Does Dash Parr have what it takes to be a superstar?

4. Copyright © 2021 by illustraice
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in Metroville
ISBN 2-9-1987
Ice Cold Publishing
www.muisyle.org

5. for jo and eien, the sparkles in my sky.

7. The production of “super star clusters” (SSCs; luminous, compact
star clusters) seems to be the hallmark of intense star formation,
particularly in interacting and starburst galaxies. Their sizes,
luminosities, and mass estimates are entirely consistent with what
is expected for young Milky Way-type global clusters. SSC’s are
important because of what they can tell us about GC formation and
evolution…
However, the question arises of whether these objects are indeed
“super” star clusters, in terms of either their integrated luminosity or
their total mass. If they are indeed the progenitors of Milky Way-type
GCs, assuming that they have the potential to survive for a Hubble
time, then their high luminosities at their correspondingly young ages
(of up to 1 Gyr, in general) are simply conforming the expectations of
any modern flavour of simple stellar population theory.
— Richard de Grijs, “Super” Star Clusters,
Department of Physics & Astronomy, The University of Sheffield
I fell in love with you before the second show
Your guitar, it sounds so sweet and clear
But you’re not really here, it’s just the radio
— Carpenters, Superstar
Don’t cry, why are you crying? Crying, the both of us
Ask the stars, ask them
— Kwon Ji-yong, SUPER STAR

8. 1
ONE
ALCYONE’S ENVY
T
he longer front tufts of Dash’s hair swept stylishly to the side
are fraying. He is concerned. This is a deeply concerning
matter. With the power of the Gillette hair gel mousse, it
had just started to show promising signs of growing into a 1952
Bob Parr replica a few months ago but now it was fraying.
Dash scrutinises the brittle strands between two fingertips,
mourning it above every other ache of his body. The price, it
seems, for saving a family from their burning apartment building
was a beloved chunk of hair.
“Focus.” Violet whispers to his side.
Dash would really rather not. If he focuses, he will start hearing
their voices again. A reporter waves frantically amongst the sea of
cameras before him. Tides upon tides of questions and hurried
ink on paper pads. He sits at the edge of the swallowing waves and
thinks about allowing a single splash.
He gestures for the reporter to speak.
“Mr. Parr, do you have anything to comment on Michelle
Pfeiffe—“
“I don’t know her.”
There’s a developing twitch to at least half of the room’s eyes.
It’s been forty-five minutes of the circus juggle of questions and
given the dire circumstances, Dash has been forced to imagina-
tively envision every reporter wearing red clown noses to keep
himself entertained. In a sad way, it works.
Within the scope of his poor peripheral vision, he can see Violet
bring a weary hand to her face. The acrobatics of the conference’s

9. 2
ALCYONE’S ENVY
queries become impressive. The acrobats leap further and
Dash dodges higher; though if you truly asked him, he’d admit
he really doesn’t know who Michelle is. He’s not sure if he can
fit knowing who Michelle is in between speed saving lives and
avoiding knowing who Michelle is.
“Well,” Violet swiftly intervenes, “I think we oughtta wrap
it up here. Thank you all for attending this conference. We
promise you the Bullington Manor situation is being treated as
a priority by the NSA.”
A flurry of voices erupts as the room begins to disperse
within minutes. Violet stays polite, Dash remains impolite and
Jack-Jack is nowhere in sight.
***
“You left Jack-Jack alone?”
Dash winces at his reflection from the glass. New York isn’t
like Metroville; but at least its skyscrapers are. Dash glances at
his suit flung awkwardly to the couch since his glorious arrival
back to his apartment.
“He doesn’t really attend conferences, Mom. You know,
he’s…probably out with friends.” he replies to the phone.
On the confidential contrary, Dash’s better judgement of a
twenty-six-year-old brother lands him to a secret conclusion
involving Jack-Jack brooding away at his studio complaining
about some obscure fabric.
“Well, you still need to look out for him.” Helen sighs, “He’s
the youngest an—Bob, honey, stay away from the stir fry! I—
Bob! Okay, Dash, sweetheart, I love you, make sure to say hi to
Violet and Jack-Jack for me—oh, and Jenna! Remember, I love
you and—Bob!”
The line goes dead and Dash, much like his father, thinks
about stir fry.
***
“Stir fry?”
Jack-Jack looks up at the plastic bag, somewhat perplexed.
He pads through living room, entrenched with scraps of

10. SUPERSTAR
3
polyester and nylon. Dash doesn’t really know the difference.
He’s friends with all the fabric equally.
“I thought you said you were getting burgers?”
“I felt inspired” Dash defends, “Anyway, where were you?”
Jack-Jack transfers stir fry into his plate with precise focus
“What do you mean?”
“During the conference.”
“What do you mean?”
Dash eyes his brother through the gaps of his plastic fork.
“Where did you go?”
“Hm.” Jack-Jack chews a mouthful slowly, considerate.
“This is good stir fry.”
“Oh my God.” Dash feels his eyes roll upwards to heaven.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Where did you go?”
“Dash, I am twenty-six and you do—“
“Man.”
“—not have to monitor—”
“Did you use your dimensions again?”
Jack-Jack relents, close to a pout “They’re getting weaker.”
Dash hums thoughtfully. He never used to do this. The
thoughtfully humming thing. According to Estelle, it was part of
the package of his age.
“I am not going to tell you to stop,” Dash says finally, “We
both know that dimension thing is fucking cool.”
Jack-Jack remains silent, awaiting inevitability. Dash hates
giving it to him. If asked, he’d tell you he hates this part.
“But,” Dash sighs, “You know how it is. I don’t know. Just—
Just be careful?”
Dash isn’t very good at this part either. The consoling
Jack-Jack part. Nobody is, really. Violet is a little better. His
parents worst. Edna had remained at the top.
For a moment, Jack-Jack stares meticulously at the ceiling
and then asks; “Do you think I’m the only one?”
“What?”
“The only one right now with the dimensions.”
Dash thinks hard at this. He’d truthfully never even met
anyone within the same range of power quantity Jack-Jack

11. 4
ALCYONE’S ENVY
possessed, less anyone with dimensional powers. His Mom and
Dad have long shared the same sentiments years ago.
“Who knows really. Supers nowadays have everything under
the sun.”
It’s a little hope for now, he thinks.
“But” he continues, “Are you happy to stay out of it?”
“Out of what?”
Dash quickly switches the TV on, and it predicably lands on
a re-run of today’s conference. A clip of his dazed face plays; his
emotional examination of a piece of hair
“That.” he lazily gestured to the television.
“You mean the conferences?”
“Just those guys in general.” Dash finally explains, “This was
your choice to stay out of the media.”
“Yeah,” Jack-Jack answers simply, “I am. I don’t really see
myself doing all that.”
Dash glances at his brother and thinks about still waters.
The type he could run on. Jesus sprinting on water or whatever
it is his high school religion teacher had said.
“Me too.” Dash says, picking up his plate, “I don’t really see
myself doing it either.”

