The Unyielding Mosaic, Chapter 1

October 21st, 2:34 am

I couldn’t run anymore.  My chest was burning and heaving and I felt like I was about to puke.  I leaned against the wall of the dirty alley and fought for breath, not even caring that the air I was sucking in was rank with the smells of rotting garbage and stale beer.  It was dark and narrow, with a tangle of fire escapes doing their best to block out even the thin strip of sky above and a pair of rusted yellow dumpsters doing the same for the streets on either side.  Neither looked to have been emptied in months, and trash bags had overflowed into the space between them where I was trying to hide, hoping they didn’t see me in here. This had all gone so much more smoothly in my head.

Put on a costume.  Put on a mask.  Find some guys in gang colors and wave your powers at them.  Simple.

Until the guns came out.

Now my big, bad superhero self was trapped, on the run and scared out of my mind.  My heart was beating so fast I was practically vibrating, and I couldn’t even catch my breath properly.  Between short, shallow panic-breathing and my mask, I just…I couldn’t…

With a gasp, I reached up and ripped off my cheap plastic facemask.  The shock of cool October night air against sweaty skin was a welcome distraction from the terror.  What had I been thinking?  I wasn’t ready for this.  Just go out an kick some ass?  Get my name in the papers?  Yeah, right.

My face stared back at me from a puddle of unidentifiable liquids, sharp cheekbones drooping with fatigue, square jaw set against exhaustion, tawny skin shiny with sweat.  A moment later, my falling mask blotted it out. 

Mask.  Hah.  I’d bought a dark green facemask from a motocross store and added a few squares of fluorescent green fabric paint.  I’d thought it looked pretty good.  Right now it looked like part of a kid’s Halloween costume.  j

With a mental shrug, I started to wiggle out of my jacket, too—a tight-fitting leather thing I’d found at a thrift store, also with stupid green fabric paint.  Screw it.  Maybe without the “costume” I could walk right past them.  It wasn’t worth—

“There he is!” someone shouted from the Gleam Street side of the alley.  Three someones, two of them carrying handguns.  They pointed.

I made an undignified sound and flattened myself in the muck.  A dozen flat planes of shimmering green force, each about a foot across, flashed into existence in tight formation.  Another blink and a dozen more of the small force fields, then another, then another.  A sharp clattering filled the alley as they formed a solid wall between me and the gangsters. 

Just in time, too, because a moment later the roar of gunshots filled the alley.  Individual planes— tiles, I called them, because stacked together like this they looked like nothing so much as a bunch of glow-in-the-dark bathroom tiles— flashed as bullets struck them. 

I felt the impacts, in the strange portion of my mind that always knew exactly where my tiles were.  It was kind of like someone was jabbing me hard with a pencil, only inside my head.  This was a hell of a way to find out if my tiles were bulletproof.

“Damnit,” one of the gangsters spat when he realized his shots penetrating.  I saw the shadow of his body through my tiles as he grabbed for the top of the wall, and I added another layer to keep him from vaulting over.

“Asshole,” another growled.  “You’re only making this worse on yourself.”

Worse?  How could this get worse?  All I’d done was knock down a gangster with a tile to the stomach, and they’d chased me halfway across the Delta.  But surely they wouldn’t…

 But they would.  They’d kill me and leave without a second thought; I could hear it in the guy’s voice.  I couldn’t stand here.  I had to get out.  Had to run.  Oh, god.  Oh, god.  Um…

Fresh tiles clattered into being.  Unlike the previous batch, these ones were moving.  Six inches across this time, they left glowing trails like Star Wars lasers as they zipped through the air.  But when they struck, it was like getting hit by a baseball bat.

A series of clangs and clunks reached my ears as if from a great distance, as tiles slammed into walls and dumpsters and fire escapes and everything else.  There was at least one crash of breaking glass, and—thank god—the flat smack of a solid object smacking into someone’s gut. 

Before the gangsters could recover and find another way into the alley, I scrambled to my feet and fled, followed by more gunshots.   I didn’t feel anything, but god, they were loud, oddly flat explosions of sound that seemed to take up the entire world. 

The alley forked, up ahead, one path breaking out into the comparably open and well-lit one-way road on the other side.  The other continued to bury its way into this little tangle of run-down shops and tenement houses.

Acting on sudden, desperate impulse, I fired one last volley of tiles, turned the corner, and half-ran, half-staggered deeper into the alley.  This one had fewer fire escapes, and I manifested a dozen tiles under my feet with orders to go up.

