August. 1 year before the Veileland Crisis.

  “What do you mean I can’t have another Long Island?! I’ve only had...Wait, how much have I had to drink tonight?”

  The belligerent jerk at the bar kept shouting at the bartender. Why did Steve have to pick a Friday night hot spot to hang out? So loud, sweaty, and cramped. At least the tv is a good one. Not that it helped, much, all the loud voices drowned out anything happening on screen. The channel was left on some sports program, a documentary I think, going over the history of the Kentucky Derby. Not exactly appealing to most of the crowd here, your usual motley crew of jocks and meatheads tended to be the only patrons of this sort of establishment. What exactly was an aspiring web designer in need of positive change doing at the bar with all of them?

  “Daniel! Hey, Daniel!”

  About time. It didn’t answer my question, but the near-twenty minute wait was at last over. Shortly after my friend’s voice rang above the awful noise, a friendly arm found my shoulders and pulled me back further than it intended, and dethroned me from my stool. Turning around, I could see the long blonde hair of my friend covering half his face, a far cry from its usually neat, tied-back appearance. Steve definitely had a fun night. So had whoever was pouring him drinks, since his considerable frame definitely handled more alcohol than mine. Too bad I couldn’t share in the warm feelings. Still, it was good he invited me. It was still better than being trapped in my apartment for yet another night with nothing to do. You can only binge shows for so long before you get a little stir crazy.

  “There you are. Did you get lost or fall in? Where are the others?”

  Steve laughed, blasting an alcoholic stench over my face. He had been continuing his rum kick. Good choice. It took a lot to get someone of his large stature this intoxicated unless he either consumed Hemmingway levels of alcohol, or enough to fill the average household bathtub.

  His heavy hand slapped my shoulder as he shouted just loudly enough to be heard, “They wanted to head to the next place, said they had their fill here.”

  Well, I guess that is how most pub crawls work. Nice of them to let me know.

  In response to Steve, I say, “ So, where next? I lost my list.”

  “Daniel, you’re hopeless.”

  He dismissed his own comment with a laugh, “Alright, then, my friend! Follow me.”

  Just as he was about to leave, he looked over my shoulder and saw my unfinished drink. He gulped it down with two swallows and gave me a wink. He knew me well enough to look out for me. The last time I got drunk wasn’t my favorite night. He patted me on the shoulder and promised to wait for me out front, leaving the check to me.

  “Hi, can I, uh, settle up?”

  The bartender nodded, and walked over to the register, happy to have a break from the guy shouting at her earlier. The derby documentary suddenly interrupted, cut in by a large, flashing news graphic. Breaking news, did someone die? It had to be a big story to interrupt regularly scheduled programming, even if it was rather monotonous. Johnnie Verdan, one of the network's better presenters, appeared a little more animated than usual. The noisy patrons prevented me from hearing what he was saying. At least the captions were turned on, even if they were delayed. His mouth moved but I had no clue what words were formed. I should have learned to read lips.

  A video, clearly cellphone footage, slid across the screen, over Johnnie’s angled face. It was shaky and grainy, but still good enough to see a man with his child, in the middle of the street. It looked like they were in one of the old districts of the city, probably Heartford. Someone else walked in frame from the right of the screen, looking agitated at the first man. He got into his face and pushed him.

  After another delay, Johnnie’s captions read, “something that has to be seen to be believed.”

  Two more men walked on from the same direction. The first man pulled the child close to him, putting himself between the angry men and his kid, his hand raised. The man who pushed him drew out a gun, and aimed it at the father. The other two walked closer, flanking the one with the gun. The muzzle flashed but the father dodged to the side somehow, I couldn’t see it happen. The bullet missed the kid, too. He grabbed the barrel of the weapon and tossed it aside. He decked the shooter in the gut with barely a wind up, and the camera followed him as he went flying across the street and into a brick wall. It pans back to the other two men who slowly shuffled backwards, looking even less certain than me about what just happened. Before they could get away, the father caught one of them by the back of their shirt and yanked him backwards, right towards the camera. The footage ends when the man crashes into whoever was filming. He must have tossed him at least twenty feet, is this a trailer for a movie?

  Johhnie was back on screen, trying his best to look like he understood but anyone could tell that he didn’t have a clue. After a moment, the captions read, “This footage has been verified, and there doesn't appear to be any camera trickery going on. So, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but, super humans! In Rinovo? We will have more information as soon as it breaks. Thank you for watching and stay tuned for my real time takes on what we just saw and what this means. We’ll be right back after this commercial.”

