The chain on Sloane Smith’s bike didn't just snap; it practically exploded with the spiteful energy of a universe that had it out for her.
"Are you kidding me?" Sloane hissed, skidding to a halt on a dark, cracked stretch of a Brooklyn industrial backroad. She looked down at her grease-stained hands and then at her phone, which was currently vibrating in her pocket with frantic energy.
She swiped it open. Rebecca Asada’s face, framed by a neon-pink headset and a wall of One Piece posters, filled the screen.
"Sloane! You’re late for the simulcast!" Rebecca squealed. "If we miss the opening credits of the finale, I will literally perish. I’ll dissolve into salt. Do you want my death on your conscience?"
Sloane sighed, tucking a strand of frizzy hair behind her ear. "Becca, my bike is dead. The chain is a pretzel. I’m walking the rest of the way from the Navy Yard. Just... start without me."
"Absolutely not. A true Nakama never leaves a friend behind," Rebecca said, her tone shifting into a dramatic, low-pitched 'Anime-Serious' voice. "Also, I have snacks. The high-quality imported ones. Move your legs, Sloane! Plus, have you looked at the sky? The weather app says it’s clear, but the clouds look like they’re glowing purple. It’s very 'End of the World' chic."
Sloane looked up. Rebecca was right. The New York sky wasn't its usual hazy, light-polluted orange. A bruised, electric violet was bleeding through the smog, swirling like cream in dark coffee. It was beautiful, in a terrifying, I-should-probably-run kind of way.
"I see it," Sloane muttered, bracing the heavy frame of her bike against her hip and starting to jog. "I’ll be there in twenty. Just keep the—"
BOOM.
The sound wasn't a noise; it was a physical weight. It slammed into Sloane’s chest, throwing her backward. A streak of white-hot light tore through the purple clouds, screaming like a jet engine with a broken wing. It wasn't a shooting star. It was a jagged, oily hunk of rock shrouded in a veil of dark, liquid fire.
It hit the construction site fifty yards ahead of her.
The ground buckled. Sloane felt the world tilt as she was launched into the air. She hit a chain-link fence, her bike clattering somewhere into the darkness, and then everything went silent—that ringing, vacuum-sealed silence that follows a disaster.
Sloane gasped, her lungs tasting like ozone and burnt metal. She tried to push herself up, but her limbs felt heavy, like they were made of lead. She looked toward the impact site.
In the center of a smoking crater lay a fragment of the meteorite. It wasn't glowing anymore. Instead, a thick, shimmering substance—blacker than the New York night and moving with a life of its own—was oozing out of the rock. It looked like chrome-plated ink.
Before Sloane could scream, the substance surged. It didn't crawl; it flowed across the concrete like a predatory tide. It reached her boots, climbed her jeans, and sank into her skin.
It didn't hurt. It felt... cold. A deep, cosmic chill that settled into her marrow.
"Help," she whispered, her voice failing. Her vision began to stretch, the streetlamps elongating into long, golden threads. The last thing she heard was Rebecca’s voice coming from her dropped phone, tiny and distant.
"Sloane? Sloane, answer me! What was that noise?!"
Then, the world snapped.
The Following Day: Brooklyn General Hospital
Sloane woke up to the smell of lemon-scented bleach and the rhythmic beep-beep of a heart monitor.
"Mom?" she croaked.
"She's in the cafeteria getting coffee," a voice whispered.
Sloane turned her head. Rebecca was sitting in a plastic chair, looking like she hadn't slept in a week. She had a stack of Weekly Shonen Jump magazines in her lap and a look of pure, unadulterated terror on her face.
"Becca? What happened? The bike... the light..."
"A meteor, Sloane," Rebecca whispered, leaning in close. "A literal meteorite hit the city. Eight people were hospitalized in this district alone. They’re calling it a 'Cosmic Event.' But Sloane... look at your hand."
Sloane looked down at her right hand. It looked normal. She tried to flex her fingers, but her brain felt disconnected from her body.
"I feel... loose," Sloane said. She reached for the plastic cup of water on the bedside table.
She didn't lean forward. She didn't move her shoulder.
Her arm simply... extended.
The bone didn't crack. The skin didn't tear. Like a piece of warm saltwater taffy, her forearm stretched across the three-foot gap. Her hand wrapped around the cup, her fingers elongating like rubber bands.
Sloane froze. Her eyes went wide. She looked at her arm—now a thin, fleshy cord connecting her shoulder to the table.
"Oh my god," Sloane breathed.
"OH MY GOD!" Rebecca hissed, slamming her hands over her mouth. "Sloane! You’re... you're a Shonen protagonist! You’re a freak of nature!"
Panic surged through Sloane. She yanked her hand back. The arm didn't just shorten; it snapped back with a wet thwack, the force sending the water cup flying across the room and splashing against the wall.
"I’m a monster," Sloane whimpered, clutching her arm, which was now back to its normal length, though it felt slightly "wobbly," like a noodle. "Becca, my bones are gone. I’m made of jelly!"
"No, no, no," Rebecca said, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of fear and intense excitement. "This is the Origin Story! We have to get you out of here before the government shows up with needles."
"I can't go home like this!" Sloane cried, accidentally stretching her neck six inches higher in her distress. "I’m melting!"
"Calm down! Imagine your body is solid," Rebecca commanded, shoving a pair of thick-rimmed, black glasses onto Sloane's face. "Wear these. You need to look like you have your life together. We’re leaving. Now."
They snuck out the side exit, Sloane walking like she was on stilts, terrified that if she tripped, her legs would leave her behind.
They were two blocks away, cutting through a narrow alleyway behind a grocery store, when they heard it.
"Please! I don't have anything else!"
Sloane stopped. Her ears—literally—perked up, the cartilage stretching slightly toward the sound. In the shadows of the alley, a man in a heavy coat was pinning a woman against a brick wall, a jagged knife glinting in the dim light.
"Shut up and give me the bag," the man growled.
Sloane’s heart hammered against her ribs. She looked at Rebecca. Rebecca’s face was pale, but she nodded slowly.
"Sloane," Rebecca whispered. "This is it. Do the thing."
"I don't know how to do the thing!" Sloane hissed back.
"Just... punch him! From here!"
Sloane looked at the mugger, twenty feet away. She felt a surge of heat—that dark, oily liquid under her skin reacting to her adrenaline. She didn't think. She just threw her fist forward.
WHIP-CRACK.
Her arm didn't just stretch; it turned into a blur of black-and-tan kinetic energy. Her fist grew to the size of a dinner plate, slamming into the mugger’s chest. He flew backward, hitting a dumpster with a loud CLANG and falling unconscious instantly.
The woman gasped, looked at the long, rubbery limb extending from the shadows, and ran for her life.
Sloane stood there, her arm lying on the dirty alley floor like a discarded fire hose.
"I did it," Sloane whispered, staring at her hand.
"Sloane," Rebecca said, pointing at her friend's body. "Look."
The cosmic material was no longer hiding. It bubbled up, reacting to the fight. It flowed over Sloane's clothes, weaving a dark, iridescent fabric that looked like liquid metal. It covered her shoes, her jeans, her hoodie, until she was clad in a sleek, obsidian suit that shimmered like an oil slick.
Sloane adjusted the glasses on her face. She felt strong. She felt flexible.
"Okay," Sloane said, her voice echoing slightly. "What’s next?"
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and then Add to home screen.