Trolley Man

The kid doesn't deserve it, of course. No one I throw in the wood chipper, literally or figuratively, deserves it.

He's just this happy little dude, one hand holding an ice cream cone, his other hand in his mom's, they're just strolling down the sidewalk on a rare glorious Minneapolis summer day. Just a happy little kid, enjoying a sunny day.

But Vanity Bonfire has gotten out of lockup again, somehow, and she's turned the corner just ahead and is walking towards me. She sees me, and recognizes me from the last time I helped put her away, and she's lifting her upturned palms. Just absolute shit luck. I've got about three seconds before she pulls down enough solar energy to flashfire most of the city block.

I whistle real loudly and the kid looks at me. Perfect. I lock eyes with him and feel my pupils blow open. Not windows to the soul in my case, more portholes into the Great Nothingness that's always eating away at the universe, and there's no airlock doors between me and the kid, whose eyes are windows to his soul. At least for me.

The kid's pupils blow open and a blast of cold that has nothing to do with physical temperature slams through me. The kid drops dead, his mom screams, people around us all start looking and yelling and screaming.

Up ahead Vanity Bonfire's hands are glowing bright and now I do feel a difference in physical air temperature, getting real warm real fast.

Last time I used the juice I pulled from an elderly woman's sundered lifeforce to throw a sort of psychic haymaker into Vanity's mind. Had knocked her right the hell out. I'd helped the cops get her cuffed and straitjacketed, and had thought that was the end of it.

Two years ago, in Berlin, she'd torched a quarter of the city.

Fuck that shit. I wasn't going to try subtle a second time.

I channel the newly-deceased kid's soul into kinetic force, pulling on Vanity's wrists.

I tear her hands right off the ends of her arms.

No flashpoint. Minneapolis doesn't become Berlin 2.0.

Vanity screams and falls and watches her twitching hands flop and skitter on the sidewalk in front of her.

Then she bleeds and cries a little and dies.

I feel the dregs of the kid's soul settle into the pit of my stomach, like a lump of ashes.

All around me, people running and screaming and throwing up and just completely losing their shit. But they're alive.

The kid's mother sits on the sidewalk, cradling his head in her hands, very quietly asking him to wake up.

I stagger away, not looking back at the real hero of the day.

I had seen all the web comics before, and it perfectly describes what I can do. The Trolley Man, no matter what The Trolley Man does, a train will hit one person or a group of people. That's my "super power" if you can call it that.

It's a horrible thing really, because no matter what, someone dies. And it's always the single person who gets sacrificed to save a group. The worst thing about it, is that the people never know that they're about to die when I pick them. I guess it's a good way to go, quick and painless, but I still feel like a murderer.

The day I first realized I had this ability, I was at an amusement park (which shall remain nameless but the ride has closed since anyways). There I was with my parents, I was only 10 years old. We were walking by roller coasters, the whole park was filled with screams of glee as people plummeted down sharp hills and got spun around 360 degrees on other corkscrew tracks.

This malfunction happened as a cart of passengers was coming in hot on a track and then they reached the part where people were flipped upside down. Except the ride stopped.

200 ft in the air, arms dangled, and the passengers were shouting with joy for a brief moment, but soon they were screaming for help. The operators of the ride were frantically trying to get the people off the coaster but they didn't know what to do.

Then the strangest thing happened. My whole world went dark and time slowed down. One of the ride operators was about to press the button to release the safety bar. But in my field of vision, I saw a handful of people near me glowing a golden aura. The people on the ride emitted a violet shine. It didn't make sense to me -I was a little kid, so I didn't know better- but I thought I was having a heart attack at first.

I looked at my parents and tried to talk but my voice was coming out slower than molasses. I was trying to ask them, "What's with all the glowing people? Why is everything so dark all of a sudden? Why has time slowed down?"

But I could still move my hands at regular speed. So I pointed at a random person to try and show my parents that someone was glowing, but as soon as I pointed at the stranger, they collapsed.

Time reverted back to normalcy, the darkness lifted, and I could talk like nothing happened. But no one was talking. Everyone was watching the group of people on the roller coaster as the safety bar lifted up and all of the people fell 200 ft.

Miraculously though, there was a giant inflatable that appeared out of nowhere below all of the people. They landed safely, although they bounced upon initial impact, their lives were saved.

I couldn't believe it. Did I just save that whole group of people?

Then everyone around me swarmed the stranger who passed out and they called for a doctor. Then they called an ambulance. The man passed away, and I felt like I was responsible since I pointed at him.

It would take me another incident to realize that my pointer finger was indeed the determination if someone lived or died. But when I asked my dad if pointing a finger at someone could kill, he said.

"No chance, sonny. That sort of thing sounds like it came from a comic book."

That was my first experience with the power, and unfortunately I've had many more since.

r/randallcooper

Are you familiar with the Trolley Problem?

A common moral thought exercise. There is a runaway trolley heading down a track - a track on which there is a group of people, unable to get out of the way. You have the option to flip a lever and redirect the trolley onto an adjacent rail with a single person on it. This person will die, but you will save the lives of the group.

Do you do it?

Inaction causes greater death. But if you pull the lever? That death is a direct result of your actions. It is your fault.

Not a terribly easy choice, is it?

Now imagine having that be a power. And you have me. Lucky ol' me.

I can save... dozens of people with the flick of my hand. But someone will die. Someone innocent, so I can't just go through death row inmates with a clear conscience. And I have to choose who dies, someone in my vicinity. I have to look them in the eye. See their expression. Grief, anger, sadness, but worst of all... they don't understand why.

It fucking sucks. But not doing anything? It's worse. Not that it helps me sleep at night.

​

Look, what I'm trying to say is... I'm sorry. I am truly, truly sorry. But this will save 14 people, 6 of which are children. It won't hurt.

I hope you understand.

​

I'm sorry.