My makeshift platform lurched and nearly threw me off.  I clearly hadn’t practiced elevators enough, along with…well, everything else.  I dropped to my knees, then realized I was already level with the roof and the tiles were still rising.  I couldn’t give them new orders once they were manifested.   The ones I’d shot earlier were probably straining against the walls, still trying to fly that way, unless I was already a hundred feet away.  But I was sitting on these ones.  They’d lift me all the way to space unless I did something.

Two feet above the wall.  Three.  Five.  Ten—

I made a mad leap and almost made it onto the roof.  My arms hit the gravel of the roof.  My legs hit nothing, and threatened to drag me backwards until I created a tile under them.  My chest hit the concrete of the embankment that circled it, and for a moment the sudden shock of pain drove everything else from my awareness.  I didn’t even have the breath to groan as I dropped onto the roof proper. 

There were shouts from below, and my still-rising platform flashed as a couple bullets whined off the bottom.  Did they still think I was on there?  God, I hoped so, because maybe, just maybe…

The tiles winked out as they passed out of my hundred-foot range, but I created a second set just inside my reach almost as soon as they vanished.  Given the staccato flashes from my tiles and the strobing light of muzzle flares below, I didn’t think they’d notice.  As I’d commanded, the new platform began to move down and to the west, diving behind the taller apartment building across the street before winking out.  Hopefully they’d take the bait.

Oh god.  I’d die if they didn’t take the bait.

I took a deep breath, and my chest erupted with agony.  With every movement, i could feel tissue tearing and bones scraping against bones.  My ribs, I realized distantly.  I’d broken at least one when I fell on the embankment, maybe more. 

Yeah…this was bad.  I had to get out of here.  Had to…couldn’t…

Darkness.

#

I opened my eyes. I stood on a wooded hilltop, familiar from a thousand dreams of childhood, though I still wore my normal adult body—six foot two and muscular, with pitch-black hair in a short fade cut.  A battered wooden picnic table sat on one edge of a little clearing with a spectacular view of the setting sun.  I walked to the table, slowly.  A colorful cardboard square covered much of the table with a cheerful cartoon map, surrounded by piles of equally bright playing cards.  War for the Woods.  The game was as familiar and comforting as the rest of the scene, a fond reminder of afternoons spent with my dad.

I turned, and there he was, waiting at the edge of the forest.  Dad crouched in the shadows there, strange eyes gleaming in the half-light of dusk.  One human, two vertically slitted like a snake’s, two more with starburst shapes like nothing else in nature.  His tails lashed behind him, as nervous at the thought of being seen as he was every time we dreamed together.

I didn’t care.  I rushed to the strange creature that my father had become and threw my arms around him.  Dad stiffened, bones and plates shifting underneath the leathery olive skin, and then he relaxed, hugging me back with arms and middle-legs. He smelled like vinegar and rubber, cut grass and turmeric, and nothing mattered.

“Abba,” I half-sighed, half-sobbed.  Father.

“Neshama,” he replied in the same sort of tone, and I heard his voice as I remembered it, deep and loving and rich with accent.  My soul.  “My god.  What happened?”

“I, uh, might have broken some ribs,” I admitted weakly.  A stab of pain in my chest reminded me that not even dreams were painless.  “Maybe a lot of ribs.”

“Might have?”  He settled me gently at the picnic table and gave me a worried look.  “What happened?”

“I went out in costume.  Looking for trouble.”  I looked down, watching his claws dig into the dirt.

“It looks like you found it.”

“I didn’t think they had guns, I just…” I shook my head.  “It was bad.  God, I’m passed out, aren’t I?  They could find me before I wake up and…and…”  I shivered, thinking of it.

“Hakim,” Dad said, crouching on the ground next to me and wrapping a pair of arms around my shoulder.  “What the hell were you thinking?  I know you have powers, but—”

I started to speak, then realized it would be easier to show him.  Telepathic connection to my lost father or not, this was still a lucid dream—I could control it if I wanted to.  A newspaper fell into my hand, and I unfolded it to show him the headline.

“United Nations announces upcoming expedition to Amazon,” he read, and gave me a quizzical look.

“It’s in just two years, and they’re already starting to look for scientists and escorts.”  I pointed to a paragraph deeper in the article.  “I have to be ready to be a part of it, Dad.  It’s the only way I can find you in there.”

“But not if you kill yourself!” Dad threw up several hands.  “There will be other chances.”