  A commercial break right now? It can’t be real, right? People can’t just throw someone across a street. The tone of the crowd around me shifted, getting more excited. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one with doubts or questions. Phone screens lit up and chirped louder than the crowd, replaying the footage we all had just watched. There was an air of cautious belief. Well, the night got a lot more interesting. It was a good thing I didn’t finish my drink.

  November. 9 months before the Veileland Crisis.

  Newborns. I couldn’t recall if the term was first coined online somewhere or by the talking heads. It was rather fitting, though. Hopeful and optimistic, which the world needed after all the darkness it was being forced to endure. Terrorist attacks, warlords, corrupt law enforcement and politicians, every day and every corner brought something new, eager to squeeze the life out of everyday people. Rinovo shone like a dark beacon of despair above all the rest. The cliches of the cold and aloof populace were proven to me just a few weeks after I moved here. There were bright spots, of course, like my friends. But even they seemed to be more cynical with each passing day. What hope is there when all that comes from the outside world is more hate and division? What can one soul do against the tide?

  The newborns felt like a sign. A promise, a gift from God or the world or whatever the cosmic something is out there more powerful than darkness. They were unable to predict who would start manifesting powers. Maybe there wasn't a way to tell. Maybe it was proof of the good in all people? Could any of us be this way? Or was it reserved for the special, the chosen? Maybe it was all an elaborate joke and would only come crashing down. Maybe. But something inside my gut was telling me to trust, to hope that things will get better.

  Who knows, maybe I will get to be someone who can demonstrate this hope to the rest. Maybe I will be one of those chosen to be a newborn.

  March. 5 months before the Veileland Crisis.

  People often talk about how big cities have an identity or personality. Rinovo seemed pretty...pedestrian when I moved here. Sure, it had its quirks. There’s the near perfect bifurcation right across its midsection, separating the old and new districts, the Rinovo Renaissance, a never-ending artistic showcase featuring all kinds of acts, and then there is the ever-present popularity of purple vehicles. No one has ever been able to explain that one to me. But with the addition of newborns, Rinovo entered a class all of its own.

  Sure, newborns had been sighted everywhere. But here, it seemed roughly four times as many as the rest. By this point, it wasn’t uncommon for weekly, almost daily, sightings of someone backflipping over streetlights. Law enforcement was ill-equipped, to say the least, to deal with such a rapid escalation on their own. The first few weeks felt like an apocalypse. A few newborns ran hog wild through the city, completely cleaning out jewelry stores and vandalizing whole parking lots of cars. It didn’t last long, though. Others, more newborns, started standing up to fight back. The city fought back. I shouldn’t have been surprised, it was in Rinovo’s DNA. Hope and dreams.

  When I first got here, there were groups of people on every street corner, plying for more signatures to renovate the older half of Rinovo, make the whole city a bit more cohesive and modern. They handed out pamphlets with the story, how this city was built to be new and fresh. “The Century City,” everyone called it. Back when it was founded at the turn of the twentieth century. All the best advancements, the best infrastructure, the healthiest people, a city for the future. From what I gathered, it never quite lived up to those lofty expectations.

  What was the phrase my history professor always liked to throw around? Delayed destiny. This idea how things rarely come into their own fullness when people predict. “It just takes time”, he would say. “Be patient and take a long view of history. Time is more than just this current now.” He would use it as a means to encourage us, the students who fell behind in his class and failed to grasp some of his deeper points, but I couldn’t help but think it might apply to Rinovo, too. Newborns, like new blood injected into the stream. How will the body take it? Time would tell.

  The news channels took a break from the constant newborn coverage and opted to talk about Gibson International. For how often I had heard about them, I don’t know if I’ve ever used a single one of their products. My apartment complex had one of their security systems and I’m pretty sure my dad’s surgery was done with one of their robots but my experience ended there.

  Their CEO was gobbling up headlines about their next venture. The Newborn Training Initiative. He billed it as this big multi-government project to train newborns into a peacekeeping force. The finer details remained murky. What was clear was how much money Gibson had poured into it. He said they were doing it with UN backing but you don’t get to just throw together a new facility in Veileland on government funding alone. Building anything on the “Gem of the Atlantic” didn’t happen without mountains of cash. Those doors only opened for the true elites, the kind of folk who traveled by private jet more often than they walked their dogs.

  Veileland. A trip there had always claimed the top seed on my bucket list. The scenery, the technology, the food, even the tourist traps are unlike anything you can experience elsewhere. The only way possible for me to get to such a paradise would be to go back in time and get even a grunt level job at Gibson, and get transferred to the new location. They were taking applications, even for janitorial positions, But those still required connections. Connections I did not have.

  July. 1 month before the Veileland Crisis.

