For all the power of Galactic Man’s flight — for the speed with which he and Anne flew through the air — he also had an astonishing amount of control. As the two of them reached breathable atmosphere, he began to slow down the speed of his flight.
Slowly, slowly, he got close to the ground. By the time Anne and him had landed, in an intersection in the Congan city of Kinshasa, their speed was such that they landed on the street gently. No cracked asphalt, no cracked bones.
Galactic Man landed such that his back was on the asphalt. Anne lay on him, completely unharmed. Galactic Man pushed her off of him, then moved on top of her, holding her down by the throat so that she couldn’t escape.
“I know my son isn’t dead,” he whispered into her ear. “What’d you do to him?”
They’d drawn the eyes of almost the whole city. All sorts of onlookers congregated around where they’d fallen. Others (the smarter ones, you might say), had already begun to flee the city ones. The brave ones, the ones looking for adventure, had stayed to look.
Still, there was a cone of space around Anne and Galactic Man that no one dared break. Cars stopped at the intersection where the two had fallen.
Anne’s throat hurt. He heart was racing. God, what a hard life she’d led.
“I killed your son,” she rasped. “He had it coming.”
Galactic Man’s face contorted, his very being almost unable to convey the rage he felt at Anne’s comment. He opened his mouth to tell her… what?
To tell her to fuck off? That she was the most miserable little shit he’d ever met? That he’d use his vast power to make her life a living hell?
In the moment where his mouth was open while he tried to figure out what to say, Anne struck.
She took Bugman’s blood, which was in her hands. She threw it into his open mouth, where the glass shattered.
Galactic Man’s mouth began to foam up. He rolled off of her.