Episode 2: Take Me Home.. Country Roads
The breathtaking incident that had just unfolded in the bustling heart of New York City went viral, spreading to every corner of the globe faster than a wildfire. Millions stared at their smartphone screens, televisions, and every online medium in utter disbelief.
The footage of a blonde-haired boy in outdated clothes soaring into the sky—leaving behind the bloody tragedy of a massive man—was replayed incessantly across every news network.
"The Flying Man," "Horror Show in the City," "Superman or Serial Killer?" Headlines in various languages appeared worldwide, accompanied by panic and countless unanswered questions. News outlets, both large and small, scrambled to deploy their field teams to the scene, desperate to snatch the most breaking information.
At the scene of the crime, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Yellow police tape was stretched long to cordon off the area, keeping back the surging crowd and the army of journalists. Amidst the relentless flickering of camera flashes, dozens of reporters jostled for a spot in front of the lens for live broadcasts. Some branched off to intercept traumatized witnesses for interviews.
Behind the restricted perimeter, forensic teams and plainclothes detectives worked under immense pressure. They meticulously gathered the gruesome remains and every scrap of evidence left on the crimson-soaked pavement, searching for the identity of the young man—and the truth behind how he possessed such supernatural power.
An hour had passed since the horrific incident, but the chaos only seemed to intensify. The crowd remained rooted to the spot, watching the police and forensic teams work from a distance as if observing a grand theatrical play. Many witnesses who were present during the event had now become "key figures" for the media, recounting the incident from their own perspectives—and imaginations—to reporters and detectives with great relish.
"I saw it with my own eyes! That kid fired a beam of light right out of his palms, blasted that Black guy head-on!" a plump white man boasted during a live interview with a major news network, his excitement clearly over the top. "Ha! But honestly, the guy had it coming. He was bullying the kid first—then he ran into the real deal!"
As the accounts began to warp and deviate from the truth, they were broadcasted through the news cycle. Meanwhile, another young Black man tried to present more concrete evidence.
"It’s the real deal, man. I’m telling you, I saw it!" he said, shoving his smartphone screen—still paused on a video—toward a reporter. "Look at this! I caught it from the very start. See? His body just started floating up on its own. No wires, no hidden gadgets, nothing!"
The footage on the phones and the conflicting testimonies began to weigh heavily on the detectives trying to piece together the facts. All of this unfolded amidst the incessant chatter and the non-stop live streams that continued to saturate the entire crime scene.
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The scene shifts back to the vastness above the clouds. Sunlight glinted off the soft, white vapor, looking every bit like a celestial heaven. Amidst the whistling shriek of the jet stream, the trembling voice of a young man rose in song.
“Country roads... take me home... to the place... I belong...”
The song was forced to an abrupt halt. The sight of Cris drifting in mid-air was truly pitiable. His shoulder-length golden hair whipped violently in the fierce winds, and his clothes were tattered and shredded from the intense atmospheric friction. His favorite red-and-black plaid shirt and Levi’s 501 jeans were barely recognizable.
Suddenly, that hauntingly familiar voice resonated within his mind once more.
“Don’t just sit there singing! Hurry... they are all swarming your house now... Get here to me, immediately!”
The authoritative old man snapped at him, his voice grim and commanding. Cris hung motionless in the sky for a moment, confusion clouding his eyes. He reached into his nearly torn-apart pocket and pulled out a small marble. Lifting it to eye level, he gazed at the strange matter swirling inside before whispering softly to it.
“I guess I have no choice but to do it this way…”
He clutched the marble tightly in his fist, his gaze hardening with resolve. “To hell with it!”
BOOM!!!
A thunderous sonic boom shook the very foundations of the sky. Cris’s body vanished, hurtling forward at a speed beyond all limits, leaving nothing behind but a white vapor trail slicing through the clouds.
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N.Y.P.D. Operations Center
Officers were urgently broadcasting voice messages through a secure, encrypted communication system. Coordinate data and high-resolution images were being transmitted directly to the local police department in Rochester, Minnesota.
On the monitors, the file of the suspect—the blonde-haired youth named Cris Thorn—was splayed open, detailing his family history alongside vivid photographs of his residence.
"Deploy personnel to surround the suspect's house and maintain surveillance. Do not engage until the FBI arrives on scene. This is a Code Red. Top priority!"
A high-ranking officer barked the orders, his voice tight with strain. He knew deep down that what they were hunting... might be far more than just a mere human.
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Rochester Police Headquarters, Minnesota
The atmosphere was a frantic hive of tension. Dozens of officers were gearing up with heavy tactical equipment as if preparing for an all-out war. Scores of patrol cars and armored vehicles, bristling with weaponry, stood ready. Helicopters lifted off from the helipads, their rotors thundering across the area, while a swarm of surveillance drones was launched into the sky to scan the surrounding perimeter.
