Simon hovered in the air below the New Roman cloud line, a solitary silhouette against the afternoon sky. He watched as two young, Stable powers engaged in combat—one of them his own daughter. His worn, brown leather jacket billowed furiously, snapped by an unseen gale, as he gazed down at a sprawling, dilapidated warehouse complex. The building was largely indistinguishable from its grime-covered surroundings, a relic of forgotten industry, but the former hero wasn’t relying on his eyes to perceive what was happening within its decaying walls.
His eyesight wasn’t as sharp as it had been in his youth. From this height, he could discern the frantic blurs of motion and the general movements of the girls, but he couldn’t make out the finer details of their desperate fight. In that moment, a stark realization settled over Simon: an undeniable reminder of his age. Years of relentless brawls, of pushing his body and his gifts to their absolute limits, combined with countless hours of scientific experimentation, had finally begun to take their toll. He estimated that today, he’d be fortunate if he possessed even half the raw strength and agility of his prime. A bitter taste, like ash and regret, touched his tongue.
Fortunately for the fugitive ex-hero, his hearing remained as acute as ever, a finely tuned instrument of detection. He had arrived minutes earlier, drawn by the distant reverberations of unusual energy and the faint, high-frequency oscillations that signified an unnatural conflict. He had then "tuned in," drawing the vibrations of their voices through the moisture molecules in the air, allowing him to eavesdrop on their frantic conversation. It was a trick he’d learned long ago—a refined extension of his elemental kinesis. This method, however, always imbued everything he heard with an annoying, high-pitched reverb, like a thousand tiny bells ringing out of sync; it was a sonic assault he could never endure for long without developing a splitting headache.
Through the distorted audio, the grim reality became clear. Not only had Jamie stubbornly followed in her mother’s footsteps, carving out a life in the very organization he’d spent years avoiding, but the bastards had also twisted her, convincing her to hunt down one of her only friends—Karen Wake. A cold anger, deep and familiar, simmered in Simon’s chest. He was incensed by the stubborn, unyielding will of his own blood mirroring the path of Jane. Yet, he also knew he was in no position to pass judgment. An absent father had no right to dictate his child’s path, especially not when his own choices had kept him in the shadows. He was a phantom, and phantoms didn’t get to preach.
When the old hero had initially arrived, his resolve had been firm: whatever the situation on the ground, he wouldn’t interfere. He had approached Jamie several times throughout her childhood, attempting to break her free from her mother’s web of lies, trying to show her a different truth about the world of powers. But Jane had created an impenetrable wall around her daughter, dismissing him as a dangerous renegade. He couldn’t blame her for that, not entirely. His history was complicated, stained with necessary evils for the greater good.
However, as he watched Jamie gain the upper hand in the brutal dance below—her movements filled with a chilling, rage-induced rhythm—she raised her hand above her grounded friend. Simon began to sense the forced excitement of electrons in the air; the distinct, unnatural Static built in the atmosphere. His resolution fractured. She was about to summon his lightning—the raw, destructive force of atmospheric electricity—and she meant to lay it bare on her best friend. Simon knew that feeling; the unstoppable power of the elements could sweep you up if you let them, adrenaline and power overcoming sense. Old instincts, honed over decades of combat, flared. No matter how dulled they had become, they could not be ignored. Simon knew what it would mean for his daughter’s soul if he did nothing.
As he levitated downward, descending rapidly like a falling star, he was reminded of a brutal battle he had once fought with an old friend who had strayed from the path of decency—a friend Simon had no choice but to kill. His code name was Blood Bomb, an American hero, though few knew of him; his duty was a grim, thankless task performed in the dark. He never received the limelight from the "bloodsucking press" like Simon—the "Mighty Hurricane"—or "The Unbreakable Steel Lady," yet he was just as capable. That was until the South American Massacre of '77. He was never the same after that, Simon reflected. The memory was a bitter current, shocking him back to the present.
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The static was already thickening around Jamie, making the fine hairs on Simon’s arms stand on end. Jamie's hand was raised, trembling slightly, ready to deliver a strike. Just as she moved, Simon was low enough to grab her wrist. His fingers closed around her forearm like an iron band. A subtle pulse of his own elemental energy flowed from his touch—a wave of calm to the currents—directly countering the turbulent charge Jamie was trying to generate.
