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You've all heard of Steelslayer and Firefight by now. Boy meets girl. Girl points gun at boy. Boy and girl save the world.
But that wasn't the first time the boy really met the girl. Fate tied them together long before that.
The first intersection was twelve years before the Reckoners. David's mother happened to be from Portland, Oregon before she moved to Chicago. So on a summer night when he was six, he left Chicago for the first time, and mourners donned in black swarmed a Portland church.
He'd never worn a tie before, and he couldn't say he liked the feeling. Most six-year-olds wouldn't. He'd also never seen adults descend into fury and outrage as quickly as his mother's family did. It was the first and last time he'd met his maternal grandparents. They never approved of his father, and David never figured out why. His father was a kind, soft-spoken man. He may as well have held up the sky. The only time he ever raised his voice was at that funeral, and he was defending the woman he loved.
Looking back, David would wish he'd paid more attention to what they were saying, knowing he'd never get another chance to hear the truth. But at the time, all David knew was that there was a reason his mother never introduced him to her parents. Maybe that was all that mattered. The shouting crawled into his ears and under his skin until he couldn't take it anymore, and he slipped out of the church, nearly tripping on the concrete.
Megan, meanwhile, was seven, and old enough to realize for the first time that her own father was full of shit.
He was, to put it gently, a nutjob. Paranoid about preparing for the bombs to come, for the end of days. Just because the "end of days" came eventually didn't mean he was right, or he had any way of predicting a god choosing our world as its social experiment. A stopped clock is right twice a day, but at the time, Megan couldn't have guessed that he was right, either, and she was slowly resenting him for it.
It was always "when the end comes." When. Never "if." He was sure. When she was younger, Megan was sure, too. Why would he be wrong? She was sure until one day at school, she mentioned him teaching her to drive, and her teacher was dumbfounded. Like it wasn't normal to teach a seven-year-old to drive a car she could barely see the windshield of because she'd need to know how.
Ms. Jacobs pulled her aside and asked her to tell her more, in a way that said "I'm worried about your home life." That was when Megan put together that this wasn't normal. That other kids were playing with water guns, not being rigorously trained to fire handguns.
That evening over dinner, her father was lecturing her and her sisters about how to tie a tourniquet, and she committed the sin of interrupting to ask if, "maybe… they could go to a roller rink?" She'd overheard other kids in class talking about a roller rink, and was enamored. A roller rink. This magical experience normal kids got to have on Friday nights instead of shooting at mannequins.
He said she had more important things to be worried about, like the "goddamn Chinese," and that was the last straw. She stormed out of the house, mounted her dirt bike, and tore off. It didn't matter where she ended up. She'd be fine anywhere but here.
She pedaled, and pedaled, and pedaled, until she lost her balance and slammed straight into a tree.
A sweet-looking boy in a button-up shirt and tie held out his hand. She blinked, sitting up, and reluctantly took it. Her knee was bleeding, and she hated that her first thought was that she needed to clean it with antiseptic. Any normal kid's first thought would probably be "ow," but not Megan's. She wouldn't clean it, she decided. If only out of spite.
David's only thoughts at the time, however, were she's pretty.
He helped her to her feet. "You okay?"
She brushed herself off. "I'm fine." The damage to her bike, unfortunately, was intense, but the girl herself only had a scraped knee. She peered back at the church in the distance, full to the brim with black clad adults, the building thick with emotion.
Unlike her blunt words. "Someone die?"
He tilted his head. "Yeah. My mom."
"Oh. Same."
The boy frowned. "Sucks."
The girl mirrored his expression. "Yeah. I don't really remember mine."
"Double sucks."
"Yeah. That means I don't really miss her, though. It'd suck more to remember her enough to miss her."
That was the classic debate, wasn't it? Was it better to have loved and lost?
Megan watched siblings and cousins and parents and grandparents and nephews and sisters in law and third nieces twice removed descend into a screaming match in a church a few dozen yards away. "…Wow."
David cringed. "My dad made me wear this stupid tie because I had to look respectful. Then they all just yell at him like he did something wrong. That's what's disrespectful. Not this."
He fidgeted with his tie. It was making his throat feel tight, cramped. Megan took one look at that and wanted to laugh. "Take it off."
"What?" He blinked up at her, flabbergasted.
"You're not even at the funeral. Why even wear it anymore?"
David pulled on the tie a little more. It stayed stubbornly tied. His father had tied it this morning, and it was not coming off. Megan got sick of watching it and pulled on it herself, untying the knot. She'd once practiced tying and untying knots all night until her hands were calloused from the ropes because "the apocalypse won't care if you're tired."
The tie loosened and fell from his shirt. He breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks."
She looked back down at her bike. The metal frame was dented and deformed. It had taken the brunt of the collision.
David followed her gaze. "Can you… get home?"
She scowled. "I don't wanna go home."
