Dahlia awoke with a gasp and began coughing. Attempting to turn over, she met resistance–a smooth wall, sloped and rounded at the bottom. As she continued coughing, she heard the light sptter of a viscous liquid against the surface in front of her, followed by the rattling of something small and metallic. Dahlia’s eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. The surface ahead of her was lightly yellowed enamel–the wall of a bathtub, which had clearly been sitting here for a long time. The red stains on it were fresh and smelled coppery. The blood she had just spat out. Slowly, Dahlia turned her head to look at the floor of the tub. The cracking of her neck was deafening in the silence of the pitch-bck room. On the floor of the tub were a few spherical pellets. Dahlia instinctively reached for her chest, her elbow and shoulder cracking loudly and painfully as she did. She felt a hole in the middle of her shirt, directly over her sternum. Beneath that, only her bare–but unbroken–skin, caked with dry blood, which fked off as her fingertips prodded it. She remembered being shot by the Man in the Blue Suit, but now there was no sign of the wound. And there was one other thing she remembered.

  Dahlia reached for the edges of the bathtub and pulled herself up–an arduous and agonizing ordeal. She was in a basement. The ceiling was covered with exposed fibergss insution, some of it beginning to fall off, revealing the wood panels above. To Dahlia’s left, on the nearest wall, hung a collection of suspiciously clean cutting implements. Directly ahead, an open box of rge bck garbage bags sat on the floor next to a rge chest freezer. Dahlia had no way of knowing the freezer’s contents, but she felt sick to her stomach looking at it, and quickly turned away. Two staircases led out of the room. One was behind her and led to a hatch, through which Dahlia could see the faint blue glow of moonlight. The other was against the right wall and led above the low ceiling. Dahlia pulled herself up and over the edge of the bathtub and tumbled to the floor of the basement. Somehow, she made it to her feet and managed to stagger over to the base of the stairway despite the protests of every joint and muscle in her body. She leaned against the wall as another coughing fit started. More blood and three more lead pellets. Dahlia wiped the blood from her mouth and resolved to climb the stairs. The pain and the stiffness in her joints lessened with every step, but her guilt only weighed heavier on her with each passing second. It was her fault she and Stacy ended up here. She had to make sure they both made it out. Finally, Dahlia reached the nding. The door to the first floor was directly in front of her. She gripped the doorknob and…

  “No,” whispered Dahlia, jiggling the doorknob in vain. “No no no no no!” The st barrier between her and her friend was locked. She dared not knock on the door. She had somehow survived the occupant of this house once. She wasn’t sure she’d be so lucky if she encountered him again.

  Just as Dahlia was about to turn back to see if she could use one of the implements from the wall to pick the lock or pry the door open, she heard a click and saw the doorknob turn on its own. There was no time to retreat to the basement for a weapon. She steeled herself and prepared to ambush whoever was on the other side. The door opened away from Dahlia slowly. Dahlia threw her full weight against the door, hoping the impact would stun the one opening it long enough for her to flee to the adjoining room. However, Dahlia felt no resistance except that of the door itself, and simply fell to the floor. There was nobody on the other side. Only an empty kitchen. Realizing the noise may have alerted the occupant of the house, Dahlia scrambled to her feet and frantically reached for the knife block.

  “Shit,” excimed Dahlia under her breath, as she found the knife block completely empty. She checked the sink and the dishwasher. Nothing sharp in either of them. Finally, Dahlia grabbed a pte from the dishwasher and crouched behind the counter, listening for any sound of movement not her own.

  After nearly a minute of sitting in silence, Dahlia concluded that if the owner of the house was still home, he hadn’t heard her escape from the basement. Standing up, she caught a glimpse of a milk carton that had been left out on the counter. She felt it. There was condensation on the outside. It hadn’t been out of the fridge long. Turning the carton around, she realized why the child she’d followed to this house looked so familiar. On the side of the carton was his photograph, under the words “Have you seen me?”

  Dahlia vomited onto the kitchen floor. What she assumed was the st of the blood she had to cough up, and the remaining lead pellets–which she now understood to be the buckshot that the Man in the Blue Suit had shot her with–were mixed in with bile and today’s lunch.

  “Now you understand,” said a familiar voice, “Why I tried to warn you away from this pce.” It was the same voice she had heard before she had approached the house.

  “Where are you?” asked Dahlia, looking around for the source of the voice.

  “There’s no time for that now,” he answered. “Your friend, and the man who took her, are in the bedroom upstairs. Take this–” Dahlia heard a metallic cttering noise and turned to see a rge carving knife sitting on the kitchen counter behind her. “And get your friend out.”

