ã€ŠThe Great, Unstoppable, Irreplaceable Alexanderã€‹


 The Enigma

    An alarm rang throughout the clinical hallways of a large office building, echoing against its walls of glass and steel. An intruder had broken into District 3¡¯s Government-Hired Heroes. station. Worse yet, it wasn¡¯t any known, run-of-the-mill villain ; no, the portal-wielding, middle aged, aloof looking man that appeared on the station¡¯s surveillance footage was wholly unknown. Although, that hardly mattered. What mattered is that he had broken into the offices of the capital¡¯s super-abilitied forces, and he needed to be stopped.

    Fortunately, that shouldn¡¯t prove to hard. To a criminal, this reinforced building and its dozens of employees, almost all of which had once been heroes, was a like a maze filled with land-mines. Reinforcements were on their way. Now all that was left to do was corner the mystery intruder, and hope he wouldn¡¯t end up causing too much property damage.

    That, however, did not account for the second surprise of the day ; Spatial Plumber, a B ranking hero from District 14 going by the civilian name of Neville Elire Schifozzo, was already there, and laying traps to deal with the intruder. Wait, what?

    Neville had long been noted as a¡­ difficult hero. He¡¯d been hired rather late in life compared to most, having already years of experience in plumbing prior to working for the GHH. He also didn¡¯t have much of the formal qualifications to be one ; but he had been hired for one reason, and one reason alone - his ability. And yet, despite the GHH¡¯s nagging curiosity, he refused to speak up much about it. Thus, only Neville himself knew the limits of his ability - but what the GHH knew for sure was that he could reduce the space between an entity and another so long as no solid stood in between, and that the larger the space, the longer it took him - though distances below 3 meters were pretty much instant. Neville used his ability in tandem with his second quirk ; his affection for machines and gadgets.

    One of the ways he liked to operate was planting his odd, homemade gizmos all around the battlefield, baiting his target into getting close enough for him to use his ability effectively : reducing the space between his opponent and the traps without leaving them any time to react. His superiors had tried time and time again to suggest him more optimal ways of using his ability - only for Neville to argue he wouldn¡¯t be able to do that, and them to have to give up, given that they couldn¡¯t prove otherwise.

    Still, none of that explained why he was here. His station wasn¡¯t the one they¡¯d called for help - District 12¡¯s was. A simple intrusion wouldn''t have been a true issue to the GHH, but if Neville was going to intrude and play vigilantes, then it may become one. Neville''s resourceful, unpredictable methods, coupled with his stubbornness, sounded like they''d be nothing but trouble. And to make matters worse, their mystery intruder of the day wasn¡¯t looking any easier to deal with.

    While security was waiting on the District 12 heroes to arrive, and trying to contact District 14 for explanations on the plump plumber¡¯s antics, the few non-retired heroes already present had attempted to handle the situation on their own ; only to fail with theatrical flair. At the first hint of a colorful rainbow beam unlawfully aimed at his back, he¡¯d already opened and hopped into a portal, some form of dimensional tube traced into the air by the enigmatic man. Just a second later, he jumped back out, into some other hall, further inside the building. He was heading for the central staircase.

    At least, only he was inside the actual building ; Neville remained out in the open, unable to pass through walls so easily. Separated in that way, they¡¯d be easier to deal with. The heads of security did some quick thinking ; they knew the Golden Trio was on their way from District 12. Melp wouldn¡¯t be much use without a name, but Yar¡¯s usual role in obstructing and distracting, coupled most importantly with Pop¡¯s own portal-like abilities may prove crucial in handling the aloof, elusive intruder. He¡¯d proven shifty and capable of dodging attacks with ease ; however, he himself seemed surprised when he did. He likely just had some slight esper intuition, easy to overwhelm in numbers. The three girls would do fine. That left only the Spatial Plumber to deal with. Luckily, being a GHH employee meant other members of the force had already gone to great lengths figuring out his every weaknesses and shortcomings. Neville had an easy counter ; flight. Any available hero that wasn¡¯t tied to solid ground would fit the bill - that is, as long as Neville was still outside the building. They¡¯d had every exit locked, but already the latex-clad fellow had outsmarted them. Though no opening in the skyscraper¡¯s walls were large enough for he himself to pass through, just a half-lidded window was enough to transport his traps and tricks into the station by reducing the space between his gadgets and the building¡¯s floors.

    It was rare for D5¡¯s station to be attacked. It was essentially the academic and business place-to-be of the capital - ergo, almost entirely devoid of housing. Since heroes were generally assigned to their birth or residing district¡¯s station, the 5th had the fewest of any district, even with a few agents from other, over-populated districts being reassigned to work in District 5. Instead of having a large force, District 5 had a large administration ; essentially, it presided and coordinated every other station. It was often hijacked by groups that tried to disturb the GHH¡¯s cooperation, but never on its own - an arrested and jailed villain originating from the district had even been asked about this trend, only to respond with ¡°What would even be the point? To make a statement, by attacking the least dangerous of the stations? To steal encrypted data that¡¯ll probably just get you tracked and arrested within the day?¡±.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    The data theft theory seemed the most likely in the portal-wielder¡¯s case. He wasn¡¯t exactly armed, in fact he looked more as though he was headed to a date, if said date had occurred decades ago, with his ¡®romantic gentleman¡¯ mustache and beige-brown popped collar coat. It was odd, yes, but looked enough like other phantom thief types. Besides, his ability allowed for just that ; easy sneaking-ins and getting-outs.

    As for Neville, it appeared his goal was to stop the aloof enigma. Unfortunately for him and thankfully for the GHH¡¯s credibility, his methods were unfit to fight his current opponent. The older man simply zapped around through portals, narrowly avoiding everything and anything Neville could throw at him. Just as before, it didn¡¯t even seem like he was very skilled at it. He was often surprised by a trap that the plumber had already used against him dozens of times, and would occasionally need to quickly replace a poorly placed portal with another. He always seemed distracted, airheaded and daft-looking, as if not even he knew what he was here for. Whenever he caught wind of a camera, however, he smiled.

    Still, Neville had been smart here. If he couldn¡¯t conveniently trap the portal wielder with just one trick, he¡¯d overwhelm him and cut off all exits. Even by his own standards, the Spatial Plumber deployed an abhorrent amount of trinkets and machines. They ranged from things as simple as bear traps and barbed wire to nonsensical assortments of pipes that weren¡¯t copied from any conventional, patented object, but rather originals of Neville¡¯s creation - at least, supposedly. The GHH had an entire list of these machines and had come up with colourful names for each of them, recording their effects and hypothesised mechanisms, yet couldn¡¯t determine with certainty who had actually built them - Neville, some friend of his, villains, stray mad scientists, children, aliens, any theory stood.

    The thief continued jumping through walls, from portal to portal, triggering and just barely dodging a few nets and mud streams as he tried to get wherever he was headed. As soon as he found a tiny corner of room Neville had omitted to trap, he stopped, leaned against the wall, rubbed off sweat, and took in a deep breath.

    By the time the Golden Trio arrived, the intruder had gone up three floors, and down one again. It consisted of three recent recruits ; the A-ranking Yar, the cartoonishly cute daughter of the humble but no less outstanding Trofeo family of heroes, the S-ranking Pop, some lunatic artistic type that had sprouted from the country¡¯s outbacks, and the B-ranking Melp, that the GHH saw as the weak link - a judgement that wasn¡¯t helped by the fact she¡¯d failed to be hired at the same time as her associates; only making it in a year later. The three young adults all had unconventional abilities, yet had studied, trained and graduated together thanks to creative synergies ; they even shared a flat and had matching costumes. Cute, and enough to drive the fandom crazy, but not always ideal in high stakes situations. Their viability was assured by Pop¡¯s ability : it had few counters and solved many issues with no other answers. The doll-like blonde could access some pocket dimension unique to only her, and throw in anyone and anything into it, like some infinite bag - or rather, infinite stomach, as anything that remained inside the dimension was gradually¡­ ¡®consumed¡¯. However, setting up her trap took time - time provided by the other two.

    Yar - or Bonnie, as was her name, could grow out her hair and nails in the blink of an eye, filling an entire doorway with deep ebony curve in half a second. Unfortunately for her, she was only able to grow it instantly ; cutting was a different story. Being born as a Trofeo, she¡¯d lived and been raised by resourceful people with a great understanding of abilities and hero work ; therefore, she¡¯d learnt from a young age to cut her nails and hair almost as fast as she grew them. Her agility with scissors was terrifying at times. Melp¡¯s ability was even more situational ; it required pre-planning and prior knowledge of what her mission and opponent would be, but when it was used to its full potential, was the core of the trio¡¯s success. She could sew and craft ¡®voodoo dolls¡¯ (she used that term herself, because it was one people easily understood, but her ability had nothing to do with the occult or religion) of not only people, but even vehicles and buildings - though she rarely got an opportunity to do the latter. The one condition, past a good amount of detail and resemblance with the target, was to embroider into or paint onto the figure the name, license plate or adress - the birth name, specifically. Against villains whose civilian identity was known, she did splendidly ; the rest of the time, she was good as non-abilitied.

    The three girls had earpieces, enabling them to not only communicate with one another, but with security. Therefore, they now had direct intel on the intruder¡¯s whereabouts, and could trap them. That is, if Neville¡¯s traps didn¡¯t get in their way. For a fellow hero, he¡¯d been nothing but a pain. While his water-spewing trap may have allowed his target to trip and fall into Pop¡¯s pocket dimension, it had made her trip in turn, accidentally releasing the Enigma once more. His intervention was beneficial to him and him alone, getting in the way of the Government-Hired Heroes¡¯ own ways of dealing with intruders and thus making everything that much more inefficient and slow, as Pop was now left to clean off all his traps with her dimensional vacuum if she was to try and capture Zelly uninterrupted. And though Yar and Melp tried to distract the intruder to buy her time, this just didn¡¯t work out, and neither the plumber nor the trio could stop him from disappearing from camera surveillance entirely. The girls split up, running through the halls, to no avail.

    No flying hero had proved available, either. Time to improvise and take what they could get. Melp had been hurriedly asked by security to quickly craft up some Neville doll, knowing she always carried around her materials and some quick bases to speed up her work. Alas, it was no use. As traditional authorities had been called in and started circling around the Plumber, he¡¯d distracted them with clich¨¦ smoke dispensers and evaporated, someway, somehow.

 Hero Schools

    The Government-Hired Heroes, shortened simply as the GHH for convenience, was a specific branch of the police born around the 12430s as an answer to the growing rise of superpowered crime; if the future of felony was in individual personalities with outstanding traits more so than in large organisations of nameless, faceless crooks, as it had appeared back then, authorities would adapt and follow suit. Originally rather small, it soon imposed itself as a signature part of the police force. As the years passed, and the GHH solidified its political importance and cultural impact, one would have expected more and more abilitied folk to flock to its doors every year; and, though, in some regards, that wasn¡¯t inaccurate, the truth was a bit more complicated.

    While back in the first few months of 12417, abilities were brand new, flashy and rare, assuring anyone who had them to be put into the spotlight, advantaged regardless of what the ability actually was, the First Supervillain crisis just half a year later proved how unstable the status of abilitied people was. Even after the abilitied revolt, Scarlet Maylis¡¯ government and reforms, and abilities becoming an everyday thing, over the following century, this trend only worsened. The GHH had more stories wherein everything went wrong than of normal, successful heroes, it seemed. The truth was, the media simply made more noise for those trashy tales, but that was enough to stain te GHH¡¯s reputation. And it all had started with its inception.

    Scarlet Maylis, or the iconic ¡°magical girl¡± Bleeding Heart, generally seen as the de facto leader of the First District, a movement spawned in response to the First Supervillain discourse to offer the discriminated abilitied an outlet, and that had eventually grown to carry out a full-on coup d¡¯¨¦tat, defending the rights of her kin all throughout the country, had gradually grown more and more extreme in her views once put in charge of the government. While many still remembered Bleeding Heart, and that cute little cheerleader chant - ¡°B, L, E! E, D, I! N, G, ?!¡± - fondly, her role as a quasi-dictatorial leader was controversial, splitting the public opinion to this day. And the Government-Hired Heroes, born under her jurisdiction, were stained with a similar reputation. One of the first big GHH controversies was that of Adrian and Luna Maylis, Scarlet¡¯s own children and some of the first-ever GHH heroes, enrolled in their youth and who¡¯d both run away from that responsibility before they¡¯d even hit their coming of age - sixteen years old. Though they both eventually returned and enrolled back into the force after all just a few years later, the damage was done.

    But besides the GHH and its leaders¡¯ own faults, heroism just didn¡¯t have as favourable an image as many other jobs. As a result of Maylis¡¯ politics, abilitied folk had become the majority; it was no longer a standout category that ensured you an edge others didn¡¯t have on the job market. Plus, heroism didn¡¯t pay all that well, and the interviews were infamous for being especially harsh. Many parents therefore advised their offspring against pursuing such a career, and even if many GHH-philes still enrolled by dozens into the GHH, it found itself short on staff by the turn of the century.

    The government needed to find a way to solve this. While heroism itself was in deficit, the capital¡¯s culture, tourism and advertising depended on its theatrics. They had to make heroism more appealing, to stop abilitied people from picking other careers, or worse, using their abilities for crime and further overworking the GHH. Investing remarkably high amounts of money, they came up with an eccentric solution : hero schools.

    Entirely government-funded, they were free, well-furnished schools who, on top of teaching typical subjects, promised to raise children into the GHH-compliant heroes they were always meant to be. In other words, they were free schools that ensured a stable, guaranteed job to anyone who passed with decent honours, right upon graduation. Heroes, vigilantes and villains had always been most popular amongst children; to them, there was a certain prestige to attending such a school, which made them brag about it to their friends and peers, who in turn whined to their parents to let them attend as well. Add in a few meaningless advantages and coupons, and the formula was complete; not only that, it was successful.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    The GHH went from accepting any old resume that still dared come their way to reaffirming its cutthroat reputation as a prestigious organisation; it seemed nearly impossible to be hired for one who hadn¡¯t graduated from a hero school. The two institutions grew almost indissociable over time; The hero-school grading system - C, B, A, S - became a standard of the GHH itself, which now categorised its numerous employees in the same way; C rank, B rank, et cetera. These ranks were made public as well, as fans loved to tier and compete, and reflected a difference in workload, work ethic and efficiency expected from different heroes, as well as the way they were treated. Salary, leniency of their superiors, general authority within the workplace; a bonafide hierarchy formed between employees that, on paper, shared the same contracts and jobs.

    The rankings became more and more central to the GHH¡¯s inner workings over time, and would determine things such as which heroes were paired up together; Bs with Bs, As with Cs, and Ss by themselves. In other words; As got to boss Cs around, Ss had private offices, and Bs did most of the work on their own. There were exceptions - the Golden Trio was allowed to work together, thanks to the influence of Bonnie¡¯ family - but they were few, and didn¡¯t change the overall situation.

    The inequalities leaked out of the GHH¡¯s walls, spreading to the capital as a whole. Non-abilitied folk, who had already become a minority, were now further disadvantaged; while, technically, one was not required to have an ability in order to be hired by the GHH, as that would¡¯ve legally counted as discrimination, it was indeed a requirement in order to be enrolled into hero school, as that legally counted as a necessary credit. Thus, non-abilitied kids would often be shunned by their classmates, or even their own parents.

    Still, it wasn¡¯t as though every kid wanted to pursue that career path, nor like every parent was willing to support such a choice. Many abilitied people still led typical studies; such was Neville Elire Schifozzo. Born to a lower middle-class family, he had no interest in heroism; he¡¯d attended public education, been taught plumbing, and worked as a plumber from age sixteen to age thirty-two, married and divorced. Somewhere along the way, he¡¯d longed for something else. Something more. Anything, maybe. Or something specific. Either way, that desire had led him to the GHH. But how could he hope to be hired given his education? Simple: His ability.

    Though it looked like simple teleportation at first, it was completely different, and unlike anything that had ever been seen before. Manipulating space was as close to reality warping as abilities had gotten since the death of Providence, a sister-in-arms of Scarlet and the rest of the First District, who had the ability to manipulate events, people, probabilities and their consequences themselves. While nothing as all-encompassing as that, Spatial Plumber¡¯s ability was still leagues above average, with endless potential for defense, offense, sneaking, information-gathering and all other purposes. And yet¡­ his unwillingness to speak up about it and lack of proper experience in the heroism field landed Neville at a solid B. Thus, he ended up teamed up with another B ranking hero: Bubblegum.

    She was what Neville had been looking for. Not in any romantic sense, but more generally, in his life. She had the spunk, the energy, the optimism that he had lost, if he ever had it. She quite simply lit up his life. She liked his company too; he was entertaining, honest, simple, and polite. Their friendship was clear to see in how they worked together. Something tied that quiet, unassuming man and that loud charismatic girl together, whatever it was. Maybe that was why they would both, separately, end up quitting the GHH to do their own thing.

 Catherine Yuu

    12512 ; 5 years into Miles Yuu and Kate Thiers'' marriage. The two had been born and raised in District 17, and had met and settled in District 17. Miles had graduated at 16 with a humble diploma in marketing, though he''d been working since age 12, as the cashier of a local greengrocer''s. Its clients found him sweet and agreeable, a friendly and attentionate kid ; their ego would¡¯ve likely been scratched, had they known he forced himself to write down and revise each of the regulars'' names like a lesson, to give himself the air of a deserving employee. Kate was the youngest daughter of a disinherited family that had once had the funds to live in the higher class suburban areas of District 4 ; their fortune lost in gambling and favors, they¡¯d fled to D17, cut all their past contacts and had a new child, by the name of Kate, that they could dump all of their spite and frustrations onto. Not to let it get her down, Kate had taken her difficult situation in stride, coupled with her parents'' intricate knowledge of social conduct and manipulation, to land herself in a mediocre position as public relations manager of a stationary company whose name changed every three month in the vain hope of gaining some relevancy.

    The two had met one another at a meaningless buffet between neighbours. While their faux extroversion worked just fine amidst a crowd of actually social people, conversing with one another, they¡¯d understood they were of the same breed. If they¡¯d had a truly amorous period in their relationship, it had likely been short ; ultimately, their personalities hadn''t allowed for it. Not because they were cold or didn''t want to have fun ; but because their sense of priorities, earned from a short and compromised childhood, had urged them to marry, find a home, and lastly, have a child.

    Catherine was born to a household that loved and wanted the best for her ; the best out of her. Mr. and Ms. Yuu knew best what was best ; and expected the same from her in return.

    She had round, puffed out cheeks, decorated with symmetrical freckles - her mother¡¯s. Toffee-brown skin and hazel hair, that would darken to a wooden, warm brown as she got older. Her big, watery eyes looked almost fake ; not only due to their size and adorable round shape, but because her iris were a dissionant, watered down grey, that would''ve looked dead on anyone else, but still conveyed a deep, intense emotion on the young girl. She stumbled around on her unbalanced legs, already thicker around her hips in her youth, and growing to a proper pear shape in her adolescence. As a toddler, she often extended her arms in a T to balance herself ; her pointed, elongated ear seemed to extend the same way, little round wings framing her rotund head. Her big, fluffy eyebrows always gave her a worried expression, even with her big old smile. While Kate and Miles'' plastic smiles were usually convincing, they lost all their luster next to sheer shine of their daughter''s childishly honest expressions - though she also made them laugh quite a bit, more than they usually did.

    Having themselves grown up in a difficult environment, they¡¯d worked day and night all their lives to bridge the gap, rid themselves of inherited reputations and tend towards higher standards. They¡¯d learnt the hard way what society did and did not favour ; the behaviours that did or did not help one stand out. Rich of their experience, they wanted to spare their daughter the mistakes of their own youth by ensuring that she would never make a mistake. The difference between Catherine and her parents, was that they''d learnt these things of their own resort, because that was the kind of people they were, not through parental enforcement. Their daughter was not so fortunate. She was soft and sensible. Their demands would have been tough on any young child ; but Catherine was mentally frail from birth, and took every single remark to heart, berating herself even more than they did. She needed to be a good girl. She needed to be a smart girl. She needed to be perfect. That was why she was alive. If she wasn¡¯t perfect, then... Despite their good intentions, Mr. and Ms. Yuu had a poor grasp of parenting.

    Their methods were not only mentally straining on the girl, but counterproductive too. They always reminded her of how important it was to be polite, and empathetic, and clear, and direct, and careful, and charismatic, and reserved, and attentive with others ; so much so, that Catherine would either avoid other kids entirely to save herself the headache, or freeze up with anxiety, knowing she''d never the exact thing to say, or talk too much, or not enough. Her forcibly timid behaviour would only become more and more disadvantageous the older she grew, and her parents became worried. They critiqued her all the more, urged her to hang out with kids her age - all of which only worsened things.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    And so the cycle repeated itself. She had no friends, and no hobbies : pretty much anything she did ended similarly - the stress of sports only worsened her health, gave her fevers and heart problems. Creative activities threw her into a fit of frustration, unable to translate thought to paper. Anything that wasn¡¯t work or chores felt like a waste of time - like she was a disappointment.

    She passed off as just shy, clumsy - an average little girl who''d grow out of it with age, likely learning to settle for the same socially acceptable disguise as her parents. But there was nothing ''shy'' or ''little'' about her behaviour ; she wasn¡¯t afraid of others or ignorant of how the world worked, much to the contrary. Though her childhood was barely any better than her parents'', they''d made her abundantly aware of how important it was for her to have a constructive, positive, balanced childhood if she wanted to make it to adulthood at all. Yet, none of the other kids seemed to care. And soon, she assumed it was her fault ; she was born a failure, hence she needed to work all the harder. Catherine was nothing but envious of children her age, who lived carefreely and were blind to her distress.

    Envy begun to plague her every thought. She hated it She wasn¡¯t supposed to feel that way about other people. Her parents had told her that too ; it''s easier to be nice to people if you genuinely like them. Or so they figured - bitter as they were, they had no idea. Selfishness, egotism spite ; they were all looked down upon by society, compromised bonds, led to crime. She repeated those words in her head with only a surface understanding of their meaning. She had to be moral, empathetic, understanding of others, never put yourself above them, but don''t be a doormat, stand your ground when needed, be aware of others intentions, this and that and that and this - she knew it all. She knew who she was supposed to be, what she was supposed to do. But she couldn¡¯t.

    Kids her age pissed her off. They were stupid and selfish and forgot their own words. They liked weird glass pebbles and wasting their pens by filling up entire pages with scribbles. They talked behind each others'' back like her parents with the neighbours. And they all knew much better than her how to fit in, without even trying. Ultimately, she was Catherine. She was flawed. And she hated every second of it.

    Catherine had an ability, developed at age three ; temperature manipulation. The Yuus didn''t care so much about what she did with her life, just how she went about achieving it - they were relatively open when it came to her career choice. (Though given how she''d been raised, she''d likely have just asked them their opinion anyway.) However, having an ability made the choice easy : heroism.

    Kate and Miles let her attend hero school - not only that, a boarding hero school, hoping it would help with her sheltered habits. Although it''d mean she would be harder for them to tutor, it would force her out of her shell.

    In a way, it did. Now that she was faced with them every single day, her envy of people her age worsened, and got more pronounced, more specific, personal. Everytime another kid got the seat she wanted, a compliment from a teacher, a slightly better grade, had more friends, was picked even for the most irrelevant of reasons, she noticed, and she remembered it. Not their name, sometimes their face, but the day, the act, the feeling she always got. It further clogged up her mind and stopped her from focusing on school - and more importantly, on her ability. She didn''t know how to use it at all.

    Instead, her temperature manipulation manifested in bouts, based on her mood, betraying her hypocrisy, her constant mood swings, her utter mess of a mental state. And while her meek, round, puffy face and panicked gestures invoked pity and sympathy from teachers and older classmates, her tendency to melt, burn, freeze or even blow up through temperature shock random objects across the classrooms, be they school supplies, furniture or clothes did not.

    Catherine Yuu was not only written off as troublesome, she would constantly be graded C - the lowest possible grade. The girl no longer slept full nights, desperate to learn how to control her ability, and crying whenever her parents would call to berate her, even when their tone was more worried and caring than harsh.

 A few GHH job interviews

    Though it was easy to forget them, the GHH hired not only heroes, but typical office workers - amongst which were job interviewers, in charge of evaluating the aforementioned heroes. Blandine LeJeune, the petite, wrinkled brunette sitting at her desk, like every weekday morning, was one of them. Though it was the first day of July, the sky was grey and morose.

    She worked in a crowded office with such a limited budget that it had been judged acceptable to let interviewees show off their abilities in the same room they had their actual interview. "The risks were laughable, compared to the costs - the numbers say so!" It was all about statistics and figures and ratios and quotas ; ultimately the occasional half-repairs cost them less than having a proper room for tests, so they brushed aside any counter-arguments. The GHH believed more in testing aptitudes on the field anyway, hiring now and firing later should it come to light they weren¡¯t up to snuff after all. Simplistic, rushed interviews were well enough.

    LeJeune had three meetings scheduled between 8 and 9 ; two sixteen year old girls, former classmates who''d graduated together, and an unrelated boy of the same age. Their schools had provided files for each of them, as was standard procedure - the first page of which was a straight to the point profile ; full name, ability name and description, other skills, notable flaws and their grade average standing in for a rank.

    The one thing these sheets never came with, however, was photos ; an omission that, over time, had become her game at work - when the kid came in, Blandine would try and guess which of the files was theirs, solely based on appearances. Today would be especially easy ; 50/50 chance for the girls, whose profiles were starkly different.

    The first of the two entered. Instantly, LeJeune called her bet ; Catherine Yuu, the C rank. It was blatant how uptight she was ; whereas an S or A student would comfortably pass any interview without even trying, anyone who knew themselves or their ability to be lacking would be on their best behaviour - exactly like that girl. Every inch of her face had been forcefully stretched ; foundation was brushed all over her toffee skin in little patches, hiding imperfections so thoroughly that she looked unnaturally clear skinned. Her haircut a business square, freshly cut the day before, brushed flat until not a single strand of hair stood out of from block. Her expression was strikingly symmetrical too ; An anxious, overbitten, V-shaped smile, stretching just a little too high - and eyes open so wide that her grey irises drowned out her pupils, giving her a haunted, panicked look. Her eyebrows seemed taped in place. Blandine could tell just how much effort the girl put into keeping up this discomfortable getup. She looked so focused that she was probably holding in her own sweat. Not just a C-rank ; an overcompensating one.

    Catherine mechanically walked towards the desk, and sat at the designated plastic chair in front of the desk, immediately shoving her hands in between her thighs, as though trying to asphyxiate them - all the while her cheeks puffed out and blushed, as though she herself was lacking air. ¡®Well, won¡¯t this be quick¡¯, LeJeune figured. ¡®5 minutes of mumbling, a ¡®We¡¯ll call you¡¯, and done with¡¯.

    ¡°Hello.

    - Hello!¡± Aw, what a cute voice. Maybe she did have a chance. Interviews were strictly regulated, always cut into three sections. First, the candidate introduced themselves - it served to see how they handled themselves. Second, they showed off their ability in a predetermined test. Third, a back-and-forth between LeJeune and whatever twerp she happened to be cooking up - often turning out to be the most boring part of an already boring process, punctuated with ¡®Well¡¯s, ¡®Um¡¯s, and the repetition of what their introduction. The only entertaining part was the second ; in her four years of working for the GHH, the petty woman had witnessed plenty of catastrophic mishaps. From a kid whose ability was "singing a soothing lullaby to put opponents to sleep" who had shrieked at such high decibels that the windows cracked, walking out not only not getting the job but with a damage fee ; to another whose ability to rot away plants had somehow been so messed up by their stress that they had instead greyed away all of LeJeune¡¯s hair (her contract covered that risk, so she was compensated). It was unlikely anything like that would happen this time, however ; ¡®Heavily limited temperature manipulation¡¯. It appeared those limitations had more to do with Catherine herself than her ability.

    ¡±Introduce yourself.¡± LeJeune started a countdown on her phone, hidden from view under her desk such that nothing gave it away. Catherine started without hesitation. ¡°My name is Catherine Yuu. I am a sixteen year old graduate from the Herring Heroic Private College, but I began my studies in District 17¡¯s public GHH institute, wherein I studied from age four to age eight. Over the course of my scholarity, the grades I received were as follows : 18 Ss, 22 As, 57 Bs, -¡± She continued, speaking clearly yet unbelievably fast, for exactly three minutes - giving all of the recommended information in detail, within the ¡®ideal speaking time¡¯ defined by the higher ups - and LeJeune knew all too well how often those recommendations changed. Good lord. The interviewer gulped, and shuffled through her papers to shove away her discomfort. She hated teacher¡¯s pets¡­ but she couldn¡¯t just disobey procedures and turn them away out of spite. Her only remaining hope was for Catherine to trip on the second part of the interview, maybe set the succulents on fire. Sadly, no cacti was harmed ; Catherine performed admirably in heating up an ice cube to a mildly warm water, and answered the most low handed of questions with the same aptitude and reactivity. The old woman was left to fulminate behind her desk, her opinion of the girl scrambling back and forth every other moment ; she ultimately decided to remember her as annoying. At least Catherine¡¯s profile had made her seem like she could have been interesting ; that much couldn¡¯t even be said about the next girl.

    Junie Shards, born Jean Shards. Exemplary straight A student from Herring¡­ that was about all. She entered ; honeyed skin, long, straight and reddish-blond locks, a juvenile but elongated face. She, too, looked excessively panicked, enough that had she come in first, the interviewer might¡¯ve assumed she was Catherine. Sheesh, had schools gotten so hard on students that even As were this stressed? Perhaps it was just a trait of private hero academies. The tall, lean girl sat, and crossed her legs while putting on a silly, toothy smile - likely the best she could force out given the circumstances. She desperately looked at the woman behind the desk, with a pleading, terrified look in her eyes. Cute. Alright, maybe she wasn¡¯t so bad either. ¡°Hello, she said.

    - H-Hello.¡± The first aspiration had been followed by a long silence, as if she¡¯d never heard ¡°Hello¡± before and just repeated whatever sounds she¡¯d just heard. ¡®She¡¯d better not be one of those fish-eyed kids who spoke in short - clumps of - words space out by - needless silence...¡¯ LeJeune held in the urge to gag by readjusting her round glasses. ¡°Introduce yourself.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    - O-Oh, okay! - I¡¯m. - Junie! Junie, Shards. Yeah. I¡¯m very motivated, and, - I¡¯m sixteen, and I - I studied in Herring,¡± The interviewer wanted to tear her hair out. By the end of that pity party of an introduction, the interviewer was scared to even look at the clock on her screen. Time for part two. She brushed the file over a second time. At least her ability seemed fun.

    Energy Blade

    User summons a sword-like beam of radiant, energy.

    The blade disappears should xe let go of it. No other person can hold it.

    It has shown capable of slicing 95% of tested materials. (see page 6 for details.)

    It leaves burn marks along its cut.

    No maximum usage time.

    She envied the job of whoever was tasked with naming people¡¯s abilities when they had them registered ; it seemed laid-back and entertaining, which was more than she could say about her own lot. The protocol she¡¯d been given to test out Junie¡¯s blade was simple. Throw a few throw-away pieces of rubbish into the room, measure Junie¡¯s reaction times and efficiency in cutting them all in half in midair. It was similar to most abilities that involved shooting out projectiles or cutting things. Sometimes, debris fell on the crappy appliances around her office, breaking them for good and forcing the budget department to finally replace it ; therefore, LeJeune was quite fond of these kinds of abilities. She asked Junie to wait for her a moment, as she left through the back door to a communal storage room. She soon returned with a full cardboard box of needless junk. The second part of interviews almost always called for targets ; over time, the GHH had coined up ways to gather excessive amounts of junk - lost toys and clothing from schools, bits of broken furniture from run down office buildings, or the confiscated belongings of imprisoned villains. Small warehouses housed it all in each of the GHH¡¯s employment offices ; they were so full that one could have made quite the quick cash selling some of their contents - many tried. LeJeune had herself been tempted, but she¡¯d seen too many of her colleagues try, fail and end up with their properties confiscated in turn, contributing to the vicious cycle of trash-theft, to even try.

    The specific box that she picked up for Junie¡¯s interview was nothing remarkable. Soft foam balls, sports balls, paper balls¡­ lightweight, throwable things. Cocking her head to the side, she gestured to Junie to get into position, and begun emptying the contents of the box into the air, pulling from her long lost memories of playing baseball as a child.

    Immediately, it was as though Junie Shards had become a completely different person. The sword spawned in her hands at the speed of light, and she swung it across the room so precisely and so swiftly that the mesmerized interviewer couldn¡¯t even see it - her eyes fixated instead on the consequence of the swings, an even number of half-spheres laying orderily on the floor, every ball cut in two symmetrical parts. Even as she threw in more and more targets, smaller and more misshapen over time, even a full plastic doll - the ace up her sleeve meant to trip the girl up - Junie didn¡¯t break a sweat, or make a noise, or miss a beat. She performed perfectly, and the box was emptied in record time. It took her a good ten seconds to switch back to her nervous, clumsy girl self, blinking thrice out of her focus. ¡°D-Did I do - well?¡± Oh, don¡¯t even TRY that crap. LeJeune sighed in exasperation.

    She barely tried with her questions, still caught up in Junie¡¯s intensity - slashing everything thrown at her in a show of flashing lights¡­ Abilities had long lost their luster to Blandine, but every now and again, one of the kids she dealt with would reignite that old fascination. Didn¡¯t make the job worth it, but it was something.

