Mile High Train

Inside the monolithic headquarters of The Order of Aurora—a citadel of power cloaked in the guise of alabaster and chrome—sat the higher-ups, the veritable lords of a new-age Olympus. They congregated around a massive onyx table, its surface a screen displaying live feeds from all corners of the globe, not unlike the all-seeing eyes of Argus.

The Paragon sat at the head of the table, an enigmatic figure ensconced in shadows, only the glint of a polished silver mask betraying a presence. To the right, the figure known as The Cardinal, dressed in regalia of deep crimson, lips barely visible beneath a mask sculpted like a raptor's visage, eyes fixated on the scene replaying before them.

To The Paragon's left, The Matriarch, whose gown shimmered with threads of power literally woven into the fabric, teal and dark ocean blues casting a stark contrast to the room's sterility. His face was covered with bandages but his brown hair was puffing out.

"Watch it again," The Paragon commanded, voice like mercury, cool and fluid.

The death of Sledgehammer Sam played out on the surface between them. Grainy footage from a dozen angles showed their lost pawn, his might unraveled by a singular, lethal flaw.

"Disgusting," The Cardinal spat, his voice laced with contempt—not for the act of violence, but for the blemish on their constructed narrative of control. "This mess needs cleanup, and immediately. The Order of Aurora cannot afford such... public displays of vulnerability."

The Matriarch's eyes, the hue of storm-ravaged seas, flickered with calculation. "Certainly, the videos are to be scrubbed from every platform. Pity we can't discern the assailant's face—could have served as a useful deterrent."

"Our sentries can handle the investigation and mete out justice, quietly," The Paragon replied. "Inform the divisions: Public Relations to spin the tale, Crisis Management to soothe the public, Intel to sift through the city's underbelly, and Enforcement to stand ready for swift retribution."

"Indeed, the Valiant 5 are not to be bothered with these... trivialities," The Cardinal mused, a wry smile curling under his mask. "They are the face of our strength, not to be smeared by the grime of street-level squabbles."

The Matriarch nodded, her fingers tapping an intricate pattern on the edge of the table—a silent orchestration of the many strings she'd pull in the coming hours. "Let the rank and file demonstrate their loyalty. This way, we maintain the allure of the Valiant 5, aloof and aspirational, while our sentries secure our grip in the shadows."

"Ensure that the narrative woven is one of valor—a tragic loss, a hero martyrdom," The Paragon instructed, voice never rising yet reverberating with authority. "A martyr ignites the people's fervor, steers them away from questions... of knives and weaknesses."

As if on cue, meticulously dressed attendants sprung into motion, phones to ears, whispers as sharp as knives flitting in and out of existence. Within the shelter of The Order's stronghold, these puppeteers conceded nothing, emotions veiled, their true sentiment buried deep beneath layers of silk and steel.

"Alert The Sentries at once. A manhunt must commence," The Cardinal concluded, standing to signal the end of their conclave. "And remind them: The shadow of Aurora is long, and it is unforgiving. There will be order."

The Matriarch paused, sensing the unspoken decree, and with a slight nod from The Cardinal, they both resumed their seats.

"We are remiss if we do not consider the broader implications," The Paragon began, voice devoid of inflection but laden with consequence. "Recall the uprisings from the Age of Anomaly, the wars that nearly unraveled the fabric of our society when power first burgeoned in the hands of the many."

The Matriarch's fingertips ceased their dance, her voice adopting the tempo of tides against cliffs. "You propose that such a past may be prologue? That our dear Sam's fall heralds a return to those anarchic days?"

"The potential for history to echo is not lost on me," The Cardinal interjected, his tone as cutting as a winter gale. "Our ascendency quelled the tempests of those times. What is one man's demise against the epic we've authored? A footnote, surely."

"Yet footnotes can be pernicious," The Paragon warned, a subtle motion of hand toward the replaying footage. "Why would one dare to strike down Sledgehammer Sam? A statement, perhaps. The lash of the disenfranchised. A warning that not all are cowed by The Order's might."

"Motives are myriad, as are threats," The Matriarch acknowledged. "Could this be the work of The Dissenters, the remnants of the vanquished Shadow Syndicate?"

