Chapter Text
Jackie wakes up in her tiny Jersey City apartment and wishes that she died in the blast years ago.
Lying in bed for half an hour, she slowly rises, noting the time as well past noon. Not that it matters since she’s unemployed and been searching for a job for months.
She wraps herself in a worn robe, slipping her feet into familiar slippers with bunny ears, and shuffles to the kitchen. It smells faintly of instant ramen and boiled eggs. There’s enough floor space to pace back and forth in existential anxiety but not much else.
She checks her voicemail. No calls from any company she applied for, no emails other than the irritating ads. Jackie scrolls mindlessly on social media just to get her mind off of her life.
Someone posted a clip of a superhuman dressed in blue and white armour freezing part of a tidal wave to let beach goers escape. A hero sniped a robber holding a hostage from two miles away. People fleeing from their homes just in time to avoid a hurricane because of an accurate prediction from Oracle.
Jackie closes her eyes, dizzy with the sense she’s watching her heart beat on the other side of a glass wall. What was she doing with her life?
Sighing, she holds out her hand. A gentle glow of golden light nestles in her palm, and Jackie stares at it like it’s breaking her soul.
Clenching her hand, she extinguishes the light and rises from her chair. Her phone continues onto the next video where some dude with thick glasses tosses out his theories about where the supervillains will hit next. About the rash of cities being bombed in an irregular pattern.
Jackie rolls her eyes and pulls out milk from her fridge to pour into a glass. She wasn’t so far gone that she’d resort to drinking it from the carton.
When she returns the milk to the fridge, her eyes fall on the bucket list she wrote for herself when she was more optimistic: find a stable job she loves, fall in love, get married, have a house with a white picket fence, have children (optional), have $1 million in the bank (non-optional), have her own tight-knit crew, etc.
None of which she’s achieved in the four years since she woke up in a forest in Alberta. Heck, she can’t even recall the last time she went on a date or slept with someone. Probably more things to add to the bucket list at this point.
Jackie rubs her head, scowling. Most of her memories came back in bits and pieces, but they often felt like melodies with missing notes. The driving theme is this feeling of the need to do more and a weight of responsibility on her lungs like a cinder block.
That’s too much sad thinking. She puts on Chappell Roan to lighten the mood.
There’s a burst of chatter as people walk by her door, snapping her out of her thoughts. By the pitch and cadence, it’s probably Jasmine down the hall taking her son to preschool. It’s too early in the morning for cranky Mr. Harris to rattle his saber about what he's going to do about the noisy dishwasher upstairs. If she looks out the window, she could see the PATH transit system a couple of blocks away—blue and silver flashes between the buildings. Beyond that, she sees the green sheen of the Hudson River.
She considers going to New York, but she fucking hates the Holland Tunnel. If she had time to be stuck in traffic eight blocks away from the actual bridge, she might as well apply for work.
Not that it’d help much with how quickly she’s running out of money.
She showers and slips on her favourite hoodie, the chill of fall chasing away the warmth of summer. She might as well soak up the sun. If she can’t get a job, she can at least get a tan.
It’s a half hour walk to Liberty State Park. Jackie keeps a fast pace there—exercise being one of the few things keeping her sane. That and soup dumplings.
She grabs a breakfast burrito and a diet coke on the way, thoughts running ahead of her body. She applied for a position as an assistant at a fashion magazine a few days ago. They haven’t gotten back to her. Maybe they were still deciding. Maybe they forgot. She’ll call them again. Ask for interview feedback or something. Keep her foot in the door. Anything.
Something restless pushes underneath her skin. An unsatisfyable itch. A need to move. She needs to do something before she comes apart at the seams.
Not go back to the superhero organization though. She’s been gone for years, and she doesn’t fully understand why. How was she going to explain that, when desertion from the ranks still leads to life imprisonment?
She was so screwed.
Crunching through the fried potatoes in her wrap, Jackie absentmindedly tosses the trash away as she enters the park. She breaks into a loose jog, digestion already happening quickly.
Her feet know where to go. She winds up in front of a massive bronze statue of a young woman with raised arms—a charming smile on her face and a miniature sun in her hands. The plaque at the bottom reads:
“Sundancer. 1998-2021. Captain of Ops Helix. Her light still guides us even when she’s gone.”
