…Meanwhile, in Dimension 8109…

“High of eighty-two and partially cloudy as we head into the weekend,” a meteorologist advised the television audience. “And that’s the seven-day forecast. Chelsea, back to you.”

            “Thanks, Jackson,” Chelsea McDermont replied. “In other news this morning, the Toronto Police Service is preparing to move former zoologist Dr. Zane Wilder from the Toronto South Detention Centre to the Ontario Corrections Institute later today. Known as ‘The Zookeeper,’ Wilder was convicted early last year of animal cruelty, murder, and racketeering-related charges stemming from his mercenary work with Braxton, the polar bear. Many will remember court testimony accusing Wilder of training and conditioning Braxton, who was used by local crime rings as an attack dog. Dr. Wilder reached a deal with prosecutors that will see him transported to the Ontario Corrections Institute in exchange for the names of kingpins Wilder worked with.”

            “Juno, turn that off,” June Fiddler’s mother, Brianna, ordered. “The kids will be here any second.”

            “Sorry,” June apologized, grabbing the remote off the counter and turning the television off before tiredly returning to her bowl of cereal. Having her own daycare service, Brianna busied herself with some last-minute cleaning around the small kitchen and family room before her scheduled appointments arrived. A ray of light shone through two windows along the far wall adjacent to the kitchen cabinets, stretching itself over the gray wool rug covering the hardwood floor. A hummingbird mosaic piece of art hung next to some family photos on the walls, painted a warm green. Next to the television was a shelf occupied by a miniature wooden mannequin and a wicker vase. A cookie jar joined a breadbox and a toaster on the kitchen counter while pots and pans loomed overhead. Meanwhile, the small refrigerator’s ice machine hummed.

            “What time do gymnastics end?” Brianna asked.

            “Six or seven, latest?” June guessed with a yawn, stirring her spoon languidly through the milk. “It’s going to depend on how long Coach Lee wants to spend on the pommel horse.”

            “You’ll be back by seven thirty?” Brianna questioned rhetorically.

            “Yes, Mom,” June promised. “I will.”

            “Don’t ‘yes, Mom’ me,” Brianna countered. “I want you and Sam to meet him.”

            “Yeah, I know,” June huffed.

            “What is it?” Brianna asked.

            “It’s just…” June started. “Don’t you think it’s a little early for something like that?”

            “No,” Brianna answered firmly. “It’s been seven months.”

            “And the last two were each six,” June argued as her brother, Samuel Fiddler, walked into the room.

            “Morning, guys,” Sam waved.

            “Morning, sweetie,” Brianna smiled. “Remember, we’re having dinner with Kyle and his son tonight.”

            “Yeah, err…” Sam responded. “Seven?”

            “Seven-thirty,” Brianna corrected. “Don’t be late.”

            “I won’t,” Sam nodded, grabbing a banana from the kitchen. “I’ve got to go. I’m meeting Mr. Rivers before class today.”

            “What for?” Brianna interrogated.

            “No reason,” Sam answered dismissively.

            “Samuel,” Brianna warned. Sam pursed his lips while June finished her breakfast.

            “I’ve been having trouble with English,” he sheepishly admitted. His mother rubbed her forehead.

            “…Ok,” Brianna responded. “We’ll talk about that later. I want to hear everything Mr. Rivers tells you.”

            “All right,” Sam agreed, grabbing his backpack. “See you guys later.”

            “Bye, love you,” Brianna bubbled. June got up from her chair, collected her bowl and spoon, and carefully dispatched them into the sink.

            “Love you too,” Sam echoed on his way out of the door of their townhouse. Brianna’s demeanor grew wary and somber.

            “Lord help me if he has Dyslexia,” she muttered.

            “It’s not that big of a deal, Mom,” June chastised, swinging her own backpack over her shoulder.

            “No, no, you’re right,” Brianna corrected herself shamefully. “I just…I don’t know what he may need from me.”

            “How about you see what Mr. Rivers says first?” June suggested, prompting her mother to nod regrettably. “See you tonight. Love ya.”

            “Love you too,” Brianna reciprocated as her daughter walked out the door. With blue skies and a slight breeze, it was a picture-perfect Spring day in Toronto. June descended down the stoop and traversed the sidewalk toward the bus stop, grabbing her phone in the process. A Nightjar perched atop the roof of the townhouse across the street watched astutely.