"Doubtful," The Cardinal drawled, his gaze never leaving the screen. "Their flame was extinguished with their leaders', bodies laid to rest in the Ashen Fields. No, this feels less like uprising and more an isolated act... of vengeance, possibly. Sam was not without his... indiscretions."

The Matriarch's lips curved. "Indeed, he wielded his power with less finesse than a bull its horns. Could we not craft this narrative, shape our martyr's story to embolden the narrative further? Drape it in the glory of a hero's ultimate sacrifice, call to unity amidst hints of greater dangers lurking?"

"Sublime," breathed The Paragon approvingly. "Frame it as a clarion call. Our society thrives under The Order's aegis; let not the specter of chaos take root once more. Yet for our ranks to move harmoniously, we must unveil the one who so brazenly cast the die."

The Cardinal stood once more, his figure imposing even without the spectacle of flight or fight. "Sentries it will be, then. Let them scour the underbelly, turn every stone, every shadow until they retrieve what lurks beneath. It is not merely a question of retaliation but of reaffirming our narrative, our order."

"Let them start with the Henchmen's Bazaar," The Matriarch suggested with a glint in her eye. "Such news would travel swiftly through their network of whispers and schemes."

"Very well," The Paragon concluded. "The cogs turn; let none stand in the way of progress. Ensure the Sentries move with precision. We need answers wrapped in the obfuscation of our tale. After all, we can't have the masses pondering the cracks in their idols, nor the idols themselves contemplating the fragility of their pedestals."

"This hero killer will be dealt with."

The Matriarch's voice sliced through the silence that had reclaimed the chamber, bearing the weight of cold ocean depths. "It is true that by the scale of The Order, a singular death—even that of a hero like Sledgehammer Sam—might seem inconsequential. Yet, there is more at stake than the pulse of one life, however empowered."

"Public perception," The Cardinal stated flatly, as if uttering a curse. "Our dominion is as much over minds as it is over the milieu we guard. Sledgehammer Sam was a symbol, and symbols have power."

The Paragon's silhouette seemed to draw the shadows closer, a visual punctuation to their words. "In the grand alchemy of our Order, the reaction of the masses can transmute minor events into catalysts for chaos. A small murder, as you put it, is but a spark. Yet, what is an inferno if not a series of sparks unleashed?"

The Matriarch continued, "Moreover, our enemies, both past and present, often begin as whispers, tales told in the dark corners of dissension. They watch for fractures within The Order, signs of weakness, evidence that our grasp might be loosening."

"It's about control," The Cardinal clarified, his gaze hard as steel. "The Order's veneer of invincibility is paramount. A breach, no matter how minor, cannot be left unaddressed. A crack in the dam, unchecked, can bring about the deluge."

"As such, we cannot allow the death of Sledgehammer Sam to stand as a question to our supremacy, nor an invitation to those who would see our structure topple," intoned The Paragon, voice devoid of emotion, yet heavy with unyielding resolve. "Every hero—every agent—is a thread in the tapestry we have woven. Should one unravel, we must quickly repair the weave lest all begin to fray."

"Consider," mused The Matriarch, "if word spread that a hero of The Order could be felled by an unseen hand, and The Order itself stood inert, what then? The citizenry's trust erodes, our enemies emboldened. We must snuff out this uncertainty before it spreads like wildfire through a drought-ridden forest."

"The balance we maintain is one of perception and power," The Cardinal concluded. "It is the foundation upon which this society rests, and we are its custodians. Any threat, no matter how seemingly insignificant, must be treated with deft and decisive action. It is the way of The Order, the way of order itself."

With a collective nod of accord among the higher-ups, the matter was settled. The machinery of The Order whirred into life, a vast and intricate network tasked with extinguishing such a flame before it could hint at the existence of a fire that might consume their world.

(Downtown)

The steel serpent of the city's transit system hummed rhythmically as it whisked passengers through the veins of Paragon City. In the midst of the mundane commute sat Jesse Andrews, her infectiously bright demeanor lighting up the train car, as she prepared for an exclusive interview with one of the city's electrifying personalities.

By her side was Allen, her trusted cameraman, setting up for the shot with practiced swiftness, his attention split between securing the perfect angle and the opportunity at hand. They found their subjects amidst an eclectic group of individuals, each bearing the distinctive flair of heroism; but among them, one stood out—a man crackling with an aura of self-assured command.

