A lazy Sunday afternoon turned slowly into a nonchalant evening. The sun set, leaving a mostly full moon in the sky. It cast a blue light over El Puerto, bathing skyscrapers and city streets in in a dull glow. On nights like this, one could drive without the assistance of headlights or street lamps. It was still dark for sure, but not so much as to completely obscure normal human vision.

Not a cloud was in the sky. It stretched on far as the eye could see, an infinite expanse of dark grey. This part of America certainly earned its reputation for gorgeous nights. Although, the effect was kind of lost in the middle of a city. Artificial lights drowned out the incredible starscapes Texas was so famous for. The endless dark was still a sight to behold, though it could be so much more.

No matter how peaceful it was on this particular twilight, the city's defenders couldn't afford to stand idle. As she had taken to doing for a few weeks now, Ayda hit the streets without any sort of real, concrete plan in mind. She didn't set up a fake drug deal or seek out some high-ranking member of the Chinese Triad. Instead, her strategy was to listen to police radio and jump in on any calls where her assistance may be needed. All the while, she would patrol the industrial district in search of suspicious activity.

But right now, it was break time. Ayda had pulled her motorcycle up to the curb and dismounted the beast. She leaned against it, ankles and arms crossed. One white bud in her ear, she listened to the police scanner app on her phone. It was quiet, and had been for the past hour or so. Sundays were usually slow. Not even the criminals hadn't the energy to do much on the sabbath, which was almost ironic in a dramatic sort of way.

Absently, with the sounds of empty static as accompaniment, Ayda looked up at the sky. The teenager sighed, despite herself. The night skies of Texas were not too far removed from those in her desert homeland. Dark and empty, brilliant and imposing, all at the same time. Her memories of these Persian nights were fleeting at best. Dr. Cyrus Vahlen rarely let his subjects outside, and never at night. After all, you couldn't be tested in the dark. Moments from before her captivity were sparse. They felt like so long ago.

It was strange, really. She'd lived in the United States for so long. She had more here just in her motorcycle's saddlebags than she ever did in Iran. Yet, in some small part, it still felt like home. Ayda had been thinking about it more and more, as of late. Losing her trust fund really put things into perspective. Wealth and status were fleeting things. She knew this, yet it never seemed real until a few weeks ago.

Her thoughts drifted to Elliot. He'd been so kind to her, not just recently, but since they met. Of those who knew about her powers, he was the only one who never looked at her like she was a freak. He never treated her any different than anyone else. Not even Bernard or Colonel Hammond could say that, though the latter did a better job of it. Though he may have been afraid of her at first, Elliot always treated Ayda like she was just a normal girl. That's probably why she gravitated toward him as best friend material.

However she may yearn to see Iran once again, Ayda knew this place was her home. That shitty little apartment she shared with Elliot. That's where she truly belonged. It would be nice to visit the desert sometime in the future, but not to stay long. This was place was her home. Did every refugee feel this way? She'd never really thought about it until right then.

The sound of approaching footsteps to her right snapped the girl back to reality. Whoever this person was, they made no attempt to mask their traversal. This meant it was probably just a random civilian, but her warrior instinct couldn't help paying them at least some attention. After all, the most deadly opponent is the one you never even see.

Ayda looked down, and instead stared at the brick wall in front of her. While she acknowledged not the encroaching steps, the teenager remained conscious of them. This person would likely pass by her any moment now, intent on their destination, wherever it may be. Except they didn't. They stopped short—maybe a foot from her bike. A voice immediately followed the unexpected cessation of movement.

"Excuse me," said a male voice.

"What's up?"Ayda replied reflexively without looking.

"Are you Pulse?"

Well, that certainly got her attention. What had been nothing more than a simple inconvenience suddenly became a problem. Ayda whipped her head around to face the source of this new conundrum, of someone who apparently knew her name.

"Uh... hi?" she said slowly.

"Hi," responded the kid, a giant, stupid grin on his face. He was in his late teens or perhaps early twenties, obviously Latino in descent by his accent and skin. He wore a blue pullover hoodie and tan cargo pants, along with pure white skating sneakers.

There stretched a brief but incredibly awkward silence between the two of them. It's a good thing Ayda was wearing sunglasses, because her eyes bulged to an unnatural circumference behind them. This guy, on the other hand, seemed about ready to burst. His hands shook with what was either excitement or anxiety, or both. The stagnant air between them couldn't last long, though, as it dawned on Ayda rather quickly that there weren't many reasons a random person would just come up to her in the middle of the street.

"Is there something wrong? Are you in trouble?" She asked quickly, taking a half step toward him.

"No, just... is it really you?"

"Yeah." For emphasis—and to prove her point—Ayda held her palm to the sky and made a tiny blast. A purple shockwave barely larger than her hand formed a halo just above it. "Yeah, it's really me."

The young man's face lit up. "Cool. I can't believe it's really you!" He hesitated for a second. "Can I have your autograph?"

"My what?" Ayda gave him a look of complete shock.

"Your autograph," repeated the guy. "I have a pen right here." he produced the writing utensil from his right hoodie pocket, as well as a blank index card.

"Uh, yeah, sure."

Still in a state of relative disbelief, Ayda spanned the distance between the two of them. The young man awaited her with arms out stretched, an implement in each hand. Of all the things he could've said, that single question never even crossed her mind. Why would he even want such a thing? She wasn't a big movie star or pop singer, so why ask for her stupid signature?