Jackie bites her thumbnail—a wave of emotions crashing over her. Nearly everyone in Ops Helix died in that mission up in the Canadian Rockies. There was one survivor, identity classified. Afterwards, the survivor had an unprecedented career progression, rocketing to a director position in their late 20s. Not much she can do to figure out who it was. Civilian identities for active superheroes were tightly guarded, impossible to confirm without hacking the government database.
She has a suspicion. A theory. One she couldn’t prove. Solar-based powers were rare but not unique. Belgium had one who derived energy from the sun. There was another in South Korea who could manipulate cosmic plasma. Probably a handful more in Africa and South America who are undocumented. None of them matched the power, versatility, or raw, devastating brilliance of Sundancer.
No one could. Not even those standing in the shadow of her statue.
Jackie blinks away wetness collecting in her eyes. She strides away, head hanging. Trying to push the image from her mind.
She passes by a college student on a bench reading The Sun Also Rises. She scowls and moves faster to get to the fence facing the water. In an impulsive attempt to “better her mind”, Jackie bought a dusty $1 copy of the book from a used bookstore. It’s currently a coaster, because as it turns out, she hates the writing and its meandering narrative.
Fuck Ernest Hemingway.
Making it to the rail, she stares wistfully at the far shore. The bustling skyline of New York city sings to her like a siren. If she turns her head, she sees the back of the Statue of Liberty. At night, New York lights up like stars captured in steel and glass. Jackie often leans against the fence, looking over and wishing she could be anywhere but here.
She wonders what would happen if she did cross over. Would it be like last time?
A rumble rips through the sky. Jackie looks up to see a glimpse of blue and white streaking towards the sky towards New York. She shades her eyes, wondering what’s going on.
Near the benches, a young man gapes. “Holy fuck. That was Shatter!”
“Shit, do you think something’s going to happen?” his bearded friend frowns after the flying superhero. “There’s been attacks by the Hunt all up the Eastern Seaboard. They fucked up Philadelphia pretty bad a few days ago. Obliterated the Rocky Statue.”
“What the hell do they have against Rocky Balboa?”
Jackie tunes out of their conversation. She heads out of the park, only stopping to watch a golden blur stream through the sky towards New York too, air whooshing behind them. People’s gasps of “Icarus!” and their anxious murmurs sound muted to Jackie, like she’s listening to them through a window. If the Hunt were to strike, Manhattan is the most obvious place to do massive amounts of damage. The local superhumans appear to agree with how two have already gathered there.
Shatter’s one of the strongest strikers on the East Coast. Near water, their power spikes. Icarus can break the sound barrier. If both are in the air, their central command expects a fight and preps their fastest flier in case they need backup or evacuation. The Hunt hits hardest after dark. Shadows make them stronger.
If Jackie were to guess, Central Park would be their rallying point—huge, central, and dark as fuck at night. Evacuations would have to be done before sundown. Power lines and generators would be top priorities for protection.
Jackie’s stomach rumbles. She blinks, not realizing how hungry she’s gotten. It’s like half of her paycheque goes towards food alone.
She ducks into a nearby diner, chatting briefly with the waitress when she seats her. Thoughts still working out the logistics of the upcoming defence.
A group of teenagers gossip about the superheroes. Some want to see Wild Card snipe a Hunter. Others look forward to seeing Pyromancer's famous Flame Shield.
Jackie absentmindedly nods along to their conversation, munching on a plate of pasta with rhubarb crumble for dessert. Fire is their strongest defense against the Hunt’s shadows. Fire and light would be better, but the US hasn’t had a superhero who could use both since—
One of the teens complains, “Sundancer could have handled this alone.”
“Dude, she’s dead.”
“You don’t know that!”
Jackie groans, “She’s definitely gone.” She jabs into the remnants of her broken crumble. “No point digging up that grave.”
The waitress’s voice startles her. A dark-eyed brunette whose expression pinches. “So, you think she died too?”
“Uh… I…” Jackie’s aware of people turning towards her to listen in, rapt to hear her thoughts on Sundancer. “I think… she served her nation and should be allowed to rest.
“I just…” She shrugs. “… don’t understand people's obsession with a dead girl.”
A slam of a hand hitting the table startles her. Across from her, an elderly lady struggles to stand up—red-faced from effort and indignation. “You treat that dead girl with respect! If not for her, the Hunters would have torn my son and daughter-in-law apart during the Boston Massacre!”
