"Our next puzzle is ‘Person.’ Vanna, if you would--"

"--Mission Impossible: 2. Own it on DVD--"

"--United Kingdom in a state of national emergency--"

"--keeps going and going and going--"

"--Unbreakable. Starts Friday everywhere--"

"--telling you, these so-called superheroes are a menace! Look at the property damage they cause! Look at the massive amounts of pain and suffering! And it’s obvious they have some other agenda on hand! Why--"

"--controversy surrounding the Florida balloting process after some six hundred votes for Pat Buchannon were declared invalid--"

"--tomorrow on Jerry Springer: ‘My Daughter is a Lesbian Superhero’--"

"--I’ll take a ‘C,’ Pat--"

"--a look at the Universe through the Hubble Telescope--"

"--and the beauty of this ring is that white gold simply compliments everything. Just look at the way it shines--"

"--‘Is It In You?’--"

"--get your Razor scooter only from Sharper Image. Visit us on the web at sharperimage dot-com--"

"--still no idea who the superhuman ‘John Doe’ was that crashed into Fifth Avenue last month, causing thousands of collars in property damage--"

"--new Lexus ES300. The ultimate in personal luxury--"

"--tonight, on Titans--"

"--I am Sci-Fi!--"

"--aren’t actually going to sit there and tell me the same old paranoid story about superheroes and government conspiracy, are you? Jeff, you’re starting to sound like a bad episode of the X-Files. Without the Protectorate and other such agencies and heroes, who would oppose supercriminals?--"

"--I’d like to buy a vowel, Pat. An ‘I’--"

"--next on MTV, videos by Snoop Dogg, Limp Bizkit, and the latest from Run-DMC--"

"--rumors of Madonna being engaged--"

"--only further increases the controversy surrounding the Harry Potter series--"

"--Frasier, weeknights at six-thirty--"

"--TV Land! See the glory of the Golden Era! Father Knows Best, Leave It To Beaver, The Andy Griffith Show--"

"--all right, then, Bobby. Forget the cover-ups for the time being. How about the glad-handling? Look at Knock-out and Omega. They have sponsors, for Christ’s sake! They’re staring in movies! My father would have cringed at the thought of Old Glory or Patriot selling out for cash! Heroes these days... they just don’t stand up to the meaning of the word--"

"--don’t forget to watch the Thanksgiving Day Parade, only here on NBC--"

"--don’t even have a new President yet, and already we have a scandal--"

"--possible metahuman super-battle unfolded around the 4th Street Power Station. While police cordoned off the area, NEST officials assessed the damage--"

"--I’d like to solve the puzzle, Pat."

November 22, 2000.
Powerdyne Research Facility.
Queens, New York.

Zack grunted in pain as he was hurled to the ground, gouging a ten-foot trench in the fresh asphalt of the parking lot. Dirt and fragments of pavement rained down around him, and smoke sizzled from a nasty wound on his chest. Tatters of his shirt hung around his lean, muscular frame, their edges smoldering with heat.

He looked up from his temporary resting place, gingerly rubbing the back of his head as he glared at the figure before him. His foe was a tall, frightening figure, skeletal in appearance, surrounded by a field of strange, purplish energy that seemed to change its shape with every movement of the being. It had talon-like hands and a maniacal gleam in its high as it waded through the rubble that surrounded him.

All about the two combatants, the scene was like London after years of Nazi bombing; walls stood with jagged spires and exposed, twisted metal, wires hanging impotent and doorframes standing empty. The chilly air swirled through the smoke and steam that rose from exposed pipes and cracks in the ground, making the entire area look like a dark cauldron. And like from a cauldron of witches’ brew, the figure that advanced upon Zachary Mason looked truly like a demon conjured up from Hades.

"Your first mistake was to attack me, boy," gloated the figure as it took slow, deliberate steps toward Zack. "Your second was to prolong your death!"

Zack glared back, but said nothing. To go through everything I’ve endured, he thought, just to have some power-mad, would-be world-beater flatten me into the ground. Is this how I end up? Is this my final destiny?

How the hell did I get into this?

Seven days earlier.

"I don’t want to be a hero," he said as he closed one of numerous books before him. Virginia Mason, his benefactor and guide to the twenty-first century, he managed to procure numerous books on the history of the latter half of the twentieth century. Having been catapulted through time, from 1960 to the year 2000, the young man the world had once known as Wonder Boy had a lot of catching up to do. And a lot of changes to adapt to.

One of those changes had been a new identity, which a flamboyant friend of Virginia’s had provided. It was not quite clear to the anachronistic teenaged young man, but computers had something to do with the generation of his new identity. Virginia had supplied the name, created a fictitious nephew for herself in the name of Zachary W. Mason.

Since then, Wonder Boy had insisted on being called Zack. It was as if the young man had wholeheartedly taken to the idea of starting a new life in this future time, so far removed from his own history that he wanted not the slightest mention of his previous superhero, or normal, identity.

Maybe this is my reward, Zack had thought at first. After all he had been through in the previous eighteen months of his life, what with the sorcerous plans of Socothbenoth, the murderous rampage of the Mad Hatter, the mindless power of the Brute, an endless array of robbers, thieves, murderers and burglars, and then the scandal of his heritage, the congressional hearing, the implication of his former Nazi scientist father having created him to undermine American security, and the subsequent massacre at the Empire State Building . . . .

Maybe this is my reward, thought Zack. Maybe this is the chance I have to act like a normal person. A chance to go to the movies, to walk around downtown, to take the train across the country, maybe even to race cars on the back roads like James Dean.

This is my chance to be a human being, not just some flashy super-hero with a catchy name and a righteous fury.

Virginia stared at him, somewhat shocked at Zack’s words. The young man she had once known as Wonder Boy, the classic good-looking hero with the bright eyes and easy smile, whom she had loved as a girl of fourteen, would never say such a thing. Never.

"You... what did you say?" she asked in the voice she had owned forty years before, when she wasn’t a doctor, when she wasn’t a child of the sixties, when she hadn’t already been married and raised two kids.

Zack sighed. Maybe he had not been around so-called ‘real’ people too often before, but he understood enough of basic human reactions to recognize when someone was shocked.

"I’ve given it a lot of thought, Ginny," he said. "This is my only chance to be a normal person. I’ve been a freak all my life. I--"

"I never thought you were a freak," interrupted Virginia. She still wore her hospital scrubs that marked her as chief resident at New York General Hospital. Having finished a thirteen-hour rotation, she was not quite prepared for Zack’s surprising news flash.

