I'm not breathing, I must be in heaven
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- March 29, 2008
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The following story was written for my Adv. Creative Writing and Reading class. Although the title is the same, it is unrelated to a story I tried to start a while ago.
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“Agent 3, do you know why I’m speaking with you today?” said Mr. Smith. His voice was calm, almost emotionless, except for a hint of malice. The room was dark and shrouded in a fog-like aura, with a single oak desk and the two men sitting in chairs, all dimly illuminated by an old desk lamp. However, the lamp did not seem to have any effect on lighting up Mr. Smith’s face. As usual, the man’s visage was hidden in the shadows. And also as usual, Agent 3 did not answer Mr. Smith’s question.
Smith continued. “Agent 3, I am speaking with you today because of your increasing disciplinary problems as well as your lack of respect for authority. Might I remind you that the reason you were selected for this position was due to your ability to follow and complete orders? The United States Army might see your so-called “heroism” during the Battle of Beijing as a demonstration of your loyalty, but to me, however, a Congressional Medal of Honor is nothing more than a pleasant-looking piece of crafted metal scrap. Agent 3, I am speaking with you today because on February 16, 2018, you were assigned to deliver a single 9 millimeter round to the back of Power Surge’s skull, but failed to command your brain to send electric signals to the index finger of your right hand to flex several tiny muscles to pull the trigger on a government-issued Sig-Sauer P229 handgun.”
Smith paused briefly, finishing his thought, and took a breath.
“Now, Agent 3,” he said, “do not think that I want to know why your brain did not send those electrical signals to your finger. All I want to know is that from this moment henceforth, I have your allegiance and cooperation one hundred and fifty percent. Any further disobedience will result in severe consequences.”
Smith’s voice next made a subtle, yet explosive shift in tone. If Agent 3 could see Smith’s face, Smith would be gritting his teeth.
“I want you to understand, Agent 3,” he spat, the syllables piercing the eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. “I want you to understand that your loyalty to whatever God you pray to does not apply to you here. Agent 3, I want you to understand that in this building, in this place, I am God. So, unless you wish for me to condemn you to eternal damnation, I suggest that you stop your blasphemy and start worshipping.”
* * *
The year was 2018, and America was still America. Within the past decade, the country’s oil supply had nearly been spent, with the People’s Republic of China in the possession of most of the world’s petroleum. In retribution, or perhaps desperation, the United States declared war on China in 2013. It was around this time that certain citizens in the United States began to show extraordinary prowess in strength, intelligence, and fantastic abilities. These “superhuman” citizens began fighting crime across the country, showcasing their fantastic powers. Costumed superheroes such as Blue Blast, Wildchild, and of course the magnificent Captain Afterburner were approached by the military. Together, the force of America’s military and the power of America’s super-citizens crushed the Chinese during the Chinese War. President Jonathan B. McCarver was globally commended in his efforts leading the country through the vicious war. In an act of irony, the President declared China to be the 51st state in the Union in 2015.
All of these events led to what some called a Golden Age of Prosperity in 2018. America’s victory in the Far East skyrocketed the economy to unfathomable heights, oil became plentiful again, and crime was at an all time low thanks to the actions of superheroes. Everything seemed to be all “fine and dandy.”
However, following the war, things began taking somewhat of a sinister turn. Crime was still decreasing, but superheroes were disappearing, retiring, vanishing. No one seemed to know why, but it never became a huge issue.
In 2016, a secret government organization was formed under the direction of President McCarver. Hidden from the public and the rest of the government, the project was designated the Superhuman Citizen Action, Regulation, and Enforcement Initiative. Often colloquially referred to as “the Agency”, the S.C.A.R.E. Initiative was formed with the leadership of a man known only as Smith, and four agents known only by the numbers one, two, three, and four, all either former military or CIA. Their mission: investigate, interrogate, intimidate, and exterminate superhuman citizens, hero or villain.
Agent 3 was fairly a newcomer to the group. However, he was not the first Agent 3. His predecessor was the original Agent 3, who was killed while on an assignment. Although he was now a part of a crack team of government operatives, he knew absolutely nothing about any of his associates. Smith, of course, never revealed his true name or face. All of the Agents wore black ninja-styled masks and suits, had muscular physiques, and were ordered to never reveal their identities to each other. All of them were either decorated military men or prolific CIA agents.
