He dreamed…
There was a hole in the sky, a portal to another world.
There was a city on fire; the Guardians of the Globe, Earth's greatest defenders, lay defeated, beaten, broken, and scattered throughout the city. Omni—Man, the world's greatest hero, was off-world trying to stop a continent-sized asteroid near the planet Mars.
Throughout the ruins of Shanghai, many other heroes scattered, some trying to help civilians, others injured, and many more died.
Screams and panic filled the air as a translucent bipedal humanoid entity floated above the clouds. The being was pale, tall, thin, and featureless. Around it, the sky lit up with a thousand stars, tiny shining orbs of extra-dimensional energy twinkling above the clouds as the pale being raised his hands.
A city was on fire, but he didn't care, people were screaming, but he didn't hear them.
He let himself go.
He sees himself. His torn hoody, burned and stained with patches of fresh blood. A piece of his shoe was missing and his jeans were worse for wear. A half-shattered kabuki mask hides half of his face, he is bleeding but doesn't feel it, the pain, or anything else at this moment. His eyes are bright and filled with excitement, his irises are glowing a bright blue with his pupils a blinding white, and he feels it as much as, if not greater than, the adrenaline pumping through his veins.
He feels it. A thrill greater than any drug known to man. Fear. Happiness. Euphoria. Challenge. Power. Freedom.
He laughs, his head leaning back with his arms spread wide apart. He wonders for a brief moment if this is how they felt, always so powerful, always saving the world, always the hero.
His fingers spread apart and curled softly as if to grab something with his outstretched hands, heart pounding in his chest. The wind rushes past him, a blur of freedom. His body feels weightless as he hovers above the city. A surge explodes through him and out of him like lightning coursing through his veins. His mind floods with warmth, clarity, and exhilaration. It's as if every nerve is alive, humming with energy.
He could feel all the intricate wavelengths that make up the world: energy waves, particles, frequencies, and everything else too, he could feel matter, he could feel electrons, neutrons, and so, so much more. He didn't even have the words to describe it, his 6th grade science class didn't cover this shit.
He feels his reach expand, blanketing over the whole city and it doesn't stop. Blood drips down his nose but he ignores it and with a thought the entire city joins him in the sky; buildings, trains, containers, ships, cars, entire city blocks, a lake, and even parts of the sea and a mountain too, everything and anything he touches bends to his will.
Even gravity.
A grin spreads across his face, uncontrollable, as the dopamine pours in, amplifying every moment, every second of this pure, unfiltered bliss.
He feels invincible.
The pale being sends his orbs, and the city becomes his shield, space bends to his will as more energy orbs stilled in the air before they could touch him, all of them held in place as the surrounding space contorted as if the very concept of motion suddenly vanished. With a thought, the orbs were flying back to the pale being at four times the speed of sound.
He watched himself laugh again, louder, happier, freer, and the world moved.
The city created a sky—bound duplicate of the moon when the mass collided with the pale entity. He willed the mass to condense to crush the pale being.
With a thought, he changed the atmosphere, grey clouds gathered above him as bright flashes of unnatural blue lightning crackled around him. A supercharged lightning storm gathered around him. He charged himself with lightning from the storm, photons, and everything else he could reach.
He was stronger now, so much more.
His smile widened as the pale being broke out the condensed mass in an explosion that repainted the atmosphere orange, yellow, and gold.
He remembers this moment. He was eight; this was his debut, and this was the incident that changed it all.
Even in a dream, this moment still haunted him. His lips — bleeding, bruised, and lightly torn — parted as if to say something.
"MAAAAAAATTT!"
***
"Mat!"
He woke to loud knocks on his door.
"Oi, open the goddamn door, it's almost noon already. Matt! I know you're in there. Open up!"
"Fuck Danny! I'm tryna sleep, what do you want, old man?!" Mathew Bale forced himself off the couch with a yawn. He lived in a small one-room apartment studio, this wasn't much, but it was home.
The banging on his door increased.
Mathew quickly rushed to the door and forced it open, ready to confront the fool who disturbed his slumber, the drowsy ten was more than willing to blast the fool to kingdom come. Mathew, however, had to stop himself when he met the scowling face of his landlord.
A cranky old man named Daniel Flint. Mr. Flint was a short, round man with a rather nasty scar over his right eye, with half his body covered in tattoos. A surprisingly well dressed Mr. Flint, too, Mathew noted that with a raised brow.
"Morning sunshine. Thanks to your lazy ass, I'm already running late." Mr. Flint checked his watch just to be sure.
"Ah huh, and you dragged your old rotting ass all the way to my flat to tell me that?" Mathew grumbled, not that he'd want to go back to sleep right now. He'd rather be awake than have that dream again. His nose twitched suddenly when he caught the scent of something funny. "Wait… is that? Is that Creed Aventus I smell? That's some expensive shit, and that get-up too. Looking pretty good for a walking corpse."
"Like I give a shit what you think."
Mathew met Mr. Flint's glare with a quirked brow. The old man merely glanced at his watch as he spoke. "I don't have time for this. Listen, kid. Rents due, you got a week, pay up or pack up."
