Chapter Thirteen

Haruki groaned as light stabbed at his eyes. “What?”

“Don’t sit up too fast,” Rachel said, gently guiding him back to the pillow.

“The bad guys?” he uttered.

“Your distraction allowed Freedom’s Ring to take them down,” she replied.

“Good.” Sleep overtook him.

In his dream, he was a small boy, the charcoal-skinned alien, frolicking among the boiling waters and lava flows of the Planet Hades. The surrealness of his alien origins still sat wrong in his mind. His alien mother, the woman killed in his visions, tousled his hair as they played together. His tiny, stubby fingers ran along the glowing heat lines of her arms. His mother Rumika was his only mother, and nothing would change that. A lifetime of human memories had changed him, even if he hailed from a distant world.

Awareness tugged at his consciousness. The dream faded like the end of a movie. His eyes opened and the cold light of an American hospital reemerged. “Oh,” a nurse said, “you’re awake.”

“Am I leaving soon?” He needed to know, and more importantly, his parents needed to know.

“Yes,” the nurse replied. “Your friend’s driving you. You healed nicely, no injuries remaining, so we’re letting you go.”

A glance at his chart revealed a nasty head injury and several broken bones. Nice to know that his power still healed him passively when unconscious. In Dragonball, Goku had to be focused or else he could be easily injured by the unexpected. Haruki only had to worry about those strong enough to hurt him. Whatever Freedom's Ring had done, it worked. Once more, his help, minor as it was, made him proud.

A packet of clothes sat on the chair opposite his bed. He changed at super speed. Practicing with his team at regular speed accidentally trained him to fight at normal speed. In actual combat, no dueling rules applied. War would give an enemy willing to resort to treachery a huge advantage. Simple actions like changing clothes in a heartbeat drilled it into his head like a simple mantra: fight at super speed, fight at super speed.

“Hey!” Rachel stood up from the bench and threw her arms around him. “You really worried us!”

He scratched his head and laughed. “I apologize, these gods and power-drugs are so deadly. I can barely handle them.”

She nodded and led him to her car. “We're still trying to zero in on them. The good news is we've got leads.”

As the car started up, and Rush's 2112 album played on the stereo, the words landed with him. “You mean you know where they are coming from?”

“Partially,” she replied. They pulled out of the hospital parking lot and onto a lonely desert road. A small town sat a few miles behind, and the distant glow of Las Vegas poked its head out from the horizon. “We broke into a distribution center in Texas that had almost a dozen pills in various containers.”

A dozen, he thought. As alarming as twelve potential world-level threats were, he counted himself lucky that it was merely that many. A minor victory in the face of overwhelming odds still counted as a victory. “So our enemies are getting better at making them.”

“That's not all,” she replied. “The distributor tried to hide it, but they're clearly of Japanese origin.”

His mood soured. Somewhere in his home country, the source of his last few beatings continued making their destructive medicine. At the same time, could this intel be trusted? Sure, Freedom's Ring and the Americans were forthcoming and cooperative, but governments were not people. Was he being told what they needed him to hear? Could this be sewn distrust? Was this a play for power? “So, we're making them.” She nodded at him. “I'm not looking forward to dealing with this.”

“I don't blame you,” she replied.

He stared out the window. America's size continued to astonish. Here they were, driving down a stretch of highway with nothing but desert sand and cacti on both sides. The multicolored glow of the gambling den of America approached. Movies and TV shows from abroad loved to show the glitz and glamor, but as they pulled into the city, the poverty behind the riches became apparent to him. This city was less an oasis in the desert and more a mirage that hid ruin and self-destruction under the canopy of neon lights. “By the way, why a hospital in Nevada?”

“Wanted to keep you hidden,” she explained. “The military didn't want people who might be aware of who you were snooping around. This small hospital in small-town Nevada was far enough out of the way.”

He nodded. “Right.” They pulled into a parking garage. “Where are we going?”

“I wanted to take you to this Italian place my dad took me to when I was younger,” she said. “You've had Italian?”

