Severed Immortality

  I arrange for them to meet in an abandoned warehouse. Classic villain shit, but it works. Old habits die hard.

  Five of them stand around a rusted metal table I dragged from God knows where, eyeing each other like street dogs circling the same scrap of meat. They've got that look—the one people get when they've seen reality peel its skin back and show what's underneath. When they've watched physics take a coffee break and leave chaos in charge.

  Waylan Cole stares at his own hands like they might turn into something else if he blinks. Which they might. Since the Parallax Event, his fingers paint reality instead of canvas. The air around him ripples like heat off asphalt. His family died when his powers first manifested. Turned their bones to glass. Left him alive to remember. He scratches at a half-finished canvas leaning against the wall, images shifting and morphing as his fingers dance near the surface without touching it.

  Starla—Alexandra Clark before her vocal cords learned to kill—stands apart from the others. Smart move. Her whispers can shatter eardrums. Her screams liquefy brains. Forty-three dead at her last concert when she hit a note that resonated with people's gray matter. She hasn't spoken above a murmur since. Her fingers trace the silver vocal dampener at her throat, eyes darting between exits like she's calculating escape routes.

  SCAN—James Rogers before the Event—twitches like his skin's too small. His eyes move too fast, processing information at speeds that make his nose bleed. Government turned him into a living intelligence database until he escaped. Now he's got a vendetta and data that could start wars. Red-rimmed eyes constantly scanning, categorizing, a human algorithm running too hot for its hardware.

  Maxwell Albright hangs back in the shadows with me, arms crossed over an expensive suit that's seen better days. Crime boss. Opportunist. Grandson of an old friend I failed decades ago. He's the only one without powers—makes up for it with influence, connections, and a moral compass that points straight to profit.

  "So when is this Marionette supposed to show up?" SCAN asks, eyes never stopping their frantic dance across the room. "I've heard stories. The ghost who pulls the strings behind half the political scandals in Star City. Some say he's been around for centuries, that he can't be killed. Others think he's just a myth the crime syndicates made up to scare each other."

  Waylan shifts uncomfortably. "I heard he can steal your powers just by looking at you. That he's collected abilities from dozens of the Parallax-affected."

  "I heard he killed the mayor's entire security detail without leaving a single mark on them," Starla whispers, the sound barely audible yet carrying perfectly. "Made them kill each other with their own weapons while he watched."

  Maxwell steps forward, smiling thinly. "The stories aren't even half of it. The Marionette's influence extends deeper than any of you realize. Government officials, corporate boards, underground networks—strings connect them all. And he's the one who pulls them."

  "So where is he?" Waylan demands, nervous energy crackling around his fingertips.

  "I'm already here," I say, stepping from the shadows alongside Maxwell. "I've been here the whole time. Didn't want to reveal myself until we were all here. You can call me The Marionette, and this is my partner, Maxwell."

  Their faces show the usual mix—fear, curiosity, desperation. Good. I need desperate people. People with nothing left to lose make the best puppets.

  "You all were brought here because you are all tied together by a single event," I continue, my strings dancing lazily around me, weaker than they once were but still deadly. "The Parallax Event." I tell them how their abilities had been awakened due to the event, and how it had caused their lives to spiral out of control.

  Starla's eyes narrow. "We know what happened to us. Get to the point." Her whisper carries perfectly, touching my eardrums like razor blades dipped in honey.

  I smile. All teeth, no warmth. "The point is Starstruck. Led by the one you know as Starkid. He is the reason for your pain."

  Maxwell steps forward. "Starstruck presents themselves as the saviors of humanity while reality unravels around us. The Parallax Event changed everything, and they positioned themselves as the only solution." He laughs, the sound like gravel in a washing machine. "But they're making decisions for everyone else, enforcing their vision of order while the rest of us are left to deal with the consequences."

  "I tried to join them," SCAN interjects, a muscle twitching under his left eye. "After the Parallax changed me. Thought I could use my abilities to help people." His eyes flicker with data streams only he can see. "They rejected me. Said my mind processed information too chaotically, that I was a 'liability' on field operations." Bitterness seeps into his voice. "So instead of letting me help, they offered to 'monitor' me. Keep tabs on my movements, my abilities. When I refused and walked out, they classified me as 'uncooperative.' Now I can't even get near a government building without alarms going off."