12. 5
II
MEROPE’S PRIDE
20 september 1987
D
ash Parr can’t quite get the equation right. Of course, it’s no
life-threatening matter like calculus twenty years ago but
nevertheless, it was still an equation. Dash has never been
good with equations; he doesn’t plan being good at them in future
endeavours.
But the first part of the equation, clad in a fur coat, was now
pacing back and forth in the living room. Brows furrowed, chest
puffed, tongue spitting flame.
“What is his goddamned problem?” the first part of the
equation—Jack-Jack—bellows into the thin air.
Dash shifts his gaze towards the emergency fire extinguisher
near the vase. Maybe if he just reaches for it…
“Dash, are you even listening?”
Not quite.
“Uh-huh” he says.
“So, I mean—who even does that?” his brother continues, “We
barely even spoke and the very first thing he does is tell Auntie
that I can’t inherit SuperWear? Because of what? I’m too young?!
I—What the fuck, I’m twenty-six! He’s acting like she said I was
sixteen!”
Dash hasn’t met ‘he’—the second part of the equation. The
derivative or whatever. But according to what the Forbes magazine
Jack-Jack was on the verge of ripping to pieces supplied, the
second part of the equation was aptly named Hiro J. Mode and
unlike Dash, the man was apparently good with numbers..wait—
“He’s good with numbers.” Dash blurts out.

13. 6
merope’s pride
Jack-Jack swivels around; face contorting to something
resembling confusion. “Huh?”
“Businessman.” Dash curtly explains, “Uh, money man?”
A pause.
“Huh?”
“So he’s after it.” Dash tries again, “The inheritance?”
This other equation, this one, makes a little more sense to
Dash.
A simple case of addition, really. Oh, this was elementary
grade stuff. Hiro’s engagement with Martha-what’s-her-face
was the reason this whole XARA thing even happened. Add
this to the now unholy position that was being Edna’s nephew.
Then, add the Mode name.
It equalled an inheritance.
Jack-Jack’s face contorts to nothing short of murder at this
newfound equation. If Dash were asked for reference, murder
looked like sharp teeth, a blank smile and blue eyes rendered
deathly in focus. Okay, so he doesn’t want to be on the opposite
side of any fights his younger brother fights. Big deal. Nobody
with half a brain would if they knew.
Jack-Jack strides to the lawn at the open patio; leaving the
realm of Dash’s living room.
Dash hums intelligently and thinks about important things
like puff pastries. He’s standing by for five minutes before being
within a certain perimeter of his brother without feeling flames
tingling beneath the Earth.
When Dash was eleven, he was given an assignment naming
the levels of the Earth’s core. He’d rightfully labelled the inner
core as ‘Jack-Jack’ and got a C+.
“Jacks.” he follows his brother after a sigh or two. Jack-Jack
has his arms hovering by his sides as he frolics and floats in the
middle of Dash’s pool.
This, perhaps, alleviated the inner core of the Earth bursting
from the ground at Dash’s backyard. Vi was coming over for
dinner with Estelle and honestly, it wasn’t such a great look for
interior design if Jack-Jack were to set everything on fire.
Dash stands by the pool, a hand to his hip and for a profound
moment, carefully inspects the Forbes magazine cover in his
hand. Hiro J. Mode stares back at him with a blank smile and

14. SUPERSTAR
7
a sharp eye rendered deathly in focus. Ah, so this was about
exponentiation. Dash was shit at that; one look of murder to the
power of another look of murder or whatever.
But Jack-Jack has always been fared better at maths than
Dash. He knew his equations. So maybe..
“Is this—Is this because he’s your type?” Dash asks.
Jack-Jack nearly drowns in the pool in a jolt of a reaction to
this profound statement. Dash thinks about puff pastries again
as his brother fights for his life, struggling to recover in-between
sputters and gulps of chlorine.
“I—”
“Honestly,” Dash interrupts, grinning “This is worse than Vi
at the restaurant with Tony years ago”
“What the—”
Dash sighs mournfully, lavishly fanning a hand to his
forehead for the right effect, “A man worth 145 million, Jacks?
I see how it works.”
“That is no—”
Dash gingerly flips to the article page, “A ‘hefty’ double
degree in Mechanical Engineering and Environmental Science,
supporting numerous environmental initiatives. And oh look!—”
“Dash, you cannot be serious—”
Dash holds the page out for Jack-Jack and the New York
sunset to behold.
“See? He even wears a suit well.”
***
Dash Parr is 35 years old and considering he’s not all that
fond of maths, he keeps his numbers simple.
One; he’s going to stay a bachelor in his thirties.
Two; Vi tells him to not be a bachelor in his thirties.
Three: Jack-Jack and Vi are betting hard cold cash he will
not stay a bachelor in his thirties. Estelle has yet to add her two
cents in it, but she mentions the monthly ‘really sweet person I
know’ in his presence a little too often.
“Pass the salt, please.” Vi says at the dinner table.
Jack-Jack automatically obliges without looking up from
the newspaper.