The engine of the lead patrol car roared fiercely. Two muscular white officers hurriedly loaded the last of their heavy ordinance into the vehicle before climbing inside and slamming the doors shut—BANG!
“I don’t care who this kid is, where he’s from, or how big of a deal he thinks he is... if he breaks the law in our jurisdiction, we’re taking him down!” the driver barked, his eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger for victory. “There’s no way in hell we’re letting the FBI sweep in and steal our thunder on this one.”
“Roger that,” his partner responded firmly, snapping his seatbelt into place. He reached over and tapped the center console monitor to blast some pump-up music.
A familiar melody filled the cabin... “Country roads... take me home...”
The driver flashed a predatory grin and floored the accelerator, making the engine scream. He yanked the steering wheel into a drift, kicking up a massive cloud of dust as the rear end slid out, before tearing away to lead the convoy toward the Thorn residence at breakneck speed—leaving behind only the fading echoes of the song and the wailing sirens.
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A quiet suburban neighborhood in Rochester, Minnesota
The surroundings consisted of mid-sized family homes for middle-class residents. However, one particular house stood out, catching the eye immediately due to its vibrant, almost eccentric colors.
The camera zooms in on the front of the house... The mailbox is crafted in the shape of a dragon's head with its jaws wide open. Yet, instead of looking fierce, it is painted in a flamboyant rainbow of colors. The garden stones, once natural, are now adorned with simple stick-figure drawings of a happy family of five standing in a row. These innocent, child-like art pieces are scattered throughout every corner of the property.
But as the camera pulls closer to the front door... the truth hidden beneath those colors begins to emerge.
Whether it be the patio tables, the walls, or the solid hardwood doors—if one were to mentally strip away those colorful cartoon drawings—this house would transform into a place that feels formidable, ancient, and nearly intimidating. The original structure is entirely decorated with authentic, ancient Norwegian Viking symbols.
Each pillar is intricately carved with complex Viking Knotwork. Long, slender Norwegian pennants (Vimpels) flutter in the wind. Most striking of all are the Runic alphabets embedded into the various artistic elements on the walls and wooden furniture. It is a home that strangely blends the warmth of a modern family with the mystical heritage of Northmen warriors.
“Did he say where he’d be performing today?” Astrid asked her husband softly as Lars emerged from his basement office, taking a break from his grueling work.
“He didn't give me the specifics—just said New York, but I’m not sure exactly where,” Lars replied kindly, offering his wife a reassuring smile. “He’s a grown man now, Astrid. Don’t worry yourself too much.”
However, the tranquility of the house was shattered by the heavy thud of footsteps as two teenagers came racing down from the second floor, bickering loudly. Bjorn, now sixteen and hitting his growth spurt, lean and tall with that signature golden-blonde hair, ran ahead of thirteen-year-old Liv. Liv, as adorable as a doll, had her clothes and small hands stained with vibrant splatters of paint from her usual art projects.
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But they weren't playing today. Instead, they thrust their smartphones toward their parents, their faces masked in panic. “This is Cris! Dad, look at this!”
Astrid and Lars snatched the phones from their children. The breaking news on the screens made their hearts nearly stop. They stared at the footage from New York, analyzing it frame by frame—the sight of their beloved son hovering amidst bloodstains and utter chaos.
Astrid’s hand flew to her mouth, her face turning deathly pale with a look of profound sorrow. She locked eyes with Lars before throwing herself into his arms, her body trembling violently.
“Oh... my poor boy...” Astrid whispered through a veil of tears.
Seeing their mother’s distress, Bjorn and Liv rushed in to embrace their parents. The four of them stood huddling together in the center of the house that was once filled with color, but was now shrouded in a fog of anxiety that was about to change their lives forever.
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On a quiet rural road
The blaring police sirens shrieked across the asphalt, the long convoy relentlessly charging toward its target coordinates.
“We’re closing in on the 'Little Dragon' house. All units... this is Eagle Lead. Go silent. Copy that, over!” The officer driving the lead car barked into his radio. The piercing sirens cut out instantly, leaving only the low hum of engines throbbing through the sudden stillness.
However... before the silence could truly settle, a thunderous Sonic Boom detonated in the air—BOOM!!! A massive shockwave slammed into the convoy, rocking the vehicles violently. Leaves stripped from the roadside trees showered the ground as even the formidable, pitch-black armored SUVs swerved, struggling for control. Something had just streaked over their heads at a velocity far beyond human comprehension.
“Hey! What the hell was that?!” “What is that thing?!”
Exclamations of shock erupted across the comms. The police convoy ground to a total halt in the middle of the desolate countryside. Officers scrambled out of their vehicles to assess the situation. Suddenly, one of the police surveillance drones plummeted from the sky, smashing into the hood of the lead car with a violent crunch.
