《Droning on: A superpower story》


 Chapter 1: Awakening

    Dylan had always had a fascination with technology since a young age. His parents had to stop him from disassembling their electronics nearly once a month until he was 15. When he was 4, he tried to microwave a fork because he ¡°wanted to see what would happen¡±. Twice. To say he was a handful was an understatement.


    Due to this interesting past, it was almost unsurprising when he assembled a device that physically shouldn¡¯t be able to function at the tender age of 14. It was a simple device, a switch that, when flipped, could turn a connected lightbulb off at a distance. The connection wasn¡¯t physical. In fact, as far as an electronic repairman could tell (Dylan¡¯s parents had taken the device to someone with an amount of expertise in the field as soon as they saw its unorthodox nature) could tell, there was no way the contraption should be able to function at all. There was no recognized form of signal emitters at all. No Wifi, Bluetooth, wire, nothing. Instead, there was a complex metal structure, which the repair man completely failed to recognize. He couldn¡¯t find any manufacturing information on the part either. Its homemade nature was additional evidence of the unordinarily.


    Dylan didn¡¯t have any access to the tools one would expect for complex manufacturing. His father, like many, had a selection of basic tools, such as needle nose pliers, a hammer, wrench, and a scant few other common tools.


    His parents, asked Dylan if he had gotten the part from somewhere. He, of course, told them that he had made it himself. With a tired sigh, his parents paid the electronic repairman, and left the shop.


    They might have been surprised, had they not suspected this would happen. Formators would often show signs of their powers long before they manifested. Dylan¡¯s parents had long since expected it. Nearly everyone had a friend who had a friend who had some relative whose kid manifested powers.


    Paul, Dylan¡¯s father, looked resigned during the car ride back. His mother, Ronnie, took a more optimistic approach.


    ¡°Well, he¡¯ll never lack for work, at least. And it¡¯s one of the safest powers he could get. He doesn¡¯t have to fight or go to disaster zones to make use of it¡±.


    His father wasn¡¯t convinced.


    ¡°While he certainly will have luck in finding jobs, safety is relative. Formators are often targeted by villains, and generally they don¡¯t have the ability to protect themselves when it happens. There¡¯s not much good advanced computer software can go against someone who can throw a car like a baseball. And even if he isn¡¯t a target for villains, we¡¯ve all heard of Formators dying horrible deaths due to experiments gone wrong¡±.


    Ronnie was unperturbed by her husband''s pessimism.


    ¡°You know those are outliers. There are plenty of successful Formators who live fulfilling lives free of any danger¡±.


    The rest of the drive home was in silence. Dylan, for his part, was unperturbed by the conversation. While he certainly possessed the unrealistic self expectations of someone who was about to enter his first year of high school, the main reason for his lackadaisical attitude was due to the fact that he was paying absolutely no attention to the conversation going on between his parents in the front seat of the car.


    He was instead flipping the switch on his device, repeatedly turning the bulb on and off. Sometimes, his hands would blur, and with a seemingly impossible deftness, he would unscrew the cover on the switch, removing the tiny screws with his bare hands, before opening the device up and staring at the mechanism within, seemingly in awe of what he had made.


    This continued for the entire 35-minute drive back to their house. Upon pulling into the driveway, however, Dylan came to a terrible realization. Taking in the slightly dilapidated state of his parents'' residence, he realized that his family wasn¡¯t rich. They certainly got by, and he never lacked for food, but most would not call them well off. Both of his parents worked, and while he would often get one, maybe two presents on his birthday, there wasn¡¯t a large surplus of money floating around.


    This was a problem. How could his parents afford to buy him parts and materials? How was he supposed to grow his power?


    Super humans, those with powers, abilities or traits beyond the capacity of a normal human, had been around since the beginning of recorded history. Often occupying the role of gods, devils, spirits, or heroes in stories, their prevalence both in myth and history is undeniable.


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    It is also a recorded fact that, before the end of the 20th century, their numbers were relatively low. While a few participated in major world events, such as World War 2 (both on the side of the Axis and the Allies), it wasn¡¯t superhuman intervention that saved the day. It was human determination and ingenuity. Any power paled in comparison to the atomic bomb.


    But the landscape of supers started to change. Census officials first noticed the number of powered people increasing faster than the population. People with registered powers started to classify stronger and stronger. Whereas in antiquity, a power set like that of Zeus, the ability to fly and hurl lightning might make you the strongest person alive, in the changing era it started to become less rare. While it was certainly special, rare, even, it was no longer unique, and it would no longer put one on top.


    In response to the changing landscape of superpowers, government acted fast. They scrambled to assemble sanction teams, trained and licensed in order to deter and, when necessary, intervene in superhuman crime. A reporter was the first to use the word superhero. The term quickly caught on.


    The most prominent early team was the United States Peacekeepers. Comprised of 6 members, they were unexceptional by modern standards, but at the time, they were groundbreakingly powerful.


    Their leader, Robert Kroll, was the first publically known super to have more than two powers. Possessing the ability to fly, super strength, speed, durability, he led his team to victory time and time again, until most of them died stopping Calamity.


    Power development also started to diversify around that time. Many experts believe that the reason powers started off so similar was because they manifested due to a need or desire, and often in stressful situations. The amount of super humans that came as the result of farm accidents was rather high. At the time, strength, speed, flight, were all useful, simple, and easy to understand.


    It was estimated that in the current year, nearly 1% of humans had superpowers. These powers could range from the ability to always know where your favorite shoes are to being a vessel for the unstoppable power of the sun.


    On average, a power would be somewhere in between those two ranges. Denizens of the internet had taken to grading them on a tier system: trash tier, for those so poor as to be useless, low tier, like Olympic level speed or strength, or the ability to float, mid tier (where most powers fell), such as flight, low level super strength, etc. After that, there was high tier, with powers such as supersonic flight, laser vision, etc. Finally, there was peak tier, powers that simply defied all logic.


    These tiers were not recognized by experts or scientists. Powers rarely fit so neatly into a category. There was a sense a logic to their manifestation and potential, however. Powers generally didn¡¯t fluctuate much in strength. Someone with super strength wouldn¡¯t often get much stronger than they were at any given point in time, for example.


    There was one exception to this rule. During the first 6 months to 2 years after acquiring a power, it was malleable. Excessive usage could make it stronger. Training could also provide focus. Power generally started off broader than what they ended up as. For example, someone with a heat based power might be able to emit it from their body, focus it, change its course, perceive heat, be resistant to heat, be able to sense sources of heat near them, and much more. As they started to use their powers in a certain way, however, many of these auxiliary powers would weaken or even disappear entirely. In exchange, the parts of their ability that were used would get stronger.


    Therefor, the first few months after awakening a power were essential in shaping its future. If you didn¡¯t choose an aspect to focus on, you might end up with a power that¡¯s broad and mediocre, or even worse, if you failed to use it enough, you might end up even weaker than you initially started.


    This meant that Dylan was in a conundrum. He needed to make use of his ability. If he failed to do so entirely, as a formator, he might end up with his power being relegated to nothing more than what a talented non-powered might possess. He was lucky enough that his abilities should allow him to utilize common household items and machinery, at least to make low level contraptions, but acquiring even those would be a hassle.


    His family couldn¡¯t afford to keep replacing appliances, nor would they give him permission to take apart and repurpose the ones around the house, so he was out of luck there. He didn¡¯t have a job, which meant no money to spend to get what he needed. His parents were likely to be almost entirely unhelpful. They probably would rather he had weaker powers, as that would mean he would be exposed to far less danger.


    His desperate planning continued as he got out of the car. The awkward silence between his parents had been banished, and they were now talking about some mundane adult thing. He paid them no mind. It¡¯s not like their menial conversation would contribute anything important anyways. No, he needed solutions. Dylan was not willing to be stuck with a mediocre power.


    Right before going inside, he heard the deep rumbling of an engine behind him. Turning around, he saw a garbage truck, driving down the street. Its chipped and dulled green paint was covered in spots of rust. He continued to stare as it drove past. In its bed he saw the faint gleam of an old toaster, thrown, incorrectly, into the trash.


    Suddenly, Dylan knew what he needed to do.

 Chapter 2

    Getting to a landfill was harder than expected. His parents refused to drive him. They didn¡¯t understand why he wanted to go, at first. Once he explained what he was attempting to accomplish to them, they were even more vehemently opposed. Stealing from the landfill was a crime, they said.


    Paul fixed him with disapproving eyes. His face was stern. Paul wasn¡¯t a particularly tall man, but at 5¡¯11, he towered over Dylan¡¯s small frame. He had a fairly mundane job, working as an accountant at a local firm. He had rarely gotten into fights as a kid. He didn¡¯t have any powers.


    Despite this, Dylan felt nervous. His father didn¡¯t normally look so disapproving. His normal mild expression was nowhere to be seen. Dylan gulped. He realized that he might have made a miscalculation. His father was big on the rule of law. He strongly believed that it was the glue that held society together. He didn¡¯t even speed, except in the direst of emergencies.


    He was an unexcepting man. Many would call him principled. He had earned straight A¡¯s all through college, and was nearly top of his class. He was smart, but most of his success came from hard work. He didn¡¯t party, instead studying intensively.


    The firm Paul used to work for was far more prestigious than his current job. However, due to his refusal to take part in the corruption within the company, he was denied promotion several times, and eventually ended up quitting to go work somewhere else.


    ¡°Dylan¡± his father said. ¡°I know that you¡¯re excited because of this development. Who wouldn¡¯t be, at your age. I know most kids dream of being like Insurmountable. But I want you to think on what¡¯s happened to you, long and hard. If you chose to use your powers, for any reason, for anything, there¡¯s a chance that you¡¯ll die. An experiment could go wrong, you could be targeted by a villain. It might simply cause you to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. There¡¯s a reason I don¡¯t share your mothers'' excitement¡±.


    Dylan started to protest, but his father held up a hand, cutting him off.


    ¡°And gaining powers does not give you the right, nor reason, to steal. If anything, it gives you a reason not too. It¡¯s too easy, to let one thing lead to the next. I just need something people have thrown out now. What if you need something they still have? It¡¯s just one time. Now you¡¯ve done it once, what does it matter if you do it again¡±?


    He reached out, placing his hands on Dylan''s shoulders.


    ¡°You simply can¡¯t start. Do you understand me, Dylan?¡±


    Dylan, almost unable to meet his father¡¯s eyes, nodded. Paul stood there, staring at his face for a moment longer, before letting out a sigh and turning away, walking off into the kitchen. When he heard the creak of the cupboard door opening in the other room, he let out a breath of relief, before turning and running up the stairs, into his room.


    Hopping onto his bed, he buried his face in his pillow. After letting out of a muffled yell of frustration, he sat up, and started thinking about what he was going to do. His parents wouldn¡¯t let him go and grow his powers. He knew these first few months were the most important. They knew it as well. It was so unfair!


    Standing up, he started pacing around his room. Every kid wanted to be a superhero. Who wouldn¡¯t? Saving people, getting recognition, money, fame, brand deals, having awesome powers, like flight or invulnerability or being able to teleport? Everyone he knew had wanted that since they were old enough to learn about heroes.


    Sure, he knew it probably wouldn¡¯t happen. Only 1% of the population had powers, and most of them weren¡¯t strong enough for the real crime fighting. It was a dangerous job. If you weren¡¯t nearly impervious to harm, then every apprehension or encounter with a criminal could put your life at risk.


    Everybody knew the story of Vorporeal. He was a demigro, and a top tier one at that. He had multiple weaker abilities to boot, which certainly helped. With his enhanced strength, speed, and his legendary ability to teleport, it made him a force to be reckoned with. He beat some of the strongest villains of his time. The footage of him flickering around the battlefield, dropping rubble on the Villain Darkshine, and saving dozens of civilians is still one of the most popular to this day.


    Yet he met his end when confronting a common crook, with an average energy blast power. It was run-of-the-mill. Vorporeal had made dozens of such arrests during the course of his 12 year career. But it didn¡¯t go right this time. The criminal let loose a blast of red energy, which the Hero easily avoided. But it struck the building behind him, which had been weakened from a battle between supers a week earlier, and knocked a piece of concrete loose, which fell, striking Vorporeal on his head, knocking him out. The crook ran away, leaving Vorporeal to expire of brain damage in the alley.


    The man was eventually caught, one Brian Johnson, but there was nothing to be done for the deceased hero. Brian had only been wanted for burglary, and he was shocked when presented with first degree murder charges. They were eventually dropped to manslaughter. Brian hadn¡¯t even known that Vorporeal was hurt. Superheros, especially ones so prominent, had an invincible reputation.


    Dylan didn¡¯t care about the risks, however. While he was just as fragile as an ordinary human, his power would more than make up for that. He was a Formator. He could stand far back, away from any danger, and let his creations do the fighting for him.


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    He could even picture it: A strong villain, a famous one, just about to beat the heroes on scene, when suddenly, two bronze androids fall out of the sky, easily subduing the maldoer. He would then step out, lecture the villain on the errors of his ways, and send him along to the authorities to let him meet justice.


    But that couldn¡¯t happen if could never grow his power. If his parents were out, then that meant he could only do it himself. What would he be able to do? There had a few ancient electronics in a box down in the basement. His mother had wanted to sell them 10 years ago, but never had gotten around to it. They were almost worthless now. He could start with them.


    ¡­


    The basement was dusty, a testament to how infrequently anybody used it. It was filled with cardboard boxes, most of them empty. A few had old keepsakes, knickknacks from when he was a baby, or with sentimental value to his parents, too important to get rid of, but not relevant enough to keep in sight or easy access.


    A small window let the dull light of the setting sun into the room, casting a faint orange glow over it. It was poorly illuminated, with a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, which itself was mostly boards. It cast a flickering fluorescent glow in a small radius around it, insufficient to properly light even half the room.


    He took a tentative step onto the cold concrete. He almost instantly regretted going barefoot when the sensation of chill hit him, but he pressed on, ultimately undeterred. Most of the boxes were unlabeled, their peeling cardboard frames showing their age, with light spots where tape had been put on and ripped off time and time again.


    Putting his hands on the closest box revealed that it was empty, the sudden movement showcasing the lack of contents to weight it down. He moved on, searching every box in the stack. Most were empty, and most others had few items.


    Eventually, he found the boxes containing the junk he was looking for. Slipping his hands under the first one, he picked it up, loosing his balance and staggering backwards. He took a second to stabilize himself, shifting his center of gravity over his feet. Once he was sure he wasn¡¯t about to collapse onto the floor, he started up the stairs.


    Once he reached the top, he had to put the box down. Dylan wasn¡¯t very strong. He was small, smaller than most of his peers. He was skinny, and most people said he looked more like an 8th grader than someone about to enter high school. While some of his classmates could grow full beards, he hadn¡¯t even hit the brunt of puberty yet.


    He had an explanation for that now. Those with powers would often experience ¡°different¡± development. Many hit puberty very late, or very early. It was nice to know that he would probably get the growth spurt he had been so desperately hoping for the past 2 years, but that knowledge didn¡¯t help him at the moment. The boxes wouldn¡¯t move themselves based on his future physicality. Picking it back up, he looked up at the stairs to his room. He let out a groan. He still had two more boxes to grab.


    ¡­


    He bent over, hands on his knees, chest heaving. He had finally gotten the boxes where he needed them. Now, he had to suffer the cost. At that moment, he strongly wished he has a physical power. Being a 9 foot, invincible behemoth would make moving boxes a lot easier than his 5¡¯7 frame would allow.


    Once he caught his breath, he opened up the boxes, revealing the junk inside. There was an assortment of old clocks, watches, an almost ancient microwave, and a bunch of other assorted pieces.


    He had a sort of idea of what he wanted to build. If he was going to be gathering materials from a landfill, or some other such place, he would need to be able to carry it back here. As evidenced by his struggles to bring the boxes upstairs, he would need a better method to carry things unless he wanted to make a trip for every item or two he got.


    He ran down and grabbed his dads tools. They were lackluster, but they would make what was coming far easier than it would be otherwise. Plus, he would rather develop his power to be more useful or creative, rather than keep the ability to forgo tools.


    He didn¡¯t fall into a trance this time. He was certainly in a more focused state than he normally could access, but it wasn¡¯t like the first time. There, it had just taken over, and he woke up with the light switch. Now that he was trying to make something of his own volition, stuff didn¡¯t just happen. He had to actually work to build what he wanted.


    His power still did all the hard work, providing him with details and concepts that he didn¡¯t understand. Occasionally, time would seemingly jump forwards, and he would wake up with something in his hands that physically shouldn¡¯t work.


    Eventually, after hours of fiddling, adjusting, assembling, and molding, he had his finished project in his hands. Or at least, he should have had it. What he ended up with wasn¡¯t what he was trying to make. Or, it would be more accurate to say that it was only part of what he was trying to make.


    On his desk, surrounded by leftover screws, scraps of metal, and bent springs, was a dull mechanical arm. It was thin, with a glove at one end and a shoulder cradle at the other. It was designed to fit on the outside of the arm, and give the wearer increased strength.


    He had intended to create an entire exosuit. What had happened? Dylan looked around, and saw something that maybe have been the cause of his conundrum. Every electronic device he had brought up was taken apart in some way, stripped of all useful components. The spare pieces were scattered around on the floor.


    It seems he would have to gather more materials if he wanted to complete his suit. Dylan thought he should give it a name, even if it wasn¡¯t finished. He eventually settled on simply calling it the Exosuit Mark 1. Once he had proper materials, he would eventually make one far more impressive, and at that point he would put more thought into the name. This would do for now.


    He put it on, fastening the straps over his arm, securing his shoulder in the cradle, and threading his fingers through the glove. He flexed his elbow, surprised at how well it moved. It didn¡¯t really feel like it made him any stronger. Did he mess up? Was his power only good at making worthless things?


    He tried to activate it again, but was hit by a searing headache. Wincing, he vowed not to repeat the mistake. His hand flew out to support himself against the wall. After a few minutes, the pain had cleared.


    He tried to remove his hand from the wall, but found more resistance than he expected. Looking over, Dylan saw that he had stuck his hand through the plaster, without even feeling it. With a quick motion, he pulled his hand out, more drywall coming off the edges of the hole. His hand moved smoothly, and there was barely a hitch where he would have expected resistance.


    He pumped his arms up and down in elation (mindful of the one encased in the exosuit this time). His invention worked! Tomorrow, he would go to the junkyard and start scavenging. Turning to go place his mechanical arm onto the desk, Dylan caught sight of the hole in the wall again, and only one thought flashed through his mind.


    ¡°SHIT! My parents are going to kill me.¡±

 Chapter 3

    Dylan cleared up the scraps of leftover material in his room as best he could. There wasn¡¯t anything he could do about the hole in the wall right now, so he ended up leaving it for tomorrow. He would grab a poster or two from the store when he returned from his scavenging run. He had to hope that neither of his parents would come into his room in the meantime. He hid the exo arm under his bead when he heard his mom calling him down for dinner.


    Dinner was somewhat awkward. He didn¡¯t want to say anything because he was worried that his excitement would give away that he was up to something. His father had just shot his plan down today, so his parents were probably expecting him to act downtrodden. He did his best to fill the role, eating slowly, avoiding eye contact, everything he could think of.


    His parents seemed disinclined to talk to him, likely giving him space after the rebuttal that took place earlier that day. Eventually, he was finished eating, and he returned to his room.


    Dylan struggled to fall asleep that night. He knew that it would only benefit him, but his body seemingly did not disagree. He ended up tossing and turning into the wee hours of the morning (at least that¡¯s how it seemed to him), but eventually, the next morning was upon him.


    He grabbed his backpack, stuffed his exo arm in, and departed. His parents likely wouldn¡¯t worry about him, as it was normal for him to disappear for a few hours at a time. He was often out walking around, or locked in his room, or some other such activity that kept him away from other people. That didn¡¯t mean that their tolerance was limited. They would still get worried if he took too long, so he had somewhat of a time limit.


    It was a bright, sunny day outside. The sky was clear and blue, and there was a pleasant breeze. He couldn¡¯t have asked for better weather. Having to make the trek in the rain would suck.


    As he walked past his driveway, he saw his neighbor, Mr. Oakland, walking into his house, carrying a refrigerator on his back. It had to weight several hundred pounds, but his neighbor was carrying it was if it was no more than 40. Mr. Oakland was one of the rare few with powers. He had a lower level strength and durability power, which allowed him to perform superhuman feats like the one that was currently going on in front of Dylan''s eyes. He also suspected that it was why he could still work a construction job deep into his 50¡¯s without pain or injury.


    He saw Dylan, and took one hand off of his burden to wave, a bright smile on his face. Dylan waved back, sending him a bright smile.


    The walk to the landfill was just far enough to be inconvenient, but close enough to be achievable. The walk was nearly three miles, through the edge of the city and then into the plains that surrounded it.


    Dylan didn¡¯t live in a big city. It was only home to about 200,000 people, so getting in and out was fairly easy here, as opposed to a metropolis like L.A. That being said, with Dylan¡¯s below average size and fitness level, it took him nearly 30 minutes to make it two miles to city limits.


    He was starting to rethink his choice. He took a moment to gather himself, and pressed on. He had already come this far. It was most of the way there. The way back would surely be easier, as he would be riding high on the elation of his haul. He needed these materials. He didn¡¯t have much of a choice, unless he wanted to be stuck pumping out cheap products for a company for the rest of his life. It was another 15 minutes before he made it to the landfill. Taking the exo-arm out of his backpack, he slid it on, reveling in its genius. It still didn¡¯t make him feel stronger, but he knew what it could do now, thanks to his unplanned demonstration the day before. He was much more careful with it now. Who knew what would happen if he accidentally bumped his arm into his ribs, for example. He didn¡¯t want to kill himself with his own invention. That would be far too stereotypical (not to mention extremely painful).


    There was a chainlink fence around the perimeter of the landfill, and it was topped with barbed wire. The fence was covered in rust, and he took a hold of it in his armored fist, and started to pull. He felt resistance for the first time, but after a few seconds the metal shrieked and gave way. The road and entrance to the facility was on the other side of the landfill, so nobody should be around to hear or see him. Even if they did, hopefully the sight of his arm would be enough to deter them from trying to stop him. Normal people knew not to mess with supers unless the situation was desperate, and him taking things people have already thrown out would hardly count as such.


    There was certainly a possibility that he would get a superhero called on him, but unless he actually killed someone, it was unlikely to result in anything serious. Formators were valuable, and nobody wanted to antagonize them. If the company got on his shit list, and he ended up making something valuable in the future, it might cause conflict. Some of the most successful companies in the world were made by Formators, and there had certainly been tales of them founding companies and ruthlessly outcompeting other¡¯s they had a past grudge against.


    Plus, he was a super, and a young one. They didn¡¯t generally get penalized for minor crimes. Even someone with an average power could cause a huge headache. It meant that young supers could get away with a lot more than they maybe should, but few were willing to step up to correct them. If you didn¡¯t have powers yourself, then you stood to lose more than you stood to gain.


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    He pulled the meshing of the fence off further, peeling it up and to the side. Once the gap he created was large enough, he slipped in under, sliding his backpack in after him, to avoid it getting caught on the rough spikes left by the severed chain.


    He hadn¡¯t really noticed the smell until it hit him like a train. His eyes watered, and he started coughing at the unexpected blast of sulfurous odor. Dylan resolved to finish his scavenging trip as quickly as possible. He didn¡¯t know how much more of this he could take.


    He avoided piles of things like looked like mushy foods, instead looking for the matte or shiny surfaces of electronics. Despite the fact that they were supposed to be recycled, people still threw them out, and the company responsible for the landfill didn¡¯t really care. They couldn¡¯t canvas all the trash they took in to see if everyone was following the regulations.


    This worked to Dylan''s advantage, as he had a decent chance to find what he was looking for. He quickly found an old microwave sticking out of the heap. It was trapped under some other junk, so he stuck his mechanized arm under the rubble that was trapping it, quickly flipping it off. Dylan didn¡¯t think he was going to get tired of the enhanced strength his creation provided him anytime soon.


    Once it was free, he did his best to wipe it off, before taking out a bunch of trash bags he had packed into his backpack. He layered several of them together, before dropping the microwave in. He could probably hold one or two more big items, and a few more small ones, in his backpack or in the bigger bag with the larger items. He grabbed a watch, an old flashlight, and some other various small electronics.


    A few dozen feet away, he spotted something sticking out of a large pile of trash. It looked to be a circular object, dark, and shiny. Curiosity piqued, he started walking over. After clearing out the trash around it, it was revealed to be a fairly large drone. It looked to be in good shape, except for a few scratches here and there.


    How did it end up here? Nearly two feet across in circumference, it must have been at least a thousand dollars. There was no controller, but it would certainly serve as an excelled source of parts.


    A crunch rang out behind him. Whirling around, he saw a man, standing among the trash, walking closer. Dylan immediately stammered out an apology.


    ¡°I-I know I¡¯m not supposed to be here, and I¡¯m really sorry, I¡¯m justlooking for partstotrainmypower I-¡±. His words started to come faster and faster, before they cut off. The man in front of him wasn¡¯t a worker.


    The man was wearing dark, stained clothing. His boots were leather, also stained. His hair was cropped close to his head. He had a large tattoo on his face. On his hip, a knife sat, sheathed. His fingers tapped on the hilt. He had a cruel smile on his face.


    ¡°Say kid, that thing on your arm. It looks awfully nice for a kid like you. Where¡¯d you get it from?¡±


    Dylan swallowed, starting to realize the depth of his predicament. While most people wouldn¡¯t antagonize supers due to the fear of future reprisal, well, if you killed the super, then there would be no need to worry. Especially not if that super wasn¡¯t even registered yet, in a junkyard he wasn¡¯t supposed to be in, miles from his home, where nobody knew he was.


    ¡°I made it myself. Wh-why do you ask?¡±


    The man''s smile grew. Dylan knew he made a mistake. He¡¯d just revealed there wasn¡¯t some older super giving him items. If the man had though that one of Dylan¡¯s parents or relatives was the person with the power, then he might have been more hesitant. Even if he killed Dylan, it was possible that he would be tracked down. Superpowers could do all sorts of things, and it was never safe to assume that you couldn¡¯t be found by someone sufficiently motivated. But if Dylan was the only one there, alone in a junkyard, chances were that motivation wouldn¡¯t exist. Most likely, it would go to the mundane police, who would search unsuccessfully for him before declaring him as missing.


    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯d be willing to give it to me, huh, kid? I think some buddies of mine would like it¡±.


    The man had started walking closer. His feet drew a steady rhythm as he approached. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.


    Dylan knew he had to act fast, before the situation got even more out of control. He lunged forwards, swinging at the man. The thug, unprepared for the sudden aggression, couldn¡¯t move out of the way fast enough. Dylan¡¯s fist didn¡¯t make contact with his torso, but it hit a trailing hand, causing a nasty crunch to ring out in the air.


    The man let out a scream, stumbling back a few steps. He let out another yell when the blob of jelly that used to be his hand tried to grab his knife. He started fumbling for it with his left hand, trying to get it out of the sheath.


    ¡°I¡¯ll kill you, you little shit. Gut you like a fish, for my motherfucking hand.¡±


    Dylan ran towards him, this time going for center mass. The man didn¡¯t have the ability to dodge anymore with his injuries. Dylan¡¯s gauntleted fist hit him right in the middle of his chest. A snap, like that of a tree branch breaking, rung out through the air. The main was rolling around on the ground, blood spurting from his mouth. Even his eyes were bleeding.


    Dylan stood there, dispassionately. After a few more seconds, he turned around, and put the drone in his sack. He started on the walk back to his house when the man''s wheezing started to fade.


    The journey back was mostly a blur. He recalled seeing blood on his mechanized arm, and wiping it off on the grass, but not much beyond that. Nobody was outside when he returned to his neighborhood.


    His parents weren¡¯t home, either. He walked up the stairs, stuffed the arm and the bag of scavenged materials under his bed, kicked off his shoes, and laid down, staring at the ceiling.


    When his parents called him down for dinner, he didn¡¯t answer. He fell asleep not long after, but in a cruel reflection of the previous night, this sleep was turbulent, and filled with visions of the day¡¯s events.


    He awoke, covered in sweat, wondering if his dreams were already over.

 Chapter 4

    It was over a week before he started using his power again. His parents had found out about the hole in his wall, and needless to say, they were not pleased. Fortunately for the him of now, punishment was to be delayed until his dad got back from an unexpected business meeting. The him of the future was in trouble, however.


    The nightmares continued. While he wasn¡¯t as bothered in the waking world (the man had been going to rob and kill him), his subconscious mind didn¡¯t see it that way. Visions of what happened tormented him, playing again and again. These dreams didn¡¯t always conform to reality, either.


    Sometimes, he would be the one robbing the man. He would see him, crouching there, fear in his eyes, sobbing. Sometimes the entire junkyard was on fire, or piled with corpses. Sometimes he was walking with the man, when something else attacked them. Often, Dylan failed to fend him off, getting stabbed, dying. Most often, it was simply fragments of a dream, flashes of blood, pain, and screaming.


    Waking up from the nightmares left him shaking and drained. He¡¯d often stay in bed, listlessly staring up at the ceiling, trying to process what he¡¯d just seen.


    Dylan was currently seated over his desk, trying to work out what he wanted to make with the components. He wanted something that would help him gather supplies. It wasn¡¯t enough to have to haul things back and forth, so finishing his exoskeleton was out. Plus, he didn¡¯t think he had enough materials for it right now. He might be able to get another limb finished, but that was it.


    The salvaged drone called to him. It would solve his transportation problems. He knew he could sup it up, somehow, and it would be awful convenient. Perhaps eventually, he wouldn¡¯t even have to journey to the junkyard, instead letting his drone do it for him.


    He waited a day or two after the though occurred to him to see if there was anything else he wanted to make that he couldn¡¯t think of at the moment, but nothing came to him. There wasn¡¯t much that would be as immediately useful in the current moment, and it¡¯s not like he could make something that could defend himself much better than the arm he had stashed under his bed.


    He organized his workspace, clearing his desk off, and setting the drone on it. He took the rest of the pieces he had and set them on the floor to the side. He had already disassembled the microwave. He made sure to wait till after lunch, to minimize the chance of his mother disturbing him, before setting off to work.


    First, Dylan removed the external casing protecting the inside mechanisms, setting it aside. He started removing gears, chains, and motors, his hands no longer moving consciously, blurring over parts, extracting things faster than should be possible, morphing material, and making changes that would leave anybody who knew anything about mundane engineering scratching their head.


    First, the motors were upgraded. He wanted the drone to be able to hold at least a hundred pounds, in a semi stable manner. If it were to actually carry useful amounts of parts, it would have to be at least that strong. There was no point in making a drone with a maximum capacity of three watches. The new ones would be stronger, more durable, quieter.


    Next, to handle the increased load, the frame and propellers also needed to be stronger. He ended up stripping down the drone completely, before adding in components to increase the load the drone could handle.


    For the propellers, he broke down components, and remolded them in the shape of the old propellers, except larger this time. The volume of air they would be able to move would be far greater than before, and hopefully this would allow a greater amount of lifting capacity.


    Next, he had to -


    When he came to, Dylan saw the completely reassembled drone on his desk. It was now a metallic bronze color, with four large rotor blades in circular housing at each diagonal. A faint blue light glowed at the front, almost like a mechanical eye. Its frame was thick, and looked sturdy, and industrial.


    Scanning it over, Dylan failed to find a charging port, or any sort of battery slot. The drone looked completely different from before he had blacked out. Most of the components present he didn¡¯t have. The material the drone was made out of, the light on the front, the large metal plate on its underside¡­ he had had no memory of these things, neither possessing nor making them.


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    That worried him. Where did it come from? Was it sourced from his power? Was he transforming matter, putting together little pieces to form something bigger? Or when he blacked out, was he going on a rampage, stealing, grabbing whatever he could?


    If he was, it probably wasn¡¯t happening here, or at least, not physically. People would certainly tell him if he was going out on a superpowered thieving binge, possibly even in the form of a super at the front door.


    There was always the possibility that he was summoning the components from somewhere. That could be a good thing, or a bad thing. On one hand, some supers had access to alternate dimensions far different from their own. Dylan thought he had heard of an infinitely expansive mechanical dimension before, so that could be the source of these unexplained materials.


    On the other hand, most people knew the story of The Magician. He could seemingly pull anything out of his hat, from cards to lifesaving organs. Nobody knew where they came from. Until one day, he was helping stabilize a building after a battle between supers, and they needed a piece that was on backorder. He, trying to be helpful, reached into his hat, and pulled it out. There wasn¡¯t anything wrong with the piece itself.


    The issue was where it came from. As it turns out, it was a key structural component for another damaged building nearby, and its loss caused a collapse within hours. Luckily, it was mostly depopulated, but over a dozen construction workers lost their lives.


    Suddenly, conjuration powers weren¡¯t seen with nearly as much enthusiasm as before. The Magician had to go into retirement due to public outrage, and there was a petition that went out to get him thrown in jail. It never gained much momentum, but it showed how quickly public opinion could turn. Before this, The Magician was a beloved hero, nearly a household name.


    If Dylan¡¯s powers pulled materials from our reality, then he needed to understand where they pulled from or how it worked, or figure out how to get a handle on that aspect of his abilities. He refused to be responsible for a disaster. At least what he had taken so far should only be a minor amount of material, no matter where it came from. It¡¯s not like he had grabbed a whole structural support. Well, unless he had compressed it down by a lot, which he couldn¡¯t technically discount. Shit¡­ Well, there wasn¡¯t anything he could do about it now. He would try and figure out what was happening later.


    For now, he left the drone alone, and walked downstairs, plopping down the couch. He had done enough work for today. It was time for a break. He turned on the tv, flipping through the channels. A rerun of friends, some weird reality show, one of the ones nobody ever seemed to watch, a serious news anchorman, dressed in a dark blue suit complete with a serious expression.


    ¡°Multiple supers are responding to a global catastrophe. At least a hundred are already confirmed dead, and the situation shows no signs of resolving soon. The World Super Organization-¡±


    He changed the channel. The report would have been far more alarming if there didn¡¯t seem to be on like it every other week. Always a catastrophe here, or an invasion there. While he heart went out to those affected by these events, they weren¡¯t uncommon enough to be unique. Most people knew someone who had been through one, or even lived through one of these super catastrophes themselves.


    The World Super Organzation (Or WSO, for short) was usually pretty good about handling these outbreaks. While some level of casualties was unavoidable, they were often contained within 12 hours. The WSO was a global network comprising a major super team, and about 10 minor ones. They also had authority to commandeer other countries teams when they weren¡¯t currently responding to an emergency.


    The fact that Nebula, their figurehead, was an unimaginably powerful super surely helped. He was a man with the ability to transform into an 8-foot tall glowing being made out of a mysterious purple energy. Able to fly, shoot energy blasts from his hands, and being nearly indestructible were the most notable of his powers, but he certainly had several other ones that weren¡¯t as eye catching.


    He couldn¡¯t find anything to watch on tv, after nearly 15 minutes of changing channels. With a sigh of frustration, he threw the remote down onto his couch. He could find a book to read, or something. He crinkled his nose is disgust.


    He began the arduous process of climbing the stairs up to his room. As the rhythmic creak of the broads, shrieking after being subjected to his weight, resounded throughout the air, he thought about what he was going to do tomorrow.


    Dylan felt it was time to go back to the garbage heap. Or, rather, he was desperate to prevent his power from stagnating, and the dump was the only place he could think off where he could get the materials he would need to do that.


    If he had any other option, Dylan would have taken in a heartbeat. The nightmares would have been enough to ward him off in any normal circumstances, but these were not normal circumstances.


    Ultimately, there was no point in debating with himself. He needed to grow his power, that was where he got the things he needed to do that, and no matter the fact that it was dangerous or that it still scared him, Dylan would be going back.


    This would give him an opportunity to test his drone as well. It was a welcome positive. He had made it for this purpose, after all, and Dylan would be lying if he said that he wasn¡¯t eager to try out his newest invention. After seeing the unexpectedly good performance of his singular exo arm, something that was almost a failure compared to what he wanted to make, he couldn¡¯t wait to see what the drone could do. It was a complete project, after all.


    He laid in bed until eventually he drifted off to sleep. The nightmares weren¡¯t as bad tonight.

 Chapter 5

    Dylan dodged his mother. She was trying to get him to help her clean something or other up around the house. He could do that later, when he got back. It was finally time. Time for him to go back to the junkyard.


    He wasn¡¯t going to do it the exact same way, this time. Dylan had learned his lesson. He probably could have avoided that whole scenario if he had spotted the man earlier and ran. There was no changing the past, but he could most certainly change the future.


    It was a good thing that the man was a non-powered. Dylan''s chances of victory would have gone down significantly if that were not the case. At the moment, even the most amateur of brutes could beat him. His arm would allow him to keep up with their strength temporarily, but with a concentrated effort, they could overload it. Plus, he didn¡¯t have an answer for the rest of their limbs.


    A fight with someone with a ranged power would go about the same way, if not worse. He had nothing ranged, no way to close the gap, and no way to protect himself from projectiles. Now that he thought about it, he was lucky the man didn¡¯t have a gun. Gun laws were relaxed significantly as the super population grew. People felt like they needed to be able to protect themselves.


    Guns were only a danger to lower level supers, but they still helped stop petty crime. Plus, attacking someone with a gun seemed far less appealing when they might be bulletproof and able to rip your arms off your shoulders. That¡¯s not to say it had all been without incident. There was still gun crime, and there had been various major events, but normally, a hero would stop situations before they got too serious. A gun was no match for someone who could run at the speed of sound.


    If he planned to be a hero, he would need to develop a solution to this, or at the very least, a countermeasure. The first thing he wanted to complete was his exo suit. It would provide good protection and threat response, and should advance his skills as a Formator.


    He didn¡¯t know exactly what he would need to finish it, however. His power didn¡¯t exactly provide him a list, and he didn¡¯t have enough experience with it to properly guess what it needed. He wondered if there even was an exact list. It seemed to work off of what he gave it. Could he create anything with low level items? For example, if he made a really, really good suit, then would it take more materials? Higher quality ones? Did it simply make what he expected it to make?


    His problem was he didn¡¯t have an accurate understanding of his limits. It was a problem that most new supers faced. Every few months, you¡¯d hear about someone who had awoken powers dying because they overestimated themselves. Sometimes these newly christened powered fought villains far stronger than them. Other¡¯s, they overestimated what they could do, like one who got crushed by a building he attempted to keep from collapsing.


    A famous case of this was when a rookie brute attempted to try and stop a train that the governor of a local city was on, in an attempt to take her hostage. The conductors saw a tall man, dressed in a ski mask, standing in front of the train. He lowered his stance, thrust his arms out, and was promptly pancaked by the ten of thousands of tons train that was barreling down the track towards him. To his credit, he did damage the train (relatively minor damage).


    Dylan had no desire to be the one to trigger the next head shaking wave of disappointment from adults who read of his death in the local paper. After he completed his suit, next up was some sort of protection. It didn¡¯t need to be perfect, just enough to let him take cover or run away. Finally, he would need something ranged. With all of that, he should be ready to start his career as a hero.


    Dylan waited until his mom had left to walk his new drone out behind his house. Its propellers whirred to life, clearly audible, but far quieter than he would have expected. It lifted off the ground steadily, hovering about 5 feet into the air.


    How was he supposed to control it? There was no remote. He didn¡¯t even know how it operated.


    ¡°Go up¡±.


    At the command, the drone¡¯s fan¡¯s whirred louder, before rising about a foot into the air.


    ¡°Go down¡±.


    The drone dropped down a foot.


    That was easy to figure out. It listened to verbal commands. This was certainly very convenient. Not having to remember a controller, or learn the controls, meant that he could start using it right away. It also meant he could do something else while it worked.


    That could end up being a problem in a loud environment, though. If it couldn¡¯t hear him, then was he simply completely unable to control it? And what if it was far away? Did he need to always keep it near him? Well, for every benefit, there was a tradeoff, and he would prefer to control the drone this way rather than having to fiddle with a controller.


    Could it follow complex instructions? That needed to be tested, asap. If not, it would make Dylan¡¯s plan much more difficult.


    ¡°Fly to the other side of the yard, wait 30 seconds, and then come back¡±.


    The drone¡¯s rotors tilted backwards, and it smoothly glided the 20 feet to the fence on the other end of his backyard. Once there, it waited for about 30 seconds, before smoothly gliding back to its original position. Well, hopefully that would work. Time for the true test.


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    ¡°I¡¯m giving you a primary order, and a mission¡±.


    The drone didn¡¯t respond. The blue light in its center seemed to be staring at him, almost as if it was telling him to get on with it. Dylan cleared his throat.


    ¡°Your primary order is to avoid harm at all costs, unless I say otherwise. If you¡¯re in danger, do your best to take evasive action and avoid harm, while losing whatever is attacking you. Once that¡¯s accomplished, make sure you¡¯re not being tracked and return here¡±.


    The drones silence was starting to get unnerving. He hadn¡¯t made it to talk, but he felt odd talking to an object.


    ¡°The mission I¡¯m assigning you is to go to the Junkyard I sourced your components from. Once you¡¯re there, wait for me until sundown, staying out of sight while you do. If I don¡¯t show up by sundown, return here. Stay out of sight the entire time¡±.


    The drone continued to hover there. Dylan resolved to see if he could add something that would signal if the drone understood his order or not. Perhaps he could get the ¡°eye¡± on the front to flash either red or green, depending on whether it could follow his instructions or not.


    ¡°You uhh, can go now¡±.


    At the sound of Dylan¡¯s uncertain proclamation, the drone lifted off into the sky, getting higher and higher until it was barely a dot. Dylan hoped that it knew where he wanted it to go. It would be vexing if it ended up at the wrong place. Would it even know what a junkyard was? How much could it understand? Dylan didn¡¯t know how smart he had made it, a major disadvantage of blacking out when his power active.


    He grabbed a new sack, just in case the drone didn¡¯t show up. If that was the case, at least this trip wouldn¡¯t have been for nothing. He left his house, shutting the front door behind him. There was no neighbor to greet him this time, but that was honestly preferable. If people kept seeing him leaving his house with bags and coming back hours later with them full, covered in dirt or blood, they would probably report it to his parents. That would make his life a lot more difficult.


    Dylan¡¯s walk was interrupted, when, while walking past a convenience store, a skinny young man ran out with a bag full of items and pockets stuff with cash. He turned, running down the sidewalk towards Dylan.


    ¡°Get out of the way!¡± The young man shouted. As he ran past, Dylan instinctively stuck his arm out, gently hitting the man in the face, extremely mindful of the strength his arm possessed, fulling intending to send the man sprawling. He deserved at least that much, for robbing the store.


    However, instead of going off of his feet like Dylan had intended, the man stumbled to a stop. His momentum sent Dylan stumbling backwards, arms wheeling in an attempt to keep his balance.


    Dylan, who had resolved not to let the man get away, realized he may have gotten in over his head. The man had some sort of power. Probably not a strong one, judging by how he reacted when Dylan hit him in the face, but that still represented a substantial threat. Was this really worth it?


    Visions of brightly clad figures clashing in the sky filled his mind. They stood, mentally unbroken but physically battered, after risking it all for others. Every time a hero fought a villain, and vice versa, they put their physical wellbeing and lives on the line, for the sake of their goals or ideals. He would face danger if he wanted to be a hero. Likely, he would face danger much greater than this.


    With a new resolve, Dylan lunged forwards, throwing a blow with more strength than the last. The man awkwardly stumbled back, barely avoiding the strike. Dylan threw another attack. This once connected, sending the man¡¯s head snapping back.


    ¡°Stop, man, relax!¡±


    Dylan didn¡¯t relax, choosing to hit him again, this time in the stomach. The man doubled over, bag dropped by his feet. Seeing as his past blows had been in-effective, Dylan lashed out with his full strength this time, once again targeting the man''s face.


    This time, the effect was far more dramatic, a small boom and wince accompanying the blow. Dylan laid onto the man, pummeling him until he fell onto the ground, where he proceeded to slam the man¡¯s head into the concrete until he lost consciousness.


    Dylan was doubled over, breathing heavily. The skinny man had been durable, far more so than expected. Every one of those hits would have severely hurt or even killed a normal person. Had he actually fought back instead of taking the blows, Dylan likely would have been done for.


    He lifted the mask off the man''s head, revealing a face that was far younger than Dylan had expected. The ¡°man¡± was in fact a teen, who wasn¡¯t much older than Dylan, from the looks of it. He dropped the mask on the ground, before removing the cash from the teen''s pockets and stuffing it in the bag of stolen items. He was in the process of bringing it back to the store when he heard a shout from behind him.


    Whipping his head around, he saw a man dressed in a tight, bright red outfit, made of some unordinary material. Dylan didn¡¯t recognize him. He must have been a new super, or at least newly transferred. That didn¡¯t stop Dylan from panicking.


    He dropped the bag, barely noticing as the money scattered all over the street, before sprinting away as fast as he could.


    ¡°Stop, stop!¡±.


    Dylan ignored the shouts from behind him, instead content to try and get as far away as possible. He turned into an alley, and pressed his back against the wall, waiting for the hero to round the corner. Nobody came. He waited for his heartbeat to start dropping before he dared to check to see if he was being followed.


    Cautiously tiptoeing to the mouth of the alley, he peaked out, looking for any signs of pursuit. There were none. The hero must have chosen not to follow him, for some reason. Maybe he knew that Dylan was simply stopping a theft. He was in the right.


    After calming down for a few more minutes, Dylan took his phone out of his pocket, googling directions to the junkyard. He had gone off of his route in his mad rush to escape, and as a result, was completely lost. Luckily enough, he wasn¡¯t far too far from a path to his destination.


    It was another 30 minutes before he arrived at the perimeter of the junkyard. He searched around for the hole he had made, After 5 minutes of looking, Dylan found it. Sliding under it, he realized that he had left his bag at the scene of the fight.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± he swore under his breath. Luckily enough, both hands were covered by gloves, in order to keep the trash off of his fingers, but that could have been bad.


    His mood was foul when he entered the junkyard. The drone was nowhere to be seen. Now, he had no means to carry anything he had gathered back to his house, unless he wanted to stuff it in his pockets or hold it in his hands the entire time.


    He started looking around for items to salvage, but his heart wasn¡¯t in it. He wouldn¡¯t be able to bring back anything impactful today, after all. Just as he was about to settle on only taking a watch with him, he heard a faint buzzing sound.


    Looking behind him, he saw a faint outline against the sky. It slowly grew larger as it approached. Dylan clenched his fist. With an ever present buzz, his drone descended from the sky.

 Chapter 6

    The drone hovered there, looking none the worse for the wear. The metal was pristine, with no signs of scratches, dents, or anything else to indicate damage. But then why did it take so long for the drone to arrive?


    Perhaps Dylan had made the instructions to avoid scrutiny too harsh. There were certainly ways it could have taken that would avoid nearly anybody, almost completely negating the chance of discovery. He didn¡¯t need it to be that careful. Dylan just wanted to make sure nobody was following it back to his house. Seeing the product of a power floating around somewhere, be it a magic wisp of fire or a formators drone, wasn¡¯t an unusual occurrence. It was similar to seeing a dump truck, or some other uncommonly seen vehicle or sight. You certainly wouldn¡¯t see one every day, but people knew that they existed, and most often they were harmless.


    Dylan resolved to give the drone different instructions from now on. He got here later than intended, and the drone came nearly 15 minutes after that. If it was going to be so slow, he might as well have done everything himself.


    At least he knew it could follow instructions. It had ended up here without a specific address. Dylan wondered if he could send the drone to places he hadn¡¯t been. Could he describe any location, and as long as he had it in mind, send the drone off, confident it would find it? Or, if he didn¡¯t know a way to get to the desired destination, would it get lost, or refuse to go? Questions for later.


    For now, Dylan held onto a microwave, trying to figure out how to load it onto the drone. Setting it down, he pointed.


    ¡°Pick that up¡±.


    The drone moved to obey. It settled down over the microwave. With a dull thunk, the old appliance jumped two inches off the ground to latch onto the metal plate attached to the bottom of the drone. It hung there, with nothing visibly keeping it aloft.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s unnerving¡±. Dylan didn¡¯t think people would like the idea of a heavy object being held up by.. Nothing. Dylan knew he certainly wouldn¡¯t like it. Hell, he didn¡¯t like it. It didn¡¯t feel right. The microwave looked as if it would fall at any moment. A lone drone my not draw suspicion, but one that looked to be a public hazard?


    It¡¯s not like he could do anything about it now, though. Modifying something like this on the fly was sure to be a bad idea. Plus, Dylan had no tools. With a weary sigh, he decided that it would just have to manage. If someone had a problem with it, well, hopefully they wouldn¡¯t be able to do anything about it.


    He eyed the drone.


    ¡°Take this, return to my house, and drop it behind the shed. On your way back, you should avoid being seen if it won¡¯t take too much time off your journey. Otherwise, I need you back here quickly. Get going.¡±


    At Dylan¡¯s command, the drone lifted off. With the microwave in tow, it wasn¡¯t quite as fast, but it was still able to move quite swiftly. Just how powerful did he make it? It must be at least 10 times stronger than before. The drone probably used to not be able to carry much of anything at all.


    It was about 30 minutes before the drone came flying back. The travel time was significantly reduced. Dylan was glad he appended the order. If it had still been operating under the same parameters as last time, he would have been waiting for over an hour.


    Dylan pumped his fist up and down. This was so much more efficient than carrying the scrapped electronics back himself. He hadn¡¯t been idle in the half hour the drone had been gone. He had been gathering whatever he could find to supplement his supplies. Dylan had managed to peel out a refrigerator from under a mound of debris (he had absolutely no idea if his drone would be able to carry it back), as well as some other assorted items.


    Overall, he was satisfied with his haul. This should be enough to finish a large amount of his exo-skeleton. Now, how was he supposed to get it back? The drone could only take one item at a time. Could he go back home and just leave it to do its thing? It¡¯s not like he really needed to be here, and if he gave it good enough instructions, then everything should be fine?


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    Dylan walked over to his drone.


    ¡°Keep delivering this stuff to my house, with the same parameters as last mission. If someone tries to intercept you, drop the item and fly away at max speed, and then terminate your mission. If an item is too heavy to carry, just leave it here¡±.


    As the drone moved to obey his orders, Dylan took one last look around, just in case he missed anything. It would be a shame if there was another big find in the junk, just sitting there for the taking, and he missed it because he wasn¡¯t thorough enough. But despite all of his looking, he was unable to find anything. If there was a hidden treasure in the junkyard, then it was, well, hidden.


    Satisfied that he had searched as much as was reasonable, Dylan started off towards the hole he had torn in the fence. As he stumbled over the uneven ground, Dylan saw a light at the fence.


    Shit.


    Had someone discovered the hole he had made? Was it the super from earlier?


    Dylan snuck closer, trying to hide behind piles of trash that both obscured him from vision, and wasn¡¯t absolutely disgusting. Moving from pile to pile, he wound his way closer to the source of the light.


    It was an overweight man in a faded blue uniform. He was wearing a black belt that looked like it could fly off at any moment. A small pistol sat on his hip.


    The man must have been a security guard. Dylan probably shouldn¡¯t have left a body here if he was planning to come back. Of course, they would increase scrutiny. Hopefully not by too much, though. Finding dead hoodlums couldn¡¯t be that uncommon. Or at least, Dylan hoped it wasn¡¯t. If they had launched a manhunt for him, then he was probably done for.


    The guard was faced away, with a walkie-talkie to his ear.


    ¡°Yeah, Ron, there¡¯s a hole in the fence¡±.


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t know how it got there¡±.


    The guard continued talking, growing more and more exasperated at ¡°Ron¡±, the man on the other end. Ron obviously wasn¡¯t understanding something, as the overweight guard had escalated to screaming into the device in his hand.


    Dylan took the opportunity to sneak through the hole in the fence. The guard had distracted himself, and really, who could ask for a better opportunity than that?


    Dylan was about halfway through the hole when his exo-arm scrapped on the edge of the fence, causing it to let out a loud shriek. He winced.


    The guard whirled around as fast as he could, which really wasn¡¯t that impressive. How did he even get a job as a security guard in the first place?


    Regardless of the man¡¯s relatively unimpressive physical fitness, the fact remained that he had seen Dylan. That wasn¡¯t ideal.


    The man had time to let out a muffled ¡°Hey!¡± before Dylan¡¯s fist rocketed into his face. Gently, of course. He didn¡¯t want to kill the man.


    The guard slumped backwards, hitting his head on the ground with a dull thunk. A cut above his eye, where he had been hit, was starting to bleed.


    Dylan winced. After the super he had apprehended on the way here, he had forgotten just how fragile normal people were. Whereas the robber had been able to withstand dozens of his full strength attacks without even as much as a cut or a bruise, the guard would likely need weeks to recover.


    Dylan supposed that he should just be satisfied with the fact that the man didn¡¯t die. Were he a villain, well, he could have easily taken the man''s head off. A civilian couldn¡¯t expect to get through an encounter with a villain unscathed. Dylan had done relatively minimal damage.


    He rolled the man onto his side, into the recovery position. Dylan¡¯s dad had made sure he knew how to respond to someone getting injured in a multitude of ways. While his friends in school thought his dad was more concerned than necessary, Dylan thought it was smart. Much could go wrong at the drop of a hat when supers were involved.


    Confident that the man wouldn¡¯t end up choking on his own vomit, Dylan, started off back on the path home. Should he tell his drone to call off the material gathering?


    He decided against it. It already had instructions to avoid getting caught. Any mundane police were likely going to be unable to catch it, and it probably wasn¡¯t nearly important enough for a hero to go after. Assault was pretty low down on their list of priorities, to be honest, especially with the global crisis going on. They were stretched thin enough that it was unlikely anybody would go after it in time. Plus, a hero would need some very specific powers to be able to even catch it.


    Chances were it would be fine, and Dylan needed these materials. He would simply have to bear the risk, minimal as it was.


    Dylan would need some sort of face covering. While the chance of someone getting an accurate view of his face so far was low, eventually, if he kept going around unmasked, someone would get a view, or they would have enough witness reports putting it together, or it would get caught by a camera, or another possibility among the near infinite amount that could lead to his identity being revealed. Perhaps his power could help him here?


    Dylan¡¯s thoughts were cut short as he arrived home. Stepping in the door, he saw his mother standing there, waiting for him.


    ¡°Dylan. I have something to ask you.¡±

 Chapter 7

    Dylan¡¯s skin went cold. How much did she know? His palms felt sweaty. His chest started to tingle. His breath started to come in spurts.


    Dylan hadn¡¯t done anything too bad. The only thing he could think of, in fact, was attacking that guard. His mother couldn¡¯t have found out already, could she have? Unless she was a super? Or a hero had flown back here and told her.. The guard shouldn¡¯t have regained consciousness fast enough to report to anybody¡­ And if a hero had seen and recognized him, then why hadn¡¯t they apprehended him. Did they wait until he was back with his family to try and pacify him? Dylan didn¡¯t know what they were playing at.


    Unless it was something else. Could his mother have found out about his vigilante heroism? That shouldn¡¯t land him in too much trouble, should it? It was extremely common for supers, especially those who would go on to become heroes, to start out as vigilantes. He certainly hadn¡¯t handled his one heroic encounter earlier particularly well. Ideally, he could have resolved it far less violently. But, it was his first time in that sort of situation, and the man had superpowers.


    Maybe someone had connected him to the body in the scrapyard? It wasn¡¯t impossible. He didn¡¯t think there was anybody in the city with a power that would let them find it out, especially not right now, but there was always the chance there was a civilian with that power, or that one of the reserved supers had it. If that was the case, he wasn¡¯t worried. It had been self-defense. Any super with a truth telling power would be able to easily verify that.


    While self-defense rules could change when the so-called defender had certain power sets, Dylan definitely didn¡¯t fall into that category. Physically, he was just a normal person. A knife to the guy would kill him just as well as it would any other 14-year-old. Still, what if there wasn¡¯t a truth teller around? What if he spent months in jail, or they never even bothered to check if what he was saying was true?


