Flat on his back, Fiasco's head slowly nodded up and down, despite the pain that gripped his neck.
Dust motes danced in pale orange streetlights as particles fell like snow about him. Debris crunched in his now bare right hand and dug into his palm as he lifted himself up at the waist. The sight of the cloud from the disintegrated brick of the townhome made him instinctively cough and check for wounds. There was still pain, but his force shield had absorbed most of the impact. He could taste tepid metal on his lips from where his tooth had punctured the inside of his cheek, but examining the rest of his body, he was little worse for wear after striking a stone wall at that speed. But, he knew that it was not real stone that crumbled to dust in his hand.
The fine, red powder slipped like sand through Fiasco fingers as he stood upright. He stared at the wall, knowing why the substance felt so familiar. Through his adventure as a Mega, a cottage industry of home protection had sprung up in New Haven that was specific to his exploits. The Savoy Corporation, the lone home-grown mega-corporation in the emerging city, had begun offering reinforced siding for businesses and housing. Thick, flexible metal was installed in specific locations and bolted along walls where analysis suggested Fiasco was more likely to strike while patrolling. It was covered by faux siding, made from the same sponge-like material used as movie props, placed over the metal to resemble original brick. It was so remarkable in design that one could hardly tell the difference. Last Fiasco had read, New Haven Finance Weekly mentioned that the service had doubled in profit each year of his activity and would soon be offered in cities were other Mega-humans were active. Fiasco Proofing® is what they coined it.
He reached out and touched the sharp edges of the scar left behind on the wall. Truth be told, Fiasco had to be impressed by the engineering. The only sign that he had struck the wall at all was a slightly dented gray piece of metal, and a hole in the faux brick. The Fiasco Proofing was not absolute, however, which was made evident by the way in which the homeowner burst from the townhome into the night. He was dressed in a gray robe cinched at the waist, his face twisted in rage.
The man ran down the skinny stairs, knees pumping through the slit in the front of the robe.
"What the hell is going on? Damn!" the older man yelled with a theatrical thrust of his arms as Fiasco held back a snicker. The man peered between Fiasco and the cavity in the side of his house, his rage growing with each glance. Even under that soft streetlight, the hero was sure he could see the caramel skin of the angry stranger turn a shade of red. "You have to be kidding me!"
"Please stay calm citizen. The damage is minimal," Fiasco said, but his words did little to soothe the man's ire. He hardly believed them himself, but felt the need to reassure as a true Mega-hero would. However, given that the stranger looked like he was closer to taking a swing at him than offering a hug, Fiasco realized that his words had the opposite effect.
"Minimal!?" the man screamed, his voice a high-pitched whine. "Have you seen the inside of my house? It looks like it has been hit by an earthquake you fuckin' moron!"
The internal energy that fed off the man's hostility pulsed as Fiasco pictured crooked picture frames, cracked lamps, overturned tables and vases, and some colorful liquid spilled on a white couch caused by his impact. Heat crawled up his neck as more neighbors emerged from houses connected to the man, undoubtedly drawn by the sound of the chaos and the shouting. They too were in a state of undress which made Fiasco aware of the hour growing late. It was night in New Haven, and he was running out of time for another engagement that he couldn't miss, which left little time for whining citizens.
"So, what are you going to do about my house, man!" the stranger screamed. At his side, his hand curled into a fist.
The older man stood nearly four inches taller than Fiasco, and his body doubled his thin frame. The features on his face reflected the neighborhood's rage. Yet, even with the obvious physical advantage, the man kept a safe distance between them. Fiasco noticed that the murmuring crowd would only get so close as well, forming a semi-circle with nearly five feet of berth between he and them. He had seen it before and knew that the people feared him. In fact, they didn't just fear his powers, but they feared that he would accidentally misuse his powers around them.
"Your people hate you," the voice mocked. Fiasco nodded.