3 was brought into this operation much like a baby is brought into this world: unwillingly and covered in blood. During the Chinese War, he received a Congressional Medal of Honor for his bravery during the Battle of Beijing. His actions were noticed by the S.C.A.R.E. Initiative , and on one crispy November night in 2017, he found himself blindfolded, beaten, gagged, and in the back of a van. He was driven to a secret location in Washington D.C. and inducted into the Agency. His home was sold, and his belongings were shipped to a new apartment in Washington. His family received a notice saying that he had drowned in a cruise ship sinking near the Galapagos Islands and his body was never recovered. The government outlawed 3 from making any further contact with his family. Suddenly, the man who was once not known as Agent 3 had vanished from the face of the Earth.
* * *
“Come on! Hurry up, you faggots!” barked Agent 1.
“Jesus Christ, let me check my guns again.” complained Agent 2. 1 pulled the Uzi out from 2’s hand.
“You’ve checked them five times. Now get moving before I make sure that your guns are working properly for you!”
The agents were all getting prepared in the equipment room of the Agency headquarters, pulling their gear from racks and lockers. Moments ago, Smith had briefed them about the mission. Their assignment was to capture and interrogate Tsunami while the hero was out on his patrol. Surveillance and prior investigation had revealed that tonight’s route was going to pass by the Lincoln Memorial around 11:30 p.m.
It was 11:00 p.m. and the usual arguments had sprung up amongst the Agents. Agent 1, the veteran leader, was again questioning his colleagues’ sexuality. He reminded Agent 3 of a football coach in high school, except he was a football coach with a sniper rifle and impeccable aim. Agent 2, the technologist of the group, was checking his guns as well as calibrating his locating equipment. Agent 4, a master of interrogation and detective work, was reviewing the mission outline over and over.
And of course, Agent 3 was sitting on the bench, wondering how the hell his life had come to this, lost in a question, a memory. His mind traveled down a sinuous path of regrets, morals, and wishes. Finally, he came back to reality.
“3.hello? 3? 3, are you there?” said 2. Agent 3 had been staring blindly at the ceiling.
“Sorry, sorry. I was just thinking. I’ve been under some stress lately.” replied 3.
Agent 1 mocked, “Why, 3? Your boyfriend dump you last night? Aww, so sad. You can go back home and cry if you really want to.”
Agent 3 rose from his seat with rage. He yelled, “Who the hell do you think you are? What gives you the right to talk to me like that? I could care less if you like me, the point is that we’re a team, for Christ’s sake! Shut your damn mouth, we have a mission to get ready for.”
Agent 1 stepped forward, a Goliath casting a shadow on a David. In one single motion, he hammered Agent 1 into the wall like a freight train.
“Another move like that, punk, and the lions will have something extra special on the menu.”
Agents 2 and 4 switched back and forth from 1 to 3, unaffected, yet still intrigued.
“What are you looking at? Grab your torches and pitchforks, and let’s go find ourselves a madman.” said Agent 1, then he left the room. 4 soon followed.
Agent 3 lay on the ground. The pain was intense; grimacing would only make it worse. Surprisingly, a hand reached down from above him. It was Agent 2.
“Don’t worry about 1,” 2 said, pulling 3 up. “The man’s seen a lot of things.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”, replied Agent 3.
“You’ll get used to the jokes. Just don’t get in his way and you’ll be alright.”
“Sure…thanks.”
“No. What you did back there was stupid. What the hell were you thinking? If you question 1’s authority, Smith will fry your ass. Now, you’re the new guy so I’ll help you this one time. From here on, you’re on your own. Every man for himself. I’m not going to risk my position just to help you out. Now, for God’s sake, clean yourself up. And the next time he smashes your face, I won’t help you up.”
Agent 2 started towards the door, but Agent 3 interrupted him.
“2…why is it like this? Why do we do this? Why do we kill them? I mean, what’s so bad about trying to save the world?”
Agent 2 sighed. “Everyone wants to save the world. The thing that people need to learn is that the law gets to control who can save it. Control is the only way to maintain a stable society. Otherwise society will collapse on itself. We’re saving the world by controlling it.”
And with that, Agent 2 left.
* * *
11:35 p.m. The Lincoln Memorial, Washington D.C. February 20, 2018.
The Agents were in position and waiting. Agent 1 had climbed a tree and loaded his sniper rifle with armor piercing rounds (although the objective was to capture Tsunami alive, 1 was designated to be ready in case things got out of hand). Agent 2 waited in the bushes. Agent 3 took up watch near the Chinese War Memorial Wall. Agent 4 was stationed inside the van. All of them, waiting in silence, sound seemingly muffled by thick darkness.