    Dylan felt like he was on the verge of hyperventilating. There might be another reason for his mother to stop him. What if he had broken some law he didn¡¯t know about, or someone else with a similar power set was mistaken for him? Some criminal.


    Steeling himself, took the plunge.


    ¡°What do you need to ask me?¡±


    His mother scanned him up and down.


    ¡°Have you registered your power with the local agency yet? I can take you later today, or tomorrow, if you want me to.¡±


    Dylan nearly collapsed with relief. The only thing that kept him on his feet is that his mother would surely notice the unusual reaction. Instead, he worked for a reply that wouldn¡¯t reveal his rapidly changing mood.


    ¡°I can go by myself, if you give me the address. I¡¯ll do it sometime in the next few days¡±.


    His mother seemed satisfied with his promise, and didn¡¯t push for any more commitment. Normally, that would be surprising. She generally wanted to be involved in everything he did. Since his father had left on his business trip at the start of the week, however, she had been more distant.


    He brushed it off. Likely, she was worried about her husband. Being on a business trip during one of the largest super-related crises in the last decade had to be nerve wracking. Dylan figured his father would be ok. He was level-headed enough to get out of most jams.


    As for what was actually going on in this emergency, Dylan had no clue. While the news coverage was constant, actual details were sparse. All he knew was that a lot of supers went into a zone simply labeled as ¡°emergency zone¡±, and that several would get wheeled out to medical facilities every day. The situation certainly seemed serious, but at the very least it was very well contained.


    After his conversation with his mother, Dylan decided to head up to bed. Hopefully his drone would continue it¡¯s work throughout the night. If it got damaged, he had no way to replace it, and he was not eager to start hauling things back himself.


    Dylan hid his arm under his bed, before going downstairs to heat up something for dinner. Hmm. He really needed to clean his exo arm. There was blood and trash and everything else nasty on the end of it. He shuttered to think of everything that caked its surface. He needed to hose it down and then sanitize it, asap. Dylan did not want to catch some sort of freaky blood-borne disease because he refused to clean up his equipment. Brawlers had it so much easier. They just had to clean themselves. No need to worry about pulped flesh getting into the joints of your delicate machinery when you were a human powerhouse.


    Shaking his head, Dylan turned his thoughts elsewhere, enjoying his microwaved mac and cheese in silence. After he was finished, he tried his best to shower off the day''s grime before heading to bed. He almost danced a jig in excitement. He finally had the materials to finish the rest of his suit. He had been waiting for so long. One arm was great, but he couldn¡¯t stop crime with it. Not real crime, anyways. Not when he could be taken out like a normal person if the criminal just paid mind to avoid his right side.


    He eventually fell into a semi-peaceful sleep. The nightmares were less frequent than they had been before, but they still occasionally flashed into Dylan¡¯s mind as he slept.


    Waking up the next morning, Dylan shot into the air. He was bursting with energy. Not literally, of course. He didn¡¯t have any sort of energy based powers. No, the energy he had was one far more common in humans: Raw, unadulterated excitement.


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    He could barely restrain himself from rushing down the stairs and out into the backyard. Instead of following that impulse, he managed to restrain himself (barely). He put on his clothes, ate breakfast, and even managed to brush his teeth before he found his feet carrying him out into the yard. Dylan had neither will nor reason to restrain himself any longer.


    He gulped when he saw the pile of junk peeking out from behind the shed. From the house, it was barely hidden, but as soon as you stepped out into the backyard it was clear visible, a pile of mechanical trash spilling out from the back of the old shed. Hopefully it would be less visible once he started to deplete its contents to finish his exosuit.


    Rounding the back of the shed, Dylan saw his drone resting on top of the scrap mound. The glowing eye in the center was dark, and it wasn¡¯t moving. Hopefully it was just turned off, and not broken.


    As soon as the thought crossed his mind, the drone¡¯s eye lit up, blue light spilling across the shadow cast by the shed. Its blades slowly whirred to life, and it lifted into the air.


    Well, that answered that question. Now, where to build the rest of his suit? His room would probably be the best place, but how would he get everything up there? His drone could probably carry it, but could he get it in through the window?


    A cold shock went down his spine. He ran back inside, flinging open the back door, before barging onto the front patio. His mother¡¯s car was missing from the driveway. Dylan breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully, she wouldn¡¯t come back in time to see what he was doing. Even if she did, what was she going to do about it? It¡¯s not like she was really able to stop him. He needed to do this, for the sake of his future.


    Returning to his backyard, he felt his consciousness start to fade as ideas raced through his mind. He took a step forwards, before blackness engulfed his vision.


    Dylan came to several times during the process, although never for long. The first time, he found himself in the middle of assembling the left arm for his suit. Scraps of metal, screws, washers, and other various components littered the ground around him. He watched as his hands stretched a piece of metal like taffy, lengthening it until it matched his arm. Following the instructions that were appearing in his head, he reached down for some sort of joint like apparatus besides him. As he was bending over to pick it up, he blacked out again.


    The next time, he briefly caught sight of a thin exo arm about 5 feet away from him. It looked similar to his first one, with minor differences in material and correlation. In his hands, he was fitting a metal plate onto a steel rib cage. Glowing lines ran through the inside. He reached to touch one and -


    Dylan briefly awoke one final time. He was in the middle of fitting a leg onto the torso, which was now nearly completely covered in plating. Socketing it, he-


    Dylan was sprawled out on the ground when he fully came out of his fugue state, if it could even be called that. It ways almost more like the flow state except¡­ way more concerning. Dylan resolved to try and get a handle on the whole loosing consciousness part of his power if he could. It would help him significantly to actually know what he was doing.


    Lifting his head from the ground, Dylan saw his new exosuit standing there. Its limbs were mostly thin, like the first exo arm he had made (there suit was missing an arm), being mostly a shallow support beam leading down to a glove or boot meant to cover the end of a limb. Despite their appearance, he knew better than to doubt their power. The torso was different, being comprised of a dull gray plating. There was a similarly colored helmet, which roundish, spotting two bright red lenses on the front.


    Dylan frowned. The suit looked ominous. More like something a villain would wear, as opposed to a hero. That wouldn¡¯t do. He was supposed to be an inspiring, uplifting sight. The suit¡¯s current appearance would just inspire fear.


    He started to activate his power, intent on correcting the appearance of his new suit, when he was struck by a searing pain in his head. His vision flashed white as he doubled over. Dylan let out a muttered string of curses. He had completely forgotten that his power was limited. In fact, he was surprised it even let him get through making the suit. It seemed that making it look more palatable would have to wait for a later day, however.


    Once the pain passed, and he could stand up straight again, Dylan ran back upstairs to grab his cellphone. Swiping it off of his dresser, he downloaded a police scanner from the app store. He also grabbed the exo-arm stashed under his bed. Taking it back downstairs, he once again checked to see if his mother was home.


    There was no car in the driveway, so she was still out. Breathing a sigh of relief, he walked back into his yard, returning to the new suit of power armor. He slid his exo-arm into the hole in the right side of the torso piece, where it cleanly slid in with a satisfying click.


    Now, Dylan was prompted with a new question. How did he get in? Similarly to the drone, there weren¡¯t any buttons on the outside, nor any visible ways to open up the frame. He tried to slide his fingers under a seam and see if it was supposed to pry open, he quickly found that that was no bueno. It just hurt his hands.


    Finally, Dylan tried his trump card. Stepping up close to the suit, he opened his mouth to give a command.


    ¡°Suit, open¡±.


    He felt pain in his head as the helmet popped off the top, falling forwards before landing directly on his cranium. His hands flew up to his aching skull. Shit. He took a few reeling steps backwards as the torso section of the suit hissed, panels unfolding to reveal the cavity within.


    Blinking the tears from his eyes, Dylan scanned the interior, fully intending to be aware of what he was walking into. The inside appeared to be some sort of synthetic leather, and fairly padded. There were little fans for breathability.


    Excitedly, Dylan turned around, stepping into the suit. It fit him like a glove. Like it was made for him, which he supposed it had been.


    Moving around, he felt a little slower than normal, but with enough effort he would move faster. He tried jumping, and let out a short scream as he was sent a dozen feet into the air. His arms windmilling around himself, he desperately sought balance as the ground started to grow larger.


    With a muffled thump, he hit the ground, knees bending to absorb the impact. His suit handled most of it, although he still felt a jolt traveling up his legs. Taking a moment to steady himself, he appreciated the fact that he didn¡¯t just break his legs.


    Just as he started to move into more testing, his phone buzzed. With a command, he popped out of his suit, he ran over to it. He had a new notification from the police scanner app. A robbery was occurring a few blocks away, and they suspected that a super was involved.


    Dylan grinned to himself. What better way to test his new invention than with the real deal? He had already stopped one super. He was far more prepared now, and ready for his second.


    With a whir, his suit closed around him, before he vaulted over the fence and strode out into the street.

 Chapter 8

    As Dylan bounded down the street, he got a few odd glances from passerbys. There hadn¡¯t been anybody outside his house, as most people were currently at work (it was the middle of a weekday). However, as he started to get into a more populated area, people started to show up nonetheless.


    Dylan ignored their glances. They wouldn¡¯t get in his way. People were far too used to seeing supers to interfere with one, regardless of whether they thought it was a hero or villain. The consequences were far too dire.


    Most of the people Dylan saw were moving away from the scene of the crime, hurriedly walking to try and get out of the danger zone. Some, too used to supers, had their phones and were moving closer, eager to get the action on video, hopeful that their video would be the one that had the next big break, allowing them to rake in the easy money that came with going viral.


    Dylan thought about telling them to leave, but decided against it. Some of these people were notoriously stubborn, and would be unlikely to listen. Additionally, he didn¡¯t have a voice changer. If these people wouldn¡¯t listen to an adult super, the chances of them listening to a teen one, especially an unknown one like him, was non-existent. Plus, if any of the villains here heard his voice, they might cease to take him seriously, which could be a problem in its own right. Dylan resolved to make himself a voice changer after this was over. If people didn¡¯t think of him as a kid it would only be to his benefit.


    Dylan was fast approaching the scene of the crime, the augmented legs of his suit propelling him faster than he otherwise would be able to move. The location he was headed to was an older gas station, once painted a neon green, now faded. It was still in operation, however, and a villain and a few normals were holding the place up, if the police scanner was to be believed. A squad car was parked about 100 feet away from the entrance, it¡¯s light flashing. One of the officers was speaking over the intercom, warning the public to stay back, before offering assurances that the situation was under control. Dylan could briefly spot another squad car around back.


    They were likely waiting for a hero to show up. The police were only likely to make the situation worse if they tried to defuse it. Either they would have something that would work against the villain, and that would prompt them to use their power with less restraint (you didn¡¯t want to see what a Pyro who thought they would be shot to death could burn), or their weapons wouldn¡¯t work, in which case, well, what could they even do then?


    No, Dylan would have to handle this himself. It was time to see what he could do. Ignoring a warning from an officer taking cover behind his car, Dylan strode up to the front of the store. His breath started to come faster in his chest as he clenched his hands, noticing a surprising amount of sweat as he did so.


    Pushing aside his nerves, he walked through the front doors, and they whirred open automatically with a chime. He immediately saw a shape to his left, and turned just in time to see a wooden baseball bat coming at his head. Whipping his arm around, he barely managed to get his arm up in front of it. It impacted the armored center of his palm, stopping dead with a metallic thwack. A sharp jolt ran up Dylan¡¯s arm, the impact only mostly absorbed by the suit.


    The man holding it was wearing a dirty white hoody, his face covered by a bandana. Dylan¡¯s other arm reached around to grab the man, but he jumped back out of Dylan''s range, before bringing the bat up and swinging again. This time, the bat hit the back of the hand Dylan had used in his attempt to grab the man, sending it towards the floor. Unprepared, Dylan let out a shout of pain and surprise. His hand throbbed. He stepped forwards, intent on punching the man. He would back his left arm. He would knock the man out in one blow. Just as he was about to commit to the attack, his vision blurred, and suddenly Dylan was on the floor, with pain in his shins.


    Another man was standing over him, a dark ski mask on his face. He had swept Dylan''s feet out from under him, sending him to the floor. The man leered down at him.


    ¡°You¡¯re heavy as shit, kid. Hurt my damn shin¡±. Before Dylan could reply, he brought his own bat down, this one metal, directly on-top of Dylan¡¯s helmet. A ringing sound filled his ears. He felt dizzy.


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    He felt another blow hit him, this one impacting the metal surrounding his chest. Dylan realized that he had to get up, before they realized that his limbs were mostly unarmored. Slamming his elbows into the floor, Dylan shot to his feet, sending the two men stumbling back.


    They recovered quickly, however, and in sync they swung at him, a bat coming in from each side. Dylan prioritized the wooden one, more confident in catching that. He turned his back into the metal one, crouching down so it impacted the most armored area of his spine. It gave a dull ring when it hit, like a broken bell.


    As for the wooden bat, he was more ready for it, this time catching it in both hands, sparing himself from most of the pain. Stepping towards the man in the white hoody, he slid one of his hands down the bat, before squeezing them in opposite directions. He felt resistance for a second, and then the bat snapped in half.


    Dylan¡¯s head moved forwards as the man in the ski mask struck him in the back of the head with the other bat. Dylan ignored it, intent on taking the white hoodie guy out of the fight as quickly as possible.


    White hoodie guy himself was backing up, eager to stay out of range now that he had lost his weapon, unwilling to tangle with a man in a suit of power armor with his bare hands. Dylan crouched down, before pushing off with one leg. His vision blurred, and he felt a pressure in his torso as he accelerated across the gap between himself and the man in white.


    The man had a chance to let out a shout before Dylan punched him in the face, sending teeth flying out of his mouth. The man collapsed to the floor bonelessly, letting out a pained whimper.


    As for the man in the skimask, seeing his companion leveled onto the ground prompted him to turn and run, either to seek a better position, or maybe just to get away from the angry, mechanized super that had just floored his buddy.


    Dylan crouched again, before pushing through the floor, harder this time, and the world went dark for a second. By the time he could see again, Dylan¡¯s shoulder was pressed into the man with the ski mask¡¯s back, and they were falling to the floor. Dylan was briefly disoriented, before regaining his bearings and thumping the man on the back of the head, gently this time, unwilling to send his fist through the man¡¯s skull.


    He heard footsteps to his left, and saw another man walking out from the back, a pistol in his hand. He was taller than the other two, and looked older. He was wearing a powder blue ski mask. He let out a shout of surprise when he saw Dylan sitting on top of his accomplice.


    Dylan, for his part, didn¡¯t stay still after seeing the gun. He scrambled for the metal bat, dropped on the floor after he tackled its wielder, and felt his head rock backwards. His ears rang, and he smelled smoke. Finally getting a grasp on the bat, he looked up, and saw smoke drifting from the barrel of the gun. Dylan¡¯s blood ran cold. The man was bringing the pistol back around, to hit him with a second shot. Without thinking, Dylan brought the bat behind his head, arms wound up like he was about to throw a hammer. He launched the bat forwards, where it careened end over end towards the man with a gun, before embedding itself into his skull with a sickening crunch.


    The gun went off, the bullet missing Dylan, pinging off the floor besides him before ricocheting up into the displays behind him. Dylan swore, scanning his vision around the room, to see if any threats remained. The first man, the one in the white hoodie, was still lying on the floor, blood oozing out from his mouth and catching his breathing, giving a sickly wet sound. The second man, the one Dylan had tackled, was unconscious on the floor, but otherwise unharmed.


    The final man was likely dead. Dylan was no medical professional, but having a metal baseball bat embedded into your head didn¡¯t seem like something that most people would survive.


    Confident that all the immediate threats were taken care of, Dylan scanned himself for injuries. There wasn¡¯t any visible blood on himself (aside from his hands), and he didn¡¯t feel any sharp pain. That was good. He likely wasn¡¯t shot. Both of his arms hurt from the repeated impact with the bat, and he was feeling the beginnings of a headache.


    He was short on breath, dizzy, his vision was still a little gray around the edges. Dylan resolved to be more cautious of when he elected to move at the full speed the suit could provide. His body wasn¡¯t able to properly handle the strain.


    He must have sat there for another 2 or 3 minutes, panting, when he heard a man''s voice.


    ¡°What the fuck did you do to my friends?!¡±


    Looking up, he saw a lean man of average height, wearing a cheap spandex suit, standing over the bodies lying in the floor.


    Shit. In the chaos of the fight, Dylan had forgotten about the super.


    The villain continued to mumble to himself, growing increasingly agitated. Dylan started to stand up, wanting to be ready in case the man decided to fight him, which looked to be an increasingly likely prospect.


    Just as he was straightening up, the man crouched down. Before Dylan could move farther, the villain was right in front of him, fist careening towards his face.


    ¡°So that¡¯s what it looks like from the outside¡± thought Dylan, before he went tumbling backwards, head over heels.

 Chapter 9

    Derelict stood there, panting. His fist hurt from when he had punched the super in the metal suit. He had put all of his might into that blow, sending the super flipping back. That would show him for what he had done to Derelicts crew, and he was just getting started.


    Derelict, real name Ryan Bradford, didn¡¯t know what had gone wrong. He was young, in his second year of college, when he discovered his powers. Ryan had always known what he wanted, and knew how to get it, and superpowers just made him more effective. He had gathered up some of his rougher friends, and when they thought the Heros would be distracted, (normally during some other emergency), they would rob stores and businesses, or commit other petty crime.


    This was their fourth job, and it should have been a walk in the park. Almost every hero in the world was away, dealing with some sort of major emergency, meaning there was almost no-one left to guard the city.


    Ryan and his crew had known that there was always a chance an amateur looking to be a hero showed up. If it had been one of the real heroes, the few that were left to watch over the city, they would have surrendered immediately, if they couldn¡¯t run. His crew couldn¡¯t handle that kind of fight, and Ryan wouldn¡¯t put them through it.


    An amateur hero should have been light work, though. They had dealt with two in the past, once during a robbery, another confronting them when they were loitering on their turf. The game plan was simple, stall and distract the hero until Brian, who had a gun, could arrive to deal with it, or, even better, Ryan himself showed up. It had worked like a flaw the first two times, Royce and John easily fulfilling their roles. Hell, the second time, they hadn¡¯t even needed his help, able to use their bats to beat the wannabe into submission all on their own.


    But look at where that had led them. Ryan and Brian had been in the back, trying to get the safe open, when they head the shouts and sounds of metal on metal. Brian had gone to check it out, and Derelict had heard gunshots, and then silence. Abandoning the safe, he had ran out to check on the situation, only to see Brian with a fucking bat embedded into his skull, Royce on the ground with his teeth out, and John laying unconscious, under a man wearing dull power armor.


    At first, it was sadness and helplessness that had filled Derelict, but that was quickly replaced with rage. This ¡°hero¡± didn¡¯t have to kill Brian. He didn¡¯t have to maul Royce like that, either. Derelict had forgotten something, something that it was wise for anybody in his field to keep in mind: Amateurs could be far more dangerous than professionals. Professionals were normally stronger, but that meant that they could hold back. They had rules, and the experience necessary to keep a calm head. They had resources, medical on standby, and often they had reinforcements.


    This meant that they were less likely to feel threatened enough to go lethal. An amateur, on the other hand, often had none of that. Hell, many of them didn¡¯t even accurately know their own strength to begin with.


    Because Derelict had forgotten that, his friends, his comrades were dead. He would make the hero pay. Break him so badly he would never think about hero work again.


    Derelict was shaken from the whirling storm of anger in his mind as the man in power armor smoothly stood up, and shook out his arms.


    Derelict started to feel worried. The armored man had just taken his strongest blow, and stood up, seemingly unfazed. Shit.


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    Shit. Dylan¡¯s entire body hurt. The villain in red had just sent him flying. His armor had protected him from most of the blow, but it had been so mighty that it rocked Dylan¡¯s entire body regardless. He struggled to catch his breath as the servos on his legs smoothly brought him to his feet.


    The villain in red shook his hand out, his rage clouded eyes focusing on Dylan. The man stood tall, legs faced evenly apart.


    ¡°My names Derelict. You¡¯re going to pay for what you did to my friends¡±.


    The voice washed past Dylan, barely registering in his ears. He was too dizzy to even think about responding, and his pre-pubescent voice would probably kill all the tension in the situation, regardless.


    Derelict stood there, seemingly waiting for a response. When none came, his face contorted into a snarl, the brief veneer of civility washed away.


    ¡°Ready to die, huh?¡±


    Derelict crouched down again. This time, Dylan saw his legs flex, before he flew through the air like a thrown missile, right towards Dylan¡¯s head. Dylan brought his fist forwards, blasting it into the Red Villain''s gut, staggering him, before he himself stumbled back as Derelict¡¯s fist hit him in the head.


    Dylan¡¯s headache got worse. He would have rather gotten hit in the head with the bat than take another blow like that. Just how strong was Derelict?


    The man in question was crouched over, clutching his stomach. Dylan wound his leg back, preparing to try and knock the man''s head off with his foot. When he swung his leg, however, the red clad figure dropped to the ground, avoiding the attack, before grabbing Dylan''s leg and throwing him to the floor.


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    He landed with a metallic clatter, just in time to see a red-elbow slam into his face, smashing his head onto the ground. When the elbow came back up, preparing for a second strike, Dylan pushed himself to the side as hard as he possibly could, rolling free of Derelict¡¯s grasp just before he elbowed again. It hit the ground, sending shards of cheap flooring flying through the air.


    Derelict was on his feet in a flash, tackling Dylan through a display shelf, ripping through the low quality metal and sending bags of chips flying through the air. That didn¡¯t stop Derelict, who continued to push Dylan until he felt his back slam against a wall.


    Derelict rained a flurry of blows down on Dylan, hitting both his head and chest. While the metal of his suit mostly held up against the furious storm of attacks, Dylan couldn¡¯t say the same for himself. He felt his ribs creaking, and his vision fuzzing. He cocked back his hand, preparing a blow that should get the villain away from him, and buy him a little time.


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    Derelict kept up a barrage against the silent vigilante, but he was starting to tire. His furious rain of blows seemed to be barely effecting the figure, at most pinning him in place. Shit. Derelict wished he could see his opponent''s face. If he could see him wincing in pain, then he could at least know if his blows were having any effect.


    He was starting to tire, having used up a large amount of his energy at the start of the fight. Derelicts power allowed him to be far stronger, faster, and tougher than a normal person, but only for a very limited amount of time. He could sustain peak human performance for far longer than any normal person, but the same wasn¡¯t the case for when he was operating at peak performance.


    His flagging stamina was the reason why he didn¡¯t see the vicious backhand thrown by his opponent, which caught him in the face, after which he was sent sailing half a dozen feet back to tumble over the floor in an inglorious tangle of limbs.


    As he rightened himself, Derelict saw the hero take a step out of the indent in the wall that he had been punched into. No hint of unsteadiness, no tremble of the legs. Who the fuck was this guy? Was he really an amateur?


    Pushing himself to his feet, Derelict started at the armored figure.


    ¡°Who the hell are you?¡±


    Instead of answering, the hero bent his legs, jumping at Derelict, crossing the half dozen feet of space between them in an instant. Derelict ducked the first blow that came sailing towards his head, but was caught by the hero¡¯s elbow as he spun with the punch, completing a full rotation.


    Ryan felt something in his nose crunch, accompanied by a sharp pain. Bringing his hand up to his nose, he saw a crimson smear, barely visible against the red of his glove. He coughed, wondering how long had it been since he had bled. He had gotten cut only one time since using his power, and it was a minor scrape, obtained the first time he had fought an amateur hero.


    Another surge of anger ran through him. This prick killed his friends, and then broke his nose? He thought he could do anything he wanted, come in, toss Ryan around? Not going to happen.


    Ryan -no, Derelict, stood back up, straightening his spine, recentering his balance. He ignored the pain in his nose, and centered his breathing. He toned down the power running through his limbs, preserving it.


    The man in the armor stood there, watching him. Seeing Derelict settle into a ready stance, the hero followed suit. Tensing his legs, Derelict launched himself towards the metal clad figure.


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    When Derelict shot towards him, Dylan follow suit, pushing down through the floor, servos adding power to the movement. He held back this time, trying to lessen the strain on his damaged body.


    Dylan tilted his head to the side, causing Derelicts fist to glance off of his head. Dylan followed up by throwing out a low kick that hit the red suited man in the shin. He stumbled backwards.


    Dylan tried to press the attack, but a kick to the center of his chest sent him sprawling onto his back. Derelict jumped onto his chest before he could get back up, and tried to slide into an arm bar. Recognizing the danger of letting his opponent recognize that his limbs weren¡¯t fully armored, he lifted the super up, slamming him into the floor.


    With a pained wheeze, the red clad man released his arm, pushing himself to his feet. Dylan followed suit, smashing his arms into the ground to propel him into a standing position.


    All Dylan saw was a flash of red before he was sent flying again.


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    Derelict felt his power fleeing him after that last blow. He had put almost everything he had left into it. He was weakening further the longer the fight went on, and feared that if he didn¡¯t end it in one conclusive blow, then it would be too late. His enemy seemed tireless, strength coming from an untiring mechanical suit.


    Derelict felt his leg throbbing where he had been kicked. It was hard to put all of his weight onto it. If he were at full power, a blow like that would have barely harmed him. Now, it greatly decreased his speed, and his ability to use his leg in general. His back and head hurt where he had gotten slammed into the floor. His nose, of course, still hurt.


    The mechanically clad hero lay on the floor, unmoving. Derelict let out a sigh of relief. It was over. He turned around, surveying the destruction that lay behind him. With a sigh, he moved to collect John, when he heard a quiet, mechanical whirring behind him.


    Ryan started to run. As fast as his legs would take him, he tried to flee the destroyed interior of the store he had set out to rob earlier that day. He hurled over a small ice-cream freezer, and was approaching the exit when he felt a pressure on his back. The floor loomed in his vision, and went it consumed his entire field of view he felt a pressure in his head, and it all went black.


    -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Dylan stood over the unconscious body of his defeated foe. His entire body ached, and he wasn¡¯t sure he would be able to stand without his armor. His headache was intense, pounding on the inside of his skull, and his vision swam with spots, where it wasn¡¯t covered by a persistent dark ring.


    He smashed Derelicts head into the floor one last time for good measure, before limping out of the gas station, passed the bodies. The door whirred open as he approached. Dylan had never been more grateful for the conveniences of modern life.


    The police had tried to keep him from leaving, but after he stared at them for a bit, they nervously backed off and let him pass.


    When he made it back to his house, he made sure to go around back and hop over the fence there, before stripping from the power armor. He deposited behind the shed, with the rest of the scrap, before heading to bed, not even bothering to wash off. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep immediately.

 Chapter 10

    Detective Hasborough let out a weary sigh as he exited his car. He had just gotten off for the day when he was called back to investigate an ¡°urgent situation¡±. Instead of getting to spend time with his kids, he got to come in and see the results of some punk or sicko losing control. At least, that¡¯s what he suspected it was. His boss wouldn¡¯t tell him much, instead prompting him to hurry over when Hasborough tried to get any clarification.


    His knees protested as he got out of the car. He was getting too old for this. Hasborough had been in the force for 30 years, and what had started out as optimism and enthusiasm had slowly turned into discontent. His job meant that he was either bored out of his mind, scared for his life, or witnessing the sickening crimes of someone who could barely be called human. And he didn¡¯t even want to get started on what happened when supers were involved, which seemed to be happening more and more frequently.


    Hasborough was a tall man, although age had shortened him somewhat. His hair was graying, following his mustache, which had already completed the process nearly half a decade ago. He had short, straight hair, the type that always seemed to be in order. Once, he felt like he was a symbol of strength and justice. Now, he just noticed how the lines in his face seemed to get deeper each time he looked into the mirror.


    He wore an old trench coat, which, despite its faded appearance, was still warm and waterproof. Underneath he wore a suit, sans jacket, colored a light gray. Trench coats weren¡¯t nearly as popular today as they had been when he joined the force, but honestly, Hasborough didn¡¯t care. He was about through with caring about most things people thought, to be honest.


    The sun, which had been out all day, had been covered up by gray, melancholy clouds. It had been raining on and off for the last hour, covering the pavements in puddles. Hasborough¡¯s cheap fake leather shoes splashed through the shallow water.


    He took one last look around the outside of the gas station. A few police cruisers were parked around, lights off, blocking access to the location. A few officers stood watch, to discourage those who didn¡¯t get the message. One was talking to a news crew, one of the few in town, who had caught wind that something was going on here and wanted to be the first on the scoop.


    The automatic doors whirred open, and Hasborough was treated to a scene of carnage.


    ¡°Christ¡± he murmured, wiping his brow. It wasn¡¯t the worst thing he¡¯d seen, not even close, but it was bad. Maybe if he was in a larger city, sights like this would be more common, but here, stuff like this only popped up once every 2 or 3 years, and it was always a bad couple of weeks when it happened. The thought of the paperwork alone was enough to bring on the start of a headache.


    There were two markers sitting on the floor, one on top of a pool of blood and what looked to be a few teeth. Those would be the living suspects, who were brought off to the hospital to ensure their survival.


    Laying a few feet away was a body, with the top half of its head dissolving into mush on the floor, a bloody metal bat lying nearby.


    Also on the floor was a bloodied man in a bright red spandex style suit. He was unconscious, restrained by a device emitting bright bands of light.


    Hasborough wiped his forehead in relief. Dying because someone failed to restrain a super wasn¡¯t a fate he would wish on anybody, let alone himself. Their department was lucky enough that the feds distributed some Formens tech for situations like this, or it would be far dicier. They didn¡¯t have much that could stop an active super, but once they were down, they could restrain most of them for a few hours. He was glad it was there, even though the super didn¡¯t look like he could hurt anybody else at the moment. He looked like he had been on the receiving end of a severe beating.


    As for the store itself, it was in a rough shape, even discounting the blood. There was a person shaped hole in the wall, almost 2 inches deep, partially through concrete. The floor was dotted with multiple cracked holes, and the cheap tiles had been especially ripped up in one section. Many of the shelves were tipped over, bent and broken products on the ground around them. One of the displays was nearly ripped in half. The smell of gunpowder lingered in the air, and there was the outline of a firearm near the corpse.


    Hasborough heard a groan behind him, and saw the secured super groggily open his eyes. The detective frowned, unhappy with the development. That would make him more difficult to transport. Hopefully the-


    Hasborough was interrupted by the sound of the automatic door opening behind him. He turned around, to see another red clad figure. This one was larger than the man on the floor, his suit a brighter red, striped with white.


    He cut an imposing figure, standing even taller than Hasborough, and was heavily muscled to boot. Dynamis. The new rookie superhero, left in charge after the city¡¯s normal protector was called away to deal with the event that was going on, along with seemingly 80% of the other superheroes in the world.


    Dynamis was young, probably in his early twenties, and that was reflected in his demeanor. While Coriolis, the super in charge of protecting their little city, was often friendly and approachable, exercising mercy even where he could have gotten away with violence, Dynamis was different. He was confident, but he was cold, and often overzealous, eager to prove himself. He wasn¡¯t as kind. Hasborough didn¡¯t know if that was a common trait for new heroes or not, but he suspected that some of that limitless patience some professionals had was a learned trait.


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    The detective heard cracking sounds behind him. He turned, to see the previously restrained villain standing up. The bindings were still on him, but their anchors had been ripped from the floor.


    Hasborough moved to radio for help. A restrained super was still dangerous, and if he got out, well¡­ everyone around was in danger. Before he could grab his radio, a red and white blur shot by.


    A sudden wind blew his coat, and he heard a sharp crack as Dynamis slammed the villain''s head into the floor, rendering him unconscious near instantly. Hasborough dropped his hands to his sides. He supposed that the situation was resolved.


    Sighing, he pressed his hands to his temples. This was going to be a major pain in the ass, wasn¡¯t it?


    ---------


    Once the rouge super had been rebound, Hasborough and Dynamis proceeded to the back of the store, to access the security footage. They had to wind back a little bit, but eventually they found the start of the event.


    The video showed three masked men running into the store, followed by the red clad villain. The audio quality was poor, but it did exist ( a recently mandated requirement after some enterprising business had convinced supers to ¡°rob¡± them to collect on insurance), and they were able to make out the villain introducing himself as Derelict.


    Two of the masked men, each one bearing bats, started getting people out of the store, while Derelict and the final man went to the back.


    Once they had ensured that everyone had left, they took up cover, in case of a response. The police showed up a few minutes later. In the back, Derelict and the third man were trying to crack the safe.


    This continued for several minutes, so Hasborough fast-forwarded through it. There would be time for a more thorough review later. He put the recording back to normal speed when he caught sight of a person in a suit of power armor striding in the door. They looked short, with thin limbs, but it was hard to tell with the bulk of the armor covering their head and chest.


    The new super was immediately ambushed by one of the men with the bats. He easily turned and caught it, but his assailant turned and dodged out of distance before they could grab him. The other robber came up behind them, kicking the suited figure''s legs out from under them.


    They beat on the armor with the bats, but it seemed to have no effect, and the figure quickly threw themselves back to their feet, knocking the thugs away. They recovered quickly, and resumed their assault, but the person in armor ignored one, instead choosing to take one of the bats and snap it in half.


    The thug that was wielding it rapidly backpedaled, but the armored super blurred across the floor, landing a devastating punch that sent teeth flying and the thug to the floor.


    The other man turned to run, but the super blurred again, tackling him to the floor. They slammed the man''s head into the ground, removing him from the fight.


    A few seconds later, the third man walked out. Unlike the others, he was armed with a pistol. He said something, and the super reached to pick up the fallen metal bat. They weren¡¯t able to reach it in time, and a gunshot that was loud even over the tinned audio of the recording echoed in the tiny office.


    The supers head moved slightly, but other than that, it had no effect. The thug moved to fire again, but the armored figure hurled the bat through the air, embedding it in the man''s skull. Another gunshot went off as he fell to the ground, striking nothing.


    The armored super remained crouched on the ground, until Derelict, who must have heard the gunshots and been concerned by the lack of check in, walked out. He said something to the super, who stood up, before slamming him into a wall.


    Their fight played out similarly to the one between the armored person and the thugs. Derelict would unleash a blistering flurry of attacks, or a blow that would kill a normal person, and they would stagger or daze the super, but ultimately would prove to do no noticeable damage. As time went on, Derelict started to slow, and the armored figure seemed to be getting faster, blurring around to catch Derelict. The villain would to catch his opponent in an arm bar, only to get slammed on the ground, or to leap at him, only to get caught by a fist.


    Eventually, Derelict seemingly had enough, blasting forwards faster than before, so fast that even with a frame by frame most of the action was missed by the relatively cheap cameras.


    This sent the mystery super flying, but after a few seconds they returned to their feet. Derelict turned to run, but was quickly tackled into the ground.


    Hasborough stopped the playback. That was about an expansive of a coverage of the incident as they were likely to get, short of help from another super with very specific powers.


    The aging detective turned to his impromptu investigative partner. Dynamis had a stern look on his face. Noticing Hasborough¡¯s inquisitive stare, the young hero spoke.


    ¡°A villain, I think, or a rather poor vigilante. He¡¯s too aggressive. Plus, he might be connected to the incident at the scrapyard the other night. The materials for armor like that need to come from somewhere. Put out the order. He¡¯s to be treated as a villain. Do not approach. I¡¯ll apprehend him myself.¡±


    His conclusion differed from the one that Hasborough had reached.


    ¡°While they¡¯re certainly, ah, generous, in their application of excessive force, I don¡¯t know if we can call them a villain. They seem like an amateur hero. You know how sloppy they can get. Maybe just bring them in, talk with them?¡±


    Watching the brutal fight had distracted Hasborough from a crucial fact. He wasn¡¯t dealing with Coriolis right now, and his replacement was a lot less reasonable than his successor.


    The detective saw the young man''s jaw firm.


    ¡°No, he¡¯s dangerous. I checked the power registry database while we were watching the footage. He doesn¡¯t come up. He could just as easily be a villain taking an opportunity to remove a rival as he could be an unskilled vigilante, and from the looks of the fight, he¡¯s got experience. Someone that dangerous shouldn¡¯t be roaming the streets. It will be as I say.¡±


    With that pronouncement, Dynamis turned and strode off, giving one last order as he did so.


    ¡°You¡¯ll be helping me investigate him later. I¡¯ll call you when I need you.¡±


    The office door slammed behind him. Hasborough buried his head in his hands. His precious free time was about to vanish like a mirage. He turned, and trudged out of the store. Maybe his boss would let him retire a few years early.


    He chuckled to himself. Who was he kidding? He was fucked.

 Chapter 11

    Dylan felt the sunlight through his eyelids. He wished he hadn¡¯t because it immediately gave him a pounding headache. He groaned, and reached to shut the blinds that he had neglected to close the night before. The movement turned him over, sending a deep pulse of dull pain down his side.


    Dylan yelped, and then looked down to try and identify the source of the pain. There was a large, dark bruise near the source of the ache. He also identified the rest of his bruises, which were numerous. They dotted his torso, leaving him more purple than human. His palms were also bruised, which he noticed when they scream at him as he tried to push himself out of bed.


    Dylan staggered over to the small mirror hanging on his wall. He had tried to walk, but his legs felt weak and unsteady. He had a large bruise around his eye, but other than that, nothing else was on his face. Dylan sighed in relief. If his had had looked like his torso did, it would have been impossible to hide from his mother. As it was, he would have to wear baggy clothes and make up something about his eye.


    Throwing on a too large T-Shirt, Dylan headed downstairs, seeking out some form of over the counter pill he could imbibe in order to dull his raging headache, along with all the various other pains he felt.


    Just going down the stairs left Dylan out of breath and dizzy. He groaned. This was going to be a whole thing, wasn¡¯t it?


    Dylan hoped he wouldn¡¯t feel this bad after every battle. He supposed he had been lucky enough to emerge from all of his early scraps unscathed, but he might have to seriously reconsider his approach if it felt like he got jumped every time.


    A startling thought occurred. He had won. If this was what it felt like to taste victory, then what was defeat like? Shuddering to himself, Dylan resolved to never lose. He didn¡¯t feel like getting hospitalized.


    He eventually found the medicine bottle, and grabbed a glass of water. Why did the pill have to be so big? With an uncomfortable feeling of his throat exploding, Dylan managed to choke it down.


    Unfortunately, it would take some time for it to go into effect, so Dylan sought a distraction while he waited. Ultimately, he ended up reflecting on his performance the day before.


    First, he really should have dealt with those two thugs quicker. If he had managed that, then he very likely wouldn¡¯t have taken such a huge beating. He should have been more aggressive at the start. They were criminals. Knocking all of those guys teeth out wasn¡¯t intentional, and he aimed to avoid repeating that particular scenario in the future, but like... better them than him.


    Second, he needed to be careful when using the legs of his suit. He had learned his lesson about the power contained in the arms, but the legs were of a whole different sort of problem. The mobility they could provide was exceptional, and one of his biggest advantages. On the other hand, his body couldn¡¯t handle the pressure. Dylan suspected that a large amount of his maladies were caused by that alone.


    Maybe he could try and use less of the suit''s strength when he did it. It wasn¡¯t like he had to go all or nothing. Dylan had done it before, at least with the arms, but the legs might be a different story. It was hard to track how hard you were jumping when you were fighting for your life.


    Dylan really didn¡¯t want to give it up, but he also didn¡¯t want to die 20 years early because he obliterated his internal organs a little bit more every time he went out heroing. He supposed he could always practice with it, and if he still couldn¡¯t control it, he could limit it to emergencies. It sucked that something so cool was so limited.


    After taking the pills, Dylan walked over to the couch, and turned the TV on. It was on a local news channel. The anchor was a middle-aged man, wearing a clean gray suit.


    ¡°The event in Northern Africa is still ongoing. A large, pitch black dome surrounds the site, meaning that there is no way to see what¡¯s going on from the outside. The hero¡¯s guild, when asked to comment on the matter, simply said that the situation was under control, and to let the heroes work. Local law enforcement is collaborating with the Hero¡¯s guild to keep all civilians away from the area. An insider at a local hospital, who asked not to be named, said that there are frequent medical evacuations¡­¡±


    Dylan tuned out the reporter. The situation was unusual. Global emergencies weren¡¯t exactly uncommon, but for one to last this long ... It had already been a week. The fact that they weren¡¯t telling anybody what actually was going on was also suspicious. Usually somebody would have information about an event like this.


    Dylan felt his eyelids starting to droop. Letting out a yawn, he leaned back onto the couch, drifting off.


    He saw flashes of his recent fight, the blood. He felt himself getting beaten on, only thin metal sheets protecting him from having his skull caved in. He remembered the man with the knife from the junkyard, the wheezes he made while he died.


    Dylan woke up to his mother asking him what had happened to him. Dazed, it took him a moment to realize that she was talking about the bruise on his face. What would be a good excuse for that?


    ¡°I uhhh, fell over?¡±


    Dylan¡¯s mother gave him a weird look, but, with a tired sigh, accepted his explanation, leaving him to his business.


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    Over the course of the next week, Dylan slowly recovered from the beating he had taken. The bruises started to fade, he stopped running out of breath so quickly, and he started to feel stronger.


    His appetite noticeably increased over that time period, to the point where he was a little concerned. Had Derelict beaten an eating disorder into him? He didn¡¯t notice any changes or adverse effects, so he eventually filled it to the back of his mind, but Dylan resolved to keep an eye on it. He didn¡¯t want to end up becoming overweight, or salt out his liver. That would make a lot of things more difficult. Fitting in his armor, for one.


    Dylan also got around to cleaning his armor. Waiting for his mother to leave, he crept outside, and tried to hose it off. While that got some of the gunk off, it wasn¡¯t enough to get the bulk of it off. He regretted letting it dry on in the first place.


    He eventually went back inside and grabbed a sponge and some dish soap, determined to get a full clean in. Even with the tools, he had to scrub harder than he was expecting. It took nearly 10 minutes of work per stain, and there were several on the armor.


    The very worst thing to clean was the gauntlets. They were sealed, but there were still places under the plates where blood could seep in. Considering how much he used the hands for, well, punching people, they were pretty dirty. He spent nearly an hour per hand, trying to jam the sponge into the small gaps. And it seemed like whenever he thought he¡¯d fully cleaned a section, a new speck of reddish brown would show up, invalidating his efforts. Dylan ended up having to replace the first sponge once it got too stained, and when he had finally finished cleaning everything, he realized that returning a sponge to the kitchen, to be used on dishes that they ate off of, while still covered in bits of people that should stay on the inside, might be a bad idea.


    Dylan threw the sponge away, but when he went to look for a new one, he realized that they were out. Dylan fully intended to ignore the situation. Surely nobody would notice.


    While he was laying the armor out to dry (hidden behind the shed, of course. He still didn¡¯t want his parents to find it), he heard someone shouting his name from inside the house.


    ¡°Dylan! Dylan! Get in here, now!¡±


    The tone brooked no argument. He hurried to comply, scuttling into the house, attempting to contort his face into the Platonic concept of innocence.


    Dylan¡¯s mother was either a physic, or he didn¡¯t get the power to alter his appearance, because she seemed to think it was his fault the instant she saw him.


    ¡°What did you do with the sponges?¡± she asked, arms crossed.


    Dylan took a moment to think about his reply.


    ¡°I¡­ can¡¯t remember.¡±


    For some reason, this didn¡¯t work.


    ¡°You will not do this again, or you will be paying to replace them!¡± his mother snapped.


    Dylan frowned, taken aback. Even if he got into trouble, she normally wasn¡¯t so snippy. He figured that she must be stressed out. He nodded in agreement, at which point he was made to repeat an agreement twice verbally before he was let loose.


    The following day, he got to work on his armor. First, he had to get the dents out. That was a relatively simple process, one that didn¡¯t even involve him blacking out. He ran his hands over the armor, and gently pulled, the material warping back to its original state. Dylan couldn¡¯t say why, but he felt that those spots were at least as strong as they had been before they were damaged, if not stronger. Hopefully, that seemingly supernatural intuition was from his power, and not from his clueless human instincts.


    There was only one dent that he couldn¡¯t fix like this. It was a large one on the chest. He had to use a hammer to remove it, and his memory surrounding that part of the repairs was hazy.


    Dylan looked at the pile of scrap sitting behind the shed. He had used a fair amount of it, but there was still quite a bit left. That was good. Dylan planned to add armor to the limbs, and make them able to output more force.


    During the battle in the store, Dylan realized just how vulnerable his limbs were. Sure, he could quickly take out a normal person, but a lucky strike could easily do serious damage. The man with the gun could have killed him, had he shot an artery. Or if the men with the bats had realized that his limbs were mostly unarmored, they could have struck him there. A bat would easily break his arm if it didn¡¯t hit the thin metal barriers that the suit currently provided.


    Additionally, it wasn¡¯t strong enough for his needs. Maybe his first super encounter should have made that obvious, but he couldn¡¯t dish out any significant damage to super durable opponents. He couldn¡¯t even make the first man bleed, and the only villain he had fought had tired himself out, allowing himself to be hurt. And these guys were low level. Dylan didn¡¯t expect to make it into the big leagues immediately, but not having a means to deal with some of the weakest supers out there was an issue.


    These upgrades, while more difficult than the repairs, weren¡¯t all that difficult, at least compared to making the suit in the first place. Once he was done, the arms were also coated in the same style of metal as the chest, although the plating was significantly thinner in most areas. Putting it on, he felt like the arm''s max speed was faster, hopefully testifying that he had indeed made it able to output more force, but Dylan was unable to say anything for certain. He didn¡¯t have anything to test on, really, which could be a problem. If he had made the suit stronger, the next time he hit a normal person, he might put too much strength into the blow and accidentally kill them. That would be inconvenient, and he really wanted to clean as little blood off of (and out of) the suit as possible. He had recently found out what a pain it was. Plus, he was out of sponges to clean out the small joints.


    Dylan also wanted to see if he could make some sort of weapon for his drone. Having one installed could have saved him a lot of trouble during his fight with Derelict. When he was getting pummeled into the wall, for example, he could have had the drone shoot his opponent in the back with something, like a supped up stun gun, to distract them.


    When he tried to enter the Formens flow state, he realized that he would have to put off the modifications for another day. Dylan felt a headache start to come on, and quickly abandoned the attempt. There wasn¡¯t much that could convince him to take the full brunt of his power induced headache.


    The good news was that he felt almost back at 100% by now, which was good. He was almost ready to go back out again, hopefully as a more effective hero. Also, one who wouldn¡¯t get beat up as badly.


    Dylan headed back inside, trying to avoid the balmy summer heat. He had a lot to do tomorrow, but for now, he would relax.


    He did wonder where his father was. It had been 2 weeks since he¡¯d left on his business trip, and he still hadn¡¯t returned, nor sent any news that Dylan was aware of. Maybe his father was still corresponding with his mother. The first business trip his father takes in 6 years happened to be a multi-weeked monster. Hmm. Maybe he would be getting promoted soon. They might actually be able to afford to get Dylan components then.

 Chapter 12

    Training with his armor was something of a priority. It could mean the difference between life and death in a fight (although dying wasn¡¯t super likely, especially down here. Killing another super tended to bring more heat down on a rookie than they were able to handle), and it certainly could mean the difference between being injured and getting away clean.


    And, hopefully, it would allow him to move at speeds beyond what a human should be capable of without liquefying his insides. Even though he had done it before, the thought still excited Dylan. He had dreamt of powers for so long, and he was finally living his dream. It wasn¡¯t quite like he had imagined when he was younger. He had always pictured himself with some other power, like super strength, or something like Judgement had, becoming a being of living energy.


    Dylan wasn¡¯t disappointed with what he got, however. His power was extremely versatile, if not as strong as some others. If he had to put it in terms of sheer power, it would probably rank in the middle of mid-tier. However, in terms of versatility, it was almost certainly high tier. That alone was something to be thankful for.


    He could have gotten a useless power, like the ability to know how to comb his hair perfectly, or the ability to see an extra color. Powers this weak were rare, with most falling into the mid-tier, but they did exist.


    Or even worse than that, he could have gotten a burdensome power. These weren¡¯t always weak. In fact, most of them were too strong. Too strong to be used, often too strong to be around people at all. The most famous example had to be that of Helion. He wasn¡¯t an ancient god, despite the name.


    Instead, he had the power of a star inside of him, quite literally. He was nearly invincible, one of the strongest to ever walk the earth, but it came at a cost. He leaked. Out of his pores pored radiation and heat. Opening his eyes caused intense solar flames to boil forth. Because of this, he couldn¡¯t be around humans very often. He had an extraordinary physique, granted by his powers, that lent him near perfect control over himself. He often sat in the upper atmosphere, pores sealed, eyes shut, meditating, waiting to be called upon.


    Helion was one of the coolest examples of burdensome powers, one both noble and useful. Others were not so lucky. Some exploded. Others had to live with terrifying mutations, or lost their minds. There were a whole host of negative, terrifying effects that could come with a burdensome superpower.


    Dylan remembered hearing about the story of one young man, a wannabe superhero from about 20 years prior. He was fantastically powerful, with the ability to emit terrifying blasts of energy from his hands. He could use this energy to fly, move at superhuman speeds, create shields out of it. It was a high tier power, bordering on peak.


    As for the rookie hero, he was loved by the community. He was selfless, quick to respond, always happy to help. Nobody had a second thought about him, until some of the villains he captured started to die of cancer.


    When it happened to the first one, it didn¡¯t raise any red flags. Being in the business was dangerous. Plenty of people got exposed to chemical, or radiation, or were experimented on or some such. Hell, the guy could have just been unlucky enough to get cancer randomly.


    It was when the second incarcerated villain went down that people started to look closer at the situation. Forgotten reports of people getting sick in the new hero¡¯s passing were recovered. Investigations into old battle sites were undertaken. Investigators found high levels of radiation present.


    Once they were able to confirm that the source, the super, was locked away, deep in a government vault under the earth. He was delivered food through lifts and pipes nearly half a mile long.


    Dylan couldn¡¯t remember his name, but he could remember the cost to fix all of the damage: Nearly 500 million dollars. The super was only active for about 2 months.


    It was powers like such as those that made people afraid of their children developing them. There were more mundane examples. Powers that weren¡¯t particularly useful but covered up a particular body part. Imagine being an ordinary salaryman, and one day you wake up and have flippers instead of hands, and can¡¯t accomplish nearly anything anymore. Or being unable to control your ability to swap places with anyone within 5 feet of you. Potentially dangerous, and certainly annoying.


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    With all that in mind, Dylan had gotten lucky. But that still didn¡¯t change the fact that his powers weren¡¯t directly suited to one on one combat. He needed to train his body and mind to be more capable, but he also needed to start coming up with ways to work around his weaknesses. Traps, robots, turrets, these were all classic parts pf the Formens playbook, and it would be to his benefit to make use of them.


    Dylan filed his ideas aside in his mind, to be revisited at a future date. For now, he had training to do. His mother was out again, so now was the perfect time to do it. He didn¡¯t want to have to answer the questions that would inevitably pop up if she saw him, but he also didn¡¯t want to go somewhere public to train. That seemed like a bad idea. People normally accepted supers, but supers floundering around with their powers? That was less acceptable socially. Actually pretty likely to get the police or heroes called on you, if you were unlucky.


    Dylan started stretching. He figured that if he was going to be exercising, he might as well limber up first. His warm-up didn¡¯t last long. For one, he didn¡¯t know many stretches. Also, he had so little muscle that there wasn¡¯t much for him to stretch in the first place.


    Finishing his preparations, Dylan stepped into his suit. He ran through some range of motion exercises, just to get used to the basics, but there wasn¡¯t much preparation to do. He realized that he was nervous, heart beating in his chest as it was. It didn¡¯t take long to figure out why. Despite how cool dashing in the suit was, it also hurt. It made him feel like he was going to pass out. It wasn¡¯t at all comfortable, and Dylan had the distinct feeling that it could even be dangerous.


    And that was without considering what would happen to him if he fell while doing it. He would probably survive without major injuries, but despite how protective his suit was, getting hurt still hurt. And he wasn¡¯t hopped up on adrenaline right now, unlike his earlier fight.


    Plus, what would happen if he hit the fence, or damaged something? His parents would be furious. This wasn¡¯t a good idea. He didn¡¯t really need to-


    Stop. Dylan forced his worries down. He could make excuses until the sun died, but if he wanted to be a hero, he would have to do this. Or, be an alive hero, he supposed. Dylan could keep getting into super battles without knowing what he was doing.


    Crouching down, Dylan steadied himself. He focused his vision on where he wanted to go, and took a deep breath. Then he dashed.


    Immediately, all of the air in his lungs was expelled. Dylan''s vision darkened, and when it cleared, he was looking at the sky, gasping for air. He slowly pushed himself to his feet, power armor doing it¡¯s best to stabilize his unstable limbs.


    It took him a while to catch his breath. That was terrible, even worse than pushing off at full power before, and he had been trying to hold back. Doing that more than once or twice in a row would probably kill him. How much stronger did his suit become with the newest upgrades? Dylan wished he had more control over his power. He mostly just had an intuitive understanding of what he was doing, and the ability to black out and make things happen. He didn¡¯t have anything exact, which was proving to be troublesome.


    It was obvious that Dylan needed to dial back the force he was jumping with even more. Once he was sure he was as steady as he was going to get, and most of the dizziness faded, he crouched down again, fixing his eyes on his target destination. This time, he was extra careful to moderate the force he pushed through his legs.


    While the corners of his vision darkened, it didn¡¯t all go. The surroundings blurred, and Dylan found himself standing close to where he had intended to go. He was a bit out of breath, but it didn¡¯t feel like his lungs had been flattened by a steam roller, so there was that.


    He spent the next hour practicing, trying to dash with less and less force each time. It got easier to control the distance and speed that he moved at, but it still took a toll on his body. Dylan eventually realized that he could press down with a small amount of pressure, using just one foot, and move like has running for a few feet. This, at least, didn¡¯t really harm him, so it should be viable to use repeatedly in a fight. As for the rest, he could dash at a restrained level a few times before the toll was too great for him to continue, although he¡¯d rather avoid it if he could. As for doing it at full strength, he could maybe do it once, in the case of an emergency. He would have to finish the fight immediately though, or at least give his opponent a significant amount of pause, because it would leave him vulnerable for nearly a minute afterward, as he recovered.


    Dylan stashed his armor behind the shed. He still had more that he wanted to do, but for now, he would be calling it a day. His practice had taken a lot out of him, and he didn¡¯t want to fatigue himself too much, in case he needed to go back out and do more hero stuff.


    Letting out a contented sigh, Dylan headed back inside. It was nap time.

 Chapter 13

    Despite what he had said earlier, it was another 2 days before Dylan added the turret to his drone. He still had a lingering headache after his training, and the physical effects of what he was doing weren¡¯t to be underestimated. He once again had to stumble out of bed, although he didn¡¯t end up nearly as beat up as before (probably due to him skipping the actual beating this time).


    Dylan wasn¡¯t quite sure how he made the weapon attachment. He wasn¡¯t quite sure what it shot, either. He didn¡¯t even think he had the components for it, at the start. He just kind of wandered over to his scrap pile, and thought about what he wanted to do, and then woke up on his back about an hour later. The drone had a new, foot and a half long metal tube mounted under it. There wasn¡¯t any slots for ammo, or any place to insert it.


    Dylan hoped it was similar to the power source situation. Not needing to provide it ammo would be super useful. He didn¡¯t really have the time or motivation to make that sort of thing, especially not with how limited his supplies were.


    He supposed that he needed to test it as well. Dylan looked around his yard for a target. He didn¡¯t think that the weapon would be too destructive, but he did make it with supers in mind, so a target that wouldn¡¯t be missed was a must.


    An old wheelbarrow? No, that was still occasionally used for gardening. Dylan knew he had his target when he spotted old firewood, piled up near the corner of the yard. It leaned against the fence unsteadily, and looked like it was mostly rotted through. It must have been sitting there for years. Dylan couldn¡¯t remember the last time they had used their fire pit. The small brick structure sat unused, and the ashes inside it were probably older than Dylan.


