Greg Veder vs The World (Worm x The Gamer)

[FireCire]

Tftc! Though this is a new level for the Travelers - they went full on lethal here, actively sending flames at civilians.

Funny scene, though disappointed in Greg's performance after all the building him up in the previous chapters.

 

[ZFighter18]

Lag 6.21

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Approaching the dilapidated structure of Winslow High, Greg Veder couldn't help but feel a wave of cynicism wash over him. The school, with its peeling paint and graffiti-tagged walls, stood as a stark reminder of the negligence it suffered, nestled in the heart of Brockton Bay's Docks South area. The building's rundown exterior mirrored the city's gloom, its lack of care evident in every cracked window and rusted railing.

School. Great.

The thought dripped with sarcasm as Greg took his first step onto the school grounds proper, the air of the campus matching his mood - unenthusiastic and cynical. The pathway leading to the main entrance was littered with trash, just to show how much people cared.

Winslow High, despite being the second most populated public high school in the city—second only to Arcadia—was a far cry from adequately maintained. The disparity was jarring. Here was a school that, on paper, received enough funding for its size, yet in reality, it was one of the worst in terms of appearance and upkeep.

Despite Winslow looking like shit on a stick, the air around him was charged with the buzz of teenage energy and drama. Snippets of overheard conversations floated around him - gossip about weekend parties, complaints about homework, the latest relationship drama. It was like walking through a live feed of trivial concerns, each one more mundane than the last.

A group of students huddled near a graffiti-laden bench, their laughter cutting through the morning air. "Did you see the game last night?" one of them exclaimed, his enthusiasm failing to mask the tired lines under his eyes.

"Yeahhhhh, shouldn't have watched it instead of studying," another replied.

His expression, a blank smile lacking its usual intensity, barely changed as he navigated through the clusters of students loitering around the entrance. Despite his nonchalance, Greg couldn't ignore the whispers and stares that trailed him like shadows, echoes of last Friday's encounter with some Empire juniors. It wasn't every day someone stood up to bullies like that, and now he was a walking, talking piece of high school folklore.

"...heard he took on three of them by himself," one voice whispered, tinged with a mix of awe and disbelief.

"No way, Veder's just a regular dude," another scoffed, skepticism lacing their tone.


"I hear dude's on the juice."

Holding back a sigh, blue eyes roamed Winslow's grounds as he slowed his approach, in no real hurry to get to the doors, attention falling on a group of eyes that seemed locked in his direction. Girls stared back at him, a few pretending to be on their phones but he could tell by the glances of the half-dozen group that they were looking at him.

He glanced down at himself quickly, wondering if he had spilled something on himself during his rushed breakfast. His outfit today was a simple one, one better suited for lazing indoors than school, but he didn't really care. Throwing on a sky blue t-shirt with a large white exclamation mark on the center of it and a pair of baggy white sweatpants over similarly-colored sneakers, he had simply run out the door after scarfing down some pancakes and eggs. And no stains either…

He glanced back up and sighed. Probably nothing. Turning away from the girls as he still felt their attention on him, Greg's eyes dulled as his thoughts went somewhere else.

The night before still weighed heavily on his mind. It was supposed to be his big debut as Void Cowboy, the persona he had meticulously crafted, the one that was truly 'him'. But instead of a grand unveiling, it turned into a humiliating… humiliation. I can't believe I let myself get punked by some two-bit villains, he thought, frustration simmering within. And a literal trash-tier cape... what a joke. What were the Merchants even doing there?

White Knight's fights with Lung and Hardkour's clash with Oni Lee had left him feeling like a real, serious cape, and had made him think that Prodigy was up there with the big-leagues.

But Void Cowboy? That was a different story.

The embarrassment he faced the night before was a bitter pill to swallow, especially considering the effort he had poured into superhero work.. I should have seen it coming, should've been quicker, sharper... he degraded himself internally.

Greg's gaze drifted past them, noting the cracks in the pavement, the way the weeds had made a home in the neglected flowerbeds, and the tired, resigned expressions of students trudging their way to the school's entrance. It was a scene played out in countless high schools, but here, it felt like a prelude to something bleaker. You'd think with all the attention this place gets, someone would bother fixing it up.

Passing by a group of underclassmen, he caught a fragment of their conversation - something about a new video game release. He probably would've really been invested in that a few months ago… weird.

A moment later, as he swerved to avoid another set of giggling girls in his path, his thoughts were interrupted as someone tried to brush past him, a shoulder bashing his own. "Watch it, Veder," an annoying voice sneered.

With barely more than a thought to guide his actions, Greg pushed back with his own shoulder, patience wearing thin even as he kept his force minimal. "You watch it, Tenorman," he growled at the boy in the letterman jacket. The jock's surprise was evident, and the surrounding students couldn't help but laugh and whisper at the sight of the football player being put in his place.

Figures. Satisfied with his small victory, Greg continued towards the school entrance, his mind drifting back to the previous night once more. The embarrassment, the mockery he must be facing on the forums, what PHO was probably talking about, it all gnawed at him. He'd planned to stay offline for a while, to let the heat die down. At least for a week, maybe more.

But the replay of his mistakes still burned.

He tried to shake off the thoughts, focusing instead on the day ahead. Thinkin' about it won't change anything, he reminded himself. Today was a new day, and he'd just have to face it head-on.

"Told you to step the fuck back, slant!" Greg's frown deepened at the slur, the angry word pulling him out of his irritated thoughts.

His eyes narrowed as his gaze snapped up, instinctively scanning for the source. Why can't one day at this place be normal? His thoughts were interrupted again as a kid with a phone in hand clumsily collided with him. The kid mumbled an apology, eyes wide with a mix of fear and anticipation, clearly more interested in recording the scene than being part of it. What the- Greg followed after and rushed forward, moving no faster than a normal person, and pushed his way into the middle of a small circle already forming around the front doors of Winslow.

Both hands moved instinctively as a figure charged in his direction and another nearly stumbled to the floor, his attention barely on his actions before he was already done. In one swift motion, Greg's palm caught a large fist, stopping it dead in its tracks, while his other hand grabbed the collar of a smaller boy's shirt, pulling him back to safety.

The blond blinked and glanced down, blinking again in recognition at the Japanese kid in his grasp. Huh. He turned his head slightly to face the shocked face of the first student, the other boy still half wearing an enraged grimace.

Tall and built like a basketball player, with toned muscle and a shock of blond hair bleached even brighter, he wore a tattered jean jacket over a band t-shirt Greg had never heard but Sparky probably had a poster, trying hard to look the part of a tough guy.

Logan? Greg frowned at the thought. Logan Sterling was another idiot that he knew well, the boy one of his usual bullies in the sophomore year that sniffed around Mal and the other juniors in an attempt to be more than an Empire wannabe. He had been one of the outcasts like Greg in the first half of freshman year, almost even something like a potential friend.

Considering he seemed to be a fan of Japanese media, manga especially, no one ever figured he would be one for the Empire.

That was before puberty hit and he started to bulk up, getting wider and taller enough to be somewhat intimidating to others in the same year.

Greg, especially.

Or at least, he used to be.

Logan's face, twisted in aggression, slowly melted into confusion as he realized who had stopped him. "Veder?"

Greg's hand tightened slightly on the collar of the other boy's shirt, his gaze locked with Logan's startled brown eyes. "Sup, Logan?" Greg plastered a smile onto his face. "Read any good manga recently?"

"Look, I didn't even do anything," the boy in Greg's grasp tried to argue, wriggling around in his shirt. "I was just trying to get inside."

"Yeah, I bet," Greg replied, his tone light but his gaze sharp. He released the boy, who quickly scurried back and away from the action, quickly surrounded by a group of other Asian kids.

Logan's fist, still caught in Greg's other hand, trembled slightly, the initial shock of being stopped mid-swing giving way to a simmering anger. "Let go of me, Veder," he growled, trying to pull his hand free. The crowd of students around them whispered and murmured, some taking out their phones, hoping to catch a potential fight on camera.

"You wanna keep your teeth, Loge?"

Several other boys, their hair dyed a noticeable bottle blond, stepped forward from the doorway, surrounding Logan as the boy flinched at Greg's threat. Greg stood his ground as Logan's posse, a mismatched group of wannabe tough guys desperate to be part of the Empire, closed in around their leader.

The boys flanking Logan were equally imposing in their own way, each trying to puff themselves up to seem more intimidating. One had a buzz cut and a face full of acne, his oversized hoodie hanging off his skinny frame. Another, with a nose that had clearly been broken more than once, wore a sleeveless shirt that showed off his tattooed arms. They all shared the same look of misplaced confidence and anger.

Greg finally letting go of the other teenager's fist, Logan's face paled slightly as he stumbled back. "Let's keep it civil, yeah?" His voice was calm but firm, the underlying threat clear.

"Civil?" Logan spat, his face full of anger and embarrassment in equal measures.

"Yeah, civil. You know, like calm?" Greg answered back. "Too big of an SAT word? My fault."

The taller boy growled, puffing himself up even as he remained in place, seemingly hesitant to take a step forward. "The fuck do you think you're talking to?"

"The fuck do you think you are?" Greg shot back with a snort. "You think you're tough, man? Picking on someone like Hiro?"

"Wait, how do you know my na-"

"Why don't you try that with someone your own size?" The blond continued, not letting the other boy speak. "You big enough, bro? Bigger than Mal?"

"You really think you're something, huh, Veder?" Logan hissed, his eyes darting around, gauging the reactions of the growing crowd.

Greg's lips quirked into a smirk. "Just think you should pick on someone your own size, Logan. Or maybe find a better hobby."

The one standing just behind Logan, a pudgy boy with arms crossed defiantly across his muscle shirt, spoke up. "No fuckin' ABB in the school unless they pay a fee. Lung and Oni Lee are done, we're not letting them in for free."

Greg hummed, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Nice rhyme, Dr. Seuss, but freedom is the right of all sentient beings. So is education. Move."

"Or what?" Logan challenged, confidence bolstered by his crew.

"Or I'll beat your faces in," Greg responded, grin sharp and dangerous.

The threat wasn't one without heat or weight to it. Last week's events had spread like wildfire through the school and both Greg and the Junior-Eighty-Eights knew it. On top of that, the public denting of a locker with Mal's head on top of Coach Wilker's added gossip of him being on roids had given him a bit of a reputation when it came to being something of a fighter.

Not to mention, the added rumor of him beating up Sophia so bad that the humiliation made her stop coming to school.

He still wasn't sure where that came from or why he was supposedly at fault but the rumor mill was like that.

"You gonna let him talk to you like that?" one of the bottle-blond boys muttered, his voice laced with uncertainty as he glanced between Greg and Logan.

One of Logan's friends, a wiry boy with a shaved head, stepped forward. "Maybe we should teach you a lesson, Veder." His voice was eager, too eager, like he was trying to impress Logan.

Greg's eyes flicked to him, then back to Logan. "You sure? Right here, right now?"

Logan's resolve visibly wavered as Greg spoke, but he puffed out his chest as he realized all the eyes on him, trying to maintain his bravado. "What's it to you? Scared?"

Greg laughed, the sound coming from a place deep inside him. "Of you? Never. But it was really hard to get blood out of my jeans last week and I'm wearing right now so…"

Logan took a step back at the reminder of the last fight Greg had been in, his gaze darting around the crowd. The whispers and the watchful eyes of the other students seemed to press down on him, weighing heavily.

Suddenly, a voice called out from the crowd. "Come on, Logan, leave it. He's not worth it."

Logan glanced over his shoulder, his expression faltering as he saw the disapproval in some of his friends' faces. He looked back at Greg, his anger still simmering, but his confidence visibly shaken.

He shot a final, spiteful look at Greg before turning away.

"We're not done, Veder," Logan spat out, but the threat lacked heat or venom. The other boys, picking up on Logan's retreat, exchanged uneasy glances before shuffling away, their own confidence visibly diminished.

The crowd, their anticipation for a fight unmet, began to disperse with murmurs of disappointment and curiosity. Greg watched them leave, his posture relaxing slightly as the confrontation came to an uneventful end. Shaking his head, the blond glanced back at the boy he had saved as the crowd slowly walked away and indoors, the fight they had been hoping for not going to happen.

The boy Greg had saved broke apart from his friends and gave Greg a wary look as he walked back up to him, adjusting his glasses nervously. "Thanks, I guess," he mumbled, clearly unsure how to react to the sudden rescue.

"No problem, Hiro." Greg shrugged nonchalantly.

"Uhhh… do I know you?" Hiro Yasuda, one of his new AGB commanders, asked meekly, shrinking back slightly as Greg suddenly focused his gaze on him.

"What was that?"

The shorter Japanese teen stared up at him, adjusting his glasses once more as he tried to take in the other boy. "Y-you knew my name? But I don't know you?" He stepped back slightly, his face blanching slightly as he slowly took in Greg's taller, more muscular, blond form, probably drawing many wrong conclusions.

Fuck meeee… Greg mentally cursed.

He had forgotten, for a moment, that Hiro only knew him as Hardkour, not as Greg Veder. He quickly let go of Hiro's shirt, hoping to diffuse the situation. "No, you don't. Forget it," he replied with a snort, trying to brush off his slip-up. "Just watch out for yourself, yeah?"

"Y-yeah." Hiro nodded, still a bit dazed, and hurried off in the opposite direction.

Greg watched him go, his mind briefly wandering to the complexities of his double life. One minute I'm fighting super villains, the next I'm fighting bullies on roids. My life is weird.

He pushed past the doors of Winslow and into the familiar dilapidated hallways and flickering lights above as they greeted him like a bad friend, strides slow and unbothered. The lockers lining the walls were covered in posters and flyers, each one screaming for attention despite most people paying them no mind. The chatter of students filled the air, a constant buzz that Greg had learned to tune out.

He navigated through the crowded halls, sidestepping a spilled backpack here, a huddle of gossiping students there. He passed a group of juniors huddled around a phone, their laughter loud. One of them caught his eye and quickly looked away, whispering something to her friend. Greg couldn't help but wonder if they were talking about him, or about Void Cowboy. He pushed the thought away as he approached his locker. No use worrying about what they think.

As he spun the combination lock, a figure huddled nearby caught Greg's eye. The familiar slouch, hidden under a black-and-yellow hoodie and sunglasses, could only belong to one person in the whole of Winslow High.

"Hey, Sparkplug." Greg couldn't help but tease. A grin played out on his lips as he observed his friend, who looked more like a brooding, incognito celebrity than a high school student. "What's with the glasses, bro?"

Axel "Sparky" Ramon, his posture only slightly defensive, lowered his sunglasses a little, showing off a brilliant pair of bright gold eyes that seemed to shine like the sun against the comparatively dull ones above. In fact, they seemed to pierce through Greg, the boy in yellow blinking slowly as he stared. The hooded teenager glanced around cautiously before replying in a slight hiss, "Because fluorescent lights mess with my new eyes, dumbass. Shit's a bitch-and-a-half to deal with."

Man, that's gotta be tough. Greg barely held back a sigh again, smile fading slightly as something in his stomach left him feeling unsure of what to say. I can imagine, still getting used to the sensitivity. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

Leaning against the locker wall, Sparky let out a heavy sigh as he banged the back of his head into some rando's locker. "On top of that, I'm wearing earplugs and I can still hear just as good as I could before. Shit's fuckin' insane, brah."

"Yeah…"

"Like some next level comic book shit."

"I know…"

"Like, I think I'm getting abs?" Sparky's pitch rose, voice sounding hesitant as a hand cradled his stomach.

Greg tilted his head slightly as he shot a glance at his friend, unsure of how to respond to that one. "...nice?"

Sparky shot him a weird look back. "I mean… yeah? But in a weekend? That's fuckin' weird, brah."