Through the commotion, he nearly forgot about the fleeing thieves. Finally remembering that he was actually out on a job, the power pulsed from the symbol on his chest and flowed over his body, bathing the onlookers' faces in a soft, blue light. With the activation of his power, the glowing gauntlets returned to his hands as he rose into the sky to clear the crowd. As he hovered above the ground, he tongued the gash inside his mouth. Blood trickled asymmetrically from his mouth, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. The blood rasped, sizzled, then burned away on his glove as he peered down Third Street where he last saw the car turn.
The pungent stink of burnt rubber still permeated in the air. The driver was skilled but had struggled to maintain control over the Chevelle. Fiasco made note of the zigzagging tire stains, and the long, fresh sliding gash on the side of a white Altima that had been rammed onto the curb. But the driver had regained control. Down the street, the Chevelle registered as nothing more than two, red, burning dots in the distance as its brake lights shimmered at least four or five blocks away, shrinking every second that he lingered.
Fiasco considered pursuit when the voice reminded him of the one choice it always suggested.
"You should give up, or next time, you will hurt someone."
With a nod, Fiasco acknowledged the voice's wisdom. It was a blessing that the angry man had Fiasco Proofing to begin with. Had that been a normal dwelling, his aura shield would have caused him to plunge through the side of the home like a cannonball, damaging more property. The momentum could have even carried him through more than one house. He looked down at the people below him, men, and women with small children hugging their hips, shivering despite the warmth. Fear was apparent on all their faces even through the shadows his light created. Fiasco cringed at the thought of the harm that could have fallen upon the most innocent citizens.
Realizing that it was best to add another loss to his long list of failures, the defeated hero's chin lowered as he started his descent back to the street. Back to the angry man and his neighbors who was still sought answers. Glancing one last time up to Third Street, Fiasco's breath caught in his chest when he saw a small black and gray object drop like a streaking comet from the night sky. It landed on the hood of the Chevelle with a boom that drew gasps and audible whoops of surprise from the people below. Fiasco shared in their shock, as he held out his hands to stop his descent.
Floating in midair, the entire spectacle came to Fiasco all at once. He watched it unfold slowly as if he were meant to observe every nuance. Metal crunched and twisted on the front of the Chevelle as the hood imploded inward. Cars on either side of the street trembled on rubber tires, caught in the concussion wave from the impact, their alarms bleeping in an offbeat cacophony. The two red eyes of the taillights jumped in unison—twice as high than when it struck the pothole earlier. The vintage undercarriage scraped against the concrete in a shower of sparks when it returned to the earth. The roof flattened upon impact, sending glass exploding outward like gleaming missiles. Jarred from the collision, the left rear tire broke free from the chassis, wobbling as it rolled out of sight in the shadow between two parked cars whose -yellow hazard lights blinked off and on.
Then, as fast as the crash began, it was over. The calm of the night returned to the neighborhood. Crickets were heard singing their songs in the bushes outside the homes, a relaxing ballad in stark contrast to the flashing hazard lights and intermittent car alarms that alternated beeps down the street. What was left of the Chevelle sat half draped in shadow, the other half beneath the wan orange lamplight that flickered on the left, damaged from the debris of the crash. Thin wisps of white steam rose from the mangled hood, curling into the night. The metal exterior was no longer gleaming from the great care of a loving owner, but was instead an entwined mess of sharp jagged edges whose paint appeared dark and depressed.
"The hell was that?" Fiasco wondered.
Hanging in the air, the exposed jaw beneath his mask was clenched tight as eyes from below crawled along his skin, each one suddenly seeing him as the authority figure. New Haven was a quaint town nestled in the middle east of Oregon. It did not have the cache or catchy nickname of Portland, nor the posh, bourgeoisie reputation like its neighbor state to the south. California overflowed with Megas. Yet in New Haven, it was a headline in local news whenever a mainstream Mega would even cross the border and fly over their town. Once, they had a big name Mega, Scarlet Valor, someone even he admired as a child—until he left the state, chasing Hollywood to be a celebrity hero. Counting himself, Fiasco knew there was only one other Mega that actually called New Haven home. After seeing the breadth of the destruction of the automobile, it had to be him who ended the Chevelle's run.
"He is better than you," the voice said. Fiasco's jaw clenched tighter.
