Chasing Horizons



Chapter Five

DISCLAIMER :: This tale is relative to Captain Marvel from the comics, movies, and television from Marvel Comics and Marvel Studios. There are some glaring differences, so this is a derivative work rather than straight-up fanfiction.


Author's note: Thanks for sticking with me through the COVID debacle, everyone.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hEWjoZ_dUME ))

The carnage was next level. The captives who helped me out informed me it was likely I’d been “leaking” for nearly an hour. One of them offered to get me some clothes and I sent her to my truck to grab my duffel. Inside was a fresh pair of underwear and PT trousers. Another grabbed some pads from the store with a little cash I had in my wallet. The others helped me get the clothes off and clean up. I learned a fun fact: you rinse blood out of clothing with cold water more effectively. The cleanup took a few minutes and reminded me of some battlefield injuries. These girls were as nonchalant about it as any combat hardened veteran. For a group of girls who less than half an hour ago were cowering in the back of a van, they were quite fearless when assisting me.

Everything was cleaned up just in time for the police to arrive on the scene. The first thing I did was surrender the firearm I’d liberated from the first guy I’d taken down. The fact that I was armed did alarm the officers, who promptly raised their own weapons. The de-escalation tactics I learned serving in Iraq actually came in rather handy. I had to reassure them that I didn’t have a weapon of my own before they’d allow me to access my vehicle to surrender my identification. Once I did present ID, there was a whole dog-and-pony show of them trying to determine whether or not my documents were valid. I hadn’t anticipated that, but the MPs at Pendleton had my six. Between my California license, USID, dog tags, and confirmation from the watch at Camp Pendleton, they were able to verify that my documents were not fraudulent.

With that finished, I ran them through a detailed series of events with visual aids as we walked the property. Years of flight training and mission debriefs had taught me to remember details and relay them in an accurate manner. It also helped establish my credibility as a veteran to the officers. The EMTs arrived moments after the police and began treating the injuries I’d caused as well as checking up on the victims. The police would be on the scene for hours after that, collecting evidence.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait that long. After giving my statement and wishing the girls well, I settled into the driver’s seat of my truck. Waking up my phone greeted me with a new text message and three missed calls from Dizzy. The text message was the address of the community center in Boyle Heights. Google stated it would take about forty-five minutes to reach it if I maintained the speed limit. Feasibly, it could be done in half the time if CHP were nowhere to be found. It being just after 2300 made that a possibility. Rolling my eyes, I called Dizzy back.

“What the shit? Why the MIA?” He emphasized his disapproval.

“Some shit went down, okay? Semper Gumby.” I responded.

“You were supposed to grab chow, skate, and get here. What’s the sitrep?”

I started the truck, put it in reverse, did my three-point, and maneuvered back to the interstate. “Don’t worry about it. Ran into some Schmuckatellis and handled shit. I’ll tell you about it later. I’m oscar mike. ETA: twenty minutes to half an hour. Why are you so worked up, Diz?”

“The City of Angels is anything but, Sam. With the way you sound, right now, I can only imagine what you look like. It’s worse than being deployed to Iraq in some places, especially for a cute little thing with nice T&A.”

“Hey! Whoa! Back the fuck off with that shit! I want no further talk about this fuselage, understood? I rescued some girls in the thick of human trafficking and beat the shit out of the guys that held them captive, okay?!”

“Good initiative, bad judgement. You better hope those guys don’t press charges. You’re not in Kansas anymore, Captain. I’ll see you when you get here.”

Why the hell was he being so overbearingly protective and, dare I say, condescending? It’s the topic that occupied the entirety of thoughts in my brain as I drove down I-10 toward the heart of Los Angeles. Whoever called New York “the city that never sleeps” has never seen the LA Basin in the middle of the night with lights as far as the eye can see. I was not surprised to see more traffic volume around me as I got closer to the downtown corridor. There’s not a person on the planet that has lived in a major city and not wondered where all the people in the cars on the road were going so late at night. My route was taking me to a familiar face. The mystery was the kind of stuff that could keep someone up at night. My thoughts wandered back to trying to answer why Dizzy was acting so strange.

