Chapter 32: Bylines and Bygones
The lights in a morning talk show studio are the kind that make you understand why actors start fights with lighting technicians.
They’re bright. Aggressively bright. Bright in a way that suggests the sun once sued this building for copyright infringement.
I sat in a comfortable chair that had clearly been engineered to make celebrities look relaxed while answering questions designed to make them uncomfortable.
Across from me, the host smiled the kind of professional smile that had probably survived three divorces, two scandals, and at least one network merger.
Behind him, a massive screen displayed the poster for Iron Man: Extremis Protocol.
My face was on it.
Again.
This was the strange part of my life where I spent several weeks pretending the movie industry was my primary occupation instead of my hobby.
The audience applauded politely as the host turned toward the camera.
“And we’re back with Academy Award winner Luke Grayson, writer and star of the Iron Man films.”
The applause picked up again.
I nodded politely and did my best impression of a man who hadn’t thrown a corporate security drone through a billboard three days ago.
The host leaned forward slightly.
“So Luke, the big question everyone keeps asking about these films is realism. Your action sequences feel… unusually grounded for a superhero movie.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you ever met anyone like Tony Stark in real life?”
I thought about it.
Rich engineers with alcohol problems.
Statistically unavoidable.
“Too many to count.”
The audience laughed. The host smiled like he’d just caught a fish.
“Fair enough,” he said. “But seriously—there’s a level of detail in these movies. The tactics, the engineering, the way fights actually play out. You don’t usually see that in comic book adaptations.”
Research.
That was technically true.
Technically.
He leaned in a little more. “So where does that come from?”
“Internet arguments,” I told him. “You’d be surprised how seriously people take fictional armor systems.”
Another round of laughter.
Somewhere in the second row a journalist stopped writing for half a second.
The host nodded thoughtfully, the way talk show hosts do when they want to look like they’re listening instead of setting up the next question.
“Now I have to ask,” he continued. “You’ve written the definitive on-screen version of Iron Man. If someone offered you the chance to play a real superhero… would you take it?”
I paused just long enough to make it look like I’d considered the idea.
“The insurance premiums alone would kill me.”
The audience cracked up.
The host laughed too, leaning back in his chair like we’d just shared a particularly clever joke.
Behind the studio lights, a few cameras shifted angles. One of them zoomed in slightly, probably trying to capture the expression of a man who had definitely never punched a flying robot out of the sky.
“Fair point,” he said once the laughter died down. “But hypothetically—if someone did put you in armor like Tony Stark’s… how long do you think you’d survive?”
“Depends on the situation.”
“Oh?”
“If the suit actually worked, probably a while.”
“And if it didn’t?”
“Thirty seconds.”
The audience chuckled again.
He raised an eyebrow. “That specific?”
“Well, assuming modern urban combat conditions,” I continued, settling back in the chair, “thirty seconds is about how long it takes before someone brings out something heavier than a handgun.”
A few heads tilted in the audience.
The host blinked once.
“You’ve… thought about this.”
“Writers do a lot of scenario planning.”
“Right,” he said slowly. “But you answered that very quickly.”
“I like to be prepared.”
The camera zoomed in another inch.
There’s a moment during interviews when journalists realize they might have accidentally found a thread worth pulling.
You can see it in their eyes.
The mental shift from celebrity fluff piece to hang on a second.
The host smiled again, but there was curiosity behind it now.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s test that. In Iron Man: Extremis Protocol, there’s a scene where Tony lands in the middle of a hostage situation. Multiple armed attackers. Civilian crowd. What’s the first thing he should do?”
“Move.”
The answer came out automatically.
“Move?” the host repeated.
“Standing still is how you get surrounded.”
A couple of people in the audience nodded without realizing it.
“You reposition immediately,” I continued. “Force the attackers to rotate around each other. Confuses their lines of fire.”
The host leaned forward.
“And then?”
“Break their communication.”
“How?”
“Take out whoever looks like they’re giving orders.”
The room got a little quieter.
Not silent.
Just the kind of quiet where people start realizing they’re listening to something a little more specific than a screenwriter’s brainstorming process.
The host blinked again.
“That’s… very tactical.”
I shrugged.
“Movies are expensive. You want the fights to look believable.”
“Sure,” he said slowly.
A woman near the front raised her hand.
The host gestured toward her.
“Yes?”
She stood up, microphone in hand. Press badge around her neck.
“You described that like someone who’s practiced it.”
“Everyone practices something.”
“But you’ve clearly studied combat.”