It was a cold night in Washington, the kind of cold that was almost hot; Agent 3 could swear that his clothes were on fire. Agent 3 waited in the shadows of names, the shadows of faces, the shadows of dead sons and fathers and brothers. Who did they die for? What did they die for? Perhaps it was some greater purpose. Maybe it was for their country, for mom and apple pie, for rock n roll and the right to bear arms, for God and an open palm pressed over a heart that once beat like massive drums. They tried to save a world that others had left to die. And then, they were left to die.
He reached out a hand that was no longer his own, he extended a finger that wasn’t his own, and traced the names carved into the black stone of the Chinese War Memorial Wall. He closed his eyes and thought he could see them all, each man dressed in a uniform. He could feel the bullets hit, he could hear the deafening roar of explosives, each breath like a prayer, each pull of the trigger a hymn. They just wanted to do good, he thought. They just wanted to save the world.
“—I’ve got him, repeat, this is Agent 2, target is in the vicinity approaching from north northwest slowly.” Agent 3’s earpiece crackled and interrupted the memory. He adjusted his thermal goggles and looked in the direction 2 had said. Nothing yet.
His hands rolled up into fists. The muscles in his neck clenched.
“Remember, everyone, the objective is to capture him. Only kill him if necessary.” said Agent 2 over the radio earpiece.
“Why does Smith always give us these capture missions? I mean, sure it’s fun kicking the shit of the fag, but can’t we at least have some target practice?” said 1.
“—as I was saying, Agent 3 and myself will seize him. Agent 1 will give us cover in case something gets out of hand, but the mission is to keep him alive. He’s of no use to us dead. Once we’ve knocked him out we’ll load him into the van and head off. Anything goes wrong, guns are last resort.”
Agent 3 slowly inhaled and exhaled behind the wall. He prepared himself as Agent 2 read out the distances “…20 meters, 15 meters, 10 meters, 5 meters, get ready 3!”
Tsunami never saw them coming. Agent 3 leapt over the wall, ramming Tsunami in the back and forcing him to the ground. Agent 2 came in second, breaking both of Tsunami’s legs with two chops and then binding his hands, tying a blindfold, and gagging his mouth while Agent 3 held him down. Next, 2 administered a syringe full of lime-green colored liquid to the superhero. Tsunami struggled and thrashed around a bit, but a single blow to the head knocked him unconscious.
“Good job, 3”, said Agent 2, getting up and cracking his knuckles. Alright, let’s get this guy in the van.”
And in a matter of seconds, punches, and breaths, four men in black and one man in blue vanished into the cold night.
* * *
“Edwin Walker Jacobs, also known as Tsunami, age 28, born March 20th, 1989, in Los Angeles, California. Discovered water-based abilities at a young age, but kept them hidden from parents. Turned to career of superheroism in 2010, and had a small part during the Chinese War. Since then, has resumed hero career, operating exclusively in the Washington D.C. area.” said Smith.
The four Agents surrounded Smith in the interrogation room, all five of them staring at a blindfolded Caucasian male with cuts and bruises on his face wearing a flamboyant light blue costume.
“What do you want?” said the man, known as Tsunami.
“The question is not what I want, Mr. Jacobs. The question is what the United States government wants, and the answer to that question is that they want information. I am a rather busy man, so I will make this short and simple for someone of your low intelligence. We, that is the government and myself, know that you as well as other notable superhumans are beginning to form a collective organization. The government would be most pleased if you would tell us why you are forming said organization, as well as names of other superhumans involved.”
“Hah, well, I would be most pleased if you went to hell.”
“I expected such a primitive answer. Agent 4.”
Agent 4 stepped from the shadows and pulled a cigar cutter from his pocket.
“You see, Mr. Jacobs, I already know your next move. You are probably thinking of commanding the water molecules in my body to freeze or perhaps boil, thereby killing me. However, during your capture, you might possibly recall the feeling of a needle penetrating your skin. This needle was connected to a syringe which contained a special chemical, designed to prevent a superhuman to use his or her powers and also designed to weaken the physical strength of the superhuman.”
Agent 4 slipped the cigar cutter onto Tsunami’s little finger.
“The fact that you cannot use your powers gives me solace, because I know that there will be no repercussions for what is about to happen. As you can no doubt feel, Agent 4 has slipped something metallic onto your little finger. Agent 4 is a master of interrogation and torture. Usually he is rather silent when confronting his targets, so he prefers to let his actions speak louder than words.”
