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[I'm not sure where this chapter fits in, exactly.] Probably pretty soon.

Tommy Thompkins, Jr. was a mediocre journalist with an occasionally astonishing luck he sometimes mistook for talent. He saw trees but not forests, clouds but not the sky. One of his editors joked that Tommy always missed the point so badly that he’d profile Hitler as a vegan surprisingly concerned about animal rights for his time. That editor got reassigned to a scrub listing, the Classified Section. Tom was, of course, fortunate that way. It helped that his father, Thomas Thompkins, Sr., made the Deadline a nationally-acclaimed newspaper decades ago. But Tom’s guardian angel only accounted for some of the providential events that befell him. Some people, after all, are just born lucky.

On February 14, his father died. Schedulers called from Fox, CNN and MSNBC, looking for the human interest angle. Then the news broke that a rock star overdosed on weapons-grade hallucinogens and a hot blonde Chicagoan got kidnapped in Grenada. Since both were more newsworthy and fit the Valentine’s Day theme better well… the schedulers promised to call back for another appointment. MSNBC figured it couldn’t very well cover Thompkins by rolling “DRUGS, SEX, ROCK AND ROLL” across the news ticker for nine hours, unlike Blue Raven. And the Grenada story just screamed “VALENTINE’S DAY MASSACRE???” to a CNN intern.

Tommy didn’t know much about his father’s work, even though it was the only reason he worked at a newspaper with a circulation larger than twenty. His father had never talked much and he, frankly, hadn’t cared too much about what his father did. Even so, it struck him as a bit unseemly that the media threw around epitaphs like “titan of journalism” but stiffed him with an obit blurb just because Blue Raven overdosed on Agent X that day.

Tommy didn’t bother coming to work for another two days. The Super Section could wait. He wasn’t particularly distraught and didn’t cry very much about his father’s death, but he figured he had a few free days coming. He had just completed a grueling trip to New York, where he covered a big story in the Hunter Penitentiary for Special Inmates, where they held some guys who had allegedly threatened to blow up the city and sometimes fought in spandex and that kind of stuff. The story turned out pretty well, even though he hadn’t been allowed to use a tape-recorder, because Mega-Volt might juice it to fry him, or his favorite pen, because Metallo might magnetically thrust it in one eye and out the other.

He started shaking each time he got screened for contraband. He had to remind himself several times that he wouldn’t even be in their wing, let alone within sight of them at any time.

When he came back to work, he got called into the office of his editor, Lucille Hendricks. The editor was almost brimming with glee, which worried him. He had never seen her smile before.

Her tone sounded dangerously inviting, but it still had an acidic edge. “Thomas, come in. I’d like to discuss your last assignment to New York. Could you explain your article a bit?” He noticed that she didn’t mention that the article hadn’t gotten used, probably because she hated him.

“Sure. I went to Hunter’s Pen and interviewed Dr. Despair.” He couldn’t help but preen a little.

“He’s in prison, isn’t he? How could he catch a reader’s attention?”

“He’s a guy in prison. How couldn’t a character profile be interesting? I wanted to see what kind of person he was and what drove him insane.”

“No weapons, no hostages, no powers… no story. If you want to show what kind of person someone is, show me the shots of devastation. Maybe even a wrecked playground. No, too cheesy. At least a battleground or something.”

Lucille pointed adjusted her spectacles, almost as though she might magnetically send them flying through his skull. She had read his blathering crap three times and it only got more painful. The article didn’t even touch Despair’s six years of destruction or his showdown with the Silver Shooter at the Sears Tower or the landmark trial that resulted in thirty consecutive life sentences. It had a lot on Despair’s abusive parents and disappointing love life.

At the first mention of his love life, Lucille had prayed for a mutilated ex-girlfriend or a juicy account of pedophilia or incest or something. Nothing. He just got rejected by one girl after another. She had decided that it was completely unsalvageable only after an excruciating hour of reading and circling particularly stupid phrases like “mandibles of fate” in a smeary, grim red. After this atrocity, she had vowed that Mr. Teflon, as he was known by the Classified editors, would pay or she would personally request a transfer. Sentences like “SWF wants SWM bad—studliness a must” were easier to swim through than this.

He didn’t say anything.

“I heard there was a jail break,” she said. There was no way to sound as irritated as she wanted to. She heard there had been a break-in because the New York Post’s Luke Gridley covered it. They got scooped by the New York Post. Goddamn…

Gridley had also been working a story at Hunter’s Pen, but he had been interviewing prisoners and guards about a crime ring that had committed at least two felonies behind bars. When the guards figured out he was on to something, they gave him previously unthinkable access to write essentially whatever he wanted.

“Yes, but I wasn’t there at the time.”

Actually, he had been. But if he admitted to that, then she would unquestionably want to know why he hadn’t run towards the epicenter of the earthquake that was shaking the ground so badly he could hardly stand. When the sirens went off and gunfire cracked wildly maybe a hundred yards away and Rampage roared and people screamed, he wanted to run, all right. Run away, far and fast. That wasn’t cowardly, that was sane. He didn’t think she’d see it that way, though; everyone’s brave until they’re there.

“That’s too bad.”

She tossed Gridley’s front-page article on her table. “RAMPAGE HITS NYC SUPERPEN—20 FUGITIVES LOOSE, 3 COPS DEAD.”

She didn’t give the mousy “journalist” the savage, blood-chilling glare she wanted to. The front page spoke for itself. Relevant, gripping, sensational. That was journalism, not some crap profile of a third-rate freak behind bars. Gridley’s piece even came with great visuals, photos of gaping holes where Rampage battered a wall with what might have been a downed powerline. Tiny mug shots for the fugitives, substantial service photos for the dead guards. Those made any readers feel like they were part of the plot, even though they wouldn’t ever spot the fugitives and didn’t know any of the cops.

Thompson didn’t say anything. She sensed her opportunity to twist the knife.

“This is what we’re looking for,” as her hand gently glided over the New York Post article. “This is not.” She handed her copy of his story to him, complete with a torrent of profanities, only some scribbled with slashing strokes next to the “mandibles of destiny”.

“And that is why the St. Louis Deadline no longer requires your services.”

His looks were first puzzled, then disbelieving, then almost angry.

“You’re firing me?”

She nodded serenely and her voice was soft and sweet. “You can pack your things up before you go, alright?” Justice was so very… tasty. Her loathing for him actually predated the jailbreak: over the last four years, he had actually had missed several unbelievable opportunities to catch a story. Like the bank that got robbed when he was inside—the cops found him in the bathroom.

He was always missing whenever the action started. The first time, she didn’t think much of it. After a few, she thought he was a superhero posing as the most believable dumbshit journalist in the world. After this, it was clear it couldn’t be an act.

“What am I going to do?”

“First, pack your things. After that, don’t know. You could freelance or something. If you want that to work, I recommend being there.”

He didn’t quite remember limping out of the office but he found himself at his desk. Grabbing a box from Mailroom, he started by shoving his favorite pen, Deadline mug and everything else inside. He saved the picture of his father accepting his Pulitzer Prize for last, throwing it mercilessly in the trash can.  That was the last thing he needed now.