“I’ve watched a lot of movies.”
A pause.
Then someone in the back asked, “What about armored combat?”
I glanced toward the voice.
“Hypothetically?”
“Sure.”
“Well,” I said, “first thing you learn is that armor doesn’t make you invincible.”
“How so?”
“Mobility.”
The word slipped out before I thought about it.
“If you’re slow, people stop trying to shoot you and start trying to trap you.”
The journalist frowned slightly.
“That’s… not something most screenwriters would think about.”
“Screenwriters argue about weird things.”
The host laughed again, though it sounded a little uncertain this time.
“You’ve thought about this a lot.”
Research.
The word came out automatically.
I leaned back in the chair and folded my hands together like a man who had absolutely never used a drone as a baseball bat.
The host studied me for a moment.
Then the smile came back.
“Well,” he said brightly, turning toward the camera again, “whether it’s research or just a very vivid imagination, Luke Grayson clearly knows how to make superhero movies feel real.”
The audience applauded.
Lights shifted.
Cameras repositioned.
Somewhere in the crowd, the journalist with the press badge was still watching me with the faintly suspicious expression of someone trying to decide whether they’d just interviewed an actor…
…or a man who had spent an alarming amount of time thinking about how to survive being a superhero.
…
The MetaWorks training floor looked like the inside of a gym designed by someone who had read the phrase liability waiver and taken it as a personal challenge.
Mats. Climbing rigs. Weapon racks. Reinforced concrete walls. A few things Jason didn’t recognize but was pretty sure could throw a person through a building if used wrong.
Which meant it was perfect.
Jason stood in the middle of it wearing the Red X suit.
The mask fit perfectly. Jinx had somehow managed to make the helmet sleek instead of bulky, black plating trimmed with sharp red lines that glowed faintly whenever the teleport belt powered up. The belt itself sat snug around his waist, small lights flickering like it was quietly judging him.
He’d checked the mirror three times before coming down here.
Okay, six.
Looking cool mattered.
Across the mat, Luke stood with his hands loosely in his jacket pockets, studying him the way a mechanic might look at an engine that had been assembled entirely out of spare parts.
Luke had changed out of the talk-show suit, thankfully. Jeans, boots, dark jacket. The casual outfit of a man who could bench press a tank but preferred not to make it weird.
“Alright,” Luke said, voice calm in the way that suggested he’d explained this several times already. “Grab my wrist.”
Jason grabbed his wrist.
Luke twisted.
Jason was suddenly on the mat staring at the ceiling.
He blinked once.
“…okay.”
Luke hadn’t moved more than half a step.
“That was a basic grip escape,” Luke said, stepping back. “Someone grabs you, you rotate your wrist through the weakest point of their hold and redirect the momentum.”
Jason pushed himself up, brushing dust off the Red X chestplate.
“That looked easy.”
“It is.”
Jason lunged again.
This time he grabbed Luke’s arm, pivoted, triggered the teleport belt—
The world blinked.
There was a sharp crack of displaced air and Jason reappeared three feet behind Luke mid-spin, flipping backward and aiming a dramatic sweeping kick toward Luke’s shoulder.
For about half a second the move felt extremely cool.
Then Luke stepped half an inch to the side.
Jason’s kick cut through empty air.
His landing went… less smoothly.
The teleport belt sparked.
Jason stumbled, hit the mat wrong, rolled, and ended up halfway upside down with one leg hooked over Luke’s arm.
Luke looked down at him.
Quietly.
Jason untangled himself and stood up like that had definitely been intentional.
Luke exhaled slowly.
“For the record,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I really shouldn’t be the one teaching you this.”
Jason frowned. “Why not?”
“Because I have superpowers.” Luke gestured vaguely at himself. “None of this applies to me.”
Jason looked around the training floor.
“You run a superhero company.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re surprised someone here might want to learn how to fight.”
Luke considered that.
“Fair.”
Jason rolled his shoulders and activated the teleport belt again. The device hummed with quiet potential, little red lights flickering across the housing.
Okay.
Round two.
He rushed forward again, grabbing Luke’s arm like before.
This time he twisted, jumped, triggered the teleport—
The air cracked.
Jason blinked sideways, reappearing above Luke’s shoulder mid-flip. The plan—an extremely good plan—was to chain the teleport into a spinning takedown that would absolutely look incredible if anyone was filming this.
The belt sparked again.
Just a little.
Enough to shift his landing angle.
Jason came out of the spin crooked, slammed shoulder-first into the mat, bounced once, and rolled into a stack of padding near the wall.
