January 14, 2004: London Bridge

London, England

8:48 am GMT.

Corban Banks was a lot of things, but he wasn't human.

He also wasn't anyone's son, had natural red hair, burnt far too easily, hated the beach, and, oh, yeah, he had a green thumb.

And not a green thumb like he had an unusual knack for growing lots of flowers in gardens and greenhouses, but like he could actually summon plants and things at will.

Which brings it back to the not-human part.

But other than him, no one knew about his special talents. No one knew that the true reason behind his perfect one hundred in horticulture was actually just the result of his uncanny green thumb-ish abilities.

Joining horticulture in high school was like an inside joke for him, and a way he could actually use his inhuman powers for the greater good.

The greater good being his really, really poor GPA. It was amazing what one class could do to boost one's grades. Corban wasn't the greatest at geometry, or English, or history, or biology, or Latin, or anything...

It'd made foster mum and dad hang their heads in shame. Out of the five foster kids in the hectic apartment, Corban was the forgotten one. He was the one introduced last, where his foster parents would go;

Oh, and that's our newest foster kid, Corban. Yes, that's his natural hair color. Yeah, he is such a brilliant young man, but, boy, the poor kid struggles in school. The tutors didn't help. Homeschool? Hm, maybe. We just don't have that kind of money. Yeah, I know, they just don't train teachers the same nowadays, do they...Oh, sweetie, show Mr. and Mrs. Whoever your cacti collection.

Corban didn't need a translator to spell that out for him. He was unwanted. He wasn't special. He didn't stick out, except for maybe his ginger head. And he liked it fine that way. He wasn't asking for attention.

And, really, he couldn't blame Katy and Ryan Guisner for anything. They were a sweet, young couple and had done a lot for him. But he just didn't fit, which had been the same case for the six other foster families he'd been a part of. And he figured he'd be better off on his own, like he'd done for the past six months of living at a government institute in Carlisle, before the Guisner's took him in.

That was why he was on the train to a London terminal. If he stayed an unwanted foster kid for much longer, Corban was pretty sure he'd shrivel up and die.

So he spent eight weeks saving up money from his minimum wage job at as a cashier to buy a passport, eight weeks hunting for cheap transportation and mapping out a way to Spain.

Why Spain? He didn't know. He just saw a great deal on a plane ticket headed to Madrid.

So, naturally, Corban ran away (well, he walked, because it was winter and he didn't want to slip on ice and die). He left his foster parents' apartment at 1:32 am, careful not to disturb the bunk bed set that contained snoring twins he shared his room with.

He'd left a long, handwritten letter explaining where he was going and why he was leaving, and that it wasn't their fault he was messed up. He told them to give his cacti collection to the twins and had taped his apartment key to the paper. He also left a hundred pounds for all the help they'd been and promised he'd mail them the one grand he had secretly loaned for his journey south.

And at the end he'd signed in scrawly print,

Love,

Your foster kid Corban (the one with the red hair).

They would be mad and worried for sure, but hopefully would forget about it. He knew England's Child Services would be all over Madrid, but he didn't plan to stay for long in the Spanish capital. He only needed to wait two years to turn eighteen and would then be gone from the foster program forever. In two years, the England government would hardly bat their eye at him.

Because he lived just above Carlisle, Corban slept the entire six hours to London. No one questioned the sixteen year old teenager sleeping on the train with only a book bag to burden him.

The ride was smooth, as expected, and he arrived in the midst of London at 8:30 am sharp. As expected.

But what was unexpected was the dark blur that swooped down over the crowd from out his window.

Fire was suddenly everywhere and screams shook the train station. Corban, who'd just woken up and was about to file out of the train, dropped to the ground as someone yelled to take cover.

There's probably just a small fire, he prayed.

He had his hands over his head with his knees tucked in, the way school drills taught students to curl up whenever there was an emergency. The lights in the train flickered out, and he could sense the shuffling of feet and the yells of panic.

Corban stayed low to the train floor.

He kept in his position until he felt the vibration of something big rumble beneath him. A bang sounded soon after. He felt sick to the stomach like he was about to hurl.

Pop!

Pop, pop, pop, pop.

Each bang seemed to grow louder and neared closer. Corban couldn't take it anymore and raised his head to see what commotion went on.

POP!

And then he was being lifted up from under his arms. Someone strong gripped him tight. The floor seemed to give way beneath him, and when he looked down, the train station was meters below. The train he'd taken had erupted into climactic, action-movie flames.

Corban screamed, the only response that seemed appropriate.

He was flying.

And then, suddenly, he wasn't. He was outside of the station. Cold hit his bare face, and his converse sneakers crunched on snow. The popping noise was gone, and the screams had faded. Sirens wailed in the distance. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. London Bridge stood ominously before him. But last he'd checked, he was still about three miles from the tourist landmark.

How did I get out here?

"Go home or find shelter."

A rich female voice woke him from his trance. His rescuer patted him on the shoulder. He turned, and a black woman towered over him.

In the few seconds he saw her, he'd been in awe. Her ebony skin resembled ageless perfection. Pink geraniums had been clipped in her blow out afro, making her look as captivating as a goddess. She wore simple denim jeans and a black coat and menacingly held a white staff in her right hand. Her russet brown eyes shifted anxiously like she was expecting an attack at any moment.

She repeated her words again.

"Go home or find shelter."

But Corban could just stand there. It wasn't just because of her unearthly beauty or the way she stood tense, ready to throw a punch at any who dared her to. Bird wings, large, feathered wings that rippled with the morning wind framed her figure. The massive wings could have enveloped him in complete darkness.