  Dahlia picked up the knife and strode across the kitchen to the adjoining hallway. She turned toward the stairs leading to the second floor. In the hallway, there was a ndline. Dahlia checked her pockets. Of course he took her cell phone. Dahlia picked up the phone’s handset and dialed 9-1-1. The automated voice on the other end told her that all operators were currently busy. The bus crash. Of course. She left the phone off the hook and steeled herself before heading upstairs.

  John S. Andrews–dressed in his red, white, and blue uniform–stood behind the curtain as the mayor of Empire City spoke. He wasn’t listening to the words. He was lost in thought, daydreaming about the past. In 1965, he remembered being tied up alongside one of his squadmates in a tunnel under C? Chi. He saw a muzzle fsh, heard a gunshot, and felt the hot red sptter of what used to be the young man’s head on his face. Looking into the eyes of the Viet Cong soldier who fired the gun with defiant hatred, he shouted, just as a second muzzle fsh brought him to another memory.

  It was 1972, and one of the men in ski masks had just shot the bank teller. The man watching the hostages turned toward the sound of the gunshot, and Andrews seized the opportunity, lunging for the man’s gun and turning it on its owner. The man’s head exploded into a red mist as a high caliber round passed through it, and Andrews turned the gun on the other robber, aiming at his knee and firing before he even knew what was happening. The man’s kneecap was completely destroyed, and he fell to the ground in agony, his leg in two pieces, as Andrews leapt upon him, tearing off his mask. The man beneath was young. Too young to be the same man. But the eyes were unmistakably those of the Viet Cong from 1965. Andrews cocked his arm back and struck the man with enough force to cave in his skull. He forgot about his enhanced strength and continued beating the man’s face, fighting with all the strength he could muster, as if he were still the terrified soldier he was in 1965. As he pulled back his arm after each blow, the man’s blood spshed back onto Andrews’ face. He gripped the strap of his shield tightly as the mayor’s final announcement and the crowd’s subsequent appuse brought him back to the present.

  “...The leader of the Ultras, Gold Standard!”

  With a well-rehearsed smile, Andrews stepped out from behind the curtain and waved for the crowd, before shaking the mayor’s hand and approaching the podium.

  “Thank you, Mayor Coulson,” began Andrews. “And thank all of you for attending tonight. I only wish the rest of my team could be in attendance tonight for this historic event, but, as many of you already know, they are currently hard at work investigating this morning’s bus crash. We hope to be able to update you on that soon. Tonight’s not about what happened this morning, however. Tonight, we celebrate a new addition to our team. Since the retirement of Mr. Big in July, EXTRAS has been holding auditions to fill that vacancy, and tonight, I am proud to announce that the newest member of the Ultras is none other than Empire City’s very own Cicada-Man!”

  On cue, Cicada-Man dropped down from the ceiling–where he had been hidden in shadows–to the spotlight center stage, striking a pose for the adoring public, which welcomed him with thunderous appuse. He strode confidently across the stage and shook hands with both Gold Standard and Mayor Coulson before taking the microphone from the podium.

  “How are we all doing tonight, Empire City?” asked Cicada-Man, hyping up the crowd as he returned to center stage. Andrews began looking around the room to see if Powers had sent anyone else to welcome the new recruit. Nope, he thought, running down his mental checklist as he scanned the room. No Ironcd, no Maelstrom, no Honey Badger, not even Brainstorm. Unless Masquerade was pretending to be someone in the audience, it was just him here tonight. The leader of the Ultras wasting his time with this pointless social function. Without a word, he slipped out a side door into the adjoining hallway and reached into a pouch on the left side of his belt, from which he retrieved a flip phone. He dialed the number and was greeted by the voice of Tara Walce.

  “EXTRAS, director’s office. Is Mr. Powers expecting your call?”

  “It’s me, Tara,” responded Andrews. “Put me through to Norman.”

  “Oh, Sergeant Andrews. Aren’t you at the welcome event for Cicada-Man?”

  “I stepped out briefly.” There was a brief silence on the other end of the line.

  “I’m sorry,” said Tara after the pause. “Mr. Powers is in a meeting right now. Can I take a message?”

  “No. I’ll talk to him tomorrow when I’m in the office.” Andrews ended the call and closed his phone. A meeting at 8:00 at night, thought Andrews. What a load of bullshit. The door Andrews had come through opened as he slipped his phone back into its pouch.

  “There you are, Mr. Gold Standard, sir,” said an eager Cicada-Man, letting the door close behind him.

  “What are you doing out here, kid?” asked Andrews, with genuine surprise. “Your party’s in there.”

  “I slipped out ‘cause I noticed you were gone. Nobody saw me leave. Is everything alright, sir?”

