Blank Slate | ONC2023

Chapter Two: Don't Talk to Heroes

I shouldn't have googled myself. I didn't have a choice, but what I know now...is hard to take in. The words are branded into my brain, condemning me every time I close my eyes.

TWELVE DEAD AND TWENTY CRITICALLY INJURED.

WEST QUARTER HERO HEADQUARTERS SINGLE-HANDEDLY DEMOLISHED BY SUPERVILLIAN, BLANK SLATE.

THOUSANDS MOURN THE DEATH OF OUR BELOVED STORM CELL LEADER, VULPINE, AND CALL FOR JUSTICE TO BE BROUGHT UPON HER MURDERER, BLANK SLATE.

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE: BLANK SLATE. POWER LEVEL: ESTIMATED TEN. POWER: UNKNOWN. CITIZENS: REPORT, DO NOT ENGAGE. HEROES: DO NOT ENGAGE WITHOUT TEAM.

I am a murderer. A villain. I deserve to be the most wanted in West Quarter. All those people...that building I took down...I did it. I hurt them. Killed them.

Dropping my gaze to my hands, imaginary blood coating my palms. Maybe a normal person would be repulsed, disgusted, or even guilty, but all that fills my mind is one blinding question: why?

Why did I do it? Why did I kill when I have a rule against killing? I had morals then; that much is clear from the auto-played message.

I didn't want to kill. I didn't want to use my power on a living being. I didn't think I was evil. What on earth could make me break my own rules? What was so bad, so drastic, that it pushed me to take down an entire building?

Something in my insides twists, a phantom chill ghosting through my veins and congregating in my hands and spine. In my mind's eye my power pulsates in my veins, glowing with impossibly bright light.

Superpowers are measured in strength on an exponential scale of one to ten, with most heroes being threes or fours. The strongest are eights, possibly nines, and very rarely, tens. Elevens are not supposed to exist.

I am not supposed to exist.

A wry smile tugs at the edge of my mouth, the edges of amusement sharpening at the corners. I can't be normal, can I? Of course, I could be lying about being an eleven, but I am inclined to think it's true.

The pictures of the heroes' headquarters are proof enough. I left it a puddle of concrete with chunks of steel, wires, glass, and other random assorted things sticking out everywhere. A ten couldn't do that—not to a seven-story building.

Maybe the act of jumping from a nine to an eleven made me go a bit nuts. Maybe I lost control. That much power...and if it is as easy as a single touch... A shudder runs down my spine and I struggle to shake it off.

With a sigh sliding through my teeth,I lift my hand to run it over my curls. My sleeve slips, and I pause as a flash of black catches my eye. On my inner wrist is a startlingly realistic tattoo of a viper coiled around a nine of spades, its mouth open wide and fangs dripping venom.

I run my finger over the viper's body, brows furrowing. It seems important. Symbolic. Sentimental, almost.

When did I get it? Why did I get it? I...I didn't think I was the kind to get tattoos. They just seem pointless, unless they represent something extremely special. But what could be so important about a viper and a nine of spades?

The static in my head buzzes louder, throbbing in time to a building headache. Everything in my head is floating around in a cluttered mess like a corrupted file of source code. If only I could find an easy way to answer all my questions, like asking someone who knew me. If only I could—

Wait. My coffee shop friend, Dan, knew me. He knew my old self—at least my civilian alias. Maybe I could ask him. Carefully, of course, but it would be better than throwing question after question into Google, not knowing lies from augmented truth.