Taking the exit on North Soto Street, I turned left as directed and found myself finally in the neighborhood. Though, in Los Angeles, there’s not much difference in the neighborhoods unless you’re talking about Beverly Hills, Hollywood, Rodeo Drive, or Sunset Boulevard. All the same style houses and all the same style businesses. The only real difference was the socio-economic status of the inhabitants. The standout to me was an older gas station with a mechanic’s bay attached and the three-story, half-football-field size building that my GPS was leading me to. The sign on the front façade read “Boyle Heights Latino and Indigenous Community Center”. A single light above the entrance was illuminated on the exterior. There were a few lights seeping through a couple of windows on the second and third floors.

“You have arrived at your destination,” the robotic female voice of my GPS reported.

I rolled my eyes and then scanned the area for somewhere to park my truck. Thankfully, there was a small lot for about fifteen vehicles on the east side of the building. Navigating the truck, I pulled into one of several open spots that wasn’t labeled for disabled parking. The truck was shut down and I grabbed my phone, considering my options. With a sigh, I resolved that coming here was the best thing I had going. I’ve never second-guessed myself this much. Up to now, everything had been predetermined and planned months in advance before I got any orders to do anything. Now, I was on my own to figure out life. To say this was an uncomfortable situation would be putting things lightly. I would have to lock it up and figure it out.

In my go-fasters, PT trousers, undershirt, and bomber jacket with all my morale patches, I resolved to just get inside and see what Dizzy had in store. Having deployed into combat zones so many times, I could practically sleep anywhere. It doesn’t matter to me if it was the back of my truck or the ground somewhere. Generally, fluffy beds most civilians enjoy feel strange. Walking to the entrance, I dialed Dizzy’s number and put the phone to my ear. On impulse, I checked the door – which was, of course, locked. After a couple of rings, Dizzy picked up.

“Hey, Sam. You here?” He wondered.

“Yea, I’m at the front door. I don’t know why I thought it would be unlocked, but I tried anyway.” I admitted.

He chuckled. “Yea, it ain’t gonna be unlocked at night in this neighborhood, hermano. I’ll be there in a minute.”

The line disconnected, prompting me to shrug and stuff my phone in the waist pocket of my jacket. For a few moments, I stood at the door with my eyes downward. The door finally opened to reveal a Hispanic man with a little extra weight in a wheelchair that appeared to be just a year older than me. Well… older than I used to be. His eyes widened the moment he took in my appearance. He squinted when he looked at me.

“Sam?”

Letting out a sigh, I nodded. “Who the fuck else would call you at zero-dark-thirty saying they were on your doorstep?”

He chuckled. “You’d be surprised how many.” He continued to take in my appearance and glance over the morale patches on my jacket. “I’d know that jacket and some of those patches anywhere. I’ve got a few of them, myself.” His eyes finally found their way to mine. “Geezus, Sam. What happened to you?”

My entire face slumped at his question. “If I knew, we’d both be as rich as Lucas Lowen. Something about some space shit that I don’t have clearance for. Can I come in or are you going to gawk at me all night?”

He jerked into action and put his wheelchair in reverse. “Yea, sorry. It’s just…” He stopped once there was sufficient space for me to enter. “This is pretty weird, Sam.”

Crossing the threshold and closing the door behind me, I let out a sigh. “Yea. Tell me about it. I just had some victims of human trafficking teach me how to use a friggin’ maxi pad and found out what ‘shark week’ means.”

His hand shot to his forehead and he smoothed the hair on the top of his head. He quickly exhaled in solidarity. “Oh, that’s one hell of a goat rope, buddy.”

My eyes wandered over the dimly lit space. The entrance room reminded me of a bar without the alcohol and counter. There were couches that had seen some use lining the walls, a few stools, a pool table, and a fifty-inch flatscreen sitting atop a coffee table. A couple of the walls had archways that led into other areas. My voice came across tired and so over all the shit I’d already been through, “No shit.” My eyes returned to his. “Can you show me where I’m bunking so I can grab my gear and hit the rack? It’s been a long day full of all the worst things in life.”

