A siren cuts the air and the police car, an old school jam sandwich, drives down Adelaide and turns the corner. A moment later there's screaming and chaos and cars, whole automobiles, come flying over the rooftops and crashing down. People panic, of course, and I find myself thinking how close that last one was. But I could do something about this if I were a superhero.
Yes, I am a superhero, apparently with the same powers of the original Superman, back when he could only outrun speeding bullets in a flash and jump like a flea across country. In addition, I have the ability to turn into a ghostlike form. In this form I can move from place to place but I cannot affect anything until I turn solid again.
Apparently, I can also make myself look like different sorts of people.
Instead of intervening in whatever madness can toss cars like toys, I find myself in a story where I'm investigating a mystery in a museum. Not wanting to be discovered, I use my shape-shifting powers to make myself appear to be a marble statue.
Then I'm depowered me again, hiking on a cliff above a valley containing, for some reason, the ruins of the sorts of buildings one sees in a city core. The conspirators meet here, in these overgrown, graffiti-marked buildings. They've turned them into buildings. I don't know what conspirators they are, except they're evil and nasty and they dress like businessmen. I have dark thoughts of revisionist 9/11 conspiracy theories, in which I place little stock, and the writings of David Icke, which I find about as credible as the average five-year-old's thoughts on Father Christmas. The hiking group of which I'm a part approaches the doors. One swings open. Inside, sure enough, we find a furnished office, and a Conspirator talking on a telephone.
Whereupon I find myself in the yard of my childhood home talking to a cousin and her spouse, who in this altered reality live next door.
I never do learn what sort of thing was tossing those cars, or if it was ever stopped.