  “Yeah, why would you ask?”

  “‘Cause it kinda looks like you’re super-pissed and trying to hide it.”

  “No,” lied Andrews, straight-faced, “Everything’s fine.”

  “It’s not something I said, is it?”

  “Absolutely not. This is your night. You can do no wrong.”

  “Oh, okay. Guess my cicada senses are going haywire from anxiety tonight.”

  “Tell you what, kid. Why don’t I take you on a tour of the Warren Building tomorrow morning?”

  “I dunno… I mean that sounds cool, but I’m supposed to be moving into the new apartment EXTRAS assigned me tomorrow.”

  “Come on, it won’t take that long. Besides, EXTRAS can spare the manpower to move your stuff for you. After all, you’re a member of the Ultras now.”

  “Well, I guess a quick tour wouldn’t hurt. Meet in the lobby at 8?”

  “Sounds like a pn, Cicada-Man. Now let’s get back in there before someone sends the rest of the Ultras out looking for us.” Andrews wrapped his arm around Cicada-Man’s shoulders and walked back through the door with him to rejoin the party.

  Dahlia reached the top of the stairs and peered around the corner to her right. The door to a bathroom was ajar, with the lights off and nobody inside. Next she checked the closed rooms, first putting an ear against the door of one before remembering her first encounter with the occupant of the house. She turned the doorknob and pushed the door open a crack. Inside was a small bedroom, empty. Finally, she moved to the st room on the floor and tried to open the door. She met resistance from the other side. Strangely, the doorknob had turned without resistance, so the door had to be barricaded, not locked.

  “There’s nothing blocking the other side,” said the voice, this time from Dahlia’s left side, “Curious.”

  Dahlia turned her head toward the voice, but there was nothing there. She spoke into the empty air.

  “So, what? Find something to bust the door down?”

  “No time,” replied the voice, from behind her. “Be ready for anything, and sorry in advance for this.”

  “Sorry for wha–?” Suddenly a chill passed over her, as she found herself holding both her hands out toward the door, except the door was no longer there. It had somehow been reduced to wooden splinters scattered all over the floor. The Man in the Blue Suit was headed for the far corner of the room, where his sawed-off shotgun y against the wall. Nearer, Stacy y tied to the bed. Realizing she’d have to deal with their kidnapper before she could rescue her friend, Dahlia lunged toward the Man in the Blue Suit and buried her carving knife in his left calf. He crumpled to the floor and reached for the gun, but Dahlia was already cmbering over him to get to it. Before she could reach it, she felt something tug at her right leg from behind, causing her to colpse face-first into the carpet. The Man in the Blue Suit grabbed her hair, lifting her head up before smming it back down onto the floor. Dahlia barely had time to notice the blood pouring from her broken nose before her assaint had rolled her onto her back and wrapped his fingers around her throat.

  Dahlia wedged her own fingers between the man's hands and her neck, trying desperately to loosen the man’s grip, but to no avail. She reached for the shotgun, but it was just barely too far away. It was then that she noticed the man still had a knife stuck in his calf. By this point, the man was straddling Dahlia, with his legs folded on either side of her, the full weight of his upper body on her abdomen as he endeavored to choke the life out of her. Dahlia reached for the knife. Unfortunately, it was still just out of reach. By this point, Dahlia was beginning to feel very lightheaded. Something had to give. If she couldn’t remove the Man in the Blue Suit’s fingers from her throat, she would soon pass out, and then both she and Stacy would end up in that basement freezer.

  Suddenly, something touched Dahlia’s outstretched fingertips. The handle of the carving knife. Had the man adjusted his posture and brought it closer? Dahlia didn’t stop to wonder. She reached forward as far as she could, grasped the handle and yanked the knife out of the man’s calf before plunging it into his stomach. The man’s grip immediately loosened, and Dahlia was able to shove him off of her. Staggering to her feet, choking and coughing, she grabbed for the shotgun and aimed it at the man’s head, squeezing the trigger. A loud bang issued from the barrel, but once Dahlia lowered the gun, she saw that none of the pellets had reached their target. An invisible wall had stopped them just short of reducing the Man in the Blue Suit’s face to a gory pulp, and they made an imperceptible ctter as they fell harmlessly onto the carpet. Dahlia attempted to fire again, but the gun had no more ammunition. Turning the gun around and gripping it by its barrel, she brandished it as a club, preparing to strike the man–wounded, but still very much alive–with the stock. As Dahlia advanced, the floor gave way, accompanied by the loudest sound she had ever heard, and she and the Man in the Blue Suit both fell two stories–back down into the basement–her ears ringing as rubble from the floors above rained down onto her.