For a moment the only sound in the gym was the faint electrical whine of the teleport belt cooling down.
Luke watched him from the center of the mat.
Jason pushed himself upright, mask slightly crooked.
Luke tilted his head.
“I’m beginning to think you read comic books like instruction manuals.”
Jason grinned behind the mask. “They have diagrams.”
Luke closed his eyes.
Pinched the bridge of his nose.
Across the room, someone snorted.
Jason glanced over.
Kara stood near the equipment rack with her arms crossed, watching the training session with the focused attention of someone evaluating a new martial art.
Her eyes moved between them like she was analyzing the physics.
Jason straightened a little.
Luke followed his glance and sighed.
“Don’t encourage him.”
“I am observing,” Kara said calmly.
“That’s worse.”
Jason brushed off the suit again and stepped back onto the mat.
Okay.
New strategy.
Less teleporting.
Probably.
Luke gestured for him to come closer. “Again. Wrist grab.”
Jason grabbed his wrist.
Luke twisted slightly.
Jason felt the pressure shift through his arm—subtle, controlled. The move was small but it forced his balance forward without effort.
That was the weird part about Luke.
He never looked like he was trying.
Jason shifted his footing and countered, trying to keep his balance.
Luke nodded once. “Better.”
Jason grinned.
Progress.
Then the teleport belt beeped.
Jason frowned.
“What was that?”
Luke glanced down.
“Oh good,” Luke muttered. “It’s overheating.”
Jason barely had time to process that before the belt triggered automatically.
The world snapped sideways.
Jason reappeared six feet above the mat.
Upside down.
He had just enough time to think oh come on before gravity finished the job.
The mat absorbed most of the impact.
Most.
Jason lay there staring at the ceiling again.
Across the gym Luke watched for a moment.
Then he crouched beside him.
“You alive?”
“…yeah.”
“Good.”
Luke stood back up and offered a hand.
Jason grabbed it and pulled himself upright.
Luke studied the teleport belt for a second.
“You’re relying on it too much.”
“It’s literally the coolest part of the suit.”
“That’s not a tactical argument.”
Jason shrugged.
Luke folded his arms.
“You want to survive real fights?”
“Yeah.”
“Then stop trying to look cool.”
Jason considered that.
Then he triggered the teleport belt again and blinked ten feet across the mat in a dramatic flash of red light.
The landing was perfect this time.
He turned back toward Luke and crossed his arms.
Luke stared at him.
Jason waited.
Luke sighed.
“…we’re going to be here a while.”
…
The MetaWorks kitchen was quiet in the late afternoon, which was unusual.
Normally someone was yelling. Or Cliff was arguing with the coffee machine. Or Constantine was explaining why a problem technically wasn’t his fault.
Today it was just the low hum of appliances and the distant thump of something heavy hitting a training mat downstairs.
Kara sat at the long counter, chin resting on one fist, staring at the television like it had personally offended her.
On the screen, Luke was smiling.
That part already felt incorrect.
A brightly lit studio. A host with perfect hair. An enormous screen behind them showing Luke’s face again, this time next to an image of a man in red and gold armor.
Humans called this an interview.
Kara had watched three of them now.
They made less sense each time.
The host on the screen leaned forward with exaggerated enthusiasm.
“So Luke, the big question everyone keeps asking about these films is realism—”
Kara muted the television.
Luke, sitting beside her at the counter with a mug of coffee, glanced over.
“Lose interest?”
Kara turned slowly toward him.
“I do not understand this ritual.”
“It’s not really a ritual.”
“You sit under bright lights while strangers ask you questions they already know the answers to.”
Luke sipped his coffee.
“That does sound like a ritual when you put it that way.”
She gestured toward the television.
“They behave as though they are learning new information. But the questions are rehearsed. The answers are rehearsed. Everyone appears aware of this.”
“That’s media training.”
Kara studied him.
“You are lying to them.”
Luke lowered the mug.
“Technically I’m avoiding telling them the truth.”
“That is the same thing.”
“Legally, it’s different.”
Kara looked back at the screen.
Another clip had started playing. A red carpet. Flashing lights. People shouting Luke’s name from behind velvet barriers.
Humans gathered in large numbers to watch other humans walk short distances.
This seemed inefficient.
She pointed at the television again. “Why do they care about these awards?”
Luke followed her gaze.
An image of him holding a gold statue appeared briefly on screen.
“That’s the Oscars.”
“Yes.”
“They’re kind of a big deal.”
“Why?”