"Well," a woman in the crowd asked him dryly. She had lit a cigarette to calm her nerves, holding it close to her mouth between two fingers. "Aren't you going to take a look?"
"Of course I am," Fiasco replied, embarrassed that she felt the need to ask.
Leaning forward, he raced down the street, leaving a gust in his wake. Within seconds, Fiasco had made up two blocks. After reaching block three, shards of metal debris strewn along the street below began to glimmer a light blue. The debris grew in profusion as he soared, leading him to the wreckage. As he approached the wreckage site, he watched a bulky figure cloaked in a shadow pull the caved-in door on the driver's side off the hinges with his bare hands and toss it carelessly away. It clanged against the ground as it wobbled, until it settled to a stop.
One limp body was pulled from the wreckage and tossed over the figure's left shoulder like a sack of flour. The shadow leaned over again, holding the limp man in place with a thick arm, then pulled out another body that Fiasco surmised was the passenger, tossing him over the opposite shoulder. Fully laden with unconscious criminals, the figure walked away without acknowledging the mega-hero's presence, disappearing into the darkness on the other side of the shattered vehicle.
A blue trail followed his wake as Fiasco reared up. He curved his body until he was vertical to the street, and then gently floated down behind what was left of the Chevelle. An acrid mix of gas and oil tweaked Fiasco's nose as he walked into the buzzing, flickering light. He passed the protruding rusted metal hinges that held the erstwhile bumper and walked towards the exposed driver's side, studying the shadows and darkened alcoves swathing the houses but finding no one hidden within.
As he walked, Fiasco investigated the crash. The hood of the car was caved in, black racing stripes resembling twisted lightning. He gingerly placed a hand on the roof, careful to avoid sharp metal splinters, even though his gauntlet would keep him from harm. He leaned into the mangled opening on the driver's side, showering the cabin within a light blue. The driver had indeed been taken out by the figure, but he was wrong about the passenger. The driver seat had been pushed forward off its railing so that the person in the rear who had laughed at him earlier could be safely extracted from the wreckage. The other passenger in the back was slump to the right. A thin trail of blood trickled down the upholstery where his head rested. He studied his chest, blood-stained fabric failed to move and there was no indication that the young man was still breathing. Fiasco leaned in closer, reaching out to grab hold and pull the injured criminal towards the driver side.
"Trying to steal my catch?" a voice whispered in his right ear.
The light about Fiasco burst outward with an azure brilliance. Flinching upward, he hardly felt the bump as he knocked his head on the broken roof and jumped back out of the car with one quick motion. Looking upwards, he saw Talon's face, in the reflection of blue light, towering over him with a churlish grin.
"Ow!" Fiasco said, rubbing the back of his head, feigning injury. "Dang it, Talon, I told you about sneaking up on me like that!"
Talon chuckled, and Fiasco stood astonished. He had made sure to check the shadows when he approached, ensuring the Mega wasn't there lurking to jump out. Yet, Talon was still able to sneak up on him without a sound. Considering his size, his stealth was a feat of nature.
Fiasco drank in Talon's costume, still rubbing his head. Where his was that of a classic Mega, complete with a white lightning bolt belt, boots that matched his dark-cyan suit, and deep blue carbon fiber guards sewn on his suit from his shoulder down his arm, Talon's outfit epitomized simplicity. His black hair was faded on the sides, tapering up to black spikes that finger-waved upward. A light gray mask contrasted against his golden-brown skin as it sat on the bridge of his nose yet held tight to his face. Thin screens covered his eyes, making them appear a solid white. Fiasco always wanted to ask what material Talon had used to create the mask since it was malleable, able to move and change according to his expressions; however, his shame in having run of the mill goggles never allowed him to broach the subject.
A knife belt lolled around Talon hips made of fine mahogany leather. Twin curved dagger filled loops on the side, their edges marked in red, and it was armed with a twelve inch bowie knife with a wood-grain handle on the opposite side. The only gaudiness of his outfit being the silver buckle latching the knife belt, engraved with two knives to form the letter T. A jet-black t-shirt stretched over a broad barrel chest and tapered mid-arm, struggling to contain heavily muscled biceps. Across his broad chest was a smoke gray silhouette of a snake eating eagle perched on a branch, its long, crescent-moon shaped talons on its feet, slick with the blood of some recent kill, biting into the wood. The bird-of-prey's head was canted to the right, gray blue eyes looking down at a prey off in the distance. It's wings were poised, arching up, ready to take flight with feathers resembling knives spread like fingers on a hand.