    Finally, came time for the last interviewee of the hour, a boy named Felicio Shaw. He was an A from District 17. LeJeune scanned through his sheet ...oh. Well, that was unusual. He came in before she could finish reading further into his file. He casually strolled towards his chair, head cocked slightly forward. Finally some of the characteristic nonchalance she expected from As. Ironically, that insolent attitude helped relieve LeJeune of some of the envy and spite Junie¡¯s awe inducing ability had built up inside her. He was a relatively skinny and short, though still round young man, with a flat military cut, an open shirt and baggy pants, his left eyebrow shaved as per the trend, drawing further attention to his right eye. His toffee skin was smooth and lightly freckled ; His eyes, too, let that youthful, mischievous excitement show through. he would¡¯ve looked no older than twelve, if not for his light hint of a stubbly moustache. ¡°Hey!¡±, he opened, before she could even take the initiative. He¡¯d set the tone for the rest of his interview ; He spoke without complex or care, clearly unaware of the actual quotas - lest he was purposefully avoiding them. Just as he made sure not to mention - well, ¡®that¡¯. Perhaps it was a sensitive subject - or he¡¯d had to deal with it so long, he didn¡¯t see it as something worth bringing up, not as big a deal as the sheet made it out to be. Either way. He was much more sympathetic than the previous two, and put the interviewer in a relatively good mood - for her standards, anyway, which were that of a woman that hadn¡¯t smiled in half a decade.

    When came the second part of the interview, however, he sunk in her esteem just as the other two had. Instead of entertaining her a bit, he just handed her an official document : the testification that he had, in fact, already passed this part of the interview back in his school. The GHH allowed for it, to accomodate kids in difficult situations. However, since it oft lead to cheating, it was made difficult to set up : families had to plan years before the graduation if they wanted their kid to pass the ability test early. Typically, only disabled or otherwise compromised students troubled themselves with it - and apparently, so had he, much to the interviewers¡¯s frustration. She robbed the paper from his hand, mentally hissing at this casual smugness. Oh, she was going to ask him such stupidly specific questions to make up for that. His electric manipulation could¡¯ve one shot that stupid flickering ceiling light and finally lead to it getting replaced, but no, he was just too much of a special snowflake to give her that much. Well fine. She wouldn¡¯t hold back. He¡¯d hate it.

    ¡°Name your three biggest qualities.

    - Pre-planning, adaptability and reactivity, I reckon.¡±

    ¡°Flaws?

    - No such thing, miss. If there¡¯s anything I¡¯ve to work on, it¡¯s self-reflection.¡± And the bastard thought he was funny, too. He was more exasperating than the previous two combined. She shot him a stare.

    ¡±Your profile indicates you were gravely injured in 12520, in a dispute between classmates, and were hospitalised as a result. You temporarily lost the use of your left eye and your ability. Have you completely recovered or do side effects remain? What of the other person involved?¡± His expression instantly darkened, to his interrogator¡¯s silent satisfaction. He looked to the side, and retorted.

    ¡°My ability works and I can see fine. Just read over the report I gave you.¡± She let go. She didn¡¯t actually care much.

    ¡±It states here you ¡®use the toilet excessively.¡¯

    - Bladder problems¡­ ain¡¯t fun, but they-

    - ¡®haven¡¯t proved a major issue within his scholarity.¡¯

    - ...Do you even actually need me to be here?¡± LeJeune didn¡¯t bother to answer. The clock neared nine now ; she closed off the interview. As Felicio left the room, Blandine was further convinced of her life motto : Hating teenagers.

 The Shaw Twins

    On a chill, 12512 summer evening, Brimmie and Fabrice Shaw learnt that not only were they having a child, but in fact twins ; the news had them cracking up with excitement, cuddled up on their decade old couch, whispering loudly to one another, imagining and projecting onto their soon to be children.

    Even with their limited funds, the perspective of having twins gave them wide, open smiles day in and day out. Were they looking forward to raising a life, two lives together - yes of course, but more than that... not one, but two abilities!

    Brimmie and Fabrice had both been hooked to every hero blog and GHH gossip forums under the sun since their youth. Brimmie, who was a remarkable 2 meters and 10 centimetres tall, owned a collection of biographical, GHH heroes comic anthologies taller than herself ; and she could quote the last words of every single hero represented in those strips. And that pile only accounted for official, licensed releases ; as a preteen and teenager, and even occasionally now whenever she found the time, she had crawled through conventions and self-published book shops to amass an inhuman amount fanworks on her favorite heroes, smaller heroes that hadn¡¯t received any official anthologies, and vigilantes. Her love for the heroes had spread to the artists ; she had her favorites whose writing and style she swore by - and amongst them was Fabrice.

    Fabrice Shaw had always been artistically inclined ; but for his first ten or so years, he hadn¡¯t found any particular thing he liked to draw above all else, just sketching and doodling whatever he happened to see or dream up. All had changed over a single sleepover over at a friend¡¯s for their 11th birthday. Fabrice had been the last kid not to fall asleep before the end of the b-movie the grown-ups had put on ; he even stayed awake through the credits, and long enough for the TV channel to move on to its next program ; an old documentary on hero and villain costume designs during the early years of the GHH. That day, everything clicked. The colorful, unorthodox shapes, the weird experimental fabrics and volumes of the golden age, before classic tropes and archetypes had been established. From that day on, Fabrice had fallen in love with the aesthetics and theatrics of heroism, browsing image boards for hours on end, drawing and designing costumes of his own. Once he¡¯d become a teenager and pressed for cash, he had translated that passion to drawing questionable GHH-themed comics based on what was popular online ; and the first person to buy and comment on one of his self-published works was Brimmie.

    Though she adored his art, she questioned his writing. Fabrice welcomed to the criticism, and over time would come to her to proofread and rewrite his future publications. Her passion for heroism and studies in drama proved useful, and their now collaborative comics grew in quality and popularity. Neither of them were ever able to live from them - but the profits still helped them cut costs and work only part time elsewhere, even with the occasional conviction for copyright infringement. It was their escape, into some other history where their parents had let them study in hero school too. And in a way, their decision to have children had been made under the same logic. They wanted little hero children of their own ; after taking their obsession out on figurines and posters, kids were the next step.

    The Shaws named their newborn boys Brett and Felicio ; tan, midtone skin marked by freckles and birthmarks, and black, spiked dry hair that just refused to lay down. Nose-deep in their parents'' fandom since birth, they both intensely awaited the day they would develop an ability ; the first with starry-eyed excitement, the other with relative apprehension. Their wait continued until they reached six years old.

    ¡°Hurry up, Fel! I¡¯m gonna fall asleep!¡± Brett screamed from atop of the slide from the top of his lungs, throwing various playful comments and taunts at his brother. ¡°Shut up! I¡¯m coming!¡± Felicio retorted half-heartedly. He didn¡¯t even like that stupid slide anyway. It was way too tall and the ladder hurt his hands. He¡¯d still climb it, but just to get Brett to shut up. He grumbled and pouted all while slowly making his way up, all while his brother continued shouting louder and louder. When he finally reached the top, it was only to realise that Brett was already gone, sticking his tongue out while smirking from down on the ground. Now he was all the way up there for no good reason. Holding in the urge to shed a tear over his hurt pride, Felicio frowned and closed up his hands - he started whining, pointing his finger and shaking his fists in Brett¡¯s direction.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Brett gave out an elongated scream - not another snarky response, but a pained, ear-piercing squeal. Felicio immediately fell silent ; their parents shot to their feet, suddenly turning their attention back to their sons from the park bench they had been sitting on. Brett stood awkwardly still, his arms held up in front of him, halfway through the motion of crossing against his chest, stopped in midair. His toffee skin was now speckled with small, dark burn marks. His hair, cut into a military flat top on a monthly basis, had spiked up in all directions, like a porcupine. Someway, somehow, he¡¯d been electrised.

    After just a few seconds, Brett returned to his senses. He looked puzzled more than anything - then, suddenly, his eyes dilated, and enlightened expression stretched across his face as he turned back towards Felicio, opening his mouth again. ¡°Did you do that?

    - What? No!

    - Yes, you did! You did! You have an ability, Fel!¡± The boy jumped up and down excitedly as he continued his high pitch chanting, occasionally shivering or hissing from his burns, but happily beaming nonetheless. Fabrice and Brimmie both had to grab his arms to hold Brett in place and keep him from climbing up the slide and hurting himself any more than he already was.

    That day had two immediate consequences for the Shaw household. The first, a trip to the hospital that shortly ended with the surprise and relief that Brett was only superficially bruised ; the second, a series of excessive tests and efforts to confirm that Felicio had, indeed, develop the ability to generate and manipulate electrical currents, inadvertently electrifying his brother through the metallic slide. Fabrice and Brimmie had been gung-ho on their ¡°little boys¡± becoming heroes before ; now, their fixation was able to solidify, and their enthusiasm no longer knew any limits. They spent tireless nights struggling through administrative headaches and exploiting legal loopholes to take Felicio out of public schooling and into a GHH school mid-year ; they bought him more and more unofficial merch and sketched him little make believe comics about what he might someday be like ; told him about their own past aspirations for heroism and even vigilantism, and how lucky he was to actually have the chance to pursue that path - suffocating him in everything superhero related and squishing to null any unrelated ambitions he might¡¯ve fancied. Not that Felicio hated the idea of working for the GHH - but had he been given more freedom, it certainly wouldn¡¯t have been his first choice.

    As for Brett, he was more hopeful and impatient than ever. He would picture grand stories of himself blowing his brother and parents away with a mere display of his future ability, that he would surely develop any minute now - to which Felicio would scoff, simply to annoy his sibling further. He wasn¡¯t the type to shoot down his enthusiasm, however ; in fact, Felicio would even let Brett take for himself the countless hero-related gifts their parents force on him, and listen to his sibling project himself onto past heroes, picturing himself with their abilities ; Brett with a fire sword, Brett with ice manipulation, Brett with heart bullets. While Felicio passively floated along the monotony of GHH education and did dear god anything else with his free time (mostly sleeping), Brett went on daydreaming, studying Felicio¡¯s homework and begging him to tell him all about his classmates and teachers - months, years passed, and still he hadn''t shown the slightest hint of an ability. Felicio continued to bring home promising grades, while Brett slowly fell by the wayside of his parents'' good graces. Perhaps subconsciously ashamed of his ineptitude, perhaps wanting their family to only be associated with a successful career in heroism, or perhaps not seeing the point of a physical school that wasn¡¯t hero related, having always worked from home themselves, they eventually removed Brett from public school entirely, having him follow online schooling instead. Though this took a toll on his general mood and personality, the twin never took it out on Felicio - or at least, if he was jealous, it never showed through ; if anything, the abilitied boy was the one who felt guilty and empathetic, refraining from using his ability in front of his brother.

    Brett lived his heroic aspirations through his brother just as much as his parents did ; he would doodle costume ideas, imagine him undertaking this and that important mission, and insisting to a self-conscious Felicio raised on online nihilism that there was absolutely no way he wouldn¡¯t at LEAST rank A. Even then, Brett hadn¡¯t lost hope ; It didn¡¯t matter how long it took for his skills to show through. Everyone knew about the record-holding Dave Pando, better known as the GHH hero Late Bloomer, the man who had developed that ability to accelerate plant growth at the astounding age of twenty-seven years old. Brett would definitely develop an ability too, someday. Someday.

 Alexander

    August 12540 - a Sunday, the last of the month. 10 in the afternoon. A warm twilight sets over the capital. Typically, it¡¯d be busier at this hour ; not today.

    Glasses clink and stomachs growl all throughout the gigantic halls of the Grand Thursday Hotel. Families and groups are seated at round, clothed tables, drinking wine, munching on snacks from the buffet, chatting about this or that and contributing to the jovial cacophony of this celebratory evening ; the GHH''s 110th anniversary.

    Every year, the government dedicated some of its budget excedents to celebrating its heroes, by throwing a grand ceremony in the hotel ; a high class dinner at a remarkably affordable price to anyone willing to endure sitting through the rather monotone awards show. (Needless to say, for good food, many people were). As per every year, the dinning halls were filled to the brim with guests and chatter. Though GHH employees and their plus-ones were prioritised and given a discount, the celebration attracted a much larger public - journalists, physicists, undercover villains, artists, and then some ; a colorful array of faces eagerly awaiting the fabled dishes'' arrival.

    The location of choice was no coincidence ; the Thursday Hotel was not only a five star establishment with a bright reputation, it had quite the prestigious history. It was built upon the rubble of a building destroyed during the 12430 coup, on a Thursday, and named after it - it was a representation of when the First Villain crisis had come to an end, and a new era begun for the country. The superpowered era, its heroes and icons. Symbolically, there was no better locat ion in the entire capital to celebrate the GHH.

    Amongst the dense echo emanating from the tens of dozens of tables, hid quite a few intriguing conversations. Though the celebration acted as GHH''s annual pat on its own back, it was home to the schemings of a good amount of undercover villains, including its most wanted targets, who occasionally liked to play daredevil in that way. M. Tristan and Ms. Gwenevre Medus - better known by their aliases Ambrosia and Ms. R.T. - current heads of MSW, the most influential crime syndicate in the capital, which thrived on weapons dealing, casually - by mobster standards - discussed buisness with Alistair Nozhnitsy, the current head of a relatively young company specializing in new technologies, ability research and torture. Nozhnitsy T&I was a perfectly legal company, and rather famous ; it, however, was also, and had always been, the front for a rapidly growing criminal empire, which Alistair - calling themselves Lesion - also led. MSW was and old titan of the Underground ; born before the 12430 coup, and behind some of the most infamous attacks and incidents anyone had ever pulled off ; it was a solid family business, and every generation had brought terrific villains with unreasonable amounts of fans. And yet, under the direction of Alistair''s predecessor, Nozhniysy''s growth had been incredibly fast - so rapid, in fact, that in just two generations it had caught up with MSW''s net worth and was now interested in buying them out. Admittedly, MSW had been slightly on the decline since Gwenevre¡¯s takeover of the organisation ; but even then, the Medus weren''t interested in selling out in the slightest. Even then, Alistair hadn''t - and would not - give up. With MSW out of the way, Nozhnitsy would have an almost complete monopoly over all illegal weapons dealings within the capital ; a dreamlike situation, and an achievement that would get them the recognition they aspired towards.

    So their back and forth continued, drowned amongst deafening echoes of other tables'' chatter - though, even in that situation, the risk of being heard by a waiter or someone with a convenient ability was high ; so, humorously, the three criminal leaders spoke in riddles, metaphors, phrases, codenames, all improvised on the spot and that would have lost them any credibility within the Underground. They''d all agreed to keep the conversation hidden under tight wraps.

    Just a few tables south of those colorful negotiations, sat six men and women, all dressed in varying blends of street-punk and business-casual clothes - generally, they were clad how a stereotypical undercover cop would be. A wrong assumption, however ; all six were fellow members of Basilisk.

    Three types of groups populated the capital''s Underground. The large monopolies, that held dominion over many smaller gangs, and manipulated most of the city¡¯s going-ons from behind the shadow ; groups whose powers rivaled even the government¡¯s. At this point, the only organisation to fit that description was MSW - though Nozhnitsy had gotten closer than any organisation ever had before.

    Then, there were a seemingly unending amount of small, five-to-twelve people groups, many of which went forever unknown, merely used as the henchmen or minions of middle and larger sized syndicates - but a few had that corny, over-the-top sort of charm, or had done something of note - enough to have a few booklets and art magazines documenting them. A few that came to mind : the confusingly named Hero Club 3 - the first of its kind, and all but heroic - or the Haunted Parade - led by some lunatic high school girl claiming to be the Whimpering Railway Ghost, a popular urban legend. But even those never lasted long. The fate of small groups was always one of two ; die out, disband or get arrested in a matter of a few years, or, more rarely, grow into something larger.

    And finally, the often overlooked mid-sized organisations. Not large enough to compete with the likes of MSW, but influential enough to stand their ground and claim some territory and smaller gangs as their own. Typically, these groups survived through being quieter, and very specialised ; filling an unexploited niche in the market and exploiting it for all its worth. Basilisk was one of those ; a secretive association of phantom thieves and spies who, for the most part, were categorised as vigilantes and not villains. Almost as old as MSW itself, they had sworn a profound hatred of the weapons dealing organisation, and often even cooperated with the GHH, all for the sake of bringing the group down a peg. Not that it had ever worked. It was clear to see why ; even now, they had no idea Ambrosia and Ms. RT sat just a few tables away.

    Though naturally, most guests were just average civilians, including the parents of some GHH heroes. Fabrice and Brimmie Shaw attended every year ; Their son, however, or rather his hero persona Bolt, was on duty, surveying the ceremony along with dozens of his A and S ranking peers. The two were filled with immense amounts of pride, and they would oh-so-innocently brag about it to their tablemates, who weren''t involved with the GHH at all, had only come for the food and pretended to care.

    Just a few meters east sat Austin and Brooke Shards, along with their two youngest, two rugged, prepubescent redheads with freckles and bruises all over. The four of them hid amongst one of the larger, more crowded tables. Even with their daughter, Junie¡¯s¡­ incident, a few years back, they made a point to come here yearly. They felt they had to. Luckily, a reporter who¡¯d come to film and document their farm a good decade ago and had remained a family friend ever since had offered them to sit amongst them and their journalist colleagues ; that way, the Shards could avoid anyone recognizing them as Justice¡¯s Sword family.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    As for Miles and Kate Yuu - they were busy that evening. No reason for them to attend anyway.

    Suddenly, an electronic noise cut through the busy chattering of human voices ; an amateur tuning a microphone. The award ceremony was starting. Conversations quieted left and right as heads turned towards the stage - while lots of others found much more interest in glaring over towards the food trails replenishing the buffet. On the stage stood Late Bloomer. He wasn''t a particularly high ranking hero, but he was relatively renowned for his ability and had a friendly face and good voice, so he''d nabbed the honorable chore of announcing the awards to the tipsy crowd that stood before him.

    The award categories had remained the same for decades ; highest number of missions undertaken, highest number of successful arrests, least property damage induced, internal popularity vote, general popularity vote. Since the first three were purely statistical, every GHH forum under the sun had them figured out well before the ceremony. The last category was no less redundant ; most years, it was clear which hero had been the fan favorite, and most years, the fan favorites were a similar breed. The fourth category was at least somewhat relevant, since it gave the general public a glimpse of what GHH heroes thought of each other. That being, just a glimpse, since only the winner of the vote was announced, no runner ups or even by how many votes they won.

    The awards were pointless ; they didn''t grant the rewarded parties any more advantages either. It was just one of those things the GHH did that people raised an eyebrow at, but didn''t protest against. It was all just a glorified excuse to slurp down food and let the GHH pat itself on the back.

    Late Bloomer''s mature, gentle tone began reading out a speech that felt like it''d been put together by a highschooler over a single evening. Most people didn''t care enough to notice, so the heroes always got away with it. As Pando shuffled through his papers, he found himself in darkness. All the lights had gone out. "O-Oh. Well, then-"

    And those were Late Bloomer, otherwise known as Dave Pando''s last words - for someone offstage had blown out the poor man''s brains, killing him with a single bullet to the temple before sliding into view themselves with no gun to be seen ; Alexander.

    Alexander didn''t have the ¡®build¡¯ of a deluded, murderous terrorist ; short, young, round. Toffee skin clad in a silver catsuit, with spiral stripes going up and down their costume. They wore a silver mask that obstructed most of their face, only showing their grey eyes, their mouth, and the tip of their nose. Their hair, a silver wig, feathered messily in all directions, akin to the explosions they were so fond of. In many regards, they looked like they were cosplaying someone else ; the costume just didn''t really fit them.

    Amongst the countless S-ranking, intimidating, mysterious villains that plagued the capital, Alexander still stood out - for one simple reason. Super-abilitied criminals were people. They had goals. Plans. Their crimes were just means to an end. Even show-offs like phantom thieves or Lesion achieved something whenever they appeared, even if their final goal was unclear. But Alexander only spread death. Grotesque murders left and right, bold and brutal displays of violence and cruelty, guts, heads, ribs, hands, all blown to pieces and splatter, crushed against the walls like tomatoes and porcelain mashed into one disgusting sauce. They''d made it clear themselves ; that was the sole point of their endeavour. Terror.

    After so many horrendous crimes, the contrast between them and their getup was no longer comical - it was eerie. Off putting, like their constant, toothy smile, stretching excitedly from ear to ear. Whoever was in that costume wasn''t some otherworldly or prodigious force of nature ; it was an average person. It could be anyone. It was anyone.

    The GHH had desperately tried to figure out their identity, but the three suspects they had just didn''t match up. There was always a detail or two or three that invalidated them. There had to be some error. Some hijink. Some form of a clue that pointed to one of them. But there wasn''t. There wasn''t any they could figure out. Alexander had spawned out of thin air a few years back, and there wasn''t anything they could do about it now.

    The silver figure tapped the microphone. The metallic noise echoed through the now silent hall. They grabbed it from its stand and began walking around the stage, pirouetting, dancing and hopping around, most likely to make themselves a harder target to hit if any of the attendees has slipped a gun past security. It seemed unlikely ; The security was plentiful. Top notch. Many policemen in uniforms, and even more dressed as waiters and the like. Multiple mandatory controls and full body patting. S and A ranks with synergical abilities who''d been put in charge of guarding every inch of the hotel strategically, and were ready to jump to action at the lightest alarm. However, Alexander had already put most of them out cold. The only ones left were the ones outside the building or in upper floors, who now heard the terrorist''s speech through hidden speakers in the wall that were meant to relay the award ceremony.

    "Right, right, heeeeeeello!" Alexander''s voice changer, in addition to the microphone, gave everything they said an uncomfortable, ringing quality. Occasionally, their twirling around would tug on the microphone¡¯s cable, causing further noise. ¡°Have you all eaten weeeell?¡± That simple question spread like a silent shockwave through the audience. Was the food poisoned, somehow? Spiked with some anesthetic or drug? Something worse, even? Human remains? Several tables began to empty their plates on the ground or in plant pots, more or less discreetly. One unfortunate guest gagged at the mere idea that it might¡¯ve been compromised, to such an extent that they threw their salmon-capers snacks up and onto the floor in a gross out, stinking mush.

    Alexander quietly turned towards them. The man, in his mid thirties perhaps, a dark-brunette with a silly mustache and tan skin, was struggling to get back onto his sit, still yet unaware of the terrorist¡¯s gaze shooting through them with rage no normal person could¡¯ve understood. And as he finally sat back up, vomit still pearling around his lips, it was too late.

    Screams of pain shot through the neighbouring tables ; a broken off chair leg had fallen right on one of them and skewered through the side of their arm. Less noteable debris and shards showered all around and lacerated people in a good ten meter radius around the unfortunate throw-upper. Or lest, what remained of him ; charred bits of skin and bone, his twisting shape and bent articulations laying on the ground amongst his own blood and vomit. He wasn¡¯t dead, no, not yet. But he was fractured in enough places that he would be before long. His chair had blown up under him.

    Alexander¡¯s glitching, excitable voice echoed through the hall again ; a silly, unstoppable giggle that rung wrong, contrasting the gore that lay upon the stage and down by the exploded chair. Clapping twice, Alexander brought the microphone right up to their mouth again, and screamed out, at last, the trick up their sleeve :

    "See that? Every single seat here is set to detonate at a moment''s notice!"

 A prank

    All GHH schools shared the same schedule ; work days began at eight in the morning. Kids and teenagers poured in, their bags packed, which they carried or dragged along. A few lucky ones flaunted their telekinesis, their backpacks floating beside them casually. Amongst the sea of heads, a few familiar faces; Catherine, Felicio. The two were not in the same division, had a few classes in common. Enough to be aware of each other ; nothing more.

    Although Catherine still made a point to remember the names of every kid in her year - she aimed for excellence ; having an exemplary conduct implied befriending them, an exemplary grade implied beating all of them without contest. She was expected to be aware of things. If she let herself go, she might miss an important piece of information, a hint, anything that could prove helpful later.

    But all that aside - Catherine wanted friends, as all children do. If she learnt to like other kids'' company, maybe she wouldn¡¯t feel envious anymore. She liked to hope, at least. Her intentions were rather genuine - but she was no less helpless. She''d been raised too strictly. Too cold and stiff. Too anxious. Her instinctive reactions felt forced ; it just never clicked. She was seen as weird pushed to the side, away from popular cliques, - and that didn''t even account for her ability¡¯s tendency to go berserk. Catherine would often tell herself it was okay; she was only eight. She didn''t need to have lots and lots of friends yet. She could just ask the teacher for help. But nevertheless, she was lonely.

    As for Felicio, he was actually adapting very well, given he¡¯d never wanted to attend at all. He dearly missed his brother''s company, even for just a few hours - but told himself he could at least try and bring some of Brett¡¯s excitement with him every morning. Usually, that borrowed spunk was drained after a single class, and Felicio fell back into a sort of autopilot persona, never starting conversations, just answering when interacted with, vaguely writing down notes, doodling and daydreaming about being anywhere else. He couldn¡¯t relate to the other kids¡¯ drive for heroism like he could with Brett. Without the affection he had for his brother, it was all just jumbled hero talk, gossip about people he couldn¡¯t care to remember the names of, bragging about things no kid their age could possibly achieve, and overall, kids barely any older than him who already had their whole lives planned out, somehow. Despite his utter nonchalance, he was a good student, collecting As without even trying, and having a decent number of buddies.

    The school was separated into 6 main buildings, and a few extras that students weren''t allowed in. 3 of them were dedicated to typical classes - the "mainline" program : languages, history, science, et cetera. Another building to the "specialised" program : in other words, ability training. It was a large, towering block of reinforced concrete painted with obnoxious colors, with the GHH''s initials at the top ; lines upon lines of large windows, the kind that could be seen through from inside, but appeared tinted from outside. Then, there was the restaurant-cafeteria, wherein kids and teachers alike would stuff their cheeks with snacks whenever they got the chance. And lastly, the dorm : like most GHH schools, District 17¡¯s doubled as a boarding school. All in all, the campus was a good 500 square meters, a giant complex, in the middle of a lower-class district otherwise crowded by crass and hectic apartment buildings. The school stood as separate world, a large circle of government-funded semi cleanliness ; passing its gates truly felt like entering some other dimension - A complex, organized, sanitized world.

    The school taught children for 10 years, each age group split into 15 classes, each accounting for exactly 30 students - understand, 4500 kids ranging from 6 to 16 years old. An administrative nightmare. The classes were named by letters; A, B, et cetera till J. A popular game amongst District 17 students, especially midyears, was nicknaming each class based on their letter, sometimes referring to some anecdote or other - though most of the time, they just picked whatever crass word started with the right letter and applied it to the first year¡¯s classes for a good, teenaged laugh. And from today onwards, year 3, class F, would be nicknamed ¡°Fish Face¡±.

    A four-hour long ability practice class was planned for all of the third years - a sort of friendly, mid-year tournament that was meant to act as a fun way to sort out kids that were still too young for finals. Set to last from eight to noon and lead directly into lunchtime.

    Each class had their favorite, be it the teacher¡¯s pet or the class clown - and their classmates would excitedly jump around them, squealing out vaguely supportive nonsense, manifesting their enthusiasm best they could. Almost all favorites were picked for the same reason : a stand-out ability. Usually teleportation, flight, invisibility, something sneaky in that vein. Though at that age, they hardly knew how to use it effectively ; but with their opponents being the same age, it still gave them an edge. A few others, though, were perhaps even more over powered than their peers ; espers.

    For unknown reasons, children generally seemed to have stronger mental abilities than adults. Several theories tried to explain it; maybe it was due to the hyperactiveness of a child¡¯s imagination. But research into genetic science, and therefore the biological mechanics of abilities, had been judged unethical and banned by the high court decades and decades ago, so in the end, no one had the answer. Regardless, esper children were stupidly strong, and those with telekinesis and the like were almost always the top of their class. Mind readers were less fortunate in childhood - and rarely enrolled in GHH schools - but everyone knew what kind of people they¡¯d grow up to be like, so they envied them regardless.

    The duels were set to take place on two-meter square mats designed for gymnastics and martial arts. The kids would be paired up in alphabetical order, and face children from a class other than their own. However, ability matchup weren¡¯t taken into account, such that fire manipulators ended up facing water manipulators and whining about unfairness all while getting their fiery butt kicked.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    Catherine Yuu faced Gertrude Young, an unremarkable student from class E, with the ability to shapeshift into slime to a disappointingly limited extent : she could extend her arms half a meter longer at best. Still, all Catherine could do was melt the slime into a slightly more liquid slime, ; Gertrude was ultimately declared the victor of their ¡°fight¡±, which had lasted five minutes - five minutes of human pillows lightly lashing at each other until they hit the time limit. Catherine had to sit by herself for the remaining four hours, though she at least had the light satisfaction of Gertrude losing just a few fights later. Not that she cared all that much. Misses Young didn¡¯t have the profile of someone Catherine would be jealous of : she was almost as pathetic as herself. Instead, the little perfectionist focused on the kids who wouldn¡¯t stop winning. Spencer Church from A, who could create illusory clones of himself. Yasmine Chapman from J, and her ability to shout at the top of her lung¡­ inside of her opponent¡¯s mind exclusively. Felicio Shaw from F, and his rather unremarkable electricity manipulation, who wasn¡¯t a favourite at all but had somehow zapped his way to the top 12.

    As more and more students were eliminated and joined the sidelines, whining and kicking chairs, booing their defeaters or cheering on their class¡¯ favorite, Catherine, wide-eyed, was tilting back and forth on her plastic seat, breathlessly starring at the 12 eight-year olds still standing.

    Spencer faced Felicio. The former was on fire, almost literally, incredibly hyped at the prospect of finally winning one of these midyear contests after attending District 17 for two years; the latter was tired and wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep. 4 hours of nonstop fighting was just exhausting¡­ The whole thing made him dread the day he would have to work almost as much every single weekday. Since there were so few competitors left, the mats were now arranged together into 6 by 6 squares, allowing for much more movement during duels. Spencer reveled in the extra space, eager to duplicate into even more hyperactive brats. Eventually, the bell was rung, and their face-off began. Spencer began jumping left and right like some shounen protagonist, leaving behind his illusions to do the same; quickly the mat was clogged up by a squirming mass of tiny hands and feet circling around Felicio, trying to kick at him without stepping on each other. Identifying the boy within the mass of clones would have been difficult; fortunately, Fel didn¡¯t need to at all. He simply induced a current through a random kid in the tornado; growing stronger and stronger, it coursed in a circle through the ring, and short-circuited - the clones began to pop like balloons, producing sparks and sending other clones flying in the air and landing all around and outside the mat, poofing out of existence on impact with the floor. Left was only Spencer, somewhat bruised, burned and very confused; Felicio lightly pushed him out of the mat before he realised what was happening, winning the battle. Spencer broke into tears - hopefully from a broken pride and not from pain. A little guilty, but all too amused by the situation, Felicio found himself barely holding in a laugh and a smug smile. The clone-user was then dragged away to the infirmary, kicking and screaming. He would end up¡­. fine - healthy enough! Knowing how these duels usually ended up, the school had medical reinforcements ready to go.

    And that - was the last duel. Felicio had won the tournament. Wait - really? Even as his classmates carried him out of the gymnasium and to lunch, he was confused. He wasn¡¯t even trying much throughout the first few fights, since he would¡¯ve been happy to lose and get to laze off all morning - and while, eventually, the hype and adrenaline did get to him, he never would he have expected to win. For the first time, he¡­ was sort of glad to be studying here. Man, Brett would not believe it. Felicio laughed to himself - before focusing on the matter at hand ; what was for lunch?

    Walking throughout the courtyard, most kids outside of class F were either quiet, or in a sour mood, complaining about it all being rigged, or about the school restaurant¡¯s menu. Catherine thoughtlessly followed the teachers guiding the influx of children to their food source. Soon enough, they were all sitting and chatting loudly. From sheer unfortunate coincidence, Catherine ended up sitting in such a way that Felicio was on the table right across from her, perfectly in view, happily bent over his plate of tuna.

    He¡¯d won. Out of nowhere. That kid who never even tried and didn¡¯t even care to be here. He didn¡¯t even want to win. He didn¡¯t want any of this, and yet he had everything she wanted - everything she needed. Suddenly, all the built-up stress, frustration and hatred inside of her, emotions she herself barely understood, rushed back up to the surface of her mind. That rush focused, like light through a magnifying glass, on Felicio. He wasn¡¯t even someone she usually envied all that much. His appearance wasn¡¯t much unlike her own. He was a bit awkward. His ability wasn¡¯t anything special. Just like herself, he was an average kid. But unlike her, he was happy.

    Just a thought. A harmless thought.

    A strange¡­ urge.

    Clay shards shot through the crowded restaurant room, stabbing into the walls, the tables, the chairs, the children, the kitchen workers - and most of all, Felicio¡¯s face. Rapidly freezing then heating up his plate, using her ability more efficiently than ever before, Cat had broken it - blown it up into pieces that nested their sharp ends into his cheeks, forehead, and right eye - on top of it, the fish oil and tuna followed - boiling. Plate shards stabbed into his skin, he fainted before he could scream, passing out from the sheer pain, but not before others took note of the fish lying flat across his face like some putrid mask. A sight that would later be captioned ¡®Fish Face¡¯.

