The young man's reverie was interrupted by someone grabbing his arm and talking to him.
"Listen guv, you'd better go sit down. That was an 'ell of a fall." It was the window cleaner again, guiding him towards a nearby bench. He looked around, not quite believing what had just happened. He'd had bad luck before, but this really topped it all. Some kind of train problem, the water (that bucket really hurt), falling in the hole, being electrocuted by 10,000 volts... For a moment he though "I'm dead," but the clammy feeling of his t-shirt quickly brought him back to reality.
"I'm fine. No, really." The window cleaner looked at him dubiously.
"'Ere, you know you oughter be more careful. You coulda been..." The young man waved him away, assuring him that he was fine. And in fact he really did feel fine; he felt - better than he had for years, although he had a strange feeling that he was missing something. He looked around and noticed a black bag lying next to the newly enlarged hole.
"Yours innit guv?" The window cleaner picked it up and passed it to him. "You musta dropped it as you - er - got out."
"Thanks." He took the bag, although he could scarcely remember owning it. He sat down and tried to think, but everything before the point where he stood up in the hole seemed to be slipping away like dreams in the morning. He opened the bag. Inside there was a large but curvaceous laptop and a disturbing smell of hot electronics. He closed the bag again, and stood up. He didn't actually have any idea what to do next, but he knew he didn't want to sit around. After convincing the window cleaner that he really was ok he turned to go, then paused and said "Oh, and look out for that second step", scarcely thinking about what he meant. The window cleaner gave him another odd look, then inspected his ladder.
"Daft bugger," he muttered. It was as good as ever, nothing wrong with the rungs at all. He picked up his bucket and started up the pub steps to get a refill. He placed his right foot on the second step, slipped in a puddle of water, and executed a perfect comedy-style backflip pratfall. A passing group of Charlie Chaplin fans broke into spontaneous applause, then scattered as the window cleaner let off a violent round of expletives.

The young man had already gone out of earshot by then, drawn towards the nearby traffic junction with the dead traffic lights by a strange compulsion. As he passed underneath a tree he made a sudden sideways jump and then carried on, all without taking his eyes off the crossroads ahead of him. In the branches above, a pigeon stared in disbelief. "I don't believe it," the bird thought. "By rights that should have been a bullseye, right on his head. But he moved like he knew it was coming! Right, I'm going to get that bastard." The bird flew off to find some tasty dark red or purple berries. The next time he didn't want to just hit this guy, he wanted to really mark him.

Meanwhile, completely oblivious to the fit of avian anger he had caused, the young man had arrived at the crossroads. He was having trouble sorting out just what he'd seen. An awful sight of a tanker and a car meeting at speed in the junction had been replaced with... an empty junction with no twisted wreckage at all. The air was still, there was just the distant sound of approaching vehicles.
Something seemed to click in his head. He glanced at the traffic lights (dead), looked down one road (a vaguely familiar red car was approaching), then at right angles down the other (yes, the tanker was coming). All doubt had now vanished. He knew he had to do something or he would see the horrific scene all over again. Heroically gathering his resolve, and leaving a few sparks swirling unnoticed in the road behind him, he stepped into the road and turned to face the truck. He felt good. He felt powerful. This felt like destiny! Heroically standing there with legs apart, he heroically raised an arm, heroically. Just then the truck's horn blared out and his legs turned to less than heroic jelly. His eyes involuntarily closed, and suddenly all he could think about was the relative stopping distances of a small red car versus a probably fully loaded tanker. Why on earth had he picked the road with the truck? All at once he heard the screech of air brakes rushing towards him, a brief whoosh as a small car (probably red, but he didn't check) sped past behind him, then a sudden, excruciating...

.

.

.

silence

.

.

.

He became aware of someone shouting somewhere very near by. He opened his eyes and looked around.
"Yeah, you! Asshole! You trying to kill yourself?" The truck's radiator was just inches from his chest, and the driver was leaning out of the cab window with an impressively purple face. The young man's first thought was that he was still alive, and his second that the crash he had 'seen' hadn't happened. Had he prevented it? Then he realised the truck driver didn't see things in quite the same way. He opened his mouth to try to explain, but before he said a word he saw a brief vision of an enraged driver charging at him. Two seconds later it cleared and everything was as before. Deciding that retreat was the better part of heroism the young man took to his heels and disappeared before the pissed-off driver could even open his door.

Somewhere else in London a mobile phone rang, and was answered. Someone listened, made an affirmative grunt, and hung up.
"Hey, Jeff," said Mutt. "It looks like we got some work. Some joker's damaged some electric mains and shorted out some traffic lights. The boss says there are also signs of new superpowers being used in the area, and they may be related. We've got to go sort it."

HEY, AREN'T MUTT AND JEFF JUST THROWAWAY CHARACTERS?
(Don't ask me, I just write this stuff down.)

SO ARE THEY BADDIES?

WHAT *IS* THE YOUNG MAN'S NAME ANYWAY?

WHAT'S WITH THE PIGEON?

AND WILL HE HAVE BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME?

AND WILL THE AUTHOR GET A MUSE?

You get more questions per pound on... Superguy!