"You are just jealous," the voice said, "because he is better than you." Fiasco sighed.
Talon's smirk broke into a toothy grin with his perfectly straight teeth that radiated white.
"You're sloppy as ever," Talon said. He moved around the collapsed hood silently like a stalking panther and made his way towards the passenger side that sat in the shadows. His voice was deep, yet simultaneously immature. "I followed your chase since you made it out of downtown—when that crash you created hemmed up the cops."
Embarrassment brought heat to the Mega-hero's cheeks. Arriving to the chase late, the cops were spooked when Fiasco flew between two cruisers and joined the pursuit. His aura was bright—perhaps too bright—and blinded the officers. He barely evaded when the interceptor on his left swerved violently and pitted a fellow cop. The following crash left a glut of damaged police cars at Goode Street, and him alone in the chase with the fleeing thieves. Just remembering caused a wave of humiliation, and enough negative emotion to add to his power reserve. The effect was only compounded now that he knew Talon was there to bear witness.
"You were there this entire time?" Fiasco felt obliged to ask, yet he wasn't truly surprised. He could fly, but his chase for the Chevelle was street level. Talon's mastery was that of a roof rat. The scaffolding, metal stairs and rooftops were his domain, as he seemed able to crisscross the city in minutes using those means. It wouldn't be hard for the Mega to keep up with the pursuit given his unnatural speed.
"Yeah. I was there," Talon replied with more than the proper amount of sarcasm. Fiasco searched, but there wasn't even a hint of sweat on his brow from the effort. "I saw that you had at least a dozen chances to end this before…" Talon's white eyes looked up as if searching for the words. Then, he continued, "Well, Fiasco, for lack of a better word, before it came to this."
"I don't need you watching over me," Fiasco declared as he followed Talon to the passenger side of the Chevelle. "If you were paying attention, then you would know I tried. It's not my fault that they turned too fast, and I couldn't keep up."
Talon's mask furrowed at the brow, and his mouth twisted up like a question mark. "Tried? You mean that crowbar thing?" He guffawed and put one meaty hand over the knife-like glass that was left over from the side window. Glass crunched in his palm, and without a hint of pain, Talon bent over to look inside.
"Look, you've been at this—" Talon began, then paused to look over at Fiasco with the whites of his eyes wide and pleading. "Can I get a light?"
Fiasco sauntered to the car and leaned over.
"He thinks you are dumb," the voice mocked, and his power waved until his aura swelled several shades brighter, turning Talon's face a cerulean hue and illuminating the inside of the car.
"Thanks," Talon said, then put his head back inside the cab. It turned right then left, surveying the damage. His voice echoed off the crumpled interior as he continued, "You've been at this, what, three or four years now?"
It was five, but Fiasco did not feel it was prudent to correct him, since he awaited the greater point.
"Four years, many of them with me, and all you could think of was a crowbar?" Talon leaned back out; his arms outstretched. "That's bush league, Crooked F."
The nickname that Talon used made Fiasco bristle, slicing through what was left of his pride. In the beginning, keeping his true identity secret was paramount, but it wasn't like he could commission a seamstress or tailor to construct the costume and perfectly sew the F onto his suit. He could not even ask his own mother to help, even though he knew she had the skills. So, his costume had to be handmade with his clumsy hands, which could have been likened to a meth addict trying to perform heart surgery.
It had taken days of sneaking away in a closet at his parents' house, head tilted, with just a flashlight tucked under his neck for light. Using navy blue sewing thread, he was excited while stitching the stylish letter F into the white circle on his suit, but he misjudged the lining by millimeters due to his angled vision. It was enough of a mistake that the symbol tilted slightly to the left whenever he stood up straight. At first, no one noticed. It wasn't until local news outlets—who seemed to have hated him since day one—picked up on the glaring mistake. 'Crooked F' trended as a joke at his expense, but 'Fiasco', another name the press created, became his official moniker. No one ever asked what he originally meant for the letter. Talon still enjoyed using the original nickname and wouldn't let it go.