She was contrastingly unimpressed with him, and when she saw he had nothing to say, the beautiful creature turned and her midnight wings carried her onto the breeze.

Something had awakened inside Corban. He could only describe it as hope.

Until now, Corban had always chosen to dismiss his ability. He had always believed he was probably insane, that everything he could do was all a facade his brain had built for him as a result of his extreme lacking in the family department.

The woman that had saved him, she'd looked human, sounded human, felt human. Like him.

But she was something more. And her wings had been proof of that. Maybe he wasn't so alone like he thought.

Maybe he was dead, and she was just some sort of angel, or maybe he was dreaming, or maybe--

Nevertheless, he kept his eyes upward and began to run toward his only lead.

She worked her way downtown, soaring over buildings and gliding slowly downward. The farther away he travelled from the bridge, the more damage he came across. Overturned cars and rubble littered the snowy street, and he could see the white and blue flashing of cop cars and ambulances.

So the terminal hadn't been the only place hit by destruction. This is much bigger than a small fire, he thought.

Two blocks down, people milled about behind caution tape, reporters and news cars on the scene. He could see paramedics getting hurt citizens onto stretchers. Otherwise, the street was abandoned. No one paid any attention to him.

Corban was relieved when she finally landed. Running wasn't his strong suit. He stopped behind the landscaping of a wedding boutique. He felt she might get angry if she saw he hadn't heeded her warning and was stalking her. Corban didn't think it wise to get on her bad side, seeing as he wanted her help.

Besides being completely hopeless at school, Corban also had terrible vision. He wore contacts, but had kept them out so he could peacefully sleep on the train ride. And he hadn't gotten a new prescription in glasses since he was ten. He doubted his Optimus Prime glasses would help him much in his situation.

So Corban watched the woman's blurry figure descend next to two other blurry figures. From what he could tell with his imperfect eyes, they had wings. Or maybe he was seeing double?

I'm probably dreaming, or I'm dead, his pessimistic side reminded him once again.

One by one, the figures shot back into the sky. He watched as the dark skinned woman almost flew past him, then landed one hundred meters away. Corban tried to make himself shrink in case she saw him. But she never did; her focus was primarily on the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen.

It was like someone had taken a vampire and crossed a bat with a human. A werebat vampire. That sounded about right.

Its face and upper body was humanoid, if he dismissed its three sets of eyes and the fangs that protruded from its mouth. It's bottom half was a whole other story. Talons clutched empty air, and it took every ounce of strength in Corban to not ponder what type of blood stained its face and scaly legs. Leathery bat wings kept it hovering over the street. In some sick, twisted way it was Batman.

Nananananananana, Batman.

This isn't funny, he chastised himself.

Though Corban couldn't be sure, he thought Batman and the winged woman were having a conversation. Judging by the woman's deep scowl and the way she poised her staff at the creature, it wasn't going to go anywhere. She looked set on running Batman through with her dangerous stick.

The bat-winged man must've said something the woman didn't like because she shot upward and swung her ivory staff, and the weapon crashed down upon its back.

She'd been aiming for its head, but the creature had jumped away a moment early. It was still a good shot because the crippling blow sent Batman spiraling down to the ground.

Corban himself cringed as snow and dust flew up from the impact of its fall. Ouch. That had to have hurt.

It'd crashed to the ground on its back, a fatal fall had it been human. But the thing was undoubtedly inhuman as it rose in defiance. Its wings twitched, the only sign of the woman's blow.

They advanced again, fire and staff, a clash of wings, evil against good. Corban had never witnessed anything like it, and the way the winged woman moved like each thrust and jab and kick was part of a dance thrilled him.

His powers were pale in comparison to everything about her.

Watching the fight made Corban lose track of his surroundings, like the fact that snow had melted into the soles of his shoes and his socks were soaked, and that a looming shadow stood over him.

"Out of my way, liseteas."

Corban had been pushed before. He'd weaved through anxious crowds and seen his fair share of school bullies that liked to reestablish their reputations from time to time. He had some experience.

But he wasn't prepared for being launched several feet in the air and hitting against a brick wall.

Someone strong had yanked him by the shoulders and literally thrown him out of their way. Someone with an icy grip and a dark accent he couldn't place. Suddenly he was off the ground and in the air. His head clanked into something hard, and the world went black with flaring lights and faraway noises.

Corban couldn't grasp how long he'd been lying on layer of snow above cement. The ground just kept spinning and spinning until he could no longer tell where was up or whether he was standing or laying down.

When his vision seemed to come back, worse now than before, he could only see the world from the ground up. If he squinted, he could make out two figures that crouched near a crashed van barely ten meters away from him.

He rasped, his chest burning like he had to cough but couldn't. His ribs felt as though they'd split into a million specks of dust.

Corban blinked vigorously as his eyes began seeing spots from squinting too long and hard. Try to stand, he told himself. He used the strength left in his limbs to blindly push himself up, one hand on the wall to steady himself.

His brain buzzed like he was on a kind of high, intoxicated in some way. He clasped his arms over his head as it seemed to grow and shrink in size to the point where the throbbing could outmatch his racing heartbeat.

It was awhile before Corban could breathe normally. Whoever had thrown him walked heavily towards the two people that still hid behind the smoking vehicle. He limped slowly towards them, biting his lip as waves of heated pain shot up his left leg.

Getting closer only made him want to turn back in fear.

As if the day could get any crazier. Worse turned to worse.