His stoicism faded into a big grin. “I've tried it once.”

“Then,” she added, “you'll love it here.”

They walked from her car into the dim, warm incandescence of a carpeted palace of delectable scents. The Italian he’d had when he was eight didn't even smell comparable to what nuzzled his nose. Each table and booth boasted polished hardwood, and candles lit the center. Even the menus were printed on fancy glossy paper and laminated. He could scarcely pronounce some of these words, but the pictures looked heavenly.

“What will you have?” the waiter asked, pen and pad in hand.

Haruki pointed to something called ‘Chicken Speidini’ and a Coke. The pictures showed skewers of chicken over a bed of pasta with sauce, and he lived for new food to try. “I'll have the lasagna with tortellini soup as a side, and a Diet Coke,” Rachel said.

“You get a side dish,” the waiter reminded.

Haruki looked up. “Oh, me?” The waiter nodded. “Salad, Italian dressing.” The waiter wrote it down and departed.

Moments later, the sodas came and Haruki didn't wait, he guzzled it down in several huge gulps. She laughed. “Thirsty?”

“Side effect of healing,” Haruki guessed.

“Probably,” she agreed. “Hey, just wondered, are you still in high school?”

“Tutors,” he simply stated. She nodded. A waitress refilled his drink.

The food came shortly. The steam rising from his plate tickled his nose. As a benefit of his powers, waiting for safe temperatures became unnecessary. He held up one skewer, and pulled his fork along, plopping the chunk of chicken in his mouth. “So good.” Despite his lapse into Japanese, her smile spoke of understanding.

“Your English is really something,” she said. “Even compared to days ago.”

“I have a lot of time to read the material,” he explained. “Also, I think my power makes me smarter compared to before.” In his mind, Kensuke's scolding voice prodded him that he should keep such information secret around her. He wrote it off. Rachel didn't seem like the kind of person to be a spy. Even if she was, what vital secrets did he reveal? They just had their pleasant times together.

“You're really working hard.” She scooped a chunk of lasagna in her mouth.

He chomped down on forkful of salad. The savory taste of the dressing was a symphony of new tastes. In his mind, a quiet apology to his mother's homemade sesame dressing went up. A new favorite had taken its place. “If I don't, someone else will.”

She nodded. “So, what do you think of the secret going out?”

He took a cleansing breath and released. “It was going to get out sooner or later.”

She drew her lips to a line. “True.”

He finished the last of his pasta and washed it down. “Thank you for the meal, I hope I’m not being rude, but I have to go.”

“I understand,” she replied. “I’ll drive you out of town as cover.”

She paid for their meal and drove him far enough from Las Vegas as to not arouse suspicion or allow surveillance. From there, he flew to Tokyo in eleven minutes, taking care not to break the sound barrier over a populated area.

It was pre-sunrise when he arrived. In the elevator, Kensuke yawned and stepped in. “Kawakatsu-san, how was your second outing in America?"

"Different," Haruki said. “Exciting.”

“Uh-huh,” Kensuke replied. “Tell me about how you got knocked out.”

Haruki almost asked but Kensuke motioned to his head. “The helmet.” The boss nodded. So, the whole story came out from the beginning. The ordeal of terrorists and the enhanced enemy, as well as confirmation that the power drugs continued to be produced and sold.

“So,” Kensuke said, steeling his nerves, “the Americans not only know about the power-enhancing drug, but have samples of it.”

“You think they’re corrupt?” Haruki asked.

Kensuke laughed. “Such simple thinking.” He glared, and his face somehow seemed even older. “Every government’s corrupt. What we have to worry about is how far ahead they are!”

“Huh,” Haruki admitted. “Didn’t even think of that.”

“You need to sleep,” Kensuke replied. “Whenever you wake up, do a patrol and then you have the rest of the day off.”

