Before too long, Anne went back to work. She huddled over the table, working on yet another version of Prometheus’s helmet.
She’d given up on the anti-telepathy thing for the moment. Instead, she was working on a helmet that would protect Prometheus from really strong blows.
He’d already made many helmets like that, but she wanted something better. Something stronger. She wanted something that would hold up against the strongest blows.
She thought back to all the time she’d seen Galactic Man punch someone on the news. She thought back to his bulletproof skin, his immense power.
That’s what she wanted the suit to be. The skin of a metahuman: the skin of a god.
In the back of her mind, she knew she wasn’t making the helmet for Prometheus.
She imagined Galactic Man’s blows raining down upon her head. She imagined taking them in stride, unfazed by the blows.
No, she told herself. She knew that these dreams wouldn’t lead to a good place.
Still, she kept making that damn helmet.