Greg nodded as he swung his locker open, the metal door creaking slightly. "You're not wrong. You know it was the only way I could..."

"Don't," Sparky cut him off sharply, his expression hardening as he raised his head again, sunglasses tilting forward until Greg was faced with his friend's wolf-like glare. "Don't apologize. Not for this. I'm the one that snapped and went off rogue. You ain't try to torture me to death."

Greg paused, his fingers hovering over a textbook. What do I say to that? He wondered, his thoughts a whirlpool of guilt and relief.

Sparky continued, a hint of excitement creeping into his voice as his grin widened, teeth seeming oddly sharp for a moment as he stood up straighter. "Hell, you killed the fucks that wanted to. 'Sides, I can jump almost twice my height now. That's sick as hell, I don't care what else, man."

A genuine laugh escaped Greg at the newfound enthusiasm in Sparky's voice. "Yeah, it's pretty badass. Just remember, with great power…"
"We all watched the Eidolon movie. Shut the fuck up," Sparky shot back, unable to hide the small smile on his lips. "I get it, Greg. I'm not planning on going all lone rogue vigilante on you."

"Good to know." Greg grinned, relieved. "Just promise me you'll be careful, okay? We don't need you getting into any more trouble."

"I'll try," Sparky replied, his tone light but his eyes serious. "but you gotta watch the stones you're throwing. Don't wanna fuck up your own house, my boy."

"Huh?" He winced as he said the word, the smirk on Sparky's face undeniable as he realized what he was referencing. "Wai-"

"Ain't that right, Void Cowboy?" Sparky whispered the last three syllables with a growing grin that was entirely mocking.

Greg sighed, leaning forward into his locker as he tried to hide his head from his friend's mocking. He didn't need enhanced hearing to hear the barely repressed laughter in Sparky's voice and he certainly didn't want it right now. "It wasn't just a joke, y'know. I put a lot of thought into that persona."

"Bet you did."

He groaned again. "But I did."

Sparky let out a pleased hum. "And where did that thought get you?"

"Can we not do th-" Greg felt himself being pulled out of his locker by the back of his shirt, the blond allowing the action until he once again found himself facing the grinning face of his best friend. "Can we not?"

"Oh, we're gonna, brah," Sparky shot back. "You lost to the fuckin' Merchants."

Greg winced again. "I didn't lose to the Merchants. I took down Mush. Squealer and Skidmark drove away and I was not in the mood to chase them down, okay?"

Sparky shrugged, glee visible in his eyes as his sunglasses dipped forward. "You got beat up by band instruments and a walking garbage dump uppercutted you. Sounds like a loss to me." There was very little that could make the other boy smile but actually getting on Greg's nerves for a change was one of them.

"A piano missile slam-"

Their conversation was interrupted by the bell ringing, signaling the start of homeroom. Students around them began to move with a renewed sense of urgency, heading to their respective classes.

"Whatever. We'll talk about this later," Greg said as he slung his backpack over his shoulder. "J-just.. just meet me at Old Industrial tonight."

Sparky, ever the skeptic, raised an eyebrow, his sunglasses once again slipping down his nose slightly. "Why?" he asked, as he adjusted them back on.

Greg'se expression shifted from a scowl to a grin, embarassment giving way to excitement at the flip of a mental switch. "We're going for a run. Trust me, you're gonna love it."

The look on Sparky's face told Greg very well that his friend was as interested as he was skeptical. "Alright, brah, I'll bite… but this better be good."

Greg chuckled, closing his locker with a final thud. "Oh, it'll be good."

 

[Chaoswind]

I was looking forward to the PHO interlude.

Still thanks for the update

 

[ZFighter18]

I'm gonna be busy for a little bit.

Just dealing with some things but I will have some more chapters up every remaining week of January, and hopefully February.

Lag ends on 6.25 and we're ramping into Spec 7.1

Will also be uploading some more chapters on Patreon this week, if you're on there.

Lag 6.22

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

It was amazing how calm a city like Brockton Bay could seem at night.

There had to be dozens of crimes occurring all over but this early in the morning, with the sky still pitch-black — as black as you could get with all the light pollution at least— you could almost imagine that it was actually as peaceful as it looked.

"Fu-shit!"

Almost.

Greg Veder, dressed in his Hardkour costume—a badass ensemble crafted from a motorcycle jacket, pants, leather belts, paired with a red scarf, gloves, and a full-face helm—swirled through the night sky. His body vaulted off the edge of a rooftop, twirling in the midnight air as he spun and flipped with an ease that bordered on disgustingly casual. The city blurred around him as he spun, finding himself upside down, then right side up, sideways and then upside down again as he dropped into a handstand only to quickly flip back up in the same movement.

Every single movement, an act of casual defiance against gravity.

"You okay, Padawan?" Greg called out, his voice cutting through the night as he settled on a power pole with the grace of a predatory bird.

"I told you never to call me that," the reply came from his partner in roof jumping, the other boy clearly trying to mask the struggle, but the words spoken through gritted teeth were a loud, flaring billboard of effort.

Unlike Greg's more intricately designed outfit, Sparky's was comparatively simple. A hooded tracksuit, in black and yellow, reminiscent of Bruce Lee's iconic bodysuit with an inverted color scheme, black fingerless gloves and a face mask slapped over his mouth. Yeah, that was Sparky—trying to channel his inner martial arts legend while leaping over rooftops.

"Hey, I'd go with Skywalker," Greg began again, bounding around Sparky as the boy took a moment to catch his breath, "but you're not exactly living up to the name."

Was he being a bit of a jackass?

Obviously.

However, he wasn't wrong in his critique of Sparky's ability either. For Greg, it was all too easy—a blend of monstrous strength and acrobatic elegance, even without his [Reinforcement] skill singing in his veins. Every leap, every flip was done with an almost disgusting level of effortlessness.

Sparky? Not so much.

Imagine a toddler learning to run.

Now, take that toddler several stories up, heart racing, navigating gaps that yawned like open mouths ready to swallow him. A quarter of Greg's speed, a fraction of his strength, and a choir of anxiety screaming in his every movement.

"So, ever considered a less life-threatening hobby? Like knitting, maybe?" Greg shouted, his voice carrying an echo of playful arrogance.

"Very funny, Hardkour," Sparky shot back, panting, eyes narrowing with exertion as he tried to keep up with Greg's rhythm.

Greg looked at Sparky, a flicker of genuine concern behind his mask. It's tough, but he'll get it. Hopefully without falling down a few stories like an idiot.

Ignoring the fact that he had done exactly that for a while and Sparky was doing far better than he had the first time attempting this, Greg continued his roof traversal.

He moved fluidly, every leap an effortless demonstration of superhuman ability, his red scarf trailing behind him like a cape
All the while Sparky strained to keep up, each motion measured and deliberate. It was during one of these mid-air pirouettes that Greg casually threw a question at his friend. "So, any new changes you've noticed since the... y'know, boost?"

His voice cut through the night, nonchalant as a stroll in the park, even as he swerved through the city's rough skeleton of bricks and shadows. A notebook and pencil appeared in his hand—Love you, Inventory—and he scribbled in it while leaping

"Boost," Sparky retorted, shooting him a look that screamed 'seriously?' even with a mouth covered by a black mask.

"What else do you want me to call it?" he shot back, scribbling some notes. "I Gregged you up real good, didn't I? Filled you up with some Greg juices."

"Eww." Even behind a mask, the face Sparky pulled was obvious. "Never in your life should you ever say that again."

Greg barely held back the urge to wink, aware that his friend wouldn't see it behind his helm anyway. Cackling, he leapt into the air again, shouting out, "You know you love me!"

Sparky crashed down to the roof a second behind him, grunting out the word, "Debatable," as he landed hard.

The blond let out an audible snort, shaking his head. "Answer my question though, bro. How you feeling?" His eyes never stopped scanning even as he wrote down what he could already notice on the pad, noting that Sparky's movements had a new edge since yesterday's night out on the town.

Faster, higher, something edging closer to impressive.

Four days.

It had been four days since the world shifted on its axis for Sparky, since Greg played savior and architect of his transformation. Two days since his embarrassing first showing as Void Cowboy at the Forsberg. Luckily, Greg had done the smart thing and chose to stay away from the internet, particularly one forum specifically, well aware that he'd be unable to stop himself from getting into internet fights.

"Senses still kinda sting a little but it's easier now," Sparky admitted, rolling his shoulders after a slightly harsher landing. "How did you not fucking lose your mind dealing with this shit?"

Greg tilted his head to the side, rolling the question around in his skull for a second or two before he finally spoke again. "Two theories or… at least, two reasons? I guess," he somehow managed to shrug while flipping upside down. "Anyway, my growth was pretty much just a slow ramp up. It took time to get from level one to level five, you know, and I only got like 2 stat points at a time. Basically, my body, me, my soul, brain, meat, whatever, had time to adapt to every level and every point I put in, y'know," the young vigilante paused as he rolled his words around in his head for a moment before just deciding to push through anyway. "Like, dude, my senses are sick but unless I'm actively like using them, y'know, or adrenaline's pumping, everything's only a little above normal. At least, I don't notice it, y'know. Like, sensory extinction, y'know, unnecessary distraction your brain ignores, basic stuff like that."

"...yeah, basic. Sure."

Greg clicked his tongue. "I'm not gonna pretend I didn't have a fast start. But you… You went from zero to sixty in literally a heartbeat."

The other boy nodded his head a few seconds later, accepting that answer pretty easily. He glanced at Greg as they ran side by side for a few seconds more before finally letting out a sigh and speaking up again. "...the second theory, brah."

"Oh," Greg snorted at that, the sound petering out into quiet chuckles before Greg spoke again with an audible grin. "I'm literally built different."

The joke landed about as well as Sparky did a moment later, the other boy caught off guard to the point that he had to drop into a roll to keep his forward motion. Bouncing back to his feet, he shot a harsh look in his friend's direction as Greg turned around, running backwards just to see the pratfall. "Dickhead."

As if to punctuate his last words, Greg let out a cackle worthy of any witch on Halloween as he turned back around and bounded over to another rooftop. "Anything else?"

"My appetite's gone mad crazy, brah," Sparky finally added again as he rushed forward to cross the gap between them, a ripple of vulnerability in his voice that might have also been due to exertion. "I've been sleeping way less, too. That normal?"

Greg nodded, the motion as fluid as his jumps. "Totally. I was a food vacuum at first. Eating like a pig, honestly. It's gotta be all the enhanced biomass processing and cellular metabolic acceleration, you know. You gotta adapt to all the rapid changes and all that extra intake'll probably drop down to something close normal like me once your body levels out."

He paused for a moment, something else popping into his thoughts. "Although that still begs the question of where all the extra energy is coming from after that. Some kind of high-efficiency biological furnace, that what we are? Turning every scrap of food into pure energy?" Greg's mind whirled with the possibilities, expression shifting downwards into a frown behind the mask, far more in his thoughts than he could manage to verbalize at once. "I mean, the energy has to come from somewhere, right?"

"...right."

"Honestly, as long as there's some net intake, we should be good," Greg finished his musing, the night air carrying his words.

Sparky blinked in silence, his eyes above his face mask an open book of 'What the hell?'

Greg stared back. "What?"

"Nothing. Just… nothing," Sparky muttered, shaking his head in confusion for a moment as he looked at Greg. A few seconds later, his voice shifted and took on a teasing tone. "So, how's it feel getting your butt kicked by the Travelers and the Merchants in the same fight?"

Greg rolled his eyes dramatically, but couldn't suppress the slight heat in his chest at the thought of that night. "We're not revisiting this! Though, for the record, I did trash Mush."

"Clockblocker could take on Mush."

Greg whipped his head around, white lenses focused on the other boy. "No, he hasn't!"

"I said could, not did," Sparky corrected flatly.

"...fair." He couldn't deny that much. "But that's only a hypothetical." Still, he wasn't going to go down without a fight.

"Besides," Sparky ignored Greg's last comment, his smirk audible behind the mask hiding his mouth, "That's not what PHO's saying."

Biting back an actual growl, Greg sped up just enough to drag a lead on Sparky before spinning in the air once again, simultaneously leaping backwards across a gap as he held up both middle fingers. "I dont give a flying fuck what virgins on PHO are saying."

Sparky actually raised an eyebrow at that, pumping his arms and legs faster in an attempt to catch up to Greg's sudden burst of speed. "Virgins?" He questioned with a grunt to punctuate the word as he landed hard. "Glass houses, big brah."

"Shut. Up."

"Uh-huh," Sparky nodded back. "'sides, we both know that's a lie."

He's right, Greg couldn't help but agree.

But he wasn't going to admit that in a hundred years.

"...you're right," he admitted after a moment of silence, the blond boy spontaneously gaining the power of time travel. "But other than me, what is PHO talking about?"

Sparky's second eyebrow rose to join the first. "...Leet got a girlfriend."

What. Greg let out a burst of laughter, a bark more than anything else. "That's just a bad joke. Pull the other one."

Before Sparky could shoot back with another insult about glass houses and stones, a scream — desperate and raw — ripped through the night air. Their conversation, along with the playful edge, was obliterated in an instant.

"What the-" Sparky began, the words sharp and edged.

But Greg had already moved. In his perspective, the world seemed to slow, giving him that fraction of a second's advantage. His eyes, visible through the blue-glowing slits in his full-face helmet, scanned the area, catching onto a glint of movement. There.

"There!" He repeated aloud. His voice wasn't a shout; it was a command, casual attitude momentarily forgotten. "Follow me!"

He took off, at a pace just exceeding that of Sparky's, a sheer blur against the skyline, fast enough that he'd be risking a fine in a school zone at the very least. Sparky, though quick, was still a good distance behind. Gotta give him credit, Greg mused as he came to a stop. He's trying.

By the time Sparky caught up almost a half minute later, Greg had already come to a harsh stop and was deadly still, gaze focused down an alleyway. Sparky's eyes seemed questioning but the blond didn't have to speak a word as the other boy followed his line of sight and froze in place, the slight twitch of his fingers standing out against his stock still body.

Both boys stared down, hands tightening into fists in unison.

Five members of the E88, all of them obvious from clothing to coloring, were on the prowl.

Their target? A young black couple who looked nothing short of terrified.

"Why are we just standing here?" Sparky finally snapped his head to the side, pulled from his trance by the woman's sudden scream yet again. His voice was urgent, frantic even, the newly-superhuman teenager almost vibrating in place. "We gotta save 'em!"

Greg just turned to him, face inscrutable behind the mask. "Nah." All you, Sparkplug.

The response seemed to shatter whatever focus Sparky had, like Greg expected, the other boy's twitching reaching a new height as rage and other emotions seemed to spill out from him even before he spoke.

"What do you mean, nah?!" His chest rose hard and fast as his breath seemed to come in heavy pants, anger evident in his stance as golden eyes seemed to flare in time with his breaths. "Are you or are you not a fucking superhero?" He hissed, taking several steps forward to glare down the blond.

"No, not we. Just you," Greg corrected him, pointing at the scene with two fingers. He knew his tone was dismissive, harsh even, but he also knew if he sounded any less serious, it wouldn't work. Sparky's hard-headed and he can be as much of a dick as I am. I can't let him see any weakness on cape stuff or he'll never really listen to me. No more repeats of Friday night. "Get to it."

Sparky seemed to deflate for a moment, the weight of the responsibility seeming to hit him. But another scream echoed — louder, closer. The woman had tripped over, and her partner was shouting, trying to protect her as the gang closed in.

"Another one of your damn lessons?" Sparky shot back, glaring at Greg. But even as he did, his body tensed, preparing to jump into action.

"Get to it, Apex," Greg pressed, tilting his head. Come on, Sparky. Prove me right. He wasn't doing this just to be an asshole, as much as it might seem like that was the case. No, this was a lesson more than anything, a test to prove something on several different layers.