Haruki sighed. “Yeah, thanks.” The elevator ascended and the boss got off. The sheen of the polished metal reflected his exhausted face back at him. The back-and-forth of the past few weeks aged him in expression if not physical appearance. Perhaps he’d been running himself ragged. Even as his eyelids felt tied down with anchors, the idea of slowing down bothered him. The rogue god and the drug felt like his fault, even as his rational self argued against.

He plodded to his room and laid down on the bed. He flew through space in his dream. The Spirit of Fire surged through him and he propelled past stars and planets. The lack of oxygen didn’t matter with the Spirit coursing through him. The emptiness of the void scarcely bothered him. Some people ran from emptiness, he sought out the solitude.

His bladder woke him up. A quick dash to the bathroom and he was ready to go. His smartphone read two-thirty. A few stretches and one super-speed costume change later and the patrol began. Six recording devices left in yakuza hideouts had borne fruit, and a dozen purse snatchings foiled by stealth left him with several hours left of free time.

The voice that told him he needed to hustle had to be forcibly quieted. One of the few places he absolutely knew he needed to be was just a text away.

“You’re free to hangout?” Kenshi replied to his text.

“I’ve been busy,” Haruki said.

“Busy recovering, no doubt,” Kenshi said. “My parents are out of town, I’ve got the security system under control, just come over.”

Haruki did not need to be told twice. The thick iron gate opened and his dear friend stood there, an odd expression on his face.

Haruki had seen that expression once before. It was when he was seven and got a nasty bout of flu and his mother worried about him needing hospitalization or worse. What did it mean on this boy’s face?

“Come in!” Kenshi said.

It didn’t matter, Haruki decided. “Thanks.”

They played the latest Street Fighter on the huge TV and surround sound system. “I’m worried about you,” Kenshi said. “You look like you’ve been on the verge of collapse for days.”

Haruki mentally laughed. If only this boy could know. “Ah, it’s ok. I’m just dealing with problems.”

“I know my parents aren’t super keen on you,” Kenshi replied, “but I want you to know if you need me, just call.”

Haruki smiled, and apparently, the smile made the boy emotional. It was subtle, but not invisible. “I appreciate it. You’re a good friend.”

They watched some generic isekai anime for two episodes, before changing to a new sci-fi anime. It distracted Haruki to enjoy giant robots with his dear friend. Kenshi got a call in-between episodes and gave a series of “okay’s” and “I understand's.”

“Your parents?” Haruki asked.

Kenshi nodded. “They’re going to be late coming in, their flight’s been delayed until after midnight. We’ve got plenty of time.”

“Fine for me,” Haruki agreed.

They listened to some music. “Hey,” Kenshi asked, “do you want to eat?”

Haruki started in surprise. “Like, ordering takeout?”

Kenshi shook his head. “No, I’ll cook.” Haruki, dumbfounded, just nodded. “Great! I’ll get everything ready.”

Haruki sat in the cavernous kitchen and gawked at the restaurant-level pots, pans, and cooking instruments. The stove had more settings and space than he’d ever seen. The rich boy adjusted his glasses and laughed at his friend’s bewilderment.

“I’m glad you’re such a good cook,” Haruki said. The smells of seasonings and marinades tickled his nose. As Kenshi prepared some curry and rice dish, the visual of the boy preparing Haruki meals more often popped unannounced into his mind. He almost instinctively shoved the image away before thinking about it. What was his objection, really? Wouldn’t it be great for their friendship?

“My parents insisted I be good at cooking,” Kenshi replied. “Anyway, I hope you like it.”

Kenshi sat the plate down. Haruki had never seen something so visibly delicious. The first bite put him in pure curry bliss. “This is incredible.” He chowed down, unable to resist the flavor. A nonchalant glance upward revealed the boy just watching him eat, a smile on his face. “What?”

Kenshi shook his head. “Oh, it just seemed like you’re a lot more relaxed than before.”

“It’s nice having someone to spend time with,” Haruki replied.

After they ate, Haruki put his dishes in the sink. Kenshi got up and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re getting that tense look again.” Haruki saw the concern radiating. “Please, just tell me what I can do to help you.”