            “Zane’s getting the Club Fed treatment today,” she texted. “I’m going to try and make sure the escort goes smoothly.”

            “You need help?” Sprint texted back.

            “You have chemo today,” Fiddler countered.

            “I can leave early,” Pruitt insisted.

            “No.” Fiddler answered curtly. “I’ve got it. You take care of yourself.”

            “If things get out of hand, call me,” Pruitt ordered. Fiddler texted a thumbs-up emoji in response before pocketing her phone. She made her way down the street, quietly assimilating herself into the small crowd of students standing around a yellow sign that simply read: School Bus Stop.

            “June!” A voice called out. Fiddler shifted her attention to her right.

            “Hey, Rach,” She smiled. “How’s it going?”

            “Counting down the days,” Rachel Reech answered, walking up to her friend. “How about you? You look tired.”

            “Ehh,” Fiddler shrugged. “Nightmare kept me up half the night.”

            “Another one?” Reech asked concernedly. “You get those a lot.”

            “I’ve just got one of those minds,” Fiddler excused. “Where’s Amy?”

            “Didn’t she say she had a doctor’s appointment this morning?” Reech speculated. Fiddler subtly tilted her head up to the sky.

            “Yeah, you know, she did,” she realized. “The days are blurring together.”

            “Same,” Reech nodded. “Are you free tonight?”

            “No, I’ve got gymnastics and then I’m meeting my mom’s boyfriend,” Fiddler explained, skepticism blanketing her face as she pointed a finger gun at her forehead and pulled the trigger.

            “That bad, huh?” Reech asked.

            “I’m just over it,” Fiddler reasoned. “Want to do something tomorrow?”

            “Sure!” Reech agreed. “I’ll text Amy, see if she’s available.”

            “Sounds good!” Fiddler exclaimed moments before the school bus pulled up alongside them. She hopped aboard the vehicle and took a window seat while Reech joined her. The trip to school was uneventful. Rambunctious conversations filled the cabin with excitement and anticipation for Summer break. Fiddler, on the other hand, rested her head on her hand with her eyes closed.

            “Amy’s in,” Reech reported, looking up from her phone. “Juno?”

            “Wh—oh, cool!” Fiddler acknowledged, snapping herself out of her fatigue.

            “How much sleep did you get last night?” Reech asked concernedly.

            “A couple of hours,” Fiddler lied.

            “Ok, well,” Reech responded. “Have you tried Melatonin?”

            “I don’t have a problem getting to sleep,” Fiddler corrected diffidently. “…I’m afraid to.”

            “You’re…” Reech repeated. “You’re afraid to fall asleep?” Fiddler grimly nodded her head, reminiscing on her most recent nightmare:

            Wandering down a flooded hallway of an abandoned mansion, Fiddler took a shaky breath. The walls were dark and decrepit, with vines growing from the cracks. A weathered portrait of a bearded man in a suit and tie hung loosely on its hinges—the man’s gaze following Blackthorn as she passed. Splashes of water from each footstep echoed over the corridor while a broken Nijmegen Helmet dangled precariously from a chandelier above. Fiddler clenched her fists, encasing them in shadowed gauntlets in the process. As she neared the end of the hallway, an Egyptian sarcophagus rose up from the water.

            “It’s in your hands again, June,” a booming voice warned, reverberating down the watery hall. “You know the consequences of failure.”

  With black water still dripping from the burial device, the door to the sarcophagus swung open. A mummified pharaoh lurched forward, grabbing at the air in front of it with diseased, decaying hands. At the same time, thousands of cockroaches spilled from the crevices in the wall beside Fiddler. The insects coated the crumbling corridor up to the ceiling, where they proceeded to drop down onto Blackthorn. She ducked out of the way, tumbling backward into the water before regaining her footing. Refocusing on the pursuing pharaoh, Fiddler crushed an insect on her shoulder before lifting her fists. Dozens of cockroaches emerged from the water and began crawling up her leg as Blackthorn charged toward the pharaoh with a winding punch.   

            “Just the other night, I had a dream I had to fight a mummy while cockroaches were swarming up and down my legs,” Fiddler summarized.

            “That’s, that’s not a dream, Juno,” Reech advised. “That’s a nightmare.”

            “I know,”  Fiddler agreed as the bus driver parked the vehicle in front of the school and opened the swinging door. “But to me, they’re one in the same.”