    He set three logs up in a roughly triangular formation, one stacked on top of the other. Dylan went and looked for his drone. Waving his hand over it, the light at its center lit up. Its rotor blades spun into motion, producing a now familiar whirring sound. It had been almost a while since he had last used the invention, so he was looking forwards to seeing how his modifications would impact it.


    Dylan''s phone buzzed. He frowned, moving to pull it out of his pocket. Was his mother calling him? Hopefully she didn¡¯t need him to do something. He would be loath to stop his testing before he had even got the chance to start.


    The message on his phone wasn¡¯t from his mother, but it did mean he had to abandon his testing. It was the police scanner app, reporting a nearby hostage situation. To top it off, a super was believed to be involved.


    Dylan immediately ran over to his suit, popping it open so he could hop inside. Once it was secured around him, he ran over to the fence, peeking over it to make sure nobody was around. Once he was confident, he wouldn¡¯t be spotted jumping out of his backyard in power armor, he hopped the fence, and started off towards the location of the crime, using a GPS app to help him navigate the unfamiliar turns.


    He ran fast, far faster than he could''ve by himself. He even outran a few cars driving down some residential streets. Despite this, it took him nearly 20 minutes to arrive at the location of the crime.


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    There were several police cars outside, lights flashing. An older man, dressed like a detective from an 80s novel, was shouting something through a megaphone. Dylan couldn¡¯t make out what he was saying.


    Well, there was an idea for improvements. Something to improve his senses while he was in this thing, like microphones that could pick up conversations from a hundred feet away, or something like that.


    Not only would it be really cool, it would be useful for situations like this. Dylan would have really liked to know what the detective was saying. Having some idea of what was going on would have been quite useful.


    Dylan mentally shrugged to himself. It wasn¡¯t that important. The police could just stand back and let the hero work. He had solved every other incident he had been involved in just fine, so it stood to reason that this one would be the same.


    Dylan took a deep breath. The stakes were higher this time, with actual lives on the line, but he felt he could do it. He hadn¡¯t failed before, and he wouldn¡¯t fail now. He was a damn superhero.


    The building they surrounded was blocky, made of concrete, almost like a small skyscraper. It was only about 5 stories tall, and it looked like it hadn¡¯t been kept up well. There was no sign over the entrance, and what remained of the paint was a few peeling flakes, leaving the structure mostly gray, the concrete occasionally broken up by a few rust stains that dotted its surface.


    Only a few lights were on inside, leaving most of the building''s windows completely dark. One of the windows on the bottom story was broken, with graffiti on a nearby wall. That would be the most obvious entrance, being the most accessible (besides simply striding in the front doors) but that meant that it was probably being watched. Dylan had a better plan.


    He ran at the building, leaping into the air as he got closer, catapulting through a window on the second story. Dylan had tucked himself into a ball to fit through the frame. The window shattered, the breaking glass sounding almost like a roar. He hit the ground, rolling back to his feet as shards of the window rained to the floor around him.


    Dylan stood up, and swung his head around to loosen up his neck. It was time to get down to business.


    ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Detective Hasborough watched as the armored super sprinted across the street, as faster than any normal human could possibly run, before hurling himself up into the air, and through a second story window.


    Fuck. The situation had already gotten complicated earlier, and now it was getting even worse? Fucking amateur supers, walking into things that they didn¡¯t understand. Hostage situations were not situations that you wanted to have untrained actors in. Even experienced veterans could fuck them up beyond repair, with a wrong word or action. Hasborough didn¡¯t need to explain how badly rogue actors could cause this to turn.


    He pulled out his phone, and dialed Dynamis. The hero was already aware of the situation, but he needed to be notified of this new element complicating the situation. Hasborough waited as the phone rung.


    When Dynamis picked up, all the detective could hear from the other end was labored breathing, with some accompanying crashing and blasts. Hasborough waited until the cacophony of noise stopped before speaking.


    ¡°You know that super, the one in the power armor? They just jumped into the second story window of the building where the hostages are being held. Thought you¡¯d want to know¡±.


    It took a second for the reply to come.


    ¡°Understood. Once I wrap this up, I¡¯ll be on my way¡±.


    The line went dead.


    Hasborough pressed on his temples. He knew that this whole thing would be a pain in the ass. When supers were involved, it always was.

 Chapter 14

    Pietro was having a bad day. This was supposed to be, if not simple, relatively straightforward. Wait for the one hero remaining in the city to be occupied, grab some hostages, get ransom money and disappear. They¡¯d done it before.


    The first sign, Pietro noticed, that this wasn¡¯t quite going to plan was when one of the downstairs windows broke. That shouldn¡¯t have happened. Sure, it could be the police. They might have gotten antsy, conducted a raid, called in the swat, whatever. It wasn¡¯t impossible. Maybe they thought he was lying, that the hostages were already dead, or that he was going to kill them either way. Maybe some trumped-up bureaucrat wanted to resolve this situation quickly, and show leadership by taking down the ¡°terrorists¡± without  having to give any ground or negotiate.


    Pietro didn¡¯t think that was the case for a few reasons. First, he was a super. While supers on the police force weren¡¯t completely uncommon in other places, in a town this size, well, it just didn¡¯t happen. Anybody who showed any amount of competence or promise and was also interested in law enforcement was quickly swept up into the bigger cities, by larger branches of the heroes'' guild, with more to offer.


    Perhaps a few would be rotated back here, as Dynamis was, but most were gone, off to seek bigger things (or die in bigger battles, but that was neither here nor there).


    That meant that the police wouldn¡¯t be breaking that window. They didn¡¯t have anybody to compete with him, while Dynamis was busy. Unless they had suddenly gained a death wish, they were all still sitting outside, crouched behind their cruisers, negotiating with one of Pietro''s men.


    The second reason why Pietro didn¡¯t think it was the police was the tingling sensation that was running up and down his spine. It was a secondary effect of his power, and it worked almost like a supernatural danger sense. It was a pretty common type of power for big league supers, and although Pietro didn¡¯t fall into that category, the ability still served him well.


    It had even saved his ass on multiple occasions. Like the time that he had fought Calamity. He still had the scars to prove it, but without the warning his power provided, he would have died almost immediately.


    That same power told him that danger was coming. That was why he had sent out two of his men to check out the source of the broken window. If it was anything truly dangerous, well, they would probably be ineffective, but they did have guns, so hopefully they could at least hinder whatever was the source.


    Problem was, it had been ten minutes since it happened, and Pietro had heard nothing. No gunshots, no shouts, no reports back. The building wasn¡¯t that big. It meant something had gone wrong. Either his men were incapacitated so fast that they didn¡¯t have a chance to fight back, or whatever they were up against was able to completely muffle the sounds of conflict.


    Pietro had some of his men stationed around the floor they were holding the hostages on (the same floor that he himself happened to be on), so he would have to tell them to come closer to the main rooms that they were using. It wouldn¡¯t do to let them all get taken out one by one as they wandered off, like it was some sort of action movie.


    The sound of breaking glass could be heard from the hallway. It was closer than the first time. Pietro grit his teeth. What was it now? Hopefully whatever had broken the first window had encountered finally faced difficulty with one of his men. He doubted that. Likely, it was another intruder.


    Pietros'' hands clenched, his nails drawing blood almost instantly. It dripped down onto the floor, like a small crimson stream. He winced. It had been a while since he¡¯d done that. He slowed his breathing.


    If anything, this should be reassuring. Things like this rarely went to plan. He should be happy that it was just someone nobodies trying to break in. Pietro supposed that it could have been much worse. The Crimson Blade could have been in town, for one thing. Pietro shuddered at the thought, before ordering his henchmen to regroup closer to the core of their operation.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Dylan walked around the entirety of the second floor of the building. Despite his somewhat obvious entrance, nobody came to greet him. No guards, toting machine guns, no cultists dressed in robes and masks, not even the super behind the incident. No, the floor was almost completely empty.


    Dylan¡¯s search was considerably hastened by the fact that almost all of the furniture inside the building had been removed. There were marks on the cheap carpet that suggested it had once existed, light patches resembling the bottom of cubicles and desks. They barely stood out amidst the myriad of stains that dotted the carpet.


    The place was kind of gross, to be honest. Dylan didn¡¯t really want to stay in here longer than he needed to, so he made sure to keep his search succinct. He wasn¡¯t super worried about missing anybody. If they were strong enough to harm him then they likely wouldn¡¯t be hiding. Plus, he had a goal. Dylan would simply have to accept the risk that he missed someone and move to saving the hostages.


    Satisfied that he had looked as much as common sense demanded, Dylan made his way to a stairwell, located in one of the corners of the building. He pulled the door open, revealing a dimly lit stairwell, many of the bulbs long burned out. What remained was a sickly yellow light.


    Dylan caught sight of a blue form disappearing around the top of the stairs. Seconds later, he heard a thud and a grunt. A man, dressed in camo, came flying down the stairs, hitting the ground with a thud. By the hollow thunk the man''s head let out when it hit the ground, and the following limpness, Dylan guessed that the man was knocked unconscious.


    Dylan jumped back, swearing quietly, as the blue clad figure peeked back around the stairs. Adrenaline shot through his body, and his armored hands came up in front of him.


    The man in blue stepped fully around the corner, and Dylan realized that man wasn¡¯t quite an accurate term. The figure was tall, lanky, and skinny, more lean than muscled. He wore a super suit, a light blue that covered him from head to toe, but unlike the ones other supers wore, this one seemed cheap, somehow. It was almost like somebody had purchased a knockoff version, as if they were on a budget. The suit had light armor on the knuckles. It was scuffed and dirty, and there were even a few faint stains on it, as if it had been well used.


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    The skinny man looked to be young, probably no older than 20, and still in that awkward phase between boyishness and manhood. The only portion of him that was exposed was the lower half of his face, and his eyes. It was hard to make out any details due to the poor lighting and the distance, and the lens on Dylans helmet wasn¡¯t helping much either.


    Dylan figured the person was a super. All the signs pointed toward it. Or perhaps, the person wanted people to think they were a super. A few people were like that. They were a rare breed now, with most ending up badly injured or killed. Unpowered vigilantes, they set off to fight crime with just their human capabilities. Unfortunately, those capabilities often came up short. Even having a weak power would give you the edge over most normal humans.


    For starters, if you used your power to fight, it would reinforce your body, making you stronger or faster, unless great pains were taken to keep it from doing so. While this meant that the primary effect of a power might end up weaker, it also meant that supers tended to be unusually fit, even without a power that would normally influence such things. While most minor villains wouldn¡¯t be as strong as, say, a professional strongman, they would likely be stronger than any normal person their own size. Likely, they would be faster as well, and so on and so forth. Combining that with the main portion of their power, even a relatively weak super could be a large threat to a normal human. Realistically, a super could bring everything that a normal person could to a fight, plus things that they couldn¡¯t.


    And while some vigilantes carried firearms, or other weapons, these didn¡¯t often work out well. If you shot a super that didn¡¯t have power that made them immune to bullets, they tended to die. And whilst that might be fine in a case of self defense, when a vigilante killed someone, even a villian, with a gun, well, it wasn¡¯t looked upon kindly. Those that did so tended to vanish, or be brutalized until they could barely even walk, let alone try and stop crimes.


    That meant that it was often better for a firearm wielding vigilante to encounter a villian who was immune to bullets, because then, generally, they would just be beaten severely, not crippled. All in all, it was generally a lose lose situation.


    While unpowered with super technology tended to do better, it was astronomically hard to get your hands on anything like that as a civilian. A large majority of technology focused supers worked in civilian fields, keeping cities running, and those that didn¡¯t tended not to share their tech.


    Which meant that the man in front of Dylan either had a power, or was somewhat crazy. Potentially both. Regardless of which it was, he warranted caution. If he was a super, then he could be dangerous to Dylan himself, and there was no certainty that he was friendly. The man in the blue outfit might even be the one responsible for the kidnappings. The fact that what looked to be a henchman was currently out cold by Dylan''s feet suggested otherwise, but you could never be too cautious in these sorts of things.


    If the man was a vigilante, well, that was dangerous in a different way. He could very well mess up the entire rescue operation. Were he to run in there, he could give away any sense of surprise, and potentially get one of the hostages, or himself, killed.


    Dylan frowned at the thought. If the man had no powers, would Dylan be obligated to protect him in the case of a fight? That could prove to be very troublesome. He was saved from any further pondering when the blue suited figure spoke.


    ¡°That guy¡¯s out like a light. You¡¯re like, a good guy, right? You don¡¯t seem much like the evil type.¡±


    The voice was surprisingly young. Dylan took a moment to respond. He tried to make his voice sound deeper, more authoritative.


    ¡°No, I¡¯m a hero. I¡¯m here to save everybody¡±.


    Dylan cringed at the sound of his own voice. The depth didn¡¯t make him sound any older. It was so obviously feigned that it probably made him sound younger, matter of fact. Dropping the voice, Dylan blurted out:


    ¡°Do you have powers?¡±


    The blue clad man nodded.


    ¡°Yeah, I do. Names Puncher. You?¡±


    Dylan was so relieved that he wouldn¡¯t have to deal with a vigilante that it took him a moment to recognize how ridiculous the name that was just presented to him was.


    ¡°I - what?¡±


    They stared at each other in silence for a little.


    ¡°Your names not really Puncher, is it?¡±


    The kids'' cheeks colored.


    ¡°So what if it is? It¡¯s fitting. I¡¯d like to hear your name, if you think mine¡¯s so bad.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have one yet. I¡¯m waiting until I come up with something good. I wouldn¡¯t want to get stuck with something like Puncher.¡±


    The kid looked down at the floor, clearly embarrassed. He reached up and rubbed the back of his head.


    ¡°I chose it when I had just started out, ok? By the time I realized how dumb it was, it was too late to change it. It¡¯s not like I had it registered officially or anything, but I¡¯d built up some street cred with it, and if I changed it I¡¯d lose all of that.¡±


    Puncher got a serious look in his eye.


    ¡°Besides. I¡¯m going to be so good that criminals will fear my name, regardless of how goofy it is.¡±


    Dylan let out a small chuckle.


    ¡°Yeah, sure. Hey, do you know what''s going on here? I kinda just heard ¡®hostage situation¡¯, the address, and ran over without confirming any details¡±.


    Puncher waved a hand towards himself, beckoning Dylan to come up the stairs.


    ¡°Yeah, I know a bit more. I¡¯ll tell you about it as we keep moving. Try to stay silent, though, and keep behind cover. This whole thing works better if they don¡¯t know I¡¯m here. Not only is it easier to knock em out, I¡¯m not particularly bulletproof, so I¡¯d like to avoid getting shot, if possible¡±.


    Dylan started up the stairs towards Puncher, taking care to try and be quiet. The suit made it hard, but he was able to avoid making too much noise, which he supposed would have to be good enough. Besides, while Puncher might not be able to tank gunfire, Dylan should be fine. He hoped. He had only gotten shot once while in his armor, and that bullet was pretty small.


    On second thought, it was probably better not to test if his suit could withstand larger rounds or sustained gunfire, at least not while he was in it. Puncher didn¡¯t want to get shot because he wasn¡¯t very bulletproof. Dylan suspected that he himself wasn¡¯t bulletproof at all.


    Crouching down, he moved behind Puncher, who had started walking towards the door to the third floor. Catching the other hero''s eye, Dylan nodded.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get going¡±.

 Chapter 15

    There wasn¡¯t anyone near the stairwell, as far as Dylan could tell. He had hoped that his entrance would lead to a gradual trickle of thugs coming to try and investigate the noise / take him out, but that seemed not to be the case. In fact, if there was anybody down on these lower floors, they seemed to have mostly retreated into the higher floors of the building.


    As Puncher crept along with Dylan, still staying cautious. Dylan mostly didn¡¯t want to get ambushed for Punchers sake, as the hero wasn¡¯t all that durable, by his own admission. Plus, Dylan didn¡¯t fancy seeing how his armor would hold up to being shot multiple times. Once he was pretty sure there wasn¡¯t anybody in his immediate vicinity, Dylan leaned over, closer to his newfound ally.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s going on in here? Do you know who we¡¯re up against?¡±


    Puncher responded almost immediately.


    ¡°Uh, well, the super we have to fight is probably Kasha. You ever heard of him?¡±


    Dylan faintly recalled hearing about the villain. He was relatively minor. If he remembered correctly, Kasha¡¯s power seemed to revolve around cutting things supernaturally well, generally by using his hands. Oh, and Dylan was pretty sure he had heard that the villain had been involved in a fight with Calamity for a few seconds.


    ¡°Yeah. Did you learn this from the police scanner, or what?¡±


    Puncher cracked a small smile.


    ¡°Not exactly. When you¡¯re active as long as I¡¯ve been, you start to develop people you know. Unlicensed heroes and villains honestly tend to run in similar circles, so getting information on this type of stuff isn¡¯t super difficult most of the time. I¡¯d heard that Kasha had been recruiting for the past couple of weeks, so it stands to reason this is his doing.¡±


    The fact that Puncher had seemingly known that this would happen long in advance, and still done nothing, made Dylan question the resolve of his ally. Surely preventing his getting hostages taken by telling the police, or the heroes or something would be better than letting it happen, just to get the reputation for stopping it later. What if someone had already been hurt?


    ¡°If you knew this was going to happen, why didn¡¯t you stop it¡±.


    Puncher looked back at Dylan, who had stopped walking with him. He wilted under the stare of the armored figure.


    ¡°No, it¡¯s not like that. I didn¡¯t know that he was going to be taking hostages or anything. It¡¯s just that he was the only one recruiting recently, so I figure that this is him. Truth be told, villains tend to recruit henchmen for various things all the time. For all I knew, he just wanted security for a party he was throwing or something. No, I was about as in the dark as everyone else.¡±


    Dylan sat there for a second, processing what he had just been told. While he had no way to verify that it was true, it did make sense. How would one know what a villain was recruiting for? They probably had to do that quite a bit. It¡¯s not like they could really go to the police, and most security companies would likely refuse to work with them, if they knew who it was. Plus, inviting a bunch of people who weren¡¯t ¡°in¡± to your base was probably a good way to get a lot of your secrets leased.


    Dylan walked back towards Puncher''s side. He would accept the explanation for now, but he would also stay on the lookout for any new information or contradictions that arose. He didn¡¯t fully trust his partner of convenience, not yet.


    Dylan and Puncher approached one of the walls. The light from the setting sun streamed in, casting an orange glow over the carpet. This room part of the building, unlike the others, still had cubicles in it. They were nestled in a little offshoot, two walls making a faux room.


    Dylan and Puncher shared a look, before immediately splitting off. Puncher started looking behind cubicles closer to them, whilst Dylan headed towards the back wall.


    The first cubicle was empty. So was the second, and the third, and the fourth. It was while Dylan was checking the 5th cubicle that he saw a blur lunge out of the 6th. Dylan turned, startled, and launched himself back. He heard glass shatter, and saw his assailant slump to the floor.


    Dylan stared, unsure of what was going on. Did he slip? Was this some sort of ruse? It was when he caught sight of bits of the man''s skull splattered on the wall that he realized that his would-be attacker was likely dead. The growing pool of blood helped to confirm this fact.


    Just what the hell had happened? Dylan glanced over, and saw shards of glass littering the carpet, trailing away from a freshly broken window. If something came through, just like that¡­ yeah, the hole in the glass lined up roughly with where the man''s head was before it had popped like an overfilled balloon.


    Dylan crouched down. Who could be shooting at them? Did Kasha have a sniper posted outside? Was this the result of some strange power? Why did it hit Dylan''s assailant, rather than Dylan himself? Did the shooter miss?


    Puncher quickly hurried over, alerted by the noise. When he saw Dylan crouched down, he ducked too. Quickly noticing the broken window, Puncher moved out of its immediate line of sight.


    They stayed like this for a bit, with Puncher gradually creeping closer. Eventually, he saw the body, his face becoming a few shades paler.


    ¡°What the hell happened to him? And where did he come from?¡± the blue clad Hero furiously whispered.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. The dude was hiding in a cubicle before he lunged out at me, I heard the glass break, and saw his brains get splattered all over. Something shot him, I think¡±.


    Puncher nodded, his mouth straightening into a firm line.


    ¡°When I was coming over here, I think I saw something in midair, just outside the window. It¡¯s probably what shot this guy. One of us needs to check it out, see if it¡¯s dangerous to us.¡±


    Despite his words, promoting action, Puncher continued to linger, not moving in the slightest towards the windows. Dylan, noticing this hesitation, moved towards one of the unbroken panes of glass.


    ¡°I¡¯ll get it.¡±


    Puncher looked relieved.


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    ¡°Thanks, man. I would, but like I said, not exactly bulletproof. I¡¯d prefer to keep all of my brain inside my skull¡±.


    To be completely honest, Dylan would rather not check himself. He wasn¡¯t confident enough in the strength of his helmet to want to test it against whatever their mystery attacker was shooting at them, but by the looks of it, Puncher was absolutely unwilling to check. Dylan figured it would ultimately be more dangerous for him not to know what was out than it would be to check. If he was wrong, well.. He hoped his death would be instant.


    Stretching up, so his eyes were just above the bottom of the glass. Dylan peered out, trying to make out what had shot at them. He searched around, his eyes meeting mostly empty air, until..


    No, it couldn¡¯t be?! Dylan ducked his head back down, before peeking up again. The same impossible sight presented itself to him. Moving towards the broken window, Dylan heard shards of glass crunching under his boots. The unobstructed sight that his new viewport provided showed him the same thing.


    His drone was hovering there, its center eye glowing, newly added weapon underneath it. How in the world did it get here? Dylan hadn¡¯t told it to leave his yard. In fact, he had pretty much forgotten all about it when he had heard of the hostage situation.


    Turning to Puncher, Dylan spoke.


    ¡°My drone is out there. Err, one I made. I don¡¯t know how it got here, I left it in my yard. It¡¯s possible somebody else compromised it.¡±


    Puncher looked taken aback.


    ¡°Why would you make a murder drone? Those are like, villain 101 or something. How often do you need to blow people''s heads off, to even think of making something like that?¡±


    The accusations stung.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t make it to kill anybody, at least not originally. I had just added the weapon before I got the call to come here. I have no idea how strong it is.¡±


    Dylan glanced at the partially headed corpse laying on the floor.


    ¡°Well, I had no idea how strong it was. I still don¡¯t know its upper limits. I¡¯m going to try and take control of it. If it starts shooting at me, well, you know it¡¯s compromised. If it manages to kill me, I¡¯d run. I know this suit is at least a little bullet proof.¡±


    Puncher nodded.


    ¡°Good luck, man. Hopefully your murder machine doesn¡¯t kill you.¡±


    Dylan peeked his head back above the broken window. His drone was still hovering there, unmoving. He cleared his throat.


    ¡°Hey, d-drone, fly over here¡±.


    Despite the awkward delivery of his order, Dylan¡¯s drone obeyed, flying over. It didn¡¯t try to shoot at him.


    It didn¡¯t seem like it was under anybody else¡¯s control, but if that was the case, how in the world did it get over here?


    Dylan waited a few more seconds, to make sure it wouldn¡¯t suddenly start attacking, before he gave it a new order.


    ¡°Follow our movements as we try to free the hostages, and if you find an opportunity to help us while we¡¯re fighting, take it. Oh, try and stay out of sight.¡±


    The drone gave no sign it understood Dylan¡¯s orders, as always. He would just have to trust that it would follow them. There wasn¡¯t anything he could really do about it now, regardless.


    Dylan turned to Puncher.


    ¡°We should be good. It doesn¡¯t seem to be hacked or hijacked, not as far as I can tell, anyway.¡±


    Puncher looked a little doubtful, but stood up regardless.


    ¡°Alright, man. You¡¯re the expert, I guess.¡±


    Dylan tried to cheer him up.


    ¡°Hey, it¡¯ll be supporting us as we keep going. Could be a big help against Kasha.¡±


    Puncher nodded.


    ¡°Sounds good. He could be a pretty big threat, so it¡¯s probably a good idea. Just, uhh, try to keep it from murdering anybody else, alright?¡±


    Dylan shot him a thumbs up, and they went back to clearing the floor. There was only one other person on it, a man guarding the stairwell. The sentry saw them, one hand moving to the pistol on his belt, the other to a walkie talkie, but Puncher was faster, lunging across the floor in a blue blur, a fist lashing out and catching the man in the head, ragdolling him. It looked like Puncher had knocked the guard unconscious in a single hit.


    Once they confirmed he wouldn¡¯t be getting back up anytime soon, they took his pistol,and his radio. The gun, they brought back to the window, at which point they emptied it, tossing the bullets out of the hole in the glass. As for the firearm itself, they hid in one of the empty drawers of a nearby desk. Hopefully, that should keep anybody else from using it, at least for the duration of their rescue operation.


    The radio was much simpler to deal with. Dylan simply crushed it in his palm, rendering into a smashed bit of plastic, before letting it drop to the floor. That being taken care of, they turned the unconscious man onto his side, before proceeding up the stairs, and onto the fourth floor.


    It was the top floor of the building, and where Kasha and the hostages would be located. It would probably also house a lot more thugs than the few they had encountered. Hopefully they would be somewhat spread out.


    Dylan and Puncher started the climb to the next floor. Glancing out the window, Dylan saw his drone, hovering outside, waiting for its opportunity. Good. Dylan was getting tired of being nervous. In fact, he was starting to become a little angry. Kasha would answer for what he had done, Dylan would make sure of it.


    There were another two guards at the top of the stairs, who were swiftly dispatched. Dylan and Puncher didn¡¯t feel that they had time to be as thorough with taking these guys out as they were with the thug at the bottom of the stairs, so they went with a faster option.


    With a strain, Dylan slowly crushed the firearms between his hands, warping them until they were all but unusable. Trying to fire them in the state that they were left in would just as likely cause them to blow up in your hand as it would be to launch a bullet.


    The only question left was what to do with the two unconscious bodies. Dylan and Puncher looked at each other. With a shrug, they hauled the men over to the stairs, before tossing them down, eliciting a series of quiet grunts and exhales as the men tumbled on the hard concrete steps.


    Turning back to the top floor, Dylan noted how different it was compared to the previous floors. Whilst the previous three stories had been fairly open, with several walls but no real doors, this level was mostly just a large hallway. There were windows on both sides, with one set showing the outside, and the other showing the interior of a large room. Dylan could barely make out a few forms, kneeling on the ground. The hostages, no doubt. The rage sparked back up.


    Puncher turned to look at Dylan.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go around the back, and you go in front. Distract Kasha, and hopefully I¡¯ll be able to take him out before he can do anything. Got it?¡±


    Dylan nodded.


    They split off. Dylan waited until Puncher was most of the way down the hallway, which took longer than anticipated, as Puncher had to crawl under the windows to avoid being seen, to start moving towards the entrance to the large room. The door was ajar, and Dylan peeked in.


    There were about 6 hostages, kneeling on the floor, as well as four men dressed in similarly rough clothing to the thus that Dylan had previously encountered. There was another man, tall, dressed in a black business suit, facing away from Dylan. Kasha.


    He was talking to the four men, who were all grouped around him. Dylan couldn¡¯t make out what was being said. He strained his hearing, but no matter how hard he tried, the quiet voices didn¡¯t carry themselves to his ears in any way that was comprehensible to him.


    Glancing around, Dylan took in the faces of the captured civilians. A few had red eyes, evidence of previously shed tears, while a few others looked dejected, as if they didn¡¯t have much hope of getting rescued. One person, in stark contrast to the others, looked bored. Dylan imagined that if he had to designate anybody to lead the hostages, it would be that person. They seemed most likely to keep a level head, out of everyone here.


    Dylan was broken from his reverie by an authoritative voice, one that carried well, loud, but not a yell.


    ¡°You can come out. I know you¡¯re sitting there, watching, so you might as well stop hiding.


    Dylan gulped. Shit. He hoped Puncher was ready. Taking a deep breath, he stood up, and flung the door back, stepping into the room with more confidence than he felt.


    ¡°If you know that, then you probably also know I¡¯m here to kick your ass.¡±

 Chapter 16

    Kasha stared at Dylan for a moment. Dylan wasn¡¯t quite sure what to say next. To be perfectly honest, he had expected some sort of response. A scoff, to a rebuttal, even a straight out attack from Kasha, these were all things Dylan was prepared for.


    What he wasn¡¯t ready for was to be ignored. At least, that was what it felt like. Nobody was responding to his proclamation. One of the hostages even coughed awkwardly after a few seconds of the silence. Dylan swore he heard a clock ticking. He shifted from foot to foot. Maybe they were waiting for him to attack them? He had just declared that fighting them was his ultimate intent. Surely, then, it would make sense if he had the first move?


    Dylan was spared from further pondering when Kasha finally spoke, breaking the nearly minute long silence.


    ¡°Do you have to?¡±


    Dylan frowned beneath his helmet.


    ¡°Of course I do. You took hostages. You¡¯re a villain. It¡¯s my job to stop you.¡±


    Kasha tilted his head to the side.


    ¡°So you¡¯re a hero, then? A licensed one, I would presume?¡±


    ¡°Uhh, no. I¡¯m not licensed. But I am a hero.¡±


    ¡°So, to clarify, you¡¯re not legally obligated to be here? Why come, then?¡±


    Dylan, unprepared for the barrage of questions, took a moment to think. He found an answer pretty quickly, however.


    ¡°Because it¡¯s the right thing to do. It doesn¡¯t matter that I¡¯m not legally a hero. I have to stop you from hurting these people.¡±


    Kasha nodded, and made an understanding ¡®hmmm¡¯ sort of noise.


    ¡°You do realize that I haven¡¯t hurt any of these people, right? Before you respond, take a look around, and point out any injury you see.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t fal-¡±


    Dylan tried to protest, but Kasha interrupted him before he could finish his sentence.


    ¡°Do it.¡±


    Wary that he was being tricked, Dylan looked around the room. Although some of the hostages looked scared, he couldn¡¯t see any visible signs of injury on them. A few tears, some disheveled hair, one guy who looked like he hadn¡¯t slept in a week, but nothing to indicate that they had been hurt.


    Kasha waited until Dylan was looking at him before speaking.


    ¡°See? They¡¯re unharmed.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but if you don¡¯t get your money, you¡¯re going to hurt them.¡±


    Kasha shrugged.


    ¡°I hope it doesn¡¯t come to that. Whether I have to hurt these people isn¡¯t in my hands anymore. It¡¯s up to the police waiting outside. They get to choose whether they value money over these peoples safety, over their lives.¡±


    Kasha stopped speaking for a moment, letting his audience digest his message. Dylan, for his part, was frantically looking for a response. Kasha didn¡¯t give him long, however, resuming speaking after several seconds had passed.


    ¡°It would be to everyone''s benefit if you were to leave. I¡¯d even pay you some, if you want.¡±


    ¡°Pfftt, in what way would it be to everyone¡¯s benefit? You¡¯re just trying to manipulate me.¡±


    Kasha drew back slightly, as if he were offended.


    ¡°Of course it would be to everyone¡¯s benefit. I''m far more experienced than you are. The chances of you besting me are slim. Plus, I find it difficult to hold back my powers. I cut things. I have no control over how much. Even if you were to beat me, the chances are that you would end up heavily maimed are high.¡±


    Kasha paused for a few beats, before resuming his explanation.


    ¡°If we are to fight, no matter who wins, there''s an extremely high chance that one or more of those hostages behind you gets hurt, or killed.


    ¡°I need to stop you, though. You¡¯re a villain.¡± Dylan protested weakly.


    ¡°Like hell you do. You sound young. You don¡¯t think all those police officers outside, who are specifically trained for things like this, have a better chance of a peaceful resolution? Really, you¡¯re only making their jobs harder. Take the money and leave, I implore you. Like I said, it''s better for everyone. Plus, it really comes down to if you can beat me. And chances are that you can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know my full hand¡±


    Kasha shot Dylan down.


    ¡°You really think I don¡¯t know about your friend? You broke through two separate windows, at two separate times. I¡¯m sure he¡¯s sneaking around right now, looking for some sort of-¡±


    Kasha stopped speaking, launching himself sideways, in an attempt to dodge a sudden blow from Puncher, who had just launched himself through a door on the other side of the room. Puncher, who was nothing but a blue blur, shot towards where Kasha had been. Dylan was confident that he would miss, as Kasha had landed nearly 15 feet to the left of where he had dodged from, but Puncher¡¯s trajectory arced.


    The blue clad hero reached Kasha not a second later, fist impacting the villain in the back. A monstrous boom resounded out from the impact, a visible shockwave trailing behind, one that blew out all of the windows in the room.


    Dylan thought he saw one of the hostages scream in pain, but he wasn¡¯t sure. The ringing in his ears drowned out all other sound. Kasha had been sent tumbling from the blow, rolling head over heels until his momentum eventually subsided. The villain lay there for a moment, an expression of pain visible on his face.


    Puncher stood in the same place he had punched Kasha, still in the follow through pose of a punch. He was breathing heavily, and his exertion was plain as day.


    As for all of the thugs that had surrounded  Kasha earlier, they were currently in the process of scrambling for an exit. Most chose to run for the doors, primarily the one that Puncher had smashed through to get into the room, although a few opted to run past Dylan. One lackey, not satisfied with how long it would take him to reach either exit, jumped through one of the recently broken windows.


    Dylan decided to let them go. There wasn¡¯t much point in trying to stop them, and even if he did manage to keep one or two for leaving, that would leave him vulnerable to Kasha. Instead, he chose to try and get the hostages out of the room.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°GO, GET OUT OF HERE!¡± Dylan screamed.


    Most of the hostages listened, scrambling to their feet. They weren¡¯t tied up, so it was easy for them to move. It had been fear that had prevented them from moving earlier, the promise that they were safer sitting there, rather than trying to move. Now, that same fear was telling them they didn¡¯t want to be in the same room as a guy who could punch like a bomb was going off, who was about to fight another guy who could take punches like that without exploding into meat chunklets.


    One hostage, however, continued to sit there. It was the man who looked like he hadn¡¯t slept for a week. He was probably middle aged, dressed in the attire of an office worker. He had deep purple bags under his eyes, and his hair looked like it was just starting to turn gray. Instead of running like the others, he just sat there, staring blankly at the wall, while blood slowly trickled from his ears.


    Dylan didn¡¯t have time to get the man out, however, as Kasha was starting to stand back up, the pained expression on his face morphing into one of rage. The suited villain lunged at Puncher, hand held over his head, fingers slightly spread. When he got close enough to the blue clad hero, Kasha brought his hand down in an arc. Puncher barely managed to leap backwards, out of the way of the trailing fingers.


    Nothing happened until Kasha''s hand reached the ground. Where his fingers trailed over the floor, large cuts appeared, the concrete floor of the room giving way, as if it was being cut by five invisible, giant blades.


    Kasha went in for another strike against Puncher, who dodged backwards, putting more distance between himself and the enraged villain.


    Dylan started, unsure of what he was doing, until his vision went dark, and he arrived right behind Kasha. Dylan rammed his shoulder into the villains back and pushed, sending the villain tumbling through the air.


    Dylan was about to press his assault, but he noticed that Kasha looked unusually held together for someone who had just been sent flying. It quickly proved to be a good thing that Dylan didn¡¯t try to give pursuit, as Kasha twisted around mid air, swinging his hand behind him in a widespread arc that would have gutted Dylan had he been there.


    The villain tumble continued unabridged until he hit the ground. Dylan was treated to a full view of Puncher''s handiwork when Kasha stopped moving, however. A large portion of the back of the villain''s suit was simply gone, exposing his back, which almost looked burned, the skin pink and flaking. It was oozing blood in some places.


    As Kasha pushed himself back to his feet, Dylan stepped closer to Puncher.


    ¡°Fuck, I guess I see why you called yourself Puncher. Think you can do that again?¡±


    Puncher shook his head.


    ¡°Not for a little while. That took a lot out of me. That was supposed to put him out of commission. Fucker must have focused on toughening his body. Shit. I should be able to manage some weaker punches, but you¡¯ll either have to do most of the rest of it yourself, or buy me five or so minutes to recuperate.¡±


    They were interrupted as Kasha launched himself at them. Dylan bounced away, losing sight of Puncher and Kasha. When his vision unblurred, Kasha was where they had been standing, hand swinging through the air.


    While the heroes had managed to avoid the attack, there was someone else who wasn¡¯t so lucky. Dylan hadn¡¯t realized it in all of the pandemonium, but the sleepless looking hostage was sitting right behind them. Dylan watched, unable to intervene,  as the man was split into 6 slices as Kasha''s fingers trailed down his front.


    The villain flicked the blood of his hand, seemingly unbothered. With a wordless cry of rage, Dylan launched himself at the villian, moving as fast as he possibly could. Dylan, when the blackness faded from his vision, was presenting with a view of Kasha¡¯s knees and shins.


    ¡®Shit, too low¡¯, thought Dylan, as he crashed into the villain''s lower legs, sending the tall, suited man tumbling over him.


    Kasha¡¯s hand trailed near Dylan¡¯s back. Most of them were mere centimeters away from connecting, but Kasha¡¯s middle finger was just long enough to make contact at the highest extremity of the armor on Dylan¡¯s back.


    Immediately, a line was torn through the power reinforced metal. The contact had only lasted for a fraction of a second, but it still tore a three inch gash into Dylan¡¯s back as if his armor wasn¡¯t even there.


    Dylan cried out in pain, his momentum causing him to slide on the ground, away from Kashal, who had landed on his back.


    Dylan tried to push himself to his feet, but even with the armor, his limbs wouldn¡¯t obey him, the shock of the sudden acceleration he¡¯d put them under, plus the jostling from the contact with Kasha and the ground, and the wound on his back turning them to jello.


    Kasha didn¡¯t seem to be having as much trouble. There were definitely signs of effort on his face as he pushed himself back to his feet, but the villain was able to slowly stand back up.


    That process was interrupted as Puncher arrived, delivering what looked to be a devastating blow to the side of Kasha¡¯s head. It wasn¡¯t anywhere near as strong as the previous attack, but it still made a booming sound that was louder than what Dylan could produce, even with the full strength of his powered armor behind the blow.


    Kasha spun around like a top, and Puncher had to step back as one of the villain''s hands came extended. The spinning didn¡¯t last long, however, and soon the suited man was launching a barrage of attacks at Puncher, who was frantically backpedaling.


    Dylan wondered where his drone was. Looking around, he saw it, hovering outside of the buildings, frantically moving back and forth between windows to try and get a shot in. Kasha didn¡¯t stay still long enough while he was on his feet for the drone to get a shot in.


    Dylan mentally cursed himself for his foolishness. There were a few windows on the roof. He should have told the drone to shoot from up there.


    Looking around, the teen tried to figure out a way he could help Puncher without getting shredded himself. He spotted a rock on the floor, debris left over from Kasha slicing through the concrete, and scrambled over to it.


    Dylan picked it up, and taking another brief glance at the pair of fighting supers, chucked the rock as hard as he could. It flew through the air with a sharp whistle, hitting Kasha square in the forehead with a loud crack, rendering itself into dust. While it didn¡¯t do serious damage, the blow did stop Kasha¡¯s relentless assault, causing the villian to bring a hand to his head.


    Puncher took advantage of the opportunity, blasting an uppercut into the distracted Villain''s chin. Kasha¡¯s head snapped back, and Puncher landed one final blow, a punch that shook the floor, and sent the villain flying limply through the air. This time, however, he didn¡¯t return to his feet.


    Dylan stared, unwilling to believe that it was over, heart pounding in his chest. It felt unreal. Last time he had fought a super, Dylan had taken a huge beating before finally putting his opponent down.


    This time, he had taken more damage from himself and his ally than from the person he was fighting. The cut on his back did hurt pretty badly, to be fair, but Dylan didn¡¯t feel like he was beaten black and blue, unlike last time. He shared a look with Puncher. The older boy was grinning at him.


    ¡°Good job! We got his ass.¡±


    Dylan let out a brief laugh, some of his tension dissolving.


    ¡°Yeah, we sure did. Bastard cut me pretty good, though.¡±


    Puncher started stretching out his hands.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, we¡¯ll get you medical treatment soon as we turn this guy in.¡±


    Dylan felt relieved. Teaming up had made this so much more bearable. Kasha was a lot more dangerous than his previous opponent, and to be honest, if he were by himself, he probably would have gotten severely injured, or even died. Instead, he had helped to take down the villain, all while enduring significantly less trauma than he had during his last major battle.


    Dylan resolved to team up more often, at least until he got better. There was no telling what could happen in the field, and having someone there to save his ass if something went wrong was something that Dylan suspected would prove extremely valuable in the future.


    He was excited for another reason, however. This was his first high profile job as a hero! While he had foiled the robbery at the gas station, the super Dylan fought then really didn¡¯t have much of a name for himself.


    While Kasha wasn¡¯t exactly famous around the country, he was somewhat known. Dylan felt proud of the fact that he had helped stop a notorious villain on only his second outing as a superhero. He might not become one of the legends, but at this rate he was bound to be a household name soon enough, right.


    Expectations and newly found pride dampening the sharp pain in his back, Dylan started to walk towards Kasha¡¯s unconscious form, feeling hopeful.


    It stands to reason, then, that it was at this moment everything went to shit.

 Chapter 17

    A red blur burst through the unbroken door, sending splinters of wood flying everywhere. Dylan turned, startled, and jumped back as he heard a loud crack. The red figure came to a stop, before letting out a yell and falling to the floor.


    It was a man, wearing a red and white striped super suit. Dylan recognized him as Dynamis, a rookie hero. What was he doing here? And why was he on the ground?


    It seemed like Puncher had also been startled, but seeing the hero in distress, he walked over, likely to offer aid. Dylan, meanwhile, started scanning around the room, trying to find the source of the crack.


    He saw his drone, hovering above one of the shattered skylights, the barrel of its weapon smoking. Oh¡­ shit.


    Dylan watched as Puncher tumbled past him. That was why the hero had fallen. His drone had shot Dynamis.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    A few minutes earlier


    Detective Hasborough flinched back when the top floor of the building that the hostage situation was going on in seemingly exploded. A large boom rang out through the air as all of the windows shattered, sending shards of glass raining down to the street. A few other officers shouted in alarm, some scrambling for cover behind their cars.


    Hasborough wondered just what the hell was going on in there? While he didn¡¯t know who the first vigilante to enter the building was, the one dressed in blue, the other two supers shouldn¡¯t be able to do anything like that. In fact, most of the supers in the local area wouldn¡¯t be able to manage something like that.


    Maybe Dynamis could, if sufficiently motivated, but he wasn¡¯t here right now. A deep frown crossed Hasboroughs face. Could it be the Crimson Blade? That was a worrisome thought.


    The old detective doubted it, though. The Crimson Blade, despite his supposed retirement, was also supposed to be dealing with the Calamity that was occupying the city''s normal protector, Overgrowth. Plus, the Crimson Blade was one of those supers with a very¡­ recognizable fighting style.


    Whatever it was that had caused the blast, it didn¡¯t re-emerge within the next five minutes. Something else came out of the building, however. A group of thugs, about 4 or so of them, came scrambling out of the building. Likely Kasha¡¯s men, choosing to preserve their safety instead of helping their boss. Hasborough couldn¡¯t blame them. Nobody wanted to be in the middle of fighting supers. People tended to get splattered that way.


    Despite the reasonability of fleeing the situation, seeing a bunch of would-be terrorists running at you was alarming enough that almost all of the officers present raised their rifles. The criminals, seemingly expecting this, dove onto the ground immediately, placing their hands on the backs of their heads.


    Officers then had them inch forwards, one at a time, ensuring there was nobody hiding the abandoned building waiting to pick them off. It went without incident, but from the gunshot that was heard from around the back of the building, Harker guessed that other officers hadn¡¯t had quite as easy an experience.


    For his part, Hasborough paid as little attention as he could, choosing instead to let his fellow officers do their jobs. He wasn¡¯t here to make arrests. He only had two purposes. To ensure the safety of the hostages, and to serve as a contact for Dynamis.


    It was for that reason that Hasborough let out a breath of relief as the hostages scrambled out of the front door in a panic. The officers behind him tensed up, but hasborough raised a hand, waving them off.


    ¡°These poor people have been through enough, already. Someone get them some blankets, and thermos¡¯.¡±


    At his command, a younger officer approached the group of frightened civilians, speaking gently, urging them back to a tent that had been set up some 50 feet behind the blockade of police cruisers.


    While they seemed resistant at first, it soon proved to be a shallow sort of stubbornness, as all of the former hostages were convinced to head back to the temporary shelter within a minute of conversation.


    Hasborough let out a deep breath. Well, that was one thing solved. He looked from head to head, and a frown crossed the old detective''s face. That didn¡¯t bode well.


    Just to be certain, Hasborough did another headcount. There was a missing person. Hopefully, they had gone out the back, or were hiding on the first floor. If they were still up top¡­


    Hasborough winced as he heard the sound of shearing steel, a harsh report that set his ears ringing. Well, hopefully they weren¡¯t on the top floor.


    It was only a minute or so later that Dynamis arrived, but it felt far longer. The sound of a car engine announced his arrival. It was a police cruiser, one present at the other emergency the rookie hero had been assisting with. That wasn¡¯t a good sign.


    Indeed, when Dynamis stepped out, he looked tired and battered. His suit was covered in concrete dust and abrasions, and blood had trickled out from somewhere under his mask, leaving a rust red streak dyed down his face.


    The hero looked around wearily, starting towards Hasborough once he saw him. The detective, for his part, was walking towards the Hero already, unwilling to make someone who was so clearly fatigued come to him.


    Dynamis stared at him for a bit, before speaking.


    ¡°What¡¯s the situation? Are the hostages out?¡±


    Hasborough took a moment to think of how best to summarize the situation.


    ¡°All but one of the hostages are accounted for. I radioed over to the back, they have no clue where the last one could be. The sounds of fighting have trailed off, so it¡¯s probably been resolved. I think the two unofficial supers are behind it. Be careful, regardless.¡±


    Dynamis nodded.


    ¡°So that armored one is here? Maybe you were right, and he is just an amateur trying to help. As long as he doesn¡¯t resist, I¡¯ll go easy on him, and bring him to my agency, to get tried out. The other one as well, I guess.¡±


    With that, Dynamis walked towards the abandoned building. When he got within 15 feet of the door, he crouched down, before leaping into the air, quicker than any normal person could. He reached about 30 feet into the air before he slowed enough that he should have started to fall. Instead, Dynamis kept going, his momentum continuing despite being implausibly slow.


    He floated through a window on the fifth floor, disappearing from Hasboroughs sight.


    The detective hoped that everything would work out. If another fight broke out, there was a pretty solid chance that somebody would die. There should be three hero aligned supers in there, which should hopefully mean a peaceful resolution.


    From the rapidly intensifying pain in his head, Hasborough figured that a peaceful resolution wasn¡¯t in the cards tonight. He sighed. Supers were always such trouble.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Puncher¡¯s rolling tumble was interrupted when he hit the edge of the room, a wall arresting his momentum and drawing a pained grunt from the teen. Dylan barely noticed, the buzzing static in his head, an almost electric feeling, was drawing everything else out, even his thoughts.


    Dylan slowly turned at the sound of uneven footsteps behind him, taking sight of someone who should have been his ally.


    Dynamis, despite his limp, looked threatening. He was a tall man, at least 6 feet, and quite well muscled. The hero was unexpectedly worse for the wear, covered in scrapes, dust and blood. If anything, the battered appearance made him look more threatening. Dynamis must have already been responding to something when this whole situation went down.


    Dylan backed up, towards one of the walls, putting his hands up non-threateningly. One of his feet lost traction, sliding briefly, and he looked down to try and find the source.


    Under his foot was one of the slices of hostage that had been cut up earlier. Dylan felt queasy. He had forgotten about the tired looking hostage. He heard a growl, and looked up.


    Dynamis looked even more pissed than he had before. Dylan gulped. When the hero spoke, it was quiet enough that Dylan almost didn¡¯t hear it.


    ¡°Despite my initial misgivings, I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. But it turns out that you really were nothing more than a piece of shit.¡±


    The hero pushed off with his good leg, shooting towards Dylan, flying straight through the air as though he was unaffected by gravity. Dylan launched himself away from the wall, right as the hero arrived.


    Fuck. Dylan wasn¡¯t prepared for this. He had just been in a fight, his back was kinda fucked up. He wasn¡¯t ready to fight someone like Dynamis. He was technically still a rookie hero, but anyone they¡¯d left in charge of a city, no matter how small, would be strong. An unlike his predecessor, Dynamis was relatively new to the area, meaning Dylan had no idea what his powers were.


    Dynamis, for his part, didn¡¯t seem to want to let Dylan evade him. When he reached the wall, he reached out and touched it, a light tap from one of his red suited hands. Instantly, the direction the hero was going changed, sending him straight towards Dylan.


    Shit. Dylan could try and dash out of the way again, but it would leave him woozy, and if Dynamis could change his direction like that again, he would just catch right back up anyways. No, Dylan had to respond. Besides, maybe if he could stalemate Dynamis, they could talk it out.


    Dylan cocked back his fist. Dynamis continued towards him, unfettered by the threat of attack. He pushed forwards, launched off towards the hero, fist lancing out and catching Dynamis'' face.


    Dylan¡¯s hand felt weird. It was as if he¡¯d punched a concrete wall, unarmored, but without the pain which would normally accompany such an action. Instead, it was like all of the power of his punch had been stolen.


    Dynamis¡¯ hand crashed into Dylan¡¯s helmet a moment later. It didn¡¯t stop during the initial impact, either, continuing on its course as if his head wasn¡¯t there.


    Dylan¡¯s head snapped back, and he was sliding across the floor. His head rang, and his vision was blurry.


    Dynamis stopped floating through the air, landing unsteadily as he tried to put weight on his injured leg, which drew a wince from the hero. Dylan scrambled to get back onto his feet, as Dynamis flew towards him in that weird, weightless way again.


    Dylan knew then that he couldn¡¯t hold back. He would have to hit Dynamis as hard as he could, and hope the hero could take it. He didn¡¯t have any other way to ensure a hit could connect.


    Dylan crouched down, and took a deep breath. He took a good look at where Dynamis was going, and pushed off against the ground as hard as he could. His vision immediately went black, but Dylan knew exactly where Dynamis would be. He lashed out, punching as hard as he could.


    It was the mightiest blow Dylan had ever delivered, backed by the full strength of both his suit¡¯s arm and legs. His vision just started to come back as his gauntleted hand reached Dynamis¡¯ face.


    Suddenly, his vision went black once more. When it came back, Dylan didn¡¯t quite recognize where he was. Everything looked familiar, but off, somehow, like he was in a dream. It took Dylan a second to realize why. He was looking down at the room he had just been in from above. Darting his eyes to the left, Dylan saw why. He was embedded in the concrete ceiling.


    Looking down, Dyamis was standing underneath him. The hero still looked beat up, but there was no indication that Dylan¡¯s second blow had ever landed. Shit. Was Dynamis invincible? Try as he might, Dylan didn¡¯t seem to be able to harm him. It was unlike anything else the teen had encountered before.


    Both the man in the gas station and Kasha seemed to feel all of his attacks, even if they weren¡¯t particularly successful. With Dynamis, it didn¡¯t even feel like his hits connected. Dynamis was saying something, but Dylan¡¯s hearing, unlike his sense of sight, had not returned to him yet.


    It came back, gradually, and with it came the pain. His back hurt, worst of all, a blade of concrete sticking into his back. It was a searing sort of agony, of a magnitude that Dylan had never felt before. It hurt incredibly badly. So badly, in fact, that it would have taken his breath away, had another source of pain not already done that.


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    Dylan¡¯s ribs screamed at him, and it felt as if his chest had been crushed in. He couldn¡¯t take a full breath, the pain spiking sharply whenever he tried. Dylan let out a despairing gasp. What was he supposed to do? In just two blows, Dynamis had completely beat him. Dylan doubted he could fight at even a quarter of his normal capacity right now.


    He felt tears form at the corners of his eyes. Was this really how it was going to end? He was supposed to be a hero, dammit! He had tried so hard to help. For fucks sake, he had just saved all of those hostages. And now, he was about to be arrested or killed by this hero, a hero that was much stronger than Dylan, but couldn¡¯t even be arsed to show up until everything was already over? It wasn¡¯t fair.


    Dylan was still looking at Dynamis. The hero was still talking.


    ¡°For doing what you¡¯ve done, in a time like this? You¡¯re going to be put away for a long, long time. That is,if you survive the rest of this. Going around, killing people, getting in fights, causing serious injury to a hero, in a time of crisis? The courts won¡¯t look favorably on this.¡±


    It was all so damn unfair. He had just wanted to help. He had put his body on the line, his life on the line, to save people. So what, if he messed up once or twice. So would anybody else, in his place. He didn¡¯t have a power that made things easy, that made him invincible, or able to perceive and act far beyond human ability.


    No, he in, in his small, scrawny, weak body, had to trek miles to a scrap yard, because his parents couldn¡¯t afford to get him supplies. He had to put his suit together, by himself, and go and fight people, dangerous people, with nothing but some metal in between him and them.


    And for all his hard work, Dylan was going to be put away. Not in a normal prison either, most likely. He would be put in one for superhumans. If he was lucky, it would be one of the ones where sentences were in the decades at the minimum. If he wasn¡¯t, they¡¯d lock him somewhere that nobody left.


    It wouldn¡¯t be surprising for somebody like Dylan to die in a place like that. He couldn¡¯t defend himself without his inventions. Someone else with a power could easily kill him. And, they¡¯d likely want to. It would take them a while to find out the things he did, but they would, eventually. They¡¯d probably still consider him a hero.


    Dylan felt despair, because his future had been stolen from him, because he was going to be punished for trying to help. But more than that, he felt angry. Angry that he would be punished, despite his good deeds. Angry at how unfair this whole thing was, that someone who had a power that made heroing easy was judging him, condemning him to die in a cell. Angry that nobody seemed thankful for all of the work he did.


    Dylan couldn¡¯t stand to look at Dynamis anymore. He was still talking, monologuing to Dylan. The teen tuned him out, determined to give the hero as little satisfaction as possible. Instead, Dylan looked off to the side, out one of the broken skylights.


    And what he saw wasn¡¯t the empty blue sky, as he expected. What he saw was hope. Because Dylan¡¯s drone was still there. In all of the chaos, he had forgotten about it. It hovered out there, unmoving, awaiting an order.


    Dylan felt a brief flash of anger at it. It was, in a sense, the drones fault that he had gotten in this situation in the first place. If it hadn¡¯t shot Dynamis, maybe he wouldn¡¯t have come to the assumption that Dylan and Puncher were villains.


    Dylan dismissed the feeling, though. It was his creation. If it didn¡¯t act right, was that not his fault? He had known that the drone wasn¡¯t behaving normally. It had also shot the man when he had jumped out at Dylan earlier. Before that, it had followed him here, despite him giving no order for it to do so.


    Why had it done those things? Making it didn¡¯t feel any different than making anything else, and everything else that Dylan had made performed perfectly well. Was it the drone he had found, the one that had made up its base? Was it flawed, had another person with technology based powers hijacked it, sabotaged it so if anybody else tried to make something with it, it would turn against them?


    That train of thought didn¡¯t seem right. It seemed like far too much effort to go through, to then deposit the drone in a random Junkyard. Besides, there weren¡¯t any villains with powers like that around here, as far as Dylan was aware.


    The drone had seemed perfect, at first. Dylan really had been quite proud of it. For one, it looked cool. Plus, it seemed like it had an almost supernatural ability to interpret his orders. He would give it complex instructions, and it would just follow them, as if¡­.


    Wait. How did it follow his orders, in the first place? Dylan had assumed it had some hidden microphone, to detect the sound of his voice, or some other super technology that worked to the same effect, but he certainly hadn¡¯t had anything like that when he built it.


    Besides, the drone seemed to act up only when¡­ he was feeling a particularly strong emotion. First, it had followed him here, while he was feeling the fear, excitement and panic that came with the announcement of the hostage situation. Then, it had shot that thug when he jumped out in front of Dylan, surprising him. Finally, when Dynamis came barreling in, it shot him as well.


