Seraphim rolls onto her back, stretching out her arm. The limb is stiff and numb from serving as her pillow all night. She winces, at the phantom pains, the lingering remnants of unforgiving nightmares. She blinks a few times, trying to chase away the sleepiness that nips at the back of her eyelids. Seraphim yawns, dragging a hand through her hair.
She glances out the window. The sun blasts through the glass washing her in a blend of gold and red. Faintly, she can hear the excited utterances of children on their way to school and cars driving by.
This is what she missed the most while she was away, the noise, the hum of a thousand lives. The reassurance that she was never alone. Seraphim shuts her eyes, savoring the cocktail of sounds.
She sits up and throws her legs over the side of the mattress, cringing as the rigid carpet scrapes against her bare feet. She pushes herself to her feet and makes her way to the duffel bag pushed up against the wall where a folded set of fresh clothes awaits her.
With the clothes tucked under one arm, Seraphim flips the light switch up. They buzz and flicker before settling. She dumps the clothes on the toilet lid and presses her front against the yellowed sink. The faucet is ancient and covered in copious amounts of grime. She twists the knob, a weak stream trickles out. She tests the temperature before gathering a handful and splashing her face.
Seraphim turns the water off and grabs the bottom of her tank top, drawing it up over her head. It's dumped on the floor, followed shortly by a pair of exercise shorts and her undergarments. She stares at her reflection through the years of accumulated dirt and grime. Her gaze locks on the scar on her face. The permanent mark begins at the curve beside her nose and ends where her jawline begins. Seraphim lowers her attention to the other scars she gained that faithful night. There's the penny shaped scar just above her heart from one of Striker's bullets, the diagonal scar that wraps around her side, courtesy of Deathwave's katana, and the uneven slash on her hand, the result of a clumsy attempt to fend off Deathwave.
Tidal Wave and Solaris's attacks didn't leave scars, but she can still feel the pain. The knife they put in her back hurts worse the physical wounds ever did.
Seraphim runs a hand over her stomach. The lapse in her training has softened the layers of muscle she once had. Just another thing they took from her.
She turns away from the mirror to yank back the flimsy shower curtain. She spins the knob and watches as the water trickles down, trying not to give in to the memories.
Seraphim emerges from the bathroom in a plume of steam, dressed in a pair of pale jeans and a loose ruby t-shirt with a long faded band logo plastered across the front. She plops down on the edge of the mattress and slips on a pair of ankle socks and her black leather boots. She grabs her jacket and heads for the door.
The early morning sunshine has given way to rumbling storm clouds. Large droplet splat against her head and the exposed flesh of her arms. Seraphim slides her arms into her leather jacket, turning the collar up to protect her neck. An SUV speeds by, running over a puddle. The water splashes up onto her boots and jeans. She glares at the vehicle now almost to the end of the street.
Seraphim weaves her way through a group of people outside a corner store and crosses the street. A teenager in a navy hoodie, shouldering a matching backpack rushes past her, towards the subway station, her own destination.
She skips down the stairs, a hand sliding down the freezing aluminum rail. She fights against the rush of emerging travelers, pressing herself against the rail to keep from getting swept up in the madness.
Seraphim forks over the fee to a woman in her late twenties that looks ready to stab the next person that irks her.
She glides through the tunnels as people whirl around her. She studies them, but after a while the individuals dissolve into an indecipherable blur. Her eyes dart about. Where she once used to see life, now all she sees are threats. There are no innocents, no bystanders, only potential attackers.
Seraphim presses her back against one of the pillars near the subway track. She shuts her eyes, inhaling deeply. Two years ago, the cries of children and shouted phone conversations would have felt normal, but now they grate against her ears.
Seraphim cringes as the noise seems to grow louder and louder. Her breaths pass through her lips, sharp and clipped. She presses a hand against her chest as if that will relieve the building pressure. She gasps, trying to draw air into her lungs. Black creeps into the edges of her vision, attempting to draw her into the abyss.
No, she won't give in. She can't be weak.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Light returns to her vision and the pressure in her chest eases, allowing air to rush back into her lungs. Seraphim inhales deeply and exhales slowly. Her racing heart slows and the sound of rushing blood fades from her ears. Seraphim runs a hand over her face. She slams a fist against the stone's pillar; a flicker of pain shoots through it.
She has flown over cities, fought the worst humanity has bred, conquered death itself, and she's reduced to a trembling mess by her own mind. It's pathetic. She's pathetic to allow such weakness to conquer her. Just another reason to make them suffer.
