Free Countdown by Unknown Author

it never even occurred to her to wonder how the other woman knew her name.
    METROPOLIS.
    Suicide Slum was only slightly less threatening in broad daylight. Pawn shops, liquor stores, taverns, adult video stores, tattoo parlors, and check-cashing venues made up the bulk of the local businesses. “SHOW OFF!” had been spray-painted onto the hood of a snazzy green sports car that someone had foolishly parked by the curb. Gangs of street toughs lounged on the stoops and sidewalks, laughing raucously amongst themselves while making rude comments to unlucky passersby. Most pedestrians hurried past them, eyes carefully lowered in hopes of avoiding a confrontation.
    But not Jimmy. Dressed in his Sunday best, he strolled down Hob’s Lane whistling a pop tune. Two of his priciest cameras dangled from his neck. His press pass was pinned to the lapel of a designer jacket. The rubber soles of his deluxe running shoes slapped against the dirty pavement. Jimmy figured he made a pretty tempting target, which was the whole idea. He had even considered donning a bow tie for the occasion, but that might have been push' fog it.
    His nonchalant air was just an act. A trickle of sweat, running down his temple, betrayed his anxiety. Walking around Suicide Slum like this was just asking for trouble. I gotta be nuts, he thought, but how else was he going to figure out what was up with his on-again, off-again superpowers? As nearly as he could tell, they only manifested under stress, like when he or someone else was in danger. This isn’t suicide, he told himself. It’s a scientific experiment.
    Sort of.
    “S’up, fellas?” he cheerfully greeted a trio of tough-looking customers who were camped out on the stoop of a graffiti-covered crack house. Matching red bandannas and pyramid amulets tagged them as members in full standing of the Sphinxes, one of the city’s most violent street gangs. Tank tops, baggy trousers, and spiky Mohawks made an intimidating fashion statement. They glowered at the towheaded interloper who’d had the nerve to address them so familiarly. “How about those Metros?”
    “Metros suck, yo!” The punks jumped to their feet, all too obviously spoiling for a fight. Their eyes gleamed with bloodthirsty anticipation. Clenched fists gave away their intentions. “We’re Yankee fans!”
    “In fact,” a second tough explained, “we’re on our way to a game right now.” He grinned maliciously. “Maybe we take your cameras, so we can get some pictures, and your money, so we can buy the tickets.”
    “And your shoes,” the third hood added. “Just because.” They surrounded Jimmy on the sidewalk, cutting off any chance of escape. Nearby pedestrians hurried away in the opposite direction, doing their best not to get involved in the fracas. Part of Jimmy wished he could join them. Here goes nothing.
    “Oh yeah?” he challenged them. Raising his fists, he charged forward and kicked the nearest gang member in the kneecap. “You and what army?”
    It wasn’t the snappiest repartee, but it had the desired effect. “Hey!” his injured target blurted angrily. His face flushed red. A cocky smirk was instantly replaced by a look of genuine outrage. A metal chain rattled against his hip as he drew back his fist.
    Jimmy gulped. Okay, powers, do your stuff'.... Tattooed knuckles flew at his face. Jimmy threw his head back, expecting his neck to elongate like before. Poised leg muscles waited eagerly for another burst of superhuman speed. Boy, were these antisocial bruisers in for a surprise when his astounding new abilities kicked in any minute now... !
    Nothing happened—except that the punk’s fist collided with his jaw.
    The blow sent Jimmy reeling backward into an overflowing trash can. He crashed down onto the pavement amidst a heap of spilled garbage. Tasting blood in his mouth, he probed his front teeth with his tongue. Nothing was missing, thank goodness, but a couple incisors felt loose. A gong rang loudly inside