    Dylan continued to stare at the drone. He felt a sense of familiarity. He stared some more, focusing on it, with as much intent as it could muster.


    It was a sudden thing that flashed into Dylan¡¯s mind. It was always there, but forgotten about, like when you remember your breathing,a normally automatic process. He had a connection to the drone. Perhaps to everything he¡¯d made. That was how he could control it. It never had any way to detect what he was saying, or some advanced computer inside of it to interpret and apply his words. No, it simply had been reacting to his intent. It had moved to protect him, when he was startled, a sort of instinctual lashing out.


    Dynamis seemed to understand that Dylan was no longer paying him any attention, and started winding down his speech. Dylan felt a brief flash of fear. He knew that, should he fail to stop Dynamis, he was in for a very severe beating.


    So Dylan did the only thing he felt he could, at that moment. He called on his new found connection to the drone, the one he had been subconsciously using for so long, and gave it a new order. Without speaking, without even making a sound or gesture, he gave it a new directive.


    ¡®Shoot Dynamis¡¯. It was a simple order. Dylan was confident that the drone would be able to pull it off. Hopefully, it would distract Dynamis long enough for Dylan to come up with a better plan, figure out a way for him to take the hero down. He would have to go get Puncher, to try and secure his help. The other teen was in the same situation as Dylan was, so he would have to throw aside his allegiance to the heroes for-


    A sharp crack interrupted Dylan¡¯s thoughts. The drone had obeyed, as expected. What was not expected, however, was the sight of Dynamis staring down in shock at the new hole in his torso. It was empty, for a second, a dark pit in the hero¡¯s body, before bright red bubbled up, like a sort of morbid spring. The blood flowed out far faster than Dylan would expect it to. It wasn¡¯t as much blood as someone with a smashed head would produce, but it still looked like far more than was healthy.


    Dynamis wasn¡¯t looking at Dylan any longer. His gaze trailed past Dylan, out of the skylight. The drone. He mouthed something, the words barely audible.


    ¡°I ¡­ forgot about¡­ that.¡±


    With this final pronouncement, Dynamis¡¯s eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed to the floor. Dylan started in shock. That was not the result he had expected. He turned to look at the drone. Just what the hell sort of weapon had he made, to be that powerful.


    Dylan felt his heart hammering in his chest, and his adrenaline temporarily drowned out the pain of his wounds. Had he just killed Dynamis? That wasn¡¯t good at all.


    He pushed his arms deeper into the ceiling, dislodging himself. Dylan hit the ground flat on his chest, the metal of his suit letting out a loud, resonant bang as it collided with the floor.


    Dylan nearly passed out as he felt a fresh resurgence of pain. He let out a soft cry, all that his injured chest would allow him, and laid on the floor for a few minutes longer, trying not to throw up.


    He only started getting up when he heard a voice, coming from one of the sides of the room. It sounded scared.


    ¡°What the hell did you do?¡±


    Dylan looked over, to the source of the voice. It was Puncher. His face was pale, and it was sporting a panicked expression. Dylan tried to respond, but he couldn¡¯t breathe in deep enough to form any words.


    Instead, Dylan pushed himself to his feet, slowly, trying to avoid aggravating his wounds any more.


    ¡°I said what the hell did you do!¡±


    This time, Puncher was shouting at him.


    Dylan took a step forward, wishing he could speak. He was still trying to find his voice when Puncher yelled again.


    ¡°Stay the hell away from him, and stay away from me!¡±


    Putting his hands up, Dylan backed away from Dynamis¡¯ body, which was still steadily leaking blood. His steps were unsteady, his suit unable to completely disguise the weakness of his body.


    Dylan finally managed to force something out of his mouth.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t m-¡±


    Puncher cut him off, tone aggressive.


    ¡°I should have known, from the moment that you killed that man, earlier, that you were no good. You used me. I trusted you, trusted that you were a hero, and you used me. I helped you defeat Kasha. If I hadn¡¯t, maybe he would have killed you. Maybe Dynamis wouldn¡¯t bleeding out on the floor. I don¡¯t know why you did it. Frankly, I don¡¯t care. Just know this, whatever your name is. The next time that I see you, I¡¯m going to kick your ass. You¡¯re going to pay for this, mark my words¡±.


    With that pronouncement, Puncher lunged forwards, scooping up Dynamis in his arms, before running out of the room. Dylan just watched him go, too shocked to say anything. He tried to yell after Puncher, to explain himself, but the words wouldn¡¯t come to him. When they finally did, they wheezed out of his mouth, weak, pathetic, barely audible.


    Dylan didn¡¯t know how long he stood there, but eventually, his despair spiked into panic. Puncher was going to run out of the building with a critically injured or dead Dynamis, and when he explained what happened¡­ the police might come storming in. They generally wouldn¡¯t risk confronting a villain, but with Dylan as obviously weakened as he was, they might think it worth the risk, especially considering what had just happened. Or even worse, they might send Puncher back. If the teen could deliver a blow even a quarter as strong as the one that he had hit Kasha with, Dylan would likely die.


    The anger returned, crashing over Dylan like a wave. Fuck! What the fuck did he do to deserve this! It was all so fucked.


    A faint noise drew his attention. Turning to investigate, Dylan spotted Kasha, laying against the wall, where he had been for the entire fight with Dynamis. It looked like the villain was still unconscious, but was starting to stir.


    Dylan stalked over, as quickly as he could, unsure of what he was going to do until he got there. Drawing his foot back, Dylan kicked Kasha in his head, sending a spray of blood out of the villain''s nose, one that splashed all over Dylan¡¯s armor. That made him even angrier, and he kicked Kasha in the face again, harder, this time, embedding the villain''s head in the concrete wall.


    Dylan probably would have kicked Kasha again, had the pain in his back not stopped him in his tracks. Dylan shut his eyes and let out a steady stream of swearing until it passed. With it went most of his anger. It was still there, sitting in the back of his mind, simmering, but it was far more manageable right now than it had been moments prior.


    With the absence of his anger, the fear started to return. Puncher could be back to arrest him, any moment now. Dylan needed to flee, before someone showed up to take him in. As fast as he could, Dylan started down towards the stairs at the back of the building, panic and fear enabling him to push through the agony he felt.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Hasborough watched as a lanky man, dressed in a blue supersuit, burst through the front door of the building, a figure dressed in red and white in his arms. The detective almost couldn¡¯t believe what he was seeing.


    Dynamis, limp, and cradled in this unknown supers arms, blood seeping from a wound on his chest. Hasborough froze, all of his knowledge of what should be fighting with the reality in front of him.


    ¡°He needs medical attention! Someone please, he needs help!¡± shouted the lanky super. One of the paramedics on standby burst forwards to assist, jumping over a police cruiser, while another ran back to the ambulance, no doubt to retrieve supplies.


    Hasborough was still frozen as the first paramedic directed the super to lay Dynamis on the ground, where he pressed his hands against the bullet wound, attempting to stop the bleeding. With just his hands, it was mostly ineffective, the blood seeping through and splattering the paramedics previously immaculate white uniform red. He kept at it though, despite how little it seemed to be doing.


    It was when Dynamis was wheeled away in a stretcher, Gauze shoved into the bullet wound, into the back of the ambulance, sirens already wailing and waiting to head to the hospital, that Hasborough felt his feet moving.


    They brought him to the super, the one dressed in blue, who was now covered in blood, the bright red marring his suit. Hasborough would have initially thought that the man was an adult, but upon closer inspection, he couldn¡¯t have been any older than 18. A teen, then. Just what the hell had happened in there?


    The teen, for his part, was staring down at his bloodstained hands, shock written across his face. Hasborough had seen that expression before, the type of face people make when they¡¯ve seen something horrible, something they were unprepared to deal with.


    Normally, it was best to be comforting, to give them time to process what they had just witnessed, or been subjected to. Unfortunately, now was not a time where Hasborough could afford to do that. He tried to be gentle, as gentle as he could be, anyways, but he needed to know what was going on.


    ¡°Son, I need you to tell me two things. First, what¡¯s your name? Then, I need you to tell me what happened in there. Can you do that?¡±


    The teen looked up, his shocked reverie broken by the sound of Hasboroughs voice. The glassy look in his eye faded a bit, although there was still an undercurrent of panic there.


    ¡°My name¡¯s Puncher. And there¡¯s a villain in that building. One who helped me beat Kasha. The one who killed Dynamis.¡±


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Dylan crouched behind a window, on the ground floor of the abandoned building. His plan to sneak out the back had been derailed by the police blockade present behind the building. Now, he was watching, waiting for an opportunity.


    One of the officers standing in front of his car turned his back, saying something to one of his colleagues. There.


    Dylan burst out the window, sprinting as fast as he could towards the officer. His chest and back were in agony. He ignored it.


    The officer turned around just in time to see Dylan hit him like a truck. The policeman¡¯s limp body was sent flying away. Dylan didn¡¯t want to kill the man, but he didn¡¯t have time to be careful. The officer would just have to hope luck was on his side tonight.


    The other officers on the scene shouted and ran for cover. Dylan ignored them, ignored the cries for him to surrender, and leapt over the hood of one of the police cruisers, which sent a fresh wave of red hot agony down his back.


    He stumbled, before breaking back out into a run. His speed only increased when he heard the cracks of gunfire behind him, and the occasional pinging of bullets off of his armored back.


    Dylan sent an order to his drone, mentally commanding it to fire warning shots at any officers that tried to pursue him. He directed it to shoot their cruiser''s engine blocks if they tried to chase him with vehicles. Finally, he ordered it to shoot the officers themselves, if none of the above steps deterred him.


    The shouting and gunfire eventually faded as he got farther and farther away. Dylan kept running anyway. He ran until he felt like he was going to pass out. He faintly recognized that he was in a bad part of town. Dylan looked around, eventually spotting a tight alley between two buildings.


    It was littered with trash, the dumpsters present in it overflowing, as if they hadn¡¯t been cleared out for months. It would have to do. Dylan positioned himself behind one of the dumpsters, the one deepest into the alley, and pulled some of the trashbags on top of himself, covering his body and armor as best he could.


    His vision kept getting darker, and he was finding it harder and harder to keep his eyes open. He tried to stay awake, but there was no fighting his exhaustion, and eventually, Dylan passed out, mostly covered. He would have to leave the rest of his worries for another day.

 Chapter 18

    Coriolis was sitting down, reading a magazine, when an attendant came and got him. The hero sighed. Was it time for him to go back out there already? It had probably been 6 hours since his last shift, but it felt like far less time. He had tried to sleep, but it seemed determined to evade him. He doubted he would be able to rest peacefully until this whole thing was over.


    And even then, it probably wouldn¡¯t be all sunshine and rainbows. He, and the rest of the heroes here, would have to deal with the mess that popped up in their absence. Most would certainly have it worse than him. He normally protected a small city, located in the heart of the US. There were certainly villains there, but they tended to stay low key. Plus, Coriolis had a power that was versatile enough that most of them would surrender when they saw him, and those that didn¡¯t were generally easily taken care of.


    His protegee was managing the city while he was away, and Coriolis didn¡¯t really know how to feel about that. On one hand, he was generally a good kid. Young, eager, fairly powerful, with a lot of room to grow. In many ways, he was the ideal successor, or at the very least, a worthy student.


    The problem was, Coriolis didn¡¯t think he was ready to be responsible for an entire city by himself, no matter how small it was. For starters, Dynamis was fairly new at the business. He didn¡¯t have the people sense that years of being in this type of work tended to give you. Not all heroes had it, certainly, but it wasn¡¯t uncommon to find supers who were unusually good at reading people. Some of it was certainly power adaptation. If you spent years of your life trying to get better at understanding behavior, then your power would almost certainly respond, trying to help make that a reality. That was also why almost all experienced supers were unusually fast or tough, even if their powers normally wouldn¡¯t influence their bodies at all.


    Dymanis hadn¡¯t had time to adapt like that. He had difficulty figuring out what made people tick, what they wanted, how they were going to act. Normally Coriolis would be there to guide him, correct him, or even stop him, if necessary. Without that safeguard, the potential for problems was far higher than the hero was willing to accept.


    Plus, Dynamis didn¡¯t have much in the way of bedside manner. He wasn¡¯t very sympathetic to criminals. It made sense, seeing as what happened to him. They had found him as a boy, while he was in New York, surrounded by the bodies of the criminals that had broken into his apartment and killed his parents.


    That formative event had given him a relentless desire to be a hero, but it also robbed something from him. Some sense of empathy that a normal person might have towards one who turned towards crime. It made Dynamis unrelenting, which was a mixed bag. On one hand, it meant that he didn¡¯t falter in the face of danger. On the other, it meant that he would often end up in fights with criminals that could be talked down.


    And, at the end of the day, Dynamis was still maturing as a hero. His powers weren¡¯t as developed as a pro¡¯s might be, and he didn¡¯t have as deep of a well of stamina to draw on as someone like Coriolis did.


    These things would likely all come with time, but it did mean that the Hero wished he didn¡¯t have to leave his inexperienced protegee alone for so long. Hopefully, criminals wouldn¡¯t see his absence as an opportunity to take advantage of the chaos, but he suspected that at least one person would try their luck. Criminals would often respect events like these ( at least the ones that would end up lasting more than a few years), but in a field made up almost entirely of deviants, some would naturally have no respect for the rules. It was just the nature of the business.


    Coriolis thanked the attendant before getting to his feet, placing the magazine onto his chair. He would either be back in a few hours to put it back in its proper place, or he would be in such a state that nobody would be able to complain to him about leaving it out.


    The hero picked up his back from the floor, opening it up to perform one final check on its contents. It was a tall bag, stretching nearly the height of his entire body. It was made of a heavy duty material, and covered with straps and padding.


    Coriolis took a brief look at its contents,running his eyes over the 6 roughly bowling ball sized tungsten spheres. This was his last set. Normally, he would have tried to use them only when necessary, but at this point he needed to put maximal effort into what was coming up next. He was glad that his supplies were paid for by his Hero Agency, though. He would have trouble justifying these expenses, otherwise. Being a hero in such a small city didn¡¯t pay nearly as much as most people thought it would.


    Once he was confident that his supplies were all accounted for, he zipped the bag back up, and slung it on his back. It was far heavier than an ordinary human could hope to carry comfortably, but Coriolis had years of experience to strengthen him.


    He took one last look at the building he had called home for the last week. They had placed Coriolis in a different building, originally, but the containment borders ended up growing enough that it had been engulfed and subsequently destroyed. Everybody nearby who they could convince to leave had been evacuated, but some were too stubborn to leave. Mostly the elderly, who didn¡¯t have any place to go besides the shelters, and who often didn¡¯t want to abandon the homes they had lived in for years.


    Coriolis could respect their determination, but he still found it unfortunate that this resolve had led to most of their deaths. There were a few others who didn¡¯t want to evacuate either, the truly stubborn, or the one who didn¡¯t trust supers. They were all dead as well, for the most part.


    Coriolis started to walk towards his destination, no longer able to justify procrastinating. He beheld the reason he had been flown all the way out here, to North Africa, into the heart of Coalition territory.


    A large, black sphere dominated the skyline. It was taller than any skyscrapers in the area. The sphere was made up of an unidentifiable material, one that seemed to absorb all light. It was huge, large enough to engulf any stadium in the world 3 times over.


    As Coriolis strode down the empty streets, it grew larger in his vision. He felt a sense of foreboding, in his heart. It picked up his pulse. The hero didn¡¯t normally get nervous, but the events of the past few weeks had given him a new perspective. He was able to make out all of the tiny forms around the base of the sphere, medical staff, superpowered healers, etc. There were also hundreds of guards, armed with automatic weapons. As if those would do them any good.


    There were dozens of Hero¡¯s laying on the ground, either injured or resting. Those injured were supposed to be quickly hauled off to receive aid, but the constant workload that the exhausted hospital staff was being put under meant that response times were getting slower and slower.


    There were other heroes, those that could fly, that were scanning around the dome, checking for any breaks. Coriolis would be doing that later today, but for now, he was on a different job.


    The hero¡¯s head turned when he heard a voice, one that was far too cheery, given the present situation, calling out his name.


    ¡°Hey Coriolis! How¡¯s it going?¡±


    He traced the voice to a white tent with the letters WSC stitched into the top. Underneath, a man who appeared to be in his mid 20¡¯s. He had short blonde hair, and an expression that appeared quite carefree. He was wearing a white dress shirt, with slightly wrinkled black slacks. Unlike nearly anybody else in the area, he appeared to be unscathed, free of both injuries and dirt. Even the fliers with no combat applicable powers sported cuts or bruises from rescue missions.


    Coriolis felt a spike of annoyance. Here he was, about to risk his life, and this arrogant little brat, who had done nothing during this whole fiasco, was trying to distract him. Normally, somebody like this wouldn¡¯t bother the Hero, but the fact that he sat here with a smile on his face while real heroes died inside the sphere just rubbed him the wrong way.


    The blonde''s name was Take-out, a pun, one that related to his power. Take-out had the ability to summon plates, in all sorts of shapes and sizes, and exercise mild control over them. Coriolis wasn¡¯t even sure why he was here. Probably a nepo-baby, the child of some trumped up executive who¡¯d put him out here to pad out his resume. The kid was a ¡°hero¡± for the WCS, but as far as Coriolis knew he rarely did anything even in the best of times.


    Steeling his expression, Coriolis met Take-out''s eyes.


    ¡°What?¡± he asked, struggling to keep the irritation out of his voice.


    Take-out smiled, revealing his straight, white teeth. Veneers, probably.


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen you around before. Your power¡¯s pretty interesting, you know?¡±


    Coriolis nodded, unsure of where this conversation was going, and frankly uninterested. Take-out spoke again before the hero could say anything.


    ¡°Well, I just wanted to wish you good luck out there. It''s a hard job, you know?¡±


    Take-out followed up with a brilliant smile. Coriolis only felt disgust.


    ¡°It¡¯s not like you would know¡± the hero intoned, unable to keep the disdain out of his voice. He turned and walked away, deeming the conversation over.


    ¡°Stay safe out there!¡±


    Take-out was apparently unwilling to let Coriolis have the last word. Still, the hero didn¡¯t see much need to fire back. Take-out was apparently unbothered by his unfriendly tone. Whatever. He had bigger fish to fry.


    He finally made it to the edge of the barrier. It was even more unnerving up close, an entire direction consumed by darkness. There was a super at the edge of the sphere, hands pressed against it, sweat dripping down his face. He, unlike most other supers, was wearing a uniform in place of a super suit. It had the letters WCS stitched across the back.


    The man didn¡¯t notice Coriolis, too focused on what he was doing, so the hero walked up and tapped him on the shoulder.


    ¡°It¡¯s my time to go in.¡±


    The man turned his head, and as much of his torso as he could while still keeping his hands on the sphere.


    ¡°It¡¯s kind of a mess in there. Calamity started acting up about an hour ago. We think that we¡¯re in the final week, because the behavior matches up with the typical struggles that mark the end of this sort of event. Regardless, be careful. It wouldn¡¯t do to get killed right here at the end just because you let your guard down.¡±


    The man glanced around, before lowering his voice and leaning a little closer to Coriolis.


    ¡°And, between us, we don¡¯t have enough fliers. The higher ups in the WCS are concerned enough about the possibility of a barrier breach that they have an unusual number of fliers canvassing it, and quite a few of the remaining rescuers have taken casualties recently. Calamity¡¯s been targeting them.¡±


    That was great. Coriolis would just have to strive to avoid injury, he supposed, if they had a shortage of rescue staff. He nodded to the man to show that he understood. Seeing his signal, the super scrunched his face, concentrating on something. After a few seconds, he turned his head back towards Coriolis.


    ¡°It seems that we¡¯re clear. Calamity is about half a mile deep. I¡¯m going to open the barrier now. Just remember, we won¡¯t open it if Calamity is too close to you, so if you¡¯re injured or need to get out make sure that you put some distance between the two of you. Anyways, good luck out there.¡±


    With that, a small patch of the pitch black barrier turned transparent and dissipated, leaving a rough patch in the middle of the sea of darkness. Taking a deep breath, Coriolis stepped through. The opening quickly closed behind him, leaving the barrier seamless once more.


    On the inside, the barrier was just as dark as the outside, but it didn¡¯t block light from coming in. It was a weird sight, a sky that was blacker than the darkest night, sitting over land that was as illuminated as the most well lit movie set. It was incredibly disorientating, and had caused Coriolis some issues when he first had to deal with it. He had gotten off lucky, though. It had affected several heroes so badly that they ended up dying for it.


    As for the landscape itself, well, it didn¡¯t look anything like it used to. They were in the heart of Ravenna, one of the biggest cities in the Coalition of Allied states. It was a vibrant city, home to nearly 2 million people.


    For everything inside the barrier, it looked like the set of a disaster movie. Distant fires spewed dark smoke into the air, burning unabated, with nobody around to put them out. Most of the buildings in the area were destroyed. There were a few still standing, the lucky survivors. However, even the ones fortunate enough to remain standing often sported heavy damage, with large chunks blown out of walls, or dozens of shattered windows.


    And that was just the periphery of the city locked inside the barrier. It got more and more hellish the deeper in one went. There was a nearly constant presence of chunks of concrete, shorn from steel beams with great force. Many of the roads were pitted, with frequent obstructions that would make driving impossible.


    Everything was damp, the result of thousands of burst water lines. The local government shut them off as quickly as they could, but the city had about an inch of water in any given location.


    There were many abandoned cars on the streets, most smashed to pieces, left by owners who didn¡¯t have time to retrieve them. There were also dozens of personal objects littering the streets. Often, they were badly damaged, but several were still recognizable. Coriolis still shuddered at the memory of stepping over a children''s doll, stained bright red, at the start of the whole fiasco.


    But by far the worst part of the whole place was the bodies. A surprising number of people had managed to evacuate, to avoid the worst of the calamity. Far more civilians had made it out this event than any other. It was still only about half of the people who had lived here, however. It was worse in the center. When the barrier had gone up, only 20 minutes after Calamity emerged, it had been far smaller than it was now. It had also meant that anybody who hadn¡¯t managed to flee the area was trapped inside of it.


    The bodies littered the entire area. Most of them were partially destroyed. Thousands of civilian corpses. It wasn¡¯t uncommon to find a limb sticking out from under the rubble, or to trip onto a severed foot. It wasn¡¯t just civilians, either.


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    As jaded as it was, Coriolis was used to seeing dead civilians. He didn¡¯t like it, but in his line of work, it was inevitable that he would encounter at least some. Supers with a certain level of power tended to be too destructive to take down without somebody dying. Generally, villains tried to avoid getting civilians killed, because it would significantly lighten their sentence, but accidents happened all of the time. Which meant, as tragic as it was, seeing a mother or brother laying dead in the rubble just brought on a sense of deep sadness.


    It was the corpses clothed in brightly colored clothes, ones far more resilient than any normal material, that distributed Coriolis. He had never gotten used to seeing dead supers. Almost nobody was. It just didn¡¯t happen enough, to make it something you could get used to. Supers had so many advantages over normal people, in terms of staying alive. The fact that they often wore protective clothing, the fact that their powers would often bolster their durability, keep them alive and let them heal from things that would kill or cripple a normal person. The fact that they were trained, competent, experienced. That they had supernatural powers, able to bend the rules of reality. They had people, waiting to rescue them if things got dire, medical staff on standby.


    And even with all of that, here, it often wasn¡¯t enough. Coriolis spotted a yellow and blue clad figure, lying on the ground, hands wrapped around a 15 foot steel pillar that just so happened to be sticking through their chest. He recognized the corpse. It was Guardian.


    He had been one of the primary heroes for a larger coastal city, Gullsrest. It was unnerving, to see him like that, the helpless expression on his face, the lifeless eyes, the dried rivulets of blood that surrounded his mouth. He had been strong. Extremely so. Coriolis had watched him engage with Calamity twice, and he always seemed to be on top of his game.


    Last he had heard, Guardian had been flying rescue, while he recuperated his stamina. Coriolis could hardly reconcile the sight before him. Two and a half decades of service and strength, obliterated in a moment.


    Coriolis pressed on, continuing towards the center of the barrier. He stumbled over debris, occasionally tripping, falling onto sharp concrete or dirty water. If he weren¡¯t a super, he would have probably been scraped up by now, covered in cuts and exposed to incredibly unsafe water. Even as a super, his progress was slow.


    He could have made the trip faster. Coriolis could fly, in effect. His power let him do so. While it wasn¡¯t what people would traditionally picture in their mind when they thought of flying, it worked to a very similar effect.


    He restrained from doing so, however. If the fact that fliers were getting killed in the sky wasn¡¯t enough to deter him, the memory of Guardian''s corpse certainly was. It wouldn¡¯t do anybody any good if he got himself killed on his way to the battlefield. The risk wasn¡¯t worth the few minutes he would shave off.


    As he got deeper and deeper towards the center of the sphere, he started to hear the sounds of battle. He was probably still a quarter mile off when the noises first reached his ears. It started off as the occasional loud bang. Things that sounded like explosions, or someone crashing through concrete at 300 miles per hour. As he got closer, though, he was able to make out more sounds. The impact of flesh against concrete, flesh against flesh. What sounded like lasers. Screams. Calls for help. And a sound that sent chills down his spine, no matter how often he heard it.


    It could technically be classified as a scream, he supposed. But it wasn¡¯t a scream like a human could make. It was far worse. It was inhuman, shrill, grating, but also full and deep. It was loud, as well. Far louder than any person could yell. And it conveyed a different message than a normal scream. Pain, yes, but also rage.


    He was probably a tenth of a mile away when he first caught sight of the battle. There were 5 or 6 heroes, surrounding a dark figure. One of the heroes stood back, blasting bright gold rays of energy at the figure. That would be Starshine. He wore a yellow orange costume.


    Two of the others, ones that Coriolis didn¡¯t recognize, were busy waiting for the figure to be distracted. When that happened, they rushed in, landing blows that aimed to destabilize the figures'' long limbs. They would often succeed, knocking it off balance, causing it to stumble. Sometimes, however, they would mess up, and it would lash out at them. When that happened, one of the other heroes, the one standing on the backlines, would rush forwards in a blur, to pull them away.


    This speedster was familiar. He wore a white costume, with a golden wing on his chest. Hermes. It looked like he had been putting the work in. Whenever the figure got too close to landing a hit on somebody, he would rush in and move them out of the way.


    It looked like he was reaching the end of his ability to do so, however. Whenever he wasn¡¯t running, he was standing there, bent over, with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. Further evidence of his exhaustion was his speed. Coriolis had seen him run before, and he was normally far faster than what was being showcased right now.


    Coriolis finally got a full view of the dark figure. It had long limbs, in a shape that sort of suggested humanity, but any sort of closer inspection would reveal that the veneer of familiarity was less than surface level. It had anywhere between 3 and 15 limbs at any time.


    It looked like a bodybuilder gone wrong, with sickly gray skin stretched too tight over large muscles. They rippled and slid in a way that was honestly sickening, with how deeply unnatural it appeared. There wasn¡¯t any fat to be found, and where muscle waned bone stretched the skin even farther. The ridges of its spine stuck out nearly a foot from its back, looking like they would burst through the minimal flesh that covered them at any moment.


    The creature, in place of eyes, had deep dark crevasses that dotted its head, pointing in every direction. They were thin, and let out no light, looking as if they were thin portals into the void. There was no way to tell if it was looking at you. Most likely, it could look at everyone around it at once. It always seemed supernaturally aware of where everyone was.


    All in all, it was a deeply unnatural creature. Most would call it horrifying, and of those that wouldn¡¯t, many were lying. It was also, according to public knowledge, supposed to have been killed nearly 60 years ago.


    Calamity. The being responsible for killing the Peace-Keepers. The single most dangerous entity in the world. Coriolis felt that its reputation was well deserved.


    Calamity possessed a laundry list of powers, some confirmed, many speculative. At its full strength, it was faster, stronger, and more durable than all but the strongest supers. It possessed a regenerative capability that was unrivaled, allowing it to recover from any injury it sustained within the minute. It had, of course, a limited shapeshifting ability, and astronomical stamina.


    While it had many more minor abilities, there were two that made it such a great threat. First, it could adapt to powers. It was a slow adaptation, at least at the start, but the more an ability was used on it, the less of an effect it would have. This increasing negation was very rarely absolute, but with how strong Calamity was in the first place, having powers become less and less effective against it meant that any prolonged fight was a struggle of titanic proportions.


    Its second power was even more troublesome. It was the power that had kept it fighting for 60 years. Calamity had been killed before, multiple times, even. But eventually, it always came back. Nobody understood how. There were only two or three humans who had powers like that in the entire world, and their secrets were so closely guarded that very little was known about how they worked.


    What they did know about Calamities immortality didn¡¯t help them prepare much, anyways. Once killed, it would reappear somewhere else between 5 and 25 years later. There wasn¡¯t a way to tell how long it would take for it to re-appear. It certainly didn¡¯t correlate to damage. One of the shortest times to re-appearance was after its complete vaporization by Helion in the 90¡¯s.


    There also wasn¡¯t a way to tell where it would re-appear. It seemed to be more likely to appear in about a 300 mile radius from where it had been killed than anywhere else, but this wasn¡¯t a hard and fast rule.


    All in all, the time periods and distances at which it could come back made predicting it a mostly fruitless endeavor, at least so far. There were still several researchers trying to figure out how its powers worked, but given how relatively infrequently it appeared, it was almost impossible to derive any data from it. Even superpowered intuition could only tell you so much.


    Rookies, when learning about Calamity, often asked why hero¡¯s like Helion didn¡¯t just vaporize it every time it re-appeared. Indeed, Coriolis had felt the same way when he had first learned about the situation. It seemed like such a waste of time, man power, and lives, to send hundreds of hero¡¯s to fight it.


    The more senior hero¡¯s, when asked this question, always had an answer. Some took the time to explain it to their more naive colleges. Others, like Coriolius¡¯ old mentor, had simply handed him two incident reports.


    The first detailed the first re-appearance of Calamity, in the late 70¡¯s. Helion had been active for about 7 years at that point, and the people in charge had the same thought everyone else had: ¡°Why not use these heros¡¯ incredible power?¡±


    So they did. Helion, who was weak enough at the time to stay in Earth''s atmosphere without risk, was dispatched with a backup squad of heroes, to eliminate Calamity. It was the easiest anybody had ever defeated calamity. 15 minutes of blasting, and then it was time for the cleanup squad to come and fix all of the radiation damage.


    It had been the second incident report that had answered Coriolis¡¯ question. The higher ups had been thrilled with the success of Helion, so the next time Calamity appeared, you can bet that they sent him right back out, same as the last time.


    Except this time, it wasn¡¯t nearly so easy. Calamity didn¡¯t go down within the first 15 minutes. Nor the first 30. In fact, after about 45 minutes of taking the power of a star to the face, Calamity nearly managed to push through the blinding energy and grab Helion. The hero, realizing his power wasn¡¯t having the effect he wanted, doubled down, blasting the abomination with all of his might. It was too late, then, however.


    Helion caused immeasurable damage, but Calamity had adapted to his power. It was the most adaptation that had been seen from the being to date. Scientists theorized that it was able to resist Helion¡¯s powers to such a high degree was because he was the one who had killed it before.


    Regardless of the reason, the results spoke for themselves. Calamity managed to badly injure Helion, before moving on to massacre the blinded backup team. They were all dead or disabled within 15 minutes, at which point Calamity started moving towards the nearest city.


    Local heroes came to respond. Most of them had only very briefly been briefed on what Calamity was capable of. Several didn¡¯t know anything at all. It had been nearly 30 years since its first appearance, and most of the hero¡¯s at the time thought it was long dead.


    They were massacred. Out of the three heroes that protected the local city, only one survived. Naturally, hero¡¯s from surrounding cities came to assist. They were often similarly unprepared.


    Over 150 hero¡¯s died that day, before they were finally able to gather enough supers to put calamity down for good. The incident took place in South America, down by what used to be Argentina. The resulting crime waves compounded the damage from the fight, causing many of the local governments to collapse.


    Currently, a weak federation controls the land down there. Not that there was much to control. Helion¡¯s power had left behind a massive irradiated crater, nearly a dozen miles wide. The worst part of it all was, despite a decades long effort by ecologists and supers from the WSC, it was still tremendously dangerous to people nearby.


    There was one positive note to the incident, at least. Figuring out Calamity''s ability to adapt helped them plan around it for all future appearances. In fact, that knowledge was an essential part of their current strategies.


    The higher ups had scrambled to change tactics after that incident. Now, instead of 1 extremely powerful hero obliterating Calamity, it was tasked to a team of hundreds of weaker heroes, who constantly rotated to wear the being down. One or two extremely powerful heroes would wait nearby, in case of a worst case scenario, to obliterate the monstrosity. They would only act if the majority of assigned heroes were taken out of commission, or if a catastrophic containment breach occurred. Neither of these events had happened, so far, but if Calamity kept coming back, the worst was bound to happen eventually. Coriolis hoped he wasn¡¯t around to see that day.


    The public was mostly unaware of Calamities continued existence. There was certainly a fringe group who thought it still alive, but they were mostly regarded as conspiracy theorists and loons. Great efforts were taken to make them appear that way, second only to the effort taken to keep Calamity a secret.


    Coriolis knew several heroes who vehemently disagreed with keeping the public in the dark about the matter, but he understood why it happened. The entire system was built on the impression that hero¡¯s were always in control. In reality, it wasn¡¯t quite so simple. The truth was, there often weren¡¯t enough heroes in a city to completely control its villain population. The only thing that kept them from taking over was the threat of other heroes, ones from neighboring cities and those in international teams, coming in to deliver justice. Ultimately, it resulted in an uneasy armistice.


    Hero¡¯s had to appear infallible, unopposable. It was important that they were, for the good of everyone. A minority of those with powers were actively involved in the Hero/Villain scene.


    But, between the two, there was a crucial difference. It was a lot harder to become a hero, than it was to become a villain. Hero¡¯s had to take classes, receive certifications and training, and were subject to near constant oversight. Villains, on the other hand, could be anybody with a power. If Joe Schmoe awakened the ability to shoot fire from his hands, well, he could start his career as a villain about 20 seconds later. While such a hasty move might mean that said career wouldn¡¯t last long, the fact remained that, even if 70% of supers wanted to be heroes, the amount that would actually make it would be nearly even in number with the amount of villains produced by that remaining 30%.


    That was the reason it was so important for the forces of good to project the appearance of strength. Without it, those who were intimidated by the long hand of the law before might find themselves developing unsavory ideas. If that were to happen, even if the Hero¡¯s won, it could mean open warfare in the streets, with potentially hundreds of thousands of dead. It had happened to more than one country who wasn¡¯t firm enough.


    Coriolis unzipped his bag, pulling one of the tungsten spheres. He reached over and flicked his radio on.


    ¡°Coriolis, here to reinforce. I¡¯m going to blast this guy from back here before getting closer, so you better try and stand back. I think we¡¯d all rather avoid me pasting any one of you.¡±


    The radio briefly crackled, before a voice answered.


    ¡°Roger that. Hold fire as we try to move out of range.¡±


    Starshine glowed, letting out a stream of energy that pushed Calamity back, eliciting a frustrated roar from the creature. Coriolis let out a grim smile. He held the Tungsten sphere in his hand, towards Calamity, and felt the motion of the Earth, spinning beneath him. He borrowed some of that, using his power to pull it away, infusing it into the soon to be projectile in his hand.


    The momentum begged to be unleashed as he packed more and more of it in. Eventually, he could add no more power to the sphere. Taking a brief moment to make sure his aim was correct, Coriolis let the power loose.


    The ball disappeared from his hand. Seconds later, a series of colossal cracks rang out through the air, as the ball was accelerated to dozens of times the speed of sound. A gale force followed in its wake, the violent wind lashing at debris on the ground.


    When the tungsten missile struck Calamity, a flash of light briefly took Coriolis'' sight away. When it returned, he started to search for the impact wound. It wasn¡¯t at center mass, where he had aimed. Instead, Calamity was sporting a hole in its shoulder, about ? the width of a bowling ball.


    Coriolis let out a stream of profanity. That wasn¡¯t good. Calamity wasn¡¯t as tired as he¡¯d hoped it would be. If it were still able to dodge something like that, then it had energy to spare. Even more worrying was the impact wound. It was starting to heal already, but he had gotten a good look at it, or more specifically, a good look at its size.  It was smaller than the ones he was able to make during his first rotations fighting Calamity.


    Were it just its adaptation at play, Coriolis would have said that this was an expected result. But the thing about powers was that, the more you used them, especially in high stress situations, the stronger they got. While he might be long passed his initial two month¡¯s of easy growth, the situation he was in right now was just about as good as it could get in terms of potential for improvement.


    Plus, your desires shaped how your powers grew. And Coriolis had been focusing hard on growing one aspect of his ability: its power. Every shot, he tried to make faster, have more impact. He would spend nearly as much of his time off meditating as he could, trying to improve the amount of momentum he could borrow. During his entire time here, he had been intensely training his ability to be more dangerous, and nothing else.


    Coriolis had even skipped out on making his body stronger, or more durable, or faster. It probably would have given him a better chance to survive a hit, but he wasn¡¯t planning on being hit. No, he had one goal: To push for the maximum destructive power he could. It was only by inflicting maximum damage that Coriolis felt he could truly contribute.


    And it worked. He was more powerful now than when he had come here. That last shot alone was proof enough of that. It had been far faster, and far more destructive than anything he could have done two months ago. Here, in such a high stakes situation, he had grown faster than he normally would in half a decade. His hard work had paid off. Hell, that attack could probably level a building.


    But it had done less damage than before. Calamity was adapting fast enough to outpace his focused growth. And if it had outpaced him, then the others were certainly doing far less damage than before.


    Coriolis had a feeling that this situation wouldn¡¯t be wrapping itself up anytime soon. It would be another few weeks of peril, it seemed.


    With a grim look on his face, the hero reached back into his bag, pulling out another tungsten sphere.


    Well, there was nothing to be done about it. Coriolis would just have to make these last few shots count.

 Chapter 19

    Dylan woke up to a searing pain in his back. The wound throbbed, sending pulses of white-hot agony throughout his entire body. It was as if lightning was running down his spine, waning into buzzing static in his fingertips.


    The sensation took his breath, and Dylan fought back panic as he tried to force his uncooperative lungs to draw in air. At first, they refused, rebelling against his body''s commands, but eventually they submitted, allowing him to take a shaky gasp. This made the pain in his back even worse.


    Dylan grit his teeth, breathing as deeply as he could without reigniting his injuries, and waited for the pain to subside. It lessened eventually, and he let out a little mental sigh of relief. He was going to be in for a rough time if this kept up.


    He took a moment to feel around his body, to see if he could find any other obvious injuries to avoid aggravating. He felt a deep ache in his ribs, which hurt nearly as bad as his back when he focused on it. Other than that, though, everything else he felt was mostly bruising. It wasn¡¯t good, but at least there didn¡¯t seem to be permanent damage. Dylan felt he would have a hard time explaining a missing limb to his parents, for example.


    It was the sound of trash rustling and footsteps that prompted Dylan to open his eyes. Immediately, he was blinded, the flood of light overwhelming him. He felt a migraine coming on, his battered head finally fed up with the abuse he had put it through. It was certainly letting him know of its displeasure. Dylan let out a groan, unhappy at the new source of discomfort that had just presented itself to him. If they kept popping up at this rate, then by the time he left the alley he would probably just be dead.


    Dylan heard more footsteps, and someone muttering under their breath. He would normally be struggling to get up as fast as possible right now, but he figured that anybody who could hurt him with the armor on was probably not someone he was in any condition to fight right now. Plus, he just really didn¡¯t feel like hurrying to do anything right now, no matter how urgent it might be.


    His eyes eventually adapted to the brightness, allowing him to see something other than searing white. The alley slowly came into focus, bit by bit. It was partially lit, the sunlight spilling in over the buildings that made up its sides, casting bright sunlight over all but the deepest shadows.


    The building across from him was made out of brick. It was still bright red at the very top, looking as if it might be new, but the rest of the wall was dirty, covered in dirt and grime, and tagged with once colorful graffiti, now long since faded. Any one who was artistic enough to graffiti for fun was long since driven away from this part of town. Now, the only fresh paint on the walls was in the gang signs.


    Whoever was in the alley with him had started cursing, no longer bothering to keep their exclamations in whisper. The footsteps and rustling of trash got more frantic, as well. It sounded as if a pack of rats was scurrying around in the trash at his feet.


    With a sigh, Dylan ponderously brought his eyes down to see what the source of the disturbance was. It revealed itself to be a thin man in grimy clothes. He was wearing a beanie and a faded sweatshirt that looked like it had seen better times.


    The man was bent over, facing Dylan, and pulling at something under the trash that Dylan couldn¡¯t make out. Whatever it was, the man seemed to be unsuccessful at excavating it from the trash, and he was getting angrier and angrier.


    ¡°Get out of there, piece of shit¡± the man growled as he pulled again, to no avail. Eventually, he concluded that something else must have been keeping his prize from moving, and hastily knocked off the trash bags that were covering it, allowing Dylan to get a good look at what the man was trying to salvage.


    It revealed itself to be a metal boot, sticking out into the air. It was a little grimy, with bits of trash marring it¡¯s surface. It looked oddly familiar to Dylan. It took him a moment to realize that the object he was looking at was his own boot.


    The man reached down, tugging again at Dylan¡¯s foot. He barely felt the man''s efforts, his suit passively resisting being moved. Dylan realized he would have to put a stop to this, but dreaded actually putting in the effort to do so. He lay there for a while, until the man went from tugging on the boot to kicking it.


    Even as messed up as he was, Dylan was fast approaching the limits of his tolerance. With a sigh, he took a deep breath, and started to press himself to his feet. It made everything hurt worse, and Dylan almost gave up, but he realized that he had to get up. He would need some sort of medical treatment.


    He rose slowly enough that the grungy man didn¡¯t even realize what was happening at first. He had returned to tugging at Dylan¡¯s boot, muttering all the while.


    ¡°C¡¯mon motherfucker, get loose. I¡¯m going to sell you, make a lotta cash, but you got to stop being so damn difficult. Piece of shi-¡±


    It was then that the man noticed that the armored boot he was tugging on was attached to¡­ a near 6 foot suit of mechanized armor, and an obviously super created set of armor to boot.


    Dylan was nearly fully stood up at this point, and from his new vantage point, he got a better look at the ill-mannered guy. He was even skinnier than Dylan had first imagined, so thin that he looked almost ill, in fact. It was as if somebody had taken a bunch of broomsticks and assembled them into a roughly human shape, before putting clothes on it.


    As for his face, it was weathered and misshapen. At first glance, Dylan would have placed the man in his 50¡¯s, but upon closer inspection he realized that the face he was looking at was probably no older than 35. It was plagued with acne, and when the man opened his mouth in a wordless gasp, Dylan caught sight of several missing teeth. Overall, the man looked deeply unhealthy.


    He watched as a slew of emotions ran across the man¡¯s face. First, panic, and then fear. That lasted for a moment, but then the man shook his head slightly, and a calculating look came into his eye. He took a few steps back, studying Dylan¡¯s armored form, scanning it up and down, as if looking for any weaknesses.


    The man went to open his mouth, took another look at the armor, and then shut it again. Dylan just stood there, silently, until the man worked his courage up enough to speak.


    ¡°Aye, buddy. Looking worse for the wear, there. It¡¯s not often you find someone wearing something like that-¡± he gestured towards Dylan ¡°sleeping somewhere like here.¡±


    The man stuck his hand in his pocket, taking a step closer.


    ¡°And that armor looks to be in pretty rough shape, hmm? Y¡¯know, I¡¯ve heard about a big scrap that went down a few days ago, ¡®tween some supers. Saw some footage on the news, I did. One of them was wearing armor that looked just like that.¡±


    The man seemed to be gaining confidence, a small grin creeping up onto his face, the corners of his mouth lifting, stretching his skin in a most unpleasant way. Dylan looked down at himself. His armor really was in rough shape. The chest plate was cracked and dented where Dynamis had punched it.


    ¡°I recken that super that was rockin the armor crawled off and died, and you, being an enterprising individual, came and took it from his corpse. Happens all the time, I¡¯d imagine. I myself woulda done the same. But if you¡¯re sleeping here, out in the open, with that, it probably means you don¡¯t got too many options.¡±


    The man took his hand out of his pocket. He was holding something, something small that gleamed when it caught the light.


    ¡°How about this, hmm? You give me the armor, right, and I won¡¯t stab you. Hell, I¡¯ll throw in some of the cash for you, how bout it? It¡¯s a win win, yeah? You get money, I get money, you don¡¯t get stabbed.¡±


    Ahh. That shiny object in his hand was probably a knife. That would explain why he had pulled it out earlier. Dylan felt that the man must have been either truly delusional or desperate to try and rob him of the armor. Even if he was just a corpse robber, anybody wearing a super''s armor was going to be dangerous to a man with a knife. Hell, even if the armor didn¡¯t do anything super, he was still a dude covered in metal. Any adult in metal armor could probably punch down a thug with a knife.


    Dylan eyed the man again. He appeared to be getting antsy, shifting from foot to foot, knife hand shaking. It was probably best to nip this in the bud. Usually, somebody like this would pose no threat to him at all. Normally, chances were he would be able to stab at Dylan for an hour and not find a gap in his armor. Right now, thought? Well, his armor was pretty messed up, and there was certainly a hole that could be stabbed through on his back. Dylan did not want to add stab wounds to his list of injuries.


    He took a quick step forward, causing the man to jump a little. The knife flashed through the air, deflecting off of Dylan¡¯s armor with pinging noise. Dylan¡¯s hand caught the man¡¯s wrist immediately afterwards. He tried to be careful with the pressure, unwilling to crush the man''s bones into powder. Unfortunately, the quick movement caused his wounds to flare up, sending lances of pain radiating throughout his body.


    Dylan tensed up, unable to move, letting out a hiss between his teeth. This sucked so much ass. The grungy man seemed to agree, letting out a surprisingly shrill screech. Dylan forced himself to release the man''s wrist. The knife clattered to the ground; limp fingers unable to grasp it any longer.


    The man dropped to his knees cradling his wrist. Dylan kicked the knife away with his foot. Best not to let this guy get any more ideas.


    Dylan looked down, studying the man. He had tears in the corner of his eyes. Dylan had tried to be gentle, but honestly, he didn¡¯t really care if he¡¯d hurt the man. People like this were usually scum, and he had just tried to stab Dylan.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    The man turned his gaze away from his wrist, instead choosing to look up at Dylan with an uncomprehending gaze. He didn¡¯t seem to react to what was probably a surprisingly juvenile voice, but then again, he didn¡¯t seem to be reacting to much else either.


    Dylan waited for the man to speak, but as the seconds ticked past, he found himself growing more and more impatient. Eventually, just as his patience neared its limits, the man spoke.


    ¡°I¡¯m Drew. T-that is, Andrew.¡±


    It seemed that Dylan had frightened Andrew. To be honest, that was probably the smartest thing Andrew had felt all day. Maybe if he spent more time being scared and less time attacking obvious supers he wouldn¡¯t wind up in predicaments like these.


    ¡°You mentioned something about selling my armor, Andrew. Why don¡¯t you tell me where you would do that?¡±


    Andrew seemed hesitant to fulfill the request, at least at first. When he saw one of Dylan¡¯s armored fists slowly rise into the air, however, he mysteriously became eager to comply.


    ¡°Uhhhh, there¡¯s an electronics repair shop a few streets back. They¡¯re a legit business, but they¡¯ve also got contacts with a local villain. You uhh, should be able to sell it there, no problem. Just please, don¡¯t tell them that I was the one who told you. It¡¯ll make my life hell if you do.¡±


    Dylan turned and started to walk off, but Andrew didn¡¯t seem to want to let him leave without getting his word.


    ¡°Man please, I¡¯m fucking sorry, alright, but please don¡¯t tell them I told you about em.¡±


    Dylan kept on walking.


    ¡°That¡¯s not up to you to decide.¡±


    He peaked around the corners of the alley, making sure it was clear, before stepping out. Dylan wasn¡¯t particularly worried about random people calling the police on him. It was technically a possibility, and were he anywhere else, it would probably warrant more consideration, but here, people tended to be more estranged from the law. This side of town, while certainly not exclusively criminals, tended to mistrust police as a rule.


    That wasn¡¯t to say that it was impossible for somebody to call the police on him. His armor was probably being shown on every local news station every 30 minutes, accompanied by a newscaster, who, in a serious voice, would talk about how he was extremely dangerous, and how, should you see him, you should call the police immediately while leaving the area. The threat of super villains had made people pretty good at evacuating in a hurry. There were always those too stubborn to leave, or those who wouldn¡¯t realize that they should until it was too late, of course, but on average people were far more willing to clear their homes and places of business now than they were 50 years ago.


    No, Dylan wasn¡¯t particularly worried about civilians calling in on him. He was more concerned about walking in front of a police car looking exactly like the most wanted person in 50 miles. They didn¡¯t come back here often, but not often didn¡¯t mean never. They were certainly obligated to patrol here sometimes, and while calls for them were rare, they did happen.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Luckily enough, it seemed that the coast was clear. The street was mostly empty, with just a single person walking on it, head down, lost in their own little world. That was good. Dylan wasn¡¯t looking for problems, at the moment. He seemed to have enough on his plate as it is.


    He stepped out into the light and started walking in the direction Andrew had pointed him. Honestly, the more Dylan thought about it, the worse the instructions given to him seemed to be. They weren¡¯t very specific, for one thing. He felt a sharp sense of irritation, but at this point it would be too much work to go back and ask for clarification. Besides, if Andrew knew what was good for him, he¡¯d be long gone by now.


    Dylan would just have to work with what he had. It took him longer than he would like to admit to find his destination. This entire part of the city was constructed haphazardly. Instead of a neat grid, it was a sprawl, with streets added in a seemingly willy-nilly fashion as the city grew. It had been a mess for years, but there wasn¡¯t really any interest in rebuilding. Who would pay for it?


    It was a self-sustaining cycle. This part of town was worn down, and under enforced. Because of this, crime moved in. This meant that businesses moved out. It also meant even less patrols, and even more degradation. What repair crew wanted to work where all the criminals were? The city only had so much money to spend on things like repairs, and since there was nobody here to pay for it, they were the only ones who would even consider doing something about it.


    But why would they? Their limited budget was, at least in their opinion, best spent elsewhere. The places where the businesses were, and the criminals weren¡¯t. Plus, it was convenient for the city, in a manner of speaking, to have all of the criminals grouped up in one easy to identify area, one far away from all of the ¡®normal¡¯ folk.


    Dylan could understand why they did it, but it seemed to him like sweeping the problem under the rug instead of solving it. With super villains in the area, it was probably going to be impossible to completely remove the crime, but the city could certainly do more to diminish it. He had certainly overheard his parents saying as much. And for what it was worth, he agreed.


    But regardless of what anybody thought should be done, the area was mostly left to rot. A lot of the decay was visible. The potholes were larger and more frequent here. The biggest one Dylan saw was large enough that he was concerned that a car might fall into it. The rest tended to be a lot smaller, but it still looked like a nightmare around here.


    The buildings, too, would often sport signs of decay. Old bloodstains left in alleys that nobody had bothered to clean up. Graffiti for gangs often accompanied it. Many buildings had broken or boarded up windows. Several were abandoned entirely. When passing by one of the few businesses that remained (usually locally owned), it wasn¡¯t too uncommon to see one or two people standing out front.


    Sometimes it was groups of shady men, with tattered jackets and tattoos. Unlike a lot of other cities, many of the gangs here were fairly racially diverse. There weren¡¯t really enough of any specific population to have it otherwise.


    It was also common that the people standing out front were acting as guards. Many of them looked as tough as the gangbangers, if not tougher. Dylan particularly remembered one man, a big Asian guy with a baseball bat. His face was scarred, and he was glancing around the street, checking out everyone who passed by. He gave Dylan a polite nod when he spotted him. Dylan, unsure of what to do, simply nodded back and continued on his way.


    However, not everybody he spotted was like this. There was somebody who looked pretty young, probably only about 20. The young man had a bookish look about him, with big glasses and an unflattering haircut. It almost looked as if it were somebody''s nephew, helping out over the summer before they went back to college.


    Overall, it seemed like almost everybody here had adapted to their circumstances. It was rare to see anybody walking alone. Those that were were usually men, on the larger side. Often, they looked like they knew how to fight. It wasn¡¯t without danger for them, either, as Dylan got to witness 6 smaller guys gang up on one of the solo striders. They danced around him, avoiding his blows, striking him from behind when he was off balance.


    Dylan frowned at the situation. His frown deepened when he found himself just feet away, his legs carrying him closer to the conflict. He didn¡¯t remember deciding to do that. He wasn¡¯t feeling very heroic right now, for a variety of reasons. Nobody else seemed to think he was a hero, either, despite his best efforts. It seemed wiser to just give up on it.


    But regardless of what anybody else thought,the fact was that Dylan was rapidly approaching a fight, and his presence there would shape it. It was one of the assaulters that was farthest from Dylan who first noticed him. He backed up, calling out to his buddies about the new variable that had just entered the situation.


    The man they were assaulting was already curled up on the ground, covering his head and trying to weather the beating. One of the men got one last vicious kick in before calling everybody else off, turning around to face Dylan. Their leader, then, or at least somebody with some degree of control over the group.


    Dylan walked closer, until he was right up in the man''s face. He started back at Dylan, seemingly fearless. Hopefully he would wizen up and walk away, taking his cronies with him. He had already given the guy lying on the ground a pretty severe beating.


    The man then chose that moment to open his mouth, shattering Dylan¡¯s illusions of a peaceful encounter.


    ¡°Hey fucker, I don¡¯t know what your problem is, but-¡±


    His speech was interrupted when Dylan¡¯s open palm struck him across the face, knocking him onto the ground and into unconsciousness immediately. Dylan didn¡¯t have the patience to deal with him kindly at the moment, so the man would have to count himself lucky that he survived the encounter.


    As for his friends, upon seeing their leader getting taken down, they wisely decided that they had somewhere else to be. Urgently. They ran off, leaving their leader lying on the ground. Nobody even bothered to look back. The unconscious man probably wasn¡¯t a very good leader, then. That, or he was corralling cowards.


    Dylan suddenly felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. He glanced at the victim of the assault, still curled up on the ground. Helping him would be too much trouble. He would have to figure it out on his own. Plus, there was probably a reason that he was attacked like that.


    Dylan walked on, leaving the situation behind him. It had worsened his mood considerably. It seemed that nobody respected him. Dynamis and Puncher both thought he was no good. The police seemingly felt the same way. Andrew had tried to stab him earlier. And that punk had mouthed off to him, immediately. Was there something that he was doing wrong? His father always seemed to command a measure of respect no matter where he went, whether the people there knew him or not. That just didn¡¯t seem to be the case for Dylan.


    If that trend continued, it was going to make it very hard for him to get what he needed from the shady electronics shop, if it even had what he was looking for. Specifically, he was looking for the person in charge of the operation, or at least someone with some authority. Once he found them, he would have to barter or threaten his way into finding somewhere to get medical attention. Being a super meant that he would heal better and faster than a normal person, but it still wasn¡¯t a good idea to leave his wounds open. It was still possible for them to fester, get diseases, and the blood loss was making him dizzy.


    Hopefully his plan worked. If he had to escalate to threats, then there was a decent chance that the other party would escalate to violence, especially if they were a super. With that in mind, Dylan sent out a mental command to his drone, urging it to his location.


    It had sat in a dark alley, waiting for instructions. When it received the orders, it lifted off with a whir, sending rats scampering out from the pile of trash it was resting on. Dylan felt something grab his attention. Ohh. It seemed that somebody had tried to repossess the drone earlier. It had promptly dealt with that.


    Now, knowing that some form of backup was on its way here, Dylan felt a lot safer. At least if shit hit the fan, then he would have some form of protection. He might not be able to fight, but it shouldn¡¯t matter too much. It was his drone that had done all of the heavy lifting during the fight with Dynamis. It had even more offensive power than he did. Dylan felt a little bit of weight lift from his mind at the thought.


