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Chapter I: the Thrill of the wake
🕑 Added 2024-08-30 19:12:20 +0000 UTCMichael Dallon, third child, only son of Brandish and Manpower, brother of Panacea and Glory Girl, shouldn’t exist.
He was never meant to. The story didn’t need him to continue, never needed him to begin with. His presence was insignificant, a ripple in a pond that should have altered the surface but didn’t.
Michael Dallon shouldn’t exist, and he knew it deep down, just as surely as he could gaze at the night sky and always find the stars waiting.
A dysfunctional family, a father drowning in his own despair and apathy, a mother oscillating between smothering him and resenting his existence. Cousins and sisters—so different, so much more, so distant in every way. A family that, when they looked at him, saw only the corpse of a beloved sister.
Michael Dallon shouldn’t exist, and he knew it. Each breath felt like a betrayal, each exhalation a quiet death.
Useless, worthless, powerless. Perhaps, had he been lucky, had he inherited less from his father, had his inheritance not been a faulty brain. had he not yearned, just once, to feel worthy—perhaps then he might have survived.
Maybe it was the world’s way of correcting its mistake in creating him. The sharp crack of a bullet breaking the sound barrier, the scent of gunpowder in the air. And finally, a boy playing hero, offering up his worthless life for a sister he envied so deeply, loved so dearly.
A bullet parted flesh, scrambled brain matter in less than a heartbeat—fears, thoughts, memories, a person, all gone.
The scream of a sister, a healer failing when it truly mattered. You can save others but can’t save what's yours the world seemed to mock her as she tried to reverse the irreversible. The sound of steel shattered as glory fell from the sky in the shape of a girl, her cries and pleas echoing over a lifeless body.
A family, the world, watching live as another life was lost, another with the same face as the one before—a cruel joke with them as the punchline.
Michael Dallon didn’t matter. A youngest child with a fractured mind, burdened with too much hope and despair, who shouldn’t have existed.
Nothing should have changed after that. Things should have returned to the way they were, to the tragedy etched in the heart of Earth Bet.
And they would have—if before the eyes of the world, Michael Dallon’s corpse hadn’t moved, jerked like a puppet at the end of invisible strings. They would have—if before his family’s gaze, light hadn’t burst from his body, rising like a pillar, like a ladder to the heavens.
They would have—if all of Brockton Bay hadn’t been, for a moment, bathed in the light emanating from Michael Dallon. If everyone present hadn’t felt, hadn’t seen old wounds vanish, limbs regrow, patients stir from comas.
Maybe Michael Dallon’s death would have been forgotten, wouldn’t have mattered—if his body hadn’t healed.
Maybe none of this would have mattered—if I hadn’t been the one to inhabit his body after my own death, his memories, everything that made Michael Dallon, now mine.
Some react to reincarnation with horror, fear, or sorrow. Me? I embraced it.
Me? I saw only a new life where I could forever revel. I didn’t panic when I realized I had been reborn into a world doomed to end in a decade, perhaps less.
The Michael Dallon, the new me who awoke, wanted only one thing: to have fun until the end of time. I wanted to indulge in every pleasure until I couldn’t anymore.
I wanted to taste the finest foods. I wanted to drink until my body gave out. I wanted to revel until the concept of sorrow itself was erased from my mind. I wanted to charm, to flirt, to pursue older women.
I wanted to live in a hedonistic haze until this new flame I was given was extinguished.
Michael Dallon, with his broken mind, who envied and envied yet died selflessly. A soul who gave and endured until his body finally surrendered when he chose to be selfish.
Whatever happens, will happen—but one thing I knew as I opened my eyes and my gaze fell upon my ‘family’: there was no chance in hell I was letting this grimdark world consume me.
*scene*
You never understand the freedom that flying grants until you’ve tasted it, until gravity’s hold on you is shattered.
I was happy. I was euphoric. It felt like the best day of my life. Perhaps it was only natural—this was my rebirth.
Uber and Leet, they deserved my thanks for that. If things hadn’t gone awry because of Leet, I wouldn’t be here.
