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The World is sick and slowly dying. Sometimes I used to wonder if I was the only one who could see how the strands of corruption twine through the fabric of the World, the dark and decaying patches in the structures that support it. Now I know that I am alone and that only I can see and touch the pieces.

 Images flicker across the television screen as I stare at it with interest. The streak of silver and blue shoots into the sky to catch a falling space station in his hands and I find myself wondering if he too with his power can see how sick the world really is. Then I see him save a parasite, a node of the infection that saps life from the world and my hope for a kindred soul wilts inside of me.

I flick my wrist and the television goes blank. I stretch out and then stand up from the uncomfortable hotel chair with a faint popping sound as my back cracks. I know it is time for me to act but I still wonder if there is another way. I want to heal, not to kill and death will come to many because of me even if the World can still be purged of the cancer that eats at it. For a moment my conviction wavers even as my hands reach out to turn the handle and open the door and I leave the motel room. 

But I remember pain and betrayal, the steak knife raised in my mother’s hand as love turned to hate, the way poor Uncle Richard was taken away as his mind failed him. The World is so far gone that it attacks itself, pieces of the World conspire to leave others to sicken and die. I will change this, I will heal this World.

The motel doors open for me and the bright light of the sun silhouettes me in the doorway as I walk out onto the streets of Lost Haven. Little Ulster, the part of Lost Haven that the cancer has corrupted and cut off. The parasites do not care because as long as the cancer festers away from their feeding grounds they are untouched and the weakened people become easy prey for them.

I know not if this is the right course, I must act. Why else would I have this power? 

I call to the World and I hear it answer as billions of tiny threads and pieces become clear to me. A deep breath fills my lungs as I take a final moment to ready myself. Then I change myself. It takes practice to change, to know which threads to pull and which pieces to alter so that a change is stable and I have practiced this change many times. My body ripples as I change the structures and finally the aesthetics change too. Wings grow from my back, my hair grows and changes, I feel my bones and flesh shift and rearrange as my new clothing forms around me too, a raiment fit for she who will heal the World.

I hear gasps as people see the changes and I say goodbye to my old appearance and body, knowing that I can never return to it. People look at me in shock, a crimson angel emerging from an ordinary girl; I even see one bow out of the corner of my eyes.

The air solidifies beneath my feet as I step into it and with a thought I am lifted up into the sky. I spread flightless wings and pose for a moment above the city as I gaze down at it. A network of streets for people to travel upon, and a network of causeways through which the parasites feed and the cancer spreads. 

The causeways are always the last part to fail, the cancer needs them to spread through the nodes of the city and the parasites use them to transport their ill-gotten gains. I do not know if fixing the decay in the buildings and infrastructure will cure the infection. Does the cancer follow the parasites or do the parasites follow the cancer? I can only learn by action. Even though the World made me so that I could heal it, it did not tell me how.

My hands rise and my wings curl around me while my vision distorts as I see the threads of the World and all the tiny building blocks that make the city below me. I imagine perfection below me as I hover over Little Ulster and with perfection in my mind I thrust my arms out and unfurl my wings. A wave of change sweeps out from me as I struggle to shape the change as I had imagined it.

Damaged buildings change as the air shivers and changes to patch holes seamlessly, potholes smooth over, graffiti is erased, and damage is undone. I am careful; the changes do not touch the people below, bending around them. But some buildings are not fixed and as the city shakes as if there is an earthquake many of the worst places in Little Ulster, the nodes of cancer and the lairs of petty parasites are dragged down into the earth. In their places I raise new structures, a park stands where once a gang infested tenement sprawled, fresh new apartments replace the slums, and derelict buildings are replaced with clean new ones.

I feel a pang of sorrow because no matter how careful I was to only unmake the worst places there would still be innocents lost. The changes stop and I feel my head pound as I continue to stare down at the newly remade part of the city.