Chapter 2 Taking it Easy


    January 4, 2025. 2:23 a.m. The City of Markend.


    I’ve lived here my whole life. Seen gangs change hands more often than capes catch criminals. That was just how Markend worked. Power shifted fast, but it never left the wrong hands.


    My secret lair wasn’t exactly the underground bunker or industrial hideout villains dreamed of. No, my “lair” was my humble single-story house in the suburbs. Something passed down from my mom’s side of the family. A bit run-down but still standing.


    I lived alone, so lucky me, no nagging parents to tell me to get a job or clean my room. Then again, no one to care if I didn’t eat dinner either.


    The house sat quiet and dark as I slipped through the back door. My breath puffed out in the cold air, and the duffel bag weighed heavy on my shoulder. The lock clicked softly as I turned the key, and I stepped inside.


    The kitchen greeted me like an old friend: a little too messy, but familiar all the same. I flicked on the light, blinking at the yellowish glow as I trudged to the fridge. Carefully, I unpacked my spoils.


    The whole stuffed turkey went onto a shelf. The grapes, a tin of caviar, and a few other odds and ends followed. By the time I was done, my fridge looked fuller than it had in weeks. Small victories.


    I didn’t bother taking stock of my other haul yet. Money could wait until morning, if you could call it that. My body was already begging for sleep.


    I headed for my room, the cold floor creaking under my feet. Once inside, I peeled off my amateur thief get-up, tossing the hoodie and jogging pants into a corner. The Bonnett mask went into my nightstand drawer; better safe than sorry.


    In nothing but a t-shirt and boxers, I dropped face-first onto the bed. My pillow smelled faintly of detergent, and my blanket was cold, but I didn’t care.


    Fun fact: I couldn’t sleep.


    Emphasis on couldn’t, not wouldn’t. It wasn’t a choice; it just wasn’t in the cards for me anymore.


    Since I “pulled” five years ago and discovered I had superpowers, a lot of things about me had changed. My body started optimizing itself without me even trying. No workout routines or diets—just a steady march toward an athletic build like my genes decided to play nice for once.


    But if there was one thing I missed, it would be sleep.


    I wasn’t capable of it anymore. No sleep meant no dreaming, either. I used to think nightmares were bad, but turns out, a dreamless void was worse.


    “This sucks…”


    Of course, that didn’t stop me from pretending to sleep. I’d lie there in bed, eyes closed, body still, as if fooling the universe into letting me rest. But my nerves were electric, buzzing like live wires. My thoughts raced in circles:


    Did I leave any evidence behind? Did I mess up somewhere? What if someone saw me?


    The SRC, Superhuman Regulation Committee, flashed in my mind. What if they kicked down my door and dragged me off to one of their black sites? Worse, what if Markend’s own superhero team decided to pay me a visit? They might not care about small-time stuff, but I didn’t exactly have a spotless record now.


    “HAH~! Don’t flatter yourself, man…”


    I groaned and sat up. Lying here wasn’t doing me any good.


    My stomach growled, a sharp reminder that superpowers didn’t mean skipping meals. I wandered into the kitchen, the faint hum of the fridge the only sound breaking the silence. Pulling out the stuffed turkey, I hacked off a chunk, reheated it, and plopped it onto a plate.


    Food in hand, I shuffled back to the living room. The remote sat wedged between the couch cushions. I fished it out and flopped down, flipping on the TV.


    Static at first, then a late-night talk show. I wasn’t paying attention to what they were saying. I just needed something, anything, to kill time.


    Why did I turn to crime?


    Sure, I might look like I had it together—a whole house to myself, food in the fridge, and even a couch to crash on—but trust me, I was a poor bastard through and through.


    First and foremost, there were the debts. A mountain of them, courtesy of my dad’s gambling problem. He was gone now, leaving me the grand legacy of owing money to people you don’t want to owe money to.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Secondly, there was Mom. A drunk who didn’t have much to her name besides cheap whiskey and bitterness. She kicked the bucket last year, and while I wouldn’t call her passing a shock, it still left me in the lurch.


    So yeah, “tough spot” was an understatement.


    I sighed and flipped through the channels, the remote clicking rhythmically in my hand. Nothing but infomercials and reruns until I landed on the history channel. At least it was something to keep my mind busy.


    They were talking about the phenomenon called “Pull,” the event that caused the awakening of superpowers in people. Not exactly the cheeriest subject for a midnight snack, but I let it play.


    According to the narrator, Pull wasn’t new. Duh... Of course, it wasn''t. Theories suggested superpowers had existed as far back as the medieval ages, hiding under the guise of mystics, legendary knights, gods, and mythical creatures. The modern name just slapped some science on it, but the phenomenon was as old as human history.


    The show shifted to World War I, explaining how the “arms race” for supers had sparked the conflict. Governments weaponized them, treating people like living WMDs. The war’s aftermath wasn’t any better.


    World War II came next, fueled by the same obsession with superhuman superiority. Nations built armies of supers, but the devastation left behind was catastrophic. It didn’t take long for society to turn on people like us.