I could see my family moving toward me, hands reaching out to grasp my form, lips parting to speak words.
I’d deal with them later, I thought, as I moved toward an android, the world slowing down while I sped up, my hand closing around its head, the body separating from it, electrical threads and machinery hanging from the severed neck.
At least one thing was confirmed: this body was superhuman, which meant I could afford to be reckless.
I pointed a hand at the sky, a whisper urging me on, and lightning fell, thunder shaking the heavens.
I caught it in my hand like a tangible thing, almost cradling it. I watched as it turned gold, as its shape shifted, becoming a two-headed glaive.
I knew what to do with it. Uber and Leet had given me this new life. It was only right to thank them.
It didn’t matter that the two Parahumans were far away, surrounded by androids, hidden in a structure clearly crafted by a Tinker’s hand. A savage grin split my face.
I pulled back my arm and hurled the lightning-forged glaive. I watched it slice through the air, through cracks and openings too small, dodging humans and obliterating any androids in its path.
I felt hands close around me, holding me, and this time, I let them.
Far away, as the glaive touched down just before the two Parahumans, the world was bathed in gold—twice.
*scene*
Emily Piggot stared at the screen in front of her, the stream replaying on loop. She had watched it countless times already, but her eyes remained glued to the scene as if seeking to extract some hidden truth or missed detail. The image froze again on Michael Dallon, the youngest member of New Wave, crumpling to the ground, blood pooling around his head, the echo of a gunshot still ringing in her ears.
This was a disaster. Another parahuman incident spiraling out of control, like so many before it. Yet somehow, this was worse. A young boy—non-powered, or so who had been—dead in front of the world, all because Uber and Leet, in their endless quest for online notoriety, decided to play heroes and villains in the streets of Brockton Bay.
Piggot scowled, a deep furrow creasing her brow. She never liked dealing with parahumans. Not the heroes, and certainly not the villains. Even the most helpful among them were a hassle to work with—too little sense, too much power they didn’t deserve. She saw them as nothing more than children, playing their ridiculous games of cops and robbers, heedless of the destruction they left in their wake. And now, because of their foolishness, a boy who was ironically said to be a physical copy of his aunt, Fleur, who had also met a tragic end, lay dead for all to see.
And yet, it would have been simpler if Michael Dallon had just stayed dead.
The aftermath of his death had already been a mess. Public outrage, panic, and the all-too-familiar media circus. And just when things couldn’t get worse, they did. Michael Dallon had been a non-threat, a powerless kid. But when he died, something had happened. Something impossible. Piggot’s lips tightened as she replayed the next part of the footage—the part where Michael’s body jerked like a puppet on strings, where light burst from him, blinding and brilliant, cascading outwards and bathing Brockton Bay in a golden glow.
Piggot rubbed her temples, feeling the tension of a new headache forming. The reports had come flooding in almost immediately—people in the vicinity were healed, wounds closing, limbs regrowing, chronic conditions vanishing. The hospitals were now, for the first time since their creation, full of healthy people—or at least, people who seemed healthy. The doctors were keeping the patients longer for observation, trying to understand the effects of this miraculous healing, even though so far, nothing had been observed except people being healthier than they should be.
A new parahuman had been born—one with a power that rivaled the best healers on Earth Bet. Or perhaps surpassed them. They said Michael Dallon’s trigger had granted him a mix of his family’s abilities but magnified to a terrifying degree. Healing on a scale beyond his sister Panacea’s already formidable talents. Light manipulation more powerful than Glory Girl’s radiant aura. It was a disaster.
Piggot clenched her fist. She had never trusted parahumans, not even the so-called heroes. They were all dangerous in their own way, prone to recklessness and hubris. They didn’t understand the responsibility that came with their powers. Most of them used their abilities selfishly, whether they were labeled as heroes or villains. The villains might outnumber the heroes three to one, but that didn’t mean the heroes were much better. The only difference was which side of the law they stood on.
