Paragon to Pavement 1

Fire.

It always started with the fire.

The fire that night was high and bright, all of it in his face with so much smoke that he couldn’t see a full foot in front of him.

Blinding was bad enough, but the heat was no better; all of it a physical weight, a blanket of temperature he hadn’t felt in years pressing down on his chest like the collapsed building back in 2010.

A cough; yeah, he remembered all the coughing, lungs fighting for anything fresh; chest hacking up blood and dark spit as he struggled against the air that tasted different.

Air that was so much different than what he was used to.

Even barely all there, he knew something was different, even if it was just the different air. He’d almost managed to convince himself it was just the stuff in the air. It was an easy enough lie to believe; too much powdered concrete and smoke to breathe through it, those two almost managing to push away the stench of burning plastic and the copper tang of plasma discharge that coated the back of his throat.

But, even still, he knew better.

As much as he might have known, he still couldn’t see for shit.

Everything was smoke. All gray and orange, everything in his eyeline flickering like a bad signal on a busted CRT.

His eyes stung; a river of warm wetness trailing down his forehead, cutting a sticky line through the dust, and pooling in his left eye socket to turn the world a hazy filtered red.

Blood. He wasn’t a fuckin’ idiot; he knew blood like it was a best friend. 

Just a best friend he hadn’t seen this much of in a while. He usually picked his fights smarter than this, or at least picked a good Tank to duck behind. Head wound. Scalp. The thought came automatic, everything he remembered from the field medics in the Bricks coming back to him all at once. Bleeds a lot. 

Who cared about a cut? He could walk off at least nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine of them, before he had to deal with any real problem. Besides, he’d walked off worse. 

Like the time he got a Rikti Blade to the shoulder because he forgot how real Security Levels were and thought he was hot shit, just cause he finally broke Tw—Pop-pop-pop.

A rhythm broke his thoughts as he hacked up another mouthful of red and black from the back of his throat. His head went up, tracking the sound of it with ears that still worked even when eyes didn’t.

Small arms fire. That was a given, considering his ears weren’t ringing. Nothing bigger than a niner… Either way, it was still a lot of it, the kind of spray-and-pray bullshit the Skulls used to pull in Kings Row when they got their hands on something bigger than their usual Saturday night specials.

Keep your head down, kid. Don’t draw aggro.

Who said that? Back Alley Brawler? One of the trainers back over in Atlas Plaza? Some dead super whose name he couldn’t remember because there were too many dead supers to remember?

Didn’t matter.

His body moved before his brain caught up; muscle memory sending him forward as he dropped onto the ground. What the h- His legs shook, giving out from under him for a second as he hit the floor. 

The ground was wrong.

Too smooth. Too hard. Not the cracked pavement of Kings Row or the crumbling of the Hollows or the metal grating of the Zig. Asphalt. Fresh asphalt, the kind that still had that oil-and-tar stink to it.

Where the hell…

Thwip-thwip.

Something hit his shoulder; the feeling like a bee sting right to bone.

Sting?

Bullets didn’t sting. Bullets bounced, flicking off his aura. Even without trying, he was stronger than this. He was a Sixteen now, almost ready for the front-lines; his body rated for anti-tank, for Rikti plasma, for—

Cold spiked right in his chest, sharp and hard, like an Outcast icicle straight through the sternum. Unless the aura’s down.

No. No way. His aura couldn’t be down unless he was dead, and he wasn’t dead because dead didn’t hurt this much and dead didn’t smell like burning asphalt and cordite.

Fists clenched at his side as he willed the energy to flare, to do something more than just sit there buzzing weak under his skin. But no, nothing.

The whole thing just sputtered and flickered no matter how much he tried to push it, dim as a pawn shop neon on its last legs. The hell?

Pop-pop-pop.

More stinging. Leg. Ribs. 

A line of fire across his bicep that made him hiss through his teeth.

They’re hurting me.

The thought was slow and stupid because of course they were hurting him. Why? His shield was trash. His battery was dead. … why’s my battery dead?

He growled, low in the throat, blood spilling into his eyes as he shook that thought to the back of his mind. Later.

He had to focus now.

Shapes in the smoke moved fast, the sound of heavy boots on the ground letting him track the ones he couldn’t see. 

Tactical boots, so not street soldiers; no Hellion horrors, not elemental Outcasts and definitely not Tsoo sorcerers either. Rikti was an easy write-off, considering the smell and sigh of green plasma was easy to make out even from a distance and the sound of their teleporting was already something even little kids knew by heart.

No, this was kust men. Men with guns. Shouting in English.

“Target acquired! Suppressing fire!”

Target? You don’t target the fuckin’ hero. Incoming!

He turned, squinting through the blood and the smoke as he spotted a sillhouette through the haze like a juggernaut.

A tank?

Yeah. Gotta be. They brought a tank to a street fight?

Standard Paragon Tuesday. Probably the Council. Or the 5th Column. Fuckin’ Nazis.

His lip curled, teeth showing as he gritted them and flared as much power as he could to his bright glowing fists. Alright. You want to play heavy? Let’s play heavy. I got a Hard Crit with your name on it.

He coiled up, muscles bunching as he pushed past the sting, past the fear, past the fact that his blue felt like a shallow puddle instead of an ocean.