“Feeling like you’re on an op that some butter bar dropped several balls and you don’t have adequate intel?” Dizzy wondered.

“Something like that.” I almost whispered.

He slowly nodded. Without another word, he led me through the “chill” space, through an archway into what I can only describe as a small dining room, down a corridor, and into an elevator. We didn’t share any words in the small metal box as we moved up to the third floor. Dizzy led the way into the corridor once the elevator doors opened again. A few doors down, he pulled a key off his keyring and put in the lock. He opened the door and ushered me inside. The room before me may as well have been a hotel room. There was a full size bed, a minifridge, a single long chest of drawers, a small-ish flat screen television on a mount bolted into the bulkhead, and a microwave. There was an attached and enclosed head with toilet, sink, counter, and bath/shower combo. Once he pointed out the amenities, he handed me the key.

“Keep that for now. I’ve got a copy in my office but that’s for your use.” He instructed me.

The small piece of metal barely registered to my exhausted mind. “Yea. Thanks, Dizzy.”

We both shuffled out of the room. “I changed the linens a couple hours ago. You should be good to go. Anything comes up, let me know.” Out in the corridor, he spun around to face me. “Get some rack time, Marine. We’ll talk in the morning.”

With a nod, I slipped the key into my jacket and opted for the stairs while he took the elevator again. With just a sea bag and a duffel, it didn’t take me long to get all my things up into the room. Finally alone once more, I locked the hatch and gazed about the space while removing my jacket. This space would be good enough for the time being. I slipped out of the go-fasters and set them over near the hatch. Falling onto the bed, I was asleep in no time at all.

The next morning, I arose with the sun. To me, that was “sleeping in”. Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered changing out of the clothes from the night before. The blood seeping out of me had other ideas. The bedding looked like a field hospital cot after the patient was moved to a more advanced medical center and had lost some blood. I was down to my final pair of PT trousers. Letting the trousers and underwear sit in the sink to “soak”, I changed into a fresh pair of both and affixed a pad into my skivvies. Shoving my feet into my go-fasters and letting out a huff did little to quell my irritation over that morning’s events. I exited the room and, eventually, the building itself.

Nobody in the building had been awake. Beginning with the PT that I’d been doing for so long, the morning evolved into a run that served two purposes. The first was of course the exercise I usually benefit from. The second was neighborhood recon. I got a lay of the land as I memorized landmarks so I could actually find the community center again. The problem was the wolf whistles and cat calls. I’d never experienced anything like that before in my life and they were absolutely relentless. I tried everything to ignore them but that just seemed to be received as encouragement. Every part of my mind wanted to be removed from this curvy-ass girly body and put back into the forty-something man body it used to be in. Every fiber of my being hated the predatory looks and lewd flirtations.

After a run that was far shorter than I would have liked, I returned to the community center building ready to tear the balls off of any man that would dare look at me in an unsatisfactory manner. The jury’s still deliberating whether it was hormonally motivated or simply the events along my route. I was barely sweating when opening the door. Inside, a few people had gathered. Dizzy was behind a desk near the entrance. A young woman in her late teens was blowing steam off a fresh cup of coffee. What I interpreted to be a young man lounged on one of the sofas facing the television. A few others were scattered about reading, working on a laptop, or doom scrolling on their phones.

Dizzy looked up from the desk with his “customer service” face on. “Welcome to the…” He stopped as soon as he recognized me. “Oh, hey, Sam. How was PT?”

I growled under my breath. “Unsat. Couldn’t get my full run in.”

He quickly wheeled from behind the desk. “You feelin’ okay? Why couldn’t you do your run?”

My eyebrows scrunched together and my whole face looked as if I was about to start screaming. Instead, I answered quietly. “If another male looks at me or tries to get my attention in a manner that isn’t filled with the utmost respect, I’m going to give them a nice bowtie using their own scrotum.”