The subway soars by, screeching to a halt; a gust of wind blows the hair into Seraphim's face. A moment later the automatic doors part with a mechanical hiss. Seraphim brushes the hair out of her face and wrestles her way onto the car. People shove and push past her rushing to claim the empty seats and free poles. Seraphim leans against one of the shut doors, clinging loosely to an overhead bar as the subway speeds off.
Beside her, an overweight business man fiddles with his briefcase, the handle is held together by duct tape. More than likely, he's an unsuccessful business man. She turns her attention away from the scruffy man to the steel tunnel blurring by.
Around her men and women patter away at their cellphones, oblivious to the world around them. It's been two years since she's rode on the subway, two years since she's stalked this city. She needs to be reintroduced, to inhale it's scents, feel it's vibrations, learn it's secrets.
There's one stop she has to make first. Seraphim closes her eyes and rests her head against the glass listening to the churning of the machine and the clacking of steel. It's familiar, calming.
Strange the things you miss when you're gone.
Seraphim gets off four stops later. She emerges form the tunnel, apart of a group of less than a dozen, in the heart of Glem Gardens. The historical part of Metro City, it consists primarily of preserved parks, historic buildings, museums, and a number of cemeteries.
Seraphim makes it to the corner and hurries to cross the street before the light turns. She continues straight for two blocks before making a left onto Eternal Rest Avenue. She slows down as she comes upon a flower shop. For a moment, she considers continuing on her way, but instead ducks inside.
She browses the displays of bouquets. The scent of a dozen different flowers overwhelms her nose. Seraphim settles on two bouquets of purple orchids, each containing no more than a half-a-dozen open blooms.
She worms her way between a boyfriend searching for an apology and a woman searching for a gift for her daughter, to pay the cashier.
Seraphim continues to the corner where she waits for the light to turn, watching as car after car zooms past. Finally, the white icon pops up and she starts across the faded lines. The crosswalk dumps her at the mouth of Eternal Rest Cemetery. On the other side of the wrought iron gates are hundreds of tombstones dating back from the early 1800s to present day.
A chill runs through Seraphim as she passes through the gates. Since she was eleven, this place has always inspired unease within her. It's as if a thousand captive souls lie in wait, ready to lay siege to any that pass into their domain, desperate to keep their stories alive.
The last time Seraphim was here she had just graduated from law school. That feels like a lifetime ago.
Seraphim follows the path that has been worn into the grass by the innumerable vehicles that have driven through here over the years. Her parents' graves are situated five rows back from the center trail.
Seraphim strolls past one, two, three, four graves to her parents' shared tombstone.
The granite slab is rectangular in shape with the name Rogers written across the top in large block leathers. Beneath is a Celtic cross with the words "Love never dies" etched in cursive. On the left is her father's name - Joseph and beneath the years 1964 - 2002. Opposite of the the ode to her father's memory is her mother's - Rachel - 1966 - 2002.
Seraphim lays a hand on the polished stone, tears welding up in her eyes. She sets the bouquets in the holder, staring down at the perfectly manicured grass.
The death of her parents, this is what started it all.
***
2002
"Alright, that's it. I need a break," Joseph exclaims, holding his hands up as he jogs after Seraphim, panting heavily.
"Just one more," Seraphim pleas, pouting.
"Maybe in a little while. Come on, you need to eat."
Forgetting at once their game of frisbee, Seraphim runs after her father, the red plastic toy tucked under one arm.
"Oh, now you're in a hurry," Joseph remarks sarcastically as his daughter plops down on one corner of the checkered sheet.
"Impatience, I couldn't possibly imagine where she gets that from," Rachel comments, failing to keep the smile from her face.
Seraphim giggles while Joseph feigns offense. "How dare you?"
Rachel playfully rolls her eyes, reaching into the cooler. She pulls out two plastic bags containing sandwiches and a plastic container with sliced strawberries. Seraphim reaches for the strawberries, Rachel swats her hand.
"Sandwich first."
Grumbling, the eleven year old picks up the sandwich and takes a bite.
She glances out at the park. Not too far away, near a group of sun-soaked picnic tables two boys, a few years younger than her, wrestle in the grass. One of their mothers scream at them to "be careful" while their fathers, gathered around the grill, share a laugh over a beer. Under another massive tree, similar to the one shielding Seraphim and her parents, a newly christened eight year old tears away at the wrapping paper of a gift. A pair of joggers pass by, earning a bark from a rambunctious golden retriever.
No one, not one of them, saw the man in the blue and white suit enter the park.
Seraphim happily tosses the empty plastic in the cooler and snatches up the container. She rips off the lid and plucks a slice from it. She sinks her teeth into the ripe berry, moaning as the tangy juice floods her mouth.
