CHAPTER 6: THE PHANTOM'S HELPING HAND
The air in the mansion still carried a faint scent of disuse, like a particularly grumpy ghost had just moved out. My own living arrangements, now that I was no longer prone to spontaneously disintegrating water glasses, were considerably more structured. Mornings began with a frantic attempt to get my coffee to taste like a unicorn's tear, and evenings typically involved staring at the news, muttering sarcastic commentary to an empty room, and occasionally making a particularly annoying news anchor's tie briefly turn plaid. It was a hard knock life, but someone had to live it.
Supergirl was officially National City's new darling. Every channel, every radio station, every random pedestrian yelling into their phone, was talking about her. "The Girl of Steel," they called her. "The Angel of National City." "Honestly, if I had a dime for every time someone called me an angel, I'd be even richer than I already am," I thought, swirling my (still stubbornly normal-tasting) coffee. "Though, let's be real, I'm more of a chaotic neutral guardian angel with a penchant for bizarre pranks. And a chronic lack of sleep."
My personal mission, my "subtle integration" protocol, was in full swing. The goal was to establish "the Glitch." Not a hero. Not a villain. Just… an inexplicable variable. Someone who nudged reality just enough to make things interesting, and occasionally, incredibly helpful. The ethical tightrope I was walking was thinner than a supermodel's patience. I knew what was coming. Every villain, every heartbreak, every "oops, Barry just broke the timeline again" moment. The temptation to just fix everything, to wave my hand and erase every future tragedy, was a constant, gnawing itch. But the System, in its infinite, unfeeling wisdom, kept reminding me: [WARNING: CAUSALITY VIOLATION IMMINENT. RECOMMENDED: MAINTAIN SUBTLETY.]
"Yeah, yeah, causality. My new least favorite word after 'diet,'" I mused internally. "It's like trying to stop a domino effect by gently blowing on the first domino. Meanwhile, I've got a whole shelf of future dominos just waiting to fall." The burden of knowing was heavier than I'd anticipated. It felt like I was carrying the entire Arrowverse timeline on my back, trying not to trip and drop the whole thing into a black hole of temporal paradoxes.
My first real opportunity to be "helpful" came a few days after Vartox. The D.E.O., in their usual overzealous fashion, were having trouble tracking down a rogue alien artifact that had gone missing from a recent crime scene. It was a small, glowing trinket, relatively harmless on its own, but capable of amplifying psychic energy if it fell into the wrong hands. The news reports were vague, but my meta-knowledge filled in the blanks. Some low-level telepathic meta was going to find it and cause some minor, but annoying, trouble for Supergirl before she inevitably kicked their butt.
I watched a news clip of Alex Danvers, looking stern and efficient, briefing a team of agents. She was all business, all logic. My polar opposite. "Alright, Agent Danvers," I thought, a mischievous glint in my eye. "Let's see if your scientific method can account for the inexplicable."
My plan was simple: don't give them the answer, give them a hint. A bizarre, infuriating, but ultimately correct hint.
I focused on the D.E.O.'s secure network, visualizing it like a complex, glowing web. I didn't try to hack it – that was way beyond my current skill set, and probably a causality violation waiting to happen. Instead, I focused on the specific data streams related to the missing artifact.
[SKILL: SENSORY ILLUSION (LVL 3). APPLICATION: AUDITORY PROJECTION. FOCUS: TARGETED DISRUPTION.]
I pictured a low, melodic hum, a sound that wouldn't be immediately recognizable, but would nag at the edges of perception. Then, I overlaid a faint, almost subliminal whisper, repeating a series of numbers. Not coordinates. Not a direct address. Just… street numbers. The numbers of the specific, obscure side street where the artifact had been dropped by the fleeing alien. The kind of numbers you'd gloss over in a police report.
I poured a small amount of energy into the illusion, a focused, almost surgical strike. The goal wasn't to be heard clearly, but to be a persistent, subconscious auditory anomaly in the D.E.O.'s secure comms, just enough to catch a vigilant ear.
Later that day, a brief, almost buried news report mentioned the D.E.O. successfully recovering the artifact from "an unexpected location on a rarely used side street." No explanation. No fanfare. Just a quiet success.
"Heh. Unexpected, huh?" I chuckled, raising my coffee cup in a silent toast. "My pleasure. You can thank the tiny, invisible gremlin in your comms system for that one. You're welcome, you perpetually stressed-out secret agents."
Another example of my chaotic assistance came when a fire broke out at a chemical plant near the docks. Supergirl was already on the scene, her silhouette against the orange glow of the flames. She was struggling with a ruptured fuel line, trying to freeze it with her breath before the entire plant went up. The pressure was immense, the flames licking at her, threatening to engulf her.
I watched from my mansion, the news chopper footage providing a live, if terrifying, view. This wasn't a subtle nudge. This was a critical moment.
[THREAT LEVEL: CRITICAL. ANCHOR VITALITY: DECREASING RAPIDLY.]
"Alright, enough with the subtle. Let's get a little… kinetic," I thought, my jaw tight.
I focused on the ruptured pipe, the stream of highly flammable liquid gushing out. Minor Telekinesis at Level 4 could do more than just make steel beams sway.
I didn't try to repair it. Too complex, too much energy. Instead, I pictured the pressure in the pipe. Just for a fraction of a second, just a tiny, imperceptible flicker, I reduced it. I twisted reality just enough to lessen the outward flow, allowing Supergirl that crucial extra moment to fully apply her frost breath, sealing the rupture.
On screen, Supergirl seemed to gasp, her eyes widening as the flow momentarily slowed, giving her the opening she needed. She sealed the pipe, the flames dying down, replaced by a hiss of steam.
The news anchor, clearly bewildered, reported, "It appears Supergirl was able to cap the rupture just in time, though we're getting unconfirmed reports from engineers on site about a momentary, inexplicable drop in pressure just as she made her move. A true miracle, folks!"
"Miracle? Sure. Let's go with miracle. Sounds better than 'some sarcastic imp-hybrid just messed with the laws of fluid dynamics to save your collective bacon,'" I thought, slumping back in my chair, a bead of sweat trickling down my temple. That one had taken more out of me. The System, however, was pleased.
[SKILL PROGRESS: MINOR TELEKINESIS (LVL 5). NEW ABILITY UNLOCKED: INCREASED RANGE.]
The next day, a small, barely visible blip appeared on my radar, alongside the persistent "Primary Anchor" marker. A new, very faint marker. It was coming from the D.E.O. headquarters. Not a threat. More like… a query.
"Oh, they're looking for me now, are they?" I grinned. "Excellent. Let the games begin. Time to be the ghost in their machine. The phantom's helping hand. The Glitch." The thought filled me with a perverse sense of satisfaction. It was a dangerous game, but at least it was a distraction from the constant, dull throb of grief. And it meant I was doing something. Something real. Something more than just an anomaly.