lady asked her companion. She received a shushing in return.
I gazed at the nearest house numbers and found the ones for my destination just across the street. The street itself was considerably narrower than the main street or even the branch I’d just followed. I guessed it had been built in the thirties or forties, maybe even earlier, part of the city’s early growth. The houses varied in size, too, maybe built during different time periods. Some of them looked gorgeous and well maintained, but I saw one down the block that was boarded up and abandoned, too.
There was a white van just sitting on the curb in front of Flora Romero’s old house, one of a half dozen cars parked up and down the street. It really narrowed the available lane space, and I guessed people had to swing hard around it because there were barely two lanes to this road—maybe more like one and a half.
“Is that Sienna Nealon?” I heard someone ask from somewhere behind me. I turned my head instinctively—and quickly—to look in the direction of my name being called. It stopped me for just a beat as I stepped off the curb, just like anyone else, trained to look at someone when they spoke my name.
The person who called my name probably saved my life.
The quiet street erupted into something else so fast that even with my meta speed, I was barely able to process it. Gunfire filled the air, the sharp crack of weapons discharge on full auto, the discordant blast of the chemical reactions pushing lead down barrels, the hard shockwaves reverberating into my heart.
A round hit my shoulder and I went down defensively, my back hitting the sidewalk, head snapping back against the concrete. I lay there, dazed, staring at the blue sky above, puffy clouds of white drifting overhead, my ears ringing, the smell of gunpowder wafting into my nose, blood filling my mouth and pumping out of my shoulder. Warmth spread, pain radiated, and my fingers found the wound and came up crimson. I stared at the red on my fingertips, the blue sky above, blinking, stunned, and the sound of gunfire snapped ever closer around me, concrete spraying next to my head from a shot just inches away as someone pressed their advantage in ambush, moving to take me out of the fight once and for all.
7.
Augustus
I had every speck of dirt in my room all up in the air, balled up tight in an area about the size of my forearm and fist, when I realized—damn, maybe Momma was right—I do need to clean this place more often. I was actually trying to shape it into a forearm and a fist, though, so it was good that it was turning out like I planned. I’d only had these powers for a few hours, after all, and the fact I could do this already was a good sign, I thought.
I pulled my hand back and forth and the dirt fist moved with me in a gentle sway that matched my movement. I stopped, then concentrated in my head, trying to see if I could move the dirt fist without moving my own. It took a few seconds, and then it moved, slowly. I almost let out a whoop but covered my mouth with a hand at the last second before letting out a little squee while biting my knuckle to suppress the sound.
I’d seen the hero movies. I knew what they did, always jumping right into the middle of trouble without really knowing what they could do. They were boneheads, always counting on a soft landing to break the fall when they leapt. Me, I was smarter than scripted characters. I wanted to do some practicing, see what my limits were, get really good and efficient, maybe work up a costume or something with a name—Sandman was taken, in more ways than one. Dirtman and Earthman had no flow to them, and I’d worked with what I had enough to know that I was basically empowered over dirt. Not regular dust; that didn’t respond. I’d tried to move a dust bunny with my mind before remembering that it was human skin or something. I’d tried moving a few other things, too, just to rule out blanket telekinesis (like one
I gazed at the nearest house numbers and found the ones for my destination just across the street. The street itself was considerably narrower than the main street or even the branch I’d just followed. I guessed it had been built in the thirties or forties, maybe even earlier, part of the city’s early growth. The houses varied in size, too, maybe built during different time periods. Some of them looked gorgeous and well maintained, but I saw one down the block that was boarded up and abandoned, too.
There was a white van just sitting on the curb in front of Flora Romero’s old house, one of a half dozen cars parked up and down the street. It really narrowed the available lane space, and I guessed people had to swing hard around it because there were barely two lanes to this road—maybe more like one and a half.
“Is that Sienna Nealon?” I heard someone ask from somewhere behind me. I turned my head instinctively—and quickly—to look in the direction of my name being called. It stopped me for just a beat as I stepped off the curb, just like anyone else, trained to look at someone when they spoke my name.
The person who called my name probably saved my life.
The quiet street erupted into something else so fast that even with my meta speed, I was barely able to process it. Gunfire filled the air, the sharp crack of weapons discharge on full auto, the discordant blast of the chemical reactions pushing lead down barrels, the hard shockwaves reverberating into my heart.
A round hit my shoulder and I went down defensively, my back hitting the sidewalk, head snapping back against the concrete. I lay there, dazed, staring at the blue sky above, puffy clouds of white drifting overhead, my ears ringing, the smell of gunpowder wafting into my nose, blood filling my mouth and pumping out of my shoulder. Warmth spread, pain radiated, and my fingers found the wound and came up crimson. I stared at the red on my fingertips, the blue sky above, blinking, stunned, and the sound of gunfire snapped ever closer around me, concrete spraying next to my head from a shot just inches away as someone pressed their advantage in ambush, moving to take me out of the fight once and for all.
7.
Augustus
I had every speck of dirt in my room all up in the air, balled up tight in an area about the size of my forearm and fist, when I realized—damn, maybe Momma was right—I do need to clean this place more often. I was actually trying to shape it into a forearm and a fist, though, so it was good that it was turning out like I planned. I’d only had these powers for a few hours, after all, and the fact I could do this already was a good sign, I thought.
I pulled my hand back and forth and the dirt fist moved with me in a gentle sway that matched my movement. I stopped, then concentrated in my head, trying to see if I could move the dirt fist without moving my own. It took a few seconds, and then it moved, slowly. I almost let out a whoop but covered my mouth with a hand at the last second before letting out a little squee while biting my knuckle to suppress the sound.
I’d seen the hero movies. I knew what they did, always jumping right into the middle of trouble without really knowing what they could do. They were boneheads, always counting on a soft landing to break the fall when they leapt. Me, I was smarter than scripted characters. I wanted to do some practicing, see what my limits were, get really good and efficient, maybe work up a costume or something with a name—Sandman was taken, in more ways than one. Dirtman and Earthman had no flow to them, and I’d worked with what I had enough to know that I was basically empowered over dirt. Not regular dust; that didn’t respond. I’d tried to move a dust bunny with my mind before remembering that it was human skin or something. I’d tried moving a few other things, too, just to rule out blanket telekinesis (like one
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