    At least whatever criminal he was going to be meeting would probably have a location where he could get help. Going to a normal hospital after what they did was just asking to get identified and arrested. Wounds from fights were often very distinctive. That meant that they had to have somewhere to get patched up. It might be a corrupt clinic, sitting in squander in the bad side of town, or a doctor on their payroll, or even a member of their organization with some first aid skills and supplies. Whatever form it took, Dylan needed the help.


    He was getting closer and closer to ¡°a few streets back¡±. Not quickly, of course. No, the feelings of weakness and dizziness were getting increasingly prevalent in his mind. His walk, which was initially steady, if not quick, was turning more into a sort of stagger.


    Eventually, he rounded the corner, and lo and behold, the electronics store. While it didn¡¯t quite look new, it was certainly less rundown than the buildings that surrounded it. None of it¡¯s windows were broken, and no graffiti marred it¡¯s surface. Its large electric sign flickered weakly. It looked to be quite old, but all of the letters were lit up, at least some of the time. No guards stood outside, and no loiterers were present either.


    Dylan pushed his way through the door slightly too hard, causing it to slam to a stop as its hinges reached the edge of their range of motion. An electric chiming sound rang out, notifying any employees present that somebody was here to visit their store.


    There were a few laptops sitting out on counters. They looked to be unsecured. Additionally, there was nobody present at the counter to watch them. This store definitely had connections. Something like this would be a risky proposition even in the nicer parts of town, and this was definitely not a nice part of town. At least Dylan knew he was at the right location.


    An employee walked out from the back a few seconds later. He wasn¡¯t wearing much of a uniform, sporting a light blue vest over a plain white shirt. The man looked to be about 25 years old. He was fairly skinny, in an athletic way, and had dark hair. He had a bored expression on his face. It changed a little when he spotted Dylan, eyebrows rising up his head, but other than that, his reaction was fairly mild.


    ¡°Hey man, I can give you what¡¯s in the register, but it¡¯s not much. If you want me to open the safe, don¡¯t bother. I can only deposit in it twice a day, and that¡¯s at noon and midnight. Though, if you try and carry it out, I¡¯m not going to stop you. Same goes with the laptops, I suppose. They¡¯re insured, so if you try and take them you aren¡¯t going to get any trouble from me.¡±


    He frowned.


    ¡°My boss might not be happy, though.¡±


    The words were delivered casually, but the emphasis that the man placed on the word boss made Dylan suspect that he had just been threatened. This boss must be somebody important, if his employees expected that mentioning him would make a super think twice about robbing them. While Dylan had no idea who this boss was, he suspected that most of the locals around here wouldn¡¯t be as ignorant.


    ¡°I¡¯m not here to rob you. I¡¯m here to see your boss.¡±


    The man started, looking Dylan up and down, uncertainly.


    ¡°That¡¯s not a good idea. He doesn¡¯t want to be disturbed, right now. He¡¯s been having a bad week.¡±


    Honestly, Dylan didn¡¯t really care. It probably wasn¡¯t worth it for this ¡°boss¡± to cause him any trouble no matter how bad their week had been.


    ¡°It¡¯s not up for negotiation. Take me to him.¡±


    The employee sighed and shrugged.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s your funeral, then.¡±


    He reached into his pocket. Remembering the incident with the knife earlier, Dylan tensed, but the only thing that the man pulled out was a cellphone. He tapped on it a few times, and the phone started to ring. It was quickly picked up, and the man put it up against his ear.


    ¡°Hey, boss, there''s somebody here to see you. Yeah, he seems important.¡±


    He glanced at Dylan again.


    ¡°He¡¯s dressed up in some sort of fancy power armor. Like the one on the news?¡±


    The employee looked at Dylan, studying him more intently. Dylan just nodded.


    ¡°Yeah, boss, he¡¯s the one on the news. Matches the description, and he nodded when I said it. Hmm? Yeah, I¡¯ll bring him over.¡±


    With that, the employee hung up, placing the phone back into his pocket.


    ¡°Alright, armor man. Armor kid? Whatever, the boss said he¡¯ll see you. Follow me.¡±


    He turned, and walked back into the back of the shop, into the same door that he had emerged from earlier. Dylan started after him. The man walked faster than was comfortable for Dylan, but even in his condition his armor let him move quite a bit faster than he normally would be able to.


    The employee pushed open a door in the back of the shop that led into a back alley. Dylan followed him, wary of an ambush. It seemed unlikely, but that entire call could have just been a charade to make him let his guard down. It wasn¡¯t like Dylan really had a choice, though. He had to follow.


    Luckily enough, though, there was no ambush. The employee kept walking, not bothering to glance at Dylan to check if he was keeping up. Dylan did spot his drone, hovering over them, a barely visible spec in the sky, which did reassure him a bit.


    As they kept walking, the buildings started to get nicer. They certainly weren¡¯t opulent, but, like the electronics store, they mostly had intact windows, and there was far less graffiti on them. Some even looked a little newer than others, with automatic doors and bright fluorescent lighting.


    Dylan figured he would have normally felt nervous, but he mostly felt weariness. The pain was still present and grating, and he just wanted it to be over with. Having to walk around, be on guard and paying attention, when the only thing that he wanted to do was sleep, was tiring him out. Plus, he felt the blood from his back soaking his pants. If he were an ordinary person, he would probably have to lay down right now to avoid falling over. As it was, he was only truly stable because of his armor.


    Eventually, they made it to their destination. A nondescript office building, single story. Its windows were blacked out, making it nearly impossible to see what was going on inside. There was no signage out front, and about half of its meager parking space was full, mostly occupied by vans and pickups.


    The employee pushed open the door, revealing a small room. It was only connected to one other door, one made entirely of metal. To the right was a glass window, with a small hole cut out of it. Behind it sat a man, with buttons lining the desk in front of him. Dylan stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him.


    The employee spoke to the guard.


    ¡°He¡¯s here to see the boss, and yeah, the boss knows he¡¯s coming.¡±


    The guard lifted his hand to his earpiece, and muttered something that Dylan couldn¡¯t make out. He waited a few seconds, likely for a reply, before speaking.


    ¡°Alright, you-¡± he pointed to the employee ¡°can go. As for our guest, through the door, then go straight down the hall, through the door all the way at the end. The boss is waiting for you there.¡±


    The employee walked back through the door that led outside, while the guard pressed a button on his desk. Dylan heard a click and walked towards the door that led deeper into the building. It opened with surprising ease.


    Inside was nearly as plain as the outside. The walls were gray, with no decorations on them. There was a water cooler in the corner, but other than that the room was empty. Three hallways led from the space, each dotted with doors.


    Dylan kept heading straight, as instructed, and ended up walking past what looked to be offices. He quickly made it to the end of the hall, and opened the door.


    Stepping into the office, Dylan froze. A familiar face sat there, staring back at him. His adrenaline spiked, the pain in his back temporarily forgotten. Dylan had been led into a trap. Sitting across from him was Kasha. And he did not look happy.

 Chapter 20

    Dylan was preparing to leap over the desk when Kasha sighed and waved his hand dismissively.


    ¡°What do you want from me? Was beating me up and foiling my plans not enough for you? Have you come for round two? Maybe to extort or threaten me?¡±


    Dylan¡¯s panic stricken mind didn¡¯t even register the words he had just heard for a good few seconds. When they did, the adrenaline kept most of the confusion at bay. It was only when Kasha spoke again that Dylan started to pay attention.


    ¡°What will it be, hero? Hmm, or maybe I should call you a villain? Your little escapade doesn¡¯t seem to have been taken too kindly by the powers that be. Did playing the hero not work out?¡±


    What? Why was Kasha not attacking him? Was that not the purpose of this whole charade? To ambush him, take revenge for what Dylan had done? He couldn¡¯t think of any other reason why Kasha would bring him here, even after knowing who he was.


    ¡°If you¡¯re going to attack me, just get on with it already, Kasha. You better hope that you manage to kill me before my drone can blast you to bits. It¡¯s the same one that I used to kill Dynamis.¡±


    With his piece said, Dylan settled back into an uneasy silence, waiting. He tried to reach the connection he had with his drone. It was there, but muted, somehow. Instead of the increasingly familiar connection that he had come to appreciate, it felt tenuous. It wasn¡¯t absent, per se, but it wasn¡¯t all there, either. It took a great deal of effort for Dylan to force any command through, and when the drone responded, it felt extremely sluggish.


    What was going on? Were his injuries interfering with his powers? Had the blood loss started to catch up to him? Or was it something that Kasha was doing? Did he have another power, one that Dylan wasn¡¯t aware of? If so, why hadn¡¯t he used it in their fight? Was he keeping it a secret, waiting till he was in the position to use it, sealing his opponents powers away, before killing them? Or, perhaps he had developed it after the last fight? A super getting another power was very rare, but not unheard of. Or, perhaps, it was the building they were in. Dylan thought he remembered hearing something about materials that could block certain types of powers. Maybe Kasha had lined his office with something like that.


    If that were the case, then as soon as he saw Kasha start to make any sort of threatening movement, he would lunge backwards, trying to throw himself through the door. If he were able to get out of the office fast enough, Dylan felt that he should be able to use his drone to kill Kasha. Of course, this plan would only work if it was only this one room that blocked his powers. If it was the entire building, or, even worse, something else, like Kasha himself, then Dylan was in for a much harder time. Maybe, if it were just the building, he could get himself out fast enough to survive, although even that seemed risky. If it were truly Kasha suppressing his powers, then Dylan was done for.


    As Dylan tensed further, preparing to spring away at a moment''s notice, Kasha¡¯s eyebrows steadily rose up his forehead.


    ¡°You¡¯re really very young, aren¡¯t you? I hadn¡¯t noticed it earlier, as I was rather distracted by the whole situation, but, what, you can¡¯t be older than 15, can you? And I¡¯d certainly place you as younger even than that.¡±


    He peered at Dylan for a second longer, before deciding to respond to what the teen had said.


    ¡°And no, I¡¯m not going to attack you, unless you decide to attack me first. You can relax. I would get nothing out of it. I don¡¯t like harming children, regardless. And before you ask, or make the assumption, I¡¯m not particularly interested in revenge. The whole thing seems to be far more trouble than it¡¯s worth, if you ask me.¡±


    Dylan tried not to let his guard down, but his injuries and exhaustion ensured that he couldn¡¯t keep up this tense state for long. The adrenaline that had been pumping through his system started to fade away, and he once again noticed just how exhausted he was, just how much everything hurt, and just how dizzy the blood loss was making him. He settled himself down into a chair, careful not to put any pressure on his back.


    Kasha, meanwhile, was muttering to himself.


    ¡°Beaten by two teens, one of which was barely that. I suppose that I''m second rate for a reason.¡±


    Dylan surmised that he wasn¡¯t supposed to hear that, and opted to keep quiet. He wasn¡¯t entirely sure how he had made it out in the first place.


    Kasha looked back up at him, seemingly returning to the moment.


    ¡°Now, I believe that I¡¯ve answered the most pressing of your questions. I¡¯d like you to answer mine. While I¡¯m not going to hurt you, I¡¯m not exactly thrilled that you¡¯re here, either.¡±


    Dylan took a moment to study the villain. Now that he had calmed down slightly, it was obvious to see that Kasha wasn¡¯t in a much better state than he was. His suit was unbuttoned, likely to avoid putting too much pressure on whatever wound the bandages wrapped around his torso covered.


    Kasha¡¯s face was bruised, and there were several cuts and nicks on it as well. When he moved his arms, he did so slowly, almost tenderly, as if he was afraid of aggravating his injuries. He had an ice pack strapped to his neck, and there were several discarded ones sitting on his desk, ready to be recooled.


    Overall, it looked like the villain had taken a beating. Which, Dylan supposed, he had. That first blow, the one Kasha took from Puncher, was still clear as day in Dylan¡¯s mind. He didn¡¯t think he could survive such an attack, super suit or not.


    It also confirmed that Kasha had some access to the medical care that Dylan was seeking, however. While anybody could buy ice packs at the store, the bandages that covered the Villain looked too well wrapped to have been done by an amateur. While Dylan supposed that the villain could have wrapped them himself, he didn¡¯t think it was likely. No, it was far more plausible that he had somebody do it for him. Trying to fix and set your own wounds when you were injured just seemed like a recipe for disaster.


    Dylan had to ask about that, but before he did, he had a burning question on his mind. Just how did Kasha escape? The last time Dylan had seen the villain, it had been when he had punted Kasha¡¯s unconscious head into a wall. In fact, police surrounded the entire building.


    Dylan leaned forwards, opening his mouth.


    ¡°How did you-¡±


    Kasha shot him a glare, causing Dylan to drop silent.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to need you to answer my questions, first off.¡±


    Dylan begrudgingly let out a breath, quietly trying to figure out how he could say what he was looking for without appearing too weak. Kasha had seemed honest every time Dylan had spoken to him, but that was only twice. Plus, it would be unwise to expect honesty from a villain.


    After a few seconds, Dylan looked back up at Kasha.


    ¡°After my encounter with Dynamis, I¡¯ve sustained some injuries. I¡¯m looking for medical attention, as I don¡¯t have my own.¡±


    As he said that, the last of the adrenaline in his body was starting to fade. A wave of exhaustion swept over him again. Dylan nearly missed what the villain said next.


    ¡°Ahh, you¡¯re fairly new, of course you don¡¯t have any experiences in situations like this. You were trying to be a hero, so you probably expected that they¡¯d just let you walk into any hospital for treatment. Everything¡¯s falling apart, hmm? Well, I do know where you can get medical treatment.¡±


    Dylan felt a faint thread of hope. He was eager to be free of his wounds.They probably wouldn¡¯t kill him, but he would be weak for months if they remained untreated.


    Kasha gave a dry smile.


    ¡°But, before I tell you how to access it, I do have one condition.¡±


    Dylan felt the hope disappearing. Chances were, he would be unable to meet this condition. Either it would be something he was incapable of doing, like retrieving a valuable object, or something he was unwilling to do, like kidnapping civilians. Either way, he felt his chances of getting help were rapidly dropping down into non-existence.


    ¡°What are they?¡±


    Dylan waited, with bated breath, for the answer, one that he simultaneously couldn¡¯t wait to hear and at the same time dreaded.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to need you to not interfere with me again. You caused me a lot of trouble, and my reputation and finances have taken a hit, because of your actions. You¡¯re certainly not esteemed right now, but even if you¡¯re always considered a villain, you¡¯ll always have the potential to be a thorn in my side. And that potential will grow even more if you find a way to re-enter the folds of society. I can¡¯t afford to have you keep mucking up my plans. Promise me that you¡¯ll stay out of my business.¡±


    The offer wasn¡¯t one that Dylan had expected. He had figured it would have been something harder to agree with. He wasn¡¯t entirely sure what to make of it, to be honest. It seemed fairly innocuous, on the surface. Coriolis would likely be returning from whatever emergency was occupying the heroes at the moment fairly soon, and he alone would likely be more than powerful enough to handle Kasha.


    It was exactly because the deal seemed to be so good that Dylan distrusted it. Villains, as far as he knew, always seemed to have an angle. They certainly weren¡¯t a group known for their honesty.


    Did Kasha want Dylan out of the picture because he was planning something? Was there going to be a huge operation soon? With Dylan out of the picture, it would be the best timing that a villain could get for a while. Dynamis was probably dead, Coriolis wasn¡¯t back yet, and with foreknowledge of his abilities, Kasha could probably deal with Puncher in a one on one fight.


    The villain was certainly injured, but was he injured enough that such a thing wouldn¡¯t be possible? Dylan had his doubts about that. Almost all supers healed faster, and Kasha wasn¡¯t an ordinary super. He was experienced. He had been fighting for years. Dylan wouldn¡¯t be surprised if he healed several times faster than the average person. Hell, on the higher end, it could be possible for Kasha to be back up at full strength within the week.


    But how likely was that? Dylan could honestly say he disliked Kasha very much. But, in all their dealings, the Villain seemed cautious. Would he even know the extent of Dynamis¡¯ injuries? Local law enforcement would certainly do their best to keep it a secret, that was for sure. And it was certain that Kasha didn¡¯t want to fight Dynamis. He had waited for the rookie hero to be occupied before making his move for a reason.


    Plus, it wasn¡¯t like Dylan really had a choice. Sure, if the offer Kasha had made was too horrible for him to bear, he would have refused it, and tried to ride out his injuries on his own. But that was only for the worst case scenario, and Dylan didn¡¯t really think that this was it.


    No, it seemed far more likely that Kasha just wanted Dylan out of his hair. Like the villain had said, Dylan was certainly a great nuisance. One that would make Kasha¡¯s life far harder, if he kept interfering. Plus, it made sense in a way, that he wouldn¡¯t want to help somebody recover if that somebody was going to turn around and immediately attack him.


    Ultimately, Dylan couldn¡¯t say what caused him to make up his mind. It was probably a combination of factors. The pain, the fact that he knew that recovering from his injuries all by himself would be a whole ¡®nother bitch, or the fact that he would have to hide this from his parents, something that would be a lot harder to do if his recovery took two weeks instead of two days.


    Dylan took a deep breath, wincing as it aggravated his wounds, before looking back up at the villain in front of him.


    ¡°Alright Kasha. You have a deal. I¡¯ll stay out of your business, if you get me to somewhere I can get treatment. But, I have a condition of my own. I¡¯ll only respect my end of the bargain if you don¡¯t do anything too crazy. Take more hostages, or start killing people, or something like that, and I won¡¯t hesitate to come after you again, got it?¡±


    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    The villain looked thoughtful. He started off, gazing into space for a few seconds, before seeming to come to a decision. His vacant expression firmed, and he looked directly into Dylan¡¯s eyes with a penetrating gaze.


    ¡°That is acceptable. There is a clinic, a few blocks back. I have a deal with its owner. You¡¯ll have to be the one to convince him to treat you, but he won¡¯t report you to the authorities.¡±


    A cold look swept across the villain''s face.


    ¡°Or I¡¯ll deal with him, personally¡±.


    Despite himself, Dylan found himself leaning back. He had felt the sting of Kasha''s claws once, and was not eager to do so again.


    ¡°Anyways, Mechanical boy, the clinic is almost directly straight from here. Go two blocks behind this building, turn right, and it will be right in front of you.¡±


    Dylan grunted in affirmation, before mustering up his will. He pushed himself to his feet with some difficulty. Kasha gave him a slight nod, gesturing towards the door.


    ¡°I can¡¯t say I¡¯ve enjoyed knowing you. To be honest, I¡¯d think I¡¯d rather never meet you. You understand why, of course. But, I will say that I¡¯m glad that you''re a reasonable person, when you¡¯re not dead set on smashing my skull in. Hopefully this is our final meeting, machine boy, but I can¡¯t imagine fate being so kind to either of us.¡±


    Dylan didn¡¯t respond, instead repeating the directions he had been given in his head, again and again. He couldn¡¯t forget them. If he ended up lost, or going the wrong way, it would make this whole process that much worse. Dylan wasn¡¯t sure that he could travel more than a few more blocks before he passed out again.


    Two blocks back, turn right. Two blocks back, turn right. It became his mantra as he stumbled ever closer to his goal. He basically ignored the guard at the front desk, practically battering down the front door of Kasha¡¯s office on his way to the street.


    Dylan got more concerned glances this time. He was staggering about, obviously injured. People were right to be concerned. There were two common things that happened when supers died: Nothing, or something very, very bad. The people around Dylan didn¡¯t know which category he would fall into. Many supers didn¡¯t know which of the two they themselves were. Maybe when Dylan kicked the bucket, whatever warped the laws of reality, allowing him to create such fantastical devices, would peter out, releasing some sort of massive explosion as the physical universe tried to right itself. Or maybe he would just slump over, and some two-bit criminal would come and take his stuff. Nobody on the street knew, and they weren¡¯t exactly eager to find out.


    This, in a sense, worked out in Dylan¡¯s favor. He really didn¡¯t need anybody getting in his way right now, in his condition. He would have been happy to encounter nobody on the path to his destination. Fate, or whatever series of coincidences that passed for, seemed to have other plans in mind, however.


    A young man, in a tight leather jacket stepped in front of Dylan, nearly a block away from Kasha¡¯s office. He smiled, but there was no warmth in it.


    ¡°Hey, buddy in the armor. Why don¡¯t you-¡±


    The young thug never got to finish his sentence, as it was interrupted by Dylan¡¯s fist crashing into his ribs, eliciting a series of sharp cracks and a pained grunt from the fellow as he collapsed onto the concrete, holding his injured midsection. Dylan didn¡¯t spare him another glance.


    It started to rain as Dylan walked. What was at first a light drizzle turned into a heavy downpour. Water started to accumulate on the streets, the neglected drainage systems unable to handle the sudden deluge of water. Thunder cracked in the sky. Despite his exhaustion, Dylan felt nervous. He didn¡¯t think that a large, metal suit of armor was the best thing to be out in during a thunderstorm. The rain dripped through the cracks on his armor, sending lances of white-hot pain down his spine when they came into contact with his wounds.


    His pace almost glacial, Dylan kept at it, putting one foot in front of the other. Slowly, the buildings went by. The area wasn¡¯t as nice here as it was around Kasha¡¯s office. It was certainly better off than other locations like it in this part of the city, but it was still more rundown than any ¡°respectable¡± neighborhood.


    Two blocks back, one block right. Two Blocks back, one block right.


    Dylan repeated the directions in his head one final time, as he rounded the corner. His destination lay in front of him, a squat building with flickering lights out front. The poorly maintained sign read: ¡°Baughman¡¯s clinic¡±.


    The sight reassured Dylan. He hadn¡¯t come all of this way for nothing. Help was just around the corner. It felt like forever since he had last been pain free, and that blissful normality was something that he couldn¡¯t wait to return too.


    He staggered towards the front door as quickly as he could, a smile crossing his face. Maybe everything would work out, after all.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Winnie jumped when she heard the crack of thunder outside, then frowned. It wasn¡¯t supposed to storm today. The drains around here were too clogged up to handle all the water, which meant that everything would be wet for at least a week. She sighed. Winnie greatly looked forward to school starting. She had been happy, when she had graduated middle school, but her father had put an end to any plans of a joyful, carefree summer, when he had told her that he was expecting her to start helping out around the clinic.


    It had been far more work than she imagined possible. Winnie could admit, now, that perhaps, having never had a job before, her expectations about her unwillingly gained position might have been a bit too optimistic. She wouldn¡¯t say that she was overworked, per se. She did get two days off a week, although which of the two days that was varied depending on how busy they found themselves. Any, often enough, she still ended up helping out on her days off. Her father tried to avoid that, but he would often end up so busy that she would have no choice in the matter.


    It wasn¡¯t his entirely his fault that it got this way, either. Her father, Dr. Baughman, had originally opened up his clinic here years ago, back when this wasn¡¯t such a bad part of town. It had certainly been poorer than the rest of the city, but that was perfect for a doctor looking to provide affordable care to the less fortunate.


    What Dr. Baughman had failed to predict, however, was how the area would decline. Some years back, city officials had apparently decided that, rather than trying to fix the area, it would be far more convenient to dump all the crime into one spot, a spot that they would thereafter neglect.


    Slowly, Dr. Baughman¡¯s staff moved on. He couldn¡¯t afford to offer them large salaries, after all, and while virtue had originally let them power through their rather mediocre pay, the rise in crime around the area meant that working at the clinic would draw more and more risk, all the while its income continued to fall.


    Soon enough, it was only Dr. Baughman, and his daughter. His wife was no longer in the picture, having died in a car crash a few years earlier. At first, he had maintained the clinic himself. But as he got older, it got harder and harder. Harder to work the long hours, and harder to handle the unruly malcontents who would often show up, looking for free treatment, treatment he couldn¡¯t afford to provide.


    Normally, when Dr. Baughman told these unruly men and women that he couldn¡¯t help him, they would glare at him, or scream insults, before storming off. Sometimes, however, they weren¡¯t as willing to take no for an answer. Sometimes, they got violent.


    For all of his life, Dr. Baughman had been in great shape. When he was in highschool, he was even a champion in the local boxing circuit. That meant that, generally, when conflict ensued, He could handle himself well enough that nobody ever thought about trying to bring violence into his clinic again.


    However, if you did something often enough, you were bound to get a bad result eventually, no matter how skilled you were. At first, the consequences of these fights were minor. A few bruises, or a cut on the face or hand. Occasionally, his attackers would land a really solid kick on his ribs or legs, and he would be walking around with a limp for a few weeks. Winnie still remembered him chuckling and rubbing her hair when she expressed concern for him, saying that they were his ¡°victory trophies¡±. The proof that he had gotten through something difficult, a mark to be proud off. It was a optimistic attitude, one that he tried to instill into Winnie as well, often with the same speech, when she had done something that gave her a bruise when she was younger. She still remembered the kind look in his eyes as she ran to him, crying, after falling off of her bike. He had taken the time to explain to her that learning to ride a bike was difficult, and to embrace the failures and difficulties, rather than be upset at them. Of course, Winnie hadn¡¯t understood at the time, but as she got older she found herself agreeing with the mindset more and more.


    Winnie¡¯s attitude towards the injuries had changed after her father had taken a knife to the leg in one of the scuffles. It had missed all of his major arteries, luckily enough, and he had been able to drive his assailants back. Still, she remembered sitting there, shocked, as he stumbled back into the clinic, face white, sweat beading on his brow.


    He had shouted at Winnie, then, (one of the only times in her life she remembered her father raising his voice at her) telling her to get help. She had sat there, frozen, unable to move, and unable to comprehend the situation that was going on in front of her.


    Luckily enough, there had been another employee in the clinic that day. He sprinted out from the back of the clinic when he heard the commotion, and removed the knife from her fathers leg, before suturing and bandaging it. Had he not been there, her father would probably have never been able to walk again. After saving the leg, the man had handed in his resignation.


    And even with this timely intervention, Dr. Baughman had retained a limp that never seemed to go away. Often, he walked with a cane, his good leg unable to support his weight all day.


    Everything had gone downhill from there. The thugs that showed up to the clinic got more and more bold as the Dr¡¯s ability to defend himself got worse and worse. In addition to the limp, he had gotten a near constant collection of bruises and fractures as he had to get into more and more fights.


    It got so bad, one time, that Dr. Baughman had called the police. That had been a mistake. In the 40 minutes it took for them to arrive, he had been beaten within an inch of his life.


    Winnie¡¯s father was never the same, even after he recovered. He was a skinner, more forgetful, more timid version of himself. That drive, the fire he had possessed in his youth, the spark of life behind his eyes, was gone now.


    After that incident, her father had done something to get the attacks to stop, however. She remembered some sharp eyed man in a business suit surveying the clinic, before walking into her fathers office.


    When the man emerged, hours later, he strode out the door, ignoring everything else around him. Winnie¡¯s father had walked out of the office, looking tired. When he saw her, he gave her a gentle smile.


    ¡°We won¡¯t have to worry about thugs and hooligans ever again, my dear. I¡¯ve made sure of it.¡±


    Despite the good news, Winnie felt that her father looked distinctly unhappy. After that point, he never seemed to be as worried about money as before. She saw some of his old passion return when she watched him help members of the community, people who had nowhere else to go. It felt like she had her father back.


    Those good feelings fled, however, when those men would come in. She didn¡¯t really have a name for them, but they reminded her of the thugs that used to assail the clinic. Unlike their previous attackers, however, they wouldn¡¯t say anything. Instead, they would walk into the lobby and sit down, silently waiting, until Dr. Baughmen would wander out to see who had walked in. When he saw those people, his face would deaden, and any trace of life that Winnie had thought she had seen behind his eyes would disappear. He would wave them towards one of the treatment rooms, before following them, stumbling down the hallway in a manner that almost seemed lethargic. Those were the bad days. Even after whatever person who had caused his attitude to plummet had left, Dr. Baughman would remain in that far off place for the rest of the day, leaving Winnie to handle almost everything else by herself. She hated those days.


    It had been especially bad yesterday. The man in the suit, the one who had first negotiated with her father, had walked in, seemingly badly injured. After he had left, Winnie¡¯s father had sat in his office, head in his hands, muttering quietly to himself.


    Luckily, a good night''s rest seemed to have returned some of his earlier optimism. Today was a good day, even. Winnie had gotten to see her fathers beaming face when he had informed one of the ladies who lived nearby that the reason she was feeling so bizarre was because she was pregnant. In fact, today was probably the best day of the whole month!


    Despite hating all the work she had to do, Winnie was determined to bear it for her dad. You would never hear her complain. Her father had enough to deal with already, and Winnie had promised herself that she wouldn¡¯t make it any more difficult. That being said, you wouldn¡¯t catch her volunteering to, say, take inventory, like she was doing now. Winnie liked working with people. Checking supplies, not so much.


    Winnie felt relieved when she heard the electronic chime that went off when the front doors opened. It was probably somebody wandering in to give a brief hello, or a new neighbor coming to check out the clinic, but regardless of whatever this new person was here to do, it represented something far better in Winnie¡¯s mind: A chance for a break. Cheerfully, she set down her clipboard, and started towards the front lobby, almost skipping.


    Unconsciously, she found a big grin stretching across her face. Winnie couldn¡¯t help it, and most of their patients loved it. She just had a way with people that most others didn¡¯t.


    Winnie found her smile slipping off of her face when she saw who was at the door, however. It was a tall, dark silhouette, one that didn¡¯t look human. She got a better view of the figure when a bolt of lightning flashed in the sky outside.


    It was a man, in bulky, dull metal armor, covered in cracks. It looked almost familiar, although Winnie was certain that she had never seen it before. With the faint whining of servos, the Super, for that was what it had to be, stepped into the lobby, allowing the light to reveal his full form.


    The armor was tall, nearly as tall as her father. It looked simple and brutish, as if it only had one purpose in mind: Violence. As Winnie gazed over the super, she felt her heart stop when she saw the blood coating its fists. And it wasn¡¯t a little blood, either. Some was the deep brown of long dried blood, but some was fresher, redder. And indeed,on a second glance, Winnie spotted more blood, splattered all over the armor.


    Winnie felt her heart trying to beat out of her chest. W-why was this person here? Who was this super? Why did they look so familiar?


    Suddenly, it hit her. She had seen this armor on the news. It was the unidentified villain who had been involved in the hostage situation. The one who had put Dynamis in critical condition. Standing in front of her was a full blow super-


    ¡°villian¡±.


    Winnie¡¯s eyes widened as she realized that she had said the last part out loud. Drawing air into her lungs as forcefully as she was able, Winnie managed to let out a piercing scream.


    ¡°Dad, help me!¡±


    And then there was silence.

 Chapter 21

    Dr. Baughman came rushing out of the back of the clinic nearly as soon as he heard his daughters cry for help. He staggered into the lobby, limp nearly forgotten, the gun that he¡¯d bought just after he¡¯d been stabbed clutched tightly in his hand.


    Winnie backed away from the super villain as quickly as possible, trying to distance herself from the metal clad figure. She stumbled backwards until she felt her legs collide with one of the many rows of chairs that was spaced out around the lobby. Winnie froze, eyes darting left and right, looking for a way to further distance herself from the menacing figure.


    The super continued to stand there, unmoving, silent. His helmet blocked his face, removing any ability to see what expression it bore. Similarly, the armor threw off her impression of how he was standing. Being unable to tell the figure''s mood at a glance left Winnie deeply uneasy. At the very least, it was easy to tell what the thugs that used to attack the clinic wanted, as they tended to wear their aggression openly.


    Her father had stepped in front of her, gun thrust forwards towards the armored man.


    ¡°Do not make any sudden moves. Who are you, and why are you here? You¡¯re going to answer my questions, or I¡¯m going to shoot you. Answer only those two questions.¡±


    While he was speaking, Dr. Baughman used his empty hand to motion Winnie towards the back of the clinic. Slowly, she started moving around the line of chairs that had previously obstructed her.


    The super was still unmoving. He stayed silent, staring straight ahead. If the gun frightened him, he wasn¡¯t showing it. In fact, the super hadn¡¯t reacted to anything that had happened in the last minute. Not Winnie screaming, not her father, and not the gun. Was he even aware of his surroundings?


    Winnie¡¯s musing questions were quickly answered by the shrieking of metal, and a grunt of pain from her father. The super had shot forwards like a bullet, nearly too fast to see, before grabbing the gun out of her fathers hands, and flinging it into a wall, where it now lay embedded, a twisted, smoking ball of scrap.


    Her father clutched at his hand, which was now dripping with blood, as he stumbled backwards, trying to put distance between himself and the angry super that had just appeared in front of his face.


    ¡°I-if you hurt us, then Kasha won¡¯t let you go. We¡¯re under his protection, and if he knew what had happened here, he¡¯d kill you in an instant. If you leave now, we won¡¯t tell him what happened. You might think of killing us, but even if you do, he¡¯ll know. The cameras in the clinic, they stream directly to an external database. He¡¯ll check them, if we disappear, and then he¡¯ll know what you did. And with that armor, good luck trying to hide.¡±


    The super made no further movements, instead opting to stare at them for what felt like an eternity longer. Winnie probably could have used that time to run deeper into the clinic, perhaps even out the back door, but she wasn¡¯t willing to leave her father alone, especially after he had been so easily disarmed. She doubted she would do much good here, but it¡¯s not like she could outrun the super, either, if he decided to give chase.


    It was then that the super spoke, in a slightly muffled, echo-y voice that was surprisingly child-like. The contrast between the broad, bloody suit of mechanized steel armor, and the youthful voice that emanated out from it created an eerie effect.


    ¡°I need medical treatment. I was told that you could provide it.¡±


    The voice was somewhat weak, and the super still wasn¡¯t moving. Had Kasha¡¯s name taken the wind out of his sails? Winnie had heard the name before. He was the most prominent villain in the city, and was rumored to base his operations in this part of town. He had a reputation of fairness, but most who knew of him also said that he was capable of great violence when provoked.


    Why would her father mention his name? It¡¯s not like they had connections with him. Unless¡­


    The suited man, the one with the glasses. He had made some sort of deal with her father. Afterwards, various shady looking men would show up at their clinic, with all sorts of violence related injuries.


    Winnie had assumed that the suited man was just some ranking member of a local gang, perhaps even the leader of one of the smaller ones. Could he really be Kasha? If it wasn¡¯t, then her father was playing a dangerous game. If the super had some sort of connection to Kasha, then it was very likely that he would be able to call the bluff. If that were to happen¡­ then violence would probably be right back on the table.


    Supers usually hated being lied to. Even the above ground, entirely legal ones could often apply great pressures onto normal people, people without powers, people they often considered lesser. And even though the law didn¡¯t make distinctions between the two groups, in practice, supers could often get away with a lot, as long as it wasn¡¯t too egregious.


    Villains were often an order of magnitude worse. While they didn¡¯t enjoy the legal protection that registered supers did, unless they were particularly high profile, they could go years without being apprehended. This city, in particular, didn¡¯t have the budget to outfit their law enforcement with equipment that could be reliably used to fight supers. There was a very small unit designed to do so, but they could only be in so many places at once, and the powers that be were reluctant to deploy them. Forget being expensive to purchase, super made equipment was often expensive to operate. Extra work had to be put into making sure it functioned without its creators.


    The problem was of particular concern, now that so many heroes, including their city''s resident guardian, Coriolis, were occupied on the other side of the globe. Plus, Dynamis was out of commission, defeated, if the news were to be believed, by the super standing right in front of them.


    He spoke once more, his disturbing voice making Winnie flinch.


    ¡°Kasha came into your clinic a few days prior to my visit. I know this, because I''m the reason that visit occurred. And if you¡¯ve paid attention, I¡¯m the reason that Dynamis is dead. Your threats of violence, of retribution, do not scare me. You have no ability to harm me. I require medical treatment, and if you don¡¯t provide it to me, then I¡¯ll harm you. Do you understand me?¡±


    Winnie watched as her fathers head nodded up and down, slowly. If this were a story, then he would have refused, stood firm to his principals, even in the face of death. Her father would endure whatever the villain threw at him, until the hero swooped in, to save them. Unfortunately, this wasn¡¯t a story. Nobody was coming to save them. If she tried to call for the police, by the time they got here, the super would be long gone, and they¡¯d both be dead.


    Winnie understood her fathers choice. It was best for everybody if he just capitulated, gave into the villains demands. That was how the world worked, in some sense. The strong would always have power over the weak, no matter what form that strength took.


    But, despite understanding why her father made that choice, Winnie felt resentment start to build up. A little bit at her father, for giving up so easily. She missed the strong, confident man from her youth, the one who wouldn¡¯t compromise on his principals. The side of him that she almost never saw, anymore. Winnie knew it wasn¡¯t fair of her father, to ask him to take all comers, and come out the other side unbroken, but that didn¡¯t stop the spark of anger in her heart.


    And the resentment she felt towards her father paled in comparison towards the rage she felt towards the people that had put them in this position. She hated the thugs that had taken the father that she had loved from her, and replaced him with this broken man. She hated Kasha, for taking advantage of his weakness, to use him for the villains own ends. And most of all, she hated the super in front of her, for making her unable to ignore the fucked up situation that she was in. She had been ok with pretending that everything was fine, with looking the other way when her father stumbled, when he couldn¡¯t live up to her expectations. It was why she wouldn¡¯t ever complain. It was why she was ok with sacrificing her summers.


    But now, the illusion of normality was being ripped away again. She still felt afraid, but as her anger grew, that fear was becoming more and more diminished.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Dylan watched as the young woman that had initially confronted him when he had stepped into the clinic turned and stormed off. The man wearing a white doctors coat, the one who had tried to shoot him, watched her go with a sad look on his face. A father daughter disagreement? Well, to be completely honest, he didn¡¯t really care. He was there only for the treatment. Any drama between them was none of his business, and frankly, he didn¡¯t care to watch it. There were far more important things to be tending too.


    Dylan spoke up, intending to snap the man, who he assumed to be Dr. Baughman, out of his reverie.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get this over with. The faster you can patch me up, the faster I¡¯ll be out of your hair, and the faster you can deal with whatever that was.¡±


    The man turned to regard Dylan, before starting out down the hallway, gesturing for the teen to follow with a wave of his hand. The doctor adopted a hobbling pace, his prominent limp preventing him from picking up any real speed.


    By the time the doctor turned and walked into one of the treatment rooms, Dylan¡¯s vision was starting to fuzz over again, the adrenaline from having a gun pointed at him fading from his system.


    Dr. Baughman shut the door behind them, before crossing his arms over his chest, staring deeply at Dylan¡¯s armor.


    ¡°I hope you realized that you¡¯re going to have to take that off, right? I can¡¯t treat your wounds with it on. I won¡¯t even be able to diagnose them while you¡¯re wearing that.¡±


    Dylan paused, unsure of how he wanted to proceed. To be completely honest, he hadn¡¯t really thought this far ahead. Mostly, he was just concerned with getting help. He hadn¡¯t expected much pushback upon arriving here. Kasha said the location was trustworthy, but he had threatened their lives. They¡¯d have plenty of opportunity to grab a sample of his DNA, for example.


    While Dylan was thinking, Dr. Baughman walked over to the room''s counter, pulling something out of it, and wrapping his hand.


    Why was he doing that? Ahhh¡­ that was the hand that had been holding the gun. Dylan must have injured it when he took the weapon away from the man.


    Well, there was nothing that could be done about it now. Dylan couldn¡¯t change the past. He would have to hope that Kasha was right about Dr. Baughman¡¯s trustworthiness.


    ¡°Alright, doctor, here¡¯s what we¡¯re going to do. I¡¯m going to take my armor off, leave the helmet on, and you¡¯re going to treat me as fast as possible. You can report me to your boss, he won¡¯t care. In fact, he¡¯s the reason I¡¯m here. And, I hope for all of our sakes, you don¡¯t try to reveal my identity or harm me in any way.¡±


    Dr. Baughman sighed, and then nodded in agreement.


    ¡°You should have just told me that Kasha sent you. Then we wouldn¡¯t have had all of that fuss¡± Dr. Baughman grumbled as he finished wrapping his hand.


    ¡°What was all that about you fighting Kasha? Were you just trying to scare us?¡±


    Dylan grunted noncommittally, before mentally telling his armor to open up. The torso popped open at newly visible seams with a sharp hydraulic hiss. For the first time since his battle with Kasha and Dynamis, Dylan was left unsupported. His armor had been bearing the brunt of his weakness, helping him stay steady and upright. Now, freed from those supports, Dylan¡¯s first step nearly saw him crashing to the ground. Instead, he aimed his collapse sideways, trying to lean onto the padded table in the center of the room.


    Dr. Baughman was facing away from Dylan, sliding a pair of latex gloves onto his hands.


    ¡°Before we do this, you don¡¯t have any allergies, do you? And are you on any medications?¡±


    Dylan supposed that no matter how shady the place, the important questions remained important.


    ¡°No to both questions¡± he replied.


    When Dr. Baughman turned back towards Dylan, he froze, silent, before seemingly shaking off whatever stupor had come over him.


    ¡°Can you describe the issues that made you seek treatment?¡±


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    Dylan¡¯s head spun, the effort of keeping himself up too much for him to pull off with any sort of grace in his weakened state.


    ¡°The two main things that I¡¯m concerned about are the front and back of my torso. I took a really hard hit to the ribs, and my back was cut open pretty bad,¡± Dylan managed to choke out.


    Dr. Baughman nodded thoughtfully.


    ¡°Alright, I¡¯m going to need to take off your shirt so I can examine you. I don¡¯t think we¡¯re going to be able to get it off of you without agitating your wounds and removing your helmet. Because of that, I¡¯m going to cut your shirt off, as carefully as I¡¯m able to. I¡¯ll have to get close to you. If you¡¯re going to have a problem with that, I¡¯ll give you the scissors, and let you try it yourself, but fair warning, judging by the fact that you can¡¯t even stand up by yourself at the moment, I don¡¯t think that it¡¯s going to work out very well for you.¡±


    Dylan nodded weakly, unwilling to waste anymore of his dwindling strength on speaking. He was surprised by just how weak he felt. Dylan knew that he wasn¡¯t in a particularly great state, but his armor had done a lot to compensate for it. He was so much weaker than he realized that he wasn¡¯t sure he would even be able to climb back into his armor unassisted, should the need arise. Dylan felt a frown cross his face.


    This was not ideal. He had known that accepting medical care would mean putting himself in a vulnerable position, but he had thought he might at least stand a chance if Dr. Baughman had decided to change his mind. Now, though, Dylan was certain that even if the doctor told him he was going to grab a gun, Dylan still wouldn¡¯t be able to make it into his suit by the time he¡¯d returned. It was a good thing that Kasha vouched for this guy, Dylan supposed. This was about as low risk as it could get, current circumstances considered.


    Dr. Baughman pulled a pair of scissors out of one of the drawers, while Dylan watched on in silence. The doctor seemed to interpret the silence as judgment.


    ¡°Hey, I know you don¡¯t normally see scissors like this in medical environments, but I can¡¯t afford to use surgical scissors for everything. They¡¯re nearly 16 dollars a piece. These ones are reusable, and we clean them after every use.¡±


    Dylan felt like he should be more concerned by that statement, but he was tired enough that it didn¡¯t bother him.


    Dr Baughman walked over slowly.


    ¡°Come over to the front of the table you¡¯re leaning on, and I¡¯ll help you get up onto it. It¡¯ll be easier for both of us if you aren¡¯t desperately clutching onto it to avoid falling.¡±


    Dylan started forwards, taking small steps as he did so. There was a small step on the front of the table, and Dylan struggled to get his weight onto it, until he felt a pair of hands under his arms, lifting him. He winced as his wounds were agitated, but eventually managed to get himself situated on the table.


    Dr. Baughman made quick work of his shirt, cutting it off in just a few snips of his scissors. Once he was finished, he started to examine Dylan¡¯s torso, frowning as he did a walk around.


    ¡°You certainly have a deep laceration on your back. You¡¯re lucky that you¡¯re a super. A normal person with a wound like that would have probably bled out by now. If you leave it untreated, it will probably kill you in a few days. I¡¯ll work on that first, and then we¡¯ll address your other concern.¡±


    Dr. Baughman directed Dylan to turn 90 degrees on the table, so that his legs were hanging off to one side. The doctor went and grabbed something from a drawer behind Dylan.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to give you a shot, to numb the pain. Then, I¡¯m going to scan the laceration on your back for any debris. If I find any, I¡¯ll remove it. Then, I¡¯m going to sanitize the wound, and stitch it. You¡¯re lucky Kasha pays for everything I use when I¡¯m treating people under his name, or I¡¯d just use a normal needle on you. Most supers have tougher skin than normal humans, you know? I¡¯d bet you do, if you¡¯ve fought before. I could probably get a normal needle through it, but it¡¯d cause problems. It would also probably be quite painful.¡±


    Dylan heard footsteps. He couldn¡¯t tell whether they were getting closer to, or farther away from him. He heard a voice from right behind him, causing him to jump a little, an action he immediately regretted, as it sent a lance of pain straight down his spine.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to numb you now. You might feel a poke as the needle enters your skin. Try not to squirm.¡±


    The doctor''s promise soon came true, as Dylan felt a small sting, nearly unnoticeable compared to everything else he was feeling at the moment, in the middle of his back, directly adjacent to where he had gotten cut.


    A few seconds after he felt the needle, he heard Br. Baughman mumble something behind him as he drifted into unconsciousness.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Detective Hasborough stared at the prone form, lying in the hospital bed. During his last encounter with the armored super, Dynamis had been severely injured. Hasborough supposed that he should refer to the villain by the codename that the department had issued him. They had decided to call the villain the ¡°Iron Wraith¡±.


    Personally, Hasborough thought it was a load of horseshit. He understood that they couldn¡¯t keep calling the villain ¡°the armored super¡± or some derivative of that. His problem wasn¡¯t with the use of code names. No, it was the fact that the guys who gave them out seemed to be focused on making them cool.


    No good could come out of that, in Hasboroughs opinion. Yeah, a menacing sounding name might get civilians to take them more seriously, but it also glorified villainy in a way that just wasn¡¯t constructive to society. Sure, most villains probably weren¡¯t in it because they got a cool name. But Hasborough would bet his life that a lot of them were in it to cause terror, to feel powerful, to be ¡°important¡±. Giving them serious codenames would only add to that. Personally, if it were up to Hasborough, codenames would be kept bland. While he¡¯d love to see villains with names that took the piss, that wouldn¡¯t really be practical.


    But as much as he¡¯d thought about it, ultimately, it wasn¡¯t up to him. Hasborough sighed. He wished Coriolis was back. It would make this all so much simpler. The Iron Wraith had been rated as a high danger villain. While most supers could be considered high danger, to the average person, the scale accounted for the danger to Heroes.


    It started at low, where you¡¯d see common criminals, or villains with incredibly weak powers. At a low threat ranking, the chance of them harming a hero was minimal.


    After low came moderate, where you¡¯d see your average low-level villain. This was probably where the Iron Wraith would have been placed, if he just possessed the mechanical suit. It meant that they could be dangerous to rookie Heroes.


    After that came the high danger ranking. It was given to villains who could be a great threat to average Heroes. Rookies, like Dynamis, were advised not to take them on alone.


    Beyond high, there was the extreme rating. Extreme rated villains could threaten somebody like Coriolis, or some of the other big names. They were few and far between, and encounters with them usually left many dead, a grim tally that often included the villain themself.


    And the final danger rating was apocalyptic. These were beings that had the capacity to be dangerous to the strongest of Heroes, like Helion. Whatever was occupying so many of the world''s heroes right now was probably an apocalyptic threat. Whenever one would show up, they would cause large scale change. Countries had fallen due to apocalyptic threats before.


    The Iron Wraith wouldn¡¯t be rated high, without the drone. From what Puncher had told him, it looked like Dynamis had been handily winning before he¡¯d been shot. But, could haves and should haves didn¡¯t really matter. Ultimately, Dynamis had lost, and nearly paid for it with his life.


    The doctors said that he would recover, but while they were waiting on that, the city of Baylorville would be severely underpowered. The only super they had to call on currently was Puncher, who wasn¡¯t even an official hero, just a vigilante. He wasn¡¯t nearly as powerful or experienced as Dynamis had been. If Kasha, or the Wraith, made trouble, then they¡¯d have no choice but to deploy him, an action that would put Puncher¡¯s life in great danger.


    The department chief had tried to negotiate with a nearby city, asking if Baylorville could borrow one of their heroes. The negotiations had not been successful. Hasborough himself had gotten on the phone, and tried to plead their case, but the answer was still the same.


    Most nearby Heroes were busy running around, trying to deal with the seemingly endless amount of problems that had cropped up in the absence of their colleagues. The ones not constantly busy were on standby. If they were to leave their cities to come to Baylorville, then they would be leaving them in the same situation that Baylorville was currently in: A nearly defenseless state. Naturally, most of them were unwilling to do that, and their superiors wouldn¡¯t have been on board, even if the heroes were.


    Which meant, for the time being, they were stuck. Baylorville would just have to ride out this storm, as best they were able to. They might be able to get help if there was an active threat, but it would probably be too little, too late.


    Hasborough¡¯s eyes refocused on Dynamis, lying there in the hospital bed. His suit had been removed, to better facilitate the treatment. Without it, he looked much more frail than normal.


    A superhero¡¯s suit served many purposes. Obviously, it offered protection to the wearer, aiming to shield them as much as possible, from the many dangers they faced. It also was to differentiate them in a crisis. It was easy to tell who you should look for, in a crisis. The muscular, brightly colored person, the one who showed no fear. It made managing civilians that much easier, allowing hero¡¯s to be identified at a glance, much like the uniform of a police officer allowed them to be quickly picked out of a crowd.


    But it had one final purpose, one that wasn¡¯t talked about as much as the other two. That purpose was to make the heroes wearing them more than men. It was part of what made them heroes. They helped hide fear, or uncertainty on the wearer''s face. They made one look bigger, stronger, and sometimes, even invincible. They sent out a message, one that proudly proclaimed that everything was going to be ok.


    Stripped of his suit, Dynamis looked much smaller. He was still tal, and heavily muscled, but the presence he normally had was gone. Hasborough had known that Dynamis was young, but knowing information, and truly knowing it were different. Now, the detective could see just how young the hero looked. He was probably 24. At that age, most people didn¡¯t even have their lives figured out. Meanwhile, Dynamis was out here, risking life and limb for the public.


    And it seemed that he had paid the price for it. And if he continued to be a hero, then this would be far from the only time that he ended up in the hospital, although hopefully it wouldn¡¯t be this critical in the future.


    Hasborough respected supers. They put it all on the line, and were the main reason why people could live peacefully. But he hoped, deeply in his heart, that his children would never develop powers. It was simply too dangerous a profession for him to wish for anybody he was close to to partake in it.


    Hasborough turned, and started walking away. He couldn¡¯t do anything to help Dynamis, and he had other work to attend to.


    He nodded to the plainclothes officers sitting in the hallway. They didn¡¯t stand guard, directly outside of the room, in case of a villain attack. It would make it far too obvious which room the injured hero was in, to have police officers posted at the door. Instead, they blended in, ready to step in if somebody tried to cause trouble. Their best protection would be obscurity.


    The elevator ride down to the ground floor was short, as was the car ride back to the station.


    Due to Baylorville¡¯s small size, the local Hero Agency shared a building with the police department. That was why, when Hasborough walked in, he was able to locate Puncher pretty quickly. The vigilante was pacing around the Heroes Agency lobby.


    Hasborough cleared his throat, before speaking.


    ¡°Hey, kid. How are you doing, after everything that¡¯s happened?¡±


    Punch kept pacing, not bothering to look at the detective.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a kid. And not great. I should have done more. Should have stopped that snake, before he was able to shoot Dynamis. I can¡¯t believe that I helped him. He played me like a damn fiddle.¡±


    Puncher¡¯s fist lashed out, embedding itself into the wall. Hasborough thought that, were he to try something like that, all he¡¯d end up doing was hurting his hand, but the super seemed not to notice.


    ¡°Plus, even though we defeated Kasha, he still got away in the end. Now, he¡¯s hiding who knows where.¡±


    Hasborough didn¡¯t respond immediately, instead choosing to lower himself into a chair before speaking.


    ¡°It¡¯s not your fault. We didn¡¯t even know his true colors before then. Personally, I¡¯d thought he was more like you, a vigilante, but lacking control and experience. I told Dynamis as much, and because of that, he went in there to try and talk. If anything, this whole fiasco is my fault. You tried your best. Sometimes, villains just mess everything up. And the Iron Wraith is a villain, a dangerous one, at that.¡±


    Puncher nodded mutely, but Hasborough could tell that he was still upset. Sometimes could only be healed with time.


    The vigilante turned to face the detective.


    ¡°Are you sure you can¡¯t find out who Wraith is, his real identity?¡±


    Hasborough sighed again.


    ¡°Nope. I¡¯m glad you shared what you knew about him, but all we really have is that he sounds young. That¡¯s not exactly an arrow pointing right to our perp. Considering the fact that his face and body are completely hidden, and the fact that he seems to be able to make tech, it''s very possible that it¡¯s an adult using a voice changer as well.¡±


    A frustrated expression came over Puncher''s face, visible even through his suit.


    ¡°Can¡¯t you just follow him, to see where he lives?¡±


    Hasborough shook his head.


    ¡°Not really a great option. We don¡¯t have the ability to follow him particularly far right now. That suit makes him fast. Plus, any officer tailing him would be in danger. The only chance we¡¯d have to find out where he lives is if somebody sees him entering a house and decides to call in. And even if that were to happen, we¡¯re in no position to arrest him right now. You¡¯re the only super we have, which means that it would come down to a fight between you and him. And he¡¯s competent up close, and at range. He¡¯s dangerous. With you, and the police force behind you, we could probably take him in. But if we did that, there¡¯s a good chance you would be injured, which we can¡¯t afford to happen right now. And if he called Kasha to help him, or somebody else? We all might end up dead.¡±


    ¡°Plus, those types of villains love to make traps. There¡¯s no telling what sort of nasty stuff Wraith has hidden around his house,¡± Hasborough added, almost as an afterthought.


    Puncher clenched his fists.


    ¡°So, what you¡¯re saying is that there¡¯s nothing we can do until Coriolis gets back, sometime in the future. Does the fact that nobody can tell you when he¡¯ll be back not make that plan seem a bit unreliable? He could be out there, doing anything, while we sit here, too afraid to act¡± Punchers voice had been getting more and more tense as he continued talking.


    Hasborough shook his head again.


    ¡°Nope. Nothing we can do kid. I understand where you¡¯re coming from. But, allow an old man to share some wisdom with you. Justice is a good thing. But, the best thing we can do isn¡¯t provide justice. It¡¯s to protect people. If we were to take casualties, trying to apprehend the Iron Wraith, simply in the name of justice, we would lose a lot of our ability to protect the public, the innocent people of this city. I know that it¡¯s frustrating, enraging, even, that he just gets to walk free after what he¡¯s done, but trust me, kid, the alternative is worse.¡±


    Puncher huffed and walked away. Hasborough hoped that he wouldn¡¯t do anything stupid.

 Chapter 22

    John Bensmener was startled out of his sleep by the blaring of his alarm clock. He kept his eyes pressed shut, hoping that the sound would go away on its own. Surely, this had to be a bad dream. He had just fallen asleep minutes ago. When the blaring sound didn¡¯t go away, however, John turned, and groggily looked at the time on his clock. 6:00 AM.


    With a groan of disappointment, John turned his alarm off, before pushing himself out of bed. Stumbling his way out of bed, John found himself wishing that he hadn¡¯t drank so much last night. His wish was in vain, however. He would find himself in the bottle again tonight, no doubt. It was something of a routine, these days.


    As he was pulling on his pants, John found himself wishing he retired 20 years ago, like he had planned. But his employers had made him an offer that sounded good, at the time. It was for a new position, a prestigious one. Plus, his spending had left him without a lot of money.