Luke leaned back slightly, thinking about it.
“They’re supposed to represent excellence.”
“In storytelling.”
“More or less.”
Kara tilted her head.
“Humans gather together to celebrate the best lies.”
Luke considered that.
“…when you say it like that, it sounds worse.”
“It is not worse. It is simply accurate.”
She watched the screen for another moment.
“What do you receive when you win one of these awards?”
“A statue.”
“Only a statue?”
“Well, and prestige.”
“What is prestige.”
“Social validation.”
Kara looked at him.
Luke rubbed the side of his face.
“Okay, yeah, it’s basically just a statue.”
That seemed like a poor reward system.
On Krypton, recognition for accomplishment usually came with command authority. Or increased access to resources.
A decorative object felt… symbolic.
Kara’s eyes shifted back to Luke.
Another question had been bothering her since the interview started.
“Why do you pretend to be less capable than you are?”
Luke blinked.
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
She gestured toward the television again.
“In the interview you answered their tactical questions incorrectly.”
Luke stared at her for a moment.
“I did not answer incorrectly.”
“You omitted several optimal responses.”
“…that’s not the same thing.”
Kara folded her arms on the counter.
“They believe you are a storyteller who studies combat. That is not correct.”
Luke took another sip of coffee.
“Well, technically I do study combat.”
“You also participate in it.”
“Sometimes.”
“You fight beings capable of destroying cities.”
Luke stared at the mug for a moment.
“Occasionally.”
“And yet you sit on television and behave as though you are merely imagining these scenarios.”
“That’s kind of the point.”
Kara frowned.
Luke set the mug down and leaned back in his chair.
“People expect actors to be actors.”
“You are also something else.”
“Yeah.”
“So why hide it?”
Luke shrugged slightly.
“Because my life is already complicated enough.”
That answer didn’t feel complete.
Kara studied his face, searching for something deeper there, the way she would read an opponent’s stance before a fight.
Luke noticed.
“What?”
“You deflected the question.”
“That wasn’t a deflection.”
“It was.”
Luke reached into his pocket.
Kara watched him pull out his phone.
The device angled slightly in her direction.
The screen was glowing.
Kara narrowed her eyes.
“…are you documenting me?”
Luke didn’t look even slightly guilty.
“You’re accidentally writing half my next screenplay.”
Kara blinked.
She considered that.
“You are harvesting my observations.”
“I prefer the word inspired.”
“For profit.”
“That part is negotiable.”
Kara leaned back in her chair.
On the television behind them, another clip of Luke appeared—this one from a different interview entirely.
The host laughed at something he’d said.
Kara watched the version of him on screen for a moment.
Then she looked back at the real one.
The difference was subtle.
The one on television looked a little more relaxed. A little more harmless.
The Luke sitting beside her felt like someone who could lift a building if necessary.
The humans interviewing him could not see the difference.
Interesting.
Kara turned back toward him.
“If this earns you another award, do I receive one?”
Luke didn’t hesitate.
“I’ll get you gelato.”
Kara paused.
The word had significance.
Gelato meant Rome.
Rome meant warm evening air, quiet streets, and Luke laughing when she discovered that humans considered ice cream an acceptable dinner.
Gelato meant sitting together on the edge of a fountain while the world slowed down for a few minutes.
Kara nodded once.
“That is an acceptable compensation structure.”
Luke lowered the phone.
“Great. I’ll add it to the contract.”
“You have not written a contract.”
“I was hoping we could keep it informal.”
Kara considered that.
“Very well.”
On the television, the interview ended and the audience applauded.
Kara muted it again.
Another thud echoed faintly from the training floor below.
Jason.
Probably.
Luke heard it too.
“…I should probably go check on that.”
Kara tilted her head toward the ceiling.
“He appears determined.”
“He appears determined to break my training equipment.”
Luke stood and stretched slightly.
Kara watched him for a moment.
“Luke.”
He paused.
“Yes?”
“You did not answer my question.”
“Which one?”
“Why you pretend to be less capable than you are.”
Luke stood there for a moment, thinking about it.
Then he shrugged.
“Sometimes it’s easier if people underestimate you.”
Kara studied him.
That answer felt closer to the truth.
Not the entire truth.
But closer.
Luke grabbed his coffee and headed for the door.
Behind him, Kara looked back at the paused image on the television—Luke smiling under studio lights while a crowd applauded a man they believed they understood.
Maybe, in some ways, they did.
But not as much as Kara.
…
John Constantine had made a number of questionable life choices.