  Some days, you just never forget. The possibility remained that I could have just been imagining things but never before had my imagination ever displayed such capacity for delusion. My friend Steve, the kind of guy who kept having to buy tighter and tighter shirts, was out of town and asked me to watch his dog. On my second day there, I had the foolishly hopeful urge to try out his weight bench. It went much better than expected.

  Steve was a much bigger guy than me, just naturally stronger and because he invested so much time and money into his physique. Not a bodybuilder, probably more making up for the career he never had in sports. He had his bench loaded pretty heavily when I made my attempt. More as a joke than any serious expectation of budging the stupid thing, I had never lifted anything even half the weight, I was ashamed to admit. 300 pounds. And on the first try without any perceived resistance. My arms held no hesitation or aches afterwards. Steve’s dog barked in response to my declaration of surprised profanity. I had punched my ticket to Veileland.

  August. 0 Months before the Veileland Crisis.

  Life continued a Northern spiral. Mom and Dad sounded even more ecstatic than I was after I delivered the news of Gibson accepting my application for their newborn program in Veileland. I would leave in two weeks. They promised to keep all of my details confidential to the utmost so no one I cared about would be targeted. It felt…cheesy.

  And not easily but there was no choice except to trust them with the secret. Dad encouraged me to do so, that the risk would be worth what they would teach me. His insight was usually safe to follow. But still, I didn’t want to see them pay for my benefit.

  And there I was, almost exactly one year after that fateful news broadcast where newborns were first revealed to the world. Seated in the same chair in the same bar, no less. This place became something of a favorite of mine in the year since. Steve’s voice called out from outside the entrance, “Daniel said he’s waiting for us already.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  There was another change no one told me about. They broadcast newborn’s strength all over but there’s no mention of the hearing. Perhaps I was the only one?

  “You know, punctuality never used to be your signature. I had just gotten used to your constant excuses to avoid any contact with the outside world.”

  “What can I say? I’m feeling much more confident these days.”

  If only he knew why. Would he still be my friend? Would he try to use me somehow? Probably not, his character was solid as steel. But power or even proximity to power can bring out weird things in everyone.

  “Well, in honor of your newfound courage, I’ll take care of the first round.”

  He raised his hand and ordered for me and the rest of the group that followed him in. Yes sir, life kept getting better.

  “Breaking news!” This is just getting weird.

  The TV audio was easier to hear above the noise this time. Johnny Verdan’s trademark visage filled the screen. What did you have for me this time, bearer of good news? Wait. Something was wrong. His face was drawn tight, unnaturally so. He didn’t believe the grin he wore. His eyes twitched and searched for some sort of relief. No good news this time.

  “We, uh, we bring you this breaking news.”

  His brow already sat drenched with sweat.

  “We have unconfirmed reports that Veileland, the site of Gibson’s newborn training program is… has been targeted by a terror attack.”

  My heart fell from its bindings within my chest.

  “Details are just barely coming in- wait, what’s that? Yes. Excuse me, it appears that this- *ahem* -it appears that this footage has just been released by the purported terrorists. We go now to this exclusive video. Please, be warned. It may contain shocking images.”

  Who would dare attack Veileland? It was the most secure location on Earth! The screen blinked quickly to some shaky footage, likely shot on a handheld camera. Pavement filled the screen. A road.

  Offscreen someone ordered, “On me. Get all of this.”

  The camera panned up to reveal someone dressed in a dark green, hooded cloak. They were in the middle of a downtown street. Cars and horns blared at them as they swerved around. The man didn’t look bothered at all, right where he wanted to be.

  “Citizens, my friends, you who would look up to us as heroes, I invite you to a one-of-a-kind experience. An opportunity to witness how foolish you have been in thinking that you would be the ones to lead this new generation of humanity.”

  He stepped back, almost right into the path of an oncoming car, utterly fearless in every step he took. His tone was one of patronizing confidence, as if a rebuke towards an ignorant child.

  “You are right to look up to us, but to call us newborns, to build a facility to control us, that is where your error lies.”

  He crackled towards the camera, faster than even a newborn should be able to, and took the camera in his hand as the hood fell back to reveal a roaring lion mask which covered his face. His green eyes peered out from behind it, sparking with anger.

  With a harsh whisper and infused anger, he uttered, “You will not stand over us. We are not here to serve you, we are here to save you. Submit to your new leaders. Pay the price for thinking anything to the contrary.”

  He took three long strides backwards, his body in full view. Another car shrieked towards him with its horn crying. Right before it impacts, He twisted his body around and slammed his fist into the hood. He didn’t even flinch from the impact of the car. The horn fell silent as smoke poured out from the vehicle. The driver must have perished.