"Surely you can do better than that by now," Talon taunted.
Putting his hands back on the Chevelle's door, Talon's arms flinched, pulling the door off with twin crunches at the hinges. Glass tinkled along the asphalt. The passenger nearly spilled out onto the ground before Talon caught the unconscious man with one arm and slung him over his left shoulder. With his right foot, a swift kick sent the passenger seat over the center armrest and through the driver's side, sending both seats skidding along the street. With the opening now wide, Talon pulled the last passenger Fiasco nearly rescued out of the backseat by the top scruff of his shirt.
"Hey, easy there, Talon," Fiasco said. "That one seems really hurt."
A black eyebrow jutted up above the mask on Talon's face. "You were about to pull him clear through the other side just a second ago," he stared accusingly. "But relax, they're fine."
Fiasco's head tilted to the side. "How do you know?"
"I listened," Talon replied, and nodded to his left. "This one just has a few cracked ribs. I can hear them grinding as he breathes," he said, then shook the other man whose limbs flailed like a doll. "And this other one just has a concussion. Probably. I don't know. Can't really listen for a head wound, can I? I'm not a Praetermind."
"You listened? I didn't know you could do that," Fiasco bleated. He tried to tongue the cut inside his cheek, but it had nearly healed, feeling like a sore, thin stitch.
"He is better than you," the voice taunted, and Fiasco's aura flushed.
"I'm sure I told you before. You just don't pay attention half the time," Talon chuckled as he walked over to a well-manicured lawn and laid the two criminals next to the other two he had rescued earlier. "They're breathing at the very least, and quit trying to change the subject. You always do that, you know? You need to listen."
Fiasco sucked his teeth. He hated talking about himself. As far back as he could remember, failure was his constant companion. It manifested in the voice when his powers activated at seventeen and turned into the evil jiminy cricket that was quick to remind him of his inadequacy.
"Megas normally gained their power at puberty," the voice whispered. "You were a late bloomer."
"You know what you did wrong don't you?" Talon asked.
"Yes," Fiasco replied, but it was more a question than an answer.
"Well? Tell me."
Fiasco's shoulders sank, and he looked at the ground. "I'm a born loser, I guess. A Fiasco. I mean, it's in the name," he replied, trying to sound sarcastic, but channeling the voice's negativity. "Is that what you want to hear?"
Talon's mask bent sharply at the bridge of the nose. "What's the matter with you, Crooked F?" His visor shadowed along the edges to display his disapproval. "Why do you always talk like that? It's like speaking to an emotionally stunted child sometimes." He crouched like a baseball catcher near the head of one of the robbers, studying his wounds while he let out a breath. "If you undervalue yourself, rest assured the world will not raise your price."
"What the hell does that even mean?" Fiasco said with a laugh. "Who said that, Talon? Don't even try and claim it as your own."
Talon turned on his ankles to face him. "I don't know. Some dead guy said it, but at least I remembered it." The two laughed together and Talon's face softened. "Look, I don't want to hear that crap out of you anymore. It's self-defeating. Now seriously, what did you do wrong?"
"I don't know, Talon," Fiasco replied and crossed his arms over his chest. "Seriously."
Still crouched, Talon measured Fiasco's face, then slowly stood to full height. Fiasco squirmed, feeling like he was being questioned and scolded by his father.
"He will never love you." The mocking continued.
"You weren't prepared," Talon finally said, "You saw only the here and now, and wasn't prepared for what came next."
"What's wrong with the here and now, anyway?" Fiasco asked. "That happens to be where we live."
"A true Mega must always be prepared for what comes next. He has to be steps ahead or risk being left behind." He turned and gestured back to where Fiasco had crashed into the brick wall. "Case in point."
Fiasco's chin dipped into his chest. "Very funny. So what, you want me to be like Scarlet Valor or something?"
