Landon Blake was, by every definition of the word, normal. He woke up at 6:30 AM, brushed his teeth with an electric toothbrush that sparked occasionally, microwaved a breakfast burrito that never heated evenly, and sat on his couch in boxers watching news commentary he barely understood. Then he went to his IT help desk job, where he reset passwords for people who didn't know what a browser was.
No fate. No powers. Just a man and his war against broken printers.
It was Saturday. He had one mission. Batteries.
"Double-A. Or maybe Triple-A," he mumbled, staring into the junk drawer like it had betrayed him. "Whatever. I'm not checking. I'll buy both."
He put on his gray hoodie and joggers, slipped into sneakers that squeaked slightly when he walked, and headed toward the convenience store on Pine and Main. Halfway there, he added another objective.
"If they have wasabi peas, it's a sign," he said to no one, then nodded like he'd made a solemn pact with the snack gods.
The streets were calm. Almost suspiciously calm. But Landon was too focused on remembering if he needed dish soap to notice. He reached the crosswalk and glanced up at the pedestrian light.
A delivery truck came screaming around the corner, shaking the pavement. Landon stepped back as it blasted past, the wind from it flapping his hoodie behind him.
"Jeez," he muttered, exhaling. "That was..."
Something hit him from the side like a freight train.
A red blur. A scream. A crunch.
He flew. He hit pavement. He bounced.
"Why is the ground in my lungs?" he groaned.
His ribs ached. His arm bent the wrong way. Blood pooled in his mouth like he'd bitten a ketchup packet. Across the street, the motorcycle that hit him looked totaled. Its rider wasn't moving. Landon wasn't sure if he was either.
The cold started in his chest. Not dramatic cold, just the quiet kind that sneaks up when your body starts shutting down.
"This is so dumb," he thought, blinking slowly. "I didn't even get the batteries..."
Then came a soft ding. Like a notification.
And then, nothing.