15. 8
merope’s pride
“You know, Dash,” Estelle begins, “My friend, Stella, is
attending that gala...
Jack-Jack laughs in-between mouthfuls of lasagne.
“Guys.” Dash tries.
“Ethan Sterling was telling me he was attending too” Vi adds
conspicuously, eyes a little too enthusiastic.
“Jesus, Vi.” Dash murmurs, hand to his face.
“It is not just you,’ Violet defends, “Jack-Jack needs a date
too.”
Jack-Jack pauses, mid-chew, a deer caught in lasagne.
“Wha?”
“Yes, you,” she fiercely pinpoints a fork full of steak in his
direction, “Do you guys still not know how these galas work?”
“Wait,” Jack-Jack sits up straight, alarmed, “A date? What
date? I did not hear anything about a date.”
“Jesus.” Estelle brings a hand to her face, defeated.
“It’s a gala.” Vi says plainly.
“I—It did not say a date was required.” Jack-Jack fiercely
defends. Dash’s hands start unknowingly itching for the fire
extinguisher again.
“Jack-Jack, I swear to God if you ask me to go with you
again…”
Dash thinks a younger version of himself would’ve added
his two cents in by now. But having three of Earth’s strongest
supers present at your dinner table was his personal minefield.
“Why did we agree to all go to this thing again?” he adds in
anyway.
Dash has never mastered the minefield.
“Because,” Vi starts, “We are nice and polite people and
Edna wanted us there.”
“Wasn’t it only meant to be Jack-Jack attending on our
behalf? I’ve already taken up that brand ambassador gig in
Canada this month.”
“The XARA people told all of us to go.”
“Ugh, Jesus, the papparazi are going to go into a frenzy
again.” Dash groans.
Dash has allowed the media twenty-five years to get used to
the image of himself and his siblings in the same physical space

16. SUPERSTAR
9
without frothing with the insistent camera clicks and hollers. The
media has never stacked up to the challenge.
“It’s going to fine; we get in there, we take advantage of the free
mimosas, congratulate Edna and leave.” Vi says.
“Somewhere in between, I would have apparently kissed
someone in some hallway.” Dash mourns.
“That’s why we want you to bring a date to the gala.” Estelle
confesses.
“They’re going to link you to any young actress or actor if
you even so much as look at them more than three seconds.” Vi
supplies.
Dash stabs his steak.
“And anyway, Mom and Dad would want all of us there since
they couldn’t attend. Jack-Jack, you need a date for the exact same
reason too.”
Jack-Jack groans, “Can’t we just focus on the free mimosas...”
“You two can focus on the free mimosas all you want.” Estelle
snorts, “Just don’t let anyone see.”
***
may 1982
“You’re the one who punched the alien.” is what Dr. Zheng
says when they first meet. She would later refer this line as the
magnum opus of her career.
“Um,” Dash starts, “Yeah. I guess I did.”
“Tell me,” she says slowly, pulling two crochet hooks to her lap
as Dash sat by the opposite chair, “Did you want to?”
“Huh?”
“Punch the alien,” she smiles, “Did you want to punch the
alien?”
For a bizzare moment, Dash is convinced that they’re supposed
to laugh until he stares at her again, eyes unnerving.
To his horror, she was waiting for a geniune answer.
What did she mean, want to punch the alien?
Out of all the questions he’d gotten for the whole debacle, he’d
never been asked this and it was starting to throw him off. Was
therapy suppose to be a pop quiz?

17. 10
merope’s pride
“Uh, I kinda..I kinda needed to.”
“Needed to punch the alien?” she says, curious “Were you the
only one there?”
“No,” he answers truthfully, “My sister, Vi, was. And her
girlfriend, Estelle. We were in a mission.”
“So you were the one they chose to punch the alien?”
“No, I needed to.”
“But you say there were others.”
“They were pre-occupied with other evil-doers.” he replies,
shrugging “Just the usual.”
“But otherwise,” she stares at him, “Would you have wanted
to do it?”
Dash is stunned for a moment. What on Earth? He’s a super.
This is not a want, this is a need. He needs to catch the bad guys.
That’s what Bob Parr needed to do. That’s what the American
public needs. American moulded itself into different shapes the
past thirty years and it still ended up being coming back to supers.
It’s what America needs. It’s what he needs.
“But it’s not about what I want.” he says, deeply unsettled.
“It isn’t?”
In the silence, Dash asks himself the same.

18. 11
III
TAYGETA’S GREED
23 september 1987, 1:43am
I
n hindsight, Estelle’s warning had been the bad omen on the
free mimosas. Dash hobbles to the side of the taxi, overcome
with champagne turmoils brewing in his head. He wonders,
for a very heartfelt moment, if he is hallucinating.
“Hey buddy, you coming in or nah?” the taxi driver hollers.
Dash registers the driver’s disgruntled expression and quite
literally nothing else. He crouches lower, facing the glory of the
car tyres and balks as remnants of the gala’s dinner menu emerges
from his stomach to the concrete floor.
“Oh hell nah, man! Not on my tyres!”
Dash’s hand automatically reaches for his pockets, fishing out
a $100 dollar bill. A peace offering.
The driver sighs from his seat. Nonetheless, Dash feels the bill
slipped away from his fingertips.
“Rich people.” he hears him mutter. Dash agrees.
“Alex,” he hears a voice call behind him, “Sorry to keep you
waiting.”
The taxi driver—Alex—snorts, waving to the figure behind
Dash. “He dead or something?”
Dash turns and feels the conviction that he is hallucinating
strengthening.
“Hopefully not.” Hiro J. Mode quips. In the same breath, he
glances down. In slow, horrified amusement, Dash watches his
brother’s face at odd peace awkwardly settled in between Hiro’s
arms and chest.
Despite the haze, Dash, for once, wants to be the one behind a