            “Maybe talk to a doctor?” Reech suggested while climbing out of her seat. “ I’m pretty sure ‘Nightmare Disorder’ is a real thing.”

            “I will,” Fiddler promised, following her friend off the bus and onto the sidewalk. She felt her phone buzz as the school bell sang out an obnoxious warning.

            “I gotta run,” Reech grimaced, looking down at the watch on her wrist.

            “Oh, yeah, go. Good luck with your test!” Fiddler exclaimed.

            “Thanks!” Reech nodded. “Talk to you after class.”

            “See ya!” Fiddler waved. Reech followed the crowd of students into the school. Fiddler lulled behind, ducking behind the corner of the school and suspiciously waiting for the coast to clear before checking her phone.

            “Zane’s on the move,” Sprint had texted her.

            “How do you know that?” Blackthorn asked disapprovingly.

            “The cancer center has internet,” Pruitt retorted. “And a TV.”

            “And if I go down there, you won’t be missing?” Fiddler questioned.

            “No, Mom,” Pruitt asserted, prompting Fiddler to roll her eyes. “You won’t.”

            “Pardon me for caring,” she rebuked. “I’m heading down there.”

            “Be careful, Thorns,” Pruitt acknowledged. “You know how many people want Zane dead.”

            Fiddler stowed her phone away before discreetly crouch-walking along the perimeter of the school and turning down a side alley. Ensuring she was out of sight, Fiddler nonchalantly waved her hand, sending a wall of shadow quickly cascading over her. Blackthorn emerged from the other side of the wall in full costume; violet fingerless gloves covered her hands, and a matching domino mask partially concealed her face. A tactical vest adorned with the letter ‘B’ materialized over her long-sleeve shirt.

            “Can’t believe that actually worked,” She thought to herself, encasing her hands in shadowy gauntlets. Using a whip molded from shadow, Fiddler clambered up the side of the building to the roof, utilizing her invisibility to traverse Toronto and its skyline toward Wilder as quickly and undetected as possible. Maintaining her invisibility, Blackthorn maneuvered along rooftops. She crossed a dozen buildings, scaling up and down another five before stopping herself as Wilder’s prison transport came into view. Four police cruisers, two in front and two bringing up the rear, escorted an armored truck as they slowly drove down the street.

            Fiddler’s eyes lingered on the prison transfer before scanning the remainder of the area for any threats. The sidewalks, which were shrouded by an adjacent tree line, were sparsely traveled as people were either in school or at work, and the same could be said of the road. Blackthorn counted about eight people in total going about their day, while five cars waited around a stoplight in the intersection below. A hollow hiss and the frustrated grumble of a heavy engineredirected her stare to the far side of the opposite street.

            “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Fiddler muttered. Stampeding down the road at full speed was a large garbage truck. Blackthorn glanced at the police escort before materializing a large hand out of shadow to pluck her off the roof and hurl herself down toward the speeding battering ram. She clenched a fist in midair, hurtling a shadowy punch at the cabin of the garbage truck. The strike connected, shattering the windshield and crushing the front of the vehicle inward. However, it continued barreling forward toward its target. Blackthorn landed with a tuck and roll onto the ground before proceeding to dash into the intersection, holding up a hand.

            Road barriers, black as tar, ascended from the street—stopping the police escort from passing.  With a wincing grimace, Fiddler widened her stance and raised her forearms before swathing them in shadow. Moments later, the garbage truck came charging into the intersection. The makeshift weapon crashed into Blackthorn at full force, stopping dead in its tracks with a jolt. The already wounded driver and a passenger were ejected from the vehicle as metal and glass shards painted the road. A tire freed from its axle bounced forward and collided with a lamppost on the other side of the street. Fiddler staggered out from the wreckage, grabbing at her head with one arm while the other was gingerly tucked into her chest.

            “Crud, that was a bad idea,” she groaned, spitting some blood from her mouth. Those behind the wheel of the police cruisers hurriedly exited their vehicles to assess the crash in front of them. The few people in the area looked on in shock—some deciding to record the incident, while others called 911 despite the police presence.

            “Blackthorn?” One of the officers called out, walking around the shadowy road barrier to lend a hand where he could. Meanwhile, the passenger thrown from his seat in the crash stirred.