  “Let this be a reminder of what happens when you try to direct angels.”

  His legs coiled beneath him and threw him at least a hundred feet into the air. He hung there for just a moment, without a sound, as gravity caught up to him and brought him back to Earth. He burst through the pavement, leaving a craggy hole. And then, nothing. For a moment, at least.

  The hole grew quickly, cracks snaked away almost faster than the person holding the camera could react. In the distance, one of those cracks swallowed a car whole and the footage tremored. Cacophonic noises, foundations crumbling, glass shattering, people screaming overwhelmed the footage with their deadly dins. And then a cut to black.

  No one in the bar moved. We all held our breath.

  The footage resumed, focused once more on the man in the mask. He leaned out of a helicopter high above Veileland, looking down at the twisting and shuddering island as it was consumed by the ocean. How could one man rip apart an entire island nation with just his own strength?

  He casually eased himself into the seat, seemingly satisfied with his destruction and looked back into the camera. He placed a headset over the mask so his voice could be heard above the whirling chopper blades, “my name is Risteard the Lion. My people and I are here to save you from yourselves. Don’t get in our way or your cities will continue to fall. We shall return.”

  The footage ended, leaving Johnny’s stunned face on the screen as his jaw hung loosely. After several seconds, he shook his head to compose himself. His voice was even less stable than before, “I don’t even know how to describe what we’ve just seen. This was, without a doubt, the worst attack in our human history. Emergency workers have yet to find any survivors in the wreckage. Ten million people...”

  His voice trailed off for a moment and then he cleared his throat. His eyes narrowed and sharpened, his voice became clipped, “ In my opinion, newborns are not who we had hoped they were. If there are any more like this Risteard, then they must all be removed. Newborns are no longer welcome on this planet.”

  I tried to swallow, but nothing remained to coat my throat. A weak gasp crawled out, quiet enough for my friends to not notice. The northern spiral did not last long, after all.

  September. 1 month after the Veileland Crisis.

  Veileland was gone. Millions of people were gone, wiped from the face of the Earth so easily. Risteard, the lion-faced demon took something which was supposed to be good, full of hope, and he broke it into the world’s largest gravestone.

  The Veileland Crisis, the worst terror attack in all of history. Less than a quarter of a percent of the people on the island survived. 10 million lives…..

  Newborns were supposed to protect people! To save lives and make the world better. That’s what I was trying to do, at least. But ever since the crisis, they were hunted down and attacked with no care for justice or due process. It took the government exactly twenty-seven hours to outlaw them. How could it even be possible to outlaw someone just for being alive? And this is America, we were supposed to have freedom here! Why did Risteard commit such a moral calamity?

  My parents hadn’t called in three weeks. We both agreed that it would be safer if we kept our distance from each other. It was better for them if their friends didn’t know about their newborn son and we didn’t discuss where I was. I hoped this was the only reason they kept quiet. The government certainly wouldn’t have had any concerns over spying on people to find us.

  There were already so many stories of friends and family reporting on suspected newborns. A few even got murdered in other countries. What might have been even worse, there was an increasing number of newborns actually fighting back. And we were definitely strong enough to fight back. The mobs didn’t know how lucky they were, with most of us choosing restraint. We could have taken over everything if we decided to. But, no. It would not have been the good response. It can’t be, right? We were supposed to build, not tear down.

  It was like my dad always told me, the stone makes the biggest ripple right next to where it hits the water. I couldn’t do anything except help people in Rinovo. People might hate me for it, but I had to help them. But there had to be precautions. I could avoid the mistakes of the ones who got caught. No connections, no traceable presence anywhere. Cash only, no cell phones, and most importantly, no friends. It wouldn’t be easy but doing the right thing was always worth the sacrifice. I could still be a hero.

  1 week later.

  With a soft impact, the last assailant fell before me. His head bobbled as it knocked against the stained and smelly dumpster on his way down. A beam of sunlight found its way over the rooftop and shone on his face in the wet and mucky alley. The sun was too merciful for such a lowlife. Several others lay sprawled on the ground, defeated by my hand. Broken bottles, knives, even a baseball bat. They used whatever weapons they could get their grimy hands on. One of the darker truths of humanity, in the aftermath of any great tragedy, in the absence of hope, the lowest elements of mankind always seem to become more emboldened.