"I want some of those too, you know," Joseph says.
Seraphim shakes her head, mouth full. "Mine. Get your own."
"I paid for them."
"So," Seraphim counters, raising a brow.
Rachel conceals a laugh behind her hand, shaking her head.
"You should know-" Her mother's sentence is cut off by a terror-filled scream.
Seraphim whirls around, searching for the source of the sound. She spots one of the mothers of the wrestling boys, bent over her husband who is collapsed on the floor, a massive icicle protruding from her back. Her screaming is silenced by an icicle piercing her throat.
Seraphim screams, the container of strawberries tumbling from her hands. She covers her mouth with both hands, tears flowing down her cheeks.
"Seraphim!" Joseph shouts. He grabs her arm, hauling her up. Her feet get tangled in the picnic blanket and she tumbles forward into her mother's arms.
"Rach-" her father's cry is severed by a horrible gurgling sound.
Seraphim doesn't get the chance to turn around. Rachel twists her form, shielding Seraphim with her own body as they fall to the ground.
The eleven year old lies still, smothered by her mother's weight as she struggles to process the last few seconds.
"Mom? Mom!"
Seraphim pushes against her mother's chest. She rolls to the side, revealing her frozen stare and the shard of ice sticking out of her spine.
"Mom! Mom!" Seraphim cries, increasingly frantic. She shakes her mother's body as if she can awake her from this eternal slumber. She glances behind her able to make out her father's fallen form through the blur of tears.
She crawls toward her father, tears pouring down her cheeks. A sound slashes through her grief-induced haze, a cold, callous laugh. Seraphim looks up at the source of her sorrow, the man that can conjure ice. He surveys the destruction, pride swelling up within him.
Seraphim's hands curl into fists. Something swells up within her. Fury, it blends with her grief. Gathering, swirling, building, like lava in a long dormant volcano. She opens her mouth, a sound falls out, a cross between a scream, a growl, and a sob. Flames spills out from her skin. First from her hands as weak sparks, but they quickly leap to life and spread, engulfing her.
Thrumming with power, with emotion, she thrusts her hands out, firing two streams of flames.
Seraphim shuts her eyes as the man's screams pierce her ears like arrows. She drops her hand, keeling over, still aflame. She cries.
***
Warlord draws his knees in, pressing them against the fiberglass of his motorbike, and slips through the gap in the police barricade. Overhead, Raven soars on wings of swirling darkness. The officers don't attempt to stop them, instead diving out of the way. He speeds past them, through Pandora Park's open gate.
Raven dives down to fly alongside Warlord. "Hailstorm's up ahead, but we've got a problem."
Warlord doesn't wait for an explanation. He speeds ahead leaving Raven to catch up. The vigilante slams on the brakes as the carnage comes into view. He catches sight of the dead and injured first - Hailstorm's victims. Lying in the grass, in the center of all the bloodshed is the villain, smoke wafting off his body. The air is thick with the stench of burned flesh and blood.
Warlord faintly registers Raven landing beside him, his wings dissipating.
"It's her," Raven murmurs.
Warlord shifts his gaze to the young girl kneeling on the ground, her body on fire. The flames flicker and dance around her, as if empowering her, cocooning her.
"She's a Changed," Warlord says.
Like his sidekick, Raven, the girl is one of the mutated, one of the Catalyst's victims or benefactors, depending on the point of view. Worse, she's just discovered her ability, unlocked by the stress of losing her parents, he imagines. Now they rage out of control.
Warlord approaches her, cautiously, as if she were an injured animal. Raven lurks behind him, ready to defend his mentor if necessary.
"Hey," he says softly, crouching down in front of her.
Seraphim's head snaps up. Her mind is spinning with questions, grief, and anger, but through it she is able to register the man's identity. Warlord - Metro City's patron vigilante and a few feet behind him is his sidekick, the second to wear the mantle of Raven.
"Do you know how we are?" Warlord asks, keeping his tone low and soft, as to not frighten her.
She nods, not trusting her voice.
"We want to get you out of here, but I'm going to need you to calm down. Can you do that?"
Seraphim shakes her head, tears springing to her eyes. She's tried, but the fire won't die. What if it never dies? What if - ?
"Hey, none of that now. You're going to be fine. Take a deep breath. Good. Another. Now just let go. You're safe now. You don't need the fire to protect you anymore."
The last of the flames die out with his final word and Seraphim falls forward, relieved and exhausted.
"Good girl. We're going to get you out of here," Warlord promises. He gathers her up in his arms.
"My parents are dead," she says after a moment, her voice hoarse.
"I know, kid."