Jackie shrinks into her booth. “I didn’t—“
“And she sacrificed her life!” Spittle flies from the woman’s mouth as a nearby waitress tries to stop her from coming over and clubbing Jackie. “Blew herself to destroy the Canadian chapter of the Wild Hunt!”
Jackie presses her lips together. Her hands clench so tightly, she might have drawn blood.
“And then some ungrateful, little thing like you comes along and disrespects her name. You should be grateful for everything she’s done! The world would be safer if she was still around! We wouldn’t have bombings or disappearances! Murders right on TV! We would have—-we would have…”
The old woman stares into the air, quivering and deflating from her rage. She sinks into the vinyl seat, whispering, “Nothing‘s been the same since Sundancer died.”
The annoyed waitress’ expression shifts to grief. “No, it hasn’t.”
A young man from the booth beside her jumps in. “I heard that she’s not really dead. The government is just faking it.”
The girl he’s presumably on a date with says, “Why would they fake it? Maybe she just ran away because she didn’t want to deal with the consequences of blowing up a section of Canada.”
Jackie quietly pays her bill and slinks away. She tugs her hoodie down over her head to drown out their argument behind her.
The walk back to her apartment is busier than usual—cars jam in the road as they flee New York. The evacuation warning must have gone out.
She takes the stairs two at a time as she climbs toward her apartment. She glances out the window on one landing, tracking the descent of the sun towards the horizon. Energy crackles beneath her skin.
She dashes up to her door, slipping through as she heads out to the window facing New York. Jackie catches sight of her own reflection from the glass. A gaunt-looking woman with deep bags and sunken cheeks stares back. Honey-blonde strands hang over her face. She doesn’t remember the last time she got her hair done. She doesn’t even remember being a blonde.
Sundancer died four years ago, and yet she’s everywhere. Jackie wishes she could leave her behind.
She grabs her phone, determined to distract herself from her thoughts. Might as well make herself comfortable while waiting to see how the East Coast’s elites handle the Hunt threat.
A documentary about colourful birds of paradise finishes by the time Jackie notices it’s dusk. She jumps off of her bed, heading to the window. Night falls shortly after the sun disappears. Jackie keeps her gaze on the glitter of New York City. Would they attack soon, or in the dead of night?
What she didn’t expect was for the street lamps to go out simultaneously. An eerie silence falls before the screams are heard in the distance.
Shit.
They weren’t targeting New York. Why attack Jersey City of all places?
The lights go out in her building. The shrieks are closer.
Jackie bolts from her apartment, sprinting down the hall. The screams of her neighbour and her four-year-old kid fill her ears.
The door hangs half off its hinges. Jackie charges right in. A swarm of shadows crowd the bedroom. She fires, golden blasts flaring from her hands before she can think.
The shadows burst apart, shrieking as the light consumes them. Jackie rushes over to the corner where Jasmine shields her son. “You’re safe now. Take Trevor and get out. Bring a flashlight. I’ll look for others!”
She’s gone before Jasmine’s “Thank you! Thank God!” can fade.
She snatches a white mask off the counter and slips it onto her face. She can’t see out of the far corners of her eyes, but she’d rather not deal with identity questions later on.
A horrific gurgle comes from Mr. Harris several doors down. The shadows have hauled him partially out of his door and started eating.
Yelling, Jackie blasts through them. Her throat works when she stands over her gasping neighbour. His blood mats the carpet in a massive pool. He’s not going to get far without most of his face and throat.
Snarls and howls boom out further down the hall. Jackie clenches her fists before looking away. “I’m sorry.”
She leaps over him and continues searching the next doors for who else she could still save.
A few quick-thinking neighbours manage to defend themselves with flashlights and makeshift torches. They stumble to the door, guns in their shaking hands that wouldn’t save them against the Hunt.
Jackie holds up twin fists, cracking open her fingers enough to let out rays of light without blinding everyone. “Take the stairs. Run to the hospitals. They have backup generators,” she barks.
One young woman reaches out to her, drawn to the light in Jackie’s hands. “Sundancer…”
“No,” Jackie snaps. “She died.”
She takes off for the other floors.
The remaining residents aren’t so lucky.
She blasts, lights, and blows her way past sinister shadows devouring their prey. Some have light enough injuries that they can limp down the stairs. Others are long dead by the time she reaches them.