Zack smiled wanly, lowering his eyes for a moment. "I know that, and I know that no one who ever meant anything to me ever said that. But that’s how I feel, and right now, all I want to do is feel good about what I am. And being a full-time superhero is no life... at least, not a long one."

"But Andrew," said Virginia, momentarily forgetting their agreement not to use Zack’s real name, not even when alone. "No one said you have to be full-time. A lot of superheroes these days have secret identities... hell, a lot of them did in your day. Can’t you just--?"

"No," said Zack quickly, standing abruptly. He sighed. "I don’t know. Maybe. I thought of that, too, but... Ginny, you wanna know what I’m really thinking?"

Virginia took a seat in the small office of her Queensborough home. The place was cluttered with the history books that Zack had been voraciously reading over the previous few weeks, since coming to in the hospital bed and realizing where and when he was. That had not been an easy revelation, and Virginia knew that Zack occasionally acted like this was all some sort of evil, elaborate plan by one of his former Golden Era enemies. She could not fault him his paranoia; the young man had spent his formative years thwarting crimes and being exposed to some of the most frightening and unusual experiences anyone could imagine. Constant suspicion and cynicism just came naturally to Zack, she supposed.

"All right, then... Zack," she said, carefully choosing the name. "What are you thinking?"

Zack took a deep breath, as if ready to part with his most cherished secret. Then, with a nervous laugh, he blurted it out: "I want a girlfriend."

Virginia blinked. "Come again?"

Zack smiled in embarrassment. "I want someone to... you know, hang out with. My girl. My main squeeze. My bobbie. My steady."

Virginia stared back with a mixture of emotions playing behind her unreadable face. Then, finally, she chuckled at the realization of what Zack meant. "Oh my God," she breathed. "I never realized. You’re a virgin!"

Zack’s face clouded with an even darker shade of red. "Hey, come on," he said. "I ain’t that unschooled."

Virginia covered her mouth and stifled her amusement as best she could. When it all came down to it, Wonder Boy was just like any other eighteen-year-old boy: chock full of raging hormones.

"Okay," she said after she recovered from her fit of laughter. She looked up into Zack’s scowling face. "But there are a few things you have to take into consideration."

Zack folded his arms defensively. "I’ve already heard the ‘birds and the bees’ talk," he said.

"I’m sure you have," said Virginia, letting her grey-blond hair free from the pink scrungy she wore. "But a lot has changed in forty years, Zack. And you, talking like a rockabilly, wearing bowling shirts and too much hair gel, might be a little too... well, let’s just say you might have to make a few changes yourself."

Zack looked himself over as Virginia critiqued both his language habits and sense of fashion. He wore one of Virginia’s ex-husband’s shirts, blue and black with a rose pattern above each breast. The man had been of average height and build, and had evidently been a snappy dresser in the fifties and early sixties. Zack was glad Virginia happened to have a couple boxes of the old man’s clothes in the attic.

"What’s wrong with the way I dress?" he asked.

Virginia’s smile remained reassuring. "It’s a little out-dated, Zack."

Zack pursed his lips tightly. "I like it," he said, then sighed. "Okay. So how should I dress?"

Virginia sighed heavily. "Well, that, I couldn’t help you with too well. I’d have to find someone more your age."

"I see a lot of clothes that people wear on TV," said Zack. "Those advertisements for The Gap."

Virginia nodded. "That’s a start. So, you’ve gotten used to modern TV?"

Zack frowned. "That might take a while. Especially some of those... cable stations? Those..." His face turned crimson again.

"Okay, anyway," said Virginia, changing the subject. "I think what it comes down to is that you really don’t know what the world is like out there, right now. So much is different, Zack. Our Presidents have sex scandals. People become famous just by being loudmouthed and stupid. Everybody’s food is cooked in a cubic-foot microwave and ten-year-olds carry guns to school. There are a lot of things about this age that you have to get used to."

Zack listened intently to Virginia’s words and began to feel overwhelmed. He sagged against a paper-strewn desk with a heartfelt sigh. "You know, I always figured the future was going to be a better time. For some stupid reason, I thought that by now, by the year 2000, we wouldn’t be worrying about war or supervillains anymore. But it’s a lot more violent now than it ever was in the fifties."

Virginia nodded sagely. "Yeah, we all thought that. I don’t think anyone knows where we screwed up, but we sure as hell did. But that’s beside the point."

"And the point is," said Zack. "I want to live a normal life. I want... I want a job, a girlfriend, a place of my own someday."

Virginia looked down at her hands, counting the wrinkles. "I don’t mean to insult you, but I think you’re being a little selfish, Zack."

Zack stared at her, quiet.

She raised her head. "Have you ever thought that you have your powers for a reason?"

Zack laughed derisively. "I’m an accident, Ginny," he said bitingly. "For the first sixteen years of my life, I could barely move, or eat, or do anything else on my own. Then my father hooks me up to machines that are just supposed to cure me, but instead they transform me into a flying powerhouse. Trust me, Ginny, my powers are not the result of any divine intervention or great cosmic plan. That’s for guys like Old Glory, or... or Patriot."

Virginia leaned back and stared out the window. There was a torrent of emotions cascading through her mind, from disappointment to sympathy to outrage to depression. On the one hand, there was the mother in her, worrying about Zack, wanting the best for him. On the other, there was the fourteen-year-old girl who wanted her hero back. It was almost impossible for her to reconcile her feelings.

"I can’t tell you what to do, Zack," she said.

"I don’t want you to tell me what to do," said Zack, feeling defensive. "I don’t want you to do anything." He headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" asked Virginia.

Zack paused for a moment. "I don’t know," he said. "But I don’t want to stay here."

The lonely hill was slightly wind-swept, but sunny and bright. A few ancient trees dotted the landscape, providing shade for the squirrels and rabbits that boldly ventured to this area that was so often interrupted by the intrusion of man. It was a quiet, almost peaceful place, the kind of place that seemed perfectly suited for a cemetery.

Zack stood before one of the numerous headstones that seemed haphazardly scattered about, as if each new grave had been interred on its own, with no regard for symmetry or planning. Each headstone was its own monument, and existed on its own like granite or marble pebbles cast casually upon a grassy field.

The headstone was simple: "Emil Fantastisch, Born May 4, 1912, Died January 8, 1986." It gave no indication to the life the man had lived, and listed no survivors, such as his wife... or his son.

