Have an omake, centered around the unchosen backgrounds.
What Could Have Been: The Survivor
The sun slowly sipping into the horizon, removing its brilliant golden hue from the heavens to turn it a darker blue with hints of purple and a fading tint of orange. The last of the birds and pigeons have flown home to roost for the night and prepare for a new day. The homebound traffic was beginning to thin out as less cars were present to fill it up.
You smirked at the lines of cars filling the highways below. You pitied those drivers, and thanked your lucky stars that you wouldn't have to go through such hassles for a while yet.
You stood up from your perch on a skyscraper's rooftop and stepped off.
The wind howled in your ears as your clothes ruffled from the sudden increase in velocity. You savor the feeling of weightlessness for a moment before channeling your magic into your legs, making contact with the skyscraper for a fraction of a second, and kicking off. You travel a respectable distance through the air, brace for a landing on an approaching rooftop, kick off, and repeat. All the while, you keep your eyes trained on the world below for any sign of criminal activity.
It came to a surprise to you when you discovered you had magic, however limited it was. You spent most of that day jumping from building to building, laughing your head off and scaring the hell out of the various pigeons you encountered, as well as a few hobos. But after you got over your initial burst of excitement, you trained with it; experimented with it, found your limits, and slowly pushed past them to establish new ones.
In little over a year, you had become capable of jumping over skyscrapers and bench-press cars. You could will over yourself pieces of armor and manifest traps you used to capture and bring home a fair share of pigeon breasts for dinner. You became
powerful.
So was it any surprise that you used your powers for good, as any hero should?
You sail over another alley, and spot a young woman being forced into a corner by three shady-looking men. You feel a spike of fear before brushing it off and pulling up your bandanna, willing your armor to appear over your left arm. The rest of your body you covered in the patchwork cloak you sewed together from what meager scraps of cloth you could scrounge up from the garbage.
You dropped into the alley with an ominous whump of fluttering cloth, brandishing your armored arm meaningfully.
"If I were you," you drawl. "I'd step back from the woman and walk away."
"The fuck are you on about?" one of the men scoffed, brandishing a knife. "You're too young for vigilante work, kid. Get outta here and we'll promise not to tell your mommy and daddy."
You shake your head, approaching firmly.
"Hey, he's being brave!" another of the men spoke up, breaking away from the group to approach you. "I bet he'd cave and cry like a bitch if—"
You flick your wrist at him, like swatting a fly, and he's sent into the wall with a painful wheeze. He slumps down, gasing for air and clutching his stomach. Everyone stares at you.
"Do you want a repeat performance of that or do you want to go home without anything broken?" you shrug. "I'll count to three. One."
They fled.
You turn to the young woman, feeling her gaze wander over your features. What kind of hero do you look like to her, you couldn't help but wonder. A boy with an armored arm that contrasts painfully against the pathetic clothes you're wearing. You must look hilarious to her.
You steel your gut. Give you a few more years and more funds, then you wouldn't be.
"It's dangerous to be wandering alone in this part of town, ma'am." You tell her. "You'll be safer if you stick to the more well-lit areas. Less undesirables there."
"Y-Y-Yes…" she nods shakily. "Th-Thank you."
You nod and jump away, heading home. You've done enough patrolling for today. You're hungry, and you think mom said something about pigeon casserole being the main meal for dinner tonight.
x-x-x-x-x
You were giving your family a (slightly) embellished retelling of your heroic deeds earlier in the day when you felt them approach at the outskirts of the slums you lived in. The Shadows, a mere handful, that you easily handled on your lonesome. They were pathetic wraiths that flailed aimlessly and roared impotently at you as you cut them down with your blaster and your abilities. But as you were on your way back to your home, you felt more approach. So you turned and fought them, and felt more approaching.
Mere handfuls at first. Mindless and feral like rabid beasts.
Then dozens. Like pack hunters, poorly coordinated but still no less feral.
Then
hundreds. Organized and exceedingly dangerous.
You fought them with everything you had, threw at them everything you knew; every ability, every rudimentary spell, every prepared trap. They died and died and died, but they still pushed through and reached the slums.
When you heard the first screams, you knew you had made a mistake.
You dove into the encroaching horde and saved who you could from the slums, beating back the monsters long enough to let them escape. But when you attempted to do so again, a powerful Shadow barred your way. You don't remember much of it, only that it was humanoid, had a single red eye, and could breathe fire. It was powerful, deadly, and it nearly killed you several times.
It followed you everywhere, barred you efforts in trying to save lives or beat back the Shadows. Its breath incinerated ramshackle homes and turned people into screaming torches that spread the fire further. You cursed and spat at it, emptying entire clips worth of Blaster rounds into the monster to no avail.
It came to a head when the monsters arrived at your family's home.
x-x-x-x-x
"Mom! Dad!" you shout, rushing through the front door and damn near breaking it. Your father, in the middle of packing the family belongings, looked up at you and paled. "You have to get out of here!"
"Son, what happened?!" he rushes to you, put his hands on your face. "God, we heard the screams, but—"
"Monsters!" you pry his hands off as gently as you could. "Shadows! They-They're coming here! You have to take everyone and run! Now!"
"What're you talking about?" your father shakes his head. "Monsters? What kind of—"
You spot your mother round a corner, your siblings holding her hands with looks of terror. She spots you, almost moves to your side, but freezes when her eyes lock onto something behind you. Your father notices it as well, and pushes you aside. You hit the floor in time to see it unfold.
The Shadow you've fought demolishes the front of the house with a single swipe of its arm. The wind from the actions sends your family to their backs as you move to stand. You will your Blaster into your hands and fire, emptying the entire clip in less than a second. When it clicks empty, you scream and rush forward to tackle the beast.
Something heavy hits your back and forces you to the ground. You struggle in vain.
"Son!" your father shouts, getting to his feet. He grabs a piece of broken wood and snarls. "Let him go, monster!"
The Shadow grunts and swipes its arm again. Your father is reduced to being half the man he was, blood and tattered meat spraying everywhere. Most of it lands on the terrified expressions of your family, who look to you for salvation. The Shadow follows their gaze to you and
smiles.
"No." you beg, struggling harder. "No, please! Not them! Anything but them! No!"
The monster takes a deep breath.
"NOOOOO!"
It breathes fire.
And your anguished screams are drowned out by the agonized ones of your mother and siblings.
x-x-x-x-x
You were spared the fate your family suffered by the timely arrival of your mentor, you drove off the Shadows and took you away before they could regroup and attack en-masse. The entire incident was covered up as being caused by a rupture in an underground natural gas pipeline that somehow caught fire. Over two hundred people died, including your entire family.
Your mentor tried to be gentle about the real reason it had happened. She tried to comfort you in her own gruff way, but you knew.
It was all your fault.
So you'll be damned if you couldn't stop other people from committing the same mistakes you did.