    Catherine¡¯s heart was running a marathon. She wanted to cry from guilt. This wasn¡¯t the same as her ability¡¯s usual freakouts. This wasn¡¯t an accident, or her ability going rogue ; she had done this. She had finally used her ability properly, purposefully¡­ and done this. In that split moment, this was what she¡¯d wanted. She was in a state of dissociation a kid like her couldn¡¯t quite put into words. She felt completely horrified with her own, unjustifiable acts, and she wanted to play the same prank on herself to make up for it somehow. Yet another part of her had wanted it, and felt¡­ joy. Her permanent smiling facade was straining. Her perfectionism was straining. Everyone else¡¯s effortless success was straining. This¡­ was relieving. It was objectively wrong, and she knew it, but it felt right. Like a weight off her chest. Like whatever was preventing her from using her ability properly had vanished - she¡¯d been freed, and, guided by raw impulse, and this had resulted. Pain and suffering. Just how could she¡­?

    Catherine immediately stood up and confessed her guilt, sobbing warm, heartfelt tears.

 Switching things up

    Due to the nature of the mid-year tournament contests, injuries were unavoidable. Hence, all school nurses were on duty that morning, and were even aided by peers from other districts. They needed all the help they could get ; while immaturely-inflicted acid burns, electrifications, frog-spitting curses and so on were no match for healing abilities, the latter were almost always at their most efficient when used immediately. The older the injury was, the least efficient they got ; even just half an hour was a crucial time loss.

    For the competition¡¯s entire four-hour period, the nurses, abilitied or otherwise - for milder injuries, modern medicine was just fine - were completely overworked. In compensation, they got to go home right around half past noon or so.

    And therein lied the catch. By lunchtime - in other words, when Catherine pulled her ¡®prank¡¯ on Felicio, the nurses were all long gone.

    The contest winner had to be transported ASAP to the nearest hospital - a one-hour drive away. Coupled with emergency care waiting times and the critical nature of his injuries, healing abilities were barely any help. The boy was stuck in bed for weeks, knowing full well that some of the scars on his face would likely never fade away. His parents and brother were distraught enough over that, but two other sequelae were even more tragic ; the permanent loss of vision in his right eye, and the - hopefully temporary, or at least, doctors seemed confident that it would only be temporary - loss of his ability.

    Brett, Fabrice, Brimmie - they were all torn and creased over Felicio¡¯s painful condition. Though, as was in their character, the twins¡¯ parents were almost just as concerned with the fact that, if he failed to recover, their son may just be kicked out of hero school. After all, though abilities weren¡¯t ¡®technically¡¯ required to become a hero, they certainly were to attend GHH schools. ¡®Was expelled from¡¯ would likely be an even worse weight on his resume than never attending hero school at all.

    Felicio was fairly indifferent to it all. Or, rather - he had very mixed feelings to it all. On one hand, he¡¯d be scarred for life - and even now, he was suffering. But on the other¡­ finally, some calm. He¡¯d always wondered what it would feel like - just laying in bed, day in and day out. It was¡­ peaceful. Felicio let his mind wander. A particular memory tugged at his otherwise calm mental state.

    <hr>

    Brett dragged his brother through the backdoor, and urged him to sit with him in the muddy soil of their house¡¯s long-abandoned vegetable garden. Felicio pouted, but let him do as he pleased. With the mid-year tournament just around the corner, the spunky fanboy had been all over him for weeks now - even more than usual. His excitement was fun in small doses, but when it was this intense, Felicio had considered, a few times already, just kicking him in the nuts and being done with it.

    Visibly unaware of his twin¡¯s sour mood, Brett went back into the house, then stormed back out, imprudently carrying the glass recycling bin. The hazy, tired blur they were known for left Felicio¡¯s eyes, as the boy went from sleepy to worried in half a second.

    ¡°B-Brett, what- You¡¯re not supposed to-¡± Far from being discouraged, Brett emptied the bin in a corner of the garden, picked out an empty beer bottle from the sharp mass of empty containers and broken silverware, and put it down, standing straight and proud in the middle of the tiny backyard. He then ran back over to his brother.

    ¡°Come on! Shoot it! Er- Zap it, whatever!¡± Felicio starred at him with a jaded expression.

    ¡°...it¡¯s glass. That¡¯s not gonna work.¡± He pretended to wipe the mud off of his pants and stood up, but his brother stopped him presto.

    ¡°Just doooo iiiiit! I wanna show you something, come on, come oooon!¡± Brett was shaking him by the shoulders, practically bursting with energy. Felicio let out a dramatic, elongated sigh as he targeted the green-ish bottle with his electric current.

    Brett pushed his brother and himself to the floor as a loud bang reached their ears. The bottle blew up into a flurry of pieces, stabbing into the walls and fence. The two dirt-covered boys struggled back to their feet - to see the bottle¡¯s base on its own, the rest of its structure shattered all around it. Felicio blinked, trying to recall if he¡¯d ever read anything about this on some blog or other.

    Brett broke down into laughter, happily giggling his heart away. ¡°See! See? Did you see that? I told you! That¡¯s my ability!¡± Felicio raised an eyebrow. That hardly explained anything. He retorted, getting fed up with Brett¡¯s nonsense again.

    ¡°But I did that. Which¡­ doesn¡¯t make sense, actually.

    - Well, yeah, dummy! That¡¯s the point! That¡¯s my ability! I can change OTHER PEOPLE¡¯s abilities into the ability to make shit explode!¡± Felicio immediately let out a short ¡®ooo¡¯, as if that made perfect sense - because, to him, it did. Felicio was quick on the uptake - that, and sort of just went along with whatever people said so long as it wasn¡¯t blatantly impossible.

    ¡°So is that why it took so long for you to realise you had one?

    - Hey, I¡¯m eight! That¡¯s not long, jerk! But. Yeah. I guess it is?

    - Uh. Wait, how did you even realise it?

    - You know the neighbour? Yasmine? Esper brat?

    - Wha, the one who yells inside of everyone¡¯s heads at the lake beach so she can skip the line at the ice cream stand?

    - Yeah. Well, she was using her ability to chase off pigeons - poor things, seriously! and, I dunno, I was mad at her, and I kinda felt weird, and then...

    - Wait, wait, did the bird-

    - Yeah!

    - Ew!¡± Felicio couldn¡¯t help but laugh. Sure, it sounded gross, and it was sad for the pigeon, but it also sounded kinda funny. Especially the part where Yasmine must¡¯ve whined her heart out, covered in bird bits. ¡°Did they find out it was you?

    - What? Of course not. I mean, I was hiding a bit like mom and dad always ask me to. Plus, how they have known? I didn¡¯t know right away either! Glad she wasn¡¯t screaming at me though¡­ ¡° Felicio gulped at the thought, then thought for a bit.

    - Uh-uh. So, you can¡¯t explode things yourself?¡± He¡¯d asked out of innocent curiosity - nonetheless, Brett gave him a murderous stare.

    ¡°No. I can¡¯t.¡± Felicio gulped. He hadn¡¯t meant to offend him...

    ¡°¡­So what are you gonna do now that you know? Won¡¯t you tell the parents?

    - Well, duh! But, not now.

    - ...Why not?

    - Cuz! I wanna practice! And, and! It has to be dramatic.¡± There was that word again. If Brett had to give up the use of all adjectives save for one for the rest of his life, he would¡¯ve picked ¡®dramatic¡¯ in a heartbeat. ¡°Just, imagine it. You win the year turney! And then boom! I tell them I have an ability too, and we can attend together! Mom, Dad, they¡¯ll be crazy happy!

    - Yeah right. Pft! I¡¯m not gonna win.

    - Um, you better? I¡¯m extra, ultra counting on you!This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    - Else what? You¡¯re gonna blow up a bird in my face?

    - Well, what are you gonna do if you can¡¯t even win a stupid contest?

    - Oh, it¡¯s stupid now? Guess I don¡¯t gotta win then.¡± Their nonsensical arguments escalated, and the two began play-fighting each other like cubs, rolling in the mud, having completely forgotten the garden was now a minefield of glass shards.

    ¡°WHO¡¯S THE DELINQUENT PLAYING WITH FIREWORKS THIS TIME?¡± Thankfully, the neighbours¡¯ shouting stopped them before they endured serious harm. Shit! they both thought as they ran back inside, tail in between their legs.

    Brett didn¡¯t speak a word about his ability to his parents, not for Felicio¡¯s entire hospital stay. Even being so young, he understood it would¡¯ve been in poor taste.

    The newly one-eyed kid recovered relatively quickly from the bulk of his injuries ; soon enough, the Shaw family was all back together in their home. With one exception ; his ability was still left unusable. At best he could produce the occasional sparks, and even when he managed to, they manifested as little more than static electricity.

    Since he was out of the hospital, the implications were clear. His ability may just be out for good. Ergo, expulsion was imminent. Demand was high, places were few, and the GHH was strict ; they couldn¡¯t afford to let unabiltied kids take up space, even if Felicio¡¯s situation theoretically wasn¡¯t terminal.

    Brimmie and Fabrice were openly devastated. First a non-abiltied kid ; now a disabilitied one, failing school just two years in.

    Ah well. Felicio, in turn, could deal with this. Sure, he lost an eye. He likely wouldn¡¯t get to use his ability again for a while, either.

    But leaving behind hero school¡­ was a huge weight off his shoulders. He didn¡¯t even have to feel guilty on his parents¡¯ behalf, either ; Brett could just- go instead! If he didn¡¯t up and confess to having an ability already, Felicio would just have to tell the parents himself. He couldn¡¯t bear being the only one content with this situation, while the rest of his household sulked in their own misery.

    On the day he was released from the hospital, and ate dinner with his family again for the first time in weeks, he waited. Waited and waited for Brett to bring it up. No luck.

    Fine then.

    ¡°Hey, bro! Did you tell mom?

    - Tell what?¡± Brett looked clueless. No, he was faking it.

    ¡°Your thing. Did you show her your thing?¡±, Fel insisted.

    ¡°What thing?¡± Brimmie assertively joined in. Brett glared at his brother, then sighed, defeated.

    The family had all gathered around the coffee table, happy to leave behind the undercooked spaghetti that served as their dinner. The parents, dubious and confused, but characteristically curious, sat bundled up together on the couch, while the twins wracked their brains figuring out a setup that would enable them to display off the ability without¡­ too much damage. A makeshift city scene with some bits of old toys and tabletop games, with a house and some random rubble, then topped it off with an upside-down plastic box, serving as a semi-translucent dome, to minimise damage. Their parents¡¯ love for needless artistry and drama had not been lost on them - they¡¯d even been remarkably considerate. Then, being as professional as eight-year-olds could be, they repeated the experiment from a few weeks ago, with Felicio focusing on the toy house instead of a bottle this time. Everything was blown to pieces, contained within the dome¡­ which did not protect the surface of the coffee table itself. Crap.

    Even putting aside the damage to their already rundown furniture, Brimmie and Fabrice weren¡¯t nearly as impressed with their little performance as their sons had hoped. With diligent patience, they explained why to the two brothers - or rather, they explained two of their three reasons.

    For one, while Brett did have an ability, it wasn¡¯t one he could use by himself - it was more¡­ sabotage, if anything. And they had doubts on whether it would be enough for him to enrol in a GHH school, especially mid-year.

    Secondly, this didn¡¯t solve their first problem; Even if Brett went and enrolled, Felicio would still lose his spot. He still would¡¯ve failed. Worse, he¡¯d be directly put into comparison with his twin, who¡¯d upstage him.

    Lastly - and they omitted from bringing up that reason with kids that weren¡¯t even in their teens - though they wouldn¡¯t have admitted him to themselves, they¡¯d¡­ concealed Brett¡¯s existence over time. Just slowly transitioned to only ever show themselves in public with one son at a time, addressing him either by their collective last name, or as Felicio. The reason was simple. They¡¯d loved both their children since they¡¯d birthed them. But they¡¯d lived for heroism and abilitied antics for the entirety of their own lives. It was an undeniable part of them - more than an unhealthy obsession and the source of much of their income, it was the reason they¡¯d found each other, and the meaning they¡¯d found to their lives. Against their better judgement, it affected how they¡¯d treated their two children - only one of which served their passion.

    Knowing this¡­ suddenly re-introducing him into the world by enrolling him, right as his brother was taken out of school, would not have reflected well on them - and would likely have consequences. They lacked the guts to face them. Keeping things flowing as they had was more comfortable. Safer. Even close neighbours, who knew the two had, at some point, parented two children, had enough emotional sense and tact not to bring up what they figure could only have been a tragic subject.

    These arguments cemented their position; they would not enrol Brett into a GHH school. There was no convincing them otherwise - immature as they were, their primary school sons weren¡¯t going to win that conversation.

    Not that they knew that. They were determined to ¡®help¡¯ - that¡¯s how Felicio saw it. He was finally happy ; it stood to reason the people he loved should be as well. The two brothers struggled for an alternative.

    The Shaws couldn¡¯t find any.

    Not Brimmie, Fabrice, or Felicio. Brett was the only one who, in his childish nature, saw a clear way to ¡®fix¡¯ the situation.

    ¡°Can¡¯t we just, like, switch places?¡±

    The adults glared at him with dejected surprise. They would have thought him old enough to understand that, just because the two were twins, did not mean they were interchangeable - though perhaps they were to blame, having slowly assimilated the two brothers into one in public. But, then, they¡­ well, they actually thought about it, their knowledge of crazy schemes pulled off by past heroes combining with their own imagination and desire for fantasy, and concluded - Yes.

    With some effort, it could be done.

    The plan was¡­ well, relatively simple.

    Felicio would still attend most classes, but whenever abilities were involved, Brett would go instead. As for how they would sneak Brett in, there was no need to ; The campus was gigantic, and the students plenty. For the sake of saving time, checks at the gate were considered superfluous and skipped entirely, so any kid could enter, really. As long as the two were never seen together in the same place, it would be just fine. Brett would just have to spend a lot of time hiding in the toilet or empty halls. He could still follow online classes from there anyway, so his parents saw no issues with it.

    Now, there was still the issue that Brett¡¯s ability was not anything like Fel¡¯s : They could get around that too. He could sneakily turn someone¡¯s ability into that of exploding things, just for a bit, then claim that was him using his ability to short-circuit whatever unfortunate thing had blown up.

    Yes, the system was flawed, and almost certainly going to fail ; they had to artificially ¡®scar¡¯ Brett¡¯s face with makeup every morning so that he could pass as his brother, and the two had to somewhat tone down their respective personalities, though fortunately, being kids, they didn¡¯t have too much of one anyway. But even all that considered, Brimmie and Fabrice were confident ; it only needed to last until Fel could reliably use his own ability again, which should be anywhere between two to eight weeks. They just needed to pretend that had happened much earlier by using Brett as a stand-in, to avoid Felicio¡¯s expulsion.

    What they did not account for was that, once they knew this was an option, the boys weren¡¯t about to let it go. This was not only incredibly exciting and fun, being all secretive and mysterious right under their classmates¡¯ noses, it was an ideal arrangement for the both of them. Felicio got to work less, and pursuing short term interests and his nonchalant nature, and Brett got to play hero, flaunt around his ability and openly socialise with kids his age again. Instead of slowly transitioning back into the way things used to be, the brothers started to switch more and more, thanking the existence of public bathrooms for the discretion it offered them. If anyone asked, they had bladder problems. Most people weren¡¯t rude enough to ask for more details. And, somehow, doing it so often meant they actually got quite skilled at playing the same person. So good, that their parents couldn¡¯t find a good enough reason to slap them out of it. After all, they were utter hero nerds themselves, and this excited them too.

    And so, Brett and Felicio became more or less one, planning out the way ¡°Felicio¡±¡¯s day would go every morning - though over the years, Brett ironically ended up being the one who played him most of the time. Felicio would follow around, just hanging out in the shadows, enjoying himself and his supporting role in his own life, while his brother enjoyed venting out his extra energy and ambition to his heart¡¯s content.

    Still, this did come at a cost ; since it was harder for them to directly use Felicio¡¯s electricity without giving away the trick, their grade average fell from S to A tier. But that was all bureaucracy. The ranking system was as flawed as any other. In truth, their teamwork as Bolt, their future hero alter-ego, was so flawless that it easily gave them an edge worth more than the sum of their parts. All that, without the high and mighty GHH suspecting a thing.

 Catherine and Junie

    Following the Fish Face incident, Catherine¡¯s sobbing breakdown and inability to explain her own actions led to her being sent to the school¡¯s psychiatrist first and foremost. They were really only a junior therapist specialised in dealing with teenagers and little else ; never before had they been put in charge of someone so young, but they resolved to do their best ; Most would¡¯ve, seeing just how devastated the young girl was. Her own guilt had beaten her to a miserable pulp.

    They could barely get her to speak. She only apologised over and over again whenever questioned ; the rest of the time she spent shoving her face into her tiny hands, crying her heart out. Several minutes into the session, she grabbed onto the side of the desk, bending over to hit her forehead against it - saved unscathed by the therapist, appalled. Things never got that bad for the rest of the session - feeling like she was genuinely given the right and the time to be listened to helped Catherine calm down at least a little - but it nonetheless left them with nothing but concern.

    The report they addressed their superiors expressed these worries ; the girl was not okay. She needed to be observed, and potentially put into foster care. This constituted the majority of their report ; there was another side to it, however. Over the few hours they spent surveying and learning to understand the girl, amongst her cries and self-victimising, and surprising attempts at self-control despite her age, she showed brief moments of amusements, whenever specific details of the incident or Felicio¡¯s subsequent misfortune was brought up. They really were brief ; mere instants, a second or two, and always followed up by further desperation - almost like Catherine was trying to hide it. Maybe they were simply overinterpreting her behaviour. They had never been asked to care for young children before - but it still tugged at them, enough that they felt a need to include it.

    His authority stopped there. What came of his report is unclear. Though, in the well-maintained grand machinery of the GHH and its institutions, one needn¡¯t even be of a sardonic mind to doubt an official document could be simply ¡®lost¡¯ without someone¡¯s intentional interference, there was no clear evidence that was the truth. Nor would anyone have had much of a motive to - Catherine¡¯s well being concerned only the law and her family, and reason would stand, most people were more scared of the former.

    Though, Miles and Kate weren¡¯t the most straightforward of people.

    Catherine was simply asked to stay home a few days before returning to school, potentially in a different class. Far as she could tell, her family or teachers weren¡¯t taken accountable for Felicio¡¯s injuries either - neither was she, of course, on account of being eight.

    Her parents didn¡¯t share that viewpoint. Miles and Kate Yuu held her fully accountable for what had happened, frankly unable to understand how it had possibly come to this. They likely saw it as an impulse to go against their good intent ; a shortcoming of their methods. That wasn¡¯t inaccurate - however, they failed to understand why.

    They had their daughter removed from District 17¡¯s public GHH institute entirely, strictly homeschooling her for a few months. Oddly, she found she prefered this. No interactions with anyone but the only two people in her little world she at least somewhat understood. Even then, she blamed herself for it. This was likely supposed to be punishment - she shouldn¡¯t be enjoying it. And so she forced herself not to. By the end, she had lost a third of her weight and whatever husk of a personality she had was bent even further. Catherine Yuu, age 9, was then put into a private hero school.

    The existence of those schools was contradictory, but easily explained.

    Following the unexpected, quasi-overnight success of the GHH¡¯s own schools, investors looking for the next lucrative trend had jumped on the bandwagon ; Private hero schools gradually made their apparition. Most had no relation to the GHH or police whatsoever, nor were they recognized by any authority, even beyond the government ; independent sources had developed to rate these oddballs, but they weren¡¯t regulated either ; ultimately, there was no real way to tell if there was any value in putting one¡¯s child in such an establishment over a free, government-owned one beyond assumptions and gossip. Over the years, however, a few had been endorsed by the GHH itself through often opaque means, and had become the real moneymakers of the private hero-schooling world.

    Though their independence implied there was no real consistency on how each of these private institutions worked, in general, they deviated from their public counterparts in four ways : Longer hours, smaller classes, stricter teachers, and more specific lessons ; they justified the extra fee through the promise that they would prepare any child to not only pass and graduate, but excel in heroism. To the point that pursuing any other career would be alien to them, even.

    From then on, Catherine was enrolled into the Herring Heroic Private College. Despite its name, it taught children of all ages, much like District 17¡¯s. But unlike it, those who attended it were of much higher social standing. Chances were, if one¡¯s parents could afford it, they tended to put their children into private hero schooling over standard GHH schools, mistakenly believing them to simply be ¡®better¡¯ - or simply being used to the price of things from their social upbringing. The trimestrial fee wasn¡¯t cheap ; if it was any token of their - broken and misdirected - but genuine interest in helping their daughter, Miles and Kate had indebted themselves just to afford her tuition and ensure she would finally straighten out.

    Despite the added difficulty of fitting in with an entirely separate social demographic, Catherine¡¯s grades and behaviour became irreproachable over just a few years. After Felicio¡¯s incident, Catherine¡¯s ability never went rogue again; it still wasn¡¯t all too powerful, but she had full control over it. She no longer let any of her emotions slide through, tackling every situation with the same plastic, v-shaped smile, and avoiding unnecessary human contact to focus on her studies. She was a ghost of a person, but exemplary in her grades and behaviour. She lost even more weight, to the point of unhealthiness - which didn¡¯t stop people from finding her ¡®too fat for her age¡¯ based on her body shape alone, but she locked those remarks away like all her other frustrations. She picked up sports, but they did not help. Ultimately, she concluded that per her ability¡¯s stationary, elemental nature, her poor health would not impede her productivity, and let sports go too.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    Despite her notable improvements over the course of her stay at Herring¡¯s, she was still considered a C-ranking student to the GHH ; due to the dubious nature of private education, they almost only acknowledged the two years she spent in District 17¡¯s institution. The eight years that followed were scoffed at - if anything, they found the sudden improvement suspicious, possibly ducking away points for it. Still, Catherine let nothing show through.

    <hr>

    Despite her best efforts to the contrary, Catherine had even made a friend over the course of her school years : Junie Shards.

    In many regards, the two were polar opposites. Junie was something of a prodigy - tall, fit, the youngest daughter in a higher middle-class family of six, who lived in a cosy farm far off in the countryside. Kind, naive, passionate, and, even having transitioned quite young, at ease with herself. And yet, the two had plenty in common, too. Most obviously, a lack of friends.

    Junie¡¯s spoiled childhood, sheltered upbringing and good-willed nature had made her grow up rather childish and awkward, even through adolescence - people her age had trouble relating to her - the time she spent living in the countryside didn¡¯t help either : she seemed unable to adapt to the ways of city life. Ultimately, people came to her like a fly to a lamp, curious about her origins, her ability, or drawn to her appearance, her skills - but they left just as quickly once her novelty wore off, and all that was left was an eccentric, out of place child that wore out their patience. But there was something else about Junie that drew people away. While she was usually a bit of a bobble-headed, bumbling idiot with a clueless streak, she completely changed whenever she used her ability.

    As soon as that energy blade spawned into her hands, she became an entirely different person. Silent, focused, confident - almost cocky in her calm attitude. During lessons, duels, practice, presentations, she completely lost her childish self, becoming more akin to a robot - cold and calculated. She herself didn''t seem creeped out by it at all, or even really aware of it. She admitted that having her sword out helped her focus, but nothing beyond that. Many took it as hypocritical, or just scary, and stayed away from the girl.

    And so Junie was alone, despite herself. As was Catherine, however the latter wanted it that way. Even then, Junie felt drawn to the girl. She wanted to give her some form of company.

    Catherine didn''t want any - but she wasn¡¯t willing to shove her away either, to avoid being rude. Junie came by to hang out again and again, until Catherine grew to expect it. She figured it was a good thing. She needed social interaction - they both did. Junie had grown up sheltered and isolated, and the few people she knew back home outside of her family knew her under a different name. Junie herself had long gathered the courage to come out and tell them - but her relatives were supportive : excessively so. They wanted to spare her any pain and ensure her a perfect, troubleless existence. So they had avoided her the trouble and burned her bridges for her, enrolling her in a comfy school off in the city by the time of her puberty and realisations, encouraging whatever slight interest she showed, never expressing any doubts or constructive worries. As a result, she knew very little about the world, but much about herself. She wanted to be a hero. She wanted to live a long life. She wanted to enjoy lots of different things - she basically had a whole list of places to visit and hobbies to try out people had mentioned off-handedly, that she¡¯d never let go off and swore she¡¯d get to one day. And she wanted to be Catherine¡¯s friend.

    The two made an odd pair - yet were barely ever seen apart. It was hard for other people to see nothing more than an everyday friendship there ; ¡®Opposites attract¡¯, they figured. In all fairness, Junie¡¯s feelings certainly leaned a bit further than platonic companionship.

    Something about Catherine fascinated her. While, at first, she had taken her for a shy, lost girl, Junie gradually realised there was much, much more going on. She couldn¡¯t quite put her finger on it ; it was clear how much effort Catherine put towards hiding¡­ something. And Junie wanted to see her let it out. She was determined to make her let it out. Sure, Catherine Yuu¡¯s angular, puffy-cheeked smile was cute : but it wasn¡¯t real. It wasn¡¯t how she was feeling. The rare occasions where she could feel her almost slip, act out of line - those moments proved it, and Junie lived for them. She was delighted that she could offer Catherine a space wherein she was confident enough to let her true self show through, and she always tried to encourage her further.

    Catherine started pushing Junie away. This couldn¡¯t last any longer. She had spent the last eight years trying to hide away her imperfections. It was everything she¡¯d worked towards. The only unscrewed cork in her shimmering machinery was Junie and everything she stood for. She was like a fly to her - just distracting and obnoxious enough for Catherine to forget herself now and again. She hated it. The idea of lifting the curtains of her mind for anyone to see was revolting. She knew all too well what her true feelings and thoughts were like. If she let herself go even for a second, it would just happen all over again. She¡¯d ruin everything all over again. Maybe that was what Junie wanted. Junie wanted her to ruin everything all over again. No, no, again with those thoughts. Junie didn¡¯t care. Junie was a normal girl, and Catherine should pay her no mind - as normal people did. She had to be calm. And. Reasonable. She couldn¡¯t let things slip by her like this. She needed time away from Junie.

    <hr>

    Graduation came, and with it their respective GHH interviews. Both were hired. Junie an S - Justice¡¯s Sword - and Catherine a C - Erusserprepyh. Per the usual ranking pair-up rules and their reported history together, they were assigned to work together as a duo. Still, Catherine let nothing show through.

    Her parents had sunk everything into her tuition fees. Catherine picked up a part-time job, but even coupled with her meagre GHH rookie earnings, it wasn¡¯t much. Junie offered to be her roommate. She politely declined, and went looking for other roommate offers - from people who had nothing to do with the GHH.

    And she found one.

 Roommates

    Seeking roommate. District 17 apartment, 5th floor. 2 bedrooms, 1 bathroom, 1 living room (counts as the kitchen). Monthly half is circa 334, electricity bill included. I work a lot, we won¡¯t see each other much. Contact me : [email protected]</a>

    Clutching the newspaper clipping to her chest - with both hands, in a symmetrical embrace - Catherine took in a deep breath, pressed the doorbell once, and crossed her hands behind her back. She was on her best behaviour - as, usual, really. When dealing with anyone other than Junie, she knew to be polite, succinct, and let no hint of anything else seep through. She was prepared, professional, on point. Nonetheless, she was caught off guard.

    Even having exchanged mail, Catherine and Gabrielle had yet to see each other¡¯s faces. Both of their addresses just used a default profile picture. Catherine had no expectations ; even then, they were blown away. The woman that stood across from her, hand still on the door she¡¯d just opened, looked exceedingly similar to her.

    The two weren¡¯t doppelgangers by any stretch of the expression - but they shared an uncanny resemblance. Both were short - though Catherine was shorter - with the same toffee complexion, light brown hair, freckled cheeks, generous curves, button nose, and thick, rounded eyebrows. That said, Gabrielle lacked Catherine¡¯s trademark pointed, wing-like ears ; hers were small and laid flat.

    Gabrielle was clearly thrown off by their similarities, though she frowned it off. Catherine, on the other hand, was oddly unfazed by it - or, rather, the fact they looked like doubles wasn¡¯t what bothered her. What upset Catherine was that, by her standards, Gabrielle¡¯s looks were nearly perfect - more than a reflection, she was an upgraded version of her own appearance.

    While Catherine uncomfortably carried all of her weight in her hips, leaving everything below her knees thin and unbalanced - a remarkable pear shape that Junie adored, but Catherine didn¡¯t care for - Gabrielle¡¯s hourglass waist was much more symmetrical, and her legs didn¡¯t look like chicken thighs. She had coily hair that cascaded down to the middle of her back, framing her features elegantly while Catherine¡¯s square-cut made her look five - granted, she had maintained that same hairstyle since she was about five. Catherine¡¯s grey irises felt off, sad and unnatural - striking and mysterious, Junie found, but Catherine didn¡¯t care for them - while Gabrielle¡¯s deep brown eyes matched her hair and gave her an enigmatic, pensive gaze. On top of that, she also had much smaller eyes, and so her expressions felt less cartoonish, more elegant. This also made it harder to read what she was thinking - a trait which Catherine envied all the more.

    After a dry ¡®hello¡¯, Gabrielle urged Catherine inside with a mere head tilt. The shorter girl replied with forced enthusiasm, desperately trying to mute her growing envy. The apartment was neat and well kept, but small and rather empty. It appeared that Gabrielle hardly ever spent any time there. Most of the furniture appeared to be designed for public buildings ; colourful, cheap and sturdy plastic shelves and tables. Catherine noticed a few garden chairs as well. The western wall served as the kitchen ; two long rectangular blocks used as counters, covered with this and that - a microwave, a blender, an electric kettle, a rice cooker - pushed up against the wall, a small wooden night desk used for its drawers, and a fridge. Gabrielle waved her hand towards the unstable looking table and chairs, glaring at Catherine with an expecting look. ¡°Sit, I¡¯ll make tea.¡± With that, Gabrielle turned on her heels in a sharp 180 degrees, walking over to the kitchen with effortless style. Catherine bit down on her lip, sitting down as instructed - and discovered that below the table lay a large and fuzzy carpet she hadn¡¯t noticed until then. It was perhaps the liveliest part of the room - and looked to be the oldest, too.

    Three minutes later, tea was served - in paper cups, with plastic spoons. Catherine cleared her throat, giving Gabrielle a beaming smile. Analysing the room had helped her calm down and find her bearings.

    ¡°Thanks for the tea. Pleased to finally meet you proper - I¡¯m Catherine!¡±, she recited while extending a hand - which Gabrielle failed to take, all too occupied sipping her tea.

    - I know your name. We¡¯ve been exchanging emails for the past week.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    - Haha. Fair enough.¡± Catherine retracted her hand and took a short sip of her tea, taking the opportunity to breathe in deeply. ¡°Just thought I should - mark the occasion, or something. We¡¯ll be roommates from now on, after all!¡± Still, no answer. Catherine gripped her cup tightly with both her hands, digging her nails into the frail cardboard.

    ¡°You work in this area, right?¡± She tried, again, with renewed enthusiasm.

    - Barmaid downtown, sure enough.¡± Catherine¡¯s face lit up - finally! Gabrielle smirked into her cup, causing her guest to lean back. That girl was - messing with her on purpose. Still, Catherine let no embarrassment or frustration show through.

    ¡°I see! So you work in a caf¨¦? What¡¯s it called?

    - What¡¯s it matter to you?¡±

    Catherine took in a longer sip.

    ¡°Sorry, I didn¡¯t intend to be nosy or anything. Just making small talk. Ah, as for me - I¡¯m a newly employed GHH employee, a-

    - I know. A C rank.

    - Y...Yeah.¡± Gabrielle stopped drinking, raising her eyes from her cup for the first time since she¡¯d sat down. A pesky smile stretched itself across her cheeks.

    - So you¡¯re basically livestock, ey? Look at someone wrong, and it¡¯s off to AR...¡±

    That... was probably her idea of a joke, so Catherine sketched out a smirk. Suddenly, she missed Junie¡¯s love of puns ; her sense of humour was grating, but Gabrielle¡¯s was just¡­ sick.

    ¡®AR¡¯ was an acronym that stood for ¡®Ability Removal¡¯ - commonly referring to both a substance and the instance in which it was used, which was just what it sounded like. Machine-assisted, chemical amputation of one¡¯s ability. It was probably the number one subject of most GHH controversies in recent years. Even ignoring the countless testimonies of painful, or faulty AR - the injection was known to provoke exacerbated immune reactions - abilities were seen as this sacred thing by many, and the mere idea of removing one was akin to that of the death sentence - or even torture. It nonetheless had its fervent supporters. Since abilitied crime relied on abilities, removing a criminal¡¯s ensured they physically could not repeat the offence.

    However, the government also considered allowing for the use of AR on GHH heroes. The laws had failed to pass multiple times - and it was unlikely they would any time soon - but many still feared the eventuality. If the law was put into place - though, if rumours were to believed, the GHH had already started this practice behind the scene - then heroes that were convicted of malpractice or otherwise culprit of needless harm and property damage could be penalised for it with AR. This fit with the GHH¡¯s purpose : they had always valued civilian safety and damage control above all else.

    It was a commendable effort. And one that many heroes thought themselves to be above. It was just much more gratifying and glamorous to play daredevil to catch the villain, no matter the cost. Countless unneeded deaths had been caused by heroes with oversized egos, and none of the GHH¡¯s tamer penalties had managed to put an end to it. They figured that was a good enough argument in AR¡¯s favour - public opinion disagreed. Not only did hero fans tend to side with heroes, they justifiably found the ethics of AR questionable.

