“What the hell do we do?” someone whispered.

Jane didn’t have an answer. They knew all she knew. The Black Death – alive. Captain Dawn – dead. The man she’d trained with, strived for, pledged herself to – a lie. All a lie.

“We should run,” a boy suggested, and there was an instant cascade of voices disagreeing, agreeing, answering.

“He might come back!”

“Get the police!”

“What’re they going to do? What’s anyone going to do?”

“We have to go!” Celeste pleaded.

Jane said nothing. Felt nothing. Everything was gone. The Legion of Heroes. Her dreams – her home. Any hope for the world. The man she’d thought she’d loved. Who she thought had loved her. All ashes. All destroyed.

“Go where?” murmured James. He was standing off to the side, not far from Jane – but when he spoke, the eyes of the Academy turned to him.

The crowd’s muttering faded as James shook his head.

“There’s nowhere we can go. Nowhere in the world. Because that’s what he’s going to take.”

No one laughed. No one scoffed. As dumb as it sounded, it was true. The Black Death could conquer the world – one man, alone. Because no one alive could stand against him and live. No one alive could stop him.

James let out a long, mournful sigh. “So I suppose we’ve got no choice,” he said. He looked up at the sky, at the black smoke still pouring from the ruins of Morningstar, blotting out the sun, and breathed in through his nose. “We’ve got to take him down.”

“Are you insane?” hissed Natalia, pushing her way through the crowd, her face scrunched up in a scowl. A sickle-shaped cut ran down the side of her forehead and the sides of her jacket were singed and tarred. She didn’t notice. It was a miracle Giselle had gotten as many out as she had. “He destroyed the previous Legion! The real Legion!”

“I know,” muttered James.

“He had every power we knew back then and he’s had ten years, ten years, to get stronger!”

“I know!” James shouted. He rounded on the psychic, his face twisted in the darkness, in the shadows of the firelight. Natalia recoiled, paling before the strongman’s bulk. “I know,” he repeated, “I know all that. Every bit of it. You don’t think I’m scared?!” He struck a thick finger into his broad chest. “Coz I am. We all are.”

James looked around at the crowd. At the sea of blackened, anxious eyes. “How many of you came here because you wanted a job?” he asked, after a moment. No one answered; so he continued. “How many because you thought it was a ‘smart career move’? Because of good grades?” He paused, looking down at his hands. “Because I know I didn’t,” he whispered. Then his voice rose. “I came here, because I wanted my life to mean something. Because I wanted to be part of something bigger. Because I watched those god damn cartoons every morning-!” he shouted, and then his voice dropped – and he gave a small, sad laugh. “And I thought: ‘That’s who I am. That’s what I want to be. I want to save the world.’”

“And now it’s real,” he called out, his arms held wide, speaking out to the crowd, through the drifting smoke, through the thinning darkness. “All of the stories, everything we grew up with. Real death. Real evil. There is a man out there with the power to conquer the world. Who will conquer the world, who’ll kill millions. Billions. Unless someone stops him.”

James Conrad paused – and he looked at them. At all of them. At her.

“You say, maybe we’re not strong enough,” he said quietly, “But I say, we’re what the world’s got. And I don’t know about you, but in ten, twenty, a hundred years-time, I don’t want them saying that we just gave up. That we didn’t fight, that we ran away. That the Legion of Heroes didn’t even try.”

“The Legion of Heroes is dead!” shrieked someone, and a chorus of voices agreed with her.

“We’re not real members!” echoed a second.

“We are real!” shouted James defiantly over the dissenters. His voice grew, raising up into the smoke. “Screw the titles, screw the badges – this, here, is what we trained for! This is what every second, every breath of our lives has been about! It doesn’t matter that we didn’t graduate. It doesn’t matter that Morningstar’s destroyed.” He took a deep, steadying breath – then locked his jaw. “It doesn’t matter that Dawn is gone. None of that matters. None of that changes who we are. What we believe. Life. Freedom. Justice. I still believe in them. And I still believe in you. We’re real.” He thumped his fist on his chest. “And as long we’re here, the Legion endures. So long as I breathe, so long as any of you breathe, the Legion survives.”

The crowd around was silent.

“Never give up. Never give in. Because this is our world. And I’ll be damned if I stand by and watch it burn.”