And not just one for Sparky.

"Fucking h- fine." With a huff, Sparky jumped off the roof.

Quest Gained

Sidekicking the Enemy While They're Down

Nice.

One layer down.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Axel Ramon, known to some as Sparky, was intimately familiar with his own anger. He wasn't like some annoying bitches who wore his anger proudly, like a human pitbull, walking around with some conspicuous chip on his shoulder.

He wasn't like Greg either, who pushed all his bad feelings down or ignored them and tried to put on a smile no matter what was going on around him.

No, his was subtler, more irritating, a persistent buzzing in the back of his head.

That buzz, insistent and ever-present like a bad case of tinnitus, did nothing but sit there, occasionally growing louder and more annoying every time someone did something to piss him off.

Since Friday night, that buzz had intensified - like almost everything else about him - and had become a deafening roar.

He stared down from the rooftop at the chaos unfolding below. Five members of the E88, hopped up on hate and hunting their next victims, had chosen a dark, grimy alley as their playground. The dim light from a solitary flickering bulb barely cut through the darkness, casting eerie shadows.

Greg could handle this, easily, Sparky thought, but his mind quickly added, But I guess it's my turn. Rather than unleash his wrath on Greg — again — for not playing the superhero, Sparky decided the thugs below made perfect targets.

Let's do this.

"Fucking h- fine."

Taking a breath, the chill of the night mixing with the rush of adrenaline, Sparky leapt from the building. His heart plummeted into his stomach as the exhilarating feeling of weightlessness enveloped him briefly before instincts he didn't know he had kicked in. His eyes locked onto a rust-stained exterior stairwell, and like a cobra's strike, his arms lashed out and his fingers latched onto the cold metal, muscles tensing the instant he did so.

He absorbed the impact as his palms gripped tight, muscles straining as he caught himself. Instinctively, he moved again, maintaining some of his momentum in the process.

With a coordinated push and kick, he propelled himself off the stairs, flipping backwards in a display of acrobatics he'd never have dreamed possible before. His body arced gracefully as he twisted in mid-air, a black and yellow blur against the dark backdrop of the alley.

As he approached the opposing wall, his eyes calculated the distance and angle in a fraction of a second. He extended his legs, his sneakers making contact with the rough brick surface. The impact sent a jolt through his legs, but he used the momentum, channeling it into a powerful kick. The wall became a springboard, launching him forward as he bled off more force.

Heading towards the ground, Sparky twisted his body, tucking and rolling mid-air to manage the force of his descent

He landed with only a grunt, one fist and both feet touched the ground, his body low and coiled in the position Greg had drilled into him, a move straight out of a comic book. The ground beneath him was hard, unforgiving, but he barely noticed. His senses were heightened, every sound and shadow amplified in the dim light of the flickering bulb overhead.

See, teach, I'm learning, he thought with a bitter edge of sarcasm.

Straightening up slowly, muscles coiled and ready for action, he found himself in between the Empire gangsters and the couple, rage building in his chest as he took in the obvious signs of the same gang who nearly killed him just a few days ago.

"Hey, fuckfaces!" He growled out, voice slightly muffled behind his black facemask. "Y'all too pussy to fuck with someone who's not scared or what?"

The couple being chased quickly took off, further into the alley and towards the nearest street as the Empire Eighty-Eight members turned to face him. Their faces contorted, eyes filled with ugly hate as they took him in. A knife glinted ominously, reflecting the flickering alleyway light, and brass knuckles promised pain.

"What are you, kid?" One of them barked, waving a bat threateningly.

Sparky scoffed, raising his fists up in a simple stance. "This an interview? You want my full genetic history before a beat-down? I'm a cape, how's that?"

"What fucking kind are you?" Another one demanded.

"What are you t-?"

"We can tell you're a cape, you dumb fuck," the one with the bat interrupted, his gravelly voice grating on Sparky's ears. "If you had powers worth talking about, you wouldn't be talking, We'd be on the ground, maybe dead, so I figure some kind of shitty Brute, maybe a Striker. A Mover, maybe."

Sparky frowned again, visibly confused at the conversation. "And you still wanna do thi-"

"This ain't Boston, kid. Dozens of new capes every couple of months pop up in the Bay thinking they're hot shit," Knives grinned, interrupting him, "and you don't look half as mean as some of the ones we've seen go down. So, what are you?"

"Yeah, you look kinda vague," Knuckles chimed in. "Dependin' on your blood, we might kill you. We might just fuck you up. Might just break your legs. It's up to you."

"..." A pair of golden eyes narrowed. "I'm as dark as the dick your moms suck to keep the lights on, how 'bout that?"

Bat nodded. "...Alright, kill him."

They charged.

So did Sparky.

He darted beneath the careless swing of a bat, feeling the rush of air as it missed him as a grin sprung into place behind his mask. Too slow.

He found openings in the wild arc of a knife, exploiting the hesitation at his speed, every misplaced step. A particularly reckless swing by one of the gang members opened up an opportunity, and Sparky struck back.

His hand chopped down at the thug's wrist, sending the bat clattering into darkness.

A vicious palm strike followed, making contact. The man stumbled back a step or two and the teenager let out a silent hiss as he realized he had held back a little too much as the man rushed forward again. Irritation at himself fueling him, he sidestepped a knife from the side and spun with the momentum, a spinning backfist landing in the same spot he struck with his palm barely two seconds ago.

A vicious grin sprang across his face as he felt bones give way beneath his fist, and the man flew back and crumpled, body a heap on the damp alleyway ground.

Not dead, at least, he caught himself thinking, able to see the ragged rise and fall of the thug's chest even in the dim lighting. He felt the sharp edge of victory but also the sour twist of disgust at how excited he felt. Lucky me.

"YOU KILLED KENNY!"

His head snapped up as Knuckles let out a ragged scream. "He's not d-"

"YOU BASTARD!"

The rush of adrenaline in his veins drowned out everything else as the guy with the brass knuckles charged him. The man's angry intentions were all too clear from the raw hate in his eyes and Sparky reacted, instinct and training colliding. He blocked the blow with his forearm and struck back out, countering with a heavy fist into Knuckles' gut.

Unable to stand as his eyes bulged from the pain, the gangster slumped to all fours, coughing and spitting up his dinner from earlier. Oh come on, Sparky thought, grin falling away and replaced by a grimace as he hopped back from the mess all over the alley floor. Ewwww.

A grunt from behind him blared like a loudspeaker in his ears as Sparky's eyes widened. He dropped low, narrowly missing being trapped being the bulky arms of a massive tattooed Neo-Nazi. You guys all look the same to me, I swear. He moved with precision, every muscle, every nerve tuned into his motion and with no time to waste, he pivoted in place, channeling his momentum to drive a foot hard into the thug's knee.

With a cry of agony, the man went down hard, writhing on the alley floor.

Two more E88s, seeing their buddy in distress, bolted for him. Sparky's sneakers skidded on the grimy pavement as he darted towards a nearby alley wall. Rebounding off the wall, he flipped through the cold night air. His feet connected with both their chests in a powerful jumping double kick, the sudden blow leaving them gasping as they collapsed in heaps of failure on the cold ground.

Landing back on the ground in a tight crouch, Sparky allowed himself another smile. Man, I'm good.

The smile didn't last long.

"AAAAAAHHHHHHH!" His head whipped around, golden eyes wide as ever as he heard the woman scream again, this time her voice coming from deeper within the alley. Shit! What now?

With barely a glance back at the downed gang members at his feet, Sparky felt a tug in his gut and rushed through the dark alleyways as fast as he could.

With his heart pounding against his ribs, Sparky's feet pounded the grimy path, propelling him through the dark alleyways. The flickering lightbulb barely illuminated the scene, casting long, ominous shadows that danced on the grimy walls. His mind raced as he tried to anticipate the gangsters' next move, irritated at himself for not thinking ahead. They're gangsters, not idiots. Of course, they'd have somebody else to trap them if they ran.

He heard the scream again, closer this time, the sound echoing off the walls at the mouth of another alley. The urgency in the woman's voice spurred him on, his body nearly blurring with speed. Come on!

As he skidded to a stop, the scene that unfolded before him made his blood boil. Three gangsters, each a caricature of hate and violence, had cornered a terrified woman.

One, with what looked like dirt smudged across the side of his face and a twisted smirk, was tearing at her shirt, pressing her hard against the wall as she fought and screamed, trying her best to push him away even as he held one of her arms against the wall. His muscular build and the way he moved spoke of a man used to getting what he wanted through force. The other two, one bald and shirtless, revealing a canvas of hateful tattoos, and the other in a dirty, torn jacket, were relentlessly kicking a man on the ground.

Without a second thought, Sparky launched himself at the one attacking the woman. His shoulder connected with a solid thud, sending the rapist flying back as he let out a scream that was more surprise and shock than pain. He crashed hard, face-first, against the alley wall, a pile of trash bags just barely cushioning his fall.

Not wasting a second, Sparky turned to the woman pressed against the wall. "You okay?" he asked quickly, voice muffled behind the mask.

Her frantic nod and wide, terrified eyes were all the answer he needed. He didn't wait to comfort her, instead, turning his attention to the other two thugs who had jumped back from their victim, startled by Sparky's sudden appearance.

"You picked the wrong night for this, man," Sparky growled, his voice muffled behind his mask but carrying an edge that promised retribution.

The bald thug, recovering from his surprise, sneered. "Who the hell are you supposed to be?"

"A guy with a grudge," Sparky retorted, his fists clenching. He didn't wait for them to attack. Instead, he lunged forward, his movements swift and precise. He caught the first punch thrown by the bald thug, twisting his arm and sending a sharp jab to his ribs. The criminal grunted, doubling over in pain.

The one in the torn jacket swung a knife, its blade glinting under the weak light. Sparky sidestepped, feeling the whoosh of air as the blade narrowly missed him. He grabbed the thug's wrist, twisting it until the knife clattered to the ground. A quick jab to the chest sent the man stumbling back, eyes wide and mouth open as if he didn't realize how much a punch could hurt.

The woman's partner, bloodied and bruised, tried to push himself up, his eyes meeting Sparky's. There was a silent thank you in his gaze, mixed with shock at the teenager's efficiency.
Sparky turned away from him, muscles tensed, ready for the next move. The bald Empire member lunged again, a wild swing aimed at Sparky's head. With a swift duck, Sparky evaded the punch and watched the man stumble as he kept his eyes on the other one, the one in the jacket.

The jacketed thug was quicker, more cautious, circling Sparky like a predator, blade in hand.
As he finally lunged, Sparky sidestepped and grabbed his wrist, twisting it hard. The knife clattered to the ground as the thug howled in pain. With a swift, fluid motion, Sparky delivered an uppercut, sending the man sprawling onto the ground, unconscious.

The bald Neo-Nazi, now recovered, charged at Sparky with a roar. Sparky braced himself, then at the last second, pivoted on his heel, using the thug's own momentum against him. With a snapping kick, he sent the bald man airborne, the sound of what was hopefully only ribs snapping as he landed hard on the grimy ground.

Panting, Sparky glanced around, ensuring there were no more threats. The woman was crouched by her partner, trying to help him up. Sparky walked over to them, steps heavy. "You two need to get out of here. Now. Stay on the main roads."

The woman nodded, her eyes still filled with fear as she helped her partner to his feet. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Don't mention it," Sparky replied gruffly, his eyes scanning the alley for any more danger.

As the couple hurried away, Sparky took a moment to catch his breath, his heart still racing. He looked down at his hands, slightly trembling. I did it, he thought, a mix of relief and disbelief washing over him. I actually di-.

His thoughts came to a halt as movement caught his eye — the first thug, somehow back on his feet, a gun in one shaking hand, nose gushing fresh blood as he cradled his chest. Sparky felt himself freeze like a deer in headlights, a cold, numb feeling washing over him as his heart stilled. The world seemed to slow, each second stretching endlessly as a familiar cold terror gripped Sparky's heart.

The gun... the same cold, metallic sheen as the one that had been staring down at him just days ago. His breath hitched, trapped in his lungs as the memories flooded back — the sight of steel, the deafening bang, the searing pain that had erupted in his chest. He couldn't move, couldn't think, his entire being focused on the weapon that threatened to tear his life away once again.

His ears rang with silence, the alley's dingy surroundings blurring as his vision tunneled on the gun, its barrel the only thing in the world.

Just as the coldness of dread settled in, a blur filled his vision. A half-second later, the sound of bones crunching filled Sparky's ears, louder than any gunshot, breaking the spell that had held him frozen.

"Missed one," Greg's voice cut through the tension, light and mocking.

Sparky drew in a ragged breath, his body trembling as he forced himself to focus on the scene unfolding before him. The gun clattered to the ground, its threat neutralized, but Sparky's heart continued to pound in his chest, a stark reminder of his vulnerability. He swallowed hard, trying to regain some semblance of control over his racing thoughts.

He took in another shuddering breath as he nodded silently. Holy fuck.

The masked blond held a shattered wrist in hand, mask turned towards Sparky as he waved the man's hand in a grim "Hello", still crunching bones in his grip as the gun clattered uselessly to the asphalt.

"T-Thanks, brah," he managed to choke out, his voice barely more than a whisper."I mean… Hardkour."

The red-masked cape tilted his head slightly. "What are friends for, Apex?" It was an oddly comforting sentence, somehow made even more comforting by the way Greg held the thug's wrist in an unyielding grip, the man's hand flopping grotesquely as the bones continued to audibly grind against each other.

Sparky nodded again, his gaze drifting to the gun lying harmless on the ground. He knew he had to get used to this, to the dangers that lurked in the shadows of Brockton Bay. But it was one thing to know it, another to live it.

Turning to the man blubbering in his grip, the blond's voice shifted, losing most of its warmth as he spoke next. "Hey, big guy," Greg shook the man like a ragdoll, uncaringly and with probably too much force, "Come on. Stop screaming," he commanded blithely, wiggling the wrist with each syllable. "I'm trying to teach my Padawan the ways of the streets here."

Despite Hardkour's best efforts at making himself clear, the man didn't seem to hear him, continuing to scream.

Greg sighed theatrically, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "I get it. You're hurting. So am I. I don't like to do this either. You know, I'm a pacifist, really."

Sparky blinked, thinking back to the chaos of a few nights ago. Pass a fist through a face, maybe.

Greg shook his head as the man continued to scream. "Fun fact: did you know 106 people die every minute?"

Sparky blinked at the non-sequitur.

So did the man, his horrified expression clashing comically with his confusion as he managed to croak out a pained "What?"

"You make 107." Greg said as he let go, only to send the gangster sprawling with a final punch.

Sparky stared, trying to catch his breath. "Bro, what the fuck?"

Greg laughed, brushing nonexistent dirt off his clothes. "You killed three guys three days ago," he pointed out, raising an eyebrow. "You didn't exactly go easy on these ones either."

Sparky bit his lip, memories flooding back even more. "...Yeah, I guess," he muttered, not wanting to dwell on the past.

"Sides, he's not dead, only K.O.'d. Some broken ribs, but he'll be good in a month," Greg said with an audible smirk, gesturing at the man's still moving chest. "You know me, I just said that to fuck with him."

"... I'm not really gonna complain that much, honestly," Sparky found himself admitting. "Not anymore, at least,"

"Look who's learning," Greg replied, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder.

 

[Chaoswind]

Sparky joining Greg as sidekick just makes me wonder when Emma will be part of the fic again.

