no way of getting himself through the rooftop fire door that would be his only way down. He sat where Linda had dropped him, letting the rain pour over him.
It took almost an hour for Ian to get building security to let Dwight down from the roof. By then, he was completely drenched, in addition to being miserable. The two drove back to their tiny apartment in silence. Ian knew of his roommate’s ex, but seeing him plucked from the street was enough to trouble him almost as much as it did Dwight.
When they arrived home, Dwight stripped out of his soaked clothes on the way to the shower with little regard for Ian’s sense of modesty. He left the pile outside the bathroom, water seeping freely into the carpet. Natural rainwater might actually do some good for the stained, unwashed flooring. When he stepped out in his threadbare robe twenty minutes later, he was astonished to find the stack gone, and Ian slowly picking up the living area.
Dwight rounded the corner, eyebrow raised. “Has hell frozen over?” he asked, genuinely concerned for his roommate’s mental health.
Ian looked over, arms full of semi-empty food receptacles. “I just needed a distraction. They really can just do that, can’t they?”
Dwight understood what he meant; there was nothing he could have possibly done to stop his ex. “Yeah, they can,” was all he managed.
The rest of Dwight’s day was spent in quiet anticipation. He used most of it going through the bag of tools from Ellis. While he didn’t have the courage to test fire any of the items in his home, he handled each one, getting a feel for their weight and finding places for them in his various pockets and on his belt.
As the light faded outside, the deep grays of the rainstorm fell into true darkness. In his office, Dwight did something he usually took great pains to avoid: he sat at his computer and searched for his prey. The results confirmed Wulf’s rationale. Killstreak was famous for how much the public hated him: troubled relationships, repeated arrests, insane stunts – all of which made him the ideal target for the Power paparazzi. Dwight looked over the dozens of stories about the speedster, a picture forming in his head. This was a real monster, one created for a world to admire and fear in equal measures.
In the earliest stories, Killstreak was an unproven variable. There were even conflicting reports of him assisting the other side, stopping criminals. It wasn’t until two years ago that anyone could confirm which side of Wulf’s game he fell on. After an incident in which he kidnapped the mayor’s son for ransom money, the papers turned on him. There were no more stories wondering about the “Azure Streak,” as the papers had nicknamed him. Everything from that point on was “Killstreak.”
Dwight decided to call in an expert, or at least the closest thing he could find without leaving home. “Ian!” he shouted.
The blaring of explosions and repetitive catchphrases from the living room paused. A few moments later, Dwight’s office door slowly crept open. “You need something?” a shy voice came from around the cheap wood.
Dwight realized today had been the most interaction he’d had with Ian since they met. This was certainly the first time Ian was invited into one of the two rooms that Dwight had claimed for himself. “Yeah, come in. I need some information, if you have a second.”
Ian seemed shocked, not only that he was being asked for advice, but welcomed into his recluse roommate’s forbidden lair. “Umm, sure, Dwight. What can I do for you?”
He pointed to the monitor. “What can you tell me about this guy?”
Ian examined the articles, trying to recall some buried nuggets on the villain. “Killstreak,” his face twisted in a disgusted sneer, “This guy is a real mess. He’s an attention seeker. Went bad after he got rejected by every team in town.” He combed through the stories, finally locating the catalyst. “Here: he got into
It took almost an hour for Ian to get building security to let Dwight down from the roof. By then, he was completely drenched, in addition to being miserable. The two drove back to their tiny apartment in silence. Ian knew of his roommate’s ex, but seeing him plucked from the street was enough to trouble him almost as much as it did Dwight.
When they arrived home, Dwight stripped out of his soaked clothes on the way to the shower with little regard for Ian’s sense of modesty. He left the pile outside the bathroom, water seeping freely into the carpet. Natural rainwater might actually do some good for the stained, unwashed flooring. When he stepped out in his threadbare robe twenty minutes later, he was astonished to find the stack gone, and Ian slowly picking up the living area.
Dwight rounded the corner, eyebrow raised. “Has hell frozen over?” he asked, genuinely concerned for his roommate’s mental health.
Ian looked over, arms full of semi-empty food receptacles. “I just needed a distraction. They really can just do that, can’t they?”
Dwight understood what he meant; there was nothing he could have possibly done to stop his ex. “Yeah, they can,” was all he managed.
The rest of Dwight’s day was spent in quiet anticipation. He used most of it going through the bag of tools from Ellis. While he didn’t have the courage to test fire any of the items in his home, he handled each one, getting a feel for their weight and finding places for them in his various pockets and on his belt.
As the light faded outside, the deep grays of the rainstorm fell into true darkness. In his office, Dwight did something he usually took great pains to avoid: he sat at his computer and searched for his prey. The results confirmed Wulf’s rationale. Killstreak was famous for how much the public hated him: troubled relationships, repeated arrests, insane stunts – all of which made him the ideal target for the Power paparazzi. Dwight looked over the dozens of stories about the speedster, a picture forming in his head. This was a real monster, one created for a world to admire and fear in equal measures.
In the earliest stories, Killstreak was an unproven variable. There were even conflicting reports of him assisting the other side, stopping criminals. It wasn’t until two years ago that anyone could confirm which side of Wulf’s game he fell on. After an incident in which he kidnapped the mayor’s son for ransom money, the papers turned on him. There were no more stories wondering about the “Azure Streak,” as the papers had nicknamed him. Everything from that point on was “Killstreak.”
Dwight decided to call in an expert, or at least the closest thing he could find without leaving home. “Ian!” he shouted.
The blaring of explosions and repetitive catchphrases from the living room paused. A few moments later, Dwight’s office door slowly crept open. “You need something?” a shy voice came from around the cheap wood.
Dwight realized today had been the most interaction he’d had with Ian since they met. This was certainly the first time Ian was invited into one of the two rooms that Dwight had claimed for himself. “Yeah, come in. I need some information, if you have a second.”
Ian seemed shocked, not only that he was being asked for advice, but welcomed into his recluse roommate’s forbidden lair. “Umm, sure, Dwight. What can I do for you?”
He pointed to the monitor. “What can you tell me about this guy?”
Ian examined the articles, trying to recall some buried nuggets on the villain. “Killstreak,” his face twisted in a disgusted sneer, “This guy is a real mess. He’s an attention seeker. Went bad after he got rejected by every team in town.” He combed through the stories, finally locating the catalyst. “Here: he got into
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