"You have somewhere to go?"

The memory of Maria washed through him, and the ground trembled again.

"Shit," the man said, staggering and spreading his legs, trying to keep his balance.

"Help," Julio heard himself whisper. Then he turned and ran.

He didn't stop running, this time. He ran until he got back to the forest. Back to where there weren't people to hurt. He scrambled up a slope, adrenaline pushing him farther, faster, helping him to ignore his wounds. Then he got to the top, and looked down at the city.

There was no more city.

He fell to his knees, unable to stand, breath whistling through his mouth because his nose was plugged with blood.

There was no more city.

"Madre de Dios," he whimpered. "Help."

Underneath him, the ground shook. Birds exploded out of a tree nearby. A rabbit bolted. Julio pushed back to his feet. He had to go. He had to get as far away from here as possible. He had to run before they realized what he'd done.

Oh, God. What he'd done.

This is from an as yet untitled Water Lines story, the fourth in the series:

The house was quiet. Scott had moved into one of the downstairs bedrooms while Jean was gone. No one was playing. The pool was empty. The den was vacant.

Even voices, when on occasion people spoke, were hushed.

Once, Scott bolted into the family room, looking nearly frantic. Then his face fell, and he shook his head. "Jean," he said after a moment, in a whisper. "I thought I felt Jean." He looked hopefully at Betsy, who had congregated with everyone else in the family room. "Have you--?"

Violet eyes fluttered closed. There was just the hint of a flash, leaving the impression of a butterfly on the mind's eye, and then Betsy looked up at Scott and shook her head wordlessly.

Scott seemed to wilt, and went back into his bedroom.

The waiting continued.

This is from Four Days:

"So, Conel, do you have any family? Siblings?"

"Not . . . not really," Conel said, frowning.

Martha smiled. "You sound uncertain about that."

"Well," he said, still frowning, "it really depends on how you define siblings."

"The other children of your parents," Martha said patiently, and with some amusement in her voice.

Conel scowled at the tomatoes. "Yeah, but how do you define parents?"

Jenny stopped chopping to turn and look back at him.

Conel stopped chopping suddenly, too, and his blue eyes flashed around in a panic, though his head didn't move. He looked like he was suddenly aware of a giant error he'd made.

This is from Generation: Black Air #7 as yet untitled.

"Azul?"

He looked up from where he lay, half-asleep, on Kurt's bed and smiled slightly. "Hi, Chant," he said in a quiet murmur.

Enchantment stepped farther into the room, fingers dancing with the hem of her shirt. "I'm glad you're awake."

Azul's smile widened. "Me too."

"I . . . " Enchantment licked her lips and glanced around, to see if any other men were nearby. There were none: only Azul. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. "I made a friend," she whispered, holding onto the doorhandle behind her back.

Azul propped himself up and motioned for her to come closer.

Enchantment smiled and ran to the bed, jumping up on it happily. "She writes to me, and Pistol reads her letters for me. I . . . I thought maybe you'd help me? I want to write a letter back to her. Kitty said she could address it."

Azul grinned suddenly, teeth flashing whitely and small dimples creasing young cheeks. "Do you have paper and stuff?" he asked, sitting up and scooting forward.

Enchantment produced the required materials from her pockets; several sheets of notebook paper and a stub of pencil.

"Okay," Azul said, taking them and glancing around for something to write on. He picked up a book and settled his paper on it, then grinned. "I'll write what you say."

Enchantment smiled and nodded.

This is from Uncharted Waters

The first clue Bobby had that there was someone else in the room was when water splashed onto the back of his head.

He whipped around, eyes wide, to behold a cackling Jamie already turning and running out of the room, water-gun clutched tightly. Bobby jumped up from the den couch--the ugly orange and brown one everyone thought was so comfortable--and raced after Jamie.

As soon as he went through the doorway he realized it was a mistake.

More water blasted him from the other side, and when he turned around he saw Sam holding a SuperSoaker and wearing a tiny toy headset. Bobby lunged for him first, freezing the man's sleeves before turning and running after Jamie.