19. 12
TAYGETa’S GREED
camera for this. Jack-Jack was dead to the world. He was dead
to the world and the other half of his equation was carrying him.
Jesus, Dash loves maths.
“Um.” Dash begins intelligently.
“I called you two a taxi.” Hiro says when he doesn’t continue.
His eyes suddenly turn apologetic, “I’m sorry for—uh–every-
thing. I didn’t know Martha had told him I was a dance-”
Dash interrupts, waving a hand in what he hopes is noncha-
lance, “It’s no big deal, man. I went too far with the free mimosas
and I forgot that Jack-Jack doesn’t really drink.”
For some reason, Dash feels compelled to add; “It’s because
he—uh—he does….yoga.”
“Yoga?”
Jesus, Dash is bad at maths.
“He takes care of his…mind. And body. It’s very spiritual!
Very spiritual.” he says anyway.
“Uh—”
“He cares about the environment!” Dash blurts out.
Fraticide, Dash thought, Jack-Jack was going to commit
fratricide tomorrow. Jack-Jack has also never done yoga his
whole life. On the contrary, Jack-Jack hunches over desks
grumbling about polyester. As far as Dash was concerned,
Jack-Jack harboured backpain instead the wonders of yoga’s
flexibilities.
“I’m glad he cares” Hiro replies slowly, “about the
environment. And…yoga.”
Because Dash has already accepted the fate of the fratricide,
he says, “Thanks.”
Dash staggers as he pulls himself up, walking to Hiro J.
Mode carrying his brother like a peace offering. In naïve spirit,
Dash lends his arms out, prepared to carry 200 lbs of drunken
rage.
“It’s alright, I’ve got it.” Hiro says.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll do it”
“I really do—”
“Listen, I can carry him just fi—”
“Dash, you’re drun—”
“Just get him in the goddamned car!” the taxi driver hollers
behind them.

20. SUPERSTAR
13
Oddly challenged, Dash eyes his new opponent with brazen
focus. Sharp eyes stare back at him, unrelenting. Jack-Jack
dreams of puff pastries or something between them.
In the silence, a passing of sorts seems to have occurred
in the thick evening air. It is not, Dash realises, unlike a man
waiting for a sea to part. Dash sprints on water, Jack-Jack sticks
to the heat of the land and Hiro J. Mode is fucking Moses with a
custom-tailored three-piece suit.
After a beat, Dash steps aside, opening the back taxi door.
Hiro strides forward before gently arranging Dash’s brother to
the seat, clicking a seatbelt in place. He shuts the door before
telling Alex to put it forward to some bill.
“Mr. Mode,” a female voice calls out, “A guest is waiting.”
Dash peers to the side as Hiro glances at the woman momen-
tarily. Instantly, Dash himself is caught off guard, mesmerised.
With her chin raised a little, a woman dressed in a pitch black
suit stood by the railing, hovering in a motionless stance, as if
she felt too impatient to tread any closer. Framed around a rich
olive complexion, her eyes bore slight curiousity at the scene,
assessing.
Despite his state, Dash felt urgently compelled to congrat-
ulate her on her face.
“Eve,” Hiro says, bringing Dash back to Earth, “I’ll be there
in a moment.”
In the evening shadow, she nods slowly, retreating back
inside.
“Again, sorry for all the trouble,” Hiro repeats after a beat,
“I’ve already paid the cab. I’ll tell Ms. Parr inside that I sent you
off.”
Instead of a thanks, Dash offers; “He doesn’t hate you.”
“It’s alright if he does.”
Oh fuck it, Dash can stand to do a little maths every once in
a while. He opens the passenger door, looking at Hiro J. Mode
one final time and asks;
“Is it?”
***

21. 14
TAYGETa’S GREED
2 december 1986
“You’re paid well and live a comfortable livelihood, Dash.”
Dr. Zheng says. It’s a statement rather than a question.
“I guess,” he finds himself lounging at the chair. He hasn’t
really ever needed to look very long and hard at his bank
account. He knows there’s more than enough there. Vi usually
manages it sometimes so that a percentage goes to charities.
“Does that ever bother you?”
Dash sits up straighter, confused, “I don’t know what you
mean.”
“Many of your recounts with me have some semblance to
your relationship with your wealth.” she says.
“My contract with the NSA pays according to the amount of
missions per year,” he replies, “I take a lot of them.”
“What I mean is your own identity attached to your
wealth,” she explains, “Are you comfortable with the title
others put of you according to your wealth?”
“Should I be uncomfortable with it?” he asks geniunely.
“Well, that depends,” she shrugs, “People of higher wealth
often have issues regarding their identity with it. Especially for
those that didn’t grow up wealthy in the first place. They might
shift. No matter what, it is usually a natural course of action
that you may be treated differently according to your wealth or
upbringing.”
“I don’t...I haven’t really ever needed to think much about
my money since I became an official super.”
“Are you happy that way?”
Dash tries to consider it. Of course, if you were rich, people
would treat you accordingly. He’d never thought any different.
He wasn’t his money, was he?
“I try to be as friendly as I can in the galas and events for
the media,” he says, thinking aloud, “I don’t know how much of
it is me but I do know it’s neccesary at some point. We don’t—
we don’t really have much of a choice on that end. To act nice.”
“So, you don’t believe your wealth is a part of your
identity?”
Dash pursues his lip. He’s starting to think he’s reliving one
of those pop quiz trick questions again.

22. SUPERSTAR
15
“I..” Dash trails off, “I don’t know if I want to identify with
that number on my account.
“That’s alright,” Dr. Zheng replies, “Some people are the
same.”
***
24 september 1987, 12:30pm
“Mr. Parr, how long will your press tour in Canada last?”
“Maybe a few weeks.”
“Are you excited to visit?”
“Yeah, man.”
“Mr. Parr, as a new brand ambassador of XARA, what do you
wish to represent?”
“Anything they want me to represent.”
“Anything specific, Mr. Parr?’
“The technology is beyond good. I’m happy to stand for it.”
“Mr. Parr, is it true that you and Jack-Jack Parr fought for the
role as bra—”
“Hell no.”
“Mr. Parr, are you happy to be in Canada?”
“As happy as I’ll ever be.”
“Mr. Parr, there have been a few recounts of your alleged exit
at the NYFT Gala involving an quarrel between your brother and
another ma—”
“I rode back home with my sister at the end of the night. You
must be talking about another person. Besides, I don’t drink
nowadays. I’ve been doing yoga.”
“Mr. Parr, did you want to address rumours about Miche—”
“No.”
“Mr. Parr, are you worried about XARA’s new management for
the US expansion under Hiro. J. Mode?”
“Not at all.”
***