Summoning a minor hell-duke for a poker game in Liverpool. Dating a woman who turned out to be three witches sharing a body. Accepting a job from a billionaire superhero who paid him mostly in legal immunity and the occasional expensive bottle of whiskey.
But babysitting a telepathic child with access to his magical library might actually make the top five.
He sat behind the dispatch desk with a cigarette hanging from his mouth and a stack of paperwork he had no intention of finishing.
Across the room, Ace sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by objects that should absolutely not have been within reach of a curious psychic.
Constantine took a slow drag and watched her from the corner of his eye.
The girl had discovered the illusion shelf.
Which meant the afternoon was already doomed.
She held up a small brass ring between two fingers, turning it so the light caught the etched runes along the surface.
“What does this one do?”
Constantine didn’t even look up.
“Nothing useful.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Ace turned the ring again.
The runes flickered faintly.
Constantine sighed and leaned back in his chair.
“That’s an illusion focus,” he muttered. “Projects whatever the caster imagines. Mostly harmless if you don’t get clever with it.”
Ace brightened immediately.
“I want to test it.”
Constantine straightened so fast his chair squeaked.
“Absolutely not.”
“But you said it was harmless.”
“I said mostly harmless,” Constantine corrected. “Big difference.”
Ace held the ring thoughtfully.
“Define mostly.”
Constantine pointed at her with the cigarette.
“It’s magical. Magical things escalate.”
“I would be careful.”
“That’s exactly what everyone says before something starts screaming in Latin.”
Ace giggled.
That giggle had gotten them into trouble before.
Constantine pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Put the ring back.”
Ace looked at the shelf.
Then at the ring.
Then at Constantine.
She placed the ring carefully on the floor in front of her.
Which was technically not the shelf.
Constantine narrowed his eyes.
“That’s not—”
The air in the room shifted.
Just slightly.
A faint swirl of dust lifted from the floor.
Ace tilted her head.
The dust swirl became a breeze.
Papers on Constantine’s desk fluttered.
Constantine stared at the forming spiral of air above the ring.
“…I said put it back.”
The breeze grew stronger.
A tiny column of wind spun slowly over the floor, about two feet wide.
Ace clapped her hands.
“Oh!”
Constantine shot to his feet.
The cigarette vanished from his mouth as the wind caught it.
The spiral grew.
Paper lifted off the desk in a flurry of reports, invoices, and something that might have been a parking ticket from 2008.
The cigarette spiraled upward and disappeared into the vortex.
Constantine stared at the empty space where it had been.
“That was my last one.”
The illusion tornado climbed to waist height, spinning lazily in the center of the dispatch office like it had every right to be there.
Ace leaned closer, eyes wide.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s a bloody weather event in my office.”
The wind picked up another stack of paperwork and flung it across the room.
Constantine grabbed the edge of the desk before the vortex could start pulling furniture.
“Ace!”
She looked up cheerfully.
“Yes?”
“Turn it off!”
“I’m adjusting it.”
“That’s worse!”
The tornado wobbled slightly as she experimented, the illusion growing brighter as faint threads of light formed inside the spinning air.
Constantine watched another sheet of paperwork whip past his face.
That had been a tax document.
Probably important.
The office door slid open.
Cliff Steele wandered in.
The robot man paused in the doorway as the tornado lifted a stack of dispatch reports and blasted them against the far wall.
Cliff looked at the spinning column of wind.
Then at Constantine.
Then at the child standing beside it like a proud scientist.
“…is this a superhero weather thing?”
Constantine gripped the desk.
“No.”
“We got like a Weatherman now?” Cliff continued, squinting at the vortex. “I mean, you know. A superhero with storm powers, not just a guy who guesses the weather.”
Another gust tore a clipboard off the wall.
Constantine shouted over the wind.
“It’s a parenting thing!”
Ace giggled.
She lifted her hands slightly, focusing.
The illusion tornado brightened.
Tiny sparks of light began swirling inside the column like glowing snow.
Cliff watched the transformation.
“Oh, that’s actually kinda pretty.”
Constantine stared at him.
“Cliff.”
“Yeah?”
“Help.”
Cliff scratched the side of his metal head.
“I mean… I could throw a chair at it?”
“Don’t throw a chair at the psychic child’s magic tornado!”
Ace looked delighted.
“Can it sparkle more?”
Constantine buried his face in his hands as the tornado brightened again.
Somewhere upstairs Luke was probably giving an interview about fictional superheroes while a very real magical weather system formed in his dispatch office.
Typical Tuesday.