    So he had taken the job. If he could go back, do it again, he¡¯d refuse. John could¡¯ve scraped by being broke, done something else for a bit. Younger him had obviously thought differently. Not that there was much he could do about it now, though. He was locked into his contract until his employers deemed fit to release him, although he supposed that he could just disappear. They¡¯d send somebody to get him, of course, but he¡¯d be too much trouble to bring back by force. Maybe someday, hopefully soon, he¡¯d make that dream a reality.


    But today, he still had to go to work. He pulled on his coat, before stepping out of his apartment, and meandering his way down to the street. Callahan city was always busy, but the fact that it was 6:30 in the morning meant the early rush hour traffic made the streets feel clogged.


    John joined the crowd shuffling down the stairs to the subway. He let out a resigned sigh when he saw the train. It was packed full. He¡¯d have to wait for the next one. That maybe wouldn¡¯t be so bad, if the subways were ever on time. But no, they were always late. It wasn¡¯t like he could drive, either. The traffic made that so impractical as to be impossible. Plus, he had gambled his way into so much debt it would take him another decade to even be able to pay it off, let alone purchase a vehicle. So he was stuck with public transportation, despite it¡¯s many flaws.


    Eventually, however, the next train pulled into the station. He had to muscle through the crowd of people that was trying to push past him to secure a spot on the car. John wondered what had gone wrong with people, now. Back when he was younger, everyone was so much more polite. Things simply seemed to run better. Now, the cities were crowded, and the people were rude, and ungrateful.


    As John took a seat on the train, the woman to his left gave him a weary glance. He didn¡¯t blame her. He¡¯d get a lot more than just a glance if he walked down the main street of a small town.


    John¡¯s messy gray hair hung nearly to his chin. It had lost all of its pigment nearly a decade ago, even though he only looked like a man in his mid 50¡¯s. It wasn¡¯t his face that was causing the women to glance at him, though.


    John hadn¡¯t really been concerned with how he dressed for a long while now. While sometimes, he was required by his employers to don a suit, often, they just let him wear what he wished. Which meant that, today, he was sporting a stained white T-shirt, ragged old jeans, and his long, black coat. Combine that with the coating of stubble dusting his face, and he looked like a drunk. That, or someone who wasn¡¯t all there, mentally.


    Nearly everyone else was ignoring him. The women must be new to the city. You¡¯d see weirder people than him everyday, if you paid attention. Weirder things, as well. Nobody had time to stare at the shabby looking man.


    Well, except for one man, sitting a few seats down. Ever so often, the guy would furtively glance at John, his gaze lingering for a few seconds, before darting back down to his phone screen. He would avert eye contact immediately, if John turned to look straight at him.


    He frowned. The man might just have recognized him. He wasn¡¯t a widely known figure, as his employers tried to keep what he did on the downlow, but word still did travel. It was possible that this man, or maybe a friend or family member, had seen John doing his job, and simply remembered his face.


    However, John felt it was more likely that the man was sent to tail him, and keep an eye on what he was doing. If that were the case, then John was in for an irritating ride. He¡¯d have to figure out who sent the man, before doing anything. If the spy was sent by his employer, he would have to do his best to ignore the man. They liked to keep tabs on their employees, especially ones as uncooperative as him. They¡¯d certainly done it before.


    Now, if the man worked for someone else, he should be firmly discouraged from his snooping. John supposed he would just have to deal with it when it came time to get off at his stop. He could determine what to do then. There was no need for him to force the issue right now.


    As the subway continued to trundle along the tracks, interior lights occasionally flickering, John found himself bored. Normally, he tried to relax while riding the subway, maybe even doze off, if he could get away with it, or was feeling particularly tired that day. But the person observing him had made him too uneasy for that to happen today.


    He couldn¡¯t really do anything on his phone, either. He had one, provided by his employer, but it didn¡¯t let him install any new apps on it. John supposed that he probably could find a way around the restrictions if he were tech savvy, but he could barely work the damn device as it was. No need to make it more complicated.


    Eventually, however, the train arrived at his stop. He took one last glance at his stalker as the subway slowed to a halt, before walking off of the train. He joined a few other people, trying to get out as soon as the doors opened, hoping to avoid the rush of people that would inevitably flow in the other direction, trying to get on.


    John walked over to a wall, leaning against it as he scanned the train, checking to see if the man would follow him. His eyes moved up and down the cars, past each exit. He hadn¡¯t seen the man getting off by the time the train departed, so he probably wasn¡¯t following John. If he were, well, then that would be a problem for later.


    John was turning to walk towards the stairs that led out to the street, when he heard a shout. He turned, and saw a man in a ski mask sprinting towards the exit, a purse clutched in his hands. John frowned, quickly stepping in front of the man and delivering a powerful blow to the would-be thieves'' stomach. The delinquent dropped like a stone, letting the purse go as he did. John grabbed the purse up off the ground, before tossing it to a woman who was walking in his direction as fast as she could, looking clearly distraught.


    ¡°Thank you so much. He just took it and ran off with my purse. I didn¡¯t even know what was happening until he was already gone. Should we call the poli-¡±


    John turned and walked away. She could call the police if she wanted. He didn¡¯t really have time to deal with the whole mess right now, anyways. Plus, it wasn¡¯t like the guy he¡¯d hit would be getting up anytime soon, in all likelihood. John had hit the guy pretty hard. He wasn¡¯t unconscious, but John might even have broken one of the guy''s ribs. He would certainly be incapacitated had John hit him in the head, but that was a bad idea for a lot of other reasons.


    Even with all of the years of experience that John had, it was hard to judge how much of a blow someone could take to the skull. Hit too hard, and they¡¯d have lifelong problems, at the very best. It was pretty easy to kill a normal person, hitting them in the head.


    While John didn¡¯t really have much sympathy for pretty thieves, the man certainly hadn¡¯t warranted death. Some bruised ribs, to give him a few months'' reminder to stay on the right side of the law, sure.


    He stalked up the stairs, as the lady continued to babble behind him. It was a surprisingly common reaction. A way to process what had just happened, perhaps. John had seen it from all ranges of people. Some, you¡¯d expect, like the little old ladies. But sometimes, you¡¯d get a huge, tatted up bear of a man doing the same. At first, it had been an odd experience, hearing people pour out the words. John hadn¡¯t known how to react, at the time. Now, if he had time, he¡¯d just nod, and grunt in agreement. If not, well, she¡¯d be fine, even with him walking away.


    John continued working his way deeper into the city. It was even busier here, deeper into the metropolis. He continued to collect the odd look here or there, as he walked, but for the most part people simply let him be, content to ignore him, and continue on with their day.


    Eventually, he arrived at his destination. A multistoried office building, a little smaller than the buildings around it, but not by much. John felt a wave of resignation tear over him, then. Suddenly, the hustling he had done before didn¡¯t seem worth it. They¡¯d be damn fine if he¡¯d been a few minutes later to show up, and he¡¯d be happier for it.


    Regardless, it was too late to procrastinate any further, for the most part. He could take his time, with the small amount of distance he had left to walk, however.


    John started towards an alley on one side of the building. The fire escape sat there, rusted from decades of being neglected. He had to jump to grab the ladder, pulling it down onto the street. With another sigh, he started his ascent.


    As he trudged up the fire escape, John once again wished he had retired earlier. He was too old to be doing all of this. The rusty metal structure creaked under his weight, as if it were protesting his treading on it. Not like it had any right too, though. Damn thing was never used.


    As he got about half way up the building, John passed a man, probably an office worker, leaning on the railing, facing an alley, with a cigarette in his mouth. The habit was unhealthy, but if you made enough money, you could get access to some advanced super tech that some hospitals had. The stuff could heal the damage that smoking caused, if it wasn¡¯t too bad.


    As John walked past the man, at first, the worker didn¡¯t react. After a few seconds, however, he turned his head, to see who had journeyed onto the fire escape with him. His eyes widened as he caught sight of John, his disheveled appearance at odds with the neat, but cheap, suit that the worker wore.


    ¡°Hey¡±, the man said. ¡°You aren¡¯t supposed to be up here. Hell, I should probably call security on you.¡±


    John just waved at the man and kept walking.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. I¡¯m not bothering anyone, am I?¡±


    The worker seemed conflicted, but eventually, he determined that he wouldn¡¯t be able to stop John with just words, and actually doing anything to impede the older man''s progress up the fire escape would be too much effort. With a shrug, the worker turned, and put the cigarette back between his lips.


    It took another few minutes of climbing for John to get to the top. He had made sure to walk extra slow, after all. When he summited the building, however, the roof wasn¡¯t empty. There was a figure, dressed in unnaturally form fitting clothing atop the roof, showing off far too much, despite relatively little skin being on display.


    The figure turned, revealing it was a woman in her early twenties, with blonde highlighted hair. Vortex, a former rookie hero, who had been promoted when some of the heroes were called away to go help with Calamity. She was newer to the job, and like so many of her contemporaries, she dressed in a ¡°super suit¡± and they had taken to calling them. John thought that they were stupid. While the materials were often enhanced to be far more protective than they would be otherwise, the same process could be done to actual armor, which would be far more practical. The suits were both indecent, and lacking in utility. They rarely had pockets, nothing to conceal any weapons, tools, or any sort of supplies in. Hell, these newer heroes rarely carried things like that in the first place.


    As Vortex turned, John caught sight of her face. She looked annoyed.


    ¡°You¡¯re late, John. You were supposed to be here nearly ten minutes ago.¡±


    He waved a hand at her, irritably.


    ¡°Just because my bosses think it¡¯s a good idea to pair me with you, doesn¡¯t mean I have to like it. And the city will survive my ten minute tardiness, I assure you. ¡®Sides, I got to walk here. No convenient flight for me.¡±


    Vortex looked like she was about to say something, but then a look of defeat crossed her face, and she shook her head.


    ¡°Fine, whatever. Do you even know what we¡¯re supposed to be doing? Where¡¯s your suit? Why, pray tell, are you dressed like a vagrant?¡±


    John grunted.


    ¡°Mhm. We¡¯re supposed to head to the Callahan city bank. WSC thinks that there¡¯s going to be a problem, today. And I don¡¯t have a ¡°super suit¡±. These are my work clothes. Now, do you have any more questions, or are you through with interrogating me?¡±


    Vortex sighed again, mumbling quietly under her breath.


    ¡°I thought this guy they partnered with was supposed to be impressive, a notable figure. I would have even settled for almost competent. Instead, I get a disheveled bum who reeks of alcohol. Just great.¡±


    John turned, starting to walk back towards the fire escape.


    ¡°Suppose it¡¯s true, then, what they say about not meeting your heroes.¡±


    Vortex watched him walk towards the fire escape for a few seconds, before seemingly thinking better of it. Undoubtedly, if she let him walk by himself, he¡¯d take as long as he possibly could.


    ¡°No you don¡¯t! I will not have you making us any later than we¡¯re already going to be. Come here, and I¡¯ll use my powers to get us down.¡±


    Slowly, John turned, and plodded back over. Vortex grabbed his shoulder, and marched him towards the edge of the roof. John didn¡¯t resist. When he stepped over the side, he, for a split second, started to fall towards the ground, before a vortex of air appeared, surrounding him, and Vortex herself, slowing their descent.


    Despite his disapproval with the state of modern heroes, Vortex was pretty powerful, for somebody so new. As her name suggested, she could create vortexes, masses of whittling air, that she could use to move stuff, or fire off like blasts. Her power and work ethic had made her pretty popular, ever since she was made a full hero.


    Even with the air slowing their descent, they made it to street level far faster than John would have climbed down. He shot Vortex a look, as they settled onto the sidewalk.


    ¡°Not going to fly us over? I thought you didn¡¯t want us to be late.¡±


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Vortex rolled her eyes.


    ¡°God, you are such an asshole. I¡¯m strong, but not strong enough to fly both of us over there without tiring out. They expect trouble, remember? I need to be in good enough shape to fight, if needed.¡±


    Vortex looked around the street, searching for something.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t really walk here, did you? You have a car?¡±


    John just laughed.


    ¡ª-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    It took them nearly half an hour to walk to the bank. It was a big building, with large, glass windows at the front. Although they looked fragile, they were likely reinforced far beyond regular glass. The first room in the building was a security checkpoint. The floors looked like marble, and there was a large row of metal detectors in the middle of the room. A guard sat behind a desk, and when they walked in the door,  he shot them a suspicious look. It wasn¡¯t every day that one saw a hero and vagrant going into a bank, after all.


    The guard had a badge on his chest, one that clearly marked him as a super. While supers were decently rare, bigger franchises could afford to hire them, even for things as menial as security. In fact, it was almost mandatory. Even with super tech, without an actual super present on the premises, it was almost guaranteed that some thug with powers would try and rob the place, if the target was tempting enough. And Callahan bank was a tempting target, indeed.


    The guard grabbed the radio on his hip, bringing it to his mouth, muttering quietly, calling for the manager. After he was done with the walkie talkie, the guard had them both sit in chairs, off to the side of the security checkpoint.


    Within a few minutes, a tall, suited man, middle aged, walked down the hall. He looked directly at them.


    ¡°My name¡¯s Chase Montral. I¡¯m the manager. Why have a couple of hero¡¯s shown up at the bank, unannounced?¡±


    John cursed. The WSC didn¡¯t call ahead to tell the bank what was happening? Figures.


    ¡°We¡¯re here on WSC business. They think that there''s a possibility of a problem at your bank, today, so we¡¯re here to keep that from happening.¡±


    The manager looked troubled, but waved for them to follow him. Vortex made it through the metal detector fine, but it beeped loudly when John tried to step through. The security guard glared at him, as he took his flask out of his coat, and tossed it over the machine, before stepping through it. It didn¡¯t go off, this time.


    Re-pocketing his flask, he strode after Vortex and the manager. When he eventually caught up to them, they were deep in a conversation. John had an idle thought, then. The manager, a somewhat stern looking fellow, would have looked nearly exactly like a guy John used to know, if he were a few inches shorter.


    ¡°Ma¡¯am, I assure you, our security measures are top notch. We have everything here necessary to stop all but the worst issues. Your presence here isn¡¯t really needed.¡±


    Vortex was having none of it.


    ¡°I doubt it. How many supers do you actually have on security? Two, maybe three? And if they¡¯re content to work security, then they¡¯re probably not very strong. Besides, regardless of what you, or I, think about it, the WSC has told us to be here, and there¡¯s nothing either of us can do about it. It will be far easier for everybody if you just cooperate.¡±


    The manager wrung his hands, and anger briefly flashed across his face, before he steeled his expression into something more neutral.


    ¡°Well, if that¡¯s the case, then I guess there¡¯s nothing that can be done about it. I can let you look around, I suppose, but I¡¯ll need to keep you from disrupting our operations. And absolutely no looking at account information. That¡¯s confidential, and if you view it without permission, we¡¯ll have to press a lawsuit against your organization, Vortex.¡±


    Vortex nodded.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to look around, everywhere I can, keep an eye on things, see if anybody suspicious pulls up.¡±


    The manager looked over at John.


    ¡°And your partner?¡±


    John grunted.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to take a nap.¡±


    The manager pointed down some hallways to his left.


    ¡°There are some staff rooms down that way. Don¡¯t go in the lobby. You look like a vagrant, and you¡¯ll scare off all of our customers if they see you.¡±


    Vortex shook her head, and walked off. John took his flask out of his coat, and took a swig, before ambling down towards the area he¡¯d been directed too. Pushing open the door, he was greeted by a small, but nice space. There was nobody in the room right now. Settling down on the chair, John took another swig of alcohol, before resting his head back on his seat. Soon enough, he was asleep.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    John was awoken by the sound of some sort of blast coming from the front of the bank. With a groan, he stood up, stretching out the kinks in his neck. Guess the WSC was right. They normally were, he supposed. John longed for the time when they were wrong. It was nice not to actually have to do his job. He sighed, and walked down towards the sounds of the conflict. It was time to earn his paycheck.


    As he walked, terrified bank employees, and civilians alike, were running in the other direction. Hmm, somebody was going to be in trouble. Villains, and heroes, were supposed to wait until all civilians had evacuated the premises before starting to fight. All of the long lasting villains followed the rule. Those that didn¡¯t tended to get sentences that measured in decades. Newer villains were more likely to ignore the rule, though. They didn¡¯t plan to get caught, after all. Nobody ever did.


    When John arrived, the security checkpoint was trashed. There were multiple prone forms on the ground, both normal civilians, and people dressed in thick clothing with ski-masks. The metal detectors were warped, with one ripped off of the ground completely. The flooring was cracked, and chipped.


    John heard sirens wailing in the distance. Oh good, help was on the way.


    Three figures faced off in the front of the bank. One was Vortex, who looked rather battered. Violent whirls of air spun around her hands, which were up in front of her.


    The two figures facing off against her were both villains, by the look of it. One was a middle aged man, with a bald head, and a large beard. He held an axe in his hand. Ahh, a familiar face. Chopper. He got enhanced speed and strength when chopping things with an axe. He was a pushover, for the most part. Take away his axe, and he was basically helpless. It was an easy win condition.


    The second figure, it took John a few seconds to recognize. He stood over 7 feet tall. His whole figure looked stretched, warped, even. He had big tendrils running all across his body, that looked like they were made out of muscle fibers. A few of the tendrils drifted behind his back. These ones were topped with teeth. Gross.


    He was a newer villain, if John remembered correctly. Some sort of shapeshifter? John didn¡¯t remember his code name.  Well, John supposed he could ask when he turned the villain in to the authorities.


    ¡°Hey, Vortex. You can handle the axe guy, right? I¡¯ll take out freaky.¡±


    At the sound of John''s voice, all three turned their heads to look at him. Vortex gave a slight nod, before creating a large wind tunnel, drawing both her and Chopper deeper into the bank.


    The tentacle villain turned to face John.


    ¡°The hero goes off to fight my companion, leaving me with the old man,¡± A smile stretched across the villain''s features, visible even beneath the mask he was wearing. ¡°She must not value your life very highly.¡±


    John ignored the comment, choosing to ask his own question, instead.


    ¡°Hey, freaky, what¡¯s your name?¡±


    The villain cocked his head.


    ¡°I am called Biogenesis. Farewell, old man.¡±


    With that pronouncement, the villain lunged towards John, cracking the floor under his feet even further. He was quite fast, crossing the distance between them in a fraction of a second.


    John cocked his fist back, waiting for Biogenesis to arrive. When the villain reached him, he was already swinging towards the older man. Biogenesis'' eyes widened as, instead of hitting John, his fist compressed, flattening as it entered the space in front of John, causing him to hit nothing but air.


    John threw his punch then, twisting his hips to increase his force production. Unlike Biogenesis, John¡¯s punch landed. A huge shockwave tore out from the sight of the impact, shattering every window in the front of the bank, as Biogenesis was launched backwards, flying right through the front wall of the security room, demolishing it, before landing on the street, tumbling to a stop.


    John felt despair grip him, then, as the glass and concrete rained down from the huge new hole in the wall. This would get added to his debt, most likely. His employers said that he was experienced enough to control his strength when capturing weaker villains, that he should be able to avoid causing excessive damage. John felt his eyes start to tear up. He would be paying off the debt for the rest of his life, wouldn¡¯t he?


    Across the street, Biogenesis was slowly starting to stand up, shakily pushing himself to his feet. Many of the muscular tendrils that crossed his body had been severed when he had gotten hit, but they were slowly starting to reconnect.


    Biogenesis coughed, a fine misting of blood coming out of his mouth. The villain swore at the sight. The tendrils that hovered behind him started to move, flicking around in an agitated fashion.


    When John noticed the villain starting to regain his wits, he tore his thoughts away from all of the damage he had just caused. Taking a step forwards, he compressed the space between him and Biogenesis, turning the nearly 50 feet that separated them into just a few inches. John stepped through, before releasing the compressed space.


    Biogenesis whipped his head around to stare at John, who had suddenly appeared right in front of him. Making sure to aim carefully this time, John wound up and blasted the villain down the street, away from any buildings. Once again, all of the glass around him shattered from the force of the punch. John winced, and then sighed. Oh well. You can¡¯t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.


    Down the street, it took Biogenesis longer to rise, this time. He simply laid there, a stunned expression on his face, before turning over, and vomiting blood onto the street. He used his tendrils to push himself onto his feet, this time.


    John sauntered down the street towards the villain. There was no need to rush over. Biogenesis was on his last legs. One more good hit, probably, and he would go down. By the time John had made it all the way there, Biogenesis was still coughing, a terrible, wet, racking cough. That sounded pretty bad.


    John leaned to the side, dodging one of the villains back tendrils, as it suddenly thrust at him. Once it impacted the concrete behind him, John grabbed it, and tugged. It tore off, with a spray of blood, and John tossed it down behind him as Biogenesis screamed.


    ¡°Oh, relax, tentacle boy. You can regenerate, you¡¯ll be fine. Maybe don¡¯t go trying to rob banks and kill people if you don¡¯t want to get into fights.¡±


    Biogenesis didn¡¯t respond, falling to his knees instead. It was probably time to end this. John shoved his hands in his pockets, and wound one leg back. He kicked Biogenesis right in the head, knocking the villain out, sending teeth flying everywhere.


    Once he was certain that Biogenesis was actually unconscious, he grabbed the villain¡¯s prone form by the shoulder, and started dragging him back down the street, towards the entrance of the bank. The sirens were getting closer. Good, the police would be here soon, and they¡¯d probably have something to restrain this cretin.


    A few seconds after he stopped dragging Biogenesis, Vortex came out, dragging an unconscious chopper, now sans axe, behind her. Well, that was good. John wouldn¡¯t have to worry about that fight anymore.


    John was just about to say something to Vortex when he spotted a figure standing across the street, on the roof of a nearby building. Dressed in a black suit, with a featureless mask covering his face, the figure stood out. John recognized the person. He had shown up at a lot of recent villain encounters. The figure never participated, instead choosing to watch what happened.


    John turned.


    ¡°Vortex, keep an eye on these two. I need to go investigate shady over there.¡±


    With that, he compressed the space between him and the building that the figure was standing on, stepping through it. Releasing the first compression, he shrunk space again, this time vertically, making it so, effectively, the top of the building was no higher than an inch off of the ground. Stepping into the warped space, John''s foot hit the roof, and soon enough, he was right in front of the mysterious figure.


    John looked directly at where the guy''s eyes would be, if he wasn¡¯t wearing a mask.


    ¡°Hey, buddy. I have a few questions to ask you. Why don¡¯t you come with me?¡±


    The figure didn¡¯t answer. Instead, a glowing portal opened up behind him, and the figure rapidly stepped back through it, appearing on a roof nearly a block away.


    John, unwilling to let the man get away, compressed space between himself and the portal, stepping through it right before it closed. The masked man was right back in front of him, again, and this time, John wasn¡¯t going to ask nicely. He swung towards the man''s chest, fist connecting almost instantly. He felt the man''s ribs crack, and the suited figure was launched backwards by the blow, a new indentation in his chest.


    Before the mysterious observer could hit the ground, a portal came open behind him. John started to compress the space between himself, and the getaway portal. However, before he could take a step, before the man had even fully crossed through, in fact, the portal snapped shut, severing the man¡¯s legs, and leaving John no way to reach him.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll be damned. He really didn¡¯t want to be here.¡±


    Looking at the legs, John figured he should grab them. He could probably get Bloodhound to take a look at them, maybe track down whoever they belonged to. He walked over, and picked them up, before walking to the edge of the roof, compressing the space so that walking off the buildings felt no different than stepping off of a curb.


    After that, he walked towards the flashing lights of the police cruisers, parked in front of the bank. John decided to turn the legs over to them. He could get them back later. When he arrived a few minutes later, he walked into the middle of the cluster of police cars. One of the officers tried to stop him, probably thinking that he was some random drunk, but Vortex called out, explaining that he was with her.


    With a shrug, the officer stepped aside, letting John pass. Vortex stepped closer, obviously intending to talk to him, but after a second she stopped, a horrified expression on her face. What was she on about now? John followed her gaze, and saw that she was looking at¡­


    Ahh, the pair of severed legs he was holding. Yeah, that made sense.


    ¡°Relax, Vortex. He cut his own legs off, trying to get away. I grabbed them to see if we could get somebody to track him down.¡±


    Vortex still looked uncertain, but the explanation seemed to satisfy her, for now. John wandered over to a nearby officer, and turned the legs over, before returning back to Vortex.


    ¡°How was fighting Chopper?¡±


    She shrugged, and a quick smile flashed across her face.


    ¡°Once I wasn¡¯t getting double teamed, he was light work. I should ask you how your fight went. You¡¯re bleeding from your nose. Did you get hit?¡±


    John brought his finger up, and wiped it under his nose. Inspecting it, he saw a trace of red on it. Dammit. He had used his powers too much, today. If only he hadn¡¯t crippled them, all of those years ago.


    John sighed. There wasn¡¯t anything he could do about it, anymore. Plus, even if he could go back in time, he¡¯d still make the exact same choice he had before. It just smarted that his powers were on a limit, now.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine, Vortex. Anyways, I¡¯m going to go take a drink. You can handle the rest of this, I presume?¡±


    Vortex sighed, shook her head, and then nodded.


    ¡°Yeah, whatever.¡±


    John strode off, pulling his flask from his coat. Well, for the most part, that had ended well. Except for all of the property damage. He¡¯d blame that on Biogenesis, if he could.


    John just hoped that the situation with the masked man wrapped up easily. It had been a long time since he¡¯d had to take a fight seriously, and he planned to keep it that way. At the very least, there was some good news. Another heavy hitter would be coming to Callahan city, after the event with Calamity was over. He¡¯d have his former apprentice here to help.


    What did he call himself, again? Wasn¡¯t it something like the Crimson Blade?

 Chapter 23

    Dylan awoke with a groan. The walls of the clinic came into focus. Belatedly, he remembered what had happened. After Dr. Baughman had finished treating his wounds, he had woken Dylan up, at which point he had climbed back into his armor, and fallen asleep. It had been a few days since then, and his injuries were slowly healing. It was taking longer than he thought it would. Dr. Baughman had been helpful, although there wasn¡¯t much he could do, any more. It was mostly up to Dylan, to heal on his own, now.


    He felt a lot better than he had before, thankfully. He stood up, taking a glance around the room he was in. He had started sleeping in the back of the clinic, freeing up the treatment room that he had previously been occupying. He supposed that he should be going home soon. Dylan would be lucky if his mom hadn¡¯t called the police already. She had seemed pretty distracted recently. He could probably just tell her that he¡¯d been staying at a friend''s house, or something. Kids his age did that, did they not?


    Dylan took another look at his armor as he stood up. It was basically trashed. Dented, cut through, the motors damaged from overuse. If he wanted it to get back to working at full capacity, he¡¯d need to go and repair it.


    But Dylan wasn¡¯t entirely certain that he wanted it up and running again. He¡¯d been thinking about what had happened, a lot. While he felt that everybody was being unfair towards him (the only people he had killed had been criminals, and they were accidents), he had to admit that he rarely seemed to make things better.


    But did that mean that he should give up? Shouldn¡¯t the hero go against the odds? Should he not try, again and again, ignoring the naysayers, until his deeds spoke for himself? It seemed that was how every movie went, and there were countless examples of successful people who had been rejected at first, but succeeded through perseverance.


    Dylan would have to think on it longer still, but he did believe that he had done more harm than good. He had stopped the robbery at the gas station. He had saved almost all of the robbers, and stopped Kasha.


    He might have killed Dynamis in the process (it was hard to tell. The news simply said that he had been injured, following a battle with a villian, but they might be covering up his death until the cities primary protector came back), but really, the hero had brought that on himself. Who surprised people in the middle of rescuing hostages, and then got mad that those people tried to defend themselves?


    Dylan found his vision narrowing, and could hear the beating of his heart in his ears. Taking deep breaths, he tried to calm himself down. It seemed like even thinking about that whole debacle was making him angry. He put it out of his mind, vowing to deal with it at a later date.


    He sat in the back of the clinic for a little longer, thinking about what he was going to do. The room he sat in was mostly concrete. Shelves, stacked with boxes, many of which were empty, lined its walls. Nobody, sans Dr. Baughman, had come back here in the time that Dylan had stayed, although according to the Doctor, his daughter would usually go back there when she was helping with the clinic. She hadn¡¯t shown up in a few days, apparently, not since Dylan had arrived. Apparently, something had upset her.


    Dylan chuckled. She thought her life was upsetting? She should see what he was going through. Now, the next question that he had to ask himself was what he was going to do with his armor. It would probably be too dangerous for him to go back home wearing it. He supposed he could leave it here, but that presented its own problems. Mostly, how would he get out of the district? A 14 year old walking alone, in this part of town, might be ignored. But if somebody did decide to pick a fight with Dylan, while he was walking back, then he didn¡¯t think he would be able to stop them. While he could have his drone accompany him, shadowing him from the sky, that would leave his suit exposed here. He didn¡¯t think that Dr. Baughman would try anything, but people were unpredictable. Plus, there was always the chance one of Kasha¡¯s men, or Kasha himself, would stumble upon the suit, and decide to appropriate it for themselves.


    Dylan didn¡¯t even know if anybody else could use the suit, but it was dangerous enough (and hard enough to replace), that he didn¡¯t want to risk it. No, that plan was out.


    Similarly, he couldn¡¯t wear it back to his house. Before, he could get away with it. Now, with how wanted he seemed to be, somebody would surely follow him back. He might be able to lose them, if he ran fast enough, but that was still risky.


    Dylan figured that the best plan would be to go to the edge of the bad sector of town, and, once there, find an abandoned building, or something similar, and hide the suit there, leaving his drone to watch over it.


    That would mean he could access the suit without worrying about traversing through the lawless zone unprotected, but it would also mean that the police likely wouldn¡¯t see him wearing it all around the parts of town that they actually bothered to keep an eye on.


    With his mind made up, Dylan got up, stretching out. He was careful not to pull the stitches on his back out. His suit would probably make such a motion easy, even though they were almost fully healed.


    He quickly peaked his head out, into the clinic proper, looking for Dr. Baughman. He probably should thank the man for taking such good care of him. However, the Doctor was nowhere to be seen. In fact, most of the lights were off. It was dark outside, as well, meaning that Dylan had a hard time seeing.


    Just as he was about to walk out of the front door, he saw a flickering orange light, reflected in the glass of the doors. He turned, and was engulfed by a wave of fire.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Winnie had never thought that she¡¯d become a super. No, that was something that happened to other people. She¡¯d thought about what power she would get, if it did happen. Most people had. While many had their favorites, she always figured that, were she to become a super, she¡¯d get some sort of healing power.


    It only made sense, after all. Her father was a Doctor. She might as well have been, with how much she helped him. It would let her help more people, take away a lot of the stress in life. No need to worry so much about whether your patient could survive surgery, if you could just wave a hand and heal them.


    So that was why, when she fled home, the night the armored villain appeared in her fathers clinic, she was surprised to see her hands alight in flame. It had startled her, causing her to fall backwards, and wave it around, hoping to extinguish the sudden blaze.


    It didn¡¯t go out, however, and her panic kept mounting. It took nearly a minute for her to realize that she barely felt the heat. No pain accompanied the blaze. The anger that she had felt so strongly slowly started to fade into the background, replaced by wonder.


    The flame slowly started to fade, its flames dimming, movement slowing. It eventually pittered out, the light vanishing entirely.


    The sense of wonder didn¡¯t go with it, however. Winnie continued to stare at her hand. She wasn¡¯t sure what had just happened. Was her hand really on fire? Or was she just losing her mind, the stress catching up to her. She didn¡¯t know.


    As she tried to figure out what had just happened, a wave of exhaustion swept over her, and Winnie barely managed to stagger into her room, collapsing onto her bed, before she passed out, into a deep, dreamless slumber.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    When she awoke, the events of last night felt like a dream. Did a wanted villain really come into their clinic, bash a gun out of her fathers hand? Had her hand actually produced fire? As she started to wake up more and more, however, she became increasingly certain that, at the very least, the villain on the news had come into the clinic. Her memory of the event sharpened, and she found herself remembering the fear, and then the anger.


    Winnie was broken out of her dark recollection by the scent of smoke. Where was it coming from? She walked into the kitchen to check. Maybe her father had burned something, making breakfast? Hopefully, it was that. Otherwise, she¡¯d have to check to see if the house was on fire.


    Winnie found the kitchen empty. In fact, judging by the absence of her fathers shoes at the door, he was already gone.


    That meant that the next 15 minutes saw Winnie checking around the house, looking for what had produced the smoke. She found nothing. No candles burning, no singing, no sparking wires ( as far as she could tell). Nothing. Nothing that could even come close to producing such a smell.


    That only left one option. Had she caused it? Walking back into her bedroom, Whitney unrumpled her sheets, checking it over. She found dark marks, singe marks, in the shape of hands, pressed into her sheets.


    Oh. So Winnie either did have powers, or was actively losing her mind. That was great. And her power seemed like a lot of trouble. Did she just randomly burst into flame? That seemed like it would, at least a little, completely ruin her life. Well, that was utter shit.


    Winnie would probably prefer to just be mentally unwell. She could probably recover from that. They had medication for conditions like that. And even if she couldn¡¯t, well, then maybe that would still be preferable to being an uncontrollable human torch.


    She still had one hope left. She could try to see if she could control this power. At the very least, it could let her live a normal life.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Winnie found herself in her backyard, 5 minutes later. It was a small, fenced in area, half concrete, half dead grass. She¡¯d have to stay away from the grass part. It would be far too easy to create an uncontrollable blaze, should even a few sparks hit it.


    She had come prepared. Winnie had taken the liberty of removing the fire extinguisher from the kitchen, and placing it on the ground beside her. She also had the garden hose hooked up. Hopefully, these two things would be enough to deal with any fire that might pop up due to her experimentation. Fingers crossed.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Now that the preparation was out of the way, however, Winnie didn¡¯t know what to do. How would one go about finding out how to use their powers? It seemed like it came naturally for some. Perhaps if she¡¯d had a mentor, somebody else who¡¯d gone through a similar process of self discovery, it¡¯d be easier. They might not be able to tell her what she needed to do, exactly, but they could certainly give her advice, to try and guide her through the whole process.


    But Winnie didn¡¯t have any of that. Nope. She¡¯d just have to work it out herself. It¡¯d be what it¡¯d be. She stared down at her hands, searchingly. She tried to picture fire, in her mind, rising up from her fingers, engulfing her hands, the same way it had the night before. Nothing.


    Next, Winnie tried thrusting them out, pushing them forwards, trying to imagine the feeling of pushing her mind through her arms. That one didn¡¯t work, either. It might have been for the best. Shooting a huge jet of fire out of her hand would have been problematic.


    She spent the next hour or so trying so many different things. She tried to command it with her mind, tried talking out loud. Tried to run, even tried pleading with her hands. No dice.


    No matter what she did, nothing seemed to work. If her powers were really uncontrollable, well, she could say hello to a lifetime of being buried in some flame retardant cell, deep in a government facility. It was what happened to all of the people with dangerous powers that they couldn¡¯t control. LIke that guy her father talked about sometimes, the one with radiation powers. He had been a hero, until they found out that simply being near him 10xed your cancer risk. Then they stuck him in a bunker, deep below the earth.


    Winnie tried to look on the bright side of it. At least she wasn¡¯t some sort of mutant looking fish freak. She could be a normal person, just one who went ablaze occasionally.


    She signed, and then turned around, dejected and ready to head back inside, precautionary items forgotten. There wasn¡¯t much else she could try. Winnie supposed she could come back out, keep trying each day. If she ended up succeeding, then that would be great. If not, it would only be a matter of time until somebody found out that she had a dangerous, uncontrollable power, and locked her up because of it. That put her on some sort of a deadline, at least.


    Starting at her reflection in the door, Winnie realized just how small, how powerless she looked, at that moment. She had always thought of herself as somewhat on top of it, as a go-getter, at least as much as she could have been. She was a responsible child. Winnie felt that people, adults, even, listened to her, that she could cause change, that she had some sort of control.


    Seeing that villain, standing, armored and menacing in the clinic doorway, had torn that illusion away from her. She was just a powerless little girl. Even her father, with a gun, had been unable to do anything. The weapon was swatted out of his hand so quickly that she didn¡¯t even really see it happening, only the result.


    Winnie felt that newly familiar anger start to rise within her. It was so unfair. How some people were born different, how they could just come and take, and take, and take, and there was nothing that good people could do about it, nothing they could do except cry for help.


    Winnie bet that the villain didn¡¯t know what it was like to struggle. What it was like to live in a rough neighborhood, to watch your father have to fight to protect you. To have to try and save people, only to see their lives slipping away. Hell, that dumbass tin man had probably just woken up, with his powers fully functional, ready to go, and decided to start terrorizing people.


    Winnie felt a deeper flash of rage, then, that that scumbag could have it so easy, while she was out her, trying to control something that seemed uncontrollable, where one wrong move could kill somebody, and get her killed in return.


    As she reached out for the handle of her back door, Winnie noticed that her hand was glowing, heat coming off of it in waves. She quickly drew her hand away from the door, afraid of damaging it.


    Hmm. So that''s how it worked? It fed off of her anger, it seemed. Winnie frowned. That was better than not knowing when she would catch on fire, but it still seemed pretty inconvenient.


    But with knowledge, came a new found resolve. She might not be a naturally talented person, like that bastard villain. But she was the hardest working person she knew. She would work until she was strong enough to defeat him. Winnie smiled. She liked that plan. She¡¯d show that arrogant thug who was boss, and then hand him over to the police, let him face justice for his crimes.


    She just had to get her abilities down. And then, well, it would be time for her to step up.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Over the next few days, Winnie practiced her powers in the backyard, when her father wasn¡¯t home. It wasn¡¯t particularly hard to avoid him. He spent so long at the clinic she found plenty of time to practice, although she did occasionally have to bite back her frustration when he arrived home earlier than expected.


    The fact that she had to be angry to use her powers didn¡¯t help. Instead of being able to dutifully extinguish her flames, Winnie found that interruptions made them flare higher. She would feel anger at being interrupted, on top of the anger she already felt. In the moment, it felt like her father was doing his best to crush her dreams of finally being able to make a difference in the world, to try and fight back against everything that had been terrorizing her all of her life, the difficulties and burdens that had pressed down on her.


    Intellectually, she knew that it wasn¡¯t right to feel that way. Her father wasn¡¯t doing it on purpose. He didn¡¯t even know she had powers, and, if she were being honest, the burdens that he faced were harsher than the ones that she had to contend with. They had broken him, after all.


    But knowing that she shouldn¡¯t be mad at her father, and actually being not mad at her father were two different things. It was hard to be level headed when you were fueling yourself with anger, and anger was really all that was keeping Winnie going right now. If she lost that, she¡¯d be left with only apathy, a resigned acceptance of the status quo. She refused to let that happen.


    Her training, while slow at first, did start bearing fruit quicker than she initially expected it would. It took her a full day of practice, but she was eventually able to consistently summon her flames. She was still working on modulating them, as it was hard to control their size. It was partially based on the intensity of the emotion she was feeling, but she could modify it somewhat, based on her will.


    Her flames were obviously not ordinary either. Winnie hadn¡¯t noticed it the first few times she summoned them, too shocked to observe carefully, but she found that they glowed a deeply unnatural red color, a hue that was, in a sense, darker than a normal flame, yet at the same time more vibrant. It was almost confusing to look at, and Winnie was almost certain that it defied how brightness and color interacted normally.


    But she supposed that it was par for the course with super powers. You couldn¡¯t expect them to be ordinary. No, many of them took on bizarre forms, and even similar powers could vary greatly. The fact that her fire was unnatural was nothing to be surprised at.


    Once Winnie could exert a decent amount of control over her flames, she moved on to trying to make them more useful. While a person certainly wouldn¡¯t want to be touched by someone whose hands were burning, all they¡¯d have to do to avoid it was back away faster than she approached them. Not exactly the most reliable weapon. Plus, if they had any way to attack her from range, she had almost no way to defend herself. While Winnie might be able to burn most things launched at her into slag, provided that she could actually intercept them with her hands, that slag would still be flying right at her, and Winnie had no doubt that it would be both horribly damaging and painful.


    Experimenting with making her flames ranged was tricky. It didn¡¯t come naturally. Winnie found no luck with simply willing the fire to go to a location. Verbal commands were still out, which Winnie found herself strangely thankful for. She thought that it would be awfully embarrassing to have to yell at her powers mid battle.


    Eventually, she discovered that the trick was to actually get mad at whatever she was trying to target. It was a difficult process, at first, partially because she didn¡¯t really have anything to target. Eventually, she settled on tossing rocks into the air, and trying to get angry at them.


    When it worked, the fire would almost gravitate towards the stones. When it subsided, the rocks would fall towards the ground, a burning, cherry red color. One had accidentally fallen in the grass once, and Winnie had to scramble for the fire extinguisher to put out the small blaze that occurred. She was much more careful with where she tossed them after that.


    Now, there were some problems with this method. For starters, it used the fire she generated, which meant that, once projected from her hands, she¡¯d lose access to it. This might be less of a problem if she were able to make a bigger blaze, but as it stood now, Winnie was stuck with shooting small balls of fire.


    She figured that there would be time to work on it later, however. For now, she¡¯d practice what she could. Winnie knew that she was on a deadline, of some sort. According to her father, the villain was there to be treated for some pretty severe injuries that he¡¯d gained whilst fighting Dynamis. Injuries that would take months for a normal person to recover from, even with medical assistance.


    But because he was a super, she probably only had a few more days until he left the clinic. He wouldn¡¯t stick around until he was fully healed, most likely. Staying in one place, especially one as public as their little doctors office, was a bad idea for a highly wanted villain. It was no secret lair, after all.


    This time limit gave Winnie a sense of urgency. She needed to master her powers, fast. Faster than she had heard of anybody else doing it before. Her hours of practice were long, but she did eventually find herself feeling ready. She felt stronger than she had before, more capable, more confident.


    This, Winnie felt, was a stronger confidence. It was born out of the knowledge that she could protect herself. That she was no longer just a little girl, one who had to bend to the whims of anybody around her.


    That night, she could barely sleep, tossing and turning in her bed. Winnie had decided that tomorrow was the day that she would enact justice. No more waiting around, hoping things got better. Tomorrow, she would take action.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Winnie awoke when the sun rose, and got to preparing. She would do what she could to make this go as smoothly as possible.


    First off, her outfit for the day. Winnie wasn¡¯t normally a fashionable dresser, preferring her outfits to be a bit more practical, and she went all in on that today. She wore two pairs of jeans, the thickest ones she owned. They would restrict her mobility slightly, but hopefully they would offer some protection. She also brought the thickest sweater she owned. It would probably still hurt to be hit, but at least she¡¯d be as protected as possible. She also grabbed her bike helmet, just in case.


    Next, she grabbed the fire extinguisher, and sat at the door. How did she want this to play out? What would be the best way to go about defeating a villain? Eventually, Winnie developed a plan, one that she felt would maximize her chances of success.


    That being done, she set out from her house, towards the clinic. The sun was already setting by the time she left. Good. That would make her plan more effective. When she arrived at the clinic, she saw her father packing up his car.


    He turned to look at her unusual getup, one eyebrow quirked.


    ¡°Wow, aren¡¯t you ¡®dressed up¡¯ today? Our guest is asleep in the backroom. Try not to wake him up.¡±


    Winnie nodded, and forced a smile onto her face. Her father needed to see that she was fine. If he knew what she was about to do, he¡¯d probably try to stop her. She couldn¡¯t have him getting in the way. He would only serve to ensure that the criminal they¡¯d been forced to harbor escaped justice, and his presence would only put himself in danger.


    Winnie walked into the clinic, and sat down, watching her father get in the car. Once he had driven off, she started enacting her plan. Winnie went around, and turned off all of the lights, bathing the clinic in darkness. Then, she walked into one of the treatment rooms, closing the door behind her. And then, it was time to wait.


    After what seemed like an eternity, Winnie heard heavy footsteps walk down the hall, past the room she was hiding in. She waited a few more breaths, before getting up and quietly opening the door.


    There was a small amount of light coming in from outside the clinic, and in that light, Winnie saw the silhouette of her target. She felt a smile creeping over her face. And then Winnie Blazed.

 Chapter 24

    Dylan flinched as he was engulfed in flame. He leapt to the side, trying to put as much distance between himself and the torrent of heat as possible.


    The fire subsided after a few seconds, leaving a hazy distortion of heat in its place. Black smoke drifted up from the singed carpet, along with glowing embers.


    Dylan turned, looking for the source of the fire. He would have to be careful. His suit wasn¡¯t made to resist fire. While it would probably offer some protection, there was no guarantee that he wouldn¡¯t end up getting cooked alive with prolonged contact. It would be best to end this as quickly as possible.


    He quickly spotted his assailant. It was a short figure, wrapped in a haphazard layer of clothing, complete with a bicycle helmet on top.


    Dylan paused. What?


    This didn¡¯t look like an experienced super. In fact¡­


    Was he fighting a child?


    This¡­ Dylan wasn¡¯t prepared for this. It¡¯s not like his attacker wasn¡¯t dangerous. The huge plume of flame that had engulfed him earlier proved the opposite. In some sense, seeing as this was likely somebody who had gained access to their powers quite recently, they might even be more dangerous. Powers could be very hard to control, especially when you were new to them. Dylan knew that firsthand.


    But at the same time, he really couldn¡¯t kill a kid. That would end poorly for him, on most accounts. If it came down to it, he¡¯d do it, but Dylan felt it best to avoid that scenario as possible. He would just have to do his best to mitigate the damage. He¡¯d have to hope that everything else turned out alright.


    The kid stood there, breathing heavily. It seemed that their last attack took a lot out of them. The taste of ash filled Dylan¡¯s mouth, nearly overpowering. He spat, on instinct, before immediately regretting it. It dribbled down the front of his helmet, back onto his face. Shit. Now he¡¯d have to clean that out later.


    Dylan stalked towards his opponent, wary of another attack. His intuition proved right, as several seconds later, another beam of flame tore past his head. As he leaned away from the bar of heat, he idly noted that its color was off. Instead of a usual red orange color, it was darker, nearly crimson. Even though the flame was dark, it still seemed to glow with an inner light, shining with a nearly impossible color. He was glad that it didn¡¯t seem to function any differently than normal fire. He had a feeling that most super powered flames would burn straight through most ordinary metals.


    Dylan dashed to the side as the bar of fire swung towards him. The next few minutes were spent ducking and dodging around the lobby of the clinic. Every time he tried to get close, however, a wide wave of flame would push him back. He tried several times to gain ground, but it¡¯d always end the same. Dylan scowled in frustration.


    He figured that he should revise his plan. He probably could have been more aggressive, and potentially pushed through the fire, but he didn¡¯t want to risk it. That being said, he¡¯d either have to end it in one decisive moment, or wait for his assailant to gas out. There wasn¡¯t much else he could do with his current strategy.


    Dylan continued to evade until, eventually, his opportunity came. The flame broke, and the child attacking him looked down, briefly, as if to catch their breath. Dylan, seizing the moment, bent over, and launched himself towards his opponent.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Winnie bent over, panting, frustration continuing to mount. Nothing she was doing seemed to be working. The armored super leapt out of her initial attack, basically ruining the ambush. She had hoped that would take him out, or, at the very least, injure him enough that the battle would be going in her favor.


    Instead, he seemed almost completely unharmed. He¡¯d spent the last few minutes dodging her follow up attacks with contemptuous ease, ducking and weaving as if he knew what she could do before she did it. And on the rare occasion that her fire did connect, he would quickly step out of it, mitigating any damage it might have caused.


    The one thing working in Winnie¡¯s favor was the fact that her opponent was being cautious. He seemed to want to avoid her power at all costs, which meant that, when he got too close, she¡¯d just have to muster her will to send him dodging backwards.


    Still, this hadn¡¯t gone as she¡¯d planned. And Winnie was rapidly getting tired. If you added up all of the times she¡¯d used her power before today, it would be a fraction of what she had used in the last few minutes.


    The one upside was that her frustration was feeding into her power, making her fire stronger, but it still wasn¡¯t enough. At the moment, it seemed like it would come down to whether her fire would get strong enough to disintegrate the villain or she would run out of energy. Whichever came first would decide the outcome of the battle.


    Winnie shot out another burst of flame, putting real effort into scoring a hit. Unfortunately, the villain was still on top of his game, and dodged it once again. Winnie bent over, panting, trying to catch her breath.


    It was at that moment that her opponent made his move. He crouched down, lowering himself into what looked to be almost a sprinter''s stance. Less than a second later, he blurred, shooting right at her face, moving far faster than before.


    Winnie panicked, throwing her hands forwards and letting loose one of the biggest waves of fire she¡¯d ever produced.


    Her opponent crossed his arms over his head, letting the fire wash over him. He was through it in an instant, and Winnie found herself at a loss. The villain loomed over her, his armored frame making him much taller than her.


    Winnie grit her teeth. She¡¯d have to be careful, hit him with something really strong to make him back off. But, if he was this close¡­ Perhaps this would be an opportunity. Yes, she could see it now. At this range, he wouldn¡¯t be able to dodge nearly as well. She could finally end this.


    She felt a smirk pull at the corner of her lips. Stoking her rage, Winnie felt fire pooling on her arms. She¡¯d have to work fast, but she¡¯d finally-


    Winnie felt like she¡¯d been hit by a truck, all of the breath in her lungs rushing out in a second.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Dylan watched as the childish form of his opponent tumbled across the lobby. That had been close. He had felt like he was getting cooked when he¡¯d been hit by that last attack. Had his enemy''s next blast hit him, he¡¯d probably be in pretty bad shape.


    Well, that didn¡¯t really seem like it¡¯d be a problem anymore. His fist was faster than fire, it seemed. He looked closer at the little pyrokinetic, trying to make sure they weren¡¯t queuing up another attack.


    Hmmmm.. Nope. They were currently rolling around on the ground, clutching their stomach and gasping for air. Dylan paused. Had he hit them too hard? He¡¯d tried to pull his blow, but, well, he wasn¡¯t really used to fighting children. It would have taken a lot more than that to harm any of the other super¡¯s he¡¯d fought. Maybe the first one, the one he¡¯d encountered in the gas station, would have felt it, but it would have done nothing to Dynamis, or Kasha.


    Well, at least right now, it seemed like he¡¯d succeeded. The child wasn¡¯t dead. At least not at the moment. Dylan frowned. That might end up being a problem. He didn¡¯t really know anything about internal bleeding. The pyrokinetic could very well end up dying, still. He doubted they were physically that much tougher than an actual child, which could honestly mean anything. Dylan didn¡¯t know, he wasn¡¯t a doctor.


    He supposed he could stick around and ask the Dr. Baughman if he could take a look at his foe. Dylan resolved to do just that. It would be for the best if he handed the whole situation off to somebody who knew what they were doing.


    He took a deep breath, trying to settle his racing heart, and immediately dissolved into a coughing fit. Dylan spent another few seconds hacking, feeling the tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.


    Where had all that smoke come from?


    Oh.


    Dylan had just fought somebody who exclusively used fire as their means of attack. Inside a building. Looking around gave him visual confirmation that, yes, the building had caught on fire.


    Shit. This wasn¡¯t good. Dr. Baughman would probably be pissed. Hopefully Kasha would be able to cover the damages. Dylan certainly couldn¡¯t. Well, maybe Dr. Baughman had insurance.


    Dylan strode over to the child, who was currently in the middle of throwing up, and grabbed them by the back of their shirt, dragging them out of the clinic and into the street. They were still wheezing and coughing by the time he set them down on the sidewalk. The building started burning harder as he watched. Fortunately, it wasn¡¯t hot enough to be felt all the way across the parking lot.


    He still had the taste of ash in his mouth as he watched the clinic burn, an uneasy feeling rising in his stomach. Dylan couldn¡¯t say that he liked it, watching the place that had helped him out burn to the ground.


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    He hadn¡¯t made the super fight him, no, but he couldn¡¯t help but feeling partially responsible for the whole thing. The pyrokinetic had been targeting him. He wasn¡¯t sure why. Perhaps they were a new villain, or a vigilante hero, like him. Regardless, they had been at the clinic because he was there. Had he made himself scarce earlier, this whole thing probably wouldn¡¯t have happened.


    And while he probably could have prevented it, there wasn¡¯t anything he could do to stop it. Dylan knew that, as far as supers went, he barely made it to the middle of the totem pole, but still, he was far more powerful than any normal person could ever hope to be.


    In the end, though, all he could do was watch as the building was swept up in the blaze.


    He didn¡¯t know how long he stood there, watching the place burn, before he heard the sound of a car pulling up behind him. He didn¡¯t turn around to look, until he heard the door slam. Slightly startled, Dylan spun around to see who had decided to join him on the sidewalk.


    Kasha stood there, watching him. The older man looked tense, his hands flaring at his sides, although Dylan noticed that the villain kept his face purposefully void of emotion.


    The two faced each other, silent and staring, for a few more seconds, until Kasha broke the still that had settled over them.


    ¡°So, how about you tell me what happened here? I sent you here, in good faith, hoping that I would never have to hear from you again. And for a while, it seemed like everything was going well. I got no complaints from the doctor, no reports of any misbehavior. And so I assumed, foolishly, it seems, that you would be content to accept my generosity, and go your own way. And yet here we stand, the clinic that I sponsor, the one I sent you too, up in flame, not 100 feet away.¡±


    Kasha paused, and took a deep breath.


    ¡°So what happened? Was this part of the plan from the start? Heal up, and then resume your work as a vigilante? Did you think that if you managed to turn me in, they¡¯d just forgive you? I sure hope that wasn¡¯t your plan, Wraith. I¡¯m not sure they¡¯re ever going to let what you did go.¡±


    Dylan took a moment to process everything. He turned, sneaking a glance at the inferno behind him. Yeah, he could see why this looked bad. One of his two encounters with Kasha had consisted of them beating the shit out of each other. It¡¯s not like mutual combat was a great way to build trust. He could certainly imagine someone accepting Kasha¡¯s deal, only to turn on him when they were healed.


    Well, Dylan would just have to convince him that that wasn¡¯t what had happened. He didn¡¯t really know the best way to do that, but hopefully his sincerity would come through.


    ¡°Hell no, that¡¯s not what happened. Not even close. This one-¡±


    Dylan toed the child pyromancer, who was currently weakly trying to pull their helmet off of their head-¡± decided that they would ambush me as I was leaving. They have fire powers, by the way, in case it wasn¡¯t obvious from the-¡±


    Dylan gestured to the blaze behind him


    Kasha looked down at the kid, seemingly just noticing their presence. He stared for a few seconds, before turning back to Dylan.


    ¡°Hmm. I guess I can accept your explanation. You never exhibited anything that suggested you had the capacity to cause something like this, but I did have to do my due diligence. You techy types tend to have a multitude of tools, so it wasn¡¯t out of the realm of possibility that you had been the cause of this¡­ event. But, while I will accept your explanation now, if I find out that you¡¯re lying, I will hunt you down, and I will kill you. Is that clear?¡±


    Dylan tensed up a bit, nodding. He really didn¡¯t want to fight Kasha again. Whatever his power was seemed to cut right through Dylan¡¯s armor, and the villain was experienced enough that he¡¯d be a hassle even if his ability wasn¡¯t so dangerous.


    Kasha, seemingly satisfied, turned and started walking back towards his car. He grabbed the door handle, and pulled it open, before turning one more time, to look back at Dylan.


    ¡°Though I¡¯ve been understanding, I¡¯m not sure how Dr. Baughman will feel about you beating up his daughter, self defense or not. And I¡¯m not sure that the fact that his life''s work is almost done burning down behind us is going to help your case. Stick around to explain it to him or not, I don¡¯t really care. I¡¯ll have somebody brief him on the details later.¡±


    With that, Kasha got into the car, shutting the door behind him with a solid thunk. A few seconds later it drove off, making a turn around a corner and out of sight.


    Dylan felt quite confused. What the hell had Kasha meant, about him beating up Dr. Baughman¡¯s daughter? He turned, glancing at the pyromancer at his feet, who had managed to struggle their helmet off in the time he and the villain had been talking, revealing long hair.


    A young woman, a girl, really, looked at him with an equal mix of fear and anger. She looked to be about his age.