With gentle motions, Ayda retrieved the pen and card. Her finger tips brushed against his. While neither individual reacted to this sudden contact, she felt a slight awkward twinge in the back of her head. Doing her best to push forward, she switched the objects around so the pen was in her right hand. The index card, now cradled in her left palm, was the type without any lines, which made it quite convenient for autograph transcription.

Ayda glanced up for a moment, a small flick of her eyes. The guy had put his hands in his pockets, probably to keep them from shaking. With a smirk, Ayda returned to her work. Ballpoint met paper. She made a straight vertical line, then stopped short. She was used to signing her name on things. Western society had a strange obsession with signatures. But this guy didn't want her trademark. No, he wanted Pulse. She'd almost written her real name in big bold letters for the whole world to see.

Ayda physically shook the confusion from her head. She turned the straight line into a passable letter P. The rest was her most valiant attempt at cursive writing. Penmanship had never been a skill of hers. The girl took perhaps more time than prudent, making sure each and every line and loop had at least an ounce of polish. As she wrote, an epiphany struck at the back of her mind. This was the first time she'd ever put her nickname down in ink. Something about it felt oddly official.

When finished, Ayda handed the newly signed parcel back to its original owner. The young man gently took it in his fingers as if it were an egg or small animal, careful not to damage it. He stared at it with a look of pure awe.

"Cool," he breathed, placing it in his right hoodie pocket. He looked up at Pulse, down at the sidewalk, and back again. "Can I... uh," he wavered again. "I know it's probably asking too much, but could I take a selfie with you, too? No one will believe me otherwise."

"Sure," conceded Ayda. "I don't see why not." Taking pictures with celebrities was a normal thing, right?

"Okay, thank you."

Deft fingers pulled a cell phone from his pants pocket, a maneuver he'd doubtless completed a thousand times. The Belmont International product wore a thick purple case, almost the exact same color as Ayda's blasts. He tapped the screen a few times to open up the camera app. Ayda stepped to her right so he could fall in beside her without standing in the road.

"Do you want me to smile or..." she asked as the young man took up a position next to her.

"Whatever you want is fine with me."

The guy held the phone in his right hand at roughly a thirty degree angle relative to their faces. The front facing camera provided a clear view of the prospective picture. Seeing she wasn't really in the shot, Ayda shuffled closer. Her left shoulder was behind his right, putting them both perfectly in frame.

He said no one would believe him if he just showed a few scribbles on a piece of paper, thus the photo. To remedy this further, Ayda put up a peace sign just below her nose and channeled her powers. Her hand glowed purple with astounding strength. She gave a small grin. The guy snapped the picture with a quick thumb tap on the screen and an artificial shutter sound.

"Awesome, thank you so much!" he said as the two separated. They stood facing each other again, but he stared at the phone. He brought up the new photo and a humongous smile split his face. "It came out great. My friends are gonna be so jealous!"

"Your friends?"

"Yeah, we're all huge fans. They're gonna hate me for getting the chance to actually meet you in person."

"Oh, ok," was the only response Ayda could muster. She wasn't really sure how to respond to such a statement.

"Well, I know you must be busy. I 'm sorry to interrupt you," the guy suddenly changed the subject.

"No, it's fine. It was nice meeting you."

"Thanks, you too," he returned. "I won't keep you. Have a nice night."

"Thanks," Ayda said. With that, the admirer turned and began to walk back the way he came up the street. "Hey!" She called after him. He stopped and turned to her. "Go straight home. It isn't safe out here alone."

"Don't worry, I will," he shouted back. "Thanks again, Pulse!" He waved, and Ayda returned his gesture. The young man spun again, continuing on his way. Ayda watched as he left. After a moment, he hung a left, around the corner, and out of sight.

When he was gone, Ayda realized she'd been waving the whole time. Slowly, she dropped her hand, walking back to her noble steed in a daze, footfalls short and clumsy. Her eyes flicked left and right, but took in little of the scenery. She took a deep breath and tossed the cobwebs from her cranium. At a lack of anything else to do, the girl once again took up a relaxed position, leaning against the bike.

"Um..." All of a sudden. Elliot's voice came over the bluetooth headpiece in her ear. Ayda startled at the sound of it, standing bolt upright for a split second. She'd completely forgotten he was even there.

"What the hell was that?" Asked the slightly older man.

"I think that was a fan," Ayda responded. "El, I think I have fans."

"Fans?" Elliot chuckled. "You have an entire subreddit."

"I what?" Ayda pressed the headpiece further into her ear, just to be extra certain she heard right. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I thought you knew!"

"No!"

Elliot laughed again. "Yes, Ayda, you have fans. I'll send you a link. That picture will probably end up there."

"Should I not have taken it?"

"No, I think it's a good thing," Elliot said. "You handled that really well. A positive interaction with a fan like that will really boost your public image."

Everything Elliot said made perfect sense, but it all took Ayda a little bit by surprise. Even that phrase—"public image"—struck her funny. It was something she took into consideration, of course. She read articles and watched the news about herself, but it never felt real. It was easy to disconnect the voices from the people behind them. But they were real, all of them, real people with thoughts and concerns. From what she'd seen many folks supported her actions, but what actionable application did that data support?

The guy mentioned his friends. They would all be jealous of him. They were all fans, just as he was. Maybe there was something to that. Word was spreading. She wasn't just a silent force taking out drug dealers behind the scenes. Ever since stopping that school shooting, she was something else. She had a face, a name, a presence. She was Pulse, burden to some and hero to many more. Maybe she was more famous than she realized.