            “I’m ok,” Fiddler insisted, stooping down and checking the pulse of the driver of the garbage truck. “I need some help over here! They’re ALIVE!”

            “We’ve got an 11-41, North side of Church Street,” the officer spoke into the radio on his shoulder. “Requesting backup—” He was interrupted as gunfire rang out. Turning around and unholstering his pistol, the officer was abruptly shot down by some of his fellow officers.

            “WHAT THE—” Fiddler exclaimed, scrambling backward into a dive behind the destroyed garbage truck as bullets ricocheted off its carcass. Peering around the vehicle, Blackthorn spied six henchmen outfitted with police uniforms and automatic weapons walking toward her. The officer in the intersection, as well as another one of his colleagues, was lying dead in the street. Fiddler leaned her head back against the truck as she caught her breath and strategized. She exhaled with a tired huff before enacting her plan.

            Materializing a large shadow in the shape of a boot, Blackthorn flicked her fingers toward her—compelling the shadow to kick the garbage truck down the road. Launched into the air, the vehicle began a dizzying sequence of flips, bouncing against the ground toward the henchmen. Two of the disguised police officers and a police cruiser were struck by the projectile as debris was flung skyward. The others scrambled out of the way while the garbage truck slapped the front of the armored transport, completing two pirouettes before coming to rest on its side in a heap.

            Using the distraction as an opportunity to strike, Blackthorn manifested four pairs of disembodied hands from shadow. Two of those pairs ventured out, beating two more henchmen with a volley of haymakers. Another pair of hands ripped the automatic machine gun from the clutches of its target and proceeded to strike him across the forehead with the weapon’s stock. The sixth and final henchman moved to the back of the armored truck and unlatched the door before getting pummeled by his own pair of fists. Fiddler limped over the crash site, passing the crushed vehicles and her opponents as they were beaten unconscious. A dozen or so yards in front of her, the back door of the transport opened. A man wearing an orange jumpsuit walked around to face his enemy. His hands were shackled together, and a mask covered his face while his unreadable blue eyes bore down on Fiddler.

            “Get back in the truck, Zane,” Blackthorn ordered, a mace appearing in her hand. Zane Wilder reached up and ripped the mask off his face, dropping it bitterly to the ground.

            “Thank you, Blackthorn,” the Zookeeper smiled, nodding over toward the garbage truck. “That would have T-boned me had you not stepped in to help.”

            “Yeah, but now I’m starting to think that was the plan all along,” Fiddler accused. “Who’s helping you?”

            “No one,” Wilder answered. “No one at all.”

            “So the police just so happened to be infiltrated by fans of yours the same day you were being moved?” Fiddler asked rhetorically.

            “They aren’t ‘fans’ of mine,” Wilder corrected. “They work for my clients.”

            “The ones you agreed to throw under the bus?” Fiddler interrogated.

            “The ones everyone believes I will throw under the bus,” Wilder clarified. “I like to keep my friends when I make them.”

            “And what’s your end game?” Fiddler questioned.

            “Does it have to be something complex?” Wilder pondered. “Why do you think I became a zoologist in the first place? Why do you think I’ve conditioned Braxton to crave human flesh? I love animals, but I hate humanity more. We’re irredeemable. Our species has been the apex predator for thousands of years, and what did we accomplish? Nothing of value! People call me a nihilist. Maybe I am. But we had our time in the spotlight. Now it’s time to pass the torch and see what achievements our successors will bring to the planet.”

            “Sorry to disappoint,” Blackthorn excused. “But this grand plan of yours ends here.”

            “So you say,” the Zookeeper rebuked, “Speaking of Braxton…” Wilder let loose a high-pitched whistle. The trees along the sidewalk rustled. A few birds and a squirrel manically fled from the branches with a rabid look in their eyes. Dive-bombing an unsuspecting pedestrian, the birds began pecking at the man’s face while the squirrel flung itself at a nearby woman. Elsewhere, inside some of the looming buildings, a number of dogs erupted in a harrowing song of barks and howls. Growing wide-eyed, Blackthorn snapped her mace forward. The weapon struck her enemy hard across the face. With the whistling cut short, the animals had their minds confusingly restored. They scrambled away as Wilder brushed a finger against his face, checking for blood.

“For someone who claims to love animals,” Fiddler spat. “You seem to enjoy torturing them.”  

“I’m not torturing them,” Wilder excused. “I’m setting them free. Unlocking their full potential.”