"You told me once that I had a strange destiny to live," said Zack, eyes focusing on a random crack in the granite. "But I don’t think even you could have foreseen this."

He thrust his hands into the pockets of the leather jacket he wore. It was made of a thin, suede-like material that seemed to mold itself to Andrew’s build. Andrew had never seen a jacket like it. Virginia said it was the fashion of the time. The same thing, however, did not go for the black shoes and the rose-dotted bowling shirt Zack wore. But he was not about to simply hurl himself into this future world entirely. A part of him still felt that he would awaken at any moment, and find himself laying in the street on park Avenue, with Patriot standing over him.

Part of him felt that his father would show up at any moment and take him home.

Home... the Laboratory, that’s what Zack’s father had always called it. But to Zack, it had always been home. That was where he had lived much of his youth, in a glass bubble the size of a living room, insulated against the thousands of trace elements and germs in the air, any one of which could have killed him.

Now it was a warehouse for some company called "Wal-Mart."

And his father was in the ground... where he had been buried nearly fifteen years before.

At least he did not die in an Israeli prison, thought Zack. Contrary to Senator Harrison’s words, the Israeli War Crime Council had been a little more forgiving.

But he still had to bury his own son... or so he believed.

"I wish I could tell you," said Zack. "I wish I could say everything I should have said, and you would hear me. But I can’t. I don’t know what to think, dad. About you, about mom, about everything that had been my life. Part of me feels like I owe you my life, because you gave it to me -- twice. But part of me also feels like you should’ve just let me go. I didn’t want to be a hero, not at first. But then, it became the only thing I knew, the only thing I was good at. I started to think that was all I was ever going to be, that it was my only life... and that it would have been a short one."

He hung his head for a moment, a mixture of embarrassment and frustration welling within him. He had never been able to talk like this to his father when the man was alive, and now, talking to his grave, Zack felt both childish and defeated. Defeated, because this was the only way he could say what was on his mind.

"Now, all of a sudden, I have another chance. I can be someone else. I hate to say it, dad, but I’m going to take it. I want to know what it’s like to be normal."

He stood before the grave for a long moment, as if waiting for a response of some sort. Then, finally, as the wind picked up and dead leaves began to swirl and rustle around his feet and sail through the air, the young man turned and made his way down the hill, leaving behind not only his father, but also a portion of himself. Gone was the person the world once knew as Wonder Boy.

In his place was Zachary Mason.

Three days ago.

Overlooking the East River, T.G.I. Friday’s was a pretty popular restaurant. Situated in a western Queens business complex with only a small mom-and-pop place as local competition, Friday’s was always busy. And it was always looking to hire quality people, or so it said on the scrolling marquee above the red and white awning outside the entrance.

Zack Mason stepped off the QB-3 bus just across the street from Friday’s, a folded and wrinkled newspaper in his hand. He had been to half a dozen businesses already, spoken with managers and hiring personnel. The experience had begun to make him feel more comfortable with the prospect of finding a job.

"Why do you want a job?" Virginia had asked.

"How else can I learn?" Zack had responded. "Look. I’ve been spending weeks at the library, reading up on the last forty years. That can only get me so far. I have to know what life is like right now, right here. The best way, I figure, is getting a job."

After speaking with the brown-haired girl at the front podium, Zack sat on a small bench from where he could see the restaurant’s bar. The bar was much more impressive and functional than anything he had imagined or seen in his scant experience with such places. Bottles lined the shelves and mirrored walls. Racks of glasses were suspended above the bar, where the cigarettes of the few patrons trailed smoke up into them. And the bartender herself, a somewhat older woman with bright red hair, was demonstrating an admirable amount of dexterity as she idly tossed bottles of liquor about in the air.

The employees of the restaurant were strange-looking people. They wore black pants and red and white striped shirts, with vests or suspenders decorated with buttons, bows, ribbons... this one guy even had small teddy bears attached to his suspenders! And everyone wore a hat... some were just basic baseball-type hats, others were outlandish and totally out of their element... like a top hat, what looked like an Army officer’s hat, a sailor’s cap, and a long-tailed stocking cap.

Zack couldn’t help but let his eyes follow some of the young women who worked in the place. His initial shock at the dress styles of this future world, and the obvious lack of modesty among many women and girls, had faded somewhat, and he allowed himself the luxury of unabashed interest. There was one young woman, in particular, whose black slacks seemed to have been painted on... there was little left to the imagination.

"Zachary?"

Zack snapped out of his reverie with a start and stood as a man approached him. He was skinny, pale-skinned, with thick, dark hair and some razor burns on his neck. He wore a blue shirt with a gold tie, and a nametag above his left breast bore the name "Don."

"You prefer Zachary or Zack?"

"Zack, actually," responded the youth. He accepted Don’s hand and shook it. The other man winced.

"Hell of a grip you got there, Zack," said Don. He had the accent that identified him as being born and raised in the area. He started walking back toward a row of booths beside the bar. Zack followed.

"You want a pop? Mountain Dew, orange soda, Coke?"

Zack frowned for a moment. He only recognized one of them. "Sure," he said. "Coke."

"Be right back," said Don, and headed toward the bar. Zack took the moment to look himself over. Virginia had helped him modernize his wardrobe, and today, he wore khaki slacks, a dark blue dress shirt, a gold and blue tie, and a leather jacket that Virginia had purchased as something of a present. Zack still refused to change his hair style. He liked the pompadour flip; Virginia said he was stubborn.

Don returned with Zack’s soda in a wide-rimmed glass and set a straw in a paper wrapper beside it. He slid into the booth across from Zack, tapping several sheets of paper on the wood surface before him. Don had a very casual, lackadaisical attitude, Zack noticed. He wondered if all the managers were this way. He could not see how any of them received their jobs. Of course, Virginia did say that people were different these days. More relaxed, less uptight.

Zack never considered himself uptight.

"So...," began Don, drawing the sound out. He spread the pages out before him, including Zack’s application, which had been filled out the day before. Zack had been surprised that he had received a call back from this restaurant so soon after placing an application. He had expected to wait at least a week. It did take time to call references, even if they were friends of Virginia’s who had agreed to lie for him, didn’t it?

"Normally, we prefer to hire people with some experience in restaurants, but Tracy was pretty impressed with you yesterday."

Tracy, thought Zack. The young woman he had spoken with after filling out the application. Zack was under the impression that she was a waitress when he spoke with her. Maybe she was some sort of trainer.

"Thank you, sir," said Zack.