Maverick Surge was a human tempest, his presence on the train as conspicuous as a thunderhead rolling through a clear summer sky. His hair was styled skyward, streaks of silver shot through the dark strands like captured lightning. His costume—a bodysuit of deep blues and silvers with circuit-like patterns that traced along his musculature—spoke of his dominion over the electric ephemeral, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, neither fully arrogant nor purely joyous, but a tempestuous mix of both.

"All right, we're rolling," Allen announced, his own anticipation palpable.

Jesse's smile redoubled in wattage, mirroring the power of the hero before her. "Hello Los Angeles, I'm here with the thunderbolt of justice himself, Maverick Surge, and his valiant team, The Currents! Today, they're not fighting crime; they're sparking change of another kind. Tell us, Maverick, what storm of generosity are you bringing to our city this time?"

With a laugh that echoed the rumble of distant thunder, Maverick Surge leaned back in his seat, one arm casually draped over the rail. "Jesse, when we're not out there zapping wrongdoers, we're energizing the community! It's time to give back—literally! We're here to amp up donations for a city-wide charity event. Aren't we, team?"

A chorus of affirmations rose from his team, each a hero in their own right. Jesse turned to capture the collective nodding of heads, a pantheon of goodwill.

Allen, meanwhile, had slipped into a conversation with Electronica, the group's tech-savvy member, whose fingers were a blur over her wrist-mounted device. "So, any projections on the potential funds for today's event?" Allen inquired, the numbers man never far from the surface.

Her eyes glinted behind her visor. "Well, we're channeling every ounce of our popularity into this. If the currents flow as predicted, we're looking at a sizable storm surge for the charity's coffers!"

As the interview flowed like a current from Maverick Surge's grandstanding to his team's enthusiasm, a sudden jolt ran through the train—the lights flickered, a sizzle of electricity that wasn't from Maverick. The occupants tensed, a murmur rippling through the crowd.

"Calm down, folks!" Maverick Surge boomed, standing to his full height as sparks danced on his fingertips, more for show than necessity. "This train's under The Currents' protection!"

Jesse didn't miss a beat, her excitement undimmed. "And there you have it, viewers—heroes on and off the battlefield, ensuring our safety at every turn. But let's not forget the cause! Maverick, tell us about the charities you support."

With the train steadying, he seized the moment, his voice charged with passion, "We're empowering the youth with educational programs, restoring hope with housing initiatives, and funneling aid to the underprivileged. Our current campaign's bound to shock the system—in the best way possible!"

Undeterred by the brief disturbance and always seeking the silver lining, Jesse wrapped up the interview with a dazzling send-off. "You heard it here! Stay tuned for our coverage of The Currents' charity event, where giving back means powering forward. This is Jesse Andrews and Allen, heading out with Paragon City's finest—Maverick Surge and The Currents. Don't just weather the storm, become it!"

As Allen packed away his camera, his brows furrowed in thought, the interview giving way to a private conversation among old friends.

"You know," he said in a low voice, still fixated on the potential funds, "if The Currents play their cards right, this charity event could pull in, what, six figures? Seven?"

Jesse let out a chuckle, shaking her head with affectionate exasperation. "Allen, you and your money talk. Honestly, sometimes I think your superpower is turning everything into a profit margin."

He shot her a mock offended look. "Hey, someone's got to keep their eye on the financial storm surge. It's for a good cause, isn't it?"

"Sure, Mr. Benefactor," Jesse quipped with a playful roll of her eyes. "But you have to admit, it's a bit pathetic how you can't let go of the calculator in your head, even for a second."

Allen grinned. "Pathetic, or impressively consistent since middle school? I remember someone always needing my help with math homework."

Meanwhile, Maverick Surge, unable or unwilling to stray from the spotlight, had whipped out his own device, going live on the Herostream app. His charismatic face filled the screens of admirers citywide as he began broadcasting.

"What's good, heroes?, it's your main man Maverick Surge," he crowed, with a flash of his signature cocky smile. "Just reminding you why it's *perfect* that I'm leading the biggest charity event this city has ever seen."

He was a master of PR, even if his own self-confidence bordered on the excessive. As he went on praising his righteousness and heroism, mesmerized viewers drank in his every word.

