The alleyway was cold and dark. There was no sound to be heard other than the distant swoosh of cars passing and the wailing of police cars rushing along the busy roads.
No one was around to help him...
In the quiet suburban streets, just outside the towering city of Groissaint, rain came crashing down in sheets as far as the eye could see, causing a mirage-like distortion on the moon. The ice-cold breeze felt like a pure gust of ice.
The only light in the alleyway was some leakage from the nearest streetlight. Barely enough to illuminate the body lying in the centre of it.
Cold and alone, the body lay there. The black trainers, once fresh and clean, were now muddy and wet. The black jogging bottoms cling to the body's legs in tight desperation. A black puffer jacket barely sat on top of the once pristine white shirt, now soaked in a mixture of blood and rain, torn in the chest area where the blood was thickest. Three holes, the size of small pennies, were painted in a dark crimson that carved deep into the body's chest.
The face told the story of a man. The defined cheekbones and jawline gave him an athletic appearance. The man's brown eyes were as cold as the silver on his earrings and the chain around his neck. The eyes were once sharp and full of anger, but now, they were relaxed. They looked lifeless, but his soul still clung to them as he stared straight up at the night sky, though it was only through a crack separating the two empty buildings beside him.
His hair was short and brown, the sides were freshly faded, and the fringe was cut straight as a board. It was clear that the manplacedk heavy emphasis on his appearance.
The body once had dreams of Monday night lights at Old Trafford. Hearing the roars of the crowd around him as the ball bulged in the back of the net. But the only roars he could hear now were the roaring of thunder.
Those dreams were once those of Tom o'Clerigh, who lay there one arm stretched out limp, the other, tightly clinging to the holes in his chest. His breathing was wet and ragged, each inhale a small, surprised gasp like he couldn't believe this was how his life was going to end.
"Fuck"
He whispered, but more like a gurgle. He giggled once before a choke could be heard, and red splattered on the bottom of his chin.
"Isn't this just typical?"
Beside him, somewhere in the puddle, was his phone. Cracked. Dead. No phone call, no notification.
Just silence...
George McCullen's room was dimly lit by the blue-white glow of his laptop screen. He stretched out on his bed, limp, staring up at the black ceiling.
The flat was quiet; Krista was long asleep in the room beside him, and Arjun? Somewhere.
"You there?"
I whispered up to the ceiling, as if I was talking through it to the entity beyond. But there was no response, only the faint hum of the laptop replied to his question.
"You there?"
I tried again, this time a little louder.
"You gave me these powers, but you never talk to me when I need you to. What was I given these powers for?"
The silence continued, stretching out beyond my capacity to care anymore. I shut my laptop and began rubbing my eyes, wasting a little more time before giving in and closing them.
Because you wanted them.
I threw myself upright, looking around as if he were in the room with me.
"As if anyone wouldn't want them."
Silence befell the room yet again. It's like I'm going crazy, hearing voices in my head. I gently lay myself back down.
"What do you want from me?"
Nothing. Keep using your power as you see fit. Build up your strength. You will know when you will be needed.
How fucking vague.
"What am I without these powers? What's the point? If I lost them tomorrow, who would I be?"
Are you saying you don't want these powers? You want to return to how you were before? Wasting your time day in and day out?
I gulped. He's right, the powers make me someone I could never be without them. All the people I've helped so far. I couldn't have done that without the help of these powers.
Don't you ever forget. Your actions are of your own choice.
The voice faded out. I lay there in silence for a long time, staring at the ceiling, pondering what he said.
The rain tapped against the window. For George, the night was over, but for others, it was still young. Halfway across the city, just on the outskirts of Groissaint's centre, was a couple of lads still having fun.
The Royal Oak stunk of spilt lager, wet coats and the desperation that never fully washes out of the carpet. The ambience was cheap, dim lights of an orange hue that discombobulates the wavy eyes of a drunk observer. Yet the place had soul and good people. In the background was the blast of the 90s best of British.
"Tom-myy! Tom-myy! Tom-myy!"
The banging of tables synchronised with the chant, as Tom downed the pint in one go.
Six men were sitting around a table in the corner of the pub, empty glasses piled up on the edge, with even more glasses in front of the men surrounding the table, each with some lager still in them.
The six men had names and personalities. Connor was leaning back over his chair, head up, laughing straight from his core, face distorted in pleasure as he enjoyed the moment. Ryad followed suit. Danny filmed everything on his phone, just like he always did. Jermaine banged on the table in applause, and finally, Zion shook his head, grinning.
"Right..."
I clapped my hands together, getting straight down to business.
"Who's getting the tequila in?"
The table erupted, more drinks flowed, and the table became louder and louder as other bodies started to pile in. But it became too cramped around the table for me, so, wanting a change of scenery, I stumbled my way outside, firmly grasping a pint in my hand.
I looked upon the garden in front of me. An ocean of waving bodies and chatting friends,s and among those waves, I spotted Jermaine, talking to two beauties. I decided to go and help him out.
"Hey, hold on...
I tapped his shoulder, winking with one eye, the furthest away from the girls, to not let them notice.
"No way it is you. Bro, you saved my sister from those creeps the other day."
A blatant lie, I was just making him look good in front of the ladies, and it was working: The two women looked between the two of us, intrigued. He looked at me with a smile on his face. He knew the drill.
"Yeah, shit, man, how's she doing? Is she alright?"
Yeah, man-"
"HEY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING CHATTING UP MY GIRL!?"
A dark-skinned man of large stature called to us from the other side of the garden. On the top of his head was pure skin; he was wearing a large black leather jacket with 3 gold chains under his chin, glistening at me as if to say, "You're fucked". He looked like a WWE wrestler, and his walkout anthem was the sound of his stomps as he came marching towards us.