Don smiled disarmingly. "You don’t have to call me sir. We’re pretty casual around here."

"Yes, sir," said Zack with a sharp nod. Then he smiled. "Sorry ‘bout that. Old habit, I guess."

Don returned the smile. He liked Zack already. "Okay, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty."

Zack narrowed his eyes in mild confusion but said nothing.

"We’d like to offer you a position with us. We have an opening to fill as a server. I believe that’s what Tracy said you were looking for."

"Actually, I wanted a job as a waiter," said Zack.

Don smiled. "Same thing," he said. "Where are you from? You sound local, but . . . ."

Zack felt a little nervous, but he managed to hide it. "Sorry . . . Don," he said. "This is my first job, so I guess I’m a little nervous."

"Don’t sweat it," said Don. "Like I said, we’re real casual here. We have a good crew, and a lot of experienced servers. In a couple’s weeks, you won’t be feeling this nervous."

Zack smiled genuinely. It suddenly occurred to him that he had just been hired. He could not believe how nervous he had been when he began searching for gainful employment. He did not remember feeling so out of sorts when he was tracking down the Mad Hatter or going toe-to-toe with the Brute. Funny how the human brain puts different things in perspective.

"Okay, then," said Don, shuffling the pages again. "Let’s get you started. I’m going to need your Social Security card and Driver’s License..."

Today.

Zack looked at the device in his hands. It was an almost flat piece of metal and plastic, and weighed maybe half a pound. He was amazed at how such a small contraption could supply crystal-clear music, via a set foam-covered speakers that attached to his head by a slender piece of metal. And what was even more amazing was the medium for playing the music; a little disc, made of shimmering plastic, which fit snugly into the hatch atop the device. Virginia told him it was called a "compact disc player."

Does that mean there are larger discs?

Music flooded his senses as he stood on the corner of Lexington and Fifth Avenue. After having been assaulted over the previous weeks with what passed for music these days, he was glad to hear something a little more familiar.

"...one for the money

"two for the show

"three to get ready

"and go, cat go

"but don’t you

"step on my blue suede shoes..."

The King. Zack couldn’t believe that Elvis Presley was dead. Sure, the man would be in his late sixties now, but... and to die of a drug overdose while sitting on the toilet...

Oh, how the mighty fall, thought Zack. But the man’s music was still good.

He lingered on a street corner on Lexington, within the shadow of the Empire State Building, the skeletal radio tower atop it a reminder of days gone by... and not all good ones.

But I’m a different man now, thought Zack. No more flying through the air with the greatest of ease.

He could have easily flown through the city to get to where he wanted to go, but just as he had taken the bus to his new job, he had taken the same mode of transportation on this day, transferring three times before he ended up in the heart of Manhattan. He had the day off from work, having completed the first two days of training under the wing of a skinny black man named Avery. Zack found the job of being a waiter -- make that "server" -- an easy one to adapt to. The principle was simple enough, but Zack had not thought of all the extra work that went with the job. But with all that he had been through, tackling the job of handling customers and keeping up with sidework was a relative breeze.

But today, he was thankful for the day off. He needed some time to himself, to enjoy the sounds and sights of the city. He truly believed that there could be nothing like New York City in late autumn. Sure, there was a chill coming down from the north, and people all around were wearing winter coats with hats on their heads. But Zack was comfortable in just black jeans, a red polo shirt, and his black leather jacket. Maybe he wasn’t in the habit of bench-pressing trucks anymore, but he could still enjoy the benefits of his thicker skin and more efficient metabolism. The cold rarely bothered him, a feature he always found handy when flying around in brightly-colored underwear.

He walked south, following no particular route. He had thought of heading up to Central Park and checking out whatever changes had been made to the zoo, but he wanted the comfort of being surrounded by brick and concrete, glass and steel. This is what Manhattan was all about, he thought. The sidewalk cafes, the hot dog vendors, the taxi cabs, the street people--

Lost in thought, Zack did not realize he was in the path of a swiftly-moving black man, his hair strangely twisted into long, rope-like strands that framed his head like Medusa’s snakes. The man bumped roughly into Zack, staggering slightly as Zack took a half-step to his right to maintain his balance.

"Oh, sorry, man," said the stranger. "My bad."

Zack frowned as the man continued on his way. By this time, Elvis was singing ‘Jail House Rock,’ and the song did not seem to go with the stranger’s comment.

‘My bad?’ What did that mean?

Zack shook his head and continued on his way. Just another example of the strangeness of this modern era, he decided. Even the fact that that particular man was walking on the streets, dressed the way he was, with his hair in that fashion, was almost alien to Zack. In 1960, black men had not been necessarily rare on New York’s streets, but they certainly did not dress in that fashion... or have hair like that.

Progress, thought Zack. Progress. He supposed it was a result of the black American population trying to find their own identity. Reverend Martin Luther King, jr. had begun preaching that, Zack remembered.

Now he’s dead, too. Murdered just a few years after Wonder Boy vanished.

Along with JFK and Bobby Kennedy. It seemed that almost everyone who was trying to make some changes in the sixties ended up dead. Zack wondered if there had been some kind of conspiracy to those deaths.

He wondered if people even thought about that now.

The afternoon wore on, with the sun beginning to dip below the tallest of New York’s buildings. Zack’s shadow stretched out along the walls to his left as he walked up along First Avenue. The sights of those venerable old buildings comforted him. Little had changed here, except that instead of Plymouth Furies and Chevy Bel Airs parked along the avenues, there were Toyotas and Nissans and Lexus sedans. Zack thought that was funny. In the late fifties, the threats of Russia and Cuba made America almost isolationist. It was as if people were afraid of any hint of invasion from a foreign country.

Now, America gladly opened their arms to the imports of Japan and Germany and China and South America. Few things, Zack noticed, carried the label "Made In America" anymore. People seemed to prefer it that way, and maybe that’s what we need, thought Zack. More open borders, less paranoia. Zack had noticed a distinctive lack of people like McCarthy and Harrison flooding the airwaves with anti-Communist messages.

Of course, in their place were people like Jerry Springer and Howard Stern...

Heading north along First Avenue, Zack followed the curve of the access road to the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. The smell of exhaust fumes and salt air swarmed around him. He selected from inside his jacket a different CD, a collection of the Fifties’ greatest hits. The Big Bopper began ringing in his ears and Zack found himself snapping his fingers as he passed between water-damaged buildings that looked to have remained unchanged in the last forty years. Zack found a dubious comfort in that.