23. 16
TAYGETa’S GREED
1 October 1987, 11:41pm
“You’re going home early?”
Jack-Jack’s voice cuts inelegantly through the phone line.
“I mean, I don’t mind?” he tells Dash, “I kinda already
secured the agreement with the client Hiro told me about. I
already looked and there’s an early flight tomorrow a—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Dash cuts in, “You fucking hate early
flights.”
Jack-Jack just laughs, “You sound very convicted about this.”
“Yes”
“Hm.”
Dash sighs loudly in the hotel room, breathing Canadian air
from Canadian air conditioning. He still doesn’t quite understand
why he’s the one here promoting super clothes but he’s never had
the idea to turn down Edna. Or, well, Edna’s company..thing.
None of them really do.
“What is this really about?” Dash asks, “You got somethin’
happening in New York or what?”
“Uh, no—I guess not.”
Dash balances himself back up the headboard, confused, “So
stay in Dallas. You need a break from work. Have fun there.”
“I” Jack-Jack sighs, “I kinda do. Have a thing, I mean. In a
way.”
“What?’
“I was talking to the client and they—uh—they gave me
something..” Jack-Jack trails off, “I didn’t know.”
Dash feels himself lost.
“Didn’t know what?”
“That it’s Hiro’s birthday tomorrow.”

24. 17
IV
ASTEROPE’S SLOTH
1986
E
ven despite the flames in every crevice of Earth outside his
apartment, the ceiling fan kept things cool. Whirring in the
way it does without much aim than to disperse restless air,
it spins tirelessly in circles Dash is now fascinated by.
Perhaps because it might be the only thing operating in a
motionless room. This could be what Dr. Zheng was talking about.
She doesn’t know. Well, she doesn’t exactly know what’s going
on frame by frame, but she pieces them together like those movie
cuts. Dr. Zheng likes piecing it together, Dash thinks. She likes
crocheting, after all. She’s elderly and calm and tolerant of him
that way. She does it from time to time during their sessions which
is a little counter-productive because it distracts Dash from his
line of thought. But then she smiles at him and then he picks it up
off the ground again.
But then again, Dash picks things up off the ground all the
time. He waltzes in, punches aliens, waltzes back out, punches
another evil-doing soul or two. He lands another punch in, dodges
two. He’s moving. He’s always moving.
***
“I don’t want to retire for a long time” he tells her.
Dr. Zheng sits by the chair, unbothered by this statement.
When he doesn’t elaborate further, she asks, “And why is that?”
Dash has got this all planned out, might’ve even rehearsed it in
his head in between fights.

25. 18
ASTEROPE’S sloth
“I love it you, y’know,” he glances to the window, “It’d be
boring to force myself to retire early. Missions are the only thing
I don’t get bored of”
“You’ll be busy for a long time then. How do you feel about
that?” she says, “Being busy?”
“Good,” he says, a little apprehensive this might’ve been the
wrong answer, “It makes me feel good.”
“What about it makes you feel good?”
“I’m occupied. I can focus on it, well, I try. We get briefed on
the mission, we go out there, we hope we don’t fuck it up and we
eventually do but then we fix it and we win. We win. I just—it
just…it keeps me busy, y’know? I feel useful, I’m not being lazy.”
“Do you love every part of being busy?”
“With missions, I do,” he says, “It’s something I can control.”
“What about what you can’t control? How do you feel then?”
In the blink of an eye, Dash is fourteen, fidgeting and fighting
through algebra tests where all he can hear is the roaring whir of
the ceiling fan instead of what the hell x was. Dash is twenty-one,
in unstoppable motion. Sprinting and chattering tirelessly until
he’s out of breath. Spinning through each little debrief brimmed
with every tiny detail of careless whims of his action; instruc-
tions, they always want him to go by the instructions. Which
makes zero fucking sense, if you asked Dash, considering that
nothing ever seems to go by instructional plan anyway. Then
Dash is every little bit of his thirty-five years of age, unable to
focus on anything else but another ceiling fan.
Dash doesn’t reply. Dr. Zheng writes down things in her
notepad. Dash has a theory she might be doodling fragments of
him in there.
“If you don’t want to retire now, Dash, that’s your choice,”
Dr. Zheng says, “But do you love it? Or is it just something you
can control your focus in?”
***
They were working on the name. Or at least, re-working it.
“Attention deficit disorder,” she says slowly, “Well, actually,
the committee recently changed it to be a little longer so it’s
attention deficit hyperactivity disorder now.”

26. SUPERSTAR
19
“Is that a tongue twister?” Dash asks. Dr. Zheng laughs, her
hands easing the steady grip on her crotchet hooks.
“Maybe,” she agrees, “But you can call it ADHD, for short.”
“Is that what I have?”
She eyes him carefully, “Yes.”
She says it simply. A smoother landing on the blow for him.
“There are ways to work through it, Dash. And I admit
it’s something we wish we had more on our hands in terms of
data,” she falters for a moment, which alarms Dash more than
anything.
“And I’m going to fight for it as long as you’re with me about
it,” she continues, “But I want you to know that it’s not you
being ‘lazy’ and it’s not your fault. About what you can’t always
control.”
“Oh.”
In the steady silence, her hooks reverberate little click-clacks
against each other; a soothing echo.
***
Dash meets Dr. Zheng in the summer of 82’. Violet had
drawn the line the same year. By the time it was drawn, Dash
had little time to register that she’d been observing things at all.
“Das—”
“I’m fine,” he tells Violet. But his hands were eager to tell the
truth, shaking. His body was always more honest than he was.
He shuts his eyes, requesting the Earth to be motionless for a
one good spare moment.
“Dash, please listen to me,” Violet tries again, softer.
This tone is what causes his snap, “Vi, I said I’m fine!”
From the corner of eye, Dash sees Jack-Jack shift skittishly
on the couch as if he were waiting for the Earth to crumble
beneath him. Given the situation, Dash wouldn’t be surprised
if it did.
“You’re losing focus out there,” Vi says gently but it feels like
a slap to the face, “What’s wrong? Is it the media? We can try to
lose them for a few weeks.”
Her eyes are trained on him carefully as if he’d disappear
if she lost sight of him for even a second. Dash suddenly