She had come to Brockton Bay with the intention of changing things, of making a difference. But it was like trying to hold back the ocean with her bare hands. Every time she made a move, it only stirred up more chaos, chaos that always impacted civilians more than anyone else. Parahumans were all annoyances, but strong parahumans—well, they were even more so.
Ellisburg flashed through her mind. A city lost to a single parahuman, a monster who had created a kingdom of horrors. She had been there, had barely survived by sheer luck. Ellisburg had proven to her that you couldn’t count on parahumans, not when they were capable of such atrocities. And now, here she was again, dealing with another potential disaster in the making.
She had wished, asked, begged for more parahumans to be transferred to her branch, to gain some ground against the gangs, but it was for naught. The PRT was stretched thin, and even if she had more resources, it wouldn’t make a difference. What she needed was a game-changer. If she had Alexandria or any member of the Triumvirate at her disposal, she could make the villains and gangs cower in a day. But that was wishful thinking.
Piggot’s eyes drifted back to the screen, to the golden light that had bathed Brockton Bay. She had been informed that it came from Michael Dallon when he triggered. She hated it. Hated the fact that she had been touched, affected by the power of a parahuman. But she couldn’t deny that she felt better than she had in years, even better than before Ellisburg. Whatever Michael Dallon’s power was, it was potent. Shaker 10 was the classification they’d settled on, though she suspected even that was an understatement.
The implications were staggering. This boy, this teenager, was now in the same league as the Triumvirate, as Nilbog, as an S-class threat. A child with more power than anyone should have. And to make matters worse, he was from a hero family, even if she had her personal gripes with New Wave and their unmasked ideology. At least he wasn’t a villain. But even then, precautions would need to be taken. This kind of power couldn’t be left unchecked.
The intercom on her desk buzzed, breaking her train of thought. “Director Piggot,” her secretary’s voice came through, tense and clipped. “Someone’s on the line. They want to speak to you.”
Piggot’s jaw tightened. “Who is it?”
“Rebecca Costa-Brown, ma’am. Chief Director of the PRT.”
Piggot’s stomach twisted. Of course, it had to be her. “Put her through.”
There was a click, and then a voice filled the room, smooth and authoritative. “Director Piggot.”
Piggot forced herself to take a deep breath. “Chief Director.”
“I assume you’ve been briefed on the situation?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Piggot replied, her voice steady despite the frustration boiling beneath her skin. “Michael Dallon’s trigger is being classified as a Shaker 10, possibly higher. His healing abilities have had a profound effect on the local population.”
There was a pause on the other end, and Piggot could almost picture Costa-Brown’s calculating expression. “We need to assess the situation immediately. This kind of power, in the hands of a teenager, presents a significant risk. We need to ensure he’s not a threat.”
“I understand, Chief Director. But I believe we should also consider the potential benefits. It Is also important to note that he was born in a hero family, one we have ties with through some of pure numbers. If properly managed, Michael Dallon could be made to join the protectorate, to become a valuable asset to the PRT.”
“Or a liability,” Costa-Brown countered. “We need to act quickly, Emily. This situation is volatile. The thinkers are unable to have a read on him and the rare time they do, they are raving about golden trees and rot. I’m sending a team to Brockton Bay to oversee assessment.”
Piggot’s hands curled into fists. Damn parahumans. They were always at the center of everything, always causing problems that the rest of the world had to clean up. “Understood, Chief Director. I’ll be ready.”
“Good. Keep me updated.”
The line went dead, and Piggot slammed the phone down, her frustration boiling over. She hated this. Hated being forced to play this game, to deal with these people who wielded powers they didn’t deserve. Michael Dallon’s trigger had changed everything, and not for the better. A boy with too much power in his hands, and now, everyone would want a piece of him.
Piggot took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. There was no point in dwelling on what couldn’t be changed. She had a job to do, and she would do it. No matter how much she despised the players involved. She reached for the phone again, ready to start the necessary calls, to coordinate the response.
As she dialed the first number, one thought remained in her mind, echoing over and over.
Damn parahumans.