"You guys are cheats!" he shouted, laughing, when he rounded the corner to see that Jamie had disappeared.

He was shot in the back, and whipped around in time to see Jamie running, cackling, out of the room.

"NOT IN THE HOUSE!" Jean shouted from the front door. "SAM! JAMES! TAKE THOSE OUTSIDE!"

Bobby grinned wickedly and raced through the kitchen, out the backdoor--taking a different path then the one Jamie had gone. If they expected him to follow and be ambushed again, they had another think coming.

"Gotcha!" Bobby shouted, icing Sam's shirt. The younger man yelped and took to the air, swooping down and picking Bobby up before he had a chance to run.

"Hey!" Bobby shouted, "No powers!"

"We nevah said that!" Sam laughed back before dropping Bobby into the pool.

Jamie was standing nearby, laughing so hard he couldn't even straighten up.

Bobby surfaced a moment later, and saw Sam and Jamie standing nearby with their SuperSoakers and toy headsets, laughing.

"You guys are evil," Bobby said, swimming to the edge of the pool and hauling himself out. Then he turned and with a wicked twinkle in his eye, froze Sam and Jamie's clothes. They both started yelping, and both of them were soon trying to twist out of their shirts.

"New clothes newclothesnewclothes!" Jamie shrieked, laughing as he ran inside.

Sam followed, taking to the air, a moment later.

Bobby laughed and went inside himself, tracking in water--much to Jean's irritation--as he went upstairs to change.

~You're cleaning that up, buster,~ Jean sent.

*I know,* Bobby answered with a grin. This is from Growing Up A Superhero: Angel's Clover.

Warren breathed a kiss on the back of Betsy's neck, listening to her gentle British laugh.

"I'm never going to get this done if you don't stop distracting me," she chided, intent on the food before her.

"I told you I'd make breakfast." Warren looked uncertainly at the mostly burned eggs on the skillet.

"And I told you that for once I'd try," she answered.

Warren cringed as smoke reached his nose.

"I heard that thought, mister."

The blue skinned man chuckled and turned away from his love, pulling two plates out of the cupboard. Azul walked into the kitchen purposefully, jumping up to perch on top of the refrigerator. His long tail twitched behind him.

"Good morning, Az," Warren said easily.

"'Morning, Wings."

Warren glanced up at the younger man, wondering just when that nickname had reappeared. Sometime during his long stay as a teacher at Angelo's school.

"Hey, dad," Michael said quietly from the doorway.

Warren almost hadn't noticed his own son, as silently as the boy had entered. "Good morning, Michael. Sleep well?" A glance at the circles under the boy's eyes gave Warren his answer. A telepathic query blew gently from Betsy's mind, but he shrugged it off.

"Not really. Mom, Dad, can I talk to you? Someplace we won't be disturbed?"

Warren turned, his hawk-like eyes seeing the nervous twitching of his son's fingers, the way his black wings hunched closely to his back as if expecting some sort of attack. "That's a good idea," Warren said, smiling as he reached around Betsy and grabbed the skillet. "I was really hoping for a reason to have to dump these."

Betsy glared at him in mock-anger. "Just because we're leaving the room doesn't mean we have to dump them," she pointed out.

Warren froze, hand held above the trashcan as he thought furiously.

"Oops," Azul said from above, his tail whipping suddenly back and forth over the pan. "I'm shedding. Lookit that. Fur in the food."

Warren grinned up at the young man, who was smiling impishly at Betsy.

"You are incorrigible," Betsy said to Warren as he dumped the food. "And you," she said, turning to Azul, "need a full body brush. Maybe if we took you to a pet grooming place. . . ."

"Would you give me a full body brush?" Azul said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Ask Warren. He's more your style, isn't he?" Betsy returned as she started toward her son.

"Meow," Azul purred, stretching down the side of the refrigerator toward Warren in a feline imitation.

"Sorry. I'm already attached," Warren pointed out, grinning. He turned and walked out of the room with his lover and son, leaving Azul to follow.

