The photographs from the disaster were difficult to come by. I traced them first to the props' station in that area, where once they had been stored, but by the time I could pull on my stolen police uniform and sneak into the filing room, they were gone. It took months to work out a method of accessing the Higher Defense Headquarters' records, and after much devising, it ended up being a feat too illegal to put down in writing. I cannot say that I illegally retrieved the covered-up evidence myself, for that would be condemning, but I cannot proceed to contradict that I didn't because that would be lying. Unless, I was lying in saying that I did illegally retrieve the covered-up and highly classified files, but by this time, a law-abiding and news-believing reader should be confused enough to look the other way and not throw wild accusations about illegal, or lack of illegal, activity.

The photographs depicted dusty scenes of obliterated buildings, shattered glass, and strewn remnants of vehicles and bicycles that had been abandoned to the blast. Though the cameras of our day shoot in clear and detailed definition, the particles in the air created a natural sepia filter and obscured the distance. If you were to return to the central square of East Benediction today, there would be no sign that anything had ever happened. If you asked, no one would admit that it did. But, on that gritty evening, a thousand people, against odds, survived a disaster that leveled buildings in a three-block radius, with only one hundred injured, thanks to a mysterious one-legged man who would never be rewarded.

The dust hung thick in air, mingling with foul black smoke from burning ruins of cars and stores. It smelled and tasted of rubber and clay. Nothing could be seen beyond an armlength in any direction. Light was obscured in the haze, the near distance speckled with flickering, blurred bulbs of dancing fires.

"Tobias. Tobias!" a voice hissed, so close to him that he could feel the tickle of her breath. His head lolled to one side, and his eyelids hung too heavy to open. His cheeks stung with small, quick slaps. "Tobias, wake up. The props will be here any minute. They're closing off the area. Tobias!"

Tobias moaned and unfolded his aching limbs.

"That's it. That's it," she eased anxiously, her fingers kneading his shoulder.

The child rolled limply from his arms and he dragged open his eyes as far as they would go. Viola Mae picked up the little girl and held her protectively over her shoulder, then took Tobias's hand, wide-eyed.

"We need to go, Tobias! If they find you—"

"I didn't... I didn't do anything wrong..." Tobias whispered. He held her hand against his chest. It was on fire. His chest felt like it was on fire all over again. He could feel blood seeping from his back, but he smiled wearily up at his friend all the same. "Is everyone okay?"

"I don't know. Come on, I can't lift you if you don't try, Tobias. You're too heavy." She pulled his arm around her shoulder.

He coughed and pulled it tiredly back. "I did a villainous thing. But... maybe sometimes a villainous act can... can cause the greatest good. I saved good people. So... let the props come." His breath staggered in and out drunkenly, his eyelids drooped. "Let them come, Viola Mae. I know I did the right thing. That's all that matters."

"Oh, Tobias," she breathed, grimacing. She let go of the unconscious girl to put her hands on his face. "You're too good."

He put his hand over hers, leaning into it.

"Your mask is crooked," she said. She carefully repositioned it on his face and brushed the blonde hair out of his false blue eyes to kiss his forehead. Voices sounded in the fog. A few beams of faint light swung back and forth through the dust. "I'll be with you. I promise."

He looked at her one last time, barely able to make out her form through the watering of his eyes, and lifted his finger to the little girl. "Find her parents, V... Viola Mae... They'll be worried."

"A plump blonde bloke with one leg, blue eyes, and... a nasally voice. Right. He stands at about six feet, or six-foot-one," an accent drawled. There were at least three pairs of footsteps echoing over the concrete. "Shouldn't be too hard to find, if the nut's still in one piece."

Viola Mae squeezed Tobias's hand, hugged the girl tightly, and vanished. He watched the dust and smoke envelope her form as she slipped invisibly into the haze. The footsteps got closer and closer, but they sounded more and more distant.

