The sun dips low, and the sky is as bloody as the day was. The evening sun shining through the black fingers of smoke from still burning fires casts the sky in gory red light. Even the sky bleeds, on days like this.

  Even as the Search and Rescue teams call the day, I still prowl through street after street.

  Just one more. Please, just one more.

  Nightfall comes quick, and without power the city that never sleeps finally closes its eyes. The blackened silhouettes of skyscrapers across a sky choked with smoke reminds me of Seoul.

  We’re ten days into the apocalypse, and millions are dead. Cities lie in ruins, their steel bones and concrete flesh ravaged by monsters from beyond time and space. Beyond reason and reality.

  Beyond our capability to fight.

  And so I prowl among empty streets, the silence broken by my rhythmic, heavy steps. I’ve been down this street before. I’ll be back again.

  We missed someone. We must have.

  I pass by a National Guard checkpoint. The soldiers watch me in silence, the blue glow of my faceplate barely lightning up the darkness around me.

  Another street. Another pile of rubble with nothing but corpses underneath. We still haven’t had time to bury the dead. There’s too many to count.

  Please, just one more.

  Morgan swoops down to hover next to me as I plod along.

  “Ryans. It’s done. You’re done.”

  “Just another street.”

  “Ryans. Seth. You’ve been at this for the entire day. There’s no one left. You got them all.”

  The blue fire that fills my helmet casts eerie shadows over broken buildings. Their steel bones jut up like a shattered rib cage.

  I hate that I know what that looks like now.

  “I can’t have gotten them all. I can’t.”

  She lightly lands in front of me, and I abort a lumbering step with a lurch.

  “Seth. You got them all. You know you did.”

  I scan the piles of rubble around me. Nothing. Just like the last time I passed through here.

  “I…” I trail off. “I know. But I might have missed someone.”

  She touches my arm.

  “Come on, Seth. Let’s go back. I’m sure General Briggs wants to talk about what’s next.”

  I push my sensors to limit, reaching out over the entire block, then the next ones over.

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing!

  Maybe I need to be closer. I know I don’t.

  “You’re making everyone nervous. Come on.” Her tone is kind. I can see the sympathy in her eyes. They shine brightly in the night, glowing with immense arcane power.

  “What?”

  “If you don’t think it’s over, they don’t think it’s over.”

  “We got all the monsters. I’m just looking for survivors.”

  Her stance softens, and I can see just how exhausted she is.

  “The reality of what you’re doing is less important than the perception sometimes.”

  I turn back to look at the checkpoint I just passed. They are nervous, I realize.

  They peer into the night, eyes flitting back and forth. The IFV commander mumbles something at one of the infantry, who shakes her head. The turret rotates with a whine, the gunner likely using the thermal sights.

  For someone who never gets tired, I’m exhausted.

  “Alright.”

  We walk to the command center in silence.

  Once we get back, we have little to do but stay out of the way. Setting up multiple refugee camps is not a task we can help with, despite our powers, not to mention how drained we both are from the last few brutal days. So we find ourselves sitting near the command center, but out of the way of all the people coming and going.

  I lean against a tank, the tracks blown off. It’s little more than a bunker now, which is why it’s here instead of in the city. Morgan sits on it, humming as she kicks her legs while scribbling in a note book. My height lets me lean over to see what she’s writing.

  Diagrams with symbols I don’t recognize yet pulse with power beyond the mundane litter the page. They’re arranged in various geometric shapes.

  “What are you doing?”

  She looks at me.

  “Just doodling, really. Trying to come up with useful rituals or maybe an Opus or two.”

  “Opus?”

  “Magic items, artifacts, relics, whatever. You know. Magical gadgets.”

  “Why not just call them magic items?”

  She gives me an affronted look.

  “It’s magic! It needs something appropriately flashy. Something so fantastical shouldn’t have such a dull name.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  She holds a hand out and lights dance over her fingers.

  “It’s magic, a work of art more than science. We should treat it as such.”

  I eye the diagrams curiously.

  “None of it makes any sense at all to me.” I admit. “How did you get so good at it already?”

  She shrugs.

  “It just… speaks to me. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. It just makes sense. It’s art. I’m an artist.”

  She gestures to the symbols.

  “And these are my brush strokes. How they work together, how they influence reality when given power beyond human ken is all brush strokes and color choice. It’s the technical aspect.”

  She lets go of the notebook, gesturing wildly. It floats in the air, caring little for something as trivial as gravity.

  “Putting it all together, that’s the magic. That’s where the art is formed.”

  She looks so alive. Her eyes literally sparkle and glow, raw arcane power infusing her very being.

  She’s not using magic, she is magic. Focusing on her, I can see wisps of Potentia pour off her as they drift into the air. Sparks of potential, dreams, and wonder dance on each breath. It flows through her in an endless parade of child-like joy.

  The world isn’t so cold and rigid when she’s around. It bounces and sways to an unheard tune, and she is the conductor.

  She taps me on the head, and I realize I was staring at her.

  She gives me a wry smile.

  “See something you like?”

  I’d flush if I still had flesh to flush with.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just…” I trail off. “It’s just you. The world is so alive around you. It dances to your tune. It’s amazing.”

  I turn away.

  “It’s cold around me. Rigid.”