Zack continued past the tunnel entrance, walking at a brisk pace, keeping along the edge of the East River. He watched the ships coming in, bringing their boatloads of crafts from China and Taiwan, crystal and unworked zirconia from South Africa, rugs from India, and mail-order brides from Russia. Well, maybe the mail-order brides were flown in, thought Zack . . . .

The looming edifice of the UN Building came into view, the flags of over a hundred countries flapping in the stiff breeze wafting of the East River. The building had been relatively new when Zack first saw it; now, aside from the expanded plaza around the base and the addition of a parking garage beside it, it looked relatively unchanged. The relentless assult of pigeons on the east face of the building had turned parts of the stucco a greyish-brown. Zack thought how easy it would be for a few minutes’ worth of Disintegration Vision to clear that up.

His trek took him across the Queensborough Bridge, where Zack stopped long enough to watch a society of environmentalists conducting some form of research on Roosevelt Island. He nibbled on a package of Boston Baked Beans and watched as the University students scrambled about, adjusting this instrument, taking that reading, inspecting this sample...

That’s going to be me, thought Zack. Virginia’s friend, Terry, who had supplied Zack with his new identity and all pertinent information, had been kind enough to forge some high school transcripts and NYU acceptance papers. A little ‘hacking,’ as Terry had called it, was all that was needed to get Zack’s name among the list of new students for the January semester.

Now I’m going to college, thought Zack. Now I’m really going to live a normal life. Get a job, earn a degree, and hopefully, just hopefully, meet that certain special someone... assuming I don’t end up sounding like too much of a loser for not knowing too much about the world. Of course, maybe with the right girl, things would be different. Maybe I could tell her the truth.

Zack grimaced as he tossed one of the beans to a seagull that was anxiously awaiting any morsel that Zack could part with. The bird snatched the offering from the air and continued to circle about, squawking.

Yeah. And maybe that bird will land beside me and start having a conversation about Nitsche.

He continued on his way toward Queens. The sun was beginning to sink behind some of the taller buildings in the borough ahead, although there were few buildings to match the height of Manhattan’s skyline. The wind grew slightly more chilly, the bridge having something of a wind tunnel effect, and Zack actually had to huddle against the cold as he walked.

Finally, he connected with firm ground, and listened to Del Shannon singing about a runaway. He had had enough of walking through the city; he simply wanted to get back home and sample some of Virginia’s lasagne. Virginia, Zack was finding out, was a very good cook.

Zack suddenly stopped in his tracks as a shudder passed through the ground beneath his feet. He frowned, turned off the CD player, slipped the earphones from his head. He glanced about, looking for a clue as to the origin of the tremor. He knew it had been too minuscule for most normal people to have noticed; the dozen or so construction workers taking a break by a mobile cafeteria continued their testosterone-loaded conversation unabated. But Zack knew what he had felt, and it was not a simple earth tremor.

There came another one, somewhat more noticeable. Zack heard dogs barking, and a trio of alley cats suddenly launched themselves from the safety of a rickety old building to Zack’s right. Taking their cue, Zack jogged across the street, rounding the corner where Jackson Avenue interesected 49th.

About a block further down, a wire fence marked the boundary of a large property that had obviously been recently built. The asphalt of the parking lot was still black and smooth, and the building that sat about twenty yards back from the road was ultra-modern, with whitewashed walls and opaque glass windows. A creative sign stood out at the gates of the property, advertising that this structure was owned by some company called "Powerdyne." Beneath the company logo was the simple legend, "Research Facility."

Zack felt a third, more violent tremor, and his ears picked up the faint echoings of screams from deep within the building. He began to jog toward the gates, noticing the guard, a middle-aged man with enormous sideburns, frantically talking on a telephone.

"Yeah, we got a damn situation here! Control’s telling me the whole place is going down! There’s some kind of madman tearing up the place inside! Call the Protectorate, for Christ’s sake! Just call them!"

The man slammed the receiver down and bolted from the safety of his booth. Just as he did so, The front glass doors of Powerdyne swung open wide and a stream of hysterical people in business clothes and lab coats erupted into the parking lot.

"Hey, you!" yelled the guard to Zack. "Get your ass outta here! This place could blow at any second!"

Blow? As in explode?

Zack remained where he was, confused about the guard’s words, his actions, and the panic-stricken people that were clamoring for their vehicles. A few already had their engines revving and tires screeching, causing cars to crash into one another. More screams and shouts of hysterical rage filled the air. The entire scene was chaos.

And then it got worse.

There was a sudden, terrific explosion from within the building, and a section of the three-story wall facing the street was dramatically blown outward in a shower of dust and rubble. Zack flinched reflexively, raising an arm to protect his eyes. There was another explosion, then another, and Zack realized that cars were exploding. Wether the cars were occupied or not, Zack was not sure.

Instincts took over, and Zack focused his vision in the infra-red. He saw the distinctive heat patterns and shapes of human bodies, many of them moving, some of them not. Some of the bodies no longer moving were already beginning to cool, indicating death.

And, there, at the heart of the chaos, and emerging from the building, was a tall, skeletal figure, exuding massive amounts of heat and radiation, so much so that Zack was nearly blinded. Refocusing his vision to more conventional modes of sight, Zack managed to penetrate the dust cloud of debris and smoke to see the figure in full detail.

"Insects!" roared the figure, its skeletal hands crackling with nebulous purple energy. "You are all insects compared to me! I am Plasm! No one can stop me!"

Zack looked on with a mixture of emotions. His conscience screamed for him to get involved, while his subconscious made him hesitate. He had a new life, now, a chance to be a normal human being... getting involved with one of this era’s supervillains might ruin everything. Besides, didn’t that guard say something about calling the Protectorate? Weren’t they a super-group or something?

As Zack struggled with his internal dilemma, a pair of impressive black vans, also marked with the Powerdyne logo, came tearing around opposite corners of the building and screeched to a halt in the parking lot. Even before the wheels were stopped, doors were opening all over the vehicles, and men clad in strange uniforms, large black power-packs strapped to their backs and futuristic-looking rifles in their hands, leaped out and engaged the foe.

There was no pretense of diplomacy or tact in their advancement on the skeletal figure. The men attacked swiftly and with deadly accuracy, half of them kneeling as they fired their energy weapons, the other half strafing the figure as they charged.