“That’s one of ours!” the driver gasped.
His partner moved to retrieve the wreckage, but then a second drone dived headlong toward the earth, crashing just ten meters away—as if crushed mid-air by an immense, unseen pressure.
“Our drones are all falling! Is someone flying an F-16 around here? Why didn't we get an alert?!” the partner shouted in disbelief, staring up at the sky where a police helicopter was struggling to maintain stability, spiraling momentarily before finally regaining control.
“Oh... God...” the lead officer muttered, his face turning ashen. He grabbed his radio and barked out a decisive order. “All units, status check! If your vehicle is still operational, move out immediately! Forget about the F-16 or whatever that was for now—the target is our priority!”
“Roger that!” The responses crackled back in rapid succession as the manhunt convoy surged forward once again, leaving the mangled wreckage of the drones behind like a monument to the unknown.
Cut to: Aerial view from a helicopter.
The news station’s camera shook slightly from the lingering turbulence. A female reporter in safety gear adjusted her hair and steadied her voice, reporting live over the deafening roar of the rotors.
“This is a breaking update! The helicopter teams and law enforcement units currently en route to cordoning off the suspect's residence have just encountered a terrifying mid-air incident. An unidentified object streaked past at supersonic speeds, creating a Sonic Boom that slammed into our aircraft, causing severe vibrations throughout the fuselage. Fortunately, the pilot has regained control, and all personnel—including myself—are safe.”
Flora Williams adjusted her microphone, her eyes scanning the convoy below. “Initial speculations suggest this may have been a military training exercise—possibly an F-16 passing through the same flight path. Given that the police are currently executing an urgent 'Code Red' mission, there may have been a lapse in flight path coordination. Officials will conduct a full investigation and provide a formal statement soon. If there are any further developments, I’m Flora Williams, crime correspondent for T-news, and I’ll bring you the latest updates immediately.”
Cut back to: Ground level.
Along the once-tranquil rural road, residents were slowly peering out from their front doors in confusion. Between the wailing sirens that had just blazed past and the recent shockwave, no one could stay inside. Many were hunched over their phones, checking the news while staring at the dust clouds trailing behind the police convoy.
Everyone had the same question burning in their minds... what on earth is happening to this small town?
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Inside the once-vibrant Rainbow Dragon house, the atmosphere was now smothered by a bone-chilling tension. The four family members sat huddled around a television and smartphones that were tuned into every possible news outlet, desperate to find a grain of truth amidst the media frenzy.
"Every outlet, every interview... everything points to the same conclusion, Lars," Astrid said, her voice trembling as she stared at the looped footage of her son suspended in mid-air. "They’re reporting that our boy used some kind of power to kill someone and then flew away... How is that even possible? Our son is just a magician, Lars, not a wizard!"
Lars managed a hollow, strained smile, trying to use his role as the head of the family to keep everyone’s spirits from collapsing. "Do you remember those stories I used to tell you? This could just be a stunt or some elaborate content Chris put together. Just like back in 1938, there was that radio play... it was so realistic the whole country believed it, preparing to evacuate and fight a real war. What was it called again... let me think..."
"War of the Worlds, Dad. I just watched the movie not too long ago," Bjorn replied, his voice flat but vibrating with deep-seated fear.
"That's the one, son. I think Chris might be—"
BOOM!!!!!!!!!!
Before Lars could finish his sentence, a cataclysmic explosion roared, shaking the very foundations of the earth. The beautiful decor was shattered into a million fragments. A massive shockwave ripped through the exterior walls and tore into the center of the living room, sending the bodies of the father, mother, and both children flying helplessly in the same direction!
Dust and debris swirled through the air, completely obscuring the view. The laughter and conversation from moments ago were swallowed instantly, leaving behind nothing but a horrific, deafening silence.
“Confirmed... all four fatalities. No survivors.”
The situational report from an officer crackled through the surrounding confusion. Blue and red sirens from dozens of police cruisers pulsed and glinted across the once-serene neighborhood. Helicopters from the FBI and federal agencies began their descent, landing in the middle of the street; the rotor wash whipped up clouds of dust, obscuring the view from the traumatized residents and the swarming press.
“The house is completely warped, but strangely, the structure hasn’t collapsed. Nearby windows are shattered from the impact,” an officer reported, sweeping his flashlight across the ruins. “We’ve found no traces of explosives—no sparks, no scorch marks. It’s as if a massive atmospheric pressure crushed the place. And most importantly... there isn’t a single external wound on the bodies. But their breathing just... stopped. It’s strange... far too strange.”
As officers struggled to hold back the press, the scene was overtaken by personnel in pale white hazmat suits, looking utterly out of place. They worked frantically to erect a massive plastic containment dome, sealing the Rainbow Dragon house away from the world.
“It has to be aliens! Look at those people in the suits!” a neighbor woman shrieked into a reporter’s microphone, her voice laced with panic.