    Dylan felt like he had been dunked in a vat of ice water. Oh. That had been what he had meant. The childlike super that he¡¯d been fighting had been a child. At least, compared to most of the super¡¯s he¡¯d battled.


    And not only was it a child, but it seemed like it was the daughter of the man who had saved his life, the one who had spent the last while nursing him back to health.


    This would likely not go over well. It had been self defense, but if Dylan knew anything about parents, it was the fact that they tended not to be very rational when it came to their children, and Dylan doubted that the fact that the child in question had just been involved in a dangerous battle between supers would help.


    Shit. Well, there was nothing else he could do but wait. Maybe it wouldn¡¯t be so bad. Doctors were smart, right? Perhaps Dr. Baughman would be logical about the whole thing?


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Dylan didn¡¯t have to wait much longer to find out. Dr. Baughman¡¯s car screeched into the parking lot less than 5 minutes later. He parked just far enough away from the blaze to be safe, before hoping out of his car. The Doctor put his hands on his head, leaning his head back towards the sky, and let out a series of sobbing laughs.


    They subsided after a few seconds, and Dr. Baughman looked around, quickly spotting Dylan, and his daughter, lying on the concrete. He rushed over, nearly pushing past Dylan, to get to his child. He nearly reached out to grab her, but seeing how rough she looked, seemingly thought better of it.


    Dylan figured that now would be a good time to speak up.


    ¡°It¡¯s been a day. Your daughter is a super, one with the power to control fire. She ambushed me while I was leaving your clinic. I tried to tak- uh, calm her down as quickly as I could, but by the time I was able to, everything was already on fire. I tried to stop her as gently as I could, but well, it¡¯s really hard to know how hard you can hit people, especially in power armor. She¡¯s not dead, but you uhh, might want to check her for internal bleeding or broken ribs, or something.¡±


    Dylan took a deep breath, about to say more, when Dr. Baughman turned, and leveled him with a glare so fierce, it instantly stole all the words from his mouth.


    It was probably time to go. Dylan turned, and started walking away, as sirens echoed in the distance. It seemed like no matter what he did, somebody would be unhappy with him, no matter how hard he tried.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Winnie cringed a little when she saw her father¡¯s concerned face hovering over her. Well, she thought that his expression was concerned. It was hard to tell with how blurry her vision was. She barely remembered what had happened after that fuckwith in the armor had closed the distance with her. She¡¯d had some sort of plan, and then she was tumbling across the room.


    She felt like she was suffocating after that, a radiating pain running from her core. From there, it was even more on and off. She remembered the how everything increasingly smelled of smoke, and recalled flashes of being dragged out of the clinic, but not much else beyond that.


    What the hell had happened? She¡¯d been on at least somewhat equal footing with her opponent, right? Yeah, he¡¯d been dodging most of what she¡¯d sent at him pretty easily, but he had been dodging, not just standing there or walking through her attacks. He¡¯d felt like she posed some threat to him, right? So how had that all changed so quickly? What had gone wrong?


    She¡¯d only been hit once, yet everything hurt. Was this what it was like? Was the power difference that great? Winnie didn¡¯t know whether the Iron Wraith was just too strong, or if she simply wasn¡¯t used to fighting. Regardless, that had been a pretty decisive loss. She felt frustration, again, but also helplessness. What was she supposed to do? She¡¯d been powerless, afraid, before gaining a superpower. Something that should let her turn her situation around, something that would let her be a hero.


    But it still didn¡¯t matter. Nothing had changed. Was the whole thing pointless? Would she always get pushed around?


    Winnie heard voices coming from nearby. One of them was her fathers, but she didn¡¯t recognize the others. She looked around, spotting a whole bunch of emergency vehicles, lights flashing. Why were they there?


    A few paramedics walked over, and put her on a stretcher, lifting her up, before wheeling her back towards an ambulance. Before she was put in the back of the vehicle, however, she saw her fathers clinic, or what was left of it, a metal skeleton of a building, surrounded by burning debris.


    Winnie felt like her vision was narrowing down to a pinprick. What had she done?


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Detective Hasborough frowned as he stepped out of the car, examining the burning building. Or, well, at this point, it was mostly a burnt building. The people in this part of town tended to be extremely reluctant to call the authorities.


    Luckily, it seemed like it had worked out for them. Delaying calling in a fire had the potential to end very poorly. It didn¡¯t seem like it had spread to any of the neighboring structures, which was good. The firefighters had just started spraying the embers, in an attempt to put out the fire in its entirety.


    Hasborough wasn¡¯t really here for that, though. Sure, it was related, but ultimately, he was here because one of the callers mentioned that they had seen the Iron Wraith. Now, he doubted that the villain was still here (they actively had had a car scout ahead to make sure he wasn¡¯t using the fire to lure them into a trap) but it was possible that he was still hiding somewhere around here.


    If that were the case, Hasborough planned to get himself, and everybody else as far away from the villain as possible. They weren¡¯t here for conflict. No, Hasborough was here to collect information. Anything that could be used to identify their culprit.


    He scanned the scene, trying to find out who would be the best witness, when he spotted the perfect target for questioning. An older man, staring blankly at the charred remains of the building that had once occupied the lot. Perfect.


    Hasborough glanced at the sign. Perhaps that was even Mr. Baughman himself. He stepped closer, siding up with the man, and gazed at the wreck of the clinic for a few seconds, before introducing himself.


    ¡°Mr. Baughman, I¡¯m detective Hasborough. I¡¯m on the case for the Iron Wraith, who, according to eye witness reports, left your clinic at the time of the blaze. I¡¯m thinking that we should talk.¡±

 Chapter 25

    Dylan walked slowly away from the scene of the fire. He couldn¡¯t really muster up the energy to go faster. Several people stared at him, and quite a few ducked off the street and walked away when they saw him coming. It seemed like more people knew who he was, now. That made sense, as the information had more time to disseminate.


    Dylan found that he didn¡¯t really care, at the moment, what people thought of him. He wasn¡¯t feeling as glum as before, but it was still hard to reckon with the fact that, in some sense, he¡¯d failed. That hadn¡¯t happened before. Sure, it hadn¡¯t all gone perfectly. Most notably in his encounter with Dynamis. But despite the mistakes, his presence had made things better. He had stopped that robbery, and saved those hostages. And to be honest, it was Dynamis¡¯ fault that he had gotten into a fight with Dylan in the first place.


    And yeah, in this case, a lot of the blame fell onto the Pyromancer, Dr. Baughman¡¯s daughter. Dylan knew that. But at the same time, his presence there hadn¡¯t helped, for once. Likely, had he never shown up, the clinic would be fine. The only reason that an angry pyromancer was unleashed inside of it was because she specifically had a beef with him.


    Dylan was angry at the super, however. He didn¡¯t remember her name, and didn¡¯t really get an opportunity to ask once everything had settled down. What had he done to earn such animosity? Why had  she decided to attack him in the clinic itself?


    These thoughts plagued him as he walked, swirling around in his head. They were thoughts he couldn¡¯t resolve, thoughts he didn¡¯t have an answer for. The rage from his battle with Dynamis was still present, but now there was confusion and shame. They whirled around inside him in a miserable concoction.


    Dylan still had the presence of mind to keep an eye out for an abandoned building as he walked. He passed quite a few that looked like they could have fit the criteria at first glance, but ultimately ended up being run down. Still, he kept looking. He couldn¡¯t bring his armor home. It was a wonder his mother hadn¡¯t found it already, and if his father had returned in his absence then he was certain to catch on. His dad tended to be pretty sharp.


    Plus, even getting it close to the house would be far harder now that everybody was looking for the suit. Well, technically, the man (boy) within the suit was the one that they wanted, but they could only identify him by it, at least as far as he knew. Maybe they¡¯d gotten his blood, and could track him. Perhaps they were even waiting at his house, right now. Dylan couldn¡¯t really do anything about it if they were. He¡¯d just have to keep on keeping on, and hope that everything worked out, in the near future.


    He eventually found a building that met his criteria. It was clustered with a few other buildings, of which several others looked to be barely used or abandoned. There were a few homeless people sleeping around the area, and many of the buildings had broken windows. The one he¡¯d chosen was the best for his purposes. It was kind of in the middle of the cluster. It was squat, two stories high, compared to the three or more stories of the buildings around it. There were already multiple broken windows, a few of which had been boarded up in a futile attempt to keep out trespassers.


    Dylan chose one of the windows, and gently pulled himself through, thankful that his suit protected him from the glass. Fitting through the window was a bit harder than he¡¯d expected, because of the lessened mobility from the damage to his armor. Despite the brief struggle, he still made pretty quick work of getting into the building.


    Inside, it was dark, nobody willing to power such a rundown building. It smelled like mold and piss, and the walls were tagged with graffiti and stained with mysterious dark fluids that had long since dried.


    Dylan scanned around the room, trying to make sure that there wasn¡¯t anybody else in here. It was warm outside, so hopefully that would limit the number of homeless that ended up sheltering there. Dylan would be back to get his armor long before winter came, unless he got arrested or killed, at which point he would have bigger things to worry about. Plus, his drone would be guarding the armor while he was away. That should be enough to stop any would be thieves. Anybody who could take it would be strong enough that they shouldn¡¯t really need a suit of beat up power armor.


    He didn¡¯t think anybody who would come in here would report it to the authorities, but there was always a chance. Dylan figured that he¡¯d just have to take that chance.


    He walked up the concrete stairs, each footfall sending plumes of dust wafting away. The top floor looked similar to the bottom floor, if a little less messy. Vandalizing downstairs seemed to be sufficient for a decent amount of the people that had broken in over the years.


    Dylan mentally reached out, contacting his drone. It was hovering over the building, hiding in between the surrounding structures. Focusing, he looked through its sensor. He executed a 360 degree spin, looking to see if anybody was nearby. Finding the area empty, Dylan released his concentration.


    It was time to get out of his armor. Dylan was pretty nervous. This was where it was most likely to go wrong, in his opinion. If someone stumbled in here, he¡¯d probably have to kill them to keep his identity secret. He didn¡¯t really mind if criminals died when he was fighting them, but Dylan didn¡¯t really know if he could handle killing an innocent person who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Still, he wasn¡¯t entirely sure what else he could do. He was eager to avoid letting the authorities learn his identity.


    His helmet released, and Dylan reached up, grabbing it and moving it down to his side. Hopefully his suit would be able to continue holding onto it even when he wasn¡¯t wearing it. He really didn¡¯t want to let it touch the floor.


    The back popped open, allowing Dylan to step out. He looked his armor over, viewing it from an outside perspective for the first time since he¡¯d fought Kasha and Dynamis. He let out a small sigh. It was going to be a total pain to repair.


    The front was smashed in, the metal of the helmet was dented. There was a large clawmark on the back. The metal was littered with a bunch of small scratches. The suit was covered in soot and blood. The battles that he¡¯d been through were clearly visible. He wasn¡¯t sure how much more of a beating it could have taken. Maybe it would have lasted one more fight. Dylan wasn¡¯t sure. He¡¯d grab it again, in a few days, and then go to the junkyard, and look for parts.


    He had his drone look around the building once more, checking if anybody was there. It was still clear. Dylan directed it to fly into the building, before realizing that it wouldn¡¯t fight through the window. Heaving a sigh, Dylan got back into his suit, and ¡°widend¡± one of them. The drone was able to fit after that.


    With a final check, to make sure that everything was in the correct place, Dylan headed back down the stairs. Hopefully everything would work out alright.


    He ended up encountering another problem downstairs: getting out of the building. The door was still locked, and the only path he could take out of the building was through one of the broken windows.


    Dylan spent at least ten minutes looking for another way out, or a way to make getting through the window easier. When he found nothing, he slid his shirt off, placing it on the window frame, before hopping through. Dylan felt a sharp pain in his palm, and looked down. A shard of glass had pierced his shirt, and was currently embedded in his hand.


    Dylan swore and removed it, tossing it aside, before removing his shirt from the window frame, shaking it out, in an attempt to remove all of the glass that it had surely picked up, and put it back on.


    It was time for him to head back home. While Dylan was less nervous about this part of the plan than the previous, he still felt worried about it. He was near the edge of the bad part of town, but there was still a chance he¡¯d encounter a mugger or crackhead. Luckily, he should be good once he made it out. Dr. Baughman had been kind enough to give him a set of new clothing. It was a cheap, white shirt, likely from one of the 20 packs you could find at most department stores. The pants seemed to be equally cheap. Dylan didn¡¯t mind, though. It meant that he wouldn¡¯t be wearing torn, blood stained clothing.


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Taking one last, furtive look back at the building, he stepped out into the alley, and started on his way back home.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Dylan made it back home in one piece. He hadn¡¯t gotten accosted. In fact, most people didn¡¯t even look at him, although one woman stopped him, and lectured him about walking around by himself while there was a dangerous villain in the area.


    ¡°The authorities still haven¡¯t caught him, you know? He might see you, and decide to take you hostage, or worse. Your parents would be so upset at you, if that happened. I know you think that you¡¯re invincible, at that age, but you really ought to be more careful.¡±


    Dylan just seriously nodded, thanking the woman for her advice, before continuing on. Well, it seemed that, at the very least, the general public was unaware of who he was. Perhaps he was lucky, and it was the same for the authorities.


    When he arrived at his house, he looked through the front door. Not seeing his mother, he stealthily went upstairs, and grabbed a pair of his own clothes, before moving into the bathroom, and taking a shower for the first time in what felt like weeks.


    Dylan stood under the water for nearly 20 minutes, soaking. He didn¡¯t have to worry about his stitches. His wounds were all healed already, and although he wasn¡¯t back to 100%, the fatigue he felt shouldn¡¯t really have been noticeable to anybody else. Dr. Baughman had told him that the stitches would dissolve on their own in a few weeks, so he wouldn¡¯t have to come back and get them removed. Even the cut on his hand had stopped bleeding. Despite all of the shit he¡¯d just been through, being a super certainly had its advantages.


    Eventually, though, in order to avoid massacring his parents'' water bill, he had to get out of the shower. He dried off, putting his clothes on, and slid the ones he was given back under his bed. Then, he headed downstairs to get something to eat. He hadn¡¯t consumed much in the past few days. He¡¯d mostly been asleep, although Dr. Baughman occasionally brought him something.


    His appetite had been pretty small during that time, but now, Dylan was feeling the lack of food with a roaring intensity. He winced as his stomach cramped, feeling a little nauseous. He quickly rummaged through the cabinet, looking for something that he could easily scarf down.


    He quickly found a package of graham crackers, which he tore open. There were three plastic bags filled with crackers inside of the package. He tore through the first two, and was in the middle of stuffing his face with the third when he heard someone clearing their throat.


    Dylan looked up, and saw his mother standing there, arms crossed, a stern look on her face. He tried to speak, realized that his mouth was still full of cracker, and spent the next minute chewing.


    Once he was sure his speech wouldn¡¯t be obstructed, he looked up.


    ¡°Hi Mom! How¡¯s it hanging?¡±


    If anything, that made her look scarier.


    Dylan let out an awkward cough.


    ¡°Is everything ok?¡±


    She walked past him, putting her hands on the sink, drawing in a deep breath.


    ¡°Dylan. I know I¡¯ve been distracted, for the past while, while your father was away. It¡¯s understandable to be a little worried about him. It¡¯s been years since he¡¯s left the house for so long. I want to ask you, though, if you really thought that I wouldn¡¯t notice my son disappearing, for over a week. Without telling me anything.¡±


    Dylan started to speak, but was quickly cut off.


    ¡°Now, I could forgive that pretty easily. I¡¯d have been mad, sure. I don¡¯t ever want you running off for longer than a day without telling me. But I know how kids your age are.¡±


    She paused for dramatic effect.


    ¡°Do you know what was on the news, for the past week? It was a villain. At loose, in this town. He survived a fight with our acting hero. In fact, if the rumors are to be believed, he won that fight. Now, maybe you haven¡¯t watched the news. Kids your age often don¡¯t. But, I don¡¯t believe for one second that nobody around you talked about it.¡±


    She turned, now, to look directly at him.


    ¡°For all that¡¯s good, what made you think that it would be ok for you to be away from home, without telling me where you were, or how long you would be gone, while there was an active supervillain rampaging through the city. Please, Dylan. Tell me what you were thinking.¡±


    Dylan gulped. He had kind of forgotten that his mother had no idea where he was. He was really glad he hadn¡¯t let his parents see his suit. He would have been completely fucked. As it was, as far as they knew, his power was relatively weak. They¡¯d only seen him make the lightswitch.


    He took a breath to steady himself, thinking about what he was going to say.


    ¡°Uh, sorry. I didn¡¯t know I¡¯d be gone that long. I was hanging out with friends. And uhh, about the villain, I didn¡¯t really think it would matter? Like, he¡¯s deeper in the city, no? Plus, doesn¡¯t he wear a big metal suit? I would probably be able to see him coming pretty easy.¡±


    His mother frowned at that, but at least she didn¡¯t look as angry anymore. She walked over, and wrapped him in a tight hug.


    ¡°Dylan, please never do that again, ok? I¡¯m already stressed enough as is. And in the future, don¡¯t take supers, especially villains, so lightly. You don¡¯t know what he can do. What if he could fly, or teleport? I know you¡¯re also a super, but you¡¯re young, and you¡¯re not experienced with fighting. Young supers have some of the highest death rates in the nation, because they get cocky. I know you¡¯re staying out of dangerous stuff, but still. Don¡¯t try and be a hero. Just be safe.¡±


    She looked him in the eyes again.


    ¡°Promise?¡±


    Dylan stared back.


    ¡°I promise, Mom.¡±


    She let him go.


    ¡°Good. I¡¯ll be making dinner soon. I¡¯ll call you when it¡¯s ready.


    He nodded, and headed towards the stairs, making sure to grab what remained of the final pack of graham crackers while he did so.


    Up in his room, Dylan sighed. It seemed like they either hadn¡¯t released a description of his powers, or if they had, his mom hadn¡¯t seen it. Plus, his parents seemingly thought he was far weaker than he was. That was good.


    Dylan looked out of his window, into the backyard. He¡¯d have to get rid of as many of the scraps back there as he could. He could keep a few, and tell his parents he¡¯d managed to gather some stuff to experiment on. It would make sense, and explain where he¡¯d been. He could make some shitty little device, or something, to further sell the story.


    And he¡¯d have to be a lot more careful when his father got back. He could be scarily observant. Dylan couldn¡¯t bring his suit back to the house anymore. He frowned. His father would probably notice if Dylan was gone every time the suited super showed up. Plus, how would he get anything accomplished if he was wanted constantly? It would be hard to redeem himself here. And he didn¡¯t particularly feel like being a villain. He doubted he could for long, anyways. Dynamis wasn¡¯t even a full hero, and he had mostly whooped Dylan¡¯s ass.


    He brushed the concerns aside. He could worry about it later. He¡¯d rest here for a day or two, and maybe even clean out those scraps (or put them in the basement or something), and then he¡¯d go to the junkyard to get supplies to repair his armor. Dylan would have tried to fix it with the stuff behind the shed, but that would mean going and actually bringing it to the suit, or bringing the suit here. Neither would be easy. No, it would be better if he just got new materials. Besides, what was left back there was mostly worthless anyways.


    Dylan still wasn¡¯t sure how exactly this was all going to pan out. He felt regret at being part of the Baughmans clinic burning down. He felt that, perhaps, he had rushed into everything a little too fast. But he also felt anger. Anger at everything that had happened, at all the people who had stood against him, for no good reason. Who had messed everything up. Was he perfect? No. Would everything have gone better, had they not meddled in where they weren¡¯t needed? Dylan certainly thought so.


    He supposed struggle was only natural. What was the saying? Nothing worth it comes easy? Dylan supposed that was true. It certainly hadn¡¯t been easy so far. Hopefully, it would start to go a little better.

 Chapter 26

    It took Dylan two days to find the time to sneak back out of the house again. In that time, he had gotten most of the scraps moved out from behind the shed. He had used multiple methods to get it done. He put some of them in the boxes he had initially taken from his basement, burying them beneath the remains of what he had used earlier. Some of the pieces were placed in the trash, buried beneath normal rubbish. Others he simply put in his pockets, and then went for walks, discreetly discarding them on the way. Hopefully, this would be enough that his parents wouldn¡¯t really find anything wrong, but he couldn¡¯t know for certain. There was still some more work to be done, but for now, it wasn¡¯t time.


    He had made sure to spend some time with his mom. He could understand her perspective, but there wasn¡¯t much he could do about what had happened. Luckily, he doubted he¡¯d be away for so long in the future. At least not without getting caught, which would solve the problem of his parents not being aware of his location in its own way.


    His mother eventually left the house, unable to spend any more time away from her job. Luckily, she was on a later shift tonight, and likely wouldn¡¯t be back until one or two in the morning. It was the price she¡¯d paid for trading off shifts the last few days waiting for him to come home. Dylan, naturally, seized the opportunity. He¡¯d been eager to leave again, even though it had only been a day or so. He felt a sort of urgent need to make things right. That started with fixing his suit. Dylan didn¡¯t know what he¡¯d do without it. He didn¡¯t think it could make more drones, right now. The specific supplies and effort it had taken meant that he¡¯d need to hit another scavenging trip, at the least. Plus, he¡¯d found out that he had to be relatively close for manual control. He¡¯d tried to check on the status of his drone from his home, but he got only a few brief flashes from it¡¯s view. Other than that, it was static. He¡¯d spent a while trying to confirm his range, but, being unwilling to venture beyond his neighborhood, hadn¡¯t made much progress. It seemed it would be able to operate autonomously by itself, if given the order, but he couldn¡¯t adjust it on the fly. And he wasn¡¯t really certain how complicated of orders he could give it. Before, he had instructed the drone to remain out of sight? But by what process did it do so? It seemed to him that it had just flown high up into the sky, beyond where most people would be able to see it. An effective interpretation of his orders, but also a simple one. As it was, the drone would likely only be able to be an obstacle, rather than a solution. He was almost certain that it would have been significantly less effective against Dynamis had the rookie hero not been distracted.


    He¡¯d keep an eye out for more components, but Dylan wasn¡¯t sure he could recreate the drone without the base he¡¯d had. He might be able to make an inferior version of it, but he couldn¡¯t know for certain. His power was often frustratingly obtuse. Often, it would let him make what he wanted, but there was no way to tell for sure exactly how it would turn out. He could, at most, give it a general direction, and let it work. Perhaps, with more training and practice, Dylan could grasp a tighter hold on the reins, but as of now, he had to point his power in a direction, and hope it handled the rest for him.


    He found himself walking down the street, towards where he stored his armor, trying to connect with his drone. As he got closer, the flashes lasted longer, but they still were brief. Dylan had to cease his attempts when he, not paying attention, wandered across a street, and was nearly struck by a car. He ducked his head sheepishly as the driver honked and roared past. Oops.


    The walk felt shorter than he remembered. He supposed that last time, he had been rather anxious about getting home safely. Which probably distorted his perception of the distance he had traveled. It also felt weird to walk around without his suit. Dylan found that he genuinely enjoyed using it. The height and strength it gave him. The feeling of security. Though, those things were stained with the bad memories. It was hard to enjoy something as much when you had so many bad memories associated with it.


    Once he started to get closer to his destination, Dylan started trying to reach out to his drone, again, although with considerably more caution this time. He knew he was a little tougher than he normally would be, and he could certainly survive for longer with worse injuries than a normal kid his age could, but he suspected getting hit by a car would still fuck him up pretty badly. Or maybe not. It would probably fuck the car up too, though, and then even if he was fine Dylan would have to pay for that. And explain why he could walk off getting hit by a car.


    The images got clearer, but he still experienced frequent interruptions until he got to about a block away. There, when he tried to establish the connection, it snapped into place. It didn¡¯t dissipate, either. Dylan waited a few seconds to confirm it was stable, before banishing the link.


    Well, it seemed like that was the effective range for precise control. He could probably get some basic orders through from father than that, but he wouldn¡¯t reliably be able to exert control any farther than two blocks. Dylan wasn¡¯t sure if the issue was with the technology, his power, or both. Being able to survey and intervene over a large area with the drone seemed useful. He mentally marked it down to look into later.


    When he was close to the grouping of buildings that he¡¯d stashed his gear in, he looked through his drone, and flew it around the building, making sure there wasn¡¯t anybody inside. Once he was certain of that, he checked outside. The last thing he wanted was to be mugged by some thug waiting in an alley while he was unprotected.


    Luckily, there wasn¡¯t anybody waiting there, either. There was a dude who appeared to be passed out in one of the alleys farther away from Dylan. He was slumped against the wall, and didn¡¯t move for the 30 or seconds that Dylan spent watching him. He didn¡¯t seem to be a threat, and if he was, Dylan could probably get to his drone before the man could reach him.


    Dylan was a little more prepared this time, too. He¡¯d brought some old gardening gloves along with him. They should help with the glass. It wasn¡¯t surefire, but it was far better than using his shirt, and to be honest, Dylan didn¡¯t really care enough to spend the time to find something better. What he had was plenty good enough.


    The inside of the building looked untouched, at least on the bottom floor. It still stank, and had a bunch of dried crud on the walls, but he didn¡¯t spot anything overtly different. Dylan felt a little flutter of anxiety in his chest. He was hoping that nobody had tried to steal his suit. If somebody had, well, he¡¯d probably find a dead body upstairs. He¡¯d certainly seen bodies before, but he was almost completely sure it would be different seeing somebody who hadn¡¯t been killed in the middle of a fight. The adrenaline and the fact that they were trying to hurt you did a lot to dull shock, as far as Dylan was aware.


    But no, there wasn¡¯t a body upstairs, either. It seemed his concerns were unfounded. It had only been a day or so, after all. Dylan looked around the space. Would this be a viable place to construct a lair? He wasn¡¯t sure. In fact, he wasn¡¯t sure how he would even go about that? Would making a secret door into an underground room in an abandoned building count? Could he even do that? Would it be too noticeable? It certainly seemed like something he¡¯d struggle to hide, at least while he was making it. Should one purchase a building, and then construct something from there? Dylan wasn¡¯t really sure. He hadn¡¯t really had to think about this before. Most Heroes were supplied a place to use a base, often by their agency, or at least had the means to purchase them, although that normally only occurred in bigger cities.


    Dylan supposed that he could be considered a vigilante, now, one who had certainly gotten on the wrong side of the law. And he really didn¡¯t know what he was supposed to do next. Fixing his armor was an easy goal. But then what would he do? If he tried to stop crime, somebody would likely be there to stop him. Coriolis wouldn¡¯t be gone forever, that much was certain. And it wouldn¡¯t be feasible to clash with the local heroes every time he tried to help somebody, even if he wasn¡¯t confident that they would probably beat him pretty easily.


    At that moment, Dylan felt more demotivated than he ever had before. Shaking his head, he pushed the feeling aside, instead choosing to refocus on his most immediate goal. He could only go one step at a time. There would be plenty of time to figure out what to do next later.


    He stepped into his armor, and briefly peeked out the window. Good. The sun was nearly completely set. He¡¯d have a few hours to do what he needed to do, before he had to go home. His mother would not take kindly to not finding him home when she got back later that night.


    Being careful of pedestrians, he started off towards the junkyard, slinking through alleys when possible, peeking into streets before crossing them, and taking back roads when he could. Every person who saw him was another person who could call the police. To be honest, staying out of sight and the fact that it was later at night was doing most of the heavy lifting. It was hard to be truly stealthy in power armor.


    Dylan managed, however. It took him nearly 45 minutes, but he managed. The junkyard looked about how he remembered it. Last time he was here, he had encountered a guard. Dylan hoped to avoid repeating that experience. He sent his drone up into the sky. Nobody. The need to stay secret was really slowing this whole endeavor down.


    He walked around the perimeter, but couldn¡¯t find the hole in the fence he had torn before. They must have fixed it sometime after his last visit. Not willing to waste anymore time, Dylan glanced around, and then tore a new hole, quickly slipping under the gap. The links scraped against his suit, making an audible rasping sound. Dylan cringed, the sound both louder than he¡¯d like, and uncomfortable to the ear. The grating noise only lasted a second, and then he was through.


    The piles of trash seemed to loom taller in the darkness. There were a few areas that were dimly lit, mostly by the fence, and some of the lights from the road cast enough light on the whole place to be dimly visible, but it was a far cry from daylight. He wouldn¡¯t have to worry about being blind, but his ability to accurately make out what he was looking at was going to be diminished. Night vision would have been useful. That would be one of the things he¡¯d try to add when he was done with repairing his armor.


    The drone was still overhead, following him around, and waiting for him to give it an order. Sometimes he could hear the whir of its propellers. It was a comforting sound, the presence of something else, a feeling that he wasn¡¯t entirely alone.


    Dylan walked through the rows of trash, trying to find useful items. Anything that he thought he could use, he directed his drone to grab, and pile up in a certain part of the junkyard. He wasn¡¯t sure where he should make repairs to his equipment? Maybe he should venture out of the city to do it? His house was out, and doing it in that abandoned building seemed like it was a questionable idea at best. Plus, it was quite gross. The only location that Dylan thought would satisfy  his criteria would be something far away from town, but he didn¡¯t really have time to go all the way out there tonight. He¡¯d probably have to do everything here, and then put his armor back in the abandoned building. He¡¯d have to look for a better location later.


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    At this point, he¡¯d gathered a good amount of components. Dylan figured that he¡¯d probably only need 10 or 20 more minutes of searching before he¡¯d have everything he needed. It was a little easier to find stuff now that he knew what to look for.


    The sound of someone laughing startled Dylan, causing him to whirl around. Someone was standing in the darkness, staring right at him.


    Shit. Was that one of the guards? He felt a chill run over him. He couldn¡¯t make out much detail, except that the person was tall, and thin. The silence hung thick between them, until the new arrival spoke.


    ¡°I fucking knew you¡¯d come here. You couldn¡¯t resist, huh? Not even after all you¡¯ve done.¡±


    Dylan froze. That didn¡¯t seem like something a spotting an intruder would say, especially not one so obviously decked out in power armor. No, it seemed like whoever it was, they were looking for him specifically. He swore in his head. Of course they¡¯d be monitoring a junkyard when one of the supers had power armor. Especially since he kept coming back to the same place over and over. That guard had literally seen him here. Fuck. This wasn¡¯t good.


    The figure stepped out into a more illuminated area. Dylan squinted. Whoever it was, they were familiar. It took him a few seconds to recognize the blue outfit. It was Puncher. He felt a little bit of the tension he held drain. At first, he¡¯d thought it was Dynamis. Dylan wasn¡¯t sure that he¡¯d be able to escape with his light if that had been the case. But Puncher? They¡¯d worked together, at least for a little, so there was a decent probability that Dylan could reason with him, or at least make himself a dangerous enough target that Puncher would have to back off. Dylan took a calming breath.


    ¡°So, this was a trap, to catch me, huh?¡±


    Puncher paused, and then let out a chuckle.


    ¡°Hell no. My boss doesn¡¯t want me anywhere near you. I¡¯m the only hero the city has right now. But I can¡¯t get over what you¡¯ve done. How you used me. What you did to Dynamis. I knew that you¡¯d need to repair your armor, and the police knew that somebody has broken in here a few times over the last couple of weeks. So I figured I might as well keep an eye out. Have them call me if they spotted someone. And lo and behold, it worked.¡±


    Dylan felt conflicted. Was the fact that Puncher was acting by himself a good or a bad thing? Sure, that meant that he likely wouldn¡¯t have police support¡­ unless they found out he was here and had to come. That would be bad. But if he was the only hero in the city right now, then if anything happened to him, the entire city would probably be in trouble. Hopefully, Dylan could leverage that fact to get Puncher to back down. At the same time, the fact that he was here at all, even when he wasn¡¯t supposed to be, meant Puncher was probably pretty passionate about confronting Dylan. He could be completely unreasonable.


    He took a step towards the hero.


    ¡°So, they promoted you, huh? Congratulations, I guess. You¡¯re the one protecting the city, until Coriolis gets back, or Dynamis recovers, right?¡±


    Puncher didn¡¯t respond. Shit. Dylan knew he wasn¡¯t very good at this. He hadn¡¯t had enough practice to become a smooth talker. He didn¡¯t know what the silence meant. Was Puncher thinking about what he¡¯d said, or was he just ignoring it all? Dylan kept going.


    ¡°If something were to happen to you, that¡¯d leave just the police department to defend the city. Kasha, or any other villain, would basically be able to do whatever they wanted until Coriolis got back, right?¡±


    Puncher stretched his arm, taking a step closer to Dylan.


    ¡°At first, that was true. But there¡¯s been a development. Hasborough, my boss, was able to call in a hero from another city. She¡¯ll be here in a day or two. And she¡¯s a professional, like Coriolis. So, even if something happens to me, and I don¡¯t catch you tonight, your days are numbered.¡±


    Dylan¡¯s mind blanked. That wasn¡¯t good. At all. In fact, that was really, really, really bad. Dylan had to get out of here. Hell, he should probably hide all of the shit he¡¯d made. He could barely contend with Dynamis. A professional hero would have him behind bars before he could say shit. He frantically looked for the right words, while still trying to figure out how he¡¯d disappear.


    ¡°Alright. So then why wouldn¡¯t you wait, then, till she gets here? No use taking the risk, right, leaving the city undefended for a day or two, when somebody who could easily catch me is on the way, right? Plus, you saw what happened to Dynamis. I¡¯m dangerous. I doubt you want to spend the next month in the hospital.¡±


    Puncher actually laughed, this time.


    ¡°Yeah, well, I know there''s a good chance that you¡¯re going scurry off into the woodwork when she gets here. And there¡¯s a good chance you won¡¯t get caught if you end up hiding like a rat. But now? I have you right here in front of me. I have to take the opportunity. Plus, I just want to catch you. Both for personal reasons, and because it¡¯ll look good on my resume.¡±


    Puncher cocked his head.


    ¡°Or whatever equivalent heroes have.¡±


    Well, it seemed like Dylan wouldn¡¯t be able to talk his way out of this one. He understood why, he supposed. That day, when he went to rescue the hostages, nothing Kasha could have said to him would have made him back down. It just felt weird to be on the other side of it, was all. Dylan let the worries about the coming days leave his mind. He needed to be focused. In a sense, this was do or die. If he lost here, it was all over. This was no time to be distracted.


    Puncher talked a little bit more, but Dylan was done paying attention. He projected his mind into his drone, and directed to rise. Hopefully, this first move was all it would take.


    Puncher glanced over, and saw the drone rising into the sky. He swore, and dove out of the way, just as it fired, causing the projectile to only graze him, sending a brief splash of blood into the air before it buried itself in the ground. Puncher responded immediately, picking up a rock, and hitting it at the drone. It flew through the air like a missile, striking the drone, and causing it to careen away in a wild arc.


    Dylan snapped back into his body, and launched himself towards Puncher as fast as he could. He felt the familiar pressure from moving faster than his body was made to handle, as he crossed nearly 20 feet in a second. He wound his leg back, but Puncher had brought his forearms over his torso, shielding himself from Dylan''s kick. The hero ended up rolling away, managing to tumble to his feet before Dylan could catch back up.


    Puncher ducked Dylans first punch, and responded with a jab that felt like it nearly took his head off. As Dylan stumbled backwards, he was barely able to block the follow up strike that the new hero unleashed.


    It was a stark reminder of the difference in their skill. Dylan had been doing this for less than a month, while Puncher had far more experience. Dylan wouldn¡¯t be able to match him at his own game.


    The next blow Puncher unleashed, Dylan rolled his torso away from, but otherwise didn¡¯t move out of the way, opting instead to land a punch of his own. Dylan took a step back when the blow landed, all the air knocked out of his lungs. Puncher didn¡¯t fare much better, stumbling back unsteadily.


    Dylan certainly had the durability advantage, at the very least. But judging by the sound his suit made when it got hit, it wouldn¡¯t be able to withstand more than maybe or two more blows. And if he lost his suit before Puncher was taken out of commission, he¡¯d automatically lose.


    While they both recovered, Dylan tried to check on his drone. It took a second, but he was eventually able to establish a crackly, unstable connection. It seemed that it had been pretty heavily damaged by Puncher''s improvised projectile. Dylan swore. He¡¯d have to hold off on using it until he was certain Puncher wouldn¡¯t be able to dodge it or attack it. He didn¡¯t trust it to do much more than get one shot off.


    Puncher started towards him again, but this time Dylan didn¡¯t engage. Instead, he stepped backwards, bringing him further out of range, and reached down, grabbing the first heavyish object he saw off of the ground that fit inside his hand.


    He picked it up, and whipped his arm towards his opponent. The object, an old stapler, flew through the air with a sharp crack, before striking Puncher on the shoulder and exploding into thousands of little fragments. The super grunted, and temporarily stopped his advance.


    Dylan turned and ran, searching for more items to throw, Puncher hot on his heels. He scooped up a rock, and launched that at Puncher as well. The hero tried to duck, but wasn¡¯t fast enough to avoid the rock clipping him on the head, causing him to tumble bonelessly onto the ground.


    Dylan stood and caught his breath, all the while directing his drone to start moving into position. Puncher still wasn¡¯t out of it completely, and slowly pushed himself to his feet. Dylan watched wearily, waiting for his opponent to make a move.


    Puncher, now on his feet, lowered into a crouch. All of the muscle on his body was visibly tensed. Dylan felt a surge of panic. He remembered that first blow Puncher had landed against Kasha, the one that sounded like a small bomb going off. He thought to run, but he remembered how the hero had swerved in the air, straight towards Kasha, even though the villain had moved out of the attack''s original trajectory.


    Dylan only had one idea. That might let him get out of this. He ordered his drone to shoot Puncher, while angling his armor straight towards Puncher. The projectile hit the hero, but this time, it shattered into molten hot pieces of metal, seemingly doing no damage.


    His main idea foiled, Dylan had only one thing left to rely on. He lept backwards, crossing his arms in front of him before ejecting from his armor at the same time as Puncher launched forwards. Dylan¡¯s torso was the only part that was completely clear when Puncher¡¯s fist connected to his suit. Dylan shielded his face with his arms, hoping that it would be enough.


    The impact sounded far louder, this close. A brief burst of noise, then silence, as Dylan''s ears seemingly stopped working. Eyes squeezed shut, he felt countless shards of metal scrape his arms, drawing blood as they did so.


    He tumbled back onto the ground, free of his armor, and lay there in a daze. Dylan weakly opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the huge hole Puncher had left in his armor. What remained of its top half kept the hero obscured, which meant that he shouldn¡¯t have been able to see Dylan either.


    Dylan knew he had to act quickly. The last time that Puncher had unleashed a blow like this, he had been unable to move for a few seconds afterwards, having to recover from the strain of unleashing such a mighty attack. He desperately cast his mind into his drone, begging it to have enough in it for one final shot.


    He suddenly saw everything that it saw. Puncher¡¯s fist barely touched the hole in the armor, which was smaller in the front. The hero stood, breathing heavily, just like last time. Good. Dylan lined up the drone. He hated to shoot a man in the back, but he was out of options. He sent the command, and waited for the shot.


    Nothing happened. Dylan felt a jolt shoot through his spine. What happened? Was it completely broken now? Had it finally given in? His hearing started to come back, and he thought he heard sirens in the distance. Shit, somebody must have heard them fighting, or Puncher had called for backup.


    Dylan was almost resigned to his fate when the invention fired, hitting Puncher in the lower back, and causing him to collapse onto the floor. Covering his face with his hand, Dylan turned, and gave one last order to the drone. Hide. If the police try to come after me, though, stop them.


    The boy turned, and unsteadily pushed himself to his feet, stumbling to the hole he had retorn into the fence earlier. He moved a lot slower, without the armor, and it felt like an eternity before he reached it. He slid through it, ignoring the scrapes the rough metal scratched into his skin, and stumbled off into the night, as the sounds of sirens got increasingly loud.

 Chapter 27

    Detective Hasborough ran his hands through his hair. His job just seemed to get more and more stressful. Ever since Dynamis had pulled him aside to work on the Iron Wraith case, this whole thing had spiraled off into a mess. The town was small enough that even with Coriolis¡¯ absence, there shouldn¡¯t have been this much trouble. Sometimes, it felt as if everything was conspiring against him.


    Hasborough put his hat back on, and took another look around the junkyard. The large mounds of scrap and garbage loomed high into the air, casting ominous shadows. The scent of smoke and burned circuits filled the air. Another detective was carefully photographing the remains of the Wraith¡¯s suit of armor. It appeared that, for one reason or another, he had abandoned it. Likely, the villain had decided that it wasn¡¯t worth the effort that it would take to repair. Puncher had done quite a number on it. The top half of the power armor had been reduced to a series of scraps. Hasborough still had officers looking for the pieces.


    He felt a surge of frustration at the thought of Puncher. He had told the kid not to come here. To stay out of it. Manta, a professional hero, was on her way over. It didn¡¯t matter how young they thought Iron Wraith was. He was obviously dangerous. The fact that he had taken out Dynamis should have made that apparent enough. Puncher never should have gotten involved. But kids were stupid. They did dumb things, especially when they were trying to right perceived wrongs. Puncher denied it, but Hasborough was certain that the teen felt responsible for what had happened to Dynamis, at least in part. He would have probably done the same thing, at that age.


    That didn¡¯t mean it wasn¡¯t also damn stupid, though. It would still be another day before Manta showed up, and in the meantime, if anything extreme happened, they¡¯d be up shit creek without a paddle. Plus, having two supers in the same hospital meant that a significant number of officers would have to be stationed there at all times, for their protection. There wasn¡¯t really any way around it.


    And now, his bosses were breathing down his neck. Since he¡¯d been left put in charge by Dynamis, the police chief, who would normally be responsible for all of this, had a convenient excuse for the lack of action. That meant that Hasborough was the one taking the blame for this all. It was unfair, but somebody had to take the blame. The heroes were too important, both physically and politically, to get much flak, and since both Dynamis and Puncher had been severely injured, ostensibly in service to the public, meant that they were practically untouchable. Hasborough was perfect, though. Just the right blend of involved enough, and unimportant enough that he could take the fall.


    He had been thinking about retiring, anyway. After this, it wasn¡¯t likely that his career would be going much of anywhere. Hell, he might get demoted. At least he¡¯d probably get that time with his kids that he¡¯d wanted.


    The old detective shook the negative thoughts out of his head, and went over to talk with the detective inspecting the armor.


    ¡°What¡¯ve you found? Anything that¡¯ll clue us in on the identity of our hometown villain?¡±


    The man just shook his head.


    ¡°Nothing new, really. The armor is obviously super in origin. It doesn¡¯t match any of the designs used by active Tinkers, which means it¡¯s probably homebrew. We figured that, but it¡¯s nice to get confirmation, I guess. There¡¯s plenty of DNA evidence, but we already have had blood samples, so those are unlikely to turn up anything new. Our perp isn¡¯t in the database. I do think we can rule out Puncher¡¯s kid theory, though. I haven¡¯t measured yet, but judging by the internals, whoever wore this thing was larger than you¡¯d expected a kid to be. Could be a teen, I suppose, but it¡¯s entirely within the realm of possibility of a tech based super to create a voice changer.¡±


    Hasborough nodded. With the resources they had, it was unlikely that they¡¯d get any good leads. He knew that it was a long shot, but it paid to be thorough, in things like these. Villains messed up often enough that it was one of the leading ways in which they were discovered.


    He gave the detective a nod, and trudged back to his car. He¡¯d know if something important happened here, the guys on site would make sure of that, but for now, he had to get back to his office. There was a lot of paperwork to be filled out. He could barely stifle his groan at the thought.


    ¡ª---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Dylan sat in his room, arms wrapped around his legs. He felt empty inside. He¡¯d won the fight against Puncher, but it felt bittersweet. To be honest, he hadn¡¯t wanted to fight the guy in the first place. How had it all gone so wrong? Was it really that hard to be a hero?


    Yeah, he¡¯d thought it would be hard, but in a different way. It seemed so simple, on TV. Find the bad guys, and then do your best to stop them, and save innocents. Dylan had anticipated pain, struggle, and even failure, but he hadn¡¯t been prepared to be labeled as a villain.


    And at first, he¡¯d tried to deny how much it had affected him. He¡¯d felt angry, yeah, but at the same time, it¡¯d been justified. Now, he wasn¡¯t so sure. Was it really ok, what he¡¯d done? Should he have just left it to the adults, the professionals? Was that truly the only way? He¡¯d thought he¡¯d be making stuff better. Turns out, that just hadn¡¯t been true.


    Now, he didn¡¯t quite know what to do. His suit was in ruins, after Puncher had scrapped it. The bottom half, which was most of what remained, he¡¯d left in the junkyard, unwilling (and, if he were being honest, probably unable) to try and put in the effort it would have taken to bring it someplace safe while he was running from the law. He¡¯d left his drone in the city, too, he thought. Dylan wasn¡¯t completely sure where it was. He¡¯d just told it to go somewhere, somewhere away from him. Somewhere hidden. He didn¡¯t want to be seen with it. And now, he didn¡¯t know where it was. He wasn¡¯t sure if that bothered him, or not.


    In a sense, though, it was almost like he was back to square one. It had been a few days since everything had happened, and at first, he¡¯d thought that the strange funk he¡¯d fallen into would go away, but it seemed to only be getting worse and worse.


    Dylan felt as if he¡¯d lost all motivation, to do anything. Even eating had felt like a chore. It was bad enough that his mother had noticed the change in attitude, but she seemed content to give him space, for now, simply watching him, as if to see what he might do. Dylan appreciated it. He didn¡¯t think he could handle any direct concern.


    With a sigh, he got up off of his bed, and walked downstairs. He¡¯d been sitting in his room for hours. If he wasn¡¯t going to do anything productive, he might as well see what was on TV.


    He found the remote, resting on the coffee table in the middle of their living room, and started flicking through the channels. He paused, briefly, on the national news.


    A stern faced man, probably in his 40¡¯s, with a dark suit and slightly graying hair, stared out at him.


    ¡°Experts report that severe damage has been done to government servers in a selected few key facilities over the past number of weeks, as a result of what is being called target villain attacks. This has resulted in some extensive outages in various electronic storage and recording services. Notably, the super-power registry is currently offline. Word from the engineers is that it¡¯ll be at least another few weeks until it¡¯s back up and running again.¡±


    The man was interrupted by a commercial break. Dylan stared, blankly, at the wall. It hadn¡¯t been long at all, since his parents told him to register his powers, but it felt like an eternity. It was a good thing that he hadn¡¯t, he supposed, or he¡¯d be in jail.


    And now, he couldn¡¯t, even if he wanted to. With the servers down, he¡¯d have to wait weeks before the opportunity presented itself.


    Dylan scoffed.


    As if he¡¯d go and register. No, that time had passed. He¡¯d chosen to eschew being a responsible member of society. He¡¯d just have to live with the consequences.


    The commercials ended, and the news anchor came back into focus.


    ¡°Now, we¡¯re bringing some brighter news. Our correspondents report that the mysterious event in Northern Africa has been nearly completely resolved. It seems that, whatever it was, was incredibly destructive. Repair crews have started to be brought in, and according to sources, the dome covering the area will come down in the next few days. We invite you to tune in at 6, where we¡¯ve brought in experts to speculate on what might have been happening down there during these last few weeks.¡±


    With a sigh, Dylan shut the TV off, and went back into his room.


    ¡ª---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Dylan found out the nickname he¡¯d been given by the police by watching the news. At first, when he¡¯d heard of the ¡°Iron Wraith¡± he thought that they were talking about some other, more established villain. He was soon disillusioned of that notion when his escapades were described with great vitriol by news reporters.


    He didn¡¯t really like the name he¡¯d been given. By itself, it wasn¡¯t terrible, but it rubbed him the wrong way that he wasn¡¯t allowed to choose it for himself.


    And that was leaving out the context entirely. The villain that the name was associated with was not well regarded. Everytime he heard somebody say the codename on TV, often with accusatory tones, it felt like he¡¯d been punched in the gut.


    It was weird, to be talked about. He wondered if the newscasters expected him to be watching them. Dylan figured that they probably weren¡¯t. Watching the news felt too tame, too mundane, for the violent force of nature that was the Iron Wraith.


    The way they talked about him made it clear that they didn¡¯t think he had ever had any good intentions. The way they put it, the Iron Wraith had been out to hunt heroes from the start. His tactics had certainly been effective.


    He supposed that it made sense, in a way, why they would portray him in such a way. He had never set out to be a villain, and he suspected that anybody who carefully reviewed the situation would concur, but a villain who hunted heroes was far more sensational than a failed hero. It did happen occasionally, but often, they were quickly apprehended or killed by the authorities. It wasn¡¯t a good survival strategy, but it certainly made an impact.


    The heroine from the other city that Puncher had talked about also seemed to make him her main priority. Her codename was Manta, and she wore a bright green outfit. She was, for lack of a better term, on loan from a nearby city, until Coriolis returned. Dylan didn¡¯t know what exactly her powers were, save that they had something to do with water.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    Manta had hosted multiple press conferences, and she seemed determined to let the public know that catching Dylan was her top priority.


    Which meant that Dylan spent most of his time indoors. He was done with the powers stuff, maybe forever, but at least for now, which meant that there wasn¡¯t a chance in hell he¡¯d be caught out in costume, but that didn¡¯t mean he felt safe. No, during the few times he did venture out in public, every glance felt accusatory, and it seemed that furtive whispers followed him wherever he went.


    He knew that he was being paranoid, but leaving his house was still uncomfortable. It felt like it would be far too easy for them to track him down. After all, he was the perpetrator they were looking for. He didn¡¯t have an alibi that would stand up to professional scrutiny, he was almost sure.


    But it probably wasn¡¯t realistic for them to find him. In their position, all they had to go off of was general size, and his blood, and as far as Dylan was aware, he wasn¡¯t registered in any database. He would have to try and stay out of the hospital, he supposed.


    Still, despite constant self-reassurances, he didn¡¯t feel safe outside. It wasn¡¯t logical, it wasn¡¯t healthy, and to be honest, it probably made him seem even more suspicious, but at the end of the day he didn¡¯t really think he could get over it that easily.


    While at first, his mother seemed concerned about the sudden switch from being out of the house for days at a time to being isolated inside, he was able to successfully pass it off as him simply being concerned about the villain at large. It seemed to reassure her, and he suspected the fact that she had been so worried earlier played a large part in it. Had he not vanished, she probably would have been more willing to come to the conclusion that three super villain sightings weren¡¯t enough of a reason to avoid going out onto the sidewalks, especially since there was a professional hero in town specifically to combat the threat. As it stood, however, he was mostly left to his own devices.


    He didn¡¯t really tinker, or anything like that. He just wasn¡¯t in the mood. It didn¡¯t have the same appeal to it. Even if he knew he wasn¡¯t going to use it for superhero stuff, or, well, super villain stuff, he supposed, his power still felt like it was tied to his alternate identity. It was as if there was a separation, there, between Dylan, and the boy in the power armor. It was a separation he didn¡¯t want to break, not now, maybe not ever.


    Which meant that he spent most of his time idling around, reading, occasionally watching TV. Even that was a struggle. He¡¯d open a book, and read a paragraph, and then have to fight his attention drifting away to something else. It just didn¡¯t feel interesting.


    He stared up at the ceiling, wondering if he¡¯d feel like this forever. Surely, it¡¯d get better at one point, right? It had to. He hoped. If it didn¡¯t, he didn¡¯t know what he¡¯d do.


    ¡ª---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    His father returned from his trip a week later. Dylan was in his bedroom, eyes unfocused, idly scanning a page of a book, trying to make sense of it, when he heard the downstairs door open, accompanied by the sound of his mother happily exclaiming.


    He looked up, and pushed himself off the bed. As he made his way downstairs, he caught sight of his dad. Paul wore a T-Shirt, and sweatpants, as opposed to his usual business wear. He had been dragging a suitcase behind him, which had been set aside in favour of giving his wife a hug. Dylan froze. In the drama of the past few weeks, he had almost completely set aside his dad. He hadn¡¯t had the time or energy to be concerned.


    Dylan waited for his parents to finish their reunion, and then stepped forward, wrapping his father in a hug as soon as his mother stepped back. He felt warm, the apathy that had been squeezing him finally relaxing its grip.


    Dylan stepped back, scanning his father up and down. Although he was wearing casual clothing, his appearance was still neat. Paul''s hair was carefully groomed, his shirt unwrinkled, the drawstrings on his pants perfectly even.


    Most concerning of all, he had several bandages scattered across his body. They were thick, whitish pads, with an appearance that resembled duct tape. Dylan frowned. It was an unusual sight. His father didn¡¯t often get hurt. In fact, Dylan couldn¡¯t remember ever seeing his father injured. What sort of business trip had his dad been on?


    Paul noticed Dylan¡¯s stare. The slight smile on his face disappeared.


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing to be concerned about. The taxi I was riding in was struck by another vehicle. It was only a minor accident, so everyone¡¯s fine. I did get a little banged up, though.¡±


    Dylan nodded, and offered a slight smile, but it didn¡¯t really jive. The taxi accident really didn¡¯t explain what had kept his dad so long. He knew that his father wasn¡¯t important enough for a business trip to last several weeks, unless something extraordinary was going on. Was he being lied to? His father¡¯s bandages looked familiar, but Dylan didn¡¯t recall where they were from. He was pretty certain that most hospitals wouldn¡¯t have had them on hand.


    Perhaps the accident had been more severe than his father was letting on, and it was simply being underreported in order to assuage Dylan¡¯s worries. That didn¡¯t feel right, but he didn¡¯t really know what else could be going on.


    Dylan was broken from his chain of thought as Paul looked at him, and offered a slight smile.


    ¡°Would you mind helping me carry my bags to my bedroom?¡±


    He nodded. His father didn¡¯t often ask for help. Maybe he really was hurt?


    Dylan leaned down, and hefted the suitcase, finding it surprisingly light. He lifted it off of the floor fast enough that its momentum carried it up past his head, and he had to wrestle it back down to waist level.


    His father raised an eyebrow at him. Dylan looked down at his hands, appraisingly.


    ¡°I must be filling out some. It¡¯s about time, anyways¡±.


    ¡°I suppose that it is. You are rather tall for your age. That might be the reason you¡¯re so skinny¡±, his father remarked.


    Dylan turned, and mock glared at his dad. Shaking his fist, he started down the hallway, towards his parents bedroom.


    Dylan felt a smile creeping up the corners of his lips. The world didn¡¯t look quite as dismal.


    ¡ª---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    The next few weeks would go slowly by. As the excitement from his fathers return gradually diminished, Dylan¡¯s foul mood slowly started to return to the forefront of his mind. It didn¡¯t help that everytime he looked at his dad, he started to feel guilty. That had started a few days after his father had got back. At first, Dylan wasn¡¯t sure why. It took him remembering the conversation that the two had had, what seemed like so long ago, where he had been warned not to scavenge from the garbage for supplies for his powers. It was the fact that his father had, in part, predicted what had happened that really got to him, Dylan thought.


    The situation wasn¡¯t exactly the same as the hypothetical he had been presented with, but it was close enough that Dylan started to feel even more guilty than before. Had the outcome of the entire endeavor been obvious from the start? Should he have known? He could acknowledge that, in highsight, he had certainly made a lot of mistakes, but he didn¡¯t think he¡¯d be able to deal with it if he had made an obviously and objectively terrible decision all those weeks ago.


    The gnawing feeling of guilt meant that he started to avoid his parents. Who wouldn¡¯t, when the sight of them spiked his anxiety. He even started to leave the house more, the fear of being caught outside lesser than the terrible churning feeling he got when he looked his dad in the eyes. It sucked, but he didn¡¯t know what else he could do. It wasn¡¯t like he could explain what was making him uncomfortable. His parents would react poorly to the knowledge that he was a supervillain, to say the least. With how by the books his father was, he might even get turned in by his own parents.


    No, that was a risk he wasn¡¯t willing to take. Which meant that he just had to deal with it by himself. If it meant long days walking around the neighborhood or browsing through the same stores over and over again, then so be it. He had been just as bored when he was stuck inside.