"Ooooh I am going to regret this on the cold mornings"

I mused quietly, desperately trying to rub some life into my shoulder; that landing was just too damn hard. His shadow fell over me, and I knew before even looking up that he would be gloating. Way too many wannabe villains these days taking thier cues from Pro-Wrestling.

"Not gonna showboat? Come on, you got me down; you gotta make a scene of it now tough-guy; its your moment"

I uttered through gritted teeth, desperately trying to buy some more time, precious seconds to gulp down some air and keep the blood flowing. I went into this fight cold, a part of that whole Not-Wanting-To-Sacrifice-An-Innocent thing I have now.

The Ghetto Blaster laughed, not with any genuine humour; more like someone reading a script that simply says "laugh now".

"Awww not going to kill someone to beat me? Yeah I know who you are Trolley-Man! Just as well..."

I held my tongue, he was monologuing! Good! He turned around, a slow rotation with his arms raised in imminent victory.

"You would need to take out a whole Busload of people to be strong enough to defeat ME!"

There she was, standing off to the side watching wide-eyed; Blaster's 10 year old daughter Elaine...

"I don't need that"

I said just loud enough for him to register.

"I only need HER...!"

I rolled away from him, springing up to my feet immediately and sprinting to the edge of the rooftop where Elaine was standing, gripping her collar firmly and suspending her over the edge.

"NO DON'T... WAIIIIIT!!!"

Blaster's cry lost its' villainous edge, veering straight into protective father mode; too bad he didnt have that whenever he levelled an entire project and the families inside.

"Okay Blaster, you surrender right now... The cops are waiting with suppression cuffs. You give up and I dont kill Elaine and then you. How about it?"

To my relief, he saw sense and gave in, I held her there until the authorities had him neutralised and secured. It was as I brought her back that I finally looked back at her, seeing the absolute hatred burning in the pit of her soul. In that glance I saw her future, her gaining her own powers and yes; rising to become an S-Tier Supervillian.

I set her down on the ground without a word; wether an innocent or someone's innocence...

The sacrifice was still made...

TW - Some dark descriptions. Suicide.

I toss and turn on my bed. I look at the clock. 4 am. Yep. Figures. No sleep tonight.

I head to my home gym. I used to go to the public one. But someone recognized me there. Someone whose life I had… impacted. He had attacked me. I didn’t try to defend myself. But the guards were able to quickly pull him off me. I didn’t thank them. I just walked away. One call and the city provided me the equipment I needed at my home, no questions asked.

I’m exhausted after my workout and look at my bed. A bed should be the most comfortable place for a person. A place to power down, let go off your problems, relax and let your mind wander freely via dreams. For me… i loathed it. My mind wandered. I just didn’t like where it ended up.

I put on the tv. There’s some old Asian movie on. Tiles of fire it’s called. Seems to be about some sort of a game. It isn’t great but it’s better than nothing.

In an instant the farmer’s son is replaced by a young teen. The teen has a hole where her heart should be. She holds it out to me, blood still dripping. To my horror I take it. She smiles, nodding encouragingly. I throw it on the ground. I’m crying. But not her. She’s still smiling as I stomp her heart. Her smile cannot hide her pain though. By the time I finish stomping, the heart, once driving this young girl with her whole life in front of her has been turned to mush. A whole lot of nothing. There is a whistling sound in my ears. It gets plunder and louder till blood starts to pour from my ears. I look at my bloody hands and try to scream. No sound comes out. I look down and realize I’ve stomped on my own tongue unknowingly. I look at my blood hands and shoes and I scream silently again. I scream and scream and…

I wake up with a start noticing that my phone was ringing. I am struggling to breathe. It’s the superhero line. No. Not today. God damnit not today.

I reluctantly pick up the phone.

Sarafina’s voice breaks through my brain fog. “Trolley man? Are you ok?”

I’m fond of Sarafina. She has told me the story of her name a few times. Her mother had died during childbirth. She was a big fan of the “his dark materials” series of books. Her dad, a brute, who had read nothing longer than a 3 page menu at Denny’s, but still loved his wife had tried to honour his wife’s memory by naming Sara after a character. Of course, he couldn’t remember the name exactly and had butchered the spelling. But Sara didn’t mind. She claimed it showed that he made an effort and that’s the best any of us could do. Her dad had died a few years ago. She herself had contracted a rare form of cancer. Her survival had been a miracle. I wonder if I’d ever be able to admit anything to her. When I had gotten the call from her, gushing about her recovery, I had been sitting on a rooftop, with an innocent kid in my rifle’s scope. Would I have gone through with it? I dont know. I just knew one thing. I was a monster. I knew it. She knew it. Everyone knew it. But I was also their trump card. And thus they all ignored so many of my murders.

They could. But not me. I still woke up at nights trying to wash the my bloody hands of the blood only I could see. I was haunted by the ghosts of their memories, the lives they would never live.

“Please don’t call me that. Just call me anything else.”

“That’s your superhero name.”

It was also the name that existed to remind me of my nature. “Just call me a man. Let’s skip the trolley.”

There was an urgency to her voice. After all this time I could pick it up. Even if I had talked to her for a while. “We need you. Code red.”

I raise my eyebrow. “That bad?”

“Worse than anything you can imagine.”

“This is the last time Sara. You promised.”

“I did. I intend to keep it. But you need to be here right now. We don’t have much time.”

I look back at my lonely bed. I always told her it would be the last time. But the idea of being alone with my memories scared me. I knew I would probably end up killing my self if left alone without a purpose. I know it’s not a nice thing to say but it is true. So I sigh and leave. I could kid myself that this was the last time but I knew well enough that it wouldn’t be. I was too much of a coward.

The sun is being blocked by something. The people are running back and forth. It’s always amazing to see how different people react to something like this. What “this” is, I don’t know yet. And I don’t care. For me, the true monster was inside me. This thing, supervillain, monster whatever it was, was no match to the MeMon, as I fondly called it.