The low hum of excited particles ceased abruptly. The crackle died to a whisper. Jamie's eyes, previously narrowed in furious concentration, snapped wide. As she turned to see what had stalled her will, a look of horror beyond any rage overtook her. For a mere second, the raw terror in her eyes made Simon feel as though he were the one committing a crime.
The former hero pushed his feelings aside. As he did, he heard a heavy object whistling through the air behind him. He knew he had no time to react physically. Compared to his ex-wife—zombie or not—whose movements were as swift as a honed blade, his own were as sluggish as a frail old man's.
He commanded the air particles in the immediate area to rush toward him like metal filings to a magnet. The air compressed, coalescing into an invisible, rapidly tightening sphere. The knife fell off course and As the pocket formed, Jane, caught in the sudden vacuum, was thrown violently off balance and slammed to the ground. Just as she began to push herself up with a strained growl, Simon imagined those same air particles expanding outward with explosive force.
The compressed air erupted as an invisible, concussive wave that distorted the light around him—a silent detonation of pure atmospheric pressure. The force was so great that he lost his grip on Jamie; she flew through the air like a ragdoll before tumbling several yards away. Jane was hurled in the opposite direction, slamming into the front wall of Factory Forty-Five with a sickening thud, leaving a shallow, human-shaped crater in the aged brickwork. He was surprised to see Karen—perhaps because she was so low to the ground—seemed largely unaffected by the blast. He scooped her up and slung her over his shoulder, her unconscious weight a non-burden.
“You took a hard fall, Jamie. Are you okay?” Simon said, his voice strained but steady.
“What are you doing here, Simon?!” the girl screamed, ignoring her injuries. Her knuckles were white as she clenched her fists, a raw, elemental fury burning in her eyes. “You have no right to be here!”
Looking at her incandescent anger—so much like his own—Simon realized what he had to do to make her see the truth. It was a desperate gamble, but with his ex-wife preparing a counterattack, he knew it was his only shot. “You’re not fit to have my power if you plan to use it to kill the innocent,” Simon stated coldly. With that, he took to the sky.
By retreating into the air, he could predict Jane’s next move. Unable to follow him into his native element, she would scramble anything that could fly to chase him down. They wouldn’t succeed; the sky was his domain, or so he thought.
His daughter gave chase, driven by instinct. She propelled herself upward, forcing herself onto self-made air currents instead of riding the ones naturally present. This made her much slower than Simon; her ascension was labored and consumed a significant amount of her nascent energy. Each lurch of acceleration drained her reserves, a stark contrast to his effortless glide.
As the pair soared across the sky, leaving the New Rome skyline behind, they approached the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Jamie was gaining ground in spurts, her raw talent pushing past her inexperience. At this rate, she would close the gap before they reached his secluded island.
Simon moved closer to the ocean surface. Karen began to stir, a low groan escaping her lips as the salty mist sprayed them. She wasn't fully awake, but she whispered a name: Simon wondered how Thomas’s son was connected to this, but he had no time to dwell on it.
His daughter was nearly upon him, her hand outstretched. As Jamie reached out to grab Simon’s leg, her fingers brushing his boot, Simon willed a powerful jet of water to erupt from the surface. The towering column of white foam acted as a precision projectile, sending Jamie high into the air and shattering her focus.
Simon’s reaction was instantaneous. He met her in the sky, caught her ankle, and made a silent sprint toward his island. When he arrived moments later, he tossed her onto the sandy beach, where she landed hard, gasping for breath.
The exhausted man set the unconscious Karen down a safe distance away. Using the last of his strength, he manipulated the sand. With a low grunt, the ground around Jamie began to churn. Grains of sand and rock coalesced, rising to mold themselves into a smooth, unyielding dome—a thick, impenetrable prison. She wouldn’t be able to escape; earth was the hardest element to manipulate, its inertia immense. Simon staggered back, breathing heavily, but a sense of grim satisfaction settled over him. For now, they were safe.
