25th December, early morning, a little bar next to the beach, Puerta Mibela.
"A cappuccino for me, and milk and chocolate for my son, sir. And apple pie, too". A tall man, white beard, bald on the top and the forehead, but with a long ponytail of white hairs, sits at a small table near the window facing the sea, after having put a two year and a half kid on the opposite seat. The kid face is serious, as he looks away, never coming in eye contact with his own father.
Aside for the barman and the two costumers, the bar is empty. The whole city seems empty, after the parade and the festival that went on for most of the night.
The man opens his newspaper, a copy of the Thunder Gazette. On the first page a small space is taken by a piece about the mysterious death of a Catholic Priest the evening before. The rest is all about the accusation of Merlin to Vanguard, and the request of handling of the Vanguardians to the International Court of Den Hague.
The barman, while putting the breakfast on the table, smirks at the newspaper, and hisses: "Those metahumans! They will be the ruin of our island! Maddox talked well, last evening!"
The man with the ponytail raises one eyebrow, quizzically.
The barman continues: "Oh, surely the Vanguardians helped a lot, last year, with the hurricane. But then they began to bring in all those lunatics... the one that took down the hospital... and that giant lizard, too! And now the USA will move war to our island, like they did to Grenada!"
The man smiles, and says: "Oh, I don't think the USA and the UN are really on the best of terms... I wouldn't fear an invasion of army forces, right now..."
The barman raises his shoulders: "Maybe. But that would be the least. Now that we are a nation that houses meta-terrorist, for the world at large, the tourist will stop to come here, even if no actions will be held toward us. And tourism is our only sources of income."
The bald man nods. "I see. well, probably metas will come here in masses. Maybe they will compensate for the loss..."
"Metas, you say? And how many rich metas are on the world. To me, it result that they are all poor, persecuted people, hiding for the government of their respective countries. What their will be their use here?"
The bald man doesn't respond. her finished to sip the cappuccino, and to eat the part of the pie that the kid left. Then stand up, takes the kid on his arms, and pay.
Then, on the outside terrace, the man looks at the sky, and then jumps over the fence, falling toward the sea.
The barman runs out, screaming.
Just in time to see the bald man, long black feathers sprouted out of the arms, gliding just inches above the water surface, and then, with an ample curve, pointing to sky, disappearing toward the direction of the Vanguard building.
