Carlo awoke with a bang, his head bumping against the corner of his nightstand. The sound he made was closer to an injured animal than an ingenious, super-scientist. He was startled by the sound of his radio coming to life indicating it was his usual time to get up. 

“And we are back, with W.S.N.R, special news from around the world. My name is Ozi Medus And this here's the rundown of smaller stories we didn’t get to in the beginning of the hour. Famed special and comedy Icon Gram Pullman, also known as the Screecher, passed away yesterday after a long battle with laryngitis.  Also 

The call for more New York City schools to exclude specials from their admissions programs is heating up, as another bill has been brought forward that would reallocate all young super youths to their own special facilities, no pun intended. Word on if the League is willing to pay for this is still unknown as-”  he slammed his hand against the top of it ending the broadcast and giving himself some much-needed silence. He was alone and in pain. The news wasn’t going to help with that. He pressed his bandaged right hand against the swelling welt developing above his right eyebrow and groaned. Coupled with the numbing ache he felt in his fingers, he stopped to assess his injuries. His entire right hand was wrapped in heavy tape along with a brace around his fingers. The rest of him wasn't that much different, with bandages over most of his body, causing an insatiable itch. He fought the urge to scratch, knowing it'd leave his working hand a cindery smear of dried blood.  Carlo laid on his raw mattress in his basement with nothing but his boxers and marks of defeat, wondering what went wrong. 

The small one-bedroom he made under his living room had enough space for a military cot on a cheap metal frame. Next to the bed was a small nightstand and next to that was a wall closet with two sliding doors. The narrow hallway to the right of the closet led to a bathroom and an escape ladder directly under a metal latch that led to the rest of the building. Sun came in from small divots in the ceiling above, allowing the windowless brick room to have outside light.  It was a panic room, which at the moment he thought seemed all too fitting.  

Carlo rolled out of bed, his body steadily heating up. He walked over to the closet, trembling, his breathing growing more erratic. Pacing between his room and the hallway muttering to himself, he started replaying the events of last night with more rising anger than he’d felt in a long time. The muttering grew louder, his breathing evermore shallow. He suddenly turned towards the sliding door and smacked it with the palm of his right hand, repeatedly before screaming at the top of his lungs. 

“UGH!!!!” he shouted as he started to stop using his hand and began bashing his right shoulder into the closet door over and over again releasing long howls of frustration until his voice finally cracked. Images flashed behind his eyes: tears, fire, and a ticking time bomb, the fuse only just shorter than his own. He lost and he knew it. Carlo sank to the floor, cradling himself in his arms. The only sound was his body vibrating against the closet door and muffled sobs. 

He sat in silence, quietly weeping in rage, but thinking.  It was the man's only skill. He planned, he schemed, he imagined, he built. He sat there for a long time. It was the hardest he ever thought about anything. He had a question to solve in the next thirty-six hours. How does one lose best? It was a strange concept, but it was the question he needed to find the answer to. Unfinished business that would never be put right but would end all the same. He had things to do, just how was he supposed to do it? And in a way where all the struggles up till now still amounted to something. He’d lost his home, much of his tech, and even more of his body, but he’d still had his mind. That’d have to do.