Sara is standing inside the facility with a dossier. “We are in deep trouble. We are dealing with a…”

“I don’t care Sara. Let’s get it over with.”

As I pass her she puts her hand on my shoulder. “You are a hero. You’re doing a good thing. You should know that.”

“Am I? Then why does it scare me? If I’m a hero why do I want to go run away screaming in the other direction?”

“Why haven’t you been talking to me?”

My tongue. Smashed under my foot. She’s beaten death. I am death. It’s impossible. “I want to be alone for some time. Please respect that.”

She walks briskly keeping up with me. She asks me more questions. About me. My health. If I was going to therapy. I ignore all of the questions. At this moment I’m wound up tighter than a 8 day clock. At any moment my insides can explode out destroying everything.

I walk into the room. It’s empty except for one person who’s sitting on a chair. She seems young. She’s praying.

God. What an idea. If a god had created me, he was no less than a devil.

The girl looks at me. She’s smiling. I close my eyes tightly as I flash back to my dream.

I turn my back to her.

“Sir. I’m glad to be…”

“NO. NO YOU AREN’T.”

She’s taken aback by my outburst. “I am! If my life can be…”

“Oh just stop it.” I spit on the ground.

She looks at Sara, her eyes welling up with tears.

Sara walks up to her and gives her a hug. “It’s ok Ramona. He’s just…”

“WHAT THE FUCK. WHY DID YOU HAVE TO SAY HER NAME?”

I take out a gun and shoot at the young girl Ramona. It’s a clean shot right in the middle of her forehead. Sara catches a lot of splash on her pristine white pantsuit.

I turn around and walk out. I can hear Sara calling for me from behind but I have no desire to talk. Outside the shadow has lifted and the sun is beaming down on everyone in the town. Everyone except me. The permanent shadow that is always over me, is darker than ever.

Sara catches up to me, out of breath. She again holds my shoulder turning me around. “She only had 3 days to live.”

“That she never will because of me. Those 3 days could’ve been the best of her life. But no. I cut them short.”

“You are a superhero. You have saved countless lives today. Thousands. Maybe millions.”

“You don’t know that. I’m not a hero Sara. I’m… Sara?”

I look at her. Her eyes are bulging. She’s struggling to breathe. She motions to her purse. “Epi… epi…” is all she can say.

“Are you having an allergic reaction? Do you have an Epi pen?”

I take her purse and turn it upside down, all the contents raining down on the floor. No Epi pen. I look at her with horror.

She’s smiling at me.

No. No.

“Don’t smile. Be angry god damn it.”

I look around. There’s no one around. The unit has hardly any employees and the entrance is well hidden. The employees that are here are probably taking care of disposing off the body.

She holds out her hand.

I shake my head. “I’m not gonna watch you die. Not you. Not another person.”

I take out my gun and point it at my head. “I can’t watch more death Sara. Forgive me.”

Time slows down as I feel pressure. I feel a whistling sound in my ears. It feels very familiar. As the consciousness departs my body I still have enough left to see that Sara has gotten up and is rushing towards me. She doesn’t seem sick at all.

That means…

I was innocent. I am innocent. I keep repeating this mantra as my only path to salvation.

I have a smile on my face as I feel something stomping on my brain.

Rule one: I only take volunteers.

This is probably the most important rule.

I can’t coerce someone into doing it, either. Well, I could, but… I don’t think I could live with myself afterwards.

My power doesn’t allow me to kill, I have to do that on my own. So I’ve learned the best ways to do it. The most painless.

Guns can cause to much collateral damage, so I primarily use knives.

I think it’s better, that way. More personal. Makes it harder to view a life as worthless if you can look someone in the eyes as they die.

Rule two: Only use in disasters.

I could cure thousands of people of illnesses of all kinds. But if I do, medical knowledge will never progress. As much as it hurts, no matter how many sob stories I hear, I can’t do it. It with only cause more problems in the long run.

That’s why I never want my identity revealed. Not because of the killing. Killing isn’t easy. Not for me.

But the constant begging to save people when I know that it will only doom others in the long run.

I want to help. I do so badly.

And sometimes I do. Just for one or two people. Only for those that have no connection to me. Those that haven’t asked. Just to soothe my splintered soul.

And on I continue.

Another day, another crack added to the spreading litchenburg pattern across my heart.

Edit: typos

[NSFW] Inspired by American Psycho

I am something of a normal guy. When I wake up in the morning, I have an erection that presses into my memory foam mattress in a very satisfying way, and it is not so much that I do not want to get out of bed, but that I want to be inside it, thrusting my hips until the heat is too much to bear and the frustration gets me up and into the shower. On days I don’t wash my hair or shave my face, I like to use the coldest water I can. It’s better for the skin. Or so I’ve read.

The most important part of my day comes next.

I like to air dry so I put on my slippers and go to my study where three of the four walls are coated in chalkboard paint. This is where I keep tally of the innocent people I’ve killed, and I hope to fill the second wall by the end of the year so that the open space isn’t uneven anymore. Another fifteen today should complete the rest of the last line. Three or four lines after that will complete the wall. I just need to make sure I write evenly so that I don’t have to erase any again. The third wall is blank and on it I used to have the number of innocent people I’ve saved with the innocent lives I’ve taken. But is anyone truly innocent? Is anyone worth saving? Just because I can point my finger at a random stranger walking down the street, or through the slits of a curtain at a stranger washing dishes and claim their lives, doesn’t mean they are innocent. The fact that they die might very well be because at that moment, they weren’t dangerous. Who’s to say it isn’t the same for those I save? I can’t tell you when it was I stopped saving people with the lives I take, but I have made a game of trying to claim more innocent lives at the most inopportune times, or when the irony of their death steps ever so gingerly into the realm of comedy.

“See a penny pick it up, all day long you have good luck!” And then they’re facedown in the concrete, their loved ones going from giggles to screams as the blood flows. I put my phone in airplane mode in times like these, and they never even notice when I give them the phone to call an ambulance. All they know is that the call isn’t going through. This one time, I even waited until the ambulance came speeding down the street and I claimed the life of the driver, sending the wailing ambulance into the crowd of onlookers and police cars.