“That Norwegian family?” an old man added, shaking his head with a look of deep-seated prejudice. “They never associated with anyone. Word was they were scientists, always experimenting with weird things in that house. This community complained more times than I can count. They disappeared for nearly a decade, and then they come back and probably did something reckless that caused this... But I feel for the kids. They shouldn't have had to end up like this.”
The neighbors' whispers drifted and mingled with the dust of the ruined home, leaving behind only the mystery of a silent, chilling death beneath the endless rotation of police sirens.
“Special agents from the FBI and a mysterious agency in unusual uniforms are currently ordering a complete lockdown of the entire area!”
The reporter’s voice was frantic, competing with the surrounding bedlam. “An emergency evacuation order has been issued for all residents in this neighborhood, citing a severe national security threat. There are reports of potential contamination from unidentified chemical agents or hazardous materials. A massive containment dome is now being erected over the scene. I will bring you further updates as the situation develops!”
While the world outside was in a state of panic... inside a top-secret briefing room at the White House, the atmosphere was so suffocating it was hard to breathe.
“What kind of weapon is this?” a General mused aloud, his eyes fixed on the footage from New York and Minnesota playing on a giant screen. Generals from every branch of the military were on a high-level teleconference, analyzing a situation that had rattled the very foundations of the military’s confidence.
Suddenly, the direct line connected to the room’s system rang. It was a call from President Noldo Funk.
“Someone, give me a briefing... or have I missed something vital?”
The Generals in the room exchanged glances, caught in a deadlock. “We cannot draw a conclusion at this moment, Mr. President. There is no clear evidence pointing to which technology, faction, or power is behind this...” the same General replied evenly, before adding with a heavy tone, “But one thing is certain... it appears our country truly has a 'Superman' on its hands.”
“My rivals and those who despise me are using this to put immense pressure on me!” the President snapped back, his voice thick with irritation. “Someone give me a hint—how on earth am I supposed to address the nation about this madness?!”
The General paused for a moment before offering a cold, yet politically seasoned piece of advice: “Stick with the classic response for now, sir... Tell them it was an act of 'International Terrorism’.”
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10 Years Ago – The Thorn Residence
It was a perfectly ordinary night ten years ago. The bright, clear laughter of three children echoed from the upstairs bedroom. The three Thorn siblings were rolling around together on a wide bed, playing joyfully as rambunctious children do.
Cris, the eldest and at an age where he was eager to learn and remember everything, was focused on performing the "disappearing thumb" trick—the most basic sleight of hand he had just mastered—for his younger siblings. Little Bjorn and Liv watched with intense concentration before erupting into fits of giggles when they saw their brother’s thumb "detach" from his hand. Pure innocence filled every corner of the room.
Downstairs, Astrid was relaxing, catching up on a Netflix series in the living room. The atmosphere surrounding the house was tranquil, looking for all the world like any other normal family.
However... deep within the sealed basement office, Lars was hunched over a scientific experiment cluttered with wires and bizarre apparatus. He was obsessed with something far beyond the reach of standard textbooks.
The lights from various measuring instruments began to flash with increasing frequency until the sharp hiss of a short circuit crackled—"Zzt... Zzzzt!" In the blink of an eye... everything went black. The glow from Astrid’s TV and the lights in the children's bedroom vanished instantly. The blackout didn't stop at their doorstep; it surged outward, plunging the entire neighborhood into darkness amidst the stillness of the night.
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Rewinding to the moment of the New York tragedy... At the exact instant the Black man’s body exploded into fragments, the skeptical white man—who had just been leaping to grab his legs—found himself the victim of a gruesome proximity.
A sickening SPLAT! was followed by a torrential rain of blood. Shards of bone, mangled flesh, and still-warm viscera erupted downward, burying the man beneath the remains. The stench of iron and raw gore was so overpowering it was nauseating. The white man’s knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the blood-slicked pavement. His entire frame shuddered violently, his eyes bulging with the absolute maximum terror a human mind could endure.
The camera slowly zooms in on his blood-drenched face before drifting past his trembling head... moving through the surrounding crowd, whose bodies are splattered with the horrific red mist.
The lens glides through the door of a quiet coffee shop situated along that very street...
Amidst the chaos raging behind the large glass window, an elderly man sat alone. He had snow-white hair and a pristine white beard, meticulously groomed to perfection. He was clad in a charcoal-grey suit of exquisite tailoring, paired with polished leather shoes that caught the light, radiating wealth. This old man sat calmly, sipping his hot coffee as if the world were perfectly at peace.
He set his cup down slowly, casting a sideways glance at the horror unfolding outside. His eyes were cold and indifferent—as if everything Cris had just done was merely a "performance," a single scripted scene he had already foreseen.
————————————————————————————— Ruth VT-Hin —————
