THREE MONTHS LATER. Yeah, I shit you not. That’s how long it takes us to work our way out of Titan’s nightmare Dreamtime pocket universe and back to our home parallel. Might even tell you about it some time once I can get the words to describe it or the craw out of the back of my throat.

It’s Autumn. Late Autumn.

Atlantic Cityis a grey frieze in a chilly rain. We materialise courtesy of the Orb in New Central Park, transplanted sycamores shrouding us from a kindergarten group in full-body puffer suits being walked on leashes by underpaid, disgruntled-looking young madams with a craving for their next brace of freshly caught cronuts.

The six of us who emerge are not the same people we were before the Prime Titan’s fantabulous Dreamtime device plucked us from the jaws of death athwart a space station trapped in an entropic orbit. Or at least our costumes are in worse shape. The Prime himself, still somehow alive despite the many temptations to the contrary, looks at me holding the Orb. Holds out his hand. He wears a thick ragged cloak and his hair is unkempt, his beard as long as mine but darker still. Blue eyes more like granite as they pick over me, sucking on his teeth in that annoying habit of his as the reality of our bargain sinks in. I reluctantly hand him the Orb. I don’t have it in me to fight him for it any more.

“Such is life,” he intones.

With the barest motion he does the crouch thing and hurtles away into ignominy.

I would say something, but I am as much a party to this pact with the Devil as anyone else in the group: Raveness with her preternaturally fast-growing hair down to her waist, a rope clinching the armatii-hide cave girl outfit; Negator in the vaguest shreds of his once-so-stylish costume, the mask long-abandoned and revealing the boyish, sandy-stubbled face the ex-villain spent half-a-lifetime loathing for the strength of character it promised, but had hitherto never delivered; Tragedian in shredded robes as always, however much they have been recycled time and time again throughout our journey; and my old friend the Pal-mart Punisher, naked but for a loincloth, the hardened resolve of the battle-forged protagonist now etched on his still healing face.

“If we can get to the Wallachians, I can get you some treatment for that,” I tell him, tired from playing Mother Hen so long, the role never a comfortable fit. “You shouldn’t have scarring.”

“I’m not worried about it,” Travis says.

I nod. Aware of Raveness breathing hot on the back of my neck. It might be pleasant in the chill air if it was coming from anyone else.

“Well?” I say to her. “We’re home. You might want to let me get some sleep and a decent breakfast, but here’s as good a time as you’re going to have if you want to come at me.”

The statuesque villainess gives a snort. Imperious somehow despite the forever feral glint to not just her eyes, but her razor-sharp canines gently plucking at her absurdly ripe lips. In that moment I don’t know if she’s going to tear me apart or fuck me, and I don’t think I’m alone. Travis and Negator look away uncomfortably, the Tragedian wandering off into the park like a homeless guy.

Raveness inhales my scent like she’s filing it away for future reference. In a sudden switch of mood – changes to which I am no stranger, courtesy to the recent weeks – she gives a sly grin and winks at me.

“You’ll keep.”

And she bounds away among the trees before any of us have the good conscience to try and re-apprehend her.

“What now?” Negator asks.

“That’s a good question for you,” I say to him, turning from watching Raveness’ shapely buttocks vanishing into a thicket, something grotesque yet undeniably erotic about the giant-sized woman, like a plus-size model on steroids.

Negator nods, dragging fingers through overlong hair to even more resemble the surfie dude he loathes. I offer him my hand and we shake, strong eye contact, nothing too gay as he turns and walks away into the quietening day.

I PULL THE Enercom phone from my utility belt, pleased as always to see the low-lying magnetic field about my body keeps it charged. Reception is good as Travis and I leave the trees behind us, getting onto a path that leads to steps up to the top of a public amphitheatre from which we can see the immediate skyline, no towering columns of black smoke, civilians around us enjoying the brisk day, a midweek vibe, only a few hurried glances at me looking filthy, and of course the underwear model beside me.

The phone rings out as I stare across the scene, Travis slow-breathing at my side, quite the Tarzan now thanks to our adventures. Everything looks just too fucking normal. When Tessa doesn’t answer, I hang up and snag a passing hardbody.

“Hey, what happened to the city? I thought we were overrun by bad guys?”

“Bad guys?” she asks me and squints, eyes me up and down quickly, smiles at Travis and disappears into the flow past a hotdog cart.

“You talkin’ about all those Titan guys?” the vendor calls to us, casual, one eye still on the makings of a hand-rolled cigarette.

“Glad to know someone remembers what I’m talking about,” I say, swaggering over and trying not to drool at the smell of chilli sauce and onions. “We’ve been out of the loop. Not sure if you recognise me –”

“Yeah, you’re Zephyr,” the guy says with the casual welcomingly air of someone who hasn’t had his mind mysteriously wiped or certain elements of our existences burned from the parallel around us. He shrugs, adjusts the position of a pair of tongs and he scans about looking for anyone other than me with a hankering for a Sabret. “You saved a kid in my kid’s class once. Burning school bus.”

“Groovy,” I say. “What can you tell me about the Titan situation?”

“Gotta cast my mind back. You look hungry. Want something?”

“I’m sorta broke right now,” I say.

“Hey, help yourself. Treat your boyfriend too.”

“He’s not my boyfriend –”

“Figure of speech. What are you, one of them homophobios?”

“I don’t . . . think that’s a word,” I say, pausing only long enough to assert that fact before I do as the man suggested and start putting together something to eat with the frenetic lack of skills one finds in the famished unprofessional.

Travis angles in to share the kill and we jostle shoulders as the kindly vendor watches us with bemusement.

“Good fuckin’ advertisement,” he smirks.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Not you. Him,” he says. “You look like shit, Zeph. What happened to your costume?”

“This actually is my costume,” I say between wolfing mouthfuls. “Apparently this is the colour black leather turns when exposed to Taur-gammion dragon puke.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“You don’t want to,” Travis tells him.

We share a smirk. No high-fives.

“Titan?” I prompt the vendor.

“Yeah those British supers turned up, cleaned the whole country out. Weeks ago now,” the old guy says.

“Sting? St George?”

“That’s them.”

“Shit.”

“Did you hear anything about the international space station. . . ?” Travis asks.

“Wait a minute,” the vendor pauses, tuning into the ex-Punisher’s accent. “Are you Steve Irwin?”

“In what universe do you think Steve Irwin is that buff?” I ask, aware of the returning homoerotic subtext.

“Meh,” the vendor says. “I always like Steve Irwin, you know, before he got into politics.”

I sigh, take another dog and nod my thanks. Travis wanders after me.

“You must get sick of that,” I say.

“Not really. People inAtlantic Citydon’t normally give a shit where you come from,” he says, finishing eating, eyes always playing at the perimeter of our surroundings like we’ve all learnt to do, dealing with hostile environments that only want to kill us.

“I think we can step down,” I say to him. “Home. At least home for me.”

Travis and I shake hands, his time for departure nigh. He doesn’t know what he’s doing and neither do I, but there is a peace about him that never existed before, an ironic gift of our near-death experience. I wish him well and he disappears, anonymous in the crowd.

And then the Enercom phone rings and it’s my daughter and she’s ecstatic to hear from me, to learn I’m still alive, and just moments later the Wallachian’s Fortress is unfolding itself across from the artificial lake and we alight and after a teary homecoming, sleep beckons, dark and endless.

Zephyr 15.1 “Into The Quietening Day” is a post from: Zephyr - a webcomic in prose