When it rains, it pours.

Speaking of, I’m dry. I have a collection of colognes because I believe the scent you give off adds to the aesthetic of your outfit, adding weight to your presence wherever you may go. The second most important part of my day is choosing my outfit for this very reason.

.

.

.

WiltySpinach! Remember the name! 👹

The estate was truly massive. Towering ceilings, copious waterworks, the walls decorated with marble and gold. Yet despite being so vast, it felt so familiar, like home. Even as I was led through the halls by my accountant, Jenson, I couldn't help but think that I wanted a place like this for my own one day.

 

After many twists and turns, we arrived in a viewing room, with walls surrounded by glass. In the center was a decrepit old man: Borsolino, I think he was called. His wizened face seemed gruff and uncompromising. His dead eyes and seemingly permanent scowl made me thankful to have Jenson in my employ. If I had to deal with such a man, I would probably be wimpering in fright.

 

Our eyes met, and I felt the corner of my lips stretch on either side of my face. Those cold soul-less eyes were something that I had seen many a time before, and while the first time had me pissing my pants, all that was left was a subtle amusement.

 

One minute past, then two. There was dead silence save for the ticking of the man's luxury watch...which was rather nice, now that I noticed it. But still I didn't break eye contact. Because I knew, eventually it would come. That glimmer of light that would appear in those tired, worn down eyes.

 

The old man grunted and flinched, unable to wait any longer. His raspy voice was solemn as he gestured towards the show window towards hundreds of bound individuals with their limbs restrained and with bags over their heads.

 

"You may start..."

"Of course. But as agreed upon, we cannot guarantee the cure will affect the target, and we do have a set price per individual, so are you sure...."

Jenson that lovable bastard. He trailed off and looked expectantly at that old man. I wasn't sure if I could be so heartless myself. I should really consider giving him a bonus this year.

 

The old man sighed and looked towards the other room, where a young girl was breathing weakly atop a simple bed. Her hand cupped by an older woman who looked similar to herself. Perhaps if I looked closely, I would see that she shared some similar facial features to the old man before me, who sighed and nodded.

 

"Whatever it takes."

 

My jaw started to hurt as I prepared my tools. Maybe 'one day' was coming sooner than I thought.

(Haven't written anything in a long time. Did a quick one , and hope its ok)

I don't have a good recollection of what happened that day. I can remember most of the details before the event, but my mind is blank on most things after the event. Whatever did happen, I've pieced it together based on the stories my friends and family told me as I grew up. Back then, I was just six years old. Like any other six-year-old I was attending elementary school. It was the morning, and my grandma had just dropped me and my older brother off at the school cafeteria, where all the students were assembled in the mornings. I remember eating the breakfast she made for me with my brother. Was it pancakes? A muffin? Noodles? Who knows, it's not important. Breakfast ended and my first-grade teacher Mrs. Mallory came to walk the class up to our room. I said my goodbyes to my brother as we went our ways. We poured into the room where we would learn for the rest of the day. We did our first-grade things: play around, talk, doodle on the chalkboard, that sort of stuff, much to the annoyance of Mrs. Mallory. As we settled at our desks, a ding from the school intercom came on. A student from another class, chosen everyday by the principal, began to speak some words:

"Please rise for the Pledge of Allegiance and the Star-Spangled Banner."

I've done this routine since kindergarten and I've probably tuned it out by then. Following that, we had a daily announcement: some words of encouragement, and the weather, spoken by the same student from before:

"Good morning P.S. 101Q, today is Tuesday, September 11, 2001. As we rise on this beautiful morning we are reminded..."

I don't remember what the student said after that, probably something about valor. First class we had was math. Mrs. Mallory asked us to take out our homework as she went around the class collecting our work. Mine was always described as "chicken-scratch" by my dad who would make me redo everything until it was clean, but at least it was readable compared to some other kids there. We did our boring lesson of the day, learning the times table for the number 6. I always found myself looking at the clock when bored as my desk was perfectly aligned with it. 8:55. Just then, another announcement came on the intercom. It was unusual to have one so soon. Usually, there would be a few a day: a student being sent home early, an emergency for a teacher, that sort of thing. But just the second after the ding of the intercom I could hear on the other side heavy breathing. The principal of the school spoke a few moment later, not in her usual stern voice, but in a frantic and panicked tone:

"All students, please report the the auditorium. I repeat, all students, please report the auditorium."

Despite hearing the panic in her voice, she still got out the words perfectly. Just from her tone we could all tell something was wrong. It took a few minutes to get down to the auditorium. Kids from all other grades entered and we sat in our designated areas, segregated by grade, and sat down. There were murmurs from the other kids as the teachers gossiped about what might be the reason for this sudden gathering. Suddenly, the auditorium display turned on and a voice boomed from the auditorium speakers. Whatever was said I don't remember, but I looked up at the projection. It was a news story. Displayed were two large rectangular buildings towering over some other buildings. Wait a minute, my kid mind thought. This was Manhattan! This was the Twin Towers! Yet as I looked again I finally noticed something was wrong with one of the buildings: there was a gaping hole in it billowing dark smoke into the otherwise clear sky. I looked around the room for my brother. We locked eyes for a second. And then I remembered:

My mom worked there.

The realization sent me into a panic, but I showed no outward symptoms. I was trying to remember where she worked. Was it the one on fire or the one not? Was it high up? High up, I remember her telling me this. She brought me up to the observation floor. during the summer. "It's a few stories above my head." How many stories were there? AON. I looked at the time shown on the news: 9:02. AON Corporation. That's where she worked. Was she still inside? Leaving? Stairs? There must be a million stairs in that building. As a thousand thoughts flowed in my head I noticed a blur in the distance on the broadcast. It was moving slowly at first but then got bigger and bigger. The broadcast cut to a different angle. A giant silhouette of the plane appeared. I'd never been on one. Mom always flew business class for her work trips. The silhouette inched closer and closer. It was going to hit. It was going to hit. Tears formed in my eyes as I understood then I was going to lose my mom.

