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Micro God

How long has it been?

Richard Clarke aimlessly wandered the streets of downtown Detroit. Derelict buildings towered above him on all sides. He looked at home in the dismal setting with his wrinkled trench coat and days old beard. He hadn’t showered in almost a week and his short disheveled hair showed it. However, despite his poor hygiene, any passerby would have sworn he smelled like a freshly cut lawn. Clarke chose the smell since it was one of the few things left that made him feel anything.

Has it been another year already? Or two? I didn’t skip last year, did I?

Time was a concept he understood far better than the average person, yet had little need for. Every year on August 2nd, he would buy a bottle of wine, drink several mouthfuls, then pour the rest down a gutter in the street. It was the only anniversary he bothered to keep. Even his own birthday was little more than a day of the year.

Clarke pulled out an old calendar from one of his pockets. Half the days of June were marked out with big black X’s. He began scratching out the days of another week, paused, then crumpled the whole month and dropped it on the ground. With a grunt, he shoved the calendar back into his pocket, unsure if he even had the right year anymore.

The further into town Clarke walked, the worse the city looked. Soon, he came to the abandoned sections, where there was plywood in every window that wasn’t a shattered ruin, and the only inhabitants were junkies. Trash piled up by the buildings, some of it in bags, most of it spilling out onto the streets. Even with ten years of cleansing, the grime and muck would likely remain.

The destitute remains of the city were an ugly sight, but Clarke knew he was getting close to his goal. The target had to be somewhere nearby. As a personal rule, Clarke always tried to do good deeds every month. He had a quota that he liked to reach, though whether or not he reached it didn’t matter much to him. He didn’t expect the quota to do much good for him. It never did.

One more turn lead him down a dark alley. Trash lined the corners, coating the brick walls with stinking garbage. Shadows covered everything up to the roofs. Clarke couldn’t see anything at first, but one shadow moved against another and caught his attention. He walked in, interrupting a drug deal. Three gangsters looked up, standing tall over a small, thin man.

“Hey, who the hell are you?” a gangster wearing a bandana asked. He was the tallest of the three and had a muscular physique. Clarke assumed that when the man wasn’t selling drugs or intimidating people for fun, he spent time working out.

“Some white boy lookin’ to die,” the second gangster said, pulling out a switchblade. He didn’t have a shirt on, but he was covered in tattoos.

“‘Chu think you’re doin’, ol’ man,” the third gangster threatened. He wore a white wife beater and a backwards cap. He pulled a small handgun out from the back of his waistline and aimed it at Clarke, holding it sideways.

Clarke didn’t bother saying a word. He took two steps forward, taunting the gangsters’ authority. When they saw his bored expression, their rage and surprise hit instantaneously. The junkie buying drugs took one look at the elevating emotions, dropped his money and ran. He wanted to avoid a gunfight more than he wanted to get high. He left the alley, knocking over a trashcan as he ran deeper between the buildings, away from Clarke.

“The fuck is wrong with you?!?” the first gangster asked. “You gettin’ in my business?”

“Your business exploits the weak and kills them,” Clarke said. His voice was crisp and he spoke with a soft British accent. “This world would be better done without you.”

“Man, fuck you, man!” the third gangster said. He pulled the trigger and let loose three shots aimed for Clarke’s chest. They were accurate enough, streaming for his lungs and stomach, but Clarke didn’t feel like dying just then. Not to stooges like this anyway. He flexed his hand and for a moment, the air around him shined. Most people wouldn’t have had time to dodge, much less react like he did, but Clarke had been shot at so many times that this was just reflex for him.

When the bullets all came within his range, five feet out from his body, the magic happened. The bullets slowed almost instantly, then quickly folded open. Layers of metal bent and twisted at Clarke’s will and transformed. Sections bulged and lengthened. The bullets finished changing and became canaries just in time to fly over his shoulder, only to fall to the ground as bullets again, spent and useless, as they exited the alleyway.

“The fuck?!” the second gangster shouted. “Did ya’ll see that shit?”

“The hell did you do?” the third gangster asked, lowering his gun.

“It is only the damned that need fear me,” Clarke recited, taking a few steps closer. “That which is destroyed cannot be restored. That which is mended cannot be maintained.”

“Hurry up and shoot him again!” the first gangster yelled, pulling out a gun of his own. Both he and his cohorts unloaded their magazines at Clarke, but every single bullet that came within five feet of him turned to dust and splashed harmlessly against his trench coat. These kinds of confrontations gave Clarke no pleasure. Not anymore.