    ¡°Oh, those rumours? I¡­ wouldn¡¯t give them much credit.

    - Whatever you say.

    - Plus - they wouldn¡¯t waste AR on me, you know? My ability¡¯s nothing remarkable. I can boil water for tea and freeze ice cubes for cocktails, and that¡¯s about it. Haha!¡± Truthfully, Catherine had been warming up her cup continuously throughout their chat. Either her kettle was faulty, or Gabrielle had a critical misunderstanding of how infusion worked. She¡¯d returned to her unfazed expression, barely honouring Catherine with a grunt of a response.

    ¡°...What about you? What¡¯s your ability?¡± Catherine knew asking that was putting herself at risk of becoming even more jealous, but it was worth it if she could get to know Gabrielle any better. Spending the foreseeable future rooming with a judgemental wall may just be more grating than spending years of her school life with Junie.

    Gabrielle shot to her feet, shaking the table as she pushed against it, her chair grinding backwards along the floor. Her cup tipped over - luckily, she¡¯d long finished it. ¡°Let¡¯s just get on with the tour¡±, she

    Catherine quietly obliged.

    ...touchy subject, then.

    <hr>

    Catherine unpacked quickly. She opened her laptop, purposefully ignored the five messages she¡¯d already gotten from Junie - she hadn¡¯t sent them from her work email, so it was nothing urgent - and opened her search engine to indulge her curiosity - no, no. To acquire relevant information. It wasn¡¯t wise to live with someone she barely knew anything about, so¡­ this was fine. Her parents wouldn¡¯t have even hesitated. But she¡­ well, she wouldn¡¯t have liked to have it done to her.

    She typed in ¡®Gabrielle Gabby¡¯, and scrolled for the following hour¡­ maybe more.

 Ability Removal

    The sudden development of abilities by hundreds of teenagers all over the capital - and to a lesser extent, the country - in 12417 had transformed society on an unprecedented scale for the forseeable future, and in just a few years at that. Nothing had come close to being anywhere near as revolutionary - and with good reason.

    Scarlet Maylis had been one of those very first abilitied kids - and when the initial ¡®trendy hype¡¯ around abilities died down with the First Super Villain incident, she was one of the first to take in and fight for other now discriminated abilitied folks. Details, coincidences and circumstances that had been largely lost to history - or rather, blown up out of proportions and romanticised to the point of complete inaccuracy - had lead Scarlet to co-lead the First District, the pro-abilities revolutionary group that would eventually overthrow the government and put one Scarlet Maylis into power.

    Her largest motivation had always been the well-being of her fellow abilitied folk - and upon obtaining power and leadership, she had set out to ensure them safety and privilege - in spite of costs, the non-abilitied, and all else, it seemed. Her legislations had, amongst other things, lead to the creation of the GHH, banned all genetic research, and allowed the Underground to prolifer relatively unbothered.

    Maylis¡¯ draconic regime established the ¡®rules¡¯ of the heroes and villains antics that had defined the following century - and even long after her death, it had largely remained unchanged.

    That was until Ability Removal.

    AR was just a few decades old - still fairly new technology. And yet, it had already become a game-changer. That a simple injection could remove one¡¯s ability - irreversibly, breached every taboo in the book. It was terrifying, a prime weapon of torture and intimidation - especially since it was, by all means, illegal. It modified genetics ; all research on which was banned. The government kept quiet on exactly how they procured it. The average joe wouldn¡¯t have a clue. But crooks, thugs and those otherwise familiar with the capital¡¯s underworld knew. AR had been developed in the quiet corners of a the Underground by a no-name defunct chemist, for the purposes of a small gang.

    What no one knew, however, was that AR hadn¡¯t been invented for torture or intimidation at all - quite the opposite.

    Once a place where history was made, the Underground District was soon simply left behind by the main actors of that history once its role had been played out - although they were too endeared to it to tear it down. After all, even if Maylis and her co-leads had managed their coup, it had taken them (and all who had followed them) nearly ten years. Not only that, many of the First District¡¯s members were young teens, left with no other option after their ability had been discovered. Young children that had grown up in, adapted to and come to appreciate life in the District - and who knew nothing else. Once it was all over, they still hadn¡¯t much of anywhere else to go.

    The government knew this, and were largely responsible for it. They attempted to put social measures in place to help the kids reinsert into normal society and education - and it helped a few, sure. But ultimately, the damage was done. Many smaller gangs had formed while a part of the First District, and now that it had disbanded, they¡¯d stuck together and stuck to what they knew. Most notably, the up-and-coming, flourishing weapon-trafficking MSW group, founded by Medea and Hyacinth - a duo that had a rocky history with Maylis to say the least, and were more than happy to take over once she¡¯d moved on to a different power-trip - only grew in influence. They helped shape what began as a hideout for misled delinquents into an organized underworld, that could no longer be simply ¡®gotten rid off'', even if the government had wanted to. It hardly mattered ; Maylis, still in charge of government at the time, continuously prohibited authorities from busting and blocking off the district, so much so that it eventually grew so important and powerful that it just became something they had to live with and adapt to.

    It continued to evolve, becoming a nest, information web and marketplace for villains - and vigilantes, and over time, even civilians from the poorer districts like 17 or 15. The simple fact that the government referred to criminals affiliated with it with the title of ¡°villains¡± made it feel like they were worth more than the rest of the criminal riff-raff - as though the Underground was an ¡°official¡± counterpart to the GHH. In that way, it was, to those who knew about it, the ultimate proof of the government¡¯s hypocrisy. Just a few months after AR began being trafficked through the Underground, the government, too, had ¡°discovered¡± ability removal technology. Vigilantes, whose mission statement was to fight against villains independently from the controversial GHH, always seemed to be a bigger priority to authorities than active, well-established villains. At least a good half of the police¡¯s equipment was bought directly from MSW itself, without the government even making much of an effort to disguise it. The GHH was in bed with the Underground, and it was only somewhat of a secret.

    <hr>

    The underground district was home to several small gangs and groups, tight-knit teams of diverse individuals, who all shared similar stories : Failed by society, school, peers, chance, they¡¯d ended up on the street or nothing short of it, and had, in desperation, resorted to crime, relying on their only remaining asset ; their ability. Some of these groups aspired to make a name for themselves, and be recognised by the GHH itself as villains - cheesy name, rank and all ; but most were content just living day by day in the relative comfort of the underground - and were even relatively friendly with one another, prioritising the GHH and MSW as common enemies rather than competing like the larger gangs. One group, part of the latter category and composed of seven members, had one stand-out quirk ; a child.

    It was unclear whether she was biologically related to any of the gang members, or just some abandoned kid they¡¯d taken under their wing, but regardless, they all raised her as their daughter, caring for and protecting her with what little they had. Even beyond her little gang of caretakers, she¡¯d earned a bit of a reputation with other gangs that would¡¯ve otherwise messed with hers ; everyone shared a soft spot for little Sheryl.

    By her eighth birthday, in 12504, she developed an ability ; acid generation. Compulsive and near-constant acid generation. Liquid acid pouring out of her skin pores at all times ; an acid that she herself was not immune to. Though not strong enough to dissolver her entirely, it burnt her skin and inner tissues, causing her non-stop pain, harm and sobs. The gang was mortified. Sheryl was slowly and unstoppably killing herself. They were desperate for a solution - and unable to find any.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    One of the typical Underground archetypes was that of the ¡®misunderstood genius¡¯ - a.k.a., mad scientist ; ambitious bachelors who¡¯d taken their ¡°eccentric¡± science to a place free of legal regulations and tax. Wasa Geez was a by-the-book example - brilliant in all things chemistry and physics all throughout high school, but kicked out for repeated theft of school equipment, the ability-less (and admittedly hyper imaginative and airheaded) geek spent much of her time between pickpocketing and odd-job-ing to get by, playing dull pranks on her deadbeat household and reading through scholar papers she bought whenever she could - the last of which, she prefered to do in the comfort and solitude of an abandoned shack in the woods she¡¯d stumbled upon some years prior. It wasn¡¯t far from the derelict mining sites south-west of the capital, so Wasa figured it was another vestige of that time : that was, until her private reading time was inopportunely interrupted by two street thugs looking to use the underground entrance hidden through the chest she¡¯d been using as a seat. The three - despite all odds - became fast friends, and later joined with a few others, becoming the gang that would eventually care for lil¡¯ Sheryl.

    Naturally, when her acid manifested and threatened her life, Wasa dived headfirst back into her adolescent obsession - though inverted, and spent countless, tireless days brainstorming, theorising and experimenting with some way to rid the poor girl of her ability.

    AR - or at least, its first usable prototype - was invented by a gang of symbiotic rejects desperate to keep their little prot¨¦g¨¦e alive, by any means necessary. They didn¡¯t even hesitate ; as soon as they¡¯d gotten proof that the concoction worked, they injected Sheryl with it.

    If the current, sanitized and revised over and over version of AR was still known to induce harrowing and potentially scarring side effects - its clandestinely improvised ancestor wasn¡¯t exactly any better. Though it likely saved her life, the injection broke Sheryl in more subtle ways.

    Heart-wrenching screams, deafening wailing and bloody splatter forever stained AR¡¯s first successful use. Nonetheless, it was successful. A deeply-rooted, visceral part of the girl was torn from her insides, insidiously, turning her own immune system into a torture chamber that was too late to help anything. Worse yet, it only partially worked.

    <hr>

    The next day, Sheryl ran away. Ran off and out of the underground, on her own, drooling and spitting acid through her sobs, desperately trying to generate more ; it was no use. Her ability was but a shadow of what she was used to ; her spit remained more acidic than average, and dripped gratuitously out of her gaping mouth - that was about it. Sheryl was a screaming child cuddled up in the middle of a street, screaming to anyone and no one - it¡¯s gone, it¡¯s gone, it¡¯s gone, it¡¯s gone, all gone, all gone, it hurts, it¡¯s gone.

    She was retrieved by policemen. Unable to be identified, she was assigned a last name after authorities failed to find any of her relatives due to the inexistence of any genetic testing technology, and put in charge of the foster system. She was, for the first few months, put into the care of a therapist, who encouraged her to disclose the cause of her distress, but could not get her to name who were the ones who removed her ability, or how. Not that she couldn¡¯t remember ; she was old enough that she knew by heart their full names and their usual ways in and out of the underground. About a year later, she returned and reunited with them.

    Her former caretakers were unbearably sorry. Not one of them had caught a full night¡¯s sleep for months after that day, haunted by her desperate, agonising howls. Even Wasa, despite her pride, had resolved to bury any trace of their ability removal research for good ; Sheryl begged them not to. Conflicted, confused, but unwilling to refuse her anything after what had happened, they went along with it.

    Once they¡¯d reassured her that they still loved and cared for her, they offered her advice ; stop skipping school and sneaking down here, embrace this opportunity to live a normal life after all. Sheryl dutifully swore to abide by it. But as she grew up and the orphanage allowed her more freedom, she continuously sneaked out to the underground whenever she could. To her, it had always been - and still remained her home. Even as she came to see it for what it was - and as distressing and scarring as her ability removal had been, Sheryl never held it against the district or her childhood caretakers. They¡¯d done it for her sake, and she was thankful for that much, at least. AR had broken open a leak, slowly building up envy and spite in her heart drop by drop over the years - but not once did she lash it out on the gang.

    Sheryl drowned herself in study, tirelessly working herself to the bone, refining her social skills ; she studied economics, public relations and speaking, sociology, psychology, anything that would give her an edge in the business world, all with three goals in mind. The first, to honour the advice and hope her former caretakers ; The second, to one day provide for them - and the third, to spew her spite in the face of the world that had failed her and those she loved, the universe that had cursed her with a self-destructive ability and still made her regret its loss. She planned on killing all three birds with one stone - a stone consisting of the commercialisation of ability removal technology.

    The gang had kept the secret for years, without ever slipping. It was a remarkably coordinated effort for them. Even more remarkable was that they had managed to remain tight-lipped, even while Wasa had continued to iron out AR¡¯s flaws and work on its efficiency and reliability - both for her own gratification, and because Sheryl encouraged it. Though the two disagreed on the pain factor - Ms. Geez being determined to diminish the agonizing nature of the treatment, while Sheryl was notably unbothered and even annoyed at Wasa wasting time on such a trivial aspect of the AR.

    Achieving her studies, Sheryl Nozhnitsy founded Nozhnitsy Technologies and Innovation, an unassuming start-up that started off selling ¡®technologically optimised¡¯ kitchen and home appliances - and more importantly, a company that served as the front for her Underground projects, starting with the trade of the ¡®brand new¡¯ Ability Removal.

    Or rather - she didn¡¯t sell the solution itself, but rather, AR as a service : that way, the preparation never left Sheryl and her gang¡¯s hands, and Nozhnitsy maintained its monopoly. They were even able to blur the details on what exactly AR was : only letting people in one at a time, using huge useless machines to obscure a simple injection, overall building a story that kept competition at bay.

    It was a lucrative market. The appeal of the concept alone ensured the Nozhnitsy Group - underground, that is - profit and influence ; AR had all too many applications. From its original health-orientated purpose, to torture, intimidation, revenge, eliminating competitors... Sheryl knew even the government was interested, both as capital punishment, a way to ensure prisoners wouldn¡¯t cause any more harm, and a stick to keep their own forces in line. Ultimately, she didn¡¯t care about what it was used for. She simply found comfort in gathering riches to afford her family a good lifestyle ; and even more so, in the knowledge that dozens, hundreds, tens of thousands now shared her pain.

 Lights Out

    Neville dragged himself out of bed and to the nearest window, just letting a little bit of light through the plastic blinds¡¯ slats with his fingers.

    Another day. Letting the blinds cut out the sun again, Neville quickly checked his calendar, crossing the current cell out with a red pencil.

    Another day. He slid into his work attire; yellow plastic boots that showed their age through bumps and cuts but retained their neon-bright colour, a purpley-blue zip-up anorak made of latex, matching pants, a cumbersome but convenient utility belt that he had incremented with more and more stapled pouches.

    Another day. Another attempt.

    Neville Elire Schifozzo was once a GHH hero - or so he seemed to recall. His memories were so distant, so much so they might not have happened at all - or at least, not in the way he remembered them. Regardless of the past, though, these days, Neville was seen as a vigilante. ¡®Vigilante¡¯ was a term used by the press and government to designate people who fought - or claimed to fight - crime and abilitied crime, but were neither contracted nor endorsed by authorities, thus acting in plain illegality. A few resorted to vigilantism after failing the GHH¡¯s job interview ; some found the GHH¡¯s strict modus operandi too restrictive and contradictory ; others had an inherent bias against the GHH, either from their upbringing or because of some rumour, controversy or other.

    Vigilantes had a poor reputation in pretty much every circle. To the government, they were entitled, incompetent and further hassle to deal with; to the underground, they were heroes that were harder to corrupt and deal with than actual GHH heroes. To civilians, they were dangerous and pretty much no different from villains; To super-fans, they were boring, usually lacking the spice of proper heroes and villains, given that they weren¡¯t part of the refined chess game that was the villain-versus-hero scene. ¡®Vigilantes¡¯ as a term was an attempt to categorise anyone who even attempted to avoid being placed into the status quo categories - in other words, an attempt to spite people who dared go against expectations.

    Neville, though, likely, because of his GHH days, didn¡¯t suffer that same backlash. ¡®Plumber¡¯ wasn¡¯t exactly the most glamorous of themes, nor was his costume the most appealing out there, but it was endearing enough to make him stand out. His machines were equally quirky, with their nonsensical pipes and gears and wheels and valves. They looked like something cartoon characters would make out of rubbish in their garage, and almost all of them did something different. The GHH wasn¡¯t the only one making a list of them; there were entire fan-wikis wherein each and every one of Neville¡¯s machines was listed and given silly nicknames. Forums would discuss and theorise about the details of his ability. Other forums hazarded guesses regarding his relations with the Enigma - that was the ¡®official name given to that unknown portal-wielding pimp. Some went a bit far, making all sorts of oddball comparisons between him and Neville¡¯s father or grand uncle, which the humble plumber would have found quite insensitive had he been aware of it. Luckily, he usually tried to stay away from attention - the flashy gear just happened to be the most appropriate outfit he owned for this kind of thing. He might not even have come up with the name ¡®Spatial Plumber¡¯ himself, but he couldn¡¯t quite remember that either. He was too busy to make sense of all that mess. Even if some kid over the world wide web figured out his secret - and that was quite the ¡®if¡¯ - Neville didn¡¯t feel it would matter to him in the long run. He¡¯d just move on, like always.

    January 25th, 12535. Just about two years after Alexander¡¯s first public appearance. In just three attacks, the mysterious silver-clad clown had entwined the entire press and public around their finger, keeping the entire capital holding in their breath, wondering when, where, why, how the terrorist would strike next - Alexander had put such excellent effort into wiping away their tracks that no hint or pattern could be pinned down by the authorities ; despite the dozens of theories online, no one could claim for sure to know when the silver danger would show up next.

    Neville had to be fast. Alexander was headed for District 6¡¯s hospital complex ; this offered a rare occasion for him to stop them - but if he wanted to take that chance, he couldn¡¯t afford to let the GHH catch on and catch up. The plumber needed to set up all of his traps - miniature cameras, tripwire, nets, oil puddles, smoke machines - before that. Filling a hospital with Neville¡¯s M.O. gadgets would inevitably cause accidents - but those sorts of concerns were for the GHH to worry about. Neville, and most vigilantes per extension, focused exclusively on catching their target, disregarding all collateral damage.

    If they were treated with more respect by the press, and had the sort of theatrical presentation villains and heroes were known for, vigilantes would likely be even more popular than most heroes based on this go-getter attitude alone. The GHH imposed strict protocols on its employees to ensure that no matter the emergency, they had the perfect plan to evacuate, protect and treat civilians caught in attacks before anything else. Teleported ambulances, dimensional shortcuts, group invisibility, heroes with optimal abilities in regards to evacuation were immediately informed of the latest incidents. The GHH did live up to its primary purpose ; protecting the people. It had saved in extremis hundreds of civilians in unsolvable situations and managed to undo every human trafficking ring the underground had tried setting up so far - though even there, the GHH wasn¡¯t above controversy : after all, the Magnolia case had undeniably trumped them for decades. While in pragmatic and humanitarian eyes, the GHH¡¯s dedication to this philosophy was its most respectable trait. But in the eyes of the heroism¡¯s target audience, it lacked the appeal and romance of a thrilling chase punctuated by bloodshed and explosions - an appeal that old-school villains, Neville-like vigilantes and dissident heroes embodied.

    Ironically, the GHH¡¯s thoroughness had ensured that those three demographics would never reach the level of their predecessors : first-generation villains, who benefited from the GHH¡¯s non-existence, the novelty of abilities and a decade of civil unrest. It was as though even the most insignificant of abilitied criminals would rack up an insane body count without trying - just as a side effect of using their ability in a world that barely understood them. The First District trio embodied this trend. Bleeding Heart alone, fondly as many remembered her, thrived on the brutal murder of policemen for the protection of the abilitied minority - 234 over her entire career as a magical girl, and an unclear number of additional deaths over the course of her dictatorship. Iron Will, Bleeding Heart¡¯s right hand and consultant, had once frozen an entire building - its inhabitants included : the Ice Palace incident alone accounted for 59 casualties. Open Hand, the District¡¯s ¡®kindly prophet¡¯ and emotional leader, nonetheless had spread her benevolent message through rising corpses from the dead - deaths she oft had a part in.

    Even with these deaths in mind, history gave the trio the legacy of heroes ; the very first villains that were still remembered as such had an even bloodier record. Medea and Hyacinth''s prison breakout and daredevil year-long road trip around the country had left dozens of hotels in shambles, the duo making a habit of massacring all possible witnesses as they drove back and forth ; after their return to the capital, the two founded MSW, which would grow exponentially and was indirectly responsible for the majority of hero and villain deaths from that point on.

    Incalculable.

    Such bloodshed was unheard of these days - Alexander aside - largely thanks to the GHH¡¯s intensive ability research giving them a better understanding of and ability to predict them accurately - and of course, its large and diverse roster of heroes. The most common casualties were, ironically, the GHH¡¯s employees¡¯ own lives. A hero memorial served as the governmental parliament¡¯s backyard - stone slabs upon stone slabs of engraved names, aliases and years. A place for grief and honour, that served as a grim reminder that the capital¡¯s favourite form of entertainment involved real lives and deaths - pushed around like pawns by a flawed system. Even this place was stained by the ranking system. As of 12500, A through C heroes would only be marked if they died while on the field or at the hands of a villain, while all Ss were written down, even if they¡¯d long retired or quit. Rebellious graffiti completed the picture - a grey and morose picture, a series of identical blocks of stone, grotesquely decorated by splashes of colours - both flowers from the grieving, and spraypaint from the disrespectful. Looking at the square as a whole, they blended together. The memorial served as an eerie diorama of the capital within which it stood.

    Alexander wasn¡¯t going to be caught so easily. Neville knew that much. He had to do it. He had to be fast. He couldn¡¯t let himself be distracted. He needed to get to Snowdrop Hospital, and-

    The plumber stopped in his tracks - he¡¯d been spatially transporting himself from place to place, stopping on some defunct balcony. An unusual gathering caught his eye.

    Police and GHH vehicles, deployed all around the Lighthouse, an office building, famous for the atypical architecture that had earned it its nickname, and for housing the HQs of three of the country¡¯s most prevalent newspaper companies, among other less notable businesses. From floors 2 to 7, the government¡¯s own news network, known simply as the 24¡±7, reporting mainly political, humanitarian and hero-related news, as well as search warrants. It had a bad reputation, though it usually relayed information accurately. Floors 9 to 16 housed the Grey Menteur, an extremely controversial tabloid newspaper that most accused of ¡®pulling 90% of their articles out of their ass¡¯ with good reason, but who had gotten enough lucky scoops and educated guesses turn out true to amass a large reader base and influence. They mostly reported hero, vigilante and villain related rumours and accusations, and employed nothing but espers of various calibre. Lastly, on floors 17 to 27 resided the single largest, independent news company in the country - the Dragon¡¯s Breath. It had a nigh spotless track record regarding accuracy and professionalism, and even their detractors had to admit they were entirely innocent of yellow journalism, which couldn¡¯t be said of many other newspapers. It was doubtlessly politically biased against the government, however. It was also the company Neville¡¯s father worked in.

    His father was in that building, surrounded by police and GHH vehicles and staff. Which meant there must¡¯ve been an intrusion. A villain intrusion. Granted, if a villain was going to have an issue with any of the newspapers whose head offices laid there, it was most likely the Grey Menteur rather than the one his father worked in, but... He couldn¡¯t take that chance. Hopefully, he could still get to the hospital on time, but if it came down to it, Neville would choose to ensure the safety of his father over catching Alexander.

    <hr>

    Lesion glanced down through the Lighthouse¡¯s lightly stained windows from up on Floor 9 ; the police were already there, making their way in. Good! With their exit secured and their target locked down, they wouldn¡¯t be long ; they¡¯d be gone so quickly, they worried the police wouldn¡¯t even have noticed.

    The redhead casually slid along the floor like an ice skater towards the elevator they¡¯d just come out of, firing their pistol towards the ceiling in a second warning shot to keep their hostages in check. Thankfully - if a little disappointingly - the kinds of people that worked for the Grey Menteur weren¡¯t exactly the courageous sort. The mere sight of Lesion¡¯s trademark attire was enough to scare the lot of them into sitting still - a lavender corset around their waist with nothing underneath, matching dark indigo suit vest and pants that were just a little too large for their teenage figure, the former opening in a large V, letting most of their chest show through, a stand-alone shirt collar made of some thick, black fabric, knee-high leather boots, and a cutesy red string ribbon around their neck that matched the vivid red of their hair - a trait that Lesion shared with the late Acid - otherwise known as Sheryl Nozhnitsy.

    A few years after Nozhnitsy T&I¡¯s foundation - once the company was well established, leaving her with a little bit of extra free time - Sheryl had sought to find an heir, to ensure her life¡¯s work would continue on posthumously. She considered simply leaving the Nozhnitsy group to her former gang and family - they were all loyal to her, quite competent and had lived in the underground for the large majority of their life. But in a way, they were the very reason she wanted a prot¨¦g¨¦ of her own - though she¡¯d endeavoured her whole life long to vent out her spite and misanthropy, she wanted a least one person that she could show the care and love she received in her youth to. That someone was Alistair Nozhnitsy - her child. No one knew if the two were blood relatives, but Sheryl had raised them since they were so young, and the two looked somewhat alike, so most assumed so - even if Sheryl had never shown the slightest interest in romance or intercourse, and had never been visibly pregnant as far as her closest acquaintances could tell.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    In 12524, Sheryl passed away. She died quite young, much younger than most expected her to. Whether her infantile experience with AR had anything to do with it was unclear. She left behind a six-year-old kid, a growing crime empire, and a world that didn¡¯t remember her existence, but would forever bear the mark of her accomplishments. Her death, like much of her life, had gone as planned. She¡¯d dedicated herself body and soul to the Nozhnitsy Group, willingly living in its shadow, with no desire to take any credit for it beyond the grave. She¡¯d had to step up in person enough times for the GHH to identify her and give her a villain alias, Acid, but they couldn¡¯t even pin down her M.O. She operated in the background, never leaving a trace of her presence.

    Alistair hated this. It was unfair. Sheryl had achieved so much, only to turn up a forgotten corpse amongst thousands of average Joes. Though they were determined to keep Nozhnitsy running in memory of their mother, they were horrified to think they might one day share her fate : hence, they applied the same dedication she had put into achieving anonymous revenge into making a name for themselves. Nozhnitsy was stable and running these days, so they had more time on their hand - that, and they mostly left the business side of things to Sheryl¡¯s family, since they¡¯d inherited the company so young that there hadn¡¯t been much of an alternative. This left them able to do more or less whatever they wanted, as long as they vaguely kept Nozhnitsy¡¯s interests in mind - a secondary priority to their main goal : to be remembered. To mark history as Alistair Nozhnitsy - as Lesion - as a villain - as a person.

    The elevator rang as it arrived on Floor 12. Lesion had their two lackeys go on ahead of them, shoot a few warning shots, then slid out of the elevator and onto the scene, cocking their head mischievously at the cameras. They didn¡¯t wear any sort of mask ; They¡¯d always lived under a fake name, or rather, had no legal documents to speak of. Administratively, Alistair Nozhnitsy was a ghost. Even if they were recognised, so long as they weren¡¯t tied back to Nozhnitsy, it wouldn¡¯t compromise their affairs - which meant that they were free to show off as they pleased.

    Their long, red hair flew behind them like a cape as they hopped over to some random desk, advancing confidently as though they knew their way around the place. This floor was an open space; they leaned their arm onto one of the partitions, starring down to the employee sitting at the desk. Lesion smiled their usual gleeful, shut-eyes smile, stretching across their smooth porcelain cheeks. Nonchalantly, they pulled out a scrap of newspaper from their pocket, twirling it quickly to unfold it. Barely moving their face and keeping their eyes shut all throughout, they pointed to the author of the article they¡¯d cut out from the most recent edition of the Grey Menteur tabloid. They¡¯d learnt from Floor 9 that he worked on the 12th, but hadn¡¯t gathered further details. ¡®Lead me to this person, will you?¡¯ The skinny, ginger intern sat before Alistair was shaking for his life, to such an extent their stool looked like it was about to give out. He reached for a piece of paper and a pen, scribbling down some directions, then handed them over to Alistair, who quickly scaled over one of their henchmen to take it and localise the office in question. Lesion then cracked their knuckles, took a step back, and opened their golden-green eyes wide.

    Turning their head around the partition, clawing onto it with their slender hands, they cocked their head horizontally, starring at the intern with childlike excitement. They pulled his office chair with a swift kick : it rolled away from the desk and into the open. The poor fool couldn¡¯t do anything. It was too late : Lesion hadn¡¯t been able to show off on the previous floor, and they weren¡¯t leaving this one with the same frustration.

    The intern¡¯s shrill screams filled the rooms. His ankles suddenly twisted unnaturally on each side, as if pulled open by invisible hands. He pushed against the seat, trying to drag himself off the chair despite his wrenched feet, only for his elbows to crack and fold inside out, his spine giving out as he folded forward onto himself like a mousetrap, his chin hitting the chair seat then the floor as he slid along the floor like a wet rag, leaving a trail of blood from his open chin. His neck had turned fully around twice, audibly cracking as it did. His body creaked for a few elongated seconds as it slowly came to a stop. Eyes wide open, mouth hanging, dead cold - their skeleton shattered from the inside by Lesion¡¯s ability.

    The henchman who¡¯d been given the directions waved in Alistair¡¯s direction; the young chief gleefully glided over to a door in the corner of the open space, which led into a thin hallway, connecting small individual offices. Each door had a metal nameplate, including a job description. Leaving yet another one of their bodyguards behind, Lesion and their last companion stepped into the office of the reporter they were looking for.

    <hr>

    Neville easily snuck into the building, using his ability to ¡®teleport¡¯ around until he reached the 9th floor : the first of the ones the Grey Menteur occupied, and the first one being kept hostage. He easily removed the henchmen keeping guard with gadgets of his - small ones even by his standards, since he didn¡¯t have the freedom of installing larger ones ahead of time - which emitted sleeping gas from many tiny pipes. As he kneeled to ask one of the hostages who was behind this and where they¡¯d gone, he heard a swarm of footsteps echoing from the stairs. No time, he couldn¡¯t let the GHH see him. He rushed off to search every floor manually, trying his best not to waste time, all while picking up pieces of the computers and desks, mouses and keyboards, wires and whatever else, anything that came loose just from the pressure of his space-bending. He only carried a few scrap tools and micro-machines, so he needed the extra materials to set up tripwires and other practical traps. He had no other offence - none that he fancied using, anyway. He figured that, one day, he¡¯d have to resort to brandishing his screwdriver and hammer in a last resort, but for now, he prefered to keep them to their intended use.

    Rushing through the floors all while barely moving at all, letting air stretch and extend for him, Neville thought, in an attempt to figure out the details of this attack. 12535, January 25th - an intrusion in the Lighthouse, seemingly in the Grey Menteur¡¯s offices. Who, and why - perhaps an article published recently had upset some underground eel. He ran a mental press review. Updates on Alexander¡¯s mystery, political gossip regarding presidential candidates, and - gossip regarding Nozhnitsy Technologies and Innovations¡¯ potential involvement in the criminal world. Neville almost stopped.

    Lesion.

    Neville looked around the room. It felt like hadn¡¯t read the Menteur in years - but he knew who wrote that article. Joachim Cortez, who worked on Floor 12 - and had Lesion coming for his throat. And once they were done with the reporter, it was unlikely they¡¯d stop there. Neville knew Lesion had a habit of wanting to one-up Alexander. Neville knew Alexander would show up today. Neville knew Alexander would blow up and hospital today. And Lesion would soon know too.

    Neville hurried to the elevator and reduced the space between the elevator and Floor 12 with his ability, reaching it near instantly.

    <hr>

    ¡°Uh?¡± Joachim raised an eyebrow. Oh geez, an intrusion. And he¡¯d been having such a nice nap, too. He blinked, slowly. Was that Lesion? He gulped, feeling his drowsiness leak out and soak his pants as he felt fear replace it. He didn¡¯t want to die with his skeleton melted : he instinctively raised his hands. The murderous redhead eyed the odd reporter with a slight scowl. Coward. Instructing their henchman to keep him at gunpoint, they once again pulled out the newspaper scrap, slowly walked up to the desk, slamming a hand down and waving the newspaper cut-out below Joachim''s nose, looking down at him. "You wrote this, did you?

    - Y-Yes, I did.¡± In big, bold letters, the article¡¯s title stretched across the glossy scrap - ¡®Nozhnitsy Trumpery & Insincerity : Controversy UNVEILED¡¯. Just his usual kind of article. Some big, pretentious claims about this or that relevant company based on fraudulent research. He hadn¡¯t been hired to actually investigate or report - he had been hired because his ability allowed him to skip all that time-expensive riff-raff and get to the juicy redaction. Joachim had ¡®visions¡¯ : random, spontaneous images and revelations that taught him all sorts of things. Sometimes, he managed to weave marketable stories from those hazardous images, which had landed him a job in the haven of yellow journalism that was the Grey Menteur. Although, there had been one thing he¡¯d lied - no, not lied, but kept¡­ conveniently quiet about : his ability¡¯s consistency. Whether his visions were accurate or false was kind of up in the air, and he himself couldn¡¯t quite tell. It was reliable enough to pass off as infallible - since it gave him intel on things no one else could even know enough about to disprove - but deep down, he knew he was usually spouting lies. Ah well. This was the best job he could get. What else was a failed esper going to do? It at least offered him some amount of stability and safety¡­ er, well, not right now, clearly. Joachim sighed internally. Of any of his dozens of articles to turn out true, it had to be this one. Of course it did. Ah geez¡­ Lesion was a damn creep. Still, despite the imminent danger of death, Joachim derived some sense of pride from his throwaway ¡®cryptic dream¡¯ ability accurately revealing the largest tech company out there for the crime syndicate cover-up it was. A shame it would be shrugged off as made-up given its publisher - granted, he hadn¡¯t exactly done any actually investigating, and a more trustworthy paper likely wouldn¡¯t hire him, and even if it did, he enjoyed being able to slack off, watching chess tournaments on his office computer while waiting for inspiration to strike him - but still, he felt he deserved at least some-

    ¡°Hey. I asked you a question. Who¡¯s your source?¡± He blinked out of his reverie to find himself still held at gunpoint, still faced with the red-haired devil, whose face and tone now showed clear annoyance. He stayed dumbfounded for a moment, unsure how to respond, then opted to just say the truth, because he couldn¡¯t make up a convincing lie under pressure. ¡°I don¡¯t have a¡­ source. I have ¡®visions¡¯, I guess. They¡¯re like. Dreams. I see scenes unfolding, like a hazy movie. Sometimes they¡¯re interesting enough that I can piece them together and make up the rest. That¡¯s how I do my, uh, job.¡± Even as he spoke, all of his hopes of living long enough to change out of his pants resting on the gamble that his deep and captivating voice - others¡¯ words, not his - would give his true but unlikely story some credibility.