Raven follows Warlord, pausing to glance back at the unburnt bodies of Rachel and Joseph Rogers and the incinerated remains of a picnic. His eyes linger on the melted red frisbee.
Warlord passes Seraphim off to a paramedic. "Take care of her," the vigilante orders. The paramedic gives a curt nod and carries her to the nearest ambulance.
Seraphim Jerome Jefferson shoves aside a gawking rookie. The detective was assigned to the Changed division roughly ten years ago and has been Warlord - and more recently Raven's - unofficial police liaison.
Warlord faces him. "Your men can go in. Hailstorm is down."
Sergeant Jefferson raises a brow. Warlord has been known to shed blood if the occasion calls for it.
"He's alive. Barely. He's sporting third degree burns."
"Sprout some powers I don't know about?" Sergeant Jefferson asks.
"No, and I would appreciate it if you didn't dig too deep. There were grills goings, one exploded. He got caught in the crossfire."
Sergeant Jefferson glances at the eleven year old sitting on the stretcher in the ambulance. "Accidents do happen."
"Thank you."
"I think I should be thanking you," Jerome tells him. "What's going to happen to her?"
"Someone will look out for her. She'll be fine," Warlord assures him. He watches as the ambulance doors are shut.
The Sergeant walks away from the vigilante duo, rounding up officers to storm the park.
Raven steps up to his mentor's side. "What are you going to do?"
"She needs someone," Warlord says, after a moment.
***
Sergeant Jefferson sighs, standing in the doorway of his office. Seraphim Rogers sits in the sole chair in front of his desk. Her sneakers, stained with grass and blood, scrape along the tile floor. She stares down at her thumbs, performing circles around one another.
The girl didn't have any injuries so the hospital released her into police custody. She still needs to give her statement. Jerome has already searched for a family member to take custody, but there are none. Both of her parents were only children. Joseph's parents have passed and Rachel grew up in foster care.
When life hits, it doesn't pull punches.
The best Sergeant Jefferson can hope for is that Warlord will keep his word, because if she gets swallowed into the system she'll never get out.
He glances at the digital clock hanging on the wall as he walks around his desk - 6:54. He contacted Children Protective Services over an hour ago. They said they don't have a home for her, but that a representative from Morning Star Group Home would be down to "gather" her.
They're going to eat her alive there.
Jerome opens the file in front of him. "Alright, let's go over what happened today?"
***
"Would you sit still?" Alan snaps, glaring over at his ward.
"This suit itches," Angel retorts. The eleven year old tugs at the collar of the crisp white dress shirt.
"I would suggest getting used to it. You'll be wearing a lot of them when you're older," Alan replies.
"Don't remind me," Angel grumbles. "I don't see why we had to wear clown suits. I thought you already greased the wheels to get approved."
"I didn't "grease" the wheels, but I couldn't exactly go through normal channels."
"Or endure the home visit. What if they stumbled across our lair? Do you think Children Protective Services would disapprove of an eleven year old vigilante?" Angel remarks sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
"Sidekick. Probationary sidekick. Whose time in the field is determined, in part, by how much attitude he gives me," Alan says.
***
On the other side of the building, Seraphim is seated on one of the ten top bunks, her knees pulled to her chest, staring at a framed photo of her and her parents from last year. It's one of the few possessions they allowed her to keep.
"Seraphim Rogers."
She looks up at the woman standing in the doorway. She's only been here a month and a half, but that's long enough for her to recognize that she's from Children Protective Services.
"Yeah?"
"We found a home for you. Pack your stuff."
***
Alan and Angel stand as Seraphim enters. The woman from CPS all but shoves her through the door. The girl is dragging behind her a singular rolling suitcase. She stares up at Alan, her gray eyes wide with hope and her pale blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.
Angel flashes a friendly smile. He sees in her a reflection of himself. If it weren't for Alan he would be alone in the world just like her. She's not alone, he reminds himself. She'll never be alone again. He'll have her back.
"I'm Alan Summers. This is my ward Angel Fairwood," he introduces with a gentle smile.
Seraphim cocks her head, staring at him. There's something about him, about the both of them that's familiar.
"You've filled out all the necessary paperwork. You're free to go. Just call us if you have any problems." With that the woman leaves, closing the office door behind her.
***
The sound of a car door slamming snaps her out of her memories. Seraphim reaches up and swipes the tear from her cheek. She has so much to be thankful to Alan and Angel for. If it weren't for them taking her in, accepting her, teaching her she would have gone down a very different path.
In her darkest moments after the Attack, she blamed them. If she had never been adopted, if she had never followed their path than none of this would have happened, but it wasn't their fault.
In the end they were the only ones that didn't betray her.