Talon's face hardened again. His mask framed his eyes and brows, giving it a menacing visage. "Forget that guy. He's corporate. A Fraud. He doesn't care about this city, even though they love him."
The sudden show of anger from Talon nearly made Fiasco feel what he sensed was apprehension, until he heard police sirens echo in the distance. NHPD had finally broken through the snarl and almost caught up to the pursuit. Red and blue lights blinked behind Talon where a crowd had formed and watched as the two Megas looked at each other in silence.
"I can see you, Fiasco," Talon finally said, his tone more somber than before. His face relaxed again as he walked toward him, his voice lowering as he approached. "You have to step it up. People are talking, and words travel fast these days. Now the wrong people are talking, and the wrong people may be listening."
Despite being cocooned in his warm light, Fiasco shivered. He knew Talon hinted at the Megahuman Defense Command. The M.D.C. They were the boogeymen of the MegaStream forums—a government trained law enforcement agency comprised of Megas who specialized in policing Megahuman affairs. They normally only dealt with high level, nation threatening events. Last Fiasco checked, his notoriety polled less than the girl Mega in Wyoming who could speak to dogs. There was little doubt that the agency even knew his name, or heard of New Haven. Yet, their presence was still a dark shadow of fear that loomed over anyone who chose to put on a costume.
"Well, it's not like I'm some Mal," Fiasco countered, using the sobriquet for malignants, Megas who use their power for crime. Perhaps there was a modicum of luck in Fiasco's life since he had yet come up against such a vicious foe, and it was his intention to continue that streak going if he could. Mal's were not known to leave Mega's breathing after encounters.
"We're a mid-level town in Oregon for God's sake." Fiasco continued. "No one cares what you do Talon, and even less me."
The silence between the two Megas was oppressive. The white screens over Talon's eyes shielded any attempt by Fiasco to gauge what he was thinking at all. Talon's eyes hadn't wavered from his stare until the big man sighed and shrugged incredulously with both shoulders, breaking the tension.
"Well, you never know what could happen. Times change while you're not paying attention." Talon said, then nodded to something behind Fiasco's shoulder. Fiasco turned and saw that several local news agencies had set up a small village of vans and cameras half a block down the street. Reporters were scampering about, getting their camera crews together, while hurriedly trying to beat the other network. New Havenites drawn by the noise and news coverage began to pool around the news camp.
A hand slapped down on his left shoulder and Fiasco flinched, not used to physical touch while surrounded by his light. Talon stood tall on his right. The perfect smile had returned to his face, as if their contentious conversation had never occurred. He walked him with a muscled arm firm around his shoulders towards the media. Noticing the two Megas approaching, the reporters met them halfway in bursts of white camera flashes and microphones, questions firing in rapid succession.
"Fiasco, did you kill them?"
"Fiasco, are you about to get arrested?"
"How does it feel to fail again?"
"Does it bother you that your approval rating is at eighteen percent in the latest New Haven poll?"
Their questions were a sonata of voices speaking over one another. Talon put both hands on Fiasco's shoulders and stood over him as he would a child.
"Now, now. Leave Fiasco alone. None of this is his doing," Talon asserted. The two Megas exchanged a glance before Talon stepped in front. "Because it was me who actually brought these thieves to justice."
With that proclamation, the flashes from the media's cameras burst like a firecracker display of white. Talon's smile widened, spreading his arms to drink in the adulation as he walked forward into the attention. His large shadow draped over Fiasco so much so that it was difficult to even tell that he was behind him, except for his pale blue glow that seemed to lend Talon his own shimmering aura.
"You only make him look better," the voice said. Fiasco nodded. The energy around his symbol throbbed from the inferiority he felt and his power surged until he slowly lifted into the air.
Talon looked up. "You're leaving already?" he asked, the white eyes on his mask growing wide.
"Yeah, I think you have this part covered," Fiasco replied dryly. "I have to go let some strangers into my house."
"Oh yeah, the party. For that professional Mega league team, right?" Talon replied, putting the latter part of his sentence in air quotations. Talon's perfect toothy grin appeared on his face, as if he was in on a joke that Fiasco was not privy to.