Not wanting to go home? He couldn't imagine that. He'd spent pretty much all day wanting to go home. "Where do you wanna go?"
"…The roller rink."
David's eyes lit up. "There's a roller rink around here?"
"Yeah, and everyone else gets to go except me." Megan crossed her arms, her face in a perpetual frown. "My stupid dad won't let me. It's not fair."
"…Go now, then."
She glanced over at him curiously, and he smiled. "He's not here to stop you. Why not?" The disfigured bike on the ground answered that question, actually, so he backpedaled. "O- other than your bike being broken and stuff."
"Yeah." That wasn't what Megan was worried about, though. She could walk just fine. She was taught all about the importance of keeping your shoes clean and dry, how the apocalypse comes with a lot of walking. She could walk to a roller rink. She could go skating, and leave her scraped knee untreated, like normal kids did. She could have fun and be irresponsible, like normal kids did.
And David looked down, fidgeting with his hands. He was worried about screwing up his words in front of a nice girl he didn't know. One day, he'd miss being able to worry about little things like that. "So, um—"
"David?"
David's father sighed, exhausted. His own tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up. Beads of sweat lined his forehead. "It's just about time to go."
David turned to say goodbye to his new friend, but she was gone. The only proof she was there was her broken bike on the ground.
The second intersection was five years before the Reckoners. David was thirteen then, walking with his head down through the understreets of Newcago and trying to stay under the radar. It was technically past the Factory's curfew, but Martha pretended not to notice him sneaking out. He weaved through the steel streets, canned peaches in hand. A rare commodity. Sweet, rich, something kids at the Factory only got if they were productive. He knew what he had, what it was worth, and so did his informant.
He practiced under his breath, trying to hype himself up for the negotiation. "It's three photos or nothing, it's three photos or nothing…" Those photos were valuable, too, and if someone tried to stiff him again, he wouldn't let them get away with it this time. You're the one with the peaches, David repeatedly told himself. He was in charge of the negotiation.
Megan had just arrived in Newcago. Portland was devastated. She'd spent years barely scraping by. She'd found communities for a couple years at a time, but they always fell apart quickly, so she was on her own again, walking and hitchhiking for weeks to get somewhere civilized. A stable city. She'd almost died plenty of times, but annoyingly, her father's training was what kept her alive. She didn't know it then, but her stubborn will to survive caught the attention of a certain red star.
But she hadn't been changed quite yet. At that point, she was just a kid in a city whose only dream was staying alive another day.
Being in a city, she quickly discovered, didn't make it any easier to find food. If anything, more people were fighting over it, and she had nothing to offer. Well, almost nothing.
"Two cans," a wiry man in the understreets with a gruff voice and scars on his neck told her, "for that gun." He pointed at her handgun she had holstered.
She tensed, instinctively putting a hand over the gun. It was the only one she had, her only friend, and he wanted her to give it up for two cans? "Three cans," she countered.
He shook his head with a smirk. "Sweetheart, you're in no place to bargain." He held out the two cans of corn, tauntingly.
David was rushing through the understreets, sticking close to the walls, when he saw the blonde girl his age forced into a cruel decision. He tried not to pay attention, focusing on his mission, but something in his heart snagged and wouldn't let go. He hesitated and listened.
"I…" Megan faltered. "Is there anything else I can give you?"
"Not aside from those baby blues of yours. Pretty little thing like you, I'm sure there's a few Epics around here who wouldn't mind having you around, if you know what I mean."
She shuddered. "I— I'm good."
"Thought so." The man gestured to the handgun again. "It's just a gun. You'd rather starve?"
"…Yeah." Before he could say anything, she rushed off. She'd have to figure something out eventually, and she would, but tonight, it looked like she was eating sleep for dinner.
David watched her go, feeling sick. His rifle was slung on his back. Given the choice, he knew he'd rather starve than give it up, too.
The can of peaches burned a hole in his hand.
Keep moving, he told himself. His feet stayed planted in the ground regardless.
He needed to trade those peaches. He knew it. When would he get this opportunity again? Hunger and starvation was a fact of life in this world. Kids like the blonde he'd seen starved every day, even in so called "cities" like this. All you could do was look out for yourself. Some would call it selfishness, but there wasn't much else out there. This was survival. All the selfless people got shot in banks.
Forget the girl. Go get those photos.
He turned around and followed the girl.
Stupid or no, he made the selfless move. That was who David was, even when the entire world was cruel. He was kind.
Megan was on the ground, wrapped in a jacket that was too small for her and trying to sleep. She couldn't quite get her eyes to close. It was too unsafe.
He sat down next to her and held out the can of peaches.
She stared down at it for a beat, completely out of her element. All the kind people she'd met were dead. She was starting to doubt if there were any left. "How much?" she asked reluctantly.
"Just take it."
She eyed him, skeptical. He couldn't blame her.
"Okay, well…" David opened the can. "I'm gonna eat it, then. And if you want some, you can have it, too."