One of the women came rushing towards her, trying to calm her down, but her pleas fell on deaf ears as he continued his advance towards me, of all people.
I wasn't even talking to them.
"Hey, big guy, think you can get away with talking to my girl like that?"
I looked him up and down. Yep. Steroids.
"Listen here, little nuts-"
Before I could even finish what I was going to say, my vision flashed as I was sent to the floor. The cracks of the concrete began fading back into my vision before I looked back up.
Jermaine was fighting my corner, his face scrunched up in anger as he began shouting at him. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but before long, the rest of my gang came storming out and before long, so did his.
What ensued next was a full-out brawl, his men against mine. With a small crowd around watching the scene unfold.
I raised myself back up and threw myself at the nearest figure. Sending him back. He turned back around in shock. He had had a black balaclava on with a large black coat. He looked like he was straight out of some gang of crooks. Who were these guys?
He came flying back towards me, and I raised my fists to block. He sent an over hook my way, so I ducked back, causing wind, released from the punch to pass my face, skimming my jaw. I leaned forward, swinging at his gut, and he stepped back. We continued going back and forth, clattering each other with our fists, before the landlord came in and split up the fight.
"You've all had enough, get out!"
So he exclaimed. Our night was ruined because some douchebag couldn't keep his girlfriend from talking to other guys. Just one of those "wrong place, wrong time" situations
The rain continued to pour, soaking every piece of clothing on my body. Even my socks were soaked.
We all stood around the outside of the pub looking beat up. Physically as well as mentally, from the realisation that our night had to be cut short in such disappointing circumstances. We cut our losses, agreeing to meet each other at the same place after the match. We weren't banned for life, thankfully. No. The place would lose way too much money were we to move on to another pub.
The streets ahead of me continued to wind as my vision was still whirling from the sheer amount of alcohol flowing in my blood.
I began to feel the physical effect of the drink as my bladder suddenly began to feel like it was about to burst. I scanned my surroundings, weighing up the best place to go. Somewhere quiet where no one would find me.
I concluded that an alleyway was the best place. I stumbled my way over, just about maintaining my balance after slipping on the wet concrete below my feet. I stood facing the wall, relieving myself. So relieved that I didn't even notice the shadowy figure at the entrance of the alleyway.
I finished up, pulled up my jogging bottoms and turned to the entrance, ready to continue my walk home. I was greeted by the figure.
He had a familiar large black coat and balaclava, with his hands tucked into his pockets. I noticed a bulge in one of the pockets. He was staring at me with anger. Why was he angry at me? The furious creases on his face seemed so familiar to me. He began to slowly raise his arm from his pocket, wielding a small object in his hand that was pointing at me.
He faced me. The rain was pounding. Flowing like waterfalls off the man's shoulders. The sound of the rain hitting the floor, hitting like boulders. They sounded just as loud as the sound of my heart beating out of my chest. I didn't understand what was going on, but I felt a visceral feeling of danger. It was something primal. His figure occupied the exit of the alleyway. A flash of lightning illuminated the darkness around us before...
BANG! BANG! BANG!
An overwhelming heat went ablaze in my chest. My legs felt faint. They could no longer carry my weight, and so I plummeted to the ground. I lay on my back, staring up at the figure, trying one last time to figure out who it was.
"Shouldn't have messed with us, eh?"
Oh, now I know, it was the guy at the bar. You could just about see the black eye I gave him in the gap of his balaclava. I wanted to give a funny retort, but the burning made my brain go numb.
He quickly ran off, leaving me alone in the cold, dark alleyway. Soaked by the overbearing downpour. I placed my hand on the burning sensation on my chest. An overwhelming feeling of falling befell me once I felt a hole in my chest. The heat began to fade as my vision began to blur in a way that felt different to the way it had before. I couldn't quite see a light, so either they were lying when they talked about the light at the end of the tunnel, or there's still hope.
"Fuck"
I whispered, but more like a gurgle. I giggled once, before I choked and my chin suddenly felt warm.
"Isn't this just typical?"
I tried to look around to see if my phone was anywhere to be seen. It was there, in the puddle, a mixture of blood and rain surrounding my body. The screen was cracked. Dead. There was no call. No notifications.
Just silence... Until
Look what we have here.
Just as I thought I was about to finally die, a voice pierced through. It wasn't very loud, wasn't dramatic. It was calm, like a man reading a news report.
You're bleeding out, Tom.
"Yeah, no shit."
My voice was raspy and quiet; my humorous retort was a hard one to release.
Do you want to die, Tom?
The voice was putting what little thought capacity I had left to the absolute limit of its capability. My life is one of boring, continuous monotony. But I don't want to die. I'm a sad, lonely guy working a dead-end job. I don't want to die. Not yet. Not until I've achieved something in my life.
"No."
What if I told you there was a way to stop this? Would you take it?
"Are you joking? Yes."
Within an instant, it felt like lava was pouring into my wounds. I began to writhe on the floor, my back lifting off the floor in reaction to the agony in my chest. Smoke began to release from the holes as the muscles began to weave together, and flesh began to knit itself shut.
Take this power, Tom. Take it as your own. I'll call upon you soon... Until then. Use it to your will.
I felt alive in a way that I'd never felt before. I lifted myself upright, and raindrops slipped off in rivulets. I then began to raise myself to one knee before lifting myself to my feet.
I looked at my hands—small red sparks, faint but recognisable. I couldn't resist the urge to release a low, rough laugh.
I stepped out of the alleyway; my hands burrowed in my pockets. Stepping further and further away from the puddle of blood.
Stepping into a new era of my life.