To Fiasco, the Mega league was simple, but brilliant in nature. At its core the league was basically just common football, but played by Megas. The field was twice as large in width and length than a national football team's stadium to accommodate the powers that the players brought with them. Megas were almost common if the term was stretched to include the lower ranks.
There was an established hierarchy with Mega-humans. Mega powers ranged from Epsilons, the lowest rung, to Betas, the most powerful in current time. There were no Alpha level Megas, as far as Fiasco knew. The Mega-league was reserved for Deltas and Charlies—specifically for strong men and Speedstras, Megas who could run faster than Mach One. Sometimes, Elementals, or Microclimate practitioners—Megas who could manipulate the weather like rain, wind, or snow—were able to join, adding new facets to the game.
There were twelve teams in the league. New Haven was one of two recent additions, thanks to the Savoy Corporation, representing the pacific northwest. The other addition was in Salt Lake City, representing the Rockies. For an emerging town, New Haven was abuzz with anticipation, and Fiasco had been talked into celebrating the acquisition, even though he normally shied from human contact.
"Well, good luck with the party. And with that girl," Talon said.
"We're just friends Talon," Fiasco replied.
"Right." Talon mocked with a purr. "Just do me a favor and have a little confidence in yourself," He said. Then, pointing up to Fiasco, he added, "Oh, and take a shower too. You smell like a filthy ass farting sulfur in that suit."
"Jerk," Fiasco mumbled, barely audibly as he rose into the sky.
Talon's white eyes narrowed. "I heard that," he responded.
Looking down, Fiasco gave Talon his own smirking leer. "I know," he said, then offered a soft salute up to his brow with two fingers.
"Wait," Talon shouted. "Before you go, I didn't find any money or merchandise in the car. What exactly did those guys steal anyway so I can return it? Make it look good for the cameras. You know how it goes."
Fiasco tilted his head. "The Chevelle was the merchandise, Talon. It was an original with all the parts that they stole from Tomas Savoy himself."
Surrounded by citizens and media, the svelte Mega-hero turned and cursed beneath his breath. Fiasco suppressed a laugh then looked up into the sky.
"Fiasco!" he shouted, half singing his name in an off-key note that echoed off the neighborhood. Then, he took off like a blue bottle rocket upward into the clouds. The breeze in his wake swept up the grime and debris, swirling it among Talon, the media, and the citizens equally, leaving a thin coat of dust on everything—and everyone—in the vicinity.
Cool air greeted him, as Fiasco soared over the city. He headed north over the whaling cop cars driving south toward the Chevelle wreckage below. On his right, past highway one-twenty-six, with its lines of white and red headlights, he saw the expanse of land where the new Mega league stadium was going to be built. Parked trucks and large foreman trailers were lit up by the bright halogen lights being erected in intervals around the site. Turning to the left, he saw downtown, where the jagged teeth-like silhouette of office buildings rose against the night sky. As he thought back to a time when he couldn't fly, Fiasco noted that the old skyline he remembered as a child of trees and mountains would eventually be dwarfed by the corporate Savoy tower that had begun construction blocks away, creating a new center of New Haven. Orientating from those landmarks, and the gray quarter moon in the sky, Fiasco veered to the left, turning toward Longreach district, where he lived.
As he flew, Fiasco pondered the encounter he just had with the citizens and press, realizing that coating them in dirt would not endear him to the people of New Haven. Nonetheless, he was already resigned to being the town pariah. The local hooligan. No amount of glad-handing or baby holding would change public opinion There was never really a need to live for or please someone else. Yet, Talon's words still lingered.
Removing himself from the here and now, training his mind to think steps ahead, and the overall concept of being a true Mega did not register. He was just Fiasco—no more, no less. There were no rule books to the game he played, as far as he knew. Talon's advice came in handy from time to time, but he could only play the game as it came to him. Why play chess when he was better at checkers? For Fiasco, it was best to know his limits and embrace the mediocrity.
"You will always be a failure." Fiasco nodded in affirmation, assured that more failure awaited him later that night. Failure that went by the name of Julianna.