Agent 4 closed the cigar cutter around Tsunami’s finger. Tsunami screamed.
“This metallic object is a cigar cutter, which has now resulted in the removal of everything above the second knuckle of your finger. Now, I am going to repeat this question again, as you have no doubt forgotten it by now. Mr. Jacobs, I would like to know the purpose and personnel of this superhuman organization.”
Tsunami shouted, as if his throat was filled with razorblades, “I’m going to tear your goddamn arms off!”
“Now, now, Mr. Jacobs. That does not sound very heroic, noble, or American. I thought that you and your kind were about protecting freedom, justice, the American Way, being a symbol for citizens all across the nation. This outburst only further solidifies my belief that you are all a disease that must be eradicated. Since I am not an evil man, I will allow you one last chance to divulge the information I require.”
Silence. Blood dripped down from Tsunami’s forehead, trickling down underneath his blindfold and stinging his eyes.
“Very well, I understand. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a very important telephone call to make and I would like some extra time to make myself a cup of coffee beforehand. So I will bid you a good day, Mr. Jacobs, and I will take my leave. I hope that my Agents will keep you company.”
Smith left the room. Underneath their masks, Agents 1, 2, and 4 smiled.
“Finally! Finally! My prayers have been answered!” squealed Agent 1.
The Agents drew various objects from their utility belts, like surgeons in an operating room, and began their work.
* * *
“Tsunami has been disposed of.” said Agent 1, later.
“Very good, 1. Thank you, gentlemen.” replied Smith. “However, we are left with one dead superhuman and no extra information. Now, after analyzing Tsunami’s behavior during the interrogation confirms that the superhumans are organizing. I have begun to compile a list of targets for you to pursue.”
Smith handed out the papers to each of the Agents.
“First and foremost, we need to capture Blue Blast and Wildchild. They worked together during the war, and there has been recent evidence of continued partnership since then. From there, we will have to move to larger targets, specifically Captain Afterburner.”
“Hah, big game hunting. Just what I’ve been needing.” mused 1.
“Intelligence has indicated that Blue Blast and Wildchild are currently investigating the supervillain Bloodstorm. Apparently, Bloodstorm has been organizing several illegal operations in New York City. I am taking care of necessary arrangements to fly you four out to New York to capture Blue Blast and Wildchild, as well as to eliminate Bloodstorm if you come in contact with him. These costumed clowns think that they are above the law. It is time to show them who the law really is. You are dismissed.”
The Agents all started for the door, 3 following last. Smith called him back.
“3, I was informed of an incident between you and 1 before the last mission. As I explained to you earlier, I am a punishing deity. While I must admit that this incident is fairly minor compared to the incident during the Power Surge assignment, you still must face consequence. Therefore, you will be subjected to 15 minutes of waterboarding beginning now. Perhaps you will see it as a learning experience rather than a punishment.”
Smith rose from his seat, gestured for 3 to follow, and disappeared into the darkness.
* * *
The Agents arrived in New York City at 9:00 the next morning. They were flown over in a private government jet and escorted to a deserted building in Brooklyn to set up as their headquarters. Once there, they reviewed the mission briefing, developed strategies, cleaned and checked their gear, and relaxed until the assignment was to begin.
That night, each Agent traveled to a separate location in disguise, all within two square miles of each other. They all entered the buildings posing as air conditioning repairmen, and found their way to the roof of each building. They geared up, radioed the other Agents, and waited.
The plan was similar to the last. Wait for Blue Blast or Wildchild to pass by, follow them, and eventually capture them for interrogation. Get in and get out, simple as that.
Agent 3 was sent to an electronics store in Brooklyn at 7:30 that night. He confronted the owner about a routine air conditioning maintenance checkup while in disguise, and climbed onto the roof to begin his “work.” He barricaded the entrance to the roof, changed into his Agent uniform, and contacted his comrades.
“Agent 3 here. I’m in position and awaiting orders.”
A familiar, annoying voice came up over the radio, much like a fruitcake turning up at Christmas.
“Well, well, what took you so long 3? Busy jerking off? We’ve all been ready for a good 15 minutes.”, sneered Agent 1.
“1, cut it.”, interjected Agent 2. “Let’s go over the plan again.”
