PRE-VENOM
'You aren't human, and it's time you act like it.'
Perhaps the only way to describe Damon Hill involves the use of the word 'devilish.' After all, he's got a curious birthmark to match the giant trident-sized hole in the back o...
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CHAPTER TWO: TALK IS OVERRATED
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2008. San Francisco, California
Heroes don't exist in the real world.
Sure, we've got firefighters and guys who go to homeless shelters on the weekends and kids who spend their vacations volunteering at hospitals. These people, though, aren't heroes. They're ordinary people doing ordinary things. Nothing special about them.
That's what Damon thinks, anyway.
He passes a homeless woman on his way to Strellhom Apartments—his newfound home in the near future—and wonders if she'll still be standing there within the next ten years. Maybe an earthquake will swallow her up, maybe a bunch of aliens will come down and steal her from the streets, or maybe she'll be taken in by an evil mastermind that needs guinea pigs for a new science project. He just knows she has no one there to save her, no matter the circumstances.
He knows his world's so-called heroes do more damage than good, and he just knows he's not gonna be saved either.
And maybe it's because his mind is too preoccupied with pessimistic thoughts, but Damon no longer feels the absence of the Moon. If anything, he senses that it's closer than he thinks. Yet still, it has disappeared, gone without so much as a whisper and a kiss on the cheek.
When he enters the dingy lobby of where he hopes he will find solace, he's met with a bellboy that reminds him of a caricature from The Twilight Zone. His arms are set straight behind his back, unwavering, and his eyes stare aimlessly at the view in front him. Following his line of sight, all one can see is an empty wall.
Damon attempts to catch his attention with a wave of his hand, but he doesn't seem to notice him. So, as a last resort, he begins to wave both of his hands in front of his face, even giving some snaps for good measure.
Nothing.
It's like he isn't even there, like someone forgot to crack open the skin in the back of his neck and insert his batteries. It doesn't seem like he's aware of his surroundings at all, and Damon gathers this from the man's barren eyes.
"Excuse me, Sir."
He jumps back, half-expecting tentacles to come out of the bellboy's mouth to speed up his death, but all he sees is a young, eight-year-old girl standing behind him. Confused and mildly concerned, he kneels on the ground to address her.
"Hey, kid," he greets, and he can't help but remind himself that he's a kid as well. It's quite peculiar, really, that he must greet a child the same way anyone a couple years older than him would greet him. "Where are your parents?"
