The Blitz tries to move. His mind screams at his muscles to obey-- to carry him away, out of danger, as they have so many times before. In all his years in the costume-- running towards fires, outpacing mammoth explosions-- beating death to the finish line so many, many times... the idea that this could be it-- that his time could finally have run out-- it's almost unthinkable.

Kate tried to sleep last night, after talking to the widow Redman. It didn't work too well. Instead, she spent half the night lying naked in bed, in the dark, staring at the ceiling and thinking of what it might be like to fly. Would it change her, she wondered? Would it make her understand this world? Would it make her anger go away? But there were no answers to those questions last night, and there still are none today. So she's already loaded up on coffee, and her usual amount of spite, and now she's just trying to do her damn job.

Jack has just been to see Michael Pierce. A ten year old boy whose world was shattered when a man calling himself a hero threw a car at a woman seemingly made of concrete. The glass sent flying in the aftermath did irreparable damage to his spine. He may never walk again. Jack desperately wants to encourage him. Give him comfort. But what could he possibly say? He's still trying to figure that out, even now. And all the while, he feels restless. Agitated. Yes-- he wants to help the boy. But what he also wants to do-- really wants to do-- is find that fucking careless prick in the costume, who didn't even notice what he'd done-- take his face in his hands and--