“But what if there aren’t?”  I shook my head.  “You can’t keep living in the Amazon forever.  It’s—”

#

My world was emerald shadows; I was surrounded by trees.  No, that was too small a phrase—I was  engulfed by titans, soaring upwards on all sides like skyscrapers.  Moss flowed down their trunks like water, hung from their branches like hair.  Ferns rose and fell everywhere I could see, twisting gently in the breeze.  The air was hot and thick, almost solid with the smells of wood and water and earth.  A thousand thousand shades of green filled my eyes, richer and more varied than I could ever imagine.

But for all that beauty the forest wasn’t…wasn’t right.  There was silence where there should have been noise, shadows where there should have been light.  Vines wove in and out of the trees like veins, swelling and shrinking in some grotesque parody of a heartbeat.  Plants rustled and moved even though the air was still.  Strange perfumes wafted through the jungle, rancid and chemical and alien.  Something enormous moved in the distance, and I couldn’t tell if it was plant or animal.  Maybe both.

I was running.  I didn’t know why, didn’t know where, didn’t know from what.  I kicked my way through piles of rotting leaves, leapt over huge roots even as they twisted to grab at my ankles, pushed my way through clinging vines and past cannibal ferns, the treasure I’d spent so long searching for clutched to my chest.  My breath caught and tore in my chest, terror and exhaustion fighting old battles for my body.

It was out there.

If I could just make it back to my tree, I’d be okay.  I’d cut back nearby ferns, fed it small birds and rodents and fungoids until it allowed me to nest in its lower branches.  It knew me.  It would keep me safe.            My tree.  Where was my—

#

“—the most dangerous place on Earth,” I finished, shaking off the memory that had just exploded through my mind.  It was a hazard of sharing dreams with Dad like this; we’d both had plenty of time to get used to it since we first started to connect back in high school. 

“I know,” Dad sighed, a sound that went on for several seconds longer than it should have been able to, and squeezed my shoulders.  “I’m just worried, Hakim.  You’re my son.  I can’t ask you to sacrifice yourself for me.”

“You haven’t.”  I reached over and grabbed his hand.  “It’s my choice.”

“I know.”  He placed his other hand on top of mine.  “And I am proud of you for trying to become a hero.  I just want you to be safe.”

#

I awoke with a start, gasped for breath and nearly passed back out from the pain.  How long had I been unconscious, lost in my shared dream with Dad?  Long enough for the sky to grow bright with the coming dawn, at least.  And for my body to finish categorizing its various aches and pains.

Everything hurt. Most notable was the horrible stabbing pain that exploded through my chest every time I tried to breathe. But there was also a bitter ache every time I put weight on my left foot, a cut on my forehead that had crusted most of my face with blood, and some sort of burning chill radiating from my upper right arm. What?  When had I hurt my arm?

I prodded it gingerly, wincing as I touched more dried blood. With a sinking sensation, I saw that a ricocheting bullet or a splintered bit of brick or something had dug a two inch gash in the meaty part of my bicep.

I took a deep breath, and the fresh pain from my chest drove me back to my knees. I actually lost track of the world for a moment as fresh protests from my almost-certainly-broken ribs flooded my mind. I came back to myself sagging against the embankment, trying to somehow catch my breath without moving.

Slumping more, I manifested a couple of tiles underneath and behind me so that they formed a sort of crude chair. Settling down on it hurt, but I felt a little better with my weight off my feet. My ankle settled down to a dull throb, at least. I must have twisted it while running.

God.  One night—one crime—and I was nearly…hell, I could have died, I thought with a chill.   The same Sigma-616 gene that was responsible for triggering superpowers was also mixed up in the immune system and wound healing process. If it wasn’t for that, I might never have woken up at all.

Okay. I shut my eyes as another wave of agony rolled through my body. Okay. Okay. Think. Think, Hakim. No, better yet, think, Mosaic. Hakim Deressa was just a third-year Latin American Studies major. Mosaic was a superhero. Mosaic dealt with situations like this all the time. Mosaic would know what to do.

I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing.  For now, I had to get off this roof.  One thing at a time.

 I couldn’t do anything if I fell over every time I moved.  I’d had some instruction in pain management techniques after I crashed Mom’s car in high school; my vague memories would have to be enough.  I couldn’t take a deep breath with my ribs this messed up, but I did my best to breathe evenly and concentrate on the slow movement of air.  Separate out the sensations.  Feel the thrum of my heart.  Focus on something that didn’t hurt.   Something like…

I mentally fumbled, trying to find a part of my body that wasn’t screaming, and eventually settled on focusing my awareness on my tiles—a few of the ones I’d fired earlier were still within range, still straining against the walls that had arrested their flight.  If I focused, really focused, I could see them with my eyes closed, feel the tension as they pressed against brick and concrete…

I held onto that, tried to drown my mind in that calm sensation.  When it was all I could feel, I slowly began to let the rest of my body in, one part at a time.  First my toes.  Then my feet.  Shins, knees, thighs…bit by bit, step by shuddering step, I worked my way up my body until I opened my eyes again and tried to move.