  Waylan looks up from his canvas where he's been painting something that warps the air around it. "My brother was in Upper Star City when Starkid fought that energy absorber. The Conductor, they called him." His fingers trace patterns in the air, reality rippling around them. "Twenty-three civilians dead in the crossfire. Just collateral damage in their heroic narrative." The bitterness in his voice is thick enough to cut with a knife. "Starstruck held a memorial service. Gave speeches about necessary sacrifices. Easy for them to say when they weren't the ones sacrificing." His hands clench, distorting the air around them. "What gives them the right to decide whose lives are expendable in their fight?"

  Starla nods, her eyes hard as diamonds. "Waylan is right. We didn't ask for these powers. Didn't ask to have our lives turned upside down. But now that we have them, maybe it's time we use them to shape the world as we see fit."

  Maxwell leans against a wall, arms crossed. "I agree with Waylan and Starla. The world we knew is gone, and it's up to us to carve out a new path. Starkid and his band of misfits may have good intentions, but they don't understand the realities of this world. We do."

  "We have a chance to make everything right," I say, watching my strings cut idle patterns in stale warehouse air. "Change the world for the better." I tell them that I would reveal the truth behind the Parallax Event and give them a chance to be the heroes they always wanted to be.

  "Our first mission involves a 14-year-old boy with reality manipulation abilities," I explain. "The government is currently holding him in a secret facility. His abilities are said to be similar to Starkid's, making him a powerful reality manipulator. Our first mission is to locate and help him."

  Waylan looks up from his sketchbook, his curiosity piqued. "That's a bold move, breaking into a government facility. But if this kid's powers are as potent as you say, then I can see why he's so important."

  I lean forward, my voice low and serious. "This boy's powers could be a game-changer in our battle against Starstruck. It's crucial that we reach him before they do."

  Starla raises an eyebrow, her interest clearly piqued. "I'm all for helping the kid, but are we really ready to take on the government? That seems like a big step, especially for our first mission."

  Maxwell chimes in, "We have no choice. If Starstruck gets their hands on him, it could tip the scales in their favor. We need to act quickly and decisively."

  SCAN nods in agreement. "Besides, we're not exactly pushovers ourselves. If we work together and use our abilities wisely, we have a shot at pulling this off."

  Waylan smirks and flexes his fingers, letting a small whirlwind form around them. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I didn't sign up for this team to play it safe, anyway."

  They exchange glances, weighing options against desperation. Measuring trust against need.

  Starla breaks first. "Alright, I'm in. Let's do this."

  "So what do we got to do?" she asks, her whisper carrying anticipation like static before a storm.

  *****

  Defeat is something I never take well. After losing Dredsen, resting simply is not an option until I at least try to save him from the void. I’m the reason why he is there to begin with. The most logical step is to visit the person who made this all happen, Melek. However, as I approach his home in Star City, still recovering from the battle with the twins, I can tell something is off.

  The first thing you notice about failure is that it smells like copper. Like blood left too long in the sun. The scent hits me before I even open Melek's door—the unmistakable stench of immortal blood spilled where it shouldn't be.

  My strings sharpen reflexively, but they're shadows of what they once were. A century of political puppeteering instead of power theft has left them weak, hungry. They writhe in anticipation anyway, tasting copper and wrongness in the air. The sound of struggle comes from inside. Something crashes. Glass shatters. A scream chokes off into wet gurgling. I don't knock. My strings cut through the lock like it's made of warm butter. The door swings inward to reveal a scene from nightmares even immortals have.

  The interior of Melek's brownstone looks like a slaughterhouse for rare books. Ancient texts torn to confetti. Artifacts older than written history shattered across hardwood floors. Blood paints abstract art on walls covered in quantum equations. In the center of the chaos, Melek lies pinned to his floor by a blade that shouldn't exist. Black metal that drinks light instead of reflecting it. The edge hums with wrongness, vibrating at frequencies that make reality uncomfortable. The weapon pierces his chest, impaling him to the floorboards.

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  Above him stands a woman with eyes like dying stars. Tall, lean, with skin the color of burnished copper. Her hair falls in tight braids that end in small metal beads, each one carved with symbols that hurt to look at directly. She wears clothing that seems to shift between functional combat gear and ceremonial robes, depending on how the light hits it.

  "Finish it," Melek gasps, blood bubbling between lips that haven't aged in decades. "If you're going to kill me, finish the job."

  The woman twists the black blade. The sound it makes isn't metal against flesh. It's reality tearing at the edges.

  "I need to know it works first," she replies, voice carrying harmonics that make my teeth ache. "I need to see if immortality can truly bleed out."