    Lesion didn¡¯t buy it. Likely, they¡¯d heard such an excuse a billion times. But they weren¡¯t going to bend and snap this twink¡¯s spine thirty-seven fold until he¡¯d spat out his snitch¡¯s identity. And if he was stubborn enough that Alistair got bored, that would be their excuse to look through his phone and kill anyone they suspected of being said snitch. The underground district was getting stale these days anyway, a clean-up was well overdue. Alistair went to open their mouth again - stopping as they heard an unexpected noise. They hesitated. ¡°Knock him out and snatch him. I want him in my office by half past 8.¡± And then they headed back into the hallway.

    Neville reached Floor 12 and secured it remarkably fast ; a quick smoke pellet propelled by his space manipulation served to distract Lesion¡¯s guard while he snuck behind them and broke a computer monitor over their face, knocking them out... if not worse. Neville then hurried into the hallway, leaving the hostages behind to figure their way out. He needed to get Lesion out of the building, before -

    There they were. He¡¯d been too loud and alerted them. Making himself as discreet as possible, Neville used his ability to position a very simple trap: a tripwire made from cables he picked up along the way. Anything more advanced would have been pointless against Lesion. While the general public and the GHH believed their ability was limited to reducing skeleton to shapeless mush - which was terrifying enough, but the reality was even more chilling. Alistair¡¯s power extended to any and all types of internal structure. If it was inside of something else, and its integral support, Alistair could destroy it any which way they pleased - melting it, exploding it, stretching it, whatever gorey fantasy they fancied that day. In other words, any complex machines, be they animals or gadgets, could be brought to their knees by Alistair. Neville usually avoided Lesion for that very reason. Unfortunately, he hadn¡¯t that sort of luxury today.

    ¡°Who the hell are you?¡± Lesion stared, dumbfounded, at the plump, middle-aged man in latex standing before them. Before they could start to figure it out, the clown had vanished in a puff of smoke. No matter, he couldn¡¯t run far now. Alistair¡¯s remaining subordinates had already left the building, so all that was left was themselves and the unconscious goon on the floor his forehead bleeding from glass cuts, which they opted to leave behind - no time to waste. He was just a blackmailed mercenary anyway, no one loyal or worthwhile. Wrecking the elevator¡¯s mechanism with their ability, and hearing it crash 12 floors below, Alistair climbed down the shaft, using the cables as a ropeway which they gripped with their gloveless hands, paying no mind to the rope burn. Once they reached the cabin, they bashed through the trapdoor with a swift kick, exiting the elevator on the ground floor. As they snuck out of the building, which many people had evacuated out of by now thanks to the GHH¡¯s intervention, they took in a deep breath. Now the fun part began.

    The Lighthouse was an immense skyscraper, kept standing by its foundations - and steel-reinforced concrete. Focusing intensely, Alistair pictured themselves crushing its metal structure, each individual pole like twigs, and gradually, from the bottom upward, the building began to shake as its inside structure collapsed inward, broken by sheer psychic force and brought to the tipping point, stable as a castle of cards in an earthquake. The tower fell apart in a grandiose display of Lesion¡¯s ambition : panels of glass tumbling like dominos as they fell out of their frame and dived straight for the ground, mirrors to the setting sun which reflected all around, while the innards of the building slid out from the open gaps as each floor fell onto and into its predecessor like matryoshka dolls. The collapse took a few minutes - much longer than Alistair usually had to keep concentrating for. As they dragged themselves away from the rubble, they were panting, barely keeping themselves from breaking down out of fatigue - but though many spotted them leave, they relied on the mayhem and the smoke to distract anyone from pursuing them, keeping a hand to their mouth to avoid breathing in debris. Their henchmen held their shoulders up, help they were too exhausted to refuse.

    The single-handed destruction of one of the capital¡¯s most iconic buildings, and the dozens of casualties ensued. This was Lesion¡¯s proudest work yet. Hah! Did Alexander have anything that prestigious under their belt? Of course not. This would ensure their victory over the silver-haired snob, surely. The thought of their guaranteed success in their race to glory comforted the teenaged redhead as they pathetically dragged themselves back to the underground district.

    <hr>

    Neville felt just as pathetic. Well, that was that¡­ the hospital incident was no good either.

    Another day. Another attempt.

 The Underground

    A light rain started pouring. Not that it would be an issue, given where he was headed today. The Enigma, dressed in inconspicuous clothes provided by his informer - some washed-out jeans and a sweater - walked through the front entrance of District 14¡¯s GHH station. Like in all of the stations, except for D5¡¯s, its ground level was open to the public and even equipped with a vending machine, in the corner next to the nearly-dead plants. It had a front desk, though it was empty at the moment. The room as a whole wasn¡¯t too busy - no one but him, a janitor and a panicked sight-seeing tourist who ran in to take cover from the rain. He enforced himself to replay the conversation he had with his informer in his head. Honestly, he usually indulged her, but insisting he think of them exclusively as ¡®his informer¡¯ to watch out for noisy espers seemed excessively paranoid. Ah well - this wasn¡¯t his plan. He headed to a door in the corner, labelled as ¡®private¡¯, and headed in. Beyond laid the employee stairway. They¡¯d been right about this much, then. He hurried down two floors.

    For as infamous as District 14¡¯s station was, it was rather well kept in comparison to most others he¡¯d seen. Not that cleanliness could make up for its reputation. For one, District 14 was one of the two districts - along with D3, its neighbour - under which was born The First District, from which had grown and developed the current Underground. Second, and most importantly, the captain in charge of the station was quite the character.

    Robin Kelly, once calling himself The Clockworker, and later nicknamed ¡®The Mole¡¯ by much of the press, started his career as a run of the mill abilitied criminal - born underground, joined a gang in his youth, left it once it began to fall apart. He then worked as a mercenary for others of his calibre, inevitably stabbing them in the back. To his credit, he was fairly good at all of it - much better than most would give him credit for. His ability was an odd one; Twenty-four times a day - namely, whenever it was ¡°any hour ¡®o clock¡± - his senses and muscles became superhuman for an entire minute, allowing him to resolve whichever situation he was in with godlike ease. Over the years, he¡¯d learnt to plan around the time, stall and drag things out, bluff and distract to get his way, refined it to such an extent he made a game of it. He kept smooth sailing for quite a few years, remaining obscure enough that he wasn¡¯t immediately suspicious to his potential employers. Nonetheless, the wind eventually turned south.

    It wasn¡¯t uncommon for the GHH to hire ex-supervillains who¡¯d served their sentence - not any less common than it was for regular police investigators to do the same with non-abilitied criminals, mind you. What was unusual, was for a villain who was still up and kicking - and had only recently started to have serious issues - to give themselves in and propose that very deal. The offer was fishy, but Robin was quite the catch - though ranks didn¡¯t exist back then, he would¡¯ve been an easy A - and he was easy to monitor and restrain, so they gambled it wasn¡¯t too big a risk. Thus, the Clockworker began working for the GHH.

    He worked both as a double agent spy and as a field operator, and didn¡¯t fail his missions once. Kelly was a golden asset to heroism - simply unfortunate that he sold the GHH¡¯s info to criminals just the same as he did the reverse. He played each side like fiddles without a care in the world for anyone but himself. ¡®The Mole¡¯ was a rather pleasant nickname, considering the many other names he could¡¯ve inspired. He¡¯d been cunning enough to retain trust throughout and eventually become district hero captain, after all. By then, his position within the GHH became common knowledge, and it was harder for the Clockworker to get involved with the Underground¡¯s affairs without raising suspicion ; however, he never truly left it behind. In the lower floors of District 14¡¯s station, he hid a secret entrance to the Underground.

    Or so had the Enigma heard from his informer. He still had to verify it for himself, but they¡¯d never lied to him before, so he was confident. Whenever he questioned the shady nature of their information, they looked at him with such sad and tired eyes - by their standards, nonetheless - and gave him some vague and flimsy excuse : in this instance, they claimed they knew because they ¡®used to work in District 14¡¯ : the Enigma couldn¡¯t find any trace of such a background, but he hadn¡¯t cared enough to look into it all too deeply. Not that he was in any position to blame someone for being overtly mysterious ; he was lucky to remember his own name.

    His informer also revealed that they¡¯d never actually been to the Underground themselves - mostly, because they were afraid to. Hence why they needed him to go down there, scope things out, write down a few notes, and report back to them. Experience had proven that, for some reason, he was pretty good at that kind of thing.

    He reached floor -3 : this was his stop. He headed into the hallway, counted the doors, then back-tracked after realising he¡¯d counted wrong. Eventually, he made it into an unlocked janitor¡¯s closet. A long, dark, crowded closet. He pulled out his clean and orderly notes, straining his eyes to read them. ¡®Go to the very back wall, find a 2-meter tall cupboard, remove the wood panel at the back to reveal the passageway.¡¯ And there it was. The pimp took in a deep breath, stepped out, and began walking along the gloomy tunnel that stood before him.

    It was a short one. He soon exited into a large cave, lit up by LEDs. Turning around, he found himself stepping out of a square building with walls stretching up to the ¡®ceiling¡¯, with simply the words ¡°STATION¡± engraved into the wall, above the hole of a door he¡¯d exited through. The surrounding area was¡­ surprisingly empty - though it made sense in hindsight. Based on the station¡¯s location in the capital, this entrance led right in the middle of the First District - understand, a construction site for an underground parking lot, fated never to be finished, as the First District had made it its home by force nearly a hundred years ago - which had been relatively abandoned over the years, as a result of the Underground¡¯s expansion. It remained very faithful to how it looked back in its debut, or at least to the few pictures the media had snatched. This was the only part of the Underground that was officially documented, which was another reason for its desertion ; these days, the authorities wouldn¡¯t even think to try and ¡®dismantle¡¯ the Underground - it was much too large and powerful. (That, and there were¡­ deals involved.) Occasionally, they¡¯d single out a problematic gang that they had enough evidence against, and arrest that. But back in the days, before Maylis¡¯ government, there had been countless attempts to repress the First District - even some partially successful ones. That, too, explained why it seemed like such a no man¡¯s land. The station entrance was clearly new, though - newer than the rest, anyway.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    Sadly, his informer held little interest in the picturesque historical value of this ditch, and had instead specifically asked him to describe the heart current of the underground. Real high-strung, that one - he worried for them. Ah well! Swift on his feet, the Enigma hurried further west.

    The underground district was akin to a long, worm-like tunnel, stretching under the capital from west to east in a curvy zigzag, even beyond the capital¡¯s borders at its extremities, merging with the abandoned mines that lay south-east of the capital. It was thinner in its middle - under Districts 1 and 2, west of which was the First District that he¡¯d entered through, under Districts 14 and 3. The entire underground had spread out from it, over decades of digging tunnels, carefully expanding existing underground areas and linking cellars together, creating a gigantic manmade cave.

    The streets were surprisingly large and open. The ceiling wasn¡¯t too low either; he easily had a floor and half¡¯s worth of space above his head. Even then, he felt a sense of claustrophobia as he advanced further into the Underground. For one, every building, without exception, stretched all the way up to the ceiling (understandable, since many of them were just the lower floors of aboveground structures, and the ground-ceiling needed all the support it could get.) As a result, the streets felt like the halls of a gigantic maze - you couldn¡¯t see anything besides the street you were in, and even within that street, much of your surroundings were hidden in shadows. This only contributed to the larger issue at hand.

    The Underground¡¯s entire layout was chaotic, with bridges and tunnels at every other turn, walls of concrete in the middle of the road, the ceiling itself becoming lower and higher depending on where you stood, so on and so forth. The entire district had been built clandestinely, in small, sparse increments, by a wide variety of people, and was overall much younger than the rest of the capital - its pioneers had to work with, around and in spite of existing infrastructure, underground railways, parking lots, abandoned tunnels, caves, sewers, mines, water tables¡­ it wasn¡¯t hard to figure why it had ended up organised like swiss cheese.

    The last thing that set it apart from a normal street was actually somewhat of a detail, but one that stood out to the Enigma. Mattresses, sheets of foam and the like lined many of the walls - for soundproofing purposes, he quickly figured. To filter out noise and stop unwanted ears from getting wind of the underground¡¯s daily cacophony. Many of the ¡®buildings¡¯ - private cellars - were just that : lowers floors of civilian homes, playing no part in the district at all. Even some buildings that did have a door leading into the street appeared to be insulated, however ; the Underground population was no stranger to caution.

    Unlike what one might assume, few buildings actually linked the Underground to the surface; most either didn¡¯t have any doors or windows that opened into the district, or they didn¡¯t actually lead to the aboveground and had been built exclusively on the underground level. In total, there were about 12 ¡®main¡¯ entrances into the underground district, of which three had existed since the First District, and three others were situated outside the capital¡¯s borders. Some buildings (mainly shops) also had passageways to and from the surface, but those 12 were the ¡®official¡¯ and most frequently used entrances. Although, only a small amount of people, who¡¯d lived and worked in the underground their whole life knew all of their locations. For most intent and purposes, knowing two or three was enough ; secrecy may be needless when the GHH wasn¡¯t even willing to put up a fight, but vigilantes could prove to be pests if they found a way to the district. Therefore, it was harder than you¡¯d think to learn your way into the Underground : a local showing you an entrance was amongst the only means of entry.

    Even then, people born underground were a minority. A considerable proportion of the Underground¡¯s inhabitants weren¡¯t criminals at all : the very extremes of the district - situated beneath Districts 16, 17, 10, 9, 8 and the eastern woods - were almost entirely residential. They were loaned to people in unstable situations, or with poor income, whose desperation had pushed them that low. Since the underground didn¡¯t abide by any legal regulations and had its own market, it offered the cheapest rent in town. Most of the people who lived in these underground lots didn¡¯t spend any more time down there than they needed to. They never cared to go any further into the cave, and it was just fine for both parties involved. Still, living underground was bound to be a gateway into crime for some, and kidnappings weren¡¯t uncommon either. Worryingly, those were the parts of the underground that had grown and developed the most in recent years.

    The closer to the heart of the district The Enigma got, the more the underground started to look like the mental image he had of it. Crowded, spray-painted, lit up by colourful neons, unruly and filled with dubious looking shops - a modern city with its skyscrapers sawed short and crammed into a cave haphazardly. He slowed down his pace : he didn¡¯t like this place at all. He didn¡¯t have any real reason to feel scared, but that had never stopped him from being overly squirrelly in most situations. He only ever followed his instincts and his informer ; only one of the two thought rationally - and that was the one who had sent him right into the dragon¡¯s den. He stopped and sat on a bench. He was sort of surprised there was such a thing down here at all. He figured taking out a notepad and looking around would make him look just a tad too suspicious, so he abstained and tried his best to engrave everything into his memory.

    The central part of the district was a commercial strip, an immense crowded highway, surrounded by various signs, buildings, boxes, crates, bags¡­ it had nothing in common with the very extremities of the underground. The buildings were stacked extremely close together, with only a few alleyways. Though the name ¡®Underground District¡¯ had stuck through the years, it was an entire town of its own ; so large that the locals separated it into the same districts as the capital was. Thus, the central strip he was in was referred to as ¡®District 1 and 2¡¯.

    Most of the stores were surprisingly mundane - anything could be trafficked, after all - but the casual inclusion of drugs and arms amongst everyday groceries stood out all the more. Overall, it wasn¡¯t too bad, for a black market - in his experience, which was null. The sketchier merchandise was surely sold in darker corners, away from the relatively accessible central strip. Even down here, social hierarchy was everywhere. Nozhnitsy and MSW - being the only two entities that qualified as ¡®large crime syndicates¡¯ - owned almost everything, and flexed their influence with iron fists. On a smaller scale, plenty of other gangs competed with each other - often themselves belonging to one of the two major players. The entire place was in a cold war with itself, yet this commercial strip seemed to be thriving and lively. Maybe some sort of ¡®neutral¡¯ zone. The thought reassured the pimp. This wasn¡¯t so bad, in the end : it was kind of cool finally seeing this place in person, after living in the capital for years. Maybe his informer had been right to send him down here !

    Sounds of explosion suddenly rang in his ears. He instinctively ducked under the bench. The crowd split, but stayed relatively calm. On the other end of the street, gunfire boomed, as a lithe, grey-haired figure broke through the upper floor window of a shop, gliding to the building in front of them, then wall-jumping back and forth between the countless buildings of the strip, pursued by shotguns, thrown rocks and insults. Never mind, this place was awful. The Enigma fled, falling belly-first into a portal he summoned in the ground below him.

 Masks and Capes

    12529 - just a year into Felicio - and Brett¡¯s - hero career, and already they¡¯d hit a bump in the road. Though they¡¯d applied and worked in their native District¡¯s station - D17¡¯s, they soon found themselves reassigned to District 12. Human resources management by GHH higher-ups, or so they heard ; ¡®Bolt¡¯ - the brothers¡¯ alias - was an A-ranking hero. D17¡¯s station had an excess of those, whereas D12 hadn¡¯t enough. To offset the difference, a few recent recruits were switched between districts, the Shaws included.

    Though in their case, it was a bit of a blessing in disguise; working away from their childhood neighbourhood lessened the chances of their switcheroo scheme being found out. Besides, they didn¡¯t mind the change of scenery. The move didn¡¯t affect Felicio much beyond that ; Brett, on the other hand, was incredibly excited - ¡°District 12? Dude, that¡¯s the Trofeos¡¯ home district!¡±

    The Trofeos had been around for about eighty years and 4 generations - all of which had seen anywhere between two and five of the family¡¯s members enrol into and become GHH heroes - excellent GHH heroes. Tall, large, burly men and women, each with outstanding abilities and athleticism, along with the skill to put them to use. Not only that, all of them had survived on the job long enough to make it to retirement, and none of them had ever caused any notable incident or mistake. People like them were extremely rare, and the Government Hired Heroes¡¯ gratefulness for their existence was clear : the family had been awarded many formal honours and advantages.

    Even then, the Trofeo household stayed a humble one - loud, ham-fisted and charismatic, but humble. They weren¡¯t the most popular amongst the heroic fandom; too boring and by-the-books, many said. Brett wasn¡¯t of that opinion : he adored every one of them, and knew their names and M.Os by heart. Brimmie did too ; in fact, many of hers and Fabrice¡¯s earliest works focused on the Trofeos¡¯, possibly explaining Brett¡¯s fondness for them. So for him, working in the same District as the Trofeos was, to put it lightly, a complete fever dream. Felicio, however, absolutely found the Trofeo family boring. Of the few super-abiltied figures he felt endeared towards, none worked in District 12. Granted, that was because most of them worked underground - and D17 was tied to those circles much more closely.

    Brett had always found Fel¡¯s interest in villains and the Underground to be odd and pretentious - Felicio felt similarly about Brett¡¯s heroic fanboyism, although he still admired Brett¡¯s sheer passion and encyclopedic memory. Still, there was bias, pride and contempt on both sides, so their arguments never went anywhere - even if they occasionally led to childish fistfights, those, too, ended quite quickly.

    Beyond their personal feelings, there was one aspect of their transfer that both brothers found bittersweet : it had only happened because they had been ranked A, in place of the S they coveted.

    Though it would¡¯ve of course have flattered their ego, and the privileges were undeniable, the Shaws sort of needed to be ranked S : it would¡¯ve allowed ¡®Bolt¡¯ to work alone. Their single-person act was hard enough to keep up without some C-ranked twerp watching after them for every single mission ; sadly, it couldn¡¯t be helped - they had been ranked A, and the protocol was the protocol.

    Brett wouldn¡¯t have admitted it to his brother¡¯s face, but he was convinced he was to blame. Before switching places had become the twins¡¯ every day, and never again since, Felicio¡¯s school record and grades were nigh flawless. One could decide not to think much of it - Felicio was still young then, it hardly meant much - but the truth was, his excellent streak had never stopped. ¡®Felicio¡¯ - the identity they shared - continued to have high grades whenever Felicio was playing his own part ; the less desirable ones had all become ¡®Felicio¡¯ at Brett¡¯s hand. There was no doubt in his mind that without him to weigh him down, Felicio would¡¯ve been awarded the S rank.

    Regardless, Bolt was an A ranking hero. The C-ranking partner the brothers had dealt with back in their home district was¡­ well, neither really cared to remember him. If there was such a thing as the D-rank, he would¡¯ve been its poster child. Today, they would meet their new C ranking partner for the first time - not only that, they had a mission scheduled with him. Understandably, they were apprehensive. Their superiors had refused to tell them any real details, just his hero name : Fragmental Pattern. The twins had already exchanged a few guesses as to what his ability might be based on the name alone, though they were all far off the mark.

    Brett was the twin who took on most social situations, especially first introductions ; people skills were his strong suit. Felicio, on the other side, often failed to act up the part for long before falling back into his nonchalant apathy and tendency to change the subject at the slightest annoyance.

    Despite their diverse arrays of skills, it was still important for the both of them to share as much information as possible : the twins ensured two-way communication through a pair of discreet earpieces. Felicio had ¡®omitted¡¯ to tell Brett exactly how he was able to afford them. It pissed his brother off, but he had to acknowledge the usefulness of the little earpieces. Though the two of them mostly used them to whisper sass in each other¡¯s ears.

    <hr>

    Brett swayed back and forth, sitting on a wheeled office chair, bursting with anticipation. Most D12 heroes - S ranks exempt - reported to this open office space after and before their missions. Each hero had their own desk, separated by white paper screens. Brett had looked for and found Fragmental Pattern¡¯s desk - only to find it barren and unoccupied. Since the twins had only been recently transferred to the district, their own desk was still relatively clean, professional, and empty as well - there wasn¡¯t much of anything on it. Not even a computer ; a few pen, forms and schedules, and a metal plate, wherein ¡®BOLT¡¯ was engraved in glorious silver letters. The brothers had agreed to swipe the plate and keep it as vanity decor if they were ever found out and dismissed from the GHH.

    8 o''clock - still no sign of the mystery Patterns. The entire office was silent and deserted : most heroes were already on duty by that point. A few were present, but their desks were far from Felicio¡¯s, and the captain¡¯s orders had been clear ; Bolt was to wait at his desk until Fragmental showed up. Thus the twins had resorted to telling each other knock-knock jokes to kill time (Brett made sure to cautiously whisper them to avoid being caught, or flagged as demented).

    Brett blinked, hearing someone suddenly knock on the screen beside their desk. It was a tall and muscular blonde man with a slight tan, who was all up and dressed in a spotless hero outfit, much fancier than the one Brett was wearing. He stood up and waved his hand excitedly.

    ¡°Hey! You¡¯re Fragmental Pattern, right? ¡®Kept hearing about you from the captain, glad we finally get to meet!¡± The blonde looked down at Brett, who was an entire 20 centimetres shorter.

    ¡°Please just call me Duncan, he replied abruptly.

    - Oh, well- I¡¯m Felicio! You¡¯re right : if we¡¯re gonna be partners from now on and all, best to skip the formalities,¡± Brett continued without missing a beat.

    ¡°Actually, I doubt that.

    - Doubt¡­ what?

    - That we¡¯ll stay partners much longer. My rank is temporary.

    - Temporary? First I¡¯m hearing of such a thing being- well, a thing. Shouldn¡¯t your rank be based on your school grades? ¡± The blonde shrugged at Brett¡¯s confusion.

    ¡°Never been to those GHH schools.¡± Those six words sufficed to double the twins¡¯ curiosity. Unfortunately, Duncan cut the chit-chat there.

    ¡°I surmise you have the mission details. I¡¯d like to see them.¡±

    Bolt cleared his throat. ¡°Hah¡­ actually, nope. Figured you would.¡± The blonde, his face locked into a neutral frown up until then, suddenly appeared embarrassed. He muttered something to himself ; Brett couldn¡¯t quite make out the words. ¡®Then he must have them¡¯, Felicio whispered, relying Duncan¡¯s words - even through an earpiece, he had sharper hearing than his brother. The taller man sighed and leaned against the desk. ¡°Let¡¯s wait.¡± Every time he spoke, he did so with a sense of importance and weight that forbid all counterarguments. Brett silently agreed, and slipped back into his chair. He employed as much stealth as he could muster and observed Patterns closely from the corner of his eye.

    He wore a relatively formal suit and vest, along with white fingerless gloves and a red mask that took up the entire upper half of his face, letting only his eyes, mouth and chin show through. He had a soul patch that matched his hair, and some light stubble - all in that washed out hazel-blonde mix. On top of his elegant getup, was a bullet-proof vest and a utility belt, both pure black. The GHH¡¯s costumers weren¡¯t known to be the greatest of fashionistas. Duncan¡¯s vest and pants were the same thick red fabric as his mask, however they were imprinted with an intricate pattern : the ¡®dragon curve¡¯ fractal repeated ad nauseam. Underneath it all, he wore a simple and light long-sleeved white shirt, open at the neck, and made all the more pompous by a white necktie, tied unevenly. The pragmatic crowd questioned why heroes wore such eccentric outfits at all ; by the GHH¡¯s logic, it was traditional and theatrical - it built a sense of common culture and brought in fans, so they continued dressing their heroes inconveniently. And in Duncan¡¯s case, his clothes also seemed a bit too small for him - letting the shape of his¡­ generous chest show through.

    Something about him was¡­ familiar. Brett quietly snuck his phone out of his pocket, and texted an approximative description to Felicio. ¡®Sounds kinda familiar¡¯, the latter replied. Real sharp insight there, brother. Brett shrugged, returning his cellular to his pocket.

    ¡°Hey there, fellas! Sorry to keep you waiting.¡± Brett and Duncan both turned to look at the newcomer - though the blonde already expected him. Peeking over the desk with a warm smile was S-ranking hero Parson Chameleon, otherwise known as the civilian Brian Trofeo. Brett¡¯s jaw nearly hit the floor, and he hastened to introduce himself.

    ¡°Oh, sir- mister Parson, hello! Name¡¯s Br- Bolt, Felicio - well, doesn¡¯t matter. I¡¯m pleased to meet you! I¡¯m a fan, really, I am!¡± Felicio began pouting from beyond the earpiece - ¡°You didn''t need to use my name to say something like that¡­¡± - but Brett barely heard him. Brian¡¯s smile widened.

    ¡°You are? Gee, I¡¯m flattered! I¡¯m just happy to do my job, really.¡± The starry-eyed boy nodded. Duncan scratched his head and looked away.

    ¡°So you¡¯re the one delivering us the mission details, are you?¡± He seemed more reserved and coy than before - his voice was now warry and accusing. Brian gave a nice, hearty laugh.

    ¡°Better yet! I¡¯m coming with!¡±

    With that, he slammed a thin file onto the desk, as Felicio sighed sadly from his bed, knowing he had to slip into that gaudy outfit again.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    Brett eagerly scanned through the mission details.

    TARGET : Frivole (B)

    OBJECT : Capture unharmed

    COURSE-OF-ACTION : Chase target and back target into a corner.

    SITE-OF-ACTION : Start in the Isfet Modern Art Museum. Ensuing chase may span over the entirety of District 12. If target leaves District 12, abandon and retreat.

    THIS ASSIGNMENT TO BE CARRIED OUT BY : Bolt (A), Fragmental Pattern (C), Parson Chameleon (S)

    Acc.to our sources, B-rank villain Frivole will be attempting a heist in the Isfet Modern Art Museum, on Friday the 11th, February, 12529, between 10 and 12 am.

    This is an unprecedented opportunity to arrest the target. The agents in charge of carrying this out should ideally apprehend the target without causing further property damage, or harming the target. Given xer history, target is expected cooperate.

    Brett quickly flipped through the rest of the file. Frivole¡¯s profile, details about the museum¡­ standard contents for GHH mission orders, at least according to Bolt¡¯s admittedly short experience. Duncan, in turn, seemed somewhat lost and confused, even behind his mask. Brian helped him decipher some more technical terms and acronyms further in the documents, and briefed him on standard GHH procedures¡­ all things Brett had expected and prepared himself to tell his C-rank partner, and yet things had somehow turned out like this.

    Brett, Duncan and Brian sat in an inconspicuous grey car driven by a chauffeur, as provided by the GHH. The C and S had insisted on sitting in the back next to each other, which was convenient for the twin, but being left out outright did hurt his ego a little. He resorted to the company of his phone. The Museum wasn¡¯t far from the station ; he and Fel had limited time to figure out when they could switch places, and share the mission details.

    ¡°Frivole? Oh, I¡¯ve heard of her! Sounds pretty cool.¡± Brett hated to admit it, but he had to agree with Felicio. She was, supposedly, an independent villain, who specialised in robbing the most highly guarded places, seemingly for the challenge of it more than monetary gain (she found her primary source of income was in more modest acts of thievery). She wasn¡¯t all that dangerous either, and easily chased off, but she seemed impossible to corner. She used her gravity manipulating abilities to leap from building to building, running on walls while taunting everyone else¡¯s abilities. Brett figured that was the only reason three heroes had been assigned to the task, since she wasn¡¯t exactly a priority - a B rank, acting alone, who hadn¡¯t caused any casualties. The GHH had bigger fish to fry.

    "So, Felicio, that right?¡± It took Brett a second to realise he¡¯d been spoken to.

    ¡°Yep!¡±, he turned around to find Brian bending forward to speak to him, in a way that definitely compromised his seatbelt.

    ¡°What ability ya got? Sorry, I hardly keep up with heroes from 12, let alone other districts - guess I should though, ey?

    - It¡¯s all good!, Brett let out. It¡¯s nothing exciting. Electric manipulation.

    ¡°Oh, I see how it is. Now that¡¯s it¡¯s MY ability we¡¯re talking about, you¡¯re pulling out the modesty card¡±, Felicio added, only half-joking, as he slipped on leather gloves. ¡®Wouldn¡¯t have happened if you came here yourself, twink¡¯, Brett sneakily typed without even looking, away from Brian¡¯s view.

    ¡°Nothing exciting? ''You kidding? That sounds really cool! High-ranking elementals always have crazy tricks up their sleeve - I would know!¡± Brett bit his lip. Damnit, that was right! Brian¡¯s older sister was an S-ranking water manipulator (how he could he forget!) He swore in his heart to read anew a few Trofeo-based novels in his free time to atone for his misgivings as a GHH fan who prided himself in encyclopedic knowledge. Ironically, becoming a hero himself had reduced the time he spent browsing hero related content, which he lamented, while everyone else saw it as a good, healthy improvement - Felicio most of all, hypocritical as that was from him.

    ¡°Well, guess you¡¯ll see for yourself today! Brett answered.

    - True that. Mind giving us a little preview?¡± Brett found the ¡®us¡¯ a bit excessive but as it turned out, Duncan was looking his way too. His expression was hard to figure out from beyond his mask, but Brett could¡¯ve sworn he saw interest in those grey eyes. Sadly, he couldn¡¯t indulge in showing off an ability that wasn¡¯t his.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think the car would like that.

    - A- Fair enough, haha!¡± Brian¡¯s smile didn¡¯t even waver. The man¡¯s cheery mood was unbreakable. ¡°Well, how about I give ya a taste of mine instead?

    - Really?!¡±, Brett almost screamed his lungs out in excitement, earning a sad little electronic Sigh. from Felicio. They¡¯d long agreed to meet in the middle with their personalities, with Brett toning down his excitable nature while Felicio forced himself not to look so dead inside, but the tall and heroic Trofeo just spawned too much childish glee in the young man - he couldn¡¯t help it. ¡®Sorry¡¯, Brett texted - he meant it. Mostly.

    Brian cracked his knuckles, and in the blink of an eye, his face had morphed to match Brett¡¯s exactly. Mimetic shapeshifting - just as mesmerizing as he¡¯d always imagined the Chameleon¡¯s ability to be. However, it also spawned a sudden fear within him. The public rarely knew every detail of heroes¡¯ abilities, especially high ranking ones ; as crowd-pleasing as they were, the GHH tried their best to keep the specifics secret for obvious reasons. It helped to nurture online debate, too. Parson Chameleon was no different ; his fans often debated whether his mimetism involved copying only one¡¯s physique, or if he had more under his belt. Usually, the former argument was accepted as more likely, since Brian had never shown any signs that he could copy abilities, voices or the like - but without proof to the contrary, it was still possible. And if true, Brett was in trouble. He clapped, as good audiences do, and asked with a smile : ¡°So... you can copy anyone?¡± He made sure to emphasize the last word, without sounding too nosy.

    Brian Trofeo cocked his head to the side as his long brown hair returned and his features chiselled back into his original face - a handsome and angular piece of work, worthy of the finest baroque sculptors - rougher than Duncan¡¯s round and minimal features, which gave the blonde an almost fictional beauty, with spotless skin and large eyes to boot. He couldn¡¯t pin down each of their features into detailed descriptions, though ; Felicio likely would be able to do so more accurately, once he dragged himself to the museum - he took after Brimmie in the literate aspect, though his reserved and sardonic attitude was more akin to Fabrice¡¯s younger years. Brett was, yet again, the opposite.