“Enough of this,” Clarke announced. He raised his arms out to his sides. His power reached into the bricked alleyway and the walls started to crumble. The very ground shook, knocking the gangsters to their knees as they could only look on. The walls bulged and bent as Clarke walked towards them, until the stress was too much for the decaying walls to handle. They collapsed all around the four men, falling on all four of them.

The gangsters tried to shield themselves as best they could, but with three stories worth of bricks falling onto them, there was nothing they could do. All three of them screamed as every inch of their bodies were bludgeoned, battered and beaten. Their cries were soon deafened by the falling buildings, until only silence remained.

As the last loose bricks fell, an eerie calm fell over the alley. None of the gangsters or Clarke could be seen below the massive pile of rubble. Both buildings adjacent to the alley were destroyed, with their walls and parts of their roofs adding to the pile of ruin.

There was a moment of silence as only the wind passed through the buildings. Any onlooker would have sworn the four men inside were dead, but then the shaking returned. Bricks began flying from the rubble and back into place where the wall once was, only to fall back seconds later. They moved in a wave, clouding the area so thickly that no one would have been able to see through to the other side of the alley. When the last of the pile was flipped into the air, Clarke emerged, unharmed and alone.

He glanced back at the rubble for a moment as the last brick fell again. The police would find the gangsters dead underneath, Clarke would be labeled as a vigilante and a murderer again, and he would move on. It wasn’t like there was anything the cops could do to stop him.

Just then, Clarke heard a whining echoing among the other building. These structures were so old that it was unlikely anyone other than squatters lived in them, but perhaps someone had seen him and gotten frightened. It wasn’t unusual for people to be alarmed around him. His powers made him famous, praised, condemned and feared. However, Clarke turned his attention back to the groaning when its voice started calling for help.

Clarke checked around the corner, where the sound was coming from. After a moment, he saw something moving in the darkness. The junkie who had come to the gangsters to get drugs had run around the corner to hide, but in the collapse of the building, a brick had come loose and broken his leg. The junkie was desperately trying to crawl away.

“No, please don’t kill me!” the junkie yelled. “I won’t do it again! I swear!”

“Calm down,” Clarke said, walking until he stood beside the junkie. The frail man at Clarke’s feet covered his head with his thin arms. It was like protecting a fragile plate with two thin strands of spaghetti. “What did you do?”

“I won’t do it again!” the junkie continued to shout. “I won’t! I won’t!”

“Just stop,” Clarke said, extending his powers into the man. There was a soft light surrounding the junkie’s leg as the bones mended instantly. The man stared at the light for a moment, until he realized that his leg didn’t hurt anymore.

“Right then,” Clarke said. “Now what were you talking about?”

Rather than answer, however, the panicked junkie got on his feet as fast as he could and ran the other way.

“No, don’t!” Clarke tried to warn. However, the junkie didn’t listen, and immediately left Clarke’s sphere of influence. The very moment that he did though, there was a loud crack as his leg broke once more, forcing him to fall unexpectedly and cry out in pain. This time though, the pain was worse as the fall twisted the bone fragments and pierced through the skin.

The junkie started to scream in the most horrible pain of his life, but as soon as he started, he realized he didn’t feel anything anymore. He looked down and saw that his leg had been mended again. Clarke was standing over the man with an arm extended.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Uh… yeah,” the junkie answered. “I think so.” He examined his arms and the rest of his body, as if he were seeing it for the first time. “What did you do to me?”

“I fixed your leg and flushed the drugs from your system,” Clarke said. “You should be able to think clearly now.”

“Oh, uh…” the junkie said. Sitting up, he flexed his arms and legs, touching them carefully. There was no pain anywhere in his body. “I feel… incredible!” the junkie said. He stood up, continuing his curious probe. “I can’t remember the last time I felt this good! How’d you do that?!Rehab’s got nothing on this!”

“Don’t get used to it,” Clarke said sharply. “You’ll only stay that way as long as you stay within five feet of me.”

“What? Why?” the junkie asked. Clarke just stared at him, and when he didn’t get any kind of answer, the man just asked, “Well, if I have to be near you, then why did you bother healing me? You’re not gonna—”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Clarke interrupted. “Your leg is broken because of me. It’s my responsibility to make amends.”

“Wha…?” The junkie turned his head down to look at his leg. “But my leg is fine.”

“Only for the moment,” Clarke explained. “As soon as I walk away, it’ll break, and the drugs will overwhelm you again.”

“Oh…” the junkie said. “What’s going to happen to me?”

“I’ll walk you to a hospital and let the doctors look after you,” Clarke said. “What happens after that is none of my business.”

“Uh, yeah… alright,” the junkie agreed. “My name is Steve by the way.”