  The foreign couple they were assaulting stepped out tentatively from their spot behind the trash bags they had used for cover. The man shakily took my hand and shook it vigorously, bowing his head as he did. He said something with better enunciation than I expected, but listening was my priority. My eyes rested on the leader of the pack, the last one to fall. His kind only thrived because there weren't enough heroes out there to protect the innocent. There were rumors of more newborns fighting to keep the peace, but hadn’t had time to track any down. I knew they would follow me, though, once word got out. They had to. The world needed us to protect them. No one had a clue what causes someone to become a newborn so I needed to protect everyone that I could.

  The man continued his declarations of gratitude, despite my distracted presence.

  “You’re welcome, sir. Just stay out on the streets and don’t take any more wrong turns.”

  He nodded at last and led his wife away, turning at the end to offer a final wave. I gave a half-hearted one of my own in response. My mind was on bigger things. There must have been more newborns out there, more willing to risk their lives for the sake of the innocent. They were just waiting for me to find them.

  With a now much practiced motion, my hands and feet scrambled up the side of the alley walls, finding their holds on rails, window sills, anything to give me a boost. A resting group of pigeons swarmed away as I passed over the edge. I really needed to work on quiet landings. The air stirred with something new, something unknown. The birds cleared my vision and before me stood a figure. A man, completely silent and completely still.

  “Can I help you?”

  His mouth held shut, not even a grunt of acknowledgement escaped him. His light blue eyes were fixed upon me, unflinching. His hair was a black, short and rugged mess. Strands stuck to his forehead, adhered there by sweat. Or perhaps there was a tinge of red hidden in there? His left cheek was marred by an odd looking scar, rather how I always imagined a bullet wound might heal. An unzipped jacket draped off of his shoulders, forged from some metallic material. Not the sort you would see in even the most exotic of fashion shows. He stood relaxed and fixated. One of his dark gray clad legs rested a rather unique looking shoe against a power box, holding him in a half lean while he just stared at me. The shoe was flexible like a runner’s shoe, but the sole was not made of any rubber or foam available to the public. The only word which came to mind was tactical. The toe box, thicker than I would imagine for something so sleek, looked like a steel toe with a gradual taper to a point. An image, unbidden, flashed through my mind, of a skull-shattering kick with a sound to match.

  “Do you need something, buddy?”

  I was pleading with him to speak. Even gibberish or an old sitcom catchphrase would have been acceptable.

  “Right. Well, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to, uh, find my own rooftop. You know, one without brooding weirdos.”

  My feet shuffled shyly, desperate not to fully put my back to him. As I started to turn, he spoke at last, “Daniel Donovan. Newborn.”

  His voice punctuated the last word with venom. He knew my name!

  “A boy, ignorant of the world, seeking to be bigger than he is. Seeking to be, what? A hero? You don’t deserve any of the gifts you’ve been given. And you certainly are no hero.”

  There were multiple stories about whole mobs hunting newborns down, no fewer than ten people, it was never just one guy. Either this was a trap, or a very serious mistake.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, I seemed to miss the part where we introduced each other. I’m Daniel. And you are?”

  He responded with movement, stood himself up from the power box, and took a half step towards me.

  “You, you are a threat. A bomb, a catastrophe waiting to happen. How long did you really think that you would get to act however you wanted without repercussions?”

  People usually only use those kinds of words right before throwing a noose around a tree. I had to put distance between us and fast. One of my hideouts was just half a mile away. I could shake him and get there before-

  A strong hand yanked me around, leaving me face to face with him. How did he get right behind me without my noticing? This close, there was no denying the menace emanating from him. Menace and raw power. The light caught the side of his face, highlighting the scar.

  “Excuse me, man, but I’m not who you think I am!”

  “You are a newborn. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

  “Okay, fine. I’m a newborn. So what?”

  “So what. You ask that so casually. As if it wasn’t your kind that just performed the deadliest act in history.”

  His hand refused to leave my shoulder, “that was Risteard! Why are you going after me?”

  “Why not you? All you newborns. Thinking you are helping people. If we let you, Veileland won’t be the only place to be annihilated. I refuse to let that happen! Especially to this city. You don’t deserve Rinovo! You don’t deserve power!”

  “Listen-” He squeezed me by the neck with one arm, cutting me off. My fingers clawed desperately against his arm, but he was impossibly strong! How could he do this?!

  “You! You’re a new-”

  His grip grew tight, cutting off any noise from my throat. Was anyone out there? Would anyone help me? Please?

  “My name is Gavin Black. And I’m here to kill you. And all newborns that abuse their gifts.”

  His voice was so calm and even, I think that he might actually succeed in his mission. He jumped with me still in his grasp and hurled me downward. My voice tried to scream, nothing but a wheeze came out. The ground approached very quickly and I heard a brief crunch. I think it was my neck.