27. 20
ASTEROPE’S sloth
sympathises with every stutter reporters get under his sister’s
scrutiny.
“No,” he says after a beat, “I’ve just been tired lately, is all.”
“So have you been tired the past two years?”
He scoffs, “Don’t act like that. It affects all of us.”
“But it’s been affecting yo—”
“Look, we didn’t have the choice!” he feels himself bursting
at the seams, “It’s been years since the goddamned Act has been
enforced, can I at least admit that I’m not as prepared as you
were to give away our lives to the public? Jack-Jack isn’t even
prepared at all. I’m sorry that I don’t want to do anything big
with politics, Vi, but maybe I never wanted to do anything in the
first place.”
“This isn’t about me,” Vi says, brows furrowing, “You’ve
been losing focus on missions the past year, I don’t know what’s
going on.”
“You’d think for someone invisible; you’d understand
wanting to be invisible for a bit” he bites.
“I’ve lost my invisibility years ago and you know it. I can’t
run or hide away from them just as much as you. Please, Dash,
I just want to kno—”
“I’m fine!”
“You’re clearly not!” she yells and in the silence before them,
she says, “You know you’re not.”

28. 21
V
CELEANO’S GLUTTONY
22 september 1987, 11:02pm
S
ometime between the odd conversation with sharks (politi-
cians) and royalty, Dash remembers the existence of his
younger brother and searches for a fruitless twenty-five
minutes before spotting him agonizing life by his lonesome at a
corner of the room.
“What the hell” Dash whispers, “are you doing just standing
there?”
“Hm,” Jack-Jack sips his champagne, “This is really good
champagne.”
“Dude.”
Dash’s eyes darts out to Jack-Jack’s line of focus from his
brooding shadowed corner. Hiro J. Mode and his fiancé bedazzle
the room with that type of air newlyweds give to single people.
Dash knows this because it was the only air he was breathing and
silently choking on around Violet for twelve months straight when
she’d wed Estelle.
“I don’t understand it.” Jack-Jack mutters to himself. Ah,
maybe this was the location where the Earth’s core burst open.
“Marriage?” Dash quips unhelpfully, “Yeah, me neither.”
Jack-Jack elbows him. “You know what I’m talking.”
“Yeah,” Dash leans against the wall, joining in the shadows,
“But I was only really guessing about that inheritance thing.”
“But it makes sense,” his brother says, bitter.
“I was kinda talking out of my ass” Dash confesses.
“Why else would he tell Edna not to put me in the inheritance?”
Jack-Jack challenges.

29. 22
CELEANO’S GLUTTONY
Dash doesn’t stack up to the challenge. If asked, he’d tell you
he really doesn’t fucking know why the biological nephew man
sitting on top of Forbes 30 Under 30 List would tinker with the
hefty inheritance of his biological aunt to the pseudo-nephew.
Dash groans, pulling Jack-Jack aside.
“You are” Dash grits out, “depressing me even more than
this gala is. This suit is kinda itchy. The food isn’t greasy
enough. I can’t find Violet because she’s nice to these people or
whatever. And you—you are analysing some guy just because
he’s an asshole and because he looks good in a three-piece suit.”
Feeling hysterical, Dash grips Jack-Jack’s shoulder like a
lifeline and points a shaky finger to the grand table of hundreds
of mimosas at the centre of the room.
“Listen, it’s just you, me” Dash proposes, “and all those free
fucking mimosas. Are you in or are you in?”
Jack-Jack sighs, staring at his empty glass.
“Yeah, Dash. I’m in.”
***
“Fuck him” Jack-Jack roars through his eighth mimosa,
“and his money.”
By his own sixth glass, it has now only just occurred to Dash
that this might’ve been the worst fucking idea on the planet.
“You got that right,” he roars back anyway, nodding
furiously.
He glances back at their enemy in question; flocked by the
adoring elite ranks. He grimaces at the sight in honour of his
brother who has diverted his attention to plucking his ninth
mimosa from the grand flowerbed of beverages.
Hiro J. Mode has been developing fabric prototypes since
he was sixteen years old; a fitting heir of his aunt!
They’re both hovering by the table, perhaps known as their
territory now. Not a single person has attempted being within a
certain perimeter of them and their drunken stupor.
Violet remains non-existent, frolicking amongst the masses
like a good guest. Dash is very certain she will be the leader of
Earth any time now. Sensational!

30. SUPERSTAR
23
“What” Violet materialises by their side, “the fuck are you
two doing?”
“Defining who we are,” Jack-Jack supplies.
Dash stands his ground, “Establishing territory actually.”
“I—Okay, I’m not going to ask. Jack-Jack,” Violet pulls her
younger brother to her side, “I need your help.”
“Vi, listen, I’d actually rather die than talk to another
politician”
Dash busies himself with a shrimp tartlet and adds; “Or half
the room.”
Vi glares at Dash, “First of all, you were literally becoming
best friends with Princess Diana an hour ago.”
“So?” he raises a brow, “I’m a big fan.”
Vi just sighs, turning her attention to Jack-Jack, “And you—”
“I” Jack-Jack defends, “haven’t done a single thing tonight,
I swear.”
“That’s kinda the point,” Vi says, “Listen, I may be sealing a
deal tonight if you and Hiro—”
“Oh, fuck no”
“—just pulled yourselves together and got alon—”
“It’s like you want me to commit murder”
Dash contributes approximately nothing to aide Jack-Jack’s
incoming dilemma by pretending to closely examine the truffles.
“Just one goddamned dance, Jack-Jack, I swear. XARA
wants to see—”
“Vi,” Jack-Jack pleads, “This is actually worse than a
Senator.”
“—that management and the damn faces of Superwear are
actually getting along.”
“I’m not even the face of SuperWear! Dash is!”
Dash pauses his Tuscan truffle inspection. “The hell did I
do? I’m heading to Canada for fuck’s sake.”
Vi snorts, “Look, it’s not like Dash is the one fighting Mode
in every single meeting we’ve had this past week.”
“Just one dance, Jacks,” Vi requests, “And besides, I ensure
that you won’t hate dancing right now. Listen.”
Puzzled, Dash is about to ask what they’re talking about
before he shifts his attention away from the buzz of the voices

