I wake up after the end of my world, and it hurts. 

I cough. The smoke assaults my nose first, oily and thick with concrete-tasting dust. There’s a hint of charred hair in the air, too. I move my hand to rub my eyes, forcing them open. As I move, my fingers catch on the tattered edge of my mask, the slight pressure over one eye where the mask has slipped pins my eyelid shut. 

Pushing it up, I wince as the leathery material grates over a gash above my eyebrow. The swollen skin stings.  The sunlight burns my retinas and the sky roils with clouds of dusty air, but with my sight crashes memory and instinct like a freight truck: the flash of Emily and Aelyn’s faces turned to me as the explosion cut their screams short. 

That isn’t true. It can’t be. I shake my head and wince again. It all hurts. I attempt to move, but a terrible ache burns through every limb. I crawl to my feet all the same and cough again. My ribcage screams with each breath. Concrete dust coats my throat, my tongue tasting copper. Is my mouth bleeding? 

People yell in the background somewhere. Sirens blare and near. My heart is hammering away, panic rising. They…they’re dead, aren’t they? 

I clench my hands and they flicker and fade to nearly transparent. I tense, and they warp back into solid flesh and bone. 

I saved myself. 

My stupid powerset allowing me to go intangible and phase through walls saved my life. 

For the first time in my life, I hate it. Because of it, my family’s last screams will haunt me forever. 

I rub my eyelids and groan, finding myself face-planted into bedcovers instead of concrete, black hair falling in my eyes and my legs tangled in sheets. 

Two years since I lost them, and the nightmares only get worse. 

I used to never get them, even with the hard things superheroes fight all the time. Monsters, mob bosses, terrorists, yet nothing caused flashbacks that take over my mind and emotions like seeing my family die before my eyes. How I wish it truly was a dream, and not a reality that plays on repeat in my head. 

I grimace and claw through blankets, my mind flitting out into the world I refuse to get up for, spying the clock above my dresser. 9:02am. I scowl at its mocking circle, the hands ticking away, each moment vanishing never to return.

Two days since the ExHuman Academy and Research Center dismissed me from being an active superhero as mentally unstable. They claimed something about the personal loss I’ve endured and the subsequent flashbacks causing errors in judgment. I think the secretary responsible for writing up the press release said something about granting me a long leave of absence. 

I don’t know why they lie to me. 

I know what happened, and I can’t go back.

I click on the TV, the low drone of newscasters buzzing. My story is all over the news. I flipped out at one of my colleagues, Thunderclap, and went crazy, yelling things that didn’t make sense. 

The Berkshire Morning News plays the shaky bystander footage again. The front plaza of the ExHuman Academy and Research Center, or EXARC, complete with a beautiful fountain and glass sliding doors. Students, normally lounging about the entrance in the sun or staring at their phones under the awning, waiting for their parents to pick them up, scatter as the doors whoosh open. I see my own pale face emerge into the piercing sunlight, my grey coat snapping with the force of my steps.

Thunderclap follows me out, his brown face stern. He says something inaudible, but me in the video whirls around, screaming something at Thunderclap, shoving him, acting like…like a wild rapid dog. 

“You’re complicit in this!” My yell cracks, muffled by the wind. “You’re fine with it? With what they’ve done to our minds? With what they’ll do to our children?!”

Thunderclap tries to hold me still but I phase out of his hands and…then the footage goes shaky. I’ve already seen the rest before, though. Our altercation almost destroyed the front door to the Academy portion of EXARC. Thankfully, no one was hurt, but some of those kids could’ve been. 

I shake my head and pinch the bridge of my nose as the newscasters voice commentates. “An incident like this from one of the ExHumans hasn’t happened in years. Understandably, this comes as a shock to the public; but some are seeing this as a long-time coming. Perhaps it’s due to the high-pressure lifestyle of being a superhero, or is it a natural instability present in the mirahuman genome? Tune in for our interview of Dr. Slate-Mourné, chief researcher at EXARC to see what the experts say.”

I sigh and flop back onto the bed, the springs in the mattress creaking like an empty porch swing. 

I live—lived—at EXARC. This apartment feels so foreign, so empty and old, and judging by the look of it, it’s not the best EXARC could’ve found. At least they gave me an apartment, but I have a sinking feeling I’ll have to pay next month’s rent. 

The real problem with this? I don’t remember attacking Thunderclap. We’ve been friends for years.

Why can’t I remember flipping out at one of my fellow heroes, one of my friends?

Maybe I should call him. Apologize.

For something I don’t remember doing?

I stare at the studio apartment window. It’s small and too yellowed over from the steam from the noodle place on street level to see out properly. 

That video has to be a deepfake or something. 

As much as I’m convinced of that fact, I can’t make myself go back to EXARC to plead my case. It’s halfway through the morning, and I can barely get out of bed. 

Emily would have told me to get up and get outside into the sunshine. To do something, however small, even if it merely meant making my daughter cereal. I still remember the mornings I felt glued to the mattress until big, bright, young eyes appeared at the edge of the covers, a muffled, “Dad?”

It always brought a smile tugging at my mouth.

I groan, swipe hair out of my eyes and force myself to get up and shower.

A few minutes later, I sling a towel over my shoulder and kick open my suitcase. Everything I have remaining to my name. I grunt and dig out a pair of jeans, half-dressing before returning to the suitcase for a shirt. An olive green one sticks out of the pile and I pull it out, revealing a hint of grey kevlar and nylon underneath. My fingers freeze around the shirt. 

My super suit.