…
The elevator doors opened to the training floor, and the first thing I heard was Kara.
“Your center of gravity is incorrect.”
Jason appeared in a flash of red light ten feet above the mat.
That seemed… suboptimal.
He twisted midair, trying to complete a spinning flip that probably looked fantastic in his head.
It ended with him landing hard on the mat, rolling once, and teleporting away again before the momentum could turn it into a full wipeout.
Another red flash popped across the room.
Jason reappeared on a balance beam.
Kara stood nearby with her arms folded, watching him with the calm focus of someone conducting a scientific study.
“You are compensating with your shoulders,” she continued. “That is inefficient.”
Jason crouched slightly on the beam.
“I almost had it.”
“You did not.”
“I was like ninety percent there.”
“You were rotating in the wrong direction.”
Jason vanished again.
Teleportation had a distinctive sound—something between a crack of air and a camera flash.
It echoed across the gym as he appeared near the ceiling, attempted another aerial rotation, and vanished again before gravity could collect its payment.
Kara followed his movements with clinical attention.
“You are also overcommitting to the jump.”
Jason reappeared upside down above the mat.
“…that seems rude.”
He dropped.
Flipped.
Almost stuck the landing.
Then teleported sideways at the last second and reappeared five feet away instead.
The maneuver was impressive.
Also illegal in several workplace safety guidelines.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the whole thing unfold.
The press junket had taken three hours.
Three hours of smiling under bright lights while a man with perfect teeth asked me how it felt to “bring realism to superhero cinema.”
Now I was home.
Jason teleported again, this time appearing halfway across the gym.
He stumbled slightly.
Kara shook her head.
“You are relying on teleportation to correct mistakes.”
“That’s the point of teleportation.”
“It is a crutch.”
“It’s a tactical adjustment.”
She considered that.
“It is still a crutch.”
Jason raised a finger like he was about to argue the point—
Then a gust of wind tore through the hallway behind me.
Paper exploded past the doorway.
Dispatch forms. Training schedules. Something that looked like a receipt for whiskey.
I slowly turned my head.
Down the corridor, a small tornado rolled toward the gym.
Actual wind. Papers spinning. A faint shimmer of magical light twisting through the column like glitter in a snow globe.
Ace’s work.
Naturally.
Behind the tornado, Constantine sprinted down the hallway in a trench coat that was flapping violently behind him.
“Get back here you little bloody hurricane—!”
The vortex surged forward.
A clipboard smacked against the wall beside me.
Constantine lunged for a flying stack of papers and missed.
More wind blasted into the gym.
Jason teleported again.
This time he appeared right beside me in a flash of red light, breathing hard but grinning under the Red X helmet.
“Did you see that flip?”
I looked at him.
Then at the balance beam.
Then at the ceiling where he’d been attempting aerial gymnastics without anything resembling safety equipment.
“I saw three OSHA violations.”
Jason tilted his head slightly.
“Worth it.”
The tornado rolled into the training floor.
Papers spiraled across the gym like migrating birds.
Jason turned slowly, watching it approach.
“…is that normal here?”
That was a fair question.
Across the room, Kara remained perfectly composed while the wind whipped her hair slightly around her shoulders.
She watched the tornado with interest.
“Is this part of the training exercise?”
Constantine burst into the doorway seconds later.
“IT IS NOT.”
The tornado surged past us, dragging a loose stack of reports along with it.
Jason followed it with his eyes.
“Okay but it’s kinda cool.”
“IT’S A MAGICAL INCIDENT.”
“Still cool.”
I looked around the room.
Jason experimenting with teleportation like a stuntman with no fear of physics.
Kara critiquing combat form like a Kryptonian drill instructor.
A magical tornado wandering across the gym floor.
Constantine chasing paperwork through the building like a man who had made several regrettable career choices.
This was my team.
I considered the question again.
Jason glanced at me.
“…is that normal here?”
I watched the tornado suck up a stack of training manuals.
Watched Constantine dive for them and miss.
Watched Kara calmly step aside as the vortex rolled past her like it had somewhere to be.
Then I shrugged.
“More or less.”
Jason grinned under the Red X mask.
“Cool.”
Behind us, the tornado abruptly shifted direction.
Constantine’s trench coat lifted into the air.
He grabbed for it.
Missed.
The coat vanished into the spinning column of wind.
Constantine stared upward.
There was a moment of silence.
Then he screamed something deeply British and extremely profane.
Jason laughed.
I rubbed my face and sighed.
“I need a vacation.”