This is from Growing Up A Superhero: ...To Make A Crippled Child Walk.

"He'll be fine. Remy. Remy! Remy, answer me!"

Remy's eyelid fluttered open, though it was hard. The man was screaming at him, one hand holding the mask on Remy's face while the other touched wherever it could reach.

"Remy, there's a woman here to help. She's going to lift the truck, and we're going to get you out. All right? You have to stay conscious for us, Remy."

"'Right," Remy said, trying to breathe deeply. Something hurt him, but it came only dimly through the protective haze his mind had erected.

"On the count of three. You're going to keep breathing--that's your job. One. Two. Three."

The man grunted and Remy's pain suddenly intensified, then there were hands all over him, sliding him out of the metal. The sun had almost set, and with a tremor Remy realized he'd somehow missed more time then he'd thought. The world spun, and he was lifted and straightened and was rolling, with people all around him talking to each other, and the man who had held the mask still there, running alongside and yelling at Remy to stay awake.

This is from the sequel to Bodies of Water, tentatively titled Quiet Waters.

The air smelled like newly turned earth, and scorched grass, and human flesh. Like blood and death and twisted metal. Antiseptic and fear and that sick tang that came with gas. And sweat; human sweat from the crush of bodies behind the police barrier.

The noise rivaled the smell, that scent that would always be associated with disaster. There was wailing and crying and someone to the right sobbed hysterically. Cameras flashed, recording the devastation and human pain for others to gawk over and pity, saying things like "It was their time" and "wasn't that a tragedy?" The sound of shredding metal, a horrible cry as if the plane itself was in such great pain it couldn't be contained within that massive shell, still seemed to hang in the air, though no metal moved.

There was shouting and orders and wailing sirens, crashing instruments and plastic rattling, and under that the sound of zippers sliding up over dead bodies.

The air tasted of death. The metallic tang of blood seemed to ooze into every pore, until Jamie couldn't be free of it. A breath shuddered into his lungs--he felt so COLD--and carried the taste of rot and fear and panic.

This is my fault. I should have gone with him.

This is from Generation: Black Air 6, as yet untitled.

Trace heard the painfilled yip and sat up in bed, icy blue eyes flickering first one way and then the other. With less than a thought he took in the daylight coming through the window, heard noises in the room that was usually empty. That would be Domino and Nate, arrived the day before. His mind categorized them as no threat before he even truly thought about it. There was a thump from the bathroom, and he picked up his rifle and bolted for the door.

The bathroom was empty, and he opened the adjoining door into Pistol's room.

The coyote puppy was laying on the floor, looking pitifully at the bed he had probably been sleeping on only moments before. On top of that bed lay Pistol, thrashing amid blankets and sheets, ripping them off indiscriminately.

Trace propped his rifle up against the wall and took long strides to the bedside, scooping down to pick the puppy up and set it a bit away. With a quick glance he could see that Pistol was still sleeping, though his body thrashed and soaked the sheets with sweat.

"'Stole," Trace called, bending over and touching Pistol's arm. He pulled back as that same arm was flung up, hitting at him unconsciously. "Pistol. Wake up," Trace called again, ducking in beneath that arm and shaking his friend hard. The older man's skin was clammy and cold, and felt as though he'd just stepped out of a shower.

There was an indrawn breath, as of someone breathing after too long without air, and Pistol's eyes snapped open.

Trace could see from the constricted pupils and wild look that Pistol was still caught in the grip of nightmare, though he was now awake. Trace jumped on the bed, leaning across Pistol's body and trapping his hands swiftly. "Pistol, it's me. It's okay."

"Spiders. There are--they--dark--"

Trace was almost thrown away as the other man bucked beneath him, fighting for all he was worth. "Pistol, you're safe. Safe. It's me. Trace."

"Spiders--Trace, there were spiders--"

Trace relaxed his grip as Pistol blinked and started to focus on him. The older man's violent movements finally calmed, though he was frighteningly pale and shaking all over.

"Trace."

Trace nodded and put Pistol's hand on his cheek. "Yeah. It's me."

Back to the living room