Head for the storefront.

You shuffle forward and push your way into the store; a trail of dust, twigs, and street debris follows you in, and you shut the door, with effort, against them, before turning to face the inside of the shop.

It's empty.

Well, not empty. There's clothes racks, shelves filled with piles of jeans, and a counter at the back. But right now, what you want is a person, and there aren't any in here except you. You wander through the store to check, but the place is quiet as a -

You try not to fill the end of that sentence with a grave, and move back behind the counter. There's a couple of tills there, a small safe underneath, boxes of used tags, and -

And a phone! You grab the handset and hold it to your ear.

Apparently, it isn't going to be that easy. You drop the phone, and it dangles from the cord, the no connection tone humming quietly at you from near the floor. Typical. You try the door behind the counter - maybe everyone hid in the staff area? - but the door doesn't budge an inch. Locked.

You're checking the shelves behind the counter for a hidden key when you first notice the movement outside the storefront. For a moment you think it's just another piece of junk picked up by the wind and sent flying, but then it happens again, just at the edge of the glass, and you hurry up towards it to look out.

What you see is...... people.

The coach, parked a little way a long from where you are now, has its door wide open, and students like you are pouring slowly out of it. Well, not quite like you - their uniforms blazing with colour in a grey world, the same colours decorating the coach, your college's cheerleading squad are worriedly looking around them. A few are trying cellphones - by the frustrated looks on their faces and the way one of them throws hers to the ground, they aren't any more use than the one you tried. You're just about to grab the door and fling it open, when you spot.... him.

The cheerleaders spot the man at about the same time you do, pointing down the street, their voices muffled by the glass window. He looks like just another college student, jeans and t-shirt for the almost-summer weather as familiar around campus as the bright school colours the cheerleaders are wearing. Right now, though, that's not what you're looking at.

He's standing there, staring at his hands. Which are glowing.

You blink a few times, but no, it's real. A faint purplish light emanates from his hands, held out in front of him in surprise, or wonderment, you can't tell from where you stand. As you watch he looks up towards the coach and the women standing there, and around his hands the glow pulses.

He smiles.

A bright purple flash blinds you.