Haruki shook his head. “I really wish I could tell you.”

Something on Haruki’s face must have really gotten to Kenshi, because he threw his arms around him with surprising intensity. “Haruki, I understand, but if you ever need my help, I’ll be there for you.”

Haruki returned the hug. It honestly melted much of his tension away just to have someone to hold on to. He’d been isolated in his own mind, surrounded by problems he felt he needed to solve himself. It warmed him and soothed him to know someone else cared, even if he couldn’t tell him everything.

“I’m glad you’re in my life, Kenshi,” he said.

Kenshi sighed and gave a warm smile. “Any time.”

Kenshi's cooking was top tier. However his parents taught him cooking worked perfectly. Haruki had no one in his life like the boy. Everyone else was an adult. As much as the adults helped, none of them could shoulder an equal emotional burden. Being young and having responsibility was walking into a hurricane, and Kenshi understood, somehow. The boy seemed weighed down, carrying a burden much too heavy for his shoulders.

“Mom, his boyfriend's here,” Haruki remembered the younger brother having said.

They ate and Kenshi looked at him. Haruki tried to picture the implications. The father and mother had an obsession with the idea that their boy teetered constantly on the precipice of corruption. If the boy thought of him that way, it would be the easiest explanation. A popular idea called Occam's Razor stated that the explanation that required the fewest new assumptions tended to be correct more often. Still, he couldn't quite get the puzzle piece to fit. For starters, he didn't think of Kenshi that way. Did he? He certainly couldn't imagine doing that with the boy.

“How's lessons?” Kenshi asked.

Haruki looked up from his nearly empty plate. “Huh? Oh. I’m getting the best tutors money can buy.” A thought smashed into him and he must've looked surprised. “Your math tutoring really helped.”

Kenshi brightened. “Really! I'm glad.”

Haruki helped pre-wash before putting the dishes in the machine. After, they headed back upstairs to listen to music. Songs from pre-Disney Phil Collins filled the air. In The Air Tonight continued to have the best drum fill he'd ever heard. After a few albums, the sun was going down, and Haruki knew he'd have to call it a day.

“I've got to go,” Haruki said. “I really appreciate hanging out with you.”

Kenshi gave him a hug. “Me too, you're a great friend.”

Haruki walked past the neighborhood and ducked behind a tree before taking off at super speed. He had a lot on his mind. Working with America proved useful, as he could sharpen his skills against and with the best in the world. At the same time, international politics meant every action was a statement by his government.

He entered the compound and made his way to his bed. As he lay there, he thought to the onslaught that brought him here. When he'd defeated the king of the gods, he'd been transported here, and otherwise, he'd never have grown up on Earth. The thought amused him even as it weighed on him. If he'd never been struck by the god’s lightning, he’d have grown up on Planet Hades.

The lightning, he thought.

His eyes shot open wide.

“The Gift of Lightning!” Suddenly, his tiredness evaporated.

A second later he sat in the training room.

After turning off his powers and pushing his fire to its lowest, he saw it. A tiny spark flickered in the darkness. His soul tugged on it, and it filled his every cell.

His ears picked up every sound for miles, and he could sense everything electromagnetic. The electrical wires in the walls gave off a familiar signal, the chipboards in the electronic devices radiated signals he felt, and he could feel them all. Opening his eyes, his body’s signals could be read in real-time.

When he jumped, the kinetic force of his jump and the opposing force as he came down appeared in his mind. With effort, he levitated by applying kinetic force to his body. Underneath pushed him up, and on all sides kept him upright. With effort, he could pull objects to him and move them. All sense of weariness disappeared.

After a choice exclamation, he knew he had to report the findings.

“He's waking up.”

The voice appeared in his head and broke his concentration, sprawling him out. Where had that voice come from? His newfound sensory enhancement let him listen to the entire facility. The voice had indeed come from inside his head.

He waited. No more voices came.

“I've got to practice,” he told himself.

As his mother always said, before you worry about things you can't affect, work on the things you can.