    He spent weeks like this, trying to make himself unnoticeable, to project the feeling of normalcy, both at home, and in public. It started to become routine. He¡¯d wake up slightly late, because his parents ate breakfast early. He¡¯d pour himself a bowl of cereal, whatever they had, eat it, and then go put his shoes on and leave the house, maybe having a brief word with his parents before he left. The conversation was never too long, or too deep. Then, he¡¯d be out of the house. He¡¯d walk around, trying to entertain himself, until lunch, sneak back in, and then leave again, until dinner. After that, he¡¯d sequester himself in his room and try to read a book.


    He had thought about visiting friends, during the day, but during the past few months, they had drifted apart. He was already starting to feel the strain at the end of the last school year, and his month or so of no contact had been the nail in the coffin. It would have felt weird to come back all this time later, and try to rekindle past friendships. Plus, he didn¡¯t really feel like hanging out with them. They wouldn¡¯t be able to understand what he was going through, even if he was able to tell them.


    It was during one of these daily cycles when it happened. As Dylan was putting his shoes on, his father spoke up.


    ¡°Dylan, I need to talk to you.¡±


    Dylan froze, an icy feeling creeping up his spine. What was this about? So suddenly? Was it over? Did they know?


    He tried to control his tone when he responded, but a note of tension slipped in.


    ¡°Yeah, Dad? What did you want to talk about?¡±


    ¡°Come sit down, please,¡± his father said.


    Dylan stood, and schooled his expression, trying to look nonchalant, before turning and sitting down opposite of his dad, who was studying him intently. Dylan felt like he was under a spotlight.


    ¡°You¡¯re probably not going to like this, but we¡¯re moving.¡±


    Dylan froze, not processing the words for a few seconds. When he finally realized what his dad had said, the relief washed over him in a palpable wave.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you were wondering why I was gone for so long, right? It was because I was being interviewed, in effect, by my boss''s boss. Showing off my skills, if you will. They liked what they saw, and because of some recent vacancies in my organization, they¡¯ve decided to offer me a job at a larger location. I won¡¯t go into too much into detail, as it would likely bore you, but I decided to accept their offer, for a variety of reasons.¡±


    Dylan took a second to take the information in, before asking a question.


    ¡°Where are we moving? And, uh, when will this all be happening?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re going to start packing up in approximately a week. As to the location, we¡¯ll be moving to Baylorville. It¡¯s a bigger city, and they¡¯ve recently had a position open there, like I mentioned earlier. I also used to live there. In fact, my mentor still lives there,¡± his father said.


    Dylan tried to look slightly put out.


    ¡°It kinda sucks, leaving my friends behind, but to be honest, living in a bigger city means that there will be more opportunity, right?¡±


    His dad nodded.


    ¡°Yeah, Dylan, there will be. I know this will likely be hard on you, but you should try to look on the brightside, alright? It will make this whole thing easier.¡±


    ¡°Alright, then. Is that all, Dad?¡± Dylan said.


    When his father nodded affirmative, he got up from the couch, and headed out the door. He thought he felt relieved. Had this happened a few months ago, he probably would have been upset. Most kids would be, having to leave their entire lives behind. Now, he was just relieved. He didn¡¯t know if he would ever be comfortable in this city again. Plus, he didn¡¯t really have anything tying him down, anymore.


    The only thing Dylan would be leaving was his drone, but he didn¡¯t feel like that was any great loss. It¡¯s not like he could bring it if he¡¯d wanted to, and to be frank, the thought of bringing it disgusted him. Now that he thought about it, he didn¡¯t even know if it was functional. He wouldn¡¯t be surprised if the police, or Manta, had destroyed or captured it. He certainly wasn¡¯t about to go looking for it.


    Perhaps he was finally getting a lucky break? Maybe everything really was turning around for the better?


    ¡ª---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Dylan watched, from the backseat of their car, as the city he had grown up in faded out into the distance behind him. He had known that, by most accounts, it was a large town, not a proper city, but it still felt different, seeing it from out here. How small it was. It was hard to believe that everything had happened within those confines.


    Finally, it passed over the horizon, and he could see it no longer. He turned around, and faced forward. It seemed that it was finally over.

 Chapter 28

    Dylan sat with his head resting on his arms. Were it to be silent, he would have been able to hear the clock ticking in the background, or maybe the sound of somebody breathing. Perhaps he would have heard the hum of the air conditioning or the buzz of electric lights.


    But it was not silent. Not at all. No, Mr. Johnson was talking.


    ¡°And you see, class, when the South started deploying supers during the civil war, it marked an abrupt escalation to the conflict. Before, it had been relatively low key, or at least, as low key as a war can get. While mundane munitions and soldiers were effective in their own right, supers were dramatically more so. While they were far less prevalent at the time, and they still marked a dramatic increase in force compared to-¡±


    Dylan did his best to tune him out. It was an effort that he¡¯d had to make every day, for the past week. Mr. Johnson was probably a nice guy, or at least, that¡¯s what Dylan told himself as he grit his teeth through the class everyday, but he was terribly boring to listen to. He would use 5 words where one would suffice, would often repeat himself, and, worst of all, would decide to go off on tangents that ended up derailing the entire lesson, after which he would have to frantically try and cram the rest of the day''s lesson into the remaining time period. A task that, due to the aforementioned attributes, he seemed to be fundamentally incapable of doing. Which meant that, nearly every day, seemingly without fail, Dylan would find himself late to his next class.


    Luckily enough, the teachers were understanding, but he still hated to show up late. It felt like everybody was watching him, judging him. He had probably inherited the trait from his father.


    Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the bell finally rang. Dylan grabbed his bag, and started to get up, but the teacher spotted him moving to leave.


    ¡°Ahhh, Mr. Reed, I¡¯m not done yet. The bell doesn¡¯t dismiss you. I¡¯ll let you know when you can leave.¡±


    Grumbling, Dylan returned to his seat. It was the same bullshit every time. What was the point of the bell, of the entire system of class periods, if they didn¡¯t actually mean anything. The entire point of the bells was to signal that the class was over. That was their entire purpose, and Mr. Johnson just ignored it.


    Mr. Johnson managed to wrap up after just 5 more minutes; a rarity. It normally took the man 10. He let the class go, with a reminder of an upcoming test. Dylan was one of the first ones up, pushing his way through the throng of people trying to leave the classroom.


    As he strode through the hallway, he shook his head. How did he end up here? It really wasn¡¯t what he had imagined. It was a month and a half since he¡¯d left the town he¡¯d grown up in, when his family had moved here for his fathers job.


    At the time, he¡¯d thought it would be a fresh start, a way for him to wipe clean the slate, escape the problems he had caused. He had been so optimistic.


    In a way, it was a fresh slate. Dylan had managed to go that entire month and a half without using his power one time. He hadn¡¯t gotten in any fights, or done anything much to stand out. He supposed that he was happy with that.


    The whole thing came with its own set of problems, though. Dylan certainly didn¡¯t feel as despondent as he used to, a few months ago, but he still felt regret over what he had done. But as the sadness retreated, another, familiar emotion rose up to take its place: Anger. It was a familiar feeling, one that he was well used to at this point. He remembered the feeling well, even though it didn¡¯t quite take the same form this time around. It wasn¡¯t nearly as intense, nor as prominent. Instead, it was subtle. It came out at the little things. A teacher talking too long, somebody bumping into him in the hallway, even the cafeteria serving food that he didn¡¯t like.


    It wasn¡¯t explosive, and it didn¡¯t really lead to anything, but it did build up. He could handle maybe one or two bad events without it ruining his day, but often, he¡¯d find himself mad enough that he just had to clench his fists and breathe. And it added up. As the week wore on, he¡¯d find himself waking each day just a bit more irritated.


    He was feeling now, on his way to the next class. The sense of paranoia he¡¯d had a month prior hadn¡¯t entirely disappeared. He felt people''s eyes on him as he walked, staring. They felt accusatory. Dylan knew that they weren¡¯t. Most people probably didn¡¯t even notice him. But it didn¡¯t feel that way.


    He pushed his way into his next class, the door slamming into the wall with an audible thump.


    ¡°Looks like somebodies pissed off¡±


    Dylan ignored the comments and the wave of snickers that followed it, as he walked towards his seat.


    Mrs. Wells, the teacher of this particular class, sent him a disapproving look. His anger retreated as shame washed over him. Thin, gristly, and old, Mrs. Wells had been one of the few people who had gone out of their way to help him adjust. She¡¯d been the one in charge of the week-long ¡°camp¡± he¡¯d gone to before school started. It had been for new students, ones who hadn¡¯t lived here before. Mostly, it had been immigrants. They¡¯d been nice enough, if distant, so Dylan hadn¡¯t become friends with any of them. The language barrier didn¡¯t really help much either. While English was super common in most countries, it wasn¡¯t the main language in most, and the level of fluency that you could expect from teenagers varied greatly.


    But Mrs. Wells had been kind. She¡¯d been there to answer his questions, she¡¯d been the one to try and introduce him to the others. He was grateful, he supposed, even though it hadn¡¯t worked.


    Dylan locked eyes with her, and gave a brief nod of apology, as he sat down. He shouldn¡¯t let her take the brunt of his anger. Mr. Johnson going over time wasn¡¯t something to get so bent out of shape over. It was a mundane occurrence. He took a deep breath, and then let it out.


    Mrs. Wells¡¯s class was far more interesting than history, fortunately, and it was one of the few he could stand to pay attention to. Superpower mechanics. It was an elective, one of the few that he hadn¡¯t needed to be prodded to take.


    He was lucky that he knew Mrs. Wells. If he hadn¡¯t there was a chance that he wouldn¡¯t have gotten in. It was a fairly in demand class, especially with upper classmen. Most of the students were Sophomores or Juniors, with a few seniors thrown in here or there.


    Mrs. Wells walked to the front of the class, a marker in hand, and began lecturing.


    ¡°Today, we¡¯ll be covering the basics of growth factors. The study of how powers get stronger is fairly new. We¡¯ve only had accurate data for the last decade or so, which means a lot of public knowledge is not correct. First, I¡¯m sure that most of you are aware, but powers can get stronger. A supers¡¯ abilities can drastically increase over the course of their lives. Who can tell me how long supers have to get stronger? Anyone?¡±


    One of the students tentatively raised their hands.


    ¡°Yes?¡± Mrs. Wells called.


    ¡°Uh, about two months, and then they can¡¯t anymore?¡±


    ¡°Wrong,¡± Said Mrs. Wells.


    ¡°Or at least, that¡¯s not entirely correct. While it is true that growth is by far the fastest in the first two months, unlike what was previously thought, we haven¡¯t ever identified it as ceasing entirely. Supers can continue to grow stronger their entire lives. However, that misinformation is just one example of the plethora of myths that surround super powers. The public has a very distorted view of them as a result of all the misinformation.¡±


    Dylan briefly felt a spark of interest, but it quickly died. He was done with his power. It didn¡¯t matter if it could still grow 90 years from now, he wouldn¡¯t be using it. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Mrs. Wells continued speaking.


    ¡°Now that we¡¯ve dispelled the most prominent piece of misinformation about powers, we¡¯ll move on to some of the confusing parts. Does anybody know how powers get stronger, exactly?¡±


    She looked around, but nobody raised a hand. After letter the silence stretch on for a few seconds, Mrs. Wells spoke again.


    ¡°I see none of you are raising your hands. I¡¯m not surprised. This piece of information hasn¡¯t entered the public consciousness in the same way that a lot of other factoids have. I¡¯m sure at least one of you think that training a power will make it stronger. This is technically true, but probably not in the way that you think.¡±


    She turned, and started writing on the whiteboard. On one side, she wrote ¡®body¡¯ and on the other she wrote ¡®power¡¯.


    ¡°A normal human can improve their physical condition through training. Running, lifting weights, swimming, these are all things that will cause your body to adapt. Run every day, and you¡¯ll get better at running. Lift every day, and you¡¯ll get stronger. However, there are exceptions. You can overtrain, and regress. While damage from training will make a muscle stronger, too much damage will weaken it. Similarly, the damage has to come from training. Hitting your muscles won¡¯t cause them to get stronger, even if they take a similar level of damage.¡±


    She turned, and started writing a summary of what she just said under the body category.


    ¡°Powers are similar, but not quite the same. They respond to stress, but not in the same way. Powers must be stressed to grow, almost universally, even more so than the body. For most people, a light jog every day will make them better at jogging. A power won¡¯t grow from light activity, however, unless it is extremely weak.¡±


    She was writing under the power section now.


    ¡°However, powers also respond to general stress in a way that the body doesn¡¯t. Intense fear can trigger their growth, or damage to the body, anxiety, etc. As long as it meets the intensity criteria, it will make a power stronger. Training a power directly tends to grow the primary ability most of all. However, other types of stress tend to train the secondary abilities. We¡¯ll cover those more in another lesson, but for now, I¡¯ll keep it simple. A primary ability is the main part of the power. For example, if a super had the ability to throw fireballs, that would be their primary ability. Secondary abilities tend to be a lot more subtle. If a super fears for their physical safety, they will likely become harder to hurt, or heal faster than they otherwise would have. Similarly, if a super is in a lot of fights, and they become physical, they will likely see increases to things like strength and reaction times. Mental stress isn¡¯t the only form of stress that matters, however. Most supers, even ones that live relatively safe or normal lives, still see benefits. Subconscious stresses can affect these secondary powers, which means that supers tend to be taller, better looking, smarter, and live longer than the average. Additionally, damage to the body also counts as a form of stress.¡±


    Her marker was moving back and forth in a furious blur.


    ¡°This is the primary difference in growth between powers and the body. Mental stress won¡¯t alter your physical ability to run faster the way that training would. With powers, that isn¡¯t the case. Mental stress can alter physical characteristics, and vice versa.¡±


    She was interrupted by the shrill tone of the bell.


    ¡°That¡¯s all the time we have today, class. I know it¡¯s a somewhat complicated subject, so if you have any questions, feel free to ask, and don¡¯t forget to review. Have a nice day, everyone.¡±


    Dylan grabbed his bag, and got up. He tried not to think too deeply about what he¡¯d learned. He knew why he¡¯d taken the class, the subject deeply interested him, even if the thought of his own powers made him feel disgusted. That interest worried him, however. Would he end up regressing? It seemed like knowing all about his ability would make it easier to use.


    Plus, he wasn¡¯t sure that he liked what he was hearing. He¡¯d noticed, even before he¡¯d moved, that he¡¯d gotten stronger, and that trend had only continued. At the time, Dylan had just attributed it to puberty. But from the sounds of it, it was very likely that at least part of his physical changes had come from his power.


    He pushed the thought from his mind, and started making his way towards the cafeteria. It was time for lunch. He couldn¡¯t say that he was looking forward to it, per say, but he was glad for the brief reprieve between classes.


    This school was so different from his old one. While that had been a middle school, he had been in the highschool several times. It was nowhere near as packed as this one was. When he moved here, he was enrolled in Bay High School by virtue of it being the closest one to his house. There were over 1,500 students enrolled, all packed into the same building. It meant that walking the halls was comparable to walking the city streets, minus the cars. Dylan was glad that he was still growing. It meant that he was tall enough that most people moved out of his way.


    Walking through the lunchroom doors, he joined the queue that was waiting to enter the serving area. While he waited, Dylan looked around the cafeteria. It was a nice room, as far as public schools went. Tall, made of large bricks that had been painted white, it had multiple sunroofs that let in plenty of natural light. A few potted plants decorated the corners of the space.


    He was looking for a table that didn¡¯t have too many people at it. Most of them were packed, with large groups of people, ones who knew each other. Dylan wouldn¡¯t call them cliques, exactly. For the most part, those didn¡¯t really exist, at least not how they had been portrayed in movies. As his eyes roamed the room, he caught sight of the one exception.


    A group was sitting at a table, one that was far emptier than every other table in the room. There were about ten individuals sitting in the middle, comfortably spaced. A few others sat to the periphery. The people in the center didn¡¯t talk to them as much.


    The one group that could be called a clique was the group of students who had publicly declared their powers. They were at the top of the pecking order. They enjoyed a status that an average student would struggle to reach. A few of the most popular normal students could call themselves their equal, but that group was vanishingly small.


    Dylan looked away, continuing to search for an empty table. They had space at theirs, but there was no way he¡¯d sit there. For one, it¡¯d be far too much trouble. He wouldn¡¯t get attacked, or anything cliche like that, but he¡¯d really prefer to avoid the scrutiny. Plus, it would make the few social interactions he did have more difficult.


    The second reason was simpler. Seeing them sitting there, flaunting their powers, not a care in the world, made Dylan feel like his head was pounding. He didn¡¯t need to go sit in a place that was basically begging to make him angry. He already had enough problems with his temper as it was.


    The line moved slowly but Dylan still wasn¡¯t able to find a place to sit by the time he reached the serving area. He flashed his school ID to the attendant, and stepped inside.


    When he emerged five minutes later, he spotted a recently vacated seat. Hurrying over, he was quick to claim it. He set his tray down, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.


    He turned. The guy who had grabbed him was tall, at least two inches over six feet, and more burly than the average student.


    ¡°Hey, man. That¡¯s my seat you just took. You¡¯re going to need to move.¡±


    Dylan scoffed, and removed the guy''s hand from his shoulder.


    ¡°I¡¯m not leaving the seat. You weren¡¯t there, I claimed. First come, first serve. Sorry.¡±


    The guy squinted at him.


    ¡°You, I don¡¯t recognize you.¡±


    He looked down at the ID card hanging around the lanyard on Dylan¡¯s neck.


    ¡°You¡¯re a freshman, I¡¯m a junior. That means you have to listen to me. And I¡¯m telling you that you need to give me the seat, so beat it.¡±


    Dylan felt his temper flare. He got right up close to the guy, looking him in the eye. The height difference made it awkward, but Dylan didn¡¯t care.


    The two stared at each other for a few moments, and Dylan felt increasingly tense. Just as he was sure he was about to get into a fight, the guy relented.


    ¡°Yeah, whatever. It¡¯s not that big of a deal. This guy wanted to start a fight over a seat.¡±


    With that, he turned and walked away.


    Dylan continued to stare at his back for a few seconds, fists clenched. Slowly, he let them loosen, and, with a purposeful exhale, turned and sat back down at the table. By that point, what little heat his lunch had once possessed was gone. Not that it changed the flavour much. It was school food, after all.


    He ate mechanically, zoning out, until he reached for something else and found that his tray was empty. He deposited it in a bin, and then headed to the bathroom.


    Staring into the mirror, Dylan looked at his own expression. His mouth was tight. He had managed to keep a lid on it, but he had almost gotten into a fight back in the cafeteria. He stared into his reflections¡¯ eyes, trying to focus himself, taking deep breaths. The anger was unnecessary. It didn¡¯t help him. He needed to let it go.


    Slowly, breath by breath, he let it slip, until it was nearly completely go-


    The bathroom door slammed open, and a few people walked in behind him.


    ¡°Hey, that¡¯s the guy that completely loses his shit every day when he walks into Mrs. Wells class. He¡¯s a freshman, I think,¡± whispered one of the students. A few snickers followed.


    Dylan felt his fists starting to clench again. He turned, purposefully not looking at the students, and made his way to the next class, still angry. It really didn¡¯t seem like it was his day, did it?

 Chapter 29

    Dylan wasn''t looking forward to his next class. He wasn¡¯t a big fan of the material it taught, and even worse, he had recently been assigned a group project. He wouldn¡¯t have minded so much, except he didn¡¯t know anybody here. It made it awkward, especially since nobody else seemed to have that problem. His groupmates laughed and joked like old friends. While it meant that there wasn¡¯t any friction between them, it also meant that they tended to ignore Dylan¡¯s input. Dylan didn¡¯t think that they were doing it on purpose, probably, but the end result still meant that the entire ordeal was frustrating for him.


    He took some solace in the fact that he was on time. It was a lot easier with no Mr. Johnson to make him late. He settled into his chair and waited. There were still a few minutes before the class started, and quite a few of the other students hadn¡¯t even arrived yet, including his groupmates.


    The teacher was already sitting in her chair, idly scrolling on her phone. Mrs. Baffles was her name. She was younger, probably only in her thirties. Dylan hadn¡¯t known her for long, but he already thought that he didn¡¯t like her. She was the English teacher, which meant that Dylan had actually come into the year with a positive attitude. He¡¯d always gotten along with his English teachers back in junior high, after all.


    But something was different about Mrs. Baffles, and Dylan couldn¡¯t quite place it. Not different in a hiding something way, no. Rather, Dylan just found her odd. She¡¯d seemed nice, at first. In fact, his first introduction to her had been her accidentally misplacing the attendance list for the class. She hadn¡¯t seemed concerned, though, and simply smiled and remarked that everyone made mistakes.


    He¡¯d thought, at the time, she was just being realistic. After all, everyone did make mistakes. Surely she¡¯d apply the same standard to her students as she did to herself, right? Dylan found out, rather quickly, that this was not the case. He¡¯d forgotten his homework at home, one day. He¡¯d approached her, before class, intending to explain himself. He¡¯d expected a mild rebuke, or even getting some of the points from the assignment docked. Instead of doing any of that, she¡¯d simply looked him in the eye, and told him that he¡¯d be getting a zero for the assignment, and if he kept it up, he¡¯d end up in academic suspension before long.


    Dylan had made sure to have his homework on hand, since then, but he hadn¡¯t forgotten it. She hadn¡¯t been unfriendly since, but Dylan suspected that it was because he hadn¡¯t given her cause to be.


    Eventually, his group mates filed into the classroom. Only a few weeks into the semester, and he had already been assigned a group essay. He¡¯d been a little relieved, at first, but it seemed that nobody but him actually wanted to work on it. Instead, the others were more than content to chat with each other during class time.


    Today was no different, it seemed. He was in a group of 4. Sitting closest to him was Jared. He was tall, blonde, athletic. In any other circumstances, he probably would have been a nice enough guy.


    Andrew sat next to him. He followed Jared around everywhere, in a way that appeared increasingly puppyish to Dylan. He had played on the same Baseball team as Jared in junior high, but Dylan suspected that, now that the standards were a bit higher, the mousy boy wouldn¡¯t be able to make it onto the team.


    Finally, there was Finlay. She was average height, for a woman her age. She had short cut brown hair. Dylan didn¡¯t know as much about her as the other two. She tended to be quieter. He only knew that she¡¯d been friends with the other two for a long time.


    Today, the three were talking about the changes to Baylorvilles superhero team. Luminary, a flier, had been killed in the emergency that had happened a few weeks ago. He¡¯d been a mainstay of the city''s team, and the news of his death had caused a general panic amongst the public.


    ¡°I still can¡¯t believe he¡¯s dead, man. I grew up with that guy, y¡¯know?¡± said Jared.


    Finley nodded.


    ¡°It¡¯s crazy, that¡¯s what it is. We obviously knew that he wasn¡¯t like, invincible, but it still doesn¡¯t feel real, you know? Like, it doesn¡¯t feel like something that should have happened? How did he die? I¡¯ve seen him walk out of collapsing buildings, you know?¡± Andrew babbled.


    Jared shook his head.


    ¡°It is crazy. What¡¯s even crazier is that they¡¯re replacing him already. Did you all hear about that? Apparently, somebody is coming out of retirement to fill his spot. Some guy called Crimson-¡±


    Dylan tried to tune them out. He¡¯d had enough of the superhero discourse for a lifetime. He browsed the internet, looking through websites for proper sources. It was slow going. He couldn¡¯t complain, he supposed. Not every school was able to loan their students laptops. They were magnificently cheap, but it was better than nothing.


    He was having trouble finding good articles. He¡¯d found one, already, but only after he checked a dozen websites. Most of the articles he¡¯d looked at were out of date, from irreputable sources, or had misleading headlines.


    With a sigh, Dylan clicked out of yet another fruitless page. He felt a mounting sense of frustration. This whole thing was turning into a giant pain in the ass. Some of the other groups had already started working on their essays, and here he was, still gathering sources, while his group mates jabbered away. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Eventually, he couldn¡¯t take it anymore.


    ¡°Hey, guys. I get your friends and all, but we need to get this done. I¡¯d appreciate some help.¡±


    The others broke from their conversation, seemingly surprised that he¡¯d spoked up.


    ¡°Man, don¡¯t worry about it. We still have, like, two more weeks. It¡¯s plenty of time,¡± Jared said.


    Dylan had to hold back a sigh.


    ¡°It¡¯s not going to seem like a lot of time in a few days. We have a lot of work to do, guys. Plus, I have other classes. I won¡¯t be able to cram it in and write my section in the last few days.¡±


    Jared rolled his eyes.


    ¡°If you want it done so badly, do it yourself. We¡¯ll do our parts when we¡¯re good and ready, alright? No need to have such a stick up your ass.¡±


    Dylan felt his nails dig into his palms. This asshole. Dylan wasn¡¯t asking much.


    ¡°Jared, do your work. I¡¯m not asking anymore.¡±


    Jared turned to face him.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you go ahead and make me?¡±


    Dylan could hear his heart beating in his ears. He could make Jared do it, couldn¡¯t he? Make him sorry, for being such an asshole. Jared was athletic, but Dylan doubted the boy had been in a fight before. Not like he had. It would be so easy, to hurt him, to make him sorry.


    Dylan realised that he¡¯d been staring at Jared.


    ¡°Fine, whatever.¡± Dylan said.


    It seemed like the blond boy had been waiting for that.


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s what I thought¡± he exclaimed, rather loudly.


    Dylan bit back his frustration.


    ¡°Is there a problem over here?¡± said Mrs. Baffles.


    Dylan turned to stare at the teacher.He hadn¡¯t heard her. She must have been drawn by the raised voices. He started to speak, but no sound passed through his open mouth.


    Jared, however, was unhampered.


    ¡°No, no problems. Just a little disagreement, right, Dylan?¡±


    He turned and smiled at Dylan, who felt a surge of disgust at the lie.


    ¡°No,  Mrs. Baffles. No problems. I just got a little excited¡± Dylan forced out.


    Mrs. Baffles gave them the stink eye for a few more seconds, before she turned and left, apparently satisfied that whatever had been going on was now resolved. Jared had already resumed his conversation with the others by the time Dylan turned back.


    Dylan had never been happier to hear the bell ring. He¡¯d thought that Mr. Johnsons class was bad, but at least Mr. Johnson wasn¡¯t openly hostile. Now, he¡¯d have to see Jared''s smug face every day, and remember him sitting there, daring Dylan to do anything.


    He was, as usual, the first one out of the classroom. Dylan kept his head down and strode through the halls. He was nearly out the door when he bumped into somebody. They let out a breath, and fell to the ground. Dylan mumbled out a quick apology, and stepped around him. He was walking away when a hand latched onto his shoulder. He turned, trying to ascertain who had grabbed him.


    It was the tall guy from lunch.


    ¡°Hey, fucker, you do that on purpose?¡±


    He got closer to Dylan.


    ¡°If you think you can push me around, you got another thing coming. I¡¯ll beat the hell out of you-¡±


    His voice cut off when Dylan grabbed him around the collar and turned, slamming him into the lockers that lined the hall. The student tried to escape Dylan¡¯s grasp, but he pushed harder, keeping the man trapped on the lockers.


    ¡°Hey, buddy, what''s your name?¡± Dylan growled.


    The student squirmed, trying to free himself from Dylan¡¯s grasp.


    ¡°Let go of me!¡±


    Dylan continued to hold him there until the struggling slowed.


    ¡°I¡¯ll ask you again, what¡¯s your name?¡±


    The student looked Dylan in the eyes. He put on a brave face, but Dylan could tell he was ruffled at being manhandled by somebody a few inches shorter than him.


    ¡°It¡¯s Micheal. Mike.¡±


    ¡°Listen, Mike. I don¡¯t want trouble with you. It was an accident, ok? Let¡¯s just go our separate ways, alright?¡±


    Instead of responding, Mike stared out at something over Dylan¡¯s right shoulder. He started to turn his head, to see if Mike was staring at a teacher, or some other staff member, come to stop the scuffle, but before he could, he felt a hand on his wrist.


    It pulled, and he turned, letting go of Mike, unprepared for the sudden tug. He stumbled slightly, off balance.


    A girl with red hair stared back at him, hand raised in the air, pointing at his head.


    ¡°Knock it off, dude. We don¡¯t tolerate bullying here.¡±


    Dylan stared at her. She looked familiar, but he couldn¡¯t place her.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t bullying him, I just-¡± he spoke, trying to defend himself, when she cut him off.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care, frankly. Apologize, and then leave, or I¡¯ll make you regret it.¡±


    Dylan realized who she was. A freshman, like him, she was one of the students who flaunted their powers in public. That explained why she was able to move him, at least.


    The two stared at each other for a few seconds. Eventually, Dylan realized that he wasn¡¯t going to get out of the situation unless he gave her what she wanted. With a huff, he turned back towards Mike.


    ¡°Mike, I¡¯m sorry for what I¡¯ve done. I hope you¡¯ll forgive me¡± Dylan crossly stated. He walked away before Mike could respond. He kept waiting, expecting to hear a voice demanding that girl''s voice, demanding he come back, and redo his apology, but it never happened.


    Soon enough, he was out the door, and on his way home, anger still simmering in his gut. It seemed like no matter what he did, everything would go to shit.

 Chapter 30

    Dylan didn¡¯t look back at the school as he angrily strode towards the subway. Everything was going stupid today. And the worst part was that at least some of it was his fault. He didn¡¯t think that he could be blamed for the confrontation with his groupmates. It wasn¡¯t unreasonable to ask them to actually do their work. But the whole confrontation with Mike could have been avoided if he¡¯d just apologized the first time. But Dylan had been pissed, and he¡¯d wanted to teach the boy a lesson. And, in a way, he¡¯d called on his powers to do that. Not directly, no, but if he weren¡¯t a super, he¡¯d have had no way to move the larger boy.


    Dylan felt a shock of nervousness run through him. What if he got found out? Surely somebody would realize that he shouldn¡¯t have been able to manhandle Mike like he had. Every hall was plastered with cameras, and he could bet that they¡¯d be combing over the footage of the incident once they realized what had taken place. High Schools had to have been the place with the highest alertness towards newly emerging supers. Powers most often emerged in people who were between 12 and 18. He might have been fine had he gone to a small school, but Bay Highschool was not a small school. It had thousands of students, and was in one of the largest cities in the country. He walked on, trying to push down his nervousness. It would be ok. It would have to be. They couldn¡¯t prove anything. It wasn¡¯t over. They didn¡¯t know. They couldn¡¯t have.


    The shadow of the tall city buildings fell over Dylan. Callahan city was so alien to him. It was a behemoth, compared to Baylorville. The metro area alone was nearly the size of the town he¡¯d grown up in. And Dylan was still adjusting to city life. The rush, the near hostility of strangers, the constant hum and flow of traffic.


    Dylan felt like he was adjusting nicely, but he sometimes still missed his old life. Maybe later, after longer than a month, he¡¯d truly get used to it. It didn¡¯t seem like his parents were having any problems. But it just didn¡¯t feel like there was any place for him, here. It wasn¡¯t comfortable, wasn¡¯t familiar. The absence of friends wasn¡¯t helping him either.


    Eventually, he reached the entrance to the subway. It was a narrow corridor, leading straight down into the ground. A wide staircase, split down the middle by a railing. It was an hour before rush hour, and yet the staircase still featured a steady trickle of people going up and down.


    He descended, following the flow of the crowd, trying not to get pushed around. Dylan did his best, but he was still jostled more than he would like. Moving with a crowd took some amount of skill, skill that he was still developing. He felt a particularly rough shove, and then was treated to a view of the grimy tiles that lined the subway wall. Dylan felt his temper flare, and forcefully pushed it down.


    Eventually, he made it into the station. Almost everyone else filed into the train. It filled up before Dylan was able to step on. As the packed train left, he noticed that the station was significantly emptier than before. There were still quite a few people, but it was no longer crowded.


    A few more trickled in, while they waited, but Dylan hardly noticed. He was in his own head. Eventually, he heard the sounds of another train echoing down the tunnel. He let out a sigh, and prepared to board. A few seconds later, he heard the squealing of the breaks as the train barreled into the station. It was at a full stop in moments, and he stepped on, searching for a seat. A few people filed in after him.


    Dylan took a seat. A few empty spaces remained around him. What was he going to do? He¡¯d be lucky if his parents didn¡¯t get a call from the school, for the fight he¡¯d gotten in. Well, it wasn¡¯t really a fight, but he knew how the school would see it. They wouldn¡¯t permit any form of conflict, at all. At the very least, he¡¯d likely get called into the office tomorrow. It could get bad, since that super girl was involved as well. Altercations with supers were taken very seriously, even if nothing really happened. Especially since he was still considered a ¡°non-powered persons¡± by the government. Unless they found him out, he¡¯d probably be receiving pretty harsh consequences. If they had found him out, he was probably in for prison time, unless he could convince the powers that be that he had been unaware of his abilities.


    Dylan stirred, as his chain of thought was broken. Somebody had sat down right next to him. They spotted gray, chin length hair, and a long, slightly tattered black coat. As Dylan turned to look at him, the man glanced over in return, causing the front of the jacket to spread, revealing a stained, white T-Shirt underneath. A rough coating of stubble lined the man''s face, and Dylan thought he could smell alcohol on the man''s breath.


    Disgusted, Dylan turned away. That was another thing that people who grew up in the city could do that he¡¯d never learned. Their ability to ignore the weird people they saw in public was impressive. Dylan struggled to keep his emotions off of his face.


    He sat there, purposefully not looking over at the stranger who had encroached upon his space. Dylan even leaned away, trying to put as much space between himself and the stranger as possible. He would have gotten up and switched seats, but that seemed too much like letting the bum win, and Dylan wasn¡¯t in the mood for that right now. The man didn¡¯t give him the same consideration, slouching over, seemingly trying to take up as much space as humanly possible.


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    After a few minutes passed, the man spoke.


    ¡°You seem pissed, kid.¡±


    At first, Dylan wasn¡¯t sure who he was talking to. But after a few more seconds of silence, the man turned to look at him, expectantly, and Dylan realized that he had been unwittingly engaged in a conversation.


    ¡°What? No, I¡¯m fine,¡± Dylan responded, trying to be curt. He didn¡¯t want to talk to the stranger.


    The stranger, seemingly not getting the hint, pressed on.


    ¡°Don¡¯t bullshit me, kid. I can tell, you know. You have that look about you. You¡¯re like a little ball of anger, just waiting to explode.¡±


    Dylan felt a flash of irritation at that, but he suppressed it.


    ¡°Sure, whatever,¡± he said, as dismissively as he could.


    But the stranger wasn¡¯t to be deterred.


    ¡°Try to act dismissive all you want, kid. You¡¯re not fooling me, and you¡¯re certainly not fooling yourself. But if you want to keep playing those games, go ahead. It¡¯s no skin off my back, if you make yourself miserable. What happened, did mommy not buy you what you wanted? Maybe the newest game, or a new car?¡±


    Dylan''s mind went white hot.


    ¡°What do you know? You don¡¯t know anything about me. You don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like to be me. You think that just because I¡¯m young, I don¡¯t know what real problems are?¡±


    He took a deep breath, but he couldn¡¯t stop the words from spilling out of his mouth.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know why you think you¡¯re so high and mighty, judging me. You look homeless, but you don¡¯t see me telling you to go get a job, do you?  You should do that, instead of loafing about on the subway, trying to start fights with the people who have real problems.¡±


    The grungy man smiled.


    ¡°Kid, you don¡¯t know the first thing about problems. All I¡¯m hearing from your little tirade is me me me. Do you ever bother thinking about other people? You¡¯ll learn real trouble, when you¡¯re older, when you have actual responsibilities. Until then, I don¡¯t want to hear it. You¡¯re basically just throwing a tantrum.¡±


    Dylan tried to sputter out a response, but he couldn¡¯t think of anything else to say. So instead, he sat, fuming, purposefully not looking at the gray haired man, impatiently counting down the stops until he could get off.


    It felt like it took forever, but eventually, the name of his station flashed across the screens mounted above the car doors. He stiffly got up, and walked out of the train. Hopefully, he¡¯d never have to see that homeless asshole again. Dylan didn¡¯t know if he could take it.


    ¡ª----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    John Benesmer watched as the kid walked off the train, and sighed. Yep, he was right pissed. John certainly hadn¡¯t helped. He wished he was better with words, but mildly abrasive was about the nicest he could manage, so sweet talking the kid into telling him what was wrong was out of the question.


    He had been able to tell that the youth was mad, right from when he saw him. Most anyone could, he¡¯d reckon. But, he knew something that everybody else didn¡¯t, something that took the kid from a typical angsty teenager to a potential threat: The kid was powered.


    Or, at least, that¡¯s what John''s instincts were telling him. He probably wouldn¡¯t bet the fate of the world on it, but his instincts were telling him that the young man was gifted. And John could typically tell. It was likely a power assisted intuition, something gained from years and years of stress. John couldn¡¯t think of any other super who had a similar tertiary power, although they probably existed. He supposed that the WCSs heavy hitter could probably do the same, but he didn¡¯t feel like asking the man.


    When John saw the kid walk on the train, he knew that he should do something. He hated his job, but he wasn¡¯t so much of a sociopath that he¡¯d let a super attack a buncha random civilians.


    At first, he just watched, and waited, to see if the super would attack anybody. When he didn¡¯t, John relaxed a little. When he was sure that there wouldn¡¯t be a fight, at least not unprompted, he relaxed a little.


    But John wasn¡¯t done. So he went, sat down by the kid, and started to bother him. He¡¯d hoped that he¡¯d anger the young man into revealing what was bothering him, but no dice. Whatever it was, he was keeping it close to his chest.


    But the goading had accomplished something else. John figured that it was sort of like stepping on an old mine, to see if it would still go off. Dangerous, yes, and pretty stupid, but also effective.


    It had turned out well, he figured. The kid hadn¡¯t gone off. Which meant that, probably, if somebody else bothered him, he wouldn¡¯t fly off the handle and maim or kill them.  It wasn¡¯t foolproof, but it was good enough for John.


    Still, not for the first time, he wished he knew how to be something other than crass. How to do something the subtle way, the smart way. But that had never been how he rolled. And so, with a sigh, he shut his eyes, and tried to nap until the train made it to his stop.

 Chapter 31

    Dylan was fuming when he left the station. It seemed like every goddamn person had it out for him. Why couldn¡¯t they just leave him alone? He was trying to be a better person. Could people tell? Were they subconsciously picking up on that, thinking it was weakness? It was certainly starting to seem that way.


    He pushed through the crowds, trying to hurry back home. It didn¡¯t help much, but Dylan wasn¡¯t in the mood to be considerate at the moment. If people didn¡¯t want to get bumped, they could move.


    Was this some sort of punishment from the universe? Did karma actually exist? Or was there some super, somebody with the power to manipulate events targeting him? Dylan immediately dismissed that thought as unlikely. It wasn¡¯t impossible, but somebody who could do that could kill him outright pretty easily, not to mention capture him.


    It seemed like he was just unlucky. He swore, as he bumped into the person in front of him. Why had they stopped moving? He went to step around, and ran into somebody else. He turned. All around him, people were stopped.


    Dylan tried to push his way between two people, but they wouldn¡¯t budge. He scowled, and looked around, trying to find a way out of the crowd. What had happened? Was there a car accident?


    He tried to listen for sounds of a commotion, but he couldn¡¯t hear ¡­ anything. In fact, there were almost no sounds. Normally, the thrum and buzz of the city was constant, an ever present background that permeated throughout its entirety.


    It was, for the first time since Dylan arrived, absent. He felt a chill run down his spine when he realized. What was happening?


    Spotting an opening, he managed to squeeze his way between two motionless people. He couldn¡¯t move them at all. It was like they were frozen. He emerged out onto the street, and briefly, his panic spiked into alarm, before he saw that the cars on the road were also motionless.


    Dylan took a closer look, and realized that, in addition to the stillness, everything looked off. It was as if it was all covered in a faint gray haze. He didn¡¯t notice it, at first, but now that he¡¯d seen it, it was apparent that the weird coloring was everywhere.


    Suddenly, a sound broke the silence. Dylan spun, and saw somebody else, moving about in the frozen crowd. They were waving their arms.


    ¡°Hey, hey, somebody, what''s going on?¡±


    It was a middle aged woman, an office lady, judging by her attire. Dylan wandered over. It seemed like she was just as confused as he was. She spotted him, and immediately turned her attention to Dylan.


    ¡°Kid, what¡¯s happening? Are you doing this?¡±


    Dylan shook his head.


    ¡°I have no idea what¡¯s happening. I was walking along, and then, boom, I bumped into somebody. At first, I thought they were just walking slowly, but then I looked around, and everyone was frozen. I barely managed to squeeze between a few of them.¡±


    The woman didn¡¯t really seem to hear him.


    ¡°I tried to call the police, but my phone isn¡¯t working. I couldn¡¯t get a connection!¡±


    Dylan was taken aback by that. The thought of calling for help hadn¡¯t even crossed his mind.  He supposed that it should have, since he was supposed to be a non-powered civilian, but his time as a super, however brief, was hard to shake.


    He took a look around.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to have to look for a gap, if you want to get out. I don¡¯t think we can move them.¡±


    She still looked shaken up, but it seemed that having somebody else in a similar situation provided at least some level of comfort.


    ¡°Uh, ok, ok.¡± said the woman.


    She started scanning the people around her, but, as if she remembered something urgent, she turned back to Dylan.


    ¡°Don¡¯t go anywhere, ok?¡± she said.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I won¡¯t,¡± replied Dylan.


    The woman spent the next minute or so looking for a way out. She ended up finding a spot that looked promising, but couldn¡¯t manage to squeeze through it. She struggled with it for a few seconds, and then looked at Dylan imploringly. He walked over.


    ¡°What do you want me to do?¡± he asked.


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    ¡°Just try and move them, please?


    Dylan put his hands on a man in a business suit, and started gently pushing. Nothing. He pushed harder, and the man still didn¡¯t budge. He took a deep breath, and planted his feet on the ground, before pushing as hard as he could on the man.


    It was like he was trying to push over a skyscraper with his bare hands. Eventually, he had to give up. Dylan turned and looked at the woman.


    ¡°Sorry, Lady, but I can¡¯t move him. You¡¯ll have to try and climb over, or wait for whatever''s happening here to stop.¡±


    Seeing her expression slowly creep back towards raw panic, Dylan amended his statement.


    ¡°Or maybe not. Maybe heroes or the police will be here soon, to sort everything out.¡±


    At that, he flashed a smile, though it felt weak and unconvincing. It seemed like it was enough for the office lady, however, because she started to calm down.


    Dylan spun at the sound of someone clearing their throat. He caught sight of a man, or, as he looked closer, what appeared to be a teenager, likely a few years older than Dylan. The young man was looking around cautiously.


    ¡°My name¡¯s Alan¡± the man said.


    ¡°Dylan¡±.


    ¡°Do you know what¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°Nope. Everyone just froze, all of a sudden.¡±


    Alan looked around, and sighed.


    ¡°Figures. Well, we better-¡±


    They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps. They whirled, and saw a man walking calmly down the street. He wore a gray pinstripe suit, and a short tophat perched on his head. The man turned, a surprised expression on his masked face, as if he wasn¡¯t expecting them to be there.


    ¡°Hello!¡± Said the masked man.


    ¡°I¡¯m terribly sorry for the disturbance, but there was something that I had to do, and so¡±


    He swept his hands at the scene around them.


    Dylan just watched, tense as a coiled spring.


    The masked man continued to speak.


    ¡°Ahh, but not to worry! It will all be back to normal again rather soon!¡±


    Suddenly, the masked man ducked. A terrible sound filled the air, as a thin line of red rocketed over the man''s head at incredible speed. It impacted one of the frozen buildings, unleashing an explosion of pressure that threw Dylan from his feet, slamming him into a car.


    It took a few moments for Dylan to come back to himself. His head was spinning, and his vision was somewhat blurry. His eyes slowly roamed, searching for the masked man. He found the suited man looking in the direction that the red thing had shot out from, a small frown on his face.


    ¡°It seems that the long arm of the law has finally caught up to me. I¡¯m terribly sorry, but I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ll have to excuse myself.¡±


    Dylan saw another streak of red flying through the air at a near impossible speed. He started to move his hands to cover his head, but he was too slow. Panicked, Dylan realized that he wasn¡¯t going to make it in time. Just as he prepared for the worst, he felt a wave of disorientation.


    Sound filled his ears, but it wasn¡¯t the terrible booming that he had expected. Instead, it was the buzzing of traffic, the hum of people talking, and the idling engine of cars.


    He jumped, as a voice yelled, just above his head.


    ¡°What the hell do you think you¡¯re doing! Get the fuck off the road, motherfucker! You¡¯re going to get run over!¡±


    Dylan scrambled to his feet, startled. He quickly identified the person who had yelled at him. It was a middle aged man, leaned out the window of his car. At first, Dylan didn¡¯t understand why the man was shouting. Quickly replaying the last few moments in his mind, he realized that he¡¯d been thrown against a car by the first blast. Had everything unfrozen?


    Dylan looked around. There were no signs that anything extraordinary had taken place there at all. Nothing. Everybody was moving, traffic was crawling along. No buildings were damaged, and there wasn¡¯t any blood or debris on the ground. Had he just imagined the whole thing?


    The incensed man shouted something at him, causing Dylan to lose his train of thought. He was out in traffic, wasn¡¯t he? Dylan started to stammer out an apology, when he felt somebody grab his arm.


    ¡°Sorry about my friend, sir. He took a hit in the head earlier, and he¡¯s still pretty disoriented¡± Alan said, as he dragged Dylan out of the street.


    The man just glared at them, as he rolled up his window.


    ¡°Are you ok?¡± Alan asked.


    Dylan nodded, and then spoke.


    ¡°What the hell just happened?¡±


    ¡°I think that the guy in the hat was probably a villain. Whatever he did to freeze everybody, it didn¡¯t work on us, for some reason, and I don¡¯t entirely know why. Regardless, I think that somebody was chasing him, a hero, probably, and they didn¡¯t get frozen either. I suspect that he rectified whatever caused us to remain unfrozen, after the first blast, and then we all woke back up at the same time as everybody else, only they don¡¯t remember being frozen at all.¡±


    Dylan took a moment to think about that. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He looked around for the office lady, the one that also hadn¡¯t been frozen, but he couldn¡¯t see her anywhere. Had she been swept away with the crowds? He shook his head, trying to throw off a growing sense of fatigue.


    ¡°Well, Alan, that sucked. I¡¯m glad to be done with it now. I¡¯m going to go home, I think.¡±


    ¡°Alright, then, Dylan. It was nice to meet you, although I wish we¡¯d done so in more pleasant circumstances. I¡¯ll see you around.¡±


    Dylan barely heard the teen, though. He was too focused on putting one foot in front of the other, and too distracted by the long absent, but familiar aching of his body. It had been a hell of a day. Surely, it couldn¡¯t get any worse than this, right?

 Chapter 32

    Dylan had a headache when he woke up the next morning, as he dragged himself out of bed, and brushed his teeth. After that, he headed down the stairs, and poured himself a bowl of cereal. As he ate, he felt yesterday''s emotions come rushing back to him. The fear, the anger, the frustration, the exhaustion.


    He thought he knew who the villain he¡¯d encountered yesterday was. He hadn¡¯t known off of the top of his head, but after a few hours of research, he¡¯d stumbled across a figure most prominently known 5 years ago. He had been given the codename ¡°The Magician¡±, and, according to reports, was extremely dangerous. He was also listed as being ¡°missing or possibly dead¡± on the wiki.


    The magician had been a fairly low key villain, at the start of his career, but had slowly escalated his targets. Eventually, he¡¯d ended up in a battle with several heroes. He¡¯d killed some of them, and had the rest of them on the back foot, before someone arrived. The articles didn¡¯t have a name, or a face, or a likeness, or even a consistent accounting of that person, but whoever they were, they managed to force the Magician to flee, and there hadn''t been any confirmed sightings since, although there had been a few witnesses that had spoken to seeing him in the following years. All of the sources he could find considered those sources unreliable, but Dylan could confirm that the man was still alive, at least.


    He¡¯d also seen, in the news, that a local warehouse had been raised to the ground sometime yesterday. Apparently, the Crimson Edge was dispatched to the scene, but nothing had come of it. The Crimson edge was another oddity, Dylan thought. The public information on him was extremely sparse. Normally, Heroes were displayed prominently by their agencies. They wanted them to be recognizable, and marketable. As far as Dylan could tell, the Crimson Edge didn¡¯t even have an agency. Was he a vigilante? There were also only a few reported injuries. A death from the fire, a few burns, and one woman who came into the hospital, with bruises and abrasions. Apparently, she¡¯d suffered a concussion, as she kept talking about ¡®the gray¡¯.


    Once he¡¯d finished his breakfast, he washed the bowl out in the sink, and gathered the rest of his things. Dylan briefly looked around for his parents, but he couldn¡¯t find them. His mother was probably already at work. He frowned. He hadn¡¯t seen his father in over a day. He¡¯d been at work late last night, and it seemed like he was already gone.


    Shrugging, Dylan started his commute to school. His bag felt heavy on his back. He was certainly feeling better than yesterday. It was something he had to thank his powers for, as much as he begrudged them. He healed far faster than he would have normally. He probably would have had to go to the hospital, yesterday, were he without them.


    Dylan started down the steps to the subway, and felt a slight worry come over him. As he got onto the train, he kept an eye out for the homeless man that had accosted him yesterday. Luckily enough, however, he wasn¡¯t on the train. Dylan let out a sigh of relief. He couldn¡¯t deal with that right now. He was stretched to the breaking point.


    The ride was swift, and soon enough he found himself departing the subway. Stepping out into the station, he finished the rest of the walk into school rather quickly. He stared at the building, and let out a little chuckle. It wasn¡¯t as daunting as he¡¯d thought. The incident yesterday had given him a fresh perspective on the whole thing. A distance that he¡¯d started to forget, as others tried to drag him down into the mud.


    Everything that happened here was petty. The people around him were children. Big children, perhaps, but children nonetheless. They didn¡¯t know what it was like, to fight, to fear for your life. They didn¡¯t know what it was like, to feel your body getting battered, to see your blood spilt, your flesh rent.


    It was better that they didn¡¯t, Dylan thought. People should be able to live in peace. But he also felt that he had a perspective that they just didn¡¯t know. What were their problems, compared to his? Small, almost non-existent.


    As he walked through the doors, he made eye contact with a red haired girl. She looked angry, and for a second, Dylan couldn¡¯t parse why.


    And then, slowly, he remembered. Ahh, she¡¯d been the super who¡¯d broken up the ¡°fight¡± yesterday. Of course. It had been so petty of him, to grab.. Dylan couldn¡¯t remember his name. He let out a chuckle, at the absurdity of it all.


    The redhead¡¯s frown deepened into a scowl, and she turned, and strode off angrily. Oops. She¡¯d probably thought he was laughing at her. Should he apologize, or explain himself? Dylan disregarded the idea almost immediately. It really wasn¡¯t that big of a deal.


    As he walked to class, he noticed someone else staring at him. It was an older student, a guy. Dylan didn¡¯t recognize him. Bizarre.


    Class proceeded as normal. Mr. Johnson was still boring as ever. Dylan felt this differed from fiction: normally, when he read books, after the main characters came back from their trials, they started to appreciate the little mundanities and quirks of life that they once found boring or frustrating. Dylan certainly didn¡¯t. He could barely stay awake during class.


    Today''s lecture was on the history of ethical deliberations of supers in war.


    ¡°And so, class, you can see, that, although, on paper, many countries disavowed using supers, they were still frequently seen in combat up until about 50 years ago. Shortly after the conclusion of World War 2, whilst armed conflicts continued to persist, supers became less and less involved-¡±


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    Was it really necessary that he sit through this? Dylan couldn¡¯t think of a single way that this could be useful in his life. He understood that, on a base level, that history was important. But did he really need the irrelevant minutia that Mr. Johnson included in every sentence? Plus, his lectures were so circular. He¡¯d talk about the same thing for 10 minutes, and finally move on, only to come back to it a few minutes later.


    Dylan let out a sigh of relief, as he left the class. That had been almost physically painful. As he walked through the door, somebody bumped into him. He looked up. Was it the same guy he¡¯d almost got into a fight with earlier? No, it was a group of two.


    ¡°Sorry, guys, I didn¡¯t see you there,¡± Dylan said.


    The two said nothing, simply staring at him for a moment, and then walking off. Dylan shrugged, and went on to his next class.


    ¡ª-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    For the next week, Dylan continued his normal routine. Well, normal, excepting the constant stares he got. No matter where he went, it felt like someone was watching him. And Dylan was sure that it wasn¡¯t paranoia this time.


    No, he¡¯d often feel eyes on his back, and when he turned, there was somebody watching him. Almost always male, with an athletic build. It wasn¡¯t one or two guys, either. He rarely saw the same face more than twice.


    ¡ª------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    Dylan had to stay in school late, today. He¡¯d missed an assignment, and while he was able to make it up, his teacher had required him to do so after class for the day was done. It was a good deal, he supposed, but he wished he¡¯d remembered to do it on time.


    But he hadn¡¯t, and so Dylan was here. He only had to complete a short essay, luckily, which meant that he was almost done. Still, short meant that it was nearly an hour and a half after he would have normally left.


    He glanced out the window. The halls were deserted, the last few students left in the school tucked away wherever their extracurricular activity happened to be held. He sighed, and ran his hands through his hair. The words swam off the page, floating like clouds across his vision.


    Dylan forced himself to finish writing, anyways. He had more homework to do at home. He couldn¡¯t waste all the rest of the day here. Plus, from the way his teacher kept glancing at her watch, she was probably waiting on him.


    After 10 minutes or so had passed, Dylan set down the pencil, and scanned over the essay one last time. It wasn¡¯t great, but he felt like it should at least be serviceable. He picked it up, and walked over, to place it on the teachers desk.


    ¡°Did everything turn out alright?¡± She asked.


    ¡°Yes, Mrs. Hartman, it did. Thank you for letting me turn it in late.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome, Dylan.¡±


    He nodded, and started towards the door.


    ¡°Have a nice day, Mrs. Hartman.¡±


    ¡°You too, Dylan.¡±


    His locker was another few minutes walk from the classroom. Dylan walked briskly, as quickly as he could without speed walking. When he got to his locker, he turned the knob, quickly trying to undo the lock. Of course, it didn¡¯t open the first time. Dylan fumbled with it, re-entering his combo. Finally, it clicked open.


    Just then, somebody called down the hall.


    ¡°Hey man, can you come help us out?¡±


    Dylan started to reach into his locker.


    ¡°Dude, please? We really need you.¡±


    Dylan stopped. Were they talking to him?


    He peeked around the locker door.


    A student stared back at him. The boy was probably a freshmen, fresh faced.


    ¡°You talking to me?¡± Dylan asked.


    The boy nodded.


    ¡°Can you come quick? We really need you.¡±


    Dylan sighed, and went to stow his backpack in the locker. He¡¯d come back and get it later. He slammed his locker door a little harder than he intended. As he got closer to the freshman, he looked him up and down. The boy was squeezing his hands into fists.


    ¡°Is it that urgent?¡± Dylan asked?


    ¡°Yeah, it really is. It uhh, should be quick, though¡± the boy responded.


    As soon as Dylan got close, the student turned, beckoning Dylan to follow.


    The boy walked quickly, forcing Dylan to speed up into an awkward shuffle.


    They rounded several corners in quick succession. How far was it? Could the boy not find anybody else? A flash of worry crossed Dylan''s mind. Was somebody hurt? Was he going to walk in on an injured freshmen, surrounded by his friends, who were too scared to call an ambulance?


    Eventually, they reached the back of the school.


    ¡°Are we close?¡±


    The freshman nodded, not turning around. He made a final turn, and then waved for Dylan to follow him, before slipping inside a shut door. Dylan could barely make out his silhouette through the frosted glass.


    Bracing himself for the sight inside the room, Dylan stepped through the doorway. Immediately, two pairs of hands launched out, and grabbed on to his arms.