"I mean it this time! And I ain't old, I'm vintage, bitch. Limited edition type shit." He said as he turned to leave.
Mr. Flint made sure to flip Mathew off on his way to the elevator.
Mathew rolled his eyes at the old man's antics and closed his door. He was too sleepy for this. Without giving much thought to the old man's antics, the young teen threw himself back on the couch, picked up his bong, and took a deep puff.
He didn't need a match.
Powers were a blessing like that. He held it in for a few breaths, he held it in for a moment longer, just enough to feel the urge to cough become unbearable before releasing the smoke from his lungs. Mathew breathed out slowly and steadily as he felt his body relax and his mind go numb with that soft, ever-present dull hum.
He closed his eyes a few moments later. "Yeah…" he sighed, "I could get used to this."
Hopefully, this time he'll have a better dream instead of going back to that city.
Shanghai.
Mathew took another hit, held it, let the smoke curl in his lungs. Always came back to Shanghai, didn't it? Even when he was high, even when he was dreaming, even when he was trying his damnedest not to think about it.
Gideon Bright died in Shanghai. That's what the shrinks said, back when the GDA still bothered with shrinks. 'A complete psychological break from his former identity.' Fancy words for a dead kid. At least Doc was hot.
Mathew Bale was born there too. In fire. In screaming. At the moment he lifted an entire city into the fucking sky because the heroes—the real heroes—weren't strong enough.
He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift toward the water-stained ceiling.
The Blue-Yonder. 'The boy who raised a city and scarred the moon.' Cute. Real cute. Mathew tore his eyes away from the poster on his wall.
They didn't mention the part where that boy killed his parents. Didn't mention the body count. Didn't mention that the kid who saved the world couldn't save the two people who actually mattered.
His fingers twitched. Muscle memory. He could still feel it sometimes—that rush, that high better than any drug. The moment when gravity stopped meaning anything and the whole world bent to his will. Every wavelength, every particle, every frequency singing through him like he was the universe's favorite instrument.
God, he'd felt invincible.
What a fucking joke.
Seven years old when it started. Lost in the woods during some family camping trip. He remembered the cave, remembered the blue crystals glowing like something out of a fairy tale. His parents found him three days later in that same cave. No crystals. They never talked about it. Never explained. Just… looked at him differently after that.
Then came the headaches. The spoon that moved when he stared at it too long. The chair that sent him to the nurse's office when he tried to pull it out with his mind.
But it grew. Of course it grew. The spoon became a table, and the table became a goddamn car.
For a while—God, for a while—it was everything he'd dreamed of. Secret hero of his shitty little town. Stopped muggings, found lost pets, made the local news. Had friends who knew. Had parents who loved him enough not to sell him out to the government. Had rules. Had control.
Had hope.
The bong sat heavy in his hands.
Eight years old in Shanghai when the Pale Man tore reality a new asshole. Eight years old when the Guardians of the Globe—Earth's mightiest defenders, the heroes he'd idolized, the heroes he'd dreamed of joining—got their asses handed to them. Eight years old when he learned that 'strong enough' was relative.
Eight years old when he decided to help. Just wanted to be a hero. That's all. That's it…
He saved the city. Saved the world if the eggheads were right about the Pale Man's dimensional bullshit. Saved everyone except the people who actually mattered. Too much power in hands too small. Lost control. Lost everything.
The GDA scooped him up after. 'Too volatile for extreme measures,' they said. 'Too unstable for proper transition methods.' Translation: too dangerous to dissect, too useful to waste and too broken to brainwash. So they 'helped' him instead. 'Fixed' him. Trained him. Raised him. Gave him purpose and missions and turned him into their personal nuke.
Worked for a while. Until it didn't.
Somewhere out there, a continent was missing a mountain range. Classified. Oops.
After that—and a few other 'incidents'—they'd reached an understanding. Monthly allowance. Apartment at fourteen. Limited freedom. A caretaker who checks in once a few times a month. And an off-switch, just in case the weapon got ideas. He was still at their back and call, like the GDA would let their contingency plan walk away that easily.
Mathew set the bong down, rubbed his eyes.
Three years of memories he'd rather forget. A few years of memories he couldn't remember at all. And here he was—seventeen, broke, high, and still stupid enough to want the same thing he'd wanted at seven.
Still wanted to be a hero. Still wanted to save people. Still wanted to fight villains and live the dream. Wanted to be the best, most powerful, most badass hero this messed-up world had ever seen.
Wanted a normal life too. Wanted his cake. Wanted to eat it.
His phone buzzed. Probably the GDA. Probably Uncle Sam calling in a favor.
Mathew closed his eyes and tried not to think about Shanghai.
He failed. He always failed when it mattered most.
And yet, despite his mistakes, despite the messed-up shit he's done, despite everything; he still wanted to be a hero. Mathew still wanted to save people, he still wanted to fight villains and live the dream he once had. He wanted to be the best, most powerful, most badass, most awesome hero this world has ever seen or will ever see. He wanted to live a normal life too.
Mathew Bale wanted it all, he wanted his cake, and he wanted to eat it too. He thought maybe, just maybe, he could be one, a real one.
'How fucked up was that?'
***Chapter End***