31. 24
CELEANO’S GLUTTONY
of the room, standing motionless along with his siblings as they
take in the symphony from the live ensemble near the stage.
Well, hats off to Vi, Dash thinks, chewing his truffle.
Jack-Jack has never been able to resist Mozart.
***
“You really couldn’t have asked him to do this before he was
drunk?” Dash whispers to Violet.
Dash zeroes in on his brother and his brother’s second-half-
of-equation waltzing across the room, somehow simultaneously
murdering each other at the same time. Dash has caught several
creative profanities coming from Jack-Jack when he’d lingered
in the dancefloor himself.
“Okay, I am not the one who let him swim in the mimosas,”
Vi hisses back
“You know he literally hates that guy.”
Violet raises a brow, “Weren’t you the one who planted that
into him?”
“It was a stupid conspiracy theory!” Dash defends, “I didn’t
think he’d take it seriously.”
“Well, now we got Jack-Jack on the heels of murder,” her
eyes follow the pair across the ballroom, visibly bickering, “but
I’m not just doing it out of the deal, y’know.”
“Wow, it sure sounds like it.”
“He needs to learn to put his armour down every now and
again, don’t you think?”
“Who, Jack-Jack?”
“Don’t you think they could actually be good friends?” Violet
says, “Their fields are pretty much identical.”
“It’s not like Mode is exactly extending an olive branch,”
Dash snorts, ”He fights just as hard.”
“Disciples of Edna,” Violet sighs, “They gotta run on the
same scripture, I guess”
“You sayin’ she’s Jesus?”
“Honestly, she’s more of the Anti-Christ.”
Dash considers this and murmurs;
“Amen.”

32. 25
VI
ELEKTRA’S LUST
8 november 1987, 5:13am
H
is heart is beating a billion times faster than the normal
rate, he’s so sure of it. Dash sprints forward from the
railing, reaching the rooftop just in time before tripping
in a winded haste. He’s out of the better bounds now; one wrong
move and he falls to the pits with the New York skyline. A horrible
and boring way to go, really.
“Banks!” he shouts into the thin air.
“Parr, this is no good way to go,” the air says back. Witty. Very
witty air.
Dash, for the life of him, can imagine the fucker smirking.
He tries to even out his breathing, forcing himself to focus on the
direction of the voice.
Fuck.Shit.ThisiswhyheneverwonagainstViolet’sinvisibility.
“Banks, just listen to me,” he says aloud. It’s almost ridiculous,
Dash thinks, the way he is seemingly shouting on top of a rooftop
to himself.
“Give me one good reaso—”
“I know about Eden.”
The air is hollow for a moment, stubborn.
And then, from it, emerges a face.
***
12 november 1987, 6:12pm
“Oh, you can..”

33. 26
ELEKTRA’S Lust
Adam Banks glances up from his ongoing creation, pursing
a lip in focus. He’s lounging by his chair; the centre stage
surrounded with three glowing monitors running green text
code Dash won’t pretend to understand. It’s a bizarre situation,
the one Dash is in.
“Hm?” Adam holds up the unfinished scarf, “Crochet?”
Dash just stares in wonder, “Yeah.”
Adam laughs. Airy and genuine. Good laugh, Dash thinks.
“You sound so surprised. My Mom taught me. You don’t
think I just stare at computers all day, do you?”
“No,” Dash immediately defends, “That’s not what I—”
“Relax,” Adam says kindly, “I get it. Honestly, a lot of people
get surprised about it too. And anyway, I just do it to unwind,
I’m honestly bad at it.”
“Um,” Dash brow pull together, agitated at this statement,
“No, it looks good.”
Adam holds the scarf up again, in its wonky formation and
bizarre colour combination of neon green and purple. He raises
a brow, challenging.
“Unique” Dash concludes fiercely.
His scarf conviction seems to reach across because Adam
eventually smiles and continues. The room is engulfed in silence
once again.
Dash hovers around him, feeling a little awkward now. He
studies the room in better curiosity than the first time and the
weight of every red string littered with information along the
wall begins to crash on Dash.
“You…you really investigated everything,” he accidentally
says aloud.
“I mean, it’s my job.” Adam replies, “I gotta put my brain to
use.”
Without thinking, Dash blurts out, “Do you love it?”
This makes Adam pause for moment, as if he were reviewing
every syllable spoken, “What do you mean?”
Dash instantly wants to retract everything back to his mouth
but pushes forward, “Do you love it or—um—does it just keep
you busy?”
“Uh, both,” Adam replies, slowly, “When I start a case, I

34. SUPERSTAR
27
always want to finish it. Eden always says I should just let things
go sometimes, but I do want to see everything to the end.”
“But,” Dash relents and gestures to the room, “This is so
much work.”
“Yeah, but I don’t hate focusing on it.” Adam says.
Dash examines the clipboard, cluttered with hasty notes
along the wall. He can see bits and pieces of his own name in
newspaper articles scattered beneath.
Dash Parr’s exit at the NYFT Ball! Another beau in secret?
Read more on pg. 34.
“Have you ever got distracted?”
“On this?”
‘Yeah.”
“Sometimes,” Adam admits then grins, “But that’s what
crocheting is for.”
“Huh?”
“I do it when my codes just won’t work no matter how hard
I try for hours,” Adam explains, hands continuing their work
again, “I realised I can’t really even think right when I keep
persisting. Doing something like this takes my mind off for a
while.”
ForawhilewhenDashdoesn’tanswer,Adamsayssomething
he doesn’t think he would ever be prepared for.
“Do you want to try?”
“What?”
“Come here.”
It’s almost like a trance, the way Dash is pulled from where
he was standing to Adam’s side, a chair pulled for him to sit
in. In a soft voice not unlike Jenna’s own, Adam narrates every
step of his hand’s movement over each hook while Dash fiddles
mindlessly with a yarn, somewhat bewitched.
His hands are slow and steady and in tiny space of the room,
Dash feels as if he were introduced to a long lost secret of motion.
***
19 august 1993, 3:12pm
Jenna Zheng doesn’t really age, Dash thinks. Not in the way