The girl with the coffee nearly spilled it as she did something akin to a spit take, then chuckled. Even Dizzy chuckled.

The guy from the couch spoke up. “First time getting cat-called, sweetheart?”

My hands balled into fists and I started advancing on him. Every part of me wanted to punch him in his smug face. What I didn’t notice was my hands and upper arms doing that inner glow thing where you see my veins through almost transparent skin. Dizzy blocked my path very quickly.

“Whoa! Sam!” He then noticed my hands. “¡Mierda! What’s with your hands, man?!”

The eyes of the girl with the coffee shot wide open. “Holy fuck…”

The guy on the couch just scoffed at me.

Dizzy’s stalling tactic worked. I wasn’t going to barrel overtop of him in his wheelchair just to get to the asshat on the couch. He had succeeded in grabbing my attention and I looked down at my hands. As I calmed down, the light dimmed and they returned to normal. There were still many questions about what was really happening to me. I didn’t understand any of these manifestations and there’s a likelihood that someone could get hurt.

“Is that why you got early retirement?” Dizzy snapped me out of my thoughts.

“No. They kicked me out because I turned into this!” I gestured wildly at my body in the shrill voice I’d been bestowed. “They gave me the boot because of that anti-trans military service executive order. That’s it.”

“You’ve got powers, it seems.” The girl with the coffee noted as she sat down on a couch against the far wall. “Are you trans?”

“Of course not! I am…” I gulped back some feelings. “...was a very content 41-year-old man.”

“You got problems with trans people, Koyaanisqatsi?”

Anger flashed on my face once more. “No, I don’t. The US Government does, all the sudden.”

“You only just learned that?”

Dizzy shook his head at me. “Sam, that’s just Rowan. They thrive on chaos. Pay them no heed, okay?”

My head shook for a second. “They?”

The girl with the coffee stood and moved over to me. “Yea, we’re not even sure Rowan’s got the aforementioned scrotum to make a bowtie out of.” She presented a hand. It was only then that I noticed the twin braids hanging from each side of her head. “I’m Bidzii, by the way. Most people around here just call me ‘Busy’ because they can’t pronounce the Diné.”

“Sam.” I stated while I shook her hand out of politeness. Rowan said something in a language I clearly didn’t understand and Bidzii responded in kind. “I take it you’re both Native?”

Bidzii nodded. “Pretty much. I speak Diné, which your colonizer ass might call ‘Navajo’. My grandpa was a ‘Wind Talker’ in World War II. We’re not sure what nation or tribe Rowan belongs to but they speak a shocking number of indigenous languages from all over the southwest.”

“I speak the language of my people. I have many people.” Rowan shrugged.

Everything was starting to feel a little overwhelming. I’m not even sure what gestures I made, but I gestured to convey I’d rather be left alone. “Look, you guys seem fine and all, but I’m gonna hit the head and stand in the rain for a few minutes.”

As I made my way out of the room, I could hear Dizzy translating my military vernacular. They understood I was going upstairs to take a shower. Once back in the room I was so graciously granted, I stood in the shower and washed away the sweat and grime from the morning. I also had to change the freakin’ maxi pad. If I ever get back to myself, I’ll never make fun of anyone menstruating ever again. The bleeding was bad enough. Add in the sensation of your insides tearing apart and reforming every few seconds and it turns into an absolute nightmare.

The reality that I was now completely out of clean PT trousers hit me pretty hard. My mind was searching for what to do next. Idle time during the day wasn’t something I was accustomed to. Though, with it being a weekend, it was more common than during the week. I was already missing my video games. I could use a distraction. However, a random thought came to my mind. I searched my belongings for that card Lt. Col. Cobb had given me. It was a simple, white business card with three lines of text on it: Jocelyn Hogarth, Delgado & Stone LLP, Los Angeles, CA. On the back, there was just a phone number.

With the chance of getting my life and career back, my phone was quickly scooped up and the number dialed. I waited for each ring. One… two… three… four… and then the voicemail message. I really should have known that attorneys are paid enough to not work weekends. My message was simply my name, phone number, and asking for an in-person consultation. It was all I could do for the time being.

