[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/M3SfSt4.png[/img][/center] As a Mach cone ripples the air in front of me, I see the pillar of smoke billowing up into the sky before I even see the skyline of Metropolis. A few seconds later, I’m diving down below rooftop level, heading towards the devastation in the middle of Hob’s Bay. I hear sirens from within the thick walls of smoke, and more on their way. I hear crackles and pops of electricity, like power cables on the ground. And I hear screams. Hob’s Bay is a mostly residential district, particularly for lower-income families. It’s better off than Southside, known to the locals as the “Suicide Slum,” but it’s hardly the most high-end part of the city. Normally, in the event of an attack, the usual targets would be a few blocks east in New Troy, home to the major tech firms and the financial district. Whoever’s doing this likely isn’t interested in money or hardware, then. Chances are they just wanted to get my attention. I’ll have to remind them to be careful what they wish for. Peering through the thick blanket of smoke, I see people calling out for help. An older man is lying on the pavement, pinned under a fallen street light. A couple is trapped inside an overturned car, calling out for someone to let them out. An apartment building is engulfed in flames, and on one of the top floors, a family of four huddles in the corner, choking on smoke. There are hundreds of other people ducked behind cover, out of harm’s way for the moment. There are a few others lying in the street, hanging out of broken windows, or in the seats of their cars, who aren’t moving at all. I’m too late to save them, but I can at the very least bring their killer or killers to justice. First things first, the family in the burning apartment building. I fly up to the floor they’re on, and focus my vision to see into the building. The upper floors have suffered major damage, and could collapse on themselves at any minute. The fire hasn’t spread to the family’s apartment itself, but smoke has filled the place and rubble has blocked the door. I’ll have to bring them down to ground level myself. I find a spot in the wall that’s far from the structural supports, and burst through into their living room. [b][color=#4a86e8]“Is ever--” [/color][/b]is all I’m able to get out before the sudden rush of fresh oxygen from the outside causes a backdraft, filling the apartment with a wave of flames. As the fire rushes towards the family, I speed towards them, holding my cape out to my sides to create as wide of a shield as I can. The fire washes over me, and I grit my teeth. The family screams, but looking down to them I can see they’re relatively safe as my cape--and my own body-- take the heat for them. Still, that was reckless, Clark. There’s got to be a safer way to do this. Most of the flash-fire burns itself out in a few short seconds, but even so, the smoke is thicker than ever, the heat unbearable. I need to get them out of here now, before it gets worse. [b][color=#4a86e8]“Sorry about that,” [/color][/b]I say, throwing my cape around to fan away as much of the smoke as I can. [color=#93c47d]"सुपरमैन! भगवान का शुक्र है!"[/color] the father exclaims. [color=#93c47d]“आपको हमें बाहर ले जाना चाहिए! कृपया, बच्चों को पहले बाहर निकालो!”[/color] My Hindi isn’t very good, but I’m able to pick out the words “children first.” I nod, and pick up the two children, a boy and a girl both elementary school age, and with a couple of long strides, leap from the window. I’m still not exactly the most gentle in the air, so our descent is more or less a freefall before I hit the brakes for the past few yards. The kids scream and cry, but at least they’re safe. I set them down on a stoop across the street, reassure them the best I can with what little I can speak of their language. [b][color=#4a86e8]“तुम यहाँ इंतज़ार करो, मुझे माँ मिलती है,” [/color][/b]I say, roughly meaning ‘you wait here, I get mother.’ I’m sure I sound like a caveman to them, but it’s the best I can do at the moment. Taking a few steps away from them so they don’t get caught in my gravitational wake, I hurl myself back upwards into the apartment, and appear again a few seconds later with their mother, then go back again for their father. As I touch down with their father around my arm, the apartment building’s roof and upper floors begin to topple in on themselves, crushing their home beneath several tons of rubble. The kids begin to cry again, while their mother tries to comfort them. [color=#6aa84f]“धन्यवाद, सुपरमैन, बहुत बहुत धन्यवाद!” [/color]the father thanks me. [color=#6aa84f]“हम वहां फंस गए थे, उस भयानक महिला ने हमें बिजली के साथ हमला किया!”[/color] Again, my Hindi’s not great, but I’m able to pick out a few words. “Trapped,” “horrible woman,” and “lightning.” I get a sinking feeling in my gut with the last one, as I start to think of who might be behind this. [b][color=#4a86e8]“सुरक्षित जाओ,” [/color][/b]I say, which I’m pretty sure is just ‘go safe.’ Still, despite sounding like I’m doing a bad impression of Frankenstein’s monster, the father nods, and starts to herd his family towards a staircase down the street leading to an underground subway station. With that out of the way, next priority is the old man trapped under the street light. Getting him free from underneath is simple enough, as I’m able to lift the pole with one hand and set it aside. Moving him, though, is another story-- his leg has been smashed to pulp. [color=#b45f06]“Aaagh, aww God!” [/color]he cries out when I try to move him. [color=#b45f06]“I can’t--I can’t move!”[/color] [b][color=#4a86e8]“Okay,” [/color][/b]I say, trying not to crowd him, [b][color=#4a86e8]“I’m gonna find a way to get you to a doctor, all right?”[/color][/b] Still clutching at his leg in agony, the man nods. Not far from here, I hear the sound of ambulance sirens, so that’s encouraging. With paramedics in the area, I hopefully won’t have to fly him all the way to the hospital. Still, I can’t carry him in his current state. Looking around, I see a construction site, and a dump truck parked at the curb. Perfect. I don’t fly so much as make a long jump to the site, cracking the pavement beneath my feet when I land. Heading to the back of the dump truck, I grab hold of the tailgate, my fingers sinking into the steel like clay, and with one good heave and a loud screech of twisting metal, I pull it off the hinges. Carrying the tailgate back to the old man, I set it down next to him. [b][color=#4a86e8]“I’m going to get you to someone who can help,” [/color][/b]I tell him, [b][color=#4a86e8]“but to do that, I need to move you onto this, like a stretcher. It’s probably going to hurt a bit, but it’s better than leaving you here.”[/color][/b] [color=#b45f06]“Right,” [/color]the man says, [color=#b45f06]“I gotcha.”[/color] With a grunt of strain and gritted teeth, he slides himself onto the makeshift stretcher. I grab one end of it. [b][color=#4a86e8]“Hold on tight,” [/color][/b]I tell him. He nods, and grabs the edge of the tailgate. I raise the end of it up just enough that I can get under it, then lift it onto my back, and take to the air as delicately as I can. Normally, I’m able to just force my way through the air without much trouble, but moving slowly actually requires a lot more energy. I think it’s a matter of how much I have to focus on my body and whatever-- or in this case, whoever-- I’m carrying, and the greater amount of concentration I have to exert, the greater the strain it has on me. If lifting a huge object while airborne feels like keeping all of my muscles flexed at once, this is like having to do that while also building a house of cards. By the time I’m able to find the ambulance and set him down so the paramedics can treat him, I’ve got a splitting headache. [color=#b45f06]“Thanks,” [/color]the man says with some relief, [color=#b45f06]“you’re a lifesaver. I didn’t think I had chance. That blue-haired woman just came outta nowhere.”[/color] I frown, as he confirms my suspicions. If it really is her, more than this neighborhood might be in danger. I head back to the street to find the couple in the overturned car. This one should be easy, just turn the car upright and-- [b][i]KRA-KOOOOOOM!!!!!![/i][/b] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/iN0w9mi.png[/img][/center] [b][color=#4a86e8]“NO!” [/color][/b]I shout as the car explodes, arcs of cerulean lightning dancing in the smoke and fire. [b][color=#00ffff]“Therrrre you are,” [/color][/b]says a voice from inside the plumes of fire. [b][color=#00ffff]“I was startin’ to worry you wouldn’t show. But now I got my chance to get back at you fer puttin’ me away.”[/color][/b] Emerging from the inferno is a woman, with gray skin and electric blue hair standing up in spikes. She has a playful grin on her face, but her eyes burn with a searing hatred. Electrical sparks crackle and pop from her hands. A few months ago, Leslie Willis was an activist and local media personality, riding the same sort of “Beware the Superman” narrative that people like G. Gordon Godfrey like to spin. She held a rally in Centennial Park, which quickly turned into a riot. I tried to intervene when someone in the crowd pulled a gun and opened fire, hitting an electrical generator next to Willis and causing it to explode. It should have killed her on the spot, but the combination of my getting in the way at the last split-second to take most of the voltage and her own latent meta-gene awakening transformed her into a being made of electrical plasma. Blaming me for what happened, she declared Leslie Willis to be dead-- killed by Superman-- and in her place was her new identity….. [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPrzkLw.jpg?1[/img][/center] [b][color=#4a86e8]“Livewire,” [/color][/b]I scowl, balling up my fists and getting ready for a fight. [b][color=#00ffff]“Nice to see you too, Superman,” [/color][/b]she sneers, forming balls of plasma around her hands. [b][color=#00ffff]“Now how’s about you an’ me have ourselves a dance?”[/color][/b]