 

[Cron]

Mdaaa

 

[ZFighter18]

Cutscene - Introspections III

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The corridor stretched before him, pristine white walls and gleaming glass partitions painting a picture of clinical efficiency that bordered on the futuristic. Each step of his Oxfords echoed softly on the polished floor as he took his time, no need or desire to hurry. His pale gray suit, carefully selected to embody Medhall's ethos of elegant performance, melded seamlessly with the sterile surroundings. The silk tie, its color and pattern meticulously matched to his bespoke suit, lay perfectly flat against the crisp white shirt, a portrait of unerring attention to detail.

Spoiler: Max Anders Back

"Good afternoon, Mr. Anders."

Maximilian Anders tilted his head in the slightest of nods, his lips upturning just a hair in recognition. "Michelle."

The attractive executive assistant smiled wider at his acknowledgement, a pretty flush hitting her cheeks as she continued past him, the sharp click of her heels punctuating her path.

As she finally walked past him and the click of her heels began to fade away as she rounded the corner, the smile he wore — the ghost of it, at the very least — vanished, his mouth its usual blank line.

Max held her image in his mind for a moment, considering. She was certainly attractive enough, in a generic, surgically-enhanced way - perhaps falling within the lower range of his admittedly high standards. But…

But her procedures were amateurish, noticeable to his discerning eye. Any personal attention she received from him never exceeded the usual half hour every other week, or when the need took him. Too little distance, and she might start having ideas.

As Max continued his procession down the long hallway to his office, he engaged in the expected ritual - nods of acknowledgment, exchanges of polite greetings and respectful deference from the executives and researchers who crossed his path. Outwardly, he projected an air of composed authority, the very picture of a leader in effortless command of his domain. But in the privacy of his own mind, contempt simmered, a persistent anger bubbling just beneath the surface.

These sycophants, with their fawning smiles and eager-to-please demeanors, were so pathetically transparent in their toadying. He would say he despised their obsequious pandering, the way they postured in a vain attempt to earn his favor or catch his eye, but then he'd be the one lying to himself. If only they knew the depths of his disdain for their pitiful displays. The sheep, prostrating themselves before a wolf in tailored wool...

Unbidden, his thoughts turned to his father, and Max fought the urge to curl his lip. His father had never been one to indulge in the power plays, at least in this manner, too hard-headed in pursuit of his endgame, his goal to "focus on what was important." No, Richard Anders was too harsh, petty, and savage of a man to apply any sort of 'give' to any aspect of his life.

But then, his father never truly understood the importance of appearances, of theater — that perception was its own reality.

Max knew better. He understood the necessity of cultivating an image, of playing a role. Out there, he might don his armor, seize his birthright. But here, in this world of wealth and influence, he wore a different kind of armor - bespoke suits and a veneer of respectability, a polished mask for the ugliness that lurked beneath.

In this arena, he was master of the game, king and kingmaker both.

"Morrison," he greeted, his voice a deep timbre that filled the expanse, acknowledging the head of R&D lingering by the door of an elevator. The scientist, caught mid-step, paused and straightened, a flicker of pride lighting up his eyes before he nodded back with a respectful "Mr. Anders", before disappearing behind the door that hummed softly as it closed.

"Walters," Max Anders spoke again as he continued, his gaze shifting to the finance director who emerged from a side office, clutching a tablet like a lifeline.

Max noted the tension in her shoulders, the stress lining her face. Good. Let them feel the pressure, the weight of his expectations. He would accept nothing less than their best, their total dedication to his vision.

"M-Mr. Anders, good afternoon." Anita Walters straightened her pantsuit and offered him a smile nearly as tight as his own along with a nod, stress visible on her face as she quickly made her way past him.

"To you as well, Anita."

Each name he uttered reinforced the hierarchy in place, every executive on his floor acknowledging him with a respectful nod at the very least.

Reaching his office, the CEO paused, hand hovering over the biometric scanner as he stared at his reflection in the glass door. Light blond hair with not a strand out of place, teeth as white as his shirt, handsome face unmarred by the garishness of cheap surgery… Perfection.

The door slid open with a silent grace, revealing an office that was an extension of the corridor's aesthetic — sleek, modern, and bathed in the natural light from his floor-to-ceiling windows.

Maximillian stepped inside, the door closing shut behind him with barely a whisper behind him as he strode over the far end of the room, soles clicking on the gleaming polished floor. He paused for a moment as he reached the end of his path, casting a glance over to the large glass and steel desk at his side, before turning his gaze to the window and looking out over the city that sprawled below. This view, a testament to his life's work and his family's legacy, filled him with a profound sense of purpose.

Here, in this citadel of glass and steel, he was more than a name; he was a vision brought to life, a force of raw power, prestige and dignity.

And despite it all, he was filled with all this unyielding rage.

He was a man of wealth, composure, power and sheer will. In an ideal world, he would never have a moment of stress or discontent, given the means at his command.

Yet, the world was far from ideal and he knew that much. Still, he made sure that potential problems were mitigated, loose ends were tied up and issues were resolved in such a way that if they were not already, they would handle themselves in time.

So it was not often that such a mess of a situation was dumped on his lap without notice, because of pure incompetence, no less, from his own appointed lieutenant.

Max had always known James to be an intelligent man. Dutiful, controlled, nearly as poised as himself but far less charismatic; all in all, the ideal subordinate. Far less trouble to manage than Brad, but that was just damning with faint praise to say the least. The sort of insult that could only be understood as comparing a dutiful butler to a mad dog on a tight leash.

He had never had a bad word for the man, not in his civilian guise, and certainly not in costume as Krieg, the man nearly as capable in both aspects of his life as Kaiser was. To make matters even better, the man was loyal to a fault with seemingly no mind to usurp his position, which was more than he could say for some.

Ignoring Hookwolf's own grumbles, he'd often had to worry about Kayden sometimes…

The woman was powerful, capable, and — when properly reined in — excessively useful and focused on his needs. Still, she had a surprising willful streak when it came to being seen as "good", one that had only gotten worse since she gave birth and especially so in the wake of their unpleasant separation. Hormonal and temperamental as she had become in recent years, if anyone was to attempt to usurp him violently and to a permanent end, she would be a likely suspect.

Nevertheless, Krieg was his best man, his right hand even.

Skilled, dutiful, and composed.

Never had he expected anything less from the taciturn man.

Which was why he felt stunned to his core that a simple ambush and a simple initiation event had gone so unimaginably wrong just five days prior.

The plan had been relatively simple, when Krieg had floated it to him weeks ago.

With Lung out of the way and the ABB in tatters, the Empire needed to step in and make it clear that they were a dominant power before any other force within or without the city could rise up. Part of this involved striking fear into the remnants of the ABB before they could properly solidify, and another part necessitated the indoctrination of many entrants into the fold of the Empire proper.

The timeline for the plan had been rushed ahead when some idiot child in a mask and motorcycle leathers decided to announce his enmity towards the Empire and Kaiser himself by not only affiliating with the ABB but taking it over as their new leader. That alone was bad enough, but publicly declaring as much with a video of the upstart whelp hurling a van into Empire-owned property and causing a massive conflagration that took down a good portion of an Empire-owned block?

Egregious.

If the destruction had not been enough of a statement, the graffiti on the van certainly made the point clear.

So, really, it was only understandable that he had not been feeling entirely composed when he ordered Krieg to make the boy and the ABB pay. Still, he had never thought it would lead to this…

Maximillian Anders let out a long sigh, the man directing his gaze to the far side of the Bay, eyes searching towards where he knew the Docks were.

This humiliation.

Stormtiger beaten and broken was one thing. It certainly hadn't been the first time the musclebound Blaster got too cocky and received a beating. But a brand new Empire cape left in critical condition and possibly dead if not for Othala's healing hands?

One adolescent rookie cape who seemed about as intelligent as one could expect from a lower-class child in this city against two experienced and powerful parahumans along with two more rookies as force multipliers? It should have been a done deal. Especially with one of the boy's own traitorous and opportunistic lieutenants informing the Empire of his movements so they knew exactly when and where to strike?

On paper, it was excessive.

And, in truth, it had been.

Just in a direction he hadn't expected.

If it had ended there, things would have been fine. Really, he might have been satisfied. At the very least, they would have had more information on a new threat, and the only cost was some humiliation at the hands of a rising figure and no damage that couldn't be fixed with a session under Othala's care.

But no, of course not, it couldn't simply end there.

It never did in situations like this.

At the very least, he did learn something else from the situation. The child clearly took his role as leader of the ABB seriously.

Extremely so.

The precautions taken had been well-thought out and well-implemented.

Dozens of white vans throughout the city, most of them acting as decoys and most of them entirely unaffiliated with one another. Most importantly, none of them related to or owned by anyone even tangentially affiliated with the Empire.

The perfect location to carry out the initiation, far from what could be considered PRT-held territory and equidistant from ABB stomping grounds and Empire land alike, while also being in such a run-down part of town that only Merchants and no-name street gangs would even bother trying to "hold" it.

The idea of anyone seeing or hearing anything was unlikely, and that anyone would care enough to call for help even less so. Even the idea of law enforcement and cape support making it there was theoretical, at best.

Unfortunately, unlikelihoods and theoreticals were not impossibilities.

Two of his men literally torn apart, six times that number murdered, and almost three times that number, mostly Empire initiates, in various degrees of serious injury. One apparently hurled from a rooftop, at that.

Even as his blood pressure had risen from sheer rage that same early Saturday morning, he couldn't help but admire the sheer brutality. It was something worthy of Allfather or Marquis, as much as he despised giving that fop any credit.

Considering he had heard from those who escaped that the ABB adolescents had taken to calling him the "Blue Eyes White Dragon", it wasn't wholly unexpected, in hindsight.

Regrettable, of course.

But not entirely unexpected.

Max frowned as he stared off into the city as Brockton Bay stretched to the horizon, a patchwork quilt of faded glory and tarnished dreams. The Downtown skyline gleamed in the late afternoon light, steel and glass monuments to wealth and power thrusting upwards like an insult to the heavens. But even from this lofty perch, Max could see the rot setting in at the edges from the Docks and the other side of the city, the slow, inexorable decay that crept through the city's bones.

A fitting enough metaphor, he mused, for an organism beset by disease, by parasites feeding on its lifeblood.

His gaze traced over the distant Docks, skeletal and rusting, the once-thriving heart of the city's blue-collar identity now little more than a graveyard of broken dreams and shattered lives. And who fills that void, hmm? Pushers and pimps, thugs and thieves, drug-addled fools desperate for their fix.

Max's lip curled, a sneer of aristocratic disdain. Pathetic. A city of sheep, bleating for a shepherd to save them from the wolves at the door. Wolves like that arrogant child and his band of mongrels.

Fury simmered in his veins, slow and sulfurous. It had been days since he'd received the report from Krieg, days since he'd learned of the ignominious defeat dealt to his Empire by a boy playing at being a warlord. The wounds to his soldiers' flesh had been healed by Othala's gracious touch, but the blow to their pride, to his pride, was not so easily mended.

That an upstart like him could challenge me, could spill the blood of my men on the streets of my city...it's unforgivable.

Intolerable.

His hands tightened behind his back, knuckles whitening. He remembered well the surge of anger, of indignation, when Krieg had first brought him the news. The sheer effrontery of it, the unmitigated gall. That this child, this insect, could believe himself a match for the Empire, for Maximilian Anders...

Arrogance. Hubris of the highest order. But what else can one expect, from the product of such inferior stock? The son of a whore and a bastard, without a doubt, gutter trash that lucked into powers and foolish enough to grasp beyond his station.

His newest burner phone had buzzed that night, an unwelcome intrusion to his sleep. Krieg's name on the display, bearing news of the defeat, another humiliation visited on Max's soldiers. Stormtiger, beaten to within an inch of his life, Nordwind, nearly comatose. Their informant within Hardkour's ranks, gone silent, likely dispatched with extreme prejudice.

At the time, Max had listened to Krieg's report with a face carved from ice, his voice betraying not a flicker of the incandescent rage simmering within. Only after ending the call had he permitted himself to feel it, to stoke the flames of his fury until they burned white-hot behind his eyes as he snapped the cheap phone in half.

Now, days later, that anger had crystallized into something diamond-hard and unforgiving.

He exhaled slowly, a frozen sigh.

The sun dipped lower on the horizon, shadows lengthening across the city like grasping fingers. Max watched the light fade and felt only a grim sense of purpose.

He raised his head slightly, gaze rising from the bottom of his windowsill to the proper view of Brockton Bay in the late afternoon sunlight once more. Light blue eyes narrowed as they took in the city's skyline, a dwindling little thing even after years and years of effort on his part.

Spoiler: Max Anders Skyline

This city could have been another great, he mused. Not quite a New York or a Los Angeles, but at the very least, the San Diego of the East Coast. He remembered his adolescence, a time when that seemed like a possibility for the city he was born and raised in. When shipping was vibrant, capes were barely a decade old concept, and Brockton Bay was a thriving, growing living organism of a city on the cusp of greatness.

Even after the "Golden Age of Parahumans" ended, that didn't really affect a thing within the city proper.

Now, Leviathan…

The CEO let out a quiet sigh as his eyes focused again, gaze locked firmly on the city in front of him. A sea of encroaching red appeared in his mind's eye as it flooded over the city, its origin point being the building he stood in up to the point where it came to a sudden stop several blocks away from the Docks.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown, indeed, he closed his eyes as he dwelled on the thought, the visual of Empire territory unfading from his mind. It would have come down to this anyway, he told himself. With the musclehead of a dragon gone and territory up for grabs, it would have only been a matter of time before the unpowered thugs and the capes themselves started questioning why he wasn't expanding the Empire's demesne.

He scoffed at the thought. And that would only lead to them questioning me as a leader.

Max let out another scoff, this one far less audible. As if most of those fools could think past the next morning with any degree of clarity.

It was obvious to anyone with even two brain cells to rub together, meaning himself, Krieg, and Victor, for the most part, that their interests benefited from Lung far more than they lost, both immediately and in the long-term. Every empire needs an enemy to focus their efforts on lest they become prone to infighting due to a lack of challenge.

Unfortunately, his Empire was no different.

A perfectly detestable, powerful, monstrous illegal immigrant from a nation known historically as either a covert or overt enemy, entering their homeland with a wave of bodies, killing their brothers, kidnapping their wives, sisters and daughters for lascivious purposes, along with poisoning their friends using back-alley drugs? Lung had been perfect for his needs.

With the Empire already largely in control of the areas of town that mattered, and Lung being there to publicly split PRT attention and draw more people to his ranks, there wasn't much else he really felt the need for. The dragon and his cronies were basically a walking advertisement for the Empire. Almost too perfect, honestly. Really, what more could any ruler ask for than a ready-made enemy with a loyal army hand-crafted to incite racial tensions and shift otherwise neutral or friendly figures into ardent fighters or sympathizers for the cause?

Sure, the "cause" was largely bullshit, but the sheep needed dogma to keep them bound to the only cause that truly mattered in the Empire — the will of Maximilian Anders. Panem et circenses. Medhall's support programs for "those truly deserving of aid" and the organizational structures the Empire had built up over the decades provided the former, but latter came from the pageantry of the parahuman underworld, the "great cause" of the Empire and the enemies he could point them towards.

Aside from the worthless gang of drug dealing nobodies that cropped up in the last year, who else would the Empire have to fight? A largely Caucasian Protectorate, a superhero family that was just as white as his own, and a hidden figure in the form of Coil that most of the city didn't even know existed. All the way down to the mayor and PRT director, this city was so Caucasian, the war was effectively already won from the time his own father had triggered.

Truth be told, if he had been a more petty man, he would have put Lung on his Christmas list, simply for making his job so much easier over the last decade. Not that the dragon-man wouldn't have promptly burnt said gift rather than risk opening it, but the look of confusion on his face would have been well worth it.

He had tried picturing how Lung would look if he actually did it, but it just couldn't match up to the sheer knowledge that it was actually done and that the man would have been too baffled to know how to respond. Just not the same, he thought with a shake of his head.