At the foot of the bed, I sat and alternated between glancing at my phone and taking in my surroundings. The room generally felt like a hotel room from the 1990s, even if the architecture signaled original construction was probably the late 1940s or early 1950s. There was wallpaper that had a faded yellow color with some kind of flowers and vines on it. The molding around the room was cheap but added a little class. The carpet had seen its best days about thirty years ago. The only things younger than a few years were the fridge, microwave, and television. The bedding on the Queen size bed was nice and fluffy, but the bed seemed huge. It made my new size and shape that much more obvious. Besides, “fluffy” makes me feel weird. Not really much room for that kind of luxury on base for somebody like me who was used to the bare minimum.

The quiet was the most unnerving. There was traffic noise outside dampened by the insulation. There were no sounds of aircraft in this part of town. All the airports were far to the west. Back on base, the only time it was close to this quiet would have been after nightfall, but even then there would still be some aircraft noise. Here, there was almost nothing. All my senses were telling me something was about to happen. Some emergency could emerge at any moment. Thoughts bubbled to the surface of my conscious mind.

It was approaching mid-morning on the 7th of June, 2025. Back in garrison, I’d have done PT with the rest of the squadron first thing in the morning, then moved on to chow. After eating, I’d have gone to my office to check reports. I’d take those reports to the hangar bay to confirm things with the Master Gunnery Sergeant and each unit NCO. If nothing major was needed, I’d probably excuse the maintenance crews for liberty by lunch. After grabbing some chow myself, I’d get back to my BOQ and do a bit of gaming in the afternoon. After more chow then more gaming, I’d hit the rack before starting it all again the next day.

It wasn’t just my career that was gone. It was my routine. It was my sense of purpose. It was my sense of identity. That phenomenon had taken everything from me, including my manhood. I was alone and directionless while sitting in that quiet room in a sports bra, PT shirt, and panties. A lot of details I didn’t want to think about started to flood my conscious mind. The murder scene of sheets demanded attention. Instead of facing any of it, I darted to my seabag, yanked out some cammie trousers, slipped them on, bloused them, grabbed some boots, put them on, and walked out. Call it a tactical retreat, if you wish.

Instead, I decided to gain a tactical understanding of the place I’d found myself in. Dizzy was only too happy to give me a real tour of the place. There was the main room, the dining room, a rather big and impressive galley, and a game room/theater on the ground floor. The second floor was half residential rooms and half meeting spaces that were simply differently decorated hotel rooms. The third floor was nothing but rooms people lived in. Dizzy bought the place in 2009 after the hotel that existed before he got it went under and sold off the assets. He operates the place as a charitable organization and pays the bills with a combination of donations and whatever rent the people in the rooms can hand over. He’s informal about it because, as he said, there’s so many people that just need a place to land so they can stand someday soon. He was a very giving kind of guy. There was a bonus, too: washers and dryers in one of the ground floor rooms. I could do laundry.

There was one thing I noticed as we moved through the building: I was the only person around that appeared to have European ancestors. It was a little jarring to be the one in the minority. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Regardless, I did what I could to try to blend in. Everybody commented on my military attire. I might have been wearing camouflage but I was the furthest thing from invisible in this crowd. There was no blending in. I was suddenly “that girl in the camo”. I’m not even a girl. I just look like one. Sleep didn’t come soon enough.

The next morning, I knew something was off. My PT was fine. I got cat-called again. Even with that going on, that wasn’t what was wrong. I didn’t find out until I got back to the community center what was actually happening. Rowan the Mysterious was at their regular perch in front of the television, but so were several others. All of their eyes were wide in disbelief. Dizzy was at the desk, as usual. My face squinted at the odd behavior in front of the TV before me.

“What’s got their attention like that?” I asked Dizzy without turning my focus away from the group.

He shook his head and responded, “Shit got real. You heard about the raids around town the last couple of weeks?”

“Hell no. I was at Pendleton handling my squadron. I don’t really pay attention to the news. I wait for orders.”