“Alright, fine.” complained 1. “Okay, so the first one that catches sight of Blue Blast or Wildchild, speak up. Follow ‘em, and we’ll close in on you and get ‘em. Now, those two supers are hunting Bloodstorm, so if you happen to see him, kill the ***tard. Got it?”
Variations on the reply “yes” echoed on the radio.
* * *
8:39 that night.
Wildchild was a better marksman than anticipated. The Agents were bottled up in an abandoned warehouse near the water, nearly exhausted from chasing Blue Blast and Wildchild halfway across Manhattan Island. The superheroes in question were at the other end of the room, Wildchild wielding an assault rifle and throwing fireballs, and Blue Blast generating a forcefield. The Agents were taking cover behind various crates, shooting when they got the chance.
The Agents had followed them to Bloodstorm’s secret headquarters. While the villain wasn’t at home at the moment, there was no way to ensure that one of the henchmen he had left behind hadn’t radioed in for help before the heroes and the Agents slaughtered them all.
“Come on! Come out and kill us!” shouted Wildchild.
“Keep talking boy, and I’ll be sure to give you what you asked for!” responded 1.
Wildchild threw a fireball in the direction of 1’s voice. He miscalculated the throw, and it exploded around a forklift. 1 flinched slightly.
“Everyone get over here!” he barked to his squad. The rest of the Agents moved around him. “2, 3, I need you to outflank them. I’ll create a distraction.”
And with that 2 and 3 made their way to the left around the maze of crates. Agents 1 and 4 lobbed a few grenades and shouted obscenities, fired off a few random shots. If this was a distraction, 3 had seen better.
Whatever the case, 1 and 4 had bought 2 and 3 enough time to get behind the supers.
“Alright,” said 2, as they both crouched behind cover. He held up a small gun in his hand, loaded with two darts. “I’ll use this to disrupt their power generation. It will only stun them for about a minute, so as soon as I hit them, you book it and bag ‘em. Make sure to---“
The rest of Agent 2’s sentence was drowned out by a deafening roar and a flash of blinding orange light. An explosion ripped open the western wall of the warehouse, and through it poured 20 men armed with shotguns, submachine guns, and assault rifles. Behind them, a figure that looked like it came straight from Dungeons And Dragons. Bloodstorm had stopped by for a visit.
Wildchild was ripped apart. 400 rounds of ammunition can do that to someone, superhuman or not. Blue Blast was able to vaporize 4 or 5 of Bloodstorm’s men using a wave of his hand. The henchmen that remained continued firing. In the chaos, one word echoed in Agent 3’s mind.
“GO!”, he yelled, and he and 2 darted through the pandemonium. He ran, ran, ran, he ran so fast he swore his legs would fall off. Nothing else was apparent to him, he just kept going. All sound seemed to have been torn from the air. He caught a quick burst of motion out of the corner of his right eye, but he just kept running.
Finally, he reached Agents 1 and 4 and turned back. Bloodstorm’s men hadn’t stopped firing. And Agent 2 wasn’t with the rest of the Agents. A bloodied figure lay on the ground, riddled with bullets. It was Agent 2.
Agent 3 closed his eyes. When he opened them, 1 was screaming in his face, his eyes full of fire. Agent 4 was urging them to abandon the mission and leave now. As Bloodstorm’s men continued to pour into the warehouse, the world around seemed to stop. Agents 1, 3, and 4 fled the scene as fast as they could.
* * *
“You f*cking killed him!” bellowed Agent 1. “I’ll rip your heart open, you traitorous shithead!” He lunged at Agent 3. Agent 4 held him back.
“Agent 1, please control yourself.” said Smith. “I want you to explain what exactly what happened.”
Smith had been notified of their failure immediately, and the remaining Agents had been flown back to Washington promptly. Needless to say, this mission’s debriefing was anything short of boring.
Agent 1 took a few breaths, and eventually contained most of his rage. “Well,” he panted, “we had cornered Wildchild and Blue Blast in a warehouse. We were under heavy fire. I had sent Agent 2 and Agent 3 to outflank them and to attack. The warehouse we were in belonged to Bloodstorm, and we had killed some of his guards beforehand. However, one of those sons of b****es must’ve sent out a distress signal before we got to him because right when 2 and 3 were about to attack, Bloodstorm showed up with two dozen men. He gunned down Wildchild in a heartbeat, and 2 and 3 took off to try to get the hell out of there. 2 was killed running back through the crossfire. I heard him, I heard him yell out for them to go! His stupid idea got 2 killed! I never trusted 3; I always knew he was a conspiring little prick!”