At that moment, I looked at the broadcast again. It was not moving. I looked around the room. No one was moving. Everything around me seemed to be frozen except for me. I looked back at the broadcast. It was a little different than before. I looked at the person sat next to me. He was blinking, but in slow motion. I looked back at the broadcast. The nose of the plane had entered the other building. A rush of emotions came over me as I continued watching, tears making my vision blurrier and blurrier. More emotions rushed in. Rage. Terror. Loathing. Grief. But mixed in was the strongest feeling of hope I have ever felt.

I have no memories of that day after that moment.

I woke up at a hospital bed five days later. The rhythmic sound of the cardiogram filled my hearing as I looked around in the unfamiliar room. Sat next to me, asleep, was my mother. At the instant sight of her tears rolled down my eyes. She was alive. With a feeling of joy I drifted back into sleep, or coma, or whatever it was.

I was discharged from the hospital two days later. From what I've been told I screamed then fell into a coma as soon as that plane hit the second tower. Terror then washed over the entire auditorium. My brother rushed to my side, jumping from chair to chair over everyone finding me out cold, nose bleeding heavily. He shook me to wake me up but I would not. Paramedics arrived some time later and whisked me away when the parents of all the kids came to pick everyone up. I later learned on that day, terrorists had hijacked planes and flew them into buildings. I didn't know what a terrorist was back then. My mom tells me she was on the 105th floor of the South Tower when a sudden jolt rocked the building. And then, inexplicably, she and everyone else that was on that floor found themselves in the middle of Central Park. It wasn't just her floor though: everyone in both those buildings still alive appeared there. Everyone trapped above by smoke and debris, everyone in still in a cubical, everyone stuck on the elevators, everyone in the stairwells, every office worker, every firefighter, every policeman, every rescue worker, everyone including those on that plane. Save for the terrorists on the plane, so I've been told, as the teleportation happened when the cockpit had already been destroyed.

I came back home a week after I had left to go to school that day. My brother gave me the biggest hug when I entered the house. I noticed something was missing though. Someone was missing. My dad. He had died that day, yet was nowhere near the Twin Towers. Witnesses say he wailed and collapsed on the street. I didn't know how to feel hearing the news of my father's death. We were never close. He always yelled at me for doing something small. He always belittled me and compared me to my brother. My brother always tried to protect me from him regardless. It made me hate my brother and my father. Mom never said anything whenever he yelled at me. He yelled at my mom too. I later learned that my father hated me because I didn't look like either of my parents or my brother: I had curly brown hair, while everyone else in my family were jet-black.

At the funeral, I felt a rush of relief as soon as the casket was lowered into the ground, as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I thought about the emotions I felt at the moment of impact. From the news reports I watched covering that day, apparently the same mix of rage, terror, loathing, and grief had surrounded the buildings following the teleportation. No one dared to enter the buildings, not even the bravest of the firefighters. It didn't matter, anyway as there was no one inside left to save. The 911 calls ceased from inside the towers. Everyone feared the worst. Everyone feared until a new rush of 911 calls came from Central Park all telling the same story, that they were in the buildings, some trapped, some not, and the next thing they knew they were surrounded by green five miles north of their last location. The aura of emotions ceased as soon as both towers fell.

I can only guess what happened to me to trigger all of those emotions. Perhaps it was the dozen years of abuse that I would endured if my mother had died that day and if my dad had been left to raise me and my brother in her absence. I don't know. But what I do know is whatever happened, it was my first use of that strange ability I now call the lever. All I had to do was switch it and it would sacrifice someone to save others. But at what cost to me?

Here comes Trolley Man! Look at him in his stupid outfit, the kids love it! Who puts a pantograph on their helmet? We get it, you’re a trolley! He makes ding-ding noises, he makes really forced catch phrases about public transportation, his trolley-motif armor clinks and clangs wherever he goes. He’s like a blunt force instrument, the last sort of guy you’d want involved in a delicate crisis, like a hostage situation, or a collapsing building.

And yet, despite the jokes and the worries, he gets the job done. He’ll bulldoze his way into that hostage situation, and everyone goes home safe and sound. He’ll rush into a burning building and—against all odds—get every person to safety without a scratch on them after he showed up. He’s strong, he’s calculating, he’s charismatic, and at the end of the day, he can be relied on to save the day.

They all think it’s a gimmick.

I made the name first, after the thought experiment my powers reminded me of. The costume came second, made to look like some sort of knockoff Transformers toy that could turn into a big red trolley. It was to hide my shame at what I had to do while wearing it. When people started laughing at me, I laughed right along with them, burying it all under the mask of the lovable trickster. They don’t know what I do, what I’m capable of. They don’t know that every time I “save the day”, there’s a price. And even if they suspected—it certainly doesn’t take a genius to come up with the trolley problem connection, several conspiracy forums have already gotten that part right—nobody has come close to the truth. It’s not like pushing a button, and someone, somewhere, dies.

I have to choose who I kill.

Whenever I use my power, I gain the ability to save anyone and everyone in front of me for the next five minutes. The laws of physics and causality bend to allow me to do this. People will fall from high places and I’ll always be there to catch them. Guns aimed at them will turn on me, but always seem to miss or glance off of my cheap sheet metal armor. I seem to gain super strength and super speed. I am impervious to harm until the task is done, because I can’t save anyone if I’m hurt. In those moments where I’m saving lives, the world grants me all the powers of a demigod, so long as I use them for the sake of the innocent. It’s the perfect power for a superhero.

But just like the titular thought experiment, every time I throw that switch, and gain the power to divert any and all disasters from befalling the people on the proverbial track, someone else has to die, and I condemned them. But this is where the analogy fails, because it’s not like to knock a falling pillar away from a huddled family, it has to fly into an innocent bystander. No, the doom I invite on another is far more simple and insidious. They just die.