“I don’t care. Start walking.”

Clarke started walking down another corner, away from the mess he had made out of the two buildings. Steve stumbled for a moment, then caught his stride, matching Clarke’s gait. He looked in wonder, first at his legs, then at the destruction in the alleyway that he narrowly escaped.

“So, how can you do all this?” Steve asked. “Are you a wizard or something?”

“Hardly,” Clarke answered.

“But you healed me and destroyed those buildings and killed those drug dealers! Do you just carry explosives with you at all time or something?”

“I was under the rubble when it fell too.”

“Then how—”

“Because my name is Richard Clarke.”

Steve lost a step for a moment, but quickly regained it, desperate to stay within the five-foot radius. “Richard Clarke? You mean the Special Forces guy who single-handedly took out that terrorist group in Egypt?”

“I’m not with special forces,” Clarke said. “But yes, that was me.”

“Oh my god!” Steve said in a moment of glee. “I can’t believe you’d come out here to help me! You’re awesome! And you look… well, different than I would have expected.”

Clarke just grunted as he led Steve out to the street. He briefly wondered how far the nearest hospital was and how long it would take to get there.

“So, how do your powers work?” Steve asked, now staying closer than necessary. “Can you teach me? I could help you, like a sidekick! I used to be on the football team in high school, so I—”

Steve halted his pleading as Clarke stopped mid-step and slammed him against the nearest wall.

“Listen,” Clarke said, baring his teeth. “First, I’m not a superhero. I don’t want a sidekick. I don’t need a sidekick. I don’t fly through the air and stop Lex Luthor from taking over the city. I just stop whatever evils I happen to see. Second, about how I got my powers. I’ve been asked that very question by every fan, friend, casualty, enemy, reporter, naysayer, detractor, cop, and federal agent of every country I’ve visited, plus four Kings and Queens of Britain, and twelve United States Presidents, and I’m going to give you the same answer. I don’t fucking know! I was just born with them and they are a natural extension of my will! Third, as soon as we get to the hospital and I step away from you, you’ll revert back to the same dopehead junkie you were before with a broken leg! So, in all seriousness, shut up until we get to the hospital! Am I clear?!”

Steve shrank back against the wall as Clarke yelled. The saying was right; never meet your heroes. “Ye-yes, sir,” Steve said, hoping to recover some of his lost shame.

“Good,” Clarke said, releasing the frightened man. “Now keep up. I’m not stopping to help you if you fall behind.”

“Yeah, alright…” Steve said quietly, so as not to risk Clarke’s wrath. He made sure to stay behind his icon’s shadow, perhaps calming the superpowered man with fewer distractions.

It was going to be a long walk to the hospital.

XXXXXXXX

After half an hour of awkward silence, Clarke and Steve finally made it to the hospital. Like the rest of the area, it looked decrepit and worn down, and was in desperate need of a makeover that no one was about to give it. Chunks of paint had peeled from the walls, exposing the plain bricks underneath, now riddled with graffiti. It hardly looked like a hospital at all. If it weren’t for the sign out front and the dirty ambulance parked in the front lot, Clarke would have missed it entirely.

“This place is good enough,” Clarke decided. “We’ll go inside and get the doctors ready for you, then I’ll walk away and you’ll get your treatment.”

“But, that sounds…” Steve started, but stopped so he could choose his words carefully. “I mean, it might hurt, a lot. Couldn’t you just wean me off your magic slowly?”

“It’s not magic,” Clarke grunted. “And no. Your leg is going to break all at once. If I manipulate it any more, it’ll create a second fracture. The drugs you’ve taken recently should help you with the pain.”

“But… what if I go back to being a junkie?”

“Then you’d better remember how much better being sober is.”

Inside, they were both greeted with dim, flickering lights, a cramped waiting room, and a smell that mixed rubbing alcohol with vomit. The chairs were either stained or broken, and the clock on the wall was off by three and a half hours. Only two other patients were waiting to be seen, a man in his forties with a cough, and an old woman who kept her entire self covered with a blanket. Curly grey hair peeked out from underneath it. The receptionist was busy reading a magazine and offered no more than a short glance as she chewed on a large piece of gum.

“Visiting hours are over in thirty minutes,” she said uncharismatically. “Say ‘hi’ to whoever you’re here to see, then clear out.”

“This is a drop off,” Clarke said, ignoring the rude woman. “This man has broken his leg and needs attention.”

The receptionist took one look at Steve, then dropped her magazine on the desk in a huff. “Look buddy, I know how this place seems, but if you come in here pulling dumbass pranks like this, then I’m gonna have to call the cops.”