Zack winced again, this time in a strange sort of vicarious pain for the villain called Plasm. The villain seemed to be staggered back by this sudden barrage of firepower, but the attacks seemed to truly do little to him. With an angry snarl, Plasm swept his hand in a broad arc, and a wave of purplish energy lanced out like a scythe, washing over and through the onrushing guards. Three of the five guards screamed in pain and crumpled; two other merely staggered foreward, their weapons discharging impotently into the air or into the walls, creating more gaping holes.

"Team Red regroup!" Zack heard one of the guards yell. He began to shout more commands, but Plasm noticed that this man was the leader of his attackers, and turned his attention toward the hapless man.

"Don’t waste your misbegotten time!" cried Plasm, extending a menacing hand. "For you have none left!"

Zack and the man both cried out at the same time as a violent burst of energy lanced out from Plasm’s hand, striking the man full in the chest. The man’s scream was short and guttural, and he staggered, falling to the ground as his own uniform seemed to melt into his body. Smoke and heat wrapped around his body, then wafted upwards into the air.

Zack clenched his fists. Before he knew what he was doing, he had stripped off his jacket, activating the switch in his mind that made him invisible to the rest of the world.

Looks like my choice has been made for me, he thought as he rushed across the battlefield toward one of the fallen guards. The man was badly burned, his face looking like footage Zack had once seen of the effects of the Hiroshima bomb. The man was beyond help, although he still breathed shallowly. Grimly, and without the notice of any others nearby, Zack stripped the man of his black gloves and tore a strip of cloth from the man’s uniform. He noticed the nametag on the man’s chest; ‘Minifield.’

"Rest in peace, Minifield," said Zack, his teeth gritted.

A simple matter of an instant’s concentration, and Zack was once more visible, but unnoticed in the chaos of the battlefield. He raised the black strip of cloth to his eyes, covering them for a brief moment as his hands worked at blinding speed to tie the makeshift mask around the back of his head. Then a simple burst of Disintegration Vision was all it took to allow him to see, as violet beams shot eyeholes in the cloth.

And through those eyeholes, Zack’s anger simmered and began to boil to the surface.

"Let’s see what you’ve got," he said under his breath, staring at the megalomaniacal form of Plasm. Then he launched himself through the air.

Virginia sighed with relief as she came through the door of her Queensborough home. She dropped her balled-up hospital scrubs in a hamper by the door, tossed her keys on an old Mickey Mouse dish on the console table beneath the brass-framed mirror in the hallway.

She was tired. So incredibly tired that she did not notice how silent the house was at first. Having gone in early at the hospital, then working through her normal eight-to-four shift, she was beat. All she wanted was a B&J winecooler, a couple dozen Twinkies, and a muscular masseur named Jean-Paul.

Oh, well. Two out of three ain’t bad.

She gathered her supplies and headed into the living room. Her favorite chair -- previously her ex-husband’s favorite chair -- sat empty and inviting. Beside it, on the reading lamp, was the notepad on which she and Zack had been writing down what they wanted for Thanksgiving dinner. Virginia hated waiting until the last minute, but getting that boy to say anything about what he wanted was like pulling teeth from a sabretooth.

Zack . . . .

"Zack, are you home?"

There was no answer to her query. She felt like calling out again, but then realized, with his hearing, he could be in his room upstairs, the door closed and Fats Domino on the stereo, and still hear her eyelids blink. Well, maybe his eharing wasn’t quite that good, but still . . . .

So he was out. Again. Probably walking around the city and feeling sorry for times gone by. Feeling sorry for himself.

Why was he acting this way? He had powers that extremely few people on this planet possess, and he was refusing to use them. There were countless lives out there that needed protection, hell, a whole world that needed to be put right. We need someone like Wonder Boy again!

But he wants to be selfish. He’s only thinking of himself, what he wants, what he needs . . . .

Virginia shook her head. That wasn’t fair, and she knew it. Zack was a human being, and on top of that, a kid. Maybe he didn’t always act like a kid, but there were times when he sure as hell did. It’s his life, his decision to make.

Okay, thought Virginia. Let’s see what the Golden Girls are up to today.

She found the remote and turned on the TV, finding that Zack had left it on a local station. She was about to change over to Lifetime, when she realized that normal programming had been interrupted by some kind of emergency broadcast. Her finger hovered above the buttons on the remote.

"...we now have confirmation that there is some kind of disturbance at the Powerdyne Research Facility in Queens. There have been a few internal explosions, and now it appears certain that a metahuman is involved and... wait, we have visual. Mike Palinkas is on the scene. Mike, can you hear me?"

The screen changed to a scene that showed the Powerdyne building, the parking lot a mass of wreckage and smoke. In the foreground was a chubby young man with dark hair, a multi-colored shirt, and a heavy jacket, holding a microphone and inching toward the perimeter of the property as he spoke in an excited voice.

"Frank, the scene is utter and total chaos. The freakish villain who calls himself Plasm attacked the Powerdyne Research Facility with apparently no known motive, following a string of attacks on other such facilities across the country. However, it appears that his vicious and murderous attacks may be coming to an end..."

Virginia leaned forward, enraptured, excited and fearful, all at the same time. It was not because this villain was only a couple of dozen streets away, or that people were being killed. It was because of the figure that appeared to be floating in the air, opposing Plasm in the background. He wore black jeans, a red polo, black gloves and a black mask around his eyes, but still...

"Jesus," breathed Virginia. "Wonder Boy."

"Your weapons are useless! Surrender to me and your death will be swift!"

Plasm’s words chilled the remaining guards to the bone with their obvious threat. But their training and innate stubbornness would not allow them to simply give in to this madman and let him terrorize the city. Not while there was life left in their bodies.

Plasm bellowed with laughter as he towered above the guards. The field of energy around him sizzled and crackled with power. Another barrage of attacks from the guards’ energy rifles assaulted him, but Plasm simply raised a hand, and the beams from the weapons dissipated into nothingness before they even found their mark.

"I see you have trouble listening," sneered Plasm. "Allow me to repeat myself: Your weapons are useless!"

"Maybe laser guns don’t work," came a new voice from Plasm’s left flank. "But how ‘bout old-fashioned fisticuffs?"

The words were punctuated as a slender, muscular figure slammed into Plasm, black-gloved fists flashing. Plasm staggered back as the first blow cracked across his jaw, then was lifted bodily into the air by a second impact under his chin and hurled back a good thirty feet, slamming into a wall of the Powerdyne building, making it crumble around him.

Zack yelped in a mixture of surprise and pain. His punches had had effect on Plasm, but the energy field around him send painful jolts of retributive energy through him. Merely touching this villain was enough to cause pain!