Whenever I throw that mental switch, and my powers activate, I just have to think of any innocent person I know, and they die. They simply cease to be.

(This was the part where I was going to write that Trolley Man targets the unborn to die, but then I realized that’s me tripping right into the topic of abortion and the morality involved, and I’ve decided I don’t want to do that. Apologies for the anti-climactic ending.)

How Innocent is "innocent"... is there a tape measure? Or some electronic device that you can use ... something like the Scientology e-Meter in order to measure just how pure someone might be? How can some mere mortal do something like this? Can they? Or.. do they need me...

I'm a collector of sorts. Some people are fascinated by circles of vinyl... relics of a bygone era... some few still enjoy stamps... those things that fascinated in the days when people sent actual letters. Ah, Bernice... woman in her 90s showing me her collection of rare stamps "I didn't even know that Monaco was a real country until I got this stamp." Nice woman... but not nice enough, I'm afraid.

Then there's people who collect cars... a lot of good that did for that Tate guy, although people like him are... none of my concern... Or boats, or guitars, or... well, its endless the material trappings that these... humans will collect.

Ah, but I give myself away. I try to refer to you as "people" rather than "humans"; but it is quite hard to remember... to forget. I'm... well, time has forgotten exactly what I might be. Some say that the Reaper had a child with a human, while others say that I'm a spirit who somehow became material. But it isn't important to me how exactly I came to be, rather what matters is what I am and what I can do. And its simply this: I can read your soul. I can measure anyone as a person in the same way that people imagine that their God can. I can see your faults, your vices, but also your works of charity... your hopes, your dreams, your revenge. I can see every drop of it.

None of this interests *me* very much. I have my own dwelling place, complete with land to grow what I need. From being quite wise hundreds of years ago, I have investments to sustain me indefinitely. So I have no real reason to need - or want - to know the intimate details of these mortals.

(Ah, mortals... its a funny thing... I've lived long enough to not be able to count my own years... but I really don't know... am I immortal?)

I met Bob some years back. It was a more or less random thing. You see, I can feel impending tragedy... I am.. almost drawn to it. One could say that this "trait" comes from my possible father... the Reaper. I'm not fascinated in any morbid sense by impending death... I don't enjoy suffering; on the contrary, it fills me with some kind of melancholy. Yet my essence is irresistibly drawn in its direction.

Sometimes I blink and find myself in a new place. And in this case, I was next to a new person. Bob. He was staring intently at the same thing that blinked me next to the train station... an out of control locomotive that was about to crash past the not quite strong enough barricade and annihilate part of the station. That's when I noticed that Bob was wearing a cape. Unconsciously, my eyes rolled. Not only did the superhero not have some fancy name with which to adorn himself; he also wore a cape of all things.

"Fancy I meet you here Bob." I said, dripping with sarcasm voiced from some unrecognizable part of me. "So, one is quite... interested in drama? You could have already stopped this, you know?"

"Shh!" He almost whispered "I have to pick first."

"Pick?" I asked, truly bewildered. "There's no picking involved here. Just fly to the train and stop it, its quite..." I paused when he placed his finger on my lips.

"I have to pick the sacrifice... one innocent person in exchange for unlimited power."

Without taking him seriously for a second, or even taking a pause to think, I pointed to a certain non-descript man of Welsh extraction. he was operating a hot dog vending cart. Divorced, no contact with his children. A decent fellow, but not without faults... Of all the "innocents" he was... the least innocent, one could say.

Bob, without knowing who I was or why I pointed to that man, then himself pointed. The man had a sudden cardiac arrest, after which Bob flew so fast to the train i could barely see him do it. One could see (or imagine) the sweat coming off his forehead from the excruciating effort to stop the train; but stop it he did.

They say that Bob the Protector saved 110 people on the train, and perhaps just as many in the station. What they don't know is that starting that day... with my help in identifying the "least innocent" innocent person to sacrifice... Bob dealt with a lot less guilt for his acts of heroics.

And that first sacrifice that I helped with? The hot dog vendor? Well, someone had to come for his soul. And that? That was the first time that I met the being who might... *might* have been my father...

Being able to save innocent lives would seem like a good thing, but I can only know who is innocent after activating my power, and in order to do that I must kill an innocent person. In a time of crisis it is always tempting to kill the closest person, but the closest person is not always innocent. It is hard to judge a person’s innocence from looking at them. Even after the power activates and I can clearly see who I can save the number of people I can move to safety is always smaller than I first expect.

I end up hanging around places with lots of children as a result because I can save most of them as they have not usually lived long enough to loose their innocence. Sadly as I get older, the number of innocent children in any group shrinks as it seems they are being corrupted younger as time goes on.

This one last time I looked up to see the nuke heading for my city and with no one else close enough I decided to sacrifice myself, hoping I would be considered innocent and that I could use my power as I died. In the moment of my death time froze and I was able to spend what felt like forever carrying those marked as innocent to safety. I was only able to save 25% of the city and surrounding affected area. As I brought the last of the about 500,000 innocent people to safety I contemplated if my life was worth this last act. If I had sacrificed someone else I might go on to save more people, but with the number of innocent people I could save each time diminishing and the number of people I had killed personally, I was glad it would soon be over. After I double checked the city to make sure I had saved everyone I could I let go and was blinded by the irradiated light.

"Tough. Not difficult, not painful, not annoying, just tough, that's how I would describe what my life had been like since I discovered my gift. I didn't live a hard life, but everything I saw was followed by the unstoppable chain of thought which someone like was bound to.