“Agent 1! That is enough!” commanded Smith. He turned to 3.
“Now, Agent 3. This is the third time that your rash actions have jeopardized a mission.” he continued. “It seems that your disloyalty and disobedience have left me no choice. Under the jurisdiction of the United States government, and as the executive of the Superhuman Citizen Action, Regulation, and Enforcement Initiative, I hereby suspend you from your position as an Agent. You must surrender your uniform, equipment, and all other items immediately. Return to the equipment room and prepare your equipment. I will be by to collect the items within 10 minutes.”
The bomb drops.
Agent 3’s mind became like an interstate paved through hell. So many questions, so many contradictions, everything coming together like a car crash. In an instant, he was no longer a man in a mask with the number 3 emblazoned on the back of his black jumpsuit. No, now he was the man before the mask, the man who listened to Bob Dylan records on a vintage phonograph, the man who gave everything to save a country on a battlefield an ocean away, the man whose country gave nothing in return.
The bomb explodes.
“Hypocrites! All of you! You’re all a bunch of f*cking hypocrites! You talk about protecting America’s freedom, eradicating the stain of superheroes, all of that extreme patriotic bullshit! Aren’t they trying to protect our freedom? I mean, who will save the world if we kill all of them? Doesn’t someone have to save the world! They might cause problems in society, but they’re more heroic and noble than any of you will ever be. And you, Smith, you pompous, pretentious buffoon, with your goddamned messiah complex! You beat me, lied to my family, forced me into this operation, nearly drowned me, subjected me to mental and physical torture by my own colleagues! You say that the superheroes are a disease? Why don’t you take a look in the mirror? Oh, but that’s right, you don’t have a face, do you? I don’t have a face! You know what you’ve done to me? I can’t feel anything anymore! I don’t know the difference between right and wrong anymore, the difference between good and evil, the difference between being awake and dreaming. If this world is in need of saving, it’s in need of saving from you, not superheroes. You’re not promoting peace in this country, you’re not saving the world, but you’re deforming it, you’re creating a grotesque illusion of it. The world needs saving from an illusion, and that illusion is you.”
The fallout.
Agent 3 rose from his seat, turned away, and walked out of the door of Smith’s office. Agent 3 rose from his seat, turned away, and walked out of the door of a life based on a lie. He hoped that when he closed that door behind him, he’d enter a room and a life based on truth.
* * *
He never saw the truck coming. The collision threw his car through the air for a short distance, before it landed in a dark grove of trees. The man once known as Agent 3 was showered in glass, shattered by tree branches. The driver’s side of the car was devastated, but he found a way to crawl from the twisted wreckage. Panting, he slowly made it to his feet. His hand reached for his right arm, and his fingers became covered in blood spilling from a wound. He swore he could see something colored white poking out from his arm. He couldn’t see straight, just spirals and flashes. He stumbled over to a tree, and put out his good arm to brace himself. He could feel himself getting dizzy, but he could not feel pain.
A kick in the chest hurled him to the ground. He barely had time to get a breath in before the sole of a boot repeatedly came into contact with his face. He heard and felt a loud crack in his face; his jaw had been broken.
Now he could feel pain.
The assailants brought him to his feet and broke his left arm, before cracking his kneecaps. He collapsed again, and his ankles were shattered with four brutal blows. A few stomps crushed his ribs.
His head was spinning, his body was shrieking.
The silhouette of a dark figure materialized in the void, and then another. The first leaned forward to Agent 3’s face, brandishing a long, serrated knife.
“You know what, fag? I love my job so much.”
* * *
Following Agent 3’s assassination, his home, belongings, and any record of his existence was destroyed. His family was killed days later, their throats slit in their sleep and their house burned to the ground. No trace of him had been left remaining.
Blue Blast disappeared a week following the raid on Bloodstorm’s warehouse. In the months that followed, other heroes such as Archetype, Divebomb, and Captain Afterburner vanished as well. Following his disappearance, it was revealed that Captain Afterburner had begun to organize group of superheroes with Divebomb, Archetype, Blue Blast, Tsunami, and Wildchild before he went missing.
And two weeks before Captain Afterburner’s disappearance, a man in an unknown building in Washington D.C donned a black mask, utility belt, and a black jumpsuit with a single digit number printed onto the back. The year was 2018, and America was still America.
“At midnight, all the agents and the superhuman crew come out and round up everyone that knows more than they do.”- Bob Dylan
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