Zack shook his hands reflexively and remained floating in the air between the guards and Plasm, who was beginning to extricate himself from the rubble that had fallen around him. Much of the concrete and steel beams around him simply melted away as the villain regained his footing.

"Hey! Who the hell are you?" called one of the Powerdyne guards.

"Don’t worry about that!" snapped Zack. "Just get out of here! I’ll handle this joker!"

"Such useless bravado," hissed Plasm, extending an arm toward Zack. A bolt of energy sliced through the air, striking Zack full in the chest and nearly knocking the wind from him. Zack grunted in pain as he was hurled to the ground, gouging a ten-foot trench in the fresh asphalt of the parking lot. Dirt and fragments of pavement rained down around him, and smoke sizzled from a nasty wound on his chest. Tatters of his shirt hung around his lean, muscular frame, their edges smoldering with heat.

"Your first mistake was to attack me, boy," gloated Plasm as he took slow, deliberate steps toward Zack. "Your second was to prolong your death!"

Zack glowered back, but said nothing. He calculated Plasm’s movements, and just as the villain raised his hand to attack again, Zack was up and mobile.

Little more than a blur of movement, Zack streaked away from where he had landed, arching around behind Plasm. The villain exclaimed in surprise and turned desperately to follow his new attacker’s movements, but the hero in the makeshift costume was too quick. He barely noticed as a towering lightpost was uprooted as easily as a child plucks a sunflower from the ground, but the villain certainly noticed when the object came crashing down upon him.

The impact resulted in a bright flash of light as the metal lamppost met with the nebulous aura surrounding Plasm. Much of the post was disintegrated almost immediately, but enough made its way through Plasm’s shield to... pass right through him?

Plasm laughed evilly at Zack’s obvious surprise. "You are out of your league, boy," spat the villain.

Zack dodged and twisted out of the way as another powerful bolt of energy sizzled through the air. Reacting on instinct, he swooped back down through the air, directly at Plasm, fists clenched. His intention was obviously to transform himself into a missile to blow the villain off his feet.

But the impact never came, for Zack found himself carried through the villain by the force of his own momentum, landing with a stumble on the ground behind Plasm. He winced in pain as energy seared through him, and sagged for a moment on the ground, feeling his left arm spasming ever so slightly. Finally, Zack spun around, frustration on his face. He had to find a way to defeat this villain.

"You ridiculous fool!" shrieked Plasm, whirling to face his adversary. "You cannot defeat me! I will make your death more painful than your worst nightmare!"

The air shimmered around Zack and was suddenly, frighteningly, transformed into a swirling, cacophonous net of destructive energy. Reacting on instincts, Zack shot up into the sky, just barely evading the ethereal tendrils of the deadly trap Plasm had sprung. He still felt faint jolts of pain in his legs as they just barely cleared the field. Zack could only imagine what the full effect of that attack would be.

"You know, you guys are always the same," taunted Zack, soaring above the battlefield. "You always think you’ve got the upper hand, and then you start pulling out the fancy stuff. Well, try this for fancy!"

Zack focused, and the twin violet beams of his Disintegration Vision stabbed down through the sky, penetrating Plasm’s energy shield and burning into the villain’s skin. Plasm staggered, but still was not down for the count, although, to Zack’s eyes, it appeared the villain was beginning to lose his steam. Just push it a little more...

But Plasm wore the mask of grim determination, and would not allow himself to be defeated. Especially not by some unknown upstart wearing a pair of jeans and a Ralph Lauren shirt!

Beams of ionized radiation cut through the air, barely missing Zack but forcing him lower to the ground. Suddenly, the ground beneath Zack shuddered and erupt, and just as the young man swooped down over the parking lot, a jet of superheated plasma burst forth from the ground, engulfing the hero. Zack cried out in true pain, feeling his skin blister and burn.

Onlookers near the scene held their collective breath as the plasma jet faded away as quickly as it had formed. Plasm lurched forward, his face a twisted mask of villainous glee and momentary confusion. Had it really been so easy? Was his enemy dead?

This time, however, it was Plasm’s turn to stagger as the ground beneath him was heaved upward. He found himself hurled onto his back, slamming into the pavement. Before him, the figure of his attacker rose into the air before him, several tons of dirt and rock and concrete supported easily above his head.

"All you ultimate power types are the same!" cried Zack. "You think having power gives you the right to take what you want? Power is responsibility, pal, it’s what makes you either good or evil. And guess what? Evil never wins!"

Zack glared with unmistakable fury at Plasm. His body was a mass of burns and boils, and what remained of his clothing hung from his body in rags and tatters. But even in that brief moment, as Zack rose from the ground like an avenging angel, Plasm could see that some of Zack’s wounds were already beginning to heal. But Plasm had little time to reflect on this revelation, as the immense boulder was hurled toward him.

Desperately, Plasm lashed out, a column of plasma striking the missile and sending it exploding in all directions. Out of instinct, he shielded his eyes against the spray of rubble, and just barely noticed as Zack flew down through the raining cloud of dirt and dust, once more tackling Plasm.

"I’m sick of guys like you!" cried Zack as his fist crashed across Plasm’s jaw. Zack blocked out the pain he experienced merely from being in proximity to this villain. His rage fueled him, consumed him, and forced all thoughts of tact and maneuver from his mind. His only plan was to beat this villain senseless... if not worse.

His fists flashed faster than the eye could follow, slamming into Plasm’s face, torso and abdomen as Zack poured on the rage. He continued to yell and berate his opponent, letting his frustrations find their outlet through his fists and words.

"I’m sick of the power plays, and the grandstanding, and the pain and suffering and death! I’m sick of all of it -- ungh!"

Zack found himself thrown back by a powerful burst of energy from Plasm, unleashed like a tidal wave from the madman’s body. He tumbled back through the air, head over heels, before crashing into the hood and windshield of a parked sedan. Smoke streamed from his body. If he had been a normal man, he would have been nothing but a cinder by now.

"You insolent little--" began Plasm, but his insult was interrupted by a sudden loud rush of air above him. Both he and Zack looked up as a silvery figure descended from the sky, the late autumn sun glinting off his body in a hundred places. The being’s arms ended in gaping barrels that were directed at Plasm, and before either villain or grounded teenaged hero could react, great gouts of a greenish liquid sprayed forth from those barrels, dousing Plasm.

Plasm bellowed in real pain and staggered back, feeling as if his body was being dissolved. The newcomer continued to pour on the strange fluid, until an immense cloud of steam was all that existed upon the battlefield.