He took a slice out with his hand and popped it into his mouth. She wasn't stupid, she knew he was just trying to spare her pride. If he was eating it, too, that meant it wasn't poisoned, and who would poison peaches, anyway? Those were far too valuable to poison.
It seemed too perfect, but if she'd learned anything, beggars couldn't be choosers, and her stomach growled, urging her to just eat the damn peaches. She took one.
David smiled, relieved that she ate something. The back of his mind itched at him, why did you pass up those photos? He'd probably regret it later, but hell, he didn't have any friends. Maybe he just wanted someone to share peaches with.
And as he was eating the peaches, he remembered why they were so valuable in the first place, and the thought of never trying any of these and giving them up for stupid photos was suddenly outrageous.
The third intersection was two years before the Reckoners.
Firefight didn't need to worry about what she was going to eat anymore.
From what she could gather, most Epics liked being called by their Epic names, but something about hers felt wrong on her lips, or anyone else's. Firefight. It wasn't real. It wasn't her. But she couldn't be Megan anymore. This was who she had to be. Steelheart gave her food, clothes, hell, a lot more than that. She had comfort for the first time in nearly ten years. Maybe her whole life.
And in exchange, all she had to do was stand far away every now and then and project an image of a shadow reality.
She was perched on a steel roof, watching from afar as Nightwielder dealt with a new Epic. A teleporter, and an annoying one, too. All Firefight had to do was be there. She couldn't do much, lest the secret be revealed. She was just intimidation.
The new Epic herself couldn't be older than fourteen, but she was on the warpath regardless. She'd killed a dozen people already, if the rumors were true, and showed no sign of stopping until Enforcement intervened. The street was a mess. Nightwielder chased the kid with shadowy tendrils, she blinked out of the way every time, and both left destruction in their wake. She was getting tired. Firefight could see it on her face.
It was submit or die. When would they learn?
All the civilians, or "subjects," were fleeing the area. All but one.
David shoved past people running the opposite direction, mobile camera in hand. He always wanted to hear about an Epic fight in Newcago, but this was different. Teleporters were rare, new Epics rarer. This was the first he'd heard of someone as young as that girl getting turned. He hid behind an overturned car and held up his mobile, already making notes in his head to add to his notebooks about this mysterious new Epic. The teleports don't seem to have a cooldown, that's weird… they're preceded by bursts of purple light… maybe a fraction of a second in between appearances… any secondary powers?…
The kid, who had to have only been an Epic for hours, max—she was too preoccupied with murder and destruction to have declared a name for herself yet—blinked out of sight. She reappeared behind Nightwielder. He didn't have to turn around to send a tendril at her. She blinked away again. But there were only so many places she could go.
She blinked. Directly into the car David was hiding behind. Sparks. That disproved his working theory that she actually just had super speed. If she could teleport through walls, it was true teleportation.
He froze, holding his breath. Don't look out the window, don't look out the window, please don't look out the window.
Nightwielder's shadows swarmed the area in search of the girl. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The point was already well and made. She looked up, panicked.
And made direct eye contact with David.
And snarled.
Calamity, if David was going to get murdered by an Epic, he at least thought it wouldn't be a fourteen year old.
Firefight watched from the roof as the boy fumbled for his rifle. The kid blinked behind him, enraged that he'd dare to breathe the same air she did.
He was gonna die. He was obviously gonna die. Firefight almost laughed. He was stupid and unprepared and deserved exactly what he got. But something about him looked familiar.
She shouldn't care. Epics killed people in this city all the time. Why would this be any different? She wasn't supposed to interfere more than she had to. If she did, people would figure out Firefight's true nature. To hell with the stupid boy.
The young Epic suddenly found herself blinked into the middle of the street. She blinked, bewildered. She hadn't done that. (In another world, she had.)
Nightwielder's shadowy spear shot straight through her chest. Her eyes widened in fear and horror for a split second, like she had just woken up from a nightmare… and then drained into nothing. The spear retracted. Her body swayed upright for a moment, then hit the ground.
David let out a shaky breath. That was insane. He almost died, and he was still thinking about how cool that was. If anything, a stupid part of him was disappointed the kid died. He wanted to see more of what she could do.
Oh, well. What self-preservation he had left kicked in, and he ran before he caught anyone else's attention. If she hadn't died, he'd be roadkill, and he just had to be grateful for that. Even if something about the girl's death felt off. He could stare at his mobile recordings later.
What David didn't notice was how Firefight's image flickered just a little before she died.
The dimensionalist herself was cursing under her breath. It was stupid. Anyone could've seen that flicker in the illusion.
But she made the stupid, selfless move. Because that was who Megan was. Even when she was being pulled into darkness by a cruel world and a corrupting curse, Megan was kind, and David saw it.
The fourth intersection was in a steel alleyway, the first time they killed an Epic together. The fifth was in a Babilar building, surrounded by overgrown plants. And by that point, they never let each other go again.