I discovered this ability to twist reality relatively young, so I had enough time to explore some nuances, for example how it can work for other species too, but not between different ones, and how it's not an unlimited power. How it is, sometimes, immediate and sometimes it takes its time. The more lives I mean to save, the more time it takes to properly set the conditions. One important thing I noticed, though, is the consequence-related death-limit: it doesn't work if saving someone will lead to the direct harm of someone else. The other interesting detail is that it's all influenced by my intention: I can choose who to save. But it's not what you're interested to, even if it's related, right? I will try to go straight to the point.

Since middle school I was influenced by this gift, as I said I got more and more interested into matters of life and death sooner than a child should be. I wouldn't recommend it. At first I began experimenting on animals. That scarred me, it's probably what made me somewhat insensible. Ants were the first of my conscious experiments: I established that a single one couldn't save an anthill, but a queen could. I didn't think about eggs and when I did I was already dedicated to more complex beings. Stray cats were next, and... Oh, sorry, the point, sure.

During High school, young and rebellious, I dove into ethics as a hobby, and into sciences for my future career. Chemistry turned out useful and I realised that right before enrolling to university. Easy choice. Before university I also experimented with the first human, maybe you remember the robbery it was on the national news for a while: many hostages were taken and the police intervention seemed too risky to even attempt safely, they eventually tried and nobody was harmed. Right after I strangled a homeless guy. It was defined a miracle, but I still feel guilty for the poor dude. Oh, interesting fact: it doesn't work if I kill someone who's already almost dead. Yes I'm the killer who disconnected those people in the hospital in my county. Yes, I know it's not the point, sorry, again, I'm too used to my thoughts' stream.

During university is when I both befriended the activists' groups and discovered that the definition of innocent could be stretched by a wide margin. I managed to successfully graduate, but as you've certainly read the papers you know it wasn't for a day to day job. I took part to some, as you would call them, terroristic assaults. That's when I discovered that I had to be the direct cause of the sacrifices' death and that's why after the first two none of them made victims. I know how to design bombs and thank my physicists and engineers colleagues, as well as google. And that brings us, finally, to the point.

You see, maybe your generation doesn't care enough for the planet, but you should think about mine, and the next too. We also live here and the climate crisis already claimed millions of lives. And that's why I plead guilty, your honour. I plead guilty of the attacks. I did run the organisation. And, most importantly, I did, during the span of the last six months, kill nineteen among the heads of the major oil companies and fossil fuel conglomerates of the world. I consider myself perfectly conscious of my actions and I was only stopped by the impossibility of doing more. It would be pointless trying to lie at this point.

I am confident that on the long run this will make its share and I will accept my punishment, if you find it ethical. I only pulled the lever, and hit those who broke the trolley's brakes."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I write very rarely, please don't be harsh

'Some NSFWish Language'

You heard about that teacher with the heart thing, right? Y'know, the guy who teaches math? Ruben or Nuben, something like that.

Welllllll, you might not wanna look at me until he magically recovers unless you want to do a die. I can sort of kill people with a single look. Kinda.

It was difficult, at first. I can remember the first few years after I discovered my ability. I was at school when it first happened, 4th or 5th grade. We used to have these big meetings in the cafeteria where everyone would collect and sit down. It was sort of a makeshift auditorium, there was a stage built in and everything. We used to go there for special stuff, like when these guys who were a group known for their skills at jumprope would perform for us. I think my personal favorite was when they dressed up as skeletons for Halloween and danced/jumped to Thriller.

Ah, sorry! I'm getting off track. Anyway, pretty much everyone was gathering there. It was almost 8 and that was when it all got started. I was finishing up in the bathroom- I have an abnormally small bladder- when a girl walked out of one of the stalls. I turned my head towards her and she dropped dead. Dead as a GOD damn doorknob.

I don't know how long I stood there- well, technically I know it must've been at least under 10 minutes. I'm pretty sure at least, accounting for the time I left and the clock I saw when I was being led away. It's funny, I was freaking the fuck out at the time, but I was still cognizant enough to read the clock. The mind works in mysterious ways, especially mine.

Did you know she was riddled with bullet holes? Yeah, apparently my power means the poor person I 'choose' suffers the same fate the would-be corpses would. And when I say corpses, I MEAN corpses.

Don't make me open my eyes when we're driving somewhere. I'm barely keeping my therapist to sending me to the looney bin as it is.

You know I have autism, right? Pretty well known fact, that's how I got into the magical land of our special needs school. Before all the OCD, BPD, ADD- seriously, apparently God decided I had to get D somehow since I'm a lesbian- it was well known I had autism.

It helped that my mom would announce it to EEEEEEEEVERYOOOONEEE who even came up to TALK with us.

Anyway, autism. Yes. That is a thing. As you know, something that is well known among even the most hard-core 'healers' is that we don't like making eye contact. At all. It's just- just no. It's bad, it's gross and we said no! Why is everyone so hung up on eye contact, anyway?! It's like- 'Honey, you need to look people in the eyes' and immediately afterwards 'Honey, it's not nice to stare at people.' Like, am I supposed to look or not?! Make up your mind, dude!!!!

Sorry, I'm getting off topic again. I swear to god I'm horrible at writing something important, but when it comes to doing something as STUUUUPIIID as this, I go whole hog into it. I mean, I know killing people with a single glance so I save others sounds important, but you get used to it after awhile.

Yup, I'm the grimdark version of The Grim Reaper. I am the opposite of him. I can save people who are about to die by killing the first person I make eye contact with. I have no idea when it's about to happen, too. I'll just be walking around the mall or store and someone will just drop dead. I've thought about wearing sunglasses, but those don't really work and it makes my eyes hurt. The glasses I have on now are already getting worn down as it is. My mom is having to jump through SO many hoops to find any doctors that'll take Blue Cross Blue Shield.

Basically, don't look at me until he heals. Or in general, actually. In fact, we might as well break two birds with one stone. Tell me about anyone you don't like/bullies you and they'll be my go to sacrificial lamb! I can make/buy things for them so they'll stand out! They probably won't die because it only hurts innocent people, but hey! Sometimes it has worked! I'll be glaring at a teacher or a student and POMF! They're dead! It's sort of a gamble, but it's not like anyone will suspect anything, right? I mean, who's going to question the poor little autistic kid who has no idea what's going on? Of course we'd stare at the dead body. It's a little weird we would, but we just don't understand. Why would we talk about it, we barely talk at all as it is.