But the cheerful banter and self-aggrandizement were abruptly cut short as a sudden shift in atmosphere seized the attention of everyone on the train. One of Maverick Surge's subordinates, a young hero known as Volt Vortex, began to twitch uncontrollably.

At first, it seemed like a small tremor, a strange stumble perhaps, but the situation escalated rapidly. As all eyes turned towards him, his once vibrant aura grew dark, his eyes glowing a sinister crimson. Veins webbed across his skin, lighting up like circuit boards with the same eerie red light.

"Hey, hey, what's happening to him?" Allen dropped his gear, concern etching his features.

Jesse was at her colleague's side in an instant, her reporter instincts eclipsed by human concern. "Volt, can you hear us?"

The seizure intensified, his body convulsing with frightening violence. Maverick Surge quickly cut his broadcast, the hero's expression transforming from self-satisfaction to alarm as he rushed to his subordinate's side.

The train car erupted into a chorus of gasps and shouts for help, some passengers retreating to a safer distance, others looking on in helpless horror.

Allen was pulling out his phone, dialing emergency services, while Jesse attempted to clear the space around Volt Vortex for his safety. Maverick Surge, meanwhile, tried to stabilize his teammate with caution, aware that any sudden move might incite a dangerous surge of his subordinate's erratic powers.

The train, once a vessel of routine transit, had metamorphosed into a battleground. Volt Vortex stood, more beast than boy now, electricity coursing around him in a fierce, pulsating aura. His body swelled with newfound power, muscles bulging, veins visibly throbbing with sinister energy, and hair elongating into a fiery crimson cascade.

Panic seized Jesse and Allen as the scene unfolded into a nightmare. Allen's instincts as a cameraman kicked in, and he raised his camera, determined to document the calamity.

"Are you crazy?!" Jesse hissed, batting the camera away. "Put that thing down, this is serious! We need to help evacuate!"

"But the world needs to see—"

"No, Allen! This is our lives—everyone's lives—we're talking about!"

Maverick Surge, for all his earlier arrogance, faced the monstrous figure of his comrade with resolve, although his usual smirk was nowhere to be found. "Volt, buddy, we gotta calm those currents down," he said, his voice laced with more fear than the crowd had ever heard from their normally unflappable hero. "This isn't you!"

Volt replied, "Fuck you. What kind of hero are you?"

"You're being mind controlled-."

Volt spun and kicked the head off of one of the Currents, his head smashing out of the window.

Screams filled the air, and Maverick Surge exclaimed, "Volt!!"

He made a move, lightning arcing from his fingertips, dancing toward Volt Vortex, aiming to subdue rather than harm. But the twisted hero met Surge's attempt with a feral roar, and before any more efforts could be made, a powerful blast of raw energy struck Maverick Surge. The force was unfathomable, a spectacle too terrifying to fully comprehend as it silenced the car with an ear-splitting crackle. Surges' body was splattered flat in a gory scene against the window, his mouth dropping out blood.

The hero's execution was over in mere moments. The once indomitable protector was no more, his body a testament to the monstrous power that had once been his ally.

The train erupted into chaos. Screams echoed off the walls, the passengers scrambling over one another in a desperate bid to escape the impending onslaught. Jesse grabbed at Allen, pulling him toward the safety of the door.

"Come on! Move!" She was no longer the jovial reporter; she was a woman fighting for survival.

Allen stumbled after her, his earlier impulse to record washed away in a tide of dread. They pressed through the crowd, using their bond of years to keep each other grounded amidst the pandemonium.

Volt Vortex, now an avatar of destruction, looked upon the remaining people with eyes that seemed to burn with the very fires of madness. His next move hung in the air like the sentence of a cruel and unforgiving judge.

In the midst of terror, the courage of the bystanders began to awaken. Phones were out—not to record, but to summon help. The emergency stop was pulled, but whether it would do any good was unknown. The outcome was uncertain, their fates balancing on a knife's edge of destiny and the virtue buried within Volt Vortex's monstrous transformation.

Volt Vortex's hands formed into skin covered blades, and he began to slash everyone down in the train. Blood and gore splattered all over the windows and floor, screams came from the heroes, but it was instantly cut off with the violence of brutality.

Jesse was panicking, blood was all over her, leaning against the wall. She said, "I don't wanna die…I don't wanna die.."

Allen replied, "Shit! Shit! We're fucked!"