35. 28
ELEKTRA’S Lust
anyone thinks. There are crinkles to her deep olive complexion,
some sinking deeper than others. Inside those crevices are
probably the secrets of the universe; secrets even the stars won’t
tell. Faint marks under her eyes don’t carry age as much as they
do her shrewd, lasting humour.
Her hands appear frail, but he’s had to drag her from APA
committee rooms kicking and screaming; thrashing about every
time like it’s her lifeline. In some way, it might’ve been. Those
long fingertips’ have plucked stars from the night sky, pulling
them by force towards Earth to tell the truth. Her hair, though,
has never frayed. And she looks at perfect peace in her rest from
where Dash stands.
“Um” he begins, pacing near the hospital bed, “Jen, I know
you can’t hear me right now, but I wanted to visit and I—”
“Dash, I’m not dead yet.”
“Jesus, fuck!” he jumps, “What the hell!”
She smiles slowly, eyes finally opening. She peers at him,
forever amused.
“Sunflowers for a dead woman?” she eyes the bouquet in his
hands.
“I might just keep them to myself if you keep acting like
this.”
“Good, you oughtta learn how to garden properly.”
He snorts then gently lays them by her lap for her to admire,
touching every petal like her fingertips were a drop of generous
sunlight. The heart monitor besides her beats slow, steady.
Dash doesn’t really like to think very hard about her condition.
“You lied to me,” he tells her after a while, “You didn’t want
to retire either.”
She grins, “I want to keep punching my own aliens too.”
“You yelled at a bunch of old dudes in the committee.”
“Same thing.”
They laugh, basking in shared memory and fits of anger
better followed by triumphs of Dr. Jenna Zheng, Ph.D.’s work
amounting to more diagnosed cases of their tongue twister into
a new era. She’s been moving, Jen. She’s been always moving.
Dash thinks she’d beat him in a race. Track and field. Faster
than he ever really was.

36. SUPERSTAR
29
“Um,” he pulls at the thick fabric in his hands, “I made you
this.”
Jenna smiles wide, far too wide, at the crooked loop of
mismatched colours. It took Dash several months to complete,
spontaneityentrenchedwitheverynewyarnfromseveralcountries
he’d make disjointed progress of it in. He’s cursed profusely at
every second chain, a restless grip on the crochet hooks.
“Why” Adam had asked the first month, exasperated, “won’t
you use your powers to make it?”
“I just can’t,” he replies, hunched over their couch.
“You threw out two hooks at a river a week ago.”
“Jenna,” Dash says, “Jenna does this all the time. Without
powers.”
“Jenna has also been crocheting for, like, seventy years.”
“I want to slow down for her,” he finally says, “She kept up to
speed with me this whole time.”
So Adam sighs, smiling like he can’t help it. Dash hears him
mutter something like ‘God bless the woman’ before planting
himself on the couch beside him, settling two warm hands on top
of his to teach him how to crochet all over again.
“It’s unique.” Jenna marvels to herself.
“I know.”
“Adam taught you, didn’t he?”
“Multiple times.”
Jenna grins, wide and kind. Always so kind. “Avery taught me
how to crochet for the first time too.”
She closes her eyes. Dash wonders if Avery is laughing at
Jenna behind her eyelids. “I was so mad, especially the first time. I
somehow broke one of the hooks, I think. We were in college, and
I was rushing to graduate because all I thought I wanted was to get
my Mom to realise I was worth all her hard work migrating here.”
“Then, one day, Avery took all my shit and hid them,” Jenna
continues, laughing softly, “I was furious. But then, she tells me if
I learnt how to crochet a single square with her, she’ll give every-
thing back. I didn’t know back then that it was her way of telling
me she wanted me to slow down and live for a moment.”
“Did you do it?”
“Oh, I completely fucked up the square, of course,” Jenna

37. 30
ELEKTRA’S Lust
quips, then adds; “But at least, I realised I didn’t need to rush to
prove myself all the time.”
She manoeuvres herself slightly on the bed, sliding the scarf
around her neck, pleased.
“Hey Dash?”
“Jen.”
Her hands settle pliant on her sunflowers, slow and steady,
“Thanks for slowing down for me.”
“A hare’s got to take a nap.”
“I’ll meet you at the finish line?”
“Yeah,” says Dash, “I’ll meet you there.”

38. 31
VII
MAIA’S WRATH
4 october 1987, 8:21pm
D
ash can hear the roar of the tides from miles away. Inching
closer, so much closer. High enough that it’ll devour both
himself, Violet and possibly the brother made of fire in its
waters. In fact, he might be drowning as it is.
“Vi! Focus!” he shouts.
Dash can hear each click on the camera build like a bad
symphony. The paparazzi masses flock relentlessly along the
reception and the entrance; Dash thinks he’s starting to imagine
things with their sheer numbers alone. Okay, how the hell did they
even find Jack-Jack apartment building?
“Out of the way!” he yells, pushing a heap of bodies out the
glass doors. In return, they squabble his name like a chorus.
At the blink of an eye, a force lingers into the thin air.
A reporter stumbles backwards, stung, as a purple-tinted
barrier arises, preventing the masses from the building. Violet
marches forward to the hallway and Dash staggers to keep up.
“Violet, wait, I—listen—ow, fuck!” he stumbles as he darts
along her side—“I think we should talk about this!”
She strides to the familiar direction of Jack-Jack’s apartment
door, seething. For the first time, Dash thinks if he comes any
closer, he might die. The bags under her eyes carry the weight of
Earth; at least he can conclude she hadn’t gotten any sleep in her
flight.
“Listen!” he tries, frantically hovering by her side. Her face
remains stoic, unmoving. He shakes her shoulder, a helpless plea.
“We don’t know if—”

39. “Mirage!” Vi yells at him, out of breath, “His fiance’s mother
is Mirage!”
“What?”
Violet doesn’t explain, hurling the apartment door open
with force. Dash shouts her name one last desperate time and
braces himself.
Outside, the sea swallows itself.