She loses track of how many flights she’s climbed. How many Hunters she’s neutralized. Her hands are shaking. It gets harder to generate light blasts without heat accompanying them. Too much heat with light means Jackie will take out the building and most of the surrounding area if she doesn’t get it under control.
Taking a breather after her tenth round, Jackie glances out a window. She watches in horror as a wave of darkness oozes along the streets, spreading to the surrounding apartments like living corruption.
She can’t do this alone. She needs help.
And she needs to get the superhumans to come here.
She heads straight for the top and bursts out onto the roof.
Clear night. Visibility maximized. She has to take a chance.
Jackie slams her hands above her head, bellowing as her whole body jerks like she’s been hit by lightning. Golden light erupts from her fingers, like nighttime turned into noon.
The beam of light lances into the sky like she’s trying to stab Heaven from her apartment. She’s reminded of Luxor Sky Beam in Las Vegas. Except this isn’t for show.
She doesn’t know if it’s enough for the heroes in New York to spot, so she pushes. Her arms tremble. Smoke reaches her nose as her flesh begins to roast. Muscles scream like strings torn from a violin. Heartbeat pounding so fast that she knows she’s well over her maximum heart rate.
And yet, Jackie reaches higher, farther, faster for help.
Dots twinkle in the sky—arcs of light shooting towards her from New York City. Heroes coming to help.
‘Thank God,’ Jackie thinks even her breaths shorten. Her body gasps for air, limbs shaking violently. Blackness speckles her vision.
She needs to hold on a little longer. Just until they get here. Just until—
Her knees collapse first—slowly as if straining under her weight. The light shorts and scatters. Her fingertips blacken.
She screams at herself to keep standing even as her body locks up and pitches over. Darkness takes over her vision. Jackie gurgles on her way down, already losing consciousness so fast that she doesn’t feel the impact when she lands.
When she stirs next, she registers the wind on her face—freezing and relentless like she’s caught in a storm. Her body rocks in a way that makes her uneasy. She’s clutched to someone’s chest, head tucked against cold armour.
She tastes blood in her mouth. Her fingers are numb. Heartbeat racing erratically. Muscles twitching without her consent. The smell of roasted pork lingers around her arms.
She peels her eyes, thoughts foggy as she looks down. The landscape of New Jersey stretches out below her, the streetlights looking like glowing ants from above.
Oh, fuck. She was flying.
Her arms tighten around the person carrying her, who notices she’s awake. “Hey. It’s okay. I got you. We’re going to land soon.”
Jackie’s voice comes out an octave higher than usual. “Where are we going?”
“Hospital. You look pretty bad.”
Looking up, Jackie sees the white sheen of the woman’s mask, short golden hair streaming behind it. “Icarus? You saved me?”
Icarus smiles. “I didn’t save you.” She glances up. “He did.”
Jackie groans, tucking herself further into the superhero. She feels Icarus’ arms tighten around her.
When she wakes next, she’s lying in a hospital bed, her heart monitor beeping steadily beside her. How long had she been here?
Someone yanks the curtains back. Jackie hisses as she’s blinded by the fluorescent lights. She squints as a figure strides up to her—a confident clatter of heels and a head of blonde curls bouncing with her steps.
“The last thing I expected today was a half-dead Jackie Taylor pushed into my arms by a panicked subordinate.”
Jackie frowns. The voice sounds familiar.
“I expected you to be completely deceased.” The figure takes the clipboard from the base of the bed, flipping through her chart.
Jackie’s vision is still clearing up. She has trouble making out their features through the blur. “Sorry, do I know you?”
Memories of the apartment attack flashes through her head. She gasps and bolts up, nausea overwhelming her. “The city—it’s—“
“Already been contained. We called in backup shortly after we saw the lights had gone out across the water.” A click of a pen. The scraping of a trash can pushed under her as Jackie struggles to keep everything down. Do her fingers still work? “You’ve been out for 20 hours.”
Oh, shit. Her health insurance.
“I already took care of everything. It helps when you’ve been promoted several times because everyone on your old team is dead. The Canadian wilderness can be such a bitch.”
The clues click together as Jackie’s vision clears.
No fucking way.
The figure turns around and adjusts her glasses, grinning widely. “Hello, Captain. Glad to see I wasn’t the only survivor.”
Oh, crap.
Misty Fucking Quigley.