*JOHN! Oh God get up get up get up!* Heather sent in terrified desperation.

*…working…on it…* he replied woozily, pouring all his power into his force field. The two agents had knocked him back to the ground, and were doing everything in their considerable power to keep him there. It felt like being in the middle of a bell being rung by a pair of hyper-steroidal Quasimodos. Worse, whatever Agent Martinez had done to him hurt. It was hard to think, and forcing the power to bend to his will was making his eyes bulge from the strain. Most disturbingly, it didn’t seem to be going away.
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Powerstar looked up impassively at his attackers, but his mind raced. My force field’s stronger than that cannon, he decided, but I’ve only been at this for a few days, and they must have backup. He didn’t even have to think about which one was the most dangerous. The flying man on her right — his left — was clearly an obedient junior officer, while the creep on her left was an insubordinate equivalent. Both men were strikingly ordinary — medium height and build, short brown hair, neatly cut. They wore visors instead of sunglasses, but were otherwise the very image of the black-suited enforcers of urban myth. The woman was darker-skinned, like John, with black hair tied in a bun, and a severe expression. Her suit was less cookie-cutter, but still black, severe, and business-like. Her eyes were dark, whatever their color.
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*Hey, honey,* Powerstar sent to KXLX telepathically.

Ah! Heather jumped in her seat. Don’t do that!

*Sorry, love,* John thought with a chuckle. *I can’t help it. I love this.*
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