    ¡°Sure can! Only their appearance, but it ain¡¯t half bad if I do say so myself!

    - Makes one wonder why they picked you for a chase mission¡­¡±

    Brian and Brett turned their attention back to Duncan. The blonde was looking out the window, frowning. The Chameleon leaned back and close to him. ¡°Come on, now - Ya know they didn¡¯t.¡±

    Brett was starting to feel awkward. ¡°They¡­ didn¡¯t?¡± he asked in an admittedly hesitant attempt to get some context. Brian shook his head.

    ¡°Nah. I asked to be included is all.

    - You... asked ? And the higher-ups agreed?

    - I mean, yeah! Privilege comes with the big name and the S rank, y¡¯know?

    - But¡­ why? Some beef to settle with Frivole? Brett argued and frowned. Brian¡¯s smile disappeared for a short moment. He then glared back towards Duncan, then back towards Brett, and shrugged. The younger man was starting to feel exasperated of dealing with this body language subtext - he wasn¡¯t going to let go. For once, Felicio approved - his silence testified to that much.

    ¡°If¡­ it¡¯s not too nosy, I¡¯d like to know why you wanted to take part in this mission, of all things.

    - We¡¯ve arrived.¡± The chauffeur interrupted the conversation before it could go anywhere, to both of the twins¡¯ dismay.

    The Isfet Modern Art Museum was easily the most iconic building in District 12 - which wasn¡¯t saying much, but it did deserve the title. A tall, elaborate glass structure with silver and reflective accents, meant to look like an ice castle - or rather, an abstract array of ice pyramids mounted into a tower. It had two entrances, an upfront one for visitors, and a backdoor for employees. Brian, Duncan and Bolt had agreed the former two would enter upfront, while the latter would check the back - and Brett had agreed with Felicio to meet back there and switch. Sure enough, there he was waiting ; sleepy-eyed, leaning against a metal fence, with his trusty leather jacket hiding his hero outfit. He waved, raising his hand over his head as he saw his brother approach.

    GHH heroes had a relative amount of control over their uniform, and the twins had taken full advantage of it with their Bolt costume : it needed to be easily replicable, since they wouldn¡¯t be getting any duplicates. A light-blue, sleeveless dress shirt (their copy was a normal dress shirt, the sleeves of which they personally cut off), dark blue joggings held up by leather straps for no practical reason, comfy black tennis shoes and leather gloves designed for handiwork. The only piece of the costume they had not been able to make or buy a convincing copy of was their headwear ; an old fashion air pilot''s hat with light blue goggles. Luckily, they didn¡¯t need to ; since they always met up to switch, they could easily throw the hat back and forth, unlike the rest of their clothes.

    However, though being dressed and combed identically obviously helped, it still wasn¡¯t enough if they hoped to pass off as the same person. Felicio¡¯s scars had healed enough not to be easily visible, but his blinded eye¡¯s iris had greyed out and faded with time. To match, Brett wore a coloured lens whenever he was in public ; in exchange for the trouble, he had the exclusive right to decide on their shared hairstyle. Over time, Felicio had grown to regret this decision more and more ; he would¡¯ve not only worn contacts but sprinkled sand into his own eyes if it meant he could just grow his hair out, but there was no changing their roles now. He just had to accept that Brett would never let him enjoy life, obsessed with that same military flat cut they¡¯d had since they were six. There was one facial detail they¡¯d both agreed on, though ; a single shaved line on their right eyebrow. They just thought it looked cool.

    Brett tossed his GHH card and the helmet over to Felicio, who let it fall to the floor - he was still taking off his jacket. He bent over and dejectedly grabbed the cap. ¡°Keep on standby. Knowing Frivole, it¡¯s best we switch a lot,¡± he simply said before entering the building. Brett hurriedly left.

    Felicio soon met up with Brian and Duncan. The former was signing an autograph, sitting on a couch casually - that fashionable kind of ¡®casual¡¯. The presence of GHH heroes didn¡¯t seem to bother anyone. But Felicio had his eye focused on Duncan. Now that he met him in person, he definitely looked familiar. He couldn¡¯t be sure of who he was until he found out his ability, though.

    With genetic research banned due to ¡®ethics¡¯, abilities and fingerprints were the surest ways of identifying someone. Over the 100-plus years abilities had existed for, no two people with identical abilities had ever been found. Similar ones, yes, but always distinct in some way. Granted, this was only useful if you had access to a library of people¡¯s abilities described in excessive detail to compare Duncan against ; in theory, only the GHH had such a list. But fandom websites were scary places. With lots of information.

    Felicio stood next to his new coworkers. Their plan was, essentially, wait until Frivole showed up, drive her out of the museum before she could snatch anything, then catch her once and only once she was out. To find her more easily, they would split up between the floors : Felicio would go to the top floor (while Brett scouted out the outside), Duncan to the first and second floor, with Brian left to search the ground floor.

    ¡°Sounds good!¡±, Bolt exclaimed before heading up the stairs. Felicio always felt he overdid it. He tried his best, but he feared his poor acting out of Brett¡¯s cheerful excitement would lead to their trick being found out one day. In all honesty, he kind of felt like a sham anyway. ¡®Felicio Shaw¡¯ got all the credit, but in his eyes, Brett was Bolt all by himself. He didn¡¯t feel any attachment to the GHH - on some days, he didn¡¯t feel much attachment to life as a whole. He didn¡¯t have a calling or a passion - if he didn¡¯t have his brother to pick up his slack, he¡¯d barely even take care of himself. He was thankful for it - he loved him, of course - and that was why he¡¯d kept up this charade all these years; for his brother¡¯s sake, and nothing else.

    Still, being a hero had its good aspects. Hell, he¡¯d get to meet Frivole today, maybe. He wasn¡¯t counting on it. The GHH¡¯s leads were always fifty-fifty. Instead of searching for her actively, he simply strolled through the museum, lost in thought. Why did Patterns look so familiar? Maybe he¡¯d been an actor once. He did say he¡¯d never been to hero school, so this was career was clearly a reconversion. Or maybe he came for District 17 too? No, that seemed unlikely¡­ Then, had he once been an escort? No, no, Brett recognised him too, couldn¡¯t have been. Unless¡­ heh. Nice going, little bro.

    ¡°Get moving, she¡¯s here! Chameleon¡¯s already after her!¡±, the earpiece screeched. Fel hurried over to the glass wall, just in time to see the swift figure burst out of the ground floor in a flutter of glass shards. He ran to the emergency stairs.

 Chasing after the target

    Crap. Crap. Crap. Someone had leaked her plans - it was bound to happen someday. Fabia anxiously jumped from car to car, fleeing as fast as she could. That ¡®Chameleon¡¯ numbskull was already catching up to her, and she hadn¡¯t even been able to snatch yet! Maybe she should grab something while on the run, just to avoid coming home empty-handed. She glanced around the touristic streets that lead to and from the Isfet Museum : caf¨¦s and shops lined the sidewalk, along with stone flower pots and streetlights. Most of these streets were cut off from traffic and buzzing with pedestrians ¨C meaning the only road that did allow vehicles through, the one Fabia was currently parkouring in, was all the more crowded, and slow. She leaped off the truck she was on top of and into a jewelry shop¡¯s window front, smashing through the glass then slowing her fall down right at the last moment like she had practiced a thousand times. She swiped an expensive looking necklace, threw the shopkeep an air-kiss and by then had already pulled herself to the backdoor with lateral gravity, all in no more than ten seconds. Now in a quieter, tighter street, she could relax a little until those GHH dogs inevitably caught up to her.

    Who the hell had sold her out? Had this been District 14, Kelly¡¯s turf, she wouldn¡¯t have been surprised in the least - but it wasn¡¯t, and she¡¯d been told the D12 captain was rather diligent, and adamant about being independent from other districts. She figured to think about it the other way around - who could¡¯ve known? It was true that she had gotten¡­ unwisely intoxicated at a gathering few evenings ago. Somehow making it  unscathed, but with no memories of who she¡¯d told what. As for who else was attending - C and B ranking robbers and moles, rogues and spies ¨C thieves who¡¯d stayed independent from Basilisk, MSW, Nozhnitsy and the rest, and were damn proud of it. They often had these little hangouts, giving each other a hand here and there. They weren¡¯t formal allies or friends, barely knew each other - they just feared for what the Underground had become, with MSW, Nozhnitsy and even the GHH treating everyone like pawns and treating the place like their chessboard. The ¡®little guys¡¯ had chosen to stick up for each other. On paper, anyway. They still had their own little gangs and such ¨C Frivole just did her own thing, however. One of those gangs was that little group of punks¡­ Just yesterday, she heard, they¡¯d gotten rid of-

    She ducked ¨C close call. A full trash bag had just been thrown her way. She jumped three meters up, gripping a wall gutter, and looked back down - Chameleon, now joined by two others. Some buzz cut brunette with heterochromia, and¡­

    Well now.

    ¡°Ah, Shraaaaaapnel! Didn¡¯t think we¡¯d see you again, tr-¡± Fabia let herself fall back lightning fast to the ground to avoid another trashbag thrown to her face. Weren¡¯t chameleons reptiles? So why was this one such a pest!? Regardless, at least she had her answer. That posh weightlifting blonde had another thing coming. She leapt to a balcony and wall-jumped away, giving him the middle finger as she left.

    Felicio stayed dumbfounded for a bit while the other two ran after Frivole. He felt quite stupid for not realising it before. Duncan... was Shrapnel, a rather irrelevant B-ranking villain from District 9. He didn¡¯t know much else about him, really. He never acted alone, playing a support role to his group, yet now here he was, joining the GHH for whatever reason. The blonde turned around and shot him a death glare. Right, the chase. He¡¯d just have to ask him on the way ¨C or rather, ask Brett to ask him on the way. Felicio began speed-walking after them. He couldn¡¯t help but notice the many wires and lamps bolted onto the walls - these inner streets weren¡¯t as well kept or fancied up as the larger arteries of traffic. The metallic gutters lining the rim of the roofs, which went down to the floor and into the sewer grates, also caught his eye. Frivole seemed quite fond of hanging onto them. Maybe if he just¡­

    Fabia fell to the ground before she could brake, a sharp shock catching her off. Electric current? Looks like the dogs really were after her this time. She had to be careful. If she ended up paralyzed, that was the end of it. She leaped back up and ran along the wall, making sure to avoid anything that might conduct electricity. She reached District 12¡¯s main avenue in a flash, all six lanes roaring of car horns and motors - they drove too fast, she couldn¡¯t risk it. Instead, she hopped from shop front canopy to balcony canopy, using the charming stripped fabric roofs as impromptu trampolines - until one such platform broke under her weight before she could adjust it, and a lovely caf¨¦ date was ruined - or perhaps made more memorable - by an escape artist landing right on the table and squashing the pudding, sending it flying in the two lovers¡¯ faces. She apologised with a head bow and rushed off. Not her finest moment. And now, she needed to go airborne once again before Chumpeleon, that coward Shrapnel and Zappy-Boy caught up to her.

    ¡°Brett. Where are you¡±, Felicio whispered, finally running after Frivole. ¡°On a bus.¡±, he answered. ¡°I¡¯ve got her on sight, she¡¯s walking up a building. Like, up the wall.

    - If you used your ability on her, what do you reckon would happen?

    - Well she¡¯d fucking pop, duh! Let¡¯s, like, not do that.

    - I¡¯m not sure, though. I don¡¯t think it works the way we think it does, though.¡±

    Brett frowned. ¡°What do y-

    - Shit, they¡¯re coming back to get me. I¡¯ll tell you later.¡± Brian was ran back towards Felicio and supplexed him, carrying him on his back before running back in Fabia¡¯s direction. Bolt protested ; ¡°Uh- Uhm-

    - You¡¯re too slow. Sorry pal.¡± He was still going just as fast as before despite the extra weight. Granted, Felicio didn¡¯t exactly eat much, but it was still impressive. ¡°Woah¡­ sure you don¡¯t have like, super strength or something?

    - Nope! All hard work.¡± What a show-off. ¡®Wow¡­ that¡¯s crazy!¡¯ Brett murmured from beyond the earpiece - he didn¡¯t actually understand what had been picked up, but he had a feeling Felicio was struggling.

    ¡°Wow, that¡¯s- nuts!¡± Felicio mumbled. ¡®Can¡¯t even get it right when I let you cheat off of me, can ya, edgelord?¡¯ Oh, shut it, fanboy.

    Soon enough, they¡¯d reached the car, with Duncan standing next to it. Brian let go of Felicio, who was infinitely glad to meet back with solid ground. Parson Chameleon slipped into the vehicle without wasting a second. Bolt shot a glance at Duncan. ¡°Does he do this to everyone?¡± The blonde scoffed. ¡°No. I think he just doesn¡¯t like you.¡± And then he entered the car too. Felicio followed, disgruntled.

    ¡°So, was the plan always to chase after her in the car?

    - Sure.¡±, replied Parson Chameleon, now driving. This wasn¡¯t in the previous chauffeur¡¯s contract, apparently.

    ¡°Then... why didn¡¯t we get in straight away?

    - Thought we could grab her right there and then without wasting time in traffic. If the chance¡¯s there, you gotta take it, you know?

    - Well that was mighty irresponsible.¡±, Felicio whispered, a tad too loudly. Brian had a little pout. ¡®No, you¡¯re supposed to be a fan of the guy!¡¯¡¯ Brett desperately protested from beyond the earpiece. To his credit, there was one key advantage to Felicio¡¯s approach - he¡¯d gotten Duncan¡¯s attention, and he wasn¡¯t going to let it go. ¡°So¡­ you¡¯re Shrapnel?¡±

    The blonde looked away. ¡°Was.

    - Sorry. But, uh, why¡¯d you end up here?

    - Hardly your buisness.

    - Aren¡¯t we supposed to be a duo?

    - Like I said. I don¡¯t plan on staying a C rank forever.

    - Why? Because you were a B rank as a villain? Plenty of people go down in rank when making the switch, you know?

    - No.

    - Then why?

    - Shut it.

    - Just tell him, Duncan.¡± Brian intervened. ¡°Or what? Are you just here to make ennemies right off the bat?¡± Duncan frowned. ¡°...I don¡¯t want to.

    - What are you, ten?¡± Brian¡¯s boisterous voice was genuinely intimidating when he wanted it to be. Neither Felicio nor Brett had expected the Chameleon to suddenly become so harsh. And yet, Duncan kept quiet.

    ¡°We¡¯re here.¡± The car stopped. The whole road had been blocked off, to give Frivole less platforms to jump off of. She was there, casually laid on the roof, and apparently hadn¡¯t noticed them yet. In fact, she looked at though she was waiting for them, likely to boast or taunt them further. Felicio looked around. Brett was in that crowd of bysanders, perfect. The one-eyed twin slithered off fast as a shadow, forced the helmet onto his brother, grabbed his jacket back and disappeared into the mass. ¡°Procrastinating snake¡±, Brett mumbled under his breath - but in reality, he was glad to take over again. He was bored with anticipation, and Felicio was clearly not in the mood to act today.

    ¡°Okay - got all that, Bolt?¡± Brian looked in Brett¡¯s direction, likely after explaining some plan or other that Felicio had missed out on. He blankly nodded. From how things had been unfolding so far, it likely barely involved him anyway.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    Duncan spoke up. ¡°That¡¯s not going to work and you know it.

    - And why not?, Brian retorted without missing a beat.

    - If I hit her, she dies. If I miss, we lose the element of surprise.

    - Just don¡¯t shoot too hard.

    - It¡¯s a gun, Brian.

    - A fake one, surely?

    - No.

    - Blimey. That¡¯s unfortunate.¡± Brian had returned to his nonchalant smile. ¡°Well, your ability¡¯s just telekinesis, innit? Doesn¡¯t have to be bullets.

    - Actually, it does. ¡®Guided. Bullets¡¯.

    - Do they have to be fired from the gun, though?

    - I don¡¯t think so. But if I just throw it - What would the point even be? To lightly poke her?¡±

    Fun as watching them argue was ¨C it wasn¡¯t - Brett had been intently to something else ¡®Okay, here¡¯s my theory. She can only change her gravity while she¡¯s airborne. Like, she always needs to jump first, can¡¯t just- float away while sitting or something. But she can¡¯t modify it while she¡¯s in the air. So like, rather than changing her own gravity, she has to ¡®push¡¯ against something. Which means if she can¡¯t move, she can¡¯t use her ability.¡¯ Felicio was very observant, and knew a good deal about villains. Brett believed him in a heartbeat, even if he didn¡¯t have much proof. He wasn¡¯t known to second-guess. ¡®So, if we go with that, and she¡¯s not actually targeting herself¡­ you can use your ability on her, so that whatever she tries to push against goes ''ka-boom'' instead, and catch her offguard. The explosion¡¯s blast shouldn¡¯t kill her. I think. Depends, I guess. Maybe wait for her to jump off of another canopy or something.¡¯ Okay, nevermind. Sure, Fel was smart and he believed him and all, - and he was likely more confident than he let on, worrying Brett needlessly was just his idea of humor - but this was way too risky. Like, if he was wrong, Frivole was dead. And the mission statement had made it clear that that was a no go.

    ¡°Fine, then, Parson! We¡¯ll do things your way, then! But don¡¯t come complaining to me later!¡± And with that, Duncan removed a bullet from his gun, threw it bare-handed, and his ability guided it to light bop Frivole¡¯s forehead.

    Ow. Fabia blinked. Oh, real funny, Shrapnel. First, he makes like a deserter, and now he throws rocks at her like it means anything. Condescending twat¡­ She gave him a mocking laugh, tip toed along the roof, dancing around to avoid the dozen or so other bullets he threw her way. She¡¯d been taken off guard at first ; but it was now clear to her that those amateurs didn¡¯t have a shadow of a plan. In fact, she could probably afford to go back to the Museum, and they¡¯d be none the wiser! She hoped onto a solar panel, and leaped away - or at least tried. Whereas she should have blasted off with her usual grace, she instead fell to the ground, leaving behind an exploded rooftop. She ripped her knee and face against the tarmac. Crap, crap, she had to- needed to- She stumbled back to her feet, running and trying desperately to use her ability, without results ¨C no matter what she targeted, it blew up. Dragging herself onto a car, she finally managed to take off again, despite her broken ankle.

    Dumbfounded by the impromptu blast, Brian and Duncan hadn¡¯t followed after her in time - and Brett was too focused. The former two turned back to look at him. ¡°Did you-

    - Using the electricity in the solar panel, yeah.

    - Why not the car too?

    - Woulda died. And. Property damage.

    - ...Fair enough.¡± Brian looked¡­ genuinely impressed. Maybe that was just Brett¡¯s wishful thinking applying too much meaning to his expression, but regardless ¨C it made him feel nice.

    ¡°Let¡¯s get back in the car. She¡¯s leaving again, and heading out of the district this time.¡± Taking Bolt¡¯s words as orders, the two larger men abided. Heh, this wasn¡¯t so bad.

    ¡°So what¡¯s the plan now?

    - We catch up to her, and Duncan uses his ability again., Brian replied.

    - ...second time¡¯s the charm, or?

    - No, I got an idea.¡± Duncan replied. Brett opened his mouth, only for Felicio to whisper to him again. ¡®Ask him about the underground.¡¯ Sigh¡­ Well, he did help out just then. His brother could at least indulge his curiosity.

    ¡°Hey¡­ Duncan, Pars- Brian. How¡­ do you two know each other?

    - Whaddya mean?, Brian replied.

    - I mean, you¡­ clearly do. I¡¯m guessing that¡¯s why you asked to be assigned to this mission, yeah?

    - Aw shucks, you¡¯re smarter than you look!¡± Brett and Felicio both frowned in sync, far apart as they were. That - was uncalled for.

    ¡±You¡¯re right. We¡¯ve sort of known each other a minute. I used to put him in his place back in the day.

    - You never caught me.

    - Well that ain¡¯t what I said, is it?

    - Pft.¡± Duncan seemed a lot more relaxed than before, somehow.

    ¡°So- you¡­ know him from when he was a villain?

    - Yep.

    - Then¡­ do you know why he-

    - Fine. I¡¯ll tell you. Rather that than Brian getting the details wrong¡­¡± Duncan finally intervened.

    ¡°Rude!

    - Drive, Parson.¡± And Brian nodded.

    <hr>

    Duncan was born underground, beneath District 9, without a name or a clue. He wasn¡¯t a rare case ; the Underground was a prime spot for the abandonment of unwanted newborns or toddlers that were too expensive to care for. In that sense, he was more fortunate than most ; he hadn¡¯t ended up as a product in the organ trade, or worse. He survived off of pick-pocketing and the rare pity coin thrown his way - until his pre-teenage years, the development of his ability, and finally, the opportunity to join a gang.

    Thinking back on it now, he never saw them as friends, but compared to his prior situation, he was blessed to have them. A roof to sleep under, food relatively frequently, basic things like that. He was almost naively grateful, at first. Though that sentiment of thankfulness faded with time, he always kept a sense of trust in the punks that took him in.

    Duncan stopped, looked down at his hands, then away from Brett before continuing.

    He stayed with them throughout the years. He could¡¯ve left any time, really. He knew well enough how to take care of himself by then, and they didn¡¯t have much of any influence in the gigantic Underground. But the idea never really even came to him. So he stayed.

    12529, in some fancy restaurant, downtown in District 12. The gang was planning a robbery ; Duncan and his guided bullets were in charge of keeping an eye on the hostages, while the rest grabbed the cash and whatever they could. In retrospect, it was obvious that they meant to ditch him from the beginning ; but at least, they most likely didn¡¯t expect him to die.

    A moment¡¯s inattention sealed his fate. One of the hostages, likely not a law abiding citizen themselves, pulled out a hand gun and shot - not at Duncan, like he expected and had prepared himself to deviate, but at the chandelier above his head.

    Brett and Felicio were now both on the edge of their seat. ¡°How did you live through that?¡± Duncan frowned. He clearly wasn¡¯t too comfortable with how much interest his story had spawned in that GHH-brat. He turned around again. ¡°Brian.¡±

    ¡°The¡± Parson Chameleon was sent to stop the gang ¨C and though too late for that, he was just in time to jump after Duncan and push him out of the way of the falling chandelier. Although, he was shapeshifting at the time, so Shrapnel hardly couldn¡¯t have recognised him as the boastful S-rank that had been after them for a while.

    Soon enough, Duncan was arrested. Only then did he realise his gang had intentionally left him behind. He was quickly judged and sentenced ; 3 years with the right to parole, and AR within the first month.

    Ultimately, he only served a week, and never even came close to ability removal. The reason was, once again, Brian. Naive and unaffected as he may have been, Duncan had already long realised through his many run-ins with the Chameleon that the latter had a thing for him. Even now, he still wasn¡¯t sure if the reason Brian had saved him was his inner sense of heroism¡­ or his second brain doing the talking.

    ¡°Oy! I¡¯m here, you know? You don¡¯t have to ridicule me in front of a fan, jerk!

    - So you deny it?

    - Well gee. You¡¯re hot, point taken. But you were also a life in danger. Reckon even I know which one¡¯s more important in that situation.¡± Duncan simply scoffed at his reply. For just a second, the blonde finally let out a hint of a smile. ¡±Regardless...¡±

    Brian asked to visit him while in temporary holding several times. After refusing the first few demands, Duncan finally agreed to see him. It was then that Brian made his offer ; the absolution of his crimes and sentence, should he agree to join the GHH. The deal in itself was nothing unusual, of course, but the context was different. The proposition hadn¡¯t come from a captain or higher up, but a simple hero. The GHH really only cared to make that kind of offer to S and A ranks, after all. But Brian had the kind of privilege and connections that allowed him to do this himself. And so¡­ Shrapnel became Fragmental Patterns.

    <hr>

    Brett stayed rather dumbfounded. He didn¡¯t know what to think or say. After finishing his story, Duncan cracked his knuckles. ¡°There you have it. I was a dumb thug, and the only reason I¡¯ve lived to be here today is because Parson over there fancies me. Pathetic, I know. You happy?¡± Bolt took a minute to think on how to respond. ¡°Yes, I am. Thank you for opening up to me, partner.¡±

    Duncan seemed somewhat taken aback. ¡°Oh, shut it. Like I said, this C rank¡¯s only temporary.

    - T¡¯was the captain¡¯s condition to allow him to join¡±, Brian explained. ¡°Makes him ¡®easier to survey¡¯ or whatever. But he¡¯s got what it takes to reach A rank, trust me!¡± and then he gave a nice, hearty laugh.

    ¡®Well, come on, man! Ask him about it now before they change the subject!¡¯, whinned Felicio through the earpiece. Brett gulped. ¡°If¡­ it¡¯s not indiscreet¡­ What¡¯s the underground like?¡±

    Duncan froze. ¡°...Don¡¯t get me wrong. I know that many underground-born just - love - the place. Just look at Frivole ¨C ah. She wasn¡¯t in my group or anything. But we met here and there. Doubt she liked me much. Likely thought of me as the naive tool I was. She revels in that ditch. I never did. It¡¯s an entire city¡¯s worth of walking corpses. It¡¯s foul, and smells like it too. A battlefield maze with traps at every corner.¡± He looked down at his hands, they stuffed them in his pockets. ¡°I know it sounds like I only took Parson up on his offer to save my own skin. But¡­ I really don¡¯t want to go back there. I¡­ don¡¯t want to let down this opportunity. I want to join the GHH.¡±

    And with that, he stepped out of the car. They¡¯d finally caught up to her.

    Duncan emptied his pockets : another handful of bullets, which he hurriedly threw. Frivole, who¡¯d stopped on a roof to rest her ankle, immediately shot to her feet and dodged them nearly as elegantly as before. Unfortunately, something had changed.

    All while he talked, Duncan had also been preparing for their next stop. He¡¯d tied fishing string - which he¡¯d noticed in the car earlier - to bullets, thus creating a handful of ropes with bullets tied on either ends ; in other words, ropes he could control remotely with his ability. He hadn¡¯t been meaning to hit Fabia at all ; her attempts at dodging only served to doom her further. In just a few seconds, she was strung up like a ham, tangled up in nylon string, and wound up tripping off the edge of the roof entirely. Thankfully, Brian caught her before she had another rough kiss with the concrete.

    As she was stuffed into the car, Fabia shot one last cocky glare at that blonde prick, spitting in his direction. ¡°Enjoy minimum wage, traitor.¡± He looked sorry, which only served to piss her off further. ¡°From your point of view, probably.¡± Oh, was he actually asking for pity here? Go to hell!

    ¡°What, you¡¯re going to claim you didn¡¯t have a choice?

    - No, I did. And this is the one I made.¡± Duncan closed the door. He couldn¡¯t bare to face her any more. He turned around to face Brian, with the same death stare Frivole had given him, minus the mocking grin. ¡°You¡¯re just going to stand there and say nothing?

    - What more d¡¯you want from me? The law¡¯s the law. I¡¯m lucky, not all powerful. If I abuse my privileges, they¡¯ll just take ¡®em away from me.

    - They¡¯re going to sentence her to AR.

    - No they won¡¯t! She ain¡¯t even killed no one, right? I¡¯m sure she¡¯ll be fine.

    - Huh-huh.¡± Duncan got in the car without letting Brian continue.

    Felicio disconnected his earpiece, and lay in bed, eyes staring up at the ceiling.

 Another few GHH interviews

    District 12, GHH station ¨C yet another morose October 12558 morning. Different district, same crowded office, same Blandine LeJeune. Interviewing wannabe GHH recruits had been her life for years ¨C decades even. She was barely 60, yet felt a hundred years of frustration and broken dreams weighing down her petite shoulders. However, she¡¯d settled in that exhaustion and boredom ¨C in a such a way that slumping down, sat behind that worn out desk, glaring at the wall clock over her long and pointy nose, ready to mentally snipe at whatever pretty young face had the misfortune of walking into her office had become a part of her, if not her defining state of being.

    The three meetings she had scheduled from 8 to 9 that morning were all girls, described by their profile sheets as a tight-knit group of high-school friends. This promised to be cheesy. They all had very different profiles, too, unmistakable for one another even without pictures ¨C her usual guessing game wouldn¡¯t be any fun. Tsk.

    The first girl the lot of came in. She was slender and tall, bore wavy blond locks, and her face looked like the DON¡¯T side of a makeup tutorial : Porcelain pale skin smothered in powder, round cheeks redder than a doll¡¯s and lipstick that didn¡¯t follow the shape of her lips, but rather that of a circle. Her eyes were wide open and her hazel irises strained, making her tiny smile all the more uncomfortable. Despite the ridiculous makeup, she seemed carefree and confident as can be, as though she looked perfectly average. LeJeune didn¡¯t even need to review the profiles ; she had to be the S rank.

    Quanta, Canesem. The interviewer was somewhat looking forward to hearing how that mess of letters was actually pronounced. The second thing that stood out to her about the blonde¡¯s profile was her place of birth; she wasn¡¯t born in the capital at all. It¡¯s not as if every newbie was, but it was still unusual enough to take note of. She¡¯d never heard of that village either - if it even was a village ; Could¡¯ve been a town, for all she knew - or of any other ¡®Canesems¡¯. For someone like that, who¡¯d come fresh out of nowhere, to be S ranked during their student years had become very rare in the last few years. Reading further into the profile gave a perfect explanation : her ability.

    Pocket Dimension

    User summons a portal (maximum diameter of 3 meters, no minimum) through which a seemingly unlimited amount of matter can pass at any time. The matter in question is contained in a ¡®pocket dimension¡¯, which no witness has been able to describe.

    Matter contained within will begin to decay after a minute. Extended containment will fully consume all tested materials (see page 5 for details.).

    Up to 3 portals may be opened at a time. All portals supposedly link to the same ¡®pocket¡¯.

    It was certainly remarkable ¨C but by all means did it sound boring to test. If everything happened on some other, theoretical plane, how was she supposed to argue to her supervisors about property damage? Plus, that lanky, porcelain girl freaked her out.

    The interviewer had never liked her job, but time had made her actively resent it. She¡¯d barely dodged being fired during the post-Alexander cleanup, which almost seemed like a missed opportunity. Even if she was contemptuous in her modern misery, there was something existentially dreadful about seeing generations of starry eyed kids walk into her office, leave ready to achieve their dream, slowly lose their drive overtime, and often time end up jailed for this or that reason. All the while, she stayed right there, never expecting anything else to happen, and never being surprised.

    Quanta tip toed over to the desk, glancing around the room with curious, darting eyes. She slipped into the chair, cleared her throat, inhaled, opened her mouth for a few silent seconds, and¡­

    ¡°...Sooooo... what am I supposed to say?

    - ...hello. Just introduce yourself in a few minutes.

    - Ah!¡± She clapped her hands together and held them close to her chest. ¡°I¡¯m Quanta.¡±

    A good ten seconds passed before LeJeune realised the blonde wasn¡¯t planning on saying anything more. She simply stood there, perfectly still ¨C the interviewer could swear she wasn¡¯t even blinking. She sighed, and reset the timer. ¡°Well aware. You¡¯re supposed to go into more details about yourself than that. Try again.¡± The blonde nodded without losing face.

    ¡°I¡¯m Quanta, I¡¯m seventeen, I¡¯ve studied in a school, I can speak English, I have an ability, two parents, various allergies, I do competitive motocross, I like kiting, fishing, I collect knives, I¡¯ve been described as assertive, bright, spontaneous, cheerful, utterly mental, my last name¡¯s Canesem, I can take care of animals, take them out, cook them, clean them up-

    - That¡­ That will be enough.

    - Oh! Neat.¡± The interviewer squinted. What sort of bird shit filled up that girl¡¯s head?

    ¡°Do you realise what this is?

    - The hiring interview for a hero position in the GHH - specifically, mine.

    - Then why would you describe yourself like- that?

    - Well,  you asked for details - I listed them as they came to mind. Seemed the fastest way to go about it.

    - Do... any of them have any relevance to the position you¡¯re applying for?

    - Oh! None, I reckon.

    - Then. Why. Woul-¡± Quanta¡¯s crystalline voice cut her short. Her tone was akin to that of a dramatic reading, though it apparently came to her naturally.

    ¡°Honestly, I don¡¯t really get this part of the interview. It doesn¡¯t matter so much who I am - just what I do, and how I do it. So if you ask me, ¡®Tell me about yourself¡¯, that¡¯s just a vague and generic question - how am I supposed to know it¡¯s related to the hero work I want to do?

    - Because this is your interview into the GHH. You¡¯re expected to sort that out yourself.

    - But you agree it¡¯s a vague and generic question. Right? Am I right?¡± LeJeune laid a hand on her forehead, slowly descending it across her face. Breathe in. Breathe out¡­ Sigh. S-ranks couldn¡¯t be turned down without a critical reason. She had no choice but to play along.

    ¡°...Fine. Introduce yourself - within the context of hero work.

    - So, ¡®What kind of hero are you¡¯, is what you mean?

    - If. That. Suits. You.

    - Well then you should¡¯ve asked that.

    - Get. On. With. It.