Flashlight beams swept over his body, over his face. The voices blended into ambient noise as the bright white lights crossed his eyes and took hold of his vision.

The next thing that he knew, he was lying on his stomach on a gurney, moving quickly. Everything was spinning. Startled, he abruptly sprang up and off the moving bed and collided painfully with the wall, and then the floor.

A nurse bent over him.

He squinted between his fingers, shielding his eyes from the bright white lights overhead.

She shined another light in his eyes and he groaned.

"Sir?" Her voice was muted, as if speaking through water. The ringing in Tobias's ears was too loud and too disorienting.

He peeled himself off the wall and looked at the blood smear where he had been, then fell onto his hands. He coughed and shuddered and coughed some more.

"Sir, I need you to come with me."

He put up his hands and shook his head. "N—no, ple—"

His body convulsed into more coughing, this time bringing up blood and bile onto the floor. He clutched at his chest, sitting up again and gasping for air. He held his hands out to her again. "Please. Please. I don't want treatment. I don't give my consent. Please, just leave me alone."

"You have a great deal of shrapnel lodged into your back, sir."

He felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped out of his skin, immediately on his foot. He fell over again, crying out as the nurse called for assistance. He looked wildly around, then frantically searched the air.

Viola Mae's invisible fingers wrapped around his, and he calmed almost instantly.

"Let them get the shrapnel out," she whispered.

"I'm sorry," Tobias said abruptly, looking between the nurses as two lifted his arms. He cleared his throat. "Please remove the shrapnel."

The third nurse lifted his leg and they heaved him back onto the gurney. He winced.

"It won't take long," the first nurse said. "We're going to put you under for it."

"No, wait—" Tobias protested.

"We can't trust whether you are dangerous or not, sir, after the incident in the square. You will be sedated, and when the shrapnel is removed, you will be returned to the hands of the police."

"But—"

A needle poked under his skin and he stiffened, then drifted peacefully to sleep.

By this time in the unfortunate memoir of Tobias MacClain, you will be very familiar with disorientation, and perhaps beginning to wonder how many more times this poor man will have to endure it. After this day, he will experience it only once more in this book, and by that time, he will no longer be afraid.

He will not wake up gasping for breath, fighting against restraints, or wildly tossing his head. Although, this day, he did. The machines around him started beeping as his heart rate spiked and the beeping only caused more alarm.

Tobias gaped at his wrists, bound with black ties to the steel gurney. The burns on his stomach and chest were screaming, pressed against the steel gurney. Something rubbery curled around his chin and he shook his head to try and get it away, but soon remembered: the mask. It had been rolled away from his shoulders.

He whimpered, laying his ear back on the gurney and becoming still. His heart rate slowly dropped on the screens as he started to think about what he could possibly do next.

"Sir," came a voice from behind him. He started to turn his head, but she came around the bed. His eyes widened and he gasped happily.

"Spectre!" he cried.

She stood in full uniform, clad in a sleek, leathery black material that glinted purple with every movement. A mask concealed her face and a tie held back her hair. The symbol on her chest, a silhouette diving upwards through rings towards a ball, represented her power and its origin. Though there were twenty-one other invisible heroes, of varying capability, Tobias was overwhelmed with relief at seeing her symbol in particular.

"Representatives from the Higher Defense Headquarters are en route," she said. "It is late now, and the doctor suggests rest. You will be transferred to a holding cell at the local police station to sleep until the morning. The Higher Defense representatives will speak to you then. We know that it was not your bomb, but you will need to explain how you knew it was coming."

Tobias's eyes widened wider. "Higher Defense? But what if—"

She rolled his mask down and tucked the chest pieces under the collar of his hospital gown. He felt naked. "You will be permitted the courtesy of keeping your identity a secret, in the same way as a super would, for as long as you remain cooperative." She bent closer to hiss in his ear. "Sign the NDA." Then, the stood back. "Best of luck, Tony McGuire."

McGuire. His brow furrowed. That was Teddy's last name.