Max allowed himself a moment of private amusement at the thought, a razor-thin smile slicing across his face. Ah, the little things in life. Still, he knew better than to let flights of fancy distract him from the task at hand. The Empire's position was strong, yes, but it was not unassailable. Not yet.

Recent events had made that all too clear.

Maximilian Anders knew what he had to do.

Granted, the public's attention had shifted towards mocking the Protectorate after the travesty that was the fundraiser, but that didn't change the fact that there were still plenty of fingers being pointed in his Empire's direction, with laughing faces behind them.

Letting the ABB's new pet parahuman go without reprisal would make his Empire look weak.

It would make Kaiser look weak.

And if there was one thing he learned from his father, it was that weakness kills.

Scouts had reported what seemed to be Asians of varying types scouting out the edges of his territory, and considering the "White Dragon's" attacks on his men, there was war on the horizon. Max's lip curled at the thought, a sneer of aristocratic disdain. As if those mongrels could hope to challenge the might of the Empire. But still, the insult could not be borne. This 'Hardkour' needed to be taught the error of his ways, and swiftly.

It was obvious to anyone with a working brain that the already unstable gang would crumble without a parahuman at the helm. Above all else, they would devolve into infighting, or simply vanish into obscurity without a powered hand to guide them.

His Empire was in no real danger.

But that would only last as long as he made a decisive strike.

He would teach the new "White Dragon" a lesson that he had never needed to teach Lung. A lesson written in blood and pain — a message that would reverberate throughout the underworld like a thunderclap. Cross the Empire, and pay the price. It was a simple calculus, really. But then, simpletons often required a firmer hand to grasp the complexities of the world.

The Asians would be taught their place.

And anyone that dared to laugh would understand why the name Kaiser was one to be feared.

His Empire would not fall.

He would-

"Welcome to Channel 5 News: Brockton Bay's CapeWatch Channel."

Max froze as a sound from the far corner of his office drew his attention. A droning voice, the unmistakable cadence of a news anchor, emanating from the sleek tablet perched in pudgy hands.

"Chip Walker here, am I coming in clear?" The voice was tinny, slightly distorted by the device's speakers, but still recognizable as that insufferable Walker. Max felt a flicker of irritation, his jaw tightening imperceptibly.

"Loud and clear, Chip." The tablet's volume increased slightly and Max had to actively resist the urge to grind his teeth. His gaze flicked to the couch, to the hunched figure sitting there in a gray hoodie, engrossed in the screen.

Theo. His son and heir, in body if not in spirit.

Max took in the boy's soft, rounded features, the pale blond hair so like his own, and felt a now-familiar rush of disappointment, tinged with an emotion he refused to name. Fifteen years old and still so childish.

It was Max's own failing, he knew.

He had been too lenient, too forgiving of the boy's weaknesses. He had allowed sentiment to color his judgment, permitted the potential his beloved Heith had birthed into the world a chance to falter out of a desire to avoid being the monster his own father had been.

Thus far, Theo had proven a decidedly poor investment.

"It seems like the city is always on fire, and that's why the news is always hot," the news program droned on, Theo's doughy face rapt with attention.

Max felt his irritation calcify into something harder as he continued to listen, staring at his son out of the corner of his eye. The boy was too soft, both in body and mind. He lacked the killer instinct, the iron-spined ruthlessness that had seen him succeed. He spent his days sequestered in his room, face buried in books or glued to a screen, insensate to the realities of the world outside their gilded walls.

"Two people died in what seems to be a double homicide, their bodies found outside-"

Max's eye twitched, the inane chatter scraping at his nerves like nails on slate. He had indulged this distraction for long enough. He whipped around, eyes narrowed as he kept his hands clenched firmly behind his back. "Theodor!"

He kept his voice level, but imbued the single word with an unmistakable note of command. The effect was immediate and gratifying.

Theo jerked upwards, grip tightening around his tablet for a moment, the device still blaring with the news program, before he glanced over in the direction of his father, his expression blank but distinctly nervous despite showing little emotion otherwise. "Uh-uh, y-yes, sir?"



Max allowed the moment to stretch, his gaze boring into the boy's wide grey eyes. He noted the way Theo seemed to shrink into himself, the subtle hunching of his shoulders, the unconscious attempt to minimize his presence, and his frown deepened at the sight of it all. Pathetic.

"I believe I made myself clear, Theodor," he said at last, each word precise and razor-edged. "These meetings are not to be interrupted by these distractions. You are here to learn, to observe, to begin the process of preparing yourself for the duties that will one day fall to you as my heir. Not to waste your time with nonsense."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Theodor stared blankly at his father as the man continued to berate him, the words fading away to little more than a drone as he nodded at what he knew were the appropriate moments. His mind wandered, drifting away from the oppressive atmosphere of the office and the weight of his father's disapproval.

Gotta love these father-son bonding moments, Theo thought dryly, his face carefully neutral. Nothing quite like a good old-fashioned dressing down to really bring the family together.

It was an art, really, the way he could tune out his father's voice.

Years of practice, of enduring the same tired monologues whenever the man found some new reason to be displeased with him. Theo had learned to read the patterns, the ebbs and flows of his father's rants. He knew when to nod, when to murmur a quiet "Yes, sir" or "Of course, sir", just enough to maintain the illusion of attentiveness.

But, as usual, his mind was elsewhere.

Truthfully, he knew that his father wasn't really irritated with him.

Not really.

It's not really about me, Theo mused, grey eyes tracing over his father's face, noting the faint tension in his jaw, the tightness around his eyes. Never is. This is just... overflow. From whatever's really eating at him.

Truthfully, if he could muster up the energy to care, he might actually be annoyed at that. That even his father's anger, his disapproval, was just a secondhand thing. Table scraps from the emotion that Maximillian Anders reserved for anything outside of family.

His father had perfected the art of ignoring him whenever he was in a good mood. Anything less than that and he might decide to grace his only son with a few words of wisdom that could be summed up in short as: "The best is the minimum for any Anders. You must exceed everyone else. Also, lose some weight."

Not quite that succinct, but he didn't really have it in him to be anywhere as wordy as his father.

Simply put, he knew not to take it personally. Granted, it still hurt but it had less to do with him and far more to do with his father's… extracurriculars.

Theo's gaze flicked away, skittering over the fancy office furnishings. The gleaming glass and metal desk, the stark modern art on the walls in polished silver frames. All of it carefully curated to project an image of sleek, unbothered power.

Anders have an image. We have to be perfect, Theo thought, his eyes returning to his father's face as he mimicked the man's voice in his head.

But Theo saw.

He had learned, over the years, to look past his father's attempt to manipulate.

The slight stubble on his jaw, barely noticeable against pale skin. The faint disarray of his perfectly coiffed hair, a few strands out of place. To anyone else, they would have been unremarkable. Trivial.

But to Theo, they were a glaring neon sign.

Something's wrong. It could be many things, Theo knew.

His mind raced, sorting through the possibilities. The Empire had been making moves lately, capitalizing on the power vacuum left by Lung's defeat. Theo knew the broad strokes, even if he was rarely privy to the details. Recruitment drives, pushes to expand their territory. The usual song and dance.

But there was more to it, more than that.

The events of Friday night hung heavy in his thoughts, the images still fresh and raw. Four Empire capes, routed by the ABB's new warlord. Granted, half of them were greener than Astroturf, but even then, you didn't have to be part of the Empire's inner circle to know the bare bones of what had transpired there and how bad it was.

Truthfully, anyone on the East Coast with an internet connection and a curious mind was probably aware that the Empire had struck against the ABB again and bit off more than they could chew.

Pictures of Stormtiger with his arms hanging limp at his sides had already been made into memes on Parahumans Online, one of the more liked ones made by Theo's own hands.

Not that he would ever admit to that, but still.

He could imagine how that must have galled his father. The great and powerful Kaiser, outmaneuvered by a kid in a costume. It was the kind of humiliation that he knew would eat at the man, especially considering the van incident just a few days before that.

It couldn't be just that, though.

Right?

His father was many things, but he was not a brooder.

What's going on here? Theo schooled his face to avoid a frown from showing as he kept his gaze on his father, eyes dull as his thoughts went elsewhere. It has to be Empire related but… what?

He knew the Empire was making moves. He had known that since Sunday afternoon when Kayden had asked him to watch her apartment as she prepared to leave.

--------------------
--------------------​

He'd been in the living room, on the couch, trying to lose himself in the pages of a paperback he'd purloined from his father's shelf— a book titled The Lacanian Subject— when she'd walked into the living room, coming to a stop right in front of him as her shadow fell onto the page he was on.

"Theo? Can we talk for a moment?"

He held back a sigh, marking his place with a dog-eared corner. "Yeah, sure."

Theo raised his gaze, gray eyes narrowing ever so slightly in the dim lighting, to take in Kayden standing there, a strained smile on her face. Those same eyes took in the scene quickly, flicking across her face and downwards, noting the tightness in her jaw, the way she seemed to wring her fingers even as she kept her arms down at her sides…

Spoiler: Kayden

Something's up, he thought then, a familiar sinking feeling in his gut. Something big.

"I need a favor," Kayden had said, her voice too bright, too cheerful. Like she was trying to convince herself as much as him. "I'm going to be out of town for a few days. Visiting family in upstate New York."

Theo just stared at her, his expression carefully blank. Visiting family. Right.

He wasn't an idiot. He knew what this was, what it meant. The Empire was making moves, and Kayden was part of it. So much for "I'm done with your father."

"It's been forever since Aster saw her grandparents," Kayden had continued, the lie sitting heavy and awkward between them. "And I thought, well, it's about time, you know?"

Theo had just nodded, a slow, mechanical bob of his head.

Why are you telling me this? he wanted to ask. Why are you pretending like I don't know what's really going on?

But he hadn't.

He just sat there, silent and still, as Kayden had shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

"Anyway," she said, her smile faltering. "I was hoping you could keep an eye on the apartment while I'm gone. Water the plants, get the mail. That sort of thing."

He just nodded again, a bitter taste in the back of his throat. "Sure," he'd said, his voice flat and lifeless. "No problem."

Kayden had looked at him then, really looked at him, and for a moment, Theo had thought he'd seen something like guilt in her eyes. Like she knew exactly what he thought about her, how much disdain he held for both her and his father.

But the moment had passed, and she just flashes him another brittle, false smile. "Great. Thanks, Theo. I really appreciate it."

And then she'd been gone, sweeping out of the living room in a rush of floral perfume and unspoken apologies.

--------------------
--------------------​

He had paid attention. He'd watched, and he'd listened, piecing together the scraps of information that floated his way.

Purity, Crusader, and Rune; anyone in the know was aware that the three of them hadn't been seen anywhere in the Bay within the last week or so. All of them out of the city at the same time and in New York? Out of all the Empire members, they were the "cleanest", at least as far as their crimes, or in the case of two out of three, the opportunity to commit crimes. They were also three of the more personable and impressive capes the Empire had to offer, and given Rune was part of that list, that was saying something. The three of them were going to New York to recruit, obviously.

Purity was always a big part of the Empire's recruitment and indoctrination efforts. Imposing and powerful, but soft-spoken and gentle, she was the perfect silk glove over Kaiser's hard metal fist. Hookwolf was far more of a drill sergeant and trainer, Victor was built to lead in the field and Krieg was more about impressing the importance of finesse and skill than anything else.

He'd seen them work their magic on Crusader, messing his head up even worse than what he already was. Theo didn't doubt they'd be just as effective on other young or easy-to-influence capes.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what that meant.

Recruitment, Theo had realized, the pieces falling into place with a sickening clarity. They're recruiting new capes. Building up their forces.

But even as Theo had come to that realization, even as the pieces had fallen into place...

He'd missed something. Something big, something important.

And now, as he sat there in his father's office, listening to the man's clipped, cutting words, watching the tension in his jaw, the tightness around his eyes...

Theo realized what it was.

Fear.

His father was afraid. Afraid of something, or someone, out there in the city. Someone who posed a threat to his power, his control.

He's rattled, Theo realized, a cold certainty settling in his gut. Something's got him spooked. Something big enough to shake the unshakable Maximilian Anders.

And then, with a sudden, sickening clarity...

He knew what it was.

The Empire had been blooded. Their capes beaten, their forces routed by the ABB's new warlord.

Hardkour.

The name hung in Theo's mind, a specter of violence and brutality. He'd seen the footage, had watched the shaky cell phone videos that had made their way onto the internet.

A figure in black, moving with a speed and grace that was outright inhuman. A blur of motion, a whirlwind of destruction that had left Stormtiger broken and bleeding, Hookwolf's men literally torn apart.

It was a display of power, a gauntlet thrown down at Kaiser's feet.

And Theo knew with an iron certainty that his father would not let that challenge go unanswered.

He's going to war, Theo thought, a numb sort of horror settling over him. He's going to crush Hardkour, to grind him into the dirt. And he's going to burn the city down to do it.

It was a bleak realization, one that sat heavy in Theo's chest. He knew his father, knew the cold, ruthless calculus that drove the man's every action. Maximilian Anders would not tolerate a threat to his power. He would not allow an upstart like Hardkour to challenge his authority, to make him look weak.

He's going to kill him, Theo thought, a sick certainty twisting in his gut. He's going to kill Greg.

And there was nothing Theo could do to stop it.

But even as the thought formed, even as the darkness threatened to close in...

Theo felt a flicker of something else.

He didn't know how, didn't know what he could possibly do.. But he knew that he had to try.

I have to warn him, he thought, the idea taking shape in his mind. I have to warn Greg, give him a chance to prepare, to fight back. If his father found out, if anyone in the Empire discovered what he was planning...

I'll be dead, Theo thought, a grim certainty settling over him. Or worse.

But…

"Sir!"

The word burst out of Theo's mouth before he could stop it, his inner voice screaming at him as he watched his father freeze mid-diatribe. The man's pale blue eyes locked onto him, a burning intensity in their depths that made Theo's blood run cold. Why did I say that? What was I thinking?

The room was silent for a moment, the tension stretching like a rubber band about to snap. Theo fought the urge to squirm under his father's gaze, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Interrupting me now, Theodor?" Max finally spoke, his voice deceptively calm.

"N-no, sir," Theo answered reflexively, the words tumbling out in a rush. He blinked, realizing his mistake. "I mean, y-y-yes, s-sir. Uhhh, I m-mean…" What do I say here?

Max let out a laugh, the sound sharp and cold, like the edge of a knife. "You must have an excellent reason for interrupting me," he said, his eyes never leaving Theo's face. "So go ahead. Speak."

Theo swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. His mind raced, scrambling for something, anything to say. Just... just say something. Anything.

"I was just thinking about how you were right," he blurted out, the words feeling clumsy and awkward on his tongue.

Max raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting him to continue.

Right. He always thinks he's right, Theo thought bitterly. Gotta stroke that ego, make him think I'm hanging on his every word.

"I mean, you were right about how I am lacking in composure," Theo said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "And I'm simply not putting myself out there like I should. I'm bringing shame to the Anders name because of it."

Max stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Am I supposed to be impressed that you can parrot my words back to me?" he asked, his voice dripping with disdain. "Is this what you disrespect your father for?"

Spoiler: Max Anders Forward

Theo felt his face flush, a hot rush of shame and embarrassment. "N-no, sir. I was… I was just thinking about cousin Greg and…" Actually speaking to his father was surprisingly hard, the words tumbling out despite himself. It was so much easier being monosyllabic.

"And?" Max prompted, his eyes narrowing.

"And how he's… been working on himself," Theo finished lamely, mentally kicking himself.

Great. Just great. Way to sound like a total idiot, Theo.

"...Continue, Theodor. Finish your point."

