Mole
TokyoPewPew
Antlers
Aksiram
Captain Uni
JFK
AuthorialTheory
MaeB
Stryder BC
STATIC: CRISIS EPILOGUE
An earth-shattering boom rouses him from his dream. Storms are like monsters under the bed. A moment later, rainfall ruins his hopes of trying to sleep again. A yawning Virgil slowly crawls out of his bed. It's dark but navigating the corners of his house is second nature to him. He climbs down the stairs, one step at a time, stomach growling for a bowl of cereal.
By the time he makes it down to the living room, he notices that the front door is open. For a moment, he thinks a thief has broken into their house. He snorts at the thought. A thief tried to break into Black Lightning’s house. The silhouette of a person is standing in the doorway, looking out towards the streets with drenched gutters of rainwater. His dad freezes, caught like a deer in headlights. Worry begins to worm and nestle inside Virgil’s gut. It's not because he’s carrying an overstuffed suitcase, bursting at the seams. It's not the fact that his right cheek is stamped with a red mark that looks suspiciously like a hand.
It's the fact that his dad, the Black Lightning, is scared that makes Virgil so nervous.
Black Lightning shouldn’t be scared. What could a superhero be afraid of anyway?
His face is a muddled mess of anger, sadness and regret. He flinches away from Virgil's confused face and says two words that stick with him forever.
“ I- I’m sorry.”
For what? He doesn’t have the chance to reply back as his dad disappears in a blinding flash of light, leaving him with only the pitter-patter of raindrops for company.
His mom came down a minute later, something strange on her face. Virgil hugs her because that's the only thing he knows how to do. Something wet drops onto his pajamas.
It must be the rain.
Warmth.
Lights overhead.
Where was he?
No, he's not in Dakota City, nor is he five years old anymore. His mind scrambles to remember where he currently is right now. New York. The tower. He blew it up. It’s hard to make out the surrounding details. He tries to move his right leg...and it doesn’t want to budge. Left leg….no luck. Negotiating with his right arm resulted in a spike of pain that makes him shout a few curse words out loud that would have earned him an ear-pinching from his father.
He hears the sounds of graphite snapping against something hard. He looks up and sees an adult woman in white garb, black circles around her shocked eyes. She waves and motions towards someone out of sight. Moments later, a bespectacled sandy-haired man wearing a coat comes into view. He makes out a badge that reads ‘ CAMPBELL’. It’s seeing the stethoscope around his neck that makes Virgil realises that he’s in a hospital.
“ Easy there. You’ve been out for at least several hours and your body’s still recovering.’ The person begins pulling out instruments, poking and prodding at him.
“ Am...am I dead?” His throat feels like waxy sandpaper, gargling out each syllable in a pained grimace.
“ If that’s your first question after waking up, then, I’d be more worried about your choice in career, son.” The doctor replies testily to his question as he flashes a light in front of Virgil’s eyes like an annoying fly. The hazy fog of fatigue disappears over time throughout the impromptu examination. Craning his neck slowly from side to side, he can make out the disinfected white walls of a hospital building, with droves of patients flooding in from all over the city. Doctors and nurses rush to and fro, ushering new arrivals down towards operation rooms and medical bays.
“ W-” His dry throat makes it hard for him to enunciate properly. The doctor offers a paper cup of water in his hand. He takes it and sips it slowly. “ W-where am I?”
“ Columbia Hospital. One of our emergency team found you unconscious on Staten Island. You could imagine the shock we got when you still had a pulse. I’d be more worried about long-term symptomatic damage in your right arm. Third degree electrical burns aren’t exactly something that you can just brush off.”
The doctor stares pointedly towards Virgil’s right arm. He looks down and the sight is enough to make Virgil retch. The EKG on his right briefly fizzes and shakes in spastic seizures. Burned was an understatement to Virgil. Barbecued would be more appropriate. Blisters lined his cherry-red palms, scar-skin zig-zagging all the way up to his elbow like a demented tattoo. His fingerprints had been sanded away by high-voltage current into the texture of baby-skin. The feeling of numbness prickled in his nerves with every tug he forced into his fingers. It was less a question of how he survived and more why he wasn't lying in the morgue right now.
The only silver lining in this whole mess is that at least he didn’t break his right arm again. He notices a mess of papers stacked loosely on top of a tabletop beside him. There are multiple cards by his bedside. Hastily scrawled binder notes of one-word expressions of gratitude in ink. Pastel crayon doodles of him on the bridge. Get well cards. A box of chocolates (He’s allergic to hazelnut, but he doesn’t bother to tell the doctor).
He then looks back at the scene of chaos around him. It feels like a hollow victory.
“ Thank you. For everything." Virgil whispered " But, I just need some time alone to myself.”
" Of course."
Virgil lets his head rest on top of the pillow and lets out a sign of unbearable exhaustion that has been building up within him ever since the start of the attack.
How was he going to explain this to Dad?
It’s a Monday midnight by the time he arrives back at Dakota. His house is located in the outer boroughs of Hemingway. The sound of chirping crickets fill the air as he slowly opens the door and closes it. He hears the click of a light switch. His dad is sitting on his couch, eyes bloodshot and glaring at Virgil with as much anger he can muster.
" Sorry for not calling..." Virgil lifted up a broken phone from his pocket. " I think I still have warranty."
“ Never-mind that!" His dad stands up. " Young man, do you know how much you had me worried - “
He ambushes his dad with a silent hug that says more than a thousand excuses. A moment later, arms wrap around his shoulder in a fatherly embrace. He pushes his face into his chest and exhales slowly.
“ I need to tell you something, Dad.”
" We'll talk about it over on the dinner table." There's a gentle pat on his back. " Now, come on in. There's a plate of ricotta I've been saving for you in the fridge...."