“They need you.” He looked at them – from boy to girl to young to old. And finally, to her. Lingering, on her. Jane’s hand reached in her pocket and closed around the badge – her silver eagle. “All of you. The world needs us.”

“Answer the call.”

*****

Matt fingered the beer bottle idly in one hand, watching the sun reflecting off the brown glass.

“Do you know I used to have dreams about this cabin?” he told the Black Death, who was standing unmoving, six feet away, watching. Certain, unafraid – yet, ever so slightly, wary.

Matt pointed a finger at the rusty silver shack. “For years I dreamt about it. This desert. This place. No idea where it was. No idea why.” He paused. “Knew it meant something though.”

Deep down inside, he believed every word he was saying. “And now we’re here. And it all makes sense. This is where I’ve been heading. This whole time. This is my purpose.” He paused. “I sit here and you stand there, and I tell you the future.”

“Really?” the Black Death said coldly. His lip curled.

“Yup,” replied Matt, unconcerned. “I didn’t know – it wasn’t clear until today. But now it’s simple. You-” he pointed a finger at Heydrich’s chest. Not aggressive, not forceful. Just sure. “-have a choice.” He paused. “You’ve been walking down a path. A path you started on, which you’ve been on your entire life. You were born on it, you thrive on it, and you think you know where it’s going – but you’re wrong. And now you’re at a crossroads.”

Believe.

“Because,” Matt said simply, “If you take my blood, you lose.”

There was silence. Matt gazed up at the Black Death, who stared back down at him, his face frozen.

The midday sun beat down between them. The wind rustled. Somewhere, an eagle called.

And then slowly, horribly, Heydrich began to laugh.

He laughed, a cold, terrible sound, soft at first then harder, throwing back his head and cackling, his voice echoing up and out through the rocks and stones. On the top of some cliff, a flock of birds flapped away, startled, but the Black Death paid them no heed. He just kept laughing, brutally, manically, doubling over, his teeth bared, eyes watering, clutching his sides. He laughed and laughed and laughed.

And all the while, Matt said nothing – simply looked on, watching, sitting, impassive.

Slowly, the cackles dried to chuckles. Slowly, the laughter died. And slowly, the Black Death looked down at Matt Callaghan, his insane smile fading to fury. To stone.

“How?” he demanded, his smooth face twisted with rage, contorting into a scowl. He threw up his hands, his eyes never leaving Matt, “How is that possible? How can I lose?”

“I don’t know,” Matt said simply, “But you do.” Suddenly, the Black Death was upon him, his iron fingers around his collar, his face inches from Matt’s.

“I have more powers than most people can name,” he hissed, “I can go anywhere, heal anything, kill anyone. I can slaughter armies, raze cities with a single thought. I. Destroyed. Africa.” He released his hold on Matt’s shirt, letting him fall back down against the deck chair. “So tell me, wherein lays my disadvantage? Where is my weakness?”

“I don’t know,” replied Matt, “I can’t tell you how it happens. I’m just telling you what I see. I’m just the messenger. And the message is, beyond a shadow of doubt: if you take my blood, you’ll lose.”

“You’re lying,” snarled the Black Death, but still he hesitated. Still, he paced. Matt sat perfectly still, watching the conflict play across the murderer’s face. He held up his hands and spoke.

“If you want it,” Matt shrugged, “Take it. I can’t stop you. Heck, far as I know, there’s nobody alive who can stop you. Not the army, not the government, not the Legion. The only power strong enough to even hurt you, you snuffed out ten years ago. “

“This isn’t a threat. Heck, how can I threaten you? You’re Klaus Heydrich, you’re the Black Death. I can’t do anything to you, you could kill me by snapping your fingers. I’m not going to run, I’m not going to fight, I’m not even going to pretend to know what you’re going to do, because I don’t. All I know is the truth. And all I can do is share it. So your decision’s informed, so you can choose.” He looked up at Heydrich with clear, steady eyes.

For almost a full minute, the Black Death just stood there, his hands balled into fists, his jaw working, grinding soundlessly back and forth. And then, without warning, his face darkened and he thrust out his hand, a gloved finger on his temple.

But Matt was ready.

My name is Matt Callaghan, he knew, and I am a clairvoyant.

He felt the vast, sharp, violent mass of Heydrich’s consciousness come tearing through his mind – a dark, sweeping presence, huge, cold, brutally intelligent. An ocean storm made of black glass, a swarm of voidling stars. Yet Matt did nothing to resist, made no effort to keep him out.