Theo swallowed again, his throat feeling tight and constricted. "I wanted to know if I could… I think spending time with him would be good for me. I could learn how to better stand out."

The words hung in the air, heavy and awkward. Theo braced himself, waiting for his father's response.

But Max didn't say anything. He just walked over to his desk, pulled out his chair, and sat down, his movements smooth and deliberate. He stared at Theo, resting his chin on the back of his raised palm, a thin, mocking smile stretching across his face.

"That's idiotic," he said at last, his voice flat and dismissive.

Theo felt his stomach drop, a cold, sinking feeling in his gut. He didn't say anything, didn't trust himself to speak.

"That boy is just like his father at that age," Max continued, a slight laugh escaping him. "He might be your godbrother but never forget that the Veders come from a long line of blowhards with more ego than common sense. You think you'd learn how to stand out from that little fool?"

He shook his head, leaning forward in his chair. "No, son, you'd be in his shadow for as long as you were around him. Let me tell you something, loud idiots will always get the most attention. So, if you think I'd let you around that boy for that reason, you're more disappointing than I thought."

Theo felt the words like a physical blow, a punch to the gut that left him breathless. He opened his mouth to say something, to defend himself, but nothing came out.

"I…" he started, his voice small and weak.

"However," Max cut him off, his tone suddenly thoughtful. "If there is one thing I learned from Rowan Veder, it's how to manage and handle fools. I wouldn't be anywhere near the man I am today if I wasn't friends with that man, as sad as that is."

He let out a scoff, shaking his head. "I know that boy will incite a rage in you that you will barely be able to handle. And honestly, I think you need that more than anything else at this point. I expect you to spend at least three afternoons with him every week, are we clear?"

Theo stared at his father, his mind reeling. After a few moments, he just nodded, swallowing down the lump in his throat. "Crystal, sir," he said, his voice sounding hollow and distant to his own ears.

Max leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Good," he said, his tone final. "Now get out of my office. I have work to do."

Theo didn't need to be told twice. He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, legs feeling like rubber beneath him.

As the door closed behind him and the automatic lock beeped, the chubby teenager let out a shaky breath, heart still pounding in his chest.

Damn, I left my tablet in there.

 

[ThrawnCA]

Max, you can try to stomp on Greg if you want to, but he has the Dragon King's Blood, and you know what they say about if you strike at the king.

 

[Invictus]

I feel awful for Theo, stuck with such a sack of shit, absolute narcissist of a father.

This chapter is really is exceptional; never have I read a fic that portrays Theo's emotions and perspective as brilliantly as this fic.

 

[ZFighter18]

As of Monday April 22, 2024, there are 5 more chapters of Lag on Patreon. The arc is officially finished at this point. I did say it would be the longest arc so far, hahahhaha... Anyway, four more chapters of Life Is But A Game are up there. Three of Where The Heart Is and 6 of Life Is But A Game.

Enjoy.


Thanks to all my Patreons: Segev, Jack, Leon Silva, Johnathan, Vandalvagabond,
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Lag 6.23a

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

May 19, 2010

3:35 AM

The night in Brockton Bay was rarely ever truly silent. Like most cities of any sizable population, someone was always going somewhere and there was always some degree of traffic. Truly, the streets never fully emptied. But above the streets, across the rooftops of Downtown, the skies were also far less empty than they usually were — they had at least one more occupant.

The figure in black and yellow pumped his arms and legs for all they were worth, pushing even harder as he bounded off the edge of a rooftop. Axel "Sparky" Ramon, a lean fifteen-year-old with a mop of unruly dark hair, was pushing his newfound abilities to their limits, his heart pounding in his chest with each death-defying leap.

He wore a sleek black tracksuit with bold yellow stripes running down the sides, the fabric clinging to his wiry frame like a second skin. A matching mask covered the lower half of his face, leaving only his intense brown eyes visible, gleaming with a mix of determination and exhilaration. His hands, encased in fingerless gloves, curled into fists as he pumped his arms, propelling himself forward with each powerful stride.

Sparky was jumping from rooftop to rooftop, concentrating as he attempted to pull off more and more dangerous leaps. Each one was more daring than the last, pushing himself harder and further than he'd ever gone before. The wind whipped through his slightly long hair, tugging at his clothes, but he barely noticed, his focus solely on the next jump, the next challenge.

His chest was pounding, not as much from exertion but from exhilaration. This was the rush he'd been chasing, the thrill that skating no longer seemed to give him. Out here, leaping and bounding across the rooftops in a way he never could have a week prior, he felt alive in a way he never had before.

He was supposed to be running with Greg - his best friend and the reason he even had these powers — but he had no idea where the blond dummy had vanished off to. For a second, he considered that he had outrun him before banishing that thought from his mind. Even holding back, Greg was effortlessly faster than he could manage.

Probably saw a mugging and went to stop it, Sparky thought with a mental eye-roll. But that wasn't what he was focused on.

Faster, he thought, gritting his teeth behind the mask. Gotta go faster. Gotta see how far I can push this.

The world blurred at the edges of his vision as he approached the lip of the rooftop, his sneakers pounding against the gravel. With a grunt, Sparky launched himself into the void, his body arcing through the night air like a comet.

For a moment, he hung suspended, weightless and free. The wind whipped through his hair, tugging at his clothes, and Sparky felt a fierce grin stretching across his face behind the mask.

This was what he lived for now. This rush, this thrill of pushing himself beyond the limits of what he'd thought possible. Ever since that night, since the change, nothing else came close.

Not even skating, his former passion, could compare to the sheer adrenaline rush of leaping from rooftop to rooftop, defying gravity with every bound.

Sparky hit the opposite rooftop hard, his knees bending to absorb the impact. He rolled with the momentum, coming up in a crouch, his eyes already scanning for his next target.

There.

A water tower, looming in the distance, its metal legs glinting in the moonlight. It was a good fifty feet away, the gap between buildings yawning like a chasm.

Perfect.

Sparky took off at a dead sprint, his arms pumping, his breath coming in sharp, focused bursts. He could feel the energy thrumming through his veins, the power coiled in his muscles, just waiting to be unleashed.

He hit the edge of the rooftop at full speed, planting one foot on the low wall.

With a grunt, Sparky launched himself towards the water tower, his body arcing through the air in a graceful twist. He reached out, fingers closing around the metal railing, and swung himself up and over, landing on the top of the structure in a single, slightly jerky motion. Not perfect, he thought, wincing as he felt the impact jarring through his bones, but getting there.

He didn't pause, didn't give himself a chance to catch his breath. Instead, he bounded off the top of the water tower, his sneakers hitting the gravel of the next rooftop with a crunch. The strain was starting to make itself known, his arms burning, his legs aching with each leap. But Sparky pushed through it, gritting his teeth behind his mask. Can't stop now. Gotta keep pushing, see how far I can go.

He scanned the surrounding rooftops, his keen eyes picking out the next obstacle. A narrow gap between two buildings, barely wide enough to fit a person. It was a precision jump, one that would require perfect timing and control.

Sparky didn't hesitate. He took off at a dead sprint, his feet pounding against the rooftop. At the last second, he leaped, his body stretching out like a diver, arms extended, reaching for the far ledge.

For a heartstopping moment, he thought he'd misjudged the distance. The ledge seemed to recede before him, tantalizingly out of reach. But then Sparky hit the rooftop hard, rolling with the impact. He grunted as the gravel dug into his gloved palms. His skin is thick, but the jagged pieces still manage to scuff up his uncovered fingers. His sneakers bite into the rooftop, skidding a single meter before stopping. He came up in a crouch, his chest heaving, his limbs trembling with exertion. Shit. That was close. Too fucking close.

But even as the thought formed, he felt a fierce grin tugging at his lips behind the mask. But I made it, didn't I? I fucking made it.

It was a small victory, but out here, in the dark of the night, with nothing but the rooftops and the rush of the wind... it felt like everything. That's what makes it fun, right? The risk, the danger. Pushing yourself to the brink, and then pushing a little further. It was a thrill like no other, a high that he couldn't get enough of. And now, with these new powers humming through his veins, he could push himself harder than ever before.

Sparky took off again, his strides long and powerful, eating up the distance between rooftops. He leaped from building to building, his body moving with a fluid grace that would have been impossible just a week ago.

He flipped in mid-air, twisting his body into a corkscrew, reveling in the sensation of the wind rushing past his face. He landed in a roll, coming up running, his heart pounding in his chest, his blood singing with adrenaline.

This is what I was meant to do, he thought, a fierce joy welling up inside him. This is who I was meant to be. God, he kinda felt like shit for ever telling Greg to pull it back some. This shit was like crack right to his veins. No wonder Golden Boy's out here every night.

Sparky pushed himself to his feet, his legs protesting the movement. He knew he should probably call it a night, head back to the house and try to get some sleep. But the restless energy was still thrumming through him, the need to move, to push, to test his limits.

Just one more jump, he told himself, scanning the surrounding buildings for his next target. One more, and then I'll head back to look for Greg.

His gaze settled on a rooftop across the street, a good thirty feet away. It was lower than his current perch, the gap between them more of a downward slope than a straight shot. Perfect.

Sparky backed up, giving himself room to build up speed. He took a deep breath, feeling the night air filling his lungs, the anticipation building in his chest.

Then, with a burst of explosive motion, he took off, his feet pounding against the gravel, his arms pumping at his sides. The edge of the rooftop rushed up to meet him, and for a split second, Sparky felt a flicker of doubt, a whisper of fear in the back of his mind.

But then he was leaping, his body arcing through the air like a comet, and all thoughts of fear and doubt were lost in the rush of the wind, the thrill of the fall.

He hit the opposite rooftop hard, his sneakers skidding on the loose gravel. For a moment, he thought he might lose his balance, might go tumbling over the edge in a tangle of limbs.

But then he caught himself, his enhanced reflexes kicking in, and he was sliding to a stop, his chest heaving, his heart pounding in his ears. Fuck yeah, he thought, a fierce grin splitting his face behind the mask. Nailed it.

But even as the thought formed, even as the rush of victory surged through him... Sparky felt a flicker of something else, a nagging whisper at the back of his mind.

What am I doing out here? It asked, the question like a splash of cold water, jolting him back to reality. What's the end-game of all this?

He didn't have an answer, not really. All he knew was that ever since that night, since the explosion that had changed everything... he hadn't been able to sit still, hadn't been able to go back to his old life like nothing had happened.

Because something had happened. He had happened. And now, with these powers humming through his veins, with this newfound strength in his limbs... he couldn't just go back to being plain old Axel Ramon, skater boy with a garage band made of near-Merchant losers.

No, he was something more now. Something different.

He was th-

"I'm Hardkour, hard-hitting, hard-spitting, hard-kicking. / Villains ain't got the heart cus they know I'm too wicked."

Sparky's grin fell off his face as a familiar voice made itself heard, the sound of a feather-light landing of feet on gravel following it just a second later. He held back a groan, his shoulders slumping as he recognized the terrible attempt at freestyle rap.

"I'm vicious, malicious, my powers are limitless. / I'm gifted and lifted, my prowess? Infinite."

That's not even how you pronounce infinite. Sparky turned around, his expression a mix of exasperation and resignation as he faced his newly arrived friend. Greg stood there in his black leather costume, accented with red on his shirt, scarf, gloves, boots, and that weird helmet-mask with the white lenses. The blond teenager continued to jam to his own beat, seemingly oblivious to Sparky's growing irritation.

"I'm in it to win it, spin it, no gimmicks, I'm no mimic,"

Sparky shut his eyes, grunting internally before opening them again. "Hardkour," he said, trying to get his friend's attention.

But Greg was on a roll, his hands starting to move in what Sparky assumed was supposed to be some kind of rap choreography. "I'm authentic, frenetic, kinetic, poetic, copacetic…"

Oh, hell no, Sparky thought, watching the blond do a little dance that would probably unite both East and West Coast rappers against him if they ever witnessed it. This has to stop.

"Hardkour," he tried again, a bit louder this time.

"Pathetic crooks can't get with this, I'm too quick-witted, / I'm committed, acquitted, spitting the hard-hitting lyri-"

"Greg!" Sparky finally barked, his patience wearing thin.

The masked teen froze mid-motion, his head tilting to the side as he looked at Sparky. "Heyyyy, no names out in the field," he chided, wagging a finger.

Sparky raised his hands in apology. "My bad," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "But whatever you were trying to do there? That was just bad, brah."

Greg put his hands on his hips, striking a pose that Sparky assumed was meant to be heroic. "Hey, I can rap," he protested, sounding offended.

Sparky raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I do garage rock, and even I know that was terrible," he said bluntly.

He stepped closer to Greg, giving him a once-over. The blond had been out running too, he knew that. But unlike Sparky, who felt like his lungs were about to explode out of his chest, Greg looked like he'd barely broken a sweat. Frickin' unfair, is what it is, Sparky thought, a flicker of envy sparking in his gut. Dude gets all the rad powers, and what do I get? Slightly-better-than-average everything.

But he pushed the thought aside, realizing it was just his usual bitterness and self-hate taking root. Brah saved my life with these powers and I'm acting like a little whiny bitch. "Where'd you run off to, anyway?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Thought we were gonna train together, work on our teamwork and shit."

Greg shrugged, the motion smooth and effortless. "Saw a carjacking on Twelfth," he said casually, like it was no big deal that he spotted a crime from almost two blocks away and was back in minutes.

"Mmm. Empire?" The word left his mouth in an unintended scowl, the thought of the Neo-Nazis far more personal recently, for obvious reasons.

"Nah," Greg shook his head. "Just one of the no-name gangs around town. Didn't even have any serious weapons on them, but I couldn't just ignore it, y'know?"

Sparky did know.

That was the thing about Greg — for all his goofball antics and there were many — the dude had a serious hero complex. Always had to be the big damn hero. Sparky knew how the ABB bombings had gone; even with all the craziness, Greg had focused on saving people, both as Hardkour and as White Knight (or "Prodigy", as Greg often insisted).

Guess that's why he's the big shot, Sparky thought, nodding to himself. Universe knows what it's doing, apparently.

But he didn't say that.

Instead, he just nodded, uncrossing his arms. "Right. Makes sense."

There was an awkward pause, the two of them just standing there on the rooftop, the distant sounds of the city filling the silence between them.

Sparky scuffed his sneaker against the gravel, feeling a sudden need to move, to do something. "So, uh... you wanna keep going?" he asked, jerking his head towards the next rooftop over. "I was thinking we could work on our leaps, maybe try some of that wall-running shit you were talking about."

Greg's mask might have hidden his face, but Sparky could practically hear the grin in his voice. "Hell yeah, dude!" he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Let's do it!"

And just like that, they were off again, two blurs of black and yellow and red, leaping and bounding across the rooftops like a pair of super-powered parkour enthusiasts.

Sparky let himself get lost in the rhythm of it, the pounding of his heart, the burn of his muscles. Out here, with the wind whipping through his hair and the city sprawling out below him, he could almost forget about how far he had to go to match his friend.

Almost.

But then Greg would pull off some crazy flip or impossible leap, and the reality would come crashing back down. To be perfectly honest with himself, Sparky really didn't want to have to go through shit like getting blown up or having to scoop his own guts back into his own chest just to be able to do everything Greg was doing.

Sparky was fine just being along for the ride. Eventually, he'd catch up.

Right?

Right, he thought, gritting his teeth as he pushed himself to make the next jump, to close the literal gap between him and Greg. But he kept going, kept pushing, kept leaping. Because what else could he do? This was his life now, his reality.

And if he couldn't be the hero, well... at least he could be the sidekick.

With a grunt of effort, Sparky launched himself off the edge of the rooftop, his body arcing through the night air. For a moment, he let himself imagine that he was flying, that he was soaring above the city on wings of his own making.