“Ok,” Blackthorn huffed, coming to the conclusion that there was no reasoning with Wilder’s logic. She punched the air in front of her, sending a shadowy fist toward her enemy.The Zookeeper collapsed backward onto the street as Fiddler reached for her phone and speed-dialed someone in her contacts. After a single ring, the call was answered:

            “Toronto Metropolitan Zoo, this is Dr. Susan Landing. How can I help you?”

            “Hi, Dr. Landing. This is Blackthorn. I’m calling to check in on Braxton?” Inquired Fiddler. “There was an incident involving Zane Wilder.”

            “Yes, we saw the news,” Landing answered. “Did he whistle just a moment ago?”

            “Unfortunately, yes,” Fiddler supplied.

            “We thought so,” Landing admitted. “Braxton’s been a little restless all day, especially in the last couple of minutes, but Sprint helped calm him down.”

            “How has everything been going?” Fiddler pressed, shaking her head in disappointment at the speedster.

            “Barring today, Braxton’s been better,” Landing informed. “We’ve had to get him to unlearn his…bad habits—re-educate the prefrontal cortex more like it. But spending time with other polar bears has been a great help for him therapeutically.”

            “That’s great, thanks, Dr. Landing!” Fiddler exclaimed, looking down the street at the sound of encroaching sirens.

            “Thank you,Blackthorn!” Landing countered. “Have a nice day!”

            “You too,” Fiddler responded, ending the call. A whirlwind briefly gushed down the road. The wounded lying on the ground disappeared—taken to the hospital by Pruitt before he returned to the crash scene. Blackthorn gave the speedster a smoldering expression of disapproval.

            “What were you thinking!?” She seethed.

            “I didn’t want to risk Braxton falling off the wagon,” Pruitt defended himself.

            “And your chemo?” Fiddler exclaimed.

            “Could, could you not blast that for anybody to hear?” Pruitt sincerely asked. Blackthorn slumped her shoulders apologetically.

            “…I’m sorry,” she grumbled. “But that was stupid.”

            “I was done,” Pruitt advised.

            “Done?” Fiddler repeated.

            “Yeah,” Pruitt nodded. “Finished the appointment and rushed to the zoo.” Fiddler huffed.

            “And if I go over to the hospital—” she threatened as first responders arrived.

            “You won’t find anything because you won’t know who you’re looking for,” Pruitt interrupted, tapping his grey racing helmet. Fiddler narrowed her stare at the speedster.

“You sound hoarse,” she commented.

“I’m fine,” Pruitt dismissively lied. Fiddler gave him a dubious frown beforeturning her attention to some approaching police officers.

“C’mon,” Blackthorn relented. “They’re going to want us to make a statement.”

…

…Later that night…

            “I can’t believe you missed school again!” Brianna Fiddler snapped, maneuvering their car through traffic.

            “It was only the morning, Mom,” June countered from the passenger seat. “I fell down the stairs!” Brianna sighed in an exasperated fashion.

            “If you’re lying,” she warned. “I’m going to find out about it!”

            “You’re right, I am lying. I didn’t fall down the stairs. I got hit by a truck,” June thought to herself, before speaking aloud: “Sorry, Mom.” Brianna nodded as she glanced into the rearview mirror.

            “Sam, what did Mr. Rivers have to say?” She inquired, changing the subject.

            “He wants me to take some tests,” Sam replied, sitting behind his sister in the back of the car. Brianna bit her lip, watching the road around her as she thought.

            “Ok,” their mother mulled. “I’m going to talk to him—see what tests he has in mind and what may come of it.”

            “…Yeah, sure. Ok,” Sam shamefully mumbled.

            “It’s just a test, Sam,” June interjected. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

            “Doesn’t it!” Sam questioned.

            “Sam—” Brianna started.

            “Whatever that thing shows, it’s going to be hanging over my head the rest of my life,” Sam interrupted.

            “That’s not true,” June argued. The Fiddlers arrived at their destination, with Brianna pulling into the parking lot of a warmly lit Mexican restaurant.

            “Try not to dwell on it,”  Brianna suggested, tapping her index finger on the steering wheel. “Tonight is going to be different. But I really think you’re going to like them.”

            “…Ok,” Sam responded uncomfortably as June gave her mother a skeptical side-eye.

            “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Brianna’s daughter asked.

