribonucleic acid store information on everything that will be necessary for the growth and development of a person; from the construction of all the necessary components in creating protein cells and RNA molecules to the very processes necessary in regulating the said flow of information. It was the perfect storage device for data that was meant to be activated at a precise time.
Like a self-booting automated extracting folder of data, with the right protein markers and genetic keys, Malcom realized he had only needed to send back the correct information down his own DNA like a message transmitted through time. Given the right nudge, he theorized it was possible to send the data packet down backwards to an earlier inheritor of genetic memory and have it activate and develop and grow the child into the same version of himself, but born in an earlier period of space and time.
All that was needed was to encode it accurately and test it for himself.
On himself.
This massive undocumented scientific theory was soon to be proven to be not just possible but the beginning of massive changes to the world as we knew it. And no one would ever know.
Category:
chapter two
Chapter One - BEginnings
Everyone knew Him.
Well, perhaps not really knew Him, but knew of Him. He was as recognizable as Santa Claus when He soared across the sky. The silver arm bands and belt scattered light in all directions, enveloping Him in a dazzling array of golden hues. His pure white uniform was made of some unknown material that absorbed the light, hiding away any hint of shadow and definition in His body. This, however, did precious little to hide the impressive shapes of His well-honed muscular physique.
Or the perfect symmetry of His exquisite face. To call His gaze captivating was to insult it; few had so entrancing a gaze that men would falter and fail to lie before them. Women would weep and ponder on how they could have ever settled for anything less. His platinum locks flowed with the wind, framing His features with a delicate touch that contrasted His evidently masculine angles.
Flight was but the least of His abilities. It would be far easier to define Hs power as the right to do the impossible: There was a robbery in London He halted by pinning the escaping car down with His foot, an avalanche in the Himalayas He diverted by demanding the raging torrent to turn aside, a volcano in Kamchatka He calmed by absorbing the heat into His own body, and a cure for cancer that He found by simply spending some time with a sick friend.
There were many names for Him. Some called Him titles that were inspired by comic books, which was far from unexpected considering how much He seemed like that reporter from an alien planet or that hammer-wielding government stooge. Others addressed Him using the honorifics befitting pharaohs, saints, and even deities.
He never gave the media a name to call Him.
He never stopped for a press conference to explain who He was.
Or where He came from.
Or where He came from.
Or why he was doing what He did.
But time and time again, people saw how He was there when they needed Him. People bore witness to His unselfish acts of kindness. People benefited from constant displays of heroism. To them He was alien. Strange. Impossible. He was omnipotent. Unearthly. Perhaps even a miracle. Or divine.
He was like a god among men. But unlike most gods, He was real.
And He died last night.
After years of facing the world's attempts to destroy itself as well as the many other otherworldly threats that have come our way, last night was the night His capacity to do whatever was needed to win failed Him. It was not in the hands of the Consolemtarium, the terrorism group that splintered from the Roman Catholic Church, who have attempted to smear His name for years. Their attempts to sway the public's view of Him as the new era's antichrist fell upon far more intelligent ears than they had anticipated. Nor was it from the schemes of the mad scientist L.B.Z.J. Hawkings whose Twenty-Seventh Intellect was artificially gained by gene-splicing stolen genetic brain matter from four key people who shaped our technological history. The insane genius claims to have come from a future where His actions have destroyed the world and does what he can't to stop Him from ever bringing that future to light. Many would have even expected His death to have happened when collective ignorance of mankind all focused on a single lie at the same time and nearly cause the supposed 2012 end of days to occur. But even such a world-spanning act of stupidity fell against the eternal hope that He would inspire by simply being visible to remind everyone, "Yes, this too shall pass."
He died last night in a death far befitting a hero of His stature.
And He died in my arms.
Few knew of His secret. Hell, I didn't know what His secret was when it happened. But last night, as I stepped out of the my favorite bar with a buzz on my brain enough to keep me walking wobbly, I had no idea that it would be the night I would see Him die. I had turned towards a nearby alley to puke out the deadly mix of tequila, jaeger and beer when I saw two men huddled over someone who was bleeding on the piss-drenched floor. I yelled out a Hey and reached into my pocket for anything to use as a weapon. The two men looked up, saw me staggering into the alley with my hand in my jacket, and maybe thought I was armed. They took off, running away from me like shadows that fled from the light. And it was only that moment I noticed it.
The light.
The man they had mugged had been stabbed. His hands clenched over His stomach in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood. His face was contorted in an expression of pain. But from His mouth, half-open in the grimace of a dying man, was the glow of a soft dying flame. I fell backwards, landing on my buttocks as I stared at Him, uncertain what to do. Shock must have hit me then, because I could not find the words to cry out for help.
"Don't-"
I heard Him struggle to speak and I actually pushed myself nearer. Was it curiosity? Was it the semblance of safety born from the fact this man with glowing innards was speaking a language I spoke? I don't know, but it was enough to make me want to her Him better. At that time, I did not realize it was Him. The man was far from how He looked, you see. While toned, His body was far from the chiseled form He had. He was clearly shorter than I was, and had a fashion sense that perhaps celebrated the survivability of old, worn, denim. His hair was oily black and seemed to have been cropped short by an unskilled weed cutter.
But it was Him.
"-Let Him-"
He reached up towards me. Without thinking, I took His hand.
"-Die."
"-Die."
And that moment, He died in my arms.
And was reborn as me.
And was reborn as me.
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Total words: 1,029 of 50,000
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chapter one
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