But then gravity took hold, and he was falling, plummeting towards the unforgiving ground below.

Only to be caught at the last second by a pair of strong arms, a familiar voice laughing in his ear.

"Gotcha, bro!" Greg said, his masked face grinning down at Sparky as he held him bridal-style. "Can't have my sidekick going splat, now can I?"

Sparky just groaned, pushing himself out of Greg's arms and onto the rooftop. "I'm not your sidekick," he grumbled, brushing himself off as he rose back to his feet.

But even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true.

 

[ThrawnCA]

And if he couldn't be the hero, well... at least he could be the sidekick.

Click to shrink...

Well, it's not so bad compared to options like being the damsel in distress. He's been there and done that and would not recommend the T-shirt.

 

[Simon_Jester]

Among other things, the T-shirt is all perforated and those stains are hard to get out.

 

[ZFighter18]

As of Friday April 26, 2024, there are 4 more chapters of Lag on Patreon. The arc is officially finished at this point. I did say it would be the longest arc so far, hahahhaha... Anyway, four more chapters of Life Is But A Game are up there. Three of Where The Heart Is and 6 of Life Is But A Game.

Enjoy.


I will be posting chapters of Greg Vs twice a week until Arc 7 starts and double chapters of Life Is But A Game until Arc 3 starts


Thanks to all my Patreons: Segev, Jack, Leon Silva, Johnathan, Vandalvagabond
Jorge Benedicto, Tian Seve, Rinoa, Egor Yakimov, Zach Collins, TheBlackenedWoods, SkullTrak12, janember
Zero_to_Nero, greenfall87, Brett Labat, Nikhil Majumdar, ALEX, Yobthog, SaintPriest, James Carl Henderson, zero1995, Ashley Stanhope, Cedron Spaulding, Somebody, Josh, Good guy Paul, Arkhad, Simon Anoma, The flying biscuit., Weirdo, Kervin Maleus, Furyful Fawful, Greenfall87, Dan Randal, Log daniels, Alexander Ibarra
Blaze Mastermind, Jack, Andrew Duan, AntaeusTheGiant, TJMTG




Lag 6.23b

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

May 20, 2010

The bell rang, a shrill sound that cut through the chatter filling the halls of Winslow High. Greg Veder strolled into Mr. Gladly's World Issues classroom alongside a bored-looking Axel Ramon, his blue eyes scanning the room with a mix of amusement and detachment. The desks, ancient relics that had seen better days, groaned under the weight of students as they settled in, their conversations a cacophony of teenage interests.

"Yo, did you see that new Thrillshot music video?" one guy asked, his voice rising above the noise. "The special effects were insane! They said they got a Tinker working for the band."

"Nah, man, I was too busy trying not to fall asleep during detention," another replied, slouching in his seat.

Greg plopped down into his chair, the plastic creaking beneath him. He glanced over at his best friend, Sparky, who was already doodling in his notebook, golden eyes focused on the page. A smirk tugged at the corner of Greg's mouth as he leaned back, his gaze drifting to the front of the room over to Mr. Gladly, a short, baby-faced blond with a smile that seemed permanently etched onto his face as the man stood before the class. Really, he looked more like a student than a teacher, his expensive clothes and well-groomed appearance setting him apart from the sea of hoodies and ripped jeans.

"Alright, everyone, settle down," Mr. Gladly called out, clapping his hands together. The chatter slowly died down, though pockets of conversation still persisted.

"Hey, anybody seen Hess today?" a girl whispered loudly, leaning across the aisle to her friend.

"Probably skipping again," the friend replied, rolling her eyes. "Has she been here since school got back in?"

"So, for your next project," Mr. Gladly continued, his voice cutting through Greg's thoughts, "I want you to put your desks together and…"

As the teacher droned on about the assignment details, Greg's mind wandered. He glanced around the room, taking in the peeling paint, the flickering fluorescent lights, and the three outdated computers lining the back wall. He wasn't even sure why he bothered with Winslow. He could make all the money he ever wanted in less than a month and it wasn't like college was something he was ever gonna bother with. Not even sure I could handle it without losing my fucking mind. Twelve years of school is already torture.

His gaze landed on Sparky again, and a grin spread across his face as he twisted his chair around and scooted the attached desk across the floor with a loud groan to meet his friend's own. Greg leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. "Hey, Sparks," he whispered, his voice low. "You hear what Gladly wanted us to do?"

Sparky glanced up from his doodles, one eyebrow raised. "Did I hear? Yeah. Did I pay attention? Nah, brah."

Greg huffed out a laugh, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Cool, me neither. Now, check this out." And with that, he pulled out a sheet of paper and started scribbling.

The blond could tell Sparky was interested in what he was writing, even though he kept his bored expression. Yeah, gonna make those eyes widen up real quick. Try to act nonchalant about this. With a self-assured smirk, Greg finished scribbling down the lyrics he'd just brainstormed and passed the sheet over, eager for his friend's approval. Sparky, curious as Greg expected, glanced down at the paper.

A second later, he glanced back up. "Yeah, nah," Sparky said under his breath, shaking his head as he tried to avoid drawing attention from the rest of the class.

Greg's face contorted into a look of confusion. "What?" he shot back, his voice barely audible to anyone without enhanced hearing like Sparky and himself. "What's wrong with it?"

Sparky narrowed one eye, tapping the paper in front of him. "Okay… 'carving the streets, I'm hardcore blazed…'"

"Uh-huh," Greg nodded, seeing nothing wrong.

"'...Katana so sharp, it's a bloody parade…'" Sparky continued, his mouth pursed.

"Inspired writing, honestly," the blond replied. Greg leaned back in his chair, the picture of ease, even as the aged plastic creaked beneath him.

"...okay, let's skip to the end here," Sparky said, both eyes narrowed now. "'Fire like a comet, I'm the talk of the town, villains drop like flies when I'm wearing my crown…' You see nothing wrong with this?"

"No," Greg answered simply, his smirk never wavering.

"...what crown?" Sparky finally asked, his voice low but his expression making it seem like he'd yelled. "What. Crown."

Greg gestured to his messy bedhead, his blond locks sticking up at odd angles. "It's a metaphorical crown," he explained, his tone suggesting that it should have been obvious. "It represents me best, that I'm the king. Boastfulness in rap is part of the culture."

"The culture?" Sparky shot him a look, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.

"The culture," Greg affirmed, his voice unwavering as he leaned back in his chair, the plastic creaking under his weight. He met Sparky's gaze head-on, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

Sparky rolled his eyes, clearly at least a little frustrated. "Why do you even want a rap? I can write you a sick theme song with some guitar riffs and drum solos."
"Bro, only Protectorate and corpo heroes do rock and pop." Greg snorted quietly, pulling a face. "You don't know anything."
Gold eyes went slightly cold as Sparky tilted his head to the side. "...wanna rephrase that?"

"Nah." Greg shook his head. "Like I was saying, you don't know anything. It's the hard superheroes and vigilantes that get rap songs. Villain rap, vigilante rap, it's the new edge music. Self-empowerment and a challenge to the system but as a cape, y'know. Don't act like you haven't heard Razr?"

Sparky's golden eyes narrowed, his expression a mix of disbelief and exasperation. He slouched in his seat, his long hair falling over his face as he shook his head. "Wannabe villain from a gated community who acts like he grew up in the hood. Yeah, I heard Razr."

Ooooh. I touched a nerve. Greg's smirk only grew wider. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the scratched surface of his desk. "Hater," he accused playfully, his voice barely above a whisper. "He was on the soundtrack for the first Ex-Heroes movie." Greatest zombie movie in fucking history.

Sparky scoffed, one hand reaching up to toss his hair back. "Brah, you're gonna need to tell me how I'm the hater for speaking facts on th-"

"Because you're disrespecting a legend," Greg interrupted. His voice rose slightly with the last word, but remained low enough to avoid drawing attention from their classmates as his fingers tapped against the desk. "His album was amazing."

"Tracklist was trash, let's be real," Sparky countered, his tone flat and unimpressed. He leaned back in his chair, the plastic groaning slightly again. "Dude does pop rap and acts tough."

Greg opened his mouth to retort, but Sparky held up a hand, his fingers outstretched as he began to list off his points. "Does music for game trailers, gets featured on movie soundtracks. His power is that he can claw things with his hands," he ticked off each item, his voice low and steady. "He used to be on a TV show for teens. And committed one crime, assault without using his powers."

Greg shrugged, his expression nonchalant. "...I don't see your point," he replied glibly, eyes flicking around the room.

"Of course you don't. Razr as an artist depends on you. You're a white kid from the suburbs, brah," Sparky said with a slight hiss, his fingers tapping against the scratched surface of the desk. His golden eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, his voice still low.

Greg fought back a laugh. "What does race have to do with anything?" he asked, doing his best to keep the mocking tone out of his voice. He's serious about this. Love it.

Sparky shook his head, his long hair falling over his face. "Cus you're literally his target demogr-"

"What are you two talking about?" A high-pitched voice piped in from behind Greg, interrupting Sparky mid-sentence. "Are you even doing the wor-"

"Shut the fuck up, Julia," Sparky snapped, leaninf forward his seat to shoot the tan, brown-haired girl a withering glare as he hissed at her. His golden eyes flashed with annoyance, mouth set in a firm line. "Kinda having a serious conversation right now. Don't be a nosy bitch."

Julia's mouth dropped open, her eyes widening in shock. "Y-you can't talk to me like tha-"

"Julia," Greg cut in, voice dismissive. He leaned back in his chair and turned his head, the plastic creaking under his weight as he rested his arm on it and fixed the girl with a steady gaze. "Were we talking to you?"

"...no?" Julia's voice was small, uncertain.

"Okayyy…" Greg raised his eyebrows, smiling at her with a closed mouth. "Logic would dictate you should mind your business then."

"She's a fucking parasite, G," Sparky snapped, still glaring at the girl. "Only thing she lives for is gossip and throwing up the strawberrry donut with sprinkles she ate for breakfast."

The brunette's eyes widened as one hand clutched her desk. "How d-"

"I can smell it on your breath, vomit queen," Sparky hissed back, the other girl snapping a hand to cover her mouth.

Jesus… The blond turned slowly to give his friend a wide-eyed look, mouth open slightly. "Bro… decency? Civility? Courtesy? Heard of them?"

"You heard of my balls?"

Greg raised an eyebrow. "...they make a sound?"

"...shut up."

Turning back to face the girl, Greg shot her a look he hoped was understanding. "You get my point though, right?"

Julia stared at Greg, confusion etched across her features. Her gaze snapped from him to Sparky, then to the other boy sitting across from her who had chosen to ignore his partner's argument. Her mouth opened and closed silently, like a goldfish gasping for air.

Greg watched as her gaze flicked back to him, uncertainty warring with irritation in her eyes. He could practically see the gears turning in her head as she tried to decide what to say.

The blond barely suppressed a flinch as thoughts of his girlfriend, Emma - currently lying comatose in a hospital bed - hit him like a hammer at the reminder of how he recognized Julia. The trio of Emma, Sophia, and Madison had once ruled the sophomores and freshmen of Winslow Highs with whatever the teenage girl version of an iron fist was, their popularity and social status unquestioned. But now, with Emma out of commission and Sophia thoroughly humbled, the balance of power had shifted. With him basically beating up any bully he saw being annoying, it was mostly in his favor.

And then there was Julia, one of Emma's "friends." A hanger-on, a satellite that orbited the trio's star. Without their protection, without their status to shield her, she was nothing. Just another face in the crowd. From what Emma had told him about how this social shit worked, someone who wasn't popular or respected for a specific reason like sports or being pretty or having a cool after-school job, like Julia, they couldn't really say anything to someone above them and expect any back up or something like that.

He didn't really pay much attention.

"I'm gonna assume you do. I apologize for my bro, though, that was… I'm being real, kinda rude," Greg shot Sparky a glare the other boy ignored before the blond leaned back again, his elbow resting on the back of his chair as he fixed Julia with a steady gaze. "But I'm still gonna need you to turn around," he twirled his finger in the air. "And do your own work."

Julia's face flushed with frustration, but she did as she was told, turning back to face her own desk. Greg could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Probably should do something nice for her to make up for that.

"Nice," Sparky chimed in, his voice a low murmur.

Without even looking, Greg raised his hand, meeting Sparky's in a high-five across the table. "When am I ever not?" he asked, a grin spreading across his face. "At least one of us has to be."

"Not to those bitches," Sparky snorted quietly as he leaned back in his seat once more, this time with his arms crossed ovet his chest. "Also, 'logic would dictate'? Really?"

Greg shrugged, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "What? Too Spock?"

"You watch Star Trek?" Sparky asked, one eyebrow raised in surprise.

"Yeah, the movie?" Greg nodded, his blond hair flopping over his forehead. "It came out last year."

Sparky shook his head, his long hair swaying with the motion. "I didn't see it."

"Why?"

"Zac Efron as Captain Kirk, really?" Sparky's tone was disbelieving, but Greg understood why.

"Jesse Eisenberg wasn't my first choice for Spock, either," Greg admitted, his shoulders rising and falling in a casual shrug. "But he pulled it off. Something about him speaking super-fast as Spock soothes my soul."

Sparky fixed Greg with a skeptical look, his eyebrows knitting together. "Wait… you have a soul?"

Greg scoffed, his hand flying to his chest in mock offense. "Being blond makes you evil. Being ginger means you have no soul," he shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Don't mix them up. It's rude."

The two friends shared a look, their eyes locking for a moment before they both devolved into snickers. The sound was just low enough that only the two other groups seated near them paid them any attention, their heads turning to shoot the pair curious and annoyed glances, respectively.

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the front of the classroom where Mr. Gladly droned on about the project. The teacher's voice was a distant buzz in Greg's ears, and wow, he actually kinda sounded like the trombone off Peanuts. Crazy. Womp-womp-womp-womp- wompwomp. Hehehehe…

Sparky's voice cut through Greg's mocking thoughts. "Oh also, someone made you a theme song and they added it to your Henshin bullshit right before you fought Lung." He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone with stealth and sliding it across his desk to Greg's own with a smirk.

Greg's eyes widened, his mouth falling open in surprise. "Wait, someone made an AMV of... me?"

Sparky rolled his eyes, shooting Greg a playfully harsh glare. "... First of all, it's not anime, so it's just a music video. Second... shut up. Third... people are loving it. Look."

He pushed the phone even closer towards Greg, the screen already lit up with the video in question. Picking it up, Greg hit Play, his smile widening as he watched himself transform into his white knight armor, the footage cutting to him flitting around the screen, engaging in a fierce battle against Lung. A rock song played in the background, the heavy beats and guitar riffs perfectly synced to the action on screen.

"Sick," Greg breathed, his eyes glued to the screen.

"Greg, Sparky!" Mr. Gladly's voice rang out from the front of the classroom, startling the two boys from their reverie. They jumped slightly in their seats, their heads snapping up to face the teacher. "Are you boys doing your work?"

"No," they both said in unison.

Blue eyes met gold, and for a moment, there was silence.

Then, the snickers started.

They didn't stop.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

"And that's when Mr. Gladly kicked us out and told us to go to you," Sparky said, his golden eyes flicking over to Greg as he spoke.

"Well, he kicked Sparky out and I just kinda went with him," Greg interjected, voice quick and confident. "He didn't really say anything to me. I think you should really give him some diversity training. Little bit of prejudice there, maybe?" He glanced at Sparky, one eyebrow raised, a smirk playing on his lips. "Maybe?"

Sparky hesitated for a moment, his brow furrowing as he considered Greg's words. "Maybe. First time I noticed, but it was a little weird. Maybe."

Greg nodded, his expression one of fake solemnity as he turned back to face the owner of the office the two were standing in. "And yeah, that's pretty much how we got here."