            “I am,” Brianna asserted. “I know I haven’t had the best track record—”

            “That’s one way of putting it,” June muttered.

            “—But I’m asking you to trust me on this one,” Brianna sternly finished her train of thought with an irritated expression plastered on her face.

            “How did you guys even meet, anyway?” Sam asked.

            “We met when I was still a nurse, a few years back,” Brianna explained, climbing out of the car along with her children. “We kept in touch.”

            “When you were at the hospital?” June clarified as the three of them walked up onto the sidewalk toward the front of the restaurant, where a couple of muted green benches waited alongside some shrubs just beyond the anteroom.

“Oh, no,” June’s mother answered. “It was afterward when I took the job at Bashford.”

“Does he work there?” Sam asked as he and Brianna took their seats on one of the benches.

“No,” their mother replied, checking the time on her phone. “…I’ll let them explain when they get here.” June stood a few feet away, surveying the quaint stone architecture of the building, illuminated by large iron lanterns, before looking up to admire the crescent moon above the cloudless sky. Two pairs of footsteps approached the family of three a few moments later.

“Here they are,” Brianna noted, getting up from the bench.

“Sorry, we’re late,” a man with blue eyes and brown hair apologized, walking up and kissing Brianna on the cheek. “I couldn’t get out of work on time.”

“That’s all right!” Brianna replied, turning her attention to her children. “Sam, June, this is Kyle. Kyle, this is my son Sam and my daughter June.”

“Nice to meet you,” Kyle exclaimed with a nervous smile, reaching out his hand for a handshake.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Sam nodded, returning the handshake.

“Hi!” June cordially smiled, shaking Kyle’s hand as well. Everyone’s attention shifted to the last remaining member of the group—someone around the same age as Sam and June with blue eyes and a black beanie hat.

“This is my son,” Kyle introduced. “Trent.”

“Hi, nice to meet you guys,” Trent quietly stammered with a familiar and raspy voice as he extended his hand. June froze, recognition flooding her brown eyes.

“…It’s great to finally meet you, too,” Blackthorn finally managed to say, shaking Sprint’s hand. Trent’s stare briefly grew wide before he quickly recovered.

“Sam,” the speedster continued. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same here,” Sam agreed with a final handshake.

“Is everyone hungry? Should we get a table?” Brianna offered.

“Sure!” Kyle replied.

“Have you two eaten here before?” Brianna asked.

“Once or twice,” Kyle supplied. “It’s been a while, though.”

“They have really good nachos,” Sam suggested.

“Hmm,” Kyle pondered. “Duly noted.” He, Brianna, and Sam headed for the door. Trent and June hung back ever so slightly.

“Are you f-ing kidding me?” Blackthorn whispered.

“It was bound to happen at some point,” Sprint reasoned. “Neither one of us uses voice modifiers, and your mask doesn’t do much to cover your face.”

“Sure, but…” Blackthorn started, losing her train of thought. “That’s one thing. This, this is entirely different. This is just…what are the odds?” Trent remained silent as they slowly followed their families through the anteroom into the restaurant’s lobby.

“Hi! How many?” Someone asked from behind the host’s stand.

“Five,” Brianna answered, holding up an open palm.

“Right this way!” exclaimed the host, grabbing a handful of menus and leading the party deeper into the restaurant toward a vacant table.

…

…The Next Day…

Pruitt leaned up against a dingy, moss-stricken brick wall at the entrance of a side alley next to a convenience store. The ground beneath his feet was stained with beer and soda, with streaks of grime around the perimeter of the cracks. Large black trash cans leaned against a dumpster, contributing to the unpleasant smell that lingered in the air. Pruitt stared across the street through the visor of his racing helmet at a park, watching pedestrians go about their day under the canopy of the trees. His attention drifted to a newspaper vending machine on the sidewalk a few feet away in front of him. The front page prominently displayed a photograph of the speedster and his teammate comforting a small group of people with a headline that read:

“Sprint and Blackthorn Thwart Zane Wilder Escape Attempt After Stopping Bank Robbery, Saving Workers From Factory Explosion.”

“Busy couple of days, huh?” the dumpster behind Pruitt noted.

“You could say that again,” the speedster agreed.

“What was that?” Blackthorn asked, walking out of her invisibility in full uniform as she rounded the corner.

