Prometheus remembered creating his suit. He remembered Brute — the three-ton metahuman he’d studied, the one who’d had a bus thrown at him. Brute had survived. Brute had thrown the bus right back at his enemy.
Prometheus had studied that — studied the way these super strong folk worked.
In much the same way, he’d studied the fliers. Flight was such a complicated motion, such a complicated idea.
The ones with wings made the most sense, but it’d be nearly impossible to create wings strong enough to hold up both him and the suit. So he’d studied the weird ones: the ones who used magnetism, magic, and so on.
None of that had worked, not until he’d figured out the jets.
He couldn’t help the smile that slipped onto his face, as death loomed below him. He stuck his hands out in front of him, so they were facing the highway. The jets of flame shooting out of his hands began to weaken, allowing him to descend.
Meanwhile the flames spat out of his boots, allowing him to gain speed on both Katie’s car and that of her killer’s.
Prometheus sped through the sky. He reached the trunk of the killer’s car. Pushed forward until he made it to the car roof. He landed on that roof, ready for action.