My name is Matt Callaghan and I am a clairvoyant.

He saw it, believed it. The truth of it. The memory of him standing in line at the Registration office getting his card. The endless hours he’d spent in practice, prediction after prediction, all right. This was his life – the simple truth of it. He remembered the first time he’d seen Jane, knowing she wouldn’t harm him, knowing that she was his friend; feeling strange about being at Morningstar, untrusting of Dawn. Knowing he’d survive Albania. Knowing, right away, that Ed’s death was more than it seemed. He felt the Black Death rolling through, turning the pieces over, sliding through the streets, the cathedrals and alleyways of the city that was his mind – away from the past, towards the part he wanted to know, towards the present. So Matt let him see.

My name is Matt Callaghan and I am a clairvoyant.

He showed the memories of this place, pieced together from blurred dreams – showed Heydrich arriving, the final stone in the mural, the illusive man in black who had long haunted his visions. Saw the truth stretching out before him, vast and strong, a mighty, muddied river – unable to see what it contained but knowing with perfect clarity where it flowed.

He knew it, he believed it, and in his mind, and thus in Heydrich’s, he made it true.

My name is Matt Callaghan and I am a clairvoyant.

And slowly, he felt the Black Death’s sweeping, cavernous consciousness retreat.

He opened his eyes, not remembering having closed them, and looked across at the man who would be king. Matt smiled a plain, simple smile.

Klaus Heydrich didn’t move.

For what seemed like an eternity he stood there, his face frozen in place as Matt reclined against the deck chair. He stood stock still, a twisting, tormented fight flickering across his face, as the desert wind whipped through between them, dancing on the heels of his coat. His eyes darted between specks in the ether, then froze on nothing. On the ground. And then finally on Matt. He twitched, a sudden movement forward, and it was all Matt could do not to flinch – but in the same instant the Black Death retracted, undid the motion as fast as it had come. He breathed, long, hard and slow, the shoulders of his uniform rising and falling. His teeth gritted; his hands balled.

“No,” he finally whispered. And he jerked out his hand.

In an instant, an invisible force wrapped around Matt’s arms, dragging them out and pulling him up from his chair – Matt yelled, but a second later his shout of surprise turned to pain as deep gashes sliced open across his wrists. He gasped, shuddered, tried to fall – but the invisible force around his arms held tight and he hung there, upright, feet not touching the ground, a puppet dangling from a pair of strings, blood pouring from his veins, splattering out into the desert air.

And there it stayed. Before Matt’s horrified eyes, his blood pooled in mid-air, a steady crimson stream, flowing in gentle, glugging waves towards the Black Death’s open hand. His fingers stretched, the glove removing itself, exposing the bone-white flesh beneath. Matt felt his heart punch a staggering, desperate beat, his eyes stinging, the world blurred. But he couldn’t look away. He watched in morbid fascination as his lifeblood streamed towards the red, pulsing tips of Heydrich’s fingers – and as it flowed, like water through a sieve, into, under, through his skin. A river of blood, drunk greedily by five pale worms. They guzzled, and guzzled, and guzzled, until the Black Death and the desert floor swam hazy in Matt’s mind, shadows creeping against the corners of his vision and his eyes began to flicker, struggling to stay open – the pain in his wrists, the plan, all of it forgotten, as he drifted further and further away, closer and closer to the dark…

Then the bleeding stopped.

The pressure around Matt’s hand vanished. His arms dropped and he fell, slumped back into the deckchair. Matt’s eyes flicked open. Above him a dark figure towered over, tilting his wrist with mild amusement, examining his pale, gloveless hand.

Then he reached down and the tip of Heydrich’s fingers brushing lightly over Matt’s wrists. And the wounds began to heal.

“Waste not, want not,” the Black Death whispered. His lips twitched in the start of a smile – but then Matt looked up at him, his face a blank question, and any trace of joviality fell away.

“Stay here, Matt Callaghan,” he said quietly, “Stay away. Perhaps I’ll return once I’ve finished. Perhaps we will talk again once the world is brought to heel. Perhaps we will discuss my future.”

He glanced at the open sky and a small smile slid over his smooth features. “But until then, enjoy the show.”

“This is my world now.”