Nuclear Finger Tips
The man couldn’t remember what it was like, being a kid. Was he like these ones, full of hope and self-righteousness? Ready to conquer evil and preserve the goodness of humanity?
A white blast whips through the air, hits him in the gut and sends him skidding across the pavement. His head slams against the concrete and he feels pain all over his body and for a moment all he can hear is a numb ringing in his ears.
He drags his eyes open, sees a kid high up in the sky. His eyes shine blue and he’s ethereal with his feet pointed perfectly like a ballet dancer. His arms are lean with muscle, the tips of his fingers nuclear.
No, he thinks. I was never like these kids.
He supports himself on his elbow, crawling away from the battle even though his head feels like he’s suspended in water. Heavy, sluggish, disorientated. Everything is blue.
He finds himself an alley to rest behind. He is alone long enough to admit it was a bad idea, singling out Hulkling. It was a bad idea to use him as a publicity stunt, to video tape the entire torture. That god kid, the one floating in the sky, he was a GPS. And they found him, as well as the rest of his team. And now the building was incinerated, half his men stuck with arrows, the other half punched out, and he was hiding somewhere near a dumpster from the odor.
Time was hard to gauge. Things were less watery, but his skull was now an anchor weighing him down. Hard to lift. He didn’t even hear the footsteps. He wonders how far away he would’ve had to detect them to get away in time.
Hulkling towers over him, stronger and more intimidating than he had been, crumpled in that chair and half-conscious. He’s healed completely. His face is passive, no tension to his frame. It’s nearly foreign to him, after hours of seeing clenched fists and teeth.
Behind him comes up the god kid. The one with nuclear hands and a built-in GPS. His lips are peeled in a snarl, looking down on him. He wants to shrivel in on himself, but instead he scrambles forward. He locks his hands together, like he’s praying. “Please, don’t kill me. Please, I’m so sorry,” he grovels. He’s shaking so hard and oh, god, I’m so sorry, no, no, no.
“I won’t,” the god kid says. The fury melts from his face, his eyelids drooping half-way.
The man exhales deeply, relief making him shake hard. He starts to grin when the boy talks again. “He will,” he finishes. Hulkling straightens, sucking in a breath. His eyes break away from the man, staring at the wall of the alley instead. “What,” the man says brokenly, crawling closer on his knees. “What do you mean, I, I’m sorry, I - ” The boy’s hand brushes along Hulkling’s arm before drifting off like a breeze. He turns around and leaves. Hulkling swallows, fists tightening then releasing. He steps forward, eyes now trained on him. The man sobs.