“Dumpster,” Sprint gestured over his shoulder at the inanimate object. “Sorry.” Blackthorn nodded.

“The driver and passenger of the garbage truck are going to make it,” she informed.

“Are they talking?” Pruitt asked.

“Not yet,” Fiddler answered. “I have a feeling they will once they’re offered a deal.”

“If they’re offered a deal,” Pruitt corrected.

“This is the mafia we’re talking about; you know Ed Lazzrin is going to be chomping at the bit to prosecute them all,” Fiddler countered.

“Fair enough,” Pruitt reasoned. “I’m just worried about Zane having friends in the right places….not to mention T.P.S. not having the power or technology to hold Salem.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Fiddler supplied. “We always do.”

“Yeah, I know,” Pruitt nodded. “Don’t mind me. After what A.I.leen pulled at the hospital, I’m just wondering what more we need to do.”

“Interpol’s Cyber Defense team is keeping an eye out for her. We’ll have to trust the courts to keep Zane behind bars—” Fiddler strategized.

“And we’re playing the waiting game with Salem,” Pruitt bleakly summarized. “Maybe we should let him explore the multiverse. He’ll be out of our hair.”

“But then we open the door for who knows what’s out there,” Fiddler argued. Pruitt nodded reluctantly. An uncomfortable lull washed the alleyway in silence. “… Are we just going to ignore last night?”

“What happened last night?” Sprint rhetorically asked. Blackthorn glanced over her shoulder to ensure no one was in earshot.

“Trent,” Fiddler snapped. “Don’t play dumb with me.” Pruitt slumped his shoulders and shifted his jaw awkwardly beneath his helmet.

“We should really talk about it,” Fiddler suggested.

“What’s there to talk about?” Pruitt asked.

“Your dad dating my mom,” Fiddler curtly replied.

“…Yep,” Pruitt surmised. “That’s definitely a thing that’s happening.”

“Trent,” Fiddler rebuked.

“June,” Pruitt copied her tone. Blackthorn’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Can you take this seriously for a second and talk about this like an adult?” Fiddler asked. “How do you feel about it?”

“How am I supposed to feel about it?” Pruitt countered. Blackthorn opened her mouth to respond and then closed it as she put more thought into her answer.

“I-I don’t know,” she admitted. “…Are you ok with it?” Pruitt shrugged uncertainly.

“I don’t know. Your Mom seems cool, but half the time, it felt like Dad was tagging along with me to my appointments just to see her,” he replied bluntly. “Err, no offense.”

“None taken,” Fiddler reassured the speedster. “And if we’re being honest, I-I don’t expect it to last.” Pruitt steeped his head in deep thought.

            “…But at the same time,” he asserted. “Last night was nice.”

            “Nice,” Fiddler repeated incredulously.

            “…I don’t remember my Mom. It’s only been my Dad and me,” Pruitt explained. “And then I got the cancer and my powers, and life just became…complicated. Last night was a distraction from all of that.” Blackthorn chewed on her lip, reflecting on Pruitt’s words.

            “…And,” the speedster continued. “Getting to know you and Sam…made me think ‘this must be what it’s like to have siblings,’ and I don’t know how to feel about any of it.” Fiddler tilted her head somberly down to the ground.

            “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “This is all a mess.”

            “That’s life, Thorns,” Pruitt assuaged.

            “Sure, but…” Fiddler started, trailing off with her words.

            “Hey, who knows?” Pruitt added. “Maybe it’ll work out.”

            “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. My Mom is…difficult,” Fiddler asserted sheepishly. “But I’ll be able to tell if you finished your chemo, now.”

            “Oh boy,” Pruitt muttered under his breath.

            “Someone has to make sure you’re taking care of yourself,” Fiddler protested as her two-way radio crackled to life.

            “All units, we have a 10-80 in progress,” a voice over the radio advised, prompting Blackthorn to grimace. “West on Queen Street, multiple 10-50s with civilian casualties. Requesting immediate backup and ambulance dispatch.” The two superheroes mulled over the information for a brief second.

            “This is going to be one of those ones, isn’t it?” Pruitt asked miserably. Fiddler huffed.

            “Probably,” She solemnly agreed. “You ready?”

            “Yeah,” Pruitt nodded with a sigh. “I’ll clear the street if you can stop the car.”

            “Let’s go to work,” Fiddler concluded decisively.

Photo by Ian Taylor on Unsplash