  My strings move before conscious thought. They erupt from my hands like striking serpents, each one aimed at vital points—throat, eyes, wrists. The attack should separate her head from her shoulders, should turn her into bloody confetti before she realizes I'm here. She moves like water in zero gravity. The black blade whips up to intercept, cutting through three of my strings like they're made of smoke. The severed ends don't dissolve like I expect. They bleed. Actually fucking bleed.

  My strings have never bled before. Not even when the twins tested the limits of my stolen powers. Seeing their black essence drip onto hardwood floors sends ice through immortal veins that haven't known fear in centuries.

  Ishra turns, eyes widening fractionally in surprise. "The Marionette." My name in her mouth sounds like prophecy. Like she's been expecting me for longer than I've been alive. "You're early."

  I launch another attack, more strings, more angles. Lightning arcs between them—the last dregs of Maelstrom's stolen power that still responds reliably. Enough electricity to turn a normal human into charred meat.

  Her blade moves in patterns that mathematics hasn't invented names for yet. Each swing severs connections that shouldn't be severable. Each cut bleeds black essence onto the floor. My strings scream—an alien sensation that nearly brings me to my knees.

  "What the fuck is that thing?" I snarl, redirecting my remaining strings to pull furniture, books, anything heavy enough to slow her down.

  The woman dances through the barrage like it's choreographed. The blade flashes, cutting reality itself, opening momentary gaps in physics that swallow my projectiles.

  "The Severer," she replies, something like respect flickering across her features. "Forged between dimensions. In spaces where your stolen powers are just parlor tricks."

  She lunges forward, blade singing through air molecules that part around its edge rather than touching it. I barely dodge, feeling it pass close enough to make my immortal skin crawl. Where it cuts space, reality bleeds light for microseconds before sealing again.

  "I don't have time for this," she mutters, seemingly to herself. Her free hand reaches into a pouch at her waist, withdrawing an object that pulses with familiar energy—a quantum device similar to the one Melek gave me, the one Dresden used to tear reality open.

  My strings surge forward, desperate to claim it, to seize any connection to my lost son. She anticipates, blade flashing to intercept. More strings bleed black essence onto already-stained floors.

  "I got what I needed," she says, stepping backward toward a wall that ripples like disturbed water. "Tell him the blade's poison will fade if he survives the night. And, if you are smart, you leave this alone... this is not your battle." The last words carry weight beyond their meaning, significance I can't decipher.

  Before I can respond, she steps backward into the rippling wall. Reality folds around her like origami, sealing as if she was never there. The quantum device disappears with her, its pulsing energy signature fading to nothing.

  Melek's rattling breath pulls my attention back to immediate concerns. He lies on the floor, the wound in his chest oozing blood that shouldn't be flowing. The immortality I gave him decades ago should have sealed it instantly. Should have made this impossible.

  "Didn't expect... to see you again," he manages between bloody coughs. "Not for... another century... at least."

  I kneel beside him, strings carefully probing the wound. They recoil from whatever residue the black blade left behind—something caustic to immortal essence. "What happened? Who was she? What was that blade?"

  Melek laughs, the sound wet with blood. "So many... questions..." He tries to sit up, fails. "Help me... to the couch."

  I lift him carefully, noting how light he feels. How fragile. This isn't the immortal who fought marauders beside me, who moved like mercury and cut reality with quantum edges. This is an old man bleeding out on expensive hardwood.

  "Ishra..." Melek gasps once settled, hand pressed against the wound that refuses to close.

  I frown, tasting the unfamiliar name. "The woman with the blade?"

  He nods weakly. "Weapon... collector. The quantum... device... like the one I gave you. She took... all of them. My last reserves."

  "What does she want with quantum devices?" My strings coil protectively around us both, tasting the air for lingering presence.

  "To build... more weapons." Melek's hand presses against the wound that refuses to heal. "The blade... forged from quantum material... from spaces between... spaces. Where physics... breaks down and rebuilds itself."

  "A blade that cuts immortality itself." My strings dance nervously, memories of their severed ends still bleeding black essence onto the floor. "That prevents healing."

  "Exactly." His eyes drift to the severed strings still leaking black essence. "She has no powers... just weapons... built from interdimensional... quantum material. More dangerous... than any power thief."

  "Why did she let you live?" I ask, searching for something to staunch the wound. Nothing works—the injury seems to reject intervention, refuses to clot or close.

  Melek's laugh turns into a coughing fit that paints his lips fresher red. "She doesn’t want me, only my technology. I don’t know what her ultimate goal is but she is messing with powerful energy."

  The name "Umbras" flashes through my mind—the ancient entities that predate reality itself. The beings that the twins sought to control through my daughter's unique consciousness.

  "With your quantum materials gone, how do I find Dresden?" I demand, frustration building.