“You probably should break that habit, hermano.” He gestured to the interior of the building. “Usually, there’s a lot of activity in here. Maybe fifty or sixty people at any given time. There’s community organizations that rent the spaces I showed you that just aren’t coming in. Most of the people around here are some variety of Hispanic or Native. They’re brown people, Sam.”

“I’ve seen that. And?”

“ICE happened. They started raiding the neighborhood and rounding people up. There’s a lot of immigrants around here, if you hadn’t noticed. ICE is snatching them off the streets and putting them in subpar cages.”

“It’s Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Dizzy. Did these people break any laws?”

He wanted to stand and smack me. I could see it. “The fuck, Sam?! No, man! The people being rounded up are just people trying to get a job or work for an honest day’s living! This shit ain’t right! People are being rounded up, put in zip tie cuffs, and carted off to nobody knows where!”

I nodded along as he spoke. I may not have fully understood the situation, but I’m not a heartless asshole. “Sounds pretty bad out there. What do the courts say? We’ve got a constitution with checks and balances.”

“This chingada president and his stooges don’t care about any of that, Sam. These ICE clowns are hiding their faces and refusing to identify themselves. They get just a little bit of kickback from protests and Orange Man sends in the National Guard.”

A record scratched in my brain. “Wait… National Guard? For what?”

Dizzy smirked knowing that I was starting to understand. “To defend ICE as they do their shit, hermano. They say it’s to ‘defend federal property’ but that’s a load of bullshit.”

“They’re sending in the National Guard, a military organization, for civilian law enforcement? That’s against Posse Comitatus. They’re literally not allowed to do that and any soldier getting that order should refuse it, as per their oath. The UCMJ will cover their ass because it’s not a lawful order.”

“You'd think there's a chance some might do that, but you'd be wrong. It gets worse. The President can’t nationalize the National Guard without approval from the Governor of the state. El Hombre Naranja didn’t even ask Newsom. He just did it.”

“So, it’s double illegal.” I pointed at the crowd with their faces illuminated by the blue-ish light from the television. “Is that what they’re watching?”

“Yea, it’s been happening since this morning. There’s a huge protest downtown, too. Fucking Hegseth is talking about dispatching marines from The Stumps. Seven hundred of them have ‘make ready’ orders.”

“You’re kidding me?! That’s absolute overkill! That’s definitely not a lawful order! What’s going on downtown, then?! Is it Rodney King all over again?”

Dizzy scoffed. “Hell no. It’s ninety-eight percent peaceful. A few people doing stupid shit, but nothing lethal. As usual, LAPD is overreacting, too. It’s nuts downtown.”

It was my turn to nod in understanding. “Oh, so they’re escalating because it’s a show of force. It’s not enough to have the National Guard in town. Calling in Marines sends a message and it’s not the right one. Were I the officer with orders like that, I’d tell them to stuff the shit back down their throats. I wouldn’t allow my Marines to compromise their oath. It opens them up to a can of worms they are not prepared for. I’d also probably spend the rest of my days in Leavenworth once someone with sense got elected to the presidency again for following an order like that.”

“That’s why you’re a good officer, Sam. I’m not so sure about the guys at The Stumps. Maybe they voted for the moron. You remember your time as a zero-three-eleven, right? It’s not a thinking man’s MOS. This is a whole new level of stupid.”

“It’s not right, Diz. It’s not okay, either. It’s friggin’ unsat.”

“We can’t do anything about it, though, Sam. I’m a cripple. You got retired but you’re probably in the reserve lists. We’ve got no supply and no reinforcements. Going in like this would be an idiot’s gambit.”

“You’re probably right. I don’t know. Let me gather some intel.”

We parted and I sat with the group watching the news reports from downtown. All I saw was a bunch of protestors practicing their First Amendment rights to speech and assembly, not to mention a redress of grievances. From what I could tell, the intended purpose was to make it next to impossible for ICE to move their vehicles from the federal building out into the community. The protestors were protecting the people ICE wanted to target. It was infuriating to watch the National Guard with their riot shields push protestors back to allow for entry and exit of ICE vehicles. While they did that, federal officers fired tear gas canisters into the crowd in an effort to get them to disperse. The tactics were harsh and indiscriminate. I shared the anger of those gathered with me on those couches.