    - I can¡¯t. I don¡¯t know. I haven¡¯t been a hero yet.¡± Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out¡­ and to hell with this. She¡¯d just have to make up for it with the questionnaire. For both of their sakes, it was likely best to end the introduction here. Sadly for the irritated woman sitting behind the desk, the rest of Quanta¡¯s interview was no less tiresome. She jumped the gun and shifted subjects with utter nonchalance, and questioned common sense and standard protocol with unrivaled confidence. It didn¡¯t seem like she was being annoying on purpose, either ¨C LeJeune knew those types. This was simply how Quanta Canesem acted, with all the good will in the world. Whatever village she had crawled out of, it was likely inhabited by ghosts, carnies and escaped maniacs. And in spite of that¡­ objectively, she hadn¡¯t failed the interview. With deep regret, the interviewer would have to let this eldritch personality through, and into the world. Yet another sin she¡¯d take to her grave. She gulped as Quanta left, still tip toeing like a ballerina. Creep¡­.

    The next girl entered. Petite, but curvy, with freckled, cold brown skin and a large but pointy and symmetrical nose. Her hair, black with slight blue hues,  generously thick, yet well kept, cascaded all the way down to her hips, waving elegantly as she moved. But her most striking feature was her eyes. Deep, large emerald pools framed by fluffy eyelashes. She was certainly a sight to behold, but the interviewer didn¡¯t care too much. Right as the girl entered, two things caught her attention ; one, the girl looked so sad and unsure, she might¡¯ve been crushed down into the crust of the earth under the weight of her own wobbliness. Second, despite it being late autumn and nearly 15¡ãC outside, she was wearing open-toed shoes. Great lord, this one¡¯s left brain was missing too. She started to worry that the three girls¡¯ friendship may rest on a shared insanity. Regardless¡­ Such a pitiful pile of emo-moe had to be the C rank.

    Minty Yona. Nothing notable, really. A late education, and being born in District 10 rather than 12, wherein she was applying. A bore.

    The long haired girl dragged herself to the chair and sat, quiet as a rock. One minute later, still mute. The interviewer sighed internally. ¡°Hello.

    - H-Hello! My name is Bonnie. Bonnie¡­¡± she sighed, looking even sadder somehow, ¡°...Trofeo.¡± LeJeune blinked. Wait, that ¨C that was the Trofeo kid? She was left astounded for the first time in years ¨C which, although refreshing, hurt her pride a little. She hadn¡¯t been working in District 12 long enough to know the other Trofeos first hand, but this was just¡­ bollocks. That tiny bag of puppy-eyes, without a muscle on her bones? Had her family run out of protein supplements or something? Ugh¡­ this wasn¡¯t fair. This- it didn¡¯t count. It didn¡¯t play by the rules of her game.

    Dejectedly, she tossed aside Yona¡¯s profile and fetched the correct file from her drawer. Bonnie Trofeo, A rank, consistent schooling, examplary behaviour, and her ability¡­ Oh. Well that explained her exposed toes. The interviewer looked back at girl, who seemed confused as to why the stern and professional woman suddenly looked so worked up. Now that she was paying attention, she could tell, a little. The girl had thicker body hair than most cared to maintain, and some light stubble. Not that it got in the way of her appearance at all; in fact, it rather complimented it.

    The girl fidgeted with her hair all throughout her presentation, though she spoke clearly and within the timeframe. The interviewer had barely been listening anyway - she was a Trofeo. The interview was even more of a symbolic procedure than usual. The only part of the it LeJeune was interested in currently was seeing her ability first hand.

    ¡°

    The protocol to test Bonnie¡¯s ability was more elaborate than most. It was divided in two parts : one for the hair, and one for the nails. The first was intuitive ; using a 1 meter square cardboard box and a stopwatch, determine how quickly she could fill the entire box with hair. The second was more specific ; she was given a lock, which she would break by inserting her nail into the keyhole before growing it, breaking the mechanism from the inside. Apparently, Bonnie herself had devised this use for her ability during her school years. The interviewer unfolded the box and laid it down on the desk - she¡¯d specifically picked out the least damaged one she had on hand. She cleared her throat, and handed the girl a few elastic bands. ¡°Tie away your hair, except for a single strand. Lay that strand right on the edge of the box. When I start the timer, grow the strand until the box is filled.¡± The girl shivered.

    ¡°...Miss?

    - You can¡¯t grow only one bit. Your nails and all your other hairs will grow equally. Correct?¡±

    Bonnie nodded.

    ¡°Not an issue. We have clippers and scissors.¡± The long haired girl didn¡¯t seem reassured at all, but nodded nonetheless, which satisfied the frustrated interviewer. She knocked on the box, glaring at the girl. Bonnie gulped, an annoyed glare flashing across her face for just a second as tied back her hair, and bent forward, a single strand of hair dangling in front of her. She pushed it until its tip was inside the box. ¡°Go-¡±, started the interviewer, before quickly shutting her mouth close, horrified by the tsunami of hair headed towards her. Gulping, she set her attention back to the box. Despite the hair ties, differentiating the strand from the rest of her body and scalp¡¯s hairs was becoming harder by the millisecond. Before she¡¯d even had time to exhale, the box was filled. She stopped the timer, and carefully cut the strand at the root, careful not to accidentally hurt the girl that was hidden in the amorphous black blob. She shoved the box away. Sure enough, it was overflowing ¨C in barely more than 2 seconds.

    ¡°Could I have those clippers, please?¡± Her voice was even quieter than before, insulated by the wall of keratin. Hesitantly, the interviewer pushed the clippers into the mass, which pulled them inwards. Bonnie¡¯s now-clawed hands reached through the hair, emerging from the organic mass, the left one holding the clippers. For the next half a minute or so, the old woman watched mesmerized as this faceless, long-nailed blob somehow clipped her own nails with precise, calculated motions. ¡°Scissors. Please.¡± The right hand made a beckoning motion. Being engulfed into a 10 kilogram mass of her own hair had tripled her assertiveness. Regardless, the interviewer was too terrified by this horror movie monster to complain, and swiftly slipped her the scissors. Her long fingers felt the scissors all around to judge how long they were, then got to work. In about 2 or 3 minutes of frantic cuts, the wall of hair had become a sea of hair, and Bonnie¡¯s chair a stranded island. The girl¡¯s hair was now shorter than before - her body hair had tripled, however. Seeing her all fluffed up, the interviewer - now reassured to have the cute and meek girl¡¯s face in front of her rather than that dark, bulging keratin slime - felt compelled to ask her a few things. ¡®Your nails didn¡¯t grow nearly as much as the rest.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    - Yeah¡­ everything grows at the same time, but not at the same speed. Facial hair is by far slowest.¡± It seemed believable. Even now, her stubble had merely become a subtle mustache and coily beard. ¡°It¡¯s quite a messy ability. Are you quite sure it¡¯s fit to be used on the field?

    - My ability isn¡¯t the problem. Ah, I have, you know¡­ practice. People¡­ at home¡­ help me practice. Is this the questionnaire yet, or?

    - No. We¡¯ve only tested your hair. Your nails are next. Altough, I¡¯d like to clean this place up first, before we end up eaten alive by lice.¡± The girl frowned and gave a cute pout.

    ¡°My hair is quite clean.

    - It wasn¡¯t a serious comment, miss.¡± Bonnie¡¯s eyes widened and her cheeks blushed, as she felt a deep shame overtake her. She bowed her head forward, and muttered :

    ¡°M-may I help with the clean-

    - Yes.

    - Aright! Typically, I would call Quant-

    - NO- Please. Don¡¯t. Call anyone else. This is- the cleanup is part of your test.

    - Ah¡­ so¡­ sorry. I... wasn¡¯t aware.¡± Bonnie clearly wasn¡¯t convinced, but once again, she seemed to ¡®know her place¡¯, in a sense. The interviewer sighed. Close shave. Sure, the blonde¡¯s pocket dimension would¡¯ve made quick work of this, but the interviewer intended on keeping the hair untouched - and more importantly, on never seeing Quanta ever again.

    The two spent the next 20 minutes collecting the hair into more and more boxes, which they then moved into the back room, one by one. The interviewer sighed, feeling her lunch break slowly slip away from her with every extra minute she had to spend on this interview. Likely, the actual ¡®Minty Yona¡¯ had already died of stress by now, with Bonnie¡¯s interview dragging on so long. Some part of LeJeune hoped she actually had passed away somehow, if only to clear her schedule. Alas, she never did get lucky. While they worked, Bonnie seemed troubled by something.

    The floor was¡­ relatively clean, enough that a vacuum could finish the job. Blandine pulled a tiny lock out of her drawer, and handed it to Bonnie - whom she¡¯d made wear a plastic protective suit usually meant to protect from acidic abilities, but used here in an attempt to control the dark keratin mass. The only parts of the suit she wasn¡¯t wearing were the gloves - for the test¡¯s sake - and the boots - for the boots¡¯ sake, as Bonnie insisted they would be stabbed right through by her toenails, and the interviewer didn¡¯t want to chance it.

    LeJeune cleared her throat, ready to explain the test - but Bonnie was faster. ¡°Oh! They told you about the lock-picking! This is what this is, isn¡¯t it?¡± The interviewer growled. ¡°Yes. Get to it.¡± The girl¡¯s meekness seemed to have temporarily evaporated, and she excitedly oblidged.

    Applying the tip of her pinky finger to the keyhole, then moving slowly downards, she adjusted her nail¡¯s position - in short, she aimed. Taking deep breaths, the interviewer felt her pulse accelerate - a sudden fear had been drapped over her. What if the pressure from the hair¡¯s sudden growth ripped through the suit? And as the horrid image of a hair-explosion LeJeune¡¯s mind, Bonnie used her ability. She¡¯d held the lock in such a way that her nails growing wouldn¡¯t hinder it : by passing the handle onto her right hand¡¯s middle finger, while her left pinky aimed for the hole, she wouldn¡¯t slip and drop the lock. Her nails grew slowly, compared to her hair, but surely, and the interviewer stared, mesmerized once again, as the lock shattered from the inside, falling to pieces onto the ground and revealing the misshapen nail that had grown to vaguely match the key¡¯s shape, through grotesque layers of yellow-ish keratin, not unakin to dirty candle wax. Ew.

    After some more clipping, cutting, and vacuuming, the room was clean once again, the suit only slightly stretched, and 35 kilo of hair stored away in cardboard boxes. Despite her newfound fear of hair-based monsters, the prospect of the price she¡¯d snatch from selling it all put LeJeune in a good mood, and she was fairly lenient with her questioning. Soon, came the end of the interview. Bonnie seemed surprised. ¡°Ah¡­ this is the end?

    - Thankfully so. Did you expect something else?

    - Well¡­ heroes are supposed to work in teams. I¡­ I kind of expected some tests on cooperation¡­ or something¡­

    - Interviews are solo. The washrooms are at the end of the leftmost hallway. Clean up after you shave.

    - O-Okay. ...Good day.¡± And she left, still wobbly and sad, but now coated in flocking.

    In came the last girl of the trio. Squarish, strangely wide yet thin, with a neutral grin and sleepy, piercing eyes. She had an uneven square cut of straight, fuzzy, grey-ish hair, and equally grey eye-bags. She seemed¡­ calm. Normal. Chill. The interviewer internally sighed with relief. She pulled out the C rank profile once more. Minty Yona, District 10, C-rank¡­ Minty Yona. Minty Yona? She¡¯d heard that name before - or at least, it was oddly familiar. LeJeune squinted. Oh, for god¡¯s sake. Anonymity. An anagram - in other words, a fake name, without a doubt. Yet these were definitely legitimate school profiles, so she likely had fake papers too. She¡¯d ran into similar issues before. Underground kids who¡¯d rather not be associated with their parents, for the most part. It always pissed her off, even more than teenagers did by default. Especially on-the-nose examples like this one. The arrogance dripped so obnoxiously from anagrams like these, her hands felt damp touching the file. But for once, her frustration had an outlet : ¡®Minty¡¯ was ranked C. If she did poorly enough ¨C just below average, really - she could turn down her application easily without her higher ups batting an eye. She hinted out a smile. This shaped out to be a funner game than usual.

    The introduction went fine. She never went into heavy details, but she was agile enough that it didn¡¯t sound especially fishy. She seemed more legit than Quanta, in all fairness. She focused on school, as expected in a job interview. The ability test was when her facade begun to crack. Voodoo dolls, read the file. It explained that, specifically, she had the power to make them - and they could then be used by anyone else. The profile stated that the quality didn¡¯t matter much ; the doll didn¡¯t have to be a perfect likeness, the ¡®spell¡¯ - a meaningless placeholder term used to describe complex abilities like this one - was achieved through sewing the target¡¯s full, birth name into the figure. The toy itself could be rather vague. ¡®Minty¡¯ highlighted a specific aspect of her ability : it could be used on vehicles, by sewing in the license plate number. LeJeune had longed stopped trying to understand how abilities worked, but that was certainly one of the most ludicrous thing she¡¯d ever heard. The girl seemed to believe this was the most useful aspect of her dolls, and was miffed to find out the nature of the test didn¡¯t rely on it. Instead, it was as follows ; make a doll of her interviewer, and saw her name into it - the profile stated this was without risk, and included a specific method to destroy the figure afterwards. But Blandine remained¡­ sceptical. She kept her lips shut on the proper protocol, for once, and proposed her own version of the test to ¡®Minty¡¯ - who wouldn¡¯t know better, since she didn¡¯t have access to the GHH¡¯s paperwork.

    ¡°Make a doll of yourself.

    - Eh?

    - A box of the materials you use, according to your school reports, was provided. I have it, right here. And you claim you¡¯re quick at making your dolls, so there goes.

    - Never made a doll of myself. Why would I, really. So it might not work.

    - I¡¯m asking you to try.

    - But- ...well, I can¡¯t.¡± The interviewer raised an eyebrow.

    ¡°Pray tell ¨C why?

    - I¡­ already made one. I gave it to my brother.¡±

    So she¡¯d already caught her lying. That didn¡¯t take long.

    ¡°I don¡¯t see anything here about doubles. I feel they would have mentioned it, if only one doll could be made of any specific individual. The GHH is quite throughout.

    - Well, not throughout enough. Clearly.¡± Given that this girl had made it this far in life without being exposed, Blandine couldn¡¯t help but agree.

    - Unless you¡¯re lying.

    - I¡¯m not. My brother has my doll.

    - Not about that. About the doubles.

    - I¡¯m not!

    - Prove it.

    - Sure. Well, I¡¯ll need your name for that.

    - Not happening.

    - ...I don¡¯t think this is how interviews are supposed to work.¡± The interviewer kept quiet. There was no ¡®Minty Yona.¡¯ Simple as that. This was in the bag.

    The girl nonetheless insisted on sewing up a doll of the interviewer. Sure enough, it worked, and the grey haired girl had her fun ¡®accidentally¡¯ making her faceplant into her desk. Four times. The old woman pocketed it, swearing to store it away in a safe as soon as possible. She cleared her throat, and moved on to questions.

    ¡°Where were you born?

    - District 10. I told you already.

    - More specifically?

    - The hospital, geez.

    - There¡¯s no such thing as a single hospital in all of District 10.

    - Ah? Wouldn¡¯t know. Didn¡¯t live there too long.

    - It says, ¡®moved to District 12 at age 10¡¯.

    - Yeah. 10 year olds rarely remember hospital names.

    - Perhaps your parents could¡¯ve enlightened you.

    - Never did.

    - Name your three biggest qualities.

    - Adaptable, modest, critical.

    - Flaws?

    - Well¡­ Stubborn. Workaholic. Undecisive.

    - How honest would you rate yourself? Out of ten.

    - Solid 8. It¡¯s the basis of any solid relationship, professional or otherwise.

    - Right. How attached are you to the idea of becoming a hero?

    - ...it means everything to me. Seriously.¡± The interviewer lady blinked. Well, that was the first thing that hadn¡¯t sounded like a lie. Her voice was genuine - almost sad.

    ¡°A shame, LeJeune added, after a minute of tense silence.

    - Eh?

    - I don¡¯t have the final word (As far as Cs were concerned, she did, but ¡®Minty¡¯ didn¡¯t need to know that), but I wouldn¡¯t expect much, if I were you.

    - ...Well. I¡¯d like to know why.

    - You didn¡¯t pass the ability test, and you¡¯ve lied every chance you get.

    - Excuse me? I didn¡¯t figure my family life was relevant. I wanted to leave it out. That gift to my brother was the only thing I wasn¡¯t entirely honest about.

    - These interviews aren¡¯t recorded, ¡°Anonymity.¡± I may not have the authority to prove it, but I can tell these things. Get your act up to speed, or don¡¯t expect to be accepted into the GHH ¨C or any job ¨C ever.¡±

    Minty¡¯s desire to slap LeJeune across the face was even more blatant than her lies ¨C but she kept her temper at bay, and a disenchanted scowl sketched itself across her face.

    - ...how unsympathetic. I may not have much authority either, but, well. Don¡¯t expect anything good to happen to you in the next few days.¡± With those parting words, the girl left, slamming the door behind her.

    Finally, her break. The interviewer was yet again further convinced of her life¡¯s philosophy : she hated teenagers, and they terrified her.

 Gabrielle Gabby

    Seen from above, the capital''s districts spiral around one another like sections of a snail''s shell ; District 1 at the center, and gradually moving outwards from there, all the way up to D18. The more centric the districts, the higher the living standard ; Districts such as D6 housed the very top of the middle class - about as high up the social ladder as most people could hope to reach, and even then it was a remarkable endeavor. Kim and Rook Gabby had managed it through ''study and hard work'', in their own words, building their lives on principles of reason and restraint, and they intended the same for their three children. Loners in their own youth, with no friend but each other, they obsessed over homework, textbooks, diagrams, cool headed reflection, and risk-reward calculus to give themselves some sense of superiority in their inability to socialize. Somehow - and possibly due to enabling one another, hanging out together so long they couldn¡¯t remember when they met, or when they went from friends to loverd - they never grew out of it, and landed themselves in high-paying jobs - in the stock trade and high-tech industry respectively. They were the sort to make the most of what they got, but never reach for something too out of the way ; make lemonade from lemons life gave them, even replant the seeds and setup a profitable stand - but never expand beyond lemonade, on the account life hadn''t provided the oranges.

    They discouraged their own children from unwise ambitions and risky passion projects ;  they tolerated hobbies and interests, but made their point clear : those hobbies would remain hobbies, and nothing more.

    The older two siblings seemed to adapt to their parents'' way of educating them well enough ; Gabrielle was a different breed. Born in 12510 as Rook and Kim''s youngest daughter, she had, from the earliest age, developed a feverish obsession with hero?sm. Her parents didn''t make much of it, at first ; every kid had their childhood idols and favourite stories, they figured. And yet, even as years passed and Gabrielle grew up, her passion never dried up or wavered. Before she was even old enough to attend one, she already whined and begged to be enrolled into a GHH school. Whenever she spoke about her love of heroes, her cheeks flushed, she balled up her fists, brought her hands to her chest and ranted with adorable intensity, her expression a permanent gaping-mouth gasp matched with wide, sparkling eyes as she attempted to follow her parents¡¯ tips on building convincing arguments while improvising odes in a 5-year old¡¯s words. Her starstruck excitement was so endearing, it even spread to her siblings.

    Kim and Rook¡¯s three children shared the same room - 14 meters squared¡¯s worth of space that Gabrielle had filled with her many doodles and posters of heroes old and new. Before she learnt to read herself, she would often ask one of her siblings to read her hero-related news and stories before bed. The other two couldn¡¯t have cared less about power rankings or secret abilities or battles between unlikely characters ; but something about Gabrielle made them care. Even knowing it wasn¡¯t wise, their drive to support their sister pushed them far enough that they tried their best to convince their parents to let her attend the school she wanted. They even used their parents¡¯ own logic against them ; success rates, scholarship opportunities, school sponsors, proportions of graduates within prestigious job fields - any number bright and big enough would do.

    Thankfully for Kim and Rook, nature had provided them with the perfect excuse to keep their youngest on a leash without crushing her heart.

    All throughout her childhood and even the start of puberty, Gabrielle never showed the slightest sign of developing an ability. Kim¡¯s bones could bend to a degree ; Rook¡¯s skin and muscles were unnaturally thick and harder to cut than the norm ; Mitch, the oldest, could camouflage amongst and ¡®solidify¡¯ water for a short time ; Tyler, his cadet, hardly ever worked up a sweat and ran faster than his class¡¯ top athlete without being one himself. None of them made substantial use of it. Gabrielle, whose every waking moment was spent drooling over heroic prospects, was abilitiless. Reasonable as they liked to see themselves, her parents strongly believed in the irony of life ; Whenever she asked about the GHH or related topics, their response was always ¡°Once you develop an ability.¡±, all the while they remained convinced she never would. Gabrielle sadly shared the same fear - though she desperately tried to pretend the opposite, her confidence decayed visibly by the day ; her hopes of getting an ability slowly dwindled down to null.

    <hr>

    Some 14524 Monday morning, Gabrielle drags herself out of bed, tiptoeing to avoid waking up her siblings. As always, she¡¯s up before everyone else. She walks over to the window to open the blinds - while keeping the curtains closed, of course. To access the blinds, she only pushes the thick, draping cloth aside for a second, letting but a sliver of light trough. She blinks ; her sleep-ridden eyes play tricks on her, hallucinating nonsensical shadows and reflections upon the glass. Thin, shapeless ribbons dancing, waving slowly like seaweed - like... flames. Turning around to face the room again, Gabrielle sees the carpet - the carpet that has caught on fire - caught on fire at the tips, in the corners furthest from her and closest to the beds. Oh no, okay, don¡¯t panic. It¡¯s only a start, little more than the likes of a match or a candle. Don¡¯t wake up everyone over something like this. You can deal with this yourself. Several other similar thoughts cross her mind as she stomps the carpet ; But the more she attempts to put out the flames, the harder they burn - the bigger they grow. They spread from every inch of the room, spiralling all around like hell itself seeping into her childhood home - their childhood home. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, every newspaper page and notebook paper drawing and instant camera shot and vanity poster combust and melt away in the chiaroscuro of  her little world. Yet, she herself remains untouched. The flames circle around her diligently, paying her their respects as they chew mercilessly though everything else.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    It¡¯s no normal fire. This firestorm is unnatural ; so fantastical and horrific a fire, it has to be the byproduct of an ability. Her ability. A death trap cast by her own hands, and only further fueled by her desperation. Abilities that have just developed tend to be unstable ; emotional distress only worsens that. Stop it. She has to stop it. She has to stop it. Stop it, all of it, everything - The flames. The fire alarm that¡¯s finally caught on, much too late. Her siblings waking up from the heat, much, much too late.

    Finally, it stops : but much too late.

    She passes out from the fumes, and the flames stop. Rook and Kim arrive, and finally put out what¡¯s left of the hellfire.

    <hr>

    Once Gabrielle came to, the room had long been cleaned up - But she didn¡¯t care. She needed to get away ; she couldn¡¯t control it. She needed to get away, or the flames would start again - swirl out from and all around her again. She could swear they¡¯d already started again. The girl rushed to the bathroom, flicked the tap open, and jumped into the tub. She sighed, damp and relieved, as the flames died upon birth, drowned by the bathwater and her frantic sobs.

    Her memories of that week would forever remain compromised - vague - fragmented. Too painful to recall. She couldn¡¯t even remembered what had hurt the most - the day the flames took everything away, the following day when her siblings¡¯ corpses were unearthed, or the medical AR she was forced through so hurriedly that the procedure had to be repeated several times over. Ultimately, the only pain that lingered clear as day was grief - not only of the two people closest to her, but of all of the dreams she¡¯d held onto since youth.

    Neither Kim nor Rook ever blamed her for what had happened ; they consoled and reassured her to the best of their ability. Even then, their relations were never again what they used to be. Gabrielle closed herself off from the world. From everyone. From everything. At first, for the sake of others ; she was scared of hurting them again, of causing another incident. The pain and nature of ability removal - especially the unrefined AR available to hospitals and emergency containment at the time - left patients scarred, and unable to accept their ability¡¯s termination ; it was akin to phantom limb syndrome, in a way. Gabrielle could still see fire swirl from the corner of her - feel heat all around her, so viscerally she¡¯d work up a sweat - even with her Firestorm Generation being long gone. She shut herself in, convinced to be a non-existent threat.

    But over time, her paranoid self-isolation turned to misanthropy. Disillusion and jealousy swelled up inside her, and she came to see people through a harsh, pessimistic lens. She scoffed at hope, ambition, dreams, belief, love - not in the ¡°all work and no play¡± self-important way her parents did ; she simply resented everything, and anything.

    She left her home and district, seeing no point in pursuing higher education, and moved to District 17 - ¡®the bassinet of human misery¡¯, as she called it. Gabrielle found a dead-end job, a small apartment, and lived there without aiming for anything else - complacently bathing herself in loneliness, willingly turning her life into a walking death to avoid facing it head on.

    Fortunately, a flaw in her strategy soon became clear. A caf¨¦ waitress¡¯ monthly pay was insufficient to afford rent and bills long-term, even in this ¡®shithole¡¯. With a heavy heart, she wringed the knife into her voluntary isolation ; a simple newspaper ad.

    Seeking roommate. District 17 apartment, 5th floor. 2 bedrooms, 1 bathroom, 1 living room (counts as the kitchen). Monthly half is circa 334, electricity bill included. I work a lot, we won¡¯t see each other much. Contact me : [email protected]</a>

    She never expected to like whoever she¡¯d end up having to stay with, but Catherine was about as bad as it possibly could possibly have been. She was a GHH hero ; hardworking, polite. And she refused to accept her C rank as an immovable glass ceiling. She endlessly reached higher than her lot in life, with terrifying determination.

    Gabrielle nearly came to hate her more than herself.

 Reconnaisance Mission

    Dring...Dring...Dring¡­

    The doorbell rang over, and over. It screeched repeatedly in Gabrielle¡¯s ears as she tried to ignore it and eat her breakfast - over-brewed tea and undercooked biscuits. Annoyingly, the sound was too obnoxious to block out - much like the person causing it. ¡°Catherine. Your friend¡¯s here, destroying my eardrum again¡±, Gabrielle groaned out. Four years. It had already been four long years of this¡­

    Catherine rushed out of her room, already dressed up in her worn-out GHH hero uniform. ¡®Erruserprepyh¡¯ was her alias ; pompous and Unpronounceable, despite her C rank. The outfit was simpler ; a white bodysuit with spiralling patterns, a red belt and light blue suspenders that didn¡¯t hold up anything. She cleaned and maintained it with care, but time had still left its mark on it. Catherine herself looked tired and frustrated, though she tried her best to hide it. She inhaled, sighed, and opened the door with a wide smile.

    ¡°Ah, Cat! Super sorry, am I too early?, Junie eagerly exclaimed, her face lighting up the moment she caught a glimpse of Catherine through the doorway.

    - Not at all, don¡¯t fret. Thank you picking me up again togay, Justice¡¯s Sword.

    - ...Can¡¯tcha just call me Junie?

    - We¡¯re on the job. It¡¯s proper protocol to use hero aliases, Catherine replied without missing a beat.

    - Fine, fine - you¡¯re right, as always ! Haha¡­¡± Junie sighed. Talking in that laid back way, even on the job, repeating the same childish complaints she always did - she sparked a frown in Catherine, though she quickly caught herself slipping and restored her usual, plastic v-smile. 20-year old miss Shards was just as high-maintenance as Catherine had always known her to be. Given that, it wasn¡¯t much of surprise that she¡¯d managed to lose her S ranking. Still, even for someone like her - to be so unprofessional you¡¯re downgraded, and not revise your behaviour in the slightest afterwards¡­ Catherine felt sick just thinking about it.

    She turned around to face her roomate, who was in the middle of pouring herself a third cup of black tea. ¡°1 p.m., on the dot ! ...Do I have that right?

    - Sure. I¡¯ll be waiting by the bathroom stalls, in the back.

    - Got it! See you then, thanks again!¡± With that, ¡®Erusserprepyh¡¯ shut the door, leading Junie down the stairs. The latter looked confused - and a tad upset. She tapped Catherine¡¯s shoulder as insistently as she did doorbells. ¡°One o¡¯ clock¡­?¡± She separated each word, elongating them in a clueless tone. Catherine stayed calm and collected.

    ¡°Though we¡¯re long-time roomates, Gabrielle and I aren¡¯t all that close - you¡¯re aware of that. I don¡¯t feel living with a stranger is a good idea, so I figured we should get to knowing each other. In a professional sense. Did you get that? It¡¯s a simple meeting in her place of work, for a chat.

    - Oh¡­ so, like¡­ a date.

    - Please keep your witts about you.¡±, Catherine retorted, unflappable. Junie swung and fidgeted about, leaning over Catherine¡¯s shoulder with a needy pout. ¡°Buuut¡­ I mean, will we even be done by then? Today¡¯s mission is a big deal, right?

    - We ought to be! Count on it.¡±

    Ever since her graduation, Catherine Yuu had dedicated herself entirely to her work. She refused to accept her C-ranking as an omen of failure, and continued to give her everything to every mission she was assigned, despite her deadweight partner, despite her poor reputation, despite her superior treating her like an intern. All for the sake of ranking up - no, just to match expectations. Heroes who changed ranks were extremely few, to say nothing of those whose ranks increased. Although she¡¯d heard of such an instance in District 12 a few years prior - some ¡®Fragmental Patterns¡¯ switching from C to A - she couldn¡¯t find any details regarding why and how. Not that it mattered : it was possible. It was possible. She could rank up. She had to. Though, now that she was stuck with Junie, who had the unbelievable skill of being even more difficult than her old A-rank partner¡­ no, no. Nothing would stop her.

    Originally and S-rank, Junie Shards had soon realized that her work was much more intensive than she''d been expected, or could handle. She nonetheless put in good will and effort - all of which was futile, as continuously collected procedural mistakes, damage penalties and failed missions ; never anything so drastic it cost her the job, but still enough for her rank to be readjusted. As a final S-rank perk, she was even given the right to pick her C-ranking colleague : her choice was made in a heartbeat. Naturally, she cared about her job and wanted to do it well - but now that she enjoyed the independence of adulthood, she wanted to see what life had to offer ; make the most of the time she had. Seeing Catherine''s obstinately working day in and day out without the slightest regards for her own health or mental state - it upset her more deeply than she could put into words. She was worried, of course, but there was more to it. She simply couldn''t understand Catherine. Junie always hoped she could convince her friend to join her on a walk, or to go see a movie, hang out by the lakeside, shop for little things, read or get a drink - that Catherine would accept any one of her invitations ; she hoped in vain.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    She should¡¯ve been happy to learn that her partner was trying to open up with people, taking time out of her day to invest in relationships. And yet¡­ a weight lingered in her chest. An odd and heavy feeling she felt only around Catherine.

    The budding heroes left the apartment building, jumped onto Junie''s motorbike, and drove off towards an abandoned bus depot on the outskirts of town.

    Today''s assignment was straightforward ; the defunct hangar west of District 17 was suspected of being used by an illegal auction ring. Typically, this type of affair was handled by the police ; but MSW''s influence being strongest in this area justified the GHH getting involved, at least for reconnaissance. Therefore, the duo''s mission statement was : Break into the place, investigate it top to bottom, return undetected and report any findings. Should they run into any trouble or opposition, apprehend the suspects.

    Even running over the details in her head, Junie couldn¡¯t focus on the job. A single idea stalked her every thought.

    "...Where''s Gabrielle work?

    - Stay. Professional. And keep your eyes on the road, Justice¡­''s Sword.

    - Well, it is relevant! I''ll drive you there, won¡¯t I?

    Don''t trouble yourself, I can call a cab.

    Eh? Come on, Cat! Lemme spare you the expense. Since we''re friends- Uh, as your coworker, I insist on taking you there.

    - How kind! I''ll tell you in time, then. Now drive straight."

    Junie sighed. Not even her ''suddenly serious speech'' act could get through to Catherine these days. On one hand, she was flattered ; Cat certainly seemed more honest in her behaviour around her than around anyone else - but on the other, she wasn¡¯t exactly pleasant. Maybe she deserved it.

    <hr>

    "Let¡¯s split up. I''ll investigate the ground floor - you take the basement levels. Do we have that right?

    - Youuu got it!", Junie replied. Although she was the higher-ranking hero, she felt more confident leaving strategy and organisation up to Catherine. One of the reasons she¡¯d failed as an S rank was her poor ability to work alone ; ever since she¡¯d been acting in pairs, her performance was of a much higher standard. Junie located and rushed down the stairway.

    The depot was an immense and ancient warehouse, once a metallurgy factory before it wound up used to store buses in dense, organized lines. It was a single brick-and-steel building rather than a complex ; the lobby, offices ad storage rooms were all part of it rather than located in separate structures. The ground floor was a single ¡®room¡¯ - a gigantic garage, its floor once filled with road markings that had since faded away. Much to the contrary, the lower two floors were dark, dusty mazes of tight hallways leading to countless abandoned rooms. Every single one of which, Justice¡¯s Sword would have to look through¡­ ¡®Oh, bother!¡¯ she - quietly - exclaimed to herself. Better get to it than complain all day.

    After three hours of meticulous searching through drawers, shelves and cupboards for anything suspicious with nothing to show for it, Junie let herself fall back onto a chair. Sigh¡­ Hero work was not always what it was advertised. Starting to wonder if Catherine was doing any better, she pulled out her cellular - her personal phone, not her professional one. She texted her partner - rewrote her message twice, hesitating as to which emoticon to include - and finally hit send.