This time, the pain of movement wasn’t quite blinding—just agonizing.  That would have to be enough.  Reaching for that calm place again, I created tiles underneath my forearms, rising slowly, and used their help to pull myself to my feet.

I tore my bloodstained black turtleneck off, rather than try to wiggle it over my head, and used it to scrub most of the mess off my face and arm.  It left me in just a grubby undershirt, but it took most of the blood with it.

Taking the deepest breath I could manage, I rode a slowly descending tile platform to the ground and staggered off them in the direction of West Third Street.  A bus…had to find a bus heading back to campus, had to catch a ride, had to get home, had to…

A blue Subaru screeched to a halt in front of me.  I flinched, recoiled, and almost fell over, my heart racing.  Was it the gangsters from earlier?  Were they back, had they found me?

“Holy crap!”  The driver all but leapt out of the car, her eyes wide and mouth dropping open in shock.  She was tall, almost as tall as me, and dressed androgynously in a rumpled men’s style button-down shirt and loose jeans.  I had no idea what she was doing out this early, though she looked vaguely familiar.

“Are you okay?”  She grabbed my uninjured arm and draped it around her shoulders, not waiting for an answer.  I sagged with relief as she took some of my weight—she was heavyset, but a good portion of that must have been muscle.  “C’mon, buddy, let’s get you to the hospital.”

“No!” I gasped—would have shouted, probably, if I’d had the breath.  “No hospital.”

“Okay, buddy, okay,” she said gently, steering me into her passenger seat.  “Got it.  No hospital, just back to campus.”   She pulled the seatbelt over my chest and went to fasten it, but pulled back as I let out an involuntary groan of agony.  Shoulder belts and broken ribs were, unsurprisingly, a bad combination.

“Wha?” I managed.

“We’re in the same dorm, dumbass.”  She climbed into the driver’s side and pulled into traffic.  “I live, like, two floors up from you.”

I probably should have said more—had I seen her at a dorm meeting, maybe?  I had a vague memory of a tall girl berating the RA about quiet hours—but I don’t think I could have managed more than monosyllables even if I wanted to.  The girl didn’t complain, just headed for campus while casting constant concerned glances at me.

Finally, we reached our mutual dorm, and she pulled the car up halfway onto the sidewalk in front of the main door.

“Seriously, though,” she finally said, killing the engine but not moving to get out yet.  “I can see how messed up your arm is there.  You’re a lot more than just drunk and hungover.  Are you sure you don’t want a hospital, or student health?  The cops, maybe?”

“No.  ‘m fine,” I grunted, managing to get out of the car and stand on my own.  It was only vaguely agonizing, and I didn’t need to put more than eighty percent of my weight on the door to manage it, so I was willing to chalk that up as a win.

“If you say so.” She shook her head, coming around to support me again.  Together, we staggered through the doors, into the elevator—thank god my dorm had one—and down the hall to my door.  My closed door.  My closed, locked door.

I reached into my pocket and came up dry—at some point during the night’s running and hiding and nearly dying, I’d lost my keys.  I put my hand on the knob and sighed, resting my head against the smooth wood of the door.

“Ah, damn,” she muttered.  “They took your keys, too?”  She looked up and down the hall.  “Do you have a roommate?”

“No.  Single.”  I blinked muzzily.  “Mighta…don’t always remember…”  I blinked and tried to focus.  I’d done this dozens of times since I’d first figured out the trick, to the point where some days I didn’t even bother with a key, but…I was exhausted and in pain.  It took me four tries to place a tile just inside the door, at just the right angle, moving in just the right direction to hit the latch.  After ten seconds or so, the door clicked open.

“Huh.  Lucky guy.” She shrugged, catching me as I started to sag.  She pushed the door open with her free hand.  As a junior, I’d managed to get a pretty decent-sized single, which just meant that there was room to fit a second person in without someone having to sit on the bed.

She steered me around the overstuffed armchair in the middle of the floor, kicked a few dirty clothes aside, and helped me lie down.

“Thanks,” I grunted.  I supposed I should probably do something about my filthy clothes and shoes before ruining my sheets, but right now that seemed like an impossible amount of effort.

“You look like death, kid.  Get some rest.”

I did.

It was great.