  “Always making it about yourself,” Melek coughs and laughs at the same time. “I told you that device I made was a one way trip.”

  Anger flashes in my eyes,”There has to be some way to help him.”

  “There is always a way, you just might have tom make some choices,” Melek smirks.

  I shake my head in frustration, “I’ll do what I need to do when the time comes.”

  "Fine…" Melek whispers, the words barely audible. "Go to... my son."

  For a moment, I think I've misheard. "Your son? You have a child?"

  A bitter smile crosses his bloodied lips. "Everyone has... secrets... Puppet Master. Even me."

  My mind races through decades of friendship, of betrayal, of distance. Melek never mentioned a child. Never hinted at family beyond our street brotherhood.

  "How old?" I ask, recalculating timelines, possibilities.

  "Seventy-five," he replies. "Born after... you left Star City. After you... forced immortality on me. Before the radiation... would have made it... impossible."

  Guilt mixes with surprise. I had saved Melek from radiation poisoning by transferring a fragment of Chronos's immortality. Had never considered the consequences beyond preserving his life.

  "Where is he?" I ask, already knowing I'll go. Already feeling the pull of purpose that has eluded me for decades.

  Melek reaches into his robe with trembling fingers, withdraws a small metal disk that pulses with quantum energy. "Coordinates... here. And this..." He presses a second object into my palm—a pendant on a chain, its surface inscribed with equations that shift and change as I watch. "Give him this. Tell him... I'm sorry. For everything."

  The pendant feels heavy with more than physical weight. Heavy with legacy, with regret, with choices that can't be unmade.

  "What is it?" My strings probe the object carefully, tasting quantum resonance that reminds me of Dresden's unique signature.

  "Family... heirloom. It might be able to help you."

  I close my fist around the pendant, feeling its energy pulse in sync with weakened strings. A sense of understanding hits me. "This can bring him back. Bring them back."

  "Not alone," Melek corrects, eyes growing distant again. "Needs... compatible operator. Needs... my son. Roth."

  "Roth," I repeat, committing the name to memory. "Why would he help me? Why would he help the man who saved his father, only to make him watch everyone else age and die?"

  Melek's laugh is barely a wheeze now. "You have a lot more in common than you think.”

  Understanding dawns slowly, painfully.

  "Go. Find... Roth." He whispers. "Give him... the pendant. It's... important."

  I feel the pull of rage, of vengeance. "I'm going after Ishra first. I'll get those quantum devices back."

  Melek's hand clutches my wrist with surprising strength. "No. She's... too dangerous. Even for you. The pendant... to Roth... first. Promise me. At least do that before you get killed."

  His intensity surprises me. Whatever this pendant means, it matters more to him than revenge.

  "I promise," I say, not entirely meaning it. I can deliver the pendant and still hunt Ishra afterward.

  As if reading my thoughts, he adds: "Roth first... Ishra will... find you... soon enough."

  "What about you? The blade's poison—"

  "Will fade... or it won't." His eyes open one last time, meeting mine with something like peace. "We both know... I should have died... decades ago. Your gift... was also a curse."

  Guilt surfaces again, unwelcome and unfamiliar. "I was trying to save you."

  "I know." His smile holds genuine affection now. "That was... always your problem. Saving people... your way. Whether they... wanted it or not."

  The truth cuts deeper than Ishra's blade ever could. How many lives have I changed without consent? How many destinies altered because I knew better? Aahan's warning echoes across decades: Without control, you're nothing but a weapon waiting to backfire.

  "I'll find your son," I promise, pocketing both disk and pendant. "I'll deliver your message."

  My strings dance with violent certainty as I add silently to myself: And then I'll hunt Ishra down and take back those quantum devices.

  "Follow... my wishes... this time," Melek wheezes, eyes closing again. "The puppet master... pulling new strings."

  I turn to leave, pausing at the doorway for one last look at the man who was once my only friend. Immortal no longer, bleeding mortality onto a couch older than most countries. The reality of loss—of permanent, irreversible loss—feels alien after centuries of stolen regeneration.

  "Goodbye, old friend," I whisper, words meant more for myself than for him.

  As I step into Star City's neon night, coordinates clutched in one hand and quantum pendant in the other, my strings taste purpose in the polluted air. Taste connection. Taste hope. Taste vengeance.

  I will find Melek's son. Deliver the pendant. Keep my promise.

  And then I'll find Ishra. Take back those quantum devices. Make her pay for what she's done.

  A puppet master knows that…

  There’s a price to pay for pulling the wrong strings.