    10 minutes passed, with no response. Thinking about it, Catherine wasn¡¯t the type to answer to personal texts while on the job - she¡¯d have more luck sending her a professional email instead ; silly as it was for a simple ¡®How are you¡¯, Junie did so. 15 more minutes passed - still nothing. Doubt welled up inside her. Of course, she¡¯d continued looking around while she waited, but it had proved even more fruitless than the first three hours. She had to stay focused! It was already getting late, too.

    A noise - The sound of footsteps.

    Junie froze. Instinctively, she summoned her sword. Using her ability reassured her and helped clear her mind ; It was the most liberating feeling she knew. Too liberating, to a degree. It dulled her senses and her reason, leaving her to rely solely on gut instincts and feelings. In that relaxed state, Catherine¡¯s radio silence suddenly appeared immensely more urgent than the mission at hand. Justice¡¯s Sword ran madly through the halls, running after the noise.

    <hr>

    Once her blade vaporised into null, and she finally came to, Junie found herself at the foot of the stairs - alone, in the dark. She risked a glance towards her wristwatch - over an hour had passed. She hesitantly walked upstairs, step by step. Had she spent all that time running after an illusory noise¡­?

    The depot was empty.

    At first glance, it was empty.

    An amorphous shape lay on the ground, like a pile of potato bags, in the centre of the hangar, some few dozens of meters ahead of Junie. Its stench was horrendous.

    The smell of burnt flesh.

    Like an automaton, the exhausted girl walked, slowly, closer to the corpse. Catherine¡¯s dismembered, disfigured, beaten corpse lay in a puddle of its own blood - fresh.

    On the other side of the district, Gabrielle Gabby¡¯s apartment burns to ashes.

    Here and then, Junie Shards cries, hugs body parts, without knowing why.

 Aftermath

    09/04/12532.

    Catherine Yuu, working as the C-rank GHH hero ¡°Erusserprepyh¡±, was found dead in District 17, at the address detailed below, at age 20, after four years of service.

    Her body was found dismembered, in 16 distinct pieces (see page 3). The parts were partially melted, along the cut in most cases. The cause of death has not been determined at the time of this report.

    Catherine was dead.

    There were no DNA tests to prove it, her fingertips were too melted to give clear prints, and her face was mutilated beyond recognition - but it was the truth. Catherine was dead. Faceless, ripped up, robbed of her identity - and dead. Junie repeated those words endlessly in her mind. Catherine was dead.

    She was dead, and would be remembered, if at all, as an unremarkable C-rank. She was dead, and would be buried in pieces, without dignity. She was dead, and would never find out just how much Junie cared.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Those words continued to echo through Junie¡¯s mind as she was dragged to the usual station - not as an employee, but as a suspect.

    The two had been together all morning. Her skin had melted where her limbs, neck, and little pointed ears had been severed - aligning with the way Junie¡¯s blade cut through matter. They had history. No one else fit the bill. Junie was too emotionally absent to defend herself - she didn¡¯t even want to. Soon after, she was condemned.

    To the general public, Justice¡¯s Sword was the perpetrator of the Erusserprepyh incident, sentenced to lifetime emprisonment.

    Catherine was dead. Catherine was dead. Even now, the words echoed in her mind. Even now, the image was burnt into her retinea. Even now, that terrible feeling subsisted in her heart.

    Junie had no idea whether she had killed Catherine.

    She had no memory of it. She couldn''t even remember if her outfit had been bloodied by hugging Catherine''s remains, or if it was already bloodied before. If it had gotten blood on it when¡­

    It was the only thing that made sense. People had always been afraid of her. Of her ability.

    Now, she understood why.

    Catherine was dead.

    Catherine was dead.

    Catherine was dead.

 Back to school

    The bell rang. Spencer took in a deep breath, trying her best to calm down, hand on the door handle. She was in a bad mood right before class - something that had already led her to trouble more than once ; She couldn¡¯t afford another run-in with the school administration. The bell rang a second time, sparking a sigh from her as she pushed the door open, slowly walked up to her desk and glared at her students scrambling to their seats and pocketing their gadgets.

    Ten years ago, standing on this side of the room she¡¯d spent countless days misbehaving in would¡¯ve been unthinkable for her. And yet, despite her many accounts of acting out, despite the countless pieces of gum she¡¯d stuck under every table, here she was. Although she did graduate, she¡¯d failed to enrol into the GHH ; her candidacy was rejected for¡­ concisely put, her temperament issues. Which, in turn, had not stopped her from enrolling as a government-approved teacher dealing with children of all ages. Odd, but she wasn¡¯t one to complain. Her life was unsure enough as it was.

    She¡¯d originally just accepted the job because she was out of options and it would bring her some stability - but given a few years, and Spencer had grown genuinely fond of the position. It was a surprisingly good fit - though she knew she had to work on her attitude.

    As she cleared her throat to greet the class, Spencer began splitting into clones ; half-a-dozen teachers spoke in tandem, creating an ominous echo of ¡°Hello¡¯s¡± as the duplicates quickly headed to the back of the class. Spencer had quickly learnt how valuable her ability was in surveying and scaring the kids into behaving; it allowed her to have eyes and ears everywhere.

    Unsurprisingly, she wasn¡¯t too popular with the kids - but she truly did care, and swore to do her best. Having herself studied in GHH schools, she still had a sore taste in her mouth from the lackluster teachers she¡¯d encountered over the years. She poured her everything into ensuring the kids would end up both skilled and well-behaved, to ensure them the best chance of being hired. That said, though she didn¡¯t play favourites, she did prefer certain classes over others ; Neither too old nor too young, the 5th and 6th years - those were the classes she liked dealing with the most. Sadly, today¡¯s unlucky students were the second years. Given that, the fact she was already in a bad mood, and that break was only a few days away, making the little pests all the more excitable¡­ Breathe in. It¡¯ll be fine. Today will be just fine.

    Ms. Church went on to write the day¡¯s date on the board ; Wednesday, 18th of December 12533. As she turned around to call out each kid¡¯s name and check for attendance, she came to notice the ceiling tile in the backmost left corner - or rather, the lack there off : it was missing, leaving a giant hole in its place. Thinking back, long as she¡¯d been in this school, be it as a student or a teacher, it had always been halfway out of place, leaving an open gap to the dark, dank mess of cables and vents above, never fixed back into place nor removed. Yet there it was, gone for good. The administration must¡¯ve finally come in and removed it for being a safety hazard - she¡¯d have been positively impressed, had they not half-assed the job and actually bothered replacing it. Pains in the- No, calm down. She glared at the class as she finished listing their names, her eyes overflowing with spite and frustration. The kids knew to stay quiet when Ms. Church was in a bad mood.

    ¡°Marceline, come to the board.¡± The girl in question obliged, walking clumsily up to the teacher¡¯s desk while holding onto her textbook like a lifeline. Her ability has suddenly developed mid-school year and subsequently joined the district¡¯s GHH school ; she had been adapting to neither her ability nor her new schedule all too well in that short time.

    Mycelium, an organ of certain fungi, grew from her scalp like patches of stringy, web-like white hair, inexplicably thriving amongst her brunette locks. Small mushrooms and fungi of all kinds grew from lighter parts of her skin, somewhat akin to vitiligo. Bits of mould grew around her articulations, and wherever she scratched or rubbed ; those were the symptoms of her ¡®ability¡¯, which to Ms. Church seemed more cumbersome than anything. Spencer greatly sympathised with her : Assignments that asked students to come up with ways their ability could be used in x or y situations always felt especially harsh on her and those like her. Other forms of homework included personal research on and testing of one¡¯s ability, and, given her own¡¯s nature, by the time she graduated, she¡¯d likely have encyclopedic knowledge on all species of fungus.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    As the girl began shakily reading out her notes from yesterday¡¯s lesson, Spencer¡¯s back-left corner clone spotted something. Not one of the kids pulling out a toy or gadget, but a flicker of light in the darkness of the missing ceiling piece ; A swift sliver of white. Perhaps some cables were exposed - the idea didn¡¯t exactly match up with what she saw, but it sort of made sense. Would the staff really be so careless, however? With her offhand, Spencer signed Marceline to return to her seat. Forget being annoyed, now this whole affair just worried her. She turned around to face the board again, her illusory clones still spying on the kids and ceiling both. But as she finished writing down the first sentence of today¡¯s lesson, her ¡®other eyes¡¯ suddenly shut. Their clones had popped out of existence, which would only occur for one of two reasons; when she chose to make them disappear¡­ or when they were targeted by an ability. Spencer slowly turned around to face the room. ¡°Alright. Which one of you clow-

    She found herself staring down a class filled with confused children, all leaning against one another - and in the middle of the room, some suspicious, unfamiliar masked stranger, clad in all silver, with a bomb in their right hand and their left hand on their mouth in a shushing motion, starring at the teacher with a gleeful grin and a sparkle in their eyes. Spencer took in a deep breath, and raised both her hands, slowly walking backwards until her back hit the board. Thankfully, the GHH planned for situations like these. If she could reach the desk, she could press the emergency pedal below it, and send a silent alarm to the central administration building. She just needed to be careful, cold-blooded, and patient. The silver stranger headed for the board, walking backwards, still facing both the children and Ms. Church. They began messing with it, still with their back turned to it, with calculated movements. Spencer couldn¡¯t see what they were actually doing, though ; she herself was turned 45 degrees from the board. She needed to focus on getting to the pedal.

    All the while, the stranger introduced themselves in an artificially modified voice.

    ¡°Goooood morning, kids! Now, I really hope you can keep your mouth shut a while. Wouldn¡¯t want a single nihilistic rebel scoffing at me and sending you all blown to bits, now would we? As for me, well¡­ You¡¯ll learn my name soon enough. Hehe!¡° Their tone, giddy and over the top, suddenly turned serious. ¡°Hey, Church. Look over here.¡± The teacher obliged. The silver figure was apparently finished messing with the board ; though from where she was standing, it just looked like they¡¯d stuck large, random pieces of white card paper everywhere. Feigning curiosity, she took a few steps back while squinting, and was finally able to step on the pedal.

    It didn¡¯t budge. The pedal didn¡¯t move at all ; It had been compromised somehow. The silver-haired bomb artist giggled right in her face. ¡°Oh dear, did you really think that¡¯d work out?¡± Despite the laughter that preceded it, their voice didn¡¯t sound the slightest bit amused. It was a cold and cruel assertion of disappointment - almost as though they took offence to it. Spencer Church suddenly felt her forehead heat up. That was the last thing she would ever feel, as her skull was blown to a million bloody pieces flying all over the room, imploding in an over-the-top display of what the silver figure was capable of. The headless corpse collapsed, ripped shreds of skin still hanging from its open neck, bleeding out like a bottle smashed onto the floor. The rest of Spencer¡¯s crimson fluids had been grotesquely splattered onto the board, covering nearly all of it in clumpy red juice. The silver figure still seemed unhappy with the result, however, as they repeatedly slammed the headless body into the board, like an odd paintbrush, adding more and more blood onto the whiteboard and wall until it was evenly covered. They let go of the body with a ¡®phew!¡¯, then took down the cardboard stencil they¡¯d glued onto the board earlier piece by piece, leaving behind only the letters ALEXANDER in glorious, shining red. The silver figure clapped, childishly proud of their little paint job. They knew they had to be quick, however. They¡¯d already made quite a lot of noise.

    ¡°You kids can read, right? Nod for yes.¡±, Alexander exclaimed in a harsh, monotone voice. The class hesitantly obliged. ¡°Great! I¡¯ll be counting on you then!¡± As they finished, they took a step back, then ran, jumped onto the desk, from table to table, and effortlessly hopped back into the ceiling, closing up the ceiling tile behind them.

    <hr>

    Spencer Church¡¯s death in 12533 was the capital¡¯s first official encounter with Alexander. It was nothing, compared to their latter exploits ; But at the time, and so soon after Erusserprepyh¡¯s murder, it struck a chord with the public and abilitied professionals alike. The fear that such senselessly grotesque and cruel attacks against the GHH would become commonplace began to take its toll.

 Knight to B8

    12533. Exactly one year had passed since Junie¡¯s condemnation. Her grief had begun to lessen, though slowly, and only to shortly be replaced with the desperation of her freedom being stripped from her and pinned to the wall at such a young age.

    Her parents and siblings visited her fairly often - and every time they did, that same unspoken question lingered in the air, weighing on everyone¡¯s minds, driving a deep trench between Junie and the rest of the world. The one question she still couldn''t answer.

    She almost felt ashamed to see them. They would sit there, tell her about the farm, her younger siblings¡¯ school life, the news. She¡¯d smile and reassure them about her health, the treatment she received. They would leave - and she¡¯d remain, in no different a position than before.

    To keep her occupied during her incarceration, her mother had gifted her a chessboard, and her father a book on how to play the game. There wasn¡¯t much of a point to it : most of the time, she was confined to her solitary cell, with no one to play against. Still, since her usual way of dealing with stress had been AR¡¯ed away, she was thankful for any pastime. Once she learnt how to, she often found herself thinking about how much she would¡¯ve loved to play with Catherine.

    <hr>

    ¡°Knight to B8; checkmate. And that¡¯s only the most obvious of three missed wins in a row! How did you end up losing to yourself?¡±

    Junie¡¯s heart stopped as she heard that familiar, yet already distant voice.

    ¡°C-... Catherine? Are you¡­ here?

    - What? I¡¯m dead. Of course I¡¯m not here. You killed me, remember? ¡°

    Junie grabbed her sides. ¡°Who¡­ who are you.

    - Ms. Yuu - Catherine Yuu! Meanie, did you already forget? I was your partner for years! But, you know. I¡¯m not really ¡®me¡¯.

    - Not¡­ really?

    - I¡¯m dead. So I¡¯m not really Catherine Yuu. Prison hasn¡¯t made you any brighter, has it?

    - Hah¡­ I¡­ I guess not¡­ So, then, are you like¡­ a ghost?

    - I¡¯m an hallucination, Junie. You¡¯re mad.¡± The emprisoned girl frowned, gripping her chest tighter. ¡°Sh-shut up, then. You¡¯re not real, so, just, leave of something.

    - Like it¡¯s my fault! You¡¯re the one who¡¯s brought this upon yourself. I mean, you¡¯ve always been mentally lacking. It was only a matter of time before you lost your marbles for good!¡± The voice gave a giggle.

    ¡°...you said¡­ that I killed you.

    - You did.

    - But¡­ I don¡¯t remember it?

    - So? I do.

    - B- But- You¡¯re-

    - In your head. You may not want to accept it. But you know what you¡¯ve done.¡±The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    Junie held her temples. Whatever that voice was, it was cruel. She didn¡¯t want to listen to it. She refocused her attention on the chessboard. White¡¯s turn. Knight to B8¡­ sure enough. Checkmate. She¡¯d never have thought of that move on her own¡­ Lest she did, subconsciously.

    ¡°Ignoring me? You¡¯re just the worst, Junie! You know that?¡± The voice stiffened suddenly, going from chipper to serious in a moment¡¯s time - much as Catherine¡¯s own voice used to.

    Junie picked up each of the chess pieces and put them back into their starting positions.

    ¡°Seriously, though, you¡¯re rather awful. I mean, who loses a rank? Who has to rely on a C rank to do their job?

    - I¡­ I don¡¯t care about ranks. Go away.¡± Nevermind this. She swiped her hand across the board, letting the pieces fall to the side and roll down to the floor.

    ¡°Of course you don¡¯t care about ranks. That sort of thing¡¯s easy for you to say. You¡¯ve never cared about anything in your life.¡±

    Junie hurriedly stored the pieces away, having to reorder them several times in her rush.

    ¡°You¡¯ve never had to. You¡¯ve always let others care for you. You don¡¯t even know what working for something is like, do you?¡±

    She snapped the box closed. ¡°Go away.

    - Or what? You¡¯ll use your removed ability to kill me again?

    - I didn¡¯t kill you! I swear! I didn¡¯t¡­ I didn¡¯t¡­ I...

    - Then why am ¡®I¡¯ here?

    - I¡­ You¡¯re¡­ sh¡­ shut up. This is just - someone pranking me or whatever.

    - How did it feel? When you killed me.¡± Junie held the chessboard close to her chest, clutching it like a pillow.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t¡­ I didn¡¯t¡­

    - Did you feel relieved? Did aaall your jealousy suddenly flush away?

    - I¡­

    - Or did it... awaken something hidden deep inside? Was the immature thrill-seeking daughter of a countryside butcher meant for slaughter all along?

    - Sh-Shut up. That¡¯s just mean for no reason.

    - You¡¯re arguing with yourself.

    - I¡¯m¡­ I¡¯m not¡­ go¡­ go away¡­

    - I can¡¯t. You killed me. And I¡¯m you! It¡¯s like you killed yourself, haha! That¡¯s cute.¡± Junie crouched, holding her knees. This wasn¡¯t Catherine¡­ Catherine was dead. This¡­ this¡­ this was something else. Something awful.

    <hr>

    The voice didn¡¯t visit her every day. Not even every week, or every month. But whenever it did, it haunted Junie endlessly. It lingered there. Told her every flaw. Everything she did wrong. How awful she was for¡­ that. Junie sat there, told it to go away, screamed at herself endlessly. Her health visibly decayed. Eventually, the voice had intoxicated her brain so thoroughly that Junie couldn¡¯t remember the Catherine she once knew at all. All that remained were mean, personal insults, targeted attacks that only she herself could¡¯ve known would hurt so bad. All in Catherine¡¯s voice, with her mannerisms and tone¡­

    Catherine was dead.

    Catherine was dead.

    Catherine was dead.

    She¡¯d killed Catherine.

 Snowdrop Hospital

    12535, January 25th ; Alexander had been around for just about two years by then. The infamous villain didn¡¯t act or even show themselves often, but whenever they did rear their head, the news and internet overflowed with nothing but information and speculation on their latest carnage. And in spite of it all, the GHH still didn¡¯t have them figured out - quite to the contrary : they hadn¡¯t a single lead. There was no obvious reasoning to how they picked their next target - or at least, they hadn¡¯t caused enough separate incidents for them to figure out a pattern. The only thing that was clear, was that they intended on raising the scales each and every time they showed. Although, exactly when that would be remained unpredictable.

    Although their attacks had since spread out all over the capital, their first appearance had been in District 17 ; As such, D17¡¯s station and its staff were the ones officially in charge of the Alexander case. In practice, though, the people in charge largely came down to wherever the terrorist happened to strike. Whenever the silver menace was spotted, the nearest available heroes were called in ASAP, regardless of rank or district, while their superiors and strategists - villain profilers, managers, intelligence gatherers - analysed the situation and figured out who, how and when to send backup. Their priority was, always, to reduce harm, before apprehending Alexander themselves - namely, by evacuating nearby people and sealing off the area. Despite the difficult relationship the two institutions shared, Alexander was a large enough threat to warrant the standard police getting involved with GHH affairs to aid with these efforts. Even then, the silver figure had long figured out the GHH¡¯s M.O., and made humanitarian tasks ever tricky : one of their previous attacks had consisted of Alexander hijacking a bus, holding the driver at gunpoint while urging them to get far, far away from city infrastructure before anyone could reach them ; Once out of range, they finished by exploding the vehicle - its passengers locked inside. Not one person survived, and even the vehicle was gone without a scrap remaining; the only thing left behind was footage recorded by the silver menace themselves, in the form of a USB drive. A silver, glittery USB drive displayed on a square cushion amidst the crash site.

    The bus incident had thrown several wrenches in the GHH¡¯s wheels. Until then, they¡¯d assumed Alexander was after their people specifically, and - though they ensured that theory never became public - feared the terrorist may once have been amongst their ranks. But considering the timeline, and Alexander¡¯s presumed M.O. (blowing up absolutely everything without seemingly needing access to explosives) not one employee, affiliate or ex-employee of the governmental hero force fit the bill, at least not without excessive semantics - regardless, not enough to justify suspicions. Either their ability didn¡¯t seem to allow for explosive exploits, or their overall build didn¡¯t fit the terrorist¡¯s - usually both. There was always the possibility Alexander wasn¡¯t a single individual but a group playing coy, but such hypothesises were, for now, still left aside. Abilitied people didn¡¯t slip through the fingers of the GHH and the Underground¡¯s control so easily - let alone an entire group of people.

    Though it did amount to a lack of progress in their investigation, the GHH was relieved that they found no liable suspects amongst themselves ; their reputation was poor enough as it was : Should the most infamous criminal of the past few years have come from their ranks, and the public would likely lose any trust they had left in them.

    In spite of how incompetent many claimed the GHH to be, its bigwigs knew the civilian identities of nearly all active villains and vigilantes ; Their profilers were skilled, and they had easier access to government records than even the police. Furthermore, anything that became known in the Underground was soon enough ratted out to the GHH. And that was precisely why Alexander was so remarkable. The silver figure was as much of a mystery to the Underground as they were to the rest of the capital. They were wholly independent, a wild card with no connections or affiliations to be found anywhere. It wasn''t out of the question to imagine they would even set up one of their attacks within the Underground, just to make a point - especially after the bus incident invalidated the theory that the GHH was their target.

    The Underground had its own newspapers - both those that served the major groups¡¯ propaganda and smaller clandestine publications ; comparing their headlines to that of the capital¡¯s surface proved entertaining, given the two ¡°sides¡±¡¯ respective priorities and concept of what was and wasn''t usual ; But when Alexander was around, everyone was on the edge of their seat. The only notable difference in the subterranean population¡¯s opinion of Alexander, compared to that of the aboveground, was, perhaps, a greater amount of admiration and jealousy hidden amongst the fear.

    <hr>

    Despite the general unrest, Alexander¡¯s existence hadn¡¯t done much to disturb the work routine of the GHH¡¯s employees. Schedules, assignments, transfers were organised just as they had been for years ; Rank hierarchy remained unchanged, and C ranks still had little say in their work conditions. If anything, the silver terrorist craze had only made it harder for things to evolve, as the GHH was unwilling to try anything reckless ; Despite his A rank and several well-argued transfer demands, Bolt still remained in District 12.

    Duncan and Brian had been right ; Fragmental Patterns had only remained as a C rank for a short while, just about a month, leaving the electricity manipulator without a sidekick. Thankfully, D12 still needed A ranks, so the twins didn¡¯t end up being ping-ponged back from where they¡¯d come, and had continued working, just with a new partner. A few new partners, in fact. It soon became clear that ¡®Bolt¡¯s sidekick¡¯ had become some form of a temporary slot for new C ranks, while their superiors looked into setting them up with a more fitting A ranking partner. As such, the twins often ended up alone for weeks at a time, and were never around one person long enough for them to catch on to their trick. Convenient as it was, Brett never made peace with the idea. A-ranks were supposed to work with C-ranks, build solid teamwork, and trust each other deeply¡­ and yet they hadn¡¯t been given the opportunity to achieve that. As though they weren¡¯t quite an A-rank ; barely a proper hero, more of a substitute than a bona fide heroic figure. They¡¯d been thoughtlessly flung to D12 to fill in quotas, after all. Whenever he brought it up to Felicio, the latter would do his best to shrug off those thoughts as overthinking, and reassure Brett on the value of his hero work - it never quite worked. Ultimately, Brett felt like dead weight. His entire hero career had sprouted from deception ; it wasn¡¯t his. He was little more than a greedy parasite.

    Today was a fairly calm day for Bolt - no specific mission, just some undercover patrol work ; or at least, it was supposed to be. At around 1pm on the dot, he felt his professional phone vibrate in his pocket, and pulled it out. The screen, usually black and white - heroes weren¡¯t equipped with the latest in flip-phone technology - now displayed the word ¡®URGENT¡¯ in a bright red font ; Pressing the OK button led him to play a vocal message. He knew what this meant. An ability-related emergency had turned up, and he was the nearest available hero. Wasn¡¯t the first time, actually, but it was a rare enough event to get him excited. The looping recording shrieked the relevant address in barely intelligible robospeak ; ¡®DISTRICT 6, SNOWDROP HOSPITAL, 14 FREIZEIT STREET.¡¯ District 6? The other side of town? Well doesn¡¯t that seem fishy as hell. Then again¡­ District 11, 10 and 9, which he¡¯d have to cross to get to Snowdrop, were always busy, as their heroes actually helped with police work. 8 and 7, 6¡¯s direct neighbours, weren¡¯t so bad, but their station also employed the fewest heroes of any districts in the capital. As for 6¡­ Lighthouse¡¯s a mess. Heard it¡¯s Lesion making a show of it - a high-society skyscraper filled with journalist offices, some of them the government¡¯s lapdogs ; Quite the stage. So that was likely where all of D6¡¯s available forces had gathered. Ultimately¡­ a D12 locum patrol boy could very well be the nearest available hero. Not that you have to sell us that short. I thought negativity was my deal?

    Bolt had to think fast. What was the fastest way there? He could probably go back to the station and request a vehicle, but at that point, there wasn¡¯t any point in him going over anyone currently on standby in the station in itself. Calling for a vehicle and a chauffeur to pick him up wouldn¡¯t waste as much time, but they¡¯d have to wait right on the border of D12, since stations chauffeurs weren¡¯t allowed to drive their vehicles to other districts without direct instruction from the main station - District 5¡¯s, and heroes weren¡¯t allowed to drive vehicles meant for chauffeurs. As for contacting District 5¡­ yeah, best not to even think about it. The next best option was probably public transports. Personal bias had nothing to do with it. Bolt rushed into the subway station, sneaking skillfully past the ticket booths. He was still in civilian wear from his patrol, so hopefully word of this wouldn¡¯t reach HR. In 10 minutes flat, he was just outside Freizeit Street - the subways had a bad reputation, being dug sometime just meters above the Underground and its many unappealing urban myths (made all the worse by the fact some of them were actual facts that just seemed to grotesque to be true), which at least had the advantage that the few people who did use them didn¡¯t have to wait long at all. The trip had still taken longer than he¡¯d hoped for, but it would have to do. Soon as he arrived, he rushed into the largest building, and found the hospital to be worryingly¡­ empty. Slowing down to soak up the silence and listen in for any odd noise, the young man walked up to the front desk. No one there, at first glance. But as he got closer¡­ Well, the staff was effectively present. They¡¯d been knocked out through some means he couldn¡¯t determine, either anaesthetics or a simp knock over the head, and pushed against one another and under the desks. They weren¡¯t tied, though they were crammed into such a confined space that just trying to get out would prove real painful. Bolt brought a hand to his mouth, on the off chance that it was some sort of gas. With the other, he fiddled with the bottom of his ear, trying to make quick thinking of what to do next. Someone must¡¯ve sent the alarm to the station, which had then ricocheted back to his phone through an algorithm. A shame they hadn¡¯t specified the floor that needed help - Lest it¡¯s less of an omission, and more of a ¡®the whole hospital¡¯s in deep shit¡¯. That thought aside, either they somehow didn¡¯t know, or¡­ their call had been cut short. Mechanically, Bolt approached the elevator. He was too anxious, too restless to just stay in place and think rationally. Recklessness had worked out for him so far, in work and in life. Checking every floor wasn¡¯t the most elegant of methods, but it was thorough! One, two, three. He occasionally ran into some staff, which reassured him a bit. In turn, he tried his best to stay professional, and explain the situation to them, urge them to evacuate. Not one of them was any help in figuring out the heart of the matter, however. Apparently, whoever had given the alarm had given it exclusively to the GHH. The rest of the hospital seemed wholly unaffected. A prank call¡­ ? Surely not. That¡¯d be a little too pathetic, even for a substitute. And so he continued taking the elevator aimlessly.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Suddenly, penumbra. An array of shocked sighs. Total current failure - none of the backup batteries were responding either. The entire building was brought to  a buzzing halt - as well as the elevator cabin Bolt was now trapped inside of. A non-issue ; He was the electricity-manipulating hero, after all. Cut the rhetoric and move it! Right¡­ Still. He broke through the trapdoor in the ceiling of the cabin. The next floor was just above. He couldn¡¯t have forced it open, but it seemed the doors defaulted to being open when they weren¡¯t being powered. Weird, that. He needed to get to the generator. Usually, those infrastructures were found on ground floors, so he stumbled around to find the emergency stairway exit - stumbled as fast as he could, of course. Before the young man could find it, however, he heard a noise ; A match being set aflame.

    He pressed himself up against the wall, out of view from anyone further down the hall, and refocused his vision. A faint glint caught his eye from around the corner. He risked a front-facing glance. The tiny flame didn¡¯t allow him to make out too many details on its own, but its light was just enough for him to understand exactly what he¡¯d gotten into. The red-orange waves revealed the silver reflections of a short, young adult in a catsuit.

    Some part of him refused to believe he was truly seeing Alexander with his own eyes, without a screen or newspaper in between. Even with the poor lighting, their colour of choice made them fairly easy to see. Their build was eerily similar to his own - they looked about the same height, too. He looked away, back glued to the wall in apprehension. How could they be here? Who had cut the current? Was Alexander indeed a group, rather than an individual? Or could they teleport? Did they set off something remotely? No, no, the more pressing question was - how could they incapacitate them safely? Alexander with a match in hand could only mean one thing. Unless it was some impersonator or copycat- No, no, focus! Right now, you¡¯re Bolt. You¡¯re on a mission to save lives. Right now, you need to act.

    He risked another glance. At Alexander¡¯s feet lay what appeared to be piles of¡­ something. Small¡­ plastic packets. And wires¡­ wires that snaked along the ground, and lead right to where he was standing. He looked up, and found himself right in front of a curious silver stranger, a coy smile playing on their lips. Instinctively, he kicked them away, and they landed in the pile. Apparently, they hadn¡¯t been bracing for that ; their landing sent metallic objects flying into the darkness. They were¡­ lighter than he expected. Alexander jumped to their feet with a thud, and a held in a whimper. ¡°Hah! Haha. Oh, you think you¡¯re good, don¡¯t you? You think you¡¯ve got me cornered, here?¡± Even through their voice changer, they were clearly beyond upset, speaking in a broken, sarcastic rhythm. They took in a sharp breath, the air shrieking through their teeth. ¡°Haha! Hah! You¡¯re too - late! M-hmh! Too late. But you¡¯re still a pest. And I¡¯ll get rid of you.¡± They were almost screaming, their tongue snapping loudly in between heavy inhales. Bolt couldn¡¯t understand why they were so enraged. Nothing like the ¡°cold, collected chessmaster¡± the papers endlessly advertise. But something about their tone and speaking patterns, compromised as it was, was familiar to him. Or maybe his fear was just making him delirious. Alexander threw one of the nondescript packets in his face. His precisely aimed hand deviated it to the side just in time, and it hit the wall in front of him - exploding on contact. Emerging from the cloud of smoke and fire, paint chips and debris flew all around at high speeds, stabbing into his arms, neck, face and left eye, leaving burned cuts and wounds akin to that of point-blank bullets. He kneeled to the ground, writhing against the pain. Alexander giggled erratically for just a second, before snapping back into character and rushing back to the pile. No, no, no. Bolt struggled to his feet and ran, tackling the silver terrorist to the ground as he bled out. ¡°GET OFF ME, YOU SORRY EXCUSE FOR A HUMAN BEING!¡± Alexander managed to lift him off and, in a lever-like motion, crane him over their shoulder and into the pile, before standing back up, leaning over him and kicking his face in - several times, quicker and quicker each time. The young man was already half-unconscious from his injuries, and barely reacted to the abuse. Eventually, they gave their leg a rest, grabbed his shoulders and shoved him to the side, letting his limp body roll along the pile and stop haphazardly on the floor, making a mess of wires and packets on the way. Finally, Alexander ignited half a dozen matches, threw them atop the pile and immediately ran off towards the hall¡¯s opposite end.

    With some unsuspected last bit of strength, Bolt threw himself onto the pile, pressing matches in between his fingers to put them out. Soon as he was done, he turned around, and suddenly felt his pain vanish as cruel anticipation took its place.

    Alexander hadn¡¯t fled. They¡¯d distracted him, convinced him he was alone, to determine whether he was faking agony and give themselves time to aim. The young man felt his head slowly warm up¡­

    Blinding pain. Blinding light. A buzzing in his ear. The current had been restored. It seemed to shock Alexander just as much as it had Bolt - or would¡¯ve, had he not been in such a state. Enough that they lost focus and their ability ¡®turned off¡¯, just for a second. Running footsteps echoed through the building. Bolt whined with relief. Oh, please let this be over.

    Alexander cocked their head, a jaded frown twisting their soft, youthful features. ¡°Don¡¯t you forget me, you. Because I won¡¯t. I don¡¯t forget people. That¡¯s a skill you could afford to pick up.¡± In a second, they were gone like a flicker of light - just as reinforcements arrived, and Bolt passed out.

    That was not the only pile of explosives Alexander had prepared. The Shaws weren¡¯t able to completely foil the terrorist¡¯s scheme. Bolt having given people the time and foresight to evacuate, the uncompromised explosions only took a few lives - fewer than Alexander had planned, at least. Most of Snowdrop Hospital¡¯s main building was history, but it wasn¡¯t fully levelled to the ground. It could¡¯ve been worse. That much could not be said of the Lighthouse, that another, just as deranged - if not as mediatised - criminal had tipped over on that very same January 25th, after taking what interested them out of it and letting it all collapse to the ground. Two unrelated incidents, occurring simultaneously through incredible coincidence, both claiming iconic buildings and tens of the lives within them - two incidents the GHH were just a little too late to stop.

    The established, ¡®controlled¡¯ game of cat and mouse the capital had grown accustomed to was claiming more and more innocent lives at the hands of mere individuals - time seemed to be repeating, rewinding to the age of the First District - of carnage and all-out civil war.