Dizzy was right, though. There was nothing we could do but watch. I hate feeling helpless.

Over the course of the next few days, I started to develop a rhythm. I’d execute my PT in the morning, come back inside for news updates, eat something, more news, more chow, more news until chow time in the evening, and go to bed. That was my whole day. In the course of that, I was starting to learn about the people around me. Mostly Rowan and Bidzii, though. Rowan was an odd one. Bidzii was much more upbeat. Between them and Dizzy, I was getting a crash course in the life of a Hispanic or indigenous person in the United States in 2025. When I’d take my run, I noticed fewer people were out in the street or their yards. They feared the raids. When the Marines were actually deployed to Los Angeles, I lost my mind. I had to excuse myself and go to the parking lot to cool off. My hands were doing that glowing thing and, occasionally, the yellow St. Elmo’s fire came back.

Watching the protests was starting to feel like some kind of spectator sport around the community center. There was popcorn and drinks for all, non-alcoholic of course. It had barely felt like I’d been there for a week when the big protest came. The “No Kings” march was planned nationwide. Nobody really knew how big it was going to be but people were pissed off enough that it might break a record or two. There were twelve of us gathered around the television area. Some had their phones out. On the TV, we kept the coverage to Los Angeles. On the phones, people were tracking several other major cities. The amount of people involved in this nationwide call to action was awe-inspiring. So, naturally, we cut the tension by trying to be the one to point out the funniest protest sign.

The game was interrupted by someone calling out, “Holy shit, you guys! It’s her!”

There was a scuffle over the TV remote while many of us tried to read each other’s confused expressions. The one that had called out finally changed the channel to the appropriate coverage. On the screen was a scene of Chicago, Illinois. The protest procession had ended but there were still a number of people around. They were all looking at the same spectacle. Right in front of our faces was some brunette wearing a blue suit with red trucks, boots, and cape and accented by a yellow belt as well as accents on the hems. She was… floating. As if the news commentators could read our minds, they began to speak.

“What you’re seeing here, ladies and gentlemen,” The anchor began, “is a shot from our news chopper in downtown Chicago. What you’re seeing is right in The Loop on West Ida B. Wells Drive in downtown Chicago. It’s right outside the ICE facility. That floating girl is someone seen around Chicagoland as of late. We’ve been calling her the ‘Windy City Wonder’ at the station. She hasn’t given anyone a name. We can’t begin to speculate what she’s doing, right now. We do have someone on the ground but they’re setting up in that mass of people somewhere.”

Before they could say much more, the figure zipped over to a guy using a mic for a loudspeaker. Just like that. In less than the blink of an eye, she’d gone from hovering to getting into the face of some guy in a uniform I didn’t recognize. I had never seen anyone move like that. Everybody else was in as much awe as me. From the lower part of the screen, another guy in the same style uniform pulled out a taser and fired toward the girl in the suit and cape. It bounced off.

“It would seem that these agents, who we have identified as employees of American Vanguard Solutions, are attempting to subdue the ‘Windy City Wonder’ in some way.”

Another guy came out of nowhere with a different weapon and fired. The girl in the cape was wrapped up in some kind of metallic net. Arcs of electricity could be seen on the TV. The people around me were gasping. I was still trying to figure out what was actually going on. Then, the girl tore through the net like it was wet paper. That shouldn’t be possible. Her head started darting around her surroundings. Then, she moved again. In the blink of an eye she’d traveled more than fifty feet. She lifted her arm like a hammer, brought it down, and bisected the front end of an MRAP like a hot knife through butter.

“Oh, my word! Did she just slice a police-grade armored personnel carrier with her arm? Sorry, folks. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing.”

She turned to the AVS agents with her eyes glowing red. I finally got a look at her face and I could swear the blood left my own face. I knew her.

“Hannah?” was the only thing I could vocalize.