The spring went loose and he went flying, fist cocked back with all his energy pushed right where he needed it. Full send it.

The second he got close, he swung it forward and the smoke cleared from the air around his fist.

Just a little bit. Just enough for his eyes to go wide as he made out the logo on the white canister standing taller than he was.

Circle K. The words hit his brain the instant his glowing fist hit it. 

Metal crumpled. Metal screamed. Metal e—

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Sky woke up swinging, right hook hitting nothing but dead air as his blanket went flying across the room.

He boited up, chest heaving and sweat soaking the sheets in a cold and clammy mess just in time to see his covers land over one edge of his still-on TV.

…pussy. His heart hammered loud as he sat there, hands tight into fists at his sides as he blinked wildly at nothing, still trying to find a threat where he knew there wasn’t one. 

No smoke. No fire. No gunfire.

Just… light.

Blue light.

Blue eyes blinked up at the TV, volume low on some ad with that weird mustache-looking guy that had to be a Tank talking about something he couldn’t give a shit about as he lifted a rock off some guitar lady’s car. Sky rubbed a hand over his face.

It came away wet.

He flinched again, eyes narrowing back at his palm.

Sweat. 

Jesus… Not blood. Such a fuckin’ pussy, man.

He blinked at his hand, pale spots on dark skin obvious even in the dim light of his room. It was shaking… just a little, a tremor in the fingers he couldn’t stop no matter how much he flexed it. 

You’re good. You’re good. Sky took a breath as he clenched the fist and covered it with his other palm, forcing it still as he held both his hands tight and close to his chest. Just a dream. Just the same damn rerun.

Feet hit the floor as he swung his legs off the bed, the feel of cheap beige apartment-complex carpet under his feet enough to wake him up over the last three-and-a-half weeks.

After six months in a cell, it was better than prison concrete, at least.

Torrance.

He’d never heard of it before, wasn’t even sure it existed back home, but then again… ehhh… When you lived in Paragon, geography wasn’t really high on your list of priorities. He’d heard of Los Angeles and that was pretty much all he needed to know about the West Coast before.

He just never thought he’d need to brush up on it before he landed over on this Earth… 

Sky frowned as he stood up and groaned, popping his back and his neck with a crack that was closer to a firecracker going off than anything else. Earth-Null? Earth-Corpo? I’m the first one here, so I get to name this rock, I guess?

Sky shook his head, thoughts running through his head not enough to distract him from just how… heavy he felt.

Gravity was wrong here. Either that or he just wasn’t used to being weak again.

Diminished. That’s what the suit said.

The bathroom door squeaked as he opened it with a push, not even bothering with the doorknob. Can’t afford to squish another one.

He didn’t bother with the light either. Not because of his powers or anything, but honestly his eyes were good enough as they were, especially with the blue light from his tv good enough to reach through here.

He leaned over on the sink, careful not to grip the porcelain too hard as he stared at the mirror. The face staring back was… 

Quite fucking frankly, he was a mess.

Scars.

That was the first thing he saw. Always.

A jagged line running across his neck, all the way around like some kind of choker, right below a thick splash of burn marks on his jaw; a bunch of shiny, pink, waxy skin that always caught the light no matter what he tried to do about them.

The cuts and burns on his arms were barely even worth talking about, the ones on his chest and shoulders so much bigger and jagged he looked like he had a bad date with a Trolled-up tiger.

Souvenirs.

Sky snorted as he traced the thickness of the line on his neck, skin as tight and plasticky as it always was.

Five months.

Five months in the hospital, six in a cell, and barely a full month since they took the collar off and gave him an earpiece instead. Apparently, Blondey had to argue them down from an ankle monitor, something the State of California kept trying to insist on. 

What the fuck ever…

Back home, when he was still as strong as he should’ve been, his powers would’ve wiped all this clean in a couple days. Maybe a week if he was really washed.

Hell, just a quick puff from an Inspie inhaler and he would’ve been good in a couple hours tops.

But here?

Here, he healed like a normal. Like a civilian; slow, imperfect and fucking ugly.

“Yeah, these…” He rasped out, sounding like halfway to a fucking zombie, “these aren’t healing up any time soon, huh?”

Sky just blinked at his face. Halfway… you look like you could be on set for Thriller, man.

He shook his head again, one hand tugging hard on his earlobe as that high-pitched whine sounded off again out of nowhere.

That fucking fuel tank had left him with more than burns and shrapnel wounds. Sky pulled a face, working his jaw as he tried to see if popping his ears would do anything more than it ever did. 

I’m like that spy guy off the cartoon. Weeks of nothing to do with his freedom but eat and watch what counted for TV in the future had been… educational. 

Mostly, it was trash, but that Archer… that’s some funny shit, right there. A laugh bubbled up in his throat, the sound quickly spiraling out into a groan as he looked himself up and down one more time.

“…I need a shape-up.” Last time he had gotten one was four months ago in the cellblock and since then, the burst fade had grown out into a burst bush. You look homeless, motherfucker.

Sky screwed up his face, teeth grit as he mean-mugged the mirror, jaw set as he tried to look like the guy he remembered.  Come on. Show me something. Just a spark.

His eyes sparked. Just for a second. A flash of blue lighting them up from behind and then… yeah, I figured. 

It never lasted. Just level 4 trash.

Sky sighed again and reached for his toothbrush.