  I look up. I can still see smoke scraping at the sky, even at night. It blocks out the stars, misery made manifest. It’s fitting that the horrors of the day block out the wonders of the night.

  Morgan follows my gaze up. With a wave of her hand, a few symbols inscribe themselves in the air, glowing with power. They burst after a second, and her eyes glow even brighter.

  “The stars are beautiful. So many of them, and in so many colors. Is this how you see the world?”

  I hang my head.

  “I can only see the smoke.” I mutter darkly.

  She puts a hand on my shoulder and waves at the bustling camp.

  “Look how many people you saved. You did this. You held back the tide.”

  Morgan gives me a grin.

  “Did you know I’ve already received offers to commission a statue of you? Well, and me. But it’s weird to sculpt your own statue.”

  I sigh and slump down exhaustedly.

  “Everyone sees my successes, but I can only see my failures. I should be better— I have to be better. To have power is not a privilege, it is an obligation. To stand on top means to have the strength to weather the winds at the peak.”

  I motion at both of us.

  “We stand on top. There are only a handful of individuals who can claim to be our peers. We must lead by example in a world that no one understands anymore, no one is ready for. We can never be good enough, never be strong enough, never be smart enough. We must always push ourselves to greater heights. If we stop, even for a second, then what reason do those who count on us have to keep climbing?”

  “I think that mentality will kill you.” Morgan says with concern in her eyes.

  “It’s a good thing I’m immortal then, isn’t it?”

  Her look of concern only deepens.

  “Who were you before all of this? You’ve been adjusting to all this much better than I am.” I ask.

  She gives me a confused glance before accepting the brisk change of topic for what it is. Avoidance.

  “You don’t know?”

  I shake my head.

  “I never looked you up online. It seemed rude.”

  She laughs.

  “That’s very kind of you. I’m Morgan Buchanan, the artist.”

  I’d give her a blank look, but that’s become my new normal. Instead I tilt my head in confusion.

  “That doesn’t help. I’m not an art guy.”

  “Well, ever hear of Buchanan Tower in New York? That Buchanan.”

  “You own Buchanan Tower?”

  Buchanan Tower is one of the most luxurious condo skyscrapers in the world, on prime real estate in New York. Each condo is worth millions of dollars. I saw the building during the battle, but never thought much about it until now.

  Morgan looks a little embarrassed.

  “My family does, but given the status of the family these days, I’m more or less the holder of the family fortune.”

  A shade of nervousness clouds her face.

  “That won’t be a problem, will it?”

  Being the holder of the Buchanan fortune would make her one of the richest people in the United States. They have their fingers in everything, from banking, investments, and real estate. And art, I suppose.

  “No?”

  “You sound unsure about that.”

  I shrug.

  “If you’d asked me about it six months ago I probably would have said yes. Now? Now it doesn’t matter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Monsters don’t care how big your bank account is. They just fucking eat you. You can’t bribe them or scare them off with a number.”

  I point at her.

  “You’re doing something. You’re doing things that matter, that are saving lives. A big number on some spreadsheet somewhere pales in comparison to that.”

  We sit in silence for several minutes before she speaks up again.

  “I just…,” She trails off. “I just couldn’t do it, you know?”

  “Hm?”

  “The reason I became an artist, instead of whatever my family wanted me to be.”

  She looks out over the runway a little off in the distance. Planes are constantly taking off and landing. The flow of supplies and personnel never stops.

  “I tried, you know?. To be what they wanted me to be. A business woman,” she spits out the last word with visible disgust. “Someone who saw the world as something to be bought and sold. I learned how to do it. And honestly, I was good at it. Honeyed words off silver tongues.”

  She sighs.

  “I just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t bring myself to look at the world so coldly. The world is many things, but cold spreadsheets aren’t one of them.”

  She kicks off the tank, and floats in the air. She spins, her thick green coat whirling in the air, her arms held wide. Gravity has lost its hold on her.

  “So, I became an artist. I sculpt, paint, and draw.”

  She looks down at her hands, and I watch raw Potentia pour off them.

  “And now, I can wield magic. A new art form.”

  She snaps one finger, and a shooting star appears on her pointer finger. She draws in the air, the magic leaving bright traces behind. I watch, enthralled. It takes her only a few minutes to draw a glowing tiger, and with another snap of her fingers, it comes to life.

  The glowing tiger, easily as large as a real one, stretches deeply, back arcing up. It silently shakes its head before prowling around at Morgan’s feet. It leaps up onto the tank in silence. As she sits back down, it places its head in her lap, and she absently strokes it.

  “I love magic. The ability to bring art to life is nothing less than a dream come true.”

  She gives me a calculating look.

  “What about you, Seth? Is your power what you dreamed of?”

  I look down at my gauntleted hands, and bring one up to my faceplate.

  “I think so. Maybe.”

  “What did you want?”

  I look at her for a moment.

  “The power to live up to an impossible legacy.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Before I can respond, McKinley hurries towards us. I tiredly pull myself to my feet.

  “Ryans! Sorceress le Fay! Good, you’re here. We have a problem. A big one.”

  “And there’s the other shoe. Lay it on us.” Morgan says.

  McKinley has a grim look on her face.

  “One of the refugee camps just had a Fracture form right in the middle of it.”