It's a GENIUS strategy. I effectively choose who lives and dies. Sure, I break a few eggs from time to time, but omelets. Omelets and eggs, y'know? So that's why I suggest you don't look at me. It's simply not safe. I don't want you to die. Our guidance counselor, though?

Hopefully they'll hire a better one this time.

"What is that?"

Nitro bent down to take a small folded paper from the hand of the man lying on the floor. "It's his list. A list of everyone with a terminal illness in within a 50 mile radius."

"My god," whispered Freebird, AKA Carli Winstorm, "so it's true. His powers..." her voice trailed off as she stared at the dead man on the sidewalk at her feet. His face marred by the impact of falling twenty stories on to the concrete surface. Despite his injuries, Gene Sandkirk was still recognizable. The small, squat man had visited them months ago with an incredible story. Even in the times of super powers, heroes and villains, his tale seemed unbelievable. "Do you think it was him?" asked Carli.

"It has to have been," replied Marco Ramirez, codename Nitro. "How else can we explain it. Those people were doomed, there was no way for any of us to save them. Not even Slingshot could have gotten a million plus people out of the path of that explosion and gotten them to safety across the bay. "

Nitro looked long and hard at the list. The names of random people scrolled past in his mind. He remembered the meeting with Sandkirk. The wild story of curses and sacrifice. He had wanted help. He asked them how to turn that curse into a force for good, but all he could come up with was a list. A list of innocent people with limited time left on the earth. A list of people whose death, while tragic, could serve to save the lives of one, maybe a hundred people who otherwise would perish unnecessarily. But how could he choose? How could he make that choice?

"He couldn't do it." declared Carli. "He knew what was happening. The alarms, the news, it was clear that those people would die and that only his power could save them. But when the time came, he couldn't go through with it. When presented with ending a person's life he decided to end his own instead."

"How do you know?" asked Marco.

"Look at the first name on the list. The address. It's this building." Carli signed and looked up at the 20th floor of the building. "His first 'victim' lived here."

It's always been an easy calculus. A collapsed building miraculously leaves no dead, and I only have to bury one body. A child goes missing and a hundred people walk away from a derailed train without a scratch. One family mourns so that a hundred can live. Simple. But today I have a harder choice to make.

​

I stare into the bloodshot blue eyes of a young man, barely 18. A kid, really. His wrists are chafed and bloody from where he's tried to escape his restraints. His tears have carved lines through the dirt on his face. I force myself to listen as he begs for his life. I've become so good at tuning out the cries, the begging, the screams of the people I take here. This one I need to feel. I try not to roll my eyes as he repeats the same platitudes they always say.

"Please" He says. He struggles to talk through the sobs. His voice catching in his throat. "I have a wife." He finally chokes out.

"No you don't" I tell him. He blubbers again. I try to keep my voice flat, my face neutral. I don't want to give him hope.

"I might," He says, trying a new tactic. "I might meet her tomorrow. We might have kids next year, you don't know. I'm young, I don't want to die please."

"You won't. Because you're going to die here." He falls to his knees sobbing.

"Why?" He wails. From across the room I pull his chains tight, pinning him against the wall. Then I move close and I wait for him to calm down and look me in the eyes.

"I need you to die. I need you to suffer, first. Because the universe needs balance. I can't just erase people's pain, I have to inflict it on someone else. The good new is you're not suffering for a hundred, or a thousand. People have been less lucky." He doesn't need to hear the rest of what I have to say, so I stab him hard in his abdomen. The knife is small, it barely makes it through his skin. He screams.

"I love my wife. She is going to die well after I am gone, and it will be absent any pain. That's all thanks to you."

​

As I wash the blood off my hands I look out the window at the sky turning blue with the rising sun. Not enough time to sleep before I can go to the hospital and pick up my wife, so I take a walk through the park and force myself to remember the boy's face as it was before I started cutting. I hope that I'll feel the sickness I used to feel, when I started the practice. The sickness that made me put boundaries on when and how I used my powers. I search myself for any hint of guilt, but all I can feel is relief. I try to think of a way to explain her sudden health. How the pills she took were suddenly flushed from her system, and her wrists healed overnight. I can't think of anything, but it won't matter. I'll have my wife back. And she will never, ever leave.

"One or many? It's not that hard," he said impatiently. "You want to be a hero don't you?"

This was happening so suddenly. I had always wanted to be a superhero and now one wanted to pass his mantle onto me. But it was Trolley Man. I like to think I'm logical, that I wanted the greatest good and could make hard choices.

"Can you explain it again?" I asked.

He sighed. "Ok there is currently a plane that's engines have malfunctioned. It's currently gliding but in 3 minutes it's going to hit a mountain. With the powers I gave you if you kill this child the plane can be shielded and land safely." He then pointed at the news coverage of the event. Say what you will about supers the Newsman kept us up to date.

"And this is a bad kid?" I asked looking at the kid.

"Honor roll student. Loving home. Will be missed."

"And the people on the plane?"

"Normal passenger plane. Some good, some bad. Young, old, and everything in between." he listed off for the third time. "Look this is a superpower not a game you can't cheat this."

Time was running out. I tightened my grip on the dagger he had given me. There was only one choice.

"I'm sorry," I said to the child. Then I pulled back her head and slit her throat. I watched the news as the plane continued to glide towards the mountain.

Then it hit the mountain.

"HAHAHAHA," Trolley Man laughed maniacally.

"What happened?" I asked with tears in my eyes and blood on my hands.

Tearing off his mask to reveal a different mask of a smug smile he said, "I'm not Trolley Man, I'm Troll-Lie Man and you just got trolled. You have no superpowers and you're a murderer"

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

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