“This is hardly a prank,” Clarke said. “Now, we’re going to need a gurney and morphine, as well as a team of nurses to set the cast.”

“So it’s drugs you’re after?” the receptionist asked. “Then I’m definitely calling the cops.”

Clarke sighed. He should have expected this reaction in such a dingy city. He turned with as much sympathy as he could muster and, with a frown, said, “Sorry Steve.”

Before Steve could say that he wasn’t ready, Clarke took a quick step, taking the junkie out of his sphere of influence. Steve crumpled to the ground, screaming in pain as the drugs overtook him. His roars turned into a dull moan after a moment, but he was still in tremendous pain.

“What did you do?!” the receptionist yelled. “Why did you break his leg like that?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Clarke defended, speaking just loud enough to be heard over Steve’s cries. The other two people in the waiting room backed away as far as they could against the back wall. “Just get someone out here, will you?”

Just then, the commotion drew the attention of a nearby doctor. A woman in her mid-thirties rushed into the waiting room. Her black, wavy hair danced down her back. She had a fair complexion about her. Despite her stressful job in a stressful city, she took great pride in her appearance.

“What’s going on?” the doctor asked. “What’s wrong with this man?”

“This crazy son of a bitch just came in and broke this guy’s leg somehow!” the receptionist spouted. “I think they’re after drugs!”

“Either way, he’s hurt,” Clarke said, bringing the focus back where it belonged. “Fractured tibia. And he was a junkie living on the streets, so he may likely have some infections.”

“No, but he—”

“Don’t you have a job to do?”

The doctor called for a gurney and some nurses. Within moments, a team of three men and women dressed in blue scrubs ran into the waiting room and helped Steve onto a gurney. They pulled him back from the waiting rooms and headed deeper inside.

“Are you a friend of his?” the doctor asked. “Do you happen to know his medical history?”

“No idea,” Clarke answered. “I found him in an alley and we walked here.”

“‘We’?” the doctor repeated. “You mean… the both of you walked?”

“Yes.”

The doctor gave Clarke a strange look, examining him curiously. She took a step towards the back rooms so she could treat the new entry. “I still have questions for you,” she said. “Stay here.”

“I don’t know the guy,” Clarke said. “There isn’t much I can tell you, so questions won’t do you much good.”

“Not those kinds of questions,” the doctor said again. “Just stay here and take a seat.”

“I’d rather—”

“Sit!”

Clarke was startled at how assertive this doctor was. He didn’t know what game she was playing, but she wasn’t a threat. She was probably going to call the cops on him for assaulting Steve, but cops were hardly a threat. If they handcuffed him, he could melt the cuffs. If they shot at him, the bullets would never reach him. If they tried to fight him…

Clarke opted not to argue. He turned around and chose the cleanest looking seat. As soon as the doctor had left, he made sure to extend his will into the chair, cleansing it of the grime and muck so that he felt a little cleaner just by sitting. He could feel an illness coming on just by being in this filthy city in the first place.

Clarke waited patiently, as he had grown used to doing, for several minutes. Time was something that he had plenty of, and he knew full well that there would always be more good deeds to perform, no matter how quickly he acted. Sitting for a moment and resting didn’t sound like a bad idea.

As he waited, Clarke took notice of the other patients sitting in the room with him. The man now had a handkerchief pressed to his lips, giving a loud, obnoxious cough every now and then. Clarke stared at him hard, and the man would glance back every few seconds to meet the unchanging gaze. After the fifth time their eyes met, the man finally spoke up.

“What do you want?” he blurted out. “Are you looking for a fight?”

“Fighting doesn’t entertain me,” Clarke said. “There’s no challenge in it.”

“Then why the hell are you lookin’ at me?”

Clarke just sighed and leaned on the armrest. “You fake being sick to get a doctor’s note so you can skip work. With things the way they are in this country, you should feel lucky that you even have a job. Now, get off your lazy ass and earn your keep.”

The man stared at him wild-eyed. “H-how… How did you—”

“I said GET BACK TO WORK!!”

The man was so shocked in how Clarke was able to see through his ruse that he stumbled out of his chair as he tried to escape. Their eyes never left each other as the man clumsily pushed open the door and ran off into the parking lot.

Clarke sank back into his seat, still trying to hide the cleaned spots. Time passed slowly, so Clarke passed it by reading the ancient magazines on the table. Old sports articles from twenty years ago were some of the obvious choices to read, but they were all about American teams. Clarke had no interest in a sport that didn’t include Manchester. More disturbing were the few magazines with such helpful articles as “How to please your man”. What a thing like that was doing in reach of children, Clarke would never know.

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