Zack extricated himself from the ruins of the sedan and readied himself for Plasm’s next attack. He had his wind back, and despite his burns and scars, he felt he was ready for more.

But the attack did not come. Both Zack and his strange benefactor watched the heart of the steam cloud where Plasm had stood, but as the cloud dissipated, there was no evidence of Plasm anywhere.

"Damn it!" cried Zack, searching all around him for any sign of Plasm. He strained his increased senses to the limit, but could find no trace of the villain. "Where the hell is he?"

"My assumption would be far beneath the surface," came a cold and barely human voice. Zack looked up at the floating chrome figure.

"Plasm exhibited the ability to become intangible," continued the figure. "It seems obvious he would use that trait to escape once his capture became imminent."

Zack frowned at the new arrival. The silver-grey man descended from the sky to float in the air at Zack’s eye-level. There was something strange, Zack decided, about the impassive face, the artificial features, the near-emotionless eyes.

"What are you, some kind of robot?" he asked.

"I would prefer the term ‘nanotechnological construct,’" responded the figure. "Or, to be more colloquially referable, you may address me as Paragon. I am a member of the Protectorate."

Zack looked around at the scene of devastation. "’Bout time you got here," he said.

Paragon showed nothing even remotely defensive in his response. "My arrival was expedited as quickly as possible," he said. "After all, until my arrival, you seemed to have at least contained the villain designated as Plasm."

"Oh, you think so?" asked Zack sarcastically.

Paragon looked the young man over, noting with interest the way Zack’s burns and cuts seemed to be slowly fading away. "An accentuated healing factor," he commented. "Interesting. You have many abilities. Although, I would suggest a more appropriate attire if you decide to continue dispensing summary justice as a civilian crime fighter."

"'Dispensing summary justice?'" repeated Zack.

"My apologies," responded the artificial humanoid. "Perhaps I should use more common modes of speech."

Zack scowled. "No offense, but I don’t feel like having a pissing contest right now," he said sourly. "Especially with a robot." He began to rise up into the sky. "Thanks for your help, though. What was that stuff you sprayed, anyway?"

Paragon cocked his head to the side. "Liquid cleanser," he responded blandly.

Zack was a few miles away before he realized the enigmatic android named Paragon had made a joke.

Aftermath.

". . . This is Jessica Anderson for WNYC Channel Eight Fastbreak News. I’m here live at the Powerdyne Research Facility, which is now the aftermath of what proved to be a spectacular and star-studdedn metahuman battle. Details at this point are very vague, but it appears that a previously unknown metahuman named Plasm attacked the Powerdyne facility for unknown reasons. Plasm then proceeded to lay waste to the building, claiming the lives of technicians, scientists, and several members of Powerdyne’s own Powertrooper Security Team. At this time, Powerdyne officials are chosing to remain quiet on the subject of today’s attack.

"But the most interesting development of this deadly affair was the arrival of another unknown metahuman, who arrived on the scene to oppose Plasm. Witnesses to the epic battle between these two metas described the hero as a young man, dressed in normal street clothes, who relentlessly attacked and managed to keep at bay the villain until Paragon of the Protectorate arrived to put an end to Plasm’s rampage. The still-unknown hero displayed incredible strength and invulnerability, flight, and some sort of energy projection ability from his eyes. The full extent of his powers are unknown at this time.

"Who is this new hero? Where does he come from? What, exactly, is his connection to Plasm, and to Powerdyne? And most importantly, what is his name? This is Jessica Anderson, live at the Powerdyne Research Facility..."

The real cool thing about having a super-fast healing ability, thought Zack, was that you don’t look any worse for wear after fighting somebody like Plasm... assuming you get a day’s worth of rest.

But the psychological wounds took a little more than a healing factor to recover from.

Plasm had killed almost as many people in a single day as the Mad Hatter had throughout his entire year-long crime spree. It seemed the villains of the twenty-first century mirrored the violence of the culture that spawned them. There was death everywhere, as if every villain felt like they had to outdo each other in body count.

Zack shook his head as he sat on a folding chair on Virginia’s back porch. The cold night air had dropped to around forty degrees, with a good chance of freezing by dawn. But Zack didn’t care. He felt a shiver, but it wasn’t enough to make him put on more than the gym shorts he wore.

Smoke swirled around him. Having a healing factor also meant he could enjoy a cigarette every once in a while and not worry about what Virginia had called "carcinogens." Whatever the hell those were. Virginia had thrown a royal fit when she first saw Zack smoke, as if smoking was something terrible. Now, she demanded that Zack go outside if he insisted on indulging in such a "disgusting habit." Zack didn’t get it.

What’s the big deal? Everybody smokes, right? It’s not like it’ll kill you.

He exhaled a lungfull into the night, watched it float across the surface of the moon. He was aware of the sliding glass door opening behind him. He could tell from the breathing, the heartbeat, and the very faint cracking of the bones in the left hip that it was Virginia. He hoped he was not about to receive another lecture.

"Are you all right, Zack?" she asked in a tentative voice.

Zack did not respond immediately. He continued to stare up at the moon, watching the clouds wrap around it like a blanket. Just as Virginia opened her mouth to ask again, Zack answered.

"I’m fine," he said. "Just thinking."

"So was I," said Virginia. "Look. I know... I know this isn’t what you wanted. You thought you had the perfect chance to start over, to pretend to be a normal human being. But you can’t do that, Zack. You aren’t a normal human being, no matter how you try to tell yourself otherwise. Maybe you think it was just some sort of fluke, or an accident, or--"

"I know," interrupted Zack, rolling the cigarette between his lips.

Virginia blinked. "What?"

"I know all that," continued Zack. "I can’t change what I am. I know that."

Virginia pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest. "Oh."

Silence passed between them for several moments. Somewhere in the universe, an entire century passed in that slice of time.

"But maybe," said Zack, as if the conversation was still going on. "Maybe I can... do it differently. Get a new name, a new costume... and if I do it right, I can still have a normal life."

Virginia said nothing. A smile stretched across her lips. She struggled to remain quiet, not wanting to let Zack know that this was exactly what she had been hoping he would say. But she could not mask the deep sigh that escaped her lips, nor the sudden increase in her heartbeat.

After a moment, Virginia stepped back inside and quietly closed the patio door. Zack continued to stare up into the night.

"Yeah, I’m doing cartwheels about this, too," he muttered through a cloud of smoke.
 

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