Totally Not My Problem | Chase Davenport

Chapter One

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Totally Not My Problem| Chapter One | "Welcome to Mission Creek"

"Where was Artemis when Newport Haven burned?"

The accusatory question hung heavy in the recycled air of the plane cabin. On the laptop screen, Hayden Ryker's face contorted with self-righteous fury, his eyes blazing like twin embers in the ghostly light. Newport Haven's mouthpiece for fear-mongering, he wielded panic like a weapon. Blaire Thompson's fingers hovered numbly over the keys, leaden with guilt. She shouldn't be watching this—the media's pontification and the public's condemnation flayed her raw.

But she couldn't tear her eyes away. Couldn't unsee the horrors seared into her memory.

"One Year Later: Newport Haven Teeters on the Brink in Onyx Syndicate's Wake."

The footage cut to scenes eternally branded in Blaire's mind. Skyscrapers slumped like drunken giants, jagged bones jutting from mounds of rubble and ruin. Acrid smoke billowed in malevolent clouds, blotting out the sun's feeble rays. Bodies lay strewn across debris-choked streets, abandoned marionettes with strings severed by Onyx's ruthless blades.

3,498 lives extinguished. 3,498 futures incinerated. The number blazed behind Blaire's eyelids, an unshakable brand.

Ryker's caustic voice sliced through the bleak montage. "Onyx poisoned our water. Unleashed bioweapons in our homes and schools. Crippled us with sickness and terror. And where were our mighty protectors in our darkest hour?" 

"Strike is dead," he snarled venomously. "And his golden girl fled when the city wept for salvation."

Co-host Karen Takeda interjected, a frail voice of reason. "Hayden, Artemis renounced her mantle. Perhaps she herself is a victim of—"

"Or perhaps," Ryker cut in, words harsh as stripped wire, "she shirks judgment for her failure. If her belief in this city—in her mentor—held true, would she abandon us so callously?"

Guilt roiled in Blaire's gut, acrid and gnawing. She clenched her jaw until her teeth ached, the plane's droning engine distant beneath her thundering pulse. The Davenport power-dampeners on her wrists chirped a staccato warning, metal searing her skin. 

One breath. Two. Three. She couldn't unravel here, trapped in this metal tube hurtling through the stratosphere. Couldn't succumb to the memories dragging her back to that blood-soaked day.

But they besieged her nonetheless, relentless specters haunting her mind's hallways.

Choking stench of chemicals and charred flesh. Sirens' unending, shrill wails. The day Onyx's cruelty devoured Newport Haven whole, Blaire and Strike battled against the insurmountable tide of violence, their desperation a futile battering ram against the unbreachable dark.

But the pitiless dark gazed back. And laughed.

"Some hero," Ryker spat. "Some savior."

The truth pierced Blaire like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. She slammed the laptop shut, plastic cracking like a gunshot. The dampeners' shrill chirps faded as she counted breaths, each one a battle against rising sobs.

Out the oval window, the quilt-like world below seemed small and distant. From this lofty perch, Blaire could almost pretend the horrors held no sway. That the ghosts nipping her heels were mere wisps of cloud and imagination.