    Discrimination followed, and in some countries, supers were outright hunted, enslaved, or exiled. Others chose militarization, forcing them to serve. Most governments tried rebranding, calling supers “capes” to make them seem noble, heroic, and less terrifying. It worked on the surface, but the stigma never really went away.


    I poked at the last scraps of my glorified chicken, swallowing the final bite as the narrator droned on about societal shifts and cultural fears. The whole thing hit a little too close to home.


    “Yeah, yeah, we get it. We’re the boogeymen,” I muttered, flipping the channel.


    My attention honed in on a talk show rerun featuring none other than Dr. Time.


    If you’ve never heard of him, let me paint you a picture: wild white hair sticking out in every direction, a wrinkled face that looked like it had been permanently etched with caffeine-induced mania, a lab coat that screamed “mad scientist,” and a voice that could pierce through lead. He was a relic of the ''90s, a physicist who also happened to moonlight as a self-proclaimed time traveler.


    Oh, and he was a part-time cape, too. Because why not?


    He was mid-rant when I tuned in, his voice high-pitched and frantic.


    “I am telling you, but no one believes me!” he yelled, practically vibrating in his seat. “The timeline is broken!”


    The audience shifted uncomfortably, but Dr. Time didn’t care. He was on a roll.


    “There are two moons, instead of one!” He gestured wildly, as if the proof was written in the air. “Four continents, instead of seven! Superpowers are real! The names of the countries are wrong!”


    The host, a guy with a forced smile that practically screamed, What have I gotten myself into? tried to interject, but Dr. Time powered through.


    “The historical divide is getting wider!” he bellowed. “Lots of people I know don’t exist anymore. And for whatever reason…” He paused dramatically, eyes wide, “Isaac Newton is still alive!”


    The audience burst into nervous laughter.


    I leaned back on the couch, turkey grease still on my fingers, and let out a snort. This guy. He’d been a running joke for decades, but every so often, he popped back into the spotlight to drop some new absurd theory. Yep… Dr. Time was pretty much immortal.


    The host finally managed to get a word in, asking with mock politeness, “Dr. Time, if the timeline is so broken, why hasn’t anyone else noticed these discrepancies?”


    Dr. Time leaned forward, fixing the host with an intense stare.


    “They do notice,” he said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carried through the mic. “But they’re too afraid to admit it. You’d rather laugh at me than face the truth. I dream of the other world every time, so what’s stopping others?”


    The audience’s laughter faltered, replaced by an awkward silence.


    I smirked, but something about his words stuck in my mind. Broken timelines, misplaced histories, and people who didn’t exist anymore… It was all ridiculous, sure. But for a second, I wondered: What if he’s right?


    I rinsed the last bit of grease off the plate, setting it down to dry, then grabbed the cash I’d stuffed into my duffel bag earlier. Spreading the bills out on the counter, I did a quick count.


    “Let’s see… twenty-three thousand marks.”


    Not bad for one night’s work. Enough to cover the month: rent, utilities, and food, maybe even with a little left over for emergencies. But it wasn’t anywhere close to putting a dent in my inherited debt. The mountain of marks I owed still loomed large over me, a constant reminder of the mess I was born into.


    I sighed, stuffing the cash into a small metal box I kept hidden under the kitchen sink. My paranoia wouldn’t let me stash it anywhere too obvious. I wished I’d been braver—or dumber—at the Hamiltons’ place. Maybe then I’d have more to show for my trouble.


    To be fair, the Hamiltons had a reputation. Not the elite socialites kind, but the kill-you-and-bury-you-in-the-woods kind of bad. Rumors swirled about them: shady deals, missing people, that sort of thing. No wonder the others were scared of Chad.


    And the cameras. God, the cameras. I knew they’d caught me. There was no avoiding it. They were wired up like Fort Knox, but I’d done my best to keep my face obscured and my movements untraceable. Whether that was good enough was a question for later. For now, I’d just have to live with the knot of anxiety twisting in my gut.


    I glanced at the clock. 6:00 a.m. Great.


    Normally, I’d spend the early hours training, pushing my powers to their limits or working on strength and agility. It had been my nightly ritual for the past five years, ever since I “pulled.” But today? I wasn’t feeling it.


    The holidays had just ended, and the silence of the house was… too much. Mom might’ve been a mess, but at least she’d been someone to talk to. Now, it was just me.


    Loneliness had a way of sneaking up on you, even when you thought you were fine.


    I shook off the thought, grabbed a clean towel, and headed for the shower. The hot water stung against my skin, but it helped me feel alive. When you couldn''t sleep, routines like this were the closest thing to grounding yourself.


    Afterward, I ate breakfast—leftover turkey and some grapes I’d pilfered—because my powers demanded it. Increased metabolism seemed to be a common trait among capes. The energy had to come from somewhere, after all.


    By 7:00 a.m., I was dressed and out the door, duffel bag replaced by an apron. Time to flip burgers and pretend like I wasn’t living a double life.


    Today, I’d like to take it easy.