Principal Blackwell, a skinny woman in a gray pantsuit, stood by the side of her thick wooden desk. Her dirty blonde bowl-cut framed a face set in a severe frown, her hazel eyes speaking of exhaustion despite the rest of her appearance remaining as harsh and unforgiving as it usually was. "Mmm," she hummed, her gaze flicking between the two boys. "And the part about you walking in slow-motion as you entered Mr. Gladly's class and doves flew out from behind the two of you. Mr. Veder, Mr. Ramon, tell me please… how was that relevant or…" A barely audible hiss escaped her before she spoke again, her voice strained, "...factual?"

Greg faked a cough, his hand coming up to cover his mouth as he fought back a grin. "Well, Gangsta's Paradise was also playi-"

"We're sorry about that, Principal Blackwell," Sparky cut in, a grin on his face as he let out an awkward laugh. He slammed a hand over Greg's mouth, muffling the blond's words. "So very sorry. He's an… unreliable narrator. You can never trust his perspective, really."

Blackwell shot her gaze over her glasses at Greg, her eyes narrowing as she studied the boy.

Greg simply shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling in a fluid motion, not feeling the need to remove Sparky's hand from his face. He could feel the amusement bubbling up inside him, the urge to laugh barely contained.

The principal closed her eyes, two fingers meeting the bridge of her aquiline nose as she rapped hard on the desk with her other hand. She looked as if she wanted to wipe her face with her hand, said rapping hand squeezing into a tight clenched fist when it wasn't knocking against her desk. A loud sigh escaped her, the sound filled with a mix of frustration and resignation.

Sparky lowered his hand from Greg's face, both boys shooting the principal expectant looks. They stood there, shoulders nearly touching, waiting for her to say something.

Finally, Blackwell opened her eyes, a clearly fake smile plastered on her face. Annoyance and exhaustion warred for dominance in her gaze as she spoke, her voice tight. "It's 2 PM. Get out."

Greg's eyes widened, his mouth opening to protest. "So… no detent-"

"Getoutofmyoffice!" Blackwell interjected, her words running together in a rush of exasperation. She pointed at the door, her smile never wavering even as her eyes flashed with barely contained irritation.

Greg glanced at Sparky, a grin spreading across his face as they left the office.

The other boy returned the look, his own smile a mirror image of Greg's. "Your house?"

"Where else?"

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Greg and Sparky lounged in the Veder living room, the soft blue walls and plush furnishings creating a cozy atmosphere. Greg, in his usual fashion, had draped himself upside down on the couch, his feet dangling over the back while his head hung off the edge, blond locks brushing against the carpet. Sparky, on the other hand, had claimed a spot on the floor, his back resting against the front of the couch as he sat cross-legged on the woven white rug.

The two teenagers were engrossed in an episode of CAPES, a popular TV show that delved into the cutthroat world of corporate cape life. On the rustic coffee table in front of them, cups of orange soda sat half-empty, the condensation leaving rings on the wooden surface.

"So, when's this Mike Ross guy gonna get caught?" Greg asked, his voice slightly strained from his inverted position. He kicked his feet playfully in the air, the rhythmic thumping of his heels against the back of the couch punctuating his words. "It's been like three seasons. You'd think they would find out he used to be a villain before."

Sparky snorted, his gaze flickering from the TV screen to his phone as he idly scrolled through his messages. With a shrug, he let the device drop back into the pocket of his baggy black-and-yellow hoodie. "He's the main character, brah," he replied, shaking his head in amusement. "He goes to jail, show ends."

"I know, I know," Greg conceded, his upside-down eyebrow quirking as he drummed his fingers against the couch cushions. "M'just saying. It's like every third character threatens Hotshot with this secret at least once a season. You think he'd just say fuck it and leave already."

Sparky frowned, his shoulders rising and falling in a noncommittal shrug. "Corporate bread is too good, brah. You see Ross's new apartment? You see how Closer's place looks, the cars he buys, brah? I wouldn't give that shit up easy if I was Hotshot."

"Hmmm… true." Greg nodded, the movement somewhat awkward given his inverted position.

A comfortable silence settled over the room, broken only by the dialogue emanating from the TV and the occasional slurp of orange soda. Greg's mind wandered, his thoughts drifting to the recent changes in his life. Being a superhero had its perks, sure, but it also came with a whole new set of responsibilities.

As if reading his thoughts, Sparky glanced around the living room, his gaze trailing up the stairs towards the second floor. "...your mom asleep upstairs again?" he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of concern.

Greg shook his head, the movement causing his hair to sway like a golden curtain. "Nah, dude," he answered calmly, his tone fully sidestepping the slight worry that gnawed at the back of his mind. "She's at a friend's house in Downtown."

Sparky leaned back further against the couch, fixing Greg with a cock-eyed look. "And you… aren't worried about her or nothing?"

A laugh bubbled up from Greg's throat, the sound slightly strained as he waved away his friend's question with a dismissive hand. "Come on, man. Of course I am. That's why I got some of my boys watching her."

"...some of your boys," Sparky repeated slowly, his gaze intense as he focused on Greg's upside-down face.

Greg fought back another snort, amused by Sparky's apparent inability to accept the fact that he now essentially ran what used to be the ABB. It was a strange turn of events, yeah, but one that Greg had embraced wholeheartedly. After all, with great power…

And if that responsibility included keeping the streets safe and his mom out of harm's way, well, he was more than happy to shoulder that burden.

"Yeah, some of my boys," Greg confirmed, his tone slightly mocking as he echoed Sparky's words. He could practically hear his friend's just barely unspoken concerns.

Sparky's frown deepened, his brows knitting together as he studied Greg's face. "And you trust them?"

"Yeah, they used to be criminals but they're loyal, dude." Seo and Joey are good guys… real loyal. "Sides, I told them anything that happens to my mom happens to them," Greg shot back, his voice firm and unwavering. He knew that his new authority might seem strange to Sparky, but he also knew that he had the power to back up his words. "They're super-de-duper vigilant, trust me."

"No, I mean with your identity," Sparky clarified, shooting Greg with a look.

"Oh, it's my two most trusted guys," the blond answered. "I know they wouldn't dare."

"...If you trust them, I trust them, brah," Sparky conceded, throwing his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "We already had this convo, anyway."

"True," Greg blinked, the realization dawning on him as he recalled their previous discussion. Has it really only been a week? he thought to himself, marveling at how quickly time seemed to pass. "Crazy how it's been a whole week since that… that went down."

Sparky nodded, his expression somber as he stared at the TV screen, his mind clearly elsewhere. "Right. I… honestly can't believe it. It already feels like a whole year. More even. I'm jumping over buildings and shit now."

Greg let out a low whistle, his upside-down face scrunching up in a mixture of disbelief and awe. "That… that Friday escalated quickly, like…," he paused, taking in a deep breath as he tried to find the right words. "Like, that really got out of hand fast."

"It jumped up a notch," Sparky agreed, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, the fabric of his hoodie bunching between his fingers.

"It did, didn't it?" Greg mused, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as he replayed the events of that whole night in his mind.

Sparky's voice broke through his thoughts, the words oddly calm despite the weight in them. "I killed two dudes. Maybe three. Probably three." He fell silent for a moment, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "Definitely three."

Greg nodded, his own memories of that day flooding back in vivid detail. "Yeah, I think I saw one of them when I was coming up the stairs."

"Did you?" Sparky asked, his tone a strange mix of heaviness and lightness.

"Guy who fell down the stairs and smashed his head on the wall?" Greg clarified, tilting his head to look in Sparky's direction, his blond hair brushing against the couch.

Sparky didn't meet his gaze, his eyes still fixed on the TV screen. "Yeah."

Greg hesitated for a moment, weighing his next words carefully. "Also, did you take out the second one with a chair leg?" I remember seeing that, when I checked that floor.

"First," Sparky corrected, his voice flat and emotionless.

…okay. "And how'd the third go?"

"Natural causes."

Greg's eyes narrowed. "...But you just said…"

"Knocked him off a roof. I don't really know how much more natural you can get than gravity, brah," Sparky shot back, no real heat in his voice.

Oof. "Wanna talk about it?"

"...No."

Greg nodded, understanding his friend's reluctance. It's not like I'm jumping at the chance to relive it either, he thought, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Kinda lost my shit a lil. "Felt. My end was crazy too. Kinda lost my shit at the start and squeezed a guy's skull till it popped."

Sparky's head slowly turned towards Greg, his eyes wide. "What."

"Yeah, it was all crazy. There were guns and knives and one of those guys fucked up and set himself on fire, and… basically, yeah, I threw a fire extinguisher on one of them cus it was broken. Fire stopped. I don't think he died though."

"Wow… we're kinda fucked up, aren't we?" Sparky mused, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips as he turned back to watch the TV. "Like, big kinda."

"Yeah, both wanted for murder," Greg agreed, eyes focused on the show. "Like, multiple counts."

"I think you technically count as a serial killer," Sparky mused.

"And you're right there next to me," Greg said with a slightly airy laugh.

"...yeah."

"Yep."

"Mmhmm." A beat of silence passed between them, the gravity of their situation hanging in the air like a thick fog. Sparky was the first to break it, his voice hesitant and unsure. "You think we should get some… like… therapy?"

Greg considered the question for a moment. Therapy? Nah, that's for normal people with normal problems. We're superheroes. We don't need therapy. We need… to wreck shit. "...Nah," he finally answered, his tone decisive.

"Same," Sparky agreed, a hint of relief in his voice.

The sound of the doorbell ringing cut through the silence, startling both boys from their thoughts. Greg tilted his head, a grin spreading across his face as he realized what it meant. "Oh cool, the Chinese food's early."

He glanced over at Sparky, his olive-skinned friend looking back at him with a raised eyebrow and bored golden eyes. "You mind…"

Sparky rolled his eyes, a long-suffering sigh escaping his lips. "I do, but I'll get it anyway."

As Sparky stood up and made his way out of the living room, Greg focused his attention back on the TV, his eyes drawn to the stunning redhead who played Closer's assistant. Man, Harvey Specter, you are one lucky cape, he thought, a smile tugging at his lips.

"YO, GREG!" Sparky's voice rang out from the front door, pulling Greg from his musings.

The blond angled his head towards the sound, his voice carrying across the room. "CASH IS ON THE DINING TABLE, BRO!"

"THAT'S NOT IT!" Sparky yelled back, his tone urgent. "SOME FAT KID'S HERE LOOKING FOR YOU!"

 

[ThrawnCA]

Hi, Theo! You can come hang out with your friend who runs the ABB, and his friend who's not white. Teen rebellion without any actual danger or lawbreaking required, it's a bargain.

 

[ZFighter18]

Name: Robin Swoyer
Code Name: Velocity
Age: 28
Affiliation: Protectorate ENE
Designation: Hero
Location: Brockton Bay
Classification: Mover 5 [Breaker]
Appearance: Velocity is distinguished by his lean and athletic build, accentuated by a form-fitting red costume adorned with racing stripes and a 'V' emblem on his chest.
Background: Swoyer's early life and trigger event remain classified; however, his commitment to using his exceptional abilities for public service led to his induction into the Protectorate.

Ability Title: Accelerated Kinetic Phase Variation
Ability Assessment: Velocity's parahuman ability grants him a unique interaction with time, allowing extraordinary speed at the expense of physical impact. This accelerated time state allows immense speed and reflexes, as well as lessened physical impact on his person. However, this same state diminishes his capacity to exert force, rendering direct physical interactions nearly pointless at peak velocity.

Threat Assessment: Velocity's speed and evasion is nearly unmatched in a direct encounter, making him an elusive target in combat scenarios. His ability to reconnoiter, relay information, and disengage from threats swiftly is incredible, considering his rate of perception is equally accelerated. While his offensive capabilities are mitigated at higher velocities, his strategic value in surveillance, rapid response, and non-confrontational engagement is significant.
Operational Notes: Engagement protocols involving Velocity should leverage his rapid reconnaissance and hit-and-run tactics, avoiding reliance on his physical strength for direct combat. He is optimal for surveillance, rapid response, and diversionary tactics rather than brute force, where his speed can be utilized to its full potential.

Threat Level: Elevated. Velocity's exceptional speed and evasion capabilities, combined with strategic application of his abilities, present a considerable asset to the Protectorate's operational efficacy.
Threat Class: C+

 

[ZFighter18]

I've been working on PRT parahuman profiles while I had writer's block and I decided I might as well post them, rather than just let them sit in the Google Docs.

They were fun brain exercises and kept me occupied while I was trying to write something narrative. They involved me putting my mindset into that of a PRT scientist, coming up with big faux-scientific sounding name for parahuman abilities with all sorts of rules

1. No two capes should have the same power name, no matter how similar

2. Power names should sound highly clinical, extremely scientific and excruciatingly specific and analytical. I had to go through so many sci-fi books and science dictionaries.

3. Power names have to be between 2-4 words, no more no less. (Ideally 3 words)

4. Capes 15 and younger have simpler and more fun-sounding power names, inspired by Quirk Names from MHA, but slightly more technical sounding, etc

5. I made a cape threat level scale to justify some stuff.

Anyway....




Name: Hannah Washington

Code Name: Miss Militia

Age: 33

Affiliation: Protectorate ENE

Designation: Hero

Location: Brockton Bay

Classification: Blaster 6 | Striker 1

Appearance: Miss Militia possesses an athletic physique, olive skin, and medium-length dark hair. Her costume includes stylized army fatigues, complemented by a scarf and sash, both adorned with the American flag. Her eyes are a bright bottle-glass green.

Background: Hana Washington triggered at an age younger than most. She has dedicated her life to the service of others, leveraging her unique capabilities to uphold peace and justice within the Protectorate framework.

Ability Title: Mundane Arms Manifestation

Ability Assessment: Miss Militia wields a dynamic and semi-sentient energy that she can mold into any form of conventional non-Tinker weaponry at will. This energy, characterized by its green and black hue, exhibits slight vibrations and a semblance of life, often reshaping itself into various armaments in response to perceived threats. The weapons created are not only versatile but also self-replenishing, allowing for instantaneous 'reloading' or 'unclogging' by re-summoning the weapon. Notably, her arsenal includes the capability for nonlethal munitions.

Threat Assessment: Miss Militia's power set offers a significant tactical advantage, granting her unparalleled versatility. Her ability to instantly access a wide range of weaponry makes her a formidable opponent in direct combat scenarios but the inherent limitations of non-Tinker conventional arms place boundaries on her overall threat level.

Operational Notes: Engagement alongside Miss Militia should acknowledge her rapid armament shift capability and her preference for nonlethal force.

Threat Level: Elevated. While not posing an extreme threat, her versatility and adaptability command respect and careful consideration in engagement strategies.

Threat Class: C

 

[Simon_Jester]

Operational Notes: Engagement protocols involving Velocity should leverage his rapid reconnaissance and hit-and-run tactics, avoiding reliance on his physical strength for direct combat. He is optimal for surveillance, rapid response, and diversionary tactics rather than brute force, where his speed can be utilized to its full potential.

Click to shrink...

For offensive capability, I am pretty sure that he could duct-tape an antitank mine with a "KICK ME" sign on it to your back and be gone before you realize he was there.

 

[ZFighter18]

For offensive capability, I am pretty sure that he could duct-tape an antitank mine with a "KICK ME" sign on it to your back and be gone before you realize he was there.

Click to shrink...

Holding onto objects especially of that size slows him down heavily. You'd see him coming. Completely naked or in bodypaint and he'd probably pull of some 1st episode Flash shit.

 

[Simon_Jester]

Ahhh.

So the acid test is always the "what is the nastiest thing I can carry that's light enough not to slow me down significantly?"

I'm sure there's some creative speculation on this subject in-universe.